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