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?!”
“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 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. 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.
P.S. Expat D is Drew Sundin, volleyball.
