Sibling Revelry

Because the topic is trending - and because Stanley claims we're trendy - he insists that this topic take centrestage at Saturday brunch.

My sex-bunny friend Stanley, Carl the dense one and J my partner were at a child-friendly cafe in the eastern part of Singapore.

After we ordered our respective meals, Stanley very urgently set the agenda over brunch.

The Lee family feud.

"Why you so kaypoh ah?" asked Carl, who at our last check, still thought that our current president is S R Nathan.

Stanley looked annoyed.

"Carl, this is a topic that concerns the nation!" he scolded.

"You must keep up with current affairs," Stanley added, slurring the word "affairs" with a touch of sleaziness.

Carl didn't look convinced.

Stanley then ventured to challenge Carl in a bid to shut him off: "Tell me, Carl. What is the name of our current president?"

Carl cocked his head to one side and scrunched his features together as if an invisible hand was squeezing his face like a sponge.

While Singapore's Number One Big Kaypoh continued chatting with J (and with Carl continuing to look like he needed to be in ICU for constipation), I started on attacking my hearty American breakfast.

Truth be told, the family feud didn't fascinate me.

But the famous Lee family drama got me thinking about another Lee family. Mine. 

My very own Lee siblings: Younger brother Barry, my second sis S and oldest Sis Jo. 

Only one name has been approved for this blog because my sis S needs her privacy and Barry doesn't care. Sis Jo doesn't even know I'm gay, much less the existence of this blog.

And so, I thought that I should write about this topic today: Sibling rivalry versus sibling revelry. 

In my case, we are definitely filled with love for one another.

Although we've all grown up and no longer stay together, we meet very often for drinks and meals. Just us siblings. 

But I do have many friends who grow up being distant and worse, hating their siblings. 

Stanley for instance, hates his older sister with a passion. 

Carl on the other hand, doesn't talk much to his younger brother.

In my family, it's quite different. 

Sure, we all didn't grow up loving one another all day every day. 

When we were kids, my second sis S, who is three years older than I, were at logger heads with each other all the time. 

We'd fight over toys, or challenge each other in every silly game like who eats dinner faster, or who can avoid stepping on all things linear on the floor at shopping malls.

But mainly, we fought like kids, over childish issues.

She would tell on me if I ran in the backyard without her, and played in drains to my heart's content.

And in retaliation, I would pretend that she scratched me while playing catching, and complain to our older sis Jo (who was in JC while we were in primary school).

Our older sis Jo dotes on us like a good old fashioned big sister. And because of our age difference, she left us younger ones be. 

But she loved us and we welcomed her affection - like how she'd take us out on dates when she went out with her then-boyfriend who would come pick her up in a truck. 

She'd also always buy us food or the occasional toy to share. 

When the younger brother came along - who is three years younger than I - I felt that I had to cultivate another ally but the goodnatured brother was so kind to everyone he had no heart to bully his second sister at my bidding. 

And as we grew older, I felt I had them all: A doting oldest sis who doesn't give a damn about our kiddish politicking, and two siblings both of whom are so close to my age - each of them with a three-year gap from me.

And I felt that I, of all my siblings, had the best of both worlds: On the one hand, there's another boy in the family. So he became my natural best friend.

When we played swordfighting, my younger brother Barry and I were both each other's foes, out to kill each other and master pugilistic skills from a secret manual hidden in a dangerous cave (our grandma's TV room - and if you know our grandma and her stern ways and how she fiercely guards all her Hong Kong TVB video tapes, you will understand how dangerous that cave truly is).

And when playing police-and-thief, Barry and I were both on the good side. We pitched tents using blankets and operated from there as our HQ. 

All this while, our second sis S would be left out of our games and she would busy herself with her Nancy Drew books.

But she was a part of the game: She was the enemy we had to kill. S of course wasn't very participative and at a ripe old age of 11, would sourly dismiss us as childish.

Yet, S and I would have our own games - the inner Ah Gua in me also loved playing with my second sis S.

Sometimes, we would both play dress up, using one of our auntie's petticoats and we were princesses on some days, or some rich taitais with big clip-on earrings on other occasions. 

Barry would not understand why gor gor had to wear dresses alongside jie jie, but he would giggle along and sometimes, star in our Chick Flick drama as our servant boy.

All this playing made us very close.

Years later when I confessed to S and Barry that I was gay, they both rolled eyes at me. 

But that's a story for another day.

Point is, sibling love starts from young.

We were fortunate enough to grow up in two relatively spacious shophouses where playtime was always adventurous. 

We had ample space for hide-and-seek, big backyards to run around in, and a few streets away from our houses, narrow alleys with overgrown weed to trek on whenever we felt adventurous enough to sneak out. 

Even if we didn't share toys and did have our differences, love was cultivated through play. 

And it helps that all my grandma's children - I had six aunties and uncles - lived in the two shophouses. 

And my mum being the second youngest child would always be respectful to all her older siblings. 

Kids are impressionable so the more you show - and not merely instruct - them on how to love, the more they will be nurtured. 

Stanley on the other hand, hated his older sister. 

She's a bitch is all Stanley would say when asked for some input to this blogpost. 

"Say that men always fall for me instead of my wicked, ugly sister," Stanley suggested. 

Stanley's sister Cindy Ong is far from hideous. 

And I suspect it's precisely because Cindy is gorgeous that Stanley dislikes her.  

Growing up, Stanley had always been closer to his dad. 

But as with most if not all dads, the older Mr Ong dotes on his sister more. 

When they were younger, Stanley would always be compared to her older sister. 

Whenever they played, Stanley said he would always be second fiddle to his sister's imaginative games, taking on only the supporting role. 

When his sister Cindy ventured on to more adventurous games like cycling, Stanley's dad would tell him not to join his sister because he's still too young.

And when Stanley was old enough to pick up skateboarding - which his sister couldn't deal with - Stanley's dad would tell him to share with his sister because "as a boy, you must learn to give in to girls".

When they grew older, his dad spent loads of money on his sister, sponsoring her studies in the United Kingdom.

When it was Stanley's turn to go to university, his dad said to him that since his results were good enough to qualify for NTU, he should just study locally.

Stanley would later blame his sister for his being gay. 

"I have all these daddy issues because of the lack of attention from him. Cindy Rebecca Ong Bee Leng is to blame," Stanley said invoking his sister's full name, an indication of his true distaste. 

Carl on the other hand, told me that he felt like the lousy older brother who always disappointed his parents.

Although older, Carl is indeed denser than his younger brother, who turned out to be charmingly cunning.

As kids, the two would get into trouble but his younger brother would always get away with things.

Both Carl and his younger brother would both look innocent - in his younger brother's case, it was because he could feign innocence well. In Carl's case, he was simply too dense to look guilty.

But Carl would still be punished because as the older boy, you must set an example to your younger brother, his parents would say.

As Carl's younger brother grew older, his cunning ways were sharpened.

He'd always charm his way into getting more pocket money, and later in adult life, managed to escape financial responsibilities to the family.

Eventually, Carl stopped talking to his younger brother because he felt that his parents' love was unequal, and that the obvious favouritism had spoiled his younger brother beyond the point of redemption. 

As I sat at Cafe Melba that late morning, watching dozens of kids running amok in the open field beside the cafe, I thought about how these carefree little beings would grow up to be.

And how much their parents' values would shape the way they interact with the world - and interact with their own siblings.

Many a time, the early seeds of favourtism and early seeds of comparison are actually planted by parents themselves - without them realising it.

And kids being kids, they'd take offence. They may sometimes get over these comparisons and favouritism but if it persists, who's to guarantee that they won't grow up resenting their siblings?

I shared my thoughts with the table.

Stanley, who was stirring his cafe mocha, looked worried.

"Adam dear, I agree with you.

 "These parents belong behind bars.

"Because anyone who wants to plant seeds - whatever kind of seeds they may be - in children should go to hell."

Pure Bottom

"All my adult life, I've always thought that bottom life is fucking fun," Stanley said the moment his perky butt made contact with the wooden stool at Balestier.

"I am at my bottom most right now - and trust me, sisters, my life is neither filled with fucks nor fun," he added wistfully.

It's Friday night, and the only way to cheer our friend - who recently lost his job (and appetite for sex) - was to agree to eat durian with him.

So there we were, Stanley, Carl and I seated among hordes of tourists at Combat Durian in Balestier, right after a light dinner of pig intestines soup nearby.

Carl looked uneasy and said, "I shouldn't have eaten an entire bowl of rice just now".

"Anyway," Carl began with one of his two favourite clutch words.

"How's everyone?"

"I'm doing just great, Carl," Stanley said with a pout, as if he were a neglected puppy.

"No job, no sex, no life," he continued. "Just great."

"Consider this a lull period for yourself, girl," I said. "Like a detox week or something. Don't think of your joblessness, or sex, or whatever. Just be yourself."

"Ooooh, yummy," Stanley cut in, perking up momentarily as a fair skinned young man with sharp features and thick eyebrows which looked like charred caterpillars approached us with our Red Prawn durian.

"Mmmmmm.... God bless this young man who brings us the promised fruits," Stanley said with meaning, jiggling his shoulders for effect.

The young man was either deaf, dense like our friend Carl, or couldn't comprehend a word of English.

Thank goodness.

"I feel so thorny right now," Stanley said, biting his lips, looking pointedly at the young man and his basket of fruits.

One China tourist turned to our direction and smiled with amusement at our table. 

"Okay, maybe, don't be too much of yourself," I stepped in before Stanley stole the limelight of Combat Durian and made our table the real tourist attraction.

I could see Stanley's weariness fade away as the durians were set on our table.

For Stanley, durians can solve all of life's problems.

"There're many things going on in my mind but this moment, we eat. We focus on making these durians disappear. We think of nothing but pure enjoyment for now, girls," he said as he reached out for the plastic gloves on the table.

"Condom, or raw?" he held out both hands like an air steward on duty.

"In this case, raw," Carl said with glee. "The only time when protection takes away the real enjoyment," he continued, as he split open our first fruit of the night.

"Ooooo, so man," Stanley said, clapping rapidly.

Carl beamed and began jiggling his chest muscles, which made Stanley cheer even louder.

The next 10 minutes were spent in silence, punctuated only by Stanley's moan of pleasure, as we successfully polished off four large durians.

The next part of our Friday night was spent in Stanley's car, where many of our important life conversations were exchanged.

"So," Carl said with his other favourite clutch word.

"How's everyone feeling now?"

Stanley belched durian vapour, sniffed the air and sighed with satisfaction.

"Can somebody wind down the window for God's sake?"

 "No! I'm depressed and we die together if need be," Stanley said.

Carl shifted uncomfortably in the back seat.

"Did you just fart, Carl?!" Stanley shrieked seconds later.

Carl bit his lips nervously.

"Yay! We're all going to die in my car!" Stanley cheered loudly.

As the post durian drama subsided, Stanley turned towards me and Carl and confessed that his past week hadn't been very successful.

"I know I had put on a brave front, boys. But I can't lie to you boys."

Boys.

The key word that marks the tone of our discussion.

When Stanley talks about anything frivolous, we're his girls. When he talks about anything serious, we're his boys.

While I like the serious Stanley, now's not exactly a time to celebrate.

Stanley had a roller coaster week - and not in a good way either.

One day, he was senior management. That very night, he was made redundant.

Sure, he had our support and love and Carl and I were even prepared to loan him money if he needed it.

But these life episodes, you face alone, regardless of whether you're attached, have a group of close friends, or whether your family is closely knit or not.

Right after Stanley decided that he was going to be fine, he returned home and began overthinking things.

For him, money wasn't exactly a huge problem.

Without a job, it meant that his massive amount of savings would now be used to tide him over meanwhile (which can last him five years) instead of spending it on mortgage or renovation or furnishing his would-be apartment.

For Stanley, it is self -doubt that is the problem.

"I feel like I'm not worthy of anything," Stanley said wistfully in his car.

"I can understand if I'm being dumped by a guy - 'cos I would probably have contributed to that. But I work so damn hard, slogged so damn many hours for my stupid boss and now, they simply sever ties with me. I don't understand."

Well, Stanley, neither do we.

What I do understand is that for every painful episode, we need to heal and move on.

Sometimes, revisiting the reason behind that painful experience is necessary for some form of healing or closure.

But revisiting that reason for too long a period does no one any good.

Perhaps, one thing we need to realise is that most of us invest too much into our work - and I'm not talking about time.

Investing time in our work is important. One of the most important aspects of career building, if you ask me.

But if we invest emotions into our work, now, that becomes a totally different ball game.

Because emotions at work isn't essential.

It hinders our work, it clouds our view.

That is probably why we feel so upset. So angry. So indignant when things don't work out the way we want it at work.

Because we attach too much emotions to our projects.

I'm just thinking - if we were to approach work in a very clinical or even robotic manner, wouldn't we feel less pain if things didn't work out?

If we're all standing in a production line and one of the robots screws things up, the next logical sequence is for everyone to stop the work flow and solve the problem, right?

We wouldn't see the robots group together for a smoke afterwards, and hear them say things like "Cheebye lah bro. See lah, now we have so much lanjiao sai gang to do because of you."

Of course, it's easy for me to psycho-analyse these issues now, in the comfort of my own office, where I'm still gainfully employed. Even if I'm clocking in time on a Saturday.

But still, this is one issue I think we need to address.

To first drain out the emotions we have at work as a first line of defence and protection for ourselves, such that even if things don't work out - or if we get sacked - we can handle it without feeling too emotional.

I shared my thoughts with Stanley and Carl in our group chat.

And it's only hours later, when Stanley read it.

"I'm still sleeping and lying in bed. Feeling very unproductive" he wrote.

"I have so much time and so much sperm in me but I'm not doing anything much with them."

"I am rotting away," he typed.

J my partner told me to leave Stanley alone for now.

In J's wise words: "Feeling rotten is also an important part of the healing process.

"Imagine if you put on a brave front for so long, it's just going to wear you down.

"For now, let Stanley be. Let him feel rotten and let him cry his heart out if he needs to. Don't interrupt.

"Your job is to draw up a timeline for Stanley. If you think his rotting is prolonged, then you step in.

"Because when someone is at rock bottom, the only way out is to climb up. And when that happens, you make sure you give him that helping hand."

Just half an hour ago, I shared with Stanley what J said.

"I love him, Adam. I love that J is so wise," he wrote.

"But I cannot imagine that when I am in my Rock Bottom mode and you come and give me that helping hand. I'm not lesbian. I might retreat into my hole even further," he said.

The Blown Job

"I have news," read the message in our whatsapp group chat titled "Just the Boys".

"?" replied Carl, a true reflection of his personality: His denseness - and inability to string together proper sentences. 

"I am sitting alone in my car, and my heart is racing. And not in a good way either" read Stanley's cryptic message - a true reflection of his personality: His penchant for dramatic openings - and ability to string together too many improper sentences.

"BTW, what was the Malbec we drank at Bill's restaurant the other night? I like it. I wanna buy it now," I typed as I strolled along the wine aisle in Cold Storage.

"I'm retrenched," Stanley wrote.

"!" replied Carl.

Within two minutes, our respective tasks were abandoned (me, my trolley and Carl, his part-time fitness instructor's class at a polytechnic in the northern part of Singapore).

"Drive safely - see you in a while" was the last group message before the three of us made our way to a food court in Woodlands for an emergency gathering.

Twenty minutes later, I found Stanley sitting in a corner stirring his teh peng listlessly.

"Keep on stirring and you'll summon a hurricane," I said as I took a seat opposite Stanley.

"Talk about a storm in a teacup," he replied, his glare distant.

Stanley may have lost his job, but he hasn't lost his wits.

"Are those male boobs?" he asked in a monotone, poking a finger slowly at my body part.

Stanley may have lost his job, but he hasn't lost his randomness.

Just then, a panting Carl arrived at our table.

"Ah, welcome. Another set of male boobs has just joined us. And these ones are better. They can jiggle," Stanley said, his eyes still fixed on my set.

"Carl, dribble them for me leh," Stanley said mechanically. "I'm depressed. I need entertainment."

"Okay!" Carl said with glee and immediately got down to the task of consoling his sad friend with his male boobs.

Left, right, left, right.

"You have some serious talent, Carl," Stanley said.

Carl clapped with childlike glee.

"Okay, enough, enough. Tell us what happened, " I said, as I noticed a makcik from the next table staring at Carl's rhythmic boobs with keen interest.

Turned out, Stanley's company wasn't doing well financially so the first to go would naturally be the latest hires who earn higher salaries.

"This feels so surreal," Stanley said wistfully.

"Every time we sit together, I tell you stories about how I get laid. Today, it's a story about how I get laid off. This is not right," Stanley said.

Just then, a nervous-looking Carl started biting his lips.

"What exactly did you work as, Stan?" asked Carl.

Stanley and I turned towards the dense one and then continued talking to each other.

"There are so many things to think about now," Stanley said.

"The car, the job hunt, the age - who's going to hire a 30-year-old man who's so highly paid in his last job?"

Carl nodded eagerly in agreement.

"You're 38, bitch," I said.

Carl starting biting his lips again.

"I'm depressed, Adam. You cannot correct me now. I'm 30."

With Stanley, one needs to be patient - not too long ago, Stanley had come to terms with his age. But let's not further upset the "30 year old".

Over cheap kopi and teh peng that night, Stanley poured his heart out to us.

He had been saving up to buy a place of his own - and now, it looks as if he would have to tap into his savings. A pool of money that had remained untouched for years.

For a start, Stanley toyed with the idea of selling away his car in a bid to cut expenses.

But between parting ways with his ride (which we christened "sergeant 69" because of the beginnings of his car plate number SGT 69XX), he thought a wiser choice would be to continue paying for it.

The worst part, Stanley said, was the he had been on the lookout for some condo units.

He was actually ready to buy a one-bedder in a good location the moment he came across one that he liked.

But now, Stanley's plans had to take a back seat.

Later that night, I thought about how some of us have subconsciously allowed work to take over our lives.

Often, it overshadows our personalities.

At parties, one of the questions that will certainly pop up would be our jobs.

What do you do for a living? 
Oh, wow, that's interesting!
You must really enjoy your work!
How do you manage that!

And when that happens, our jobs take centrestage - conversation topics revolve around the job: The good, the bad, the industry gossip.

Nobody cares that you have a liking for gardening, or that you enjoy watching fish swim in circles as a hobby. 

Which is why Stanley makes it a point to never talk about his job - unless it's the type that'll earn him an orgasm.

"Cut to the chase and stick to four main questions in all conversations - Pic? Seek? Top / Bottom? Place?" he would say.

Sometimes, we allow our job to erode our humility.

Years ago, Stanley and I started out with miserable salaries.

We convinced each other that if we could both survive as undergrads on our meagre pay as tutors - and still afford the occasional drink at the now-defunct Niche gay club - surely we could stick to spending $900 a month and save up the rest of our full-time salaries?

How untrue.

Very soon, our lifestyle caught up with our pay.

With each increment, instead of portioning all of it aside as savings, we came up with creative ways to spend that money. That $700 leather bag. Or the $2,000 watch. Anything. Everything.

Worse, we even became a little snobbish.

No food court please. That place smells like an oil factory. 
I can't be seen wearing G-Shock in my office wear! I need a real watch!
Life is too short to drink cheap wine - let's order based on price tags!

And the more we allow ourselves to enjoy the benefits of having a job, the more brazen the job becomes. It becomes the be all and end all in our lives.

And when one day, we lose our jobs, we're way too high up in the social strata that we become devastated.

It becomes more than a loss of our rice bowl.

The social status gets wiped out overnight. 

And we've plunged right back to the bottom.

Compare that to someone who has all along treated a job just as it is: An avenue to contribute to society and earn money - and in some cases, gratification - and when it's the end of a work day, walk away from it and focus on yourself.

On your family. On loved ones. On a hobby. On Grindr.

Would that job loss still be so tough to bear?

At around 1.15am that night, Stanley stirred the group chat to life.

Stan
"I've been thinking."
(1.17am)

Carl
?
(1.17am)

Stan
Very, very hard
(1.17am)

Me
Stan:
Very, very hard
Oooo... Stanley Ong is back in action!  
(1.18am)

Carl
Adam:
Ooo... Stanley Ong is back in action! 
You found a job, Stan?!
(1.25am)

Stan
@Carl, you also need to start thinking, full stop.
(1.25am)

Carl
?
(1.25am)

Stan
I've thought about my situation long and hard - just the way I like it. And here's how I'm gonna deal with it. Fuck it - just the way I like it.
(1.26am)

Me
Stan:
I've thought about my situation long and hard - just the way I like it. And here's how I'm gonna deal with it. Fuck it - just the way I like it.
Please explain
(1.26am)

Carl
What's going on?
(1.26am)

Stan
I think I'm overworrying. So what if I'm retrenched. It's not the end of the world. 
(1.27am)

I am still alive. I am still young. I am still capable. I still have a pair of hands, a brain, and my private parts that'll keep me very entertained.
(1.27am)

So fuck the work. I'll look for another job, but in the meantime, I'm not going to waste energy worrying about this and that.
(1.28am)

Me
Well done.
(1.28am)

Stan
So I'll draw up a timeline and try to do certain tasks by a certain time, like doing up my resume and sending them out
(1.29am)

In the meantime, I'm gonna relax. I'm gonna get enough sleep
(1.29am)

Enough food, catch up with friends
(1.29am)

And do things which I haven't had the time to do in a long while (have sex) and continue to do things I love (have sex)
(1.30am)

Carl
What job you looking for? What was your last job again, Stan?
(1.30am)

Looking Beyond

My best girl friend Nisa said it would be nice to have one.

My ex-colleague Richard the Closeted is currently looking for one.

Stanley my sex bunny friend has had several in his lifetime, but of course doesn't mind more.

We're talking about penises.

Not just any penis, mind you, but penises that don't belong to a Singaporean.

"These days, it's not enough to spread your legs wide any more. You have to cast your net wide too," complained Stanley over a quick lunch last Wednesday.

Stanley was meeting a client near my workplace and we squeezed in some catchup time.

Our lunch place was a very tiny outfit that served Japanese food.

"This place is yummy for obvious reasons," Stanley said sitting down, eyeing a boyish Japanese salaryman who was nodding like a woodpecker at an older, fatter person.

"Can I have sashimi on him please?" Stanley licked his lips furtively at his imaginative lunch.

When our sashimi don was served, Stanley dove right into our lunch topic.

"I've been thinking," he said without really meaning anything, "that it's time for me to look for a foreign partner."

"I'm tired of having only foreign objects in my life. I want a foreign man in my life too," he said.

"What's wrong with Singapore men?" I asked.

"Please. Don't get me started," Stanley responded in faux anger, then softened his expression with genuine lust as he cast a forlorn look at the young Japanese salaryman who was still nodding like a woodpecker at the older, fatter person.

"He's so cute," Stanley said, licking his spoon with feeling.

"I'm just tired of Singaporean men who are so firm with what they want that they no longer take the time to flirt or smell the roses any more," he said later.

"All I ask for, is someone tall, dark, and handsome - and they don't even need to be the same person rolled into one," Stanley said.

Case in point.

Stanley was recently on Grindr, hoping to find someone to chat with.

That was him on one of his off days when he truly wanted to connect with people in a non-carnal sort of way.

"All I got were one-worded replies, and queries about my penis size, photo, sexual preference," he said.

"You were on Grindr right? Not Linkedin?"

"Tsk. Shuddup and listen, Adam. Point is, Singaporean men don't know how to flirt at all - if not, any more," Stanley said with a conclusive nod.

"So in the end, I gave up looking for a chat, and the guy and I hooked up and then we moved on with our respective lives."

Later that day, while at work, I thought about it over a quiet coffee break at my workplace balcony.

The lush view of the bustling city which made the Raffles crowd look like ants going about the urban nest has a very comforting feeling - the perfect setting for sorting out important reflections such as this.

It is true that Singaporean men have lost the art of flirting.

And leave it to men our generation to feel the brunt of it.

You see, we grew up witnessing the evolution of gay networking.

We were born into an era of IRC where the most common means of meeting other gay boys were online, in gay chat forums.

Sebastian Yang, an older gay friend of Stanley and I, would hiss at our convenience of IRC.

He would boast that he, in his time, had to resort to cruising or scribbling his phone number in pencil at the back of library gay literature (or sometimes, behind toilet doors).

Old mister Yang would always say we boys have it easy.

But point is, gay men of the 1979 batch were indeed lucky.

IRC was like our birth right.

IRC to the rescue, at a time when we were ripe for exploration.

And IRC to the rescue when we have healthy needs stemming from puberty.

And as we grew older, we were introduced to apps like Grindr, where sex meetups were literally at a snap of our fingers.

With photos of men on display, time is not wasted for a man in heat: He logs on, browses through the catalogue, makes his selection and uses pithy words to quickly make his point.

Every. Second. Counts.

Gone are the days when a first impression is made over a witty pickup line, or an earnest remark about someone's cute or unique IRC nick.

That would be followed by an exchange of niceities which would segue into one's hobbies, family background, favourite food and colour before sex was mentioned.

Over time, convenience of apps waters down the need to be socially apt.

For men our batch, this form of skill can still be found among some, but the art is slowly dying.

For gay boys born into the Grindr era, it's worse.

They would never go through what their predecessors had experienced just to get other men in bed with them.

I can imagine pioneers like Sebastian Yang shaking his head in disapproval at the current state of gay culture.

But there is hope still.

The only gay people these days with good online manners are not Singaporean.

Tapping on Stanley's years of rich background, I requested for some anecdotal evidence from him for this blog post.

Based on Prof Stanley's years of, well, research, his data revealed that only foreigners would bother forming actual sentences to chat on Grindr.

It could be because they're generally more polite, or they still value the art of human interaction.

I would never know.

And that's perhaps what makes them so attractive - because there's foreplay involved, if you look at it bluntly.

Richard my ex-colleague told me that he's had enough of materialistic Singaporean men, who are mostly after his money and have no appreciation of his personality at all.

Nisa my best girl friend thinks that Singaporean men have no balls (to which, Stanley responded that Nisa had no right to say that given that she and the Virgin Mary had one thing in common).

"Singaporean men are not chivalrous at all," she told me and Terry, my best friend over coffee on Thursday evening.

Nisa said she was on exchange in Paris when a drunk man barged into the house that she and her housemates were staying.

Nisa screamed at that sight and who came to her rescue but a (cute) Malaysian student who was also on exchange with her?

What made her blood boil was that there was a Singaporean man in the house - but that wimp had said that he heard all the commotion but didn't want to come out to help.

"What if I got raped?!" Nisa told me and Terry in exasperation as she recalled that horrible experience.

"What if she didn't get raped?" Stanley asked when I related this to him later. "I'd be so upset if a drunk man barged into my house, looked at me and decided that even I am not worthy of rape."

But I do see Nisa's point.

That some Singaporean men can cause your blood to boil.

But then, Terry my best friend made another good point.

Straight men also sometimes have it with Singaporean women - who are generally materialistic, demanding, highly strung, and who are all about chasing money, and the high life.

Why do you think so many Singaporean men are marrying Vietnam brides, their Filipino helpers,  China girls, or go for the simple-minded Malaysian kampong lasses?

Nisa, a true blue Singaporean woman who is still single, went pale at that thought.

But it brightened me up - because it struck me then.

When it comes to choosing a partner, Singaporean gay men are being viewed the way Singaporean women are being viewed: That they are so caught up with their materialistic need, so engrossed with paper chasing, climbing the corporate ladder, stressing over bills and their CPF, that they no longer have that sense of adventure, love, or the tendency to smile over simple joys.

At the rate we're going, do we have to really look overseas for Mr Right?

"I don't know about that," Stanley told me over whatsapp later that night.

"If I don't see Mr Right, I'll go for Mr Right Now. And I don't even have to waste energy typing an entire essay on Grindr."