Drop-off

 

I picked him up when the sky was at the tip of turning, from grey to blue.
A peck on the lips greeted me hello. Good morning.

Last night we went for post-dinner ice cream and bought smokes at the nearby sundry store. I tasted like berries he said. From the new Oreo McFlurry.

I didn’t shave my legs. Didn’t feel the need to.
And as he pulled on the drawstrings of my green linen pants, I heave a contented sigh, let him do his thing.

Our sex is becoming comfortable. And almost routine.
What the hell are we doing to each other? I don’t know where this is going.
More than friends. Less than a couple.

We fuck. But it doesn’t end there.
My body becoming addicted to his. I leave his place late and then in my lonely bed, I wish he was in me again. Over and over.

I know this can never be. His mother probably thinks I’m the original slut since catching me running naked to his bathroom. Don’t worry aunty. Your baby ain’t my baby.

Dropped him off at Departures with a five minute snog. The airport guard staring.
Not a care in the world. We’ve got our shades on.

Call me when you’re back. I said.

Driving home to the memory of his hands between my thighs the night before, I don’t know where this is going. I really don’t know.

Letter

 

Attention to
The Minister of Education, Malaysia

Dear Sir,

I recently joined the local Malaysian blogosphere at the persuasion of my closest friends after reading some of my notes. I call it Thursday Love. Yes, I am a blogger. Don’t worry. I do not observe and write about politics nor do I have the desire to.

I am a blogger of a different kind. I write about sex. Yes. Sex. You are a married man, with children. I am pretty sure you are familiar with this concept. 

Even though my blog is new, less than a month old, it is growing to be quite popular. It has become so well liked that I’ve set up its own private email for admin and Adonis-tic purposes.  Every week I get two or three feedbacks from readers about the style of my blog and its content. Most of the time my mails make me happy, once in a while I get one that calls me a cheap, no-shame whore, it is fine, even Oprah has haters.

But last Sunday I received a particular email I found so disturbing that I felt the compelling need to write to you.

It is from Linda*. She tells me that she is in a relationship with someone who is a sweet darling but is a complete bore at bed, and so she continues sleeping with her ex-boyfriend who does all this exciting stunts on her and apparently gives her the best orgasms.

She also talks about having sex in public places such as the lobby gents of some five star hotel and a dark, seedy karaoke booth. Her favourite position is the Helicopter and the Scissors. She hates condoms; the friction of the rubber lessens the sexual elevation. Hence sometimes, more often than not, she doesn’t use it.

You see what worries me, sir, Linda, is only fifteen.
I can’t even begin to imagine what other kids her age are doing with their boyfriends and talking about during recess.

I do hope that this, should tell you it is time for sex education to be introduced at all levels of education in Malaysia. And I know according to reports, the government has Okayed this idea. But please don’t tell me that the curriculum will be based on that ugly blue book your ministry massively sent out for the NGOs to preview not too long ago.

While working for a women’s organization back then, I remember being excited to be previewing the book and then I vividly recall the disappointment that it was full with topics on morality and tied with different religious beliefs connotations within it. 

Sir, one issue has no relation to the other.

Sex education is about teaching them the fundamentals of sex with a clear, positive and broad-minded objectiveness and then trusting that they will be having it responsibly, with the knowledge given to them.

People have sex. Not talking about sex, or lacing it with moral judgments is not going to scare people into not having sex.

Talk to them in an open, concise, healthy environment. Use scientific terms. Words like “penis”, “zakar”, “kemaluan”, “vagina” and “masturbation” should be addressed in a point-driven tone regardless of the hushed silence and sporadic giggles.

Expressions such as “pisang”, “batang”, “cipap”, “benda itu”, “benda kat bawah tu”, “down there” are confusing. They do not necessarily refer to my private parts. My legs and feet are also down there.

They need to be acquainted with condoms, what it is made of; that there are so many types out there, the trusted brands, how to insert it properly and why this is important.  

They need to be equipped with info about the Pill, what is it for, who should take it, who to consult, and what are the correct administrations.

They need to be familiar with all the STDs, the causes, the risks, the things they can do to avoid and what to do if they should contract – with pictorial aid.

That when herpes enters the body, it is forever. That syphilis is a sore on the genitalia, curable with antibiotics if detected early. That gonorrhea is real, not a type of bread, and if left untreated, may cause infertility. That HIV is a type of virus, and not an actual disease contracted via sneezing or sharing of utensils. That AIDS stands for Acquired Immuned Deficiency Syndrome and that it develops as a result of being HIV-positive. 

They also need to know that when they go to bed, they are not going to bed with a single person. They are sleeping with that person’s sexual history and all of the sexual history’s sexual history as well.

In 2006, 20 people were reported of being infected with HIV everyday, and out of that 20, 13 are housewives. So it is not what category of people they fall under. It is about the sexual habits that they practice, like using condoms, and having annual health checkups.

The children, our future sir, the next generation, they need to know all this. They need to know that STDs happen to good people too, not only to sex workers and the morally corrupt.

Thank you for taking the time from visiting schools, kissing the keris and motivating the UMNO youth, to read my letter sir. I really appreciate it. And I believe that you will do the right thing.  Maybe.

 

*names have been changed to protect privacy.

Chocolate

 

Some Saturday, not so distant nights ago
0045 hours

We surveyed the scene from the top of the slope and tried to make a united decision. Of course, the one and only decisive factor is to be where the hot ones are.

Frangipani was a tad too noisy for my sick liking, but girlfriends R and C were attacted to the sound of music blaring straight to the street. Their booties already moving to the staccato rhythm way before we reached the entrance. Okay, I guess we shall, just for a bit.

All I wanted to do was step out for some comforting supper. How in the world I managed to change my course of route and pick up two naughty partners-in-crime instead, I don’t know.

An unmade oily face, unwashed hair bunched up in a ponytail and a belted brown dress with flip flops. I was hardly a combination that would result in bringing a gorgeous specimen home for some rock-a-bye.  I looked, and felt, like a maid. But whatever, not an issue; I was there for a drink. If horniness should strike, my fingers, or my shower head can jolly well do the job to gratify.

We made our way up the beautiful wooden stairs and entered the upper leveled bar packed with attractive human beings. 

This is my locale on Fridays, when the night belonged to sweet fairies. I was unfamiliar with the straight crowd on Saturdays. I thought too soon. Because not even thirty seconds after, I met two people I know telling me they’ve been reading my blog (hello girls) and how much they love it.

Thanks for reading, I’m so honoured. I replied. Then I air kissed them again and preceded to the bar. I wasn’t being insincere and abrupt. I just. Want. That. Drink. 

A few more acquaintances and fellow Changkat frequenters. A couple of how are yous and where have you beens later and I finally got that Vodka Cranberry. Thank you busy bartender! 

The day had done a crazy number on me.
R and C were nowhere in sight. I assumed they were either getting drinks too, or at the Ladies. I circled the island bar one more time. Just in case I missed them.

Then I saw him. Bald. Confident. His eyes like perfect almonds. He was built like he went to the gym religiously. His skin the colour of yummy milk chocolate that melts in your mouth and your hands, and you lick clean.

He was smiling at me and after a few passing clubbers, I was right in front of him.

SexyBaldMan   : Hey
Me                  : Hi.
SexyBaldMan   : We’ve met.
Me                  : I can’t recall where though.
SexyBaldMan   : Neither can I. But it doesn’t matter. I’m K.
Me                  : Hello K. I’m (my name).
SexyBaldMan   : Pleasure meeting you again then (my name).
Me                  : Is that a British accent I hear, where about?
SexyBaldMan   : London.
Me                  : Ah, I see.
SexyBaldMan   : But I live here now. Ampang.
Me                  : A long way from home. On what purpose?
SexyBaldMan   : Work.
Me                  : In what field is that?
SexyBaldMan   : It’s a performance lubrication company.
Me                  : Ahhh, and what sort of performance?
SexyBaldMan   : You’re wicked.
Me                  : Do you have a light?
SexyBaldMan   : No I don’t smoke. An expensive habit.
Me                  : (nods to the beer in his hand) So is drinking
SexyBaldMan   : I had to choose one or the other. Alcohol won hands down.
Me                  : Too bad. I was about to request for you to light my fire. But tell me more bout this “performance lubricant” …

SexyBaldMan   : I see that smile. I get that a lot. But you’re wicked.
Me                  : Oh, no no no. This is pure research. I have a sex blog.
SexyBaldMan   : Do you now?
Me                  : Mmm hmm (sips on cocktail)
SexyBaldMan   : What do you write in this sex blog of yours.
Me                  : All sorts of things. I experiment here and there.
SexyBaldMan   : (hands over mobile) Key in your number. We should keep in touch.

                                                                         *****

I wonder if it’s true what they say about chocolate-coloured men. I guess, I’ll just have to wait and see.

Out of Denial

 

I poured the tea and cupped my shivering fingers to the shape of the hot hot mug. What a relief. As I got out from the kitchen, stumbling my way across the living room, I spilled some on my bare thighs. I was ready to flinch, anticipating pain. The tea, at boiling point two minutes ago, did not seem to have an effect on my nerves, for my legs were cold, like ice.

I hate being sick. I know. Who doesn’t right? When I was younger, I loved it. It was an excuse for me to act like a princess and skip school. Now I don’t need to be ill to be all that.

I laid my throbbing head against the throw cushion of the sofa and thought, if anyone had a fetish for the frazzled and unwell, I’d be real sexy to them. Heh.

Hahahaha.
Serves you right.
Itu la, gatal lagi!
Woman, I thought you learned your lesson?
You’re joking!

Some of the reaction I received. And yes, I went back for more after last week’s eventful incident. On Monday. We locked the door this time though. In case of unexpected visitors again.

A simple cough had turned into a full-blown fever and other annoying penalties. The germs probably mutated.

I don’t regret. It was worth it. Not only because he was a satisfying lover and a good kisser. Also, for the reason that now the drought was over, momentum has to be kept.

Okay, always the passionate optimist, I assumed I was strong enough. Of course, believing my immunity was tough like a brick wall doesn’t make it so.

Maybe I needed this. Some alone time. Constantly surrounded by people can wear you down at several points or rather. I am not complaining to having a wide circle of friends, I feel blessed. Except being under the weather forces me to stay still and mull over thoughts I abandoned in pursuit of excitement.

A proper (dare I say it?) boyfriend would come in best during times like these. It’d be nice to be looked after by a significant other. Mothers make chicken soup and are brilliant in pampering the inner child. But that special person would indulge the vulnerable whims and makes you feel beautiful even when you look like a dying cow.  It’s a different feeling altogether I’m sure.

Not that I would know. I’ve never been in a relationship. Not really. I’m talking about the serious, long term, stable kind. The kind that might lead somewhere. 

All my previous ones didn’t last more than six months. And while I call them my exes (is there another title?), they felt more like extended flings.

My god sister and a throng of friends label me commitment phobic.

Maybe it is because at the curve of each relationship, something happens. Someone cheats. Boredom. Religious differences. Family objections. Long distance. Things that are beyond my control, too close for comfort, I feel smothered. And so I run. This is what I do.
 
Deem me a coward or picky, demanding, hard to please, or anything else within that category of vocab.  But I don’t see the point of staying simply for the sake of watching the prophecy unravel. 

I am not scarred. Not angry, not bitter. Not apologetic either. They were just not meant to be. But with every failed one, I grew more exhausted not passing that peak from play to domestic. Drained from the heartbreaks, the trying, the unnecessary ache, I stopped bothering.

Hence I jump from mattress to mattress, momentarily satisfied in my quest for 24 hour loving (sometimes less), leaving strands of my hair (both forms) on their plush pillows. 

However, trust me when I say, I have not lost hope in finding love – that’s a whole post by itself.

At present, I guess I am commitment phobic. Sort of.
Now where the hell is my group hug so I can feel someone up?

Cheer Me Up with an Apple Tree

 

Sometimes people can surprise you in the most delightful and
unexpected way.

You see, I am sick. Cut tongue. Swollen lymph nodes and fever
And so I needed some cheering up.

But we haven’t spoken for a while. Busy schedules and distance.
He probably saw my depressing MSN nickname, cause he sent me this link.

 

Girls are like
apples on trees. The best
ones are at the top of the tree.
The boys don’t want to reach for
the good ones because they are afraid
of falling and getting hurt. Instead, they
just get the rotten apples from the ground
that aren’t as good, but easy. So the apples
at the top think something is wrong with
them, when in reality, they’re amazing.
They just have to wait for the right
boy to come along, the one
who’s brave enough
to climb
all the way
to the top
of the tree.

 

I am smiling now. Thank you mister.

Lessons

 

In an odd optimistic way, Friday was an edifying evening for her.

She had the usual packed itinerary lined up for the night – karaoke, fashion show, a friend’s birthday at some club. And she just got out of the shower, feeling fresh and energized, her body scented of green tea shower foam.

That was when her phone rang. It was him. The sick-I-don’t-want-to-see-people-cause-I’m-grouchy him. He’s been ill for three days, and in all those three days he resisted her assistance, her company and her compassion. She missed him, but she understood all the same. She sent porridge once. After that she decided best to let it be.  She called occasionally; trying to sound as casually as she could outside, even though she was staggering inside.

She wondered if subconsciously she was looking for an opportunity to play the silly lil worried girlfriend. But girlfriend was far from what she was trying to be. She really was concerned. She just wanted to be near.

So when he finally reached out that night, she relented. He was bored of the four walls of his room. Needed some fresh air, he said, let’s do dinner. Okay, dinner it is. She offered to drive. Be there in an hour, she said.

She hung up and dialed some numbers. Her plans? Cancelled!

When dinner was done, she was back in his room – pretending she knew what she was doing as she massaged him. Does that feel good? More pressure?  No?

She knew the friction from the skin of her palm against the texture of his back marks the inevitable beginning of yet another ardent encounter.

She had a feeling something startling was bound to happen. That was just how her luck usually pans out. But he was sweet. And tender. And promising. Like he was that first night they kissed.

Before she knew it their clothes were off. He felt so good. She didn’t want to let go.

This is it. The turning point of their friendship to godknowswhat. There’d be consequences. But she didn’t care. And she didn’t want to think about it. Let’s just seize the fucking moment.

Literally.

Then she heard someone hovering. Her reflex told her to run to the bathroom.
And thank heavens she did. Because his mom, visiting, walked in. (say OMFG)

Garments were strewn all over the floor. Messy bed, and used condoms by the side post. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what was happening in there.

She spent the next three days cringing in embarrassment and reiterating her mortification to laughing friends in an infected coarse voice that made her sound like a transsexual.

Two lessons learned over the long Independence Day weekend.
Never have sex with a sick man.
Lock the fucking door.

Orange

 

I emerged out of Mid Valley’s 4th floor car park exit into the shopping mall
and was surprised by the crowd, considering it was a Thursday afternoon.
Weaving in and out between the masses of people, my eyes were fixed to the screen of my mobile, replying texts that I missed while I was in class half an hour earlier.

I was used to this. Walking hurriedly amid packed places is really my thing because I was always late. Habitually I was quite good at avoiding bumping into people, but today I was just a little more flustered than usual. It could probably be the heat of the weather outside or the heat within me, from not having sex. Yes. One month, one week, and counting … make out sessions don’t add up.

As I got off the first escalator going down towards Zara where my friends were waiting, I collided into someone’s left elbow. It belonged to a man. Tanned and jasmine scented. I looked up.

He had a handsome chiseled face. Late twenties maybe. His arms and shoulder blades were toned and bare. His head shaven. His ruler shaped body wrapped by a single orange cloth in a monk’s usual fashion. Why was I noticing all this?

I apologized. Sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you.
He didn’t say anything, simply smiled. So I smiled back, and noticed how warm his eyes were. I’m really sorry, I repeated myself, and walked off.

Did I just mildly flirt with a holy servant of God? No. No. No.
I pressed send on the touch screen of my phone and returned it to my handbag. At the corner of my eye I spied the monk, walking behind me. I felt self-conscious.
Was he checking out my ass? No. No. No. It’s just not possible.

In the instant I thought that, I felt myself swaying a bit more. What the fuck is wrong with me?!

I turned my face again, slightly to the right, pretending to check something in my purse.
This time, I was sure. He was looking at me.
I walked a tad faster. I don’t know why. But I did.

He caught up with me two minutes after, just before I reached another flight of escalator. He touched me on the brink of my right shoulder, very lightly.
Then he said, grinning and Thai-accented. You very pretty.

Erm …. Err …. Oh ok, thanks, I replied, my response delayed. And I practically jumped on the next moving step heading downwards. He remained at the top of the floor, still watching.

What just happened? Did I just get hit on by a monk? Or was he just appreciating the female form? I was flattered nevertheless.

That evening as I recollected the moment, I felt like I needed to verify another box in my already long list of sins.

Blasphemy – check.

Foreplay

 

You’ve been waiting, haven’t you? Was it agonizing, the anticipation? 
I know you are reading this. In my mind I imagine you in front of that Mac.
If you weren’t smiling, you are now.

I had a wonderful time on Sunday by the way.

Don’t think I did not know your intention when you stroked my hand. I wondered if that was pure affection or an initiation for something more. And when I said let’s watch a movie, don’t think it was just a distraction, I really did want to. Except I got restless.

So I kissed you. No resistance.
Your lips eagerly mine. Your mouth starving for touch. At the tip of my tongue, you surrendered.

Your hands were not travelling. Good boy.
Me? Not so good. I touched your crotch. Well, hello there. No performance anxiety I supposed then. Secretly I gauged you for size. Can’t blame a girl for that can you, there’s been some painful incidences.

The hour passed by quickly in the ticking of the clock. And I was pleasured in those minutes you licked my ears, caressed my naked thighs and clutched my breasts.

Let’s not go all the way. All these built up foreplay and anxiety might lead to an intensity of passion. You were sweet. And tender. Your eyes escape you.  Like a boy of hopeful discoveries.

I went home giddy, and filled to the brim with confetti of frissons.
That wasn’t bad. That wasn’t bad at all.

More is yet to come. That’s almost a guarantee.

Grey

 

College started today. Not officially, just the orientation.
Briefing, campus tour, semester schedule – I’ve been through it all. Yes, I
am going back to school at twenty-three, completing my Bachelor’s.

As I got ready this morning, I scanned the reflection of my face in the mirror and nervously anticipated what my day was going to be like.

Will I feel out of place with the entire younger crowd but nevertheless enjoy the attention of stupid little boys staring at my boobs?  I keep telling myself and a close friend of mine, Sharanya, that I am not, and never will be, a cougar. My taste has always skewed towards those older than me. But then again, who knows? Some gorgeous young punk might just be too delicious to resist.

I reached a tad too early, predicting massive jam on the roads, but was pleasantly surprised at the smooth flowing traffic. It is the school holidays, and it’s a Friday after all. Parents probably took the day off and whisked their bratty packs for a family weekend get-away. This is not uncommon in the suburbs.

Apart from the main entrance, nothing was opened. At the lobby of the building, current students were busy setting up tables and posting up signages. So I took off my sunglasses, approached a tall skinny girl arranging boxes of what looked like the average welcome folders.

Hi, good morning, I supposed this is the registration counter?
She turned around, gave me the once over with her slit eyes and replied curtly. We are not organized yet, can’t you see. It is only eight ten. We start at nine. Come back later.

Oh, ok. I said, still smiling on the outside, reeling in the inside, and walked away. You conceited excuse for a stick; my ass is trendier than that fake Gucci sling bag you’re preciously carrying.

Another girl came up to me, and beamed. Perhaps you want to wait somewhere while we set up? There’s lots of restaurants and mamaks around here you know.

I know, I thought to myself, but didn’t want to discourage her warm generosity.
So I answered. Really? Where would I be able to find a Starbucks you think?
And I let her give me directions that I knew like the back of my hand.

Go straiiigggghhttt down the hallway, and when you see a mini convenience store on your right, you will see a staircase you can exit from, that is a shortcut! She looked at me as if she just helped come up with a solution to an infinite math question. 

Oh ok thanks. I smiled amusingly, and proceeded straiiigggghhttt down the aforementioned passage.

The long corridor was clear and oh so quiet. Only sounds I could hear were whirling of generators and a click click echo from the flat heel of my gold shoes.  

The coffee joint was also empty, a barrista at the counter. A rather cute one at that. He greeted me. Good morning miss, welcome to Starbucks, how may I help you?

I looked at him and thought, well, you can start by taking off that ridiculous yellow T-shirt ……
Miss?
Oh, sorry, was just thinking of what I’d like. I will have a Grande Earl Grey, ice on the side, and a Mushroom, Tomato and Cheese in Ciabatta bread.

Settled down my orders on the round black metal table, I sat al-fresco and reveled in the heat of the morning sun partially against my dark skin. I lit a cigarette and removed the bookmark from the novel I have been struggling to finish. Not because the plot was too boring or lacked excitement, but I have just been too horny enamoured to concentrate. Every so often my mind would wander off on its own and think of that
time …

It has been a month okay, give me a break.

But this morning I was doing quite fine I must say. Occasionally I looked up and away from the novel in my hand, drank my tea, took a bite off my sandwich and observed the people slowly pouring in.

I was doing very well in fact, finished two whole chapters without thinking about sex.
Until this man walked in.

This rugged old matured looking man in a crisp, blue buttoned down shirt and khakis. His Ray Ban covered his eyes but his jaw line was too distinguished to ignore. Standing at approximately five feet eight, his hair was black with some grey on the sides, and his yellow skin wasn’t wrinkled like an un-ironed bed sheet. If I had to guess his age, possibly early to mid forties.

There was something about him.

With the book pressed against my nose, I watched him setting up a white Vaio, careful not to get the steaming drink on his expensive laptop. When he bent down to plug in the cable to the available power sockets, I moved a bit to get a view of his rear. Ooh, not bad for someone his age.

I wasn’t getting the gay vibe. And I don’t see a wedding ring. Could be one of those playas who fathers aborted children and spends his cash away on booze and sports cars. I guessed his occupation. Architect, I decided.

He finally sat down, taking in the aroma of the hot coffee before taking a sip.
Five minutes. Ten minutes. He seemed glued to the screen, eyes still covered by his sunnies, totally oblivious to my staring.

Or pretending to be. He must know I was imagining the fit of his palm against my … I shall not finish this sentence.

Maybe he needed some help noticing. I was running out of ice anyway. It all melted in the temperature of my thoughts passing by. 

I got up, and slowly walked towards the door into the outlet, my back facing him. My friends had commented before that I have a strut, and I was damn well going to put it to good use. 

(My name)? This vaguely familiar velvety voice came from his direction.
Could it be someone I met before, but idiotically can’t remember? I turned, not without a lop-sided smile and the intention to dazzle and mesmerize …

His Ray Ban was on his head already. My face fell.
Oh. Err. Hi Uncle …

It was my friend’s dad.

To All The Men (And Sometimes Women) I’ve Loved Before

 

In case you were wondering, like I do during pivotal moments of utter
solitude and horniness loneliness, I get turned on remembering the intimate seconds we may never reenact.

I am not ashamed or afraid to confess I masturbate to reminiscence of our sexual encounters.

That time on the rooftop. Your hotel room. My hotel room. The bathroom of a club. The basement of our campus. The dark room you worked in. The lift of that building. The villa you rented. My car. Your car. Our friend’s bed. 

Yeah, there’s quite a few of you.

From the first touch on the silhouette of my figure, to my tongue tasting yours hungrily, and to your body moving rapidly in sync with my rhythm of pleasure – I was spent in the way only you could have satisfied me.

Each and every one of you, so different individually, yet cramped together in a single pocket of nostalgia, serving one purpose. And one purpose merely.

Sometimes as my eyes adjust to the darkness, I touch myself to these memories and I enjoy the slides of contentment.

When I’m done, somewhere between being awake, and that final drag of tiredness, I imagine your arms around my waist.

And I sleep.