Supplementary Questions

The question of supplements came up during dinner with Stanley and Carl the other night.

It all began with a seemingly casual question.

"Do you guys eat supplements?" Carl our dense friend slash gym rabbit asked.

Of course.

For me, my supplement-eating journey began when I was a kid.

I was a rather sickly child so I remember having to eat vitamin C (in the form of sweets - yummy!) as well as cod liver oil (in whitish, liquid form - yucky!) for the longest time.

There were also home cooked supplements in the form of food.

Like chopped liver and pig's brain soup (I kid you not).

When I was a teenager, my mum added essence of chicken and bird's nest to the mix to help me get better results.

In NS and uni, I weaned off eating supplements.

I felt free. 

Then my pill-popping habit peaked again in my mid-twenties when I started working because I was constantly exhausted by work, and felt weak and fell sick all the time.

But my vitamin variety pales in comparison to Stanley's.

According to Stanley the Swallower, his daily dose of pills comprises the following:

• Multivitamins ("anything that's multiple is always good")
• Gluccosamine ("for my knees, hunny - on some nights I have to be on all fours")
• Melatonin ("to help me wind down, and help me sleep")
• Meta B ("to help me stay alert and help me sleep... around")
• Milk thistle ("a girl needs to protect her liver from all the excessive drinking") 
• Multi-Level Marketing product called Tea Green ("in this case, I swallow simply because a friend insists it's good and when Stanley is asked to swallow, Stanley swallows").

But Stanley's vitamins - indeed a handful and a mouthful - is an easy feat for him.

"Hunny, I can swallow them all at one go. I don't have gag reflex and that's a talent," he said to me.

"And you can quote me," he emphasised, eager for the virtual world to learn of his gift.

Carl our dense friend shifted in his seat.

He set his fork down and, looking like he was about to have a mini seizure, opened his mouth and uttered words that would soon spike the gay force field surrounding table 63 of ABC market.

Stanley reacted by letting out a high-octave yelp which, if he had tried harder, would reach a pitch which only God, dogs and dolphins can hear.

The colour in Carl's face drained.

"Please, please, please keep it down, Stan," Carl begged.

Stanley couldn't help himself.

So he bounced on his seat and used both his hands to cover his mouth, hoping that that very action could prevent a second faerie explosion.

Carl looked to me for help.

I didn't know how to react.

But between a serious and concerned face and letting myself go, I chose the latter and let out the first few sounds of a laugh, before Stanley took the cue and released his hands, unleashing a very hearty throttle.

We laughed for a good two minutes until we teared.

Stanley raised his hand as if to surrender and using his other hand, wiped his tears and saliva.

Carl slumped his shoulders, his python-sized biceps pulsating in disappointment.

Even as dozens of heads belonging to evening diners made up of wholesome family units had turned in our direction, Stanley couldn't care.

Our dense friend had just told us that evening's most ridiculous revelation that we had to take a moment to digest it.

Later, Stanley cleared his throat and switched to all-serious mode, looked Carl in the eye, and told him: "Carl dear. Thank you for being so brave. I'm sorry - we're sorry - for being such insensitive fools."

"It's absolutely okay to eat viagra as a night supplement. It's not easy. It must be hard on you," Stanley said, before his facial expression quivered and his voice broke, unleashing another round of violent giggles which he tried very hard to suppress.

Carl the hobbyist weight lifter had confessed to us not too long ago that he felt he could have erectile dysfunction (read it here).

But we didn't really follow up with him.

"Sorry, Carl dear," Stanley said, this time holding Carl's hand and looking very earnest as if to make amends.

"We should have checked in on you after that Swee Choon night, but you can't blame us because," Stanley paused to clear his throat, then continued meekly: "you never really brought it up again".

And then, Stanley fully let himself go, as if he were a fully blown, untied balloon that was accidentally let loose by the careless hand of a child, and for the third time of the night, laughed himself to death.

Don't get us wrong.

We are indeed supportive of Carl.

"Yes, yes, Carl, we love you. We love you to bits," Stanley said, still laughing. "We love you to micro bits" he added amid his guffaw, no doubt a step closer to death by laughter.

Carl pouted and looked like he wanted to cry.

"Ok, ok, enough," Stanley the solo actor of the hour said.

"Don't make Carl angry... wait he pop the viagra pill and turn into Captain Kukujiao and beat you with his iron rod then you know," Stanley said in between giggles, suddenly talking like a primary school bully.

But in all seriousness - because ED is nothing to laugh about, and viagra is not exactly cheap according to Carl - we calmed down to address this issue... two hours later.

As we sat in Stanley's car - where many serious life conversations were heard - Carl confessed to us that he chose viagra as an option because he couldn't give up taking steroids for his weight lifting.

As we sat in the car thinking about Carl's member, Stanley wondered out loud if we would one day see our own organ failure.

"Eh, Carl... it really works?" Stanley asked.

"Show us leh, show us leh," Stanley teased, urging Carl to immediately pop his supplement.

For the first time that night, our dense friend snapped back.

"Stanley darling, even if I were to pop 10 viagra pills, if it's you I'm facing, then the penis will never get hard," Carl said, imitating Stanley's tone of voice.

Not to be outdone, Stanley returned the favour.

"My, my. Viagra really promotes blood flow to the brain."



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

Life in Plastic

TMI Alert! read our WhatsApp group chat.

Before Carl and I could stop Stanley - who is capable of sharing too much information beyond all recommended levels - our fey friend had already typed out words which we wished we hadn't read.

"I love it when I am taking a dump and check that I have a LOT of poop."
"The smellier the better."
"Is it weird?"

It's that time of the morning, when Stanley Ong would be most free because it's after breakfast and the coffee he drank kickstarted his bowel engines.

"What's everyone doing tonight,' Stanley the sex bunny typed.

I couldn't resist. "Whom are you doing tonight," I wrote.

Seven minutes of pure radio silence - and peace - later, Stanley revived the group chat again.

"OMG, I feel so productive. I look at the toilet bowl and feel like I gave birth to so many penises - each of them large, chocolate chunks," Stanley wrote.

"Stan, please. I'm having my chocolate protein milkshake now," Carl wrote.

"Chocolate protein milkshakes are so damn delicious, says no one ever," Stanley wrote back.

It was a Friday morning, which meant to say everyone of my boys is in a good mood because, it's TGIF.

Before my overseas posting, we would be making plans to gather at one of our familiar haunts and unwind.

These days, it's one man down, and Carl and Stanley would sometimes have very quiet dinners because all Carl would do is nod hypnotically to whatever Stanley said.

"I think our friend is very hollow," Stanley would say to me on most nights after dropping Carl off, while we were on our way back to our respective homes.

That Friday night wouldn't be one of those nights because Stanley is joining Carl and his sister gang of gym rabbits for dinner and drinks later at E-bar, Carl's all-time favourite drinking place.

Stanley tells me he's amused at the thought of dining with a bunch of burly men who looked like they are each capable of devouring a cow, but instead chooses to eat a meek salad for dinner.

But eating grass with these beefcakes is better than spending Friday nights alone, Stanley decided (Stanley's own group of friends - the badminton sisters, a hobbyist group comprising gay men - are out of town).

Earlier this morning, our WhatsApp group chat came stirring to life with plenty of updates from Stanley.

They started with a string of photos: The group of them posing during dinner, Carl and Stanley taking a wefie at E-bar, and a couple of other photos that featured big arms, big biceps, and big alcohol bottles.

The news point though, had nothing to do with any of those photos.

"Carl is mad," Stanley typed.
"He has a disease"
"Mad Carl disease"

I waited for the news point, letting Stanley and his usual dramatic openings play out.

Stanley continued in the group.

"Carl is putting weird things in his body," Stanley wrote.

I was very tempted to interrupt and point out that Carl wouldn't be the first, given that Stanley had once inserted beads into certain parts of his body.

But I didn't want to break the flow of information - plus, it's Saturday morning and I am munching on my coco crunch.

"Please go on," I tapped instead.

Turns out, Carl is so into cosmetic procedures that he's getting out of hand.

It all began some three years ago.

Having amassed enough cash and muscles, Carl wanted more.

He had always been feeling small - ironic, given his python-sized arms and his Zouk bouncer frame - and it became worse after he broke up with his partner Ah Boy of many years (read it here).

And so began his obsession of looking good.

It first started with something innocuous.

He would buy collagen powder and drink it diligently every night because someone had whispered to him that it would keep him young.

Stanley and I had tried it out of curiosity.

Stanley pleasantly pointed out that the collagen powder, drunk with plain water, tasted like sperm.

And then Carl got a little greedier and bolder.

He would go to Thailand to do laser procedures on his face, which, fair enough, is okay since he could afford to shuttle to and fro for the sake of looking young.

That was quickly followed by frequent botox injections that would iron out the wrinkles on his forehead.

Yesterday, Carl revealed to the group during dinner that he had gone to Bangkok to insert a thread in each side of his cheeks.

"Apparently the person used a needle and thread and literally poked it through Carl's cheek and strung it up to the area near his eyes, tugging the thread tightly so that it keeps his cheeks from sagging," Stanley explained to me.

I had to stop myself from gagging.

"It's not so bad..." Carl typed, trying to exercise some damage control.

"What's worse," Stanley went on, "is that Carl has scheduled a nose surgery in Seoul next month!"

Carl typed a smiley emoticon in response.

But I wasn't smiling.

Years ago, the three of us had talked about plastic surgery.

But we were all in our late twenties where money was still an issue, and we were still youthful.

Among us, we jokingly said that Stanley would be the first to go under the knife while Carl and I had to be the ones comforting him later for looking like Zsa Zsa Gabor.

How the tables have turned.

Carl, while dense and clueless, is also stubborn.

So talking him out of doing plastic surgery would be out of the question.

Once he's made up his mind, he would block out all logic.

Stanley ended the group chat update by posting a gif featuring a tiny boy jumping up and down the puffed lips of some old woman with plastic surgery.

Later, as I digested my breakfast and breaking news, I ask myself if I would succumb to plastic surgery one day.

The quick answer is no - given that, while I'm not exactly super star quality, what's important is that I don't hate the way I look.

I may have a flat nose and single eye lids, but I think my eyes are arguably my best feature. And that comes from years of cultivating self love.

Stanley said later that his best feature is no doubt his penis, which also comes from years of cultivating self love.

And if Carl hates his nose today and wants to do something about it, there's nothing we can do to stop him.

All Stanley and I wish for, is that Carl would stop obsessing with his looks, and stop yearning to prolong the longevity of his boyish face, which is Carl's best feature (not his python-sized arms).

And as his best pals, after we have exhausted our arguments to dissuade him, at the end of the day, we can only stand by whatever decision he's made.

"Good luck, and don't fuck it up," I typed to Carl, quoting three of our favourite gay icon RuPaul.

Stanley added: "I still love you, Carl, big nose or small nose.

"But really, think really hard about it.

"Between a nose job and a blow job, one of them is more achievable and enjoyable," Stanley wrote matter of factly.



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

Courtroom Drama

Stanley is intrigued. 

He's recently been following closely a gay drama - not on Netflix, but on the news.

And even though we're miles apart, my sex bunny friend is determined to keep me in the loop.

"Read this!" he typed urgently in our WhatsApp group chat titled "Just the Boys" which Stanley, Carl our dense friend and I set up years ago.

Stanley went on to paste paragraphs of news reports of an ongoing trial that has no doubt been keeping the gay community talking in Singapore.

Given Stanley's extensive network and activities, Stanley is the gay community.

Long story short, a doctor is on trial for drug charges.

But right now, Stanley the size queen isn't allowing this story to be short.

Stanley pastes one lengthy paragraph after another in our group chat.

"Wow, imagine a doctor saying such things!" Stanley wrote, referring to a paragraph where the doctor defended himself, saying that straws and bottles found on him during a drug raid were for origami.

"I think he meant origasm," Stanley remarked as if he were a guest judge on RuPaul's Drag Race.

As expected, Carl our dense friend was totally lost.

He's confused - which, to be fair, we all were at some point of growing up but Stanley and I eventually moved on while poor Carl is still there marching on the spot.

Carl - who, up till last year thought Batam and Bintan were the same place - is perpetually clueless.

"Is this a Netflix drama?" he asks sincerely.

Expertly ignoring Carl, Stanley continued engaging me in the group.

Meanwhile, Stanley privately messages me saying even if he had taken two hours to explain the whole case to Carl, it would probably take four years before Carl could make sense of it so it's best to cut his losses.

If the three of us were in a fantasy movie, Carl would be the one Stanley convinces to willingly offer himself to the fire-breathing dragon while the rest of the village run for our lives.

Stanley vehemently disagrees with my analogy.

"I will never want to be in a fantasy movie with you or Carl. My fantasy movie will have only one co-star and that would be none other than my oppa Song Joong-ki", Stanley's current love interest from recently watching Descendants of the Sun on Netflix.

But let's get back from the war zone to the courtroom.

Or, to be specific, the expensive hotel rooms.

"Look at these gays and their high lives!" Stanley marvelled, italicising the word high.

Apparently, one of those on trial had revealed to the courtroom stories of gay men booking rooms for group sex at high-end hotels - and hiring that doctor to help one of them get high.

"Wow!" Carl said, deciding that he would join the conversation after all, never mind he couldn't keep up.

"Who are these people?" Stanley asks.

Later on, I thought about the trial.

(Stanley later reveals he too, had thought about the trial - but his thoughts were mainly focused on what went on behind those closed hotel room doors).

My thoughts, however, were on how it must feel for those on trial.

I'm very close to courtroom drama because J my partner is a lawyer and I hear all sorts of legal stories from him.

When J started out as a young DPP - a lawyer for the state - he would excitedly tell me about his work.

Once, on his day off, he brought me to tour the then-sub courts, showing me where people were charged, and where trials were heard, and teaching me all about the judiciary system.

We even sat in on a trial during that day out, and had very fortunately walked into the courtroom of a very high-profile judge who was known for being funny with her straight-face backhanded comments.

Eventually, the novelty of J's first job wore off.

When he was senior enough to handle big cases, J's job wore him off.

J was trained to see accused persons as murderers and rapists - given that his then-job was to prosecute those people.

Often, he would come back feeling drained and telling me how it's not easy to see people only at their worst.

The compassionate J eventually moved on to corporate law - choosing to work in the boardroom rather than the courtroom, and opting to wear office suits over legal robes (To this day, Stanley would still cheekily ask J if lawyers wore anything beneath those robes - just as he would sometimes ask the world at large if newscasters wore skimpy underwear below the studio table).

Because of my association to J and having seen courtroom drama first hand, I'm viewing this ongoing trial with different lenses.

It's only natural because, admit it, we do love to gossip.

I cannot imagine how it must be like to be so vulnerable and so talked about.

Here, I'm not debating about whether or not they are guilty. I'm not discussing the merits and demerits of their activities.

Like I said, I'm merely focusing on that one aspect... vulnerability for those on trial.

Casting aside culpability and retribution, I wonder how it must be like to walk to court and be swarmed by not just reporters but also curious passersby with their mobile phones.

And then, you have to swear to tell the truth in open court, for one and all to hear. 

Worse, whatever you say is linked to your photos which would surely surface online.

Your reputation is gone. Your dignity is gone. And most likely, your career will go too.

And what about your loved ones?

How would close friends, family members react?

And it surely doesn't help that people who follow juicy trials would no doubt cast judgement even before the verdict is out. 

J has very professionally told me he doesn't want to discuss this with me.

So I of course turn to Stanley.

How must it feel to be thrust into the limelight and for people to talk behind your back, I ask him.

Quite good, actually, Stanley replies using the WhatsApp voice recorder.

Some time back, I have had people literally talking behind my back, and I assure you, Adam, thrusting was involved. And I was basking in that limelight, he says.



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

Good Lord

Relocating is a bitch.

I sometimes wish I had a magic lamp, rub it, and have a genie appear in front of me, scoop me and all my belongings up, and place me safely in that foreign land - all things intact, all things in place.

Stanley my sex bunny friend scoffed at my remark.

"Firstly, if I want something magical to happen, there are many other things I can recommend you to rub, other than a lamp," he said to me as if I were stupid.

"And let's say we go by your flawed theory and a genie does appear - and he had better look like Will Smith - the only foreign thing I want to land, would be his -

"Please stop," I begged Stanley sincerely.

"We are in a bloody temple, for Christ's sake," I whispered.

Since 2002, Stanley and I had been going to the Myanmar Temple on Ah Hood Road.

We found it by chance - a China friend of ours had wanted to visit the adjacent Sun Yat Sen museum and we made a by-the-way trip to the temple.

We instantly loved the temple because we felt a sense of calm when we stepped inside.

The rest, they say, is history.

But right now, I'm not so certain there's calm, given that we had been whispering rubbish while Stanley waited beside me for me to get blessings by a monk.

It has become routine for Stanley to accompany me to the temple despite him being Catholic and all.

Buddhists, Hindus, Muslims, Taoists, hunny, I take them all, Stanley would say.

And on major occasions such as birthdays, New Years and Chinese New Years, Stanley the sweet would offer to drive me to the temple knowing that it's important for me.

Today was one such occasion of importance.

I was set to leave Singapore for a very long time, and Stanley offered to get me "cleansed, exorcised and revirginised" before exporting me.

Later on as we were leaving the temple and putting on our shoes, Stanley complained.

"My new shoes are so tight they're killing me. This is why," he paused as he struggled and wriggled his foot into his new Pedro shoes, "that I say tight isn't always good."

I sighed, and gave up.

Our next destination was Fitness First at Bugis Junction, where we were to pick up Carl who had been huffing and puffing the first half of Saturday morning.

If Stanley had his way, he too would be huffing and puffing but at a very specific part of the gym.

"Jesus, hunny," Stanley said by way of greeting Carl as he stepped into Stanley's car.

"You look like a large walking paddle pop ice cream popsicle from far."

Stanley then turned to the back seat to reach Carl's thighs and gave them a squeeze.

"Do you ever work out those legs of yours? They look bamboo sticks."

Carl shifted uncomfortably in the back seat. 

"My goodness. You're starting to look like all the gym rabbits in Singapore and my bloody workplace - very top heavy with a weak foundation.

"Do something about those skinny legs of yours please. You're starting to look like a needle in a gay stack," concluded Stanley, Queen of Puns.

Carl the dense one grinned like a good natured goon and said "Oh, thank you, Stanley dear."

The drive to 8 Cafe at Bukit Pasoh was smooth.

The three of us had two agendas that day: Chief of which, lunch at the gay-owned fusion restaurant.

"This fusion place is giving me a lot of confusion," Stanley said softly to me as we stepped into the eclectically designed interior.

"I don't know which one I like better - the food or the boss," Stanley said, eyeing Bill the owner and sometimes chef of the place.

The boyish and well built owner is perhaps one of the reasons so many people flock to the restaurant.

"I love your creations," Stanley said appreciatively to the handsome boss as he set down his crispy brown rice risotto on the table.

"And I love Your creation," Stanley said in the next breath, looking up at the ceiling, no doubt thanking God and saying grace at the same time.

With our first agenda being met, I quickly set out to achieve my second agenda: Getting help from Bill.

I had recently put up my apartment for rent, using the services of a very efficient and eccentric sales woman, aunty Yim.

She's highly recommended by friends and had most recently been helping Stanley find a condo unit before he was retrenched (read about it here).

But three months after aunty Yim brought potential tenants to my place for viewing, nothing was offered to me.

One of them was an Australian-Indian couple who had newly relocated to Singapore.

They looked like they could be my tenant, I told Stanley after I met them.

But while the Indian wife was visibly excited about my unit, her husband looked unimpressed as he viewed my large one bedder.

Stanley would later say that anyone who views his large "one bedder" would never be unimpressed.

And then there were three lesbians who came to view, and was excited to rent my place. But they wanted the rental to go even lower.

"Hunny, seriously," Stanley said afterwards. "I would run away immediately if a lesbian tells me she wants to go lower".

And then there were various other insignificant potential tenants, mostly couples but no offer was made to me.

And time was ticking.

And so at Stanley's suggestion, we should go to Bill for help.

"Firstly, he's very handsome," Stanley pointed out in his opening remarks.

"And people who're handsome have handsome friends who need a place," he went on.

"And most importantly, he's Malaysian - and that means most of his friends are Malaysians. Don't you want Malaysian tenants?" Stanley asked. "I would definitely want Bill as my tenant. Roommate. Whatever," Stanley said.

My sex bunny friend can sometimes sell snow to the Eskimos - one of the reasons he's excellent in his marketing day job (top management) and his marketing night job (bottom management).

Just before dessert was ordered, I showed Bill photos of my unit, asking him to help me spread the word.

"Yes, spread it, Bill," Stanley responded instinctively, incapable of controlling himself.

Bill later promised he would do his best to spread it - which elicited a very wide, satisfied grin from Stanley - and said he would in fact, do so immediately, sending my Stanley into a series of nodding spasms.

Later that day, while praying for a good, responsible tenant, I ask myself what sort of landlord I should be.

I have heard horror stories of friends who're landlords - tenants breaking things and denying it, tenants who sublet it to subtenants, tenants who turn their rental unit into a brothel or something.

And it occurred to me that just as I'm choosing a tenant (should there be a ready and willing pool, of course), tenants are also assessing me.

After all, they wouldn't want a demanding, stingy, calculative landlord.

Stanley says I think too much.

"You need to let go - you're gonna have to let other people come into your most intimate, most personal place," he said, sounding like a pervert yoga guru.

"Let them in.... and don't forget, you're getting paid for that," he pointed out.

"And hunny, with the way you look now, and given your age, if you can achieve that, you should thank your lucky stars," added Stanley, Queen of Multiple Sarcasm.

"Because for me, I still can. If I were a landlord, I'll rent out my place to very hot tenants - and make sure they come and leave me their deposits," concluded Stanley, Queen of Multiple Orgasm.



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

Eyes, Eyes, Baby

Sometime in late-2017 - pre-Christmas period - I finally had time to meet the boys.

That was after I had wrapped up a particularly hectic and long-drawn work project.

That night, at PS Cafe Dempsey, I made an announcement to the boys Stanley and Carl.

"I have presbyopia," I said grimly.

Carl the dense one looked up from the menu and studied my features carefully as if I were a museum exhibit.

"Is that some form of STD?" Stanley the sex bunny asked cautiously. "Let's not share dessert," he said, looking at Carl for support.

Carl's python-size biceps twitched ominously. The colour of his face drained and he looked at me with great concern.

I rolled my eyes and leaned forward.

Sensing something sensational, Stanley and Carl did the same, temporarily abandoning the task of choosing a dessert.

"It's just lao hua," I explained, using the more common term in Mandarin.

Stanley slumped back in his seat in a dramatic manner, and groaned that there was no real value in that information.

Carl was still leaned in, his head cocked sideways as if he were a K2 kid trying to understand Pythagoras Theorem.

"Adam, there's no drama in this. It simply means you're getting old - there's no need to fret," Stanley said. "Ageing happens to all straight men who're married, and to all gay men who're attached. Only single and happy gay boys like Carl and me never age."

Out of pure kindness, Stanley later put me in charge of ordering dessert, then proceeded to rest his chin on his hands, patiently awaiting drama.

A week later, J accompanied me to have my eyes checked, and reading glasses prescribed. 

All my life, I had not needed to wear specs.

The only time I did was when I was a kid, when I secretly tried on my Godma's specs.

I felt as if the floor had tilted and had to take big, arching strides to walk, as if I were Neil Armstrong on the moon.

I were to later find out that I had 100 degrees of presbyopia in both eyes.

I wasn't over the moon.

The good news, as J had so lovingly put it, is that I can now choose a pair of trendy specs which would make me look more distinguished.

I didn't achieve that goal.

A few days later, while poring over page after page of documents without my reading glasses, I finally gave up.

A colleague who saw me put them on and reading my documents exclaimed that I reminded her of her grand uncle.

That young li'l bitch - who was all of 22 - even remarked that my iPhone fonts were enormous.

Stanley would later boast that the only thing in his iPhone that's enormous were images of a specific category that's best left not discussed in public.

But life has to go on, with or without reading glasses.

But mostly with reading glasses these days.

After the initial two weeks of getting used to donning specs, I no longer felt giddy whenever I took them off.

And I had gotten used to the fact that if I eat without my reading glasses, the morsels of food in front of me would appear fuzzy.

Yes, I am old.

And it took putting on the reading glasses to see this fact clearly.

Often, the first signs of ageing creep in without us realising it.

For those of us who still look youthful when we're near forty, we aren't aesthetically reminded of our age.

But when these clear symptoms kick in... there's no denying it.

It will first start with innocuous conditions like presbyopia.

And then we'll have, I don't know, slipped disc or something.

I vocalised my thoughts to the boys about ageing some time later.

Carl the dense one who lifts weights like it's his profession, looked mortified at the prospect.

Stanley the drama queen whispered theatrically.

"Slipped discs can go down a slippery slope very quickly.... and we could soon be paralysed from the waist down boys!"

Carl looked like he wanted to cry, and started patting his python-sized arms lovingly as if he were saying goodbye.

Stanley went very quiet.

Then he decided: "But that's okay. We're survivors.

"Even when that happens, I can still use my mouth."



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

Cut or Uncut

A lot of significant events unfolded for me in early 2018.

I was preparing to uproot after accepting a new overseas job offer.

And my sex bunny friend Stanley was still out of job after being retrenched (read it here).

Up until December 2017, Stanley was so serious about chasing his dreams that he would sleep in to do just that.

But all this was about to change.

Stanley's new year resolution for 2018 was to buck up, stop moping around and nail a job.

It can't be that hard, Stanley would say.

If I can still get a blow job at this age, there's hope for getting a job.

I didn't know what to make of Stanley's logic but I was happy he pulled himself out of his rut. 

In February 2018, Stanley's months of job hunting finally paid off.

An MNC had officially hired Stanley and his life was, just like that, back on track.

"It feels 10 times better than a Tinder match, trust me," Stanley said excitedly to Carl and me that night, breaking the news.

It was such good news that there and then, we decided on our third serving of Soju.

We left that task to Stanley who found the American-accented Korean waiter irresistibly cute.

The three of us were at a crowded and smoky Korean restaurant at Tanjong Pagar (so that we can easily pop by E-bar, Carl's favourite gay bar in the whole wide world).

And as our third bottle of Soju arrived, Stanley beamed at the cute waiter and said "thank you for bringing us your Korean juice, which makes me very happy indeed."

The youthful waiter let out a loud, hearty laugh as if he had hoped it would drown out Stanley's lust.

"Thank you, thank you," I said to the waiter, taking over the soju bottle.

He looked at me with gratitude in his eyes, and left thankfully, happy that the hunger emitting from Stanley is temporarily confined to the table of Korean food (rice cake, ginseng soup, marinated pork belly, beef slices and a whole plethora of side dishes designed at helping people put on weight).

"A toast," Carl said, raising his tiny glass with his veiny arms, a by-product of heavy iron-pumping at Fitness First.

"May you have a good career," Carl ventured. "And you must tell me what you do for a living again," Carl told Stanley, his long-time friend of 20 years.

Stanley responded by smilingly patting Carl on the back, a gesture that said it's okay, let's just move on pal.

Carl our friend is indeed dense.

During a Christmas party game some years ago, Carl revealed to us that, up till he was 27, he had always thought that the Japanese had invaded Singapore for 20 years, during WWII.

As we continued feasting on our Korean dinner, Stanley supplied us with more info on his job.

He would get back to doing what he used to do - but the catch is, he'd taken a pay cut.

Carl slumped his shoulders instinctively at that detail.

"It's not that bad," I said, "considering that your last drawn was really quite high already."

"My last drawn. You'll have to be specific, Adam," Stanley said, raising one eyebrow. "Because that could refer to my activity last night - and if you were, then yes, you're right. It's quite substantive."

Carl choked on his piece of meat on hearing that.

Stanley nodded at him and said "yes, hunny. That was me last night. Me and that big chunk of meat."

Later that evening, as a tipsy Carl belted out a Mando ballad with feeling at E-bar, Stanley signalled me out to join him for a smoke break.

In all-serious mode, Stanley confessed that he was only half happy with his new job.

Sure, he's thankful for this opportunity but to earn S$800 less, that's something.

"It's a big blow to me," Stanley said, adding "and trust me, I can handle big blows. But this pay cut, I'm not so sure."

I told Stanley that I know how that must feel, but I need not add further.

I'm confident that Stanley had it all sorted out.

After all, money isn't his priority.

For him, it's more important that he can find a job which he can do well, and loves at the same time.

And to be one of the marketing team leads at a big MNC, that's an offer Stanley couldn't resist.

Carl's vocals - now working on a different Mando ballad - flowed out of E-bar as the door opened and closed.

"You know, Carl is really in his element at E-bar," Stanley said. "With that beautiful singing voice of his, he's certainly found some true fans here."

Then he adds seriously.

"And I now love E-bar too. Because for the last so many months of my joblessness, you and Carl have been spending so much time with me here to cheer me up. 'Cos I have my true friends here."



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

Fabulous Forty

In just a few months' time, Stanley my sex bunny friend and I will turn a ripe old age of 40.

Believe it or not, our birthdays are just one day apart.

Stanley and I used to say that the two of us first met when we were newborns at KK Hospital.

Our mothers possibly nodded politely at each other as they waddled heavily along the hospital aisle, days before letting their respective babies squeeze through their tunnel - the only times that their precious sons would ever come in contact with such a body part.

"We need to chart the big day in great detail," Stanley enunciated crisply that night, sounding like he were an important official who just got appointed to plan the next Trump-Kim Summit.

Carl our dense friend was totally lost.

"Who's Trump Kim?" he demanded to know, eager to find out if he belonged to a new Korean pop band.

These days, Carl's latest obsession was googling Korean pop stars because he was once again researching cosmetic surgery.

Stanley couldn't be bothered to engage Carl, who once insisted that the capital of Malaysia was Penang.

After all, the three of us had limited time together - I was back in Singapore for a short holiday, and Stanley had expertly inserted himself (as usual) in between my intensive meet-ups with many of my Singaporean loved ones.

The three of us were at Rail Mall, one of the places Stanley and I loved hanging out (Stanley lived near my mum's place so we sometimes cast a majority vote and force Carl to comply, just for our convenience).

Carl, who was determined to find out how good looking this Trump Kim person was, set his wine glass down and began tapping furiously on his phone.

"It is with utmost importance that we marked our milestone year with oomph," explained Stanley, Birthday Planner. "And we must do it together. In style".

When Stanley and I were 21, we marked our coming of age separately.

He was visiting his sister Cindy Ong in the UK, where her sister, in Stanley's words, was busy but effectively squandering their family wealth by spending four fun years there without graduating.

I on the other hand, squandered my family wealth by booking a chalet and hosted three fun nights of parties, each session a different theme with different groups of friends.

It was only when we turned 22 that Stanley, Carl and I became closer, and we promised each other then, that we would celebrate all milestone birthdays for one another in future.

When Stanley and I turned 30, we had a combined grand birthday dinner at a rooftop restaurant at the then-Scarlet Hotel, attended by our closest friends.

When it was Carl's turn, we surprised him with a birthday party at Tea Garden MacDonald's.

There were balloons, lots and lots of French fries, birthday hats, loads of Macho Marys with micro singlets and absolutely no children.

Our dense friend was so happy that day.

At age 40, Stanley insists that the scale of the party must be increased with age.

"We're no longer sweet young things. We're not that old either. We're in between - which means we have the spending power," Stanley said.

"We must spend."

"EEW," Carl said in shock.

"This two-man Korean pop band looks hideous," he said. "I wonder who did their plastic surgery."

That night, we allowed Stanley to dominate the table - a role he seldom takes on, but when he does, he takes full control.

According to Stanley, the three of us must make a blood pact and swear that we would stick to the plans or suffer serious consequences.

There and then, at Rail Mall, amid other very happy customers who're tipsy with expensive red wine, Stanley presented to the board his grand proposal.

It would involve not one, not two, but three full days of celebrations - an indication that turning 40 is a bigger deal than how the government views CNY, which is assigned only two days of public holiday.

Stanley's grand plan would also involve not one, not two, but many stacks of cash.

A two-night stay at Marina Bay Sands.

Shopping spree at the malls. Brunch at one of the Italian restaurants on the 50-something-floor roof top. A massage somewhere. A decidedly expensive dinner at C'est La Vie. Dancing like we're in our 20s at the roof top bar later.

And showing lots and lots of skin at the Infinity Pool.

"And so the planning must start now," Stanley looks us in the eye with conviction.

"If we were to show that much skin, we have to work backwards and schedule gym plans so our bods are hot," Stanley said.

Carl the Gym Rabbit rubbed his hands in glee, excited by the proposal brought forth by Stanley the Sex Bunny.

I whined out loud.

Yes, it's important that we all celebrated big birthdays because, hey, it's a milestone.

When Old Mrs Lee turned 70, my siblings and I combined forces and threw her a grand party, each trying to cheekily outdo the other with gifts and wishes.

There was a lot of laughter and food and wine at Spring Court that evening.

But that night, back in my old bedroom in my mum's place, I thought seriously about birthdays.

Birthday parties... does size matter?

Well the short answer is yes.

But if we were to draw up a graph, it would look like several mountains put together side by side.

Birthday parties typically start at one month old. And between the ages one and, say 12, every year is marked by family parties. The graph hits a high at 21. And then the pace slows down until, say, 30. It lulls again and from then, it peaks once every decade - 40, 50, and so on. 

In the Lee family, we pay a lot of attention on birthday milestones.

I remember seeing numerous old, yellowed photos of birthday parties for my siblings and me.

Typically,  one of us would be on the table with a huge cake in front of us. And then there''d be a separate table where kids aren't allowed to crawl on, 'cos they're laid out with huge plates of food.

For some reason, there's always bee hoon in those old family photos of ours.

And while it is important to mark our birthdays with some form of celebration, my question to myself is, so what happens after that?

I ask this because in Myanmar, the country I'm now residing, birthdays are viewed very differently.

For them, birthdays are not about the birthday boy or girl.

It's about giving back to society.

It's common practice that the birthday boy or girl wakes up very early in the morning to make donations and merits at the temple.

The birthday boy or girl would then buy friends and family a meal.

And thereafter, it's a day of reflection and being especially compassionate that day.

I shared my thoughts with Stanley and Carl in our group chat.

"I think I'm excited about the birthday bash, but let's set aside some time during those three extravagant days to reflect on our lives... and what we want to achieve in the next forty years?"

Carl the dense one replied with an OK icon.

Stanley, who was way too busy with the Fabulous Forty birthday planning, recorded an audio reply.

"Are you Adam Lee or the Dalai Lama," he said.

"Whoever you are, get out of my friend, you Demon!"

And in the next message: "Oh, wait... if anyone is ever inside Adam, it's J. And J is no Demon".

And in his final audio recording, Stanley says: "But yes. I agree - we should spend a lot of money on the party, but we should also spend a lot of time reflecting.

"But Adam Dear, we have a whole lot of time to think about our next 40 after we celebrate it in style.

"And all I want to do is to mark my birthday with a bang. Or maybe two or three, depending on my Tinder matches.

"And when I turn 40, I want to give my candles on my cake the biggest, the best blow I've ever given.

"And then I'll have my cake and eat it."



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