The following post was first posted in 2010:
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I was rummaging my wardrobe for appropriate wedding wear when the phone rang.
"I give up. I have nothing suitable for tonight," the exasperated voice went. "I hate straight weddings."
"To look straight, rule number one is, ditch any shirt that makes you
look like you're a tightly wrapped mummy. And no skinny jeans either," I
warned.
Forty minutes later, Stanley's cab picked me up at my place, and we
sheepishly eyed each other's body-fitting tailored shirts that showed
off our broad shoulders and narrow waists. With matching skinny jeans.
Turns out, the only thing we decided to ditch that night, was our fear for looking too good to be straight.
"Well, at least, I promise you we'll be the two most gorgeous looking
men in that table of former straight platoon mates," Stanley said.
"By the way, I'm giving $80 hor," he said coldly.
According to Stanley the economist, since we gay men are never gonna one day earn back all those angpao money that we keep giving the straight people, $80 is more than enough.
"Any idea who we'll be sitting with later?" Stanley asked tenderly into his iPhone.
"Hmmm, Robbie,"
"Oh, that fat Ah Beng. I wonder how is he now. Is he still selling DVDs?"
"Chan, Razak, Mike,"
"Razak?!" Stanley suddenly jerked his head up, his horrified eyes wide as testicles.
"Yeah, what's wrong? I never knew you both didn't get along?"
"Oh, shit. There goes my babi and my wine. With Razak, that
means we're sitting at the Muslim table! The last time I sat at a Muslim
table, we were eating Soup Kambing while the rest were slurping on
Shark's fin, for Heaven's sake!" Stanley exclaimed, sounding as if all
his shares have plummeted at one go.
Another 40 minutes later, we stepped off the cab, checked each other,
and strolled into the cocktail reception, looking as fashionable as
possible.
Tonight, our platoon mate Jayven was marrying his JC sweetheart June.
Jay is a one-time banker who hung up his LV briefcase for the bulky
suitcase, to pursue a joint career with June. The gorgeous bride, June,
is a petite but feisty character, and also a former broadcaster who
decided she'd fare better serving chicken or beef 70,000 feet in the
air, than to smile and read on air.
"My, my. They both certainly invited the whole of SIA here tonight,"
said Stanley, whose roving eyes and tone of voice suggest after-dinner
plans reserved for dogs on heat.
When we settled at our table -- and learnt that Razak would be the only
one having the halal food -- Stanley whispered urgently into my ear:
"Shit, is it too late to add the $30 I took out of my angpao?"
As with all wedding dinners, we risk the awkward situation of being seated with a motley crew of strangers.
But this crew, Stanley is more than happy to be put up with.
After all six of us introduced ourselves to the four gorgeous friends of
Jayven and June(two guys, two gals), we broke the ice after a few
glasses of beer and red wine.
After the third course, Stanley announced that he and I needed a smoke break.
"But I don't even smoke," I mouthed the words to Stanley in protest.
"If I ever have to hear one more word of Razak's fourth baby, or Mike
and his fiance's HDB renovation, or Chan and his perpetual football
talk, I will turn pink. And trust me. You don't want me to turn pink,
hunny," Stanley said, arching one brow, clearly desperate to invoke Diva
Aretha Franklin.
"And how thoughtful of Jay and June to fill the remaining four seats
with, of all people, gorgeous crew who're engaged to each other!"
"Aiyah, weddings are always like that lah, Stan. Hang in there, and
soon, we can join Carl and Ah Boy at Tantric. T.K's gonna be there too.
Hang in there, okay?" I encouraged, as Stanley continued taking in deep
breaths and puffing out clouds of smoke, staring blankly ahead.
The wedding went on with more talk of eh, Stan, when you getting married ah? You leh, Adam, got girlfriend already or not?, as
well as even more updates of Razak and his beloved children, his advice
to Mike's impending HDB sweet home, and so on and so forth.
Stanley, meanwhile, couldn't be bothered with conversation. Our friend is on a mission to stretch his angpao's worth, helping himself to every possible glass of red wine in the ballroom.
By the time we got to the Ee-Foo noodles, Stanley was in a parallel universe of his own, completely shut off from the ongoings of Table 24.
From the corner of my eye, I watched worriedly as a very happy Stanley
wobbled his way to a table of air-stewardess, looking at them very
seriously in the face before grinning, "Chicken or beef ma'am? to each
and every one of them.
The air stewards' table, on the other hand, found Stanley very humorous
when he walked up to them and asked them, quite seriously, "coffee, tea,
or me?"
Before dessert could even be served, I had to excuse myself from the
table to support Stanley, who had by then transformed into a jelly fish.
"But I'm just starting to have fuuuun!" Stanley giggled as I dragged him out for some fresh air.
That night, while on the cab back home from our uneventful wedding dinner, Stanley looked up at me from my thighs, teary eyed.
"I hate weddings, Adam. I hate weddings."
"I know. Close your eyes. We're on our way home now".
That night was the one and only time I didn't reprimand Stanley for getting himself so drunk.
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