Prelude to manhunt

Was another crazy day churning out advertisements n meeting crazy deadlines for the Bank. Found myself arguing with a Banker about using MasterCard vs Mastercard and the importance of spacing between the brand logo and the cardfaces… V technical and banal in a who the hell cares kinda way. Multiply that by a hundred and you hve an idea how interesting my humdrum existence is. At the end of the day, Sean called me at 8pm for our collective spinster whine and we decided to go tantric, no, not the sex, which i dont mind, but just the local gay joint.

Coincidentally, I have been listening to some motivational pod cast on gay dating and ‘the secret’ (recently a new york’s times best seller, choke on the irony) and how thinking of getting a hot can actually get u a hot guy. I stepped out of the office, into the gym for a quick shower and perfumed and stepped out to meet him with a seriously hot dream boyfriend in my mind.

We met. “Oh my god! I have been so stressed by work lately!” He gushed and I laughed and agreed.

We walked past one of those vintage shophouses that must serve vampires for who else would buy electronic cameras at 9pm in the evening, or at all these days?!
“To be sure, it is either we r decisively spinsters and rich or attached to a boyfriend and let him settle the rest. It is the worst to be trapped in the middle with being poor n dateless!!”
I didnt think it wise or particularly consoling to mention that I pay a ridiculously low level of income tax I wonder why the government would bother to collect in the first place.

We got into Dymk (short for does your mother know) filled by one-eighth of humans n seven-eighth ghosts. Granted, it is nice n cozy but never with the kind of guys that catches my eyes. The fact that they hve a waiter who was formerly a boyish bodybuilder and now looks like a body-ruin with a surly gruff air — didn’t allow me much to tell my mother about.

We got in an squealed for joy as we demanded their legendary (at least to Sean) tapioca chips only to discover, a mojito later that they r dry (of chips n not the mojitos). Well, u never hve more snarling spinsters ever as we shot eyes of daggers at the body ruin bartender.
Who would hve thought as we drank and chortled at the lack of guys in the world that an Indian lawyer who was looking to date me over the past week, and with whom I turned down a dinner that very evening, sailed through the bar like a helium balloon from the backrooms.
What happened was like one of those fast action block buster movies as catastrophe strikes: everything happened in slow-mo….

“Oh sheesh…” I muttered as I lift the glass of mojito up to hide my face.
And I caught his eye.

It was horrific especially as I have turned him down for dinner. And Sean didn’t help matters when i invited him to sit with us and he muttered “don’t” in mandarin, and he knows Chinese.

He sailed off after a few formal greetings like a balloon and Sean couldn’t help but to draw Bollywood jokes at me.

It was a slow evening of pulling guys and I decided to seek alternatives.

“let’s go off to tantric. the crowd is slow here…” I remarked predatorily and we left. Surly body-ruin caught us just before we left without paying and we paid quickly to pull some guys for the night.

In tantric, the guys were a little better but the they were mostly with friends and I wasn’t feeling too friendly. There was a pretty hot guy to my left on the counter (greekish lebanon kinda way) but he looked vaguely dirty and I had to work tmr. So we ended up watching Kumar the famous drag queen on tv and Kumar the uncle beside us as I downloaded horoscope apps in the bar counter as giggled over ridiculous predictions and predicaments in our quests for love.

We got back high and happy. Though manless, we made a pact to come back on Friday evening to pull a man for real the next day.

I guess it’s the hope that keeps us snarling spinsters going in the cold lonely Singaporean evenings.


Pulau Perhentian

“What?! No alcohol on this island?” I stepped onto the island with a desperate, sinking feeling after 12 hours on the road n driving thru dense Malaysian forests so deep that if a pontianak appears around the car, I would hve yawned and said “I told u”.

After the first post, this pink bachelor has snugged off to a great tropical holiday in pulau perhentian (malaysia) where I have had a seriously good time under the aegis of a group of similarly pink friends guiding me through the dark valley of spinsterhood snorkeling several metres above the most amazing corals in waters that are so clear that i didnt dare pee into it for fear of causing a very obvious shade of “yellow” between my legs. You don’t get this from the usual murky waters of Singapore.

Astounding? Actually, in between ecstatic moments of getting high on too much sunlight and salted air, lay disappointing moments of how much more would I have enjoyed had I brought along a hot guy with me.

It didn’t help at all that it was veritably an island of love and sex. There were so many hot, young and fit surfer backpacker types — with girlfriends in tow. And perpetual smiles of post-coital bliss radiating through their body like chernobyl meltdown radiation. Tropical paradise?! Humbag!

In case these summon up images of me sulking at the beach and cursing every couple who go past me with the triple terrors of herpes, HIV and hemorrhoids, well that was true. At least in my mind.

There was practically zero pink presence on the island (coral species and sex changing fish of paradises don’t count). So it was a relatively austere, healthy trip with no alcohol, healthy-living hot tourists and sadly, no post coital bliss… but lots and lots of amazing snorkeling … And no post coital bliss.

“water water everywhere but not a drop to drink!” I said to a French lady with her hot undergraduate son who was at least while cruising to another island for snorkeling. And she thought I was just referring to the water.


The first post…



I am 32. A single gay spinster. And if I have to describe myself further, male.

When I was a child in a boisterous all boys family (during the Singapore’s stop-at-2 policy days, yes that’s how old I am) and playing kiddy games of make-believe with my similarly all-male cousins, I always play the princess role in a mistake thinking that when I grow up, my penis will shrivel and drop off and voila! a vagina will emerge. So you see, those christian groups are right. I am just ‘confused’. Well, and also, very ‘gay’. And I don’t think i can be saved.

Back to my state of stupendous singlehood. I am 32. Single. Unwanted. Left on the shelf.

If I were a fruit, I would be a peach that is cast aside by the farmer and left to rot on the branch. And even then, I won’t have the decency of staying on the branch. Judging by my usual luck, I would have been pecked by a rabid crow, fallen off the bough like rock-a-bye baby and fallen off somewhere between autumn and early winter into some muddy pit. And eventually getting rotten, black and wrinkly. Instead of being sweet and sugary and shipped into all kind of exciting destinations in the form of peach pie, peach ice-cream, peach puree, peach creme brulee, I am turning sour, bitter and alcoholic. And poisonous. Giving off fetid fumes of methane that promises to burn a hole in the ozone layer. No, I am not being metaphoric about 3 sentences ago.



If I were a car, it would be even more depressing. Nowadays when I go to Tantric on Friday nights, in the rare chance that I am in the mood for love*  for a rare man-hunt, I feel like I am a 3rd-hand used car from the last decade model that is passed over even for scrap. While all around me are shiny Ferrari and Porsche fresh from the army, polytechnics and secondary schools. I don’t want to have sex with them. I want to give them tuition and counsel them, cook for them and put them to bed; while looking for their fathers to have furious hot daddy-sex with.

*Aside: due to suspected early onset of andropause, increasingly there is less love and more moody.

Arrgghh! Back to real-life and no more waffling.

I was running today in the gym today. Faced before me is the dreadfully bad noon time channel 5 free-to-air TV programme of India: a love story where a weepy Brazilian lady is being cast aside by her callous Indian high caste boyfriend/husband/fling because his family cannot get along with her (cancel fling, keep boyfriend and husband). Eventually, he weeps and says he loves her but if his family insists, he will leave her. And he storms off (cross out boyfriend/husband, write in *Spinster*). Later she decided to go drown herself in the nearest ocean (obviously the Indian ocean).

Gym was supposed to be destressing?!?

I turned my head to the TV screen on the left. It was channel news asia featuring a dead 24 year old girl* whose eyes are gouged out by her psychotic unemployed 38 year old ex-boyfriend a few days before her marriage to him. He met her while she was a *SPINSTER* looking for love online on Love-links. Enough said.

*Elsie, may you rest in peace.

I got out and decided that I need to do something with my life. And quick. I don’t have much time! Spinsters seem to have very short lives before they get hammered/gouged/raped to death, judging by the stuff i am seeing these days.

I thought of at least one thing I am reasonably good at; aside from the amazing ability of playing computer games for 15 hours consecutively. And it was possibly writing. And why not write about the remarkable fragile existence of spinsterhood; and, if not getting out of it, then at least, living with it.

And hence, this blog.


My dear friend and sister-in-crime, Sean EC has sat with me for hours thinking up names for the blog, and we decided on imnotspinster (well and also because iamnotaspinster was taken up by someone else who didnt even make a pip-squeak of an effort to write a single entry).

I dedicate at least this first entry to him.