Right between The Beatles' "Tomorrow Never Knows" and Beck's "Earthquake Weather," she came over to my table and offered me another one of her trademark looks. I must be weird, I thought, but definitely not unique. Any serious het man who says that they don't enjoy the attention of women is lying through his fuckin teeth. But something else happens too when a woman hits on me. Mind you, this has got nothing to do with morality. It's just that as much as I enjoy their fawning over me, I lose a bit of respect for them as well. I mean, where's the fuckin fire? Why is she so fuckin hot and bothered? For God's sakes, you're married; isn't the man that you chose to marry good enough for you?

"Well I didn't exactly choose to marry him."

"What?"

And yeah, okay, I acted as if I didn't understand. I was facetious. Everywhere I look, I see marriages held together by compromises.

"Well, she's not the one that I really want, but."

But what? Any port in a storm? She's a good mother? She takes it in the ass? See, at least the last bit has a bit of substance in it. If two people are together because they love fucking each other, it's fuckin time to clap your hands and congratulate. But the truth is, people stay together even though the sex is bad, and the emo is runnin on low. The worst thing is, they're in it for the long haul. The scariest thing is, some of these fuckers do end up staying together for a lifetime! Imagine, a lifetime of compromise.

So that's why I'm so easy with the sympathy whenever someone confesses infidelity to me. It's so understandable.

"So now what? Do you want my cock in you? Is this what you want?"

"No. I want to play with it first."

I rolled my eyes, but it was already all bloated up waiting to be sucked. The penis is an utterly incorrigible organ. If it had legs to walk around, it would be the easiest thing in this world to swindle and con, be molested.

    I often feel bad and downright guilty. I mean, the world's in such a horrid state and all I'm doing is thinking about sex twenty four seven. Would you laugh if I told you that lately, I've been more than a tad concerned about the environment? And what's gotten me more worried in the past two days is the fact that the weather has been so goddamned gorgeous, all white fluffy clouds and blue skies. Yet, the heat feels different somehow. Thinking about it now, it's a lot like me. Calm in appearance, but agitated inside, like how they say in Chinese, a knife concealed in a smile (xiao li chang dao). And so, I haven't been feeling a lot like writing, and feeling shitty about this as well. You know what they say, damned if you do and damned if you don't, so here's how the story goes.

    There's this coffeeshop that I visit on a regular basis, one of those that's planted smack in a more upscale neighbourhood. By no means it's the perfect place to hang out. While the tables are not filthy, they're sticky enough to attract the occasional fly, which is real fucking annoying when I'm trying to eat, drink, read, write and listen to music all at the same time. But it's a convenient port in a storm.

    The fella who runs the joint is this thuggish-looking guy who's two years my junior. The first impression that I had of him was this: an immature streak, prone to aggression. He's no Adonis, but I'm sure that many Chinese girls of parochial stock found his boyish charm an immense turn-on. I get the feeling that his wife (who's the cream of this sandwich little post) was one of these girls, and that their first-born was conceived out of wedlock. I have no way of verifying this of course, but sometimes the gut feeling is all that matters until proven wrong. Come to think of it, it's a lot like the scientific method.

    Life imitates Friendster, and after a few weeks, we found out that the three of us have a mutual acquaintance who, the last I knew, was working as medical sales rep. Apparently we used to hang out in the same bar a couple of years back. I stopped going there after finding out that a little fame can be a real bitch. But apparently I leave a pretty strong impression on people, but not vice versa.

    Friendliness is such an effective tool of seduction, and I'm the perfect sucker for it. She would always make it a point to go the extra mile for me, or instance, making sure that she's the one who gets my orders even when she's busy, constantly making eye-contact and making a big show of being curious about the things that I scribble and sketch in my spiral notebook. There was once when two loose sheets of A4 paper (with my smut written all over it, sketches and all) scudded to the mosaic floor just as she was sauntering towards my table with a cup of tea in a saucer, held precariously in her left hand between two fingers. Upon seeing the paper on the floor, she uttered, "Aiya, you dropped something..." and crouched down at once to pick them up, all trembling fingers and clicking clacking cup and saucer. I practically jumped from the chair to pick them up myself.

    "How much?"

    "Tree-door-la," she sang, with a frivolous air bordering on schoolgirl vacuity, flippant and fickle right down to her slight overbite and her perfectly white teeth. As she walked away I took in her flawless Chinese complexion and the raunchy gait of her backside, and with a cigarette tightly clenched between my teeth, soon found myself laughing like an idiot to myself.

    And so it turned out that she was a pervert of sorts. What she loved most wasn't fucking, but watching me jerk off to the homemade porn that she and her husband shot. She had a real dirty-looking cunt, and every time I look at it the flaps remind me of a charred pitcher plant. Perhaps due to having seen too many bukkake videos when she was young, she had an eerie appetite for come. One of the other things that she enjoyed was having me ejaculate all over her clothes.

    "Aren't you worried about the stains?"

    "No, why?"

    "He might see it."

    "Well I'm the one who does the laundry."

    "What if he sees it when you're wearing it?"

    "Oh. Well in our line of work, it's natural to get splattered by all kinds of stuff."

    "Including your customers' come?"

    She found this last statement so funny that she started pulling off her shorts. The reward that she offered was a chance to watch her frig herself, wherein the added bonus was seeing her cunt for the first time because up till then, I had only seen it through her homemade porn. The entire scenario and this particular juxtaposition of limbs always evoke in me a deep sense of regret. There was once when Elise (a Singaporean ex) and I were fooling around in a locked room in exactly this position. I was masturbating while she was furiously fingerfucking herself, and the regret was that I came all over her thighs and not in her mouth the way I had really wanted to.

    "Can I come in your mouth?"

    "Yes, hurry up. I come really quickly when I finger myself."

    The ejaculation wasn't spectacular, given that I had come barely fifteen minutes ago. There was a moderately thick globule, but the rest was just watery semen. She played around with it in her mouth as she shuddered and came. Her thick distended labia hung down thick and heavy like renegade meat from a generous sandwich, a slight trickle of mayo leaking from the crack. All of a sudden I was keenly aware of how much she looked and smelled like an aunt, even though she was only about 28. It radiated from the pungent bouquet emanating from the wispy hair on her armpits and extended to her sweaty, hair-plastered neck, her golden earrings and necklace down to her exceedingly hairy, worn-out cunt.

    In a story like this, you'd imagine that there'd be lots of fucking. But we never fucked even once when we were together. One day her husband sat down at my table and I soon found out that she had run off with someone else. He gained uncontested custody of their two children and apparently she hadn't even bothered fighting for them. As he spilled his guts to me, I had this peculiar feeling that he was casting me a suspicious eye, as if to imply that I was in cahoots with the property developer that she had run off with.

    "Bitches," he said, grimacing through gritted teeth and a plume of smoke.

    I took another sip of that plasticky almond tea and nodded.

She had come up to switch off the lights. We silently walked into each other's arms and kissed. When we disentangled, I was already hard. She started for my zipper, and I stopped her.

    "Are you wet?"

    "Of course."

    "Then we can skip it. Hurry up."

    As she pushed herself up onto the desk, I saw that she wasn't wearing any panties.

    "Oh..."

    Maintaining a smug look on her face, she leaned forward, unzipped me and took it out. She stroked it several times and held it in place for me to push it in. I looked down and felt a deep sense of gratitude, seeing how everything is in its right place: the thick, luxuriant crop of wiry pubic hair, her confident pink and dark flesh.

    I drove it home and it was a true quickie. She came (biting into my shoulder to soundproof her orgasm) but I didn't.

    "Do you want me to finish you off?"

    "It's ok."

    "I'll see you in a few days then."

    "Don't forget your panties."

    A quick peck followed by a pat on the ass and off she went.

Trapjaw Boy, his big-arsed girlfriend (Joolie Loo) and the flash of his brand new Japanese car, their credit card meals. Subtexts of protracted conversations, unbroken by her glances at my corduroy bulge.

Bet you would like a taste of that, and then some.

But times have changed, and I'm no longer interested in this particular genre of phenomenological erotism.

(infidelity, banging someone else's girl, covert one-upmanship) 

Truth be told, her ass is really something, and a fragmented diegesis found its way into my brain this morning.

We are all alone in the house --- as always, and conveniently so --- and waking up with a gnarled, veiny erection I walk into the bathroom (where she's sitting patiently on the crapper) and feed my cock to her very receptive mouth. She sucks really well, but I don't come. Then I step into the shower.

The fulcrum of the tension, of course, rests on the idea that not a word was exchanged between us. Soon, everybody else comes home, or wakes up, and a sense of normalcy is reinstated, as if nothing had happened between us. And when sex happens, it happens as a matter of factly. We don't scheme and while we keep an eye for opportunities, we don't yearn for them.

Unbeknownst to my parents, there was a reason why I did so poorly in school that year. What was I to do, at that impressionable and hormone-addled age, when confronted with a predatory aunt with a lust for incest?

She was sweet and perfect, and everything that a man could ever ask for in a lover. She dreamt of monsters every night and neither he nor she could figure out why. The monsters become progressively bigger and scarier. She'd wake up screaming beside him, and told him that she was being chased, and running away, she plummeted into a neat hole on the pavement outlined with chalk. She would weep and he would hold her in his arms. It wasn't long before the bruises came. Blue and black they came till her eyes swelled shut.

    "What's the matter, haven't you seen a monster before? You've pretended for so long I thought you were starting to enjoy it."

    And so the battery continued, and he was the Energizer bunny that kept going and going till she became a limp, lifeless puddle on the living room floor, waiting for the chalk to outline her exit into a world without monsters.

After much deliberation, I decided to get myself one of those Pangolina Squeaky Fuck Peaches® for Valentine's Day.

"For here or to go?"

"To go of course. Wrap it up for me, in fishnet, please."

"Nails?"

"Erythrocyte Red."

    I reached home, placed it on the couch and turned on some Jimi on the Ongaku. I looked at it for a few moments, then lay down on the carpet and took a nap. When I woke up it was still there, resting Zen-like and calm. I was horny, my cock was hard, so I decided to have a go at it. With both hands on the squeaky globe, I positioned myself for entry and punctured its polyethylene hymen to the beat of hollow psychedelic drums. Almost immediately, I could feel the well-timed throttles of its activated silicone walls. It didn't help one bit that the filthy electric wah-wahs seeping from the Nautilus was goading me on and on, weaving trails upon trails of trippy sonic colours all around the room like a retro iPod Nano ad. As my organic seed unloaded deep inside, I was overcome by a strange sadness that was akin to having been ripped off twice.

"I saw your mother's cunt today."

"What??"

"I said, I saw your mother's cunt today."

"What do you mean??"

"She was in the garden this morning, trimming her bush again."

"And...??"

"And she was squatting down, and I saw her cunt sticking out."

"..."

"There was a hole in her shorts."

"You gotta be kidding."

"No I'm not. If you don't believe me, take a look in the laundry basket. You'll see the hole."

"You fuckin pervert!"

"Yeah, like you're not. And guess what. I took some pictures too."

"What?!"

"I did. Wanna have a peek?"

There's this girl, Kate, who worked in a café that I used to frequent. I haven't been to that café for almost six months now because the boss is a fuckin goof. As for Kate, I saw her today. She's working in a shop that sells hip-hop clothes and related paraphernalia.

    'Don't you remember me? I used to work in ________ Café."

    To be honest, I did have some trouble trying to place that face with a name and history because she kept reminding me of someone else. They both had the same kind of look, but each evoked a different sort of fantasy in me.

    'Of course I remember.' 

    The conversation went on the way conversations such as these went on. She was still the same ditzy chick that she was, and somehow I was hardly surprised. She still had the same drawl and carried the same distracted look when she was talking, and I couldn't help but think about making it with her, the way I used to when she was still working in the café. Maybe I've watched too much porn, but she's the perfect candidate for drugged-out sex, the kind where the girl is all stoned from drink or dope, and you shift her into whatever postion you want with your hard cock still deep inside her. But the thing is, Kate needed no drugging. It came with the package.

    So in some overdeveloped section in my mind, I took her home after coffee. One thing led to another, and soon we were eating saliva out of each other's mouth. She draped her eighteen year-old body over mine and then rode me with that stoned, dreamy expression on her face. Naturally, I was in heaven. But I kept up that stoic expression on my face too, all furrowed brow and serious. I know for a fact that it was my manliness that landed me her cunt in the first place, so I played it up for all its worth. While there have been times in the fifteen years of my sexual life when I slipped into this role, it wasn't one of my favourite sexual personae. I much prefer to be the superpopular joker with a superhard cock and a belly of laughs.

    And so she closed her eyes and began licking my face, which felt strange, and stranger still because I found myself enjoying it. Though there wasn't a mirror to verify anything, the sticky-starchy sounds were telltale enough for me to know that it was one creamy, lubricious chick that was riding my rod. For a moment there I had a vision of my cock as a sharp knife, disembowelling a plump snatch of a squid, spilling its milky insides everywhere.

    I opened my eyes to check on Kate. Her face remained dreamy and soft, and I wondered if she was even feeling it at all. And there that was, the allignment of thought and the call for action. A second ago I would've been perfectly happy to remain in that position forever, and now it was time for a change in position. She will suck me and I will see if her expression changes when she's eating her own cream off my cock.