The Heavy Topic

Today's topic is gonna be a heavy one.

Carl the gym rabbit, who is obsessed with all things heavy, flexes his biceps, holds his breath, and braces for what he hopes would be a topic about weights. His all-time favourite thing, if not, the only thing he ever cares about.

Stanley, who's busy playing host and filling our large goblets with white wine, contorts his face in what I must assume is him clenching and bracing for what's to come.

Unable to hold his breath and excitement no more, Carl says with glee. 

"Are we discussing gym outlets? Or package deals?"

"Amen, sister. Now we're talking," Stanley the sex bunny responds instinctively, triggered by package deals. 

Actually, it's about suicidal thoughts.

Stanley gave me a side eye and stopped filling my glass.

"You're not suicidal are you, Adam? If you are I won't give you that much of the wine. It has a 4.3 rating on Vivino," the ever thoughtful Stanley said. 

Carl the dense one, on realising it's a topic that involves actual thinking and not lifting, starts to space out and stares glassily into the air. 

A few weeks ago, my partner of 20 years J shared with me a conversation he had with his business associate. 

"Is he cute?" Stanley asked. 

I gave him an evil side eye that's the most evil of all side eye in the history of evil side eyes.

"What. I was trying to excite Carl and bring him into the conversation," Stanley said defensively, and hit Carl's python-sized biceps.

"Yes, yes, I agree," Carl startled and fumbled. 

So this associate, let's call him S. 

S is a highly successful man -- and might I add, very, very wealthy.

Stanley whistled. 

S has a few properties, has no qualms buying timepieces that's worth a 5-month combined salary of a construction foreman, and naturally drives a fancy car whose name doesn't roll off the tongue of a Singlish native speaker.

Amen, sister, Stanley said.

Carl, who is eager to score some participating points, makes the sign of the cross and nods.

S also has it all. A loving relationship that's as long as J and mine.

"Wait," Stanley puts his hands in the air dramatically, as if to summon Time to stop. 

"I can already guess the next part of your story -- S is suicidal despite all of that -- but I want to know. Are you actually describing J or his friend?" Stanley asks sincerely.

"Wait a minute," Carl chimes in. "What are we talking about?" he asks sincerely.  

It is indeed J's friend -- and thank you for being so sensitive as usual, I nod lovingly at Stanley but immediately regret my choice of word.

Satisfied, Stanley let the sensitive sex-joke moment slip, and allowed me to indulge in the heavy topic that afternoon.

Indeed, the summary is this: That a successful man in health, wealth and love is suicidal. 

Turns out, S had been contemplating suicide since last yer due to work stress.

Of course, being a mature and sensible man, S reasoned that he could always quit his job and lead the lifestyle of a monks with no extra needs or wants. 

But S said he still can't help but factor in suicide as a last resort.

And S did share this with his partner who was horrified but couldn't do much.

Stanley nodded sagely, processing this heavy update.

Also digesting was Carl, who took a big bite of char tow kueh from Ghim Moh Market.

J found out about S only because he realised S was a bit off of late, and upon digging further, S opened up. 

I stole a glance at Stanley to see if he'd pick that up and make a sex joke, but Stanley let it pass.

After all, I would expect Stanley to be serious when talking about mental health issues. 

A cousin who's super close to his family is diagnosed with depression and had to grapple with medication, mood swings and eventually, a lonesome life after he cut off all social ties.

"So what did J say?" Stanley asked.

J was naturally disturbed, but he also knew it wasn't in his place to say anything. 

In the end, J said he told S that he should consider seeking professional help.

J then called me to make future dinner plans with S at his place.

"We won't talk about suicide," J said. "The idea is to intentionally not visit the topic of suicide until he brings it up -- and making future plans with S gives him something to look forward to. Like a milestone of sorts."

While I am glad J is ever so loving and thoughtful of his friends, I am also troubled by the topic of suicide. 

We may never fully understand the extent of mental illness and how it forces people to kill themselves.

Often, those who do take the plunge aren't always the ones who have the least.

Take Leslie Cheung.

The Hong Kong superstar seems to have it all: Good looks, a successful showbiz career, and a longterm relationship with his partner Tong Tong.

But depression robbed him of all senses and eventually nudged him to throw himself off the top of a hotel room.

Carl, who loves Leslie Cheung and has a great voice, lights up at the mention of his idol.

"Not now," Stanley said placing a palm over Carl's face, effectively stopping Time. 

Carl slumped his shoulders in great disappointment and grudgingly hummed his favourite Leslie Cheung tune instead. 

"My dad once shared in a conversation with his siblings about my cousin," Stanley said. "That when someone mentions he has suicidal thoughts, we shouldn't brush it aside. Instead, we should confront it. Ask that person to elaborate. Talk to him and yes, this may sound alarming, but we should ask him to describe to us how he plans to kill himself."

Carl stopped humming and frowned, unable to tell if Stanley were joking or not.

"But at the end of the day, we're not doctors, counsellors, or psychiatrists, so there's only that much we can do."

Stanley concludes that J is doing the right thing.

That he's doing what he knows best. And that's him being a friend to a friend in need.

===

Dear reader, if you are having trouble and need to reach out, call SOS at
1800-221 4444

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

Marry Go Round

"How exactly does one do that," asks Stanley in utter amazement. 

"Does one play gay porn in his mind then bite the bullet and shoot, or would one use his hands and then gently introduce the tadpoles into the narrow crevices, hoping they'd swim their way to survival in those filthy tunnels?" the sex bunny wanted to know all the details -- the finer the better.

Carl the dense one, as usual, was late to the game.

"What are we talking about? Squid Game?"

"No. More like squirt game," Stanley says without missing a beat, waving one hand to dismiss Carl to stay on track.

We were meeting for the first time this year at Stanley's home for dinner, and the topic of married gay men with children came up.

Not too long ago, I was J's plus-one to his friend's regular dinner party.

J's main group stems from his secondary school, a close-knit community where everyone knows everyone and hangs out in the same circles.

Among J's boys are two of his schoolmates Boon Keong and Lionel, both of whom went on to become J's JC and then Uni mates.

Boon Keong and Lionel are both high flying elites and sane and sorted.

But where romance is concerned, Boon Keong is insane and distorted.

While digging in to our starters of avocado, capers, salmon and herbed tomatoes at Boon Keong's home, we were given a rather detailed introduction of his partner Alfred. 

Alfred Koh, 45, is a well-groomed man who looks no older than 35. Well built, flawless skin, large, expressive eyes and has a gentle smile.

Alfred Koh, 45, is also a recent divorcee with a grand total of four children.

"Exactly my point. How does he do it?" Stanley the sex bunny interrupted fiercely, extremely bothered but also equally keen and determined to get to the bottom of Alfred's matter. 

"Wait, wait, wait," Carl said. "There're too many names. I'm lost."

Boon Keong had met his partner last August.

"That's August 2021, Carl," Stanley said helpfully.

"And that's Lionel?" Carl asked.

"No, that's Boon Keong," I said.

"Yes, his partner is Lionel?" Carl asked.

"No, that's Alfred," I said.

"And Alfred is?" Carl asked.

"Alfred, 45, is a well-groomed man. He has four children. FOUR, Carl. FOUR! How does he do it?!" Stanley cut in, his eyes swelling into the size of swollen testicles.

"Oh... but isn't Alfred gay?" Carl asked, confused. 

Stanley looked like he was about to crumble with stress with the lack of information to my story.

Carl looked like he was about to crumble with stress with too much information to my story.

But back to Alfred Koh, 45, well-groomed divorcee with four children. 

"How does he do it..." Stanley said in whispered gasps, as if his last breath would soon come upon him before the mystery would solve itself.

"I still keep in touch with my kids," Alfred said mater of factly. 

"The oldest is 17, then 14, and then there're my 12 year old twins," the well-groomed father of four said.

Carl stole a glance at me, saying with his eyes please don't list more names... I can't take it anymore.

Stanley shot me an urgent look, saying with his eyes please tell me how he does it... I can't take it anymore.

"Does your children and wife know about all this?" Lionel asked.

"Carl, Lionel is J's other schoolmate who went on to become his JC mate and Uni mate," Stanley added, hoping Carl wouldn't slow us down in my storytelling, which had actually started when we all sat down at Stanley's table for dinner, and at this point of my storytelling, the three of us were already starting to open our container of Power Chendol dessert.

Alfred's wife apparently knows the reason for their eventual divorce. 

In fact, years ago, Alfred had once confessed to his wife -- who was then his Best Friend from his primary school -- that he was gay.

And because the wife -- who was then still Alfred's Best Friend from primary school -- loved him so much and wanted to be with him, she didn't mind that at all.

And because Alfred had wanted to lead a "normal" life, he suppressed his inner desires and went on with this marriage.

"I totally understand this," said Lionel, sane and sorted lawyer. "And nobody should judge this."

J and his boys would know this.

Having come from an all-boys school where femininity would lead to a path of teasing and taunting, it's not easy for them to put on a brave front.

For Alfred, it would be worse.

He comes from a elite school which not only celebrates masculinity but also embraces Chinese culture and values.

It doesn't help too, that Alfred's parents are both Chinese Language teachers whose family values are rooted in the ancient acts of filial piety and producing offspring. 

But there comes a point where enough is enough. 

Alfred had a health scare a few years ago.

And that was when he realised his remaining life is too short.

He struggled and struggled, and eventually, made the brave decision to discuss this with the wife.

"It was an amicable divorce," Alfred said. "We decided to keep it as civil and cordial as possible -- so I can see the kids anytime I want, but the only condition is that I can't tell the kids and our family I'm gay."

That night, as J and I left Boon Keong's home, we reflected on how being gay in our time was not easy.

Being born in the late-70s meant growing up in the 90s, which was a time when technology was just emerging.

Technology such as ICQ and IRC which would eventually pave the way for closeted gay boys to hide behind those platforms and bravely come online to meet fellow gay boys. 

But not all would have caught on that trend.

People like Alfred, who have struggled with their identities and family or religious values, would surely have had to make a choice: Should they follow their hearts and explore the gay world, or should they continue to live like straight men?

There is no one straight answer.

Gay men who choose to have straight lifestyles shouldn't be judged, just like how we gay men don't want to be judged by our "lifestyle choices". 

But in J's words, at least Alfred has come to terms with his life.

"It gets better, I guess," J says to me at the close of that night. "I think the next generations of gay boys would have it better."

By the time I concluded my story, Stanley realises that I have no answer to how Alfred procreated and produced four children, and decides to move on,

"So, Alfred's health scare. You think it's STD?"

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

Happy New Year!!!

3... 2... 1... 

Happy New Year!

Depending on how old you are, this means different things to different people.

In our 20s, ushering in the new year often involved loud, thumping music and sweaty, gyrating bodies. 

And depending on which friend of mine you are, this can also mean different things.

To Stanley my sex bunny friend, the music and sweaty gyrating bodies more often than not take place in crowded, sleazy dark rooms where he does a lot of ushering in.

To Carl the gym rabbit, that combination is applied to crowded but less sleazy rooms where a lot of forceful grunting, pumping and thrusting take place. 

Regardless, New Year Eves to the boys and me back then were all about raving parties, shouting over one another just to be heard and waking up to start the first day of the new year with a hangover. 

In our 30s, when we had more spending power but less energy, we transited to having classy gatherings either in fully-packed restaurants, or in large hotel rooms where champagne bottles -- and on two occasions according to Stanley, cherries -- are popped. 

Now that we're in our 40s, God forbid, we are welcoming the new year in our own respective ways.

Stanley continues to plan NYE parties, desperate to relive our younger days. 

Carl just wants to tone it down -- tone being the operative word that motivates him to sculpt his python-size biceps. Muscle-building knows no holidays.

For me, it's all about quiet reflection -- and spending New Year's Eve alone.

It's a habit I developed as I grew older. 

Nearing the end of each year, I'd pick up pen, paper and a glass of wine and jot down some of the things I'd been most grateful for in the past year -- and extend that thought of gratitude all the way to as far back as I can remember. 

That activity would take me around two hours because there are many things I'm thankful for, and I allow myself to linger and reminisce the past chapters of my life. 

Among the things on my list this year: 

• Keeping my job despite such trying times
• Safely returning to Singapore from my overseas posting
• Moving back to my own place
• Being healthy and fit at 42 (going on 43 based on the calendar year)
• Having my family around

The list really does go on, and I'm thankful for that too. 

I'd also jot down a list of things I want to achieve in the coming year. 

But gone are the wishful thinking days of making resolutions because I've come to terms with such lofty ideas that never come to fruition.

Resolutions never come true. Not for me at least. 

So no such things as wanting to learn Muay Thai by April, or getting in shape in 6 months. 

Instead, I make a list of achievable tasks, no matter how mundane they sound like.

• Drink enough water 
• Eat my vitamins 
• Be sure to do my three-step skincare routine
• Don't overeat
• Sleep enough

Again, the easy-to-achieve list goes on.

Stanley, who earlier learned of my list, yawned over a three-way WhatsApp call with me and Carl.

I later learn that his yawning had nothing to do with my list. It was more to do with Stanley's version of a three-way, but let's not start the new year on such a sordid note.

Have a meaningful 2022, dear readers.

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

Merry Xmas!

Fresh cut roses, check.

Table setting, check.

Carols lined up on Spotify -- the proper Catholic ones, and not your I Saw Mummy Kissing Santa Claus type of rubbish versions -- check.

For the first time in 20 years since I got together with my partner J, I am hosting his family for the all-important Christmas dinner gathering.

Don't be silly lah. There's nothing to be stressed about, J says casually to me about my grand task of hosting his family.

He's sitting on my couch and already is busy killing zombies on his mobile phone.

But J is right.

After two decades of being J's partner, there's no need for me to be nervous about making a good first impression. 

Nor is it the first time J's family had visited my place.

And I shouldn't over worry about the gathering later, lest I forget to enjoy the process of hosting.

I love hosting.

I love J and his family.

This combination should be fun and enjoyable.

Plus, J is here with me to host his family.

It will be fun.

In order not to keel over from stress, I had decided to cook the main dish of Calderata two days ahead of Christmas.

The Filipino beef stew is said to taste better over a few days.

I figure this is one dish J's mum, being traditionally Peranakan and all, wouldn't have tasted (much less cook it) so it's a safe choice.

I made it as authentically as possible, following my friend's mum's recipe to a tee, except for the Reno-brand liver spread, which is supposed to thicken the stew.

The liver spread had apparently been banned in the Philippines so getting my hands on one of those here meant not only potentially getting on the wrong side of Singapore law but also that of the mother in law. 

Instead, I found pate at the supermarket and am casually using it as a substitute.

That should do the trick.

I will also be whipping up a salad -- and this one is risky.

Risky because it has a Nonya twist to it.

Years ago, J's mum and I had discussed a recipe published on the Sunday Times by our favourite food writer.

The main salad pieces were poached prawns, rose apples, pineapples, and winged beans. 

For the sauce -- and here's where it gets tricky -- I need chinchalok (fermented prawn paste), lingam's chili sauce, honey and lime juice. 

I remember J's mum saying such a combination would be nice.

For our salad, I'll be adding my own touch -- J's mum loves Japanese cucumber so I'll toss that in. And I'll sprinkle some finely-chopped kaffir lime to give it extra zest. 

J will be taking with him leftover meats from our party at his place last night: Sausages, turkey, ham.

His brother and sister in law are taking the easy way: KFC and pizza.

They should be at my place by 4pm, and I'm knocking out this piece in record time.

I look around my kitchen (the stew is slowly warming up and filling my kitchen with a wave of tangy sweetness), and my table setting is ready.

I'll take one more sip of wine.... and I'll go get busy.

Merry Christmas, and a meaningful New Year, dear readers!

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

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