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.

 

 

 

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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.

 

 

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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."   

 

 

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