Stanley The Size Queen

"Quick, quick, quick, I can't wait!" Stanley said, hopping from one foot to another as if he were a child on Christmas morning.

That, or Stanley needed to pee.  

"Hurry, hurry, hurry!" Stanley said impatiently. This time, he was lying on his back on J's sofa, his legs pedalling an imaginary bicycle in the air.

"What on earth are you doing, Stan?" 

"I'm cycling! I love J's sofa! I love J's apartment!" my random sex-bunny-of-a-friend Stanley replied. 

"Food's ready!" J announced.  

As J dished out the steaming pot of his famous chicken stew, Stanley hurriedly ushered every one to his seat as if we were all late for the Last Supper and the host was starting to subconsciously drum his fingers on the table.

"Jesus, hurry up everyone," Stanley said urgently.

J took a seat beside Stanley, opposite Carl and me.

And even before we could open up our napkins, Stanley spoke rapidly: "Okay, J thank you for having us over and cooking for us and in line with your Holy ways, let's say grace."

And before any of us could react, Stanley added very quickly, "Grace!"

As J passed the toasted French loaves around, Stanley wasted no time in starting the topic he'd been dying to discuss.

His recent job interview.

Last week, Stanley - who was recently retrenched - got called back for a second round of job interview.

According to Stanley, his chances are quite high, but he's concerned that the firm is relatively small.

And Stanley the size queen is worried.

"Why worry so much? You can always go for all the interviews then decide slowly, no?" J asked.

"Oh, my dearest J," Stanley looked at him as if J were a naive little boy.

"Of course you wouldn't need to worry - you work for a huge law firm," Stanley said before adding "and anything that's huge and firm and lawful is always a recipe for a very, very good time."

J giggled at the random comment. Carl helped himself to chicken stew.  I rolled my eyes.

"You see, size is very important to me - in all sense of the word," Stanley continued, setting his cutlery down - a worrying sign because that means he's likely to go on and on about sex at the dinner table.

"First and foremost, the smaller the company, the more likely your boss will micromanage you," Stanley said with concern.

"But he'll be disappointed because hunny, when anyone manages me, I can guarantee him that they're handling nothing that's micro about me," Stanley continued, stroking his French loaf tenderly.

"What are your thoughts, Carl?" Stanley asked our dense friend.

Carl froze in mid-feed, and began processing the question, allowing his spoonful of chicken stew - just inches away from his mouth - to start dripping.

"Oh, so that's how it looks from a third-party point of view," Stanley said like an analyst as he observed Carl's frozen and arguably controversial pose.

"Stan, please, can we stop talking about sex over food?" I begged.

"What were you thinking, Adam? I'm always rim and proper at dinner tables," Stanley replied raising a lone eyebrow.

Carl looked very confused - likely because his brain can only process one set of data at a time, and the speed of Stanley's gear-switching is causing a lot of white noise and fuzz in Carl's mind.

"Never mind, Carl, you just put that dripping piece of meat in your mouth and swallow," Stanley said helpfully, and looked at me with cheeky defiance.

Stanley looked like he was about to spew his next vulgar comment when - "Wow, J, I could marry you if not for the fact that my best friend Adam and you are sleeping with each other behind my back."

"You make the best stew, J," Stanley sighed with gratification, his mouth chewing busily.

"There's only one other time when my mouth is filled with warm, gooey stuff and I feel like I'm in heaven," Stanley said, stirring his soup bowl and preparing for his next spoonful, "and trust me - yours is way more savoury."

Carl set his soup spoon down and tried very hard to presumably erase all mental images pumped into his head during dinner. 

"Adam, you are one lucky bitch," Stanley said, slurping the stew noisily. "Your boyfriend's stew is so rich."

"And your boyfriend is so rich," he said, turning to J.

J giggled and ladled more stew into Stanley's bowl.

"And speaking of rich," Stanley said, "I need to get back on track with my work life. This is my first job interview in weeks - one that is quite likely to land me my next pay check."

As our Saturday night dinner progressed, Stanley aired his concern over working for smaller companies.

Apart from fearing that a small team would mean more mirco-managing, Stanley was worried about the company's overall bottom line.

"And you can imagine why I'm so concerned," Stanley the pure bottom said.

"And then, if the company cannot do well, what will happen to my boners?" he said, obviously on a roll. 

"Oh, I am so funny!" Stanley cheered himself on, entertaining himself.

Carl, who was stuffing his face with his third bowl of chicken stew, clapped along by way of habit. 

But Stanley's worries are not unfounded.

Years ago, we did have a discussion about company sizes: Whether one would rather work for an MNC or settle for a small-size company.

Back then, we all readily agreed that when it comes to employment, size matters. The bigger and more reputable the company, the better.

Until Stanley - whose previous company was a huge and reputable firm - decided to retrench him.

In fact, Stanley's entire team in Singapore was axed. 

Which is why our Saturday dinner topic was really good food for thought.

"Do you think if I were to work for a lesser firm - which is smaller in size, I will be at a disadvantage?"

Stanley's question was pointedly posed to J my wise partner. An indication that Stanley had decided to close his chapter of making sex jokes and is now ready for real answers.

Sadly, J the litigator could only present Stanley both sides of the argument but really, Stanley has to be the judge of it.

And in J's words, he'll have to think about how his role in his would-be firm can propel him forward.

To which, Stanley quickly interrupted: "Oh, my role always propels me forward, backward, sideways - in all possible positions you can imagine."

And just as quickly, he added: "Sorry J - please go on. I just had to grab that opportunity when I saw it."

And just like that, Stanley straightened up.

"Wait. I think I just gave myself the answer."

Carl looked up from sipping his tea and cocked his head sideways - clearly because he hadn't been following.

"I need to grab opportunities when I see them!" Stanley said as if he discovered a formula to slow down global warming.

Just then, my partner J gently encouraged Stanley.

"And if you're in a small company, wouldn't that make you a big fish in a small pond?

Stanley lit up even further - and I really couldn't decide whether it was because J made a good point, or he thought the big-fish-small-pond analogy was yet another platform for him to make another sex reference. 

"It doesn't apply to me," Stanley replied.

"I'm always the small pond that's explored by the big fish," he added and roared with laughter.

If You Don't Love Yourself...

Last weekend, Stanley, Carl, J and I had the most taxing outings.

The kind where you're literally sapped dry of your energy.

"And not in a good way either," adds Stanley my sex-bunny friend retrospectively.

That Sunday, the four of us gathered because we were summoned.

By Sul A. Baker.

Sulaiman Abu Bakar by birth, our queer friend insisted that he be called Sul (pronounced Sool), when we first met him circa 2000, during our good ol' clubbing days at Niche.

We like Sul.

But we gradually lost touch with him because, while Sul is still a regular feature in the clubbing scene today, almost all of us no longer are (except on very special occasions when someone's birthday was to be held in one of those gay clubs).

And the inevitable happened: We drifted.

So when we each received Sul's summons - in the form of an invite card with elaborate cursive penmanship requesting our "presence" to his "humble home" for a "intimate gathering" - mailed to our home addresses, we had to say yes.

I suspect that Sul had Stanley at the "intimate gathering" part, but I did not feel like probing.

And so, we found ourselves appropriately decked out for that outing: In matching Baju Kurung.

"We look hot in traditional Malay garb," Stanley decided.

"Come, let's take a wefie and hashtag it SGBoy and SGBoyan," he added.

"Stan, please watch what you say. This is a very sensitive period," I cautioned.

"Mmmm, sensitive.... I know all about sensitivity.... "

Sul's home is at Tiong Bahru - one of the old pre-war flats which cost him and his Ang Moh partner 1.2 million dollars.

I can see why he is so eager to have friends over.

Furnished with expensive pieces from all over the world (sofa from Milan, paintings from - was it Spain? - decorative pieces like antiqued dragon ornaments from Shanghai), his flat looks like a showroom.

An art gallery, if you will.

It's also filled with abstract artwork hung on walls, and paintings that look as if it were the work of an overly excited child who had access to a paintbrush and lots and lots of water colour.

Sul's space is huge.

There's a red-bricked wall on one side, cement-screed flooring, black track lights and many pots of indoor plants (overgrown money plants and tall bamboo palm).

His place, for the lack of a better word, is beautiful.

"Eh, eh, eh.... welcome to my home Sayang!" Sul said the moment he spotted us from his kitchen, and modelled his way towards us.

Left, right, left, right. 

Sul was dressed in glittery gold baju melayu, with a songkok - traditional head dress for males - which has the height of a respectable pair of Manolo Blahnik.

"Mmm-mmmm, you still have that walk, Pondan," Stanley spurred the sashaying Sul on, calling Sul by his other nickname.

"Werk it, Pondan," Stanley cheered. "Gelek for kakak to see!"

Sul froze in his tracks.

Carl, J and I looked at one another discreetly, wondering if Sul was offended.

Then, Sul swiftly swivelled away, with his back facing us.

And in large, exaggerated steps, Sul sashayed vigourously as if Jabba The Hutt was possessed by a very drunk Tyra Banks.

Inside the house, everyone started cheering as Sul did his impromptu catwalk for all to see.

Somewhere near his dining table, Sul did a dramatic turn, and then began swaying his generous hips again towards us.

I felt as if Sul were going to crash into us and briefly saw flashes of my entire life run through in fast-motion sequence in my mind.

Sul stopped in front of Stanley, flared his arms up in the air as if he had just completed a flamenco routine, and said: "Just for you, Sundal."

Stanley the Peranakan turned towards us and proudly said "that means whore in Malay".

The two then hugged each other and, I kid you not, jumped together and squealed.

Yes, that's Sul for you. Loud, dramatic, and always ready to perform.

One of the reasons Sul is draining.

I had no idea whether we were invited to a Hari Raya dinner or Pink Dot, but the dramatic welcome was befitting of Sul.

"My word, Sul. You are such a typical Malay woman. Married already then let go and become one fat makcik," Stanley commented without anyone asking. 

"Come, turn. Show kakak your pantat," Stanley said, sounding every bit like a makcik himself, in his Peranakan accent.

"I love your pantat, girl. Very child-bearing," Stanley decided, and slapped Sul's rich girth in approval.

"Your mouth also never change - still like a pantat like that," Sul replied heartily, flicking his wrists in the air as if he had no control over his wrist muscles.

Dinner at Sul's was delightful.

Our domesticated gay friend was quite the culinary expert, whipping up on his own, dishes like sambal goreng with petai, beef rendang, ayam masak merah, and Satay which Sul ordered two weeks in advance.

We were surrounded by a couple of polite angmohs (Sul's partner, William's friends).

And I say they're polite because they smile and nod and laugh at about almost everything.

But it was only when everyone was seated at Sul's 2-metre-long dining table that the night truly began.

Remember when I said the outing was taxing?

Here's why.

For the next four hours - while we were passing sambal goreng petai and topping up drinks for one another - we talked about Sul.

Or rather, we heard about Sul.

For practically every bloody topic, Sul inserted himself in it.

And not in a way Stanley would enjoy either.

By the end of the night, we had heard enough of Sul's achievements at work, in the community, in his family, his earnings, his blessed love life, his great love life, his good work, his happy marriage and his favourite panties brand.

All that's missing was someone passing him an Oscars and asking that bitch to give thanks on stage.

Even in hypothetical situations, the amazing Sul has a way of squeezing his way into it.

"Oxley Road drama is so intense," Sul said. Then, "actually I want to move into Oxley Road area - but with our combined earnings we'd be struggling to pay off the housing loan so no choice lah, we settle for this colonial-like flat."

Or, "alamak, I better start writing all my wills properly - wait my family also got drama after I die," Sul casually announced to the whole table of guests, who I noticed had begun to nod politely like hypnothised zombies.

By the time we stepped out of Sul's place, we reminded ourselves to restrict all future meetings with Sul to outings that don't require him to speak very much: Such as when Sul is in a coma, somewhere in a hospice.

"And that's me being nice with such examples," Stanley said proudly.

As we walked to the car park in the quaint neighbourhood, J my partner said that Sul really isn't all that bad.

"All he likes to do is talk about himself and make himself feel good," J said.

To which, Stanley replied immediately: "No, no, hunny. You don't get to defend him. There are many ways I can think of making myself feel gooooooood without needing to talk about myself."

But it's true that Sul is harmless - that his fault lies in wanting to be heard, J pointed out to us.

There are always such people around - and maybe they had very bad childhood stories, like, nobody recognises them for what they've been doing?

That's why over the years, they build up such a habit to reaffirm themselves, J said.

"Plus, it's not like Sul put anyone down to make himself feel good - so that's good right?" J argued like the true litigator who he is.

Stanley stared at J, his eyes wide as testicles.

"Hunny, that's where you're wrong. You do put people down to make yourself feel gooooood - and that is a good thing," Stanley retorted like the true sex bunny who he is.

Sporting Stereotypes

Last Sunday, my sex-bunny friend Stanley declared that one of his dreams had come true.

Well, partially, at least.

"I've always wanted to be surrounded by hot, lean, sweaty men wearing rubber, and I should have been more specific," he said wistfully, staring at the hordes of lycra-donning athletes at East Coast Park.

The two of us were at Car Park E2 that morning to support Carl who was doing one of those races which we would never imagine ourselves doing: A 5km run followed by a 1km swim, followed by a 10km run.

But that very morning, we woke up early (5.30am!) and groggily and grumpily joined our muscular and dense friend at ECP.

Minutes after the flag off at 7am, Stanley stirred to life.

"I will have sex with him, him, him, and him," Stanley said with approval, his shades lowered for more visual clarity.

"We should have been more supportive of Carl's love for endurance sports sooner - look at all the action I've been missing," Stanley said ruefully.

Our sporty friend Carl had been in love with endurance sports for as long as we can remember.

I think it started out with Carl crossing his first finishing line at the 2003 Standard Chartered Marathon.

Back then, Carl was a skinny monkey, in Stanley's words.

But over the years, Carl became more obsessed with the sport - progressing from marathons to aquathlons and then to triathlons.

Stanley and I never understood what was so fun about having to swim, bike, run, for such long hours.

But we turned up at East Coast Park that morning anyway.

Mainly because we hoped to cheer Stanley up (he lost his job recently and hasn't been very motivated in life) and at the same time, to cheer Carl on (who didn't really need it given that he is always surrounded by his bunch of sporty blokes during his races).

"I am exhausted just looking at these cute athletes," Stanley said with a sigh.

"I know right. Who wants to push themselves so hard, swimming and running such long distances," I said, rolling my eyes.

"No, Adam," Stanley said, rolling his eyes for me to see.

"I'm exhausted because I just mentally made love to the sixth guy this morning. It's very taxing, you know, having to climax six times in a row," Stanley said, fanning himself dramatically under the huge Angsana tree which we hoped provided us enough shade during the course of the day.

After 45 minutes, Stanley started to fidget and said in a bored tone: "What time do you think Carl will be done? I'm done having mental sex with the athletes."

And according to Stanley, he was quite shocked by the quality of the athletes there.

You would have thought that all these athletes - with their training and all - would be in shape, he said.

True enough, they were.

In all sorts of shapes - most of whom were beyond repair.

The only lean and muscular ones led the pack.

Those at the back, to Stanley's horror, were all fat.

"Look at that one. So fat still dare to wear tri suit," Stanley said, shaking his head.

"And oh my goodness. Hello uncle. Please don't run shirtless. Your're offending my sensitivities," he went on.

Stanley had switched gears.

Our fey friend is now on bitchy mode. Watch out, East Coast Park.

And then, Stanley tugged at my t-shirt and said with urgency: "Adam, Adam!"

"That one, that one," Stanley continued, sounding every bit like a child at a toy store.

I turned to look in Stanley's direction and saw a tan, moustached man in a black-and-white tri suit.

"I slept with him before," Stanley said with amusement.

"Oh, this is going to be fun," he said, switching gears again.

"I'm going to spot the number of gay men here, and see if I've slept with any of them!"

Oh no. Watch out, East Coast Park.

Turned out, there was quite a handful, Stanley reported later.

"I can confirm that there are at least 35 gay men in this race - whom I can spot with my naked eye," he said, stressing the word naked as expected.

Now I know why they call this race an "aqua-thlon", Stanley said, complaining that some of the athletes, with their sashaying buttocks, really look like they belong on the runway rather than on the racing track.

And that got me thinking about sports and stereotypes.

Once upon a time, gay sports was confined to the four walls of the gym - where homosexuals routinely go and pump iron to buff up.

Stanley readily agrees that the gym is indeed a place for pumping action - though I refuse to clarify further with him.

Gymming and gay men have been so successfully integrated that sometimes, it's hard to tell if a muscular bloke is really straight or not.

Then we evolved to dragon boating.

Which is a logical transition.

I mean, with all the huge biceps and muscle strength, surely you'll need a platform to unleash all that power?

Stanley argues that with huge biceps and muscle strength, dragon boating isn't the only platform to unleash that power. Again, I refuse to take that bait.

The stereotype between dragon boating and gay men - wearing colourful NUM singlets who walk around in public with their oars - is so successful that there are even tumblr accounts set up to celebrate all these cute and mainly gay paddlers.

But slowly, more and more gay men are breaking stereotypes in sports.

We hear of global gay athletes who come out of their locker room closets: From Olympians to national sportsmen.

And they come from a range of sports: Basketball, football, wrestling, diving swimming - you get the idea.

And locally, we recently had a brave national athlete who came out too.

Stanley is convinced that there are many more gay athletes in Singapore, and even threatened to do voluntary leg work just to prove his theory right.

And Stanley might have a point.

That there could well be more gay national athletes than we know.

Imagine what they can do collectively if they come out.

For one, they can lead the pack and break stereotypes - and use that example to change other people's mindsets on homosexuality.

You know, such as, how netball isn't just a sport for lesbians. Or how my sexuality does not limit my ability to win medals for my country.

Stanley totally agrees, though he has far more creative ideas about what the gay national athletes can do collectively.

My point is, gays - as with all other groups of people in society - are stereotyped.

Which is fine.

But because gays are slowly breaking stereotypes - in various aspects such as in jobs, sports, the way we dress - we can take this opportunity and ride on this trend and do something constructive.

Case in point.

Carl, because of his denseness, looks like a straight triathlete.

And because he's also a speedy athlete (he was once ranked 38th in a tough swimming race which had 150 participants), nobody thought he was gay.

One day, he casually told his training mates that he really does like penises.

Their reactions were predictable: Oh, we couldn't tell, we wouldn't have known, it doesn't matter anyway.

(To this day, Stanley insists that the friends who trained with Carl are equally - if not, more - dense than Carl.)

Carl then seized the moment and turned that into a teachable episode: To educate his friends that gay men aren't any different from straight men when it came to triathlons.

(To this day, Stanley insists that Carl shouldn't have just seized the moment - there were so many other things Carl could have seized, given that he had the undivided attention of a bunch of cute, straight athletes, but let's not go there.)

When gay men break stereotypes, we stand a better chance of being heard: Because we've surprised our audience.

And because we've surprised our audience, it gives us an upper hand - or more street cred, if you will - to make an argument: Their attention has been seized; the pillars of their mindset are softening; we need to go in for the kill and reshape those pillars while they're still malleable.

In Carl's case, he did justice to all gay triathletes.

While his team mates were still digesting that fact that Carl was gay, and reprogramming their impression of Carl, no doubt, keying in new input to his identity, Carl took that opportunity to help shape their thinking about gay men. 

In the same vein, those who get an opportunity to deconstruct stereotypes in other contexts could - and should - do the same. 

I shared my thoughts with Stanley, who looked unconvinced.

Just then, Carl ran towards us.

We cheered him on, joining the roaring crowd who were his friends.

It was a proud moment for us, witnessing Carl cross the finishing line.

As we slow-jogged over to join Carl, his straight team mates playfully slapped him on his buttocks and gave him brotherly hugs of congratulations.

Stanley turned to me and said, "I am going to be a triathlete - and I'll put the aqua in the aquathlon."

Jobless But Guiltless

It's amazing how resilient some humans can be.

I'm referring to Stanley - who was recently made redundant at work.

Not too long ago, Stanley was lamenting to Carl and me about how he could have had a high-flying career and how he saw himself at the very top some day.

"Now, all I see at the very top is whoever responded to my Grindr messages - and they're usually panting in delight," he said, obviously very pleased with his newfound free time.

"Is that what you've been doing all week? Looking for hookups?" I asked.

"Louder lah, Adam Lee. Louder. My mum cannot hear you," Stanley said, stretching both his arms stiffly towards his room door as if he were Vanna White.

"She's three storeys below. She can't possibly hear you."

"Oh, but she can," Stanley corrected me in a theatrical hush.

"There was one time when she messaged me 'what are you doing', just as the short film I was watching reached the climax. And she was three storeys below."

"I don't want to know the details, Stan."

"Yah, but apparently my mum wants to know."

"Erm, let her watch the 'short film' with you then?"

"Everything okay?" Mrs Monica Ong's voice crescendoed in a sing-song fashion from three storeys down, as if on cue.

"Carl is here," she announced in her trademark loud voice.

Just then, the door to Stanley's attic bedroom opened and in came Carl - followed by Mrs Ong.

"Hello aunty!" I said chirpily.

"Ma, go away!" Stanley said as if he were talking to an annoying little sister. "We're having serious boy talk here!"

"This boy ah. Becoming so agitated since he lost his job. Keep an eye on him for me, won't you," Mrs Monica Ong said to me with an endearing smile before turning to stare sternly at Stanley and said "you better get a job soon. And don't show your friends all those movies you've been watching since last week."

It was Friday evening, and instead of heading off to one of the bars in Tanjong Pagar to waste money, to Carl's credit, he had suggested something sensible: That we gathered at Stanley's four-storey family home to help Stanley save money.

And so, Stanley's study table was laden with rojak, char tow kway, oyster omelette and satay - Stanley's favourite food - from the nearby Chomp Chomp food centre.

"As I was saying, I don't think retrenchment is that bad after all," Stanley said, licking the satay sauce off his fingers. "At least, I now get enough sleep."

"With whom," I responded instinctively.

"Hey, that's mean. I'm still depressed you know. Carl, pass me one more stick."

"What have you been doing this week," Carl asked as he forcefully yanked a satay stick out of his mouth.

"Girl, don't do that. It looks barbaric. Come, let me show you how it's done," Stanley said reaching out for another stick.

"I usually like to hold it in my mouth for as long as possible but in the event that I have to get it out of my mouth, I do it gracefully."

And just like that, normalcy has returned to Stanley's life.

That he continues talking about sex during meal times is a good sign.

As we munched noisily in Stanley's room that night, Stanley quietly updated us with what he'd been up to the entire week.

Or whom he'd been up to.

To our relief, Stanley had indeed bounced back.

Like a bunny.

A very busy, energetic bunny.

Who's been very busy bouncing (in strangers' beds) all week.

And frankly, to me, it's a relief.

Because Stanley is doing all these things guiltlessly.

He's guiltlessly enjoying his free time - sleeping more, sleeping in, sleeping around - without constantly worrying about his future is comforting.

The Stanley I know has been a go-getter.

In National Service, he already knows what he wants: To do well enough in our training so that he can prove to himself that even ah guas can survive CDO training.

He breezed through physical training and was easily a marksman - aim, hold your breath, squeeze the trigger.

He also breezed through physical activities and easily marked men - aim, hold the dicks, squeeze the trigger.

As a working adult, Stanley too, is a go-getter.

Often, Stanley feels that he's wasting his youth - he would sometimes lament that we all needed more than 24 hours so that we can get more work done, earn more money, and catch up with more friends.

Stanley would not entertain my suggestion that maybe he could dedicate less of his time on Grindr or sleeping around for a start.

So the fact that Stanley is now so zen and able to be guiltless about smelling the roses is indeed a comforting thought.

As he famously explained to us that night, "Life is not always a bed of roses. And I love beds. So while I'm at it, I might as well smell the roses too."

Carl looked confused.

So was I, but I didn't voice a word, happy to that the Stanley Ong we know is back.

That he's managed to pull himself out of his retrenchment episode and get back on his two feet.