Looking back and revisiting previous entries is like stepping back in time. Into that particular moment of time where the subject matter on hand, your frame of mind and even the emotions evoked suddenly become manifestly clear. As fresh and vivid as if it were just yesterday.
By chance, I'd stumbled upon one of the old entries I'd written on the defunct Diary-X almost 5 years ago, one of the few I'd archived and transferred to the ex blog shortly before Diary-X crashed. Written shortly after a shocking and singularly unpleasant disclosure from a close friend about another, the entry was a seething cauldron of angst, rage, bewilderment, disappointment and frustration. An entry that could be summed up in 2 perennial tragic ejaculations oft uttered across the eons by the betrayed: 'Why?" and 'How could you!?'
For the shock of a betrayal by a person you counted close enough to you to guard your back and whose back you'd always been guarding is most brutally felt is it not? Less fatal is the frontal evisceration by an enemy than the unexpected stab in the back by a trusted friend. Especially if the betrayal has been extensive and systematic, undermining all that you thought the relationship stood for. For trust that was so freely given once destroyed, is incredibly difficult to reestablish.
I contemplated republishing the entire entry in full. To let you, my dear reader, catch perhaps a glimpse of what it was that I felt then. But I decided against it. True enough, the fevered cry of disbelief, anger, disappointment and frustration burn through but what point would it serve to make? Other than as a signpost marking the date from which the inevitable change in the dynamics of the relationship/ interaction began. And what use would it be to rehash the unchangeable past, to lament the inevitable future?
Lies are a cancerous affliction to any relationship, friend, lover or otherwise. Embark on it and you'll need to keep lying, to support the old lies till the entire interaction, the core of the relationship becomes a tower of cards. One slip and the entire rigmarole collapses. For was it not said? What a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.
So the relationship and our interaction changed, irrevocably, as it inevitably must when such betrayal comes to light. But yet I did not wish to judge you so, to write you off, on the account of the strength of our relationship, the duration of our friendship. I wished to observe, to assist and with time, to forgive and forget.
But you repaid trust with deceit, loyalty with disdain, sympathy with scorn. Your closest friends you mocked and sneered at. Never to their faces of course. Lies were what you spun and lies were what you clothed yourself with, numerous layers of crushing dross that failed to hide the hideous skeleton beneath. Blinded by your very lies, consumed by your obsession to appear better than all. An impeccable facade or so you believe, a deluded perception that is almost laughable in its paucity of believability. But what else can you expect of a house of cards that has already come crashing down?
A stranger in the guise of a friend. The worst of both worlds. I believed I've mentioned in a fit of pique that 'Pretentious conniving backstabbers warrant less respect than a glistening glob of spitum lying on the filthy market floor.' Former friends and confidantes like the aforesaid deserve even less.
In any case, don't bother analysing this entry. Your hypocrisy sickens me.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Looking back and revisiting previous entries is like stepping back in time. Into that particular moment of time where the subject matter on hand, your frame of mind and even the emotions evoked suddenly become manifestly clear. As fresh and vivid as if it were just yesterday.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Sometimes, after a particularly long day at work or when the mind feels lazy and languid, enshrouded by the stupor of inertia; incoherency and the lack of need to write in perfect prose is a liberating luxury I often embrace. The ability to ramble without paying attention to form and format, blogging in its unadulterated form, raw and rough around the edges. It might be not be pretty or a lyrical piece of crap but you can be sure that it's a heartfelt piece of crap. It's certainly not a Brain Fuck so don't expect one.
And it's for this precise reason, those times when being gloriously incoherent and shamelessly insipid is an irresistible attraction and talking about the randomest things doesn't seem so heinous; that I've started the Random Ramblings segment. For all the random things I'll ever need/want/have to ramble about.
One of the perennial problems confronting your average gay guy at the start of his journey is 'Just how Out/open should I be?' How that gay guy responds sets the tone for his future interaction with fellow human beings, particularly the straight crowd but at times even other members of the same sexuality. And it is a question which every gay guy continues to face throughout the course of his life. The answer often changing at various stages throughout his journey till an equilibrium is reached and the person truly satisfied. Some never reach this equilibrium, some are in a permanent stasis, some remain closeted, forever in denial.
Most usually start out a little hesitant, conservative and toe the act straight look straight be straight line. None but the closest friends and their sexual partners know. But as we progress, experience more, our perceptions change, we become more comfortable with 'outing' ourselves to various groups of people, less likely to conform to the societal notion of conventionally acceptable heterosexual behaviour and interests. Some stoically refuse to change on the ground that privacy is paramount and prefer living separate lives. Others, as mentioned, for reasons best known to themselves remain closeted, confused or in denial. To each his own.
Though, I have found through personal observation and interaction that the confused, closeted and those in denial almost always never find or are able to settle down with someone whom they can call their own in a fulfilling relationship. As it is, it's already hard enough for those of us comfortable with our sexuality to find a suitable partner. Remaining single for the rest of our lives is for many a gay guy a veritable nightmare which they would never openly admit to.
While many lament the prospect and declare that they have resigned themselves to a future of singledom and eternally cold beds, just how many would be content to remain truly single? For is it not human nature to want to share your life and experiences with another? To love and be loved. And it is with great cynicism that I view declarations that relationships are immaterial and unnecessary. For they are not and such declarations only serve to expose the naivety of the person making such statements.
I do not know about you. But I find confident, open guys who are comfortable with their sexuality infinitely more attractive than confused, closeted ones who remain close and guarded.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
If I'm incoherent so be it. It's one of those days when I just need to pen my thoughts down, mental diahorrea if you will, as if the purgative effect of expelling these thoughts on the blog would achieve a cathartic release of sorts. It may, it may not. But I care not.
I saw the Ex's sister at the gym today. I think she didn't see me. Which was fine. It's strange enough disapppearing entirely from a person's life. It's even more awkward attempting to explain to an Ex's family member that you used to see on a regular basis why you have for all intent and purposes dropped off the face of this earth since [insert DOBreakup].
God knows the excuses we furnish to sate the curiosity of puzzled family members: busy with his job, studies, migrated, sick, died, and if all else fails there's the classic 'So anyway [what's for dinner/when is X's birthday?/insert random question to which you don't really want to know the answer to]' diversion -brooks-no-further-discussion question.
Dealing with the sudden vacuum and in particular (for this aspect) the people who become aware of it is a messy uncomfortable affair of vague answers and brusque rejoinders. Unpleasant but inevitable.
I never have the habit of saving MSN conversations. I think it's tacky, a waste of time (both saving and reviewing it) and destroys spontaneity, in that the conversation is saved with the possibility that it may be used against the other party to make some point. A sign of just how little faith you have in that person.
But for some reason or the other, I saved three with the Ex. Even labelled it nicely with the dates and title and kept it in a separate folder. 20/04/08, 05/05/08, 06/05/08, 15/07/08. Pre-Mass Call. Post -Disastrous Bangkok Trip. I don't know why. Save that the emotions were extremely raw when I saved the said conversations.
Slices of time and the entire spectrum of emotions displayed, joy, coyness, bewilderment, rage, angst, hate, sorrow and mind numbing anguish forever captured in those unblinking words. The sharpness and vividness of those raw unbridled emotions leaping forth to assault the mind when reviewing the exchanges in the 4 conversations.
A microcosm of the wild desperate passion that laid the foundation, the intermission injection of responsible commitment and obstacles that kept it going and the tragic inability to communicate that brought the 6 year relationship to an end. I'd kept them, away. But never deleting them. I'd read them. Twice. Sometime last year.
I read them again. And once again like every single time I did so. I experience that whole spectrum again, joy, hope, anguish, sorrow, angst, disbelief, regret, rage, hate and pity. That gnawing vacuum in the chest where keeling over dead might somehow be a preferable way of stopping the ache. Crying is not an option, the tears have long dried up, the choking sobs dead in the throat. Then utter disbelief before the rage sets in, pure, livid, blinding in its encompassing entirety. Shaking in fury. But pity, most of all, pity that despite all the attempts at communication, somehow, somewhere, there was still this horrible miscommunication or lack of communication which proved to be the final fatal straw.
I know I shouldn't be keeping them, let alone reading them. Relics of a bygone past. A past best remembered for the good times and the things that made the entire relationship special, the ability to share your life with another for so close, so long.
I know. I know all the right things to do. I've repeated them to myself a million times over. I've moved on. Started on new activities, trashed some. Entered the scene again. Touched base again with some old friends, severed contact with other less deserving ones, forged new ties. It's what I would have advised anyone else. Still would. I know.
But like the quirky sometimes incomprehensible things that humans are, I know but I do it. Not 'Because I can', to borrow Obama's catch all caption of self-empowerment. One certainly does not need/want to be affirmative to do the things one knows is obviously detrimental (or at the very least not in one's best interest) for one. But simply 'Because I do'. A realistic outlook and a recognition of the frailties of human nature and people's idiosyncrasies .
That sometimes, whether you like it or not, people do things which they know they shouldn't do because it's not good for them and they know it, because they do. It's not rocket science, it's not some philosophical school of thought as to how people should behave, it's not even justification. It's simply human nature at its most idiosyncratic form.
I know I should delete them. I haven't. But they're somewhere. I'm calm but strangely numb. And I'm going off to bed.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
"It's amazing isn't it? How people claim to be able to see the future in the most mundane of things. Like coffee grounds. Wonder how anyone sees shit from that shit." J mused, staring at the dregs of kopi in his empty cup.
"You didn't ask me out for supper just to bemoan your future as foretold in an 80 cents cup of coffee, did you?" I replied, pushing the remnants of prata round my plate.
We were seated at one of the ubiquitous prata stalls along Jalan Kayu having just about finished supper. J had called when I was on the way home after a quick movie and dinner with SZ (incidentally, Slumdog was better than expected) and asked/demanded/begged to meet for supper.
"Supper?" J said. In that usual semi-authoritative question without an option tone of his.
"Nope. Don't you have better things to do on Valentine's Day? Besides I'm already on my way back."
"No. That's why I'm calling you." came the reply.
"Thanks ah. As usual I'm the fall back plan. Besides I'm too fat for supper." I retorted.
"Rubbish. You've been gymming so much you'll be a bag of bones soon. And no la, reallly want to meet you for supper. You should know how miserable V. day is for me."
"So, get a stud then."
"No la, come la.."
Which was roughly how the conversation went till I agreed, mainly cause I knew he was still in the dumps over his recent breakup, but not before wrangling a ride back home from J.
Neither of us being a fan of the fancy flavoured pratas, supper consisted of the conventional prata, 1 egg & kosong for J, a single kosong for yours truly and the standard kopis. Which was how we ended up talking about coffee grounds.
"Stop being a grumps. Just surprised to the extent that people will go just to attempt to have a glimpse of their future. And they might not even like what they see." J retorted.
"Hmmm someone's very philosophical tonight eh. Well, I always think it's sad if your life is set out in a cup. Or see your future in all that murk."
"Hah. Ever the cynicist. You never know."
"What, your future in a cup? Fine then, tell me what your coffee predicts is in store for you for tomorrow..no the rest of Valentine's Day. Might not have enough dregs for tomorrow's future."
"Alright." J swirls the cup then peers in.
"See those coffee bits pointing away from the main mass? It says... I'm going to fuck someone tonight." He intones.
Rolling my eyes, I replied in an equally deadpan voice. "Right, good for you then. Coffee dregs happen to tell you who that might be?"
Grinning, J looked up. "Wanna fuck tonight?"
"Is that what your coffee told you? Cause it's wrong. And for avoidance of doubt, no we're not fucking tonight."
"But it's Vday! A day to celebrate love! A day to make love!"
"All the more reason why we aren't fucking. Go call one of your special friends."
"You're one. Remember?" he prompted with that annoying 'tut tuting' sound of his.
"Says you. Well find another then. You've got lots."
"You leave me with no choice then. Gotta scroll through all one million of them" J gave a mock sigh while fishing out his hand phone.
"Though you do know you'll possibly die of aids at the rate you're plowing through the entire gay population in Singapore." I couldn't resist adding.
"Give me more credit than that. I go for quality and always take the necessary precautions. You know that." Then turning to look at me, J continued. "Did you know that you 're such a bitch?"
"Thanks" I smiled- the saccharine sweet drop dead smile. "Too bad. I'll never be your bitch."
"Ah, damn." He hit his fist in mock pity. "I'll remember to tell your future boyfriend that you enjoy being his bitch though." J added dryly.
"Fuck you." The instinctive retort.
"Yes please. For a change."
And we laughed.
People say sex is cathartic. So is the ability to engage in unadulterated heartfelt conversation with a friend, 'special' friend or otherwise, without having to worry about offending sensibilities.
And it is for that reason, that some friends are better off staying the way they are. As friends.
Monday, February 9, 2009
In the night they ran, under the guise of darkness, faceless forms clad in black, the wind parting before their silent onslaught.
A blur of motion, blades of grass bending momentarily, before springing back up, the only witnesses to their silent passage.
Human in form yet strangely fluid, the night distorts around them, weaving and warping into something sinister, malevolent.
Tireless, unceasing, they hurtle onward, swift silent sentinels of death.
Miles away, an old man stirs, in the feverish throes of death, beads of sweat peppering his clammy forehead.
And in that fevered fog of semi consciousness, that ephemerous state between this world and the next, the dying man sees, what mortal eyes blinded by the frail sparks of mortality cannot see.
With a wretched sob he cries out to warn of impending doom, sightless eyes transfixed at that invisible horror, pain racking his already failing body, but no words emerge.
Only blood specked froth on purple splotched skin.
Bear it, have faith, resigned family members cry, holding him tight.
A shuddering sigh, and he is gone, quiet sobs rising into the night, a dirge to the recently departed.
Under the cover of darkness they arrive, disappearing into the multitudinous shadows, sudden, silent.
Shrieks and wails pierce the night, for one by one the living fall, the crimson horror of blood and purplish spots on the body, sigils of death.
Then the last lights die, and they leave as silently, as they had arrived, thieves in the night.
Leaving naught but the miasma of death and decay, and silence, oppressive and sinister, deafening in its entirety.
P/s: Based loosely on the Black Death which exploded in 1347AD and subsided 3 years later (though it never really died out for another 200 years) but not before decimating more than half of Europe's population and crippling economies in the process.
"How many valiant men, how many fair ladies, breakfast with their kinfolk and the same night supped with their ancestors in the next world! The condition of the people was pitiable to behold. They sickened by the thousands daily, and died unattended and without help. Many died in the open street, others dying in their houses, made it known by the stench of their rotting bodies. Consecrated churchyards did not suffice for the burial of the vast multitude of bodies, which were heaped by the hundreds in vast trenches, like goods in a ships hold and covered with a little earth"
- Boccaccio, Giovanni, The Decameron vol. I
Thursday, February 5, 2009
What would New Year be without the customary romp? Or at least that was what I told myself when finally arranging to meet B. for a fuck or two, the day after CNY. We all know how hard little quirks and idiosyncrasies are to shake off once they set in. For some, it may be the eccentric but harmless squeezing the toothpaste in the middle when brushing their teeth. For others, it may some OCD slap-worthy habit of rearranging furniture right down to a precise angle. For me, it's just sex after New Year.
I'm not picky, either the Chinese or Western New Year is fine though both of course would be ideal. A pleasurable habit that extended back to the days when the emoish Wonderful by Everclear was playing over Perfect 10 and MJ hadn't been hauled off to court for sharing his bedroom with one kid too many. I never really needed an excuse for sex, though I guess it certainly sounds nicer if one has a special day/holiday to back it up. After all banging away is a form of celebration of sorts. But I digress.
So after hemming and hawing for a couple of weeks, I finally arranged to meet up B. who intially contacted me on trevvy. A curious Bi or so he termed himself (whatever that means), B. who had an extremely hot bod claimed to never had sex with another guy before but was willing to try fucking cause he found yours truly attractive. "And you never had sex with girls before?" I queried. "Er no" came the awkward reply.
Which did set off a few alarm bells. Bis with hot bods and killer abs usually have had some sort of sexual experience by 25 and even if the said specimen is the usually conservative and introverted type, he usually won't just suddenly want to try it out with some random stranger he finds attractive. But you get all weird sorts these days and since it was really just for an ONS and his body was hot (even if he looked just average), I thought how bad could it be.
Surprisingly bad. Just when you think you've seen it all, life hits you with a triple whammy that leaves one stunned and gasping in utter disbelief. We met at one of the numerous hotel 81 outlets, sterile and neutral, my preferred grounds these days. For starters, it was obvious that either some photoshop had been employed or the face pic involved a really liberal use of angles in getting the shot. Whatever the case is, Mr average-face was below average. Not ugly but below average.
His bod (thankfully - though perhaps sadly might be the better word on hindsight considering the stuff that was to follow..) was extremely hot. Superficial though it may sound, appearances and physical attraction are the make or break factors in the gay world of ONS or MNS. Finding a potential ONS unattractive is reason enough to not proceed with the planned tryst. Heartless but true. As I said guys are very visual creatures. And all the more so when it's no strings attached sex.
So we got down to business. For a curious bi, B. had no problems undressing in record time. I'd barely shut the door when he started stripping with an eagerness I'd not seen since those hedonistic teenage years. His idea of Frenching consisted of a sudden violent face mash with frenzied tongue thrusts that was about as erotic as having a live fish stuffed into one's mouth.
For all his faults, B had a hot bod and his package was bloody impressive. Extended to its full glory, it looked like some wild sinister beast, twitching and menacing. I remember staring at it in mild horror and wondering how I would get that bloody baton up my ass. But that's about as good as it got.
Sex was boring. Boring with a capital B. For starters, frottage is not my cup of tea. Never was, never will be. Oh I mean it's all fine and dandy to have some frot but I don't comprehend the appeal of 2 naked bodies rubbing continuously each other just to feel those extremities when there's so much more interesting and orgasmic stuff to do like oral and anal. Unless you're cold and trying to generate heat in which case, hugging would be the obvious choice. Certainly, the more pleasant one.
So when B. started to whiz back and forth on his washboard abs, there was that brief moment of deja vu and I mentally groaned. It didn't help after I indicated that I was getting bored that B clamped my thighs together and began thrusting his baton furiously between my legs. Which left me flabbergasted. Was this bugger seriously going to hump my legs for the remainder of the session and think that was sex? Humping a guy's legs must be the gay equivalent of boob humping though I suspect half as enjoyable. After all why fuck a guy's legs when you can fuck his ass?
I actually had to pop the wanna fuck now? question (again deja vu, though the bartender was a lot better and certainly not as weird). That monstrous dong of his was about the only redeeming factor. Sex was plainer than vanilla, if there was a taste test for sex I'd describe the session with B as cream with a hint of vanilla. It's a little disconcerting to be fucked in missionary by a stranger with a massive dong who fucks with a deadpan face and has absolutely no other reaction except to grunt at regular intervals. I couldn't decide whether I was being fucked by a horse or a robot. Not that I have been by either (or have any intention of doing so) but I imagine the experience would have been similarly bizarre.
The post coital bliss was also non-existent. Though to be fair, it doesn't always exist in the world of post climatic ONS. Sometimes, it's almost like a commercial transaction. Tissue down, wipe off, shower, change, perfunctory good byes. I wouldn't have complained if that were the case with B. God knows I was waiting for the plainer than vanilla sex to end. Then he requested that I cum all over him cause he 'likes the feel of hot cum on his body'.
So he's one of the cum bath lovers I thought which was fine with me, I'm neutral on the cum on the bod part though I understand why some guys hold diametrically opposite views towards having cum on various parts of their bodies. To some, it's probably a visual aphrodisiac of sorts, the sight, sensation and smell a potent cocktail that induces an orgasmic high. For a considerably smaller minority, the feel of hot cum on their bod is simply a turn off. I'm fine with cum on the bod though I do put my foot down at the rubbing it all over the bod part. Now that's icky. But I digress.
So B. wanted some cum loving and like the obliging lover that I usually am I obliged. Then he got hornier and came all over himself. Glorious, sticky mess. Like clockwork, I prepared the Tissues for the customary wipe down, wash up option. Offered him some but he said 'Just a while more.' So I waited. And waited. And Waited. Then to my abject consternation, I heard soft snores and true enough Mr Plainer than Vanilla had fallen asleep, cooling cum coagulating on his chest and abs, little rivulets starting to flow down the sides.
Which was bloody annoying since I'm the shower after ONS kind of person and I'd patiently waited for what felt like an eternity for the guy to sate his cum on me fetish only to have him start snoring. So dumping the wad of tissue paper unceremoniously on the sticky pool of cum, I went off to shower. You would have thought that with all that horrific bad sex, nothing worse could have happened. After all the sex is over and done with, zilch, and I jolly well wasn't returning for seconds, right?
Wrong. I certainly wasn't returning for more but what happened next probably makes this the Worst Sexual Experience ever in all of my short 26 years of existence. So I popped out of the bathroom, ready for the Getting out of here in 5 mins exit plan that consists of a speed change and a hasty goodbye. All those sessions of sweaty man o man bonding didn't prepare me for what came next.
B. was awake (gasp) and lying there with his massive erect baton which he stroked slowly, the wad of tissue now plastered haphazardly over his abs and chest. And he grinned stupidly at me with what must have been his attempt at a 'come hither' look but came across looking positively lecherous. Does that disturbing mental image flash across your mind? Because that's exactly how it was.
Then B. still grinning, said "我是你的人!" Which left me utterly speechless for a good 5 seconds as I was trying to decide whether I heard what I thought I heard or just some nightmarish gibberish from an ONS gone wrong. For the non-Chinese readers "我是你的人" literally means "I am your person" or in proper English - I am yours, mind body and soul. Which is certainly NOT the thing you say to a relative stranger after a single romp in bed session and a particularly dismal one at that.
Not quite trusting what I just heard and out of sheer disbelief I managed a "Huh?". And B. happily repeated it. Twice. "我是你的人. 我已经是你的人!" Which left me utter dumbfounded and horrified by the entire debacle, a naked stranger reclining on a hotel bed, tissue glued to various parts of his body, masturbating his massive baton while telling me he was mine after an abysmal ONS and smiling like a retard. It was so surreal, I didn't know whether to laugh in his face, give him a good chunk of my mind or just carry on gaping in utter disbelief.
I managed a flat refusal and executed the emergency Gotta Get the Fuck out of here exit plan in a record breaking 3 mins from underwear to door. Needless to say B., his contact and subsequent entreaties to meet (to carry out more 我是你的人 duties) went down the rubbish chute of Never again ONS. Though I must say that experience with B ranks as the most spectacularly disturbing and dismal ONS.
So remember peeps, please never tell a casual sex partner/stranger whom you've humped for the first time stuff like 我是你的人while reclining covered in stale and sticky body juices. Not unless you want him/her to run out of the room screaming, never to return.
Thankfully, the next three guys were truly hot and made up for that abysmal session with B. Like a friend once candidly said, "The best way to get over a man, is to get under another one." Which my friends, is undeniably true.