My Magical Christmas

Christmas is always a wonderful time for me.

I'll tell you a bit more in just a while.

Initially, it started because Christmas means family time.

Though my Buddhist household doesn't celebrate Christmas, I would spend it with my godparents, who are family friends to my mum and aunt.

At the ripe old age of nine, I had my first sip of red wine (and actually liked it).

It was after midnight mass and my hearty Eurasian godparents thought it would be harmless to allow me a full glass for supper, which I remember clearly, was eaten with piping hot chicken curry and crispy French loaf.

Since then, I have always associated red wine and curry as comfort food.

And every Christmas Day, I would be at my godparents' place.

Their cosy flat would be filled with a steady steam of visitors: My godma's brandy-loving siblings - some of whom loud and hearty, others quietly reflective after a glass or two - as well as her extended family and lifelong friends.

And you can imagine that when a group of Eurasians gather, there would be a lot of laughing, dancing, and reminiscing.

Every year, I would be reminded that as a child, I had insisted that every one of those nicely wrapped presents at the bottom of the Christmas tree were mine, barking "no" aggressively to every other child who approached it.

And my godma would always repeat the story of me insisting on being air lifted so that I can be the one who fitted the star on their plastic Christmas tree.

At age 40, I realise just how short the Christmas tree was, my height a visual reminder of how much time has passed.

This year, my godma - who's getting really old and weak - decided she couldn't cook.

So it would be pot luck.

But she would supply brandy, the family favourite, as well as a range of alcohol including red wine, my favourite.

My other god-sibling's husband made Feng, a classic Eurasian curry featuring chopped liver, following my godma's recipe to a tee.

Meanwhile, I made potato cutlet, one of a few recipes my godma imparted to me.

And as expected, there was a lot of laughing, dancing, and reminiscing.

This year's Christmas is particularly precious to me because being away from home made me all the more appreciative of those around me.

And as with my Christmas plans for nearly the last two decades, my second half of December 25 is spent at my partner J's.

Going from one Eurasian Christmas party to another Peranakan Christmas party is no joke.

Especially for one's belly.

Weeks before the festive day, J's mum would busy herself with cooking, making every darn thing from scratch.

To show our appreciation, the family would tuck in heartily to all her dishes, which isn't a hard thing to do given that the matriarch is indeed a great cook.

But today's post, while revolving around the topic of magical Christmas, is about much more.

It's about how this time of the year has been made extra magical by one event.

December 27, 2002.

The exact date and year J and I got together.

As we enter our 18th year, I thought this might be a good time to look back on the fateful day.

We had known each other at a work setting sometime in early 2002 and really, really hit it off.

We were complete opposites of each other but we connected on an intellectual and emotional level - as friends.

And we didn't really go out one-on-one until December.

One reason was, I didn't dare ask J out 'cos he didn't come across as gay to me and I don't know how straight nerds would react to one-on-one dates.

Second reason was, even if J were indeed gay... why would he like me?

Back then, I was a plump, pimply youth with oily skin and oily hair and didn't have many achievements to my name.

He on the other hand, was about to complete his prestigious scholarship and embark on what could be potentially a bright diplomatic career ahead of him.

And while J won't exactly make heads turn at a party, he's the type you'd be drawn to the moment he starts talking to you.

Wise, attentive, kind, humble, and seriously funny.

And his boyish looks grow on you: He has nice, thick lips, eyes shaped like those of an almond, and a head of curly hair (Stanley my sex bunny friend would later point out that I am attracted to guys with curly hair given that my first boyfriend also has hair that belongs to Bozo the Clown).

J was also quite the sportsman - he was in the school hockey and football teams and later on, part of the national swim team (though he didn't compete in the end).

By October 2002, I had been regularly texting with J, talking about all things under the sun, and the inevitable happened.

The more I got to know J, the more I find myself falling for him... the J who is wise, attentive, kind, humble and seriously funny.

By November 2002, I geared our topics towards romance, trying to suss out if J were gay.

But the careful civil servant-to-be was very cautious about saying too much and that only made him sexier with the layers of mystery about that part of him.

Finally, with Stanley's encouragement, I decided to take the risk anyway.

Stanley's exact words to me were "peel off that mystery layer by layer darling... and you might be surprised with what you find in there."

In early December, I plucked up the courage to ask J out.

He said no.

But only because J grew up in a large Peranakan family, and Christmases are always busy periods for him.

But J offered the next best date to me: Two days after Christmas.

And the next best date turned my entire life around.

… To Be Continued... 

---------------------------

Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people 

To Shopping, To Shopping

It's Stanley's favourite time of the year.

Christmas.

"And year-end bonus," Carl our dense friend chimed in like a happy child, as if someone had just handed him a large lollipop.

"And rear-end bonus," Stanley the sex bunny added, unable to help himself, confirming that someone had recently handed him a large lollipop.

"Wanna hear all about it, please?" Stanley begged, hoping to provide some cosmic balance at Takashimaya.

And at this very moment, it's kiddish energy 1: faerie force field 0.

Our collective diva presence is overshadowed by five overly cheery kids squealing and running around the mall in various directions and speeds, the oldest of them pretending to be a noisy airplane.

"I want to personally take these noisy kids down," Stanley said threateningly, gritting his teeth.

"And their cute daddy over there... I want to personally take him down too," Stanley added threateningly, biting his lips.

It's the time of the year when there's lots of eating and merry-making to be had.

The time of the year when I get really busy with catching up with family and loved ones.

Every Christmas Day, I would visit my Godma without fail where her famous Devil's Curry - as well as 'feng', a greenish-looking Eurasian curry made up of chopped liver - would please her large crowd of rowdy, whiskey-chugging guests.

By early-evening, I have to shuttle off to J my partner's place where without fail, his mum would come by to whip up nonya classics including my favourite babi ponteh, chap chye and achar.

As for the boys, it's been our tradition since we started working that we went shopping together.

I had flown back to Singapore for the year-end holidays, and today, the boys and I are ready to shop.

At exactly 11-O-five, we arrived at Takashimaya where we reminded one another that today, we will go all out.

There'd be no holding back.

We have big, fat bonuses to spend.

It seems like the older we get, the lesser control we have, and the more we let go.

"That describes our bladder too, you know that right," Stanley pointed out helpfully.

Carl, who is unwilling to grasp the concept of ageing and is unable to process jokes so early on a Friday morning, responded by staring blankly at the large Takashimaya Christmas tree instead.

It's been quite a while since the three of us had spent time together, even though we had recently caught up in Myanmar.

And so this shopping trip was an important bonding session for all of us.

Stanley, who has the magical ability to turn anything under the sun into a sex joke, looked like he was about to respond to the words "bonding session", but chose to put his arms around me and Carl instead as we set off our happy shopping day.

Our first stop was naturally the men's section, where Carl skipped to the underwear section like he was a kid in a candy store.

"What's with your obsession with buying new underwear Carl?" I ask.

"Let me help you," Stanley said, unable to resist.

"Buying new underwear is hardly an obsession," Stanley began. "Buying used underwear on the other hand, is the obsession the world should worry about."

Stanley looked to Carl for a response but found our dense friend already enthralled in front of the underwear shelves.

Carl loved stocking up on underwear.

Stanley on the other hand, was the opposite.

In fact, he disliked it so much he always tries to get rid of other men's underwear at every opportunity.

As Carl busied himself checking out various expensive brands, Stanley proceeds to examine the models' contents with keen interest, singling out which brands Carl should buy based purely on his assessment of the overall package.

Finally, after spending some 20 minutes picking and choosing, Carl chose six pairs of branded underwear, all in white.

Our next stop was the home appliances section of CK Tang where again, Carl has something to buy.

"I need to get this," Carl said, pointing to an iRobot. "What do you guys think?"

I love it. You should buy it, was Stanley's immediate response.

"I have a lot of affinity with this iRobot," Stanley said affectionately, patting the automated vacuum cleaner.

"I believe we're both created to do the same thing in life."

Carl turned pale on hearing this and decided he didn't need the iRobot after all.

After roaming around for the next two hours - including an ice-cream break at MacDonald's - we stepped into a luxury shop where Carl was about to part with some of his hard-earned money.

He had been eyeing a Bottega wallet for quite some time now, and today, our brand-conscious friend is making that purchase.

As the shop assistant placed a dark blue wallet on the glass counter for a visibly excited Carl to examine, Stanley frowned.

"Hunny, I don't know about this design," Stanley said in hushed tones. "This wallet looks like a ketupat that has way passed its consumption date."

The Bottega sales person, a pleasantly plump Malay girl, giggled uncontrollably at Stanley's remarks.

Carl looked worried and slowly backed away from the wallet.

"You very funny lah sir," the girl, whose name tag read Rosiah, says waving a hand at Stanley.

Up close, her swollen fingers looked like fat, boiled chicken feet.

"This one confirm not ketupat lah, sir," she said merrily.

"If ketupat sure I will eat one. Look at me. Where I will waste food?"

Stanley was stunned and impressed all at the same time that he started to slow clap for Rosiah who responded with another round of hearty giggles.

Sensing a happy ending, Carl joined in and clapped rapidly before committing 700 dollars on the wallet and left the store a happy child.

Meanwhile, Stanley himself too, was having a happy field day shopping.

"This one, this one," Stanley said, nudging me rapidly by the elbow.

"Now that is all I want for Christmas," Stanley said forlornly, looking at the object of his affection, a boyish crew-cut daddy carrying a small girl.

"Ooo, and this one is not bad too," Stanley said, nodding approvingly at another fair, youngish executive with thick eyebrows that looked like charred caterpillars.

While the mantra for Carl today is Shop Till You Drop, for Stanley the sex bunny, it's apparently Shop Till You Drop Your Pants.

For me though, it's Shop Till you Drop Dead.

I had not shopped for a while and this activity is draining.

Plus, I hate crowds.

If not for the boys, I wouldn't have come out during such a crowded season.

"At this moment, all I want is the power to part this crowd like the Red Sea, so that I can pass through it with ease," I said wearily.

Not wanting to let go of this opportunity, Stanley replied immediately: "Darling, if I can choose one power, it would be the power to part not the Red Sea, but something more specific - so that I too can pass through it with ease."

Stanley and I stopped laughing shortly the moment we realised Carl had, as usual, no reaction.

Given that Carl had no biblical context - whether linked to the Old or New Testaments - nor any context in the modern world we currently live in, our dense friend blithely carried on breathing and continued living his blissfully clueless life.

But our dear friend is no loser today.

He's the one lugging the most shopping bags, putting his python-sized biceps to good use.

That afternoon, we were again reminded what a shopaholic Carl can be.

Stanley and I on the other hand, are alcoholics.

"Okay, I need a stiff drink," I said at the end of the trip.

"Mmmm," Stanley replied without missing a beat.

"I can certain do with one of those," he said, obviously not referring to the drink.

---------------------------

Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people

The Boys' Visit (Part One)

“You’ll know when we touch down,” Stanley writes in our group chat shortly before SQ997 took off. 

“And whenever Stanley gets off and comes, trust me hunny, the arrival is always announced vocally,” he threatens. 

Last week, my boys Stanley the sex bunny and Carl the dense one flew over to Myanmar to look for me. 

It was Stanley’s third visit to the country and Carl’s first. 

At exactly 9:55am local time, the faerie force field surrounding Yangon International Airport spikes beyond dangerous levels, as two of Singapore’s gayest sons step foot into Myanmar. 

Carl the gym rabbit - dressed in a polo tee three sizes too small, paired with pants that accentuated his bamboo-thin legs - beams and waves excitedly at my direction like a child who had just spotted a giant stuffed toy. 

Stanley - his trendy sunglasses atop his newly dyed brown hair and wearing a button down with a cardigan draped over his shoulders - casts a lustful smile in my direction after spotting a giant, who can arguably be a stuffed toy in Stanley’s world. 

“Well, well, well, Man-mar, here we are,” Stanley says by way of greeting. 

The three of us, who haven’t seen one another for way too long, embrace in a group hug.  

Carl the dense one, who is incapable of naming all 10 countries in ASEAN and has no geopolitical knowledge whatsoever, looks around the airport warily, clutching his man bag tightly against his broad chest. 

Stanley, who’s both widely travelled and widely spread, sighs and tells Carl to relax and not be so uptight. 

Carl whispers urgently: “But this is a third world country and it can be dangerous!”

Stanley responds by rolling his eyes towards the airport ceiling and says drowsily: “Carl hunny, your worry shouldn’t be that you’re gonna get raped. Your worry should be that no one is gonna rape you.” 

Carl the dense one, who looks jet lagged, stares back at Stanley, his eyes vacant. 

Stanley later tells me that Carl is at his best whenever he gets off planes because his stupidity is fully disguised by his genuine jet-lagged look. 

Back in my car, Stanley squeals in excitement as my chauffeur drives along Yangon, en route to my apartment. 

Carl continues looking around warily, clutching his man bag with his python-sized biceps so tightly they look drained of blood. 

The grand plan that weekend was to splurge, luxuriate and spend time with one another in the name of Stanley and my birthdays. 

Stanley and I are born just a day apart and we had planned a jubilee week that straddles activities in both Myanmar and Singapore (read it here).

Stanley, who’s an expert in straddling, had put together our birthday plans.  

“Okay, first stop - Circular train ride!” says Stanley who is excited by all kinds of rides. 

Carl claps gleefully in response, since the script calls for it. 

Yangon’s famous circular train ride would take passengers around the city for just 20 cents per person, offering visitors a glimpse into Myanmar’s rustic, charming lifestyle. 

Right now, Stanley is busy enjoying his glimpse. 

“Do these men actually wear anything beneath their sarong?” he asks, tilting his head, eager to get to the bottom of this mystery. 

Carl looks extremely worried, and keeps covering his nose. 

“Adam, how long is this ride gonna take?” Carl asks, worried he would catch something while sharing space and air with the hordes of locals. 

Stanley cuts in and answers on my behalf. 

“This ride will be long and rough - so enjoy it while it lasts,” he says, raising one eyebrow suggestively, unworried about catching anything as long as it’s adventurous.  

The whole train ride took us some three hours. 

By the end of it, Stanley was looking very pleased, having snapped enough IG-worthy photos, and garnered sufficient glamorous pictures of himself posing in all possible angles which he could update on Tinder and Grindr. 

Carl looked pale by the end of the train ride and I caught him scrunching his nose in disgust as a woman balancing a tray of fruits on her head walked past him as we got off the train. 

Stanley couldn’t be bothered by Carl and proceeds to fully enjoy Yangon in the best possible way. 

“Let’s go to a gay bar!” Stanley says, his eyes lighting up. 

Carl claps in response, his python-sized biceps pulsating with life. 

Unfortunately, I had no local knowledge of the gay scene in Myanmar and the idea was snuffed out as quickly as it surfaced. 

Carl’s swollen biceps deflated in disappointment. 

Although we knew Carl the uncultured one would not enjoy Myanmar, we had asked him along since we didn’t want him to feel left out. 

Indeed, Carl didn’t enjoy himself throughout the trip, occasionally grumbling that Myanmar is backward and had no gym where he could upkeep his python-sized biceps, and that he couldn’t understand why men would wear sarong and why people chewed bethel leaves and had to spit all over the place. 

Stanley, an expert in blocking out princess complaints, would marvel at how amazed he is with Myanmar’s progress since his visit in 2014, and engage intellectually with me and English-speaking locals on the country’s transition and future. 

Though Carl and Stanley had polarising interests of Myanmar, the two had one thing in common: The men. 

Stanley the eagle eyed would sharply point out that men in the county are generally very lean, and very muscular. 

To which, Carl would suddenly snap out of his stupor and come to full alertness, his eyes darting around eagerly. 

“I wonder which gym they go to,” Carl would ask out loud, admiring the creations of the Almighty while gently patting his own biceps, the creations of all his might. 

“I think Myanmar is not so bad,” Carl concludes. 

During our trip, one of the highlights was food. 

I had to cater to both the boys’ palates. 

Stanley wants to try all things local while Carl would frown at exotic tastes and complain that there’s no MacDonald’s in Myanmar. 

The other highlight was getting to spend time with one another in my apartment. 

One of Carl’s favourite activities is to concoct and apply homemade masques like we are Disney Princesses having a sleepover party in one of our castles.  

Carl had appointed himself as chief beautician for this trip, demanding that I bought cucumbers and a peeler for his DIY project. 

“Carl darling,” Stanley says as we gather around the Muscle Mary in my kitchen. “In my world, cucumbers and DIY projects are best done alone in the bedroom and not as a group project.”

Carl didn’t respond - more from his inability to detect innuendos rather than from rudeness. 

Carl had read somewhere that cucumbers does wonders for the face. 

Stanley quips that he too had read somewhere that cucumbers does wonders - though not for the face . 

“So all we need to do is to peel the cucumber thinly in strips, and paste it on our face,” Carl says delightfully. 

“If we slice it - which people tend to do and slap on their eyes - it will be too thick,” Carl continues, doing his part to contribute something useful in society. 

“Thick has never been a problem,” Stanley says, speaking from experience from doing his part to contribute to society. 

“So you peel this off thinly and stick it on your cheek,” Carl says blissfully, sticking another cool, thin layer of cucumber across my left cheek. 

The idea is to leave on multiple strips of thin cucumber on our face and leave it overnight so that the natural moisture of the veggie can be fully absorbed by our skin. 

“My turn, do me, do me,” Stanley says anxiously to Carl, a phrase he no doubt also uses frequently on random strangers.  

“Ahhh,” Stanley sighs in pleasure as Carl tenderly pastes one strip on Stanley’s forehead. 

“I never knew cucumbers could feel this good - on my face,” Stanley says. 

“I really feel like a Disney Princess,” Stanley says as he gingerly lies flat on his back, lifts his legs up and begins cycling in the air.  

Stanley remarks that if we were Disney Princesses, Carl would no doubt be Sleeping Beauty given that he’s never fully aware of what’s happening in this cruel world and that he’s always spacing out. 

“And you would be Snow White,” Stanley points at my belly “because you eat every damn thing that people offer you. God, Adam, you seriously need to lose some weight darling,” he adds lovingly, pinching my left muffin top. 

“And if I were a Disney Princess,” Stanley says, “I’ll be Mulan.”

“Each of you only will have one Prince Charming whereas for me,  I’ll be surrounded by a bunch of burly, Asian soldiers who would once in a while squeeze my buttocks after a long day at training all in the wholesome name of brotherly horseplay.”

And just like that, the three boys who met in the late 90s and who’ve grown into men through our years, became giggly girls in the privacy and comfort of my apartment.



---------------------------

Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people

Car Fun

It's official.

Sergeant 69, Stanley's first car, will have to die.

If Stanley could describe an ideal trusty ride, it would have to be his black Hyundai.

Because once you go black...

Never mind.

Stanley's Sergeant 69 - aptly knighted because his car license plate was SGT 69XX - had also been our trusty ride for the longest time.

And boy, did we have the ride of our lives.

Since Stanley bought his first car, a lot of fun times were spent there.

Carl our dense friend and I had been the main beneficiaries, having always been chauffeured around by Stanley's Sergeant 69.

When our sex bunny friend Stanley made the grim announcement to us on a Wednesday morning in 2017 that Sergeant 69 would have to go, all of us reacted with pity.

We've grown with the car.

We've seen how a newly-qualified Stanley steer Sergeant 69 clumsily and executed what we later termed as a 25-point turn in a car park, to how he now cruises on the roads with ease today.

Stanley's car had also been a place where some of our most meaningful and important conversations took place.

Many a times, we would sit in Stanley's car deciding where to go and we would very often go off topic and get carried away chatting - sometimes for an hour - before we actually set off for a dinner location.

Sometimes, we would chat for hours in Stanley's car before Carl unwillingly stepped out and called it a night. 

Once, the three of us drove to Changi Hospital to check out haunted places, Stanley all the while squealing and driving, scaring himself by pointing at every thing that moved (they turned out to be tree branches). That night ended with something more palatable as we drove to Changi Village to check out Commando haunts, Stanley all the while squealing and driving, scaring all the army boys by pointing at every thing that moved.

We also had other mini adventures including impromptu midnight drives to JB.

And, some years ago, when Carl was at his lowest point (he had broken up with his long-time boyfriend and felt he had no market value), Stanley came up with this bright idea of getting Carl to cruise for gay men along Ann Siang Hill while we watched his progress and kept count for him, from afar inside Sergeant 69.

We also had many meaningful life conversations including the night when Carl and I accompanied Stanley to get tested for HIV (after he had very foolishly had sex without protection). The three of us talked about life and spent 35 minutes comforting and encouraging a very petrified Stanley before he stepped out of Sergeant 69 to get pricked. In any other context, Stanley would need little encourage to get pricked (Stanley turned out to be negative - and the sigh of relief he shared with us later led to another 30 minutes of reflection of his life inside Sergeant 69).

And so, we decided that Sergeant 69 deserved a proper send off.

Arrangements were quickly made for the Saturday night service. 

Sergeant 69 would pick us up for the very last time at two locations - a route Sergeant 69 had come to be so familiar with after all these years.

First, Sergeant 69's final journey would begin the moment he exits the gates of Stanley's three-storey house in the northern part of Singapore.

He would then make a short, solemn track just down the road to my mum's place where I'd be picked up.

The journey would then head west to Tiong Bahru area where Carl lived.

We would then, out of respect and tradition, observe no silence whatsoever but instead, sit inside Sergeant 69 and ponder on our lives at Carl's car park lot.

Sergeant 69's final journey would come to an end at Kranji the next day, where he would be laid to rest.

And so that night, we held a grand ceremony in honour of Sergeant 69.

The plan was to drive up to Mount Faber and watch the stars.

After picking up Carl and getting picnic supplies at Holland Village Cold Storage (plastic wine glasses, champagne, nacho chips, lots of nuts and bottled water), we drove up the hill.

It was a really breezy night.

The Singapore night sky view was impressive.

And the three of us were happy to get together.

And in keeping with the theme of heart-to-heat talks, we had one final one inside Sergeant 69.

"He was a good companion," Stanley said grimly as we stepped into Sergeant 69 before we left Mount Faber.

Carl the dense one looked at Stanley and me nervously, not sure when he should start mourning and throwing flower stalks at the car. 

"He had sheltered my friends in the rain, and seen them home night after night."

"And he had hosted other friends, making us feel at home, One Night Stand after One Night Stand."

Carl shifted uncomfortably in the back seat.

He tilted to his side, swiped his buttocks cautiously, and, as if he had been a victim of chemical warfare, started sniffing his hands suspiciously for questionable substance.

Stanley paid no attention to Carl.

"Sergeant 69 had been through the ups and downs of Singapore - from road humps to isolated car park humps," Stanley said, wiping away mock tears.

Carl immediately wiped his hand on Stanley's sleeve on hearing that.

"And now, dear friends, let us say goodbye to 69."

Carl said meekly: "Yes, goodbye, Sergeant 69, and can we go? I would like to wash my hands and jeans now."



---------------------------
In loving memory of Sergeant 69, 2007 - 2017.
Always remembered by owner Stanley, and friends Carl and Adam.
Remembered very fondly, Stanley wanted me to add.

The X Factor

Having just written about finding love and relationships in my last post, I feel it's timely to look back at my past.

Past relationships.

Ex-es.

And that got me thinking about them.

Azman and Larry.

And because they've been such a distant past in my life, when I do think of them today, I feel numb.

Stanley my sex bunny friend whom I'd known for nearly 20 years now, coincidentally also has two ex-es: Joshua and Ash.

And when he thinks about them today, Stanley too, feels numb - though for very different reasons from mine.

"These two gorgeous ex-es of mine are now behind me," Stanley would say. "I now have other men behind me."

But today, this post is about my ex-es.

Let's begin with Azman.

Azman, Azman.

Whenever I was with Azman, my heart would race.

We were in the same CCA (or ECA in my time): Track and Field.

Azman and I were both sprinters and training together had been very distracting for me.

By age 15, Azman and I looked quite alike physically but that boyish face of his belongs to a cherubic angel.

He had a cute mop of wild, curly hair, sharp features - big eyes, long lashes - and an impish smile that showed off a crooked tooth.

Stanley who had seen Azman's photos approves.

"You got me at big and long - and a little bit of crookedness and wild curly hair are perfectly acceptable," Stanley famously said to me circa 1999 when I described Azman shortly before showing Stanley an actual glossy photo.

Though Azman is every mat and minah's wet dream, he turned out to be my worst nightmare.

I had never imagined that a good looking sports jock would be such a drama queen.

While I gave up eating pork for Azman, he chose not to give up smoking for me.

Which is okay.

Eventually, his true colours emerged after our rosy honeymoon dating period.

Azman easily got jealous of me and would kick up a huge fuss whenever I hung out with my friends.

He's always suspicious of girls or boys around me and he would forbid me to socialise.

The most ridiculous part was he would get jealous of my grades and would focus on beating me at track and field and would be so damn aggressive about it that it really becomes very ugly.

Oh, and Azman has depression.

He attributes that to family problems, but it eventually became my problem too.

Azman was constantly thinking of ways to hurt himself and had been suicidal.

The four years of my youthful life with Azman were burdensome.

Why didn't anyone warn me that first loves with the handsome school jock would have such a twist?

After trying very hard to be an understanding and supportive boyfriend, and for trying not to get a nervous breakdown whenever Azman calls and threatens to kill himself after every quarrel, I decided enough was really enough.

The drama has to end, and when I finally ended it, the irony was that the true fairytale ending came when we broke up.

I was, for the first time in a long time, happy.

In year 2000, I welcomed pork back into my life.

And apparently, pigs too, in Stanley's words.

That was one of the harshest things Stanley said about Larry my next boyfriend.

Well, Larry isn't exactly a swine in that sense - he's very, very, very nice - but let's face it, Larry isn't a looker.

He was short and in Stanley's words, "delightfully plump".

And Larry was old.

A good decade older than I.

Why had I decided to get together with Larry?

In retrospect, it was really a result of Azman.

After I became single, what I learnt from dating Azman was to never fall for someone based on how handsome he is - because after a while, that angelic face, upon descending from heaven, can morph into Satan.

But I wouldn't go as far to say that I had gone the extreme by dating Larry.

I mean, striking good looks isn't something you'd describe Larry with but his personality... oh, that's winning.

No doubt.

Larry is gentle, thoughtful, wise, mature and most importantly, takes care of me.

Everything that Azman isn't, Larry is.

Stanley would always say that dating Larry had been my biggest mistake because he said I was just bouncing back from Azman and is using Larry to correct a dark part of my life.

I vehemently rejected those suggestions back then, but today, I stand firm and bow my head low to say, Stanley was right.

I had indeed chosen to get together with Larry - who looks too young to be my dad but too old to be my brother - because I had allowed my experience with Azman to dictate how my next boyfriend must be: The exact opposite of my ex.

Larry was a very, very nice boyfriend to me.

For a change, I didn't have to pay a single cent whenever we went out. Larry would drive me around,  buy me nice gifts though I didn't ask for them and would actually encourage me to do well in life instead of competing with me or pouring cold water on my achievements.

But deep down, I didn't really love Larry.

But having dated Azman followed by Larry turned out to be the biggest love lessons of my life.

Azman taught me to never be drawn only to good looks - because looks isn't everything.

In a way, in a very twisted and dark way, Azman taught me to be patient and caring even in the face of extreme unreasonableness. Azman has also taught me that jealousy will take you nowhere, and most importantly, you have to bring out the best of your partner and not turn him into a worse version of himself.

Larry on the other hand taught me somewhat similar things.

That beyond good looks, it's what's inside that counts. Larry had shown me so much love during our short relationship that I have in turn, learnt how to love.

And although my next - and current - partner J is the best of both worlds to me, I shall not write about J.

'Cos this post is about ex-es.

My ex-es.

And I think that some things happen for a reason.

Those two men had given me nuggets of wisdom knowingly or unknowingly.

And with renewed wisdom, I am forever grateful.

I shared this with Stanley who only said that he always appreciates men who would give him their nuggets.

"Moral of story," Stanley said, "is that there is no happily ever after.... so, always focus on the happy endings. Because orgasms can solve all problems in life."

In loving memory of my ex-es Azman (1996 - 2000); Larry (2000 - 2001).
Thank you for your love.



---------------------------
Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people

Finding Love

These days, I'm enthralled by what Netflix has to offer.

It's become part of the conversation with the boys on WhatsApp.

I personally love rom coms.

Stanley the sex bunny is more adventurous - like his choice in men and sleeping partners, he's wide open and embraces an all-inclusive range from rom coms and thrillers and reality cook shows to, of course, all the gay-themed movies and our all-time favourite Drag Race.

Carl the dense one who's nearly a full-time gym rabbit is also adventurous. He watches Ultimate Beastmaster to see muscles.

"You guys have to watch The Undatetables," Stanley insisted.

For weeks, he's been trying to influence us to watch the reality series that helps singles find love.

The twist: Each of these singles has a disability or condition - Down Syndrome, early stroke, autism, Aspergers, tourette syndrome. And it details their journey in finding love through specialised matchmaking agencies.

Carl the most shallow among us replied with a gif of Snow White retreating dramatically in fear.

Finally, last week, I made a date with The Undateables and I was hooked.

Some characters are so endearing I find myself rooting for them.

It also reminds me of how shallow society is.

The Undatetables helps me see beyond one's looks, disfigurement, physical condition, and focus on what's most important: Inner beauty.

"I will date that cute guy with tourette syndrome," Stanley said to me later, as if we were having a literature class on The Undatetables.

"He is so boyish... plus, he will blend right in when we're having sex after our date, with his random swearing. Say my name, bitch. Fuck you...fuck, fuck, fuck, oh fuck..."

After binge-watching all that The Undatetables had to offer, I got down to thinking about love.

Finding love.

Why is finding love so damn difficult for some of us?

Carl our dense friend wants to find love.

Ever since he broke off with his long-time boyfriend Ah Boy, he hadn't quite been himself.

He's constantly trying to bulk up, look better, look younger so that he can be ready for the brutally harsh and shallow dating market.

Stanley the brutally harsh told me that perhaps it's his brains that need some work, but if that doesn't work out, he can always sign up as a profile with The Undateables and list his condition as retardation.

Carl our dense friend had once met a cute Taiwan boy and told him how he admired that his country is so open with the recent gay marriage ruling and how credit must go to Taiwan's president Xi Jin Ping for allowing that to happen.

Stanley and I were impressed he even knew the name Xi Jin Ping and gave him credit for his name-dropping effort, but the cute Taiwan boy soon politely disappeared back into the crowd at E-Bar in Tanjong Pagar and was never to be found again.

For Carl, his version of love is actually quite simple. It's all about looks and himself.

Carl is dense, and Carl is self-centred.

Good luck finding love, Stanley would say.

Also needing some luck, perhaps, is Nisa my best girl friend.

She has been single since she broke up with her first boyfriend.

Nisa is definitely pretty, intelligent, kindhearted, athletic, capable, and heartily funny.

Maybe that's the problem, Stanley would say.

Men love women who're less of everything: Less intelligent, less athletic, less capable. And definitely less muscles too. Nisa is too intimidating, he once told her in the face.

Thing is, Nisa doesn't care.

She doesn't want to settle.

If love comes, love comes, is her mantra.

Stanley's mantra is similar. The coming part.

He believes more in the coming than the love because Stanley the sex bunny believes orgasm is the key to solving all problems in life.

"In lust, there are assholes. In love, there are assholes. I prefer the literal ones," he once famously said during dinner with some of our straight army friends.

While Stanley can easily find love, given that he is indeed eligible - witty, youthful, good looking and wealthy - he doesn't want to... because he's afraid.

Afraid of getting hurt. Afraid of commitments. Afraid of giving too much of his emotions without guaranteed outcomes.

One Night Stands on the other hand is something Stanley can give and can produce guaranteed outcomes.

As we ended our group chat that night, Stanley concludes that he is finding love.

"Ever Lusting Love to be exact," my sex bunny friend said.



---------------------------
Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people

Rich Drama

Last Sunday, my phone buzzed almost non stop.

My sister had been texting me on WhatsApp, her messages increasingly agitated.

Turns out, there's family drama brewing in the Lee family.

My sister has officially blocked our mum from WhatsApp.

"I told her to STOP sending me fake news, good morning messages and all the useless videos," she typed.

"I told her!" she wrote in bold.

I knew better than to interrupt so I stared at the screen while she continued typing.

"I show you," she typed.

And before I could say "no need", I was visually attacked with a wave of images - 23 in total all popping up on my phone one after another.

Majority of the images were likely fake health news, fake lifestyle news, fake news from China as well as a video of a grand nephew whose dad is our distant cousin whom we didn't really care about.

Faced with that volley of information, I wanted to say I could see where the family resemblance came from, but decided to bite my tongue and instead, took one more mouthful of cornflakes.

"Wow," was what I typed back, partly thrilled by the coco pops crackling with every bite.

"Don't say I didn't warn her.... I told her four times already. This month!" my sis said.

And then, "Oh, by the way, there's family drama... wanna hear?"

I set my bowl down and braced myself.

If what she shared wasn't considered drama....

My sis verifies this isn't fake news because mum told her two nights ago when my sis dropped by for soup.

"She told me in person," my sis said in an attempt to boost credibility.

It was as if, had mum told her about this gossip over WhatsApp, it would automatically be treated as fake news.

No, no, no.

This one is real because mum shared this with sis in person. 

Turns out, one of our aunties - who's so wealthy beyond words we have to use dollar signs and exclamation marks to describe her net worth - has recently changed her will.

Auntie Choy San had made her fortune by pure luck.

She married the man she loved though he was still a poor, struggling businessman.

But over time, Uncle Felix built up a successful logistics firm and went from rags to riches.

My sis and I used to dislike that family because every extended family gathering was an opportunity for them to remind us they were wealthy.

As if we couldn't tell from the way they wore their money around: Uncle Felix's thick gold chain which even 1960s Chinatown gangsters would avoid wearing purely from an aesthetics point of view, diamond studs that dot every part of Aunty Choy San's body - her ears, her fingers, her neck, and even her bloody reading glasses, I kid you not.

Flaunting is one thing.

Taunting is another.

There came a point when they would judge a person by the type of housing they lived in.

But let's not talk bad about the dead.

Uncle Felix died some three years ago of nose cancer.

Of course, he left behind a family fortune for Aunty Choy San and our two cousins, one of whom is a useless bum and the other, while nice, is literally an enormous bum.

Long story short, Uncle Felix's three-storey house in Sixth Avenue was sold because Aunty Choy San felt the house was too hollow, given that cousin Enormous Bum was married and had moved out. Cousin Useless Bum, a happy-go-lucky playboy, still lives with her.

With the money, Aunty Choy San bought two condo units, fully paid for, of course.

One unit goes to cousin Enormous Bum. The other, to cousin Useless Bum.

According to my sister the Queen of Gossips, Aunty Choy San recently changed her will after she overheard her Useless Bum son over the phone, telling his girlfriend, that "don't worry - the condo is in my name. If I so want it, I can kick my mum out anytime".

I gasped.

We had all known cousin Useless Bum to be a financial sponge off Aunty Choy San.

But for him to actually say those words - provided that he did indeed say those words (but then again it has to be true because mum told sis this in person, not over WhatsApp ) - then it has to be the most tragic thing Aunty Choy San had to hear since learning of Uncle Felix's death.

"Right? Right? Right?" my sis typed, pleased with herself as a sharer of news, very much so like mum.

And so Aunty Choy San had very quietly gone to her family lawyer - accompanied by mum, who turned out to be a key stirrer who single-handedly thickened the plot.

Mum had apparently taught Aunty Choy San to pen it in her will that if she ever got kicked out of the condo unit that cousin Useless Bum owned, then the rest of the family inheritance will not go to that unfilial son but instead, kept frozen until cousin Useless Bum's firstborn turns 21. Then the money goes to Aunty Choy San's grandchild.

And the conditions: Cousin Useless Bum has to remain married to his wife until her grandchild inherits the family fortune... and even then, that grandchild will receive the inheritance in installments once every five years...

I was giddy with all those details.

I had to slow clap at mum's brilliance.

This is what watching years of TVB dramas can do to you.

Never step on mum's toes, I said in awe to my sis.

Sis later wisely unblocked mum on WhatsApp.

Although I tried to treat that piece of news like mum's forwarded messages which wouldn't add value to anyone's life, I couldn't help but feel pity for Aunty Choy San.

I mean, family drama that involves money - especially inheritance - is a prickly issue.

My late-granny was wealthy, having inherited from my late-grandfather's watch business and two properties upon his death.

And when granny died, all her offspring benefited too (though some more than others).

We found out over a very awkward extended reunion dinner some few years ago when the red wine in my mum started her blurting out embarrassing secrets including how granny had given mum a jade bangle that many of her other children had fancied.

The reunion dinner was most memorable 'cos sis and I kept exchanging glances as we communicated with each other over subtle facial expressions that only we can interpret. 

I shared that news with Stanley my sex bunny friend who immediately was enthralled.

Though Stanley, himself the son of a wealthy businessman (and a very, very loud mother - the effervescent Mrs Monica Ong who wears her hair in a stylish bob and has the voice of an NDP commander), he has never had such theatrical plot twists within his family or extended family. 

"Your family is like a Korean drama," Stanley typed enviously on WhatsApp.

"My own family is like a Korean drama too - the North Korean type where everything is censored and sterile," said he who has never fancied an episode of K-drama in his life.

"And I'm very keen to know more about this Bum cousin of yours. I'm always interested in all things Bums," he said.

"Besides, inheritance drama always excites me - I'm always keen to see the family jewel."



---------------------------
Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people

Who's Your Daddy

These days, I feel like dyeing.

Mainly because I'm getting old.

Just the other day, I stared worryingly into the mirror, with my head turned as far as my eyes can see to examine the damage of what Age has done to me thus far.

It's as if Age came sneaking into my life while I was out partying one day and mercilessly punctured holes in my once-glorious jet black crown and let the lusture slowly seep out.

What's left on the sides of my hair is now sporadic lifeless dull grey patches, the kind of colour that is produced by a printer cartridge with fading robust black ink.

At this very moment, my life doesn't look very promising.

I'm officially in a grey area: Leave my hair as it is and I step into Silver Daddy territory; dye it black, and I could still extend my Young Daddy membership.

Seven minutes of self reflection and self-pity later, I had to peel myself away from the mirror.

I decided I needed group support.

I snapped three photos - the sides and the back of my head - and posted in my "Just the Boys" group chat that I share with Stanley my sex bunny friend and Carl the dense one.

"Your dad?" Stanley replied, immediately knowing it's me.

"Oh? Your dad!", Carl the dense one replied, not knowing what's going on in not just the virtual world but also the real world.

Sad but true.

Carl, all of nearly 40 years old,  is practically clueless, helpless and useless outside of his comfort zone of his home, office and gym.

"@Adam," Stanley's wrote, "why are you giving me head first thing in the morning?"

"And not in a good way either," Stanley said, adding a puking green faced icon.

The boys are divided in their opinion on my situation.

Carl, who looks the most youthful among us and has no grey hair, is quietly sympathetic.

He replied with a sad face icon followed by the icon of a bicep-flexing arm.

Then, deciding he could do better to support his ageing friend, posted a video of himself flexing his actual python-sized biceps.

Stanley, who is the first among us to have grey hair some five years ago, dismisses my concerns.

He sent a short video of himself rolling his eyes.

Up until that morning, I hadn't been too bothered by my hair.

Although I started noticing random strands of white hair appearing some three years ago, I hadn't been bothered by them because I had always been sporting longish hair which covered the whites up.

Recently, I decided to stop wearing curry puffs on my head so I opted for a short, spiky cut with really short sides.

That's when I got a root shock.

As I went about to run errands that day I can't help but feel very conscious of myself.

Every corner I turn - if there's a mirror - I will tilt my head to check if my hair were still white.

It still was.

For the rest of the day, I was nearly insane.

I swear I heard the cornflakes boxes laughing at my white hair as I strolled along the cereal aisle as two giggling girls ran past me in their youthful, girly game of catching.

I need to do something.

I need to be in control.

I glared angrily at the cornflakes, took one of them firmly by its side, placed it in my shopping trolley and moved on, separating the gossipy boxes by taking one of their friends away from them.

Who's laughing now. 

Back home, I made myself a cup of green tea - something I do when I'm stressed, facing a deadline, or when I want to relax.

And I began tackling this with clinical precision by making a list - to dye or not to dye.

On the not-to-dye column, one of the things that stood out for me most was this line: If I have white hair on my sides, I'll look distinguished and VIPs and CEOs I talk to will be convinced I have substance.

On my to-dye column: If I let myself go... the disease will spread to all healthy strands of black hair.

I snapped a photo of the list and asked the boys.


"Should I create an online poll on twitter to ask the virtual world for their opinion?"

Carl, who has a grand total of 7 followers on Twitter, including one fat cat named FunkyDJ or something, and a handful of solid torsos, immediately wrote: "YES".

Stanley resposted the video of himself rolling his eyes in response.

He later messaged me privately and said I need to face my fears and face the truth.

Some girls are totally fine in their own skin, posting photos of themselves without make up.

Yet, when they colour their faces, they look resplendent.

But still.... they're the same girl, he reasoned.

"What's more," Stanley said, "you should make full use of your current status now."

"You have a belly. And that makes you a dad.

"Coupled with your legit white hair, you can now attract those who have daddy issues and teddy issues."



---------------------------
Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people

The Greatest Showman

I don't know how many of you have seen it.

I've seen quite a few.

And Stanley has seen enough.

Which of course means I'm not referring to penises.

I'm talking about show-offs who feel compelled to snap photos of their IPPT result slips and post them online.

Stanley has counted - he's seen at least 27 of such posts.

"Okay, so you got gold for IPPT. Very good. And your point is?" Stanley said agitatedly to me, thrusting his phone in my face to show me one such post.

The current offending post belonged to Stanley's NUS junior who Stanley said is annoying as hell in real life too.

The caption of that friend's post was "finally, cleared my IPPT this year, haha".

The fact that there was a "haha" in that caption didn't make the post funny nor humble.

 "Waaah.... so clever....." Stanley said in a nasal voice as if he were talking to a child. "Can do push up, can do sit up, can run.... wah.... so cleverrrrrrrr. So fiiiiiiiiiiit."

And then, suddenly sounding British, Stanley concluded: "What a stupid show-off" and rolled his eyes before clicking 'like' on that friend's post.

"Okay, what shall we eat?" Stanley asked me, suddenly returning to his normal self, all bright and cheery again.

If I had not known Stanley my sex bunny friend for some two decades, I would have thought his screw had come loose.

Which actually, given Stanley's risque lifestyle, isn't far from the truth - the words "screw" and "loose" would accurately describe Stanley on any given day.

Some days, when Stanley is truly worked up, he can channel various characters - and display his perfect mastery of voice changes - to express his sarcasm.

And on those days, Stanley would look so possessed that the only way to control him would be to beg a priest to cleanse him and firmly tell Stanley that "I command you to get out of Stanley, whatever you are (likely a dildo) and whoever you are (which can be any gay man on the street, really)!"

It's a Thursday afternoon and it's sweltering hot.

The two of us are at Holland Village - I was on one of my trips back to Singapore and Stanley had taken the day off to have lunch with me.

We settled for Crystal Jade where Stanley would always order his favourite chicken-duck congee and XO carrot cake.

We were shown to a very tiny table that was a tad too close to the adjacent one.

I kid you not.

The spacing between Stanley and my table, and the one next to us - where two very grim-looking middle-aged office ladies were having lunch - was only two fingers' gap apart.

We would have joined the two tables and shared the space if not for the fact that the two office ladies looked like they belonged to an ultra conservative religious group who would frown and utter prayers under their breaths if they had heard us talk during lunch.

Because with Stanley, meal time topics was sex.

Drawing on my 20 years of friendship with Stanley, I telepathically begged him to keep his topics lunch-friendly by eyeing the two severe-looking women who looked like they seriously needed not only to talk about sex, but to have actual sex.

Stanley rolled his eyes at me and said out loudly: "How? Should we have the sex lunch? It's very value for money."

The two office ladies glanced over at Stanley cautiously and continued eating their noodles with fierce concentration.

Fortunately, Stanley was in no mood for sex talk.

He's still highly charged by online show-offs.

After we got our orders out of the way, Stanley revisited the topic.

Stanley wonders who the hell it was that started the trend of posting IPPT results online.

It's such a humble brag thing to do, Stanley said, shaking his head, and then nodded approvingly as he fed himself a spoonful of the smooth chicken-duck congee.

I agree with Stanley.

I've seen my fair share of humble brags online.

I can still respect you if the post had been blatantly self-promoting.

What I cannot stand is how people would, for instance, post photos of themselves with not a hair out of place, and then write brazen captions like "late for work.... bad hair day".

"And," I told Stanley, "I hate it when guys post photos of themselves half naked and -

"Wait - top half or bottom half naked," Stanley had to clarify. "'Cos sister, if it's bottom half, there's little to hate."

One of the two ultra conservative office ladies suddenly stopped chewing noisily. The other one coughed and needed immediate sips of tea.

Lowering my voice, I continued.

"I can't stand it when guys post photos of themselves half naked and then say stupid things like 'oh dear, put on so much weight after my holiday... need to lose weight now' and the bloody photo shows that guy's bloody six packs."

Stanley nods appreciatively, hearing the words "six packs".

But yeah, seriously.

I do dislike humble online brags.

Give me a blatant show-off any day and I'll respect them.

Of course, there's the online breed of show-offs.

And then there are the offline, real-life humble brags.

Those are more annoying because you can't scroll them away.

And I have one such friend.

My university gal pal Sasha - who goes by Sasa to her close friends - would know.

We have this annoying classmate, Lionel, who has been humble-bragging to us since Day One of uni.

Lionel would humbly brag about his results. About his deep knowledge of world politics. About how he's quite a popular guy.

And when we graduated and started working, Lionel would humbly brag about his salary, his wealth and would find ways to remind us that he owns a car and a BTO.

"If only he owned some hair," Sasa once whispered to me during a class gathering with Lionel, a comment that sent us into violent fits from controlling our laughter.

The problem is, Lionel isn't exactly unpleasant.

I mean, if he isn't humbly showing off, he's actually quite nice.

And truth me told, Sasa and I secretly enjoy hearing Lionel humble-brag.

It's become tradition that whenever we have class outings, one of us would goad Lionel into humble-bragging and each time he falls into our trap, we would kick each other under the table while maintaining keen, attentive eye contact with the braggard.

And we all have such people in our lives.

And it's up to us, how we deal with these people.

For Sasa and me, we choose to make a joke out of these annoying but harmless people.

I shared that coping mechanism with Stanley during dessert.

As Stanley chewed his pomelo sago, his eyes brightened.

"Yes. I know how to cope with these humble brags now," he said, as if he had attained nirvana.

"You see, guys who need to show off means they have hidden flaws."

"And in most cases, it must mean they have a small penis."

Stanley immediately whipped out his phone and began investigating.

"This gives me something to do - and if my theory were right, I could well submit this as my PhD dissertation," Stanley said wisely as he tapped on his NUS junior's Facebook photos to enlarge it for further examination.



---------------------------
Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people

Money Matters

One of the joys of being forty - and having a relatively stable career and good financial habits - is that we can splurge once in a while.

"I'm feeling like a million bucks," Stanley said over a WhatsApp video call the other day, eager to share that he's found a hair salon near his workplace which made him look and feel good.

"And I'm ready for a million fucks," he adds with passion.

"How? You like it?" he asked, beaming, tilting his head leftward, rightward, and angling his phone so I get a 360 panoramic view of his Korean-stylist's artwork.

"This haircut cost me a bomb - but I'll have a blast tonight," Stanley squealed in excitement in the middle of Suntec City.

It's a Saturday afternoon and Stanley is off to a date that night.

And Stanley wants to look perfect for him.

B, who's Stanley's current love interest, belongs to someone else.

Stanley had recently confessed to us to having fallen in love with a man who's attached.

"Years ago when I was studying marketing in NUS," Stanley said, as he catwalked along the shopping mall, "my prof said that Burger King was trying to take a bite of the fast food market."

"One of its most successful marketing campaigns was in admitting that it's second place to MacDonald's - and that because they know they're second place, they're going all out to please customers," Stanley said.

"And I'm Burger King. I need to look fabulous for my B because I'm the third party here," said Stanley, Analogy Queen.

"Okay, I gotta go - I love you and stay alive," were his parting words before Stanley went on his rendezvous.

Coincidentally, in another part of Singapore, Sasha Natasha - or Sasa as we call her - had also just stepped out from what she described as a "luxurious spa session," one of her endless self-love, pampering projects.

Sasa my classmate from university is one busy woman.

On weekdays, she leads a team of staff at work, always dressed up, decked up and made up like she's ready for a photo shoot.

On some weekday nights, Richard her disgustingly rich hubby - also my friend from university - picks her up and has an expensive dinner somewhere.

The power couple are the envy of many, including Stanley the sex bunny who hasn't met them but has heard a lot about them.

Let me know when Sasa's rich and powerful husband is lonely," Stanley would say, adding "these days, I'm an expert at being a third party."

But there'll be no party.

Right now, Sasa is telling me how she fired and hired a careless facial therapist who was daydreaming while working on her face and had accidentally scratched her right cheek.

Sasa, who is an expert in the art of human manipulation, managed to get the therapist's furious manager to threaten to sack that therapist before Sasa strategically stepped in to insist that the manager does not do that.

"It's a diplomatic win-win situation. The therapist gets a scary threat but she gets to keep her job and I get my main point and message across with no blood on my hands. Easy-peasy," Sasa said cheerfully.

Stanley later asked me to remind him never to step on Sasa's powerful, manicured toes.

"That therapist doesn't have her heart in the right place," I conveyed to Stanley Sasa's exact words to me.

"Rich people... very hard to please, you think?" I ask Stanley, who fervently disagrees.

"You'll have to be hard to be pleased, hunny," Stanley said.

Later, as I was spending one hour on the treadmill as part of my Saturday routine, my thought process sparked off very rapidly like firecrackers.

I first started by thinking about the joys of a working life - that it allows us to splurge once in a while on treating ourselves well with facial and spas.

Then it jumped to the distant future - can we sustain that lifestyle?

It dwindled very quickly because my next thought was how much do we need when we're old.

We're at the mid-point of our lives, assuming we die at 80.

So we should be at the peak of our career - and finances.

In Singapore, when you reach 40, you automatically get accepted into the government's national health insurance scheme for the elderly.

And that's another reminder that you'll have to be rich at 40: You are ageing and you might chalk up hospital bills.

These days, my peers are buying loads of heavyweight items.

While it's clothes and shoes and all things fashionable in our teens and early twenties, and nice watches and tailored suits in our late twenties and early thirties, people my age buy bigass items like financial products.

To prove my point, Stanley, who recently found a job after he was retrenched, dumped in more money on stocks and shares so that his money can grow. He's also considering upgrading some of his healthcare insurance policies which would mean he'll pay some $10,000 a year for all his insurance policies added up.

My partner J - just a year older but fuckloads richer - is paying off his second property and planning his third. A commercial unit, he says, so that he can evade additional residential property tax.

Carl our dense friend is throwing money in plastic surgery, protein powder and steroids - investments of a different sort.

Sasa and Richard, needless to say, have them all: From government bonds and structured deposits and timeshares to gold and an overseas property.
  
The reason I'm writing about this so passionately isn't because I worship money.

I mean, we all need them and we'll never have enough even if we are wealthy.

But it stems from the fact that we're gay.

Ageing gay people have very little social security.

Stanley used to say that when we're old, we'll have to help one another change adult diapers because we have no children.

We won't have sons and daughters to drive us to the hospital for check ups, or even try to curry favour us in the hope of getting inheritance.

So having money - and a sound retirement plan is the way to go.

As I ended my very morbid one-hour run, I messaged J, Stanley and Carl to randomly ask them their retirement plans.

Carl the gym rabbit says he's investing his money in beauty so that he can look young, look good and therefore not fall sick.

J my partner says when we're old, we can look for retirement villages elsewhere if none materialises in Singapore by the time we're ancient and frail. One of J's single and ageing friends now lives in one such village in Australia where he functions independently with his own house, while living amongst other elderly neighbours within a community that has nurses and therapists on the standby.

Stanley's ideal retirement plan is to hire a team of money boys who will change his adult diapers.

"But not because it's wet with pee, hunny," he said while taking a toilet break with his date B.



---------------------------
Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people

Face Value the Sequel

It's been half a work day gone and I still haven't been able to properly focus in the office.

Granted, it isn't exactly a busy day at the office, plus it's a Friday.

My staff are all winding down after lunch in anticipation of the weekend.

I on the other hand, am anticipating updates in my group chat, titled Just the Boys.

Three of us are in that group - me, my dense friend Carl and Stanley the sex bunny.

As of now, the group is silent.

The last message, at 9:13am Singapore time, was a photo of Stanley making a funny face, pointing at Carl's large nose.

Carl looked hurt in the photo.

Three hours later, there are still no updates.

Carl couldn't type because he's lying on the surgical bed with a surgeon prodding at his nose.

Then again, it's also possible that Stanley couldn't type because he's lying on some bed with someone prodding at him too.

Then, at 2:45pm, my WhatsApp alert sounded.

"Frankenstein is alive," Stanley reported.

"But he's groggy," updated Stanley.

"ttyl" was the last message.

Yes, that day has come when Carl takes this next big step to looking like a Korean pop star after thinking about it for decades, talking about it for years, researching on the topic for months.

About half an hour later, I received a photo.

Stanley was making a funny face, pointing at Carl's large, bandaged nose.

Carl looked hurt in the photo.

And it must hurt pretty bad, given that the upper half of his face looked like a hastily wrapped mummy.

"You look groggy and zoned out," I pointed out to Carl.

"Then Carl is doing just fine," Stanley replied without missing a beat.

Stanley had been very sweet, taking the day off to drive Carl to and from his plastic surgery.

But that didn't guarantee Carl that Stanley wouldn't happily poke fun at Carl.

On any other day, the words poke and fun would also accurately describe Stanley's hobbies.

And for the next few weeks, Carl would have to move very gently and do things very, very slowly.

Something which Stanley later said was something Carl was fully capable of, considering.

By dinner time, while I was busy slurping a bowl of Korean instant noodles (one of those days where I'm simply too lazy to cook), Stanley sent the group more photos.

Mainly of Carl's nose in different angles.

"I'm feeling okay... it's not painful yet," Carl replied me, adding that he hopes he won't sneeze in the next few weeks.

In one of the wefies taken with Stanley, Carl looked like a victim of an acid attack, his eyes looking puffy and the skin at the edge of his bandage looking pretty sore.

Later that night, my partner J dropped by Carl's home with packed desserts.

One thing I love about J is how he has also come to love my friends - and care for them like I would.

And it was a particularly important gesture that J was there, given that I am now based overseas and can't fly back as and when I wished.

For the next few weeks, Carl was on MC and was slowly nursing himself back to recovery.

His bandage came off in the second week, and again, it was a day of anticipation for me.

This time, Stanley didn't accompany Carl, who was by then well enough to get around on his on.

The first before-after photo was introduced to the group two weeks into Carl's surgery, and shortly after the bandage was removed.

Two photos of Carl's front profile juxtaposed side by side.

"Wow," Stanley typed. "Which photo is the before photo?????"

Stanley wasn't being funny.

I stared very hard at the two photos and even I couldn't tell the difference.

The photo on the left, which I'm made to understand was taken a few weeks before Carl's surgery, looked better than the photo on the right, taken at the clinic toilet.

In fact, Carl's post-surgery nose looks slightly bigger, redder and painful.

Santa Claus would be keen to hire Carl.

Stanley immediately messaged me privately, saying "are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
I typed the words botched surgery, then deleted them, and re-typed the words kena cheated. Then I deleted them again and composed my thoughts.

"We told him so" was my final answer.

"RIGHT? I HATE TO SAY THIS TO MY DEAR CARL, BUT SEE? WE WERE NOT WRONG," Stanley replied, adding that it's no wonder we think like twins given we're a day apart in age.

In our main group chat, Carl typed: "The doctor says don't worry - the swelling will go down after a while".

"Yeah," Stanley replied with a smirk icon.

"Exactly what I said in bed last night."



---------------------------
Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people