Back To Square One

My entry today will be a short one.

I know, I know.

I can already hear my sex bunny friend Stanley's voice in my head.

Any entry that isn't at least seven inches long needs to be reassessed. Unless they're thick as coke cans (I can quote Stanley independently because he did say those words at some point of our friendship and when you hear words like that, it scars you and therefore stays with you).  

I haven't been able to write in the last few weeks because I was in a very bad place: Literally and emotionally. 

I am not exaggerating when I say my life had recently been a roller coaster ride. 

Again, Stanley my sex bunny friend had often associated his life with roller coaster rides: The highs, the sudden slumps, the adrenaline, the rush, the enjoyable humps and bumps.

Except that in Stanley's case, it's a good roller coaster ride -- ride being the operative word which also depends on the man of the day.

For me, it was a bad roller coaster ride.

Readers who follow my blog would likely know I had been posted to Myanmar for work.

Which explains the bad place. 

But fret not. 

I am now writing this in Singapore -- safe and secure Singapore.

I am in no position to comment on the situation in Myanmar which was -- and hopefully is -- my second home in recent years.

But I will say this.

I left the country with a heavy heart.

Not long after the military coup, the management of my company who earns a lot more than I do and does a lot less than I do, decided that they would take a wait-and-see approach with regard to my posting.

The last straw came when the Myanmar army fired into crowds and killed civilians. 

In early March, Singapore issued a statement, asking Singaporeans to consider returning. 

My company, despite its strong presence in Myanmar, decided to extract me and take the cue from the government.

The following days were a whirlwind experience: Packing up, doing paper work, handing over projects at hand to my local staff, tying up loose ends, saying goodbye.

Most importantly, I still had a job -- my company, despite recalling me back to HQ, continued to have big plans for me so job wise, I'm still okay. 

I don't want to go into detail the stress I went through because doing that would revisit the heavy emotions I felt not too long ago.

Instead, I shall focus on the now.

The now, where I'm typing this blog post with a cup of espresso (courtesy of Nisa my best girlfriend who recently popped by with my favourite coffee brand).

The now, where I just had a nice, warm meal (sayur lodeh, laksa prawn with brown rice and red wine -- all home cooked by me because when I'm stressed and need to relax, I wear an apron).

The now, where, after completing my mandatory two-week hotel quarantine, I'm able to meet my loved ones for warm hugs.

One of the first few people I met were of course my family.

My mum, the usually cool Mrs Lee, revealed she was worried sick and was so glad I finally came back. 

In fact, I was back just in time to celebrate her birthday and I guess I was her best birthday gift. 

My siblings, who are both usually quietly supportive, revealed how relieved they were: Not only because I was back, but because they could finally stop pretending to be not worried for me when they sometimes get icy hands every time they get news that someone dies in Myanmar.

"Now that you're back, I can finally stop reading the news," said my sis, who isn't a big fan of news and current affairs. 

Meanwhile, the actual fan of news and current affairs -- affairs being the key word here -- rejoices that I'm back in one piece.

"I never thought I'd one day say this but hugging you had never been more comforting," Stanley said the other day.

"And I take back my words that it's my wet dream fantasy to see a soldier in uniform shoot," he added, unable to help himself. 

Carl my dense friend was also unable to help himself.

"I don't know exactly what's happening in Myanmar but I am also glad you're back," said Carl who, if ever he gets the memo or gets something right, would mean he's reaching the end of his lifespan, the way very weak cancer patients would suddenly perk up and beam exuberant energy with full awareness just days before they actually die. 

J my partner had no words for me when he saw me the first time I was out of quarantine.

His usual quiet demeanor said it all: His eyes. 

Like my siblings, J, the love of my life for the past 20 years, is the pillar of my life.

He had always been encouraging but shortly after I came back to Singapore, he looked me in the eye, held my hand, and said "Don't leave."

I don't know about my future where my career is concerned, but at least for now, I'm here.

Safe, happy, and recovering from an emotional roller coaster ride. 

I will start writing weekly again. 

 

 

 

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

-- Temporary Disruption --

Dear reader,

Adam And The Boys will be back soon.

I'm sorry for not posting anything last Saturday.

Yours truly,

Adam

Bought The House Down

It's official. 

Stanley has formally bought his four-room HDB flat -- his dream house. 

And it's the saucy, steamy kind of dream that occurs at night, Stanley said added.

My sex bunny friend, who had first set sights on the Queen Close apartment, has also promptly appointed a (cute) interior designer and readily accepted his proposal. 

"It's a dream come true. I've always wanted a cute man to have designs on my interior and subsequently make proposals to me about it," Stanley went on. 

"All that's left to do now is to rob a bank and pay him. And not a sperm bank, though that would be a very fun and fruitful trip."

Carl scrunched up his nose and put down the greek yoghurt he's about to put in his mouth.

We were having an urgent video call that morning in honour of Stanley's purchases. 

The total cost of Stanley's damage was $450,000 for the unit, an estimated $80,000 for an overhaul of the retro-looking apartment and a further $80,000 for furniture and white goods.

"At this rate, not only do I have to rob a bank I'll also have to sell backside," Stanley stated plainly.

Carl choked on his greek yoghurt, spluttering white morsels all over his phone.

"WOW, Stan, WOW," Carl said, recovering from his coughing fit. 

Stanley dismissed Carl's surprise, reminding us that he had impressed some one so much that it results in the person choking, gagging and eventually spilling white droplets all over the place. 

"But it's worth all the money," said Stanley who had been saving his money like a motherly chipmunk right before winter. 

And since money wasn't an issue here, Stanley went all out. 

I'm glad I have some family jewels that I can finally put to good use, and with that, Stanley spread open and let us inspect what he meant.

From the shared Zoom screen, we saw a printed copy of the cute designer's rough layout drawing but neither Carl nor I could make sense of it.

Especially so for Carl the dense one.

To help us along, Stanley then showed us the 3-D image produced by his (cute) designer. 

"I had always hoped that I would be impressed and wowed by photos shared by this cute designer, and I should have been more explicit," Stanley said as he moused the drawing part by part. 

This time we were impressed. 

If the designer's idea is anything to go by, Stanley would live in a spacious bachelor's pad that has an expensive touch. 

The designer would break down walls and reconfigure the space of Stanley's place. 

So going by that concept, Stanley would have a large area to host big (dinner) parties. And when his guests are ready to adjourn to dessert, they can do so by his window ledge which faces the lush view of the charming Queenstown estate. 

When guests are ready for digestifs or more alcohol, there's the lounge area where Stanley's expensive sofa and beanbags can maximum comfort to his friends who would by then, no doubt, be full to the point of explosion. 

And for those whom Stanley so chooses to explore any further types of explosions, he (or they) could venture into his large bedroom for round two of (non-dinner) parties. 

There are romantic lighting options to choose from but by that point, nobody would care. 

The bed, as Stanley had previously mentioned before, would be queen sized and be fitted with expensive tencel bed sheets. 

The next morning, Stanley's chosen overnight guest(s) can shower in his oversized toilet (that can host even more non-dinner type parties if he wants to) and then dress up in his walk-in closet.

If Stanley so desires, he can have morning coffee with his overnight guest(s) by the balcony which overlooks a fitness corner. 

"I like it that you have my whole life planned out for me, Adam, but my house won't be no sex den," Stanley said with weak conviction in his voice. 

Carl, who at that time had finished licking his spoon, finally said "Oh, Stan, you bought the place! Congrats!"

Stanley rolled his eyes and said flatly. 

"If Adam's life were to be represented by films, his would be documentaries -- filled with useless information and boring like the bitch he is."

"Mine would of course be an artistic art film that no mothers would allow their children to watch."

"And Carl," Stanley said looking pointedly at our dense friend.

"Yours would a silent black-and-white film."

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

Bling Empire

"Unless you had been living under a rock," Stanley my sex bunny friend said the moment our video call got through, "you would know that the latest rave on Netflix is Bling Empire."

Carl the dense one who doesn't live under a rock grinned and nodded.

"What is Bling Empire!" Stanley barked at Carl, calling him out. 

Carl, who lives in a well and has no access to general knowledge or current affairs, bit his lips and kept his head bowed.

Of late, Stanley had been all about the Bling Empire. 

Our friend had binge-watched all the episodes at one go and even goes so far as to film his reaction at certain scenes (suffice to say the show has a fair share of fair skin showing-- from supple breasts to bubble butts).

But it's not just the nudity, says Stanley. It's their crazy lifestyles and the crazy things they say!

Stanley, who is himself born with a silver spoon in his mouth, has been blessed with his family wealth. 

He would later grow up and replace the silver spoon with something else in his mouth, but the point is, growing up, Stanley had not exactly been poor. 

"But this," Stanley says, "is a different kind of wow."

Taking a private jet to Paris for lunch is not exactly the same as grabbing to Pasir Ris for prawn mee, you know. 

"I want to be a Crazy Rich Asian also," said Stanley, crazy Asian. 

Carl, who is also Asian but far from crazy, nodded enthusiastically and clapped.

Carl is simply dense and has no interest nor the capacity to learn new things around him, including the name of his regular part-time cleaning aunty. 

For weeks, Stanley became heavily obsessed with the show often making references that we do not immediately understand -- which is the norm for Carl.

"I'm inspired to buy a penis pump," Stanley announced the other day, noting that rich people have this handy device.

Curious with all the rave (and the penis pump), I sat down one Saturday morning to finally watch it. 

I must say, the show is trashy.

It's so trashy, it's so bad, it's so good. 

Some say the show is tone deaf because airing a series about ostentatious wealth and lifestyles at this time isn't great timing.

But one thing is loud and clear -- it's highly entertaining. 

I love it because we get a sneak peek into so many things: Rich people's homes, toilets, dinner parties, wardrobes and what's beneath their expensive clothes.

But for me, it was also an awakening. 

While some people's takeaway is to own a penis pump (Stanley) and how one can get rich friends (Carl, who finally watched it, was naturally intrigued by the muscles of one of the characters, and wonders how he can rub shoulders with the rich and famous), mine is quite the opposite.

I was reminded of how poor I had once been, and how that has shaped me later in life.

To be fair, mine is no sob story that is worthy to be shared as a PAP candidate (who will tell you they come from "humble backgrounds" and had lived in a rental flat when they were young). 

But my poor story is still enriching. 

I didn't have money problems until I started working.

It marked the end of my steady stream of pocket money windfall which helped me survive teenhood to university days.

My first job was something I had loved but my salary was miserable.

My takehome pay was $1,400. 

Friends who chose other careers, especially those in the civil service, easily earned $1,000 more.

At first, I wasn't too bothered even though it was natural to compare starting salaries. I stood my ground because I loved my career choice, my colleagues, my work. 

But eventually, being poor sucked.

For four years, I had toiled in that miserly company that gave me a yearly increment of only between $30 and $50.  

Though I had no complaints and still love my work, it got very tiring. 

To make up for the miserable pay, I eventually held two jobs. 

My night job was fun and pays well and involved lots of mingling. 

I taught in a tuition centre thrice a week, earning really good money.

But it took a toll even on my youthful self: Starting my day at 7am and ending at 10pm every day (on days when I'm not at my tuition centre, I was working late). 

My sister always tells me that I needed to hold down one job -- not two -- to earn the money I was earning back then. 

But being young had its advantages.

I was able to push myself with little sleep and bounce back the next day.

On some days, it would be particularly hard.

I had been rejected by banks who saw me as toenail dirt when I applied for credit cards. They didn't even bother replying me to say my application was rejected.

Some days, even the ATM shunned me. 

I would try to draw out $20 and on many occasions, realise, oh, I only have $14 or less in my bank account.

In my early days before I held two jobs, a friend casually asked me out to dinner. 

"I don't have money to pay for Ma Maison," I told E.

E warmly said it would be his treat. 

I wasn't used to being treated as a charity case and of course, E -- who is a dear friend -- had no such intention. But that episode was a vivid one. Both humbling and prideful at the same time -- I was not shy to admit I had no money, and that I wanted to spend within my means. 

Which is one very valuable lesson my partner J taught me.

"It's not how much you earn, but how much you save," he would say. 

It's true. 

Despite four years of miserable pay and a poor head start, I had never once spent beyond my means. 

When I first started out, my monthly savings had been $50. 

It took me three years before I could increase that monthly saving amount to $150. 

Today, I'm proud to say that I still spend humbly -- which is slightly more than my starting pay of $1,400 some 20 years ago. 

But I also have, along the way, picked up acts of kindness shown to me. 

These days, I try to pay for meals when I'm with friends whenever I can because I remember how nice it felt when E had treated me when I was at my lowest, at my poorest. 

Having once been poor also taught me that money isn't everything. 

When I was at my lowest, I was surrounded by friends who would pay for my meals and offer to lend me money when I was dry. And I am glad I wasn't shunned because those people, who are my true friends, remain in my circle today. 

I shared these with Stanley.

"I hear you, sister," he said.

"When I'm at my lowest, I too want to be surrounded by people especially when I'm dry. And I want them in my circle for sure."

 

 

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

Love, Love, Love

On Valentine's Day last year, I wrote about J and my love story. 

I love my partner of 19 years to bits and while I can write about us to no end, I've decided to dedicate today's post to my friends. 

The stars of my blog, Stanley the sex bunny and Carl the dense one. 

Without whom, I would have no materials nor topics to write about. 

And since the theme is love, this piece is about why I love these two to bits too. 

Although with Stanley the size queen, it's never about the bits.

The hunkier, the better in fact. 

The star of my blog has been known for his sexual adventures.

He has slept with one and all during his thirsty thirties and shows no sign of slowing down in the next decade. 

The next 10 years are my fuckable forties, he once famously declared. 

But sexual energy isn't Stanley's main strength.

Nor is his random humour (anything that comes out of Stanley's mouth is almost always sex related. Likewise, anything that goes into Stanley's mouth is also almost always sex related).

True, my fey friend has a sharp sense of humour and can read the room well enough to inject appropriate doses of fun to either break awkwardness or ramp up the partying scale. 

But those aren't the reasons I love Stanley.

Sure -- he's definitely fun to hang out with. You can always count on him to make you laugh (and if you're his type, I'm told he can make you feel a lot of other things too). 

And while Stanley sheds clothes easily, what he doesn't readily reveal to the rest of the world is his sense of loyalty and acute level of sensitivity.

Ever since I knew Stanley in NS, I have never known him to be one to judge (except when it comes to perky asses and when he's on Grindr). 

I love Stanley because when you tell him something serious, he listens. 

He throws in a joke here and there, but you're sure that Stanley listens to your problems and doesn't pass his own assessment of you. 

He's also known to stand by his friends in times of need -- whether it's financial, emotional or especially sexual. He's always ready to give. 

Despite his sexual ways, Stanley is the most loyal, most faithful lover when he's in a relationship. A rare quality, considering. 

And these are some of the reasons I love Stanley to bits.

As for Carl the gym rabbit, it's also never about the bits. 

The hunkier, the better in fact. 

All his life, Carl the dense one had dedicated most of his waking hours to beefing up. 

While the rest of the world is out working, he's mostly working out. 

We suspect all the pumping is causing imbalanced development to his brain 'cos all the blood's going to his python sized biceps (Stanley, for one, agrees. He knows that over-pumping one part of the body will result in a lot of blood flow to the area, but let's not digress. This portion is about Carl).

All his life, Carl the dense one had been slow to the world. 

I mean, he's not stupid. He is intellectual. Otherwise, he wouldn't have graduated from university with a good degree -- and he speaks fluent French, plays the piano well and has the vocals of an angel. 

But Carl tends to be rather slow in general. 

He is always the last to read the room, always the last to keep up with conversations. 

When we were in our early 20s, Carl had once pointed out in public that he had never seen such a huge violin in his entire life. When we turned to look, we realised the poor child was talking about a cello -- and he wasn't even being funny. 

But as with all goons, Carl is good natured. 

The kind who mean well and can grin back at you heartily even when you're making fun of him. That, or the poor fella doesn't even realise what's going on.

And it's this kind nature of Carl that I have come to love. That, although he's always in a world of his own, he's always there for you if you shake him up and wake him from his stupor for him to focus on the task at hand (such as when we are all waiting for him to order his dish at the restaruant). 

Of course, Carl is also always dependable when heavy lifting needs to be done. 

He had on more than one occasion put his swollen biceps to good use by prying open durians, opening ketchup bottles and carrying a drunken Stanley on his shoulders, lifting our friend onto his shoulders as if he were a limp bolster. 

But most of all, I love Carl because he's always there when you need him (as long as you shake him up like how you'd activate your PC on screen saver mode). 

I had known both Stanley and Carl for over 20 years -- longer than I had been with my partner J. 

Looking back, we had all grown up together.

From the time we were sweet young things in our early twenties to now greying daddies in our forties. 

We had seen one another fall in love, fall out of love. We had been to wild drunken parties together (especially at the now-defunct Niche club), attended each other's graduation ceremonies, clinked glasses over our first jobs, travelled way too often on carefree holidays, lent shoulders to one another when tears need to be shed, gave the other party a firm, helping hand when we need to be pulled out of our ruts. 

We had celebrated countless birthdays, festivals, and any other momentous event. 

And on this Feb 14, our 23rd Valentine's Day as three best friends, I want to say to you both, Stanley and Carl, I love you.

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

Original Sin

My first time was when I was nine. 

I knew it was wrong, but I was really curious.

The next time I did it, I was slightly older -- 15.

And this time, I did it blatantly under my mum's roof.

You're a big boy now, I'm told. It's okay. 

And so I innocently took the crystal glass from this very naughty person and had my first cautious sip of whiskey (neat). 

"How? Nice or not," asks my mum Mrs Lee,who ought to be on the watch list of family social services. 

Truth be told, I didn't like the whiskey one bit, but I drank it anyway because Mrs Lee said I needed to learn how to handle alcohol as a man and I should learn to do so under her supervision. 

And when I looked back to the first time when I sipped red wine at nine (it was after midnight mass so there was celebratory concession), I too remember not liking it. 

Fast forward to now; not only am I not hating it, I'm giving alcohol a tad too much love. 

When it's time to celebrate, drink. When I'm alone, drink. When I'm back from work and haven't even undone my tie, drink.

Whenever my partner J shakes his head at my wine glass, I smile and tell him it's good for the heart. 

When my godson visits, and I'm having a drink with his dad, I tell the innocent li'l chap that "papa is having a medicinal drink so you can't try it."

It wasn't until late last year when I realised I am indeed having too much to drink (four bottles of wine a week when I'm feeling moderate and sometimes, seven a week). 

How did I get here?

Well, to be fair, after my bitter whiskey encounter, the next time I drank was when I was a student in Australia, where wine is so cheap you can buy it with loose change. 

It didn't help either that in my first year of uni, I had stayed in a Catholic dorm where wine drinking was not frowned upon. 

Whenever we had our monthly formal dinners, we would have free flow of wine.

By year two when I moved out to stay with friends, we had by then each developed the trendy habit of having wine with food. 

It started off with a harmless bottle of white wine shared among my young, thirsty friends, over fish and chips.

And whenever we had house parties, someone would buy wine. 

And so as not to allow the wine to expire, I took one for the team and single-handedly took care of the wine.

From there, I took two, three and more bottles of wine.

In my third year, I was at my most stressed academic life. I was constantly worried about living the legacy of all Asian students who need to ace not just their subjects but also to basically top the cohort (Stanley my sex bunny friend would love to top the cohort, but today, he's not in my story).

My stress led to sleepless nights and for nearly a year, I couldn't easily drift to sleep. 

And so, I turned to alcohol, guzzling down one glass every night just to get that comfortable high that would lull me to sleep. 

By the time I graduated and started work life, I had developed a very strong threshold for alcohol. 

I could easily down glasses of beer, shots, cocktails, wine at social functions and still walk in a straight line.

When I bought my own place, my sister gave me a wine cooler and frequently bought me expensive wine, unwittingly inheriting Mrs Lee's role of passing down the alcohol-feeding tradition.

It soon became a lifestyle: Having friends and family over with food and wine.

And then it became a habit. 

I would come home after a super long day and the moment I'm home alone, I'd roll up my sleeves, loosen my tie and pour myself a glass of wine. 

The satisfying pop of the cork, the soft swish of wine gushing out of the bottle, and therapeutic swirl of the glass, and suddenly everything feels right. 

Except it's not.

Friends would joke that I'm alcoholic. Heck, sometimes, even I refer to myself as alcoholic. 

But they meant nothing. They were conversation starters. Meaningless chatter. Not actual labels.

My partner J doesn't like it when I drink but would always allow me a glass or two when we go out for a nice meal.

He would at most sniff me after dinner, scrunch up his nose and say "you smell like vomit". But he never once told me to quit or stop drinking. 

Perhaps, I shouldn't wait for that day to come. 

I mean, I am highly functional -- with or without alcohol.

I can pour myself a stiff drink, open my office laptop and do my work without making any error.

And I don't shiver in cold turkey when I'm without alcohol

There also isn't a beer belly to remind me that I was turning my body into a barrel. 

But of late, I am slowly beginning to realise that I am perhaps drinking a tad too much.

I used to tell myself it's okay to drink alone because I am enjoying the taste of the wine.

Recently, I started becoming homesick, and the wine -- no matter how much I liked it before -- didn't taste the same anymore.

There was no longer joy or beauty with every sip. 

Instead, I felt empty inside, as if I needed to fill the void by feeling the wine burn my insides as it made its downward spiral inside me.

It was a bitter realisation to swallow. 

On Dec 29, 2020, I made a vow to cut down -- not cut out -- alcohol as my new year resolution. 

Two bottles a week, down from four for a start. 

I need to ease myself slowly so that this becomes sustainable. 

I won't cut off ties totally with wine. I'll cut myself some slack and go with the flow on merry occasions. 

But I won't be tangled in my alcoholic mess like before. 

It's been nearly two weeks since I last touched wine, just to prove to myself that I am capable of staying away from it if I want to. 

And the next time I do drink, it'd be because it's a special occasion -- and because I want to. 

Not that I need to. 

Yeah, that sounds like a good strategy. 

I will drink to that. 

 

 

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

Sorry of my Life

We've often been taught to not do things we'd regret later.

Somehow, we don't always learn this lesson.

No matter how much we try, we often have regrets in life.

Stanley my sex bunny friend often lives with such dilemma.

I regret sleeping with him - he's not that cute in retrospect. Maybe I was just drunk.
I regret not sleeping with him. He's so cute in retrospect. Maybe he was not that drunk. 

But I'm talking about more than such shallow regrets.

Bigger, deeper sort of regrets.  

Stanley tells me he too, has his fair share of very deep regrets.

I'm scared to know what he meant.

I write about the topic of regrets today because recently, it came up in a conversation with some friends over beer.

Because they were new friends I made here in Myanmar, I didn't share very much with them.

My regrets are quite personal.

And this one is my deepest.

When I was in secondary school, I discovered that I was different.

Gay.

And it was something I couldn't accept, often struggling to come to terms with it and always questioning why the hell I'm gay.

When I was 13, I made a vow to myself that I will fight this gayness.

And so, I did just that, fight being the operative word.

In school, I tried to man up with sports like track and field and Judo.

By 14, I was very good at Judo, not so good at track and field, but most importantly, I portrayed myself as a straight, sporty jock.

But that was not enough.

Deep in my heart, I am immensely afraid of being found out I'm gay.

So I decided to create distractions - by bullying the more effeminate guys in school, so that the attention is on them rather than me.

One of them is Kenneth.

Quiet, skinny and always minding his own business by being alone during recess and avoiding coming into contact with other boys.

But no. Kenneth's defensive and protective nature was non of my business.

I decided to be a big bully and started calling the poor boy names which I would never have wanted to be called.

The other boys whom I led were just happy to be part of a group and entertained by the sight of Kenneth squriming away from us.

The more Kenneth ran away from me, the more empowered I felt, and in retrospect, the more shameful I was.

But I was on such a high being the school jock (and school jerk) who nobody noticed was gay deep inside.

The name calling culminated in something more serious soon.

I can't remember what led me to doing it, but I recall leading my group of boys towards Kenneth during recess time.

I walked into Kenneth's classroom, broke coloured chalk into smaller pieces and handed them to my gang.

Kenneth, who was reading in class alone, physically recoiled by the sight of the seven of us surrounding him.

On my command, we threw chalk at him, mottling Kenneth's pristine-white school uniform with multiple coloured marks, each coloured splatter on his shirt a reminder of my dark secret.

Soon, I grew tired of bullying Kenneth and we all moved on.

But every time I thought about Kenneth, I felt deeply ashamed.

When I finally came to my senses as a young adult, it was too late.

Kenneth had blocked me when I tried to befriend him on Facebook years later. And when I saw him outside when we were in our early twenties, Kenneth avoided eye contact with me and quickly wriggled into the crowd to get away from his biggest tormentor.

Last I heard, Kenneth migrated after national service.

His Facebook account is seldom updated and his whereabouts unknown, since he didn't have many friends back in secondary school and no one knew much of him.

Today, as I type this, I am filled with regret for doing what I did to Kenneth.

Attacking someone like me who needed just as much protection from shame, discrimination and bullying is a cowardly act.

I have nothing but regret.

Kenneth will never know this.

And even if he does, I cannot expect Kenneth to forgive me for the unkind bullying I subjected him to.

The best apology I can offer is to never ever do this to anyone, and to stop bullying if I can see it.

Perhaps, not approaching Kenneth to say sorry to him is the best, the kindest, and most merciful apology to him.

Because if I do manage to say sorry to Kenneth, the only closure I get is for myself.

And then I walk away, leaving his healed scars open for him to bear.

Kenneth, I'm very, very, very sorry.

And you don't have to forgive me.

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