jon's blog

i could go on for 40 days and 40 nights about my blog title and bore you to bits and pieces with 10,000 different ideas i actually had for the name of this blog but because of the 500 characters limit that is imposed upon this mechanism which, by the way, is supposed to promote free speech, i shall shorten it to just two words basically describing what the hell this is all about and who this hell belongs to.
Saturday, April 29, 2006


if there's one language that i think i was born to speak, i am pretty sure it's malay. i love the malay language. it's like my tongue was born to curl and roll and lick the 'l's and 'r's off at the right places. the intonations. even i can get the accent right. the only think i'm lacking is the circumcision. but that's another story for another day. and till today, i am darn sure that i'm rather good at listening to the language itself. it's something that i've picked up all thanks to my ex, my nursing background and of course, my current workplace where i have 5 malay colleagues and another 2 clueless chinese ones. i ain't a fluent speaker or anything like that. no. but i know enough to impress the average malay when i have sex with them. plus i can give you the translation for all the private parts. enough to get you through spas and gay clubs.

thus, during my initial forays into behasa melayu, one of the first words that i learnt from my ex was the word 'kewat'.

now, kewat is malay lingo for gay. just like the cheena chinese like to use AJ instead of gay. the local gay malay population (that sounds really taboo) use kewat instead. so the right way to use it would be like:

'that one confirm kewat one'.

or a pet phrase my gay colleague and i always use during work to signal the arrival of someone we think is prolly gay:

(in the most exasperated tone that we can muster) 'i think he's ok-what!'. (follwed by hysterical makcik laughter on our part)

when speaking to the melayus, i actually prefer the term kewat rather than gay cos it's so much more fluid than the latter. saying the word 'gay' kinda reminds me of an ah pek i once saw at the swimming pool toilet who had a brazilian wax. imagine, with an already wrinkled penis, a very white tanline around his pelvic area, and that sagging body of his, he had a brazilian wax the width thinner than his penis. not that it was really big to begin with. he was obviously gay lah. but you know what they say about ageing gracefully. and 'brazilian wax' and 'graceful' are not two words that you would normally use in the same sentence. the brazilian, just like saying gay, was so like 'in your face'. kewat is much more cheeky, graceful and..... well, liquidated (i've already used fluid, so there). (NB: after reading through this again, i realized that the word i was looking for was INVASIVE, makes a homo-revelation moment almost like a surgical procedure, but that again, for uniquely homophobic singapore, it's like taking them through a sex change).

and since we're almost throughly orientated about kewats, lemme go on and tell you about two people i have at my workplace who fit the definition of kewat. one is a gay colleague and close friend of mine. the interesting thing was that we found each other on a local gay profiling webbie and then went on to start chatting with each other and prepping each ohter on what to expect in brunei. lucky for him, he has found a rather charming local for a boyfriend. and i, have only met up with one skinny cheena guy for sex. but anyways, we bitch and i love bitching with him.

the other is a colleague from the administrative department. a clerk. he's uber-professional. and one look, no matter whether you're gay, straight, bi, trans, blind, dumb, deaf or even devoid of all senses, just one look and you will know that this guy is kewat. is it in the limp wrist? is it in the flailing arms during conversations? is it in the wry smiles? is it in the scrutinizing eyes? is it in the soft voice? is it in the tender touch? yes and all of the above.

if i had a show and tell class and my topic was kewats, i would drag them down, kicking, screaming and bitching. cos i know these happy people are gonna get me an A+. and bless my colleague here, but he's pretty soft at times what with his big anime eyes. and my chief clerk has that wry smile that screams kewat. let me tell you some of their trademarks. both of them love watching malay award shows. both of them have all the Siti Nuhaliza songs in whatever music devices that they own. both cannot talk if you tie their hands behind their back. both of them exchange thai drag movies with each other. i daresay that the both of them are just meenas trapped in a mats' body.

and they are surprisingly rather bimbotic too. just the other day, the clerk called my colleague to join him for a trip to the petrol station. reason being that he had to top up his boss' fuel tank and he didn't know how to do it. which makes me wonder, how in the bloody world did he get his driving license in the first place? perhaps instead of thinking about the upcoming elections and who's going to win majority of the seats (we all know who's going to win 'em seats anyways), we ought to focus on the more practical issues like gay rights and education. like teaching gay men how to actually pump petrol and use a hammer and fix a light bulb etc.

my colleague's idea of D&T (Design and Technology classes: IMHO the most boring and useless subject in the cirruculum, and i never learnt much except how to sandpaper wood and hammer metal into useless lumps) basically involves taking the hammer and just knocking a few places. i guess in the hope that something will resolve itself. whenever he does that, i'm like freaking out. cos it's just ridiculous.

i was actually passing by the medical centre when my colleague received the phone call. so i offered to stand in for him while they went out for a quick petrol pump. little did i know that to top-up a fuel tank comes with many other side quests. they bought banana fritters, samosas and spring rolls back. i mean that was nice. but they didn't have to take FIFTY MINUTES just to go out and pump petrol and buy some afternoon snacks right?

beacuse of them, i couldn't go gym and i felt really horrid and obese for the rest of the day because of the uber-oily samosas, springs rolls and banana fritters that he made me eat. but all the same, i still love my colleague for what he is. be it flailing arms, fatty food or even hammers.

Saturday, April 22, 2006

the singapore slowdown!

after having spent 8 pretty long months here in brunei, i kinda dread going back to singapore. my recent home leave back to singapore was pretty much limited to a 10 day time constraint which felt more like 10 mins. no matter where i went, i had to have a plan. if even in the slightest event i went out of plan, i would start to skedaddle all over the place aimlessly, not knowing who and what and when or whom i was going to meet/do/screw/have a meal with next.

we've always been brought up in an environment where time is everything. my mom used to remind me to plan what i wanted to study for my exams. to always study beforehand. to always make sure that 'you plan your time'. which got really irritating after a while because all she ever went on was about time and its importance. being brought up in singapore makes you realize that everyone else seems much slower than you.

initially, i never thought of singapore as a really stressful place. that was until i experienced the bruneian way of life. the fact that it's a kampong town devoid of any forms of relatively updated technology that singapore has is one reason why it's so laidback and peaceful. back home, there's always channel 5 and tbeir primetime slots being filled with the latest drama serials, reality tv show and etc that i can't afford to tear myself away from.

and not forgetting the endless barrage of the wireless internet, newspapers, periodicals of every sort attacking you from every corner bookstore. i can't do without my newsweek. i can't do without my 8 days. and not forgetting all the glossy magazines i read every month. and of course the daily papers. i feel 'a little less clever' when i skipped the papers for the day. it's as if, the next episode in any current political struggle has a big gaping blank in it and i desperately need to find out whether the right-wing people are still alive, whether this country has been bombed again, whether the republicans have done something stupid again, whether there's another student killing himself over inadequate god-given equipment.

in fact, my friend in singapore msned me the other day regarding the body dysmorphic kid who committed suicide. i totally didn't know about such an interesting story until he told me. thing is, i could have read it from the papers, and i didn't cos i was too lazy to read the papers for that day. so when my mate in singapore brought up the topic, i felt kinda stupid for not knowing it. i pride myself on my general knowledge, so it was a tad humiliating for me. not that my friend cared, but my pride wouldn't let it go.

to add to the endless barrage, there's also bittorrent and youtube and whatever other p2p exchange software that you might use, but that just takes up more time. oh and not forgetting emails and friend-making web portal that you have to update and check once in a while so that people know that you are still alive. and what about your online shopping with ebay and etc.

so much so that we always seem to be hard-pressed for time to even do the basics like our daily ablusions or perhaps having breakfast even. sometimes, i'm in such a rush (for i dunno what) that i brush my teeth, and soap myself and take a crap together at the same time. that way, i only take 5 minutes for a bath rather than the 20 that i would so love to enjoy. of course, 50 if there's someone else taking a bath with me as well.

i realize that i have this really bad habit of buying novels and never completing them. thus i have one stack of books that i keep telling myself 'i'll KIV until i come back from brunei where i'll have more time to read'. which is actually bullshit lor. the only peaceful time i have to read in brunei is during my guard duty. i'll always go for the sentry position cos that when i'll be alone with no one to interrupt my reading at all. it's peace and quiet for me. the rest of the time is spent on watching DVDs, entire box sets of dramas, and playing games on my ps2.

actually, come to think of it, i do really little work in brunei.
this is seriously a case of overpaid and underworked. i kinda feel guilty about it, especially since i'm getting about $900 of the progress package as well.

maybe it's time we took a pause from life to sort things out. throw out the cluttered shit that we don't need. like my endless reading of suscribed periodicals. let it go. it ain't gonna matter if you don't read your uber-cheap suscription magazine for a week. DVD movies can always be watched later.

i'm thinking that it's time i start enjoying whatever time i have left in brunei. perhaps just take it as it comes. rather than taking the come before it even comes. where am i rushing to in the first place? ask yourself that.

Friday, April 21, 2006


i'm a camera whore. even though i know that 75% of the time, i come out looking like shit in photos. but i would like to say that i live for that 25% where the photos come out picture perfect, making me look like a porn star or something. so today, i've run out of brains to blog about somewhat intellectual and witty and punny shit. and anyways i'm outside now at some coffeplace waiting for my friend to get massaged. not fogetting wireless and a hell of a lot of time (45 mins for the massage and i'm suspecting that the 'special services' will take another 30 mins or something). so here goes:

crack and lines

forgive the very blurred picture. but i was in a rush to take a photo of my cracked ipod today. i'm on off today you see. so it's a rush for time and lighting. my bunk is an awfully dark place. as you can see, there's nothing much to show on the screen other than white. so i had to comfigure my playlist to my selected songs and name it 'A'. all i have to do now is just pick the first option of every menu and i'll eventually get to playlist 'A' after five clicks on the ipod wheel.
i just sent it in for repairs today. hopefully they get it done asap. and also they get it done under warrenty still.

pork, glorious, pork

i'm not a big fan of pork. in fact, when i was with my ex of many years, the only time i ever ate pork was when my mom cooked it. rarely did i ever eat pork when given the choice to do so. of course, sometimes temptation comes along in the form of the Swedish Meatballs at Ikea. but other than that, i'm relatively pork-free. so it's funny to see a segregation of pork at the local supermarket in brunei. i'm guessing the local are afraid that the pork molecules in the canned food will just spread over to the other groceries and everyone will be defouled. but it's the effort that counts.

and speaking of pork. it wasn't until in brunei that my good mate introduced me to the magic of spiced pork cubes, otherwise known as 'bah teng'. it makes a very good side dish for instant noodles actually. never knew about it until i discovered the joys of canned and instant foods. so my fellow pork-loving cheena peeps, go out and buy a can of bah teng today.

a grave situation

i've experienced a fair amount of death recently. with the homegoing of my maternal grandad and some friends last year. and when i went back to singapore on compassionate (my grandad's funeral), i had also just watched three films that touch on the topic of funerals (Eulogy, Elizabethtown and Alias; ok lah, not movie but still one of the episodes involved Sloane's wife dying long long ago) just before i left. it's been a pretty grave time the past two years. and from attending a fair amount of funerals, i realize that when i die, i wouldn't want my funeral to be a sad one. i've seen people crying and crying and crying and crying at funerals. why can't funerals be happy events? why can't people laugh during a funeral? if i can, i would have fire-breathers and mascots giving out free balloons to all the kids. and definitely no peanuts, candies, melon seeds and red strings on paper plates.
and definitely cremated, not buried. totally cremate until i become like talcum powder and then sprinkle me into the nearest breadtalk bakery when they are baking their pork floss buns.

of course, the last part is utter rubbish. i prefer to be in the custard buns.


i miss McDonald's because of the sauces that they have. i think that EVERYTHING in McDonald's go very well with the various sauces actually. EVERYTHING. you could dip your big mac into the curry and it'll still taste like heaven. try apple pie with the new caramel sauce that they give for the Apple McDippers. wah. if there's another place beyond heaven, it would definitely stock that sticky sweet caramel shit that Mcdonald's now has. and not forgetting tartar sauce, a must have when you're taking fries for your extra value meal. and remember, unlike what 'SUPERSIZE ME' tells you, McDonald's is healthy in moderation and adequate exercise. of course, they're paying me with a lifetime supply of caramel sauce to tell you this.

chicks with dicks

it's not everyday that one gets to explore one's feminity. and i'm not one who's ready to admit that i love bras and shit. in fact, whenever i pass by the lingerie section in any department store, i get a bit embarassed. i dunno why i do. but i shun away from bras. so it's with much trepedition that i don on women's clothes to entertain my colleagues in the monthly happy hour. it wasn't my idea but my chief clerk's. and seeing that i have drama experience and no shame, he said that i would make a really good drag. and i take it as a challenge.

so that night went really well. it was fun being a chick with muscle. i actually got cash offers to be the bitch for the night. already am. and a lot of compliment for having so much guts to wear prosthetic breasts in the form of bandages.

and so that's enough graphic evidence to shame me for a day.
you keep this to yourself, otherwise, i'll post pictures of your thighs that i took the otherday in the supermarket.

Thursday, April 20, 2006

the happy motherfucker's rule of three

i can't remember the exact first time that i heard this phrase actually. but i seem to have this vague recollection that it was from one episode of FACT OR FICTION. remember that psuedo-scary series where they present to you a collection of short stories and at the end of the show, reveal which of them are fact and which are fiction. why do i say psuedo-scary? because each time they reveal a story to be sorta true, they'll say something like:

'The story where the woman with nostril hair that connects to the armpit. It is not fiction. a newspaper from Ulan Bator back in the 1970s reported a native of the islands to have such a curse imposed on her'

and after you realize that the particular story is true, you'll start getting paranoid. every corner you'll look behind you to see whether there's strands of hair following you. a single strand of long hair draped over your shoulder causes you to go into palpitations. and when you do actually see a glimpse of this foul nasal-armpit haired beast, the general reaction would be to vomit the contents of yesterday's breakfast till today's dinner.

but back to the point. the phrase in mind is actually this:
"bad things always come in threes"

which when you come to think of it actually makes a really kinky scenario cos (in my best pimpin' accent) i want some lovin' and i want it really NAAAAAASTEEEEE. but the point is, the idea of three things happening together in a row is actually quite sad. i've always had the image of a mysterious Lady Misfortune working her mysterious formula into the lives of the human race. Like the Discworld series' Lady Luck, i'm guessing that Lady Misfortune is her cousin twice removed (or something like that). she has this bad habit of screwing up people's lives accidentally by mixing up the variables in her 'bad things happen in threes' formula which actually goes something like this:

x (random degree of misfortune) + x (random degree of misfortune) + x (random degree of misfortune) = bad things happen in threes

i have no idea what a formula like that means (i'm trained in nursing, not mathematics). and i daresay that Lady Misfortune also does not know a plus from a minus sign. in fact, i bet she prolly screwed it up big time applying really big random variables.

of course, some very happy-go-lucky 'car-can't-bang-me-down' person also had bad things happening to him and decided to coin the phrase, 'after three bad things, there's also three good things'. if you ask me, he prolly just took the first three things that happened to him (eg. i got a seat in the MRT, i found 10 cents on the floor, i kissed my boss' ass and he asked me to finger it instead) and considering the fact that since the 'misfortune' variant is random, the same can be applied for the 'fortune' formula that was currently processing in his little happy-go-lucky mind. and thus, viola!!! you've got your randomly pieced together misfortune/fortune formula.

all that coming from a happy motherfucker. and which is why the misfortune/fortune formula is known today as

'the happy motherfucker's rule of three'

obviously, i wouldn't be writing this unless i've got bad shit happening to me all this while right? so what were the series of unfortunate events that happened?

bad thing #1: my ipod lost all res-PORN-se
i store all my gay porn in my ipod apparently.
because nobody would ever think of looking at the ipod as an external hard disc drive. i mean, it makes a really good mp3 player. and it make really good entertainment for your video. but gimme a plain ol' computer and a USB port and i can wank anytime, anywhere. but of course, there are irritating things about that as well. everytime you connect your ipod, it immediately starts up itunes and uploads everything new and basically you have to wait for nearly a minute before you can start watching your porn videos. by then, i could have already orgasmed 5 times in a row.

all my life savings of gay porn are apparently stored in one external source only. all 20GB of gay porn in pictures, videos and clips. and a very good saying comes to mind: 'NEVER STORE ALL YOUR EGGS IN ONE BASKET'. which i never really paid attention to until i accidentally wiped out everything when i reformatted my ipod back to the factory settings. and basically there went 4 years of porn harvested from various sources (eg. Limewire, porn sites, irc trades). shitty banana.

now, i just turn off the computer screen and wank off to my reflection innit.

bad thing #2: my ipod headphones are partially deaf
once more, i'm too reliant on my ipod. when i go for my daily jog, i definitely need my ipod and my headphones. otherwise i get really cranky and focus on my breathing when i jog and i wouldn't be able to last that long. so imagine my dismay when i was jogging when one side of my headphones had no sound coming out of it. so throughout my morning jog, i was like adjusting and adjusting and adjusting the wires, playing around with it and trying to straighten the entire thing. in fact, so engrossed i was with untangling the wires that i just tripped over a bump in the ground, lost my balance and fell flat. which was really embarassing. given the fact that there were several other people jogging in the vincinity as well.

so i not only lost my porn now. i've also lost my headphones. and also my dignity when it comes to jogging. what next then?

bad thing #3: my ipod grew a vagina
i think in our modern life of light-weight and wireless gadgets, there are several things that all of us (or at least I) cannot leave home without. the top of my list being my mobile because that's simply where i get a kick out of taking snapshots of people's thunder thighs at the supermarket (and i think thighs are seriously a flaw in God's creation of women; either have perfect thighs or be a man). the next in line would have to be my ipod video.

it's packed with entertainment and also a gem of a designer product. so much so that amongst all my gadgets, my ipod ranks on top in terms of beloved-ness. but you know, as much as i love my ipod, i'm pretty rough when i'm handling it. i drop it at least once a fortnight or something like that. you would think that the pores on my fingers exude lube permanently or something.

as usual, i dropped my ipod again. and thinking that nothing happened to it, it picked it up, gave it a good dusting and carried on with life. it wasn't until i wanted to transfer some songs over that i saw an ugly crack staring straight back at me. the entire screen had this rude angry crack running down the right side of it. and there was this liquid flowing freely from the crack.

that was when i realized that my ipod had grown a vagina. a big ugly vagina that doesn't look aestetically pleasing at all. i was so sad. i just came back from home leave lor. like at least if i had to drop it, then do it when i'm about to go back home where there are 4 Applecentres in Singapore. not when there's only one miserable one in the whole of Brunei itself. sigh. now that means many musicless weeks to come.

so basically what does all this mean?
i've dropped my ipod, damanged it, changed its sex. frankly speaking, it looks utterly like shit now. the only thing i think left to do is basically to send it for repairs at the nearest available ipod centre. thank goodness there's one apple centre in Brunei itself and also the fact that the warrenty is still valid. though how i'm gonna prove that i have warrent for it is a big query still.
but like the happy motherfucker deep down inside of me, i'm pretty sure that there are really good things coming my way soon. i dunno what seriously, but i can feel it, like an orgasm caused by wanking to myself on the blank computer screen.

Monday, April 17, 2006

Raffles (the finale)

so i left my cheapo Swatch watch at his luxury apartment in Orchard. and oh, i bet that he could buy a Swatch watch for each child in a third world country with the amount his parents paid for that Orchard Road apartment. it's the second time i've been to his apartment and i realize that it is actually quite irritating. cos it has more security than Alcatraz and Changi combined. there are cameras and double doors and to add a classy touch to this luxury prison, Channel Newsasia playing at the 'gallery' lobby. i bet our HDB apartments will only have luxuries like these only in a decade's time. by then, i'll be 31 and i'll have lost my precious virginity and there's nothing more left to safeguard in my apartment. tragic.

i swear that when i went there, i had only the objective of collecting my watch in mind. and therefore up to his apartment i went, and like a gift-wrapped easter present, he was in his Raffles t-shirt and shorts. unknowingly, i got invited in for a chat while knowing that i should have quickly collected my watch and left ASAP if i didn't want to get my heart and mind played with again. chat became making out and making out became sex. which wasn't really sex. because it was a one-way road from this point on.

i assumed that he wanted to have sex because under the intention of turning off the lights, he also went to lock his bedroom door. and normally, when you have guests at your home, you don't lock your bedroom door unless you're intending to decapitate him in a satanic ritual or indulge in something more carnal like sex. i quickly assumed it was the latter, as evidenced by the fact that his room was so messy that he would spend more time packing stuff up rather than carving the flesh off my bones.

so we made out. and the irritating thing about our dear Raffles Boy was that he was so passive. for 15 mins, my tongue was doing so much cardio that it had run out of saliva to lubricate anything anywhere. and when i actually hinted to him that it was his turn, he gave the following answer:

'shall we go for lunch? i'm very tired'

do note that the scene now looks like this
- i'm already butt naked with a big erection down there
- he's half naked with a big erection down there
- there's Deathcab playing in the background on his itunes
- it's a lazy sunday afternoon
- we're both on a matteress with kiddy prints on it
- i've done tongue cardio for 15 mins already
- we haven't had an orgasm together since the time we met at the spa
- i'm fucking tired cos i only got home at 6 this morning and left at 9 plus again

and with that single sentence, he proceeded on to wash up while i was there looking like an idiot with a hard-on in my hands in an orchard road apartment. it sounds really chi-chi, but if you were in my shoes (or rather, in my feet, cos i have already taken off my clothes, what more shoes?), it would have been really frustrating.

but never mind, i played along with him cos i still had that small little crush on him lah. we had a really great chat before making out. i really enjoy talking to him. i think the only happiness is can draw out of it is that. and of course, not forgetting the fact that he paid for lunch (a very fattening and yet sinfully delicious jaffa pudding) with his plat'num card (no less!).

i felt a tad intimidated once more cos he went to Ermenegildo Zegna to collect a shirt he had purchased just yesterday. ah... the high life. and there i was, the only saving grace i had on was a pair of Polo Ralph jeans. everything else on me could only buy a button on his Zegna shirt. as much as i would have loved to purchase something from there, i didn't. and actually it would have been lame to submit to peer pressure.

and later on we went to Polo Ralph and he bought a white polo tee. i would have actually told him that it was a pirated version of the Giordan white polo tee. but that was before looking at the price tag. $129.00 for a fucking white polo tee. i'm guessing that it has a very high thread count and allows plenty of ventilation and people will ooooh at you for wearing pirated Giordano polo tees. $129 is a high price for a polo tee. yah! it's like only $12.90 at Giordano lor.

so we went our own seperate ways after lunch and his sideline purchases at Polo Ralph and Takashimaya. and as we bid our farewells and goodbyes, i couldn't help thinking that he was giving me a 'last look'. like that guy in Elizabethtown, i felt that i could tell when people are giving me 'last looks' too. and right at that point of time, i was looking at one.

at the end of the day, i was exhausted with all the mind games he was unintentionally playing on me. i went on retail therapy and felt a little bit better though. which actually brings to me think about this issue:

how come the perfect man always has a flaw of some sort even when my standards are already so low?

just when you thought you found the perfect guy, he turns around and shows you his elongated buckteeth. it's really frustrating. and i still haven't had sex with him proper yet. so for now, we currently keep in contact via msn and sgboy. and thus, if i have learnt anything from this entire escapade, it would have to be to not expect too much out of something good. it kinda ruins it.

Saturday, April 15, 2006

i'm this week's special guest on THE O.C.

life is like a season of The O.C. just when you think that you have such a rich and famous and financially stable career in this season, shit happens. at the flick of the scriptwriter's pen, you are eventually taken off from being a main character to a supporting role to simply a guest star whenever they can't fill up the plot with anymore stories involving Ryan, Marissa, Seth and/or Summer. just look at poor Anna who lost Seth to Summer. i like Anna. and i like Summer. but i think they shouldn't have cut her off. then again, if they didn't cut her off, she wouldn't be doing that Daniel Powter MTV and thus i wouldn't be talking about her in the post.

well, yesterday i got a taste of the high life, both literally and metaphorically speaking. i hooked up with Mr. Rafflesian whom i've had a crush on since i met him at Towel Club three days ago (read previous post for more info). now, i've almost always made it a policy never to keep in contact with anyone i meet in a spa. why? because i find it tedious to talk to people with whom i have had sex already. majority of the time, i end up asking a lot of questions cos the other party is too shy to talk or something. conversation topics can only range from school to work to penis length and number of times we've had sex. i mean there are the rare few who are just free and easy after sex and Mr. Rafflesian was just one of them. plus he was a Raffles Boy, so all the more he was a fantasy just waiting to be fulfilled. he's rich, he's gay, he's young and he's actually quite cute in a boyish way. and of course, not forgetting the Ivy League education that he's had. i measure inches by brains, not length-wise.

and so we met yesterday at three am in the morning at Borders. He stays somewhere behind Borders and i bet he can actually say something like 'i wear singlet, shorts and slippers to Orchard road to buy groceries because it's so near'. well, when we met he was actually tipsy already from partying with some of his mates. so the walk back to his home was kinda wonky. cos he was sober but not really there. and there was some commotion he had with his ex-girlfriend as well. we made small talk to his apartment.

and i'm going to be a cheena bukit here, but the private apartments where he stays at has artwork in the lobby lor. some impressionist shit that looks splattered with angst and loads of paint. but the fact is, where can you actually find a home that has chi-chi artwork in the lobby? i mean the only artwork i can find at my HDB apartment downstairs are the empty cup noodles and ice-cream wrappers left behind by the local kids. i prefer to call it exhibition art.

basically the moment i stepped into the apartment, both the themes of THE OC and LAGUNA BEACH were playing in my mind. like the apartment was so fucking big. ok lah. not really big also. but imagine a 3 room flat stacked one on top of the other. the whole apartment was so tricked out with art and stuff that it actually looked kinda like the art gallery lobby, except with sofas and cushions. and when you look out of the window, all you see is orchard road and perhaps some buildings.

we chilled at the jacuzzi which was located on the top of his apartment. it was breath-taking cos when you looked out, all you saw once more was orchard road and plenty of building and all this with the tune of THE OC and LAGUNA BEACH in the background. he brought out some pink wine (i think it was basically rose wine). and he mentioned that the bottle cost $250. i was flipping in my stomach. knowing that i was drinking this $250 shit. cos the most expensive drink i've ever had would prolly be some lame alcoholic shit at the club.

i mean what the fuck do they do to the wine to push it to it's $250 price tag? do they like pluck roses by the moonlight and crush them for the extraqct or some shit like that? or maybe they got George Clooney or Jude Law to personally crush the roses and the grapes and shit with their very own feet. i wouldn't know. i only knew it was a 2003 vintage and it got the desired effect which was to make both of us tipsy.

so we stumbled into his bedroom for sex. and his bedroom was awfully tiny. it's almost the same size as the toilet except bigger by about 2 toiletbowls. and i like to snoop around people's bedrooms cos you can find out much of their personalities by looking at their cupboards and stuff. kinda like ROOM RAIDERS. this guy here, has so many hangers in his wardrobe and none of it are used. everything seems to be just dumped into the cupboard. and it's pretty messy. he sleeps on a matteress that's like paper thin and there were like kiddy designs on it likE stars and toys and trains and stuff. it was boy-ish blue.

and so we had sex. curiously, the sex wasn't as good as i thought it would be. maybe it was because he was in this tipsy stupor. so he was blabbering a lot of nonsense about the 'RI boy fucking the ACS boy' (i have no idea why he thought i was ACS). and he kept going on in his ang mo slang with things like 'you're crazy' and 'good'. basically i was doing all the work, because he was drunk.

the irritating part? i didn't get to orgasm. after he climaxed, he went to pee, and then fell asleep. and that was like already 6 or 7 plus in the morning. i was very pissed cos i couldn't sleep on his paper-thin matteress. so i kinda tossed and turned and he was half-asleep and snoring and shit. we tried having sex at like 8 plus again. and after a while, i just gave up cos he was having a hangover and he was damn tired as well. so i washed up and left the apartment, thinking whether it was worth it waiting up till 3am just to meet him.

i realized that i left my watch behind at his home. and i wasn't really keen on meeting him again even though i still have this big crush on him. i might just give him my watch cos i see him only having one watch and it was this silver classic watch which was really boring for a gay guy. he really is style-challenged.

so while i was in the cab back home, i felt kinda used.
like i was this week's special guest on THE OC. a visitor to the high life for a week. and by the next episode or two, i'm gone. i guess i was never supposed to belong to the high life, as much as i wanted to. it kinda leaves you with a bitter after taste, just like that $250 pink rosea wine.

Thursday, April 13, 2006


i'm an optimist when it comes to post breaking-up friendships. i'm of the belief that one can still be friends/sexbuddies/fuck-mates/co-workers with your ex-lover despite the fact that the both of you were once people who made love to each other (NB: now you just fuck), whispered sweet nothings (when you break-up, you realize that they are really nothing) into each other's ears and were actually people who loved each other so deeply that it hurt real bad.

of course, i don't stake the claim to having plenty of experience when it comes to the topic of love and relationships. sex, yes. but love? oh love, oh love... don't i just cringe at the sound of love. eeeeeeyurrrrr. i have seen my fair share of people breaking up and getting back together, and breaking up and getting back together AGAIN. it's as if they patch back for the sake of breaking up so that they can patch back together again. why do these stupid muthafuckas do such silly things?

take my colleague back in Brunei for example. he broke up with the girlfriend because she couldn't withstand the ultimate test of a long-distance relationship. alas, Brunei hasn't had the luxury of a cheap and effective communications infrastructure yet, thus redenring calls back to Singapore to be pretty much of a hassle. when it comes to making overseas calls, i've always had the image of a tudung macik working as a call centre operator. and it's that type of call centre with those ol skool systems where you jack one end of the wire to another in order to transfer a call from Brunei to San Francisco and she would tell San Francisco to 'skejap sikit eh' (though who the fuck from San Fran would want to call someone in Brunei, i have no idea lor). i actually wouldn't be surprised to find out that such technology still exists in dreary ol' Brunei.

but back to my friend. so when he came back to Singapore, he chanced upon his girlfriend with a trannie while he was driving his rented car in Ang Mo Kio. and when you've got a seestah on your girlfriend's side, it's certainly no match for a straight guy. my mate was intimidated by the trannie, but he stood his ground and talked to the ex. and as that saying goes, 'love conquers all' (and initimidating trannies included). they made up for the 5th time in their relationship, and up till now (the whole thing happened 1.5 months ago) they have been going out for 4 years already.

now, why i bring up this topic on exes today is simply because i just had dinner with my ex. my ex of three years with whom i broke up because of infidelity. as in i was cheating on my boyfriend. i could not live with having sex with one guy for the rest of my love life. it's like being in a buffet and all you can take are the halal steamed chicken breast. my malay bf was a really good guy lah. he was steady, kind and really really really loved me. he was pretty much like a lamp post, stoic and resilient and nothing much could knock him down. but you know, eating halal steamed chicken breast everyday makes you crave for an international cuisine.

so i went behind his back and i put on a condom and we had really great anal sex, made up and sealed our love forever. yah.... if only that were the case of Jon the faithful spouse. i went behind his back and i screwed 10 other guys while he wasn't looking and up to this day, i feel kinda bad about it actually. many times i lied to him that i was at venue A dining with B, C or D, when i was actually at venue F doing U, C and K. when i actually came clean to him about it, he was disappointed and he put up with my infidelity for a while. but we finally broke up when we couldn't reconcile our differences. which was a good thing. i've been a free bird ever since.

with my philosophy on being friends after breaking-up in mind, i thought that having dinner with my ex would just be a simple affair of grabbing something good to eat, having a coffee, making good conversation and hoping that since i was back in Singapore for a short holiday, he would be paying for everything. most of my mates paid for most of my meals in sg so far, so i was kinda 50-50 expecting him to pay somewhat also. but alas, my ex didn't. we went dutch. and if the french, japanese and americans were available too, he would have went that fucking direction. ok, but that was a tad too calculative.

well dinner was really good and peppered with me asking all the questions. i could see that my ex was squirming in his seat for some reason. i was hoping it was a case of indigestion. but it was more like he was uncomfortable talking to me. and do note that it was him who wanted to meet up with me, not vice-versa hor! i wasn't really keen to meet up with my ex because the last time we met, we had dinner and later on checked into the hotel 81 at Bencoolen for what i presumed was really good break-up sex. he was nearly crying when he orgasmed. too much passion and feelings poured into sex. it turned out to be the worst kind of sex one could ever have.

after dinner we decided to walk around a bit and then head for some coffee.
bad idea. because by then, he zoned out already. it's like he had totally shut down and become this isolated thing. isolating me and all those precious memories he had of us together. i could feel that he was somewhat on the verge of tears. and if there's one thign that i'm terrified of, it's people crying. nothing can stop cryers from crying, short of a miracle. you can fucking stuff tissues in their tear ducts, give them smelling salts and whack them with a golf club and they will still be tearing like shit. solutions normally include things like bringing back the dead, patching back together and sex.

we took the train home together. he was actually on the verge of tears already. he asked me to guess what he was thinking, i told him 'it's been a really good dinner so far, so let's not ruin the evening shall we?'. he was tearing already and from the dark silhouetted reflections of the MRT window, i could see him secretly trying to wipe away tears by rubbing the bridge of his nose. what could i do but pretend to wallow in my ignorance. indeed, ignorance was bliss as we took the MRT back home. 3 stops only, but it felt more like 20.

so what is the bloody moral of this story?
as much as i would like to break up with my ex on amicable terms, it's sometimes the most difficult thing to do for the other party. if the ex doesn't want to, you can't really force them, right? i've heard of so many cases of people who settled on amicable terms and ending up with a backlash like months or sometimes even years later. sometimes i guess, the best thing is to totally sever all connections.

but like i alwayws say, it takes two hands to clap, one hand to slap, and no hands to crap.

you can fall in love, but with dignity and grace

when it comes to picking guys, i'm fussier than severely malnutritioned kids who refuse to eat their greens. i mean, they're kids, and green is not exactly the most appetizing of colours to appear on edible items. kids who watch TV somehow learn that green and red are the general colours for evil due to the graphic representation of toxic slime and perhaps the devil's arse (green and red respectively; though sometimes the opposite could be true as well). later when the same kids grow up, they realize that green and red are still just as evil. it's a big conspiracy by the major toy companies to promote the yuletide gift exchanges.

think of it this way: if for some reason, God made chicken green and kai lan brown, the whole world would settle for peace over salads, fruits and juices. there would be no war. and everybody would be a marijuana-smoking hippie.

but back to the topic of guys.

i'm not asking for a lot when it comes to looking for a guy to go into a relationship with. i just want someone who's very englishy, someone who reads books, loves the arts and very easy to relate to. only 4 requirements leh. it may sound really easy to find someone like that. but i return a big NO to you. after being gay for like 6 years plus, i have yet to find someone whom i thought was perfect or at least somewhat below perfect. singapore is such a fucking small country, don't tell me that someone like that also cannot find. cannot be right?

so it was really unexpected for me to find someone like that at towel club, having sex with someone who fits the description above. now, towel club is your typical 'men's spa', except the interiors look more chi-chi, the membership card looks nicer, the service staff there serve a much better aesthetic purpose, and the dark rooms have more mirrors than a mirror maze. there were so many men packed in such a confined space yesterday, that if HFMD (hand, foot, mouth disease) were an adult disease, the Ministry of Health would have to extend the acronym to HFMCAD (clue: your privates).

so i had sex with the Raffles Boy that i always wanted. yah, i shamelessly have a fetish for single-sex school educated people. or maybe we can broaden the scope to elite schools people. apparently these schools are mainly single-sex. my alma mater, (Fairfield) was one step below being elite, but still we had our pride intact and proudly proclaimed to go co-ed for a mission school. i'm proud to be from Fairfield. and that's all it'll be.

actually, i think brains are a really good aphrodisiac. not brains as in, halfway through sex you just start talking about calculus , medical law, philosophy and shit. but brains as in you prove that you can talk about any topic in the world and chip in your two cents worth. and in order to do that, i believe you either need to read a lot, or you need to talk a lot with other people.

of course, it also helps also that the sex was just so wild and spontaneous. i never knew that Raffles boys were so fucking wild. we were like two creatures carvoting with each other on the Discovery Channel. i tell you, if all of them Rafflesians were like him, i would have studied harder for my PSLE and got into an elite school myself. we chatted during a sex intermission about ourselves and the more i learn about him, the more i think i'm actually liking him. it's sick actually. having a crush on someone at a spa. people go there to have sex and you can actually dig up something like that from nowhere. i've always had the policy of detaching myself from human feelings at the spa. can make friends, but as long as you don't fall for someone, everything's fine. well, all the same, we exchanged numbers and promised to have sex again (his parents are out for the weekend).

so the option's open now. i mean, i would definitely like to meet up with him again for good sex and all. but is that all there is to it? orgive me for sounding like a trailer voice-over, but what do you do when the perfect guy comes along and you discover that he's freaking rich (lives in an orchard apartment), studies at an uber elite university, has given up his citizenship here and become more or less an American citizen already? yah, i know. if Avril Lavigne were with me, she would be singing 'complicated'.

as i'm typing this post now with Coldplay on my itunes and darkness everywhere else in my bedroom, i ponder about what the future holds. are we gonna go steady? are we gonna be great friends? are we gonna correspond over email? i know i'm thinking too much. but it's like if i can call him up now and just talk with him, i would definitely do so. but control, jon, control. self-control and restraint.

you can fall in love. but do it with your dignity intact. and of course, your pants on.

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

elevated toilet humour

elevator humour

i found this really up-LIFTing grafitti in my block's elevators.
the culprits i suspect are this bunch of mat kids.

why the mat kids?
because all the kids in my block are so cheena that they think AULD LANG SYNE is the latest trashy pop hit from Romania about fruity signatures. of course, the chinese version will be coming out soon by the next singaporean cheena export who refuses to show his/her face on the bloody album, preferring to hide instead behind an animated persona.

my parents tsk-ed when they saw it.
in my heart, i was cheering for ingenuity and creativity of the kids.

sex with a familiar stranger

the word 'men's spa' is absolutely deceiving. the first time my friend mentioned 'men's spa', i was thinking along the lines of homeopathic treatments, shiatsu massages and aromatherapy, all conducted to the sounds of ethnic music piped at an almost inaudible volume in the background. for that, you have boring ol' chi-chi straight spas in sentosa and malaysia for that. in singapore, a men's spa just screams GAY 50 yards away. it's like a mamak store selling general sundries with a big rainbow flag hanging at the entrance, thus attracting mainly 'hey ve're indian and ve're gay! and we represent the gay south-asian communittee' types of customers.

so what the fuck is a men's spa?
basically it's an excuse to pay an almost exorbitant admission fee and relax. relax described in one simple word - SEX. exorbitant because prices can range from $1.70 to $25 per entry. i mean i could get it for only $2.50 at the nearest gym lor. but i digress.

so the main concept behind it is that you pay to have sex. you don't pay to have sex with HOs and bitches. but you pay to have sex with other playas. it's sorta like a brothel except it's an open community brothel kinda thing. every goes there and contributes their bit and in turn receives their bit too. something like wikipedia, except that it's gay and orgasmic.

i love spas. there's just simply a thrill when it comes to sex with strangers. i dunno why. but maybe variety is the spice of life and the only spice that i appear to be taking is salt and protein (not really a spice, but in my dictionary, it's definitely a spice). the thrill of going to a spa for sex is simply indescribable. the journey to the spa, gives me an excited tingly feeling. somehow or other, i get excited by the fact that i'm gonna be meeting someone new today. and knowing that i'll be fucking the shit out of someone, just puts the icing, salt and protein on the cake.

so today was like any other exciting outing to a spa that i frequent relatively near the clarke quay area. i had time to kill after meeting a friend in town. so i thought, to myself (or at least my dick thought to itself), i'm fucking horny so why not head down to the nearest spa on my map and get some good sex. and the nearest spa on my gaydar was that one in clarke quay (if you dunno which one, ask the next available rainbow ambassador you see).

the spa is absolutely conducive for having sex. there's dim lighting. there's plenty of dark rooms. and there's even rooms with mirrors, beds, bdsm settings, chains, cages, toilet settings, and the list goes on and on. it's every straight man's dream except that there are no HOs and Bitches around. dim is good. cos you can't see what the other party looks like except for his silhouette. alas, not being able to see is also a real drawback cos i have had my very own embarassing moment when i walked into a metal gate which i totally couldn't see because it was so fucking dark.

so there i was shopping around and looking around for suitable candidates. i scanned and found the first available decent chap. a young guy pretty much my age and relatively ok lah. the pick of the day lah. the rest of the people were either too skinny or not my type (older men). and so into the dark room we went. fast forward and edit out the sex bits: we had sex. it was good. i got screwed in the end because the sex was so good (he sucked my toes, disgusting, but kinky). and all the while, i was thinking, who is this familiar chap that i have seen before somewhere?

it wasn't until the aftermath of sex where we got to talking when i realized he was younger than me by one year and in national service. just like me. i talked to him some more over drink and the conversation went something like that:

GUY: So what course were you in when you were in poly?

ME: Nursing lor. And you?

GUY: Chem Engineering.

ME: What poly?

GUY: Nanyang Poly. Same as you lah. Ask you ah, do you know N?

(confirmations start coming in)

ME: N? He was my best friend during my nursing days.

GUY: Eh? Me ALSO! Orrrrrrh!!!! I know who you are already!!! You are N's Jonathan.

ME: and you are N's very good friend from secondary school!!

GUY AND ME: shit.

so can you imagine the big surprise when we found out how both of us were related after all? imagine finding out that a best friend of you best friend is gay and you had sex with him? and the worst thing is that you best friend doesn't know that you had sex with his best friend. i got screwed by my best friend's best friend.

('It's A Small World After All' plays in the bacground)

Monday, April 10, 2006

a straight responsibility

in these end times of in-coming brimstone and hail, it's difficult to make your point across, especially to homophobic and inconvertible parents like mine. my parents are 'holier-than-thou' personified. in fact, they make the word itself seem like just some singed pieces of joss paper and ashes. everything they do, they do by the book, and the book here being the Holy Bible (King James Version, no less!). so of course, according to the bible, homosexuality is like up there with an entire list of DON'Ts like DON'T LITTER, DON'T MASTURBATE, DON'T SMOKE IN PUBLIC AREAS, DON'T CHA. it seems that living a holy life is not cut out for an uber-liberated person like me.

it all started with my dad who snooped around in my laptop while i was off swimming. very sneaky. and lo and behold he found my stash of not-so-well-hidden porn. it was basically sitting in the 'My Pictures' folder waiting like a budding cheena J.J. Lin look-alike musician, to be discovered. and the reason why i don't like him finding porn in my computer is not because of the embarassment or the punishment there after. it all boils down to the super long speech he will start preaching to me about. the father, lets loose an entire verbal barrage on AIDS and hell and burning and gnashing of teeth and an entire list of adjectives associated with hell and intolerable pain.
it's like going to church, except that it's not sunday. which makes it all the more so painful and tedious (i hate going to church).

after 6 years of being gay, i've practically stocked up enough anti-bodies to build a natural immunity against his load of bullscheizer. my father has this was of making me feel guilty about being gay. he'll say something like 'Can you think of us also? (us referring to the rest of my family) Think about how we'll be affected if you get AIDS (it'll be troublesome to send me to the nursing home, but other than that, shouldn't be an issue). Think about your auntie who signed the hospital bond together with me? How are we going to pay back if you get AIDS?'

i don't talk to them and that is one reason why this gay issue between the parents and me has still yet to be resolved. my dad still thinks that i'm his little holy Christian son with a mansionette built for Jesus in my heart. in actual fact, i've already leased the whole fucking place to Satan and his entire troop of chippendales. to me, religion is just a set of guidelines that we adopt for living. whether or not someone wants to adopt religion to live out his life by, that is solely his buisness.

is there yet a religion that truly and really works wonders? we could always bring on the same set of 'if God can blah blah blah, then why can't God blah blah blah; questions that all of us ponder upon day after day and still not find the answer:
- if God loves us all, then why are there still famines, pestilence, diseases and wars all over this crappy world?
- why can't God repeat the manna (sweetened bread, the closest pastry it tastes like is Kellogg's Frosties) trick like he did for Moses and his peeps in the wilderness? it's just sprinkling sprinkling some cornflakes from his box of everlasting Frosties!
- if God sees and knows everything, then why didn't he stop major world catastrophies from happening in the first place?
- if God can see everything, then can he watch me wank? i'm a voyeur and i like the idea of a higher power watching me going about my daily ablusions

these are all just rantings of a really disgruntled son lah.
disgruntled that he has a personal responsibility to turn straight. i'm happy being gay and in fact, i don't think i can ever turn straight again (after a stint of become straight for just 4 hours). it's just too... for the lack of a better word, Straight. i mean, if it's about continuing the family line, there's always my rather good-looking brother. he has pretty good genes, physical-wise. and judging from pant size, i daresay my entire family should be pretty well-endowed.

if it's about money-wise, i seriously don't intend to drag anybody down with my financially. i have back-up cash in my banks. enough to survive for a while if i contract AIDS. enough to pay back my bond if i contract AIDS. enough to stay away from the family if i contract AIDS. yah, my dad is terrified of AIDS. not the disease of course. but the stigma of having a son who contracted AIDS through anal intercourse. no worries, i won't drag my family down.

so what in the world is the flooking problem with being gay?
going by the old teenage adage (which can also be applied to anal intercourse and the usage of earbuds) 'How can it be wrong if it feels so right?'

sigh. parents.

Friday, April 07, 2006

the stress of the slow

i just touched down in singapore after an uber long time in brunei.
it's a good thing that i'm here actually. cos i'm finally getting to use wireless broadband in the comforts of my very own home. meaning that i can download endless porn from limewire from my bedroom. i can finally download the Feast Of Fools Podcasts that i so have no caught up with. and i can also finally type this blog in peace. the thing is, i have so many things that i wanna do in Singapore that i dunno where to stay exactly.

that feeling where you have 10 things on your checklist and only 1 hour to accomplish all of them. and you know that each item on your checklist prolly takes only minutes. but in order to score a perfect combo of completing all the items on the checklist, you start thinking where you wanna start first. and the more you think the more you develop a massive migraine over the various decisions. and that's where i am at now. the feeling that i have not enough time to accomplish whatever i wanna do. like i'm rushing to do things.

even as i'm typing this email i'm also rushing through it. i'm gonna be having dinner with the parents soon. we're eating out. and later i might be meeting some other friends for kopi and teh. which will prolly dig into the wee hours of the night. thing i feel stressed over is the fact that i do not have time to myself.

sigh. i think i need to find some quiet time and shut everything down around me.

About Me

Name: the nurse
Home: Singapore
About Me: i'm a nurse, i'm gay, i smoke, i play the piano, i patronize the theatre, i flip through glossy magazines for no apparent reason, i love sex, i am a left-handed libran, i watch art-house films mostly, i love house music, and did i say i love sex?
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