Am I setting a 'date' disaster here?

Revisiting date night may not be such a good idea.

You’ve been together for few months. At least, you’ve been together long enough that morning breath panic has subsided. And it’s nice. It’s nice that things have settled into the "us" phase.

But, as Friday night rolls around, you find 'us-self' a couch-bound moocher, churning through old seasons of 'Glee.' And you’re loving it, but … you can’t help but think about what Friday night used to mean.

Date Night.

Singles will moan about calamitous courtship, but there comes a point when couples long to get back that good ol’ 'just dating' feeling. Where they feel the fear of boredom and predictability tighten their throats. When they decide, shuddering, it may be time to 'spice things up'.

So, they decide it’s time to start dating again. To reclaim 'Date Night'.

But can it be done?

I think not.

Here are three main reasons why.

1. You are not going to be stood-up.

This removes the risk. Risk, like James Bond, is sexy. If James Bond were predictable, he would be boring.

2. There’s no who-pays intrigue.

You know that if someone pays, it means that they won’t be paying for something else. Like the groceries.

3. You know you’re going home together.

And what’s worse, you might not have sex. Because you could just have sex another time. So you help yourself to the full three courses with no care for the too-full feeling.

But the worst thing about trying to date when you have passed the dating phase and collected your $200 is this:

The Date Night Fight.

It happens easily. A minor squabble about the location, or the time, or the activity and who should organise it, and why, soon becomes a major power-struggle about who’s putting in more effort (read: who loves the other more/is a better person).

Before you know it, you’re not just picking at your food, but you’re picking at each other. Why isn’t the conversation as sparkly as it was? Why are you less interested in what I believe about things? Why don’t you seem to find me attractive?

And then you’re no longer arguing about whether you should/shouldn’t ask to switch tables because someone didn’t remember to book, but whether you should/shouldn’t be together.

The realisation: dates used to be about coming together, now they’re about falling apart.

My point?

Don’t try to 'date' if you’re not actually dating.

Why?

You’re not actually 'dating'.

Instead, celebrate your togetherness. Don’t pretend to be single people, together, be individuals who are together.

Replace 'we should be …' with 'we are'. Don’t pressure yourselves to 'rekindle' or 'revisit' or 'rediscover' the way things were … enjoy the way things are now. Actively enjoy it.

Go out. Sure. But don’t 'date'.

Till then, have a great date.....

It'll be my good deed for the day.....

I was lying in bed wondering where my life is going. Since committing myself to my project to find the right-kind-of-boy over a month ago I had been on over a dozen disastrous dates without a shred of success

Of late I had persuaded my friends Darren’s boyfriend Jack to let to let me take his friend Andy for lunch: three days later I found myself on an unofficial blind date with my god son mate Sam, and a week after that I went out with Peter, my friend Martin’s brother who’s just returned to Kuala Lumpur after living in Singapore.

Each one of my dates had been cursed with the same affliction: they were all nice enough as people but as potential boyfriend there just wasn’t any spark or chemistry at all. Try as I might I couldn’t fake the slightest interest in their careers, hobbies, outdoor pursuits, countless godchildren, and cats (especially their cats).

But if that wasn’t enough (and I felt that it was, thank you very much), now that I had officially sworn off dating the wrong kinds of boys it was as if they were all determined to keep me from the straight and narrow. Wherever I went, whether for an innocent midweek drinks with mate, catching up with my paperwork in starbuck or even (as happened on one occasion) buying toothpaste in Cold Storage, young boys with beautiful faces and body to die for were making eyes at me. But whereas the old me would have coaxed them into releasing their phone number within a few minutes this new me had to bite my lips and head in the direction of the nearest cold shower.

Now, not only had I not had a date with a potential right-kind-of-boy for over a week but I also had nothing lined up for the future either. I reasoned that the best thing I could do to cheer myself up on Saturday morning would be take myself over to Bangsar find a nice cafe and treat myself to a slap-up English breakfast. Then I would head to Bangsar Village to hang around for my ‘meal for one’ chill cabinet in the hope of sourcing a few potential right-kind-of-boy dates.

Quickly getting dressed, I make my way out of the flat and ducked into my local newsagent’s at my lobby to pick up a Star newspaper. Whiling away my time in the longish queue at the till I recall various snippets of my conversation from last right-kind-of-boy date (had he really confessed that he called home from work twice a day to leave a message for his cats on the answeringphone?) and was oblivious of my surrounding until I looked up to see that the queue appeared to have stalled because the man directly in front of me was searching around for change to pay the copy of the Star newspaper in his hand. Tutting under my breath I reached into my pocket and pulled out a dollar and fifty.

‘Here’ I said, handing him the coin, ‘Take it.’

‘I really couldn’t,’ said the man, rummaging around the pockets of his jeans.

‘Go on,’ I said to him. ‘It’ll be my good deed for the day.’

He looked up and smiled. ‘Thank you. I really don’t know how I could have left the house without…’

He stopped.

‘George!’

‘It’s Haniff,’ I replied. ‘Haniff George and you’re..’

I momentarily scanned him mental image through my brain cells. A boy, A boy from high school. A bit of a brainbox. Not particularly exciting. May well have teased him about wearing braces. That was it.

‘You’re Lawrence Teoh!’

The last time I had seen Lawrence Teoh was probably on the day of my final English O level paper. He had been sitting at a desk a few seats in front of me and I remember being impressed at the speed with he had opened up the exam paper and started writing. He was easily the smartest boy in the school and was bound for greatness while I was, as the various teachers who wrote my numerous school reports never tired of saying, ‘very intelligent but inherently lazy.’

‘It’s got to be at least thirty years.’ I said, marveling how the time had flown.

‘Oh, don’t say that! It means we’re both really old and I don’t think I am ready for that. Look, let’s agree it’s been more like twenty and we’ll say no more about it.’

I paid for my newspaper and they we walked towards the door of the shop. ‘So what have you done with your two decade?’

‘Where to begin? After school my mum sent me to a private college, after that I went to Oxford, after Oxford I went travelling for awhile but I had to return early because my mum fell ill – it was just me and her you see – and then after she passed away I ended up moving to the US to work for a Bank in New York. Then I moved to a bank in Tokyo, then I decided I had had enough of both Tokyo and banking and moved back to Kuala Lumpur and bought a unit just cross the road and started working for myself.’

Although he had attempted to gloss over it quickly I felt he ought at least to acknowledge the fact of Lawrence’s mum’s death but then I remembered that we’re in the middle of the newsagent’s. This was neither the time nor the place. Instead I went for a much lighter topic. ‘Which floor are you?’

‘Ten floor, why?’

‘Fifteen floor, I am mates with your neighbours Keith. He live at fifteen floor!’

‘Small world.’ Lawrence smiled.

‘I can’t believe you’ve done all that in twenty years! You must never have stopped.’

‘Maybe I should apply for early retirement. Anyway, how about you? What have you been up to since school?’

‘Nothing that impressive.’ I replied. ‘Left school, further my study in Melbourne, then work there, travel around the world for a bit. Came back to Kuala Lumpur after my family lawyer been dragging me for a years – you know my parents both passed way in car accident in London ten years ago – now am filling up my past time with freelance work in food industry, setting up few cafe’s around here, and you might been to one of them! Like Chilla Cup, just round the corner’

‘That’s yours? Oh yes. I know it. Never been in it. Mind. It all looks just little too trendy and expensive for my liking. If I go out at all these days it’s more likely to be for a meal. Still, you must be doing really well to have your own company. Well done you.’

There was a long pause, most of which was my fault because I was engrossed in thought about Lawrence. He clearly wasn’t my old type. And he wore glasses. I had only ever been out with one other boy who wore glasses and he hadn’t actually needed them: they were part of a sexy buttoned-up look that had been popular at the time. Those glasses has been a prop, something to be removed in order to elicit the ‘Why Mr. Jones, you’re gorgeous’ response whereas I could tell that without his glasses, Lawrence would be struggling to find me. Still, in general, he fitted the right-kind-of-boy label and given that I had nothing better on me was prepared to give him a go if only to keep myself in practice. I checked his left hand finger. There was no ring in sight. I wonder if I should ask more questions but in the end decided I would better of just jumping in with both feet.

‘Look, don’t suppose you fancy going for a coffee do you?’

Lawrence pulled a face, ‘I’d love to, it’s just that ..’

‘Go on,’ I interrupted, flashing my best smile.

‘You know you want to. One coffee, maybe a small pastry and then I promise that you get on your merry way. In fact you don’t even have to talk to me. If I get boring you just whip out your newspaper and I won’t complain. Go on, what do you say?’

‘You’re not going to take no for an answer are you?’

I grinned and shook my head. He was putty in my hands.

‘Fine,’ He relented. ‘Let’s go for a coffee. But I really can’t be too long.’

Till then, let me enjoy my coffee first...

Filled away on my SIM card

It was the morning of the following day, a Sunday, and I was barefoot and standing in front of my kitchen balcony waving to the taxi-driver currently pulled up over his front drive.

‘He’ll be with you in a minute, mate!’ I called as the driver wound down his window.

‘He’s just getting his things together.’

The driver nodded and I returning into my kitchen pick up the mug of coffee and took a sip, nice and strong, no sugar, not too much milk. I swished it around my mouth a bit when he appeared at the hallway out from my room.

‘This is a nightmare.’ He said. ‘I can’t seem to find my underwear.’

‘Have you checked the bedroom?’

He nodded. ‘And the bathroom. You couldn’t be a love and check at the living room for me?’

Heading into the sofa I dropped a couple of slices of bread into the toaster and gave the living room a quick scan before heading to another sofa. I spotted the missing underwear – a Calvin Klein – almost immediately as it was sitting on top of the chair of my dining room. I picked it up, smiled as I recalled the manner in which it had been abandoned and then called out that I had found it.

‘You’re a life saver!’ He slipped the underwear immediately with a big smile on his face.

‘Right then, I’d better be off.’ He put his arms rounds his waist, kissed me and gave me a cheeky wink. ‘So, you’ve got my number?’

I nodded. ‘Filled away on my SIM card.’

‘Good,’ He kissed me again. ‘Don’t wait too long to text me.’

‘Make a man wait? Wouldn’t dream of it.’

The boy picked up his expensive-looking designer shoes, put it on and left the living room. I followed, picking up my coffee on the way.

I stood on the doorstep and watched as he enter into the lift.

From my kitchen balcony I could see he tottered down the drive and into the back of a red and white Waja. As the car pulled off I offered a final wave and the closed my eyes, turned my face towards the morning sun and savoured the sensation of the warmth on my face. This is the last time, I told myself, the very last time.

In essence, I reasoned as I returned inside and closed my back door, it had been his friends fault. All that talk of me being the least likely person to settled down had provoked a lot of soul-searching when I should simply have been enjoying myself at the birthday party. In truth I was actually quite worried that my friends were right. I had indeed too long chasing the wrong kind of boy and in the process had turned my whole life into one big fat men’s magazine cliché.

After all here I was, a devastatingly good looking (that what they said to me!), solvent, single man in his mid-forty who also happened to be the coolest food designer in town. The kinds of boy I liked were indeed ones that most mere mortals couldn’t get within a few feet of without being tacked to the ground by security guards. And going out with them meant that I was part of an exclusive club featuring the odd younger models, designers. Really, it didn’t get any more exclusive than that. As for the boy themselves my libido had a kind of mental checklist that it constantly and unconsciously referred to. Strong face? Check. Tall? Check. Tanned? Check. Young? Check. Beautiful smooth body? Check. Ridiculously nice round arse? Check and bingo! In short I like my boy to be as flashy, sexually attractive and downright head-turning as it was humanly possible to be.

Now granted that Frank wasn’t up to my usual standard but as I had stood at the bar with my mates searching my soul and wondering exactly when his life had become this superficial I found myself making eye contact with an amazing-looking short hair in his low-tight jeans who had beautiful six pac’s tanned skin I had seen in quite a while. Presented with the dilemma of confirming my friends prejudices or refuting them I went on to automatic pilot. I walked over to the boy, dazzled him with my best sales talk and just after midnight hopped into the back of the taxi with him. The rest had been depressingly inevitable.

I plucked my long since popped-up toast out of the toaster, slapped a large wedge of butter on each slice and headed back into the living room. For a while I sat on the edge of the sofa, intermittently chewing my toast and slurping my coffee, while I stared at the 52” TV thinking about everything and nothing until an idea suddenly presented itself. I began searching the room first for some paper (in the end I had to settled for the back of the envelope that my latest bill had arrived in) and then for a pen and then began writing. At the top of my envelope I wrote the following:

THINGS I SHOULD BE LOOKING FOR IN THE RIGHT KIND OF MEN
1 – Must had read at least one book in one month

2 – Must NOT smoking

3 – Must not consider sleeping with me until after three dates

4 – Must have a career of some kind

5 – Must want to settle down

6 – Must be able to cook without use of microwave

7 – Must be able to hold a conversation

8 – Would be nice if he had a sense of humour

9 – Must not have been sick through overindulgence in the last three years

10 – Must occasionally like doing cultural stuff

11 – Must be over thirty (preferably over thirty six)

12 – Must be damn comfortably out and proud of himself for being a gay

13 – Must not be currently seeing a therapist

14 - Must not possess more than a moderate belief in complementary medicine….

15 – Or astrology

16 – Must like me

I look over the list. This was it. This was brilliant.

Everything that I wanted in the right kind of men together with the perfect method of ‘settling down’ out the wrong kind. Just to double-check my list’s brilliance I decided to score Frank against it and was pleased to discover that he would have scored a very poor five out of sixteen and been sent packing. I then did the same for my last three conquests (a one-time glamour model, the ex-boyfriend of my friend, and someone else boyfriend) and was delighted to see that they too would have been weeded out.

Maybe the boys were right: maybe I should have done away with this kind of men a long time ago. Without further challenge to my synapses I closed my eyes and promptly fell asleep.

One versus Many

One of the great contradictions of the dating world would seem to be that so many of us are searching for "The One" but, to keep us motivated in that quest, society continually tells us "there are plenty of fish in the sea".

If there truly is a "One" out there for each of us, then there are actually not plenty of fish in the sea, there's only one, and all the rest are wobbegongs, squid, whales, sharks, plankton or cunji.

Personally, I think we're compatible with any number of people but we screen, then disqualify, most of them based on things like looks, intelligence, earning capacity, dick size, religious beliefs, odour, stupid laughs, you name it ...

George Bernard Shaw once said that "love is overestimating the differences between one gay man and another". While I'm not as clinical as he was - I do believe in true love - I reckon any single man out in the dating trenches would do well to keep Shaw's words in mind.

Gay men make the mistake all the time of falling for men who are not interested in them. They then rose-tint the boy to such an extent they render them "perfect" and fail to see the other options around them.

No one is as funny, cute, sweet, or understands them like this one particular boy.

Sometimes termed "one-itis", it's a romantic myopia that can last for years and is often encouraged by the object of their affection; a man who keeps the sufferer feeling as if he has a chance but really has no intention of going there.

Other guys suffer from a less severe form of "one-itis" when they go out clubbing or to a bar. They talk to one boy and become convinced he's the one for them on that particular night.

They'll spend far too much time on a man who is not interested in them and, when they get shot down, mourn and mope and ignore the other 100 males in the venue and go home alone moaning "he was the one".

Gay guys who get into this mindset also put enormous pressure on themselves when they approach and interact with men because they're thinking "I have to make this work", "He's perfect for me", "He's so different from the other 3.5 million gay-men in the world."

Fair dinkum. If he was perfect for you, he'd be with you.

That's perfection: when two people love and respect each other and make life better, deeper, more fun and meaningful. And shag constantly.

If you are suffering from one-itis at the moment, I'll suggest the oldest cure known to man, which is go and have sexual relations with a dozen other men and, by the time you're at number five or six, tell us if you still feel the same about "the one".

For those of you who feel this cure is tawdry, exploitative or immature, try this instead:

1 - Don't see him, don't hang out with him, avoid places he goes, avoid his friends, his family, anyone who's going to bring him up in conversation.

2 - Stop texting him, stop talking to him. Delete his number from your mobile and, when he calls, don't answer or call back. Ignore all texts.

3 - Get rid of all pictures of him and emails he sent you. Brush his on Facebook, msn or Twitter; don't Google him. If he gave you stuff that reminds you of him, give it away or stick in your parent's attic. Bonfires are excellent for purging.

4 - Have some fun. Take a trip. Kick up your heels, you pretty thing.

5 - Now root 12 other boys.

More than anything, give up on the idea of winning him over, of you being together some time in 2012. Life is now and thinking it's going to be better with him in some idealised future is like saving every cent you earn for a house you will never live in, let alone buy.

Till then, hope you get what I means here.....

Why the coming of age is really the going of youth

IT WASN'T until I was about 16 that I honestly grasped the reality that I was going to become an adult one day. Until that point I had subconsciously assumed that you were either a child or an adult, not both, and that I had been blessed by being born the former.

It was a sobering realisation. All of the special privileges I had become accustomed to - such as cheap bus tickets, endless leisure time and constantly being referred to as ''the future'' - were, I now understood, going to come to an end. Well, not if I could help it.

In defiance - or perhaps denial - I spent the following eight or so years, like most others my age, going all out to prove I was still young and still the future by staying out until 5am, drinking as if it were a sport and generally not taking anything too seriously.

These are the years, between childhood and serious responsibility, when the government refers to you as a ''youth''. It's a rather peculiar label that conjures up images of loitering and knife crime and yet gives you access to all sorts of government initiatives, competitions and forums, none of which you will ever get around to becoming involved with.

These are your invincible glory years. You are effortlessly fashionable, you don't get hangovers. You know everything and everyone worth knowing. You don't take advice; you don't need to. You ''get it''. No one else does.

These are the precious years when you think you are totally different from your parents and spend every waking moment trying to confirm the fact. (For the years before and after this you're either trying desperately to be like your parents or coming to terms with the fact that you already are.)

These are the years when you are expected to be obnoxious, selfish and self-absorbed. If you're going to start a rock band, or star in Big Brother or get arrested for urinating in public these are the years to do it.

The truth is, it's all a big farewell party to your childhood self. Because soon, strange things start to happen. Little things at first. Like the first time a stranger refers to you as a man. I remember my first time. I was at the Melbourne Central train station and a woman told her son to ''let the man through''. I turned around to see who she was talking about but, strangely, there was no man there.

There are other examples. Like when you realise your favourite band hasn't put out a record in a decade or when you start using the word ''sensible'' in the same sentence as the word ''fashion''. Or when you sit out the last round of drinks (because you have to mow the lawn tomorrow) or catch yourself thinking it would be a nice idea to go for a drive on Sunday. Or when you start cleaning.

It's not so much that age arrives, it's more that youth asks you to quietly leave the premises. You're wearing the wrong shoes, behaving inappropriately, and you no longer know the girl on the door. And as you are dragged to the exit, kicking and screaming, you suddenly realise you've been replaced by a new set of kids with funny hair and cheap train passes.

From then on, it only gets worse.

Like when I saw someone in a line-up to a nightclub pull out an ID card with a birth year of 1990 emblazoned on it. I wasn't in the line. I was walking past on my way to the shop to pick up some milk for my cup of tea. But I could have been. At least I thought I could have been.

Before you know it, you're talking work and wives and babies and bank loans. By then, it's well and truly over. You shake your head at the wild house parties across the road and ''tut tut'' at the graffiti on the fence.

So, to all the so-called ''youth'' out there, here's my advice: start a pretentious rock band, audition for a reality TV show and make the most of that fake ID while you still need it.

Just do it soon, because time waits for no man. Whatever his age.

Till then, catch you soon

Why relationships fail..........?

It's pretty obvious why some relationships fail - dalliances with stranger, a dwindling sex life - but what about some of the less obvious reasons?

What about those couples who simply say that they've "fallen out of love" with their other half? Or that they have no idea why they broke up, but they just knew it somehow wasn't right?

Celebs like to call it "irreconcilable differences"; I like to call it "the grass is greener syndrome", and my mate Kent likes to call it "the loss of pride factor". By his reckoning, there is only one reason that all relationships fail: you are no longer proud of your partner.

"Once you lose pride for the other person, the relationship is broken," he tells me. And somehow I think he's right. But that's not the only problem.

Sure, we'd all like the honeymoon period and the rampant sex and excitement to last forever. But, says psychologist Dr Victoria Zdrok Wilson, author of the 30-Day Sex Solution, this lustful stage of a relationship only lasts about 18 to 36 months.

After that, it takes "mental and emotional connection" to keep the relationship alive, otherwise resentment and estrangement will grow, and that's when trouble starts to occur.

I've spent eleven years and thousands of hours dissecting relationships, working out why things don't work out, and then doing it all over again the next day. I've seen my own relationships work, fail and work again. I've seen my friends go through break-ups and make-ups. And what I've discovered is that most couples themselves don't even know why the relationship fails – all they know is that they no longer want to be in it. Hence I've cobbled together a list of reasons as to why I believe relationships fail … but I want to know from YOU … why did yours?

He's a cheater; he's a flirt

When you're in a relationship with someone who continues to chase boys, even after you've decided the two of you are exclusive, it's mightily hard to feel good about yourself ... and the relationship. Your partner is constantly talking about how much attention he gets from the other boys; he meets up for innocent "coffees" with everyone from his hot co-worker to his even hotter ex-boyfriend, and all the while you're left wondering what he's really doing behind your back. Of course it's all just an ego boost for him, but unfortunately sometimes his ego gets in the way and he can't help but act on his impulses. Relationships with these sorts might survive … but only for a little while. Because it gets mightily tiresome always having to compete.

You move in together

One minute you're cherishing all the time you get to spend together, and the next you can't wait to get out for some beer and poker, sans your roomie. While research says that not all couples who live together don't survive, the truth is that living under one roof is the fastest and most efficient way to see whether or not you're compatible before you make that lifetime commitment. Which isn't such a bad thing, as long as you don't want to kill each other at the end of it.

You're at different life stages

He wants to had a dog; he wants to just have fun. He puts hit career first; he wants to be his priority. He's still at university; he's taking life seriously. While age is just a number, life stages are a little more serious when it comes to compatibility. When all you want to do is hit the bars and travel the world, and your partner is trying to work out how to pay the mortgage and when he's ovulating, things can get mighty sticky. Timing is everything …

Boredom

They say only boring people get bored, but this seems to be a serious problem in a heck of a lot of relationships: one of you becomes mightily bored with the other. Of course the task of keeping your partner on his or his toes or constantly having to entertain your other half is rather taxing too. But if the spark has dwindled and one of you is looking to get your rocks off elsewhere, don't be surprised when the relationship takes a turn for the worse.

Jealousy

If there's no reason to be jealous of your partner's male friends, zip it. Being jealous is the fastest way to kill chemistry, lust, love and any sort of trust between the two of you. Of course if you reckon you have a reason to be jealous, you've got other problems on your hands ...

Nagging

When one partner (most of the time), tries to manipulate the other into doing what he wants him to do through nagging, you can bet that your bloke isn't going to be too happy about it.

Overtime, the more he nags, the less the guy wants to pick up his socks and the more he's likely to pack up his bags and exit for good. "Nagging makes a man feel like he can never win and never please their partner, or be successful in his eyes," says Peter, friend of mine. "It creates short-term gain and long-term resentment."

Picking faults, looking for flaws

At first, if you have the perception that your partner is "perfect", things can slide downhill faster than Charlie Sheen's reputation. When you spend copious amounts of time with someone, their imperfections are magnified, and if you can't accept the fact that you're actually with a real person with real foibles and faults, you're in big, big trouble.

When you hail from different cultures

He's from Australia, he's from Malaysia. He wants to move back to Melbourne to settled down where he belong to; he doesn't. So what's a couple to do? And hope for the best? Compromise and live their lives half in one country and half in another? Or should they go their separate ways before things get too complicated? They say love triumphs over all, but the experts reckon that couples hailing from different cultural backgrounds are bound to get messy. Yep, sometimes things are just too hard ...

Perhaps the over-arching message here can be best summed up by Asking my friends or you guys out there: "I've seen so many people go through one failed relationship after another, always blaming the other person, never accepting any responsibility themselves. They choose to overlook the good personality traits of their partner, and magnify (sometimes vastly) minor irritations and peccadilloes, then use these magnified flaws as exhibit A for why 'there are no good men around'. Doesn't take a genius to predict the results of this kind of behaviour, yet many people continue to repeat this behaviour from one relationship to another."

Or perhaps, as John Gray, author of Mars and Venus on a Date, writes "Never in history has lasting romance been associated with marriage" ...

What do you think?

Till then, have a lovely weekend, and time for my laps and sunbathing....