Life in Plastic

TMI Alert! read our WhatsApp group chat.

Before Carl and I could stop Stanley - who is capable of sharing too much information beyond all recommended levels - our fey friend had already typed out words which we wished we hadn't read.

"I love it when I am taking a dump and check that I have a LOT of poop."
"The smellier the better."
"Is it weird?"

It's that time of the morning, when Stanley Ong would be most free because it's after breakfast and the coffee he drank kickstarted his bowel engines.

"What's everyone doing tonight,' Stanley the sex bunny typed.

I couldn't resist. "Whom are you doing tonight," I wrote.

Seven minutes of pure radio silence - and peace - later, Stanley revived the group chat again.

"OMG, I feel so productive. I look at the toilet bowl and feel like I gave birth to so many penises - each of them large, chocolate chunks," Stanley wrote.

"Stan, please. I'm having my chocolate protein milkshake now," Carl wrote.

"Chocolate protein milkshakes are so damn delicious, says no one ever," Stanley wrote back.

It was a Friday morning, which meant to say everyone of my boys is in a good mood because, it's TGIF.

Before my overseas posting, we would be making plans to gather at one of our familiar haunts and unwind.

These days, it's one man down, and Carl and Stanley would sometimes have very quiet dinners because all Carl would do is nod hypnotically to whatever Stanley said.

"I think our friend is very hollow," Stanley would say to me on most nights after dropping Carl off, while we were on our way back to our respective homes.

That Friday night wouldn't be one of those nights because Stanley is joining Carl and his sister gang of gym rabbits for dinner and drinks later at E-bar, Carl's all-time favourite drinking place.

Stanley tells me he's amused at the thought of dining with a bunch of burly men who looked like they are each capable of devouring a cow, but instead chooses to eat a meek salad for dinner.

But eating grass with these beefcakes is better than spending Friday nights alone, Stanley decided (Stanley's own group of friends - the badminton sisters, a hobbyist group comprising gay men - are out of town).

Earlier this morning, our WhatsApp group chat came stirring to life with plenty of updates from Stanley.

They started with a string of photos: The group of them posing during dinner, Carl and Stanley taking a wefie at E-bar, and a couple of other photos that featured big arms, big biceps, and big alcohol bottles.

The news point though, had nothing to do with any of those photos.

"Carl is mad," Stanley typed.
"He has a disease"
"Mad Carl disease"

I waited for the news point, letting Stanley and his usual dramatic openings play out.

Stanley continued in the group.

"Carl is putting weird things in his body," Stanley wrote.

I was very tempted to interrupt and point out that Carl wouldn't be the first, given that Stanley had once inserted beads into certain parts of his body.

But I didn't want to break the flow of information - plus, it's Saturday morning and I am munching on my coco crunch.

"Please go on," I tapped instead.

Turns out, Carl is so into cosmetic procedures that he's getting out of hand.

It all began some three years ago.

Having amassed enough cash and muscles, Carl wanted more.

He had always been feeling small - ironic, given his python-sized arms and his Zouk bouncer frame - and it became worse after he broke up with his partner Ah Boy of many years (read it here).

And so began his obsession of looking good.

It first started with something innocuous.

He would buy collagen powder and drink it diligently every night because someone had whispered to him that it would keep him young.

Stanley and I had tried it out of curiosity.

Stanley pleasantly pointed out that the collagen powder, drunk with plain water, tasted like sperm.

And then Carl got a little greedier and bolder.

He would go to Thailand to do laser procedures on his face, which, fair enough, is okay since he could afford to shuttle to and fro for the sake of looking young.

That was quickly followed by frequent botox injections that would iron out the wrinkles on his forehead.

Yesterday, Carl revealed to the group during dinner that he had gone to Bangkok to insert a thread in each side of his cheeks.

"Apparently the person used a needle and thread and literally poked it through Carl's cheek and strung it up to the area near his eyes, tugging the thread tightly so that it keeps his cheeks from sagging," Stanley explained to me.

I had to stop myself from gagging.

"It's not so bad..." Carl typed, trying to exercise some damage control.

"What's worse," Stanley went on, "is that Carl has scheduled a nose surgery in Seoul next month!"

Carl typed a smiley emoticon in response.

But I wasn't smiling.

Years ago, the three of us had talked about plastic surgery.

But we were all in our late twenties where money was still an issue, and we were still youthful.

Among us, we jokingly said that Stanley would be the first to go under the knife while Carl and I had to be the ones comforting him later for looking like Zsa Zsa Gabor.

How the tables have turned.

Carl, while dense and clueless, is also stubborn.

So talking him out of doing plastic surgery would be out of the question.

Once he's made up his mind, he would block out all logic.

Stanley ended the group chat update by posting a gif featuring a tiny boy jumping up and down the puffed lips of some old woman with plastic surgery.

Later, as I digested my breakfast and breaking news, I ask myself if I would succumb to plastic surgery one day.

The quick answer is no - given that, while I'm not exactly super star quality, what's important is that I don't hate the way I look.

I may have a flat nose and single eye lids, but I think my eyes are arguably my best feature. And that comes from years of cultivating self love.

Stanley said later that his best feature is no doubt his penis, which also comes from years of cultivating self love.

And if Carl hates his nose today and wants to do something about it, there's nothing we can do to stop him.

All Stanley and I wish for, is that Carl would stop obsessing with his looks, and stop yearning to prolong the longevity of his boyish face, which is Carl's best feature (not his python-sized arms).

And as his best pals, after we have exhausted our arguments to dissuade him, at the end of the day, we can only stand by whatever decision he's made.

"Good luck, and don't fuck it up," I typed to Carl, quoting three of our favourite gay icon RuPaul.

Stanley added: "I still love you, Carl, big nose or small nose.

"But really, think really hard about it.

"Between a nose job and a blow job, one of them is more achievable and enjoyable," Stanley wrote matter of factly.



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