High School Crushes

We've all had our high school crushes.

Despite remaining on the down-low in regards to my unorthodox sexuality, I myself had several all throughout the years in school from the curly-haired sweetie in lower secondary to the more rakish fellow I dined and dated at the end of high school. That last fellow turned out to be my ex boyfriend my highly InSignificant Other. :)

Then we have Dapper Donovan who falls somewhere in the middle.

The very epitome of a high school jock idol - tall, fair and devilishly handsome - is there any other kind? And yes, borrowing from the stereotypical dumb jock cliche, he didn't have much booksmarts either - which led to his hastily borrowing my schoolwork every morning just minutes before class. Never was all that protective about my dull, boring homework so I freely handed him my scribbled notes without much ado.

Call Me Maybe?

God knows watching the delicious dimples flicker around his sexy smile was payment enough. Simple enough exchange since Donovan realized that he wasn't all that academically inclined. And yes, he also knew he had statuesque good looks on his side, certainly used his ample physical charms to his advantage.

Donovan : Shit, I forgot to do my homework.
Paul : Again? 
Donovan : Come on, help a friend out!
Paul : One day I'll probably cash in on all these favours. 
Donovan : Not a problem. My word on that. 
Paul : Probably some wildly inappropriate sexual favours in return.
Donovan : Hell, you don't see me complaining.

And yes, my hands did occasionally wander. Hard not to with his fit, athletic body so close at hand. Tolerant fellow that he was, our ever affable Donovan never raised a hand in protest. Far too busy copying notes onto his barely used exercise book.

Bet Donovan knew exactly what was going on. Me, I was still stupidly wrangling with sexual confusion to attempt anything more. Back then it was all flirt and no play.

As usual boys like these make a pretty quick disappearance after high school to places unseen. Community college? Indentured labour? Petty crime? Didn't stop me from going online every once in a while to search for Donovan. Come on, who hasn't typed in the name of their crushes just to see what's been going on in their lives?

Then Facebook came along.

Turns out the boy has turned into a man and gotten married. Just weeks back. And by golly the sweet teenage dream I knew way back then has definitely crashed back to painful reality - and by that I mean the unholy trinity of pot-belly, bald pate and wrinkles.

And that's judging by his heavily retouched photoshopped wedding pictures. Nevertheless that sweet dimpled smile still shines through.

Don't know why Donovan took that long to get married though. With all the sophomoric girls swooning over him, I would have thought he could easily have his pick. Hmm.... possible closet case?

Night of Masks

Ever since his much-awaited arrival in Homosexoil several months ago, Mercurial Marshall has been a fanatical regular on the homosocial app Grindr - ostensibly in his relentless search for gregarious like-minded companions to partake in coffee, tea and perhaps ... a little bit more.

Though our prudish fellow vehemently insists that it hasn't led to anything more.

Certainly had my doubts which is why I had no choice but to rope him down for a sweaty interrogation. Though valiant Marshall initially refused to give up the names of his new acquaintances, a few bites and clamps on his sculpted pecs were all I needed to induce his eventual surrender.

Checking through the lists of varying names however, I found a curious vetting criteria set aside for his supposedly platonic teatime assignations. Well, apart from the absolute sine qua non of pecs and abs. Otherwise hardly anything in common apart from the fact that they are all highly discreet. Something our exacting Marshall finds sexually irresistible for some obscure reason.

Marshall : Chick looking for hawk? Is that you?

Discreet. As in super-secret-highly-confidential-lets-fuck-under-the-cover-of-moonlight-no-one-must-ever-know discreet. So clandestinely cloak-and-dagger that one particularly enterprising agent even offered to meet him in an abandoned parking lot several miles away from the city centre exactly an hour before midnight. No doubt with a brief exchange of cryptic codewords and covert signals.

Wouldn't be surprised if they wore black hats and sleek trenchcoats for the meeting.

Marshall : Well they are discreet!
Paul : You think you're a secret spy? 
Marshall : Trying not to be too obvious mah. 
Paul : Believe me, being seen with you is telling enough.
Marshall : But I am discreet!
Paul : You're wearing a tight pink baby tee with the words Juicy on your generous chest. That telegraphs a mile away.

I can see two reasons for his unconventional choices.

Either Marshall has ambitious plans to publish a tell-all expose on the homosexual life in the city with explicit details of each and every libidinous encounter. Maybe even a bit of handy blackmail prior to the book publishing.

Or he plans to start a secret society Eyes Wide Shut style with clandestine sexual orgies attended only by masked / hooded participants. Where everything and anything goes.

I vote for the latter.

Cougar's Delight

Ladies my age keep harping about the relentless march of age with the inevitable wrinkles and aging spots creeping up on them.

Yet they forget that our local Penal Code has left them a nice silver lining. Oh yes, there's a pretty large loophole that could potentially them all into predatory Mrs Robinsons. Since our legal system has been handed down to us from the oh-so-prudish Victorians, there is a slight male chauvinistic slant to the laws where females are deemed weak, fragile creatures who need protection from even the slightest breeze.

Hence when it comes to rape as written in our shockingly antiquated lawbooks, males - whether adults or minors - simply can not be legally defined as the injured victims. Not even those blushing schoolboys in their prim secondary greens. Deemed heroic masters of all they survey after all - so how could they possibly be victimized?

Victim : I've been raped.
Cop : No, you haven't.
Victim : I have! I have the samples, the evidence, the written testimonial, the bedsheets, I even have a recorded video of the traumatic event.
Cop : Still doesn't matter. You haven't been raped.
Victim : But I did!
Cop : You're a man?
Victim : Yes.
Cop : You have a penis?
Victim : Yes.
Cop : Men can't be raped.
Victim : You can't be serious.

Unfortunately I am. Owning a penis obviously protects us all from any form of molestation.

Boy : Umm, did you bring me here to do all sorts of dirty unspeakable acts?
Woman : I kinda did. It's not illegal after all.

So all you carnivorous cougars, you may rejoice since there's nothing - apart from some sadly outdated societal mores - stopping you from hunting the secondary schools in search of vulnerable boy meat. Head out to their usual watering holes - the unimaginative likes of amusement arcades and fast food chains - to find such tender susceptible prey grazing in packs. Just grab the juiciest from the unsuspecting herd with your painted claws and drag them home.

You know what, Cougar's Delight could be the new tagline for our country's increasingly lacklustre tourist promotions.

Sorry gay boys but you're out of luck since we're all still covered under Section 377a - so please don't go around scouting secondary school canteens for underaged twinks.

Life At Fifty

Read this brief yet telling comment in a local gay forum that left me feeling unaccountably sad for all my fellow brothers out there.

'I fear getting old, and secretly wish I will die peacefully in my sleep before I reach 50'.

And that from an artless kid with barely two decades under his flawless Gucci belt. Seriously shades of Veronika Decides to Die.

You'd expect a boy like that to have the world at his feet rather than hoping death arrives by fifty. Though it wouldn't be the first time I've heard a similar comment full of melancholy.

Hard to blame the callow clubkids from feeling appalled when every gay man out there ticks under 40 in the list of their dating requirements. No doubt it seems like getting older is the fearsome boggart creeping around in every homosexual's hidden closet - which sufficiently explains the endless gym days, the latest skincare products, the neverending fad diets in their daily routine, all in a tragically futile bid to keep age at bay.

Narcissistic Dorian Grays forever in search of that elusive painting. Even apparently successful gay men fall prey to such gloomy spectres instead of facing the next chapter of their lives with fabulous aplomb, truckloads of SKII and an endless array of tight T-shirts.

Yes, I do know that our gay community is predominantly shallow, superficial and sadly youth-obsessed. Tragic fact of life but like our straight brethren, gay boys respond and react mostly to visual stimuli, namely the physical appeal of their potential sexual partners. In the capricious gay marriage market, youth and beauty rank high on the wanted list - but alas beauty fades with time. Doesn't take long for the chi-chi in-crowd with their low attention span to gravitate from the sadly forgotten stud fading under the limelight to the youthful ingenue flexing his sculpted biceps in the wings.

Yet I don't believe that life ends at fifty.

In fact I feel better about myself now than perhaps ten years back, and hope to improve upon that in the next decade. Smarter, wiser, calmer, certainly less prone to crazy impulses. So what if that comes along with an expanding gut, a sore back and the occasional stray white follicle.

Shit, am I old? I'd better toss out that damned mirror!

Perhaps that's because I have never really judged myself on the basis of my looks - which would be really tragic since I truly resemble a hideous bridge troll. However due to my patent unattractiveness, persistent wrinkles and lines creeping up on me doesn't actually hobble my sense of self. True, beauty fades but then again I never was much of a supermodel anyway. My self worth doesn't actually hinge on the cut of my nonexistent six-pack abs.

Life doesn't end at fifty. Retirement is something I look forward to actually. Hopefully with a beautifully appointed home, a healthy bank account, a loving partner and... perhaps a cadre of hunky pool boys ready to serve.

The Pecah Tongkang Syndrome

Look, I do know the oft-used stereotype of the flaming, limp-wristed, hissy-fit-throwing gay diva isn't true for all of us. Despite what ultra-conservative narrow-minded bigots might say, homosexual men do come in all shapes and sizes. Yes, even chunky, unfashionable slobs who dare challenge that gay stereotype! A few wily chameleons blend in with the rest of the heterosexual herd so well that it's near impossible to detect even with the keenest hypersenses.

But decry and deny all we want but that particular flaming persona is an infamous stereotype for a reason! Let's face it, quite a number of us fit quite easily into that category, enough to ping even the lamest gay-dar around.

Yet oddly enough these fabulous flamers are usually the ones who vehemently insist that they remain undetected to the rest of the world! It's not the discreet wallflowers who fear an outing - but the wildly flamboyant darlings who maintain that they remain in a glass closet.

Fabulouso : Oh, honey, you can't say such gay things on my column! My friends don't know anything about me! Don't pecah tongkang!
Paul : Oh I'm sorry!
Fabulouso : No worries, sistah. 
Paul : But wait, you mean they don't know you're gay?
Fabulouso : No, I'm terribly discreet. Shh....
Paul : You?! 
Fabulouso : I am not that bad!
Paul : Hardly bad! But your fabulousness translates. Seriously. You're a rainbow-flag waving, disco-dancing Queen Mary floating in a tub of lube. 

So what does the Pecah Tongkang Syndrome above mean? Loosely translated it means shipwreck. Thouh in this context basically it means inadvertently revealing some deep-dark secret, usually an accidental outing.

What do you mean the t-shirt's obvious!

Which I find deeply amusing since ... I mean come on, talk about an open secret!

Once in a while, the more astute manage to out me as the gay fellow in the heterosexual crowd, which is just fine by me. These days I just acknowledge the fact with an easy smile, possibly a shockingly raunchy come-on if the fellow asking is reasonably attractive.

But if I'm obviously recognizable from the teeny tiny gay pin on my shirt, these friends of mine practically carry a glowing neon-pink sign screaming G-A-Y above their heads with heaving thumpa thumpa boombox musical accompaniment. Facebook is filled with pictures of them tossing down pink party shots with similarly scantily-clad men in dark, dingy clubs. Drooling Twitter comments on every cute, hunky boy band member who ever stripped off his shirt.

And let's not forget their uniform of tight NUM tanktops a size too small, pastel shorts and flip flops.   

Seriously, and they think people don't know?

If that little indiscretion is considered Pecah Tongkang.... I'm sorry but that ship has already gone down like the Titanic long before.

Mean Girls

Never could figure out why girls keep complaining that their men are far too complex to understand.

Let me reiterate : men are simple creatures with simple needs and wants. Even their relationships aren't all that complex. If a man heartily dislikes you, the reasons are undoubtedly simple and straightforward. Basically he thinks you're an ass or a prick - probably has already expounded on the various reasons in expansive detail before landing that quick punch on the much-loathed face.

Whereas women are... complicated.

Especially when it comes to their social interactions. Just like today when we greeted the new girl in the hospital, let's call her Pretty Panacea. Didn't take but two brief unceremonious encounters with the rest of my nurses before they all made their swift uncompromising judgement. Though Panacea might not have noticed it, I could even sense a growing animosity on Miranda Merry's part. All welcoming smiles with hardly any overt hostility but the undercurrents of gathering tension were there.

Though I couldn't fathom the reasons behind it.

Paul : Want to join us for lunch? 
Miranda : Who?
Paul : Maybe me and Panacea.
Miranda : With Panacea? Definitely no.
Paul : But why? She was perfectly civil.
Miranda : Yes. But I just don't like her. 
Paul : Should I bother asking whether you have any reasons to say so? Her hair? Her face? Her dress? Her disposition?
Miranda : Nope,  just don't like her. 

Sure Pretty Panacea might seem a little straight-laced and more than a little uptight but that didn't really bother me all that much. Certainly not enough for me to shun her.

Paul : So you dislike her? No explanations whatsoever?
Miranda : None. And I don't dislike her. I just don't like her. 
Paul : And you keep saying guys are complex!

Which is more than I can say for Miranda.

Forbore pressing her for any sort of logical justification since it wouldn't be the first time I've seen a reasonably decent girl being made a social pariah for reasons unbeknownst.

Basically common sense, reasoning and rationality doesn't factor in when it comes to the intricate thorny maze of female interrelationships. Even back in high school, I had a friend who was despised by the rest of her female classmates for indefinable causes. On further questioning, all we got for an explanation were stammers, shrugs and sighs from her plainly unforgiving detractors. The original mean girls I would say.

We just don't like her. 

Seriously. They don't even know why they dislike her. 

Once and Future Rape

Our overzealous nationalists prefer to believe that our country has freed itself entirely from the shackles of its colonial past - but yet we still cling to several outdated relics from the Victorian era such as the infamous Penal Code. Specifically Section 377a of the Penal Code which states 'any person who has sexual connection with another person by the introduction of the penis into the anus or mouth of the other person is said to commit carnal intercourse against the order of nature'  In layman speak, that would theoretically make it illegal to indulge in anal or oral sex.

All thanks to those straight-laced Victorian prudes.

An antiquated law that has been repeatedly misused to indict a certain politician in our country - all thanks to the lil boy who cried sodomy. Even though only a select few have been persecuted over this particular law, it continues to hang like the proverbial Sword of Damocles over the fledgling gay community, ever ready to strike.

Basically have consensual sex between two adult males, go straight to jail. Don't pass go, don't collect 200.

So non-consensual rape is alright?

Ironic since it seems our bigoted authorities would be more forgiving when it comes to heterosexual sex, even if it's entirely non-consensual with a minor. How else to explain the latest furore in town where a youthful national bowler was released with a mere bond after pleading guilty to the statutory rape of a thirteen year old girl! Apparently public interest would not be served if the bowling ace was hauled to jail as he had a bright future.

Who knew! Turns out a promising future is the unwritten appendix on the Get Out Of Jail Free card.

So any straight fellows with reasonably bright futures, you have just been handed the unequivocal license to prowl the city streets in search of nubile adolescent Lolitas barely out of primary blues! Go ahead, violently sate your rampant heterosexual urges. Who cares if it's non-consensual! Who cares if it's with a child! Go ahead, it's alright, just a bit of a childish indiscretion no doubt.

Seriously my mind boggles. I am sure the case mentioned above is far more complex with unique mitigating circumstances - but come on, what a shockingly unsuitable precedent to set. Allowing such an unlawful thing to happen and yet hounding two adult males for indulging in entirely consensual sex? To all appearances it seems like it's better to have a convicted paedophile rapist at large on our streets rather than a gay man.

Sigh. Isn't it time we reviewed our archaic Penal Code? 

Grind This

Marshall : Well, his opening line was 'Wanna fuck?'
Paul : Nice. I like guys who are straight forward. I hate coy boys.
Marshall : But I don't want sex. Well not yet anyway.
Paul : You do know it's Grindr right. Grindr is all about casual sex. If you tell me you're looking for friends, I'll smack you.
Marshall : But I am!
    *smack*
Marshall : Ow.
Paul : Generally putting up pictures of your sculpted six pack in the shower isn't an invitation to just be friends.
Marshall : But I'm only looking for friends.
Paul : So you'd prefer him to say hi, write a proper introduction and talk about the weather?
Marshall : Yes! Just some idle conversation.
Paul : They already have their dick on display. Trust me, these boys don't actually want to know what you fucking had for dinner.

Not on location-based casual-hookup apps like Grindr or Jack'd, you aren't.

Ever the naive optimist, Mercurial Marshall insists that such gaysocial apps are purely for meeting up with gregarious like-minded persons for hours of platonic Parcheesi fun. Well, that's true only if they have hot, anonymous mind-blowing sex on their minds as well. Otherwise, furtively fingerbrowsing through endless albums featuring sexy half-naked studs cavorting in their skimpy thongs isn't going to score you a steady boyfriend.

Yes, there are nice decent fellows out there as well but it's hard to discuss 18th century English literature when his near-erect penis is outlined on wet cotton briefs right there on his Grindr profile.

Bored with all that chatter. Could we just skip over to the good stuff? 

We're mostly adults here so let's be honest, isn't that the beauty of being gay? That we are all guys and we don't have to hide our almost overwhelming interest in sex? That we don't have to deal with some of the boring dating bullshit our straight brothers have to just to get laid? Rather than sit through a dinner and a movie with all the dull chit chat that engenders, we can just skip straight to the scrumptious dessert of no-strings hookups instead?

That we actually have a social networking app just for sex. All we need to know is the time, date, venue and possibly position.

Trust me, our heterosexual brethren are dead jealous for once. The straight version called Blendr simply can't compare.

The Ouch

We all know how the fresh innocent newbie frequently gets bullied. Traditional hazing rituals, ranging from the harmless icebreakers to the seriously perverse torture chambers, abound in almost every exclusive social clique there is from athletic clubs to college fraternities. An initiation ceremony to induct a fledgling member into the ranks of the privileged.

And then you have our Mercurial Marshall who seems to be the perfect target for bullying.

Sure he might not be the youngest of us all - the fledgling maknae so to speak - but he sure acts ...young, for want of a better word. Almost like a naive, childlike infant newly hatched from the glowing remnants of a fabulous Lady Gaga egg. And God knows Marshall is helluva fun to tease especially since he keeps coming up with the most idiosyncratic, shockingly cutesy aegyo responses.

For instance, he's a fit lil gym bunny who enjoys pumping his pecs at the neighbourhood gym. Endless physical repetitions which apparently leaves his bulging pecs a bit sore by dinnertime so any quick pokes and jabs gets an immediate response.

Only thing is his ouch ain't the usual agonizing exclamation we're all used to.

Ooh, that hurts. Hit me a lil bit more.

His is just a bit different. Oddly unconvincing I swear.

Poking Marshall elicits an ouch we normally only hear on red-blooded gay Japanese porn - the sort of soft pleading ouch that doesn't really signify excruciating pain but seems to be begging for just a little bit more of the same. Shockingly S&M. Kinda in the same submissive tone as the endless ikus and kimochis the much-abused pornstars seem to be moaning repeatedly.

Marshall : Ow. That's painful.
Paul : Really?
Marshall : Ow. Really.
Paul : Cause that ouch sounds more like a 'fuck me harder' kinda ouch.
Marshall : No it doesn't!
Paul : Trust me it does. Let's hear it again.
Marshall : Ow.

Now doesn't that make you wanna spank him? Any half-decent dom would probably have the mini-stud tied up on a rack ready for some punishment. 

The Thong Song

Rather than bother about the deplorable state of disrepute that the country has fallen into, my indifferent friends seem far more concerned about the state of their innerwear. Hell, they probably spend the better part of their salary - probably amounting to half the GDP of a small struggling developing nation - on their underwear.

Yes, you heard it. Stuff you keep down where the sun doesn't normally shine - briefs, boxers, boxer briefs and the like. With metrosexual being the buzzword these days, they have produced skimpy thongs to dress the gents for every possible occasion.

Even an entire vibrant range based on the days of the week by Aussiebum. Just in case you actually do get up blissfully naked in some hunky stranger's bed and simply can't be bothered to recall the day. Honestly for the exorbitant price you'd fork out just for that minuscule strip of neon-coloured cotton, that wet dream fantasy had better come true.

I've already given Fabulous Felix fair warning that one day I'll plunder his sizeable undies stash so that his week's worth would be short of a day. Perhaps a missing Thursday?

Even Mercurial Marshall has his underwear separated into dull lifeless work briefs, which I assume are in sober shades of grey and white, and the fabulously vivid bikinis in rainbow colours that he keeps for his *ahem* extracurricular activities. Been checking almost daily and so far it's been boring workwear for Marshall.

Perhaps if we tear something, we can get new briefs!

Turns out the underwear fetishist fellows would be just at home in Bangkok.

Seriously. Almost half a floor dedicated to men's underwear? I found myself goggling at the amazing variety and quantity that they have on display at almost all their department stores.

No idea whether Thai men are legally required to have enough boxer briefs to last a hazardous nuclear winter - but the optimistic underwear manufacturers sure seem to hope so since they have all set up shop here. Or perhaps the infamous go-go bars keep their pretty boys comfortably supported with the latest fads in men's innerwear to better highlight their bulging packages under the blazing spotlights.

Shockingly blasphemous but it had also had me wondering what the hunkier monks were wearing under their austere saffron robes. Simple cotton thongs by Andrew Christian? Edgy leather briefs by Rufskin? Damn, I should be banned from going by the temples. 

Everybody Talks

So about the family business!

Talked about my less than savoury relatives - well at least some of them - up north a while back but here's a brief summary. The infamous mai pen rai tolerance of the Thais obviously extends to that of the marriage vows since my late uncle certainly never really believed in commitment and monogamy. Fortunately his genial nature - and his overwhelming generosity - kept the entire polygamous family in order with the three tempestuous wives ( confined to separate households ) generally maintaining, if not entirely amicable, at least vaguely civil discourse.

Who knew the fabricated family harmony would be so fragile as to crumble into ashes moments after his funeral. Leaving behind a passel of orphaned half-siblings with avaricious matriarchs claws-ready to do battle.

No, this isn't a soap opera like Dallas.

Now which side of the city should I head to first?

Which basically is how I ended up - almost a decade later - with first cousins barely on speaking terms with each other. The samaritan, the snake-oil salesman and the soda girl. The coach and the candystriper. So arranging schedules and times to meet takes a bit of nimble maneuvering. Yes, it's complicated.

And yes, I make up names for almost everyone.

No doubt the last time these estranged brothers and sisters met was for their father's funeral - since I doubt they have all been constrained to a room together ever since. Providentially they have all since moved to opposite ends of Bangkok - which I half-suspect could have been written into the terms of their late father's controversial will.

Turns out though that the snake-oil salesman - recently married - had the most intriguing piece of news told to us over a delicious dinner by the river. But even the best tom yam kung couldn't have stopped me from coughing bits of it out when he told me this.

Salesman : My wife is pregnant. 
Paul : That was ... speedy but nonetheless congratulations. 
Salesman : Don't tell anyone though. I'm keeping it a secret from my mother.
Paul : How? Won't your wife start showing soon? 
Salesman : That's why I moved her to a different apartment!
Paul : And how would you explain a missing wife?
Salesman : No problem with that, my mother hates her. 
Paul : Surely she would reconcile with the first grandchild!
Salesman : She might not be ready to be a grandmother. 
Paul : And she might what? Go berserk and kill herself? Poison the child? 
Salesman : I wouldn't put it past her. 

Then again, this has all the wildly melodramatic ingredients of a late night soap opera.