Recipe For Love

Growing up, my household was always filled with food.

Meal times were grand and extremely rowdy because the matrons of my extended family would come together and make a big deal of dinner.

Our families dominated three out of seven houses in a row: My granny, my aunts and uncles, and my family.

And so by late afternoon, the women would gather at my granny's kitchen, chopping, slicing, pounding. 

Dinners were always filled with heaps of food. And always an event that brought all of us together. 

Naturally, I grew up knowing the importance of food and how it bonds people.

Yet, I didn't learn to cook until absolutely necessary.

In university, I was sent overseas but my first year was all sheltered and pampered: I lived in a hostel known for, among other things, its good food.

I subsequently moved out of the hostel after my first year. 

Mealtimes were tough. 

On days when I didn't eat out, I would compile food -- potato chips pasta. Eating beans out of a can. Whatever I have in the fridge, I made do.

Fast forward to today, I'm like that too. Whatever I have in the fridge, I make do too, but in an extremely culinary fashion.

Over the years, I'd learned to cook -- and cook well.

I moved out at 30 and having my own place meant I needed to learn how to take care of myself.

So it started with simple tips like how to cook vegetables.

My hopeless mum -- who spent all her life climbing the corporate ladder -- had no future in the kitchen. So she imparted zero cooking skills.

I first learned how to stir-fry vegetables from my partner J's mum.

"All you need is oil and nothing else," she said. "You don't even need salt or sauce," she said, stirring the wokful of Chye Sim.

That was my first recipe, I kid you not.

I then began learning to stir-fry meat. From tips and tricks of marination and portioning to the art of using corn flour to thicken meat sauces.

The simple meals I cooked for myself made me feel so accomplished that I felt I could do more.

That's when I actively started collecting family recipes.

My aunt's food is the best.

Her signature dishes include braised mushroom and chicken feet (a recipe that requires you three days' work), sweet and sour pork, and a Cantonese staple known as Tau Gork Lap (which is simply a mix of diced ingredients like long beans, lap cheong, char siew, peanuts, deep fried beancurd and radish). 

From my god-ma, I learnt how to make ayam masak merah (red paste chicken) and bergadil (potato cutlet).

Of course, J's mum also imparted many of her recipes to me -- Indonesian sayur lodeh, rendang and Nonya chap Chye among those.

Today, I have an impressive collection of family recipes which I would dish out on special occasions. 

I was telling J that one day, when all our loved ones are no longer around, I hope to whip up these familiar meals so that we can keep those memories going strong.

This is my recipe for love.

What's yours, dear reader?

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

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

New Year New Love?

“Can we get some more bread please,” Stanley asked for the fourth time. 

 

“Hungry much?” I said passing him my brioche before Stanley the hangry started eating the lazy waiter.

“Gosh, this place. They have the nerve to charge us sky high prices for French food and they can’t even give me decent service,” mumbled Stanley, who appeared to have woken up in 2025 and chosen violence. 

Carl the dense one, who avoids conflicts and confrontation at all costs, sipped his Chardonnay nervously. 

 

It was the first Friday night of 2025 and Stanley insists the boys started the year right, by spending as much time as time as we can before we die. 

 

Stanley had heard from one of his Out-in-Sg friends about Josephine, a cosy French restaurant along Amoy Street. 

 

The set up was nice. The ambience was as lively as can be. 

At one corner were around 12 rowdy guests all squeezed around a high, long table toasting one another with a variety of alcohol: Whiskey, wine, beer. There were a handful of young couples scattered around.

They all looked like they’re in their early 30s, youthful, dressed trendily and ordered like they were on a tight budget.

Our table was the opposite. We had ordered a feast — from escargot and grilled cheese and salads, to meats and seafood. Just that 20 minutes in, none of them arrived yet.

Not even our bread, which Stanley, by now, had resorted to the divine for help: “Oh give us this day our deli bread,” he clasped his hand and said to the ceiling.

Carl was getting bored by the minute and began flexing his python arms for a healthy dose of self-entertainment.

Eager to start the first night out of 2025 with the boys right, I asked: “What’s everyone’s new year resolution?”

New year resolutions are a sensitive yet vital topic.

Vital because, everyone loves a new beginning and setting goals to make themselves feel accomplished.

Sensitive because, in our group, those resolutions are more often than not, unmet.
 

Every year, Stanley sets out his new year with zest: Learn how to bake (he didn’t), learn to be more financially savvy (he didn’t), learn to dive (he didn’t).

Carl on the other hand, was a lot more successful: Get beefier (yes he did — any more iron he pumps and even scarves and shawls won’t fit him), aim to be more youthful (yes he did — the amount of money he’s spent on Botox jabs in Bangkok could easily buy him enough youth to last him for a year… the ones from Silom Soi 2), eat healthier (yes he did — he’s the most disciplined of us all, knowing what to put and what not to put in his mouth, unlike Stanley the sex bunny).

Me? I don’t believe in new year resolutions because I’m competitive in nature.

I don’t start what I know I can’t finish.

I mean, why set myself up for failure and force myself to master sign language in 4 months, or lose 3kg in two months, or read more books when I am already starved for time?

“This year, I aim to continue — if not, intensify — my youthful treatments,” Carl said with a beam and not a single frown line appeared.

I was in awe. Whatever you’re doing to your face, it’s working.

Carl beamed again and flexed both his python-size biceps in appreciation. 

I think I need to lose 3kg in two months, I said with a pout. “Been eating way too much. I need to go on one of those juice diets,” I said. 

“Unlike you, mister Botox,” Stanley said to Carl, “and you, mister detox… I aim to intox,” he said, then turning to a nearby waiter who was gazing at a plant while his colleagues were busy whisking plates of food around, “I need another cocktail — and more bread please.”

I know Stanley long enough to know something’s not quite right.

More than two decades of friendship allowed me to use my non-verbal communication skills to probe further. 

Stanley, himself an expert on using non-verbal skills to probe — and sometimes very oral skills to probe — caught my questioning look, sighed and said “ok, Adam, you caught me. I’ll tell you exactly what the issue is.” 

Carl the dense one, who was using his finger to trace his intricately hand-blown cocktail glass, looked up and immediately frowned, his puzzlement throwing up all sorts of unsaid questions (and yet, not throwing up any frown lines). 

Apparently, Stanley’s love life has again come to an end. 

Though one might argue that Stanley didn’t have a love life to begin with. 

You see, Stanley had recently been seeing a man. An attached man. 

It was all good while it lasted. I liked him. At least, from my previous engagements with him. 

But all good things come to an end. 

After our New Year’s Eve lunch party — which Stanley had hosted — Stanley and his beau had a long talk…. One that literally started in 2024 and ended in 2025. 

Long story short, P and Stanley ended their relationship at 4:13am, Jan 1, 2025. 

“You know what infuriates me the most?” Stanley said fighting back tears. 

Carl the dense one, who always has no answers, shakes his head. 

Just then, not only our bread but also our starters appeared. 

“Sorry for the wait guys,” the restaurant supervisor said rapidly, setting the items on our table then rushing off to appease other hungry diners. 

“P and I were just having an intimate, post-coital talk about our lives,” Stanley continued, staring angrily at his newly filled wine glass of Chardonnay. 

“Things were going fine — he made promises to me, we renewed our commitment of facing what’s to come together and all was rosy.” 

Carl nodded and patted his python sized biceps. 

“And all I asked was whether he would stop seeing other men. And then he went bersek, accusing me of being unreasonable and forcing him to be a mould of the kind of men I want him to be.”

Carl’s eyes widened with fury and his python sized biceps swelled with equal measure of betrayal. 

“Thing is,” Stanley said as the first drop of tears dripped, “I’m not angry that he wants to have me and still see other men. 

“It’s the fact that one minute, he’s making sweet promises to me and assuring me he loves me and the next minute, when things aren’t going his way, his first instinct is to break up with me. So readily!”

Carl, who avoids drama at all costs, nervously pushed to Stanley his brioche, hoping that the very gesture would comfort our hurting friend. 

“No!” Stanley said, determination returning to his eyes. 

Carl the dense one stopped pushing his brioche and slowly drew back the bread towards himself. 

“I’m not going to waste tears on him.”

Carl, relieved, began pushing the brioche back towards Stanley. 

“And no,” Stanley said, looking firmly at Carl, who froze, not knowing which direction his brioche ought to go. 

“I’m not going to start my 2025 like this.”

Carl nodded with gusto. 

“So, you’ll take the bread?”

 

 

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

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

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

It's the start of yet another year.

And I just wanted to quickly post this entry to wish my blog readers a very healthy, happy, and prosperous new year.

In the coming year, I do hope to continue writing and posting every week, to keep you entertained.

Lots of love,

Adam

Leftovers Party

Yesterday was a mish mash of sorts.

Food, and guests. 

Since I'd spent Christmas Eve and Day at my partner J's, and Carl the dense one with his partner, Stanley made it a point to host a festive lunch for all of us at his place.

And so, Stanley the sex bunny opened his doors to what he calls a Leftovers Party, hosting different groups of friends who somehow are alone this season.

They're not charity case, Stanley said, insisting he likes these people enough to make them each bring a dish and for them to partake in his actual leftovers from his Christmas party.

Carl and me -- and my partner J -- were cordially invited to bring "a bottle of wine each and something tasteful".

On Stanley's table lay a variety of cuisines: Thai, Mexican, Chinese, Bengali, Filipino.

I'm pretty sure those nationalities have also once upon a time been laid on his bed.

"Hey gurrrrrl!"

A shriek rose from the ground floor car park. 

Carl the dense one, who was helping set the table, looked at me nervously.

Carl is often shy when meeting new people. Especially loud people.

I peered down at the source of the shriek and saw a tall, skinny figure (1.83m as we all found out later). He was lugging with one hand a turkey the size of a microwave.

His wave though, was far from micro.

"Heyyyyyy gurrrrrl!" The tall skinny man swung his one free arm from right to left, as if tracing a large invisible semi-circle in the air. He ended his dramatic gesture with a snap of his fingers.

Five floors up, Stanley mirrored the performance. He waved back, theatrically arching not only his arm but also his back. 

Carl looked like he wanted to cry. 

My partner J was extremely amused by the display. 

"What was that strange greeting ritual about, Stan?" I ask.

"Different folks, different strokes," he said without missing a beat, leaving Carl, J and me to respectively interpret exactly what strokes he's using on tall, skinny man.

Stanley had known this literally colourful character from one of those Out-in-Sg group outings. Wine tasting.

"I'm loving this Christmas sweater on you!" Stanley shrilled at tall skinny man in such high pitch that if he'd hit just a bit higher, we'd all have to sweep up glass shards around his home.

They both proceeded to exchange loud air kisses.

Stanley instinctively took in the large bird from tall skinny man -- an action that surely must be second nature to Stanley.

Tall skinny man now has a name. Greg. He's a 50-something corporate lawyer who works for, aptly enough, Disney. When he's not in his hyped persona, Greg actually looks very tame. He has very kind eyes and a gentile demeanor to him. Something that's hard to reconcile given what we all witnessed minutes ago. 

But there was no time to contemplate this.

Soon, the doorbell rang and in stepped Lina, a first-generation Singaporean originally from the land of the Forbidden City. 

Lina was a striking figure. 

She was tall for a girl (1.73m as we all found out later) and is model-slender. Her long, silky straight hair was worn in a high pony tail which speaks of quiet class. If I were to produce a remake of Kevin Kwan's Crazy Rich Asian film, I'd cast Lina as Astrid Leong the likeable rich heiress. 

Lina and Stanley crossed paths while they were both lying on the mat, panting and sweating. 

They bonded seven months ago during a hot yoga class organised by Out-in-Sg, when both of them tried very hard to suppress their giggles after a fellow fat, sweaty yoga participant lost control of himself and let out a sudden burst of fart. 

"You know how quiet yoga classes are and you can hear a pin drop? That fart sounded like you dropped a claypot. A loud, dull thud," Stanley explained. 

Lina brought with her Thai and Filipino food, courtesy of her interest in culinary experiments. 

I can see why she bonded with Stanley, who shares her adventure with experimenting nationalities. 

Stanley's final guest that evening stood at his door, carrying not one but two log cakes. It was that very fat, sweaty man whose fart had helped forge friendships. 

Fat sweaty man was panting but he was beaming with joy. All 1.67m of him (as we all found out later).

Michael was his name. And loud is his game.

Carl kept flinching as Michael chewed loudly with his mouth open, showing the world what he was currently digesting: Lina's adobo chicken. 

"This is delicious, Lin!" Michael said heartily even before he had swallowed the carcass in his mouth.

Carl instinctively covered his wine glass which was right below Michael.

Stanley, who has no sense of timing, decided to raise his glass for a toast at this moment.

Everyone had to politely oblige -- Greg who was about to reach for turkey sauce, Lina who had to put down a floppy taco, J who quickly dabbed his mouth with a napkin, Michael who was still chewing loudly with his mouth open, and Carl who was still reluctant to remove his protective hand from his wine glass despite the prospective toast.

"To good health, lots of money and happiness!" Stanley said in that particular order.

One can't choose good health, he reasoned. And with money, you can buy happiness.

Greg, one of two lawyers at Stanley's table, agreed that this argument held water.

Michael didn't hold any water. "To good health, lots of money and happiness!" he echoed, spraying a mix of saliva and sauce at Carl's wine glass.

Carl really wanted to cry because he really wanted to drink to good health, lots of money and happiness but was now unsure.

That afternoon's lunch was extremely enjoyable.

It was really random -- the food had no theme, the guests, apart from Stanley being the common friend, were diverse. But it all worked.

There was a magic formula to it -- a combination of friends, festive cheer and good conversation. 

By the fifth bottle of Pinot Grigio, all of us were comfortably lulled into some sort of comfort zone with one another. But not too comfortable because Michael was polite enough to hold in farts. 

"And now let's welcome Lina and her Peking Opera performance!" Stanley the random did it again as he handed out Bengali desserts which J brought. 

Everyone was thrilled. Nobody knew Lina could sing Peking Opera, including Lina herself.

But always a good sport, Lina graciously accepted that challenge.

She stood up and braced herself for her first note. She had chosen to sing the Opera part of One Night In Beijing, aptly enough. 

Her vocals sent chills running down our spine -- and not in a good way.

Carl, himself a great vocalist, thought about covering his ears. 

What's with Stanley's friends that made him want to cover this and that, he must have thought. 

By the chorus of Lina's singing, the slender songstress managed to lose all quiet class she portrayed earlier.

Stanley and Michael exchanged looks and they both started suppressed giggles so hard that Michael started tearing.

Geez, I thought to myself. The three of them have such a toxic-three way.

But it was great fun.

Thankfully the Peking Opera number Lina chose had an end to it. 

And before we left Stanley's Queen Close flat, he made us pose with his 2-metre long Christmas tree. 

"Everyone state your actual height please -- I need to line you guys up for the shot," he barked like a demanding tour guide.

As we arranged ourselves in a diagonal line, Stanley said to me. 

"This is fun right? Let's do this one more time during Chinese New Year!"

I caught Carl shiver in response.

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

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

Festive Season

I've always loved this time of the year: It's a time of gathering, feasting, and contemplating (for the year ahead).

Growing up, I'd always looked forward to Christmas (where I spent my childhood holidays at my godparents' place) followed by CNY -- I loved seeing how my mum would deck up our home with pussywillow, large bowls of Mandarin oranges and new cushion covers.

As a child, I loved Christmas. A few days before Dec 25, I'd go to my godparents' home which would be filled with all sorts of festive smells: The warm aroma of orange cake, the sweet scent of pineapple tarts and the buttery fragrance of Dutch biscuits, my personal favourite.

While I was at my godparents', my godpa would make me milo every night. I'd try to keep awake and savour every minute of being allowed to stay up past 11pm and to watch TV. It was every primary school kid's dream, growing up in the 80s.

A day or two before Christmas, I would hang around the backyard where my godma would prepare her usual year-end spreads: A huge pot of Eurasian curry that looks like orge food (it's green and it's called feng... made up of innards). She'd also slow cook Briyani and a variety of other curries.

I had my first sip of alcohol at nine, at my godparents' place during Christmas. 

And then there was Chinese New Year in the Lee household.

Mrs Lee gets very worked up during CNY. She'd have to singlehandedly clean our home and put up decorations that had been reused since before I was born.

There was this creepy-looking figurine stickers -- one boy, one girl, both chubby with red, cherubic cheeks, each holding a scroll that depicted lucky Chinese greetings. The pair of stickers looked like they have a better sense of belonging in haunted mansions than our humble abode.   

Mrs Lee loved pussywillow so there'd always be one huge pot in our front porch. 

And then, there was the preparation of goodies that we kids were allowed to be involved: We'd be tasked with filling up mum's rotatable serving tray with peanuts, sweets, mini chocolates. 

As we grew up, these traditions started to fade.

Take Christmas. 

In the late 90s, my godpa died. Christmas wasn't quite the same without him. Along with his passing, the kids began to also miss Santa Claus. Yes, my godpa would bother dressing up as Father Christmas and make all the kids -- my siblings, my fellow godsiblings, my god-cousins -- giggle to no end.

But Christmas traditions continued after Godpa left.

It was only in 2018 when my godma died, that Christmas was no longer same for me.

That year, I was posted overseas to work. And by the time I returned to Singapore, I had not stepped foot into my godma's home, which was sold shortly after her death.

To be fair, my godsiblings had taken the liberty to carry on the tradition, by cooking and baking the same festive goodies at their home.

But it's no longer the same.

One of my godsiblings has since died. The other finally moved out of Singapore. The only godsibling I have left has her own family -- but she's always opened up her home to me during Christmas.

But since I came back to Singapore from my overseas posting, I'd begun spending Christmas with my partner J and his family. 

For the last six years, I'd found a new tradition for Dec 25: I'd be at J's helping him prepare food where he'd host his immediate and extended family.

As I grow older, I reaslise that childhood traditions would eventually fade with time.

And so, a few years ago, I've decided to carry on these important traditions with my loved ones.

When I had my first apartment, I would host Christmas and whip up a feast for different groups of loved ones: Stanley the sex bunny and Carl the dense one, best girl friend Nisa and Terry, as well as J and his family.

I made it a point to cook feng, which I had learnt from my godma. It's the one tradition I hope to carry on. To feed my loved ones with familiar food I had loved as a child.

For New Year's Eve, sex bunny Stanley would open his house and all of us would gather to eat, drink, make merry and usher in the new year.

And for CNY, I'd set aside a day to cook for my family and loved ones, with recipes learned from the elders in my home.

As we grow older, some of the traditions of our childhood would inevitably disappear -- loved ones would pass on.

But as long as we make an effort to keep such practices -- that are important to us -- burning, we will always be able to carry that torch of tradition. 

Have a merry Christmas and a happy new year ahead, dear reader. 

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

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

Finally, A New Home

It's official.

And extremely timely.

I've finally found a flat which I'm excited about.

And, after nearly two years of waiting and house hunting in recent months, I have collected keys to my new home.

What's also perfect timing is that I'll soon end my current lease at this tiny condo unit I'm renting.

"This is huge!" said Stanley my sex bunny friend who loves all things big.

Carl the dense one clapped like a child, the sounds of his applause echoing in the empty flat.

It was the day after I collected my keys at HDB.

I had brought the boys and my partner of more than 20 years J, to the new flat.

What I love about the flat is that it matched all my criteria: It's centrally located (even more city-fringe than my previous apartment), it's a corner unit (absolute privacy) and the previous owner had also bought the corridor outside the unit (extra space for more partying!). What's more, it's got two toilets so in the event that my guests get mass food poisoning from my cooking, they have more than one outlet to release. 

"I love the view," Carl said in awe. "It's rare there's such unblocked views in a location that's so central."

Indeed, I'm extremely lucky that my new house is nestled among row after row of short, heritage houses. Plus, the fact that I'm on the 12th floor. 

"I dare say this view is better than your previous apartment," Stanley pointed out. "No offence."

None taken.

While I did love my first apartment very much, I was on a low floor and the development was so clustered that my view was that of the opposite block. Not a fun view. Stanley had done all the ground work over the years, surveying my neighbours for hotties to look at. None. 

But that's in the past.

Right now, I'm feeling mixed emotions. Relief, pride, excitement. 

Renovation work would start as soon as I finalise an ID and by the time they're done, I should be able to move in, in June next year.

Already, I have plenty of ideas in my head.

I want to break down walls and reconfigure the space, allowing me to place a 3-metre long table in my spacious living room as the centrepiece. There will be a huge vase with huge flowers, I explained, spreading my arms for effect.

"Huge and huge," Stanley said. "I love it already."

And this corridor space will be my balcony -- the perfect spot for morning coffee, noon cocktails, and post-dinner digestifs. 

"You should have a gym corner!" said Carl, flexing his python-size biceps to prove a point.

This wall will be a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, showcasing all my intellectual books that I read.

J sniggered.

"Okay, fine. Showcasing all the intellectual books that I bought -- but will read when I have time."

As we moved on to the kitchen, Stanley's jaw dropped.

"I think, Adam, the theme of your home here is huge. You can fit an island here!"

Which is perfect. I have always loved cooking. Not just for myself, but for my loved ones. And this would be the perfect kitchen.

"Oh, I will need a dishwasher," I added, looking pointedly at J who does not believe in using machines to wash plates.

And then we can have a bar counter here where you can mix drinks and store expensive bottles of wine for your house parties, Stanley said, and jumped on the spot. Carl the dense one, who's always easily infected with kid-like joy, jumped on the spot alongside Stanley. 

"Well, what do you think?" I pulled J aside, nestling ourselves in a corner of the flat where we had an overview of the space.

"I think you don't need a dishwasher," he said.

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

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

Romance Wasn't Built In A Day (Part II)

I'm high on love.

And in all sense of the word.

Right now, I'm sipping Rose from a flute, taking in the bird's eye view of Orchard Road and beyond.

The light that shone in from the 360-floor-to-ceiling glass panel and the two-storey wine cellar right smack in the middle of the Club was a sight to behold.

My partner of more than 20 years J had put together an impromptu staycation recently and this is the start of it.

Partly, it's because the two of us always make it an effort to inject romance into our coupled lives.

But I know it's mainly 'cos J noticed my recent signs of burnout from work (nothing serious).

And so, J, who had signed up for a membership at 67 Pall Mall not too long ago, brought me to the exclusive high-end club for Friday brunch to kickstart our staycay weekend.

And to J's credit, he bothered dressing up even if it was his usual pale blue office shirt rolled up to his elbows. 

The patrons at the club is well-heeled. Many socialite types. Many high-powered corporate types. A quick glance, and I also spot a few familiar faces not because I know them, but 'cos I've seen them on TV.

It's that sort of crowd and even though I'm an outsider and will never belong in those high-society circles, I am not letting that bother me. 

I am enjoying the moment with J, thankful and excited for our high-altitude brunch which comprised bite-size scallop appetisers, fish, pasta and, of course, wine. 

J told me the entire premises of the two-storey club used to be the penthouse of Run Run Shaw, pointing out where the cinema magnate would host his dinner parties that made up of movie stars. 

J knew because he was given a personal tour by the GM that ran the Club the day he and his colleagues from the firm came for lunch. All of them were subsequently given discounts to join the Club and J took it only because the discount wasn't small (and turning it down would have been un-nice since the firm has dealings with the Club).

The food, to be fair, was extremely nice (it better be).

It was also over brunch that I appreciated J even more.

Friday meals would always be meat-free for him since he's Catholic but he decided I was worth it to break his routine (and for that, I am thankful).

Feeling tipsy (mainly from the experience), we set off from Shaw House to our actual staycation place: Fullerton by the Bay after brunch.

And it was at the hotel lobby that I smiled inwardly, recognising yet another gesture borne out of two decades of love.

J reminded the receptionist that we needed a huge queen-size bed and not twin beds. Something he used to feel uncomfortable saying in our past travels as a young gay couple.

Our schedule was perfect. Perfect because one, I didn't have to plan anything. And two, it was my idea of a perfect staycation. 

The type where we don't need to get out much for activities. Most activities will be confined to the room. The bed (activities which need not be explicitly spelt out), the balcony (for us to indulge in magazine-flipping or reading an actual book over a glass of wine, or simply to stand side by side to watch sunset), or the bath tub (for purposes other than bathing). 

J has finally given in after all these years. 

You see, J is the adventurous and cultural sort. Wherever we are in the world -- Israel, Jordan, Australia, US, you name it -- he would want to experience something historical and cultural.

Me on the other hand, will always want the best food and alcohol and dress up for photo ops. 

I jumped for joy and hugged J, planting a dramatic dry kiss on his lips the way loving grandparents would do to their precious grand kids, when I stepped into our room which boasts a magnificent view of the Singapore River bay. 

And like a child, I held J's hand and explored every corner of the room punctuating every landmark of the room with a kiss on his cheek. 

Oooh, there's a bath tub! A kiss on J's cheek.  The balcony view is like staring into a 3-D tourism postcard! A kiss on J's cheek. And there's TWG tea which you love! I swept all the packets into our bag and grinned at J like a burglar who's gotten lucky.

J just looked at me and laughed at my antics, amused by his silly partner who's entertaining himself.

After we unpacked, we began the first item on our staycay agenda. 

Nap. And then some. But unlike sex bunny friend Stanley, I don't kiss and tell. I only tell the kisses of others. 

When we woke up, it was nearly dinner time. 

And gosh. Can I just say that it felt good. 

We had both, as driven, passionate career men, never taken naps on Fridays -- a working day. But to have the luxury of snuggling and allowing yourself to doze off for three hours after a tipsy brunch... it's one of the most amazing feelings in the world.

I snuggled closer to J and found my happy spot on his body -- the nook between his neck and collar bone and inhaled. J was warm and smelled of his Neutrogena rainshower gel that he uses. 

I didn't want to move. At that point, I hoped time could freeze so that I could enjoy J's warmth that's emitting not just from his body but also his heart. 

But move I must. Because J had started tickling me out of bed to which, he said "after all these years, you're still so vulnerable."

For the next two days, we didn't have a lot to do. 

But they were activities that I would want to do, and knowing that J had curated those activities just for me meant the world to me.

As soon as we got out of our very warm queen size bed, we would dress up for dinner at the hotel. 

J made reservations -- first at Red Lantern the rooftop bar for pre-dinner drinks -- and then a bloody steak with a good bottle of red wine at the ground-floor restaurant.

We'd then stroll very slowly along the Singapore River taking in not just the view but also each other's proximity and presence, after dinner.

The next morning, we were to dip in the rooftop pool before a slow, unhurried champagne-seafood brunch. 

And then, we would retreat back into our room for "separate couple me time", a term I came up with.

J would bury himself into reading whatever fantasy fiction he got his hands on. And me, switching between any crime novel and scrolling IG. All this time, we won't talk. We'd do what we want, but would sit side by side, aware of each other's presence.

As we wrapped up our romantic honeymoon weekend just before we checked out, I placed my forehead against my partner's and repeated what I said to him in 2002. 

"I like you a lot, J."

 

 

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

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