Preparing for Xmas

Every now and then, we get a chance to write our own narratives.

The chance fell upon me some years ago, after my Godma died.

You see, every year, I'd spend my Christmas Eve and Christmas evening with my Godma and her large extended family where glasses are clinked and a great Eurasian spread is to be had, as everyone gathers and recounts every damn thing -- from childhood memories and embarrassing anecdotes to discussing various current affairs developments. 

The passing of my Godma ended this tradition. 

My eldest Godbrother flew back to the US with his wife and retired there, shortly after that. 

For the subsequent few years, my Godsister, who herself has a happy, close-knit family, tried to recreate Christmas at her place but I was left out of the equation because of my overseas posting.

Eventually, our new Christmas tradition had become video calls and glasses were clinked in the respective homes of the family in smaller groups.

Now that I'm back in Singapore, Christmas gatherings would have a new spin.

While I still keep in touch with my Godsister and Godbrother, this year, I would be spending it solely with my partner J and his family.

This year's eve would be at J's place where his mum would no doubt whip up pipping hot Peranakan dishes, along with the festive staples of turkey, sausages and roast meats.

And at J's suggestion, the family would come over to my place for Christmas Day.

It's lovely to host loved ones at my place.

After all, I bought my place with hosting loved ones in mind -- my table is sturdy and big enough to host the Last Supper.

My sex bunny friend Stanley, who had bought his place not too long ago, was inspired by my dining table.

"Oh, Darling, I've always wanted something big and sturdy to host 12 people," Stanley would say, adding that the theme of his party would be the lust supper.

But my theme this year, is wholesomeness.

And it's a theme I hope to have for many more Christmas gatherings to come.

Since my resettling back in Singapore, J and I have been making a lot more plans with family in mind.

Which is why this pilot Christmas gathering is so important.

J would brush me aside like I'm a silly goose whenever I say I'm stressed over cooking for his mum, who is one of the island's best chefs, a title every Bibik would hold in all Peranakan households. 

"The trick is to cook things my mum never cooks," J said.

And so in recent weeks, amid my intermittent spring cleaning and the occasional checking of my work email and meetings, I'm also busy googling recipes.

This year, I've decided a hybrid menu: I'll order meats and pizzas and prepare finger food like onion rings and wedges, and whip up a simple salad.

The main dish would be Caldereta -- a Filipino beef stew that J's mum wouldn't have tried.

I had once cooked the stew and it was very, very, very delicious. The only problem was, I had cooked it for myself so that feedback would have been biased.

Nevertheless, J tells me that whatever I cook would involve love and, cheesy as it sounds, that's the essential ingredient in any dish.

I shared this with my sex bunny friend Stanley who couldn't agree more.

"And remember. In your case, the way to a man's heart is not through his stomach," he typed to me, adding a gif of a whirling black hole to make his very dirty point. 

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

Home Sweet Home

I am typing today's post in my new place and sneezing away due to dust. 

If I had bionic eyes, I'm pretty certain I'd see dark, dusty particles forming a hurricane, its hips swaying stylishly around my house like some important diva.

Earlier this year, I was asked by my company to return from my Myanmar posting.

Since then, my company had put me up in one of its multiple properties because I have an existing rental contract with my tenant, which I couldn't break until the end of the year.

Two weeks ago, my tenant had very kindly agreed to move out ahead of time, allowing me to move back in to my own place.

I'm very happy to come back to my large one-bedder and have bought so many things for my old-but-somewhat-new place.

After all, I had only bought -- and stayed in -- my place for two years before I had to fly out of the country and be posted around the region like a courtesan.

But I'm happy to move back. 

Which is why for today, my post will be short.

I have lots of unpacking, lots of fixing, lots of cleaning to do.

But there'll also be lots of laughter, lots of happy moments to look forward to from now on.

For now, it's back to sneezing and me trying to drive Hurricane Diva out of my place.

We'll talk soon.

Love, 

Adam 

 

 

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

Guncle And Gaunty

Not too long ago, I learnt the new word Guncle and so I figured there also must be such a thing as Gaunty too.

A gay acquaintance of mine recently posted on IG to say he had been promoted to a Guncle after his sister gave birth to a beautiful boy.

A quick google search confirmed that Guncle is new age slang for a gay uncle. 

There's even a Guncle's Day which apparently is observed in US on the second Sunday of August.

Stanley my sex bunny friend rolled his eyes and shook his head rapidly.

I couldn't tell if he was convulsing because of the ridiculous idea of a Guncle's Day -- or the fact that there's even such a thing as Guncle -- or because he was working up to a climax. 

So I waited patiently.

Carl the dense one who is always in a state of cluelessness also waited patiently for the final revelation. 

A grand total of 30 seconds later, Stanley finally said: "What the heck is this Guncle and Gaunty shit?"

What exactly is the point of defining a gay uncle, Stanley wanted to know.

Carl the dense one who is always in a state of cluelessness also wanted to know. 

Every waking moment is a learning opportunity for Carl. 

Later, I got to thinking about why people would first of all buy the idea of being a Guncle.

I mean, what is the role of a Guncle? 

Is it different to a straight uncle who has a swollen belly and receding hairline and who happens to love to squeeze tits at every opportunity?

Are gay uncles more fun?

And God forbid, can gay uncles be too fun for the comfort of our morals and laws?

What's with all this labelling, I thought. 

So I went straight to the source and messaged Derrick, newly promoted Guncle. 

In his words: 

"It's not about using a gay stamp and approving certain roles. There's no difference to a gay or straight uncle. We are still going to be doting nevertheless. 

But what's important to me is that labelling myself as a Guncle is a significant step to show that my family recognises me for who I am.  

It's also to celebrate that my sister and brother-in-law fully embrace me. They're going to teach my nephew the word Guncle and cultivate in him from young, a sense of acceptance so that he grows up not seeing sexuality with the very same biases that our older generation has."

I pasted Derrick's answer in our group chat titled "Just the Boys".

Stanley responded first. 

"Ooooo," Stanley wrote. 

Carl didn't react. He's probably still digesting the whole chunk of high-level words.

"Is this Derrick friend of yours cute? He sounds like one of those smart activist who would burn his bra to make a point. Such men are sexy!" Stanley wrote, digesting the hunk and his chunk of words. 

"Wait. Which one is your friend? Derrick or Guncle?" Carl finally wrote. 

For the next two days, I thought about Guncle Derrick's thoughts. 

He does have a point. After all, if his family decides to raise a boy and teach him to love his Guncle regardless of his sexual preference, that's a good thing.

But I do wonder if this gay-stamping would catch on. 

I mean, what if it does?

Suddenly, there'll be Ghairdressers, Glawyers, Geachers and Goctors. 

Would these labelling be healthy? 

Yes, for sure, these labels would force people to pause and rethink the significance of a person's role in life in relation to his sexuality.  

The ideal outcome is for everyone to realise that at the end of the day, a straight hairdresser wouldn't be less creative than a gay one, and a straight lawyer wouldn't be less bitch than a gay one.

But in the meantime, would forced labelling of roles -- such as Guncles -- do any good at the end of the day?

I ask the boys again for their thoughts. 

Do you think we'll go down a slippery slope of casting unnecessary attention on someone's role based on his sexuality such that at the end of the day, it forces people to focus on the gay in that role rather than to separate the gay in the role?

This time, Carl replied immediately: A sticker of a heavily mustached man giving a thumbs up.

Stanley replied next: A skinny woman giving the finger.

"It's 2am in Singapore, Adam. Please don't be a creepy overthinker," Stanley wrote. 

"Don't go down a slippery slope -- unless that slippery slope is the oily contours of a sexy Guncle".

 

 

 

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

Back On Track

Not too long ago, my boys and I decided to sweat and pant at the correct environments.

Which, for Stanley the sex bunny, means activities outside of the bedroom. 

And toilet cubicles, in some cases.

And for Carl the gym rabbit, it means taking him outside the four walls of a fitness centre.

Yesterday morning, the three of us found ourselves at the recently-opened Rail Corridor. 

We and one-third of the Singapore population.

"What's with Singaporeans' obsession with nature and sports," Stanley grumbled, eyeing groups of sporty aunties with visors, hankies, and sunglasses. "They obviously look like they belong to a public dancing group in Tiananmen Square."

"Where are the hunks?" Carl formulated the underlying question found in Stanley's tone. 

We had decided to do something as a group, that would be life changing.

We're past 40, and we need to get in shape. And the government will no longer throw us in jail if we gather in groups of five.

Carl is always in agreement to getting in shape, while Stanley just wants to ogle at those who're already in shape.

"It's hot here," Carl complained.

"And that shouldn't be an excuse for that thing to be shirtless," Stanley pointed with his eyes at a middle aged man running with bouncing man boobs and a pouch.

"I'm starting to think this is a wrong decision," Stanley pouted.

Carl the follower pouted alongside. 

We had entered the Rail Corridor via Upper Bukit Timah where the park goers' main concern was snapping photos while making peace signs with their fingers.

Carl looked bored, while Stanley looks like he wants to be bored into, but right now there are no prospective takers.

Resigned, Stanley said "maybe we should just turn back and eat prata."

A sweaty and heavyset Indian woman walking two of her dogs looked in our direction and smiled, jiggling her head. 

"It's a sign," Carl exclaimed.

We looked to where he was pointing. 

A group of people were posing for a wefie in front of an aged concrete slab that says "Bukit Timah Railway Station."

More importantly, the people in front of the sign were the highlight of the day. A mishmash of gay people of different sizes: From the beefy and chunky to the lean and sinewy.

"Now, we're talking," Stanley hummed seductively, suddenly revived.

"No. Now we're running," I inserted, knowing that we would have to start jogging at some point this lifetime.

Stanley looked forlornly at the group of homosexuals and parted ways with them and recalibrated his gaze at me with dagger eyes for breaking him and his potential sex partners. 

"You happy now?"

It's been quite a while since we'd run together but just like riding a bike, we picked up pace in no time.

Stanley, who is an expert on "bike riding", was exceptional. His running gait was consistent, and breathing, uniform.

After all, Stanley and I had once been fit young things during national service where we met. And we were among the fiercest soldiers in the group.

Struggling to keep up was actually Carl, panting and wheezing, his face paler than a Fuchou fishball. 

Stanley looked at Carl and rolled his eyes.

Carl is one of those who dedicates nearly all of his waking hours on self grooming and cultivating muscles by huffing and puffing at the gym.

Years of commitment had given him biceps the size of well-fed pythons, but his legs were pitifully neglected. His thighs and calves are so under worked that from afar, he looks like a walking chicken drumstick.

"Hey, haven't you been working out at the gym?! Why can't you catch up?" Stanley said impatiently to Carl who looked like he was going to collapse from stress. 

We eventually slowed down so that our 400-year-old friend could catch up.

"What's the point of you going to the gym when you are so unfit," Stanley scolded.

Carl looked like he was struggling to come up with a retort, but thought it wiser to divert his remaining energy on prolonging his life on this earth. 

Carl, for the lack of a better word, is a typical show dog.

The type where his paws are always neatly pruned, his fur fluffed up all the time like a respectable Indonesian tai tai, and his posture dignified at all times. 

But when it comes to crunch time, the show dog wags its tail lovingly at the burglar who pats it on its head. 

Many a times, we had asked Carl the incredible hulk for help. To make good use of his muscles to open a very tight jar.

Once, Stanley looked at a helpless Carl in disbelief when our macho friend struggled to open the jar of jam. 

"Adam, next time, just pass it to me. My talented asshole might be able to open jars better than Carl's useless muscles."

Right now, Mr Muscle needs a drink.

"I think I can't run anymore. I have reached my limit," Carl said, squatting by the bushes, a visual sign that he has given up on life.

Stanley looked at his Apple watch.

"You've only run 700 metres, bitch."

And so instead of running, the three of us decided to take things slow and take a brisk walk instead. 

By 11am -- two hours since we arrived at the Rail Corridor -- we were still trudging slowly, urbanisation nowhere in sight.

Stanley's mood was sour to the max.

First, no cute guys in sight. 

Then, there are so many people who keep choking up the running track.

And worst, Stanley says the only thing that's burning is his blood and not his calories from all this slow, flower-gazing pace of walking. 

But at least, Mr Universe 2021 had regained some colour to his face.

"I think this morning walk is doing my biceps some good," the dense one beamed. "They feel tighter now."

Stanley looked at Carl.

"Hunny, at our age, and the type of activities we'd been engaging in all our lives, there's really nothing tight about us."

With precise timing that can only be achieved by a witty director and a humorous God, two sporty aunties with visors, hankies and sunglasses in the opposite direction beamed at us and said "Good morning!"

 

 

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

Root Shock

There is no witty way to start today's topic.

Not when it's a hairy situation for me.

Oh, there we go.

The ironies of life. 

Two weeks ago, while having dinner at my sex bunny friend Stanley's place, I discovered that my hair is thinning.

It all started when Carl the dense one said I ought to dye my hair because it looked as though a clumsy baker had tripped and spilled a tray of flour on parts of my hair.

"It's called the salt and pepper look," I replied proudly, saying that the colour adds years of wisdom to my image.

"You know that salt and pepper is not good for health right," replied Carl, the spokesperson of any gym who wants to hire him. 

"Just show me how bad it is," I said, passing my phone to Carl so he could do a 360-drone shot of my crowning glory.

And for the first time in years, I'm seeing the full 360 picture of the effects of ageing.

Not only does my image look like I had years of wisdom added on to it, it's evident that years of youth had also been subtracted from my head.

"Jesus," I said, barely whispering. "My hair is so thin I can see my scalp."

For the next few days, every time I passed by a mirror at home, Id pause and pose in various angles as if that mere act can promote hair growth.

It didn't.

What it did though, was promote paranoia, fear, dread. 

"I'm balding," I said to J.

My partner of 20 years looked at me, reached out for my hand and gave me a firm handshake. 

Then he went back to reading his novel.

Though a year older, at age 43, J still looks trim, fit and youthful. 

His bio age, according to some machine he previously used, is supposed to be 18. 

So yes, he has a head full of hair though these days, he shaves it really short for easy maintenance. 

"You look fine lah," J finally said to me when he caught me staring into my phone camera to check for bald spots.

"We all age, and we all die,"he says.

I love that about J. 

He's factual, fuss-free, and blocks off unnecessary drama in life.

I love him.

But.

I love me more.

Despite J shedding light into my shedding situation and his worldly reassurances that I will age and I will die, I am not feeling better.

How am I supposed to feel better, I ask you.

After having had lush, voluminous hair for the first 42 years of my life, I am allowed to mourn.

Over the next few days, I decided to do something about it. 

From medicines and supplements to hair products and serums and hair care treatment centres, I researched them all.

Medicines such as propecia may cause erectile dysfunction. 

Stanley my sex bunny friend's jaw dropped and shook his head at me, as if warning me not to jump off a building.

Hair treatment centres are useless, according to Stanley and my one-time hairdresser whose wife worked in one such famous local hair treatment centre.

I remember the hairdresser's exact words were I tell my wife that she will go to hell for giving people false hopes.

After days of careful academic research, I settled on a new combo.

A plant-based supplement recommended by a friend who knows her beauty stuff.

It costs about $100 a month and by popping two pills a day, you'll turn into Rapunzel in six months, or so they claim.

I've also changed my shampoo to one that is supposedly able to wash off every bit of grim from your scalp.

And most importantly, the final element in that combo: Accepting that I will age and I will die.

But for now, I won't die without trying.

 

 

 

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

 

Can't Be Bordered

"Exciting times are here!" Stanley shrieked into his phone.

"STAN!" typed Carl in our group chat. "I OPENED IT IN THE MIDDLE OF GYM AND PEOPLE ARE NOW STARING AT ME!"

Stanley's response was icy. "Carl darling, you should be thankful that my high-pitch voice message is getting people to stare at you."

"But I'm sorry," Stanley typed. "I'm just very, very excited!"

"And you know when I'm excited, that excitement is palpable!" our sex bunny friend wrote, before posting a gif of a throbbing brinjal in our group chat titled "Just the Boys".

Stanley's throbbing excitement is understandable.

Malaysia and Singapore have both announced a vaccinated travel lane and anything -- even if it's the customs borders -- that spreads wide open like a welcoming courtesan naturally gets Stanley very excited. 

Not for me though.

I frown as more and more VTLs are established. 

While I can imagine hordes of deprived Singaporeans are now packing their luggage in a frenzy and jogging on the spot until their travel dates arrive, I cannot visualise myself travelling anytime soon.

Unless it's for work, and definitely not for a holiday.

To begin with, a friend who works in tourism labelled me a reluctant traveller. 

"It means someone who goes around only because he has no choice," I explain to Carl the dense one, after explaining what VTL stands for and how VTLs work. 

"Honey, in my dictionary, someone who goes around only because he has no choice belongs to a very niche and controversial profession," Stanley wrote. 

For the last two years, many of us have not been able to travel.

Some of my friends have turned blue from this restriction, complaining at every opportunity about how much they miss travelling. 

One friend -- who goes on a holiday at least thrice a year -- immediately booked a flight to Germany after restrictions were eased.

We were informed of his recent travels via carefully-curated IG posts, featuring champagne and satay served in his spacious business class capsule, and subsequent photos of him looking very casual in various states of activities: -- walking, staring, thinking, drinking, eating -- amid scenic postcard-like backdrops. 

But for every Showoff Sean, there's always a more measured person to counterbalance the universe.

Nisa my best girl friend says she's not going to travel until 2023, unless God has other plans for her.

Stanley quietly tells me he hopes that God's plans for Nisa's journey -- if it does happen -- would not include an expensive limousine ride that is bound for Mandai.

"Shall we plan for a trip?!" Stanley asks excitedly in the group, his heart no doubt throbbing wildly like his earlier brinjal gif.

"WOW!" Carl replied. 

"YES!" Stanley wrote.

"Can we even travel now?!" Carl the dense one asked. 

Stanley stopped typing in the group and called me so that he can have an actual adult conversation.

"The answer is no," I said coldly to Stanley who must know that I'm not keen to travel (even before COVID, I hadn't been a big fan of vacations -- weird, I know). 

Thing is, I am excited by this latest development.

But I'm excited only because as more and more VTLs are established, it's a sign that things are normalising.

Never mind that the bugs and plague might be unleashed unto our Sunny Island like an exposed Pandora's Box when our borders reopen. 

After all, COVID has to be treated like the common flu.

But for now, my passport shall remain untouched, left in a safe place until a special occasion calls for it to be used.

Stanley tells me I need to draw a line between a passport and a pair of sexy red panties. 

 

 

 

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

 

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?"

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