Tactless

Youth and idealism certainly comes hand in hand. Just fresh out of school, we're usually full of rose-tinted dreams and towering ambitions, filled with righteous fire and zeal all ready to make our mark and conquer the world. And yet even with the most hardened, cynical teenager, there's always this certain innocence and naivete that lends itself to the most surprising ( and ultimately refreshing ) comments.

Surprisingly even with the patent charms of his disreputable shack, Handsome Hui has somehow managed to lure two unsuspecting tenants into his shadowy lair - no doubt enticed by the alluring sight of his barely clad lean physique ( oh wait, that's me! ). Like the bewitched, bothered and bewildered victims of horror flicks, the two innocents marched blindly to their doom as they unwittingly set up camp in Handsome Hui's House of Horrors.

As I tried my best to save the stumbling duo, I managed to whisk the younger partner away for lunch... hereby called Junior Jesse. The surprisingly charming, youthful barista certainly didn't find anything amiss in the House of Horrors despite the eeriely swinging porch, the flickering neon lights and the dangling cobwebs. Obviously the ubiquitous Amityville Mansion interior design style seems to have found an ardent fan in him. All my attempts to draw him away from certain doom turned out a sad failure as Jesse seemed patently oblivious to it all. Hui just watched me balefully over his lunch, possibly promising painful tortures with whips, leather and hot oils... ( wait, that's me again! )

Still the lunch didn't turn out to be a waste of my effort since Jesse's foot-in-the-mouth disease turned out to be quite painfully hilarious.

Jesse : So that's how you got to know Hui. You work with him?
Paul : Yeah, I do. See him quite often at work actually.
Jesse : Do you guys eat each other often?

As you can believe, I practically choked on a wantan. Word for word, that's what he said. And since Handsome Hui has actually found his way to my humble blog, he can certainly confirm what was said. Thankfully, what Junior Jesse actually meant was did we take lunch together - and not some purported attempt at cannibalism. Innocent mistake, I'm sure, and I was quick to point out that I have never actually had the chance to eat, lick or bite on any portion of Handsome Hui.

Still, it did give me some deliciously wicked ideas. :)

Feckless

Surprisingly, it didn't take much to persuade my movie posse to catch the latest Tom Cruise vehicle, Mission Impossible 3 today - especially since it turned out that Preity Posh is a true-blue Katie Holmes wannabe. However, true to the ads, the little Napoleon has practically taken over the entire franchise, turning the other team members into merely bit-part supporting players for his lead - and practically making the entire IMF merely ornamental to his character's mission. This certainly isn't the teamwork of the Mission Impossible teams of yore since it's pretty obvious who's running the show.


Big Big Explosions!
Let's face it, Tom Cruise certainly isn't going to win awards for drama anytime soon but his mask-like face seems to suit him in this movie as the enigmatic Ethan Hunt - apart from the nearly torturous scenes as he tries his best to convey his feelings to his amore, only to end up looking quite pitifully constipated instead. Still there's action aplenty over here - and if you like trailers and helicopters exploding with little victimized pedestrians being scattered like mindless ants, you'd love this.

Unsurprisingly Big Bicep Barry refused to join the posse in this impossible mission which left Handsome Hui, Shameless Shalom and the ever-enthusiastic Preity Posh to round up the team. Suggested to Big Bicep Barry that he might enjoy watching Tom Cruise flash his trademark million dollar grin before he blasts his way through an impossible array of bullets that miss him only by a hair's breadth but Barry declined, citing work commitments, rising fuel costs and a surprising yen for non-violence. Certainly explains why we haven't seen any action films together.

Admittedly kinda odd for any friend of mine since I'm quite well known in these parts for my bizarre ( near homicidal and possibly psychotic ) fantasies of viciously throttling anyone who gets in my way - and wishing ill karma on those who are too far away for my eager hands. Every once my dark side rears up again and I find myself dreaming up the most deliciously wicked schemes. Which might explain how I always end up rooting for the villains.

A few hot men abound, littering the screen, but none last long enough on the screen to outshine Tom of course. You'll have to watch to find out who exactly I rooted for but it's certainly not the prissy Capote whining over his rabbit's foot ( the impossibly evil Phillip Seymour Hoffman ). Please, I have good taste in men. Still, I should have known better than to trust the sleek, sexy types in suits. Sigh. Somehow the pretty ones always betray you in the end.

Then again, I wouldn't have shot him. I'd have tortured him slowly - perhaps played with him a little before the end. Revenge always tastes better when it's dragged on a little, don't you think?

Speechless

Turns out that it's particularly fitting to talk about different voices especially since I'm glued to American Idol - and also because I've had a slight tickle in my throat for the past few days.

Voices always come as a surprise actually. While occasionally stereotypes do actually ring true - that perky blond cheerleader really could have the squealy, high-pitched ever-enthusiastic voice that makes you wanna wring her neck and the husky, smoky siren's voice could actually belong to the exotic goddess beckoning you over at the end of the bar, it is also quite possible that the sexy, masculine baritone that practices pure seduction over the airwaves belongs to an old, arthritic granny knitting crochet on her rocking chair. Even the underachieving finalist on American Idol, Elliott Yamin with his plain, average man kinda looks has an indescribably beautiful voice that sounds almost sublime on stage. Over at work, I've seen it often enough to believe that the old jokes actually holds true.

Unlike the obsessive karaoke idol wannabes - like my woefully untalented neighbour who wails unthinkingly all evening long in tune with the mewling cats, not everyone has the guts to go live impromptu - certainly not me despite my seemingly all-confident persona online. My astounding vocal talents, whatever they might be, are forever confined to the four small walls of my shower I'm afraid. Big Bicep Barry, for one, doesn't seem to have any qualms over wielding the all-powerful microphone in public. Certainly not short of confidence, that one. Though I haven't heard him belt out some tunes, even Charming Calvin has mentioned an odd predilection ( fetish? ) for karaoke bars.

Just yesterday while Barry was humming a tune under his breath - shall I tell you that he secretly sings My Hips Don't Lie? - he confided in me that he secretly wishes that his voice was different. For a guy who maneuvres his hulking vehicle in town with those big arms, it always surprises me that his singing voice is far from what one would expect. Think more of a high tenor... which is why he wishes for a robust baritone which I assume would be more in keeping with his brawn.

Oddly enough, my voice deepens, smoothens and becomes almost irresistibly husky when I'm actually painfully aching in my throat - kinda like I am right now though it's getting better. Normally a horribly nasal baritenor that practically mimics Nanny Fine in the early hours of the morning ( and fortunately becomes more recognisably human as the day goes by ), my tone drops several octaves when I fall miserably ill - and suddenly I'm mumbling in the lower bass tones like Michael Buble / Jack Johnson.

Which is why tonight I'm gonna jive with the jazz musicians and challenge the screeching diva several doors down. Time for some sweet revenge.

Breathless

For some reason, this seems to be my week for perpetuating the erroneous myth that gay men are sadly undeniably shallow in their mindless pursuit of youth and beauty. For those who actually doubt that good looks actually matter in the real world, look no further.

Those who have read my blog incessantly would notice a brief mention I made weeks back about a fresh-faced young patient of mine. Well, not that juvenile after all since the Breathless Brat's already a virile eighteen but still, the kid's practically a younger brother to me now since he seems to have an unusual ( I would all it uncanny! ) predilection for falling desperately breathless during my calls. Though we have made astounding leaps in medical technology, bronchial asthma still remains as one of the tougher diseases to beat - and every once in a while, the occasional non-compliant asthmatic still finds himself landed in the intensive care.

Just to prove my point, Breathless Brat has been in here more times than I've gotten laid in the past year. Either stress or some other precipitating factor - that I have been unable to elicit - seems to be tipping him off every few months. To add to his woes, the Brat occasionally misses his treatments.

It was just at the tip of my tongue to ream him out for being such a foolish idiot but once he turns those doe-eyed brown eyes to me with that piteous look, I found myself melting. Sigh. It's never easy ranting over the importance of being compliant to his medications and generally scaring the living daylights out of the kid when you're too busy being distracted by the sight of his nicely cut abs.


Come get me...
For those who are wondering, I don't usually go for smooth-faced twinks barely out of school. The jailbait I mentioned looks yummy but rosy-cheeked, barely-adult boys just don't do it for me. No offense meant but I like my men to look and feel like MEN after all :) Some men look better clean shaven but that doesn't hold true for all guys. The scruffy look has its advantages. After all, there's nothing quite like the feel of a scruffy man's chin, chockful of bristles, as he rubs it across my neck just enough for a light burn.

Eye of the Beholder

They say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder - but every once in a while you find a lucky guy that almost everyone beholds as beautiful. Sure, I usually decry the fatal obsession that gay men have over good looks but every once in a while I realize I'm not exactly immune myself.


The Eye of the Beholder!
Certainly not anyone I know personally of course - since associating with such magnificent gods would have poor average me surely dying a slow, painful death. That doesn't seem to be a problem for my infamous ISO though. During one of our irregular meets, I dragged him out to a certain shopping mall and as we were entering the mall, we bumped into one of his gym acquiantances ( I just realized I don't even know what gym he goes to! :O I assume it's Fitness First! ).

Believe me when I say this guy looked amazing. Not sure where I've seen him before but Mr Cover Boy had one of those familiar faces that could have appeared in some hair or shampoo ads ( or perhaps in my wet dreams! ). Sure, my ISO is no slouch when it comes to the looks department but Mr Cover Boy was absolutely breath-taking. Not only did he have the prerequisite gym freak bod with all the attending muscular lumps and bumps but he also had the most amazingly smooth skin I've ever seen in a man, seemingly as smooth and poreless as alabaster and surely his toothy megawatt smile would have made an orthodontist weep in gratitude. God, you just had to hate him but the boy turned out to be charmingly bashful - and only in his early twenties, damn him!

After the brief introductions were made - that actually passed in a hormonal blur since I was literally transfixed by the boy's well-built chest - we made some small chat. Well, my ISO said everything that was proper while I gaped in a disconcerting way over the poor Cover Boy like a dumb, drooling Quasimodo.

Cover Boy : Oh and you're ISO's older brother?
Paul : No, I'm his father.
Cover Boy : Uhh.. I'm sorry. I just meant that...
My ISO : Not a problem. He's off his medications today so he's a little grumpy.
Paul : Grrr...

Of course I was mostly silent since any attempt to drag me into the conversation would have had me falling lips first onto the boy's perky nipples. After Cover Boy left - and I drooled mightily over his tight behind, my ISO saw fit to give me a light whack on my head to help me regain some coherence.

My ISO : What was up with that? You didn't say a single word back there.
Paul : Couldn't speak. My tongue was on the floor.
My ISO : He does look good, doesn't he?
Paul : Damn, wouldn't I give anything to walk in his shoes.
My ISO : Your wickedness in such a body? That would seriously wreak havoc in the civilized world as we know it. Anyway, nothing that good genes, a proper diet, regular facials and gym work wouldn't cure.
Paul : Yeah. Yeah. Like that ever worked. You dated him?
My ISO : No. Contrary to what you think, I don't sleep with everyone.
Paul : That's not what they're saying in the locker rooms.

If this post seems charmingly incoherent, it probably is. Seriously though, say what you will about the shallowness of pretty packaging but still it must be great to look that good. What must it be like to walk into a store, pick out the most outrageous pile of gunny sack and still come out looking absolutely fabulous? Hell, if I looked like him I'd be modelling underwear. It's good to share after all.

And no, this doesn't count as skanky since it's all in my head and I didn't say or do anything remotely kinky at all!