Chinese New Year Eve… 2013

Well, let’s just call him the Dutch foreman.

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When I say foreman, immediately you think of a hot, twenty-something construction hunk with six pecs, a yellow helmet, bare-bodied, nicely oiled n wearing v dirty n faded denims as he walks out from stage left. Obviously, he smells musty and manly with cigarettes, whiskey, sweat and testosterone and ready for a serious session of ‘man-drilling’.

 

But aside from his dusty construction boots he wears to the oil refineries in Pulau Bukom, he is nothing like it.

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He is fifty-ish, with seriously sparse n reciding hairline dubiously mitigated by virtue of it being blond against his tanned leathery scalp. On a good day, he looks like the progeny should ever Tom Jones and Indiania Jones (Harrison ford) have a romp in the bushes outside the Temple of Doom. While not being grossly obese or anything, he has the portly figure of a grand daddy n smells like it too. Now that I think about it, he behaves like my Granddad. The resemblance is uncanny from the way he expresses surprise, the unique way they laugh, but most of all, he has that old man smell that my grand dad had. They even snore the same way in bed.

 

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Okay. It’s Chinese New Year 2013 and after a full of year of estrangement, he sent out a new year greeting to me. We had an acrimonious ending circa may 2012 — mainly because I decided I had enough as he wasn’t my type for boyfriend. The fact that he still gets his ex-wife to shop for him could also have been a prompting factor.

Anyway, I thanked him for the SMS greeting and after a few exchanges, he wanted to treat me for a few glasses in tantric bar which I, being a well-brought up Chinese guy, couldn’t say no to. It’s bad luck to refuse free drinks on Chinese New Year, especially if it comes with alcohol, especially if it is free.

 

“Wow!! You still look so beautiful, my beauty-prince!”

 

Only one human being in the entire galaxy says it quite in his way. Creepily. But also vaguely, though I am not sure which obscure part of me thinks so, endearingly.

 

He was late n I was already ahead of him by a Cointreau Bomb n a double-shot low-grade whiskey soda. Which means that I was in a jolly mood. And if he offered more shots, so much the jollier. And that was what he did.

 

After being nearly choked to death in a bear hug and a whiff of the grand-daddy smell, he introduced his friend, who actually looked rather hot in an uncle-ly way, as opposed to being just uncle.

 

“He is so excited to meet you this evening, but he was so scared to meet you that he asked me along to come see how beautiful you are,” the Dutch Foreman’s friend confided.

 

The Dutch Foreman ordered a white wine soda for himself, a tiger beer for his friend n a whiskey shot for me (I was on a diet). He is probably also the only man in the entire galaxy who puts ice in wine, soda in wine and other various heinous acts to my alcohol of choice.

 

We chatted quite nicely mainly because he was dumbfound and staring starry-eyed at me while I talked about The Gardens by the Bay to the latest happenings in Resort World Sentosa – which they have all never been to. When they say they come to Singapore to work, they really only meant that they stayed in the hotel and they travelled to the offshore oil refineries to work – and aside from drunken nights in the bars of Clark Quay, they hadn’t been anywhere else. My kind of people.

It was shaping up to be a beautiful evening.

 

Over the drinks he kept asking if I were seeing anyone. And since I wasn’t seeing anyone technically as a boyfriend I said no. It was awkward for a moment because it really sounded like I was a desperate spinster and I didn’t know what to say.

 

His unclely-hot friend turned out to be straight. Out of universal kindness that comes with being well brought up, I suggested going to a straight bar in Clark Quay for a couple of straight drinks in a straight pub before heading straight for sex. I was quite jolly by then and he looked increasingly less like Tom Jones n more like Harrison Ford. Plus, whenever I stopped talking and conversation stalls, he keeps looking into my eyes and go ‘wow! My beauty-prince!’ or ‘tonight I look after you ah! You don’t worry! I pay everything’ – I can’t possibly leave him hanging along on the bed right?

Goes with being well brought up. Plus the Chinese New Year has to start with a bang.

 

We got to Crazy Elephant n already there was a crowd there. He got in and shouted at the waitresses who were ignoring him and made a complete star of himself – which, given our snotty waitress, didn’t earn him any points nor less waiting time in between drinks. I had to wink, smile and tell them to get us a beer, soda adulterated white wine and double-shot whiskey soda.

 

“Sorry, what wine-soda? We don’t have…” She couldn’t believe her ears. Obviously.

 

“My friend only drinks diluted wine and soda. He says it is like champagne. But cheaper,” I said.

 

He smiled and agreed. When he got the glass and offered me a taste, I politely agreed that it tasted cheaper too.

 

There was a live band and we took our drinks to the front and listened to them. It is one of the nicest feelings in the world to feel the vibration of a live band coursing through the body while one is suitably inebriated. He must have been quite high too because he couldn’t keep his hands off me the whole evening – in a straight bar – while we were on the front row like groupies, in front of a holiday crowd. Great.

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Before anyone could tell us to go get a room, he had a moment of clarity and said, “We go back hotel ah?” I saw him beaming red in love/(lust?), though it could have been just the alcohol.

 

The room was pleasant in the Holiday Inn.  The room was filled with the odd old man smell like my grand-dad’s bed room. His table was filled with medicine of all kinds from diabetes to high-blood pressure. His chequered shirt was on the chair and he kicked his jeans off and collapsed onto the hard five-star bed worthy of a five-star hotel.

 

I peeled off my tanktop and he opened his eyes to go, “Wow! My beauty-prince is back! You must promise never to leave me forever!” Involuntarily, he got up and hugged my chest so tight like the evil bond girl in Golden Eye.

 

Smiling, I pushed him back on the bed and laid a leg over him like one of those kinky dominatrix in bad 70s porn. I tossed my underwear onto his face and while he took it made a good show of smelling it (like Tom Jones), I laid over him and slided my body over his smooth hairless body while he shuddered in bliss.

He actually felt pretty good to cuddle with. He started rocking against my body and closed his eyes in ecstasy. He started kissing me maniacally while, in between kisses, he muttered something like “my baby”, “ahhhh” and “mmmm”.

 

Thinking that it was the right time, I reached down but all I could feel was just a gelatinous worm that didn’t even have the virtue of being long. And it was soft. He kept banging it powerless onto me, it was all I could do to avoid laughing.

 

“Ahhh… after my operation, I cannot get hard anymore.” He said. Being well brought up, it was unthinkable to explore what operation that was or make a big fuss out of it. Whatever did your mum teach you in such situations?!

 

Not being the type to pack up and go immediately, I proposed going inside him while he jerk off. Which proposal he accepted immediately – which was probably the only way he could ever possibly get sex in his current physical state. Yes, it was quite a pity fuck.

 

And we started. He was a surprising compliant bottom for such a manly mix of Tom Jones and Harrison Ford – golden curls, blue eyes and all. He moved in all the correct ways and yielded so perfectly that he has quite a lot to teach me as a bottom. Best of all, his skin is smooth like a baby and that, to the ever tactile me, is highly erotic and sensuous. The evening turned out rather well despite all my earlier reservations. Seriously.

 

When it was over, I picked myself up and got to the bathroom to wash off the lubricant from me – as well as the persistent smell off me. When I left, there was a hundred dollar bill on my bag and he leaned over and smiled, his blue green eyes gleaming.

“For your taxi home, my beauty-prince.”

 

“No… I really couldn’t. I am not that sort.” Seriously tempting a hundred dollar bill may be. Plus my bank account resembles the trade balances of a third world country ravaged by war, diseases, all manner of natural and unnatural disaster and a highly corrupt tyrant with a great predilection for impulse shopping. But I am not one of those kind of guys. I am pretty well brought up.

 

 

For some reason, even though it is the Chinese New Year and I have never been one to reject a gift offered so sincerely, I have to push the money back into his hands and smiled as I said no. It is already a good Chinese New Year for me.

 

I got home and, as sex always makes me ravenous hungry – whether I am top or bottom – I steamed some vegetables and ate them with cold canned sardines. And slept alone wondering if I will be luckier the next Chinese New Year but I guess the future will sort itself out. Just before I slept, I had a notion that with every guy I meet and sleep with, I am getting closer and closer to my Mr Right somewhere.

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It must be right?

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