Not too long ago, Stanley my sex bunny friend moved in to his new place which is aptly called Queens Close.
Actually, it was only half as befitting.
Stanley the Queen is always wide open.
"Oh my god, I can't wait," Carl the dense said as he pressed Stanley's doorbell, then hopped excitedly on alternate feet on the spot.
Stanley opened the door, cautiously eyed the muscular goon and for comic effect, slammed the door in his face.
"Gotcha!" Stanley shrieked as he reopened his door, to a Carl who didn't look relieved at all.
"I always make it a point for people to make their grand entries," Stanley said, choosing his words meaningfully to reflect accuracy in his life.
Carl, who still didn't look relieved, stepped in and hurriedly unloaded his grocery sling bag on Stanley's dining table and sprinted for his toilet.
"Welcome to my beautiful, humble abode," Stanley said.
"If you're humble then you won't say your abode is beautiful," I pointed out.
"Hey. That's nasty. Negative energy, be gone!" Stanley the mistress of the house raised his slender arms in the air and commanded with dramatic flair.
Carl steps out of the toilet with a satisfying smile.
"Oh, gurl, I hear ya. I know that look," Stanley said knowingly. "I sometimes step out of public toilet cubicles with the same sense of gratification."
Carl blissfully let the comments slide, unable to grasp the full meaning of Stanley's wit.
In this cruel world we live in today, to Carl, perhaps being dense is a blessing in disguise for him.
"I love your home, Stan," Carl skipped merrily around Stanley's home shedding his disguise.
Free from all the urine he'd been containing since our Grab ride, Carl embraced his newfound liberalism, bending over to sniff every of Stanley's potted plants in his house.
Beneath Carl's bulky frame of oversized biceps is actually a carefree princess who giggles easily and appreciates all forms of simple joys.
Meanwhile, beneath Stanley's athletic frame is almost always a random guy who giggles and moans. And Stanley too, appreciates all forms of joysticks.
And these two interesting characters happen to be my best gay friends of over 20 years, despite their idiosyncrasies.
"Firstly, welcome my darlings, on your virgin sleepovers," Stanley said, again choosing his words carefully to reflect the way he prefers his random overnight guests.
Stanley took one glance at Carl the Disney princess who was still skipping in merriment, turned back to me and said "that one there is making her maiden visit".
Not one to waste time, Stanley proceeded to work on his bar counter, setting three classy glasses on his wooden countertop.
"Try this," Stanley said after pouring Marks and Spenser-bought infused gin and dropping a dried fig into the drink.
Our day at Stanley's began with a noon aperitif.
I made myself useful and fished out an NTUC-bought mixed cocktail nuts for snacks.
"My favourite snack," Stanley exclaimed, pointing out that two of his favourite things in this world are in the name of the snack.
When Princess Carl was done hopping around, she plonked into Stanley's sofa and began to live her next 30 minutes as Sleeping Beauty.
The day for the three of us was simple -- a weekend sleepover at Stanley's.
Since Stanley moved in, his place had been a natural gathering spot for us.
And with our government's on-again, off-again dining rules, we figured the best place would still be at one of our homes, and the flavour of the month is naturally Stanley's since it is indeed a beautiful abode.
When we were in our early twenties, when parts of our bodies haven't started sagging and everything about us was tight, we had wished we were rich enough to quickly buy our own place.
"I'm not sure at that age I was all that tight," Stanley admitted like a sage and popped an almond into his mouth.
"But I sure remember the three of us wishing we could own a place each."
Over the decades, indeed, we slogged and worked our panties off, just to make sure at the end of the day, our bank accounts were fat enough to buy us our first property when the time came.
Now that we're in our early forties, we have achieved that.
Carl had bought his first condo and had insisted his parents moved in with him.
Me and Stanley on the other hand moved out at first opportunity.
In our twenties, it's about dressing up and going around to see and be seen on weekends.
But when some of us started buying our own places in our thirties, large-scale home weekend parties were the norm.
And when you're in your forties, gatherings are still held in homes, except, they're no longer wild.
And they're confined to smaller, more intimate parties among old friends who can do anything without being judged.
"Carl, I hope when you're done digging your nose and rolling the slimey goob with your fingers, you would get rid of it like a normal human being at the sink, not fling it all over my home," Stanley warned sternly with disgust.
Carl froze. "Of course, Stan. I'm not a caveman," Carl said, moving his finger slowly away from his lips.
Dinner that night was a homecooked meal whipped up by Stanley the chef who discovered the joy of wearing an apron.
Given his track record, it's a blessing Stanley wants to be wearing anything at all.
Over pipping hot Calderata (Filipino beef stew) served with warm, toasted French toast and an easy watermelon salad (which Stanley generously drizzled olive oil and lime juice over, topped with shredded cheese), the three of us laughed, over-ate, and filled Stanley's home with the warmth and love that can only be borne out of over 20 years of friendship.
After working through the entire table's food, Stanley finally said.
"Carl, I think you haven't washed your hands when I told you to."
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