3 in 24 Story

3 has been widely considered a magic number in English literature. Macbeth had three witches, Mother Goose had the three blind mice, and the French gave us the ménage à trois. And so Butterfly had written his own set of 3 with the ink of infamy.

As promised in the statistics post, here is the 3 in 24 story.

It was in the fall of 2005. I was the very man you affectionately know as Butterfly; young, restless, a blatant disrespect for commitment and periodically daring all consequences to catch up to my actions.

It was in that dark epoch of social profligacy, where attention spans were grossly limited and dating was sustenance to fill a void soul. It was a time where months were pegged to women’s names and if there were frequent flyer miles for sex, I might have made it to mars. It was a time conscience was a malleable word that I had no comprehension over, just like ‘morals’ and ‘heartbreak’.

It all started with a girl with a spark of curiosity, gained momentum with Ivory and climaxed with a third nympho within the 24 hour mark. I remembered this because it was a calendar marked date of sorts for me, a milestone in the halls of assholism and self realization that I was well capable of three erections a day.

This was in a period where I was still embroiled in the whole Ivory saga, which in brief recap, included several ‘relationship’ ending punctuations like, ‘let’s end this’ or my personal favorite, ‘let's not see each other again’. This was one girl that pissed me off so much, that if you could actually measure the multitude of piss I was in, I would say that if I ran a sanitation plant, I would be on Forbes list of billionaires.

The sporadic sabbaticals between us were largely a grey matter without affirmation from both parties. It didn’t matter to me since I wasn’t dating her exclusively and by this period, there was another individual who became a branched staple in my life.

What sparked this marathon of carnal indulgence was an inquisitive individual that was intrigued by my ‘Miss Months’ dating ritual. She was a convent girl by educational upbringing, vicarious feeder of one too many sex blogs and concupiscent temptress by the time we were on the sofa.

She was a layer of contradictions. She believed in plunging necklines and accentuating cleavages, but never participated in sex outside a relationship. She was fine with me having my hands under down her blouse, but coy about kissing. And that list ran on and on, that if I actually wrote it all down, it would count as running a marathon.

By the time we actually headed to my place it was way past midnight. And by the time she had her fill of my dating stories and sexual catastrophes, and teased enough to lose a truckload of inhibitions to lie under me, it was pushing 3am and I was battling against time to sneak her out before I had to unceremoniously introduce her as the new cleaning lady for my room to the family.

And so it was one..

Even before I could disrespect the afternoon by sleeping in, Ivory called to ask if we could hangout. You have to know that at this point, I was already so tired with her bullshit that she could bore me to sleep even if I had a full bottle of Speed and a carton of Red Bull.

The down side was that Ivory never accepted no for an answer. If I said I was too lazy to go out, she would suggest that she come over to my place. If I said I wanted to rest, she would suggest resting together. And if I said I wanted to be alone because I was sick, she would offer to send me to the doctors.

There was never a reason she could not find a solution to. If one day someone finds an alternative source of fuel, you’ll know she did it, just because my car ran out of fuel.

In my half awaked state, disturbed by an unwarranted phone call, battling phosphenes and a throat full of phlegm, I might have uttered, ‘anything’. And that might have set off a sprint on her end because she got here even before I could start on my third dream.

The great thing was that there was now another person in the room who could do a better job of waking me up than the snooze button usually does. The bad thing was that in the morning where I am usually at my sexual arousal peak, I will fuck anything that has its hand around my prick or anyone who is sitting over me, greeting my wake up with an eyeful of cleavage.

I constantly remind myself that it is wrong to be fucking a potentially psycho girl, but I also know that it is a cardinal sin to be wasting an erection.

But in this instance, it wasn’t any of the above arousal tactics that dropped my pants. No, it wasn’t the C cups that were threatening to spill out from her tank top. It wasn’t the way I was fellated under the boxers. And it surely wasn’t the way she cleaned my ears with her tongue.

No. it was that stare that she gave when I said I didn’t want to have sex.

If there was anything she was good at, it would be staring. She was so good at it, she would win a staring contest against blind people. Yes, she would kick Stevie Wonders ass even if she had dust in her eyes.

It was that cold piercing stare that was demanding for a valid reason and I wasn’t even going to be a smart ass and tell her that someone beat her to it just 6 hours ago. I was sleepy, but certainly not stupid. She was sitting on me and I was lying down, and in the words of Mixed Martial Arts fighting and the laws of physics, her punching down is a lot more advantageous than me punching up.

Half frightened by her stare and half convinced that I will get a beating of my life if I denied sex – now that will be the joke of the year -, I reached for her left breast and cupped it twice, just as a symbolic surrender of my dignity as a man.

And so it became two..

Ivory left shortly after the whole ordeal on some pretext that she had dinner plans with her dad and I was wondering if I was actually listed on her phonebook under ‘booty call’.

I didn’t care too much to think about it, because I was genuinely glad that I was free for the rest of the day and like I mentioned, there was already a particular individual who had somehow weaved herself intricately into my life.

Her name was Bing and she was a pandemonium of passion.

Between us, the chemistry was right but everything thing else was wrong. It was a dangerous flirt with a consequence that none of us could bear. It was a relationship we both knew well that was best left void of emotions, promises and plans.

That aside, she was an explosion of raw sexual energy. If you suggested something, she would take it up and raise it to a new level. If you said you wanted sex in the car, she would demand that we do it with the lights on. If you said you wanted to fuck in the office, she would demand to do it on your boss’s desk.

She was always ready, never afraid to be vocal about her moans and she was so horny so would lick your ass like they had chicken wings in them. Which was why despite the built up of lactic acids in me after two tempestuous romps in the last 14 hour or so, I was still eager on that midnight rendezvous.

Bing was the kind that laws of chemistry played no significant part in. For one, she defied the periodic table because for her, there was only one element, and that was the element of Surprise!

I know this for sure because she was capable of springing a ‘I want to fuck you here, now’ demand on you at the weirdest of places, which included the CTE stretch heading to Cairnhill, despite the fact that I debated with her that it was physically impossible for me to climb over to have sex with her on her side of the car, while still driving safely abiding lane disciplines and speed limits.

Yet, Bing was remarkably good at coaxing. She was so good at it, she could walk into MacDonald’s and come out with a Whooper Burger and a Rootbeer float. I sometimes believe why she moaned so loudly was because there was so much awesomeness in her that it was a catharsis for her to release it. Yet, despite the makings of a true goddess, she was flawed in one way, the climax.

We eventually headed for Sentosa beach, because fucking at home was impossible given the decibel of her climax, which would qualify as a shockwave if you gave her a microphone, and hotels lacked the novelty. It was great for me, because if anyone caught us fucking there, they’d probably think she was communicating with dolphins thousands of miles away.

It was hilarious because at some point we strayed from decadence and ventured into unfamiliar territory of a normal conversation, while she was still straddling me and she asked me what I’ve been doing all day, and I said,

Me: “Oh, the usual. Meeting people.”
She: “Have you been sleeping with anyone else?”

I looked at my watch, and it was already past midnight,

“Today? Nope, only you.”