DivineCaroline: Networking and Socializing for Women

Anyone else visit iVillage.com frequently? I used to spend hours and hours reading the pro-woman content posted on iVillage. However, in the last two or three months I realized that I was spending more and more time, trying to find an article or editorial bit that appealed to me. I don’t have enough time in my life trudge through a bunch of frogs to find the prince (or princess!).

Task. Journey. Search.

To find a new source of information. To find a community of female writers, professionals, sexual enthusiasts, intelligence, class, and maturity …

The Holy Grail of Pro-Woman Content: DivineCaroline
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Sex and Sweet Tea

So I have this new ritual of drinking sweet tea after sex.  If I try to drink it any other time, it doesn’t taste as good to me.  If I drink something else besides sweet tea after sex, whatever I chose to drink tastes horrible.  Imagine the horror I experienced two weekends ago, after returning from my trip, when I had no sweet tea in the house but had a whole lot of sex.  Robbed.  Short-changed.  That’s how I felt.

Is it strange that I’ll imagine myself drinking sweet tea right before I orgasm?  Man, I have some strange rituals.  I can’t figure out why I get stuck in these rituals.  It’s not like I set out to devote sweet tea as my after-sex drink … it just happened over a period of time.

It made me think of other strange sex-related rituals and phases of my past:

– sucking my own fingertips as I orgasm

– putting a small hand towel on the side of the bed to wipe my lover’s face

– making sure Depeche Mode Violator or Music for the Masses was playing during sex

– running around my house or apartment completely naked, making my lover chase me

– kissing the tip of my lover’s nose (gentle pecks almost obsessively)

– drinking this crazy XTC energy drink (when I lived in California) before any kind of sexual activity

– forcing my lover to lay on the floor as he makes love to me from behind, in front of a mirror

No big deal.  Nothing too shocking.  I’m sure there’s stuff I am forgetting about, but at periods of time, the above fetishes/rituals/phases added excitement during foreplay, during sex, or after sex.  Or all three.

Anyway, anyway.  Sweet Tea is my new thing and my lover knows that if I don’t get my sweet tea, I am going to kick his butt.

He came home with six gallons of sweet tea the other night.  A nice gesture, but it also meant he thought it was going to be a busy weekend.  Yikes.  Well, it wasn’t the weekend event that he probably wanted (too tired), but we had some fun, I drank my tea, and I have plenty for this week.

I’m Back, I’m Bad, and I’m Tan

How many of you missed me?  That many of you?!!  Well, I am back from my vacation to Puerto Rico.  Tanning than ever, more relaxed than I have been in years, and fully charged and ready to get down and dirty with whatever comes my way until the next vacation.

Here are a couple of personal admissions and observations that smacked my brain during the trip:

Most of my fears have no basis in reality – that is to say, I have no justification for fearing certain things.  Yet I am still plagued by the strangest fears in normal situations that produce an overwhelming anxiety in my mind and then my body.

The combination of airplanes and flying freaks me out.  I hate flying.  Planes freak me out.  And I have no reasonable explanation as to why I have this dominating fear.  Every jerk, drop, or bounce – I start looking around at people’s facial expressions for comfort, the kind of body language exploration that will grant me a moment or two of serenity.  I’ll look for a nod of approval so that I can finally relax.  The whole “I know how you feel; I’ve been there” response without words.

I eventually worked myself up on this short flight (like five or six hours) to the point that sleeping became my sole remedy.  I can’t figure out why I am afraid of flying, which is what bothers me the most.  I flew back and forth from my father’s city every Thanksgiving, Christmas, birthday, or any cause for celebration since I was a kid because my parents were divorced.  I never freaked out when I was younger, so this is a relatively new sense of emotional discomfort.

Regardless, I made it through the flight.  There and back.  And now I am home bragging about how I managed to sleep my way into forgetting that I was thousands of miles in the air, high above deep oceans and massive cities.  Maybe this was a one time event (wrapped up into two flights) for me?  I’m not sure, but I hope that’s the case.

While in Puerto Rico I refused to stay on the resort property.  I spent several hours each night sitting in the hot tub or swimming in the pool, but during the day I was out and about, mixing it up with the locals, who I found to be quite friendly and helpful.  Why go on vacation to another country and sit by a pool or hang out with people I could visit with in my own country?  I could have saved a lot of money by just staying in the US if that’s what I wanted.

So, yeah.  I said screw that … I am going to snorkel, swim, eat, and whatever else with an unfamiliar culture.  Great, great experience.  The food, fantastic.  Loved every dish at each restaurant.  I even managed to force down squid and sea snails.  Yuck, right?  The stuff tasted wonderful.  Kinda like chicken with a rubbery texture.  I figured both would be somewhat slimy, but that wasn’t the case.  If you ever plan on visiting San Juan or Fejardo, I can help you find the best spots to eat at.  (Most of the better restuarants are expensive, so keep that in mind.)

I took sex toys with me.  Several of my favorite vibrators, my favorite dildo, and of course, my lovely fella.  Lots of sex, several times a day.  I’m not the most exciting lover on most days, as I am so worn out with work.  I need to mix a little pleasure into my life, especially seeing as I am in the adult toy business.  It becomes all too easy to pull out a toy and please myself in a few minutes, whereas my guy is ready for a long night of sex and experimentation.

Part of it is having the kids and working so many hours, but the other part, I think, is the saturation of sex-related themes in my work life.  I have a libido; I am … Well, I am lazy lover, or have been over the last 4-5 months.  This trip allowed me enough time and relaxation to really open up.  I was bad.  A bad, bad girl.  We had sex in the pool, hot tub, and on the beach.  Public sex!  I hadn’t done that in a long time, so it was an enthralling experience.  And the naughtiest of times in our room, which overlooked the ocean. My sex toys, too, were used in new and innovative ways that, for whatever reason, hadn’t ever occured possible.

Trash.  I don’t consider myself to be the best environmentalist.  But – I get really upset about seeing trash everywhere.  I’ve been known to pick up my neighbors’ trash frequently, if only to keep my sanity within grasp.  If I see trash on the ground, even in the city, I pick it up.  I get so pissed off when I see trash laying on the ground.  In fact, it’s one of the few things that make me angry.  Puerto Rico is full of trash: cigarette buds are everywhere, beer cans on the beach, diapers sitting in the grass, wrecked car parts laying all over the street.  And in the ocean, I noticed all of these things and more (even a Halloween costume!) laying on the sandy bottom as I snorkeled.

I fished out trash, threw it on the beach, and eventually put my new collection of discards in a trash can.  The locals watched me like I was crazy, wondering what the hell I was doing.  I couldn’t help myself, I couldn’t stop, I couldn’t walk or swim away with all that trash in the ocean.  And, most of all, I couldn’t understand why anyone would throw away his or her shit in the ocean or on the beach.  This happened at most of the beaches we frequented.  It was a sad, disgusting sight still bothering me.

The resort itself wasn’t very clean, either.  When I mentioned this to the manager, he responded by saying, “This is a third world country.”  At which time, I asked him, “Is this a third world resort?  Because if it is, I need a third world hotel rate, because I significantly overpaid.”  He didn’t like that response, so he followed it up with, “It did rain several days ago and the river probably washed up most of the trash you are referring to.”  Again, I retorted, “Did the river wash tons of trash under my hotel room’s balcony?”  He took a few notes and said, “I will mention this to the general manager.” He wrote something down, but it had little to do with the trash we discussed.

Small cars rock.  Sort of.  Don’t ever drive a big car or a truck in Puerto Rico.  The roads are surprisingly narrow and people do not slow down, so there were a few times that we barely managed to escape a collision.  The police officers drive with their lights on for no apparent reason.  People honk for no real reason at all.

If you don’t like beggars coming up to your car in the city, you will dislike Puerto Rico, since locals flood each and every stop sign and traffic light, seeking free money or for drivers to purchase cold beverages or tropical fruit.  No one is rude or demanding, or expects anything.  It’s their version of business mingling in a society that lacks jobs, education, and overall economic advancement.  But this process works for them, as many people preferred to purchase beverages from their cars rather than pull over at a gas station.

So, I had a great time, learned a lot about my fellow human beings and myself, and found enough time to mix in some sexy pleasure.  Plus all the lounging on the beach and snorkeling in the ocean.  Oh, and I found a massive conch shell and gigantic starfish on the Seven Seas Beach in Fejardo.  Both sea creatures were alive, which added a lot of excitement.  I plan on posting some pictures in the coming days – if I don’t get too behind with catching up.

Hope everyone has been doing well.

Vaginal Douching: An Itch Away from Perfection

Indoctrinated. Female products, everywhere. Not all are bad. In fact, many are useful. What about vaginal douche products? Is vaginal douching this important? After all, since you were kid, you’ve been exposed to vaginal douche products at your local drugstores and grocery markets. The sheer volume of products must mean vaginal douching is important – or at least has some value or contributes something positive to female hygiene. Right?

Only if a doctor views it as a treatment, in which she or he will give you specific instructions about what product to use, how frequently, and for how long. Even then, ladies, you should ask your doctor why he’s recommending douching and if there is another alternative.

Here are a few facts about douching:

1. A “bad” vaginal odor can be covered up by douching, but the cause of the bad odor has not been addressed; thus, this is only a temporary solution to a potentially serious problem – maybe a bacterial infection, urinary tract infection, yeast infection, or an STD. A foul odor originating from your vagina is your body’s way of saying, “Pay attention to me! Something isn’t right. Go to the doctor!” – unless you refuse to wash your vagina on a regular basis, which is remedied by – well, taking a warm shower and using paraben-free and glycerin-free soap. Contrary to what myths people spread about vaginal odor, even the healthiest vaginal environment has its own unique odor.

2. Your vagina has its own natural cleansing system that produces mucous to flush out blood, semen, and vaginal discharge. After douching, women wash away important vaginal flora that helps regulate the acidity levels. As this acidity level increases or decreases, straying from the natural balance maintained by vaginal flora, bacteria levels increase – which leads to infections and other female problems. More harm than good, and only for temporary fixes.

3. Ladies: Douching does not prevent the transmission of STDs. This is a myth, if believed factual, that leads to serious consequences. There are many women who believe they can wash away the potential danger of last night’s sexual intercourse. No, no, no. Abstinence is the only 100% effective way to prevent STDs. Condoms, of course, are the next best method. Safer sex, which doesn’t include douching. Some studies are being conducted to see if douching might actually make it easier to get an STD, as the vagina’s natural acidity level is compromised – which makes it more difficult for the vagina to fight off infections. Could it be that short-term or long-term douching leads to an even greater risk of catching STDs? Stay tuned for more information on this issue. We’ll let you know when more information is available.

4. Pregnancy. No, douching does not prevent pregnancy. Again, abstinence or safer sex is the way to go. Though some studies suggest that regular douching does effect the time-frame in which a women gets pregnant (usually takes longer than women who do not douche), douching should never be used as a birth control method. Ectopic pregnancies, also, have been linked to women who douche on a regular basis. No way, no how – Not gonna happen. The potential risks are far greater than the reward. (I am still trying to figure out what those rewards are – beyond the obvious “odor cover up.”)

If you notice these things, you should visit a doctor and stay away from douching:

1. Bad odor
2. Thick white-yellowish and/or green discharge
3. Burning, redness, stinging, or vaginal swelling (external/internal)
4. Uncomfortable or painful when urinating or during intercourse

Many women have been led to believe that the above symptoms are justifiable reasons to douche. That’s backward thinking. You want to address the causes of the above symptoms, not merely cover them up, which requires that you visit a doctor for examination, to see if these symptoms are caused by serious problems.

In our commercialized culture, these “quick fixes” seem to be legitimate solutions to common and uncommon problems. More sex education is required to combat the many myths associated with douching, specifically as it relates to birth control and STDs.

Personal Touch:

I used to douche. Yep. I started out douching in high school. I wanted to be “fresh” for my boyfriend. Not that he pressured me or anything. He probably didn’t even know what a douche was or why I would do it. I didn’t really know why I did it. Part of it, I believe, had something to do with my perception of womanhood, or what it meant to have finally “arrived” as a sexually active female – that douching is what you did, as if sex and douching went together like peanut butter and jelly. You have sex, you douche, and then have sex again.

I didn’t believe it prevented STDs or pregnancy, but I did believe douching was a female’s responsibility to her man and herself. To keep a clean, clean vagina – that was the goal. After douching off and on for several years, my vagina started itching. My solution: Douche more. Finally, I went to the doctor and found out, to my surprise, that douching can lead to yeast infections, which is exactly what I had. It took me a long time to get my vagina back to its natural acidity level, and there’s no way in hell, maybe even if a doctor recommends it, that I’ll douche again. I’ve gone through a similar phase with water lubes that contain irritating formulas, mostly those lubes that contain fragrances. I’ll discuss water lubes in more detail later this week.

If you’d like to read more about vaginal douching and safer sex, please visit these links:

MedicineNet.com
About.com
Planned Parenthood

Confession

Charles Bukowski

waiting for death
like a cat
that will jump on the
bed

I am so very sorry for
my wife

she will see this
stiff
white
body
shake it once, then
maybe
again

“Hank!”

Hank won’t
answer.

it’s not my death that
worries me, it’s my wife
left with this
pile of
nothing.

I want to
let her know
though
that all the nights
sleeping
beside her

even the useless
arguments
were things
ever splendid

and the hard
words
I ever feared to
say
can now be
said:

I love
you.

A Wake to Remember

This is a true story, I promise.  A strange anecdote to follow.  It’s so socially awkward and silly that I am inclined to convince you of its authenticity.  I almost feel like what happened was a fictitious event that I created in my head.  Like one of those days when imagination replaces boredom and goes into bewildering territories, where insecurities – the deepest rooted fears – mingle with idealized events, creating imaginary challenges that one can overcome without ever taking any action.  Anyway – check this story out:

Is there anyone else who has an appreciation of funerals for old people?  Just say, “Yes, of course!  I can’t think of a more lively event!”  You liar.  I am the only person, as far as I can tell, who has this peculiar fondness of old people’s funerals.  There’s something special about celebrating an old person’s life, because he or she actually lived through so much – starting with diapers and eventually, as the cycle goes, ending up in diapers. “Gross!” you might respond.  Yeah, I agree a return to diapers is life’s version of ego-demolition; but this notion of coming full circle is a remarkable feat, one that deserves recognition and celebratory gestures.

So, yes: I get all emotional and introspective and focused at these old-timers events, and I cannot handle a lot of person-to-person communication.  Dagnabbit, please don’t bother me with superficial commentary at an old person’s funeral – I am likely to bite your head off, kick you in the crotch, and while you lay on the ground grimacing in pain, my authoritative fingers incessantly waves.  Hint: Not right now, fella.  I should be more courteous to my fellow mourners, I know it.  Then I realize that the funeral isn’t about me, but is dedicated the old man or woman that can truly boast of MISSION ACCOMPLISHED!  I MADE IT, FUCKERS!  Lordy Be, I need to get with the program.

All of this, a serious digression that’s probably left you scratching your head.  I’m not done yet, stick with me, keep reading – this damn story is coming … NOW!

My great-great aunt died a month ago.  I hadn’t seen my mother in several months, so we figured the funeral would be a great excuse to meet up in Dallas, Texas, where I am originally from.  Our motives, pure – we also wanted to pay respect to this amazing lady that I didn’t know very well.  Any relative with a “great-great” distinction is usually too old, or too far removed from my life, for me to know with any real significance.  I spent, probably, a total of 3-4 days (an aggressive hourly total) with Great-Great Aunt Ellen – and that’s it, like in my entire life.  But like I said earlier, I enjoy funerals for old people.  I was game, ready for the momentous occasion, and hell-bent on catching some glimpse of self-truth in all of this.

Finally.  Time for the wake, which was done with an old school twist – at my great-great aunt’s last place of comfort, her lovely house in the Forest Hills neighborhood near White Rock Lake, in East Dallas.  (If you have sinus problems, stay far away from this area.  You were warned!)  The problem with at-home wakes is that all the family members are packed into fairly small areas, so it’s tough to avoid boring conversations with your second generation cousin, who was recently released from the city jail – having served his “time” for intentionally pissing on his boss, who was having a long conversation with corporate about said cousin’s petulant behavior in the work environment.

Yes, this is absolutely a true story.  I keep pinching myself, praying I imagined the whole thing.  But – it gets worse.  Not understanding the concept of personal boundaries, Steve, my second generation cousin, tells me the story in its entirety – how he was “pissed off” at his boss for cutting his hours at the local pet shop store.  So he pissed on his boss, the only appropriate measure he could think of.  It didn’t help that his mind, soiled by two nights of chemically-inspired fun, wasn’t exactly ticking with the rest of the clocks on the wall, but this guy – wow, he seemed convinced that justice was served, bringing new literal interpretation to the idea of “It’s better to get pissed off than pissed on.” He got two weeks of jail time when the district attorney office viewed the pissing match as a type of bodily assault.

About the time that Steve started describing his cell mates, my mother inched toward the living room.  We hadn’t arrived together, so this was the first time I saw her at the wake.  I quickly interrupted Steve, waving at my mother – the code signal for Get! Your! Ass! Over! Here! – while at the same time validating poor Steve, confirming that I related to his perilous fight against The Man.  Unfortunately, my mother remembered Steve from his earlier years, I guess, when he had curly red hair and a habit of grabbing, scratching his ass without concern for his surroundings.  My mother, I tell you.  She mentioned this in front of Steve while I was standing there, and the poor guy, having been through enough recently, smiled and started waving at someone across the room.  He knows the drill: escape!

“Did I say something upsetting, Heather?”

“No, mother.  You only embarrassed the hell out of guy with an already declining self-esteem.  The Man’s got him down, but I suspect after all of this, he’ll include The Woman on his life’s list of resentments.  Other than that, I think he appreciated the ‘scratching ass’ comment.”

“Everyone, dear – and I mean, everyone – has those quirky habits as a child.  Maybe not <i>that</i> habit, but certainly one that’s similar.  In fact, you used to massage your putty when you were four or five.  There’s noth –”

“Wait a damn minute, Mom.  Not here, not now, not ever.  Imagine if someone heard you!  My God.  Seriously.  Why?”

“I see, I see.  Miss Sex Toy Reviewer seems to be ashamed of her early childhood sexual exploits.  You do realize that all children explore genitalia, trying to see what those ‘things’ are down there? You of all people – the sex toy expert – should know how natural it is.  So Steve grabbed and scratched his ass during the same phase of development.  All natural.  Your children will do the same thing.”

Fuck sakes.  At this point, I might wave at Steve to come back and tell me about his baby’s mama or his collection of fingernails, hidden in a tin can buried in the backyard. (Oh, and if you haven’t figured it out yet, the “putty” my crazy mother mentioned – well, that’s my kitty-kitty.  My mother hates the word “vagina”, so she made up this strange word to replace it.)

“Fine.  I get it.  By the way, you haven’t told anyone that I review sex toys, right?  I asked you to keep that a secret, so if you did … I am going to be super-bitchy pissed at you.”

“I may have told a few people, but no one of importance.  I think it’s funny, and there’s nothing wrong with it – so what does it matter?  Most women play with some kind of sex toy.  Hell, my first vibrator was the nifty massager shower nozzle in my bathroom.  Younger people always assume that parents don’t have a sex life.

“I am going to puke.  Thanks for that.  Too much information, mother.  And you sure are flaunting this information rather loudly, don’t you think – as if this is the usual conversation held at a WAKE!”

My mother blankly stared at me, as if she could see beyond my response.  That’s what happens when your mother is a well-known shrink.  Analyze, analyze.  I could tell she was convinced that I was being too dramatic and my response must be symptomatic of something deeper, dirtier – like a real secret. Body language, which my mother has mastered,  is more effective than verbal communication.

“Clock out, Mom.  Off the job training, unnecessary.”

She ignored the comment, turning her head and walking into the room of all rooms, the one with the casket.  Right as a person’s foot crossed the invisible line separating the living room from my great-great aunts bedroom, the collective disposition changed – in dramatic ways, too.  The loud squawkers, incessant talkers suddenly listened to an internal voice that screamed, “Shut the hell up.  For a minute at least, to pay respects.”  A rhythmic shuffling of feet, echoed in the room.  Mixed in with some deep breaths.

My mother was directly in front of me, starting to lean over the casket when Steve bumped his way to the front, and then, unbelievably asked me:

“I hear that you are some kind of sex worker.  Or that you do something with sex toys.  I’d like to talk to you about my girlfriend before you leave.  Please, don’t leave until we’ve talked.  This is really, really fucking import – ”

“Steve.  Look, right now is not the appropriate moment to discuss my profession, habits – really anything unrelated to the funeral.  Maybe you could emai – ”

“I understand.  There’s no reason to be embarrassed.  No one cares what you do for a living, not in a bad way.  I could use your expertise, in the worst way possible – I mean, good way.  Whatever, you know what I mean.”

“Are you sure we are related, Steve O?  Because if we are, my genetic composition is seriously tainted.  Fuck, fine.  We can talk AFTER! the wake and funeral.”

It seems that my mother, who had sipped three too many drinks before attending the wake, told my Aunt Jackie about my sex toy reviews.  Screwed.  Cooked.  Done.  My Aunt Jackie is our family’s very own Perez Hilton.  Mouth always moving, sometimes exposing morning’s breakfast, with sprays of excited spit traveling from the speaker’s mouth to the listener’s unwelcoming eyes – Yes, that’s my sweet Aunt Jackie releasing the caged gossip queen.

Wrong person to reveal that kind of information.  Before I knew it, even Steve, the social outcast, had the 911 on some of my personal activities.  Wonder-fucking-ful.  And it didn’t help that Steve made no effort to conceal his opportunistic agenda.  My poor great-great Aunt that I barely knew.  I blame my mother, Aunt Jackie and Steve – plus the rest of those busy-bodied family members, who were – I swear – looking at me differently than they had when I first arrived at the house.  Or was I being paranoid?  Not sure, but that’s how I felt.

What did Steve ask me?  I wouldn’t know.  After the funeral I booked it out there.  I didn’t say a word to anyone.  I called an old high school friend, explained the situation, and told her to pick me up at the stop sign.  I left my rental car for my mother to drive.  (She arrived at the funeral with … You guessed it!  My Aunt Jackie.)

Somehow I felt guilty because of these jerk offs running their collective mouths at the wrong time.  I felt kinda dirty inside – not because I do review sex toys, but because I related to yesterday’s biological waste.  Am I being too judgmental?

Changes.

Everything changes, they say.

Spring comes and the flowers bloom. They wither, fall to the ground, and repeat their cycle year after year. Happy only to bring momentous joy to the world.

Change occurs, and we learn to deal with it.

Petty Little Things

In front of her sat a boy and a girl. A couple, she presumed. They sat with their books and his laptop between them, discussing homework of some kind. Then they stopped. Then they started again. Their discussion seemed to get heated and the girl stood up.She observed the girl out of the corner of her eye. Long silky brown hair, not unlike any other. Dressed in a pink top and a denim skirt that was short and had frills at the end. Not very flattering. The frills were unruly, sort of like crumples that wouldn’t go away no matter how you ironed, and they ruined the look. She was fair, and her height combined with the ill-fitting top and skirt made her look like she had more than enough flesh to spare.

For the next minute, she observed the couple on the pretense of reading her book. These days being with herself were sometimes all she yearned for but they could be monotonous, and in between reading she’d take a short nap on the couch or just people watch, trying to be as inconspicuous as usual. On these days she was dressed to fade into the background, a normal jeans and tee, or sometimes even a pair of shorts or polo tee, but never in bright colours. Bright colours made her stand out, and it was unnecessary when it came to people watching.

In the background a male voice droned on, the only evidence of any other forms of activity on campus.

She isn’t a looker but she sure has a nice bag.

It was when they were leaving that she realised the guy was trying to explain to the girl how the photocopier worked.

She rolled her eyes instinctively, who the hell doesn’t know how to work a photocopier?

But perhaps it was more than explaining to her how a photocopier works, or maybe the girl in pink was really too dumb for the guy. When she stood up signs of frustration showed on her face, and it was evident between the two of them. It was a little like sitting next to a kitchen during meal times, the smells of whatever was cooking would simply waft over and heighten the senses. Surely, the same would be said when you could feel tension rising between people.

So as the girl stood up, the guy tried to get her to sit. But like all females who are used to seeking attention to get their way one way or another, she refused. Then for the next minute, frantic hand movements ensued, together with the restraint of having to keep with an argument going while having to keep your voices hushed.

She watched on with amusement and then realised that this wasn’t the first time she had seen lovers quarrel, but everytime it was the same. In a public place, hushed tones, frantic hand movements, both parties trying to keep their cool. Then she realised that on occasion she had been one of the parties involved in such arguments.

Maybe there is some form of unspoken behavioral standards that governed the way lovers acted in public, even when they argued.

But it didn’t really matter, the couple had walked away, presumably to make a copy of some documents. It’s funny how a simple thing like learning how to operate a photocopying machine could lead a couple into an argument, but that’s how arguments between couples often arise, doesn’t it?

From petty little things.

Lo-Fidelity.

The previous discussions on the importance of sex in marriage led me to think of another scenario. May or may not be true, but for argument’s sake let’s just assume that whatever I’m saying has some basis in real life.

Let’s assume that infidelity is an acceptable norm, that we all see no moral flaws in someone, be it male or female, fucking another outside their relationship or marriage.

Let’s also assume that infidelity arises when two people get together and decide to stay in a committed relationship, a marriage or something similar without the nasty social constructs and ties us in. And somewhere along the line, both people decide that sex isn’t as interesting anymore and want to fuck other people but still want to stay with each other in an otherwise normal relationship.

Now that we’ve got these two held constant, let me present the scenario.

We’ve got Man on the one hand, with his soon-to-be wife, Woman. Now, Man is unhappy when it comes to sex with Woman, because she always seem to resist his demands for intimacy, and doesn’t want to do the one thing that most men enjoy when it comes to sex, giving head. Note, this is before marriage. Both Man and Woman are planning to get married but Man is just feeling frustrated with the sex, and also because Woman doesn’t give head.

So Man looks for Girl to satisfy his needs. Both before and after marriage.

So my question is, if Man is already unsatisfied with Woman on the sexual front even before marriage, why is the wedding even taking place when he already plans to find Girl to satisfy him?

Love/Lust.

You know what they always say, that love and sex can be separated. But where do you draw the line?

Let me ask a question, and this is for both the men and ladies:

Let’s say, you are married to someone you consider your best friend. You both love each other, have a loving family complete with the requisite children and pets, nice car, wonderful home.

But the one problem is that, the sex just isn’t working. Because of work you spend your days apart and when you both get together, your partner doesn’t seem to get turned on enough to want to fuck.

But you love your partner so much and you really want them to experience the joys of sex, even if its not with you. So you allow your partner to go find other people to have fun with, on the one condition that they are discreet and play it safe.

Of course, the same goes for you.

My question here is, can you really bear to see someone you love so much fuck someone else, with your blessings?

Before anyone gives an off the cuff answer like how an open relationship is ideal and how you’d like something like that to happen. Think again. If you love someone that much to want them to be happy, doesn’t the territorial instinct somehow kick in? Then how does it balance out, the same territorial instinct and the immense love and concern you have for your partner?

Sounds inherently contradictory, but I can see some sense in that, although just a little.

But what do you think? Comments and emails please 🙂

The First.

Dear Brian,

I was going through my stuff today, throwing away all the things I don’t need. Guess what? There was a picture of you, tucked away in a corner of my drawer, sheathed in plastic, almost forgotten.

And it was true. They say you never forget your first boyfriend. I think I almost did. I almost forgot what you looked like, the sound of your voice, and the way you made me feel the very first time we met. I almost forgot your cheekiness, your tenderness, how sweet you were when we were both together, even though most of the time we were miles apart.

I remembered how, I would sneak into the school’s computer lab in between lessons to chat with you on ICQ when you were away. I remembered the day you asked me to be your girlfriend. I remembered all the drama that went on in your life, and that caused mine to be a living nightmare. Almost.

As I took your picture out of the drawer and tossed it into the bin, I wondered if you were doing well. I wondered if you had found another, if you are already happily married with children, just as you planned to do by the time you were 26. I wondered where in the world you could be, back in Australia, or happily settled in Malaysia where you were when we broke up?

Most importantly, do you remember me, the way I remembered you?

No money, no honey?

This song makes me hate it in a sappy love song sorta way, but at the same time the lyrics touched me in a small way, also because I like Delta Goodrem’s voice. Enjoy =)

In other updates though, I may be going on a semi-date this Saturday. There is however, a slight twist in this entire thing.

Remember how I was whining about Friends with Benefits? I think I may be on to something here with this guy, let’s call him B. We enjoy talking to each other, and we enjoy each other’s company, and this weekend we are going on a little shopping trip, and an overnight stay at his place is expected to be in the works, which would henceforth define our relationship towards the FwB bit. Which is not a bad thing for me of course, I get all the sex and all the good stuff that comes with being in a relationship with someone which includes shacking up with him occasionally at his place. Which is wonderful because we get all the privacy we want – he lives alone in an apartment near town. I not only get to enjoy all the physical and material benefits but also avoid the emotional downsides of being in a proper relationship. At this point, it all sounds like the perfect situation I can get in. But of course, knowing myself, perfect isn’t always perfect.

I’m getting ahead of myself here, because it all really depends on the semi-date happening on Saturday, if there isn’t any chemistry in bed, I suppose we would just go back to being friends. Not that it is a bad thing, because B really is a nice person to hang out with and talk to, and I suppose given our age difference it is really rare to come by. For him, at least.

Not that he’s alot older than me, and not that I have been attracting older men. Although, I must admit, that somewhere along the way I found myself meeting older men more than I have been meeting men my age.

At the same time, B has also gotten ahead of himself by asking if I’d like to join him on a short weekend holiday towards the end of the month. I suppose though, that even if we don’t work out at FwBs, I could still go with him on the holiday as a friend. All expenses paid, of course.

I have been reminded though, that this whole arrangement would possibly put me in a position that makes him a sugardaddy of sorts. I don’t know if this compromises my position or stature in this possible relationship, but would it be such a bad thing?

Here’s something to think about I suppose.

If a guy is willing to enter into a FwB relationship with a girl, and he offers to pay for her expenses when they are out together simply because he can and he wants to, does this make the girl somewhat obliged to repay him on physical terms? Does this make her a prostitute of sorts because she is exchanging her time and perhaps body in return for him paying for her expenses when they are together? There is no actual exchange of money involved because he doesn’t give her spending money. When she is out with her friends or alone she still pays for her own, but when she is out with him, he offers to pay for every single thing.

So what does that make her? And how does that define the relationship between the two of them?

Gripes.

If there’s anything fundamentally wrong with my morals, it has to be the fact that I probably could never settle for anything less, or anything for that matter. I think I might have relationship ADD. For me to really be with one person for an extended period of time, he better have something good going on for him.

Which, I suppose, would explain why, to the bewilderment of Mr Minister of Speed, I could go through so many men in such a short span of time.

But it doesn’t mean that that I don’t support the entire notion of marriage of life-long commitment. Fine, marriage is a social construct. But when I say marriage, what I really mean is this idea of wanting to spend your entire life with this person, and this person only, in terms of physical, emotional and spiritual connection. Marriage, to me, does not mean that you have to get yourselves formally certified as man or wife, or something pronounced by the pastor in church. You don’t even need rings on your ring finger to signify that you’re married. Marriage is really a union of the mind, body and soul that cannot really be defined by a piece of paper saying that you’re married, or your finger jewellery.

Which is why I probably wouldn’t want to get myself hitched for a while to come. I cannot imagine myself being tied down to one person, and most importantly, given my OCD nature, I doubt I’d ever meet someone whom I’d be able to connect so strongly with AND want to spend the next 40 years with him.

Some would say that, hey, I could always sleep around when I’m married, have an open relationship. I know people who do that too, for various reasons. But at the end of the day, it’s the very fact that it is an open relationship – both parties agree to sleep with other people, that matters.

For certain reasons still unknown to myself, I cannot stand having to sneak around, sleeping with other people when I am married. I mean, if I ever wanted to do something that like (sleep around), why should I even get married in the first place? To get that elusive HDB flat? Screw it, I can buy one for myself if I’m still a single 30-something, so why bother getting married just to do it? Obligation? If you had to be obligated to get married, then something is fundamentally wrong in your relationship with each other, isn’t it?

If I ever wanted to continue sleeping with other people, and save part of my feelings and romantic love for another man, I’d never want to get married. If marriage is a conscious commitment, then shouldn’t this commitment be 100% and binding upon both parties?

Lies

Sometimes, I look at you and I wonder if its all a lie I tell myself.

Needs & Wants.

Sometimes, people often associate inaction for disinterest. But really, how would we know if you’re really not interested or if you just don’t want to do anything?

So, if it’s really disinterest instead of inaction, then I should move on, walk on.

Ooh I want you but I don’t know if I need you..

How often is it that we find ourselves wanting something but after getting it, we realise we never needed it at all?

This distinction between want and need, so very thin, so very misleading.

The thing is, do we really need someone in our life? I’m talking about someone in that romantic sense. Or can we totally live without it? A want?

It’s just one of those things, just when we are convinced that we cannot live without that person, that we need that person to survive, a few years goes by and we survive perfectly well without them.

So this whole thing, this whole thing about wanting someone to spend your life and times with, is it truly a need, or just a frivolous want?

No Ordinary Morning

You know how when you listen to some songs and you get reminded of a certain person or a place in time?

This song reminds me an ex. Someone who I grew to like, hate and subsequently forgive.

He was a person whom I learned many things from. Things that have made me into a better person than I was then. Which somehow seemed to transform him into a worse one.

But the most important lesson I learnt from him, was how easy you could forget someone, even though, at that moment, you probably thought you couldn’t live without him/her.

The beauty of adolescent romance.

Floating Trees

It had been awhile since we last met up but there’s just something interestingly conflictual about the relationship between C and me. He’s like the devil who sits on my left shoulder, he never fails to remind me that being naughty is actually okay, and I’m like the angel who sits on his right shoulder, constantly reminding him that he has his obligations to return to at the end of the day, no matter how he tries to deny that they do exist, no matter how much he tries to reason that he is allowed his share of fun every now and then.

We’ve shared bits of our private lives with each other, our plans and dreams. We talk about things like life, love and laugh at ourselves for not wanting to get married. But I wouldn’t exactly call him a friend. I’ve known him for almost 3 years now, that even longer than my longest lasting relationship. But no, he seems too distant to be called a friend, and yet too close to be an acquaintance.

I’m not in the habit of forming commitments or attachment to people I don’t know well. C falls well into this category. I don’t see the need for any of those if anytime you need someone to talk to, call me kind of relationship. But at the same time, him not being just a mere acquaintance also means that he’s someone I’d share bits of my life with. It’s a strange kind of attachment we’ve formed with each other. There’s proximity, but we don’t dig our claws into each other.

We’re just not that kind of person for each other to do so.

For some strange reason, I like having him around, even though its for a mere hour. In that short span of 60 mins, we speak very little but at the same time say alot. He makes me reflect on many things. Its becoming a sort of routine for me, everytime he drops by, his scent lingers on far longer than he was actually present, and everytime, when we say goodbye, he gives the same smile I’ve been familair with. And then, he zooms off in his car, leaving me with my own thoughts.

There are people who fall in love. And there are people who are in love with the idea of falling in love.

After awhile, you cease to remember which category you fall into. I mean, falling in love is a wonderful thing, always is, isn’t it? But you don’t need it to survive, you can still live and breathe without out. But there are people who live and breathe on the idea of falling in love, everyday, everyday second, they are constantly searching, for every chance, every opportunity, to fall in love.

Is that a bad thing? You could be in love with the idea of falling in love with a person. That’s, unhealthy to a certain extent. But you could also just fall in love with the idea of being in love with..whatever. Things, people, animals, places. That would be enjoyable life and the things around you, isn’t it?

And then there are also people who go on the search for that one person who could make them fall, and fall hard. You know, like in the cartoons and movies where you fall in love and then the mountains and the earth starts to shake, suddenly the flowers are in full bloom and fireworks start appearing in the sky. You don’t get that often, and you probably only get that once in your life, if you’re lucky. It’s like earth-shattering sex or a mind blowing orgasm, you only get that every once in a while. The only difference is that this lasts longer.

If you’re that lucky.

From now on, you can expect that I’m gonna show up. Even if I yell. Even if you yell. I’m always gonna show up. Okay?
— Derek Shepard, Grey’s Anatomy

I’m still looking for my Knight in Shining whatever.

Save me.

I was on a cab in the evening, when a familair song came on the radio. Everytime I heard that song I’d be reminded of someone, of the words I said to him, and of the unspoken promise he made. And how, a year later, I realised he was not the one who would rescue me.

Then I found myself thinking, does anyone like that ever exist?

Possibly not.

I don’t mind spending everyday,
Out on your corner in the pouring rain.
Look for the girl with the broken smile,
Ask her if she wants to stay awhile.
And she will be loved.
— Maroon 5

Wanted: McDreamy

Criteria:

  • not younger than 25 years of age
  • 1.65m and taller
  • unruly wavy/curly hair like McDreamy in Grey’s Anatomy more than welcome
  • glasses optional
  • piercings optional (although anything other than those on the ears, and anything more than 1 is not acceptable
  • tight buns (and I’m not talking about the edible kinds)
  • intelligent
  • witty
  • must like cats
  • enjoy long meaningful conversations
  • enjoys long walks in the park
  • tech geek/guru
  • likes rock/emo
  • emo types welcome

Need not apply:

  • whales
  • anyone older than 33
  • gaming whores

Enquiries at

Applicants strongly encouraged to read background information before applying.

Double Lives.

This may/may not be fiction, but it’s so true.

http://scandaloustrysts.blogspot.com/2007/01/from-east.html

How many of us have been the guy? Just needing a quick fix even though you know it’s wrong. Even though you know that after you’re done you will return into the loving arms of another who will, you hope, never ever find out what you’ve did, what you may have been doing.

How many of us have been the girl? The agent provocateur, the one who is just there to satisfy your own needs and his. Who may, or may not know that he has someone out there waiting for him.

How many of us have been both on separate occassions?

But, what makes it so wrong? That there is someone out there waiting for you, oblivious to your thoughts? That’s the obvious.

But just because there is a need that makes it so right, does it make it justifiable?

Some things we don’t think about, especially when we’re blinded by all the needs, wants and desires. But when it all dies down, when leading a double life takes its toll on you, then what gives?

Just because it’s so wrong, does it make it so right?

Remembered.

The other day I was sitting on the bus, on the way home, as usual, a million thoughts ran through my head. Then it stopped.

I remembered this particular person, someone from my past.

I went to the site where his blog was hosted, typed in the familair name and to my surprise, he was still there. His blog was still living and breathing.

Not much had changed. He was still writing in the same style that I found myself liking back then, which now, is a huge turn off. He was a little more light hearted in some of his entries, and he was more open about talking about his life. But it seemed that nothing in his writing had changed.

I do hope, for his sake, that he has changed to be a better person.

What would you do?

Let’s imagine that you are a not-so-good-looking person. Make it, less than average. You undergo plastic surgery and now you are a little less flabby on the spots that matter, your face is more sculpted, your features sharper. Basically, you  now look, average.

Ok fine, depending on who you talk to, somewhere between average and above average. Relativity’s a bitch.

Ok, so you’re average looking. And you meet this really good looking, successful, and single man.

You drop a hint. He takes it up. He asks you to meet him at his place tonight at 9am.  You appear. He wants you to put on something more comfortable, and he’s left it on his bed.

You walk in to find a paperbag.  Yes, a paperbag.  He wants you to put it over your head while he fucks you.

Your one chance to hook up with someone hot, rich and successful. Save for the paperbag over your head.

Would you?

Perfect Love

“I want to be beautiful so that I’ll be loved by someone like you.”

I overheard this on a advertisement on TV for the next episode of Nip/Tuck on Channel 5.

Alot of people will scoff at that one sentence, wondering how silly this girl must be to think that way. But really, hasn’t this thought cross the minds of many others at least once in their lives? That perhaps, if I was more beautiful, he’ll like me? That if I was taller/longer hair/bigger eyes/sharper nose/slimmer, he’ll love me more?

It’s strange how people do equate physical beauty (or the lack of it) with love and affection. True that the initial attraction may be based on whats physical, but shouldn’t it go beyond that after like say, the first 30 seconds into the conversation? Well, at least that’s what I grew up thinking.

I suppose, in a moment of desperation, we all get deluded. That somehow, because the attraction isn’t mutual, we begin to find a million and one reasons to justify why the affection isn’t reciprocated. Does it necessarily make a person feel better to put the blame on something tangible like their looks, rather than just admit the fact that somehow, the stars for them just aren’t aligned in that way?

In a perverse way, maybe. To be able to put the blame on something you can see and most importantly, have the opportunity to change, makes one less helpless as compared to facing something which you cannot change.

I suppose it seems like a redundant question to ask, knowing what the answers would most probably be. But seriously, if a person decides to make himself/herself more beautiful for your sake, would it change the way you feel towards him/her?

The One

Growing up, like any other naive schoolgirl, I always believed that it was possible to find The One. Countless years of developing schoolgirl crushes, serious dates, and relationships later, I’m confused.

Not so much as to whether The One really exists, but, how do you define The One? How do you know if a guy is The One for you?

Sure, he would have to fulfill a certain criteria, wouldn’t he?

But does he have to be say, tall, tanned, chiselled good looks?

Or does he have to be intelligent, witty, funny?

What about money? Does he have to be rich? Or does he have to be able to give a comfortable life? What about housing, a car, and children?

Or is it the way he makes you feel, something on a more intangible level?

Or do all these not matter and it’s just all, instinct?

What does it have to be for a guy to be The One?

There’s just something about you that I can’t quite put my finger on. Something about you that makes me want to behave the way I’m feeling. Something that makes me want to throw all caution to the wind and give in to my deepest, darkest desires. Something that makes me want to forget about conformity and restraints and just be myself, to give in to my emotions and express them as they are meant to be expressed.

But you know what they say, desires can be dangerous things.

The L Word

I’ve probably mentioned this on my blog somewhere, eons ago, but I’ll say it again with the show going into its 4th season. I LOVE THE L WORD.

I started watching it from its first season, followed the lives of Alice, Shane, Dana, Bette and Tina all the way until Shane decides to marry Carmen in season three, and then has her life turned topsy turvy in season four.

I’m barely into season 4, but I’m already loving it. The L Word offers an insight into the lives of lesbians, both the romantic and sexual sense of the word, I don’t know how accurate it is since it IS Hollywood afterall, but the show is just AMAZING.

Like I mentioned, The L Word is about this group of lesbians, their trials and tribulations, their lives, interacting with the straight world. It sorta gives an interesting POV of how different straight relationships are from lesbian relationships.

I think the difference here is that, because women are so much more intuned to their emotions than most men (“most” because I know some guys who can be pretty sensitive to their own emotions and needs), a lesbian relationship tends to be more, “explosive” because women are supposed to be better at articulating their thoughts and feelings. When you put two angry women together, we all know what happens.

Which I think, is something you don’t necessarily get when you have a heterosexual relationship. I always wondered why woman tend to be passive aggressive when it comes to their boyfriends, than say, their female friends. I suppose it’s because well, men sometimes just don’t get it. Women do because we are able to feel and understand things from the same point of view. Which is why, perhaps, a heterosexual relationship tends to be less intense than say, a lesbian one?

(Note that I’m not really speaking for the homosexual men here because, really, I have no idea how it works out for the men, although I’m pretty sure some of you out there would be able to comment on this.)

I know it sounds awfully strange to base my views on a purely fictional TV drama, but I think it’s the same for real-life lesbian relationships too, isn’t it? I mean, I’ve seen my lesbian friends and their partners and their relationships are just intense in the sense that they just bare it all. There’s just so much drama in their lives simply because they dare to say how they think and feel. There’s just so much emotion put in that I sometimes look across the table and wonder, how come heterosexual relationships aren’t like that?

Whether it’s a good or bad thing is another issue altogether though, but it is very very different, isn’t it?

Which then makes me wonder how it’d be like to be in a lesbian-type relationship with a man. Someone who is fully in tuned to his emotions and actually gets why women feel and react the way they do. Is it even possible?

Oh, and the sex. The sex scenes on The L Word are just, well, better left undescribed. (maybe because I don’t have the right word to describe it, steamy? erotic? explosive? They just don’t seem right). All I can say after watching them is, Damn, I wish I was a lesbian!

So, the question remains, is it possible to be in a lesbian-type heterosexual relationship?

McDreamy.

In case anyone does not watch Grey’s Anatomy. Here’s why McDreamy is, McDreamy.

Meredith meets stranger at a bar, brings him home, has sex, and finds out less than 24 hours later he is her superior. A weird romance sort of develops. He is nicknamed McDreamy (they have this thing for naming ppl Mc-something). Later, Meredith finds out McDreamy is married and in the process of going through a divorce with his wife who cheated on him. McDreamy decides he cannot let go of his wife and chooses to go back to her, leaving Meredith heartbroken and pining for him for the better part of Season 2.

In Season 3..well, I’m not going to say what happens in Season 3, but the couple is happy. Which couple? Go figure.

Anyway, I think every girl very secretly wants a McDreamy. Fine, I’m not your typical girl, but I want a McDreamy. MY McDreamy.

Not someone who I have sex with and then end up falling for, not that part because to me, that is  just disaster waiting to happen.

Rather, I want a McDreamy, someone who I can pine for, someone whom, would pine for me just like McDreamy in Grey’s does with his McDreamy eyes, who does the right thing because of obligation, who later decides do to the other right thing because he wants to follow his heart. Someone who makes me laugh and makes me cry for all the right reasons. Someone who despite not understanding why I do the things I do, tries to appreciate them. Someone who, even though does not indulge in the same hobbies as I do, tries to understand and accept the fact that I love doing them and there’s nothing he can do to make me change it. Someone who gives me my space, someone who is there spiritually even though he may not be there physically.

Ok, maybe McDreamy in Grey’s isn’t like the one I just described. Up to the point where I was just done watching Grey’s, McDreamy was for Meredith, someone who was so wrong but felt so right.

Maybe it’s too ridiculous to ask for someone who is so wrong but feels so right, almost like I”m trapped in some fairy tale with a happy ending. But really, what do I have to do to find someone who would make me truly happy?

Ugh.

I think I’m turning frigid.

Not because of any other problems of the sexual nature though, but it’s just that things have been changing and are still in the process of changing.

I think, maybe, just maybe, that I may be falling, all over again.

Don’t know if its a good thing, but hey, it’s about enjoying what the present brings that’s important right?

And so I will.

The intellectual attraction is just far  more desirable than the physical or sexual attraction right now. So much that I’ve found myself turning down many other (indecent) proposals for nothing more than pleasure provided by the mind through nothing less than words.

Desire is a dangerous thing.

 

You want what you can’t have.

I bumped into a really old friend on the way to lunch, we had known each other since our secondary school days, and even though our schools were stretched halfway across the island from each other, we were pretty close friends. Mind you, when I say close friends with guys who came from my secondary school days, they really just treated me as just another “brother”.

Anyway, Really Old Friend, is cute. I mean, he’s been cute since I’ve known him like, forever. He has this really good friend who is cute too. Both of them are so cute they literally “killed” many of my female friends who hung out with me when I hang out with them. That’s how cute they are.

Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t have any interested in Really Old Friend and his good friend back then, and I sure as hell don’t have any now. I mean, how the hell do you have interest for someone you know his darkest secrets of? Very difficult. But the thing is, Really Old Friend is so cute that sometimes even I have difficulty concentrating on speaking to him whenever we bump into each other nowadays. Plus, he’s attached, although that is a non-determining factor.

Anyway, the point is, after bumping into Really Old Friend, I found myself sighing a sigh of wistfulness. Like I said, not that I was interested in him, but it made me realise that if the Me of the present (sorry for the awkward phrasing), would have met him 10 years ago, and not the Me of the past, then I suppose things would have been a little different. I realise he might have been the kind of guy that I’ll either fall for, or I want so badly.

And then I realise, it’s so ironic that it’s always what you want that you can’t have.

Or, you always can’t have what you want, whatever works better for you.

And it’s always been the case for me since, forever. It’s always that DKNY dress that I know I can’t have, the Guess what I shouldn’t really lay my hands on, that boy in the next class I shouldn’t even have started talking to.

Because, when you start having what you want, then it takes the thrill out of wanting it in the first place, doesn’t it?

And then when you get what you want, it suddenly doesn’t become as desirable anymore.

And as we all know it, desires come and go, they get replaced by other desires, other new things, new people. So why bother wasting time on saving up to get that dress, that watch, wasting time trying to get the attention on that boy?

Because we all like the thrill of obtaining it. But do you even see the irony of it all?

Oh, in response to some emails I’ve been getting, there might be more pictures on the way, depending on how adventurous I feel.

Remember what I said in the previous post about wanting to date nice, intellectual men who can engage in a meaningful conversation?

I really meant it.

Why I only date Chinese men.

I know how this post would sound and I am ready for the onslaught of “you’re wrong!! we’re not like that!!!”. It’s just that I prefer Chinese men, with the exception of an ex who was Indian. I somehow find it easier and more comfortable being around Chinese men for some reason, and I’d attribute it to the closet heartlander and closet Ah Lian in me.

And all that talk about Chinese men being smaller in the areas of their, erm, appendages? It’s all bullcrap.

It’s not that I have anything against Malay/Indian/Caucasian men, but I have my reservations even though I’ve been approached by these men as well.

Malay men: I think it has alot to do with how they are brought up, but I think educated Malay men are generally more traditional, hence, promiscous ones are hard to find. I say educated because I like intellectual conversation. I shan’t say more because I don’t wanna be flamed by a thousand people saying i’m racist. So there.

Indian men: There are lotsa educated, smart, funny and intellectual indian men out there, but for some reason they are starting to prefer their indian women rather than chinese women (as compared to before). This is of course my own observation and you’re welcome to refute that. But I also think it’s because indian men tend to be more confident and aggressive. Not that I have a problem with that, but aggressive should only be confined to the bedroom. So the more aggressive you are outside of it, the more I get turned off.

Caucasian men:  It’s hard to upkeep conversation with someone from totally different cultural backgrounds because every now and then you have to stop to explain yourself. Also, I’m a heartlander at heart, I like to use my lahs and aiyars very freely, and it feels very unnatural when you’re doing it with someone. Plus the fact that deep down side, I’m also a closet Ah Lian, which makes it even worse if I can’t curse and swear with the nabeis and the cheebyes, you get what I mean?

Also, I think because of this entire “Asian woman is exotic” thing, no thanks to the pornography industry, some caucasian men tend to have this stereotype of Asian woman. I mean, it’s like we’re all sex and body with no brains. I’ve been approached by some caucasian men on bars and pubs and they talk to me like English is my 5th language or something and brains is just something that is alien to my physiological makeup.

And some go to the extent of saying, “you speak English very well.” Of course I speak English well, I got A1 for my O levels OK? English is my first language, wtf.

Despite all that, one of the biggest reasons why I stick to Chinese men, is because then I don’t stand a chance of saying the wrong and sensitive stuff when it comes to men of other races, I mean, I have a tendency to say the wrong things on dates, so why jeopardize my chances on purpose?