Up, Up And Away

Last week, I was virgin no more.

The probe was deep, intense and made me feel heady for the 10 seconds that the swap stick was tickling each of my nostrils.

Stanley my sex bunny friend was very proud of my recent COVID-test.

"I am so proud of you," Stanley said right after my test. 

"You've finally broken your last sexual frontier," he said beaming like a proud mamasan. 

I didn't dare ask Stanley to explain further -- God knows what details he would spill. 

Not asking any question too was Carl our dense friend though his inaction was stemmed from his constant state of catching up with the world. 

My COVID test had been spurred by new developments thanks to my company's influence in Myanmar. 

Though borders are still shut and commercial airlines banned from landing, Myanmar's investment ministry has opened its doors to foreigners who can bring in capital flow and let's just say that my firm pumps in a great amount into the country.

Stanley is naturally excited. 

"Firstly, you're entering a place that's currently restricted to entry-- there's the element of the forbidden fruit,"  he said taking a sip of white wine at Original Sin in Holland Village, near the clinic I had gone for my swap test.

"And girl, trust me -- I can bring in lots and lots of flow and I can pump in a great amount too, if Myanmar allows me in," Stanley added. 

Carl is naturally excited too.

"So, what's going on guys, what's the latest with you both?"

Stanley sighed, shook his head and proceeded to put food on the table promptly ordering some grilled cheese dish, some hummus dips, some salad and some vegetarian pasta. 

The latest is, I'm flying back to Myanmar to also continue to put food on the table.

I'm one of the very lucky ones who hadn't been sacked or received a pay cut during this horrible COVID period.

In fact, I'm thankful my firm flew me back for half a year during the start of the pandemic so that I can be fully taken care of in Singapore and not on foreign land should I fall sick.

But the senior analysts in my firm are now plotting my return to the country with news of a vaccine being developed. 

I can only imagine the strings my management had to pull and the red tapes it had to untangle but the long and short of it is that I managed to get on a chartered flight and a special permit to return.

Carl looked deflated when full realisation hit him. 

"Why are we having vegetarian for dinner?" he asked when all the dishes arrived at our table. 

Stanley didn't even bother to sigh and shake his head and proceeded to put food into his mouth, for once using that organ the way it was meant to be used. 

By the time we were 80 per cent full, Carl began scratching the surface of the entire situation. 

"So... you'll have to leave Singapore soon?"

"And you have to leave within a week?"

"And then... you're not going to come back until it's safe to travel?" Carl asked, his tone sounding increasingly more depressed, like a child whose favourite toy had been taken away. 

Stanley set down his fork and looked at Carl with pity in his eyes. 

Yes, Carl... I'll have to pack up and fly within a week. It's gonna be a whirlwind week -- I have to pack up, tie up all the admin loose ends, wrap up all the hugs and goodbyes with my loved ones, I said. 

"Okay," Carl said with disappointment in his voice. 

"I guess we will try to spend as much time with you before you return to Cambodia," he said sincerely. 

Stanley looked at me, rolled his eyes, sighed and gave up.

 

 

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

Gone Girl

Stanley recently dug up some old photos and couldn't help but share it in our group chat.

Carl immediately posted a gif of Snow White retreating into the woods in fear.

I believe it was also Carl's actual reaction in real life: Tossing his phone onto the couch and fleeing into his bedroom, his python-size arms flailing wildly during the hasty escape.

I legit choked on my morning coffee, splattering the hot liquid all over my morning newspaper.

"Stanley, those photos are to be burnt and never to see the light of day again!"

It was a very happy group photo of me, Stanley my sex bunny friend, Carl the dense one along with four other gay friends in our youthful, halcyon days.

The photo was taken at a chalet, marking one of our gay friends' birthday and there was a big birthday cake, stacks of presents, loads of alcohol, and we were all in drag.

Yes.

We wore dresses, wigs, and drew our faces with colourful cosmetics which we thought back then, were beautiful.

Seeing those very photos now made me want to cry, the way kids burst out in tears when a clown enters their periphery.

We looked hideous.

"Why did we think we were gorgeous then, when in retrospect we looked like characters from The Exorcist?" I wrote in our group chat.

"I love The Exorcist," Stanley says. "I have always been fascinated by films that involve people being entered and fully taken over by that entity."

"Why do you still have those photos, Stan?!" Carl typed later.

"Guys, do you think I looked fat in that dress?" Stanley asked.

"I believe you asked us this 20 years ago," I said.

Turns out, Stanley was doing some random spring cleaning in his attic (which serves as his room in his three-storey house) when he came across a box under his bed.

As with all horror movies, anything you find stashed under the bed in the attic or some basement would spell creepy trouble.

"BURN THEM!" I said.

"But... when I held these photos and closed my eyes, these photos spark joy," said Stanley, channelling his inner Marie Kondo.

"These ought not to spark joy. They ought to spark fear and send chills down your spine."

"I don't think so," Stanley said. "My drag photo will send chills not down a man's spine, but to happier regions down south."

"And, don't be so harsh on yourself, Adam. I mean, yes, you looked hideous in drag but I still love you," Stanley said.

Carl remained quiet throughout the exchanges.

"But Carl... you do look ridiculous. You look like a rugby player with large shoulder pads."

That stirred Carl to life, who started typing, and posted a gif of a yellow sun bouncing from cloud to cloud.

"Really? I look like a rugby player? Yeah.. I think so too. I had started gymming seriously at that age," Carl said, choosing only to focus on the good in life.

The year was in early 2000, and the location was at a chalet in Changi.

The plan was a birthday drag show.

The birthday boy was Shawn, one of our closest friends who has since migrated to the UK, and who, for his birthday wish, was for all of us to put on a drag performance for him.

And so we gamely did.

Stanley was very serious and got right down to researching bra sizes and how to make tits.

He even roped in an external expert: Steff his best girl friend from JC who was promptly named cosmetic consultant for the production.

The sporting and fun loving lawyer-to-be had even loaned us her dresses so that we could be as real as possible.

Carl, whose manly shoulders could not fit any girly dresses, came up with a brilliant idea of wrapping his body with bedsheets, paired with a women's belt to give his figure some accent.

Next was the hairpiece.

I was the only one among the group who kept long hair, thinking it was a good idea to have a cool Jap-surfer dude look.

But the rest of the boys needed wigs.

Thankfully, one of us in the group had access to wigs because he had friends who did drag shows for a small fee in gay pubs.

Carl opted for a long black wig to complete the Pontianak look.

Stanley, according to Steff, can go for a clean girl's look given that he was the fairest of us all.

So his was a wig that came with two pony tails.

For days, we chose songs and rehearsed group choreographies at Stanley's home.

On performance night, we gave it our all.

I remember Shawn having such a good time, clapping, wolf-whistling, and cheering us on.

The booze made it even more fun.

By the end of the night, all of us were dancing to gay anthems: I Will Survive, It's Not Right But It's Okay (Thunderpuss version) and classics like It's Raining Men.

At one point, Stanley looked at his lopsided wig in the mirror and loudly proclaimed he looked like he was raped at the chalet entrance, before quipping, "and I should be so lucky someone wants to even do that to me in this state. I look full drag -- like what the cat dragged into the chalet".

It was a fun night indeed.

Having our faces painted, disguised in women costumes was strangely liberating.

"I think I'll keep these photos. It's one of my happiest memories growing up," Stanley said.

"But full disclosure -- I still love my ding dong. In fact, I love it so much I make it a point to always engage it in activities, so I will remain a man for as long as I live," Stanley said, giving us full exposure.

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

Core of my Universe

I recently came across a post on a local gay forum which got me all teary and emotional.

Someone had shared a clip of a same-sex wedding ceremony in Taiwan.

While the clip was indeed moving and the couple's love worth embracing, it was the wedding speeches that touched me.

Two of the groom's friends talked about how life-changing their friendship was back in university.

The fact that they were speaking in tear-holding, trembling voices made it all the more so precious.

And that got me thinking.

If and only if I were to get married (J, if you're reading this, I still want to get married you know), which two uni friends would I pick to make speeches?

I have the candidates, of course.

But first, allow me to reminisce some happy memories.

Back then, I decided to study overseas and so had been studiously looking through the prospectuses of universities - Australia, US, UK - and finally decided on Down Under because the family wealth cannot be spread too thin (younger brother Barry would also like to go on an all-sponsored overseas study trip, so if I took too big a bite of the pie, all that Barry would be left with is the crust).

I very clearly remember the morning of my departure.

Barry wasn't home (he was serving NS and was in camp).

My sis and I struggled to fit two large pieces of my luggage in the car, while Mrs Lee stood in one corner giving us running commentaries (that nobody asked for) and instructions (which added nothing to our effort), and then having the cheek to be pleased with herself after all the moving and shaking.

"Now you know what I had to go through?" our mum said to us.

My sis and I looked at each other, scared to ask what that really meant.

"If it's not easy squeezing two large items into the spacious car boot - imagine how tough it was for me to have you two squeezing out of my tiny pat-pat?"

Yes, the exact term was pat-pat, and Mrs Lee had to impress that on me on my last day in Singapore and the start of my exciting university life.

Thank you, mummy.

Later, at my request, we drove to a nearby hawker centre for breakfast.  

My last local meal for the day, I said at the table.

Mrs Lee started tearing.

My sis started tearing too.

The pork congee was burning her tongue.

At the airport were Stanley and Carl my dense friend, both of whom looking rather timid in the presence of Mrs Lee.

Hugs were exchanged, and before long, I very cheerfully strolled on board the SQ plane.

Seven hours later, I landed in a wintry Australia and was driven to my lodging by a university representative.

My first room in Queensland is the size of two public toilet cubicles, I kid you not.

I was to be holed up in the all-boys hostel where I would spend my first year because it's on campus, and food is provided (back then I still couldn't cook proper meals).

Stanley my sex bunny friend often laments that I didn't make full use of my experience there.

There are boys, and you're Down Under. Do you know how rare those two combinations are?!

That said, I hadn't missed out any opportunities.

In between sleeping at 11pm and waking up at 6am every day to carry out my filial Asian son duties by studying and acing almost all my subjects, I found the time to, among other things, spend many happy moments with friends I made there.

Most of my friends are Singaporean.

And I'm very proud of that.

I'm not about to be stereotyped by anyone who would scoff and say things like why should I be hanging out with Singaporeans when I'm in Australia? You're one of those? Don't you have Australian friends?

Well, first things first, just because I'm not speaking with a bloody overnight Aussie twang and not making an effort to laugh damn hard at Aussie humour doesn't make me any less sociable.

Yes, I'm talking about you, Glen Tan Wei Meng of Lorong Chuan and Amanda See of Hougang Avenue 2.

You bloody pretentious and judgemental Singaporean swines of Pol Science class of 2001.

Thankfully, I had the wisdom to choose my friends.

My years in Queensland were great because of my Singaporean support.

There is, of course, Eric Lim, my room mate in year two (when I moved out with a group of close friends).

My sex bunny friend Stanley finds Eric irresistible - smart and nerdy, athletic and talented.

Eric and I were so close that when he got married, I was his best man and later, became the godfather of his children.

Stanley often tells me that if he and Eric were that close, when Eric got married, he wanted to be the groom and later, be the father of Eric's children.

Eric had been a great support to me - I came out to him in university and he embraced me fully for whom I am.

Moving on from bedroom buddies to classroom buddies is my darling friend Sasha Natasha, whom we all call Sasa for short.

Without Sasa, my life would have been so boring.

We were both enrolled in the same course and had hit it off right from the start.

I remember immediately grabbing Sasa by her girly shoulders once, after we were tasked to do examinable paired work.

We had the most wonderful time in uni - from after-class lunches at the trendy uni library (where peacocks would sometimes strut by) and group house parties to exciting after-exam trips around Australia.

Today, Sasa - who married our fellow uni mate and leads the life of a career-woman-by-day-and-tai-tai-by-weekends lifestyle - remains one of my strongest pillars in my life.

As I reflect on my very happy years in uni, I'm also thankful for the choices I made back then.

The course of my study, which is a great help to my career - Sasa would say the same for herself.

The people I chose to hang out with.

The parties I chose to attend (I met many other great friends for keeps back then, and trust me, those long years away from home were kept colourful and warm because of the group).

Of course, I have other international friends who are now respectable professionals back home - a doctor in Czech Republic, a journalist in the US, a solicitor in China, a singer in India, IT whizz kids in Malaysia, hotelier in Vietnam, and so many others let's not make it a laundry list.

Later, Stanley the sex bunny told me that he keeps a long list too - a dirty laundry list.

And he's been bugging me to air it for him soon.

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

Analysing the Anal

Stanley recently rang me up, bursting with news.

When my sex bunny friend calls, it's almost certain that his news involves sex.

True enough, it is about sex.

Specifically, anal sex.

But surprisingly, the main character of his update isn't himself.

It involved Stanley's fag hag Steff, Stanley's best girlfriend from JC.

Steff is a highly successful corporate lawyer -- but not your typical bookish type of lawyer.

While she is studious and serious when she needs to be, this girl also knows how to have fun; fun being the operative word here.

Steff is the type who has no qualms about dating men, or engaging in one-night-stands. She loves her body and isn't afraid to embrace what she likes.

I believe you can see the pattern here, and begin to appreciate this bond of sisterhood between Stanley and Steff.

Steff, who's recently dating an American, had rung Stanley up, bursting with news.

And yes, when Steff calls Stanley, it's about sex.

You get the idea.

"So Steff was telling me that her angmoh partner recently asked her for anal sex," said Stanley, who must have breached some form of Official Secrets Act deal he blood-swore with Steff.

I had to sit down and take this call.

"Go on," I said, channelling calm in my voice.

Apparently, Steff and Pierre, another corporate lawyer based in KL, had been seeing each other for the last few years.

Recently, Pierre brought up the subject of anal sex with Steff.

That shocked Steff.

We're talking about a girl who, at age 18, managed to achieve certain sexual feats no other good RJC girl (or boy) managed to achieve.

"I mean, we're talking about the Steff," Stanley said. "The Steff who has rimmed, blown, swallowed, and even, on one occasion, ventured so far as to lick another woman's messy bits!"

"Does Steff know you're telling me all these things, Stan?" I ask.

"She doesn't read your rubbish blog, if that's what you're concerned about...."

"Okay, then please carry on," I said, reaching out for pen and paper.

So it happened the other night, and when Pierre suggested it, Steff appranetly said 'no'.

And then she rang me up straight away and told me all about it.

Steff asked me when I first discovered I was gay, was I open to anal sex.

"What did you say?"

"I said I was of course open -- wide open, like 7-11, 24/7!"

"No, I meant, what did you advise her, you idiot!"

"To be frank, I was shocked beyond words," said Stanley who never had trouble spewing all sorts of subjects out of his mouth, nor had any trouble stuffing any sort of objects in his mouth.

In fact, Stanley felt angry and a little insulted.

"I mean, we gay men specialise in anal sex. It's the one thing we are capable of doing well. And now these girls want to take it away from us?!"

"Anyway, I told Steff that she should never do it unless she wanted to explore it willingly."

Apparently, Steff was seriously considering it, and had asked Stanley for his opinion.

"You're a smart girl, Steff, so let's talk logic here," Stanley said to her.

"Men have prostates -- so when we have anal sex, it excites us," said Stanley, Power Bottom.

"You women already have vajayjays. So obviously, it's God's way of telling you straight people that this is what you guys should be doing."

"But because God is so great, he made backup plans for men's buttholes, linking it to our prostate so that gays can enjoy ourselves," said Stanley the good Catholic boy.

"So, this means God has segregated the duties very clearly -- you women stick to your disgusting frontal, hetro sex, and we gays stick to our disgusting homo anal sex. And you do not cross the line."

While Steff knows what Stanley is driving at, she couldn't help but ask: "But what if -- just, what if -- I wanted to give it a try? What should I do?"

Out of Stanley's love for Steff, he patiently taught her the art of douching.

"You spray the bidet with full force up your butthole, and then flush out all the dirt... so that when anal sex happens, that area is as pure as can be."

I was told Steff later couldn't wash that image off her mind.

"But, because I love you very much Steff, I must tell you that you shouldn't do it if you're not ready or willing to. I mean, don't take that one job away from gay men. And if Pierre really wants anal sex, then outsource to all the Sarong Party Gay Boys out there," Stanley said.

I thought about this later, and couldn't help but wonder: Why do straight men want to have anal sex at all?

And how do straight men in general view anal sex?

Is it an American thing?

Does this happen when a man has so much sex he can no longer feel pleasure with women parts?

Or is it because deep inside, he's, you know, curious about gay sex?

What is it?

And women.

Which woman would willingly do anal sex if even Steff herself has qualms about doing it?

Stanley later asked if I felt disgusted by the thought of it.

And in all honesty, my answer is yes.

And then it struck me.

While this anal sex between a man and woman is disgusting to me because it's unnatural, this must also be the same way straight men feel about gay anal sex.

There and then, it dawned on me that I am thus, in no position to judge how other couples want to have sex, or where men -- straight or gay -- choose to insert their donks.

For closure, I shared my thoughts with Stanley, who didn't disagree.

"Maybe anal sex is the ultimate form of intimacy and commitment for couples," Stanley concluded, before correcting himself: "Then again, whom am I kidding -- for me, anal sex has nothing to do with commitment."

Eager to contribute something equally intellectual, I gave it a shot.

"Is it because straight men think that assholes are tighter?" I ask Stanley, who, perhaps, in retrospect, isn't exactly the best person to answer this, considering his track record.

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