There is such as thing as Too Big

By sash.

...especially when you’re a small Asian chick who does Kegel exercises almost for a living.

Through my many exploits, I have experienced the whole size spectrum. From pinkie-small to porn movie-big. And surprisingly, I find that my tastes stay quite happily within the curve in this area. Maybe at a modest 60th to 70th percentile? Average, really.

I figure, I'm 26 and reasonably tight so any more than a 6.5 inch cock (erect, pre-cold shower/swimming pool/ejaculation) is a waste, right? I guess I'm not exactly when you would call a size snob. Although I reserve the right to change my mind once a baby or two pops out of me, and I need to start wearing thermals to keep my pussy from letting the wind in. Get those rulers out!

Circumference and curvature are a whole different discussion though. I once shagged a guy who called his cock "The G-Spot Penis" because it curved upwards strategically. He had limited technique and an even more limited personality (be ye wary of any man who gives his penis a name and refers to it in the third person - "The G-Spot Penis likes it when you suck him hard") , but I had to admit he had a really good cock.

So how big is too big? A few months ago, my cervix met (collided with, rather) Adam. Adam was a great guy and reasonably unassuming in every way - although come to think of it he had a big nose, so I should have guessed - except when he dropped his pants. Then he became Mr Novelty Dildo. Yea, lucky me. I swear my tonsils constricted at the thought of what was coming their way.

Sex with Adam felt like an eternal pap smear with not enough K-Y. He took at least 5 minutes forcing himself into his condom, all the while manfully tugging and pulling away at himself to retain his erection. When he had finally wrestled the condom on, his cock just bulged and flopped around in all the wrong places. I had never seen anything so alarming. Purple is just not a good colour for cocks. Please somebody just give that man a Trojan Magnum XL, already.

And then, 1-2-3-Brace! He began to shag me in earnest. It started off pretty pleasurably but when he turned me around on all-fours, pulled my hair back and took me roughly from behind, I must have lost a whole layer of soft tissue from my nether-parts. I was going to need medical attention and a prescription for industrial lubricants if it lasted much longer.

But no pain no gain, as they say. I rocked against him as fast and hard as I could. Muscles cramped. Stars swam. Pigs flew. And then it was over. I brought a cold glass of gin-&-tonic into the bathroom and iced myself down. I didn't stay the night. In fact, I never called him back. Yes, superficial me. I stopped seeing Adam because of the size of his knob.

So don't believe everything you hear in the locker-room, boys. I'll be clear about this: I never want to see anything over 9 inches again unless it's stuffed full of pork and I'm eating it with mustard.

But obviously that's just me. I don't see Peter North or P.Diddy having problems with chicks.

Hotel 81

By sash.

Now I know what the fuss was all about. Billed as "Singapore's largest tourist class budget hotel chain", Hotel 81 frequently came to the rescue of more than one sexually frustrated Singaporean adolescent. That's how I first came to know about it anyway.

I was doing some research for some school magazine feature I was writing about Hotel F&B Managers (suffice to say, it was a riveting piece of literature) and quite innocently -and enthusastically- called almost every hotel listing in the phonebook looking for people to interview. (Note: this was when I was like, 15 and still had a work ethic).

Of course, Hotel 81 didn't have an F&B Manager to interview. The receptionist's comments, "People don't really come to our hotel for the food leh" and "Is that like Housekeeping?" led me to think something was amiss. I was enlightened a few days later by a bunch of my more worldly friends who were undoubtedly more acquainted with the facilities than I was.

A hotel with its roots in Geylang, Hotel 81 is the site of unsanctioned hook-ups and hourly sex. A spectrum of ill-at-ease characters sweat, grunt and ejaculate within the confines of its paper-thin walls on a daily basis. One is just as likely to meet an unshaven Ah Pek with his two-bit mainland Chinese mistress, a bronzed NS man with his most recent prize, fumbling teenage couples terrified that their staunchly-conservative parents might find out, as well as the occasional bonafide budget tourist.

Or one just might find...a curious middle-class yuppie in business attire (i.e. me). With Quinn i.e. scruffy cash-strapped ex-coke dealer in tow. On a Wednesday lunchtime. You know, a good time as any to check out the F&B outlets.

To be fair, Hotel 81 was surprisingly clean (rooms were spotless, sheets regularly changed). And pleasant with everything you needed for a quick fuck, including a heated shower, TV with remote control, packaged peanuts for sustenance, toothbrush, condoms. It was also almost unapologetically tacky (faux-Renaissance art, chintzy chairs and gothic pillars). And it was also really cheap. $30+ for 2 hours - the number of shags you can squeeze into that period is anyone's guess. Hotel 81 is definitely what most Singaporeans deem value-for-money. Or "cheap cheap good good", as they say. No need to bring your own Dettol.

I've definitely laid my skanky self in much dirtier, shadier and uglier locations. (strangely, shopping centre handicapped toilets come to mind). But the idea of sneaking out to a rent-by-the-hour hotel at lunchtime, sanitised though it was, still felt pretty seedy. And quite ludicrous. Quinn and I wasted about an hour of our allotted time making silly jokes about the "minibar" and listening intently at the walls. We were laughing so hard he couldn't even get a proper erection and we decided to watch an animal documentary just to get ourselves into the mood, which sent me into a further burst of giggles.

When we finally got the machinery in order, we did it twice and then I had to scurry back to my desk job all neat and tidy, none the worse for wear.

(Real time update: Quinn's been bugging me for a repeat of our little Hotel 81 adventure next week but I'm sorry to say this one's definitely a single serve. It's a little too proletariat for my tastes. I guess that means there'll be continuing damage to Quinn's bed - yes, the one already held together by masking tape. But I've already blogged about that. Drats.)

Younger men

By sash.

Last night I broke with tradition and shagged a guy younger than me. Maybe it was because I needed to do something special to celebrate a major milestone in my life - resigning from my company. Or maybe it was because he didn't seem like the typical washed-out chewed-up Singapore expat when he proclaimed loudly that all Singaporean women bored him (how charmingly naive). Or maybe it was because he told me he used to be a gymnast and flexed his not inconsiderable pecs for me. Or maybe...just maybe it was because I was at Attica on a Wednesday. How many more excuses does a girl need for the fact that she was just plain bored and very horny?

"You sound like you have an American accent," he says.

"I went to school there," I reply nonchalantly. I had noticed him standing quietly in the corner of the VIP area, watching me dance.

"Which uni did you go to?" he asked seriously. As if my academic qualifications really mattered to him.

"Uh oh. Wrong question. How old are you?" I shot back, instantly suspicious. I wasn't in the mood for intelligent conversation.

"I'm a very mature 23 year old," he says.

I laugh. "Err...that's like, my brother's age."

"Well I can do a few things your brother can't. Like this." He swoops in for a kiss. His lips are soft and unbelievably gentle. I break away and grind my hips sexily against him. Not surprisingly, I can feel his growing erection. We dance together for a while.

"God you are such a tease. You've got to be the most exciting female I've met in Singapore," unable to control his arms from roaming up and down my body. I tease him for a few more minutes before turning to face him in my attempt to tell him a few disappointing home truths.

"Look darlin', I'm too old for you. Besides, I'm off home now. I have an 8:30 meeting. Sorry." I cock my head and smile with faux-regret. As I leave, he follows me with an air of injured nobility, insisting on walking me to my cab.

"Look, this is really not necessary. But since you're the tourist, I can drop you off if you don't live too far." I hail a cab, open the door and usher him in. It was more of a directive than an invite. By now, I was relishing playing the role of Corrupter of the Youth, probably as much as he was enjoying playing the Acquiescent Puppy.

In the cab, my tongue made tantalising circles around his thumb and I sucked each of his fingers in turn. In return, he reached under my skirt to pleasure me, his fingers surprisingly deft and quick. By the time we reach his house, he's worked me into a reasonable lather.

"Don't make me beg...please..." he says huskily, looking as if he would enjoy doing exactly that.

"All right I won't. Your night just got better. The taxi fare is $8.60, come on get your change. No dawdlin' now, dear," I exit the cab and he stares at me open-mouthed, not quite following his sudden reversal of fortune.

Now if you follow this blog, you'll know that youth and inexperience aren't particularly high on my list of desired qualities in bed. But he committed himself reasonably well. He was a quick learner. His enthusiasm and stamina served him well. And he thanked me for a great night in the best way he knew how. Again. And Again. And Again(!!?). All in the space of an hour.

All in all, the shag turned out pretty ok. I think I was charmed by his earnest adoration of me. It certainly made up for the flourescent ceiling lighting and student-styled apartment (complete with sports trophies). He didn't have the practiced lines and guarded technicality of an older man. He was in genuine awe of everything I did. Every little gesture would turn him on and bring him to his knees (literally and figuratively), begging me to do it again.

"How did you know I like girls who lick my clavicle / suck on my balls / ride me reverse-cowgirl etc, " he would ask almost incredulously. I practised my best 26 year old knowing smile in response.

Ardently, he would whisper, "you're explosive in bed", "you have to give me your number", "how do you do that?", "you are the sexiest woman I have ever met". Sighs. I could get used to that.

Of course, there's no saying what 10 years of life experience and experimenting with loose women will do to him. But until then, it can't help to pick up a few useful life skills can it? I've told him that I'd bring my Japanese bondage ropes for our next session ("If I decide there is to be a next session, don't get your hopes up," I told him before leaving his apartment). So he can learn them, and learn them well.

Things I learned from having a hard cock

By sash.

1. Having proudly sported my own strap-on, I can imagine how having a cock is fascinating very much in a Secondary School science project kind of way. As a piece of matter, it constantly changes state (soft to hard), fulfils various functions (sexual pleasure, waste removal) and it responds to stimulus (touching, sucking, thrusting, extreme temperatures etc.) Thus, it is worthy of constant scrutiny and experimentation; no wonder men are perpetually touching themselves.

Mentally, having a cock presents very different possibilities from having a pussy. For one, a cock allows you to feel more in control of your own arousal…and also, more responsible for giving your partner pleasure. As these are just my impressions from having a prosthetic, I don't claim to be an autority on the subject. But I can well imagine if I had a fully functioning penis with a moveable foreskin and actual ejaculate to spray on something (wet tissue/ freshly laundered sheets / pair of tits) I would never leave the house. (Insert "Full-Time Wanker" joke here.)

2. Fucking someone with a cock is a tiring business. I understand now why men just want to turn over and fall asleep after doing it. I am not lazy in bed by any stretch and have perfected my own brand of pelvic thrusts, bunny bounces and Kegel contractions, but Post-Garth buggering, I have discovered whole sets of new (aching) muscles along my inner thighs and hamstrings. Hopefully it works on my cellulite.

3. I am now much more forgiving about men who can't multi-task in bed (“what is so difficult about holding my legs up, spanking me, sucking on my breasts and touching my clitoris all at the same time?”). My experience with Garth has shown that I too am lacking skills in this area. I can't seem to muster up the physical agility - not to mention, mental focus - to keep a 'cock' moving, give my partner a handjob and reach my own orgasm at the same time. (Whilst keeping my balance and making sure my tummy doesn’t hang out.)

Never has sex seemed like an endless session of Pilates or some other torturous gym-concoction to build “strength in the core”. It would be so much simpler if I could just knit my brows together, look at a single point on the wall, thrust furiously before collapsing in a sweaty heap and muttering a token “Was it as good for you?”.

4. Miracles can be achieved with the right product. In Garth's case, we used Astroglide, which is quite difficult and inconvenient to procure in Singapore. Evidently all the women here either 1. have walking faucets between their legs 2. aren't having sex or 3. use that manky K-Y stuff doctors use for Pap smears for lubrication.

Penis Envy

By sash.

Gay men rejoice, I now have one more thing in common with you – besides my penchant for Kylie and pink feather boas. Last night, I buggered a guy’s ass. Usually the farthest I dare venture in that area is a questioning poke now and then with my fingers and only if the guy I’m with doesn’t have a mild stroke first.

But as you know and as this blog lays testament, I never pass up opportunities to have new (and potentially scandalous) sexual experiences. But before I begin, let me assure you I haven’t had a change of heart – I am still 100% female, and still adore having sex cock-pussy style dearly -I've just now know how to wield a mean strap-on.

The strap-on in question was a prime piece of meat, shall we say. It had three heads - two for me and one for him. It looked like a medieval chastity belt - complete with leather straps for my thighs and a steel band across my waist. When it first made its appearance, I looked at it a little doubtfully.

“You know I don’t take this thing out very often. But you seem like the sort of girl who can handle it.”

That’s what started all the trouble – an innocuous-enough conversation about souvenirs from New York that I was having with Garth in bed. Garth was a scruffy freelance journo who picked me up at a press conference I was attending (with my day job). I was doing my best to disguise my skanky self with pinstripes and Powerpoint, but there was no mistaking his piercing stare across the conference table. I was not all that surprised when he emailed me the next day to ask me out for a drink. And even less surprised that he was interested in more than my personality…I just didn’t count on the contraptions in his closet, I guess.

“Are you freaking out yet?” he asked, as he closed the closet door and returned to bed with my toy for the night.

“No, it’s very difficult to freak me out. Besides, I’m more curious about this thing than anything else. I hope you wash it thoroughly.”

Garth put the strap-on in my hands and I lightly ran my fingers over its three flesh-coloured prosthetic bits (sorry I know this isn’t a very handicapped-sensitive description) . The protrusions were reasonably unyielding but have a slightly rubbery texture. The manufacturer had also simulated the shape of a cock head, complete with a ridge for the glans and quasi-frenulum on two of the bits meant for me. (Dedication to detail, I approve of that.) The final bit (or 10-inch chunk, really) meant for him was shaped in long, smooth contours.

As I got more familiar with the toy, it is not immediately apparent how I was supposed to put this on, so I looked up quizzically at Garth, waiting for instructions.

“Well you strap it on like this. Here, these two are for you,” he demonstrated. And before I knew it, I was fully strapped in, my pussy and ass appropriately plugged. I looked down to realise I was now in possession of a king-size cock. And ooh yes, I had an erection.

I have to admit I was quite proud of my new prosthetic cock and its perpetual tumescence. To start with, it was almost one and half times the size of anything I had seen before (and I’ve seen quite a lot) which also implied it would not be the sort of thing one used conventionally on women i.e. it would not be best friends with anyone's cervix.

All in all, it felt like a fucking weapon. Or, a weapon to fuck with, if you will. I was in control and I could already feel the blood rushing through my veins. I was getting worked up, flushed. I think I could have even uttered a bloodcurdling war-cry at some point but I restrained myself.

Meanwhile on the bed, Garth assumed the position - face down, ass up. He turned around to look at me somewhat expectantly.

“You don’t think I’m gay or anything, do you?”

“Look, you don't use deodorant and I have to wash my hair with soap every time I shower at your house. So no, I don’t think you’re gay,” I laughed in reply. Garth was so homophobic he could almost be French. (Except he's American). “Besides you shouldn’t be so self-conscious, all men have a prostrate gland, so you’re all biologically wired to like it up the arse,” I might have seen him cringing in response, except that I was busy bracing myself to enter him.

I took my time with it. After all, I figured a straight guy’s ass is a delicate thing. So lots of lube and achingly slow penetration. He loved it though and with each thrust, he was writhing and groaning all over his bed, at my complete mercy. The view from behind was one to cherish - his lifted arse eagerly gobbling up my prosthetic - and helped me understand why men are regularly unable to make eye contact during sex. Because damn, its hard to tear your eyes away from the sight of one's monstrous peg sliding into a tight, slippery receptacle. Boys, I am enlightened.

Soon, we both got into the swing of things and upped the pace. The beauty of the toy meant that the faster/harder I fucked Garth, the more vibrations it caused inside me. I had never been more motivated to master the finer points of fucking with a prosthetic. I also wanted to ensure that my partner had a good time (see boys, having a cock is not an excuse for being selfish and inconsiderate). So I concentrated on perfecting my rhythm and technique on Garth's bum, while he practised some rhythm and technique on his own rock-hard member.

We finished up with a bout of normal cock-pussy sex. But not before fumbling around with lube-slippery fingers for 15 minutes trying to remove the device from around my waist and more than a moment of mild panic (on my part) contemplating what I would do with a 'cock' for the rest of my life.

But that sort of question is best left for the experts. And my brief love affair with having a cock is best contained to Garth's closet for now.

To hair or not to hair

By sash.

I was having a conversation with some girlfriends yesterday about pubic hair. (Yes, I have girlfriends. Yes, they are all beautiful and refreshingly open-minded. No, you cannot tie them up or watch us having sex. BUT we will contemplate licking Valhrona chocolate off each other’s parts for an immodest sum of money. Ok, so I digress.) Anyway, a group of us got together over a delicious Vietnamese meal and we were waxing lyrical about well, waxing…and other forms of hair removal.

But before I start, let me state this upfront since most of you who read this blog will probably be wondering anyway. I have pubic hair. In fact, pubic hair is my friend. I’ve done the shaved pussy thing before but for some reason, it doesn’t feel quite right to me. It destroys the sense of mystery and ambience to the whole area in general. And I can’t quite shake the feeling that I’m supposed to be twelve and fulfilling somebody’s twisted Lolita fantasy.

So currently, I keep my pubic hair in a landing strip format. (Boring, sorry.) But I have to admit that the length, breadth and general housekeeping of this strip fluctuates with time, mood and the number of ‘planes’ I expect to be landing on it at any one time. If I’m not doing any regular shagging, I do frequent maintenance below. It’s always better to be prepared, in my opinion. First impressions do count. Second, third, fourth impressions can jolly well deal with regrowth.

I know some girls who are of the exact opposite persuasion, and more power to them. It’s a matter of individual preferences, really. And special requests.

Sometimes, I am quite happy to take requests. They give me an excuse to indulge in a variety of pubic coifs that I know will find an appreciative audience. In fact for a long time, I was the proud owner of luxuriant vaginal vegetation because Adam, a very special regular, would love to bury his nose in it and just nestle. (This behaviour must be derived from the same gene that makes some men go crazy for the smell of musty armpits during sex. I should have paid more attention in biology class!) Anyway, since I really liked Adam as a friend and a partner, I promised not to let anyone take a razor or pot of wax to my pubic bush for a long time.

Basically I have a very opportunistic mindset about this. If you’re a good lover and having my pubic hair completely grown out (or removed or dyed red and shaped in your initials) makes you lavish greater attention on my pussy with your eyes, lips, tongue, fingers, silicone vibrating objects, then you got it.

I also know men who absolutely cannot bear the idea of going down on a pussy with any hair on it. (Although pubic hair in the tonsils isn’t listed as a life-threatening medical condition, I’ve checked) With JP, I would often find myself seated absolutely still on a toilet seat, legs splayed wide open, watching as each confident shick of his Mach3 chastised my errant pussy of its wildebeest ways. JP and I only hooked up very occasionally, but it became a bit of a ritual between us. And I have to say, the tingle of mint shaving cream combined with the intimacy of being shaved by someone else, not to mention the anticipation of fun-and-games to follow is an absolute turn-on. But obviously don’t try this if you’re both stone drunk or with a man that’s on asthma medication / just got eliminated from Survivor.

Female circumcision is listed as a medical condition, and let’s just say, it’s not something you want for Christmas.

Making Love

By sash.

As much as I will always be unbearably excited by men smacking me and calling me a bitch as they ejaculate all over my breasts, there is quite an entirely different sort of satisfaction when a guy looks into my eyes, strokes my hair and then paces himself so that we can come together. Damian makes love to me (his term not mine) and it’s like I’m a different person when I’m with him. I am beautiful, not hot, not sexy, not fabulous. I am a person, not a horny slut, not a vixen, not a goddess (although all of them are compliments graciously given in their own way. Thanks, you know who you all are).

I curl up on his chest and listen to his heartbeat. I wake up in the middle of the night and sleepily call him “sweetie”. But don’t worry I’m not getting soft in my 26 year old dotage even though I know this is sounds like a really sappy post.

The point is, I don’t often “make love” and admittedly, I’m quite enjoying the novelty of it. An overdose of Mills & Boon novels in my lusty adolescence has made me slightly allergic to the concept -- making love is what married people do, its light-off sex and is so…so absolutely pedestrian. I’ve debated this with Damian, about why we make love instead of just fuck. We haven’t quite reached any sort of concrete conclusion, but maybe it’s because we keep having these discussions late at night when his dick’s inside me and (naturally) it’s quite hard to concentrate.

Anyway, it’s just nice to know that I am still capable of gentle, tender physical behaviour towards another living creature that isn’t my cat. Maybe I’ve come full circle and have become jaded by too many gratuitous flings. Now meaningful, communicative sex has become sexy. (Gasp!) I hope this doesn’t mean I’m on the slippery slope towards becoming a Desperate Housewife. Maybe I should start baking muffins and reading the Bible for cheap thrills.