It’s all about the ass (Part One)

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


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.


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…



And now for the Dutch Captain



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


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.



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.


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. 





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. 





“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!


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.


“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?



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)



… 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…



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.



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.


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.


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.



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.


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.


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.


And that’s all there is.




‘Slyde’ your way to Ecstacy

While despairing of my pathetically-low follows and minimal likes on my blog entries, a friend told me that my blog should be more relevant and applicable to every day life.

And maybe insert in some more product endorsements and reviews.

And funnier writing – since the previous one was pretty gloomy. One even told me to put an R(21) rating on my blog. (I’ll get to that soon, I promise). So here you go, a blog entry that is ‘deeply’ relevant – a review on lubricants.



One of the most important retail decisions a bottom must make is the choice of lubricants.

No, we are not talking about automobiles or heavy industry equipment here. Though I can reserve an entry for that some other time.

Like the alchemist’s gold, it is the single most important element that can make a raging hunk’s very huge and testosterone-engorged penis pleasurable with every thrust. Or transform it into a fistful of cactus, excruciating to the utmost and the entire session becomes more like a scene of mediavel torture than anything else.

But alas, all like men’s endowments, not all lubricants are the same – nor can you go just by appearance. So here you go, based on what little experience I have had, my reviews on the various lubricant brands out there. There might be regional differences.

Vaseline Cream

This is frankly what was used in my first sexual encounter. I was half-drunk and was like ‘huh? You need lub? What’s that?’

Promise to blog about it sometime but the honest fact that it was the most painful sex I have had in my whole life (up to now) and having ‘anal-gag’ for a good ½ a day after the session (can’t sit on a hard surface, feeling like I need to ‘let go’ in the loo or I’ll poop in my pants and generally being as incapacitated as a diarrhea patient) meant that it was the first and last time I was having this cream-coloured gel go anywhere but my lips.

If petroleum jelly were all that was to use, I wouldn’t have very much to blog about. Seriously.


Durex Play

Ahhh. 2am. You find a hot guy in a bar. You are semi-high (or very high) on beer and whiskey and too many jaeger bomb shots. You spied the cute guy who has been eye-ing you the entire night during his stopover in Singapore in Tantric Bar. You don’t want to go home empty handed and ponder the universal bleakness of life. You hook him up and get a cab to the nearest cheap hotel for a 2-hour block (split fifty-fifty of course). Turns out that he has a stack of condoms in his pants but who travels with lub in their pocket and it is up to you to rush to 7-11. And, without fail no matter where you are, kudos to their highly efficient ISO-certified inventory system, you always see Durex Play on the counter. Usually in tiny-tubes, good enough for the night.

This is last minute, fail-safe choice for lubricants like I have mentioned. However, unless you are really high and away from the world of friction-induced ass trauma, this lubricant is usually too thin & runny to offer any comfort. In additional, it is so liquid that the moment you stick it into your ass, it all flows out leaving the deeper anal-cavities dry and unlubricated. Use at your risk. I used to solve the problem by using a needle-less syringe, pump it full of the lub and then ‘inject’ it into my ass. Helps. But then again, if you are in a situation to get a syringe, why not just get a better lub?



Okay. My then-Scottish boyfriend was hung like a Donkey and I was never quite a guy of deep fortitude. Sex was nice on a good day when he was patient and slower. But he loved marathon sessions running for 45 minutes or longer of coital bliss. I have to give it to him for stamina at the very least; but I can’t say the same for the durex lubricant I was using at that time. After my third ‘blistering’ episode with him, I decided that I need outside help. A new lubricant.

Desperate, i went to the sex shop in Bugis Market right next to the fried banana fritter’s stall. I thought nothing to going to the cashier and asking for lubricants that are good for anal sex for plus-sized dicks. I mean, if the cashier is going to cringe and scream when I ask for such thing, then she wouldn’t be working in a sex shop right?

Very gamely she brought me to a row of glass cabinets. Aptly named ‘HIM’. Packaged in nice pvc plastic tubs, they could easily be mistaken for Gatsby moving rubber hair wax.

Excited, I decided to bring it for a test drive that very evening…

…aroused and excited, I pushed him aside blindly to open the tub and jammed my finger into the lub. My finger got into contact with hard, solidified paraffin-like wax. I went soft faster than wax on a hot pan. I believe I had to scoop out a good handful of the wax, rub it into my nether-cavities like playing ‘pin the donkey’ dubiously and begin. You know if something doesn’t quite feel right, it probably isn’t. Hell, it’s probably all my accumulated experience, intuition and possibly hosts & hosts of sexual-guardian angel screaming at me: DON’T DO IT!!!

When he tore in, he ripped right in and touched that fine line between consensus sex and rape.

I had to use poppers for the first time in a very long while just to loosen up. That very evening, we threw ‘HIM’ away. Had sore ass for a day after. Bad.



I work in Marketing Communications and Branding. Lesson number 1 of branding, you have to think of them as a living breathing being – almost like Gods in the Neil Gaiman sense of it.

Some brands like Microsoft is a well-fed and reliable daddy figure (who is slightly hairy under his business suit but in all the right ways). And though he isn’t drop dead gorgeous, he is capable and compatible with a lot of sexual games from under the sheets to the ceiling.

Meanwhile, Apple is a trendy and funky artiste (wears a beret, coloured framed glasses and sports a goatee) with lots of flair, style and fashion tips and way too many silk-scarves — but is usually as much as fun in bed as a skinny twink and an adobe suite.

The KY brand is more akin to Microsoft. Deep reliable and a mainstay in the sex bag I carry with me from beds to beds. No pretentious fruity scent (it is a lub not a dessert jam), no taste, washes off easily and it is thicker than durex. Only problem is that like Durex, it is hard to spread into my ass, but nothing that a syringe can’t solve.

It used to come in a screw cap that I hated because I always lose them in fling’s places – along with my hundred-and-one earrings. Then some blessed soul came to replace it with a flick and open mechanism and I loved KY even more. Hell, I love this lub so much, I think I have had a longer relationship with trusty Mr KY than some of my so-called boyfriends.


Durex Play Heat Lubricant

The phrase curiosity kills the cat certainly holds some truth in this case. I was then with my ex-boyfriend for more than 3 years and we needed to alternate our routine a little bit. It was Sunday afternoon and, since I try not to drink while I can still see the sun, I didn’t even have the luxury of saying that I was stupefied and drunk. I was just stupid.

I saw Durex Play Heat Lubricant on the counter.

And I thought what can be nicer and more life-embracing than a deep, penetrating fuck with your loved one than a deep, penetrating fuck that happens to be warm. Life-embracing my ass. The moment I opened the bottle, I smelled the painfully familiar smell of axe brand medicated oil. It is a brand of oil used by my Grandma to relief her sore muscles of rheumatism and her joints of arthritis. Occasionally she used it for my forehead when I had migraines but it always get into my eyes, making them smart due to their unearthly amounts of camphor and menthol. Childhood trauma number 1.


Anyway, my instincts were already screaming at me to stop but did I listen? Did I listen? After my ass came in contact with the lub that was 1 part ethanol, 6 part menthol and rest concentrated sulfuric acid, I was in such searing white heat that I might have as well slathered burning hot lava onto the thin and fine membranes of my anal regions. I screamed and ran out of bed, nearly crashed into the wall and tumbled into the toilet of the cheap hotel. Turned on overpower jet spray of unfortunately cold water onto my even more unfortunate ass. Screaming, I turn on the heat and for the first time, the heater when on almost immediately and I scalded my ass – badly.

The deep, penetrating fuck that was supposed to be warm ended up with me half in tears with a dripping wet and goose-bump covered scalded ass in the frosty cold of an air-conditioned cheap hotel room.

My ex-boyfriend was bewildered and he ask me if I can have sex in a few minutes because we didn’t have enough time in the 2-hour block of hotel 81. And you wonder why I eventually dumped him.

Durex Play Heat – use at your own risk.



At long last, if the holy grail comes in a tube and can be inserted into the ass for maximum fun times, it has to be this Superslyde lubricant.

I quote:

SuperSlyde’s breakthrough formulation is unlike any other silicone lubricant, pushing the boundaries of silicone chemistry to create the “perfect” lubricant. Specifically developed to be super slick and smooth, unbelievably sensual, ultra long lasting, yet easy to clean, SuperSlyde is also latex safe, hypoallergenic, non-irritating and suitable for sensitive skin.

The result of over 18 months of research and development, SuperSlyde is made in Singapore using only premium pharmaceutical grade silicone ingredients, and manufactured under strict pharmaceutical certified GMP conditions using a tightly controlled manufacturing process to ensure the best quality product.

SuperSlyde is formulated, researched and distributed by AARI (Abra Advanced Research International Pte Ltd), and manufactured by ICM Pharma Pte Ltd.

I was sold the moment I picked this up in SportsmenAsia in Chinatown. Another sex shop with pretty good perfumes actually. It comes in a hard pvc bottle that is easy to carry around in a zip-bag with all your sexual props. And here’s the magic: there is this David Gandy lookalike guy with whom any decent and healthy relationship is impossible, but sexually still viable. The playmate is the new soulmate of the 2010s. Hooked up with him on a few occasions, mainly to use his pool and sample his blah-cooking.

Only problem, there are big cocks. And then there are those gargantuan freaks of nature that must be put down and weaned out of the genetic pool for the good and the future survival of the human race. He belongs to the latter. It is so huge, I have a jaw-ache just sucking him. And my mouth covered only ½ of the member when I go all down.

Every session I have to drink at least half a bottle to numb myself for the uptake. Though he is quite gentle, but every time he is excited, his huge and swollen organ seems so gigantic that it hurts me to look at it – and then think of it entering me. He is a heart breaker, if not an ass-splitter too.

So every since, I found the superslyde, life with my new playmate has gone on pretty swimmingly. I will always remember when he was heaving and heaving atop me and I gasped when I realized he has gone all the way in and I hardly felt and pain while his ‘third leg’ has bypassed my intestines and livers to fondle my heart from the inside. Very romantic. Yeah, you can say we have gone in deeper places than any man has reached.

Anyway, the problem is, the pvc cap has a tendency of opening at the most random time and spilling its contents everywhere. More than once I reach home exhausted after a day of work to find a soggy bag full of rather expensive lubricant festered behind my lubricant stained work shirt.

Also, the shop in SportsmenAsia has closed in Chinatown and it is always such a bother to order the lubricant online. Now I just put the bottle by my shelf, to be used only in cases of emergencies. And my fear of too huge and gargantuan members are finally put at rest. J

Thanks for reading my blog.

The 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.

Potato Love


Let’s see and analyse my rather particular taste.
We call gays like me who like Caucasian men, potato-queens.
Gays who like Asians exclusively are called Rice Queens (term reserved for Caucasian gays).
Asians who like Asian gays are called Sticky Rice.
Thus, you would think Caucasian gays who like Caucasians exclusively are called mashed potatoes but no…they are just called Gays. That gets my goat. That and this classification totally presuppose that there are only 2 types of people in the world.
Disclaimer number 1: this is not a manifesto. Just an expression of my personal taste. Some like vanilla ice-cream, some like matcha. I just happen to prefer Caucasians.
Above all, I am not a racist. I don’t think it is right to make pre-supposition based on skin colour. It is so quite hypocritical when I meet ‘freedom fighters’ of the rainbow tribe who then proceed to put others in cages along racist line. Make love, not war.
Plus, I have had sex with Malays, Chinese and Japanese. Yes, my ass is a global village. Thanks.
But I do prefer Caucasians. Why?
Here goes:
They have nicer features. Start with eyes. While we have tropical fishes, God gave Caucasians eye colours of all hue and variety: from sky blue to sea-green, hazel with flecks of green and pale brown eyes. Forget the tropical fish please. To me, coloured eyes seem to reflect a light from within that duller black eyes don’t. Somehow that is already irresistibly attractive to me already.
Also generally, they have pinkish nipples and genitalia. One of the most beautiful thing about sex with a Caucasian, usually French and Gingers, is that their penis(s) are usually dipped in the most beautiful shade of yellow-orange – almost like chezel cheese or freshly grilled cheese sausage dripping with luscious cheese melts. To truly appreciate this is to wake up earlier in the morning and behold the fresh glow of the morning sun bouncing off a hard, erect pinkish Caucasian cock. Time stops…
Asian genitalia is usually duller and darker than the rest of the body. In the case of Indians, they have a shocking red tip (the glans of the penis) peeking out from their foreskin and that freaks me out.
They are usually hairier – and hairier in all the right places. By that I mean not on the stomach, not on the upper/mid/lower back and not on their ass-cheeks. There is nothing sexier than seeing a guy with a good set of pecs and a fine down of hair running down his chest with the shirt slightly unbuttoned — giving you a slight idea of what his pubic hair will be like in terms of colour, texture and length. Makes you want to run your hands down their slightly greasy and very masculine hirsute chest.


Government Policy
They usually have a place. Even the poorest Caucasian guy who works in Singapore have at least a shoebox studio apartment in Singapore. And if they don’t, they don’t live with their parents unlike most asian gays in Singapore. I have been in enough relationships with asian gays who still live with their parents where we literally ‘date’ for years. And sex, if we manage to get it, is snatched in cheap love-hotels and then scrambling out quickly before the 2-hour block is over. Let’s just say that relationships are pretty one-dimensional. Hell, my asian boyfriend with whom I was with for 5 years hadn’t even eaten a single breakfast I have made. But most of all, there is something deeply fulfilling, nourishing and life-affirming in a relationship where when you wake up, the first person you see, is the guy you love.
Having to douche one’s ass in Hotel 81 (a local chain of cheap hotels) with unheated showers and overpowered water pressure meant for scraping barnacles off ship’s hull on the delicate membranes and having someone rapping on the toilet telling you to hurry up because the 2-hr block is ending and the management will impose penalty late charge and making love on thread thin cotton sheets on pvc mattress covering… very soul-destroying.
Frankly, in our defense, it is not that Singaporeans are dirt-poor or have the jewish mum syndrome. It is just that most Singaporeans have their money locked up in a compulsory CPF (Central Provident Fund) that can only be unlocked to buy a hugely exorbitant public flat when they are 35 years and above. Usually government don’t encourage Singles to live along because that will increase crime rates and social unrest. Plus a family unit is defined as a man-and-woman in this country where even Oral sex between 2 consenting adults (regardless of gender) is an offense. Yes, this is Singapore, the last I check. And you wonder why we ban chewing gums.
And rental rates outside is simply extortionate in our little island of fun and games.
I do not deny that there are indeed people who love to date Caucasians in Singapore for the sheer fact of their economic power, where they are coddled in a bubble of generous company privileges and usually-excessive sense of self-entitlement.
But having dated the full range from members of MNC’s board of directors to secondary school’s Ang moh English teachers and Lecturers to Malaysian restaurant waiters doing their visa-runs in Singapore, you can quite say that I am egalitarian in doling out sexual favours.
So at least for me, my potato love can be summed down to person qualms and macro-economic housing factors.
As a close, while it may seem that I do not see much action therefore in this little global city of 5 million or so with majority made up of Asians. But thanks to my government’s massively pro-foreigner policy, I do get an influx of ‘fresh’ expat blood flowing in with generous company packages – in the wallet and under the belt too.
So here’s to a better 2013 and a much better year ahead where I either find my Mr. Right or Mr. Right-for-now.






1st Feb 2013 – Not such a dark night

I am at the French Scientist’s place sampling beef steak cooked to medium-rare perfection. On the plate beside it is a scoop of pumpkin mash with dried herbs. Clan in nothing but a pair of taut cotton grey y-fronts (present of another ex-boyfriend), I lay on his couch and both of us are watching Animal Hoarders on Bio Channel on his cable: a woman has 32 cats living in her home with more dead cats under her furniture than she care to count. Friday night.

Seriously, there are dark nights of depressions when I ponder the universal unfairness of life in which all my friends are either straight and married happily with kids, or gay and attached happily with the regulatory dogs running around their apartments. Once I tried boasting that I have a wonderful Bank job in a regional bank to make myself sound less pathetic. Even that quickly fall flat when I (even I) start yawning the moment I describe my job in detail. I have an ex-chef and current scientist in a local and highly prestigious government agency focused on fostering science in the bio-chemical industry laboring in the kitchen for me for at least 2 hours + 1 hour of frenzied grocery shopping. This is clearly not one of those dark nights.

Introducing le French Scientist. A thirty-plus something French who anticipates all my needs before I say it, and the moment I say it, delivers it on a silver platter. No need to ask, play mindgames, weedle…etc whatsoever. No emo moods and drama tempers. Has a nice place with cable television and the most astounding cook. That’s only the good part.

Like every coin has a backside and bright clouds have rusty linings, he is a little lacking in the physical department. A waistline carefully cultivated with double servings of French chocolate (choo-ka-lat) ice-cream profiteroles and buttered potatoes topped with too generous portions of triple whip-cream. While not rich in any physical defects, looks wise he is on wrong end of the spectrum that spans between chiseled perfection and being utterly forgettable. Most of all, he has a high-pitched voice that can be truly grating at times and he is fond of whipping out his jack’d app on his mobile and, pointing at some random guy and go: he is quite cute isn’t he, maybe I should text him. Invariably, I always tell him to go ahead and do it. Oh, and he can be very queeny.

Picture this: plates washed. I am washed. Laying on the couch and he is playing with jack’d beside me. I was feeling a bit sleepy after a long day of work and seriously just want to get some action (quick) before I head into fluffy dreamland. I decided to take control and fiddle with his flesh on his stomach and making the usual mhmmmm sound – that can be mistaken either as I find your undulating rolls of tummy fats really sexy or interpreted as mhhmmm… how can anyone accumulate so much flesh while running 5 km a day and eating salads as a part-time job?

“Hey! (High-pitched) I got a message from this cute boy! Maybe I should answer him? Maybe I should get him to come over for a three-some!”

“Get him over. But I am picky. If he is shitty, you can have him.”

“No. We have a threesome. I like threesome. I love all you Singapore Sluts…”

I ain’t gonna spend the evening chatting.

“I am sleepy and you better have sex with me while I am half-awake or else I am really going to collapse…” (feigning a yawn)

I got up and headed to the bedroom for a quick shower (my second in the evening. I am obsessed about personal hygiene).

When I got out, all the lights in his home, except his bedside lamp, were switched off. My favorite pajamas of his that I always borrow (a pair of red shiny boxers made either of cheap polyester or raw silk, I can never quite figure out) was laid on the bed. I dropped the towel, turned around to examine my freshly washed ass and winked approvingly at the toilet mirror. I slipped the boxers on and got into bed with him. He switched off the lights mercifully and the action began.

I nearly forgot to mention, in the dark, he is a pretty good screwer. And thankfully a silent one too. I cannot ever recall a bad sexual encounter with him. Seriously I have had model types fumbling impotently (bad pun, I know) with their wobbling penis(s) drumming at my ass while I roll eyes, and on more than one occasion, visibly. And that seriously puts a dent into any evening and possibility of any future evenings.

That night, after sex, I lay spent on his bed and muttered that I had never watched the Underworld series before. He quickly downloaded it via cable.

He hugged me to sleep while I watched Scott Speedman and Kate Beckinsale bounce around the edge of the screen with fangs and jaws entangling with leather, fur and gunpowder. Drowsily I muddled through the film in a sense of vague contentment before my eyes shut. Over the evening, he muttered and wrapped his bear like arms over me.

It was not one of those dark nights.

Resolution 2013: The pink bachelor strikes

I am deeply upset and ashamed of myself for not writing any damn thing into my blog for the past one year. I can bear anything except guilt and spending dateless Saturday nights at home with my parents watching children sing Britney Spears in grocery-sponsored variety shows. Fail.
First off, I promise to be less procrastinating with my blog. It has honestly been a year with more living and f**king, than writing. Hell, I am writing about my resolutions as late as February! What’s next? On hindsight, at least I am doing it before the Chinese New Year.
A life unexamined is a life not worth living, so quote I from Socrates. But I think the whole of 2012 has left me too busy living to do any examining or writing. The problem about blogging, or well writing in general, is that living and writing bear an inverse relation. The more things are happening in life, the less time I have to sit in a café or in a corner and type out random spinstery wailings onto this blog.
Furthermore, I find it an anatomical challenge to be leaning over a beach chair, typing into my laptop while pleasuring a beautiful stranger working hard to pound his flesh into me.
Talking about anatomy, secondly resolution: I am going to cut my body fat and finally be a proud owner of a six-pecs. No, not pectorals but 6 sacred chao siew pau shaped muscles in a grid like arrangement in the center of my tummy like a carebear tattoo (except instead of expelling bad foreign objects from carebear land, it is going to attract my favourite guys and lure them into me like flies caught on a chameleon’s tongue). It is going to be my holy grail that I will work for. Once I get it, I will strut into clubs and public pools and beach parties and join the elite group of pan-asian and hot-asian and hot blond guys on the raised platform and truly say, yes, I have arrived; meanwhile, the lesser mortals will look at us in both envy, jealous and other 7 deadly sins –mainly Lust.
Thirdly, I must start saving. My bank account, while nowhere as badly in debt as American’s economy, is in torrid straits – for someone who has ventured out into job  market for close to a decade. Let’s just say when I can’t afford to join my tertiary institution going siblings, surviving on the pittance of the trio of tuition jobs, on their trip to Taiwan, it is a bad sign.
Fourth, I must find a man. A good one for keeps. The things about the Singaporean gay scene is that while I may have (thanks to our optimal position in the pathway between the east and west and improved by modern amenities like jack’d and grindr) a huge buffet spread of men scurrying here and there and being in the delightful position of still being able to choose, the dating scene for a self-avowed potato-queen is simply this:
1) Not only are all the guys I want to actually date just looking for fun
2) Even the guys I don’t want to date are showing me that they are scoring X number of ‘hits’ on jack’d or other various dating apps (yes, the technological sword cuts both ways, and hard) and by virtue of my country men’s bad taste, I should date them too.
One word: no.
Lastly, I shall strive to wear less tank tops.