“You have a new message from R” beeped the phone. 

I hadn’t communicated with her for more than a year. 

She worked shifts in the hospital and had odd hours and odd weeks. I was busy with my own work, and opportunity was few and far in between. She was, by her own admission, lonely, and needed company during her off days. She was separated from her husband, who was in jail, not for the first time.

The other reason I didn’t keep in touch with her was her simplicity. While she professed to be careful, she had a simple mind. Conversation topics were rather limited, and in some sense superficial. She said she enjoyed my company because I  made her laugh a lot. And also because I didn’t take liberties. Well, at least not until one of the few evenings, when she invited me to her place.

It was after a quiet meal at Raffle Marina, where we ate salads, chatted, and had a couple of helpings of wine. She invited me to look at her place when I sent her back. Being “single”, the place was not well-maintained. She brought me to her room. Sitting on the platform bed, because there was nowhere else to sit, we chatted a bit. She then excused herself to go to the washroom.

She came out in a white cotton nightshirt with a row of buttons in front. I could tell, from the 2 pointed protrusions on the stretched material at her chest, that she was quite bare beneath the nightshirt.

She lied down on one side of the bed and put her hands behind her head. We continued to chat, and I had a bit of a problem trying to avoid looking at her ample breasts, which rose and fall when she breathed, and which jiggled like a jelly when she giggled. And she giggled a lot, which made breathing difficult for me at times.

I lied down beside her and mirrored her posture, by putting my hands behind my head. Soon enough, it appeared that she wasn’t satisfied with the status quo. She turned her body, and pushed her back and especially her soft, but firm buttocks (a result of her frequent swimming) against me.  I reciprocated by turning towards her and held her around the waist. Unable to restrain myself, my hands moved up to her breasts, alternating between gentle squeezing, and playing with her nipples. Her buttocks must have felt my hidden member, which was already rock hard and throbbing, and straining itself through at 3 layers of fabric towards the object of desire.

She moan lightly, and let my hands wandered around for a while, and declared that I got her all horny. She turned to face me, sat up and undo the buttons to reveal a sight to behold. I must have held my breath and turned blue, or something. She looked at me, giggled, and proceeded to undo my belt, and zip.

With the restraints gone, she went down on me, while I continued to feel my way around whichever parts of the body my hands could reach. Satisfied with her work, she sat on me and rode me. It must be good for her as well, as I watched her squirm and twist in one direction to another. Up and Down. Slow and Fast. To prolong the end, I focused my attention on where my hands, which were having a time of their life massaging the soft and supple breasts.

I felt the beginning of the end approaching, and not wanting to climax too soon, I told her I wanted to be on top.

(to be continued….)

I felt relatively lethargic yesterday. The shoulder felt relatively stiff, coupled with aches here and there, the result of golfing the day before, in a tough, undulating course, where buggies were restricted to track. My lack of practice, and hence accuracy showed, and most shots ended up furthest away from the track. 

 With a little time to spare in the late afternoon, I wandered into one of the spas for a massage.

The massage was excellent. I dozed of at some stage, and the masseur was intelligent enough to not interupt the rest, which I needed so much. Work had been stressful, and the toll, of scrambling for an apartment to move to, tired me out considerably.

The first interruption was when I was told to turn over, after work on my back, my hands and legs were done. The masseur started being a little cheeky. That woke me and my little member up somewhat. She popped the question about special.

Why not, was my my answer.

She peeled of her clothing, and I discovered how well endowed she was – at least a D cup. She did all the right things to keep me aroused, capped my member with the required protection, and proceeded to ride me well and good.

I had a good feel and taste of the breasts, and was doubly pleased to discover that they were not fakes. The action didn’t last long before I shot my load. With the time available, she gave me a facial massage and more back rubs.

 She asked if I knew of other joints, and mentioned a few that I didn’t. When I got curious with the line of questioning, she explained that their boss wasn’t been fair to them, and a group of them was thinking of jumping ship.

The deal sounded something like this – they get $10 for every customer. The boss wanted to retain $300 a month to renovate the current place. Her view was that capital expenditure was the owner’s problem and as workers, they shouldn’t be bearing such cost, especially since they were not given any basic salary to begin with.

After all, the place charged $1 per minute per customer and was taking the lion share of the earnings. The boss sort of threatened to employ masseurs from China, where he only needed to pay them only $5 per customer, if they didn’t agree with the new deal.

Their dilemna led them to consider working for a new establishment, which led me to think if there was a business opportunity here – something like a collective and collaborative arrangement. Perhaps a little like what Henry Winkler and Dan Ackroyd did in “The Night Shift” for hookers.

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.

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…)

It was a cold and wet evening. The rain had stopped, and the car air cond, which was turned up 3 notches, because I was feeling hot, caused all the glasses to be fogged from the outside.

Inside the car, she guided my hand down her tummy, where I discovered her unbuttoned and unzipped jeans. She did tell me earlier that she wasn’t correctly dressed to meet up. I had wondered what she meant, attributing the comment to a lady’s thing.

Playfully, my hand and fingers spent some time wandering around the tummy area. I realised that she was actually a little on the flabby side. Further down south, before I reached the critical zone, I fingers felt pricky short hair, pretty much how my chin would feel like after a day or two without shaving.

She gasped as the middle finger searched, felt the whole area to be wet, and then found the magic button, the clit. I continued to kiss her on her mouth, while my fingers went to work, rubbing the clit, varying the speed and the pressure, always mindful not to be doing it too hard.

She was obviously enjoying everything that I was giving. Soon, she started squirming and her moans grew louder. There was a short pause, like the calm before the storm. Then she twisted even more rigorously, as I felt a tremour through her body. All this time, my finger kept at doing what it was doing, staying connected with the sensitive button, despite the twisting and turning of the body.

She asked me to stopped, and across the obstacle between our seats in the car, she placed her head on my left shoulder and went limp. After some time, her breathing returned to normal.  Her hand undid my zip, and took out the throbbing, and so far neglected, member. The lady went down on me, and for the next 5 minutes or so, i just sat back and enjoyed what was on offer.

Endof Part II

It started rather innocently.

I knew her in 2005, and we chatted on and off on the msn. There was never any pressure to initiate chat, even when we see each other logged on. We’d neither seen nor heard each other in the past 2 years.

Which made what happened yesterday a big surprise.

During the chat, we stumbled into a topic where I was totally ignorant about – Lingerie. She was describing some of the finer points of this kind of attire.

Then things got a little suggestive.

Then it dawned upon us that we’ve never met.

One thing led to another. I bought red wine, the kind that didn’t need a cork opener. We met at a carpark. She parked hers and we took my car, and I drove it to a remote place in Singapore.

We talked for a while before she commented suddenly how my hands were so much bigger than hers. With that she initiated physical contact. Holding my hand for a while, she brought it to and brushed it lightly against her lips.

I needed no further encouragement.

We kissed.

And we kissed.

And we kissed some more.

I was starting to have difficulty with where to put my hands. They wandered to my favourite part of the body. Through the soft material, my right hand had the first touch of the equally soft breast. My senses heightened when I realised how generous the size of her breast was. Her moans grew louder as I shifted my attention from one mound to the other.

My own urge rose, and while slipping our tongues into each other’s mouth, I focussed my hands on unbuttoning her blouse. Alas, my lack of practice, and the very tiny buttons made progress slow, which she quickly corrected by helping out.

Taking my time, I caressed her through the material of the bra, again alternating my attention on one, then the other. I felt her breathing quickened. I shifted my hand and felt the smooth and silky skin on the uncovered parts of the desirable flesh. I couldn’t help it any longer, I uncovered more of her breast, and as gently as I knew how, I went to work on one of them with my mouth, sucking the nipple, and occassionally flicking it with my tongue. At the same time, my hand gave the other the due attention required….

 endof Part I

It took 2 years to commence proceedings, and that it happened following a public outroar.

Coincidence?

Inefficiency?

Influence?

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.

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.

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.