Bell, Book and Candle

Tis time, tis time.

Harken your ears to me, true believer. Tis the end of spring with the coming of warmer days and the sultry night sky seems clear with the moon and the stars in perfect propitious alignment. Something wicked this way comes as the gathering of the coven meet together this very night.

Power of the witches' rise.
Course unseen across the skies.
Come to us, we call you near.
Come to us and settle here.
Blood to blood, I summon thee.
Blood to blood, return to me.

Or at least that's what I assume Charming Calvin conveys to his Crazy Charmed Calvinettes when he sends out a distress call to the mighty assemblage of Solicitor, Sandstone and Steel to gather. Lately with the various emotional upheavals in his life, he has been feeling terribly restless, shaken and stirred - desperately in need of the spiritual stability of his familiar coven of three.


The Charmed Ones!
BTW That's my boyfriend Chris Evans being crowded by unworthy bitches!
After all there's always the need to talk, to vent, to confide after such a personal maelstrom - and let's face it, as close as we are, there are some things you just don't tell your boyfriend. Especially one as intimately connected. So Calvin finds solace this evening in the soothing arms of his coven, speaking of his toils and troubles over a simmering, bubbling cauldron full of scales of dragon and tooth of wolf with his Calvinettes.

Realizing his unforeseen error, he did ask me along to join the malefic proceedings at the last minute but I begged off knowing that some rants are better left unheard. Though I would have given plenty to be a fly on that hell-broth cauldron listening.

Solicitor : All hail Calvin, Thane of Cheras!
Sandstone : Speak to us, you have made the call!
Steel : Speak! And listen we shall!
Calvin : Well, lyk you see I have dis nasty problem, his name is Paul and ...
Solicitor : Wait! I sense a disturbance!
Sandstone : Listen. That speck. That fleck. That fly. That spy.
Steel : Begone! Make the gruel thick and slab add thereto a witches' cauldron..

So much for eavesdropping! Well I hope Calvin ( not the snoop of a fly ) returns not so happy, and yet much happier. :)

A meeting of my own coven? I seriously doubt there's any chance of that happening - Shameless Shalom and Graceless Grace remain staunchly religious ( one to God and one to Gold ) eschewing such pagan pursuits and there's no way Preity Posh would dream of gathering in foul weather ( not even for Glory ).

And even if they all decided to get together over newt's eye and tiger's claw, I have to admit that I'm just not one for the confessional booth. Faced with a handful of concerned judges, it can start to feel a bit too much like the Spanish Inquisition. Let's face it, talking endlessly Oprah-style about my feelings only ends up making me feel extremely crabby - with an inexplicably sadistic urge to throttle the pseudo-concerned counsellor instead. Hardly therapeutic.

Perhaps it's my nature, my nurture or just my plain ornery bullheadedness but I usually prefer to work out my problems on my own. Though it's obvious that Calvin finds comfort in company, I find solace in solitude instead.

No doubt some of the seeds of discontent that Calvin is bringing before the ladies. Till then though I'll definitely be keeping an eye out for advancing forests. Who knows what the sly coven of Calvinettes have dreamt up as a punishment. :P

Innocence and Impropriety

Never been a paragon of virtues but I have recently come to the shocking conclusion - yet again - that I'm actually quite an unprincipled fellow.

Not that I've been a crazed deviant going about tearing the wings of pinned butterflies or setting cats' tails on fire - but it seems that my moral and ethical standards have grown far more lax than I ever imagined, certainly miles from the strict, unwavering credo advocated by the dedicated missionaries. Soon I'll probably nonchalantly watch someone getting horribly butchered in front of me without blinking an eye, I suppose.

That's what you get for skipping confessionals for years. Evidently not only does your soul go down the drain to hell, your morals tag along with it as well.


It's innocent! Really!
My braces got stuck in his pants! Honest!
The story goes like this. My unfortunate Charming Calvin, during one of his everyday rounds at work ( work seems to be an anathema to engineers ), happened to chance upon a couple he knew having a private meeting in one of the numerous conference rooms. And they were caught literally in flagrante delicto. Both seemingly respectable adults - and one already attached in a monogamous relationship.

Calvin : Disrespect! Disgrace! Dishonour!

I know. It's obvious that he comes from an ultra-conservative Chinese family - possibly some distant relation of Mulan's martinet father in fact.

Wouldn't have surprised me if he'd immediately yelled for the unfriendly neighbourhood moral police - since his thunderstruck horror and revulsion could be felt even by me several kilometres away. But despite the fact that he wanted to bludgeon the both of them, it seems that Calvin remained mum about the incident ( after the corespondent in the case pleaded piteously with him ) preferring to let it seethe inside while he raged inwardly over the sexual infidelity.

Later when he told me the shocking news, the man obviously expected empathetic agreements with lots of minatory noises - like his infamous tsking. But unfortunately I've failed quite miserably as a human being ( and an astonished Calvin is obviously thinking twice about having me as a life partner ) since the only thing I could think of was...

Paul : Degrading! Disgusting! Devilish! I love it! Tell me more!

Seriously. I thought I heard him fall from the chair.

Not sure when and how my principles evidently took a startling nosedive that even the thought of fornicating adulterers fails to surprise me. Far more curious in a voyeuristic manner in fact :P Perhaps it's because I'm not directly involved in the illicit situation in any manner which is why all I wanna know is how, where, what position and whose married to whom?

Where is my conscience, you'd say? Not sure, it might have gone down the drain as I mentioned earlier. Then again if I'd caught the adulterous pair, I'd have been snapping vids for youtube as well.

Evidently Scorpions and Lions look at life differently.

The Masturbatorium

Everyone has their own peculiar Kit Kat break, so to speak.

Let's just say that work doesn't come without its own set of stressors - my ISO has his dirty dartboard but me, I have my own ways of dealing. When I'm feeling a lil moody, a lil pissed off, a lil grumpy, I usually go for a walk to work off all that stress - and inevitably I end up going down a particular out-of-the-way corridor that leads to a special isolation room. Not that I've ever been fortunate enough to enter but all I have to do is look at the name proudly emblazoned in bold letters on the door - The Masturbatorium - and I can't help but crack a smile.

An imprudent few would even call it a smirk.

Although the purpose of the room is obvious enough from the shockingly suggestive appelation, I know there'll always be the innocent few who'll wonder. Well, the masturbatorium is a private sanctuary for struggling wannabe fathers who find themselves reproductively challenged - which is why we have the masturbatorium ( and the subsequent semen analysis by your friendly neighbourhood technicians ) to separate the wheat from the chaff, so to speak.

The name's certainly a mouthful. Appropriate enough, I should say :p


Whoa. Who opened the door!
Behind closed doors, the moans, the groans and the shattering finale ( though I've honestly never heard a peep! ) should be obvious enough to describe the activities therein. Doesn't need a genius to ascertain the main purpose of a masturbatorium but I've always wondered what else goes on behind those resolutely locked doors.

Though I've almost convinced myself that it's only a cold, sterile nondescript room far from conducive for its purpose - as inevitably all hospital spaces turn out to be - I've always hoped and imagined it as a decadent, sensual pleasure palace built to cater to the sordid needs of the red-blooded heterosexual man, possibly with towers of raunchy straight porn DVDs in alphabetical order - with a bit of naughty fetish and girl-on-girl action tossed in the mix - and dozens of vintage, well-loved Playboys with disturbingly sticky pages showcasing nubile, half-dressed beauties cavorting without a care in the clothing-optional countryside.

Boys will be boys - but hell, they all still need a little something to perk up their libido, right? And there's nothing quite like a winsome Miss January flashing her wondrous mammaries to the delight of the viewer. Wonder if they even cater especially for the closeted homosexuals by slyly inserting a DVD or two from Bel Ami / Falcon!

Along with the generously splattered plasma screen, there will no doubt be suggestive lighting, questionable fluffy pillows and comfortable ( though curiously squishy ) leather seats of course. And thankfully close at hand, there'll be the generous bottles of lubricants / lotions ( guaranteed to leave your hands silky smooth! ) and endless rolls of tissue paper, no doubt prerequisites in every budding hormonally-challenged teenage boy's room. Bet the guys reading are smirking right about now as well.

Always makes me wonder though what the unfortunate guys think as they're going in - especially with the stern-faced 300-pound nurse waiting just feet away for the required deposit. Enough to make them wilt surely :)

Monarch of the Glen

DVD reruns and bags of chips are how I spend the weekend usually. A fact that my ISO obviously knows which is why he came over with a stack of DVDs just the other day. Would have preferred a 42 inch plasma TV :)

The man certainly knows me well enough to pick the perfect DVD though. Almost exactly a decade back I actually spent two nippy weeks in Scotland. Surprisingly enough to those who know me as a dedicated urbanite, I actually spent the time traipsing through the woods and glens of the Highlands with a book bag in hand. Not sure why but there might have been some foolish youthful attempts at emulating the brooding Heathcliff - though in a far chillier locale.

Of course most days I recall ending up with my sorely aching feet on the embroidered pillows to rest at the end of the day ( while my ISO shivered by the window griping about the cold while munching on biscuits dunked in warm tea ) but it was certainly well worth it :) Since I happened to be back in the bed & breakfast anyways, I always managed to catch up with the latest BBC series being shown at primetime - and coincidentally enough there was a series about the prodigal return of the dashing laird to his financially encumbered highland estate while he struggles between conflicting forces of familial duty and personal desire. The perfect cozy cup of tea before bedtime.


The laird of Glenbogle!
Suitably enough known as the Monarch of the Glen, it stars Alastair MacKenzie as the new ( though terribly reluctant ) laird of Glenbogle, Archie Macdonald. And believe me, he's certainly dishy enough to carry the show :) Though that of course discounts the wonderful efforts of his co-stars who portray various quirky, idiosyncratic characters in this quintessentially Scottish drama.

And though our young laird, Alastair might not have been enthused over becoming laird of the glen in the beginning, who else amongst us would say no to owning acres of the most beautiful Scottish highlands? Not to mention chief of some strapping droolsome Scotsmen, in kilts no less! :P Now to get my hands on the rest of the series.

Faith and begorrah, my daft ISO spent his time glued to the screen with Ballykissangel. :) Like all reprobate lapsed Catholic boys, there's nothing quite like cute priests to get him going.

Blight of the Bright Brainy Bachelorettes

One peculiar misconception that uppity conservative folks have about men who happen to be gay is that we all secretly want to be women.

Though I am sure that's true for a significant number, I doubt the rest of us would willingly trade in trade our shirt and pants for a skirt and blouse anytime soon. Although I do occasionally gaze in envy over the flashy accesories and the neverending range of couture that women are fortunate enough to possess, I have never actually yearned to slink around in their towering Manolos.


Sure, Linda Low might enjoy being a girl but I enjoy being a boy...
Hell, I'd develop bloody blisters in days. Kudos to my stiletto sisters but even boots with too high an instep ( and you know how much I lurve leather boots ) already give me a touch of acrophobia.

Though I've mentioned that living up to the impossible ideals of the new age man these days isn't that easy after all, the reverse is true as well and I don't envy the ladies at all - especially when it comes to finding that perfect mate. Looking like Ugly Betty certainly doesn't help a lady's chances in the marriage market but being blessed with excessive beauty and brains doesn't seem to help either. In fact from what I've noticed about the ladies of my acquiantance, it actually comes with its very own can of worms.

Look around and you'll see beautiful bright babes around my age still busy looking around for that elusive prince charming - no matter how much they might continually protest that they're actually enjoying their fabulous singletinihood. Sure I'll admit we all can live without a man but life's so much nicer with one around, don't you think? :) Still it puzzles me why they remain steadfastly single despite their obvious eligibility.

Naming no names here ( they shall all remain not-so-innocent ) but I know a gal my age whose practically a domestic goddess in the kitchen, a whore in the bedroom and a freaking genius in the boardroom. Sounds like the perfect Stepford Wife, right? Seriously, what else could a red-blooded heterosexual boy want? And yet, she keeps landing these impossible sounding duds that we've all started calling her the Freak Magnet.

I think I see the problem though. Not a crucial mystery since I think it's been solved many a time. Essentially men - even the seemingly tough, macho guys - are essentially fragile creatures of ego, so when beautiful brassy babes strut with bitchy, ball-busting strides that eat up the earth, these little men get easily intimidated.

The nice guys - not merely creatures of myth! they exist, really! - start cowering in their khakis and loafers, terrified that the slightest wrong move would get their heads chomped off by these seemingly ultra-confident Amazons. The strong, silent types remain strong and silent as is their wont leaving the hapless gals with the arrogant braggarts drunk in their own self-conceit and the seriously intoxicated buggers depending on that last shot of vodka to bolster their wavering confidence.

Not forgetting the small number of handsome, intelligent boys who turn out to be overwhelmingly - disappointingly - and disturbingly in love with one another. :)

Not exactly the best fishes to land after all. Doubt anyone has the solution to this conundrum though. Certainly wouldn't do for the ladies to present themselves in watered-down pastel versions of their true Samantha Jones selves so I guess we'll all have to wait for the boys to catch up with them in maturity.

Guess that might take a while though. :)

Step On It Dammit

Since Charming Calvin only uses his precious little MyVi as an interior decorating device ( claims it blends so well with his cream-coloured walls and his beige furniture ), he has to depend solely on me ( well, there's also the trusty LRT and a certain blue jalopy ) to bring him about town. Not entirely sure why though since the poor guy spends his time in my car practically parchment-white in horror silently screaming while clinging desperately to the handlebars - possibly expecting his entire life to flash across his terrified eyes in snazzy MTV montages before the end - as I fly zigzaggedly through the jammed streets of the city, careering through the highways and country lanes of the city.

Well at least he would be if he wasn't so busy falling asleep each time the car hits a smooth ride. Half the time I have to nudge Calvin awake so he doesn't get a severe neckache from nodding off in the chair.


Calvin and his vintage car in the garage...
Of course sometimes he gets rudely woken up by my incessant grumbling. After all there are many irritating situations on the road that lead to me unleashing my hidden road rage ( an entirely different creature from my crazed speed demon who thrives on law-breaking sonic booms ). Irresponsible soon-to-be-paraplegic Mat Rempits. Oblivious gruesome-death-seeking pedestrians. Mindless ineffectual road humps.

And of course creepy crawling critters.

Monstrous thoght here but sometimes I wish I had a giant truck with ginormous wheels just to run them over while clapping my hands with wicked glee as their teeny lumbering vehicles are crushed under burning rubber.

Seriously I think they should impose minimum speed limits on the highways - most especially for the spotty geriatrics hobbling along in their cranky Morris Minors, the anxious mama sending her chicks to school and the confused adolescents crawling by in their learner's vehicles. Or at least confine the slowpoke folks to the left lane - promising instant hellfire execution if they dare veer to the right. Why call it a highway if tortoises are allowed to cross the road?

Yes. Yes. I know. Speed kills.

But slow drivers on speeding lanes aren't all that safe either.

Let me count the ways. Firstly a caravan of frustrated drivers will start to build behind the slow, plodding tortoise, an aggressive few tailgating dangerously sticking out that digit of disapproval and the rest patiently hoping that the tortoise would pull over - or at least hopefully tumble off the side of the road. Temperatures start to climb, tempers start to flare and then you start getting the World Falling Down literally as civilized drivers turn into maniacal road warriors wielding steering locks.

Secondly sanctimonious slowpokes love hitting the brakes for no apparent reason, making the drive that more time-consuming and damned frustrating. What is with that? Each time the road makes a turn or even curves gently ( sometimes even when an interesting billboard gets their attention ), they stomp on their brakes. Do they gain points for every time they hit the brakes?

Perhaps it's time for the speed demons to reclaim their rightful lane.

True Love Waits

Unbelievably groggy today though not from an overdose of sangria or rum as it is. Much thanks to Nuffnang actually - who happily provided us with tickets to a late night screening of the latest Pirates of the Caribbean. :)


My darling Norrington is in the movie as well and looking mighty fine...
Seriously, if you intend to watch the finale of the Pirates of the Caribbean, you'd better hang on before you finish this post since semi-spoilers abound. Just grab some rum, go watch the crazy convoluted caper ( half the time I got confused who exactly was in cahoots with who! ) and come back to read this.

I know they say that true love waits but is that really true? Is it really possible to wait ten years only for one single day with that perfect someone - even if that perfect guy was a perma-tanned, leanly muscled Orlando Bloom in dashing pirate guise?

That's the conclusion we're supposed to swallow at the end of the swashbuckling trilogy of pirates, plunder and princesses. Certainly reluctant, the newly elected ( and certainly frustrated ) Flying Dutchman seems doomed to sail the seven seas for eternity - with only a small caveat of coming to port for a measly day every ten years while his poor sailor's wife remains ashore in wait. Really. I know it's dashing Will Turner and I certainly would love to get into his sexy bloomers so to speak but hell, one orgasm in ten years? You gotta be fucking kidding me.

And though optimistic young'uns like Strapping Shane do see this tragic long-distance-relationship working out, I'm always full of my doubts.

The first decade.
Dutch : I'm back and I love you.
Wife : My darling. You have returned. Kiss me, my sweet.

The second decade
Dutch : I'm back and I love you.
Wife : Hi, husband. Meet your son. He needs new clothes. I need a new oven as well.

The third decade
Dutch : I'm back and I love you.
WIfe : Yeah yeah. What else is new. Bills are over there by the table.

The fourth decade
Dutch : I'm back and I love you.
WIfe : Say hi to my new husband. He's my lawyer by the way. Sign this.

Really. Judging from the collection of swoon-worthy romances in my library, you'd expect me to be more than a touch sentimental in my tastes with rose-tinted glasses in my pocket ( though slightly smudged with cynicism ) but even I have a serious streak of practicality running through all that pink mushy goo. Surprisingly I ( idealistic me! ) still find myself hoping for a love that lasts forever - but the idea of twiddling my thumbs waiting for that special someone to arrive just doesn't mesh well with my impatient nature.

Much less waiting patiently for ten years just for only one precious day to be together. I know I'm no paragon. I doubt I have the fortitude needed to sustain a relationship through ten years of working, waiting and wishing. After one full decade, it would only take a passing hunky sailor to accidentally blink sand from his eye ( a possible wink? ) for me to be all over him like a slobbery octopus.

Then again, it's Orlando playing Will Turner. Things might have worked out different if I'd been waiting for the honourable ( and terribly dishy ) James Norrington instead. :P

Bloodstrike

One of the first things I learnt about medical school was years back when I was barely a schoolgoing kid. Somehow or rather against my strict parents' wishes, I managed to catch the infamous opening montage for Dr Quincy with the eager medical interns swooning in a progressive row after the unveiling of the presumably unpalatable corpse.

Contrary to popular expectation ( and to my utmost disappointment ), I never did any such thing - nor did any of my first year classmate, though I recall a girl begging off to regurgitate her less-than-hearty breakfast. I never was squeamish around dead bodies. Found it easy enough to even have my dinner with them barely five feet away, the stench of rotting flesh barely concealed by the overriding scent of lemon zest zealously sprayed by the morgue attendants.

So obviously spurting blood, congealing stomach contents, spilling guts and other assorted bodily fluids fail to impress me. At the most despite my vampiric reputation, I'll just shrug and apply myself to vigorously scrubbing the foreign matter off with visions of Lady MacBeth. Out, damned spot! Out I say!


Maybe I'll be safe here!
However just today when I was wandering alone down a suspiciously empty corridor leading to the underground theater, I found myself looking back - perhaps some latent sixth sense acting as a warning. It was like a scene from a badly edited low-budget Asian horror flick. Horrifyingly ghastly streaks of blood were smeared like a trail everywhere I went leaving handprints and fingerprints on the doors and the cabinets. Add that to the eeriely flickering corridor lights in the empty, seemingly neverending corridor and I almost felt like screaming.

Turned to streak away while yelling hysterically for help when I noticed a gory clump of blood attached to my blue scrubs. No doubt my hair had turned white by that time. Searched the halls for mysteriously floating maidens in red possibly clutching headless bleeding chickens ( or even the more regular hospital pranksters ) but none of the usual or less-than-usualhospital spectres seemed close at hand.

Mantras of hail marys came to my lips and then I noticed the cut on my finger.

Guess that God was actually listening since a quick MTV montage of shots flashed before my eyes. Powdered gloves. Cold air. Dry skin. Add all that together and you get chapped - though relatively painless - fingers with occasional blisters and cuts.

Hence the bloodstains.

And hopefully that's the closest contact I ever have with the supernatural.

Teenagers Alive

Like, I've actually been having some leisure time at work. Freaking jobless but I'm like, really psyched since it gives me the opportunity to like, polish off the endless rows of books unread from my desk. Finally.

A few coma-inducing ones unfortunately ( insert yawn here! ) but seems I can't find winners in the whole bloody grab bag after all. Then I find My Side of the Story by Will Davis. God, the definition of where it's at! And I'm like, all blitzed out, man.... suddenly all slacker sixteen ( just a shade older than the molestables ) wrestling with my hardly repressed sexuality, sneaking out for a smoke and a fumble in the gay bar, causing minor havoc in school with the homophobic neanderthal goons - and at home with the way-uncool parental units and my holier-than-thou sister.

Not that I was any of the above. Like I totally swear with fingers crossed and all.


Damn, it's hard being a teenager!
Total shocker by the way but in comparison to chip-on-the-shoulder troubled rebel-without-a-cause Jarold, I'm practically a freakin' monk. Robes and crosses, really, hanging out with the other dudes in denial back in the monastery. Seriously, I never really had all that much teenage angst myself - well, I like don't think I did :) Though you gotta ask the gory deets from my mom to be sure. Seems like I always had my head screwed on straight most days. Sure, I like, had the weekly teenage revolt against parental authoritarianism and mindless conformity but ended most with a peaceable time out.

Like what's the point? Do y'know what I mean?

First off, though I had my totally wild shenanigans and stuff on the side ( make that hottie ex fucker on the side ), I like, remained on the straight and narrow for the most part. Made my way through boring classes without playing hooky. Inevitably punked a few lame posers but mostly adolescent mischief rather than juvie hall. Probably would make you boys snigger some but though I choked some smokes ( disgusting habit, really! ), I never really delved into the blissful E-zone. Fumbles in the little boy's room with my ex but certainly no spaced out mornings in a stranger's bed ( well not till later at least ).

Hell. Maybe I'd be like less uptight if I had. :P Though it'd be a damned sight more exhausting with all the crazy highs and lows for sure. Isn't it like totally weird that kids wish to be older ( Strapping Shane for one ) while old folks my age ( not me for sure! ) would kill to be teens again? Like I already left all the pimpled troubles of adolescence behind - and certainly wouldn't want a horrifying revisit - but I certainly wouldn't mind having the totally juiced-up metabolism of a teenager again :)

But seriously, tell me straight, would you wanna be an angsty teenager again?

SMS lah :P

Coincidentally my brother went home last weekend - meaning he bunked over at my place. Since I haven't been back in a while, I sent a long-winded, convoluted message about various mundane household reminders such as picking up the bills, checking up on the phone lines, dusting a little... etc. Seriously boring. Really. Still talented, verbose me managed to cram a whole lot of angst, pathos and homesickness into one single sms.

I was to be easily outdone by my succinct, laconic brother.

Brother : Done.

Really, does he think it's an ancient telegram? Does he think that he pays messages by the alphabet? I am not expecting a whole gush of sentimentality with little snippets of drama, tragedy and comedy inserted but surely a little hello would have been nice. Anything rather than a grunted monosyllable :P

It's done? What?! The freaking roast chicken in the oven?

Then again I'm not the only one breaking SMS rules here since I've been guilty of sending my little neverending essays over the phone. Although I do have the occasional short messages, I tend to lean towards extremely lengthy, descriptive diatribes on whatever situation I'm in. And it's all in perfect grammar without the snazzy acronyms and abbreviations favoured by the youthful masses. Perhaps it's old fashioned of me but I actually like to see the entire word rather than txtspk. Knw ppl r starting to use SMS abbrev since some r gr8 but otoh not evryone understands.

Doubt it would seriously destroy the English language as we know it - as the raging language purists have hysterically claimed - since the language actually evolves with time. Bet even Shakespeare would have enjoyed a remix of 2 b or not 2 b!


Uhh. How do I send sms thru tis?!
Somehow or rather though I am one of the few who absolutely abhors predictive text. Irritates me as hell especially when it comes out with surreal words that I never actually intended! Fortunately along with my fast feet, I've actually acquired some pretty quick thumbs. :) Wonder what Charming Calvin would say if I sent him something like this...

hi m8 u k? sry 4gt 2 cal u lst nyt. Y dnt we go c flm 2moz?

Short and succinct they may be but certainly not sweet, don'tcha think?

Rainy Days

Old trusted precepts remind us to save for a rainy day.

Since we were kids we've had daily words of wisdom to help us through our adult life - whether we liked it or not. A bird in hand. Do unto others. And of course that familar saving for that rainy day.

Never was all that good at remembering such platitudes.


What? Now you're telling me!
Fortunately for me, I have Jaded Jeremy to do the reminding. Surely no one can calculate risks and benefits quite as accurately as an actuary - so when he told me he'd suddenly thrown in the towel prematurely in his new workplace, I found myself appalled. Such impulse! Such imprudence! Such impetuousness! What would the strict, doddering actuary commission think!?

After our last meeting, our new gay boy had started taking steps to come out of the closet but had the sudden admission on his part driven him off the edge?

Jeremy : I have resigned from my job.
Paul : Resigned?!
Jeremy : Yeah. Health issues.
Paul : What? Mental health issues?

Not sure if discovering his sexuality at such a late stage in life has shaken his dull, regimented life so much that he's gone wild bananas but he seems so sure of his unprecedented decision that I just nodded my blessings. Come out of the closet. Change jobs. What next? Dye his hair shocking pink and dance in a skimpy thong at the parade?

But what actually came next stunned me even more. Wonder of wonders, the man has a nest egg enough to last half a year - enough to live like an indecently wealthy, olden day maharajah no doubt! Keeping a nest egg seemed almost a matter-of-fact to him - shockingly enough when it sounded to me like some mystical wisdom from saints above.

So much for me thinking that the poor unemployed fella would have to subsist on instant noodles and no electricity for a month.

Jeremy : Well everyone should have an emergency savings deposit.
Paul : Savings?

At work I found myself staring at the phone screen in astonishment. Savings? Was he speaking in ancient Greek now? Evidently this well-meaning but naive actuary assumed that everyone - meaning every man, woman and child on the planet - had oodles of cash specially deposited in hidden accounts stashed in some inaccesible branch of the National Bank of Tibet. Not only that but it had to be the equivalent of 6 times the regular monthly expenses.

Seriously. Do they have all these impressive notions splashed as a friendly - though exceedingly minatory - reminder on the walls of the actuary office? Over at my workplace, we get terrifyingly real banners on venereal disease and the horrors of smoking.

Dropped the phone to do a hasty search through my bank accounts and found it wholly depressingly empty - possibly 1/6 the amount of my monthly expenses. Seems like I've sunk most of my investments into my house and car. As anyone my age ( decrepit me! ) would tell ya, those freaking bank loans ( and those wicked interest schemes calculated by evil actuaries ) can really dry up any meagre savings you have! Any extra would have been spent on miscellaneous items such as books and cds ( not forgetting the twice yearly blowout on travel ) - which no doubt would have easily garnered my frugal Jeremy's disgust.

Feeling quite the financial failure I decided to break out the old piggy bank.

Two bucks in the savings. That has to count as a fiscal umbrella, right?!

Confessions

Although I've hinted about the troubles between me and my ISO a number of times in my blog, we've actually rarely spoken of it ever since. Guess it's easier to sweep the problem unseen under the proverbial rug rather than to deal with it. No doubt my ISO wouldn't dare speak of it since he knows my unequivocal views on the subject of adultery.

But with our recent frienaissance - not to mention the problems plaguing Charming Calvin, today he surprisingly managed to broach the subject heretofore taboo. Albeit via sms - so he could be somewhat confident that I wouldn't be able to throttle him.

My ISO : How do you do it?
Paul : Do what? Balance the fork on my nose?
My ISO : Come on. Forgiving me? Honestly I'd have been livid.
Paul : I didn't have that luxury. You had my books and cds in your house. I wanted it back.
My ISO : Very funny. I envy your ability to see the best in others.
Paul : Easy enough to do so. But seeing the best in others also means anticipating the worst :P

Amongst my friends I'm usually the first they come to when something goes terribly wrong, running the gamut from minor infractions such as lover's quarrels to far more unethical misdismeanours such as adultery, deception and petty theft. Cardinal sins that would certainly astonish that poor father in the confessional. Easy enough to sit on that moral high horse passing critical judgement but I usually try to refrain from taking sides, taking it in my stride instead.


Tell me all!
Far from a perfect paragon of virtue myself so it's easy enough for me to recognize fallibility in others since I'm quite as susceptible to them myself. People who stay in glass houses and all that. And maybe it's because I've been cursed with the uncanny ability to see both sides of the coin. In every argument I immediately see the other side of the story. Easy enough to empathize with the impenitent sinner when you've stumbled in his shoes a time or two after all.

Guess it's true what the horoscopes say - Scorpios are the guys you call for help after you've just accidentally stabbed someone and need to hide the corpse. :P

Shamelessly Stalking Studs

Gorgeous guys. Really, whether you love them or hate them, you gotta admit the world would certainly be a far less interesting place without them.

Or at least far less pretty.

One of the sights that brighten my day while mall-hopping ( apart from the silently glowering man in Kinokuniya ) is the presence of a particular droolsome man-candy that I've surreptitiously dubbed Suit Stud. Caught him rushing by Jaunty Jared and me practically three steps at a time a few evenings back. Of course this manly, dashingly stubbled hunk wasn't to Jaunty Jared's esoteric tastes ( he leans towards toothsome twinks I suspect ) but to each his own. For me, I wouldn't have minded spreading him on a piece of buttered toast for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Not that I would have even caught his attention since guys like these are clearly made to break hearts. Totally forgot all about him till I received a message from Jared ( who assured me that Suit Stud was a regular fixture in that mall ) that Suit Stud's back in business again trolling the mall halls. Snce I finished work early, I grabbed my binoculars and my spy kit and immediately made a beeline for his ass.

Did I say his ass? I meant I happened to be in the same place where Suit Stud was for lunch. Coincidentally, really. Fate they would have called it. Same fate that I had years back when I trailed Mr Bubblebutt down half the length of Orchard Road.


And we offer this in red, blue and black as well!
Still I missed him during lunch since he'd probably gone into hiding ( maybe gone into storage - surely perfection such as this had to be mass produced in some factory somewhere ). Then again guys like these certainly wouldn't be caught dead scarfing down the colonel's original recipe - more likely to be gulping down zero-fat protein juice and a single pea for lunch :) Munching on cholesterol-laden breasts and thighs had us developing a theory that they paraded hunkalicious clones such as him to attract more pink dollars to the undeniably tony stores.

Was proven right when I spied him jogging by again after I'd waved off Jaunty Jared. Since I had time to kill, I decided to trail him.

Serious. Every once in a while I suffer from an impulsive psychotic break.

Still I felt like a dashing spy leaping from pillar to shop entrance trying to catch a glance of Suit Stud. Let's face it, Suit Stud could have easily battered me to the ground with those manly fists ( oh yeah, manhandle me baby! ) if he'd caught me shamelessly stalking but he seemed patently oblivious. No doubt he'd have caught me stalking if he'd turned around but thankfully he was in such a damned rush, he failed to see the damning evidence trail of drool that trailed several feet behind him. Though I might not frequent the gym as he evidently did, broad shoulders and all, I still managed to keep up with his long athletic legs - which I thought would have looked so much better with the ankles around my ears.

Though I certainly wasn't complaining about the view from the back.

Eschewing the numerous sale signs beckoning in siren-fashion to him, our Suit Stud walked around aimlessly through the floors without any seeming destination - making my earlier theory seemed far more believable. Maybe they'd rent him out to me for a minimal monthly fee? Still his name didn't seem to fit anymore since from my lecherous point of view his suit had already degenerated into nothing leaving him in a fitting but frayed wonderjock - courtesy of my X-ray vision.

But just when I thought I'd cornered him into the seeming vulnerability of an empty elevator, I was intercepted by a turban. Really. Bless those African mamas but those hot-man-obstructing turbans have to go.

Still, I thought I caught an enigmatic smile ( and a wink? ) on his face as the elevator doors shut on me. And he disappeared into nothingness.

Damned ladies with big turbans. Off with their heads, I tell ya.

Strike a Pose

What is the first thing people ask of you when you get online to chat? Apart from the naughty sordid cybersex stuff of course ( which I'm actually quite willing to comply since I'm pretty much an online sluttina ), most of them start with a simple request for pictures. Or at least the gay boys usually do.

Paul : Hi.
Stranger : Hi. Can I see your pic?

Is that how we meet people these days? No doubt they wish for some personal verification that I'm not a doddering yet still perverted octogenarian gasping on an oxygen mask while scouting for younger meat. Easily solved of course for anyone in possession of a half-decent camera.

Unfortunately I am not one of them.


Oh my pure hideousness!
Let me rephrase lest you think I'm some throwback to the dinosaur age. Yes, I do have a camera, even have a camera-phone come to think of it. But I have an understandably chronic aversion to the camera, possibly since realizing that I don't come anywhere close to the glossy, airbrushed visual perfection of Chris Evans / Brandon Routh. Such a disappointment snapping a picture of myself only to realize that it's only blah averageman - which is why I have never ever taken more than an average of ten pics in a year. Apart from enforced photo shoots at work - and those required by the government ( passport mugshots and such ), I doubt I have ever taken a shot of myself.

I'm certain to be greeted by disbelieving stares but it's true. Actually spent a whole month trudging happily about Europe only to realize that I'd only finished half a roll of film on my return - whereupon I was visited by the unholy wrath of my horrified shutterbug brother who insisted that I document every tree, lamp-pole and road sign the next time I travelled. Needless to say on my next trip to Shanghai I obligingly took a photo at every spectacular ( and unspectacular ) monument I visited.

Unlike some of my more trigger-happy pals such as Lanky Lex who seem to find such prurient joy in committing a memory to film - as he'd probably phrase it. No doubt he could fill an entire photobook with an hour in the Eiffel Tower. For me, I only took two shots - one close up and one from half a mile away. :)

But I took a few of the gorgeous Frenchmen to balance it out. :)

Shades of the Past

Bet some people have wondered about the recent frienaissance I've been having of late with my boozy ISO. Fear not, doubting hearts, for the spectre of adultery hasn't reared its head nor will it ever. No matter how darkly alluring I might find him - especially after a few glasses of margarita ( doesn't everyone look better after some alcohol? ), my ISO remains my friend, a dear close friend and a trusted confidante. Thankfully I think we managed to make a clean break a few years back - though we did have that unfortunate Christmas tryst three years back. Poor whiskey ( and a sentimental fool ) gets the blame :P


Surely you didn't think I was the reprehensible sort who cheats?
Which is why we've made a prohibition pact not to get equally intoxicated at the same time.

Seriously doubt Charming Calvin has made such a clean break from his past though. The man doesn't come into this relationship without some heavy emotional baggage - and lately that particular flash from the past has made a reappearance in our lives. After we've all made our choices, there are always some who wonder about the road not taken and for the past few weeks Calvin has been left with some niggling doubts and hand-wringing indecisions.

Leaving me more than a little frustrated, though I've tried - unsuccessfully no doubt - not to let it show. So before I accidentally say something wildly inappropriate - and probably extremely cutting ( certainly no saint! ), I figure I'd rather let it loose with my tougher-skinned ex as a sounding ( censorship? ) board instead. Hell, you could rain showers of excoriating insults on his broad invulnerable back and it'll probably just roll right off.

Sometimes I'm not that much different from the bastard myself :P

Everyone deals with a break-up in their own inimitable way. For some, it's a near bloodless separation with a seamless segue into civilized friendship while some deal with dramatic tension, endless histrionics and broken dishes. Then there are those quiet types like Calvin who slam the lid, let it simmer and boil underneath, a palpable undercurrent of emotion that takes quite a while to bubble to the surface.

Still, my sweet Calvin's making laudable efforts to deal with this untenable situation - and I think he deserves to have that time and space to settle his disordered thoughts. After all, he's certainly worth it :) Till then I'm taking a deep breath, biding my time and keeping my fingers crossed.

Eternal Summer

Bleak institution of uniforms?

Just the other day I was online on a forum chatting when I overheard a post-adolescent James Dean railing against the strict conventions of enforced uniformity in schools. Never actually occurred to me that had become one of the latest cause celeb since it happened to be something I took for granted back in school. Along with our jurisprudence and the quintessential evening tea with crumpets, we also received an excellent system of education from the colonial Brits ( though that's also progressively falling apart ever since ).

Not to mention strict school dress codes.

Doubt anyone ever thought of bucking the rigid rules of uniformity though a few rebellious ( and fashionably challenged ) boys tried their best to individualize them with torn cuffs and sloppy ties. Sure it was boring, it was blotchy dull green slacks and white shirts for all but I thought it actually helped since I didn't have to spend twenty minutes each morning trying to figure out which shirt matches my shoes ( and my bag, my pencil case, my drink bottle etc. ).

Not to mention there was a sense of bleak solidarity whether prince or pauper since we were all dressed in equally awful uniforms. :P

And awful though it might have been, the uniforms certainly didn't detract from the appeal of the hotter boys :) Just look at these boys from the Eternal Summer. Regulation shirts and slacks certainly didn't stop them from ogling each other discreetly - and falling in love. :)


Our two main protagonists in the movie meet back in primary school - preppy boy-next-door Jonathan is the shy, bookish geek while the darkly alluring Shane is the brash, gregarious sort who's good at sports but lacks interest in his studies. Forced to buddy up together, they eventually become inseparable as friends and even ten years later in high school, are still utterly devoted to one another with a near palpable undercurrent of affection. A fact that is soon noted - and exploited - by the savvy new girl in town, tomboy Carrie.

Familiar enough themes from our own schooldays - think teenage angst and apparent loneliness, think friendship and coming-of-age. For those who mooned hopelessly in school for that all-wonderful but unattainable wonder jock in school, for all the lovelorn folks who've wondered even briefly what love would be like with their best friend - go watch this...

Though I'm the hopeful sort who views it with rose-tinted glasses, tell me what you thought about the oddly ambiguous ending :P Movie actually reminds me of one of my favourite songs ever.

Booze, Bars and (Ex)Boyfriends

My ISO and I have an affinity for drink.

Not that we get silly drunk chanting inane jingles on the sidewalk while carelessly waving our brewskis ( though embarassingly enough we did that once a chilly evening years back after celebrating the end of school exams ) but alcohol certainly played an important cameo in our troubled relationship. Certainly the instigator of our first night together - or at least a handy scapegoat to blame if it had all gone terribly wrong. Not forgetting that brandied ice-cream we shared in a wooded park while talking about our studies, our lives, our futures.


Bottoms up!
And then the wine bottle I wanted to smash over his head when it all ended.

Yeah, we do share an affinity alright :)

Which is why he's the first guy I usually think of when I need a drink. That and the fact that a freaking ultimate margarita costs a bomb - and he can certainly handle that particular financial fallout.

Forget the fact that he's a philandering bastard, pour enough cheap rum down his throat and he makes pretty good company, even proffering the occasional sage, thoughtful advice - though in a particularly slurred tongue. Of course his hands do tend to get a wee bit frisky too - or was that just me :P

My ISO : Come gimme some sugar.
Paul : Go lick the salt instead.
My ISO : But I am your neighbour. Shake it!
Paul : If you say shake it like a polaroid picture, I am gonna bean you with this jug of sangria.
My ISO : You're mean.
Paul : So are you. Stop staring at the bartender.
My ISO : He's hot.
Paul : And a fetus.
My ISO : Baby, no fetus ever looked that fine in a pair of low-cut jeans. Bet ya he has a treasure trail I could lick all the way.
Paul : All the way back to secondary school? Cause that's where he just came from.
My ISO : You think that would disgust me since I'm in my dotage but I'm not. Come here, growing boy.

Guess we aren't that far from the drunken fools mouthing inanities :)

Still ( unless I was so fucking soused that I imagined it all - still have a mild ringing in my head as a reminder ) I think I saw the bartender pass him a napkin later that night. Not sure what that was all about - maybe getting gaysted happens to bartenders too.

Match and Monogamy

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.

However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be :)

Seems like I've inadvertently stumbled into the dusty pages of a Regency novel where delightful soirees and civilized tea parties form the norm for the privileged few. In truth, it seems as if I've actually gotten myself trapped in the clutches of the notorious matchmaking mama ( or aunt as the case may be ). Not that I hold any expectations of ever possessing said good fortune but in these days of stubbornly unmarried ( and unmarriageable ) singles, perhaps there is a pressing need to lower the eligibility bar. A scarcity of landed lords and gentlemen wandering around these heathenish parts after all.


What have I gotten myself into again?
Being of a friendly sort, I easily welcomed a dear old colleague when she made an appearance at my workplace. Demanding, frustrating and prone to fretful crotchets, Schoolmarm Sally hasn't made herself all that popular at her previous workplace but I find her irresistibly endearing nonetheless.

Of course that's when the dictatorial Sally's venting one of her trenchant opinions on someone else. Like an irresistible force of nature, she pleases no one and finds nothing pleasing in return.

Except for her niece.

Yes, there is a catch here. Seems like her unprecedented visit to me wasn't without premeditated reason. Sally has in her possession - amongst other material objects she's collected with her rumoured vast wealth - a darling niece who has been left supposedly on the shelf whilst obediently tending to the altar of family duty.

At least that's what I gleaned from her facts.

The mention of her beloved niece's name left me immediately wary and as I checked out the closest exits, I could see exactly what Big Bicep Barry meant about being hounded by ambitious matchmaking mamas. Is it possible they assume I'm such a mutton-head that I can't find a mate on my own? As Sally started her loudly enthusiastic spiel on her paragon-like niece, I had a suspicious inkling that I could be the sole survivor on her rapidly shrinking eligible bachelor list - no doubt most of the other gentlemen have gotten themselves otherwise engaged, transferred to places unknown - or even worse expired from the shock of her audacious advances.

Obviously I'm made of sterner stuff. Or so I thought.

Paul : That's all very nice, Sally but I don't see what this all has to do with me.
Sally : The poor girl just needs to get about, see new people.
Paul : It's not the 1800s. Lots of ways to meet people nowadays. Speed-dating? I'm sure the internet is full of wonderful sites for people like her.
Sally : Internet? Perverts all of them! What about you? You could bring her around after all.
Paul : Bring her around?

That explosive interjection I made out of astonishment was obviously taken as ready assent - and I stared agog as she peremptorily pressed an embossed namecard into my hand. Took me only a second to note the name of the unfortunate ( and possibly oblivious ) career girl being peddled off by her pimp of an aunt.

Paul : Sally, I'm involved with someone.
Sally : Don't see no ring on your finger and you can certainly make new friends.
Paul : I'm dating a guy!
Sally : You just haven't met the right woman.
Paul : Yes, that may be so but I don't think...
Sally : Oh, look at the time! So sorry I have to rush and go. I've already given her your number by the way.
Paul : Hmmm.. I need to get an Engelbert Humperdinck ring.

Hmmm... what a clever, manipulative shrew - and the freak didn't even bat an eye over my attempts at coming out! - and yet I find myself quite in helpless awe of her Machiavellian machinations. Obviously my seeming decrepitude hasn't stopped the ambitions of the unholy matchmakers. My mother would certainly have liked her.

Nothing can work out obviously since I'm not in active search of a beard. :) But it's always good to meet new people.

Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love.

Perfumes, Pearls and Profiteroles

It's obvious from the various semi-reliable sources I have ( nurses, colleagues, galpals and the like ) that men are held to be hopeless at procuring gifts. Dull domestic crockery for a wife on her anniversary, inappropriate crotchless panties and leather whips for that third-date girlfriend and roses for every other occasion.


A glass of juice? I'm a freaking hot guy who gave you the fucking night of your life and all I get is citrus?
Hilarious gift-giving faux pas aside, the men find themselves dreading these events as well. Come that dreaded valentine or their much-feared anniversaries, half of them get mindlessly nerve-wracked wondering how not to incur the wrath and displeasure of their loved ones since hell hath no fury and all that.

The other half of course make a desperate run for the distant hills - hiding from their irate, cleaver-wielding spouses after conveniently forgetting the momentous event.

For me, I love shopping - hence I love shopping for gifts as well. Ah, if only if my severely constrained budget were enough to cover half the things I'd love to buy. Honestly I'd probably make a great personal shopper - if only one of the major departmental stores such as Metrojaya would hire me :)

Of course there are the stubborn few who are simply impossible to shop for - such as my parents. Let's leave my couch potato dad ( who doesn't seem to have any particular hobby apart from watching reruns of Mandarin serials ) till another day since Father's Day lies a month away thankfully while Mother's Day already hovers dangerously just around the corner.

Seriously. Searching for a Mother's Day Gift isn't as simple as it sounds. The average heterosexual guy would find it easy enough to pick up the phone and order the usual chocolates and roses shtick that they give every year but I usually try my best to make my gifts extra special. And hopefully meaningful. And the bows and the ribbons must hold just so.

God. I am such a gay son.

Pansies and profiteroles are alright for my mum but I'd prefer something that lasts more than a couple of days. As my mother's quite the dedicated bibliophile herself, getting a book sounds like an excellent idea till you notice the stack of unread novels piling up in her bedroom like the proverbial Twin Towers. I could have sworn her last birthday gift still lies somewhere in that sadly forgotten dusty pile.

Since I've started work though, I've given her enough fragrances to flood Provence - or even start her own perfumery come to think of it - from the generic Lancome / Estee Lauder to the exquisite Fragonard bottles I discovered last Christmas. What can I say? I can't resist those pretty shiny bottles!

Although macho macho men would balk at such feminine pursuits, I find myself enjoying walks through the jewellery stores as well ( ala Holly Golightly's morning excursions ) but therein lies a problem too. Get a gift far too expensive and there'll be a half hour lecture on my exorbitant spending habits. I know she has my best intentions at heart but hell, just take the damned pearl necklace and shut up :P Tasteful and elegant is what she wants but getting that along with an affordable ( and discounted! ) price tag is asking for a bit too much. :)

What about handbags, you say? Well, my mom is notorious for hanging onto her precious handbag for dear life - at least till the strap breaks, the zip tears apart and the seams unravel. Even then, plaster and glue can hold together what Braun Buffel couldn't :P

Running out of ideas fast, people, so got any recommendations?

Just a Little Recap

Remember that motivational course I mentioned? Although it was Big Bicep Barry who attended the entire series of experiential lectures ( amazingly he managed to stay awake through all that monotonous jargon! ), I managed to glean quite a bit of information from my last day there.

First thing I learned about myself if I'm not a naturally physically affectionate person. Have quite a stiff upper lip actually. Sure I can offer a hug if the occasion calls for it but getting cheek to cheek with a relative stranger every five seconds seems to be a bit much - though I certainly don't object to having muscular arms around me :P


Given me time to think...
Second is when it comes to sales pitches, I'm a pretty hard nut to crack - certainly not plain kuaci as Barry put it. Although their enthusiastic sales spiel ( seemed like they were all on a sugar high ) didn't manage to secure my application for their next batch of students, it still make me think.

Third thing is normally average guys can transform into gorgeous men with the right suits - while guys like Barry turn near irresistible. But that's something I already knew before this.

As usual ( don't you guys watch Oprah and the like? ) the motivational people started digging into the past trying to discover exactly what goals have been buried in the past whether due to crimes of circumstance or follies of fate. Shockingly it actually took me a minute or two to think of even a single goal that I've left behind. Seems like I'm actually on the right track, doesn't it? Sure I do have some dreams that I haven't fulfilled but I certainly haven't put them aside, perhaps a better name would be shelved till future notice - but I still take them out to dust them off every once in a while.

1) Financial freedom
Does anyone not dream of this? :) Would be great to just be free from the constraints of work, just to live free from day to day ( like some loitering broadcasting students I could name ). Some would call it dull as drying paint but hell, I'd find it absolutely liberating. Imagine all that free time - with money to spend. Whoever said money doesn't buy happiness can send a few bucks my way.

2) Opening a bookstore / curio store of my own
That's easy enough since I've mentioned it before but I certainly don't plan to do that now - unless providential manna falls from the sky sufficient enough for a starting capital. Perhaps later in the misty future when I've established myself sufficiently in my career to branch out - or perhaps to even indulge a little. Maybe hire a hunky ( and perpetually shirtless ) bookstore assistant in my stodgy old age to ogle at :)

3) Dreams of travel
Ah, travel. That's easy enough and I do that every year as much as I can so I can't exactly place it in the realms of the impossible. Planes, trains or automobiles but next stop Morocco or Spain for sure.

Not sure whether my budget ( shocking deficit I assure you! ) can cover my next destination though - and who exactly's gonna be my faithful Passerpartout ( yes, I know think that travelling alone can be quite a drag ). With his ever-pressing financial constraints, Charming Calvin is probably grounded for some time here while for my ISO - although he's certainly flush with ready cash damn him - I think it's a bit inappropriate to go for jaunts longer than a chaperoned weekend with an ex-boyfriend.

4) A family of my own
Well this one is a little hard to achieve. Settling down with bling bling ring and downpayment for that house in the suburbs might seem easy for some ( marry at haste, repent at leisure anyone? ) but I could never make that impulsive leap without weighing the risks and benefits first. And judging from the number of troubled relationships I'm seeing floundering on the shoals, I think taking it slow has some merit. Guess I am more of an actuarist than I imagined.

And even after the committed partnership ( for want of a better word since homosexual relationships are still taboo in these parts ), the trials and tribulations of adoption in this country still bears thinking about. Doubt it's that easy to do a Jolie over here - especially for two men wanting a baby. Can already imagine the militant conservatives raising a ruckus with pitchforks and torches outside the orphanage.

Not sure what I can do about the last goal ( anyone with the least inkling? ) but to achieve the rest, I think I'd better tighten my belt a bit since money seems to be the stumbling block. Sounds like it's gonna be economy rice paired with generic black tea in the near future :)

Scratch That Itch

Shhh... don't tell anyone but for the past few weeks I've had the surreal pleasure of having a couple of half-naked sweaty men in my bed - neither of them are at all related to me or my boyfriend.

And both pretty scrumptious specimens of masculinity, I'll have to admit.

Alas I had to drool silently on my side of the bed since I don't think my prudish, morally-upright fella, Charming Calvin would look too kindly on any adulterous behaviour. :) The first was my irreverent ISO who stayed over the night before our fun-filled jaunt abroad arrogantly strutting about in his skimpy CKs while I blissfully wondered whether sleeping with an ex would be considered a cardinal sin.

And then last night I practically forced Big Bicep Barry at gunpoint into bed with me. Really, the poor guy already looked dead tired after making a hurried work expedition through several smaller towns on the west coast - via a shockingly circuitous route - before returning to the city for a motivational course. To add to his already packed schedule, he had to drag me along ( unwillingly, I assure you! ) as a guest to the final evening of that course.

What can I say? Not only was he yawning away in various dull intervals but during that time, he also had developed an odd habit of undulating on his chair. Wondered if he'd actually taken up my offer of pole dancing as Big Boy Barry of the Kayu Jatis.

Barry : Could I ask for a favour from you?
Paul : Lick the back of your throat with my tongue?
Barry : No! I have an itch on my back.
Paul : Cheh.
Barry : Scratch my back. Please.
Paul : Not a problem. Here?

( Pause )

Barry : That's my ass. The itch is on my back.
Paul : Oopsie.

What can I say? I have problems following directions.


You mind scratching my itch, laddie?
The funny part was my well-built friend had an itch ( developed sunburn from all those afternoon breast-strokes natch ) on his back that he simply couldn't reach. Although the varied benefits of hitting the gym are obvious enough from better cardiovascular fitness to intimidating far more puny opponents, it has never occurred to me that getting gym-bulked up could lead to some pretty hilarious circumstances as well. Seriously, Barry has biceps and triceps so large ( hence the name ) that even with arm-breaking yoga maneuvering, he couldn't reach that particular spot between his shoulder blades. Add that to the enviable width of his shoulders and it was practically destination unknown for him - The Unvisited Valley of the Spine.

Fortunately I was a kind ( and not at all lustful ) Samaritan who offered to scratch that itch. With his shirt off of course. How else would I have gotten straight to the good spot?

Guess the man's getting an ancient backscratcher from me ( he claims it's God's gift to itchy men! ) for his birthday :)

The Martians have Landed

Bet you Adam and Eve had the very same argument right after they got tossed out of Paradise Motel on their naked arses. Darling Eve might have been created from his vaunted rib but that certainly didn't mean they shared the same wavelength most times :) Half the time they couldn't even decide on what to wear ( or not to wear as it may ).

And I bet Eve got more than a little pissed off sometimes watching Adam get all hot and bothered over naughty stick drawings on the sand as well ( possibly dreamt up by that deliciously wily apple sales-snake in the garden ).

These days of course we've evolved far beyond crudely drawn stick figures on the cave walls but the boys haven't gone far past the Neanderthal stage. Teary Teri, my newly married colleague at work, certainly got more than a little het up when she discovered the depth of her husband's deception.

Teri : I can't believe my husband did such a thing!
Paul : What? He cheated on you? That scumbag.
Teri : No! Nothing like that! Well... he sort of...
Paul : How do you sort of cheat on someone? Grand foreplay but no finish?
Teri : I was going through my emails and I...
Paul : Like every curious woman since Pandora, you snooped.
Teri : He has porn.
Paul : Colour me surprised.
Teri : But how could he?
Paul : How could he not? Every man has porn of some sort. You think he's an ascetic monk?

Fortunately for Teary Teri, her husband didn't lean towards leather man-on-man action but veered more towards the more vanilla all-American porn that horny straight men usually favour. Tits. Snatches. The whole heterosexual shebang. Nothing particularly wild about it, no dripping candles, metal straps or horse whips involved even.

Of course for poor Teri, she immediately leapt to the unsavoury conclusion that her errant husband was cheating on her with a yet undefined dreamy, luminous pornstar with hefty bazongas - Lulu, Tallulah or Mabelle. No doubt she imagines him cheating her by Doing Debbie in Dallas. Or would that be Damansara?

Cheating on her? I can easily imagine the astonished expressions on the straight guys reading this ( no doubt dropping everything to rush back to hide their porn stash from their suspicious partners ).


Porn? I ain't got no porn! I'm a good guy really!
Let's not jump on a moral high horse. Face it, cheesy porn mags with curiously sticky pages are almost a santicfied growing up ritual in every adolescent boy's life - hell, even a freaking saint would have sneaked a hasty peek at some raunchy publication once in his life. Seriously, go ask any guy around. Honestly it would never have occurred to her oblivious husband that watching porn constitutes adultery for Teri - nor would he ever consider even dating the aforementioned Delicious Debbie from Dallas. It's only pretty pictures, a brief romp in a sweat-soaked fantasy - something no doubt for him to get his rocks off when she's preferably not around.

Women don't look at it that way of course. Certainly not the first time I've faced such a livid reaction from women when it comes to porn ( as my pal Amazing Annie can attest to :) ). No doubt the militant feminists out there are already raising their fists to heckle us wicked voyeurs - but I find arguing over such a matter simply making mountains out of molehills.

Then again porn does make mountains out of molehills. Tee hee.
*Ahem* But I digress.

Let me repeat here, men aren't women ( thank God for that! ). Men like football. Men like beer. Men are simple, basic creatures who think of sex more times than they'd willingly admit and find naughty porn mags utterly titillating reading material. Admit it though, we call them shameful stereotypes because most of the time it's true. Sure every once in a while you find that rare emasculated specimen who eschews football, beer and sex - but they're quite as rare as the dodo bird. And quite possibly gay as well.

Which is why I sometimes thank God I only date men. Years back when I found my ISO's shockingly extensive stash of porn ( *ahem* in decadent foreign countries where it's thankfully legal of course ), all I wanted to do was help offload some for my own consumption. Horrified and betrayed? Please. Share and share alike between then boyfriends - hell, he was more than willing to help me review some of the more popular merchandise with a real-life replay afterward.

Yeah, men are from Mars and women are from Venus.

Unfortunately there's a porn channel in Mars. Live with it.

Anal Phase

Let's face it, straight boys can be so anal sometimes.

Really. After taking the initial steps of coming out to them, you'd expect insightful hard-hitting questions about coping with brutal intolerance in a heterosexual world or dealing with an unsupportive Asian family but instead what we usually get are impossibly frivolous interrogatives about our deviant sexual habits. Expecting to face Larry King, we get Jerry Springer instead.

Based on that seven second rule, I guess boys will be boys after all. :P


Got my back to the wall! Now tell me about the sex!
One of the first questions I get after coming out to them is the anal question. Although I'm sure anal intercourse isn't as common as commonly believed - for the curious straight boys, it's all about the sordid buttsex. Buggery might be a whispered taboo during schooldays but obviously it has remained lodged somewhere in distant collective memory of fears unknown.

Since anything remotely phallic approaching the sanctity of their tight sculpted asses strikes them as terrifyingly treacherous ( and vaguely sacrilegious! ), they simply cannot fathom how it can be something to be greatly desired for insatiable bottoms. Although the specifics are obvious enough, they don't seem to be able to restrain themselves from digging for the tawdry down-and-dirty details.

Just like those perverted voyeurs who peer to look at nasty traffic accidents. They fear what they might find but it still doesn't stop them from going to take a closer look :P

Straight Guy : So tell me.. what about the... uhh.. the sex?
Paul : Sex is sex.
Straight Guy : Well, you know! How, where, what - exactly which slot does item A fit in?
Paul : You need to ask?
Straight Guy : Doesn't it hurt?

Honestly, I'm no authority on homosexual sexual habits but the how and the where is simple enough after all. Apart from gross genetic mutations or violent stab-wound trauma, there aren't too many gaping slots in the human body.

But does it hurt? Do you really need to ask?

Try it with a cucumber and you tell me. :P

Poor Peter Parker

Clark has his Lois. Reed has his Sue. And yes, Peter has his MJ.


Maybe I should get someone new!
Or better known as the dazzling, effervescent, utterly fabulous original It girl Mary Jane Watson.

Or in the recent Spiderman trilogy of movies, what I call a paler, whitewashed doppelganger of Mary Jane played by a colourless Kirsten Dunst. Certainly didn't hit the jackpot there, tiger!

Not only does poor beleaguered superhero Peter Parker have to contend with a murdered uncle with a penchant for extremely cliched homespun phrases, homicidal best friends who want to bury the hatchet in his back and well-meaning mentors that turn wildly megalomaniacal on him, he now has this poor weepy, spineless redhead of a girlfriend in the movies - a far cry from the feisty, headstrong MJ we're used to in the graphic form. If life handed the real MJ lemons, our wily girl would have found a way to make lemonade - and also easily sold several buckets with her flashy redheaded charm while netting a commercial franchise for her lemony products.

She probably wouldn't have come crying to her boyfriend about her failing career problems ( most probbaly to do with her unkempt messy hair! ) especially when he has the freaking world to save.

Unfortunately MJ seems to have turned into a wishy-washy heroine during the movie rewrites. Rather than command the screen with her vivacious presence, Dunst's MJ barely makes a blip each time she appears, blending far too easily into the inonsequential background with her rapidly fading auburn curls sadly leeched of colour.

Even a little petty blackmail from a monstrous villain ( one of the many shattering experiences she should be easily inured to by now after being passed from one kidnapping attempt to another ) has her falling apart in seconds. Come on, what could be worse than involuntary bungee jumping from a skyscraper without a rope? Backstabbing ex-best friends should be a walk in the park.

Not that I expect MJ to wield a freaking katana blade to whittle down the bad boys but I'm sure she should do a little more than the stereotypical damsel in distress screeching endlessly for help while she dangles precipitously from a precarious height. At least she managed to land a cement block accurately on the villain in the latest installment of Spiderman :)

Yeah, poor Peter. Just lucky MJ didn't miss and accidentally drop the brick on his head. Come away with me, Peter baby and I'll show you a way better time on that web of yours. At least I won't scream that much.

Seriously, Spiderman can never catch a break. Crappy job, lousy pay, dump of an apartment, screaming girlfriend... all those burdens and when the man turns bad, he can't even get a decent hairstyle! Evil wicked aggression amplified by a monstrous-fanged alien symbiote is characterized by a floppy lackadaisical fringe?

And you know what the funniest part is? Bashful, methodical Peter Parker reminds me - or at least Tobey Maguire does - strongly of Charming Calvin. :) So you can imagine the filthy things I want to do to the man while strapped to the bed with some webbing.

Why is the Rum Gone?

Shiver me timbers. Where is the rum? Where has it gone?

*Hic*

Possibly because I drank it all. Or at least my ISO tried his best to.


Searching for rum
After all he claimed he needed some alcohol to lubricate his vocal cords after the enforced abstinence during our holiday trip the other day. Warned him after all that if he'd gotten all besotted in a foreign country that he couldn't depend on me to pull back his hair as he worshipped the ubiquitous porcelain god - since I'd probably be tempted to give him a revenge swirlie instead.

Whether rum, wine or beer, I don't drink that much - well not as much as my friend who takes a generous tipple every once in a while with his debauched clients. Not that my ISO ever gets smashed silly but poking fun has to be an ex-boyfriend's prerogative, right? Still it was mostly virtual liquor for me since I refused to partake in the festivities of wine, men and song while chatting online - although my ISO allowed himself to imbibe freely since he was lazing alone at home in his study.

It's nice to see him all silly for once - instead of me being the clumsy fool :P

My ISO : Come celebrate the end of the Prohibition!
Paul : It was only for three days, ye drunken bastard.
My ISO : Only one can of beer lah. Or was that a bottle?
Paul : Turn your webcam on and I'll confirm that, liar!
My ISO : *Hic* I swear! Only one bottle of beer on the wall.
Paul : So tell me what would you tell someone just coming out of the closet?
My ISO : Get a fancy doorstop just in case you want to go back in?
Paul : Funny.

Ever inquisitive, he quizzed me about the reason for ten minutes before giving it up in a fit of pique. Didn't see any need to out one friend to another so I discreetly kept Jaded Jeremy's name out of the conversation as best I could.

Just starting to grope his way out of the closet ( after 3 whole decades :O ), Jeremy's still relatively new at all this and wonders how to handle himself in this brave new world without being bitten by a rapacious gay shark or two. Surprisingly despite his suspiciously inebriated state, my ISO managed to brainstorm several intriguing ideas that I've started compiling into a brief email for my semi-outed friend.

Maybe he gets better with rum. :P

The One Where Everyone's Gay

Many times I've strived to put across the message that being homosexuality isn't infective. Being within a stone's throw of a raucuous gay bar doesn't automatically transfer twinkly pheromones that translate to a lifetime of hip-swaying, limp-wristed interior-decorating fabulousness - despite what the rabid conservatives might say.

Sometimes though I can be proven wrong :P

Not gonna bore you with another coming out tale again since I've regaled you about it here and here - though all of us with our feet caught in between the doors of the closet seem to be forever in the process of coming out.

Still I felt it was time to tell one of my oldest friends, Jaded Jeremy, who somehow managed to score himself a job in what has to be one of the most boring ( though reputedly lucrative! ) fields around - actuarial science. Now, I can imagine seriously dedicated actuaries everywhere lifting up their hands in protest showing me various supporting figures and statistics that prove beyond a doubt that their work is eminently fascinating. Beg to disagree though since Jeremy looks anything but enthused about his number-crunching job - honestly I thought the poor overworked guy closely resembled one of the cachexic living dead wraiths from a Nightmare Before Christmas.

Then again he does have a bunch of nightmarish professional exams ahead! Still he does look a bit like Victor Van Dort from Corpse Bride. Even on a holiday, our workaholic Jaded Jeremy was a bit hard to track down - caught up with his calculated risks and benefits, his neverending exams and an impending cold.


Pizza with a hint of homosexuality
After managing to get Jeremy away from his ever-present work into a seat for dinner - which he took with a world-weary sigh, I slammed him with my shocker of an admission with a quick pinch of pepperoni pizza to take away the bite. While he sat there stunned by my sudden admission, I took the opportunity to finish my salacious tale of my homosexual exploits while withholding some of the more sordid bits here and there. Instead of hurling out hefty chunks of pizza as I half-expected and dreaded, he sat there calmly without dramatic gay-panicky hysterics - though with an odd twitching of his eye - and claimed that he'd vaguely guessed.

That I'd finally placed that last piece of the enigmatic puzzle that was me. Note that I actually heaved a sigh of relief - though the generous folks of my generation seem more tolerant of deviant behaviour, you never can tell. Then again if he'd actually thrown a fuss, I - the bigger man - could have easily tossed him off the balcony.

Though he didn't put it quite that eloquently. Unlike many others before him though - Shameless Shalom amongst them, Jeremy didn't have an armed battery of questions ready to pelt me with despite the fact that I actually gave him time to digest the information - and the thin & crispy pizza I mentioned. Segued smoothly onto other topics with not a word said through dessert and even through our drinks at the lounge.

It was only later when I was making my way back that I got an instant message from him. Fortunately I was already sitting down when I read it.

I think I might be gay too.

Good God. It's as I feared, it's actually a freaking communicable disease! Now if only I could transmit it to Chris Evans!

Pick a Number

One of the best things about being the wicked half of a couple ( apart from the luxury of getting fat :P ) is the fact that I'm not actually required to troll around gay bars anymore in search of some booty.

Of course that doesn't mean I don't keep a curious eye out for cute guys. Nothing wrong with checking out the local merchandise, is there? Certainly doesn't mean I'm looking to buy :P

Then again, every once in a while you get a special unbeatable offer that you simply can't resist. Seriously what can you do when something delectable just falls providentially right into your lap - or the other way around? Trust me, one of the best ways to pick up guys is out in public. In a moving vehicle preferably.


Oopsie! I fell!
Naturally good-looking men like my ISO can depend on a sexy grin to gain a worshipful audience but the rest of us common folk have to resort to far more devious methods. Of course that all takes careful planning and perfectly choreographed pseudo-acrobatics - especially in a moving vehicle. Just when the train or bus buckles as it commonly does at every stop and you stumble clumsily, make sure there's a sexy stud close enough to fall onto. Clever boys with fast fingers can even ad-lib with a quick unintentional grope or two.

You'll have to make sure you don't have an ex-boyfriend standing close enough to pass judgement of course.

My ISO : What the hell was that?
Paul : Clumsy me. I fell.
My ISO : Conveniently into his lap?
Paul : So embarassing. Bad bus! Naughty bus!
My ISO : More like naughty you.
Paul : Naughty me found a place to have lunch.
My ISO : And is our friendly gentleman coming with us?
Paul : It was his idea, I swear. I'm just the clumsy tourist who can't read maps.

Of course nothing more would come from the accidental fall unless you have charm enough to talk the guy into having a quick meal as an apology.