Merry Xmas!

Fresh cut roses, check.

Table setting, check.

Carols lined up on Spotify -- the proper Catholic ones, and not your I Saw Mummy Kissing Santa Claus type of rubbish versions -- check.

For the first time in 20 years since I got together with my partner J, I am hosting his family for the all-important Christmas dinner gathering.

Don't be silly lah. There's nothing to be stressed about, J says casually to me about my grand task of hosting his family.

He's sitting on my couch and already is busy killing zombies on his mobile phone.

But J is right.

After two decades of being J's partner, there's no need for me to be nervous about making a good first impression. 

Nor is it the first time J's family had visited my place.

And I shouldn't over worry about the gathering later, lest I forget to enjoy the process of hosting.

I love hosting.

I love J and his family.

This combination should be fun and enjoyable.

Plus, J is here with me to host his family.

It will be fun.

In order not to keel over from stress, I had decided to cook the main dish of Calderata two days ahead of Christmas.

The Filipino beef stew is said to taste better over a few days.

I figure this is one dish J's mum, being traditionally Peranakan and all, wouldn't have tasted (much less cook it) so it's a safe choice.

I made it as authentically as possible, following my friend's mum's recipe to a tee, except for the Reno-brand liver spread, which is supposed to thicken the stew.

The liver spread had apparently been banned in the Philippines so getting my hands on one of those here meant not only potentially getting on the wrong side of Singapore law but also that of the mother in law. 

Instead, I found pate at the supermarket and am casually using it as a substitute.

That should do the trick.

I will also be whipping up a salad -- and this one is risky.

Risky because it has a Nonya twist to it.

Years ago, J's mum and I had discussed a recipe published on the Sunday Times by our favourite food writer.

The main salad pieces were poached prawns, rose apples, pineapples, and winged beans. 

For the sauce -- and here's where it gets tricky -- I need chinchalok (fermented prawn paste), lingam's chili sauce, honey and lime juice. 

I remember J's mum saying such a combination would be nice.

For our salad, I'll be adding my own touch -- J's mum loves Japanese cucumber so I'll toss that in. And I'll sprinkle some finely-chopped kaffir lime to give it extra zest. 

J will be taking with him leftover meats from our party at his place last night: Sausages, turkey, ham.

His brother and sister in law are taking the easy way: KFC and pizza.

They should be at my place by 4pm, and I'm knocking out this piece in record time.

I look around my kitchen (the stew is slowly warming up and filling my kitchen with a wave of tangy sweetness), and my table setting is ready.

I'll take one more sip of wine.... and I'll go get busy.

Merry Christmas, and a meaningful New Year, dear readers!

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

Preparing for Xmas

Every now and then, we get a chance to write our own narratives.

The chance fell upon me some years ago, after my Godma died.

You see, every year, I'd spend my Christmas Eve and Christmas evening with my Godma and her large extended family where glasses are clinked and a great Eurasian spread is to be had, as everyone gathers and recounts every damn thing -- from childhood memories and embarrassing anecdotes to discussing various current affairs developments. 

The passing of my Godma ended this tradition. 

My eldest Godbrother flew back to the US with his wife and retired there, shortly after that. 

For the subsequent few years, my Godsister, who herself has a happy, close-knit family, tried to recreate Christmas at her place but I was left out of the equation because of my overseas posting.

Eventually, our new Christmas tradition had become video calls and glasses were clinked in the respective homes of the family in smaller groups.

Now that I'm back in Singapore, Christmas gatherings would have a new spin.

While I still keep in touch with my Godsister and Godbrother, this year, I would be spending it solely with my partner J and his family.

This year's eve would be at J's place where his mum would no doubt whip up pipping hot Peranakan dishes, along with the festive staples of turkey, sausages and roast meats.

And at J's suggestion, the family would come over to my place for Christmas Day.

It's lovely to host loved ones at my place.

After all, I bought my place with hosting loved ones in mind -- my table is sturdy and big enough to host the Last Supper.

My sex bunny friend Stanley, who had bought his place not too long ago, was inspired by my dining table.

"Oh, Darling, I've always wanted something big and sturdy to host 12 people," Stanley would say, adding that the theme of his party would be the lust supper.

But my theme this year, is wholesomeness.

And it's a theme I hope to have for many more Christmas gatherings to come.

Since my resettling back in Singapore, J and I have been making a lot more plans with family in mind.

Which is why this pilot Christmas gathering is so important.

J would brush me aside like I'm a silly goose whenever I say I'm stressed over cooking for his mum, who is one of the island's best chefs, a title every Bibik would hold in all Peranakan households. 

"The trick is to cook things my mum never cooks," J said.

And so in recent weeks, amid my intermittent spring cleaning and the occasional checking of my work email and meetings, I'm also busy googling recipes.

This year, I've decided a hybrid menu: I'll order meats and pizzas and prepare finger food like onion rings and wedges, and whip up a simple salad.

The main dish would be Caldereta -- a Filipino beef stew that J's mum wouldn't have tried.

I had once cooked the stew and it was very, very, very delicious. The only problem was, I had cooked it for myself so that feedback would have been biased.

Nevertheless, J tells me that whatever I cook would involve love and, cheesy as it sounds, that's the essential ingredient in any dish.

I shared this with my sex bunny friend Stanley who couldn't agree more.

"And remember. In your case, the way to a man's heart is not through his stomach," he typed to me, adding a gif of a whirling black hole to make his very dirty point. 

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

Home Sweet Home

I am typing today's post in my new place and sneezing away due to dust. 

If I had bionic eyes, I'm pretty certain I'd see dark, dusty particles forming a hurricane, its hips swaying stylishly around my house like some important diva.

Earlier this year, I was asked by my company to return from my Myanmar posting.

Since then, my company had put me up in one of its multiple properties because I have an existing rental contract with my tenant, which I couldn't break until the end of the year.

Two weeks ago, my tenant had very kindly agreed to move out ahead of time, allowing me to move back in to my own place.

I'm very happy to come back to my large one-bedder and have bought so many things for my old-but-somewhat-new place.

After all, I had only bought -- and stayed in -- my place for two years before I had to fly out of the country and be posted around the region like a courtesan.

But I'm happy to move back. 

Which is why for today, my post will be short.

I have lots of unpacking, lots of fixing, lots of cleaning to do.

But there'll also be lots of laughter, lots of happy moments to look forward to from now on.

For now, it's back to sneezing and me trying to drive Hurricane Diva out of my place.

We'll talk soon.

Love, 

Adam 

 

 

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

Guncle And Gaunty

Not too long ago, I learnt the new word Guncle and so I figured there also must be such a thing as Gaunty too.

A gay acquaintance of mine recently posted on IG to say he had been promoted to a Guncle after his sister gave birth to a beautiful boy.

A quick google search confirmed that Guncle is new age slang for a gay uncle. 

There's even a Guncle's Day which apparently is observed in US on the second Sunday of August.

Stanley my sex bunny friend rolled his eyes and shook his head rapidly.

I couldn't tell if he was convulsing because of the ridiculous idea of a Guncle's Day -- or the fact that there's even such a thing as Guncle -- or because he was working up to a climax. 

So I waited patiently.

Carl the dense one who is always in a state of cluelessness also waited patiently for the final revelation. 

A grand total of 30 seconds later, Stanley finally said: "What the heck is this Guncle and Gaunty shit?"

What exactly is the point of defining a gay uncle, Stanley wanted to know.

Carl the dense one who is always in a state of cluelessness also wanted to know. 

Every waking moment is a learning opportunity for Carl. 

Later, I got to thinking about why people would first of all buy the idea of being a Guncle.

I mean, what is the role of a Guncle? 

Is it different to a straight uncle who has a swollen belly and receding hairline and who happens to love to squeeze tits at every opportunity?

Are gay uncles more fun?

And God forbid, can gay uncles be too fun for the comfort of our morals and laws?

What's with all this labelling, I thought. 

So I went straight to the source and messaged Derrick, newly promoted Guncle. 

In his words: 

"It's not about using a gay stamp and approving certain roles. There's no difference to a gay or straight uncle. We are still going to be doting nevertheless. 

But what's important to me is that labelling myself as a Guncle is a significant step to show that my family recognises me for who I am.  

It's also to celebrate that my sister and brother-in-law fully embrace me. They're going to teach my nephew the word Guncle and cultivate in him from young, a sense of acceptance so that he grows up not seeing sexuality with the very same biases that our older generation has."

I pasted Derrick's answer in our group chat titled "Just the Boys".

Stanley responded first. 

"Ooooo," Stanley wrote. 

Carl didn't react. He's probably still digesting the whole chunk of high-level words.

"Is this Derrick friend of yours cute? He sounds like one of those smart activist who would burn his bra to make a point. Such men are sexy!" Stanley wrote, digesting the hunk and his chunk of words. 

"Wait. Which one is your friend? Derrick or Guncle?" Carl finally wrote. 

For the next two days, I thought about Guncle Derrick's thoughts. 

He does have a point. After all, if his family decides to raise a boy and teach him to love his Guncle regardless of his sexual preference, that's a good thing.

But I do wonder if this gay-stamping would catch on. 

I mean, what if it does?

Suddenly, there'll be Ghairdressers, Glawyers, Geachers and Goctors. 

Would these labelling be healthy? 

Yes, for sure, these labels would force people to pause and rethink the significance of a person's role in life in relation to his sexuality.  

The ideal outcome is for everyone to realise that at the end of the day, a straight hairdresser wouldn't be less creative than a gay one, and a straight lawyer wouldn't be less bitch than a gay one.

But in the meantime, would forced labelling of roles -- such as Guncles -- do any good at the end of the day?

I ask the boys again for their thoughts. 

Do you think we'll go down a slippery slope of casting unnecessary attention on someone's role based on his sexuality such that at the end of the day, it forces people to focus on the gay in that role rather than to separate the gay in the role?

This time, Carl replied immediately: A sticker of a heavily mustached man giving a thumbs up.

Stanley replied next: A skinny woman giving the finger.

"It's 2am in Singapore, Adam. Please don't be a creepy overthinker," Stanley wrote. 

"Don't go down a slippery slope -- unless that slippery slope is the oily contours of a sexy Guncle".

 

 

 

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

Back On Track

Not too long ago, my boys and I decided to sweat and pant at the correct environments.

Which, for Stanley the sex bunny, means activities outside of the bedroom. 

And toilet cubicles, in some cases.

And for Carl the gym rabbit, it means taking him outside the four walls of a fitness centre.

Yesterday morning, the three of us found ourselves at the recently-opened Rail Corridor. 

We and one-third of the Singapore population.

"What's with Singaporeans' obsession with nature and sports," Stanley grumbled, eyeing groups of sporty aunties with visors, hankies, and sunglasses. "They obviously look like they belong to a public dancing group in Tiananmen Square."

"Where are the hunks?" Carl formulated the underlying question found in Stanley's tone. 

We had decided to do something as a group, that would be life changing.

We're past 40, and we need to get in shape. And the government will no longer throw us in jail if we gather in groups of five.

Carl is always in agreement to getting in shape, while Stanley just wants to ogle at those who're already in shape.

"It's hot here," Carl complained.

"And that shouldn't be an excuse for that thing to be shirtless," Stanley pointed with his eyes at a middle aged man running with bouncing man boobs and a pouch.

"I'm starting to think this is a wrong decision," Stanley pouted.

Carl the follower pouted alongside. 

We had entered the Rail Corridor via Upper Bukit Timah where the park goers' main concern was snapping photos while making peace signs with their fingers.

Carl looked bored, while Stanley looks like he wants to be bored into, but right now there are no prospective takers.

Resigned, Stanley said "maybe we should just turn back and eat prata."

A sweaty and heavyset Indian woman walking two of her dogs looked in our direction and smiled, jiggling her head. 

"It's a sign," Carl exclaimed.

We looked to where he was pointing. 

A group of people were posing for a wefie in front of an aged concrete slab that says "Bukit Timah Railway Station."

More importantly, the people in front of the sign were the highlight of the day. A mishmash of gay people of different sizes: From the beefy and chunky to the lean and sinewy.

"Now, we're talking," Stanley hummed seductively, suddenly revived.

"No. Now we're running," I inserted, knowing that we would have to start jogging at some point this lifetime.

Stanley looked forlornly at the group of homosexuals and parted ways with them and recalibrated his gaze at me with dagger eyes for breaking him and his potential sex partners. 

"You happy now?"

It's been quite a while since we'd run together but just like riding a bike, we picked up pace in no time.

Stanley, who is an expert on "bike riding", was exceptional. His running gait was consistent, and breathing, uniform.

After all, Stanley and I had once been fit young things during national service where we met. And we were among the fiercest soldiers in the group.

Struggling to keep up was actually Carl, panting and wheezing, his face paler than a Fuchou fishball. 

Stanley looked at Carl and rolled his eyes.

Carl is one of those who dedicates nearly all of his waking hours on self grooming and cultivating muscles by huffing and puffing at the gym.

Years of commitment had given him biceps the size of well-fed pythons, but his legs were pitifully neglected. His thighs and calves are so under worked that from afar, he looks like a walking chicken drumstick.

"Hey, haven't you been working out at the gym?! Why can't you catch up?" Stanley said impatiently to Carl who looked like he was going to collapse from stress. 

We eventually slowed down so that our 400-year-old friend could catch up.

"What's the point of you going to the gym when you are so unfit," Stanley scolded.

Carl looked like he was struggling to come up with a retort, but thought it wiser to divert his remaining energy on prolonging his life on this earth. 

Carl, for the lack of a better word, is a typical show dog.

The type where his paws are always neatly pruned, his fur fluffed up all the time like a respectable Indonesian tai tai, and his posture dignified at all times. 

But when it comes to crunch time, the show dog wags its tail lovingly at the burglar who pats it on its head. 

Many a times, we had asked Carl the incredible hulk for help. To make good use of his muscles to open a very tight jar.

Once, Stanley looked at a helpless Carl in disbelief when our macho friend struggled to open the jar of jam. 

"Adam, next time, just pass it to me. My talented asshole might be able to open jars better than Carl's useless muscles."

Right now, Mr Muscle needs a drink.

"I think I can't run anymore. I have reached my limit," Carl said, squatting by the bushes, a visual sign that he has given up on life.

Stanley looked at his Apple watch.

"You've only run 700 metres, bitch."

And so instead of running, the three of us decided to take things slow and take a brisk walk instead. 

By 11am -- two hours since we arrived at the Rail Corridor -- we were still trudging slowly, urbanisation nowhere in sight.

Stanley's mood was sour to the max.

First, no cute guys in sight. 

Then, there are so many people who keep choking up the running track.

And worst, Stanley says the only thing that's burning is his blood and not his calories from all this slow, flower-gazing pace of walking. 

But at least, Mr Universe 2021 had regained some colour to his face.

"I think this morning walk is doing my biceps some good," the dense one beamed. "They feel tighter now."

Stanley looked at Carl.

"Hunny, at our age, and the type of activities we'd been engaging in all our lives, there's really nothing tight about us."

With precise timing that can only be achieved by a witty director and a humorous God, two sporty aunties with visors, hankies and sunglasses in the opposite direction beamed at us and said "Good morning!"

 

 

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

Root Shock

There is no witty way to start today's topic.

Not when it's a hairy situation for me.

Oh, there we go.

The ironies of life. 

Two weeks ago, while having dinner at my sex bunny friend Stanley's place, I discovered that my hair is thinning.

It all started when Carl the dense one said I ought to dye my hair because it looked as though a clumsy baker had tripped and spilled a tray of flour on parts of my hair.

"It's called the salt and pepper look," I replied proudly, saying that the colour adds years of wisdom to my image.

"You know that salt and pepper is not good for health right," replied Carl, the spokesperson of any gym who wants to hire him. 

"Just show me how bad it is," I said, passing my phone to Carl so he could do a 360-drone shot of my crowning glory.

And for the first time in years, I'm seeing the full 360 picture of the effects of ageing.

Not only does my image look like I had years of wisdom added on to it, it's evident that years of youth had also been subtracted from my head.

"Jesus," I said, barely whispering. "My hair is so thin I can see my scalp."

For the next few days, every time I passed by a mirror at home, Id pause and pose in various angles as if that mere act can promote hair growth.

It didn't.

What it did though, was promote paranoia, fear, dread. 

"I'm balding," I said to J.

My partner of 20 years looked at me, reached out for my hand and gave me a firm handshake. 

Then he went back to reading his novel.

Though a year older, at age 43, J still looks trim, fit and youthful. 

His bio age, according to some machine he previously used, is supposed to be 18. 

So yes, he has a head full of hair though these days, he shaves it really short for easy maintenance. 

"You look fine lah," J finally said to me when he caught me staring into my phone camera to check for bald spots.

"We all age, and we all die,"he says.

I love that about J. 

He's factual, fuss-free, and blocks off unnecessary drama in life.

I love him.

But.

I love me more.

Despite J shedding light into my shedding situation and his worldly reassurances that I will age and I will die, I am not feeling better.

How am I supposed to feel better, I ask you.

After having had lush, voluminous hair for the first 42 years of my life, I am allowed to mourn.

Over the next few days, I decided to do something about it. 

From medicines and supplements to hair products and serums and hair care treatment centres, I researched them all.

Medicines such as propecia may cause erectile dysfunction. 

Stanley my sex bunny friend's jaw dropped and shook his head at me, as if warning me not to jump off a building.

Hair treatment centres are useless, according to Stanley and my one-time hairdresser whose wife worked in one such famous local hair treatment centre.

I remember the hairdresser's exact words were I tell my wife that she will go to hell for giving people false hopes.

After days of careful academic research, I settled on a new combo.

A plant-based supplement recommended by a friend who knows her beauty stuff.

It costs about $100 a month and by popping two pills a day, you'll turn into Rapunzel in six months, or so they claim.

I've also changed my shampoo to one that is supposedly able to wash off every bit of grim from your scalp.

And most importantly, the final element in that combo: Accepting that I will age and I will die.

But for now, I won't die without trying.

 

 

 

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

 

Can't Be Bordered

"Exciting times are here!" Stanley shrieked into his phone.

"STAN!" typed Carl in our group chat. "I OPENED IT IN THE MIDDLE OF GYM AND PEOPLE ARE NOW STARING AT ME!"

Stanley's response was icy. "Carl darling, you should be thankful that my high-pitch voice message is getting people to stare at you."

"But I'm sorry," Stanley typed. "I'm just very, very excited!"

"And you know when I'm excited, that excitement is palpable!" our sex bunny friend wrote, before posting a gif of a throbbing brinjal in our group chat titled "Just the Boys".

Stanley's throbbing excitement is understandable.

Malaysia and Singapore have both announced a vaccinated travel lane and anything -- even if it's the customs borders -- that spreads wide open like a welcoming courtesan naturally gets Stanley very excited. 

Not for me though.

I frown as more and more VTLs are established. 

While I can imagine hordes of deprived Singaporeans are now packing their luggage in a frenzy and jogging on the spot until their travel dates arrive, I cannot visualise myself travelling anytime soon.

Unless it's for work, and definitely not for a holiday.

To begin with, a friend who works in tourism labelled me a reluctant traveller. 

"It means someone who goes around only because he has no choice," I explain to Carl the dense one, after explaining what VTL stands for and how VTLs work. 

"Honey, in my dictionary, someone who goes around only because he has no choice belongs to a very niche and controversial profession," Stanley wrote. 

For the last two years, many of us have not been able to travel.

Some of my friends have turned blue from this restriction, complaining at every opportunity about how much they miss travelling. 

One friend -- who goes on a holiday at least thrice a year -- immediately booked a flight to Germany after restrictions were eased.

We were informed of his recent travels via carefully-curated IG posts, featuring champagne and satay served in his spacious business class capsule, and subsequent photos of him looking very casual in various states of activities: -- walking, staring, thinking, drinking, eating -- amid scenic postcard-like backdrops. 

But for every Showoff Sean, there's always a more measured person to counterbalance the universe.

Nisa my best girl friend says she's not going to travel until 2023, unless God has other plans for her.

Stanley quietly tells me he hopes that God's plans for Nisa's journey -- if it does happen -- would not include an expensive limousine ride that is bound for Mandai.

"Shall we plan for a trip?!" Stanley asks excitedly in the group, his heart no doubt throbbing wildly like his earlier brinjal gif.

"WOW!" Carl replied. 

"YES!" Stanley wrote.

"Can we even travel now?!" Carl the dense one asked. 

Stanley stopped typing in the group and called me so that he can have an actual adult conversation.

"The answer is no," I said coldly to Stanley who must know that I'm not keen to travel (even before COVID, I hadn't been a big fan of vacations -- weird, I know). 

Thing is, I am excited by this latest development.

But I'm excited only because as more and more VTLs are established, it's a sign that things are normalising.

Never mind that the bugs and plague might be unleashed unto our Sunny Island like an exposed Pandora's Box when our borders reopen. 

After all, COVID has to be treated like the common flu.

But for now, my passport shall remain untouched, left in a safe place until a special occasion calls for it to be used.

Stanley tells me I need to draw a line between a passport and a pair of sexy red panties. 

 

 

 

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

 

Grim Dinner Topics

"Spread it like this," Stanley said in the dinning room of his beautiful apartment that he had just bought. 

"And this is how it gets laid," he said with satisfaction in his tone.

I was very scared to find out what exactly was going on in Stanley the sex bunny's dinning room but I ultimately had to face my fears. 

"Nice of you to join us, Adam, now place that pot of curry on the newspapers, and can we start eating this life time please," Stanley said.

Carl immediately stopped chewing and started fussing over our fork and spoon placements.

Last evening, Carl and I gathered at Stanley's place since it was still illegal for three people to eat out.

But just as well.

These days, the three of us avoid the masses because, as Carl would point out, we are old and ageing and dying and we shouldn't speed up the process by exposing ourselves to COVID.

Stanley, who on most days is quite receptive to exposing himself, nodded fervently.

"Why do you still have newspapers," asked Carl, who gets all his news updates from messages making their rounds in WhatsApp group chats. 

"Who reads the newspapers anyway," I ask and Carl nodded rapidly like a woodpecker.

Well, turns out, nobody.

Stanley reveals that the only reason he orders the daily broadsheet is so that if he slips and knocks his head in the bathroom at 4.20pm after post-nap bath and dies from overbleeding from the gash in his right eyebrow, five days later when the newspapers get accumulated in his gate, somehow, his neighbours will be concerned enough and call the cops. 

"You have it all planned out?" Carl asked, incredulous. 

"Should we be concerned that you're so detailed in those scenarios?" I eyed Stanley suspiciously.

"Life is short," he concluded. 

We ate the curry chicken and toasted French loaf in silence.

Five minutes later, Stanley continued.

"Living alone has made me think a lot of bad things."

Carl was unable to decide what Stanley meant by bad, so he stopped chewing and wisely waited.

"When I do flip open the papers, I often pay extra attention to the obituary pages," he admitted. 

"On quite a few occasions, I've actually come across people whom I know in there," Stanley said morbidly.

Satisfied that the bad things Stanley had in mind weren't related to sex -- which often causes Carl indigestion -- our dense friend smiled happily and sank his teeth into the French loaf, making delicious crunchy noises. 

"The other day,  I got up in bed too quickly and I sort of experienced vertigo. There and then, my life flashed in front of me," Stanley said, wide eyed.

"There was lots of panting, sweating, moaning, and the fella from last night was still lying in my bed the next morning, but it was very scary, this rush of blood to my head."

Carl put his French loaf down immediately. 

The fear of dying alone, to Stanley, became more pronounced since moving in to this flat. 

And it doesn't help that among the COVID deaths reported in Singapore of late, Stanley knew two of them. 

Well, they were elderly to begin with anyway, but it doesn't help that the notion of death is lurking around the corner. 

"Life is short," Stanley said.

Carl, who is obviously starving, knows Stanley well enough so he persisted in not taking his next bite of food.

"So we need to just keep having sex!" our sex bunny Stanley continued, not disappointing Carl. 

Like a puppy given the Eat command, Carl began chomping down his French loaf on cue, eager to eat up before Stanley spews unpalatable topics any further.

But the rest of the dinner was quite grim.

Gone are the days when the three of us would just talk about men, sex, clothes, gym membership (that's Carl's contribution). 

As we grow older and wiser, real topics that concern us creep up into our dinner discussions.

Stanley said that he's started talking about death with his elderly parents. 

It started with Stanley updating the formidable Mrs Monica Ong who's the same age as my mum, the bossy Mrs Lee. 

Recently, Mrs Lee had a slipped disc surgery and Stanley was talking to his parents about Mrs Lee when he causally slipped in the question to his parents. 

"Have you thought about death?"

Carl was wide eyed. "You ask them such questions?"

"Yeah... we talk about all sorts of stuff," Stanley said matter of factly, "and this is one topic my mother won't reach for the soap to try and wash my mouth."

I didn't want to ask Stanley to further elaborate on that, so I nudged the conversation along.

"What did your parents say?"

Turns out, the Ongs have it all planned. 

Stanley's parents had long bought niche slots in their parish church and they've written their wills. 

It was a most sobering conversation, Stanley admitted.

But knowing that both my parents are not avoiding the topic of death, and treating it as normally as they can, is a comforting feeling. 

Indeed, while we, at age 42, can see the tip of our gravestones from where we are, for our parents' generation, they're a step closer to theirs.

Mrs Lee's recent hospital admission and Stanley's sightings of familiar faces on obituary pages once in a while are grim visual reminders that life is short.

Carl, who loves his parents very much, was pouting throughout dinner.

"Guys, this is such a sad dinner topic," Carl said.

He took a deep breath and said, "can we just stick to sex instead?"

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

The Importance of Himbos

In the social hierarchy of the homosexuals, every gay man has his rightful place.

And I don't just mean sexual positions. 

The world of the gays is fascinating. 

There is the basic top and bottom roles of gays.  

In terms of body types, there are many tribes -- from the wolves and bears to the cubs and pigs. 

And if you want to further categorise gays, there are the butch and the effeminates. 

There are the twinks and the daddies.

Oh goodness, the permutations are endless. 

But one thing to note is that every type of gay man has a purpose in the ecosystem (though the gay version of a bottom feeder in the food chain is very different from what children learn in their science textbooks in school). 

Today, I want to zoom in on Himbos.

Not in the way hungry uncles zoom in on this delicious type of gays. 

Rather, I plan to deconstruct the Himbo. Okay, wait, that still sounds sexual.

Regardless, the point is, Himbos come with the tag of sex.

The pretty looking ones, the fit looking ones, the sexy ones, but the ones with no brains. 

Yet, they are an important role in the grand scheme of things.

Throughout history, Himbos have a long standing tradition of being popular. Sometimes, it's not just long standing but also long squatting, lying, bending, given their sex appeal, but that's besides the point. 

In the modern world, we all love a good Himbo. 

So pleasing to the eye that it's okay if they have no brains. Just open your legs, not your lips unless it's for a required sex act. 

The Himbos are very easy to identify. 

Just hijack any gay man's phone and scroll through his IG feeds.

The Himbos can be found in large groups, posing for photos at a hotel room or someone's apartment that usually comes with a variety of alcohol. 

Said Himbos are typically dressed in very tight apparel that are struggling to contain their bursting man-bosoms, or if they are wearing actual loose clothing, they are singlets with holes the size of a pail that allows their Popeye biceps room to breathe. 

Himbos, when found in solo photos, almost always flash a quasi smile.

You know, it's not a full human smile where you beam merrily and try to show all 32 of your adult teeth.

The Himbo quasi smile is delivered with one's lips closed and is always asymmetrical such that the smile looks crooked. 

It's supposed to make the Himbo look cute. 

It's also a smile that I sometimes see on elderly patients recovering from stroke.

The Himbo is always popular on IG and also in person. 

At social settings, Himbos group together to flex, groom, and preen for all to see. 

Very often, they're the centre of attention.

"Look at them. Young, dumb and full of cum," Stanley my sex bunny friend would say with a tinge of envy whenever the Himbos show up at E-bar, our dense friend Carl's favourite bar in the whole wide world. 

"If I were their age, I'd surely be able to break into their circle," he would say.

"I'm afraid to ask you for your definition of circle, Stan."

"My God, their arms are so big," Carl would utter in awe, patting his own python-size biceps lovingly as if getting them ready for the local town's Big Pumpkin Competition fair.

It's always interesting to watch the Himbos in social settings -- and how others react to them.

Most of them are quiet knowing that they attract stares. Some of them are loud knowing that they attract stares.

Regardless, they soak up the attention and shine at their best: Their youthful skin, cherubic features, coiffed hair, gym-trained bods. 

They're visually pleasing to watch and can be very entertaining to observe.

Until you engage with some of them.

Stanley, who has a vast history of various engagements with all sorts of men, was the principle subject who supplied me info for this blog.

Many a times, these Himbos are confident of themselves to a certain extent.

They're especially confident of themselves in bed -- they're in their element, quasi smile and all.

"If you do sleep with a Himbo," Stanley said, "the right thing to do is to cut your losses. Remember the Himbo for his beauty and leave it there. Don't spoil it with any attempted conversations."

Himbos are the Gay God's gift to gay men. 

But when the Gay God made Himbos, they stinged on the brain. 

Yet, Himbos are an important part of gay society. 

They add colour and visual appeal to the lonely men, the jealous men, the nasty men who have nothing good to say about the Himbos. 

The Himbos are also a good source of joke. They always bear the brunt of the intellect shade thrown at them -- and sometimes, they don't even get it. 

And because there are Himbos, there is balance between the shallow and deep; the yin and the yang.

The Himbos help cull the unworthy men in the dating ecosystem.

They attract other shallow Himbo chasers such that when they're paired up and leave the room, whomever you see left are those who don't care about looks. 

The type who want to know you not because you're good looking.

But not all Himbos are bad.

Once in a while, you get the Himbos who are genuinely nice.

And when you find such Himbos, they're keepers.

And so this blog piece is dedicated to you, Carl, our dense friend.

Happy birthday.

 

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

Crush Landing On You

"I've recently gone down the rabbit hole," Stanley my sex bunny friend texted in our group chat the other day.

I was scared to ask him what he meant. 

Carl the dense one, the other member in our group chat, also remained quiet since he is always two steps behind the world at large.

If Carl were to fall into a rabbit hole, he would be blissfully unaware of his situation and spend his time doing push ups in the dark alleys to pass time.

Stanley, on the other hand would be acutely aware of his situation and would scribble his phone number on the tunnel walls, hoping to do his version of push ups in the dark alleys to pass time. 

"I am officially in love with all the BL movies put up by Netflix," Stanley wrote, revealing his latest love of his life. "And now, I'm binge watching all the online BL movies ever made in the history of mankind!"

Carl the dense one began typing. 

"I know right! I absolutely know what you mean -- I love them!" Carl wrote, proving that sometimes, miracles do happen.

BL shows, for all the Carls out there, is short for Boy Love shows, and the story line almost always involves two male characters falling in love in school. 

Almost all BL shows start with one gay character who has a boy crush on a straight schoolmate and by some stroke of luck, that straight schoolmate loves the other boy back. 

Stanley, who just received his doctorate on BL movies, gave me 90 marks for my analysis, but pointed out that the only stroking between the boys should not be a stroke of luck but a stroke of f**k. 

As homework, Dr Stanley Ong, PhD, BL drama, prescribed me a to-watch list.

And being the typical hardworking student, I not only watched the dramas dutifully, but I also researched further into the topic to earn my As.

Carl Chang's BL story 

Carl was in Sec 4 and in his sweet sixteens when he fell in love with his school mate. 

Jerome was his name, and being charming was his game.

"Jerome is the type who doesn't know he's handsome, and is so down to earth," Carl said.

Stanley quietly told me on the side that no wonder Carl likes Jerome. "Carl's friend is handsome but he doesn't know he's handsome. Carl is dense but he doesn't know he's dense himself. Do you see the pattern here Adam?"

Jerome and Carl were school mates in different classes. 

Jerome was in Science and Carl, Arts. 

Their paths crossed because they were both from the same ECA (or CCA, as it's now called). 

Jerome, being pleasant and brotherly to all his friends, was naturally well liked by his peers. 

And in his case with Carl, a bit too over-liked. 

"What made me fall in love with Jerome was what he did for me during a camp," Carl said.

Stanley naturally got very excited about how this particular BL movie is playing out.

"We were doing a mini road march carrying our heavy haversacks. Jerome happened to be right behind me."

"Oooo, this is exciting," Stanley cut in during the three-way video call. 

"The stars are all aligned -- Jerome is right behind your ass, and there is haver-sex," Stanley said. 

Carl was obviously not paying attention to Stanley, as he smilingly recalled what happened next.

"For the next 2 hours, Jerome lifted my haversack so that it's not heavy on me. And that made me very moved."

Stanley was visibly disappointed that the only thing Jerome laid his hands on were Carl's haversack, and not even his sac. 

Since then, Carl liked Jerome a lot more. 

Too much 'more' if you ask me. 

Jerome is straight and not surprisingly, had a girlfriend. 

Carl recalls buying Jerome a farewell gift (a baby G watch) after their O Level exams and Jerome innocently hugged Carl in a mix of gratitude and excitement. 

That day, Carl hid in the school toilet and cried. 

"I want to tell Carl that there are many things he can do in a school toilet that could involve tears but not from heartbreak," Stanley texted me using his Whatsapp web. "But seeing that Carl is about to break down now, I thought I should tell you this so that my joke doesn't go to waste."

Stanley Ong's BL story 

Unlike Carl, Stanley has no BL story to share.

Yes, it's hard to believe that our sex bunny friend has such an innocent record. 

But Stanley does have a stellar record.

In secondary school, Stanley was a pudgy and oily student with matted hair but he was his school's top student. 

Yes, it's hard to believe that Stanley the bottom is once top. 

"I actually hate secondary school life," Stanley said. "All I remember was mugging and studying and then going for tuition classes."

Stanley may have put all his focus on books, but he unknowingly was the attention of his classmate Wen Zhou. 

According to Stanley, Wen Zhou was a very close competitor in his studies. 

"Let's just say that Wen Zhou and I are birds of a feather, but trust me, we don't flock together if you know what I mean," Stanley said, air quoting the word flock with his fingers. 

"Wen Zhou is a nerd. He's tall and hunched, has sickly pale skin and smells of medicated oil," Stanley said scrunching up his nose. 

"And he's always tagging along with me to the school library and always wants to hang out. I slowly tried to distance myself from Wen Zhou after a while because he always looks at me with creepy eyes like he wants to take a knife and butcher off my limbs."

Today, Wen Zhou is still single, and still in touch with Stanley. 

According to Stanley, he's still hunched, still sickly pale and probably still smells of medicated oil. 

But that fella is rich and has 3 condos, thanks to his successful banking career. 

Stanley has no regrets seeing Wen Zhou purely as a friend. 

J my partner's BL story 

J's school life had been quite typical of most boy students who go to a certain type of school. 

He was good in his studies and beyond the classroom, J was also quite the athlete. 

He represented his secondary school in hockey and competed in swimming when he was in JC. 

J tells me he had no time for boy crushes in his school because he was so occupied. 

But J did have someone who was actively pursuing him.

The boy was from another JC -- an Indonesian Chinese.

Indo boy took an interest in J in what must have been love at first fight for him. Both Indo boy and J met at the swimming lanes and had competed against each other in the 200m breast stroke event. 

When J recalled that story to me, all I was interested in was whether there was any actual breast stroking that happened but I didn't want to imagine those details. 

J told me the story matter of factly: Indo boy approached J in the toilet and shook my hand and said it was a good swim (Indo boy came in second and J was close in third place).

Anyway, J said Indo boy asked him for his pager number and J didn't have a pager back then so J gave him his home phone number."

Stanley raised his eyebrows suggestively. Carl cautiously looked between Stanley and me, carefully pondering on his next step.

"J did mention that Indo boy asked him out a few times and they went to the library together or something. And he did briefly mentioned that Indo boy walked him home after one of those outings."

"Dates, you mean," Stanley the evil spawn added. 

"Outings," I said. 

Point is, J said he wasn't overthinking things, and Indo boy to him was just a friend. 

"That's actually a very sweet love story, Adam," said Carl, his voice trailing off just as his brain catches up with his words for him to realise he may be better off silent as usual. 

But I agree with Carl. 

It is a very sweet and innocent BL story. 

"I have a follow up question," Stanley said raising his hand. 

"I want to rewind to the part where J and Indo boy were in the toilet."

"Are you sure nothing happened? Stanley the shit stirrer asked.

"Two boys, skimpily dressed, both in the toilet. There's shaking of 'hands' and God knows what other body parts and they're talking about who came first, second and third -- which to me is an obvious query on positions!"

Stanley, Stanley. 

 

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

Operation Care

The last few weeks of my life had been relatively stressful.

There were many firsts for me during that time: Buying disposable maternity panties and learning to unhook a bra among them.

There we were, my brother and I, standing around causally discussing a woman's most intimate apparel.

"I've never unhooked a bra in my entire life," I said to my brother Barry. "I have, but I've never hooked back a woman's bra in my entire life," Barry said.

"You both know I can hear you right?" the bossy voice and owner of the bra said to the both of us.

Barry and I immediately returned to our task at hand.

We had to unhook the bra of our mum Mrs Lee, who is lying on her stomach, waiting for her sons to get the bra out of the way so that we could change the surgical plaster on her lower back.

Three years ago, Mrs Lee starting feeling a dull ache over her left buttock and thigh. 

Our specialist had identified the source of her pain to slipped disc. 

Three years of physio and expensive consultations later, Dr Henry Chan finally suggested Mrs Lee be cut up and fixed up once and for all.

It was all for the better -- mum is arguably young for an elderly patient so her chances of a full recovery is more optimistic. 

But the timing of the surgery -- a minor one, as Dr Chan assures -- couldn't have been any worse.

The day of Mrs Lee's scheduled operation was the very day Singapore's health ministry forbids any visits to the hospital due to the rising number of COVID cases. 

Since Barry still lives with mum, he took her to the hospital and updated us in our group chat about mum. 

Mrs Lee's surgery was smooth and successful and I was relieved in many ways -- chief of which, that she was perfectly fine. 

Deep down, I was also secretly relieved that I'm legally bound to not visit her in the hospital.

I was given an impossible task at work to handle and the long and short of it was, it could make or break my career. 

I was at my lowest point in my work life and I knew my world was shaky.

Only my partner of 20 years J and Barry knew the details. My sis only had a rough idea. Stanley my sex bunny friend knew a bit here and there and had been quietly supportive.

So imagine that it's a big load off me when all I needed to do to fulfill my filial piety duties were to make video calls and nod at mum's repetitive stories about how the service at the hospital is top notch, and how she would pause in mid-call to boss the nurses around (can you pass me that cable? And the orange juice earlier was too sweet. This one is my son. This is the elder one. Do you have apple juice? And also, I want watermelon for tomorrow). 

Those days were soon over, and Mrs Lee is to be discharged. 

Barry and my sis couldn't take the day off so I ventured out to pick mum up.

She was wrapped in a back brace and could walk only slightly faster than a speeding snail, but she looked fine.

On the way back home, she already rattled off a to-do list for me. Buy char siew rice for me. Get a new thermometer. Help me sort out some of the food in the kitchen. 

Oh yes, Mrs Lee is back.

Back home, I made her show me how she would go about the house, quietly standing by to catch her if she lost her balance while standing up from the sofa and waddling to the kitchen, and entering and exiting the toilet, and how she'd manage to lie and get out of bed. 

For the first time in my 42 years of life, I am reminded by how frail the human body can be when you're old. 

Despite mum's snow-white hair (she stopped dyeing it black when she retired over 10 years ago), there's little to indicate that she's getting vulnerable. 

She had been relatively healthy, her mind still bright, and exceptionally sociable with her extensive network of friends, from your retired tai-tais who are always planning somewhere to go, to your bored, retired housewives who believe in all fake news circulating on social media.

But right now, little things such as how slow and frail she's become from a minor surgery is a painful reminder that this woman is spring chicken no more. 

She's slow, frail, and aged.

Poot. 

"Oops, sorry! A lot gas," Mrs Lee said cheekily, taking full pride in expelling farts.

She still has her wits.

Which makes it all the more poignant when she eventually grows even older, even more frail, and even closer to moving to her next property (a niche unit she and her siblings bought some time ago as their final resting place).

It feels helpless just to see this natural progression of the human life cycle.

It's like seeing the life of your loved ones slowly slip away, the way you can't hold on tightly to a clutch of sand on a windy day no matter how much you clenched.

Okay, I'm being very dramatic here, and all that's missing is the musicians' cue to start play sentimental violin in the background, but you get the idea. 

The other thing that struck me too, was how it's not easy to be a caregiver when you have a full-time job.

Especially when your full-time job is stressful.

Spending just that one day with my newly discharged mum -- coupled with work hanging heavily on my mind -- gave me a glimpse of a grim but very possible future, if things went downhill.

The older she gets, the more she'll need to be cared for. 

And the more we care for her, the less time we have to juggle work and family.

I am fully aware of caregiver stress, having been surrounded by friends who are going through that. 

And the thought that it could soon be my turn is selfishly scary. 

Sure, we can buy all the insurance for mum to buffer expensive healthcare costs. We can plan all the follow-up activities for her to get better. We can even plan our work around her schedule and medical appointments. 

But in time to come, we are going to have to brace ourselves for the inevitable: That she's going to be so old and frail that her quality of life will be affected, and that some day, she'll be fully dependent on her children for her basic needs.

Knowing this -- and writing about this -- helps me manage the prospects of our unwelcome future. 

But knowing this also helps me plan for what's to come. 

And for now, the step-by-step roadmap for me is to ensure that I have the mental capacity and strength to deal with an ageing parent. 

After all, if Mrs Lee can singlehandedly bring up all of us after our dad died of a heart attack when we were young, then surely, her children's combined forces can do the same to take care of her when she's old.

Knowing this too, is comforting. 

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

- One week break -

Dear reader, 

Am taking a break from writing this week. 

My mum Mrs Lee has just been discharged from hospital after a minor slipped disc surgery and the matron is needy and dramatic.

Have been shuttling between her place and getting her all her worldly needs (“I’m craving char siew siew yoke rice”; “Can you be a dear and get me some wholemeal bread?”).

I will be back next week. 

I will need to anyway — caregiving, especially to the bossy Mrs Lee — is so draining I need to escape pronto to the world of writing. 

In the meantime, excuse me while I finish off this quick post to pour the matron a cup of tea. 

The Perfect Date

I have a lot going on my plate right now. It seems a tad too messy. And, damn, it's bloody too.

It was the perfect afternoon date. My partner of 20 years J and I are on a birthday outing.

Well, not exactly birthday-birthday (we celebrated his actual birthday at his home with a lovely homecooked dinner by J's mum).

That afternoon, it was makeup birthday celebrations, just the two of us. 

It had been so long since we went out as a couple.

Sure, it is warm and fuzzy and comforting to spend time with J and his family on most weekends, and to have the occasional meet ups with my siblings and J, as well as with our common friends.

I have been grumbling that we no longer go on dates, so a few days after J's actual birthday, we found ourselves at Lawrys.

It was the perfect date.

When I was younger and poorer, I would always pass by Orchard Road as a teen, wondering when I'd be rich enough to eat at what seemed to me as a high-end steak house.

So it was a dream come true for me when the very friendly maitre d' led J and I to a bright window corner seat at Lawrys.

On my plate was the Lawyrs cut -- a slab of medium rare steak that is so easy to slice. So easy that with each slice comes the slight oozing of faint blood. 

I have never imagined that blood and fat can taste so good.

Then again, when you're on a date with the love of your life, fat, blood and carcasses can taste like magic.

Except in my case, it was truly amazing. 

J chose his cream corn and spinach for his side dish while I opted just the cream corn.

The food was grand -- some 400g of a part of a killed cow was on my plate, along with very sweet and creamy corn. 

Every bite was a bliss because one, I had finally stepped foot into Lawyrs after 20 years, and two, I'm here with the love of my life. 

For the occasion of birthday, we clinked glasses, and had a deliberately unhurried lunch, just the way all first dates ought to be. 

Even though the restaurant was punctuated with a happy birthday song every 10 minutes, it felt like there was only J and I in the restaurant. 

Once in a while, the overly friendly Rose would ask if we'd like any wine top up (yes, please) and if everything were okay (yes, it is). 

J and I talked about everything under the sun.

Well, under the rain, rather.

It was a very rainy afternoon, and even though it was the perfect day to curl up in bed with J, I was glad I'm out with him. 

We hadn't gone out -- dressed respectably -- in a while, and I was going to savour every moment.

From our main course to dinner and dessert. 

After our very heavy meal, J and I took a slow walk inside Mandarin Gallery, looking at every shop.

We made a mental note to paint together some day when we passed by a shop that sort of caters to hobbyist artists.

We stopped by a plant shop, pointing out or favourite pot. 

We marvelled at colourful cakes decorated with creamy icing and fancy toppings, and were reminded of how full we were.

We ended up on a cafe where we ordered a double espresso each and continued to chat. 

It's amazing that after 20 years, we never ran out of things to say to each other.

And when we do have our moments of silence, they weren't awkward. 

Two tables away, a young gay couple who looked like they were on their first dates stole glances at J and I.

I smiled at them, hoping they could sense my wishes for them: That they too can grow old together if that's what they wanted with each other. 

When the clock struck 5.30pm, J asked if I was hungry.

"Are you kidding me? I am still full from lunch! I want something light for dinner," I told him seriously.

We ended up at an Indian restaurant that evening.

"We'll just order three dishes at most, and nothing else," J instructed.

True to form, Curry Magic was amazing. 

The cosy restaurant, which seemed to be run by a family, served up the best curry I had ever eaten. 

Despite not being all that hungry, I mopped up my plate with naan.

J looked at me and smiled as I ate hungrily.

It was a smile that I had come to love since I first met him. 

That night, I walked J home since Curry Magic was just a short walk from his place.

It was a cool night.

"I had an amazing night," I told J. "We need to have more of such first dates in future."

J winked at me and said ok.

As I parted ways with J at his home that night, I felt super heavy.

My tummy was effin' full.

But my heart was fuller.

 

 

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

The Health Scare

Three years ago at around this time, Stanley and I went through a health scare journey.

The source came from one of our former national service bunk mates, Russell, who was warded with symptoms of a heart attack.

Our NS group chat, titled Red Berets, stirred to life at 10.40pm Singapore-Hong Kong time.

Like a dormant volcano pushed to erupt, the messages in our usually-silent group chat came fast and furious.

Stanley my sex bunny friend, who is one of the group admins, also erupted fast and furious.

Apparently he was on a tryst when he got a message from Suzanne, Russell's wife, about the sudden rush to the hospital.

Stanley later told me that he too, experienced a sudden rush - of a totally different nature.

True to his swift, time management skills, Stanley had his beefcake and eat it, managing to satisfy both his ONS, and Obligations of NS.

I was alerted to the news at around 9pm, more than 3,000km north of Singapore.

I was having an oily Myanmar curry for late dinner when I got the shocking news.

Two decades ago, Russell was fit.

You would expect everyone of us in our NS unit to be so - nothing less.

Two decades later, at 40, Russell is still fit.

Which is why it's so shocking to all of us.

Among the 20-over participants in our group chat, only a handful of us remain lean and fit, and Russell the private investment banker was one of them.

This is what J my partner would always say: If you're fit, it doesn't necessarily mean you're healthy.

Russell was having one of his late nights in the office when he broke into a sweat, became breathless, and had a squeezing sensation under his left armpit.

Fortunately, he alerted his fellow workaholics who immediately called an ambulance.

Stanley was the only one who managed to visit Russell at the private hospital that night.

The rest of us was a case of the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak - at least three of us in the group including myself are based overseas, and the rest had little ones to put to bed or are already asleep themselves.

In Stanley's case, his spirit is willing but his flesh particularly weak considering his recent exothermic activity, but he made it purely because, well, he was up and about anyway, and was quite close to Mount E.

That night, our group chat was filled with chatter - those that expressed shock, get-well-soon messages, as well as raunchy gifs supplied by the resident cheekopeks of the group.

The next day, more of our Red Berets brothers dropped by to visit Russell during lunchtime and the group chat was filled with wefies and photos of a smiling but weak Russell.

Our friend had indeed experienced a health scare - the symptoms he felt were indeed those of a heart attack.

But Russell's CT scans showed his heart was perfectly okay, and the sharp pain under his left armpit - which Russell described as the pain of a gunshot wound - was an indication of a lung infection.

So it was a case of bad versus worse.

The group chat messages soon veered into topics like health checks and the importance of listening to your body.

One of our Red Berets friends - a lean, mean fighting machine - actually listens to his body almost every day.

He would check his resting pulse rate and would proudly announce that for a 40-year-old man, he is in excellent health given that his heart rate was 61 beats per minute.

Stanley later privately messaged me to say that he too, has been listening to his body.

My physical indicators are quite different, but when it sends me throbbing signals, I respond immediately, Stanley said.

So I will take good care of my health.

And the next time I break into a sweat, become breathless, and feel a squeezing sensation, hunny darling, it can only be a good thing, he said.

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