I am in my early twenties, currently employed as senior librarian in the same university I graduated from, making about one fifth of Kopitiam's average monthly salary. Been foreveralone for the last 14 months, the previous relationship lasted 8 months.

My interest in reading started when my father, an engineer, was tasked of my care taking when my mother, an accountant, was hospitalized with fractured hips. She was accounting on the go when she tripped and fell down a flight of stairs. Presumably exhausted, my father locked me in his home office when he wanted dinner but forgot I was with him in the room. I was six and I was taking a nap.

He was long gone when I woke up. Trapped with nothing to do, I started reading documents on his desk. Reading, of course, doesn’t mean I understand what I was reading. I knew only the basic words like “a”, “the”, “blue”, or “number”. But there was really nothing else to do, so I kept on with it.

Two hours into it, with the aid of detailed engineering illustrations, I worked out that those papers are how-to for people who want to build a container, like those storing my toys. When my dad finally remembered and came for me, I told him my theory. He laughed and said no, those are for building houses.

I first noticed boys are more than just human with penis instead of vagina, when I was about thirteen or fourteen. I knew how penis looked like and how they function, because I have a father that always forgets my presence at home. I grew up familiar with grown up’s genitals, and concepts like masturbating and sex.

I was, of course, a librarian for most of my schooling time. I was club-less for the first month of school, so I can’t claim I’ve been a librarian all my time in school. I was also below average, in terms of physical attractiveness. I looked like I’m eight and malnourished, despite my actual age. So I was sometimes the target for verbal bullying.

It was a typical Monday morning where I had duty in school’s library. On schedule, the worst class in Form 4 entered for an hour of once a week mandatory library time. It was daunting at first, dealing with loud and obnoxious seniors, but I got the hang of it eventually. So it was a typical Monday with the same crowd I handled for about twenty weeks now.

On cue, the captain of school’s basketball team asked for me by name. He teased about my size, and with poker face I asked him what else he wanted from me.
The typical answer would be no, plus more remarks about my lack of breasts or buttocks, but I was surprised with a request for latest issue of National Geography. I obliged and went looking for it, and was further surprised when I realized he was following me.

I thought it was a new trick to humiliate me, and was massively annoyed, but didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to give him that satisfaction. So we went into the last aisle in the room, because such magazines are unpopular amongst students.

That was when I first really noticed things about him. Him, being the typical basketball jock, was tall. Really tall. I picked up the magazine and tossed it at him. He caught it easily, and then bended his body forward slightly. I braced myself for the incoming assault/insult, but it never came. He smiled a little, and thanked me.

That caught me off guard, and the event remains high on my list of “things I will never forget”. I blushed and said nothing, and he left with a wider, satisfying smile.

I spent the rest of his time there observing him. I assumed it was an elaborate plot to attack me, but I was wrong again. He was reading the magazine. It wasn’t an act; you can tell if someone is really reading something. It was confirmed when some girls surrounded him and he explained something from the pages.

That was when I first really looked at him. He was handsome. He had this little frown every few pages. He tilted his head and bit his thumb, and then flicked his finger at the page as if he figured something out. Silly, but that was when I had a crush on him. First crush, to be honest.

Simple: trial and error. All my relationships began with identifying if the boy/man has “that look”. If he has it and the chemistry is balanced, I always initiate the pursuing. Through a series of boys/men, I identified what variable I preferred most in men – the amount of books he read.

Boys/men I dated who read more than two books a week (includes magazines and book of varying genre) generally lack passion in other things, like beaching. Those who read less are incapable of projects or tasks requiring more than a day of attention.

To date, only one man I dated read two books a week. He was the perfect one. The right amount of attention and opinion. The cool attitude towards life. The relationship ended because I was the third wheel and I didn’t want to ruin his life. He agreed it was regrettable but the right thing to do.

I am in my early twenties, currently employed as senior librarian in the same university I graduated from, making about one fifth of Kopitiam's average monthly salary. Been foreveralone for the last 14 months, the previous relationship lasted 8 months.

My interest in reading started when my father, an engineer, was tasked of my care taking when my mother, an accountant, was hospitalized with fractured hips. She was accounting on the go when she tripped and fell down a flight of stairs. Presumably exhausted, my father locked me in his home office when he wanted dinner but forgot I was with him in the room. I was six and I was taking a nap.

He was long gone when I woke up. Trapped with nothing to do, I started reading documents on his desk. Reading, of course, doesn’t mean I understand what I was reading. I knew only the basic words like “a”, “the”, “blue”, or “number”. But there was really nothing else to do, so I kept on with it.

Two hours into it, with the aid of detailed engineering illustrations, I worked out that those papers are how-to for people who want to build a container, like those storing my toys. When my dad finally remembered and came for me, I told him my theory. He laughed and said no, those are for building houses.

I first noticed boys are more than just human with penis instead of vagina, when I was about thirteen or fourteen. I knew how penis looked like and how they function, because I have a father that always forgets my presence at home. I grew up familiar with grown up’s genitals, and concepts like masturbating and sex.

I was, of course, a librarian for most of my schooling time. I was club-less for the first month of school, so I can’t claim I’ve been a librarian all my time in school. I was also below average, in terms of physical attractiveness. I looked like I’m eight and malnourished, despite my actual age. So I was sometimes the target for verbal bullying.

It was a typical Monday morning where I had duty in school’s library. On schedule, the worst class in Form 4 entered for an hour of once a week mandatory library time. It was daunting at first, dealing with loud and obnoxious seniors, but I got the hang of it eventually. So it was a typical Monday with the same crowd I handled for about twenty weeks now.

On cue, the captain of school’s basketball team asked for me by name. He teased about my size, and with poker face I asked him what else he wanted from me.
The typical answer would be no, plus more remarks about my lack of breasts or buttocks, but I was surprised with a request for latest issue of National Geography. I obliged and went looking for it, and was further surprised when I realized he was following me.

I thought it was a new trick to humiliate me, and was massively annoyed, but didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to give him that satisfaction. So we went into the last aisle in the room, because such magazines are unpopular amongst students.

That was when I first really noticed things about him. Him, being the typical basketball jock, was tall. Really tall. I picked up the magazine and tossed it at him. He caught it easily, and then bended his body forward slightly. I braced myself for the incoming assault/insult, but it never came. He smiled a little, and thanked me.

That caught me off guard, and the event remains high on my list of “things I will never forget”. I blushed and said nothing, and he left with a wider, satisfying smile.

I spent the rest of his time there observing him. I assumed it was an elaborate plot to attack me, but I was wrong again. He was reading the magazine. It wasn’t an act; you can tell if someone is really reading something. It was confirmed when some girls surrounded him and he explained something from the pages.

That was when I first really looked at him. He was handsome. He had this little frown every few pages. He tilted his head and bit his thumb, and then flicked his finger at the page as if he figured something out. Silly, but that was when I had a crush on him. First crush, to be honest.

Simple: trial and error. All my relationships began with identifying if the boy/man has “that look”. If he has it and the chemistry is balanced, I always initiate the pursuing. Through a series of boys/men, I identified what variable I preferred most in men – the amount of books he read.

Boys/men I dated who read more than two books a week (includes magazines and book of varying genre) generally lack passion in other things, like beaching. Those who read less are incapable of projects or tasks requiring more than a day of attention.

To date, only one man I dated read two books a week. He was the perfect one. The right amount of attention and opinion. The cool attitude towards life. The relationship ended because I was the third wheel and I didn’t want to ruin his life. He agreed it was regrettable but the right thing to do.

I am in my early twenties, currently employed as senior librarian in the same university I graduated from, making about one fifth of Kopitiam's average monthly salary. Been foreveralone for the last 14 months, the previous relationship lasted 8 months.

My interest in reading started when my father, an engineer, was tasked of my care taking when my mother, an accountant, was hospitalized with fractured hips. She was accounting on the go when she tripped and fell down a flight of stairs. Presumably exhausted, my father locked me in his home office when he wanted dinner but forgot I was with him in the room. I was six and I was taking a nap.

He was long gone when I woke up. Trapped with nothing to do, I started reading documents on his desk. Reading, of course, doesn’t mean I understand what I was reading. I knew only the basic words like “a”, “the”, “blue”, or “number”. But there was really nothing else to do, so I kept on with it.

Two hours into it, with the aid of detailed engineering illustrations, I worked out that those papers are how-to for people who want to build a container, like those storing my toys. When my dad finally remembered and came for me, I told him my theory. He laughed and said no, those are for building houses.

I first noticed boys are more than just human with penis instead of vagina, when I was about thirteen or fourteen. I knew how penis looked like and how they function, because I have a father that always forgets my presence at home. I grew up familiar with grown up’s genitals, and concepts like masturbating and sex.

I was, of course, a librarian for most of my schooling time. I was club-less for the first month of school, so I can’t claim I’ve been a librarian all my time in school. I was also below average, in terms of physical attractiveness. I looked like I’m eight and malnourished, despite my actual age. So I was sometimes the target for verbal bullying.

It was a typical Monday morning where I had duty in school’s library. On schedule, the worst class in Form 4 entered for an hour of once a week mandatory library time. It was daunting at first, dealing with loud and obnoxious seniors, but I got the hang of it eventually. So it was a typical Monday with the same crowd I handled for about twenty weeks now.

On cue, the captain of school’s basketball team asked for me by name. He teased about my size, and with poker face I asked him what else he wanted from me.
The typical answer would be no, plus more remarks about my lack of breasts or buttocks, but I was surprised with a request for latest issue of National Geography. I obliged and went looking for it, and was further surprised when I realized he was following me.

I thought it was a new trick to humiliate me, and was massively annoyed, but didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to give him that satisfaction. So we went into the last aisle in the room, because such magazines are unpopular amongst students.

That was when I first really noticed things about him. Him, being the typical basketball jock, was tall. Really tall. I picked up the magazine and tossed it at him. He caught it easily, and then bended his body forward slightly. I braced myself for the incoming assault/insult, but it never came. He smiled a little, and thanked me.

That caught me off guard, and the event remains high on my list of “things I will never forget”. I blushed and said nothing, and he left with a wider, satisfying smile.

I spent the rest of his time there observing him. I assumed it was an elaborate plot to attack me, but I was wrong again. He was reading the magazine. It wasn’t an act; you can tell if someone is really reading something. It was confirmed when some girls surrounded him and he explained something from the pages.

That was when I first really looked at him. He was handsome. He had this little frown every few pages. He tilted his head and bit his thumb, and then flicked his finger at the page as if he figured something out. Silly, but that was when I had a crush on him. First crush, to be honest.

Simple: trial and error. All my relationships began with identifying if the boy/man has “that look”. If he has it and the chemistry is balanced, I always initiate the pursuing. Through a series of boys/men, I identified what variable I preferred most in men – the amount of books he read.

Boys/men I dated who read more than two books a week (includes magazines and book of varying genre) generally lack passion in other things, like beaching. Those who read less are incapable of projects or tasks requiring more than a day of attention.

To date, only one man I dated read two books a week. He was the perfect one. The right amount of attention and opinion. The cool attitude towards life. The relationship ended because I was the third wheel and I didn’t want to ruin his life. He agreed it was regrettable but the right thing to do.