An overworked physician from Malaysia who imbibes caffeine ( though slowing down some ), drives dangerously ( same as prev. ) and writes bedtime stories about guys into other guys to indulge in wicked unfulfilled fantasies...
Christmas gifts are always a surprise. Like a box of chocolates, you really never know what you're gonna get.
Till the gifts are opened on Christmas day. Sure, every year I get the usual staples such as books and shirts. Both which are fine by me - despite the serious lack of imagination! But I still have to give credit to my benefactors since I know I'm not an easy one to shop for. Shop almost thrice a week so you can expect the number of things I buy!
But my friends persevere. Hence the amazing festive loot I have laid up on my desk at home.
I've got a gift for you!
Of course there are those who prefer to think of the original. Such as Big Bicep Barry. Been a while since I've seen him so my Christmas List obviously lost it's way. Since Lanky Lex had some thoughts of purchasing a couple of guinea pigs, I posed several questions to Barry through phone messages.
Certainly a mistake especially when I opened my door Christmas morning only to find him waiting with a cage in hand. Paul : You thought I wanted a gerbil? Barry : But you said your friend wanted it. Paul : Yeah, my friend. Barry : It wasn't a metaphor then? Some sort of hint? Paul : No! Barry : Try it then.
Seriously though. Being a doctor doesn't automatically make me a friend of all things living. Half the time I can't even stand some of the human beings. :)
Much less a gerbil.
Despite how cute it might look traipsing happily on a wheel. Or curled up in a corner taking a nap. Sure I've got the food and shelter covered ( at least I hope I have! ) but it's a bit difficult claiming it as a pet when I don't particularly care for it. Hell, I can't even hold the wriggling ball of fur in my hand - especially when the furball comes with itty bitty sharp claws.
Seriously. I don't know how the tone of our conversation descended into such lurid degeneracy but during the circuitous drive back home - after a spate of comparing recent television dramas - we suddenly stumbled onto this gem.
We - as in Big Bicep Barry and me. Just back from another diving expedition, he looked as gloriously tanned as the surfer bum I always imagined him to be. Seemed like he'd closed up his beach shack for the night ( seeing that all the superstitious folks are hiding at home this Hungry Ghost Month! ) which gave us an opportunity to hit the spanking new cineplex in town to catch the Mummy : Tomb of the Dragon Emperor.
What the fuck am I doing here!
Certainly says something that I got more of a rise from riding Barry's car after than during the entire two hours of the latest Mummy instalment :) Sure Brendan Fraser was watchable as he reprised his role of Rick O'Connell but that's about it. The plot was so-so, poor Jet Li was ludicrous as the two-dimensional baddie and even the fabulous sight of post-war Shanghai couldn't save the show.
Hell, even the brewskis we smuggled in didn't make the movie any better.
Which is how we ended up talking about television instead.
So many guys to choose from! How can I only pick five!
Surprisingly it took me a while to come up with an answer. Five fine fellas on the small screen I'd rather be doing? Now, how am I going to confine myself to only five! Well ... that and the fact that Big Bicep Barry was staring at me with raised eyebrow might have distracted me from replying as well.
Nathaniel Archibald from Gossip Girl Sure, he's broody, faithless and given over to fits of dejection but hell, I'd still do him. Especially in his preppy St Judes uniform! Don't you just wanna tear it off?
Kirby Atwood from Lipstick Jungle
For obvious reasons - golden six-pack, toothpaste smile and all. And also for the fact that he stood by the resident bitch Nico Reilly even though she rejected him in a thousand painfully emasculating ways.
Eli Stone from... well it's self explanatory Actually sweet Eli's more a guy I'd bring home to mama. Successful, handsome lawyer with a wicked sense of humour? Now, isn't that perfect husband material? Well, he does have a brain aneursym but that has been operated on!
And these two guys from more obscure sources - French and German television series in fact.
Kevin Laporte from Les Bleus Sweet, sincere, intelligent - at least from what I gathered off the subtitles - and the adorable man's also a buff french copper. And did I tell ya he's out and proud as well?
Christian Mann from Verboten Liebe And this one from a German soap called Verboten Liebe. A tough amateur boxer who's just starting to feel his way out of the closet. Now wouldn't you want to get into the ring with such a guy? Go look at those yummy lips.
All subject to change of course.
When I turned the question around on Barry, he smiled enigmatically while keeping an eye on the road ahead. Thought he was obviously not going to make a reply as usual. Then yet again, this fella surprised me. Barry : Trust me, I'm so horny these days I could fuck a goat. Paul : Well I'm available for a fuck. Barry : Not while I'm driving. Paul : At a measly 50 kmph. I saw a granny hobbling past on a cane. Barry : I'm a good boy. Sex in a moving car? I don't do such things. Paul : You're obviously not drunk enough. Stop by the sundry store and I'll get another six-pack. Barry : That might help!
Fortunately I wasn't the designated driver or I'd have swerved into a ditch. Yeah, I talk a good game ... but after all this time, if he'd said yes I'd probably have leapt out of the car in hysterics.
You know when providence just hands you a gift? Certainly don't say no when a cute guy knocks on your door with two tickets for a movie!
Since Big Bicep Barry was in town for the evening - and my schedule turned out to be yawningly empty, I saw no reason not to step out for dinner and a movie. Been a while since I've caught up with him so we had plenty to tell each other from his recent jaunt to Hong Kong to my own exploits in Bangkok. Barry : Seriously. A club full of gyrating half-naked men. Paul : Just flood the place with chocolate syrup and you'd have my version of heaven. Barry : And you groped them too! Paul : When they squeezed by, sure! Trust me, half of them were thrusting begging for more. Barry : Daring bugger! Paul : Why, Barry, you want a personal demonstration?
Obviously talk of dancing boys and entrepreneurial beach shacks kept us entertained till the movie started. Revealing that secret mushy side hidden beneath that muscleman exterior, Barry chose an obvious chick-flick. In a nutshell, the Nanny Diaries was a pretty sweet feel-good vehicle where a recent college grad stumbles into nannyhood by accident finding herself changing as she discovers the social niche of the Upper East Side complete with spoiled brats, snooty mummies and sleazy dads.
Although it came with one major flaw.
You see, the nanny had a delicious beau dubbed the Harvard Hottie - providentially just a flight up her Upper East Side apartment - practically begging for pathetic scraps of her precious time. Like just how unbelievable is that?!
The man's intelligent, rich and gorgeous with a summerhouse in the Hamptons and a law degree in the future. And may I remind you, he's the walking orgasm known as Chris Evans.
Go out with me, please?
Despite pulling out all stops to get her - including the usual stalking, repeated phone calls and the old cliched long-stemmed roses - even then the nanny kept saying no. Obviously she slams the door when providence comes knocking! Okay, I know dating's not allowed in their Upper East Side version of nannydom ( banned by the pill-popping alcoholic momzillas ) and it could get her fired. But come on, it's Chris Evans.
So step aside, foolish lil Nanny! Chris : Hey, maybe we could go out some time. Paul : FUCKIN YES! Chris : That would be great. Guess I don't even have to beg, huh? Paul : NEVER! Chris : Uh. Could you get your legs off my waist so I could get my keys? Paul : Oops. Chris : And your hand out of my pants?
Seriously. The man needs to even ask? I'd be all over him in a shameless New York second.
Then again, make that two flaws in the movie. Chris remained clothed throughout. What a waste. Now if ever there was a man made to be gloriously naked and slathered in baby oil...
Is it any wonder that at the end of the movie, Big Bicep Barry reached over to wipe my chin and tell me with a playful wink, 'Hey, you're drooling'.
You all know budding businessman Barry has set up shop hocking flip flops ( and the occasional hamster ) for a steal? Obviously selling beach footwear nets a higher profit than I could ever imagine since Barry recently made enough to finance a brief diving trip to some misbegotten tropical island. Managed to cover his entire expenses - according to him anyway - though I'm not sure if he managed the dive with only the bare minimum of a skimpy thong and an extra-long breathing straw in the deep.
Obviously he's a better sales negotiator than I imagined.
Suspiciously enough he came back unscathed - and relatively unmolested - from the Island of Sea Gypsies. Despite the fact that it sounds vaguely like the name of a B-Grade adventure movie, I am seriously not making this up. Perhaps I'm shockingly prejudiced but aren't sea gypsies just a hop and skip away from being desperate local buccaneers with a jaundiced eye to loot?
Somehow though Barry managed to charm his way around the gullible natives. At least he managed to avoid being shoved into a bubbling cauldron to boil. Even came back bearing gifts.
Nah, it's not the shirt off his back. I wish. And it wouldn't fit me anyway!
Unfortunately he went for the trip and all I got was a lousy T-shirt. Which was still better than what his presumed paramour, Bountiful Betty got. Paul : You really earned enough from selling flip-flops to finance a trip? Barry : Are you seriously doubting my superior salesmanship? Paul : I have my doubts. Have you been offering your customers other more carnal side benefits? Barry : Told you I don't deal in that. But hey here's something for ya. Paul : It's a tee. Barry : Yup. It has fishes on it. Paul : I prefer them steamed. You got me a t-shirt? What about Bountiful Betty? Barry : Get her something? What for?
Not that I live for extra tees but hey, it's a free gift. And as it turns out both Bettys - Bountiful and Bony - didn't get one. I know it means absolutely nothing ( and hell it's childish ) but hey, permit me to gloat just a little. :)
Abandoning his usual 9 to 5 career, now he's taken to peddling his wares over at Jonker Street. Not that he's shaking his thong-clad hips in a male burlesque with desperate ladies screaming and waving dollar tips to shove at his waist - though I think that's an excellent moneymaking scheme! - but he's decided to set up shop. Figuring it's the road to financial freedom no doubt - and possibly a way to achieve some early new year prosperity.
Our budding entrepreneur is trying his hand at retail with a makeshift stall - somewhat surprisingly close to the dream dive shop he once had once upon a time.
Everybody go surfing! Surfin USA!
For those who don't know about Jonker Street - it's a street of pre-war shophouses in Malacca that has been refurbished selling trinkets and antiques to cater for tourists. And they have the usual weekend market.
Where my friend Barry's now selling flip flops. Turns out a friend of his had too much of a good thing - a mishandled consignment of flip flops - and our man here's doing the buddy thing by helping offload the goods for cheap at the market. That little favour has sparked off an entrepreneurial fervour like none I've seen before as he's started to think of various inventive methods to sell his products.
Slick marketing exec that he is, Barry can surely charm birds down from the trees with his sweet talk - but it was almost painful watching him try to sell his goods at the market ( with uneven success ). Have you tried selling flip flops at a market? Seriously, it's not that easy trying to hawk beach wear during the rainy season!
Not even for the sake of Montserrat mystique.
Even the passing girls who flirted outrageously with him while indiscreetly checking out his biceps couldn't find it in their mercenary hearts - and purses - to purchase a cheap flip flop. Despite his persuasive spiel. Barry : Dammit. No one's buying! Paul : Who buys flip flops in January! Barry : Well, you did! Paul : That's coz I got to pinch your nipple. That's always worth something. Barry : Hey! Paul : You need a gimmick. Maybe you should climb on a surfboard to attract customers. Play up the beachwear theme. Spin some Beach Boys. Kokomo! Barry : Good idea! I could make a board out of cardboard scraps instead of using mine. Paul : And drop the hawaiian shirts! You should go dressed in Speedos. Barry : In public?! Paul : Sex sells, B. Gotta show some skin to hustle those flops!
He didn't take the bait. Though I could see from his quiet smile that he was considering the idea.
Some guys have sex buddies. Unfortunately lack of sexual pull - and a grumpy green-eyed Calvin - has left me with only flirt buddies. Don't look at me that way. You know you do it too!
There's always that guy. Inevitably someone you know - perhaps that charming colleague in the office, that funny acquiantance you met online... even that cute concierge in the lobby of the apartment building. Someone relatively intelligent, deliciously hot and infinitely dateable - but somehow or rather perfectly unavailable for some unfathomable reason.
OMG! Tell me this story again!
For me that guy is Big Bicep Barry. For reasons I've written about before, he remains uncomfortably distant with his innate commitment-phobia - and yet we remain friends close enough that we actually spend the time harmlessly flirting.
Like yesterday when we hid from the pouring rain in a lil seaside tavern at the Portuguese Settlement. Seriously crazy weather! Helping out one of his many business acquiantances ( he seems to have hundreds! ) with a bit of translation, he brought a copy for me to proof-read. Not sure why though since I'm not multilingual like him but it was hilarious trying to make head or tail of his valiant attempts at translating a company newsletter from English to Chinese. Paul : You are quite the cunning linguist. Barry : You just had to say that! Paul : What else are you doing today? Playing naughty boss-man with your workers? Barry : Hey I don't do that. I'm a sweet man. Paul : Oh yeah I bet you taste that way as well. Barry : And wouldn't you like to know? So how is the boyfriend? Paul : Sweet as well. But not forbidden fruit like some :P Barry : Hardly forbidden. I still have your teeth marks.
Wrong? Harmless fun? All depends on how you define adultery of course.
The Lord knows the both of us know that this is all going nowhere. After all, we drew that line in the ground a long while back and we won't be bothering with crossing that line ever. Nothing inherently naughty about it and I think he'll be astonished if anyone supposed that he was serious about it. But it's always nice to flirt a bit and laugh.
Well, Barry shimmied and jived to the techno-based house music. Turns out the talented guy's a closet pole dancer since for such a big fella, he certainly knows how to shake his moneymaker. Me - the resident two-left-feet monster, I shuffled clumsily along to the beat watching my feet anxiously trying my best not to crush anyone's toes with my heavy boots.
Quite a triumph for me that a significant number of patrons left with their limbs intact!
Of course with Big Bicep Bodyguard glowering close by, they wouldn't dare breathe a word even if I had maimed them for life.
Yo, baby come and bust a move with me!
Admit it's been a while since I stepped into a club of any sort. Been a good boy lately - and I gotta admit I never really fancied clubbing. No doubt clear signs of my rapid aging but I didn't miss the desperate patrons, the head-splitting thumpa-thumpa beats and the smoky environs. Was it me or were the girls getting a tad younger and the men just a tad more drunk? Barry : God! They should have foam parties. Paul : Are you kidding? I'd be incapacitated with my glasses and my clumsy feet. Probably crushed under the drunk hawaiian-shirted uncles and their promising Britneys. Barry : I'll keep you steady. Paul : Flirting? Barry : I wouldn't dream of it.
Thank God there wasn't a foam party or we'd have nubile tweens slipping and sliding against paedophiles old enough to be their dads! :) Of course then I wouldn't notice since I'd ( no saint myself ) be far too busy stumbling onto cute guys trying to cop a cheap feel. Accidentally of course.
Can't be anyone's dad yet, I hope!
Not sure how I got talked into going in the weekend though. Though Barry's maroon tee could have been a pull factor. He arrived at my place all smiles with my belated present and an invitation to dinner. How could I have known that meant being shanghaied to a nightclub by the beach?
Can I say that he looked hot in a really tight tee? Surprisingly he actually had one locked up deep in his closet. Hell I could see his perky nipples clearly enough etched on the shelf of his pecs.
My needs are simple. I don't need starbursts or spontaneous presents to make me happy. It can be something as mundane as finding out that I've the day off. Getting to sleep that one hour later. Finding that fifty cent coin in my pocket on laundry day. Managing to sneak into a forbidden garden for five minutes or so when the gate's left unlocked.
Don't worry be happy!
Still I have to say that the most recent happy moment I had was yesterday. Back for the weekend after a bad on-call, I found myself lying moped at home wondering what to do ( raring to go but yet too groggy to trust myself at the wheel ) till I got a message from Big Bicep Barry. He hadn't seen Hairspray ( shocking! ) and wondered whether I'd keep him company.
There was no need to ask twice. In a flash, I was out the door wishing the world a Good Morning Baltimore. Poor Barry didn't know what he was asking for but he certainly found out when I ad-libbed almost every song from the movie during the showing. My own private karaoke. Fortunately there was only a handful of people in the cinema ( much too early a matinee ) - and I hoped I didn't cause too much of a disturbance. Barry : You've seen this how many times again? Paul : Twice? Barry : Sounds like you're already part of the show. Paul : Yeah, that's me doing the twist on the Corny Collins Show.
Well no one hounded me out of the cinema with torches and pitchforks.
A pleasant afternoon out. Even found a branch of the old noodle house I used to patronize. Nothing better than spicy pork chop noodles on a cloudy afternoon. Fortunately the owner remembered to bring along one or two handsome Myanmar waiters from the original as well. Waiter : Anything more, sir? Paul : Nothing. Unless you're letting me take a bite out of you. Barry : You're scaring the guy.
Happy moments. You take them where you can. There are so few of them after all.
Haven't been back home since I came back from Beijing so my Tibetan stool's still sitting at the corner.
At work, we usually get swamped with a mountain of onerous work after taking some amount of time off. Kinda sweet revenge from the rest of our colleagues still slogging pitilessly at the grind :) Still I do get messages from my merciful friends back home. Had a very funny message late at night from an inebriated Big Bicep Barry no doubt back from one of his drunken weekend revelries :) Barry : I won! I won! Paul : The wet t-shirt contest? Barry : No! I won a singing contest! Well, admittedly in a lil village concert but still... some of my gym friends put my name down for a singing competition and I won a trophy! Paul : Your Gymbot Gang? With no warning? Barry : You really call them that? Yeah, they just suddenly pushed me to the stage. I sang a Mandarin song - some of the rest sang Hokkien songs. Paul : You didn't unbutton your shirt and shake your moneymakers, I take it. Barry : Not much need to. I doubt the judges would have been impressed. Two uncles and this lady. Paul : GASP. Just like American Idol! Did the lady comment on your pitching? Did the uncle in the tight tee say rubbish in a posh Brit accent? Barry : No nasty comments. They wouldn't dare. My friends - the Gymboy Gang as you say - were sitting close by ready to throttle them if they commented.
Can you possibly imagine getting on stage in front of everyone and belting out a Hokkien song? Much less with the judges' committee frowning critically right in front. Certainly no dazzling Tracy Turnblad who can burst out into song at cue so I'd probably freak out the moment the spotlight hits me! Stage jitters, always had them! Minute the director calls on me, I find my knees turning to jelly and my throat literally choking up.
But I am trying to overcome that weakness :) Would love to perform on stage sometime in the future but that doesn't mean that I'll be ready for an impromptu performance anytime soon. Of course once you've got me started on stage and warmed up, it's almost impossible to tear me away from the mike :)
Me, sing in public? Oh but I couldn't... I'm so ... so... shy!
Some boys though adore the spotlight. Barry himself isn't immune to the nigh-irresistible lure of the stage, our versatile man has been up there a couple of times since I've known him and obviously shown himself quite adept at holding an audience captive. Well at least without getting brickbats or rotten tomatoes tossed at him.
Then again if I had a hulking, silently threatening Gymbot Gang close by ever ready to deal with unpleasant reviews, I'd be all too willing to strut my stuff as well. Judge : What was that ear-splitting caterwauling? That was utter rubbish. Neanderthal : You make fun of friend. Hulk thump you now. Break bones. Judge : What are you talking.. oww oww oww oww...
Always good to have a friend.
...***...
Hey look out for that moving van Driving down our streets You better lock up your man Before he meets The new mall in town
Been to the spanking new mall in town, the Pavilion ( was there any doubt? ) and I believe it rocks! Amazing design, endless plazas, airy wakways but shockingly low balconies just perfect to send that persistent enemy of yours plunging down seven floors. The mall's not fully open yet but it shows such sweet promise. And btw there's a small cafe in the basement level that hasn't opened yet but you'll find me there soon since it shares my name :)
Today I received another sign that God actually exists. All ye doubting naysayers ( and I do mean skeptical Lanky Lex ), read on.
Common enough here to see zealous Christian do-gooders out on a mission to save the decadent, unprincipled majority. These squeaky shiny missionaries come knocking door-to-door on lazy Sunday mornings all equipped with the Holy Book, squawling infants and pastel pink umbrellas. Unfortunately their methods aren't met with much success since doors are continually slammed in their faces.
Figuratively. And literally sometimes.
I believe they should learn a lesson or two from the Latter Day Saints - otherwise known as the Mormons. What can I say? Fresh-faced corn-fed boys from the Midwest - perspiring heavily from cycling on their ten-speeds in our sultry weather to deliver the good news - are greeted with much more warmth by desperate housewives in these neighbourhoods. It's that natural mothering instinct, I believe.
Bringing the news...
And ever since the success of romantic flick Latter Days with the admittedly inspiring Elder Aaron Davis, I'm sure many a drooling gay boy would readily fling open their doors, no doubt fantasizing about finding a missionary position of their own.
Now don't go running around town searching for salvation yet. For some inexlicable reason, these boys rarely make an appearance in these vaguely heathenish parts.
Thought they only existed in my wicked imagination... well, until last weekend when I managed to catch the eye of a samaritan duo while I was out sharing a friendly meal with Big Bicep Barry.
Of course the Mormon boys weren't both demigods. Endless streets peopled by hunky barechested Adonises only happens in Studio Hollywood after all :) There was a small younger twink who looked barely out of high school, still struggling with his sophomoric bashfulness along with a moderate attack of acne / sunburn. Would have patted him on the head if I hadn't been too busy staring agog at the Other.
Yes. There was the Other. Hereby named Dashing Damascus for blinding me with his streaked-blonde clean-cut collegiate Abercrombie & Fitch magnificence at first glance.
After my gaping like a fish for a space of ten minutes or so ( puzzling over how a plain white shirt and boring corduroy black pants could make me wanna jump him on the grimy floor of the eatery ), even the seemingly more confident Damascus was starting to feel a tad discomfited over the unwanted attention. Recognizing the signs, regular heterosexual folks would throw a hysterical gay panic and swing violent fists my way. Fortunately these boys were made of sterner, holier stuff and wandered over to say a pleasant hello.
For my leering efforts, Big Bicep Barry got an eye-opening sermon on the sacrifices of Jesus Christ ( and also the mission of the Mormons to help the poor, feed the hungry, teach English, build schools and homes ) while I got a small holy book.
Obviously I looked the more irreclaimable of the duo - possibly because I kept ogling the older guy in the duo, imagining Dashing Damascus in all sorts of lewd unchristian acts not seen since the glory days of Sodom and Gomorrah. No doubt fearing for his prized chastity ( since they are to abstain from any premarital sexual act ), the blushing Damascus quickly thanked us for listening, shook our hands vigorously and made a prompt getaway. Barry : First time I see bikes raising dust as they get away. Paul : I bet he looks real good naked. Barry : They can still hear you. Paul : Not when he's chanting prayers to ward off my evil. You think he didn't know? Barry : Honestly, do you actively picture every man naked? Paul : You want me to have daily nightmares? Only a select few. Like Damascus there. Barry : I should be relatively safe then. Paul : Never imagined you with clothes actually, even now. See. Naked. Barry : Ooo-kay.
That shut him up but good.
Of course then a few days later, I get back and see this. Wishful thinking works dammit. Mormon boys exposing themselves in an eye-candy calendar.
Now tell me, my brothers, do you believe!!
Come on, is that sheer coincidence or God answering my prayers? Hallelujah! Poor Damascus might not have known it but he might have inadvertently turned me into a believer! And he didn't even need God speaking from the heavens.
Surprise parties aren't easy to plan. There's always a tendency to slip especially when a large multitude of people are involved. Someone always manages to spill the beans.
Or at least a bean.
In today's case, a particularly oblivious neighbour of mine almost let fall the secret but we managed to retrieve that little nugget of information before my perspicacious mother managed to piece together the pieces of the puzzle. I do come by my snooping skills honestly after all.
Fortunately I had my friends close at hand. Or at least Big Bicep Barry ( since Charming Calvin is away tending to familial upheavals ) who managed to keep my increasingly suspicious mother busy while we were busy setting up the stage. It was a hit surprisingly and no one could have been as pleased as my mother to have a surprise party planned for her.
What's this I hear about a party?
Of course she couldn't have been half as surprised as I was when the unsinkable Fanny Flake made an unprecedented appearance, not only intending to share in the just heavenly birthday cake but also obviously to make off with some forbidden man-candy as well.
I doubt Barry was as pleased by the fact since he was obviously the scrumptious man-candy in question :P Seemed like our brawny hero had made quite a hit with her before - though it seemed to take her a while to rev up her rusty engine to respond. I would have made my move a long time since. I had some inkling of her manhunt the week before when she sent me a message asking about the man's current availability.
Since she'd made her last disastrous appearance woefully underdressed earning two thumbs down from the disapproving critics, Fanny had decided to overcompensate this time by dressing up to the nines in strappy skyscraping heels and a scandalous micromini. Seemed like she'd decided to make a last ditch attempt to gain his attention since she found herself fortuitously glued to his hunky side from sofa to buffet table. Surprisingly quite tenacious this little lady.
Quietly amused, I watched in increasing awe as the slinky predator cornered its lean, mean, sex-machine prey, weaving an endless web of prattle from Harry Potter's Deathly Hallows to boggling misadventures with board games. No doubt she was this close to suggesting a one-on-one adult version of Twister. Just like the last time, Barry's charming affability didn't fail to dim even a little though I saw that he was looking a bit stressed out at the end of the day. Barry : A bit tired, I'm afraid. I gotta get some rest soon. I'll see you tomorrow. Paul : Sure you wouldn't want to chat a bit more? Barry : Ummm... a little sleepy. Just tell everyone I said goodbye. Paul : Even Fanny? She might want to say farewell and... Barry : No! I mean, don't call her. I gotta go.
Wonder whether I could get her interrogated for lunch tomorrow.
With his guileless smile, his glib tongue and that easygoing charm, I would assume that Big Bicep Barry would be the perfect candidate for a man dealing with sales. I mean, how could someone resist his sales spiel? Trust me, the man could sell an igloo to an Eskimo ( provided they like guys with big guns ).
Yo, care to buy a bridge in Brooklyn?
Seems like the man's getting tired of chasing down clients all the way to the Arctic. Unable to reconcile with the endless slog in the family company, Big Bicep Barry has decided to branch into other paths instead. Somehow or rather drinking heavily during the other night has left him with multiple epiphanies. Weary with the neverending back-breaking obligations, he sent me a message this evening asking for some brainstorms. Since my first idea of working as a part-time gigolo cum pole dancer wasn't exactly to his discerning tastes, I managed to come up with several alternatives instead. Accountant
Dead boring, I know. But it does play to his skills - and obviously to his original job specifications. And hey with thick black frames and tie, he'd make a pretty sexy accountant. Barry : It's been years. You do know that I can't recall anything about accounts now, right? Diving instructor
Sure he'd love this job. Ferrying customers and students back and forth to the deep blue sea. Spending the other half of the time as the proverbial beach bum shelling, strumming the guitar and gazing at the waves. Not sure what his workaholic parents would think though ( would probably have a stroke come to think about it ). Barry : Make that multiple heart attacks. Club Med GO
Can't believe we never thought of this before. It's just perfect for a gregarious, amiable sort like him. Me, I would clam up and stare at people in bovine stupidity but I'm sure Barry would be happily chatting the Gentils Membres up in minutes. Barry : Would they hire me? Lounge singer
Last I heard he's still pretty much a karaoke king ( horror of horrors ). This renaissance man can strum a few tunes, mumble a few lines and he sure isn't afraid of the glaring spotlight. After all he did it all very well some time back. Anyone with a stage care to let him try? Barry : Uhh... no woman no cry? Shopkeeper
Seriously. His idea, not mine. Supposedly the man has a mini nest egg stashed somewhere and wouldn't mind investing. Not sure what he's gonna sell though. Even with his vaunted charm, I doubt we could sell second-hand board shorts only ( since he has an endless collection from Billabong and Quiksilver ). What could he sell? Maybe he could open ye olde curiosity shop peddling reproduction antiques and I could be the buyer! Barry : Hmmm...
With relatively free-seating during Chinese banquets, you can count yourself lucky if you're not seated between irksome relatives and bothersome frenemies. Or that amiable though mindlessly chattering fifth-auntie you're obliged to invite. Fortunately in my family we like lists - and table seatings are a prime favourite.
A fortunate circumstance since during a prolonged Chinese ten course dinner, you can find out the most peculiar things about your friends. Guess the free-flowing river of alcohol helps loosen the tongue. Unfortunately Big Bicep Barry's shirt remained puritanically buttoned despite my determined attempts to get him thoroughly soused.
Rock on!!
Okay. I admit he did unbutton a bit as the dinner progressed since the restaurant was turning unbearably hot. Being the gentleman that I am, I refrained from leaning over to squeeze lime on his chest and lick the deep cleft between his pecs.
Not to mention Charming Calvin was watching with evil eye barely metres away as he chomped suggestively on his durian chocolate cake.
Still... over abalone and shrimp, Barry managed to let fall several of his secrets from eschewing shark's fin ( a budding environmentalist this one ) to his fantasy of turning into a crazed guitar-banging rockstar. Barry : I could wear hot leather pants, break my electric guitar and scream on stage. Paul : You can do that right now. Barry : Nah, people watching. Paul : You could unbutton your shirt. Rockstars always unbutton. Barry : Very funny. I was even a woman once. A Spanish seniorita. Paul : You're a Spanish woman? Barry : In a past life, si senor. Paul : Holy transsexualism Batman!
And then he started to wax lyrical over Yang Guifei chanting favourite lines from a classic poem no doubt memorized back in school. Me, I count myself lucky if I can recall Three Blind Mice. Wouldn't have surprised me if Barry had been a reincarnation of that particular besotted poet since he seemed hopelessly enamoured of the rumoured full-figured Chinese beauty of ancient times.
An early evening in the meandering historical enclaves in Malacca as two friends met up for Bailey's Irish Cream Cheesecake. Big Bicep Barry had called me out earlier for the hilarious mockumentary Surf's Up - incidentally the perfect animated movie for a laid-back surfer dude like him. Though I had some serious doubts, surprisingly enough surfing penguins with koa surfboards actually work :) A pity they didn't have Jack Johnson strumming his tunes though.
Still Barry had other more important things on his mind. Paul : Seriously. You got a new place to avoid bad funk shui? Barry : Seriously. Hoping for a reversal of fortunes. Paul : You couldn't get new underwear instead? Maybe red Aussiebums? Barry : No. So where's Charming Calvin? Thought he was coming down this weekend? Paul : Yes, my poor dear. All alone.
Or that's what Calvin would like me to assume. For almost a year now he has led me to believe that he leads the life of a strict seminarian observing piety and chastity in his secluded hermitage / apartment during the weekends I go home.
Do not be fooled! Well he plays the sympathetic role of the discarded boyfriend weeping over a dinner of Ngan Yin peanuts and soya milk in his derelict abandoned apartment but I now know better. While I'm away for the weekend thinking with some heart-rending guilt that Calvin's sitting pitifully rejected by the phone waiting for it to ring, in reality he's actually out having the time of his life partying without restraint at the new Banana!
Really! While I was gone, it seems my man spent the time drooling over Sean Ghazi's tight bubble butt in Banana Republic. Wholly bewildered, I don't know which I'm more jealous of - the Banana or Sean's banana.
More likely Sean's.
Seriously. Go listen to Semalam!
Come on. Sexy. Intelligent. Articulate. And the man can seriously sing.
And did I mention his ass? Which even my taciturn Calvin didn't fail to mention which tells us something. There was even a naughty bit about Mr Ghazi's perky nipples as well but I shall keep that to myself ( unless Mr Ghazi himself wants to know and then he's more than welcome to mail me :P ). Though I hear from my sources that the man's already taken I can still dream, can't I? Sean Ghazi naked on a grand piano - that's my new fantasy of the week.
From what my reliable partner tells me though, seems like the Malaysian crooner performed a few songs at the opening of the Banana Republic.
And I missed it. Damn.
Then again if I had been there... I would have followed Mr Ghazi to the parking lot ogling his delicious ass. Then spent the night in jail waiting to be bailed out for stalking. Hmmm...
Not talking about myself of course. For all my wicked, disreputable past lives, God didn't see fit to bless me with glossy GQ looks.
But it's seemingly not that easy being pretty - or at least that's what the beautiful people tell me. For myself I'd like to try that novel experience myself, must be nice being ogled at by drooling strangers :P Despite the shallow benefits of looking helluva good ( landing dates, job offers and such ), supposedly you also get passed on a lot by regular folks who only judge by your looks. Pandering to the infamous stereotype of the vacuous blond bimbo, overly handsome boys unfortunately make a similar impression since there are always people who only equate brains with an unkempt, nerdy Einstein-esque look. So when it comes to the more serious, mentally taxing accounts, pretty boys often get overlooked.
Even in a family-run company.
*Growl* I'm not just a pretty face...
Which turns mild-mannered Barry into a rampaging hulk ( and no, he didn't tear off his shirt despite my hoping he would ). Every once in a while I get frequent furious flurries from Big Bicep Barry on SMS so I decided to look the fella up today before he went crazy ballistic killing his fragile handphone keypad with his muscley fingers.
Could see the broad-shouldered fella a mile away sitting looking blue over at the cafe. Even his perky nips looked a bit downcast. Barry : Frustrated! Paul : Sexually Frustrated? Barry : No! Work! Paul : Why?
Gonna summarize his entire diatribe here ( with furious expletives removed ) but the gist of it has his entire company board stereotyping him as a male himbo and passing him over for meatier accounts. I don't blame them :P Hard not to assume that his IQ equals his biceps circumference after all since very few actually look past that shiny studly Chippendale appearance. Seriously, people who look at luscious muscleboy Barry would never assume that he revels in obscure scientific treatises, googles ancient sanskrit text or that he possesses a degree in accounting.
Me, I thought he had a brain the size of a pea :P But he certainly proved me wrong. Paul : Still, better pretty than being ugly, Barry. Look at Betty. Barry : True but... Betty? Paul : Ugly Betty? Barry : Don't tell but it's actually that's one of my secret obsessions. I love the show. Keep missing it tho. Paul : No need, you're not missing a thing. I am Ugly Betty. Barry : Nah, you're more sweet Henry to me. Paul : Thanks a lot!
At least talk of Ugly Betty's scandalous trials and tribulations managed to steer him off his bullish rage. Soon we were talking about whether Betty Suarez would make a better match with her caddish boss Daniel Meade or the nerdy accountant Henry Grubstick. Despite his geeky looks, me I heart Henry too :)
Have learnt that it never pays to underestimate folks since you never know, beneath that unflattering tweed suit, he could have six pack abs :)
Shhh... don't tell anyone but for the past few weeks I've had the surreal pleasure of having a couple of half-naked sweaty men in my bed - neither of them are at all related to me or my boyfriend.
And both pretty scrumptious specimens of masculinity, I'll have to admit.
Alas I had to drool silently on my side of the bed since I don't think my prudish, morally-upright fella, Charming Calvin would look too kindly on any adulterous behaviour. :) The first was my irreverent ISO who stayed over the night before our fun-filled jaunt abroad arrogantly strutting about in his skimpy CKs while I blissfully wondered whether sleeping with an ex would be considered a cardinal sin.
And then last night I practically forced Big Bicep Barry at gunpoint into bed with me. Really, the poor guy already looked dead tired after making a hurried work expedition through several smaller towns on the west coast - via a shockingly circuitous route - before returning to the city for a motivational course. To add to his already packed schedule, he had to drag me along ( unwillingly, I assure you! ) as a guest to the final evening of that course.
What can I say? Not only was he yawning away in various dull intervals but during that time, he also had developed an odd habit of undulating on his chair. Wondered if he'd actually taken up my offer of pole dancing as Big Boy Barry of the Kayu Jatis. Barry : Could I ask for a favour from you? Paul : Lick the back of your throat with my tongue? Barry : No! I have an itch on my back. Paul : Cheh. Barry : Scratch my back. Please. Paul : Not a problem. Here?
( Pause ) Barry : That's my ass. The itch is on my back. Paul : Oopsie.
What can I say? I have problems following directions.
You mind scratching my itch, laddie?
The funny part was my well-built friend had an itch ( developed sunburn from all those afternoon breast-strokes natch ) on his back that he simply couldn't reach. Although the varied benefits of hitting the gym are obvious enough from better cardiovascular fitness to intimidating far more puny opponents, it has never occurred to me that getting gym-bulked up could lead to some pretty hilarious circumstances as well. Seriously, Barry has biceps and triceps so large ( hence the name ) that even with arm-breaking yoga maneuvering, he couldn't reach that particular spot between his shoulder blades. Add that to the enviable width of his shoulders and it was practically destination unknown for him - The Unvisited Valley of the Spine.
Fortunately I was a kind ( and not at all lustful ) Samaritan who offered to scratch that itch. With his shirt off of course. How else would I have gotten straight to the good spot?
Guess the man's getting an ancient backscratcher from me ( he claims it's God's gift to itchy men! ) for his birthday :)
Sometimes things occur so providentially that I can't help but write about it - and lately it seems as if Big Bicep Barry's gotten himself involved in all sorts of queer shenanigans. Guess the man just needs something to keep him occupied through the week till our ( admittedly increasingly rare ) weekend movie nights.
Of course since our man's the gregarious sort, he doesn't find himself short of company - though his bunch of good-time cronies just doesn't seem to frequent cinemas possibly because they are too busy peddling pirated DVDs I suspect. Or busy urging tipsy clients to continue plying their karaoke gals with overpriced alcoholic drinks. Well obviously the criminally-inclined bunch do find other legal activities to fill their time during the day since one of their number actually sponsored Big Bicep Barry as an emcee for a fashion show with a walk-on spot on the runway himself. Barry : So how? Any tips? Paul : Like I'm a huge Tyra Banks izzit? Barry : Well I know you're a fan of America's Next Top after all. Paul : Funny. All I can say is... be fieeeerrrcceee.... Barry : And how would I do that? Paul : Going in a sleeveless tee, flexing your arms and pouting would do it. Barry : Contrary to the rumours you're spreading around, I'm not a gigolo. Paul : Is it modelling for Aussiebum? 2xist? Ginch Gonch? Barry : Hardly! You think Janice Dickinson would take me in? BTW I'm vaguely disturbed by your knowledge of underwear.
Unfortunately no, we won't be seeing him strut his stuff in skimpy wonderjocks anytime soon.
Watch me on Janice Dickinson's!
Sigh.
But that's not the shocking part of course. What stunned me was the fact that Barry actually turned in to watch America's Next Top Model. Seriously how gay is that! Well only as gay as watching Janice Dickinson's trials with her new ( but unashamedly gorgeous ) models. What next? Watching Queer Eye?
The things you learn when you pay attention. And here I haven't even mentioned that he's actually attending a motivational course this weekend :p
After being tied up by the incessant demands of big business for some time ( and possibly the infamous Bad Ass Brenda ), Big Bicep Barry messaged me today with an interesting proposition. Barry : What are you doing in May? Paul : Not sure. Working. Why? Barry : Wanna go to a hopefully deserted tropical island? Paul : Sounds interesting, kinda like Lost. Will you be naked, oiled and willing? Barry : Very funny.
Although it would have been far more interesting if he'd suggested a perverted homosexual weekend orgy, that would have been stretching the truth ( and possibly inspiring unintentional jealousy in Charming Calvin ) since my prim and proper Victorian pal actually called later to tell me he had an extra spot on his diving crew.
Scuba diving that is.
Sigh. I stupidly leapt at the offer having wild irrational thoughts of searching coral reefs for hidden shipwrecks and ancient pirate treasure when all Barry had in mind were colourful Nemos and Dorys - and of course snapping quantities of film with his recently repurchased camera ( so far free from the loathsome techie curse ). Barry : So how about it? Paul : You've got to be kidding right? Barry : But you showed so much interest when I brought my photobooks over! Paul : Who's looking at the fishes! You and a number of your well-built hottie buddies were all wearing skimpy swim trunks. Barry : But the fishes... Paul : Sure, they are cute and all... but I find the really minuscule ones awfully icky. Barry : Icky? You deal with blood and gore on a daily basis and you find little fishes icky? Paul : Yeah, just imagine! They could make their way into any one of the bodily orifices. Barry : And you'd just have to think of that. Paul : Really. Imagine if it sneaks into your speedos and then goes ... Barry : Don't even say it! Paul : What can I say? It's dirty, it's disgusting, it's degenerate - I love it!
Really. There's nothing I love more than travelling. Exciting land tours through ancient walled communities and exotic bazaars, I'm there. Road trips to bustling cities and endless suburbia, I'm there. But I draw the line at goggling over slippery little fishes while struggling to tread water ( and worrying endlessly over the bends and anal-probing sea life ).
I think I just got attacked by some little fishies!
Honestly though, although I don't count myself as all that squeamish, there are still a few things in the world that I find simply... icky.
1) Maggots. Been a persistent nightmare since one of my on-calls when I saw a whole thriving village of maggots nesting in a man's throat. Don't know how the CSI team deals with those wriggling creepy-crawlies but it's all I can do to keep my lunch down when I catch one of those.
2) Worms. Not the usual type you snag onto fish hooks since those are fine by me. These are the disgustingly slimy creatures that dwell in the gut resembling nothing more than the sand monsters in Dune. Imagine them crawling up the oesophagus into your throat - and then taking a curious peek out of your mouth. Saw that once in paediatrics and I almost ran screaming.
3) Hands dangling by the torn tendons. Nuff said, I think.
And now of course we have little mini fishes swimming into my ear - and other bodily orifices.
Since Big Bicep Barry's birthday falls squarely in the midst of next week, we decided to go out for a celebratory pre-birthday supper tonight. Started a little late since both of us had made prior engagements we couldn't get out of, me with my convivial ex-colleagues and him with some of his much less convivial clients.
Still it was good to see him looking all hearty, happy and extremely fit especially after a more vigorous gym regimen to lose the dreaded pounds prior to the coming inevitable end-of-the-year bashes. Exchanged our birthday / Christmas gifts, had our quick repast together ( his as usual much much less than mine ) and ended up going to Alagaësia together.
No, it isn't a peculiar little-known euphemism for a dirty orgiastic experience but a fictional land, once peaceful ( aren't they all? ) and now terrorized by a sinister megalomaniacal overlord living in his dark, dank fortress of evil ( why do they persist living in all that filth and squalor? Can't they afford a glittering Versailles? ) - soon to be overthrown by a sexy underaged blond Bel Ami farmboy in leather and his pet fire-breathing dragon.
Come play with my fire-breathing dragon
Unfortunately only one gratuitous, titillating shirtless scene to speak of - and thankfully it's of the Bel Ami boy - and not the muddied overlord or his ill-kempt servants. Barry : You are drooling. Paul : Look closely, he's a hotter Simon Baker. Barry : And a juvenile, don't forget. Paul : We'll just assume he's safely above the age of consent. Barry : Fat chance. Paul : But none on him. Look at his abs. Barry : Bah. I have better pecs.
True. He does. I checked.
Well blond twinks and hot marketing execs aside, think of Eragon as the intergalactic soap opera Star Wars placed in the dwarves-and-elves populated forests and glades of Tolkien's Middle Earth. Albeit with none of the adult angst and intricate complexities of the former since the story has been simplified and dumbed down for the edification of adventuresome tweens everywhere. They do have wry talking dragons with alarmingly accelerated growth rates though.
Still, the startling similarities with the life of a certain Luke Skywalker can be quite jarring at times though I hope we don't have to see the elven warrior princess wearing the infamous donut braids in future sequels. Though I doubt there would be any unless more titillating scenes abound ( featuring the blond twink mentioned above ) since Eragon sadly doesn't live up to the hype.
The loathsome techie curse is over! Seems like I'm not the most jinxed guy on the planet after all when it comes to electronic gadgets. There was a time years back when I had a supernatural succession of demonically possessed cellphones that inevitably committed harakiri after three months of usage. Nothing as drastic as an exploding laptop though - mostly death by drowning.
Fortunately it seems like that particular curse has mysteriously transferred itself to Big Bicep Barry via magical osmosis. Two years back, Barry almost bankrupted himself in a desperate bid to get the camera of his dreams ( and the matching underwater casing ) just to snap pictures of little fishies.
Unfortunately during one of his intrepid expeditions into the deep, the ill-fated ensorcelled camera sans underwater casing decided to drown itself in the colourful reefs of the South China Sea. By the time he managed to retrieve the drowning camera and attempt immediate resuscitation, it was already on its last legs.
Fuckin hell... what's gonna happen to the next camera? Go into the washing machine?
Undaunted, Barry sold his remaining kidney - and probably his firstborn - to barter for a new camera at those good folks at Olympus. That last time he had to spin some heartwrenching tales worthy of Oprah while shedding some manly tears to coerce them into driving down the price of the camera.
Unfortunately despite taking lengthy notes on dispelling curses from the local witchdoctors, the centuries-old curse still held strong. Which led to this... Barry : Think I need a new camera. Paul : Good God. Not again! What happened now? Drowning again? Barry : Hey the old Olympus ver 1.0 committed suicide in April, this one is the new one which was shanghaied. Paul : Abducted by revolutionary Nepalese? Did they send a ransom note in Parbatiya? Barry : Not sure, maybe by indigent Vietnamese refugees. Paul : It's a curse, I tell ya! Step away from the cameras!
The alfalfa-sprout-munching, super-zen dude was seriously bummed. Since the fatal abduction though, Barry has been scouring the ends of the earth for a similar camera - since the underwater casing already cost a bomb! - before finding it from two excellent sources, the mysterious corporation of Ebay and those familiar folks at Olympus. Peculiarly, the seller on Ebay shied away from Barry's multiple quotations which led us to think that he might have been the mysterious kidnapper of the Olympus ver 2.0.
Not sure if he'd be able to repeat the ordeal but obviously I underestimated Barry's charming manly charms since he managed to swindle the camera service centre into offering their last camera for ( what he assures me is ) a steal! Right now he's thinking of setting up a Help Barry Fund to drum up enough cash for the camera purchase price :)
