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

Farewell Mrs Ong (Part I)

Today's post is a sombre one.

It's belated and it's a piece I had been dreading to pen.

But it's been one year, and I think the time is ripe, even though the wounds may not have completely closed.

It was the year 2023, and it was mid-September. 

The phone call came at 2.45am while I was asleep.

"My mum," Stanley said over the phone. "She just passed away."

It had been a year since the formidable Mrs Monica Ong tripped and fell at home.

At first, Mrs Ong recovered well while she was hospitalised. 

It was, after all, just a hip injury.

But the longer she stayed in the ward, the more the problems arose.

It went from lung infection to organ failure within a year.

It was way too much for Stanley and the boys to digest. 

"What do you need," I asked Stanley.

"Nothing for now. I'll give you the details later."

"Okay. I love you ok, Stan?" I said. 

For the rest of that night, I didn't -- and couldn't -- sleep.

I began planning leave for the next few days and mentally preparing myself for a painful journey ahead with Stanley. 

At 6am sharp, I called my partner J, knowing he'd be up.

And then, I rang Carl the dense one. 

By 2pm, Stanley texted with the details. 

The wake was to be held in the Ong's three-storey home in Lorong Chuan.

By 2.45pm, armed with bottles of cooling herbal tea and a box of savoury baked char siew pies, I arrived at Stanley's parent's home. 

The first night of the wake was reserved only for family, and Stanley insisted the boys and I be included. 

In all my years of knowing Stanley, this was the palest and most despondent he'd been.

He received my hug with little emotion but he held tightly on to me.

The photo of Mrs Ong was beautiful. She was photographed in mid-laugh, and not a single strand of her bob hairstyle was out of place. She looked stately, gracious, mischievous even, in that photo.

I said a silent Hail Mary in front of that black-and-white photo and asked God to keep Mrs Monica Ong in one arm, and in His other, to cradle the living ones she's left behind.

And then came the time to see Mrs Ong.

"You sure?" Stanley checked.

I nodded firmly.

I linked arms with Stanley and approached the coffin.

Mrs Ong looked like she was napping before a wedding dinner -- a string of pearl necklace adorned her neck. She wore a bright green cheongsam with intricate patterns. But her hair was grey. Not the jet black I remember her to sport when she was alive.

Stanley looked numb. And tired.

We sat and didn't talk. 

The silence need not be filled with words, and we were comfortable to just sit in the moment.

Later that evening, my partner J popped by after work with Carl the dense one.

Carl immediately morphed into a beefy baby when he saw Stanley, hugging him and saying "I'm so sorry", his tears and mucous making wet patches on Stanley's white tee.

In all our years of friendship, having gone through ups and downs together, having laughed and cried together, having fought and made up together, this was one of the most painful moments. But we were together. 

Stanley's parents' front porch -- the venue of many merry parties which Mrs Monica Ong, God bless her soul, loved throwing -- is now hosting a family farewell.

All of Mrs Ong's sisters were there. They all looked alike. Dressed alike. Spoke in similar, crisp accents. 

In one corner sat Stanley's dad who was surrounded by his and his late wife's family, all having come to give hugs and condolences. Stanley's older sibling Cindy Ong who's sometimes referred to as his nemisister was busy filling guests' glasses and peanuts. 

She came by ours and and nodded at us. A nod that said thank you for being there for my brat brother.

Amid the buzzing activity, Stanley just sat there staring glassily into the air.

His posture was defeated, his body limp. No tears, no expression, no words.

It was the most vulnerable and broken even, that I had ever seen him.

But Stanley need not worry.

Right now, he's encircled by his tightest, strongest, and most loyal loved ones.

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Dedicated to Mrs Monica Ong, 1949-2023

The Holy Meeting

My sex bunny friend Stanley never fails to amuse me.

Last week, he started going to church after a hiatus.

I had to clarify his intentions.

You can't blame me.

Stanley had once confessed to me that as a child, he was fascinated with Jesus Christ.

"I was in awe," Stanley said meekly. "I was taken by how lean his body was."

Stanley was then 5 years old.

"I'm offended by your doubt in my faith!" Stanley responded to my official query on his church-going activity.

It was one of those rare days when Stanley, Carl the dense one, my partner of more than 20 years J and I are gathered for Friday dinner. 

Stanley looked to J, a fellow Catholic, for support. 

J turned to me and announced "we should all be supportive of Stanley's newfound direction in spiritual life".

"You make him sound like he's dead," I said.

Turns out, Stanley's renewed faith was prompted by Pope Francis' visit to Singapore. But it was also by a personal development in his life (a story I'll share next week).

While he wasn't an old faithful, Stanley tried his luck months ago by balloting for a seat at the Holy Mass that'd be conducted by the pope when he's here.

He got it.

"Wow," I said. "Do you think this is a sign? That you got this lucky at your first attempt?" I ask Stanley who has been dipping in and out of his Catholicism faith.

"Wow!" Carl the dense one said. "Who is the pope, why is he coming, and where are you going?"

All his life, Stanley had been very un-Catholic. 

His interpretation of a mass is one that's held in places other than a church -- and it usually involves a lot of hot, sweaty male bodies.

He's also always on his knees and his fours, but they're for activities other than praying. 

And Stanley usually prefers hot daddies to the Holy Father.

Stanley had once famously proclaimed at a drunken party -- complete with lewd hand and mouth gestures -- that he was so Catholic that he's also known as the Perpetual Succor. 

So you really, really can't cast the first stone at me and blame me for judging him. 

But Stanley has his serious side, and I know he's being very serious right now.

As his gay best friend, my duties are to be supportive of his beliefs and actions. 

"Sorry, can someone please tell me what on earth is happening?" Carl the dense one demanded. "Stanley, when were you ever Catholic?"

Stanley looked at Carl in disbelief, then said as sagely as he could.

"In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth."

Carl waited.

"But not all men are created equally," Stanley added, looking pitifully at Carl who still has no idea what's happening, nor what the topic of the evening was.

Carl was about to say something, then something caught his attention. He dogged from a flying insect and said "I think that's a bee. Now I'm craving honey," he said with the enviable bliss of being clueless and worry-free. 

"I hope you'll find meaning in your faith and journey, Stan," J said lovingly to Stanley.

"Again, you make it sound like he's dead."

Stanley swatted me aside like I was the flying bee and thanked J who is less annoying to talk to.

That evening was a very special evening.

It was the first time we all managed to sit down for dinner without Stanley raising the topic of sex.

"People can change," Stanley scolded me for making this astute observation. 

"I'm cleansing myself ahead of the mass. Ahead of meeting the pope," Stanley said.

I prayed to God there and then, that, first, the mass that Stanley was referring to was an actual congregation of prayer because Stanley's version of a "mass" also involves cleansing, washing and douching.

"Someone should really wash your mouth with soap, Adam," Stanley scolded me again for voicing out my thoughts.

"Luckily you're not attending the Holy Mass," Stanley pointed out. "You will burn in the presence of the pope," he said matter of factly.

"Any priest who touches me and causes me to burn," I said, "would be a concern. But there's always a cream for that."

Stanley, Carl and J looked at me in unison, in collective shock.

And for the first time, to my horror, I outdid Stanley.

 

 

 

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