Carl's Junior

Today, this post is about Carl, our dense friend.

Carl Chang, 38 / 172 / 68 / flex.

Flex being the operative word.

Carl is he with the big muscles but he with brains the size of Mister K's weener.

We interrupt here with some context:

Stanley had once met a certain top, Mister K, on Grindr and was about to engage in some fruitful fun with him when Mister K whipped out his member which didn't indicate much fruit nor guarantee much fun. 

True enough there was no grand entry that night though we concluded that the very reason for that, was that a giggly Stanley had insisted on taking a photo with Mister K's small organ. "Let's take a weener-fie. It's for archival purposes," Stanley had explained to an unsmiling Mister K.

But enough of small talk.

Like I said, our focus today is on Carl, our dense friend.

Mainly because last Tuesday was a special anniversary to Carl:  His anniversary with Ah Boy, his partner, who was 11 years younger.

For the longest time, all of us had embraced that generation gap.

Stanley the sex bunny of the group was the first to take that lead.

"Oh, I love gaps. They're very lovely. They need to be embraced. Worshipped," Stanley said as he rapidly licked an unseen object in the air. That year was 2005, the year when a nervous Carl revealed to us that he was dating a boy 11 years our junior.

I remember Carl being very relieved with Stanley and my approval and support that day.

I also vaguely remember Stanley standing up to imitate Beyonce by shaking his buttocks as a sort of congratulatory tribute to Carl. 

And there began the whirlwind romance of Carl and Ah Boy.

Despite almost 10 years in age difference, the two got along very well.

They did happy things together. They did coupley things together. They had tons of movie dates. For the longest time. Until December 2014.

"Adam, we broke up," I remember Carl's shaky voice over the phone in late-December that evening.

Stanley was immediately activated.

We each took five minutes to get dressed. Stanley scooped me up in his car (he lived just seven minutes' drive from me) and we met at Holland Village, near Carl's home.

Over coffee at the now-defunct Coffee Club, Carl shared the gist of his story.

I never knew he had been so unhappy with me. I mean, we had arguments. Small ones. And sometimes the big ones - like how he dislikes it when I demand that he focused on his studies when he wanted to go out to party, or how he disagreed with the way I spent money. But I never knew that he had been so unhappy with me for the last nine years.

Carl was unusually expressive and his hands were exceptionally nimble, busy between gesticulating with passion and pinching the tip of his nose as if that very action could control the flow of his tears.

Stanley and I sat and listened very quietly that night at the cafe,  pausing only to grunt with approval.

"What hurt the most was, Ah Boy finally told me why he loved watching movies with me," Carl said in a voice that suggested he had just been kicked in the gut.

"Because when we watch movies, he doesn't need to talk to me. He says it's a struggle to talk to me because we are in such different worlds."

The words hit us like they too, had punched us in the gut.

Ah Boy's words hurt Carl.

And in turn, Carl's conveyance of those words carried that same painful punch.

That night ended at 1am when we were finally chased away by an exhausted Pinoy waitress who looked like she was about to break down - but from very different reasons to Carl's.

But we decided the night didn't deserve to end so unceremoniously - being chased away with half-finished sob stories and recovery plans and hugs yet to be rolled out.

Armed with tissue boxes, mineral water and condoms (Stanley just had to add that purchase at the very last minute at 7-11 because "aiyah, since I am here, I might as well stock up!), we took our commiseration into Stanley's car where we chatted till 3.15am that morning, never mind that each of us still had work the next day.

"You know," Stanley said in an unusually serious tone. "When you love somebody, you have to let him go. He's already said he didn't love you anymore."

Carl responded by staring into the distance.

Truth is, Stanley and I had already noticed the drift sometime in 2013, the year before the break up.

Whether it was Carl's denseness or denial in not recognising that drift, we don't know.

It wasn't so much that they had such a big generation gap.

It was more an emotional gap, Stanley and I had discussed and agreed privately.

Carl was well into his career and was enjoying the finest things in life while Ah Boy was still struggling to do well in university, juggling not just school work but also guest-starring in Carl's adult world of expensive parties, exorbitant gym clubs, luxurious tours.

To Carl, he felt that he was giving Ah Boy a leg up in life.

To Ah Boy though, it was detrimental because he felt like he was yanked out of adolescence and thrown into the expensive adult world without warning.

I imagine it must feel like a secondary school boy being yanked out of his classroom after school to help out at his father's stall and get an ugly glimpse of adulthood.

But because Carl loved Ah Boy, he showered him with all those material incentives only an accomplished adult could attain.

During one of the private post-break-up talks with Ah Boy, Stanley and I learnt that while the undergrad had appreciated Carl's gestures, he didn't fully like them.

Sure, it was nice to feel rich and pampered, but it wasn't really his own money, Ah Boy said.

And if I tell him, we quarrel, he said.

Over time, Ah Boy quietly hated Carl for being in a different world.

He wanted Carl to understand the struggles of a university student.

That his life is just as challenging.

That it can be tough paying attention in lectures and then having to decide which food court to eat at after school. Or whether he should bring a sweater to Starbucks for group discussion. Or for Carl to simply understand why it's so essential to get together after exams and get intoxicated and dance with your group project mates.

Problem is, Carl has been there, done that.

In fact it was so long ago that Carl had either a) realised there is no value and wisdom in those activities or b) can no longer empathise with any undergrad because he's forgotten what it felt like.

And speaking of long ago, it took Carl a very long time to get over Ah Boy.

In fact, just the other night at PS Cafe at Dempsey, the topic of relationship came up again.

And I swear I saw the flame go out in Carl's eyes when that topic came up.

Sensing potential climate change, Stanley quickly cut in.

"When in a relationship, it's important to grow together," he said wisely.

"For example, when someone enters me, he grows. I also grow. And we enjoy the thrusting and gyrating," he continued, signalling climate change with the switch of his topic.

"But if two people can't grow together, then they grow apart," Stanley said, switching back to serious mode again.

Sometimes, it's hard to catch up with Stanley but this time, he made a good point.

As we talked about relationships that Saturday night, we reinforced one important value:

That couples must help each other to grow for the better - to improve the quality of each other's lives.

If a couple sucks the energy out of each other and fills that void with exhaustion, that's a sign of a doomed relationship.

"But your argument is flawed, Adam," Stanley corrected me.

"A couple can still suck each other dry and still fill that void with exhaustion, and it can be a very good thing," Stanley said with a cheeky smile.

To which, Carl laughed.

And just like that, I knew that Stanley and my effort in momentarily counselling Carl over the past three years, had been worth it.

And we will always be there for Carl, our dense friend.

Hunting Lessons

House hunting can be a very disappointing exercise, Stanley declared loudly in a dreadful voice.

"It's disappointing because every time I step into an apartment, I never fail to leave without having an orgasm," Stanley whispered to me. "And this is the fourth apartment that I'm leaving without any deposits."

"Don't worry, you happy then you deposit!" Yvonne Yim cut in with precise timing.

"And, don't scared, we have some more to go after lunch, ok? Sure you can find something you like. You happy, I happy. You deposit, Aunty Yim also happy," said Yvonne Yim, top saleswoman, ERA.

Our part-time housing agent for the day was Yvonne Yim, female / 57 / 1.56m / 69kg, and most importantly, got place. Many, many places to show us, in fact.

Stanley, who's always wanted to move out, has recently made the first move of house hunting, after amassing enough cash.

"Hello, hello boys! I'm Yvonne, but see you all so young, you both must call me Aunty Yim ah!" she said with a cheeky laugh at our very first meeting at exactly 9.08 that morning.

"I like her already," Stanley said out loud, two seconds into our introduction. 

"Aunty Yim is top saleswoman for the second time in a row. You ask Adam! Many of his friends use me before. Tried and tested one," she rattled off.

"I like her even more now," Stanley whispered to me. "I love tops! And like me, she's used by many people. And most importantly, she's tested. That's very safe of her."

"Yes, yes, very safe one," Aunty Yim chimed blithely, and took Stanley by his arm to enter our first apartment at Hill View. 

Although Aunty Yim at first glance looked like she would be more competent in filling up the empty beer mugs of retired uncles at coffee shops, she was quite the seller.

Five of my friends had engaged Aunty Yim and the motherly agent managed to satisfy each and every one of them, closing three deals in total, with two sales pending.

But the first half of our house hunting stint that morning was not quite productive (or reproductive, going by Stanley's thwarted view of apartment viewing).

One seller agent told blatant lies about the apartment she was hoping to promote.

"The new MRT station is very near to this place. It's just a stone's throw away," the young woman said with an annoying accent which was neither fully American nor remotely human.

To which, an annoyed Stanley replied: "Yes, a stone's throw. By Hercules."

Despite the interesting morning drama, the first half of our day was indeed fruitless.

Hours later, Stanley and I settled for a quick lunch at the nearby Rail Mall, while Aunty Yim drove off somewhere to settle other viewings over lunch.

"If she's always skipping lunch to meet clients for viewings, I don't see why she's still so portly," Stanley mouthed those words with a smile as he waved Aunty Yim goodbye.

"You are such a bitch. No wonder you aren't getting any good apartments."

"But they are all so lacking," Stanley complained later, adding sugar to his hot mocha at Coffee Bean.

"People say that the moment you enter an apartment, you would know it's yours. It must feel right," Stanley explained.

"And trust me girl. I would know. I am well acquainted with the good feeling upon entry."

Half an hour later, Carl arrived at Coffee Bean to join us for lunch, where he ordered a sandwich without finishing the carb morsels.

These days, Carl's Saturdays are occupied by his part-time classes where he is studying some sports and fitness course.

"Wah, more boys!" Aunty Yim exclaimed with delight when we rendezvoused for the second half of our viewing slightly past 2pm.

"This one very good, the muscles very big, Aunty Yim like," she squeezed Carl's biceps and patted him on the shoulder.

Carl beamed at Aunty Yim's approval and looked at us, mouthing the words "I like her".

The next half of our viewing was in the central area - where Aunty Yim arranged based on size and Stanley's budget.

"Okay, all these units are one-bedders and studios... about same as your budget but because of the area, the size all smaller lah" Aunty Yim explained.

Stanley Ong the size queen took a deep breath and braced himself for the worst.

When he stepped into apartment number five - a 45-square-metre one bedder, Stanley closed his eyes.

"Why are you acting weird," I whispered urgently.

"I'm channelling my sixth sense," Stanley said scrunching his nose and sniffing around.

"I'm trying to get that special feeling. I need the apartment to talk to me," Stanley said, swaying his body side to side like a cult leader's voice was speaking to him in his head.

"Ignore the panties on the floor ah, boys," Aunty Yim said with a hearty laugh.

"This home owner single woman lah, and so busy with her career. Never mind, don't step on it can already," Aunty Yim said calmly, shooing Carl and me away from the offending apparel as if she were a detective guarding a piece of evidence.

Good thing the home owner had trusted Aunty Yim to view the apartment while she was away on a work trip.

At apartment number seven, Stanley, Carl and I squeezed into a shoebox.

Lovely view of the city, but Stanley looked horrified.

It was one-tenth the size of his attic room: The door opened to a tiny couch and table. Behind it was a super single bed, positioned right beside the floor-to-ceiling window. The only partition in the home led to a kitchenette, a tiny toilet and a tiny balcony that could fit only one tiny outdoor table and one tiny chair.

In apartment 12, the final apartment for the day, the three of us met a really chatty agent who was hard-selling another one-bedder.

"Young man, you cannot just look at the apartment and the view," the seller agent instructed. "This old couple are very staunch Catholics. Very good people. See? This aunty is cooking for church. They're doing charity work! You must also consider the current homeowners when buying the apartment."

"Why ah? This apartment comes with the nice aunty and uncle issit?" Stanley said to me cattily, looked at the seller agent and smiled.

Later that evening, after a very exhausted Stanley dropped off Carl and me home, I thought about our day.

Sure, Stanley hadn't fallen in love with any of the apartments he viewed - the two bedders in the west, the three bedders at more far flung locations of Singapore, nor the tiny units right smack in the centre of Singapore.

But for me, I had gained some insights, by gaining entry into some of these homes.

And it helped me reflect on my own life. 

Chief of which - how do people get so rich to own condo units in the first place?

As my partner J would say, the good old rule is to keep saving money.

"It's not how much you earn but how much you save," he would say.

But sometimes, on meagre salaries, there's no way some of us can save enough money to buy properties.

But having been with J for so long, I can already answer on his behalf: "Then don't stress over buying a property and live and be happy within your means".

Which brings me to the next point.

Happiness.

Needless to say, not everyone who can afford luxury condos means he or she is living happily.

In one of the penthouse units at Hougang (going for 1.29 million), the couple were in the midst of a divorce, Aunty Yim revealed to us.

"Don't get married better lah, hor?" Aunty Yim said to us, playfully raising two eyebrows like she shared an inner bond with us.

Sure, the single-storey penthouse looked lovely.

But as I looked at the empty walls with hooks (which must have once been adorned by photos of happy heterosexual family members), I felt a tinge of sadness for a soon-to-split family.

And that makes me feel grateful for the 15-year relationship with my partner J, which is still going strong.

At another unit, we stepped into a lovely home. Two bedrooms. Tiny but lovely.

But the family was selling the place because the home owner, a jolly old lady who enjoyed her own space, had recently died, and her son felt that he needed to let go of that apartment to move on.

Again, a reminder to me that all traces of happiness, like all things, cannot have any permanence and thus, is important to treasure every bit of it while we have it.

Even the apartment with strewn panties was a lesson to me.

That we sometimes spend so much time at work that we forget to clean up our internal mess - and I'm not even talking about dirty panties.

Sometimes, we're so caught up with work or our personal lives that we forget to see that mess is building up in our lives - that we have been ignoring our parents, neglecting peaceful personal time, forgetting to sort out little issues in our lives: From personal hygiene to decluttering our thoughts.

So, thank you, Aunty Yim for the tour that Saturday.

And thank you dirty panties, for that lesson too.

Home Alone

Two topics dominated our lives over dinner on Friday night.

One of which is quite depressing.

"Try, try, try! I want to see!" Stanley insisted as he shoved his iPhone in front of Carl's face.

"I don't want to look old!" Carl said with a pout, and looked at me for help.

The latest fad that's got quite a number of my friends talking (and worrying) recently is none other than Face App, which can, among other functions, make a person look old. Realistically old.

Why people want to do that is beyond me.

All you need to do is to take a selfie, choose that setting and voila, you'll get a peek into the future and see how you look when you're 600 years old.

And Stanley had been very fixated with that app, even taking the liberty of imposing his unhealthy obsession on us, by posting a very disturbing photo of his aged self in our group chat.

"You look like a dried mummy," I typed, commenting on Stanley's digitised skin, which looked leathery and wrinkled.

"?!" Carl typed.

"Look at how you've allowed your iPhone to take charge of your life," I wrote.

Frankly, it's very depressing to see how your friends could potentially age.

And according to that app, Carl would have droopy cheeks and eye lids (which prompted our dense friend to worry over his oversized biceps and chest muscles).

I on the other hand, will have mottled skin as dry and crinkly as a preserved seahorse and a droopy right eyelid.

The topic of Face App surfaced again last evening during our steamboat dinner at Tanyoto, where Stanley merrily went around the table, insisting that all of us had our headshot taken again, just so that we could see different variations of our aged selves in years to come.

The cheeky Stanley even managed to cajole a very giggly Malaysian waitress who gamely did so.

After she saw how old she could potentially look, she gasped and stopped coming to our table to top up soup or take additional orders for the rest of the evening.

"Poor girl, she looks like a zombie now. Look what you've done Stan," I chided.

"Snow White needs to know that she can't remain fair and fresh faced, and virginal forever," replied Stanley, ageing evil queen.

The other topic that dominated our dinner topic that night - which could also be potentially depressing, depending on how you look at it - was living alone.

"All my adult life, I'd been fantasising about living alone," Stanley declared.

"All your adult life, you'd been fantasising, full stop," I said.

"I think you don't want to live alone. You just want to live away from your mum," Carl pointed out, which won praise from the table for being so on point that evening.

"My kaypoh mother wants to know everything about my life," Stanley complained. "She loves sneaking into my room when I'm not home and on the pretext of helping me pack my room, takes the opportunity to probe into my stuff," he complained.

"I can see whose genes you inherited," I replied with a raised eyebrow.

"Eew, stop it, Adam. Now you're putting disturbing images of my mum probing. That's even worse than all the Face App photos!"

A decade ago, Stanley suggested that Carl and I invested in an apartment so that the three of us could all live happily ever after.

The logic behind his thinking is that boyfriends can never be trusted, and we need to help one another change diapers when we're old.

Neither Carl nor I bought the idea or any apartment, for that matter.

It would be crazy to live together because we would end up killing Stanley (I suspect I would have to do the plotting and dense Carl, with his python-sized biceps, the strangling work).

Or we could end up having our apartment raided and impounded because our concerned neighbours would report us to the police, thinking that our unit was an actual brothel, with so many different men visiting Stanley.

But now, Stanley is ready to buy an apartment, with or without us.

"I've been hunting around," he said, scooping up more chicken morsels.

"What's new? You're always hunting around."

"What's new is," Stanley said as he blew at his spoonful of chicken, "I've started the process of house hunting. I'm starting to view some next week. Care to join me, boys?"

Carl and I perked up and cheered.

"Wow!" Carl exclaimed.

"Does your mum know?" I asked.

"She'll be the last person I'm telling!"

"Unless you get probed by your mum first," I said cheerfully.

Though we're all born in the same year, Stanley has always managed to be avant garde: He's the first among us to have a boyfriend (not surprisingly), first to pick up smoking ("how do you think I honed my blow job skills?"), first (and only person) to get fined by NEA (when he threw a cigarette butt near Mustafa only to be approached immediately by plain clothes officers who were ambushed nearby), first to own a car, and now, first home owner.

"Eh, relax and calm your man tits Adam," Stanley said putting both hands up in mock surrender.

"I'm only starting to view - I'm not buying anything yet."

Then again, with Stanley, it's only a matter of time.

The moment Stanley sets his mind about doing something, he gets it: Men, work, food, car, apartments.

"But Stan, why must you move out ah?" Carl asked at the dining table, a rare occasion that he managed to, a) string a proper sentence together and b), an even rarer occasion that he could keep up with our discussion.

"Well," Stanley tilted his head, an indication that our fey friend is switching to serious mode.

"I haven't really thought about it. But don't you guys want to move out and live alone too?"

Later that night, I gave that question some serious thought.

Stanley isn't the first person I know who has always been wanting to move out.

In fact, three years ago, when my batch of 1979-born peers turned 35, I experienced a tide of housing party fatigue.

At least eight of my friends bought public flats the moment they came of age (singles in Singapore can only own such properties when they turn 35).

Though majority of those friends who bought flats are gay (including a handful of lesbians), some of them are heterosexuals - mainly very independent women who are convinced they'll never own a wedding ring and sleep in a matrimonial bed.

As I sat in my room (while my mum continued watching her noisy Canto serials in the living room), I thought about why people would feel a need to move out.

The need for space? Privacy?

Then again, for people like Stanley whose room is an entire attic, space has never been an issue for him.

Stanley once held an ORD party for at least 20 NS boys at his four-storey home where we had barbeque, and later, a noisy rave party in his attic bedroom.

Everyone was drunk and happy that night.

Stanley were to later tell me that since then, he believed that his true calling in life is to make men feel very happy in his home. But that's a story for another day. 

Do people move out because they can afford to?

Surely, there are people who can afford multiple properties but choose to stay with their family?

Besides, wouldn't it be a big betrayal to your parents if you are single and yet choose to move out?

Then again, in some cases, people move out for very practical reasons - including wanting to be closer to their parents.

One friend who did so last year told me that his mother and he agree that the move was for the better.

My friend, M, is an air steward and his new flat is just two minutes' cab ride to or from the airport.

And because he's physically away from his family, M makes it a point to drop by his family home to spend time with them. Something he had taken for granted when living with them.

Collectively, M spends more time talking to his mum during that weekly visit than on any normal day when he lived with his mum.

And they spend less time arguing about mundane stuff because they no longer have a reason to get on each other's nerves.

But how many of us who move out actually do so under such altruistic reasons?

Or, are we victims of western propaganda - that years of watching US movies and sitcoms have inevitably introduced the idea of moving out when we're adults?

As I tried to find an answer that night, nothing came up.

Except one mini revelation.

That some of us should be thankful that we're able to move out - by choice.

Because for every one person who finds joy in doing so, there must be others who don't see it as such.

Those who're forced to move out because of bad family ties, or being left alone after everyone migrates, or having inherited flats from parents who've died.

In those cases, surely there was no joy to begin with.

Then again, who's to say that there will be joy even if we chose to move out and live alone under happy circumstances?

"You're right," Stanley typed in the chat group after I shared my thoughts with the boys. "There's no guaranteed happy ending, unless you're a paying customer."

"But that's life isn't it? We make our choices," Stanley wrote.

"I'll stand by them regardless of your psychoanalysis," he said.

"And even if I grow old alone - and boys, trust me, I have seen my future thanks to Face App, I will not regret moving out and living alone.

"For me, I will definitely make my bed - and lie in it. Every single night, in my very own home."

Fashion Statement

This evening, we go shopping.

"We need a Cabinet reshuffle," Stanley announces to me urgently over the phone.

Recently, Stanley had been doing some serious contemplation about clothes.

Usually, his contemplation about clothes revolve around getting rid of them - then getting stark naked and diving right into bed with partner of the day.

Tonight, Stanley's plan with Carl and I involve just that.

Except, nobody's getting naked or diving right into bed with our best gay pal.

Thank God. I can't force myself to be lesbian.

Stanley is out on a mission to replace all his clothes in his closet. 

Last week, Stanley met one of his secondary school friends L, who is now an established personality in the fashion industry.

"Oh my word, I suggest you take off that t-shirt the moment you're home and shred it to pieces and then burn it away," were L's opening words to Stanley as he stepped into PS Cafe that afternoon.

According to L, it is not permissible for 38 year olds to wear t-shirts with cartoon prints and appear in public and walk among humans.

They not only make you look like you're wearing your nephew's clothes, worse, they also make you look like a lao gay, L said.

Stanley couldn't even voice out his inner thoughts of who died and made you fashion God because, truth be told, L is indeed a respectable icon in the world of fashion, having cut his teeth (and endless bales of fabric) as he carved out a respectable career in the industry.

"I had always dreamt of the day when someone looks at me and immediately tells me that I need to take my clothes off. And I should have been more specific," Stanley wrote in our group chat with Carl and me during his coffee with L that day.

But the coffee session turned out to be quite fruitful.

And our born again fashionista is determined to impart his newfound knowledge to us.

"Now, now, now, now, now" Stanley shouted into the phone. "Before I start sounding my horn and announcing that I am arriving," Stanley threatened.

"And trust me - when I am associated with the words horn and arriving, you know I will be a loud, full blown drama queen."

I immediately sprint down the stairs and wave the moment I see Stanley's car approach.

I step in and - I am greeted by a mourner.

"Whose bloody funeral are you attending," I ask with love, looking at Stanley's all-black getup: Black polo tee, black pants, black shoes.

"This is the Black Widow look," the drama queen said with mystery in his voice.

"I can imagine why your husband would want to kill himself."

Turns out, Stanley was so convinced by L's advice that he had decided to disown almost all of his existing clothes.

The only few pieces that L had given his approval for Stanley to wear in public, as a respectable man approaching the big four-O, were his black Fred Perry polo tee and his skinny black jeans bought from Top Shop some seven years ago. 

Twenty minutes later, a very task-oriented Stanley reaches Carl's block and in comes our dense friend.

"Wow. Who died?" Carl asks, looking very concerned as he eyes Stanley's clothes.

All our adult lives, we had known Stanley to be a very, shall we say, adventurous dresser.

He never wears dark colours. My beach-boy tan skin cannot pull off such dull tones, he would say.

And so, Stanley's wardrobe is a burst of colours.

From bright yellow skinny jeans (which can be spotted from the moon), to questionable singlets with sequins and, God forbid, a pair of purple checked bell bottoms (which Stanley bought in his mid-twenties at Far East Plaza and occasionally wears to house parties), Stanley Ong proudly owns them all.

But tonight, oh, tonight is different.

"The old Stanley Ong has died - and this evening, we will all be reborn," Stanley explains in a theatrical voice to anyone in his car who would listen. "Come, join hands with me, sisters, and rejoice."

I turn to Carl and say: "I don't think we're not going to a funeral. We're going to a cult group".

At 5.27pm, Stanley drives us to our destination: Peninsula Plaza.

Stanley is making bespoke shirts.

"Rule number one," Stanley said channelling his inner Karl Lagerfeld, "is that everything must fit your body."

And so, Stanley has decided to custom-make casual shirts.

"Even if you're tucking out the shirt and rolling up the sleeves and wearing it with shorts, it's worth to tailor make them," Stanley said with conviction.

Customised shirts are perfect, Stanley conveys what he learnt from L.

They fit your body and there's only that one such piece in the world. Even if someone wears the same coloured shirt, it at least fits you and accentuates your curves.

"The last thing you want is to step into a restaurant and see someone else wear the exact clothes you're wearing. What if the other person is hotter than us?!" Stanley asks the group in horror, then proceeds to answer his own question: "Then I will have no choice but to rip those clothes off his hot body."

That night, after trudging 7,000 steps (according to Carl's fitbid) to hunt around for Stanley's age-appropriate clothes, I ask myself:

Is it that vital that we dress our age? 

Why can't we wear cartoon t-shirts at 38?

If an 18 year old can dress up in shirt and tie, surely a 38 year old can wear cartooned tees?

Stanley once told me that when he was 18, he had wished to quickly grow up and start making money so that he can walk into Zara or Top Shop or any boutique and point at apparels and say this, this, this, this, and this. I want one in every colour!

Twenty years later, he says he still wants to be Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.

But instead of shopping at only Far East Plaza, he can now afford bigger and more expensive labels. And splurge on time pieces. And bespoke shoes. And leather bags.

But once in a while, Stanley still likes to dress up as his 25-year-old self.

His argument is simple: He still looks young, he still is in good shape, and he's a grown up who can decide on what he wants to wear.

Or can he?

Would men our age be frowned upon if we wore tight and brightly coloured singlets with torn jeans and walked along Orchard Road?

Even if we don't fall prey to evil instagrammers, can we push our luck further?

What if we were in our 50s? 60s? 70s?

How far are we able to push our limits before people started talking behind our backs? Or warning us to shred and burn our clothes?

Are we so critical because we're gay - which implies that we must inherently have good dress sense?

Then again, shouldn't gays be allowed to be loud?

Does sexual preference even have a part to play in this unspoken rule of dressing to one's age?

As I inspect my own wardrobe that night, I realise that I have no answer.

I do have one revelation though.

That this boils down to two categories of dressers.

Those who give a shit and wear "proper clothes" so that they don't look out of place.

And those who don't give a shit about what others think: i.e, your aunties who squeeze into sexy tube tops and mini skirts which must have been stolen from their granddaughter's wardrobe, or uncles who still dare to sport blonde hair and proudly wear see-through singlets and leather pants.

I text the group and ask which type they'd choose to be.

"I am busy," Stanley types.

"I am standing in front of my wardrobe and thinking, it's time to stop looking like a lao gay and to look my age for once.

"I'm getting all my colourful gay clothes out of the closet and preparing to look like a real gentlemen with dark, boring tones," he continued.

"But they're not going to be dull, hunny. They don't call it fifty shades of grey for nothing."