Bought The House Down

It's official. 

Stanley has formally bought his four-room HDB flat -- his dream house. 

And it's the saucy, steamy kind of dream that occurs at night, Stanley said added.

My sex bunny friend, who had first set sights on the Queen Close apartment, has also promptly appointed a (cute) interior designer and readily accepted his proposal. 

"It's a dream come true. I've always wanted a cute man to have designs on my interior and subsequently make proposals to me about it," Stanley went on. 

"All that's left to do now is to rob a bank and pay him. And not a sperm bank, though that would be a very fun and fruitful trip."

Carl scrunched up his nose and put down the greek yoghurt he's about to put in his mouth.

We were having an urgent video call that morning in honour of Stanley's purchases. 

The total cost of Stanley's damage was $450,000 for the unit, an estimated $80,000 for an overhaul of the retro-looking apartment and a further $80,000 for furniture and white goods.

"At this rate, not only do I have to rob a bank I'll also have to sell backside," Stanley stated plainly.

Carl choked on his greek yoghurt, spluttering white morsels all over his phone.

"WOW, Stan, WOW," Carl said, recovering from his coughing fit. 

Stanley dismissed Carl's surprise, reminding us that he had impressed some one so much that it results in the person choking, gagging and eventually spilling white droplets all over the place. 

"But it's worth all the money," said Stanley who had been saving his money like a motherly chipmunk right before winter. 

And since money wasn't an issue here, Stanley went all out. 

I'm glad I have some family jewels that I can finally put to good use, and with that, Stanley spread open and let us inspect what he meant.

From the shared Zoom screen, we saw a printed copy of the cute designer's rough layout drawing but neither Carl nor I could make sense of it.

Especially so for Carl the dense one.

To help us along, Stanley then showed us the 3-D image produced by his (cute) designer. 

"I had always hoped that I would be impressed and wowed by photos shared by this cute designer, and I should have been more explicit," Stanley said as he moused the drawing part by part. 

This time we were impressed. 

If the designer's idea is anything to go by, Stanley would live in a spacious bachelor's pad that has an expensive touch. 

The designer would break down walls and reconfigure the space of Stanley's place. 

So going by that concept, Stanley would have a large area to host big (dinner) parties. And when his guests are ready to adjourn to dessert, they can do so by his window ledge which faces the lush view of the charming Queenstown estate. 

When guests are ready for digestifs or more alcohol, there's the lounge area where Stanley's expensive sofa and beanbags can maximum comfort to his friends who would by then, no doubt, be full to the point of explosion. 

And for those whom Stanley so chooses to explore any further types of explosions, he (or they) could venture into his large bedroom for round two of (non-dinner) parties. 

There are romantic lighting options to choose from but by that point, nobody would care. 

The bed, as Stanley had previously mentioned before, would be queen sized and be fitted with expensive tencel bed sheets. 

The next morning, Stanley's chosen overnight guest(s) can shower in his oversized toilet (that can host even more non-dinner type parties if he wants to) and then dress up in his walk-in closet.

If Stanley so desires, he can have morning coffee with his overnight guest(s) by the balcony which overlooks a fitness corner. 

"I like it that you have my whole life planned out for me, Adam, but my house won't be no sex den," Stanley said with weak conviction in his voice. 

Carl, who at that time had finished licking his spoon, finally said "Oh, Stan, you bought the place! Congrats!"

Stanley rolled his eyes and said flatly. 

"If Adam's life were to be represented by films, his would be documentaries -- filled with useless information and boring like the bitch he is."

"Mine would of course be an artistic art film that no mothers would allow their children to watch."

"And Carl," Stanley said looking pointedly at our dense friend.

"Yours would a silent black-and-white film."

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

Bling Empire

"Unless you had been living under a rock," Stanley my sex bunny friend said the moment our video call got through, "you would know that the latest rave on Netflix is Bling Empire."

Carl the dense one who doesn't live under a rock grinned and nodded.

"What is Bling Empire!" Stanley barked at Carl, calling him out. 

Carl, who lives in a well and has no access to general knowledge or current affairs, bit his lips and kept his head bowed.

Of late, Stanley had been all about the Bling Empire. 

Our friend had binge-watched all the episodes at one go and even goes so far as to film his reaction at certain scenes (suffice to say the show has a fair share of fair skin showing-- from supple breasts to bubble butts).

But it's not just the nudity, says Stanley. It's their crazy lifestyles and the crazy things they say!

Stanley, who is himself born with a silver spoon in his mouth, has been blessed with his family wealth. 

He would later grow up and replace the silver spoon with something else in his mouth, but the point is, growing up, Stanley had not exactly been poor. 

"But this," Stanley says, "is a different kind of wow."

Taking a private jet to Paris for lunch is not exactly the same as grabbing to Pasir Ris for prawn mee, you know. 

"I want to be a Crazy Rich Asian also," said Stanley, crazy Asian. 

Carl, who is also Asian but far from crazy, nodded enthusiastically and clapped.

Carl is simply dense and has no interest nor the capacity to learn new things around him, including the name of his regular part-time cleaning aunty. 

For weeks, Stanley became heavily obsessed with the show often making references that we do not immediately understand -- which is the norm for Carl.

"I'm inspired to buy a penis pump," Stanley announced the other day, noting that rich people have this handy device.

Curious with all the rave (and the penis pump), I sat down one Saturday morning to finally watch it. 

I must say, the show is trashy.

It's so trashy, it's so bad, it's so good. 

Some say the show is tone deaf because airing a series about ostentatious wealth and lifestyles at this time isn't great timing.

But one thing is loud and clear -- it's highly entertaining. 

I love it because we get a sneak peek into so many things: Rich people's homes, toilets, dinner parties, wardrobes and what's beneath their expensive clothes.

But for me, it was also an awakening. 

While some people's takeaway is to own a penis pump (Stanley) and how one can get rich friends (Carl, who finally watched it, was naturally intrigued by the muscles of one of the characters, and wonders how he can rub shoulders with the rich and famous), mine is quite the opposite.

I was reminded of how poor I had once been, and how that has shaped me later in life.

To be fair, mine is no sob story that is worthy to be shared as a PAP candidate (who will tell you they come from "humble backgrounds" and had lived in a rental flat when they were young). 

But my poor story is still enriching. 

I didn't have money problems until I started working.

It marked the end of my steady stream of pocket money windfall which helped me survive teenhood to university days.

My first job was something I had loved but my salary was miserable.

My takehome pay was $1,400. 

Friends who chose other careers, especially those in the civil service, easily earned $1,000 more.

At first, I wasn't too bothered even though it was natural to compare starting salaries. I stood my ground because I loved my career choice, my colleagues, my work. 

But eventually, being poor sucked.

For four years, I had toiled in that miserly company that gave me a yearly increment of only between $30 and $50.  

Though I had no complaints and still love my work, it got very tiring. 

To make up for the miserable pay, I eventually held two jobs. 

My night job was fun and pays well and involved lots of mingling. 

I taught in a tuition centre thrice a week, earning really good money.

But it took a toll even on my youthful self: Starting my day at 7am and ending at 10pm every day (on days when I'm not at my tuition centre, I was working late). 

My sister always tells me that I needed to hold down one job -- not two -- to earn the money I was earning back then. 

But being young had its advantages.

I was able to push myself with little sleep and bounce back the next day.

On some days, it would be particularly hard.

I had been rejected by banks who saw me as toenail dirt when I applied for credit cards. They didn't even bother replying me to say my application was rejected.

Some days, even the ATM shunned me. 

I would try to draw out $20 and on many occasions, realise, oh, I only have $14 or less in my bank account.

In my early days before I held two jobs, a friend casually asked me out to dinner. 

"I don't have money to pay for Ma Maison," I told E.

E warmly said it would be his treat. 

I wasn't used to being treated as a charity case and of course, E -- who is a dear friend -- had no such intention. But that episode was a vivid one. Both humbling and prideful at the same time -- I was not shy to admit I had no money, and that I wanted to spend within my means. 

Which is one very valuable lesson my partner J taught me.

"It's not how much you earn, but how much you save," he would say. 

It's true. 

Despite four years of miserable pay and a poor head start, I had never once spent beyond my means. 

When I first started out, my monthly savings had been $50. 

It took me three years before I could increase that monthly saving amount to $150. 

Today, I'm proud to say that I still spend humbly -- which is slightly more than my starting pay of $1,400 some 20 years ago. 

But I also have, along the way, picked up acts of kindness shown to me. 

These days, I try to pay for meals when I'm with friends whenever I can because I remember how nice it felt when E had treated me when I was at my lowest, at my poorest. 

Having once been poor also taught me that money isn't everything. 

When I was at my lowest, I was surrounded by friends who would pay for my meals and offer to lend me money when I was dry. And I am glad I wasn't shunned because those people, who are my true friends, remain in my circle today. 

I shared these with Stanley.

"I hear you, sister," he said.

"When I'm at my lowest, I too want to be surrounded by people especially when I'm dry. And I want them in my circle for sure."

 

 

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

Love, Love, Love

On Valentine's Day last year, I wrote about J and my love story. 

I love my partner of 19 years to bits and while I can write about us to no end, I've decided to dedicate today's post to my friends. 

The stars of my blog, Stanley the sex bunny and Carl the dense one. 

Without whom, I would have no materials nor topics to write about. 

And since the theme is love, this piece is about why I love these two to bits too. 

Although with Stanley the size queen, it's never about the bits.

The hunkier, the better in fact. 

The star of my blog has been known for his sexual adventures.

He has slept with one and all during his thirsty thirties and shows no sign of slowing down in the next decade. 

The next 10 years are my fuckable forties, he once famously declared. 

But sexual energy isn't Stanley's main strength.

Nor is his random humour (anything that comes out of Stanley's mouth is almost always sex related. Likewise, anything that goes into Stanley's mouth is also almost always sex related).

True, my fey friend has a sharp sense of humour and can read the room well enough to inject appropriate doses of fun to either break awkwardness or ramp up the partying scale. 

But those aren't the reasons I love Stanley.

Sure -- he's definitely fun to hang out with. You can always count on him to make you laugh (and if you're his type, I'm told he can make you feel a lot of other things too). 

And while Stanley sheds clothes easily, what he doesn't readily reveal to the rest of the world is his sense of loyalty and acute level of sensitivity.

Ever since I knew Stanley in NS, I have never known him to be one to judge (except when it comes to perky asses and when he's on Grindr). 

I love Stanley because when you tell him something serious, he listens. 

He throws in a joke here and there, but you're sure that Stanley listens to your problems and doesn't pass his own assessment of you. 

He's also known to stand by his friends in times of need -- whether it's financial, emotional or especially sexual. He's always ready to give. 

Despite his sexual ways, Stanley is the most loyal, most faithful lover when he's in a relationship. A rare quality, considering. 

And these are some of the reasons I love Stanley to bits.

As for Carl the gym rabbit, it's also never about the bits. 

The hunkier, the better in fact. 

All his life, Carl the dense one had dedicated most of his waking hours to beefing up. 

While the rest of the world is out working, he's mostly working out. 

We suspect all the pumping is causing imbalanced development to his brain 'cos all the blood's going to his python sized biceps (Stanley, for one, agrees. He knows that over-pumping one part of the body will result in a lot of blood flow to the area, but let's not digress. This portion is about Carl).

All his life, Carl the dense one had been slow to the world. 

I mean, he's not stupid. He is intellectual. Otherwise, he wouldn't have graduated from university with a good degree -- and he speaks fluent French, plays the piano well and has the vocals of an angel. 

But Carl tends to be rather slow in general. 

He is always the last to read the room, always the last to keep up with conversations. 

When we were in our early 20s, Carl had once pointed out in public that he had never seen such a huge violin in his entire life. When we turned to look, we realised the poor child was talking about a cello -- and he wasn't even being funny. 

But as with all goons, Carl is good natured. 

The kind who mean well and can grin back at you heartily even when you're making fun of him. That, or the poor fella doesn't even realise what's going on.

And it's this kind nature of Carl that I have come to love. That, although he's always in a world of his own, he's always there for you if you shake him up and wake him from his stupor for him to focus on the task at hand (such as when we are all waiting for him to order his dish at the restaruant). 

Of course, Carl is also always dependable when heavy lifting needs to be done. 

He had on more than one occasion put his swollen biceps to good use by prying open durians, opening ketchup bottles and carrying a drunken Stanley on his shoulders, lifting our friend onto his shoulders as if he were a limp bolster. 

But most of all, I love Carl because he's always there when you need him (as long as you shake him up like how you'd activate your PC on screen saver mode). 

I had known both Stanley and Carl for over 20 years -- longer than I had been with my partner J. 

Looking back, we had all grown up together.

From the time we were sweet young things in our early twenties to now greying daddies in our forties. 

We had seen one another fall in love, fall out of love. We had been to wild drunken parties together (especially at the now-defunct Niche club), attended each other's graduation ceremonies, clinked glasses over our first jobs, travelled way too often on carefree holidays, lent shoulders to one another when tears need to be shed, gave the other party a firm, helping hand when we need to be pulled out of our ruts. 

We had celebrated countless birthdays, festivals, and any other momentous event. 

And on this Feb 14, our 23rd Valentine's Day as three best friends, I want to say to you both, Stanley and Carl, I love you.

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