I Need Help

One of my biggest pet peeves is people whom you've not met for a while messaging you for help.

Offering help to them is not the problem.

I'm helpful, and will do so even without being asked.

What irks me is how acquaintances choose to approach me for help.

"Hey, how are you Adam?"
"How have you been Adam?"
"How's it going Adam?"

No matter the permutations, these people don't want to know how I'm coping.

It's just their typical opening line.

"Why are you so upset," Stanley my sex bunny friend asked, amused.

"Are opening lines that important?" asked Stanley, Expert of Pickup Lines.

Because shortly after you engage these long-time-no-sees, they launch into their true intentions.

Like I said, I don't mind helping you.

I simply mind that you don't go straight to the point and you don't respect me enough by patronising me.

"How about the next time someone does that to you to ask you how you are, you reply them that you have breast cancer?" Stanley typed.

No offence, but if I were to really do that, chances are some of my acquaintances would probably reply me with "oh dear, take care. By the way, Adam, I was hoping to ask you for a favour."

It's happened to me various times, and it's come to a point when I think I would like to set the record straight.

The next time you want to get help from people whom you've not met in years, cut the pretense.

A good starting line can be this.

"Hey, so-and-so. I'm sorry that the first message to you in a while is a call for help. Can you blablablah…"

Or even:

"Sorry so-and-so. I really need help".

And then after that person helps you, then you proceed to ask him how he is -- provided you really mean it.

These days, it's very hard to find someone who types messages like he means it.

Stanley is first to disagree.

"I mean what I type -- all the time," said Stanley my sex bunny friend.

"And I go straight to the point -- wanna hook up? Wanna fuck? Wanna suck? Wanna cuddle?"

True.

Stanley may be far from straight but he does go straight to the point, and more often than not, that point is usually located at certain parts of a man's body.

Case in point.

Earlier this year, before the madness of the COVID outbreak, someone from NS whom I'd not seen for 20 years messaged out of the blue, suddenly very concerned of my wellbeing, paying particular care to how I'm adapting to Myanmar when I was still posted there.

"Is the weather ok? Is the food ok? Are you homesick?"

But less than 2 minutes into the crap, this person proceeded to ask me to plan his itinerary in Myanmar because he and new girlfriend are planning a trip there, and he even had the cheek to hint if I could drive them around.

Look. I'm happy to help and play tour guide but if my friend had gone straight to the point and cut this pretense, I wouldn't have been so cheesed off.

"Maybe people are just trying to be polite," Stanley said dismissively.

That's exactly where the fault lies.

Trying to be.

Don't need to try -- you either mean to ask how a person is unconditionally, or you ask simply and plainly for a person's help without all this foreplay.

Stanley replied me with a gif of a pouting fat woman, obviously disappointed that I placed so little emphasis on foreplay.

In the end, I told that friend I wouldn't have time to drive him around -- my chauffeur has to report strictly to me.

But I took 20 minutes of my precious time to type out a lovely itinerary for him and his girlfriend.

Last I checked, he did stick to the recommendations -- his IG feeds showed up on mine.

But since I didn't offer to drive him around, he didn't even bother getting in touch with me while I was there to ask me how I was doing.

Stanley later told me I needed to calm the heck down.

This is basic One Night Stand principles, he said.

First, you message to get your favour fulfilled.

Then, like all nomadic One-Night-Stand individuals, you move on.

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

One Night Stanley

Not too long ago, Stanley my sex bunny friend moved in to his new place which is aptly called Queens Close. 

Actually, it was only half as befitting. 

Stanley the Queen is always wide open.

"Oh my god, I can't wait," Carl the dense said as he pressed Stanley's doorbell, then hopped excitedly on alternate feet on the spot.

Stanley opened the door, cautiously eyed the muscular goon and for comic effect, slammed the door in his face. 

"Gotcha!" Stanley shrieked as he reopened his door, to a Carl who didn't look relieved at all. 

"I always make it a point for people to make their grand entries," Stanley said, choosing his words meaningfully to reflect accuracy in his life. 

Carl, who still didn't look relieved, stepped in and hurriedly unloaded his grocery sling bag on Stanley's dining table and sprinted for his toilet.

"Welcome to my beautiful, humble abode," Stanley said. 

"If you're humble then you won't say your abode is beautiful," I pointed out.

"Hey. That's nasty. Negative energy, be gone!" Stanley the mistress of the house raised his slender arms in the air and commanded with dramatic flair.

Carl steps out of the toilet with a satisfying smile.

"Oh, gurl, I hear ya. I know that look," Stanley said knowingly. "I sometimes step out of public toilet cubicles with the same sense of gratification."

Carl blissfully let the comments slide, unable to grasp the full meaning of Stanley's wit. 

In this cruel world we live in today, to Carl, perhaps being dense is a blessing in disguise for him. 

"I love your home, Stan," Carl skipped merrily around Stanley's home shedding his disguise.

Free from all the urine he'd been containing since our Grab ride, Carl embraced his newfound liberalism, bending over to sniff every of Stanley's potted plants in his house.

Beneath Carl's bulky frame of oversized biceps is actually a carefree princess who giggles easily and appreciates all forms of simple joys. 

Meanwhile, beneath Stanley's athletic frame is almost always a random guy who giggles and moans. And Stanley too, appreciates all forms of joysticks. 

And these two interesting characters happen to be my best gay friends of over 20 years, despite their idiosyncrasies.

"Firstly, welcome my darlings, on your virgin sleepovers," Stanley said, again choosing his words carefully to reflect the way he prefers his random overnight guests.

Stanley took one glance at Carl the Disney princess who was still skipping in merriment, turned back to me and said "that one there is making her maiden visit".

Not one to waste time, Stanley proceeded to work on his bar counter, setting three classy glasses on his wooden countertop.

"Try this," Stanley said after pouring Marks and Spenser-bought infused gin and dropping a dried fig into the drink.

Our day at Stanley's began with a noon aperitif. 

I made myself useful and fished out an NTUC-bought mixed cocktail nuts for snacks.

"My favourite snack," Stanley exclaimed, pointing out that two of his favourite things in this world are in the name of the snack.

When Princess Carl was done hopping around, she plonked into Stanley's sofa and began to live her next 30 minutes as Sleeping Beauty. 

The day for the three of us was simple -- a weekend sleepover at Stanley's.

Since Stanley moved in, his place had been a natural gathering spot for us.

And with our government's on-again, off-again dining rules, we figured the best place would still be at one of our homes, and the flavour of the month is naturally Stanley's since it is indeed a beautiful abode.

When we were in our early twenties, when parts of our bodies haven't started sagging and everything about us was tight, we had wished we were rich enough to quickly buy our own place.

"I'm not sure at that age I was all that tight," Stanley admitted like a sage and popped an almond into his mouth. 

"But I sure remember the three of us wishing we could own a place each."

Over the decades, indeed, we slogged and worked our panties off, just to make sure at the end of the day, our bank accounts were fat enough to buy us our first property when the time came. 

Now that we're in our early forties, we have achieved that. 

Carl had bought his first condo and had insisted his parents moved in with him. 

Me and Stanley on the other hand moved out at first opportunity. 

In our twenties, it's about dressing up and going around to see and be seen on weekends.

But when some of us started buying our own places in our thirties, large-scale home weekend parties were the norm.

And when you're in your forties, gatherings are still held in homes, except, they're no longer wild.

And they're confined to smaller, more intimate parties among old friends who can do anything without being judged.

"Carl, I hope when you're done digging your nose and rolling the slimey goob with your fingers, you would get rid of it like a normal human being at the sink, not fling it all over my home," Stanley warned sternly with disgust. 

Carl froze. "Of course, Stan. I'm not a caveman," Carl said, moving his finger slowly away from his lips.

Dinner that night was a homecooked meal whipped up by Stanley the chef who discovered the joy of wearing an apron. 

Given his track record, it's a blessing Stanley wants to be wearing anything at all.

Over pipping hot Calderata (Filipino beef stew) served with warm, toasted French toast and an easy watermelon salad (which Stanley generously drizzled olive oil and lime juice over, topped with shredded cheese), the three of us laughed, over-ate, and filled Stanley's home with the warmth and love that can only be borne out of over 20 years of friendship.

After working through the entire table's food, Stanley finally said.

"Carl, I think you haven't washed your hands when I told you to."

 

 

 

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

Troublesome Threes

Carl our dense friend recently asked us in our group chat.

"Guys, are we in a throuple?"

Stanley was the first to respond -- via a voice recording.

"Who taught you that dirty word, ah boy?" he said, sounding like an uptight middle-class mother who needs her son to always score 10 upon 10 for Chinese Ting Xie.

"Who? Tell me! I need to grab a piece of soap and wash that mouth of yours!"

It is one of the rare times when Stanley the sex bunny grabs soap and actually wants to use it the way soap is meant to be used.

But I digress.

Carl, who recently discovered Netflix, felt obliged to answer Stanley via a voice recording.

"I learnt it on a show called The Politician," he said, sounding like a timid son about to get smacked by his mum who discovered him wearing girl panties and dancing in his bedroom.

"Oh, that's one show I will need to watch soon," Stanley replied, now sounding a little too sultry. "I hear there are gay characters in the series."

Nature of the show aside, Carl is bewildered by the concept of a throuple: A three-way relationship.

Carl the dense one, who still cannot grasp the concept of an open relationship, is understandably perturbed.

Leave it to Stanley the sex bunny, who can grasp all tangible and intangible sex elements to do the educating.

It's 2021, my dear, Stanley started.

And throuples are trendy.

Carl refused to believe Stanley, refused to believe how fast this world has evolved.

"It's cruel," Carl said. "Gay love has to be between man and man."

"Amen, sister," Stanley said. "Amen, men, men men..."

But to honest, the concept of throuples is indeed hard to swallow.

Even for Stanley, who never has trouble swallowing.

But right now, Stanley is busy spiting -- the brutal truth.

He posted a series of photos of three hot boys.

"These boys are in a throuple," Stanley explains. "And I know because I am Singapore's finest stalker and all cute guys cannot go under my radar. They can go under my table, but not under my radar."

Indeed, the three boys in the photos are cute and hot in their own way.

Stanley says these boys are not only openly gay, but also only proud to be in a throuple.

"That's an open relationship right?" Carl asked.

"No. An open relationship means, for example, Adam and I are long-time lovers and we have you over for sex once in a while," Stanley said.

Carl posted a gif of a muscular Latina woman vomiting.

"The concept of the throuple is that the three parties are in a committed and loving relationship with one another."

"It can be either combination: Man-man-man; woman-man,man; woman-woman-man; woman-woman-woman... you the idea. The basic principle is, it's an equal three-way love. You do the math," Stanley said.

Carl the studious student took it literally and posted a photo of an equilateral triangle.

"Well done," Stanley said, impressed by Carl's progress.

"But this still doesn't make sense to me," Carl said.

"How can one person love two other people equally, and have the two other people love the other two equally and so on?"

"Let's take this analogy out of maths, and put it in the category of liberal arts," Stanley said.

"It's a free society. It's liberal. Because should be allowed to do what they want if they believe in it -- plus, it's not illegal."

"Well, Section 377A would beg to differ," I pointed out.

"This concept doesn't belong to maths or liberal arts. It belongs to the rubbish bin," Carl said sulkily.

Actually, Carl isn't the only one who's still struggling with this concept.

I later thought about it and while I understand the concept of a throuple, I cannot appreciate the meaning of it.

There's no way one person can love two others equally.

A mother can love two kids equally... but surely she has her secret favourite?

For the next few days, Carl kept thinking about the issue.

He brought up the topic again about a week after he first messaged us about it.

"I still don't understand this," Carl said.

"Darling, neither do we," Stanley said.

"I can't decide if I prefer my left or right testicle better. What more, if I were to be in a throuple relationship."

"But there are so many things that are unexplainable, like, you know, the mysterious Bermuda triangle," he said aptly.

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

Sacred Mission

They say death can be a beautiful thing.

It teaches the living to live to the fullest.

"OMG, who died?" Carl the dense one asked.

Stanley though, had other questions.

"Who the heck are they?" he wanted to know. "Who are these people you're hanging out with, spouting such guruji nonsense? Have you been talking to Oprah Winfrey?"

Realising he's on the wrong track, Carl immediately switched gears.

"Yah, Adam. We demand answers. Who are they?!"

"You guys are spoiling my moment," I said.

"How do I put this across... it's so hard," I said.

"That's what she said," Stanley the sex bunny said without missing a beat.

"Who is SHE?" Carl replied, genuinely curious. "And who are they?!"

Stanley replied with an eye-rolling icon.

"Life is short. It's important to listen to your heart. And right now, the rhythm is telling me to dance and follow my own beat," I wrote.

"Adam, you have wasted my time to read those 25 words that you strung together but which tell me absolutely nothing," Stanley said, issuing his first stern warning.

"Who died and made you the Dailai Lama?" Stanley asked, before answering the question himself: "Well, logically, in this case, it would have to be the Dailai Lama himself to have died."

Carl was rightfully confused.

"Didn't that fella die many years back? The black guy with the big afro, always in an orange robe, always smiling and making a sign to tell people to wait?" Carl asked.

"No, Carl. That's Oprah Winfrey, and she's still alive," Stanley replied coldly. "And I don't blame you for mixing her up with Saibaba 'cos if you google the most spiritual celebrity in the world, she's top of the list. And yes, they do look alike."

Carl didn't like what he was reading, and posted a series of question marks in response.

I too didn't like where this was going.

It veered off way too much and I needed to reassess my opening remarks.

So I decided to speak plainly and simply.

"Guys, I want to get a tattoo."

That got the group's attention.

"Wow," Stanley said.

"Errr… so, Adam, who died actually?" Carl asked.

The idea of getting a tattoo has always been on my mind and I had been toying with it on and off for the last 10 years.

Just that I didn't feel such a strong urge until now.

"Adam darling, when I feel a strong urge, I don't go running to the tattoo parlour. There are many ways I can teach you to manage your strong urge," Stanley the sex bunny replied.

"Although if I were to go to the tattoo parlour, the idea of lying on my belly with a heavily tattooed man behind me, prickling and poking at me and making me yelp in pain can sound quite exciting too."

The tattoo I have in mind is no ordinary tattoo.

It has its roots in ancient spiritual animism.

"Are you tattooing animals?" Carl asked naturally.

"Are you into beastility?" Stanley asked naturally.

No, and no.

For the past five years, I had been attracted to the art of Sak Yant -- Thai for tattooing ancient scriptures.

"Is that why you were possessed by Oprah Winfrey and spouting all those guruji shit?" Stanley asked.

I should never have chosen an abstract and meaningless way of quoting rubbish to start any opening statements.

But I stand by the fact that I want to have these ancient scriptures tattooed on me.

Carl, the fairest and dumbest of them all, was very perplexed (as usual).

"Why do you want to taint your body with tattoo? And what more with magical spells?"

But this time, Carl does have a point.

It's also something my partner J had been very perplexed about -- and that's the main reason I haven't put ink to, well, skin.

My partner J, who's deeply Catholic, does not oppose to me having that tattoo just because it has spiritual and religious links.

He wants me to think very carefully because the tattoo is permanent.

"And why do the ancient scriptures speak to you?" he asked me. "Do you need protection?"

Stanley, who is deeply sexual, said protection is always important.

"But do you see me tattooing a condom on my back? No right? I think J is absolutely correct about this thing. You need to think carefully," he said.

I have been, and for the past five years, my on-again, off-again research has taught me so many things about these ancient tattoos: Their origins, their meanings, the types of tattoos, where to get them, and what not to do after getting the tattoos.

Stanley was appalled.

"What do you mean there are rules post-tattoo?!"

Well, because these tattoos are sacred in nature, there are things the wearer should avoid doing.

Among which, is to practise the five precepts of Buddhism. And in some Sak Yant forums, I've read that the rules include avoiding touching the clothes of a woman who is menstruating.

Stanley went bonkers.

"Are you effing kidding me, Adam? Are you in a cult?!"

Carl's mental faculties were also stretched to the max and by now has no words.

So he responded by posting a gif of a group of hooded men walking in circles while hitting themselves on the head with a plank of wood.

"What did J say about the tattoo?" Stanley asked.

Well, I had a really long talk with J and I finally gave him the ultimatum.

"YOU gave him the ultimatum. YOU who want to join a cult and tattoo sacred shit on your body have the CHEEK to give your boyfriend an ultimatum?! No offence," Stanley wrote, and pasted a smiley icon.

None taken.

The consensus is, J is okay with me getting the tattoo "if that's what you really want".

But he's asked me to take an extra step.

"What? Kill yourself first? Sorry, no offence," Stanley said.

"They say death can be a beautiful thing. It teaches the living to live to the fullest," Carl wrote, hoping to clear some tension.

J's idea is for me to replicate the tattoos with henna first, I explain.

And if I am used to the idea of the temporary tattoo on my back, then I will know for sure. If I don't like the Sak Yant on my back, I can at least get rid of the temporary tattoo and get the idea out of my head once and for all. So it's really a trial run and win-win, I say.

"You are so lucky to have J who's so wise," Stanley said.

"And why am I hearing this only for the first time," Stanley asked.

"Yeah, why?" Carl chimed in bravely, taking the cue from Stanley, for once feeling safe that he's not the only one who doesn't know things.

But it didn't take my boys long for them to be supportive.

Stanley later said that if that's really what I want to do to my skin, then who's to say no?

"Tattoos are forever on skin. And true beauty is skin deep," wrote Stanley the converted guruji who's mastered the art of stringing words together without actual meaning.

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

 

This post is written AFTER I got my tattoo (too many people have asked about my decision-making process. Read about my tattooing process here)

Foreign Talent

I am inspired today to write about talent because recently, I was enthralled by an old friend of mine.

I'm a sucker for men who can play the piano.

Stanley my sex bunny friend, meanwhile, is a sucker for men.

The said talented friend was at a house party years ago, before the world had to stop shaking hands and wearing face masks was as second-nature as putting on panties before leaving the house. 

Well, for most of us, at least. 

But back to the house party.

There was a grand piano in that lovely home, which was the main feature of that new home. 

The host, himself a theatrical practitioner, had asked his guests to tinkle at his plaything.

Stanley leaned in and whispered in my ear: "If he were a little thinner, I would love to tinkle his plaything."

But I didn't have time to entertain Stanley.

The true entertainment was already starting.

The man at the piano was playing one of my favourite tunes - a Cantonese ballad composed by local musician Dick Lee but made famous by the late-Leslie Cheung.

Not only that, the guest pianist was belting out the song with feeling, his vocals clear and flawless.

By the end of the song, everyone - including the theatrical host - gave the pianist a rousing applause.

Carl our dense friend, who has a penchant for clapping to express his emotions, joined in with glee.

Then Carl stood up from the pianist seat and bowed to his fellow housewarming guests.

Though Carl is slow to most things, he's undoubtedly very talented.

It's like, the moment he plays the piano, he has this magical ability to slow the whole world down to a pace that is in step with his dense brain.

And when Carl opens his mouth to sing, he makes people want to fall in love.

Stanley argues that when he opens his mouth to show off his talent, people would also want to fall in love.

But let's stick to Carl first.

Every time we go to E-bar at Tanjong Pagar (God bless that place -- we will always love it), which is Carl's favourite gay KTV pub in the whole universe, fellow guests would appreciatively quiet down whenever Carl starts singing.

And that's one musical talent I will never have but always dream of having.

In fact, I have no talent whatsoever - the concept of being gifted is very foreign to me.

My partner J on the other hand, is the opposite of me.

He's from an artistically-inclined family, having received musical training since young.

J and his two older brothers had been coached to play the organ from the age of four.

J would say he's only "so so" in his skills while his older brothers are the true talents, one of whom composes while the other is excellent with musical arrangement.

When J's grandmother died, the three of them combined forces to string together a series of their granny's favourite songs, and played them on the organ during her funeral mass.

In the sphere of the straight world, I'm also surrounded by people dripping with talent.

Nisa my best girl friend is effectively bilingual and is one of the region's best translators, having bagged a few essay awards at the national level, when we were students.

Terry my best straight friend meanwhile, has the creativity of a respectable gay man.

He's an excellent artist and can paint life-like portraits.

And like Nisa, Terry has a few national awards under his belt.

Not to be left out, Stanley my sex bunny friend also has talents under his belt. 

Like, literally.

He has the gift of the gap - an orifice so magical that it's trapped the parts and hearts of many men who've dared to venture there.

But Stanley also has the gift of the gab - he's quick witted, articulate, and very linguistic.

In university, Stanley minored in Japanese which he was very proficient in.

In his later years, Stanley revealed he chose Japanese so that he could fully appreciate all that's said in Jap porn films.

But Stanley would brush off his talents, preferring that we recognise his other talents.

"I have a gift - when I see a man, I can see through his jeans and can tell you intimate details of his member just by looking," he would say.

"Besides, Adam, you're not too bad yourself," Stanley said as a consolation to his talentless friend.

"You have a gift for choosing friends and surrounding yourself with people who're talented."

"Plus, in life, it's not about having multiple talents that's important."

"To me, having multiple orgasms is the true meaning of life. That can solve all problems," Stanley the sex bunny says wisely.

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

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