Life in Plastic

TMI Alert! read our WhatsApp group chat.

Before Carl and I could stop Stanley - who is capable of sharing too much information beyond all recommended levels - our fey friend had already typed out words which we wished we hadn't read.

"I love it when I am taking a dump and check that I have a LOT of poop."
"The smellier the better."
"Is it weird?"

It's that time of the morning, when Stanley Ong would be most free because it's after breakfast and the coffee he drank kickstarted his bowel engines.

"What's everyone doing tonight,' Stanley the sex bunny typed.

I couldn't resist. "Whom are you doing tonight," I wrote.

Seven minutes of pure radio silence - and peace - later, Stanley revived the group chat again.

"OMG, I feel so productive. I look at the toilet bowl and feel like I gave birth to so many penises - each of them large, chocolate chunks," Stanley wrote.

"Stan, please. I'm having my chocolate protein milkshake now," Carl wrote.

"Chocolate protein milkshakes are so damn delicious, says no one ever," Stanley wrote back.

It was a Friday morning, which meant to say everyone of my boys is in a good mood because, it's TGIF.

Before my overseas posting, we would be making plans to gather at one of our familiar haunts and unwind.

These days, it's one man down, and Carl and Stanley would sometimes have very quiet dinners because all Carl would do is nod hypnotically to whatever Stanley said.

"I think our friend is very hollow," Stanley would say to me on most nights after dropping Carl off, while we were on our way back to our respective homes.

That Friday night wouldn't be one of those nights because Stanley is joining Carl and his sister gang of gym rabbits for dinner and drinks later at E-bar, Carl's all-time favourite drinking place.

Stanley tells me he's amused at the thought of dining with a bunch of burly men who looked like they are each capable of devouring a cow, but instead chooses to eat a meek salad for dinner.

But eating grass with these beefcakes is better than spending Friday nights alone, Stanley decided (Stanley's own group of friends - the badminton sisters, a hobbyist group comprising gay men - are out of town).

Earlier this morning, our WhatsApp group chat came stirring to life with plenty of updates from Stanley.

They started with a string of photos: The group of them posing during dinner, Carl and Stanley taking a wefie at E-bar, and a couple of other photos that featured big arms, big biceps, and big alcohol bottles.

The news point though, had nothing to do with any of those photos.

"Carl is mad," Stanley typed.
"He has a disease"
"Mad Carl disease"

I waited for the news point, letting Stanley and his usual dramatic openings play out.

Stanley continued in the group.

"Carl is putting weird things in his body," Stanley wrote.

I was very tempted to interrupt and point out that Carl wouldn't be the first, given that Stanley had once inserted beads into certain parts of his body.

But I didn't want to break the flow of information - plus, it's Saturday morning and I am munching on my coco crunch.

"Please go on," I tapped instead.

Turns out, Carl is so into cosmetic procedures that he's getting out of hand.

It all began some three years ago.

Having amassed enough cash and muscles, Carl wanted more.

He had always been feeling small - ironic, given his python-sized arms and his Zouk bouncer frame - and it became worse after he broke up with his partner Ah Boy of many years (read it here).

And so began his obsession of looking good.

It first started with something innocuous.

He would buy collagen powder and drink it diligently every night because someone had whispered to him that it would keep him young.

Stanley and I had tried it out of curiosity.

Stanley pleasantly pointed out that the collagen powder, drunk with plain water, tasted like sperm.

And then Carl got a little greedier and bolder.

He would go to Thailand to do laser procedures on his face, which, fair enough, is okay since he could afford to shuttle to and fro for the sake of looking young.

That was quickly followed by frequent botox injections that would iron out the wrinkles on his forehead.

Yesterday, Carl revealed to the group during dinner that he had gone to Bangkok to insert a thread in each side of his cheeks.

"Apparently the person used a needle and thread and literally poked it through Carl's cheek and strung it up to the area near his eyes, tugging the thread tightly so that it keeps his cheeks from sagging," Stanley explained to me.

I had to stop myself from gagging.

"It's not so bad..." Carl typed, trying to exercise some damage control.

"What's worse," Stanley went on, "is that Carl has scheduled a nose surgery in Seoul next month!"

Carl typed a smiley emoticon in response.

But I wasn't smiling.

Years ago, the three of us had talked about plastic surgery.

But we were all in our late twenties where money was still an issue, and we were still youthful.

Among us, we jokingly said that Stanley would be the first to go under the knife while Carl and I had to be the ones comforting him later for looking like Zsa Zsa Gabor.

How the tables have turned.

Carl, while dense and clueless, is also stubborn.

So talking him out of doing plastic surgery would be out of the question.

Once he's made up his mind, he would block out all logic.

Stanley ended the group chat update by posting a gif featuring a tiny boy jumping up and down the puffed lips of some old woman with plastic surgery.

Later, as I digested my breakfast and breaking news, I ask myself if I would succumb to plastic surgery one day.

The quick answer is no - given that, while I'm not exactly super star quality, what's important is that I don't hate the way I look.

I may have a flat nose and single eye lids, but I think my eyes are arguably my best feature. And that comes from years of cultivating self love.

Stanley said later that his best feature is no doubt his penis, which also comes from years of cultivating self love.

And if Carl hates his nose today and wants to do something about it, there's nothing we can do to stop him.

All Stanley and I wish for, is that Carl would stop obsessing with his looks, and stop yearning to prolong the longevity of his boyish face, which is Carl's best feature (not his python-sized arms).

And as his best pals, after we have exhausted our arguments to dissuade him, at the end of the day, we can only stand by whatever decision he's made.

"Good luck, and don't fuck it up," I typed to Carl, quoting three of our favourite gay icon RuPaul.

Stanley added: "I still love you, Carl, big nose or small nose.

"But really, think really hard about it.

"Between a nose job and a blow job, one of them is more achievable and enjoyable," Stanley wrote matter of factly.



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

Courtroom Drama

Stanley is intrigued. 

He's recently been following closely a gay drama - not on Netflix, but on the news.

And even though we're miles apart, my sex bunny friend is determined to keep me in the loop.

"Read this!" he typed urgently in our WhatsApp group chat titled "Just the Boys" which Stanley, Carl our dense friend and I set up years ago.

Stanley went on to paste paragraphs of news reports of an ongoing trial that has no doubt been keeping the gay community talking in Singapore.

Given Stanley's extensive network and activities, Stanley is the gay community.

Long story short, a doctor is on trial for drug charges.

But right now, Stanley the size queen isn't allowing this story to be short.

Stanley pastes one lengthy paragraph after another in our group chat.

"Wow, imagine a doctor saying such things!" Stanley wrote, referring to a paragraph where the doctor defended himself, saying that straws and bottles found on him during a drug raid were for origami.

"I think he meant origasm," Stanley remarked as if he were a guest judge on RuPaul's Drag Race.

As expected, Carl our dense friend was totally lost.

He's confused - which, to be fair, we all were at some point of growing up but Stanley and I eventually moved on while poor Carl is still there marching on the spot.

Carl - who, up till last year thought Batam and Bintan were the same place - is perpetually clueless.

"Is this a Netflix drama?" he asks sincerely.

Expertly ignoring Carl, Stanley continued engaging me in the group.

Meanwhile, Stanley privately messages me saying even if he had taken two hours to explain the whole case to Carl, it would probably take four years before Carl could make sense of it so it's best to cut his losses.

If the three of us were in a fantasy movie, Carl would be the one Stanley convinces to willingly offer himself to the fire-breathing dragon while the rest of the village run for our lives.

Stanley vehemently disagrees with my analogy.

"I will never want to be in a fantasy movie with you or Carl. My fantasy movie will have only one co-star and that would be none other than my oppa Song Joong-ki", Stanley's current love interest from recently watching Descendants of the Sun on Netflix.

But let's get back from the war zone to the courtroom.

Or, to be specific, the expensive hotel rooms.

"Look at these gays and their high lives!" Stanley marvelled, italicising the word high.

Apparently, one of those on trial had revealed to the courtroom stories of gay men booking rooms for group sex at high-end hotels - and hiring that doctor to help one of them get high.

"Wow!" Carl said, deciding that he would join the conversation after all, never mind he couldn't keep up.

"Who are these people?" Stanley asks.

Later on, I thought about the trial.

(Stanley later reveals he too, had thought about the trial - but his thoughts were mainly focused on what went on behind those closed hotel room doors).

My thoughts, however, were on how it must feel for those on trial.

I'm very close to courtroom drama because J my partner is a lawyer and I hear all sorts of legal stories from him.

When J started out as a young DPP - a lawyer for the state - he would excitedly tell me about his work.

Once, on his day off, he brought me to tour the then-sub courts, showing me where people were charged, and where trials were heard, and teaching me all about the judiciary system.

We even sat in on a trial during that day out, and had very fortunately walked into the courtroom of a very high-profile judge who was known for being funny with her straight-face backhanded comments.

Eventually, the novelty of J's first job wore off.

When he was senior enough to handle big cases, J's job wore him off.

J was trained to see accused persons as murderers and rapists - given that his then-job was to prosecute those people.

Often, he would come back feeling drained and telling me how it's not easy to see people only at their worst.

The compassionate J eventually moved on to corporate law - choosing to work in the boardroom rather than the courtroom, and opting to wear office suits over legal robes (To this day, Stanley would still cheekily ask J if lawyers wore anything beneath those robes - just as he would sometimes ask the world at large if newscasters wore skimpy underwear below the studio table).

Because of my association to J and having seen courtroom drama first hand, I'm viewing this ongoing trial with different lenses.

It's only natural because, admit it, we do love to gossip.

I cannot imagine how it must be like to be so vulnerable and so talked about.

Here, I'm not debating about whether or not they are guilty. I'm not discussing the merits and demerits of their activities.

Like I said, I'm merely focusing on that one aspect... vulnerability for those on trial.

Casting aside culpability and retribution, I wonder how it must be like to walk to court and be swarmed by not just reporters but also curious passersby with their mobile phones.

And then, you have to swear to tell the truth in open court, for one and all to hear. 

Worse, whatever you say is linked to your photos which would surely surface online.

Your reputation is gone. Your dignity is gone. And most likely, your career will go too.

And what about your loved ones?

How would close friends, family members react?

And it surely doesn't help that people who follow juicy trials would no doubt cast judgement even before the verdict is out. 

J has very professionally told me he doesn't want to discuss this with me.

So I of course turn to Stanley.

How must it feel to be thrust into the limelight and for people to talk behind your back, I ask him.

Quite good, actually, Stanley replies using the WhatsApp voice recorder.

Some time back, I have had people literally talking behind my back, and I assure you, Adam, thrusting was involved. And I was basking in that limelight, he says.



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

Good Lord

Relocating is a bitch.

I sometimes wish I had a magic lamp, rub it, and have a genie appear in front of me, scoop me and all my belongings up, and place me safely in that foreign land - all things intact, all things in place.

Stanley my sex bunny friend scoffed at my remark.

"Firstly, if I want something magical to happen, there are many other things I can recommend you to rub, other than a lamp," he said to me as if I were stupid.

"And let's say we go by your flawed theory and a genie does appear - and he had better look like Will Smith - the only foreign thing I want to land, would be his -

"Please stop," I begged Stanley sincerely.

"We are in a bloody temple, for Christ's sake," I whispered.

Since 2002, Stanley and I had been going to the Myanmar Temple on Ah Hood Road.

We found it by chance - a China friend of ours had wanted to visit the adjacent Sun Yat Sen museum and we made a by-the-way trip to the temple.

We instantly loved the temple because we felt a sense of calm when we stepped inside.

The rest, they say, is history.

But right now, I'm not so certain there's calm, given that we had been whispering rubbish while Stanley waited beside me for me to get blessings by a monk.

It has become routine for Stanley to accompany me to the temple despite him being Catholic and all.

Buddhists, Hindus, Muslims, Taoists, hunny, I take them all, Stanley would say.

And on major occasions such as birthdays, New Years and Chinese New Years, Stanley the sweet would offer to drive me to the temple knowing that it's important for me.

Today was one such occasion of importance.

I was set to leave Singapore for a very long time, and Stanley offered to get me "cleansed, exorcised and revirginised" before exporting me.

Later on as we were leaving the temple and putting on our shoes, Stanley complained.

"My new shoes are so tight they're killing me. This is why," he paused as he struggled and wriggled his foot into his new Pedro shoes, "that I say tight isn't always good."

I sighed, and gave up.

Our next destination was Fitness First at Bugis Junction, where we were to pick up Carl who had been huffing and puffing the first half of Saturday morning.

If Stanley had his way, he too would be huffing and puffing but at a very specific part of the gym.

"Jesus, hunny," Stanley said by way of greeting Carl as he stepped into Stanley's car.

"You look like a large walking paddle pop ice cream popsicle from far."

Stanley then turned to the back seat to reach Carl's thighs and gave them a squeeze.

"Do you ever work out those legs of yours? They look bamboo sticks."

Carl shifted uncomfortably in the back seat. 

"My goodness. You're starting to look like all the gym rabbits in Singapore and my bloody workplace - very top heavy with a weak foundation.

"Do something about those skinny legs of yours please. You're starting to look like a needle in a gay stack," concluded Stanley, Queen of Puns.

Carl the dense one grinned like a good natured goon and said "Oh, thank you, Stanley dear."

The drive to 8 Cafe at Bukit Pasoh was smooth.

The three of us had two agendas that day: Chief of which, lunch at the gay-owned fusion restaurant.

"This fusion place is giving me a lot of confusion," Stanley said softly to me as we stepped into the eclectically designed interior.

"I don't know which one I like better - the food or the boss," Stanley said, eyeing Bill the owner and sometimes chef of the place.

The boyish and well built owner is perhaps one of the reasons so many people flock to the restaurant.

"I love your creations," Stanley said appreciatively to the handsome boss as he set down his crispy brown rice risotto on the table.

"And I love Your creation," Stanley said in the next breath, looking up at the ceiling, no doubt thanking God and saying grace at the same time.

With our first agenda being met, I quickly set out to achieve my second agenda: Getting help from Bill.

I had recently put up my apartment for rent, using the services of a very efficient and eccentric sales woman, aunty Yim.

She's highly recommended by friends and had most recently been helping Stanley find a condo unit before he was retrenched (read about it here).

But three months after aunty Yim brought potential tenants to my place for viewing, nothing was offered to me.

One of them was an Australian-Indian couple who had newly relocated to Singapore.

They looked like they could be my tenant, I told Stanley after I met them.

But while the Indian wife was visibly excited about my unit, her husband looked unimpressed as he viewed my large one bedder.

Stanley would later say that anyone who views his large "one bedder" would never be unimpressed.

And then there were three lesbians who came to view, and was excited to rent my place. But they wanted the rental to go even lower.

"Hunny, seriously," Stanley said afterwards. "I would run away immediately if a lesbian tells me she wants to go lower".

And then there were various other insignificant potential tenants, mostly couples but no offer was made to me.

And time was ticking.

And so at Stanley's suggestion, we should go to Bill for help.

"Firstly, he's very handsome," Stanley pointed out in his opening remarks.

"And people who're handsome have handsome friends who need a place," he went on.

"And most importantly, he's Malaysian - and that means most of his friends are Malaysians. Don't you want Malaysian tenants?" Stanley asked. "I would definitely want Bill as my tenant. Roommate. Whatever," Stanley said.

My sex bunny friend can sometimes sell snow to the Eskimos - one of the reasons he's excellent in his marketing day job (top management) and his marketing night job (bottom management).

Just before dessert was ordered, I showed Bill photos of my unit, asking him to help me spread the word.

"Yes, spread it, Bill," Stanley responded instinctively, incapable of controlling himself.

Bill later promised he would do his best to spread it - which elicited a very wide, satisfied grin from Stanley - and said he would in fact, do so immediately, sending my Stanley into a series of nodding spasms.

Later that day, while praying for a good, responsible tenant, I ask myself what sort of landlord I should be.

I have heard horror stories of friends who're landlords - tenants breaking things and denying it, tenants who sublet it to subtenants, tenants who turn their rental unit into a brothel or something.

And it occurred to me that just as I'm choosing a tenant (should there be a ready and willing pool, of course), tenants are also assessing me.

After all, they wouldn't want a demanding, stingy, calculative landlord.

Stanley says I think too much.

"You need to let go - you're gonna have to let other people come into your most intimate, most personal place," he said, sounding like a pervert yoga guru.

"Let them in.... and don't forget, you're getting paid for that," he pointed out.

"And hunny, with the way you look now, and given your age, if you can achieve that, you should thank your lucky stars," added Stanley, Queen of Multiple Sarcasm.

"Because for me, I still can. If I were a landlord, I'll rent out my place to very hot tenants - and make sure they come and leave me their deposits," concluded Stanley, Queen of Multiple Orgasm.



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

Eyes, Eyes, Baby

Sometime in late-2017 - pre-Christmas period - I finally had time to meet the boys.

That was after I had wrapped up a particularly hectic and long-drawn work project.

That night, at PS Cafe Dempsey, I made an announcement to the boys Stanley and Carl.

"I have presbyopia," I said grimly.

Carl the dense one looked up from the menu and studied my features carefully as if I were a museum exhibit.

"Is that some form of STD?" Stanley the sex bunny asked cautiously. "Let's not share dessert," he said, looking at Carl for support.

Carl's python-size biceps twitched ominously. The colour of his face drained and he looked at me with great concern.

I rolled my eyes and leaned forward.

Sensing something sensational, Stanley and Carl did the same, temporarily abandoning the task of choosing a dessert.

"It's just lao hua," I explained, using the more common term in Mandarin.

Stanley slumped back in his seat in a dramatic manner, and groaned that there was no real value in that information.

Carl was still leaned in, his head cocked sideways as if he were a K2 kid trying to understand Pythagoras Theorem.

"Adam, there's no drama in this. It simply means you're getting old - there's no need to fret," Stanley said. "Ageing happens to all straight men who're married, and to all gay men who're attached. Only single and happy gay boys like Carl and me never age."

Out of pure kindness, Stanley later put me in charge of ordering dessert, then proceeded to rest his chin on his hands, patiently awaiting drama.

A week later, J accompanied me to have my eyes checked, and reading glasses prescribed. 

All my life, I had not needed to wear specs.

The only time I did was when I was a kid, when I secretly tried on my Godma's specs.

I felt as if the floor had tilted and had to take big, arching strides to walk, as if I were Neil Armstrong on the moon.

I were to later find out that I had 100 degrees of presbyopia in both eyes.

I wasn't over the moon.

The good news, as J had so lovingly put it, is that I can now choose a pair of trendy specs which would make me look more distinguished.

I didn't achieve that goal.

A few days later, while poring over page after page of documents without my reading glasses, I finally gave up.

A colleague who saw me put them on and reading my documents exclaimed that I reminded her of her grand uncle.

That young li'l bitch - who was all of 22 - even remarked that my iPhone fonts were enormous.

Stanley would later boast that the only thing in his iPhone that's enormous were images of a specific category that's best left not discussed in public.

But life has to go on, with or without reading glasses.

But mostly with reading glasses these days.

After the initial two weeks of getting used to donning specs, I no longer felt giddy whenever I took them off.

And I had gotten used to the fact that if I eat without my reading glasses, the morsels of food in front of me would appear fuzzy.

Yes, I am old.

And it took putting on the reading glasses to see this fact clearly.

Often, the first signs of ageing creep in without us realising it.

For those of us who still look youthful when we're near forty, we aren't aesthetically reminded of our age.

But when these clear symptoms kick in... there's no denying it.

It will first start with innocuous conditions like presbyopia.

And then we'll have, I don't know, slipped disc or something.

I vocalised my thoughts to the boys about ageing some time later.

Carl the dense one who lifts weights like it's his profession, looked mortified at the prospect.

Stanley the drama queen whispered theatrically.

"Slipped discs can go down a slippery slope very quickly.... and we could soon be paralysed from the waist down boys!"

Carl looked like he wanted to cry, and started patting his python-sized arms lovingly as if he were saying goodbye.

Stanley went very quiet.

Then he decided: "But that's okay. We're survivors.

"Even when that happens, I can still use my mouth."



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