She Slipped Through The Keyhole

Pepinova has a literally superhuman sense of smell. She works for my company, checking Facebook, reading back issues of Cosmo online, and occasionally maintaining digital assets on the company website ... but she should definitely pursue a career in crime-fighting, or at the very least, private investigation. She can identify her colleagues by smell with her eyes closed: clean, dirty, deodorized, perfumed, or otherwise olfactorily masked. You could never cheat on her.

As soon as I walked into her office, she knew something was up.

Meanwhile, back at the house, my room smells like an orgy. Not in a high-fives kind of way. More like a Chinese seafood restaurant next to a tire factory during a heat wave kind of way. The floor is littered with burnt out candles, towels, condom wrappers, underwear and pineapple jam. There is a half- finished bottle of wine in the corner. My bed is a mess of dank fabric: it feels like there is a large wet dog sitting in the corner, panting happily while he slobbers on the floorboards.

Usually, I would never knock smelling faintly of pussy. It reminds me of a nice place, and I can’t help but feel it adds to my mystique. But somehow, today it is too much. It feels like I just crawled out of a man-sized honeypot. The water is off at my place due to pipe repairs I didn’t plan on, so I haven’t even been able to wash my face.

In one swift booty call, she destroyed my room

The events of the previous evening were set in motion one and a half weeks prior, in a bar. I didn’t feel like venturing out this particular Wednesday evening, but a friend of a friend was doing a harp performance, and how often do you get to hear live harp music outside of weddings and ancient Greek orgies ?

I’ll break this down pretty fine, because my mate Pepper is fascinated with the idea of booty calls (who isn’t ?), and is sure to ask me about the juicy details

She was looking appropriately angelic, with platinum blonde hair. She approached our table with a male friend, and introduced herself.

They are both very easy to talk to. I chatted to both of them a little, but more to her. We both call ourselves artists (myself masquerading as a graphic designer as of six months ago, her being an actual artist, i.e. unemployed and passing the time in bars playing dress-up). She was in a long distance relationship for the last six months, which had ended just this week.

Here is my take on long-distance relationships: if one of us were to move far away, I’d end it then and there. Make a clean break. Perhaps some time in the future, when we are close by again, we can check in, see where we’re both at, and perhaps start from page 1. Or the page we bookmarked back in the day. Or page 273. The bottom line is, I’m not just a mind or a soul, I’m also a body. And any romantic relationship I’m part of is a flesh-and-blood beast. To state the obvious, if she’s in Tokyo, I can’t fuck her from Shanghai. My dick just isn’t that long ... and would probably get shot down in Korean airspace even if it were. There is nothing cynical about that. Love transcends the physical, but you don’t have to be boyfriend and girlfriend to validate such a love. Besides, all good things come to an end. It’s the quality of a relationship that counts, not the time, so I would rather end it when the time is right.

At least, that’s what I told her. I’ve never attempted a long-distance relationship, but I can’t see my opinion changing on this front. In the longest distance relationship I’ve had, I lived in the Eastern suburbs and she lived in the Inner West. It was two buses and a train to her place, for chrissakes !

Initially I thought this girl was an ABC, but it turned out she was born-and-bred Chinese, with an excellent command of English. She did look exotic in a way that I found alluring at the time, and I told her so as we left.

I sent her a text later in the evening using the business card she threw my way upon discovering we were both “artists.”

The following week, I saw her very briefly at a gig. I invited her along but she was unable to attend officially, content to drop in for ten minutes to say hi. At the time, I was flirting with a gorgeous Latvian woman. Whenever I meet someone from that part of the world, I wonder if I’m on the wrong side of the continent. But she is a story for another time.

Sunni and I soon find ourselves with a moment alone.

After Sunni left, we exchanged a few texts.

Et cetera.

Two days later, I was heading home from a friend’s place. They were heading out to a club, but at 1 AM, I was already feeling spent, so I opted for a taxi home. I received what I call a fishing message from Sunni: “Hey how are you ?” or something similarly generic and content free. She was throwing her line out into the current to see what would come back. Before I could reply, she called me.

In my experience, it’s pretty rare to get such a blatant green light from a woman. Even so, I didn’t take it as a sure thing until a little while later. I’ve definitely been in positions where it seemed on, only to find her holding back with whatever dark girly motive it was at the time. I usually go with the flow now.

Booty call status was confirmed to me when in my room, I asked what kind of music she wanted to listen to and she replied, “Orgasm music.” (This request became funny later on, for reasons which will become apparent.)

I’m going to skim over arguably the best part here, but I’ll save those who know me the mental images. I will say this though: the bitch needs a leash. She slapped me, removed half of my chest hair without my permission, damn near drew blood from my back, and basically left me completely spent.

I sweat a lot naturally. I’ll break a sweat after doing 10 push ups ... not because I’m a pathetic girly weakling, but because I have a genetic disposition to sweat.

So when I have sex in a bed, there is no way anyone is sleeping in it. A washing of sheets is mandatory. I’d buy rubber linen but I wouldn’t want a girl to come home with me, get the wrong idea, and shit on me without asking. A girl I used to see luckily had two beds in her room: sex pretty much destroyed one, leaving the other for R&R. Once we had sex on the beach and they had to close it. If we went for any length of time, we got so sweaty it didn’t even work anymore. It was like sticking my dick in a warm glass of WD40. Here’s a tip: friction is required for sex. I was afraid that one day she was going to slide off the bed and hurt herself. I had actually been unable to hold all 50kg of her up on occasion because we’d become so slick. It was like making love to a seal dipped in lard. Once I was banging her against the door of my bedroom and she slipped through the keyhole.

With all that in mind, at the birth of the Chinese wet season and a sex-starved woman in my bed, you can imagine the mess we made. We showered afterwards and slept on towels.

She is a strange one, this girl. Although quite extroverted, she cringes at the word “pussy.” She had no problem pissing in front of me, but gets shy if I look at her boobs. During our sordid post-love lull, she also revealed that she has never orgasmed by a man, only by women. Does that make her a lesbian? You be the judge.