Disturbing Signs

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Disturbing Signs

There are the other warnings,
I should have already seen
in the morning 3am,
on the brink of a drunken amen

dashed against the pavement
in a feathered decompose
an angel and the rusty splatter
of its bare, red halo

a city-garden gated
with chains of dark-red iron
under ‘no Trespassing or we shoot’.
the silhouetted ‘Cain and Abel’

and growing roots so soundlessly,
over the rot of yesterday,
the infamously Poisonous Pong-pong tree
masquerading the Tree of Life

‘Come in, come in’ the voices say
‘Step through our opened gates
In the netherworld of 3am
Cover charge? There ain’t any.

‘Come rest your tired face
against our soothing grass
while the cobra sips soundlessly
— from your thirsty eager ear’

So should I go or should I not
My feet unsteady and wavering
For all the warning signs
that glare at me

on the drunken brink
— I luxuriate

//

It’s all about the ass (Part One)

What is it about Men’s ass that turns me on

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It is round, vulnerable, soft mostly unless tensed up in pain or arousal.

Sexless? well, it appears to be since whether one is a man or a woman, they share the same ass.

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Yet even for the most macho guy whose testosterone level is way off the charts, his ass is usually still a cool Venusian mound of soft flesh that parts in ecstasy when you lick the square center of it.

And as the buttock muscles eases, lengthens, softens and soothes itself out to be receptive while the man moans in near-divine ecstasy, the line between what we conceive to be male and what is female is blurred ever so slightly. Because in the realm of the ass, everyone is a soft, moaning receptive female.

Don’t believe? Just imagine a tough guy like Daniel Craig, with slabs and slabs of very male muscles stretched taut over his sweaty naked frame.

And imagine, a warm wet tongue darting along the inner cheeks of his bare, naked and vulnerable ass…

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Poetry Writing

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Poetry-writing

I fish in quiet places

Preferably from a desk

sea-wearied with scribbled notepads

and flotsams of Pencil shavings

 

My eyeball hangs from the hook

Descending into

The still white surface

that sticky, stubborn — impermeable even:

paper

 

Beneath the waters

the eye must look.

the eye must scour

 

Better yet,

the eye must plumb deeper

Where whale carcasses conspire

To sing insidious black whispers

out of tune with the ghosts

Of drowned sirens

 

The eye must gather:

The eye must bring up

The eye must remember

 

And then the work begins

//

And now for the Dutch Captain

 

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The Pink Bachelor, aka yours truly, is lounging by the rather neon plastic-coloured beach chair that wouldn’t look out of place in a psychedelic kindergarten on a Sunday afternoon wearing nothing more than:

1)      banana boat sun tan lotion, and

2)      a skimpy baby blue aussie bum speedos 1 size too small

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The Dutch Captain, because he used to be a naval Captain (I kid you not), picked up another bottle of Savignon Blanc or Chardonnay or just another one of the many bottles we have drank over our sporadic meet ups and and hooks ups, and downed it through his very impossible handsome dutch lips.

 

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Granted that my luck with the previous Dutch was quite very very average, to say the least, when I first heard he was Dutch, I honestly didn’t have any high hope. But I like to believe that the patron saint of Holland has decided to compensate me for the rather poor delivery in the last dutch encounter that he decided to ‘gift’ me something better.

*

Flashback a few moment ago earlier in the afternoon. I arrived at his apartment in a spanking new location just a little off the aptly named Holland village (a rather upmarket area in Singapore) with the customary bottle of white wine in one hand and a stalk of white Lily in the other.

His doors are never locked. I step in, set down my stuff (I always have stuff and makes a mental note to reduce my literal baggage), struts in a gives him a huge Pink Bachelor hug – and kiss on his thick, manly lips.

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He is usually either reading some deeply pretentious coffee-table book for the barely literate or playing his never-ending game of Aircraft flying and landing.  

 

If you are there at his place you will notice an apartment in pristine Pantone white with bit of brown (only and very strictly walnut wood) furniture and the occasional impossibly chic and outrageously expensive sculptures (oh my god! Who owns sculptures these days? Who?) in choice locations. If you would just amble down the long corridors of the horrendously huge apartment and into the ‘rectory’ where he keeps all his linens and gentlemanly ‘unmentionables’, you will see stacks of perfectly folded underwears, towers and underwears folded like abstract origami structures in an IKEA catalogue. 

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With the customary manly and skilful flick of his hand, he grabbed an rainbow-striped beach towel (from IKEA) in a perfect swing and said, “The weather is good. Wanna go to the pool?” He smirks his impossibly handsome and chiseled features at me. 

 

*

 

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“This book is shite,” he said. The book, in question, as I am deeply ashamed to admit, is a Chinese horoscope book by Lillian Too on the annual forecast for any of the Chinese Zodiac Animal sign you happen to be born in. As usual, as it had been for several years running, my yearly horoscope is full of work, so-so health and no love. No love whatsoever. Forget it kid!

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He had grabbed the book while I was reading it and flipped into the pairing page. He already knew my ‘animal’ horoscope already. There was clearly no love lost with Lillian when she stated (in the book) clearly that both the Dutch Captain and I have nothing in common to talk about and two people of our signs can only at best, have a cordial business & transactions relationship. Preferably with him as the superior and me as the subordinate. I am not sure what kinky master-slave relational book Lillian has been reading but I kind of think she should really check her reading list these days.

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“What does it mean, we have such a good thing going on here,” he said obviously alluding to the more than one happily drunken moments with me.

“Shut up. It only means I will have to start charging you for coming here,” I retorted in jest.

 

He leaned over and poured yet another glass of wine down his impossibly handsome lips. It’s only when he is not looking at me that I can inspect him with a cool disinterested eye. What does he look like?

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He has a good mix of David Gandy’s chiseled features and height plus the genteel non-chalance of Colin Firth. With a light buzz of unshaven 5 o’clock shadow over his cheeks, he looks like an older and sexier Henry Cavill. He once said that he was mistaken for Ricky Martin in a bar. I said that was nearly as bad as being mistakened for Justin Bieber in the nineties, read: not very complimentary. He didn’t quite enjoy the remark as much as I did.

After at least an hour of sun tanning, in the course of which, we finished at least 2 bottles of wine, swore at three kids who got over to our beach chair and tried tickling our feet while we slept, and had a few moments of soul-baring chats we couldn’t remember 5 minutes later, we packed up and got back to his apartment. Sun was beginning to ebb. Blood’s warm and swimming in alcohol. Skin’s burning with the scent of the sun and more than a little whiff of chlorine. A potent combination for a little more action than just swimming in his Olympic sized pool. He laced his bed carefully with a white dark towel with OCD-precision and pulled me over. And he pulled down his, always impeccably, branded trunks to reveal…(drumrolls)

 

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… to call such a thing a penis is a COLOSSAL understatement. It is so monstrously huge and engorged with blood, this creature of his defies definition. It is not a cock. It is another appendage that he produces like in a magical show: hey presto, another leg! *Clap clap*

 

And now, Leg with Elephantiasis! *Clap clap clap*

 

And now let’s see how many clowns can fit into this – proceeds to spit clowns out of this amazing appendage that has pilgrims coming from far corners of the world to view in awe…

 

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That organ of his slams large and heavy against my lips and threatens to dislocate my jaws whenever I try to do a blow job on it. It is so gargantuan in terms of girth and height, it is more like a vestigial limb than a tool of procreation — and recreation. Like the albatross in the Ancient Mariner (since we are on the nautical theme), his penis weights upon me every time we meet – clothed or otherwise.

 

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Very carefully, as he leans over me with his huge organ hanging over my head, occupying my field of vision while my mouth opens ajar in fear, I took out my trusty Superslyde® lubricant like a priest wielding holy water before a possessed child.

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With a little boy (speaking in euphemism less for decency but more for good taste’s sake), he can’t really wreck much damage even if he tries.

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But with a huge guy, especially for anal sex, I have to be in control both in speed and in the depth of penetration. The ass, upon pain, will close up even tighter. Not the best thing on your (back) side, especially when faced with a juggernaut. And also not the best thing when having a juggernaut inside you. I know it is not rather politically correct to say this but it is a delicate maneuver best done when you are slightly drunk so that any pain will be filtered out by the drunken haze.

Usually with superslyde, the intense pain of an anal gag reflex will die down after first few seconds, and then begins the quick slippery slide to being a loose skanky hole – and where sex is actually pleasurable. And this time is no exception.

 

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In a nutshell: In what poor little experience I have had of huge boys, the missionary position is one sure way of tearing my insides out faster than saying Vlad the Impaler. The last thing you should possibly do, is to give him full control of your body, and ass. But once it is inside, the feeling of a hot rod inside you is unspeakably enjoyable.

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He closes his heroic and manly sculpted features in deep intense concentration as his body rock and pound his way into me. Finally after a while, he lets out an ecstasy ‘ahhhhh’ in an operatic rising crescendo as he kneels over my body and:

1)      pulls his huge princely appendage out

2)      yanks out the condom

3)      Sprays his hot milky cum all over me.

Exhausted, he slumps over my body and slips into deep sleep.

 

Outside, as if time remembered to flow, the sky fades from golden evening, to blue dusk and then to the pitch dark of night. I see it all while he murmured in his sleep sometimes in Dutch, sometimes in English and sometimes in an incomprehensible language. But even in sleep, he looks regal and handsome. Sometimes I would kiss him and then lean against his oddly clean body, devoid not just of any body odour, but of any smell itself. Just like every part of this very clean, very white apartment that is scrubbed in an OCD fervor.

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We wake up usually before ten pm because the parking fees at his condominium is exorbitant and the real world beckons aka I have to get up early the next morning for work.

 

“Okay, keep in touch ah,” he would say, sounding like he meant it.

“Sure,” I would reply, sounding like I mean it.

But he is a proud person and he really will not actively ask me to stay the night, or the nights and days after. And so am I. And we have been playing the field too long and playing our cards so close to our chest that our hearts are closed, not out of anything, but fear. Fear that we destroy this much of a good thing between us. And what is that?

Just another of this long, endless, sunny Sunday afternoon where the Sun takes forever to set, in paradise.

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And that’s all there is.