GCF. (Good Clean Fun)

Good Clean Fun. Depending on who you ask, this innocuous term may have very different meanings. It is a convenient term that entails activities so varied as to be barely more than a personal barometer of acceptable fun activities. A catch-all phrase that encompasses anything from a puritanical litany of do nots like No sex, No drugs, No drinking, No partying, No swearing (which does cause one to wonder whether there's anything left to do other than sitting around and rotting from boredom after one is through with the said litany) to the decidedly laissez-faire attitude of 'Anything goes long as you don't come back dead, pregnant or escorted by cops.'

After all those years of listening to the same tiresome litany of commandments from the Mother, you can be certain that a lot of my GFC entailed a great number of forbidden activities. Which wasn't very hard at all because anything other than a brief dinner till 8.30pm and a wholesome movie was considered potentially sinful. Like a group of teenagers might suddenly feel inspired at 15 mins to nine to organise a hedonistic orgy of sex and drugs in drunken revelry. Terrible.

I like to think my personal GCF barometer is somewhere in between. Not a restrictive mantra of commandments that would stifle a nun but yet I'd still like to return home conscious, with my pants on. Unless I'm bunking in with some cute delectable dude in which case, I'd rather not have anything on. Sex is to me a grey area of sorts, I'd usually lump it under GFC without much thought because it is Good, Clean (well most of the time) and undeniably Fun. I'd admit there are times when passionate orgasmic sex can be hot & dirty in which case it'd have to go under GHF (Good Hot Fun) which covers almost all other sexcapades including but not limited to sleepovers and dirty sex in decidedly dangerous places. Alright so my GFC does tend to gravitate towards the more hedonistic end of the spectrum.

Clubbing (when i do get round to it these days) and dancing with the boys and girls is certainly GCF in my books. And when I say dancing I mean the kind I'm most accustomed to, good ole jiving preferably with lots of contact to boot. Contact that usually entails a decent amount of hand-on-various parts of the body action. It's something only the straight boys and attached peeps are exempt from, the former because they cannot handle it and the latter out of courtesy unless they initiate it cause their other half dances like a zombie.

Some might call it dirty dancing, I think it's a load of crap. Dirty dancing's restricted to the kind of dance more accurately described as sex, fully clothed on the dance floor. You know the kind where there's more grinding than dancing and the two individuals are so tightly entwined they look like a single sinuous entity of lust. Not that I have anything against dirty dancing which can be perfectly fine if the occasion (and person) calls for it.

Shaking that body and letting your hands do the talking is to me perfectly normal for dancing. Not exactly something I'd call 911 for even if the effect is that Shawty is burning on the dance floor. After all, dancing is in Sean Paul's words, all about getting busy and shaking that thing. Not spasming like a spastic vibrator or flopping about like a dying fish.

Though I'm not too sure about the Gang's plan to haul a rather hawkish almost bestial creature to the perfunctory birthday clubbing session in the hope that there'd be fire burning on the dance floor. Doesn't help that she reminds me of an embalmed mummy and the PM sent a very disturbing youtube link of Shakira's Shewolf. Now this is something I'd call 911 for.

Thanks to JL, this song appears to be a regular repertoire in the gang's list of favourite party songs. Happy whacking, ok JL? haha.

Gay Sex: An Anthropological Observation.

"So when are you gonna ask me to fuck on down?" G asked, over Msn.

"Fuck on down?" I enquired, feigning ignorance for what must have been the umpteenth time.

"Meet to fuck la. Ask you how long already." came the annoyed reply.

"Aiya busy la. Let you know ya?" I went before returning to the outrageous antics of Edina and Patsy on Absolutely Fabulous.

This recent conversation is increasingly representative of the current state of my non-existent sex life- a reluctance to meet up and fuck. An explanation is in order. G, whom I first knew about 6 months ago is an above average dude in the looks department, not hot but certainly not ugly either. Like one of the many guys I'm still in contact with these days, just not one I die die must sleep with. So I don't.

It's been almost 8 months since I last had sex. In the world of testosterone fueled, cock worshiping gay men, that's an eternity. Or in my world at least. Eight years ago (or so) when a raging hard-on could be summoned by something as simple as a single touch, a lewd piece of literature or eye contact with a hot guy; the current state of affairs would have been unthinkable and wholly unacceptable.

After all gratification was simply a mouse click or phone call away. Perhaps many clicks away along with the perfunctory chat ups but nothing a phone call and picture couldn't settle. Back when the sex drive was ridiculously high. Fast forward to the present day, the Siren's call to get laid has certainly been tempered somewhat by an assortment of factors such as the maturity that comes with age (and tamer hormones), the diminished returns in pleasure derived from a purely physical activity devoid of any emotions other than release and gratification and the perceived inconvenience of arranging such meet-ups.

Don't get me wrong, I still love sex and it's certainly one of the more enjoyable activities (assuming it's decent sex) one can engage in with a person that one isn't that well acquainted with provided both of you can find the time and place to do so. That said and done, these days I'm starting to find that sex is, in someone's words, 'not worth the trouble'. These days gratification is obtained almost entirely from porn and good old masturbation. While hardly as intense or possibly gratifying as a good fuck, jerking off remains fast, safe and entirely personal without the hassle of having to meet up and engage in the requisite pre & post-coital small talk.

After all, with the exception of friends who fuck or Fuck Buddies whom contrary to popular belief are few and far between, you never know what's going to end up on your platter when you meet up. The vast majority are average or satisfactory, some are spectacularly orgasmic while others like Mr Bad Sex are an abysmal letdown. The kind that make me wish I'd settled for Vilem Cage and a wad of tissue paper instead.

However, apart from an exposition on the the pros and cons of fucking in the flesh as opposed to wanking off, I've found it deliciously ironic how topsy turvy the average gay guy's view on sex, or at least mine in particular, appears to have become. Looking back on my sexcapades, I'm amazed by a fair number of the guys that I slept with. Those that I recall sleeping with, that is. And when I say amazed, I mean the "Why on earth did I sleep with a guy like that?" and not " Oh my god, he was such a hot stud." kind of amazed.

Not that the said guys were ogres or freaks. Even in those testosterone driven years where a turgid member of the anatomy was the de facto seat of reason, I still had certain standards or requisites. But those guys were certainly not people I'd meet up with for a fuck these days. In typical ab-fab lingo, guys I'd not even get out of bed to meet let alone fuck.

Which invites the inevitable conclusion that my expectations or standards then for guys I'd ONS/MNS with were a lot lower than now. Though I guess it can always be argued that on hindsight, the dispassionate recollection of the lackluster guys I bonked and the sex I had doesn't take into account the consuming lust of youth and the rose tinted view of wild, rambunctious sex and pleasurable gratification.

Strangely enough, casual conversations with some gay friends who used to be equally salacious and have now toned down considerably, revealed similar experiences. And the irony is this, that as we age (and become arguably less 'attractive' as youthfulness is generally inextricably linked to good looks and attractiveness), gay guys become more demanding and considerably pickier about the guys we sleep with.

In contrast, when we were younger and arguably more attractive by virtue of our youthfulness, we were less discerning and more inclined to sleep around with other guys for the sake of physical gratification. Mind you, I'm just talking about the superficial physical, sexual attraction between gay guys, not the attraction & bond between 2 gays in a serious relationship. Youthfulness while often associated with immaturity, an obvious flaw in a relationship, is often an intoxicating allure for no-strings-attached flings.

On the flip side of things, youthfulness or good looks are not the only pull factors for flings, money and financial stability too possess an allure of their own. On the pain of sounding horribly banal (which the truth often is), aging gays, ghastly as the term may sound, can still remain attractive by reason of their financial status and the expected attendant benefits that come with such status,something that a younger gay guy may not be able to provide.

It's funny, to behold this topsy turvy state of affairs and mindset though I have reason to suspect that it is this precise mindset and attraction that promotes in some way, a symbiotic ons/mns relationship between older gay guys and their younger counterparts. A relationship or interaction if you prefer, from which both parties benefit.

The older guys get the hot fucks, virility that might remind them of their younger days along with the good looks while the younger gays get the more experienced guys, presumably more mature and with the money to back it up.

And for those in limbo? Neither young nor uncaring enough to be able to bank on their youthfulness and less caring of who they get off with; yet not really old with moola to throw around?

Porn's the word and inertia the action of the day. All because they're more discerning than their younger counterparts and less desperate than the older ones. And with that I think I managed to offend all gay guys not within the ages of 25 to 29. Ha ha, I'm kidding.

On a serious note, it'd be interesting to see how long the current state of affairs continue. And if all else fails (because no one ever gets younger), one can always make the best of the situation and be Fit and Fabulous while attaining financial security.

Repeat it with me now: I am Thin and Gorgeous! Now make sure you at least have the semblance of the former before saying it. Certainly if you intend to plant anyone's hands on your waist. Haha.

Life from a lunchbox

Ever since the imposition of emergency fiscal measures resulted in an abrupt end to the halcyonic days of hedonistic revelry that included unbridled spending and mind numbingly expensive meals cum entertainment; I’ve settled in quite comfortably to the life of a pauper. The things that should have gone down have done so (expenses, waist line etc) and the one thing that should have gone up, has (bank account balance). Apart from the bewildering array of questions ranging from the polite (wa so healthy eating sandweeech?) to the knowing (wa so broke eh) to the downright ludicrous (eh 妹妹 not around so you need to lunch in?) that I’ve encountered since I started packing sandwiches to work for my semiweekly lunch ins, the transition from a princely lifestyle to a decidedly more pauper-ish one wasn’t as bad as envisaged.

Naturally, the said transition from extravagant 50 bucks a pop lunches to home packed sandwiches took a while to get used to but it was a necessity that was embraced with alacrity after one look at the appalling balance in the bank account. Having settled into the semi weekly sandwich routine, I’ve discovered that it comes with certain benefits, of which increased productivity appears to be one. All these short lunches and getting by on a barely filled stomach appear to translate into increased productivity by clearing more work in the same period of time.

Apart from the obvious benefits of having more time from forsaking long lunches and escaping the sluggish aftermath that inevitably follows on the heels of the said lunches, there are other benefits. Sandwiches don’t fill you up but manage to sate the hunger of sorts. A combination that produces an interesting effect. It’s as if surviving on this state of semi-starved consciousness where everything seems sharper and clearer, right down to the more pronounced buzz of silence, somehow enables you to function more effectively.

Thoughts are clearer and concentrating on a dreary piece of work is less of a chore such that a reply is churned out sooner rather later. This esophageal nirvana of semi-starvation is akin to being connected on a subliminal level to a higher dispassionate consciousness by a thread. A consciousness unrestrained by the demands for the need for food, the pleasure of taste and texture. Even the air that you breathe seems more rarified.

This state of mind usually persists till the end of the day or a couple of hours there after at most, often just enough to last the by now familiar daily journey back on the train and bus as well as the long walk back home. By which time, I’m usually fully starved and would succumb to the call of the stomach by scavenging for leftovers or just cooking something simple.

It’s all nice and dandy to function on a semi-starved consciousness at work where everything appears so brittle and clear and the air is decidedly more rarified but I’d rather be adequately stuffed and sated by something other than bread at the end of the day. And when being sluggish or sleepy is the least of my concerns.

For was it not said?
Man shall not live by bread alone. He also needs a little butter.