Lovin Robots & Slippery Nipples

Thank God It's Friday.

Seriously. Working overtime at work has given me an even bigger craving for a night out with drinks on fridays so it's getting to be a weekly event meeting up with the Lady Lushes!

Of course I arrived unfashionably late - though I wasn't the only tardy soul - since I actually stole away for a quick afternoon matinee to catch the fabulous WALL·E with my ISO. Shared a popcorn and coke for tea while we delved into the polluted garbage world of the innocent, wide-eyed WALL·E and his serious-minded lady love with the endless directives, EVE. With the recurring Hello Dolly references, it was quite obvious they had a musical-lovin gay man onboard thinking about his Streisand and his Sunday clothes :)

WALL-E is the only one still truly living. And what is the ultimate purpose of living? To love. And WALL-E falls head over heels with a robot named EVE. Now, WALL-E's feelings aren't reciprocated because, well, she has no feelings. She's a robot, cold and clinical. WALL-E is the one who has evolved over time and garnered feelings. So in the end, it's gonna be WALL-E's pursuit to win EVE's heart, and his unique appreciation of life to become mankind's last hope to rediscover its roots. In short, it's going to take a robot's love to help make the world go round.

Andrew Stanton

Make sure you don't miss the obsessive lil clean-up bot M-O as well. And stay for the credits seriously - beautiful homage to all the great artists!

One of the reasons I finally reached Bangsar sweating after a desperate run to catch the Lady Lushes for dinner! And Pious Peter who came along to add sobriety to the occasion. No doubt our tardiness would have earned a severe scold from him - only he was too worried we'd pranked him and left him there.

Come on, doesn't he know us well enough by now to know we don't do simple pranks? :)


And here I thought I'm late!
So what did I do with the girls? Other than sipping the usual cocktails, slagging the wandering skanks and slurping the delicious man-candy, we also shared multiple orgasms, checked out slippery nipples and finally met McFrenchy.

Paul : Wait a minute, where's my orgasm?
Waitress : You ordered only one, sir.
Paul : Definitely two. I don't share my orgasms. Not with a woman anyhow.
Fiona : Bet you'd prefer a quick fuck.
Shalom : Or a cock-sucking cowboy.
Paul : Don't see either here.
Waitress : Uhh... one orgasm coming up.

Our poor Fiona tried to run over to meet McNuggets next door but we kept detaining her with more - and more - drinks. Past midnight, her mojito-ed heels couldn't even walk straight.

Certainly an eventful night - though we still couldn't get the reticent Pious Peter to spill about his long-lost love. The way he kept backsliding and changing the subject, you'd think we were torturing him to reveal highly-classified state secrets! Even Statuesque Sarah offering to bare a boob in exchange didn't have the cucumber-cool fella blinking an eye - though he did start reading a stern lecture on the evils of promiscuity.

Then again, Shameless Shalom would say I'm quite as secretive about my ISO as well - since she kept wondering about his identity. Honestly - though I try to drive her insane my keeping mum about him - I doubt she even recalls his name :) Maybe I should just claim him as a figment of my imagination to curb her curiosity!

All About the Numbers

Don't worry, folks. Not gonna ring up the medal tallies for the Olympics :)

Just that I was extra busy at work last night. Make that 3 deaths, 4 discharges, 5 admissions and 6 ward referrals. Doesn't sound a lot but for a place used to a steady trickle of patients, this raging flood certainly is unexpected. And that's not counting the poor fella who had a horrific midnight meeting with a container truck.

Totally blame one of my hyperactive colleagues for being a jinx :)

Since I've already adjusted to the more... shall we say... relaxed atmosphere of work around here, Ive found little opportunity to bare my fangs. Perfect gentleman I swear. Hardly any reason to throw down with Scalpel Siths these days - especially when they helpfully provide cute male eye-candy in the hospital.


Could you do me a favour?
Seriously. I've said it before and it still holds true. Whoever said good looks doesn't matter is a sad blind fool.

Because it does. Not only does the work get done faster - since even the usually grumpy nurses swoon at your every word, it even gets your referrals seen in a jiffy. Bonus points if you have a deep, sexy baritone to boot! We all know what a turn-off whiny wimpy voices can be to a total hottie, right?

The Beckham Syndrome, anyone?

So you can imagine how sweetly obliging I was when I received a midnight referral from Randy Rolf. Think hot, sexy Austro-Malay melange with dreamy brown eyes. Best of all, he has a brain.

Rolf : Hello Paul. Do you mind seeing my patient in Ward C.
Paul : Not a problem. Any other services you'd like me to offer? I'm always ready to serve, Rolf.
Rolf : Uhh...
Paul : Any toys you want me to bring along?

Ah, fantasies.

Of course I didn't say that. Obliging I might be but I'm well known to act a tad differently in my workplace. Somehow, naughty come-ons don't mesh that well with my icy-cold, standoffish professional persona.

A pity. I'd have liked to proposition Rolf. After all, you know our surgical tables can assume dozens of positions? Providential :)

Speechless

They say that truth will set you free. But what if your jailors won't believe it?

Despite having a reputation for being extremely garrulous, there are rare extreme moments when even I find myself at a loss. So trust me, I can still be left speechless. And not just because of acute laryngitis.

You see, I just came out at work. Again inadvertently.

Remember how I wished my overenthused colleagues could find something other than dreary academia to interest themselves in? You know what they say - be careful what you wish for, you just might get it?


Blair : You know, I found the perfect girl for Paul.
Paul : Grrr. I'd rather fuck that hot piece of man eye-candy.
Well, a chance comment at work had a few of my Gungho Ginny colleagues collectively abandoning their textbooks en masse to lecture me on the patent evils of singledom. According to them - and evidently Jane Austen too - it is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.

They certainly lost no time in persuading me. So these budding matchmakers busied themselves searching through their address books to introduce a dozen or so unmarried fillies to me. Seriously. What is it with hospitals, women and the fine art of matchmaking?

Is it infectious?

Genny : How about Dr Doomette? Isn't she pretty?
Paul : Not my type. I prefer broad hairy shoulders.
Ginny : How about this girl I know? Bimbette's a teacher...
Paul : You know what, I don't need a girl. I already have a boyfriend.
Ginny : OMG. You'll say anything to get out of a blind date.
Genny : HAHAHA.
Paul : Seriously. A guy. We fuck around and all that.
Ginny : Gosh, just take the number will ya? And call her.

Damn motherchucker is right.

I think I preferred them raving over medical journals rather than hypothetical nuptials. But nothing could have prepared me for their response of course - well, nothing like abject disbelief to leave me speechless! Were they all temporarily deafened by fantasy marriage schemes? Were their overworked brains so clogged with dry medical facts that they couldn't accept the notion of homosexuality? Did I phrase my coming out incorrectly?

Wait a minute, don't I fit into the regular fag stereotype? Don't know whether I should be insulted! Who knows, next time I'd probably prepare a detailed slideshow to drive home the point that I'm a raging homo!

Semen Fairy

Some wouldn't even contemplate coming into contact with it. Some squeal like a schoolgirl even when a dash lands on their face. Some look dismayed at the unfortunate misdemeanour, run to gargle with mouthwash and quickly spit it out.

And then there are the rare few who prefer to swallow.

Me, I once sat through an entire early morning lecture on Parasitology in crusty cum-stained boxers - not even mine - smiling inwardly to myself. But then I've always been just a wee bit dirrrty.

Spunk. Cum. Semen. Jizz. Splooge. Whatever you call it. All of us have different reactions to it. And yes, that even goes for the guys. Most especially the guys since believe it or not, some guys do get thoroughly freaked over it. Honestly you'd be surprised by the number of guys who have never even tasted their own cum.


Eeeww. Like it tastes funky, bro!
You'd think the damned thing was fuckin radioactive. And here these finicky guys are expecting hoover-blowjobs till heavenly harps play.

Fortunately I'm not one of them. Neither is my ISO.

Paul : I can't believe you'd go vegetarian. What about roast pork!
My ISO : Don't tempt me. It's only for a week.
Paul : Paying penance? Have you tried flogging instead?
My ISO : Hardly. I...
Paul : Like you can't tell me la.
My ISO : Experiment. Was wondering whether my cum would taste better.
Paul : Okay. That was TMI.
My ISO : Like that time you slipped into the toilet bowl was any better?
Paul : Touche. So does it taste better?
My ISO : Not sure. Would you like me to cum for you to try?
Paul : Maybe with some soy sauce.

Hell, I'd wallow in it if I could :P

I imagine the waitress must have freaked over our talk of vegetarian cum.

Dirty Sexy Priests

Holy Mother of God.

According to Shameless Shalom, I have a serious fetish for uniforms - specifically for a man of the cloth. Seems like I've always cherished this filthy fantasy of getting the holy father out of his black cassocks, then getting down and dirty in the musty confessional booth.

I can't deny that of course. Sadly, years of mission school, spotty bible study lessons and the occasional catechism will do that to ya :)

So it should come as no surprise that the man I'd prefer getting dirty and sexy with in Dirty Sexy Money ( one of my latest obsessions ) is none other than Reverend Brian Darling. Foul-mouth, bad attitude, sexy black cassock and all! Doesn't it make sense that I'd fall for the grumpy bastard of the series? The one who obviously needs anger management desperately! The self-righteous man of God who mouths curses in every other breath, commits adultery and then forces his illegitimate son to assume the role of a Swedish orphan.


How could anyone be so heartless as to deny that adorable lil tyke as his son?

But hey, I've always liked a challenge.

Brian : What are you doing here again, you son of a bitch? This is the house of God. Fucking get out!
Paul : You have a foul mouth, reverend.
Brian : What? You want to confess for all your manifold sins? There's isn't enough time in the whole wide world for that! Just go burn in hellfire.
Paul : Shut up, bitch and kiss me.

Obviously I have some issues as well :P The monstrous jerk does have his good points though.



Dirty Sexy Money tells the story of main protagonist Nick George ( played by Peter Krause ), an idealistic do-gooder lawyer who finds himself irresistibly nudged into the role of personal lawyer ( and overall go-to person! ) for the sinfully wealthy Darlings of New York after his father's suspicious death.

Even worse - after swallowing the entire ten episodes in a desperate gulp, I had this hot dream where the lawyer propositioned the priest.


Brian, meet me in my suite an hour from now.
And they do turn out to be half-brothers btw.

Hawt. I know.