-
No sex when drunk.
-
No sex when high.
-
Never again confuse novelty with chemistry. (I.e. Don’t do drugs. Never again.)
Chapter 52: Four Nights of Fizz
https://freeimage.host/i/KnuqSyB
(AI-generated image of Cheryl)
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.
She smelled faintly of lemongrass oil and printer ink.
Her name was Cheryl, and she was a children’s book illustrator, freelance, humble, precise.
We met at a friend’s gathering in a Holland Village walk-up, while I was halfway through a drink, and she was folding origami cranes on a coaster.
Petite, just at five feet.
A neat fringe, oval glasses. Her T-shirt read:
Yes, I draw for a living.
She laughed softly, and only when something was truly funny.
She hugged her mug with both hands like it was a heat source.
There was something quiet about her that calmed my edges.
⸻
We messaged each other using SMS first, then shifted to ICQ when it got late.
She used punctuation.
Even in text, she was gentle.
“You seem like the kind of guy who runs hot,” she once wrote.
“I’m curious how that feels.”
⸻
Night 1: The Spark
She came over to my flat at Tiong Bahru after dinner.
We sat cross-legged on the floor, listening to
The Corrs Unplugged
on my Philips CD player.
The kiss was shy at first, more curiosity than hunger.
But when her hands slid up my chest, something shifted.
We moved to the mattress, clothes shedding between giggles.
Her body was light, almost weightless.
Small breasts, soft curves, faint tan lines along her hips.
She sighed as I kissed down her belly, her thighs spreading naturally, a surprised gasp escaping when I touched her with my tongue.
“You don’t have to be careful,” she whispered. “But don’t rush.”
She was wetter than expected.
She pulled me in with her legs, her ankles hooking around my lower back as I slid inside.
We rocked gently, hips finding rhythm, her breath catching in sync with mine.
When she came, it was a slow exhale, her forehead against mine.
Afterwards, we lay tangled in a warm mess of limbs and cotton.
She looked at me and said,
“So… that’s how you run.”
⸻
Night 2: The Crescendo
This time, she wore a dress.
No bra.
She said it made her feel free.
We didn’t bother with music.
We didn’t need it.
I bent her over the side of the bed, kissed her back as I slid inside from behind.
She moaned louder that night, and encouraged me to go deeper, faster.
Her fingers gripped the mattress, her cheek against the pillow, sweat glistening along her spine.
We then tried a new position, with her on top, leaning forward, hair falling across my face.
She rode me slow, then fast, then slow again, giggling when I lost rhythm.
“I didn’t think I’d like it this much,” she said, breathless, as we collapsed.
We slept naked, bodies pressed together, skin still sticky from heat and motion.
⸻
Night 3: The Shift
It started the same, with kisses, warm hands, gentle anticipation.
But the urgency was gone.
We took longer to undress.
She was quieter.
My kisses were softer.
We tried again, same rhythm, same movement, but it didn’t peak.
We paused halfway.
“It’s okay,” she said, stroking my chest.
“Maybe we already found what we came for.”
We still made love, slow, tender, like two people reading a familiar story.
She came, but quietly.
I followed, but more out of respect than hunger.
Afterwards, she lay beside me and stared at the ceiling fan.
“We’re nice,” she said. “But maybe we’re not fire.”
⸻
Night 4: The Fade
She came over with char siew pau and a bag of oranges.
We ate on the floor.
Talked about her latest book project, something about a turtle who didn’t want to come out of its shell.
We kissed out of habit.
Clothes came off again.
But halfway through foreplay, she stopped and smiled.
“You don’t need to finish.”
“I want to.”
“But do you… still want to?”
I paused.
And that was the answer.
We still had sex.
But it was like the last scene of a play, the actors going through the motions for closure, not applause.
Her body moved beneath me, accepting, warm.
But my heart wasn’t racing.
Her hands weren’t clinging.
We both knew.
⸻
Afterwards, we lay side by side.
No tension.
No sadness.
Just understanding.
“I think we were more curious than anything,” she said.
“We wanted to know what it was. And now we do.”
I nodded.
We didn’t ghost.
Still said hi when we walked past each other.
She gave me a signed copy of her book when it was published:
The Turtle Who Learned to Swim.
I still have it.
⸻
Cheryl taught me that
not every passion is meant to burn
.
Some just fizz, beautifully, briefly.
Enough to warm the room.
But not enough to last through the night.
⸻
[End of Chapter 52]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 53: The One I Chose Not to Chase
https://freeimage.host/i/KnZcKLQ
(AI-generated image of Anqi)
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.
She didn’t arrive.
She entered.
Tall, straight-backed, chin raised like someone used to cold wind and long roads.
Her name was Anqi. Manchurian.
Born in Harbin, raised in Shenyang, and in Singapore on a postgraduate scholarship.
We met in a China studies elective.
I misquoted a northern idiom in class.
She smirked, beautiful slit eyes lined in kohl, lips pressed into that knowing half-smile I would come to crave.
“You sound like a Cantonese uncle trying to pass for a Beijing cabbie,” she teased after lecture.
“It’s almost charming.”
She was built like no woman I’d ever dated so far: broad shoulders, long limbs, powerful calves, hair always tied tight into a bun like she might break into a martial arts pose at any moment.
But when she moved, it was quiet. Almost feline.
She didn’t flirt.
She didn’t lean in when she laughed or brush her fingers against my arm.
She simply observed, offered sharp replies, and let her presence do the work.
And it worked.
⸻
Anqi carried with her more than just the weight of her own choices… she carried echoes of a culture shaped by the northern plains, by winter winds that demanded resilience, and by histories where women were not always silent figures in the background, but leaders, riders, hunters, mothers of empires.
The Manchu people, from whom she descended, had once ruled the Qing Dynasty, the last imperial dynasty of China. Their women were known for their distinctive upright posture and the famed
qitou
headwear that signaled dignity and presence. Unlike Han Chinese women who had endured the practice of foot-binding for centuries, Manchu women’s feet remained unbound, thus they were able to walk, to ride horses, to work the land, to fight if needed. Independence was written into their very steps.
Anqi seemed to embody this legacy without ever needing to declare it. Her straight-backed walk, her refusal to soften her edges for male comfort, her quiet but unyielding self-possession… it all spoke of a lineage where women were expected to hold their own space in the world.
To her, femininity was not submission but presence. It was not about delicate gestures or veiled hints, but about clarity, control, and the ability to meet another’s gaze without flinching. She didn’t play the coquette; she stood as though her ancestors had ridden beside emperors and generals, and she knew the difference between choosing and being chosen.
With Anqi, intimacy never felt like conquest. It felt like entering into a space she allowed, measured and deliberate, where equality mattered more than seduction. She was not trying to win me, nor did she need me to win her. She simply was, and that was more powerful than any performance.
⸻
The Night
It had rained earlier.
The kind of evening where the roads glistened and the air turned soft.
We met at a small gallery opening in Telok Ayer, talked about politics and poetry over ice-cold Tiger beer, and found ourselves standing too close beneath a shared umbrella outside the MRT.
She leaned in, just slightly, and kissed me.
Firm lips. No hesitation.
⸻
Her flat was in a walk-up in Balestier, sparsely furnished, a single rattan armchair, books stacked on the floor, a rack of drying lingerie near the window.
She poured hot water into a teapot without asking.
We drank in silence.
Then we touched.
⸻
Lovemaking with Anqi was
deliberate
.
She undressed slowly, not shy, but purposeful.
First the blouse, revealing a long torso and modest but full breasts, then the skirt that slipped to her ankles in a quiet sigh of fabric.
There was a composure in her movements that felt older than her… straight-backed, steady and unbending. She undressed not to please, but as if she were asserting that this body was hers before it was mine to touch.
She stood before me in a black cotton bra and underwear, no lace, no frills… just clean lines and quiet confidence.
I reached out. She let me.
Her skin was cool at first, then warm under my palms.
She kissed with pressure, not pace, with lips pressed, parted, held.
I could feel her breath sync with mine, the pulse in her neck steady, calm.
She pulled me onto her bed, onto firm mattress, over plain sheets.
We lay side by side, eyes locked, legs brushing.
When she rolled over to straddle me, her long limbs framed me like a sculpture. There was something unmistakably
regal
in the way she moved… so deliberate and unhurried, as though she had learned from ancestors who believed women should stand equal to men, not hidden behind them.
She reached behind, unclipped her bra, and let it fall.
I sat up, mouth at her chest, feeling her body shift as her breath deepened.
Her nipples responded quickly to touch, not overly sensitive, but alert.
She guided me inside her slowly, her hips circling as she exhaled.
The depth was different, not just physical but emotional.
She never moaned loudly, never rushed.
She moved with control, eyes never leaving mine.
Her fingers dug into my shoulders.
Her rhythm was steady, pulsing, unwavering.
She clenched, held, relaxed, like someone playing an instrument she knew well but hadn’t touched in years.
It felt less like surrender, more like ritual… two people holding a moment as equals.
We climaxed almost together… she first, with a quiet gasp and a soft, whispered “来了…”, and then me, drawn out by the rhythm and the stillness.
⸻
Afterwards, we lay under the ceiling fan, her leg draped over mine.
She kissed my collarbone once, then tucked her head under my chin.
“You’re better than I expected,” she said.
“But not the one I’ll end up with.”
There was no sadness in her voice.
Just
clarity
.
And I realised…
she was right
.
⸻
We saw each other twice more.
Once over noodles at Whampoa.
Once in class, sitting at different ends of the seminar room.
There was no drama.
No ghosting.
Just the quiet drift of two people who had shared something, and understood that it had already reached its shape.
⸻
Anqi taught me that not every fire needs to be fed.
Some flames are meant to warm you for a night, then return to ash.
That even when the body says yes, the heart might say:
“
This was enough.
”
With Anqi, I came to understand that intimacy was never just about two bodies.
It was about history living quietly in posture, in silence, in the way a woman could carry centuries of survival without needing to explain a word of it. I wasn’t only with her; I was brushing against that lineage, that unbroken thread of dignity.
And in choosing not to chase her, I learned that some lessons don’t stay in books or lectures.
They come embodied, for one brief season, to remind you that presence can be
enough
.
⸻
[End of Chapter 53]
Mirror Site:
Author’s Note on the Portrayal of Women and Culture
As I share these chapters, I want to pause for a moment and acknowledge something important. Each story I write is not just about bodies meeting in the night, but about people… each woman with her own history, culture, and inner world that shaped how she loved, how she held herself, and how she left an imprint on me.
In particular, I hope readers understand that my intention is always to portray the women in these chapters with respect and depth. Each encounter carried meaning beyond flesh upon flesh; it was also about presence, resilience, clarity, and the subtle ways culture lives on in posture, in silence, in gestures.
I am mindful that when I write about someone’s heritage… whether Manchurian, Vietnamese, Malay, or European, I am touching on stories far larger than my own. My aim is not to stereotype, but to reflect the lived experience of meeting another person as a whole being, carrying with them echoes of their lineage and identity.
If there is passion in these pages, there is also reflection. If there is intimacy, there is also learning. Every woman I have written about gave me more than a moment; she gave me perspective. And in writing, I hope to honor that.
Chapter 54: The Gentle One Who Faded Away
https://freeimage.host/i/KojXN1e
(AI-generated image of Marianne)
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.
She wasn’t the kind of woman who turned heads…
but if you looked long enough, you didn’t want to look away.
Marianne.
I met her at a mutual friend’s book launch at a colonial shophouse in Emerald Hill, picture: white wine, whispered opinions about Szymborska, and the quiet self-importance of small literary circles.
She stood by the refreshments table, looking graceful, well-dressed in a dark plum wrap dress that hugged her figure modestly, the kind of fabric that moved like memory.
She had high cheekbones, soft laugh lines, and faint silver threads in her otherwise thick, shoulder-length hair.
Her eyes were kind, not bright, not probing, just… present.
We started with poetry.
Ended up talking about
loneliness
.
“It’s not about being alone,” she said. “It’s about having no one to tell when something lovely happens.”
Her voice was low, a little husky, not from cigarettes, but from years of speaking gently.
She was in her late 40s. Never married.
“Came close once,” she said, with a distant smile. “But he wasn’t the right kind of kind.”
There was no seduction.
No spark.
Just the slow settling of comfort, like old paper between fingers.
⸻
We met again, with lunch at The Book Café.
A slow walk through the Botanic Gardens.
Another evening at her apartment in Novena, a space filled with books, woven throws, muted lamps, and the scent of bergamot tea.
When she opened her door that night, she was barefoot, her toenails painted navy, her hair loosely tied back with a silk ribbon.
She smiled.
“I’ve been waiting for you without needing to.”
⸻
The lovemaking was not urgent.
It was
careful
.
She undressed in silence.
First the ribbon. Then the soft cardigan. Then the wrap dress that unraveled around her waist like it had been waiting to fall.
Her body surprised me,
voluptuous
, soft where youth had once been taut, but beautiful in the way stone steps become beautiful: shaped by time, and still holding.
She pulled me toward her.
Kissed me with a kind of patience that made everything else… all my noise, my pride, my practiced heat… fall away.
We moved slowly.
She took me in without resistance, her breath hitching only slightly as our rhythm found its groove.
She guided my hand to her breast, cupped over mine.
“Stay here,” she whispered. “Just stay for a bit.”
We didn’t talk after.
We didn’t need to.
We just lay together, her leg curled over mine, my fingers brushing her temple, and the fan ticking above us like an old metronome. There was a fragility in that moment, like we both knew it was something we could not carry far beyond the night.
⸻
I left before dawn.
She kissed me at the door, on the cheek.
“I don’t need anything more than this memory,” she said.
I believed her.
⸻
We kept in touch, albeit loosely.
She would send a message every few weeks: a poem, a quote, a line from a novel.
“You feel like a comma,” she once wrote. “Not a full stop. Something that allows breath.”
She never asked for more.
Never hinted at second nights.
But I always remembered how I felt in her arms: like nothing needed to be earned, or performed, or proven.
Just accepted.
⸻
Two years later, a mutual friend texted me.
“You heard about Marianne?”
“No.”
“Ovarian cancer. Quiet battle. She passed last week… it was a small ceremony. As she didn’t want a fuss.”
I didn’t know what to do with the silence that followed.
So I walked.
All the way from Tiong Bahru to Novena.
And stood outside what used to be her flat, tears streaming down my face.
Even though she wasn’t there anymore.
⸻
Sometimes I wonder if she knew.
If in that patient way of hers, she had already begun to prepare me for the silence she would one day leave behind.
When I think of Marianne now, what I remember is the feeling of being seen without being measured.
Of being allowed to exist, unvarnished, and still be enough.
It is a rare gift, to be received with no ledger of expectation.
And rarer still to lose it before you realise what it meant.
Her absence was not loud.
It did not tear.
It seeped in quietly, like light fading at the edge of a window.
And in that dimness, I found myself grieving not only her, but every gentle thing I had once taken for granted.
Marianne remains, even now, in the pauses of my life… in the commas, not the full stops.
She was a woman who never asked me to be strong, clever, or desirable.
Just present.
She made me tea.
Made me feel whole.
Then left… gently, just as she arrived.
⸻
Marianne taught me that the most
profound
intimacy doesn’t always come from fire,
but from being held in someone’s quiet, unwavering light. And that some goodbyes don’t echo.
They just settle, like dusk.
⸻
[End of Chapter 54]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 55: The Night I Fell in Love with a Baby Elephant
https://freeimage.host/i/KxcJhlt
(AI-generated image of Baby Elephant)
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.
Bangkok, 1999.
The baht had crashed, the IMF was circling like a buzzard, and every alley stall offered pad thai cheaper than bottled water.
Perfect for a student on a tight budget.
I was halfway through my master’s, burnt out, frustrated, and itching for release.
A three-day solo trip to Bangkok promised all the right things:
cheap food, chaotic streets, late-night massage parlours, and absolutely no accountability.
The first night, I wandered Soi Cowboy like a tourist with loose morals.
By the second, I’d found a rooftop bar in Sukhumvit with a view of the city and a menu written in four fonts.
I was on my third Chang beer, stomach lined with nothing but grilled squid and reckless confidence.
Then someone passed around a joint —
“Imported stuff, bro! Chiang Mai!”
I hesitated.
Then took a puff. And more.
The world softened. Colours warmed. People stopped looking like threats and started looking like ideas.
The woman at the end of the bar looked like an
idea
.
⸻
She wasn’t just big.
She was
colossal
(!), easily twice my weight, maybe three.
Shoulders like a hawker wok station.
Arms that looked capable of carrying whole pigs.
A belly that moved independently when she laughed… a deep, rumbling laugh that shook the bamboo walls of the bar.
But her face…
Her face was oddly
angelic
.
Wide cheeks, dewy skin, plump lips smeared with red.
And eyes that were slit-like, glittering under the fairy lights, mischievous, knowing.
She wore a leopard-print crop top that defied physics, and a short denim skirt that barely contained her.
And inked across her upper back was a massive, gleaming
Sak Yant
tattoo, in ancient Khmer script overlaid with what looked suspiciously like a dragon doing the hula.
She locked eyes with me.
Then winked.
I should have walked away.
But I was high.
And committed.
⸻
The Room
A cheap motel near Nana.
The aircon rattled like a dying animal.
The sheets were pink and floral.
There was a Hello Kitty curtain separating the bed from the toilet, which, by the way, had no door.
She locked the door behind us.
Turned to me.
And pulled her top off.
Her breasts were
enormous
, the size of small roast ducks, one hanging slightly lower than the other, nipples the colour of burnt toast.
She grinned.
Then yanked off her skirt in one dramatic flourish.
I stood frozen, like a deer in headlamps.
She pulled me in, kissed me hard, her lips sticky with leftover lip gloss, and her breath laced with durian.
I kissed her back.
Don’t ask me why.
Maybe curiosity.
Maybe bravado.
Maybe the weed had turned off the brakes.
She shoved me onto the bed, climbed on top, and the mattress groaned like a bus in neutral.
Her thighs slapped against mine as she ground over me, making wet, squeaking sounds I couldn’t replicate if I tried.
She moaned like a karaoke singer on full volume… off-key, but fully committed.
I don’t know how long it lasted.
Time slowed.
I think at one point I blacked out from lack of oxygen and thigh pressure.
When I came, it was more survival reflex than pleasure, with my body clenching out of fear and confusion.
She howled.
Collapsed onto me.
Crushed me like a beanbag under a collapsed cabinet.
⸻
Morning
I woke to the sound of plastic fans and my own regret.
She was still asleep.
Snoring.
One hand on her thigh.
One leg thrown over me like a fallen tree trunk.
I wiggled out, breathless.
My hips ached.
My groin was sore.
There were faint red streaks across my chest… nail marks or stretch marks, I wasn’t sure.
In the mirror, I looked like I’d been steamrolled by a
dragon lady from folklore.
I left her 500 baht.
And limped out.
⸻
Back in my tiny Bangkok hotel room, I lay flat on the floor tiles, staring at the ceiling fan.
I didn’t cry.
I didn’t laugh.
I just made three rules:
⸻
She taught me that desire, unchecked, is comedy in hindsight.
And that Bangkok, beautiful, chaotic Bangkok, doesn’t just give you stories.
It gives you warnings, dressed in leopard print, with thighs that could crush your soul.
⸻
[End of Chapter 55]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 56: The Lioness Who Needed a Mirror
https://freeimage.host/i/KzBPwYu
(AI-generated image of Daphne)
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.
She didn’t walk into rooms.
She strode through them.
Daphne.
Tall, full-bodied, broad-shouldered — the kind of woman who wore structured jackets and sharp heels like they were forged in steel.
She was doing her second master’s, this time in public policy. Already had a decade of working experience.
And already had a reputation:
“Don’t try to mansplain near her.”
“She’ll eat you alive.”
Most guys gave her space.
I gave her attention.
We first spoke at a committee meeting for a graduate symposium.
She made a cutting remark about men needing constant validation.
I smiled and replied,
“Maybe. But some of us respond better to challenge than coddling.”
She blinked. Then smirked.
“Finally, someone who doesn’t
flinch
.”
⸻
We sparred in class discussions.
Teased each other during breaks.
She tested me, measured me, occasionally poked me with intellectual jabs just to see if I’d crack.
I didn’t.
And that, somehow, earned her trust.
⸻
The Night It Began
It was a humid March evening.
We were working late on event logistics, holed up in an empty seminar room on campus.
The whiteboard was filled with scribbles. The air smelt faintly of dry-erase ink and accumulated tension.
She was in a sleeveless black blouse, hair in a loose ponytail, glasses pushed up her nose.
We were sitting close. Too close.
She looked up from her notes and said,
“Why do you keep looking at me like
that
?”
“Like what?”
“Like you see past all
this
.” She gestured at herself… the jawline… the posture… the invisible armour.
“Most guys just see someone to fear.”
I didn’t reply.
I leaned in and kissed her.
She didn’t hesitate.
⸻
The Lovemaking
Daphne was fire; but not wild.
Controlled fire.
She knew her body, and she used it like a weapon and a gift.
Her skin was warm, lightly perfumed, her muscles taut under soft curves.
She peeled her blouse off with deliberate grace, unclipping her bra as she watched me, daring me to hesitate.
I didn’t.
Her breasts were full, heavy, proud. She saw me admire them and rolled her eyes with a chuckle.
“You stare like a boy. But you touch like a man.”
I pulled her onto my lap, hands sliding under her skirt.
She gasped, a low, husky sound, and pressed her hips into me.
She wasn’t performative.
She didn’t moan for effect.
But her breath hitched with every deep stroke.
Her fingers dug into my back. Her teeth grazed my shoulder. Her thighs tightened around me as we rocked together on the edge of the narrow mattress in my Tiong Bahru flat.
When she came, she let out a long, quiet sigh… like letting go of something she’d held too tightly for years.
⸻
Afterwards, she lay on her side, back to me.
I wrapped an arm around her waist.
She didn’t speak for a long time.
Then finally,
“Do you really think I’m not…
difficult
?”
I kissed her shoulder.
“You’re not difficult. You’re
real
. That scares people more.”
⸻
We saw each other for a few more weeks.
Always at night.
Always in moments carved out from the busyness of our coursework and her part-time consulting gigs.
She would bring over supper.
I’d play old CDs, like Tracy Chapman, or Alanis.
We’d fuck like two people with purpose, and then talk like two people with nothing to prove.
⸻
One night over prata at Adam Road, she said:
“Maybe I’m not undateable. Maybe I just never met someone who didn’t flinch.”
I reached across the table and held her hand fondly.
“You’re not scary, Daphne. You’re just rare. And you need someone who knows what rare is worth.”
⸻
We ended it quietly.
No blowout.
She started dating a gentler man soon after, a soft-spoken photographer who volunteered at SPCA.
She said he gave her a kind of quiet she never realised she needed.
We waved to each other in corridors.
Never awkward.
Just… fond.
⸻
Daphne taught me that
power needs softness
.
That confidence, in women, is often mistaken for aggression, when it’s really just unguarded honesty.
And that sometimes, the most sensual act isn’t the sex itself,
but telling someone who’s always been too much,
that they are finally, beautifully,
enough
.
⸻
[End of Chapter 56]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 57: The Girl Who Only Kissed
https://freeimage.host/i/KzZqbWJ
(AI-generated image of Lynn)
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 months into my master’s program.
The city was restless, recovering.
Everyone was talking about restructuring, retraining, and recession-proof skills.
Me? I was learning how little I still understood about connection.
And then came Lynn.
She was Malay, in her mid-twenties, working part-time at a tutoring agency while studying part-time for her degree.
We met through a mutual friend at supper, the usual late-night prata run after group study, where laughter came easier than equations.
She wore a slate grey tudung, a soft blue blouse with long sleeves, and loose-fitting jeans that couldn’t hide her playful energy.
Her laugh was warm, with deep dimples, and pretty brown eyes that sparkled when amused.
I’d always been drawn to Malay women.
There was something intoxicating about their mystery, the way softness and modesty coexisted with quiet mischief.
And yes, I’ll admit it:
There was something deeply intimate about slowly, respectfully unwrapping someone from their tudung like a birthday present or a bride on her wedding day.
Not because of the cloth.
But because of what it meant, that they
trusted
you with the unveiling.
⸻
That night, after sharing tissue-wrapped goreng pisang and talking about everything from local TV dramas to failed crushes, she said:
“You want to come up? I make iced Milo. I don’t sleep early anyway.”
Her flat was quiet, as her mum had gone to Malaysia for a few days.
The room was neat, soft-lit with a small table lamp shaped like a cartoon moon.
A fan buzzed gently in the corner.
The Corrs played softly from a cassette deck.
We sat close on the bed.
Our knees touched.
And then… we
kissed
.
⸻
It started gentle.
Her lips were soft, lingering, the kind of kiss that asked before it claimed.
Then deeper. Hungrier. More certain.
Her tudung slipped as she leaned in again.
I helped untuck it from behind her shoulder.
She let me.
The feeling was
electric
.
I eased her blouse over her head.
She giggled as her hair spilled out… long, dark, slightly wavy.
“Not many people have seen me like this,” she whispered.
“You’re beautiful,” I said.
Her bra was simple. Cotton. Light lavender.
She blushed when I unhooked it, covering herself briefly with her hands before dropping them.
Her breasts were full but perky, with nipples that pebbled under my fingers.
She gasped when I kissed her collarbone, arching just slightly, just enough to tell me where to focus.
As we undressed fully, she kissed me again.
And again.
⸻
The kissing didn’t stop.
Even as we lay together, even as I entered her slowly, she kept her lips pressed to mine.
It was sweet at first, intoxicating.
But then it became almost comical.
She kissed like it was a compulsion.
I tried to focus, to move gently inside her, to match breath and rhythm, but her mouth stayed locked on mine.
I couldn’t breathe.
She kept moaning into me, whispering between kisses, her hands stroking my chest as her legs wrapped tightly around my hips.
It was as if the act of kissing mattered more to her than the sex itself.
I came more from tension than climax, dizzy from lack of air and overstimulation.
⸻
Afterward, we lay tangled in silence.
Her arm rested across my chest, her thigh against mine.
Then she kissed me again.
I laughed softly.
“Hey… Lynn. Can I ask something?”
“Sure.”
“Do you always kiss like that?”
She blinked.
Then nodded sheepishly.
“Yeah. It’s my thing. My ex used to say I was like a koala. Always clinging.”
I grinned.
“You don’t cling. You
consume
.”
She gasped.
“You’re saying I kiss like a vacuum cleaner?”
“A very affectionate one.”
We both laughed.
Then I added gently,
“You don’t have to lead with kissing all the time. You’re lovely as you are.
Your eyes, your smile, your mind, they already speak volumes.”
She touched her cheek, unsure what to say.
“No one’s ever said that to me.”
⸻
We never had sex again.
A few coffees, some texts.
Then we drifted.
No drama. No awkwardness.
Just two people who shared a moment.
⸻
Lynn reminded me that desire doesn’t always look the same.
That sometimes, someone shows love in ways you weren’t ready for.
And that kindness after sex, especially when it’s mismatched, matters more than technique before it.
And she reminded me why I had always loved Malay women.
Not just the beauty.
But the grace, the sweetness…
and the way some kisses stayed with you
long after the sheets were cold.
⸻
[End of Chapter 57]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 58: The Marathoner Who Couldn’t Slow Down
https://freeimage.host/i/KIjaSta
(AI-generated image of Veron)
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.
She was a blur even when standing still.
Veron.
Early thirties.
Lean as a blade. Tanned skin that stretched tight over sculpted quads, wiry biceps, and a midsection that looked like it had been cut from stone.
She was the fittest woman I’d ever been with, and I was no slouch at this point. Jogging daily, lifting three times a week. Sub-12% body fat and a resting heart rate to show for it.
But next to her?
I looked like a house pet.
⸻
We met at a postgraduate mixer hosted by the business school.
She was doing her part-time MBA, just back from Berlin where she’d clocked 3:06 in the marathon.
I was cradling a Tiger Beer.
She was sipping from a metal flask of electrolyte water, arms folded, watching the room like a hawk eyeing a finish line.
“I like your calves,” she said without preamble.“You squat.”
“Only on days ending in ‘Y,’” I replied.
She smirked.
“Top marks for effort. Most men your size don’t.”
⸻
Our first real conversation happened during a jog at MacRitchie, clearly her idea.
She ran backward at one point to talk while I tried not to die.
After the run, she barely broke a sweat.
Meanwhile, I looked like I’d fallen into the reservoir.
“You’ll do,” she said. “Let’s shower. Then supper.”
⸻
Her flat was spartan, with pull-up bar in the doorway, her yoga mat unrolled, and a shelf stacked with protein powder, vitamins, and training logs.
She stripped with clinical precision, just like she was changing into her race kit.
Her body was startling.
Defined shoulders, solid glutes, and thighs that felt like coiled springs.
When I ran my hands over her hips, she flexed, and I swear I could feel each fibre fire like piano wire.
We kissed, and then she pushed me back onto the bed.
“Lie down. Let me control pace.”
And she did.
⸻
The sex was…
athletic
.
There’s no other word for it.
She mounted me with the efficiency of a cyclist clicking into gear.
Her rhythm was deliberate. Paced.
Slow build, then gradual acceleration.
Her breathing… even. Focused.
Her hands were gripping my shoulders like handlebars, squeezing with each thrust.
She bent forward, whispering near my ear:
“Keep up. Don’t come until I say.”
I lasted. Barely.
She reached climax with a deep, guttural groan, her abs clenching, sweat slicking down the sides of her ribcage.
When I came, it felt like I was being milked dry, not by passion, but by sheer force of will.
Afterwards, she rolled over, took a long sip from her water bottle, and checked her stopwatch.
“Eleven minutes. Decent.”
Then a nod.
“Top percentile.”
⸻
We met three more times.
Each session began with a brief chat, a protein shake, and a time check.
She once suggested we time our foreplay “
for benchmarking.
”
I joked.
She didn’t.
⸻
By the fourth time, I realised something:
She wasn’t emotionally distant.
She was…
programmed
.
Conditioned for control.
A master of self-discipline, but incapable of indulgence.
After we finished, I tried to kiss her slow. Soft.
She kissed back, but only briefly, then reached for her towel.
“You ever just…
let go
?” I asked.
She shrugged.
“I let go on race day.”
⸻
Eventually, we stopped calling.
No drama or fading.
She had a 50km trail race in Chiang Mai. Then Tokyo, then New York.
I had exams, and other bodies waiting to be discovered.
⸻
Veron taught me that physical peak doesn’t always mean emotional presence.
That sex can be choreography, perfect and intense, but sterile.
And that sometimes, the strongest lovers are the hardest to hold.
Because they’re already running toward something else, and you’re just a checkpoint
they weren’t planning to stay at.
⸻
[End of Chapter 58]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 59: The One Who Wanted the Legend
https://freeimage.host/i/KT7WsmF
(AI-generated image of Charmaine)
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.
There are women who flirt with you in real time… and those who flirt with your myth.
Charmaine had done the latter for years.
We were the same age, had known
of
each other since our JC days, the kind of slow, peripheral connection that never quite collided. I’d see her at alumni gatherings, birthday parties, wedding dinners. She’d always look… composed. Too neat to chase. Too proper to play.
In my twenties, I liked wild eyes and impulsive mouths.
She wore structured blouses and always left early.
But at 30, both of us were different.
And when we crossed paths again at a friend’s engagement dinner, now older, more self-assured, she lingered at my table longer than usual.
“So,” she said with a raised brow. “Are the stories true?”
I smiled. “Which ones?”
“The ones with numbers… and adjectives.”
⸻
We went for supper after.
A quiet prata place in Jalan Kayu.
We shared tissue prata, mutton curry, and something unspoken.
She wore a black boatneck blouse tucked into a modest pencil skirt that looked elegant but not stiff.
Her hair was longer than I remembered. Her voice slower.
The years had softened her, but also added polish.
We walked to my Tiong Bahru flat.
And when I unlocked the gate and she stepped inside, it was already decided.
⸻
The lights were low.
A lazy fan hummed above us.
I kissed her first, slow, deliberate.
She kissed back, tentative at first, then with mounting curiosity.
Her lips were dry, then warmed against mine.
She exhaled a small sigh when my hand found the small of her back.
I unbuttoned her blouse gently.
She let me, watching my face the entire time.
Her bra was cream-coloured satin.
Her breasts, which were full, natural, and slightly heavy, shifted as I slipped the straps off her shoulders.
She gasped when I cupped them, running my thumbs over her nipples.
“This feels strange,” she whispered. “Like I’ve been here before, but only in dreams.”
Her skirt dropped next.
Then her panties, simple cotton, pale pink , and damp at the gusset.
I kissed down her stomach, nuzzling the slight curve of her belly, then lower.
She parted her legs slowly.
My tongue met her, and she moaned, surprised at the heat of her own desire.
When I slid into her, she clutched my forearms.
Not with passion, but like she was steadying herself against disappointment.
Her body welcomed me.
But her mind was somewhere else, scanning for magic, waiting for fireworks.
I moved inside her with care, switching angles, listening for breath, not words.
She came softly, but with a frown.
And when I came, it was more out of completion than euphoria.
⸻
We lay beside each other, chests rising and falling.
“So,” she said, staring at the ceiling. “That was it?”
“Was I… disappointing?”
She shook her head.
“No. But I think… I imagined more. You know?”
I did.
I’d been imagined before.
The Casanova myth had legs of its own.
And for some, sleeping with me was about
them
… validating their worth, checking a box, tasting a story.
But stories
lie
.
Reality is flesh and friction and awkward angles.
And even the most skilled lover can’t compete with fantasy marinated over years.
⸻
She left just past midnight.
A hug at the door. No kiss.
No promises. Just a soft goodbye.
We never met again.
⸻
Charmaine taught me that myth seduces.
But it also betrays.
That the more you are desired for your story, the harder it is to be appreciated for your self.
And that sometimes, the greatest pressure doesn’t come from the bed beneath you, but from the weight of being
someone else’s expectation
.
⸻
[End of Chapter 59]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 60: The Fortune Teller and the Flower
https://freeimage.host/i/KuHMOfR
(AI-generated image of The Fortune Teller)
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.
I was just sixteen when my parents brought me to the fortune teller.
It was a hot Saturday afternoon in the late 80s, the kind where Chinatown’s back alleys steamed with incense, roasted chestnuts, and other people’s prayers. I had just started JC, all gangly limbs and adolescent apathy, my shirt too big and my voice too soft. I hadn’t kissed anyone yet. I hadn’t even held a girl’s hand.
The shifu sat in a narrow shophouse, surrounded by wooden plaques, talismans, and almanacs annotated in red ink. He wore a batik shirt with faded cuffs and had a voice like dry paper. My mother clasped her purse tightly, like she always did when asking about things the heart couldn’t control.
The fortune teller asked for my date and time of birth, nodded silently as he calculated the ba zi, then looked up with the calm authority of someone used to being half-believed.
“你的桃花运很旺,” he said.
Your peach blossom luck is strong.
He paused, then added, “但都是烂桃花。”
But they are all rotten.
I frowned.
I didn’t know what he meant.
At sixteen, I had no 桃花 (peach blossom).
No romances. No admirers. No clue.
My mother gasped softly. The kind of gasp that said
this child will break hearts or get his broken
… or maybe both.
The shifu elaborated.
“You will attract many lovers. But none will stay. They will distract you. Entangle you. Derail your fate.”
I shrugged. The words meant nothing to me then.
But they would haunt me years later.
Because now, barely past thirty, I can say it plainly:
He was right.
Every time I think of Angela, her long hair curled by Singapore humidity, her body folded into mine on Sunday mornings, her voice laced with Cantonese softness as she stirred my instant noodles,
I wonder if I had used up my one shot at staying still.
She was the only one I didn’t stray from.
Two years. No lies. No wandering hands.
Just her toothbrush next to mine. Her bras hanging on my doorknob. Her name saved as “
my girl
” on my battered Nokia.
I loved her.
And she left.
She left for Hong Kong, for a better job, a clearer path.
And she didn’t ask me to follow.
After that, the prophecy continued to bloom.
Fast. Wild. Beautiful.
And rotten.
So many women.
Starting from Amanda. Serene. Rina. Lili.
The student, the single mother, the contortionist, the opportunist.
They came. They left. Some were kind. Some were cruel. Some never even stayed the night.
I wasn’t proud of the number.
I wasn’t even proud of the silence I kept around it.
But midway through my master’s, in the library one night, alone between research papers and vending machine coffee… I remembered the shifu’s voice.
“They will distract you. Entangle you.”
And it hit me:
Maybe I had confused
attraction for fate
.
Maybe I had mistaken
movement for progress
.
Maybe I had been living the prophecy so long, I never considered rewriting it.
It wasn’t the sex I mourned.
It was the after.
The silence after they left.
The quiet between conversations.
The way I never bought a second pillow because I never believed anyone would stay.
Angela had shown me a glimpse of stillness.
A home, a rhythm, a sense that I could stop running.
And then she was gone.
Now, every woman after her felt like a blossom I admired but never picked.
Their scent lingered. Their colours dazzled.
But I always walked past, even when I reached for them.
Because deep down, I believed what the fortune teller said.
That I was meant for 桃花 —
but
never meant to keep them.
And what scared me most?
That maybe I was starting to prefer it that way.
⸻
[End of Chapter 60]
Mirror Site:
