The Apostate

I renounce Islam.

I renounce it not in malice, but in disgust at the actions of the state designating apostasy as an offense punishable by death. I renounce it because I do not believe in Allah. I renounce it because I am tired of being subject to laws from a religion I do not believe in. I renounce it to challenge the state’s restrictions on religious freedom.

Let me be clear. I hold no grudges against Muslims or Islam. I believe that Bruneian Muslims are tolerant, loving, compassionate, and understanding. I believe that Bruneian Muslims will stand beside their non-Muslim Bruneian sisters and brothers and speak up against tyranny when needed. And all that is needed is a push.

I am a believer of love. I am a believer of compassion. And I am a believer of freedom. I hold my views without wishing to impose on others, to shove it in people’s throats, or to force others to align their opinions with mine. I am a firm believer in public debate on all matters. And it fills me with great sadness that religion and scripture are used to shut down growing and burgeoning public conversations in matters such as state policy, lawmaking, citizenship, racial prejudice, homophobia and sexism. It is even to the level that even within Islam the state does not allow for Muslims to debate and doubt accepted beliefs, hadith and Quranic interpretation.

I am afraid. We are living in modern times and our country is experiencing modern development at a rapid pace. Yet our laws move backwards and our policies discriminate. The youth, while trying their best to move the country forward, is continuously being held back by narrow-minded, draconian rules while at the same time being chastised for lacking in ideas. The ministers demand entrepreneurial youths, yet impose a bloating bureaucracy onto them. They demand open-mindedness, yet label new ideas as bad, western influences. They demand quality, yet do little to reward excellence.

I am afraid, my fellow Bruneians. Subsidies and taxlessness cannot last forever, and the state is aware of this fact. Our resources are diminishing, and our country’s riches are finite. I fear that these new laws are partly introduced to combat future dissidents. The state is afraid. The state is worried. And the state has reacted.

My beliefs – or lack of it – do not hurt people. What I do behind closed doors have not impacted others.

Am I afraid of a death sentence? Yes I am. Am I afraid of whatever the state’s idea of ‘reeducation’ is? Of course. But I am more afraid of what this country will become if we stand idly.

I do not believe in life after death, and I do not believe in a heaven or hell. If the state learns of my identity, I do not know how I will act. But I do know that at this time that while I fear death, I welcome it more than a tyrannical state which aims to impose its religious beliefs on unwilling individuals. And I have faced near-death enough times to believe that my lack of beliefs will not change in the face of execution.

May the people save us.

I Met Somebody, I Was 19 Years Old

Image

Source: Frank Ocean

I don’t listen to Frank Ocean. I’ve never bothered to check out his music. I had no interest in him. Not until today. For those of you as clueless as I was before, Frank Ocean is an R&B singer-songwriter who is part of the Odd Future WGKTA Hip Hop collective. He’s also signed to legendary label Def Jam. In other words, he’s a pretty big star. Even without having ever checked him out, I knew he’s very famous, if the constant links to his songs on my facebook and twitter stream are anything to go by.

So the news of him coming out shouldn’t interest me at all. Heck, I didn’t pay much notice to Anderson Cooper coming out of the closet. But Frank’s open letter (which he posted on his Tumblr) struck a chord with me. He writes about falling in love with a boy when he was 19. His account of this is beautifully written and deeply heartfelt. You have to read it from start to finish, it’s worth it.

I’ve fallen for a boy when I was 19. And we didn’t just spend summer together. We spent almost every day for the better part of two years in the same student accommodation together. He introduced me to music that changed my life, gave me my first joint, and he didn’t hesitate to call me out on my bullshit. But even with his harsh words, it came from a place of kindness and love. Someone once asked me if I had to fall in love with a man, who would it be. There was no hesitation in my mind. It had to be him.

But back then we both had our own girlfriends. And of course I never did tell him how I felt. It was just a hopeless situation at the time. And it’s still a hopeless situation now.

He was the first person who indirectly led me to question my sexuality, to make myself consider whether I’m bisexual (I’m pretty certain I’m attracted to woman, but exclusively?). But he was also the last man I’ve loved in that way.

Am I still in love with him? I’d have to say I don’t anymore. We met two years after we went on our separate ways, and while there was clearly much love between us, it was clearly platonic. That night we spent the night listening to his friends jam to The Brian Jonestown Massacre and share copious amounts of LSD in a converted London warehouse. I didn’t take any that night (and I’ve never taken any ever) because I had to take an early train in the morning.

Yet it made me remember the old times, when we’d spend so much time in each other’s room just talking about ourselves and listening to music. I’d listen to him play his guitar while I lie down on his bed checking out his CD collection. Just like Frank Ocean described it, time would just glide.

We spent our last night living in the accommodation together just lying under the stars on the grass smoking weed and eating leftover barbecue. It was one of the happiest times of my life.

Let’s Play Outside

Sex outside the bedroom is a very romanticised thing. If you only know it from movies, you’d think that every single sexual act outside of the house is a passion-filled adventure with the risks totally negated by the extreme arousal such dangers bring into your sex life. But oh, how Hollywood lies.

I can confirm that she does not indeed work at Kedai Piasau

You may be surprised by this, but the very people who taught you that every person deemed cool can walk away calmly from an explosion with no ill effects whatsoever are also the very same people who exaggerate on the wonders of sex in public places.

The biggest problem is that you have to keep as much clothing on you as possible, just in case some random person appears. Full nudity is not an option. “But,” I hear you say, “sometimes all we need is a quickie. Just a little in-and-out and we’ll be back to whatever we were doing before.” Oh, naive fictional person. Let’s see how you get on.

You try your luck in an office, because you worked hard for it and you’ll be damned if you don’t at least try having sex in it at least once.

You’re wearing jeans (because it’s casual Thursday), so your movement becomes very restricted. You can’t sway your hips or keep your balance. It’s like trying to salsa with your legs tied up. You know you run the risk of nipple chafe if you’re wearing the wrong type of shirt for sex, which is to say every single type of shirt ever made. You realise ‘every single type of shirt ever made’ includes that snazzy new Lacoste shirt you bought on holiday in England.

There’s also the matter of skin on skin. The friction between jeans on jeans ain’t nuthin’ compared to lovely thigh on thigh. It just feels like you’re trying to start a fire together. Jeans on thigh is worse. So she kneels down and tries to give you a blowjob, but spends most of her time and concentration trying to avoid her hair getting caught up in the zipper. You end up taking off your jeans all the way anyway, which isn’t the easiest piece of clothing to put on in three seconds. Sex with clothes on is a safety hazard.

This isn’t working, you say. A janitor could walk in any moment and you won’t have time to get dressed.

So you try to find an enclosed space where there’s little risk of people seeing you, like in a public toilet. You can definitely go full Adam and Eve there. No one’s going to see you. But unless you’re in a disabled toilet (get the fuck out, you inconsiderate asshole), you’re not going to have much space for love-making. The toilet cubicle is also a very awkward layout for sex. You could go down on her, but then the smell of piss from the toilet seat is just too much, and that’s if you can get her to sit on it. You could go doggy style, but that either means the person in front holds on to the toilet (again, extremely dirty) or you go perpendicular to the toilet. Here, let’s illustrate that:

Amazing photoshop skills at work here

As you can see, there’s not much space to build up any kind of rhythm whatsoever. And damn it, consider yourself lucky if that toilet you’re in has less germs than the biological warfare division.

What about in the great outdoors? Nature seems nice enough to play your erotic games in, what with all the bushes and greenery providing some hiding space. Heck, it’d be nice to actually see some real birds and bees while you’re doing it.

Them naughty birds and bees

So you run out of the office building and to the forest just outside. The sun is shining, and the breeze is soothing. Then you actually start doing it and it all seems like a horrible idea in hindsight. Leaves get stuck on your back, and you can feel ants and centipedes crawling into your nether regions. Your penis goes soft from the sudden brush of icy wind against your balls. Her nipples get perky, but only because she’s two minutes away from turning into an ice statue. You abandon the idea of sex in nature’s backyard and head to the secluded beach just near your home.

There we go. There’s space and nobody else is there. How romantic. The moon is illuminating the contours of both your bodies. The soft crashing of the waves provides a gentle soundtrack to your overdue love-making. You slowly get her on the sandy floor and you guide your manhood into her. It seems right at first, but slowly it becomes more and more uncomfortable. You can’t shake off the feeling that something has gone terribly wrong here. The warmth tightness of her pussy is slowly turning into a sensation quite close to rubbing your cock on sandpa… FUCK, IS THAT SAND IN HER VAGINA??

Fuck this, you’re going to masturbate to Bangbros instead.

Cock Blocks & Pixel Pussies

When you’re in a long-distance relationship which started out as a sexually active one, it’s hard to ignore the physical desires you both share for each other. The most obvious solution is cyber sex, or if you’re still living in the 90’s (say hi to Nirvana for me), phone sex.

“We LITERALLY had phone sex that night”

While nowhere near as good as actual sex, it goes a long way in helping eradicate some of the sexual frustration. The first time I tried phone sex I was as smooth as trying to rub an arse against some sandpaper. I stumbled trying to find the sexiest words and craft the sexiest imagery with those words. Often I had to lie, because I didn’t think anyone would find me in Sonic The Hedgehog underpants sexy. It was somewhat a disaster, but my then-girlfriend soldiered on, trying to masturbate to this awkward attempt at being an impromptu sex line.

As I grew more confident and picked up some more sexy vocabulary, I then discovered Skype. Less words, more visuals. This was more my style. An adolescence filled with pixelated naked women on 56k dial-up prepared me for the blockiness of cybersex. I felt at home.

Oh baby, you’ve got some squares on you!

Internet got better and better, and so did cybersex. I was no longer masturbating to what could’ve been a Pac Man game. I was masturbating to a somewhat PS1 era version of my girlfriend. It was like the first time we saw Lara Croft. Nobody pointed out the fact that Lara had triangular boobs. The only thing that was important was that she had boobs. Three dimensional boobs.

Aaaand while we now have HD boobs rendered with hundreds of computers, cybersex hasn’t gone very far, especially in Brunei. Ridiculously bad internet speeds are an injustice to people masturbating to each other all over the country. Surely if the heads of the telco companies had to endure a month of pixelated cybersex, they’d resolve to fix this incredibly important problem immediately.

DST, get on it!

Keep Dreaming

I am fucking her furiously, fondling her breasts while I can feel my penis about to burst with cum. She is a stranger, someone I’ve never met before in my life. But when we met for the first, there was nothing else to do but fuck, right here in the middle of a busy restaurant.

Suddenly, the gold-trimmed walls slowly fade away, replaced gradually by the grey, dull familiarity of my own room. She too fades. This is when I struggle desperately to keep myself from waking up. She fades in and out again, but every time she appears, it’s much shorter than before. The intervals become longer, until the whole of the restaurant had been fully replaced by the disappointing square box decorated with Pulp Fiction and Bob Marley posters.

I am awake.

That’s me describing the final stages of my lucid dreams. Lucid dreams are when you realise you are dreaming, and you can use the fact that there are no consequences to whatever you do in dreams to do many things you wouldn’t be able to do in real life.

It’s a bit like what Ellen Page’s character in Inception does. She can construct worlds in her dreams and manipulate the environment around her. You can do that in your own dreams with a lot of practice (or luck).

Usually I just don’t make the effort to make big buildings and elaborate heist operations when I realise I’m dreaming. I just fuck people. I find (or imagine) a woman, and then I have sex with her. Simple as. Nothing clever about it. Just the mitigation of my basest desires is enough to satisfy my dreaming self.

Sure, you can fly around being Superman. Sure, you can be a king for a day. You can even ride a velociraptor who breathes fire unto all your enemies while you plan a barbecue with slightly burnt human satay on the menu. It’s a world in which morals and ethics don’t apply. No one can judge you. And if someone in your dream world does judge you, fuck them. Literally.

Since you’re having sex with a construct of your own mind, you can argue that it’s just masturbation. And it would seem that you would have a point. But masturbation is unarguably awesome. Hence your point is irrelevant anyway.

I’d like to know if any of you are lucid dreamers too, and if you are, what do you do in your dreams? Are you like me, a perverted fuck who just has sex with the first attractive person you find? Or are you like Ellen Page, creating magnificent worlds and cities out of thin air?

Are You Experienced?

I am young. Not super young. I’m not 14 or anything. That would mean you’ve been imagining the sexual escapades of an underage person, and that makes you a pedophile, or something.

Hello!

But no, I’m in my early 20’s. Judging from the people who tweet to me (I have a twitter account!), I’m younger than most my readers.

By definition, that would mean I’m less experienced. But is that true? Surely by now people should know that age does not necessarily correlate with experience. I’m not even sure experience is something that you can measure. It’s a collection of different moments in time that you’ve collected over the years. Sure, the older you are, the more chances you’ll have of collecting these moments. But there’s a lot of people who stay in their comfort zone and thus miss out on some amazing stuff they could’ve told their grandchildren about.

Oh, it was an orgy I will never forget!

Am I saying I’m very, very experienced? Heck no. The reason I’ve tried so many things in my short years is the fact that I look up to so many people who for them to try new stuff is something they do on an extremely regular basis.

I’ve once slept in a London warehouse full of people (poor art students, naturally), and half of them were on MDMA jamming to The Brian Jonestown Massacre while trying to forget about their crippling debts. These experiences have given them inspiration for creating some of the best art and music they could’ve come up with. It gives them perspective that would’ve not come from just staying in your comfort zone and working in an office all day.

Even in Brunei, we have those people who aren’t afraid of diverting from the well-worn path and eliciting horror from their slack-jawed parents. It’s a lot more acceptable now to go into less conventional careers and lifestyles. Sure, you still can’t give your gay boyfriend a kiss in the middle of Tamu Kianggeh, but hey, maybe we’ll get there some day.

But I understand, it’s not a lifestyle for everyone. It’s perfectly fine if you’re not okay with ending up cooking leftovers from leftovers of your dinner from three nights ago. But we do need the brave few to walk down this path. We can’t all be working in offices getting nice, comfortable wages masturbating under the table thinking of a threesome with your female boss and her secretary.

Hey Aman, I'll need you to work overtime tonight and tidy up the filing system. And by overtime I mean hot sex, and by tidying up the filing system, I mean hot sex all over the photocopier while the janitor watches

I am going to end here, before I end up rambling. Sorry, it’s been a while since I last updated. Hopefully my next one won’t take as long.

You’re A Wanker

Men masturbating/tugging the dolphin/having a wank/shining their shoes/whipping a quick one/charming the snake/uncorking the bottle/playing the Wii/churning the butter/polishing the magic wand is usually an image we reserve for people who are sexually dissatisfied. We save it for the virgins, for the bachelor on a dry spell, the husband whose wife won’t let him in the bedroom after a bitter game of Monopoly, the man whose girlfriend won’t entertain the idea of putting a dildo up his anus.

But the fact is, most men masturbate. This applies to married men, gay boyfriends, former stars of children tv shows, leaders of an internationally-organised vendetta against war criminals. You name them, they wank.

Be glad that I'm only showing the top part of this photo

So people, do not be offended if your partner plays with his penis for self-relief once in a while. It doesn’t mean your sex life sucks, or that he’s not satisfied with it. Masturbation is healthy. Heck, if you’re feeling adventurous, try getting off while watching each other masturbate. If you’re so insecure that you find the fact that your partner can find sexual satisfaction without you (even if it’s just with himself), get over yourself.

I find women masturbating to be extremely sexy. It is also a godsend whenever I can’t get my girlfriend to orgasm. Even with the sex god superpowers that I have (I don’t), in general it’s harder for women to climax from penetrative sex (in general being the operative phrase here). That’s why you hear that women have a tendency to fake their orgasms.  Women sometimes fake them to boost a man’s ego, or because they are no longer in the mood and their partner has already climaxed.

You know what? I’d rather know when my girlfriend isn’t having an orgasm so I know what I’m doing right and what I’m doing wrong. Sure, it bruises my ego. But I’d rather that than it being more harshly bruised by the sight of her running off with an athletic black man with size 16 shoes.

You know what they say about men with big shoe sizes

I’m not saying you should get some ZZZZZZs or read a book while she’s busy playing with her clitoris, finishing the job you didn’t finish. Damn it, go help her. Kiss her nipples, nibble her ear, providing she finds that sexy. Heck, join in if you still have it in you. More than once have I ended up playing with her breasts while she sucks my cock and has one hand penetrating herself with a vibrator. That mental image just gave me an instant boner. Wait here a second while I pay the sperm bank a visit.

Well, that didn't go down too well

Okay, I’m back. Where was I?

Fuck this. I’m going to watch some porn while I masturbate some more.