The Good Samaritan

Once I turned seventeen, like most of my schooling peers I immediately registered for driving school, seemingly one of the most essential skills in our increasingly urbanized world. For a couple of weeks, we sat through near daily lessons on competently steering a motor vehicle, perfectly edging into the perfect parking spot and hopefully obeying the few traffic rules we actually could remember.

Yet our driving instructors never actually taught us the most important lesson there was.

Yes, on how to change a flat tyre. Pathetic flaw in our living skills syllabus that taught us how to mend a flower pot rather than the esoteric intricacies of auto mechanics.

Last time I actually successfully managed that particular feat was a decade back as a house officer when I carelessly ran over a nail somewhere on the way to work. Sweaty back-breaking work for a quarter of an hour just to remove the inflexibly tenacious nuts on the lackluster tyre with the miserably ineffectual tools on hand - which provokingly enough only took two minutes at the repair shop.

So I swore never to do so again.

Dammit I can't believe I got a flat again.

Till I suffered another contemptible flat just two days back.

Groaned as I heard the horrible flapping sound made by a gasping tyre in its death throes. Honestly was at my wit's end on what to do since I could barely recall the steps on how to change the tyre. But as they say you find help when you need it most. Age-old adage turns out to be true, and I usually meet the very best people when my car breaks down. This time, my sweet helpful samaritan was Eager Edison.

Who coincidentally came over for dinner with his beau, our shockingly *hush hush* discreet Prudent Patrick.

Paul : You guys just wait while I get the tyre changed. Give me ten minutes.
Edison : No worries, I can help.
Paul : You know how to do it?
Edison : Not only do I know how to do it, I actually won tyre changing contests! 
Paul : You do know you'll be all sweaty and stinky afterward. 
Edison : No problem, can always shower and change. 
Paul : True, I can always scrub your back.

Not only a pretty boy but great at rotating tyres. Definitely a keeper!

The One with No Underwear

Many a time have I written about the fabled merry gay men and their plundered treasure of boundless underwear from glittering thongs to neon boxer briefs. Like the mythical dragons of yore, these avaricious boys hoard skimpy pieces of cotton and spandex, building up staggering mountains of briefs and boxers in their awfully decadent homes only to parade the few for whichever brave hero who dares to enter their domain.

Apparently not what the gay boys here wish for as they lie in their beds at night.

For over here, I have found a man who defies all expectations by wearing nothing on a daily basis. Or at least absolutely nothing between his pants and his skin.

No underwear. Ever.

Paul : Seriously. 
Patrick : No, I don't wear underwear at all. It chafes. 
Paul : Not at all? Never?
Patrick : Why bother anyhow? 
Paul : If you have to ask that... well let me ask you then, why do you wear underwear?
Patrick : For protection?
Paul : From bows and arrows? From kicks and blows? 
Patrick : You mean that's not the reason?
Paul : It's cotton and spandex. Not a metal cup. 
Patrick : Oh. I thought that was the reason.
Paul : No wonder you go commando. Basically underwear protects your outer garments from being soiled. 

Not so prudent after all. Checked to confirm whether he was actually bragging and yeah, the man has zero fear of stains.

Man, underwear is so last century!

Except when our Prudent Patrick visits a massage parlour - which basically defeats the intended purpose. Doesn't it boggle the mind? Freeball all day long but pull on some boxers only to get naked for a massage?

The Mystery of the Missing Muffdivers

In our highly conservative, tradition-bound society, it's certainly not uncommon to find certifiably homosexual men surrendering to the option of marrying a woman just to conform to the heteronormative societal rules. In fact, quite a few seduce the poor patsy, go on to start a budding family with several grubby rugrats in tow - while still actively trolling the homosocial apps.

Gay men in a straight marriage, certainly worthy of a Ricki Lake episode. Or some college humour like this.

Of course there are some who rail against the inflexible rules and choose a fellow comrade struggling in the proverbial closet - albeit a female one of course.

Which is exactly what my manly and discreet buddy, Prudent Patrick, intends to do.

Patrick : Maybe I will get married one day. Tired of the neverending questions.
Paul : Marry who!
Patrick : I should find a lesbian and marry her. 
Paul : Ah, the age old marriage of convenience. 
Patrick : Yeah!
Paul : You do know they are incredibly hard to find? Even our amazing gay-dar doesn't work to find them in the crowd!
Patrick : Surely they are around somewhere. 
Paul : Sightings are rare. Starting to believe they are an urban myth like mermaids or fairies. 

These days, despite the apparent homophobia displayed by the government-sponsored media at large, gay men are becoming increasingly conspicuous in our public spaces. Easy enough to pick the perfectly coiffed boys out, even without the unreliable help of my rusty gay-dar - or the largely unhelpful gay guidelines.

Patrick : Someone said they'll be here tonight.
Paul : I seriously doubt they gather in dark woods. They're not wicked witches. 

Problem is the girls aren't that easy to pick out. Really, where are the lesbians?

Despite my exceedingly receptive persona, it doesn't seem to invite fellow lesbians to come say hello. Instead the mysterious muffdivers in town remain surprisingly elusive. Quite a mystery worthy of Holmes himself.

Intrigued by the persistent rumours of girl-on-girl action, our drooling straight brethren have searched high and low with little success for this lesbian paradise. Yet even the infamous lesbian guidelines with their bewilderingly vague advice offers little help in finding our sapphic sisters. Either they are hiding in plain sight, apparently blending quite seamlessly into the bland heterosexual crowd.... or they gather in highly clandestine underground clubs to celebrate their boundless femininity.

The Secret Admirer

Apparently annual hospital dinners with their traditionally liberal availability of spirits seem to be the best place to catch your ordinarily uptight, buttoned-up medical colleagues... at their absolute drunken worst. With the seemingly endless free flow of alcohol depriving them of reason, reserve or restraint, few act as they normally would.

Which generally explains my one reason for going. So much easier to smile at that sour-faced harridan of a matron when you've actually seen her tottering gleefully on a dinner chair with a borrowed bottle of tuak in hand.

Or just like last weekend when the usually taciturn medical officer started getting just a bit friendly with the help of the bolstering spirits. Normally this hulking fellow hardly ever speaks to me. Traded a few warm pleasantries as we passed each other in the hallway and that's about it. Till that night when he seemed to be barely five feet away everywhere I turned.

Which doesn't really bother me.

Another picture? Don't you see I'm trying my damnedest to get pissed drunk? 

However... pestering me for the odd trivial information along with insistent requests to take photographs while wobbling about in an inebriated manner definitely doesn't catch my interest. But I obliged of course, always humour a drunk. Blamed it on the tuak. Dangerously potent cocktail of fermented rice, yeast and sugar that goes down so sweetly that you'll find yourself helplessly prostrated on the ground before you know it.

Quite a few guests at that dinner found that out the hard hangover-the-next-day way.

All goes well till the morning when the news of what you did catches up with you. And with the wildly efficient hospital grapevine, it doesn't take all that many hours before my nurses apprise me of the news.

Miranda : OMG Have I got news to tell you.
Paul : More gossip! I like. 
Miranda : I think someone has a crush on you! 
Paul : You gotta be kidding.
Miranda : Serious. Don't you recall someone always sidling up to you the entire night asking to take pictures?
Paul : No doubt that's the alcohol talking.
Miranda : Not really, he wasn't all that drunk.
Paul : He wasn't?
Miranda : I think he really likes you.
Paul : I hope you're not serious.

Seems he thinks I'm kinda cute. Not that I really believe such baseless rumours! Barely shared more than a two solid conversations with the fellow at most, and even then, he didn't even try to make a move on me. What's taking him so long? Surely I'm not that terrifyingly daunting at work.

But even if it isn't entirely true, it's just nice to know that someone could like me. *squeal*

Lesbian Love

Remember the hush-hush highly discreet clan of gay comrades we met for a new year reunion a few weeks back? Cagey, conservative comrades still huddled in their closets wary of the inadvertent exposure?

Well one of them has managed to break away from the unseen crowd to join Fabulous Felix and me for the occasional night on the town. Our Prudent Patrick - who turns out not to be as prudent as we thought. Little knowing that it would probably draw unwanted attention to him since we're both far from tactful.

Coming out of the closet has made Felix and I just a bit careless when it comes to the unintentional reveal. Come to think of it, we seem to have lost most of our prior inhibitions. No need to maintain our voices just that one octave lower. No need to restrain our hands from flailing about fabulously. No need to keep our wandering gazes from blatantly eye-fucking every sculpted hunk that walks by.

No reason to hide being gay.

Two fags and a filly. Nigh impossible?

Something Prudent Patrick finds absolutely astounding. Apparently faced with the harsh, judgemental prudery of a small town, he can't quite fathom how very unabashedly open we are sometimes. In fact he still finds it hard to believe that a reasonably straight person even deigns to live in Netherfield with us.

Patrick : You have another tenant.
Paul : Yes. And it's a girl.
Patrick : She can't be straight.
Paul : As far as we know she is. Unless she's not telling us about some Sapphic experiments in college. 
Patrick : Can't be la! 
Paul : Why? You expect her to charge at us with homophobic pitchforks?
Patrick : No... but surely she's a raging lesbian. 
Paul : We can always ask.
Patrick : Don't you dare. 

According to Patrick's surprisingly narrow world view, straights and gays can't possibly share a house together. Wouldn't a house full of raging gay men be a hideous den of iniquity? Wouldn't the heterosexual turn into a rabid killing homophobe? Ergo the other tenant has to be a lesbian.

For once I was almost speechless.

Just Like a Tattoo

Or even a piercing.

Since grunting cavemen started sketching out the intimate details of their mundane existences with crushed berries and coagulated blood, we have always wanted to leave our permanent mark to commemorate singular events in our personal histories. And where else would be better than something as portable, prominent and perceivable as our own skin.

Over here on the island of Borneo, it doesn't come as a surprise that tattoos are as common as every third brutish fellow you see on the streets. Tattoos are revered amongst the local natives here with each particular plant or animal design carrying a specific meaning and history such as the celebrated bunga terung inked onto many a virile shoulder here ( and yes, also on hunky Henry Golding below ). Ardent enthusiasts tell me the practice is particularly addictive and once they have crossed that line, there's an unspoken urge to memorialize the events in their lives with unique new designs.

Though amazingly beautiful and wonderfully intricate, I would still stop short of trying it out for myself. Squeamish for one thing, especially about the seemingly intolerable pain! Discomfort for another, especially with that culturally ingrained ( though largely erroneous ) suspicion that tattoos are purely meant for the delinquent elements.

Yo, like my tats? 

But more from the sheer discomfort over seeing tattoos on the elderly folk. Sure, the beautiful artwork inked onto smooth unblemished skin stretched taut over youthful muscles does look astounding. That's when everything's hanging high and tight. Now just imagine the effects of age with the wear and tear associated with it.

Not so nice really. Perhaps confined to the shoulders and the ankles since much less sagging occurs there.

So tattoos aren't really for me - which happens to be my thoughts when it comes to body piercings as well from the ubiquitous tongue to the uncommon nipple. Umm... really? Apart from anything else, raging infection anyone?

So imagine my surprise to be greeted by a shot of a penis this morning.

Felix : Nice? 
Paul : Is sending pornographic material a new way of greeting?
Felix : Note the difference.
Paul : You seriously got a piercing.
Felix : Yes.
Paul : Ouch. 
Felix : That's all you're gonna say?
Paul : Say hello to the metal detector?

Here I thought Felix wasn't as a fan of either tattoos or piercings. I was wrong.

Reliably informed that the rare piercing doesn't often trigger the metal detector so the little ornament should be safe. Or at least Felix hopes. 

The Oestrogen Effect

Whether true or no, the urban myth goes that the longer women work together in severely confined environments such as prisons and convents, their varying hormonal cycles and thus their monthly menstrual periods will start to synchronize over time.

Sounds pretty accurate at my near all-female workplace. Almost overwhelmingly so, and I would know well since I'm the unlikely recipient of all sorts of inconveivably feminine intelligence regarding menstrual synchrony, brassiere sizes and oral contraceptives. Turns out what the myths never mentioned was that the overdosing oestrogen / progesterone effect at the workplace inevitably starts to mask my presence as a man! Rendering me near invisible to women at large.

Which can be surprisingly informative.

For instance when women band together, they tend to view men as an unseen yet highly potent masculine threat. All men might be brothers but it seems they are all a horrid, monstrous, misogynistic band of brothers to them.

All you men-hating ladies, see I bring you sweet gifts! Not all men are bastards. Really!

Which is how my nurse walked by one day - after we both viewed a highly entertaining though insanely violent domestic altercation between husband and wife - and handed me a note with two words written out clearly and succinctly in Malay.

Lelaki Pendusta

Basically translated from Malay, all men are liars. The pinched look on her face told me she believed that highly biased, misandrist assumption wholeheartedly.

Paul : So all men are liars? 
Nurse : Not you of course.
Paul : You know last I checked I still had a penis. 
Nurse : Not here you don't.

Ouch. Mayhap I should wear a bigger cod-piece as a protest?

That Gym Adonis

Mirrors.

Though certainly the bane of the highly superstitious Madame Borgia, most people would agree that mirrors are an essential feature in any well-equipped gym. Not just any pithy shard of glass - but the broad, full-length floor-to-ceiling panoramic megamirror that tauntingly showcases every extra ounce of fat on your body from all possible angles.

Ostensibly the mirror helps true bodybuilders gauge their muscular development and possibly ascertain their form while performing strenuous repetitions.

At least that's the reasons given. We just know these muscular Adonises adore gazing narcissistically at themselves. Although I'll admit some of them do have valid reasons to love themselves. Sculpted arms, pumped-up pecs, ripped abs, tight ass and the like. Oh yes, I have been guilty of unabashedly eye-fucking them more than once in the gym.

Boy : What the hell are you looking at?
Paul : You of course. Don't pose endlessly at the mirrors if you don't want to be stared at.
Boy : Oh.
Paul : And come to think of it, I wouldn't mind a coke. 

Sometimes quite shamelessly.

Which is how I got caught one day. My timing at the gym happens to coincide with one particular Adonis who prefers doing his grunting reps during the lazy afternoons sans shirt. Certainly wish it would be sans shorts as well but I guess that would be pushing it.
 
So there I was seated at the bench sipping on my drinks admiring my eye candy - wishing I could lick the beaded sweat snaking down his broad muscular back - when said Adonis unceremoniously drops his hefty dumbbells, swirls around and stomps over to me.

Either I was gonna get a violent homophobic smackdown for the frequent eyefucks or he just wanted my drink. Turns out it was neither.

Adonis : Hey. Seen you often here. 
Paul : Yeah, I like coming when it's not as packed with people. 
Adonis : Same here. Quieter. No need to rush with the crowd. 
Paul : Agreed. 
Adonis : Hey I just met you and this is crazy but I've always wanted to ask you something. Do you mind? 

Here I was hoping for an indecent proposition ranging from the innocent call me maybe to far more adventurous positions in the steam room.

Adonis : Umm, I heard that you're a doctor.

Shit. The most unarousing boner killer ever.

If you're thinking that loaded question would be a prelude to a naughty physical examination behind the screens, you'd be wrong. Usually that entails the uncensored confession of a shocking medical history that would successfully kill off any lurid erotic fantasies previously cultivated.

The Blue-eyed Borgia Boy

It isn't hard to see how Charming Calvin could be the favoured blue-eyed boy of the Borgias. Academically bright, reasonably accomplished and altogether an obedient, loving child; our Calvin generally follows the route mapped out by his conservative elders.

Hardly ever rocks the boat.

Well, except that one minor tropical setback after his domineering brother roughly shoved him out of the proverbial closet. Henceforth at least in the eyes of the Borgia family, Calvin must appear to have lost his sensible moorings to career wildly all over the dangerous uncharted territories of homosexual bay.

With me playing the unenviable role of the wicked siren drawing him away from the relatively safe, comfortably conventional shores he knows so well.

Much to the apparent disgust of his all-seeing, utterly condemning mother, Madame Borgia. Though it didn't occur to me how deeply disappointed she must have been that Calvin has started drawing out his own charts to find his way rather than follow her own prescribed heterosocially acceptable routes. Something she apparently decided to share with me over a Chinese New Year celebratory meal with the family.

Paul : Wonder what your mom is gonna pull this time.
Calvin : She promised she'll be good.
Paul : That's what she always says. 

After all, what better time to torture the unwanted out-laws?

From the depths of her inner sanctum, Madame Borgia retrieved a beautifully polished leather binder with various certificates extolling the manifold accomplishments of one Charming Calvin. Though she denied it vehemently, it was clearly evident that she'd treasured that article greatly. Rather than shamelessly embarass her beloved son with shocking baby pictures, she decided to torture me instead with his examination certificates.

Madame : Such potential. Oh we could have been something great.
Paul : Nothing stopping him from being great.
Madame : But ... sigh. So lost. 
Paul : Hardly lost.
Madame : But ...sigh.

Yes, you could see the glint in her eye as she looked at me. Obviously the cause of the reputable family's downfall.