Four Candies Out of Ten

My long-term memory is both a gift and a burden. To write this, I revisited past entries – some dating back to 2006 – piecing together the fragments of a connection that started with promise but unravelled into something I needed to leave behind. This is about Chloe – a reflection on the impact she had, the lessons I took, and why now is the time to let go. Once I publish this, I will erase most of those older entries. They served their purpose, but they no longer serve me.

The late summer of 2004 stands out vividly. A year after I got back into biking – nearly a decade after the accident that changed my life. First day of school, 1995, a van hit me head-on while I rode my bike. Left me blind in my right eye. The trauma lingered, untreated and unspoken. A psychiatrist once noted it in a report to the lawyers, but it was never addressed. I carried it in silence.

Despite that, 2004 was unforgettable – in part because of Chloe. I don’t recall exactly why I ended up at Red Robin in Metrotown that night, only that I was there with Carlo, and she was there through him. I mostly kept to myself, quietly drinking, but at some point, she left her table and sat across from me. We exchanged a few words, clinked glasses in a casual toast, and that was it. Before we parted, I asked if she wanted to join us for a bike ride in Richmond. We exchanged numbers. That was the start of something – something that left its mark, for better or worse.

Excerpt from “Missing Her Plenty” published 2006-03-23

It has only been a day and a half. I miss her, but not with the same devastation I felt in April 2005. The difference this time is that I was already exhausted – tired of the way she treated me.

I came to work today, and aside from missing her, nothing feels different. I am still lonely, still alone, still numb.

Last night, after my meeting, I went to Albert’s place, and he drove us to Richmond. We wandered through a quiet residential area near Alderbridge Way and #4 Road. I spilled my thoughts to him – not with anger, not with sadness, just quiet reflection. The worst I felt was that I had missed Chloe, past tense.

Today, I still do. But life moves forward, just as it did when we were together.

The day of our long-awaited bike ride finally arrived. She rolled up on her navy blue bike, in desperate need of a tune-up. I adjusted the brake wires and pads, fine-tuned the gears, and oiled everything after clearing away the layers of dust and grime. While I worked, I found my focus slipping – her fit legs, sculpted figure, and playful pigtails kept pulling my attention. She was effortlessly stunning, and I spent half the ride behind her, fully aware of the view. She knew it too.

Over the next few months, our conversations became a steady rhythm – long phone calls, fleeting messages, but few meetings. Our schedules rarely aligned. One evening, at a farewell gathering for a Japanese exchange student, I had hoped to see Chloe, but she was working. She later texted, saying it was a shame we had missed each other.

Our talks were a blend of flirtation, innuendo, meaningful dialogue, and lighthearted banter – a connection that felt both mature and electric, carrying an unspoken energy between us.

Excerpt from “Missing Her Plenty” published 2006-03-23

Yesterday and today, she’s been on my mind. I miss her deeply, and countless times, I’ve fought the urge to text, email, call, or even show up at her door with her white fleece jacket. But I haven’t. My willpower holds me back, keeping me still.

Yesterday morning, as I got ready for work, I opened the closet and ran my fingers over the sleeve of her jacket. Lifting it to my face, I breathed in the lingering scent of her – faint but unmistakable. I closed my eyes, just for a moment, letting it pull me back to a time when she was beside me. That’s how much I miss her.

And yet, I can’t shake the feeling that by staying away, I’m abandoning her.

December 2004. She lay against me on my bed, still relaxed from the shoulder massage I had given her earlier. Her head shifted slightly, eyes meeting mine before glancing away. In a soft voice, she asked, “Is there something you want to do?”

I reached out, brushing my fingers against her cheek, guiding her toward me. Our lips met in a slow, lingering kiss before deepening into something more. As we explored each other, she taught me what I had only read about – that a woman, under the right touch, could reach climax again and again.

The first months of our relationship burned with intensity. Chloe was eager, insatiable, always wanting to be close. Every meeting led to touch, to passion, to tangled sheets and breathless whispers. Sometimes, she climaxed six, ten times in a single session, her body arching, trembling under my hands. Once, in the span of eight minutes, she came six times as she rode me, her rhythm desperate, her moans like music that drove me harder. Her pleasure ignited mine, pushing me past restraint, past thought – just raw, electric connection.

Excerpt from “Last Kiss Goodbye” published 2006-03-25

She was breathless, writhing beneath me, her body tense with anticipation. Four times, she begged to ride me, and when I finally gave in, she took control like a force of nature.

I had already driven her to the edge, pounding into her with shifting rhythms, hard slaps, slow pumps, teasing forehead grazes, abrupt stops, and sudden thrusts. But when she climbed on top, she lost herself completely. Her breasts bounced, hair whipping back and forth, her mouth opening and closing in sync with the desperate grind of her hips. She was holding back, struggling to keep her voice down – her mother was in the living room, just 20 feet away but her body couldn’t hide its need.

I gripped her hips, guiding her faster, harder. Her face twisted with pleasure, her body trembling violently. She was cumming hard, long, relentless, and she kept riding me, kept pushing herself further. My muscles burned, biceps flexing as I thrust up to meet her. She shuddered, gasping, “Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh god!” over and over as her pussy gushed, slicking my cock, my thighs, my balls.

I watched her come undone, smirking because I knew she was having the kind of sex that leaves an imprint, the kind she’d remember long after we were done. And if this was going to be our last time, I was damn sure it would be unforgettable.

Chloe was everything I needed at the time – intelligent, independent, and deeply caring. She took care of herself, loved dancing, and thrived in the energy of raves. Fluent in Cantonese and English, she had a passion for hip hop and trance, a laid-back nature, and a balance between dominance and submission that fit perfectly with me. She wasn’t high-maintenance, nor did she demand more than what I gave. Everything was great – until it wasn’t.

I failed her when it mattered most.

When her mother’s surgery went wrong, leaving her hospitalized for months, Chloe asked me to visit. I made excuses, avoiding it until my absence spoke louder than any words. By the time I agreed, the damage was done. She saw what I refused to acknowledge – I wasn’t reliable. That single failing cracked everything open. What she once overlooked became all she could see. The warmth and passion that defined us faded, replaced by hesitation, then guilt.

By March 2006, we were over for good. I was emotionally wrecked, lashing out in blog posts filled with frustration and hurt. But hindsight is merciless. At its core, the problem was simple: I wasn’t there when she needed me, and that absence became the defining truth of our relationship.

The shift was gradual but undeniable. Chloe rarely kissed me, even after intimacy – when she did, it was a quick, obligatory peck. She stopped defending me when her friends spoke against me, only relaying their words instead. At a party, she sat on another guy’s lap in front of me, fully aware of what it implied. We fought over something else entirely that night, but the real issue loomed unspoken between us.

When I spent an entire day helping decorate for her friend’s wedding, I was ignored. Others were thanked, gifted, included – I was a ghost. Her mother even tried setting her up with a doctor in front of me, insisting a freelancer wasn’t suitable for her daughter’s future. Almost everyone in Chloe’s life had turned against me, and she didn’t fight it. She had already detached.

Despite it all, I clung to what we had, driven by guilt and the fading remnants of our passion. I should have let go sooner. I should have accepted the truth when her love started slipping away instead of grasping at something already lost.

The real mistake wasn’t just failing her when she needed me – it was staying in a relationship that had already unravelled. Chloe was too passive to end it, and I was too stubborn to admit it was over. That’s why we broke up and got back together so many times. We didn’t know how to let go.

Excerpt from “Last Kiss Goodbye” published 2006-03-25

I told Jenny what Chloe had once said to me: “When we’re together, it’s perfect, but when we’re apart, I can’t help but treat you like crap.” Hearing it aloud, Jenny finally understood what Albert and I had been trying to convey.

Albert pointed out that no matter how much I encouraged Chloe to be herself, change was unlikely. She was 29, set in her ways. It was a sobering thought, but the truth was, she had already made it clear: her positive feelings for me were gone, and any change she was willing to make was for Nelly, not me.

She treated me terribly, something she even admitted herself. She acknowledged being immoral, dishonest, insincere, and dishonourable. She played with my emotions, took advantage of my generosity, and never once tried to make it right. Albert was blunt. He hated her for how deeply she had hurt me, and honestly, I couldn’t blame him.

With time, experience, and self-reflection, I came to understand that a lasting relationship with Chloe was never truly possible. I am too introverted, too weighed by anxiety and depression, to thrive with someone who couldn’t fully embrace those challenges. I needed a partner who not only understood but instinctively knew how to navigate the complexities of a relationship with me. It wasn’t until Amber that I grasped this fully.

Compatibility isn’t a fixed equation – it’s a shifting balance of shared struggles, aligned goals, and the unspoken ways two people fit. With Amber, our battles with mental health created a foundation of mutual understanding. Chloe and I never had that. Our lives moved in different directions, our needs never quite meeting in the right place.

Looking back, if I had the emotional clarity I do now, Chloe and I could have been great friends – maybe even friends with benefits, bound by deep conversation and easy companionship rather than commitment. A casual, pseudo-romantic connection where we simply enjoyed each other’s presence without the weight of expectation. But that version of me didn’t exist then. I was uncertain, insecure, and too lost in my own doubts to make any relationship truly work.

Excerpt from “Milk From Dairyland” published 2006-05-29

About a week ago, Pat walked into my room, glanced at my desktop, and asked, “That Chloe?”

I raised an eyebrow, followed his gaze, then turned back to him. “Umm… that’s Lucy Liu.”

Today, my mom barged in and snapped, “Why do you still have that bitch on your computer?!”

Once again, I raised an eyebrow. “That’s Lucy Liu. She’s a 38-year-old actress.”

She leaned in for a closer look. “Hmm… is that [some Chinese name I don’t remember]?”

I sighed. “Uh… I have no idea who you’re talking about, but sure.”

I had this photo of Lucy Liu as my desktop wallpaper…

Over the years, I’ve occasionally looked Chloe up – a quick search once or twice a year, just to see where life has taken her. She kept cycling, which was good to see. Eventually, she left North America, expanding her world beyond the Pacific and Atlantic. She made new friends, picked up new hobbies, even tried surfing. A short YouTube video from years ago showed a glimpse of her journey. She still has an incredible body.

Sometimes, I wonder what she’s doing now. The thought of reconnecting crosses my mind, but then I remember Lisa V – how nostalgia can blur the past, making us forget the reasons things ended. Chloe had treated me poorly in the end, and I question whether reaching out would be wise.

A few months ago, I mentioned to Amber that, strangely, I’ve never run into any of the women I’ve been intimate with after we parted ways. In 2006, I visited Hong Kong, only to learn Chloe had left just a week before I arrived. Despite past lovers and casual partners living there, I never crossed paths with any of them during my returns in 2006, 2007, or 2011. Even when they visited here, our paths never intersected.

It’s not that I avoided them – it just never happened. Like a lottery where the odds never aligned. Maybe, at some point, we unknowingly passed each other on a crowded street, unaware of the history we once shared.

Excerpt from “Finding My Rest” published 2006-03-30

I opened the door, and she stepped out.

At that exact moment, 9:02pm, she did something she hadn’t done since February 2005. She turned back, kissed me softly on the lips, said goodbye, and waved before walking away.

As she faded into the darkness, she glanced back one last time and waved again. I lifted my hand in response, then closed the door and headed upstairs, the quiet lingering behind her.

There isn’t much left to say that I haven’t already reflected on. My only true regret is the way I hurt Chloe and how long it took me to recognize it. Whatever missteps she made – intentional or not – weren’t done out of malice. They were the result of a relationship unrevealing, shaped by misunderstandings, outside influence, and the weight of unspoken frustrations. Her friends saw only fragments of our story, judging me through a narrow lens, and Chloe, rather than ending things directly, took the passive route – pushing me away in small ways, hoping I would leave on my own without forcing a confrontation.

She once told me I was four of the best candies out of ten – not enough for a fulfilling life. In hindsight, the feeling was mutual. We were sexually compatible, and at our best, we worked well together, but deeper compatibility, the kind that makes love endure, was never truly there. In a way, my failure to be what she needed was a strange kind of gift. It forced me into the self-reflection that shaped who I am today. It made me more aware of how to navigate love, loss, and the needs of those I care about.

It has been 16 years and 16 days since we parted – long enough for the pain to dull but never fully disappear. Though we ended badly, I still think of her now and then, choosing to remember the good over the hurt. It is far healthier to carry the warmth of our best moments than to let old wounds linger.

Maybe the years have taught Chloe how to communicate better, to break free from the habits that made our relationship difficult. They have certainly taught me a great deal.

Wherever she is now, whatever path she walks, I hope her heart finds satisfaction, her mind continues to grow, and, of course, that she still enjoys explosive orgasms.

P.S. I’ve moved all the comments from the deleted Chloe-related posts here, so anyone curious can see the conversations from back then.