If You Don't Love Yourself...

Last weekend, Stanley, Carl, J and I had the most taxing outings.

The kind where you're literally sapped dry of your energy.

"And not in a good way either," adds Stanley my sex-bunny friend retrospectively.

That Sunday, the four of us gathered because we were summoned.

By Sul A. Baker.

Sulaiman Abu Bakar by birth, our queer friend insisted that he be called Sul (pronounced Sool), when we first met him circa 2000, during our good ol' clubbing days at Niche.

We like Sul.

But we gradually lost touch with him because, while Sul is still a regular feature in the clubbing scene today, almost all of us no longer are (except on very special occasions when someone's birthday was to be held in one of those gay clubs).

And the inevitable happened: We drifted.

So when we each received Sul's summons - in the form of an invite card with elaborate cursive penmanship requesting our "presence" to his "humble home" for a "intimate gathering" - mailed to our home addresses, we had to say yes.

I suspect that Sul had Stanley at the "intimate gathering" part, but I did not feel like probing.

And so, we found ourselves appropriately decked out for that outing: In matching Baju Kurung.

"We look hot in traditional Malay garb," Stanley decided.

"Come, let's take a wefie and hashtag it SGBoy and SGBoyan," he added.

"Stan, please watch what you say. This is a very sensitive period," I cautioned.

"Mmmm, sensitive.... I know all about sensitivity.... "

Sul's home is at Tiong Bahru - one of the old pre-war flats which cost him and his Ang Moh partner 1.2 million dollars.

I can see why he is so eager to have friends over.

Furnished with expensive pieces from all over the world (sofa from Milan, paintings from - was it Spain? - decorative pieces like antiqued dragon ornaments from Shanghai), his flat looks like a showroom.

An art gallery, if you will.

It's also filled with abstract artwork hung on walls, and paintings that look as if it were the work of an overly excited child who had access to a paintbrush and lots and lots of water colour.

Sul's space is huge.

There's a red-bricked wall on one side, cement-screed flooring, black track lights and many pots of indoor plants (overgrown money plants and tall bamboo palm).

His place, for the lack of a better word, is beautiful.

"Eh, eh, eh.... welcome to my home Sayang!" Sul said the moment he spotted us from his kitchen, and modelled his way towards us.

Left, right, left, right. 

Sul was dressed in glittery gold baju melayu, with a songkok - traditional head dress for males - which has the height of a respectable pair of Manolo Blahnik.

"Mmm-mmmm, you still have that walk, Pondan," Stanley spurred the sashaying Sul on, calling Sul by his other nickname.

"Werk it, Pondan," Stanley cheered. "Gelek for kakak to see!"

Sul froze in his tracks.

Carl, J and I looked at one another discreetly, wondering if Sul was offended.

Then, Sul swiftly swivelled away, with his back facing us.

And in large, exaggerated steps, Sul sashayed vigourously as if Jabba The Hutt was possessed by a very drunk Tyra Banks.

Inside the house, everyone started cheering as Sul did his impromptu catwalk for all to see.

Somewhere near his dining table, Sul did a dramatic turn, and then began swaying his generous hips again towards us.

I felt as if Sul were going to crash into us and briefly saw flashes of my entire life run through in fast-motion sequence in my mind.

Sul stopped in front of Stanley, flared his arms up in the air as if he had just completed a flamenco routine, and said: "Just for you, Sundal."

Stanley the Peranakan turned towards us and proudly said "that means whore in Malay".

The two then hugged each other and, I kid you not, jumped together and squealed.

Yes, that's Sul for you. Loud, dramatic, and always ready to perform.

One of the reasons Sul is draining.

I had no idea whether we were invited to a Hari Raya dinner or Pink Dot, but the dramatic welcome was befitting of Sul.

"My word, Sul. You are such a typical Malay woman. Married already then let go and become one fat makcik," Stanley commented without anyone asking. 

"Come, turn. Show kakak your pantat," Stanley said, sounding every bit like a makcik himself, in his Peranakan accent.

"I love your pantat, girl. Very child-bearing," Stanley decided, and slapped Sul's rich girth in approval.

"Your mouth also never change - still like a pantat like that," Sul replied heartily, flicking his wrists in the air as if he had no control over his wrist muscles.

Dinner at Sul's was delightful.

Our domesticated gay friend was quite the culinary expert, whipping up on his own, dishes like sambal goreng with petai, beef rendang, ayam masak merah, and Satay which Sul ordered two weeks in advance.

We were surrounded by a couple of polite angmohs (Sul's partner, William's friends).

And I say they're polite because they smile and nod and laugh at about almost everything.

But it was only when everyone was seated at Sul's 2-metre-long dining table that the night truly began.

Remember when I said the outing was taxing?

Here's why.

For the next four hours - while we were passing sambal goreng petai and topping up drinks for one another - we talked about Sul.

Or rather, we heard about Sul.

For practically every bloody topic, Sul inserted himself in it.

And not in a way Stanley would enjoy either.

By the end of the night, we had heard enough of Sul's achievements at work, in the community, in his family, his earnings, his blessed love life, his great love life, his good work, his happy marriage and his favourite panties brand.

All that's missing was someone passing him an Oscars and asking that bitch to give thanks on stage.

Even in hypothetical situations, the amazing Sul has a way of squeezing his way into it.

"Oxley Road drama is so intense," Sul said. Then, "actually I want to move into Oxley Road area - but with our combined earnings we'd be struggling to pay off the housing loan so no choice lah, we settle for this colonial-like flat."

Or, "alamak, I better start writing all my wills properly - wait my family also got drama after I die," Sul casually announced to the whole table of guests, who I noticed had begun to nod politely like hypnothised zombies.

By the time we stepped out of Sul's place, we reminded ourselves to restrict all future meetings with Sul to outings that don't require him to speak very much: Such as when Sul is in a coma, somewhere in a hospice.

"And that's me being nice with such examples," Stanley said proudly.

As we walked to the car park in the quaint neighbourhood, J my partner said that Sul really isn't all that bad.

"All he likes to do is talk about himself and make himself feel good," J said.

To which, Stanley replied immediately: "No, no, hunny. You don't get to defend him. There are many ways I can think of making myself feel gooooooood without needing to talk about myself."

But it's true that Sul is harmless - that his fault lies in wanting to be heard, J pointed out to us.

There are always such people around - and maybe they had very bad childhood stories, like, nobody recognises them for what they've been doing?

That's why over the years, they build up such a habit to reaffirm themselves, J said.

"Plus, it's not like Sul put anyone down to make himself feel good - so that's good right?" J argued like the true litigator who he is.

Stanley stared at J, his eyes wide as testicles.

"Hunny, that's where you're wrong. You do put people down to make yourself feel gooooood - and that is a good thing," Stanley retorted like the true sex bunny who he is.