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.  

 

 

 

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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. 

 

 

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