Good loving is not always from the heart, You gotta be smart…

A little bit of an ramble on booty calling and why it’s nearly impossible to recruit and retain a booty call…

My decision to have sex with Ike the hippie Canadian on our second date made up in impulsiveness what it lacked in foresight and ladylike behaviour. The sex was stupendous so regret is out of the question. He texted a day later to ask when I was free and I, in all earnest, replied that thursday worked. To which he replied that he had something planned that evening but we could meet later in the night. Let me know if you want to meet there or you just want to wait for me in your boudoir, he said. Continue reading


Date #35 of 2013 – ice ice baby

I don’t think Ike and I made for the most elegant sight in the world, holding hands as I awkwardly tried to remember how to skate based on the previous FOUR times I had ice-skated in my life. He was telling me how he had been skating since childhood but had not made the hockey team. Talk about a level playing field – that’s like a cheetah challenging a turtle with three legs to climb a tree. He may have laughed at me a couple of times but I didn’t fall and he said later that he would have felt very bad if I had fallen and had to go back to India with my arm in a sling (a possibility I had not given much thought to!) Continue reading

Don Draper Lunch

More graffitti in Sheung Wan

More graffitti in Sheung Wan

I am feeling preeeettttty badass right now. You see, I (two thumbs pointing at this girl!) just had a Don Draper lunch. No, I am not talking about having old-fashioneds and disgusting shrimp cocktail in a smarmy restaurant that smells like second-hand smoke. No no, later season Don Draper – fucking Sylvia on the daily situation Don Draper. That was her name right? Whatever. Remember that episode where Don takes her to a nice hotel and just fucking leaves her there and says “don’t go anywhere” and then comes back and has sex with her? Continue reading

Date #31 of 2013 – How to break the rules and inadvertently recruit a fuck-buddy

The Canadian – I shall call him Ike – was quite quick to ask me out on a second date after our first one on Thursday night. I had spent the weekend in Bangkok so he asked me on Monday whether I had recovered. Of course I had, I was out drinking already. He asked me what I wanted to do. I agreed to meet him on Tuesday and fueled by liquid courage, I told him to show some initiative and not make me do all the work. On Tuesday morning he proved that he had done his research by proposing two very different date ideas: an art gallery plus tacos or brace yourself, ice-skating!

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Date # 30 of 2013 – A late night date in Wanchai

Since before I went to Spain for work in late November, I had been chatting with a free-spirited Canadian man. He seemed extremely nice on messages and asked me for a drink on his first message itself. I had politely declined as I was crazy busy at the time and proposed that we catch up after my Spain trip if we were still in each others’ memories after I returned. He was not outdone by this and stayed in touch and even pointed me towards a cute little Mexican place in Madrid where I ended up taking my brother out to dinner. We finally made plans to meet more than a week after I returned from Spain. This was because, again, I had all sorts of social engagements including the HK panto.

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Date #32 – Drinks with Communists

Everytime I go on a date, I brace myself for what kind of circus freak/mutant I am about to meet. Even with all the prior messaging, photos, texting, the probability of meeting someone that’s really out of left field in some way or the other is disproportionately high. From the very rude and ill-educated to the mock-croc-pleather-wearing, from the superiority-complex-harbouring to the not-even-single-as-it-turns-out, you name it, I’ve dated it. And still there seems to be room for surprises. Continue reading

The cherry on the turd sundae


A sack of flour with more balls than many of the men I’ve dated

Caveat: That I am writing this is more a reflection of its painful irony and priceless comic timing than any vestigial fuzzy feelings towards Sam.

Two Sundays ago, I was enjoying a very decadent and lazy Sunday. I had literally double-booked myself and so had one brunch scheduled at 10.30 with the girls at Wagyu on Wyndham Street and another one at noon at Heirloom in Sheung Wan. Yes I know my ass is quite vast, as it is, but this double booking was not one I could I have avoided. Continue reading