A Shot in Life

"I wonder who's going to lift up my clothes and poke me," Stanley the sex bunny said in excitement, unable to sit still in his plastic chair.

Carl the gym rabbit began flexing his python-sized biceps, breathing in and out forcefully as if getting ready for the Olympics 100kg Clean and Jerk category. 

Also looking like he's getting ready for the jerk category, Stanley began looking around lustfully at every male species entering Queenstown CC, where the three of us, of all things, had planned to take our booster shot together.

The three of us had once upon a very long time joked about how someday, instead of dressing up to explore gay bars or dine at the latest trendy and pretentious restaurants, would end up making medical appointments as part of our social gatherings. 

There we were, three Uncles advancing into our mid-forties, living out our future.

Meanwhile, Stanley was advancing towards an early-thirties, his eyes zeroing in on a well-groomed man wearing an army singlet.

"Attention all units, attention all units, 3-o'clock, 3-o'clock, over," Stanley said, no doubt trying to sound like a pilot on speaker, but ended up instead sounding like the NTUC Aunty paging for help at Counter 6.

I pretended I didn't hear Stanley and stared at my iPhone with intense focus.

Carl too didn't hear Stanley because, as usual, he was spacing out.

"3-o'clock, 3-o'clcok, over," Stanley said more urgently, no longer using an indoor voice. For effect, Stanley jerked his head and eyes in the direction of the well-groomed young man wearing the army singlet.

Carl got the signal and began fumbling, mapping out with, first his left finger and then his right finger the trajectory of an imaginary clock dial.

Carl didn't know where to look.

I didn't know where to look. It was getting embarrassing because a makcik sitting nearby began studying the three of us with keen interest. 

I won't be surprised if makcik were smiling beneath her mask. 

"Adam Lee, booth 2!"

Thank God. Saved by the belle -- a petite looking young volunteer with long, straight hair.

Inside booth 2, I met a very chirpy woman who looked about my age.

I know because she said "oh, 1979. We're same age!"

While her hands went about tearing needle packages and fixing vaccine doses smoothly like a well-seasoned factory worker, I learned that she was a nurse who retired in her early 30s after she got married.

"I quit to look after my two kids but when this pandemic happened, I told my kids 'mummy needs to go back and serve the country'," she said.

I could see it from her eyes that nursing and motherhood were both her calling because she really like  any matronly nurse, I didn't even see -- or feel -- the booster shot. 

"There!" she said again with her chirpy voice. 

"Stay safe," she said to me sincerely, her eyes scrunched up from a hidden smile. 

Indeed. "Stay safe" has become one of the most commonly heard phrases these days. 

Even with vaccinations or booster shots, danger still lurks out there.

"I always know that I no longer have gag reflex but I didn't expect that I also incapable of feeling any sensation when being poked," Stanley said to me back at the common waiting area, unwittingly helping me to prove my point about the lurking dangers out there.

I looked around to see if the makcik was still tracking our activity but instead found Carl flexing his python-sized biceps. 

"Did the needle break upon contact?" Stanley asked Carl sarcastically.

Unable to detect the tone in Stanley's voice, Carl flexed harder, happy that his friend appreciates his He-Man muscles. 

As mandated by the government, we had to wait for 30 minutes for any side effects to show up before we could leave.

Stanley made full use of the time and widened the scope of his radar eyes, ready to fantasize.

Carl was lost in his own thoughts and began nodding off, looking like he might topple over anytime and cause the young volunteers to panic.

I was soaking in the moment and reality of it.

When I first knew the boys more than 20 years ago, I would never have imagined that we would progress in life together.

Sure, I knew they would be my core group of friends but what I didn't factor in was that we would all one day grow old together.

We're on our way there.

In the last 20 years, we've gone through -- and been with one another -- so many milestones.

University graduation, our first job, Stanley's first car, our respective property buys, and everything else in between -- sharing the joys of new relationships, the tears of loved ones gone, the rare fights over the most petty of issues, and most of all, the love and assurance of people who'd be there for you.

That day, I tell myself that it won't be long that more of our social gatherings in future would involve Dettol-smelling hospital rooms... and, God forbid, that one final day, in a room filled with the cloying scents of flowers and weeping peers at one of our wakes.

As the three of us walked out of Queenstown CC that day, I put my arms around Carl and Stanley, so glad that the three of us are literally walking towards old age together.

"I never thought I'd say this," Stanley said breaking the silence.

"At this age and day in time, I would prioritise getting a booster shot over a Vodka shot or a cum shot."

 

 

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

You Gotta Move It Move It

In the Heterosexual Textbook for Couples, boy marries girl, boy and girl move in to Punggol (or Sengkang), boy and girl give birth, get highly strung, eventually grow old and fat and die.

In the Homosexual Textbook for Couples, boy meets boy, boy and boy move in to one of the old HDB estate flats (which would be renovated and decorated with style), boy and boy don't give birth, get high, eventually grow old and beefy and die. 

Carl the dense one is naturally confused with the analogy. 

"What are you studying now Adam? Why is your textbook so strange?" our slow friend asks, displaying textbook dimwittedness. 

If Carl were a textbook, his font size would as large as his python sized biceps, the pages filled with colourful illustrations meant for kids. 

Stanley my sex bunny friend is, however, quick to get the memo.

"Whichever textbook you're talking about, I suggest we go to the contents page, scroll down to look for the sex part, and dive straight into that chapter," my slut friend says, displaying textbook quick wittedness. 

If Stanley were a textbook, his font size will be as per prescribed by the publisher but one has to keep reading between the lines for constant innuendoes. And yes, Stanley's pages will be filled with way too colourful illustrations not meant for kids. 

I was having one of my brain fart moments, pondering about life in general when I messaged the boys in our WhatsApp group. 

In particular, I was thinking about J and my future. 

If the two of us were to follow the Homosexual Textbook for couples, we would by now have moved in together and done the things most gay couples do. 

When J and I first got together in 2002, moving in was part of our eventual plan. 

But we made those plans in our early 20s and we each had big dreams to fulfill first, and we agreed to work on them.

J's dream is to play real life monopoly, collecting properties to rent them out and then retire at 50. 

At 43, he's almost there -- he now has two and is planning for his third purchase. Already, he's started talking about quitting his job -- and learning a new skill just for fun -- once he is receiving two sets of rental income.

My dream was simple. To continue to be a slave to my work, and devote 100 per cent of my time to it while I'm at it. And unlike J, I don't want retire any time soon for I truly love what I do by day. 

And while I also do love what I do by night (with J), I eventually got used to living apart from J.

Which got me thinking. 

What if, in our 20-year relationship, we have grown too comfortable with our current arrangements?

What if we were too old to adapt to a life under one roof and started rocking the boat?

Stanley my sex bunny friend says I'm thinking too much, and that any rocking at our age -- whether under one roof or sheets -- can only be a good thing.

Carl the dense one says I'm studying into this situation too much and shouldn't read confusing textbooks.

But I can't help it. 

I don't think I make a good candidate to live with.

From a relatively young age, I had gotten a taste of independence and loved it greatly.

During national service, I moved from the West to the far-flung borders of Singapore because my camp was so damn remote, and for almost 2 years, I had the best time living like a happy bachelor. 

When I studied overseas, I had stayed in a good Catholic hostel just for boys, something which I enjoyed too.

I recall Stanley's numerous attempts to fly over and explore the Down Under in my good Catholic boy hostel. 

Back then, I had my own tiny, tiny, tiny room (the size of two toilet cubicles), and I truly enjoyed that living arrangement. When I was done feeling cramped up in that tiny lot, I can easily hang out with friends in the living or studying or dining areas. 

I grew to like that sort of independence where I know I have friends when I need them, and feel assured enough that I can retreat back to my private space whenever I pleased. 

In my second year, I did the unthinkable -- I moved into a huge house just slightly off campus, with a few other Singaporeans.

It was mostly enjoyable for the first few months but soon, I starting plotting various ways to poison my housemates over the tiniest things: So and so didn't do the dishes. That person didn't lift the toilet seat. There's no more bread and milk!

Perhaps the best thing out of that year was that I became closer to my roommate Eric Lum whom I later had a child with (read about my godson here).

In my final year, I moved out partly because I missed staying alone and mainly 'cos I didn't want to commit genocide on my housemates who're thankfully still alive for me to keep in touch with today. 

When I got back to Singapore, I worked towards buying my own place and soon, life living alone was good again. 

I know I love J very much and want to make a life with him together. 

But now that I'm so old and used to my own habits, I really wonder if moving in together could shake up a two-decade relationship. 

On paper, I know that there's no happily ever after in our daily lives as a couple. 

The thing about sleeping with your loved one after a night of intimacy and waking up the next day smiling at each other and sharing a kiss? That's rubbish. 

Early into my relationship with J, I have learnt that sleeping with him can be deadly: His head threatening to cut off blood supply to my arm in the middle of the night. 

J would often complain that "you no longer want to cuddle with me when we sleep" because spooning him means having to curl my spine up like a prawn and it's not exactly comfortable.

And when we wake up in the morning, we don't magically open our eyes at the same time.

J wakes up a lot earlier and would tickle me till I could wriggle and giggle no more. Okay, that part is sweet -- though I may not say the same 20 years down the road when I have arthritis or something. 

In fact, there are many things that are sweet about me and J living together. 

Though I said we lived apart, I do stay over regularly at his place for long stretches. 

During those times, we eventually established a routine. 

On weekends, J would make coffee for me in the morning, and make breakfast while I brushed my teeth. 

Or if J tickled me early enough, we'd walk to the nearby Chomp Chomp food centre for chwee kueh.

On weekdays, I would be the one who would come home later than J. 

And when I'm back, J would heat up food for me while I showered, and would sit with me at the dining table while he continued killing zombies on his phone. 

We have grown to feel comforted with each other's presence even when no words are exchanged. 

Oh, and we have come to a point where I can fart and shit in front of him while he showered without taking out the romance in our relationship.

Stanley was naturally horrified. When you're with your lover and insert things into your orifice, it can be romantic, but the moment you expel things out of your orifice when your partner is around, there is nothing romantic about it, he once said to me. 

"If he didn't break up with you when you break wind, he's a keeper," Stanley said that day, ending my brain fart moment. 

Perhaps, I think too much. 

Even though J and I aren't following the typical Homosexual Textbook For Couples, it doesn't mean we won't ace the subject. 

If we can make our own rules in our early twenties and stick to them, then surely, 20 years later, we can continue to shape our rules and stick to them?

After all, textbooks are just a guide for beginners and when it comes to real-life situations, it's how we apply knowledge and react accordingly that truly matters. 

Plus, in J's words, "We both know you don't make a good housemate. But who's to say you won't do well as my lover in our future home?"

 

 

 

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

Meeting the Family

This Chinese New Year, the most dreaded question of When Are You Getting Married shall be fielded by my sister, 46-year-old Ms Lee.

She had brought it upon herself.

And right now, it is being brought closer and closer.

The Eagle has landed, my cheeky brother Barry spoke into his wrist. 

The younger Lee is a huge fan of Hong Kong cop movies and right now, he's playing out a scene that is known only in his mind. 

"All units, standby. The Eagle has landed."

On cue, the matron of the house Mrs Lee stands up, straightens her yellow cheongsam and casually strides over to me and whispers, "how long you think this time?"

"Happy New Year mummy," my sister says as cheerfully as she can humanly manage at our doorstep, her eyes crinkling into slits above her mask. 

"This is Eric. Dear, this is my family."

Mrs Lee immediately heaves a big sigh of relieve and before Eric could remove his shoes and take out the Mandarin oranges from his mini red paper bag, our mum took Eric by his wrist and dragged him into the house.

Younger brother is equally, if not, more relieved. He started clapping, patted Eric on his shoulder, and skipped to the kitchen, before returning with a tray of Tiger Beer and Bak Kwa. 

You see, my sis has always been very secretive about her love life and even though we both are super close, she had only recently revealed she'd been dating.

She told me about her "partner" only four months prior to Chinese New Year.

To be fair, my sis has always been dating around and her relationships had never been long enough to last for two back-to-back Chinese New Years.

Over the years, she's become more careful and selective with revealing information about her boyfriends.

So about a week before Day One of Chinese New Year, my sis dropped the bombshell during a pre-CNY lunch at Asia Grand that she's bringing someone over.

My mum kicked me under the table urgently while remaining as calm as a seasoned mahjong player dealt with a good hand. 

She picked up a dim sum morsel, gently dipped it into the chilli sauce while her sandal continuously poked violently at my shin under the red table cloth.

I felt like I had to do something.

"Ouch," I enunciated so that the word came out as a warning

Mrs Lee turned very slowly at my direction and looked at me with extreme serenity. "Yes, son?" 

I backed down and shoved a Siew Mai in my mouth. 

During lunch, my sis shared only that much her partner and the key pieces of info were that he's an elite fire fighter, he has good built and rides a bike.

Mrs Lee later said to me "habis lah, your sister dating Melyau."

But right now, Eric is far from Melayu -- after he paid CNY greetings to my mum (in perfect Mandarin, mind you), younger brother Barry thrust a can of beer in his hand, to which Eric obliged and the two found companionship and bonded over two tin cans. 

My sister found me in the kitchen and asked me "how? What do you think?"

To be honest, Eric looks like a great catch.

Polite, simple, honest, and most importantly passionately altruistic. 

And of course, Eric is younger.

My sis has never dated anyone her age firstly because anyone her age would either be married, divorced or gay -- or weird. Secondly, my sis, though all of 46 years old, can pass off as a 30 year old spinster.

"Bachelorette," she corrects me on the spot. 

And so when she puts herself out there in the dating market, younger guys like Eric would naturally swipe right on her.

"I love that guy," Barry says as he bends down to fetch two more cans of beer. "He's telling me a lot of exciting stories about fire fighting work!"

My sis smiles, knowing that whomever she brings home to meet the family during CNY would be warmly embraced.

We had always been supportive of one another and had each other's back.

When I first brought my partner J to meet the Lees some 20 years ago, my sis and brother had been pillars to me.

They made sure J felt accepted and they kept engaging J so that he would feel welcomed in the family.

Now, it's our turn.

Though Sis always brings different guys back for CNY over the years, she can always count on Barry and me to make her partner feel welcomed and loved.

Just then, my mum came into to scoop Longan dessert from the stove.

She stared in my direction and when Sis wasn't looking, Mrs Lee mouthed the words "how long?"

To quell Mrs Lee's innate kaypoh aunty personna, I did what my sex bunny friend Stanley would do.

"I think he's a good 7 inches, if you ask me."

Mrs Lee choked on her saliva and kicked me in the shin.

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

Happy CNY!

You know you're blessed when people you love come to your place and do a big spring clean just for you.

And it's the time of the year for such lovely gatherings to be had.

"Actually," Stanley pointed out, "people you love can also go to your place and do a big spring clean for you after you die."

Ok, Gong Hei Fatt Choy to you too, bitch.

But first things first. 

Before this morning's spring cleaning exercise, the gang needs to eat.

And so, to the nearby hawker centre near my place we ventured.

We found ourselves in front of the Chap Chye Png stall out of pure efficiency -- it was the stall with the least queue. 

"There's an art to ordering economic rice dishes," Carl the dense one said to us, his mask puffing up.

"You decide on the top three dishes you want," he said. "Then you rank in your head which ones are your favourite."

Stanley looked at Carl, not sure where our usually-clueless friend was going with his lecture. 

"Always place your favourite of three choices in the middle. Because when the aunty scoops your first choice, she'd be telling herself 'not too much... there are two more choices coming'. And when she scoops the second dish -- the favourite and most important of the three -- she does so with full vigour. The last dish is usually the oh, too much the rice box is full scoop so it's not going to be a lot," Carl explains with seriousness. 

"You have given this a lot of thought, Carl," I said, impressed.

Stanley leaned in and said he wished Carl would apply the same rigour of thinking process in his everyday life. 

Armed with four packets of Chap Chye Png, we made our way back to my very beautiful but very dusty apartment where J my partner had already done the laundry while the boys and I hunted for, and brought back food.

Stanley opened his styrofoam lunch box and gave Carl dagger stares that's meant to stab and hurt. 

"What rubbish theory did you just share, Carl," Stanley barked at our dense friend, exasperated that his middle-choice of curry chicken comprised only one small drumstick and a large potato. 

His remaining choices of eggplant and long beans filled up the box generously.

Like an angry mother looking to vent equally at all her kids including those who hadn't done anything wrong, Stanley spun his head towards me and unleashed matronly fire at me.

"Adam Lee. What sort of stupid hawker centre is this. You should move out!"

As if to do damage control, Stanley began tapping at his phone with intense concentration.

"I'm taking full control of tonight's food orders," Stanley said sternly. 

The plan for today, is that we'd spring clean for first half of the day and by the time we're done, my house would be decent enough not just for human habitation but also decent enough to host our group's reunion dinner. 

When we polished off our takeaway styrofoam rice boxes, the four of us got to work.

And we all worked based on our strengths.

Carl put his python-sized biceps to good use by moving heavy pieces of furniture around to clean up.  

Stanley the sex bunny focused on enthusiastic sucking, leaving no areas unsucked as he navigated around my place with the vacuum cleaner. 

J the systematic worker looked at whatever everyone else was doing and preemptively readied himself the next tasks as if batons were handed in a race. 

That was when he placed his hands Akimbo like he were Wonder Woman and said pointedly to me "and what are you doing when everyone is hard at work cleaning your place?"

"Ya! MOVE OUT!" Stanley shouted over the roar of the vacuum cleaner, clearly still sore over his meagre second-serving of chicken curry.

Carl tip-toed out of Stanley's sight and waited till the coast was clear.

Three hours of combined effort later, the boys, J and I slumped in my living room. 

Stanley lay on his back like a starfish on top of my carpet, spent. "Sucking non stop for an hour does that to you," he said.

Carl was knocked out, dozing off with his mouth wide open, snoring away softly.

J shook his head when I said "I'm dying of exhaustion."

"You didn't do very much," J said to me as lovingly as he could. 

I looked around my house and let out a very happy sigh of relief.

Windows, grilles, dusted. Floor vacuumed, mop. Surfaces, wiped. 

My place is also aptly adorned with all things Lunar New Year.

Pussywillows, fresh flowers (a dozen red roses) strategically placed.

My Crate and Barrel bowl is filled with eight Mandarin oranges alongside a red packed filled with money to symbolise wealth.

I had brought out my super Cheena cushion covers -- bright red with gold embroidery of the words "Fortune" and "Luck" in Chinese characters. A table throw that looks like it's ripped out of the Cheongsam of a Cantonese Dim Sum restaurant waitress. 

All that's missing are couplets, or fake firecrackers, or --

I stop myself from going down the list.

Because I look around and see that there is nothing missing in my life.

My partner of 20 years J is right beside me, functioning as my human pillow at this moment. 

Carl and Stanley my two best friends of more than 20 years are lying around as if they had been attacked with sleep darts. 

My beautiful and cosy home that's filled with not just Lunar New Year decor but the invisible and collective web of their love hovering my lovely apartment.

Indeed, there's nothing missing.

"Where's the food," Stanley said in a low guttural voice.

 

 

 

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

 

The Heavy Topic

Today's topic is gonna be a heavy one.

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

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

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

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

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

Actually, it's about suicidal thoughts.

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

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

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

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

"Is he cute?" Stanley asked. 

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

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

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

So this associate, let's call him S. 

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

Stanley whistled. 

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

Amen, sister, Stanley said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stanley nodded sagely, processing this heavy update.

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

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

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

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

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

"So what did J say?" Stanley asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Take Leslie Cheung.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stanley concludes that J is doing the right thing.

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

===

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

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

Marry Go Round

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

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

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

"What are we talking about? Squid Game?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Boon Keong had met his partner last August.

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

"And that's Lionel?" Carl asked.

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

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

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

"And Alfred is?" Carl asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

J and his boys would know this.

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

For Alfred, it would be worse.

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

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

But there comes a point where enough is enough. 

Alfred had a health scare a few years ago.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But not all would have caught on that trend.

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

There is no one straight answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy New Year!!!

3... 2... 1... 

Happy New Year!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Among the things on my list this year: 

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

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

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

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

Resolutions never come true. Not for me at least. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have a meaningful 2022, dear readers.

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