Four Out of Ten

The late summer of 2004 stands out. A year after I got back into biking, nearly a decade after the van that hit me left me blind in one eye. The trauma was never treated – just buried. But 2004? That was unforgettable, in part because of her.

We met at a Red Robin in Metrotown through mutual friends. I was sitting amongst some people I didn’t really care much about, sipping my wine, just listening to the voices around me. Then a girl in her mid 20s picked up her glass, walked over, and sat across from me. She told me, “I noticed you from over there, like you don’t give a fuck about anyone or anything.”

I raised my glass, and we clinked. As she put her drink to her lips, she stared at me the whole time, like a predator to her prey. Except I was no prey either. I held a slight smirk and she saw that too.

The evening was made infinitely more enjoyable because of her presence. We talked, but more than that, she was bold and seductive. She was straightforward with some tact, and wow, what a fresh of breath air. So of course, we got into talking about sports. She told me her thing was volleyball – indoor and outdoor. Lovely. I had to ask if she was into biking. Thus, we exchanged numbers.

She came down to Richmond some time later on a hot sunny day. She was wearing leg-hugging fitness pants that accentuated her fit sexy legs and perfect bubble butt. Yes, I noticed.

As I tuned up her dusty navy blue bike, giving it a good dash of oil for her gears, chain, and cassette, my eyes wandered. She squatted down a lot to point out rattles, or what she thought were oddly loose cables, or ripped-off stickers that somehow was detrimental to her ride safety. Of course, I wasn’t so blind to see what she was doing. Her fit legs, sculpted frame, playful pigtails weren’t lost on me.

Then came time for the actual ride. I told her the plan and lead the ride initially. When we got onto a path, I told her I would ride behind her, to keep at her pace. Let me just make this clear: I did not intend to ride behind her to enjoy the view of her. That notion came accidentally. Especially, when she looked back at me at some point, with a smirk on her face, and flexed her exquisite bubble butt whenever she could.

Bold, daring, absolutely perfect physique. Fucking delicious.

The days and weeks proceeding that was a balance between maturity and mischief which pulled me in hard. Our messages were flirtatious, sometimes deep, sometimes stupid. We rarely met, but the tension lingered. When we finally did connect, it erupted.

December 2004. She laid next to me, soft from a massage, eyes flicked toward mine.

“Is there something you want to do?” she asked, as her lips brushed against mine.

I kissed her softly, slowly, and eventually, our clothes were off, our bodies pressed, her eyes shut, her mouth opened and closed in a loop of ecstasy. My lips closed in on her neck, shoulders, and breasts. She held me tightly one moment, then loosely the next – a jigsaw of pleasure, want, and need. Then she whispered through panting, “This feels fucking amazing.”

A few more moments like that, she kissed and licked my ear and face, then asked, “Can I ride you?”

Honestly, she was the first woman who showed me what multiple orgasms looked like. She lowered herself eagerly onto me, and rocked herself back and forth rapidly. Her breasts heaved, her breath sharp and quick. Her face contorted into a swirl of overlapping emotions and sensations. The sight of her sent me hard. Then I placed my hands on either side of her hips, pulled her onto me further, and rocked her even harder and faster. She looked down at me like a lewd sex doll. Her skin was gleaming with trickles of sweat, some dripped from her chin and her nipples, flinging off all around us, onto me. She starts moaning louder, her breathing hastened, her hips rolling like her life depended on it.

Then for a brief moment, she forced herself to slow down. It looked like her entire body was imploding, then I felt her cunt squeeze around my cock once… And her entire body jerked back and forth, and she let out a cry. She kept grinding and riding me in short spurts, then stop, wash, repeat. Her eyes opened wide, then closed tightly shut. Her hands grabbed my forearms, nails sometimes digging into my flesh, sometimes loosen, sometimes, she let go and seemingly didn’t know where she wanted to put them. But the entire time, I held her steady, and when it felt like she was ready to finish, I rocked her back and forth even more, and that gave her a wave of further orgasms. I felt a gush of slickness all around my length. It’s the sort of feeling that always made me happy.

And finally, she collapsed on me.

We spent the rest of the night kissing, talking, joking, teasing, and of course, more fucking.

I’ve met enough women in my life until that point, that gave me a taste of personalities and different experiences, but Cindy gave me something everyone else didn’t gave me. She gave me her soul. Or at least, she shared it with me. And it’s wonderful.

What I mean is that she didn’t hide from me, nor follow social protocols. This was a woman who knew what she wanted, pursued it, and got it.

We clicked in and out of bed. Until we didn’t.

When her mother’s surgery left her hospitalized, Cindy asked me to visit. I made excuses. I didn’t go. And that silence? It killed everything.

By the time I offered, it was too late. She’d seen me for what I refused to accept: unreliable. That fracture became the truth she couldn’t unsee. Passion turned cold. Her kisses became quick pecks, her loyalty evaporated. Her friends talked shit. She didn’t defend me. When I decorated her friend’s wedding venue, I was invisible. Her mother openly suggested a doctor instead of “a freelancer.” Cindy didn’t object. That silence said everything. Once, at a party, she sat on another guy’s lap in front of me like I wasn’t even there. And I stayed. Out of guilt, nostalgia, stupidity – who knows.

Our relationship started off hot from December 2004 to April 2005. Then I fucked up royally and from there, all the way to March 2006, after a few too many attempts at breaking up and reconciliations, it was finally over. I had to end it, but I was still wishy washy. I still wanted her back, but I knew, this was bad for the both of us. Her behaviour became toxic. At least towards me, she became reactive, passive-aggressive, demeaning, and irresponsible.

At the time, I thought she was too passive to end it, and I thought I was too stubborn to walk away. Of course, now, eleven years later, in super far hindsight, I realized it wasn’t so much that she was too passive, or that I was too stubborn. Actually, not being present was the message. Perhaps I am giving her too much credit, but I would like to believe that even amongst the emotional cruelty, at the end of the day, she was giving me a way out – a means to at the very least, keep some of my dignity intact. To permit me the final act of leaving.

But honestly, perhaps like I said, I am being too generous with this thought, because after I left that last time, she came by my house two hours later. She insisted we still had a bike ride to do. We ended up riding our bikes one last time, then we had a last orgasmic fuck, before she left.

And that was that.

I confess that a few days later, while I was at work, I broke down, and went into my van and left a series of voice messages to her, that I would wait, that I would do this and that. That was stupid of me, but more than that, it definitely dissolved what remained of my dignity.

However, my friends were there for me. Albert, Jonathan, Patrick, and Laura was there for me. They didn’t send me ‘get well’ messages from afar. They took time out of their super busy schedules to do things with me. Albert and Patrick specifically spent a lot of time making sure I was being taken care of. And forever, I am grateful of them.

2006 was an amazing year for me though. The amount of things I did, like going out, organizing outdoor events with strangers, working out, eating better, reading more books, spending more time getting to know my friends even more, and of course, writing in this blog was multiplied by at least ten times.

Cindy was an experience I would never forget, and sometimes, I wish I was there for her in the beginning – to be that reliable boyfriend. Alas, I was immature, but more than that, we weren’t truly right for each other.

About a year after we broke up, and hadn’t seen each other for that time, I went to Carlo’s wedding banquet, and of course, she was there. She dressed plainly in a white-beige dress. Her long black hair was straightened and let loose. She had light make-up on, and what looked like one inch off-white conservative heels. We ignored each other. That was fine. I was with six of my childhood friends, and their dates. My date was Emma. Super feminine, beautiful, and similar to Cindy, very bold, daring, flirty, and loved fitness. Though unlike Cindy who loved volleyball, Emma loved yoga.

Anyway, Cindy taught me a lot about love, but more than that, she taught me about being reliable. So that basically has been my thing from 2006 onward, is to be a reliable person. However, it also taught me other things, or rather, it brought to surface some other things such as having the perception to see individuals in groups. More specifically, to make sure that individuals always get recognition, and to make sure they are not accidentally hidden by the rabble of louder voices and presences. I had often been in that spot, and only Jon and Albert made sure I was seen and heard. And when Patrick and Laura felt my absence, they too would reach out to me. That’s how special they were to me. They saw me, and they took time to listen to me.

When they gifted me their friendship, and I realized the solidity of their friendship, I knew I cannot be anything but reliable for them. Though I have to say: it’s not just the sole experience I had with Cindy that taught me that. She was just the trigger, or the cherry on top. Being reliable is a trait of both of my parents, and from many others around me.

Anyhow, looking back at that relationship, we were never fully compatible. I was introverted, depressive, emotionally ill-equipped. She didn’t have the patience or perhaps the instinct to meet me in that space.

If I had been who I am now, we might have been great friends. Maybe lovers without labels. Someone to bike with. Someone to fuck in moments of tension and talk about music in moments of calm. But that version of me didn’t exist yet. I was messy, uncertain, and more boy than man.

She once told me I was four of the best candies out of ten – not enough to build a future on. In hindsight, she was right. And the feeling, frankly, was mutual.

It’s been one month short of twenty years – wow… Twenty years!

Of course, the pain has dulled, but the memory remains. I’ve looked her up from time to time – saw that she kept cycling, tried surfing, travelled more. Her body still looks amazing, but I’ve never reached out. I am a fragment of a past that holds no water today. Lisa taught me the danger of nostalgia, because it often makes us forget what things ended in the first place. Regardless, she is also with a stable man who obviously gives her a life worth living with.

Here’s another tidbit about life itself. In all of these years, I’ve never bumped into any of my past lovers anywhere. Once they left, they were gone. Not even when I visited Hong Kong in 2006 – Cindy had left just a week earlier. It’s as if we were cosmically timed to miss each other forever. And what’s odd about this, is that my friends have bumped into past lovers and ex girlfriends. Yet, why haven’t I? I’ve been in more relationships than most of my friends, except Reuben who has been with hundreds of women.

I would like to think maybe we passed each other on a street once – shoulders brushing, hearts unaware. It’s kind of sad.

To end this, I just want to say I don’t regret that Cindy and I ended.

I regret how I handled her hurt.

Whatever cruelty she inflicted wasn’t warranted, but I understood since four years ago, when I originally started on this post. She withdrew instead of confronting. She let her friends do the talking. She nudged me out instead of pushing me away. She wasn’t trying to be evil. She was passively detaching from me.

But I wasn’t innocent either.

Still, I learned. And now, I let her go for real.

Wherever she is now, I hope she still smiles when dancing, still crushes pavement with her tires, and still knows how to lose herself in pleasure.

Original comments from past Cindy-related posts have been moved here, preserved for context and reflection. Think of them as echoes, not endorsements.