The Olympic Dream

Last week, the boys and I did something quite butch. 

We gathered and cheered for our Singapore athletes like any good old bloke would do at the local bar for his favourite rugby team.

"Excuse me, coming through," Stanley sang and cat-walked speedily from his open-concept kitchen to the living room, his hips swaying with fierce momentum. On his left hand was a bottle of red. His other hand held three wine glasses.

"It's great to be back in action -- my hips can gyrate freely without pain," our sex bunny friend said. 

Whether he was referring to his hip surgery recovery or his sex life, I cannot really say. Maybe he meant both. 

"Did I miss anything?" Stanley asked, setting the wine on the coffee table for our evening show. 

Carl the dense one, who is always missing something, stared blankly at Stanley's green lamp. 

That evening, the three of us found legal means to meet and dine amid Singapore's strict COVID-19 measures.

No dinning out? Never mind. There's always a backdoor loophole somewhere we can explore.

And when it comes to exploring loopholes somewhere -- anywhere -- there is no other expert than Stanley Ong, who had invited us to his bachelor pad to watch the Tokyo Olympics.

At 6.40pm Singapore time, we promptly turned on Stanley's 65-inch TV, an electronic device that has passed the standards of our size queen. 

July 29 was the day nearly all Singaporeans had come together to watch the pride and joy of our nation compete in the pool.

Stanley handed out the red wine and we sat back on his couch waiting for action to happen.

On other days, I strongly believe Stanley would also be on his couch waiting for action to happen.

"Wah, what happened to him! How come become so fat!" Carl shouted, spitting out the word fat like it was a clot of phlegm. 

To the credit of Carl the dense one, he actually recognised the former swimmer who currently looks like he was trained to throw discuses instead. 

On our TV screen was ex-Olympian Mark Chay and sports commentator Mark Richmond. 

Carl kept shaking his head at the heavier Mark.

And then came the moment we were waiting for. 

The parade of the near-naked men.

First up, swimmer Quah Zhengwen. 

It's not every day we have Singaporean Olympians at the sporting platform.

And when it happens, we must be supportive. 

Quah got into position and Stanley gasped. 

Any young, cute and fit boy who gets into position always takes Stanley's breath away.

"I can't take this," Carl said, panting, his hand clutching his chest. 

Stanley took a quick glance and said under such circumstances, his hand would be clutching somewhere else, but there was no time to elaborate. 

The horn was sounded. 

And Quah plunged into the pool, splashing, kicking, fighting his way to the top.

"Ah-woooo," Stanley let out a cry like he was a hungry wolf.

Under such circumstances -- where there are a handful of young, cute, fit boys, all half naked, all gyrating their way to see who can end first -- it is no wonder that the horn was sounded. 

To our disappointment, Quah didn't make it to the top three in the pool.

Stanley, who on most days loves tops, let out a wail, but stopped himself from sliding further down the slippery slope.

There's still Joseph Schooling to look forward to.

The joy and pride of every Singapore mother, the prince charming of every straight Singapore girl and gay boy. 

When the defending Olympic champion took position, all three of us held our breaths.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Carl patting his own biceps out of pure envy. 

"I'm sending you luck," Carl said forlornly at the TV screen.

Stanley meanwhile bit his lower lip out of pure lust. 

"I'm sending you something that rhymes with luck," Stanley said to his 65 inch device.

The horn sounded. 

And all three of us held our breaths. 

Well, two of us. 

Stanley was standing up, pushing his own hips forward as if that very action could help Schooling.

"Yes, yes, YES, SCHOOLING!" Stanley said, making disturbing bedroom noises while continuing to make pronounced thrusts to match Schooling's rhythm.

It was a scene no child should ever see. 

Carl nervously stamped both his feet. "Faster, faster!" he said.

"Yes, faster! Don't stop! Don't stop!" Stanley said with meaning. 

In life, a lot of humanly things can be done in under one minute, and right now, the handful of fit, fierce men in the Tokyo pool are trying to swim one loop, using their powerful hips and arms.

It is no easy feat. 

20-over seconds passed, and we see Schooling trailing behind his competitors.

"Is it his tactic? Is he going slow and then going all out with a youthful burst?" asked a hopeful Stanley who is always energised by youthful bursts. 

Carl couldn't say a word. 

There was fear in his eyes, and Carl looked like he could collapse from stress by just watching the intensity of the competition. 

And then, it was all over. 

53.12 seconds. 

The match was over. 

The cheering was over.

Joseph Schooling's Olympic dream was over.

He swam slower than his own 50.39-second world record back in 2016.

Stanley slumped into his sofa theatrically and started to wail.

A meltdown was happening there and then, and I swear it's not just in Stanley's living room.

Carl the dense one took a sip of his red wine, his eyes shifty. "Okay, let's eat dinner," Carl said, his eyes settling on the dining table behind us. 

But... but... what went wrong?

In 2016, the whole world was shocked when a Singapore boy made literal waves in the pool and created a world record. 

Stanley continued to wail as if Schooling had broken up with him.

Carl was already reaching the dining table amid the drama.

As the three of us sat down at Stanley's dining table to eat what would have been a celebratory feast, our sex bunny raised his glass.

"To Schooling, to Quah, to all Singapore athletes."

Carl, who was confused as to why we're toasting when none of our fellow pink-IC-holding athletes were winning any medal, took Stanley's cue and clinked glasses. 

It was clear that all Carl wanted to do was to move on. Olympics cheering done, dinner next. Faster, faster. 

There will be backlash, Stanley the Oracle predicted.

People will talk. 

People will slam.

People will criticise the hell out of Schooling for disappointing the whole nation.

I nodded sadly. 

Carl nodded too. "Mmmm, this fried chicken is really good."

Every four years, an athlete's dream is born -- or dashed -- at the Olympics.

In 2016, Schooling did us proud.

And even though he didn't do well this time round, he'd be glad to know that majority of us non-Olympians will be rooting for him.

"Let's hope he doesn't get fat," was all Carl had to say as he licked his greasy fingers and reached for another KFC drumstick. 

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

Let's Get Loud

"There are two types of people in the work place," Stanley said as he struggled with the kitchen knife, trying to make a precise cut into the sticky cake.

Carl the dense one looked uncomfortable and confused. 

"Those who brag, and those who don't," Stanley said, licking the cream off his fingers.

"And for those who brag, there are different types of braggards."

Carl frowned, trying to catch up.

"The humble brag, the in-your-face brag, the put-you-down-to-make-himself-look-good brag," explains Stanley, an expert in categorising the human race.

Our sex bunny friend had once lectured us on the different types of gays, the different types of gay bods, right down to the different types of gay appendages. 

The topic of the day at Carl's balcony that afternoon is apparently this: Office braggards.

Carl gave up trying to make sense of all of this and finally asked: "What sort of cake is this?"

Stanley glared up at him from slicing the kueh salat midway like Carl was dumb.

Oh, wait...

"It's a peranakan kueh," I chimed in helpfully before any plot could thicken. 

Carl the dense one cocked his head sideways the way he always does when he's trying to figure things out.

We left our muscular friend to digest one more fact from this wondrous earth and began distributing the kueh salat slices for our afternoon high tea (since eating out is banned in Singapore, and households can still accommodate two unique visitors a day).

"Nobody can ever eat that," Carl said rubbing his tummy.

"It's nice but, no offence to you Peranakans," Carl said, "but I really don't get this sweet coconut flap over savoury glutinous rice concept."

"No worries, hun," Stanley replied with a pitying smile. "You don't get a lot of things in life," he whispered under his breath. 

The afternoon high tea topic of Office Braggards soon returned to the table, upon my timely interruption. 

It was indeed timely: The month of July is performance bonus time for some companies.

And it's also the time that divides the staff hires: Those who celebrate their huge payouts for the work they did the previous year, and those who start typing furiously into their laptops to print out resignation letters. 

This year, Stanley belonged to the former group -- he always is.

Our sex bunny friend is always motivated by boners and so he performs and delivers all the time.

"What gets me upset is that there are people in my company who got big payouts this year for doing nothing," Stanley said, refilling everyone's cup with freshly brewed Jasmine tea, courtesy of Carl's ever hospitable mum.

Carl, who realised the afternoon discussion didn't involve where to get discounted protein powder, assessing the merits of various workout routines nor ranking types of diets, soon spaced out and began to poke at the scattered grains of rice stuck to his porcelain plate (also courtesy of his mum who insisted her son's visiting friends get served with respectable tableware). 

"This is why we need to brag," advocates Stanley. 

His argument is this.

There are people in the workplace who dedicate almost all of their waking hours in the office hatching plans to make themselves look good.

Instead of doing actual work, they send out useless emails that tell the whole department that they're very hard at work.

Because nobody calls them out, eventually, some start to believe that Melvin Kong is an actual hard worker, says Stanley, resorting to naming and shaming.

"Who's Melvin Kong?" Carl perked up, thinking that this new guy could be the turning point of this boring subject of office politics.

"He sounds hunky!" Carl said hopefully and started to pound his chest. To a trained child psychologist, Carl's action screams help! I'm bored because I can't relate to this world. Please! I have all these muscles and I don't have much of a brain! I'm trapped! Help!

"You'll need to catch up, Carl," Stanley said.

Our dense friend carried on poking at the grains of rice with a bit more speed.

"I keep telling my team Ollie and Fildza that it's not enough that we do actual work. We need to start boasting too," Stanley said.

According to Stanley, there are two main types of workers in working environment: Those who work and those who don't.

Among those who don't, there are further subdivides: The coasters who just cruise along their daily work and the office braggards who find all ways to show they're hardworking when they're actually not.

"Yes!" Carl said triumphantly. "The plate is clean of rice!"

And this is what gets Stanley so riled up.

These office braggards spend so much effort building up a fake reputation of their capabilities instead of doing actual work.

They do a mere bit in a group project then they'll take the entire team's effort and boast about it on LinkedIn as if they had huge roles in it. 

And in that stupid virtual world which is a professional echo chamber, word gets around that Melvin Kong is so damn clever even though some people are clearly aware he's a pure lazy person.

But truly diligent people like Ollie and Fildza, two of my best staff in the department, are so focused on their daily work that they don't boast.

"When you are not loud, you get missed out," said Stanley, who's volume spiked to match his rising anger. 

"Stan... please switch to an indoor voice," Carl begged. 

"Sure, darling. I specialise in indoor voices," Stanley responded, as Carl's eyes widened, realising the can of worms he'd unwittingly opened.

"I have a variety of indoor voices for you to choose from: The narrow toilet cubicle indoor voice, the echoy chambers of a hotel room indoor voice, or the --"

"Just your normal speaking voice you'd use in a professional meeting," I cut in, sensing that Carl was on the verge of collapse from stress. 

You see, Stanley is really upset that his staff didn't get good bonuses this year despite his glowing appraisal for them.

The problem is, he said, the two quiet ones don't get enough visibility in the eyes of the management whereas all year round, the management started to believe that Melvin Kong must be good because he spends so much time posting on social media about his participation in this webinar and having attended that professional course and sharing all those stupid work articles that nobody reads. 

Long story short, Stanley said, is that every hard worker must work into his SOP that he needs to boast about his work once in a while because if not, they'll lose out to people like Melvin Kong. 

Carl nodded and tried one final time.

"So, who's this Melvin Kong?"

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

Stamp of Approval

I stepped into that stranger's room with some apprehension.

It was him alright.

He is lean, tanned, and looked taller than his profile pic -- after all, I'm seeing him in the flesh for the first time after over two months of chatting, and profile pics can only show you that much. 

It wasn't as awkward as I thought it would be. He was nice, pleasant looking and made me feel wanted. 

In fact, I was rather excited. The butterflies in my stomach had started fluttering around and the only way to net all of them would be to do it.

I took off my shirt, and sat on his bed.

"Are you ready?" he asks gently.

I nod.

"Okay, here we go."

Stanley the sex bunny, who is always in for a sex story, nods approvingly for me to carry on my tale.

Carl the dense one, who generally loves fairy tales, grins like a goon.

I could feel his touch... and the moment it entered my body, I closed my eyes and bit my lips. 

"Was it painful?" Carl asked. 

"Did it bleed?" Stanley asked.

No, and no. 

On a scale of 1 to 10, the pain factor was at a 3.5 at first -- because it was the first prick -- but it quickly simmered to a 2 once I got the hang of the tattoo gun poking continuously at my left shoulder blade.

I was told it'd take 30 mins for my tattoo to be done. 

But the artist completed the job in half the time.

I'm not complaining.

After cleansing the area, he exclaimed proudly. 

"All done".

The first time I set sights on the tattoo -- which I had been meaning to have for nearly 10 years -- I felt a rush of happiness. This is exactly what I wanted, I told myself.

Stanley my sex bunny friend interjects and says this is exactly what he says to himself after every successful continuous poking episode. 

My tattoo is no ordinary tattoo.

Although it's not a unique pattern (in fact, it's very common), it's a tattoo that would conjure different reactions from people. 

Mine comes in the form of the ancient Sak Yant tattoo which has roots in animism and originated in the Khmer empire.

You'd find these tattoos typically on monks who recluse themselves to mediate in the jungle, sweaty, fearsome muay Thai fighters and, oh, Angelina Jolie. 

I had been drawn to it around 10 years ago because they looked mystical to me.

I then began researching it on and off, acquiring enough trivia on the topic: From the types Sak Yant, the meaning behind it, where to tattoo it in Singapore or Thailand, and what devotees need to do after getting these sacred ink. 

After a lot, a lot, a lot of rumination (and discussions with J), I concluded that I liked it for the looks of the tattoos.

Yes, I am superficial like the skin deep nature of tattoos. 

Which is why instead of getting them tattooed by one of the monks in Thailand or a practising Ruesi (Thai for hermits), I opted for a tattoo artist in Singapore who had been replicating these patterns.

No blessing, no chanting, and most importantly, no strings attached.

Amen to that, Stanley said with meaning.

That day at the tattoo parlour, I felt very happy with this permanent fixture on my left shoulder blade.

Mine's the traditional five lines (or ha taew in Thai), each line supposedly giving the wearer a certain charm and protection.

But because I am not reading between the lines too much, I don't focus on what it would do for me in my life (I still strongly believe that I should be the one charting my own destiny).

And because tattoos are addictive, and mine would come in the form of a set, it would likely be the first of three which I'd get (J doesn't know this yet, but let's take this one set at a time).

The next one would be another set of five lines on my right shoulder, followed by a pyramid-shaped scripture known as gao yord (9 spires).

My decision to get these inks may surprise many.

I am after all, a relatively goody-two-shoe person and the fact that my first set of tattoos has links to something so enigmatic (and very ungodly) is something even my brother Barry was uncomfortable with at first.

Though Barry had his first tattoo when he was 18 and was excited for me when I got mine at the ripe old of age of 42, he sounded unconvinced with my choice of tattoo.

But in the end, the decision wasn't his to make (he's since cool about it saying it looks nice on me), but mine and J's.

J had been a little harder to convince but he eventually gave in, knowing this is something I didn't decide lightly. 

That day, I walked out of the parlour feeling very pleased with myself -- and having finally put my commitment from,ink to, well, skin. 

I felt that I had done something good for myself and I applaud my sense of self-love.

Stanley my sex bunny friend approves my interpretation of self-love.

Based on my definition of self love -- which involves getting pricked and poked and getting all sorts of tingling sensations from that activity especially when it's carried out and led by a man who's heavily tattooed and is in full control of your body -- you are indeed loving yourself.

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

The Closet

Dear reader, here's a piece I first published in a local gay forum in response to someone asking for views of being in the closet. Minor grammatical edits were made in the post below.

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There are two main types of closets.

The ones that are fortified with so many locks that no matter how much you try, you can almost never pry it open.

 

And then there are those that have so many locks that no matter how much you try, you can almost never pry it open -- except this closet is made of glass and the poor fella hiding inside has no idea he's in full view of everyone and pigeon that pass by.

 

Never mind which closet we are in.

 

Or whether we've stepped out of it already.

 

The initial reasons that drive us into this invisible cage are as important as the factors that would eventually free us.

 

I grew up in a family where I have two successful sisters with good grades and was thus expected to fill their big shoes --  not their fancy high heels.

 

There was no room to explore my sexuality.

 

Though I eventually had a younger brother, I was the first boy of the family -- and my parents wasted no time in shaping me to be a boy, just as all parenting textbooks would recommend.

 

No piano lessons, no ballet classes for the first penis of the Lee family. He is to learn to ride a bike, swim, play sports, pick up martial arts. There is no such thing as wearing Cheche's cute tutu and prancing around in them.

 

I learnt from a young age that there are girl activities and boy activities, and girl toys and boy toys (though as I grew up, I learnt that those activities and toys have a much wider and more fun definition, but let's not go there).

 

And because I was in such an environment, I learnt to withhold my tendencies so that I won't stick out like a sore thumb and risk being frowned upon.

 

Eventually, I started building invisible blocks around me like a good cloistered nun. Retreat into your safe space and wear all the tutus and high heels you want there. 

 

It became even harder for me to step out of my safe space when I was a teenager -- having witnessed how softer boys in school are being teased. I subconsciously added one more padlock to my closet. 

 

The more I blended in with other boys, the more I felt I was doing the right thing and by the time I was ready to go to NS, my closet was a fort capable of holding Singapore's reserves and the gold bars of OCBC.

 

Which was a good thing given that I was drafted into one of the most macho, egoistic units in NS.

 

That was when I got to know the homophobic Stanley -- one of the fittest and smartest but a complete asshole because he would make snide remarks at our weaker unit mates and suggest that even a chao ah gua can do better.

 

It's people like Stanley Ong who made me add one more lock to my -- oh, wait, never mind. There's no more space for any more locks in my closet already.

 

At 18, 19, all that mattered to me was to get NS over and done with, and keep my head down and not stick out like a sore thumb, so let's just smile along at any gay remarks.

 

But I was also at an age where my hormones were bubbling beyond all recommended levels.

 

Yes. By day, I live like Anne Frank in my hideout. But by night, I sneak out to get a taste of my forbidden gay life.

 

A life where nobody cares if I'm dancing in Cheche's tutu or wearing their high heels. A life where I fully embrace boy activities and boy toys the way they're meant to be enjoyed.

 

And I was glad I allowed myself to slip out of my Rapunzel tower once in a while to let my hair down because I managed to make a few good gay friends whom I could confide in and feel normal with from time to time.

 

And it was one of those nights when I was letting my hair down with my close group of gay friends at the now-defunct Niche club that sort of changed my life a bit.

 

I was with Carl, one of the nicest and non judgemental gay friends and I distinctly remember we were dancing to Whitney Houston's It's Not Right But It's Okay (thunderpuss version) when I felt someone tapping me on my shoulder.

 

It was as if the Boogeyman was knocking creepily on my closet.

 

I turned slowly the way I would cautiously open my closet door. 

 

And there he was. The homophobic Stanley Ong.

 

That night, the macho-grunting Stanley took a hammer and smashed his invisible fort in front of me, breaking down all bricks and barriers.

 

That was the last time I remember Stanley Ong my sex bunny friend being this macho.

 

Our friendship -- me, Stanley and Carl -- blossomed that night. We were likeminded and had found support from one another.

 

While we were comfortable with our sexuality then, we still weren't ready to burst on the stage and embark on a gay world tour.

 

We merely placed our closets side by side like how we'd put mattresses together in girly sleepovers, and lived our day and night lives -- except this time, we had full support.

 

But things changed when I turned 30.

 

One of my close friends' younger brother died and going to his wake was an awakening experience.

 

It got me thinking about how precious life is, and there's no telling when you would die.

 

If I died tomorrow, would I have regrets?

 

Two weeks later, I decided to heck it. Life is too short to continue living a lie and so, I decided to come out to my siblings whom I love to bits.

 

My brother responded by saying "duh" but added quickly "I still love you, Kor."

 

My second sis was more dramatic.

 

Telling me she loves me was not enough. She had to hear all about my love life.

 

It was liberating. Stepping out as a gay men and having my siblings -- who are technically my first friends (and enemies) -- love me for who I am.

 

Progressively, I came out to more and more people in my life whom I regard as important.

 

Each time I came out to them, I was rewarded and comforted by their acceptance and love -- after all, these people are my most important groups in life.

 

Eventually, I amassed enough confidence and people in my life to make me feel that I am still the very person they have known.

 

Now that I'm in my forties -- and am in a very stable relationship with my partner J for the last 20 years -- I no longer feel trapped in my own closet that I had built for myself. 

 

I'm still who I am, and perhaps, I still do return to my closet every once in a while when I feel that I need to be guarded. But it's no longer difficult to walk out of it when I need -- or want -- to.

 

It helps too, that my partner, who is a classic good Catholic boy, is also out to his very forward-thinking family. And I'm talking about not just his immediate but also his extended family.

 

Stanley my sex bunny friend would often quip that with J in my life, this is the only time I can say that I have a good Catholic boy in me.

 

So this is my story of me and my closet.

 

It's 40-over years in the making and I am still learning.

 

But one thing is for sure.

 

In the words of my sex bunny friend Stanley Ong, life is too short to be cooped up in a closet.

 

"Hunny, there are so many cute gay men out there that we not only need an exit strategy, we need to formulate an entrance strategy."

Hip Hip Hooray

Once upon a time, before COVID-19 was born out of bats in Wuhan, Stanley my sex bunny friend had to go for a surgery. 

I hadn't been able to be by Stanley's bedside given that I was back then, still based in Myanmar so our dense friend Carl carried the weight on his shoulders -- something our Muscle Mary friend is accustomed to doing on a daily basis. 

In fact, about two years ago, the roles were reversed when Stanley took care of Carl, who had gone for a nose job.

And during that time, I too was in Myanmar and so wasn't there for Carl either. 

"Seems to me you're always not around when we are being cut up," Stanley said groggily over a WhatsApp video call. 

"I've always wanted to be drugged, laid on a table and have a group of curious men hovering around me while I lay near naked. In my fantasy, those men would start untying my clothes and open me up to probe me using kinky equipment, and honestly, I should have been more specific," Stanley managed to say, despite his condition. 

To be precise, Stanley had just undergone hip surgery. 

Years of sports and running had caused muscle tear at the adjoining inner thigh that meets his groin. 

So says Stanley.

Carl looked like he had something to say about Stanley's injured part but decided to take a sip of his diet coke instead.

Stanley had been contemplating the surgery for a few years now. 

The doctor had told him that he should go under the knife given that at age 42, Stanley has a good chance of bouncing back quicker than usual. 

Always eager to bounce, Stanley the sex bunny eventually decided to being cut up. 

"How was it? Are you in any pain?"

Stanley, who looked drugged, gave me a thumbs up.

"I finally did it, Adam. To sleep in a hospital bed," said Stanley, conqueror of sleeping places.

Years ago, Stanley made a strange promise to himself that one day, he would sleep in all sorts of beds -- from hammocks and tents to luxurious mattresses and matrimonial beds (that particular one belonged to the wife of the man he was temporarily sleeping with). 

And so, this hospital bed marks an achievement unlocked, Stanley said with a proud beam, his voice raspy from disuse. 

Just then, Carl the dense one, to his credit, poured Stanley a glass of water, sensing that our newly awakened friend must be thirsty.

"Thank you Carl dear," Stanley said after several sips, "but my thirst isn't something water can fix." 

Carl, who is usually hit and miss, manages to get the joke and rolled his eyes in response. 

According to Stanley's surgeon, he would have to rest for a good six months. 

No exercise, no exertion. 

"I am going to be a very fat man by the time I recover," Stanley said sulkily. 

"But that's okay. Fat men have mass appeal and sacks appeal."

Carl, who is usually hit and miss, misses this time and he nods dully at Stanley's joke.

"I'm a grown man in a gown, and my nether regions have just been explored by a group of men who have no interest in my genitals. And I'm told this surgery will keep me from my favourite activity (running) for a while. I am truly at my lowest point," Stanley said. 

As if on cue, Carl turned and stared at Stanley's lowest point.

"Carl, stop staring at my -- 

Just then, Stanley paused.

"Adam... I can't move my toes," Stanley said, his voice revealing terror. 

"I guess that's normal," I said. "You were put under, after all".

In spite of himself, Stanley managed to counter me.

"Trust me, I have been put under -- and it feels much more exciting than this. Right now I cant -"

 Stanley pauses again, then lifts his blanket and looks inside. 

And when Stanley looked up, it was a face of sheer fear. 

"Guys... I cannot feel my penis," Stanley said. 

Carl didn't know how to react. He cautiously looked at Stanley's numb bits and slowly backed away. 

"Adam, I cannot feel my penis. I am not kidding," Stanley said. 

To prove his point, Stanley gave his member a good squeeze and repeated. 

"I cannot feel my penis".

Carl started to feel nervous. 

"Should I call the doctor? There's a cute young doctor on duty -- I saw him on my way here," Carl said.

"Carl Chang! You saw a cute doctor earlier and you're only saying it now?"

Carl looked even more guilty and pouted. 

"And no," Stanley warned. "Don't call the cute doctor -- not when my penis can't feel anything. What if the cute doctor decides to squeeze my member and I have no feeling whatsoever?" Stanley said in horror. 

"Stan, it's quite normal to not feel your penis after hip surgery," I said, goggling the sad condition that my sex bunny friend is currently going through. 

"It feels so strange," Stanley said. "To touch myself and not feel anything at all. It's like I'm touching someone else' penis."

Carl immediately looked down at his own penis, just to make sure it was left alone.

In spite of himself, Stanley managed to say: "Now's the best time to tattoo my penis. And I shall tattoo my full name," said Stanley Sebastian Ong Kok Wai. 

Carl, who is usually hit and miss, gets it. 

"I think you should just aim for the letters S.O." he said, patting Stanley on his shoulder. 

 

 

 

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

Moving In

Stanley my sex bunny friend had been busy of late.

He'd been going in and out of bedrooms and meeting quite a sizeable number of lean, sexy handymen. 

"Dear God, I have always dreamt of this scenario, but I never imagined it'd be this tedious," he said to Carl and I the other day.

Renovation work is no joke. 

Not when it's done during COVID.

The on-again, off-again reno work on Stanley's new flat had been slow and painful.

Thankfully, Stanley wasn't in a hurry to move out since his parent's place is a three-storey mansion with a basement, and that his room was the entire attic. 

Come to think of it, it's no wonder Stanley lives in the attic -- all creepy things happen in attics, according to Hollywood plots.

"Hunny, not just creepy things," Stanley the sex bunny corrected. "Many things can happen in an attic too -- and they are similarly rated R21," Stanley said, unable to help himself.

"What are we talking about," Carl the dense one asked eagerly, hoping to learn one more new thing this world has to offer. 

Stanley ignored him and said: "Shh. This is my moment."

"Welcome to my bachelor pad," he beamed like a proud parent. 

Carl put down bags of Stanley's belongings and cheered on cue.

Finally, the day has come.

After a delayed journey to getting his own place due to retrenchment, after months of searching for the apartment, and after delay after delay of renovation thanks to COVID, today is the day. 

Stanley is finally moving in to his new apartment. 

To mark the occasion, Stanley had gone to a fengshui master to get auspicious dates (which is a first for Stanley -- he usually turns to grindr and tinder, not a fengshui master, to find auspicious dates, but that's story for another day).

Today, we focus on Stanley and his very beautiful home.

"3, 2, 1," Stanley said, and rolled the lumpy pineapple from the main door. 

Carl put his python-size arms to good use to produce sounds of applause which I suspect the entire block could hear. 

I clapped alongside Stanley who started to frown.

"The pineapple didn't go all the way in," said Stanley, who is genetically built to be very concerned about things not going all the way in. 

The trend -- and I use the word trend and not tradition -- of rolling a pineapple into your house on the day you move in is a very Singaporean thing.

The hokkien word for pineapple rhymes with "incoming luck" so every Chinese person I know would do just that when they move into their new homes -- to roll the tropical fruit into their home, suggesting -- and hoping -- that the very action would inspire actual luck to roll into the new place.

Carl the dense one said: "When it's my turn, I want to roll a dumbbell."

It was exactly 3.15pm and it was the stipulated time Stanley's fengshui master had said was a good moment to step into his new home. 

Carl and I stepped in and watched Stanley get busy with a series of tasks.

Apparently, the fengshui master had instructed him to immediately turn on the stove to boil some water to make sweet Chinese desserts. 

Carl looked at Stanley, then to me, quizzically. 

"This sybmoblises that my house will be a place where water will start and fire will grow," Stanley said, repeating what the fengshui master conveyed to him.

"Erm, they sound like natural disasters to me," I say.

Carl looked even more confused. So much so that he had to sit down and start playing Candy Crush on his phone.

"I'm supposed to make you guys dessert so that I start off staying at this new place on the right note!" Stanley screamed.

"Sweet!" chimed Carl's Candy Crush game. "Tasty!". 

As Stanley busied himself defrosting tang yuan bought from NTUC days before today's formal moving in, and sliding pandan leaves into the boiling pot, I took in the beautiful apartment that spells Stanley. 

"Stan, your place has your essence," I said. 

Carl looked uncomfortable with my latest statement, suddenly wary that he's sitting on a sofa that could have stains of Stanley's essence. 

"Right? Stanley said from his open air kitchen. "I made sure my favourite colour green is promptly featured."

Relived, Carl sat back down and continued crushing candy. 

Stanley's ID had indeed done a good job.

Well, strictly speaking, Stanley had done a good job managing his ID. 

"Who knew I could be so good with micromanaging," Stanley the size queen said, stressing the word micro with a suggestive tone. 

The ID had very masterfully created a beautiful home for Stanley, just the way he wanted it.

His three-bedroom flat was turned into a two-bedroom flat. 

Stanley had knocked down walls to reconfigure his space such that he has an extended living and dinning area, all the better to host parties. 

His wooden dining table was inspired by mine -- one that's grand and long enough to host the last supper. Then again, for Stanley, the selling points were wood, grand and long.

His kitchen, where Stanley is currently adding brown sugar to the tang yuan, is open-concept, designed to also suit his future hobbies of baking cookies and cakes (yes, he hasn't baked an actual cookie or cake in his entire life but Stanley figured it would be trendy to whip up desserts in his new place). 

Our vain friend also has a walk-in closet and a very big bathroom that, if he chooses to, can fit a mattress to house two homeless people.

One thing I love about Stanley's place is that his large living room windows open up to the greenery that's Queens Close. 

Stanley had thoughtfully designed seating areas by his long panel of windows and I can easily imagine the three of us sipping wine and gazing into the greenery just metres away from Stanley's flat.

It helps too that Stanley spent a mini fortune on indoor plants, which are strategically placed in all corners of his bachelor pad approved by his fengshui master.

Simply put, I love Stanley's new place. 

And I can see that he loves his new place a lot too.

Stanley was smiling to himself as he scooped up the tang yuan into three mini bowls. 

Carl moved on from the world of virtual candies to the reality of Stanley's sweet treats and remarked "I love it, Stan. Your dessert, your place, everything!"

"I can't believe that finally, I have moved in!" Stanley said squealing like a girl on prom night.

That afternoon, the three of us spent our time clinking our glasses and munching on cheese and grapes, enjoying the very first day of Stanley's new chapter in life. 

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

Best Supporting Actor

My sex bunny friend Stanley's mum was recently hospitalised.

Mrs Monica Ong was getting out of the family car when she lost her footing because she wanted to avoid stepping on a snail.

That poor kind-hearted soul ended up not only twisting her ankle but also falling sideways landing on her left hip.

"Ouch!" Carl the dense one typed in the group chat, his response for once, matching the topic.

"The doctors say my mum didn't hurt her hip," Stanley wrote.

Carl then began typing.

"She hurt her spine instead and doctors are now saying she may not be able to walk for a while!"

"Yay! Good for her!" Carl's message appeared with unfortunate timing.

During Mrs Ong's first few days in hospital, Stanley had been busy shuttling between work and home and Mount Elizabeth Hospital Novena.

Stanley's dad, with his ageing eyes, no longer drives so Stanley's been the main chauffeur, ferrying his dad to the hospital in the morning, and then back home in the evening.

What's more, Stanley's sister isn't in town so the burden is all Stanley's to bear.

Every day, Stanley has to talk to the doctor to find out one surprise after another.

All she needs is occupational therapy and physiotherapy. 
Oh, no... we think a fragment of her spine is edged on her nerves.
We think she may not be able to walk for a while. She's getting weaker by the day.
We think she may need surgery. 

"Caregiving is very tiring. I am so exhausted," Stanley wrote.

"Why is this happening to my mum when all she wants to do is to avoid stepping on a snail. Life is very unfair. My advice to all mothers would be to just step on the bloody snail."

Carl wisely chose not to type anything rashly until he gets a final, final assessment of the situation, just in case.

Juggling work, taking care of a loved one, and handling day-to-day matters at home is no fun.

Add to that, the scary thought of your mum not being able to walk for a while.

What does that even mean?

Will she recover? Will she forever be bedridden? Will she have to be wheeled around?

No doctors dare to commit.

My university classmate Sasa - who had not met Stanley in person but has heard many saucy stories through me - wrote this after learning about Mrs Ong's plight.

"Sasa to Stanley: Not easy caring for a sick parent. Been through that and it was tough. Hope your mum recovers well".

When I copied and pasted that message to Stanley - who knows Sasa as my wealthy classmate with her designer apartment - he replied me with an icon of a beating heart.

My poor Stanley.

He hadn't even had time to reply me in full sentences of late, what more make time to meet us.

Part of me feels really bad that I am not by his side given that I'm sometimes bound by COVID laws in Singapore so I make myself absent so that Stanley doesn't need to worry about overcrowding at the hospital. 

And I'm guilty that the only comfort I can give him is limited.

Which got me thinking about how I can be a more supportive friend.

Thankfully, there's J my loveable partner. 

In J's words, the role of a supportive friend is not to keep asking and asking and asking about a situation.

Just because we text someone every day asking "how are things" doesn't make it easier for the person nor automatically makes us supportive.

In fact, it makes things worse, J says.

"Imagine after a long day and you get such messages and you have to reply them? Now imagine if Stanley has 10 of such concerned friends... it's not going to help," J said over a video call.

How wise.

Very often, we express our concern too literally, sometimes forgetting that our intense questioning can be overbearing to those we care about.

Yes, the textbook act of posing questions to those we care about can mean that we are concerned.

But at the end of the day, the only person benefiting from feeling good about this, could well be only ourselves, not the ones we care about.

I shared my thoughts with Stanley over one videocall.

He was sitting in his car, spacing out.

"Wow, J is so wise," Stanley said.

"One good way of being supportive to me is really not to keep asking me about my mum.

"Distract me... talk to me about other things.

"Better yet, I appoint you to be my official pimp. Help me arrange one-night-stands. I'm too busy for that now," Stanley says, forcing himself to laugh.

"Tell them the caregiver is sick of his role and the only thing he wants to give now involves his mouth and his hand," Stanley says, inflating and deflating one side of his cheek in slow-mo, along with a coordinated hand movement.

"And tell them the caregiver is tired of giving, and is ready to receive," he added, making an effort to take his phone all the way to his buttocks to make his point.

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