Addicted to Work

For the first time in a very, very long time last Saturday, I stepped out of my shell and met actual people.

Since April, I had been overloaded with work and in all honestly, I simply loved it.

To me, there is joy to be found in working overtime in the office and eating dinners out of takeaway boxes while typing in between sloppy mouthfuls.

It felt like university all over again.

One of my happiest memories in Uni was sitting down at my desk one night after months of poring through academic books and research to start writing my dissertation. I started at 8pm with a bowl of Japanese curry rice and before I knew it, it was 8am the next day, my late dinner only half eaten. 

But the immense satisfaction, the adrenaline rush of seeing the fruition of my hard work coming together, was the start of my addiction to work.

Yes, it's hard for the 99 per cent of the people I know to believe, but it is possible to love work even if it takes a toll on your youth.

It's a blessed bonus too, that after years of honing my skills at my job, I not only love what I do, but also do very well at it.

And it's that sweet spot that keeps me going. Not so much the monetary rewards that often come along with it.

But my addiction to work has a downside to it.

When I throw myself into work, I plunge deep. 

So deep that those watching from ashore worry that I might drown while at it, and the very next time they see me would be when my bloated corpse is scooped up by naval divers.

"Oh, that would be a dream come true," Stanley my sex bunny friend said. "To be grabbed by the lean and fit boys from the elite NDU, who would respectfully and lovingly lay you down," he continued, putting a morbid twist to getting laid.

Carl the dense one, who always misses the point, blinks and asks "why is your work related to the ocean, Adam?"

That Saturday -- the first in months -- was the only day I felt well enough to meet my loved ones.

During my intensive few months where I focused on work with burning concentration, I had shut out all my friends.

Even my partner J.

God bless him -- you're very lucky to have such a supportive partner, best girlfriend Nisa would say.

Indeed. 

I hadn't seen J mainly because I kept cancelling not only on him, but also his family who would always have me over for their weekly dinners.

On one weekend, I had again stood J and his family up. That evening, after their hurried dinner, J's family drove to my office and brought me warm food.

I am thankful that I'm loved, but, as some of my closest friends would say, it is a choice I made: That I choose work over loved ones.

And that is cruelly true.

When it comes to people, my priority list is as follows: Me, J, family, close friends.

When it comes to my priority list in general, it is: Me, work, workout, J, family, close friends. 

"It's a fucked up list you know that right," Stanley said shaking his head, pouring himself more Chardonnay.

Carl densely goes with the flow and pours himself some, nodding at his fast-filling wine glass.

"The way I see it, it's a glass is half full situation," I said to my closest gay friends of more than 25 years. "Because you and I have different perspectives where this is concerned".

Indeed, Carl is concerned. He stops pouring and frowns, studying his wine glass, bothered by my remark and wondering what's wrong with his glass.

Bothered -- and annoyed -- too, was Stanley. 

"All I'm saying is, if you choose to put work ahead of you -- and you have all the right to do that -- then don't regret the day when you're done with work and none of us are there for you."

Carl the dense one, who also has the attention span of slow pigeon, looks up and asks "Where are we going?"

Stanley, who's always been there for me through thick and thin, has a point. 

And I know that people's patience isn't limitless and if it were to compete with how I embrace work, eventually, they'll drop out of my life, tired to always be the bridesmaid.

That Saturday afternoon, over brunch at Serangoon Gardens, I looked at my table of loved ones and reminded myself of how lucky I am.

There's Stanley who's fast making his wine disappear; Carl who's now making himself busy by trying to fork up the microbits of crumbled cake on his plate, and J. My pillar of strength. My partner of more than 20 years who has always stood by me no matter what.

I've just emerged from Q1 amid my intensive work project -- and taking the time to catch up with my loved ones. 

Soon, I'll plunge back into Q3 and 4 which will see me work non-stop till the end of the year.

While I know that I can do my deep dive without worrying that my loved ones ashore will forsake me, I wonder how selfish I am to put them on the sidelines as I enjoy my work with abandon. 

That afternoon, I found some assurance. 

J squeezed my hand under the table, and said "focus on your work -- don't do a half-baked job. I'll be here for you. I'm not going anywhere."

Carl gave up.

"Sorry, but where are we going?" he asked, his clueless eyes begging for some sort of closure

 

 

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

Adam Is Back!

Enough is enough.

In my last two posts -- dated November and August 2023 -- I had written about wanting to revive my blog.

And what have I since then? 

Nothing.

All talk and no action. 

Just the kind of thing that pisses off Stanley my sex bunny friend, whose principle in life is all action and no talk please. Moaning, yes. Bedroom talk, yes. But that's that. 

And so, here I am, taking away the talk, and finally putting in the action.

I'm penning this piece, along with at least seven other banked pieces slated for release every Saturday. And I plan to start weekly updates of my blog from today. 

Stanley is relived. 

He has had loads of action in the last year and is dying for me to air his dirty laundry, soiled panties and all.

Indeed, there's much to talk about -- in the last year, my boys and I have gone through yet another rollercoaster ride, and not in the way Stanley the sex bunny would approve.

There had been ups (some of us promoted at work), and there had been downs (we're talking about death of loved ones). 

But mostly, the group -- sex bunny Stanley, our dense friend Carl and me, Adam Lee -- is still intact, and still there for one another. For better or for worse.

As for my long-time partner J of more than 20 years, well, we're still a good ol' married couple, so that's a blessing too.

In the weeks to come, I'll fill you in with updates of our lives in the past year. And more.

I promise.

To which, Stanley my sex bunny reacts: "That's promising."

"And in return, I'll support your regular posts by geting filled in regularly too," the noble sex addict promises.

 

 

 

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

Reviving the Blog

 Dear Reader, 

It’s been, wow, too long long. 

I’m itching to write regularly again. 

Also itching is my sex bunny friend Stanley for a whole host of other reasons — but that’s a can of worms if we explore that. 

But explore we will. 

The itch to write, that is. 

Give me some time to find my groove — I have a lot to catch up on with you guys. 

It’s, after all, been wow, way too long. 

Love, 

Adam 

Too Busy!

Dear readers,

I have been overwhelmed with work of late -- and I'm sorry for not posting anything in the last few weeks.

Will find time when I'm less swarmed because there have been various updates in our lives.

Stanley found a new job. 

I'm starting to view new apartments.

Carl is still dense. 

Stupid Covid, Stop Picking On

It's official.

The two lines on my test kit have changed my life for a while.

And I'm very happy.

Yes, I feel actual joy from having COVID-19.

I don't mean any offence to those who've caught the virus before I did -- especially at a time when there were no vaccines and no clarity of the flu beast.

I'm truly thankful that I am getting COVID-19 only now, two years after the pandemic first broke.

And there are many things to be thankful for.

The fact that I'm triple vaxxed (a status so golden that people actually list it in their Grindr profile, as Stanley my sex bunny friend shared). 

The fact that I have no underlying medical conditions.

The fact that I live in a wonderful country Singapore where tele-consulting a doctor and have meds sent to your place is just within a few taps on my phone.

My sex bunny friend Stanley would Amen to that, given that he too, taps on his phone and gets sex sent to his place. 

I'm also truly relieved that I live alone -- no need to worry about isolating myself from my family members, or have to mask up and visit the toilet after shouting warnings to everyone else to steer clear.

But that's me being thankful.

There's a fine line between being thankful and feeling happy to get COVID.

And I think maybe I've crossed that line.

Perhaps, I'm writing this -- and feeling joy -- 'cos I am too privileged. 

That the only thing I am fussing over is whether my taste buds are affected (as opposed to whether the virus will attack my aged lungs and lead to my eventual death).

But there's no denying that I am happy.

For the longest time, I had not slowed down at work, and having had COVID made me do just that.

Just a bit.

But I did slow down.

There was no way I could focus on reading research papers or writing reports when my body felt like it's just been kicked around by a baby elephant. 

Besides, having COVID finally gave me the perfect -- and responsible -- excuse to stop meeting people.

It's emotionally draining when everyone of my friends wants a piece of me.

I'm not complaining about being popular. I am complaining about being emotionally emptied whenever I meet people.

Stanley agrees because he also feels emptied whenever he meets people. 

But I'm in no mood to explore that story today.

And so, on Day One of my COVID, despite being extra exhausted, I made it a point to enjoy my self-isolation.

I put my iRobot to work every morning so that I can have a clean home to recuperate in.

I went on to place all my grocery orders online, stocking up on drinks that would cool my body, buying sensible food items that my body needed for recovery.

I would drink water as if I were addicted to it.

My meals comprise fruits -- sometimes a large bowl of mixed fruits with non-fat yoghurt, sometimes, a large bowl of fruit salad with cheese and olives.

In between, I would make myself a cup of hot peppermint tea, and allowed my comfortable sofa to hug me while I binge-watched Netflix.

During that time, I put my iPhone on Do Not Disturb because that's part of my recovery process.

And boy, did I love the me-time.

I didn't tell everyone I had COVID.

I don't want to be one of those people who deem it vital to post a photo of their positive result on IG. 

Why? Why must you all do that? 

I did tell just a handful of people -- my partner J, younger brother Barry (but not my sister because that one will raid the pigeon boxes of Chinese medicinal halls and sweep up entire NTUC shelves and send them to my home, along with hourly messages to ensure I am not dead and decomposing alone at home). 

Best girl friend Nisa and Stanley are the only ones outside my family to know. 

Yet, I'm fortunate enough to have gifts flooding my doorstep.

One package came with an assortment of Chinese medicines, each one to help me deal with my individual COVID symptom. 

Another care basket came from outside of Singapore -- from my overseas friends who are also work mates. It comprises gui ling gao -- some bitter herbal jelly that's meant to cool one's body heat, as well as honey sea coconut drinks.

Yet another one sent me tubs of soothing beancurd that's enough for me and my descendants. 

Knowing that I have such love from people is comforting.

Best of all, I feel totally rested and am grateful.

And I guess looking at things from this perspective, and feeling joy from it, is what being positive truly means. 

 

 

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

 

Dumb and Tummier

 Revisiting some of my old blog posts that I wrote about my Stanley and Carl.

The following piece was penned in August 2010:

===

After working nonstop for a stretch of 25 minutes right after breakfast the other day, I thought I should reward myself with a Facebook break.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the island, someone was already up and about in the virtual world too. In just one minute, Carl had posted a grand total of 29 updates on his Facebook page.

A sample of them reads as follows:

I am fat.
No more char-tow-kuay from Ghim Moh for me.
I hate my tummy.
I hate myself for missing gym.
No more supper for me!
No more prata!
No more tummy!
No more!!!

Concerned, I quickly What'sApp-ed Stanley, who replied that a gathering was in order that very night.

"Urgent meeting at Holland V tonight. 7pm. Pontian noodles then coffee club", read his activation message.

Later that night, at 7.30pm sharp, all three of us turned up at the market, where food and drinks were promptly ordered without so much as to pause and air kiss one another.

"I have a confession to make," Carl said, after a few seconds of toying with his bowl of noodles.

"Mmmm, it's such a bliss to be finally able to taste food," Stanley interjected in between noisy slurping.

"I've been eating way too much and I haven't been gymming. And, guys, I have a tummy."

"Erm, I think we know that already?" Stanley replied way too quickly, and was rewarded with a look from Carl that, if he were a puppy, we'd quickly scoop him up, turn him over, and give him a loving tummy rub.

"No, what I meant was, I think we all knew that at exactly 9.12am, along with the remaining 457 of your Facebook friends.

"Besides, darling, you look fine just the way you are," consoled Stanley. "Hey, Carl, you still want that wanton?"

The meal went on grimly for the next few minutes before Stanley broke the silence again.

"You know," Stanley said, pausing for air from vengeful munching of his food, "one of the best things of my recent sickness is, when I wake up in the morning, there's just so much of dried booger for me to dig. It's immensely liberating. Let me see if I can find them... See?"

Both Carl and I set down our chopsticks at once.

"Anyway, I'm sure you'll be able to lose whatever imaginary fats you have lah Carl," Stanley said.

At the rate Stanley's going with his booger, I'll be damn surprised if he doesn't.

Unfazed by Stanley's string of comforting cliches, Carl looked us in the eye, then said morbidly, "my fats are not imagination".

There and then, amid some 130 hungry diners at Holland V market, Carl lifted up his bright orange tee and showed us his offending body part.

"See?!" he said to us, pinching his wobbly tummy in position, jiggling it with such negative vibes that any stray cat, dog or rat within a five-metre radius of Carl would swiftly scramble away.

"Carl, please, we're eating!" Stanley pleaded.

That night, after Stanley dropped off a very wounded (but newly rounded) Carl, I turned to Stanley and asked if he remembers episode Force Feeding.

Years ago, Carl the beefcake was Carl the cupcake. Petite and very skinny, our then 19-year-old friend often felt very inferior.

Nobody likes a pack of bones, he used to say.

Then one day, at the now-defunct Burger King in Holland V, Carl announced to us that he had found the answer to his predicament.

But first, I read that "force feeding" is an essential step for skinnies to take before they start gymming, so that the body has something to beef up, he went on with the enthusiasm of an insurance salesman.

And before we knew it, Carl put his jaw muscles to good use as he began chomping on his burger forcefully, mouthful after mouthful without stopping to chew properly, as Stanley and I stared at him, jaw dropped.

"I wonder how he got that fat," Stanley said without emotion, as he drove. "That reminds me, I think I'll stop eating beef burgers for the next few days." 

As I showered later that night, I looked down at my own body. Sure, I don't look like I just stepped out of the pages of GQ, and yes, there are imperfections. I need a bit of nipping and tucking here, a bit of lipo there, and I can do with some botox. But the thing is, hey, I love my body. Well, at least I don't hate it.

But these days, thanks to porn sites, we gay men are doing what fashion magazine models are doing to anorexic teenage girls. We're force-feeding and gymming just so we can look like one of the desired body categories predetermined by porn websites: Beefcakes lah, athletic jocks lah, lean fit lah, swim bod lah. And so on, and so forth.

Which makes me wonder, why is it that we can't set our own standards when it comes to beauty? Why do we have to subscribe to the notion of beauty set by society -- and in this particular case, porn websites, of all things?

To be honest, we have, on more than one occasion, tried to do something to ourselves in order to look good.

That umpteenth crunch for muscle definition, late night running for the lean, mean, sexy machine look, or abstinence from carbs (Stanley, if you're reading this, please stop offering me portions of your rice).

But at the end of the day, trends change. What if, someday, after all the carb abstinence, and all that religious gymming, society decides that, hmmm, fat is the new sexy? What are we to do with all those muslces?!

If we're running for the sake of health, or gymming to strengthen our core muscles for agility, fine. But overdoing something -- and for the wrong reason at that -- isn't fantastic.

We have seen with our own eyes how Carl functions in gyms.

As if possessed by the Incredible Hulk himself, Carl huffs and puffs, each set more intensive than the last, before finally turning green -- from all the exertion.

Yes, it's worth it because results reflect on his body -- as long as he maintains that figure. But to what end?

Just because Carl let loose for a few months, and ate a wee bit more than usual, our dense friend is now also very tense.

So there and then, I came to a karmic conclusion: That we should not seek acceptance first and foremost, from friends, family, or other eye-roving gay men.

As a friend once told me, we have to learn to love ourselves before others start to love us.

So, yes. That's it. I'm gonna have to sit Carl down and tell him this. Over a plate of our favourite char-tow-kuay from Ghim Moh market. 

 

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

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