Dutch Banker


Introducing Mr Dutch-Banker.

He is in his mid-forties. We met via Jack’d a year back. We were chatting on Trevvy’s awhile ago actually. He looks decent with young eyes looking out of a lean face obviously in its forties. Complexion is ruddy and shiny. He exfoliates.

I drove over and based on his address, I found myself in a pre-war housing estate with refurbished shophouses plying Balestier Road. It is near town. A 5 min drive from home. Convenient.

I knocked on the doors gingerly. Afraid that I might have gotten the wrong address.

He came out bare-bodied and planted a kiss on my cheek immediately. Warm person, I thought. How shall I describe him: from what’s left of his fast reciding forehead, I could see wispy salt and pepper hair on his pinkish scalp. He has a cheerful smile and nice white teeth. The kind of face that when he smiles, all you see is rows and rows of white teeth. And he is very tall. At least 1.9m. That will do for the night.

“Ello, welcome to my house,” Like most Dutch, he has an accent that sounded like he was schooled in English by Hitler in the day and Count Dracula at night.

What is memorable about this guy? There was this strange weird painting on his wall taking centerstage in his living room.

I couldn’t help gaping at it.


“That’s me,” he exclaimed. “That’s so me. I see myself that way,” he did a flamenco poise with the hand outstretched. My jaws dropped.

Like a granny [Ah Por], he started talking. Serious verbal diarrhoea. And oh man, he can really talk his full life details out: he was, and still is, married to a Dutch lady for years but he decided, when his wife was away overseas, to wear a pair of red hot pants to Backstage [incidentally one of those gay bars in Singapore you go to get picked up by Old Daddies and Old Bears]. No, I don’t club there. Not quite my scene. He proceeded to tell me how he felt so welcomed and loved by my fellow country-darlings that he has received a second lease of life. The gay part. Good luck.

That and also the fact that he already has a son and a daughter who are over twelve. And he has no qualms about introducing them to their new step-dads, refreshed probably once a year. Nice. Coming out Dutch.

And no, he did not divorce the Wife even though they are estranged. Also the family is living in Bukit Timah estate (a huge sprawling landed property estate owned by the Old Rich in Singapore) further away from town. He pays a lot to have them living in stately comfort while he languishes in a fully furnished 3-storeyed shophouse in Balestier (practically on the fringes of the main financial district). Sure, he had it really tough… in excruciating expat comfort.

By the time he was done with his monologue, I had polished off 3 beers and was sizably dazed.

I surveyed his living room while I smoked. Gaudy Chinese painting. Rosewood furniture with red silk cushions. Chandelier and a huge Chinese earthenware pot near the door filled with goldfish. Even a mirror from an old style Chinese laundry shop facing his dining table with a laptop. I peeked at it while he was on his soliloquy and I saw gay romeo onscreen. This guy is a serious online sex predator. It blinked more than thrice with updates the entire time I was seated there.


He showed me upstairs and I saw his bed. It was a nice antique wooden bed with railings on the top. I already had 2 beers while he was talking his life out. He was ahead of me by two Bombay gin and tonic as well. Shirts off and pants too. He loved my black underwear with silver dots all around it. He took his off as well. He looks very clean. We showered in his bathroom and headed for bed. But not to sleep, obviously.

“I like to kiss and make tender,” he said. “I cannot help it, I am romantic.”
“Oh, i love it when you say that. It is so sexy!” I said not quite sure if i believed myself.

Against the soft lighting of his bedroom, I closed my eyes and felt my body caressed and relished by this Dutch stranger who loves Chinese things, even the men. This Sinophile. He ran his fingers over me again and again like a miser rubbing gold between his fingers or a slaver testing his goods. He kept his mouth in mine far longer than necessary. And he turned over.

“Eh, I play romantic music ah?”
And I heard Enigma’s Sadeness part 1 on his bedroom stereo.
Gregorian chants? Perfect.
I moaned. But not in pleasure.

I started to lick him all over and he got hard rather quickly. I licked and sucked his balls and he cringed and moaned and spreaded his legs wider. I told him to turn around and he got nervous, like most tops do, that their willing and submissive bottom might actually be a ‘stealth’ top. I had to reassure him that I was only going to rim him (lick the lips of his ass). And I proceeded to manhandle him and he complied. If you have never imagined a grown man in his mid-forties and a father of 2 squirm and squeal like a girl while his ass is licked very carefully, you can start to imagine it now. It was quite amusing.

Then he couldn’t take it anymore and started to peel out his condom and got into action mode.

It is an illusion that size is everything. The bigger and longer it is, the better? No.

He is long and skinny. Usual problem, based on empiric findings, is that owners of such dicks usually drive their fleshy members in too deep like an oil-drill, plunging spearlike into my rectum walls. Meanwhile, the entrance and mid entrance, which is the usual pleasure points, are hardly stimulated by their narrow, straw-like penises. The kind of dick that can cause a gag reflex in the ass area if he isn’t careful. And tear a hole into my rectum if he is brutal. Not my favourite kind of penises.

He is not brutal. Only careless. But that’s okay. But then he took a long time to come…….. Really long time.

After about at least 45 minutes he was still pounding me and asking me if I love it. That was after I have ‘loved it’ at least 15 minutes ago – while doing a flex arm hang on the wooden bars above the bed like an Olympic gymnast with my legs around his waist and my body suspended half a metre from the bed — a hovering wheelbarrow. Behind me, he stands on the floor, his organ wearing me like a sock. Wearing me out.

He sweats like a fountain and the part of the bed he was laying on was all wet. Even the mahagony wooden panels he stood on was all wet. Everytime he pounded on top of me, sweat rained over me like spring rain if he were a Christian Anderson model but actually more like lying under a leaky salty tap.

Spent and tired, he pulled himself out and started to, how shall I put it, DIY while i watched, dazed.

There are quiet tops who barely whimper when they come. As if they are afraid to disturb me. So they come with nary a whisper. Then there is the other kind.

When it was over, I had half-expected to hear the neighbours knocking on the doors to see if someone has died of a heart attack of the most painful and loudest kind. That was, if I weren’t already deafened.

Picture this: 11 pm on a Sunday night and a fully naked dutch man was roaring and spraying his genetic fluids everywhere like a raging fireman who had lost control of his possessed hose threatening to burst out of his hand in a catalysmic blast. His cum was seriously watery and some of its salty spray got into my mouth and all over the sheets like unholy water. I seriously thought he was going to die and reached my hand out to support his cold quivering ass. Then, barely recovered and very weak from the exertions, he looked down, smiled his toothy smile and pecked me with his cold dry lips. He was in cold sweat like a marathon runner at the end of the race.

At last. At long last, was the only words I could say at the end. I had to check if I was blistering at my ass. He was too tired and stumbled and collapsed into my arms for a long while as I try to blink and adjust my contact lenses on my fast drying eyes.

We showered. He started yawning. I was tired of him. I wanted to go home. If he was a dessert, then I would say that he had left me with a bitter aftertaste akin to arsenic.

He has an entire collection of SKII and JPG Le Male perfume on his table. And Coco Chanel’s no.5 too. My mother’s favourite perfume. I sprayed some of his wife’s Chanel No.5 perfume on my skimpy beach tank top. I drove home smelling of jasmines, my mother and Coco Chanel. Perhaps if that weird guy in the painting comes alive, he might smell also of Chanel No.5.

When I got home, I showered again. And I slept alone in a long dreamless sleep.


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