Ok I’m fresh from the islands (Singapore and Thailand) and trying to readjust my body clock last night when my phone starts ringing off the hook with well-meaning friends trying to bring me back into the hotbed world of dating. As the local singles expert they don’t want me to miss the latest effort in curing millions of us of our single status. Watching that new show was really depressing for me the self-proclaimed “last single girl in the world” on several levels. First as single women are we really that clueless that we need to be led by our designer wardrobes with such brain nummers as “smile! Smile!” While we’re euphemistically ‘dropping the hanky” to start a conversation. “Hi!” always works for me. If dating really is such a painfully clumsy ritual filled with so many trials and tribulations – I mean why bother?! Meeting new people, going out with someone who likes to do the same things you do, laughing at ridiculously non-funny jokes; that’s what we singletons do. Those pro-marriage folks must sponsor this show. Lastly I personally felt totally rejected once again by the media powers that be. Not one little chocolate drop in da house! It’s enough that in this decade of increased interracial dating that I’m reminded that the “race doesn’t matter” attitude means white men and Asian women, black men and white women; not getting together with a black woman. I know it was kind of a silly show but it would have been nice to have been asked to their little mating party.
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Slutting in Singapore
My third day of exploring the city – all by my lonesome – I’m taking a break from the heat & humidity and dash inside the lobby of the Marriott Hotel, an oasis of air conditioning. I glance around and see this gorgeous guy talking on the phone. Tall, dark, handsome, designer-clad Indian dude who moves with an American like swagger. I’m hooked. Before I can catch myself I smile at this handsome stranger. The cross-cultural mating ritual begins as he follows me to the ladies room and when I come out he makes his pitch. We sit and chat for a few minutes – he’s making a hotel reservation for his brother who’s retuning home for a visit from Boston. Next he’s suggesting a cool shower a deux and a relaxing afternoon. C.J., 38, (that's his name) - short for "canned juice" he jokes and I think kind of like your sense of humor but it’s hard denying his good looks and easy manner. Like most of the population here he’s an alluring mix - half Indian, half Singaporean - raised in Malaysia. He honed his flirting skills as a flight steward for Singapore Airlines (gosh I’m really loving this airline, full-service in the skies and on the ground). He’s now in real estate- a major preoccupation in this never-stop-building city-state. A major flirt he continuously compliments me and keeps suggesting we hang out for the afternoon with a bottle of wine - just get comfortable and get to know each other – I beg off I mean what kind of easy American girl does he think I am- ok, ok I’ll admit it as a large black woman I’m definitely wooed by all the attention. Then I start to realize that a lot of the women here are petite, but a fair number are fleshy like moi and you don’t see a lot of thin emaciated blondes being worshipped around here. Glad I left that back home in the USA. Strolling hand in hand, C.J. walks me to the MRT (the city’s underground rail system) and we agree to meet later at my hotel. He kisses me on the cheek and I can’t help noticing what soft lips he has… I spend the afternoon enthralled at the Singapore Art Museum – current exhibit 
is a must see along with the Diaspora-driven "Home" and the commemorative exhibit of Singapore born artists. See I’m not so shallow as to only appreciate fine shopping and finer men.
Promptly at 9pm CJ rings my room. Wearing my H & M "smoking red" wrap dress (thank you Dian Von Furstenberg for making a grand comeback), which shows my cleavage and shape to maximum advantage, I descend in a cloud of anticipation to the lobby. When the elevator doors open C.J. exclaims "Darling, you look like a millions bucks – wow!" Slips his arms around me and gently kisses me on the lips. He’s holding a bottle of wine and utters a hushed "let’s go to your room."
I firmly lead him to the lobby bar where we settle comfortably on the luxe couch, listening to the jazz trio with the Jackie Chan meets Frank Sinatra vibe. We sip bar cocktails as the Ritz charges $100 Singapore dollars corkage fee ($60 USD) - can you imagine!
Well I'm ashamed to say (but don’t regret) necking in the lobby of that five star hotel while a handsome stranger whispers many flattering somethings in my ear. I think we might be doing something illegal - public displays of affection are frowned upon here- but this guy has the most amazing lips and incredible kissing technique!
Alas all that soochingn came with a price as I ended up having to pick up the tab since the hotel didn't accept debit cards and he hadn't enough cash – bad form I thought– although the giggling hotel staff the next day said I shouldn’t be so hard on him.
Like clockwork, he called first thing the next morning – "Darling – call me! " and again throughout the day. Sorry to say I’ll only be seeing this dreamboat in never, never land. As for the rest of my stay in this singular city, I took a pass - there are plenty of fish - I mean men on this island. . .
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