Wholly Enchanting

Have you ever felt the irrepressible need to burst into song at various intervals?

Have you ever felt the irresistible urge to converse with friendly woodland creatures?

Have you ever felt like making gowns out of patterned curtains?

Fear not, ( possibly gay ) boys and girls! You're not alone out there, in fact you're in pretty good company. Snow White has done it. Aurora has done it. Ariel has done it. And yes, Giselle ( the almost princess ) has done it too.

Though after stumbling through a magical portal ( with the help of a wicked old hag stepmother ) from her enchanted land of Andalasia to the much grittier environs of downtown New York, our poor Giselle might find it a little more taxing getting the grumpy animals here to cooperate in the real world where there's never really a happily-ever-after. Not to worry though since in true magical Disney fashion, she's given a helping hand by a handsome prince in this hilarious parody of the entire fairy tale oeuvre. Get ready to be Enchanted.


Prince McDreamy?
In modern-day bourgeouis America days though, a prince turns out to be a high-powered Manhattan divorce lawyer played by the suitably mcdreamy Patrick Dempsey. A tad cynical with life as a struggling widower with chubby child in tow, he isn't all that pleased to find a real life princess ( and her accompanying entourage of cheery forest creatures ) falling heedlessly into his lap. Like him though, I wouldn't have been amused to find my bathtub being zealously scoured by a legion of cockroaches - or my matching curtains being chopped to pieces for instant couture.

Giselle : I made a new dress!
Paul : You fucked up my curtains! You singlehandedly destroyed the interior decor statement I was trying to make! For that you have to die!
Giselle : Help me, my forest creatures! La la la la...
Paul : They can't hear you singing. The rabbits and magpies are roasting in the oven for dinner! I intend to serve them with parsley.
Giselle : Oh no! No!
Paul : Have a last supper. Satisfy yourself with this shiny red apple.
Giselle : Thanks. I was feeling a little hungry. Mmm.. it's delicious and... *Ack* *Ack*
Paul : And it's poisoned. *Cackles* Now Robert is mine!

Fortunately I'm not the prince in this story.

He finds himself reluctantly charmed by the perky Giselle's inexplicable ability to draw in the hapless crowd to sing and dance with her in Central Park ( along with the passing mariachi singers and Jamaican crooners ). Even elderly geriatrics find themselves rejuvenated and dropping their walkers to twist and shout.



Still it's McDreamy! So despite the fact that I'm still staunchly against twiddling my thumbs waiting for princes charming, I gotta admit I wouldn't have minded getting swept off my feet by him! I mean, wealthy lawyer with fabulous apartment ( well after the animal / insect co-op rushed over for a hectic spring cleaning ), perfect hair and the most amazing overcoat! Not to mention that better-than-fairy-godmother emergency - possibly limitless - credit card. Hell, I'm almost tempted to rush the stage and spontaneously deliver a romantic ballad.

Of course Zany Zinedine beat me to it :)

No worries though since there's always Jon McLaughlin to help me get through the disappointment ( he plays the singer in the orchestra at the end of the show ). How's that for super-keen eyesight? Yes, I'm gifted with the ability to spot a good-looking man a mile away.

You Talkin to Me?

Do I look like a regular A&F gymbot?

No, don't answer that. Ya ain't never seen me in real life so it's hard to tell but surely you've heard of my uncanny resemblance to the grubby hobbits of Tolkien fame? Look closely in the Shire and you just might catch me in a rare unprecedented cameo. Trust me, this isn't misplaced modesty speaking! Don't deal in that. Lemme reiterate, if I looked that good ( hell I'd know! ) you'd have me flexing my shiny muscles on youtube on a daily basis and the likelihood of ripped muscle tees in my closet would rise 1000%.


Seriously! You really think I'm Paul?
So how did two different girls on separate occasions mistake me for an Abercrombie clone?

The first one's Shameless Shalom - and her question this morning was innocuous enough. Ever the innocent, Shalom just wanted to know whether I've frequented the nearby gyms and wanted an urgent referral. With the evil monster exams vanquished, seems like someone's aiming for a pair of skyscraper stilettos and a slinky tie-dyed sarong in a size 4.

Shalom : So which one should I join?
Paul : Well if you're asking which gym has the hottest boys, I can tell ya that.
Shalom : No!
Paul : How about the one where boys have a little fun in the sauna?
Shalom : Like they're gonna ask me to join!

Now that's the simple part. Second one's a bit suspect though. You see it's from a relative newcomer to the area, Lissome Lorelei. Energy, effervescence and enthusiasm to the extreme. Simply exhausting too :P Not sure exactly how she cottoned on to the fact that I was the man to ask if you're looking for fitness first!

Lorelei : Well, tell me which gym I should join?
Paul : Huh? You're asking me what?
Lorelei : Well, a little bird - well make that two birds - they know all about you and they tell me you're the man to ask?
Paul : Was that my twin you're talking about? An alternate gym-going twin cause that certainly ain't me!

Sure, I'm far from crazy closeted at work ( after all more than a few have pieced together the pink clues ) so perhaps she hit on the token homo to point her in the right direction. For a newbie, what easier way to find a gym in town than to activate the gay-dar?

Still it doesn't explain the birds in the bush. Hell, it's got me scratching my head wondering which little bird she's talking about.

Sweet Schmaltzy Sentimentality

Hands up those who haven't had a tiff with their significant other over PDAs!

And by that, I don't mean digital assistants, blackberrys and other technological paraphernalia. Talking about Public Displays of Affection. Oddly enough Charming Calvin who seems to be out to everyone ( and his mother ) in the world seems a lil shy when it comes to PDAs.

Though these days with the morality police ruthlessly raiding every nook and cranny for the smallest signs of indecency ( or what they perceive in their self-righteousness as indecency ), a little prudence might be a worthwhile virtue to cultivate.

Of course there are brave couples who aren't afraid to flaunt their colours for all to see - although few would dare push the boundaries by having wild passionate full frontal embraces in public. In our conservative country, not only would it garner utter revulsion from the astonished masses but the occasional brickbat ( or molotov cocktail ) just might come flying! Being quite a fuddy-duddy myself, I'm not sure I condone tonsil hockey ( even amongst the breeder brethren ) in public either. I mean, fucking get a room please.

Yes, I'm quite the stone-cold pragmatist occasionally.


Seriously! They really DO exist!
Then there is this sweet couple I know who aren't afraid of a lil PDA - and certainly enjoy the full dose of saccharine sweetness in their budding romance. Demonstrative displays and mushy cornball pledges seem to be their thing. Naming no names though I think they already know who I'm talking about! Here's an example of their daily effusive ( cloying! ) exchange.

Alanis : Darling sweetie cutie-pie, are you there?
Jenny : Honeybuns my love. *kiss kiss* Have you taken your lunch?
Alanis : I miss you, my jenni hunny. It's been ... ten minutes since we spoke over the phone.
Jenny : I can't eat a bite without you by my side! *mwak mwak* How can I live without you? You're the very air that I breathe!
Alanis : OMG That's the fourth line from the very same aria I composed for you yesterday!

Okay. Maybe I exaggerate. But not by much!

Then twenty minutes later, they start all over again with the sappy lovey-dovey promises. In which time one of them is busy holding my hair back while I hurl the contents of my upended lunch into the commode. There's only so much schmaltz an evil person like me can handle in a day.

Am I jealous? Not really. I'm actually far more intrigued. Try my best to look politely away when they're going at it full throttle ( enough sugar to drown a diabetic spilling everywhere! ) but I simply can't! Alanisjenny ( Alny? Jelanis? ) are just like that spectacularly gory roadside car crash that fools just can't keep their eyes off!

God, I am terrible!

Of course they are both so annoyingly nice ( sweethearts the both of 'em ) that it makes it nearly impossible to hate them. Even take my relentless teasing in good fun though I'm pretty sure they both purposely exaggerate their mawkish sentimentality just to make me nauseous - or at least I pray to God it's an exaggeration! Well, just as long as they don't morph into the infamously inseparable Richandamy! :)

Kissing Cousins

Fine. Fine. Doubt I'll get any rest till I answer this particular niggling question.

You see, this morning during an urgent round table discussion ( well via email since we're in all corners of the city ) on what constitutes incest amongst brothers, I let slip the hitherto little known fact that I once had a... thing with my cousin back when we were budding adolescents. The stuff of growing up adolescence and terribly cliched, I know - but what can I say! It really happened.

Despite the fact that it fits in so nicely with every gay novel ever written.


Umm.. wait, did he just grab my...?
Rather than unanimous disapproval with pitchforks being lit, the entire gang of gay men found themselves endlessly intrigued by the titillating event instead. Despite the fact that I protested that it was all done in innocent fun, they still insisted on a blow-by-blow so to speak.

As we all know, testosterone-fueled teenage boys always have this pressing need to dominate especially in their earlier coltish years desperately trying to prove their machismo. Comparing cojones no doubt. We still do that as civilized adults of course but it's a tad subtler with less emphasis on bloodied fists.

This surfeit of hormones certainly explains the occasional brawl I got into back in school ( not to mention the bruised knees and blackened eyes ) - and also the one I ended up in much later when I was a wee child of 15. Just a brief innocent scuffle over the remote.

Macho Mike was a year younger but even then, he was already catching up with me in height and build ( foreshadowing his future Terminator / He-Man bulk ). Already a scruffy lil runt all too ready to put up his dukes with a lil rough-housing.

But I hardly play fair. Scorpios are sneaky that way. During the friendly ruckus, my quick hands wandered and somehow ( possibly in a bid to get a better grip ) slipped into his shorts. And found something far more interesting ( and substantial! ) than a plain remote. Similar yet different in every way that matters. Healthy adolescent curiosity certainly won over my more martial instincts - while poor Mike sat stupefied not daring to breathe a word of complaint.

Who knows. It could have been his first orgasm.

Certainly my first handjob.

Of course Mike's a married man now with one kid ( and another on the way already ) so you can forget all that psychological babble about early childhood trauma inadvertently affecting his natural sexual proclivities :) Doubt he even remembers the fleeting one-evening-stand. Honestly, neither did I till the talk about blood relatives inbreeding and kissing cousins came about.

A Little Wink

I admit I'm just a bit of a flirt.

Easy enough for me since I know hardly anyone's gonna miscontrue my particularly coquettish behaviour. Hell the handsome beaus I banter with certainly wouldn't even give me the time of day had they not been stuck in that particular serendipitous situation with me.


Umm.. hi.. you flirting with me?
So today I flirted with the personable nutritionist at the pharmacy. There's nothing quite like being friendly, is there? It's an accomplishment you pick up rather quickly when you have the unenviable looks of an unsightly hobbit. Pretty boys just have to stand there for folks to like them after all :)

Lesson to flirting? Just a quick smile as an introduction ( with just a hint of amorous come-hither ) then offer that quick two-second favourable once-over. What my ISO used to call my instant strip X-ray vision - since it tends to leave the unhappy prey feeling naked and vulnerable under my relentless scrutiny. I'll admit my gaze tends to linger on certain... attractive portions.

This rough-and-ready technique fails occasionally especially with the tough hardcore but today, as a welcome reward, the man returned the compliment by holding my glance for a full five minutes. Then came that slow beguiling smile with a hint of dimples bracketing the toothy smile.

Could he be anymore gay?

People always wonder how our vaunted gay-dar sometimes works - and how we don't hit on the wrong guys by accident all the time ( the occasional violent mishap does occur but practice does make perfect! ). Easy enough I'd say. I mean straight guys given such a thorough examination would either balk or throw a punch in a fit of gay panic - which is why one of the earliest skills a growing homo learns is to run. Fast. Kinda like Forrest Gump. Very few heterosexuals would submit to such a conspicuous sexual overture after all.

And let's face it, only a gay man would look into another man's eyes for more than a minute without flinching. Short of being a practiced hypnotist.

Go try it.

But learn how to run first.

In the Pink

Men's fashion is dead.

I know the metrosexual fashionistas out there are already decrying my bold pronouncement ( possibly preparing to pelt me with last year's sartorial disasters ) but let's face it, what choices do we actually have? A few brave souls dared parade about in avant-garde kilts and dashing sarongs but I doubt that particularly ballsy movement is gonna gain any sort of momentum soon.

Sure we do have our daringly progressive line of see-through / figure-hugging rags usually seen in the Philosophy / Key Ng stores - but honestly, have any of you seen them worn outside of the usual gay club scenes? And hell you do know you ain't gonna look good in them unless you have the low-fat, zero-calorie body of a built gymbot!


Dammit, what to wear!
So we're back to our basic shirt and pants ensemble. Even then we find our choices sadly limited to wishy-washy pastels and lifeless neutrals. There is some room for personality in our ties and cufflinks but that little infinitesemal change is barely noticeable to the unwashed masses. Occasionally I try to inject at least some tszuj into my office wear only to find the rest of my colleagues staring as if I'm a stark-raving lunatic from the mental asylum. Just stray but a little and you'll have them threatening to lock you up.

Spicing up our dreary lives with maroons and electric blues isn't recommended in the conservative bastion of medicine! So you can easily imagine the horrified faces on the Victorian fuddy-duddies when I defied the dreary conventions of the day by opting for a bold shade of pink.

Albert : Dear me, is that pink I see? Surely that's rose or fuchsia!
Victoria : Good gracious, I am not amused. Call the guards! That.. that pink person shall be escorted out of the hospital immediately!

So I wonder what they will think of my delicious multicoloured striped Ted Baker shirt. All the rage, I should think. The old-fashioned biddies are just gonna die of a synchronized spontaneous heart attack! So what if it did cost a bomb by the way - almost as much as what I spent on my entire Christmas list!

Yes. Don we now our gay apparel!

But anyway, for the endlessly curious ( and for the desperately wealthy / generous ) here's my grown-up Christmas List.

Heroes Season 1 DVD
Hairspray 2-Disc Shimmy & Shake Edition DVD
Monarch of the Glen Season 2 and 3 DVD
Mirage of Blaze OVA : Rebels of the River's Edge
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz by Robert Sabuda
China Mountain Zhang by Maureen McHugh
Red Mandarin Dress by Qiu Xiaolong
A Nameless Witch by A. Lee Martinez
The Mirador by Sarah Monette
A Companion to Wolves by Sarah Monette
The Bone Key by Sarah Monette
Without Reservations by JL Langley
Lord John and the Private Matter by Diana Gabaldon
Lord John and the Brotherhood of the Blade by Diana Gabaldon
New X-Men Graphic Novels
Thomas Pink shirt
Bruno Magli leather boots
Jim Thompson silk tie
Tiffany silver cufflinks

See. I am flexible. Alright, Tiffany's a bit too much ( unless Bill Gates is reading this ). There's also these amazing Scorpio cufflinks I saw in Cuffz at Bangsar.

Hallyu Away

Till now I never quite see the fascination Korean drama serials holds for the desperate housewives here. And my mom who should know better.

Don't get me wrong, I can see the irresistible allure of the clean-cut, ethereally handsome Korean boys who are all sweet, submissive and sensible... generally biddable, bendable beta boys - just the perfect dreamboat material for a distressed, beleaguered housewife.


Don't hurt me, please. I'm a nice guy, really!
Come on, could you find a better bottom? Hell, I feel like applying for a Korean hunk myself.

But how can you possibly last through repeated showings of a Korean serial? Unlike their suspenseful movies which lean heavily towards anaemic, long-tressed harpies with a bloodsucking thirst, Korean drama serials are more reminiscent of the Taiwanese tearjerkers in the 70s with an emphasis on helpless, vulnerable virginal heroines who can barely lift a finger to save their saintly lives and spend their days agonizing over their love lives while weeping copiously for their thwarted affaires - and then subsequently end up losing their love ( star-crossed! ) and their lives through an unfortunate ( calamitous! ) string of events not of their own doing.

Occasionally due to the wicked deceptions of the wily femme fatale ( occasionally the scheming Mother In Law ).

Heroine : I love him. I love him not. I love him. I love him not.
Bad Girl : Make up your mind, you goody-two-shoes!
Heroine : He can never be mine. I must strive to forget him. Oh no. OMG, somehow or rather through the machinations of the wicked bad girl, I've lost my job, all self-respect and the roof of my house has fallen in. And now, I have life-threatening leukaemia. He must not know. I must be strong. I can't tell him. I shall die a virgin martyr looking fair and lovely in a pale blue hospital gown.
Bad Girl : Whatever. You're gonna die. And I'll marry the guy.
Hot Hero : I'd rather die.
Bad Girl : Well, go jump under a bus then.

Yes, they die. The unfortunate heroine I mean. Usually due to some horrid incurable disease that leaves them relatively unscathed with their fair looks surprisingly intact - though they do affect that pale, wan ( victimized! ) look that their fans adore.

However the accursed jinx also extends to the men they love, afflicting their bedeviled beaus with the most horrible of ends. Losing sight, limb or life usually. You can tell, Romeo and Juliet never was my favourite romance. No doubt in olden days, such tragic luckless ladies ( cursed by the gods! ) would have been summarily tossed off a nearby ravine for the benefit of the beleaguered boys - and also to rid the entire village of their uncommon ill fortune of course.

I mean it wouldn't do to get struck by lightning just by walking close to the jinx.

These days of course, they merely provide fodder for budding Korean scriptwriters. For example, the infamous Autumn in my Heart - so desperately adored by their fans over here. Disconsolate and dispirited without his recently deceased lady love, the hero finds himself wandering in a fugue of despair and stumbles headlong ( almost insouciantly ) into a speeding truck. I kid you not.

Come on, who writes these sentimental drivel?

Seriously, if you're a gorgeous, built Korean hunk who wants to end his life ( for a waifish wimpette who doesn't deserve to live ), please offer to be an organ donor. At least die for a good cause. Or if you fear the excessive blood splatter, come over to Malaysia and be my indentured body slave.

Hot Hero : I can't live with myself now that she's gone. All my hopes and dreams are crushed, my glittering castle in the sky crumbling to dust. There's nothing to live for. I might as well be dead.
Paul : You look better when you weren't talking! Shut up and bend over, bitch.

Now, isn't that marginally better than being grimy roadkill?

Don't even get me going on the conflicted Hokkien series that my mom is following right now.

Shiny Baubles and Sweet Potatoes

The shopaholic wins again.

With the hopeful contender left behind biting the bitter dust having to content himself with his tawdry little shopping bag.

Come All Ye Faithful!
Somehow or rather ( providentially - I call it an early Christmas present ) I got the day off due to some silly scheduling snafu. Not one to look a gift horse in the face, I slipped off stealthily telling no one and headed to the mall. No doubt it's still a month away ( though it seems the red banners and the buntings are up infinitesimally earlier each year ) but there's nothing quite like getting the Christmas shopping done, is there?

So why not start early? After all I had mine done way earlier last year.

Sales We Have Heard on High!
I know Christmas is slowly but steadily stumbling drunkenly away from its humble spiritual beginnings but hell, isn't it just as fun to celebrate mindless materialism too? No doubt goaded on by the evil godless demons of advertising!


Buy me. You know you want to...
You just know Satan ( no doubt has a share in all those unholy credit card companies ) is gorgeous stubbled hunk in a slick Italian suit sitting somewhere in the depths of hell chuckling wickedly even as the sales register ring. Why wreak evil and havoc in the world when he can gain so much more from the masses by pandering to crazy consumerism? I mean, have you seen the mindless chaos during a midnight sale? Certainly more bloodshed and betrayal than a gathering of Borgias.

Hark the Sales Registers Sing!
So I ended up with four CDs, three books, one DVD series and a bunch of shiny red glass baubles. And shockingly, half of them are actually meant for me. Which is better than the compatriots I dragged along. Sadly after dozens of stores, all Jaunty Jared could come up on the shopping trip was a lil box of shiny baubles and some limp sweet potatoes.

Still, I'm glad to find myself almost halfway through Christmas shopping. Only stuff left for my father - have an eye on a book on satirical political humour for him. And perhaps some Osh Kosh B'Gosh for the toddlers two.

Not forgetting my friends and I are playing Secret Santa this year. Wonder who I'm gonna get. On that note, I better get to working on my wish list this year!

Wee Free Women

I've been working like a dog for the past two weeks - think more than 100-hour work week. The hospital's practically been my second home which is why you'll notice the recent preponderance of posts about work.

But today's liberation day ( hooray! ) and I decided to treat myself to a facial over at one of those beauty and wellness centres (wo)manned by wee free women ( even shorter than a hobbit like me! What's up with that! ).

Yeah, how rare is that. I can't even recall the last time I had a facial! Sure I know the usual cliched stereotype of a fabulous homosexual man is one who has his beautician, manicurist and hairstylist all readily available on speed dial ( even stylists with the dubious name of Cherry ) - but hell, I'm an awfully bad example of any gay man. I don't even have a regular skincare regime!

I still want to hump hot dirrrty guys though so that has to count.

Despite the fact that I rarely pay a visit to these hidden sanctuaries of beauty, I have a feeling they all secretly love me. Rather conceited of me to say so but I do have my reasons.

No, not for my flawless alabaster-smooth skin or my charmingly winsome ways! Far from that actually. No doubt the wee free women in charge of these sybaritic sanctuaries find themselves blanching when they see a hobbit like me coming in - wondering which cruel goddess of fate had led me to their glade. Pretty sure these beauticians approach my pock-marked hairy-warted leather face with the anxious trepidation of hardened soldiers approaching hostile terrain.


Faith! Did I actually have a facial?
But they do have reasons to rejoice soon afterward. You see, facials make me sleepy. Right after these wee free women apply whatever questionable gunk they slather on my helpless face - whether purported sheep placenta, precious minerals from the Dead Sea or dubious herbal remedies lifted from the diaries of a long-dead beauty queen ( no doubt purloined from the secrets of the faerie queen ), I immediately fall straight into Non-REM sleep. Like a dry, clinical anaesthetic textbook, it puts people to sleep almost instantly.

Forget about general anaesthesia, folks, just head for the spas. The sweetly soporific strains of Muzak / Yanni playing monotonously in the dark, chillly cave combined with the sleep-inducing herbal teas they serve, it's not long before I'm nodding off.

Wonder if it's secretly laced with sedatives.

Paul : *Snore*
Beautician #1 : Oh waily, waily, waily! Is he finally asleep?
Beautician #2 : Dinna fash yerself. Crivens! Will ye no look at this? He's even drooling, ye ken. Thought he was gonna take forever - and I'd have to start lighting the aromatherapy candles!
Beautician #1 : Make the bigjob look winsome? Them's powers beyond our ken!
Beautician #2 : Crivens, ye wouldna believe it! So what do we do now?
Beautician #1 : I figure lunch and a movie? Gave the scunner enough to knock him out for at least three hours minimum.

That's what I figure they do anyways since I can't recall anything from the time I close my eyes. Do they actually place cucumber slices? Do they give me a massage afterward? Hell, I'm half convinced the beauticians actually steal off to read a hair-raising novel while I doze away.

Not that I'm complaining. I find I sleep better with noxious swamp mud ( from a mysterious Amazonian paradise ) on my face.

And yes, I'm reading Tiffany Aching's adventures again.

Call Me Irresponsible

I danced With Big Bicep Barry.

Well, Barry shimmied and jived to the techno-based house music. Turns out the talented guy's a closet pole dancer since for such a big fella, he certainly knows how to shake his moneymaker. Me - the resident two-left-feet monster, I shuffled clumsily along to the beat watching my feet anxiously trying my best not to crush anyone's toes with my heavy boots.

Quite a triumph for me that a significant number of patrons left with their limbs intact!

Of course with Big Bicep Bodyguard glowering close by, they wouldn't dare breathe a word even if I had maimed them for life.


Yo, baby come and bust a move with me!
Admit it's been a while since I stepped into a club of any sort. Been a good boy lately - and I gotta admit I never really fancied clubbing. No doubt clear signs of my rapid aging but I didn't miss the desperate patrons, the head-splitting thumpa-thumpa beats and the smoky environs. Was it me or were the girls getting a tad younger and the men just a tad more drunk?

Barry : God! They should have foam parties.
Paul : Are you kidding? I'd be incapacitated with my glasses and my clumsy feet. Probably crushed under the drunk hawaiian-shirted uncles and their promising Britneys.
Barry : I'll keep you steady.
Paul : Flirting?
Barry : I wouldn't dream of it.

Thank God there wasn't a foam party or we'd have nubile tweens slipping and sliding against paedophiles old enough to be their dads! :) Of course then I wouldn't notice since I'd ( no saint myself ) be far too busy stumbling onto cute guys trying to cop a cheap feel. Accidentally of course.

Can't be anyone's dad yet, I hope!

Not sure how I got talked into going in the weekend though. Though Barry's maroon tee could have been a pull factor. He arrived at my place all smiles with my belated present and an invitation to dinner. How could I have known that meant being shanghaied to a nightclub by the beach?

Can I say that he looked hot in a really tight tee? Surprisingly he actually had one locked up deep in his closet. Hell I could see his perky nipples clearly enough etched on the shelf of his pecs.

A Filthy Conscience

I am cursed and blessed with the ability to see both sides of the coin.

Certainly more of a curse these days especially when I'm faced with moral quandaries at work. After all, it's difficult trying to come up with new ways of garrotting a junior officer without spilling even a drop of blood. Having a tiny conscience tsking away in admonishment at the back of my head while I upbraid them makes it that much worse.

Paul : He should die for his sins.
Conscience : Don't you think he's suffered enough? Surely after the bloody disembowelment he just received, he's bound to remember the take-home message.
Paul : I doubt it. He doesn't look remorseful enough. Maybe I should twist the blade a bit more.
Conscience : No, I think you should... AIKS!
Paul : Take that, conscience!
.
Then obviously my evil side takes over and I squash my conscience into oblivion. It's hard to ignore the evil side when it's screaming banzai in trenchant tones while recklessly waving a katana sword ( in comparison I think my good side wears tweed, holds a cream puff and speaks in clipped, measured BBC-speak ).


Evil and the Teddy Bear!
Still each time I rant and rave rebuke and reprimand, I find myself absolutely drowning in remorse moments afterward. Since I can easily imagine ( there goes the fertile imagination again ) the house officer feeling beaten and broken desperately searching for the closest relief for their pain - which shockingly enough turns out to be that final six storey jump!

Then my evil samurai side comes to the rescue again and batters that ignoble thought to smithereens.

The same occurred to me today when I bumped into my friend Slinky Sonia at the mall this afternoon. For a seemingly conservative Indian girl, she's always been the wildest gal ever - courtesy of extremely doting indulgent parents. Still lately it seems they've drawn the line when it comes to her love life - especially since she's taken the momentous step of moving in with her long-time boyfriend.

Me, I'd have thought it astonishing - and commendable - that Sonia's actually making a commitment of any sort. This, from a girl who changes shoes with shocking ease. Pradas to Blahniks in three hours.

Then I thought of her mother.

Sonia : Mommy's simply impossible! Hardly speaks to Ram, imagine that! And here I thought she was happy I'd settled down with someone.
Paul : Poor Mamaji!
Sonia : Aren't you going to commiserate?
Paul : I think you gotta see it from her point of view. Ever heard about not buying the cow when the milk's for free?

God. Yes. I am starting to think like a parent. Papa Jahat as a friend would say.

Still, you can imagine a doting mother's consternation. Bad enough when the boyfriend was over there all the time, now he's moved in for real? Happily canoodling in a house that actually rightfully belongs to her parents? Spending all the time with the boyfriend and ignoring poor Mamaji sitting alone at home with her round chappatis?

I can readily imagine her mother offering desperate prayers to all the pantheon of gods in the Hindu mythology on a daily basis.

Of course if my child did something like that I wouldn't have thrown a hissy fit. It would be useless, I know - especially since teenagers tend to ignore irate parents. I'd have found a more subtle roundabout way of getting them to break up. My evil side has some uses after all.

Spank this Male Nurse

Male nurses are a welcome face in the hospital these days.

Though still relatively uncommon in most areas, their numbers are growing steadily by the day. Not that I don't value the great nurses that I have but I gotta say ( hopefully without seeming overly gender-biased ) that it's quite a relief to finally have that much-needed injection of testosterone in the overwhelmingly female culture of the wards.

Trust me, there can be too much oestrogen sometimes.

And did I mention a handful of the male nurses are quite ... a handful themselves. I mean, we all know a delicious specimen down under named Jon, don't we?


Reporting for duty, sir!
Hypothetically speaking of course :P But let's try Bend-Over Ben. Sweet-faced male nurse ( hunka-burning love! ) that just started his rotation a month ago but boy, he's been making quite an impression. Friendly enough fella, helluva enthusiastic and ever-ready to lend a hand in whatever procedures we're doing.

Of course I've been teasing him ( hypothetically! ) in the wards whenever I see him -- possibly amounting to sexual harassment ( still hypothetically! ) - but he hasn't complained. Lately, he even seems increasingly eager to join in the fun.

Ben : I've done the suctioning for the patient.
Paul : No doubt, I'm sure you're excellent at the suck and drip method.
Ben : Uhh... I am? T-the patient has quite good gag reflex this morning.
Paul : I'm sure that's gonna put a crimp on his social life.

His face was as red as a beetroot but that was his first week at work. Certainly improved on his snappy comeback the week after.

Paul : I think it's time for a PR.
Ben : A per rectal? I'll get myself ready in a sec.
Paul : Well, if it's you who's asking for the PR, I'm gonna need more than a while.
Ben : It's my first time but I'm sure you'll be gentle with me, Dr Paul.

Embarassingly enough I think I might have blushed myself. These days it's become almost a routine to trade repartee in the mornings during rounds.

Paul : What you planning to do there? That's a pretty large syringe you got there, Ben.
Ben : Thanks for the compliment. Sometimes size does matter after all.

Of course these are all figments of my fertile imagination - especially if someone at work read this. Still it has made my days at work that much more interesting.

Grazed Anatomy

Remember how I said that hospitals are far more fertile ground for steamy affairs than I once ( innocently! ) thought? Hell, I never knew they were this HOT. Seriously.

According to a passing little bird, two male doctors were recently found... canoodling in one of the on-call rooms a whlie back. Fortunately the moral police weren't anywhere to be found - possibly far too busy conducting uncalled for raids in the North.

Supposedly a new female house officer ( no doubt scarred for life now ) walked in at some ungodly hour to find her two oblivious colleagues going at it in a most ungodly way :P Imagine their chagrin at being discovered in flagrante delicto - two virile sweaty physicians inadvertently caught in the throes in the dark of night.

I think I am getting excited. I could think of a thousand names for medical porn.

Paul : WTF! What are you doing?
McSteamy : OMG, Dr Paul!
McDreamy : Sir, it's not what you think!
McSteamy : We're studying!
Paul : Studying what? Male anatomy?


No! No! We were playing pinochle!
I do understand how they feel. After running around the wards facing down insane patients, impatient nurses and irate residents - not to mention being liberally splashed with blood, vomitus and other forms of human excrement, there is not a single person who'd feel even remotely sexy. And yet all that pure adrenaline rush and tempered excitement has to find an outlet somewhere after all!

So let's say the on-call room wasn't exactly foreign to me and my ISO as well. Don't indulge in extracurricular activities at work these days but I still have the after-effects of the post-call horniness syndrome to contend with.

I'd have had several reactions to the unexpected scene myself.

a) Blase
"I don't want to hear it. It's fucking late, I'm getting some sleep. Stuff your briefs in his mouth, don't make too much noise. And forgodssakes, don't make a mess."

b) Horny
*Smack* "Take that on your deliciously tight ass, McSteamy. How dare you start without me! Now scoot over and let me in."

c) Outrage
"OMG. My eyes! My eyes!"
And then proceed to shake my crucifix over the heathenish pair, mutter a few Hail Marys and then scurry out of the room, a pious Christian soul.

d) Curiosity
"Wow. How did you flip your leg over like that? What amazing dexterity! Could I take a picture? Maybe I could post it up on torrents!"

e) Bitchy
"Wah, so free izzit, ya pillowbiters? Mcsteamy, go clerk the patient in Bed 14. McDreamy, go run for blood products. Now go!"

You already know I'm far from a screaming religious prude so choice c) would be out of the question! As much as I'd like to say that I'd go for choice b) and get it on with two frisky fellas, I think I'd be far too tired to even get it up. Try working 24 hours in a rows and you'd know what I mean. Knowing most doctors during an exhausting on-call, we'd all most likely head for the pillow as well.

But depending on the sexual attractiveness of the couple involved, I'd certainly make an appointment to meet them later - where I'll repeat my choice b).

All About St Paul

What do you do when the guy you like dates an underwear model? Well if you're a St Paul, you say this...

You’re such a cliché. You and Gus? What is that? That’s beauty and beauty. Now beauty and the beast, that’s a fairy tale! In 20 years that guy candy is going to turn into this. I just got there a little sooner.

Cliff St Paul to be precise - certainly not the martyred saint of biblical fame who received a holy makeover courtesy of a lightning bolt from the heavens. And Cliff's the hottest stud to hit Ugly Betty in some time. You'd expect him to be cast in the bootylicious mould of gorgeous underwear models but there you'd be wrong.

It's Ugly Betty after all.

So our Cliff turns the tables on the old cliched gay stereotype by being a fashionably-challenged, unkempt ( and wonderfully unpretentious ) slob-hobbit who couldn't care less what's the Prada of the Day! Not only is he smart, sexy ( well, sort of ) and witty, he also manages to catch the jaundiced eye of resident snarky queen, Mark St James.

Seriously, it's like good old beer from the tap paired with frou frou appletinis.



Come on, did anyone ever doubt that I watch Ugly Betty? It's the tale of a dumpy, underachieving heroine who made good and turned fashionable. It's practically Hairspray without the big hair ( replaced with big glasses ) and the street dancing ( suitably replaced with indoor catfighting ). Of course in Betty's case, for all her cheerful effervescence it's gonna take quite a while before the anorexic fashionistas actually take a shine to her.

Catching the Wave

I surf a lot.

Not that I throw on a pair of patterned board shorts, grab a board and ride the waves in search of that green room. Highly unlikely - since despite the leash, I'm a clumsy kook who'd wipe out only to hit an unfortunate bump and get caught in the undertow.

Obviously not feasible if I want to live past my retirement age.


Course that lazy surfer boy ain't me!
So I'm far too clucked by the peaking waves to make the attempt. Do most of my surfing back on land with my trusty mouse - and increasingly ( rather than expand my general knowledge by catching up on the latest gay rage news ) I make my way over to the few blogs that I frequent. See those links I have queued up on the side? Believe me, I try my best to check them at least once every couple of days wishing and hoping, thinking and praying there's gonna be a recent update :)

Imagine my sheer disappointment when there's none.

L.O.S.E.R. much? Well, there's only so much you can do at 3 in the morning when you're hanging around at the counter with coffee mug in hand waiting for Mr Joe Black to come collect a moribund patient.

Still, I never knew how much I nagged at my nearest and dearest ( friends who coincidentally enough have blogs! ) to update their posts till I got a gently admonishing message this afternoon.

Jared : If there's ever a blog police or something similar, you would be the perfect candidate.

Good God. Am I that bad?

Glad he told me though - I shall have to stop being such a blog stalker-ish sort! Still as the new blog police in town ( can I be like a deputy sheriff or something? ), I'm gonna have to take Jaunty Jared into my protective custody, tie him up and torture his perky nipples.

Revenge is sweet. Nipple torture's better.

Homosexualitatis Problema

Someone I know just came out to his best friend a day or two ago and received a painfully chilly reception.

Me, I haven't dealt with blatant homophobia yet ( just the occasional childish stupidity ) - not sure exactly how I'd react but I can readily assume ( with my potential for violence ) that bloodied fists and bruised panda-eyes would be the inevitable outcome. I know that's not the peaceful, non-confrontational way Gandhi would have advocated but hey, that's me.

Homophobe : Fucking fudgepackers riding the Hershey Highway. Disgusting. They should all burn to a crisp in hell. I mean do you - OUCH!
Paul : Oops. Did I just stick my fork in your eye? So sorry.

Sometimes I wonder how it is that someone turning gay could possibly disrupt the whole fabric of society plunging it into a shocking morass of depravity and licentiousness. Severe restrictions hinted in Biblical verse aside, what does the average red-blooded heterosexual guy think about us?


These Boots were made for Walking
Are they afraid of our outre fashion sense and our bitchy offhand remarks? Do they seriously believe that someone with the gay virus might inadvertently rub off and spread the alarmingly infectious plague of homosexualitatis? Or they might summarily be attacked and overpowered by these horny homosexual heathens ( reason enough to work out in gyms! ) who have lusted over their irresistibly attractive straight bods for decades? Is it possible that two guys registering for a domestic partnership could endanger the already shaky foundations of marriage? Explain to me how?

Pardon me for the sudden leap onto the battered soapbox again but when Iranian officials mouth off about executing gay men to safeguard the moral sanctity of the nation, I find myself personally offended. And they aren't only stopping with that tragic incident judging by recent news. According to a member of their parliament, he said that if homosexual activity is in private there is no problem, but those in overt activity should be executed. He argued that homosexuality is against human nature and that humans are here to reproduce.

I have to assume the two tragic youths drawn and quartered for their forbidden love wouldn't have dared blatantly promote their homosexual perversions out in the open ( public sex in the plazas? ) so the unlawful communion had to be secretly held behind closed doors. Short of having CCTVs or sanctimonious spies installed on the roof, wouldn't that be considered private and not overt? Obviously the self-righteous moral police over there share the same discriminatory homophobia as the ones who raided the gay sauna over here in Penang.

The boring old argument that humans are here only to reproduce holds little water for me. Does that mean the infertile and barren should be summarily put to death for not being able to reproduce anymore? Should they be stopped from getting hitched then since marriage is supposedly an institution meant to beget offspring?

And their enlightened methods of helping gay men is by execution? Isn't that pretty final? What happened to extreme pink triangle branding, enforced brainwashing and torturous ice water treatment?

Where's a gay superhero like Midnighter when we need one?

Me Dating Myself

Would you date yourself?

Random question my ISO asked me out of the blue as were walking past a bank of mirrors in a mall. Stopping to stare at our reflections, he suddenly wondered aloud what it would be like.

Paul : You pervert. You just want to fuck yourself!
My ISO : Get your mind out of the gutter!
Paul : Fine. For once, you're thinking of it in a serious, adult, philosophical, totally non-sexual manner.
My ISO : Well, I was! But now that you've given me ideas...

Sure, he can say that, sexy bugger that he is. With my currently unstable hormones, I wouldn't mind giving him some tongue on the mirrored wall myself.

Not sure I could say the same about myself though.

First off, let me tell ya that I'm lousy first date material. Not only do I look like a wandering troll, I also veer insanely from coming on too strong sometimes ( chattering endlessly like a silly magpie ) to turning up cool and disinterested like I-don't-give-a-fucking-damn. Rather adorably schizophrenic - though it probably stems from my on-going battle with innate bashfulness.


Damn, I look good...
Still it rarely garners second dates. Being the epitome of skin-deep shallow, gay men are all about the shiny packaging after all - and a plain, dumpy denizen of Middle Earth just doesn't cut it.

But sometimes persistence - and that little thing called unlawful stalking - works wonders. Believe me, I even brought down a superficial, judgemental bastard like my ISO.

Over time of course, I wonder if I could live with myself on a daily basis! Sure I could keep myself entertained with second-hand jokes and droll imitations. Our own cracks are always the funniest, don't you think and it'd be cool to have someone share the same brand of irreverent humour. I'd make an easy to please boyfriend as well. I think ( and hope ) I'm a great companion, generally presentable in public and well versed with lotsa endless opinions on various socio-political issues - though I can get on my high horse when it comes to a few.

Hey let me toot my own horn for once!

But I'm not sure if I could live with a moody lunatic with the occasional sadistic blood-lust. Wouldn't we gradually morph into a relentlessly violent gay version of Bonnie and Clyde? What if I - horror of horrors - found a dead stiff buried under the swimming pool? Not that I'd be astonished to find decaying corpses in the lawn but hey, I'd be confused trying to recall which one of us actually dumped the body there! Of course with the two of us egging each other on with increasingly nefarious deeds, it'd probably be rightly termed a cemetery.

Could the hapless world possibly survive two merciless Pauls?

Paul : You know what! I think I'd like myself.
My ISO : Whoa. That took some thought! We talked about it like some half hour ago!
Paul : Hey not everyone comes and goes as fast as you do.
My ISO : Didn't hear you complaining.

I know what you guys - and Strapping Shane who has given some thought about it as well - are gonna ask. Sex with myself? Some boys would freak out, claiming it's the closest thing to incest - but hell, isn't it kinda like masturbating? DIY?

And you know we've all been there.

Bulletins from Beijing

Long distance relationships.

What can I say? I've already failed one. Don't care to try for another. Once bitten twice shy. So when I received a brief message from Charming Calvin hinting at an extension of his sojourn in Beijing, I found myself flabbergasted.

Calvin : I have news. They might extend me here for another six months.
Paul : Madre Dios!

Sure in the vast scheme of things, one year isn't all that long. Just a few grains in the sands of time. Faithful Chinese heroes of old waited 16 years after all. Not forgetting the lonesome Cowherd only gets to share connubial bliss with his Maiden only once a year!


What we did was so wrong...
So wanna do it again?
I doubt we're characters in a novel though!

Even my cousin, Hard RocK Harriet seems fine with this arrangement - with her sweetly doting husband based half a continent away while she's quarantined with her sick babies on that rock by the Pearl River delta. It's practically an alternate weekend affair as he commutes home late on Sturdays. Not sure how they both can manage this crazy arrangement indefinitely!

It would drive me slowly insane!

Should be obvious by now that I don't place much faith on geographically challenged affaires. Two important factors count in the longevity of a long distance relationship - the maturity of the relationship and the length of separation. Unfortunately it comes down to boring numbers in the end, a mathematical check and balance. Correlates with the length of time and inversely with the maturity of the relationship!

But even with the perfect balanced equation, it isn't long before infidelity rears his sexy head. Come on, we're all guys. We can hardly stay celibate monks for any given length of time ( short of being marooned on a desert island - and even then we might have Dr Jack to tempt us ). The more sadly cynical amongst us would even say we're all genetically programmed to stray!

Sure, we all promise to be faithful and true to that oblivious boyfriend in hand a thousand miles away but surely every once in a while we're greedily tempted by the beautiful boys in the bush? Daily solo cyberwanks last only so long before there's the irresistible need to replenish with a fresh cum facial straight from the tap.

What more when there are so many new taps to try!

I know I'm bringing it down to the lowest common denominator - sex. But even without sex as a factor in that equation, that doesn't mean that in time ( almost inevitable actually ) he or she won't find someone more in tune with their thoughts and ideas, someone more sympathetic with their plight. And most importantly, someone who isn't an ocean away.

Of course, you might try frequent reminders of fidelity to avoid such tangled complications. But let's face it, as a general rule, men suck as correspondents. Initially they all start off sweet, charming and attentive but then after the course of several weeks and months, the initial enthusiasm gradually tapers off. Lengthy encyclopaedic missives detailing even their daily bowel habits begin to imperceptibly shrink becoming more a succinct, compact summary of the week. Then it becomes that lonely telegram of the month. Then the occasional greeting card for birthdays and Christmas.

And then it's total news blackout. A relationship dying with the inevitable whimper instead of a bang.

Ain't no mountain high enough? I don't think so. Someone tell me if I'm getting cynical.

Pushing Blame

Do you know I actually have a sister?

Actually more than one! Probably enough Buffy-power to fill up the ranks of two quarrelsome cheerleader squads and more besides. Relax, don't throw the axe at my innocent dad yet - he wasn't foooling around way back when to produce an illegitimate daughter!

Though come to think of it, it would be kinda fun discovering a new sibling.

I actually call my first cousins brothers and sisters - from budding fashionista Lispy Lori to brooding Macho Mike. Hell, they are probably as annoying as true life sibs would be. Happens in the best of large extended families and Charming Calvin would attest to the fact that my hitherto unknown relatives are seemingly springing up from the cracks in every city he visits.


Come show us the goodies, babies...
He hasn't met Hard RocK Harriet yet though :) Closest in age to me - and the only one I can rightfully call big sister. Outwardly an otherwise serious-minded physician content with her academic pursuits - but behind those scientist glasses is a bad, mad woman on the run.

Don't see her all that often though since she's based in a lil upjutting peninsula at the edge of the Pearl River delta called Kowloon - stuck with the unenviable task of caring for projectile vomiting infants in the crib and hysterical parents as a neonatologist.

In the family e-mail newsletter, we occasionally take turns blaming each other for initiating the horrifying trend towards medicine in the junior family roster. Already 3 doctors in the family with another 5 in med school?! What the fuck! Obviously sanity's lost in this family.

Paul : You started it! Brainwashed the lot into trying out med school!
Harriet : Hey, I told them not to take up medicine. You were the one who made med school look damned easy!
Paul : Hey, I tried to look dead tired after work at least. You're the one jetting off after work to exotic locales!
Harriet : That was the one time! And so did you!
Paul : Those poor, poor fools. They don't know what they're getting into!
Harriet : What a bitter pill to swallow! Hope they blame their parents though.

And then to get over our shared dismay, we just had to drown ourselves in martinis at the bar. During lunch. I felt so decadent.

My grandmother says that it was one of God's ingenious preventive measures to have us separated at birth since relative mayhem ensues when we're within a ten mile radius of each other. Not that the world necessarily teeters at the edge of the Apocalypse when that rare event happens - but when we get together, we do tend to goad each other into the most impossible ( and occasionally unlawful ) hijinks from harmless charades to the occasional petty thievery. Then there was that forgotten summer when we decided one Haagen Dazs morning that we should go backpacking across England. I don't think the folks over there have recovered from that annus horribilis yet :)

Also that time we pretended to be a nauseatingly lovey-dovey couple just to score some tea and biscuits at Tiffany's.

I know. We should know better.

Well I'm younger so I hope that takes some of the blame off me. Harriet's the respectable paediatrician after all :)

Resident Evil II : The Return of the Sith

Guess part of me has rubbed off on Charming Calvin since he has started saving lives as well. Though not in the conventional grab the crash trolley and let's start cardiopulmonary resuscitation way.

He acts in a more indirect manner.

Bumped into another Mumbling Mary in the wards, this time a guy - so let's call him Mumbling Manson. Since Manson stumbled over some procedures - and nearly prematurely ended a struggling octogenarian's life - I felt obliged to at least play the role of the merciless Nazi and read him a brief riot act. Initially started out playing the gentle sympathizer role but his obtuse responses only served to goad me into breathing smoke and fire.

Manson : I-I thought...
Paul : You didn't call for help when you weren't sure what you were doing? Didn't the nurse offer to help?
Manson : I thought it was the right patient and just tried to help by...
Paul : You do know that you overdosed the patient with XXXXXXX?


Bite this...
Poor Manson stumbled over another list of pitiful excuses while I took a blissful minute to imagine grabbing him and throttling him violently with periodic head-banging against the wall. As he started whimpering - making me yawn in boredom, I was starting to find it a bit hard to control that particularly homicidal impulse when my cellphone thankfully beeped.

Nothing that intimate a message - just some talk about purchasing Starbucks Bears and Hard Rock Pandas. But the cheery message put me in such a good mood that I forbore the expected death by strangulation. And that's how Calvin managed to save the poor fella from total annihilation.

Great Georgetown Gay Gala Gone!

Bet all you boys have heard by now.

Seems like the most happening place at the moment is our very own straight-laced northern city of Penang. Have friends up there who frequently bemoan the serious lack of entertainment - well, who'd have thought they were actually hiding the fact that the lil Pearl in the Orient was a budding gay mecca! More than a little lustre has been regained - though in a far cruder manner than many would expect....

Seems like in a recent raid of a fitness center-cum-sauna, glowing pearl necklaces were found adorning quite a number of the patrons, presumably caught in the act. A concerned samaritan ( the twat! ) tipped overzealous vice cops off that the space had been used for clandestine trysts - and boy were they right! Not only did they manage to round up 34 unfortunate patrons - including British and Chinese nationals - the boys in blue also found 20 gay magazines, 7 tubes of lube, 6 boxes of condoms and 4 pornographic movies.

Blimey. Quite the party! Imagine the chagrin of the partygoers.

Does that shock me? No. After years of working in a bustling city hospital - and seeing the best and worst life has to offer, I'm pretty much unshockable these days. Hell I wasn't exactly a saint before. And you guys know I'm far from prudish.

What puts me in a rage isn't the fact that they were having a wild gay sex gala without sending me an invitation. Well, that does put me off a little - I know it's been a while since I was out there but hey, they could have sent an invite :P


The line-up!
What actually drives me up the wall as usual is the sanctimonious morality police. Blame it on good old Section 377. Seriously, morality should not be governed by the law when it comes to affairs held behind closed doors between consenting adults. Not saying that we should all simultaneously hold mass roman orgies in public places but let's just place this in context.

They're all consenting adults. If an innocent underaged waif were to be present, I'd agree to lock the paedophilic lot up and toss away the key. But since they're all grown men of sound mind, I don't really give a damn what goes on behind closed curtains. What's wrong a bit of slap and tickle? They could pretend to be furry forest creatures and indulge in humpy bunny sex for all I care.

They're in a semi-private area. Sure, if they were out canoodling in public parks and recreational areas behind bushes and trees, they should be duly drawn and quartered. After all it's the risk ( and the the thrill! ) that they take. But it's in a closed private sauna dammit. I don't recall them having an open invite.

And they aren't making a nuisance of themselves! If the guys were yelling lewd obscenities and spanking the daylights out of each other till the wee hours of the morning, I'd certainly sound an alarm. Hell, even if they were a married heterosexual couple of 80 making loud whoopee all night long, I'd alert the police for the insane ruckus as well. But they weren't.

So for god's sakes, let them have their fun.

At least judging by the incriminating items found at the site, they practise commendable safe sex.

Look, I know in the general view amongst the more conservative Muslims and many non-Muslims ( especially those following Judaeo-Christian doctrines ), homosexuality is not vastly accepted. Far too liberal a view for them I'm sure. Though I never can quite understand how two guys in love can actually lead to a dramatic decline in society.

Fair enough though, to each his own. I don't need your acceptance but that doesn't mean I'd want to have your puritanical values and cultural norms shoved down my throat as well. Even less do I need a self-righteous Big Brother to come knocking on my door checking on my unnatural sexual practices. Here the question is how do you use the law ( based on prudish colonial statutes written in the Victorian era, I'm sure ) not to intrude on people's privacy and their own private choices?

What next? Stoning adulterers? Strangling unwed mothers? Drowning pagan witches?

With such blatant discrimination ( and the infamous Section 377 forever hanging over our heads ), is it any wonder that young gay boys are driven to end their lives?

The Beautiful Game

What is it about boys and their games?

And by games, I mean football - and other such manly sports ( though I find it hard to believe that folks can get overly obsessed with golf ). Ever since the first caveman decided to turn kicking rocks into a spectator sport, men have been endlessly engrossed in the game. Though most guys are now confined to their couches for the length of the game these days, that doesn't seem to have stemmed their growing enthusiasm.

Last weekend, my ISO and I happened to drop by a bar just as a game was playing - turned out to be a Manchester United vs Arsenal football game. I seriously wouldn't have known which team was playing if the droolsome Cristiano Ronaldo hadn't appeared on screen in short shorts. Now if you've never been to a sports bar during the sheer chaos of a much-anticipated game, you're certainly missing something. Each missed goal was followed by a chorus of hoots and catcalls from the raucuous backbenchers, all clad in their vibrant team colours to cheer on their respective teams. Overzealous referees were jeered and heckled at, feckless players had their dubious parentage questioned.


Let's play ball!
Always amazes me to see grown men ( or overgrown boys as the case may be ) weep, moan or generally throw a hissy fit over the erratic fortunes of their favourite team! Macho bastards who'd otherwise find it hard to shed a single tear at their own mother's deathbed would scream, wail and beat their chests akin to an inconsolable Indian widow.

For me, the closest I've ever gotten to being that passionate about the game - or any sort of game - was during secondary school. Not that I cared particularly whether we actually scored a goal during rugby but hell, I just loved to tackle the hottest boys.

Did I just say that?

Seriously, what better game but rugby to grab ( unlimited body contact with everything within reach! ) and tackle? Almost nothing is taboo in this game - and in an all-boys-school, it turns into a no-holds-barred barbaric melee over a ball. Must have been repressed inexplicable lust turned inside out since I channelled my horny hormones to brutal mindless aggression and managed to bruise some of the cutest hunks in school back then. I admit I sometimes like it rough.

Paul : You have the hots for that bitch Brenda when you could be having me? Now, taste mud, you scumbag!
Paul : How dare you praise that cow Linette to me! I'll dropkick you to the seventh level of heaven dammit!

Yeah, repressed.

Other than that, I steered pretty clear of sports. World Cup Fever would come and go with me pretty much unfazed by the entire mad circus. My football-crazy classmates would nod off during early morning lessons, their sad eyes droopy after staying up all night for their games but I found myself fresh and alert, ready to start collecting bets for the pool. Once they surfaced from their collective coma during recess, they'd talk endlessly about match scores and league placings while I wondered whether the hottie blond goalkeeper would be taking off his shirt at the end of the game. Since I knew absolutely nothing about the game, I found myself constantly placing bets on the underdogs praying hard for an unprecedented upset.

And in such games, upsets frequently happen :) So while the boys would sing mournful dirges for their loss, I'd be celebrating my unexpected win.

Heart of Darkness

Sometimes when my philosophical paterfamilias ponders over the occasional petty family squabble ( happens even in the best of extended families, I'm afraid ), he sometimes turns to my brother and I for constructive advice. As usual the diplomatic UN envoy, my brother advocates the neutral, hands-off policy of the Swiss. Me, I like to get my hands dirty - I'm all for the Chinese lets-take-no-prisoners policy - and I'd quickly outline a shockingly devious scheme to set things right.

So it usually ends with my father turning to stare at me utterly aghast at my evil Machiavellian genius and possibly wondering what bad seed I've sprung from. No doubt if he believed in organized religion, my dad ( the avowed agnostic! ) would have warded me off with signs of the cross.

Get thee away, accursed child of Satan!


Spank me, I've been very, very naughty...
But I'm not that evil. Don't consign me to the deepest bowels of purgatory just yet.

At least I don't think I'm that much of a sinner. I'm just more honest, and far more at ease with my heart of darkness than some. After all, we all have the occasional uncharitable thought - even the sainted Mother Teresa must have griped once or twice over the crazy traffic in Calcutta or some sort of inconsequential matter. We're all human with our faults and foibles. It is whether we actually give in to our baser impulses that separates the good from the evil.

Of course in a group of sanctimonious holier-than-thou do-gooders ( otherwise known as doctors ), I stand out readily, easily recognizable as the one branded the devil with horns and forked tail. Not that I mind. There are many folks I wouldn't mind seeing roasting over a steaming pit of everlasting hellfire.

Burn, baby, burn!!

My new friend JD - who looks like the guy above - would certainly agree. After all he wrote a book on his endless perfidy in Murders Most Fab. What follows is a hilarious tale of murderous deception and of closets overrun with skeletons: an unorthodox mother and a missing father, a past life as an upmarket rentboy and then a mercy killing that inevitably leads to another killing, and another and another. Although after reading his charming, witty memoirs ( written by the fabulous Julian Clary ), you'll find it hard not to sympathize with this accidental serial killer.

I don't have such grave mortal enemies of course. Seriously not a single name on my personal hit list. If there were any, wouldn't you imagine that I'd already be weeping copiously ( crocodile tears no less ) at their gravesite as we speak?

But when it comes to a bit of torture, there are a select few though - fucking snail drivers, self-righteous do-gooders, bitchy slayers to name a few - that come to mind. Not that I would immediately assasinate them in cold blood of course. Much too drastic an end! But hypothetically if they were tottering at the edge of a dangerous precipice, I wouldn't even bother reaching out a hand to help draw them back. Though I wouldn't incriminate myself by giving that final nudge of course.

Hell, I'm not that good. I might just bounce on the edge a little just to destabilize the cliff enough to hasten the inevitable fall. After all good boys go to heaven, bad boys go everywhere!

Saint Wicked perhaps?

All That Glitters

Sometimes you just want to escape. Leave that dull, dreary world behind and cross the proverbial wall into the great unknown.

Die-hard fans would call it overhyped commercial fluff, perhaps even brand it as cheap glitter and I'd certainly be the first to agree that it's far from the lyrical fantasy built up in Neil Gaiman's fertile mind. However if I wanted painful reality, I'd just have to march back to work but sometimes we all need that little touch of magic, that little hint of Stardust.

Read the acclaimed graphic novel years back - a Chrismas gift for my ISO as it turned out - and enjoyed the whimsical illustrations of Charles Vess. Barely out of secondary school, still wet behind the ears, a little like the main protagonist - hero as it may be - the charmingly bashful Tristran Thorn. Our lovelorn boy finds himself given the unenviable task of bringing back a fallen star to win the hand of his fair heartless maiden - only to find that the star itself is another maiden fair beyond compare.


Oh godfather, what can I do for you now?
And in the process of searching for stars, Charlie Cox playing the hero turns from a stuttering Edwardian shopboy who stumbles on his feet into a heroic swashbuckler I wouldn't mind sharing a lip-lock with - a dramatic makeover seen only onscreen. All thanks to a mincing fairy godfather named Shakespeare.

Couldn't sleep after yesterday's on-call so I made my way alone to the cinema - much to Jaunty Jared's astonishment. Seriously, I do watch movies alone. Quite often in fact.

Who knew that I'd watch the novel made into film as a man ( painful but true, perhaps I need to swallow the heart of a star ). Still quite undecided whether I actually preferred it as a book! Generally turning prose into film has never fared well, many cunning little details that make up the richer tapestry is lost in that interpretation and Stardust falters a little in that aspect. Doesn't mean it's not wonderfully cinematic of course but in catering to a wider general audience, it loses much of the darker, more melancholic undertones that Gaiman is famous for.

Still, it has a wicked witch, a handsome shopboy / prince and a damsel in distress. Even a cute single father. Not to mention a tragic Greek chorus of murdered princes who all died of fratricide ( you gotta watch it to understand ). How could it possibly fail? :) We all love our fairy tales after all.

One thing I found interesting was the outcry over the mincing foppish portrayal of Captain Shakespeare. For me, I found the overly done extremely campy can-can sequence painful to watch - but doesn't anyone else find it wonderful that the swishy captain actually breaks the mould of the crusty macho pirate and actually captains a pirate ship successfully? And even shaking and shimmying in a laced corset, he still manages to catch the eye of Humpy Humphrey the Village Hottie, stiffly played by Henry Cavill.

And he did get Charlie Cox down to his underwear :)


Humpy Humphrey Unbuttoned
Makes you wanna reach for that feather boa, doesn't it?

Calls for a sequel, I say. Stardust II : Shakespeare Humps the Hottie Humphrey. Imagine what a makeover could do for Hubba-Hubba Humphrey.

Gay Men in the City

With the light-speed advances made in science and technology the past few years, the world is certainly growing smaller. These days, folks a thousand miles away geographically are readily available at the click of a mouse.

And yet no matter how small the world gets, I doubt it can get as small as the gay community gets :) Seriously, 3 degrees of separation might be a little too much.

Back in my hometown, it was nearly impossible to meet up with a fellow gay man. Either they'd been covertly exterminated by rabid homophobes or hidden so deep underground that it would take a dedicated archaeologist a lifetime to find. Even after years of intent manhunt searching behind every bush and tree, I only found but a meagre handful.


Hmmm... are they all really gay?
And then I made my journey to the big city and whoa! Certainly didn't feel all that pink almost a decade back when I was a student here. Don't even have to look that hard, seems like I find myself bumping into happy homos every which way I turn. Easy enough to recognize the gay clones once the gay-dar's been tweaked. Studly singletons on the prowl in the cruising areas, lovebirds paired up at malls in search for matching thongs, gangs of them lifting reps while bitching about their last one-night-stands in the gyms... the list goes on. Even my classmates - who peculiarly came out while I wasn't looking - have come back to roost here. Lately it seems that if you throw a rock, you're bound to hit a gay man in the city.

We are legion. We are that many.

Bet the angry homophobic conservatives are quivering with pitchforks and lit torches in hand right now.

Yet if we follow strictly by the data and evidence given, we should be significantly less in number. Ten percent or thereabouts? Seriously, how would the human race propagate and grow if half the population would prefer to boff each other ( therefore damning the fertility rate to hell! )?

We could blame the Great Gay Migration. No doubt the gay folks in the rural areas tend to flock to the cities in search of the bright lights - and that ever elusive gay sauna ( if not the ever booming shopping malls ) but surely even then, that wouldn't account for the sudden rapid rise in the gay neighbourhood?

Is it really that infectious? Is that sinister gaydiation growing that powerful?

Don't get me wrong. I'm glad :) The world's a-changing and I'm glad the boys these days aren't as afraid to flaunt their colours. Though isn't it particularly queer that everyone seems to know of each other, if not in a biblical manner then vaguely by stained reputation? Do they all register in some arcane book of gayness ( and I don't mean Axcest or Fridae ) the minute they migrate to this city?

Paul : Hey, doesn't that guy looks familiar?
Adam : Don't you know him?
Paul : Of course not. I'm a shy retiring wallflower!
Adam : That's Jason's ex and also Will's gym partner. I think I danced with him once in LaQueen too.
Paul : Good God. We really are clones.

How else to explain the fact that we all keep flocking to the same areas? 3 Degrees of Separation, I tell ya!

Reds, Sangrias and Lychee-tinis

Don't tell your friendly neighbourhood copper but my blood alcohol levels could have been a lil bit raised this evening. Hence the sudden urge to nod off and fall asleep even as I'm writing this - yeah, a good bingeing spree makes me sleepy. I'm that guy who falls to the ground unsconscious after way too much vodka.

Which is why I usually limit myself to a glass or two.

Or three.


Care for an eye-opener?
But with two renowned alcoholics around, I simply couldn't resist trying out another extra jug of sweet, sweet sangria. One of them remained relatively sober while for the other... let's just say premium wine releases Zany Zapple's inner bitch. :) Fortunately for us, his inner bitch is loud, campy and simply hilarious!

A drunk man's words are a sober man's thoughts!

Reminded me of Charming Calvin when he drank one tipple too many. Turns out it was just early in the year when I found out that Calvin could carry his alcohol. Well, with a lot of giggles included.

The man's a friendly drunk.

Usually he's a stoic, taciturn guy with very little to say but on that night, he lost nearly all inhibitions to chatter endlessly on disconnected topics without a break ( well unless you count helpless, irrepressible laughter ). Not only did he turn parchment white - an odd change or a usually red-faced fella - but he also started talking somewhat incoherently. Leaping from topic to topic in what we call flight of ideas with the occasional derailment.

Paul : How was dinner?
Calvin : Hee hee.
Paul : How was dinner?
Calvin : I won a box. A box with presents in it. I won presents. Ooh I like coffee.
Paul : I think you'd need more than that to get over this binge.
Calvin : What binge? I'm not drunk? I drank one glass. Maybe two. I'm alright. See, my hands aren't shaking.
Paul : But you're talking a mile a minute.
Calvin : I can dance all night. I love to dance. Angelina Jolie was there.
Paul : What?

Well, since I failed to youtube the entire hilarious episode, you just gotta be there :)

What's Your Flava

I see people in colours and sounds.

No worries, I'm not turning psychic. Nor am I gonna get all flighty new-agey, set up a mystical pay-per-booth and make unsubstantiated claims about seeing radiant multi-hued auras around my clients. I can't do that ( though I've actually tried a shot of my aura before ).

It's just that I associate certain colours and sounds with certain people - and when they mess around with it, I get a lil distracted. For instance, Charming Calvin. I associate him with a lot of pastel baby blues and light khakis. Not sure why, perhaps it's the colour our reserved fellow wears most often. And the man croons weepy, sentimental Mandarin torch songs late into the night.


Hmmm... is this my colour?
Jaunty Jared though appears in sombre darker browns and navy blues with the occasional black - and the man jives to the rhythm of hip hop lite - or what I'd call Elliott Yamin style :)

So when Strapping Shane announced that he was changing blog templates ( and you know for us obsessive bloggers, it's right up there with an amendment of the constitution ), I found myself wondering what colour he was. Certainly not the bold pink and cool greys that he saw himself as! Perhaps Carrie Bradshaw but not Shane - just a tad too la-di-da cosmopolitan sophisticate for him. Nor his second choice of drippy sky blues and dull chestnuts. Wallflower nerd please! Shane is anything but sombre and pale.

In fact, I actually saw him in vivid mossy greens and slate browns with some bright peach orange mixed in. Borderlne psychotic combination, I know. :) And he disagreed vehemently associating those colours with rabid tree-hugging conservationists and runaway forest elves.

Told me to go try my colour ju-ju on myself.

For myself, I have no idea actually. Hard to look at myself objectively but honestly I love bold, powerful maroons! Unfortunately I tried that on a blog template once and it looked as if an overfilled blood bank had imploded on the screen. Bedtime Nightmares anyone? Immediately nixed that bloodthirsty experiment.

BTW I see Shane singing weird esoteric tunes from obscure one-hit-wonders - with the occasional techno J-pop jingle.

Monsters Under the Bed

We all have our own proverbial monsters - whether real or imagined. From the creepy-crawlies we have lurking under the bed to the pink-feather boa, stiletto-heeled rainbow skeleton sashaying deep in the closet. While some of us hide under the covers refusing to come to terms with the unidentified monsters, a select few disguise themselves every year to knock on doors trick-or-treating in search for that elusive sugar high.

Like everyone else, I've had my share of demons. Faced my own monster almost a year back from this day. Playing the hopelessly outgunned David to the proverbial Goliath, I nonetheless managed to wing a minuscule dent on his tough hide with my lucky slingshot. Seriously, a providential one in a million shot. Still can't imagine how I managed such a fortuitous feat.

Guess fervent daily prayers to St Jude actually work.


Preparing for the big showdown!
Of course, leaving him with a negligible abrasion wound also means that Goliath is prone to making return visits to check out the neighbourhood.

This time however, we have our pint-sized Amazon, Shameless Shalom, to lead the academic charge ( possibly with binpoh in hand ).

A sennight from now, my own compatriot Shameless Shalom will make her own final stand, certainly better equipped than I was way back then. Definitely a far more suitable match for her Goliath - who I'm pretty certain should be forewarned to turn tail and head for the hills rather than face the infernal wrath of Shalom. Tried to tell her that the vaunted Goliath isn't all that terrible a fiend but she refuses to heed my advice, continually loading her disturbingly bloodthirsty weapons of mass destruction quite shamelessly ( hence her name ) to annihilate her personal bogeyman.

Poor lil devil doesn't stand a chance, I tell ya. Before Goliath can even begin his own volley of questions, I believe Shalom would have riddled him with her barrage of stinging answers ( and possibly a light smack with her binpoh ).

Of course it's easier to laugh over personal demons after we've figuratively slayed them. Or lightly nicked them as I did.

Paul : Another 2 weeks! I shall perform a pagan sacrificial rain dance!
Shalom : You do that! All Saint's Day today! Going to church to plead my case.
Paul : Light a candle for St Jude. He likes lost causes :)

Hell, I think her Goliath had better come with a white flag raised instead.

BTW if you're still scratching your head wondering, Goliath's actually a behemoth of a professional exam that we all must face :) Yes, medicine is a neverending learning adventure ( with exams as stumbling blocks in between ). You can see my own bitterly fought campaign last year here, here and here.