One Night Stanley

Not too long ago, Stanley my sex bunny friend moved in to his new place which is aptly called Queens Close. 

Actually, it was only half as befitting. 

Stanley the Queen is always wide open.

"Oh my god, I can't wait," Carl the dense said as he pressed Stanley's doorbell, then hopped excitedly on alternate feet on the spot.

Stanley opened the door, cautiously eyed the muscular goon and for comic effect, slammed the door in his face. 

"Gotcha!" Stanley shrieked as he reopened his door, to a Carl who didn't look relieved at all. 

"I always make it a point for people to make their grand entries," Stanley said, choosing his words meaningfully to reflect accuracy in his life. 

Carl, who still didn't look relieved, stepped in and hurriedly unloaded his grocery sling bag on Stanley's dining table and sprinted for his toilet.

"Welcome to my beautiful, humble abode," Stanley said. 

"If you're humble then you won't say your abode is beautiful," I pointed out.

"Hey. That's nasty. Negative energy, be gone!" Stanley the mistress of the house raised his slender arms in the air and commanded with dramatic flair.

Carl steps out of the toilet with a satisfying smile.

"Oh, gurl, I hear ya. I know that look," Stanley said knowingly. "I sometimes step out of public toilet cubicles with the same sense of gratification."

Carl blissfully let the comments slide, unable to grasp the full meaning of Stanley's wit. 

In this cruel world we live in today, to Carl, perhaps being dense is a blessing in disguise for him. 

"I love your home, Stan," Carl skipped merrily around Stanley's home shedding his disguise.

Free from all the urine he'd been containing since our Grab ride, Carl embraced his newfound liberalism, bending over to sniff every of Stanley's potted plants in his house.

Beneath Carl's bulky frame of oversized biceps is actually a carefree princess who giggles easily and appreciates all forms of simple joys. 

Meanwhile, beneath Stanley's athletic frame is almost always a random guy who giggles and moans. And Stanley too, appreciates all forms of joysticks. 

And these two interesting characters happen to be my best gay friends of over 20 years, despite their idiosyncrasies.

"Firstly, welcome my darlings, on your virgin sleepovers," Stanley said, again choosing his words carefully to reflect the way he prefers his random overnight guests.

Stanley took one glance at Carl the Disney princess who was still skipping in merriment, turned back to me and said "that one there is making her maiden visit".

Not one to waste time, Stanley proceeded to work on his bar counter, setting three classy glasses on his wooden countertop.

"Try this," Stanley said after pouring Marks and Spenser-bought infused gin and dropping a dried fig into the drink.

Our day at Stanley's began with a noon aperitif. 

I made myself useful and fished out an NTUC-bought mixed cocktail nuts for snacks.

"My favourite snack," Stanley exclaimed, pointing out that two of his favourite things in this world are in the name of the snack.

When Princess Carl was done hopping around, she plonked into Stanley's sofa and began to live her next 30 minutes as Sleeping Beauty. 

The day for the three of us was simple -- a weekend sleepover at Stanley's.

Since Stanley moved in, his place had been a natural gathering spot for us.

And with our government's on-again, off-again dining rules, we figured the best place would still be at one of our homes, and the flavour of the month is naturally Stanley's since it is indeed a beautiful abode.

When we were in our early twenties, when parts of our bodies haven't started sagging and everything about us was tight, we had wished we were rich enough to quickly buy our own place.

"I'm not sure at that age I was all that tight," Stanley admitted like a sage and popped an almond into his mouth. 

"But I sure remember the three of us wishing we could own a place each."

Over the decades, indeed, we slogged and worked our panties off, just to make sure at the end of the day, our bank accounts were fat enough to buy us our first property when the time came. 

Now that we're in our early forties, we have achieved that. 

Carl had bought his first condo and had insisted his parents moved in with him. 

Me and Stanley on the other hand moved out at first opportunity. 

In our twenties, it's about dressing up and going around to see and be seen on weekends.

But when some of us started buying our own places in our thirties, large-scale home weekend parties were the norm.

And when you're in your forties, gatherings are still held in homes, except, they're no longer wild.

And they're confined to smaller, more intimate parties among old friends who can do anything without being judged.

"Carl, I hope when you're done digging your nose and rolling the slimey goob with your fingers, you would get rid of it like a normal human being at the sink, not fling it all over my home," Stanley warned sternly with disgust. 

Carl froze. "Of course, Stan. I'm not a caveman," Carl said, moving his finger slowly away from his lips.

Dinner that night was a homecooked meal whipped up by Stanley the chef who discovered the joy of wearing an apron. 

Given his track record, it's a blessing Stanley wants to be wearing anything at all.

Over pipping hot Calderata (Filipino beef stew) served with warm, toasted French toast and an easy watermelon salad (which Stanley generously drizzled olive oil and lime juice over, topped with shredded cheese), the three of us laughed, over-ate, and filled Stanley's home with the warmth and love that can only be borne out of over 20 years of friendship.

After working through the entire table's food, Stanley finally said.

"Carl, I think you haven't washed your hands when I told you to."

 

 

 

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

Troublesome Threes

Carl our dense friend recently asked us in our group chat.

"Guys, are we in a throuple?"

Stanley was the first to respond -- via a voice recording.

"Who taught you that dirty word, ah boy?" he said, sounding like an uptight middle-class mother who needs her son to always score 10 upon 10 for Chinese Ting Xie.

"Who? Tell me! I need to grab a piece of soap and wash that mouth of yours!"

It is one of the rare times when Stanley the sex bunny grabs soap and actually wants to use it the way soap is meant to be used.

But I digress.

Carl, who recently discovered Netflix, felt obliged to answer Stanley via a voice recording.

"I learnt it on a show called The Politician," he said, sounding like a timid son about to get smacked by his mum who discovered him wearing girl panties and dancing in his bedroom.

"Oh, that's one show I will need to watch soon," Stanley replied, now sounding a little too sultry. "I hear there are gay characters in the series."

Nature of the show aside, Carl is bewildered by the concept of a throuple: A three-way relationship.

Carl the dense one, who still cannot grasp the concept of an open relationship, is understandably perturbed.

Leave it to Stanley the sex bunny, who can grasp all tangible and intangible sex elements to do the educating.

It's 2021, my dear, Stanley started.

And throuples are trendy.

Carl refused to believe Stanley, refused to believe how fast this world has evolved.

"It's cruel," Carl said. "Gay love has to be between man and man."

"Amen, sister," Stanley said. "Amen, men, men men..."

But to honest, the concept of throuples is indeed hard to swallow.

Even for Stanley, who never has trouble swallowing.

But right now, Stanley is busy spiting -- the brutal truth.

He posted a series of photos of three hot boys.

"These boys are in a throuple," Stanley explains. "And I know because I am Singapore's finest stalker and all cute guys cannot go under my radar. They can go under my table, but not under my radar."

Indeed, the three boys in the photos are cute and hot in their own way.

Stanley says these boys are not only openly gay, but also only proud to be in a throuple.

"That's an open relationship right?" Carl asked.

"No. An open relationship means, for example, Adam and I are long-time lovers and we have you over for sex once in a while," Stanley said.

Carl posted a gif of a muscular Latina woman vomiting.

"The concept of the throuple is that the three parties are in a committed and loving relationship with one another."

"It can be either combination: Man-man-man; woman-man,man; woman-woman-man; woman-woman-woman... you the idea. The basic principle is, it's an equal three-way love. You do the math," Stanley said.

Carl the studious student took it literally and posted a photo of an equilateral triangle.

"Well done," Stanley said, impressed by Carl's progress.

"But this still doesn't make sense to me," Carl said.

"How can one person love two other people equally, and have the two other people love the other two equally and so on?"

"Let's take this analogy out of maths, and put it in the category of liberal arts," Stanley said.

"It's a free society. It's liberal. Because should be allowed to do what they want if they believe in it -- plus, it's not illegal."

"Well, Section 377A would beg to differ," I pointed out.

"This concept doesn't belong to maths or liberal arts. It belongs to the rubbish bin," Carl said sulkily.

Actually, Carl isn't the only one who's still struggling with this concept.

I later thought about it and while I understand the concept of a throuple, I cannot appreciate the meaning of it.

There's no way one person can love two others equally.

A mother can love two kids equally... but surely she has her secret favourite?

For the next few days, Carl kept thinking about the issue.

He brought up the topic again about a week after he first messaged us about it.

"I still don't understand this," Carl said.

"Darling, neither do we," Stanley said.

"I can't decide if I prefer my left or right testicle better. What more, if I were to be in a throuple relationship."

"But there are so many things that are unexplainable, like, you know, the mysterious Bermuda triangle," he said aptly.

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

Sacred Mission

They say death can be a beautiful thing.

It teaches the living to live to the fullest.

"OMG, who died?" Carl the dense one asked.

Stanley though, had other questions.

"Who the heck are they?" he wanted to know. "Who are these people you're hanging out with, spouting such guruji nonsense? Have you been talking to Oprah Winfrey?"

Realising he's on the wrong track, Carl immediately switched gears.

"Yah, Adam. We demand answers. Who are they?!"

"You guys are spoiling my moment," I said.

"How do I put this across... it's so hard," I said.

"That's what she said," Stanley the sex bunny said without missing a beat.

"Who is SHE?" Carl replied, genuinely curious. "And who are they?!"

Stanley replied with an eye-rolling icon.

"Life is short. It's important to listen to your heart. And right now, the rhythm is telling me to dance and follow my own beat," I wrote.

"Adam, you have wasted my time to read those 25 words that you strung together but which tell me absolutely nothing," Stanley said, issuing his first stern warning.

"Who died and made you the Dailai Lama?" Stanley asked, before answering the question himself: "Well, logically, in this case, it would have to be the Dailai Lama himself to have died."

Carl was rightfully confused.

"Didn't that fella die many years back? The black guy with the big afro, always in an orange robe, always smiling and making a sign to tell people to wait?" Carl asked.

"No, Carl. That's Oprah Winfrey, and she's still alive," Stanley replied coldly. "And I don't blame you for mixing her up with Saibaba 'cos if you google the most spiritual celebrity in the world, she's top of the list. And yes, they do look alike."

Carl didn't like what he was reading, and posted a series of question marks in response.

I too didn't like where this was going.

It veered off way too much and I needed to reassess my opening remarks.

So I decided to speak plainly and simply.

"Guys, I want to get a tattoo."

That got the group's attention.

"Wow," Stanley said.

"Errr… so, Adam, who died actually?" Carl asked.

The idea of getting a tattoo has always been on my mind and I had been toying with it on and off for the last 10 years.

Just that I didn't feel such a strong urge until now.

"Adam darling, when I feel a strong urge, I don't go running to the tattoo parlour. There are many ways I can teach you to manage your strong urge," Stanley the sex bunny replied.

"Although if I were to go to the tattoo parlour, the idea of lying on my belly with a heavily tattooed man behind me, prickling and poking at me and making me yelp in pain can sound quite exciting too."

The tattoo I have in mind is no ordinary tattoo.

It has its roots in ancient spiritual animism.

"Are you tattooing animals?" Carl asked naturally.

"Are you into beastility?" Stanley asked naturally.

No, and no.

For the past five years, I had been attracted to the art of Sak Yant -- Thai for tattooing ancient scriptures.

"Is that why you were possessed by Oprah Winfrey and spouting all those guruji shit?" Stanley asked.

I should never have chosen an abstract and meaningless way of quoting rubbish to start any opening statements.

But I stand by the fact that I want to have these ancient scriptures tattooed on me.

Carl, the fairest and dumbest of them all, was very perplexed (as usual).

"Why do you want to taint your body with tattoo? And what more with magical spells?"

But this time, Carl does have a point.

It's also something my partner J had been very perplexed about -- and that's the main reason I haven't put ink to, well, skin.

My partner J, who's deeply Catholic, does not oppose to me having that tattoo just because it has spiritual and religious links.

He wants me to think very carefully because the tattoo is permanent.

"And why do the ancient scriptures speak to you?" he asked me. "Do you need protection?"

Stanley, who is deeply sexual, said protection is always important.

"But do you see me tattooing a condom on my back? No right? I think J is absolutely correct about this thing. You need to think carefully," he said.

I have been, and for the past five years, my on-again, off-again research has taught me so many things about these ancient tattoos: Their origins, their meanings, the types of tattoos, where to get them, and what not to do after getting the tattoos.

Stanley was appalled.

"What do you mean there are rules post-tattoo?!"

Well, because these tattoos are sacred in nature, there are things the wearer should avoid doing.

Among which, is to practise the five precepts of Buddhism. And in some Sak Yant forums, I've read that the rules include avoiding touching the clothes of a woman who is menstruating.

Stanley went bonkers.

"Are you effing kidding me, Adam? Are you in a cult?!"

Carl's mental faculties were also stretched to the max and by now has no words.

So he responded by posting a gif of a group of hooded men walking in circles while hitting themselves on the head with a plank of wood.

"What did J say about the tattoo?" Stanley asked.

Well, I had a really long talk with J and I finally gave him the ultimatum.

"YOU gave him the ultimatum. YOU who want to join a cult and tattoo sacred shit on your body have the CHEEK to give your boyfriend an ultimatum?! No offence," Stanley wrote, and pasted a smiley icon.

None taken.

The consensus is, J is okay with me getting the tattoo "if that's what you really want".

But he's asked me to take an extra step.

"What? Kill yourself first? Sorry, no offence," Stanley said.

"They say death can be a beautiful thing. It teaches the living to live to the fullest," Carl wrote, hoping to clear some tension.

J's idea is for me to replicate the tattoos with henna first, I explain.

And if I am used to the idea of the temporary tattoo on my back, then I will know for sure. If I don't like the Sak Yant on my back, I can at least get rid of the temporary tattoo and get the idea out of my head once and for all. So it's really a trial run and win-win, I say.

"You are so lucky to have J who's so wise," Stanley said.

"And why am I hearing this only for the first time," Stanley asked.

"Yeah, why?" Carl chimed in bravely, taking the cue from Stanley, for once feeling safe that he's not the only one who doesn't know things.

But it didn't take my boys long for them to be supportive.

Stanley later said that if that's really what I want to do to my skin, then who's to say no?

"Tattoos are forever on skin. And true beauty is skin deep," wrote Stanley the converted guruji who's mastered the art of stringing words together without actual meaning.

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

 

This post is written AFTER I got my tattoo (too many people have asked about my decision-making process. Read about my tattooing process here)

Foreign Talent

I am inspired today to write about talent because recently, I was enthralled by an old friend of mine.

I'm a sucker for men who can play the piano.

Stanley my sex bunny friend, meanwhile, is a sucker for men.

The said talented friend was at a house party years ago, before the world had to stop shaking hands and wearing face masks was as second-nature as putting on panties before leaving the house. 

Well, for most of us, at least. 

But back to the house party.

There was a grand piano in that lovely home, which was the main feature of that new home. 

The host, himself a theatrical practitioner, had asked his guests to tinkle at his plaything.

Stanley leaned in and whispered in my ear: "If he were a little thinner, I would love to tinkle his plaything."

But I didn't have time to entertain Stanley.

The true entertainment was already starting.

The man at the piano was playing one of my favourite tunes - a Cantonese ballad composed by local musician Dick Lee but made famous by the late-Leslie Cheung.

Not only that, the guest pianist was belting out the song with feeling, his vocals clear and flawless.

By the end of the song, everyone - including the theatrical host - gave the pianist a rousing applause.

Carl our dense friend, who has a penchant for clapping to express his emotions, joined in with glee.

Then Carl stood up from the pianist seat and bowed to his fellow housewarming guests.

Though Carl is slow to most things, he's undoubtedly very talented.

It's like, the moment he plays the piano, he has this magical ability to slow the whole world down to a pace that is in step with his dense brain.

And when Carl opens his mouth to sing, he makes people want to fall in love.

Stanley argues that when he opens his mouth to show off his talent, people would also want to fall in love.

But let's stick to Carl first.

Every time we go to E-bar at Tanjong Pagar (God bless that place -- we will always love it), which is Carl's favourite gay KTV pub in the whole universe, fellow guests would appreciatively quiet down whenever Carl starts singing.

And that's one musical talent I will never have but always dream of having.

In fact, I have no talent whatsoever - the concept of being gifted is very foreign to me.

My partner J on the other hand, is the opposite of me.

He's from an artistically-inclined family, having received musical training since young.

J and his two older brothers had been coached to play the organ from the age of four.

J would say he's only "so so" in his skills while his older brothers are the true talents, one of whom composes while the other is excellent with musical arrangement.

When J's grandmother died, the three of them combined forces to string together a series of their granny's favourite songs, and played them on the organ during her funeral mass.

In the sphere of the straight world, I'm also surrounded by people dripping with talent.

Nisa my best girl friend is effectively bilingual and is one of the region's best translators, having bagged a few essay awards at the national level, when we were students.

Terry my best straight friend meanwhile, has the creativity of a respectable gay man.

He's an excellent artist and can paint life-like portraits.

And like Nisa, Terry has a few national awards under his belt.

Not to be left out, Stanley my sex bunny friend also has talents under his belt. 

Like, literally.

He has the gift of the gap - an orifice so magical that it's trapped the parts and hearts of many men who've dared to venture there.

But Stanley also has the gift of the gab - he's quick witted, articulate, and very linguistic.

In university, Stanley minored in Japanese which he was very proficient in.

In his later years, Stanley revealed he chose Japanese so that he could fully appreciate all that's said in Jap porn films.

But Stanley would brush off his talents, preferring that we recognise his other talents.

"I have a gift - when I see a man, I can see through his jeans and can tell you intimate details of his member just by looking," he would say.

"Besides, Adam, you're not too bad yourself," Stanley said as a consolation to his talentless friend.

"You have a gift for choosing friends and surrounding yourself with people who're talented."

"Plus, in life, it's not about having multiple talents that's important."

"To me, having multiple orgasms is the true meaning of life. That can solve all problems," Stanley the sex bunny says wisely.

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