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Short skirts, french knickers

Friday, December 23, 2005

The older guy

So this older guy,F, I've been having a rather amorous affair with. And when I say affair, it really just entails being fed nice things, driven home to a fabulous apartment with a splendid view of the city and made to come like a hundred times a night.

That comment in the last blog was entirely right. The older man is far more - how shall I say - altruistic. Sex is fabulously slow and not because his age's caught up to him. No no. It's because when he says he loves giving women pleasure more than receiving it, he seems to really mean it. So foreplay is almost entirely mainplay. The in-out, when it happens is explosive. I play the young darling, he plays the old experienced gentlemen - actually we don't play, because we are, but it's nice to live up the stereotype role playing thing of being a shameless young floozy and be spoilt.

He plays connect-the-dots around my body with his tongue and his fingers, he strokes my neck, licks my ears and brushes past my nipples for an agonizing 25 minutes (I timed it on the clock across the room). Then he'll lie back and smoke, keep me on hold, while I frolick next to him and wrap my legs around his luring him back to play. He does eventually of course, but not before a lot of teasing on his part, pouting on mine. His hands to magic, and soon I am quivering, gasping for air and even wetter than before.

Sometimes he takes full control, gets demanding, commanding. Pulls my hair back as he's fucking me from behind and lots of "You're a ____ girl" (fill in the blanks with variations of "bad"), the emphasis being on the girl as a reminder of my everlasting youth (haha) and his maturity (because men like to be reminded of their superiority?) Let's not read into it too much. What can I say? I rather enjoy being the younger girl and fetishised that way.

Afterwards, he smooths down my hair and tucks me off to sleep, complete with kisses on the cheek, before he dresses and makes a quiet exit. How wonderful - no neurotic boys, no snoring boys, no clingy boys. Just great dining experiences in fabulous hotels and exquisite sex. Why don't all those boys hurry up and get to their 40s.

Sunday, December 18, 2005

Older men

It seems the world are going mad for older men. In a quick catching up on blogs, I found Sash's recent entry on one of her "old favourites." And a rather peculiar cousin of mine who has delusions of being some sort of fairy has just started a blog (as if things couldn't get any weirder in her life). On reading my latest entry, she sent an email whooping in laughter at the strange coincidence, then added a link to said blog, fantasising about some old guy with a receding hairline?

It makes my exciting liaison with the older man pale in comparison. Stories to come later. It's been an exhausting weekend, and as usual I'm picking sleep over writing.

Friday, December 16, 2005

Updates updates!

The writing has gone a bit sporadic again hasn’t it? Time flies when you’re not blogging and suddenly it’s been a month and I think I’ve lost all my readers. So I shall write for myself then.

So very much has happened that I don’t even know where to start. That was the problem you see – so much fun to be had, too many problems to untangle and the sudden explosion of work. There was no time left for writing! (You can only imagine all the thousands of interesting stories out there in the world that would make for great blog entries. They just never find their way onto your laptop screen because these people are out being far too busy and sociable and enrapt in their stories to actually sit down to write them all.)

Well, let’s see… the emotional wreck turned out to be a bit of a barmy case. He was far more emotional than he was ever physical and the sad air he carried around him weighed far too heavy of a toll on my happy psyche for me to want to pursue that one. A few days ago, I heard from his best mate that he’d started seeing some new girl. Then he shook his head in despair and tutted, declaring that it would only just mess up his head even more. And that’s just what we need isn’t it? More angst to distract from sex. You don’t think men like that are possible, but apparently… they are.

Daniel the coffee boy is still pestering me for dates. He’s turned into a bit of a charity case. Be careful who you sleep with: you end up having to take care of some of them and their dating welfare. Still, he’s earned a rather prestigious place in my heart as an adopted younger brother and I get terribly stroppy when bitchy girls treat him bad. He buys me, the big sister-mentor, coffee now and then (haha) and in exchange, I listen to his dating woes.

Because it’s the Christmas season and everyone’s heart is filling up with temporary warmth and good will, I have also been bombarded with phone calls from exes and flings from throughout the year. This, mind you, seems to be a yearly affair. Surely Maxis makes a killing just out of exes trying to rekindle sparks with their exes every December. After all, nobody likes spending Christmas opening presents on their own.

Most of them I remember, some of them not at all. (“Who? I’m sorry I think maybe you’ve got the wrong number?”). A few special ones I let take me out for a drink and seduce me by touching my thigh (seduction methods are so predictable these days). More often than not – because I’m also in the spirit of giving and goodwill, both to others and myself! – I take them home and many little gifts are exchanged next to my makeshift Christmas tree ;)

Also, I’ve started up a rather amorous affair with a 43-year-old. “He’s old enough to be your father!” snorted Fil (though with a slightly jealous tint to his smirk). But more on that later. Shan’t tell you all the stories all at once now, shall I?

Thursday, November 10, 2005

The sexual allure of emotional wrecks

As a rule, I don’t go for boys with baggage – the heavy, emotionally-weighed, angst-ridden, sensitive boys who bristle at every word. But I can’t resist a good body and the quiet hidden charisma of a boy who doesn’t realise just how much of a hardbody he is.

There’s this boy – a-friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend kind of thing. At first glance, he’s just your ordinary Chinese-ed kinda boy, the sort that sits in the corner and guffaws every now and then at some bad joke. The girls are mad for him though – they flock around him and try to make him laugh, even though he doesn’t say or do anything particularly special. I wondered what the big deal was so tried to strike up a conversation one day when I found myself standing next to him at a bar. And then within 5 minutes I too fell all in lust with him.

He’s unwittingly mysterious, without trying to be so. Chronically shy – not in a way that doesn’t like to talk or socialize, but in that awkward way that refuses to divulge any personal information, no matter how ordinary. Apparently, he doesn’t even have a name and is known to everyone only by his surname. Self preservation at its best.

After weeks and weeks of talking to him intermittently, I discover that he’s going through “issues.” On a particularly lucid, open moment on MSN, he sends me a link to his online journal, full of poems. They’re deep, dark, lonely, desperately sad and full of heartache but so well written it made me want to get on my knees, give him a blow job and have him pen a few beautiful lines on bits of scrap paper. They can’t be all bad if they made even this hard hearted gal feel her heartstrings tug.

And he has a remarkable body. It’s hidden of course, under the sorts of tshirts that don’t do ever justice to biceps. Of course, he doesn’t think he’s remotely worth looking at: someone called him a “leng jai” one day and he protested it so fervently you’d think he’d been insulted. The insecure types are often tiring and boring, but something about this one keeps me well on my toes. I've discovered that the deep, dark, hidden recesses of an emotional wreck can, in fact, given the right boy and body, wreck physical havoc on a girl's sex drive, spinning it into overdrive.

Now, I don’t purport I’m going to swoop in, mend his heart and change his life to one full of adoring love and happy relationships wrapped in pink foil. I don't do that, it's too sickening. I did however, think he might benefit from a bit of distraction from the woes of the world. A romp in the sheets and a good blow job may prove to clear his head enough to sort out the rest of the problems – a bit like Prozac, without the brain damage. The few past sexual experiences with basket cases have proven to be quite intense and insanely ecstatic.

Don’t put money on it, but I think it may just work ;)

Monday, November 07, 2005


It’s been rather quiet, hasn’t it. I’ve been holidaying in England – digging up old flames from under their rocks and doing the tour of old favourite clubs from university days - and blogging was shelved. The boys – gay or straight – were thrilled to see me but only, as they would reveal later, because I presented something different in the bleak landscape of oversized, pasty English girls. Well, whatever brings cheer.

Not as much sex as you’d imagine, although the occasional sex sesh with a few exes did serve to remind me why they’re exes, and why it was never a hard decision to leave those experiences in the past. HAH. But they made good hosts – gave up their beds, stocked their fridges with lots of expensive junk food: they can afford it since they all moved on to proper (though boring) city jobs involving banks and the like. They were appalled to learn I was still mooching about like an eternal arts student.

Anyway, it was a good three weeks of reliving the days of late teenage years – horrible, cheap alcopops, making out with boys and then scoffing chips in the early hours of the morning. I had almost begun to feel like that young innocent girl of 18 again… until a barrage of text messages started to come in from KL.

I’d left quietly so that nobody would harass me with annoying requests to pick up Walkers Crisps/English Chocolates/Marks and Spencers’ socks "if I happened to come across it”. Anyway it had been quiet on the social front the fortnight before I left so I didn’t expect anyone would miss me much. Sod’s law of course dictates that once you’re out of the country, everyone wants to get in touch.

An example: a guy I’d sort-of slept with before leaving KL sent an SMS: “Hey gorgeous. I can’t stop thinking bout u n that hot nite. Can we have a replay?”

Unfortunately for him, I was out with my loudest gaggle of gay friends – that is, gay, lesbian, bi and everything in between. They read it over my shoulder and had a field day sending back texts to him that shred him to pieces. He didn’t have a clue what was going on and I was too drunk to intercept at the time (only discovered the damage the next day). At least that was one less pesky intrusion in the holiday.

A few days later: a text at lunchtime, English time from Tom, the gym boy. Out of a sudden pristine silence. “Hey babe. U coming to my class 2nite? If not, I have to jerk off in the changing rm.”

To which I replied, “No, not coming. In London. Have fun in the showers.”

“London ar?? Hmmmm. Too bad lar cos I’m so horny right now. So many things I want to do to you.”

I ignored him. The lure of whatever scant sexed up short messaging skills (SMS, gettit?) he had were not enough to make up for the evils of international roaming charges. And then my phone went crazy beeping every few seconds:

“I like licking your tits when ur turned on and ur nipples are hard.”
“U r so hot when ur wet. I dunno anyone who gets as wet as u. I love putting my fingers in, make you scream.”
“Stop ignoring me lar.”
“When u cum back, I want u to sit on my cock n ride me until ur back curve n I cum hot inside u.”

Etc etc

I admit, it was turning me on just that little bit – sex with him is always too hot to let it pass by – but I was having lunch right just then with an old favourite university tutor who made the Medieval arts everything I loved it to be but, incidentally, is a 65year-old spinster who's so nutty she probably lives in a shoe.

She’d been talking about a painting of Sir Gawain story when Tom’s texts came through and I doubt the lewdness found within would have amused her. The incessant beeping of the phone was getting embarrassing and I decided that in spite of my sexual urges, art had to take priority when you were talking to someone as passionate about it as Emily Brownstone. I excused myself, went to the ladies and sent back a text: “When I’m back, I’ll let you fuck my brains out. Rite now, nothin I can do&its f-ing expensive to SMS. Gtg.At museum.Fones banned.”

A lie. But he’s in KL anyway. I thought it’d keep him quiet. Straight away, before I’d even flushed the toilet: “Wat kind of museum?I wud fuck u next to all the old paintings until the frames break.”

I put it on silent and went back to my cup of tea.

Saturday, October 08, 2005

The pesky kind

Daniel, the cute coffee boy that came along with the birth of this blog, has been on my case a bit about meeting up again, and again, and again, and again. I thought not to encourage him anymore, because I only know this kind of boy too much - they want relationships and somehow think that they shall be the hero to make me settle down. It gets very tiring trying to get out of those tangles, so I try not to get into them anymore. Unfortunately, the cute sex thing often gets in the way and I forget. It's hard to tell just from looking at them anyway.

Well, he's been writing long emails of the literary sort - training from university days, no doubt. And sending SMSes that try to be endearing and cute.

I finally rang him up and told him it ain't gonna work, darling, find someone else, though in kinder words. So he's now set about pestering me to find him a girl because he's tired of being lonely and "just wants to have that nice feeling of being in love again."

What am I now? The relationship guru? I told him I'd keep an eye out - so if anyone knows of a girl who's just as keen as him on dating-steady, please let me know and I'll set you up. It'll be the only sure thing for weaning him off from texting me all day along.

Anyhow, apologies for being such a bitch. I know people just want to be loved and all that but I don't understand why they think I'm the one to love them.

As a breather, am off to an evening at La Bodega with old friends who don't ask anything of me but drinks and giant bear hugs. Sometimes it's nice not to have to bother with boys (or even sex) at all.

Friday, October 07, 2005

"Fucking is never sublime enough"

It’s raining outside and I’m full of the happy nostalgia of a boy I once knew who made fucking look like a joke. He told me once, “Fucking can be boring, can’t it? The pleasure is never sublime enough.” A rainy quiet day like today reminds me of the many afternoons spent lying next to him in my underwear, stroking his arm, his hand upon my bare thigh, his feet wrapped messily around mine, and him throwing laughs around the room.

He was soft (if ever a man can be soft, and no, I don’t mean in that way), his skin like a petal. He was tall, but not too tall; slender in a way that was almost lanky. But he was also surprisingly strong and his arms had the sort of definition you wanted to touch all the time (hence the stroking). He wore those cute rimless glasses that made him look like a little kid, and he had these sloping eyebrows that filled him with a sleepy, dreamy air all the time. And he was dreamy - the sort that daydreams at work and loves being cheeky pulling imaginary stories and scenarios out of nowhere.

We would talk of irrelevant things and he would smile, decorously, deliciously, deviant if you caught him at the right angle. He would tell me totally innocent things in a beautiful way about a silly childhood or his first kiss in kindergarten; and then he would also tell me totally dirty things in a beautiful way so that foreplay was entirely in his voice.

He took the time to touch me in all the right places and to spend an agonizing amount of time tasting my skin with his tongue. I loved his kisses, full yet barely there, which he would scatter around my neck, tracing his lips in that space just above the neck and below the jawline. He loved stroking the length of my legs, thighs, arms with one finger, watching the shuddering that it sent down me with his bright eyes. He loved turning me on my side, or face down on my stomach, to touch me from behind – one hand pressed against a breast, while his tongue ran down the small of my back to make me arch and whine from the pleasure. Sometimes, kisses down the shoulder while his fingers worked me between the legs from the back, from the front, or both at the same time.

I remember it was storming outside once and the thunder and lightning made me desperate for fucking. He leant into me firm and quieted me down with the strength of an arm while he traced rings round my nipples and moved downwards to lick my inner thighs for such a long time that I was almost made to scream from the desperation. He put a finger inside me and upon taking it out, made me watch him while he licked it. It was the height of being teased. You don’t think you can get so worked up from being touched so little, but apparently, you can.

It was his thing to keep his fingers working me, while he moved his body to lie alongside me, his face pressed close to my face, whispering, licking, pouting against my earlobe; and the full length of his body pushed heavy against my side, a trembling, swollen cock and bristle leg hairs brushing up to my skin. He would stop just before I came, and just ply me with kisses to distract. He would do this over, 3, 4, 5 times until when he finally let me come it was only from the single feather stroke of a forefinger.

He would let me suck on him after, but only for awhile. He preferred to work his cock himself, while I kissed his face and stroked his balls or thighs and pressed myself against him like he did to me. He would come silent and slow, almost deliberate like no other guy I’ve seen does. Then we’d lie back, he’d roll me a cigarette and we’d listen to his old Annie Lennox CDs while he told me more stories and asked me about mine.

It would go on like this for hours, and whole weekends where we wouldn’t get out of bed for anything except baths and chocolate from the kitchen.