two lefts and a right

Up Da Butt

2012-01-31T16:30:00.000-08:00

Getting fucked up the arse is the new black. It seems every new guy I meet has some juicy titbit to share about this previously delicate, intimates-only subject. I was having drinks with a couple of guys I just met and they openly told me about the first time they tried anal intercourse. I felt undermedicated and virginal. But I pressed on for details.

Such barside confessions are not limited to bottoms; enthusiasts of initiating the act as well as those who change sides frequently are equally candid about the experience. In the past, we used codes to indicate such preference.

In the film Cruising, starring Al Pacino, the code was red bandanna tied to the wrist or left hanging out in the jeans backpocket. If I remember right, left wrist or pocket means top, right means bottom. Alhough the film was set in late 1970s New York, one could imagine how such a code was adapted elsewhere. No one, presumably, outside the gay community cracked the code.

Today, such codes are cheekily emblazoned on t-shirts declaring whether one is a 'Catcher' or a 'Pitcher', but even then, the distinction is not very clear. Amongst gay men, being top or bottom does not necessarily translate to being a fucker or a fuckee. A top ina homosexual relationship, studies say, does not always prefer anal intercourse. Yes, there are other ways for a top to express his dominance; he may be the suckee, not the sucker.

An article I read about lesbian partners says that unlike gay men, gay women tend to assume fixed roles within their relationships such that there is the 'man' and the 'woman'. The roles, apparently, carry physical manifestations. It would seem true as erstwhile partners Lindsay Lohan and Samantha Ronson have shown. Even Ellen Degeneres and her partner Portia de Rossi seem to follow the 'man and wife' stereotype, where the more masculine partner sports manly clothes and haircut, and behaves in a more masculine way. Such is not apparent among openly gay partners; take Neil Patrick Harris and his partner - they could pass for buddies whose only physical connection involves a basketball.

But we can't draw clear-cut distinctions. In gay relationships, there are pairings of a masculine and an effeminate man. The assumption of roles may not extend to cross-dressing but it still cannot be denied.

Up the butt does not indicate being submissive - and this is a compelling distinction that I don't quite understand. Apparently, another study suggests, being aggressive or submissive determines one's role. Does that mean that a fellow who likes it up his arse and demands it aggressively from his partner is the top?

Q&A Portion

2012-01-28T18:15:00.000-08:00

I was exhausted after a trip to the hospital to retrieve my test results, show them to our family doctor and wait for him to prescribe medications and lifestyle change. I slept over at my brother's place in Greenhills in order to cut down travel time. I was at Medical City at eight, proceeded to cardio department to get my last results and walked over to my doctor's clinic in the next building.

I previewed the results and with my limited knowledge of medspeak decided that nothing threatening was in there. Pancreas, liver, kidneys, heart, bladder - all working very well. I even exceeded the target for stress test. My only problems are fat deposits in my liver, slightly enlarged prostate and high blood pressure.

"You have to cut back on your alcohol intake, and avoid rich foods," Dr Quah told me. "That should help stabilise our blood pressure and give your kidneys a bit of a break." He also took out a list of food that I should take in moderation or avoid altogether. He asked me to focus on aerobic exercises and go easy on isometrics. "You're already muscular, you don't need to lift weights too much.

Damn, I can't even have too much water!

"I'll give you something for your prostate. This medication can also lower your blood pressure drastically so don't jump out of bed in the morning - you might fall down. Take it easy." He also enumerated the other side effects of the drug, including minor erectile dysfunction.

"Don't drink too much water when you retire at night. Your bladder will be too full and put unnecessary pressure on your prostate."

Then he proceeded to ask me some very private questions. As much as I don't mind him asking me these - after all, he has taken care of my entire family for nearly 15 years now - I didn't know how much to tell him. I am almost certain he doesn't discuss his patients' proclivities with other patients, unless maybe if there's something life-threatening that the next-of-kin should know about.

"How has your sex life been?" He knows I'm single.

"Good. I guess."

"What do you mean by 'good', " he asked. "Do you have a steady partner?"

"No, but I'm not that active in the sack." I lied.

"Hmm..." He didn't sound convinced. "What do you mean by 'that active'." Dr Quah is going Socratic on my arse.

"I have sex about thrice weekly - on average. Is there anything I should worry about? I know about these things and I'm careful."

He just smiled back.

As God is my witness, I shall go hungry again...

"I know about Han," he said cheerily as I stepped out of his clinic.

Yellow Peril? Really?

2012-01-23T18:52:00.000-08:00

I'm dismayed by the way the Chinese are being portrayed in the media. This has been going on for a long time - remember the paragon of evil, Fu Manchu, and the wise and wily Charlie Chan? I was flipping channels yesterday when I saw this Chinese-looking fellow on Channel 2 portraying a Chinese stereotype: Ah Kong. He had on a red silk vest, matching skullcap and coke bottle lens eyeglasses; mangled Tagalog spills out of his mouth whose prominent features are buck teeth and wispy moustache.

Haven't we learned anything? That there are as many Chinese as there are Chinese, and that for every rotten Chinoy, one can find an equally rotten Pinoy? Even more disturbing is that the fellow who is perpetuating that ghastly stereotype seems to be a Chinoy himself!

I grew up attending Chinese Catholic schools and was therefore shielded from abuse. But as my world was not just confined to schools, I have occasionally encountered disturbing situations where my ethnicity was attacked openly.

Here's a litany of what has been said about me - and I suppose to other Chinese-Filipino guys, gay or straight. The seemingly good included good in maths, therefore good in business, therefore good husband material. The downright bad: money hungry, therefore focused on making money no matter what, therefore likely to engage in crimes. Seemingly good: like sex a lot. Downright bad: likes weird sex, fucks geese (I've seen cartoons relating this absurd story), uncircumcised and therefore smelly.

I'm sorry officer but this is
the only Chinese bomb we have here....

Things have changed tremendously since kung fu and Canto-pop explosion (thanks, Bruce Lee! thanks, Heavenly Kings). Today it matters little whether one is Chinese, Korean, Japanese. We're all lumped together as 'singkit', slit-eyed. Fantasies are piled in the altars of Wang Lee Hom, Jay Chou, Li Min-ho, Takuya Kimura - the list shifts by the hour... As East Asians, we're regarded as hot - mostly, peculiarly anyway - by virtue of our narrow eyes, yellow skin. But we're never equals; we're reduced to stereotypes, as always, a distant curiosity.

Despite China's continued economic dominance, things haven't turned out well at all. Anywhere you go, the Chinese are suspect. In fairness, we've earned some of the bad reps. Several US senators openly doubt China's intentions as a crack at world dominance. Chinese corporations in shady deals from Africa to Australia become substitute images of the Chinese. And by extension, all the singkits. Images of the Chinese as Fu Manchu loom once again like re-purposed enemies, really to take the reins on the sly.

Reunion Dinner

2012-01-23T04:41:00.000-08:00

I am saddened by Han's seemingly waning romantic urges. Even our sex life is becoming predictable. As in eveything else, he seems to be fulfilling an obligation rather than doing pursuing something that interests him. He insists that nothing has changed as far as he is concerned, and indeed I couldn't find fault in him.

I couldn't let that dampen the festive spirit so I quickly made my way to the kitchen to look for something to do. I helped make the dumplings.

The right ingredients...

the fullness of the pouch...

a few pinches in the right places...

the line gets longer...

and 'touching the heart' is a cinch!

My brother joined us for the traditional reunion dinner. He wanted to know how I'm doing and what are my career plans. I told him about the projects I have lined up; he seemed satisfied.

"Just make sure you tell me or Mum if you need help." He said as he put his arm around me.

"Thanks, Da-Ge."

"Are you and Han okay?"

"Yes," I replied but not without struggle.

If things don't heat up, I might be able to cook dumplings for a battalion of terra cotta warriors. I'm already up for Buddha Jumps Over the Wall...

Worth The Trip?

2012-01-21T17:36:00.000-08:00

Don't shit in your own yard. Nothing can be simpler than that.

I have heeded that advice and have been spared of ugly consequences so far. So far.True, I learnt about sex through the household help, but I've never initiated it with any of them. Except maybe the driver, but I was young then it hardly counts.

My slate has remained clean until lately when frequent trips from Binondo to Bulacan have delivered me to the hands of the new family driver. It has just been manual play and I will not take it any further - provided these frequent trips stop.

Our conversations have always been mundane, progressing quickly from "Good morning." to "How did you learn to drive?" to "Do you work out? Where? With whom?" when I realised that travelling on the NLEX can be quite arduous in silence. He didn't throw back any of those tacky double entendres - hmm, a decent boy! He must be rewarded! - which endeared him all the more to me. He was polite, knew his place, and scrumptious.

Conversations on those trips became easier and we developed confidence to open up. Something I would never suggest my friends to try.

"Why don't you have a girlfriend yet?" I asked him once.

"I don't know, sir." He smiled timidly. "How about you, sir?"

"Well, I lik to play around, that's why!" I was being cheeky but I knew someone must have told him about Han. Helps like to tell on. I would be very surprised if he didn't know.

"I'm also like you, sir."

I let that one marinate. Like me gay or like me playeur? I wondered. I glanced at the rearview mirror and saw him smiling. Oh, you cheeky fellow....

"I also like to play around." His response came before I could ask.

"Oh, well. You won't have problems finding playmates then."

"Why is that, sir?"

"Well, you're young and handsome. Girls should be throwing themselves at you."

That was all we needed to start getting sexual. When I alighted at the farm, he whispered to me, "Sir, maybe I can sleep over if we're going back to Greenhills tomorrow. We can start out early."

Who am I to decline such earnest offer?

Xin Nian Kuai Hao!

2012-01-20T17:01:00.000-08:00

新年快乐!

I spent the entire day at the hospital sorting out lab tests. At six am the driver deposited me at The Medical City for my annual checkup. I promptly queued up for blood test, then off for urinalysis, and then ultrasound for liver, kidney, pancreas, prostate. I took a short break, ate a salad and drank lots of water before returning to the ultrasound lab. I emptied my bladder for the urinalysis too soon and the doctors couldn't see my prostate through my deflated bladder.

"We we use the bladder as a window to the prostate," one of the doctors told me. "Drink lots of water and come back in ten minutes," he ordered.

"What? No rectal probe? No getting to know my prostate with your index finger? I even waxed my butthole for you," I thought to myself.

The doctor who was performing the ultrasound scan wasn't hot at all, so it was a waste of good hot wax.

Then 2-D echo and finally a stress test. My nipples were hard like cherry pits during the last two tests, the result of cold air and occasional brushing of my nipples with the sensors. I was semi-hard at one point because the aide administering the stress test has a banging body. Each time his hairy arm touched my arm, I got mini-short circuits. I saw him taking glimpses at my swinging cock; my running shorts were loose and I was doing the running test commando. Damn those hot med aides - I couldn't focus!

Being healthy is a family obsession; every year we go to the same doctor then to the same sinsei. It is something I share in common with Han and his family. A New Year pre-celebration ritual, it is also prime topic during New Year conversations in my family.

"Nin shenti hao ma?" is as common a greeting amongst members of my family as "Gong xi fa cai!"

The past year was uneventful, healthwise. Although Han had dengue fever and I had a terrible asthma attack and a painful crown extraction. My family and his were all fine during most of the year, although we lost each an aunt in July.

This year Han and I are targetting to save a certain amount in our accounts, which translates to less travel, no major purchase, and fewer times for leisure. It's going to be competitive and we're both geared for it.

I'm returning to Binondo for a week to fulfill my filial duties - visits to family members have already been scheduled. It's tikoy time!

I don't know what to wear for the Lunar New Year family dinner,
but this will surely be underneath it!

Happy Lunar New Year to you all! Xi nian kaui le!

Gong xi fa cai! Yi-ge hong bao na lai!

Wine and Dandy

2012-01-18T19:30:00.000-08:00

Because I'm seeing a lot of Kang Ta lately, we have become steady dates. No, there isn't a sliver of romance, but it's convenient to have someone like him to do the town with.

Last night was wine tasting with some people I haven't met - some local high-rollers who are being treated by Kang Ta's private bank to sample the produce of an Argentine winery. Obviously, the private bank is hoping that they would park their money with them. They even have a wine investment portfolio that is not very different from the one launched by Societe Generale years ago.

I've done this bit a few times in the past, but in Manila it's a big to-do. People were dressed up like they were going to a fancy dress ball; there was even an emcee announcing the luminaries present. It bordered on tacky, but that's Manila society for you.

In Singapore and Hong Kong, the biggies who attend are often accompanied by a wine connoiseur or a sommelier hired for the day. They see it as a business event primarily and they want to make the right choices before they invest in a harvest or th winery. If they are happy with the produce, they sign up to acquire cases of particular vintages.

In contrast, in Manila, they drink and eat and socialise. Very few of them realise that they can make a bundle by investing - or up their social rep if they acquired cases of vintage wines.

Anyhoo, Kang Ta and I tried our best to enjoy the evening.

"Are you boys together," asked a matron.

"No, we're not, Tita," replied Kang Ta. (Everyone is Manila society Tita, from the Hispanic Tia or Auntie.)

"Ay, these days, you can never tell," the matron said, seemingly pleased with herself.

After the wine tasting, Kang Ta took me home. I had to pack and go to the province where I will stay before the Lunar New Year visitations. The coding of the car plates will make it impossible for me to go to Bulacan; the car that my uncle assigned to me can't get out after a certain time on a certain day.

I am now in Bulacan where the silence and isolation is incredible. It's a good place to collect my thoughts again.

A lushness that I miss. The front garden in our provincial home.

Why Han Is A Keeper?

2012-01-16T19:20:00.000-08:00

I've been fucking Kang Ta. We've not made it official but we are, in fact, fuck buddies now.

One time he let me know that he wanted me to do him 'jackhammer' style. 'Old school', I thought to myself but I obliged him. And after just one session, I was reduced to a puddle of sweat. He wanted to go another round but I didn't have the energy and politely suggested we took a break.

I could get used to having Kang Ta as fuck buddy. He's hot, always ready for a quick roll in the hay and virtually free to engage in such liaison. We also click outside the bedroom - not that we have confined fucking there. Meanwhile, I'm currently designing a book for a Hong Kong publisher and there's always a lag between batches of work. I have time in my hands. Kang Ta is an exciting lover. He mixes things up - a bit of S&M, a bit of mystery, new positions, porn, toys. He is made for fucking. And although I would like to feel his rigid cock inside me, he makes up for being a bottom by being an outstanding bottom. He has my cock and balls in his hands.

But one night Han sent me a text message: "UOB card paid. M1 ditto. Check your DBS account as security problems detected recently." Mundane Han. Predictable Han. Reliable Han. Responsible Han. Amazingly, what I often thought was his flaw is turning to be his draw. Han is a man's man - solid, dependable, upstanding. He may not have the imagination or the excitement of Kang Ta, but he has my back.

A World As Big And As Flat As TV

2012-01-15T19:33:00.000-08:00

I'm noticing how Philippine television is failing in informing the Filipino as global citizen. There's hardly any reliable world news on Philippine TV except perhaps the currency converter, obviously important to an economy fuelled by foreign remittances. News of the world usually takes the form of trivia: how different countries celebrate the New Year, or kite flying in India to mark the end of winter.
Understandably, there's also an hourly update on the plight of the OFWs in any number of dire circumstances.

If the average Filipino is not subscribing to any international news wire, he will not see himself in the context of a larger world. He will not see the consequences of the Arab Spring to his chances of finding a job in the Middle East; he will fail to connect his chances of getting a US green card to current Republican presidential frontrunner Mitt Romney's stand on immigration rights.

He will miss out on a lot of things and will likely travel to other countries as tourist, expatriate worker or potential immigrant with a parochial viewpoint - defensive, bigoted and narrow-minded.

The airtime that each news segment gets from a thrity-minute news programme is also telling: national news dealing with criminality, scandals and government irregularities get at least five out of seven segments. National news about the economy and politics - outside political scandals and politicians' shananigans - get one segment. Culture is lumped with entertainment, which in turn trasnlates to showbiz. Not showbiz news that talks about the industry from varied perspectives but, sadly, which starlets sleeps around, has an illegitimate child, is a closet queen. Not surprisingly, none of the film actors can discuss the plot or the role he plays in his major vehicle.

For weeks now, banner news have been about a former starlet who witnessed the murder of her boyfriend, also a former starlet, allegedly masterminded by his own family. How is that national news? Or the shooting of Hollywood film Bourne Legacy in the slums of Manila. Why is that top of the news? How many Filipinos actually benefit from knowing that?

Then there's the ongoing impeachment trial of the chief justice. Does the average Filipino realise the full implication of the trial in relation to democratic principles? Does he care? Reports mostly titillate viewers with details of the life of the accused: his assets and net worth, his haughty demeanour, his uppity wife, but they stop short of explaining how these can be used as evidence in the trial. And then the commentators' chorus of condemnation, edited to highlight the most sensational soundbites.

This is very sad given that Filipinos are mostly wired and quite active participants in social media. But with Piolo-Casey break-up trending like it was news of national interest....

We are inviting foreign tourists to come to our country where, accoring to the latest tourism bureau campaign, everything is more fun. But with average Filipinos barely able to discuss important international developments, how fun can that be?

Something Unspoken

2012-01-14T19:52:00.000-08:00

My orthodontist suggested we visited Rustan's Makati one afternoon after my checkup. Apparently, he has dated a number of the sales staff there - those accommodating, ambisexual, vaguely handsome types who are not averse to making a little money on the side.

My friend told me he has taken some of them drinking and, at that point when inhibitions and some clothing are shed, groped them. This is not my scene at all - I thought doing salesmen, or anyone who can't say no, is opportunistic - but I was curious what he was up to.

We did the rounds and, lo and behold!, a number of the more attractive ones actually lined up to greet him.

"Sir, your new friend," some of them asked as we passed.

"Yes, he's just visiting."

There were about twelve of them in different parts of the store, from perfumery to men's section and all the way to Filipiniana.

"Hey, I hope you don't know anyone from the children's section. I would just die." I teased him.

"Well, I do know some. Let's go."

And he was off before I could decline.

The one in the men's apparel was particularly agressive. And, in fairness, the most attractive too. He's tall, dark, handsome and blessed with banging body. I checked out his butt and I was embarrassed by what I saw. It just seemed wrong to be staring at such perfection.

"Sir," he cheerfully called out to my ortho, "haven't since you since the last time." There was something illicit in his tone, his phrasing. "Were you travelling?'

"Hindi naman. Sa tabi-tabi lang..." my ortho replied with equal suggestive tang.

"Friend mo sir?"

"Oo, si John." Damn, he didn't even think of an alias for me.

"Chinese sya, sir? Ang cute ng eyes nya."

In most other places, such observation would be comsidered bold, forward, fresh. But in Manila, it's normal. We're a flirtatious people. We cross and re-cross the lines of tasteful banter and openly suggestive remark. And we're not even aware sometimes.

Still, I was thrown off a bit.

"Nag-blush si sir!" The sales staff said with a hint of triumph, as if he had found me out, that he discovered my weakness, that he caught me staring at his round butt. That he could, in a few loaded statements, convince me to take him out too.

"Sir John, balik ka." He said as we were walking away.

Truth and Consequence

2012-01-13T20:00:00.000-08:00

Kang Ta and I met up at a popular deli near Carvajal Street, close to where I live in Binondo. We were default dates at a pre-Christmas dinner party hosted by a common friend; neither of us had dates and we were chucked next to each other at the far end of the table.

An ABC (American-born Chinese) raised in Chicago, Kang Ta returned to Manila six years ago to work for a bank. He has an easy sex-appeal and a careless daring that is always refreshing to find. I knew we would end up in bed sooner or later. The following day, he texted me and suggested that we meet up.

No overture was necessary. We clearly wanted to fuck. Han wasn't due until Christmas day.

We ended up in his aparment in Manila and were in bed minutes after he closed the door behind us. I wanted him to fuck me and made sure I examined his package carefully. Circumcised, medium-size, but with a personality. Trimmed pubic patch. Very clean. Yes, I wanted it up my chute.

We started blowing each other and he got very excited, started rubbing my cock all over his face, pushing all of it into his mouth and back out again. I guided his finger into my arse but he pulled back. He clearly wanted to be fucked. I asked for a rubber and put it on hastily. Showtime.

It was great sex! After the second round, we showered, rested and decided to go for a nightcap.

"This is just sex, right," I asked as we sat down for coffee. I didn't want to be let down, but I was deperate to know the score. Kang Ta is, after all, ten years younger than me. Blow-offs are the prerogative of the young.

"Sure," he said without thinking. Fuck. Fail.

"You sure you don't wanna do it again?" he asked back, grinning. I could sense he was teasing me. He didn't want to commit but couldn't let go either.

"Yeah, but not around Christmas. Boyfriend coming." I wanted to make sure he got the message, that I have a boyfriend but I was interested. "Round New Year's?" I turned the tables easily.

"Nah. Boyfriend coming," he said casually.

It Settles

2012-01-12T17:02:00.000-08:00

Han fucked me with typical urgency, his thrusts searching, persistent. I waited for his orgasm to subside, for his semen to drain deep inside my arse. He pulled out when he was done - something he didn't do - stood up and went to the bathroom instead of waiting for his cock to soften inside me or urging me to reach my own orgasm.

I followed him to the bathroom, knees weak, cum dripping down my thighs.

He was bent over the wash basin, washing up. I stepped into the shower stall to freshen up.

I could have sleep-walked through the holidays. Family and friends in the same places as last year's and the year before. Giving the same presents, exchanging the same jokes, asking the same question. Han came to join us for the holidays.

He fucked me every night. Same uninspired intercourse that invariably ended with a trip to the bathroom to freshen up. He's doing his part, beinging home the bacon, fulfilling his responsibility. I can't complain.

On the way from the airport, after we said goodbyes, I asked the driver to bring me to Gateway. I walked around the mall that was still empty from the holidays. I walked around not knowing what I wanted. Sat down for a cup of coffee. Went to the toilet and waited before the urinal, my fly open, pretending to pee. One guy stood next to me. Unzipped his fly, spat into the urinal and proceeded to take a leak. He was replaced by another and yet another.

This is silly, I thought to myself, as I proceeded to zip up. I turned and noticed a young man washing his face. He looked up and our eyes met on the mirror. Our gaze lingered.

I stepped out of the toilet and proceeded to the car park. I could feel that my arsehole was still tender. Han's cum must still be in my bowels.

home where the hearth is

2011-12-02T19:03:00.000-08:00

i'm shopping for groceries and filing old family recipes and looking up ingredients and translating them into filipino (chives is kuchay, chinese celery is kinchai - it's the same in chinese but the hanyu pinyin spelling is different: gu chye and kin chye). yes, i'm home and will be in manila for a long time. i'm guessing until mid-february or until i fall in love again, whichever comes first.

i packed teas in my luggage - ti kuan yin, jasmine and chwee hua, some lap chong, seven spices and fermented tofu - in case they don't sell them in manila. i also brought new beddings, tonnes of books, four pairs of shoes and some simple clothes. jewellery i left in my godmum's care as well as the other stuff. it was a bittersweet homecoming, one based on the agency folding and han losing patience with me again.

"why do you have to quit?"

"i didn't; the outfit has shut down."

"why don't you find another job? join my agency; i can find a position for you!"

"that's not right. let me rest for a while. anywy, i've been working non-stop for ten years." i threw a significant number but in fact i wasn't sure how long i've been working.

han got busy, i got restless. we were officially not seeing each other but he kept calling and checking on me. we even had sex a couple of times, but i was changing. i was looking for something exciting.

so i am back in binondo and calling up every friend who's still living in manila for meet-ups.

there's already this guy, too... well, it's still too early to say.

take me back in your arms, manila

2011-08-11T04:54:00.000-07:00

my housing agent told me sotto voce that the owner of my apartment was selling the unit. i told him i wasn't interested in investing but would look into it if/when the market softens. mr ang, my landlord, was travelling avec la famille tout entier in perth and didn't have time to tell me personally. my landlady, especially, was the sweetest thing - she would've texted me if something this big was coming up. but when my agent mentioned that i couldn't phone them while on holiday, i thought something wasn't right. badda-bing! it turned out that my agent wanted to raise the rent without the angs knowing and he had lined up a chinese family to take over the unit. this happens a lot in singapore with high demand for condos from the steady stream of immigrants. royally pissed off, i gave the rental market a once-over and even did some basic go-sees with my partner. nada. my partner decided i should move in with him. how sweet, how gallant, but no can do. i mean, i make sounds in bed.
anyhoo, that was several months ago and last week, after a long and frustrating search, i decided to quit my job - on a whim! - and move into my godmum's. my partner would have none of it, but my godmum prevailed: "you can visit ah boy anytahm. but he stay wif me an take care of auntie, can or not?" she served that with a bowl of cold white fungus and tau sa which sealed the deal.

so i am taking a month-long holiday in manila in september and while i try in vain to sleep in my godmum's guest room surrounded by my wordly possession, my mind is already roaming the streets of malate. i would live in binondo for sure, but travel frequently to bulacan. when my partner follows in mid-september, we would stay at a hotel.

excited by a prospects of a homecoming, i called up citybuoy who seemed surprised to hear from outer space.
"it's john chen," i said cordially.
he muttered something and something, but we agreed to meet in manila
from there i plan to build a network and meet other bloggers as well.

then i texted my idol sg boy (he of the famous blog of the same title) to share the news. i've been planning to have a drink with him but he couldn't find time. but now that i'm between jobs, i finally see him. (if there's a guy in singapore who can make me nervous, besides my partner - and, yes, given his casanova-eque exloits, a tad insecure, too - it would be sg boy. but he's also fun and sweet.)

"let's go dancing!" i suggested.

"sure! i was quite the dancing queen in my days. but where?"

"how about stereolab?"

"michel closed it down already."

time's moving fast. i need to move on too. i will miss singapore for sure but a new life in chengdu, guangzhou, bangkok or even manila is starting to sound very tempting.

bosco has left the building

2011-07-31T20:54:00.000-07:00

i.
my friend bosco passed away last wednesday and on saturday he was cremated. i went to hong kong with my partner to pay respect to our common friend for the last time. i desperately tried to get drunk on the plane, not to drown my sorrows, but to remain calm throughout the rough flight. and when it didn't work well, i played reels of bosco home movies in my head.

bosco and i met yonks ago when we boarded the same flight to hong kong from manila. it was fate that brought us together on that flight, seated next to each other. he had spent a week in puerto galera with his pinoy boyfriend and i was leaving manila to run away from mine. we became friends on that flight and had been so since.

on a trip to hong kong with my partner, i discovered that we both knew bosco.

"would that be bosco tam?"

"yes. you know him?"

"yes. we worked on a project together. nice fellow."

it turned out that my partner and i have very similar bosco stories. apparently, he had only one set of manners for everyone: evenly considerate, generous, involved. bosco of the age-defying body. bosco of the tiny speedos. bosco of the constant enthusiasm. bosco of the thoughtful gestures. lost keys, missed lights, break-ups, fast cash - all of us seemed to have benefited from bosco's boundless generosity.

and yet none of us seemed to have been particularly close to him. we were all friends of bosco, a loose, malleable group that included people he had worked with, slept with, helped, saved, inspired. as much as some of us wanted him to ourselves in selfish, proprietary ways, he had managed to keep us all equal and at a distance.

we had speculated that he was somehow attached - what with a body that was the draw in a huge men's cologne campaign - the model bailed apparently and bosco, who was on hand at the shoot, was asked to strip naked to take the talent's place - but none of us had met his partner whom we all assumed existed. and it didn't really matter. it was all about us where bosco was concerned.

ii.
just outside the wake hung photos of bosco, in the buff, in mildly erotic poses, a most bizarre display put together by his friends. there were two registers, one conventional and another online - yes, the tributes and eulogies were on podcast and the wake on video stream. another desk where pledges for an AIDS charity were being accepted was placed in another corner.

i refused to look at bosco's remains. i sat at the back of the pews with my partner who calmly handed me cups of tea and pointed out people he knows. i looked around and saw familiar faces: bosco's family, his cute older brother, his band of friends - a sea of homosexual men in expensive clothes and expensive haircuts, manufactured tan and manicured facial hairs, and bodies painstakingly shaped in gyms according the season's template. previously it was abs; this time it's all big guns.

i'm seeing more and more unusual if not downright bizarre gay rites. our weddings are different, our parties are different. there is just so much emphasis on being different, that deliberate attempt to deviate from the norm. do we need yet another way of showing how different we are? i thought the agenda was to integrate ourselves with the rest without losing our identity? is our identity then foisted on a few gimmicks the inevitably require plumes, sequins and eyeliner?

i do not begrudge fellow gay men who engage in this behaviour. hey, i have my quirks, too! between a loaf of bread and a bunch of flowers, i'll always choose the latter. but for us to show how different we are by crossing good taste and decorum is not something that i understand.

on the flight back to singapore, i enumerated to my partner what i wouldn't have in my wake. he ignored me and pretended to be asleep.

iii.
we ended the weekend with a concert at the esplanade on sunday night - the singapore youth chorale in a programme of liturgical hymns and japanese folk songs. somewhere in a sad rendition of panis angelicus i found myself crying.

my partner held my hand and gave it a squeeze. "missing bosco?" he whispered to me.

and without a word, he just walked in through the kitchen door...

2011-07-15T22:13:00.000-07:00

HELLO, ALL!

I'm back after a long absence and although my luggage is filled with nothing but soiled clothes and paper napkins with phone numbers hastily written on them, I have so many stories to tell.

I've not been posting but I've been visiting blogs that I follow, plus some new ones.

First off, Han and I are still together but this is probably the last time his name will be mentioned in this blog. He has begged me to stop mentioning his name and writing explicitly about our private moments, and I thought, well, fair enough.

But what will I write about if not sex with my partner?

The short answer is a lot.

And starting tomorrow, you will find out.

Page holders ready?

MUMSY-WUMSY

2011-05-10T07:05:00.000-07:00

This special shot is going out to my Momma,
Ms Ernestine Charles!
Momma used to do people's hair in the kitchen,
press and curl, hot curlers, everything!
I love you Momma!

Oops, wrong song! That was for Ru Paul's Momma who I imagine is nothing like my mother.

I grew up closer to my father - a possible anomaly given that I am the gay son. Shouldn't I be tied to my Mum's apron strings learning her recipes, trying on her jewellery and makeup, and sitting pretty like a princess at her feet? But I did not turn out to be quite a princess, I guess. On the other hand, my father must have realised from the get-go that I needed unconditional love and special attention so that I would grow into a strong and confident (homosexual) man.

Not that my Mum was ever distant to me or any of my brothers and sister. But she just prefers to love us equally and by proxy.

Last week, my sister, who is married and living in Hamburg with her husband and children, called to greet our Mum on Mother's Day.

"Lina, esta Mama? Soy Emilia, quiero hablar con ella, por favor."

"Ay, Ma'am Emilia, un momento po." How our maids learned to speak pidgin Spanish is beyond me.

The long-suffering Lina returned and sheepishly announced: "Ma'am Emilia, your mother is watching Manny Pacquio boxing. She ask you to call again later."

Of course a fuming Emilia rang me not a minute later to complain about our Mum.

But I've learned to live with my Mum's eccentricities, even expect it, having been subjected to it a few times.

I remember calling her while I was on holiday with friends. CNN announced there was a plot to overthrow the Aquino government and I was very worried. Lina answered the phone, put me on hold to summon my Mum, returned to the phone to say sheepishly: "Sir, your mother is entertaining guests; she says there is no more coup d'etat here." Click. Dial tone. Goodbye.

But this one takes the cake: She called me on the phone once, out of the blue, to announce that my bother Benito's birthday asalto would be cancelled and that I didn't have to go home. She was evasive and I knew something wasn't right, but it was at the height of the SARS pandemic and realising how troublesome travel would be I readily cancelled my trip.

On the day of my brother's planned asalto, I called home. The phone was ringing but no one was answering. I redialled and the same thing happened. I got very worried. I tried a third time and another maid answered the phone. I asked her what took her long to answer and she explained that they were having a party for my brother.

I was really puzzled. So the party wasn't cancelled after all!

"Kasi Sir," the hapless maid explained, "your mother said you shouldn't come home because your will bring the SARS germs with you."

Well, what can I say? Mother knows best, doesn't she?

Belated Happy Mother's Day to all!

IT'S DAMNED COMPLICATED!

2011-05-08T02:50:00.000-07:00

I missed a big boat party, one held last week to celebrate the reunification of Italy and was hosted by the Italian Embassy in Singapore. I was ready to go but had a change of heart as the hour drew near and the temperature refused to budge. It was just too warm to go to Sentosa, or anywhere for that matter, so I just decided to stay home and read.

I was still plodding through Grayling's Ideas That Matter but I picked it up again knowing that the worst that could happen was I'd fall asleep before I finish the entry on 'Big Bang Cosmology'.

But I didn't. I read through the section and was ready to move on to 'Biodiversity' when I heard a knock on the door. It was Han.

"I didn't see you at the party," he said as he settled at my feet on the couch.

"I can't go anywhere; it's too warm." I feigned distinterest.

"I thought so. Being lazy again." He lifted my feet and let them rest on his lap. I could feel he was looking at me but I continued reading.

"Why didn't you use your key?" I asked when he stopped, to keep him talking.

"I knew you were home mah," he said as he moved to the kitchen to get himself a drink.

I followed him with my gaze and took notes: new haircut, nice jacket, nice cologne.

He returned with a glass of Riesling.

"Sorry, did you want one?" he asked, torn between familiarity and politeness. "Let's just share this." He decided for me.

He recovered his place at my feet and sipped his wine quietly. He stood up again and turned up the music.

"I miss your music," he said. Handel's Water Music was playing. He reached out and ran his hand up and down my thigh, tentatively, playfully then with some pressure.

He put his glass down on the floor, bent over and kissed me. I found his hot breath, persistent tongue, and the aftertaste of a crisp Riesling too difficult to resist. I kissed him back with parted, lazy lips, our tongues flicking at each other. I was going mad, running my hands all over him and grabbing his crotch repeatedly weren't enough. I needed to fuck, get fucked, whatever. I didn't mind that I just changed the couch's slipcover. It didn't matter. I just needed sex.

But he dragged me - and I use the term literally - to the bedroom where we undressed while grasping and stuffing body parts into our mouths.

I was over in five minutes. Water Music was reaching crescendo - we never learned to make love with music, insisting on our own rhythm instead - and we were already done, apart on opposite sides of the bed and panting.

I suddenly became aware of his body odour and I snuggled into his pits to inhale his aroma. Musk? Vetiver? A bit of both? He obliged by spreading out his arm and letting me use it as pillow. We rested until we were breathing normally. I could feel semen drying on my face and pulling the skin tight around my mouth.

We showered together and the familiar routine come back to me. He dried my body, patted my butt and asked me to get dressed before I caught a cold - just as he used to.

Back in the hall, we sat together sipping wine. (He was wearing his house clothes, the ones that I keep in my wardrobe for him.) I had vintage Gaga on: 'Sorry, I cannot hear you I'm kind of beh seh...'

"Hey, why haven't you called, you bloody basterd?" I demanded.

"Hey, why haven't you called, you bloody basterd?" he challenged me.

He bent over and found my right shoulder. I waited for him to kiss it, but he bit me instead. It wasn't playful but he wasn't letting go. I just let him have a go at it.

And just like that I became attached again. You see it's rather complicated.

DINNER AT TIFFANY'S

2011-04-23T02:18:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was a public holiday and HB asked me to go to Tiffany's with him to look at stuff for his nephew's 21st birthday. He usually does this when he's in a mood to go shopping for himself. I didn't have anything in mind. I saw the Tiffany catalogue, the one with padlocks, and I wasn't impressed. Who would wear a padlock as pendant? Last time they had something similar - the estate key pendants - I was conned into buying one. I even bought a small gold version as present for Han. Now I don't even know where that key is. No, not another one, I told myself. HB and I braved the heat and went to the Raffles Arcade branch before six.

I don't know if it was the lighting or the stuff that they have were really fabulous, but I was immediatly looking around and trying on stuff. HB, meanwhile, was carefully going through things that he had to buy for his nephew - a key pendant and silk cord. But I noticed that the saleslady attending to him was taking more than a few stuff from the showcases.

The sales staff whom we like finally returned from her dinner after a few minutes of wait and we narrowed down our choices and begand considering them more carefully. HB asked for a titanium key pendant and silk cord for his nephew, plus a new 30-inch silver chain, plus a thick chain bracelet with a working padlockfor himself, plus a chain with five pearls for his mum. The man was in a shopping mood. He's Buddhist and yesterday being Good Friday had no effect on him.

I was a model of temperance, being a good Catholic, and only asked for two things: a nickel-plated nightstand clock and a silver bracelet with 14mm spheres. The second is a take on the bead feng shui bracelet that everyone's wearing - from lapis lazuli to tiger's eye, jadeite, pink quartz etc. Mine's silver, big and bright.

Pleased with our purchases, we left the store right in time for dinner at The Asian Kitchen across the street. The floor manager is a cute guy from Taiwan with delicious accent and HB and I did everything not to stare. After dinner, HB went to GNC for a tuckload of vitamins. (I'm still going through two bottles of Mega Men Gold multivit so I didn't buy anything.)

On the way back home, HB remarked that my bracelet was really cool. (I wore it immediatly but asked the sales staff to give me a beribboned box.) I looked at it and my heart sank. It looked like a string of small Chirstmas balls. It was bright, brassy and bordering on tacky.

I guess I'll have to season it for a while.

Thinking out of the box: My new bracelet rests

on its box that the nice lady from Tiffany's did for me.

I guess I can wing it after sometime. Too early

for ho-ho-hos!

Went home and checked my phone. No missed calls, no messages. Not even from Han.

THE PRINCESS AND THE TUPPERWARE PARTY

2011-04-21T19:59:00.000-07:00

I attended the private reception for Princess Ira von Furstenburg at the Governor's Suite of the Fullerton Hotel. From the get-go, I knw it was a royal edition of a Tupperware party, where a real royal person brings out her wares and sells them - with attendant protocol - to commoners like me.

On my way up, I had an urgent need to use the loo to freshen up and pee so I descreetly told the staff to hold the lift for me. (It has been infernal in Singapore, but with torrential rains in the late afternoons, and we all walked around with thirst quenchers glued to our pouts.) When I returned to the lift lobby, a Russian couple I knew was waiting to go up as well. We needed to be shown up as the suite was on the private floor.

O introduced us to Princess Ira who greeted us warmly. Some people were checking out the rock crystal bowls and trays and tchotkes that the Princess designed and brought with her. But it was easy to tell they were faking interest what with their choreographed oohs and aahs. The 'objets' were arranged on a table right smack in the middle of the room which impeded traffic. It was like, 'Hey, look at these things and buy them, dammit!'

The rest, however, simply chatted while sipping champs. I said hellos to a few people whom I haven't seen in a long while, some of them had very good comments about the FB campaign that our agency had trotted out a few weeks ago and I graciously stopped and smiled and nodded. But I was a salt cellar left in the rain. I could feel sweat on my back and armpits. It was fucking warm!

O told me to get some refreshments in the next room, seeing perhaps my state of discomfort.

I entered and it smelled of a gym bag. I knew instantly my nemesis was around. In the middle of the room was a table with an array of cheeses, some fruits, wafer biscuits and some pates. I can't say no to cheeses even in my condition so I started looking around. Then I heard a voice behind me: "I heard you're a Filipino." I turned around to find Princess Ira standing right behind me. I dropped the knife and biscuit, turned around and said yes. She led me to the farthest corner of the room where we sat down and chatted. The old girl had just come from Hong Kong and was travelling to Manila next. She was old friends with Meldy M and Meldy C and confessed that she missed Manila very much. She asked about Mrs Marcos and a few other people. She was genuinely homesick for Filipino parties, dances and - judging from her girth - lechon!

From time to time I noticed that she would straighten up and smile at someone across the room. Untrained at such gracious gesture, I continued drinking champagne without realising that Princess Ira was actually posing for photographers. Poor old peasant me!

Then a gentleman named Rousseau came in and introduced himself. He has a house in Cebu and was friends with Princess Ira. I could tell that he was gay although he slipped 'my wife' and 'my kids' into the conversation. I could also tell that he had a few things down on his face.

At the end of he night, I was deciding between going home or having dinner with a group of friends. But someone in the group was already visibly drunk and I didn't want any of it so I bade everyone goodbye and took the train home.

I am getting used to being alone. No Han, no calls, no messages. This is it.

I sometimes feel sad but I also feel liberated. If Princess Ira can cross the globe in her royal version of a Tupperware party, I certainly can do the same.

BALI OF THE DOLLS

2011-04-09T21:54:00.000-07:00

I wanted to go to Bali to cool off. I needed to get away and forget my sadness.

But Keng Yak and Bernard wanted to tag along.

"We have to make sure you're not going to do anything foolish." Keng Yak knew the score between Han and I and was sincerely concerned. His boyfriend Bernard finished his paper at med school and needed time to recuperate.

We decided to book two villas at Alila Villas Soori. Keng Yak and Bernard are like dogs in heat - I didn't want to get in the way.

"Super secluded. You can wallow in misery or luxury. It's all up to you." Bernard's laser surgery-precise reommendation moved me.

Han insisted on going.

"Might be your chance to patch things up. Talk things over," Keng Yak told me secretly. Company of three became four.

Two villas, four people.

Guess who gets voted off the island.

Gate to the ocean villa where Han and I stayed.

Keng Yak and Bernard stayed at the beach villa directly below us.

There were enough places to be alone in the resort.

This is Han's lair.

And this is mine, right next to our pool.

I also slept on this day bed. Alone.

Our private pool and the daybed on which I slept most of the time showing.

Breakfast was mostly brisk and pleasant.

With choices of continental and local fare.

I always chose the latter. Here's my mee goreng.

On Keng Yak's instigation, we hired a van and looked around the vicinity.

We ended up eating babi guling at a roadside tuck shop. Yum.

At the end of our short holiday, Han and I were speaking again. We're still not having sex - he claims he's really very busy and can't 'perform'. I tried to blow him once, perfunctorily, but he didn't cum.

Meanwhile, Ken Yak gave Bernard a fresh garland of kiss marks - on a daily basis! - which Bernard wore proudly, like a Harry Winston collar...

COOLING DOWN

2011-04-09T21:23:00.000-07:00

I will always love Han and I know he would always love me.

But for now I’m flying solo.

He calls – mainly to check where I am and who I am with – but he hasn’t been to my apartment.

A major account is getting in the way.

I don’t feel that it was a choice between me and the million-dollar account. I’m not that dramatic. Or narrow.

But I’m lonely.

COUTURE AND NASTY BITS

2011-04-09T21:18:00.000-07:00

I promised my friend O that I would catch her show at RWS. She brought 100 dresses from the Valentino archive in Milan to Singapore and everyone was declaring her project a coup. I’m not that into fashion but Valentino is one of the gods and there were some couture pieces that we not to be missed.

Here’s what I saw.

I almost didn't catch the exhibition,

but O made sure I see it.

RWS is tough to navigate,

thank heavens there were enough signages to direct people like me.

Stunning!

Riveting!

Et voila! Full couture work!

And true to form, I ended the night by taking a train from Harbour Front to Chinatown where I shared a table with a hot Chinaman while eating suspicious meat and drinking beer.

Gambei!

Tastes like chicken but looks like dinosaur...

After washing down that horrid dinner with Carlsberg,

it was time to switch to my fave cooler: Harbin!

FOOD PORN

2011-04-09T21:02:00.000-07:00

Han took me to Osia for lunch. After the cruise, I suggested we cooled off but he wouldn’t hear of it. I was tired and disillusioned –this wasn’t what I wanted in my relationship. I wasn’t particularly demanding, never asked him to move in or even spend time with me on a fixed ‘us time’.

His solution was to blow me away with an expensive lunch and a bag from Church’s. I was finally at peace. This is what it’s going to be. I’ll be spending nights alone masturbating to memories of our lovemaking while he worked late in the office.

While he talked about getting ready for the future together, I fell into food porn.

“You’re not listening again.”

“Oh, I was.”

“Put your phone down and talk to me.”

Han's invite came as a surprise.

I was hoping until then that he would be on the mend.

Food or love? Food I guess.

At least the flat bread was reliably filling.

Amuse bouche or palate cleansers?

Either way they were exquisite.

I'm just the type who can't say no to foie gras.

Especially if it's in generous, gorgeous portion.

Of course I was listening to my boyfriend.

I just didn't say much because I was engrossed by my main.

...and dessert. Thank heavens there was at least something sweet at lunch.

SAIL AWAY

2011-04-09T20:42:00.000-07:00

Han has been inattentive of late but I took it to be one of those phases when there was just too much on his plate. It has happened before and why shouldn’t it happen again? But I made sure he knew – very casually – that it wasn’t going down easy with me. I texted him:

“All good?”

“Just busy,” came the abbreviated reply.

Thus assured, I went about my own stuff. The last thing I wanted to be was a clingy boyfriend. I turned instead to my penis pump, cooing as I slipped my semi-erect cock into the sleeve, “Hello, old friend!”

But one night after work the night guard chased after me as I was getting into the lift.

“This parcel’s for you. It didn’t fit into the mailbox slot.” He said as he handed me a box.

What’s ultimately fabulous about Han is that he knows how to make up for his shortcomings.

A week later we took an early flight to Bali where a van was waiting to whisk us from Ngurah Rai to Benoa to board the Silver Spirit, Silversea Cruises’ new vessel. She set sail, her maiden voyage, from Australia and we were taking the leg that starts from Bali to Borneo and finally to Manila. Five days at sea, we were going to disembark in Manila and fly back to Singapore.

Han and I haven’t had sex in months. I had to take matters into my hands to make sure that we got some action on the cruise. Honestly, I missed his cock. I wanted it inside me. I wanted to taste it, smell it, watch it empty its contents in me, on me. And I wanted to do the same to him. I was aching for sex.

As Benoa receded into distance, we made a toast to blissful downtime. We hurried from high tea to our cabin where we unpacked. I had jockstraps, lubricants, poppers and butt plug.

He had his Mac and a bundle of papers demanding attention.

I spent most of my time aboard the ship making friends with homesick fellow Filipinos who served as crew. I drank copious amounts of alcohol, went to the gym, befriended guests and helped them download Sudoku, watched awful Broadway-type entertainment, learned origami, played Trivial Pursuit. I had never been so bored.

Han, if he moved at all, ordered room service and worked all the time. At night, he held my hand as we watched CNN – volunteers going through tsunami debris in Japan, Ghaddafi going ballistic, Christian Louboutin talking about high heels. It was surreal. Then Han kissed me goodnight and played with my nipple for a while before he fell asleep.

I was sore when we landed in Manila. And not for reasons I had wanted.

I love my man, but why am I miserable? Isn’t love enough?

Silver Spirit unfurls her colours as we left Benoa.

Our voyage took all of five days at sea.

The sea view from the living room of our suite.

The accommodations are posh - but I was a lonely boy throughout.

Posh details on the vessel include handwrought railings.

Elevators ascend all 11 storeys of the vessel.

Our cruise director, Fernando, busts a mean salsa move at the pier.

I knew immediately that I was boarding the right ship when I saw him!

The floating condo looks massive from the portside at Benoa.

I dumped my seasickness pills when I realised it's a very stable vessel.

A group of 'girls' greeted us at the port in Manila where we disembarked.

This is amongst the portside entertainment that included a marching band and percussion bands.

Manila, where Asia wears a smile... and vintage Pucci

Entertainers at the Manila Pier.

COMING HOME

2011-03-04T21:49:00.000-08:00

"Why you long time never come?" Mr Han was seated in a low bamboo stool minding a tangled mEss of fishing line. He seemed absorbed with his little project that I was actually surprised to hear him call out to me. He seemed in a good mood, humming to himself and speaking Singlish. One of my partner's nephews was conscripted to hold the spool and reel in whatever nylon string Mr Han unravelled. I'm sure there was money changing hands there. The little boy was patiently waiting for his grandpa to give him instructions. I couldn't resist cupping his ruddy cheek as I passed by.

"I've been busy, sir."

"All work and no play...." His voice trailed off as I proceeded inside the house.

Something has changed in that place. I had not been there in months, finding all manners of excuses to be absent from birthdays, anniversaries, family dinners. I have made peace with my partner's family; they have made the effort to welcome me back, but I soon started feeling uneasy in their presence. I guess I have been feeling guilty because their son have let them down by choosing another man as partner. I began feeling that there was something illicit about my relationship with their son. That there was something abnormal about two men sharing a bed, locked in an embrace that will never bear fruit.

I can't hold this one against any of them. Han's brothers have been pleasant to me, his sister a friend. And if all the presents that his parents have sent me, all the kind words, all the well wishes mattered, I have been, since that fateful birthday lunch for Ah Mah, virtually a son to the Hans.

I looked around the place as if for the first time. The furniture was arranged in the same way as I remembered them, the paintings on the wall still in the same order, the little knick knacks still in the antique glass cabinet. The same scent permeated the room - lemony, waxy, clean - all the odours that belong to no other place but a well-kept home.

Mrs Han appeared from the kitchen.

"Ah, Hui Long, perfect timing. Come and help me set the table. I cooked buah keluak. Must try, must try."

"I just came to drop by Han's laundry." I said almost defensively.

"Aiyah, that one har, asked you to do his stuff. Never mind, I scold him."

"It's fine, Mrs Han, your son sends his clothes to the laundry close to my office. It's not a problem at all." I lied. I had to go to Tanglin to retrieve his laundry, but I wanted to be the dutiful lover, and isn't picking up your partner's laundry when he is away on business trip part of that?

"Pai seh lah. Next time you tell him to pick up his clothes," she said as she took the hangers from my hand.

I had a good look at Mrs Han as she stepped close to me. I noticed that her roots were turning white, that the once smart bob has grown into a comely but less stylish hair held in place by pins. There was the same distance in her expression, and the smile laced with either contentment or resignation.

I have always come as guest at their small parties; they were always laughing and well-dressed, warmly welcoming and bit distracted. But that day, they were ordinary people, an ageing couple occupied by mundane tasks, defenceless, unassuming, the only real treat waiting for them was the completion of their chores. I suddenly felt sad for reasons I couldn't understand. It was like walking into your favourite bar one morning, unannounced and without any real purpose, and finding the place utterly charmless - the couches pockmarked with cigarette burns, the legs of stools dented, the cup in which you enjoyed a late night latte chipped.

I guess this was the same life that I would have to embrace with Han. When we would no longer be amused by lovemaking, when picking up after each other would become a chore, when waiting for the other's return at the end of the day would be a joyless pasttime. I was suddenly overwhelmed by sadness and fear. Is this where we're headed - Han minding tangled fishing line as I prepared buah keluak in the kitchen? What if there were other choices?

"Come, Hui Long, let's all eat while the food is warm. The maids are in my mother-in-law's place tidying up the kitchen. My brother had the old walls knocked down but it took him a long time to get a building permit. Sometimes you wonder what this government is doing; you can't even build on your own plot. Careful, this bowl is heavy. I used to have a whole set but these people never took care of them, now I only have two left. Nah, this is my special buah keluak. My family's recipe. It took me a long time to perfect this one; my elder sister - did you meet her, she came her for a visit - wouldn't teach me the proper way to do the rampah. I had to improvise until I got it. I agah agah helped her in the kitchen to learn the secret but in the end mine is better."

I set the food on the table, the plates, the glasses and the utensils; I turned on the light, slowly feeling like I belonged there. Like that was the same fate, dull yet reliable, that awaited me. I sat on a chair like it belonged to me and waited quietly for everyone else to turn up for a meal. I smiled that same small smile laced with contentment and quiet resignation.

SLOW DAY

2011-03-01T21:38:00.000-08:00

Lunch was tedious. I wanted to eat something light, say, grilled chicken salad with vinaigrette or just some poh piah, but it is simply too warm outside I decided to stay in and make myself a Nutella sandwich. I felt like Lady Gaga was dancing in side my head in spiky heels but I'm much better now.

I went back to blogosphere again to and check out posts from those that I follow as well as others that I may have missed. I found out that Sgboy has not been having sex a lot lately, and that For The Love of Asian Men has been deleted. Both are wank inspiration sources for me, bottomless wells that give me material for JOs when my partner's away- the first with stories, the second with pics and vids.

I also found out that from my blog posts I sound like I'm living a claustrophobic life, in a windowless universe where the only source of light is my partner Han. Nothing can be farther from truth and my posts only sound so because it's the place where I keep a record of what Han and I have been doing. I started blogging when I realised that the journals I have been keeping were no longer safe.

HOME ALONE

2011-03-01T18:35:00.000-08:00

I'm supposed to be interviewing photographers for a shoot that my team and I have scheduled for mid-March, but last night I hung out with the guys at Alley Bar, had a little too much to drink and woke up very early this morning with a throbbing pain in my head. It felt like something sharp and solid was lodged in my left temple. I fixed myself with a big cup of coffee, puttered around in my kitchen and put together bacon and eggs. Oily food is my cure for a hangover. I wasn't done setting the table when my phone beeped. It was my partner asking me to run some errands for him while he's on a week-long business trip. I texted my manager that I wasn't coming in and proceeded to have breakfast while planning my day.

Han wanted me to book tickets for a play - I get to do this because I'm picky with seats - and check his mileage points. The second, I am hoping, is a sign that we will be travelling soon; we haven't gone out of town together since Christmas although I went home and he went to Penang to visit his relatives. The closest we got to a trip was sailing with a couple of friends from RSYC to Sisters Islands and back.

I focused on my breakfast and took my vitamins. I decided to do the chores later.

I visited Sgboy's blog and I was so turned on by his post that I decided to masturbate after reading. Halfway through pleasuring myself, my phone rang. It was Han.

"Lau ban, Kuan told me that you were out drinking last night." The old bugger was tracking my movements again.

"It was just a few beers. We were in a meeting."

"I told you not to drink," he said firmly.

"Okay."

"Okay, lah, we're boarding already." He hung up, the man I love.

I went back to bed no longer in the mood to jack off. I need proper sex.

I guess I'll have to wait for Han's return. I'll give him a good one.

WITH ONE LOOK

2011-02-28T07:59:00.000-08:00

With one look, I put words to shame.
-Sunset Boulevard

If smoulderer were a calling, Derek would be an expert. I call him Derek althought we've not met because that's what I heard his friends call him. I was having lunch alone at the nasi padang place just this afternoon when a group of guys, all of them hot and hunky, made their way to the counter to order food. There were four or five of them and I recognised them instantly by the uniform they were wearing - black workout clothes - as staff from the gym in the mall across the street from my office.

The lunch crowd has thinned and there were many vacant seats all around but they picked the table right in front of me so they could all sit together. It would have been difficult to stand out in a crowd like that: All fresh youth, big guns, broad shoulders and sharp jaws. But Derek managed to catch my eye as he was the only one in a tank top and with an elaborate tattoo on his left upper arm.

He sat facing me and I pretty much lost it when our eyes met. He has those piercing eyes - I never realised until then what that expression really meant - that can make you fidget. I was eating my lunch but I was gradually paying more attention to him. He was staring straight at me - althought at first his gaze seemed fixed on someone behind me. I looked but there was no one there and his stare made me even more uncomfortable.

What could a young man, so young and handsome and desirable want to do with someone like me? I am plain at best. Did I know him from somewhere? Is it possible that I don't recall a face as stunning as that?

His kakis were totally oblivious to what was happening. They were eating and joking and talking amongst themselves but Derek was looking at me while he chewed his food. I decided to look away but I could still sense that he was looking. I had no other choice but to stare back. I knotted my brow a bit and squinted a bit in order to look fierce. Maybe I could stare him down.

It didn't last long before his friends were done with lunch. One of them stood up to get a toothpick or something from the counter, the others also moved outside to smoke. Derek was finishing his drink but he continued stealing glances and then suddenly looking away when I met his stare. Enough of this nonsense, I said to myself, as I gathered my newspaper and made my way to the counter to get some serviettes.

I was standing there waiting for the waitstaff to give me the serviettes when I felt someone standing quite close behind me. It was Derek. I kept thinking if he was someone I had crossed before or some friend of an enemy I didn't know I have. Did he want to strike me? Was there a score to settle? There was nothing else to do but face him. Be a man in front of this brickhouse of a man. He was still looking but with a hint of a smile this time. I made way for him but he gestured for me to stay.

I took the serviette and started to leave when he flashed a smile. Perfect teeth. I suddenly noticed. And nice manly scent - not cologne, not detergent, just that clean manly odour coming from a clean manly body. He made a move that brought our arms very close to each other and swung his hand a bit until his finger grazed my thigh.

"Hi," he said softly.

I nodded in response.

I walked out of that place in what I hoped were firm steps. As I crossed the threshold, I looked back at Derek. He was still looking, no longer smiling, but in an instant I though I saw his right eye moved. He winked at me.

PARTY PISSER

2011-02-26T06:54:00.000-08:00

The good parties are coming back after the tiresome lo heis of the Lunar New Year. On Thursday, The Hourglass launched Shambala in its super swanky outlet at Knightsbridge, the Malmaison. A-listers showed up, of course, but the real treat were the yummy-looking clubs kids on parade. My dancing days are now behind me but I have made with some of the senior hardcore scenesters that I have become a de facto nodding acquaintance with the young ones. This set is equally exciting - mostly educated abroad, they have the refinement and resources of the most appealing cosmopolitan Chinese boys worldwide.

But going back to Malmaison: it's like the Christmas morning of my dreams. There is the usual watch gallery in front but at the back is the blue room done up like an aristocrat's mansion (the fireplace is fitted a plasma screen that plays a loop of blazing log fire). There are so many bell jars and so many bibelots - there's even a receptacle filled with antique walking sticks with bone handles. I was eyeing one - my bad knee has been acting up and I've been limping terribly - but Han shot me one of those dagger stares that I promptly put the cane down.

There's also an incredible collection of vintage Rolexes, some of them from the '60s and '70s. M said they're the only ones permitted by Rolxes to display such largesse.

Upstairs is absolute shopping heaven. Taschen coffee table books, vintage bound copies of Playboy, vitrines of Cartier watches - I noticed that all the other watchs brands are below except Cartier which claims a pride of place at the top of the stairs. Then there's a green garden that conceals the toilets beautifully. Just remember that this is on the second floor and smack bang in the middle of the shop. (The toilets are marked Josephine and Napoleon and that night, horror of horrors, Napoleon was out of order. Ergo, the boys were allowed to use Josephine. And with all the bubblies flowing, we boys were using the facility with timed frequency!)

The attraction here is John Glajz's shop overflowing with rare pink diamonds from the Argylle mines, and the very cool Shambala bracelets for men and women. John was on hand to greet his guests. I can't put a finger on it but I thought he's had something cosmetically touched up. The Shambala bracelets for guys have matte onyx beads or other semi-precious stone and a centrepiece bead paved with black diamonds. I saw some of the club boys - always ahead of the fashion game - wearing a couple of such bracelets. I got Han to try one, but he found them to be a little too eyecatching.

Some guys asked Han if we wanted to go to the Givenchy party after, but Han declined. I was glad because the first guy who asked him has been giving him the eye all evening. I'm not usually the jealous type, but this particular fellow was just too obvious with his overtures. We went to the Vanilla Home party at MBS instead. Also packed with A-listers, but of the older sort. Food was equally good - it's from Oso - and Han had to pry a huge chunk of peanut butter praline from my hands. I couldn't stop.

Inside, we met several gorgeous people - mostly women decorators and their very gay walkers - as we toured the fabulous shop. Han disappeared from my side (I thought he went to fetch more champagne) and when he reappeared, he handed me a gift box. "Open it when you reach home," he whispered into my ear.

It was a sable brush designed to relax a person - a massage brush in other words. I was hoping Han would sleep over so we could test it, but we were out again the following night. We had a cigar and cognac sampling at Que Pasa and because I came straight from work and just had a change of shirt, did not have anything to eat. I was flat out drunk in 15 minutes. But we had to go to The Pump Room where a Pinoy DJ was mixing and was nice enough to invite us to go. The crowd wasn't very hot - lots of office people still in their office clothes. After midnight, we went to Ku De Ta where A was hosting a birthday party so I forced myself to stay awake. By the time we reached the venue, I just had to use the loo to relieve myself. While doing that, I had a sudden urge to vomit that I peed a little in my pants.

Han was very upset that instead of taking me home, dragged me to the car and drove me to Hotel 81 in Chinatown. It was he closest place he could think of. He couldn't stand me in a state and with wet pants and he wouldn't take me anywhere where we might bump into people we know. We parked someplace nearby, checked in and he ordered massive amounts of coffee.

It's a very tacky place to go for a nookie - we've never been in one before - but once I recovered and freshened up, I was feeling rather randy. Han was still pissed and wasn't in the mood for sex so he simply took me home, gritting his teeth the whole time we were in the car.

I won't be drinking anytime soon. I am cursing alcohol for now.

YOU WANT A HARD ON WITH THAT?

2011-02-21T07:00:00.000-08:00

My boss was pacing up and down the sad excuse for a corridor that we have in the office. I was still in my first meeting for the day, in that sad excuse for a boardroom that we have, but I can sense his ballooning impatience as he glared at me through the shopwindow that has earned for our boardroom the nickname Fish Tank.

The second I stepped out of my meeting, he was on my case. "John, you have worked for XXX; they're shopping for a new agency and I think you should revive your relationship with them."

"Oh," was all I could say. I have worked with XXX in an I agency I used to work for. I had pitched three successful campaigns and actually ran two of them before I left for another agency. As far as I knew, the old gang was still there: Thierry, the very charming French managing director, Serene, who does all the work in the office, and Kong, who makes sure that I get to speak directly with Thierry who can be (a) really sweet but (b) a bit of a scatterbrain.

"Come on, John, you can do it," my boss was saying. "The agency needs this account or the head office wouldn't approve your budget proposal."

Count on my boss to follow up a sweet smile with a tight slap.

"Nice tie," I said as I strode past him on my way to my cubicle.

"Hao lah, I'll get Tina to set up an appointment for you with Cherry." I considered my boss for a moment. That Canali tie suits me better, I thought to myself.

The day of the lunch meeting came and I showed up in a nice jacket and tie at the oddly named Japanese restaurant, Sun With Moon, at Wheelock Place. I saw Thierry the moment I walked in; he was waving at me, grinning from ear to ear. But there was no Serene or Kong. There was instead a man I haven't met before.

"Salut, John! Ca va?"

"Salut, Thierry. Tres bien, merci."

"This is Kelvin; he has joined our team."

"Kelvin extended his hand and I instantly noticed his long pinkie nail. Aha! Ah Beng!

Lunch progessed without any incident: Hello. How's work? You've been moving a fair bit. All good? Have you gone to MBS? I heard what happened to Santi Santamaria! C'est terrible, no?

Then it was was Kelvin's turn to grill me: Do you golf? Your family here? Are you flamboyant?

I didn't know where the last question came from but it stopped me dead on my tracks. For a gay man, flamboyant is four martinis, dance music and a pair of thongs. Or Lady Gaga in an egg. I didn't know what Kelvin meant. I had to ask questions.

"We have this XXX La Nuit. It's a brand extension. You know. For men. Very masculine. But outrageously masculine. Flamboyant. Do you think you can handle it?"

I broke it down to: "It's for men, I suspect you're gay, you're wrong for it." There was a dismissive tone in his voice, an exclusive attitude in his delivery.

But I know exactly what I can and cannot deliver. I'm not the best campaign strategist in the world, but I can do pretty awesome things. If he wanted something outrageously masculine, I can give it to him. But I was already halfway pissed off. Where does he get off thinking that only heteros can pitch for campaigns targeted at heteros?

I knew Thierry would be a pussycat and will forgive me if I suddenly showed his protege my fine set of talons. Heck, he may even memorialise it into delicious gossip for the cocktail hour crowd.

"Kelvin," I said channelling the icy calmness of Miranda Priestly, "if your idea of the right person who can create and run this campaign is someone with a constant hard-on and chest hair, then I'm not that guy. But if you want someone who can make men understand why they need this product, it's me."

I could see Thierry grinning on the sideline. It was a make or break call and I did it. I was already preparing in my mind what to say to my boss, how to explain to him that we lost the bid because "my gay ego was offended".

If I were straight, it would have been a called a wrong fit, but because I'm homosexual, it would be, well, John was having a fit. Being a gay man in the office does have disadvantages. I know the same can be said of straight men and women, but in a gay man's case, his professionalism is suspect. He doesn't play well in a team setting; he's a diva.

No matter, I just kissed my budget proposal goodbye. I thought of what to say to my bossin the aftermath. I felt my stomach turning. I have let the agency down.

Two days later we got the job and a class contract for another three campaigns.

WHAT'S IN A NAME?

2011-02-20T06:36:00.000-08:00

A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
-Will Shakespeare

Chinoys in Manila use their Christian name. I was never Chen Hui Long in Manila; I was always John Chen. I began using my Chinese name only when I moved to Hong Kong; I wanted to fit in. It was all awkward in the beginning, like I was pretending to be someone else. The Starbucks staff, for instance, would call out my name a few times before I realise it was me. Same thing in the office. "Good morning, Mr Chen" was fine, but "wanna grab some lunch, Hui Long?" sounded like a foreign phrase.

We use our Christian name in Manila for two reasons: to deflect curiosity and to fit in.

"May ibig sabihin ba ang pangalan mo?" Acquaintances would ask when they find out what my Chinese name was.

"Eh, ang mga kapatid mo, ano ang pangalan nila?" Suddenly, my siblings' names had to be explained.

But I learned fast; I began answering the first question with, "Nah, I just made it up."

Of course, the more important reason was we wanted to fit in.

"John Chen? Ah, intsik ka pala!" As if I did not deserve a Christian name by virtue of my race; as if I should only be calling myself Kian Hong or Wee Kiat or some dreamy traditional name with blazing dragons or the scent of spring. How about Sio Pao or Ho Pia?

Other parents zealously overdo the Christian name bit in order to fit in but often to unfortunate comic result: Aristophanes Uy, Archimedes Tan, Clytemnaestra Sy. Is there something that calls attention more than a polysyllabic Grecian name and an abruptly short Chinese surname? Or the equally embarrassing attempts at alliteration: Lily Li, Homer Ho, Polly Po. What were their parents thinking? And the allusions that are simply disastrous: Fernando Po, Kenny Dy, Jackie Lin. Yeah, great ways to fit into a crowd of Maria Esperanza Espinola and Juan Miguel Santos. (By the way, the Filipino penchant for long Hispanic names is equally ridiculous. Don't these parents realise that calling their daughter Ana Margarita would require a few things, including a nose that isn't flat? Or that Claudia Monserrat doesn't really go with a surname like Tabayoyong?)

So I'm really fine with my name. John Chen Hui Long. John after the John the Baptist, my parton saint, and Hui Long after the ascending dragon that I am supposed to be - at least tomy Dad, although growing up it brought me considerable pain: "Chen Hui Long matakaw sa talong!" my classmates would tease me.Well, that kind of came to pass so I can't complain! Ha!

You see, it all turned out to be Heaven Lee!

ANDY DANDY

2011-02-18T22:33:00.000-08:00

Like anywhere else, eye candy flavours come in waves in Manila. There was a time when mestizo types, Hispanic or American, were considered hot. The appeal of the 'otherness' was undeniable. As local counterparts of Hollywood heroes, they wooed and won women on the silver screen. They were tall, broad shouldered and brave, and above all, they were supposed to have an extra inch or so in their appendage. (Another big plus, of course, was chest hair - a commonly held sign of virility that Mother Nature has sadly denied many Asian men.)

In Philippine movies, the allure of the half-breeds took a long time to dissipate, giving us matinee idols and singers and models who had fair skin, lighter eyes and hair. Their Filipino surnames were quickly replaced with more exotic western ones, making it slightly absurd that a Hispanic senorito is cast in the role of a clod-hopping peasant or a boy next-door.

Then came the wave of the brown Filipino hero. The son of the earth, he was stronger and manlier than his paler predecessors. By that time, mestizo types were relegated to contravida roles - anti-heroes who didn't know how to plough the field, drink moonshine with his mates or woo a woman with a song. Worse, the mestizos who once ruled the silver screen were dismissed as mestizong bangus, a pejorative that implied traits of a cold, smelly fish as opposed to manly barako who is ready to rumble and to romance.

And where were we in this picture? The chinoys were often the sidekicks or the villains. In the former, they provide the comic relief - their social ineptitude, imperfect speech and buck teeth a perfect ploy for the hero's manly beauty and gentlemanliness. He is Dolphy to Rogelio dela Rosa or Ponga to Bernard Bonnin. If the chinoy ever gets the girl in the end, it's the atsay - the simple-minded housemaid who serves the leading lady as her sidekick. This role belonged to such comediennes as Aruray or Matimtiman Cruz who, with a surfeit of eyeliner that narrowed their eyes into mere slits and long hair parted into long braids, added simpleton quirks to the Chinese stereotype. They were inevitably afflicted with Tourette's syndrome, the mali-mali whose unfortunate flaw were meant to elicit laughter. Incidentally, atsay, a colloqiual Filipino word for housemaid, comes from Ah Chye, a common nickname for a Chinese girl.

The formula is familiar to us and may have actually come from the commedia dell' arte and then the zarzuela and then the bodabil, a widely bastardised version of vaudeville, and finally the Philippine movies. The bottomline, however, is this: it made it difficult for moviegoers to take the Chinese as seriously or even to consider them as possibly attractive. In Hollywood, the Chinese did not fare better: The early memorable characters of vaguley Chinese origins were the comically maladroit Charlie Chan, a detective with a penchant for quoting Confucius in mangled English; a villanous half-wit named Fu Manchu, and a downright hearltess Ming the Merciless.

But things have changed. Thank heavens. Bruce Lee, the internationalisation of Chinese kung fu and historical plays, the rise of Cantopop and HK gangster flick, the awards heaped on Zhang Yimou, Wong Kar Wai, Ang Lee et al, the J-Pop revolution, the K-Pop. Suddenly, to have slits for eyes and imperfect English is cute, han swee, ka waii. Girls, and doubtless gay men, swoon and melt at Rain's gaze. Or Takuya Kimura's. Or any member of the Korean b-boy troupe. Chinitos, as Filipinos now refer to that class of narrow-eyed East Asians, are suddenly swoon-worthy. Fantasies involving what were once comic sidekicks and anti-heroes are now rife. Tony Leung can raise collective pulses and ticket sales.

I was forced into this rumination after my Mandarin tutor, the incomparable Ling Mali (that's Mary Ling to her non-Chinese students), remarked that I reminded her of Andy Lau. Blushing and uncharacteristically embarrassed, I gathered my exercise books and calligraphy brush as I whispered a feeble thank-you. Hindi naman, I said to myself. Andy Hui na lang.

BIG HAIRY DEAL

2011-02-15T06:40:00.000-08:00

I returned to Singapore relieved and convinced that my life needed some spiritual underpinning. I've been materialistic, petty and superficial, I told myself as the plane was touching down at Changi, but the time has come for me to be more introspective. I was ready for a change.

I only had my holdall, didn't buy anything at the airport, and only snatched a couple of magazines from the lounge.

I scanned the people milling around the gate to the arrival area. No Han. No familiar smiling face waving at me to go straight to the car park. (My partner has grown tired of my antics - of me running to him with arms outstretched as if we've not seen each other inages, of dodging my kisses. I do all those just to annoy him.)

I guess I have to cab down to my place after all, I said to myself.

"Weh, zai nali?" a man asked as he tapped me on the shoulder.

He was about as tall as my partner, same build and mien but he had a moustache and a four o'clock shadow on his cheeks. He looked somewhat familiar but I couldn't place him. The copious amount of riesling I had on the plane didn't help.

"Da-ge shenti hao mah?"

It was Han! I looked at him again and I couldn't believe he had grown a full moustache just as I've been begging him to do. He was so hot. I felt my cock stirring in my pants; so much for the big spiritual turnaround. There's a more urgent call that needed response.

Once we were settled in the car, I grabbed his crotch and felt him up, surprised that he was ready.

"I like the way you smell," he said as he grinned at me. He was handsomer with his facial topiary. I will get him to fuck me. I had a shower before I left my brother's place but was obviously sweaty when I touched down.

I unzipped his fly and made an exaggerated effort to find and pull out his cock.

"Miss it?" I looked at him, his full lips crowned by thick arch of hair, the plane of his face dramatically made hard by his stubbles. His smile was tempting - or maybe it was just his ordinary Tuesday afternoon smile made more intense and masculine by his facial hair.

I didn't answer. I undid my seatbelt and stuffed his leaking cock into my mouth.

"Weh, siao eh, not here lah. Wait till we get to your place. I'll give you all you want."

And upon hearing that, I stuffed his member back into his shorts, knowing that it wasn't long before I get that inside me somehow.

And I did. Twice.

THE FACE OF TERROR

2011-02-14T08:08:00.000-08:00

I rushed home to Manila on the eve of the Lunar New Year. My sister-in-law was hysterical on the phone.

"Your brother is in ICU. We rushed him to the hospital at two am when he complained of severe chest pain."

On the plane, I tortured myself with horrible scenarios. When we landed, I was the first passegner out; I cleared immigration and customs in just a couple of minutes and with my trusty hold-all in hand was very soon in the car on my way to the hospital. The driver knew why I came home suddenly but he was polite enough not to say or ask anything. We rode in silence past the gnarly early afternoon traffic, both of us wanting to start a conversation but neither of us knew how. I feared to hear what he would say. What if my family was just keeping the truth from me? What if instead of the hospital the driver was instructed to take me straight to an even sadder place? I remembered the rosary in my pocket and started praying in earnest.

When we reached Medical City, I headed straight to the ICU. Bahala na. Wala nang tanung-tanong. I would look for him when I get here, I told myself. My family would be there. I would know where to find him.

I was shaken by what I saw on my way up - muffled sobs of grieving families who have given up their loved ones to death's embrace. People with blank faces, their expressions doubtlessly wiped away by fear and loss. I steeled myself up for the ultimate bit of news - the one I dreaded - while at the same time hoped against hope that everything would be fine, that I would speak to my brother and take him home and joke with him and feed him baby food and watch him recover his strength.

The protocols at the ICU were tight. I refused to peek through the glass panels; I scanned the names on the doors: The patient, the attending physician and other things - acronyms that weren't familiar to me. I didn't find his name. I started to cry.

I went to the nurse's station and calmly told them my brother's name.

"Wala na po si Mr Chen dito."

I was stunned silent.

"Nilipat na po siya sa telemetry." I didn't have to know what it was. I wasn't sure I got what the nurse said, but it sounded like that. And it sounded more hopeful than the most dreaded place in any hospital. She kindly asked one of the nurses to take me there, aware perhaps that I was shaken and in a state and still carrying a hold-all with the airline tag.

Then I saw my brother. He was awake and, although oddly strapped to his bed, was visibly cheerful; he raised a hand in greeting. Cables hooked to a monitor were plastered on his chest; under his nose passed the oxygen tube. He was on drip.

His doctor, a fraternity brother of his, someone I met or even fancied a long time ago, met me and told me about my brother's condition. He had chest pain and shortness of breath but it was just a panic attack, nothing more. I have the same condition and I know how horrifying it can be.

I was relieved but I was also filled with sadness. Years from now, my partner will be my eldest brother's age. And no sooner it would be my turn. We won't be leaving behind orphans. We would likely be looking after each other. In those morbid thoughts that I sometimes indulge, I imagine myself going first. I won't be able to bear sending off my partner to his rest. But looking at what could have happened to my brother, I would give up everything so that my partner wouldn't have to go through the terror of being left behind.

My brother, former varsity basketball player, health buff, sensible eater, returned home with a clean bill of health. I left Manila with an unburdened heart, eager to return to my partner's side. And just as I told my brother that I love him, I said the same to Han.

It was Valentine's Day just a few hours ago. I went to dinner with my partner. We're now in my apartment where earlier we had sex and we showered together after. He's in bed, snoring, mouth open, the book he was reading resting on his chest. I think for the first time I'm enjoying the funny sounds he makes in his sleep. I reminds me he's around. And I hope that he will be for a long time.

RINGING IN THE NEW YEAR

2011-01-26T07:46:00.000-08:00

One Saturday afternoon Han and I decided to sequester ourselves in my apartment for 'us time'. The run-up to the Lunar New Year was getting crazier by the minute and we hadn't been seeing to each other. As a chinoy in Singapore, I've always been left alone during the Chinese new year.

By right, as part Chinese - if that applies at all - I should be part of the celebrations. Yet besides the token hong baos and invitation to lo heis, I had always been considered an outsider. Despite that I had to make an appearance at the steamboat dinner in my godmother's place. And so for the last 11 years, I had been buying oranges and filling up red packets for friends' children who have taken to calling me 'Uncle'. This year, I added six more red packets for Han's nephews and nieces. And for him I bought a set of Enid Blyton illustrated novels. In other words, I was keeping myself busy in order to forget that I was far from home.

We were watching some Cantonese movie on TV when I noticed Han putting his hand inside his boxers. I didn't pay attention to it at first, but after a while, I noticed he was grimacing and doing odd faces.

"Wei shenma," I asked.

"Shenme ye meiyou." He said.

We want back to watching TV again.

"Bu hao." I said, talking about what the show.

"Bu cuo," he insisted.

"Bu shi nayang." I said realising we were getting our lines crossed.

Then suddenly he pulled out something from inside his shorts.

"Nar," he held out his hand, a shiny metal ring on his palm.

"Walau weh, you've been wearing a cock ring all this time?" I asked incredulously.

He was laughing hysterically, blushing as he did.

"If you want to wear a cock ring, do it just before we have sex. Otherwise, blood will not flow through your gugu jiao and it will fall off!"

With that we started laughing long and loud together.

A little later, he dutifully put his cock ring on. By then he had a mind to put it to good use.

THE RIGHT ONE FOR ME

2011-01-10T00:13:00.000-08:00

I was at my godmother’s place over the weekend to drop off some stuff that I got for her from Manila: packets of dried mango, boxes of macapuno candies and boat tarts, half a kilo of kapeng barako. At NAIA, I sauntered into Cora Jacobs' shop and found a nice pair of pearl earrings; I got that for her too.

I directed the cabbie towards the old market in Bedok and bought some chee kueh. My godmother is a traditional Cantonese with tastebuds to match which makes buying her food as present extremely difficult. She wouldn’t say anything cross but would suggest, usually after my visit, that I refrain from buying too much of this and that. Her parting shot would invariably be, “Hao gui lah, Ah Boy. I can also make that. Better save money, har. Come back on Saturday, but don’t buy me anymore quiche. I also can make.” That is the sure sign that she wasn’t very happy with what I brought her. But the dried mango, macapuno, tarts and kapeng barako have been pre-approved, as well as the chee kueh from a particular stall in Bedok public market, so I never miss the chance to get her some.

I’ve been thinking of introducing my partner to my godmum, but I haven’t found the right play of courage and opportunity yet. I have progressed to prefacing some sentences with, “I have a friend who does this...”, or “my friend told me to...”. I was hoping that would prompt her to say, “Well, why don’t you bring your friend over so we can meet him”. So far, such hints have been largely ignored. The friend that I casually but earnestly mention might as well have been a figure of speech.

Honestly, I don’t know why it matters to me that my godmum meets my partner. Han and I are good together and require no further blessings. It’s not like we’ll be sullen in bed and unable to have delicious sex if we didn’t have approval from anyone. I think the opposite is the case. It’s clandestine and perhaps forbidden, that’s why sex with Han is so great. Besides my godmum will either disapprove or be devastated by news that her godson, whom she trots out like a precious mah-jong tile, is into cocks. Among other unmentionable things.

“Mrs Oei, my godson bought me a brooch from Hong Kong; he’s so nice! Maybe your Mabel should meet him.” Argh, I don’t even want to go there.

So I danced around the issue of me and Han with Baryshnikov’s expertise.

“With whom did you go to Manila?

“A bunch of friends.” Friends plural does not invite curiosity in a way that Friend singular does.

“How is your mother? Did she like the lap chong I sent her? “

“Yes, Auntie, she liked them. She said thank you.” She liked them is a full stop; we liked them is an ellipsis.

“Did you see any girls in Manila?”

Smile is the only known correct response to this.

“Ah Boy, you smiling – that means yes.”

In local parlance, I happy, you happy. End of story.

But my godmum, like all mothers, are gifted with sixth sense slash malicious side and they're known to bring up trump questions no matter how well you have evaded them in the past.

It starts with age, occupation, residence but often cloaked in pleasantries. Always implicit, never explicit.

“Aiyah, children today very good har. So old already still don’t want to marry. Enjoy life too much, issit?” Don’t answer this one.

“You job must be so difficult har; got no time to find wife. Don’t wait long long lah, give yourself time to enjoy.” Ditto.

“Invest in property. Mrs Lee’s son made 250K over after selling his condo/flat/landed property in Sembawang. Lucky he got wife already. At least can share with someone.” This is when you look for something to do in the next room – vacuum the chairs if it comes to that.

She was in full Q&A mode when she looked up at her German kitchen clock and realised that she hasn’t prepared anything for lunch.

I was hurriedly conscripted to quarter a whole chicken while she prepared the vegetables.

“Aiyah, Auntie, chin chai lah. Man man lah. Wo bao liao,”I assured her in mixed dialects.

When the chicken was chopped and cleaned, I thought she would ask me to fry the pieces – our shared guilty pleasure, fried chicken consumed with ketchup – but she took out the sambal belacan from the chee kueh packet and asked me to sautee the chicken with it.

I tossed a lump of chicken fat into the heated wok until it was dancing in a puddle of aromatic lard. I put in the chicken next, piece by piece, and watched it change colour. No sooner than it did when my godmum swiftly dumped the entire content of the sambal belacan tub into the wok. The intense aroma filled her tiny kitchen instantly as oily steam rose from the stove. She quickly covered the dish and handed me a damp tea towel to clean up the spilled oil on her spotless hob.

The dish turned out well, exceeding my expectations. We ate slowly, savouring the tender flesh coated in sambal with bits of heibi and chilli. She continued quizzing me about my search for the perfect partner – in her mind still at large and female – suggesting absurd strategies.

“Maybe you should find a Vietnam girl. They very... How you say, har?” She struggled with the right word.

“Loyal.”

“Ah. Sometimes China girl so clever. Take your money then go back China.”

I rested for a while after lunch and made some fish ornaments out of hong bao. My godmum is doing up the place for the Lunar New Year.

“This year, I’ll still give you hong bao,” she jested. “Maybe next year, I give your son, dui bu dui?”

She packed the leftover chicken for me. “I one people eat. Cannot finish.” She said as she stuffed it in my bag.

“Kum siah, Auntie. Maybe I share this with my sweetheart.”

She lit up and smiled. If she only knew I was thinking of giving it to my Han.

I looked back before the lift doors closed. My godmum was still beaming.

MAX MADE ME DO IT

2011-01-08T08:27:00.000-08:00

I can't claim goodness or all-around likability. I have done nasty things - just as you have - but I have Max as an excuse. He made me do it!

Max and I often waited together for our sundo to come and pick us up after school. We were both Binondo boys, two young chekwas who didn't drive and were therefore at the mercy of our family drivers. To while away the time we invented games - I don't know if someone had thought of them ahead of us - but they were uniformly cruel little games.

One of them was 'Who Would You Rather Be?' The mechanics were simple: we find pairs of the most horrible people we both know and ask each other who we'd rather be. Of course, to raise the bar we had to outdo each other in the nasty territory. He might come up with the manang in the canteen and our very gay Filipino teacher, and I might trump that with the school chaplain (who smelled) and the head librarian (who had bad breath). It's the most stupid thing we've done, but back then we didn't know better.

Another game was 'What Undies Does He/She Wear' in which we'd guess the underwear of anyone who passes by. The hilarity naturally came from us coming up with really horrible answers. 'Beaded tanga' we'd say about our spinsterish and strict homeroom teacher, or 'So-en with lace' about the male PE teacher we both disliked. When victims thinned out as the school emptied, we'd just randomly call out names of people we know and attempt to outdo each other with outrageous answers. Seiko briefs, maroon cycling shorts, camouflage print bikinis....

I wallow in shame whenever I recall those days.

THE IN-LAWS WHISPERER

2011-01-05T07:27:00.000-08:00

In no time, Han and I were out of the airport and on our way to the town of Guiguinto in Bulacan, the first province north of Manila. The airport was suddenly, unexpectedly efficient and the fact that not many people were travelling on Christmas day made a big difference. But instead of making stopovers in Binondo, where my elders still live, or in Greenhills, where most of my younger cousins have relocated, we sped to Bulacan in my Mum's car to be at my family's reunion.

Han, unaccustomed to huge billboards of artistas hawking everything from Bench underwear to SM condominiums, took pictures non-stop. He was just blown away by the unusual mixure of la pastorale - rice paddies with leaning huts and stray cattle - and suddenly Marian Rivera in a 20-foot billboard endorsing, well, tuna paella?!? The ride was pleasant, NLEX was a great way to get to the countryside.

Many moons ago, my family acquired some rice farms in Bulacan and my enterprising uncle turned portions of it into a bee hoon factory. (In Manila, we call it bijon and spell it the hispanic way.) Although the business floundered the farm remains productive to this day. He had a 'rest house' built on what was once the factory - a rather preposterous name for a collection of nipa huts under a canopy of mango trees. But around that place, a wading pool beside a clump of coconut trees could pass off for a resort, so I guess my uncle wasn't being pretentious calling our palm village 'rest house'. Nope, it's not the Hamptons - we didn't have polo ponies grazing about but we did have a carabao and some goats and poultry running around.

Han and I were assigned a room with two single beds and a toilet en suite, but we spent most of our time outside getting to know everyone. They were expectedly curious about Han; he has visited before but briefly - we slept at Shang and drove out to Bulacan and Binondo during the day - and so his return was more like a first time. To his credit, he did very well, prying my nephews and nieces with presents and charming the rest with sweet nothings in faultless Mandarin. If I were a woman, I'm sure my family would have demanded in secret that I show them the ring for I have brought home a good catch. But being the family's gay son, I couldn't help but sense the whole tap-tapping around the million dollar question: Are they just friends or are they fucking each other?

The answer to that was, of course, a resounding 'yes'. The counry air had glorious effect on Han's appetites. When he wasn't polishing his plate - the way my family force-fed him was simply criminal! - he was either feeling me up, stealing kisses and whispering things that, if I were someone else, would have made me blush.

Every night, when we were sure that everyone had gone to bed, we had mind-blowing sex that put the old four posters to the test. The best one was our drunken fuck on the cold tile floor of the bathroom. We finished dinner late one night and both of us were pretty randy by the time we headed to our room. We didn't wait to get to bed and started grabbing each other in the bathroom. It was strange having sex with all your family around you but the prospect of getting caught was again what drove us to the hilt. We had to keep the noise down and that got us even hotter. That night we went for seconds and hugged each other in his bed until dawn.

The days passed quickly and soon Han had to leave for Singapore. We decided to try sex al fresco and Han borrowed a jeep and drove out with me to the paddies one morning. Sex outdoors, to those of you who haven't ried it yet, is exhilarating. I remember lying on my back on the ground looking at the blue sky as Han drove his rigid cock in and out of my arse. He came inside me in hot spurts - I actually felt his cock spasming inside me - and kissed me for the longest time. The smell of damp earth and grass, Han's heavy breathing, his full weight on top of me, the taste of our mixed sweat, the mud caking slowly around my butt were the best sensations of the recent past holiday. We didn't have any excuse for showing up in great mess. The irrigation ditches have dried up, the harvest was over, and there was no stream or swamp nearby where we could cool down. We returned in time for a bath in the pump, a change of clothes and a final lunch.

After Han left, my eldest brother asked me to take a walk. I knew he wanted a confession.

"He seems nice. I think you should just stick with him instead of being kalat-kalat."

Although my brothers accept my sexuality, they draw the line on promiscuity.

"Do you think everyone in the family knows?" I asked.

"I don't think so. Do you care?"

"Of course I do!"

"Then do the right thing. Stick with this Han and stop messing with other men."

"I'm not Kris," I said to assure him I uphold propriety.

"And I'm not PNoy; but I can whack you if I have to." With that he reached out and messed up my hair.

"Bakla ka talaga," he exclaimed when he realised my hair was coated with wax.

"Buti nga sa 'yo!" I ran as fast as I could towards the house with him chasing me.

LOUNGE LIZARDS

2010-12-24T16:25:00.000-08:00

Just because Han is so kan chong, I'm sitting here in the lounge watching sleep-deprived populace stuff their faces with food. We have a few hours to spare and with all the gifts wrapped and probably being loaded onto the plane's belly by now, Han has declared a no-shopping policy. What? Changi Airport without shopping?

"Why you always want to buy, buy, buy?" He enquired as as we presented our boarding pass to get into the lounge. The lady who checked us in bit her lips to keep from laughing.

I was sullen for a few minutes until I saw that the lounge was half empty (You could hold a tennis tourney here!) and the travelling zombies were contentedly eating breakfast while monitoring the progress of a car-race on TV. It looks like the Indy 500 rather than F1 but it was surprisingly popular. I guess everyone here's bored to tears.

Han and I picked an empty spot and settled down.

"Ni yao chu shenma?"

"Bloody Mary."

"Bloody idiot, you! Eat proper meal lah."

With that he left in a huff only to return five minutes later with porridge and dim sum and finger sandwiches.

"Oi, don't embarrass me. Why did you take so much food?" I asked.

He wasn't paying attention; he left again and returned with coffee for me and tea for himself.

Ordinarily, I would laugh it off as my partner being Singaporean kiasu, which to me can be a charming little quirk. But I guess I was just sore last night because he didn't sleep over. He joined his family for the Anglican midnight service while I scooted off to the cathedral to hear the midnight Mass. I went home alone and and was sleeping fitfully when my phone rang. Han wanted me to cab down to his place and have dinner with his family. I told him even the Queen of England cannot make me leave my bed and with that I turned off my phone.

He popped by very early this morning, banging on the door.

"Can't you call my handphone? You'll wake the neighbours!"

"Wah, you tell me who turned off his phone last night! So rude!"

He managed to get me ready for the trip, hauled my luggage along with his and hailed a cab in front of my apartment. We all need a man like him, I thought to myself. So strong, so decisive, so protective.

I guess I was being difficult. And for no reason.

I have to stop treating the man of my life shabbily. He's over at the counter again looking for more finger sandwiches. If he doesn't come back with a heap of them on a saucer, I promise to be my good self again. Let's see...

So, DEAR BOYS (and a few girls!), have yourselves a Merry Christmas! I'll be blogging from Manila.

HOME FOR THE HOLS

2010-12-14T18:04:00.000-08:00

Han and I will pack our bags and head off to Manila on Christmas day. I'm putting my Harbin adventure on hold. It's proving much more difficult to set up that I'd expected.

This will not be our first trip to Manila together - to date we've spent half-holidays in Cebu, Baguio and Makati - but he's still excited about visiting my family again. I introduced him to my family as a friend and colleague on his first visit to Manila. We were just fooling around then and had no idea we'd end up with each other. Now things have changed and he might want to be known as something else. Repeat visits signal something. My family is sensitive to this and will probably ask.

"Lau ban, shouldn't we buy gifts here? I don't think we have time to shop in Manila." Han asked me one night he was hanging out in my apartment.

"Gifts for..."

The wedding shoot got rained on, but the happiness remained. "Mum," the groom seemed to be saying, "this is the person I love. I hope you will love her too." But the mother seemed to have other things in mind: "Damn, this gown will be abitch to wash after this pictorial. Fark!"

"The family, lah. Mum and your bros and sis..."

I was genuinely touched but I wasn't exactly sure how to handle his high expectations. My family must expect that sooner or later I would get hooked up again but for me the prospect of introducing a partner - yet again - is daunting. They're sort of relieved that I'm not dating anyone after all the drama they had to endure and nearly brought me to the brink some years back.

"Can I leave that up to you?"

He may have sensed my hesitation.

"What's wrong? Sad again har? Don't think too much lah. It'll be alright."

I pulled him close and kissed him on the lips. This man is too good for me.

MARIAH SCARY

2010-12-10T06:39:00.000-08:00

Han and I decided to come up for air one evening and attend the Bulgari S/S 2011 preview at Paragon. They constructed a little 'garden' outside the boutique where guests ogled the latest bags and accessories displayed in glass cabinets, including a few pieces designed by Matthew Williamson for the label. Some of the pieces, like the bejewelled sunglasses and bags with intricate, jewellery-like hardware, were really beautiful. Even Han, who did not care one bit about fashion, much less women's fashion, was visibly moved by some of the pieces.

Most of the guests, however, bitched about the bad wine and flat prosecco, but none complained about the delicious finger food prepared by Oso. Fans of Diego Chiarini, who first wowed foodies while helming he kitchen at Senso, were not disappointed. The hit of the night was undoubtedly the foie gras stuffed inside little ice cream cones and decorated with a tiny morsel of cherry tomato. We all thought it was dessert but were very pleasantly surprised to taste something exquisite. The other was the rather generous slabs of roast pork - skin, fat and all - unceremoniously laid out on trays covered with 'grass'.

Han and I found ourselves in a corner with an inseparable society girl and her partner, and a magazine editor and my old friend C, a PR consultant.

"Oh, my gawd, John, look at Y," C suddenly exclaimed. I did as ordered and scanned the guests until I found the person in question. She was pantsless, dressed in just a crimson blouse that played up her cleavage but also highlighted her droopy breasts, and heeled gladiator sandals. Y is a regular face in Tatler and Prestige society pages and although I never met her - or cared to - she is one character that has always caught my attention. And not in a good way. Her signature style comprises a head-band that keeps in place her bottle-blonde hair, micro-minis or non-existent skirts, and lots of cleavage. What's wrong with that, did you say? Nothing. If you're not above 40.

But even more bizarre was what happened next.

"I can't believe she got out of her house wearing that," C continued, exaggerating his horror. He then deposited his glass on the tray that a passing waitstaff was carrying.

"Just give me a sec, I'll just say hello to her." And with that he sauntered over to Y. I watched as they air kissed and hugged like long-lost friends, unsure who was scarier between them.

ALL THIS AND HEAVEN TOO

2010-12-06T02:31:00.000-08:00

If an ugly guy and a hot babe walk past us right now, our first thought would likely be 'he must be damn rich'. Yes, we don't want to see anyone having it all. Every peach must have a blemish, every silver lining obscured by a cloud. I refuse to explore where all that comes from - maybe you have an idea.

Today, I got word from our COO that we will likely shut down operations for a couple of weeks during the holidays because we've not been meeting targets. One friend and colleague was already advised to take an unpaid leave because the 'load' of his department is just too much. If it's any consolation, he was told to be on standby in case his department starts hitting targets. Let's not even get into the twisted logic of that move. (I visited my colleague's Facebook page this morning and saw that he was putting up the tree with his family. I logged out feeling much better.)

Han's career is on an upswing while mine is in the pits. While I'm not in danger of being asked to take an unpaid leave because of the nature of my job, I am still in danger of being asked to take a pay cut. And worse if this startup that I joined after leaving Hawking, Ong and Hanrahan folds up. We're only four months old; we should be operating on a loss. But who listens to that age-old wisdom when every business in town is expecting to do well on its Q1 in cash-flushed Singapore? My immediate boss still has the news clipping on the casinos' phenomenal turnaround - a billion in profit during their first quarter operation. Where will I go - Hong Kong, Manila, KL? I can't ask for my old job back - I've made myself redundant.

So, yes, while my lovelife is going exceedingly well - I've a successful partner who is devoted, expressive and very loving - my worklife isn't. It does mean a lot that I have Han at this point in my life, but somehow it isn't enough. There are practical concerns - I choose to stay here because I'm in a committed relationship, but my stay here is backed by an employment pass.
I haven't told Han about this; he's already looking forward to a Chrismas together: midnight service, dinner with family, cocktails with friends, probably waking up together in his room or in my place and opening our gifts at the same time. I have a pewter for a heart so I can honestly forego these things, but I would do all to give Han the Christmas of his dreams. He even wants us to sign our gifts to his family together.

Ah, well, if you see us walking past, I'm the hot babe. In head-to-foot Gucci and Pomellato jewellery.

(That's all I do now - amuse myself with my own nonsense, like quenching my thirst with my own saliva.)

SEND IN THE CLOWNS

2010-12-02T11:31:00.000-08:00

The boys were out in full force on a Friday night. WK, KF and Colin from the ad agency, who showed up with their lovely dates; Mark who went to ACS with Han and who brought along his soon-to-be wife, Grace; Steven and CH who were classmates at Hwa Chong and are now colleagues at StanChart; and a Filipina girl, Girlie or Merly or something, who didn't say much but had wonderful teeth and a nice pearl necklace, and who came with Roth, a Hong Kong engineer from Arup or some such place.

Sondheim's A Little Night Music directed by Bobby Garcia opened at the Esplanade a few weeks ago and they came to show support for the little known Filipino ensemble. I asked them to come and they were gracious enough to do so. (A week earlier, some of us watched Mata Ati, an Indonesian dance theatre production, and came out of the theatre disappointed. Even supper at the Fullerton didn't revive us.) But I knew that with Nonie Buencamino and Dawn Zulueta as leads, the production couldn't go wrong. I had confidence in Nonie's thespic and musical abilities but I was very pleasantly surprised by Dawn's singing and acting. Okay, she has bad habits - she mugged, played to the gallery and milked the laughs - but her delivery and comic timing were impeccable. She is also very pretty and kind of turning very ripe that she was perfect for the role of the ageing theatre actress.

Before the show, we trooped to Glutton's Bay for dinner but it was packed despite the melancholic weather. We ate instead at Space by My Humble House, and although the fare was simple - chicken rice, bak kut teh - the place was relaxed and the food was actually delicious. And cheap. It's a far cry from its sister establishment, the supremely overrated My Humble House, a high concept restaurant - just imagine sitting on a dining chair with an seven-foot-high back while eating dessert set on a bowl filled with dry ice fog and enough lillies to make a giant wreath! - that we all grew tired quickly because it was too gimmicky and the food was not that great.

We had tiny cups of warm cocoa for dessert at the chocolate shop before we went to the theatre.

House lights faded out, overture faded in, curtains went up. I felt Han searching for my hand. I brushed it away but he gripped my hand firmly and used the programme to hide them. I looked around quietly in case someone noticed what was going on. Sometimes his old fashioned, romantic moves are endearing.

HAPPY RETURNS

2010-12-02T03:42:00.000-08:00

"When I'm good, I'm very good. When I'm bad, I'm even better." - Mae West

"Why can't you wait until January?" Han barked at the other end of the line. Lately, he's been yelling a lot on the phone and I could almost see his eyes narrowing into slits and veins popping out of his neck. I've seen it several times before and it wasn't pretty.

I didn't pay attention. "Okay, I'll see you on Saturday."

That was on Monday when I explained that instead of going home for the holidays, I'd like to take a trip to Harbin.

"You siao arh! You'll freeze your arse in Harbin. And it's chaos down there during the holidays."

This morning, he was suddenly sweet on the phone that I could almost feel his stubbles on the back of my neck. That's how he gets me to yield to anything - the terrible stubble torture. Whenever he wants me to do something, he would run his unshaven chin on the back of my neck over and over until I submit to his wishes, from eating ice-cream to jogging and visiting his mum.

Anyhoo, he was in air-stubble-torture mood when he asked if I'd heard the news.

"What news?"

"You don't know har?"

"What?" I shot back impatiently. I was in the middle of a mini-battle with my supplier.

"Your BF is the new MD."

Omg! Han has been made managing director. That can only mean one thing: He's coming back for good!

A month or so ago, Han casually mentioned to me that the fu lou shuo, Mssrs Hawking, Ong and Hanrahan themselves have been talking about his promotion and transfer to the Singapore HQ as soon as he finishes the handover of the operations to the general manager in KL. That was probably why he was very testy lately. But now that everything is confirmed, he's back to being Mr Nice, with stubbles to boot. Well, it isn't like we're impatiently trying to get preggers, but having him around, even if he doesn't move in with me, would be fun.

When I reached home just a few hours ago, I realised that many things have to be addressed with Han's impending return. I haven't been unfaithful, but I've been a little naughty. I'm French, so sue me!

I'll have to delete the history of my internet activities from my computer. Fuckrace, Trevvy and Gaytube will doubtless stir up arguments. I can't flirt on the phone anymore so I'll have to explain to my SOP buddies that the ship has docked and I'm presently entertaining. I can't have porn lying around anymore; my stash of sex toys and little trinkets will have to go inside a box and shoved under the bed. Han thinks these are kinky and people who love and respect each other have no need for a vibrating egg. (If he only knew how it has saved countless marriages! Ha!) I can't blog as often and as openly as before when he's around and I imagine he'll be around a lot. He has previously called my blogging 'nonsense' and although we're way past that, I wouldn't risk another round of hateful glances from him. The slit-eye-popping-vein combo ain't pretty.

But I realise that I will have no use for those, actually. Han has been quite amorous and given to extended play. Once he returns, I'll have my fill of fun without worrying about batteries dying on me. Maybe I'll be good this time. A good boyfriend who's devoted to his partner - like I've always wanted. Well,'let's see. I'll get him to go to Harbin first.

KITCHEN REMEDIES

2010-11-28T04:58:00.000-08:00

A documentary aroused Han's appetite, doubtless his curiosity as well. Maybe he just wanted to know how far I'd go to please him. Or maybe he was just being a pig. He asked me to bake him a buko pie, and although I wanted very much to indulge him, I didn't know where to find young coconut meat. Sam, who has read the post about my kitchen dilemma, kindly suggested that I visit FairPrice in Simei where apparently coconut meat was being sold. He was right! (Thanks, Sam! I owe you a slice!) Et voila! Above are two testaments to my culinary skill and daredevil kitchen adventure. The one on top is an apple pie with lots of cinnamon, and the one at the bottom is the by now famous buko pie ala John Chen. I'm calling this post Kitchen Remedies for two reasons: First, baking pies is a good way to keep your man from dipping his finger into other pies and, second, cinnamon is supposedly effective in making the - ahem! - semen of your partner taste better. I've been taking Han's - ahem! - semen a lot lately and much as I love him, I have to resort in, well, kitchen remedies. Bon appetit!

OUT IN THE OPEN

2010-11-27T18:33:00.000-08:00

I think I'm done with the sofa,
I think I'm done with the hall,
I think I'm done with the kitchen, baby.

Let's go outside (let's go outside),
In the sunshine
I know you want to, but you can't say yes...
- Let's Go Outside by George Michael

My partner and I decided to run in Pasir Ris Park. There's hardly any challenging terrain close to where I live and the sad excuse for a park that I have inspires leisurely strolls than gut-busting exercise. East Coast Park is too crowded and for me at least, too filled with delicious distractions - shirtless bladers, shirtless bikers, shirtless runners, most of them hot.

Pasir Ris Park has a challenging 2,000-metre of paved walkways that trace the contours of the beach. And although the hotties have begun invading the place, there's still enough space where one can focus on getting a good exercise.

Han picked me up at 5.30am and for once was pleased that I was ready. I've been looking forward to doing exercise outdoors as the gyms were getting too crowded - perhaps too many Muscle Marys prepping for the holidays.

At the park, Han and I took turns pacing each other. For a guy his age - he will beat me to a pulp if he hears about this comment! - he has the stamina of a thoroughbred. (Am I not the lucky one?) We decided that I would set the pace and he would amble along.

Halfway through the track, under a clump of trees, just when we were building a steady pace, a crow suddenly dropped poop on my shirt. We had to run to the nearest washroom so I could wash it off.

I noticed that the toilet has been renovated - clean, spacious and well lit. No cock grafitti decked the walls, no gooey stuff inexplicably clinging on the sink. I took off my shirt and shoved it under the tap. I focused on getting the poop off. Boy, that crow has had some dinner!

Suddenly, I felt Han nudging me from behind. He wrapped his arms around me and started dry humping me. He was already hard. I could feel his cock repeatedly poking my rump.

"Hey, someone might come in an find us," I warned him.

"It's okay, lah. No one's around mah," he said in that half-drone he slips into whenever he's horny.

I was also getting turned on and with his tongue probing my ear my cock started to get hard. He slipped his hand into my shorts and cupped my balls. The prospect of getting caught, of doing it in a public place, of our sweaty bodies joined in hot sex was too much for me too resist. I turned off the tap and dropped my shirt in the sink. I turned around and French kissed Han. Lips locked and tongues flicking, Han led me to the shower area and into one of the cubicles. Without bothering to close the door, he pulled down my shorts, got down on his knees and started sucking my rigid cock. It was such a hot sight having this man sucking my cock with abandon. He was licking the head and the shaft while caressing my balls. That was all I could take.

I pulled him up and lowered his shorts; he took off his shirt and slung it on his shoulder. I could smell his musk as I lowered my face to his groin. His cock was so hard that the foreskin was pulled back and his cockhead was fully exposed. I licked his cockhead tentatively, brushing it with my tongue. He moaned as I did it repeatedly. When he couldn't stand it any longer, he pressed his big hands on either side of my head and started fucking my mouth - gently at first and then more vigorously as he found his rhythm. His sweaty balls were slapping against my chin. My hands were roaming his round butt until my finger rested against his arse hole. I took my finger off his butt momentarily and put it in my mouth. He needed some lube. He was getting too aggressive and was seeking release in my mouth; I had to take things into my hand before he loses it. I brought the finger back to his hole. I can feel the hairy entrance contracting, resisting. I circled it over and over with my slick finger and then forced a knot in. He moaned on impact and drove his cock deeper into my throat. I have learned, after having had him in my mouth countless time, to take his massive cock without gagging.

"Fuck me, please..." he stuttered as he begged.

I started finger fucking him as he drove his cock deeper into my mouth. His hole was not resisting; it was beginning to relax. The chute felt smooth and warm around my finger. It was time to slip another one in.

"Yeah, fuck me, John." He continued driving his cock down my throat.

I couldn't take anymore of the oral punishment. I let go of his cock and stood up. I pulled him up. He thought I wanted to kiss but I turned him around roughly and kicked his legs apart. He stepped out of his shorts too. Without waiting for him to get ready, I aimed my cock into his arse hole.

I started with tentative thrusts but I couldn't get my cockhead past his sphincter. I pulled out as I spat on my hand and coated my cock with spit. I went in again and this time with better success. I pushed my cock halfway but I felt Han clutching my hand tightly. Although my cock is no match to his, he isn't used to getting fucked up the arse. It was usually me who went that route unless it was on one of those rare occasions when he wanted me to fuck him. I pulled out again and waited for him to recover but I continued playing with his cock and kissing him.

He knelt down and started sucking me while he played with his own cock. He was getting good at sucking, I noted. His lips were soft cushions and his tongue didn't get in the way. There was slight suction and a good cadence to it. I was very close to depositing sperm in his throat and I whispered I was coming. He didn't let go; instead he bobbed his head on my cock even faster. I could feel his hand working his cock furiously. I couldn't hold back anymore. I came in endless spurts, my knees giving way with each release. He stood up and immediately started jacking off vigorously. It was my turn to go down on my knees and help him along. I couldn't match his tempo and contented myself with licking his balls. It wasn't long before I felt jets of hot cum landing on my shoulder. He rubbed his hard cock all over my face until I slipped the still spewing cockhead into my mouth, sucking him until he was dry.

We caught our breaths as we put our running shorts back on and slowly walked out of the shower cubicle. There was no one in the toilet. I didn't bother to put my shirt back on; neither did Han. We found our way back to the jogging trail but we didn't have the energy to go on. We simply headed to the car park as we decided where to have our second breakfast.

OF GRATITUDE

2010-11-27T00:54:00.000-08:00

Henry didn't have many friends. I found that out soon when I hired him a many years ago for a junior post in the agency. Friday afternoons were particularly rough on him back then when everyone would just slow down to a halt in preparation for the nights-out and the parties that awaited all except him. I noticed from my office how he would fall silent after lunch on Friday, almost like he was waiting for something he dreaded to come. I really felt for him beause there have been so many times in my life when I was the outsider. And that made me take Henry under my wings.

Henry is smart but painfully shy and therefore perpetually beneath the pecking order made up of a long line of name-droppers and self-advertisers and straight-faced liars. I have sat through meetings where everyone beneath me just shamelessly tried to sell themselves across the boardroom table: "I know the managing director of that company. I go to dinners at their home almost every Sunday!"; "His daughter went to school with me!"; "I play golf at SICC with the brother of the chairman's wife's cousin." In the end none of these slick boys and girls delivered the goods. They spent their days in my department comparing drunken nights at Brix and Velvet where they personally knew - or so they claim - the doorman, bartend and DJ.

Henry suffered in comparison. He was always neatly dressed, yes, but did not have the painfully chic mien of his agency cohort. Yet during every meeting, I unconsciously anticipated his reports. He pulled them out of the same plastic envelope - the kind that the secretaries tossed out after they've taken out and filed away the contents. Seventy cents tops. He didn't carry the red Ciak notepad, or the signature orange journal from Hermes, or the monogrammed folder from LV. Not even the then popular Moleskine notebook. But clearly, he didn't need any of those. He made real connections - by sheer diligence I suppose - with the decision makers amongst his target clients. He didn't have one false lead - he had appointments with directors and buying agents.

At one time, he asked if he could keep an extra necktie that we were giving away to suppliers because he wanted to send one to someone who helped him get a foot in the door. It turned out it was the son of the board chairman with whom he attended Hwa Chong. Such earnestness touched me deeply. On a stage where we all played out puffed versions of ourselves, there was one Henry - the lone real thing.

Before I left that agency for another cash-flushed behemoth, I invited Henry for a farewell drink. I set the single rule for the night: no shop talk. Just us, John and Henry, out on the town. We had cocktails at the Martini Bar (By then Henry has become a little more confident and offered to pay for the drinks.), dinner at Mortons and a little nightcap at a small cigar divan on Emerald Hill. We also talked about our real selves and how we struggled to get to a better place.

"Someday I would like to be your friend," he replied when I asked him where he wanted to take it.

"You can find better friends, I promise you."

"I doubt that."

Cut to two nights ago at New Asia Bar where a DJ from Holland was spinning. I was already half-drunk when I reached the place where I was supposed to hook up with my colleagues. But they were nowhere to be found. I was stopped thrice by people I've been avoiding but each time I stopped and traded 24-karat BS. Suddenly, people were yelling my name from the VIP loft: "John, you bastard, 'bout time you came! Come up here! We're all here!"

Halfway up the stairs to the loft, someone grabbed me by the arm.

"John Chen?" the young man asked. He was smiling at me, a Chinese guy with rakish hairstyle and impressive jacket.

I struggled through my drunken stupor and the dim lights. I drew blanks.

"Henry."

I didn't go up; when I realised it was dear old Henry, I let him take the lead.

"I'm getting some air. It's just too packed."

"I might as well; I need coffee."

It took what seemed like eternity for the lift to descend 70 storeys and I just couldn't help but study Henry - I was so happy to see him. When we finally reached the ground floor, we crossed the lobby of Swissotel out through the still crowded mall and down to the car park. Henry has done well for himself. I was happy. But I was also sad that I was not part of his orbit. That I didn't see his actual ascent.

Before we reached his car, a shiny, jaunty little Peugeot, he turned to me.

"Thank you, John."

"Stop it, Henry."

"Really."

He took confident step, almost charging at me. I was surprised but I didn't step back.

He threw his arm around my shoulder and kissed me on the mouth. I was stunned but also didn't feel it was sexual. I felt it was the kiss of a friend who had vanished and has miraculously returned. I responded. I parted my lips until I felt his tongue searching mine. Suddenly I heard a car making a turn and coming our way. I pulled away. I looked at Henry's handsome face - he's still just a boy, I told myself - and recognised the same timid smile.

HAIR!

2010-11-24T07:43:00.000-08:00

"My hair like Jesus wore it,
Hallelujah I adore it." - Hair by McDermot and Rado

I went to an aesthetic clinic at Wheelock Place on Tuesday after work. Nope, I didn't go in for Botox or Ulthera - I needed a cream for my inflamed skin. My cheeks just suddenly turned red and itchy. I tried a calamine solution prescribed by a pharmacist but I suddenly woke up at night and caught myself scratching my face in my sleep. The following day, my colleagues asked if I had a bad sunburn or chicken pox. Even my boss suggested that I go see a doctor before it got worse.

The receptionist at the clinic was a drop-dead gorgeous hunk, which I thought made perfect sense. In an environment where lights are controlled to a precise intensity and where the Philippe Starck chairs are angled so that they catch just a whiff of cooled air from the vents, beauty is expectedly put to good use. Here it is to announce to everyone: Hey, you! Yes, you, pudgy person in polyester! I'm talking to you! You can look like this hot guy! Step inside!

Hunk went through the Q&A with me; I took note that each time he wrote something on his notepad his triceps twitched seductively. And although I felt that a proper nurse in a white uniform and a cap should be taking my pulse and asking me about allergies, his intense beauty made me cast away my doubts. Anyone that gorgeous has divine rights to ask me about my toilet ritual. I told him what I ate, what I use on my face, what I had been doing to my skin - all the while imagining if he was a good kisser. He couldn't find anything wrong - yes, beauty has its limits! - and asked me to wait for the doctor. What was that - a diversion?

The doctor is another kettle of fish. Smart and successful, he didn't have to look good. Full stop. And he made a show of it. It was evident that he hasn't been helping himself to any of the jabs or ointments he dispenses to patients. He did the same Q&A, but more meticulously this time, stood up and closed the door. That felt odd.

When he returned to this desk, he tilted a nice little lamp until the glare was hitting my eyes. I thought he would tell me that I caught something venereal. But he simply turned my face this way and that as he examined it.

"That looks like a mild abrasion, slightly infected; maybe you've been cleaning your face too frequently with a washcloth. I'll give you something for the itchiness. The redness should disappear in two days." He spoke like he was reciting a verse he knew by heart.

I flirted with the hunky receptionist as I waited for my prescription. Tablets and ointment and another visit after a week.

As I made my way to the first storey, I had my head wrapped around the problem. I've been using the same non-soap cleanser on my face for years and never with a washcloth. I've not been sunning myself intensely. I've not been eating crazy food. But as I passed by a men's spa that offers netherhair management, a bulb suddenly lit up in my head: I've been pleasuring my partner a lot orally, not really a problem except that he has very hairy inner thighs, not to mention the other areas. While most of us have pubic triangles, he has trails of coarse hair down there, thick enough to prevent him from wearing Speedos in public. He has strays - and although I find that immensely sexy, my face does not agree!

I made a sudden, sharp turn and went inside the spa to buy a gift voucher for a boyzilian. My partner has just got himself another (belated) birthday present, and me, hopefully, a much better skin.

A BIRD IN MY HAND

2010-11-21T03:27:00.000-08:00

I was bursting with piss and excitement when I reached my apartment last Friday. I had spent a good hour talking to Wee Kiat, one of our common friends, over la mian and Harbin beer. Han's birthday was the following Sunday and I was able hatch a small surprise. I convinced Wee Kiat to recommend a good shop where I could get a great fishing rod. Han's very particular about his golf clubs but I know nuts about them. Giving him a voucher for a new one on his birthday wouldn't cut it so I decided to get him a fishing rod instead. I decided that night fishing in Cherating with the boys is far sexier than waiting for him at the SICC clubhouse. Wee Kiat wanted to pitch in for the birthday present and was pretty confused when I wouldn't let him.

"Wah, you Santa Claus, issit?"

"Yes, I am!" I said as I gathered my bag and rushed to the train station.

I did my usual errands on Saturday morning and rushed Toa Payoh to buy the rod. It was horrendous - with so many choices and so many details to work out, I didn't feel at all like I was shopping. The shopowner was visibly losing his patience as I couldn't give him any definite answers. I pulled out the ultimate trump card and asked for his top-of-the-line fishing rod. I handed over my credit card and that was it - a small dent on my plastic but I was sure my partner would be thrilled with the result.

When I reached home, Han's peculiar scent of sweaty impatience and Old Spice was hanging in the air. My cock immediately stirred in my pants. Showtime! I forgot that he was sleeping over and that we would go out for his birthday lunch the following day. He answered from the shower when I called out and that was my chance to head for the bedroom and hide his present in my wardrobe.

I joined him in the shower and started fooling around but he was bent on finishing it in bed so we dried off haphazardly and hurried into the bedroom. It was rushed but good. I imagined that the heavy taste of his semen was a sign he wasn't fooling around so I gladly swallowed.

I ran to the bathroom to rinse my mouth and when I returned to the bedroom Han was wearing my bathrobe. I could just knock myself in the head - I keep my bathrobe in my wardrobe. Han was grinning widely and holding the fishing rod in his hand.

"Is this my surprise?" He motioned me to come over and when I did, gave me an open, wet kiss. "Xie xie, lau ban..."

I kissed him back. "Bu keqi"

He slid to the floor and gave me an earnest blowjob.

When I woke up in the morning, Han was already in the kitchen. I could tell from the noises he was making that breakfast in bed was coming. But when he asked me to join him in the dining table I found the familiar McDonald's Big Breakfast pack. So much for letting him fuck me twice last night, I thought as I toyed with my scrambled egg.

We took it nice and slow after breakfast, poring over the newspapers and reading interesting snippets to each other. At about eleven, we bathed together and finished off in the shower. We started dressing up - he borrowed one of my shirts and a tie - and I found something equally dandy for myself. It could only be lunch at Guy Savoy, I half-sung to myself as I spritzed cologne on my crotch.

When we finally crossed the Sheares Bridge, I was certain we were going to MBS. Maybe we could pop by Cartier after lunch! Nice! But when Han took the first exit to the right, I thought he made a mistake.

"I hope they're not there yet."

"Who? What? Where are we going?"

"Ah Mah is coming. They're waiting for us at Crystal Jade."

I have no problem with Crystal Jade, but the prospects of facing Han's family after a few icy encounters made my stomach turn.

"Ni hao bu hao?" He finally asked me as he parked the car.

"Hao," I responded absently.

Han's family was already at the restaurant when we arrived. His parents, brothers, sister, grandmother, nephews and the maids. I found a spot next to the Pinay maids hoping to disappear from everyone's sight. Cheryl said hello to me, so did the little boys. Mr Han nodded at my direction and I took that as a greeting. I nodded back but continued chatting with the maids.

"Sir, tan-o man ta da-e na kamo naduman sa bahay," one of them said.

"Yes, I've been terribly busy. How have you been?"

"Okay lang, Sir. Si Ma'am siging hapot kung tan-o ta dai ka na nagdalaw sa iya...."

I almost choked on my tea. One of the maids actually said Mrs Han was wondering why I don't visit anymore. My eyes roamed around the table and when I saw Mrs Han, she immediately looked away. She seemed sad and maybe as uncomfortable as I was to be there.

"Iyo man? Sambot ko habo niya na magsiring ako sa indo na harung. Habo nya na ma-in-love ako sa iyo...." I joked with the maids and they laughed out loud. Ah, the Pinoys, so loose with their laughter! Everyone was looking at us and we piped down instantly.

"Kasubag-o, sabi ni Ma'am si Sir Han nagturog sa iyo na condo," another maid was saying.

"Bako, nag-abot pa lang sya haling KL." I lied to quell their suspicion. If there's anyone in the household whom you shouldn't trust with your secrets, it's the maids. No matter how well-meaning they are, giving them access to your private life could only mean trouble. I felt it was wrong of Mrs Han to tell them their son slept over at my place. Never mind what the maids would think about me, I'm a gossip magnet, but what would they think of Han?

Just then the first course appeared on the table. It was shark's fin soup in bowls made of young coconuts and it smelled like... semen. Han and I were beside ourselves as we ate, thinking that we just had something that smelled exactly like that a few hours ago. I didn't look at him for fear that we would burst out laughing.

Soon Ah Ma was up to her old tricks, addressing everyone by the wrong names and mistaking the waitstaff for her children. It was just hilarious and at one point, while I was laughing, I glanced briefly at Mrs Han and she looked at me and nodded. It was the first time that she acknowledged me since Han - or someone from the family - told them what was going on between me and her son. My heart stopped. I felt like crying. I looked at Han and he smiled as if he saw what had happened.

The rest of the meal was a blur to me. Someone brought out a cake from the kitchen and we all sang Happy Birthday. Han received red packets from his sister and elder brother, Ah Ma and and Mrs Han.

"So what did you get your friend for his birthday?" I looked up from my coffee and realised that Mr Han was addressing me.

I looked at Han. I was very confused. It felt strange that the ban was lifted and everyone was speaking to me again. That they could actually see me again. Han simply smiled and encouraged me to answer.

"I got him a fishing rod."

"Well done! You should go fishing in Redang. Have you been?"

"Yes, actually I... we have."

Silence descended at the table. We were all analysing what I just said. How long has it been going on? Do you go alone or in a group? Do you sleep together while on those trips? Have you been using those fishing trips as an excuse to bang each other?

"I think you should go together to Kusu Island." It was Mrs Han. I looked straight at her not knowing what to say. Before I could answer she continued. "But here there are also places here where you can fish." She was speaking naturally, as if it was something she'd expect us to do, as if she hadn't been ignoring me for the past several months.

"Aiyah, let these young men have their adventure. Where can you fish in Singapore? Kelong har?" Mr Han suddenly said.

"It's safer here mah," Mrs Han said. "Anyway you two can look after each other," she finally added.

I looked around at half-smiles and tentative glances. Everyone was waiting for me to say something. But I had nothing to add. One of Han's nephews rescued the moment when he came up to show me an origami crane that he had just folded.

"Tell Uncle who taught you that," Cheryl instructed him.

I looked down on the little paper bird on my palm and bit my lips. That was all I could do to keep from crying.

RICH MAN, POOR MAN

2010-11-10T18:00:00.000-08:00

My biggest boyhood dream was to have running water. I would imagine myself making a big show of watering our plants everyday after school. I would aim a hose at the rows of thunder lillies in my mother's garden, my best pal Rodrigo would stop by and I would nonchalantly direct the hose at the ferns growing on the big acacia tree as we casually chit chat. If I so decide, I would let him hold the hose for a bit so he could water the lemon grass. But not for too long. The privilege, I imagined, belonged only to me. I would block the end of the hose with a thumb as I once saw somewhere and a fine stream of water would shoot out strong enough to make the large leaves of the banaba tree to dance. Rodrigo would be impressed by such display and by my manual dexterity.

We didn't have running water in the province when I was growing up. My father had two artesian wells dug in our yard, one in front of the house, under the shade of an old camachile tree, where everyone came to fetch water. The other one in our backyard was just for us and had a modern force pump that with a flick of a knob can shoot water into the air. How glorious! My brothers, sister and I bathed by the pump everyday when it was installed, and because it was midsummer, we organised picnics and got the maids to stick pineapple and singkamas slices on bamboo skewers. Neighbourhood kids that we liked got invited, the others had to watch us through gaps in the fence.

June came around with the rains. We had to return to school and our pumpside romps were quickly forgotten. By then we had a coloured TV, one of four or five in the entire town and neighbours came by after dinner to catch a show or two. The elders, friends of my parents, were invited to sit inside. The young ones stood outside our window and enjoyed whatever they could. Sometimes fights broke out amongst them and my father would go outside and just stand they until they stopped.

Time ambled on and summer came around again. My eldest brother graduated from elementary school and one day my parents dressed us up and brought us to the capital town. We knew something special was happening but they managed to keep the surprise from us. We went to an office that had glass windows and a ceiling fan and a wall covered with coloured posters of smiling people and exotic scenery. My eldest brother read to us the words: Tokyo. Hong Kong. Kyoto. Our eyes wandered around the pretty pictures until our parents asked us to sit down and introduced us to a man sitting across the table. He smiled and nodded, opened his desk drawer and produced four packets and handed them to us: My brothers and I got a small aeroplane each, my sister a small teddy bear with a smart cap. But I was distracted; all I cared about was the handsome man in the poster gazing at the sky across which an aeroplane flew. A few weeks later, my parents told us we were all going to Hong Kong as a present for my brother's graduation. We all felt grateful to our eldest brother and happily allowed him to boss us around.

I never knew poverty. That sounds smug, but that's the truth. We had the best house, ate the best food, even wore shoes to school when all our friends showed up in flip-flops, but we were never handed any money. When I was seven or eight my visiting grandmother gave me a ten-peso bill, the grandest sum that ever landed on my palm, and I panicked as I thought about where to keep it. In Manila, where we eventually moved and grew up, we were driven to school, escorted to the malls, and got maids or drivers to buy things for us. Somehow I've failed at making a connection between privilege and money. I always thought that money was something you saved, not spent, and that happiness had little to do with it.

As I nestle into the familiar warmth of my partner's arms, I know this to be so.

MY SHADE OF BLUE

2010-11-10T08:53:00.000-08:00

It's Christmastime and Orchard Road is getting dressed up. There are two arches facing each other on the coners of Orchard and Scotts roads; from Wheelock Place going towards Tanglin Park stands a pink arch, and facing it in the other direction, towards Dhoby Ghaut from ION Orchard, is a blue arch. There seems to be a theme here. Boys to the left, girls to the right. The rest of us can go straight to Church's where the stocking stuffers can arouse unconditional selfishness.

Anyhoo, it doesn't bother me much. I have been collecting arms for the Holidays. By far the most potent weapon is this:

And if the recipient is a little dense and doesn't get it, I'll help him flip the card.

Voila!

SCENE OF MY CRIMES

2010-11-08T08:44:00.000-08:00

Have you guys seen any episode of the reality show Hoarders? In it a team of life coaches and real anal people go around Middle America to the homes of those who collect crap - sometimes literally! - and help put them out of their compulsion and misery. Nah, they don't kill them, but I guess any hoarder stripped of his possession kind of dies inside.

An altar table or a poker table or a small dining table? You decide. Just don't ask me about those things on the chairs.

I've been taking a hard look at my place and I'm starting to fear that I have an early Hoarder's symptoms. You see, whenever Han and I travel, I pick up things - often on the sly. If he catches me, he orders me to return the merchandise before I could reach the cashier. So far, I have managed to collect a few baskets, old fabrics and indigenous jewellery during our travels and, of course, behind his back.

What used to be a pantry cabinet is now a bar and bookcase. About those baskets and that guitar that neither of us plays...

Anyway, Han's back in KL and I'm mostly alone. To distract myself and keep up with housework, I've learned to do my chores in the middle of the night. I can't vacuum but since Han has pasted those felt patches on the legs of all my tables and chairs, I can drag them around without making too much noise.

And since Han has taken over the bedroom, everything is in its proper place. See the contrast now?

As a result, I am finding more and more stuff that I need to hide before he returns. Or I may just take them out and let him come down hard on me.

Yup, even an old shoe chair is put to good use, thanks to Han! Notice how the books are aligned from the left? Eek!

I am John Chen and I am a hoarder....

PROSPERO AND CALIBAN

2010-11-06T21:35:00.000-07:00

My partner Han's world is an ordered universe where everything worked; it is a huge machinery whose wheels have spokes that fit the grooves and teeth of other wheels, and under his watchful eye and native intelligence, this behemoth hummed non-stop. It's like a miniature Singapore - orderly, clean, with well-defined rules and very little space for come-what-mays.

Then I was thrown into this mix, a Caliban to rock Prospero's world: I represent, or so I'd like to believe, the creative if unrefined force. I imagined I brought excitement, challenges, possibilities. For all I know these meant to him mess, threats and uncertainties.

He imposes order in my world (above), but I'm happy to rock it for a little bit (below).

Han and I didn't start out well. There was no instant zing, no weak-in-the-knees moment when I first shook his hand. (I don't know about him - maybe he was smitten the moment laid eyes on me. Ha!) He was polite but not friendly, reserved like most Singaporean men - which also makes up for a whole lot of their sexiness. One never knows what lurks beneath their composure. He was also my immediate supervisor for the time being; I was supposed to assume his post when he gets transferred to KL.

Although we were not at each other's throat, our differences surfaced early. He's anal-retentive, let's just say. When I handed him my first report to vet through, he gave it a once-over and pronounced it detailed and well-presented. I was very pleased with myself. The following day, the same report was reduced from 500 well-chosen words to mere eight bullet points. From then on, I decided it was going to be war. I found him controlling, tyrannical, fastidious, predictable, boring, process-driven and uncreative. And he also wore shapeless Goldlion shirts, read Who Moved My Cheese, and paired track shoes with chinos. His crimes against humanity - and fashion - were unpardonable.

Then I was blind-sided. His real self showed. He turned out to be thoughtful, respectful, mindful of the consequences of his actions. A responsible, grown man. And here's the clincher: we changed for a workout once and I saw his firm and rounded butt, and when he turned to me, I caught glimpse of a promising, full pouch. I have needs.

I made a move on him. Played in turns charming, distant, friendly, reserved, reckless but fun. I started going commando so that I could accidentally show off my package to him as I swing my legs. Lust knows no shame, believe me.

To this day, I play Caliban to his Prospero. And from time to time, we reverse the roles. To his life I have brought joy and surprise. (It was I, after all, who initiated sex involving props.) I got him to unbutton his shirt and show off some pecs when we go out at night, took him on trips to neighbourhood nooks as if they were exotic destinations, made him realise in full force the meaning of Wilde's 'Uncertainty is the essence of Romance'.

My bedroom, where the magic happens. Han's not around so it's a mess.

We have a retirement plan, yes, although he couldn't bribe me to tell him what we're doing next weekend. All he knows is that something special is coming up; he'll be forty-six next Sunday. And the prospects of me popping out of a buko pie isn't that remote.

WE ALL NEED ANOTHER HERO

2010-11-06T04:47:00.000-07:00

It took me a while to claim my last paycheque from the place where I worked previously. I pretended to be busy but in reality I was avoiding everyone. From what I gathered, people were talking about me and Han, either making up tales or guessing the reason for my departure. The wildest I heard was that I was supposed to have been caught in a highly uncompromising position with Han and was asked to leave. Nothing could have been farther from truth.

My partner was in town for the week and I didn’t want to bump into him in the office in case someone sees us talking, or worse, not talking. I wanted to time my collection during lunch break when very few people would be around. I asked the accounting staff who called me up to simply leave the cheque with the receptionist as I didn’t know what time I could pop by to collect it. She said yes but was back on the phone a few minutes later to explain that because I have papers to sign, she couldn’t just leave the cheque at the reception desk. But she was willing to stay behind for a while and wait for me. We agreed to meet at 12:15, not an unreasonable delay, and I promised to take her out to lunch in return for the favour.

I was in the neighbourhood before the appointed hour, poring over old ledgers in an old stationery shop nearby while waiting for former colleagues to pass by on their way to Boon Tat Street or Amoy Street Market where we all used to eat. When I saw some of them approaching, I turned away and immediately felt very silly to be doing that. I waited a short while more before stepping out and heading to Hawking, Ong & Hanrahan.

I didn’t realise of course that it was budget week – Han has actually mentioned it to me but I didn’t pay attention - and most of them were still in the office huddled over spreadsheets when I arrived. Everyone looked up as I walked in, some of them even came up to say ‘hello’ like I was a triumphant hero returning from battle. Everybody wanted to know what I was doing or which company I joined or whether or not I was going back to Manila.

Han suddenly emerged from the office, prompted perhaps by the commotion, stopped by his door when he saw me, his mouth agape. Everyone fell silent; several pairs of eyes darted back and forth between us. Talk about classic bad timing.

I mumbled hello and turned to walk to the accounting department on the third level of the shophouse office. I was shaking as I signed the documents and the young clerk noticed it.

“Han lei ha,” she probed.

“Dui la; haiyo han mang la,” I replied, attempting to sound composed.

With the signing and handover done, I stood around and waited for the clerk to gather her stuff and join me for lunch, but she said she had to wait for her supervisor and suggested that I go ahead without her. Thanking her profusely, I went to the back of the office where the spiral staircase, some form of a shortcut that we all liked to use, was located. I traced my way down to the ground floor but before I could make it, I saw the office gossip smoking at the bottom of the stairs.

“Hey, Johnny! What brought you here?” She greeted me with alarming pleasantness.

“Hello, Sushila. I went to collect my last paycheque.”

“Miss me, issit?”

“Of course lah,” I lied.

“Is it me or someone up there,” she said. “You’re friend changed when you left leh. So poor thing, you know.”

“Which friend, Rob Hanrahan?” I tried to act cool, but I could feel veins popping in my forehead.

“Please lah. You know who I’m talking about. The other one lei.” She said that with a suggestive little laughter.

That was supposed to be the last straw; I wanted to say something outrageously vulgar, like, “Tangina mo, mukha kang puki.” But before I could she suddenly bolted up.

“Nothing better to do, issit,” a familiar man's voice behind me was saying.

It wasn’t Han.

I turned around. Leo was standing behind me, glaring at Sushila.

I nodded at Leo and proceeded to the bottom of the stairs. His Royal Bengness has come to defend me.

“Da ge, I waiting for you leh. Accounts say you were coming,” Leo said as he chased after me.

I faced him, took a good look at him and felt genuinely happy for once to see him, grateful, too, for his timely appearance. There were so many things to say, so many stories – not all of them about Han – to share, simple things, stupid things, things that we enjoyed and laughed about when we were very, very close friends.

“Weh, people like that you don’t anyhow entertain, hor,” he found his Big Man voice and started scolding me. “Screw her lah! Fuck lah! Lucky I come, if not then how?”

Then there was nothing else to say. We walked quietly side by side – I was grinning to myself – to our lau di fang, Ocean Curry, to share a meal like we used to.

As we sat down I realised something: If love didn’t include the other bits, at that moment at least, Leo was my one and only.

RAINDROPS ON ROSES

2010-11-04T20:00:00.000-07:00

I'm sure I sang this song along with Ms Andrews when I was a boy, probably impressed with whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles, cream-coloured ponies. Only much later did I realise that she was actually trilling over mundane things, at least for ang mohs like her. Okay, I'd still like to have a cream-coloured pony before the global craze over camel-hued apparel dissipates.

Today is the Indian festival of light, Deepavali, and it's a public holiday. I planned to watch Lagaan and Devdas n honour of but my partner just gave me that "you're-on-your-own-buddy" look. He slept over and is still snoring under a pile of soiled beddings in the bedroom as I write this. (Oh, the mess we make! Shameful! Ha!) When he wakes up, I'll get him to load the stuff into the washing machine while I go over buko pie recipes. We were watching TV last night, a documntary on Philippine cuisine, and although he grimaced when they showed balut and stuffed palaka, he perked up when he saw the buko pie.

"Lau ban, make some for me, keyi bu keyi?"

"Wah, you think so easy, har?" I replied in impeccable Singlish. "Where to get the coconut meat, you tell me?"

"Okay, tomolo we drive around Serangoon. Sure find one!" he replied in equally faultless Singlish. Yep, we're just a couple of ah bengs when we're alone.

So here's the plan: eat Indian food at Iniavan on Belilios Street, go to the Expo for the book fair, and then proceed to Serangoon market for the coconut meat hunt. I'm confident I can pull this off. I have baked everything except a live cat since I started living alone, and although I haven't touched the oven in years, I'm sure I'll figure it out somehow.

My partner and I are definitely turning into creatures of habits. The sex is still hot, thank heavens!, but we've developed routines: who makes coffee (him), who cleans the house (him), who fixes electrical stuff (me), who washes the beddings (him). And we also have house rules now. His are simple: no Lady Gaga when he's around, no loud music, no leftovers thrown into the bin - we have to finish everything, people in Biafra are starving. Mine are more esoteric: no Crocs, no Kitaro, and no clothes in bed. Okay, the last one is under dispute - he can't sleep without anything on because of his asthma.

I have to admit that my partner and I are easing into the mundane. But because of that peace has also settled into our little household. His family knows the score, doesn't approve but chooses to be civil. He can sleep over as he pleases or pop by whenever he's in town. He now owns prime real estate in my wardrobe - a concession I was just so happy to make. I know I can't have everything but I'm happy with the mundane things that remind me I'm with the man I love. I may not have the "wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings", but I do have the "brown paper packages tied up with strings"!

JUST BE HERE

2010-11-04T08:03:00.000-07:00

Last weekend felt like the height of the social season for me even though the Cartier Polo matches have long been over. I skived Friday morning getting my tailor to let my tux out. Afternoon, I left early for my appointment at the hair spa. The Champagne Express was to depart on Saturday night. First leg: the Hispanic society ball at St Regis. I got a seat at the bachelors' table and a plus-one for my partner. It turned out to be one hell of a night - drinking, dancing, eating and laughing - four of the five things I like to do best. Yes, the fifth is sex, but if there were coupled couples that night, they probably did it in the loo.

The St Regis Grand Ballroom isn't nearly as big as Shangri-La's Island Ballroom but it has a great personality. Latino Fire played all night and throughout the week I found pictures of myself - obviously drunk, in a dress shirt drenched in sweat, unbuttoned down to the waist and, inexplicably, holding a pair of maracas - circulating on Facebook. My partner was nowhere to be found, embarrassed undoubtedly by a champagne-pickled partner.

At the stroke of midnight, I recalled that Ah Ma's birthday lunch was just a few hours away. I quickly gathered my barang-barang and, like Cinderella, darted out of the ballroom.

The following morning, I woke up to find four missed calls and three text messages. My partner had been frantically getting me to respond. The second leg of the Champagne Express was off to a wobbly start.

I arrived at the Hans' just before midday, in my best comportment and smart casuals. Han was in the kitchen gritting his teeth and chopping roast duck. An alarm went off in my head: Angry boyfriend and cleaver - Flee!

After putting down the cake that I brought with me on an empty spot on kitchen table, I ambled into the living room where I found my partner's father. Even in my mind, I couldn't bring myself to call him Uncle CK. Things have changed; he must know now that I bang his son and his son bangs me. Totally fine if we were man and wife, but I can imagine it to be a bit bizarre for red-blooded males to comprehend. He was talking to a cousin and I was introduced briefly as 'Han's former colleague'. I got it: persona non grata. I took it in stride, but I understood what it meant. They have been planning Han's golden future and now it came to this: no big wedding to invite relatives to, no yum seng echoing inside the ballroom, no grandson to dote on, no daughter-in-law to inherit the cheongsams, recipes and jewellery. Just shame to be buried in hushed conversations and euphemisms.

Just then, Mrs Han appeared, saw me looking at her, stopped on her tracks and turned around. I may have been hung over from the previous night, but I wasn't imagining that almost everyone didn't know how to approach me. Except Cheryl, with whom I had an open heart surgery, and Ah Ma whose years have given her the ultimate sweet gift of oblivion, everyone treated me like a convelescing patient - unsure of what to do, how to turn me around, how to lift me without breaking my fragile bones.

I was seated next to Ah Ma, my partner's grandmother, at lunch and she never stopped asking me how my children were. Everyone around us were laughing hysterically except Mrs Han for whom, I imagined, the irony that was lost on everyone was particularly hurtful. Han's brother didn't once look at me, although he handed me a glass of beer twice. The children, sensitive creatures that they are, were suddenly ambivalent towards me. No more Uncle Johns, just timid smiles and quick glances for approval at their parents.

Most of us homosexual men will have such encounters, sooner, later. Hopefully never. But I didn't get angry. I knew I'd feel bad if it happened to me, if one of my loved ones were ambushed by someone so different from the one I imagined was right for him.

I went home in a surprsingly peaceful state. I didn't shake hands with Mr Han - he just waved before I could; Han's brother nodded goodbye at me, his eyes averted. Mrs Han excused herself just when the gusts were leaving and someone had to tell me she had a splitting headache when I wanted to take leave.

Back in my apartment, my partner and I had hungry, ferocious sex in the shower after a very long time. And then again in bed. In teh aftermath he asked me how I was. I knew he was referring to the glacial treatment I got from his family.

"I'm fine," I said without irony or deceit, "just be here with me."

TEA AND SYMPATHY

2010-10-26T18:48:00.000-07:00

I looked at the caller ID again but I didn't recognise the number. I pressed the button, brought the phone against my ear and heard a conversation in the background.

"Hello?" I enquired in case someone unknowingly pressed the call button on his handphone.

No answer. I ended the call and went back to work. The p[hone rang again.

"John?" This time the caller, a woman, spoke before I even said a word.

"This is he, may I know who's calling?"

"Cheryl, Han's sister..."

A beat. I didn't know what to say. She didn't sound angry but neither did she sound excited t be speaking to me.

"Yes, Cheryl?"

A beat. She didn't speak. Maybe she didn't know what to say. This is bad, I told myself.

"Let's meet up for coffee."

If you're going to the guillotine, put on something nice and march to the scaffold with dignity and courage. Let the strains of Je ne regrette rien swell in your head. That should help.

I was wearing something nice, but I was a lump of putty; my knees belonged to a rag doll. I managed to go to a cafe in a mall in Novena, not far from Tan Tock Seng where Cheryl works. I asked for a corner seat, far from everyone else, in case something unpleasant happens.

I didn't wait long before Cheryl appeared.

I started to stand up as she approached my table, but before I could, she gestured to tell me not to. This is going to be bad, I told myself again.

She sat down across the table from me, looked around for service staff. When a waiter appeared, she looked at what I was having and said, "I'll have the same". I have to hand it to Cheryl for being direct, but at that moment, I was hoping she weren't so.

We didn't speak; we smiled at each other, looked away, smiled at each other again and waited for her coffee.

"Han told me everything," she said as she stirred her drink. I didn't know what to say. I just kept quiet, hoping she would continue. I looked outside at passing pedestrians, at the traffic that was just slowing down, at distant buildings, the clouds, anything within sight just so that I didn't have to say anything.

"Just be good to each other," she finally said. "I don't know you very well, but I know my brother. I don't want him to get hurt."

The agony was over. She came and said what she wanted. All I needed to do was thank her or say something about how I feel for her brother.

"Thanks, Cheryl," I said as we left the cafe.

"Don't mention it." There was something unspoken in that, but I let it go.

Then from out of the blue, as we traced our way to the mall's entrance, she started talking about Han: "He has bad sinus; get him some nasal spray. And he likes to stand against the draft even when his shirt is wet. Aiyah, that one, har, like a little boy. Make sure he eats right. He eats too much fatty food...."

I realised I didn't have to say anymore. I have so much to do: nasal spray, clean dry shirt, food fit for a monk. She turned to me when we reached the mall entrance. She gave me a hug, and just as abruptly turned away and walked towards the hospital without looking back.

MAKING LOVE WORK

2010-10-26T09:51:00.000-07:00

I visited my godmother one weekend when my partner was in KL. I knew what I'd find in her home and it was something that I craved.

My godmother is a textbook Cantonese housewife who has made it her life's work to cook potent soups everyday for her family. In her tiny kitchen I have tasted the most wonderful soups I know: wintermelon and mushrooms, cordyceps and chicken bones, dried mussels and dried octopus, ginkgo nuts and bilberries, pork ribs and watercress.

Not long after I arrived, my godmother pulled me by the window of her kitchen to examine if I had been eating well. She wasn't happy with what she saw, declaring that I had to much heat trapped in my body (and how!), dragged me to the dining table and ladled some soup from her crockpot. One whiff of its distinct aroma and I instantly knew what it was: radish with bits of dried fish.

I watched her putter around her kitchen as I took my soup. She was in total control of that tiny universe. She would chop vegetables on a counter, turn around to stir something in her wok, then turn yet again to wash bowls and chopsticks in the sink. All the while she preached about the great benefits of eating right.

When my godfather arrived home, he peeped into the dining room to say hello to me. We were still talking when my godmother suddenly chased him out of the kitchen. Then their argument, like many others they've had before, continued in the living room. I only caught bits of their exchanges in Cantonese and Teochew, but I heard enough to make out that it was over something trivial. Then there were shouting, commotion and things dug up from the past - the bathroom light left switched on, a sugar jar left open on the table, the front door left unlocked. It was a big racket, quite pointless, and pretty much like a baby bawling over something nobody could understand.

I was sitting in the kitchen sipping my soup when I realised that the argument had ended as abruptly as it began.

My godmother returned and told me to help sort out her vegetables and we sat through the next hour tearing leaves off heng chye stalks and pinching the heads and tails off the tau geh while she delivered her litany of woes caused by my hopeless, good-for-nothing godfather.

Then she suddenly jumped from her seat and ran to the kitchen. She forgot to put a little piece of hulu in my godfather's vegetables. It wasn't too late, she said happily when she sat down again.

I looked at my godmother with affection. She obviously still loves my godfather, the man she fell for and married almost fifty years ago. The same one she chased out of her kitchen and yelled at for all the neighbours to hear. I imagined myself and my partner locked in a union five decades old, shouting at each other over nothing, maybe just to remind each other that we're still around, that we still care enough to yell at one another. And not long after, drop everything in order to put a bit of hulu in the other's sauteed dou miao.

Love must take a lot of work. You'll never know if you're cut out for it until you're old and alone in your kitchen making soup for the man you decided long ago to be your partner.

BACK TO THE OLD WAYS

2010-10-25T08:12:00.000-07:00

I was surprised to see my former former partner's car right outside my workplace on Zion Road. Was he shopping at Great World City? Was he eating nasi padang in the corner store? I checked the plate again - it was his car!

I craned my neck looking for him when suddenly I heard him say from behind me, "Oy, who are you looking for?"

"Hey, what are you doing here?"

"I'm here to pick you up?"

"How did you know I work here?"

"Wild guess. Come, you're late for school."

I accepted an offer from one of the polytechnics to teach a marketing course. I met my class for the first time today. And my partner was there to drive me all the way from work to some ulu place.

In his car, a thermos of Milo and a sandwich were on the front seat.

"For you," he said. From the looks of it, I knew he made the sandwich himself. It was neatly wrapped but uninspired. I was sure it was BLT or cheese and mayo.

I was so pleased I threw my arms around him and aimed to kiss him on the cheek. But he quickly ducked in and I missed.

"Oy, we better not. People can see."

We were instantly back in our old ways. He looked tired and old but happy. I noticed his hairline was receding and he was back to wearing those shapeless Goldlion dress shirts.

Some things will never change. I should just be so lucky.

PS Across the street from my apartment, in an HDB flat, two Chinese guys are walking around naked. One has a nice cock. It is an offense in Singapore to do that. I wanted to call the police. But who am I kidding? Seriously.

A NON-EVENT

2010-10-21T20:50:00.000-07:00

A Philippine blogsite invited bloggers to tell their coming out stories just a couple of months back. I felt left out for two reasons and didn't participate. Firstly, everyone there seemed to know each other, even addressing some people by their first names. As a Chinese-Filipino I am very sensitive to things where my input is not wanted or expected. Secondly, my coming out was a non-event. Here's how it went.

I was in secondary school when Boy George was a brilliant, cross-dressed performer who fronted The Culture Club. (Yes, Mariah, I'm older than you!) Most people probably remember Boy George as a pudgy, volatile DJ who ties up call boys and force them into leather-laced sex.

Anyway, I came home one afternoon from school and found my entire family (my siblings and I were staying at my uncle's place in Binondo) huddled before the TV. They were watching MTV and The Culture Club was performing Karma Chameleon.

"He's a man," one of my cousins blurted out.

"Zhen de mah?" My uncle looked up and asked in disbelief. "Bu shi zhen de le." Solomon Que will not have such rubbish talk in his household.

"Shi zheyang le," my cousin, maybe feeling she knew more than her age, insisted. By then we were all excited.

"Ta shi nanren," I offered. I was then a card-carrying member of the Bolido Boys, an infamous gang of young men, including some heartbreakingly handsome gays, who went around the dance bars in Manila and danced shirtless on tables. I was my family's de facto go-to man for these things.

"Ta bu shi leh," my uncle said with finality, conceding but perhaps hoping that there was nothing more coming.

"He is, Uncle." I said insisted. "He is gay. Like me."

There was stunned silence. Boy George was singing loving would be easy if your colours were like my dream.... How appropriate, I thought. But no one was listening anymore. ... red, gold and green..." They were all looking at me.

My aunt broke the silence when she asked everyone to take an afternoon nap, including the maids who were then claiming ringside seats to a possible smackdown.

When we were alone, when I was getting ready for a tear-jerking scene or at least a confrontation with a few things flung around - a vase maybe - my aunt asked me if I've had lunch.

My uncle came over to me but instead of a slap, which would have made the moment memorable at least, he gave my shoulder squeeze. I felt a heavy burden lifted off it, but I was also crestfallen. I have friends who were disowned, thrown out of the house, slapped and banished to rehab centres when they came out. All I got was a plate of noodles with Ma-Ling slices and a fried egg.

The worst came when my dage Benito came home, I asked him if he'd heard. Without looking at me he said, "Yea, Uncle gaosu wo zhege. But we knew all along."

End of story. Closing credits go up, house lights fade in. The show - or what could have been - was suddenly over.

FUCK BUDDY 2

2010-10-21T19:31:00.000-07:00

Marco is a Swiss Italian banker, married, 68 years-old. I met him in Geneva one cold spring morning when I decided to walk off a heavy breakfast from my hotel. It was drizzling, but I didn't realise it until I was a few yards down the road. I didn't have adequate protection from the cold and as I was crossing the street I locked eyes with Marco. He smiled and extended his arm so that I was walking under his umbrella. He was wearing a beard that was turning grey but he had beautiful blue-grey eyes. When we slipped into the tunnel, I put my arm around his shoulder and kissed him. He was surprised but didn't pull back. We ended up that afternoon in my hotel room and had sex. That's when I found out he was married, with two daughters, both grown up, and a job at a prestigious Swiss bank. I used to see him every year in Geneva; we'd sneak out for a quick fuck between meetings.

Peter was originally from New Zealand but was stationed in Manila where he was working for the UN. He was in his mid-40s when I met him, in perfect shape, and with a very handsome face. I cruised him at an exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Manila but he just blew me off. But I persisted and followed him when he left the exhibition. Once outside, he suddenly turned to me and asked which work I liked best. Naturally, I was stunned, after all he ignored me for a good hour-and-a-half at the museum. We walked down Roxas Boulevard to Carmen Apartments where he lived. He invited me to come up and we had sex. It progressed to a fling which lasted until he was posted in Thailand. I saw him last in Luang Prabang where I was spending the summer with my family. He was as I remembered him, a bit worn, but still hot. We didn't say a word; we didn't even smile at each other.

Butch was my mother's costurera. He's some kind of a distant cousin. We hooked up when I was in my teens and he was maybe in his late 20s. All I know was he was well-educated, well-travelled, moneyed. I think his father owned prime real estate in town and being the only son, he inherited a lot. He has fantastic body although he wasn't very good-looking. He also had a big cock. He invited me once to his apartment where he lured me to bed and gave me a blowjob. Last time I heard of him, he was married to another distant cousin and they apparently have a fabulous house somewhere in Bulacan.

I've had sexual encounters with maybe 70 or so men and at least six women, most them them East Asians and Filipinos. I've done it in a packed bus (someone gave me a handjob), lift (I got a handjob), public park (mutual fellatio), stairs landing (heavy petting and handjob), movie houses, abandoned warehouse, parked truck, the side of a building. My sexual appetite has not waned; in fact, as I write this, I'm anticipating hot sex with my former-former partner. We've reunited and I promised, without his prodding, not to blog about our intimate moments. Fair enough, I thought.

I've written about my Singapore fuck buddy, Ricky, in another blog. I have another three: Bruce, Dylan and Kong.

I have written about Bruce, 33, an entrepreneur, previously. He ran Oceanic Massage at Lucky Chinatown where he also monnlighted as a masseur. I got his number froma men's room graffitti, but when I called him, I said we had a mutual friend. We've had sex a few times back when I was stll renting a shophouse in Katong. He was very good in bed - considerate, imaginative, energetic. He's totally shaven - hairless armpits, pubes, arse and legs. He used to come to my place after work, sleep over and send me to work the foloowing day. Then we gradually became very good friends and the sex stopped. I'm totally cool about it - friends are rarer to find than sex partners - but somehow I miss him biting my npples during sex.

Dylan, 25, lived across the street from my apartment in Sengkang. I met him through trevvy.com. I was looking for someone convenient in case I needed more than late night TV to send me to sleep. I wasn't prepared for a slightly effeminate but really beautiful younger man. He wasn't very good in bed but I managed to teach him a few tricks. The last time we saw each other, he helped me hook up a new dvd player to my TV. Then we had sex. We still bump into each other occasionally.

Kong, 40, was a guy I met on a phone chat line. He spoke rough Hokkien - if that's still possible - and very little English. Sometimes I like that in a man. I can get turned off by fastidious talkers - those gifted conversationalists who are careful about grammar. Kong to me was a man's man. He turned out to be as rough as he sounded. He had cropped hair, bear build and interesting package. The most unusual thing about him was despite his rough appearance and party-size uncut cock, he liked to be fucked. I didn't let his meat go to waste - I've given him through time what I believe were earnest and memorable blowjobs. Kong sold chicken rice in Tampines.

Maybe I'll retire from sex outside my relationship now that I have my partner back. We love each other and he's good in bed - I've little reason to go astray. But it's nice to remember people with whom I have shared very, very intimate moments.

IN FAIRNESS

2010-10-20T08:13:00.000-07:00

I was in Manila for the weekend wedding of a friend from the U where most of the early guests were classmates so it felt like we were attending a class reunion-cum-prom night with the bride and groom as prom queen and king. As fate would have it, we all checked into the same hotel except, of course, those who still live in Manila. We had three floor parties and spent the night going up and down to each others' rooms.

The sub-stories were interestingly like the ones that we played out back in school - old flames, arch-rivals, BFFs, geeks, jocks, gays - we all relived our moments. Our class prefect was surprisingly still the same guy we knew, much to our delight, and kept us behaving well throughout the night. Well, almost.

I reconnected with my old boyfriend Winston with whom I has an 'unfinished business'. Everyone in class knew about us: our copycat haircuts and clothes, our individual bedrooms remodelled to look exactly alike, even our twin vows of celibacy - a terribly unusual thing that got even the rector talking.

Winston and I tried to fool around the entire evening prior to the wedding but we didn't achieve much. He asked me to drive out to Subic and spend the night after the wedding and we decided to save all of it for that night. But the storm got in the way and we didn't make the road trip. He was married until recently and I guess he was planning the road trip to test drive his newfound freedom.

But the real point of this post is to show how well my former partner behaved while I was away. I didn't tell him I was going to Manila and when I returned, he asked me where I was, who I was with, and why I didn't tell him. Then he realised that our situation has changed and he cooled down immediately. I also learned from the guard that he has visited and asked for me twice during the weekend.

In fairness - an expression sooo popular amongst the gay crowd in Manila that they have at least 10 versions of saying it - my former partner did not abuse my kindness. He has visited me twice since the time we first spoke to each other after our separation, but he has never used his keys to enter my apartment. He always sat in the lobby and waited for me patiently. When I asked if he lost his keys, he merely tapped on his briefcase to indicate they're inside.

All the good things about him are all coming back to me - all the reasons why I fell for him madly.

He still has a lot of issues to confront but I'm not pushing him. I know how difficult it is for some gay men to come out and just because it had been relatively easy for me to do doesn't earn me the right to impose it on my former partner.

But things are looking up. As we spooned in bed - we didn't have sex but you bet I was tempted - he told me about his plan to come out at least to his sister and brothers. He thought they would be more accepting of his situation. I said I would support his decision but would also be happy to wait it out until he is ready. Was I wrong to do that? Maybe. But I'm happy.

AS GOD IS MY WITNESS...

2010-10-14T08:16:00.000-07:00

I'm not gonna be one of them MGM broads - Bette Davis, Joan Crawford, Lana Turner, Judy Garland - those women who can will a single tear to roll down the cheek from the eye that favours the camera, those who deliver bitter, alcohol-laced monologues, sometimes under the rain, mascara running, before they smash the highball against the wall. They bravely march to hell but they always come back for vengeance (and a Mahler as they deliver their lines).

And how do I know I'm not cut out for All About Eve? My former partner showed up at my apartment just this afternoon!

I returned from work and found him waiting for me at the lobby. I was so civil I surprised myself. But I didn't invite him to come up. I led him to the poolside where he couldn't - make that I couldn't - make a scene. It was almost like nothing happened. He felt my back when I coughed (little coughs like Ingrid Bergman's when she played Anastacia, the last of the Romanovs.... Hahaha!) and told me to get changed. I returned the favour by telling him to get haircut.

We avoided getting sentimental so successfully that I was totally unprepared when he finally said, "I miss you; I hope I can visit you from time to time."

All I could say was, "You still have the keys."

Bette Davis wouldn't say anything like that. She'd give him a tight slap and maybe even spit on him. Joan Crawford might even pull out a pistol.

I'm sorry Mr De Mille, I'm not quite ready for my close-up....

TACONES LEJANOS

2010-10-12T20:24:00.000-07:00

Por que te pusiste esos zapatos?
Por que son mas alegres que los negros.

No usted comprende, senor. Compro los zapatos por que soy filipino, y por eso los recuerdan para mi los dias que pasan. Un par para la navidad, otro mas para el anonuevo, para la fiesta de tres magos, para el verano. otro mas, otro mas....

Ahora tengo 42 pares de zapatos. I'm so shoe crazy I must be gay! Oy vey!

Yesterday instead of going to lunch with the boss, I sneaked out early and went to Gucci for a new pair of horsebit loafers. At the shop I saw a young, handsome Indonesian Chinese trying on a few pairs. He smiled at me when I sat down next to him. I winked at him brazenly. It's not me at all to do something like that, but indulge me, please. Let's blame it on Gucci.

I was behind him at the cashier but he lingered on and waited until I was done.

"They have a nice summer collection." He suddenly said to no one in particular.

I didn't know he was addressing me - heck, I didn't even know they were already stocking up for summer - but since I was the only one within earshot, I responded.

"Yup, I guess so."

"I also have that pair," he said glancing at my shoes. "Nice."

"Thanks."

At that point I wasn't sure whether he was hitting on me or he was just being freindly, like a little boy lost in the city hoping to find a friend. I decided to take the lead. I mean, who am I to deprive this young man of some courtesy? And friendship?

"Wanna grab some food?"

He was unsure, I could see, but he said yes and followed me.

He turned out to be a very pleasant young man, obviously from a good family, well-mannered if painfully shy, and very, very hot: red lips, alabaster skin, shockingly black eyes, and budding pecs and biceps. Obviously a gym bunny but in a non-aggressive way.

We talked about his studies, my job, nightlife, shoes. I easily steered the conversation towards sex.

"I have no girlfriend," he said at some point. "I'm... you know..."

"You look hot," I blurted out.

"So do you."

When I thought I had him all rolled around my little finger, a lady came up to our table. A Vuitton victim, she had big teased hair, big jewellery, night make-up, it bag - you get the picture.

"My mum," the man boy said.

I nearly fell off my seat. Hello, Chief Cougar, I was just baby-sitting your cub.."..

They said something to each other in rapid-fire Bahasa, man-boy stood up, gathered his barang-barang, excused himself and they were gone.

So, senor, perdoname. Compro los zapatos por que busco por un hombre: cachas, guapo, rico, y por favor, senor, maduro. Maduro.

FUCK BUDDY 1

2010-10-12T19:28:00.000-07:00

I was unhinged by recent events and was craving attention, but because I'm not inclined to melodrama, I figured quickies were my best option. I counted on some fuck buddies as I did not want to turn into a raging slut overnight; fucking guys I've already been with in the past was the sensible approach.

I was practically the Rip van Winkle of the free-sex circuit in Singapore. Being in a relationship was like sleeping for a long period. When I woke up, the entire landscape has changed. There were new players, new hotties and new games. I had to cross out a few names from my list after finding out that some of my old buddies have changed numbers or have opted out in favour of permanent relationship. With mny list whittled down to three names, I started to get lucky.

I called up a guy named Ricky and was excited to hear his phone ring. We exchanged light-hearted banter in Hokkien - Ho sei bo? Ho bo! - and was thrilled to hear him say that he wanted to call but wasn't sure whether or not I still remembered him.

Ricky is just hard to forget. We met a few years ago through a chatline, by far the best, most convenient way for me to arrange for a quick fuck. We agreed to meet at a 7 Eleven close to my apartment - I was living in a Katong shophouse then - so I could examine the 'merchandise' before I sealed the deal. He rode a motorbike and reached the place ahead of me. I spotted him by the soda cooler. He was wearing bermudas and an old t-shirt, holding his helmet and talking to someone on the phone. He was a well-built guy with a buzz cut, hot in that working guy way. When he looked up - he somehow knew it was me -he smiled and nodded. After I paid for my stuff, we walked back to my place.

I offered Ricky a drink, but he simply wanted to get down to business. We sat on the couch in my living room and he immediately reached over and felt me up. I took off my clothes, showed him my hard cock, which he eagerly stuffed inside his mouth. I led him to bedroom.

I wasn't prepared for Ricky's cock: big, hard and uncut. It's a handsome tool that felt right in my hand but even better in my mouth. We took turns blowing each other before we went to bed and got into a really frenzied 69. He was really getting into it and, despite his big size, I did my best to reciprocate.

When I felt I was close to cumming I pulled my cock out of his mouth. He was trying to put it back in but I steadied him on his back and let him enjoy my sucking. After some time, I also felt he was holding back. I stopped. We kissed deeply and, strangely for me and a first-timer, passioantely. He was moaning my name and I was doing the same. We were so stoked. We switched position and when I was lying on my back, he straddled me and very slowly slipped my cock inside his arse. I asked if I should slip a condom on but he said nothing. I just felt my hard cock easing inside his hole and heard him sigh as his butt cheeks finally rested against my hips. He was in control of the movement and he sat on my cock, grindind against it, letting it slip in and out.From time to time, he would kiss me on the lips or reach back and play with my balls. We fucked for a long time. In that position, I easily held back my ejaculation.

Ricky was a great bottom, although given his huge cock and awesome body I was sure he would also make one hot top. I enjoyed watching this masculine specimen getting pleasure while impaled on my hard cock. When I felt my loins getting ready to shoot a load, I started thrusting my hips. We were goraning and moaning and I was getting closer and closer to climax. I pulled out whe I was really close, but gave him enough time to jerk off my cock before I squirted hot cum all over. It was a a fantastic orgasm; I shot my cum all over ourselves. We kissed again after that, panting and sweating but still very eager to continue fucking.

It was his turn to cum and I went back to giving him head. My mouth was full of hot throbbing meat and still had enough for both hands to play with. I wanted him to remember that moment. He pulled out too before he came and I let him spray my face with cum, after which I rubbed his spent cock all over my face.

We showered together, took turns soaping and rinsing each other. He said goodbye. I walked him to the door knowing that I would see him again.

A month later, we did. I was living in a condo in Sengkang and he was very surpised to see me open the door.

Tonight he's coming over. Rip van Winkle is up and ready for it.

GRIEF CYCLE

2010-10-07T07:17:00.000-07:00

Grieving people, if you wanna believe Dr. Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, go through five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptence. Pardon me, but I paraphrase. I look back at my recent experience and realise that I may have skipped anger and bargaining altogether. I started out refusing to believe what just happened to me and woke up the following day in full depressive van Gogh mode. But one thing about getting older is that you automatically avoid drama for fear of looking ridiculous. It's a very good reflex behaviour to learn, if you ask me. I picked myself up and was back at work.

This afternoon, I brought my Spanish-speaking friends to the newly opened Cartier boutique at MBS. The manager of high jewellery, a dear friend, has offered to host me and ten friends to high tea and an exclusive look-see. I didn't say no; grieving or not, only a fool would turn down an invite like that. So the girls were all over the place trying on jewellery, sighing over one-off diamond-studded jaw-breakers (I did, too, but inaudibly!), sipping champagne and munching on macarrons and basically letting me be by myself.

Meanwhile, I looked at all the things I couldn't afford, zeroed in on the Star Trinity - a Trinity ring with some diamonds on each band - and tried it on. I instantly knew that it was for me, the last piece in my size.

Just then, my friend who invited us, came over and said approvingly, "Much better than what you have on". (I've been getting a lot of these encouraging words that somehow never sound right....) I looked at my left hand and saw the Love ring that my former partner gave me. And then I was sad again. Very sad, actually.

One of my friends drove me home and noticed that I was suddenly out of sorts. I simply said I have so many things in mind - not exactly a lie, come to think of it.

Tomorrow I have to sit down with my former partner and hand over my final report to him. When we decided to separate, I offerred to return the ring, but he refused to take it back. "It's for you to keep," was what he said to me.

So thanks heaps, beautiful boys, for saying nice words to me during my time of grief. Your blogs reminded me that I'm not alone: Sgboy, Miss Chuniverse, Citybuoy, Aris, Fickle Cattle, Savante, Tristan, Legolas, Markus, carpe diem,... Janvier, Cedric, Nimmy, Alex, Caloycoy, Ex Jason, Carlson, Skyhawk, Max, Xiaoqiang, Huang, Rui.... (It's good to have only a few people to thank. Ha!)

I'm not one for moping and grieving; I'll soon blog again like before - full of life and sex - and I hope you'll continue to visit when you have time!

AND THEN JUST LIKE THAT IT ENDED

2010-10-05T07:32:00.000-07:00

It wasn’t my blog that he was unhappy about; he was helpless and didn’t know how to stop things from unravelling. His family was starting to notice how he was changing; people around us were talking. In the end, my partner and I decided to sort out our problem separately. I was very sad. It took a while before I fully understood what that meant.

I tendered my letter of resignation and decided to pick up a longstanding offer from another company. I’ll be serving notice for a month.

I’m getting old and part of my sadness comes from not being able to make this last chance work.

YOU'VE LEFT ME SPEECHLESS

2010-10-01T03:02:00.000-07:00

"Stop your nonsense if you want us to get somewhere."

Han sent me that text message just a while ago.

He was referring to my blog.

SENTIMENTAL EDUCATION 2

2010-09-29T02:42:00.000-07:00

I was very horny one afternoon but couldn’t find a place to wank off. I decided to surprise Narciso instead. I quietly went up to his room, peeked through the slightly open door, and saw him in bed with his hand moving inside his briefs. As I had hoped, he was pleasuring himself.

I suddenly pushed the door open and stepped inside. Startled, he instantly withdrew his hand and sat up on his bed.

"Nagbabate ka ata, e?" I joked.

He was miffed. He didn’t answer at first.

"Hoy, masama yun, Ah Boy."

"Hindi, a. Classmates ko nga nagbabate araw-araw e." I countered with what I heard from my rowdier classmates.

"Pa’no mo nalaman?"

"Sabi nila...."

He didn’t say anything.

"Nagbabate ka 'no?" I asked again. I was eager to start something.

He didn’t say anything at first, but he smiled shyly after a while.

He turned things around. "Ikaw?"

"Hindi nga ako marunong, e." I lied, although at that point I was masturbating at least twice daily.

He laughed again.

"Turuan mo ‘ko." I teased, asking him to show me how.

"Puro ka biro." He thought I was joking.

I grabbed his crotch. He looked at me intently. I thought he was angry, that he would hit me.

"‘Wag, Ah Boy! Masama yan!" Virtue wrestled with horniness.

But he did not take my hand from his crotch.

I retrieved his half-hard cock from his briefs, pulling the waistband down as I did.

He cock was circumcised, dark hued, smooth, with large, bulbous head. He has a very thick, wild pubic patch and, as I discovered shortly, tight but very round balls.

"'Wag, Ah Boy. Baka may makakita sa ‘tin."

"Turuan mo na kasi ako."

Cornered, he reached over and touched my hard cock. I pulled my shorts down and showed it to him. He did’t say anything; he just started caressing my cock.

Suddenly he changed his mind. He stood up, pulled up his briefs and asked me to do the same.

I refused. I tugged at his underwear again.

"Ano ba, Ah Boy?" He said, but gently, pleading.

Instead of answering, I wrapped my arms around him. Tentatively, slowly, he did the same. I searched his mouth and when I found it, kissed him. I remember how his moustache felt on my tongue. I seemed to know what to do although it was my first time with a man.

"Baka malaman ni Tito mo."

By then I was playing with his cock, gently massaging his balls with another hand, pretending I didn’t know what I was doing."Ganito ba?"

He didn’t answer me. He sat on his bed and slowly masturbated me. I did exactly what he was doing, moving my hand up and down the shaft, gently, slowly.

I came after just a few strokes, squirting cum over and over on his stomach and his thick pubic patch.

"Ang bilis mo pala labasan."

"E ikaw?"

He kept quiet. He simply closed his eyes and took over my hand in caressing his cock.

I looked closely at the glistening head, the thick dark shaft and the balls that swung as he moved his hand up and down.
I touched his ball but he gently moved my hand away. He just wanted me to watch.

Then he started cumming in long, white strands, jetting from his cock’s slit with such force and landing everywhere on the floor. It was a marvellous display. I was transfixed. As it waned, he slipped his off briefs and proceeded to clean himself up with it.

We knew that we broke a barrier; we connected. He was no longer embarrassed by his exposed organ, the almost violent orgasm, the vulnerability of being naked in front of another person.

"Balik ka ha," he said in a low voice, finally breaking the silence.

(Continued)

SENTIMENTAL EDUCATION 1

2010-09-29T00:12:00.000-07:00

Weeks before I graduated from elementary school, our neighbour’s 10-year-old daughter was kidnapped. Eyewitness accounts vary but they all point to a same-model, same-colour car coming around to pick up the fourth grader in front of their house on Carvajal around 5:30am. No one suspected anything was amiss – no stranger lurking around, no suspicious looking van, no commotion. The little girl calmly got in the car that she thought was taking her to school.

Most of us who stayed in the heart of Binondo in the mid-1970s lived in shophouses: first-storey shop, second-storey living space, third-storey stockroom. Why put the goods on the highest floor? So you’ll know if your help are stealing them. Cars were mostly parked on the roadside, each stretch ‘supervised’ by a policeman who collected parking fees, or in the parking lots closer to Santa Cruz Church and Benavidez. Drivers – there were usually two or three for every family – drove both family cars and delivery vans. We often didn’t know who or what was going to pick us up, a lorry may just pull up in the schoolyard to take us home for lunch.

The girl resurfaced a week later; not a strand of hair on her was harmed. We all assumed quietly that the police was behind the kidnapping and that a hefty ransom was paid. Life instantly went back to normal. In Novaliches, around that time, middle-class villages flourished on ransoms allegedly collected by police officers from local Chinese families.
Anyway, the incident brought Narciso to our household as live-in driver-cum-bodyguard for me and two of my younger cousins. (My brother Benito was already in college; my brother Emilio and sister Emilia were already in high school and according to my parents’ warped reasoning, they didn’t need protection anymore.)

Narciso lived, like the rest of the help, in the entre suelo – the mezzanine that coincided with the landing. But being the only male, his quarters were accessible from the back. He used the toilet outside, washed his clothes in the force pump and, according to unspoken house rules, did not mingle with the maids.

I immediately noticed Narciso’s good qualities: he was polite to my uncle and aunt and didn’t show an annoying familiarity with us kids. He waited for his breakfast quietly in a corner in the kitchen and didn’t joke with the maids as the other drivers did. He was always neat in his uniform, did not roam the house in singlets and shorts, and always wore shoes – a singular trait that for me signified he was indeed special.

He was a short but trim man with very dark, smooth skin. He has a pleasant face, thick yet tidy moustache and, for me perhaps the most interesting, sad, dark eyes. Naturally, I was interested in him.

I first saw him shirtless when he was waiting for me to finish my classes one afternoon. He didn’t see me coming and I found him reclining on the driver’s seat, his uniform folded away on the next seat, an arm shielding his eyes. I stood there and watched in wonder as his stomach rose and fell with his breathing. A trail of downy hair circled his navel and disappeared into his waistband; his nipples were also ringed with hairs. I was leaning over to get a good look at the letters tattooed above his left nipple when he suddenly woke up and accidentally hit me on the forehead with his head.

“Ay, sorry, Ah Boy,” he said. “Kanina ka pa ba dyan?” He asked if I had waited long.

“Ngayon lang,” I lied about standing there watching him.

“Nasaktan ka ba?” He enquired as he touched my forehead.

“Hindi, okay lang ako.”

He put on his shirt and helped me with my school bag.

As we drove home, I stole furtive glances at him. I think he noticed but he just smiled to himself and kept his eyes on the road. That was all it took for me to be his only friend in the household and, gradually, the first visitor to set foot in his quarters.

(Continued)

THE SIMPLE LIFE

2010-09-25T19:50:00.000-07:00

I woke up to the sound of splashing water in my bathroom. If I were in my 20s I would have wondered where I ended up after my nth drink. I got up, stepped out of my bedroom and immediately noticed a pile of neatly folded, discarded clothes on the floor next to the couch. I also saw several packets of lau poh peng – the same ones I always buy when I go to KL – and mah ti su on the coffee table. Han’s home.

“Did you just come in?” I asked, remembering that I’ve given him keys to my apartment.

“Yeah, I brought breakfast.”

Two packets of nasi lemak and two plastic tumblers of teh si were sitting on the kitchen counter next to the sink.

I had a crappy night. I went to Mumm’s paddocks party and then on to the Ritz-Carlton for the after-party party. I was tired, hungry, drunk; I couldn’t even recall why I went in the first place. I had planned to stay in and wait for Han to finish dinner and drinks with his clients. But I ended up at the party anyway, talking to someone who used to manage a Swiss watch brand in Hong Kong and whose boyfriend was an acquaintance of mine – the man Friday of an artist friend. I’ve had sex with the man Friday in question in my friend’s atelier in Bukit Pasoh a few years ago. I went there one early evening to collect a pencil drawing that I bought; my friend had gone home but had asked his assistant to stay and wait for me. I’d say was more curious than turned on: this guy was a very proper Englishman and with a very Brit name, handsome but in a peculiar way – starchy, stiff-upper-lipped elderly gentleman in brogues and proper suit. I used to eye him whenever I visited my friend. Strictly for fun, but it progressed to open, aggressive flirtation – I would nonchalantly shift my cock in my pants whenever he was looking at me or I would spread my legs wide to show him the outline of my semi-hard cock. Of course, I managed these without my friend knowing. That night, I watched as he packed my artwork, his back turned to me. I reached over and ran a finger from the back of his neck all the way down to the crack of his arse. He turned around, not sure what was happening, not sure what to do next.

“Should I go on,” I asked without smiling.

He turned around and faced me and I took him in my arms and kissed him deeply. He was stunned by I guess intrigued.

From the first floor gallery, he led me to the second storey where my friend has a study. We took off our clothes quietly, found a spot on the carpet cluttered with books and were soon giving each other head. He was very excited and his small, quivering penis was leaking. I let it slip out of my mouth and just went on caressing his thighs.

He wasn’t much of a cocksucker. I remember hurting a bit because he was too eager to ram my cock down his throat. I distracted myself by looking around me – at my friend’s unfinished paintings, his collection of tribal antiques from Surabaya (grotesque humanoids with huge, menacing pricks) and piles after piles of books – while waiting to cum. When I did, we dressed up, went downstairs and he returned to packing my artwork. After that incident, we continued sending horny text messages to each other and that was how I got to know who his boyfriend was.

His boyfriend is actually quite hot. Tall, dark, youngish Singaporean Chinese with a bit of pock marks on his face which, for some reason, I found vaguely sexy. We spent a good part of the night talking, with me unsuccessfully steering the conversation to Geneva and sex. A couple of years ago, we accidentally bumped into each other in Geneva where we were staying at the same hotel. I wanted to have sex with him so I rang his room under the pretext of borrowing an adaptor. We flirted outrageously, exchanging double entendres about his adaptor and its holes, my urgent need for one and my brusque way of poking other people’s adaptors. But for some reason, we didn’t get to fuck during our stay. Back in Singapore, we had drinks a couple of times but never got the opportunity again.

I think he has lost interest in me, wasn’t interested in the first place, or was having cold feet. The best he could do that night was squeeze my thigh a couple of times.

I left the party and because of the long queue at the taxi stand and the re-routing had to walk a long way before I could find a cab. In fact, I walked all the way from the Ritz to Raffles City to Bugis.

I was bushed when I reached home, barely awake to bathe.

Han was also exhausted. He took his clients to dinner, and then to the races and some drinks. They finally ended up at the casino where they stayed all night. After depositing them to their hotel, Han drove to my apartment, stopping in Hougang to pick up breakfast.

After bathing, I fed Han spoonfuls of nasi lemak – we sometimes take turns babying each other, that morning was my turn. Then I made him a banana shake and sent him to bed aftrwards. In a short while he was uttering gibberish and farting contentedly in his sleep.

I put away the leftovers, ate my lau poh peng and had some teh si instead. Lau poh peng. ‘Old wife’s cake, I smiled at myself. Is that bastard snoring away in my bed up to his naughty tricks again?

I gathered my laundry and tidied up the apartment.

Sometimes I don’t have to do much for a pleasant weekend.

VROOM! VROOM!

2010-09-23T18:05:00.000-07:00

It's the F1 weekend and all the parties are going on at the same time. It's simply crazy! Han has managed to come back from KL but with some clients in tow. He'll be entertaining while I party. Last night I went to alldressedup fashion show, and then to another fashion event at Paragon featuring Etro's current collection.

I returned to the paddocks after that with my colleagues and did a bit of the rounds pumping hands and air kissing everyone in sight. Tired yet fortified with champs, I sought some down time at the open-air rooftop lounge. Not many people were up there because it was raining all afternoon. I sat down on a couch only to find out that the cushion was drenched. My backside was wwet and I had to make a hasty exit. I texted Han to come and get me. He replied over an hour later; by then I had already showered and was eating instant noodle in my apartment.

Tonight we'll go out and maybe end up at my place for sex. I think I'd like him to fuck me a second time.

Or maybe we'll just sleep. I'm not crossing my fingers.

MY GUY

2010-09-20T07:56:00.000-07:00

I’ve always been attracted to the same kind of guy as far as I can remember. He is slightly older than me, successful, ambitious and a bit distant. I naturally avoid – or repel – party types, those who have something clever to say about everything, as well as those who are endowed with incredible charm.

I also easily turn a blind eye on physical flaws; in fact I seem to be more attracted to the jolie-laide types, those who straddle the line that separates the uglies from the pretties. I am drawn instead by character and manners rather than personality and a pretty face. Oh, I’m totally fine with a studly form.

But I’m starting to notice that the kind of guy that makes my balls percolate has a sub-species: The Ruthless Rich. I’ve met and avoided interaction with this type until recently when I found myself seated between Vince Co and Alex Tay. This pair of overachieving friends from college came to Singapore, so naturally I had to take them out to dinner. Han grudgingly agreed to meet them after I promised that I wouldn’t let my friends in on what’s between us.

When we arrived at the restaurant, Vince and Alex were already there chatting up the sommelier. I didn’t want to make something out of it, but I felt it wasn’t right of them to do that. They have also asked for a ‘better’ table. Obviously because the one I reserved under my name wasn't good enough for them. The night wasn’t going well.

Vince, Alex and I played tennis all through our college days. We were all engineering students but majoring in different fields. After class we hung around in Wack-Wack, where they lived not far from each other, while I waited for the driver to take me home to Binondo. We were very tight, protective and kept no secrets from each other: They’ve slept with each other a few times, Vince and I only once. Vince's family made a fortune selling textile in Divisoria while Alex's grew an Azcarraga spare parts shop into a regional dealership empire, an inconvenient truth that he conveniently hides with "Oh, my family has been in automotive business since I was this high." And if you just tuned in, Alex is the matinee idol type – what Gabby Concepcion might look like if he were chinoy. Max had always wanted to be friends with them but managed to exchange no more than a few ‘hellos’.

The conversation was going very well until Alex asked the waiter to take away the wine that was just opened for us because “it wasn’t the right temperature”.

“And now you have a thermometer in your throat,” I said, instantly aware that it didn’t come out right.

“You know, pare, these things should not be tolerated. We – you – might be paying a bomb later and for what – a tepid Chardonnay?”

Vince was quick to shift the conversation: “Have I told you that I have shares in a South African winery? I’m now looking forward to my first vintage harvest.”

Han picked up the thread; he has worked in an Australian vineyard during his senior year at the university. I was at that moment very proud of my man. I listened as he explained his views about investing in wines, something that would have bored me to tears under normal circumstances, and found myself keenly interested.

“Oye, pare, have you heard from Dino? I heard he’s some big shot here. Who would’ve known? He was just a little ciano back in college,” Alex asked during the lull.

“No me digas, Dino Medrano? A Singapore hot shot? Wow, this country is really opening up. Pasa todo,” Vince added.

It stung. I’ve never been in any clique from high school to college because I was a 'ciano', a provinciano, meaning I didn’t have the refinement of a city boy. It’s an affectation that the Filipino bourgeois clings to to this day, and one that has not spared the supposedly superior Jesuit-educated.

Just then another wine bottle appeared; Alex did the showy gargle-swirl-sniff and pronounced it good enough for us.

The conversation easily shifted to food. Han is some sort of an expert in this, having kept a food and wine journal for years.

“And where did you learn all that,” Alex enquired in that annoying tone.

“Well, I worked as a hand in a vineyard and then did some waitering after school,” he answered earnestly. I looked at Han and felt like hugging him. Such a man!

Over dinner we reminisced about school, about our holidays in Spain, eating pulpo in a sidewalk cafe in Valencia and and drinking tonnes of txacolin in San Sebastian, about who has died from our batch, about who among our school rectors have actual ties with the Left. We were friends after all, and although they’re still the snobs I knew - ad maybe even feared - back then, it was easy enough to steer idle chatter towards common topics that were less prickly. Even Han was having a good time, exchanging tips about food and wine, even offering to take them out for some good hawker food on theri next visit.

Before we parted, they happily let me settle the bill, but Alex slipped two fifties into the billfold.

“It’s alright. We don’t usually tip here,” Han said.

“Oh, don’t worry. Let the Little Guy buy himself a decent meal. He looks like he's been eating McD's,” Alex tossed with an irritating little snigger.

Meanwhile, Vince handed me a little gift. “It’s from us,” he said. I didn’t ask further how or if they ended up with each other.

“Open it,” Alex prodded.

Inside the elaborately wrapped box is a neatly arrayed set of little malachite spoons and little wedges the size of communion wafers.

“What’s that for?” Han asked.

Alex gave him a look. You mean you didn’t know, it said. Han kept quiet.

“They’re caviar spoons,” I said, taking Alex’s meanness in stride.

In the car, I glanced sideways at Han. I was infuriated but he was visibly calm. He was humming along some old Teresa Teng song, about the moon being like her heart. I knew that song well, but just then anger has denied my access to even such simple joy. I didn’t feel bad about myself, but I certainly felt outraged by my friend’s shabby treatment of my man.

But Han didn’t take slight. He was the picture of a happy man. Even in his shapeless Goldlion dress shirt that I had hoped he would give up, he is handsome, manly and magnanimous.

Here is the man I will love forever, someone I will protect against mean people. Here is the man I will crack jokes to just to see him laugh, I thought to myself. Because I can find nothing more delightful than his laughter.

I’ve always been attracted to the same kind of guy as far as I can remember. He is slightly older than me, successful, ambitious and a bit distant. That night he was sitting next to me and I reached out to touch his arm and then rested my hand on his thigh.

THERE'S A FIRST TIME FOR EVERYTHING

2010-09-19T21:18:00.000-07:00

It happened just like that. I allowed Han to fuck me.

None of the complicated gavotte, the long flirtation, the what-ifs and the swelling crescendo materialised. No aurora borealis streaked the still light sky as I had hoped. It was just him behind me, his hard-on nudging at the small of my back. I adjusted my position, he got the message and went for it. God bless uncomplicated men.

We ate an early dinner, anticipating the long bouts of sex in my apartment. It was Hari Raya weekend and I was leaving for Manila the following week. We wouldn't be seeing each other for a some time so we thought a weekend of seamless sex was the least we could do. We went to Song of India; it was raining intermittently and we both decided a little spice would be perfect. After dinner we left immediately and returned to my place.

While I showered, he programmed the stereo. When it was his turn, I drew the curtains in my room and lit some candles. I also gathered provisions: lube, condoms, cock rings, massage oil, lubricants. My head was swimming when he emerged from the bathroom naked and, judging by the condition of his cock, semi-ready.

We listened to music for a while, caressing, kissing, studying every quarter inch of each other and planting a damp kiss on every part we finished surveying. We then slowed down a bit, he fetched a bottle of Riesling from the fridge and we took turns sipping from the same wineglass. Yes, cheesy, but perfect somehow moment-perfect.

Back in bed, I lay down on my side next to him and rested my head on his right arm; his left arm was wrapped around me, hand tentatively caressing my hard nipple. I could feel his hot, hard cock against the small of my back, just above the crack of my arse. It was incredibly hot. I pressed back and wiggled my hip a bit. That was all that Han needed. I could sense him putting his fingers in his mouth before bringing them to my arse. He was teasing my hole, making it slick with spit, one finger rubbing relentlessly at the opening as my muscles began to relax. He did it for a while unhtil I was moaning. Yielding, I opened up to him, adjusted myself until the tip of his cock was just right outside my hole.

Han stood up instead, momentarily breaking my anticipation, to put on a condom. I turned to my provision and lubed my self. When he returned behind me, I grabbed his hard cock and led it to my arse.

A word to you virgins out there: getting fucked up the arse for the first time isn't as sexy as porn flicks would have us believe. I was ready, relaxed, in fact, eager to have him penetrate me, but when it finally happened I was reduced to a writhing, groaning heap. The pain was intolerable that I felt someone tried to knock me out. Han became very concerned but didn't know what to do. It was so painful I thought I was ripped open down there. I couldn't feel anything else but that pain centred around my butt.

He held me close, kissing my neck and whispered 'I'm sorry' over and over. But his hard on persisted; so did my horniness. Damn, I was horny!

I adjusted again but he pulled away.

"Are you sure you want to?"

"Yes, Han, fuck me."

"We can do it another time. Let's just take it easy."

I responded by reaching for his sheathed cock once more and guiding it to my hole. This time, ever so slowly, he entered me. It felt like his cock were a blunt object inching its way up my chute. I felt the head making progress while my insides gradually giving way and accommodating it. He was very careful about driving it all in, but I decided to take control. Damn, I was just so horny!

With half his cock inside me, I felt satisfied. Gratified. I rested for a while, giving his cock a bit of a squeeze with my sphincter. I was also amazed by newfound skills I didn't know I have.

I goaded him to start pumping, making sure that I took in more with every thrust. Then I let myself go - no inhibitions, no doubts, no shame - meeting his thrusts with mine. He was inside me, fully, irretrievably. I've been fucked! I said to myself. It started to feel really good; I heard him say my name as he fucked me, heard his grunts, felt his force as he thrusted his hips against mine.

He pulled out slowly, turned me on my back, hooked my knees on his shoulders and found my hole again. He looked intensely into my eyes as he started building up a rhythm, occasionally bending down to kiss me fully on the lips, our tongues meeting wetly. I looked back at his handsome face, trying to read secrets that he may have kept from me. All I saw was a man peaking in pleasure. His eyes were half-closed and glazed; he was sucking air as he drove in and hissing as he pulled out. It was a most fulfilling emotion, seeing how much pleasure you can give your lover.

But I was being selfish too. I was taking as much pleasure as I was giving it. I could feel his heavy balls slapping against my buttocks, his massive shaft going in and out of my hole, his pointed cockhead plumbing my depths. Han was cocksure. His sweat, and occasionally his drool, was dripping all over me. I was enjoying it. I focused once more on the sensation that his cock was bringing to me. We were utterly savage - two men in their prime locked in ferocious act of love like two animals.

I felt that he getting more excited. He was pumping harder and faster, saying obscene things I never heard him utter before. Shamelessly. I caught myself suppressing screams.

Then he came and thrust his hips forward. He fell on top of me, clamping his teeth tightly on the base of my neck. His orgasm was prolonged and more intense than I've ever seen. We were covered in sweat. I embraced him tightly and waited for his heavy breathing - and orgasm - to subside.

HAO DE, WO YAO ZOU LE!

2010-09-11T08:36:00.000-07:00

Dear All,

I'll be on holiday from the 12th to the 19th. I'll do my best to update this blog, weather permitting. :-) Until then, know in your heart that I miss you.

I kiss you where you like it best,
John Chen

MY BATTLE SCARS

2010-09-10T18:21:00.000-07:00

A monkey in silk jacket is still a monkey. - Spanish proverb

Cyril and I had been seeing each other for weeks when he introduced me to his cousin Robert. They’re both Ilonggos, horny as hell and, like me, quite open to ‘rock ‘n’ roll sex’. I thought we would end up in bed together, but I didn’t know something more interesting awaited us.

By then I was already getting tired of Cyril who didn’t have any ambition and wasn’t even clear about where he was headed. He stayed home all day and went out all night, using his nursing board review classes as an excuse for living like a bum. Otherwise, he was perpetually stretched out in their backyard drinking gin bulag with his sisters, a pair of washed out wives in bad marriages. They lived on an allowance, so they told me, that their parents were sending from Canada. It was my first time to see a miserable life up close. I couldn't grasp any of it but I played along.

Robert, meanwhile, had just lost his job as sales assistant at a men’s fashion boutique. He was living with his brother and his family out of a box in the slums of Punta in Sta. Ana. The people there were different - living on the edge, they cared little for life and probably derived no joy from it. Most of the people I met there had no notion of self-respect, courtesy or even just civility. They gave me the impression that they would do anything for a thousand bucks. As a result, Robert was constantly sighing, mostly depressed and desperate for a way out. Unlike Cyril, however, Robert had a plan. He wanted to start over.

When I caught Cyril giving some random guy a blowjob in a club toilet in Malate, I wasn’t even hurt. It was the end that I had expected, maybe even wanted. I left the club calmly, took a cab back to my apartment in Makati and there slept soundly. I also spent Saturday and Sunday under the covers having wild sex with Robert. He was damn good. Damn-fucking-one-for-books good.

Robert and I both wanted change. I wanted another apartment and he wanted to leave the slums. We stopped hearing from Cyril and eventually forgot about him. We went house-hunting and giddily imagined how living together would be – who would sleep on the left side of the bed, use the toilet first in the morning and run the household. I was young and over the moon with my first live-in partner.

We found a plus-one apartment in Mandaluyong where we became neighbours with questionable people – an assortment of mistresses, women who worked nights and elderly couples who yelled at each other all day. But we were happy. I bought all the stuff we needed while Robert set up our home, assigned closet space and decided what toothpaste we would use; we picked crockery at Cardinal ceramics, stuff from Greenhills tiangge, accessories from a shop in Dapitan that sold export overruns. My Mum sent the maids down to hang beautiful curtains and stock our new fridge with home-cooked food. We were characters from a Regal Films romantic comedy. We were both young, handsome and just steps away from success and happiness.

Robert finally found a job at the duty free shop and we gradually settled into comfortable, familiar routines. We heard Masses together, spent weekends with my family, visited his brother in the slums, and mostly kept an eye for any chance for quickies. We kissed deeply and openly in taxis that took us to work in the morning – yes, you could do that while stuck in traffic in Manila – fooled around in the movie house, took strangers home for threesomes. We had sex while I sat on the kitchen sink – remember Fatal Attraction? – and while he was bent over the coffee table; we had sixty-nine while we waited for pizza delivery.

And then it fell apart. I worked regular hours; he did shifts. Whenever he was bored, he went to the slums, did some ‘ice’ and looked for anonymous sex. Whenever we went out, strange men said ‘hi’ to him or threw him that complicit glance of shared secrets. When I asked Robert what was happening, he simply said, “I never said I love you.” With Cyril's help, he reconnected with his old boyfriend, a young chinoy like me. Meanwhile, I dealt with broken crockery and lame excuses to my family who constantly asked why Robert didn’t come around anymore.

I had enough. I convinced him to move out and return to Bacolod. Outof sight, out of mind. I even saw him off at the airport; he was in tears and incoherent as he told me over and over how sorry he was. We waited for his boarding announcement while I ate horrible food and wondered how we ended up like that.

Back in the apartment we shared, I hastily packed my stuff and sent them home to Binondo. I had also asked to be transferred to our office in Hong Kong.

My family somehow learned about what had happened and did their best to give me space. Only my Mum’s driver saw me off at the airport when I left Manila. It was a rainy afternoon in June, just two days before I turned 27.

SWEET BIRD OF YOUTH

2010-09-09T21:52:00.000-07:00

I went to Oceanic at the basement of Lucky Chinatown for a massage. I had known of this place for years – my friend Bruce worked there – but I’ve never been inside. I had no idea it was very small, but had a good layout, clean facilities and very discreet staff. When I stepped inside, the two guys milling around the counter quietly retreated into the inner room. Only the manager entertained me, answering my questions politely and meeting my gaze only when necessary.

He asked what kind of massage I wanted and then produced a stack of masseurs’ photos from which I picked a buff Malaysian Chinese. He promptly called up the masseur – apparently they waited around the area, but not within the immediate premises. I actually wanted a Chinaman, say, someone from Harbin or Guangzhou, a rough provincial stud with a party-size dick, a brute with raw sexual energy, but the manager told me that they weren’t very good at giving massages. Really now, men go to this place for a straight massage, I wanted to ask but didn’t. I signed in with my name and IC number and, after removing my shoes, was shown to my room. The manager helped me out of my clothes and asked me if I wanted to take a shower before my massage. He excused himself when I said I was fine.

The room was the same size as any even in upscale spas, dimly lit but smelling clean and visibly comfortable. Instead of a proper massage table, it has a thin mattress on the floor. Next to it was a small, low table and on it was a cup of green tea, a toilet roll and a bottle of massage oil. One wall was completely clad in mirror; the one at the foot of the mattress has a row of pegs on which one can hang clothes. Two towels were folded on the mattress and another one covered the small pillow.

Not five minutes have passed when the door slid open and a guy appeared. He was standing against the light and I couldn’t see his face, but I could tell he was tall and hunky. He apologised for keeping me waiting and proceeded to undress before me. I thought he would do me in the buff but he changed into a pair of shorts instead.

The massage was going well if a little gentle; it was working all the right muscles in my body. As he did my thighs, he let his hand brush against my balls as well as that sensitive ridge between them and my arse. He repeated this manoeuvre a few times until I was hard. He then asked me to turn over. Clever boy.

When I did, he gently moved on top of me and whispered if I wanted something special. He wasn’t pushy at all. He named the price and suggested what he would do to me. I was very aroused and said yes. He proceeded to give me a blowjob with very surprising skill.

"Ni xihuan mah?" He whispered.

"Wo hen xihuan." I mumbled.

His hand travelled all over my body as did his tongue. Settling on my nipple, then the other, tracing my navel, digging into my pubes and back on my cock again. All the time I was caressing his muscular body.

I gripped his shoulders and turned him on his back. It was my turn to please this talented young stud. I worked on his nipples with my lips and tongue, flicking, sucking, nibbling. His low moans only got me hotter. I moved to his pubes – he wasn’t very hairy – and played with his balls. He has low hanging sacs, which I like, and although his uncut cock was not remarkable in size, his entire package was worth the attention that I intended to give it.

I began giving him a good blowjob, very slowly sliding my mouth down his cock, no suction, no tongue tricks, just my moist lips parted and inching very, very slowly up and down his rigid shaft. I did this a few times before he held my head; I could feel he was close to cumming but wanted an extended playtime. I let go of his cock momentarily and focused on his heavy, impressive balls taking them one at a time into my mouth. I buried my face into his crotch searching for that special scent and moistness. When I found neither, I stuck my tongue into his arse hole and started rimming him.

"Wo xihuan zhege."

I replaced my tongue momentarily with my index finger as my lips travelled back to his cock. I pulled back his foreskin and diligently licked his cockhead. All the while my fingertip circled lightly fuzzed hole. He was clutching at my hair. I slipped a knot of my index finger into his arse as I took his entire cock inside my mouth. He jerked suddenly to keep from cumming but it was too late. He came in quick spurts, his cum tasting of young coconut meat. Ah, the sweet taste of youth splashed all over my tongue! I was reminded of young white asparagus in Bearnaise sauce – tender, succulent, in season.

He was embarrassed that he came too soon; maybe he was trained as a professional to let his client come first. I eased his face into my erection and he started sucking me again. But I pulled out when I was close – I didn’t want to spill my gamier juice in his mouth. Courtesy? Insecurity? I don’t know. He sat up and watched me spray my cum all over my chest and stomach, telling me how impressive my copious spunk was.

He cleaned me up and prepped me for my bath. When I returned to my room, he was already dressed and waiting for me. I discretely handed him the agreed amount and turned towards the door. He followed me and placed a hand on my shoulder. He said he hoped to see me again.

Wo wan de hen gao xing.

I can't forget his young smiling face. His name was Gary.

WITH OR WITHOUT YOU

2010-09-07T08:56:00.000-07:00

With Han mostly in KL and Leo keeping me at arm’s length, I focused on work once again and finished my chores way before the deadlines. By midweek, I was already skipping tea breaks, packing sandwiches for deskbound lunches and hurrying back to my apartment to hide the fact that I was alone. I was hiding that fact even from myself.

I got the usual invites for coffee or after-office drinks from clients but I just didn’t feel like mixing. Something weird was taking place. I wasn’t getting the usual by-the-hour text messages from Han that I was jumping at the beep of my handphone hoping it was him saying hello. The prospect of hanging out with Leo at Queensway mall on Saturday was all I hoped for the whole week. If he as much as asked me what I was doing over the weekend, I would have said yes. Instantly. But all I’ve been getting from him for days since the incident were cold stares and perfunctory yeses and nos. I may have asked for it, I know, but at that point he sure was being cruel.

I found myself home alone on a Thursday night staring at a bowl of instant noodles and later crying over Stanley Kwan’s Lan Yu. I had to fight it – misery doesn’t become me. I had to connect with someone before I went crazy. Saturday was still a long way away. I called up a chatline but hung up when I couldn’t think of an intro. What will I say? “Hi, lonely but hot gay bastard here, abandoned by lover and friend, looking for a hook-up?” I was dangerously close to downloading Grindr to my handphone. I logged on, after a very long absence, to Fuckrace, visited Fridae but decided that a harmless flirtation on Sgboy was the least complicated thing I could do.

I was ‘sengkang_hot stuff’.

“ASL”

I actually had to think what it meant. I was rusty.

“chn, 42, 68kg, 6uncut.”

“Sorry, too old.”

I was stunned by the rudeness of those presumably young studs ISO a hot fuck. But by the second time someone hit on me, I was ready.

“care to intro?”

“chn, 27, gymfit, masc, 8in.”

I was in!

After the first hour, I needed extra fingers to respond to all the queries. Did I have a place? Poppers? Rimming? Swallow cum? Speedos? Yes, yes, no, not sure and yes. I was “eur, 32, swimbod, driving”, “chn, 22, virgin, looking to lose it”, “malay, 26, into LTR” and “pinoy str8, curious, webcam”. I also promised mind-blowing sex, mutual j.o., prostate massage, three times in a row, phone sex, friendship, love.

When I got up to pee, it was already 4am. I made it through another night alone. I promised myself to wear something extra nice the following day, perhaps a Prada jacket. This loneliness is temporary, I reminded myself. I washed my face again and went to bed. I found the ratty t-shirt that Han likes to wear when he sleeps over, covered my face with it and, finding that familiar warm scent, fell finally into a blissful sleep.

WHILE YOU WERE AWAY

2010-09-05T06:39:00.000-07:00

(Don’t) Put A Ring On It
I got a call for a meeting from one of the polytechnics. They needed an adjunct lecturer for marketing subjects and someone told someone I might be a good candidate. (I’ve enquired about a teaching position some years ago but didn’t get a response so I moved on.) I met up with the department head and another lecturer – both very pleasant ladies, obviously committed to their profession and very knowledgeable. We covered several grounds during our meeting and they seemed genuinely interested in hiring me. The meeting was going pretty well.

There was one problem, however. I was wearing a cock ring that I bought from Sportsmen Asia the day before the meeting. It’s one of those new elastic cock rings that you slip on minutes before sex.

The meeting was taking longer than I expected and I was starting to feel the ring getting tighter and tighter around my blood-flushed cock. I tried crossing and uncrossing my leg, focused on the conversation, the coffee, the cafeteria where we were sitting but the pain grew by the minute. By the time one of them suggested that we toured the facilities, I was actually starting to sweat. I used that as an excuse to pop into the loo; I hurried inside a cubicle and took out my cock ring. I felt instant relief! I slipped the cock ring into my finger and I walked out to rejoin my hosts.

The tour was great – fantastic, expensive facilities. I also saw so many hunks, even a few guys I’ve met in the gym.

Missed Connection
I went to my favourite Szechuan restaurant in Chinatown for my usual bowl of spicy dan dan mien and Tsingtao. I spotted a few regulars, including a couple of China trade boys who have become nodding acquaintances. Bruce, a friend who ran a massage place in Lucky Chinatown, was the one who introduced me to those ‘taxi boys’.

After lunch, I strolled around Chinatown Complex and ended up at a tattoo parlour where I saw a cute, young Chinese guy who was getting a tattoo from an equally hot young staff. Both of them had alabaster skin, very dark and thick eyebrows, full red lips, prominent nose, naturally buff build – in other words, the type that makes me hot and bothered. I asked a staff for catalogues and after deciding that I could update my tattoos, picked a classic mu dan hua motif, haggled over the price and sealed the deal. I had to get mine inside a cubicle because all my tattoos are in my – ahem – nether region.

After getting my tattoo, I rested on the couch outside the cubicle and started a conversation with Alabaster Boy. His name was Chwee Kwee – it sounded like chwee kueh – but he was so nice and looked so delicious that I didn’t joke about it. He said he’s from Shanghai – yeah right! – and that he worked in a hotel – yeah, right! After flirting with him for a few minutes, I decided to move along, take a leak and grab an apple soda.

I was standing outside Chinatown Complex drinking my soda when Chwee Kwee appeared. He smiled when he saw me and offered a cigarette. My smoking days were long gone but I accepted out of courtesy.

After we finished our cigarettes, I invited Chwee Kwee to dinner and he readily said yes. I walked a few paces ahead but made sure he was following me. Before we crossed the street, he had a change of heart, saying he wanted to go home. I then decided to go home as well. We both went to the MRT station and proceeded towards opposite platforms. When I turned around, I saw Chwee Kwee inside the departing train. He was gesturing to me asking what I was doing on the other platform. I think he wanted me to follow him home. Oh, well....

A Pair of Keys
I went to Tiffany’s at Raffles Hotel Arcade to kill time before Mass at Good Shepherd. They still have the key pendants. Last year, I bought a silver one for myself although I rarely wear it nowadays. I was reminded of the Love ring that Han bought for me before he left for his KL assignment. I decided to return such sweet gesture by buying him a gold key pendant - the smallest one. When I reached home, I took my house key duplicate and put it together with the key pendant on a silk cord.

I’ll give it as a present to Han when he comes home next weekend. I’m already thinking of what I’ll write on the card, something like, one of the keys opens my heart and the other our home. I’ve not been like this before. I actually feel silly.

A LESSON FROM SUN TZU

2010-09-02T02:28:00.000-07:00

The Royal House of Han is a benign place, a neutral territory, a tropical Switzerland in the form of a ‘70s bungalow where the sovereign only wants to prosper, protect its citizens and avoid all wars. So it’s strange that when I was up for another visit, I found myself toying with the idea building Team Dexter. For what? Against whom? They all like me already; I didn’t have to lift a finger. Mr and Mrs Han have started to see me as a regular in their Pledge Lemon-scented home. After their trips to Malacca or Penang, they would ask me to come around and pick up ‘a little something that they brought back’ – some fruit or some kueh. The kids have started to regard me as an uncle; when one of them saw me queuing up for a cab outside Parkway Parade, he came over and beamed "Hello, Uncle Dexter!" There were many other charming gestures so that while I wouldn’t call myself part of the inner circle yet, I wouldn’t hesitate to think of myself as a family friend.

So I wasn’t at all surprised to get a call from Mrs Han asking me over to spend a Saturday at The Royal House of Han. It was Mr Han’s birthday, whom I’ve started calling Uncle CK, and Han was coming home from KL. I just knew that if I have to recruit generals who would advance my cause, no other time would have been more perfect. I guess I wanted them to know, without going into details, that Han and I were ‘special friends’. I don’t exactly know why I wanted it – maybe I longed for acceptance – but I did.

Uncle CK and Mrs Han wouldn’t be among my generals. They have plans of seeing Han married before they retire to Perth. By that I’m sure they mean married to a woman who will be able to bear him a son at least; obviously, I’m won’t make the short list.

Han’s brother Robert will also not make a good general for Team Dexter; he is just waiting for Han to start procreating so they can play three-a-side football every weekend. Besides, I don’t think he has the humour or resources to explain to his sons why Uncle Han is still not married or why he locks himself up in his bedroom with Uncle Dexter.

I zeroed in on Cheryl. She'll make an excellent Mulan. She seems to like me, but more importantly, she seems to know more than anyone about what’s going on. The shifty glances, the pursed smiles, the searching stares, the knowing tilt of the head – they all said to me: "Hey, I know you’re fucking my brother." But Han’s family is extremely courteous that suspicion and malice never ever surface in anything they say and do.

“Han should be with you shortly,” Cheryl said as she handed me a glass of beer and a coaster.

Why did she say that? I wondered. Did she know that I came for Han first and her father’s birthday second? I was starting to get paranoid. Is she steps ahead of my game? Did I give my game away? Did I have a game?

“It’s okay lah. How’s work?”

“Same lah. All good. We have a new admin person; she’s Filipino – maybe you know her.”

Why would I know her – there are over twelve million people in Manila, what are the chances? Mulan was starting to make my palms sweat.

“I heard from your daughter that you all went to Sentosa. How was it?”

“It was good. But you know how it is when you have young kids, you can’t really enjoy much. Maybe you and Han should go. You have no kids to mind.”

I thought she either crossed the line or was telling me plainly, “Well, since you’re practically a (childless) couple, it’s time you go on a proper date.”

My thoughts were racing, so was my pulse. How much exactly does Mulan know?

“Ni chu bao leh mah?” Han asked, suddenly appearing beside me.

“Aiyah, you let him wait for you, never served him anything, and you expect him to have eaten?”

Han and I set up a third barbecue pit, helped grill meats and vegetables and drank beer all the time. It was a warm day and they have set tables in the garden at the back. We all settled down for lunch, adults at one table, kids and maids at another. We were happy, carefree, mostly slightly drunk.

“Dex, your friend hooked up with his old girlfriend in KL,” Robert began. “Did he tell you?”

Laughter.

“Rubbish lah,” Mrs Han cut him. “I asked your Auntie Melody what happened but she said nothing happened.”

Laughter.

“Hey, give my boy a chance to defend himself, okay?” Uncle CK said with pretend concern. "So, son, what really didn't happen?"

More laughter.

Han was blushing; he was trying to smile but the smile was turning into a grimace. He looks very handsome when he is embarrassed. I looked at Cheryl. She was looking straight at me. “I’m sorry about my family and their nonsense, but they already know what's between the two of you. Besides, you knew this was coming, right?” she seemed to say. I couldn't get a reading. I was too nervous.

“Give him a break. Maybe the girl’s not his type,” she finally said.

Silence. Mulan has spoken. Five points for Team Dexter.

After opening Uncle CK's gifts, most of us repaired inside the house. The maids gathered the kids while the others lingered around the tables. Han and I went to his room.

“So this old girlfriend of yours...,” I began teasing him.

“Siao you," he said laughing. He opened the windows but drew the blinds, went to the door to lock it, tested the lock twice.

I was sitting on the edge of his bed surveying the room, the bookcase with old toys and Enid Blyton books, the swimming trophies, the framed photographs.

“Wo xiang ni,” Han said as he stood in front of me. He has taken off his sweat-soaked shirt, unzipped his fly.

“Wo de di di xiang ni,” he said softly as he drew his semi-erect cock out of his shorts. I closed my eyes. He slowly ran the tip of his cock against my face; the soft, warm foreskin lightly touching my cheek then the other. It left a trail of pre-cum as it traced the ridge of my nose. I can smell his musk, his crotch, his sweat. It travelled slowly across my eyelids before I felt it on my lips. There was something degrading about it; I felt uneasy but I did not resist. I was very aroused. Once, twice it brushed against my lips until I yielded to it.

In one long thrust, Han slipped his entire cock inside me; my mouth adjusted immediately, my tongue pressed beneath its weight, the roof of my mouth feeling its girth, my lips fully streched. I felt Han tug at the shaft, expertly pulling back his foreskin, exposing the pulsing arrowhead and depositing a load of pre-cum on my tongue. The hard flesh nudged at my throat, but I managed not to gag. I made space for his hard cock and clamped my lips around its base.

Han steadied my head with both hands and started to drive his cock in and out of my mouth while I kept still. I miss this, I reminded myself, I gotta have this. I focused on the different sensations, ones that I have learned to enjoy and even crave. The way my mouth was stretched over the smooth skin of his penis, the sloshing sound it made as it moves in and out, the way his pubic hair touched my nose and lips, the trail of coarse navel hair that grazed my forehead, the secret scent of his sweaty underwear. I felt his fuzzy balls gently slapping against my chin as he drove his turgid cock in and out of my mouth with increasing urgency. I reached over and cupped them; they felt heavy in my palm. I imagined hot semen building up inside his low-hanging sacs. I imagined it shooting inside my mouth – the taste, the heavy consistency, the oddly bitter taste with the oddly sweet finish.

But not yet. I freed my head from his grasp and started to buck to and fro while all the while coaxing his cum with strong and steady suction. I am in control here, I thought to myself. I continued sucking him earnestly, furiously, my jaws slack and my lips numb. I looked down at his feet and knew instantly that he was close to cumming. His muffled moans and curling toes were dead giveaways.

I prepared myself to take all his cum by letting his cock slip out of my mouth a little. No sooner than I have created a space for it did he start shooting in violent spurts. I was giddy with excitement. I let each hot jet fill my throat. Each time I swallowed, my constriction brought Han intense pleasure, goading his cock to spew more semen into my quickly filling mouth. I knew he was done but I refused to let his cock go. I squeezed his balls gently to drain them and gave his still hard cock a long, final suck. Han was shaking, sweaty, spent.

Han collapsed on his knees before me. Clearly, I won this round. Wasted, he rested his head against my crotch, brushing his face against it. Recovering his breath, he suddenly straightened up and ripped off my clothes, knocking, scraping and scratching me. It was furious, violent. Pulling down my boxers, he immediately took my hardening cock into his mouth. I flinched as I felt his teeth brush past my exposed glans.

He didn’t have to tell me that the battle has only been half-won. He had his eyes on the next victory.

DEAR LEO

2010-08-30T07:08:00.000-07:00

I’m sorry for asking you that question yesterday; I hope you’re okay now.

I am gay. And so is Han.

I’ve never lied to you about myself – I was really with a girl before. And I was really madly in love with her. But people change, and this is what I changed into.

I honestly want us to remain friends. You are important to me and to my life here in Singapore. You're the only one, besides Han, that I choose to trust. You’ll always be my Xiao Di, my Little Brother, no matter what.

Gays are just like ordinary people. Just like you we choose who we want to be intimate with. We don’t find all guys desirable, and we definitely don’t always chase after them. Most of us don’t dress up like women or act like women. In fact, some of us don’t imagine ourselves as women. We are men who happen to like other men.

You said yourself that I can’t be gay because I don’t behave like one. And that you have seen me having sex with a girl at the massage place in JB, and in Chiang Mai when Wei Chun came with us for a holiday.

But I am gay, Leo, and I hope that if not now, maybe someday you'll be fine with it.

I will feel sad if you stop speaking to me after this. But I will respect your decision. I mean you no harm.

Always your Da-ge,

Dex

DIE-DIE MUST DO!

2010-08-30T06:22:00.000-07:00

I finally confronted my fears when I looked in the direction of Han’s office and saw that the door was closed. There was no light, no one inside, just an empty desk and a chair. The blind was drawn and Han’s putters weren’t resting in their usual place against the filing cabinet. So, the bugger’s gone, I said to myself softly. I looked around, shoving the all too sudden emptiness that I felt to the backroom of my mind. Sit there, Fuckface, and don’t move until I summon you.

Even Leo wasn’t around, his computer screen dead.

Work it turned out was my saviour and friend for a day. Han has handed me a thick file a week before he left. It was a bunch of documents with all sorts of notes on flags and Post-Its. I briefly glanced at the documents when I got it and put them away in my briefcase. When I looked at them again I found lists of clients with ratings: highlighted in red were those with pending contracts and requiring immediate attention, in yellow were ‘in the works’ and needed follow up calls, and in green the prospects. At the very end of the pile was Ron Hanrahan’s ‘shit list’ of clients who were more interested in freebies than signing up, time-wasters who can drain your expense account in costly after-hour drinks but will do all possible to dodge a commitment. On the back of the folder was another Post-It: “I’ll be back soon. Take care.”

My phone rang at 11. It was Leo. “Brother, my car cock-up this morning. I’m in the workshop in Paya Leybar finishing soon. Wait for me, har, we go lunch together.” Click. He hung up without waiting for an answer.

Leo and I decided to go all the way to our lau di fang for a long lunch. Bak kut teh, pork knuckles, kiam chye, the works. We had time, realising with unrestrained glee that with the lau ban away, we can slack off a bit.

“Istana close shop today. Hahaha!” Leo said aloud as we drove towards Tiong Bahru.

Meet my best buddy, Leo. Chong Boon Choong, 27, aka Leo. (Leo is not even his legal name and has nothing to do with his zodiac sign or personality.) He obtained a design diploma from some obscure school in Katong, found work in a design house in town and in short order, mostly by being in the right place at the right time, ended up at Hawking, Ong and Hanrahan. Our colleagues claim that he was a despatch from our supplier, while others say he’s the nephew of our tea lady. But whatever his shortcomings were, Leo more than made up for them. He showed himself to be capable if slow, unfazed by problems, undaunted by the volume of work. Tales of his hard work, like the one of him plodding throughout the Chinese New Year holiday just to get files to the client and then delivering them personally to the printers, are legion.

Leo has one set of manners for everyone and it's not hinged on refinement. You only have to see his long pinkie nail and peroxide-blond hair to know that he is indeed a card-carrying kanto boy of the highest order, what in local term is ah beng. He can't pose for a photo without flashing a peace sign; he can't pass by a Neoprint booth without dragging whoever he was with inside. He sings Cantonese songs to himself as he works, adores the Heavenly Kings and probably imagines himself to be one of them. But for all those flaws I found him to be loyal, funny, courageous – the solid guy you would like to be your friend – best man at your wedding even.

“Weh, your lau ban gone, we can go karaoke. That one die-die must do! I intro you to so many chio bu at Thunderdome. Walau, last time I ever go har, I nose bleed leh. Damn pretty girls everywhere. I look and look only, har, my gu gu jiao damn hard. Kah ni nah! I sure you go, har, can strike two or three girls. You ang moh very good mah. Also you not bad looking.” The string of profanities and macho exuberance and left-handed compliment did not get a rise from me. Leo noticed.

“Da-ge, got problem or not? You better tell me. Maybe can help.” He said earnestly.

“I’m okay, lah. I just have many things to do in the office,” I lied.

“Your lau ban not bad actually. ” Yoh lau pahn not bed acherly. “If something happen between you two, up to you lah." His voice trailed off. It was an awkward moment. I turned away to prepare the tea as he set the bowls and chopsticks. We didn’t say a word for several minutes. We avoided each other’s eyes.

“Would you mind very much if I were gay?”

“Chey! Dun joke like that lah.”

“I’m only asking. What if I were gay, will you still trust me?” It was my 'die-die must ask' question. "Will we still be friends?"

Leo just looked away.

NO MORE I LOVE YOUS

2010-08-27T00:57:00.000-07:00

“Isn’t this your bracelet,” Han suddenly asked me. I was busy with something and thought that I left my bracelet in the loo. I turned around and saw Han holding up the Cartier Love bracelet ad in a magazine.

“Yup,” I said.

“Why don’t you wear it anymore?”

“It’s just so difficult to put in and take out the screw by myself.

Besides, the sales clerk told me not to take it off too often or the treading will become loose.”

“But it’s so nice on you.”

I just ignored what he said although it was unlike him to say such things. I can see from the corner of my eye that Leo was getting interested in our conversation, his head cocked towards my direction.

When Han left my work station, Leo rushed to my side.

“Wah, he wants to buy you jewellery, har?”

“Will you stop being silly? He was just asking why I don’t wear my bracelet anymore.”

“Ask you for what,” Leo says, disappointed that it wasn’t a big a deal he probably thought it was.

“I don’t know. I don’t even think about that bracelet until he showed me the picture.”

“Eh, if he makes a move on you, you better tell me hor.”

“You siao arh! Why would he do that?” If you only knew, I thought, he’s running out of moves. “Besides, why will I tell you?”

“Wah, I knew it! You keeping secret already. You think I don’t know. Someone saw you together at Takashimaya – on a weekend some more!”

I was starting to get annoyed with Leo but I was also wondering if someone really saw us together. What were we doing? Where were we going? How were we towards each other?

“Why you kay poh, har?”

“Joke only. I was just trying to catch you.”

Han had been busy preparing for his trip to KL. In a week’s time, as we knew much earlier, he was going to be stationed there and I would gradually assume bigger responsibilities in the Singapore office as Han’s second-in-command. We have so far avoided talking about it but I can sense a tension that comes from both of us avoiding the topic.

Over lunch, Leo was on my case again. “Maybe Han will miss you when he leaves.”

“Please, lah, it’s not like he’s leaving. He will be back every fortnight and still manage the accounts of the really big clients.”

“Ah, maybe you will miss him, right?”

“Yeah, right.” I was already missing him.

“You know, if he likes you give him a chance lah. You lose nothing what. Some more you’re a man, man. Maybe you end up with jewellery or a watch. Not bad what?”

I just stared ahead, ignoring Leo, as I chewed my food. Inside I was a mush. I felt weak, uneasy, like I had a deadline looming. Why do I have to endure Leo, I wondered to myself. Why can’t I just eat lunch in peace? Where’s the fun Leo, the one who spits out Hokkien profanities and is always up for a drinking game, the Leo whose natural slowness and nearly criminal complacency are a counterpoint to my moments of agitation and hyperactivity. Is this going to be a routine when Han finally leaves for KL, I struggled.

I was surprised to find Han waiting at the lobby when I reached home.

“Why are you here? Been waiting long?”

“We talk upstairs lah,” he said as he pressed the lift button.

“Aiyah, today very siong,” I said as I opened the door, kicking off my shoes.

Han shut the door behind us. I could smell his cocktail of body odour and cologne laced with frustration. I could sense his sadness. I’ve been good so far at dodging emotional moments – because it doesn’t become me, because I don’t want to admit that I feel sad too. But it seemed the moment of truth has finally caught up with me, demanding that I confront it head on.

I moved around the small apartment, switching on lights, turning on the radio, opening the windows to invite the cold night air in. The traffic was just easing up. I looked at my watch. It was just past eight.

“I want you to have this,” Han said as he held out a familiar red box. Damn, it’s Cartier!

“What’s this,” I said in failing disinterest.

“You look inside, lah,” he said in a sad tone.

Inside the box is the Love ring, one that matches my bracelet.

“I wanted to make sure this morning that this is the same design.”

“Why are you giving me a gift? What terrible thing did you do this time?” I joked trying to lift the gloom.

“I’m leaving, mah.” That was all he said.

I slowly placed the box on the table, put the ring on myself and went over to him and hugged him. Tightly. I can smell his hair, the heat, his body, his cologne.

“You know you don’t have to do this. You’ll be back every two weeks, you can come home anytime – KL’s just under an hour from Singapore.”

“But I want you to commit to me. I want to find you here when I come back.”

I wasn’t ready for that one.

我凝望镜中之人

2010-08-25T00:07:00.000-07:00

Methus'lah lived nine-hundred years,
But who calls dat livin'
When no gal will give in
To no man that's nine-hundred years?
-It Ain’t Necessarily So by George and Ira Gershwin

I was flossing my teeth one night when I had an epiphany: I’m in shape, I don’t smoke, I drink but only occasionally, I keep fit doing stuff, I eat right. What is wrong with this picture, I wondered as I gave myself a once over in the bathroom mirror. I didn’t see Andy Hui (ha!) or Andy Lau (double ha!), instead I saw my ageing self. There were bags, sags, burns and, under the cruel glow of a fluorescent tube, a deepening furrow on my forehead right between my brows. I wasn’t over the hill yet, I knew for sure, but it seemed I’ve peaked. And all too soon.

In bed I thought about what I have and haven’t done to live life fully. (At my age, this becomes a recurring riddle.) Naturally, I didn’t get an answer as these things after all are best left for Eureka! moment – the perfectly ordinary moment in your life when, as you pick up your luggage from the carousel or as you bathe your dog in the bathtub, suddenly life’s immutable secrets unfold like the sports page. No shit, just like that.

I dialed Han’s number certain that since he usually has a reliable take on anything, he would find something to say – either an illuminating blah or a sobering “stop thinking too much lah”.

“Hey, big fella!”

“Ask you, har, do you sometimes feel like your life isn’t full?”

“Shenme? What talking you?” he lapsed into Singlish.

“Like is there something that you’ve always wanted to do but for one reason or another haven't…”

He cut me, “Yes, like I wanna sleep early tonight. Hey, tomorrow got presentation, hor. Damn ang moh say this is make or break. Ka na sai!”

I inched back in line. Wrong move to call up people late at night with esoteric nonsense.

“Ok lor. Dui bu qi. See you tomorrow.” I apologised.

“Aiyoh, so sensitive! Uncle! Anyway, go on, what is this not living to the fullest?” He was listening after all. Good boy!

“That’s it lah, what if we both die tomorrow and realise we haven’t done everything we wanted to do?”

“Choi! Seventh month can talk like that…”

“So how, lau ban?" I've started calling him Boss.

“Ok, lah, we do lah when I sleep over," he said breezily. "Last time I was hinting to you but you say no…” I sensed a smile as he said this.

“Fuck you, man!”

“Ok lah! Aiyoh, mah fan you!” He was obviously following another tack. “But next time I do to you, can?” He added cheekily.

Cornered, I agreed to the plan. But obviously not grudgingly. Ha!

How does one prepare for that? I panicked. Then found myself rationalising what I knew would happen. It was bound to happen anyway. And I think we will like it. It's natural to experiment. And I wouldn't know if I like it or don't if I didn't actually do it. Besides, my tongue was already in there once.

He’s sleeping over two Fridays from now, I suddenly realised, mortified.

And the following Saturday, one of us will wake up sore and walking funny.

To get into Hebben
Don' snap for a sebben!
Live clean ! Don' have no fault!
Oh, I takes dat gospel
Whenever it's pos'ble,
But wid a grain of salt.

WO AI NI, PAPA

2010-08-24T03:13:00.000-07:00

It’s the Ghost Festival, the Seventh Month of the lunar calendar. Last weekend Han and I went to the Guanyin temple in Bugis to pray for my father, the late Paulino Chen Jia Long. Afterwards, we burned some incense and joss papers, and offered a small bowl of his favourite fruits and packets of preserved plum at the back of my apartment.

One of the fondest memories I have of my father is the two of us going to the farm on his bicycle. We never took our jeep to the farm – it was always the bicycle and it was always our special moment together. None of my brothers nor my sister were taken on a ride on that bicycle!

I always sat behind my Papa and hugged his waist as we sped by. He sang Hokkien folk songs or simply talked to me along the way while I rested my ear against his back and listened to how strangely his voice sounded, especially when we hit the gravelly road and our bicycle and his voice began to shake.

He always packed preserved plums in his pocket as my special treat after (what was then) a long trip. We would sit on the grass and eat kiam moy and see who can spit out the seeds the farthest; he always made me win. Or I would collect the seeds that looked like something - anything – a rabbit, a Japanese soldier, the moon – and ‘sell’ them to him, singko bawat isa.

Papa, wo ai ni. I love you. Before you passed on you told me to be kind to everyone, especially the one I choose to spend my life with. I've found him, Pa. Ta shi Sinjiapor ren. Ta jiao Han. He is hwa ren like us, and has a good heart.

I miss you, Papa. Sometimes I cry when I'm reminded of the things we loved to do, like when we go to the farm on your bike.

Han and I brought you some preserved plum – the same ones you used to give me as my treat. I hope you still remember them.

DOUBLE HAPPINESS

2010-08-23T22:15:00.000-07:00

If you have been invited to a Chinese wedding, the character called double happiness will not escape your attention. It is the Chinese character for happiness, drawn twice. It looks like two persons standing side by side with their arms around each others’ shoulders.

One social theory that I read says gays look for surrogate families, or at least the maternal figure in the form of a fag hag, for social and emotional support that is missing in their immediate reality. If you’re Chinese, your parents are Chinese, your ancestors are Chinese and you likely live in an enclave reserved for or populated by the Chinese. If you confront problems related to your ethnic identity, you have a whole community that can understand and support you. But if you’re gay, the chances that your parents are gay or that your ancestors are gay are very slim. If you decide to live in a community dominated by gays – provided you can find one – it is by choice that you do so. The small pockets of gay ‘households’ and functioning networks, marginalised, have tended to insulate themselves with various social interventions. Social codes, behavioural patterns, language peculiar to the group arise in order to protect its interests.

What this thinking does not cover is the predicament of the chinoy gays. Chekwang bakla, the ugly version of the term is a double pejorative. It doesn’t only question your sexuality, but also your affiliation – and therefore loyalty – to the community.

My fellow chinoys and I were only too familiar with this form of harassment. Don’t get me wrong – I harbour no ill feelings when I say this. I identify with both my Filipino and Chinese ancestries, feel strongly about the welfare of my country as much as the next Pinoy does. But to most ‘pure’ Filipinos, this has never been enough. But who is a pure Filipino anyway?

I grew up in a small town in Camarines Norte, in a fourth class municipality wedged between the mountain and the sea right beyond Quezon Province. My father was a Chinese merchant from Xiamen in Fujian Province of the Chinese mainland, and my mother is a Filipina mestiza. I have two elder brothers and an elder sister. When we were growing up, our father was already an established copra dealer and landowner. As far as I remember, we were the only Chinese family in town although there were others in neighbouring municipalities along the coast who drove the local economies. This chain of Chinese mercantile network stretched from Quezon and Camarines Norte – Lucena, San Pablo, Santa Elena, Daet, Labo, Capalonga – all the way to Masbate. Most of our families are related by blood or marriage, or simply are sworn brothers as fate demanded.

Growing up chinoy in a small town has its privileges and perils. As outsiders we were not expected to follow the rigorous social codes. But we were also excluded from what would have been community bonding. Mostly, I remember the sad things, the uncertainty, the isolation.

We were part of a community only if it was convenient; otherwise, we didn't exist at all. Until my father was laid to his grave, no one even knew he had a Christian name, Paulino. He was kabise, a bastardisation of cabeza, Spanish for head, ah kong (ah-gong is Chinese for grandfather), ah peh (from ah-pek, a common chinese nickname). He was also Bruce Lee, Meng Fei, Ramon Zamora or whoever was raking it in at the tills as kung fu movie superstar – and those were just the kinder monickers that my father got. He was drug lord, loan shark, chekwa – all hurtful and unfounded accusations hurled at him.

For and in spite of this treatment, my father had seen children through school, stood as ninong at countless Catholic weddings - although we are Buddhist-Taoists, paid for other people’s hospital bills as well as burial expenses. But we were not spared, my siblings and I, from similar abuses. We were ‘boat people’, intsik beho, tulo laway, ‘cat-eaters’, supot (uncircumcised). Our names were subjected to ridicule and corresponding permutations: I was Hui Long Talong, Hui Long Ilong, Hui Long Galunggong.

My parents instructed us to endure all these, however: "Sila gusto lang kayo bilo. Sila kaibigan mo," my father, who only spoke Hokkien and pidgin Tagalog would tell us. It is still painful for me to remember these. "Be good to others, turn the other cheek."

My parents were only alarmed when rumours floated around that kidnappers were closing in on provincial Chinese. My siblings and I were shipped to Manila; we lived with our relatives in Benavidez where our parents saw us once a month on trips that were obviously rough on their ageing bodies.

In Benavidez, I learned that I was attracted to men as well as to women. Being the youngest, I slept with two cousins on mattresses on the floor but my brothers and sister had their own beds. It was a time of willful discoveries, hushed explorations in stolen moments, furtive experiments in empty backyards. They progressed to full on, raging sexual activities with the rotation of housemaids, drivers, cousins, classmates, an elderly man in a dark cinema....

But I never behaved like the bakla sa kanto or the ambiguous gentleman who lived out of my uncle’s stockroom. To everyone, I was a teen Chinese male, hot-blooded, full of potential. And semen.

But I was also keenly aware that being open about one’s unusual encounters was bait for trouble. In high school, the bakla was the default dumpster, the target of abuse and the school punching bag. He ran petty errands, finished his aggressor's term papers, blew his classmate in the back of the boy's toilet while others looked on.

Baklang chekwa. Double happiness. If we’re not dodging punches from our fellow Pinoys, we’re hiding from abuses thrown at us by the straights. But what were our choices, really? I thought about these growing up and remembered what my parents taught us: endure, be good to others, turn the other cheek. Wo bu xihuan. Wo genben bu xihuan.

If you have been invited to a Chinese wedding, the motif called double happiness will not escape your attention. It is the Chinese character for happiness, drawn twice. It resembles two persons standing side by side with their arms around each others’ shoulders. I think of those two people as mga chekwang bakla: Two chinoys isolated by society, who knew all about each other but still found acceptance.

THIS GAY THING

2010-08-22T21:43:00.000-07:00

"I'm straight acting, but my acting not very good." a trevvy.com profile intro.

Despite Han and I being like rabbits in the wilds at the height of spring, we hardly have what one might call particularly gay habits. Before we connected sexually, we were colleagues, male friends, buddies. We didn’t and still don’t go to clubs or bath houses, don’t watch Glee or Gossip Girl. We hang out with men our age with whom we share an interest in cars, fishing, eating and getting wasted. None of them, I imagine, would think of Han and me being intimate at any level. Our intimacies are shared in the open with the group. We have each others’ backs.

When our openly gay colleague showed me a website called trevvy.com, I told Han about it immediately. We looked around the site but did not find it particularly stimulating; we did not connect with men looking for sex with other men, did not answer the personals offering free sensual massage or a hook up with “top, chn, gym fit, got own place”. Instead we found ourselves going through profiles, high-fiving each time we saw someone we knew. He found five former classmates, two army buddies and four clients; I recognised four friends and two clients.

“So when are we going to upload our profiles,” I teased Han.

“Siao, arh!” He knocked me on the head.

Han goes to the gym to improve his delivery in the fairways, not to make himself buff. Naturally, I enjoy the side effects, the fringe benefits that include big guns and tight butt but they are just that – fringe benefits. Not a fussy dresser, Han has a keen sense of picking everything that’s wrong – at least according to fashion magazines – and throwing them together. If he didn’t have the physique, this story wouldn’t have come about in the first place. He couldn’t rock chinos and trainers and a plaid golfing shirt.

I, on the other hand, rarely go to the gym, although I hold a corporate membership, preferring instead to run in the park. I play tennis and, before it became a fashionable sport, rowed dragon boats. Once in a while I’d get calls from one of the owners of boats docked at the RSYC looking for crew, and I’d happily hop on board and sail from the marina to Sisters’ Islands and back. If I have a body that’s described among gays as ‘gym fit’, it’s because I am always doing things outdoors.

Even our lovemaking is hardly inspired by gay porn. Yes, we have cursorily looked at porn sites but for some reason were not inspired by what we’ve seen. Han claims he likes the way I smell when I’m aroused and has always insisted, despite my initial protests, on licking my armpits during foreplay. In turn, I like really the way his semen tastes so I swallow. No spanking, no blindfolds, no props. All the other things we do to each other we learn by natural curiosity, reflex, impulse. We’re relaxed about who we are in bed, take turns in pleasuring each other and aren’t afraid to experiment a bit if necessary.

Nothing then in our lives prepared us for Max S., an old classmate from high school until sophomore year in college who came to visit and stayed at my apartment for three nights. Max and I had been pretty close in high school. We come from the same Chinoy background – Chinese merchant fathers, Pinay mothers, small brood of closely knit relatives. We even share the Chen (Ch’ing) ancestry and in fact belong to the same clan association.

That Max is openly gay, by that I mean flamboyantly so, is a source of amusement rather than derision in both our families. He was my sister’s date at the JS prom on account of his dancing skills and my sister’s safety and modesty. He was the go-to guy for important decisions regarding family parties such as the theme, table setting, music. Even our elders often accede to his decision on whom to invite. After our families had consulted the temple almanac and set the date for any weddings, the next stop would be Max who will then work out the rest.

We’ve not seen each other since he left the university to continue his studies in Toronto. Once in a while, we’d hear from him but the Max we imagined who sent us Christmas cards and occasional hellos was the thin, lanky Chinese guy with Coke-bottle spectacles, army-cut hair and skin the colour of blanched tofu.

The Max who showed up at the airport, however, is an attractive young man in Y3 outfit that seemed made specifically to show off his muscled body. I didn’t recognise him until he came over to where I was standing at the arrival hall and gave me a big hug.

“Da-ge,” Max greets me. Max is actually older than me by a year, but has always addressed me as Da-ge - Big Brother. (He progressed to calling me Papa, but I did not encourage it at all!) “Ni hao!” We couldn’t contain our excitement.

Max has become the man of his dreams, so to speak. He is physically appealing, worldly, interesting (and I was guessing, moneyed). He is running his own party-planning company in Toronto that he now plans to transport to Manila. He lives with a boyfriend, an ang moh named Steve, and they have a dog.

"Ta shi shei?"

"Wo de pang you, Han."

Han stepped forward to offer his hand, and Max gave him a cold smile.

"Shenme shi?" I asked Max what was the matter.

"Ah, mei you lah!"

Max is in touch with a lot of Pinoy gays in the area where he lives and for the duration of his stay, Han and I got free lessons in gay language from him. “Bekimon,” he updated me.

When Han excused himself to go to the loo during our first dinner together, Max immediately turned to me and said, “Ni de nan peng you hen hao kan hor, but couldn’t you have chosen someone younger? You’re the anti-cougar, Da-ge!”

Once Max was out of sight, it was Han’s turn to give me his assessment: “Wah, this fellow quite colourful, \wor.” Two different men, both gay, two different (world) views.

(“If you take me to another uncles-only place, I swear, Da-ge, I will sprout chest hair,” Max complained one night. During dinner, while looking intently at Han, Max just blurted out: “Can I call you 'Papa'?” Han simply smiled through all these.)

Max's visit felt absolutely strange but was certainly welcome. We regarded him with curiosity and affection, but we were lost half the time in his flurry of double entendres, of veyklas, chorvaloo, eklavoo….

Max left on the fourth day after promising to return sometime soon and asking Han to take good care of me, or else - a noy-pi bakla nonsense that was totally wasted on Han and that I chose to ignore.

When we had my place to ourselves at last, Han did not waste time getting in the sack. We had been busy in the office and had been taking Max to dinner and stuff after work - we were both craving hot sex. We were at each other even before our clothes came off. It was fantastic sex! He drove me crazy by not releasing my cock after I've ejaculated, continuing to suck me until I begged him to stop. Challenged, I explored the fuzzy ring outside his arse with my tongue - a first! - and was rewarded with him spreading his legs wider.

He was bent over the toilet sink rinsing his mouth when I walked by and gave his butt a smack. “Good one, bro,” I blurted out. “Piao liang sia!” We both laughed. We were not trying to butch it up, we're just like that towards each other.

As we lay in bed after our baths, Han whispered something disturbing: “Hui Long, har, what if we really fall in love with each other?”

It was outrageous to even think of something like that; I had to try hard to keep from laughing.

I thought about how Max would respond and quickly came up with “Tarush!”

“Shenme?” asked Han, perplexed.

“I don’t know, but I think that’s what the gays would say.”

I turned to my side away from Han, a sign that I was ready to sleep. He reached over and turned off the reading lamp, quietly slipped his hand under my arm and until it was resting on my chest. He planted a kiss on the back of my neck.

“Taboosh,” he whispered.

Fuck! We need more practice before we get the hang of this gay thing.

WOMEN DA JIA

2010-08-21T08:19:00.000-07:00

5.

My phone suddenly comes to life, jerking on my pillow in measured spasms. I am awake but my eyes are closed. I reach over to see who is calling: “Han Teow Kiat. 8:05am”, my phone announces.

“Wei?”

“Oi, hallo, humsum! Wah, still in bed har?

“Ni yao shenme?”

“You want breakfast or not, lazy bugger?” Yuan brekfuss anot, lay-zhee bug-guh?

From the tone of his voice, I know that Han is out somewhere. He is never this bright in the morning, never this chirpy. And he is always formal on the phone, whether he is ringing someone or taking a call. “Good morning, this is Teow Kiat speaking.” That is his standard line. “May I please know who is calling?”

And he will never, unless he is in a bomb shelter and no one is within hearing distance, call me ‘hamsum’.

“Hmm... wo bu qi dao.” I continue pretending to be half-asleep. “Jidian? Where are you?”

“I’m parked downstairs. Come, we go eat. I need to tell you something.”

“Okay, come up. I’ll buzz you in.”

“No need lah. I’ll wait in the car. Um, wo wang lah... wear nice nice, can?”

The last statement makes me bolt from my bed. I am suddenly reminded of the new Etro shirt that I’ve been wanting to wear with my new Gucci loafers. This is the time. I open my wardrobe hurriedly, grab my new shirt, underwear and a pair of white linen Hermes pants. “You want nice nice, Mister? You’re gonna get more than nice nice.” I spray my armpits with deodorant, put on my clothes, spritz on a light cologne, rinse my mouth in the toilet and walk to the lift lobby in no time.

My eyes adjust to the dimness of the basement car park. My only business here has been to dump old magazines and clothes, and rubbish bags that didn’t fit into the garbage chute. I don’t own a car; I don’t know the system here. This is alien territory. A pair of headlights flashes not far ahead of me. It’s a grey Audi. I decide it is for someone else. “Oi,” I hear someone calling out. “Over here!” Oh-vuh he-arh. It’s Han.

“Is my bro car,” he says as I slip into the seat next to him. “Wah lau, you look good, man. And smell nice too. Going to see mistress, isit?”

I didn’t say anything but I was beaming inside. I just rest my hand on Han’s thigh and then move it to his crotch.

“Today got time for that. Promise,” he looks at me and winks. Sige pa, chong, pagbutihan mo, I say to myself, mamaya-maya lang, chuchupain kita....

Today feels like a Friday afternoon on your payday, or when your presentation is just over and the clients are clapping their hands as you unhook your laptop, or when you’re sipping champagne while waiting for your flight to Bali to take off. It’s a happy day.

I am liking this. Such a change. No “wait-har-people-can-see” or “aiyoh-what-you-doing”. I am always the aggressor, the one who starts the fight, the naughty boy who has to be told and reprimanded for inappropriate behaviour. Han may be the one who keeps fire burning to the last ember, but I jolly well bring the fucking matches. And the lighter fluid, just in case.

But today he seems more relaxed; he doesn’t brush my hand away from his groin as he often does. I give it a light squeeze. He smiles.

We head to the east by the CTE, the route that I prefer for its view of the sea and the acacia lined highway. We turn into an exit, then a slip road, and then on to a wooded area that isn’t familiar to me. We stop in front of a gate and wait for it to open. “Women da jia,” Han says softly. Our house.

There are other cars in the drive way – four other cars. The house itself is an ageing, unprepossessing bungalow that is more well-kept than well-designed. A small garden occupies the right-hand side, a profusion of blooms and foliage, a huge clump of lemon grass, while on the opposite side runs a paved driveway that leads to a garage.

We alight from the car; Han goes behind to open the boot and retrieve some boxes. I offer to help but he graciously refuses. “Come, let’s go in.” I follow him to the door where we take off our shoes.

Han’s family is all there: His mother and father, brothers and sister, his nephews, and a visiting aunt and her daughter from Perth. I can smell the scents of home, something delicious cooking, floral scented fabric softener, pine floor cleanser, various colognes, clean carpet and starched slipcover.

“Aiyah, TK didn’t tell us until last night that you were coming, Lai, lai, sit here,” his mum says as she wipes her hand with a tea towel before extending it to me. She is wearing a house dress and heeled slippers, an unusual choice that I always find stylish. She is a small woman with a pretty face; her delicate yet bright features betray her greying hair.

I shake her hand. “Thank you, Mrs Han. You have such a lovely home.” I pick an arm chair next to a stuffed sofa, grateful that I am dressed up “nice nice” as Han puts it.

“Aiyah, no lah. This place is old already. We built it when TK’s father and I got married.” She turns to her assortment of grandchildren and nephews. “Make room for our guest; go to the guest room and play.”

Just then I hear a booming man’s voice coming from a room somewhere. “Is TK’s guest here?” It is Han’s father. He emerges from the kitchen, a tall, ruddy and stocky man, bearing a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue Label. He is wearing a purple polo shirt and a pair of khaki chinos.

“Mabuhay,” he says as he sets the whiskey on a table next to the chair where I am sitting. “I’m CK,” he says as he thrusts out his huge hand. “Kamusta ka?” he says, enunciating each syllable carefully. “That bugger, your friend, got all his good looks from me! And his brains from his mother,” Mr Han laughs. I can sense that he is a genuinely charming man, one who wins trust and admiration immediately, but it’s also clear that Han got his good looks from his mother.

“I have many friends from the Philippines,” he brags. “I used to go there when I was working for IBM. Five years. I have been to Baguio... Davao... Cavite.... Taal”, he continues. Bagh-wee-yoh... Duh-vao... Cuh-vee-tee.... Tahl “Your President is Aquino, isn’t it?” Ah-kwee-noh. “Ah, no, Arroyo.” Arh-rro-yoh. “Aiyah, such a beautiful, rich country. Too bad it has been mismanaged.”

“Pa...,” Han protests lightly.

Mrs Han returns to the living room with a plate of kuehs. “Nah, don’t listen to his nonsense. Eat this, TK has just bought them.”

“Madam Han,” Mr Han says in a mock serious voice, “how do you suppose we’re going to eat the kueh while drinking whiskey?”

“Who says you’re drinking?”

Mr Han leans over to me and in mock whisper conspiratorially: “I’m sorry, my friend, lau ban niang does not allow alcohol within the premises.”

Over lunch I meet the rest of the family. Robert, Han’s brother, who looks like their father, works as a senior private banker at UBS. His wife, Serene, is a high school teacher. His sister is named Mei Feng but everybody calls her Cheryl. She is a paediatrician at NUS Hospital. Han,like me, is the youngest. Mrs Han’s sister, Nelly, is visiting from Perth with her daughter Emily, a reed-thin girl in braces who doesn’t say much. Robert and Serene have three boys, Cheryl has two as well as a girl. All the children call me Uncle Dexter, and when Han tells his nephews that my Chinese name is Hui Long, they all laugh.

We talk about everything. Mr Han discusses many subjects with depth and wit. Finally he tells me that he and ‘the missus’ can’t wait for Han to find the right girl so that they can retire in Perth. “We just want to come up for the seventh birthday of TK’s firstborn son – or daughter,” he says wistfully.

“Aiyah, Dexter, you better tell your friend to hurry up lah,” Han’s mother adds. “He’s not getting any younger. He's 35, isn’t it, this year?”

Han doesn’t answer. I can sense that he is looking at me across the table, but I ignore him. I pretend to be interested to know why he isn’t married yet.

“Mum, let him be,” Cheryl pleads finally. I suddenly look up to find her looking at me; she gives me a knowing glance. I’ll ask Han what exactly does his sister know – I made a mental note.

“Kuai tien, lah, brother. Your Yakult will turn sour soon,” Robert teases Han.

“Oi,” Mrs Han snaps. “So vulgar. In front our guest some more.” But I laugh at this and when I look sideways at Robert, he winks at me. Serene, meanwhile, nudges at her husband with her elbow.

I can’t look at Han; I feel for him. I am 32 and the target of the same torture at family dinners.

In his room, as we sit on his bed after lunch, his feet resting on my lap, he says, “Pa wants a son erh, How? Shall we make one?” He teases as he digs his toes into my crotch.

We quietly take off our clothes. He goes to the door to check if it is locked. I can see he is excited when he returns. I move across the bed. We lie facing each other head to foot, cocks to mouths. I listen closely to distant sounds in the living room and the kitchen. The other rooms. It is blissfully quiet. I begin sucking Han’s hard cock, taking its entire length for the first time. I feel his pubic hair brush against my nose, the spear head is nudging at my constricting throat. I feel like I am accomplishing something.

I am close to coming; Han pulls out my cock for his mouth and toys with my cockhead with his tongue. I come in long spurts and he takes most of my semen into his mouth, finally putting my cock back in and closing his lips around it. Just as he does that, he comes in a powerful jets inside my throat. I don’t even have time to protest. My jaws, tired, refuse to move, so does my throat.

Han lets go of my softening cock. “Let’s hope for a boy.”