I’ve decided to turn this page into a blog for the moment. I’m a little too busy to be able to concentrate on writing the stories, so I’ll stick to writing about my life.

While putting on a fashion parade on Wednesday evening (as preparation for my interview) I walked around the living room in a pair of Aldo. I have been digging the ‘grandma’ look for quite sometime and have funny outfits straight out from 60s grandma closet. And this pair of leather shoes with funny diamantes was part of that collection.

Now this pair of shoes became a rife between my mother and I. Yes, after 25 days on Malaysian soil and life at peace with her for the pass 25 days, this pair of shoes caused a commotion at the home front. No matter how I answer her questions, it is sure die situation.

I must now add a little story about my mother. She’s a pragmatic lady, one who is strong in character and weak in spirit, all at once. She is the modern day woman; one who strives for independence from men domineering her life and yet craves for the attention of my father, all roll into one. I think she’s at best, an unhappy feminist.

She is our modern woman. She works hard and she earns her keep. Like our modern day women, she sacrifices her wants and saves for her children. Now her three children (my brothers and I) are grown, all went for private education and we are talking about a pair of government teachers saving and sending their kids for private college education. I greatly appreciate her sacrifices and now wished that she would relax a little and enjoy a little.

“No need to save so much already. All your kids are grown.
You must learn to enjoy life, mum.”
I always tell her.

She complains that no man spends on her. She does this as she eyes up my father. To tell you the truth, my father spends on her. The whole family does. The thing I wished my mother would learn is, to accept these acts of kindness with a gracious heart.

Dear readers: In our haste for equality with men, our modern woman forgot what it is to be a woman - to be loved, cherished, pampered.

When men treat us, women well, be a fair lady, smile and say, “thank you”. Learn to accept little gifts of love with grace. Learn to love ourselves and to allow men to pamper us once in a while.

When a man holds the door, say “thank you”. Don’t stare at the poor chap with your “You think I what? Handicapped ah? Can’t open my own door ah?” cold stare. Instead, smile and say “thank you”.

When a man says that you are pretty, just say “how sweet of you. You've made my day” and smile. Trust me, many men will die to hear those words from a woman’s lips.

***
So when my love bought the now guilty pair of shoes for 45 quid, I smiled and said, “thank you’. I told my mother this.

My mother gave a traditional reply: “Wah you use his money. Then how to get initial capital for own business? Spend so much, how to be rich?”

We want equal footing with men. Equal footing does not mean we women playing the role of Superwoman. I believe we can have equal footing with men while wearing our feminine badge with great pride. For me, it's a nice pair of shoes.

I personally do not believe in feminism. I believe that modern day women need to know her place in society. How we must work for ourselves, study hard, work hard, contribute something to our Malaysian society and the community as a whole.

Why wear a Superwoman cape when you can slip into the most comfortable and sexy heels?? Vote me as a politician and I promise you that my chief propaganda is to encourage all girls out there to wear our girlie badge with pride! Embrace our feminine side. Allow a man to love us and give him a chance to protect us. When he does something kind, smile and show some appreciation.

***
And I wished my mother would say that once in a while - just a whisper of “thank you”. Well I bought us three (Father, Mother and I) a short holiday to Chiang Mai in the month of October. I hope she’ll take off her Superwoman cape and just kick back, relax and let everyone around love her.

Because we do.

I finally told my love about this site. No, I did not tell him the actual URL, so I can breathe a little. I mentioned that I am using this blog as a practice site, to encourage myself to write more frequently, which I hope leads me to writing an actual book worth mentioning. I told him of the various blogs that I have been reading since July this year while in London, which includes my personal opinion on the various blogs.

While we were on the topic of attaching personal photos, he quizzed me about placing some of my own photos. "A photo is worth a thousand words." My love said. "You might find faithful readership, if you put some photos of yourself."

What I want is to build literary credibility. I want to write something that people can relate to; something that everyone says, "Wow, how true." I want my readers to laugh and cry with me as I spin my tales. I want you to be able to emphatise with the characters. I want you, my dear readers to pin for Otto, wish that you could hug her and feel her.


***
I have been reflecting a lot lately. More than the usual and definitely much more than I am comfortable with. I feel that I have lost my nudeness and thus become naked. I can’t write objectively about Indie, Seven, Adidas Boy, David and the lot because I am stuck on Adidas Boy. It’s the Adidas Boy side effect.

As such, I've decided to stop writing for a while. Stop ping-ing until I can clear this thing up and come up with some good piece of writing that is worthy of your time. All this might be compounded by the fact that I am extremely busy with work etc etc (don't mind me, these are mere excuses that I can pluck from my “I can’t think straight” tree).

My humble opinion? Don’t bloody bother reading my last two postings. Even I am not going to waste my time reading them.

Much love,
Nude, Not Naked


***
The only photo I will put in here is a close-up of my eyes. It is a precautionary measure - I will have some proof that this site and its contents belong to me, when Nude, Not Naked gets hijacked. Hahahaha - bloody thick skin.

People say the eyes are the windows to one’s soul. What do you see in mine?

Eve placed a drinking mat on the edge of our table. Tapped it hard. She caught it as it flipped into the air. Eve smiled.

“I am bored.” Eve said.

I shook my shoulders. I looked around. It was an unusually quiet Friday night. Most of our friends were away for the weekend, for some sort of rave somewhere. Damn them for deserting us poor ticketless souls in KL.

“Let’s play King.” Eve suggested. Everyone at the table nodded in agreement. That would certainly pass the time fast quickly.

“No….” I said. I had my reservations. “You know what happened last time I played King.” I looked at Eve in the eye.


***
"It's easy. Whoever gets the KING gets to decide what the forfeit is."

A toast and a gulp later, the game started. There were six of us playing and Eve dealt the cards: Ace, Two, Three, Four, Five and King.

Dear readers: Take note that this game breaks boundaries set by our conventional society. Note also that it could only be played after one had a good number of drinks. I was quite sure I had about 4 vodka limes before the game started.

"Okay... I want Number One and Three to lick each other's tongue for 10 seconds..."

I held the Ace card and promptly got up. Indie had the Three card, so he stood up. How uncomfortable, I thought as I drew closer to him. I could smell his breathe under mine. Definitely beer. Our tongues slithered along each other for ten seconds as the three boys looked on intently.

Everyone at the table clapped. A rousing toast, a sip and cards were dealt. The "King" rubbed his hands gleefully at the evil thought of punishing the rest of us.

"Alright! Four planting kisses along Three's neck."

Eve had Four while another guy had Three. Following the instructions given, Eve planted kisses along the guy’s neck. Teasingly. Seductively. She was sure he developed a hard-on by the time she reached the base of his neck.

I had another sip of vodka lime. The cards were dealt again.

"Two kissing One's breast or chest!"

Everyone cheered at the table.

“I am One.” I said, then standing up. I adjusted my pink lace blouse slightly. Indie stood up and planted a small kiss on my left shoulder. The crowd booed. He chuckled.

“Eh that’s Otto, ok?” He said. “How to kiss such an ugly girl?”

“Good thing he didn’t kiss me anymore than that. I might turn more ugly.” I quipped.

Someone stood on the chair and raised his Heineken. Soon the boys stood on their chairs, giving a cheer that would put all Manchester United and Liverpool fans to shame.

Clink! Went the beer bottles and my vodka lime. The cards were dealt. Delighted, I held my first King.

“I want Four rub seductively against Two.” I said, rubbing my hands gleeful at my request.

Two guys stood up. The girls laughed. They refused to follow the request. The girls would not have it.

“You do, we do. You do, we do.” Eve said, batting her eyelids.

“Yeah, you get to see us girls kissing later.” I said, tempting them with a hope that they will be able to witness the fantasy of many men: Girls pleasuring themselves.

Mr. Four looked stressed and frustrated. We girls flashed innocent smiles. Hands akimbo, Mr. Four rubbed himself against his best mate. His face grimaced in protest. His friend closed his eyes, unable to bear the thought that another man was rubbing against his thighs.

4 sips of vodka lime, a new drink and card dealt.

"Five has to go the console and ask for a kiss from the DJ! Kissing passionately."

Slowly. Slowly. I looked into his eyes and smiled. Slowly I slid my tongue into his. Slowly he moved his against mine. We stood there for minutes. With music blasting through the speakers, all I felt was silence. His lips were so soft.


***
Unexpected. That is the only word that I can use to describe the first kiss. Unexpected. So soft, those lips of his. His gentle lips caressed against mine.

Kissing Adidas Boy felt so good, that it was almost painful. On more than one occasion under the stars on our drives around the city, tears would roll down my cheeks or his as our tongues met. And I do not know why.

My father woke me up this morning with a 0700 hours phone call.

“Want to have breakfast?” My father asked. “If you want breakfast, I can wait for you at the usual.”

This morning, like all mornings, he went for a walk. Sometimes he fishes with his friends. He talks about fishing with so much passion that one does not realize that he has not caught a truly huge fish. Catching smaller fishes was of no consequence to him. My father just loves fishing.

I got up and got dressed. Drove ten minutes to the usual breakfast hangout. Father was dressed in his morning walk attire – a pair of knee length trousers, walking shoes and a t-shirt my brother bought from Manila. He wakes up very early each morning. He said it was an age thing, making him sleep less and waking him up when the roosters were still asleep.

“Father.” I said. “I finally wrote the book.”

"Well done. Now tell me what it is about?" He replied.

He sipped on his ice coffee as I began telling him the story of how “Nude, Not Naked” was birthed. I share a cordial relationship with my father. This began in my childhood when our family ate all our meals together. Us three children would be encouraged to talk about our school life and friendships.

When I was away to study in London, I missed having family meals the most. No amount of good food (when you are a teenager, good food means fatty and oily fast food) did the trick. I remember crying quietly eating a few meals on my own during the first week living in the city where the Big Ben struck. Eventually my parents arranged for me to have my meals with a family friend and soon I was no longer homesick in the company of a family during mealtimes.

“Do you know why I chose the name Nude, Not Naked?” I asked him. “It is because the book is an objective observation of a girl's relationships with the men who have shaped her. There is no romance, no mushy puppy yucky stuff, just a honest story."

My father raised his eyebrow. In his youth, my father was a handsome man. For many of my primary school years, my father brought me to a hairdresser to have my hair trimmed. For that many years, I was made to listen to “There her father is here again. So handsome that man, don’t you think?” whispered by the chief hairdresser to her workmates. They conversed in Hakka (a southern Chinese dialect, commonly heard in Chinese medical halls and cloth shops) believing that I did not comprehend. I did.

“Girl, when are you going to get married?” He asked.

“One does not need to marry these days.”

He frowned. He has been bringing my two Persians out for drives in the evenings when most of his friends were in cars with their young grandchildren.

“Seriously father. I am very happy and there are so many things to do these days without even thinking of marriage. Eventually I would love to marry but I do not think that marriage is the be all and end all.”

I took this opportunity to explain to my father. Probably I hoped he would cut me some slack. We had a discussion. How relationships these days were not governed by whether one was married or not. This is significantly true especially in Europe. Marriage did not make a relationship any better than an exclusive couple. And most relationships, whether civil registered or otherwise, are given equal legal rights.

I think God will smite me for saying this but I think that there are far more happy exclusive unmarried couples than the smug married.


***
“She what?” I asked.

“Her boyfriend said that you made the group feel odd. They want to hang out with the married couples now that they are married.” Eve said.

Bloody smug marrieds, I thought to myself.

We were schoolmates - the smug marrieds, Eve and I. Like all late teens, we explored the world in each other’s presence. We studied in the same college for our A levels before venturing into different fields. I did a nursing course while the smugs concentrated on more viable professions. Though the smug marrieds were an item since we were fifteen, Mrs. Smug Married refused Mr. Smug’s marriage proposals.

Yup, you read it right, my dear readers. Three marriage proposals with three diamond rings that only grew bigger with each proposal.

By the third proposal, I had a small chat with the girl formerly known as my single girlfriend. I reasoned with Mrs. Smug that it was getting ridiculous how she collected the rings but wiggled herself out of the deal. I told her that she has to make up her mind eventually; be it to marry Mr. Smug or to ditch him in favor of a new lover.

Mrs. Smug whispered in my ears. I am unsure if she shared this with anyone else but this is what she said: “I am afraid of marrying him. There is no more excitement in the relationship. Maybe it is because we have been together for donkey years.”

Dear readers: I do not think the description “donkey years” is ever used as a compliment. I might be wrong but I will never settle down for something I describe as the donkey years.”

But they did settle down. Eventually. She rushed him into the Carat Club when she realized he was having friendly lunches with a particular girl from his office. Good job at it since the donkey did all the relationship ploughing. Somebody - if not Mr. and Mrs. Smug themselves - should be rewarded for working hard at the relationship. They recently celebrated their 2nd wedding anniversary. An oppulent party without the unmarrieds like myself, of course.

And now they planned to take it a step further. They no longer wish to invite me whenever they were hosting dinner parties with similarly smug marrieds just because I do not share the common believe of staying in a relationship that was described as the donkey years.

Damn the smug marrieds.

Actually my dear readers, it could be worst. They could invite me for dinners where every couple talks in unison, a land where everything is a “we”: We did this. We think that. We bought this. We liked that.

A dinner where they will gang up on me, asking “So when is it your turn? Otto, it is great time to get married and settle down. Get married before you miss the boat.”

Damn smug marrieds have a knack for doing the marriage sales pitch more ruthless than the average parking warden fulfilling his quota for the day.

And why should these smug marrieds be asking me that, I wonder. They should have known by now that my relationship is not in the “donkey years” category just yet.

• Part One: Dim Sum At 6 a.m.


• Part Two: Faithless Love.


• Part Three: 3 Times A Week.

Indie sat across the table, both of us chatting merrily while we waited for our breakfast to arrive. It was Sunday morning, the perfect time for a girl to discuss all the juicy details from the night before. Who better to discuss this with than your best guy pal?!

“You what?” Indie asked.

“He fell asleep and I walked out of the room.” I explained.

“You are never going to alone upstairs with him ever again. You understand?” Indie said. He sounded unusually stern and serious.

Indeed it was an unusual incident and it was truly very serious. Serious like Indie’s face this morning during breakfast. His eyes were smaller than usual. He looked tired.

"What's the matter?" I asked him. His face grimaced.

"You know lah... I am a vegetarian." He replied.

In a way, Indie replaced Eve after she started going to another city for the weekends with Arif. He was different from Eve but he was a great joy to have around. He was tall and handsome, with a nice body. He had a childlike smile that melted more than a fair share of women. I vow by that because I was there when all the ladies eyed on him.

We frequented similar places during weekends. This particular weekend however, we decided to split up. He was at a reggae bar with some reggae boys and a guitar. It was a laidback bar, frequented only by those who knew of the place. One would only be there by invitation. I loved the mellowing factor but did not seem to fit into the whole atmosphere.

You see, my dear readers, the place is filled with a smell that raises an eyebrow or two, if you know what I mean. As curious as I am, I never was curious about smoking – cigarettes or weed for that matter. Call me geeky or whatever, I have never tried either, not even a puff.

That soulful place was not for me. I cannot name the place or even conjure a new name for that place due to the fact that it should remain unknown to those who do not know of the bar (for you know what reasons).

“Damn it.” He laughed. “How insulting.”

“Huh?” I was stumped.

“How insulting. He fell asleep when both of you were alone in the hotel room when he could have fucked you silly.” Indie said.

“Yes, he did.” I said, then taking a deep breath.

“David’s really weird. Just don’t get that guy.” Indie said.


***
”Why?” he asked.

I groped in the dark, my right hand searching for the button to switch on the bedside lamp. Short hand at four, long hand at five. It was 4:25 in the morning and David was on the other side of the phone line. I gently rubbed my eyes. Damn these 5:00 a.m. calls, I thought.

“People always asked who you were whenever you visit me in Lola. They asked if you had a boyfriend. Blah-blah-blah.”

Hiccup.

“Why? Why did you have dinner with another guy tonight?”

“David, it’s late. Can we talk about this later?” I asked.

“No, we can’t. We talk about this now. You know, Otto." Hiccup. "You know it.” He ranted on. “You know I have been waiting all this time. Why?”

Click.

Before I could say anything in my defense, the phone went dead. Many said men are brave when they are drunk. I was not certain if that was a brave act or an act while one was drunk.

It was the most revealing conversation I have had with David. All our conversations prior to this were of general topics. We never intruded into each other’s private lives.

Truth be told, the man I had dinner with earlier in the evening was Seven. He was in town to attend a seminar. He skipped dinner with his workmates and had dinner with me instead. It was quite some time since we last met. Probably more than 3 years. We spoke often using the MSN, always planned to meet up, always coloured the calendar for a date to meet up and always cancelled at the last minute.

I do not understand David. He did not call me that night after he hung up. He did not call me for a few days. Our next meeting happened in The Datai, where a big group of his friends were occupying a third of the whole bar. He had the social power where he could text to the numbers listed in his mobile and scores of people would turn up minutes later for a party he organized impromptu. He walked in after 2 a.m. when Lola was closed for the night. In his arms was a girl, beautifully dressed in a dinner gown. She had a slim figure and I wished I had dimples as endearing as hers.

David, as you know by now, had many friends. However he was hardly ever alone with any one person. I have known him for almost two years at this point and I have never seen him being intimate with any girl. Ever. But there he was, hugging her. Kissing her passionately. He caressed her gently. They were both giggling. They were obviously drunk.

I tried to look away but I was curious. I glanced swiftly across the bar every few minutes. My eyes bore witness as they grew physically intimate. The scene might have upset a girl or two but I was not. I was never and still do not have any emotional ties to David, so it was intriguing watching him do tricks with his tongue.

I turned my attention back to my table of friends, with Indie by my side. We were playing “King” when suddenly I heard a familiar revving of a car engine.

He was walking to his car, the girl clinging to him. They were laughing, oblivious to everything around them.

“I don’t understand that guy. Seriously.” Indie said.

“Neither do I.”


***
It was nearly a month before David invited me and a bunch of friends for drinks in Lola. We never spoke of the night when he called me while drunk or the night when he went home with another girl.

To be honest, there is nothing to speak about. He is single and he rightfully has the right to have the pleasure of anyone’s company. The incidences never bugged me. The same way it does not bug me who Indie or Adidas Boy went out with or had sex with.

As far as I was and am concerned, they are all healthy men and like all healthy men, they need their share of weekly shagging. Doctors now consider 3 times a week as the norm. I have discussed this with many girlfriends but they do not seem to understand.

I am very practical in this sense. If you are not offering the guy a shag, then back off and let the man go have his fun. I think this is why I can be really good friends with Indie and Adidas Boy. I knew when to give they space. If ever I call, I call them once. If they do not pick the call, I leave them alone. I never ask them more than they are willing to tell me.

And David is still not telling me anything.

• Part One: Dim Sum At 6 a.m.


• Part Two: Faithless Love.


• Part Three: 3 Times A Week.

Music was booming through the twelve speakers in Lola. It was fifteen minutes to closing time when I was sitting at the bar with some friends. A young girl, barely eighteen walked passed the bar. She was lost in a drunker stupor and was carried out by her group of friends. Girls are getting younger and younger, I thought to myself. Bloody hell, I am getting older by the minute.

I laughed, amused by how time has changed everything and everyone. Friends who were with me last year were no longer with me. Eve has since moved to another smaller town on the weekends, keeping Arif company. Some others were settling into marital comfort, thus taking them out of the circuit.

“Do you like lamb shanks?” David asked. “I know of a beautiful restaurant that served delicious lamb shanks.”

”I love lamb shanks.” I replied.

“Great, it’s all settled. I will pick you up at six in the evening.”

“I will meet you at the restaurant.” I said.

I am not in the habit of having men drive me around the city. I enjoy my independence and love the security that came along with the mobility. I could drive myself away from boring dinners and disastrous events. Dinners with David however were far from being disastrous. Conversations were difficult in Lola when music was loud and the place packed.

David possessed a social life that rivaled that of a politician during the election period. He always had many friends and he often complained that he much prefer a quiet night in a place where no one knew him. Which leads me to the fact that I enjoyed a quiet dinner with him too.

With a social life like his, my dear readers, you can imagine that we were hardly ever alone. All conversations were for the public to know. Bar tenders were always around the bar, eaves dropping on every little detail. Patrons came and went, greeting him as they walked pass.


***
After a whole night of drinking and pretend drinking fest in The Datai and LOLA, I walked towards my car at half pass five. The air felt fresh and cold against my skin.

Damn my backless blouse, I thought to myself.

A car flashed its lights and zoomed past at what felt like 120 km/hr on a tiny single carriage street. I smiled.

I stuck my head into my car, through the window, in search of my mobile phone.

"I am hungry. Want to have some dim sum?" I asked. His car just cornered to the right, at the end of the block.

"Alright, I will meet you at the shop down the corner."

Click.

5 minutes drive later I was sitting comfortably in a knitted pink sweater. Hot tea was poured into three tiny teacups of blue and white. The traditional dim sum breakfast with hot green tea felt magnificent against the bluish 6 a.m. morning.

"You enjoyed the night?" I asked. I rubbed my upper arms in an effort to warm myself up.

"Drink more tea. You'll feel better." He poured more hot tea into my tiny teacup. I smiled and thanked him.

What a drastic difference from David, the man who owns the hottest bar in KL.

David. He slapped a DJ once for trespassing into his club with the intention of knicking his DJ. He slapped another who dared to collect parking money from his club's parking bay. Once I saw him dragged two drunks, locked fist in fist, out onto the street and gave them a good-bye kick.

The David that I know was now pouring hot tea into my teacup. He sat to my right, his hands on the table. A small bag, the size of a shoe box was next to his right arm. He always carried that familiar blue bag whenever he closed the bar down for the night.

He asked me about my life and what I did during the day.

"You know I was a nurse." I replied, then etching a smile.

The conversation then moved on to his family life - his little 15 year old sister in particular. Most men I know have a sister protection mechanism going on. He reflected on the reasons why he broke up with his girlfriend five months earlier. He entertained me with little gossips around my mysterious appearances in Lola. He made me giggle with riveting stories of countless speculations of who I was and where I was from.

“What would you like?” He asked me. The lady was at our trolley with fresh dim sum.

“I will have anything that you do with prawns and crabs being the exception.” I replied. “I am allergic.”

Another three sips of tea and probably five pieces of dim sum later, his mobile rang.

"Now? Seriously, you must be joking..." He sighed deeply. "I have to go now. I am sorry. The bar needs opening for the schmucks to take the speakers out... those boys should have done it last night." He explained the reason for his early leave.

"Want me to come along?" I asked.

"No, just go home and sleep."

Logic dictates that Seven and Adidas Boy to share at least one common trait. There HAD to be something, if anything that remotely linked these two different personalities.


***
Seven and I were lying in bed, watching TV during one of the weekends. We undressed and laid in bed naked. The only thing we wore was a necklace each. I snuggled closer to him and smelled his neck. It was surprisingly good. I could smell it on every part of his body. The back of his neck. His arms. I gently glided my nose, tasting his chest, moving slowly downwards. The smell was present very close to his skin and was particularly strong near his neck/ears area.

From that moment of discovery, I loved smelling Seven and took deep breaths of him whenever I could. Seven found it amusing that I really liked his sweaty smell. I did and I did not know why.

A similar thing happened one day when I was out for a 5 a.m. drive with Adidas Boy. He had finished work and we drove to his home, where he got changed. I was rolling on his bed while he changed into some clean clothes. After the long drive, we parked the car at the front of his gate.

We chatted about the usual things. Just before he left, I said I wanted to make sure he thinks about me for the rest of the day.

I lifted my right leg towards him. I ran my right toes gently, barely touching him. From his left knee, slowly upwards towards his crotch and then down his right leg. His trembled, his eyes wide opened. I smiled, leaned over and gave him a hug.

“Good bye, baby.” I said.

Wait a minute. Something smells. Quite literally, smelled. It is familiar, where have I smelled this before?

“Adidas Boy, are you using some kind of perfume?” I asked.

“No, you know I am not a big fan of perfume.” He replied.

How odd. Adidas Boy smelled exactly how Seven smelled whenever I drew close enough, when my nose touched their necks.

“Don’t move! Let me smell.” I said.

Adidas Boy was aroused. His ears and his back were his sensitive points and there I, smelling him to my heart’s content. He sat still in the car as I explored him further. I kissed his neck. He lifted my face towards him. We kissed, our tongues gliding against each other.



***
Ever wondered why you just like that someone, even when you met him a few second ago? Why you hate someone the minute you shook her hands?

Scientist discovered that attraction (for animals at least) is based on hormones secreted by the opposite sex, called pheromones. This is what attracts an elephant to his/her mate and your pet cat, Poppy to her mate, Tiger.

Scientist now believe that human are similarly attracted to a member of the opposite sex this way, using scents to determine who is a suitable and healthy sexual partner (to pass off your good genes).

Maybe Seven and Adidas Boy are vetted by my subconscious to be suitable and healthy sexual partner? If this is indeed true, then nature created human with a flaw called Love for I do not have a sexual relationship with either of these men because all three of us believed love can wait.

Ironic.

15% Baileys running through my veins.

That’s what I think the percentage of my bloody composition is at the moment. It bloody feels that way. Some launch themselves into ramblings when tipsy. Others are emotional. As for I, I am in a world of my own with colour flashbacks in my quiet intoxicated moments.

I spent the evening at Eve’s apartment, drinking and chatting about the weather, Rock Star-INXS, Lost, the whole lot.

Loved Carnivale Seasion One: I love the fact that the priest (a symbol of goodness) turns out to be the mad/evil one while Ben (who is a freak with healing powers) was the anti-hero. Don’t know how FINAS are going to show the koochie dancing scenes in Malaysia. It will be a shame to miss that part. Koochie dancing was an acceptable entertainment during the 30s.

Deadwood was alright: Never heard so many “cocksuckers” strung into one episode. Similarly I am wondering how HBO is going to show it without the “cocksuckers” scenes.

Rock Star-INXS: I think the blondie will win. He just has that look.

But back to this evening, Eve, Otto and Baileys: Recently developed a thing for Baileys that is fast becoming my daytime drink. While in London, it was Baileys in hot chocolate, Baileys with coffee al et.

I hardly have Baileys at night. But tonight was special – it was Baileys on the rocks. Super yummy! It is all too innocent and soon conversations were smooth. Like Baileys.

***
“Did you meet up with Adidas Boy since coming back?” Eve asked.

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Why do?” I asked.

“Don’t know…”

We sat on the mat (a nice present I bought Eve when I was in Sarawak for the Rainforest Music Festival). She has a nice pink nail colour while I decided to go kooky with an orange tinge bottle from L’Oreal.

Eve has been my close girlfriend and good coffee company. She was my desk mate when we were 14. I returned home to find her with curls. It is a nice change from her beautiful black waist length hair. It is a guaranteed shocker for her many friends. Together we had the most wonderful nights partying everywhere. Excellent company. Oh, how we have both changed since our Millennium resolution.

“Damn it!” I uttered those surprising words after a few moments of silence.

“What is it?” Eve asked.

“I’ve changed my number. Adidas Boy can’t call me anymore!”

The realization hit me hard. My one addiction in life: Adidas Boy. We spent many evenings dancing until 5 a.m. We spent even more nights talking on the phone after he finished work. Together, we drove around the city, chatting and looking at streetlights. We have done this eons ago. (I have a fascination for lightings at night. I used to drive alone searching for the brightest and most colourful neon signs and festival lightings whenever I felt sad.)

We know each other’s deepest secrets. Laughed and cried together. Loved. Lost. We kissed under the silent of the night, behind bars and clubs, under the shadows of trees, lulled by the sound of waves. He even managed to convince me to elope to another state together three years earlier. My break-up with my Swedish love was partially due to Adidas Boy.

Adidas Boy cannot contact me anymore, the thought is finally sinking in. We kept in contact for many years. And now, unless I approach him, he will never be able to find me. We will never be able to go to sleep together, holding hands, unless I walk into Palazo again.


***
“I wonder if your friend would be interested in going out somewhere with my friend over there’. He said, then pointing to another boy standing at DJ console.

“I am sorry. Neither my friend nor I are interested in going anywhere. Or somewhere, for that matter.” I said.

“Ouch, that was cold.” He said, then scratching his blonde hair. He smiled.

He wore a dark blue long sleeved shirt. A pair of Adidas Marathon peeked at the bottom of his Levi’s. He was tall and slender, just the way I like my men. He had the most beautiful and captivating smile.

“You are checking me out.” He said, laughing. Then there was silence. “I’ve gotta run. Oh yeah - my name's Adidas Boy.”

His friend whistled, signalling he has finished packing their CDs for the night and officially for them, the night was over. They were the DJs in a new dance club that Eve and I decided to check out a couple of years ago. Palazo soon found fame among the R&B fans and at any given night, the place would be filled with more than 300 people, rubbing against each other.

He turned around and ran after his friend. They walked out the door. Eve and I took our tiny drinking purse from the bartender. Said our thank yous to the employees and proceeded to walk out of the club, into the fresh 6 a.m. air. Birds were roosting in the abandoned building across the street.

It was my turn at the driver’s seat. We were at a traffic light when someone knocked on my window.

Adidas Boy riding on his Scrambler. He smiled.

Green light. I did not go. Neither did he. Red light. He looked into the car. He smiled. I looked at him straight in the eye. Eve giggled and smiled. Green light again. I engaged into first gear and drove at a painfully slow speed. He tottered along, next to my car for the next two junctions. Then after I decided to loose him by flying along the highway. One should not drive a Proton at 180 km/hour, seriously. Everything vibrates and I should imagine, everything is bolted together by five Malaysian made screws.

Still there he was, riding parallel to my window. At the next junction, he knocked on my window again. Lowering my window, I heard a muffled, “What’s your name?”

“Otto. This is Eve.” I replied.

“I am not sure if you’ve noticed but we are going ‘somewhere’ together.” He said with a smirk on his face. “Come again next weekend? I’ll like to see you.”

The conversation went on for the next few traffic junctions. No matter how fast or slow I drove, he would be riding at the same speed as mine. I just could not shake him off on my drive home.


***
Dear readers: I have never quite shook Adidas Boy off since that first night driving home. He is THAT enchanting, engraved into my subconscious. Bloody hell, I am spending today writing about him, aren’t I?

Don’t think of him. Don’t think of him. Don’t think of him.

Adidas Boy. Just like my Bailey’s tonight. Running through my veins, slowly intoxicating my soul.

Love can wait.
Really, it can.

“All the time” He said.

“What do you mean, all the time?” I asked.

“All the time, as in ALL THE FREAKING TIME… since the day I saw you naked until now.” Seven said.

“That’s disgusting…”

***
Oh how that sentence launched us both into a hug discussion. This is the way we have communicated through the years. It was always a discussion about something. When I met him at 16, it was discussion about God and Christianity. When we were both in universities, it was a discussion on maths, knowledge, language and logic. I think we both thrived on discussing different things.

But we have never talked about nude. Or naked. Or about sex until the other night when I asked him for his opinion on this rather sensitive issue.

All our previous 2 years worth of conversation revolved around his church activities and my clubbing weekends. As far as both of us are concerned, despite our differences these days, we were both trying to live a Godly life as much as possible. I admit that he is doing far better in this respect.

Well the Bible did say that one should save oneself for marriage. I admit that I can’t bridge the gap with the fact that I no longer believe that one should wait until marriage. This will be an interesting topic of conversation when I meet God finally.

***
Years ago when I was 21 and Seven a year older, we got back together. He returned from the UK and I was studying in KL during the weekends then. I checked into a nice hotel (don’t understand why I did not rent a room – duh!) and there was where all the nakedness took place.

We spent many Saturday nights drinking around Bangsar and returned to the hotel at wee hours of Sunday morning. We washed up, lazily walked to the bed, stripped and slept with our hands intertwined.

On Sunday mornings, we rose and took a bath together. We sat in the bathtub for hours at a time, talking. Were we ever tempted to make love? Honestly, yes. I did feel tempted. Now I know he did feel the same. But the Bible said we cannot and we did not.

Our love was never consummated, out of respect for each other and love for God. I have only experienced this twice: once with Seven and the other with Adidas Boy. I guess it is true, what the older generation said: Love can wait. Really, it can.

“Promise to come see me in Lola tonight, Otto.” He said.

“I will try. I have a Cuban theme party tonight, so I might not be able to make it. But I will try.” I replied.

“Don’t try. It’s been months since I last saw you, you have to come.”

“David, you know that I do not have much company anymore since everyone has moved away. It's terrible to sit alone in any bar.” I said with a sigh. It is definitely bloody time to move on with my life, I thought to myself.

“I’ll keep you company. You just come, just come.”

His name is David and here is the story of how we met.

***
Moons ago I drove the short journey to my favourite chill-out bar, The Datai at quarter to midnight.

The Datai was a chill-out bar, with 3 separate compartments, each with their special flavour. The outmost compartment was in deep aqua. Three black sets of tables and chairs lined the right side of the room while the left was separated into two huge rattan sofas. Rich silk cushions made a weekend night drinking session at The Datai an extremely opulent and luxurious experience.

The middle section was painted rusty orange. Long day beds were found everywhere and customers could move the lightweight rattan day beds to suit their table's number of friends. Atmosphere was very relaxed. Fingers lingered to places where they should not be. Tongues intertwined under the dim Japanese paper lampshade. Music was the loudest here as the DJ lulled patrons with a selection of House and World music.

***
I snuck out of The Datai at 0200 hours. It was the same routine every weekend with Eve. For this special weekend, we decided to visit the newly opened bar, Lola. Eve was there with her boyfriend, Arif. Like all things new, she was too in love to notice anything; this includes an earthquake measuring at 9.3 on the Ritcher scale. I stood there, feeling bored, sweeping spilt beer when someone tapped my back.

I turned around, smiled and greeted the man. It was Nick, a friend of a friend.

“So how is your family?” I politely enquired. I am not too familiar with him, meeting him occasionally though our common friend.

“Oh you know, Judy and I have this arrangement since the kids came around. I have a boy's nights out each Friday while she takes Saturday off with her girlfriends. So I am having my fun tonight.”

He pushed his hair backwards and smiled. He offered me a G&T. I normally drink only from my glass (read this for more details on the rules of surviving the party circuit) but tonight I drank from his because I did not want to offend him. He politely excused himself when our conversation strained. He hunched his back and walked back to rejoin his table of more than ten friends.

I felt unwell ten minutes later. My stomach was pulling and my head was spinning. Everything felt really clouded and at the same time, slow. I called Indie and asked him to help me home. I seriously knew I was not able to drive home safely.

Being the sweetheart that he is, Indie arrived some moments later. He cut his own party short, to meet me and fetch me home. His head was above the crowd, his eyes searching for me.

Soon Indie’s warm fingers slid between mine. He led me throught the crowd back towards his car. At the car park, I saw another man wearing a crisp white shirt. He was toasting at a table, laughing and patting someone’s back.

As clouded as my mind was, this guy caught my eyes. Maybe it was the way he walked or the way he talked at various tables. He stood out in the weekend party crowd, approximately 200 in the dark of the night. He was observing me all through my first night in Lola.

He owned the place, I knew it in my heart. I etched a smile and managed a decent wave good night.

I reached home and plopped myself on the black leather sofa in the living room. My heartbeat was on a Grand Prix race. The Muslim call to prayer started and I knew it was pass 0500 hours.

Illusion is the first of all pleasures.
~ Oscar Wilde

“My God, Otto. It’s breakfast and you are yawning.” Eve exclaimed.

We were sat in the local café at 11 a.m. Between the two of us, we shared a turkey sandwich, a ice blend mocha and an ice latte.

"You know that the guy likes you when he starts calling you at 5 a.m.... trust me..." I said.

"You know you should rest and not entertain these calls."

"Unless it is Adidas Boy.." I quipped.


***
“Hello?” I said.

I rubbed my eyes. My left hand reached out, searching for the bedside lamp in the dark.

Click, the switch lit my bedroom in a soft yellow tone.

“Hello?” I asked again.

“Why?”

The voice was familiar. Over on the other side of the line, I could the sound of bottles falling. I heard him taking deep breaths. He was sniffling. Like me, he was sniffling every morning, victim of Rhinitis.

“Why? Why can’t we be together? Come on, Otto. You can quit your job. I will quit mine. I will break up with my girlfriend and we will move to another city.”

“Baby, you are drunk. You don’t know what you are talking about.” I said.

“I know EXACTLY what I am talking about. We enjoy each other’s company very much, so why can’t we be together?”

All was still in my bedroom. The sound of Adidas Boy kicking some bottles was the only thing that could be heard on the other side of the line. I bit my lips and closed my eyes.

“I love you, Adidas.” I said quietly.

“Then come with me. We will just go away. It’ll be okay. I promise.”

“I can’t.”

“You can. You just don’t want to.”

Adidas Boy started to sob. It was quiet but I could hear his heart breaking.

“You can. You just don’t want to. We’ll be so happy together. I can work in another club, in another city. We will have enough. You are just concerned what your friends and family will think of you. Why don’t you think of YOU! Think of ME!”

There, he said it. Words that we both knew were true. I was afraid. Afraid of what people thought of me and although I enjoyed his company very much, I feared people would not approve of my relationship with him.

Tears welled up slowly, gently rolled down my cheeks. My heart was bleeding and I knew that his heart was bleeding. I could hear him chocking on his secret tears.

Those were Valentine’s tears, falling quietly onto pillows and quietly falling somewhere across town. I wanted so much to hug him, to run away with him and be totally immersed and lost in him.

I drove 10 minutes to his house. In the dark, I could see his silhouette, standing at the door. I opened the gate and walked slowly towards him, into his arms. Like all the other nights before this, he held my hands and guided me to his bedroom, our secret refuge.

We met his mother as we walked towards his bedroom. She was preparing for her daily morning walk. I said “Hello” and we conversed for a few minutes. She knew me from my morning visits to her house.

I climbed into bed with him. We have been silent since my arrival. Quietly I curled into his outstretched right arm. I clung onto him with all my might.

Those were our secret tears on his pillows on Valentine's Day. In his arms, on the bed, in the secret of the room, we lived in cocoon of paradise.

That is, until the sun brings light into the day again.

"Remember the time I grabbed your fatzzzzzzzzz, Evie?"

Eve grimaced, thinking of the incident where she slurred herself to total humiliation. I do not intend to allow Eve the opportunity to forget the night when she was so spaced out on Long Islands and Tequila Pops that I had to drag the poor drunk home. Broke my darn Aldo trying to get Eve out of the taxi and into the apartment.

“So here are the rules for partying.” I said, then paced myself on the cream shag pile. We were having a lazy afternoon off work. I wore a deep purple chiffon blouse with my favorite 593 Levis while Eve, in her normal stylish self, wore a pink blouse, paired with blue jeans.

“One! We will only drink from our glasses. Never take a drink offered.”

Flashbacks of the two incidences where my drinks were “enchaned” in Lola popped up from the quiet corners of my mind. I was yet to figure our how I got spiked that way. Was it Nick? Could it be David?

“Not even if it's from a friend named Nick.” Eve said, as if she could read my mind.

“Two! We will always keep together and stick together. No horny round-ups in the public toilet with unfamiliar boys.”

I was referring to the Chinese New year incident when Eve held a classmate’s (note: not her boyfriend) hand and merrily skipped to the unisex together. In Eve’s defence, she had 4 Long Islands and 7 shots of Tequilas. Eve never mentioned what happened in there, even when I tried fishing for details when she was drunk. That woman knows how to zip her lips.

”Three! We will always go home at the end night. You and I, without anyone else.” I looked at Eve in the eye.


***
Dear readers, especially parents with teenage daughters: This is how Eve and I survived 5 years of back-to-back partying with lots of humorous moments and hardly a scratch. Okay there was just this one time…

Between men and women there is no friendship possible.
There is passion, enmity, worship, love, but no friendship.
~ Oscar Wilde

"All men will say they want to fuck you lah..." he said.

"I am just so traumatized. Why can't he just say peeing on a girl's foot or something? Anything..." I replied.

A deep sigh. Earlier this morning, I called Indie at 10 a.m. to talk about last night. The naked emotional session with Seven. Eight hours later, we sat at his front porch. Two green trees shelters us from the rest of the world. Cammomile tea with honey. Amber from the Ylang Ylang incense gently dropped onto the table as we chatted along.

"If it is a man, he'll say he fantasizes fucking you. If he says he has pure intentions, he's a fucking liar." Indie tipped ashes into his favourite ashtray - a tin container from The Bodyshop. "Men are never just friends with any girl. Trust me." He tapped his ciggie twice.

One of the main reasons why I enjoy Indie's company is his honesty. It is so honest, it's almost brutal. However I appreciate his honesty. Makes a girl's life much easier to live, trust me. A guy friend like Indie is like a Russian military coat - he's the latest fashion must have for every girl. Worth more than all the Jimmy Choos combined. Indie tells me the absolute truth about men, saving me much time trying to figure men out. And I hardly have any heartaches since knowing Indie, because he tells it as it is, minus sugar coating and all.

***
Dear female readers: Forget about Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus crap. You just need a guy like Indie, always spilling the truth, corrupting your soul forever.

“Eh you sure you can take it? I’m afraid that you’ll faint on me. Or something.”

“Sure, just ask. I will answer. Am in a answering mood tonight.”

Not unlike others, I spent last night sat in my bedroom, staring at my iBook, looking at saucy photos and reading some blogs before he came online.

“What are your views on nudity?” I typed.

Being the bloody suspicious person that he is, he typed: “Why you ask??”

“I’m reading some blogs and looking at some naked pics.” I typed. “So I am curious what your views are on the topic of nudity? You think it is a sin? It’s ok? It’s wadda-wadda?”

I fished him for some answers. I am telling you now, my dear readers, you should not suggest answers if you want an honest answer. But what the heck – it was way pass midnight and I felt like torturing him a little.

“Come on.” I prodded him along. “Don’t just clam up. There must be more to you than praying to God and going for Bible study 3 times a week.”

“Err…”

“Oh Seven, this is the thing that I absolutely cannot stand about you. You always appear so perfect. I suffocate when I am with you. I don’t see how I am able to just relax and be myself when I am around you and your uptight self.”

“Err…”

“Another thing – I bloody hate it when you say Err… Err what? Err what?!”

“Saw you naked before, what…” Seven typed into the messanger.

“Yes, saw me naked before. But then you prayed to God asking for forgiveness. That, I really cannot tahan… ask for forgiveness for what?”

“Err…”

“I never regret a single moment spent with you. I don’t go crawling to God, asking for forgiveness for something that is so pure and innocent. We loved each other so much and everything about us was pure.” I typed.

“But it was sinful.” Seven typed.

“It was not! That’s my point, Seven. I never felt ashamed being naked with you. And I will never ever feel guilty for something that I felt was right.”

“Well people change.”

“You mean I changed? You changed? Or us both changed?” I questioned.

“You changed.” He replied.

“You didn’t?”

“I changed too.” Seven typed.

“But every time I speak to you, I feel so tensed up. I can’t share my thoughts with you. Sometimes all I want to do is just talk. Not be judged. It’s terrible enough to be judged by the world and by God. Sometimes I just want to hear you talk to me. Tell me things, Seven.”

“Err…”

“Okay you said, you’ve changed. You tell me what is the most sinful thought you’ve had. Tell me?”

“Cannot lah.” Seven typed in quick response.

“Why cannot tell?” I typed. “You have a peeing fetish? You enjoy peeing on girl’s foot to mark territory?” I was damn sure that I’ve heard of a whole load of stuff. I was damn sure I would not be startled at all.

“You like SM?” I asked, teasing him.

“No lah. I fantasize about having sex with you.” Seven typed.

My very first pause, after controlling the flow of the conversation for the last hour or so. This is how our relationship has deteriorated to.

“Politely put, I fantasize us making love.” Seven, the ever polite and politically correct of the two of us.

Wait a fucking minute, I thought to myself. Bloody read that again. Fantasize. You. Me. Shagging. Seven. Otto.

“Err…” I typed. I now understand why Seven keeps using the word “err….”. It is a convenient and safe reply.

He typed for a couple of minutes. I didn’t take notice of what he typed. I was just blown away by his one very revealing sentence. Trust me, I was so dumb founded. I am quiet by nature but hardly ever run out of words when messaging with friends.

When I regained my composure, I bombarded him with the following:

“Whatever happened to most sinful thoughts such as:

1. Along with my partner in crime (ie Eve), spontaneously plot to rob the guy who carted a plastic box full of watches from Time Chain into his car in the lower parking bay, while we were paying for our parking tickets.

2. Jatuhkan my standard and be a groupie. Have mind blowing sex with Chris Martin, from Coldplay. Can orgasm just listening to him sing.

3. Same as no.2 but with Craig David instead.

4. Speaking of Craig David – totally regret not keeping Craig David lookalike as boyfriend. Most handsome face but got nothing upstairs lah.”

Dear readers : You must be well aware of this secret weapon women possess. Best kept secret, I tell you... very effective in throwing off attention that you do not want. Starts in infancy when your mother gently distract you with, "Go ask your father." when you asked her "Mummy, where do babies come from?"

Seven’s reply was surprisingly simple: “Those are your sinful thoughts. Mine just revolves around asking you to come to the hotel…”

“Stop it. You are corrupting me.” I pleaded.

“Then you undress… and you lie on top of me.”


***
Have you felt that you know this person for life? And if you ever lose him today, you will find him tomorrow. Or the next. Or the next after that.

That was how I felt when I first met Seven. There was this soulish connection that defies space and time. I met him in church when I was 16 and for one year, we were friends. We went out for church trips, we chatted with other friends. But knowing he was around the room made me feel happy. There was this “knowing”.

Knowing that he is mine and that I belong to him. Even at the first hello.

Knowing that we are destined to be together, our paths will cross time and time again.

Knowing that we will marry each other, without ever talking about it.

Knowing that if we do not marry each other, we will one day find each other again. And when I ask him how he is, I imagined, he’ll say he’s fine and married to a wonderful woman. They have a daughter and they named her Otto.

Knowing that if I am not with him, I will name my son Seven.

Knowing that we are together, even when we are apart. Even when we are 70.

It’s been close to 10 years since I sat in the bathtub with Seven. Then we were physically naked. Last night we were emotionally naked. I gave up trying to rationalize this “thing” about Seven.

There are only two kinds of people who are really fascinating:
people who know absolutely everything,
and people who know absolutely nothing.
~ Oscar Wilde

I spent two summers in Stockholm with my then love. He was a handsome Swede, whom I met while we were both travelling. I will tell you more of him in another post. What I have been meaning to share with you as my first posting is this:

Our apartment in Stockholm was small, approximatelly 33 square metres. We were short on luxuries because we travelled before then (he for a period of two years and I, every so often). The one luxury we had and we had in abundance were books. And my story occured on a hot summer's day (oh that was the glorious year where the temperature was at a steady 30C) I began reading a book that will change my perception of the world and everything therein.

It was a biography of Pablo Picasso, along with various illustrations. What fascinated me most was a small chapter dedicated to the word "NUDE".

It has never crossed my mind till then that most paintings are of NUDES, not NAKED. Fat lady with a tub of water was "Bathing Nude". Or a lady lying on the bed was then aptly named "Reclining Nude"....... Were you like me, thinking not much for the word NUDE? Ahhhhhhhhh, I found out that afternoon that nude was not naked. Both words were not the same, although both carried a similar meaning.

Simply put, nude was "looking at sex with disinterest". That's why we called all the paintings NUDE but a pornstar, once unclothed is called NAKED. Men don't jerk off while appreciating "Reclining Nude".

So that was what the many painters were doing when they painted their subjects. As far as Picasso and the lot were concerned, they observed the subject and painted. Based on this definition of the word "nude", the ladies were as good as pieces of 'char siew' because Picasso and al et were merely interested in recording the moment as is. They never thought of shagging those young nimble things silly.

We now know it is true. They painted brilliantly. Beautiful masterpieces hanging on silent walls. Miraculously though, as I read the book, these women became naked, not nude, when the painting stopped. When they were naked, they were shagged silly. When they were nudes, they were objectified and became immortals, living in many musuems and private collections.

**
That is exactly what this blog is, my dear readers. It is nude, not naked.

Every saint has a past and every sinner has a future.
~ Oscar Wilde

Some things I should write about before proceeding with my stories:

“Nude, Not Naked” is meant for a discerning audience.
I respect the many values found in the world, be it religious or cultural. I try my best to avoid offending anyone. If I have offended you in a way or another, let me first apologize for it is not my intention.

In return, I appreciate some respect and I hope it is not too much to ask. Everyone has a story to tell and this is mine.


”Nude, Not Naked” is my first attempt at writing.
In this respect, I am vain. I have an innate need to immortalise my words in a book. However as you, my readers know, this is my first, so I am sure to make mistakes along the way. Bear with me as I learn the art of story telling.

The phrase “Nude, Not Naked” and the contents on this site will eventually be turned into a book. Feel free to read, quote etc from this site. Just bear in mind that this is my property and I don’t want legal complications when it is published.


”Nude, Not Naked” is meant for readers above the legal age in their respective countries.
The one thing that I learnt from the Swedes is sex (the human form, nude or naked, human sexual nature etc) is natural and is part and parcel of being a human. In my personal life, I endeavour to tell the truth regarding sex and to offer honest answers to anyone seeking to know about sex.

Children learn best imitating from their environment. I believe it is the duty of a parent to guide his/her child in sexual and relationship matters. As “Nude, Not Naked” deals a lot with relationships (to be exact, a post mortem of my relationships with the many men who shaped my life), it contains ideas that a parent might not approve of due to religious or cultural beliefs.

In the event that this happens, I suggest that you, as a parent, use the stories from “Nude, Not Naked” as a springboard to discuss what you deem is right and wrong; and share your personal values with your child.

In my humble opinion, it is far better that a child learns about sex from his/her parents than through teenage experiments or worst, through hogwash teenage (or pre-teens) banter. Or any sites such as mine.


And finally - ”Nude, Not Naked” refers to the state where a lot of these stories are derived. It is an objective observation of love, life, relationships and sex. The stories are not always perfect or happy, as you will soon discover. What I can promise is that it is raw and honest.

”Nude, Not Naked” does not publish any nude or naked photographs of the human form. This site is graced by some artwork by some photos from everyday life to break the monotony of words flowing like a waterfall.


***
As my good friend, Hot said a long time ago: “Enjoy the ride”.