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. 

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