Sex in the tiny red dot

Malbec and Doritos.

That was how Expat D and I first connected when we swiped right on each other. Let’s face it: while there are plenty of amazing, interesting women out there, this bizarre eating habit? That belongs to me. And only me. If having shared similarities is supposed to be the spark for a romance straight out of a Hollywood or Disney movie, then help me understand why Expat D didn’t choose to be with me. I mean, if that’s not a good indicator of compatibility, then I guess I’m just cursed for life.

Okay, sure, there are some hot and sexy 50-year-olds radiating a ton of feminine energy. And there are 40-year-olds who are trying so hard to be as womanly as possible, yet deep down, they’re just Alice from Closer—still a girl. And it's me.

If it was hard for someone as funny and introspective as Carrie Bradshaw to find love in New York City, then dating in this tiny red dot we call Singapore has proven to be as difficult as getting Hitler to love Jews. At least for me.

So here I am again: smoking a cigarette, having a glass of wine, crying, laughing, or doing both at random moments while binge-watching And Just Like That on Max. I’m writing, pretending I’m the guru of sex and relationships, dreaming that one day I might become an author. I wonder: will I still be doing this same shit when I’m 45? 55? Hell, 65? I cried so hard when Big died after he and Carrie finally got married because it reminded me so much of Expat D and me—not because Expat D is dead, but because he is as big as Big, and I’m as short as Carrie. And our names both start with ‘C’. So yeah, maybe this is metaphorical, maybe epiphanical. Maybe the Universe is telling me to treat Expat D as dead because it’ll never work between us. Because despite sharing everything in common, we never bonded emotionally. We were too caught up in sucking each other’s face and having sex. I now blame the insane sexual chemistry we had.

Dating in this tiny red dot is hard. Especially when locals still have this absurd idea that if a woman owns her sexuality and loves having sex, she’s a slut. When you prioritize having a great sex life as a must-have in a relationship—maybe even in a life partner—you’re somehow in the wrong.

But... am I really wrong though?

You are horny when you are healthy. A mind-blowing orgasm might just be one of the greatest things ever created by God—or the Universe—right up there with chocolate. And how often has a lack of sex been a reason for divorce? But really, how many married couples are still having passionate sex? How many are stuck in a routine that feels more like brushing their teeth or taking a dump after a McSpicy? Correction: how many married couples are still having sex at all, even if it’s emotionless, routine, and predictable?

Honestly, one of the big things I’ve been crying about is that I’ve lost my supply of mind-blowing sex. It’s a hard pill to swallow, and the thing is, I’m not someone who can just sleep around easily. Despite what my haters—who are probably secretly jealous of me—might think, I really don’t.

And then there is a part of me that just misses Expat D so much. He’s made it clear that I can’t send him nudes or sexts because, apparently, throwing sex at him is “wrong” and that he wants to focus on being exclusive with her. As if I am Aphrodite herself, the Greek goddess of love and sex, and the mere sight of me is too irresistible unless I disappear.

I mean, I am though, right?

The time Chrissy got Drewed (Screwed) AGAIN!

Ha.
Ha.
Ha.

Imagine getting totally screwed by the same person twice in two weeks. I mean, honestly, I should just start selling tickets for this ongoing tragedy. The whole “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me” thing? Yeah, that’s basically my brain’s new theme song. It’s like I’ve got a personal loop of failure playing on repeat in my head, and spoiler alert: I’m the one getting played.

See, I’ve cracked the Expat D code—sex, sex, and more sex. If sex is his absolute favorite thing on the planet, then, of course, it’s also his one true weakness. Like, I could’ve literally sent him a coupon for a lifetime supply of sex and he would’ve been all in. So, what did I do? Naturally, I sent him nudes and fired up a full-on sexting marathon while I was in Seoul. All this, right after he pulled the “I want to be exclusive with someone else” card. And not just anyone—this woman’s around his age, so if you think men usually go for younger women, you are absolutely wrong because men having Mummy issues might just be real, like girls having Daddy issues.

But I knew it. I knew he’d bite, because nothing gets Expat D like a well-timed, sexually charged text. And bite he did. A week of steamy sexting, a dick pic, phone sex done both video and audio, and bam! He shows up at my place at 12:30 a.m. on Saturday wee—glass of my Black Label in hand, like he's some kind of whiskey-slinging, romance-novelist cliché. Like, if I had any dignity left, I’d be offended. But I didn’t. So instead, I just rolled with it.

"Wow, I’ve just been texting Grace while waiting for you,” he said, giving me a hug. The audacity of the lie and the audacity to try to even think I had for once, bought it. 

“Ouch!” I exclaimed as my chin touched his right chest. 

“Oh, I’m hurting you already?!” 

Before I flew back from Seoul, we were debating whether to meet on Friday night or Saturday before he left for his holiday. I had a reunion dinner, and I wasn’t sure what time it would end but I knew he wanted more time with me. Mostly for earth-shattering, wall-breaking, body-shaking and breathtaking (literally) sex. If there were ever a device invented to measure the sexual energy between us, it would combust in two seconds when placed between us.

“We’ll have to be really gentle with my face, I had told him while waiting at customs in Incheon Airport. He responded with a crying emoji. And just like that, the decision was made, he would come over on Friday evening after returning from his KL work trip, even though I wouldn’t be back until past midnight.

Which explained why he had the passcode to my door and was already waiting inside when I finally walked in, casually commenting on how cute I looked in my hoodie.

Then, like he was some kind of magical gift-giver, he handed me an Avocado Jellycat plushie (which, yes, I’ve always wanted) and a red packet. This was after I had jokingly told him a couple of days ago that he should prepare a red packet for me. And, surprise surprise, he actually went and got an empty one—one that he even had to go ask for from the IHG hotel where he was staying in KL. Because nothing says “romantic gesture” like red packets filled with money. And I am indeed Chinese.

"Your hair’s dry enough!" he shouted from the living room as I blow-dried my hair for the 3726th time, clearly about to explode with impatience. So, I finally emerged in my favorite sleepwear (because what says “I’m ready for love” like a mismatched nightgown), found him watching Kingdom on Netflix (finally) and I stroke his face so tenderly and let my lips met his gently because let’s be real, it is a sin to visit Seoul without getting lip fillers unless you’re already a Olunsibowana. 

Then we shagged. Then we shagged again. Then we passed out. Classic.

While I was lying on his chest, he suddenly decided he had tummy ache and made a beeline for my bathroom. Because, of course, that’s what happens when you’ve just had the most intense round of "relationship bonding." He then returned to bed and placed his head in between my boobs and murmured, “boobs make everything better” and dozed off shortly after. 

The next morning, we woke up around 8-ish, shagged once more (obviously), and yes, confirmed: his tummy was indeed still upset. So, I gave him some meds and packed him a few more for his little island getaway in the Philippines.

And then, as I stood on my balcony sipping coffee, he casually wrapped his arms around me from behind and started to snuggle my neck. Oh, the romance.

"I have to leave around 10, the AC guys are coming over to service it," he said.

"Really, really stupid AC guys!" I replied and knew it was a lie. He spun me around and started slow-dancing with me in the living room, my head resting on his chest (because I’m a short queen and he’s 188 cm). All on a beautiful Saturday morning. We kissed passionately one last time on the sofa and shagged once more because he just couldn't resist me sitting on him, and then I sent him off, making sure he remembered the meds I packed for him. Crown me the best woman of the year, anyone?

For a moment, I thought maybe he had decided not to go back to her—after realizing what an amazing catch I am—or maybe she had dumped him after discovering he was just... absolutely, colossally useless.

Boy, was I wrong.

Sunday came. I’d gone to get my hair done at Mogan’s, and when I came back in the evening, I just knew something was off.

"We need to talk. Let me know if you're up for it," he texted.

"Yup, I can do now."

Of course, it was the same old story. He’d spend the entire night being lovey-dovey with me, then go see her—probably spending the day doing whatever old people do (boring)—and choose to be with her again. At that point of time, I had started to suspect that she most probably have fed him Nasi Kang Kang at some point.

Wow. Boy, girl, god, dog, I was so pissed. If you think about it, he had only been using my (beautiful) body (Double D tits) and my perfect tiny pussy (as he's dubbed). 

"Fucking hell, if you were so concerned, you should have worn a condom," I threatened him when I told him I was ovulating. 

"Wow, you've shown me your true colours," he retorted. 

For Christ's sake, was I even wrong for sharing that with him? See, he nutted in me before, we have been having unprotected sex all this time, and he jolly well knows he doesn't want any more children, and neither do I want any--at all. So with reference to what my brother has once said, he's just a total jerk and only the world's biggest asshole for being absolutely irresponsible and not wanting to shoulder any onus should I ever become pregnant. He’s selfish, only ever focused on his own wants and desires in the moment. I guess that’s why he’s chosen to be on the other side of the world, far from his four sons. What kind of father does that make him—just like my own father, doh. Ugh, did I get drawn to him because he reminds me of my (selfish and irresponsible) dad? 

God, I must have Daddy issues.

The January when Chrissy got Screwed (again) and Travelled to Seoul

If there is a God, I dare say I must be their least favorite. Three months after my last post—when Prof left me running here to rant—I find myself back again, nursing yet another disappointing ordeal.

"You’ve known me for over a decade," I told Pw. "You’ve seen all my romantic failures, and you can’t say it’s just the type of men I go for anymore."

"Babe," Pw replied, "I’ve always thought you were one of the nicest people I know, and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with you. But honestly, I think you just have no luck in love and romance."

Unlike my story with Prof—which I’ll never share because it was so special and dear to me that writing about it would only taint its memory—I’m going to write about Expat D.

A 49-year-old man who either doesn’t know what he wants or knows exactly what he wants—and it’s not me.

Can someone hand me a manual for dating? Because how else do you explain this? All I remember is him wanting to see me three times a week, making time for us whenever possible. All I remember is thinking he was really into me.

The operative words here: I thought.

If observing someone’s actions to assess their intentions is such an unreliable method, then hit-and-run accidents might as well be reinterpreted as the victim throwing themselves in front of the bus—or under it.

Because who could have guessed he was still playing the field? God himself couldn’t claim to have 48 hours in a day, yet somehow this man managed to get emotionally interested in someone else--the whole time he was seeing me thrice a week! Was sex with me that good like a heroin addict resorting to begging and licking trash for a fix? It must have been.

No one would have guessed that I was merely an option—that there was no real emotional connection, even while he held my hand and showered me with copious amounts of PDA. Now, I just feel dirty.. 

So, instead of nursing the void Prof left behind, I now have a new one to deal with. This one, though, I know I’ll heal from in no time. But after an expensive Valentine’s Day gift I gave him in advance—a $300 gesture—and paying for the morning-after pill after he irresponsibly finished inside me, I finally know what I meant to him: nothing more than a cum dump.

He didn’t even feel bad or offer to cover the cost of the pill.

So God, if I'm your least favourite, can you tell me why?

***

Seoul, again. In less than four months, I'm back in this city where butterflies once fluttered wildly in my stomach—and even, I believe, on top of my head. I can’t help but be reminded of Prof, over and over again.

Prof, who never failed to share stories with me, like how he wouldn’t show me a picture of his 15-year-old crush because he thought I might get jealous. Prof, who kept checking on me after my surgery, who noticed the tiniest details in the photos I sent—like the McDonald's my brother was eating and my pink toenails which he adored.

I swear, if Prof was available and a realistic option, we’d be writing the most beautiful love story right now. The kind where we sit together in our favorite spot, devouring book after book, while stealing moments to make love in between.

So, God, did you remove Expat D from my life because Prof is coming back to finally be my love story?

We both know that’s not possible. But then again, you’re God.