Types of Sex…

Unoriginal. I read it somewhere, and saved the contents in my hard disk.

I’m living on the 3rd and 5th kind…. 

Types of Sex

Recent research shows that there are 7 kinds of sex:

The 1st kind of sex is called: Smurf Sex.

This kind of sex happens when you first meet someone and you both have sex until you are blue in the face.

The 2nd kind of sex is called: Kitchen Sex.

This is when you have been with your partner for a short time and you are so horny you will have sex anywhere, even in the kitchen.

The 3rd kind of sex is called: Bedroom Sex.

This is when you have been with your partner for a long time. Your sex has gotten routine and you usually have sex only in your bedroom.

The 4th kind of sex is called: Hallway Sex.

is is when you have been with your partner for too long. When you pass each other in the hallway you both say “screw you.”

The 5th kind of sex is called: Catholic Sex,

This means you get Nun in the morning, Nun in the afternoon and Nun at night.

The 6th kind is called Courtroom Sex:

This is when you cannot stand your husband any more. He takes you to court and screws you in front of everyone.

And last, but not least, the 7th kind of sex is called: Social
Security Sex. You get a little from time-to-time, but not enough to live on.

Sexual Awakening (I)

I was a popular kid. I was also the smartest kid in the kampong (village) where I lived. I had good grades and ended up in a reputable secondary school.  My parents saw the need to protect and shelter me from the “unhealthy” influence of the other children. I had never learned properly how to have spiders for a pet, how to make and fly my own kites, how to duel with marbles, etc..

I grew up to become an awkward teenager. I was taller than most people my age.  Forget the tall, dark, and handsome. I was tall. Full stop.

In return for giving me the gift of height, the good lord took away dark, and handsome. I could never hold a tan. My skin turned red, like a cooked- crab, after a short exposure under the sun. Within a short time, the skin would turn fair, without a hint of tan.

Besides tall, I was bony. No matter how much I ate, and I ate a lot during those days,  all growth seemed to be limited to the vertical direction. All the rest of the food either gets perspired away, (I sweated liked nobody else I knew) or they got converted into oils, to be expired through my face.

My face was riddled with pimples. I couldn’t have a decent conversation with the opposite sex without them feeling threatened – A pimple would “burst” in the midst of conversation, and the creamy, oily and bloody liquid would spurt out. If she was lucky, the projectile would not reach her and fall harmlessly on the table between us.

Life was lonely as a teenager. The only reason gals would talk to me was because I was funny. I’d learned how to make people laugh, so I became quite popular in a group. The other reason was that in a group, people sat further away from me, and thus would not be within the range of the spurts from my exploding pimples.

Life was lonely as a teenager. Have I said that already? Yes, it was very lonely. After all the laughter and fun of group activities, I ended up alone, while healthy teenagers with raging hormones paired off to do whatever it was that they did in those days. Occassionally, I did have company of friends. These are guys who were free for the time being – their between relationships period, where they needed guy company to do guy things, like talking about soccer and ogling at species with long hair, protruding chest or bum.

Life was lonely as a teenager. Yes, I know I’ve mentioned it before.  I didn’t like living with my parents, so for some time I lived with my granny. It was an old HDB block, only 4 storeys high, and situated in front of a railway track. Many evenings had I wandered around the neighbourhood, my favourite place being a garden some 200m away. I liked to stroll in the darkness. Often, I would lie down on a granite rock, looked at the stars above, and day dream.

Life was lonely as a teenager. This is an important fact that warrant repeating because it set the stage for who and what I became later in life. On this granite rock that I have mentioned, I had looked at the twinkling lights in the heavens above, and made a promise. It was a good 20 years or so later before I could even start to fulfill it. All the rest of the years, I was mainly lonely….

(to be continued…)

Flat Rootbeer @ Mingles

After my workout at the gym last night, I tried out this little outlet called Mingles.

 The primary attraction on the menu was sausages.

I ordered a root beer along with other stuffs.

It tasted flat and short of gas. So when a waiter passed by, I called him. I wasn’t rude. In fact, I think I was very courteous.

When he stopped at the table, I said, “Excuse me. This root beer tasted a little flat, and don’t seem to have enough gas.”

He looked at me with an expression that I didn’t put too much thought on. Because he didn’t respond, I elaborated, “May be your drink machine has run out of gas. The root beer doesn’t have any gas in it. May be you want to get a straw and try for yourself.

He countered, “Our drinks are not served from machines. They are served from cans, opened only when there are orders. So it is not possible for the root beer to have not enough gas.”

A flat root beer is a flat root beer, even if it had come straight from a can. Thinking that I could learn from him what brand to avoid the next time I go to the supermarket, I asked, “Oh. What is the brand of this root beer?”

“Mug”, came the confident reply.

I’d tasted Mug root beer in the past, and it had never tasted that flat before. I turned to look at the serving area, and saw his so called “can”. It was a 1-litre or 1.5-litre bottle, two-third empty, which probably explained the lack of gas.

I didn’t want to make life difficult for anyone, so I left it at that.

I said, “Ok then. Thanks.”

Just seconds later, I saw this waiter saying something to his colleague, and with a smirk on his face, jerked his head in my direction. The other person laughed at what he said and turned to look at my direction.

What I saw made my blood boiled. 

I was going to pay almost $30 for a meal, and this waiter for reasons that only he knew, had just mocked me.

Perhaps he thought I was trying to get free top-up. Or he thought I was trying not to pay. Or he was just boasting about how he had gotten away with a lie - calling a plastic bottle a can.

Is this how the people in the service industry should behave ?

Mingles had seen the first and last of me.

Road Rage

I have a spectacular list of swear words.

Swearing was okay in school. It was okay during the early part of my career too, until I got bumped up the ladder. Once I started wearing shirts with long sleeves, I’ve had to watch my words with members of my adoped species, ie people with sleeves to cover their arms.

Most of the time, I do pretty well to blend in with my adopted species.

But I do enjoy the occassions when I can roll up my sleeves, mingle with people at the shopfloor, loose the restraints, share a vulgar joke or two, and swear shamelessly. Even then, I’ve seen enough raised eyebrows in the past to know that even at the shopfloor, not everyone enjoys talking in colorful language.

How times have changed.

So most of the time, I live beneath a mask of decency – A mask that gets thrown to the backseat when I get behind the wheel.

Yes, the traffic gives lots of excuses to swear.

The best ones are normally reserved for taxi drivers. Just this morning, there was a taxi driving about 4 car lengths behind me on my right. We were maintaining that distance for about a minute and a half. As I approached a slow vehicle, I signalled my intention to overtake on the right. The taxi sped up and closed the gap, just as my signal came on.

Road courtesy? Hell !

In Singapore, it is often safer to change lanes and overtake without signalling of your intention early, or at all. Many drivers just get annoyed at a car moving into their path, and will speed up to close the gap.

Lady drivers come a closed second.

Don’t get me wrong ladies, I love ya.

But two kinds irritate the hell out of me on the road. The first kind drives a car too expensive for me, and too big for them. Sometimes, looking at the rear mirror, you’ll see only a segment of their head, protruding above the dashboard. They will drive at either the speed limit or 10km/hr below the speed limit. And they will do this at the outermost lane. I was reminded of the second kind just 2 evenings ago. It was peak hour traffic, and a sporty little orange car,  zipped in and out of gaps between vehicles like she was in some stockcar race. She cut into the path of the vehicle on my right from 2 lanes on the left. The vehicle beside me hit the brakes and swerved – almost onto the side of my car.

On both occassions, I swore about their smelly body parts.

Then, as fast as the temper rose, it subsided.

I reached my destinations, and wore my mask.

Actually, if I do get to meet the lady drivers of the second kind, I will most likely laugh off these incidents, and admire their guts and attitude. For the first kind, the admiration will fall on their wealth. Whatever the case, I don’t hold grudges. There are also a lot of male drivers who drive badly and recklessly. Their mothers had similarly received long-distance greetings, from the seat of my car, about their smelly body parts.

Smoke Screens

We live in a world of smoke.

We require a screen of smoke to distract people’s attention from our real purpose and intention.

The bland exterior, like an unreadable poker face, hides that which is real, behind a screen that is both comfortable and familiar to those around us, until the trap is sprung.