My Romantic History (Tongue In Cheek)


For ages, the bashful side of me couldn’t allow for the substantial expose of my romantic past here because of the number of blog buddies I had gained then. But it’s already been five years so this memoir of mine must accomplish its goal asap.

My problem is, the inspiration to spark off the ardent schmaltzy prose I’ve been intending in my documentation won’t happen. How could I when my feelings for those dudes had long gone kaput. Another thing, I’d rather allude to my ex-Romeos who made me cry as A#1 A#2 A#3 and so on… (don’t ask anymore what that A stands for).

Just kidding. I still do adore men. Very much.

I’ll use the letter J instead (Again, no questions please) 🙂 . My enumeration of erstwhile lovers according to period as follows:

#1: college boyfriend. Sweet, although brief – the relationship, I mean. Not a J. I was.

J#2: my ex-boss. More than 10 years my senior. I was informed he died in a car accident years ago. Ho-hum.

J#3: my “ex-husband.” Father of my child. The sweetest I’ve had, I admit.

#4: country guy, best-looking one. Er, more than 10 years my junior. Yes, my mother wasn’t happy. Nice lad, in fact.

J#5: my son’s music teacher. A former buddy I’d been fond of.

Can’t go on. The last was another musician – not worth mentioning. Insignificant and more of a mistake. Big big Jerk, to be frank.

I became jaded as time went by till I lost interest, declined invitations and dodged at any onset of probable connections because men and liaisons with them started to all look pretty much the same to me. And I ain’t putting on airs in saying that.

Contrary to what some people think, the aggregate of men I had been physically intimate with do not exceed the fingers on my one hand.

Okay okay, so watch my all five fingers go up – uno dos tres quatro cinco

But that’s it.

Granted, I can’t bring myself to wax poetic about my former love affairs, maybe I should start getting down to the sex part. Ooh… Lots to say and share on that. I’ve been so looking forward to using the line “fry my eggs.” ( Actually, I just borrowed that from somewhere and can’t catch what it faithfully connotes)

The problem again is, my son may come to read all this someday soon. The whole sex disclosure emerging from his mother will definitely embarrass him he’ll no doubt expel my name the soonest from his birth certificate.

I guess my personal Kama Sutra diaries will have to stay deep inside my big wooden box much longer.

Better luck next time.



Samantha Fox. Now that’s the name I would wish to have for myself in our parallel universe.

Samantha Fox was a British singer in the late 80s who kinda fit more in a porn flick. This was her only song I liked. Watching the adorable male dancers plus Miss Fox’s cool black backup singers in the video never fails to make me smile. Some real corny dance moves, yeah, yet I wish they had polished the filming of the dancers and backup singers better. There was no You Tube in those ancient times I was totally clueless on the brief R-rated scene at the end, believe me.