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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