Man Traps

Trust in a relationship.

For me, that has to be one of the essential cornerstones of any relationship. Without that crucial building block, I doubt any relationship is going to stand the test of time, probably crumbling to pieces at the slightest onslaught of suspicion. As Cupid proved to Psyche, love can't remain without trust.

So when I read an article about honey trapping becoming popular down under, I find myself seeing red. Seems like honey trapping is fast growing into a trend in Singapore ( after being exported from abroad ) with suspicious spouses hiring comely bait to test their partners' fidelity.

Paranoia much?


Trap? What trap? I'm just feeling a bit hot, that's all.
Laying bait for adultery? Deliberately setting up mantraps for their husbands - or vice versa? What kinda rubbish is that? That's almost as imbecilic an idea as thinking that the husband would stray if a nubile foreign maid was around to titillate! Would that mean the roving sex-crazed husband would stray towards a wandering goat as well if it was available?

Talk about an insult to the spouse in question.

I have a simple adage for all my relationships. If you don't trust me, go take a fucking hike. I don't need folks who'd expect me to cheat the very first chance I get.

If I ever received such an offer ( and found out about the ensuing entrapment ), not only would I bed the attractive mantrap - again, again and again in dozens of untenable kama sutra positions - I'd probably mail a high-definition video of the kinky menage to my faithless spouse. Probably even place it on youtube for good measure.

What the hell. I'd go down on the mantrap right in front of him just to make sure.

Of course it'd be easy enough for me to cull out the delicious mantraps! Since I hardly ever receive scintillating propositions at all, any such unprecedented come-ons would be faintly suspect.

Hunk : Hey, you look cute. Could I buy you a drink?
Paul : Really? You're a gorgeous young guy with six pack abs and you're buying me a drink?
Hunk : Yeah, you look like an interesting fella.
Paul : And were you desperately drawn by my troll-like looks and homely demeanour?
Hunk : No?
Paul : Or maybe distracted by the intelligence and sense of humour that you could sense spilling out of my plain eyes even through my thick lenses?
Hunk : Uhh.. yes?
Paul : Come on, spill. Tell me who sent ya?
Hunk : What do you mean? I'm just a simple guy buying you a drink.
Paul : Bloody lies. But it's alright. Let's fuck.
Hunk : What?!

Yes. Scorpios are freakin suspicious folk ( and we have severe trust issues ).

Tripped

Everytime I think I've finally turned a corner and reached Good Guy Town, I find myself automatically regressing taking several steps backwards.

Or at least taking that severe desperate u-turn back into Sin City.

Today I tripped someone.

Really. It was like in a slapstick comedy routine. Easy enough to explain actually. I'm a simple guy after all. During a conversation I got irritated by that infuriating someone. I just couldn't stand it anymore. So in a fit of pure insanity I tripped her.

And down she went.

The larger the ego ( and the lard-ass ), the harder the fall. Those who haven't tried it would be surprised how easy it is to trip someone.


I doubt even these bars could keep my wicked self in...
I admit I couldn't contain my wicked glee. I almost burst out laughing and had to bite my lip. I know. What the fuck is wrong with me! Sometimes this crazed inexplicable ( mostly irrational ) impulse - what I call my heart of darkness - just takes over. No doubt one day I'll give in far too easily to my darker side without much protest from my embattled conscience and mayhem would ensue.

Reason enough to befriend all the lawyers I can find.

Even then, I found myself wishing that she was carrying a mountainous load of files. Or at least a tray full of gooey food with fizzy drinks. So that I could see them fly.

Finding Faith

For me faith is a personal thing.

Reason enough that you'll rarely find me during mass or services these days - apart from my personal deadly sin of sloth that stops me from going on lethargic weekends. But not for me congregating with the praying masses. I know there are those who seek comfort and shelter in the religious God-fearing community - but truthfully I find overly familiar ( and overly pious ) crowds simply terrifying. Theologically of course, we might be brothers - but hell, I honestly don't wanna get that close to all of ya.

So stay your distance, Holy Joes. I like my conversations with God to be alone.


God, is that you?
Every once so often when I feel that I need a personal phone call instead of just the everyday ongoing mindless chat, I steal into the nearest church in search of an empty pew right at the back. Brings back the times I used to spend alone in the school chapel just babbling mindlessly about my confusing adolescence - and the fact that I secretly wanted to make out with my humpy ISO.

A fact that we actually made reality the last few months of school right there in the chapel. Well technically above the chapel where the malfunctioning church organ was situated.

So you can see why I needed my scandalous conversations to be kept private. I doubt His parishioners would appreciate our homosexual merrymaking.

Trust me, most of the sanctimonious Pharisees wouldn't understand.

After all I've always been kinda irreverent about God and religion. Not only did I have an occasionally patchy Catholic foundation ( what with skipping catechism ), I also had lashings of Buddhism and paganism all meshed up into it. So you can imagine how skewed my religious view can be.

For one thing I've always thought that the Big Fella up there has a heaven ( ooh! can't very well say hell, can I? ) of a humour! How else would He make humans just as fallible as we are? No doubt God's having a jolly good laugh over our frequent mind-boggling fuck-ups.

I'm no canonized saint myself - so I do find myself breaking a few commandments here and there as well. Taking his name in vain for one. Seriously. Sometimes you just can't help it.

Paul : That's one fine piece of man ass. God, I'm sure you must have spent a little more time on that - and hot damn, it was sure worth it.

Paul : God, if I were really good for the entire next month, would you make sure that cold-hearted bitch roasts in hell for an extra week?

Paul : God, deliver me from this hellhole! Help me find a rich gorgeous boyfriend who'll deliver me from this demeaning work!

Of course the Big Fella up there doesn't respond to my inane, mindless requests ( no matter how omnipotent He might be, I bet He already has dozens of far more important stuff to cater to such as plagues and wars ). So no burning bushes or blinding flashes on the road to Damascus for me.

By now, I'm sure my sheer irreverence would drive the pious kneebenders to raising flaming pitchforks in protest. Of course I'm glad to note there are others who are able to share my sacrilegious view of God. Just take a look at the Lamb by Christopher Moore. Not only is the recent edition imitation leather bound and gilt-edged to resemble a Bible, it's meant to be a filler for the years that Jesus Christ practically disappears from the canonical gospels.


Wait a minute, where is Biff?
The Gospel of Biff, Christ's childhood friend to be exact. :)

For those who didn't have such all-important Biblical facts drummed into their heads with endless readings in school, you'd be surprised to know that the New Testament reports the birth of Jesus ( the angel, the star, the three wise men ) and then fast-forwards three decades later till the time he returns as a full-fledged adult. No mention of the years in between - apart from a brief mention of his teaching in the temple in Luke 3:23.

So what happened in those lost years between the manger and the Mount? Did Jesus get sent away to boarding school? Did he go on a tour of Rome? Did he fall in love with a Gentile? Well Christopher Moore attempts to rectify this serious lack with this hilarious tongue-in-cheek novel called Lamb which tells the growing years of Jesus with his best friend Biff. What I love is that the book humanizes Jesus - without neglecting the crucial aspect of the divine - making him a wonderfully sweet, earnest teenager eager to fulfil his role in bringing good news to the world.

No doubt the fervent Bible-thumping zealots ( who already screech in fear of the Da Vinci Code ) would find this satire absolute blasphemy! Which would be such a pity since reading this surprisingly touching book only made me far more appreciative of the life and teachings of Jesus. It ain't that easy being the Saviour after all :)

Driving Miss Preity

Vodka. Martini. Tequila. Wine.

Those were all on the menu last night when I stepped out for drinks with Preity Posh. You'd be forgiven for thinking us absolute lushes - but it's been quite a while since we've caught up with each other over tortes and alcohol. In between bitching about cheating bastards, scandalous one-night-stands and long-distance relationships, we needed ongoing shots of tequila to lubricate our parched tongues.

Although I have to admit that Miss Posh would find it easy enough to drink me under the table! That girl can drink. At least she downed the heavier load of our drinking spree ( oh my manhood! ) since I'd been nominated the designated driver to drive us back. Though I still managed a couple of cocktails ( even the peculiarly named Old Lady Bumper! ) along with stolen sips of her absolut.


More alcohol for you, sir?
Even managed to hit a light buzz after the third.

Didn't stop me from checking out the local talent though. It did strike me ( quite painfully ) that most of the cute guys strolling by had to be grubbing in the mud during playschool while I was cramming in lower secondary. :) Of course impending juvenile delinquency never stopped me from picturing the jailbaits stark naked and oiled on the pool table.

Even pointed out a few choice ones ( limited though the choices were ) to the single and fabulous Preity - a a charter member of the Bright Brainy Bachelorettes Band.

Paul : Look. Orgasm walking.
Preity : Pre-pubescent.
Paul : How about that one?
Preity : Geriatric.
Paul : Whoa. Check out that guy's arms!
Preity : Gay.
Paul : You can't say that about this guy. He's cute and he looks straight.
Preity : See that girl in the store looking at tacky earrings. That's the girlfriend.
Paul : Damn. It's impossible to find an eligible straight bachelor these days.
Preity : Tell me about it.

And she did.

Seriously. What's wrong with the breeder boys these days? Here you have a domestic goddess in the kitchen - and a naughty ho in the bedroom. Honestly, what more could a guy want? If I were straight, I'd have dragged Preity by her fabulous streaked hair back to my cave long time since. And yet she keeps getting faithless guys, genuine bastards and raging alcoholics ( who tell her they dig her bad only when they get sloshed ).

Even bumped into a few hopefuls trying to hit on her as we were leaving the bar. Do straight boys really think burping alcohol ( enough to light a flame seriously ) while yelling loud enough to snap eardrums is gonna get a girl's attention? Desperately huffing and puffing on a cancer stick while whistling come-ons isn't gonna work on a girl of her calibre.

It's enough to make anyone lose faith in men. So any cute straight guys, send your applications to me and I'll hand it to her once I catch up with her again.

Next time though, we've decided to share a cab so that I can participate in her annual vodka shots challenge. Loser pays.

Manorexia

Lissome Lorelei certainly has her own peculiar taste in men. Like just the other day when we shared a lunch at a cafe to spy over a hunky buff waiter with biceps.

Okay. I spied. She lunched.

Paul : Damn. I'd like to spill that mushroom soup on him and lick him all over.
Lorelei : That's your type?
Paul : He's everyone's type. I could wrap him up in wrapping paper and bring him home right now.
Lorelei : Too buff! Too macho!
Paul : Huh?
Lorelei : I like them skinny.
Paul : You like stick men?

Now I see where the prevalent notion came from since Lorelei clearly isn't the only one to have such thoughts.

Such as the boys. When you're out with a bunch of gay men, they tend to watch their food intently, desperately calculating the cholesterol-laden calories in each bite. Which is fine. No one wants a bunch of supersized mcfatties. Call it superficial and shallow but it's ( painful but ) true.

And let's face it, to get those sculpted abs and ridges on the loins, you gotta have less than 5% body fat.

But would you actually want a stick figure? Obvious enough from the billboards that the idealized image of a man just shrank dramatically in the past couple of years. Like their female contemporaries, the men just seem to have diminished in size and stature. Just read this article on the rapidly vanishing male models. No doubt we'll be hearing of more cases of manorexia soon enough.


Do I look fat...
Seriously, I know they might look fabulous in super-slim figure-hugging suits but I wouldn't date them. I know I have a type - and my type is far from the ideal androgynous waif type.

Forget about slim boyish twinks with chicken chests and pencil thighs. I like them big and buff. Why would I date the guy who invariably got sand kicked in his face at the beach in those infamous Atlas ads of yore? I want to date a meaty bohunk of a man ( maybe even with some reasonably comfortable padding ) not the frickin scarecrow. And I like knowing he can bench press the hell out of me.

Seriously. Any man who looks as if I could shove him off the balcony with very little effort on my part need not apply. :P

The Man with the Golden Gun

Poor Edison Chen. Ever since the internet publication of his infamous X-rated porn pics, the kid just can't catch a break.

With the relentless paparazzi out for his blood hounding him mercilessly ever since, you'd be thinking that Edison had been outed for being a serial infant killer who molests innocent babes with whip and chains - and then drinks their blood before satiating his lusts on grazing goats - on a daily basis. In reality, it's far less sinister.

Actually the boy's only been guilty of taking a few snapshots with his entourage of adventuresome galpals. Albeit some really naughty soft porn shots but hey, he's entitled! The lights were bright, the girls were willing and I'll admit he has a nice waifish figure ( hence the reason why I keep calling him boy ). Which healthy red-blooded male would say no to a lil bump n grind? Heck. With enough persuasion, I might even do it the age-old breeder way just to get a few calories sweated out.


Torn into pieces...
So what's the big deal?

With the media uproar over the details of his scandalous affaires, you'd be thinking that he was being tried for crimes much worse than a handful of nudie pics. It surprised me to note that despite having such a salacious historical background, the modern Chinese are actually far more puritanical than I thought. At the first sign of sexual misconduct, the rigidly moralistic pundits were certainly quick enough to stone the ones involved. Did they really expect Edison to be an innocent altar boy cloistered in the monastery chapel singing hymns to his vaunted chastity? Like come on.

He's a man. He has hormones. Evidently ( or at least by common report :P ) he has a really nice healthy fuckstick too. Reason enough that he would use it - can't very well keep it neatly under wraps when clearly there are persuadable nubile starlets lining up the block to take a peek.

And to snap pictures for their private collection as well.

Unfortunately for the poor shutter-crazy guy, he found his private photos leaked out to the press.

Though I think he was foolish for storing the pics, I do pity the poor boy. To err is human after all. Crucified by the overly judgemental press, he feels that he should quit the movie-making business. What would you feel if you were in his shoes? Would the prudish holier-than-thou pundits ( hypocrites the lot! ) really restrain themselves from taking advantage if offered similar opportunity?

Is it that much of an offence? Hell, if I had a deliciously hot hunk willing to take off his shirt for a photo shoot, I'd be all to quick to grab my camera as well.

Scent of a Man

Of the five God-given senses, the sense of smell tends to be forgotten easily enough, often treated as the neglected stepsister below stairs in comparison to the more significant brethren such as sight and sound. Well, at least till something particularly noxious comes along the road to remind us that this particular sense isn't to be easily trifled with.

Since the sense of smell can be powerful. Just the scent of the familiar can trigger a forgotten memory, bringing to life a dozen fond vignettes from halcyon days. The husky tones of a lover's cologne. The homey aroma of freshly baked bread. The crisp tang of the salty sea breeze.

However I've never particularly cottoned to the smell of a new car.

Which is why I sought to get rid of it as soon as possible. I know there are famed connoisseurs who adore the whiff of a new car out there - but sadly I place them firmly in the same category as those freaks who go around sniffing glue for that olfactory high.

Searching for an air freshener was no easy task. I found myself presented with a mind-boggling array of scents from exotic perfume such as Sunset Dusk ( what kinda smell is that?! ) to the more innocuous sounding ones such as Ocean Breeze. I knew better than to fall heedlessly for the more powerful Patchouli Madness of course.


The Scent of a Man...
Unfortunate there was no Eau de Homme to spice up my car. Though I would love to have my car smell of hot, spicy male sweat bottled up with throbbing testosterone.

Ever the sedate traditionalist though, I settled on a Vanilla Bouquet. After all, it's understated. It's practical. It's classic. And it was a steal at below ten bucks.

Hoping for only a hint of vanilla in the air, I turned the freshener down several notches. Never expecting to be literally shoved head-first into an olfactory miasma. It took only moments after opening the pandora's box before I found myself practically drowning in an overpowering potpourri redolent of vanilla and wisteria. Any passersby through the parking lot with their sense of smell intact would have been forgiven if they'd imagined that a faded, aristocratic Southern belle had been strolling by with her lacy parasol while sipping mint juleps.

Oh, Rhett, it's so very, very hawt in here.

I might as well have dressed up the car in ribbons, bows and taffeta.

So if you happen to pass by a man speeding in a car, and suddenly - inexplicably - get hit with romanticized sepia-toned images of the antebellum South, be sure to wave hello. Or at least hum a few bars from Dixie.

The Best Laid Plans

I think I've found a good reason why doctors never have social lives out of the hospital.

It's not the stress. It's not the work. It's not the antisocial personality trait ( no doubt triggered by the shocking crowds we see every day ).

It's the time factor.


Waiting... and waiting...
Seriously. It's almost impossible to coordinate our schedules to match. For example today - spurred on by the success of our earlier sausage fest, a group of us actually dared to make highly optimistic ( rash? ) plans to meet for dinner and a movie. Penciled it in for after 6. But you know what they say about the best laid plans!

Figuring on arriving early at the designated meeting place, I tried my best to finish up all my work. Fortunately ( or astonishingly ) I didn't have all that much to clear today. However, our work ... can be unpredictable to say the least. And making appointments seems to be the best way to jinx it.

Inevitably something crops up. That Big Fella up there is obviously in cahoots to prevent us from having some fun.

Doctor : I'll be damned late. My patient just collapsed and I have to attend to him.
Paul : Eeeps

Doctor : I can't make it. Two of the patients came late to the clinic.
Paul : Eeeps.

Doctor : I was just walking out the door and my junior officer rang me up for a consult.
Paul : Eeps.

Reason enough that we only all met almost an hour late - and even then, we all arrived at staggered intervals. Don't make dates with doctors ( not at least without confirming them! ). We hardly ever turn up on time.

Crossing Chickens and the Chinese Codex

Today I saw a chicken cross the road.

'Aw shucks common enough' you'd say. Well perhaps in hillbilly country but here in the lil big city, this event isn't that common at all. Trust me, we'd sooner see a scrawny stick-thin supermodel with her accompanying entourage rather than see a hen crossing the road with chicks in tow. I've had cousins of mine - urbanites the lot of 'em - who haven't even seen a rubber tree in real life.

Possibly even imagining that a rubber tree actually bounces back when hit.

But I was talking about the mama hen I almost ran over early this morning.

No doubt if my grandmother had been in the car this morning, she'd have seen numbers instead of crossing guard poultry. You see my grandmother has a book. One that I've always found particularly cryptic, quite as mystifing and obscure as the Book of Shadows. Yet this particularly dusty tome is found in almost every household belonging to the Chinese diaspora.

Called the Tong Sing - or roughly described as the Chinese Almanac, it's been in publication since 2250 BC. And it covers almost everything under the sun. One of the reasons why it has remained perpetually on the bestseller lists - almost certainly as popular amongst Chinese readers as the Da Vinci Code.

And almost as perplexing.

With no cipher other than your own wit and imagination.


Dancing elephants would be 3456?
Rare, unprecedented events that occur in real life such as travelling fowl and raining frogs are immediately tabulated and scored with numbers that appear in the book. But the pages don't only extend to everyday life since dream interpretation also comes to play. Seriously. Dreamt of your deceased grandfather coming back for an eerie night-time visit? That would be number 2178. Or maybe 7283.

And you can take that number to the bank - or at least drop by the nearest lottery counter first to make a bet.

You'd laugh at the notion that a simple ( and crazily cheap! ) annual publication could foretell destinies and events. You'd even say that only barmy octogenarian grannies ( and their nutty descendants ) would read such absurd cockamamie.

But I wouldn't - especially since my peculiarly charmed grandmother has always had an uncanny streak when it comes to lottery numbers. Gambling might be taboo in the family but lottery tickets slipped through a loophole somehow. Almost inexplicable the way she pulls the winning numbers out of her hat - numbers that have no seeming relevance in our lives! - but which she blithely attributes to the said book. From giant rats running across the wooden beams to unfortunate road accidents in front of the coffeeshop, she somehow manages to draw magical fortuitous digits.

So you can be sure that I called her up to tell her about this.

Who knows, I might get to split the reward for the tip.

Sausages at 4AM

Seriously. When Jaunty Jared paid me a visit earlier yesterday, he blithely commented on doctors and their patently unhealthy eating habits. Of course that was made while I was barbarously gorging myself on a dripping supersized mac with flying bits of cabbage so I don't blame the fella.


Unfortunately I don't have him as my personal chef.
Sorry but at work, I don't exactly have the time to prepare a four-course low-salt low-cal healthy heart meal. Especially when I have a patient barely breathing on a ventilator waiting.

But oh boy, Jared couldn't be more eeriely prophetic - since a group of us found ourselves desperately famished after work at about 4 in the morning and only managed to rustle up some frozen sausages in the fridge. God knows how long it has been there - or what entrails / skin / toes had gone into the making of 'em. Trust me, doctors' lockers are scary places full of creepy-crawlies, stray chocolates and other unidentified moving objects.

Doctor #1 : God, how long has it been there?
Doctor #2 : I bet it's the stolen remains of the Incan mummies.
Doctor #1 : Is that mould?
Paul : Let's send it to the Pathology Lab for identification!
Doctor #2 : I think it's more a job for the Microbiologists now.
Paul : Bet it'd taste good toasted though.
Doctor #2 : I'll get the oven.
Doctor #1 : Lemme get some butter too.

But at 4 AM, none of us could care less. So we ate it anyway.

Which actually explains our seemingly irrational diets.


Munch. Munch. Munch.
Been a while since I've had a sausage fest at work over here though. Talked about our woes at work. Our woes at home.

And yeah, I might have leaked out the sorry fact that Charming Calvin's leaving for Beijing that very morning. Possibly have that very flight slip past the spires of the hospital towers as we munched on cheap sausage leftovers. But of course I can look forward to the fact that he'll be back home again in four months - hopefully for good.

Barring another posting to some exotic locale. Morocco? Paris?

BTW talk about being out in the open, right? Lately I've come to the conclusion that half the department's already laying bets on my relative gayness so I don't see any reason to hide it.

A Sigh of Relief

I can finally breathe a sigh of relief again.

Really, I have been waiting for ages. Thought it would take forever. Finally they got to the table ( possibly under duress ) and resolved their many thorny issues. Therefore ending the writer's strike in America.

And hopefully leading to the writers desperately penning their pent-up stories ( you know we all have so many things we want to say! ) into reasonably useful scripts.


Thank God we're back to work!
So that I can finally continue watching Gossip Girl again. Talk about repercussions - and the butterfly effect. Just a drop of a ball-point pen in some lil Hollywood studio loft and there's a wave of relief over in the rest of South East Asia. At least the ones with internet access.

Can you tell I'm an addict? When the writers all went on strike, I thought I'd have to go to rehab ( though a number of diva celebutantes already beat me to it ).

Now excuse me while I go haunt the dvd pirates to see if I missed any good series ( while waiting for them to write new episodes ).

Valentine's Vengeance

If you imagine that Valentine's day would be full of lovey-dovey couples thronging the crowded, overbooked restaurants in search of rose-petal bedecked tables with appropriately mushy menus ( dreamt up by materialistic savant chefs ) full of togetherness lobster, chocolate kisses and love truffles, you wouldn't be far wrong. All this while you're being serenaded by an endless parade of soppy sentimental songs from yesteryear.

Though did I mention all the couples in sight were woefully straight?

Shockingly even steadfastly saccharine sweet couples such as Alanis & Jenny had boycotted the day ( traitors!! ) leaving only me to bear the gay standard. Talk about making me stand out from the crowd. Suffice to say being one half of the only male couple strolling around on Valentine's isn't exactly the best way to remain closeted. Sure there was the odd threesome of eligible men in identical tight shirts who walked in - but all three certainly pinged my gay-dar as well.

It was my first valentine in years. Yes. Yes. I finally caved in to join the desperate love lemmings jumping off the edge into v-day madness.


Damn. I could so fuck you over this rose-petal laden flowery scented tablecloth with frilly love notes written all over...
Then again maybe not.
And I couldn't help but laugh at some of the corny stuff people madly in love are apt to do. From matching his-and-her shirts to rose petals arranged to form the outline of a heart - certainly a far cry from the hangman caricature Charming Calvin and I tried out. Decadent floral bouquets aplenty ( a few unsightly ), a handful possibly bigger than the paramour's petite intended.

Me, I got a lovely sketchbook that I've always wanted ( yes, he remembered! ) while Calvin got a Celine Dion concert dvd. His choice. Not mine. After tonight's diabetic dream, I don't think I could go through a medley of Dion's lovelorn anthems. :P

Of course the savvy restaurateurs are all eager to cash in on this money-making extravaganza by offering schmaltzy valentine-themed dinners to match the occasion. There was even a lil romantic stanza waiting for us at the cosy table for two. I was just surprised they didn't curl the chicken cutlets into heart shapes or perhaps entwine the broccoli stalks into a pair with a love knot.

Still despite the love quite apparent in the air, it was desperately chilly - no doubt to cool down the ardour of the amorous patrons. Of course used to the frequent snowstorms of the Northern Capital, Calvin didn't mind a bit but I was freezing my ass off. So much for in the mood for love. :P

A happy V-day!

The Dreaded V-Day

It's certainly the day dreaded most by some of my pals who find themselves woefully single ( or separated ) on this day. Most have already made plans to stay home alone, no doubt to dish up some Rocky Road while wailing away to the beloved karaoke tune of All By Myself - just like the infamous Bridget Jones.

And I wonder why. It's time to celebrate your fabulous singlehood, certainly not to moan and groan over month-old ice-cream. So go out grab a couple of youthful ( and not so young ) singletons and party the night away.



The rest of us committed joes have Valentine's to plan.

Honestly haven't had a decent Valentine in years. You'd blame the fact that I'm not a romantic mushy hearts-and-flowers kinda guy but that's not the real reason. Just go through my archives ( as I did ) and you'd find that I was either working, abroad or he's in another state. Certainly not conducive for romantic meals by candlelight ( or by the wonky Sony Ericson cellphone LED light ).


So what are we gonna do now?
Obviously that has led to Charming Calvin making some noises.

Calvin : Is it my timing or do you always have something on during this time of year?

Coincidentally enough, I actually do. But sometimes I can't help it. A last minute change in scheduling isn't possible in a department as large as mine - and far from welcome. So as much as I'd love to take off for the next few days, I doubt the roster maker would be amused by my sudden change of heart.

But despite the fact that it could be quite a rush, I think dinner tomorrow is on the table for sure. So mamak anyone? :)

Underneath Your Clothes

There's certainly an endless story.

Or if the gay men had their way, an endless parade of underwear.

Don't get me wrong. I know a man needs more than a single pair of worn tanga briefs to survive. I mean, even factoring in daily washings, a regular guy would need at least a week's worth - minimum. Just imagine finally getting lucky with that hot jock at the gym - only to realize that you're wearing dirty used underwear at the last minute!

Jock : Come on, let's get down and dirty. Take it off.
Average Joe : Uhh... I can't. Can I keep my clothes on?
Jock : Huh?

Not exactly the sexiest come-on. Let's face it, only the hottest, fittest guys can pull off torn, stained ( eeeeww ) week-old jockstraps! And that's only... barely. By the seat of their pants, you'd say. Even then probably only the serious fetishists would dare creep near.


Damn. I wouldn't have bitten off his shorts if I'd known..
So short of looking like meltingly hot ( and impossibly perfect ) Chris Evans on his very best day, I'd suggest getting some. Underwear I mean. Reasonably presentable ( non-holey ) ones too. Unless you intend to go chafing in commandos the entire day while the washing dries.

Rest of us average joes have to contend with at least a fresh pair on a daily basis - or two if it's been a particularly ... edgy day. That little dribble. Cum stains. Skid marks. I think you get the point.

But seriously how much underwear does a man need? Straight guys would probably recommend a decent dirty dozen ( a reasonable amount if you ask me ) but for a gay man, it seems as if the numbers would creep slowly into the double digits, if not the hundreds. Seriously. Just check out the dresser drawer if you want to tell the difference between the regular homo and the straight dude.

It boggles the mind - and certainly explains the sudden proliferation of specialty underwear shops. Some are even prepared to spend a mini-fortune on a scrap of cloth barely a few inches squared. Do they have one for every occasion? One for Christmas with mistletoe and shiny balls? A special meet-the-queen drawers? Do they have special designer boxers for dinner? That special lacy black thong for a naughty date?


Or perhaps the boys exchange undies after they part? Kinda a farewell token from a particularly memorable one-night-stand?

Boy #1 : Here have this CK thong.
Boy #2 : Delish. I'll sniff it to remember you by.
Boy #1 : Or wear it tight, up close to your balls so you'd know how I feel.

Ooookay. Maybe not.

So tell me, why?

D/C

I was disconnected today.

No doubt a shocking ( if not debilitating ) thought for the technologically-connected generation of today who's never more than a few inches ( seconds? ) away from the closest gadget-gizmo that effectively links them to the rest of the wired world.

To my surprise it felt as if I was missing a limb! Being without my cell certainly left me thinking. Even a certified techno-himbo like me felt the keen loss! No doubt a bona-fide techie-geek would have felt as if his eternal soul had gone missing!


Uhh... operator?
Astonishing isn't it how much we rely on our lil cellphones and blackberrys? What a virtual crutch it has become! Pampered tweens these days wouldn't be able to live without a cell attached to their ear - and yet it had me thinking back to those days when my classmates and I didn't actually have any cellphones to speak of. Yeah, it was those early halcyon days when cells actually came in briefcases, were just about the size of a football and cost more than half a lifetime's salary.

And the connection sucked.

You'd probably have to lean out of a window on the 14th storey of a building just to get a buzz.

Makes me wonder how we actually kept up with appointments! With our reliance on being connected these days, I think we actually have become a little fast and loose with setting the time and place - since it's easy enough to text someone with the arrangement details later.

So you can imagine how my ISO ( InSignificant Other natch ) felt when I got disconnected ( since we'd actually made tentative plans to meet ). Something tells me he wasn't amused by the story at all.

My ISO : Where the hell were you? I couldn't get you.
Paul : Sorry. Guess what. There was no line. Somehow I was disconnected for a while.
My ISO : WTF! #%$#@*@!!
Paul : So I figure reminiscing about those days when we didn't have phones would be pointless?

Some guys just don't appreciate the simple things in life :)

God of Gamblers

Close your eyes and listen. Hear the constant chatter of the players punctuated by the frequent click and snap of the tiles.

It's a sound you hear often enough this time of year in almost every Chinese household in the world. Well, all except mine.

You see, my late grandfather for reasons unbeknownst always had a curious distaste for gambling. Actually distaste would be putting it mildly - which is why we never had any cards, dice or games in the household. Certainly no mahjong tiles! Far from the typical Chinaman, even the very mention of gambling would have him frowning his displeasure. You can imagine how he tsked each time the 4D fella came calling to receive bets. Though we never dared ask, we all have our own theories of course - the prevailing one being that he must have been a sore loser during a prolonged game on the junk from China.

Fittingly ( and ironically ) enough, the rest of my generation only started learning this time-honoured game at his funeral. A kindly uncle from another branch of the family offered lessons to keep the younger folk from turning rambunctious during the dull hours of mourning. Yet we remain true to his creed and few of us gamble.


Sometimes you do lose your shirt after all!
I can confess that gambling has never really been a sin of mine. Even a thousand dollar stake fails to raise my heartbeat. Slot machines. Poker games. Mahjong. Get bored far too easily after a while. Especially when the stakes aren't high enough.

And seriously I don't enjoy playing for cash. Play me for something far more deliciously sinful such as blackmail information. Or a hot guy's pants ( nothing like a litte strip poker ). Maybe I could get Pretty Phillip to play the night away.


But what's the point?

Even now in my family we only bet a tiny pittance, usually a few cents at the most. Measly amount for some of the gambling gods out there. Usually we play for our family's version of Chinese Water Torture. Yeah, we drink green tea till we burst - and in a coffeeshop, you can be assured of an near-endless supply of drinks.

Bet grandpa would be pleased :)

Shrooms, Secretaries and Studs

One of the reasons I usually catch the earliest shuttle back up north is to catch up on the goss. About the rest of the extended family - ie my rambunctious cousins since there's only so much you can learn on the family email newsletter. Seriously. The salacious details you find out on a Chinese New Year over tangerines, kuaci and mahjong tiles! Hotter than a contraband firecracker!


OMG. Are you serious! Tell me more!
Westerners play truth or dare? We play kuaci or gossip. Let's start with the odd stuff.

Shrooms

I have a younger cousin who's deathly afraid of mushrooms. Someone explain this to me since we found it inexplicable that she'd weep piteously over a bowl of steaming mushroom soup. Perhaps a failed affair with a rabid vegetarian? A past life as a spore-bearing fungus? Vivid recurring nightmares of being chased by a veritable army of terrifying toadstools?

The list grows as we all silently speculate. A few of my gambling-crazy cousins have even suggested setting up a betting pool.

Secretaries

I have a cousin who's scared of her secretary.

Budding fashionista Lispy Lori found herself promoted to an exalted promotion at work. And as the new manager in heels finds herself relentlessly bullied by the secretarial pool. Imagine that! Office politics at work. Not only do they play wicked psychotic passive-aggressive games with her but they also bitch endlessly about her in the pantry. Turns out Lori might be fiiiierce at home but it seems that she's still pretty much a timid cream puff in her office.

Of course the family has ways of dealing with such nuisance. Advice we gave her aplenty and I'm sure her secretaries will find a nastier, bitchier Lori when she returns after the new year. Speak softly but carry a big stick ( and yes, have the venomous glare of Gong Li ).

Studs

I have a hot second cousin.

When my grandmother introduced this Asian God to me, I found myself gaping. How the fuck did all the good-looking genes pass me by - and slip by default to this stranger? Knowing my grandmother's penchant for hiding relatives all around the globe, I shouldn't have been surprised that she'd pulled this stud out of her hat.

Grandmother : Say hello to Phillip. He new cousin from Australia.
Phillip : Hi! Happy New Year!
Paul : Hello. You can sleep with me tonight.


Aren't you joining me in bed yet, cuz?
Damn. To find a hotter sexier version of the generally bland family looks with biceps! Think Lee Hom on steroids. Not only did I find myself placed beside this new fella during reunion dinner, I found myself drooling mindlessly like a mental patient over his enviable biceps each time he picked up his chopsticks.

I swear this new cuz Preppy Phillip could probably bench-press Macho Mike. And that's saying a lot.

Phillip : You look hot! Damned heat! You want some help getting the food?
Paul : Uh... I'm thinking of the abalone. The really big, thick abalone. I could suck on it all day.
Phillip : Sounds like you're really enjoying the meal, mate.
Paul : It would be so much better if I could take a bite out of you instead.
Phillip : Pardon me?
Paul : Here. Have a beefball.
Phillip : I already have some but thanks!
Paul : I'm sure you have balls aplenty.

Of course despite all my sultry glances over cheap beer and the steamboat, I had no chance to taste his .. meaty beefballs since he came equipped with girlfriend in tow. Can you imagine how I hated her last night? Lucky bitch. Reason enough to blast her with a dose of Avril during karaoke later that night.


No doubt his stunned girlfriend ( she's like so whateva ) must be wondering why I kept pointing at her during the vitriolic song.

Yeah. Yeah. Phillip is sort of related. Far flung no doubt ( and I certainly wouldn't mind flinging him on my bed ) but hey, I've done incest before so what's one more sin!

The Gold Coast isn't looking too bad now.

Red Packets Galore

Every family has its own peculiar traditions come the spring festival - from dancing about the house the night before searching for the lucky direction / door to leaving the house woefully unswept till the day after ( some kinda superstition about wielding brooms ). Or even to the more modern man-made traditions such as our annual movie night ( at least my cousins and I ) for Chinese New Year 农历新年.

Of course there are some new year traditions that all of us share. Such as the annual reunion dinner. New clothes to ring in the year ( note my annual auspicious coloured shirts! ). Or even the red packets.

Like when do you start giving out those lovely red packets? Chinese tradition states that once you're married, you start handing them out like candy and lollies to the kids during Halloween. It's like a matrimonial penalty - once you're wedded and bedded, you're technically an adult and therefore required to start handing out cash unsubtly hidden in red packets. From the married to the unmarried - kinda like a consolation prize :P

Relative : Oh, here's your red packet. Aren't you married yet? Aren't you too old to be receiving one at this age?
Paul : Whatever. I'm not married. Pity me and pass over some good fortune.

Patent unmarriageability tends to make one mercenary! Which is why children these days have coined the materialistic phrase 恭喜发财，红包拿来.

Still, it's a tradition we all tend to follow. Just as our parents did.

Just like my grandpa before him, my father's ridiculously generous when it comes to new year charity - seems like anyone single within a ten mile radius is eligible for his annual red packet scholarship! So that includes everyone below the age of consent, the unmarriageables - and the fags. Imagine the curious motley crew at my door waiting for welfare handouts every new year morning :)


Goodbye to the old, in with the new?
By now you'll know I'm a traditional kinda fella and it pains me that some rituals of adulthood are off-limits to me just because I fuck around with men. Seems a tad biased, doesn't it? Despite the obvious dent to my woeful finances, I've always wanted to give red packets as well - though not with as little discrimination as my philantrophic dad did!

Then I found out recently that even Shameless Shalom ( in a spirit of new year generosity! ) has started giving them out as well. Obviously tempting me to do the same.

So when do gay men start handing them around? Unless the laws governing marriage undergo a revolutionary change ( which in our overly conservative country, I seriously doubt ever happening! ), I don't think happy homos would be allowed to enter the state of matrimony anytime soon. Civil marriage as a sign of maturity is obviously out so when do we technically become adults? When we start work? When we hold a commitment ceremony? Or do we just buck age-old tradition and just start handing them out arbitrarily?


I believe it's time to buck tradition with a bang!
Then again, gay boys never were all that great at following the rules after all so why should we even bother? :)

Due North

Every year around this time early February, my brother begins preparation for that long endless drive up north. Just packing for the annual journey is an event all by itself as my brother starts calculating the number of milk bottles needed divided by the number of potty stops. Usually adds up to a mountain of luggage ( including the all-important new togs for the new year ) strapped to the trunk with the cribs sticking out the back.

And yet he still finds the drive... exhilarating to say the least.

I know to each his own but hours of interminable boredom staring at anonymous highways with bland repetitive scenery just isn't my idea of a good time. We do try to make it fun - kinda like an annual road trip ala Little Miss Sunshine - but somehow or other being caught bumper-to-bumper in the relentless new year exodus out of the city kinda bums everyone out. There's only so many Raindrops on Roses you can sing before it gets quite obvious that not even favourite things can dispell the sheer monotony of hours on the road.


Trying to look cool on a ride ain't easy!
Although I've done it for... probably three decades straight ( OMG has it been that long!? ), there are times I feel like wailing piteously just like I'm sure poor Rambling Raoul would after being cooped up for four hours in his infant seat. Chatty Carmen cuts to the cahse and whines about when we're ever reaching.

But I can't do all that. Since I'm an adult ( damn! ). And I'm the designated driver ( double damn! ). The only thing I can do is sit tight at the wheel with my mouth tightly compressed and my tongue caught between my teeth since I can't cuss within the kids' hearing range. So usually I start imagining horrific visceral deaths for the lousy drivers along the highway.

Hey, it keeps me wide awake - and smirking.

Except this year. Tis year I am flying instead. No more dinky cars, lame drivers and traffic tolls. Not only will I remain far away from the toxic fumes being spewed by traffic but I'll arrive fresh as a poppy in the airport just in time for dinner.

And who knows, I might have time to flirt with a harassed steward or two along the way.

Paul : You're working during New year?
Steward : Yeah, unfortunately. I'm new so...
Paul : Well, meet me in the men's room after this and I'll give you a red packet to remember.
Steward : Uhh..

Tacky as hell but hey, it's only once a year. Spread the cheer. And have a happy Chinese New Year.

Not Under My Roof

I've resigned myself to the fact that I'll never be that cool dad.

Although I received considerable latitude as a teenager, I don't know if I'd be able to provide similar treatment - if I ever had kids. You'd probably think that I had the most horrible draconian monsters as parents when in reality, it was just the opposite! Strict though they were in certain matters ( our grades for one ), my surprisingly liberal New Age-y parents actually allowed my brother and I quite a shocking degree of license.

Honestly, I never even had a curfew. Like never ever. Well, not theoretically speaking since my parents never spelled it out formally in any verbal agreement. No doubt they knew that deep inside we'd feel horrible guilt pangs all over knowing that they'd predictably stay up late with the porch light on waiting for our return.

So how could we possibly party away all night knowing?

As the Catholics would know, guilt always works. I never said my parents were dumb.


OBEY ME!
I'm your king dictator potentate father!
But somehow, I always imagined that I'd keep a tighter rein. Yes, the ultimate control bitch. Somehow relying solely on their judgement seems a bit risky. No doubt after watching so many unfortunate tweenagers stumble and fall on their way to adulthood ( dozens of tragic casualties to be found in the inner city hospitals ), I find myself far more wary about the dangers. Far too many slipping into coke-dependent, sexually-promiscuous slacker mode without the proper guidance.

Hopefully by then of course I'll have a more reasonable, sensible partner to balance out my crazed Machiavellian tough-love parenting policies.

Paul : Where are you going at this hour of the night, Calvin? Getting pretty late.
Calvin : Umm... I am going to buy some groceries?
Paul : After midnight? Some fire-sale?
Calvin : Yes, I really need to get some... plaster. For my aching back.
Paul : Interesting. I thought I already had some in the medicine cabinet. Surely you mean you're going out to bail our son from the drunken orgy I expressly forbade him to go? The one which already broke our curfew set at 2?
Calvin : Ummm... seems like the police raided the club he was at.
Paul : Yes, someone tipped them off. Seemed there was a rumour that someone was ingesting K.
Calvin : OMG. You called the police?
Paul : Did I say anything wildly incriminating like that? Well it would be easy enough to track Nate with the GPS I planted on his coat.


You had your son imprisoned in the Tower? Are you crazy?
Heinous. I know. What a monstrous parent I'd be. Papa jahat. Obviously my poor son - this yet unborn Nate - would be living under the merciless boot-heel of paternal tyranny. Complete with an entire detailed constitution of laws and statutes ( and by-laws! ) governing his actions.

Then again, it's my son. So don't worry about Nate. If he was any son of mine, he'd be smart enough to know how to bend, twist and manipulate the rules to an inch without actually breaking them - probably already scheming a planned escape route out of the house ( with places of hiding in every nook and cranny ) while cooking up a thousand plausible ruses to use on gullible daddy Calvin who won't know any better.

So obviously I have to be doubly quick.

Icons

Gay men have always had their icons. Judy. Barbra. Madonna. Kylie. The list goes on. No doubt from the days of the first Eve, men of that certain nature have seeked role models from the ranks of strong, opinionated ladies who weren't at all afraid to speak their mind, kick arse and take names.

And show their prideful colours looking absofuckinlutely fabulous as well.

Icons. I've always had one of my own ever since I stumbled into that last shelf in my school library. Back in my old boys' school, only a few desperate souls would bother trekking up all the way to the dusty old library on the top floor - and in the sweltering heat of the afternoon sun, even the handful there including the trusty librarian could be counted on to be snoozing lightly away with their heads pillowed on a cushy tome as the creaky ceiling fans spun endlessly in mesmerizing motion.

But there I was wide awake right in the last row by the window shutters with my head buried in the stories of a queen named Elizabeth. The pictures were faded in the pre-colonial textbook but the glories of her reign were clear enough, as was the flash of her auburn hair.


Talking about me?
Witty, whimsical redheaded virgin babe who lopped off heads on her way to the top while exchanging numbers with foreign princes and halting Spanish Armadas / religious inquisitions almost by sheer strength of will ( and lotsa sheer luck! )?

Of course if I'd been on the throne, I'd have positively revelled in the political backstabbing, delicious spy intrigues - and yes, I'd have taken to bed a dozen hunky ambassadors and archdukes as well.

So you can imagine how pleased I was to see her brought to life on the screens a few years back in Elizabeth - and now the sequel the Golden Age. Though I was quite amused at the fact that few of my compatriots even bothered catching the movie. Guess history was one subject they never cared for.

Missing out on the earlier portion and stepping into the middle of Elizabeth's story, most of my friends looked utterly perplexed - probably thinking I'd purposely tricked them into a bitter history lesson. But it's easy enough to get irresistibly swept into Shekhar Kapur's rich, lush interpretation of Queen Elizabeth's eventful life.

No doubt the writers and producers have played a little fast and loose with historical fact but overall I don't think they've forgotten the essence of this great queen. Since the glories of the Good Queen Bess managed to win over even the unschooled skeptics such as Zany Zinedine and Strapping Shane.

Though Jaunty Jared ( I suspect a reincarnation of the infamous Mary Queen of Scots herself ) remains unbowed. And certainly uncharmed. Like a number of critical historians, he finds her indecisive, whiny and whimsical. I don't blame him - especially since in the later portions of the fictionalized story, Elizabeth slips into weepy, wimpy love-lorn Jean Plaidy heroine mode swooning desperately over the charms of dashing swashbuckler Raleigh. Certainly reason enough to sneer.


Good God. Did I actually whine that much over a foolish man?
But then this is an interpretation of the true story which the lead actress, Cate Blanchett had this to say...
It’s terrifying that we are growing up with this very illiterate bunch of children, who are somehow being taught that film is fact, when in fact it’s invention. Hopefully though an historical film will inspire people to go and read about the history. But in the end it is a work of history and selection.

But I doubt any of us were unmoved by her amazing gowns :) Far from historically accurate but forgivable since it's so sinfully rich that you can't help but worship Cate Blanchett in those vivid costumes.


ADDENDUM : With the terrifying images of red crosses flashing across the screen, no doubt more than a few have commented on the obvious anti-Catholicism vein unsubtly hidden throughout the story. I was obviously stunned myself but thinking back to that period of time, the Protestants certainly had reason enough to worry back then with the Spanish Inquisition alive and burning. Reason enough to villify the overzealous Papists.

Teaching us a lesson about going overboard with religious zealotry, doesn't it?

Breeder Boys

When did you have your first date?

Other than a precocious few, most gay boys would have had theirs in their late teens ( or even some much later on in early adulthood ) after years of desperate repression crouching in their proverbial closets. But for the rest of the breeder herd, surely those tingly-touchy feelings start surfacing early on in high school? Isn't that what being a curious hormonally-charged teenager is all about?

And by teenager, I'm talking about Scrappy Shep. Hey I'll admit it, he's no mean looker - and he certainly looks pretty good in a twinkie-hes-my-brother-I-aint-gonna-touch way. Of course in my darker Saint Wicked moments, I've even toyed with the perverted thought of deflowering the luscious mocha-latte jailbait - but that's between you and me.


Find me a lady!
So why is the boy dateless? Since he clearly balked at the thought of paying for his carnal pleasures, I assume he wanted to take his time picking through the garden for fresher blooms.

It perplexes me. Beats me honestly since even a budding homo-troll like me had dates way back in high school. Nothing serious, just a tentative dip of the toe in the proverbial hetero pond just to see whether I liked it. Obviously I didn't care for it but hey, at least I experimented in high school which is way more than most boys can say :P

Certainly came to me in a flash that I was a raging homosexual when I realized I much preferred her shiny accessories rather than what was underneath.

Grace : It's so nice of you to ask me out.
Paul : Yeah, it is. And... whoa, where did you get your earrings? Fabulous!
Grace : There was a sale, you like?

Bling instead of boobies. Surely a clear sign. But it still took a while before I later realized that I liked some stubble on my dates.

So at the relatively mature age of 16 going on 17, what is up with our straight boy Shep? Hills are alive, even convent gal Liesl von Trapp had already started canoodling with ubermensch hotties in the gazebo by then.

What more a boy in the suburbs? No doubt Shep satisfies himself with the occasional porn rag and the accompanying mastubatory fantasies but doesn't he feel the need to socialize with the fairer sex? Isn't it a natural process? The intimate conversations? The shared looks? The hand-holding sessions after school? The desperate furtive gropes in the closet under the stairs?

Maybe kat belakang pondok ( every school has a hidden love-shack after all ) as I once suggested?

Surely there are some hormonal urges there - buried deep inside that obsessive X-Box-playing teenager. Not that I'm in any way pushing him toward early teenage promiscuity - and the ever-present risk of STDs - but there's no harm in getting to know some girls! At least drop by and say hi dammit.

Why am I worried? Who knows, perhaps some latent fraternal streak? Just hope the growing detrimental gay-diation around him hasn't stunted his normal sexual growth. Or has he been influenced to think girls really have cooties?