Election Day

In a little less than a week, my countrymen will head to the polls to cast their vote in one of the most hard-fought elections this country has ever seen. If all goes well, I shall be amongst their ranks queuing up for the ballot box - for the fourth time in my life.

Hopefully that day goes down in history as the biggest change ever made in our country where the ruling party has governed the nation continuously for more than five decades. The large majority of citizens here have never even known any other ruling government other than the one recently at its helm.

And as we all know, absolute power corrupts absolutely.

Without proper checks and balances, it leads to horribly unjust practices being carried out almost everywhere you look. Something I slowly came to realize when I started work in the busy corridors of our inner-city hospitals.

Back in school, it was alright when I found out that my results would manage to bring me to a local university to study medicine. Already quite an achievement, especially with my largely average grades. Have to admit it hurt just a little when I realized that non-Bumiputras weren't allowed to apply for certain degrees and scholarships but it was okay. Shrugging it off, I always figured someone better, someone living under far worse circumstances, someone infinitely more deserving would benefit from our generous government scholarships.

The infamous racially biased quota notwithstanding, our country's seemingly beneficial affirmative action policies at work.

But maybe it would go to the earnest, hard-working child of an impecunious rubber-tapper in the rural estates.

Time to make our opinions - and votes - count

Then when I graduated and came out to work, I realized that I was hopelessly naive - and apparently mistaken in my idealistic beliefs. Rather than hand out scholarships to admirable scholars of sadly impoverished circumstance, we instead saw fellow physicians hailing from illustrious, wealthy society families coming to work in their imported luxury cars - and all of them scholarship holders from abroad. With lovely mansions in established neighbourhoods, dressed to the nines in branded couture with wallets full of cash, they still found themselves largely unembarassed to be receiving government aid that could have gone to someone more in need of it.

Became increasingly obvious that proper connections were far more important than academic merit even when you're of the right race and colour.

That is the kind of ruling government we had. And that is barely the tip of the iceberg.

And that is why we need a change.

Secret Agent Man

Our secret agent man, he leads a double life.

In the light of day, he plays the part of the dutiful, conservative Asian son, fulfilling his filial obligations to his aging parents while taking charge of the family business. Dresses the part with carefully bland clothes, scruffy shoes and messed up coif that he terms appropriately masculine. When the phone rings in a particularly macho ringtone, he speaks to his straight bruthas in a sufficiently low baritone, careful to omit even the vaguest mention of that shamefully taboo topic.

Then when darkness falls, the part quickly fades away. Soon as the stars come out, the vanilla shirts come off to be replaced by the stereotypically homosexual uniform of neon-bright tanktops, khaki shorts and flip flops. Sashay comes out, hand gestures flailing all about. At the flick of a switch, the Lady Gaga ringtone screams only to be answer by a falsetto squeal on his part as he makes a date to meet his other friends, those he deems unsuitable to bring home to the parents.

Secret Agent Man!

That's our Prudent Patrick.

Our very own highly discreet closeted homosexual. As I watch him play his separate roles, I wonder whether the wildly contrasting dichotomies would leave him utterly exhausted at the end of the day. Must be tiring having all your numerous acquaintances split into separate compartments, keeping close track of everything you say or do, always worrying that something would slip.

Ever fearful that his two worlds might collide. In fact it wouldn't entirely surprise me if one day Patrick brushed by us without even the briefest acknowledgement of our wildly flamboyant presence, just in case any of his supposedly straight friends might be tailing him.

Thinking back on my own past, I don't think I was ever that discreet. Like ever. Not even even prior to coming out of the closet. Hardly ever checked what I said, never minded my words, didn't bother about changing the pronouns. Just let them believe what they may. 

Time for Tea

Over here in Netherfield, we tend to enjoy our teas.

Hence our increasingly established tea parties timed to coincide with various incidental social occasions or celebrations, such as the recent fete we had to celebrate both Easter - and Vasakhi as a nod to our Punjabi tenant.

Though we initially began with casual dinner parties, soon we found it so much easier to cater for teas instead with portable finger foods, little sandwiches and snacks - certainly makes it so much easier to move around and mingle with the crowd. Far less preparation and even less cleaning up after as well.

In the late afternoons, the sweltering tropical heat here becomes just a tad more tolerable and the persistent blitzkrieg of mosquitoes that attack by evening have yet to make an appearance. And let's face it, somehow dainty china teacups and cucumber sandwiches lends itself to a touch of formality in such events. After all it's just plain wrong to attend an old-fashioned tea party dressed in ratty cut-offs and flip flops so that gives us all the more reason to dress up.

Paul : Are those your *cough* friends? The ones in ratty tank tops and shorts?
Kat : I thought they were on your list!
Paul : Must be Felix's motley crew. 

However despite the fact that I always note the time for the tea party clearly on the invitation, everyone here seems to find afternoon teas wildly avant garde since they all frequently ask the same exact thing!

Friend : So when should we come for the afternoon tea?
Paul : Well it's an afternoon tea.
Friend : You mean at 7 pm?
Paul : What? You have tea at 7 pm? It's at 4 pm.
Friend : OMG It's already five minutes past that.
Paul : Yeah the guests have arrived.
Friend : Better get dressed!
Paul : No crappy tees.

Seriously. Afternoon tea? Need you even ask the time?

Apparently they all do. Always there is a near frenzied confusion just minutes before teatime as our roster of guests all ring up for the time. Didn't the Brooke family ever schedule tea parties during their tenure here? If he knew this, my shockingly traditional grandfather who insisted on having tea brought up to his room every day at 4 would have been appalled.

Wonder what would happen if I scheduled a brunch. 

The Bra Exchange Network

Men and women might be equal but they'll never ever be the same.

And honestly why would they want to be? Haven't we reached a certain stage where it's quite alright to celebrate each other's differences? Just to cite the evident dissimilarities between the sexes, I'll tell you what I heard from my nurses this morning.

Damn they just love to fuck with my mind.

Nurse : I miss having a sister. Since she moved away, I miss her even more. 
Paul : Must be nice having a sister. 
Nurse : Yeah, you know what, I even miss sharing bras. 
Paul : WTF.
Nurse : Guys don't share underwear? 

Hell no.

At least not knowingly. Not with brothers or even boyfriends. Though our clothes do get confusingly mixed up in the laundry hamper, my brother and I somehow tend to purchase underwear in distinctly contrasting colours so that we could tell them apart. And even though I can comfortably comport myself in my boyfriend's briefs, I have tried it but a handful of times only - and usually in desperate situations.

Fighting over the one clean pair of underwear left. 

Don't think I would even share my undershirt.

But apparently when girls get together, they actually do more than just innocently compare bra cup sizes. As long as the brassiere is thoroughly washed prior to the exchange, seems like it's a non-issue for the girls who find it far from unusual.

Is that how they spread cooties? :P

Sex For Rent

Apparently I've been severely shortchanged when it comes to tenants for Netherfield.

Financial-wise I could have handled the entire rent all on my own but company-wise it would have bored me silly. With the prodigious vastness of the estate, Netherfield would have seemed almost cavernous if I hadn't acquired tenants to share with. No doubt pottering about all alone in a far from modest dwelling with more than four capacious rooms would have driven me slightly batty.

Or insanely paranoid.

Which is how I ended up with Kool Kat in her seriously spartan apartment opposite mine and Fabulous Felix up in a darkened garret of his own.

But rather than split rent, I should have insisted on a different way of payment via barter. Seems an enterprising fellow back in Klang Valley has come up with the most innovative idea, horny lil bugger offered rooms for free in exchange for sex.

I have a spare room i am willing to exchange for sex. i will prepared to give the room for free to any girl who agrees to the terms. It is great for female students aged 18- 23 only. 
Terms and conditions : 
- will allow sex with me daily 
- speaks english 
- very daring and fun 

Needless to say, anyone who answers the ad - essentially prostituting themselves for room and board - would have to be daring and fun.

Unclear if it's just a sophomoric prank but I'm pretty sure the controversial notice would be taken down by the administrators of the rental service. Love the unequivocal specifications for young females spelled out on the ad. Whoever said my straight brethren had gotten increasingly finicky when it comes to women! Apparently all this fellow needs is a fearless female with very little sexual inhibitions who happens to speak the language.

Pretty sure the rabid feminists would be up in arms even though it doesn't seem like to much to ask for. Think of the daily sexual allowance as free calorie-burning.

And it's not like the terms aren't already clearly spelled out.

Aww man, you mean it's time to pay the rent again? 

Damn, if I had known I would have placed such audacious ads before!

Surely I could specify hunky male students with sculpted arms and a tight ass, available almost daily for uninhibited sexual intercourse! Now that's the kinda rent I wouldn't mind getting. Seriously I don't even need them to speak a word of English, as long as they understood simple instructions via sign language. Not only room but would even consider covering board if the requirements were more than adequately met.

Hmm.. with a world-class university just a stone's throw away, surely there are itinerant students around here in search of a room!

Or perhaps I could work out new terms for Felix in lieu of rent. Didn't he whine over financial difficulties just last week?

The Art of Slander

Much like any newborn, generally the birth of a new relationship is greeted with much aplomb and cheers from well-wishers, friends and relatives alike. From your close intimates, you're inevitably showered with gaiety, gladness and glee - well maybe just a touch of the green-eyed - but still it's all good.

Blessings and good wishes abound usually. But in her version of the fairy tale, Pretty Panacea is deathly afraid some wicked witch might drop by at the last minute with something less than complimentary to say about her new relationship.

The wicked witches in this instance being her fellow ladies-in-waiting.

The wily northerner has all sorts of tricks up his voluminous sleeve!

Apparently during her brief jaunt to her relatives in the north, Panacea was literally swept off her feet by a barbarian baron. But rather than delight in the discovery of a new romance, Panacea is afraid of relating her good news to her friends for fear of slander.

Paul : So it's still a secret? No one knows you're seeing this virile northerner?
Panacea : Everyone thinks I just broke up with the prince! 
Paul : Your ex? That has been a year!
Panacea : Well the townspeople don't know that. At the behest of the crestfallen prince, the town crier was forbidden from reciting the proclamation of our separation till a month ago.
Paul : Now that's a problem.
Panacea : And there were already rumours spreading that both of us are conducting a clandestine affair.
Paul : Hardly clandestine if we're already seen all over town. You did tell them I'm practically your fairy godbrother with an emphasis on fairy?
Panacea : They wouldn't believe it. And now I'm to announce the arrival of my new beau? Three men in the space of that many months? Where would my reputation be? I'd be branded the town strumpet!
Paul : Those truly your friends wouldn't believe a word of that slander. 
Panacea : I honestly can't be sure they would. 

Beware the power of the sly tongue. Dastardly curses aside, something as simple as whispered calumny can easily transform someone from a prim, proper princess to a wild, wanton whore. Not even a poisoned apple required for that metamorphosis.

Even after much gentle persuasion, Panacea still refuses to reveal her aspiring suitor for fear of censure, castigation and curses from her shockingly judgemental sorority of sisters. Full of inward qualms over the possible loss of her inestimable reputation if her clandestine affair gets found out. Even worse, she lives in dread of insidious calumny carried out surreptitiously amongst her intimates in holes and corners.

So would you call that a friend? So-called frenemies who would immediately jump to the worst possible conclusions when they heard anything particularly iniquitous? As I learned way back in high school, any pseudo-friend who automatically believes the worst of me - and let's be blunt - can take a flying leap off a steep cliff. Certainly not worth keeping in my roster of bosom buddies.

Simple really. When it comes to slanderous gossip... those who care about me won't believe it, those who do believe it aren't worth caring about.

The Uncut

Though it runs through the minds of randy gay boys probably every nine seconds or so, the penis remains largely a taboo topic especially in public. Oddly enough despite being in possession of a penis - and obviously lusting after other penises, gay men don't actually talk much about it. Yet I had no choice but to throw out the controversial question during our gathering.

Cut or uncut.

Surely one of the most frequently asked questions on our shamelessly prurient homosocial apps! Whether done for ritualistic or religious purpose, basically it places men into two starkly differing camps, both sides wildly opinionated over their possession of - or patent lack of - that plainly negligible piece of flesh we call the foreskin. Routine non therapeutic circumcisions are done for a variety of reasons ranging from basic hygiene to the more unusual justifications.

Wonder whether a circumcision would make my penis bigger.

Which is how I came to ask such a crudely probing, wildly inappropriate question over dinner. As it turns out, one of my mates Prudent Patrick, no doubt the unfortunate recipient of a particularly uneven education on male biology, vehemently insists that circumcision helps penile growth.

Patrick : I think all guys should get circumcised.
Paul : Why?
Patrick : Umm... for simple hygiene!
Paul : Wait, don't give me the cleanliness crap since you can wash it easily on a daily basis. Just slide it back and clean it.
Patrick : Umm... for aesthetic reasons!
Paul : You're saying having a two-toned penis with an appreciable nick is attractive?
Patrick : Umm... actually they say it helps the penis get bigger.
Paul : And you actually believe that.
Patrick : Yeah, I actually recommended it to my other friends. 
Paul : You know, a more effective and far less painful method of getting your penis larger would be to blow it.

Yet, in a desperate bid to enlarge the size of his severely underappreciated member, our gullible Patrick underwent a largely traumatic surgery that involved unsterile equipment, unskilled personnel and seemingly unending bleeding at the end. The things men do for a larger penis.

Seriously, what are they teaching these impressionable small town fellows? Logically speaking how does removing the foreskin help in the growth of the penis?

Don't Ever Call Me a Sista

Not that I actually mind.

Wait, let me retract that statement. Once in a while, just to poke fun, I certainly don't mind the occasional reference to us flaming faggots as sistas. Or even calling out a 'Hey Girl' when an accredited fellow homo saunters by. But when it's repeatedly ascribed to gay men with the accompanying half-smirk, then I tend to get faintly irritated.

Especially when the boys here are the ones who simply adore calling each other sisters - 大姐- changing the masculine pronouns from a he to a feminine she. Sly doublespeak in their secret sorority to hide their clandestine selves from the otherwise judgemental small town society. Lavender linguistics would call it a source of empowerment dissociating gay men from heterosexual norms and designating them in opposition to heterosexual masculinity.

Me, I just find it ever so irksome.

Patrick : Oh wait, is she coming for auntie's dinner tonight?
Paul : Auntie who?
Patrick : Auntie John la!
Paul : And which girl is invited again?
Patrick : Of course I meant your sister la!
Paul : Sorry, I don't have sisters. 
Patrick : Your sister, Miss Felix la!
Paul : You want to say sister, you better do it with a flourish and a snap. Otherwise he's a man.

Didn't they get enough malicious ribbing in their schooldays to avoid using feminine pronouns on themselves?

Who you calling a girl!

Seriously, what is wrong with using masculine pronouns on ourselves? Even the campiest gay men don't have to be addressed as females all the time. Admit it, my fraternity of gay brothers, aren't we all proud to be men? Though we're living in an increasingly genderless world, I do like having a penis and definitely have no intention to change that anytime soon.

Call me a mister, please. And never ever call my boyfriend a missus. Come on, isn't it about time we came out as kings rather than queens?

Ogle Ogle

Let me start with a brief conversation I once had with my distraught medical officer Ebullient Eve after she received an indecent proposal while waiting in a disreputable hotel.

Eve : It was horrible! I was just sitting there drinking coffee in the lobby and this old man came over to accost me!
Paul : How!
Eve : He asked me how much for a night!
Paul : Well that's a compliment!
Eve : How could that be a compliment! I'm not a prostitute.
Paul : At least he thinks you're worth paying for. Imagine if the old codger walked by without bothering to look.
Eve : Hmm. 

Sheds a different light on the matter, doesn't it?

Which brings me back to Prudent Patrick's prudish perception of perusing perverts in the public pools. Surprisingly common, these relatively harmless rubberneckers who gather in cruisy public pools to gape, gawk and goggle at strapping swimmers in their skimpy speedos. Doesn't make Patrick any less outraged by their depraved behaviour.

Patrick : It disgusts my straight friends! These peeping toms make gay men look bad!
Paul : So? You mean the straight boys don't stare at the girls with bikinis?
Patrick : Yeah but...
Paul : Before you say it, how is that any different!
Patrick : It just is!
Paul : So straight boys can ogle but gay men can't?

Whatchu looking at!

Yes, I know the boys don't like it. Such unsolicited voyeurism violates the privacy of the increasingly exasperated swimmers. In fact, the more self-conscious, brutish fellows usually resort to physical violence as a response to such perceived sexual harassment.

Not that I condone perverted peepers at the pool in the least - but let me put it this way. Let's say you're stripping at the pool and no one even bothers to give you a second glance. Trust me, that's far more tragic. Even worse, imagine if everyone pointedly looks away! Ouch. So be glad that someone - even the neighbourhood sleazeperv - still deigns to look.

Does it harm you in the least to be the unwitting object of some stranger's sexual fantasy? I doubt the ever desirable Chris Evans - no doubt the reluctant star of dozens of shamelessly repugnant wet dreams - even cares.

As long as it's only limited to ogling, I wouldn't give a damn either. 

No Sex Please We're Chinese

Have to admit that the complicated sexual mores in a small town is far different from what I'm used to. Used to being dubbed the straightlaced fuddy-duddy conservative in the city when it comes to raunchy sexcapades, it surprises me to find that I'm far more tolerant of such unorthodox practices here. In comparison to the more cautious, discreet fellows here, I'm practically a wild child.

Unlike the more judgemental locals here who prefer their wanton affaires carried out behind closed doors if at all possible. In a near incestuous little town where everyone is somehow related to each other in one way or another, it is important to maintain at least a respectably befitting facade - happily married with two and a half kids in a semi-detached suburban home with ironwood fences - despite the fact that scandalous extramarital affairs are shockingly common.

Full of simmering red-blooded passions beneath the dull vanilla veneer of suburban life. Think Desperate Housewives Borneo Style.

Seems that the old-fashioned small town prejudice holds for the homosexuals as well.

Paul : Hey you know that fella?
Patrick : Yeah, I do. We don't like him though.
Paul : Oh. Treated you bad, did he?
Patrick : No, he's a pretty decent guy.
Paul : Then why don't you like him?
Patrick : He's just so... kinky. 
Paul : Kinky? 
Patrick : He likes to ogle men in the swimming pool and pick them up. 
Paul : So? That's wildly common. 
Patrick : Well that's just... not the thing here.
Paul : What does his sleazy pick-up habits have to do with you?
Patrick : It's just ... not done.
Paul : So basically you dislike this fella for openly trying to pick up men in public while you condone others for discreetly doing the same online? 
Patrick : That's different!

Discrimination due to disgraceful dalliance?

Gay mafioso : That is not acceptable behaviour. We have to get rid of him.
Gay enforcer : Right. That is not how we do things here. 

Apparently fabulous homosexuals in the civilized wilds here have social rulebooks as well, ostensibly to limit overly flamboyant, wildly wanton behaviour. Seems you can be as raunchy as all get out on the naughty homosocial media - but God forbid you actually do all that in public! Especially in the public pools, parks or the parking lots. Simply unacceptable by the Local Board of Prim & Proper Fags who would apparently shun you for such a disreputable act of lasciviousness.

Or even more horrifying, brand you as a Slut - quite the worst punishment they can possibly mete out.

On further inquiry, unquestionably cautious, circumspect conduct is recommended by our tasteful homosocial arbiters. Like the sweetly innocent debutantes of the Victorian age, we have to at least pretend for all intents and purposes to be unquestionably chaste.

Guess I'd better warn Fabulous Felix about the recent prudish by-laws.