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... 

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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.

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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.



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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."



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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.