A Guy's Guy

See, I'm not really your regular guy's guy. The hail-fellow-well-met bloke with a brash, roguish quip for his mates at the bar before loudly buying them all a round of drinks. Obvious enough from what I've written here before that I'm far from that Shakespearean ideal. Swear I wouldn't even know what to say to such a testosterone-y fella.

Guy : Whoa. Would you look at that car? Hear how that gazillion horse power engine purrs? I bet that baby can really fly.
Paul : Umm... it has four nice wheels?

Sorry. What can I say? My mind wanders when it comes to automobiles. Never could quite see the beauty in chrome, metal and rubber. But gimme a well-built guy and then you'll have me talking a mile. Trust me, I can spot a cute guy 100 metres away.

Or even that perfect window display. Or the perfect souffle.

I know. I can be so gay. So I get worried about the future. What if by some ungodly miracle I actually adopt a son? Would I be able to provide a positive male influence for the child?

Wouldn't want to be totally gender-discriminatory in my teachings - but what if my hypothetical child Nate somehow intentionally gravitates towards the rough and tumble world of sports? Or even - God forbid! - the great outdoors? Seriously. All I know about football is that two teams with guys in shorts fool around with a ball. I can't even recall the number of players.

And if not knowing the facts isn't bad enough, I'm lousy at the game as well. Don't even talk to me about hiking and camping.

Fortunately the world ( and Britney Spears! ) has come up with a viable solution for me.

A male nanny - or manny. Thank God for that Charles in Charge twist. Quite clear from their sporty outdoorsy credentials that these twenty-something mannies are geared toward households with rough-n-ready boys - or perhaps tomboyish girls. Not only do these young buff guys come qualified with relevant child-rearing degrees, they can also come up with wonderful home-cooked meals and fix stuff around the house. They even have a fast appointment interview ( equivalent to a speed dating service ) to hire these outgoing fellas.


Manny reporting for duty!
A hot young Manny Poppins at home to babysit my son and do a lil bit of housekeeping? Just the perfect solution for me, don't you think?

Paul : How was Nate this evening?
Manny : He was great, sir. Did his homework, then we went for a boat ride down the river before shooting some hoops afterward. Nate even helped me make dinner tonight.
Paul : Whoa. Certainly a productive day. The lasagna was great by the way.
Manny : Thank you, sir. Even took the liberty to repair the kitchen door this morning.
Paul : You're certainly a great help. I take it from the relative silence that Nate has gone to bed?
Manny : Yeah, he was tuckered out after our basketball game.
Paul : That's great, Manny. Now ... let's say you teach me how to play ball instead?
Manny : Uhh... sir, that's not the ball.
Paul : Deep breaths. Relax. You don't even have to call me sir.

Okay.

Oops, I did it again. So there might be some lil kinks to iron out. :)

Hard Music

Take a look around the hospital. See that guy bobbing his head to the music as he streaks down the halls. No. Not the deranged guy with the wild afro-like hair wailing in the straighjacket.

Look further. The guy in the blue scrubs. Yeah, that's so me.

Catch Grey's Anatomy and you'll marvel at the quirky tunes humming along while the newly graduated interns stumble indecisively over their increasingly complex cases. They're not the only ones dancing to the beat of their own drum while they go about their own work. I have my own theme song playing as I do my work as well.

And it's hard rock all the while.

Please. What did you expect? Enya?

Seriously. At some ungodly hour in the morning, I need - at the very least - Timbaland thumping away to keep me awake and running. Just an eletrifying jolt of snazzy drumbeats to get me going - almost as efficient as that wonderfully piquant hit of java.


Sometimes you need to shut out the noise!
You can't seriously be expecting weepy sentimental instrumentals at the wee hours of the morning? Although the seemingly prevalent soundtrack in the intensive care, the wailing strains of Celine Dion and her ilk would likely put me back into a comatose gaga state just like the rest of my heavily sedated patients. Healing soporific-soothing music the likes of pan pipe strains and erhu strings would definitely push me over the edge into a coma.

And oddly enough the music helps me concentrate.

Usually have my MP3 player themed for work. Of course I usually sprint down to the resuscitation area of the emergency to the whispers of Breathe Me by Sia or Harder to Breathe by Maroon 5. Shockingly apt, I know. Of course I try my best to avoid Take My Breath Away.

Then again, I might just try No Air by Jordin Sparks.

Speed Dating

Somehow a brilliant mind ( though not particularly novel ) has hit on the perfect way for single gayfolk in the city to find their insignificant others!

Speed dating.

Short, succinct and sweet. Could anything be simpler?

Elegant dinner parties for singles would pander to the aspiring ( backstabbing? )social hostess in all gay boys but hors d'oeuvres, social niceties and genteel conversation ( with the occasional slip to verbal catfights ) can sometimes drag on for just a bit.

And you know men can be far more primal ( and impatient ) when it comes to the mating game.

More so these days in the generation that lives on instant gratification. We want everything NOW - and even better, five minutes ago.

Which is why speed dating seems perfect. The breeders have already attempted this method with varying degress of success and I don't see why it can't prove to be a hit with the alternative crowd as well. Just perfect for the shallow, superficial needs of aspiring urban gay men with short MTV-attention spans searching for a partner - no matter how temporary - these days. :)

Kinda wham, bam, thanks-for-the-business-card ma'am.

Whether looking for a cowboy to knock boots with forever or just a quick steamy hustle behind the cantina, speed dating seems to be the way. After all, it gets the prickly introductions out of the way in a jiffy - and frequently advertises the fella's immediate intentions without preamble.

With only five minutes or so to sprint through a date, you know what you're in for after all.

Mike : Hey, I'm Mike. I'm versatile. I like golden showers, BDSM and the occasional fisting. There's a dungeon in my basement made just for me and you.


Getting ready to party...
Certainly no romantic candlelight dinners and walks in the park for this fella. Far different Maslow needs from the guy who'd say this.

Mike : Hey, I'm Mike. I'm an investment banker. If you like Piña Coladas and getting caught in the rain, if you're not into yoga, if you have half a brain! If you like making love at midnight in the dunes on the Cape then I'm the love that you've looked for. Write to me and escape.

Given a chance at a speed dating scene, I'd probably jump at it. Unfortunately in my extremely horny mood, I'm not sure which one I'd call. Despite the sweet ultra-romantic message in the latter, I have a bad feeling the dungeon might just come in handy.

The Bunny Mafia Presents

Am I the only one who dreads costume parties?

Halloween and New Year's aside, I rarely get that chance to rummage through the costumier's chest but every once in a while, someone decides to hold a party. Just the sheer tension of choosing one particular costume out of the hundreds available gives me the hives! For that one special night, you could be literally anyone - and it's so hard to decide whether to come out as a Mother Superior of the Ecclesiastical Order of Endless Copulation or perhaps a vengeful, cynical Count of Monty Python. Hell, even a Jedi knight!

Or how about the bloodthirsty Scorpion Samurai, scourge of medieval Japan?

With the Bunny Mafia hosts threatening to forcibly dress miscreants ( God knows what they can only dream of ) who refuse to comply with the costume rules, I knew I had to come up with something. Me, I decided to take the safe, boring route and drag out my dusty old scrubs scrounged from way back during an elective abroad. Easy enough to come as Dr McCheesy after all.

Copped a cheap, easy way out.


Getting ready for the party...
Though I had my eye on a particular priest's uniform during the trip to the costumier. After all, I have a nice, shiny crucifix and bible to match. Well there's always a next time. Far more inventive souls dug through their cupboards to come up with Roman footsoldiers and supernatural manga detectives which explains the likes of Phallus Maximus and Kira / L of Death Note fame.

Even a swashbuckling female pirate called Captain Punani.

The things you learn at a costume party.

1) Invariably there are identical doubles.
Two doctors, two romans, two cowboys, two chefs, two construction workers. And a couple of military / police officials. Of course with gay men around, you also have the entire crew of YMCA ( short of the Indian chief! ) out to help. Gotta admit the Indonesian construction worker had great biceps to match the tight white tee though.

2) Inevitably doing drag lands you in the john.
And there they tend to worship the porcelain goddess. Can't be sure why... but I believe the combination of extreme high altitudes ( due to the supernaturally skycraping stilettos ) and free flow alcohol leads to certain inebriation. Then again I could blame the tight corsets.

3) Inescapable fact that someone has to get naked.
Or almost. In this instance, more than one manly chest got bared - and more than one nipple got pinched. Possibly forewarned, Genial Graham a.k.a. Nipples came forearmed and overdressed in lab coat - but the twin toga boys were already half naked anyway ( despite protests that Speedos underneath are adequate for T&A coverage ). Not to mention more skirts were lifted last night than in a raunchy Moulin Rouge matinee.

Black underwear seemed to be the order of the day - though a cute ( Irish? ) Artful Dodger seemed to have cute printed blue boxers on.

4) Impossibly doctors can still get tipsy.
A definite truism. Surprisingly I still managed to see double last night after downing one vodka too many. An achievement of sorts. Good to know since I thought my wild salad days of being thoroughly soused were over.

And as usual some guys are so much more fun after a drink or two :) Our buttoned-up Lanky Lex for instance. Bottoms up!

Cancer Sticks

I think smoking rooms should be established everywhere.

Don't get me wrong. I don't smoke.

Enough terrifying anti-smoking posters ( with blackened bits of lung tissue ) pasted all over the hospital walls as a stern warning after all. Would like to say I'm a cigarette virgin but that would be a lie. Experimented before ( you know I'm a curious sort ) but the one time I tried it on a dare, I probably hacked out half my lung. Never really recovered from that traumatic experience. Obviously that was also the last time I ever did it.

Of course, the very fact that my own father puffed away endlessly like a smoking chimney was certainly a deterrent in itself.

Never could stand the cigarette smell - no matter that dedicated smokers would declare it the divine whiff of approaching nirvana! Burnt ashes I call it! Even had to resist french-kissing a dreamy one-night-stand just because his sexy lips reeked of an overused ashtray.


Mind if I light up?
And you can already guess that I'm usually not that discriminatory.

Honestly though I actually respect the right for smokers to light up. After all, the government is still condoning the sale of the cancer sticks ( despite the obvious surgeon general's warning ) so why are we stopping them? Seems to me like a curtailment of their rights to mutilate their lungs. Believe smoking rooms should be set up in certain areas just for them to take their cigarette break.

But please. Not the men's loo. The smell is already redolent enough without adding the exotic tang of tobacco to the heady mix. Sometimes I feel like plastering a radio-active sign to the men's room. It IS that bad.

And in a place like the hospital where smoking's literally banned from everywhere, you can imagine that furtive smokers are forced to gather around in isolated toilets to light up. Hence the endless trail of smoke that comes out from underneath the cubicle doors. Just amazed the fire extinguishers don't get turned on.

Seriously. I wish they'd get a room.

Preferably on the rooftop. Then the smokers can all enjoy their whiff of nirvana and I can go back to breathing exhaust fumes.

BTW my dad finally quit cold turkey ten years back. Not sure if he's feeling fine about that though.