Wed Blanket

 The following post was first posted in 2010:

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 I was rummaging my wardrobe for appropriate wedding wear when the phone rang.

"I give up. I have nothing suitable for tonight," the exasperated voice went. "I hate straight weddings."

"To look straight, rule number one is, ditch any shirt that makes you look like you're a tightly wrapped mummy. And no skinny jeans either," I warned.

Forty minutes later, Stanley's cab picked me up at my place, and we sheepishly eyed each other's body-fitting tailored shirts that showed off our broad shoulders and narrow waists. With matching skinny jeans.

Turns out, the only thing we decided to ditch that night, was our fear for looking too good to be straight.

"Well, at least, I promise you we'll be the two most gorgeous looking men in that table of former straight platoon mates," Stanley said.

"By the way, I'm giving $80 hor," he said coldly.

According to Stanley the economist, since we gay men are never gonna one day earn back all those angpao money that we keep giving the straight people, $80 is more than enough.

"Any idea who we'll be sitting with later?" Stanley asked tenderly into his iPhone.

"Hmmm, Robbie,"

"Oh, that fat Ah Beng. I wonder how is he now. Is he still selling DVDs?"

"Chan, Razak, Mike,"

"Razak?!" Stanley suddenly jerked his head up, his horrified eyes wide as testicles.

"Yeah, what's wrong? I never knew you both didn't get along?"

"Oh, shit. There goes my babi and my wine. With Razak, that means we're sitting at the Muslim table! The last time I sat at a Muslim table, we were eating Soup Kambing while the rest were slurping on Shark's fin, for Heaven's sake!" Stanley exclaimed, sounding as if all his shares have plummeted at one go.

Another 40 minutes later, we stepped off the cab, checked each other, and strolled into the cocktail reception, looking as fashionable as possible.

Tonight, our platoon mate Jayven was marrying his JC sweetheart June.

Jay is a one-time banker who hung up his LV briefcase for the bulky suitcase, to pursue a joint career with June. The gorgeous bride, June, is a petite but feisty character, and also a former broadcaster who decided she'd fare better serving chicken or beef 70,000 feet in the air, than to smile and read on air.

"My, my. They both certainly invited the whole of SIA here tonight," said Stanley, whose roving eyes and tone of voice suggest after-dinner plans reserved for dogs on heat.

When we settled at our table -- and learnt that Razak would be the only one having the halal food -- Stanley whispered urgently into my ear: "Shit, is it too late to add the $30 I took out of my angpao?"

As with all wedding dinners, we risk the awkward situation of being seated with a motley crew of strangers.

But this crew, Stanley is more than happy to be put up with.

After all six of us introduced ourselves to the four gorgeous friends of Jayven and June(two guys, two gals), we broke the ice after a few glasses of beer and red wine.

After the third course, Stanley announced that he and I needed a smoke break.

"But I don't even smoke," I mouthed the words to Stanley in protest.

"If I ever have to hear one more word of Razak's fourth baby, or Mike and his fiance's HDB renovation, or Chan and his perpetual football talk, I will turn pink. And trust me. You don't want me to turn pink, hunny," Stanley said, arching one brow, clearly desperate to invoke Diva Aretha Franklin.

"And how thoughtful of Jay and June to fill the remaining four seats with, of all people, gorgeous crew who're engaged to each other!"

"Aiyah, weddings are always like that lah, Stan. Hang in there, and soon, we can join Carl and Ah Boy at Tantric. T.K's gonna be there too. Hang in there, okay?" I encouraged, as Stanley continued taking in deep breaths and puffing out clouds of smoke, staring blankly ahead.

The wedding went on with more talk of eh, Stan, when you getting married ah? You leh, Adam, got girlfriend already or not?, as well as even more updates of Razak and his beloved children, his advice to Mike's impending HDB sweet home, and so on and so forth.

Stanley, meanwhile, couldn't be bothered with conversation. Our friend is on a mission to stretch his angpao's worth, helping himself to every possible glass of red wine in the ballroom.

By the time we got to the Ee-Foo noodles, Stanley was in a parallel universe of his own, completely shut off from the ongoings of Table 24.

From the corner of my eye, I watched worriedly as a very happy Stanley wobbled his way to a table of air-stewardess, looking at them very seriously in the face before grinning, "Chicken or beef ma'am? to each and every one of them.

The air stewards' table, on the other hand, found Stanley very humorous when he walked up to them and asked them, quite seriously, "coffee, tea, or me?"

Before dessert could even be served, I had to excuse myself from the table to support Stanley, who had by then transformed into a jelly fish.

"But I'm just starting to have fuuuun!" Stanley giggled as I dragged him out for some fresh air.

That night, while on the cab back home from our uneventful wedding dinner, Stanley looked up at me from my thighs, teary eyed.

"I hate weddings, Adam. I hate weddings."

"I know. Close your eyes. We're on our way home now".

That night was the one and only time I didn't reprimand Stanley for getting himself so drunk. 

 

 

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

 

Straight to the Point

The following post was first published 12 years ago, in 2010:

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"Come to think of it, I've never told any of my straight friends that I was gay," said Stanley, whose eyes -- for a refreshing change -- were fixed on the road.

"Eeeks, you stupid driver!" Stanley squealed in horror. "Some cab drivers ought to be told," he huffed, as if the swerving vehicle broke Stanley's heart.

"Like I said, it feels so strange to be telling your straight friends, especially after all these years of acting straight."

How true.

Stanley may not be that tight in other departments, but where his gay life is concerned, trust me, his lips are tight. Sealed.

Like most of our gay peers, Stanley and I probably belong to a generation where we either act straight or act blur to avoid being probed. Wait, Stanley actually enjoys that, but let's leave that story for another day.

Meanwhile, Carl's Uni-going boyfriend Ah Boy, has no qualms about telling one and sundry of his inclination. While Ah Boy is not loud and proud, he is perfectly comfortable with his sexuality -- friends and loved ones including his parents, are some of those in the know. Good heavens. Youngsters these days.

Later that night, it set me thinking: Is it so important that straight friends know we're gay?

Well, perhaps.

Ever since having outed each other in NS, Stanley and I have spent our remaining years building layer after layer of walls, to fortify our closets. Carl on the other hand, believes in building layer after layer of muscle, hoping to attain that same effect.

But after all these years of being locked up in a far, far away castle, key thrown away, I have, Heaven forbid, begun to let my hair down like Rapunzel.

It actually all started four years ago, when a school mate's younger brother passed away suddenly.

Gee, life's too short, I thought.

It was then that I decided to tell at least one important person in my life, that I was gay. Just one.

So on one late weekend morning in 2006, I texted the Best Friend. I need to see you for a while. Starbucks near our place, in 20 mins?
 It took me all of 10 minutes to come clean the secret I've kept from the Best Friend for 14 years. His reaction? Why did you wait so long to tell me? Did you think I would have forsaken you? A series of friendly rebukes and assurances of he still loves me later, I felt like the lightest earthling that day.

And because it was liberating to tell one important person in my life, I thought, hmmm, maybe I could tell just another. Just one more.

And so, naturally, it was Nisa, my best girl friend.

But it didn't feel complete. How about planting alliances at the workplace too? And so, Alexa and Hazeline -- two of my closest colleagues -- joined the club. Oh, how about selected friends from Uni?

Just like that -- as if I were possessed by a persuasive insurance salesman -- I added one name after another to my list of those who know.

Each time I confessed, I am almost guaranteed the same reactions that very night. SMS-es that go somewhere along the lines of Thank you for sharing that part of your life... and I still love you. And it's always from the more sensitive gals.

The guys on the other hand, are quick to forget my confession as quickly as they accepted me.

Today, while I'm not loud and proud, I have come to terms with my sexuality.

I will probably tell the next person whom I feel particularly close to, because to me, I'm literally opening up to that new person.

It's like saying, the door's right open. Step right in.

Okay, that sounds like Stanley. 

 

 

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

 

Shitty Love

The year was 2005.

And the location, Chiang Mai.

My partner J and I were on one of our affordable vacations after we got together three years before that.

Our first ever couple holiday in 2003 was in Genting Highland and that's a story for another day -- I promise.

Today though, I am inspired to write about our Chiang Mai trip.

It was very special not because it had all the elements of romance. There were no grand restaurants, nor did we launch into a Hollywood kiss in the middle of an elephant camp.

In fact, to put it really bluntly, that holiday was shit.

The sort that was watery, hot and sticky.

The two of us had, back then, eaten at a roadside stall and the rest is history.

I cannot even remember what we put into our mouths but what did come out, now that, I remember.

That night, J and I were curled up like cooked prawns in our bed, feeling feverish, pukish and super shitty.

As a young and full blooded youth on holiday with the love of his life, I had been dreaming of this moment.

Two of us lying in bed, spent, and weak from all the purging, and dear God, I should have been more specific.

The rest of what we did in Chiang Mai was a blur.

I cannot remember at which stage we got food poisoning. Or how long we were suffering for during the 9-day trip (we also visited Bangkok during that leg).

What I did remember rather clearly, was the look on J's face. 

The poor boy looked so pale that it hurt me deeply.

I also remember fetching him hot tea, and feeding him warm porridge. And he in turn stroke my hair and patted me to sleep when I was shivering.

But we bounced back rather quickly and miraculously, managed to recover during the holiday.

While flying back from Thailand to Singapore, J told me that it was the most memorable trip. 

"I think this trip made us fall in love deeper with each other," he said. "Because we took care of each other when we were ill."

Then, to my utter surprise, he leaned in and kissed me on my cheek on the plane.

The reason I'm writing this today is because of a recent event that had got me thinking about a couple's relationship and longevity. 

And as I write this in 2022 and reflect on J and my memorable trip, I remind myself that it's not every day that we end up with someone we love.

And it is very important for us to treasure what we have.

Fret not. 

Nothing drastic has happened between J and I and we are both as loving as can be -- in fact, more so.

But yes, my post today is indeed triggered by an event that has affected both of us in a deep way.

And I promise -- like how I would write about our first Genting Highland trip -- to post about it soon enough.

But for today, let me just share this very private, very moving bit of my memories from the 2005 Chiang Mai trip.

Meanwhile, if you have a special other, treasure him or her.

And if you're single, treasure your loved ones.

On this note, I wish everyone happy thoughts and much love.

 

 

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

Eyeing Perfection

If there's one thing perfect about me, it's my eyesight.

Stanley rolled his eyes.

Carl the dense one -- who's a natural follower -- rolled his eyes without knowing why.

"You're far from perfect now," Stanley said bitchily, tapping at his temples to remind me that no longer perfect I am, since I'm now bespectacled.  

"You're not very nice," I pointed out.

Carl the dense one -- who's a natural follower -- nodded at my comment without knowing why.

"If there's one thing tight about you, Stanley," I said as a follow-up attack, "it's your pants."

Carl the dense one - who's a natural follower -- said "Amen sister", without knowing why.

Stanley fumed, sucked in his tummy, and glared at the giggling Carl.

"If there's one big about you, Carl," Stanley said, hoping to pay the bitchiness forward, "it's your head space where your brains should be."

Carl the dense one - who's a natural follower and has huge biceps -- frowned.

"I thought you were going to say my biceps were the one thing huge about me," he said with a pout.

We were causally hanging out at Stanley's that Saturday.

It was movies night, as Stanley stated in his WhatsApp invite to us in the group chat titled "Just the Boys".

"Movie night, come." was the message.

Come to think of it, come must be one command Stanley often uses, but that's a story for another day.

As Stanley passed the popcorn (which he bought from Giant and made it pop in his microwave), I pivoted back to my topic.

I'm thinking of getting lasik, boys, I said.

"Oh, finally," Carl the dense one said. "It's high time you did something to your skin, Adam. I mean, I didn't want to say it but now that you've come to your senses, I must tell you that your skin needs a lot of work."

"Carl darling, lasik has to do with the eyes," Stanley said to our dense friend and placed his palm gently on his shoulder the way doctors would behave when they told you you have cancer.

Carl the dense one nodded without knowing why. 

Turning to me and reaching for the remote at the same time, Stanley asked: "Why laisk? I thought you loved your geek look?"

Well, I do.

I mean, even when I had perfect vision, I'd buy fake glasses and put them on because I love how the dark-rimmed frames made me look studious. 

But I had a choice to take them off whenever I wanted.

Which is a basic human right Stanley must most appreciate because he applies that to his pants. 

For years, I was the envy of many because I have perfect vision. 

Up till when five years ago -- when I was merely 38.

My eyesight began to go downhill then, which is the general direction my skin was heading, led by gravitational forces of the earth.  

It started with mild giddiness one morning when I was reading my phone in bed. 

I immediately made a quick appointment at the Eye Centre.

That afternoon, I walked out with a clear vision of what's happening to me.

I had presbyopia -- the first milestone of ageing.

Oh, well, I thought it would be fun getting to wear real glasses for once.

But no. It was such a hassle and I didn't see that coming.

I hated lugging my reading glasses around in my bag and having to put them on whenever I read.

An intern in my previous company saw me slip on my reading glasses and giggled to herself.

I made her fetch me coffee twice that day. 

Soon, I felt very lazy about putting them on and taking them off, so instead, I chose to walk around with my reading glasses even when I wasn't reading.

Soon, my eyes grew used to wearing my reading glasses -- which was not good.

Because eventually, not only did I have presbyopia, but my vision also started to worsen.

At age 40, I had to wear prescribed glasses.

Bifocals.

And boy, were they difficult to get around in.

The first time I put on the bifocals, I felt like I was in Outer Space.

The floor felt tilted and I had to take dramatic steps as if the earth beneath me would crumble at a misstep.

It took a lot of getting used to, with the bifocal specs.

Even as I write this now, I'm still not quite used to them.

And it's been, what, three years?

It takes adjustment, and I suspect I'll never fully get used to them.

For one, I can't do evil side glances anymore -- doing so takes my vision out of range so I'll get dizzy spells when I do that. Which could be nature's way of taming me.

And because of my flat nose, my specs keep sliding off my face and that's also annoying.

These days, I'd been toying with the idea of just doing lasik so that I can return to my carefree, specs-less days.

"I guess I know what you mean," Stanley said. 

He had selected a horror film.

"Not wearing specs is like not wearing underwear. 

"The freeballing feeling is so liberating."

Knowing Stanley, he would want to stand up and jiggle around to make his point and so just as he was about to stand up, Carl pressed him down with his python-size biceps.

Thank goodness for small wins. Sometimes, Carl does know what's happening.

"Stan, I watched this film the other day. Can we choose another one?" Carl said, and patted Stanley on his shoulder the way big bosses would do when they instruct you with tasks which you can't say no to.

 

 

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

 

A Wedding a Funeral

The couple of 13 years were meant to walk down the aisle -- slowly and romantically -- to the beat and pace of whatever cheesy wedding song is being played.

At this moment, the pace was just right -- slow. And the mood is somewhat romantic.

The bride and groom weren't walking down the aisle by themselves: They were accompanied by six others who formed a small band of pall bearers.

Even as I write this, I am still in disbelief.

It would have been the happiest day of their lives.

Instead, the wedding day turns out to be the funeral for one of the lovebirds.

"I still keep thinking of her," Stanley Ong, my sex bunny friend said in between quiet sobs.

For this live funeral stream, I had taken two days off to keep Stanley company. I stayed over at his place the night before, and on the day of the live stream funeral, got up early with him at around 7am to help him light candles around the house, and set up his screen mirror function on his TV. 

Debbie is Stanley's JC friend.

She's what some describe as Little Miss Sunshine except she's not that little.

Debbie is delightfully plump, never says no to food, and laughs the loudest at jokes, the type that is so contagious that you'd laugh along with her even if you don't know what the joke is.

Needless to say, Debbie is very well loved by all.

Much of my impression of Debbie comes from Stanley's occasional anecdotes of his good ol' JC days.

Of how they'd both buy fried chicken drumstick from the school tuckshop and eat discretely in class.

Of how they'd sit by the school gazebo with open textbooks but not actually studying.

Debbie was an arts student and loved and lived life to the fullest.

She had vast interests too -- from taking hikes to collecting lego, and baking cookies to worshiping Kylie Minogue.

When Debbie was in her early-30s, she gave up her job as a teacher and flew to Australia to live with the love of her life, Robert.

Since then, the couple had been living happily ever after.

Stanley would often comment on Debbie's Facebook photos in the early days of her life there.

The couple had bought a three-storey house and had often hosted many loud, happy parties there.

Their tables would often be filled with oven-baked stuff: lasagna, chicken, pies (by Robert) or nonya laksa, pig trotters in vinegar and curry fish head (some of Debbie's best homemade dishes).

I'm often told that their parties were filled with laughter and board games like Jenga, Monopoly or charades. 

Earlier this year, Stanley got a call from Debbie who told him "best news ever".

After being partnered to Robert for more than 10 years, the two decided to get married so that they can plan their second half of their lives with greater clarity.

It would be a small gathering attended by immediate family in Australia, followed by a similar reception in the Singapore leg in the later part of this year.

And then, it happened. 

Debbie, who taught art to children, took three weeks of wedding leave and on the first day of her leave, left home for her morning stroll near their house.

She had visited her favourite cafe and took away coffee to the park, her usual weekend morning routine.

Debbie's mind must have been at peace that day. Favourite coffee in tow, a lovely morning at the park where the trees are green, birds are chirping. Her mind must also have been in working mode: Planning for her wedding and most importantly, imagining life as an old married couple with Robert.

Then Debbie collapsed. 

According to those at the park (who relayed that info to the police and to Robert, and in turn, to Debbie's friends in Singapore), Debbie had apparently attempted to get up once. Then she collapsed again.

"It was a heart attack," Stanley explained in a defeated whisper. 

It was a brutal attack. An attack that had singlehandedly snatched Debbie away from Robert. An attack that left painful bruises in the hearts of all Debbie's loved ones.

As if the sudden turn of events weren't dramatic enough, Debbie had just celebrated Robert's birthday three days before her untimely death. They had both chosen that birthday month to get married because 13 years ago, it was at Robert's birthday party where a giggly Debbie was first introduced to Robert who was then visiting Singapore.

So it would have been a series of celebrations that month: Robert's birthday, their anniversary, their wedding.

And now, it's a funeral.

But it's also a celebration of sorts.

The theme of the funeral was to celebrate Debbie's colourful life and to remember her zest and love for everything.

In respect of Debbie, I threw on a multi-coloured sweater while Stanley wore a floral print, baby blue shirt with a loud pink tie that matched his pink berms.

That morning, we started the day at Stanley's home where he lit candles for Debbie. 

I joined Stanley in saying the Hail Mary for Debbie.

Stanley then made us coffee and brought out snacks -- Hello Panda (chocolate and strawberry), in loving memory of Debbie, who loved snacking on those creamy bites back in JC. 

Watching a livestreamed funeral was surreal.

We weren't there but we were there in every aspect.

The event was filled with speeches after speeches by some of Debbie's closest friends and family.

There were tears, of course, but mostly laughter because Debbie's friends came up and shared the most ridiculously funny stories which Stanley affirms as "very Debbie". 

Of how she once almost hurled ice-cream at a group of burly blokes who were taunting two drag queens on the streets.

Of how she would always hug everyone in a tight embrace until she heard a rib crack.

Of how she would always debate with Robert on what to gift his little nephew and nieces on their birthdays (Robert always wanted educational presents while Debbie always insisted that "a little fun won't harm). 

I watched Stanley from the couch. 

He laughed, he cried, he buried his face in both hands, he breathed in tears and mucous theatrically and fanned his face with both palms. And then repeat.

The three-hour funeral session was very powerful.

And it painted an even brighter picture of the lovable art educator Debbie who is obviously well-loved.

At one point, which Stanley again said was "very Debbie", there was a mass dance.

Stanley immediately sprang up from his couch and morphed into a worm on drugs, wriggling and gyrating vertically with his eyes closed, lips pursed.

I joined him in loving memory of Debbie.

The session closed with one of the most touching speeches which even I couldn't help but cry uncontrollably. 

One of her closest friends ended the funeral session with Debbie's catchprhase. 

"Let me know when you get home safe".

In loving memory of the one whom we've grown to love; 

1979 - 2022

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

Flat Hope

Dear readers,

I'm super busy this week, so as you may have noticed, I didn't pen any entry last Saturday.

But here I am, reposting a piece I wrote in 2010, from another blog which I have since shut.

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In what I think is one of the rarest occasions in the history of our friendship, the boys and I actually found time to gather for dinner, on a weekday, at a hawker centre.What's even rarer is, Carl actually ditched his usual monologue on protein powder brands and his muscles, and initiated a discussion that required our inputs. And money, apparently.

"I'm serious. Think about it. It can be fun? Living together? All three of us?"
I don't know what gave Carl the idea that we'll make great flat mates, but again, it's Carl.
Stanley (who for once doesn't mind ageing quickly just so he can buy an HDB flat at 35 -- and leave his parents' home for good) chipped in with impeccable timing. "Yeah, I think it'll be so fun!"

"Yeah, I think so too. Mmmm! This Old Airport Road rojak is indeed good leh! Eh, Carl, you try?"

As our dense friend happily dug in, his world temporarily revolving around the said local delight, my mind teleported us out of Singapore: To Bangkok.

Four years ago, when I finally settled down without having to jet set, we took our first trip to the motherland of all fake Prada and LV. Yes, "all three of us?".Who would have imagined that, instead of hanging out together, we almost ended up wanting to hang each other?

We may have been pals for more than a decade, but when two strong headed individuals (plus one muscle mass in the form of Carl) have to face one another for a good one week, there's bound to be drama. Think America's Next Top Models in Amazing Race.

While Carl is keen to explore Bangkok's California gyms, Stanley is more keen in exploring Bangkok's California gym-bods. On the other hand, all I wanted to do was to drop from shopping.

Amid all the arguing on Day One of our trip, we decided in frustration to go our separate ways in the Land of Smiles. Before I could salvage the situation with what happened to spending time together, Stanley was already scurrying towards a tutuk, to catch his would-be orgasm.

It's really not that easy, boys, I finally broke the silence. Carl looked up from his plate, head tilting in confusion.

Remember Bangkok?

With impeccable timing, Carl returned to his plate, and both he and Stanley began chewing their rojak with fierce concentration.

The next day, I advocated support from Alexa, my Moroccan colleague."Friends should never live together -- especially if they're the best of friends. Trust me, for the one year I was living with Wendy (her best friend), we never talked. We couldn't even stand the sight of each other!"

Indeed, I hear Alexa loud and clear (despite her cloudy accent).

As an overseas student, I too, began detesting my housemates four months into our one-year rental contract. It made me miss the wild days of hostel living, where parties, loud music and equally loud drunkards marked the passing of each night. But hey, at least I had my privacy and was accountable to no one.

Later that week, I explained to the boys that I loved them too much to live together.

To be fair, I've always known that one day, Carl and Stanley would move out. In my circle of gay friends at least, almost everyone I know wants to live away from his parents. Alone. Or with his partner. Or with a motley of friends.

Come to think of it, why shouldn't we move out, especially when living away from our parents forces us to contact them even more conscientiously -- something we take for granted if we were to live under one roof?

And for that very reason, I'd rather live with strangers. I'd rather not come home every night to the company of the boys, but look forward to meeting them every Saturday instead. Plus, given our bitchy nature and a good 10-year headstart, we'll each know what to hate about one another already.

So just like that, at our favourite PS Cafe that night, we decided that we'll live together happily ever after -- every Saturday night.

Yes, "all three of us?"

 

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This post was first published in my earlier blog which has since been shut

 

Sex and the Seedy

Sunday brunch.

Cool enough breeze.

And most importantly, a cafe with an ambience that agrees with our IG posts and stories.

It had the makings of a delightful gathering.

Last week, the boys and I chose to shake up our social patterns and stop meeting like we're 8,000-year-old vampires who can only make appearances and come together at night.

And so far, our day was so good.

We were at Cafe Melba at Goodman Arts Centre, surrounded by a trendy crowd: Hipster parents who show off their kids in Ralph Lauren, youthful and fresh-faced working adults who're catching up to release all the stress they'd been facing in the first year of their careers, and the laid-back angmohs who come in their floral dresses and polo tees.

And then there are the gays.

Stanley, Carl and I had decided to dress down fashionably for the occasion.

Stanley wore an extra-large button down shirt and fitted berms. 

"The trend is, the looser the better," Stanley pointed to his top, and then, pointing to his buttocks, "and the trend here is, the tighter the better."

I wasn't sure if Stanley the sex bunny was referring to his apparel or his apparatus and I didn't want my delightful morning to be spoiled so early into our gathering.

I wore a singlet bought from Thailand years ago and immediately regretted my choice because I looked like one of those angmohs you'd spot in Phuket. 

Carl, needless to say, was in one of this dry-fit tees that hugged his body so tight that he may have to cut up the tee at some point just to promote blood circulation. 

The three of us found a table al fresco. 

To our left: Two pleasantly plump girls who looked like they shouldn't be eating any more of their oily sausages.

To our right: A family of angmohs who had a curious kid on a bike, cycling around the fake grass patch and trying to knock down birds.

Orders were promptly placed and Stanley sighed dramatically. "What a lovely morning, boys."

The angmoh to our right started coughing. It was one of those loud, throaty coughs that if you heard it, you'd immediately feel like helping her cough up the phlegm.

The woman who looked to be in her late-50s was hacking away, each forceful cough putting her one step closer to Death. 

Carl the dense one looked very nervous and inched closer towards Stanley. 

"Why are people who're coughing allowed to come out?" Stanley said in an urgent tone, intentionally not using an indoor voice. 

The angmoh woman shifted in her seat, smiled apologetically at our table and continued coughing.

Determined not to get COVID, Stanley took out his hand sanitiser and sprayed above our table, cleansing all bad air and evil spirits at the same time.

Soon, food was placed on our table and the real catch up began.

"What's new with you boys," asked Carl, who for once, took an interest in our lives.

"Let's start with Stanley," Carl continued.

"Why do I feel like I'm in some game show?" Stanley replied, eyeing Carl suspiciously. 

If Stanley were in a game show, he'd be the contestant to press the buzzer first and even if he didn't have the correct answer, he'd have something witty to say to make both the show host and audience laugh and blush. 

If I were in a game show, I'd be studying my research notes up until the point when the highly-strung producer with the headphone and earpiece yanks them out of my hands.

If Carl were in a game show, he'd be wondering what he was doing there in the first place, and naturally, be the first to be booted out.

But right now, Carl is on top of his game.

"So, what's new with you Stanley," he asked, sounding every bit like a webinar facilitator. 

"Something is not quite right with you today, Carl," Stanley said.

It didn't take long for Carl to crumble.

"Okay, okay, I think I have STD," he said in a voice which he thought was a whisper.

The angmoh woman to our right started coughing right on cue.

Suddenly, Stanley's concern went from one pandemic to another medical condition.

He inched towards Carl.

"Spill," commanded Stanley.

It was more like flow, in fact. 

A whitish discharge, to be very precise, according to Carl. 

Stanley was enthralled by Carl's detailed, blow-by-blow account that he started picking up his cherry tomatoes with his barehands like they were popcorn.

The blow-by-blow account, to be exact, took place in a gay sauna.

Stanley almost fell off his chair, but he got a hold of himself but his self-control had limits.

Our sex bunny friend started squealing and shrieking like he was possessed.

The hand sanitiser obviously had no effect on cleansing evil spirits.

To us, gay best pals of over 20 years, we know that the squealing is just Stanley laughing. 

But to the trendy Sunday brunch crowd at Cafe Melba, the untrained ears wouldn't know that. 

Stanley sounded like how your kettle would sound when it's coming to a boil. 

To the poor, innocent kids who were playing nearby, Stanley must have sounded like a dolphin because they started merrily mimicking Stanley.

Finally, the angmoh's coughing had been upstaged.

Carl looked very pale and begged Stanley to please control himself.

Stanley looked up from his fits of laughing and then crumbled further into self destruction. 

Stanley had officially joined the angmoh to see who would approach Death first.

Carl buried his face in his palm.

After Stanley had calmed down, which took all of seven minutes (I counted because I was nervously glancing at my phone with Stanley's performance), we were all ears. 

And by we, I suspect it was tables 1, 3, 5, and maybe even one table inside because everyone -- and I mean everyone -- had at some point of Stanley's hysterical theatrics, paused to look in our direction.

Carl looked like he wanted to jump off a building but he had made his bed, so he had to lie in it. 

The bed was in a saucy sauna which he visited not out of curiosity but necessity. 

Carl had been single and virginal for way too long to the point where he couldn't help it anymore.

So on one of those Saturday nights when we didn't meet, Carl arranged for his own rendezvous at the local sauna. 

Refusing to go into Stanley's plea for "great detail, the deeper the better", Carl filled us in with what we needed to know.

Stanley kept digging further.

"Let's start from the very basics," said Stanley, showman and show host.

"Age, built, looks, and size. Go," Stanley continued, thrusting each finger into the air with his list of basics.

Carl was too afraid to defy so to avoid yet another episode of drama, began his story.

He had been entertaining a visit for quite some time now, and so when the urge came, he didn't stop himself.

Which is fair, given that he's single, and old enough to make his lifestyle choices.

The man whom he believed gave him STD is a young, uni student who is exactly Carl's type: Big built, fair, bespectacled. 

He was beauty on top, and beast below was all Carl said. 

They made eye contact and brought that interaction to more levels of contact in a private space in the sauna and when the deed was done, the uni student did a wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am and left hurriedly. 

He didn't leave his phone number but what he did leave was a mess. 

"A very sticky situation indeed," Stanley said, unable to help himself. 

Carl only found out he had unusual symptoms days later. Difficulty in peeing, and the tell-tale sign of a discharge.

By our second cup of coffee, Carl had completed his round of updates.

He looked spent, as if he had been questioned by the CID for three hours straight (which is the amount of time Carl and the STD student spent together).

The three of us sat and digested the heavy meal and topic that afternoon.

Later that day, I got to thinking about our fruitful day.

Stanley's laughing fit at Carl's predicament was understandable.

All his life, Carl had been the least sexually active and is mostly clueless, so to hear of his encounter was indeed rather strange. And hilarious in a way.

But it did happen anyway.

And Stanley and I were there for Carl.

And that's what matters most.

Twenty years of friendship had given us a rollercoaster ride -- from the highs and lows to the bumpy. 

But the three of us were still on track for our next 20 years, and hopefully more.

At the end of the day, what's really important is that no matter what happens -- STD or not -- the three of us can sit down and confide in one another, no judgement made. 

That night, I texted the group to send virtual hugs to Carl.

"Carl, this is nothing to worry about," Stanley wrote later.

"It's a rite of passage. And being Carl, you're just rightfully slower than everyone else, that's all."

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