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[Blogger Adam]

Hi, I'm Adam and I write to de-stress.

 

I have a good friend, Stanley, and he shags to de-stress.

 

I recently thought of reviving my interest to write (true) stories based on my friends and with Stanley's blessings, I am free to use his life as blog material (since he pities how boring a life I lead).

 

And so here I am, (shameless) promoting my blog here.

 

Share your blog links too? Anyone?

 

 

http://adamandtheboys2.blogspot.sg/

 

 

 

[Guest Al desserting]

Hihi, I own a blog as well.

 

Link here:

http://dessertingbeauty.blogspot.sg/

[Guest Adam]

(From http://adamandtheboys2.blogspot.sg/2017/05/fashion-statement.html)

 

This evening, we go shopping.

 

"We need a Cabinet reshuffle," Stanley announces to me urgently over the phone.

 

Recently, Stanley had been doing some serious contemplation about clothes.

 

Usually, his contemplation about clothes revolve around getting rid of them - then getting stark naked and diving right into bed with partner of the day.

 

Tonight, Stanley's plan with Carl and I involve just that.

 

Except, nobody's getting naked or diving right into bed with our best gay pal.

 

Thank God. I can't force myself to be lesbian.

 

Stanley is out on a mission to replace all his clothes in his closet. 

 

Last week, Stanley met one of his secondary school friends L, who is now an established personality in the fashion industry.

 

"Oh my word, I suggest you take off that t-shirt the moment you're home and shred it to pieces and then burn it away," were L's opening words to Stanley as he stepped into PS Cafe that afternoon.

 

According to L, it is not permissible for 38 year olds to wear t-shirts with cartoon prints and appear in public and walk among humans.

 

They not only make you look like you're wearing your nephew's clothes, worse, they also make you look like a lao gay, L said.

 

Stanley couldn't even voice out his inner thoughts of who died and made you fashion God because, truth be told, L is indeed a respectable icon in the world of fashion, having cut his teeth (and endless bales of fabric) as he carved out a respectable career in the industry.

 

"I had always dreamt of the day when someone looks at me and immediately tells me that I need to take my clothes off. And I should have been more specific," Stanley wrote in our group chat with Carl and me during his coffee with L that day.

 

But the coffee session turned out to be quite fruitful.

 

And our born again fashionista is determined to impart his newfound knowledge to us.

 

"Now, now, now, now, now" Stanley shouted into the phone. "Before I start sounding my horn and announcing that I am arriving," Stanley threatened.

 

"And trust me - when I am associated with the words horn and arriving, you know I will be a loud, full blown drama queen."

 

I immediately sprint down the stairs and wave the moment I see Stanley's car approach.

 

I step in and - I am greeted by a mourner.

 

"Whose bloody funeral are you attending," I ask with love, looking at Stanley's all-black getup: Black polo tee, black pants, black shoes.

 

"This is the Black Widow look," the drama queen said with mystery in his voice.

 

"I can imagine why your husband would want to kill himself."

 

Turns out, Stanley was so convinced by L's advice that he had decided to disown almost all of his existing clothes.

 

The only few pieces that L had given his approval for Stanley to wear in public, as a respectable man approaching the big four-O, were his black Fred Perry polo tee and his skinny black jeans bought from Top Shop some seven years ago. 

 

Twenty minutes later, a very task-oriented Stanley reaches Carl's block and in comes our dense friend.

 

"Wow. Who died?" Carl asks, looking very concerned as he eyes Stanley's clothes.

 

All our adult lives, we had known Stanley to be a very, shall we say, adventurous dresser.

 

He never wears dark colours. My beach-boy tan skin cannot pull off such dull tones, he would say.

 

And so, Stanley's wardrobe is a burst of colours.

 

From bright yellow skinny jeans (which can be spotted from the moon), to questionable singlets with sequins and, God forbid, a pair of purple checked bell bottoms (which Stanley bought in his mid-twenties at Far East Plaza and occasionally wears to house parties), Stanley Ong proudly owns them all.

 

But tonight, oh, tonight is different.

 

"The old Stanley Ong has died - and this evening, we will all be reborn," Stanley explains in a theatrical voice to anyone in his car who would listen. "Come, join hands with me, sisters, and rejoice."

 

I turn to Carl and say: "I don't think we're not going to a funeral. We're going to a cult group".

 

At 5.27pm, Stanley drives us to our destination: Peninsula Plaza.

 

Stanley is making bespoke shirts.

 

"Rule number one," Stanley said channelling his inner Karl Lagerfeld, "is that everything must fit your body."

 

And so, Stanley has decided to custom-make casual shirts.

 

"Even if you're tucking out the shirt and rolling up the sleeves and wearing it with shorts, it's worth to tailor make them," Stanley said with conviction.

 

Customised shirts are perfect, Stanley conveys what he learnt from L.

 

They fit your body and there's only that one such piece in the world. Even if someone wears the same coloured shirt, it at least fits you and accentuates your curves.

 

"The last thing you want is to step into a restaurant and see someone else wear the exact clothes you're wearing. What if the other person is hotter than us?!" Stanley asks the group in horror, then proceeds to answer his own question: "Then I will have no choice but to rip those clothes off his hot body."

 

That night, after trudging 7,000 steps (according to Carl's fitbid) to hunt around for Stanley's age-appropriate clothes, I ask myself:

 

Is it that vital that we dress our age? 

 

Why can't we wear cartoon t-shirts at 38?

 

If an 18 year old can dress up in shirt and tie, surely a 38 year old can wear cartooned tees?

 

Stanley once told me that when he was 18, he had wished to quickly grow up and start making money so that he can walk into Zara or Top Shop or any boutique and point at apparels and say this, this, this, this, and this. I want one in every colour!

Twenty years later, he says he still wants to be Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.

 

But instead of shopping at only Far East Plaza, he can now afford bigger and more expensive labels. And splurge on time pieces. And bespoke shoes. And leather bags.

 

But once in a while, Stanley still likes to dress up as his 25-year-old self.

 

His argument is simple: He still looks young, he still is in good shape, and he's a grown up who can decide on what he wants to wear.

 

Or can he?

 

Would men our age be frowned upon if we wore tight and brightly coloured singlets with torn jeans and walked along Orchard Road?

 

Even if we don't fall prey to evil instagrammers, can we push our luck further?

 

What if we were in our 50s? 60s? 70s?

 

How far are we able to push our limits before people started talking behind our backs? Or warning us to shred and burn our clothes?

 

Are we so critical because we're gay - which implies that we must inherently have good dress sense?

 

Then again, shouldn't gays be allowed to be loud?

 

Does sexual preference even have a part to play in this unspoken rule of dressing to one's age?

 

As I inspect my own wardrobe that night, I realise that I have no answer.

 

I do have one revelation though.

 

That this boils down to two categories of dressers.

 

Those who give a shit and wear "proper clothes" so that they don't look out of place.

 

And those who don't give a shit about what others think: i.e, your aunties who squeeze into sexy tube tops and mini skirts which must have been stolen from their granddaughter's wardrobe, or uncles who still dare to sport blonde hair and proudly wear see-through singlets and leather pants.

 

I text the group and ask which type they'd choose to be.

 

"I am busy," Stanley types.

 

"I am standing in front of my wardrobe and thinking, it's time to stop looking like a lao gay and to look my age for once.

 

"I'm getting all my colourful gay clothes out of the closet and preparing to look like a real gentlemen with dark, boring tones," he continued.

 

"But they're not going to be dull, hunny. They don't call it fifty shades of grey for nothing."

[Blogger Adam]

Hi all, my latest blog post

 

http://adamandtheboys2.blogspot.sg/

 

 

(Home Alone)

 

Two topics dominated our lives over dinner on Friday night. 

 

One of which is quite depressing.

 

"Try, try, try! I want to see!" Stanley insisted as he shoved his iPhone in front of Carl's face.

 

"I don't want to look old!" Carl said with a pout, and looked at me for help.

 

The latest fad that's got quite a number of my friends talking (and worrying) recently is none other than Face App, which can, among other functions, make a person look old. Realistically old.

 

Why people want to do that is beyond me.

 

All you need to do is to take a selfie, choose that setting and voila, you'll get a peek into the future and see how you look when you're 600 years old.

 

And Stanley had been very fixated with that app, even taking the liberty of imposing his unhealthy obsession on us, by posting a very disturbing photo of his aged self in our group chat.

 

"You look like a dried mummy," I typed, commenting on Stanley's digitised skin, which looked leathery and wrinkled.

 

"?!" Carl typed.

 

"Look at what you've allowed your iPhone to take charge of your life," I wrote.

 

Frankly, it's very depressing to see how your friends could potentially age.

 

And according to that app, Carl would have droopy cheeks and eye lids (which prompted our dense friend to worry over his oversized biceps and chest muscles).

 

I on the other hand, will have mottled skin as dry and crinkly as a preserved seahorse and a droopy right eyelid.

 

The topic of Face App surfaced again last evening during our steamboat dinner at Tanyoto, where Stanley merrily went around the table, insisting that all of us had our headshot taken again, just so that we could see different variations of our aged selves in years to come.

 

The cheeky Stanley even managed to cajole a very giggly Malaysian waitress who gamely did so.

 

After she saw how old she could potentially look, she gasped and stopped coming to our table to top up soup or take additional orders for the rest of the evening.

 

"Poor girl, she looks like a zombie now. Look what you've done Stan," I chided.

 

"Snow White needs to know that she can't remain fair and fresh faced, and virginal forever," replied Stanley, ageing evil queen.

 

The other topic that dominated our dinner topic that night - which could also be potentially depressing, depending on how you look at it - was living alone.

 

"All my adult life, I'd been fantasising about living alone," Stanley declared.

 

"All your adult life, you'd been fantasising, full stop," I said.

 

"I think you don't want to live alone. You just want to live away from your mum," Carl pointed out, which won praise from the table for being so on point that evening.

 

"My kaypoh mother wants to know everything about my life," Stanley complained. "She loves sneaking into my room when I'm not home and on the pretext of helping me pack my room, takes the opportunity to probe into my stuff," he complained.

 

"I can see whose genes you inherited," I replied with a raised eyebrow.

 

"Eew, stop it, Adam. Now you're putting disturbing images of my mum probing. That's even worse than all the Face App photos!"

 

A decade ago, Stanley suggested that Carl and I invested in an apartment so that the three of us could all live happily ever after.

 

The logic behind his thinking is that boyfriends can never be trusted, and we need to help one another change diapers when we're old.

 

Neither Carl nor I bought the idea or any apartment, for that matter.

 

It would be crazy to live together because we would end up killing Stanley (I suspect I would have to do the plotting and dense Carl, with his python-sized biceps, the strangling work).

 

Or we could end up having our apartment raided and impounded because our concerned neighbours would report us to the police, thinking that our unit was an actual brothel, with so many different men visiting Stanley.

 

But now, Stanley is ready to buy an apartment, with or without us.

 

"I've been hunting around," he said, scooping up more chicken morsels.

 

"What's new? You're always hunting around."

 

"What's new is," Stanley said as he blew at his spoonful of chicken, "I've started the process of house hunting. I'm starting to view some next week. Care to join me, boys?"

 

Carl and I perked up and cheered.

 

"Wow!" Carl exclaimed.

 

"Does your mum know?" I asked.

 

"She'll be the last person I'm telling!"

 

"Unless you get probed by your mum first," I said cheerfully.

 

Though we're all born in the same year, Stanley has always managed to be avant garde: He's the first among us to have a boyfriend (not surprisingly), first to pick up smoking ("how do you think I honed my blow job skills?"), first (and only person) to get fined by NEA (when he threw a cigarette butt near Mustafa only to be approached immediately by plain clothes officers who were ambushed nearby), first to own a car, and now, first home owner.

 

"Eh, relax and calm your man tits Adam," Stanley said putting both hands up in mock surrender.

 

"I'm only starting to view - I'm not buying anything yet."

 

Then again, with Stanley, it's only a matter of time.

 

The moment Stanley sets his mind about doing something, he gets it: Men, work, food, car, apartments.

 

"But Stan, why must you move out ah?" Carl asked at the dining table, a rare occasion that he managed to, a) string a proper sentence together and b), an even rarer occasion that he could keep up with our discussion.

 

"Well," Stanley tilted his head, an indication that our fey friend is switching to serious mode.

 

"I haven't really thought about it. But don't you guys want to move out and live alone too?"

 

Later that night, I gave that question some serious thought.

 

Stanley isn't the first person I know who has always been wanting to move out.

 

In fact, three years ago, when my batch of 1979-born peers turned 35, I experienced a tide of housing party fatigue.

 

At least eight of my friends bought public flats the moment they came of age (singles in Singapore can only own such properties when they turn 35).

 

Though majority of those friends who bought flats are gay (including a handful of lesbians), some of them are heterosexuals - mainly very independent women who are convinced they'll never own a wedding ring and sleep in a matrimonial bed.

 

As I sat in my room (while my mum continued watching her noisy Canto serials in the living room), I thought about why people would feel a need to move out.

 

The need for space? Privacy?

 

Then again, for people like Stanley whose room is an entire attic, space has never been an issue for him.

 

Stanley once held an ORD party for at least 20 NS boys at his four-storey home where we had barbeque, and later, a noisy rave party in his attic bedroom.

 

Everyone was drunk and happy that night.

 

Stanley were to later tell me that since then, he believed that his true calling in life is to make men feel very happy in his home. But that's a story for another day. 

 

Do people move out because they can afford to?

 

Surely, there are people who can afford multiple properties but choose to stay with their family?

 

Besides, wouldn't it be a big betrayal to your parents if you are single and yet choose to move out?

 

Then again, in some cases, people move out for very practical reasons - including wanting to be closer to their parents.

 

One friend who did so last year told me that his mother and he agree that the move was for the better.

 

My friend, M, is an air steward and his new flat is just two minutes' cab ride to or from the airport.

 

And because he's physically away from his family, M makes it a point to drop by his family home to spend time with them. Something he had taken for granted when living with them.

 

Collectively, M spends more time talking to his mum during that weekly visit than on any normal day when he lived with his mum.

 

And they spend less time arguing about mundane stuff because they no longer have a reason to get on each other's nerves.

 

But how many of us who move out actually do so under such altruistic reasons?

 

Or, are we victims of western propaganda - that years of watching US movies and sitcoms have inevitably introduced the idea of moving out when we're adults?

 

As I tried to find an answer that night, nothing came up.

 

Except one mini revelation.

 

That some of us should be thankful that we're able to move out - by choice.

 

Because for every one person who finds joy in doing so, there must be others who don't see it as such.

 

Those who're force to move out because of bad family ties, or being left alone after everyone migrates, or having inherited flats from parents who've died.

 

In those cases, surely there was no joy to begin with.

 

Then again, who's to say that there will be joy even if we chose to move out and live alone under happy circumstances?

 

"You're right," Stanley typed in the chat group after I shared my thoughts with the boys. "There's no guaranteed happy ending, unless you're a paying customer."

 

"But that's life isn't it? We make our choices," Stanley wrote.

 

"I'll stand by them regardless of your psychoanalysis," he said.

 

"And even if I grow old alone - and boys, trust me, I have seen my future thanks to Face App, I will not regret moving out and living alone.

 

"For me, I will definitely make my bed - and lie in it. Every single night, in my very own home."

[lifeart]

Adam, you're a very good writer.  Keep it up!

[Blogger Adam]

4 hours ago, lifeart said:

Adam, you're a very good writer.  Keep it up!

Thank you for reading, lifeart!

[Blogger Adam]

Hi all, my latest entry from my blog

 

http://adamandtheboys2.blogspot.sg/

 

HUNTING LESSONS

 

House hunting can be a very disappointing exercise, Stanley declared loudly in a dreadful voice.

 

"It's disappointing because every time I step into an apartment, I never fail to leave without having an orgasm," Stanley whispered to me. "And this is the fourth apartment that I'm leaving without any deposits."

 

"Don't worry, you happy then you deposit!" Yvonne Yim cut in with precise timing.

 

"And, don't scared, we have some more to go after lunch, ok? Sure you can find something you like. You happy, I happy. You deposit, Aunty Yim also happy," said Yvonne Yim, top saleswoman, ERA.

 

Our part-time housing agent for the day was Yvonne Yim, female / 57 / 1.56m / 69kg, and most importantly, got place. Many, many places to show us, in fact.

 

Stanley, who's always wanted to move out, has recently made the first move of house hunting, after amassing enough cash.

 

"Hello, hello boys! I'm Yvonne, but see you all so young, you both must call me Aunty Yim ah!" she said with a cheeky laugh at our very first meeting at exactly 9.08 that morning.

 

"I like her already," Stanley said out loud, two seconds into our introduction. 

 

"Aunty Yim is top saleswoman for the second time in a row. You ask Adam! Many of his friends use me before. Tried and tested one," she rattled off.

 

"I like her even more now," Stanley whispered to me. "I love tops! And like me, she's used by many people. And most importantly, she's tested. That's very safe of her."

 

"Yes, yes, very safe one," Aunty Yim chimed blithely, and took Stanley by his arm to enter our first apartment at Hill View. 

 

Although Aunty Yim at first glance looked like she would be more competent in filling up the empty beer mugs of retired uncles at coffee shops, she was quite the seller.

 

Five of my friends had engaged Aunty Yim and the motherly agent managed to satisfy each and every one of them, closing three deals in total, with two sales pending.

 

But the first half of our house hunting stint that morning was not quite productive (or reproductive, going by Stanley's thwarted view of apartment viewing).

 

One seller agent told blatant lies about the apartment she was hoping to promote.

 

"The new MRT station is very near to this place. It's just a stone's throw away," the young woman said with an annoying accent which was neither fully American nor remotely human.

 

To which, an annoyed Stanley replied: "Yes, a stone's throw. By Hercules."

 

Despite the interesting morning drama, the first half of our day was indeed fruitless.

 

Hours later, Stanley and I settled for a quick lunch at the nearby Rail Mall, while Aunty Yim drove off somewhere to settle other viewings over lunch.

 

"If she's always skipping lunch to meet clients for viewings, I don't see why she's still so portly," Stanley mouthed those words with a smile as he waved Aunty Yim goodbye.

 

"You are such a bitch. No wonder you aren't getting any good apartments."

 

"But they are all so lacking," Stanley complained later, adding sugar to his hot mocha at Coffee Bean.

 

"People say that the moment you enter an apartment, you would know it's yours. It must feel right," Stanley explained.

 

"And trust me girl. I would know. I am well acquainted with the good feeling upon entry."

 

Half an hour later, Carl arrived at Coffee Bean to join us for lunch, where he ordered a sandwich without finishing the carb morsels.

 

These days, Carl's Saturdays are occupied by his part-time classes where he is studying some sports and fitness course.

 

"Wah, more boys!" Aunty Yim exclaimed with delight when we rendezvoused for the second half of our viewing slightly past 2pm.

 

"This one very good, the muscles very big, Aunty Yim like," she squeezed Carl's biceps and patted him on the shoulder.

 

Carl beamed at Aunty Yim's approval and looked at us, mouthing the words "I like her".

 

The next half of our viewing was in the central area - where Aunty Yim arranged based on size and Stanley's budget.

 

"Okay, all these units are one-bedders and studios... about same as your budget but because of the area, the size all smaller lah" Aunty Yim explained.

 

Stanley Ong the size queen took a deep breath and braced himself for the worst.

 

When he stepped into apartment number five - a 45-square-metre one bedder, Stanley closed his eyes.

 

"Why are you acting weird," I whispered urgently.

 

"I'm channelling my sixth sense," Stanley said scrunching his nose and sniffing around.

 

"I'm trying to get that special feeling. I need the apartment to talk to me," Stanley said, swaying his body side to side like a cult leader's voice was speaking to him in his head.

 

"Ignore the panties on the floor ah, boys," Aunty Yim said with a hearty laugh.

 

"This home owner single woman lah, and so busy with her career. Never mind, don't step on it can already," Aunty Yim said calmly, shooing Carl and me away from the offending apparel as if she were a detective guarding a piece of evidence.

 

Good thing the home owner had trusted Aunty Yim to view the apartment while she was away on a work trip.

 

At apartment number seven, Stanley, Carl and I squeezed into a shoebox.

 

Lovely view of the city, but Stanley looked horrified.

 

It was one-tenth the size of his attic room: The door opened to a tiny couch and table. Behind it was a super single bed, positioned right beside the floor-to-ceiling window. The only partition in the home led to a kitchenette, a tiny toilet and a tiny balcony that could fit only one tiny outdoor table and one tiny chair.

 

In apartment 12, the final apartment for the day, the three of us met a really chatty agent who was hard-selling another one-bedder.

 

"Young man, you cannot just look at the apartment and the view," the seller agent instructed. "This old couple are very staunch Catholics. Very good people. See? This aunty is cooking for church. They're doing charity work! You must also consider the current homeowners when buying the apartment."

 

"Why ah? This apartment comes with the nice aunty and uncle issit?" Stanley said to me cattily, looked at the seller agent and smiled.

 

Later that evening, after a very exhausted Stanley dropped off Carl and me home, I thought about our day.

 

Sure, Stanley hadn't fallen in love with any of the apartments he viewed - the two bedders in the west, the three bedders at more far flung locations of Singapore, nor the tiny units right smack in the centre of Singapore.

 

But for me, I had gained some insights, by gaining entry into some of these homes.

 

And it helped me reflect on my own life. 

 

Chief of which - how do people get so rich to own condo units in the first place?

 

As my partner J would say, the good old rule is to keep saving money.

 

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

 

But sometimes, on meagre salaries, there's no way some of us can save enough money to buy properties.

 

But having been with J for so long, I can already answer on his behalf: "Then don't stress over buying a property and live and be happy within your means".

 

Which brings me to the next point.

 

Happiness.

 

Needless to say, not everyone who can afford luxury condos means he or she is living happily.

 

In one of the penthouse units at Hougang (going for 1.29 million), the couple were in the midst of a divorce, Aunty Yim revealed to us.

 

"Don't get married better lah, hor?" Aunty Yim said to us, playfully raising two eyebrows like she shared an inner bond with us.

 

Sure, the single-storey penthouse looked lovely.

 

But as I looked at the empty walls with hooks (which must have once been adorned by photos of happy heterosexual family members), I felt a tinge of sadness for a soon-to-split family.

 

And that makes me feel grateful for the 15-year relationship with my partner J, which is still going strong.

 

At another unit, we stepped into a lovely home. Two bedrooms. Tiny but lovely.

 

But the family was selling the place because the home owner, a jolly old lady who enjoyed her own space, had recently died, and her son felt that he needed to let go of that apartment to move on.

 

Again, a reminder to me that all traces of happiness, like all things, cannot have any permanence and thus, is important to treasure every bit of it while we have it.

 

Even the apartment with strewn panties was a lesson to me.

 

That we sometimes spend so much time at work that we forget to clean up our internal mess - and I'm not even talking about dirty panties.

 

Sometimes, we're so caught up with work or our personal lives that we forget to see that mess is building up in our lives - that we have been ignoring our parents, neglecting peaceful personal time, forgetting to sort out little issues in our lives: From personal hygiene to decluttering our thoughts.

 

So, thank you, Aunty Yim for the tour that Saturday.

 

And thank you dirty panties, for that lesson too.

[Blogger Adam]

Hi all,

 

Latest blog entry from http://adamandtheboys2.blogspot.sg/

 

Hope it not only entertains, but also gives us something to think about?

 

=====

 

Today, this post is about Carl, our dense friend.

Carl Chang, 38 / 172 / 68 / flex.

Flex being the operative word.

Carl is he with the big muscles but he with brains the size of Mister K's weener.

We interrupt here with some context:

Stanley had once met a certain top, Mister K, on Grindr and was about to engage in some fruitful fun with him when Mister K whipped out his member which didn't indicate much fruit nor guarantee much fun. 

True enough there was no grand entry that night though we concluded that the very reason for that, was that a giggly Stanley had insisted on taking a photo with Mister K's small organ. "Let's take a weener-fie. It's for archival purposes," Stanley had explained to an unsmiling Mister K.

But enough of small talk.

Like I said, our focus today is on Carl, our dense friend.

Mainly because last Tuesday was a special anniversary to Carl:  His anniversary with Ah Boy, his partner, who was 11 years younger.

For the longest time, all of us had embraced that generation gap.

Stanley the sex bunny of the group was the first to take that lead.

"Oh, I love gaps. They're very lovely. They need to be embraced. Worshipped," Stanley said as he rapidly licked an unseen object in the air. That year was 2005, the year when a nervous Carl revealed to us that he was dating a boy 11 years our junior.

I remember Carl being very relieved with Stanley and my approval and support that day.

I also vaguely remember Stanley standing up to imitate Beyonce by shaking his buttocks as a sort of congratulatory tribute to Carl. 

And there began the whirlwind romance of Carl and Ah Boy.

Despite almost 10 years in age difference, the two got along very well.

They did happy things together. They did coupley things together. They had tons of movie dates. For the longest time. Until December 2014.

"Adam, we broke up," I remember Carl's shaky voice over the phone in late-December that evening.

Stanley was immediately activated.

We each took five minutes to get dressed. Stanley scooped me up in his car (he lived just seven minutes drive from me) and we met at Holland Village, near Carl's home.

Over coffee at the now-defunct Coffee Club, Carl shared the gist of his story.

I never knew he had been so unhappy with me. I mean, we had arguments. Small ones. And sometimes the big ones - like how he dislikes it when I demand that he focused on his studies when he wanted to go out to party, or how he disagreed with the way I spent money. But I never knew that he had been so unhappy with me for the last nine years.

Carl was unusually expressive and his hands were exceptionally nimble, busy between gesticulating with passion and pinching the tip of his nose as if that very action could control the flow of his tears.

Stanley and I sat and listened very quietly that night at the cafe,  pausing only to grunt with approval.

"What hurt the most was, Ah Boy finally told me why he loved watching movies with me," Carl said in a voice that suggested he had just been kicked in the gut.

"Because when we watch movies, he doesn't need to talk to me. He says it's a struggle to talk to me because we are in such different worlds."

The words hit us like they too, had punched us in the gut.

Ah Boy's words hurt Carl.

And in turn, Carl's conveyance of those words carried that same painful punch.

That night ended at 1am when we were finally chased away by an exhausted Pinoy waitress who looked like she was about to break down - but from very different reasons to Carl's.

But we decided the night didn't deserve to end so unceremoniously - being chased away with half-finished sob stories and recovery plans and hugs yet to be rolled out.

Armed with tissue boxes, mineral water and condoms (Stanley just had to add that purchase at the very last minute at 7-11 because "aiyah, since I am here, I might as well stock up!), we took our commiseration into Stanley's car where we chatted till 3.15am that morning, never mind that each of us still had work the next day.

"You know," Stanley said in an unusually serious tone. "When you love somebody, you have to let him go. He's already said he didn't love you anymore."

Carl responded by staring into the distance.

Truth is, Stanley and I had already noticed that the drift sometime in 2013, the year before the break up.

Whether it was Carl's denseness or denial in not recognising that drift, we don't know.

It wasn't so much that they were had such a big generation gap.

It was more an emotional gap, Stanley and I had discussed and agreed privately.

Carl was well into his career and was enjoying the finest things in life while Ah Boy was still struggling to do well in university while juggling not just school work but also guest-starring in Carl's adult world of expensive parties, exorbitant gym clubs, luxurious tours.

To Carl, he felt that he was giving Ah Boy a leg up in life.

To Ah Boy though, it was detrimental because he felt like he was yanked out of adolescence and thrown into the expensive adult world without warning.

I imagine it must feel like a secondary school boy being yanked out of his classroom after school to help out at his father's stall and get an ugly glimpse of adulthood.

But because Carl loved Ah Boy, he showered him with all those material incentives only an accomplished adult could attain.

During one of the private post-break-up talks with Ah Boy, Stanley and I learnt that while the undergrad had appreciated Carl's gestures, he didn't fully like them.

Sure, it was nice to feel rich and pampered, but it wasn't really his own money, Ah Boy said.

And if I tell him, we quarrel, he said.

Over time, Ah Boy quietly hated Carl for being in a different world.

He wanted Carl to understand the struggles of a university student.

That his life is just as challenging.

That it can be tough paying attention in lectures and then having to decide which food court to eat at after school. Or whether he should bring a sweater to Starbucks for group discussion. Or for Carl to simply understand why it's so essential to get together after exams and get intoxicated and dance with your group project mates.

Problem is, Carl has been there, done that.

In fact it was so long ago that Carl had either a) realised there is no value and wisdom in those activities or b) can no longer empathise with any undergrad because he's forgotten what it felt like.

And speaking of long ago, it took Carl a very long time to get over Ah Boy.

In fact, just the other night at PS Cafe at Dempsey, the topic of relationship came up again.


And I swear I saw the flame go out in Carl's eyes when that topic came up.

Sensing potential climate change, Stanley quickly cut in.

"When in a relationship, it's important to grow together," he said wisely.

"For example, when someone enters me, he grows. I also grow. And we enjoy the thrusting and gyrating," he continued, signalling climate change with the switch of his topic.

"But if two people can't grow together, then they grow apart," Stanley said, switching back to serious mode again.

Sometimes, it's hard to catch up with Stanley but this time, he made a good point.

As we talked about relationships that Saturday night, we reinforced one important value:

That couples must help each other to grow for the better - to improve the quality of each other's lives.

If a couple sucks the energy out of each other and fills that void with exhaustion, that's a sign of a doomed relationship.

"But your argument is flawed, Adam," Stanley corrected me.

"A couple can still suck each other dry and still fill that void with exhaustion, and it can be a very good thing," Stanley said with a cheeky smile.

To which, Carl laughed.

And just like that, I knew that Stanley and my effort in momentarily counselling Carl over the past three years, had been worth it.

And we will always be there for Carl, our dense friend.

[Blogger Adam]

Hi all,

 

Latest blogpost - hope it entertains

 

http://adamandtheboys2.blogspot.sg/

 

LOOKING BEYOND

 

My best girl friend Nisa said it would be nice to have one.

 

My ex-colleague Richard the Closeted is currently looking for one.

 

Stanley my sex bunny friend has had several in his lifetime, but of course doesn't mind more.

 

We're talking about penises.

 

Not just any penis, mind you, but penises that don't belong to a Singaporean.

 

"These days, it's not enough to spread your legs wide any more. You have to cast your net wide too," complained Stanley over a quick lunch last Wednesday.

 

Stanley was meeting a client near my workplace and we squeezed in some catchup time.

 

Our lunch place was a very tiny outfit that served Japanese food.

 

"This place is yummy for obvious reasons," Stanley said sitting down, eyeing a boyish Japanese salaryman who was nodding like a woodpecker at an older, fatter person.

 

"Can I have sashimi on him please?" Stanley licked his lips furtively at his imaginative lunch.

 

When our sashimi don was served, Stanley dove right into our lunch topic.

 

"I've been thinking," he said without really meaning anything, "that it's time for me to look for a foreign partner."

 

"I'm tired of having only foreign objects in my life. I want a foreign man in my life too," he said.

 

"What's wrong with Singapore men?" I asked.

 

"Please. Don't get me started," Stanley responded in faux anger, then softened his expression with genuine lust as he cast a forlorn look at the young Japanese salaryman who was still nodding like a woodpecker at the older, fatter person.

 

"He's so cute," Stanley said, licking his spoon with feeling.

 

"I'm just tired of Singaporean men who are so firm with what they want that they no longer take the time to flirt or smell the roses any more," he said later.

 

"All I ask for, is someone tall, dark, and handsome - and they don't even need to be the same person rolled into one," Stanley said.

 

Case in point.

 

Stanley was recently on Grindr, hoping to find someone to chat with.

 

That was him on one of his off days when he truly wanted to connect with people in a non-carnal sort of way.

 

"All I got were one-worded replies, and queries about my penis size, photo, sexual preference," he said.

 

"You were on Grindr right? Not Linkedin?"

 

"Tsk. Shuddup and listen, Adam. Point is, Singaporean men don't know how to flirt at all - if not, any more," Stanley said with a conclusive nod.

 

"So in the end, I gave up looking for a chat, and the guy and I hooked up and then we moved on with our respective lives."

 

Later that day, while at work, I thought about it over a quiet coffee break at my workplace balcony.

 

The lush view of the bustling city which made the Raffles crowd look like ants going about the urban nest has a very comforting feeling - the perfect setting for sorting out important reflections such as this.

 

It is true that Singaporean men have lost the art of flirting.

 

And leave it to men our generation to feel the brunt of it.

 

You see, we grew up witnessing the evolution of gay networking.

 

We were born into an era of IRC where the most common means of meeting other gay boys were online, in gay chat forums.

 

Sebastian Yang, an older gay friend of Stanley and I, would hiss at our convenience of IRC.

 

He would boast that he, in his time, had to resort to cruising or scribbling his phone number in pencil at the back of library gay literature (or sometimes, behind toilet doors).

 

Old mister Yang would always say we boys have it easy.

 

But point is, gay men of the 1979 batch were indeed lucky.

 

IRC was like our birth right.

 

IRC to the rescue, at a time when we were ripe for exploration.

 

And IRC to the rescue when we have healthy needs stemming from puberty.

 

And as we grew older, we were introduced to apps like Grindr, where sex meetups were literally at a snap of our fingers.

 

With photos of men on display, time is not wasted for a man in heat: He logs on, browses through the catalogue, makes his selection and uses pithy words to quickly make his point.

 

Every. Second. Counts.

 

Gone are the days when a first impression is made over a witty pickup line, or an earnest remark about someone's cute or unique IRC nick.

 

That would be followed by an exchange of niceities which would segue into one's hobbies, family background, favourite food and colour before sex was mentioned.

 

Over time, convenience of apps waters down the need to be socially apt.

 

For men our batch, this form of skill can still be found among some, but the art is slowly dying.

 

For gay boys born into the Grindr era, it's worse.

 

They would never go through what their predecessors had experienced just to get other men in bed with them.

 

I can imagine pioneers like Sebastian Yang shaking his head in disapproval at the current state of gay culture.

 

But there is hope still.

 

The only gay people these days with good online manners are not Singaporean.

 

Tapping on Stanley's years of rich background, I requested for some anecdotal evidence from him for this blog post.

 

Based on Prof Stanley's years of, well, research, his data revealed that only foreigners would bother forming actual sentences to chat on Grindr.

 

It could be because they're generally more polite, or they still value the art of human interaction.

 

I would never know.

 

And that's perhaps what makes them so attractive - because there's foreplay involved, if you look at it bluntly.

 

Richard my ex-colleague told me that he's had enough of materialistic Singaporean men, who are mostly after his money and have no appreciation of his personality at all.

 

Nisa my best girl friend thinks that Singaporean men have no balls (to which, Stanley responded that Nisa had no right to say that given that she and the Virgin Mary had one thing in common).

 

"Singaporean men are not chivalrous at all," she told me and Terry, my best friend over coffee on Thursday evening.

 

Nisa said she was on exchange in Paris when a drunk man barged into the house that she and her housemates were staying.

 

Nisa screamed at that sight and who came to her rescue but a (cute) Malaysian student who was also on exchange with her?

 

What made her blood boil was that there was a Singaporean man in the house - but that wimp had said that he heard all the commotion but didn't want to come out to help.

 

"What if I got raped?!" Nisa told me and Terry in exasperation as she recalled that horrible experience.

 

"What if she didn't get raped?" Stanley asked when I related this to him later. "I'd be so upset if a drunk man barged into my house, looked at me and decided that even I am not worthy of rape."

 

But I do see Nisa's point.

 

That some Singaporean men can cause your blood to boil.

 

But then, Terry my best friend made another good point.

 

Straight men also sometimes have it with Singaporean women - who are generally materialistic, demanding, highly strung, and who are all about chasing money, and the high life.

 

Why do you think so many Singaporean men are marrying Vietnam brides, their Filipino helpers,  China girls, or go for the simple-minded Malaysian kampong lasses?

 

Nisa, a true blue Singaporean woman who is still single, went pale at that thought.

 

But it brightened me up - because it struck me then.

 

When it comes to choosing a partner, Singaporean gay men are being viewed the way Singaporean women are being viewed: That they are so caught up with their materialistic need, so engrossed with paper chasing, climbing the corporate ladder, stressing over bills and their CPF, that they no longer have that sense of adventure, love, or the tendency to smile over simple joys.

 

At the rate we're going, do we have to really look overseas for Mr Right?

 

"I don't know about that," Stanley told me over whatsapp later that night.

 

"If I don't see Mr Right, I'll go for Mr Right Now. And I don't even have to waste energy typing an entire essay on Grindr."

[bluefish20008]

Thanks Adam for the blog (currently reading Season 1). Kinda ease my Monday blue  

[Blogger Adam]

Hi all, my latest blog post - something which I hope wouldn't be close to your heart, given that this could happen to anyone of us

 

 

From http://adamandtheboys2.blogspot.sg/

 

The Blown Job

 

"I have news," read the message in our whatsapp group chat titled "Just the Boys".

 

"?" replied Carl, a true reflection of his personality: His denseness - and inability to string together proper sentences. 

 

"I am sitting alone in my car, and my heart is racing. And not in a good way either" read Stanley's cryptic message - a true reflection of his personality: His penchant for dramatic openings - and ability to string together too many improper sentences.

 

"BTW, what was the Malbec we drank at Bill's restaurant the other night? I like it. I wanna buy it now," I typed as I strolled along the wine aisle in Cold Storage.

 

"I'm retrenched," Stanley wrote.

 

"!" replied Carl.

 

Within two minutes, our respective tasks were abandoned (me, my trolley and Carl, his part-time fitness instructor's class at a polytechnic in the northern part of Singapore).

 

"Drive safely - see you in a while" was the last group message before the three of us made our way to a food court in Woodlands for an emergency gathering.

 

Twenty minutes later, I found Stanley sitting in a corner stirring his teh peng listlessly.

 

"Keep on stirring and you'll summon a hurricane," I said as I took a seat opposite Stanley.

 

"Talk about a storm in a teacup," he replied, his glare distant.

 

Stanley may have lost his job, but he hasn't lost his wits.

 

"Are those male boobs?" he asked in a monotone, poking a finger slowly at my body part.

 

Stanley may have lost his job, but he hasn't lost his randomness.

 

Just then, a panting Carl arrived at our table.

 

"Ah, welcome. Another set of male boobs has just joined us. And these ones are better. They can jiggle," Stanley said, his eyes still fixed on my set.

 

"Carl, dribble them for me leh," Stanley said mechanically. "I'm depressed. I need entertainment."

 

"Okay!" Carl said with glee and immediately got down to the task of consoling his sad friend with his male boobs.

 

Left, right, left, right.

 

"You have some serious talent, Carl," Stanley said.

 

Carl clapped with childlike glee.

 

"Okay, enough, enough. Tell us what happened, " I said, as I noticed a makcik from the next table staring at Carl's rhythmic boobs with keen interest.

 

Turned out, Stanley's company wasn't doing well financially so the first to go would naturally be the latest hires who earn higher salaries.

 

"This feels so surreal," Stanley said wistfully.

 

"Every time we sit together, I tell you stories about how I get laid. Today, it's a story about how I get laid off. This is not right," Stanley said.

 

Just then, a nervous-looking Carl started biting his lips.

 

"What exactly did you work as, Stan?" asked Carl.

 

Stanley and I turned towards the dense one and then continued talking to each other.

 

"There are so many things to think about now," Stanley said.

 

"The car, the job hunt, the age - who's going to hire a 30-year-old man who's so highly paid in his last job?"

 

Carl nodded eagerly in agreement.

 

"You're 38, bitch," I said.

 

Carl starting biting his lips again.

 

"I'm depressed, Adam. You cannot correct me now. I'm 30."

 

With Stanley, one needs to be patient - not too long ago, Stanley had come to terms with his age. But let's not further upset the "30 year old".

 

Over cheap kopi and teh peng that night, Stanley poured his heart out to us.

 

He had been saving up to buy a place of his own - and now, it looks as if he would have to tap into his savings. A pool of money that had remained untouched for years.

 

For a start, Stanley toyed with the idea of selling away his car in a bid to cut expenses.

 

But between parting ways with his ride (which we christened "sergeant 69" because of the beginnings of his car plate number SGT 69XX), he thought a wiser choice would be to continue paying for it.

 

The worst part, Stanley said, was the he had been on the lookout for some condo units.

 

He was actually ready to buy a one-bedder in a good location the moment he came across one that he liked.

 

But now, Stanley's plans had to take a back seat.

 

Later that night, I thought about how some of us have subconsciously allowed work to take over our lives.

 

Often, it overshadows our personalities.

 

At parties, one of the questions that will certainly pop up would be our jobs.

 

What do you do for a living? 

Oh, wow, that's interesting!

You must really enjoy your work!

How do you manage that!

 

And when that happens, our jobs take centrestage - conversation topics revolve around the job: The good, the bad, the industry gossip.

 

Nobody cares that you have a liking for gardening, or that you enjoy watching fish swim in circles as a hobby. 

 

Which is why Stanley makes it a point to never talk about his job - unless it's the type that'll earn him an orgasm.

 

"Cut to the chase and stick to four main questions in all conversations - Pic? Seek? Top / Bottom? Place?" he would say.

 

Sometimes, we allow our job to erode our humility.

 

Years ago, Stanley and I started out with miserable salaries.

 

We convinced each other that if we could both survive as undergrads on our meagre pay as tutors - and still afford the occasional drink at the now-defunct Niche gay club - surely we could stick to spending $900 a month and save up the rest of our full-time salaries?

 

How untrue.

 

Very soon, our lifestyle caught up with our pay.

 

With each increment, instead of portioning all of it aside as savings, we came up with creative ways to spend that money. That $700 leather bag. Or the $2,000 watch. Anything. Everything.

 

Worse, we even became a little snobbish.

 

No food court please. That place smells like an oil factory. 

I can't be seen wearing G-Shock in my office wear! I need a real watch!

Life is too short to drink cheap wine - let's order based on price tags!

 

And the more we allow ourselves to enjoy the benefits of having a job, the more brazen the job becomes. It becomes the be all and end all in our lives.

 

And when one day, we lose our jobs, we're way too high up in the social strata that we become devastated.

 

It becomes more than a loss of our rice bowl.

 

The social status gets wiped out overnight. 

 

And we've plunged right back to the bottom.

 

Compare that to someone who has all along treated a job just as it is: An avenue to contribute to society and earn money - and in some cases, gratification - and when it's the end of a work day, walk away from it and focus on yourself.

 

On your family. On loved ones. On a hobby. On Grindr.

 

Would that job loss still be so tough to bear?

 

At around 1.15am that night, Stanley stirred the group chat to life.

 

Stan

"I've been thinking."

(1.17am)

 

Carl

?

(1.17am)

 

Stan

Very, very hard

(1.17am)

 

Me

Stan:

Very, very hard

Oooo... Stanley Ong is back in action!  

(1.18am)

 

Carl

Adam:

Ooo... Stanley Ong is back in action! 

You found a job, Stan?!

(1.25am)

 

Stan

@Carl, you also need to start thinking, full stop.

(1.25am)

 

Carl

?

(1.25am)

 

Stan

I've thought about my situation long and hard - just the way I like it. And here's how I'm gonna deal with it. Fuck it - just the way I like it.

(1.26am)

 

Me

Stan:

I've thought about my situation long and hard - just the way I like it. And here's how I'm gonna deal with it. Fuck it - just the way I like it.

Please explain

(1.26am)

 

Carl

What's going on?

(1.26am)

 

Stan

I think I'm overworrying. So what if I'm retrenched. It's not the end of the world. 

(1.27am)

 

I am still alive. I am still young. I am still capable. I still have a pair of hands, a brain, and my private parts that'll keep me very entertained.

(1.27am)

 

So fuck the work. I'll look for another job, but in the meantime, I'm not going to waste energy worrying about this and that.

(1.28am)

 

Me

Well done.

(1.28am)

 

Stan

So I'll draw up a timeline and try to do certain tasks by a certain time, like doing up my resume and sending them out

(1.29am)

 

In the meantime, I'm gonna relax. I'm gonna get enough sleep

(1.29am)

 

Enough food, catch up with friends

(1.29am)

 

And do things which I haven't had the time to do in a long while (have sex) and continue to do things I love (have sex)

(1.30am)

 

Carl

What job you looking for? What was your last job again, Stan?

(1.30am)

[tedjay]

Postmore please i enjoy reading! Wish i had a few close gay friends like you

Edited June 10, 2017 by tedjay

[Blogger Adam]

On 05/06/2017 at 2:02 AM, bluefish20008 said:

Thanks Adam for the blog (currently reading Season 1). Kinda ease my Monday blue  

Awww, thank you for your kind words!

[Blogger Adam]

6 hours ago, tedjay said:

Postmore please i enjoy reading! Wish i had a few close gay friends like you

Thank you! I definitely will keep writing

[bluefish20008]

By the way, what happened to the athlete79 account?

[Guest Fan_of_Adam]

Love your blog but the stories aren't coming fast enough 

[Blogger Adam]

11 hours ago, bluefish20008 said:

By the way, what happened to the athlete79 account?

oh wow, hahah! you've done your homework! I forgot my password to that account!!! Similarly, I've not touched my previous blog account that I too, forgot that password.

 

[Blogger Adam]

11 hours ago, Guest Fan_of_Adam said:

Love your blog but the stories aren't coming fast enough 

If Stanley Ong were to hear this, he would be most upset.

 

I can imagine him saying "I'm doing so much fucking legwork for you, and coming more than regularly for you, and your stories aren't coming fast enough for readers!"

[bluefish20008]

5 hours ago, Blogger Adam said:

If Stanley Ong were to hear this, he would be most upset.

 

I can imagine him saying "I'm doing so much fucking legwork for you, and coming more than regularly for you, and your stories aren't coming fast enough for readers!"

 

Literally "fucking" legwork, I assume XD

[Blogger Adam]

Hi all!

 

Knocked out my latest blog post

 

More on http://adamandtheboys2.blogspot.sg/

 

Good weekend, everyone!

 

Pure Bottom

 

"All my adult life, I've always thought that bottom life is fucking fun," Stanley said the moment his perky butt made contact with the wooden stool at Balestier.

 

"I am at my bottom most right now - and trust me, sisters, my life is neither filled with fucks nor fun," he added wistfully.

 

It's Friday night, and the only way to cheer our friend - who recently lost his job (and appetite for sex) - was to agree to eat durian with him.

 

So there we were, Stanley, Carl and I seated among hordes of tourists at Combat Durian in Balestier, right after a light dinner of pig intestines soup nearby.

 

Carl looked uneasy and said, "I shouldn't have eaten an entire bowl of rice just now".

 

"Anyway," Carl began with one of his two favourite clutch words.

 

"How's everyone?"

 

"I'm doing just great, Carl," Stanley said with a pout, as if he were a neglected puppy.

 

"No job, no sex, no life," he continued. "Just great."

 

"Consider this a lull period for yourself, girl," I said. "Like a detox week or something. Don't think of your joblessness, or sex, or whatever. Just be yourself."

 

"Ooooh, yummy," Stanley cut in, perking up momentarily as a fair skinned young man with sharp features and thick eyebrows which looked like charred caterpillars approached us with our Red Prawn durian.

 

"Mmmmmm.... God bless this young man who brings us the promised fruits," Stanley said with meaning, jiggling his shoulders for effect.

 

The young man was either deaf, dense like our friend Carl, or couldn't comprehend a word of English.

 

Thank goodness.

 

"I feel so thorny right now," Stanley said, biting his lips, looking pointedly at the young man and his basket of fruits.

 

One China tourist turned to our direction and smiled with amusement at our table. 

 

"Okay, maybe, don't be too much of yourself," I stepped in before Stanley stole the limelight of Combat Durian and made our table the real tourist attraction.

 

I could see Stanley's weariness fade away as the durians were set on our table.

 

For Stanley, durians can solve all of life's problems.

 

"There're many things going on in my mind but this moment, we eat. We focus on making these durians disappear. We think of nothing but pure enjoyment for now, girls," he said as he reached out for the plastic gloves on the table.

 

"Condom, or raw?" he held out both hands like an air steward on duty.

 

"In this case, raw," Carl said with glee. "The only time when protection takes away the real enjoyment," he continued, as he split open our first fruit of the night.

 

"Ooooo, so man," Stanley said, clapping rapidly.

 

Carl beamed and began jiggling his chest muscles, which made Stanley cheer even louder.

 

The next 10 minutes were spent in silence, punctuated only by Stanley's moan of pleasure, as we successfully polished off four large durians.

 

The next part of our Friday night was spent in Stanley's car, where many of our important life conversations were exchanged.

 

"So," Carl said with his other favourite clutch word.

 

"How's everyone feeling now?"

 

Stanley belched durian vapour, sniffed the air and sighed with satisfaction.

 

"Can somebody wind down the window for God's sake?"

 

 "No! I'm depressed and we die together if need be," Stanley said.

 

Carl shifted uncomfortably in the back seat.

 

"Did you just fart, Carl?!" Stanley shrieked seconds later.

 

Carl bit his lips nervously.

 

"Yay! We're all going to die in my car!" Stanley cheered loudly.

 

As the post durian drama subsided, Stanley turned towards me and Carl and confessed that his past week hadn't been very successful.

 

"I know I had put on a brave front, boys. But I can't lie to you boys."

 

Boys.

 

The key word that marks the tone of our discussion.

 

When Stanley talks about anything frivolous, we're his girls. When he talks about anything serious, we're his boys.

 

While I like the serious Stanley, now's not exactly a time to celebrate.

 

Stanley had a roller coaster week - and not in a good way either.

 

One day, he was senior management. That very night, he was made redundant.

 

Sure, he had our support and love and Carl and I were even prepared to loan him money if he needed it.

 

But these life episodes, you face alone, regardless of whether you're attached, have a group of close friends, or whether your family is closely knit or not.

 

Right after Stanley decided that he was going to be fine, he returned home and began overthinking things.

 

For him, money wasn't exactly a huge problem.

 

Without a job, it meant that his massive amount of savings would now be used to tide him over meanwhile (which can last him five years) instead of spending it on mortgage or renovation or furnishing his would-be apartment.

 

For Stanley, it is self -doubt that is the problem.

 

"I feel like I'm not worthy of anything," Stanley said wistfully in his car.

 

"I can understand if I'm being dumped by a guy - 'cos I would probably have contributed to that. But I work so damn hard, slogged so damn many hours for my stupid boss and now, they simply sever ties with me. I don't understand."

 

Well, Stanley, neither do we.

 

What I do understand is that for every painful episode, we need to heal and move on.

 

Sometimes, revisiting the reason behind that painful experience is necessary for some form of healing or closure.

 

But revisiting that reason for too long a period does no one any good.

 

Perhaps, one thing we need to realise is that most of us invest too much into our work - and I'm not talking about time.

 

Investing time in our work is important. One of the most important aspects of career building, if you ask me.

 

But if we invest emotions into our work, now, that becomes a totally different ball game.

 

Because emotions at work isn't essential.

 

It hinders our work, it clouds our view.

 

That is probably why we feel so upset. So angry. So indignant when things don't work out the way we want it at work.

 

Because we attach too much emotions to our projects.

 

I'm just thinking - if we were to approach work in a very clinical or even robotic manner, wouldn't we feel less pain if things didn't work out?

 

If we're all standing in a production line and one of the robots screws things up, the next logical sequence is for everyone to stop the work flow and solve the problem, right?

 

We wouldn't see the robots group together for a smoke afterwards, and hear them say things like "Cheebye lah bro. See lah, now we have so much lanjiao sai gang to do because of you."

 

Of course, it's easy for me to psycho-analyse these issues now, in the comfort of my own office, where I'm still gainfully employed. Even if I'm clocking in time on a Saturday.

 

But still, this is one issue I think we need to address.

 

To first drain out the emotions we have at work as a first line of defence and protection for ourselves, such that even if things don't work out - or if we get sacked - we can handle it without feeling too emotional.

 

I shared my thoughts with Stanley and Carl in our group chat.

 

And it's only hours later, when Stanley read it.

 

"I'm still sleeping and lying in bed. Feeling very unproductive" he wrote.

 

"I have so much time and so much sperm in me but I'm not doing anything much with them."

 

"I am rotting away," he typed.

 

J my partner told me to leave Stanley alone for now.

 

In J's wise words: "Feeling rotten is also an important part of the healing process.

 

"Imagine if you put on a brave front for so long, it's just going to wear you down.

 

"For now, let Stanley be. Let him feel rotten and let him cry his heart out if he needs to. Don't interrupt.

 

"Your job is to draw up a timeline for Stanley. If you think his rotting is prolonged, then you step in.

 

"Because when someone is at rock bottom, the only way out is to climb up. And when that happens, you make sure you give him that helping hand."

 

Just half an hour ago, I shared with Stanley what J said.

 

"I love him, Adam. I love that J is so wise," he wrote.

 

"But I cannot imagine that when I am in my Rock Bottom mode and you come and give me that helping hand. I'm not lesbian. I might retreat into my hole even further," he said.

[Blogger Adam]

Hi all, my latest blogpost, inspired by recent events. I had a good time writing this because of the many happy memories I revisited.

 

Hope you guys like it.

 

More on http://adamandtheboys2.blogspot.sg/

 

Sibling Revelry

 

Because the topic is trending - and because Stanley claims we're trendy - he insists that this topic take centrestage at Saturday brunch.

My sex-bunny friend Stanley, Carl the dense one and J my partner were at a child-friendly cafe in the eastern part of Singapore.

After we ordered our respective meals, Stanley very urgently set the agenda over brunch.

The Lee family feud.

"Why you so kaypoh ah?" asked Carl, who at our last check, still thought that our current president is S R Nathan.

Stanley looked annoyed.

"Carl, this is a topic that concerns the nation!" he scolded.

"You must keep up with current affairs," Stanley added, slurring the word "affairs" with a touch of sleaziness.

Carl didn't look convinced.

Stanley then ventured to challenge Carl in a bid to shut him off: "Tell me, Carl. What is the name of our current president?"

Carl cocked his head to one side and scrunched his features together as if an invisible hand was squeezing his face like a sponge.

While Singapore's Number One Big Kaypoh continued chatting with J (and with Carl continuing to look like he needed to be in ICU for constipation), I started on attacking my hearty American breakfast.

Truth be told, the family feud didn't fascinate me.

But the famous Lee family drama got me thinking about another Lee family. Mine. 

My very own Lee siblings: Younger brother Barry, my second sis S and oldest Sis Jo. 

Only one name has been approved for this blog because my sis S needs her privacy and Barry doesn't care. Sis Jo doesn't even know I'm gay, much less the existence of this blog.

And so, I thought that I should write about this topic today: Sibling rivalry versus sibling revelry. 

In my case, we are definitely filled with love for one another.

 

Although we've all grown up and no longer stay together, we meet very often for drinks and meals. Just us siblings. 

But I do have many friends who grow up being distant and worse, hating their siblings. 

Stanley for instance, hates his older sister with a passion. 

Carl on the other hand, doesn't talk much to his younger brother.

In my family, it's quite different. 

Sure, we all didn't grow up loving one another all day every day. 

When we were kids, my second sis S, who is three years older than I, were at logger heads with each other all the time. 

We'd fight over toys, or challenge each other in every silly game like who eats dinner faster, or who can avoid stepping on all things linear on the floor at shopping malls.

But mainly, we fought like kids, over childish issues.

She would tell on me if I ran in the backyard without her, and played in drains to my heart's content.

And in retaliation, I would pretend that she scratched me while playing catching, and complain to our older sis Jo (who was in JC while we were in primary school).

Our older sis Jo dotes on us like a good old fashioned big sister. And because of our age difference, she left us younger ones be. 

But she loved us and we welcomed her affection - like how she'd take us out on dates when she went out with her then-boyfriend who would come pick her up in a truck. 

 

She'd also always buy us food or the occasional toy to share. 

When the younger brother came along - who is three years younger than I - I felt that I had to cultivate another ally but the goodnatured brother was so kind to everyone he had no heart to bully his second sister at my bidding. 

And as we grew older, I felt I had them all: A doting oldest sis who doesn't give a damn about our kiddish politicking, and two siblings both of whom are so close to my age - each of them with a three-year gap from me.

And I felt that I, of all my siblings, had the best of both worlds: On the one hand, there's another boy in the family. So he became my natural best friend.

When we played swordfighting, my younger brother Barry and I were both each other's foes, out to kill each other and master pugilistic skills from a secret manual hidden in a dangerous cave (our grandma's TV room - and if you know our grandma and her stern ways and how she fiercely guards all her Hong Kong TVB video tapes, you will understand how dangerous that cave truly is).

And when playing police-and-thief, Barry and I were both on the good side. We pitched tents using blankets and operated from there as our HQ. 

All this while, our second sis S would be left out of our games and she would busy herself with her Nancy Drew books.

But she was a part of the game: She was the enemy we had to kill. S of course wasn't very participative and at a ripe old age of 11, would sourly dismiss us as childish.

Yet, S and I would have our own games - the inner Ah Gua in me also loved playing with my second sis S.

Sometimes, we would both play dress up, using one of our auntie's petticoats and we were princesses on some days, or some rich taitais with big clip-on earrings on other occasions. 

Barry would not understand why gor gor had to wear dresses alongside jie jie, but he would giggle along and sometimes, star in our Chick Flick drama as our servant boy.

All this playing made us very close.

Years later when I confessed to S and Barry that I was gay, they both rolled eyes at me. 

But that's a story for another day.

Point is, sibling love starts from young.

We were fortunate enough to grow up in two relatively spacious shophouses where playtime was always adventurous. 

We had ample space for hide-and-seek, big backyards to run around in, and a few streets away from our houses, narrow alleys with overgrown weed to trek on whenever we felt adventurous enough to sneak out. 

Even if we didn't share toys and did have our differences, love was cultivated through play. 

And it helps that all my grandma's children - I had six aunties and uncles - lived in the two shophouses. 

And my mum being the second youngest child would always be respectful to all her older siblings. 

Kids are impressionable so the more you show - and not merely instruct - them on how to love, the more they will be nurtured. 

Stanley on the other hand, hated his older sister. 

She's a bitch is all Stanley would say when asked for some input to this blogpost. 

"Say that men always fall for me instead of my wicked, ugly sister," Stanley suggested. 

Stanley's sister Cindy Ong is far from hideous. 

And I suspect it's precisely because Cindy is gorgeous that Stanley dislikes her.  

Growing up, Stanley had always been closer to his dad. 

But as with most if not all dads, the older Mr Ong dotes on his sister more. 

When they were younger, Stanley would always be compared to her older sister. 

 

Whenever they played, Stanley said he would always be second fiddle to his sister's imaginative games, taking on only the supporting role. 

 

When his sister Cindy ventured on to more adventurous games like cycling, Stanley's dad would tell him not to join his sister because he's still too young.

 

And when Stanley was old enough to pick up skateboarding - which his sister couldn't deal with - Stanley's dad would tell him to share with his sister because "as a boy, you must learn to give in to girls".

 

When they grew older, his dad spent loads of money on his sister, sponsoring her studies in the United Kingdom.

 

When it was Stanley's turn to go to university, his dad said to him that since his results were good enough to qualify for NTU, he should just study locally.

 

Stanley would later blame his sister for his being gay. 

"I have all these daddy issues because of the lack of attention from him. Cindy Rebecca Ong Bee Leng is to blame," Stanley said invoking his sister's full name, an indication of his true distaste. 

Carl on the other hand, told me that he felt like the lousy older brother who always disappointed his parents.

 

Although older, Carl is indeed denser than his younger brother, who turned out to be charmingly cunning.

 

As kids, the two would get into trouble but his younger brother would always get away with things.

 

Both Carl and his younger brother would both look innocent - in his younger brother's case, it was because he could feign innocence well. In Carl's case, he was simply too dense to look guilty.

 

But Carl would still be punished because as the older boy, you must set an example to your younger brother, his parents would say.

 

As Carl's younger brother grew older, his cunning ways were sharpened.

 

He'd always charm his way into getting more pocket money, and later in adult life, managed to escape financial responsibilities to the family.

 

Eventually, Carl stopped talking to his younger brother because he felt that his parents' love was unequal, and that the obvious favouritism had spoiled his younger brother beyond the point of redemption. 

 

As I sat at Cafe Melba that late morning, watching dozens of kids running amok in the open field beside the cafe, I thought about how these carefree little beings would grow up to be.

 

And how much their parents' values would shape the way they interact with the world - and interact with their own siblings.

 

Many a time, the early seeds of favourtism and early seeds of comparison are actually planted by parents themselves - without them realising it.

 

And kids being kids, they'd take offence. They may sometimes get over these comparisons and favouritism but if it persists, who's to guarantee that they won't grow up resenting their siblings?

 

I shared my thoughts with the table.

 

Stanley, who was stirring his cafe mocha, looked worried.

"Adam dear, I agree with you.

 "These parents belong behind bars.

"Because anyone who wants to plant seeds - whatever kind of seeds they may be - in children should go to hell."

[Blogger Adam]

Hi all, Happy Pink Dot!

 

Posting this latest piece - hope you like it

 

First published in my blog: http://adamandtheboys2.blogspot.sg/

 

Jobless But Guiltless

 

It's amazing how resilient some humans can be.

 

I'm referring to Stanley - who was recently made redundant at work.

 

Not too long ago, Stanley was lamenting to Carl and me about how he could have had a high-flying career and how he saw himself at the very top some day.

 

"Now, all I see at the very top is whoever responded to my Grindr messages - and they're usually panting in delight," he said, obviously very pleased with his newfound free time.

 

"Is that what you've been doing all week? Looking for hookups?" I asked.

 

"Louder lah, Adam Lee. Louder. My mum cannot hear you," Stanley said, stretching both his arms stiffly towards his room door as if he were Vanna White.

 

"She's three storeys below. She can't possibly hear you."

 

"Oh, but she can," Stanley corrected me in a theatrical hush.

 

"There was one time when she messaged me 'what are you doing', just as the short film I was watching reached the climax. And she was three storeys below."

 

"I don't want to know the details, Stan."

 

"Yah, but apparently my mum wants to know."

 

"Erm, let her watch the 'short film' with you then?"

 

"Everything okay?" Mrs Monica Ong's voice crescendoed in a sing-song fashion from three storeys down, as if on cue.

 

"Carl is here," she announced in her trademark loud voice.

 

Just then, the door to Stanley's attic bedroom opened and in came Carl - followed by Mrs Ong.

 

"Hello aunty!" I said chirpily.

 

"Ma, go away!" Stanley said as if he were talking to an annoying little sister. "We're having serious boy talk here!"

 

"This boy ah. Becoming so agitated since he lost his job. Keep an eye on him for me, won't you," Mrs Monica Ong said to me with an endearing smile before turning to stare sternly at Stanley and said "you better get a job soon. And don't show your friends all those movies you've been watching since last week."

 

It was Friday evening, and instead of heading off to one of the bars in Tanjong Pagar to waste money, to Carl's credit, he had suggested something sensible: That we gathered at Stanley's four-storey family home to help Stanley save money.

 

And so, Stanley's study table was laden with rojak, char tow kway, oyster omelette and satay - Stanley's favourite food - from the nearby Chomp Chomp food centre.

 

"As I was saying, I don't think retrenchment is that bad after all," Stanley said, licking the satay sauce off his fingers. "At least, I now get enough sleep."

 

"With whom," I responded instinctively.

 

"Hey, that's mean. I'm still depressed you know. Carl, pass me one more stick."

 

"What have you been doing this week," Carl asked as he forcefully yanked a satay stick out of his mouth.

 

"Girl, don't do that. It looks barbaric. Come, let me show you how it's done," Stanley said reaching out for another stick.

 

"I usually like to hold it in my mouth for as long as possible but in the event that I have to get it out of my mouth, I do it gracefully."

 

And just like that, normalcy has returned to Stanley's life.

 

That he continues talking about sex during meal times is a good sign.

 

As we munched noisily in Stanley's room that night, Stanley quietly updated us with what he'd been up to the entire week.

 

Or whom he'd been up to.

 

To our relief, Stanley had indeed bounced back.

 

Like a bunny.

 

A very busy, energetic bunny.

 

Who's been very busy bouncing (in strangers' beds) all week.

 

And frankly, to me, it's a relief.

 

Because Stanley is doing all these things guiltlessly.

 

He's guiltlessly enjoying his free time - sleeping more, sleeping in, sleeping around - without constantly worrying about his future is comforting.

 

The Stanley I know has been a go-getter.

 

In National Service, he already knows what he wants: To do well enough in our training so that he can prove to himself that even ah guas can survive CDO training.

 

He breezed through physical training and was easily a marksman - aim, hold your breath, squeeze the trigger.

 

He also breezed through physical activities and easily marked men - aim, hold the dicks, squeeze the trigger.

 

As a working adult, Stanley too, is a go-getter.

 

Often, Stanley feels that he's wasting his youth - he would sometimes lament that we all needed more than 24 hours so that we can get more work done, earn more money, and catch up with more friends.

 

Stanley would not entertain my suggestion that maybe he could dedicate less of his time on Grindr or sleeping around for a start.

 

So the fact that Stanley is now so zen and able to be guiltless about smelling the roses is indeed a comforting thought.

 

As he famously explained to us that night, "Life is not always a bed of roses. And I love beds. So while I'm at it, I might as well smell the roses too."

 

Carl looked confused.

 

So was I, but I didn't voice a word, happy to that the Stanley Ong we know is back.

 

That he's managed to pull himself out of his retrenchment episode and get back on his two feet.

[Blogger Adam]

Hi all,

 

Just finished writing another blog post.

 

More on https://adamandtheboys2.blogspot.sg/

 

Sporting Stereotypes

 

Last Sunday, my sex-bunny friend Stanley declared that one of his dreams had come true.

Well, partially, at least.

"I've always wanted to be surrounded by hot, lean, sweaty men wearing rubber, and I should have been more specific," he said wistfully, staring at the hordes of lycra-donning athletes at East Coast Park.

The two of us were at Car Park E2 that morning to support Carl who was doing one of those races which we would never imagine ourselves doing: A 5km run followed by a 1km swim, followed by a 10km run.

But that very morning, we woke up early (5.30am!) and groggily and grumpily joined our muscular and dense friend at ECP.

Minutes after the flag off at 7am, Stanley stirred to life.

"I will have sex with him, him, him, and him," Stanley said with approval, his shades lowered for more visual clarity.

"We should have been more supportive of Carl's love for endurance sports sooner - look at all the action I've been missing," Stanley said ruefully.

Our sporty friend Carl had been in love with endurance sports for as long as we can remember.

I think it started out with Carl crossing his first finishing line at the 2003 Standard Chartered Marathon.

Back then, Carl was a skinny monkey, in Stanley's words.

But over the years, Carl became more obsessed with the sport - progressing from marathons to aquathlons and then to triathlons.

Stanley and I never understood what was so fun about having to swim, bike, run, for such long hours.

But we turned up at East Coast Park that morning anyway.

Mainly because we hoped to cheer Stanley up (he lost his job recently and hasn't been very motivated in life) and at the same time, to cheer Carl on (who didn't really need it given that he is always surrounded by his bunch of sporty blokes during his races).

"I am exhausted just looking at these cute athletes," Stanley said with a sigh.

"I know right. Who wants to push themselves so hard, swimming and running such long distances," I said, rolling my eyes.

"No, Adam," Stanley said, rolling his eyes for me to see.

"I'm exhausted because I just mentally made love to the sixth guy this morning. It's very taxing, you know, having to climax six times in a row," Stanley said, fanning himself dramatically under the huge Angsana tree which we hoped provided us enough shade during the course of the day.

After 45 minutes, Stanley started to fidget and said in a bored tone: "What time do you think Carl will be done? I'm done having mental sex with the athletes."

And according to Stanley, he was quite shocked by the quality of the athletes there.

You would have thought that all these athletes - with their training and all - would be in shape, he said.

True enough, they were.

In all sorts of shapes - most of whom were beyond repair.

The only lean and muscular ones led the pack.

Those at the back, to Stanley's horror, were all fat.

"Look at that one. So fat still dare to wear tri suit," Stanley said, shaking his head.

"And oh my goodness. Hello uncle. Please don't run shirtless. Your're offending my sensitivities," he went on.

Stanley had switched gears.

Our fey friend is now on bitchy mode. Watch out, East Coast Park.

And then, Stanley tugged at my t-shirt and said with urgency: "Adam, Adam!"

"That one, that one," Stanley continued, sounding every bit like a child at a toy store.

I turned to look in Stanley's direction and saw a tan, moustached man in a black-and-white tri suit.

"I slept with him before," Stanley said with amusement.

"Oh, this is going to be fun," he said, switching gears again.

"I'm going to spot the number of gay men here, and see if I've slept with any of them!"

Oh no. Watch out, East Coast Park.

Turned out, there was quite a handful, Stanley reported later.

"I can confirm that there are at least 35 gay men in this race - whom I can spot with my naked eye," he said, stressing the word naked as expected.

Now I know why they call this race an "aqua-thlon", Stanley said, complaining that some of the athletes, with their sashaying buttocks, really look like they belong on the runway rather than on the racing track.

And that got me thinking about sports and stereotypes.

Once upon a time, gay sports was confined to the four walls of the gym - where homosexuals routinely go and pump iron to buff up.

Stanley readily agrees that the gym is indeed a place for pumping action - though I refuse to clarify further with him.

Gymming and gay men have been so successfully integrated that sometimes, it's hard to tell if a muscular bloke is really straight or not.

Then we evolved to dragon boating.

Which is a logical transition.

I mean, with all the huge biceps and muscle strength, surely you'll need a platform to unleash all that power?

Stanley argues that with huge biceps and muscle strength, dragon boating isn't the only platform to unleash that power. Again, I refuse to take that bait.

The stereotype between dragon boating and gay men - wearing colourful NUM singlets who walk around in public with their oars - is so successful that there are even tumblr accounts set up to celebrate all these cute and mainly gay paddlers.

But slowly, more and more gay men are breaking stereotypes in sports.

We hear of global gay athletes who come out of their locker room closets: From Olympians to national sportsmen.

And they come from a range of sports: Basketball, football, wrestling, diving swimming - you get the idea.

And locally, we recently had a brave national athlete who came out too.

Stanley is convinced that there are many more gay athletes in Singapore, and even threatened to do voluntary leg work just to prove his theory right.

And Stanley might have a point.

That there could well be more gay national athletes than we know.

Imagine what they can do collectively if they come out.

For one, they can lead the pack and break stereotypes - and use that example to change other people's mindsets on homosexuality.

You know, such as, how netball isn't just a sport for lesbians. Or how my sexuality does not limit my ability to win medals for my country.

Stanley totally agrees, though he has far more creative ideas about what the gay national athletes can do collectively.

My point is, gays - as with all other groups of people in society - are stereotyped.

Which is fine.

But because gays are slowly breaking stereotypes - in various aspects such as in jobs, sports, the way we dress - we can take this opportunity and ride on this trend and do something constructive.

Case in point.

Carl, because of his denseness, looks like a straight triathlete.

And because he's also a speedy athlete (he was once ranked 38th in a tough swimming race which had 150 participants), nobody thought he was gay.

One day, he casually told his training mates that he really does like penises.

Their reactions were predictable: Oh, we couldn't tell, we wouldn't have known, it doesn't matter anyway.

(To this day, Stanley insists that the friends who trained with Carl are equally - if not, more - dense than Carl.)

Carl then seized the moment and turned that into a teachable episode: To educate his friends that gay men aren't any different from straight men when it came to triathlons.

(To this day, Stanley insists that Carl shouldn't have just seized the moment - there were so many other things Carl could have seized, given that he had the undivided attention of a bunch of cute, straight athletes, but let's not go there.)

When gay men break stereotypes, we stand a better chance of being heard: Because we've surprised our audience.

And because we've surprised our audience, it gives us an upper hand - or more street cred, if you will - to make an argument: Their attention has been seized; the pillars of their mindset are softening; we need to go in for the kill and reshape those pillars while they're still malleable.

In Carl's case, he did justice to all gay triathletes.

While his team mates were still digesting that fact that Carl was gay, and reprogramming their impression of Carl, no doubt, keying in new input to his identity, Carl took that opportunity to help shape their thinking about gay men. 

In the same vein, those who get an opportunity to deconstruct stereotypes in other contexts could - and should - do the same. 

I shared my thoughts with Stanley, who looked unconvinced.

Just then, Carl ran towards us.

We cheered him on, joining the roaring crowd who were his friends.

It was a proud moment for us, witnessing Carl cross the finishing line.

As we slow-jogged over to join Carl, his straight team mates playfully slapped him on his buttocks and gave him brotherly hugs of congratulations.

Stanley turned to me and said, "I am going to be a triathlete - and I'll put the aqua in the aquathlon."

[Blogger Adam]

Hi all,

 

Just posted a piece on my blog. Hope it entertains

 

https://adamandtheboys2.blogspot.sg/

 

If You Don't Love Yourself...

 

Last weekend, Stanley, Carl, J and I had the most taxing outings.

 

The kind where you're literally sapped dry of your energy.

 

"And not in a good way either," adds Stanley my sex-bunny friend retrospectively.

 

That Sunday, the four of us gathered because we were summoned.

 

By Sul A. Baker.

 

Sulaiman Abu Bakar by birth, our queer friend insisted that he be called Sul (pronounced Sool), when we first met him circa 2000, during our good ol' clubbing days at Niche.

 

We like Sul.

 

But we gradually lost touch with him because, while Sul is still a regular feature in the clubbing scene today, almost all of us no longer are (except on very special occasions when someone's birthday was to be held in one of those gay clubs).

 

And the inevitable happened: We drifted.

 

So when we each received Sul's summons - in the form of an invite card with elaborate cursive penmanship requesting our "presence" to his "humble home" for a "intimate gathering" - mailed to our home addresses, we had to say yes.

 

I suspect that Sul had Stanley at the "intimate gathering" part, but I did not feel like probing.

 

And so, we found ourselves appropriately decked out for that outing: In matching Baju Kurung.

 

"We look hot in traditional Malay garb," Stanley decided.

 

"Come, let's take a wefie and hashtag it SGBoy and SGBoyan," he added.

 

"Stan, please watch what you say. This is a very sensitive period," I cautioned.

 

"Mmmm, sensitive.... I know all about sensitivity.... "

 

Sul's home is at Tiong Bahru - one of the old pre-war flats which cost him and his Ang Moh partner 1.2 million dollars.

 

I can see why he is so eager to have friends over.

 

Furnished with expensive pieces from all over the world (sofa from Milan, paintings from - was it Spain? - decorative pieces like antiqued dragon ornaments from Shanghai), his flat looks like a showroom.

 

An art gallery, if you will.

 

It's also filled with abstract artwork hung on walls, and paintings that look as if it were the work of an overly excited child who had access to a paintbrush and lots and lots of water colour.

 

Sul's space is huge.

 

There's a red-bricked wall on one side, cement-screed flooring, black track lights and many pots of indoor plants (overgrown money plants and tall bamboo palm).

 

His place, for the lack of a better word, is beautiful.

 

"Eh, eh, eh.... welcome to my home Sayang!" Sul said the moment he spotted us from his kitchen, and modelled his way towards us.

 

Left, right, left, right. 

 

Sul was dressed in glittery gold baju melayu, with a songkok - traditional head dress for males - which has the height of a respectable pair of Manolo Blahnik.

 

"Mmm-mmmm, you still have that walk, Pondan," Stanley spurred the sashaying Sul on, calling Sul by his other nickname.

 

"Werk it, Pondan," Stanley cheered. "Gelek for kakak to see!"

 

Sul froze in his tracks.

 

Carl, J and I looked at one another discreetly, wondering if Sul was offended.

 

Then, Sul swiftly swivelled away, with his back facing us.

 

And in large, exaggerated steps, Sul sashayed vigourously as if Jabba The Hutt was possessed by a very drunk Tyra Banks.

 

Inside the house, everyone started cheering as Sul did his impromptu catwalk for all to see.

 

Somewhere near his dining table, Sul did a dramatic turn, and then began swaying his generous hips again towards us.

 

I felt as if Sul were going to crash into us and briefly saw flashes of my entire life run through in fast-motion sequence in my mind.

 

Sul stopped in front of Stanley, flared his arms up in the air as if he had just completed a flamenco routine, and said: "Just for you, Sundal."

 

Stanley the Peranakan turned towards us and proudly said "that means whore in Malay".

 

The two then hugged each other and, I kid you not, jumped together and squealed.

 

Yes, that's Sul for you. Loud, dramatic, and always ready to perform.

 

One of the reasons Sul is draining.

 

I had no idea whether we were invited to a Hari Raya dinner or Pink Dot, but the dramatic welcome was befitting of Sul.

 

"My word, Sul. You are such a typical Malay woman. Married already then let go and become one fat makcik," Stanley commented without anyone asking. 

 

"Come, turn. Show kakak your pantat," Stanley said, sounding every bit like a makcik himself, in his Peranakan accent.

 

"I love your pantat, girl. Very child-bearing," Stanley decided, and slapped Sul's rich girth in approval.

 

"Your mouth also never change - still like a pantat like that," Sul replied heartily, flicking his wrists in the air as if he had no control over his wrist muscles.

 

Dinner at Sul's was delightful.

 

Our domesticated gay friend was quite the culinary expert, whipping up on his own, dishes like sambal goreng with petai, beef rendang, ayam masak merah, and Satay which Sul ordered two weeks in advance.

 

We were surrounded by a couple of polite angmohs (Sul's partner, William's friends).

 

And I say they're polite because they smile and nod and laugh at about almost everything.

 

But it was only when everyone was seated at Sul's 2-metre-long dining table that the night truly began.

 

Remember when I said the outing was taxing?

 

Here's why.

 

For the next four hours - while we were passing sambal goreng petai and topping up drinks for one another - we talked about Sul.

 

Or rather, we heard about Sul.

 

For practically every bloody topic, Sul inserted himself in it.

 

And not in a way Stanley would enjoy either.

 

By the end of the night, we had heard enough of Sul's achievements at work, in the community, in his family, his earnings, his blessed love life, his great love life, his good work, his happy marriage and his favourite panties brand.

 

All that's missing was someone passing him an Oscars and asking that bitch to give thanks on stage.

 

Even in hypothetical situations, the amazing Sul has a way of squeezing his way into it.

 

"Oxley Road drama is so intense," Sul said. Then, "actually I want to move into Oxley Road area - but with our combined earnings we'd be struggling to pay off the housing loan so no choice lah, we settle for this colonial-like flat."

 

Or, "alamak, I better start writing all my wills properly - wait my family also got drama after I die," Sul casually announced to the whole table of guests, who I noticed had begun to nod politely like hypnothised zombies.

 

By the time we stepped out of Sul's place, we reminded ourselves to restrict all future meetings with Sul to outings that don't require him to speak very much: Such as when Sul is in a coma, somewhere in a hospice.

 

"And that's me being nice with such examples," Stanley said proudly.

 

As we walked to the car park in the quaint neighbourhood, J my partner said that Sul really isn't all that bad.

 

"All he likes to do is talk about himself and make himself feel good," J said.

 

To which, Stanley replied immediately: "No, no, hunny. You don't get to defend him. There are many ways I can think of making myself feel gooooooood without needing to talk about myself."

 

But it's true that Sul is harmless - that his fault lies in wanting to be heard, J pointed out to us.

 

There are always such people around - and maybe they had very bad childhood stories, like, nobody recognises them for what they've been doing?

 

That's why over the years, they build up such a habit to reaffirm themselves, J said.

 

"Plus, it's not like Sul put anyone down to make himself feel good - so that's good right?" J argued like the true litigator who he is.

 

Stanley stared at J, his eyes wide as testicles.

 

"Hunny, that's where you're wrong. You do put people down to make yourself feel gooooood - and that is a good thing," Stanley retorted like the true sex bunny who he is.

[Blogger Adam]

Good Sunday morning, all!

 

Just posted another piece on my https://adamandtheboys2.blogspot.sg/ blog.

 

Have a good weekend

 

=======

 

Stanley The Size Queen

 

"Quick, quick, quick, I can't wait!" Stanley said, hopping from one foot to another as if he were a child on Christmas morning.

That, or Stanley needed to pee.  

"Hurry, hurry, hurry!" Stanley said impatiently. This time, he was lying on his back on J's sofa, his legs pedalling an imaginary bicycle in the air.

 

"What on earth are you doing, Stan?" 

 

"I'm cycling! I love J's sofa! I love J's apartment!" my random sex-bunny-of-a-friend Stanley replied. 

"Food's ready!" J announced.  

As J dished out the steaming pot of his famous chicken stew, Stanley hurriedly ushered every one to his seat as if we were all late for the Last Supper and the host was starting to subconsciously drum his fingers on the table.

"Jesus, hurry up everyone," Stanley said urgently.

J took a seat beside Stanley, opposite Carl and me.

And even before we could open up our napkins, Stanley spoke rapidly: "Okay, J thank you for having us over and cooking for us and in line with your Holy ways, let's say grace."

And before any of us could react, Stanley added very quickly, "Grace!"

As J passed the toasted French loaves around, Stanley wasted no time in starting the topic he'd been dying to discuss.

His recent job interview.

 

Last week, Stanley - who was recently retrenched - got called back for a second round of job interview.

 

According to Stanley, his chances are quite high, but he's concerned that the firm is relatively small.

 

And Stanley the size queen is worried. 

 

"Why worry so much? You can always go for all the interviews then decide slowly, no?" J asked.

 

"Oh, my dearest J," Stanley looked at him as if J were a naive little boy.

 

"Of course you wouldn't need to worry - you work for a huge law firm," Stanley said before adding "and anything that's huge and firm and lawful is always a recipe for a very, very good time."

 

J giggled at the random comment. Carl helped himself to chicken stew.  I rolled my eyes.

 

"You see, size is very important to me - in all sense of the word," Stanley continued, setting his cutlery down - a worrying sign because that means he's likely to go on and on about sex at the dinner table. 

 

"First and foremost, the smaller the company, the more likely your boss will micromanage you," Stanley said with concern.

 

"But he'll be disappointed because hunny, when anyone manages me, I can guarantee him that they're handling nothing that's micro about me," Stanley continued, stroking his French loaf tenderly. 

 

"What are your thoughts, Carl?" Stanley asked our dense friend.

 

Carl froze in mid-feed, and began processing the question, allowing his spoonful of chicken stew - just inches away from his mouth - to start dripping.

 

"Oh, so that's how it looks from a third-party point of view," Stanley said like an analyst as he observed Carl's frozen and arguably controversial pose. 

 

"Stan, please, can we stop talking about sex over food?" I begged.

 

"What were you thinking, Adam? I'm always rim and proper at dinner tables," Stanley replied raising a lone eyebrow.

 

Carl looked very confused - likely because his brain can only process one set of data at a time, and the speed of Stanley's gear-switching is causing a lot of white noise and fuzz in Carl's mind.

 

"Never mind, Carl, you just put that dripping piece of meat in your mouth and swallow," Stanley said helpfully, and looked at me with cheeky defiance.

Stanley looked like he was about to spew his next vulgar comment when - "Wow, J, I could marry you if not for the fact that my best friend Adam and you are sleeping with each other behind my back."

"You make the best stew, J," Stanley sighed with gratification, his mouth chewing busily.

"There's only one other time when my mouth is filled with warm, gooey stuff and I feel like I'm in heaven," Stanley said, stirring his soup bowl and preparing for his next spoonful, "and trust me - yours is way more savoury."

Carl set his soup spoon down and tried very hard to presumably erase all mental images pumped into his head during dinner. 

"Adam, you are one lucky bitch," Stanley said, slurping the stew noisily. "Your boyfriend's stew is so rich."

"And your boyfriend is so rich," he said, turning to J.

J giggled and ladled more stew into Stanley's bowl.

 

"And speaking of rich," Stanley said, "I need to get back on track with my work life. This is my first job interview in weeks - one that is quite likely to land me my next pay check."

 

As our Saturday night dinner progressed, Stanley aired his concern over working for smaller companies.

 

Apart from fearing that a small team would mean more mirco-managing, Stanley was worried about the company's overall bottom line.

 

"And you can imagine why I'm so concerned," Stanley the pure bottom said.

 

"And then, if the company cannot do well, what will happen to my boners?" he said, obviously on a roll. 

 

"Oh, I am so funny!" Stanley cheered himself on, entertaining himself.

 

Carl, who was stuffing his face with his third bowl of chicken stew, clapped along by way of habit. 

 

But Stanley's worries are not unfounded.

 

Years ago, we did have a discussion about company sizes: Whether one would rather work for an MNC or settle for a small-size company.

 

Back then, we all readily agreed that when it comes to employment, size matters. The bigger and more reputable the company, the better.

 

Until Stanley - whose previous company was a huge and reputable firm - decided to retrench him.

 

In fact, Stanley's entire team in Singapore was axed. 

 

Which is why our Saturday dinner topic was really good food for thought.

 

"Do you think if I were to work for a lesser firm - which is smaller in size, I will be at a disadvantage?"

 

Stanley's question was pointedly posed to J my wise partner. An indication that Stanley had decided to close his chapter of making sex jokes and is now ready for real answers.

 

Sadly, J the litigator could only present Stanley both sides of the argument but really, Stanley has to be the judge of it.

 

And in J's words, he'll have to think about how his role in his would-be firm can propel him forward.

 

To which, Stanley quickly interrupted: "Oh, my role always propels me forward, backward, sideways - in all possible positions you can imagine."

 

And just as quickly, he added: "Sorry J - please go on. I just had to grab that opportunity when I saw it."

 

And just like that, Stanley straightened up.

 

"Wait. I think I just gave myself the answer."

 

Carl looked up from sipping his tea and cocked his head sideways - clearly because he hadn't been following.

 

"I need to grab opportunities when I see them!" Stanley said as if he discovered a formula to slow down global warming.

 

Just then, my partner J gently encouraged Stanley.

 

"And if you're in a small company, wouldn't that make you a big fish in a small pond?

 

Stanley lit up even further - and I really couldn't decide whether it was because J made a good point, or he thought the big-fish-small-pond analogy was yet another platform for him to make another sex reference. 

 

"It doesn't apply to me," Stanley replied.

 

"I'm always the small pond that's explored by the big fish," he added and roared with laughter.

[Blogger Adam]

Hi all, sorry I didn't write last week - was unwell.

 

But I'm back with a new post! More on https://adamandtheboys2.blogspot.sg/

 

Micro Soft

 

Over supper at Swee Choon last Friday night, Carl our dense friend shared with us what he described as "a very private recent development".

 

"I hope it's not about your sex life," Stanley warned as he poured us one round of Chinese tea.

 

"Anything that's private has to do with sex," Stanley said with determination.  "And the last thing I want is visuals of you in my mind, having Muscle-Mary sex."

 

Carl shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

 

"So," Carl began with his favourite clutch word.

 

"I started working out seriously two months ago," Carl began.

 

"Hunny, I've known you for almost 20 years - it's about bloody time you did so," Stanley said, referring to Carl's never-ending quest of eating to bulk up so that he can have enough mass to work on.

 

"Anyway," Carl continued with his other favourite clutch word.

 

"I am so serious that I'm eating steroids," he said.

 

Stanley froze for a split second.

 

"That's it? You worked up so much of my emotions just to tell me this?" Stanley the drama queen said.

 

"If I had known that your private recent development is you putting steroids - instead of other more exciting items - in your mouth, I would have cancelled today's supper," Stanley went on, nearing hysteria as he spoke.

 

"Come, your favourite deep-fried mee suah kueh," Stanley said lovingly to Carl as he set one morsel of Swee Choon's signature dish on his plate.

 

Carl shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

 

"I'm not done yet, actually," Carl said and bit his lips.

 

Stanley the drama queen paused and turned slowly with deliberation towards Carl.

 

"Okay, go on," Stanley said slowly, enunciating his words like he was giving Carl a final warning.

 

"There are side effects," Carl said, mimicking Stanley's slow-paced tone.

 

This got Stanley very stirred.

 

Sensing potential drama, Stanley leaned forward and whispered urgently.

 

"Spill," he said with theatrical flare.

 

Carl was about to open his mouth when Stanley cut in.

 

"Wait! Boys," Stanley said with annoyance.

 

"This is serious stuff. Come on, lean forward with me. React along," Stanley waved at us enthusiastically.

 

I rolled my eyes and gave in.

 

"I...I think I have erectile dysfunction," Carl whispered.

 

Stanley's eyes widened like they were relaxed testicles in a tub of hot water.

 

Carl looked from me to Stanley for reaction.

 

Stanley's jaw parted like he was ready to receive not one, but two German sausages.

 

"Well," I ventured, not really sure what my next sentence would be.

 

"Can we cancel our tofu orders please," Stanley suggested timidly, not sure if it was appropriate to crack a joke about something so serious.

 

Carl burst out laughing.

 

Actually, we couldn't distinguish if it were laughter or tears - he sounded like a muffled hyena.

 

"How long has it been?" I ask with genuine concern.

 

Stanley cut in.

 

"Seriously? You are concerned about the length now, Adam?" Stanley chimed in with perfect timing.

 

Carl burst out laughing - for real.

 

Turns out, Carl had been feeling out of sorts for at least a week before he felt that he couldn't keep it to himself any more.

 

"You shouldn't take that long to spill the beans just because you take that long to spill your seeds," Stanley said, Queen of Puns.

 

"It must be hard on you," said Stanley, pushing his luck.

 

Carl frowned at him.

 

I slapped Stanley's wrist on Carl's behalf.

 

Okay, back to Carl.

 

Carl first started noticing something amiss almost two weeks after he starting using steroids.

 

At first, he sort of lost interest in having sex (although in comparison, Carl doesn't really venture out to look for men the way our sex-bunny friend Stanley does).

 

Carl initially mistook his dwindling libido to be the cause of having overworked himself in the gym.

 

But as days passed, Carl eventually felt that something was wrong because, in his words, "the other day, I was doing the deed when my member failed me".

 

This got Stanley very worried.

 

"Define member," he said cheekily.

 

Before Carl started to shift uncomfortably in his seat, Stanley continued, "okay, I was kidding. Define failed".

 

According to Carl, "failed" means that he had managed to get his member up - but while Carl was distracted with a phone call, his member quietly deflated.

 

"I want to know why you had to pick up that phone call while you were, you know, indulging in self-happy time," Stanley demanded.

 

Erm, that's not quite the point, Stanley dear, I said, trying to stay focussed.

 

Ok, point is, Carl's erection couldn't be maintained. And that got him very worried.

 

For the next few nights, Carl tested his goods.

 

Again and again.

 

And he was finally determined that he had a problem.

 

Back at our Swee Choon supper table, Carl stirred his pork congee listlessly.

 

"How?" he asked into his bowl of hot porridge.

 

"Well, for a start, you need to nail the problem on the head," Stanley said.

 

Nobody took the bait, so Stanley carried on.

 

"You know a few things. One, you have an issue. Two, this could very likely be caused by steroids," Stanley said seriously.

 

"So you know the root cause of this problem - and it's still in its early stage, so you decide, Carl. You want hard muscles and soft pee-pee, or you want soft muscles and hard pee-pee?"

 

Carl shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

 

"Or," I suggest helpfully, "you go see a doctor and see what your options are".

 

Ah, doctor.

 

The scenario Carl was trying to avoid.

 

To know you have ED is one thing. To officially seek a doctor's advice is another - because that act seals the deal.

 

For many men, especially men nearing their forties, and especially gay men nearing their forties, having ED is like a death sentence.

 

Even if one does not always make full use of his tool, knowing that one's tool is faulty is very worrying.

 

A functioning penis is what probably defines a man.

 

Well, that, and many other things too. But you get the idea.

 

It's like how women might feel when they go through menopause because a natural part of their womanly system no longer functions.

 

Stanley thinks that ED is a natural retribution to gay men who overuse their members - although Stanley insists that his member is still a hard worker.

 

But Stanley the versatile is resilient.

 

"Go with the flow, my dear Carl," Stanley said in serious consolation mode

 

"If you can't get hard, then just be a bottom for the rest of your life lah," he said.

 

It's a very natural progression, Stanley insists.

 

You go with the flow, he said. 

 

If you can't get hard, be bottom. If you can't be bottom, be top.

 

According to Stanley the homo expert, some gay men - who have been bottom all their lives - suddenly find that nobody wants to top an uncle.

 

So what do the bottom uncles do?

 

They switch roles and be tops, so that they brand themselves as sugar daddies.

 

Carl continued stirring his congee, not buying any of Stanley's arguments.

 

"Why me," Carl asked his bowl of porridge.

 

"Think about it - if you don't appreciate a staff, of course he will quit right?" Stanley said, referring to Carl's respectably un-promiscuous lifestyle.

 

"Yes, and one day your overworked staff will quit 'cos you're such an overbearing boss," I scolded.

 

"My member won't quit. I may overwork it, but I'm a nice boss," Stanley said, smiling.

 

"Because I leave it to do what it wants, and I'm not a micro manager," he continued, pleased with himself.

 

"Sorry Carl dear, I don't mean to keep targetting at you but seriously right now, you are indeed a soft target," said Stanley the bitch, who's on a roll.

[Blogger Adam]

Good Saturday morning everyone.

 

Heading out in a while - and the highlight of my weekend is... Annabelle! Hope it's nice.

 

And before I head out, here's a blogpost inspired by horror flicks. More on my blog https://adamandtheboys2.blogspot.sg/

 

===========

Ghost Writing

One of Stanley, Carl and my favourite activities in this world is to pay money, sit quietly in a dark air-conditioned room for a few hours and stare at a big screen.

 

Though this can mean going to Green Apple at North Bridge Road for our occasional foot massage, I'm really talking about watching movies.

 

Our favourite genre? Horror films.

 

My partner J is useless - we once went on a date nearly 14 years ago to watch Shutter, a Thai horror flick and he told me afterwards that, true to the title, he kept his eyes shut during all critical parts of the movie.

 

Since then, I go to the boys when it comes to watching horror films.

 

The latest inspiration for this blog post is really by a doll named Annabelle.

 

"What's so interesting about this doll?" Carl the dense one asked over coffee last week.

 

For Carl, who cannot even recite the names of our current and past presidents, it comes as no surprise.

 

"It's a creepy movie," I supplied Carl with some context.

 

"I once watched a Youtube clip about a doll, and it's creepy," Stanley added. "It's about how Japanese men are falling in love with Silicone dolls and having sex with them."

 

"But back to Annabelle the doll," Stanley said. "It's something similar - it's also about something entering the doll," he said, raising one eyebrow suggestively.

 

With Stanley the high-octane sex bunny, everything is about sex.

 

Carl the dense one frowned, unable to catch up with such high-level conversation.

 

"Never mind. You just come along and watch the movie with us can already," Stanley said, tapping Carl gently on his shoulder.

 

Twenty minutes into the conversation - while Stanley and I were talking about when's a good time to gather to watch Annabelle - Carl brightened up.

 

"Oh, it's a horror movie!"Carl said looking up from his phone.

 

Stanley and I clapped at Carl's progress.

 

Carl clapped along with glee.

 

And for the next hour, the three of us did what was quite typical of Singaporeans who are bored: Sharing ghost stories.

 

And because I never had any encounters, here are the boys' stories...

 

In Stanley Ong's words:

 

My mum told me this story when I was a kid.

Grandma used to live in an old shop house in Tanjong Katong. 

And being Peranakan, she loves hosting and partying (and I must have inherited her genes. I love wearing tight clothes like the kebaya and girl, I love to host and party, but that's a story for another day).

One night, Grandma threw one of her parties - there was food, guests, music (though if I were in her era, I would suggest she introduce some party drugs too, but that would mean having sex with her friends who are all wrinkly now, so again, that's a story for another day).

Mum was about nine years old, and she remembered that Grandma was busy dishing out food while complaining that some of her friends were late.

Just then, we heard a knock on the door.

Mum was about to help Grandma open the door when Grandma shouted cheerily: "Whoever you are, just enter!"

 

Mum then ran off to help Grandma with the dishes, thinking that her door-opening duty was relieved.

 

Seconds later, the door didn't budge.

 

Grandma again shouted: "Come in lah, whoever you are!"

 

Again, the door didn't budge.

 

Mum said that she remembered a cold wind blow into the house, and all the adults went quiet.

 

Grandma then walked to the door and opened it slightly.

 

Nobody was at the door.

 

About half an hour later, all of Grandma's friends turned up and she thought nothing of it.

 

Later on in the night, when all of Grandma's friends went home, Mum said she recalled that the whole family was awakened by a loud noise in our kitchen.

 

Grandma was first to respond.

 

Mum and her older siblings stood outside their rooms.

 

Mum said she heard the adults talking in hushed, panicked tones.

 

This what what Mum saw:

 

The kitchen larder was opened. Plates were broken. Shards, big and small, were strewn all over the floor. Our fridge was closed, but all the contents of the fridge - milk, leftover food, fruits, sambal - were spilled all over the floor... forming a trail towards the back door.

 

Mum thought it was a burglar - her uncles woke up and held sticks to search all over the house.

 

But Mum said Grandma just sat on her chair and started saying the rosary aloud.

 

Mum was then ushered by her aunt to bed and the adults stayed awake the whole night.

 

Turns out, when Grandma shouted for whoever was at the door to enter, that somebody - whatever it was - really took the invitation. 

 

In old folk's tales, unnatural beings cannot enter someone's house unless they're being invited. 

 

And in this case, Grandma invited whatever was at her door, to enter. Twice. 

 

Mum couldn't remember other details, except that an old Malay man came by the house two days later to perform rituals and since then, some corners of  Grandma's house had lumpy pieces of lime placed. 

 

"Moral of the story, don't let strangers enter without knowing who they are - always be safe," Stanley the sex bunny said, and laughed at the irony.

 

"And second moral of the story," Stanley continued, "is that Singaporeans should stop wishing for a revival of the kampong spirit - they have no idea what they're wishing for!"

 

In Carl Chang's words:

 

This happened when I was in National Service at the old Police Academy.

In our first week, we were already told by our seniors that our bunks were haunted.

One night, one of the boys asked his buddy to accompany him to the toilet.

At this point, Stanley shifted nearer to Carl, obviously very keen to know further developments to Carl's story.

So A and B went to the toilet.

"Ah huh," Stanley brightened up, giving Carl his undivided attention, his eyes filled with hope.

Apparently, A said to B that he was afraid of going to the toilet alone.

Stanley turned to me and said "I love this story already - I'm going to try this during my reservist."

A then went into the cubicle while B waited outside.

After 10 minutes, B thought it was very strange that A took such a long time so he asked if A was ok.

A said yes.

Another ten minutes later, A was still not done.

So B peered under the stall.

"Been there, done that," Stanley cut in, completely destroying any sort of buildup.

B saw nothing. No movement, no shadow.

And so B told A: "Hey, you're taking such a long time, I'm gonna go back to the bunk first."

To which, A replied: "You're going back because you're tired... Or because you found out who I am..."

Stanley paused and stared at Carl. Accusingly.

"Carl Chang! This is a story I read before on the Internet!" he scolded.

Carl shifted in his seat uncomfortably. 

"I didn't know I had to share something I had been through," he said and bit his lips guiltily.

"But since the plot of your story involved two young men going to the toilet together, all is forgiven."

 

"I only wish they had toilet sex."