details

When I’m with someone or I’m sitting at my desk, hours (days, weeks, months) after the fact, I try to think of that person’s focal point, the single detail on them that provides a jumping off cliff into a lengthy rumination on romance and intrigue. If I can’t find one, that’s usually a warning sign. They hadn’t been interesting enough. I was hasty. I made a bad decision. People like Rasmus and his vanity, Dane and his wheedling, George and his lack of respect: proof that I don’t always think clearly. It happens from time to time—means I haven’t learned my lesson yet. 

The more details I can find, the more fruitful my writing is. For Karen, I don’t know where to start: the dark gray fedora on her curly hair, her tiny brown eyes, that thin, snapping mouth, her richly textured voice. Others, I find to be more easily definable—Ben and his age, etched into his laugh lines and the effortless way he held me; Trey and the glasses I slipped off his face as he took my virginity; Catarina and her wide, splitting grin, validating half a decade’s worth of self-doubt about my feelings for women

.

There are some I can’t contain to a single point at all. Zul and the city of Singapore, that week of freedom and exploration, that entire summer, the days and nights and afternoons and mornings and meals and hours spent in my hostel room together—all of that is him. To talk about one would only lead to the other and then the next, until I’m writing another essay again. But would it be about him, or the experience of having had him as a summer fling? Two years after we happened, and it’s still impossible to separate the two. 

-----

I ramble about all of this to reach an uneventful conclusion. That was what I’d been looking for during my evening with him: something, anything, to draw my attention and latch onto. I found it soon enough in the green music notes on his arms, big and eye-catching (the former, not the latter), and that was (is) enough for me. I like them. They make him more memorable, more interesting. I kept touching them when we were in bed, slowly rubbing each note as if they’d somehow rise from his skin to turn a small tune. He probably noticed.

Reasons to be Sidetracked

I liked the date. In fact, I like him. I didn’t think I would this much. He’s fuzzy-chested, big-headed (as in literally), blunt-fingered, and BEARDED—Chance is simply not what I’m used to, or go for. Different can be good though. Like now. Maybe different is what I need. 

The details I normally file away in my mind for later, written records are uncharacteristically scant this time. I don’t even remember the color of his eyes. I usually would, for such an important, descriptive detail. But I do recall them being dark and glossy, trailing over my face and across the dress I had carefully chosen for the date. They stayed on my own eyes most of the time: friendly. Steady. Open. As a result, I often looked away; sustained eye contact like his makes me feel vulnerable and examined. I wasn’t quite ready for that. 

Dinner was fine; I chose a nondescript restaurant for a nondescript meal. The conversation (among other things) had been what I was truly after. He’s a smart boy—sarcastic, witty, and with a never-ending supply of quips. His voice was unusually resonant, projecting far beyond the small borders of our table space. He smiled more than he laughed. I forgot to ask him about that. When the appropriate amount of time had passed, we split the check and left. The car ride was equally uneventful, apart from us exchanging additional, personal morsels about our lives. 

His apartment was painfully neat and spare. I liked that too. 

In his room, he was very careful to let me set the pace. He started when I started, slowed when I slowed, stopped when I stopped. Our discussion about books stretched longer than need be, but the fault lay with me, not him (alas, the shortcomings of someone with a nervous disposition.) He took the cues I gave him in small, acceptable steps. His hand, although not broad, slid well enough over the crook of my waist to settle his fingers on my hip. Lightly tracing my collarbone in the few moments before he bent over to kiss me was a nice touch too. Books were then dropped altogether.

I’m more present than I have been in other encounters. Even though I notice things like the freckles on his arms and the way his hair is wetly slicked back, they quickly get lost in a fog of want that’s been clouding my head for months. I hold in a gasp as he spreads my legs open, hands to my mouth when he dips down, knuckles clenched bone-white on the sheets as his tongue darts out. A frisson—or bolt, more like—runs through me when he praises my taste. It’s secretly my favorite thing to hear, and I’ll be replaying this for weeks to come.

His grip is sure and firm on my legs as he moves me. I’m filled up, and it hurts, but suddenly it doesn’t, and then yes, it does hurt, at that slant, at that pace, at that—no the pain rounded the corner again back to yes please. Soon, I’m too confused to disentangle the two so I keep my eyes closed, which is a shame because more than anything, I like watching the way he looks at me—a clear-eyed gaze that’s crinkled at the corners, silently asking me to stay in the present with him instead of floating away like I always do. 

The question’s laced with honey and good fucking. I can’t say no to that. Even after he comes, and we’re still on the bed with parts of myself carefully angled away from him while I rub circles on his chest, how can I leave? That would be rude. It wouldn’t be something I want to do. I’ve done so before though, very easily and with little fuss. I’m forever thinking of my escape plan from the room or car or other enclosed area, often prior to the meeting, or during. 

No plan this time. I’d be lying if I said that my mind is completely blank, but the music notes—green and vivid on his arms— warm to the touch of my fingertips. It wouldn’t hurt to stay. 

The Friend Hookup You Don't Talk About

Dec 2012. Winter holiday. He kept asking until I gave in. All I wanted to do was to smoke a pipe or two with the guy, but he had to insist. So I gave in. I got tired of saying no. I took a shower with him. He washed hair. After drying off, he laid me down on the bed and got me off with his mouth. Then I made some excuse about having to leave early and did just that—with him and his hard-on waving goodbye at me from the doorway. 

Serves him right for expecting more from me. 

I should have known better too. I had the threesome with him and his girlfriend almost two years ago, and they almost broke up because of me. So stupid. So very, very stupid. I knew he wanted these pants again, but I accepted his invitation to hang out anyway because pot. Really—who declines free pot. Not I. 

I hadn’t contacted him since. The friendship’s been tainted now. 

Fast forward to May 2013, and he texted me a few nights ago, asking if I’d be in town. I will, once I come back from my Indonesia trip. I told him I’d be here in July. Shit. I should have lied. I’m too nice still.

What will I do when I meet him again (because I will; it’s inevitable). 

Something needs to happen between then and now.

You Took The Edge Off

You were dark-haired, dark-eyed, and loud-mouthed. Your kissing was adequately pleasant, but the rest of your bedroom prowess left much to be desired. You were lovely to look at. You were selfish beyond measure. You merely took the edge off of my ever-building sexual frustration.

I knew what kind of person you were from the beginning, but I was too horny to care. I should have listened to the other voice in my head. In the end, it was all about your pleasure with mine trailing along like an afterthought you didn't care to notice. Now I know better.

I was sloppy. I let myself be talked into things. You tried to persuade me to sleep with you without a condom even though you had several. I kept saying no. You finally acquiesced to my order, only to back out of it at the very last second, when I wasn't looking, when my guard was down, when I thought you had it on already, and

I found out in the middle of sex. How did I miss something like that?

Luckily, you came on my back. I didn't want to see your face.

I trusted you.

I was so stupid.

I fucking trusted you.

Can I Buy You a Drink?

It's usually not hard for me to pick out who I'll be hooking up with. Sometimes it's a look, a silly line of dialogue, an article of clothing--always a single detail that tells me, "Yes. S/he's The One For Tonight."

Occasionally, I get thrown off--like at my cousin's wedding this weekend. I was constantly scanning the crowd for Potentials: would it be the bartender with his horn-rimmed glasses? One of the groom's shy n' slender cousins in his late 20s? Or the foul-mouthed, interracial couple in their 40s? I looked for a Tell at every conversation, but nothing jumped out at me. My parents watching any move I made didn't help either. 

As usual, I didn't know who the lucky person was until the last-minute afterparty at night. I had to talked to him briefly during the cocktail reception after the vows, but easily brushed him off. This time, I found him leaning against the wall of the bar our young group had migrated to, his sunglasses finally stored in his pocket. He had been looking at me all night. I approached him with a smile.

I have never understood the point of all those questions you ask someone at a bar: where are you from? what do you do? What are your hobbies? The more relevant ones would be: do you mainly kiss with tongue? are you considerate enough to make me come first? are you a giver? Unfortunately, I trudged through an hour of conversation with exactly the former queries. Some of the volunteered information was interesting enough. He was an Asian engineering student who also played soccer and table tennis. He attended college an hour from the current location. I returned similar answers out of courtesy. 

Just really, what is the point? At least he surprised me by asking if I wanted to find someplace more private. Asian men aren't normally that forward. I was sufficiently impressed to agree so we left the noisy bar with his hand between my shoulder blades. I was wearing a backless dress.

-----

The groom had given me the key to a vacant hotel room above the bar. The warm wood paneling and creamy white carpet nicely set off the glow from the dimly-lit lamp in the corner as I circled the bed, twisting small bunches of my dress in my hands. What happened next came as a flood after months of drought; though I suspect his sentence was longer from the hungry way he clutched at my waist, how his mouth couldn't stay still on my neck. I ran my fingers over his black vest, relishing the feel of his broad back and barrel-chest: stocky where I was slim, solid where I was not. 

The territory felt blissfully familiar. His lips were soft. My foot dangled over the edge of the bed. Our clothes didn't even come all the way off. As my life slowly becomes more and more uncertain, this was a place where I knew all the steps. Messy kisses, awkward laughter, rumpled sheets--the hour we had to ourselves was nowhere near long enough. At one point, he whispered, "You're beautiful" in my ear. I'm not so naive that I believe every word a man tells me while in the throes of lust, but it was nice to hear all the same. Those sorts of things tend to be. 

What surprised me most was his mouth sliding down my stomach to the waistband of my underwear. His breaths ghosted over the wispy fabric, and I could feel the echoes of it on my thighs. He grabbed my arms to keep me from squirming. Tipping my head back, I let him drag it from my legs. When he finally bent further down, I closed my eyes.

He wasn't the best, nor the most memorable, nor the worst. He was exactly what I needed at the moment. Loud and boisterous, his enthusiasm infected me too. The hour we stole made our hands restless, our laughs frequent, our legs tangled. Sometimes the door would jiggle for a few seconds before stopping abruptly, which only intensified the thrill running up my spine. It had been seven months since I had a tongue swirling wetly on my breasts, fingers teasingly spreading me open, knuckles clenched bone-white on the sheets. My sighs mingled with his, and out of the corner of my eye, I watched cityscape lights blink back at me through the window.

But the phone rang eventually; it always does. We quickly dressed, shushing each other's snickers. I kissed him one more time before unlocking the door. We exited the hotel together, but gently split ways as I greeted my ride. My flight was leaving in 4 hours. 

new posting rule

Alright I decided against making a new blog to abandon this one, BUT I am making a new posting rule to replace the silly ten-posts-per-month quota.

Now I just post when I fucking feel like it.

There.

And when I do post, they will be thoughtful, long musings on shit--none of these two-liners updating the 0 followers I have on what's going on in my day-to-day comings and goings.

This was originally meant to be an actual, longform blog.

Time to fix this. Again.

so what else is new

Fuck fuck fuck I miss him

reeeeeeeeeedkuhtshdebrjwwyohuroaeu

Look

I got a new haircut and realized just now that it's your favorite hairstyle on a girl.

Goddammit get out of my head XD

Softshock Redux

It's summer again, and I'm on the bed, running my fingers underneath the cold side of my pillow. If I switch off the lights, I can pretend I'm back in my rented room in Singapore again, June 2011. If I squeeze my eyes shut, I can almost feel you beside me, sliding your cool hand up my thigh.

***

Nowadays, I just relive snippets of our time together, relishing the details that made our connection so memorable in the first place: The small fan whirring in a corner of the ceiling. The freezing tile beneath my feet as we tiptoed our way to the stiff mattress that masqueraded as a proper bed. The film of sweat that still lingered on the back of my neck from our stroll around the boardwalk. The imprint our bodies made on each other, sliding, sticking, and sliding again. The hushed words we whispered. The laughs we stifled. The tense line of your shoulder blades as you bent down to kiss me. The deep brown of your skin set against your dark hair and darker eyes.

There were fun things I remember that happened outside the room as well: our day-trips around the city and the night-walks we would take afterwards. The way we stepped side by side, arms swinging but not quite touching, matching a beat we wordlessly sang to each other. My hand linked to yours as you pulled me through noisy street markets and past sing-song hawkers to the cozy hole-in-the-wall food stall you like to visit once a week. The blend of smells in the air--spicy noodles, ocean salt, cigarette smoke, and your own woodsy musk. Our sandals thwacking erratically on the pavement as we raced each other down a deserted incline at one in the morning. 

Details flood my mind, and I can't keep track of them all. In the end, when the longing grows to be too much, I force myself to recall our last goodbye at the airport when I shyly slid my arms around your neck and leaned forward, my foot kicking up just so. I have to remind myself that you kissed back too, your hands firm and solid around my waist, your lips soft and wet. I have to tell myself that you remember this too. That you love this too. That I'm not the only one still reeling from the impact of a single week in a city I most likely won't visit again for years. 

again and again

It's nearing one year since I met you.

And damn if I don't miss that week in June.

I think a dedication post is in order. Again.

Wait for it.