Home Invasion

The lines have officially been blurred.

More specifically, the demarcations are no longer valid.

What's once the bedroom, what's once the kitchen, what's once the balcony lounge area are no longer what they were meant for.

They've been invaded, I say to the group that Thursday evening over dinner at Old Airport Road hawker centre. 

Carl the dense one who never gets the memo is officially lost in space. 

He nods at my remark, shoves a forkful of Rojak in his mouth and nods at his dinner.

Stanley the sex bunny on the other hand, who always gets the memo -- but always issued by the Sluts Department -- dribbles his left eyebrow at my remark.

"Darling, every inch of a house -- living room, dinning room, storeroom, bathroom -- I have invaded and marked those territories with my juices. And yes, sex shouldn't be confined only to certain areas so yes, demarcations and lines shouldn't be valid," Stanley said.

Lost in the infinite, vast space that's a world of his own, Carl is beyond redemption, so he made no attempt to catch up on the conversation and instead paid intense attention to the oily char kway teow.

Stanley of course knows what I'm talking about -- the concept of working from home. 

This post is really inspired by a feature article I read in the Sunday Times last week, where people talked about why they love working from home.

I, for one, am not one of them. 

And I cannot understand why people would love working from home.

What happened to waking up in the morning, getting dressed in your tailored shirts and pants and suits and navigating the morning traffic to a beautiful office where we can spend one-quarter of our paid working hours at the pantry gossiping and getting some work done after lunch?

Very early on in my life, I had been wired to think of the home as a home.

When I was younger, I could never study at home. I always found excuses to lug my bag pack of books and laptop to MacDonalds (Tea Garden along Farrer Road is my favourite studying spot), Starbucks at Raffles Place on a Sunday morning, the viewing gallery of the then-World Trade Centre, Changi Airport, you name it.

"National Library, Bukit Timah Shopping Centre, East Coast chalet, Tan Tock Seng Hospital and a secluded car park off Dairy Farm," Stanley offered helpfully, adding "these are some of my all-time favourite memories of my outdoors list.

I was scared to ask further.

"What's happening? What are we talking about?" Carl finally wanted to know after polishing off one-third of the char kway teow.

For me, the concept of working from home had been introduced quite early on in my career. 

My boss had allowed us to do that but I have never found it productive. There were way too many distractions. There's always some cooking to be done. Or plants that needed watering. Or the TV required turning on to fill the house with some ambient noise. The bedsheets looked too inviting.

But in recent months, nearly all of us were forced to think -- and work -- out of the confinements of the box.

These days, I've rewired my life to survive this new trend.

The first half of my day would always start on a good note.

I would, as usual, wake up at 6am on weekdays. By 7am, I'd be sitting by the balcony with my black coffee, staring into the beautiful skyline and not doing anything: My precious 15 minutes of me-time before I start my day proper.

By 7.30am, I would get some work done before my morning run (either at the gym or outdoors). 

By 10am, armed with my second cup of coffee, I'd be ready for work. 

And I would really work -- throwing myself into it until lunch beckons at around 12:30pm.

Usually, I'd cook and watch Netflix during lunch until.... 2pm. 

And that's when it all goes downhill. Nothing ever gets done from 2pm on days when I am not rushing for deadlines.

Sasa my university classmate suffers the same fate as I do. 

Though her designer apartment is large enough for her to plonk her laptop anywhere to work, she finds it extremely unproductive to work from home.

We've since decided on a strategy that would optimise our productivity levels: Post-lunch, we would get out of the house for a refreshing change of environment (Sasa would go down to her condo poolside and me, the outdoor garden near the gym).

Stanley agrees that a change in environment would always boost productivity levels because, in his words, "doing it outdoors is always exciting, and I never fail to produce".

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

Fixing a Broken Heart

Stanley has finally met his match.

Not the swipe-right type of match.

This one, oh no. This one isn't immediately associated with the qualities of Mister Right.

He's neither very right (in fact, he's very un-politically correct), nor is he fully a mister, judging from his wardrobe choices.

But he has a good heart, a hearty laugh and God, he's so damn entertaining.

The year is late-2018, and Stanley, Carl and I are meeting our loudmouthed friend who is visiting from Australia.

Meet Sam Baker.

1.76m, 82kg, visiting from Down Under. Newly single and ready to mingle.

And because we're meeting the Sam Baker, we had to choose a very strategic place.

Somewhere gay friendly, somewhere loud so that we're not the centre of attention, and somewhere with booze.

We're gonna need it, baby.

Because tonight, we are on a mission -- Sam Baker is heartbroken.

At around 7:30pm, the stars aligned and in strolls the loud and proud Sam Baker.

"G'dai bitches," was the first thing Sam Baker uttered in his signature high-pitch voice. "How ya doin' mate!"

What followed was a blur of activity which I remember included tight hugging and exchanging of loud and precisely pronounced air kisses.

I also recall Carl the dense one -- who has zero interaction with out and loud queens -- curtseying awkwardly at Sam Baker.

Some five minutes after the elaborate ceremonious greeting, we settled down at a corner table of Bill's 8 Café, a restaurant that's known for both its delicious food and yummy owner.

Stanley and I both exchanged looks and glanced down at our watches.

Give it 5 minutes. 
No, I think, maybe less. 3 minutes?
Okay, let's see how long he'll last.

Turns out, Stanley was right.

It took Sam Baker less than three minutes to falter, and fumble, and revert from his Aussie Twang to his roots.

"Eh, very tired to be Aussie the whole time la Sundal," Sam Baker finally crumbles, using the Malay word for slut.

Sam Baker -- short for Samsul Abu Bakar -- is a self-made lifestyle coach.

Whatever the heck is a lifestyle coach, I have no idea.

But apparently, this Sundal is making it big Down Under, collecting decent bucks by offering clueless angmohs lifestyle tips, relationship advice, meditation classes, and philosophy counselling.

I wanted to tell Sam Baker that he might as well throw in Balinese massage since he looks head to toe very Melayu.

But no -- I'm not Melayoooo, Samsul Abu Bakar used to say. "I'm Malay mix."

I remember Stanley asking Samsul Abu Bakar at Niche, a popular gay bar in the early 2000s, what exactly is "Malay mix".

"My father is Javanese and my mother is Bugis," Samsul Abu Bakar said matter of factly.

That night, Stanley went around telling people at the bar that he was "Chinese mix". "My dad is Teochew and my mum is Hakka".

Sam Baker is a friend we all knew in our younger days. 

Oh, those lovely days when walking into a club was such a joy because we're always stopped by the bouncer who demanded we showed we were of legal age. 

But back then, Sam Baker wasn't really known as Sam Baker.

But he was never known as -- and thus, never called by -- his real name: Samsul Abu Bakar.

One of his nicknames was Cik Pon, which Stanley the Peranakan explained to me meant "Ms Pon".

Sam Baker used to turn up at the gay bar to do drag performances and boy, was he good. 

Once, he did a Halloween standup routine where he introduced himself as Cik Pon. 

"Because by day, I am cik Pondan, and by night, I am cik Pontianak," he said, stroking his long black wig that stood out prominently against his white bedsheets of a dress. 

We loved Sam Baker -- he made us laugh all the time.

But now, Sam Baker was about to make us cry. 

Back at 8 Café, the heavyset Sam Baker is perspiring, his upper lip dotted with dozens of mini sweat beads. 

He had just broken up with his partner of 4 years and immediately spiralled into depression for six months.

Though we were Facebook friends, Sam's posts didn't always show up on our feeds because we haven't really been interacting socially with him.

So when he disappeared from the grid... nobody knew.

Funny how a self-made lifestyle guru isn't able to help himself. 

But that's not the point.

Long story short, Sam Baker soon found his two feet and got right back up.

His counsellor said moving away from his "source of hurt" would do him some good.

Later, when Sam Baker went to the toilet, Stanley took the opportunity to add that the counsellor was probably wrong.

"Sometimes, after an intense sex meeting, my source of hurt is still there no matter where I go."

"That's funny -- but let's not say this to Sam Baker when he's back," I noted, unsure whether it's wise to do that to a hurting friend.

"Yes, you're right," Carl said to our surprise.

Our dense friend, who normally has no situational awareness (Carl had told us he once approached a blind man to ask him for directions), is on form tonight.

"Let's all be supportive to Sam Baker. Hold hands and form a protective circle around him," Carl said, to our utter surprise.

"Errr… and are we doing one of those trust fall activities? Because hunny, if that elephant were to close his eyes and fall backwards, trust me, I'm not going to catch him," Stanley said.

"Catch what?" Sam Baker asks from afar.

"Catch STD," Carl the dense one followed up immediately, once again outdoing himself.

"We're saying that Stanley the Sundal has been recently sleeping around so much he's gonna catch STD," said Carl, man of the match.

Stanley flashed Carl a constipated smile that spoke of betrayal and respect at the same time.

That night, we did all we could to comfort Sam Baker.

Be his listening ears.

Be his shoulder to cry on.

Be his supportive bitch who would chime in at appropriate times to say "Amen" or "what a dick!".

I was particularly comforted by the fact that although we had not met up for such a long time, the bond we formed in our youth was still strong.

And I take heart that we can still help Sam Baker fix his broken heart.

Three bottles of red wine were ordered, and loads of fries were refilled.

Apparently, stress eating does help.

"We need to stop him. Any more fries and we really have to help Sam Baker fix his broken heart -- from hypertension," came Stanley's WhatsApp message to the group, which he expertly typed under the table.

Stanley our sex bunny friend is evidently capable of doing a lot of things well under the table.

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

Grand Dreams

My sister messaged out of the blue the other day.

"I dreamt of por-por last night" was her first WhatsApp message in the family group chat.

"And it was really vivid - I was supposed to give her an angpao".

Our mum was the first to reply.

"Por por is no longer around. Give mummy the angpao instead," wrote Mrs Lee, who followed up appropriately with a gif of a fat hamster cartoon flapping its ridiculously short limbs as if trying to carve out food out of thin air.  

Our brother Barry - who's always too busy to reply in full sentences - wrote: "Wow! I miss por-por".

The unenthusiastic replies, all of five lines, lulled after 50 minutes and my sister's topic died a natural death.

Not satisfied with such cold treatment, my sis engaged me for a one-on-one.

"I haven't dreamt of por-por in nearly 30 years," she revealed.

"Do you think it's a sign that she needs money in the afterworld?"

I didn't reply her immediately, choosing to weigh my answer very carefully instead.

The key phrase that got me thinking was "in nearly 30 years" which means, por-por had been in my sister's dreams until she was around 14 years old.

And that made sense.

I was 10 when our granny died.

My sis was 13.

Barry was 8.

I remember the day very clearly.

It was after dinner, and as usual, por-por sat at the front of her shophouse, enjoying the evening breeze while chanting softly to herself, clutching a long string of Buddhist prayer beads in one hand.

I was sitting near her, always happy to be playing in our front porch, while my mum and favourite aunt nibbled on melon seeds, their usual after-dinner snacks.

Next thing I remember, mum and aunt started fussing around por-por, raising their voices to ask if she were alright.

I watched quietly as por-por grew sleepier and sleepier by the minute, her breaths seemingly more laboured and shallow than her last.

Minutes later, my sis timidly walked out to the porch, drawn by the commotion.

We held hands anxiously as we saw mum and aunt holding por-por by her shoulders shaking her to no end.

Soon, my other aunts and uncles who live in next shophouse, along with some concerned neighbours, started gathering around por-por.

I remember two of my uncles lifting por-por from her seat to her room.

By then, voices were raised, cries were heard. And the adults were scrambling around the house - from por-por's room to the telephone to the front porch, and to her room, and to the front porch again.

I had never seen the adults so panicked before.

I remember our usually cheerful and playful mum had started to wail like she was my age.

My sis and I held hands tightly till they felt cold.

My favourite aunt, however, was eerily calm.

In her usual clinical fashion, she began instructing her siblings - even her older ones - on what to do next.

At some point, one of the neighbours pointed out the obvious.

Something that none of por-por's seven children were willing to acknowledge.

The 89-year-old grand matriarch is no more.

I remember that my sis and I were sent upstairs, instructed to make sure Barry the pig remained sleeping and we were not to come downstairs.

My sis and I didn't speak that night, both of us frightened by our first sight of death.

The death of our ever-doting por-por.

In retrospect, por-por probably doted on my sis and Barry a lot more than she did me, because I was a wilful brat who would always talk back to her.

But that's not the point.

That night, the adults remained awake for as long as I remember, while my sis and I drifted to sleep only when child-like exhaustion lured us to slumber.

The next day, I remember being allowed to stay home but I was in no holiday mood.

Everyone was sombre.

So I remained obediently quiet in my own room, mindful enough to not bother the vexed adults.

My sis, however, had to attend school for some test or exam.

When she finished school, my sis went to por-por's house first - which was what we were all taught to do as kids.

When you come home, you make sure you go to por-por's home first to greet her before you do anything.

That afternoon, my sis habitually walked into the living area of por-por's home, only to scream at what she saw.

Por-por's body had been freshly prepared and made up for her five-day wake.

In my sister's memory, por-por wore a traditional and grand-looking samfu "the kind you would see in Hong Kong zombie movies."

Por-por's face was powdered to a near shade of white, her lips a contrasting bold red with two round patches dotted on each side of por-por's cheeks like they were mini peaches.

I remember my sis having not been able to sleep for the next few months, often crying in the middle of the night, haunted by the unearthly look of por-por, who had such a genteel, wrinkly face when she was alive.

Lucky for me, my last memory of por-por was of her chanting her prayer beads, and then breathing slowly and dying what seems to be peacefully and effortlessly in front of my eyes.

I can only imagine the trauma sis had to go through.

I recall sis not being able to sleep well for at least six months.

In retrospect, her experience must have caused her to hate - or rather, fear - watching Hong Kong zombie movies later on.

Which is why I had to be really careful with what I replied my 43-year-old sis about por-por, given that the scardy-cat now lives alone in a relatively big apartment.

"Do you think por-por needs money? You think I should burn her some?"

Before I could give any input, sis again typed on WhatsApp.

"Uncle just replied me separately - he says por-por is a millionaire and is richer than all of us combined given that over the years, the uncles and aunties made regular fund transfers to por-por by literally burning money".

"Cousin Jo says por-por would have been reincarnated by now".

And then my hilarious brother told sis:

"Do NOT burn por-por money. Nowadays got a lot of identity theft. What if it's a ghost swindler trying to cheat money out of you then how?"

Sis later told me she'd wait and see if por-por would return to her dreams to ask for money.

"If she returns again, it means it's real right and she needs money right?" my sis the superstitious queen asked.

I didn't know what to say.

"What did mummy say?" I ask, hoping that sis got some motherly advice separately.

"That woman is still asking me to give her the angpao".

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

Dying Thoughts

Not too long ago, my partner J's aunt was diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer.

The doctor told her then, she only had months left.

And so for her remaining days, Aunty Nora decided to live life to the fullest.

She drew up her will, met friends and loved ones regularly, diligently watched lots of K-dramas, and ate many a hearty meal.

J, ever the sweet boy, would take Aunty Nora out once a week for a good meal with his parents.

Peranakan food, Coca steamboat (senior citizens got discount lah, J says), and international hotel buffets and high teas, you name it.  

Last Tuesday, Aunty Nora died at age 73.

I received J's message while I was on my way for a meeting.

Though I had known Aunty Nora for the last 18 years I was with J, I didn't feel overwhelmed with sadness.

One, she had outlived her doctor's prognosis by slightly more than a year.

Two, she had had a full life after all, having been a Tai Tai, without having to worry about money and always indulging in the finer things in life.

And three, in Aunty Nora's final days, she was so frail and in so much pain that she really wanted to just leave this world.

It was a sad day for J and his family.

That night, I fulfilled my duties as the daughter-in-law to the Tans.

Stanley my sex bunny friend would say that there are many other more interesting roles I can play to fulfill my duties as the Tans' daughter-in-law, but let's not go there.

That night, after Aunty Nora's immediate family ironed out the dreadful admin and logistics work, her body was brought back to her Jalan Chengam home.

Aunty Nora's wake photo was stately.

She had her puffy hair -- in a brilliant sheen of white -- nicely coiffed, and was in an elegant black cheongsam with pink and purple floral patterns.

In her coffin, she looked equally dignified, dressed in that very cheongsam which she had meant to wear in her final journey.

Her clasped hand held a rosary which was used frequently in her living days.

For the next few nights, her Jalan Chengam home was filled with collective chatter from tables of friends and family.

It was in a way a familiar sight given that when she was alive, Aunty Nora would hold such rowdy parties too.


J and I took a back seat from wake duties and just made sure guests are well fed with peanuts, and pipping hot sayur lodeh, cooked by one of his cousins.

During the wake, I learnt that Aunty Nora had been involved in her own funeral planning -- from choosing her funeral mass hymn to making sure she gets her favourite priest to say mass for her.


Great planning on her part.

But it was very morbid.

Days after her funeral, I got to thinking of my own mortality.

And J and I both sat down to talk about our longevity on this planet.

It was an important discussion. We know we will not live forever and there's no way we will escape death.

While J's parents have made afterlife plans (they all bought niche units at their parish churches), it was J's own plans I wanted to know.

My practical partner had opted for sea burial (which is an option for Catholics, I learnt. After cremation, J's ashes will be filled in an urn which will be brought to sea by a priest, who will dump the urn).

I've also studiously made notes about J's funeral hymns.

"What the heck makes you think you'll outlive J," Stanley demanded to know when I told him this over coffee the other day.

"J is healthier and holier than thou," Stanley said, adding that "don't forget you were a young slut before you met J so God knows what sort of underlying STD you have which might just emerge and kill you some day."

Which also got me thinking.

It's true what Stanley said (the slut part and also my naive thought that I would outlive J).

In fact, I want to outlive J.

It pains me to imagine him hovering over my coffin and staring down at me, feeling like his whole world has crumbled.

Me on the other hand, knowing what sort of a drama queen I am, will survive. After all, I'll be theatrical enough to ensure I express my sorrows appropriately.

All that morbid talk got Stanley himself thinking.

"Damn. I'm single and I have nobody to weep big fat salty tears for me," he said, already mourning his future death.

"But I'm making good progress," my sex bunny friend added wistfully.

"I've been diligently sleeping around so that eventually when I'm dead, I can truly live up to the title, the laid Stanley Ong which will be inscribed on my tombstone."




In loving memory of Aunty Nora, who, when the going got tough for her and had trouble eating when she was ill, told me she enjoyed the Myanmar cashew nuts I had been buying for her. And thank you for your years of acceptance, party invites and generous treats and angpaos during Chinese New Year.

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

One Ring to Rule Them All

"It's time to get a ring," Stanley said in the group chat the other day.

To his credit, Carl the dense one ventured to clarify what exactly it is, that our sex bunny friend meant -- because with Stanley, really, you never know.

"What type of ring?"

"The type that is rock hard, perfectly shaped and fits just nicely," Stanley replied, refusing to let the bait go to waste.

To all of our relief, Stanley had indeed described an actual ring -- for the finger -- though why he wanted one was beyond us.

Then again, with Stanley, you never know.

And whatever -- and whomever -- Stanley wants, Stanley gets.

And so for the next few days, our group chat was filled with pictures of rings provided by Stanley for our approval and opinion -- which is a refreshing change for once.

After 15 minutes of replying with thumbs-up icons for every picture, Carl the dense one's attention span fizzled off like a can of Coke that's left in the open for too long and soon, the group chat became a monologue.

"The reason I want a ring is sort of like a birthday gift to myself," Stanley wrote without anyone asking.

"And I'm drawn to my birthstone -- Peridot -- in case you ask (which we weren't)".

"Also, as Adam would know, I love green (yes, I do know and Carl the dense one doesn't)".

"But a peridot ring is not exactly glam so I'm also looking at embellishing it with diamonds."

By then, Stanley was on his own because I didn't have his enthusiasm in exploring family jewels, and Carl the dense one couldn't catch up anymore.

Finally, last Friday afternoon, Stanley decided to make a bold move.

He has concluded that there are not enough men's rings that feature peridot and diamonds and most of them are very ugly.

And so, he will have a custom-made ring for himself.

It was something that calls for a gathering of sorts so we found ourselves at a shop in Tiong Bahru that specialises in creating jewellery for people with too much money to spare.

Two slim and pretty-looking girls attended to us in the spacious showroom, one of them focusing solely on Stanley's needs.

And to our surprise, the girl could satisfy our sex bunny's needs there and then.

"You know, I usually like it big, but for rings, I don't want them to be too bulky," Stanley was telling Jewel Girl.

"And I've seen a lot of peridot rings online -- they all look like one solid rock, which in another context, is a good thing for me," Stanley carried on loading too much info on Jewel Girl.

"Some of those rings look like they're worn by holy men -- the type which if you rub, a genie might come out," Stanley continued.

Knowing Stanley, I was very afraid for the girl for what might follow.

"For me, if I rub it, it shouldn't be a genie that comes out if you know what I mean," Stanley said as expected.

Jewel Girl broke into a hearty giggle, her white mask vibrating with her chortle.

I sighed with relief, happy that Stanley hadn't rubbed Jewel Girl the wrong way. 

"I'll make you something that you'll like -- don't you worry," Jewel Girl said and with that, she brought out her shop's peridots for Stanley to see.

"I suggest using these smaller peridots -- along with diamonds of the same size," she said and began to arrange the gemstones with a tweezer.

To my left, I saw Carl yawning behind his mask, fighting the urge to doze off.

Jewel Girl then did a rough sketch for Stanley, explaining how she would place the gemstones that would both meet Stanley's brief and expectations.

"You have nice slender fingers, so a large stone won't work well. Instead, I'm using these smaller gems to shape the centre piece. These diamonds will go here to compliment the peridots."

Stanley's eyes lit up on seeing the sketch and the stones that were placed on a transparent sheet for his visualisation.

"I LOVE IT," Stanley said.

"It'll be set on white gold and what I'll do is, I'll combine two small rings to support the centre piece so that it looks classy and exquisite -- which is my impression of you," Jewel Girl said, her eyes squinting with delight.

Next, Jewel Girl held up a calculator and punched in many digits before showing the final figure to Stanley.

Carl's eyes lit up on seeing the amount.

"It's a good price that I'm willing to pay," Stanley said.

It would take two months for Jewel Girl to make the ring but Stanley left the shop that afternoon a happy man.

Carl was still dazed by how fast Stanley went from talking about getting a ring to actually deciding on a customised ring in a matter of days, though mainly, I suspect Carl couldn't t get over the amount.

"$3,200 is just a fraction of our salary," said Stanley, Crazy Rich Asian.

"Besides, I would love to have my family jewels to be as personal as possible," said Stanley, Crazy Asian.

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

That Can Be Arranged

Last week, Stanley could stand it no more.

"I'm really sick of working from home and staying at home and trudging around home in my designer underwear," our sex bunny friend said.

"And though we do meet, we're always at each other's homes."

"I never imagine I would one day say this, but boys it's about time I put on some clothes and got out for some sun," he said.

And so, we decided to deck out from head to toe in our Tuesday best, get out of the house and have lunch at Dempsey.

I chose a white button down, jeans and brown loafers.

Stanley turned up in a light green tee paired with a navy blue blazer, brown pants, shoes, no socks.

Carl the dense one -- who always never gets the memo -- came in a pair of black polo tee, a pair of beige bermudas and bloody sandals.

Stanley had insisted we ate lunch at Candlenut, a posh (but expensive) Peranakan restaurant after hearing rave reviews from some of his friends who had gone there recently.

"Explain to me why you have no self respect," Stanley said by way of greeting Carl, eyeing our gym rabbit friend from head to toe.

"Which part of 'come in your best slutty clothes' do you find hard to understand?"

Carl, who really usually doesn't understand, shifted uncomfortably and cringed at the pre-lunch image conjured by the words come, slutty and hard in the same sentence.

Inside the restaurant, we found a relatively large table to accommodate our over-ordering ways.

As we settled down and took off our masks, Stanley sighed with relief, happy to be surrounded by people.

"What have you boys been up to," asked Stanley, his eyes darting around speedily, checking out all the masked men in the room.

"Is it me or do men in masks look sexy," he asked the table.

"I mean, the fact that half their faces are covered up ramps up the sex appeal -- you'll have to imagine what's underneath that piece of cloth, much in the way you'd visualise how that person's man bits look like under that pair of jeans," Stanley continued, using his eyes to point at a slim and trim guest with a mop of curly hair, who's strolling in with his elderly grandma.

"But yes, tell me, what have you boys been busy with?"

Carl, who at that moment was indeed busy, continued tapping into his phone furiously.

"I'm trying to send an email to show that I'm working," our dense friend said. "I didn't tell my boss that I'd be venturing out for early lunch."

"Oh, I'm on leave," Stanley replied. "Just that HR and my boss both aren't aware of it."

Soon, our tasting platters were laid on the table -- mini kueh pietee, mantou with crab and wing bean salad -- and we got to work, making those exquisite morsels disappear.

"I've been busy," Stanley began as he swallowed the last of his wing bean salad, "watching Netflix. And you guys MUST watch Indian Matchmaking!"

"I've heard of it," I say, having seen the series pop up in my Netflix account. I was also constantly reminded by my sis (who insists she's a bachelorette and not a spinster, and who doesn't need to be matchmade) to watch the show so that she can have an intellectual discussion with me on the merits of an arranged marriage.

Carl, who's dense and slow to all types of development apart from growing his muscles, nodded sagely.

"You know what we talking about meh?" Stanley challenged.

Carl pouted, shook his head and proceeded to eat his fillings, which, at this point of the lunch, was minced pork, prawn and water chestnut from ngor hiang. 

What Stanley found intriguing about Indian Matchmaking -- apart from the handful of cute Indian eye candies -- is a peek into society's views on various issues: The cultural differences, the caste system, discrimination against certain 'types' of people, and of course, insights into human behaviour among families and how values are passed down from parents to children.

Stanley's strength is obviously in dissecting societal issues and breaking down barriers of human interaction.

Also making full use of his strength in dissecting and breaking down is Carl, who is now making himself useful by de-shelling our next dish, sambal prawns, for us.

"I don't know if I can fall in love with someone that's arranged for me," Carl said finally, licking his fingers clean of the piquant sambal sauce from his fingers.

Indeed, it was food for thought.

In this part of the world, we're big on love marriages.

In India (and perhaps some parts of China), they're big on arranged marriages.

"And in this spot of the restaurant, we're big on gay marriages," Stanley said a tad too loudly, which could have been his goal since I caught him smiling at the trim curly-haired boy three tables away.

"At the end of the day," Stanley said, refocusing his attention on us after a failed hook-up attempt, "it's about how we make marriages work. If you can't find matches, there's no shame in getting help. And if you're matched, you'll have to make your love work -- romance is unfortunately not a fairy tale."

And then, Stanley perked up.

"But sometimes there can be plot twists and miracles can happen," he said, hurriedly putting on his mask.

"Curly boy is smiling back at me... and he's walking to the toilet."

"I'll be back -- or maybe not," Stanley said sultrily and scurried off to find his love.

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

The Local Celeb Sex Drama

"Unless you've been living under a rock," Stanley said just as we sat on the high stools in the alfresco section of Wine Connection at VivoCity, "you would know what's been intensely trending this week".

"And I, Stanley Ong, do not live under a rock," he said, further adjusting his buttocks on the stool to get just the perfect fit.

"I have done many, many things under a rock -- and if you so insist, I'll tell you about the sexcapade during an outdoor adventure camp," Stanley carried on without being prompted.

"And trust me -- it involved a lot stabbing rocks and very, very little apparel," our sex bunny friend said, dribbling one eyebrow.

"Hi, please be reminded to keep your masks on until your food arrives," says a cheery voice who had no idea just how timely her presence there and then had saved the day.

Carl the dense one had by then looked nauseated, likely because he was trying very hard to un-picture the mental image of "stabbing rocks".

"Where was I?" asked Stanley, who has a tendency to get lost.

"Stabbing rocks," I supplied.

Carl coughed.

"Ah, yes. I was talking about this sensational fella and his sex drama," Stanley said.

Carl, who also has a tendency to get lost, was rightfully confused.

While our gym rabbit friend sits quietly facing Sentosa to ponder on life, Stanley is keen to discuss this topic as if it were an A Level literature paper that we are all sitting for the next day.

The drama involves a local celebrity who had recently apologised over a conversation he had with a 15-year-old boy, describing his exchange with the words "inappropriate, questionable and problematic".


"Let me tell you the long and short of it," Stanley said, picking his words carefully to suit the ocassion.

"I'll give you a blow by blow account in chronological order, from top to bottom," he continued on a roll.


Stanley spent the next few minutes giving us a summary of the allegations: Of how the celeb could have made use of his influence to entice boys for sex, to paid sex, to accusations of grooming boys for underage sex.

"So, got sex or no sex in the end?" Carl asked, tilting his head to the side looking like he got lost in the plot somewhere.

"That's not the point! The point is... this is serious sexual grooming!" Stanley shrieked.

Carl had by then looked like a lost cause, his eyebrows so buried he looked like he was deciphering the Da Vinci Code.

"But I take sexual grooming seriously," he said finally. "It's basic etiquette... trimming hair down there and make sure my boy parts are clean."

We gave up engaging Carl who was too off tangent for us to rescue.

"There's so much to talk about, so much to comment on," Stanley says, rubbing his hands in glee as he sits on his high stool.

Carl looked bored by then and began memorising the digital menu.

After our bottle of The Very Sexy Shiraz arrived, Stanley went forth to take the discussion further.


While it's definitely wrong to engage in underage sex -- groomed or paid or even consensual -- it's also none of our business.

Except in this case, the story unfolds on the backdrop of show business, so it sort of becomes everyone's business.

Everyone who considers himself or herself a local celeb or, what's the term -- Influencer -- has something to say about this incident.

And they have said it.

For the next few days since the local celeb's saga broke out, there were so many comments by them -- some were fair. Some were dark. Some were catty. Some were bitchy.

"And some quite touching and moving," Stanley added aptly. 

But after a while, the conversation goes all over the place because everyone and their grandmother had something to say and a place where they could freely say it.

And it becomes a bit toxic to follow the comments because it's tiresome.

"It's also quite scary how things can really go downhill for some people. The last I read, the fella is sort of already a lost cause -- his work is put on hold and his reputation gone."


"But guys," Carl said after a while. "Really. In the end, got sex or no sex?"

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