Short skirts, french knickers

The older guy

2005-12-23T00:52:00.000+08:00

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.

Older men

2005-12-18T23:54:00.000+08:00

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.

Updates updates!

2005-12-16T00:35:00.000+08:00

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?

The sexual allure of emotional wrecks

2005-11-10T01:06:00.000+08:00

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 ;)

England

2005-11-07T21:12:00.000+08:00

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.

The pesky kind

2005-10-08T17:31:00.000+08:00

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.

"Fucking is never sublime enough"

2005-10-07T15:40:00.000+08:00

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.

Why getting married can be a bad idea

2005-10-03T20:22:00.000+08:00

I’ve been in Singapore over the weekend – every morning when I woke up I asked myself if it was Sunday yet so I could come home because Singapore is so awful, so full of puny men and uptight women, and horrible soulless food. I was down for an ex-boyfriend’s wedding. He’s marrying one of those uptight Singaporean girls who gave me a dirty look when I shook her hand at the reception. I felt like saying, “Well, how did you know I give a better blow job than you, you frigid cow,” but I thought I’d try to be nice that day.

I realised then that most of the my ex-boyfriends end up marrying uptight girls. It’s like I scared them off or something, and then they decided they would settle down for a Bree van de Kamp with perfectly plucked eyebrows and manners. Sometimes, they still ring me up and take me out for coffee – all very secretly because their paranoid girlfriends who throw a fit if they knew he was alone with another girl – and they tell me how happy they are. That only lasts about 10 minutes before they start reminiscing about our old times together and laughing about trying to have sex in their crappy Wiras. Then they kiss me on the cheek after paying for dessert, tell me to stay in touch and part ways.

A few months later, an embossed wedding invitation and some sort of attempt of writing my name in calligraphy. So I go along, I dredge up an angpow, eat my share of Chinese dinner and try to avoid the other ugly bachelors on the table.

Once, the groom sneaked out for a cigarette (I say sneaked because his “mother-in-law doesn’t approve”) and caught me trying to run off early. We hid round the back of the restaurant near the rubbish bins, swapped Marlboros and I told him he looked happy. All I remember him saying was, “She doesn’t like giving head” before sighing into a fug of smoke.

And no, I didn’t, in case that’s what you’re thinking. I told him he shouldn’t have dumped me so quickly, nicked another cigarette off him and hopped off round the corner for a taxi. Last I heard, they’re separated and he’s out in town every Ladies’ Night. Matrimony rings absolutely no bells for this KL girl. I stand firm by the idea that eternal happiness is not in a ring – it’s in getting and giving many a good head.

Interrupted sex

2005-09-24T20:10:00.000+08:00

Something to note: it is never cool to accept phone calls while in the middle of sex. I was in the middle of giving a guy a blow job once when his phone rang. He fumbled about in his bag and then, "Sorry, I really have to get this. It's my mom. She gets worried if I'm back late."

Another time, another boy, it was a phone call from the office. His end of the conversation went, "Ok, you go to the folder labelled such-and-such and then inside there is a file called XYZ. Got it? Ok, scroll down - it's somewhere in the middle.... yah... ok?..."

See, bankers are dull.

Everytime this happens, I don't let that get in the way of what I'm doing - I'm performing some sort of art! and I think it's only common courtesy to excuse yourself properly if you have to take that very important phone call. If you don't, I'll just keep on running my tongue round your balls, or squeeze my pelvic muscles harder if I'm sitting astride you. If you come right in the middle of a call, you're the one who has to do the explaining for gasping down the phone at your mother :p

Anyway, it's Saturday night and I must be off to kiss boys. More stories later. Have a fun weekend x x x

Playtime

2005-09-22T08:46:00.000+08:00

Sorry for not writing. I'm sure my grand readership of half a dozen (if that much!) is missing me terribly. I've actually been doing some work of late, and as a reward to myself for being so conscientious have spent all the remaining time out at play. All work and no play makes Rachel a dull girl, no?

Spent a splendid lazy weekend entirely with Tom. I haven't done this one-weekend-one-boy thing in a while so I even surprised myself. I even let him cook me breakfast. Actually, fortunately there was nothing edible in the kitchen so he had to run out to buy nasi lemak - always a better alternative to eggs and bacon. He had to teach at the gym all of Sunday so it was sex all of Saturday. Hurray for me. A whole day in between the sheets, in the shower, on the sofa, in the shower, on the floor, on the coffee table etc. He is great for never asking boring questions about my life and telling me boring stories about how heart breaking his previous relationship was (far too many men are like that too soon into the first date). He just tells funny jokes, stupid stories about his friends (who are also hot, I met them on Friday and almost persuaded him to let me take one of them home with us) and is a pro at giving multiple orgasms.

So I was monogamous for a whole weekend. How very applause-worthy of me. On the other hand, strange propositions over emails and the like have arisen from this blog. Even a sparse readership has led to something then...? All very kind, and I'm flattered by the attention but I'll have to decline the kind (and very interesting) offers. I'm determined not to become too insular by meeting men through this blog - it's supposed about chronicling sex stories, not using it to create new ones to tell.

Then again, if you do ever have the good fortune of meeting me, knowingly or not, and proving yourself worthy, you may just find yourself a momentary glimpse of blog-fame right here! Til then, you'll have to be content with just reading - keep your knickers on, don't get too excited.

Girls girls girls

2005-09-15T09:37:00.000+08:00

It's a sad fact that I've only really slept with men (but then, I just can’t resist a good hard cock) but I've also always held a fascination for women. Not really the thought of sex with them (strap ons are unappealing and silly, I think) but the intimacy of sucking on nipples and feeling her wetness on my fingers. I’ve had the good fortune of meeting plenty of desirable girls, and the even better luck of getting intimate with them – not really what you’d call sex but just enough to get you wet like you never are with a boy. Recently, I even had the good fortune of getting up to a bit of sexy mischief with a most remarkable girl, at Bliss.

But while all is always fun and flirty, the best of these experiences was a while back at uni, when I was living off-campus. Two of the housemates were always out of the house - either at libraries or running off to boyfriends' houses, that sort of thing - so I spent most of my time mooching around the house with the remaining girl, Mica, a Japanese girl with childlike eyes and a face like silk. She was pensive, quite dark in her own way - she liked sitting in the dark, in a room lit only with candles, shrouded by a musky fug of jasmine incense. She would sit on the floor and talk philosophy as she smoked cigarettes through a full permanent pout, her lip curling as she blew out the side of her lip.

It was always late when I’d step into her room and talk. Late nights, early mornings, when we sat close together in the smoky heat of her room and touched each other’s fingers, accidentally-on-purpose but feigning indifference.

One night, her fingers lingered longer than usual on mine. I let it be as usual but it soon crept to above my knee, and as it did, I felt the approach of her breath against my cheek. She kissed my earlobe, nibbled, and her hand reached under my nightie to an eager breast. We stayed loosely dressed and spent the rest of the night just kissing slow and deliberate, touching each other under nighties and pyjamas with our fingertips. The shoulder blades, the creases in the arms, thighs, breasts.

It was enough that we didn’t need to undress, or even touch each other between the thighs. The bliss was all in feeling of her tongue on my tongue and the parting of her mouth to meet my lips. And she knew just how to touch my breasts, and brush against my nipples in a way no man ever does. Nothing orgasmic – only sensual and slow and drawn-out, firm and wildly teasing.

Instinctively, we knew when it was enough. She leant back to smoke and blow out rings in the dark, watching through the side of an glazed eye and a sleepy smile as I worked my pussy with my own fingers. I remember climaxing and pressing my face into the side of her arm, and her reaching over to stroke the side of my head, still smoking. Coming that night was completely silent and dark, as the candles had long since blown out, but it was shuddering and strong in its stillness. We stayed sitting for hours and eventually, as the sun dawned, I fell asleep on her lap.

I like being shallow

2005-09-14T00:17:00.000+08:00

Fil met me for lunch yesterday and told me how he dumped his most recent girlfriend when he found out she liked Reese Witherspoon movies. How shallow, I know, but this is Fil. He explained that from his "very vast" experience, girls who like Reese Witherspoon are always trouble. Liking Reese Witherspoon movies, apparently reveal some sort of hidden history about a girl that nobody should get near.

"I like Reese Witherspoon. She's cute. Legally Blonde was fun what," I said.

"Yah, but look at you." Whatever that's supposed to mean.

Fil has also dumped girls in the past because he thought she giggled too much, or her jokes were stupid, or her hobbies bored him.

And actually, upon deeper reflection through the afternoon, I soon realised I wasn't really any different. Shame shame. Unless I actually really like the guy and want things to eventually move along some sort of dating curve (which hasn't happened in a while, thankfully), I quite like keeping things to a "fuck and fly" policy. Give me good head, then go home before you start telling me your weird stories. I won't bore you, if you won't bore me, that sort of thing.

Case in point: a few months ago, I'd been sleeping on/off with this guy for a few weeks before he decided to search me out on Friendster and add me to his list. (How embarrassing to admit that I'm on Friendster, I know. But high school friends are not ever to be forgotten!). Piqued by some sort of odd curiosity, I checked out his profile, looked at his list of favourite books, favoutire films etc, then found a link to his blog.

Click click. And there I found pages and pages and pages of heart wrenching poetry about being having his heart broken. Scrolling backwards through the archives, happy poems, deeply in love poems, blissfully-in-love-and-lust poems. There he was, fuck buddy turned into vulnerable little boy-in-love (not with me, fortunately, but some other evil girl who had torn up his soul apparently). It was distressing and not because I felt sorry for him, but because he was suddenly not quite so sexy anymore, now that he'd sort of bared his soul. How heartless of me, I know. Like I said, I like being shallow.

And anyway, how not fun to know all this when he's got his head between my thighs, or while we're having sex. I almost imagined I could still see all that sad, sad poetry flitting about his face while I was straddled on top of him the next time we had sex. So that was the end of that.

How ironic that a little romantic poetry was all it took to kill the joy for me.

Am I real?

2005-09-10T15:30:00.000+08:00

My, my. I'm away for a few days and my credibility starts being questioned. Well, what can I say since whatever I do say will be subject to more questioning? But yes, all the stories are real but the names aren't. I figured I owed them that much privacy since I'm plastering the rest of the sordid details online.

Anyway, this has to be short. I'm babysitting my sister's awful twins and apparently my coffee table is hazardous to toddlers so I have to go keep an eye out that they don't split their grubby faces in two (or four?...) See, it's not all fantasy, as has been implied. If only!

Phone sex

2005-09-08T15:38:00.000+08:00

Adam, an old favourite fuck buddy I haven’t heard from in months rang up last night. A nice surprise because all I had planned was a night in with a new book.

“Hey you. Sorry I haven’t called. I’ve been traveling. And I was dating this girl properly for awhile.”

Ah. It’s always some little relationship thing that gets in the way of good non-committal sex with hardbodied boys.

“Yah, well. Don’t worry Adam, I haven’t been pining.”

“Anyway. I’m single again. Thank god lah. That girl was a frigid bitch.”

I laughed. “I’m sure she thinks highly of you too.”

There was the usual small talk – pleasant but quite unnecessary, as we both knew.

“What are you wearing?” I knew that question was coming up.

“Geez man, you don’t ring in ages and now you wanna get me naked over the phone.”

“Yah, so what are you wearing?” He always goes straight to the point. Just your average uncomplicated man, but one with a big dick and beautiful hands.

“My short black nightie, you know, the one you like.”

“Hmmm. Yeah. I really like that one. If I was there right now, I’d push it up and get between your thighs and start licking your clit.”

No beating about the bush then (pun intended haha). It was enough to start getting me wet. I slipped a hand down my panties, balancing the phone between my ear and shoulder.

“I love it when you’re shaven. I’d stick my tongue inside to taste you and reach up to pinch your nipples, just how you like it… Are you touching yourself?”

“Mmmmm..”

“Yeah? I’ve got my cock out and I’m stroking it. You miss it, huh?”

I told him I did. “I love going down on you best, crouching in front of you and taking you in, sucking on your balls.”

He groaned and I could imagine him with his legs spread apart, stroking his cock hard. That was one of his tricks – making me watch him jerk himself off while he would play with my pussy.

“You’re quite a dirty girl, you know that. Every time I think of you, all I think about is dirty stuff and you being bad all the time… And me spanking you in one of those short skirts.”

I told him I loved it when he bent me over a table and slapped my ass while he fucked me. I told him I missed sitting on his face while I sucked on his cock, classic 69. I told him I missed his thick cock riding my ass.

He told me he would get hard just thinking of fucking me up against the wall. He told me he how much he loved rimming me and watching me writhe in pleasure. He told me how no other girl would let him tie her up the way he did to me and fuck me to multiple orgasms.

By now, I wasn’t saying anything. But I’d found my vibrator and was twisting it firmly into my pussy while my other finger rubbed on my clit. I moaned into the phone and sighed heavily.

“I love seeing you come, baby. I just love tying you up and making you come, over and over and over and then tasting you and fucking you just after you’ve come when you’re so tight. Are you gonna come soon, babe? Huh? I’m so fucking horny for you right now.”

I came right then, dropping the phone in between the pillows. When I picked it back up, he just came, his breath constricted in the phone.

“Shit. That was hot. Are you still there? It is so good to fuck you. I miss it.”

“Well, then maybe you should just come over and fuck me straight next time, instead of wasting phone money.” I lay back snug between the duvet as told me to ring him soon and rang off.

Control freak?

2005-09-07T01:33:00.000+08:00

Over the weekend I made the mistake of going to one of Tom’s step classes after a long absence. I say mistake only because I spent all hour getting turned on and missing my steps so I looked a complete fool. The girl next to me kept getting her toes trodded on and her board kicked by me, so she eventually squeezed herself somewhere else in the back. He kept grinning at me through the mirror and, during one of the water breaks, even had the cheek to shout across the room, “What lah you, doing everything wrong today!”

Few boys make such strong impressions on a girl with high expectations like me but I confess, I’m completely in lust. Tom is hot not just because he fucks good and can keep going like he runs on Duracell, but because he takes control, entirely and it’s unbelievably arousing. None of that worrying about whether I should be taking more initiative, whether I should be more aggressive, what what what, if if if. He’s in control and he’s good at it.

And mind, not controlling in that boring, tired way of most Chinese guys who deny the existence of foreplay and think that going straight in (literally) is confident and sexy. Tom takes control in the way that he’s aggressive about giving pleasure, making you come hot on his face, telling you you’re sexy-beautiful-dirty-bad all at the same time while he’s got two fingers up your pussy and jerking himself off with the other hand. He is desperately hot in the way he knows just what he wants and through some sort of weird connection, it ends up being just what you want too.

He makes you feel like a slut, down on your knees sucking his cock while he holds your head with one hand. But he makes you love feeling like a slut. He makes you feel how wicked and horny you really are or could be, and shows you how much he loves it that you’re so dirty when he spreads your legs and buries his tongue in your clit. And spectacularly, he always manages to figure out just what you want right then.

Like after this class when I was most wet, when all I was breathless for was the taste of his cock again, he took me home, made me lie down naked and tied my hands up above my head. Then he knelt over my face, eased his cock between my lips and made me suck him off with only the strength of my mouth.

“This is what you wanted just now in class, right?”

Just how did he guess.

I was almost dripping by then, begging for him to fuck me. So he did – you see, he’s controlling, but he does give you what you want as well. He took himself out of my mouth, pushed my thighs up to my chest and fucked me, making sure to ride up against my pulsing clit so that I came in less than a minute.

Just what a needed. And I didn’t have to do a thing.

How did we ever do without….

2005-09-06T09:39:00.000+08:00

A few things I can’t quite remember doing without. My my, life must have been dreary before the discovery of

Driving
Masturbating
Giving head (giving and receiving)
Smoking
Text messaging
The pasta at La Risata
Sex whenever I want it
Tampons

… not that I can actually remember Life Before These Things. It all seems so long ago, like somebody else’s childhood.

The beginnings of blogging

2005-09-04T14:34:00.000+08:00

I mentioned to Fil the other day that I had started a blog. He shrugged his shoulders and threw a disgusted look at me.

"Oh god. Not you as well. It's so boring lah, this blog thing. Everyone's got one... so what are you writing about? The sad little details of your life?"

"Sex."

"Ok, yah I suppose you have enough to talk about. But there's already like a million sex blogs out there."

Which is true.... But, hey everyone's got different stories and I have my own way of telling them. Actually, I thought I'd start this blog because I suddenly realised the other day that I have few hobbies that I bother to keep up with. It was one of those tired old online forms I had to fill up about my "interests." They didn't have "boys" or "smoking cigarettes by a bay window" on it anywhere. But they did have "reading/literature" and I thought I would try to squeeze myself into that by writing something that maybe two people might read...eventually.

Anyway, I figured it might be kind of nice when I'm an old married woman with saggy boobs to look back and read about the good old days of getting laid and being desirable.

And you can never have too much sex, even if you're just reading about it, which I promptly pointed out to Fil.

"You just like the idea that some sad guy who's not having any sex is beating off to your blog, right?" he asked.

"Yah, well. Not like that lah. But you know, I might be helping out some people you know. Relieve their frustrations etc. It could be like the one little happy thing they get all day after a shit day at work and no social life. See, I'm doing society a service." (Who was I kidding?)

"You're sick, you know that," he said with resignation, before proceeding to tell me how his new girlfriend wouldn't let him come on her face. We all have our problems, eh.

A night with Coffee Boy

2005-09-03T11:16:00.000+08:00

Well, dinner with coffee boy. He actually cooked, which I was mildly surprised about. He'd gone all out so we had breadsticks and a fancy lemon risotto with salmon and chocolate truffles for dessert. Normally, boys tell me they'll cook dinner, then they spend all night eating me out.

Anyway, it was quite freaking me out, like I said before. He seemed quite a bit too interested in me, in that serious sort of way. He kept telling me how beautiful my hair looked, how much my dress suited me, how my eyes look so bright which made me laugh, but probably for the wrong reasons. Luckily, he didn't seem to notice.

We took our cappuccinos with extra foam to the living room and as I settled myself into the sofa cushions, I heard him saying, "I can't wait for my friends to meet you. I've been telling them how great you are." (This is after one coffee and a sweaty dance at Velvet - I thought he was all shy!!!!).

I took this cue to jump in and break his heart. My usual spiel about how he was great, I just wasn't looking for a relationship right now etc etc and even "came out honest" by saying I just wanted to have fun at the moment. What can I say, I can't help being brutally truthful. It hasn't got me into trouble so far.

He went all quiet again, like he was thinking. Then said, "Well, can I kiss you again at least?"

And I'm never a girl to give up a kiss.

It was like high school again - we spent half an hour just making out on the sofa, his hands trying to touch my breasts, but almost too shy (adorable, don't you think).

"Can we..... I mean, I haven't had..... in like three years." He was even shy about fucking.

"I don't think that's a good idea, do you? Is it going to mess your head?" I asked, feeling strangely well-behaved and moral for a change.

"Just tonight?"

Well ok, three years was a bit long. The horrified pity in me couldn't bear not to. The sex was quiet too so I had to take control: undressing him, undressing me, going down on him in a way that shocked him (his ex had never!) and finally sitting atop him, facing him and riding him while he held hands on my hips to push me down harder.

Afterwards, as I smoked all over his smoke-free, dust-free apartment he asked me, a bit more confident now, if we could just keep doing that, even if we didn't ever date each other. I was surprised - he seemed so unlike a fuck buddy - and I didn't want him getting all loved-up on me again.

"That's a sudden change in plan isn't it?" I grinned.

"Yah. Well.... that was pretty amazing."

"Well thank you. You're cute, and I'm all for it but maybe you should think a bit more. Don't get your knickers too much in a twist. Sex is just sex for me, I don't want things to get weird for you." Oh god. It's so not like me to turn down sex with cautious advice.

"Um..." A long pause, as I gathered my things. Then "I'll call you, can?" after I kissed him on the lips and made for the door.

Coffee Boy II

2005-09-02T14:13:00.000+08:00

They shouldn't have public holidays in the middle of the week - it destroys whatever pathetic remains of initiative I might have to do any work.

Anyway, coffee boy Daniel is cooking dinner for me tonight, in the posh spaces of his Bangsar condo (how does anyone afford Bangsar!). He's so genuine and sweet, it's almost frightening. I'm worried he might think I'm genuine and sweet too (and I'm far from that) and might actually be headed towards (gasp) a relationship of sorts.

How to let him down gently though? Hmmmm. I'd still quite like for him to come in my mouth though, before I drop the bombshell. It's all I've been thinking of since that Starbucks day. And that way, at least he'll get something out of the whole thing. Or am I being too cruel?!

Merdeka

2005-09-01T11:18:00.000+08:00

So did everyone have a nice day off to celebrate Merdeka? I had a great time sorting out a photo shoot for tomorrow while clearing the remains of a party off my floor. Celebrating independence indeed. The eve was great though. I did the patriotic thing and had a party to celebrate the 47, 48, 49 (???) years that we’ve been independent. I even wore my brand new RED miniskirt as a small tribute to the flag (all colours at once would have been too much). And I knew that Tom, the gym boy who fucks good, was coming over so it helped that the red skirt was also criminally short.

Anyway, it was all a crazy evening with close friends and extras that seemed to wander in by mistake and take enough of a liking to the drinks and my skirt (!) to stay. Best friend Fil was there with that girl again, but I soon found out it was only because he’s been dating about 5 girls all at once and didn’t want to bump into any of them in town. Charming. Other darling best friend Trisha turned up in gold thaipusam slippers and a dress so full of glitter I’m still picking fairy dust off my sofa. Her husband didn’t know she was over drinking vodka out of paper cups all night and laughing drunkenly at all the boys’ jokes; he thought she was at her mother’s, the devious nymph.

I don’t drink at my own parties – it’s too shaming to be whirling about drunk in your own living room and you need to think straight to stop ugly boys from falling between your sheets. Unfortunately, the lack of alcohol did make it a bit more difficult to bear all those smelly boys groping my bum while they slurred in my ear about the view from my balcony.

I eventually got away, and just as I was about to give up on the prospect of fun boys I spotted Tom, skulking about round the darkest corner of the living room.

“You made it!”

“Yah, of course. I’m proud to be Malaysian wat!,” he said pulling me close enough to slip his hand to just where my skirt ended. “Shit, that’s a short skirt.”

I whisked him off to the bedroom before anyone noticed (they didn’t) where his fingers promptly found their way under the skirt to the slippery dampness of satin panties.

“God, you are fucking horny, aren’t you? Only horny girls get this wet this quickly,” as he slid two fingers in, easy. After a few seconds of playing around inside me, he took them out, holding them up to my lips for me to suck on, which I did before pushing his hand away. I made him sit on the edge of the bed before sitting astride him, facing him and rubbing myself against the bulge in his pants as he kissed me desperately on my neck and tried to nibble my nipples, pressing through my top. I could feel him getting harder as I ground down against him, filling the triangle between my legs with the swell of his cock. I rocked hard against him, both of us still fully clothed but too eager to bother with undressing. He managed to get out my right breast though and flicked the nipple fast with his tongue as I continued to rub against him until I came and felt my pussy turn warm from more wetness.

“I really need to fuck you,” he said after even before I’d finished coming. He pushed me off his lap, turning me around in that controlling way only a gym instructor could manage and commanding I bend down to hold my ankles. I stepped out of my thong and bent down enough so that he would just see my ass from under the skirt.

He grabbed my hips with one hand, thrusting himself in deep and fast from behind as he held on to my hair with the other. I stepped my legs together to squeeze him tighter while reaching up to finger my own clit as he fucked me from behind. After I came again, short and spasming, he got rougher, even more desperate, breathing hard and loud as if to hurry on his orgasm.

I looked back over my shoulder at him and purred, “Take your time, baby, you got me all night.” It was just what was needed. It made him slow down but just as he did, I heard his breath catch, and he came shuddering, pressing himself hard against my ass.

I straightened up, fluffed my skirt and slipped back into my panties as he sat back on the bed, disheveled but sighing heavy and content. We had sex another 3 times that night, but just then midnight struck and the fireworks started so I pulled him out to watch, only to find poor Trisha was throwing up over the balcony.

Sleeping alone

2005-08-30T18:17:00.000+08:00

I try to make it a point to leave a guy's place soon after we have sex, especially with someone I don't know too well; or, if we're at my place, I make up lots of excuses to try to get him to go home.

Not because I'm afraid he'll run off with my credit cards, or massacre me in my sleep, or cooks streaky bacon for breakfast (yuck). But just because I don't want to know what he's like when he's sleeping. I've been with enough men who snore (snort?) in my ear, dribble out the side of his mouth, or scratch his balls in his sleep to find it tiresome and offputting. It mars somewhat with the fact that he'd just been all desirable and desiring and teased me to electrifying orgasms. And that's only with guys who are actually good in bed. Experience has taught me the scale of a guy's horrid sleeping habits fares proportionately to how good or bad the sex was.

It's shallow I know. But I'd rather not spoil things, you know. Keep him beautiful and horny in my mind so the next time he calls me a dirty girl, I won't liken it to him drooling all over my pillows.

PS Happy Merdeka! *whistles*

Step to it

2005-08-27T11:58:00.000+08:00

A recent romp involved a gym instructor. Very clichéd, I know. Everybody hates gym talk as it is and but now I’m also doing my rounds there. It’s reestablished trashiness onto KL grounds, surely.

It all started innocently enough (it always does, you know). He seemed to take quite a liking to me and showed much more interest in my stepping than I thought would be possible while you’re trying to teach a class. A surprising amount of eye contact can me made through a mirror. How flattering – at least I was getting to be top performer up there on the front line.

Perhaps it was all those endorphins and adrenaline from jumping around possessed, but a few classes down the line, he started to look a lot hotter than I’d remembered. A real hard-body of a boy and just the right height for our crotches to fit when we stood face to face. But I’m well accustomed to the flash-in-the-pan crushes I develop over night and then forget just as quickly. After class, it would be into the showers and he’d be well forgotten about by the time I was dressed.

Then I decided to stay back one day and while forcing myself through 100 sit-ups, I suddenly see him standing behind me. He looks hotter upside down, his crotch just right there above my face. He sits on the ball next to mine and talks about the weather until the endorphins or whatever other chemicals drive me crazy from wanting him to fuck me.

“Ok, I give up. Wanna go for coffee? You can tell me about the haze then.”

“Aiyoo. Finish your workout first lah,” grinning, like he really didn’t care about the shit state of my abdominals.

“Don’t worry. Can work out more later,” I grinned back, but he didn’t hear.

I went off to shower and met him back downstairs 20 minutes later, where he was talking to one of the bored looking receptionists about Fear Factor.

We didn’t bother with coffee in the end, although I did attempt to with the half-hearted promise of an expresso machine back in my apartment.

“You’re cute, you know,” he said almost nervously in the lift on the way up, as he slid his hand down the small of my back.

Once the flat door shut behind us, the instructor in him leapt out again, leading me straight to the couch amidst the fumbled undoing of a belt buckle and firm kisses on the neck.

“Very cute,” he repeated as I sat back against the sofa and kneeling in front me, leaned heavily forward for breathless kisses. He was systematic but commandingly so and desperately sexy. One. Two. Three. Four… Everything was taken off except my g-string, my legs spread apart, his tongue teasing slow through the tight material, and sucking the tip of my clit.

I clawed off the panties, begging for him to lick me directly and when he did, everything exploded, I came immediately, screaming, sweating, hard.

“You’re never this energetic in class,” he teased, stroking my nipples as he slid a hard cock in and bent my legs out and back (don’t underestimate how much instructors know about what to do with your bodies). He was in, slowly at first and pulsing firmly, and then hard and fast until our thighs slapped against each other. He pulled me up, got me on all fours and then fucked me from behind, this time slow again and groaning everytime he pushed himself in. Reaching forward, he played with my clit, still swollen, while fucking from behind, until I came again, still moaning loud and shuddering.

Then I told him to take it easy – he’d been working out all day, after all – before squatting astride him, facing him and riding his stiff cock slow and right until his eyes closed, his fingers dug down around my hips and I felt the pulsations of him coming inside me.

We sat naked for half an hour, his fingers circling my breasts while he told me about how much he used to hate the gym. I told him to stop bothering at all, sex could be as good a workout, which got him hard again. We fucked again before I got down to returning the earlier favour by licking his balls and making him come with my fingers, his cum spilling over my palm.

I haven’t been for step since, but he’s been round to the apartment quite a lot so I guess I’m still getting my aerobic exercise.

Salsa dancing

2005-08-19T22:50:00.000+08:00

Here's a secret: I quite dislike smelly hot places like Velvet. I don't know why I let people convince me that dancing among small, ugly, pushy boys is any fun. I took myself off Salsa dancing last night all on my own. The fun about this is that you get to dance with random boys and twirling about is fun after a few sangrias. The not so fun thing is which random boy you might end up with. Normally, it's not so bad and you get to have a good laugh with someone fat and quite ungainly. But last night, a rat in a stripey shirt decided he would dance with me. I say he decided because I didn't seem to have much say in the matter. He kept jollying past and dragging me out on the dance floor, whispering what he must have thought were arousing things into my most unwilling ear.

So, it was back to dancing among small, ugly, pushy boys. All the same really. I'd forgotten.

I ran around the club trying to hide until I bumped into Fil who I hadn't seen in ages. He was on a date with a gorgeous girl.

"Oh my god! what are you doing here?"

"I don't know. What are you doing here?" he asked, as I ducked behind the bar. "Here, meet Julia. We keep singing you scuttling around the bar. You're avoiding some ex again aren't you?"

"No, I just met this weirdo today. He keeps dragging me out and then saying horrible seductive things to me."

"Oh too bad. Why don't you just go somewhere else?"

That was the cue to get out of of his date. How depressing.

The stripey rat was looking about for me again so I made a quick exit round the side and found myself in Lecka Lecka. Ice-cream is always a comfort, especially when you realise you're at a stage in life where you're running away from boys. Then I went home, at 11pm, and watched this old porn DVD that some boy had left behind months ago which I'd rediscovered recently. Didn't even feel remotely aroused so I went to bed at midnight.

Even the girls-wanna-have-fun girls have their low days.

Coffee boy

2005-08-18T19:11:00.000+08:00

The coffee boy, (he has a name but we'll call Daniel) texted yesterday just as I had started to forget about him. He asked, believe it or not, if I would meet him for coffee. This was very courageous for a boy who seemed unable to even smile properly across a crowded Starbucks.

I replied, "4get coffee. U takes ages to drink urs. Come dancing. Velvet tonight."

He was there before me, scuffing his shoe against the side of the bar and looking remarkably displaced among the house vibe. It was endearing, his oblivion completely arousing. He jolted as I rolled up next to him and cooed in his ear.

"Having fun? Don't worry, you'll get used to crappy music."
"Um... Yah.... drink?"

Turns out, he wasn't so shy after all. He had said at first he wasn't so good with "strangers" and didn't know what to say; two beers later I wasn't a stranger anymore and he was shouting merrily in my ear about art and Tennessee Williams choking on a bottle cap, his hand placed gingerly on my bare shoulder. I hadn't been with a boy who talked so sincerely about things he cares about since university. He was like a kid but it was warm, comforting, hotly arousing.

"Don't you think artists take themselves too seriously?" I grinned.
His eyes widened. Blush. "Oh no! I'm boring you..."
"No, it's great. We won't have great literature if there wasn't any angst. But I don't want you turning lonely and suicidal."

I whipped him off to dance while he panted to keep up. "My god! I haven't been out in ages."
"Yes, I can tell! Don't worry, if you keep up with this, you'll keep up with anything." My little lost coffee boy, all grown up in a matter of one night.

At midnight, he kissed me a goodnight under the watchful eyes of the parking lot boys and we went home, each alone. Seemed a shame to rush things with this one.

Blast from a past

2005-08-15T22:55:00.000+08:00

I was at Velvet this the weekend, dancing to the imaginary tunes in my head (more fun than listening to whatever everyone else is). Spent half the night trying to figure out how they pack so many people in and still have everyone look so comfortable. There was a girl in a bright yellow top sprawled over the bar. Literally. She seemed to take up the entire table. Seems there really is room for everyone at Velvet!...

... except A. Any place becomes too crowded when he's in it and I could spot him a mile away in that same faded blue shirt he'd always wear for partying. How long had it been?... 1, 2 years? I couldn't even remember - some things end and you forget without realising. Soon, before I could hear myself think,

"Hey, you! You look great. It's been what? 1, 2 years? What you doing?"

I quite hated myself for thinking he still sounded charming. And smelled just the same. That's it, no-one ever smelt as good - you'd think the way I liked his smell so much would prove some sort of biological theory that we are most attracted to people whose smell we like.

"You know, same old, same old." It was hard to look indifferent. There's that thing about great sex with an ex which was all A was really. The relationship thing had quickly fizzled to an anticlimax but the incredible sex afterward kept things up for more than a year after. Eventually, he got serious with someone else so he moved on, I moved on.

And then full circle, here he was in that same old shirt.
"God, you really should get some new clothes."
"Why?"
"Look at yourself! It's got holes everywhere, I swear. Look."
"Well, take me home, take the shirt off. I stay the night and you mend it for me tomorrow."
"What is that? Some bad attempt to get me into bed again. Dontcha know, I go for quiet, well behaved boys now. I dated an accountant last month."
"Get out."

We did. He drove me home as I sat up close whispering in his ear and having him touch me, wet through my panties, at traffic lights. We giggled our way through front door and into the living room where I dragged him down to the futon, left crumpled from my afternoon of indulgent DVD watching.

It was over fast, less than 10 minutes before I came shuddering, my back arched sharply. Less than 10 minutes after that for him to come heavy, full, his face thrust upwards, eyes shut and that long familiar moan. Sex with him had always been crazy hard, fast and intense enough to make any 20 minutes entirely exhausting. He was breathless, I was breathless but there wasn't a moment between the tangle of legs, thrusting and being folded in half to breathe.

Afterward, we lay entangled on the cramped spaces of my sofa.
"God. You're still the best fuck I ever had. And you didn't even blow me that time." He laughed.
"Yeah, yeah."
"Yeah. So where's this hole in my shirt?"

He stayed the night, fucked again in the morning, got my phone number and left by noon. It'd been quick, but just what we needed after all that forgotten time - something fast, desperate, lustful... just as a reminder to each other that we were still playful. There would be plenty more time later for plenty more things now we've swapped numbers.

Coffee

2005-08-08T20:40:00.000+08:00

The boy with the glasses was still staring/ not-staring at me from across his stale coffee. It was almost getting boring; I was beginning to wonder what was wrong with me. I'm used to boys smiling at me, you know, squaring their shoulders and throwing across their charm. He was hiding behind one of those tatty pretentious-looking secondhand books.

This boy was being a bit funny, coy, darting the occasional look and it had become a battle of wits of sorts, I think. Or was he really that stuck in that damn book? Starbucks was getting tiring and I was determined he should smile first. I'm not so unlikeable.

But then, boys who are shy are exciting. No brawn, no muscle, no sparkly broad teeth but you can probably be quite sure they wear those nice snug boxers and like to eat Japanese food. The less arrogant are usually more versatile. Yes, I'd decided he was definitely fun. I liked the swaggering confident "can I get into your panties?" boys sometimes but this boy was definitely, definitely more fun... as long as he kept hiding behind his coffee cup. Treat 'em mean to keep 'em keen eh? This boy knew a thing or two. I thought back to which knickers I'd put on this morning: one of the pink thongs I think.

After 2 hours of idling, I thought I should say hello. The shy needed some help, sometimes.

"Hello. Are you drinking that?"
"Huh?"
"That drink. It's old and cold. You gonna drink that? Or keep looking across at my frappuccino?"
"Uhhhh....yah. Actually..."

It took a long time but I managed to find out his name and asked him for his number which made him blush. Then he felt compelled, perhaps, to ask me for mine.

It had never been so much work but then, I'd never gotten so wet so quickly. All that over an old coffee. You find the most desirable things in the most unlikely places.