- alive
-
ceiling fans whirring above laser lights, dancers grinding in shadows, the unmistakable smell of lemongrass perfume, clove cigarettes, and the faint reek of spilled Red Bull on concrete floors.
Chapter 27: The Butterfly from Rio (Final Days in London)
https://freeimage.host/i/FbE8elR
(AI-generated image of Larissa)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
⸻
If London had been a long season of learning, my final lesson came wrapped in tan lines, jasmine perfume, and Portuguese whispers, a firework against the grey.
Her name was Larissa.
She was from Rio de Janeiro, passing through Europe on a break from her journalism degree; or so she said with a wink that dared me to believe only half of it. She looked like she belonged on the cover of a vintage
Veja
magazine: caramel-gold skin glowing from years of Copacabana sun, wavy black hair falling in glossy strands down her back, and eyes the color of melted brown sugar: expressive, playful, always watching.
She reminded me of Eva Longoria at her prime, but younger, freer, with that same luscious mouth, hourglass shape, and unapologetic command of any room she walked into.
We met at a rooftop bar in Soho. My friends were toasting my upcoming departure. Hers were drinking caipirinhas and trying to “
find the real London
.”
She sat beside me in a tight green halter dress that clung to every curve like it had been sewn directly onto her body.
“Are you local?” she asked, her accent thick with carioca music, her lips curling into a slow grin.
“Sort of,” I replied. “But I’m leaving soon.”
She leaned in close, her breath scented with lime and wine. “Then we have to make tonight count.”
I bought her a drink. She bought me one back.
We danced to Prince and Madonna. She twirled like she was born in a club and kissed like she’d never feared consequences.
There was a small butterfly tattoo on her right shoulder, just above the strap of her dress. I traced it lightly with a finger.
“First tattoo,” she said. “Fifteen years old. I got it after kissing a boy on Copacabana beach.”
“Do all your stories start that well?” I asked.
“Only the ones that end badly.”
⸻
We walked through Soho at midnight. She clung to my arm and flirted with every step.
Instead of saying goodbye, I offered her my last two nights in London.
“I’ll show you the city,” I said. “And we’ll pretend we have more time.”
She gave a mock pout. “Only if you feed me something expensive.”
⸻
The next day, we wandered through Covent Garden, kissed between the colonnades, then gorged on oysters at Wright Brothers. She moaned theatrically at each one, throwing her head back to laugh at the uptight British couples who stared.
“Brazilian girls don’t eat quietly,” she said. “We love too loudly.”
We got tipsy near Tower Bridge. She leaned on me as we walked home, her heels clicking on wet pavement.
We made love that night in my cramped dorm room like it was a penthouse in Mayfair.
She undressed slowly, lifting her top to reveal high, full breasts and a sculpted waist, then sliding her skirt off with one graceful motion. Her body was pure poetry: long legs, taut belly, firm brown skin marked with tan lines from a recent Rio summer.
“Let me ride,” she whispered, pushing me down and straddling me with liquid ease.
She sank down onto me in one slow motion, her breath catching just slightly, then moving, hips rolling with instinctive rhythm, arms braced on my chest.
She fucked like she danced: wild, rhythmic, effortless.
She ground against me in long waves, moaning in Portuguese, then biting her lower lip and whispering, “Você gosta assim?” (
You like it like this?
)
I nodded, barely able to speak.
She leaned forward, her breasts brushing my chest, her mouth finding mine in a sloppy, fevered kiss. Her thighs clenched. Her pace quickened. Her vagina muscles tightened. And then she came, gasping my name, eyes locked to mine as she trembled above me.
When I came, it was with my hands gripping her hips, pulling her flush to me as I emptied everything I had left into the moment.
We collapsed side by side, still kissing, still giggling.
She lay on her stomach, the butterfly on her shoulder catching the moonlight through the window.
“You’re too serious, Singapore boy,” she whispered.
“I’m not. I’m just trying to remember all of this.”
⸻
We woke late. Had instant noodles and red wine on the floor. She wore only my shirt and nothing else. I wanted to take a mental photograph of every second.
The last night, we sat on Primrose Hill with the city blinking behind us. A slight chill in the air. She curled beside me, warm and electric.
“I’m not good at endings,” she said.
“Then let’s not call this one.”
She smiled. “Okay. Just a goodbye kiss. Not a goodbye heart.”
We kissed long and slow. A kind of silent pact.
⸻
She left before dawn.
When I woke, there was a folded note on my pillow:
Obrigado. One of the best short stories I’ve ever lived.
⸻
Larissa taught me that not every fire needs a future.
That sometimes, the brightest flames burn fast, but light the way home.
And when I boarded the flight back to Singapore, I still smelled of jasmine and remembered the curve of a butterfly’s wings pressed against sun-kissed skin.
[End of Chapter 27]
Mirror Site:
London Girls, London Nights
It’s been a while since I thought about London. Not the Big Ben postcards or Harrods kind of London, but
my
London, the one etched into my skin like cold rain and foreign perfume. I spent a year there in the ’90s as an exchange student. Thought I was there for books and lectures. Turns out, I was there to be undone.
I came with no name. No rep. Back home, I was becoming
someone
. There, I was nobody, and that, in itself, became dangerous freedom. I could become anyone. So I did.
First, there was Katya, the ice-blonde from Saint Petersburg. She was beauty in a broken world, all cheekbones and contempt. An escort, but also a poet of survival. We didn’t talk much about love, but we talked about Pushkin and pain. She taught me how desire doesn’t need approval. That some women don’t need saving, but just need someone who sees them without flinching.
Then came Mira, the Doraemon-tattooed yogi from Bulgaria, barefoot and burning incense in a Camden flat that smelled of hope and heartbreak. She had a daughter who offered me carrots and called me Mr Cloud. Mira didn’t ask for commitment. She asked for presence. Our sex felt like breathing again after months underwater. And just like that, she was gone… off to Bahrain with a rich man and a dream for her kid. But sometimes, dreams curdle in strange places… long after London, in a way I never wanted to.
Diana was London in human form: cool, articulate, ironic. She didn’t seduce. She invited. Reading The Economist in a jumper two sizes too big, she made me feel like intimacy could be quiet, stable, even political. We fucked like equals. She made me better just by being next to me. No promises. Just respect.
Sasha… now Sasha was chaos in eyeliner. A bar girl with a chip on her shoulder and war stories in her bones. She rode me like vengeance, fucked like it was her last cigarette, and left me without looking back. Some people don’t want love. They want witness. I was hers, for three nights and a lifetime in memory.
Aigerim from Kazakhstan? That one burned. Tatts of ivy curling around her hips. Breasts sculpted by surgeons and a voice like molten glass. She didn’t believe in boyfriends. Only in cities. London was hers that month. I was collateral damage. She reminded me sex can be strategy, that leaving
is
an art. I respected her too much to try and stay.
And finally, Larissa. The butterfly from Rio. My last fire before flying home. She was too much: curves, rhythm, tan lines and tears. She kissed like every night was her last and danced like London was hers to conquer. I gave her two days. She gave me two nights of colour I still remember in grayscale dreams. She left with a note: “
Obrigado. One of the best short stories I’ve ever lived
.”
But I didn’t fall in love with them.
I fell in love with the versions of myself I became when I was with them.
Each woman carved a little space in my memory. Not just because of the sex (
I still remember the details
), but because of the feeling of being wanted, seen, and temporarily whole.
I left London heavier in heart, lighter in ego.
Less boy, more man.
And to this day, when the rain hits the pavement just right, I remember the scent of brandy-laced tea, the flicker of candlelight on bare skin, and the sound of a voice whispering, “
You’re kind, but you’re a cloud
.”
Stay curious…
The world is wider, and wetter, than we think.
— Casanova of Singapore
Chapter 28: The Girl with the Bob (Back in Singapore, sometime in the 1990s)
https://freeimage.host/i/FbE4vwB
(AI-generated image of Celeste)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
⸻
Coming back to Singapore felt like stepping off a moving train and into an old family photo, familiar, faded at the edges, and humming with things I’d once stopped noticing.
London had been fast: Walkmans and weather, warehouse parties and women with complicated names, pasts and accents.
Singapore was heat and concrete. Bus stops with yellow lines. Kopitiams full of men in pagers and Hush Puppies. Aunties in wet markets already talking about the GST hike. The exact same SBS uncle still driving Bus 132 like he was chasing ghosts.
The first few weeks were a blur: too many polite dinners, too many questions about jobs and “settling down.” Everyone said I looked “more mature.” My mum said my jeans were too tight.
I bought a new pager. Got a haircut. Tried to feel grounded.
But I missed the mess. The freedom. The stories that didn’t come pre-approved by parents and policy.
So maybe that’s why Celeste caught my attention.
⸻
We met at a friend’s housewarming in Serangoon, one of those terrace houses with too many cousins and a fridge stuffed with lychee cans, curry puffs, and three types of soft drinks.
She was at the stereo shelf, flipping through CD booklets like they owed her an explanation.
She had a chin-length bob, sharp and neat, and wore a loose white cotton shirt, Levi’s 501s, and a thin silver chain around her neck. Her face was fresh. Minimal makeup. Dusky lipstick. Clean brows. She looked like the kind of girl who read the Straits Times, but only the Forum page.
I offered her a drink, a lukewarm Tiger from the cooler box.
“You’re the one who came back from London, right?” she asked.
“Just landed a few weeks ago. Still adjusting to the quiet. And the humidity.”
She smirked. “You look like you spent six months thinking you were in Trainspotting.”
“And you look like you listen to Faye Wong and judge people based on their handwriting.”
“Close,” she said, not missing a beat. “I finish all my books. I just don’t lend them out.”
Her voice was low, precise. She didn’t flirt. She assessed.
And yet somehow, that made me want to be understood by her.
⸻
We ended up outside on the porch till 2 a.m., swatting mosquitoes and sharing keropok while the others inside danced to Power 98. There was something easy about her. Not indifferent. Just whole.
A few nights later, we had dinner at a Hainanese shop in Thomson: steamed fish, salted vegetable soup, and lime juice with ice.
No pretense. No angles.
She stayed with her parents in Bishan. I walked her back to her block, third floor, no lift, and she invited me up, careful to whisper once we were inside.
Her room was neat. Simple. The scent of Axe Oil and citrus soap lingered in the air. There was a shelf of poetry,
Adrienne Rich, Edwin Thumboo, Sylvia Plath
, and a cassette player on the nightstand playing The Cranberries softly.
When she kissed me, it was unhurried, her hand on my neck, her breath warm and steady. She whispered, “You staying tonight or just being polite?”
I stayed.
⸻
We undressed slowly. With no urgency. Just exploration.
Her shirt slipped off her shoulders, revealing smooth, lightly tanned skin. Her bra was simple, pale blue cotton, and her breasts fit perfectly into my hands as she guided them there without a word.
Her jeans slid off easily. She stood in front of me in just her panties, beautiful tits staring back, and bare feet curling into the tiled floor, watching me like she was reading a long sentence one word at a time.
She pulled me onto the bed and kissed me again, deeper this time, her hands tracing the shape of my back, her nails dragging gently down my spine.
When I entered her, she gasped softly, wrapping her legs around me, her thighs warm against my waist.
There was no rush. No theatrics.
Just motion… slow, rhythmic, meaningful.
She moaned softly into my neck. Not for effect. Just because it felt right.
Her hands moved over my chest, my shoulders, my face, mapping me like someone committing the moment to memory.
We came together, not loudly, but fully, like we had folded into the same breath.
⸻
Afterwards, we lay tangled in sweat and cotton. The fan hummed above us, blades wobbling with age.
She ran a finger across my chest and said, “You’re quieter than I expected.”
“Still jet-lagged.”
“No,” she said. “You’re just figuring out if this version of you fits here.”
She was right.
⸻
We saw each other a few more times.
Kopi at S11.
The Frighteners
at Cathay. Walks down Orchard Road just for fun. A night at East Coast Park with satay and Tiger beer.
She never tried to define what we were. Never asked for more.
But she noticed everything.
When I pulled away emotionally, she didn’t chase.
When I smiled too long at silence, she just smiled back.
⸻
Celeste wasn’t exotic. She wasn’t trying to be.
She was
Singapore
in all its grounded, beautiful familiarity, heartlander sharp, quiet fire, still water running deep.
And maybe that was exactly what I needed.
Not another country.
But someone who reminded me why I came home.
[End of Chapter 28]
Happy 60th National Day, Singapore!
Mirror Site:
Chapter 29: The Clerk at Admin Block B (University Final Semester)
https://freeimage.host/i/FbELS49
(AI-generated image of Miss Lim)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
⸻
By the final months of university, I was running on autopilot.
The thesis was done. The exams were approaching. Internship placements had been sorted. Life was coasting toward graduation, and I felt strangely numb, like I was walking in a borrowed uniform that didn’t quite fit anymore.
I wasn’t looking for love.
Wasn’t even looking for sex.
Just something unexpected. Something that didn’t follow a timetable or come with a cover page.
That’s when I noticed Miss Lim.
She worked behind the glass window at Admin Block B, the one near the Registrar’s Office. Every student eventually passed through her counter for forms, fees, appeals, or transcript pickups.
She was probably in her late twenties. Neatly dressed. Always in neutral-coloured blouses tucked into high-waisted slacks. Her hair was short, neat bob, curled in slightly at the chin. She wore plain shoes. No makeup. Just a bit of pressed powder and a clipped, no-nonsense voice.
The first time we properly spoke, I was submitting a late request for an internship letter.
“You’re past the deadline,” she said without looking up.
“I was sick,” I replied, not bothering to sound convincing.
She looked up then, eyes tired but sharp. “That excuse is already on file three times this week.”
⸻
There was something oddly compelling about her indifference.
No smile. No small talk. No eye-rolls.
Just quiet, contained efficiency. And maybe that’s why I kept thinking about her after.
A few days later, I returned the completed form with a kopi-O kosong in hand.
She stared at it. “What’s this?”
“Peace offering.”
“Or guilt?”
“Does it matter?”
She didn’t smile. But she took the cup.
Two evenings later, my pager buzzed. A number I didn’t recognise. I called it from a payphone at the bus stop outside campus.
“Miss Lim speaking.”
Pause.
“You’re free tonight?”
⸻
When I returned to Admin Block B that night, the office was dark. But the side door by the staff pantry was ajar.
She let me in with a glance. No greeting. No hesitation.
We walked to the back records room, behind the cubicles, the place with old student files, stacked cardboard boxes, and a faint scent of photocopier toner.
She closed the door. Pulled the blinds.
“I know about you. And your reputation. I assume you understand this isn’t about anything,” she said.
Then she began unbuttoning her blouse.
⸻
We didn’t kiss at first.
She took her top off, a soft beige blouse, then unclipped her bra. Her breasts were small but firm, her skin faintly perfumed with something herbal and clean. She reached for my belt and undid it in one motion, brushing aside my shirt without ceremony.
When she leaned against the filing cabinet, she didn’t wait for foreplay. She hiked up her skirt, pulled her panties aside, and said quietly, “Just use a condom.”
I did.
I entered her slowly, one hand braced against the filing drawer, the other around her hip.
She didn’t moan. She didn’t touch me back.
But she moved, rhythmically, deliberately, clenching at the right moments, adjusting the angle with calm precision.
Her breath stayed measured the whole time.
Eyes closed, lips pressed tight.
As if she was managing the sensations like tasks on a checklist.
When I came, she turned slightly away, stepped aside, and adjusted her skirt.
She wiped herself clean with tissue from her handbag and looked over her shoulder. “There’s no need to say anything. You can let yourself out.”
⸻
We did it again the following week.
This time, at her flat, an old rental walk-up in Ang Mo Kio. The place was sparse. Two rattan chairs, a calendar, and a single rotary fan. No family photos. No clutter.
She offered me barley water, said nothing about what we were doing, and led me into the bedroom.
She undressed on one side of the room while I undressed on the other, like we were backstage performers preparing for a quiet, efficient scene.
We fucked on her bed, missionary, then sideways, then back to missionary.
She guided me in, kept her legs folded tight around me, never once breaking eye contact. Her nails dug into my back, but it wasn’t desperation; it was control.
She came once, quietly, with a slight tremble in her thighs. Then she rolled over and reached for her towel.
No cuddling. No question of dinner.
Just, “You should go before the neighbour sees.”
⸻
There was no third time.
She never paged again.
I didn’t either.
⸻
Miss Lim didn’t give me drama.
Or meaning.
Or affection.
What she gave me was a mirror, held still and quiet, and it showed me what sex without intimacy looked like. What it
felt
like.
Flesh meeting flesh with no expectation.
No curiosity.
Just agreement.
She reminded me that not every woman wants love.
That sometimes, two people just need something to control.
And that you can undress someone
completely
… and still leave the room having learned nothing about them at all.
[End of Chapter 29]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 30: The Exam Season Spark (University Final Semester)
https://freeimage.host/i/FbEtMrP
(AI-generated image of Melissa)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
⸻
By the time final exams rolled around, campus felt like a military camp.
The couples had vanished. The strumming guitars silenced. Even the green benches by the humanities block were deserted. What was left were empty coffee cups, twitchy fingers on calculator buttons, and the low hum of photocopiers grinding through another past-year paper set.
I was barely hanging on.
Half my mind was already in the corporate internship waiting after graduation. The other half was just trying to remember polymerase chain reactions and complicated scientific models.
That’s when I started spending more time with Melissa.
She wasn’t close. Just familiar, she sat near me in lectures, borrowed notes occasionally, made the kind of jokes that broke through tension like sunlight through fog.
She wasn’t what you’d call traditionally pretty.
Frizzy shoulder-length hair, oversized glasses, slightly crooked teeth. Always in JC alumni T-shirts and cotton capris with faded flip-flops.
But she had this warm, grounded energy that made 2 a.m. revision feel… survivable.
⸻
We began studying together by convenience.
Shared tables in the science library. Took turns buying kopi and kaya toast. Annotated lecture slides together. Grumbled about professors.
One night, finals week, heat wave, tempers short
, we were in her hall room, the table piled with notes, both of us clearly losing steam.
She tossed her pen down and sighed, voice hoarse.
“Don’t you just want to blow off steam? Like…
real
steam?”
I blinked. “Like a jog?”
She laughed. “You’re not
that
blur.”
A beat passed.
Then she leaned over, nudged my hand, and kissed me.
It wasn’t slow. Or romantic.
It was desperate.
A dam bursting.
⸻
Clothes came off in pieces, her T-shirt tossed onto the desk, my jeans half-pulled down around my knees. Her hall room was narrow, cluttered, warm with the scent of cheap shampoo and instant noodles. The fan squeaked rhythmically as it turned above us.
She pulled me onto her bed, narrow, single-sized, barely fitting two bodies.
I kissed her neck, her breath hot in my ear. Her bra came off with a clumsy tug. Her breasts were soft, natural, one slightly larger than the other. Her nipples responded instantly: firm, warm, real.
Her thighs opened as she pulled off her panties, a sheen of sweat already on her skin. She whispered, “Just don’t overthink.”
We didn’t.
I slid into her slowly, gently at first, but she pushed back with unexpected urgency, urging me to move faster. She grabbed the back of my neck and bit my shoulder lightly as I thrust harder, deeper.
The bed creaked beneath us.
Notes fluttered off the table.
Her fingers dug into my back.
Her moans were real: low, ragged, slightly nasal.
She came first, arching up, breath catching, hips trembling beneath me.
I followed soon after, pulsing inside her, pressing my forehead to hers, both of us panting as the fan spun on.
⸻
Afterwards, we lay side by side on her single bed, not touching… both too sweaty to cuddle.
“Thanks,” she said simply, reaching for her water bottle. “I think I can study again.”
We laughed.
We didn’t discuss what just happened.
We didn’t need to.
⸻
We did it twice more that week.
Once in her room again.
Once in a tutorial room after midnight, behind closed blinds, between rows of plastic chairs. That time was even rougher. No foreplay. Just hands grabbing and bodies pressing: fast, panting, satisfying.
No sleepovers. No drama.
Just the unspoken understanding: this was revision week therapy.
⸻
After the final paper, after the last highlighter cap snapped shut and the results were released, we stopped seeing each other.
She got a job with the civil service. HR or policy, I heard.
I bumped into her a year later at Maxwell Food Centre. She was with a few colleagues, in a pencil skirt and office blouse, laughing over fish soup. She looked good, more polished, less tired. She didn’t see me. And I didn’t wave.
⸻
Melissa taught me something important.
That sex doesn’t have to be profound to matter.
That not all connections are built for staying.
Some are like pressure valves.
Opened just long enough to keep you from bursting.
And sometimes, the kindest goodbye…
is simply
knowing
not to say one at all.
[End of Chapter 30]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 31: One More Night at Golden Mile (Between Graduation and Internship, Singapore)
https://freeimage.host/i/FbEp8ts
(AI-generated image of Noi)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
⸻
Before the nine-to-six began, before I put on a tie and memorised my extension number and joined the lunch queue at Bras Basah Complex, I gave myself one last night.
A final detour. I thought.
A dose of sweat, bass, and bad decisions.
Something to remind me of who I was before I became whoever I was going to be.
And there was only one place in Singapore for that kind of night in the nineties:
Golden Mile Complex.
Not Boat Quay. Not Zouk.
Golden Mile: that chaotic Thai enclave of blinking neon, strong beer, and bass-thumping discos that never pretended to be anything they weren’t.
The kind of place where the beer was always cold, the girls were always hot, and the uncles in the karaoke lounges never sang on key.
⸻
I went with a few old friends, one from army, one from hall, one guy from business school who never danced unless he was already drunk.
Inside, the disco was
The live band on stage was belting out a Thai remix of “
Zombie
” by The Cranberries.
The bassline made my ribs vibrate.
That’s when I saw Noi.
She moved like she didn’t walk; she swayed.
Bronzed skin, dyed light brown hair pulled into a high ponytail, oversized hoop earrings, and a skin-tight red halter top that clung to her like a second skin. Her denim skirt barely covered her hips, and when she moved, the whole room adjusted.
She saw me watching.
Smiled.
Walked over.
“You dance?” she asked, over the pounding bass, her Thai-accented English thick but flirtatious.
“With you, of course.”
⸻
She moved like heat in motion, hips rolling, shoulders loose, fingertips grazing my arms. She leaned in close, laughing every time I stumbled through a word of Thai. She smelled of sweat and sweet lemongrass, her breath carrying a trace of Thai whiskey and menthols.
When she turned and pressed her back against me, grinding slow, I saw the small lotus tattoo just above her hip, faint but deliberate.
She pulled my hands around her waist.
“You not like other guy here,” she whispered, mouth brushing my cheek. “You soft eyes. Gentle.”
I didn’t answer.
Because in that moment, I didn’t want to be anything else.
⸻
We left past 2 a.m.
My friends raised their eyebrows and gave thumbs up as I followed her into the cab.
She gave the driver an address in Geylang Lorong 16, one of the budget hotels with hour rates and peeling signs. The kind of place where no one asked for surnames or backstories.
The room was small.
Fluorescent.
One queen bed. One rattling aircon.
She dropped her bag, kicked off her heels, turned around, and pulled me by the collar.
We kissed hard.
Messy.
Mouths open. Teeth clashing. Hands everywhere.
Her top came off quickly: no bra. Her breasts were small, round, surprisingly firm. I kissed down her neck, her collarbone, her chest, all the way to the curve of her belly.
She laughed as I pulled down her skirt. “You slow. Come, I help.”
Then she was on the bed, legs parted, with a glistening shaved Thai pussy in all its glory, pulling me between her thighs, whispering something in Thai I didn’t understand, but didn’t need to.
⸻
Before anything else, I reached for my wallet.
I always carried a condom, ever since that NS scare with Iselyn (a medic friend’s twin sister) when things got too heated, too fast, and I spent a nervous week waiting for test results that thankfully came back clean.
Since then, I never played with luck.
I rolled it on while she watched, smirking approvingly, then pulled her toward me.
⸻
The sex was raw. Hot. Frenzied.
She wrapped her legs around me and moved in rhythm, grinding her hips up to meet every thrust. Her moans were throaty, half-laughed, half-sighed.
She scratched lightly down my back. Bit my shoulder. Gasped my name with exaggerated drama, and somehow still meant it.
She came twice, once with a yelp, once with a shudder, then pulled me deeper and whispered, “One more, one more,” even after I was done.
We collapsed beside each other, limbs tangled in cheap sheets, skin slick with sweat, breath slowly finding its way back to normal.
⸻
Afterwards, she lit a cigarette at the window.
“I go back Bangkok next week,” she said, brushing her ponytail out of her face. “My sister get married.”
“You live here?” I asked.
She nodded. “Work six months. Go back. Then maybe come again.”
She turned to me and smiled. “You come see me in Thailand?”
I smiled back. “Maybe.”
We both knew I wouldn’t.
⸻
In the morning, she was already in the bathroom, humming softly, applying cheap lipstick with surprising care. She used the hotel comb on her bangs and adjusted her skirt like it was a uniform.
We exchanged pager numbers on scraps of paper.
Mine got soaked by sweat and shredded in my wallet within days.
I never saw her again.
⸻
Noi didn’t teach me anything profound.
But she reminded me of who I used to be.
That boy who danced because he wanted to be touched.
Who kissed strangers because he didn’t know what else to do with loneliness.
Who mistook motion for meaning.
That night was a memory wrapped in heat and fluorescence and unspoken truths.
And sometimes, that’s enough.
Sometimes, the last hurrah isn’t a lesson.
Just a beat you dance to before the music changes forever.
[End of Chapter 31]
Mirror Site:
Author’s notes:
Writing these few chapters in a row really feels like following the last lap before the next race starts. You can see the shift… not the “
blur sotong schoolboy
” days anymore, but also not yet the full-on salary man with office politics and neckties.
Each fling here hits differently: one feels like home (on National Day.. perhaps not coincidentally), another is just pure physical release, while the next is like a stress-buster during crunch time, and then a final night of pure heat before the next chapter in life kicks in. All different flavours, all adding to the mix of who the Casanova is becoming.
It’s not about “
settling down
” yet… far from it. More like closing the uni chapter, collecting a few more memories, and stepping into the working world with the same appetite… just a slightly different game plan. If anything, this just sets the stage for the next wave of adventures.
Thank you for supporting my thread with your kind comments!
Chapter 32: Curled and Gone (Start of Internship, Singapore)
https://freeimage.host/i/FbGJPLu
(AI-generated image of Isabelle)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
⸻
The first day of internship was everything you’d expect.
Pressed polos tucked into pleated trousers.
Shoes still stiff with their factory shine.
Leather folders that squeaked slightly when opened.
The lift lobby smelled like toner, nervousness, and cheap cologne.
I stood among the other new hires, trying to look capable, but not cocky.
And then I saw
her
.
She was standing by the sign-in sheet, a clipboard in one hand, her other arm draped loosely around a tote bag like she was modelling for Elle Singapore without even knowing it.
Isabelle.
Half-French, half-Singaporean. Studying communications at Melbourne Uni. Back in Singapore for a “summer internship to reconnect with my roots,” she said, her voice laced with a lazy, disinterested elegance that made everything sound optional.
Her beauty was the kind that didn’t move fast.
It just… lingered.
Wavy, chestnut curls cascaded past her shoulders. Her skin was luminous, porcelain with a warm undertone. She had high cheekbones, a sharp jawline, lips full without needing lipstick, and almond-shaped eyes that looked like they’d studied you before you even approached.
She wore a simple cream blouse, tucked into dark slacks, no jewellery, just a thin leather watch and the confidence of someone who’d always been admired.
⸻
We were assigned to the same project team.
I thought fate had given me a wink.
I pulled every move in my playbook.
Kopi chat ups during breaks.
Slide deck rescue missions.
Witty observations about HR memos and the poor aircon circulation.
She smiled, occasionally. But mostly, she gave me nothing… which, of course, only pulled me in deeper.
⸻
Then, one Friday after-work drinks, a stuffy little bar on Circular Road with weak beer towers and tin ashtrays, in the midst of my continual efforts, she finally turned to me, smiled and said, simply:
“Boy, let’s not overthink this.”
⸻
We took a cab to the loft she was borrowing from a family friend, somewhere in River Valley. A picturesque walk-up. High ceilings, louvered windows and the scent of faint jasmine incense wafting through.
She poured us white wine and kicked off her heels. Then she turned, slipped her arms around my neck, and kissed me… slow and deliberate.
Her lips tasted like citrus and floral notes.
Her blouse came off in one motion.
No bra.
Her breasts were perfect, not too large, not too small, softly shaped and firm, with dusky rose nipples that hardened under my touch.
She undressed methodically… skirt… lace panties… folding nothing, letting everything fall.
She lay back on the bed, hair splayed around her like a halo, legs slightly parted, watching me as I rolled on a condom.
I mounted her slowly.
Her body was cool at first, then warming with each movement.
She was tight, responsive, guiding the rhythm with a quiet authority.
Her moans were soft, breathy, but controlled.
She didn’t beg. She didn’t cling.
She turned her face to the side as I thrust into her, her hand brushing down my back with clinical precision, like she was cataloguing the moment for future reference.
She came, or at least
pretended to
, with a muted gasp and a sharp arch of her back.
When I finished, she rolled away and turned away from me.
⸻
We lay in silence, her skin cool against the sheets.
“You’re nice,” she said.
I looked at her. “You too.”
She took a deep breath, and exhaled toward the ceiling, eyes looking away.
“But I think I’ll see where things go with Ryan.”
I blinked. “Ryan? From accounting?”
She nodded. “He’s tall, dumb but funny. I don’t have to keep up.”
I laughed once: short, surprised.
“I thought I was funny.”
“You’re just… too
witty
,” she said. “It’s not the same. Witty makes me think. That’s effort.”
She didn’t say it to be cruel.
Just honest.
⸻
By Monday, she was holding Ryan’s hand over mee rebus in the pantry.
I wasn’t heartbroken.
Just mildly annoyed.
And slightly impressed by Isabelle.
But strangely… I felt
recharged
.
There was no drama.
No tears.
No wondering what I did wrong.
Just the quiet, brutal reminder:
this wasn’t love
.
This was the
game
.
And I wasn’t done playing.
⸻
By Thursday night, I was at a networking drinks session at Tanjong Pagar, chatting up a final-year NUS girl who liked my broad shoulders and tanned complexion.
Isabelle didn’t teach me anything new.
She just reminded me.
That beauty isn’t kindness.
That sex isn’t intimacy.
And that rejection, when clean, can be the best kind of fuel.
[End of Chapter 32]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 33: The One Who Needed Kindness (Midway Through Internship, Singapore)
https://freeimage.host/i/FDzbxiG
(AI-generated image of Joanne)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
⸻
A few weeks into my internship, long after Isabelle had drifted off with Ryan-from-accounting and I’d resumed my usual rhythm of late nights and light flirting, a new group of interns joined us.
Among them was Joanne.
She was petite, barely past five feet, with a short pixie cut and round eyes that blinked rapidly when she was nervous. Her blouses were always slightly too big, her shoes soft-soled, and she carried a pencil case like a JC student who hadn’t quite realised she’d grown up.
She had a quiet sort of presence… Unthreatening. Soft.
But her kindness disarmed people. You simply wanted to be careful with her, even when she wasn’t asking for it.
She was also unexpectedly sharp, caught my typos in proposals, knew when to defuse team tensions, and memorised Excel shortcuts that made the rest of us feel clumsy.
⸻
We got closer through shared work.
Late nights waiting for feedback. Shared cab rides from River Valley. Lunches with overlapping trays and half-stolen stories.
One Friday evening, I offered to walk her to the MRT. We stood side by side near the Orchard underpass, the escalators whirring behind us, and she said:
“You’re not as scary as I thought.”
I grinned. “What made me scary?”
“You’re quiet. Intense. You stare like you already know what I’m going to say.”
“I probably do.”
She looked up. “Then say it.”
I tilted my head, amused, and said slowly, mischievously. “You
like
me.”
Her eyes widened just a little, but she didn’t look away. “Maybe. And maybe I don’t know what to do with that.”
“You don’t have to do anything,” I said softly.
She looked at me for a long moment. Then: “Kiss me, if you mean it.”
So I did.
⸻
That weekend, I was at her flat in Bishan, a four-room HDB she shared with her parents and older sister. All of them were out for various reasons. Her room was clean, warm, softly lit. Posters of
The Cranberries
and a faded Garfield plushie on the bed.
We lay side by side, playing with each other’s fingers until the silences became heavy.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said suddenly, voice barely above a whisper.
“Me too.”
“You’re… different from what I thought. Gentler.”
“I could say the same about you,” I replied.
She smiled faintly. “Most people think I’m soft. Easy to overlook.”
“You’re not. You’re… aware. Like you’re always listening.”
She turned her head toward me. “You make me feel safe.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. So I reached for her hand instead. She squeezed back.
Then we started to undress.
Slowly, shyly.
Her blouse came off first. She wore a simple pale-pink bra, slightly loose. Her breasts were small, perky, and warm beneath my palms. Her skin was smooth, lightly scented with powder and Dettol soap.
I took my shirt off. Her hands traced my defined chest, my taut shoulders, a little unsure but eager.
When I pulled down her shorts, she turned away slightly. Her panties were soft cotton, not sexy, just real. She lifted her hips to help.
I slipped off my own jeans and briefs, and she looked…
really looked
.
A brief widening of her eyes. A tiny breath caught in her throat.
“You’re… um, bigger than I thought,” she said, her voice barely audible.
I smiled gently. “That a problem?”
She hesitated, then shook her head. “I want to try.”
⸻
We started slowly.
Kissing.
Touching.
Finding rhythm through hesitation.
She was wet, but tense, every movement making her inhale sharply, her body arching in uncertainty.
When I finally eased in,
just the tip
, she winced, her hands gripping the sheets.
“Wait!!” she whispered, breath trembling . “It hurts.”
I stopped immediately. Pulled back.
She blinked fast. “Sorry… I think I’m too small.”
I sat back on my heels, still hard, still wanting, but suddenly more concerned than aroused.
“Let’s… try again?” She asked.
I attempted a second time, without going any further than the first try, but this time, her reaction was even more intense.
“Ouch!! I don’t think I can take it!” Joanne exclaimed as I deftly withdrew.
We took several deep breaths, with my member deflating gradually.
“It’s okay,” I said. “Really.”
She bit her lower lip, embarrassed.
“I feel stupid,” she murmured.
“Don’t,” I said. “You trusted me. That means everything.”
She turned to look at me. Her eyes were glossy.
“You’re not angry?”
I reached for her cheek, brushing a strand of hair aside. “Of course not. Why would I be?”
“Because I wanted this. And then I couldn’t.”
“You
can
. Just not today. And that’s okay.”
Her shoulders dropped. She let out a long, quiet breath… like someone exhaling a burden.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “For not making me feel small.”
“You’re not small. You’re brave.”
She smiled, just a little, and curled into me, her head resting against my chest.
⸻
We didn’t try again anymore after that.
But something between us settled, not in disappointment, but in quiet trust.
We still met at the pantry. Still passed notes during meetings. But that thread of tension, the electric
maybe
, it gently untied itself.
There was simply no drama or fallout.
It just remained as something tender… Something that didn’t need to become more than it was.
⸻
Joanne taught me something I hadn’t expected to learn at this stage in the game.
That restraint could be sexier than conquest.
That being desired didn’t mean being entitled.
And that kindness,
real
,
patient kindness
, had its own kind of heat.
She never made me feel ashamed for wanting her.
And I never made her feel lesser for pulling back.
In the long string of bodies and breath and blurred nights, she was one who showed me what it meant to pause… and still be whole.
[End of Chapter 33]
Mirror Site:
Quote:
Originally Posted by
junior_cannibal
One of the best written threads indeed.
TS, you sure have outdone most men, not just by number, colour but also types of women by types and characters.
It’s not easy to move from one to another without feeling a loss when the previous ones MIA. Maybe because there might literally be no space or gap in between for you to even think.
This forum is indeed a great place or to be that little diary of yours to pour your sexual encounters without the fear to be easily identified.
While sexually fulfilling, emotionally, it can still be empty and lonely. Afterall, making love and having sex ain’t the same at all.
Thanks for sharing yours.
Glad you’re enjoying the ride so far, but there is still a long way to go before the full picture is out.
If you like the story, do share it around so more can follow along, and stay tuned till the end, things get even more interesting from here.