Dragged to Discovery

I discovered something huge in my life in 1996 when I was 19 years old. It might have been a coincidence that later that year Madonna premiered her first huge internationally acclaimed movie, Evita, that garnered her a Golden Globe; a time when people also recognised her golden globes from having recently given birth to her daughter, "Lola." In 1996, I finally got over my one year old bi-sexual phase and fully embraced myself as a full(y) blown faggot. I have Evita playing on my TV right now and the opening credits still give me chills; similar to those of my self realisation of being a gay...

The movie reel manager has just interrupted the black and white movie in the theater, "Eva Peron, spiritual leader of the nation, entered her mortality, this evening." In the words of raisin faced Rachel Zoe: she just died.

When I finally accepted my homosexuality, I didn't just come out of the closet. I "gagged" my straight self and left him to suffocate and die in the closet with my ex girlfriends while I barged out of the building screaming Hallelujah!

On Saturday, 18th March 1995, I sucked my first dick in my Myles Standish dorm room. While I was showering to try and sober up, a buddy of mine, Darryl, came in to take a piss in the toilet. Darryl was the quintessential crew boy: tall, dark, handsome, with a six pack... I don't even want to reminisce on the beautiful size of his penis... Before I knew it, his dick somehow ended up in my mouth while I jacked off in the tub. We never spoke about it after, but Pandora's box had been opened and I was yearning for more. I laugh when I review my journal entry from that night as I wasn't fully able to talk about it with myself! I simply wrote:

The first Step. Got drunk and went into the shower. Had first Dimitri experience.

(Dimitri was the first gay guy I was ever introduced to by one of my ex-girlfriends.)

Growing up, homosexuality was never an option for me. My pop always said that being gay was something foreign. He told me gays were dirty and dangerous people.

The state of Argentina is now lamenting with a waltz at the news they've just heard.

After my incident with Darryl, I started to hang out more with a flaming Resident Associate at Myles Standish Hall, Andre, who was a good friend of my neighbour's, Jo. Andre was a very nice guy; flaming, but nice. He was very intelligent and the typical gay: long blond hair, angelic blue eyes, and pristine manicured Chanel Vamp nails! I had never had a friend that was openly gay. He introduced me to more "out-of-the-closet" gays and I found them all to be sane individuals and unlike any of the gay people my pop had described.

I was later introduced to Campus Thursdays over in Cambridge, MA where a lot of gay college kids liked to hang, and Avalon Sundays, the best gay night in Boston -- oh the good old days when Boston really had an amazing gay nightlife! I was a kid in a candy store googling at hot guys making out with other guys with their shirts off. Go-go boys were dancing on stages, and I saw the first Drag Queen in my life! Mizery! She was a fierce looking queen that could jump three feet in the air with her six inch heels and land perfectly in a split!

It was one night at campus, as we were leaving, that my friends were handed a flyer for a Drag Queen Pageant at Avalon hosted by Mizery. My friends squeeled with excitement.

"Oh my God, Ch'ien, you must enter this!" said Andy.
"Ch'ien, I bet we could make you a hot rockin' queen," added Jo, "You already don't even have a hair on your body!" An Asian bi-product that came in handy if you wanted to do drag, I guess.

The next couple weeks Joanna gathered a makeover team that would prep me for the Miss Irish Springs Drag Queen Pageant. Jen was the resident eyebrow tweezer and she couldn't wait to start plucking mine; Susanna had all the Mac makeup any drag queen would die for; Lindsey, my goth friend, had been stashing a floor length, green mermaid gown deep in her closet that she knew would be perfect for Miss Irish Springs; and Brandy and Laura were thrilled to play Barbie accessories on a full sized doll!

The pageant night finally arrived and my crew were in my dorm room getting me ready. Madonna's black and white Versace ads were plastered all over my walls to serve as my inspiration. Afterall, Madonna was the absolute and ultimate drag queen! At the time I had shoulder length hair and Brandy created a very bouncy bob with about a whole can of aqua net. It took about two hours to get my hair, makeup, and nails done while we sipped vodka tonics throughout the re-invention. Madonna would have been proud.

My friends asked me what my name was for the night. I responded with Devon Dionysia: Dimitri Devon was my first guy crush and I was studying Greek and Roman mythology at the time and somehow grew fond of the God of Wine, Dionysis. My friends looked at me puzzled.

Once we arrived at Avalon we all waited anxiously in line. I had about 30 residents from Myles Standish waiting in line with me. I finally got to the front of the line and handed my fake ID to the bouncer.

"Are we sure this is real?" questioned the bouncer.
"I'm in Drag, baby. Of course it's real," my alter ego was already taking over. "I'm entering the drag pageant," I continued.

He stamped my hand and let me in without any cover and I quickly enrolled myself into the competition. I was up against a lot of local talent but I wasn't worried because I had my posse with me. 37 in total; the 30 that came with me from the dorm and the other seven vodka tonics that were swirling in my system.

Midnight rolled around the corner and all the pageant contestants were rallied to the stage so the show could start. Mizery had just finished a dazzling performance and was still catching her breath as she ushered us up onto the stage. Stephanie White was the first to get up and she needed no introduction. Lakia Mondale and Diamond Dunhill followed. I finally got up to the stage and Mizery pulled me aside.

"Honey, what's your name?" Mizery whispered.
"It's me Ch'ien," I replied, "we met at Campus a few weeks ago. I'm Devon Dionysia tonight."
"Guurl, you look goooood," approved Mizery. And then to the crowd she announced, "And here we have Devon!" She turned back to me and hushed, "Baby, trust me and forget that 'Di dicked Diana whatever bullshit." She was obviously referring to my Dionysian reference... I appreciated such a seasoned Drag Queen's advice.

My posse and the rest of Avalon cheered. I was radiating attitude under the spotlights. I could see the other queens asking each other "Who the fuck is that?" I was the unknown underdog trying to make a name.

Each Queen was asked a question before performing a lip synched number. The seasoned Queens had been doing this for years and gave such witty answers and star quality performances I was starting to sweat under my false titties. It was finally my turn and Mizery asked me my question.

"Devon, honey, what would you do with an Irish man and his 'sack of potatoes?'" asked Mizery while looking out to the crowd?

I looked into the sea of men. I couldn't even see my posse with the spotlights in my face. I couldn't think of anything to say and started to think: What in gay hell did I get myself into? I raised my hand to stall, like I was giving the crowd my hand as if they weren't worth my time.

"That's right, baby!" Mizery yelled, "Five times as long as he's bigger than five inches!"

The crowd started roaring with laughter and I realised she saved my life. I hugged and kissed her and whispered sweet thank yous in her ear. The lights flickered and my drag number blared out on the speakers: Love Fool by the Cardigans. I lip synched for my life and knew I couldn't fuck this up (Amen to RuPaul!).

As a finale, all the contestants were summoned back on the stage to be judged by the audience's applause. As Mizery placed her hand with three inch nails over each queen, the audience screeched and clapped for their favourite. When Mizery's hand eventually haloed my bob, the crowd went wild. It was a new era as an unknown drag queen won the pageant.

"And we have a winner! Devon!" Mizery exclaimed.

"Devon! Devon! Devon!" The crowd at Avalon was screaming my name like they were calling the new President of Argentina, "Peron!"

I won my first and only drag pageant! I was crowned with a tiara and handed a wand. I collected my prize money and the club manager took my information and told me I was welcome back to the club every Sunday to perform and bring friends to the VIP section. I sashayed with my crew back to the Myles Standish dorm for a celebratory drink and cigarette in the smoking lounge.

I was high and flying adored.

I was quickly asked to enter Miss Gay Boston that would be held at Jacque's Cabaret bar in Bay Village. I pounced at the invitation. Little did I know what was going to be in store for me. The emcee that night was Miss Stephanie White, resident favourite at Jacque's, and one of the other contestants was Miss Lakia Mondale, Mizery's new protege, both of whom I beat at Miss Irish Springs.

There were four contestants in all that evening and we were to get ready in the cold, flouresent lit basement of the club. As I was getting ready, Lakia walked up to me with her fake implants bobbing with each sashay.

"Uh-uh, honey," she spat at me with her eyes, gave me the hand and turned around and swayed back to her station. Mizery started duct taping Lakia's breasts in place as well as her cock. I couldn't believe the cattiness; I suppose I was still very naive to the whole drag underground. Luckily I managed to learn how to get my makeup done in a speedy half an hour and rushed back upstairs to seek comfort with my friends.

"Devon, don't worry about Lakia. Good luck," Mizery managed to catch my hand before I escaped that dungeon of a basement. I smiled back at her.

The evening was a payback for Miss Irish Springs. My lip synched talent number was cut half way by the DJ under the instruction from Miss Stephanie White, I learned later. By the time they were announcing the new winners I came in fourth place and wanted to shrink and die. Everyone got a bouquet of flowers, but me. There were only four contestants! Could they not have spared another $5 for a shitty bouquet? I think i would have settle for weeds! I was like Miss Chi Chi Rodriguez from To Wong Foo in the opening drag pageant of that movie who was sure she would win but didn't even end up placing! My saving grace was something the overweight queen that came in third place said to me.

"Baby, don't be discouraged. We can be mean but we're still family. It took me years to get to where I am now," she whispered.

The life of a drag queen is both terrific and trying. I learned how seriously some queens take their drag. They lived it 24-7. I was just a club kid having a good time and dressing up for fun every now and then. I performed in New York City and then I had a great opportunity to fly to Oxford, England to perform at a friend's birthday, but was almost beaten to a pulp by the Oxford rowing team when they heard there was a queer drag queen on their campus.

I remember pimps trying to "own" me in the seedy playground district in Chinatown before it got cleaned up. I got three to five hundred dollars in tips sometimes in one night after only lip synching five songs. I also got some unbelievably hot fans; the only problem was they were in love with the illusion. I wasn't. I wasn't interested in a guy that was interested in chicks with dicks. I loved my own dick and loved to fuck and get fucked. I didn't want to be a conversation piece: You know, my girlfriend used to be a boyfriend...

It was hard to give up drag. I had my farewell tour back in 2003. Friends came from out of state to catch my show in the middle of a snow storm. I couldn't have asked for a better reception. That night I was rolling in cash from old friends, old fans, and old queens. When Jacque's closed for the night I invited everyone over to Dedo (the old Luxor) and treated them back to drinks.

Drag is extremely liberating for a man and I encourage everyone to try it once, straight or gay. It's addictive like a drug. I promise you when you get the drag bug you'll want to do it again. Diamond Dunhill once described it like Herpes: the itch will always come back when you're ready to quit it.

Like Cher and Barbra, I think we were all ready to quit. Whatever it is that makes them come back to prolong their farewell tour, I think I caught that same bug. It's like some kind of rerun you never know when to expect on TV. Devon still comes out every now and then as a new incarnation on special occasions. Taking inspiration from the re-invention queen, Madonna, Devon became Pacifica Rimmer, who eventually became LaNaye 3000.

"Oh, what I'd give for a hundred years... but the physical interferes... everyday more, oh my creator..." Madonna sings in her closing waltz with Che, played by Antonio Banderas.

If I were really a woman I would love performing on a stage for years under spotlights with adoring fans! But reality always sinks in and I can only be grateful for the self discovery I found when I dressed in drag. I was dragged to self discovery while, at the same time, I discovered the old cliche that drag is a drag.

To my gays and fag hags: You will never be my sister!

I'm very fortunate to have such a supporting family. My parents love me unconditionally and my siblings are my best friends. Although we are very close we have thousands of miles in between us. My immediate family live in Asia while I am the sole Chan that lives in the US. The good thing is current technology allows us to video skype over a wireless cable modem whenever we can catch each other during the 12 - 13 hour time difference.

Technology, however, wasn't always so advanced. Remember those days when we used the phone jack to get onto the Internet?

When I came to Boston in 1994 to attend BU's College of Communication (COM), my dad very generously purchased a laptop for me to use for school papers, and of course, to write letters to all my family members. I was thrilled to find my dorm had a computer lab and internet access so I quickly setup my school email account. What was even better was that there was internet access from your dorm room but you just had to configure your computer in a specific manner and I was told "I'd be all set!" All I had to do was plug the telephone cord into my laptop and access the BU ACS server. I wouldn't have to wait for a computer at the computer lab ever again!

I quickly ran up to my room with the instructions and pulled out my laptop. It was like christmas and I was about to unwrap the coolest holiday gift. I followed all the instructions and restarted my computer.

Error.

WTF?!?! I reconfigured the computer again following each step twice to make sure I could make this work. Restart. Error. Godammit!

I ran next door to my neighbour's room.

"Joanna! Are you there? It's Ch'ien. Can you access email from your room?" I panted.

Jo opened the door and let me in. She was already on her email.

"Would you mind checking out my computer? I can't seem to get onto the email?" I pleaded.

She went through the exact same steps and we both once again received the same error.

"That's so weird, Ch'ien. Try taking it to IT on Cummington street. They have a help desk there specifically for these problems," Jo suggested.

I knew where that was. It was right behind COM. I packed my laptop into its case and ran over to the IT helpdesk. I couldn't wait one moment! This issue had to be resolved immediately! IT was still open. It was God's recognition of my absolute impatience.

Two bearded white guys were chatting about Star Trek behind the helpdesk counter.

"Um, excuse me, I need some help," I started.

One of the guys rolled his eyes and turned to look toward me. I caught him give me the "up-down" look normally reserved for mean girls mocking fat chicks.

"Yeah, what's up?" he mumbled as he readjusted his glasses on his nose.

Was this denim and flannel wearing dork judging me in my Katharine Hamnett designer nylon trousers and Jigsaw sweater? How dare he! Ch'ien, regroup. You need his assistance to resolve your issue...

"Well I'm trying to log into my email from my dorm room and I keep getting an error message. I've followed all the instructions several times and I haven't seemed to have much luck. Could you check out my laptop, please?" I offered.

"Yeah, I guess I could," the dork replied. His buddy walked away. "Are you sure you followed all the instructions?" he continued.

"Yes! I even had my friend check it out and she's studying Computer Sciences!" I tried.

"Well, everything seems fine. Maybe it's the computer," he concluded.

He barely looked into anything! What kind of customer service was this? I wanted to smash the laptop into his acne infested face.

"So what am I supposed to do?" I asked.
"Well, you should probably send it back to the store you bought it from," he suggested.
"I can't do that because it was a gift and it's from Singapore."
"Well then give it back to the person who got it for you to take back to the store."

Was this guy serious?!?! What a dick! I was not about to ship this damned computer to Asia to have my dad ask some store person about logging into his son's email via his dorm room! I had to think quick and make something happen right away.

"Uh, well I can't really do that," I continued.
"Why not?" this dork was clearly starting to get agitated.
"Well, because it was a gift, from my sister," I managed to say with a quiver in my voice, "and she's passed away," I think I even managed to wring out some dry tears to my eyes.
"Oh! I'm so sorry to hear that! Let me take another look!"

I must say I felt bad to utter such words, but I also felt the victory of a squash match as I saw the dork tapping away on the keyboard of my laptop like a frantic idiot. In literally two minutes he had reconfigured my computer and sent me out on my way.

"You're all set," he said as I exited the IT building with the glass doors closing behind me.

As you might already know, my parents have three boys. I might be the daughter my mother never had, but I only have two brothers and have never had a sister.

I got back to my dorm room and successfully got onto the internet and decided to write to my brothers: Dear Dai-lo and Yee-ko... You'll never guess what just happened....

Being a superstitious Asian, I realise the seriousness of the lie I told about the death of an imaginary sister. It was a means to an end. But nonetheless, I would take full responsibility and guilt if I ever called any of my gays a sister and they were to die! That is why even to this day, fifteen years later, you'll only ever be a girlfriend, a lady, my bitch, but never, my sister!

America: A Whole New World

I've been living in America now for over 15 years. I never thought I would end up in America; especially Boston because it is so quaint and white. The US has become the country I have lived for the longest period of time in my life and is quickly starting to become my home. I'm originally from Malaysia but my family moved to Hong Kong when I was two years old. I attended primary and secondary schools with international (UK) expats and when I left to come to Boston for university my parents decided to move to Singapore.

I completed my GCSEs and A-Levels (a British schooling standard similar to an American high school level) at Island School in Hong Kong. Island School was highly recognised by many public schools in the UK, and a lot of graduates from Island School were getting into the top unis in Britain. It made perfect sense for me to continue my uni years there. UK universities normally last three years and immediately immerses you into your selected concentration. That was my main problem: How could I have one concentration when I wanted to do and be everything?

My oldest brother, Tien, always liked business and attended Nottingham University in the UK to study Econometrics. My middle brother, Ch'ien-Hsiang, knew when he was ten he wanted to be an architect and got himself into Pratt Institute in NYC. As long as we were furthering our education, my parents really didn't mind where we went to school.

I always had a thirst for learning. When we were learning about castles in primary three I would go to the library and take out as many books as I could on castles. I loved drawing and was already learning about any artist who's name would come up in class. When we studied a new continent in Geography I wanted to learn words in their language, find out about their culture, and find out what they ate! It really wasn't me trying to be a goody-too-shoes but I was really sincerely interested! There really wasn't a subject I wasn't interested in. A lot of my pocket money went to art supplies or books. My brothers thought I was an idiot because I wasn't buying remote controlled cars or figurines.

By the time I was 15, it was pretty much crunch time. I completed my GCSEs with almost straight As and it was time to start focusing our selected A-Level subjects to prepare us for University. Most people went into arts, science, drama or economics. I ended up taking art, french, graphic design, physics, economics, pure mathematics, and statistics. I don't think many others had such a varied selection of subjects -- I wanted to keep all my doors open!

It was during my A-Levels that I knew I really enjoyed art. But I was not interested in going to Art School. I wanted money! I thought Art School = Starving Artist. I needed to get into a lucrative design field like Advertising with the understanding that I could change my mind at any moment and needed a backup plan. Thank God for American Universities where you pick a concentration that is to be completed in four years, but you start with your freshman and sophomore years studying Liberal Arts -- what a fascinating system -- and then you focus on your concentration during your Junior and Senior years. If I changed my mind of what I wanted to study I'd have a two year cushion; Yes!

After several offers and rejections, I decided to attend Boston University. They had a great Communications College and a huge international student community. I couldn't wait to meet these new American people that made amazing Hollywood movies! The English were getting tired to me, as were all the South East Asian countries and Australia where my parents took us during our summer holidays.

Coming to America was a trip. My mum accompanied me on my journey -- I was her baby finally leaving her nest. We stopped off in Phoenix, AZ to spend some time with my cousin before I continued on to Boston. People in Arizona were so nice it was creepy. I wasn't used to it. Why did a stranger ask me how I was doing? These Americans are weirdos... What did they want from me? I asked my cousin's husband about this (one of the nicest Americans I have ever met!) and he patiently started to clue me in on some American lifestyles and habits.

Arriving in Boston didn't get any better. I was introduced to a brand new set of ignorance. I remember being at the Eliot hotel and our waitress came to our table and asked my mum and I for something to drink.

"Can I get a glass of water, please," I said.
"Sorry, what?" our waitress replied.
"Some water," I repeated.
"Huh, is that a cocktail?" I thought my waitress was mocking me.
"Miss, some water. What they're drinking over there," I pointed to a table where the couple were sipping H2O.
"Oh! Water! Sure thing! Be right back," she chimed as she bounced off to get the water jug.

Now we might be a little lost in translation here since water looks like water on paper. But try and hear this out. When I asked for water, pretend you're watching Dame Judi Dench asking the Queen for "Wah-Terre." Then when the waitress replied to me like I was a three year old child who just got caught scratching his ass, she said "Oh! Wa-Derre." Maybe it was just the waitress? My mum and I rolled our eyes and chuckled.

After a few days with my mum in Boston, we bid our teary farewells when I started BU's International Orientation for all foreign students. It was a great program and many orientation students were international, too. It was during this orientation I quickly learned that I was referred to as Euro and Asian Trash. Solely because of my accent and how I dressed. All international students had to temporarily stay at the Towers on Baystate Road. Us foreigners quickly made a tight bond as we were clearly separated from the Americans. The Americans that were leaders were giddy to have me talk to them.

"Ch'ien say that word again... I love your British accent... Where do you put the trash? In a Bin? ha haaaa... What do you call an eraser? ha haaaaa... Say 'Wa-Dere' how you would say it again!"

What started out as something cute very quickly turned tired and annoying. Growing up we got a lot of American Sitcoms and watched all the American movie blockbusters. But didn't Americans watch BBC America or period flicks? Why are Americans so enamoured with the British accent? I was starting to feel that Americans were really protected from other cultures; it was something very hard for me to understand as I grew up with people from all over the world.

During a Freshman Orientation where all the international students were now folded with all the other US Freshmen, I couldn't believe some of the conversations I was engaging in.

Ignorant American #1: So you're from Hong Kong? But I don't understand? You speak English?
Me: Well, I am actually from Malaysia, but I went to school in Hong Kong. Hong Kong is a British Colony so there are a lot of British expats there and my parents sent me to school with them.
Ignorant American #2: But you speak English, English...
Me: Uh...
Ignorant American #3: Oh, that's so cool! You lived in Hong Kong! So do you speak Japanese?
Me: No. People speak Japanese in Japan which is a whole nother Island far away from China.
Ignorant American #4: Isn't China just a bunch of rice paddy fields?
Ignorant American #5: So does that make you Hongkanese?
Me: No, I am from Malaysia.
Ignorant American #6: Oh, so what State are you from?

I wanted to stick my "Be You at BU!" badge into my eye. I couldn't believe how ignorant of the world these people could be! And they got into the same University that I did! What did that say about the admission process?

After that orientation session I slugged myself back to my dorm room at Myles Standish Hall on Beacon Street. Before I got to my room I passed my neighbour's door that was left wide open.

"Hey! Are you my new neighbour? I'm Jo," said the girl in the room with an American accent.
"I guess so," I replied.

She invited me in and she was so sincerely friendly. We chatted for a good half hour. She was a Sophomore from Detroit, Michigan (Wait! I know that place! Isn't that where Madonna was born?!?) and had a cousin living in Singapore. Jo even knew where that was!

I called my friend, Patricia in the UK and told her how defeated and I appalled I felt from leaving the student orientation session.

"Cheng, they're just stupid. Don't worry about it. Next time just tell them you went to school in the UK and they won't ask you anymore stupid questions!" Patricia advised.

I took her advice and for the most part, it worked.

In the following weeks Jo showed me the ropes at the dining hall as many of my international friends only ate out at restaurants. There was an art to creating your own meals instead of just getting what was being offered on the lines. She showed me cheesy recipes with pasta and microwaves; how to ask for grilled chicken and making a fantastic salad with that; how to ask for a strawberry daiquiri and spike it with a nip of vodka! A resourceful American!

Jo also introduced me to the Myles Standish Smoking lounge. This was where some of the friendliest Americans hung out to study, play cards, and smoke. This was also where Joanna introduced me to many people that would become my closest friends during my time at BU.

"This is Ch'ien. My sophisticated neighbour who's Chinese Malaysian but went to school in Hong Kong and speaks with a British accent. He came into my room the other day and asked to borrow my 'hoover,'" Jo would giggle. "However, the other night when he knocked on my door to ask me if I had a 'torch' 'cuz he saw a mouse in his room, I thought he was nuts and wanted to set the poor rodent on fire! I didn't realise he was actually asking for a flashlight," she continued.

I met all sorts of Americans. Ones from Ohio, LA, Seattle, New York, Florida, Iowa, the Midwest. I had no idea they were all each such different places. I always thought America was just that: America, 50 united states. I had heard of all these cities and states but if you asked me to find it on a map I would have had to search! I started to learn about their state pride and compared them almost like fifty countries in one continent rather than fifty states in one country.

In the proceeding months I realised how ignorant I was about American geography! It was no different to people confusing Thailand with Taiwan or any of the South East Asian cities and countries. I also realised how unprepared I was in choosing what University I would attend in what city and state of America. I really lucked out with Boston. It's close to New York, the Cape, P-Town, Maine, and Boston had a really solid cultural night life. I could have ended up in the middle of "bumble-fuck," as Jo would say, since I was also offered a spot at the Rochester Institute of Technology.

Thanks to Jo and my new American friends I found not everyone was so clueless and xenophobic. Jo later found out I wasn't as "sophisticated" as I had led on. She soon started to introduce me as the "crazy fucking Chinese Malaysian from Hong Kong who speaks with a British accent." The two additional preceeding adjectives "crazy fucking" was added when she'd constantly see me laughing so hard I might snarf the vodka strawberry daiquiris out of my nose in the smoking lounge; or later getting my eyebrow, tragus, nose and tongue pierced; or when I dyed my hair blue and gave myself a mohawk and mimicked a Southern twang. I personally thought that the best form of flattery would be to assimilate to what I didn't realise would eventually become my new home.

Fifteen years later, I'm still in Boston even though I have tried numerous times to move to the West Coast. A job or a boy has always kept me here. My friends from the UK call me a Yank as I've acquired all the American slang and more and more of my friends here in the US have invited me into their families. It's only when I get angry, or nervous, or drunk, or after speaking to a friend from the UK that I speak English, English. It's especially at these moments that my American friends would ask me: What's up with that fake British accent, Madonna?

Breakdown of a Goddess

Do you ever look at people and wonder how they got to be so beautiful? Like, it couldn’t be humanly natural to be that gorgeous?

When I was in secondary school, I got my first taste of beauty, or at least of what I thought was beauty. Enter Valeria C. She was a pretty and petite Filipino who looked a little more Spanish than Asian. She had lush, black hair and tight, tan skin. When she looked at you with her sweet eyes you were the only one that existed in the world. Her full lips were those you’d dream of kissing. She quickly learned she attracted the attentions of many boys and often played with their raging adolescent hormones to her advantage.

I was eleven and in First Form when I met Valeria. Unlike all the other boys that tried hard to woo her, I had a trump: I belonged in her inner circle. I was one of her best friends, along with Gerry D., a hardcore Cockney chick, and Ramona C., the sensible Aussie Eurasian. The four of us were our own Motley crew. We weaved in and out of every circle: the dorks, the Indians, the cool kids, the Jocks, the Goths. I’m sure many wanted to be in our circle but the four of us seemed to manage to smile off the requests and offers without offending any individual.

For the first three years of our friendship I was there for every guy crush she had, and also every guy’s heart she crushed. Including mine. She was a maneater in training.

One party night at Gerry’s, Valeria and I ended up in the same bed. We were getting off with each other and I could not believe the day had come. I was getting off with one of the hottest girls at Island School! I remember trembling when I undressed her; when I made her quiver when my tongue found her dark nipples and eventually found itself between her legs (all right faggots, stop gagging…). I remember thinking I wouldn’t stop until she came. That night I knew I became a man.

The next day we went out to join the others in Gerry’s living room.

“Did we have a good night, Valeria?” Ramona said in a way a bitch would mock her prey.
“Hey, leave my girl friend alone,” I defended. Valeria looked away.
“Valeria, did you just hear what Cheng called you?” Ramona hissed.

I knew I was done when Valeria grabbed Ramona’s hand instead of mine. I just became one of Valeria’s other boys. I had been in love with what I knew to be the most beautiful girl in the world for three years and in one night I became a lovesick mess. Literally: Oh em gee. I died. I cried over her for days. It’s pathetic when I look back at it now but I remember that my life was over at the time. Back then, in my mind, I forgave her every time she hooked up with numerous other guys in the weeks and months that came.

One Friday night at a school dance I couldn’t keep my eyes off Valeria. She loved music and loved dancing. Gerry and Ramona urged me to move on. How could I? She was my first love! Then all of a sudden, Valeria’s favourite song came on, George Michael’s “Freedom! ’90.” I wasn’t really that familiar with him at the time. I just knew he was one of the two queer guys from that 80’s group, Wham. And he was the one with that popular butt-waggling track, “Faith.”

Freedom was a hot fucking record. And the video! It was an orgy of the hottest Supermodels at the time. Talk about “beauty!” Linda Evangelista, Naomi Campbell, Cyndi Crawford, Christy Turlington. I became obsessed with the video and soon realised Valeria looked nothing like these beauties (but in her defense, not many people ever do!). Valeria was short and no where as graceful as these models. She also didn’t have much of a bust. Linda had such perfect and stunning features. Christy looked like a Greek Goddess wrapped in that huge sheet as she sauntered through that grand room. What an entrance! Divine. Christy also had incredible cheek bones and those eyes… And then the hottest scene ever when the two of them prick their fingers by the fire place. Hot! I wonder how many times I jerked off with that image in my head wondering when I would ever have the opportunity to meet a girl that looked as hot as Linda or Christy.

The day came 16 years later in the summer of 2005 when I was in Florence, Italy for a fashion show and I actually met the Ms. Christy Turlington. I was the Art Director for PUMA’s Black Station luxury line of footwear and apparel at the time. Christy had a partnering collaboration with PUMA of yoga inspired fashion called “nuala” (an acronym for Natural, Universal, Altruistic, Limitless, and Authentic; look, she’s a gorgeous model so let her name her line anything she wants!). You may have seen the nuala line at high end retail outlets like Bloomingdales. Other Black Station collaborators I got the privilege to work with included the teams of Neil Barrett, Alexander McQueen, Yasuhiro Mihara, Phillippe Starck, and Rudolph Dassler. This particular fashion show was a preview of the fall/winter collections of all these collaborations. But back to Christy!

She had not aged one bit! She was still stunning (even today she still is stunning!). Everyone in attendance of the Black Station fashion show eyed Ms. Christy. I’m not normally star struck but I was with her. I mean, she probably knew Madonna (my ultimate idol whom I love to hate)! I found out Christy’s agent is the same as Gwyneth Paltrow’s and Gwyneth and Madonna were besties once! Maybe all of us could go to a Coldplay concert? And swoon over Chris Martin?

Anyway, after the show, my PR girl buddies, Danielle and Lisa, quickly casually introduced Christy to me.

“Ch’ien, I look forward to working with you. I have a lot of ideas for this coming campaign,” she said. Did the Goddess just talk to me? My heart was thumping. I was screaming like a tween school girl on the inside! In my role as Art Director, I would work with the collaborators for their marketing and advertising campaigns. I looked around and noticed dozens of pairs of eyes spitting at me with jealousy at the fact that Christy spoke to me. Fuck team Edward and Team Jacob! I’m with Team Christy!

I was just a simple boy who grew up in Hong Kong. I must have gloated to my best friends as soon as I returned to my hotel room. I could never have imagined I’d meet and work with a Supermodel! It was a gay man’s dream come true (aside from being in the 14th row of a Madonna concert and almost touching her when she danced down the catwalk singing “Give It To Me!”)! Later that night when I was heading out in search of a gay bar in Florence I happened to pass by Christy and her posse off to some dinner. It looked like a photoshoot. Gorgeous people running down the cobble stone streets of Florence. Oh the glamour! I was too shy to call her name and just admired them in the shadows.

I’m not sure if I really heard anything during my first meeting with Christy at her office in the Meat Packing District in NYC. I was still in awe. She is gorgeous. And she’s still a Supermodel. Her assistant, Sascha D, and I hit it off immediately. Sascha also has a sick sense of humour and I was thrilled to know this would be a great working relationship in the year I would work with Christy and Sascha.

I watched Christy Turlington Burns grow during the following months as she was pregnant with her second child. She still worked hard during her pregnancy and boy did she glow. She was everything: wife, mother, entrepreneur. And she still looked amazing.

During one meeting, Christy, Sascha and I were huddled in Christy’s office. We were reviewing Christy’s upcoming campaign and apparel line for nuala. Sascha got up to use the ladies and dropped something. Without thinking I just reached down to help retrieve whatever she had dropped and found a tampon in my hand.

“Great! Now the gay guy knows I have my period,” Sabrina said.
We all laughed.
“Well I guess it means Ch’ien’s family now,” Christy replied, “So Sascha, you won’t mind sharing if it’s a heavy day?”
She was sharp and had a sense of humour, too! And I was now part of the “family.” When do I get to meet her sexy hubby-actor-director Ed Burns?

Months passed and I was always thrilled to take the Boston shuttle to New York every week to meet with the nuala team. We worked a lot and both Christy and Sascha introduced me to many of their favourite lunch and dinner spots. Thanks to PUMA’s expense account no expense was ever wasted!

After Christy gave birth to her boy, Finn, she still called in to our meetings while she stayed home with Finn and her girl, Grace. When the photoshoot finally arrived, Christy was determined to be there as she loved to be hands on with all her projects. When she arrived, my internal jaw dropped. She was still glowing and had already lost all the weight she gained during her pregnancy. I looked down at my own gut and noticed my booze belly was probably bigger than Christy’s and she had just given birth not too long ago!

The shoot went well. The apparel fit the ballet dancer like a dream. She slipped in and out of each look seamlessly. Her naked breasts were freely cupped by the stylist as she changed into another dress. Female nudity is very common during photoshoots and always wasted on gay men. Just my luck it wasn’t a shoot with hot male models today…

During a break, Christy’s nanny came to the set with Finn. Everyone oohed and ahhed at what a handsome baby he was. Christy, Sabrina and I moved into a private room to discuss the progress of the shoot. As suddenly as Finn had arrived, Christy’s tit was suddenly out of her dress for Finn’s baby lips to find Christy’s supermodel nipple. I felt my face turn hot. I’ve seen my fair share of breasts, but I had never seen supermodel titty! I started to fumble on my powerbook to pull up some of the digital shots we had so far.

“Ch’ien, the shoot is going great so far, isn’t it?” Christy said.
“Um, yeah. Great!” I kept my eyes on my powerbook.

We continued to chat from across the sofa until Finn was done with his feeding. I looked away so Christy could readjust herself and turned my way to Sascha.

“Christy, you have to check out some of these images!” Sascha said excitedly.
The nanny took Finn away and Christy was back to work mode and standing over my shoulder.

“So let’s see what you’ve got, Ch’ien,” Christy asked.
“Well take a look at these –” I was suddenly interrupted by something falling before I could finish.

I reached down to the floor to retrieve what Christy had dropped. I just handed a round piece of fabric back to Christy before really computing what I had in my hand.

“Oh my god,” Christy chirped, “I can’t believe you just handed me breast pad; how embarrassing!”

“It’s fine, Christy,” I said on some kind of reactive autopilot.

But was it really fine? I mean I just touched a supermodel’s breast milk drenched breast pad! As a gay man, I didn’t even know breast pads existed. I thought I was handing over some kind of damned drink coaster to Christy (goes to show all I ever think about are drinks...)!

When I told my straight buddies what had happened, the breast pad incident didn’t phase them at all. They were more concerned by the fact I didn’t photograph Christy’s bare breasts! I suppose I had Goddess Christy on such a high pedestal I never imagined humanly fluids to be secreted from any part of her body… She was afterall, Goddess Christy, Supermodel, Entrepreneur, Mother, Friend, and Human. Christy is vulnerably human, just like Valeria, and every other person I have found to be unhumanly stunning.

In August 2008, I happened to come across a shoot in W Magazine with Christy entitled Champion. It was photographed by Michael Thompson and she really "worked the warrior-goddess side of Greco-Roman influence" in this shoot. Hot! But even after viewing these beautiful images of Christy, I couldn't help but think she was a down to earth mother.
I’ve never really ever put anyone male nor female back on such a high pedestal since. I did, however, find myself to have some very special and hidden talents to add on my resume: will eat out and excellent female hygiene product retriever.

Model Behaviour -- Just Barely

While I was at Island School (my secondary school), one of the main aspirations for any student that took school seriously was to become Head Boy, Head Girl, or to become a School or House Prefect. I only made it to House Prefect.

As a Prefect you were expected to set exceptional examples as a hard working student to students in lower years. My House Masters reminded all Prefects that the students in the lower years would be looking up to us like we were their older brothers and sisters.

As a Prefect, you also got to wear a badge with your House colour. The dorky Prefects wore their badges on their chests, while the cooler Prefects chose to wear their badges on their hip pockets or rucksacks.

Some of my friends were shocked I made Prefect, while others expected it like they knew someone would fart after eating a big can of beans. I made great grades, was on the volleyball and swim team, did a lot of volunteer service, and was involved with the drama crew. On the other hand, I had the nickname "King Skiver" (Oxford Dictionary: to "skive" is to avoid work or a duty). I was often skiving with friends sneaking off to First Pagoda on the school running path to smoke cigarettes and play D&D, or sneaking off to Central to play video games at the arcades. My friends that stayed at school always came up with excuses for me:

"Where's Ch'ien?" one teacher would ask the class.
"He had to go to the Malaysian Consulate to do something with his passport" a friend would say.
"Again? Didn't he do that last week?"

I had the good grades and I never really got questioned about my whereabouts. I was also teacher's pet for most of my subjects. When I utterly liked a teacher and thought they were going above and beyond with teaching me something, it was not unusual for me to sketch a portrait for them and frame it or purchase them an ostentatiously huge bouquet of flowers.

During this time when I was in the Sixth Form, my oldest brother, Tien, was a hot model in Hong Kong. He'd done a lot of print and TV commercials and when his casting agency asked if he had any brothers for new talent, he recommended both his younger brothers. So what if casting was during school hours? My parents thought it was fun so they didn't mind that my middle brother and I went the next day. My friends at school just rolled their eyes when I told them the news.

I got cast for the same local clothing company, Theme, as Tien. My middle brother got Jack. I shot my first TV commercial and Print campaign a few weeks later without Tien since he was at the University of Nottingham in the UK studying Econometrics.

It was a thrilling experience. Lights, cameras, your own make-up artist, all these different outfits. Some Director yelling, "Cut!" Theme was basically like the Gap brand so you can just imagine the silly, cheesy things we were doing in the early 90s. The backdrop was a theme park by the beach and I still cringe thinking back to the shoot. The Director took photos of us having fake conversations and laughing with the other Models like we were besties. *puke*

When the campaign rolled out my friends were glued to the TV to catch the commercial. Teachers and students took the MTR subway to catch my billboards. Friends brought the Theme catalogue to school to pass it around. It was really cool. All thanks to my cool oldest brother that hooked me up.

A few months later when Tien came back to Hong Kong for break, Theme wanted another shoot with the brothers both in the campaign. This shoot took place on Macau Island and would last several days -- they totally upped the budget! I was so excited for round two! Two of the previous female models were also rehired and this story was going to revolve around my brother dating one of the other girls.

The morning we were supposed to head to Macau I was ready to start immediately. I probably didn't sleep a wink the night before. We met with the casting agency and before I knew it, the whole team was on a boat to Macau. Already, something was different. I realised right away I was nothing more than an extra! All attention was on Tien. The hotter brother.

"Tien, how's uni going?"
"Tien, you look great! Have you been working out?"
"Tien, we've all missed you so much! We're so glad you're helping out with this campaign!"
"Ch'ien, your brother is such a cool guy!"

I was invisible, stuck on a boat, and stuck on an island for a few days having to listen to this grovelling. I was literally a dull star barely in the orbit of my gorgeous brother's radiant universe.

I got through the first day of shooting -- just. I often asked myself why Theme even hired me back? I must admit that during shooting, I saw my brother in a whole different light. He was a really great model. He took direction really well and the camera loved him; heck the entire crew loved him. Tyra, my brother was smizing like you wouldn't believe! I reminded myself that there was just one more day of shooting I'd have to endure.

The shoot the next day continued where the first ended. More of Tien. Somewhere in the middle of the shoot the Director wanted to try something new. He wanted more props.

"Give Tien the good stuff! He's the Jock in this story. Come to think, since he is the Jock, give Ch'ien the books. He looks like the studious type," the Director said.

Did they know who I was? I'm King Skiver on my turf! What the hell? Regardless, I did what I was told and when the Dirctor started shooting I even heard him say, "He looks so natural with this. We should have given him the books sooner."

I bit my lip and put a pen to page thinking I was Shakespeare about to write the hottest sonnet ever.

"That's right, Ch'ien! That looks great. Keep going," burped the Director.

I continued doodling what I knew to be my brother with a cock in his mouth.

When it was time to do the final group shoot, something happened. It was like art imitating life and Tien and the lead female model, Maria were in some row! Voices were raised and the Director immediately started to panic. The 2 heroes were supposed to be in love! These were models, not actors! What if they couldn't turn off this sudden hatred for one another when the cameras started rolling? I just wanted the shoot to be done so I knew I had do try and calm my dai lo (an endearing term given to your oldest brother) down.

"Dai lo, let's just all take a deep breath and forget about whatever Maria said and finish this shoot?" I tried to sound as sincere as possible. I really wanted this shoot to be over.

Tien turned around and glared at me. He didn't say a word. After what felt like 5 minutes of some staring contest (it was probably only about three seconds), he turned to the Director and told him to roll it. I couldn't believe it! I must have earned Tien's respect somehow and he agreed to listen to my suggestion! It was like a breakthrough. Like reading a Shakesepare piece to a girl to make her go gaga. I dissolved back into the background and let the shoot come to an end.

"It's a wrap!"

Everyone cheered and we loaded onto the coaches to dinner. My whole being was relieved. This crazy shoot was over and I connected with my dai lo! When we sat down at the restaurant I knew my meal even tasted better then usual. My glands and feelings were alive! All were in great spirits and they even fed us a couple beers to celebrate. We played some games and when we all started yawning from the day's labours we headed back to the hotel.

When my brother and I got back into our hotel room, I called the first shower and rushed into the bathroom. It was so refreshing to clean up. We had been modelling winter items in the heat of summer. I washed all the product out of my hair and wiped any make-up remains from my face.

"All yours," I told my brother.

He went into the shower and I changed into my pyjamas. I tucked myself into my bed and anxiously waited for my brother to come out so we could have a bro-to-bro chat and review the day. My dai lo eventually came out of the bathroom. He had his towel wrapped around his waist to show off his pecs and six-pack.

"Don't ever disrespect me like that in public ever again," he said to me.

I couldn't believe what I just heard? I asked him what he was talking about? How did I do something that would upset him so much and not be aware of it. Apparently when I asked him to keep the shoot rolling I was siding with Maria and the Director.

"This was one of the worst model shoots I've ever expereinced," he continued.

"But, I..." I tried.

"I don't want to talk about it anymore. And don't talk back to your elders. You were wrong. Just go to bed. I don't ever want to do a shoot with you again."

My dai lo turned off the lights and crept into bed. I'm not entirely sure but I think tears welled up in my eyes. Of course Tien didn't see them as he was turned with his back facing me in his own bed.

*****

My relationship with Tien improved with time. At the end of the day, he's family and we got over our immature arguments. He's become one of my best friends and a real mentor for my life. I'm grateful I got to share that modeling experience with him and because of him.

Tien continued modelling for years to come and even got several acting gigs. That shoot with Theme was the last time I ever modelled. Except for being a role-model at Island School. I was a House Prefect there.

Love For Those You Respect

I think we've all received that email that asks you to name famous people that invented things throughout history or that accomplished grand feats in their lifetime. The final question was something like "Now try and name a teacher that nurtured you and inspired you." Now that's an easy one.

The goal of the email wasn't really testing your strength in trivia but moreso to demonstrate we all remember those whom have made a positive impact in our lives.

I went to a secondary school in Hong Kong called Island School. It was part of the English Schools Foundation that was established for British Expats' children to attend while their parents were stationed in Hong Kong. Being a British Colony at the time, there were huge numbers of these British kids that needed their homeland education so they could still compete with their homeland peers when it was time for uni hunting. Island School was one of the best schools in Hong Kong when I was there; excelled in education, sports, and even drama. It also had House names a lot more interesting than other Secondary Schools in Hong Kong. Ours were separated by famous innovators: Nansen, Da Vinci, Einstein, Fleming, Rutherford, and Wilberforce.

One teacher that really stands out in my memory is Mr Galbraith. He was my form tutor years one and three, if I recall correctly. He was also my French teacher forms one through three. We crossed paths a lot in the seven years I was at Island School since we were in the same House, Fleming. When I got my class sheet on my first day in Form One I was so thrilled to learn French was mandatory. French! That's the language they speak in Paris! That fabulous city that everyone romanticises about!

I knew from first meeting Mr Galbraith he was a "nice" man. He was going to be a "nice" teacher. There was something about him. He had that really friendly aura. He literally had that 'je ne sais quois."One of those people that could never lose their temper. He was all smiles when he welcomed us First-Formers to our new school. Something deep inside me knew I could count on this guy for anything!

Entering secondary school was a big deal to any eleven year old. It's like entering middle school or becoming a freshman in high school. When I was in Peak School (my primary school), I somehow adopted the nickname, Chengy. I can't remember how it came about but now that I was in secondary school could I drop the "y" and make my name sound a little more grown-up? Kind of like Ludacris using his real name when he was trying to break into a serious acting career or P-Diddy doing the same thing when trying to establish a serious fragrance and fahion label?

Even though my name is Ch'ien (pronounced more or less like "Chen"), my friends that joined me from Peak School managed to appease me somewhat by calling me "Cheng." I suppose that sounded a little more mature. I could deal with it.

So fade to black and cut to new scene where I'm sitting in my first ever French class with Mr Galbraith...

He started off by calling off the roster adding a French twang to each name. Robert became Robert (with the silent "t"). Michael became Michel. Helen became Helene. Ch'ien became Cheen. Cheen??? That doesn't sound so fancy! What's up with that. Later in the class as we started to learn some animal names I realised Mr Galbraith didn't want to call me "dog!" That's right. Mon prenom, Ch'ien, c'est comme "le chien" mais il y a une apostrophe apres le "h." I hated my parents for giving me my name! They insisted the name was given by a Chinese God and that my first name meant "healthy" in Chinese. Screw me not wanting to be called Chengy because for most of my first year at Island School I was called the 'Healthy Dog...'

Mr Galbraith was so gracious. There were plenty of teachers that would have teased students at any chance but not Mr Galbraith. He snapped at anyone that called me chien. I felt like I owed him something so I made sure to try my best to excel in French. I did pretty good for the most part. Mr Galbraith was always very encouraging even when my homework came back with a lot of red and I had to redo a lot of it.

By the third year when most of the kids in my year were about thirteen, we drove Mr Galbraith nuts one day. Afterall, isn't thirteen, like the ultimate "Mean Teen" year? I can't remember what exactly happened in class, but Mr Galbraith was as angry as he could be. He couldn't really raise his voice, but he was trembling and red in the face. I wasn't one that was in trouble (why would I be when I was teacher's pet) and I just sat at the front of the class snickering at those who were getting a scolding. After a few minutes I suddenly became the target of his fury:

"Ch'ien-hung, please leave my classroom if you're going to continue being so rude snickering in the corner!" he said with his finger pointing to the door.

I got up and walked out the room. I couldn't believe it. But it was my own fault. I knew he was really upset as he called me by my real full name. Like how you would say it in English. He continued yelling at some of the kids inside and when he was done with them he came out to meet me. His face was still ruby red.

"Ch'ien, don't ever let me catch you smirking again in my classroom. Now get back inside." he said.

I felt humiliated. The hooligans were yelled at but I was sent outside. How could he do that to me? To think that I had once wasted my time sketching a portrait of him and framing it as a thank you gift the year before!

Later in some period where we had to watch some documentary in a lecture hall, I took out some Tipex and started drawing Mr Galbraith getting it doggy style from another male teacher on the table. There were rumours that Mr Galbraith was gay. I knew what I was doing was bad, but I finished this masterpiece nonetheless. My friends sitting next to me thought it was hysterical.

By the end of the third year it was time for us to pick what subjects we wanted to continue for our GCSEs. I still loved French and decided to continue the subject. I ended up with a new French teacher, Ms Church. Ms. Church and I hit it off from the get go, too. And for some reason, her teaching method really clicked with me and I was suddenly top of the class hardly ever getting any red in my homework. I was writing essays in French with no problem.

One day when I was walking down a corridor between periods I passed Mr Galbraith and he stopped to ask me how I was doing and enjoying French with Ms. Church.

"She's great. I'm actually learning something," I said with a smile and continued walking. As soon as I said it I realised how it came out and felt bad. I didn't mean to sound so bitchy or did I? To be completely honest, I'm really not sure.

Through the rest of my time at Island School, Mr Galbraith never stopped checking in on me. I continued French in my A-Levels with Ms Church, but at the end of Upper Sixth Form, I was invited to Mr Galbraith's end of year French Party at his house with his students. I went and he welcomed me like I was still one of his own.

When I got to University, I continued French for another 2 years until I had to focus my time on my major, Mass Communications and Advertising. I always reminisced of my time with Ms Church and Mr Galbraith. When I graduated Uni and was trying to figure out my career path, I somehow got a little retrospective of my life of twenty odd years. Somehow Mr Galbraith popped up. I decided that I would contact Island School and tell them I attended that Secondary School and I was hoping to get an email address for a former teacher. I was informed he had left the school but was still teaching at another school in Hong Kong.

I emailed him. It was a very short email with the usual "getting back in touch" script. Hey it's me... yadda yadda... Remember? How are you? Just thought I'd get in touch... yadda yadda.

I got a response from him the next morning. He was twelve hours ahead of me and pretty much responded immediately. It was a long email. So sincere. But that was him. We continued to write each other. Somewhere in the communications we had come out to each other.

A few years later he was travelling to Toronto and stopped through Boston so we could catch up in person. It was like old friends catching up. He insists on calling him James but to this day I still feel weird calling him James rather than Mr Galbraith. Three years ago I attended his wedding to his partner, Alvin, in Toronto. It was so surreal that two men were getting married at the time! Yay! Go gays! It was thrilling and exciting. Many of my old secondary school teachers were there. It was very awkward at first but pretty soon we were all just peers. Many spoke to me in French but I just replied in English. Je suis tres embarrasse parce que j'oublie beaucoup de mon francais. My sad attempt at a response.

Yesterday I received an email from James that was 1,729 words long. He's really good at keeping in touch. Me, not so much. He and Alvin are doing well and still deeply in love. A big smile always surfaces when I read his emails. Now when I think back on how this friendship evolved I get nostalgic and a little dreamy. I think James was like a Guardian Angel. He was always looking out for me. I like to think he always knew I was different as a kid. A closeted gay. When he kicked me out of his classroom, he was just teaching me how to be classy. Smirking is idiotic. Unless I'm now smirking at the fact I didn't let this mentor slip out of my life.

While I'm Sober...

So I might be a high-functioning alcoholic. I say this seriously; with serious sincerity and concern, but also with serious denial.

I came across the term HFA when I was with a therapist talking about work drama. I'd see my therapist every week and I would also talk about what I might have done the night before or during the weekend. I have a very social lifestyle and a lot of it revolves around dinner parties, restaurants, bars, and at the time, night clubs, too. Having done some social work at a local AIDS organization, I'm familiar with speaking to clients and listening to them opening doors to chapters of their lives. I could see how my therapist might have thought I was unlocking a door of conversation and waiting for her to enter this long chapter of my imbibing ways.

When she asked about how much alcohol I consumed, I'd tell her. If I couldn't be honest with my therapist, why bother going to see her?

"Last night I had about eleven Jack and Gingers?" Her eyes widen.
"The night before maybe five martinis?" Her look turns to speculation. I continue the recollection of the previous days like there was nothing strange or unusual.

I think she might have been shocked I could have so much alcohol without collapsing into an "A-Hole" (get your minds out of the gutter; that would be an "Alcoholic Hole" of dementia...). She recommended I read a book by an author from Massachusetts who wrote about high-functioning alcoholics. I read it.

I'm a skinny Asian. we're not supposed to be able to hold our alcohol. Somehow I can. My friends are often shocked or impressed since now I like to drink bourbon neat. Why add mixers? Mixers are additional sugars my body doesn't need. Some of my friends might say mixers are cheating. My other friends would say those aren't friends.

So where did this all start? I remember my dad was the first person to cause my oldest brother's first hangover. My brother, Tien was around ten at the time.

Apparently my dad was once taken advantage of when he was younger. Colleagues took him out one night and got him drunk and persuaded him to sign some sort of document. Being the caring father, he did not wish this on any of his sons "ever" and was determined to make sure we had a high tolerance for alcohol. I guess to him the sooner we started the better. So one night when my parents were hosting a dinner party, my dad thought it would be fine for Tien to try some wine since he was being "supervised."

Drinking at my house was normal. My parents always ended the night with a glass of wine, a beer, or a Johnny Walker. Why then did I start sneaking into the liquor cabinet, take a shot of the scotch and point fingers at my folks?

"Son, my Johnny Black is almost gone!" my dad would say.

"I guess mum's been drinking it," I would respond. My dad thought that must have been it and without question pour himself a glass on the rocks. Little did he know my mum had asked the same thing and I blamed it on my pop.

The drinking age in Hong Kong was 18 at the time. All my white friends got into bars since they tend to look older. Asians are cursed with the baby face syndrome. Luckily for me, my friend, Billy Allen, had a mum who owned a restaurant in Hong Kong's Central district, The Go Down. We'd always go in without a problem and we'd start the booze train.

At 16, my drink of choice was the Vodka Tonic. It was so sophisticated. I remembered I must have had at least 5 with shots one night, took a taxi home at the end of the night and ran to the toilet where I started my first attempt at projectile vomitting into the loo. My dear, loving mother came to my rescue and rubbed my back with no judgement. She had the grace of an angel. She brought me some tea and told me she was heating something for me to eat. When I came out of the shower she was waiting for me at the table with a concerned frown on her beautiful face.

"Son, are you okay? Did you drink too much with your friends? What on earth were you drinking to get you so sick? Did you have a few beers?" she asked earnestly with concern.

I almost choked on my instant noodles. Boy she would have probably been horrified if she really knew how much I had to drink. I let her believe it was because of a "few beers" I was so sick and she just kissed me on the forehead and told me to be careful for the future.

My mum had no concern to worry about me. I had great grades and my teachers always gave me an excellent report card. I saw the headmaster each year because of good grades. My friends would often roll their eyes because for the most part, I was always teacher's pet.

By the time I got to University, alcohol lead me to try pot, acid, mushrooms, and eventually, after I graduated, coke. I graduated University Magna Cum Laude. I never arrived at work late. Yet, at one of my jobs I found myself cutting lines of coke in the bathroom.

"Ch'ien, can you please get that memo typed and ready for our meeting at two?" my boss would ask.
"It's done!" I'd say like a proud lab panting with my tongue out. Then I'd run down the corridor to the bathroom for another "pee."

It was around that time I knew I had a problem. There was nothing in my bag but a mirror and a blade. I was lucky then. I decided to stop and I did. I wish I could have that will power with alcohol. Some of my friends weren't so lucky.

Right around this time when a friend and I were on a good kick, we were out at Buzz in the Theater District before it closed down because of Boston's Chrystal Meth problem. We were invited to an after party and the hosts were hot so we leaped onto the invitation. When we got to the place of residence in the Back Bay area, we were thrilled to see everyone was gorgeous. The only problem was, EVERYONE was doing coke, smoking a blunt, or some kind of drug. In one bedroom there was already an orgy heavy on its way of exploding into a multitude of orgasms.

My friend Mark and I looked at each other. We said we'd be good and stick to booze. We chatted with the dope heads and refused any sexual advances. We weren't prudes. It's just that having sex with someone all drugged up isn't as fun when you're sober, nor responsible when it was all bare-back. By the time the sun came up, most of the the guests had literally come and gone. Somehow, Mark and I found ourselves to be slightly sober and unsatisfied. We were room mates at the time and we decided to ditch the party and call it a night, uh, or morning.

"I can't believe we didn't do anything last night," he said.
I nodded my head and put my hands in my jean pockets. There was room in there now that we didn't need the pockets to hold cigarettes.
"I think I'm going to call my mother now," Mark continued.
"What? What the Hell are you going to say to her at 645 in the morning?" I said.
"I don't know. Maybe I'll tell her I know I've quit smoking."
"How do you know you've really quit smoking?" I mocked.
"Ch'ien, I think you pretty much know you've quit smoking if you can go to a cocaine sex party and you didn't have one cigarette."
I had no argument to what he just said.

Now that I enter a couple triathlons here and there and teach Spinning and indoor cycling at local gyms I really stay away from drugs. I still drink like a fish when I am not seriously training and maybe on very special occasions I might do something a little naughty. It's hard having friends from the UK and the US. On the States side, there's a big stigma and taboo placed on drinking. However, in the UK, my friends there can easily say "let's go out and get pissed till we black out!" without anyone even blinking an eye. "Yeah!" And by the way, I'll have a smoke when I like. In the wise words of Joy Behar: So what? Who cares?