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Short skirts, french knickers

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.


  • oh man...talking about being thick...or was it just plain dumb with english? perhaps it would help if you replied 'kanneneh...go fuck the spider lah!!' a tad more straight to the point, no?

    By Blogger Thai Boxing Girl, at 1:52 PM  

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