Sex and the Seedy

Sunday brunch.

Cool enough breeze.

And most importantly, a cafe with an ambience that agrees with our IG posts and stories.

It had the makings of a delightful gathering.

Last week, the boys and I chose to shake up our social patterns and stop meeting like we're 8,000-year-old vampires who can only make appearances and come together at night.

And so far, our day was so good.

We were at Cafe Melba at Goodman Arts Centre, surrounded by a trendy crowd: Hipster parents who show off their kids in Ralph Lauren, youthful and fresh-faced working adults who're catching up to release all the stress they'd been facing in the first year of their careers, and the laid-back angmohs who come in their floral dresses and polo tees.

And then there are the gays.

Stanley, Carl and I had decided to dress down fashionably for the occasion.

Stanley wore an extra-large button down shirt and fitted berms. 

"The trend is, the looser the better," Stanley pointed to his top, and then, pointing to his buttocks, "and the trend here is, the tighter the better."

I wasn't sure if Stanley the sex bunny was referring to his apparel or his apparatus and I didn't want my delightful morning to be spoiled so early into our gathering.

I wore a singlet bought from Thailand years ago and immediately regretted my choice because I looked like one of those angmohs you'd spot in Phuket. 

Carl, needless to say, was in one of this dry-fit tees that hugged his body so tight that he may have to cut up the tee at some point just to promote blood circulation. 

The three of us found a table al fresco. 

To our left: Two pleasantly plump girls who looked like they shouldn't be eating any more of their oily sausages.

To our right: A family of angmohs who had a curious kid on a bike, cycling around the fake grass patch and trying to knock down birds.

Orders were promptly placed and Stanley sighed dramatically. "What a lovely morning, boys."

The angmoh to our right started coughing. It was one of those loud, throaty coughs that if you heard it, you'd immediately feel like helping her cough up the phlegm.

The woman who looked to be in her late-50s was hacking away, each forceful cough putting her one step closer to Death. 

Carl the dense one looked very nervous and inched closer towards Stanley. 

"Why are people who're coughing allowed to come out?" Stanley said in an urgent tone, intentionally not using an indoor voice. 

The angmoh woman shifted in her seat, smiled apologetically at our table and continued coughing.

Determined not to get COVID, Stanley took out his hand sanitiser and sprayed above our table, cleansing all bad air and evil spirits at the same time.

Soon, food was placed on our table and the real catch up began.

"What's new with you boys," asked Carl, who for once, took an interest in our lives.

"Let's start with Stanley," Carl continued.

"Why do I feel like I'm in some game show?" Stanley replied, eyeing Carl suspiciously. 

If Stanley were in a game show, he'd be the contestant to press the buzzer first and even if he didn't have the correct answer, he'd have something witty to say to make both the show host and audience laugh and blush. 

If I were in a game show, I'd be studying my research notes up until the point when the highly-strung producer with the headphone and earpiece yanks them out of my hands.

If Carl were in a game show, he'd be wondering what he was doing there in the first place, and naturally, be the first to be booted out.

But right now, Carl is on top of his game.

"So, what's new with you Stanley," he asked, sounding every bit like a webinar facilitator. 

"Something is not quite right with you today, Carl," Stanley said.

It didn't take long for Carl to crumble.

"Okay, okay, I think I have STD," he said in a voice which he thought was a whisper.

The angmoh woman to our right started coughing right on cue.

Suddenly, Stanley's concern went from one pandemic to another medical condition.

He inched towards Carl.

"Spill," commanded Stanley.

It was more like flow, in fact. 

A whitish discharge, to be very precise, according to Carl. 

Stanley was enthralled by Carl's detailed, blow-by-blow account that he started picking up his cherry tomatoes with his barehands like they were popcorn.

The blow-by-blow account, to be exact, took place in a gay sauna.

Stanley almost fell off his chair, but he got a hold of himself but his self-control had limits.

Our sex bunny friend started squealing and shrieking like he was possessed.

The hand sanitiser obviously had no effect on cleansing evil spirits.

To us, gay best pals of over 20 years, we know that the squealing is just Stanley laughing. 

But to the trendy Sunday brunch crowd at Cafe Melba, the untrained ears wouldn't know that. 

Stanley sounded like how your kettle would sound when it's coming to a boil. 

To the poor, innocent kids who were playing nearby, Stanley must have sounded like a dolphin because they started merrily mimicking Stanley.

Finally, the angmoh's coughing had been upstaged.

Carl looked very pale and begged Stanley to please control himself.

Stanley looked up from his fits of laughing and then crumbled further into self destruction. 

Stanley had officially joined the angmoh to see who would approach Death first.

Carl buried his face in his palm.

After Stanley had calmed down, which took all of seven minutes (I counted because I was nervously glancing at my phone with Stanley's performance), we were all ears. 

And by we, I suspect it was tables 1, 3, 5, and maybe even one table inside because everyone -- and I mean everyone -- had at some point of Stanley's hysterical theatrics, paused to look in our direction.

Carl looked like he wanted to jump off a building but he had made his bed, so he had to lie in it. 

The bed was in a saucy sauna which he visited not out of curiosity but necessity. 

Carl had been single and virginal for way too long to the point where he couldn't help it anymore.

So on one of those Saturday nights when we didn't meet, Carl arranged for his own rendezvous at the local sauna. 

Refusing to go into Stanley's plea for "great detail, the deeper the better", Carl filled us in with what we needed to know.

Stanley kept digging further.

"Let's start from the very basics," said Stanley, showman and show host.

"Age, built, looks, and size. Go," Stanley continued, thrusting each finger into the air with his list of basics.

Carl was too afraid to defy so to avoid yet another episode of drama, began his story.

He had been entertaining a visit for quite some time now, and so when the urge came, he didn't stop himself.

Which is fair, given that he's single, and old enough to make his lifestyle choices.

The man whom he believed gave him STD is a young, uni student who is exactly Carl's type: Big built, fair, bespectacled. 

He was beauty on top, and beast below was all Carl said. 

They made eye contact and brought that interaction to more levels of contact in a private space in the sauna and when the deed was done, the uni student did a wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am and left hurriedly. 

He didn't leave his phone number but what he did leave was a mess. 

"A very sticky situation indeed," Stanley said, unable to help himself. 

Carl only found out he had unusual symptoms days later. Difficulty in peeing, and the tell-tale sign of a discharge.

By our second cup of coffee, Carl had completed his round of updates.

He looked spent, as if he had been questioned by the CID for three hours straight (which is the amount of time Carl and the STD student spent together).

The three of us sat and digested the heavy meal and topic that afternoon.

Later that day, I got to thinking about our fruitful day.

Stanley's laughing fit at Carl's predicament was understandable.

All his life, Carl had been the least sexually active and is mostly clueless, so to hear of his encounter was indeed rather strange. And hilarious in a way.

But it did happen anyway.

And Stanley and I were there for Carl.

And that's what matters most.

Twenty years of friendship had given us a rollercoaster ride -- from the highs and lows to the bumpy. 

But the three of us were still on track for our next 20 years, and hopefully more.

At the end of the day, what's really important is that no matter what happens -- STD or not -- the three of us can sit down and confide in one another, no judgement made. 

That night, I texted the group to send virtual hugs to Carl.

"Carl, this is nothing to worry about," Stanley wrote later.

"It's a rite of passage. And being Carl, you're just rightfully slower than everyone else, that's all."

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

Dumb and Dumber

When I was a little boy, my mum would put me to bed with a story book, planting in me the seeds of my eventual reading habit.

"I don't like where this story is going," Stanley the sex bunny interrupted. 

"I don't know what this story is about," Carl the dense one jumped in, ever keen to be clued in.

"It's just that, there are too many sex cases involving fathers who rape their own daughters and the idea of you sharing this disturbing childhood detail of your mum planting seeds in you at night is just plain creepy," said Stanley, whose ability to link current events with all things sex, surpasses all pornography writers'. 

Carl, who has no ability to link anything in life at all, frowned. 

"The rocket leaves in my salad are bitter," he concluded, satisfied that he had solved one mystery in his life. 

There are just way too many cluttered topics at our table right now, which is nicely situated al fresco, just opposite the old Raffles Hotel.

I was having a hard time talking to the boys about my topic of the day.

Stanley was having a hard time focusing. His eyes were busy trailing every young man that walked past us, as if breaking the line of visual contact would upset some cosmic balance.

Carl too was having a hard time focusing. Between trying to poke his chick peas with his fork all at one go and looking at his phone and breathing, Carl was overwhelmed.

"So, what are we taking about?"

What I would like to talk about during our Friday night dinner at Raffles City, was that these days, I'm feeling increasingly stupid.

Carl put his fork down and looked hurt. 

"I'm going to order pasta -- the salad is too bitter," he said and with that, clapped delightfully at his adult decision-making abilities, celebrating yet another win that he can solve problems in life.

Stanley couldn't be bothered to take part in the conversation sensing that it didn't involve sex.

But my point has to be made across. I feel increasingly stupid because I have Imposter Syndrome.

Stanley immediately dismissed me.

"Don't be stupid," he said. 

"That's exactly what I'm trying not to be," I retorted. 

"What are we talking about?" Carl inquired.

Imposter Syndrome is a concept that's most commonly felt in working adults: Self doubt to the point of feeling like a fraud at work.

Carl sucked in a deep breath at the words "imposter", "fraud" and "work" that are used in the same sentence and went pale as if half expecting officers from the Commercial Affairs Department to emerge from the bushes and handcuff me.

Five seconds later, Carl lit up and beamed cheerfully when the waiter brought him his pasta.

"So, this imposter... who is he?" Carl asked, forking as many penne pasta pieces as possible at one go.

Of late, I'd been tasked with a new project which required me to work with external parties. 

"Oooh, I love parties," responded Carl who was feeling particularly chatty.

"And I love all things external -- the more exposed the better," replied Stanley who was feeling particularly slutty.

Thing is, I know I'm good at my job.

I think so.

I mean, at least, I feel so, until I move out of my comfort zone and start interacting with experts from outside my company.

By then, Carl was fully engrossed in his meal and anyone with superhero vision could see Carl's force field engulfing him, protecting him from any form of distraction.

Stanley chewed slowly and gave my views some thought.

"If it's any consolation, I have Imposter's Syndrome too."

At this point, Carl was busy storing pasta in both his cheeks, no doubt preparing for winter so Stanley and I decided to continue talking among ourselves.

When we both started our careers, despite being in different fields, Stanley and I had many common traits.

We both wanted to learn as much as possible, weren't afraid of failure, and we enjoyed the process. 

That was when we were in our twenties.

I remember my then-team leader's precious advice to me: In your twenties, it's okay to fail. That's how we learn. It's how we move on and change for the better that matters, she said. 

By our thirties, we'd learned enough from role models at work and had time to hone our craft.

That's when we saw the fruits of our labour -- more tasks, promotions, pay rises.

We were well on our up the corporate ladder.

It was also the time I felt most powerful at work: I was by then a middle manager who had a small team under me, and supportive bosses above me and I was most empowered, often daring to take risks which most of the time served me well.

And then come the forties.

I'm definitely higher in the food chain and instead of eating worms, I eat bigger beasts for breakfast, a sign that I'm fiercer and one step closer to being the Lion King. 

But not quite there yet.

At my age and stage of my career, I can't afford to fail.

I have to keep improving, keep paddling. Stop to rest for a while and Betsy Chia from two desks away who'd passed up marriage and dating for a career would overtake me. 

I'm well aware of that so I never stop paddling.

"Me too. I paddle like mad by day, and pedal like mad by night," Stanley said, making an effort to shift his legs to give me a preview of how fast he can cycle in the air, and again, never failing to link something from the boardroom to the bedroom. 

"Oh, dragon boating! Yes!" Carl looked up from his bowl of pasta and flexed his python-sized bicep and continued making his penne disappear. 

These days, to stay on top of the game, I volunteer to take on additional projects.

That's when I realise that stepping out of my comfort zone to learn new things can be both a refreshing and intimidating experience.

We all know the adage -- knowledge is power.

But the more I know, the more I don't know: There's just way too much to grasp!

Carl, who had by then finished licking his fork and spoon and had nothing else better to do, looked at me and nodded meaningfully, comprehending every essence of what I had just said.

Stanley leaned in and set the record straight.

"I know what you mean, Adam," he said. "And you're no spring chicken so you've got to snap out of it."

According to Stanley, Imposter Syndrome happens to people who're self-conscious of their work.

"These people still have some semblance of shame," he said. "So you're alright, Adam."

Stanley says it's only people who're truly stupid or useless who don't have Imposter Syndrome at all.

That's because, he says, they can't be bothered to review their own performance and have no shame, so they don't blame themselves for being inadequate.

We on the other hand, are people who know we want to do well, recognise that we don't know it all and fear that we can't catch up.

"But guess what, Adam? It is that very fear, that you should be thankful for. Without that spark of fear, you'll forever be complacent, falling into the trap of being all-knowing. 

"Grasp it. Feel the spark. Feel the fear because that's the very fear that will propel you, not swallow you," Stanley said, channelling his inner Deepak Chopra. 

Carl looked like he was about to collapse from stress and info overload. 

"So you mustn't be defeated," Stanley said, making his closing argument.

"Imposter's Syndrome is something all good, humble workers have. I feel like I have Imposter's Syndrome his too, to be honest. And I'm sure Carl has something to add to this."

"Yes!" Carl beamed, looking up from the menu.

"I know what to have for dessert already," he concluded, immensely happy that he had yet again managed to make another important decision in his life.

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

Senior Management

 A few months ago, Stanley and I were at our lowest in life.

We were waiting to pay for our groceries at a supermarket in VivoCity when the girl asked us cheerfully: "CHAS member?"

Stanley immediately jumped, assuming CHAS was a membership for the old.

"No," he said in a slow, threatening voice as if he were Cruella.

For the uninitiated, CHAS cards are usually reserved for the older generation who have no or very low household income.

But all Singaporeans are eligible to apply for the CHAS card if they fall below a certain income bracket. 

After a frantic fact check on his phone, Stanley was still furious.

"Do we look poor?" Stanley asked me in horror, as he wheeled our full trolley to the car park.

"I mean, how old does she think we look?" Stanley said.

To be fair, the poor girl probably doesn't know any better and she must surely be reading off the NTUC script for cashiers where they're first supposed to greet you, then ask if you have any of their memberships.

And to be fair, if she had thought we were old, we can't blame her. That tiny girl looked like she's still wearing a training bra.

"Do we look poor?" Stanley asked again, aghast.

"Would poor people buy this number of wines and fill the entire trolley with useless items that can't feed their families properly, like cheddar cheese, rosemary herbs, and kale?"

That was then.

Today, I hit a new low.

I was waiting to pay up at NTUC when the cashier -- who looks to be in her mid-50s -- asked me if I were a senior citizen.

I mustered up my most delightful tone: "I would say yes just to get the discount."

The cashier burst out laughing under her mask.

Then she politely -- and sincerely -- followed up by asking me for my Senior Citizen card so she could key in that discount.

Stanley my sex bunny friend burst out laughing over the phone when I called him immediately to relay my horror.

"Adam, the puzzle is finally solved!" Stanley said when he was done guffawing.

"The VivoCity girl took one look at you and decided YOU were a CHAS card member!"

I mean, do I look that old?

"Maybe it's all the salt-and-pepper hair that misled the aunty," Stanley tried to save the day.

"I was wearing a cap."

Stanley launched into another round of laughter and I'm not sure if he realised I had hung up.

That afternoon, as I walked slowly back to my apartment lugging what must be Senior Citizen food in my plastic bag --canned braised peanuts, Lingam chilli sauce, six cans of beer -- I wonder if I had crossed the age band without realising it.

These days when I run, swim or cycle, I'm always slower than the fittest chick in the park. 

I often find it easier to wake up early in the morning regardless of what time I slept the night before, thereby living the proverbial truth that old people don't sleep much. 

"Why do you care," Stanley said to me later in the day.

"We're fortyish and fabulous!"

I was heartened. 

Then Stanley said, "and you, Adam, are just fortyish." 

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

Fashion Where

Friday night. 

Table for three.

And dress to kill.

A message that's loud and clear in the group chat Just The Boys, shared with my sex bunny friend Stanley and the dense one Carl.

To our horror, the message wasn't clearly put across.

Then again, it's Carl the dense one we're dealing with.

"Which part of dressing up do you not understand," Stanley said in horror, staring at Carl who was wearing a dry fit T-Shirt that sticks to his Incredible Bulk body. The getup was paired with slim-cut berms that shows off Carl's under-nourished, under-worked legs.

Carl smiled sheepishly and raised his girly cocktail at Stanley and me saying "Happy Friday Night, guys?"

"There's nothing to smile about especially when you look like a drumstick," Stanley said, rolling his eyes.

That night, along with majority of the Singapore population who's allowed to drink alcohol at 10:31pm, the boys and I decided to wear decent clothes and to see and be seen outside.

No more home parties, no more clinking of glasses in home clothes, no more washing up after parties.

The location was an Italian restaurant with an excellent al fresco dinning area in Duxton.

The brief was to dress up.

And trust the dense one to mess up.

"I just came from the gym," Carl said pouting as Stanley stares unbelievably at the gym rabbit's unbelievably disrespectful dress code.

Stanley was in a tailored black shirt with floral patterns, custom-made to hug his lean frame, and skinny jeans.

I managed to throw on something decent too -- tailored navy suit with a black-and-white striped t-shirt.

"You're unbelievable," Stanley scolded Carl, who, in all honestly, isn't missing the memo for the first time.

All his life, Carl has been dense, and two beats slower than the general public.

To this day, he cannot name three of Singapore's presidents, nor tell you what the capital of Indonesia is. 

Apart from pumping iron, and indulging in his own hobbies Carl has little interest in -- and knowledge of -- what's happening outside his bubble.

Unfortunately, Stanley was bubbling and boiling to the point of no return.

"Adam here dresses up, even though he looks like Ellen DeGeneres," Stanley said to Carl, pointing a finger at me.

I knew better than to rebut. An angry Stanley is like an angry mother who, even though she's scolding your sibling, that flammable anger can easily catch fire on you if you so much as to appear in that angry mother's peripherals.

I took a sip of my tap water and tried to ignore Carl's pleading look. 

Finally, Stanley decided to stop.

"It's up to you if you want to dress up like a hobo," he concluded, and signalled the waiter to place our orders.

To be fair to Stanley, it's been quite a while since the three of us had partied outside.

In our thirties, before we each bought our own places, we would often hang out at trendy places to see and be seen.

And we'd often dress up since many of those places were patronised by equally shallow people who're keen to be seen and heard.

A decade later, while we had outgrown that shallowness, Stanley had often wished we could still revert to those happy party nights every once in a while.

Since we each bought our homes, parties have been confined to very comfortable and cosy settings, often at Stanley's lovely home in Queens Close, or occasionally, at my large one-bedder.

Two weeks prior to our table-for-three dinner date, Stanley had made it a point to remind us to dress up and have a good time outside.

To be fair, I don't blame Stanley for flaring up -- the memo was sent to us

To be fair to Carl, he's not the most intelligent person in our group. And while he definitely means no harm, his world is all about him and his hobbies, him and his interests, and him and that himbo brain of his.

Stanley decided to move on and make the Italian chefs busy with our food orders.

Promptly, cocktail orders were placed (Carl who arrived the earliest chose a girly pink drink; Manhattan for Stanley and a negroni for me).

And while we sipped our cocktails quietly, Stanley decided on a wide range of dishes to fill our table -- a $200 bottle of Italian wine, sirloin, pasta, sausages, cold cut platter, fish and lots of bread.

The night was indeed beautiful.

The Italian restaurant was bustling with life and laughter.

Soon, Stanley relaxed as the alcohol kicked in.

Carl was visibly relieved.

As I looked around the restaurant, I realised that there's a Carl at every table.

Right behind us was a family -- the 50-something daddy dressed in a t-shirt and a pair of faded, washed out berms. 

To our right, a man came with his woman companion. The woman was dressed up decently -- blouse and pants. The man looked like he decided to skip is IPPT and come straight to dinner, clad in a black sports t-shirt and shorts. 

The most decently dressed table -- apart from ours (but minus Carl) -- was this young couple who looked to be on one of their first puppy love dates.

The boy with floppy hair was wearing a loose striped shirt. His jeans were torn at the knees and shin, as if he fell from his skateboard enroute to Duxton Hill.

I have not been out for quite a while since COVID, and seeing this many people is a culture shock to me -- both in terms of mass and dress sense.

Are Singaporean men hopeless in dressing?

I mean, yes, I know Singaporean men are famous for wearing their flip flops and sports attire while dinning out.

But at a trendy restaurant downtown?

What has happened to the dress sense of Singaporean men?

I dared to raise this topic after our fourth round of glass refills .

Stanley rolled his eyes.

"Singaporean men wear sports t-shirts and jeans even to wedding dinners. What do you expect?"

Indeed, I must say that my fellow countrymen are an embarrassment when it comes to wardrobe pieces.

We're no frills like that, and that's a good thing.

But there's fine line between no frills and no class.

Has the Singaporean men dressing been influenced by years of being told what to wear?

Perhaps, we all started off on the same page: Our mummies decided for us what to wear, down to our boring, white briefs. 

When we went to school, we were all forced to dress uniformly though we each tried to find our own style.

And then came National Service where again, we're told what to wear: Standard-issue tees, shorts, shoes. 

It's like after all those years of hand holding, men have simply given up on buying their own clothes and resorted to reaching out for the first piece of clothes they see on their way out.

Sure, army singlets and unit tees make for comfortable Sunday fashion. Visit any heartland coffee shop or hawker centre and you'll see just that: Men of all shapes and sizes, of all ages, wearing just that, and sipping kopi in their just-out-of-bed hair.

At shopping centres, we seldom see men bothering to dress up.

It's the proud Singaporean man identity -- wear a sports finisher tee, or an army singlet with shorts and slippers.

"What's there to be proud of, come to think of it," Stanley asks. 

Carl starts to shift uncomfortably in his comfortable dry-fit tee. 

"Then again, what really matters to me isn't so much as what the men choose to wear," Stanley said.

"At the end of the day, it's what 's beneath those bad dressing that matters."

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