All About Camp

No, not the limp-wristed, tiara-wearing, hip-sashaying camp that we're used to.

I'm talking about the filthy, outdoorsy back-to-nature camp that reeks of youthful hearty machismo. Or what I call the wild forgotten years that I spent drafted into the Scouts movement pitching tents ( no, not of that kind! ) at the local nature reserve while gorging on burnt potatoes and singing campfire songs.

Things I normally wouldn't be associated with.

Especially these days. Think most of my city slicker buddies would be astonished to contemplate the idea of me trudging neck-deep through a slow-moving river of mud and leeches. Or even ravenously digging into barely roasted corn that I hastily buried under a campfire.

But I actually did all that with little or no complaint.

Oh yeah, like you wouldn't relish the opportunity to put your hands down his pants. Albeit with the toothpaste.

Well the unsavoury pranks I played in the night did help balance out the crappier parts. With devious teenage minds at play, always some prank to play on the cabin next door. Thickened flour in your hair. Stinging toothpaste on your genitals. Underpants up on the flagpole. Back then I should have known that I was unabashedly homosexual since terribly biased me only ever picked the cuter boys to torture in their sleep.

And yes, with our sultry nights, they always slept in their skimpiest shorts. Which did make it easier for the toothpaste bit.

Bet I would have gotten a Prank Badge if they had it then.

Apart from the sophomoric high jinks above, wonder how I managed the entire camping jig especially now when I literally shudder at the very thought of group activity.

To some it might sound like a wonderful dream - but having a weekend away at the closest jungle retreat in the company of total strangers sounds like the most horrific nightmare ever. Imagine getting up bright and early in the morning for aerobics with dozens of bright-eyed young things. Or playing Capture the Flag in the sweltering heat of a tropical afternoon. And biking. And swimming. And hiking.

Let's not talk about the creepy crawlies even.

*shudder*

Even writing about it makes me wanna climb back into bed. Sure, the hot shirtless boys ( always an engaging surety during such activities ) would prove a distraction for a while but after a few days, even that particular delight wouldn't be able to stop me from running amok. 

The Pink Elephant

Like I once said, the hallmark of Fabulous Felix - especially in such a staid little town - is how shockingly fabulous he can be, even with the astonished stares of the disapproving locals. Swear when the boy speaks, little glittery handbags, flashy disco balls and several rainbow unicorns fall out.

Super stereotypically gay for sure.

Compared to him, even I can almost pass for one of the dull unexceptional regular joes in ironed khakis. Which I find refreshing since most of the closeted gay brethren here have so many irrationally homophobic hang-ups that it can get quite exhausting.

But even with the flashing neon sparklers on his head screaming G.A.Y., there are some of his more obtuse colleagues who still blithely ignore the obvious. Despite that giant pink elephant prancing around the room drinking pink daiquiris.

Mimi : You're still single, Felix? But you're so cute and eligible.
Felix : That I am! Yay me!
Mimi : Impossible! I must hook you up!
Felix : Definitely, send my number around. Make sure they're cute. 
Mimi : What kinda girl are you looking for? 
Felix : Girl?
Mimi : Yeah, I know lots of lovely single girls. 
Felix : So do I, honey. And I don't do any of the lovelies. Felix doesn't do girls. 
Mimi : You don't? Did someone hurt you in the past?
Felix : No, it's called being gay. 
Mimi : Happy? 

All that after oblivious Mimi took a brief tour around Felix's raunchy boudoir replete with exotic dildos, racy thongs and sticky gay porn mags.

Mimi : Like is that phallic object a piece of modern art?
Felix : It's a dildo.
Mimi : Umm.. is that like African art?

And amazingly ( or amusingly ) that's not the first time it has happened. Homosexuals must be a rare species indeed - despite what our paranoid government must think - if even slick city professionals can't even begin to guess. Obviously the purported gay guidelines don't work very well.

Slowpoke

Since I'm usually thrust into the driver's seat with keys forced into my hands, it's rare indeed that I get a chance to be the front passenger. Even more novel to be sitting with hands blithely folded while Charming Calvin takes the wheel. Regardless of which side of the Big Puddle we're on, I'm usually the designated driver since he claims helplessly that he's utterly hopeless at navigating.

So you can imagine how much I relish the unique opportunity when it actually happens.

Paul : You're driving?
Calvin : Unless you want to.
Paul : Did I miss my birthday? 
Calvin : No.
Paul : Did I win a lottery?
Calvin : No.
Paul : Did you do something wrong?
Calvin : No. 
Paul : Did you -
Calvin : Do you want to drive?

Yes, I'm one of those boys who persistently jab at threatening bee hives to see what happens.

So much cooler on the passenger side!

Really do milk it for what it's worth. There's a certain unwarranted pleasure that comes with being chauffered around - though it irks me to no end that our far too cautious Calvin steers the car at a frustrating snail's pace. Even aging grannies with broken hips hobble by faster. Obviously overly prudent driving instructors from Miri repeatedly instil into their naive students that the accelerator belongs to the Devil - Touch at your peril!

Which explains how I've witnessed an accident occuring in slow motion at 20 km/h.

Like the rest of his countrymen, Calvin drives at a slow lethargic crawl guaranteed to sedate any unwitting driver. Needle on the speedometer barely moves from his set speed limit. Sometimes I facetiously imagine civilizations rise and fall in the protracted epoch he takes to journey down one miserable block.

Though I ultimately try my best not to take over the wheel of course. Must resist!

Conquered, Cowed and Crushed

After several desperate years of heated battle - coming after endless decades of consistent backbiting and sly calumny, there's nothing quite as satisfying as having your sworn enemy kneeling in surrender, beaten, battered and bloodied. Though no amount of barbarous bruising could possibly mar that impossibly handsome face.

Permit me a moment to indulge myself in the stereotypical villain's hearty laugh, so rare an opportunity for me to do so.

Paul : So what do you have to say for yourself. 
Alexander : My armies are routed. My lands are forfeit. My last city has been besieged. I have fallen. 
Paul : You admit defeat then? 
Alexander : Yes. Be kind to my people. They have done nothing wrong. Your loyal ally, the bastard city-state of Bucharest razed the glorious city of Sparta to the ground leaving the inhabitants to starve. 
Paul : I shall do no such thing. Apart from a change in governments, the city of Pharsalos and Athens shall remain as it always has. 
Alexander : For that I am thankful.
Paul : Don't be too sure of that yet. 
Alexander : What do you mean? 
Paul : The beauty of the Greek men certainly hasn't escaped my notice. For starters, your Greek Companion Cavalry will be stripped of their honours, weapons and armour to be conscripted into my all male harem. 
Alexander : What!
Paul : And you, as my subjugated slave will acquiesce to my every whim and fancy. 
Alexander : Wait a minute, I...
Paul : Guards, take this man away. Get him cleaned up, washed and readied for my bedchamber. 

Damn. Almost got a hard-on.

So much for Alexander being great. Hemmed in by my Great Wall, they didn't have much of a fighting chance to survive the game.

Greeks Bearing Gifts?

That's what the Greeks get for being such a pain for the past millennia. Though I might concentrate hard on culture and commerce, that doesn't mean my armies aren't busy sharpening their knives - hence my high rank in the list of civilizations with the pointiest sticks. Though I can make peace, my memory's really long so denounce me once too often - or stiff me when it comes to trading luxury goods - and I shall keep score.

However despite my seemingly aggressive personality in real life, I'm definitely a pacifist in the game of Civilization V. Far too busy farming, building roads and monuments to think much about invading other fledgling settlements, well apart from the pesky barbarians who creep out of the terrifying dark at the most inopportune moments. Of course the fact that my expansionist empire grows like that much vermin can be endlessly irritating to my less productive neighbouring rivals.

Now who shall I wipe out next...

Dance of the Fireflies

There's only so much culture this little town can take - and what little there is to offer, Fabulous Felix and I intend to savour as much as possible, from the sporadic chamber orchestras to the rare dance performance like the one tonight.

Plainly there's no missing us in the sparse crowd - what with us both dressed up to the nines, quite frequently mistaken by the awestruck ushers as guest performance artistes. Suits and ties of course, what else could you possibly wear for an evening concert! Surely not the ever sloppy yet ubiquitous ratty tee and crappy shorts of the hoi polloi?

Despite the pleas of the organizer - a long suffering friend of ours - reminding us to dress down in the hopes of us blending in, we did nothing of the sort. Fortuitously it turns out since quite a sizeable number of the audience turned out to be unequivocally flagrantly gay.

Dancer : Wait, exactly what kinda dance do you intend me to do?
Paul : A strip tease.
Dancer : Then shouldn't I start removing some clothes?
Paul : Now that's the kinda performance I want to see. 

Including the prerequisite boys in tights, unabashedly stereotypical though that assurance may be. But how could we help it!

Felix : Gay? 
Paul : Undoubtedly. 
Felix : The one next to him? 
Paul : Definitely. 
Felix : Nice ass. 
Paul : All that leaping and jumping tones the ass.

Amused me to note that most of the co-ed schools involved actually had active dance clubs in school. Quite an eye-opener for a guy like me since we never ever had anything involving dance in my overly macho all-boys school. Music and drama we had aplenty but somehow never dance. Probably deemed just a tad too fey for the lads. Narrow-minded teen homophobia being quite rampant behind closed doors, I'm pretty sure most of the unfortunate fledgling members would have been severely battered after school hours.

So we never actually had a Billy Elliott in attendance.

On the other hand, at least I never had to sit through several performances with sophomoric girls frantically flipping fans in a dismal attempt to imitate budding blossoms. 

Measuring Up

Even with the boldest of egos, having a strange man singlemindedly hold a measuring tape up to your crotch in front of a thoroughly unappreciative audience can be daunting at best. Regardless of the generous bounty below - or lack thereof, there's always the niggling fear of coming up short especially in the inseam area.

Fortunately the exacting tailor didn't see fit to snort dismissively after taking down my imperfect measurements on his notebook. Just like the last time I did it years before, getting your measurements taken for a suit fitting can be mind-numbingly dull. Ever wanna feel like a Ken doll at play? Impossible not to feel like a lifeless dummy when they twist you back and forth, flip your arms up and down just to get the proper measurements.

At least I don't have limbs that are of unequal length, at least the tailor didn't say anything of the sort.

But man, the colours are still.... well it's hard to run from the traditional masculine shades of black, gray and blue - unless you'll boldly go where no man has gone before with the neon-bright colours.

Paul : Perhaps something in a dark gray. 
Tailor : Oh here are the range of shades. 
Paul : It's all dark gray to me. 
Tailor : With slight variations. See it under the light! We have different shades! Iron, ash, dove, silver, stone, pearl...
Paul : Basically gray. 
Tailor : Not to mention with stripes, panes...

Well he didn't say all that but you can imagine how he tried his best to differentiate what looked like a bunch of grays to blacks for me. Never felt more like a disinterested straight man in my life.

Dammit! They promised the gray would match my Vespa!

Ever agreeable, our Charming Calvin didn't help much either.

Paul : How about this ash gray?
Calvin : Okay. 
Paul : How about this dove gray? 
Calvin : Okay. 
Paul : Hmm. How about a luminous mint green suit?
Calvin : Hmm. Okay. 
Paul : So what if I looked like a lucky leprechaun?