Can I Have Your Retention Please

Friday evening.  

Just the boys and I.

Stanley the sex bunny and Carl the dense one are late but I’ve started working on a relatively cheap bottle of Pinot Grigio that’s supposed to have fresh fruity pineapple notes and hints of breadcrumbs.

I was given alfresco seating at Wine Connection, New Tech Park.

The heat these days is unforgiving, but I figured it's evening and the nearby water fountain could perhaps provide us some visual relief.

Stanley and Carl arrived together, both looking hot and bothered.

"The heat!" Stanley cursed and looked at me as if I were to be blamed for earth fever.

Carl the dense one began fanning himself with floppy hands like an American high school girl about to be named Prom Queen. 

The heat has turned our beef cake into a cupcake and sweaty dainty princess isn't very happy. 

"Adam, it's sooooooo hot," Carl the dense one complained, his python sized biceps swelling up to a level that's dangerously beyond all acceptable levels. 

"At this rate, I might as well just not wear clothes at all," said Stanley who, to be fair to him, does find all excuses to not wear clothes at all.

Soon, the three of us placed our orders (over-ordering as usual) and it was time for updates. 

Carl the dense one raised his hand excitedly, bouncing in his seat.

"Ok, Carl, updates, go!" Stanley commanded like a game show host. 

"I got promoted!" Carl said, his python sized biceps swelling up to a level that showed an intricate network of veins underneath.

"Jesus, Carl," Stanley stared at the dense one's pulsating biceps, using the name of God in vein. 

It was about time.

Carl had been slogging like a slave at his work place and for the last five years, due to a combination of change in various high-level bosses, always seemed to miss out on a promotion.  

"Are you happy with your pay rise?" asked Stanley, who is always interested in packages. 

"That's the thing... it's not as high as I wanted, but at least, I'm promoted!"

Empty glasses were immediately filled with Pinot Grigio and toasts and congratulations were made.

Our food arrived just in time and we tucked in, as we digested Carl's very happy news. 

Just then, a cute daddy and his son -- who looked to be about 4 -- ran towards the nearby water fountain.

"Oooo, look at that fountain of youth," Stanley said.

"Please tell me you're talking about the daddy," I begged.

Stanley turned to me and rolled eyes for me to see.

The four year old was happily weaving in and out of the spouting water, his little feet making kiddy splashy sounds.

Stanley continued studying this blissful picture, happy for the visual relief.

The daddy is hot! Stanley mouthed the words.

When the water died down, Stanley turned his attention back to us.

"I guess it's my turn to update now," Stanley said.

Carl nodded and put a large piece of cheese in his mouth.

"I'm experimenting with semen retention," Stanley said casually like it's the most normal topic to raise at dinner.

Carl paused in mid-feed, wondering whether to swallow or not.

"I read somewhere that this does wonders to the body. It's like, the longer you keep your semen," Stanley paused and gave Carl eye contact, "the healthier you feel."

Carl, who looked like a chipmunk preparing for hibernation, starting tearing up.

"It's been a week, and already I feel rejuvenated. It's like I have golden essence coursing through my veins and keeping me alive."

"You know you sound like a witch who just ate young children right, Stan," I said.

"Were you planning to eat that kid?" I asked.

"Well, laugh all you want. When we're 50, I'll look like 35."

Carl choked.

"You mean you are going to retain semen till you're 50?" asked Carl, spewing microbits of cheese.

I give this new trend of yours three more days, I told Stan who had once famously argued that men are supposed to be promiscuous because our appendage are hung outside of our body for frequent use.

We ate the rest of our dinner cautiously, hoping our stomach could retain our food given this strangely apt topic.

But Stanley wouldn't give up. 

He started sending the group chat link after link about the benefits of semen retention. 

Carl was shifting in his seat, getting uncomfortable by the minute.

Finally, he set his fork down and patted Stanley on his shoulder.

"Stan, I thought my update was news of the day. 

"I guess I'm wrong. 

"And I must say, you win. Your retention has stolen my attention," Carl said.

Stanley was impressed with Carl's wit.

"Well done, Carl. Great start. Now, imagine what more you can do if you too, retained semen."

 

 

---------------------------

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

The Bloody Askholes

A few weeks ago, I was reminded of a particular species of mankind which irks me to no end: The askholes.

Stanley my sex bunny friend who generally is interested in all species of men, was particularly keen on this category.

"Tell me, who are these askholes and what exactly are their strengths? They sound like a very promising breed of men," Stanley said sultrily as he picked up a Uniqlo tee and measured against his chest.

"Nope, too big," decided Stanley. 

And since when has that been a problem I thought to myself inwardly.

Stanley shot me a look.

Oh, askholes. 

They're generally people who would keep asking others for advice and then they don't take it at the end of the day.

Stanley crunched up his nose and went Ew!

"But these askholes -- they can be cute no?" he added, not wanting to lose hope in humanity. 

Not too long ago, I met an ex-colleague who had many things in common with me.

"Is he cute?" Stanley asked hopefully, seizing every opportunity. 

Lianne is a junior from university who studied the same course as I did. 

Naturally, as political science graduates, we mentally constructed our career paths that would pave the way for jobs in the government or diplomatic service. 

"Oooh, I'm always very keen on foreign affairs," Stanley said, giving the word affairs unnecessary emphasis. 

And since I see Lianne as an eager junior, who shared an alumni with me as well as having worked for two ministries at the same time, I took it upon myself to be her mentor.

At first, Lianne was indeed very promising.

She would ask me out for coffee and seek my advice on work-related matters -- how to tackle a particular project. My assessment of her weakness and how she can improve. How to sharpen her reports. Whatever.

We met informally but on an average of at least once a month.

After six months, Lianne was not showing any improvements.

I know because my peers complained to me about her, and when asked for examples, I realise they were mistakes I had very specifically taught her to avoid.

Then it came to a point when I asked myself: Is she just stupid, or is she trying to create an illusion of how eager to learn she is? 

I mean, there's no other reason I could think of other than the fact that she's an askhole.

After deliberately distancing myself from her (I had the perfect excuse due to work commitments), we reconnected late last year.

And because she was getting married soon, she asked me for financial advice -- such as how to grow my money, my thoughts on property, my views on how to maximise both her and her husband's combined income.

Out of my kind heart, I shared with her all the financial life hacks, from saving and investment tips to ways to maximise SQ miles.

And it was a super tedious process because I made an effort to find her relevant links and catered the advice to her.

Lo and behold, I was to find out from another common friend afterwards that Lianne didn't act on anything I said.

In fact, that common friend's peeve with her was exactly that too: That she's an askhole.

"Next time, pick your battles," Stanley said as he set his purchases into the self-checkout box at Uniqlo.

"If it's worth your time to groom, you groom. Don't waste your time," he said.

"And you better not be an askhole yourself -- I've said my piece and you must not ignore it," said Stanley.

I don't know if I should heed his words.

For someone whose idea of grooming can land him first in the bedroom and then the courtroom, I'm not fully confident I can trust Stanley.

I guess sometimes, one has to be an askhole in life.

 

 

---------------------------

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

Prints Charming And The Wedding

The date was set, the agenda was sent and the dress code was specific. 

Batik.

Late last year, my partner of more than 20 years J casually informed me that I was to be his Plus-One for a wedding.

It was the wedding of our beloved Iggy whom we watched grow up.

Iggy -- short for Ignatius Soewarno -- is J's nephew.

He's always a special little boy to us because he was born the year J and I got together.

In 2002, after J and my first date in Holland Village, I fondly recall accompanying J to withdraw cash at an ATM. "I need to give angpao for my nephew's first month," he said.

Even though J and I weren't super close to Iggy (our contact with him was sort of broken because poor Iggy's home was broken -- a bitter divorce), we kept in touch for yearly family celebrations: Birthdays, Christmas, Chinese New Year.

Overall, I was over the moon when J shared the news. 

After all, we watched Iggy grow up and it is nice to know he will now embark on his own journey as a married man who has found his One True Love.

But I also had mixed feelings.

At 45, my era of attending weddings has officially come to an end. I've had my fair share of the noisy Yam Sengs and the endless groomsman parties of all my peers while I was in my twenties and thirties and the thought of doing that again is exhausting.

And then, there's this curveball of having to wear batik. 

I do not own any batik. 

You see, Iggy moved back to Indonesia -- J's home town -- following his parents' divorce.

Naturally, the entire clan would descend on Jakarta from all over the world for the wedding.

And of course, one has to wear batik for the occasion. 

"You can take one of mine," J said, not understanding the fashion fiasco I was facing. "It's just a wedding lah. Take mine and wear. We're same size."

I walked over to J, kissed him lovingly on his forehead and politely declined. 

I have seen J's wardrobe and there is nothing in there I would want to wear. 

The following week, I called Stanley who, in his regional travels, has experience wearing not only batik but also a respectable fraction of the Indonesian male population. 

True to form, Stanley rose to the occasion.

"So, this nephew of J's. He must be cute huh?"

"But don't worry -- any men who's said I do, I won't do," he said.

Mothers, wives, keep your men away from Stanley Ong anyway, just to be safe.

But I needed my sex bunny friend's advice and true to form, he delivered.

"Batik is tricky," Stanley said to me as he turned into the parking lot.

"You buy the wrong type, or wear the wrong colour, and it can be a total disaster," said Stanley, Regional Director, Cultural and Contemporary Affairs (Affairs being Stanley's only expertise within that title).

Indeed.

J had very roughly explained to me the basics of batik -- its origin, and the taboos of certain prints like the Keris or colour.

"But that's ok -- you're Singaporean. Nobody's going to judge you," J assured me.

Oh, trust me. There will be judgement.

Especially when I'm attending this as J's Plus-One.

Over the years, I have been introduced to all of J's immediate and wider family in Singapore, Indonesia, New Zealand and Australia.

And I take this in-law duty very seriously.

I'm not going to buy just any batik and end up looking like a waiter in Tambuah Mas.

Stanley had driven me to, aptly, Holland Village for my batik shopping. 

His friend's family owns a relatively famous batik store at the shopping centre.

"Trust me. You'll find something there."

I was warming up to the idea as we rode the escalator up to the batik boutique. 

How nice - I had first learnt of Iggy's presence in this world in 2002 when J shared stories of his life during our first date in Holland Village.

Twenty-two years later, I were to get something from Holland Village to mark a milestone of Iggy's.

Provided I could find something, I thought to myself as I stepped into Stanley's friend's shop.

Oh dear, I'm going to end up looking like one of our Singapore ministers in batik I thought to myself as I surveyed the sombre batik pieces. 

"E, this is my dear friend Adam who is in dire need to get a fabulous batik for a wedding," Stanley said as he gave very subtle air kisses to E.

In the corner of the shop was a very elderly gentleman -- who Stanley said was E's father -- who was dozing off at the sewing machine. 

Stanley neither wanted to wake the old man up nor end his life prematurely with a heart attack so he was very careful with both his gay volume and gay antics. 

E, himself a very pleasant looking man who was clad in what else but batik, was given a brief and immediately assured me I will find something I liked.

But not from the display items.

E reached for his phone and called up visuals of various fabric to show me.

"These are all from Surabaya and they're one of a kind. I can show you a sample of how the silk feels from my shop, but once you decide which one you like, I'll have them tailored to your size and delivered to Singapore."

The choice selection was actually very straightforward.

One piece caught both mine and Stanley's eyes, to which E smiled with satisfaction saying "I thought you might like this one".

Over at the sewing machine, the elderly Mr Ang nodded sagely. 

E called up an image of how the fabric would look like in the form of a shirt.

The base colour was black. It featured a phoenix and the magnificent spread of its tail across one side of the chest. The detailing of the mystical creature was set in bright gold and blue. Over all, it was brilliant and dramatic.

"He should make heads turn when he wears this," Stanley instructed E. "And in the correct direction please," Stanley had to add. 

Lucky for me, I had more than enough time to get the batik on my hands.

The entire process would take about two months so by the time the dramatic batik piece was ready, it would be in early-September -- a good two months ahead of the November wedding.

I later texted J and showed him my choice.

He baulked at the image.

It wasn't so much that I had chosen a taboo print.

"$700 for a batik is just crazy," said J who himself is from a Crazy Rich Asian family.

That afternoon, I left the shop feeling every determination to look the part of his Plus One.

"Oh, don't you worry, Adam," Stanley assured me.

"You're almost there -- you're Asian, you're crazy. You'll be fine in Jakarta." 

---------------------------

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

Halfway Mark

It is extremely scary to note how time flies. 

As I stood in the tiny balcony of my tiny rented apartment this morning, I realise half of 2024 has officially gone by, leaving mankind with six more months to do what else needs to be done on this earth before we wrapped up the year.

Where had all the time gone by, I wonder to myself. 

Later that afternoon, as I stepped into my sex bunny friend Stanley's car, I repeated my horrific discovery.

Stanley took one quick glance at me and nodded affirmatively. "Yup, time is merciless," he said without compassion.

Our agenda of the day was very clear: Accompany Stanley to make a few suits, then meet Carl for steak. 

Stanley was in one of his cabinet reshuffle phases where every once in a while, he would decide it was time to freshen up his wardrobe pieces. 

Out with the old, in with the new was the sex bunny's mantra when it comes to clothes, which also applies to his sex and dating life. 

We were headed for Peninsula Plaza to meet his all-time favourite tailor, Daniel. 

"Wah bro, still in shape bro," was one of the first things the impeccably dressed tailor said to Stanley. 

Now I know why Stanley keeps going back.

I had gotten to know Stanley's tailor more than 20 years ago. In fact, we all went to him when we started our first jobs, customising office wear and suits for all occasions.

Daniel must be in his sixties but he is one person who must have made a pact with the Devil for him to look the way he looks now: Trim, fit, youthful.

As Daniel got down to showing Stanley fabric choices for suits and shirts, I again brought up the topic of time.

"Yes bro. You are right. It felt like yesterday when we all started 2024 and soon, it'll be National Day then school holiday, then Christmas, then new year!"

"I know right!" I exclaim excitedly, finally happy that someone other than Stanley knew exactly what I was talking about.

"You know that all Daniel did was recite key milestones of the Singapore calendar right? There was no meaningful exchange to be had there," Stanley whispered cruelly in my ear as the tailor stepped away to attend to a Korean family. 

For the next 20 minutes, while Stanley stood still for measurements, I opened my phone calendar, unable to grasp how speedily time flew.

Just what have I done in the last six months? There is not much time left!

To be fair, my obsession with time is the result of ageing.

I remember distinctly, circa the late 80s, that I wished I could quickly grow up so that I could be a teenager myself. 

Watching my sister as a teen made the idea of being a teen cool. 

She was yapping over the house telephone all day, and was always going out with her friends -- something I too wanted to do.

Then when I was in National Service, I kept willing time to speed up so that I could conclude my service to the nation and embark on my exciting next phase of life -- starting a whole new chapter in a university overseas.

Stanley the sex bunny -- whom I met during NS -- was the exact opposite.

"Why want to grow up so fast? This is the best time of my life," he insisted, as he counted his blessings in the bunk over this conversation decades ago. "Where else can you get to see so many fit, naked men and embrace camaraderie amidst the nation's finest and most elite of young men?"

And then came my mid-twenties. 

As a fresh, young exec who got his first taste of what his monthly pay check could do, I had wished to climb up the corporate ladder fast, so that I too can be the one calling the shots and earning a fat pay check.

Fast forward to my mid-forties.

I have it all.

Or almost had it all. 

Apart from my current state of homelessness after selling my first apartment, I do count my blessings.

A well-paying job, a loving partner of more than 20 years, a close group of friends who include both my gay and non-gay friends. And no worries at all about living it up.

Suddenly, all I want is for time to stand still.

To let me enjoy these fruits of labour a little longer.

Wanting to enjoy his fruits a little longer too was Stanley.

At this moment, tailor Daniel was entertaining two members of the Korean family and they turn out to be extremely distracting.

As Daniel was taking measurements of his clients, Stanley too, did his own sizing up.

The cute Oppa daddy was testing Stanley's limits and the cute Oppa daddy's teenage son was testing Stanley's morals -- and legal -- limits. 

"This is one of the mysteries of how Time works -- it has created this perfect equilibrium where the daddy is yummy,  the son is also yummy," he whispered to me, all the while, his eyes not leaving the unsuspecting Koreans.

I ignored Stanley who was, no doubt, busy writing the plot of a sultry Korean drama in his head.

I was racing against time. 

At 45 this year, I am at the halfway mark of my lifetime.

And at the very moment, I am past the halfway mark of my 2024.

I frantically tried to recall what I had done in my last six months and what I would do in the next six when Stanley, who recognised I was on the verge of a mental breakdown, casually sat beside me, placed one hand on my thigh and said, "breathe."

It's moments like that, that I remember why I truly appreciate Stanley by my side.

And then, "Oooo, oh my god, that ass is so tight!" he whispered urgently, gazing at cute Oppa daddy. 

After a day of shopping -- which was filled with intermittent distraction -- and a very filling steak dinner with Carl, Stanley dropped me off at my rented apartment.

Instead of heading upstairs, I lingered around the pool and sat on one of the deck chairs.

The view was therapeutic. 

The stark, blue pool reflected the hazy bright lights of the low-level condo building.

I took a deep breath and began counting my blessings.

In January this year, I reached the halfway mark of my current rental contract. And so far, so good. No problems with the unit, no problems with the landlord.

In February, I was privileged to be given another generous pay rise (along with more work which I loved) so that was definitely something worth celebrating.

In March, I threw myself into work, travelling around the region for work-related meetings. It was exhausting but it was immensely satisfying, especially when I loved my job. 

In April, I took a nice, romantic short holiday with J my partner of than 20 years -- and that, too, is an event worth being thankful for.

In May, we celebrated a very dear aunt's birthday and held a combined Mother's Day dinner with my mum.

And finally in June, we met the new boyfriend of Carl the dense one.

As I counted my blessings that night, I realise I shouldn't fear Time.

For as long as I live, I am very sure I will have many more good months and counting, provided I made that extra effort to make every living day of mine count.

---------------------------

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