I don't know how many of you have seen it.
I've seen quite a few.
And Stanley has seen enough.
Which of course means I'm not referring to penises.
I'm talking about show-offs who feel compelled to snap photos of their IPPT result slips and post them online.
Stanley has counted - he's seen at least 27 of such posts.
"Okay, so you got gold for IPPT. Very good. And your point is?" Stanley said agitatedly to me, thrusting his phone in my face to show me one such post.
The current offending post belonged to Stanley's NUS junior who Stanley said is annoying as hell in real life too.
The caption of that friend's post was "finally, cleared my IPPT this year, haha".
The fact that there was a "haha" in that caption didn't make the post funny nor humble.
"Waaah.... so clever....." Stanley said in a nasal voice as if he were talking to a child. "Can do push up, can do sit up, can run.... wah.... so cleverrrrrrrr. So fiiiiiiiiiiit."
And then, suddenly sounding British, Stanley concluded: "What a stupid show-off" and rolled his eyes before clicking 'like' on that friend's post.
"Okay, what shall we eat?" Stanley asked me, suddenly returning to his normal self, all bright and cheery again.
If I had not known Stanley my sex bunny friend for some two decades, I would have thought his screw had come loose.
Which actually, given Stanley's risque lifestyle, isn't far from the truth - the words "screw" and "loose" would accurately describe Stanley on any given day.
Some days, when Stanley is truly worked up, he can channel various characters - and display his perfect mastery of voice changes - to express his sarcasm.
And on those days, Stanley would look so possessed that the only way to control him would be to beg a priest to cleanse him and firmly tell Stanley that "I command you to get out of Stanley, whatever you are (likely a dildo) and whoever you are (which can be any gay man on the street, really)!"
It's a Thursday afternoon and it's sweltering hot.
The two of us are at Holland Village - I was on one of my trips back to Singapore and Stanley had taken the day off to have lunch with me.
We settled for Crystal Jade where Stanley would always order his favourite chicken-duck congee and XO carrot cake.
We were shown to a very tiny table that was a tad too close to the adjacent one.
I kid you not.
The spacing between Stanley and my table, and the one next to us - where two very grim-looking middle-aged office ladies were having lunch - was only two fingers' gap apart.
We would have joined the two tables and shared the space if not for the fact that the two office ladies looked like they belonged to an ultra conservative religious group who would frown and utter prayers under their breaths if they had heard us talk during lunch.
Because with Stanley, meal time topics was sex.
Drawing on my 20 years of friendship with Stanley, I telepathically begged him to keep his topics lunch-friendly by eyeing the two severe-looking women who looked like they seriously needed not only to talk about sex, but to have actual sex.
Stanley rolled his eyes at me and said out loudly: "How? Should we have the sex lunch? It's very value for money."
The two office ladies glanced over at Stanley cautiously and continued eating their noodles with fierce concentration.
Fortunately, Stanley was in no mood for sex talk.
He's still highly charged by online show-offs.
After we got our orders out of the way, Stanley revisited the topic.
Stanley wonders who the hell it was that started the trend of posting IPPT results online.
It's such a humble brag thing to do, Stanley said, shaking his head, and then nodded approvingly as he fed himself a spoonful of the smooth chicken-duck congee.
I agree with Stanley.
I've seen my fair share of humble brags online.
I can still respect you if the post had been blatantly self-promoting.
What I cannot stand is how people would, for instance, post photos of themselves with not a hair out of place, and then write brazen captions like "late for work.... bad hair day".
"And," I told Stanley, "I hate it when guys post photos of themselves half naked and -
"Wait - top half or bottom half naked," Stanley had to clarify. "'Cos sister, if it's bottom half, there's little to hate."
One of the two ultra conservative office ladies suddenly stopped chewing noisily. The other one coughed and needed immediate sips of tea.
Lowering my voice, I continued.
"I can't stand it when guys post photos of themselves half naked and then say stupid things like 'oh dear, put on so much weight after my holiday... need to lose weight now' and the bloody photo shows that guy's bloody six packs."
Stanley nods appreciatively, hearing the words "six packs".
But yeah, seriously.
I do dislike humble online brags.
Give me a blatant show-off any day and I'll respect them.
Of course, there's the online breed of show-offs.
And then there are the offline, real-life humble brags.
Those are more annoying because you can't scroll them away.
And I have one such friend.
My university gal pal Sasha - who goes by Sasa to her close friends - would know.
We have this annoying classmate, Lionel, who has been humble-bragging to us since Day One of uni.
Lionel would humbly brag about his results. About his deep knowledge of world politics. About how he's quite a popular guy.
And when we graduated and started working, Lionel would humbly brag about his salary, his wealth and would find ways to remind us that he owns a car and a BTO.
"If only he owned some hair," Sasa once whispered to me during a class gathering with Lionel, a comment that sent us into violent fits from controlling our laughter.
The problem is, Lionel isn't exactly unpleasant.
I mean, if he isn't humbly showing off, he's actually quite nice.
And truth me told, Sasa and I secretly enjoy hearing Lionel humble-brag.
It's become tradition that whenever we have class outings, one of us would goad Lionel into humble-bragging and each time he falls into our trap, we would kick each other under the table while maintaining keen, attentive eye contact with the braggard.
And we all have such people in our lives.
And it's up to us, how we deal with these people.
For Sasa and me, we choose to make a joke out of these annoying but harmless people.
I shared that coping mechanism with Stanley during dessert.
As Stanley chewed his pomelo sago, his eyes brightened.
"Yes. I know how to cope with these humble brags now," he said, as if he had attained nirvana.
"You see, guys who need to show off means they have hidden flaws."
"And in most cases, it must mean they have a small penis."
Stanley immediately whipped out his phone and began investigating.
"This gives me something to do - and if my theory were right, I could well submit this as my PhD dissertation," Stanley said wisely as he tapped on his NUS junior's Facebook photos to enlarge it for further examination.
---------------------------
Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people
Saturday, 26 October 2019
Saturday, 19 October 2019
Money Matters
One of the joys of being forty - and having a relatively stable career and good financial habits - is that we can splurge once in a while.
"I'm feeling like a million bucks," Stanley said over a WhatsApp video call the other day, eager to share that he's found a hair salon near his workplace which made him look and feel good.
"And I'm ready for a million fucks," he adds with passion.
"How? You like it?" he asked, beaming, tilting his head leftward, rightward, and angling his phone so I get a 360 panoramic view of his Korean-stylist's artwork.
"This haircut cost me a bomb - but I'll have a blast tonight," Stanley squealed in excitement in the middle of Suntec City.
It's a Saturday afternoon and Stanley is off to a date that night.
And Stanley wants to look perfect for him.
B, who's Stanley's current love interest, belongs to someone else.
Stanley had recently confessed to us to having fallen in love with a man who's attached.
"Years ago when I was studying marketing in NUS," Stanley said, as he catwalked along the shopping mall, "my prof said that Burger King was trying to take a bite of the fast food market."
"One of its most successful marketing campaigns was in admitting that it's second place to MacDonald's - and that because they know they're second place, they're going all out to please customers," Stanley said.
"And I'm Burger King. I need to look fabulous for my B because I'm the third party here," said Stanley, Analogy Queen.
"Okay, I gotta go - I love you and stay alive," were his parting words before Stanley went on his rendezvous.
Coincidentally, in another part of Singapore, Sasha Natasha - or Sasa as we call her - had also just stepped out from what she described as a "luxurious spa session," one of her endless self-love, pampering projects.
Sasa my classmate from university is one busy woman.
On weekdays, she leads a team of staff at work, always dressed up, decked up and made up like she's ready for a photo shoot.
On some weekday nights, Richard her disgustingly rich hubby - also my friend from university - picks her up and has an expensive dinner somewhere.
The power couple are the envy of many, including Stanley the sex bunny who hasn't met them but has heard a lot about them.
Let me know when Sasa's rich and powerful husband is lonely," Stanley would say, adding "these days, I'm an expert at being a third party."
But there'll be no party.
Right now, Sasa is telling me how she fired and hired a careless facial therapist who was daydreaming while working on her face and had accidentally scratched her right cheek.
Sasa, who is an expert in the art of human manipulation, managed to get the therapist's furious manager to threaten to sack that therapist before Sasa strategically stepped in to insist that the manager does not do that.
"It's a diplomatic win-win situation. The therapist gets a scary threat but she gets to keep her job and I get my main point and message across with no blood on my hands. Easy-peasy," Sasa said cheerfully.
Stanley later asked me to remind him never to step on Sasa's powerful, manicured toes.
"That therapist doesn't have her heart in the right place," I conveyed to Stanley Sasa's exact words to me.
"Rich people... very hard to please, you think?" I ask Stanley, who fervently disagrees.
"You'll have to be hard to be pleased, hunny," Stanley said.
Later, as I was spending one hour on the treadmill as part of my Saturday routine, my thought process sparked off very rapidly like firecrackers.
I first started by thinking about the joys of a working life - that it allows us to splurge once in a while on treating ourselves well with facial and spas.
Then it jumped to the distant future - can we sustain that lifestyle?
It dwindled very quickly because my next thought was how much do we need when we're old.
We're at the mid-point of our lives, assuming we die at 80.
So we should be at the peak of our career - and finances.
In Singapore, when you reach 40, you automatically get accepted into the government's national health insurance scheme for the elderly.
And that's another reminder that you'll have to be rich at 40: You are ageing and you might chalk up hospital bills.
These days, my peers are buying loads of heavyweight items.
While it's clothes and shoes and all things fashionable in our teens and early twenties, and nice watches and tailored suits in our late twenties and early thirties, people my age buy bigass items like financial products.
To prove my point, Stanley, who recently found a job after he was retrenched, dumped in more money on stocks and shares so that his money can grow. He's also considering upgrading some of his healthcare insurance policies which would mean he'll pay some $10,000 a year for all his insurance policies added up.
My partner J - just a year older but fuckloads richer - is paying off his second property and planning his third. A commercial unit, he says, so that he can evade additional residential property tax.
Carl our dense friend is throwing money in plastic surgery, protein powder and steroids - investments of a different sort.
Sasa and Richard, needless to say, have them all: From government bonds and structured deposits and timeshares to gold and an overseas property.
The reason I'm writing about this so passionately isn't because I worship money.
I mean, we all need them and we'll never have enough even if we are wealthy.
But it stems from the fact that we're gay.
Ageing gay people have very little social security.
Stanley used to say that when we're old, we'll have to help one another change adult diapers because we have no children.
We won't have sons and daughters to drive us to the hospital for check ups, or even try to curry favour us in the hope of getting inheritance.
So having money - and a sound retirement plan is the way to go.
As I ended my very morbid one-hour run, I messaged J, Stanley and Carl to randomly ask them their retirement plans.
Carl the gym rabbit says he's investing his money in beauty so that he can look young, look good and therefore not fall sick.
J my partner says when we're old, we can look for retirement villages elsewhere if none materialises in Singapore by the time we're ancient and frail. One of J's single and ageing friends now lives in one such village in Australia where he functions independently with his own house, while living amongst other elderly neighbours within a community that has nurses and therapists on the standby.
Stanley's ideal retirement plan is to hire a team of money boys who will change his adult diapers.
"But not because it's wet with pee, hunny," he said while taking a toilet break with his date B.
---------------------------
Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people
"I'm feeling like a million bucks," Stanley said over a WhatsApp video call the other day, eager to share that he's found a hair salon near his workplace which made him look and feel good.
"And I'm ready for a million fucks," he adds with passion.
"How? You like it?" he asked, beaming, tilting his head leftward, rightward, and angling his phone so I get a 360 panoramic view of his Korean-stylist's artwork.
"This haircut cost me a bomb - but I'll have a blast tonight," Stanley squealed in excitement in the middle of Suntec City.
It's a Saturday afternoon and Stanley is off to a date that night.
And Stanley wants to look perfect for him.
B, who's Stanley's current love interest, belongs to someone else.
Stanley had recently confessed to us to having fallen in love with a man who's attached.
"Years ago when I was studying marketing in NUS," Stanley said, as he catwalked along the shopping mall, "my prof said that Burger King was trying to take a bite of the fast food market."
"One of its most successful marketing campaigns was in admitting that it's second place to MacDonald's - and that because they know they're second place, they're going all out to please customers," Stanley said.
"And I'm Burger King. I need to look fabulous for my B because I'm the third party here," said Stanley, Analogy Queen.
"Okay, I gotta go - I love you and stay alive," were his parting words before Stanley went on his rendezvous.
Coincidentally, in another part of Singapore, Sasha Natasha - or Sasa as we call her - had also just stepped out from what she described as a "luxurious spa session," one of her endless self-love, pampering projects.
Sasa my classmate from university is one busy woman.
On weekdays, she leads a team of staff at work, always dressed up, decked up and made up like she's ready for a photo shoot.
On some weekday nights, Richard her disgustingly rich hubby - also my friend from university - picks her up and has an expensive dinner somewhere.
The power couple are the envy of many, including Stanley the sex bunny who hasn't met them but has heard a lot about them.
Let me know when Sasa's rich and powerful husband is lonely," Stanley would say, adding "these days, I'm an expert at being a third party."
But there'll be no party.
Right now, Sasa is telling me how she fired and hired a careless facial therapist who was daydreaming while working on her face and had accidentally scratched her right cheek.
Sasa, who is an expert in the art of human manipulation, managed to get the therapist's furious manager to threaten to sack that therapist before Sasa strategically stepped in to insist that the manager does not do that.
"It's a diplomatic win-win situation. The therapist gets a scary threat but she gets to keep her job and I get my main point and message across with no blood on my hands. Easy-peasy," Sasa said cheerfully.
Stanley later asked me to remind him never to step on Sasa's powerful, manicured toes.
"That therapist doesn't have her heart in the right place," I conveyed to Stanley Sasa's exact words to me.
"Rich people... very hard to please, you think?" I ask Stanley, who fervently disagrees.
"You'll have to be hard to be pleased, hunny," Stanley said.
Later, as I was spending one hour on the treadmill as part of my Saturday routine, my thought process sparked off very rapidly like firecrackers.
I first started by thinking about the joys of a working life - that it allows us to splurge once in a while on treating ourselves well with facial and spas.
Then it jumped to the distant future - can we sustain that lifestyle?
It dwindled very quickly because my next thought was how much do we need when we're old.
We're at the mid-point of our lives, assuming we die at 80.
So we should be at the peak of our career - and finances.
In Singapore, when you reach 40, you automatically get accepted into the government's national health insurance scheme for the elderly.
And that's another reminder that you'll have to be rich at 40: You are ageing and you might chalk up hospital bills.
These days, my peers are buying loads of heavyweight items.
While it's clothes and shoes and all things fashionable in our teens and early twenties, and nice watches and tailored suits in our late twenties and early thirties, people my age buy bigass items like financial products.
To prove my point, Stanley, who recently found a job after he was retrenched, dumped in more money on stocks and shares so that his money can grow. He's also considering upgrading some of his healthcare insurance policies which would mean he'll pay some $10,000 a year for all his insurance policies added up.
My partner J - just a year older but fuckloads richer - is paying off his second property and planning his third. A commercial unit, he says, so that he can evade additional residential property tax.
Carl our dense friend is throwing money in plastic surgery, protein powder and steroids - investments of a different sort.
Sasa and Richard, needless to say, have them all: From government bonds and structured deposits and timeshares to gold and an overseas property.
The reason I'm writing about this so passionately isn't because I worship money.
I mean, we all need them and we'll never have enough even if we are wealthy.
But it stems from the fact that we're gay.
Ageing gay people have very little social security.
Stanley used to say that when we're old, we'll have to help one another change adult diapers because we have no children.
We won't have sons and daughters to drive us to the hospital for check ups, or even try to curry favour us in the hope of getting inheritance.
So having money - and a sound retirement plan is the way to go.
As I ended my very morbid one-hour run, I messaged J, Stanley and Carl to randomly ask them their retirement plans.
Carl the gym rabbit says he's investing his money in beauty so that he can look young, look good and therefore not fall sick.
J my partner says when we're old, we can look for retirement villages elsewhere if none materialises in Singapore by the time we're ancient and frail. One of J's single and ageing friends now lives in one such village in Australia where he functions independently with his own house, while living amongst other elderly neighbours within a community that has nurses and therapists on the standby.
Stanley's ideal retirement plan is to hire a team of money boys who will change his adult diapers.
"But not because it's wet with pee, hunny," he said while taking a toilet break with his date B.
---------------------------
Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people
Saturday, 12 October 2019
Face Value the Sequel
It's been half a work day gone and I still haven't been able to properly focus in the office.
Granted, it isn't exactly a busy day at the office, plus it's a Friday.
My staff are all winding down after lunch in anticipation of the weekend.
I on the other hand, am anticipating updates in my group chat, titled Just the Boys.
Three of us are in that group - me, my dense friend Carl and Stanley the sex bunny.
As of now, the group is silent.
The last message, at 9:13am Singapore time, was a photo of Stanley making a funny face, pointing at Carl's large nose.
Carl looked hurt in the photo.
Three hours later, there are still no updates.
Carl couldn't type because he's lying on the surgical bed with a surgeon prodding at his nose.
Then again, it's also possible that Stanley couldn't type because he's lying on some bed with someone prodding at him too.
Then, at 2:45pm, my WhatsApp alert sounded.
"Frankenstein is alive," Stanley reported.
"But he's groggy," updated Stanley.
"ttyl" was the last message.
Yes, that day has come when Carl takes this next big step to looking like a Korean pop star after thinking about it for decades, talking about it for years, researching on the topic for months.
About half an hour later, I received a photo.
Stanley was making a funny face, pointing at Carl's large, bandaged nose.
Carl looked hurt in the photo.
And it must hurt pretty bad, given that the upper half of his face looked like a hastily wrapped mummy.
"You look groggy and zoned out," I pointed out to Carl.
"Then Carl is doing just fine," Stanley replied without missing a beat.
Stanley had been very sweet, taking the day off to drive Carl to and from his plastic surgery.
But that didn't guarantee Carl that Stanley wouldn't happily poke fun at Carl.
On any other day, the words poke and fun would also accurately describe Stanley's hobbies.
And for the next few weeks, Carl would have to move very gently and do things very, very slowly.
Something which Stanley later said was something Carl was fully capable of, considering.
By dinner time, while I was busy slurping a bowl of Korean instant noodles (one of those days where I'm simply too lazy to cook), Stanley sent the group more photos.
Mainly of Carl's nose in different angles.
"I'm feeling okay... it's not painful yet," Carl replied me, adding that he hopes he won't sneeze in the next few weeks.
In one of the wefies taken with Stanley, Carl looked like a victim of an acid attack, his eyes looking puffy and the skin at the edge of his bandage looking pretty sore.
Later that night, my partner J dropped by Carl's home with packed desserts.
One thing I love about J is how he has also come to love my friends - and care for them like I would.
And it was a particularly important gesture that J was there, given that I am now based overseas and can't fly back as and when I wished.
For the next few weeks, Carl was on MC and was slowly nursing himself back to recovery.
His bandage came off in the second week, and again, it was a day of anticipation for me.
This time, Stanley didn't accompany Carl, who was by then well enough to get around on his on.
The first before-after photo was introduced to the group two weeks into Carl's surgery, and shortly after the bandage was removed.
Two photos of Carl's front profile juxtaposed side by side.
"Wow," Stanley typed. "Which photo is the before photo?????"
Stanley wasn't being funny.
I stared very hard at the two photos and even I couldn't tell the difference.
The photo on the left, which I'm made to understand was taken a few weeks before Carl's surgery, looked better than the photo on the right, taken at the clinic toilet.
In fact, Carl's post-surgery nose looks slightly bigger, redder and painful.
Santa Claus would be keen to hire Carl.
Stanley immediately messaged me privately, saying "are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
I typed the words botched surgery, then deleted them, and re-typed the words kena cheated. Then I deleted them again and composed my thoughts.
"We told him so" was my final answer.
"RIGHT? I HATE TO SAY THIS TO MY DEAR CARL, BUT SEE? WE WERE NOT WRONG," Stanley replied, adding that it's no wonder we think like twins given we're a day apart in age.
In our main group chat, Carl typed: "The doctor says don't worry - the swelling will go down after a while".
"Yeah," Stanley replied with a smirk icon.
"Exactly what I said in bed last night."
---------------------------
Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people
Granted, it isn't exactly a busy day at the office, plus it's a Friday.
My staff are all winding down after lunch in anticipation of the weekend.
I on the other hand, am anticipating updates in my group chat, titled Just the Boys.
Three of us are in that group - me, my dense friend Carl and Stanley the sex bunny.
As of now, the group is silent.
The last message, at 9:13am Singapore time, was a photo of Stanley making a funny face, pointing at Carl's large nose.
Carl looked hurt in the photo.
Three hours later, there are still no updates.
Carl couldn't type because he's lying on the surgical bed with a surgeon prodding at his nose.
Then again, it's also possible that Stanley couldn't type because he's lying on some bed with someone prodding at him too.
Then, at 2:45pm, my WhatsApp alert sounded.
"Frankenstein is alive," Stanley reported.
"But he's groggy," updated Stanley.
"ttyl" was the last message.
Yes, that day has come when Carl takes this next big step to looking like a Korean pop star after thinking about it for decades, talking about it for years, researching on the topic for months.
About half an hour later, I received a photo.
Stanley was making a funny face, pointing at Carl's large, bandaged nose.
Carl looked hurt in the photo.
And it must hurt pretty bad, given that the upper half of his face looked like a hastily wrapped mummy.
"You look groggy and zoned out," I pointed out to Carl.
"Then Carl is doing just fine," Stanley replied without missing a beat.
Stanley had been very sweet, taking the day off to drive Carl to and from his plastic surgery.
But that didn't guarantee Carl that Stanley wouldn't happily poke fun at Carl.
On any other day, the words poke and fun would also accurately describe Stanley's hobbies.
And for the next few weeks, Carl would have to move very gently and do things very, very slowly.
Something which Stanley later said was something Carl was fully capable of, considering.
By dinner time, while I was busy slurping a bowl of Korean instant noodles (one of those days where I'm simply too lazy to cook), Stanley sent the group more photos.
Mainly of Carl's nose in different angles.
"I'm feeling okay... it's not painful yet," Carl replied me, adding that he hopes he won't sneeze in the next few weeks.
In one of the wefies taken with Stanley, Carl looked like a victim of an acid attack, his eyes looking puffy and the skin at the edge of his bandage looking pretty sore.
Later that night, my partner J dropped by Carl's home with packed desserts.
One thing I love about J is how he has also come to love my friends - and care for them like I would.
And it was a particularly important gesture that J was there, given that I am now based overseas and can't fly back as and when I wished.
For the next few weeks, Carl was on MC and was slowly nursing himself back to recovery.
His bandage came off in the second week, and again, it was a day of anticipation for me.
This time, Stanley didn't accompany Carl, who was by then well enough to get around on his on.
The first before-after photo was introduced to the group two weeks into Carl's surgery, and shortly after the bandage was removed.
Two photos of Carl's front profile juxtaposed side by side.
"Wow," Stanley typed. "Which photo is the before photo?????"
Stanley wasn't being funny.
I stared very hard at the two photos and even I couldn't tell the difference.
The photo on the left, which I'm made to understand was taken a few weeks before Carl's surgery, looked better than the photo on the right, taken at the clinic toilet.
In fact, Carl's post-surgery nose looks slightly bigger, redder and painful.
Santa Claus would be keen to hire Carl.
Stanley immediately messaged me privately, saying "are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
I typed the words botched surgery, then deleted them, and re-typed the words kena cheated. Then I deleted them again and composed my thoughts.
"We told him so" was my final answer.
"RIGHT? I HATE TO SAY THIS TO MY DEAR CARL, BUT SEE? WE WERE NOT WRONG," Stanley replied, adding that it's no wonder we think like twins given we're a day apart in age.
In our main group chat, Carl typed: "The doctor says don't worry - the swelling will go down after a while".
"Yeah," Stanley replied with a smirk icon.
"Exactly what I said in bed last night."
---------------------------
Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people
Saturday, 5 October 2019
Knock, Knock
In creepy movies, one of the lines we might hear from predators is "you can run, but you cannot hide".
But in real life, we can.
Particularly in gay life.
Well, some of us, at least.
Stanley my sex bunny friend fully agrees with me.
"In the creepy movies that I watch," he said, making quotation marks in the air at the word creepy, "the predators will also say you can run but you cannot hide."
"But in those movies, they always have a happy ending," Stanley said with great gratification.
I'm inspired to write about hiding in the closet because the topic came up the other day when Stanley WhatsApped me.
"It's a boy," Stanley wrote, pasting a photo of a very tiny being wrapped up in swathes of towels.
The newborn, fresh into this world and fresh out of the oven, looked reddish and very annoyed, the photo capturing him in a perpetual scream.
"Anyone who comes out of that tunnel will definitely be pissed like this li'l cutie," Stanley said.
The cutie belonged to our friend Matthew, and the oven belonged to Carey, Matthew's wife.
Of course, we're happy for Matthew - Stanley and my friend from our army days - and Mrs Matthew.
I mean, the natural thing would be to feel happy for a friend's new baby boy, right?
Except in Matthew's case, we aren't exactly sure.
Matthew is gay and in denial.
We know because years ago, we found out that Matthew slept around with the same number of men - and in some cases, the same men - as Stanley.
The matter came to light when Stanley had a prolonged chat with one of his talkative One Night Stand partners.
Matthew was mentioned because the One Night Stand asked if Stanley might know Matthew since both of them belonged to a small, elite force in the army, and both were of the same age.
Shocked, Stanley took on the probing role and dug for more info and, to his utter surprise, confirmed that the Matthew was our Matthew. There was photographic and text evidence.
I remember Stanley urgently texting me immediately with that news when he found out.
Matthew is a very straight-acting man.
So straight-acting that, like method actors, he believes he's straight.
While he is our friend, he had never opened his heart to show anyone his most vulnerable part.
"Yah, but he can open up his zip and show people his most vulnerable bits," Stanley retorted in mock anger, unwilling to accept such irony.
Years ago, Stanley and I decided to help Matthew get out of his closet so that he knows he's not alone in this world.
Over a casual dinner at a Japanese restaurant in Holland Village, Stanley got the conversation moving.
"Matt, I have something to tell you," Stanley said casually, setting his green tea cup on the table.
Matthew waited cautiously, sensing potentially heavy news.
"I'm gay," Stanley said and paused.
It took Matthew just two seconds to recover and say the words "Okay!" in a decidedly clam manner.
"I'm gay too," I added, and paused.
Again, two seconds later, Matthew bounced back calmly. "Oh, okay," he said.
Stanley waited for Matthew to finish chewing - so that he had no excuse to stall his next answer - when he went for the kill: "Are you gay, Matt?"
Matthew paused and this time, he breached the two-second mark.. third second, fourth second... tick tock tick tock... Matthew stared blankly at Stanley his mouth slightly agape and a grand total of nine seconds later (yes, I had to keep count as Stanley had instructed carefully at the plotting stage), said "no."
That night, Stanley decided to brush it off and not produce evidence that would force Matthew into an unretractable corner.
Eventually, Matthew retreated further into his closet - his prison - and eventually, years later, invited us to his wedding.
Matthew's newborn stirred up that evening's dinner topic and it made me feel sad for Matthew.
I am in no position to judge.
And neither was Stanley - he was in a compromised position and couldn't think clearly when he received my message asking him for his thoughts.
I of all people - gay and sometimes indignant about how other people shouldn't judge gays - should never impose my judgement on anyone.
Because whether you want to step out of the closet or not is none of my business.
Except in Stanley's case - I was one of those heavily involved in his coming out party when he invited a handful of our army buddies to his house for a barbeque gathering at a time when the group of us were starting to marry one by one and Stanley's sick of answering when his turn might be.
After that party, Stanley teared.
Three of our best pals in our unit toasted to Stanley's (and slightly later, my) coming out, and today, they remain fierce, loyal buddies to us.
Carl our dense friend's coming out was a simple affair.
He didn't need to step out of his closet: His closet was transparent and made of glass for all to view.
While we aren't open gayvangalists, introducing ourselves at parties by stating that we're gay, we don't outrightly lie or - most importantly - feel ashamed of ourselves.
But that's not the case for Uncle Thomas, my uni classmate Sasa's uncle.
Sasa, who, while isn't a faghag, isn't clueless about gays either.
She's a gay associate given that she has wonderful gay men in her life: Her creative boss, her interior designer, her ex-classmates from SCGS, and of course, me.
Oh, and apparently, Uncle Thomas too.
Sasa has long suspected that Uncle Thomas, 55, single and available is gay.
And being his favourite niece, Sasa wants to be supportive and so has on many occasions, hinted to Uncle Thomas that she's open minded, has a great good gay friend from uni, and will go all out to burn her expensive branded bra if necessary, at the Pink Dot event.
But Uncle Thomas never took the bait.
"I don't want him to feel pressured - I just want him to know I'll always love him," Sasa would say.
What worries Sasa is, Uncle Thomas doesn't seem to be comfortable with the idea of his sexuality 'cos most of Uncle Thomas' friends are straight and she worries that Uncle Thomas is forever gonna be in the closet that the closet becomes a coffin.
"Maybe I'm too close to him for him to be open," Sasa would say at every opportunity whenever the topic of old gay men came up.
I thought about it the other night.
Coming out of the closet gets harder when you're older.
The key is lost. And even if it's unlocked, the hinges of the closet become rusty.
There's a lot more at stake - especially since the skeleton that's in the closet has lived a large part of his life like that.
Maybe, they're like turtles.
Without their shells, they die.
So we shouldn't act like we know better and force them out of their shells.
Stanley fully agrees.
"Turtles remind me of dick heads," Stanley said on WhatsApp.
"And those dick heads find it harder to shed their shell as they grow older. Circumcision gets more complicated with age."
I told Sasa who told me she couldn't look at Uncle Thomas in the eye for the next three weeks.
---------------------------
Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people
But in real life, we can.
Particularly in gay life.
Well, some of us, at least.
Stanley my sex bunny friend fully agrees with me.
"In the creepy movies that I watch," he said, making quotation marks in the air at the word creepy, "the predators will also say you can run but you cannot hide."
"But in those movies, they always have a happy ending," Stanley said with great gratification.
I'm inspired to write about hiding in the closet because the topic came up the other day when Stanley WhatsApped me.
"It's a boy," Stanley wrote, pasting a photo of a very tiny being wrapped up in swathes of towels.
The newborn, fresh into this world and fresh out of the oven, looked reddish and very annoyed, the photo capturing him in a perpetual scream.
"Anyone who comes out of that tunnel will definitely be pissed like this li'l cutie," Stanley said.
The cutie belonged to our friend Matthew, and the oven belonged to Carey, Matthew's wife.
Of course, we're happy for Matthew - Stanley and my friend from our army days - and Mrs Matthew.
I mean, the natural thing would be to feel happy for a friend's new baby boy, right?
Except in Matthew's case, we aren't exactly sure.
Matthew is gay and in denial.
We know because years ago, we found out that Matthew slept around with the same number of men - and in some cases, the same men - as Stanley.
The matter came to light when Stanley had a prolonged chat with one of his talkative One Night Stand partners.
Matthew was mentioned because the One Night Stand asked if Stanley might know Matthew since both of them belonged to a small, elite force in the army, and both were of the same age.
Shocked, Stanley took on the probing role and dug for more info and, to his utter surprise, confirmed that the Matthew was our Matthew. There was photographic and text evidence.
I remember Stanley urgently texting me immediately with that news when he found out.
Matthew is a very straight-acting man.
So straight-acting that, like method actors, he believes he's straight.
While he is our friend, he had never opened his heart to show anyone his most vulnerable part.
"Yah, but he can open up his zip and show people his most vulnerable bits," Stanley retorted in mock anger, unwilling to accept such irony.
Years ago, Stanley and I decided to help Matthew get out of his closet so that he knows he's not alone in this world.
Over a casual dinner at a Japanese restaurant in Holland Village, Stanley got the conversation moving.
"Matt, I have something to tell you," Stanley said casually, setting his green tea cup on the table.
Matthew waited cautiously, sensing potentially heavy news.
"I'm gay," Stanley said and paused.
It took Matthew just two seconds to recover and say the words "Okay!" in a decidedly clam manner.
"I'm gay too," I added, and paused.
Again, two seconds later, Matthew bounced back calmly. "Oh, okay," he said.
Stanley waited for Matthew to finish chewing - so that he had no excuse to stall his next answer - when he went for the kill: "Are you gay, Matt?"
Matthew paused and this time, he breached the two-second mark.. third second, fourth second... tick tock tick tock... Matthew stared blankly at Stanley his mouth slightly agape and a grand total of nine seconds later (yes, I had to keep count as Stanley had instructed carefully at the plotting stage), said "no."
That night, Stanley decided to brush it off and not produce evidence that would force Matthew into an unretractable corner.
Eventually, Matthew retreated further into his closet - his prison - and eventually, years later, invited us to his wedding.
Matthew's newborn stirred up that evening's dinner topic and it made me feel sad for Matthew.
I am in no position to judge.
And neither was Stanley - he was in a compromised position and couldn't think clearly when he received my message asking him for his thoughts.
I of all people - gay and sometimes indignant about how other people shouldn't judge gays - should never impose my judgement on anyone.
Because whether you want to step out of the closet or not is none of my business.
Except in Stanley's case - I was one of those heavily involved in his coming out party when he invited a handful of our army buddies to his house for a barbeque gathering at a time when the group of us were starting to marry one by one and Stanley's sick of answering when his turn might be.
After that party, Stanley teared.
Three of our best pals in our unit toasted to Stanley's (and slightly later, my) coming out, and today, they remain fierce, loyal buddies to us.
Carl our dense friend's coming out was a simple affair.
He didn't need to step out of his closet: His closet was transparent and made of glass for all to view.
While we aren't open gayvangalists, introducing ourselves at parties by stating that we're gay, we don't outrightly lie or - most importantly - feel ashamed of ourselves.
But that's not the case for Uncle Thomas, my uni classmate Sasa's uncle.
Sasa, who, while isn't a faghag, isn't clueless about gays either.
She's a gay associate given that she has wonderful gay men in her life: Her creative boss, her interior designer, her ex-classmates from SCGS, and of course, me.
Oh, and apparently, Uncle Thomas too.
Sasa has long suspected that Uncle Thomas, 55, single and available is gay.
And being his favourite niece, Sasa wants to be supportive and so has on many occasions, hinted to Uncle Thomas that she's open minded, has a great good gay friend from uni, and will go all out to burn her expensive branded bra if necessary, at the Pink Dot event.
But Uncle Thomas never took the bait.
"I don't want him to feel pressured - I just want him to know I'll always love him," Sasa would say.
What worries Sasa is, Uncle Thomas doesn't seem to be comfortable with the idea of his sexuality 'cos most of Uncle Thomas' friends are straight and she worries that Uncle Thomas is forever gonna be in the closet that the closet becomes a coffin.
"Maybe I'm too close to him for him to be open," Sasa would say at every opportunity whenever the topic of old gay men came up.
I thought about it the other night.
Coming out of the closet gets harder when you're older.
The key is lost. And even if it's unlocked, the hinges of the closet become rusty.
There's a lot more at stake - especially since the skeleton that's in the closet has lived a large part of his life like that.
Maybe, they're like turtles.
Without their shells, they die.
So we shouldn't act like we know better and force them out of their shells.
Stanley fully agrees.
"Turtles remind me of dick heads," Stanley said on WhatsApp.
"And those dick heads find it harder to shed their shell as they grow older. Circumcision gets more complicated with age."
I told Sasa who told me she couldn't look at Uncle Thomas in the eye for the next three weeks.
---------------------------
Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people
Saturday, 28 September 2019
Encounters of the Third Kind
Stanley my sex bunny friend asked in our "Just the Boys" WhatsApp group the other night for our thoughts on relationships.
More particularly, he wanted to know how Carl and I felt about people who're husband snatchers.
"I mean, I guess I'm okay with them," Stanley wrote, answering his own question immediately before I had any chance to form thoughts.
Carl the dense one didn't reply because he simply couldn't form thoughts, full stop.
"Cos, you guys know, I'm all loving, all encompassing and I don't judge," Stanley continued.
"So, husband snatchers, I'm ok with. Cradle snatchers, I'm okay with too," he wrote, tagging Carl to that statement.
Carl, who once dated a boy nearly a decade his junior (Carl was then 26 and his then-boyfriend was only in JC 2), didn't take the bait.
I guess, understandably, sleep was more crucial to Carl.
The reason Stanley stirred the group chat to life at 3am Singapore time on a Thursday night was that he needed us to know he was kinda seeing a man who's attached.
So basically, Stanley has broken yet another rule of his - the first being to never date his One Night Stand (which he briefly did but failed).
This time, he's flirting with fire.
And the temptation of tasting the forbidden fruit was too much for Stanley to bear.
Stanley got to know B at a party - one of Stanley's badminton sister gang's birthday parties which was held at someone's place.
Long story short, B was introduced to Stanley. They got along. They drank. They giggled. They left the party early. They made out.
"And may I just add that the fruit basket was very abundant," Stanley wrote, telling us his interpretation of a long story.
"Did you make out with him before or after you knew he was attached?" I typed, still feeling reasonably awake given that it was 1.30am my time.
"That's not the point," Stanley replied coldly.
Okay, so we know Stanley made out with B despite knowing B was attached.
But hey, no judgement from me.
I mean, in my thirties, I would have flared up and possibly held Stanley by his shoulders and shaken him awake like he's a human bottle of protein shake.
Stanley my sexually active friend said later he wouldn't disagree that he's a human bottle of protein shake, given that he has personally served it to happy customers before.
While I see myself as someone with a strong sense of righteousness, it's sorta changed now.
Like how age adds on optical degrees to our eyesight, it's also added extra lenses to the way I view things.
And when I see Stanley's situation, I still view it with a sense of righteousness but with extra wisdom that can only be cultivated over time.
So, I decided to be less impulsive and more patient.
Turns out, Stanley's encounter with B was anything but brief.
In fact, all their encounters didn't involve briefs or undergarments of any kind.
And Stanley, well, was sliding further into the dark hole.
The next day, at exactly 7.24am Singapore time, Carl replied us with a series of icons that needed to be sent to forensics to have them deciphered - a face icon with a lone sweat drop, a series of middle fingers, followed by a series of thumbs-up, a party icon with confetti and two applauding hands. Oh, and a "good morning boys".
"I'm so listless," Stanley wrote back.
"I feel fresh," Carl replied proudly.
"I just want to stay in a horizontal position and not do anything for a long, long time," Stanley wrote.
"Oh, I'm also doing planks!" Carl replied happily, no doubt starting his day at Fitness First in Bugis.
Later in the day, Stanley supplied us with more context.
He knows it's wrong to be a third party.
"But you know, I love parties," he said, still having the cheek to joke around.
"And you know, B is HUGE," he continued, still having the cheek to sleep around.
But it's more than that, for Stanley.
I've known him for two decades and he's the classic wham bam thank you man who won't hesitate to block his flings.
For Stanley to be emotionally involved with not just a fling but an attached fling, he must really feel something for B.
I shared this with J my partner (who's not allowed in Just the Boys group chat).
I had expected J - my wise and practical boyfriend - to cluck his tongue rapidly and shake his head at Stanley.
I later copied and pasted J's response to Just the Boys.
"So?"
"You know Stan. He's not going to intentionally hurt himself - or others."
"So for him to get himself in this situation, it must be because he really cannot help himself"
"And you of all people should know this. There's no permanence in life."
"So when you're suffering, know that there's an end to the pain. And when you're having a good time, know that it wouldn't be forever too - so treasure those moments while you can."
"Stan knows this love-triangle is not going to last. He's not stupid."
"So my take is, love that guy briefly but passionately while Stan still wants to. Because eventually that too, will die off. So why waste time worrying about right and wrong when you can spend time loving that guy for that brief moment"?
Stanley later told me privately that he teared over J's wise words.
In the group chat though, Stanley wrote this: "omg, J has an answer to every question!!!"
To which, Carl, who has a question for every answer, replied: "actually, what's going ah?"
The next few days, we didn't hear from Stanley.
Until Tuesday afternoon.
"So I thought long and hard about us," he began.
"Cos anything involving me and B are long and hard," Stanley wrote, injecting his trademark sense of humour.
"And I've decided to take J's advice."
Apparently, over the weekend, Stanley had asked B out.
On a date.
The type where no body fluids are exchanged.
A date which is decent, and which would allow both B and Stanley to focus on each other's company and personality.
And it turns out that Stanley really, really likes B, who he says has a very good sense of humour.
"Your type of humour, or a normal person's type of humour?" I had to clarify.
Stanley later said in the group chat that they both didn't avoid the elephant in the room.
"?" Carl typed, asking if they had gone on a romantic date at the Night Safari.
"We talked about us. As in, us. Me and B," Stanley said.
"We didn't talk about labels. So it's not Stanley the third party versus B's rightful partner. It was plain - Stanley and B both like each other," he typed.
Carl - who once had a mental block and panic attack at a crowded and fast-moving KFC counter while deciding what chicken combo to choose from - remained silent, no doubt overwhelmed with, a) the quantity of the plain facts, b) the complexity of those facts, and c) the need to further apply critical thinking before being able to comment.
But Stanley is on the other end of the spectrum - always filled with analogies and always able to articulate.
Stanley says he told B that men are not meant to be monogamous.
"This is why our sexual organs are hanging out. They're designed for frequent use," Stanley wrote.
"Plus, people should really stop being so hypocritical," Stanley said, without specifying who those people are.
"If gays want other people to be open minded and accept that homosexuality is not unnatural," he explained, "then we have to go one step further."
"People also need to start being open minded about gays naturally being promiscuous."
"It's simple - if you want to be open minded, you have to be open all the way. Open very wide," Stanley said, speaking from past experience.
"And what did B say," I ask.
"B says he loves that I'm so open," Stanley wrote, attaching a gif of a guy raising an eyebrow suggestively.
"And I guess open is the theme now," Stanley wrote ruefully, referring to B's relationship.
"B also says he likes that I'm not one to hide my feelings. He says I'm like an open book."
"So I told B... don't judge me by my cover."
"And I added that if I really were a book, I'd be the type of book popular among boys, and I'll have very, very sticky pages."
Stanley said B and him ended that date on a sticky note.
---------------------------
Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people
More particularly, he wanted to know how Carl and I felt about people who're husband snatchers.
"I mean, I guess I'm okay with them," Stanley wrote, answering his own question immediately before I had any chance to form thoughts.
Carl the dense one didn't reply because he simply couldn't form thoughts, full stop.
"Cos, you guys know, I'm all loving, all encompassing and I don't judge," Stanley continued.
"So, husband snatchers, I'm ok with. Cradle snatchers, I'm okay with too," he wrote, tagging Carl to that statement.
Carl, who once dated a boy nearly a decade his junior (Carl was then 26 and his then-boyfriend was only in JC 2), didn't take the bait.
I guess, understandably, sleep was more crucial to Carl.
The reason Stanley stirred the group chat to life at 3am Singapore time on a Thursday night was that he needed us to know he was kinda seeing a man who's attached.
So basically, Stanley has broken yet another rule of his - the first being to never date his One Night Stand (which he briefly did but failed).
This time, he's flirting with fire.
And the temptation of tasting the forbidden fruit was too much for Stanley to bear.
Stanley got to know B at a party - one of Stanley's badminton sister gang's birthday parties which was held at someone's place.
Long story short, B was introduced to Stanley. They got along. They drank. They giggled. They left the party early. They made out.
"And may I just add that the fruit basket was very abundant," Stanley wrote, telling us his interpretation of a long story.
"Did you make out with him before or after you knew he was attached?" I typed, still feeling reasonably awake given that it was 1.30am my time.
"That's not the point," Stanley replied coldly.
Okay, so we know Stanley made out with B despite knowing B was attached.
But hey, no judgement from me.
I mean, in my thirties, I would have flared up and possibly held Stanley by his shoulders and shaken him awake like he's a human bottle of protein shake.
Stanley my sexually active friend said later he wouldn't disagree that he's a human bottle of protein shake, given that he has personally served it to happy customers before.
While I see myself as someone with a strong sense of righteousness, it's sorta changed now.
Like how age adds on optical degrees to our eyesight, it's also added extra lenses to the way I view things.
And when I see Stanley's situation, I still view it with a sense of righteousness but with extra wisdom that can only be cultivated over time.
So, I decided to be less impulsive and more patient.
Turns out, Stanley's encounter with B was anything but brief.
In fact, all their encounters didn't involve briefs or undergarments of any kind.
And Stanley, well, was sliding further into the dark hole.
The next day, at exactly 7.24am Singapore time, Carl replied us with a series of icons that needed to be sent to forensics to have them deciphered - a face icon with a lone sweat drop, a series of middle fingers, followed by a series of thumbs-up, a party icon with confetti and two applauding hands. Oh, and a "good morning boys".
"I'm so listless," Stanley wrote back.
"I feel fresh," Carl replied proudly.
"I just want to stay in a horizontal position and not do anything for a long, long time," Stanley wrote.
"Oh, I'm also doing planks!" Carl replied happily, no doubt starting his day at Fitness First in Bugis.
Later in the day, Stanley supplied us with more context.
He knows it's wrong to be a third party.
"But you know, I love parties," he said, still having the cheek to joke around.
"And you know, B is HUGE," he continued, still having the cheek to sleep around.
But it's more than that, for Stanley.
I've known him for two decades and he's the classic wham bam thank you man who won't hesitate to block his flings.
For Stanley to be emotionally involved with not just a fling but an attached fling, he must really feel something for B.
I shared this with J my partner (who's not allowed in Just the Boys group chat).
I had expected J - my wise and practical boyfriend - to cluck his tongue rapidly and shake his head at Stanley.
I later copied and pasted J's response to Just the Boys.
"So?"
"You know Stan. He's not going to intentionally hurt himself - or others."
"So for him to get himself in this situation, it must be because he really cannot help himself"
"And you of all people should know this. There's no permanence in life."
"So when you're suffering, know that there's an end to the pain. And when you're having a good time, know that it wouldn't be forever too - so treasure those moments while you can."
"Stan knows this love-triangle is not going to last. He's not stupid."
"So my take is, love that guy briefly but passionately while Stan still wants to. Because eventually that too, will die off. So why waste time worrying about right and wrong when you can spend time loving that guy for that brief moment"?
Stanley later told me privately that he teared over J's wise words.
In the group chat though, Stanley wrote this: "omg, J has an answer to every question!!!"
To which, Carl, who has a question for every answer, replied: "actually, what's going ah?"
The next few days, we didn't hear from Stanley.
Until Tuesday afternoon.
"So I thought long and hard about us," he began.
"Cos anything involving me and B are long and hard," Stanley wrote, injecting his trademark sense of humour.
"And I've decided to take J's advice."
Apparently, over the weekend, Stanley had asked B out.
On a date.
The type where no body fluids are exchanged.
A date which is decent, and which would allow both B and Stanley to focus on each other's company and personality.
And it turns out that Stanley really, really likes B, who he says has a very good sense of humour.
"Your type of humour, or a normal person's type of humour?" I had to clarify.
Stanley later said in the group chat that they both didn't avoid the elephant in the room.
"?" Carl typed, asking if they had gone on a romantic date at the Night Safari.
"We talked about us. As in, us. Me and B," Stanley said.
"We didn't talk about labels. So it's not Stanley the third party versus B's rightful partner. It was plain - Stanley and B both like each other," he typed.
Carl - who once had a mental block and panic attack at a crowded and fast-moving KFC counter while deciding what chicken combo to choose from - remained silent, no doubt overwhelmed with, a) the quantity of the plain facts, b) the complexity of those facts, and c) the need to further apply critical thinking before being able to comment.
But Stanley is on the other end of the spectrum - always filled with analogies and always able to articulate.
Stanley says he told B that men are not meant to be monogamous.
"This is why our sexual organs are hanging out. They're designed for frequent use," Stanley wrote.
"Plus, people should really stop being so hypocritical," Stanley said, without specifying who those people are.
"If gays want other people to be open minded and accept that homosexuality is not unnatural," he explained, "then we have to go one step further."
"People also need to start being open minded about gays naturally being promiscuous."
"It's simple - if you want to be open minded, you have to be open all the way. Open very wide," Stanley said, speaking from past experience.
"And what did B say," I ask.
"B says he loves that I'm so open," Stanley wrote, attaching a gif of a guy raising an eyebrow suggestively.
"And I guess open is the theme now," Stanley wrote ruefully, referring to B's relationship.
"B also says he likes that I'm not one to hide my feelings. He says I'm like an open book."
"So I told B... don't judge me by my cover."
"And I added that if I really were a book, I'd be the type of book popular among boys, and I'll have very, very sticky pages."
Stanley said B and him ended that date on a sticky note.
---------------------------
Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people
Saturday, 21 September 2019
By Hook or by Cook
One of the things I love doing these days is to cook.
Cook and cook and cook.
And store.
I had never imagined that meal prepping can be so fulfilling.
I've come to love spending Sunday afternoons labouring over the stove to cook up big pots of food, portioning them out, and then freezing them for the rest of the week.
Stanley my sex bunny friend worries about my newfound hobby.
"You're so damn inward you're acting like a Martha Stewart," he says.
"And you're so damn outward you're acting like a Martha Farker," I replied.
My newfound hobby is actually inspired by Sasha Natasha, my university classmate who's career woman by day and Stepford Wife by night.
Sasha - or Sasa as we call her - loves her kitchen.
You'll love it too if you'd stepped foot in her magazine-featured condo unit, which boasts a lovely kitchen island.
It's literally state of the art.
Her kitchen appliances are also very high tech.
And pretty useless.
I remember questioning Sasa the value of buying a $200 pot, made purely out of copper which is fully capable of conducting heat - including the bloody handle.
"It's French. It's Mauviel 1830. And I went to great lengths to get it," Sasa said, feeling slightly amused by my lack of taste, as if it were layman knowledge to know about vintage pots.
I asked if Stanley knew what Sasa was talking about.
Stanley, who has heard me speak of Sasa, and is one with lots of taste, was appalled.
"You need to introduce Grindr or Tinder to that girl," Stanley told me urgently.
"I've acquired vintage French through those apps - for free - and trust me, they also have great lengths," Stanley said with pride.
But Sasa does have other nifty kitchen gadgets - such as an automated wine opener that does all the unscrewing and sucking of the cork out for you.
Stanley was naturally intrigued by that product when I told him about it later.
That night, Sasa messaged me to say she's meal prepping.
The two of us had always been in touch, having been through thick and thin in university, which normally revolves around hanging out at the campus cafe, or having rowdy house parties at someone's place.
I'm making collagen soup tomorrow, Sasa announced to me that day.
And it'll take 10 hours.
I immediately thought of her gas bills, but with the Stepford Wife, gas bills, water bills, all bills are no issue.
What is an issue to Sasa though, is her health.
Sasa, unlike Stanley, is very careful and particular with what she chooses to put in her mouth.
Collagen soup keeps her young, she'd say.
Stanley, who hasn't met Sasa in person, raises objections when I relayed that bit of info to him.
"Surely it doesn't take that long... the ones that I take - which keeps me young - needs only 10 minutes of my skillful extraction," Stanley said matter-of-factly.
I can bet that Sasa and Stanley won't be dinning together anytime soon.
Apparently, Sasa has to use 10 litres of water to boil chicken feet and bones to death.
Sake is added and constant stirring is needed, a task that no doubt will give you the python-sized biceps that Carl my dense friend has, by the end of the assignment.
The next day, mid-way into her culinary project, Sasa sent me a video of her large bubbling pot of milky goodness.
"My broth" was her caption.
When I forwarded it to Stanley, he replied with a video of his bathtub, also captioned "my broth".
Not to be outdone, Stanley also offered a follow-up video.
"You want to see my milky goodness?"
Oh my goodness. Hell no.
Back to meal prepping please.
It's a very therapeutic activity.
Plus, I get to be in charge of planning hearty meals for the week.
Among the things I'd prepped: Chicken curry, meatball sauce for pasta, fried rice, stir-fried ginger pork.
And with a microwave, I get easy, warm meals after a long day at work.
But truth be told, the joy of meal preps has its origins with my boys Carl and Stanley.
In our younger days, we loved having cookouts.
Sometimes, it'd be at Carl's place when his parents are out of town.
Sometimes, it's at J's.
Most times, it'd be at my place before I moved overseas for my current job.
Those cookout sessions were really fun.
We would typically start our day with hawker breakfast, then stroll along Cold Storage, each grabbing ingredients for the dish we'd prepare.
Stanley always insists on preparing tang yuan for some strange reason.
We'd then lug those fresh ingredients and get to work.
Music is supplied, wine is poured and passed around before we each channelled our inner Master Chef.
For Stanley though, his inner Master Chef was literal.
The chef who was briefly in Stanley whipped up a good meal for him after their hookup.
Stanley was rightly impressed with that encounter that he would always share that romantic One Night Stand at Christmas parties.
As you can imagine, time passes very quickly during our cookouts - there's free flow of wine, and Stanley's never-ending flow of sex stories.
Often, by the time we sat down for dinner, we're already filled with laughter.
Cooking alone overseas reminds me of those happy cookouts.
While I can invite my new friends over to a meal or have such cookouts, I don't do that because cookouts have a very special place in my heart, and it's selfishly reserved for my gang of Stanley, Carl and J.
I relayed that to the boys in our group chat the other night.
Stanley said: "I'm so happy we have a special place in your heart."
"But," Stanley said, suddenly feeling all nostalgic with his old fling the Master Chef, "the true way to a man's heart is through the stomach... but only after making a trip first through his anus."
---------------------------
Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people
Cook and cook and cook.
And store.
I had never imagined that meal prepping can be so fulfilling.
I've come to love spending Sunday afternoons labouring over the stove to cook up big pots of food, portioning them out, and then freezing them for the rest of the week.
Stanley my sex bunny friend worries about my newfound hobby.
"You're so damn inward you're acting like a Martha Stewart," he says.
"And you're so damn outward you're acting like a Martha Farker," I replied.
My newfound hobby is actually inspired by Sasha Natasha, my university classmate who's career woman by day and Stepford Wife by night.
Sasha - or Sasa as we call her - loves her kitchen.
You'll love it too if you'd stepped foot in her magazine-featured condo unit, which boasts a lovely kitchen island.
It's literally state of the art.
Her kitchen appliances are also very high tech.
And pretty useless.
I remember questioning Sasa the value of buying a $200 pot, made purely out of copper which is fully capable of conducting heat - including the bloody handle.
"It's French. It's Mauviel 1830. And I went to great lengths to get it," Sasa said, feeling slightly amused by my lack of taste, as if it were layman knowledge to know about vintage pots.
I asked if Stanley knew what Sasa was talking about.
Stanley, who has heard me speak of Sasa, and is one with lots of taste, was appalled.
"You need to introduce Grindr or Tinder to that girl," Stanley told me urgently.
"I've acquired vintage French through those apps - for free - and trust me, they also have great lengths," Stanley said with pride.
But Sasa does have other nifty kitchen gadgets - such as an automated wine opener that does all the unscrewing and sucking of the cork out for you.
Stanley was naturally intrigued by that product when I told him about it later.
That night, Sasa messaged me to say she's meal prepping.
The two of us had always been in touch, having been through thick and thin in university, which normally revolves around hanging out at the campus cafe, or having rowdy house parties at someone's place.
I'm making collagen soup tomorrow, Sasa announced to me that day.
And it'll take 10 hours.
I immediately thought of her gas bills, but with the Stepford Wife, gas bills, water bills, all bills are no issue.
What is an issue to Sasa though, is her health.
Sasa, unlike Stanley, is very careful and particular with what she chooses to put in her mouth.
Collagen soup keeps her young, she'd say.
Stanley, who hasn't met Sasa in person, raises objections when I relayed that bit of info to him.
"Surely it doesn't take that long... the ones that I take - which keeps me young - needs only 10 minutes of my skillful extraction," Stanley said matter-of-factly.
I can bet that Sasa and Stanley won't be dinning together anytime soon.
Apparently, Sasa has to use 10 litres of water to boil chicken feet and bones to death.
Sake is added and constant stirring is needed, a task that no doubt will give you the python-sized biceps that Carl my dense friend has, by the end of the assignment.
The next day, mid-way into her culinary project, Sasa sent me a video of her large bubbling pot of milky goodness.
"My broth" was her caption.
When I forwarded it to Stanley, he replied with a video of his bathtub, also captioned "my broth".
Not to be outdone, Stanley also offered a follow-up video.
"You want to see my milky goodness?"
Oh my goodness. Hell no.
Back to meal prepping please.
It's a very therapeutic activity.
Plus, I get to be in charge of planning hearty meals for the week.
Among the things I'd prepped: Chicken curry, meatball sauce for pasta, fried rice, stir-fried ginger pork.
And with a microwave, I get easy, warm meals after a long day at work.
But truth be told, the joy of meal preps has its origins with my boys Carl and Stanley.
In our younger days, we loved having cookouts.
Sometimes, it'd be at Carl's place when his parents are out of town.
Sometimes, it's at J's.
Most times, it'd be at my place before I moved overseas for my current job.
Those cookout sessions were really fun.
We would typically start our day with hawker breakfast, then stroll along Cold Storage, each grabbing ingredients for the dish we'd prepare.
Stanley always insists on preparing tang yuan for some strange reason.
We'd then lug those fresh ingredients and get to work.
Music is supplied, wine is poured and passed around before we each channelled our inner Master Chef.
For Stanley though, his inner Master Chef was literal.
The chef who was briefly in Stanley whipped up a good meal for him after their hookup.
Stanley was rightly impressed with that encounter that he would always share that romantic One Night Stand at Christmas parties.
As you can imagine, time passes very quickly during our cookouts - there's free flow of wine, and Stanley's never-ending flow of sex stories.
Often, by the time we sat down for dinner, we're already filled with laughter.
Cooking alone overseas reminds me of those happy cookouts.
While I can invite my new friends over to a meal or have such cookouts, I don't do that because cookouts have a very special place in my heart, and it's selfishly reserved for my gang of Stanley, Carl and J.
I relayed that to the boys in our group chat the other night.
Stanley said: "I'm so happy we have a special place in your heart."
"But," Stanley said, suddenly feeling all nostalgic with his old fling the Master Chef, "the true way to a man's heart is through the stomach... but only after making a trip first through his anus."
---------------------------
Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people
Saturday, 14 September 2019
The Lust Supper
One of the hardest things about uprooting is the saying farewell part.
Having said that, one of the nicest things about uprooting is the saying farewell part.
Because, like a funeral, people whether they're your close circles or friends whom you haven't met for a while, would suddenly make time for you, all lining up to meet you and say their goodbyes.
And tonight, it is one of those nights, but with people who matter most in my life.
My partner J, whom I fell in love with in 2002, as well as my besties Stanley the sex bunny and Carl the dense one, whom I also fell in love with as my gay best friends, in 1999.
And then there are Terry my straight best friend and Nisa my straight best girl friend, both of whom I fell in love with since 1991.
"Oh, I'm so happy to meet your puberty friends," Stanley said to me that Friday night. "I especially love Nisa," he said.
That night, we were all gathering at Nisa's condo, beside Haw Par Villa.
She's also known as the capable one who singlehandedly bought a condo unit without breaking a sweat or her piggy bank.
She's also known as the capable one who climbed the corporate ladder within six years of her career.
Stanley would sometimes ask me why Nisa is so successful at her work place.
"My question is, did she climb the ranks vertically... or, " Stanley paused for effect, "horizontally?"
Truth be told, Nisa wouldn't do it.
She would never in her life sleep her way up.
Nisa doesn't need to.
She has what it takes.
Stanley, to be fair to him, also wouldn't sleep his way up.
Stanley also doesn't need to.
After all, Stanley would just simply just sleep around - whether it's to go up or down, or sideways or backwards. It's one of his passions in life.
At exactly 7:13pm, a grand total of 40 minutes late, Stanley sheepishly walked into Nisa's condo with Carl the dense one behind him.
"Sorry we are late," Stanley said.
"I have no excuse," he said, looking defeated.
"I can't even say we're fashionably late," he said, looking at Carl with disdain.
Our dense friend Carl, who was dressed in a super micro tight top that looked like what Spiderman had worn when he was 11, paired with an ultra short pair of shorts which looked like what Wonderwoman had worn when she was 11, smiled like a goon at his hostsess.
Nisa the ever gracious hostess with the mostess immediately said heartily, "welcome boys, welcome. Make yourselves at home."
J was as usual making himself useful by helping out in the kitchen.
"You have such a lovely couch," Stanley said, plonking himself onto Nisa's leather sofa, making himself useless.
Terry my best friend began pouring white wine and passed it to Carl and Stanley.
That night, as my farewell dinner, Nisa had insisted on cooking me a warm, Peranakan meal.
All my life, I am surrounded by Peranakans.
Stanley, who used to respond to the nickname Little Nonya, is a true blue baba who grew up in a three-storey house with his matriarch of a mum Mrs Monica Ong, in a household that spoke a mix of Malay and Peranakan-accented English.
Nisa, meanwhile, would probably have to respond to the nickname Large Nonya, given that she's rather large and in charge.
She's a typical nonya - she's a feisty chilli padi when she needs to be, but is by and large everyone's best friend 'cos she has a hearty laughter.
For my farewell, Nisa had laboured for an entire week, I kid you not.
She had planned this party with precise execution.
It started seven days ago when she went to Batam to source for Buah Keluark.
Though Stanley grew up eating his family's Buah Keluark, he had once sampled Nisa's version and had for once, said hers tasted better than his family's.
A rare remark for true blue Peranakans.
Nisa is also making my favourite chap chye, as well as home-made achar.
"We love our achar crunchy so we let our cucumbers sun a little longer," Nisa would say.
And then, just to balance out the richness of the meal, Nisa whipped up a simple cabbage and fishaball soup dish.
By exactly 7:24pm, the food was all dished out on Nisa's dinning table.
Photos were taken, and rice was passed around, and dinner was about to begin.
Carl the dense one, who had just finished gym at Fitness First, began eating hungrily, eating five successive spoonfuls of plain rice.
That idiot was on one of those diets where they eat to bulk up.
The rest of us were on one of those diets where we eat to light up.
"Oh, my, god," Stanley said with his mouth full.
"Your Buah Keluark is better than my mum's," Stanley said sincerely for the second time.
Terry, who's one of those irritating straight men who ate a lot but never got fat, scooped extra rice in anticipation of the good meal.
Carl the dense one grinned at Terry encouragingly and shoved more plain rice in his mouth.
J ate quietly, and mindfully, to enjoy Nisa's spread.
Stanley, who was eating slowly so that he could talk, would soon want us to enjoy his spread.
"I was having sex the other day," he began with his favourite dinner topic.
Carl stopped chewing and looked around warily to assess the situation.
"And it was so bad that I feel the need to start a workshop for these 20-somethings to teach them how to give good blow jobs."
Carl, who was chewing yet another mouthful of plain rice, gagged.
J continued enjoying his meal, carefully pairing some belacan with the Buah Keluark.
Nisa and Terry, who have both heard about Stanley and his fey ways, looked amused.
"Now, as a favour to the host, the lovely Nonya Nisa," Stanley said as he put his cutlery down, "I shall impart to her - and maybe to you boys too, the art of blow jobs."
Terry let out a guffaw, tickled by Stanley's randomness.
J remained calm and continued putting, this time, achar and prawn crackers in his mouth.
Carl, who looked pale, put nothing in his mouth.
"Nisa," Stanley said.
"What do you know about blow jobs?"
Nisa, who has one thing in common with Mother Mary, said, "it's fellatio isn't it?"
"Yes. Half mark," said Stanley, Professor Penis.
"In years to come, our descendants will come to refer to tonight as the night of remarkable Oral History," Stanley said proudly.
Nisa was genuinely amused.
"Fellatio is what you tell your 2 year old," Stanley said.
"In my world, we call a spade a spade. It's suck dick."
Carl coughed and sputtered out half chewed rice.
For the next 10 minutes, Stanley was in his element, giving us the low down of blow jobs, paying particular attention to Nisa whom he hopes will benefit.
"The basics," Stanley said, "are that you do not use your teeth."
"Oh, I've heard that," Nisa said.
"Yes, hunny, that's 101."
Next, Stanley instructed the table to not give blow jobs like they're in a hurry to catch the last bus afterwards.
Go slow. The slower, the better.
"If you're sucking it so quickly like it's a melting ice-cream popsicle, then trust me, that thing will get smaller. If you suck it slowly, it'll do the opposite - it will get bigger," Stanley said like a sage.
J looked at me and winked cheekily, then continued to calmly carry on his dinner.
Carl looked like he could no longer eat.
Terry was enjoying this - he had always found gay men to be such true entertainers.
"Now, I'm getting to the interesting bits - things you would have never known," Stanley said like he was about to decode David Copperfield's greatest secrets, "unless you have done all your leg work. On your knees."
Terry laughed and slapped his hands on his thigh, obviously having a good time.
"For the person giving the blow job," Stanley looked pointedly at Nisa - and then glanced at Terry, adding "you listen up too. You never know when this might come in useful."
Terry giggled again but was slapped sharply on the shoulder by Nisa.
"Shhh," Nisa the diligent student said. "I'm listening."
"Always eat a mint before a blow job," Stanley said.
"This way, your man can feel the lingering coolness in your mouth."
Nisa nodded dutifully.
Carl nodded too, and began to snore.
"But that's not all - your lingering coolness will eventually go away.... so you should have prepared a cup of hot water and a glass of ice by the bedside," Stanley said.
"So first, you take a sip of hot water and keep it in your mouth, and then let his tool slip into that warmth."
Terry who was just about to drink his water changed his mind.
"And then, juxtapose the sensation with ice cubes."
Nisa looked like she had attained Nirvana, her eyes enlightened.
"It's like giving your partner's member an onsen experience," Stanley said proudly.
And then, turning to Terry, he said: "Here's a tip for you, buddy. When you are about to get your next blow job, wash your dick with listerine."
Terry paused, and looked at Stanley sideways as if to say What the Hell.
"Because when she takes it in, she'll be pleasantly surprised by the cool - and sweet - sensation of your member," Stanley said.
Terry nodded sagely, joining Nisa in Nirvana.
"And that," Stanley said picking up his cutlery, "is my contribution to society."
The rest of the dinner topic remained civil, and light hearted, with Stanley occasionally tweaking something innocent into a sex joke.
It was familiar territory - good food, good wine, good company, and uninhibited sex jokes.
By far, Nisa's farewell dinner for me was one of the best.
Forty-five minutes later, the six of us were so full we felt like we were about to give birth to Peranakan babies.
But no.
Nisa the hostess with the mostess would not let us go scot free without dessert.
She ushered the rest of us to her balcony and ordered Terry to light up the tea light candles and turn on the string of fairy lights made up of large, colourful balls.
As I joined Nisa in the kitchen - she scooping vanilla ice cream on her homemade brownies and me making cups of Nespresso coffee - I felt a very warm sense of love.
I put my head on Nisa's manly shoulders and said "I love you. I'm gonna miss this."
That night, the six of us had too much to eat, too much to drink, too much to laugh about.
Although the theme was Farewell Adam, no word of goodbye was uttered.
As Stanley had so wisely summed it up, "we're not here to say goodbye to you, bitch. It's just another gathering until we next see you."
"You had better make time and fly back to see your beloved circle," Stanley said, spreading both his arms to point at the group of us.
"Plus, it's not hard to do that," Stanley added.
"I always use a mirror and some yoga moves to see my beloved circle," he said, pointing to his own buttocks to illustrate the point.
---------------------------
Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people
Having said that, one of the nicest things about uprooting is the saying farewell part.
Because, like a funeral, people whether they're your close circles or friends whom you haven't met for a while, would suddenly make time for you, all lining up to meet you and say their goodbyes.
And tonight, it is one of those nights, but with people who matter most in my life.
My partner J, whom I fell in love with in 2002, as well as my besties Stanley the sex bunny and Carl the dense one, whom I also fell in love with as my gay best friends, in 1999.
And then there are Terry my straight best friend and Nisa my straight best girl friend, both of whom I fell in love with since 1991.
"Oh, I'm so happy to meet your puberty friends," Stanley said to me that Friday night. "I especially love Nisa," he said.
That night, we were all gathering at Nisa's condo, beside Haw Par Villa.
She's also known as the capable one who singlehandedly bought a condo unit without breaking a sweat or her piggy bank.
She's also known as the capable one who climbed the corporate ladder within six years of her career.
Stanley would sometimes ask me why Nisa is so successful at her work place.
"My question is, did she climb the ranks vertically... or, " Stanley paused for effect, "horizontally?"
Truth be told, Nisa wouldn't do it.
She would never in her life sleep her way up.
Nisa doesn't need to.
She has what it takes.
Stanley, to be fair to him, also wouldn't sleep his way up.
Stanley also doesn't need to.
After all, Stanley would just simply just sleep around - whether it's to go up or down, or sideways or backwards. It's one of his passions in life.
At exactly 7:13pm, a grand total of 40 minutes late, Stanley sheepishly walked into Nisa's condo with Carl the dense one behind him.
"Sorry we are late," Stanley said.
"I have no excuse," he said, looking defeated.
"I can't even say we're fashionably late," he said, looking at Carl with disdain.
Our dense friend Carl, who was dressed in a super micro tight top that looked like what Spiderman had worn when he was 11, paired with an ultra short pair of shorts which looked like what Wonderwoman had worn when she was 11, smiled like a goon at his hostsess.
Nisa the ever gracious hostess with the mostess immediately said heartily, "welcome boys, welcome. Make yourselves at home."
J was as usual making himself useful by helping out in the kitchen.
"You have such a lovely couch," Stanley said, plonking himself onto Nisa's leather sofa, making himself useless.
Terry my best friend began pouring white wine and passed it to Carl and Stanley.
That night, as my farewell dinner, Nisa had insisted on cooking me a warm, Peranakan meal.
All my life, I am surrounded by Peranakans.
Stanley, who used to respond to the nickname Little Nonya, is a true blue baba who grew up in a three-storey house with his matriarch of a mum Mrs Monica Ong, in a household that spoke a mix of Malay and Peranakan-accented English.
Nisa, meanwhile, would probably have to respond to the nickname Large Nonya, given that she's rather large and in charge.
She's a typical nonya - she's a feisty chilli padi when she needs to be, but is by and large everyone's best friend 'cos she has a hearty laughter.
For my farewell, Nisa had laboured for an entire week, I kid you not.
She had planned this party with precise execution.
It started seven days ago when she went to Batam to source for Buah Keluark.
Though Stanley grew up eating his family's Buah Keluark, he had once sampled Nisa's version and had for once, said hers tasted better than his family's.
A rare remark for true blue Peranakans.
Nisa is also making my favourite chap chye, as well as home-made achar.
"We love our achar crunchy so we let our cucumbers sun a little longer," Nisa would say.
And then, just to balance out the richness of the meal, Nisa whipped up a simple cabbage and fishaball soup dish.
By exactly 7:24pm, the food was all dished out on Nisa's dinning table.
Photos were taken, and rice was passed around, and dinner was about to begin.
Carl the dense one, who had just finished gym at Fitness First, began eating hungrily, eating five successive spoonfuls of plain rice.
That idiot was on one of those diets where they eat to bulk up.
The rest of us were on one of those diets where we eat to light up.
"Oh, my, god," Stanley said with his mouth full.
"Your Buah Keluark is better than my mum's," Stanley said sincerely for the second time.
Terry, who's one of those irritating straight men who ate a lot but never got fat, scooped extra rice in anticipation of the good meal.
Carl the dense one grinned at Terry encouragingly and shoved more plain rice in his mouth.
J ate quietly, and mindfully, to enjoy Nisa's spread.
Stanley, who was eating slowly so that he could talk, would soon want us to enjoy his spread.
"I was having sex the other day," he began with his favourite dinner topic.
Carl stopped chewing and looked around warily to assess the situation.
"And it was so bad that I feel the need to start a workshop for these 20-somethings to teach them how to give good blow jobs."
Carl, who was chewing yet another mouthful of plain rice, gagged.
J continued enjoying his meal, carefully pairing some belacan with the Buah Keluark.
Nisa and Terry, who have both heard about Stanley and his fey ways, looked amused.
"Now, as a favour to the host, the lovely Nonya Nisa," Stanley said as he put his cutlery down, "I shall impart to her - and maybe to you boys too, the art of blow jobs."
Terry let out a guffaw, tickled by Stanley's randomness.
J remained calm and continued putting, this time, achar and prawn crackers in his mouth.
Carl, who looked pale, put nothing in his mouth.
"Nisa," Stanley said.
"What do you know about blow jobs?"
Nisa, who has one thing in common with Mother Mary, said, "it's fellatio isn't it?"
"Yes. Half mark," said Stanley, Professor Penis.
"In years to come, our descendants will come to refer to tonight as the night of remarkable Oral History," Stanley said proudly.
Nisa was genuinely amused.
"Fellatio is what you tell your 2 year old," Stanley said.
"In my world, we call a spade a spade. It's suck dick."
Carl coughed and sputtered out half chewed rice.
For the next 10 minutes, Stanley was in his element, giving us the low down of blow jobs, paying particular attention to Nisa whom he hopes will benefit.
"The basics," Stanley said, "are that you do not use your teeth."
"Oh, I've heard that," Nisa said.
"Yes, hunny, that's 101."
Next, Stanley instructed the table to not give blow jobs like they're in a hurry to catch the last bus afterwards.
Go slow. The slower, the better.
"If you're sucking it so quickly like it's a melting ice-cream popsicle, then trust me, that thing will get smaller. If you suck it slowly, it'll do the opposite - it will get bigger," Stanley said like a sage.
J looked at me and winked cheekily, then continued to calmly carry on his dinner.
Carl looked like he could no longer eat.
Terry was enjoying this - he had always found gay men to be such true entertainers.
"Now, I'm getting to the interesting bits - things you would have never known," Stanley said like he was about to decode David Copperfield's greatest secrets, "unless you have done all your leg work. On your knees."
Terry laughed and slapped his hands on his thigh, obviously having a good time.
"For the person giving the blow job," Stanley looked pointedly at Nisa - and then glanced at Terry, adding "you listen up too. You never know when this might come in useful."
Terry giggled again but was slapped sharply on the shoulder by Nisa.
"Shhh," Nisa the diligent student said. "I'm listening."
"Always eat a mint before a blow job," Stanley said.
"This way, your man can feel the lingering coolness in your mouth."
Nisa nodded dutifully.
Carl nodded too, and began to snore.
"But that's not all - your lingering coolness will eventually go away.... so you should have prepared a cup of hot water and a glass of ice by the bedside," Stanley said.
"So first, you take a sip of hot water and keep it in your mouth, and then let his tool slip into that warmth."
Terry who was just about to drink his water changed his mind.
"And then, juxtapose the sensation with ice cubes."
Nisa looked like she had attained Nirvana, her eyes enlightened.
"It's like giving your partner's member an onsen experience," Stanley said proudly.
And then, turning to Terry, he said: "Here's a tip for you, buddy. When you are about to get your next blow job, wash your dick with listerine."
Terry paused, and looked at Stanley sideways as if to say What the Hell.
"Because when she takes it in, she'll be pleasantly surprised by the cool - and sweet - sensation of your member," Stanley said.
Terry nodded sagely, joining Nisa in Nirvana.
"And that," Stanley said picking up his cutlery, "is my contribution to society."
The rest of the dinner topic remained civil, and light hearted, with Stanley occasionally tweaking something innocent into a sex joke.
It was familiar territory - good food, good wine, good company, and uninhibited sex jokes.
By far, Nisa's farewell dinner for me was one of the best.
Forty-five minutes later, the six of us were so full we felt like we were about to give birth to Peranakan babies.
But no.
Nisa the hostess with the mostess would not let us go scot free without dessert.
She ushered the rest of us to her balcony and ordered Terry to light up the tea light candles and turn on the string of fairy lights made up of large, colourful balls.
As I joined Nisa in the kitchen - she scooping vanilla ice cream on her homemade brownies and me making cups of Nespresso coffee - I felt a very warm sense of love.
I put my head on Nisa's manly shoulders and said "I love you. I'm gonna miss this."
That night, the six of us had too much to eat, too much to drink, too much to laugh about.
Although the theme was Farewell Adam, no word of goodbye was uttered.
As Stanley had so wisely summed it up, "we're not here to say goodbye to you, bitch. It's just another gathering until we next see you."
"You had better make time and fly back to see your beloved circle," Stanley said, spreading both his arms to point at the group of us.
"Plus, it's not hard to do that," Stanley added.
"I always use a mirror and some yoga moves to see my beloved circle," he said, pointing to his own buttocks to illustrate the point.
---------------------------
Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people
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