Hip Hip Booray

"I knew this day would come but I never expected it to come this soon," I said.

"Hunny, all I heard was 'come' and 'soon'," Stanley my sex bunny friend replied, "and I thought I'd be excited by any sentence that contains these two words."

"What are we talking about," Carl the dense one said as he set the tray of drinks on the table. 

"Hot chocolate for you, Stan. Hot coffee brew for you, Adam, and I'm having my all-time favourite of Sunrise," Carl said happily.

I looked at the drinks and it hit me that this day had indeed come sooner than later.

"First, gone are the days when we would order cold drinks by default. Look at us now. Old uncles like us lean towards hot drinks," I said.

Carl slurped noisily to stress that he's still ordering cold drinks like all young people.

"And then, at this age, we're meeting at hospitals."

Stanley pouted.

That morning, we accompanied Stanley to the Singapore General Hospital.

"I am about to to strip naked and wear a loose gown which will give hot nurses -- hot male nurses -- easy access to my regions," Stanley said, "and I thought I'd be excited by any prospects that contain these two scenarios."

Stanley the sex bunny was seeking treatment for an ailment he can no longer ignore: His hip.

For the last eight months, Stanley's been hurting. He tried ignoring it, living with it but could be in denial no more. 

It hurts even when I'm not moving, Stanley said.

"What." Stanley barked at me when he saw my pursed lips which was a deliberate, physical effort to stop myself from saying things.

I shook my head rapidly, lips tightly pursed. Now's not the time to link Stanley's activities to his current plight. 

"Did you hurt yourself during sex?" Carl the dense one, who can never read a room, asked with childlike innocence. 

Stanley diverted his murderous vibes at him.

Just then, a very chubby boy lumbered towards the Coffee Bean counter asking for a cup of whipped cream.

Said chubby boy -- who looked no older than seven -- lumbered back to his seat, spooning the whipped cream like it was ice cream.

"At least somebody is happy," I pointed out at the happy, lumbering child whose future may include hospital visits earlier than expected if he continued his current lifestyle. 

The grand plan was simple that morning. Accompany Stanley for his doctor's appointment. Get scans done to get to the bottom of what's causing Stanley this much pain that he can't squat or walk without sashaying. 

And Stanley can't wait to get back to normal.

"I can't run, I can't walk, I can't do everyday things that are normal to me," Stanley said in frustration.

My lips were so pursed I'm sure they looked white.

Stanley glared at me and said "yes, Adam. That includes sex."

I shrugged in innocent definace, refusing to be called out. I'm determined to be that supportive best friend.

And supportive we were. Later on, Carl and I stood side by side Stanley so that he could lean on us on the way up to see a Dr Chia.

Stanley looked around the waiting area and pouted for the second time of the day.

"I'm old now," he whispered.

"Think of it as you're the youngest here," I said, playing the role of the ever supportive friend.

"We've pulled down the average age of this clinic," I said, patting Stanley on his lap.

"Looking at the quality of patients here, there's nothing I want to pull down," Stanley the sex bunny said without any expression.

Twenty minutes later, Stanley limped his way out and flashed us a smile.

"Dr Chia is cute," he reported. "He's like slightly younger than I am, and he's got that cute geek look which you like, Adam."

"I already have a cute geek partner," I said, thanking Stanley for trying to be inclusive.

"This gives me incentive to get well," Stanley said with a scheming smile.

Now's not the time to purse my lips especially when I needed clarity.

"Seeing Dr Chia gave me hope," said Stanley whose first part of his sentence is something SGH might consider quoting him on and printing his words in large bold fonts plastered just below Dr Chia's photo on a photo wall.

"He is so cute he makes me want to be strong for him. I want my hip to be so strong, it can go from doing hip thrusts to hip trysts."

Try printing out those words in full, in large bold fonts and plastering them just below Dr Chia's photo, SGH.

 

 

 

 ---------------------------

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

No Kidding

If there's a preview of what hell is like, I think I'm in it.

A dining hall filled with at least two screaming toddlers, one baby making nasal wailing sounds from a pram and the collective excited chatter of kids aged between 5 and 10. 

I may have god kids but I am not a huge fan of children, to be honest.

"One gay man's hell is another gay man's heaven," Stanley the sex bunny pointed out. 

Carl the dense one looked at Stanley and delivered a punch to his shoulder. 

"Don't say such things. People are gonna think all gay men are paedophiles," I said. 

"You're right," Stanley agreed quickly. "Not all gay men are paedophiles. But all paedophiles are gay men," he added.

Carl and I each took a step further from Stanley who on some days are known for his loose lower body parts, and today, known for his loose upper body part that is his mouth.

The three of us were in Ikea Alexandra and of all times, we chose a Sunday morning to be there.

It was like recess time at a school tuckshop except the kids are out of control. These Ikea parents have absolutely no authority over their offspring.

Soon, we set our trays of food down -- comprising the quintessential Swedish meatballs, grilled salmon and deep fried chicken wings -- and began passing cutlery around.

"I just love meatballs," Stanley said without anyone asking, as he stared lovingly at a young daddy with a crew cut nearby.

We were unsure if Stanley was appreciating his morsel or the daddy's muscle but I didn't want to ask. 

All I wanted to do was to cure my hunger pangs and then go look at whatever cheap items I can buy for my new home.

Right now though, I'm bothered by the hunger bangs at the next table.

A human child less than 2-metres away (which mean he's within my slapping range if I snap) is busy thumping his tiny, chubby hands on the table. He appears to be around four years old, is obviously restless and hungry, but honestly can afford to skip a meal or two. 

What bothers me is that despite his dining tantrums, his parents aren't at all bothered. They were both staring into their respective phones and chewing their food nosily.

"Basic Punggol straight people," Stanley uttered under his breath. 

Basic Punggol straight people, explains Stanley, are your most basic Singaporean couples.

They're young, and not exactly super rich yet so they depend a lot on government subsidies to buy their first BTO flat which is almost always in Punggol, Singapore's heterosexual couples' property dumping ground.

Usually, these basic Punggol straight couples are in their early 30s. The woman often goes by a pretentious English name like Chantel to mask her hideous real name like "Tan Bee Leng". She is always pale looking, sports long, rebonded hair, and is skinny. She typically speaks only English with a thick Singaporean accent and can't string a word of Mandarin. She would wear spaghetti strap tops and tiny denim cutoffs and address her husband as "Dear" and give her child a trendy name like "Jayden".

The husband, on the other hand, is far simpler. He would usually be fair skinned (because he stays away from the sun and spends most time gaming in his room) and has faded looks: His once boyish features would be marred by the burden of marriage, so he usually has double chin, a slight belly or is out of shape somewhere. His basic Punggol attire is a worn-out army singlet and a pair of Uniqlo bermudas.

You have given this some thought, I pointed out.

Stanley smirked.

If he were an FBI profiler, his sketch book would be filled with extremely detailed drawings given how he loves profiling people. Carl the dense one, if he were an FBI profiler, would have far more empty pages in his sketch book and those that are actually filled would comprise kiddish drawings of people: A simple circle for a head and thin, linear lines to illustrate body and limbs.

Stanley fundamentally dislikes these basic Punggol types because he views them as beneficiaries of the government's housing policies.

They take full advantage of cheap housing in Punggol where they'd do up with your basic Japandi or Wabi Sabi style. Five years later, they sell it off and then make a profit from the transaction and go on to buy a condo in yet another heterosexual property dumping ground (Sengkang) and think they've made it in life.

But I digress.

The reason I can't shift my focus away from kids is really because not too long ago, I had a discussion with a friend who is thinking of adopting. 

M is a high earner in an MNC and his partner -- an American born Filipino -- is equally wealthy.

They'd been together for nearly five years and now, M's partner wants to adopt a child.

"Why would you want that?!" Stanley yelped at that thought.

"Exactly my point," I said, now distracted by another human child whose chocolate sauce by the side of his mouth is drying and crusting, and is clapping for no reason. 

Many gay couples of our generation enjoy the benefits of being gay. Just ask Stanley who's calendar is filled with not only what to do but whom to do.

Most gay people are also wealthy 'cos we're smart, motivated and driven so we tend to be great in our careers (which also translates to a certain level of income).

And so, many of us can flaunt our wealth or simply spend freely.

Which is mind-boggling to us when a gay couple choose to give that up and start an adoption process.

To kickstart the process of adoption, it's $50,000, I relayed that information to the boys. And that's even before that kid comes into your life!

Carl the dense one immediately whipped out his phone to do some basic calculation.

Stanley also took out his phone to do some counting. "Eight people within 0 metres range," he reported after his quick Grindr investigation. 

I mean, when I look at straight couples, I get it. The core principle of their beliefs is a marriage between man and woman and because they put their private parts together where they belong, it's only natural that they follow the reproduction journey and start families and have babies and live in one noisy family unit.

Gay people... I don't get it.

Stanley, in one of his sober moments, later explained why more gay people are thinking of adopting.

Over the decades, gay men have fought to be seen. Fought to not be discriminated against. In the early days, people marched for their rights.

Modern day campaigns now revolve around anti-discrimination policies at work, freedom to love, abolishment of Section 377A, and even pushing for same-sex marriage.

And so, it's only a matter of time that this trend of same-sex parenting would creep up in gay people's radar.

We took decades to normalise gay relationships. Look at where we are today, Stanley said.

The same goes for same-sex parenting -- now's the time when the seeds of these ideas are planted so that our next generation can start to look at gay families as normal.

Carl the dense one looked at Stanley with respect.

I digested his wise words.

And then, Stanley spoke again.

"Speaking of planting seeds... I really want to do some serious digging and ploughing with him," he said, looking at the same young daddy with the crew cut.

 

 

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

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

Halfway Mark

I am slowly moving towards becoming an asshole. 

At the six-month mark of every year, I do a mid-year review of myself and the assessment isn't looking good: I don't quite like myself at this stage.

"Hurry up, Adam. Do you want this or not?" Stanley interrupted at the end of his couch, tapping furiously into his iPhone.

We were at Stanley's cosy Queens Close flat that afternoon for our regular get together and right now, our sex bunny friend is busy buying wine.

"Group buys are the best," he reasoned. "In fact, groups are great," the sex bunny friend added without anyone asking. 

While Stanley was adding to his cart dozens of highly-rated Amarones and Chateauneuf-du-paps, I continue typing this blog entry, lamenting to the boys that I needed to tone down my temper. 

Carl the dense one nodded, and let out a wheezing snore at one corner of Stanley's home. 

"Done!" Stanley said, startling our sleeping beauty. 

"Now, go on, Adam," Stanley said, peering into my laptop screen.

"Do you ever clean your laptop?" he asked and ran a finger across my screen to show me a thin layer of dust. 

"That's another thing to dislike myself for," I said with a pout. "I'm filled with flaws, boys."

Stanley rolled his eyes and walked away. 

Now, let's back up this story for some context. 

In recent months, I've had several outbursts at work. They mostly involve me either snapping, shouting, or being very sarcastic to my bosses or people of higher rank than I.

"That's not a bad thing," Stanley shouted from his toilet, trying to compete with the gurgling sound of his own pee as it made contact with toilet water. 

"I also snap and shout at people above me -- and if I'm in the mood, I also let out a moan and a series of vulgarities that mention my Maker."

Stanley's grin faded when he saw me roll eyes.

"Okay, so you've been unpleasant at work. But from the stories you'd been telling me, it seems like those bosses of yours deserve your fury," said Stanley, best friend and enabler. 

True. That's my constant thought. These idiot management types get paid so much and do so little and when they actually do do something, they're incompetent. 

And that really triggers me.

The latest episode was actually just yesterday when I snapped at an HOD who's infamous for being extremely lazy. That lazy HOD snapped back. And I fought back with more aggression until she backed down.

Though it looked like I won the verbal war, I felt bad.

Not because I was wrong professionally. But because on a personal level, I realise just what a bitch I had become.

Which brought me to the realisation that I'm moving towards being an asshole.

"Sometimes, moving towards an asshole can be a very exciting thing," Stanley said moving his hand and a glass of red wine towards me.

I glanced at his clock which is 5:13pm. At Stanley's, white wine is served before 4pm, and after 4pm, it's red.

"This is a very good Amarone," Stanley said.

A little swivel, a deep sniff and an appreciative sip, and all felt good.

"This is good," I agreed.

"So, you're becoming an asshole. And you know it," Stanley said after sipping his wine. "There's awareness of that, and also an intention to do something about it. That's not the end of the world, right?"

Stanley is right.

The end of the world would be when I don't realise I'm an asshole and even when told, don't want to do anything about it.

It's time to take action, I said to Stanley and the breathing body that's Carl, who's head is slumped on his left shoulder, drool threatening to drip out. 

"Besides, it's only half the year gone. You can always do better in the next half."

"Just as long as you want to do it, Adam. Use your intellect to overcome your emotions," said Stanley who is channelling the Dalai Lama. 

Stanley -- on some rare occasion -- can be so wise. 

"Life is too short. Be the change you don't like, and let's hope your bosses don't poke the bear and trigger you anymore," Stanley continued.

"Though in some cases -- such as mine -- poking the bear and triggering things can be an exceptionally enjoyable activity."   

 

 

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

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

Where There's A Will

Last week, I had the most uncomfortable conversation with my partner of over 20 years J. 

It involved money. It involved love. And it definitely involved drama.

The drama mainly came from me because I was weeping by the end of the discussion with J.

We were at his home and he was making me coffee when he casually informed me he'd asked his law firm colleague Ryan to help draft up his will -- and proceeded to give me a rundown of what he planned to do with his assets. 

It was not a conversation I expected. But it was in keeping with J's character who dealt with all matters of life (and death) in a most detached, clinical way. 

That's what makes him such a great lawyer and problem solver because, unlike me, he deals with facts and no emotions.

Okay, that's not entirely accurate. J's job deals with -- and plays up or down -- selected facts and he does deal with a lot of emotions from clients, based on all the legal stories he'd shared with me over the two decades.

But I wasn't prepared to have such a talk that morning. All I wanted was a cup of coffee after having spent a romantic night at his place, then walk out for chwee kueh at the nearby Chomp Chomp hawker centre.

"Were they tears of joy," Stanley the sex bunny asked when I updated him this news.

"Or were you crying because you weren't part of the will?"

Will drafting, over the years, has become more common among Singaporeans.

And though J isn't expecting to die anytime soon, he has set out plans to deal with the inevitable. 

In our younger days, J would do the same: Chart out plans to save chunks of money in our 20s, start property-buying and investments in our early 30s, crystalise retirement safety nets in our 40s, and draft up LPAs (Lasting Power of Attorney) and wills.

J is the type of person who takes all the romance out of the relationship and replaces it with practicality. 

And over the years, I've come to love this aspect of him.

But a discussion of splitting his assets after he dies pains me.

Again, Stanley the sex bunny pointedly wanted to know if it pained be because he would eventually die, or if they money wouldn't come to me. 

And he isn't joking.

Case in point, his own family drama.

Stanley isn't exactly poor.

In fact, he's born with a silver spoon in his mouth (just that as he grew up, he took that silver spoon out of his mouth and put in other things).

Not too long ago, his mum passed (God bless her soul, the formidable Mrs Monica Ong).  

It was after Mrs Ong's death when Stanley discovered the amount of red tape he had to untangle. 

"You'd think it's straightforward -- that the CPF monies of my mum would easily be transferred to the living family members," Stanley said to me. "No. Not at all," he said.

Apparently, if the living hadn't done any CPF nomination (a process that dictates whom the money should go to in the event of that CPF holder's death, it is a rather long road to getting access to that money).

Long story short, Stanley didn't need the money. Nor did he want any part of it.

But when he discovered that his mum's money had gone to not only his dad but also his sister... Stanley blew up.

In all other circumstances, any type of blowing that's related to Stanley is a good and welcome thing. Not this time.

Firstly, Stanley hates his sister. He sometime refers to her as his nemi-sis. 

I have no idea why he hates her this much -- the gist of it is, Cindy Ong the firstborn is a money squanderer. 

Also, I think Stanley dislikes her because unlike most traditional Chinese families, the Ongs favoured Cindy over Stanley.

Again, I digress.

Stanley was huffing and puffing when he found out he got nothing from his mum.

Truth be told, Mrs Monica Ong didn't have a will. And she didn't have to work. But she did have some CPF money squirrelled away when she worked in her mid-20s.

"Make sure you are in the running for inheritance in your family, Adam," Stanley said to me seriously.

But back to J and his morbid talk on asset distribution.

While I'm heartened that I'm not out of his bequeathing equation, it puts an extra cloud over our relationship.

Because money and love don't always go hand in hand. Well, sometimes they do. But not for me.

If money can split family -- whether it's a dispute over inheritance or in a household business -- then surely it can do damage to relationships too.  

"So...," Stanley texted again. "How much are we talking here?"

 

 

 

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

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

Give Me A Break

Unlike Stanley my sex bunny friend, I have no vacays planned between now and the end of the year.

Stanley's calendar, which is packed not only with what to do but whom to do, is also now filled with holiday plans.

Taipei in the coming weeks, Penang in August, Bali in October and Sweden in December. 

"I envy you very much" I typed in our group chat "Just the Boys" as I lay in bed. 

Carl the dense one began typing a response, then, two minutes later, stopped forming his thoughts and words altogether. 

"I can't wait!" Stanley typed, adding a random gif of a slender woman in spandex wielding a whip. 

I didn't know what to make of the gif and took a leaf from Carl: I stopped responding altogether and allowed myself to drift back to sleep.

It was 10:30am on a Saturday when I put my phone down beside my pillow.

I woke up again at 12:17pm.

Dozens of message alerts had amassed while I was asleep and on the top right corner of my WhatsApp icon sat the number 64. 

I'll get through them one by one, I thought to myself, and opened my IG to do some mindless scrolling.

It was one of my happiest moments.

For the last few months, I had been so busy at work that even weekends meant I had to slog away.

Not that I'm complaining. I love my work and when I say I'm exhausted, it's conveyed factually with no nuance of resentment.  

Of course, any reprieve from office projects is good. 

Like today.

I remember telling my colleagues the night before that I look forward to not waking up by the brutal sound of my alarms -- all 7 settings of them.

And that, I did.

Once in a while, we need that. 

While Stanley is now bitten by the travel bug and travelling with a vengeance, I don't need to do that.

My idea of a break or a vacay is really to wake up naturally, check my phone for messages, scroll IG (which, these days, are videos of pasta recipes and home decor contents), feel the next wave of exhaustion set in while in bed, give in, slump myself back on my pillow and drift away in drowsiness.

And when I have to, have to get up, I do so with the satisfaction of knowing I've lazed around enough.

The entire pace is so decidedly slow that it feels like I'm on holiday already.

Even waiting for my nespresso machine to fill up my coffee cup feels different. Today, it felt zen. On all other work days, I feel like I need to hurry my machine and give me my cuppa so that I can get on with life and do 400 things for my day.

And then, there's the luxury to decide what to eat for lunch and when to eat it.

As I type this now (which is 1.46pm), I still haven't eaten. 

I have leftover pastas in my fridge and I'm in no hurry to eat them just because I'm not used to eating anything after I just got out of bed.

And instead of reading a book, I decide to blog. Which is such a calming activity for me.

In between writing and listening to Mando ballads (right now, what's playing on my Spotify is Wang Jie's Ta De Bei Ying [Her backview]), I walk out to the balcony of my rented, tiny apartment and look out.

My point is, this is my idea of a break. A vacay.

Pathetic, I know. 

But it works for me.

Many people talk about taking a break from their hectic work lives. Very often, they mean actual travelling. Like Stanley.

For me though, the idea of holidaying is tiring. I think I've written about this before in my decades of blogging. That I'm a reluctant traveller, as a friend in tourism once pointed out. 

Which is why for me, my idea of a break is just like today. 

I did check my work emails and got some things done, but checking an email work is not. 

As I sit and type this entry, I feel totally relaxed.

I have home tasks to do, of course. Change my bedsheets, do laundry, decide if I want to order in or whip up a simple pasta dish. 

And I'm smiling as I do this because, finally, I'm having a great mental break from work and time all to myself.  

 

 

 

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

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

Happy Daddy's Day

It's Father's Day soon, so this entry is dedicated to Stanley, Carl and myself. And all our peers in our age bracket.

'Cos technically, at this stage of our lives, we're more than qualified to be Daddies.

"I do NOT want to be a daddy!" Carl said with a pout like a petulant kid at dinner who needs a spanking.

"Oooo, I not only want to be a daddy -- I want to be a Zaddy," Stanley said with a sparkle in his eye like somebody who wants a spanking. Hard.

"What's a Zaddy," asked Carl the dense one who has the attention span and will power of bird. 

"A sexually attractive man, especially an older one who is fashionable or charismatic," I read out what immediate information Google supplied me.

"You will never imagine how many cute young boys this Zaddy has attracted," said Stanley the sex bunny whom one might argue also has the attention span and will power of a bird. 

If we do the math, 46 -- when rounded to the nearest tens -- is 50. So we are old.

Carl refused to look at me when I recited these rules. 

But figure wise, at 46, we are in great shape. 

Carl who's also a gym rabbit softened his stance and smiled reluctantly, then flexed his python sized biceps to prove my point.

Stanley struck a sultry pose and stared hungrily at a passing waiter, his stance obviously hardening.

The three of us were at Min Jiang, Goodwood Park Hotel, enjoying a dim sum brunch.

I personally love the spread there.

At this moment, Stanley is loving the spread there too.

"Is it me or are all the goodlooking daddies here today?" he said in admiration, his eyes not once looking at Carl and me.

"I guess they don't call this hotel good wood for nothing," he decided. 

The daddies around us were indeed cute. They all looked younger than us and still have that fresh-face sheen on them. 

"They better enjoy their remaining years now before their youthful good looks are drained by their horny wives and energy sapped by their very noisy kids," Stanley decided. 

In his dictionary, all straight men end up looking like rubbish no matter how good looking they once were. 

It's to do with vaginal energy in the mix, Stanley said matter of factly.

We daddies on the other hand, thrive as we grow older.  

Without the burden of juggling a family and making ends meet, we are therefore financially independent and free of worries.

Carl nodded and said "this dim sum is damn nice."

Stanley's theory is not without truth. 

As we grow older, especially gay men, we find ourselves looking better.

Not necessarily because our features suddenly transform but because overall, our package gets an upgrade.

Stanley, who loves all types of talk about package, agrees. 

"With more money on hand, we take care of everything -- from head to toe and inside out -- about ourselves.

"This means getting better haircuts, facial care, working out at gyms to sculpt that perfect body and better fashion, consuming supplements and tonic that keep us young and zaddy looking," Stanley explained. 

"But what if that gay man doesn't have -- or want to spend -- money on all these things," Carl asked.

"Good point. Then that gay man just becomes an old man. Simple as that."

"That's elitist," Carl decided then spent the rest of his remaining energy on brunch.

"Not really, no," Stanley said. 

"It's how much that person is willing to spend on himself -- don't tell me at 46 years old, you can't afford a decent haircut or buy sensible clothes that fit you?"

Carl, who will never make it as a good lawyer in the face of challenges and combative arguments, agreed promptly. "That's true. Even I would treat myself to the occasional spa and facial treatments."

"My facial treatments are mostly free and more than occasional,"Stanley said without missing a beat, then "so yes, back to my point that it's not the money."

And Zaddies are our second lease of life, Stanley added, now sounding like a cult leader.

According to Stanley, there are two main types of gay men. Type One: The naturally goodlooking men who are hot. Type Two: Gay men who are not.

"Look at Adam," he pointed at me just as I was about to eat feed myself some pork congee.

"He's obviously Type Two but he's a Zaddy."

"Why, thank you," I said, happy to be complimented. 

Stanley's argument is that based on the laws of nature, no matter how hot Type One gays are, they will lose that bit of shine as they grow older. Type Twos, on the other hand, are never hot to begin with so any minimal effort in trying to look good is seen as a great improvement.

"I take back my thank you," I said coldly.

Channelling my partner J's legal magnificence, I challenged Stanley.

"So, the root of your argument is that Zaddies are basically ugly gay men who are willing to keep up with their appearances. You yourself just said you were a Zaddy. Does that mean you are ugly?"

Rolling his eyes, Stanley would only say "I'm hot now, and that's all that matters."

 

 

 

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

Host With The Most

As an adult, I've always enjoyed hosting parties.

Stanley my sex bunny friend would also say he enjoys hosting parties. As an adult.

"When I was younger, I'd host them in my bedroom in my parents' home," Stanley said without anyone asking.

"And then when I was a little older and wealthier, I'd host them in hotel rooms," he said. "And of course, these days, I host parties in my own home."

"Wow, that's nice. Are they birthday parties? My first birthday party was at a chalet when I was 21," said Carl the dense one who's always missing the point.

Stanley and I exchanged looks, collectively feeling sorry for Carl who can never see inverted commas the way normal people can.

"Sorry -- let's go back to your first point, Stan," I said. "So you hosted those types of parties at hotels when you were a little older. Just how old were you when you started hosting those types of parties under your parents' roof?" I just had to ask.

Stanley smiled and said, "13".  

Carl beamed and hugged Stanley.

"It's so nice that you get to host birthday parties at 13."

The three of us were shopping at Ikea Alexandra and we were at the lower storey where items like plants and lights and -- my favourite section -- glassware and cutlery are placed. 

I just love, love, love kitchen ware.

I know. It's very aunty. 

These days, it's no longer the men's clothes section that appeals to me.

I'm naturally drawn to the kitchen section of departments like C K Tang and Takashimaya. 

I would admire the assortment of serving plates and bowls on display -- from plain ceramic types to those with loud, colourful prints featuring fruits or ducks. 

And then there's the stemware.

Proper champagne flutes. White and red wine glasses. And whiskey glasses. I love buying them all.

I use the term proper because I do have friends who are improper. 

I've attended enough of those basic straight couples' house warming or dinner parties where they serve food still in their plastic containers.

And they dish out paper plates and paper cutlery as if we were hungry ghosts eating off the floor.

And they have the cheek to serve wine in -- wait for it -- plastic cups.

Plastic cups!  

"Plastic cups?!" Stanley repeated in horror as we passed by the carpet section, giving a middle aged makcik a shock with his sudden shriek. 

I can understand that it's convenient and time-saving to just toss out everything once the party is over. But to me, there's a fine line between convenience and lazy, and being downright disrespectful to your guests.

While I"m not one of those who would pay $700 for a box of four wine glasses, I definitely would invest in buying proper wine glasses. And even if I were to order in, I'll have the decency to transfer food out of their plastic containers and into respectable serving plates and bowls.

For my upcoming new home -- where I'm prepared to be a host with the most -- I've already listed my to-buy items.

At least 10 sets of champagne flutes, white and red wine glasses and drinking goblets for the general crowd. 

But I'll also have a separate set of stemware -- at least six of those types of glasses which are pricier, meant for closer friends when they visit.

Years ago when Crate and Barrel held its closing down sale, I went crazy. 

I stocked up on one of those big, heavy dinner plates, a classy whiskey decanter along with matching crystal glasses, sets of forks, knives, spoons that are so heavy a toddler needs two hands just to lift a spoon. Big serving bowls, plates, ladles also made it to my purchase list. Along with a lovely whiskey cart that was on 30% discount. 

This is why I insisted on a dish washer in my upcoming flat. And this is also why I insisted on owning a three-metre long dining table (which I paid a premium for given that I had to arrange for workers to physically carry it up level by level).

"I"m very interested in the workers who would carry your table," Stanley said. "I wonder if they'll all be lean, fit an sexy."

But back to my point.

Hosting is in my blood.

In my younger days, my family hosted lots of parties. When grandma was alive, she would cook up a storm. My aunties would help with the cooking in the backyard and plate after plate of steaming hot food would be laid on our dining table. 

Grandma loved her parties. 

There was the usual weekend family get togethers of home cooked food. And the Sunday mahjong parties (at least three tables -- one in the front porch and two in our house). I remember there'll be lots of snacks and bowls of Chinese desserts. 

When I was a little older, I would have pretend tea parties with my sister where we would drink tea from tiny colourful plastic cups. There would be a variety of plastic delicacies -- danish, croissant, tarts -- served on tiny colourful plastic plates.

Ideally, I want my friends whom I host to have the ultimate pampered experience. 

As they enter my home, they'll each be handed a welcome drink (Sangria, champagne, sparkling fruit wine) in proper stemware. 

And then, on a three-tier serving tray would be welcome snacks. Home made bruschetta, store-bought curry puffs and air-fried frozen spring rolls. 

There'll also be a huge glass salad bowl where I'll pour my chips into and home made chips dip plonked into a crystal serving bowl. 

And once my guests are done polishing their big dinner plates from a variety of kitchenware containing food I whipped up and cleared their wine glasses, I'll hand them a digestif of VSOP or whiskey in, yes, proper crystal glasses.

Stanley looked at me and said, Okay Martha Stewart. 

 

 

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

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

Fine Wine, Fine Line

What's your age ceiling when it comes to sex.

There was no question mark in Stanley my sex bunny friend's voice.

Just a full stop. A tone that says, "discuss".

Carl the dense one tilted his head and thought very deeply.

"Warm water please," he finally told our server at Winestone, a restaurant which, judging by its slogans pasted throughout its interior, empowers alcoholics. 

"My throat is a little scratchy," Carl explains, "so I thought warm water would be better for me. Where were we?"

Stanley rolled his eyes and repeated his topic of the day.

"What is your age ceiling when it comes to sex."

It was one of those Sundays when it's just the three of us. Something we'd been doing since we were in our early thirties. And when we meet to catch up, there's always topics of sex. 

Now that we're turning 46 (a very young 46), we're still at it.

Time flies.

And it's about to fly even faster with Stanley insisting we delved deep into old men and sex.

"I don't know, 35?" said Carl the dense one as he tore his bread and rolled it into a round lump as if he were moulding clay. 

"Let me rephrase my question," Stanley said. "What's your age ceiling when it comes to sex -- an age that's higher than our current age."

Carl tilted his head and thought about it. Then he tore off a bigger piece of his bread, rolled it into another round lump, carefully dabbed a tiny bit of butter on it, before placing the smaller lump on top of it. "A snowman!" Carl said with glee like a happy child.

Stanley and I exchanged looks that said many things, all of which aren't positive. 

"Carl, my dear," Stanley said to him in a tone that one would take when speaking to a stupid child. "That's a very nice snowman."

Stanley turned to me, hoping to hit some adult wavelength.

"Hmmm, 55?" I ventured. 

"Really. Why that magic number?" Stanley leaned in as if he were an investigative journalist trying to expose my political wrongdoing on national TV.

"I mean, you asked, so I thought about it, and I came up with it," I said, standing my ground.

Stanley nodded, digesting that number.

"And you. Carl," he said accusingly, "you're saying the oldest you'll ever sleep with is 35, never mind you're turning 46."

Carl was about to eat his snowman, but he paused to reconfirm his answer to Stanley Ong, intrepid investigative journalist. 

"Yes, your honour," Carl said, and chomped his bread snowman to death.

"And you're asking because?" I finally said, allowing Stanley to move on to the next stage of this discussion which I hope to kickstart before our order of medium-rare meats, honey-baked camerbert, warm beef salad, gambas and fries arrived. 

Turns out, Stanley's investigative line of questioning was indeed related to some sort of probing. 

Probing which he had done recently.

He gestured to Carl and me to lean forward as if he were about to reveal life's mystery to us.

"I had sex recently with an older man," he said.

Carl the dense one decided there was no news point in Stanley's remark, considering that our sex bunny friend has sex with random strangers of all ages and sizes since he was 14. He turned his attention back to his bread, no doubt, thinking about what he could make out of that dough next.

"Let me rephrase," Stanley said when he saw our nonchalant looks.  

"I had sex recently with an old man."

"How old," I ask with some fear.

"Old," Stanley said sheepishly.

Just then, our Korean manager returned to our table and showed us a bottle of wine.

Stanley glanced at the label, nodded zestfully and said "we won't need to taste the wine. Just serve it."

As the Korean manager who has porcelain skin served us our Shiraz, Stanley had to say. "Wine. The older, the better."

Korean manager with the porcelain skin smiled and agreed.

"How old," I said urgently as soon as the manager left for the next table to take orders.

It was my turn to be the investigative journalist.

Stanley smiled and raised both eyebrows.

"60?" Carl asked.

Stanley smiled and raised both eyebrows.

"65?" I asked.

Stanley smiled and raised both eyebrows.

"What is this? The price is right?" I asked. 

Stanley gave me a dagger stare for breaking momentum.

"70?" Carl said and held his breath as if he had placed all bets on the high-stakes casino gamble.

Stanley smiled and raised both his eyebrows.

I felt my blood pressure rising with all this excitement.

"75?" I asked, wondering why we were reciting the 5-times-table.

Stanley kept his expression as stoic as possible. Then he revealed a smile and raised both his eyebrows.

"80?" Carl asked, his eyes as wide as our sharing plates.

Stanley stretched his smile even wider as if he were Joker.

"My god. Stan. 85?"

Stanley pointed at me and said "SOLD".

Carl let out a yelp that sounded like a puppy which was accidentally stepped on.

"Well, not quite 85. Close," Stanley said.

"Close to what? His grave?"

"Hey, Adam. That was mean," Stanley scolded. Carl frowned and looked at me.

Okay sorry. That was mean. But 85?!

"He's 84," Stanley corrected. "A young 84."

Carl and I exchanged looks silently. Then we fired Stanley with questions, the way any media conference revolving around a scandal would unfold.

And so, Stanley unfolded for us.

"His skin is not soft to touch, that much I can confirm. It felt like I was touching leather. Smooth leather. But wrinkly leather. But he smelled very nice. He smelled like a gentleman."

I wondered how a gentleman would smell like, but now's not the time to ask such irrelevant questions.

Carl, whose oldest person he would have sex with is 35, shivered. 

"And yes, I know what you guys are thinking," Stanley said.

"I no longer know what to think," I replied.

"He can still perform you know. He can still get hard."

Carl gasped. 

Yes, Stanley nodded with satisfaction. There is hope for us in future when we're 84.

According to Stanley, mister 84 does not disappoint. 

Sure, our senior citizen friend cannot sustain an erection, Stanley said. But the first half of his performance was commendable. He was hard at the right time, and soft and lumpy all the time. His muscles, his sagging skin all felt aged. 

Carl closed his eyes in fear but like how we cannot peel our eyes away from an accident happening in front of our eyes, asked "And... who topped whom?" 

"I did."

Carl yelped again, this time silently. All these details are killing Carl.

Stanley was also afraid of killing.

"While doing the deed, I was so scared he might die of a heart attack from all the excitement," he said. 

"Which made it all the more fun," he added guiltily.

I was really dumbfounded.

"Why," I asked Stanley. "Just, why?"

It was a random encounter, Stanley explained. He was in the CBD area when his Grindr alert sounded. 

This 84 year old isn't exactly senile. He's wealthy, smart, extremely great a conversationalist. 

I wanted to say he has had 8 decades to practise but thought I shouldn't be so mean.

Stanley was at first drawn to him because firstly, he did have his real profile photo on the app. Maybe it was a younger photo of himself but the old guy didn't hide his age. 

They were chatting and flirting and Stanley was really curious how things would pan out. 

"What the heck" was Stanley's thought when the elderly man invited him to his place (a very luxury unit located just above Lau Pa Sat) for a drink.

One thing led to another and Stanley soon found himself strangely attracted to the man. 

"I felt so many things. Curiosity, awe, fear, adventurous, guilt, wonderment, bravery," said Stanley whose list of adjectives would make any primary school English tutor proud. 

And how do you feel about all this now, I ask.

Stanley thought about it deeply. 

"I didn't regret it. I thought I would. But the mix of fear and guilt and excitement... I think it was a good experience," he said.

"Would I do it again? I don't think so. Because I didn't set out to have sex with an 84 year old. But the circumstances leading to it... I think if they conditions were right again, I might repeat it."

Carl could take it no more. 

"My grandfather is 84," he said.

"Now I'm going to have nightmares," Carl added.

"Well, if it's Stanley, he would have wet dreams," I had to respond. 

 

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

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

Gay Marriages

Home cooked dinner. Cosy setting. Just bring dessert, was the brief. 

That afternoon, my partner J and I were invited to our friends Ryan and Bing Wen's place in the east. 

Ryan is a partner and later, friend to J at their law firm. The two had been good friends for the last 5 years since Ryan came on board.

For dessert, J decided to get Bangladeshi dessert just because nobody in our circle goes for dinner parties  and brings Bangladeshi desserts. 

I brought along a nice bottle of Amarone knowing that Ryan and Bing Wen would enjoy it.

Their place was nestled amid calming greenery and surrounded by condo developments no higher than 10 storeys. Entering the Lorong K area of Singapore felt like I had invaded Tiny Town. 

"Welcome!" Bing Wen said, reaching out to give J and me a hug each. 

"Ry's still cooking but come on in -- let's get started on a white," said Bing who is always looking for an excuse to drink.

Ryan, all of 1.82m tall, was hovering over a huge pot of rendang. "I'll go with air kisses please -- I'm too sweaty to have formal body contact," he said in a crisp English accent. 

Years of returning to Singapore from his law studies in UK hadn't watered down his accent. 

Ryan's home is a cosy semi-loft. Big enough for two people on a daily basis and comfortable enough to host two other people.

Bing hurriedly brought out his stemware and opened a bottle of Carneros Chardonnay. 

"I heard J say you're cutting down," Bing said. "Drink your fill here and leave the rest of your quota empty."

While J went to make himself useful, offering Ryan help, Bing and I plonked ourselves onto their couch and clinked glasses. 

"Tell me the primary notes," Bing asked like an adventurous explorer eager to share his treasures, and I swirled my glass, sniffed my wine and took a first sip.

Bing, who is by day an energy trader and by night (and sometimes day) a wine connoisseur, loves his fermented grapes.  

"Wow," I said. "It's very creamy!" and proceeded to take sip number two to express my appreciation. 

"I love it. Very buttery. I don't always get to drink such finishes!"

Bing was pleased with himself and looked at me seriously in the eye. "Then drink to your heart's content!"

I love Bing. He's the exact opposite of Ryan (which, in away, is also a reflection of J and me). 

Ryan is very similar to J. Serious, quiet, extremely diligent and very low profile. 

Bing is the arty-fart element in their couple-hood. He loves his wine, his music, his art, and most importantly, food. 

Both Ryan and Bing are great cooks so invitations to their place -- whether it's a simple home cooked meal or a busy barbeque or even game night with snacks -- you can be assured of quality food. 

They don't believe in ordering in. They believe in making things from scratch. It's their love language. 

And Ryan and Bing's love started four years ago. Shortly after Ryan started working with J. 

They connected via Tinder. One date led to two, then three, and then bam! They both bought a place to live happily ever after.

Well, not yet.

The happily ever after is on its way.

As we all gathered at Ryan and Bing's dinning table, I looked around and saw happy faces of bliss, relief, gratitude and love.

Glasses were raised and auspicious toasts were made and lunch began.

As Ryan served me a scoop of piping hot beef rendang over my pilaf rice, Bing placed a generous helping of Thai vermicelli salad on J's plate.

One of the best ways to spend Saturday afternoons was with loved ones who make time to pamper their friends.

It was a joy watching Ryan and Bing finish each other's sentence and sharing with us their hopes and dreams. 

And then, Bing broke the news.

"We're planning to formalise our relationship. We haven't decided if it would be a same-sex marriage, or just a symbolic union, but we want to hold a ceremony to mark that," Bing said.

J set his fork and spoon on his plate and listened intently.

I reached for my glass, standing by for another congratulatory toast.

I may have said Ryan and J are similar in character but the one thing that Ryan's different is that he's very overtly romantic too.

He held Bing's hand and said "we're always looking for reasons to host friends and one night, I asked if Bing would want to hold something grand. Like a wedding reception or something and he said yes."

"That's the worst proposal ever, but I said yes," echoed Bing. 

"We haven't worked out the details yet -- but you both will be there," Bing said sternly.

J smiled, nodded and said "of course".

The format of their union was still in the air -- as was love. 

Bing whipped out his phone and showed J and me a beautiful -- and unposed -- photo of him and Ryan.

We were both on a hiking trip in Indonesia, and our guide captured this moment.

It was a perfect shot. Ryan was standing up slope, his body arching over to Bing to help him climb a high rock. Both of them were looking at each other and the photo was made all the more surreal with the morning sun cast on them, creating a mysterious back-lit silhouette on them both.

"This is going to be our centrepiece at our reception."

It was beautiful. 

Later, I shared that moment with the boys in our group chat.

Stanley the sex bunny and Carl the dense one have only heard of but never met this couple.

"Oh, so romantic," Stanley said.

Carl was in his element.

"What's happening? Who are they? Are they BL actors?"

If Carl were in the army, he would be the proverbial blur recruit. 

If Stanley were in the army, he would no doubt be a drill sergeant, given his penchant for drilling. 

"I also want to get married," Stanley typed in our group chat Just The Boys. 

"I have always wanted a big rock on my finger. And also sometimes, in a specific part of my body."

 

 

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

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

GE Watch Party (Part 2)

"Driiiiink!" shrieked Lina whose voice and face do not match.

Lina -- my sex bunny friend Stanley's yoga buddy -- is clearly high. Both in terms of intoxication level and her decibel. 

For someone who can be described as a China doll (her skin is porcelain smooth and those sharp features of hers look like they were artistically sculptured by a skillful craftsman), I cannot reconcile with what's coming out of her mouth this very moment.

"Adam! Driiiink!" she commanded again. Her shrill voice sounded like it belonged to a night safari rather than any urban setting -- and it really sounded like it came from something feral which has very sharp teeth. 

I promptly picked up my glass for fear of being shouted at again.

That night, the group of us were having a GE watch party at Stanley's. 

The deal was, every time we hear the words "mandate", we would have to drink.

Between replays of Singapore PM Lawrence Wong and the political analysts on the live programme who kept saying the word mandate, it's safe to say we had one drink too many. 

It was barely one hour into the 8pm live polling show and nearly everyone in Stanley's Queens Close home was high.

We gathered at Stanley's for an early dinner but our drinking started as soon as we streamed into his place by around 4pm.

By dinner time, we had polished off six bottles of whites. There were just six of us. Stanley the sex bunny, Carl the dense one, Lina the China doll with a non-human voice, Michael the unkempt gay, my partner J and I. 

Mathematically, we each drank a bottle of wine before 8pm.

But who's counting.

Right now, the group is very focused on another type of counting. The votes.

We were placing bets to see if Singapore's main opposition force -- the Workers' Party -- would win more seats this time round.

And one of the most keenly-watched seats were those in Punggol. 

"Punggol," Stanley began, "is such a basic place." 

"It's a straight-people start-up town," said Stanley, chief urban analyst. 

Michael, Stanley's yoga buddy whose farts helped forge friendships, nodded.  

Stanley's point is, Punggol -- Singapore's youngest town -- is really made for straight people.

Government housing there is made widely available for all who want to buy their first flats. Even the condos there are cheaply priced.

As a result, over time, Punggol became the first choice for most married couples to start their homes. 

"And five years later, these basic straight people will sell off their flats which they all bought with government subsidies and make a profit from it," Stanley said.

Carl the dense one, who has heard this story before, chose this moment to pee. 

"And these basic Punggol straight people get on my nerves," Stanley said. "There's something un-classy about them."

Carl, who had finished peeing, walked back to the living room and when he realised Stanley was still on his Punggol story, decided he hadn't peed enough and returned to hide in the toilet for a while more.

"Typically, when you go to Punggol, you'll see the typical straight couple families. All these basic Punggol wives would be skinny, have long, rebonded hair, wears a spaghetti strap blouse and calls herself Linda when her real name is Tan Siew Moi or something."

"The husband will almost always be wearing some washed out army tee or singlet with hair that's never combed. They're usually good looking but overweight," said Stanley, Punggol Population Specialist. 

"If they have no kids, they'll most likely have a trendy dog like Shiba Inu. And if they have a child, their son would have a pretentious name like Kayden, Jayden or Ayden."

"And their home will always be in some form of Japandi style or something," Stanley continued. 

"That's extremely detailed," I pointed out.

"But what really gets me so angry is that these basic Punggol straight people get all the government help. They get subsidies to buy their cheap Punggol flats then when they sell it after their Minimum Occupation Period five years later, they make a profit!"

"We gay people don't get such benefits! We depend on ourselves!"

"The government doesn't take care of gays! VOTE THE WORKERS' PARTY!" Stanley yelled, giving Lina, who had fallen asleep, a jolt. 

"Workers' Party, Workers' Party!" chanted Lina on cue.

"Driiiiiink!" she continued, and then fell back asleep.

 "These analysts are talking and talking non stop," Michael complained, and reached for more cheese.

"Exactly!" shrieked Lina again.

Is this woman asleep or not, I wanted to know.

"Stop all the talking. I need action. Where is the action! I want ACTION!" said Stanley, who stood up and thrusted his hips at his 65-inch TV.

Carl drank to drown his sorrows because he was getting bored.

He could not understand what was going on right now. Politics is too complex for his brain that's wired to function at life's most basic levels. 

And right now, all this analysis, talk about geopolitics and racial policies is giving Carl's brain overtime. Any more of this and he will hit 40-degree fever and break down further.

Just then, the TV cut to a tall newscaster in a nice suit.

"Shut up!!!!" said Stanley who seems offended by anything that's in his periphery. 

"This newscaster is making me fall asleep!" he said, and took a handful of nuts and threw at his 65-inch TV.

J stood up and proceeded to boil some water in the hope of sobering some of our very drunk friends.

"Yada, yada, yada," Michael said as the boring newscaster -- who looks and sounds sleepy -- carried on reading. 

Carl, who's bored to no end, stood up and did something constructive. Power squats. He needs to burn off his calorie intake so far.

"Actually, Singapore elections are all so boring," Michael said. "Look at the US. There's an assassination attempt on Trump. And in Malaysia, I hear people being bribed to vote for a certain party."

"Singapore politics is indeed very boring," Stanley agreed. "Which is why I focus on the good looks of this bunch of new faces."

According to Stanley and his database, this is the GE which has some of the most goodlooking candidates.

There's this former civil servant and yummy father of four who still looks like he's serving national service. 

"I will vote for him so that he can serve me like a humble servant," said Stanley who sounds like a humble serpent. 

And then, there's this geeky and brainy Workers' Party candidate who has a winsome, toothy grin. 

"I love geeks. And I think of all candidates, this one, pants down, is the best."

By 11pm, the news programme switched from the droning of the political analysts to the news readers interrupting them to listen to more sample vote counts, to more droning of the analysts.

"You know what would make GE more interesting," Stanley asked his guests who, by now, are in varying stages of drowsiness. My partner J (who's an early sleeper) was dozing off on my shoulder. Michael had a half-chewed piece of cheese as he stared glassily in front of him. Lina looked like an oriental sleeping beauty (until she shrieks) while Carl was by now, doing jumping jacks to stay awake.

"If only the candidates were made to go through a swim suit round. Only the cute ones. That would make voting more exciting," said Stanley who seems more interested in the member in Member of Parliament.

"I mean, I would want to see that criminal fighter lawyer and his muscles," Stanley said wiping drool off the corner of his lips.

"I certainly want to vote him into the chambers. My chambers." 

By 4am, it was clear that Singaporeans had overwhelmingly voted for the ruling PAP. 

Is it flight to safety? Are voter sentiments no-longer readable such that all analysis leading to this landslide results were slightly off? Or are we in such echo chambers that we don't even realise what's real and what's exemplified.

There was a lot to discuss post-election results but right now, we were in no state to engage further.

"PM Wong and I both want the same thing," Stanley said in his closing speech as he saw all of us off at his door.

"He wants a strong mandate."

"I want a strong man date. Goodnight, Singapore," he said, and closed his bold green door.

 

 

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

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

 

GE Watch Party (Part 1)

"Are you ready for change!" was the first greeting I got as Stanley opened the door to his lovely Queens Close apartment.

Carl the dense one had no idea what was happening and stood there dumbfounded. Then again, this was his usual self. 

"Should I leave now?" I ask Stanley cautiously. Our friend didn't look 100 per cent sober.

"Do you want to give them a blank cheque? Do they deserve a free pass?" Stanley barked and continued in a monologue everyone understood. Everyone except Carl who has no idea what all those terms meant.

"Erm, I would like a free pass," he said, crossing his legs, his bladder as weak as his voice. "Please, Stan, let me in."

Stanley the sex bunny couldn't help it, and instinctively replied that's what he said and opened his door -- painted a bold green (his favourite colour) --  to welcome Carl who has urgent needs, my partner J and me to his home.

Indoors, Stanley had his own urgent needs to tend to. He lifted a bottle of Pinot Grigio from the ice bucket and hurriedly refilled a glass. Then he looked at me and said, "help yourself to the wine Adam!"

"How much have you been drinking," my partner J asked, and glanced at the clock which said 3:12pm.

That Saturday, the few of us were invited to Stanley's home for a GE Watch Party. 

It is an event that takes place once every five years when friends would host food and drinks in front of the TV to watch the results of Singapore's General Election.

"It's my day off today, and I did my part as a patriotic citizen by casting my vote, so don't mind me if I celebrated my national duty early," Stanley said.

As J laid the table for our early dinner, the doorbell rang.

It was Lina, one of Stanley's yoga friends. 

"Adam!" she shrieked in a shrill voice that wouldn't have passed the auditions of any Peking Opera singing. 

We would know -- we met Lina late last year when Stanley hosted a year-end party and we had a taste of it.

We love Lina and right now, I'm loving her new look.

"Do you like it?" she asked flipping her hair left and right, letting her curly locks bounce in full glory.  

Lina, a first generation Singaporean who's ancestral home is the motherland of all Chinese, went around exchanging air kisses with us gays. 

The theme for that day's watch party was "go local".

So on Stanley's wooden table laid a messy plate of rojak, a big oval dish that's filled with hokkien mee, a big bundle of satay, black and sweetened char tou kuay, and six limp popiah.

"We're missing a few more dishes," Stanley said doing a mental count.

Minutes later, our missing dishes arrived.

It was Michael whom we've also grown to love. Michael, who, despite being gay, is the least gay person on earth. His fart had helped forge friendship with Stanley and Lina during a yoga class and the three of them had since been in a tight friendship.

"Sorry I'm late!" he said, huffing and puffing, large beads of sweat forming like a pearl tiara across his forehead.

"Did you take the stairs?" Lina asked.

"No, why would I?" Michael replied, puzzled.

Lina -- and Carl, of course -- remain puzzled, but an early dinner was calling out to us so we all tucked into our meal fervently.

"I really hope Workers' Party gains more seats this time round," Michael said. "I'm rooting for the underdogs."

"WP is hardly an underdog," Stanley pointed out. "But I love a good opposition," he said. "It's so sexy when people oppose and resist."

J looked at Stanley. "Should we be worried?"

Stanley said "if I ever get arrested for inappropriate behaviour, you will be my defence lawyer right, J?"

"Let's just hope your activities are contained in the bedroom and never spill out to the courtroom," I said, saving my poor partner from Stanley. 

"This is so exciting," Lina said. 

"Please be specific," I added, worried that she's empowering Stanley unnecessarily. 

"I love Singapore," Lina said. "You guys have no idea how lucky you are with your democratic system."

We had no comeback because what Lina said was true. She of all people would know the value of democracy.

Except Carl the dense one who still didn't know who the exact candidates were in his constituency. 

Heck, he didn't even know which constituency he was in (it's Queenstown SMC, rather than Tanjong Pagar GRC for the record. Carl was in rude shock when he stepped into the voting booth expecting to see a group of candidates as opposed to single candidates). 

If Carl were allowed to procreate, our future generation would be doomed.

At the strike of 8pm local time, everyone gathered excitedly around Stanley's couch. 

Lina took a corner seat of the couch and curled up like she was ready for a colonoscope. Stanley sat upright, as if he were watching a tense football match where he put half his money on one of the teams.

Michael chose to sit on Stanley's carpeted floor and proceeded to surround himself with fluffy Ikea pillows. Then he began digging his ear and smiled with satisfaction.

Carl the dense one looked at Michael, shocked. 

Then he also proceeded to dig his ear and gleamed at Michael, happy to have found a true friend.

"It's starting!" Stanley yelled in case we weren't paying attention to the telly.

"Let's go!!!!!"

"Yesssss!" Lina shrieked in a voice that belongs to a Peking Opera theatre -- a haunted one to be exact.

I looked at J and smiled.

Oh boy, this is going to be a long night.  

 

 

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

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

2-Week Break

Dear readers,

This post should have been put up earlier to say that I would be occupied for two weeks and that I wouldn’t have time to blog.

Next week, I’ll be back. 

See you guys again on my weekly updates with the boys!

Wet Blanket

It’s the time of the year when gay men all over the world would descend on Bangkok to get naked and wet (not necessarily in that order).  

And I, quite frankly, loathe it.

The entirety of it. 

And it's not because the poor country had just gone through earth-shattering tragedy (God bless all the crushed souls from the recent Myanmar quake).

Gone are the days when Songkran of Thailand are viewed as traditional festivities where people smeared powder on each others’s forehead or poured (not splash) water on the hands of loved ones to symbolise blessing and washing away of sins.

No.

Thanks to an out-of-control Thai Tourism Board narrative that painted Songkran as some G-circuit party to be at, the sanctity of that festival has been, well, severely watered down.

I don’t mean to pour cold water on Songkran for the gays but it irks me that all that pops up in my social media feeds from friends during this time are images of half-naked (and I can’t even say for sure it’s top half) beef cakes in shorts tinier and tighter than Tinkerbell’s wardrobe.  

“Adam. You’re growing old to be a mean, grumpy grand dad. What’s wrong with a little bit of fun?”said Stanley my sex bunny friend who has secured a ticket to exactly one of those circuit parties in Bangkok next week.

I rolled my eyes and helped myself to more Chardonnay.

Carl the dense one, who usually has no idea what’s going on around him or the world, pushed his empty wine glass to me for a refill, then announced “I’m also going to Bangkok for Songkran.”

Credit must be given when it’s due — I’m proud of Carl for knowing that it’s Songkran in Thailand. For someone who is unsure when Singapore marks national day, Carl deserves a medal.

Both of my closest gay friends have been long time fans of Bangkok — from the city’s cheap street food and weekend market buys to the best of what seedy silom can offer: Gogo boy shows, saucy massages and the yearly gay circuit party during Songkran.

The two of them are travelling separately: Stanley with his Out in Sg running friends (comprising mainly angmoh expats with both too much leave days and money to spare and a mission to use Singapore as a springboard to other regional holiday destinations) and Carl with his gym buddies (all of whom beefcakes with too much muscles to spare and therefore has to strip and splash).

“It’s gonna be wild and wet,” Stanley said, unwittingly writing the slogan for every pride event worldwide. “Come with us!” he added, unwittingly writing the script of every porn film worldwide.  

I chose to be a wet blanket, refusing to go with the flow, sprinkle or splash.

“What’s so wrong with it, Adam. What made you so bitter,” asked Stanley who’s in the mood for a deep dive into my thoughts.

I took my wine glass, swirled my Chardonnay around, watching the wine spin in one swift motion like it was in a top-load washing machine.

And then Stanley asked daringly.

“Are you still homophobic?”

Carl looked up from picking a morsel of cheese from his tooth, shocked by the latest development at Stanley’s dining table in his Queens Close home.

I took a sip of my wine, set the glass thoughtfully on the table and weighed carefully what I should say next.

Stanley looked at me accusingly demanding an answer.

Carl also looked at me desperately, demanding an answer - which is in keeping with his character.

Okay. I will admit this. I am homophobic.

Carl gasped audibly.

“The cheese just won’t come off!”

Stanley waited.

You see, Stanley knows me inside out and years ago, we had a deep discussion on this topic.

He made me realise that I’m homophobic.

It’s funny because, you know, because I’m as gay as can be.

I’m not in denial. I’m not one of those repressed, suppressed types who lash out at other gays just because I’m stuck and trapped by my own fears and insecurity.

No. I’m one of those who’ve acknowledged my being gay but dislike certain aspects of it.

It’s like how I can be, on the one hand, proud of my nationality but on the other, ashamed or loathe the ugly Singaporean aspect of it.

Such as when we’re overseas and at the airport counter, you get one of those Singaporean Karens who rudely makes demands in their Singlish at the poor airport worker, thinking they’re so damn superior because they hold the red passport of a first world country.

Carl was getting more confused and frustrated by the minute.

“Why is this cheese so sticky?!”

So, in that same spirit, I can embrace my being gay, and yet be homophobic about it.

Okay, maybe homophobia is too strong a word.

I loathe certain aspects of homosexuality but in general, I’m ok with it.

Stanley looked at me as if I were now one of those Singlish Karens.

Carl also looked at me with frustration.

“Stan, can I brush my teeth here?”

Stanley waved Carl off to the drawer where he keeps stolen hotel toothbrushes and continued his focus on me.

I just hate that these images — splashing beefcakes and sprinkling fairies at circuit parties— are going to define us. People are going to take one look and go “ah, these gays,” I said to Stanley.

Not wanting to let go, Stanley pressed on. “What is so wrong with that? It’s part of gay life.”

Also not wanting to get go was Carl’s stubborn cheese.“What is wrong with this cheese?!” he screamed from Stanley’s bathroom.

I find it frustrating that gay people are not doing themselves a favour, making it easy for the straight community to use these imperfections against us.

“Imperfections,” Stanley repeated after me. “Interesting. Do gays need to be perfect?” he asked sounding very much like an established shrink.

“YES!” FINALLY!” came Carl’s victorious cries from the bathroom, sounding like an accomplished dentist.

I’m not sure what to make of Stanley’s observations.

I didn’t want to be dismissive. So I thought deeper.

Do I hate gays? No.

Do I disagree with the things we sometimes do which gives the rest of us a bad name? Yes.

News headlines of child molesters, intentional HIV spreaders, and shallow party animals who get caught photographed in their white underwear in a drug and sex party raid. These frustrate me to no end.

And so when we have these Songkran party types around, it’s gonna add onto the list of things people can hate gays for.

Stanley leaned forward, thoughtful and serious.

“I hear you,” he said, as if reciting shrink textbook lines when talking to psychopaths.

“But how about focusing on the positive of the gays?” he suggested.

“There are so many successful gays around — just look at who’s in my place right now: You, me. Your lovely partner J too. And the famous ones like Boo Junfeng who’s not ashamed of gays and is a successful film maker.

“Adam, you must not be so harsh on your own kind.

“If you focus on the bad, it’s just going to eat you up,” Stanley said lovingly.

“You have to let go.”

Carl the dense one entered the living room right this moment and chimed in.

“Yes. Letting go can be the most satisfying thing ever.”

 

 

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

Attachment Issues

In keeping with Stanley's recent push for the three of us meet and do things other than eating and drinking, Carl the dense one and I found ourselves with sweating alongside Stanley the sex bunny and various men in all shapes and sizes.

Carl was in his element, feeling confident and right at home at Fitness First. With his python sized biceps and a puffed up chest that looks like an amour made out of flesh, Carl struts around the gym with an easy air of superiority.

Stanley's air wasn't so superior. It was very breathy. Our sex bunny friend was huffing and puffing, struggling to steady his hands with a 12kg dumb bell.

I have never been one to enjoy gymming. 

Even in my NS days when I was at my fitness peak, I've never been able to bulk up.

Yet, the three of us, in our mid-40s, are still in great shape.

"I had an epiphany the other day," said Stanley, the king of epiphanies. 

"What now," I said. 

"Adam, you lift like a girl," Carl said without judgement. "5kg is too light for you."

"I like lifting like a girl," I said. "Anything heavier than 5kg and I'll end up having swollen muscles like yours."

Carl gasped and covered his biceps protectively from my harsh comments. 

"As I was saying," Stanley said after his last set on the bench, "I think I want to dedicate my time to finding a man."

A plump girl who was stretching on a yoga mat a few metres away looked in our direction and secretly turned down her AirPod volume. 

"Do you mean a man for sex?" Carl asked.

The plump girl stretched towards us for better listening. 

"Well, yes and no. I am on a prowl and I want to find a proper boyfriend but I won't turn down any delicious side dishes along the way," Stanley said.

The plump girl, whose core could no longer defy her own weight nor gravity, could hold it no longer and lost her balance. 

Stanley didn't bat an eyelid even as Carl went over to help her. Carl really feels at home in a gym. He knows exactly where the dumbells are, what each machine is for, has friends around the gym and doesn't look out of place with his bulky frame.

"And haven't you already been doing that, Stan? Looking for men?" I asked.

 "Well, yes, but I think I need to widen my search. I'm not looking hard enough," Stanley said.

"This looks hard enough or not," Carl asked, flexing his arms as he returned to the conversation after his heroic duty.

"Wow you are witty in the gym, Carl," Stanley noted. 

Carl took a self-invented bow, curtsying while flexing his biceps. 

Stanley and I moved away from Carl and took our conversation to the water cooler. 

According to Stanley, his time is now or never. 

 

At 45, he's no longer at his prime but he's lucky enough to still look good. 

 

His body is still passable for a swipe-right because he does maintain his figure well. 

 

"But I can't guarantee I'll look like this forever," Stanley said.

 

"It's not easy for gay people to get attached the older they get. Sometimes, I'd rather be a straight man cos they have it so easy. Women don't judge men the way gay men judge men."

 

"But Stan, finding a partner isn't as easy as going to the fish market to select whatever you want you know."

 

"True, but there's an art and a science to it all," Stanley said, sounding slightly crazy. 

 

Our conversation was interrupted by Carl who was grunting away with a particularly heavy set.

 

"First, there must commitment. For me, it's a case of the spirit is willing and the flesh is not weak. Oh no. The flesh is not at all weak. It's very hungry," Stanley said. 

From the corner of my eye, the plump girl crept up towards us and listened in. 

"Once I have that mindset that I'm ready for a man, my physical body and mindset will adjust themselves and get ready for a manhunt," Stanley reasoned, sounding crazier by the minute. 

Also adjusting her physical body was the plump girl who found these two chatty gay men more interesting than her yoga stretching. She continued standing near us but launched into some yoga pose just to prove she was there to workout, not eavesdrop. 

"So what are your action plans, Stan?"

 

"Trust me, my action plans involve a lot of hip thrusts."

 

Plump girl lost her balance momentarily. 

 

"First, it's the mindset. If you open up your mind to receive the men in your life, the men will come," said Stanley who has reached levels of craziness that's beyond help.

 

Plump girl instinctively switched to a happy baby pose as if she too wants to open up and receive men. 

 

"What did I miss," said Carl whose veins on his temples, neck and biceps were about to burst but hadn't broken a sweat.

 

"Stanley wants to strategise and find a man," I summed it up.

 

"Good for you bro!" Carl said, and gave Stanley a friendly Mike-Tyson punch.

 

"Who even is he," Stanley asked me in disbelief, seeing how a gym-Carl is so different from the outside-of-gym Carl.

 

"I'm just afraid that I'll no longer be physically attractive and no men will want me," Stanley said.

 

"But if men want you only for your physical looks, they don't deserve you at all, Stan."

 

Plump girl nods in agreement. 

But Stanley is clear. 

He wants to -- needs to -- find a man ASAP. One who could potentially be his lifetime partner because he wants to be attached. 

Knowing Stanley, he's the type who would go all out to achieve his goal. 

"I'm rooting for you, if that's what you want," I said.

 

Plump girl wiped a tear from her eyes.

 

"Yes. I want a man. But for now, I think I need a woman. A supportive woman who has been in my life and not left me since."

 

And then Stanley went over to plump girl, introduced himself and shook her hand. 

 

 

 

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