Rent Boys

Three months ago, my sex bunny friend Stanley Ong made a few decisions.

They're rather adult decisions. 

I know, I know. 

I need to be very specific here because given Stanley's track record, adult decisions can offer a whole spectrum of scenarios that can play out from the bedroom and lead to consequences in the courtroom. 

"Oh, this is nice, long and hard," Stanley said, running his hands through the object. "I love the grainy details of this."

Stanley was referring to a dining table -- just being specific here.

The two of us had taken an unofficial day off from work to shop at Tan Boon Liat. 

Unofficial meaning, we're on leave but only we know it. Our bosses and HR don't know. 

Back to Stanley's decisions.

He had finally decided to do something to manage his mid-life crisis and decided to put his extra bedroom on the rental market.

"There goes my free bedroom whenever I stay over," was my first response. 

"Be happy I'm not charging you rent whenever you stay over," came the retort. 

Stanley had been toying with the idea of slowing down at work for the longest time.

Money is important to him, which is why he can't bear to take a huge pay cut and do something more relaxing.

So, being the strategic overthinker and planner he is, Stanley decided to increase sideline money first so that he can kickstart his safety net funds.

The easiest way is to forgo privacy and allow a man into his life for the long term. And getting paid for it. 

"Think about this as a reverse money-boy situation where my hot, hunky tenant is paying me to live in my home," Stanley said.

"And if we have sex, it's a bonus," he added.

I shook my head vigorously. 

"Don't shit where you eat," I said.

Stanley considered this piece of advice carefully. 

Stanley had literally shat where he ate -- or nearish. He once went for a toilet break during dinner only to successfully cruise someone there -- story for another time.

"But you're right. It would complicate matters," Stanley said. "I wouldn't know how much to charge him for, on top of the rent, if that hunk tenant sleeps with me."

Firstly, I like that Stanley has already built his perfect tenant profile right from the start.

According to my sex bunny friend, his tenant will be a hot hunk who finds all sorts of excuses to get naked, blaming Singapore's weather, and would walk around trying to seduce Stanley. 

"Are you listing that as a criterion on Property Guru?" 

"Who said anything about property guru?" Stanley said. "I'm listing my room on Grindr."

This is Stanley hitting two birds with one stone though if you force me to be specific, the bird won't be a bird per se, and the stone that hits the bird won't be a stone per se either.

"It's called widening your net," Stanley said. If you force Stanley to be specific, it's not just the net he wants to widen.

As we strolled into a Bohemian furniture shop selling all things rattan, Stanley thought out loud.

"I like the idea that I'll have rental income. But I am not so sure I'm ready to have a stranger in my home."

Agreed. It's not easy.

I would know 'cos even though I had been a landlord once and am currently a tenant, neither of those situations were live-in. 

I've heard of horrible rental stories involving crazy landlords or crazy tenants living under one roof.

"I've heard of rental stories involving crazy landlords and crazy tenants but darling, they weren't horrible. Saucy, yes," Stanley had to be specific. 

So here's the thing. Stanley needs to know whether he's desperate enough to commit to a year's rent.

Surely, he'll have to get used to a stranger in his home. The types that don't go back to their own homes the morning after. 

But, Stanley reasoned, that this isn't a marriage. It's at most a one-year contract. And I can back out after that. 

"That's the worst that can happen -- that things don't work out, but I'll still have a year's worth of rental income and peace of mind thereafter," he said.

"The best case scenario is, we all get along, I get used to having a tenant and, you know, there are bonuses along the way," he added without needing to be specific. 

And so, there and then at the Bohemian store, Stanley decided he'd do it.

"I'll put up a listing on Grindr and screen people from there and we'll see if they are worth staying in my place for one year, or one night," he said with a very specific action plan in mind. 

 

 

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

Sex And The Scam City

Our wholesome dim sum brunch last Sunday was dominated by a hot topic.

"The food here had better be good," Stanley said, his eyes doing rapid surveillance around Yan Palace, Chinatown. "Since there are no hot waiters around."

Carl the dense one, his partner Adrian, my partner J and I took our seats.

Stanley the sex bunny continued standing and scanning the restaurant and then he looked at me and smiled.

"At least there's one eye candy at the next table," he said, signalling at a fair, bespectacled boy who looked no older than 20, who was serving tea to his grandma. 

"I hope that's not his grandma," Stanley said. "If she isn't, it means he's a sugar boy. And sugar boys can be bought with money, and I can buy him to my side," Stanley reasoned.

If we cracked open Stanley's skull, we might see a network of complicated threads in his head space that links all nodes of various locations to one central spot that spells Sex.

"What's going on there?" Carl the dense one asked, looking up from his menu.

If we cracked open Carl's skull, we might not find anything there. Crystallised protein powder, perhaps. But nothing else.

The important task of ordering was soon under way. 

I made sure I had my pan fried carrot cake (my dim sum staple) and char siew pao requests secured, before agreeing to all other proposals. 

When finally the order chit was submitted to an elderly waitress who looked like a grumpy grandma, Carl kicked started that morning's discussion.

"My credit card is blocked because there are suspicious activities," he said.

"Oh, that's bad. Suspicious activities with a banker is good. With banking, that's bad," Stanley said, his eyes still studying the grandson-who-could-be-a-sugar-boy a few tables away.

"There were three transactions made in the UK. Some Uber trip," Carl said in horror. 

Long story short, Carl called up the bank to resolve it. 

Credit has to be given to Carl who is generally useless and clueless in life but I also suspect his intellectual partner Adrian had a part to play in helping him settle the issue.  

"This is so frustrating," Stanley said. "Scammers are thriving -- good thing they're all being shipped out of their crime hubs in Myanmar," he said.

"Oh? What's happening there?" asked Carl who has no idea what's happening around the world since he's always in his own world.

"You know, I used to be very bitchy to these scam callers," Stanley said.

"Used to be?" I asked.

Stanley rolled his eyes, ignored my backhanded comment, and continued. 

"In the past, I would spend time either scolding them, gaslighting them, or simply waste their time by being annoying. Then I realise some of them may be victims too."

Carl looked very confused. "So are they scammers or victims?" 

News of the authorities in the region getting rid of scam centres had made headlines of late, and this topic found its way to our table which is by now, laid with stacks of bamboo containers of steaming dim sum snacks. 

"These days, when I get scam calls, I simply hang up," Stanley said. 

My partner J added that in recent months, he's been getting less of such calls.

Everyone -- except Carl -- agreed. 

From the corner of my eye, I saw -- and heard -- Carl whisper to Adrian "what's going on?"

While Carl is ignorant about worldly affairs, Stanley is very plugged in -- especially where affairs are concerned. 

"You know, if I were scammed to work in Myanmar, I will thrive.

"I'll be one of their top performers," he paused and looked at us to see if we responded to his sexual connotation and when all of us continued chewing our food, Stanley continued.

"I'll be the one who would march up to the boss to demand to set up a new scam branch and I'll head the unit personally. It'll be a sexual branch where I focus on scamming people by making random calls and indulging in phone sex straight away."

Carl, who loves stories, put his chopsticks down and listened intently. 

"I think I'll thrive there also because I'm living with so many other cute China men.

"Think about it -- we are all herded in communities, we live together, work together, eat together, shower together and sleep together. There's so much bonding that can happen," Stanley said. 

Again, all of us continued chewing except Carl.

"I'm pretty sure I can be top scammer by day and top scammer by night too."

Carl, who realised the direction of the story, joined us in partaking food and stopped paying attention to Stanley.

"All I'm saying is, I'm someone who takes crises and turns them into opportunities," Stanley said.

“The way I see it, scam centres need to evolve. Think out of the box, come out of their crime rings,” said Stanley, assuming the role of chief consultant, head of organised crime  

“At a time when brick and mortar shops are no longer the norm and that everything has gone online, it’s time to buck the trend. Be the first to venture back into the offline. Focus on the physical touch,” said Stanley, giving the phrase physical touch unnecessary emphasis. 

“Like him,” Stanley said, pointing to sugar baby as if everyone else in the restaurant were blind and deaf. “Recruit such types and make them do the old fashioned door to door sale instead of online marketing. There’s a growing market for it,” he said, this time giving the word growing unnecessary emphasis. 

Stanley, pleased with his pitch of a lifetime, picked up his tea cup, sipped, and sighed blissfully at his future door-to-door scam salesman.  

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

Mid Life Crisis

It was an extremely rainy evening.

But reservations were made, stomachs had to be filled and livers had to be doused with lethal drinks.

 

So rain or shine, the three of us -- my sex bunny friend Stanley, Carl the dense one and me -- made our way to an Izakaya at the heart of Singapore's business district.

 

At 6.20pm, all three of us gathered. Nearly half an hour past our reservation time.

 

"My socks are soaking wet," Carl complained. "I feel all squishy inside my shoes."

 

Stanley, who was dry 'cos he was in the area the entire day, said: "Darling, at your age, you should be thankful you're wet at all. And feeling all squishy inside doesn't always need to be such a bad thing."

Carl's bulky shoulders -- framed by his python-size biceps -- drooped.

Our resident gym rabbit can talk about sex any time except during dinner time.

Stanley our resident slut can talk about sex -- and perform acts of sex -- any time even during dinner time.

Remind me to tell you a story about how, once, during a toilet break at dinner, Stanley stole away for a quite snack in a nearby lavatory. 

 

But at present, Stanley and I are busy looking at the menu while Carl shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

 

"Hmmm... everything looks so good," Stanley said, struggling to order something.

 

Carl too was struggling to keep things in order and finally gave up.

 

He bent down to remove his shoes and socks, and smiled widely at us.

 

"Carl dear, there's nothing to smile about. You know people can see you're acting like an uncle with your wet feet right? The next thing you know, you'll be rubbing the in-betweens of your toes and sniffing your fingers."

 

Carl tilted his head thoughtfully, as if considering that possibility, since he had once upon a time tasted his booger out of curiosity.

But Carl was too blissful to care and just smiled in satisfaction, rubbing his wet feet on the sleeves of his jeans.

"Let's do the grill set and then top up," I said.

"There's nothing you said which I do not like -- grilling and topping are some of my favourite things in life," Stanley said.

 

"Carl, apart from smelly wet feet, what are you having?"

 

Food was soon served and warm sake was appropriately poured.

 

"How are you coping with your alcohol addiction, Adam," Stanley asked, the sake bottle hovering my glass as if he didn't want to waste a single drop on me.

 

"I'm not an addict and I'm drinking tonight, I said." 

 

Stanley raised the sake flask at me. "Amen and I'll drink to that."

 

"So, what's new?" Stanley asked.

 

"I'm just tired at work. I think it's taking a toll on my health. I was ill last week and still powering through," I said sulkily.

 

"I won't even with you," Stanley chided. "You're killing yourself with work. You'll need to think about your future. You're no longer young."

Carl chimed in at this moment. "I'm just thinking, if my feet are dry now, when I wear my shoes later on, they'll be wet again," he said with a pout, obviously thinking about his future too. 

"You know, I've been thinking about this a lot too," Stanley said. 

Carl brightened up, happy that Stanley was concerned about his not-so-happy feet situation. 

"We're slightly way past our mid life at 45, and I have been toying with the idea of slowing down too."

 

Carl's bulky shoulders sagged for the second time that evening, and he began distracting himself by studying his drying feet, paying cautious attention to the in-betweens of his toes. 

 

While I've always complained that my workload is burdensome and that I'm constantly tired by it, I have never once thought of quitting. Slowing down... maybe but it's not something I had entertained 'cos truth be told, I love it.

 

Stanley on the other hand, had been saying he wants to slow down for the longest time. Work wise, I mean. He's actually still quite active with men. 

 

But since I'm a supportive friend, I prodded Stanley further.

 

"You see, in less than half a year, I would have finished paying off the mortgage of my Queens Close flat. What's more, I now have a constant stream of rental income from the other room (again, remind me to share that story for another day)," Stanley said, as he skillfully extricated meat from a skewer, talent he honed from years of practice. 

"And with my savings, I think I can lead a simple lifestyle."

 

"Define simple."

 

"You know, spending less, living a simple life," Stanley said.

 

"Define simple," I pressed on.

 

"Stop it with the fake-lawyering. Just because you sleep with one doesn't make you a prosecutor," Stanley barked back, adding "and you're more pros- than cuter."

 

Carl burst out laughing. Then he looked up from his iPhone and asked "sorry, what?"

 

Truth be told, Stanley can't -- and likely won't -- settle for a simple life.

 

It's been a topic we talked about before.

 

My partner J living a simple life, that's possible. He's near-austere.

 

Stanley, no. 

 

"I mean, I will splurge occasionally and not deny myself luxuries of life," Stanley said.

 

"Define luxury," I said, not wanting to let him off the hook.

 

"I give up," Stanley confessed. "Whom am I kidding. I can only retire if I have a trust fund and the closest thing I have now is a thrust fund."

 

"Define that," Carl suddenly asked. "You mean you set aside money for sex?"

 

"Oh now you join the conversation," Stanley rolled his eyes.

 

Over the years, some of Stanley's slower pace of life includes opening a cafe. Then he decided that there's just way too much work and being a cafe boss doesn't really mean he gets to stay behind the counter and have staff making all decisions for him. 

 

Then he thought about quitting and joining an NGO 'cos it's always so meaningful to work for a good cause, Stanley would argue. 

 

Sometimes, he entertains the idea of being a home baker since he enjoyed baking his grand total of one orange cake.

 

Other half-baked ideas included learning to do lingram massage that would marry money-making skills with merry-making interests. That was actually a viable option for Stanley, given that he has extra room and space in his flat.

 

But at the end of the day, what Stanley truly wants, is his venting of what he can do to slow down his life.

 

"Venting is always a very good means of stress relief," Stanley decided.

 

Knowing his seedy history, I had to ask.

 

"Define that." 

 

 

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

Celebrating Our Next 22 Years

It is cheesy. 

It's a gimmick. 

And it's cliche. 

But still, I managed to convince J, my partner of 22 years, to go on a romantic V-day dinner with me.

So he begrudgingly put on a decent shirt (which is his de facto office wear anyway) and went with me to Skai, a restaurant where people ate and drank 70 storeys above ground level.

For someone who has a fear of heights, J had literally gone above and beyond for me. 

We were brought to our table which boasts of a floor-to-ceiling view of Singapore's skyline. 

I got that view.

J wanted to sit facing the interior of the restaurant.

That evening, we were both surrounded by couples of sorts. 

Encouragingly, there were at least three other same-sex couples -- a pair who look to be in their 30s, a duo of older men (I'm guessing mid-50s?) and two lesbian lovers. 

As we took our seats, a waiter who wore too much perfume for his own good came to pass us our V-day menus. 

J shook his head at the menu and quipped matter of factly that the prices match the sky-high altitude. 

J has never been one of those who'd splurge. 

I mean, he does spend money (on properties and investments) but on little things like V-day gifts or surprise presents, that's just not his love language. 

Mine though, is wanting to spend time together with him whenever I could.

And right now, I'm very contented with my time with J.

It's amazing that I can love someone for more than two decades. 

I'd always been rather self-centred, truth be told.

While I love J to bits, I also love my own space (which explains why I want to have my me-time all these years).

I also put work ahead of everyone -- including J.

On days when I'm overly burdened with work, I push everyone away and J puts up with me 'cos he knows what work means to me.

I'm also sometimes quite too much for J.

Skai is case in point. Left to his own devices, J would suggest having not a V-day dinner but just a normal everyday dinner. At a foodcourt or some bak chor mee stall or something.

But over the years, we've learned to accept -- and perhaps even love -- our flaws.

I used to loathe J's commitments.

Like, I would suggest a holiday and his answer would be "let's see".

Years later, I came to appreciate that his "let's see" is his way of doing his best while protecting me from disappointment. Something I wouldn't have thought of doing for him (let's not list the number of times I pushed him away for the sake of work). 

I don't like (present tense) his dressing style. Wait, the word style shouldn't even be used. Let's try that again.

I don't like (still present tense) his dressing. 

On many occasions, I would have to dress J (which is easy 'cos we're exactly same built) so all he needs to do is to wear my shirt or suit. J hates it, but he does it for me anyway. 

Eventually though, and I can't even pinpoint when that was, I learnt to accept J's shabby ways (except on important events like V-day, our anniversary and friends' and relatives' weddings).

That evening, as we handled sets of heavy cutlery and clinked stemware, I looked at J and thought of how lucky I am. Or we are, perhaps. 

In the last 20-plus years, we've been through many milestones.

To say those milestones are thick and thin would be a stretch since we are both fortunate enough to have smooth lives together (and as individuals). 

Stanley my sex bunny friend's life is thick and thin but that's a story for another day.

In our early 20s, J and I focused on building our respective careers. We also talked about our future.

Back then, our key milestone was to each own a property by age 30. We did that, and J owned two by the time he turned 35. 

In our 30s, we spoke very seriously about financial planning. J took the lead by introducing to me his risk manager and getting her to plan our retirement. Today, we both have a healthy investment portfolio.

Now that we're in our 40s, we're planning for old age. 

Romantic to some, but depressing to me to be honest.

J, always the level-headed one, wanted the two of us to be healthy even when we're old.

Even for my upcoming flat's renovation, J had a hand in making the flat elderly friendly. 

We're also each other's lasting power of attorney.

As I reflect on our relationship for the past 20 over years, I realise just how much we've both matured separately and together. 

Many things have changed for us since we got together in 2002 but many things still remain the same. 

One thing that's different is that J and I no longer care about being gay.

In the past, we would both be hesitant about looking like a couple in public.

Heck that.

And I don't care how others see us too.

That evening, I'm quite sure we were noticed by the other gay couples (and some straight ones).

They may not be judging us. Just acknowledging us in the midst of the V-day crowd.

To them, they would see two guys in their mid-40s celebrating love.

Both of whom with salt and pepper hair.

But that night, all I saw of J was him in his 20s.

His sexy tan, lean bod and his mop of curly hair. 

And when he smiles, his thick lips reveal this crooked canine of his that drives me crazy.

Present tense. 

And as I stare into J's eyes that evening, I know for sure I want to spend the next 22 years with him (and more).

Future tense. 

 

 

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

Alcohol Overhaul

For years, I had been a drinker. 

Stanley my sex bunny friend says I am very merciful with the choice of my words.

"You're an alcoholic and there's no shame in it," he said over a boozy brunch at Winestone.

Okay, maybe I am.

But like all alcoholics, I justify my actions.

"I drink only when I'm happy and I'm always happy."

"I can still function in spite of alcohol!"

"I don't need it. I just want it."

"My liver is still healthy -- and wine is good for the heart."

My partner of 22 years J avoids alcohol because it will cost him his life. 

He's allergic and so whenever we go out, I'd be the only one drinking.

Our most recent romantic dinner at a new Omakase in Standard Hotel amused the waiter.

He brought over one bottle of pinot grigio and two wine glasses when I shook my head at him.

"Just me," I said.

J tolerates my drinking even though he complains that I smell of vomit (whenever I drink beer). 

"So your new year resolution is what, to stop drinking?" Stanley asked, helping himself to more wine.

Well... cutting off alcohol would be extreme, I decided. 

Cutting down would be more merciful to myself.

You see, I have no problem with my overdrinking.

And by overdrinking, I mean, I would sometimes start my drinking at lunch. And when I eat an early lunch -- say, at 10.30am, that's when my drinking starts.

Usually, it'd be two -- sometimes three -- glasses of white wine with a salad. Healthy, no?

And if I were to work from home, by 4pm, I'd start with a red. The pouring then goes on till dinner, and more often than not, I would polish off an entire bottle by the time I was done with dinner. 

If I did go to the office, I'd order a glass or two of wine for lunch.

And when I got home, I'd head straight for my wine cabinet. 

Nothing beats the loosening of your tie, the rolling up of your sleeves, the sound of popping cork from the bottle and the satisfying swish of wine filling your glass after a long day at the office.

Okay. Now that I'm writing this down and reading it, I do feel like I need help.

How did this all start?

Well, I blame family. 

At the tender age of nine, my Eurasian godparents poured me my first glass of red wine.

It was after midnight mass on the early hours of Christmas and we just got home from church.

Being jolly Eurasians who love their partying, we didn't go to sleep. Instead, godma scooped up a big bowl of feng (a greenish Eurasian curry) and handed me a small glass of red wine.

It tasted rancid.

At 15, my own mother opened a bottle of whiskey during one CNY and said "Adam, as a boy, you need to learn how to drink. You might as well start at home under my supervision."

It tasted like kerosene (or how I imagine kerosene would taste like).

When I was studying in Australia, I was under a lot of stress -- I was the victim of Asian student guilt. I felt a great need to do extremely well in my studies because I had a point to prove to all the angmohs in my class. 

And because I was studying too hard and worrying too much about my grades, I had insomnia.

So yes, I turned to wine to help me sleep.

Every night, I'd gulp -- yes, gulp -- half a glass of wine hoping that the rush would render me giddy and sleepy.

It worked.

But my friends would say I'm wasting wine. 

So I began to slowly appreciate wine over dinner.

One thing led to another and by the time I graduated and started my first job, I was very comfortable with alcohol. 

"So... what exactly are you saying, Adam," Carl the dense one wants to know. 

I was about to answer him when I remember that Carl wants to know everything because he doesn't know anything.

But the point is, I've come to realise that my drinking is giving me problems.

During the festive season, I really binge-drank (on New Year's Eve, I drank around four bottles of wine on my own. During CNY, I drank half a bottle of whiskey when I visited J's cousin's home. And that's not counting my daily alcohol consumption).

By end-January, I realise I could no longer fit into my tailored work pants.

And being lean is more important to me than drinking alcohol, I said to the boys.

Carl nodded without knowing why.

Stanley rolled his eyes.

"Let's see how long you can keep this up," he said and poured me another round of wine. 

And I took a sip.

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

WikiLeaks

I'm very glad I have a very close group of gay friends.

Stanley the sex bunny and Carl the dense one.

I'm also very glad that in our near-30 years of friendship, there's no judgement of one another and there's nothing we can't talk about.

And this is one of those moments.

Spread across Stanley's dinning table in his bright and airy Queen's Close home was a variety of hawker fare: Char Kway Teow, carrot cake (black), rojak and, at Carl's insistence, MacDonald's nuggets and fries. 

The chilled wine is cheap but good Fat Bastard Chardonnay.

So far, a very pleasant Saturday afternoon but the topic du jour was far from it.

"Boys... I have a problem with my penile function," Stanley said. 

Carl, who was about to devour a large piece of nugget, instantly regretted his life choices.

He deftly switched from eating to drinking, and reached for his Chardonnay. 

"I've been leaking urine these days," Stanley said without shame, filter nor diapers. 

Carl gave up on life and simply focused on listening instead of the dangerous act of eating and drinking in Stanley’s presence. 

Apparently, these days, it's a case of the glass is half full situation for Stanley.

"I'd pee, and then I will always feel like the bladder is never really empty," Stanley said, taking a swig of his wine.

Carl pushed his wine glass farther away. 

"The other day, I was at the urinal and when I thought I was done with my pee, I zipped up," Stanley said. "And trust me, when I am at the urinal and I zip up, it means I am done." 

La Carl waited, knowing the worst isn't over.

"And then, just as I was about to walk to the sink, I peed in my pants. It wasn't done! I had to clean up myself in the cubicle! And trust me, this is the first time I'm drying up after myself in the toilet cubicle and the substance is urine."

It wasn't funny. It wasn't meant to be funny. There was no punchline. The only punch delivered was to our gut. 

But Carl and I roared with laughter on cue and didn’t stop until after three minutes, as Stanley waited expressionless, his arms folded.

Ok. This is a serious problem -- and it's not unique to Stanley.

"Actually," Carl put up his hand and said meekly, "I am also like that. I find myself standing at the toilet bowl for prolonged periods because I keep feeling like my pee is not over."

Both Stanley and Carl looked to me for my contribution.

"Okay, fine," I said, caving in to peer pressure.

"I've had the same situation as Stan -- I peed in my pants too but JUST A BIT," I said, trying to save my pride.

Stanley jumped up from his seat and did a group hug with me and Carl.

"You know this is nothing to celebrate about right, Stan?" I said, squeezing my words out between Stanley's shoulder and Carl's python-size biceps. 

"Phew, this feels good," Stanley said.

"We just talked about peeing in our pants. I am not sure this should feel this good," I remarked.

Carl seemed relieved too that he wasn't the only one who had leaking issues.

In fact, all three of us were on a roll that afternoon -- we were all leaking a lot of intimate details.

"How long have you been peeing in your pants," Stanley asked the group.

"Well, technically, we are not peeing in our pants," I argued. "It's the same issue -- that we pee a bit more even after we think we're done. Please frame your arguments accurately," I said, trying to give the group some form of dignity. 

"It's been more and more common," Carl admitted. 

"It started a few years ago too -- and mostly at night," I confessed.

"Fuck," Stanley said, almost dropping his phone.

"Google tells us this means we have enlarged prostates!"

Carl, chaser of all things big especially when it came to muscle, wasn't sure how to react since Stanley the size queen freaked out over something "enlarged".

"But that's perfectly normal right?" I tried not to panic. "I mean, we are old. So our prostates would be enlarged? No?"

Nobody had any answer. 

Desperate to change the topic, Carl leaked further. 

"Have you guys shat in your pants before? Because I have."

Stanley raised his hand. 

Again, both looked to me for my contribution.

"This is bullying," I complained. "Fine. Yes. But not always," I had to add, folding my arms.

Apparently, Carl shat in his pants the other day, after a particularly heavy set at the gym.

Stanley, not surprisingly, shat during one of his sexual escapades. His reasoning was, it was an unplanned encounter so he couldn't make sure he had cleansed himself thoroughly.

"We've spilled," Stanley said. "Now spill, Adam," he added, using very appropriate word choices.

"I shat in my pants during a long distance run. Are you happy now?" I said, reaching for a nugget to dip in curry sauce. 

Carl was on a roll.

"Has anyone eaten his own booger before?" he asked excitedly, emboldened by our sharing.

Stanley and I immediately reacted.

"Eww! YUCK! NO!"

"Who the FUCK would do that?" Stanley screamed accusingly at Carl.

"Ya! Right?" Carl replied smoothly. "Who would want to eat his own booger! It's so salty!" he said, extremely pleased with himself that he had bought himself some dignity.

 

 

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

Chinese New Year Special

Table for five, 6pm sharp, Keng Eng Kee. 

Earlier this evening, Stanley the sex bunny, Carl the dense one and his partner Adrian, my partner J and I gathered at an extremely crowded eatery at Alexandra for our annual CNY dinner. 

Years ago, we made a deal. 

That we won't spend Christmas together but come New Year's Eve, we'd be at Stanley's. And for CNY, it'd be my place.

Since I am currently renting a shoebox unit the size of four public toilet cubicles combined -- and that my new flat won't be ready until mid-2025 -- we thought we'd venture out to have this yearly meal.

"Look at the size of the crowd," Carl said, shaking his head.

"Look at the size of that one," Stanley leaned in and whispered, his eyes directing us to a tall, skinny lad wearing sweat pants that did nothing to hide his family jewels.

It's a good thing we had the sense to book at table, or we'd end up having to join the snaking queue.

"Let's start ordering," J suggested and proceeded to hand Carl and Adrian one menu to share, while passing me and Stanley the other.

Stanley was predictable. Regardless of where we are, he'd always insist on a tofu dish. He and his protein -- the ones actually considered as food by dietitians.

Carl, a small eater despite his deceiving python sized biceps, ordered crab -- Adrian's favourite. 

I am always ordering vegetable dishes, much to the chagrin of J who thinks it's not at all economical to order vegetables at such prices. 

Our ordering tasks were settled within seven minutes.

And as the Keng Eng Kee chefs started busying themselves, preparing our dinner (Marmite chicken, chili crab with deep fried mantou, pig stomach soup, Qing Long Cai, claypot tofu, the shop's signature "Moonlight Hor Fun" -- which is basically Hor Fun with a raw egg yolk in the middle of the dish, as well as Yusheng), we settled down and tried to engage in meaningful conversations amid the very bustling crowd around us.

"This year, all of us are fucked," Carl said with a pout. "Except you, J."

Adrian shook his head and looked at us for help. 

"The year of the snake is bad for us Goats," Carl explained with conviction. 

Stanley, Carl and I are all 1979-ers while Adrian is one cycle younger than us so that makes all of us Goats. 

J, who's a year older than I, is born in the year of a Horse.

"I've been telling him to stop obsessing with this," Adrian said.

"Where are you getting your facts from?" Stanley asked.

"Him," Carl said and held up his phone.

"Adam, this Fengshui master looks like you!" Stanley exclaimed, turning Carl's phone in J and my direction. 

"Oh yes. He's quite cute. You're right Stan," I said, taking the bait.

"Wait, you guys are missing the point," Carl said, worried.

"Let me see," Adrian cut in and added "Oh, you're right. But I think Adam looks better than this Allan guy who's feeding nonsense to Carl."

"Guys! This is serious," Carl begged, his voice getting more urgent. 

If this were a horror movie, Carl would be the character that realises something is wrong and tries to warn the entire group who collectively ignores and mocks him, including his own partner. 

Stanley the sex bunny would be that token sultry character who's always wearing skimpy cut-off denims that shows a bit of butt. And always the one that attracts the wrong crowd -- in this case, the eventual serial killer who would enter our remote vacation hut on Stanley's invitation but would later slash us one by one starting with Stanley. 

"You've got to stop believing this shit," Stanley scolded Carl.

"But J, you're in good fortune this year," Carl whispered to my partner. "You have many benefactors."

"And you, right now, have none," Stanley warned Carl sternly.

Years ago, Carl started reading every popup display of zodiac predictions in Singapore.

Said popups would typically be found in front of Fengshui shops, often painting a grim year-ahead for most zodiac animals but always conveniently offering a solution: Some bracelet to ward off this, or some pendant to balance that. Whatever. 

After years of pestering us to listen to such predictions, we caved in and allowed Carl his moment. That year was 2020. 

It was, according to Carl, the best that we Goats can ever hope to be. 

"2020 would be our best year!" we all allowed ourselves to believe.

Then came COVID and nothing about 2020 was good for us.

Since then, Stanley had borne a sulky grudge against Carl, accusing him of toying with his feelings, forcing him to believe in something that never happened. 

"Carl, seriously. I can do as good a job as whoever's writing those predictions," Stanley challenged.

Our sex bunny friend then cleared his throat, and began. 

"For those born in the year of the -- insert animal of choice," Stanley said, "you'll have to take care of your gastric health. You should also be wary at work and avoid talking behind people's backs. Your romance stars will clash with the Grand Duke this year, so be mindful and avoid getting into quarrels with your loved ones. For those who are single, you may face obstacles to love in the first half of the year."

Carl's jaw dropped, obviously impressed.

"I think I read this somewhere, sometime ago by someone!" he said with excitement. 

Stanley rolled his eyes.

"You do realise that whatever you just said had no value at all?" 

Carl's shoulder slumped, his python sized biceps deflating slowly.

"Whatever I just said is just bloody common sense. It's universal rule that we should all take care of our gastric health as opposed to focusing on destroying it. It's common decency to avoid talking behind people's backs, at work or not. And love wise, everyone's romance will have ups and downs!"

"Well, I just wanted to share these things with you guys for fun," Carl defended himself. "I take these things with a pinch of salt too," he said, and struggled to take off his newly-bought charm bracelet made up of coloured rocks. 

That's the thing about Chinese New Years. 

There are traditions and practices associated with the festival. 

Some of those we like, some, not so.

Like these zodiac predictions. 

It's fun to know, for sure. In fact, people actively search for these predictions and snap photos for their loved ones. When done in good fun, it can be amusing.

But like Stanley, I roll eyes at such gimmicks. Whether the year is good or bad ultimately lies in your choices. 

Then, there are other more likeable traditions. 

Such as buying new clothes which the boys and I embraced in our younger days. 

In our late-20s till mid-30s, we would go on shopping trips every year, making it a point to at least have new and fashionable apparel for Days 1 to 3 of CNY. 

We also looked forward to visiting relatives and friends wearing those very new and fashionable apparel (the boys and I would, in our mid-20s, also go clubbing after our respective reunion dinners at home).

And of course, the one tradition we all looked forward to, was receiving red packets. 

But like the rotating zodiac signs that take turns to dominate each Lunar Year, traditions too, have its own cycle. 

In our youthful days, buying new clothes, visiting relatives and getting red packets were things we looked forward to.

Then when we started working and devoting ourselves to our careers in our mid-30s, we get so burned out and jaded that we no longer cared about these things.

Somewhere along the line, we -- or at least, I -- stopped bothering to buy new clothes. Not even new underwear for CNY. And the visiting of relatives? That came to an end too 'cos as young adults, we no longer placed that much priority on distant relatives. Even the red packets. I've come to the point where I would be the one giving red packets to the elders though I'm unmarried. 

But the thing is, traditions come and go.

In my mid-40s, traditions have come back to me to claim its place.

I guess when you're at your midway lifetime (provided we die at around 80), we start to re-prioritise our lives, including traditions.

This year, I decided I should embrace them again.

For one, my loved ones aren't getting any younger. So I have decided to spend as much time -- and eventually host as many family dinner parties at my new flat when it's ready -- so that I can treasure my elders more.

That thought spilled over to my intentions during festivals like CNY.

Why not just, for once -- and maybe next year too -- join my mum and aunt in visiting their siblings and see my ageing distant aunts and uncles?

And if so, then why not buy one or two new shirts for that occasion? 

Life is strange sometimes. 

As we grow older, our priorities change. 

What was important to us when we were younger become less so as we grow up. But those that truly matter will eventually find its way back in our lives.

As I look at the table of Goats and one Horse, I know there and then that this is one tradition I hope to hold dearly to, for a very long time.

Gong Hei Fatt Choy, dear readers, and may you embrace and enjoy your own traditions with your loved ones too.

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

Designing Our Future

In the last decade or so, I made several life-changing decisions. 

At 30, I emptied my savings to buy my first-ever apartment which I fashioned into a bachelor pad.

Yes. I may have been partnered since 2002, but my first-ever home was designed for one.

It was a large one-bedder that could host rowdy parties for dozens but accommodate no stayovers. 

Except for my partner J (who stayed over only when absolutely necessary -- such as when we celebrated anniversary dinners or had to host common friends). 

Truth be told, J disliked my apartment -- and we were both fine with that. He thought it “cold” and “impractical”.

By 30, my very capable partner J already owned two properties. 

"Buy what you like and do what you deem fit to it," J would say. "Enjoy your first apartment."

And boy, did I go all out.

I chose a decor which I loved but J disliked: The cliche industrial look, filled with cement screed flooring, cement screed feature wall, exposed bricks in some corners of the home, and, of course, track lights and wooden furnishing you can find in all pretentious cafes. 

You get that idea.

Then, nearly a decade after I first bought that 'bachelor pad' -- I was nearly bankrupt when home interest rates spiked to nearly 4 per cent -- and I decided to cut my losses short and sell my most prized asset. 

I rented for nearly two years before deciding to finally settle for a resale HDB flat.

This time though, my second purchase is decidedly not to be a bachelor pad. 

It would be, of course, bought with my money. But while legally it's my flat, it would be my partner J and my home. 

Since I was allowed to be 'selfish and indulgent' with my first home purchase, I thought I'd be a little forward-looking and inclusive this time round.

And so even before the house-hunting process, I decided to be an adult and discuss it with J.

When we were both in our mid-20s, we had talked about eventually moving in together. Back then, neither of us expected J to eventually own two properties and for me to have and then sell one. 

But we both knew we wanted to live together in our golden years.

Since one of J's properties is too big for us (and is yielding good rental income for him), we decided to leave that unit as that. A rent-churning pot of gold.

J's current place, which has more than enough rooms for two of us and two kids if I were to get pregnant one day, is nice, but, truth be told, isn't my style. 

I once told J that if I were to move in to his current space, I'd feel like I'd be intruding into his space and his style -- exactly the same way he would feel were he to move in to my first 'bachelor pad'.

The right thing to do, therefore, was to buy this flat with both J and me in mind.

So right off the start, my house-hunting was specific: There needs to be two toilets (J is extremely forward-looking and he reminded me that when we're old and our bladders are weak, we will need a toilet each). 

The location of the flat was also key -- they'd have to be near MRT stations (we won't have cars when we're old and retired) as well as a range of amenities (which isn't hard to achieve given Singapore is relatively convenient). 

Eventually, we did find something we both loved. 

We fell head over heels for our current unit which is located in town.

That day, when I collected the keys to our place, I felt what I didn't feel when I bought my first apartment: Anticipation.

Because this time, when the home is eventually ready, it's decidedly a home meant for two.

J and me. 

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

Recipe For Love

Growing up, my household was always filled with food.

Meal times were grand and extremely rowdy because the matrons of my extended family would come together and make a big deal of dinner.

Our families dominated three out of seven houses in a row: My granny, my aunts and uncles, and my family.

And so by late afternoon, the women would gather at my granny's kitchen, chopping, slicing, pounding. 

Dinners were always filled with heaps of food. And always an event that brought all of us together. 

Naturally, I grew up knowing the importance of food and how it bonds people.

Yet, I didn't learn to cook until absolutely necessary.

In university, I was sent overseas but my first year was all sheltered and pampered: I lived in a hostel known for, among other things, its good food.

I subsequently moved out of the hostel after my first year. 

Mealtimes were tough. 

On days when I didn't eat out, I would compile food -- potato chips pasta. Eating beans out of a can. Whatever I have in the fridge, I made do.

Fast forward to today, I'm like that too. Whatever I have in the fridge, I make do too, but in an extremely culinary fashion.

Over the years, I'd learned to cook -- and cook well.

I moved out at 30 and having my own place meant I needed to learn how to take care of myself.

So it started with simple tips like how to cook vegetables.

My hopeless mum -- who spent all her life climbing the corporate ladder -- had no future in the kitchen. So she imparted zero cooking skills.

I first learned how to stir-fry vegetables from my partner J's mum.

"All you need is oil and nothing else," she said. "You don't even need salt or sauce," she said, stirring the wokful of Chye Sim.

That was my first recipe, I kid you not.

I then began learning to stir-fry meat. From tips and tricks of marination and portioning to the art of using corn flour to thicken meat sauces.

The simple meals I cooked for myself made me feel so accomplished that I felt I could do more.

That's when I actively started collecting family recipes.

My aunt's food is the best.

Her signature dishes include braised mushroom and chicken feet (a recipe that requires you three days' work), sweet and sour pork, and a Cantonese staple known as Tau Gork Lap (which is simply a mix of diced ingredients like long beans, lap cheong, char siew, peanuts, deep fried beancurd and radish). 

From my god-ma, I learnt how to make ayam masak merah (red paste chicken) and bergadil (potato cutlet).

Of course, J's mum also imparted many of her recipes to me -- Indonesian sayur lodeh, rendang and Nonya chap Chye among those.

Today, I have an impressive collection of family recipes which I would dish out on special occasions. 

I was telling J that one day, when all our loved ones are no longer around, I hope to whip up these familiar meals so that we can keep those memories going strong.

This is my recipe for love.

What's yours, dear reader?

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

New Year New Love?

“Can we get some more bread please,” Stanley asked for the fourth time. 

 

“Hungry much?” I said passing him my brioche before Stanley the hangry started eating the lazy waiter.

“Gosh, this place. They have the nerve to charge us sky high prices for French food and they can’t even give me decent service,” mumbled Stanley, who appeared to have woken up in 2025 and chosen violence. 

Carl the dense one, who avoids conflicts and confrontation at all costs, sipped his Chardonnay nervously. 

 

It was the first Friday night of 2025 and Stanley insists the boys started the year right, by spending as much time as time as we can before we die. 

 

Stanley had heard from one of his Out-in-Sg friends about Josephine, a cosy French restaurant along Amoy Street. 

 

The set up was nice. The ambience was as lively as can be. 

At one corner were around 12 rowdy guests all squeezed around a high, long table toasting one another with a variety of alcohol: Whiskey, wine, beer. There were a handful of young couples scattered around.

They all looked like they’re in their early 30s, youthful, dressed trendily and ordered like they were on a tight budget.

Our table was the opposite. We had ordered a feast — from escargot and grilled cheese and salads, to meats and seafood. Just that 20 minutes in, none of them arrived yet.

Not even our bread, which Stanley, by now, had resorted to the divine for help: “Oh give us this day our deli bread,” he clasped his hand and said to the ceiling.

Carl was getting bored by the minute and began flexing his python arms for a healthy dose of self-entertainment.

Eager to start the first night out of 2025 with the boys right, I asked: “What’s everyone’s new year resolution?”

New year resolutions are a sensitive yet vital topic.

Vital because, everyone loves a new beginning and setting goals to make themselves feel accomplished.

Sensitive because, in our group, those resolutions are more often than not, unmet.
 

Every year, Stanley sets out his new year with zest: Learn how to bake (he didn’t), learn to be more financially savvy (he didn’t), learn to dive (he didn’t).

Carl on the other hand, was a lot more successful: Get beefier (yes he did — any more iron he pumps and even scarves and shawls won’t fit him), aim to be more youthful (yes he did — the amount of money he’s spent on Botox jabs in Bangkok could easily buy him enough youth to last him for a year… the ones from Silom Soi 2), eat healthier (yes he did — he’s the most disciplined of us all, knowing what to put and what not to put in his mouth, unlike Stanley the sex bunny).

Me? I don’t believe in new year resolutions because I’m competitive in nature.

I don’t start what I know I can’t finish.

I mean, why set myself up for failure and force myself to master sign language in 4 months, or lose 3kg in two months, or read more books when I am already starved for time?

“This year, I aim to continue — if not, intensify — my youthful treatments,” Carl said with a beam and not a single frown line appeared.

I was in awe. Whatever you’re doing to your face, it’s working.

Carl beamed again and flexed both his python-size biceps in appreciation. 

I think I need to lose 3kg in two months, I said with a pout. “Been eating way too much. I need to go on one of those juice diets,” I said. 

“Unlike you, mister Botox,” Stanley said to Carl, “and you, mister detox… I aim to intox,” he said, then turning to a nearby waiter who was gazing at a plant while his colleagues were busy whisking plates of food around, “I need another cocktail — and more bread please.”

I know Stanley long enough to know something’s not quite right.

More than two decades of friendship allowed me to use my non-verbal communication skills to probe further. 

Stanley, himself an expert on using non-verbal skills to probe — and sometimes very oral skills to probe — caught my questioning look, sighed and said “ok, Adam, you caught me. I’ll tell you exactly what the issue is.” 

Carl the dense one, who was using his finger to trace his intricately hand-blown cocktail glass, looked up and immediately frowned, his puzzlement throwing up all sorts of unsaid questions (and yet, not throwing up any frown lines). 

Apparently, Stanley’s love life has again come to an end. 

Though one might argue that Stanley didn’t have a love life to begin with. 

You see, Stanley had recently been seeing a man. An attached man. 

It was all good while it lasted. I liked him. At least, from my previous engagements with him. 

But all good things come to an end. 

After our New Year’s Eve lunch party — which Stanley had hosted — Stanley and his beau had a long talk…. One that literally started in 2024 and ended in 2025. 

Long story short, P and Stanley ended their relationship at 4:13am, Jan 1, 2025. 

“You know what infuriates me the most?” Stanley said fighting back tears. 

Carl the dense one, who always has no answers, shakes his head. 

Just then, not only our bread but also our starters appeared. 

“Sorry for the wait guys,” the restaurant supervisor said rapidly, setting the items on our table then rushing off to appease other hungry diners. 

“P and I were just having an intimate, post-coital talk about our lives,” Stanley continued, staring angrily at his newly filled wine glass of Chardonnay. 

“Things were going fine — he made promises to me, we renewed our commitment of facing what’s to come together and all was rosy.” 

Carl nodded and patted his python sized biceps. 

“And all I asked was whether he would stop seeing other men. And then he went bersek, accusing me of being unreasonable and forcing him to be a mould of the kind of men I want him to be.”

Carl’s eyes widened with fury and his python sized biceps swelled with equal measure of betrayal. 

“Thing is,” Stanley said as the first drop of tears dripped, “I’m not angry that he wants to have me and still see other men. 

“It’s the fact that one minute, he’s making sweet promises to me and assuring me he loves me and the next minute, when things aren’t going his way, his first instinct is to break up with me. So readily!”

Carl, who avoids drama at all costs, nervously pushed to Stanley his brioche, hoping that the very gesture would comfort our hurting friend. 

“No!” Stanley said, determination returning to his eyes. 

Carl the dense one stopped pushing his brioche and slowly drew back the bread towards himself. 

“I’m not going to waste tears on him.”

Carl, relieved, began pushing the brioche back towards Stanley. 

“And no,” Stanley said, looking firmly at Carl, who froze, not knowing which direction his brioche ought to go. 

“I’m not going to start my 2025 like this.”

Carl nodded with gusto. 

“So, you’ll take the bread?”

 

 

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