Musical chairs

In the entire group of maybe a dozen friends, half the boys have had a thing for me every time I've gotten to know them better at different times over the years.

First it was the talented Nathan who had a school-days crush on me way back then. He'd write me songs and find reasons to sit beside me during breaks when we weren't even from the same department. Then it was sweet, quiet Stewie, who confessed he'd always had a thing for me from the moment we'd met. Whom I felt genuinely sorry to refuse, though I'd never date him . Then Matt the player, who even wrote to his buddy overseas asking for advice on what would impress me. A while ago, it was the perennially funny Evan whom I'd worked with on a small project, who'd try and hide his fluster by cracking jokes around me, but the sheepish grin and lack of eye contact always gave him away.

Most recently, I've been feeling the vibes from Justin.

When we first met in a club with the rest, he'd been blind drunk and tried to dance with me. Failing to do so, he resorted to dancing around me and buying me a lot of drinks. That was five years ago.

He's since graduated from uni, gotten a job, as well as engaged. The wedding's been pending for a while now, for ambiguous reasons.

I've been telling myself it's all in my head, and I'm willing to be proven wrong. Anyway, just because he's attracted doesn't mean he's going to try and do anything about it. I'm just getting it out of my system here so that the next time we all meet up and he gives me the ubiquitous lingering gaze, (you know the one, where they're talking to someone from across the room but their eyes are speaking directly to you for about five seconds longer than they should before pulling away) I can flippantly pretend I don't notice.

I first did notice a while ago, when he'd make a point of smiling brightly and waving every time I joined the group. At first I thought it odd that he'd be accidentally catching my eye every so often from across the table, fiancee by his side.

I figured it out the night I wore the plunging halter top, after feeling his nervous gaze drop from my chest quickly to his drink.

Last night we'd all gone for a drink at a local watering hole and I'd shown up late, saying hi to everyone else first. I swear I wasn't imagining when I say I noticed him brooding at the back of the group and then suddenly get up to go to fetch a drink, asking if anyone wanted anything and then finally making rather loaded eye contact with me.

But really, what does he expect? For me to follow him to the bar one day and initiate some private small talk that turns into a few private texts, that turn into a private meeting? I'm sorry J, you may have cleaned up your act and cute-ened up some, but it wasn't going to happen back then and it still isn't, particularly now that you're engaged.

And if you're looking for that last tryst to ease your wedding jitters, I am not about to be the deal-breaker.

So. That decision having been made, I can now go on to torture him with a few knowing smiles and a little leg crossing, all the while already knowing that it isn't going anywhere at all.

Men are so easily distracted.

Almost like a moth to a flame

I realised that Trent and I have hardly kissed because I can't recall now how he kisses, and kisses are of utmost importance.

Give me a man who can gently bite on my lower lip, who can slowly meet the movements of my tongue with his, who lets me sensuously engulf his tongue with my mouth, and I'll get weak in the knees.

It's rare that a man can move me to feeling tingly between the legs by his kiss alone, but it's happened before. And it's a darned pity that every time I've been with Trent, I've been way too drunk for that kind of all-senses-engaged, full-on making out. Alcohol does affect the memory so, not to mention dry up the body's lubricating ability, be it oral or orifice.

And up to this point, I've been too distracted by his cunning linguistic skills and overall impressive bedroom abilities to slow down and really kiss him.

But I have to confess that I like him a little more than as just a good roll in the hay. And yes I may be headed for deep water here but I've been thinking of asking him to stay the night next I see him, if anytime soon.

It's got to do with the way his eyes are so beguilingly child-like, his face so open and yet arrogant at times, and how ironically his overall demeanor generally doesn't annoy me. Chris may have had a slightly more chiselled torso: abs, pecs, obliques and all, but Trent holds my attention for far longer because he engages me when he speaks.

I suppose it's why I want to kiss him properly the next chance I get, in order to acertain whether there is any kind of subliminal emotional current that passes through us. If there is, I'll really be fucked and know I should avoid him for a while.

Attachment after all, is a major cause of unhappiness. Though at this point I can't help but form an attachment to someone who gives me three orgasms in a row...

And it's back to cock size

Put four girls together at night, and they are absolutely bound to talk about sex.

Vicki, Cherine and Xuemin are the new generation of Singaporean girls, all in their very early twenties. At their relatively young ages, they have strings of ex boyfriends, and they make me feel like a novice once they start sharing bedtime stories. They've also dated from all around the region: Indonesia, Thailand, Japan, Taiwan.

According to the girls' experiences, the Thai and Japanese boys don't quite measure up in size. For size, they chorused, is very, very, important.

And once again, because I've said it before: I humbly beg to differ. My version of minimum requirement must be a lot more forgiving than most of my size-obsessed friends. Screw the ocean and motion, they proclaim. It's the size of the boat that keeps us afloat! The bigger, the better... Bring it on baby!

And these aren't even the ones with the pinkerton complex. Most of the white-meat eaters i know claim it's for the love of cock that prefer their caucasian men, among other things.

But I just secretly think they must simply have big or loose cunts.

Back to the three girls from tonight though. Vicki is the most size-obsessed of the lot, and as it happens, she's also the laziest when it comes to doing the do, and most disdainful of sex in general. She actually regards any kind of oral sex as disgusting, whether it's to give or receive. Which I find most puzzling.

She perfers to just lie down and get pounded by as large a member as she can find. Even being on top doesn't appeal to her. Cherine and Xuemin at least share my same healthy enthusiasm for all things nasty. Because I personally feel that the world would be a sad, sad, place if sex wasn't had for the unadulterated pleasure of it.

Sure, a small dick is terrible. I've had that experience before too:

I'd been lusting after him for ages, with his bad-boy sneer and the fact that he was totally off-limits as my then-boyfriend's best buddy. One post-drunken morning, I found out the hard way why some fantasies are better left unexplored, and only because he was the single worst lay I've ever had in my entire life.

Not only because there was practically no foreplay, and that he came in a laughable 30 seconds tops both times, but because his little brother was so little, it kept on slipping out of me as he pumped away.

As I recall, my hand only had an inch of allowance for movement as I started wanking him. And I have small hands. It must have been sheer, stunning, disbelief that kept me from getting up from where I lay on the bed as he got on top of me.

On the other end of the spectrum, one of my lovers Wang was so well-endowed that I'd be left lying on my side, my entire nether region area throbbing as if having just taken a beating. And not that I ever have problems getting wet on my own, but I'd discover, upon feeling a mad sting while using the loo, the tiniest of tears just at the entrance of my vagina after any vigorous session with him.

Not fun.

So I'll have to be the renegade among my friends, in their general consensus of bigger being best, and proclaim that my perfect cock is long enough to ride without slipping, wide enough to savour without gagging, and attached to a man who knows that the true value of his sex appeal lies in his ability to command me about in bed without offending me, and who knows how to use that tongue of his...

Trent, you bastard... Why haven't you called yet?

Oxymoronism

Is it at all possible to be a classy slut?

On the one hand I know I'm not any sort of vestal virgin, but on the other hand I'm not half as obvious as my girlfriend Lisa, who's been known to wrap one leg around the waist of the boy she's been dancing with for the past ten minutes and do the bump-and-grind while allowing his tongue access halfway down her throat.

I'm prone to believing that men can tell the difference between the sexually-liberated and the downright easy. No hot-blooded male turns away a willing pair of open legs, but I suppose it's the amount of respect he walks away from them with that makes the difference between a hit-and-run and a 'lil respect.

Or am I just being naive again.

I was contemplating the question of sluttiness in the passenger seat as Trent drove to my place, my legs conspicuously uncrossing and re-crossing themselves in the tiny excuse of a skirt they were sheathed in.

He glanced over and flashed a grin. I returned his gaze, idly twirling a strand of hair and biting the corner of my lip before slowly swinging one leg to the opposite end of the seat, panties defiantly exposed.

"You trying to get me distracted, love? It's dangerous, you know.. given the kind of speed we're going at." he mocked.

"If only for that fact, that I don't wish to die this young, I'm not doing what would really make you lose control... of the vehicle, that is." was my retort.

"You wanna show me what that might be at the next light?" came the dare.

Tempted as I was, I decided it could wait until we were at least through my front door. It occured to me as strange though, how I still worry about appearing too slutty, too self-objectified.

I suddenly had a mental picture of the situation from an observer's view: Me, head bobbing over his lap while he reclined in the driver's seat, enjoying the view. It seemed too much of a cliche somehow, something Lisa would do even if she weren't already familiar with him the way I was.

So I just smiled at him suggestively and turned away.

And perplexingly enough, now I feel almost prudish for it... irony is as irony does. I think I'll just get a new pair of thigh-highs and make up for that with a nice private lap-dance strip-show next he's over.