Grim Dinner Topics

"Spread it like this," Stanley said in the dinning room of his beautiful apartment that he had just bought. 

"And this is how it gets laid," he said with satisfaction in his tone.

I was very scared to find out what exactly was going on in Stanley the sex bunny's dinning room but I ultimately had to face my fears. 

"Nice of you to join us, Adam, now place that pot of curry on the newspapers, and can we start eating this life time please," Stanley said.

Carl immediately stopped chewing and started fussing over our fork and spoon placements.

Last evening, Carl and I gathered at Stanley's place since it was still illegal for three people to eat out.

But just as well.

These days, the three of us avoid the masses because, as Carl would point out, we are old and ageing and dying and we shouldn't speed up the process by exposing ourselves to COVID.

Stanley, who on most days is quite receptive to exposing himself, nodded fervently.

"Why do you still have newspapers," asked Carl, who gets all his news updates from messages making their rounds in WhatsApp group chats. 

"Who reads the newspapers anyway," I ask and Carl nodded rapidly like a woodpecker.

Well, turns out, nobody.

Stanley reveals that the only reason he orders the daily broadsheet is so that if he slips and knocks his head in the bathroom at 4.20pm after post-nap bath and dies from overbleeding from the gash in his right eyebrow, five days later when the newspapers get accumulated in his gate, somehow, his neighbours will be concerned enough and call the cops. 

"You have it all planned out?" Carl asked, incredulous. 

"Should we be concerned that you're so detailed in those scenarios?" I eyed Stanley suspiciously.

"Life is short," he concluded. 

We ate the curry chicken and toasted French loaf in silence.

Five minutes later, Stanley continued.

"Living alone has made me think a lot of bad things."

Carl was unable to decide what Stanley meant by bad, so he stopped chewing and wisely waited.

"When I do flip open the papers, I often pay extra attention to the obituary pages," he admitted. 

"On quite a few occasions, I've actually come across people whom I know in there," Stanley said morbidly.

Satisfied that the bad things Stanley had in mind weren't related to sex -- which often causes Carl indigestion -- our dense friend smiled happily and sank his teeth into the French loaf, making delicious crunchy noises. 

"The other day,  I got up in bed too quickly and I sort of experienced vertigo. There and then, my life flashed in front of me," Stanley said, wide eyed.

"There was lots of panting, sweating, moaning, and the fella from last night was still lying in my bed the next morning, but it was very scary, this rush of blood to my head."

Carl put his French loaf down immediately. 

The fear of dying alone, to Stanley, became more pronounced since moving in to this flat. 

And it doesn't help that among the COVID deaths reported in Singapore of late, Stanley knew two of them. 

Well, they were elderly to begin with anyway, but it doesn't help that the notion of death is lurking around the corner. 

"Life is short," Stanley said.

Carl, who is obviously starving, knows Stanley well enough so he persisted in not taking his next bite of food.

"So we need to just keep having sex!" our sex bunny Stanley continued, not disappointing Carl. 

Like a puppy given the Eat command, Carl began chomping down his French loaf on cue, eager to eat up before Stanley spews unpalatable topics any further.

But the rest of the dinner was quite grim.

Gone are the days when the three of us would just talk about men, sex, clothes, gym membership (that's Carl's contribution). 

As we grow older and wiser, real topics that concern us creep up into our dinner discussions.

Stanley said that he's started talking about death with his elderly parents. 

It started with Stanley updating the formidable Mrs Monica Ong who's the same age as my mum, the bossy Mrs Lee. 

Recently, Mrs Lee had a slipped disc surgery and Stanley was talking to his parents about Mrs Lee when he causally slipped in the question to his parents. 

"Have you thought about death?"

Carl was wide eyed. "You ask them such questions?"

"Yeah... we talk about all sorts of stuff," Stanley said matter of factly, "and this is one topic my mother won't reach for the soap to try and wash my mouth."

I didn't want to ask Stanley to further elaborate on that, so I nudged the conversation along.

"What did your parents say?"

Turns out, the Ongs have it all planned. 

Stanley's parents had long bought niche slots in their parish church and they've written their wills. 

It was a most sobering conversation, Stanley admitted.

But knowing that both my parents are not avoiding the topic of death, and treating it as normally as they can, is a comforting feeling. 

Indeed, while we, at age 42, can see the tip of our gravestones from where we are, for our parents' generation, they're a step closer to theirs.

Mrs Lee's recent hospital admission and Stanley's sightings of familiar faces on obituary pages once in a while are grim visual reminders that life is short.

Carl, who loves his parents very much, was pouting throughout dinner.

"Guys, this is such a sad dinner topic," Carl said.

He took a deep breath and said, "can we just stick to sex instead?"

---------------------------

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

The Importance of Himbos

In the social hierarchy of the homosexuals, every gay man has his rightful place.

And I don't just mean sexual positions. 

The world of the gays is fascinating. 

There is the basic top and bottom roles of gays.  

In terms of body types, there are many tribes -- from the wolves and bears to the cubs and pigs. 

And if you want to further categorise gays, there are the butch and the effeminates. 

There are the twinks and the daddies.

Oh goodness, the permutations are endless. 

But one thing to note is that every type of gay man has a purpose in the ecosystem (though the gay version of a bottom feeder in the food chain is very different from what children learn in their science textbooks in school). 

Today, I want to zoom in on Himbos.

Not in the way hungry uncles zoom in on this delicious type of gays. 

Rather, I plan to deconstruct the Himbo. Okay, wait, that still sounds sexual.

Regardless, the point is, Himbos come with the tag of sex.

The pretty looking ones, the fit looking ones, the sexy ones, but the ones with no brains. 

Yet, they are an important role in the grand scheme of things.

Throughout history, Himbos have a long standing tradition of being popular. Sometimes, it's not just long standing but also long squatting, lying, bending, given their sex appeal, but that's besides the point. 

In the modern world, we all love a good Himbo. 

So pleasing to the eye that it's okay if they have no brains. Just open your legs, not your lips unless it's for a required sex act. 

The Himbos are very easy to identify. 

Just hijack any gay man's phone and scroll through his IG feeds.

The Himbos can be found in large groups, posing for photos at a hotel room or someone's apartment that usually comes with a variety of alcohol. 

Said Himbos are typically dressed in very tight apparel that are struggling to contain their bursting man-bosoms, or if they are wearing actual loose clothing, they are singlets with holes the size of a pail that allows their Popeye biceps room to breathe. 

Himbos, when found in solo photos, almost always flash a quasi smile.

You know, it's not a full human smile where you beam merrily and try to show all 32 of your adult teeth.

The Himbo quasi smile is delivered with one's lips closed and is always asymmetrical such that the smile looks crooked. 

It's supposed to make the Himbo look cute. 

It's also a smile that I sometimes see on elderly patients recovering from stroke.

The Himbo is always popular on IG and also in person. 

At social settings, Himbos group together to flex, groom, and preen for all to see. 

Very often, they're the centre of attention.

"Look at them. Young, dumb and full of cum," Stanley my sex bunny friend would say with a tinge of envy whenever the Himbos show up at E-bar, our dense friend Carl's favourite bar in the whole wide world. 

"If I were their age, I'd surely be able to break into their circle," he would say.

"I'm afraid to ask you for your definition of circle, Stan."

"My God, their arms are so big," Carl would utter in awe, patting his own python-size biceps lovingly as if getting them ready for the local town's Big Pumpkin Competition fair.

It's always interesting to watch the Himbos in social settings -- and how others react to them.

Most of them are quiet knowing that they attract stares. Some of them are loud knowing that they attract stares.

Regardless, they soak up the attention and shine at their best: Their youthful skin, cherubic features, coiffed hair, gym-trained bods. 

They're visually pleasing to watch and can be very entertaining to observe.

Until you engage with some of them.

Stanley, who has a vast history of various engagements with all sorts of men, was the principle subject who supplied me info for this blog.

Many a times, these Himbos are confident of themselves to a certain extent.

They're especially confident of themselves in bed -- they're in their element, quasi smile and all.

"If you do sleep with a Himbo," Stanley said, "the right thing to do is to cut your losses. Remember the Himbo for his beauty and leave it there. Don't spoil it with any attempted conversations."

Himbos are the Gay God's gift to gay men. 

But when the Gay God made Himbos, they stinged on the brain. 

Yet, Himbos are an important part of gay society. 

They add colour and visual appeal to the lonely men, the jealous men, the nasty men who have nothing good to say about the Himbos. 

The Himbos are also a good source of joke. They always bear the brunt of the intellect shade thrown at them -- and sometimes, they don't even get it. 

And because there are Himbos, there is balance between the shallow and deep; the yin and the yang.

The Himbos help cull the unworthy men in the dating ecosystem.

They attract other shallow Himbo chasers such that when they're paired up and leave the room, whomever you see left are those who don't care about looks. 

The type who want to know you not because you're good looking.

But not all Himbos are bad.

Once in a while, you get the Himbos who are genuinely nice.

And when you find such Himbos, they're keepers.

And so this blog piece is dedicated to you, Carl, our dense friend.

Happy birthday.

 

---------------------------

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

Crush Landing On You

"I've recently gone down the rabbit hole," Stanley my sex bunny friend texted in our group chat the other day.

I was scared to ask him what he meant. 

Carl the dense one, the other member in our group chat, also remained quiet since he is always two steps behind the world at large.

If Carl were to fall into a rabbit hole, he would be blissfully unaware of his situation and spend his time doing push ups in the dark alleys to pass time.

Stanley, on the other hand would be acutely aware of his situation and would scribble his phone number on the tunnel walls, hoping to do his version of push ups in the dark alleys to pass time. 

"I am officially in love with all the BL movies put up by Netflix," Stanley wrote, revealing his latest love of his life. "And now, I'm binge watching all the online BL movies ever made in the history of mankind!"

Carl the dense one began typing. 

"I know right! I absolutely know what you mean -- I love them!" Carl wrote, proving that sometimes, miracles do happen.

BL shows, for all the Carls out there, is short for Boy Love shows, and the story line almost always involves two male characters falling in love in school. 

Almost all BL shows start with one gay character who has a boy crush on a straight schoolmate and by some stroke of luck, that straight schoolmate loves the other boy back. 

Stanley, who just received his doctorate on BL movies, gave me 90 marks for my analysis, but pointed out that the only stroking between the boys should not be a stroke of luck but a stroke of f**k. 

As homework, Dr Stanley Ong, PhD, BL drama, prescribed me a to-watch list.

And being the typical hardworking student, I not only watched the dramas dutifully, but I also researched further into the topic to earn my As.

Carl Chang's BL story 

Carl was in Sec 4 and in his sweet sixteens when he fell in love with his school mate. 

Jerome was his name, and being charming was his game.

"Jerome is the type who doesn't know he's handsome, and is so down to earth," Carl said.

Stanley quietly told me on the side that no wonder Carl likes Jerome. "Carl's friend is handsome but he doesn't know he's handsome. Carl is dense but he doesn't know he's dense himself. Do you see the pattern here Adam?"

Jerome and Carl were school mates in different classes. 

Jerome was in Science and Carl, Arts. 

Their paths crossed because they were both from the same ECA (or CCA, as it's now called). 

Jerome, being pleasant and brotherly to all his friends, was naturally well liked by his peers. 

And in his case with Carl, a bit too over-liked. 

"What made me fall in love with Jerome was what he did for me during a camp," Carl said.

Stanley naturally got very excited about how this particular BL movie is playing out.

"We were doing a mini road march carrying our heavy haversacks. Jerome happened to be right behind me."

"Oooo, this is exciting," Stanley cut in during the three-way video call. 

"The stars are all aligned -- Jerome is right behind your ass, and there is haver-sex," Stanley said. 

Carl was obviously not paying attention to Stanley, as he smilingly recalled what happened next.

"For the next 2 hours, Jerome lifted my haversack so that it's not heavy on me. And that made me very moved."

Stanley was visibly disappointed that the only thing Jerome laid his hands on were Carl's haversack, and not even his sac. 

Since then, Carl liked Jerome a lot more. 

Too much 'more' if you ask me. 

Jerome is straight and not surprisingly, had a girlfriend. 

Carl recalls buying Jerome a farewell gift (a baby G watch) after their O Level exams and Jerome innocently hugged Carl in a mix of gratitude and excitement. 

That day, Carl hid in the school toilet and cried. 

"I want to tell Carl that there are many things he can do in a school toilet that could involve tears but not from heartbreak," Stanley texted me using his Whatsapp web. "But seeing that Carl is about to break down now, I thought I should tell you this so that my joke doesn't go to waste."

Stanley Ong's BL story 

Unlike Carl, Stanley has no BL story to share.

Yes, it's hard to believe that our sex bunny friend has such an innocent record. 

But Stanley does have a stellar record.

In secondary school, Stanley was a pudgy and oily student with matted hair but he was his school's top student. 

Yes, it's hard to believe that Stanley the bottom is once top. 

"I actually hate secondary school life," Stanley said. "All I remember was mugging and studying and then going for tuition classes."

Stanley may have put all his focus on books, but he unknowingly was the attention of his classmate Wen Zhou. 

According to Stanley, Wen Zhou was a very close competitor in his studies. 

"Let's just say that Wen Zhou and I are birds of a feather, but trust me, we don't flock together if you know what I mean," Stanley said, air quoting the word flock with his fingers. 

"Wen Zhou is a nerd. He's tall and hunched, has sickly pale skin and smells of medicated oil," Stanley said scrunching up his nose. 

"And he's always tagging along with me to the school library and always wants to hang out. I slowly tried to distance myself from Wen Zhou after a while because he always looks at me with creepy eyes like he wants to take a knife and butcher off my limbs."

Today, Wen Zhou is still single, and still in touch with Stanley. 

According to Stanley, he's still hunched, still sickly pale and probably still smells of medicated oil. 

But that fella is rich and has 3 condos, thanks to his successful banking career. 

Stanley has no regrets seeing Wen Zhou purely as a friend. 

J my partner's BL story 

J's school life had been quite typical of most boy students who go to a certain type of school. 

He was good in his studies and beyond the classroom, J was also quite the athlete. 

He represented his secondary school in hockey and competed in swimming when he was in JC. 

J tells me he had no time for boy crushes in his school because he was so occupied. 

But J did have someone who was actively pursuing him.

The boy was from another JC -- an Indonesian Chinese.

Indo boy took an interest in J in what must have been love at first fight for him. Both Indo boy and J met at the swimming lanes and had competed against each other in the 200m breast stroke event. 

When J recalled that story to me, all I was interested in was whether there was any actual breast stroking that happened but I didn't want to imagine those details. 

J told me the story matter of factly: Indo boy approached J in the toilet and shook my hand and said it was a good swim (Indo boy came in second and J was close in third place).

Anyway, J said Indo boy asked him for his pager number and J didn't have a pager back then so J gave him his home phone number."

Stanley raised his eyebrows suggestively. Carl cautiously looked between Stanley and me, carefully pondering on his next step.

"J did mention that Indo boy asked him out a few times and they went to the library together or something. And he did briefly mentioned that Indo boy walked him home after one of those outings."

"Dates, you mean," Stanley the evil spawn added. 

"Outings," I said. 

Point is, J said he wasn't overthinking things, and Indo boy to him was just a friend. 

"That's actually a very sweet love story, Adam," said Carl, his voice trailing off just as his brain catches up with his words for him to realise he may be better off silent as usual. 

But I agree with Carl. 

It is a very sweet and innocent BL story. 

"I have a follow up question," Stanley said raising his hand. 

"I want to rewind to the part where J and Indo boy were in the toilet."

"Are you sure nothing happened? Stanley the shit stirrer asked.

"Two boys, skimpily dressed, both in the toilet. There's shaking of 'hands' and God knows what other body parts and they're talking about who came first, second and third -- which to me is an obvious query on positions!"

Stanley, Stanley. 

 

---------------------------

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

Operation Care

The last few weeks of my life had been relatively stressful.

There were many firsts for me during that time: Buying disposable maternity panties and learning to unhook a bra among them.

There we were, my brother and I, standing around causally discussing a woman's most intimate apparel.

"I've never unhooked a bra in my entire life," I said to my brother Barry. "I have, but I've never hooked back a woman's bra in my entire life," Barry said.

"You both know I can hear you right?" the bossy voice and owner of the bra said to the both of us.

Barry and I immediately returned to our task at hand.

We had to unhook the bra of our mum Mrs Lee, who is lying on her stomach, waiting for her sons to get the bra out of the way so that we could change the surgical plaster on her lower back.

Three years ago, Mrs Lee starting feeling a dull ache over her left buttock and thigh. 

Our specialist had identified the source of her pain to slipped disc. 

Three years of physio and expensive consultations later, Dr Henry Chan finally suggested Mrs Lee be cut up and fixed up once and for all.

It was all for the better -- mum is arguably young for an elderly patient so her chances of a full recovery is more optimistic. 

But the timing of the surgery -- a minor one, as Dr Chan assures -- couldn't have been any worse.

The day of Mrs Lee's scheduled operation was the very day Singapore's health ministry forbids any visits to the hospital due to the rising number of COVID cases. 

Since Barry still lives with mum, he took her to the hospital and updated us in our group chat about mum. 

Mrs Lee's surgery was smooth and successful and I was relieved in many ways -- chief of which, that she was perfectly fine. 

Deep down, I was also secretly relieved that I'm legally bound to not visit her in the hospital.

I was given an impossible task at work to handle and the long and short of it was, it could make or break my career. 

I was at my lowest point in my work life and I knew my world was shaky.

Only my partner of 20 years J and Barry knew the details. My sis only had a rough idea. Stanley my sex bunny friend knew a bit here and there and had been quietly supportive.

So imagine that it's a big load off me when all I needed to do to fulfill my filial piety duties were to make video calls and nod at mum's repetitive stories about how the service at the hospital is top notch, and how she would pause in mid-call to boss the nurses around (can you pass me that cable? And the orange juice earlier was too sweet. This one is my son. This is the elder one. Do you have apple juice? And also, I want watermelon for tomorrow). 

Those days were soon over, and Mrs Lee is to be discharged. 

Barry and my sis couldn't take the day off so I ventured out to pick mum up.

She was wrapped in a back brace and could walk only slightly faster than a speeding snail, but she looked fine.

On the way back home, she already rattled off a to-do list for me. Buy char siew rice for me. Get a new thermometer. Help me sort out some of the food in the kitchen. 

Oh yes, Mrs Lee is back.

Back home, I made her show me how she would go about the house, quietly standing by to catch her if she lost her balance while standing up from the sofa and waddling to the kitchen, and entering and exiting the toilet, and how she'd manage to lie and get out of bed. 

For the first time in my 42 years of life, I am reminded by how frail the human body can be when you're old. 

Despite mum's snow-white hair (she stopped dyeing it black when she retired over 10 years ago), there's little to indicate that she's getting vulnerable. 

She had been relatively healthy, her mind still bright, and exceptionally sociable with her extensive network of friends, from your retired tai-tais who are always planning somewhere to go, to your bored, retired housewives who believe in all fake news circulating on social media.

But right now, little things such as how slow and frail she's become from a minor surgery is a painful reminder that this woman is spring chicken no more. 

She's slow, frail, and aged.

Poot. 

"Oops, sorry! A lot gas," Mrs Lee said cheekily, taking full pride in expelling farts.

She still has her wits.

Which makes it all the more poignant when she eventually grows even older, even more frail, and even closer to moving to her next property (a niche unit she and her siblings bought some time ago as their final resting place).

It feels helpless just to see this natural progression of the human life cycle.

It's like seeing the life of your loved ones slowly slip away, the way you can't hold on tightly to a clutch of sand on a windy day no matter how much you clenched.

Okay, I'm being very dramatic here, and all that's missing is the musicians' cue to start play sentimental violin in the background, but you get the idea. 

The other thing that struck me too, was how it's not easy to be a caregiver when you have a full-time job.

Especially when your full-time job is stressful.

Spending just that one day with my newly discharged mum -- coupled with work hanging heavily on my mind -- gave me a glimpse of a grim but very possible future, if things went downhill.

The older she gets, the more she'll need to be cared for. 

And the more we care for her, the less time we have to juggle work and family.

I am fully aware of caregiver stress, having been surrounded by friends who are going through that. 

And the thought that it could soon be my turn is selfishly scary. 

Sure, we can buy all the insurance for mum to buffer expensive healthcare costs. We can plan all the follow-up activities for her to get better. We can even plan our work around her schedule and medical appointments. 

But in time to come, we are going to have to brace ourselves for the inevitable: That she's going to be so old and frail that her quality of life will be affected, and that some day, she'll be fully dependent on her children for her basic needs.

Knowing this -- and writing about this -- helps me manage the prospects of our unwelcome future. 

But knowing this also helps me plan for what's to come. 

And for now, the step-by-step roadmap for me is to ensure that I have the mental capacity and strength to deal with an ageing parent. 

After all, if Mrs Lee can singlehandedly bring up all of us after our dad died of a heart attack when we were young, then surely, her children's combined forces can do the same to take care of her when she's old.

Knowing this too, is comforting. 

---------------------------

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

- One week break -

Dear reader, 

Am taking a break from writing this week. 

My mum Mrs Lee has just been discharged from hospital after a minor slipped disc surgery and the matron is needy and dramatic.

Have been shuttling between her place and getting her all her worldly needs (“I’m craving char siew siew yoke rice”; “Can you be a dear and get me some wholemeal bread?”).

I will be back next week. 

I will need to anyway — caregiving, especially to the bossy Mrs Lee — is so draining I need to escape pronto to the world of writing. 

In the meantime, excuse me while I finish off this quick post to pour the matron a cup of tea. 

The Perfect Date

I have a lot going on my plate right now. It seems a tad too messy. And, damn, it's bloody too.

It was the perfect afternoon date. My partner of 20 years J and I are on a birthday outing.

Well, not exactly birthday-birthday (we celebrated his actual birthday at his home with a lovely homecooked dinner by J's mum).

That afternoon, it was makeup birthday celebrations, just the two of us. 

It had been so long since we went out as a couple.

Sure, it is warm and fuzzy and comforting to spend time with J and his family on most weekends, and to have the occasional meet ups with my siblings and J, as well as with our common friends.

I have been grumbling that we no longer go on dates, so a few days after J's actual birthday, we found ourselves at Lawrys.

It was the perfect date.

When I was younger and poorer, I would always pass by Orchard Road as a teen, wondering when I'd be rich enough to eat at what seemed to me as a high-end steak house.

So it was a dream come true for me when the very friendly maitre d' led J and I to a bright window corner seat at Lawrys.

On my plate was the Lawyrs cut -- a slab of medium rare steak that is so easy to slice. So easy that with each slice comes the slight oozing of faint blood. 

I have never imagined that blood and fat can taste so good.

Then again, when you're on a date with the love of your life, fat, blood and carcasses can taste like magic.

Except in my case, it was truly amazing. 

J chose his cream corn and spinach for his side dish while I opted just the cream corn.

The food was grand -- some 400g of a part of a killed cow was on my plate, along with very sweet and creamy corn. 

Every bite was a bliss because one, I had finally stepped foot into Lawyrs after 20 years, and two, I'm here with the love of my life. 

For the occasion of birthday, we clinked glasses, and had a deliberately unhurried lunch, just the way all first dates ought to be. 

Even though the restaurant was punctuated with a happy birthday song every 10 minutes, it felt like there was only J and I in the restaurant. 

Once in a while, the overly friendly Rose would ask if we'd like any wine top up (yes, please) and if everything were okay (yes, it is). 

J and I talked about everything under the sun.

Well, under the rain, rather.

It was a very rainy afternoon, and even though it was the perfect day to curl up in bed with J, I was glad I'm out with him. 

We hadn't gone out -- dressed respectably -- in a while, and I was going to savour every moment.

From our main course to dinner and dessert. 

After our very heavy meal, J and I took a slow walk inside Mandarin Gallery, looking at every shop.

We made a mental note to paint together some day when we passed by a shop that sort of caters to hobbyist artists.

We stopped by a plant shop, pointing out or favourite pot. 

We marvelled at colourful cakes decorated with creamy icing and fancy toppings, and were reminded of how full we were.

We ended up on a cafe where we ordered a double espresso each and continued to chat. 

It's amazing that after 20 years, we never ran out of things to say to each other.

And when we do have our moments of silence, they weren't awkward. 

Two tables away, a young gay couple who looked like they were on their first dates stole glances at J and I.

I smiled at them, hoping they could sense my wishes for them: That they too can grow old together if that's what they wanted with each other. 

When the clock struck 5.30pm, J asked if I was hungry.

"Are you kidding me? I am still full from lunch! I want something light for dinner," I told him seriously.

We ended up at an Indian restaurant that evening.

"We'll just order three dishes at most, and nothing else," J instructed.

True to form, Curry Magic was amazing. 

The cosy restaurant, which seemed to be run by a family, served up the best curry I had ever eaten. 

Despite not being all that hungry, I mopped up my plate with naan.

J looked at me and smiled as I ate hungrily.

It was a smile that I had come to love since I first met him. 

That night, I walked J home since Curry Magic was just a short walk from his place.

It was a cool night.

"I had an amazing night," I told J. "We need to have more of such first dates in future."

J winked at me and said ok.

As I parted ways with J at his home that night, I felt super heavy.

My tummy was effin' full.

But my heart was fuller.

 

 

---------------------------

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

The Health Scare

Three years ago at around this time, Stanley and I went through a health scare journey.

The source came from one of our former national service bunk mates, Russell, who was warded with symptoms of a heart attack.

Our NS group chat, titled Red Berets, stirred to life at 10.40pm Singapore-Hong Kong time.

Like a dormant volcano pushed to erupt, the messages in our usually-silent group chat came fast and furious.

Stanley my sex bunny friend, who is one of the group admins, also erupted fast and furious.

Apparently he was on a tryst when he got a message from Suzanne, Russell's wife, about the sudden rush to the hospital.

Stanley later told me that he too, experienced a sudden rush - of a totally different nature.

True to his swift, time management skills, Stanley had his beefcake and eat it, managing to satisfy both his ONS, and Obligations of NS.

I was alerted to the news at around 9pm, more than 3,000km north of Singapore.

I was having an oily Myanmar curry for late dinner when I got the shocking news.

Two decades ago, Russell was fit.

You would expect everyone of us in our NS unit to be so - nothing less.

Two decades later, at 40, Russell is still fit.

Which is why it's so shocking to all of us.

Among the 20-over participants in our group chat, only a handful of us remain lean and fit, and Russell the private investment banker was one of them.

This is what J my partner would always say: If you're fit, it doesn't necessarily mean you're healthy.

Russell was having one of his late nights in the office when he broke into a sweat, became breathless, and had a squeezing sensation under his left armpit.

Fortunately, he alerted his fellow workaholics who immediately called an ambulance.

Stanley was the only one who managed to visit Russell at the private hospital that night.

The rest of us was a case of the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak - at least three of us in the group including myself are based overseas, and the rest had little ones to put to bed or are already asleep themselves.

In Stanley's case, his spirit is willing but his flesh particularly weak considering his recent exothermic activity, but he made it purely because, well, he was up and about anyway, and was quite close to Mount E.

That night, our group chat was filled with chatter - those that expressed shock, get-well-soon messages, as well as raunchy gifs supplied by the resident cheekopeks of the group.

The next day, more of our Red Berets brothers dropped by to visit Russell during lunchtime and the group chat was filled with wefies and photos of a smiling but weak Russell.

Our friend had indeed experienced a health scare - the symptoms he felt were indeed those of a heart attack.

But Russell's CT scans showed his heart was perfectly okay, and the sharp pain under his left armpit - which Russell described as the pain of a gunshot wound - was an indication of a lung infection.

So it was a case of bad versus worse.

The group chat messages soon veered into topics like health checks and the importance of listening to your body.

One of our Red Berets friends - a lean, mean fighting machine - actually listens to his body almost every day.

He would check his resting pulse rate and would proudly announce that for a 40-year-old man, he is in excellent health given that his heart rate was 61 beats per minute.

Stanley later privately messaged me to say that he too, has been listening to his body.

My physical indicators are quite different, but when it sends me throbbing signals, I respond immediately, Stanley said.

So I will take good care of my health.

And the next time I break into a sweat, become breathless, and feel a squeezing sensation, hunny darling, it can only be a good thing, he said.

---------------------------

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