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.

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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. 

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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.

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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."

 

 

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

 

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

This entry is a dated one.

Dated being the operative word.

It was early-April.

And it was one of those Friday nights where J and I didn't want to go out.

So he came over to my tiny rented apartment for dinner where I whipped up an elevated lazy dinner of sardines pasta -- fortified with extra ketchup, loads of chopped onions, spring onions, parsley, a squeeze of lime, and spaghetti tossed and twirled classily onto our huge Crate and Barrel dinner plates. 

As I sipped my Pinot Grigio, I sighed blissfully that date night with my partner of more than 20 years can be literally anywhere -- even if we were eating canned and processed food -- and still be enjoyable.

I felt truly blessed.

In our early years, when both of us were in our twenties and having started our first jobs, our go to dating places were, among other cheaper locations, Pasta Mania. 

Most times, we would eat at food courts along Orchard Road, many of them defunct.

Our favourite place was the one at Scotts Road. I would always order Roti Jala with rendang, and he, braised beef noodles (dry). 

Those were the simple and cheap dating places in our early years, which I enjoyed then, and now too. 

Sometimes, we lament that our old cheap haunts are no longer around.

In our thirties, when our bank accounts were fuller, J and I moved on to restaurants or cafes where we didn't need to vacate our seats for others the moment we scooped up our last morsel. We even allowed ourselves the occasional splurge at super high-end restaurants.

Now that we're in our forties, I see us as having the best of both worlds.

It's not -- and never -- beneath us to eat at hawker centres. In fact, we do that still. But we also revel in the fact that we have a choice to live it up or play it down whenever we wanted.

Because at the end of the day, it's not where we go or what we eat that matters.

Right this moment, J is chewing his food slowly and enjoying this very low-cost, high-presentation dinner.

J, who sensed I was staring at him eating, looked up from his pasta. 

He didn't say anything to me. 

He didn't need to. Over the years, we have honed our verbal and non-verbal communication skills.  

I winked at him.

A slow smile formed on J's face, revealing that trademark impish grin that, till today, makes my heart beat a bit faster. 

I set my fork down and playfully dribbled one eyebrow suggesting that dessert was to be served not on my tiny dining table but elsewhere in my tiny rented apartment.

J giggled, revealing his crooked upper canine which turns me on to no end. 

As we cuddled under my blanket that night, J asked if I wanted to take a short break. An impromptu vacay.

I lifted my head from between his neck and collarbone. 

"Are you serious?" 

J smiled and nodded.

But... I am in the midst of an intensive project and can't leave the country for prolonged periods of time, I thought to myself.

Before I could say anything, J said: "A short break and getaway within Singapore. This way, you don't have to worry about being away from work for too long. And it gives you both that peace of mind and mental break."

I looked at J and asked out loud: "What did I do to deserve you?"

"Not that cheap dinner you made for sure," he quipped, and flashed me that boyish smile again.

And just like that, under the most unplanned but most romantic sequence of events that unfolded from dinner to dessert, J and I decided, a romantic staycation it was to be. 

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

Caregiving

Since younger brother Barry's hospitalisation, the Lees have been frequenting Raffles Hospital.

The youngest of the Lees had made history by being the first Lee to be warded.

"I've always thought it'd be you, or mum lying here," Barry said unthinkingly.

Mrs Lee, who was peeling an orange, paused her activity and turned towards her youngest offspring in the slowest of head turns that's designed to instill fear.

"Just saying," said Barry, realising he's in a most vulnerable state right this moment, what with his left foot propped up on two pillows, restricting any form of urgent escape.

Thanks to Barry's insurance coverage, we could visit him whenever we wanted since he's in a private ward.

And so, my sis, mum and I made an outing out of Barry's hospital visit. 

Mum had made fish soup and brought a basket of fruits which she promptly peeled and fed all her children.

"I've come to appreciate life more," Barry said, biting into an orange wedge, juice dripping on his chin in all directions.

"And I'm determined to use this time to properly detox from all the vices in life I once had."

Mrs Lee, old but still sharp, mused: "What vices, I wonder."

It was a motherly tone -- but a menacing, threatening, step-motherly sort of tone. 

Barry, again realising he's trapped in his hospital bed, turned up his charm dial.

"For a start, I appreciate family love. I mean, you guys coming to see me and show me what it means to be family -- I can't ask for more," he said looking pointedly at Mrs Lee.

Easily appeased by all sorts of flattery, our mum rolled her eyes and said "yes, you better know how tough it is to raise you monkeys."

For the next few days, the Lees rotated among themselves, visiting Barry and buying him meals.

By the end of one week, we'd met almost all the nursing staff on Raffles Hospital.

Barry had made quite a name for himself, spreading his trademark humour and courtesy.

Not to be outdone, Mrs Lee had learned the hospital staff's names, even buying them boxes of cupcakes on one visit.

A happy team of nurses is a good team of nurses, Mrs Lee explained, though I am somewhat convinced it was also party 'cos Mrs Lee wanted to lead in the popularity contest which she's up against her son.

Anyway.

Despite Barry's cheery disposition, I realised seeing him in hospital had taken a toll on me.

Sure, I enjoy chatting with Barry and visiting him, but seeing him in such a state had unwittingly affected me.

I didn't notice it until my partner J pointed out that I was increasingly quiet whenever we both met.

I initially put it down to work burn out though to be honest, I wouldn't be sure of the symptoms since I'd never once felt burnt out.

But I felt those symptoms anyway: Fatigue, loss of appetite, lack of motivation. And I was becoming more and more angsty. 

J forced me to think about what led to this burnout, which I thought I was experiencing.

It wasn't until Barry was finally discharged that I started noticing myself being less tense.

J was right. He wasn't convinced I was burned out. It was the stress of care giving (to be fair, I did minimal work -- I mostly shuttled between my office or rented home and Raffles Hospital). 

But the very act of visiting a loved one in hospital did affect me.

I of course didn't tell Barry how I felt.

As I thought about this recent episode, it hit me that tending to a loved one when he or she is ill, can be a potentially daunting experience.

As I type this now, Barry is back home and is adapting to his daily tasks: Moving on crutches to go from his bedroom to the bathroom. And though he had learned from his occupational therapist how to get up and down a flight of stairs, Barry decided not to put that to the test and remained in his bedroom for the most part of his medical leave.

He's still being tendered to lovingly by mum whom he still lives with, and by me and my sis who'd visit him occasionally. 

When I told J that caregiving was stressful, he said nothing.

He simply came forward and gave me a hug.

At that point, all I wished was there wouldn't come a day when I have to be a caregiver to my partner J.

Why, oh why do I have to grow up -- and old -- this soon.

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

Barry Painful

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

That's not funny, deadpanned Humpty Dumpty who's hovering my laptop as I type this entry.

Four days ago, youngest brother Barry fell and broke his ankle which required all the king's horses and all the king's men to put Humpty Dumpty together again.

Well, not exactly king's men. Housemen, more like it.

Lying beside me at Raffles Hospital is a broken Barry, wincing at every slight movement. His left foot is wrapped in a massive cast, propped up by two pillows for blood flow post-surgery.

Last Monday, Barry was out drinking with his colleagues at a dart pub just down the road from his office.

"What the heck were you guys doing, drinking on a Monday night," I wanted to know.

Despite Barry's vulnerable state, his priorities were still clear.

"Kor, can you pass me the Oreos?"

Barry's fall was quite dramatic.

He was seated on a bar stool and he habitually tucks one of his feet into the bottom rim of the stool.

But that Monday night, someone accidentally knocked Barry over and he fell backwards. 

"So, I fell but I had no time to dislodge my foot so --"

Crack.

Barry and I paused and looked at the source of interruption.

Our mum Mrs Lee smiled at us and brushed off micro bits of her cleanly halved cream cracker and said sheepishly, "I didn't mean it."

Barry, who has the attention span of a pigeon and the appetite of a boar, said with zest: "It's been a while since I've had cream crackers. Are they nice?" 

You'll have to give it to Barry -- cream crackers and all. The poor fella is in extreme pain but he's as sanguine as can be.

Barry had to undergo two surgeries and one of them sounded traumatic.

In order to fix screws and metal plates on his ankle -- which is what we would imagine a fracture repair surgery to be -- Barry's doctors must first perform what he described as a "put your bones together" surgery.

"Which makes sense right," Barry explained in between his biscuit chewing, "you'll first need to push the fragmented bones closer together."

"Please have a sip of water. Your mouth is drying and it looks like you're chewing sand," Mrs Lee said with great disapproval. 

"So the doctors will have to wrap that cast structure around my ankle."

 The cast structure that Barry was pointing at, was designed to support and put one's foot in place. Think of it as two separate metal sheets placed on both sides of one's ankle such that it envelops and traps the ankle from any movement.

The fun bit is... in order to keep these two separate metal sheets in place, there are actual screws that need to be drilled into the left and right side of that ankle.

Like any good orator, Barry paused and looked at his audience for reaction. 

I was mid-cringe but Mrs Lee -- who's been through greater storms than this -- widened her eyes and nodded eagerly. "Then, then?"

"The even more fun bit of it is, the drilling of the screws into my ankle has to be done while I'm awake. Without any form of anaethesia."

Barry paused and waited for an expected gasp. Which I readily delivered.

Mrs Lee -- who grew up during WWII, survived the premature death of her first love (our father) and who had undergone sexual discrimination in a male-dominated work environment to rise the ranks in her career -- rolled her eyes at me.

And at Barry, she gave him another look that's meant to say "is that all you've got?"

Mrs Lee is the type of audience you don't want at your first standup comedy show.

Barry, who could argue fiercely in court but is useless in the presence of Mrs Lee, began to fumble, his great showmanship now at stake.

"In the end, the doctors gave me some sedative so that I can still describe to them the pain I felt, which would guide them in that cast-insertion surgery.

By the end of Barry's speech, Mrs Lee was rummaging through the huge plastic bag of snacks which Barry's friends had brought over.

"You have very good friends," Mrs Lee said, inspecting the snacks one by one.

Barry then focused on me 'cos unlike our mum, I was pale.

That made Barry smile devilishly. "Quite a story eh?" he said.

Leave it to Mrs Lee to burst Barry's bubble.

"For someone who's stupid drinking ways got him injured, you've got some nerve ya."

Barry texted me privately after we left.

"I'm changing you to be my first next of kin. I'm terrified of that woman."

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

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

The Overseas Wedding

Sunday dinner at my partner J's.

And it was a crowded affair.

His dining table that's meant for four on most days, is filled with food that can feed 12 hungry people though only his closest family members were gathered at his place.

And that's the real treat for J.

His parents, retired government servants from Jakarta, shuttle between Indonesia, Singapore and Australia in their free time.

This month, the entire clan descended on our sunny island.

So joining J's second brother and his wife -- both of whom have since renounced their Indonesian citizenship and have pledged loyalty to our democratic society, based on justice and equality -- were his parents and his eldest brother who is an Australian citizen.

With all of J's family gatherings, home-cooked food is a must. 

The matron, who is also Peranakan, had singlehandedly whipped up family favourites: Chap chye, babi pongteh, black-ink squid with lemongrass, and 30 sticks of pork satay, courtesy of Lily our sister in law.

It was one of J's mum's favourite things to do. Host parties, feed people, have a great time.

Arguably, that's also my sex bunny friend Stanley's favourite thing to do. Host parties (of a certain type) feed people (provided it's consensual), have a great time.

But let's not go there. 

It's a heartwarming scene unfolding in front of my eyes right now, with too much cackling going on. 

It's the start of their month-long celebrations. J's parents, residing in Melbourne with his oldest brother, flew in earlier this week. 

The idea was for the entire clan to fly to Jakarta to attend a family wedding: The Holy Matrimony of Ignatius Soewarno and a certain daughter of a certain influential tycoon in Surabaya who apparently owns a chain of profit-making businesses.

And I'm feeling very warm and fuzzy.

You see, recently, my elder sis also announced she was proposed to. 

She may be 48, but she can easily pass off as a 32-year-old bride, I kid you not. 

To me, this wedding trip of J's family is a rehearsal for my own family's marriage prep work. 

Ours wouldn't be so complicated though. Both the would-be wedding of Sis and Eddie, my soon-to-be brother-in-law, won't involve family flights.

J's though, oh, it's a major project.

Families like J's where everyone is all over the world takes massive coordination. 

From New Zealand and Australia to Singapore and other parts of Indonesia, there'll be mass migration movement of the Soewarnos and the girl's family whose identities shall remain nameless here.

On paper, the plan is simple.

J's entire family comes to Singapore for a few days of quality time (including tonight) and then fly off to join the rest of the clan.

Flights have been confirmed. Hotel rooms, mass-booked two months ahead of time.

All I need to do, according to J, is to turn up for events when I'm needed to turn up as his Plus One.

And it would be celebrations that last for a week.

There's the family-only gathering of J's nephew. J warned me. That's gonna take two days. Everyone -- from the elders to the little ones -- would squeeze into one of their family mansions and the women will gather to cook for that grand gathering.

And then, there's the wedding mass on Friday for family and very close friends, followed by a reception which, as bewildering as it sounds, involves only drinks and nibblies with no sit-down table arrangements. 

And then, on the day of the actual wedding that involves one and sundry, we were to gather at the venue and party. 

J may not be the party type, but he's a family man.

And if the family event calls for him to party, then party he would.

I told sex bunny friend Stanley the plans.

"Sounds very tiring," he said.

"Right?" I sighed.

"I'm already imagining how, if I were there, I would slot in hookups amid this very packed schedule."

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

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

She Said Yes

Last week, my elder sis messaged my brother and me and our oldest sis -- who's living in Australia -- in our sibling group chat titled "The Little Lees" and made an announcement that would move share prices. 

Younger brother Barry responded with a group video call without delay. Only oldest Sis Jo didn't pick up (she goes to sleep on Do Not Disturb mode).

"What are you eating again? It's 12:15am," my sis S complained. 

"That should be the least of your worries," I interrupted.

Barry nodded zestfully since his mouth was full.

When he swallowed, he shouted. "WOW!"

Sis smiled then giggled like she was drunk after Prom Night. 

After nearly 50 years of being a single woman (with a tumultuous dating history filled mainly with assholes and a few good men), my sis was finally proposed to.

The man is someone slightly younger but to be honest, they both look good together.

"I don't know if that's a good thing," Stanley, who knows my family well, said when I broke the news to him later.

It must mean that the man looks super old, he said, reminding me that my sis is nearly 50 (though she can definitely pass off as someone in her mid-thirties thanks to good genes).

"But Mainly Assholes and a Few Good Men sounds like a great title for my biography," my sex bunny friend said, adding "will you write it for me in future?"

And so, during one of our regular family gatherings that Saturday -- this time at Tanglin Club -- my sis broke the news to the family.

Her exact words came out without warning. "I'm getting married," she said.

Mrs Lee, ever the dramatic matriarch, set her chopsticks down and covered her mouth with her wrinkly hands in slow motion, eyes fast filling with tears.

Barry leaned over and asked "Why? The congee too spicy is it?"

Mrs Lee hit Barry away and started weeping silently into her hands.

"Orrh.... see what you did! You made mummy cry," I chimed in as I helped myself to a steaming, fluffy piece of Char Siew Pao.

Mrs Lee let out a wail which she failed to control.

A table away, a group of rowdy businessmen uncles stopped toasting one another beer and turned to look at our sobbing mum instead. One of them looked at me quizically and jerked his head upwards which I interpreted as an inquiry that meant "What did your mum eat to make her this upset?"

At a corner, another table of elegant socialite-aunty types -- complete with pearl necklaces and bird-nest hairstyles -- kept stealing secret glances at us while trying to look classy and not busybodies.

My sis, unable to stand the attention, whispered urgently: "Mummy, please stop this right this moment."

Mrs Lee let out another wail, this time, not even controlling her emotions nor volume.

Barry asked "do you think I can be excused from this table and continue eating with those uncles there?"

Sis shot him a look that Barry immediately understood that any movement from him would get him disowned and possibly disembodied.

With impeccable timing, the Tang Yun matron whom The Little Lees nickname Mamasan, strolled over and casually placed her hand over our mum and said "Aiyah, Lei Tai, mat yeh zeng dou lei gom gek dong ah? (Aiyah, Mrs Lee, what's making you so emotional?)

The emotional Mrs Lee pointed at Sis.

Sis looked at Barry and asked: "You wanted to join that table of uncles, you said?"

I took a sip of tea to wash down my second steamy, fluffy Char Siew Pao.

Sometimes, I'm amused at my own family.

One simple message, but it can take a whole 7 mins (I counted) to announce it and even then, it's not over.

To be fair, my sis' announcement does deserve to be celebrated given that she'd been dating this man whom not only she, but also all of us loved.

Tang Yun Mamasan, upon hearing the good news, joined Mrs Lee in Emo Land and started clapping, all the while saying "congratulations, congratulations, congratulations!"

Sis was mortified. This is a PR disaster and she regretted her actions on many levels.

By then, it was too late. Mamasan had help spread the word to the other servers who, over the years, have taken a liking to our dramatic mum for some reason.

One by one, elderly staff of the Chinese restaurant came over and congratulated Mrs Lee and Ms Lee as if suddenly Tang Yun had become the wedding dinner there and then.

The group of uncles collectively toasted our table. Barry raised his Chinese tea cup at them enthusiastically.

The classy tai-tais nodded in approval at our table.

My sis wanted the day to end but was very moved by everyone's gestures.

Finally, Mrs Lee spoke.

"Does Eddie know?" she asked, concerned. 

Barry burst out laughing, his Chinese tea spewing into the air through his mouth. 

I slow-clapped at Mrs Lee's spot-on humour.

Even Eddie, our soon-to-be brother-in-law who was watching the Lee drama unfold for the past 10 minutes couldn't help himself, and broke into a throaty peal of merry laughter. 

Sis was not amused. 

It was an afternoon of emotional rollercoaster ride and I think our table -- no, sorry, our mum Mrs Lee -- singlehandedly raised the raucous energy in that classy Chinese restaurant. 

What followed Sis' announcement was a series of follow-up questions.

Where and when being key.

Eddie and Sis took turns to explain that they're still looking for a place. I knew Mum would secretly want a Chinese-style wedding but knowing Sis, she's the opposite.

But it was happy news nevertheless.

There would be lots to do for the couple, for the family, and of course, Mrs Lee.

She would naturally be excited. This was the first matrimonial event of the Lees, not counting our mum's own marriage. 

Mrs Lee began texting in various of her group chats to spread the word.

"I"m texting the extended family first," she said, as she left a voice message in her "Fami-LEE" group made up of all our aunties and uncles.

"That's not a text, Mummy," Barry pointed out. "That's a voice message. And might I suggest you rename that group to ElderLEES."

Mrs Lee had no time for Barry's joke. Waving him away, she left another voice message in another group chat. I haven't seen our mum so animated in a while.

As Tang Yun Mamasan brought over free desserts on the house to mark this very joyous occasion, I looked from my mum to Barry, and Sis and Eddie, and felt a nice, fuzzy feeling in my tummy.

At last, Sis and Eddie are a step closer to getting married.

Just then, the table of Tai Tais walked past us. A woman who wore her hair that must be fashioned after the late-Queen of England, smiled at our table and meekly said, "Congratulations."

Sis and Eddie, both holding hands under the table, smiled and looked at each other.

That Saturday, my life felt very complete.

 

 

 

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

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

House Viewing

House viewing ought to be fun.

The boys -- Stanley my sex bunny friend, Carl the dense one -- and I would always make house viewing a grand event. 

But when it's my unit that's up for scrutiny, up for judgement, and eventually, up for grabs, it suddenly isn't that fun.

"House viewing is fun, full stop," Stanley stated for the record, taking on the role of maitre' d as he poured a Chateauneuf-du-Pape into my cheap decantor, the action making gurgling sounds that filled my almost empty apartment.

Carl the dense one, who is blessed with an innocent's child's mind, clapped upon hearing the word fun.

"House viewing is a great gateway for sex or to meet eligible men," continued Stanley whose mind is far from that of an innocent child.

"Seize every opportunity, Adam," Stanley said like a demanding mother, stressing the word seize. 

Carl instinctively crossed his legs for further protection. 

"Think about it. Even with Grindr, you're not going to see such a large flow of men through your doors. And the ones who can afford to view your unit are obviously not poor," said Stanley. 

If Stanley had antennas attached to his head, right now,they'd be rod hard stiff and giving off alarming flashes of red. 

"What exactly are we talking about, Stan?" I asked, annoyed.

"Yes, what exactly are we talking about, Stan?" Carl parroted, truly lost at this multi-dimensional conversation. 

If Carl had antennas attached to his head, they'd not have any reception at all. 

The year was 2022, two weeks plus, after my unit was put up for sale.

Already, I'd received quite a number of interested viewers.

"If only your Grindr profile were as lucrative as your PropertyGuru listing," Stanley said.

"Bitch."

Stanley had insisted we spent the evening in my place for as long as I still owned it.

Or before I was homeless, I believe was the phrase he had used. 

And wanting to maximise my home and kitchen while I still am the legal owner, I whipped up a feast.

Seafood chili pasta -- generously stewed with fat scallops, crab meat, tiger prawns and crab sticks; wok-seared wagyu steaks, a kale fruit salad with grapes, chopped mangoes, almonds, tao kae noi seaweed, tossed with cheese and olive oil. 

Stanley bought dessert -- ice cream cake. 

My partner J was in New York for a work conference so he sent love all the way from across the world. 

“I can’t believe you’re selling your house,” Carl said with a pout. 

“I want to be around when your potential buyers view your unit. There needs to be a round of QC and review of whomever buys over your unit,” Stanley said seriously. 

Dinner that evening was bitter sweet. 

I enjoyed my time thoroughly that night but there was a nagging feeling that this would be the last time I refilled everyone’s wine glasses. Or that it would be the last time that I’d walk the boys downstairs and waited till their ride came. 

The following week, I began meeting potential buyers. 

One of them was a wealthy-looking man with thin hair and a case of extremely bad body odour. 

He smelled of onions that’s left unattended in the heat for too many days. 

But he’s potentially someone who could bail me out of poverty so who am I to complain. 

And then there was a couple — non-Singaporean — who came by and took one look at my place, which was designed as a bachelor pad, and decided in my face that it wasn’t baby friendly. 

Days later, an older gay man (at least that’s what I thought), viewed my home and was extremely impressed with what I did with it: The 2-metre long table capable of hosting the Last Supper if Jesus decided to do so, my bright and airy decor that consisted of plants, and even my cosy balcony that featured both a bar table and stool as well low tables and chairs for post-dinner dessert. 

But in the end, it was an old aunty who bought my unit. 

I learnt later that she had bought it for her young daughter who was still in university. 

Oh how unfair life can be. 

But still, it was this rich and generous old aunty who eventually bought my unit. 

When the day came, the break up felt extremely painful. 

The boys had come to help me pack. 

J had, by then, returned from the US and stayed a few nights with me while I packed my belongings and nursed a slow, eventual closure with my apartment. 

My first apartment — the first property I had owned — had come to a close. 

When the day came for me to hand over my keys in exchange for a fat cheque (and a lifeline out of my ridiculous mortgage), I finally cried privately, into the shoulders of J. 

He patted me gently and said nothing. 

“It’s ok,” he said after what felt like half an hour of rearing. 

“You’ll have a new chapter ahead.”

“House hunting — even if you’re renting — can be fun,” he said. 

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

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

Bring Us To The Test

As a student, I have always aced my tests and exams.

But this is one that I can't study for no matter how much I wish I could excel in it.

Full body, medical exam.

In keeping with my plans to prepare for retirement and to pave the way for good-quality-of-life in my golden years, I had dragged my partner J with me to undergo medical tests together. 

I had found a medical centre -- Pulse, located near Singapore's gay bars -- which, apart from providing sexual health consultation, also does medical screenings.

Pulse has branches in other cities including Bangkok and Hong Kong and they cater to, among others, the LGBT community. 

Why not kill two birds with one stone, I thought, hoping that I can support such initiatives while gaining from it.

And so that Saturday morning, my partner and I headed for the clinic.

We immediately felt at ease, knowing that this is an extremely welcoming environment. 

We were allowed to both enter the consultation room together where our ECGs,  blood tests and prostate exams were taken one after another by the doctor.

That immediately got Stanley my sex bunny friend's attention. 

"That's extremely kinky," he said, looking up from his phone. "Watching your partner being probed by a doctor. I watched a movie clip with that exact storyline on PornHub."

Carl the dense one looked worried. "I never thought J had such fantasies. You're okay with that?" he asked with great concern, going completely off track. 

"How was your prostate test experience," he asked, reaching for some nuts (actual nuts) across the table.

Carl shrank and cringed. 

Stanley shot him an accusatory look and said "really? You're spooked by a prostate test? You? Really?"

With timing that can only be planned only by the Divine with a great sense of humour, a scrawny aunty in her 50s who looked like she's one of the Mormon sister wives with her bangs and bob cut, set our meat dish and gave Stanley a disapproving look.

Not one to back down, Stanley looked at her and said "Ooo, I love my meat. Do you, aunty?"

Carl shrank and cringed even further. 

J dispelled the tension by portioning the meat, placing the fatty char siew, dripping in viscous sweet sauce, on everyone's plates.

J and I decided to meet the boys at Yan Palace (Chinatown), after our medical checkup near Tanjong Pagar.

"So, how was your test?" Stanley asked, persistent for an answer. 

J shrugged and said "the doctor will email us the results." 

"Was the doctor cute?" Stanley asked just as Mormon sister wife aunty placed a plate of fried noodles on our table. 

Carl shrank no further. He leaned forward, eager to know if the doctor who had "fingered me and then J" (Stanley's words) was cute or not. 

J laughed and did something more productive: Serve everyone a portion of the newly-arrived noodles. 

As our 8 dishes arrived and dinner as well as proper eating got under way, Stanley said in all seriousness.

"I actually freak out at medical exams, you know. I mean, sometimes, ignorance is bliss."

Carl the dense one nodded vehemently at that comment. 

It's true. 

I mean, if cancer cells were forming in my body discreetly, do I want to know? 

Carl was the first to answer.

"I would... but only if there's a huge chance of survival at the point of knowing. If I find out at Stage 4 where nothing can be done, then I'd rather just live ignorantly and enjoy my remaining years," said Carl who's key principle in life is exactly that.

I looked to Stanley for his answer.

Setting his chopsticks down, he pondered. 

"I fear death, actually. But I fear the uncertainty even more," he said thoughtfully.

"Death is certain. So we don't think too much about that. What's uncertain," he said, looking all three of us in the eye, "is the permutation of possibilities that can kill you."

"A car accident. Choking on this chicken feet. Being crushed by a falling printer or fridge."

"Stan, now you're just reciting the plot of Final Destination," I said. 

But Stanley does indeed have a point.

The aim of a medical check up is to hopefully pick out something in time for us to stop it from manifesting to the point that it kills us. 

But what if, as Carl said, we find out we have only three months to live? 

As we grow older, the certainty of death becomes even clearer.

In my younger days, I would never think twice about hopping on to a rollercoaster ride.

Now, I'd tell myself I have safer things to do in life. 

Leave it to Stanley to quell the cloud of morbidity that's hovering Table 14 of Yan Palace.

He waited for Mormon sister wife to approach our table with a teapot before saying: 

"So, this doctor at this gay clinic who puts his fingers into the assholes of men to feel it all around... he's a good doctor right?"

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

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

Doing Adult Things

The older we get, the less time we have in this world to do the things that need to be done, I announced to the boys the other day.

Carl the dense one looked at me, clueless. 

Stanley frowned in my direction and asked if I had gone slightly stupid.

"That sentence of yours is a waste. A waste of your breath, a waste of our time, a waste of words. They don't say anything at all," said Stanley who's the toughest boss to please in the whole wide world. 

Carl, who's usually on the receiving end of such comments, immediately switched sides and nodded accusingly at me. "Exactly, Adam," said Carl, who, if he were born during World War II, would no doubt be an easy traitor with loose allegiance. 

"It's like saying stupid things such as I may or may not know," Stanley continued, stoked by Carl who was huffing up his chest like a bouncer and agreeing vehemently in the background.

I'm glad to see Carl, for once, enjoying himself in a conversation without being a victim of his own denseness. 

But back to my point. 

At 45, we are morbidly nearing our death. 

And if we don't do anything about it -- such as prudent planning for health checks and retirement plans -- we might just have to brace ourselves for a slow and uncertain journey towards death.

Carl tried to register my words to the best of his ability but he simply couldn't grasp the impact I wanted to create.

Stanley, to his credit, let his defensive guard down and said "Okay, actually, I know what you're saying."

On cue, Carl's python-size biceps deflated and he nodded understandingly, agreeing with Stanley.  

The three of us were, for a change, meeting for supper.

It was something we used to do when we were in our 30s -- when we had more energy than we do now.

But we also once in a while enjoy doing something spontaneous so when Carl texted in the group chat suggesting supper at Swee Choon, we both readily said yes.

"I think we have singlehandedly pulled down the average age of the patrons here," Carl said with a pout, glancing around the eatery, filled with university-going students or patrons who looked like they were either in National Service or have just embarked on their first careers.

Stanley wasn't having any of it. All he wanted to pull down, in the eatery filled with young, strapping patrons, wasn't the average age. 

But our supper at Swee Choon was a painful reminder that we are ageing.

Once upon a time, we would blend in with the late-night Swee Choon crowd not only because we were young, but also because we still had energy at 12.30am.

At this moment, Carl looked like he was fighting off the effect of sleeping pills, while Stanley stared into his Chinese tea, asking dreadfully where our food was.

"How did we get so old so fast," Stanley said, defeated.

Which brings me back to my point.

We are old. And we will get older, I said to the group, at the risk of being called out for, again, making sweeping statements that have no actual value.

But it's a fact, and it's a fact I choose to handle with the precision of an adult.

You see, when we first started work and earning money in our first job, one of the things that was drilled in me, was to start being financially prudent (Stanley would say that one of the things that was drilled in him during that youthful period was something else altogether).

And so, with my then-meagre salary, I loaded up on insurance protection, started regular savings and the occasional investment projects whenever I had a bonus. 

Along the way, we acquired other things that our increasing pay check allowed us: Cars, apartments, luxury items.

But now... now is the time to look at retirement planning.

In fact, it's a bit too late at 45. 

But better late than never.

At our age, the topics of our generation should revolve around planning for retirement, writing wills, assigning Lasting Power of Attorneys and scheduling yearly health checkups. 

There's so much on my mind that my to-do list is full.

Stanley agreed, though his to-do list, which is also full, consists not of agenda but names of men. 

Carl looked bored with our topic. He's either in a state of cluelessness or denial so he focused on flexing his biceps which look to be the biggest in the whole of Swee Choon.

Indeed, these are tasks we have to do at our age -- especially while we still have earning power. 

We don't want to look back at 70, wishing we had put in more money into our CPF or have bought more investment plans so that we could have a better lifestyle.

Nor do we want to suddenly find ourselves suffering from an illness that renders us useless and have to depend on the state to make decisions for us, instead of our chosen loved ones whom we appointed as LPAs during our sensible, younger days. 

Carl withdrew further from this conversation and began working on his deep fried mee sua, a Swee Choon signature. 

A week later, Stanley texted. 

"I'm making you my donee," he said, taking our conversation that night seriously.

It was a good first step for Stanley. 

That we are taking on ageing not with denial or inaction, but with concrete steps to be on top of our ageing game.

Stanley agrees.

Even when he's old, he wants to be on top of things. Hopefully, sweet young things. 

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

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

Date Night

Once in a while, we do it.

Twenty-two loving years together, my partner J and I still make time for date nights, just the two of us.

While we are not like many straight couples who're burdened with kids and can never find time for romance, J and I are both extremely busy professionals who devote too much time to our work.

But we also know we can't take our love for granted.

Amid our long working hours, J would always initiate date nights.

And so, that day, J took a day off from his firm to match my forced leave day. 

Our plan was simple: Meet for brunch and spend the entire day (and night) together. 

At this point, I must warn you -- this piece you're about to read will read like it's a journal entry written by a 16 year old who's newly in love.

It's nothing but a simple recount piece. 

But one that's recounted with love.

That Friday morning, we met at Suntec City for brunch.

J, who was always early, scouted the perfect place for our meal. A restaurant that ran a promotion for a $14 set lunch comprising an appetiser and main course.

I went on to order just that, plus wine that cost us more than our set lunch.

It was a wonderful day. 

We had an unhurried meal -- not the type where I was distracted by chewing my food and reading work documents at the same time.

And J had plans.

"We can either watch a movie, or be tourists and get on the topless bus tour around Singapore," J said with that impish smile which I had first fallen in love with in 2002. 

"Topless tour," I said. "That sounds promising."

J rolled his eyes and asked Stanley to get out of my body.

"Ew," I said. "You know what that sounds like?!"

It was a wonderful plan, the one J had tried to design.

But we followed neither of it.

After lunch, we spent two hours strolling around Suntec City, paying particular attention to furniture shops, imaging our future together in my soon-to-be-bought HDB flat. 

And by the time we reached the theatres at Suntec City to see what's available to watch, we had missed all sensible showtimes.

The old Adam would be very upset but at 45, the Adam now has toned down.

And so, J and I gave up movie plans.

When I asked if we should play tourists and hop on the topless bus, J shrugged and said, let's just enjoy walking around aimlessly.

Forty five minutes later, we found ourselves at Shake Shack where J was intrigued by the fast food chain's local mikshake: Pandan with gula melaka and coconut bits.

It was a cup in heaven -- cos that's where good people with diabetes would end up.

The two of us took turns to suck up the sweet shake like two love birds who skipped class to go on a date at a cheap fast food joint. 

Years ago, I would be anxious if my date with J had no direction.

Age has certainly mellowed me and I have learnt to go with the flow -- something J always taught me to do.

By 5pm, we found ourselves with other tourists outside the Esplanade, taking in the breathtaking view that is Singapore's skyline.

From the corner of my eye, I saw an alfresco restaurant and said to J "let's have dinner there!"

J shrugged. A shrug that said why not and we both found ourselves on the rooftop dining area of Supply and Demand, a restaurant with relatively good food.

I say relatively good food 'cos I simply can't remember how the food tasted.

All I could remember was J and I sitting on the edge of the alfresco restaurant, looking at each other and feeling calm, blissful and loved.

Our order of scallops, pasta and kurobuta pork (with pinot grigio) took us two hours to finish, and by the time we were done with dinner, day had become night.  

And it was the perfect dinner, the perfect day, the perfect date.

As J and I strolled along the Singapore River, staring into the wobbly reflection of the skyline, my pinkie hooked his.

J looked at me with an expression that said what?

I smiled back at him, with an expression that said the three words that no longer need to be said after 22 years.

 

 

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

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

Flat Hope

It's official.

I am finally eligible to buy a resale HDB flat, after a 15-month wait from selling my apartment.

While I am in no hurry to immediately make a purchase (I am still renting till the end of the year), there's no harm in looking around first.

Stanley my sex bunny friend agrees. He's always on the lookout -- hot property, hot men. 

And so, two weeks ago, I got in touch with Chew our NS friend who's now a successful housing agent. 

Chew, Stanley and I go a long way back: We were once hot, lean and fit soldiers who served in one of the army's most prestigious units. 

More than 20 years later, only Stanley and I are still hot, lean and fit (a given because gay men always age better than straight men -- it's God's gift to the community) while Chew is only hot. 

At this moment, Chew is sweating through his shirt, pools of sweat forming near his arm pits, with tiny beads of perspiration lining his upper lip.

Stanley is right.

Straight men with happy families all end up fat and sweaty when they grow up.

"Sorry I am late!" yelled Stanley from afar.

Chew lit up the moment he saw Stanley who, when he was in NS, was regarded as one of the most helpful soldiers in our unit. Stanley, upon seeing Chew, went berserk. 

"Look at Chew!" Stanley shrieked, to which, Chew burst out laughing. 

"Ya lah, fat already lah," Chew said, giving his rotund tummy a little pat. 

"But confirm rich, bro," said Stanley with a roar, obviously having code-switched from Hoe to Bro.

I instinctively huffed up my chest to match the overwhelming hetero energy. 

And then, Stanley struck a pose inspired by Marilyn Monroe, and in his high-octane voice reserved only for the Cabaret, said "welcome to gay central!" like we were about to enter Wonderland.

Stanley wasn't wrong. 

We were at Everton Park where gay people were fast replacing old people in the estate.

When I began my house-hunt project, I was extremely specific: The flat has to be located either in Chinatown, Little India or Lavender, all of which considered to be either city or city-fringe spots.

Our first day of viewing brought us to Everton Park where at least a dozen of Stanley and my friends combined, had bought units at. 

Various friends who live there had hosted us to dinner parties. Their units were all artfully done up (naturally). Stanley had also been to more of those units in Everton Park for other types of parties (naturally).

And so, this is a location Stanley deeply approves, deeply being operative word.

To be fair, it is a great location not only because it's a stone's throw away from all the gay clubs in Tanjong Pagar (then again, at our age, we are more likely to visit hospitals than pubs so that's no selling point), but it's also super-centrally located near the heart of Chinatown. 

Chew had lined up two units here, and two more at Lavender. 

All of them were two-bedroom flats and units which I could afford without taking a loan.

That day, I bumped into many groups of buyers, all of whom my potential competitors.

From couples who looked like they were in their mid-thirties to an odd pairing of an elderly man and a young Vietnamese woman with eye lashes so long they could do actual housework, and, of course, other gay couples. 

There was even one viewer (a woman in her forties who wore a consistently pained expression) who came with -- and I kid you not -- a man wearing full Taoist robes. 

The man was carrying some compass and going around the house to assess energy fields only he and the mentally ill could see. 

I have no judgement of other people's beliefs. But this Taoist man is not normal. 

A normal person behaves like he belongs on this mortal earth. 

A normal person walks properly.

This Taoist man -- and again, I kid you not -- is on edge. He doesn't just turn his head to look at things like a normal person does. Instead, he jerks his head around as if responding to voices hissing out at him. 

This Taoist man does not walk. Instead, he takes dramatic strides that requires a lot of dramatic flair as if he were avoiding some cosmic mine field that only he and, again, the mentally ill can see. 

Stanley leaned in and asked urgently "is he house hunting or ghost hunting?"

Chew and I burst out laughing and immediately, and Taoist man and pain-expression lady shot us a disapproving look.

Stanley nodded at both of them affirmatively and whipped out his iPhone, as if he were searching for some cosmic signal too.

"There!" Stanley said. "Five people within our radar in Grindr," he reported proudly.  

As the day of viewings came to an end, I felt amused, exhausted but mainly defeated. 

All the units fared well on paper -- centrally located, high floor, corner units, with loads of amenities nearby. 

But none appealed to me. 

By the last unit in Lavender, I felt worried. 

You know what everyone says about knowing the house is yours when you see it? 

Well. I just didn't get that feeling that day.

I'm certain it's 'cos this isn't my first property. 

I remember when I first set eyes on my first apartment (it was the 11th unit I viewed back in 2012). The moment I stepped in, my heart raced. I looked at the space and immediately could imagine a life there. This corner would be perfect for parties. This can easily be my walk-in wardrobe space. This balcony is perfect for post-dinner drinks!

I am worried I'll never find that excitement again.

Chew told me to calm down. "Adam, take your time. Don't have to see the house and immediately rush in one," he said.

Sex bunny Stanley -- who is the one who would benefit from this advice more than any man in the world -- chimed in with perfect timing. 

"Yah, Adam. You'll know the house is yours when it's meant to be yours. It's like your soul is drawn to it. The house will call out to you when it wants you there," he said.

"You know you don't make a very good house salesman with a pitch like this right?" I said.

Chew looked around the house and whispered to us "don't worry. I think this house is clean. Otherwise the Taoist man will be here."

 

 

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

Farewell Mrs Ong (Part II)

Death always reminds us to live.

To live life to the fullest before Destination Death. 

To live without regrets.

To live with love.

At this moment, our love level was at its fullest, ready for the moment.

Carl the dense one, my partner J and I have braced ourselves for an emotionally draining day: The funeral of Mrs Monica Ong, part-time socialite, full-time loving mother. Mother of Stanley our sex bunny friend.

We reached Stanley's parent's home at 8.15am, dressed in black suits and black ties.

Carl, who was worried we would be overdressed for a funeral, was both relieved and shocked when he saw what the other guests, mainly family and extended family of the Ongs, wore.

From tailored black cheongsams and well-pressed shirts to elegant looking pantsuits and dresses. 

"This is a very well-dressed funeral," Carl said without disdain. Just plain awe. 

Stanley received us at the front porch, looking like he's ready to attend a black-tie event.

He took one look at his us, smiled, and came in for a group hug.

"Thank you guys. My mum would have loved this," he said as bravely as he could. 

Funeral mass was held at the Ong's parish church (which is also J's).

It was a surreal feeling. For Carl, Stanley and I -- who have been to many places in our friendship of 20-plus years -- to be in the House of God at the same time.

Stanley, two pews ahead of ours, looked very holy and solemn, keeping his head bowed throughout mass, occasionally looking at Mrs Ong's coffin.

Carl, to his credit, wasn't restless nor clueless. I caught him intermittently looking in Stanley's direction, checking in on him in his quiet way. 

Despite the calming presence of the church, the soothing collective choral singing of the congregation, my mind was not at rest. I was running through a checklist of things in my mind for Stanley, my way of taking care of him.

I was the de-facto events planner. Bus IC, timekeeper, F&B chief post-cremation. 

I was also constantly scanning the surrounding, making sure frail-looking elderly guests weren't alone when it was time to leave the church for the crematorium. I have my stash of bottles of water and packets of tissue, ready to dish them out when needed. And ready to force Stanley to take small sips throughout the day,

But I was also distracted by other uncomfortable elements associated with funerals. 

Heart-wrenching scenes of people dabbing away tears, the waxy scent of flowers, and my imaginative mind which keeps visualising Mrs Ong being in the coffin. 

Soon, the funeral mass came to an end.

Stanley and his family shuffled slowly behind Mrs Ong's coffin as the rest of us followed suit.

The choice of the departing song was interesting but befitting.

It wasn't a Catholic hymn. Not even the usual suspects like Josh Groban's Your Raise Me Up.

Instead, it was a 1990s Mandopop number Zhu Ni Yi Lu Shun Feng (translated less classily as Bon Voyage in English), by Nikki Wu. 

When Stanley was in his Mandopop phase during secondary school, he had taken a liking to Xiao Hu Dui (or Tiger Cub Band, in loose translation) and he would blast all sorts of their ballads, including this ballad by Nikki Wu.

Mrs Ong would sway along with the music and in time to come, had even picked up a few songs. 

Mrs Ong had was particularly fond of Bon Voyage -- a song Nikki wrote to commemorate the band's split.

Stanley decided that the song was therefore befitting of this grand farewell for his beloved mum.

The ballad's lyrics was so meaningful it was painful.

Later, the bus ride to Mandai, as expected, was a very quiet journey. 

I kept wondering how Stanley -- riding separately from us -- was coping.

I would soon find out. Stanley had specifically appointed me to be right beside him when the time came for the cremation. 

I dreaded that task. 

I wasn't ready to face that ultimate goodbye but I loyally took on that role. 

J had reminded me that I had to be a concrete pillar to Stanley, whatever it took.

As Mrs Ong's loved ones each laid a stalk of flower on, or in her coffin, I braced myself for this heavy role.

I linked arms with Stanley.

We watched from the mezzanine level, Mrs Ong's coffin being slowly directed to the furnace. 

Stanley's body began shivering slightly. Then more. And then, his body went limp as he let out uncontrollable sobs, watching Mrs Ong's slow but sure path into the fiery pit.

I planted my feet firmly on the ground, literally and emotionally supporting Stanley.

The scene before my eyes was a very grim but poetic reminder of one's final journey.

As the coffin entered the furnace, the doors closed shut. 

A visual reminder that there's no turning back. 

A visual reminder that the very act was irreversible. 

But also a visual reminder of closure. 

And as the biblical saying goes, when one door is closed, another is opened.

I certainly hope that in the midst of Stanley's grief, God has it in His plans to comfort him in his own merciful way.

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Dedicated to Mrs Monica Ong, 1949-2023