Looking for a blog I came aross before

[iknikn]

Hey, not sure where is the appropriate place to post this, but I remember reading a blog before where a gay sg guy writes about his stories/adventures/conversations with his (two?) other friends, mostly about being gay in Singapore. He referred to themselves as three gay musketeers or something like that. One of his friends was always very bitchy and often had sharp comebacks. His writing was casual but earnest and funny, and I'd like to revisit it again but can't for my life remember what's the blog name or url. I only remember there was this half-joking post about having to switch from being btm to top as you grow older, or something like that. Somebody who recognizes it by my vague description please direct me to it haha coz I want to read it again (hopefully it's not been deleted already). Thanks!

Edited August 3, 2019 by iknikn

[auri]

vaguely rings a bell, but unable to find it.

 

unfortunately so many blogs get deleted

[iknikn]

aw ok yea might have been deleted. pity. thanks for replying anyw!

[Blogger Adam]

I like to think that it's this blog you're referring to?

 

https://adamandtheboys2.blogspot.com/

 

If it is, I hope you continue to enjoy reading it - I've revived it months ago and am committed to posting new pieces every Saturday.

 

In fact, the latest one is just out

 

 

Life In Plastic

 

TMI Alert! read our WhatsApp group chat.

Before Carl and I could stop Stanley - who is capable of sharing too much information beyond all recommended levels - our fey friend had already typed out words which we wished we hadn't read.

"I love it when I am taking a dump and check that I have a LOT of poop."
"The smellier the better."
"Is it weird?"

It's that time of the morning, when Stanley Ong would be most free because it's after breakfast and the coffee he drank kickstarted his bowel engines.

"What's everyone doing tonight,' Stanley the sex bunny typed.

I couldn't resist. "Whom are you doing tonight," I wrote.

Seven minutes of pure radio silence - and peace - later, Stanley revived the group chat again.

"OMG, I feel so productive. I look at the toilet bowl and feel like I gave birth to so many penises - each of them large, chocolate chunks," Stanley wrote.

"Stan, please. I'm having my chocolate protein milkshake now," Carl wrote.

"Chocolate protein milkshakes are so damn delicious, says no one ever," Stanley wrote back.

It was a Friday morning, which meant to say everyone of my boys is in a good mood because, it's TGIF.

Before my overseas posting, we would be making plans to gather at one of our familiar haunts and unwind.

These days, it's one man down, and Carl and Stanley would sometimes have very quiet dinners because all Carl would do is nod hypnotically to whatever Stanley said.

"I think our friend is very hollow," Stanley would say to me on most nights after dropping Carl off, while we were on our way back to our respective homes.

That Friday night wouldn't be one of those nights because Stanley is joining Carl and his sister gang of gym rabbits for dinner and drinks later at E-bar, Carl's all-time favourite drinking place.

Stanley tells me he's amused at the thought of dining with a bunch of burly men who looked like they are each capable of devouring a cow, but instead chooses to eat a meek salad for dinner.

But eating grass with these beefcakes is better than spending Friday nights alone, Stanley decided (Stanley's own group of friends - the badminton sisters, a hobbyist group comprising gay men - are out of town).

Earlier this morning, our WhatsApp group chat came stirring to life with plenty of updates from Stanley.

They started with a string of photos: The group of them posing during dinner, Carl and Stanley taking a wefie at E-bar, and a couple of other photos that featured big arms, big biceps, and big alcohol bottles.

The news point though, had nothing to do with any of those photos.

"Carl is mad," Stanley typed.
"He has a disease"
"Mad Carl disease"

I waited for the news point, letting Stanley and his usual dramatic openings play out.

Stanley continued in the group.

"Carl is putting weird things in his body," Stanley wrote.

I was very tempted to interrupt and point out that Carl wouldn't be the first, given that Stanley had once inserted beads into certain parts of his body.

But I didn't want to break the flow of information - plus, it's Saturday morning and I am munching on my coco crunch.

"Please go on," I tapped instead.

Turns out, Carl is so into cosmetic procedures that he's getting out of hand.

It all began some three years ago.

Having amassed enough cash and muscles, Carl wanted more.

He had always been feeling small - ironic, given his python-sized arms and his Zouk bouncer frame - and it became worse after he broke up with his partner Ah Boy of many years (read it here).

And so began his obsession of looking good.

It first started with something innocuous.

He would buy collagen powder and drink it diligently every night because someone had whispered to him that it would keep him young.

Stanley and I had tried it out of curiosity.

Stanley pleasantly pointed out that the collagen powder, drunk with plain water, tasted like sperm.

And then Carl got a little greedier and bolder.

He would go to Thailand to do laser procedures on his face, which, fair enough, is okay since he could afford to shuttle to and fro for the sake of looking young.

That was quickly followed by frequent botox injections that would iron out the wrinkles on his forehead.

Yesterday, Carl revealed to the group during dinner that he had gone to Bangkok to insert a thread in each side of his cheeks.

"Apparently the person used a needle and thread and literally poked it through Carl's cheek and strung it up to the area near his eyes, tugging the thread tightly so that it keeps his cheeks from sagging," Stanley explained to me.

I had to stop myself from gagging.

"It's not so bad..." Carl typed, trying to exercise some damage control.

"What's worse," Stanley went on, "is that Carl has scheduled a nose surgery in Seoul next month!"

Carl typed a smiley emoticon in response.

But I wasn't smiling.

Years ago, the three of us had talked about plastic surgery.

But we were all in our late twenties where money was still an issue, and we were still youthful.

Among us, we jokingly said that Stanley would be the first to go under the knife while Carl and I had to be the ones comforting him later for looking like Zsa Zsa Gabor.

How the tables have turned.

Carl, while dense and clueless, is also stubborn.

So talking him out of doing plastic surgery would be out of the question.

Once he's made up his mind, he would block out all logic.

Stanley ended the group chat update by posting a gif featuring a tiny boy jumping up and down the puffed lips of some old woman with plastic surgery.

Later, as I digested my breakfast and breaking news, I ask myself if I would succumb to plastic surgery one day.

The quick answer is no - given that, while I'm not exactly super star quality, what's important is that I don't hate the way I look.

I may have a flat nose and single eye lids, but I think my eyes are arguably my best feature. And that comes from years of cultivating self love.

Stanley said later that his best feature is no doubt his penis, which also comes from years of cultivating self love.

And if Carl hates his nose today and wants to do something about it, there's nothing we can do to stop him.

All Stanley and I wish for, is that Carl would stop obsessing with his looks, and stop yearning to prolong the longevity of his boyish face, which is Carl's best feature (not his python-sized arms).

And as his best pals, after we have exhausted our arguments to dissuade him, at the end of the day, we can only stand by whatever decision he's made.

"Good luck, and don't fuck it up," I typed to Carl, quoting three of our favourite gay icon RuPaul.

Stanley added: "I still love you, Carl, big nose or small nose.

"But really, think really hard about it.

"Between a nose job and a blow job, one of them is more achievable and enjoyable," Stanley wrote matter of factly.



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

Edited July 27, 2019 by Blogger Adam
typo

[Blogger Adam]

Good morning all,

 

Wrote a new entry today in my blog - it's really inspired by real people :)

 

Hope you enjoy it.

 

I will write new pieces every Saturday on my blog here

 

https://adamandtheboys2.blogspot.com/

 

 

 

=============================================================

Supplementary Questions

 

The question of supplements came up during dinner with Stanley and Carl the other night.

 

It all began with a seemingly casual question.

 

"Do you guys eat supplements?" Carl our dense friend slash gym rabbit asked.

 

Of course.

 

For me, my supplement-eating journey began when I was a kid.

 

I was a rather sickly child so I remember having to eat vitamin C (in the form of sweets - yummy!) as well as cod liver oil (in whitish, liquid form - yucky!) for the longest time.

 

There were also home cooked supplements in the form of food.

 

Like chopped liver and pig's brain soup (I kid you not).

 

When I was a teenager, my mum added essence of chicken and bird's nest to the mix to help me get better results.

 

In NS and uni, I weaned off eating supplements.

 

I felt free. 

 

Then my pill-popping habit peaked again in my mid-twenties when I started working because I was constantly exhausted by work, and felt weak and fell sick all the time.

 

But my vitamin variety pales in comparison to Stanley's.

 

According to Stanley the Swallower, his daily dose of pills comprises the following:

• Multivitamins ("anything that's multiple is always good")
• Gluccosamine ("for my knees, hunny - on some nights I have to be on all fours")
• Melatonin ("to help me wind down, and help me sleep")
• Meta B ("to help me stay alert and help me sleep... around")
• Milk thistle ("a girl needs to protect her liver from all the excessive drinking") 
• Multi-Level Marketing product called Tea Green ("in this case, I swallow simply because a friend insists it's good and when Stanley is asked to swallow, Stanley swallows").

But Stanley's vitamins - indeed a handful and a mouthful - is an easy feat for him.

 

"Hunny, I can swallow them all at one go. I don't have gag reflex and that's a talent," he said to me.

 

"And you can quote me," he emphasised, eager for the virtual world to learn of his gift.

 

Carl our dense friend shifted in his seat.

 

He set his fork down and, looking like he was about to have a mini seizure, opened his mouth and uttered words that would soon spike the gay force field surrounding table 63 of ABC market.

 

Stanley reacted by letting out a high-octave yelp which, if he had tried harder, would reach a pitch which only God, dogs and dolphins can hear.

 

The colour in Carl's face drained.

 

"Please, please, please keep it down, Stan," Carl begged.

 

Stanley couldn't help himself.

 

So he bounced on his seat and used both his hands to cover his mouth, hoping that that very action could prevent a second faerie explosion.

 

Carl looked to me for help.

 

I didn't know how to react.

 

But between a serious and concerned face and letting myself go, I chose the latter and let out the first few sounds of a laugh, before Stanley took the cue and released his hands, unleashing a very hearty throttle.

 

We laughed for a good two minutes until we teared.

 

Stanley raised his hand as if to surrender and using his other hand, wiped his tears and saliva.

 

Carl slumped his shoulders, his python-sized biceps pulsating in disappointment.

 

Even as dozens of heads belonging to evening diners made up of wholesome family units had turned in our direction, Stanley couldn't care.

 

Our dense friend had just told us that evening's most ridiculous revelation that we had to take a moment to digest it.

 

Later, Stanley cleared his throat and switched to all-serious mode, looked Carl in the eye, and told him: "Carl dear. Thank you for being so brave. I'm sorry - we're sorry - for being such insensitive fools."

 

"It's absolutely okay to eat viagra as a night supplement. It's not easy. It must be hard on you," Stanley said, before his facial expression quivered and his voice broke, unleashing another round of violent giggles which he tried very hard to suppress.

 

Carl the hobbyist weight lifter had confessed to us not too long ago that he felt he could have erectile dysfunction (read it here).

 

But we didn't really follow up with him.

 

"Sorry, Carl dear," Stanley said, this time holding Carl's hand and looking very earnest as if to make amends.

 

"We should have checked in on you after that Swee Choon night, but you can't blame us because," Stanley paused to clear his throat, then continued meekly: "you never really brought it up again".

 

And then, Stanley fully let himself go, as if he were a fully blown, untied balloon that was accidentally let loose by the careless hand of a child, and for the third time of the night, laughed himself to death.

 

Don't get us wrong.

 

We are indeed supportive of Carl.

 

"Yes, yes, Carl, we love you. We love you to bits," Stanley said, still laughing. "We love you to micro bits" he added amid his guffaw, no doubt a step closer to death by laughter.

 

Carl pouted and looked like he wanted to cry.

 

"Ok, ok, enough," Stanley the solo actor of the hour said.

 

"Don't make Carl angry... wait he pop the viagra pill and turn into Captain Kukujiao and beat you with his iron rod then you know," Stanley said in between giggles, suddenly talking like a primary school bully.

 

But in all seriousness - because ED is nothing to laugh about, and viagra is not exactly cheap according to Carl - we calmed down to address this issue... two hours later.

 

As we sat in Stanley's car - where many serious life conversations were heard - Carl confessed to us that he chose viagra as an option because he couldn't give up taking steroids for his weight lifting.

 

As we sat in the car thinking about Carl's member, Stanley wondered out loud if we would one day see our own organ failure.

 

"Eh, Carl... it really works?" Stanley asked.

 

"Show us leh, show us leh," Stanley teased, urging Carl to immediately pop his supplement.

 

For the first time that night, our dense friend snapped back.

 

"Stanley darling, even if I were to pop 10 viagra pills, if it's you I'm facing, then the penis will never get hard," Carl said, imitating Stanley's tone of voice.

 

Not to be outdone, Stanley returned the favour.

 

"My, my. Viagra really promotes blood flow to the brain."

 

 

 

---------------------------

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

[iknikn]

OMG THANKS hehe

[Blogger Adam]

Say Cheese!

 

http://adamandtheboys2.blogspot.com/?m=1

 

Let's talk about something cheesy today.

It's inspired by the other night, when Stanley, Carl and I went to Wine Connection at Robertson Quay - during one of my week-long breaks back to Singapore.

Carl had recently developed a liking for cheese after being introduced to Camembert by one of his colleagues, and was so thrilled by the taste he insisted we ate wine and cheese that night. 

Funny it took Carl so long to appreciate cheese given that in his younger days, he had studied French.

But it's flawed logic, of course.

Just because Carl speaks fluent French doesn't mean he must love Camembert.  

Just like how Stanley doesn't eat samblal belacan with his cereal every morning just because he speaks fluent Malay, given his Peranakan heritage.

"But I do love to tumbuk tumbuk belacan all the time," Stanley interjected, making a rapid, obscene hand gesture to explain that "tumbuk" actually means to pound - the mortar and pestle way.

But I digress.

Let's get back to the cheese.

"This is the hard cheese, this is the soft cheese, and this is blue cheese," our short waitress said in a sing-song manner, no doubt a phrase she delivers every time she presents a cheese platter along with a large basket of bread and crackers to customers.

"Of the three types, I instantly love two of them already," Stanley said picking up his fork.

"The third type, I suggest Carl doesn't touch," Stanley continued, making an unnecessary jibe at Carl who recently revealed to us he had Erectile Dysfunction and had begun eating viagra. 

"Speaking of which," Stanley raised both his eyebrows and stared at Carl's nether region with interest, and said in a creepy childlike voice like he's talking to a baby, "how's our li'l friend doooooooooing? Coochie coochie cooo...."

Carl our dense friend protectively put both hands in front of his crotch and looked like he wanted to cry.

"Leave Carl and Carl Junior alone," I snapped as I cut up one of the cheeses for both Stanley and Carl.

The wine of the night was a bottle named Very Sexy Shiraz, which, when our short waitress recommended, triggered Stanley to clap and cheer merrily as if he had found the love of his life.

"I can die in peace," Stanley the drama queen declared.

"Tonight, all my favourite things are at this table - Adam, Carl, this bottle of Sex, the hard and blue cheese, and that large basket of goodies," Stanley said, pointing not to the bread and crackers, but instead, at a nearby young and lean waiter in jeans so tight that Stanley couldn't breathe.

As we dug into the cheese, Stanley was reminded of a very apt topic.

"What do you guys think about dick cheese," he asked, licking the last morsel of his Camembert off his fingers.

Carl set his fork down, closed his eyes and pressed one fist tightly against his mouth.

"What? Don't blame me - blame Carl. He was the one the who wanted to eat cheese," Stanley said, working up some emotion for the soliloquy playing in his head.

"You can't blame me. I'm a quick thinker. Things trigger my memory," Stanley said in his defence. 

Actually, Stanley is right.

Our sex bunny friend is also very random at times.

Very often, he would blurt out something out of the blue just because something he saw or something someone said reminded him of a random event, which in almost all cases, were related to sex.

Typically, those reminders would pop up at Cold Storage Holland Village - our routine to end the night if we hung out at HV.

We'd be strolling along the fresh food section when Stanley would randomly pick up a banana and say "Charles from last week," or a fresh peach and say "this reminds me of a poodle's vagina," or a particularly wrinkled lime and say "is it me or does this look like scrotum?"

Again, I digress.

Let's get back to the cheese.

"Anyway," Stanley continued, cutting up another portion of Camembert, placing it on his forefinger.

"This, ladies and gentlemen, is Peter, aka HornyExec," Stanley explained almost too proudly.

Carl had by then switched to eating pure carbs, grapes, raisins, olives... anything but the cheeses which he had loved so much some five minutes ago.

According to Stanley, his one-night-stand partner who was indeed an executive and indeed very horny, had all it takes to be a young model.

He's tall, lean, has a thick head of hair which he had permed and parted sideways like a Korean superstar.

He has just a little bit of a flabby tummy but that's okay, Stanley said.

"What's NOT okay," Stanley's tone took a turn for Anger Lane, "is that he had dick cheese!"

Our short waitress paused in her tracks and asked Stanley cheerfully, "did you want more cheese?"

Stanley turned towards Strawberry Shortcake, smiled, and said "definitely not".

Back to Peter.

Stanley said he was so happy to have struck gold with this HornyExec but when he knelt down and was about to have his cake and eat it, ate cheese instead.

"Eeeeeewwwww," Carl and I both reacted in unison.

It was such an unsavoury topic that the both of us had to lean in and wait for more details to unfold.

And so, Stanley unfolded.

What he found, when he pulled back HornyExec's foreskin, was a layer of dick cheese which was the amount of Camembert Stanley currently had on his forefinger.

Enthralled, Carl and I asked... "then what did you do?"

In response, Stanley put his entire finger of cheese in his mouth, licked off the curdled dairy, smiled and looked at us.

"Eeeeeeeewwww," Carl and I both reacted in unison.

Carl pushed the cheese platter towards Stanley and took several gulps of Very Sexy Shiraz to drown his sorrows.

As we ordered our second bottle of Very Sexy Shiraz, I harped on HornyExec.

How on earth is it that some men can be so damn dirty, I demanded.

Don't people have basic hygiene?

Stanley merely shrugged.

Carl gazed into the distance, no doubt suffering from PTSD.

People who bother to change their nicks to Horny-something would more or less expect action, right, I ask the table though effectively I only have Stanley as audience. 

So wouldn't they do some housekeeping at least?

Again, Stanley merely shrugged.  

So, what's the deal breaker for you guys, I ask the table, snapping my fingers several times in front of Carl, hoping to wake him up from his self-inflicted hypnosis.

Can we accept BO?

Can we accept bad breath?

Can we accept dick cheese?

Carl shook his head violently at that thought.

Yeah, thought so. Me too, I said.

Stanley sheepishly said, my answer is not A, B, or C, but D - none of the above. I can take all three. In fact, I have taken all three.

"What... I am all loving, all encompassing," Stanley said defensively, looking guilty for literally being a dirty slut.

"Besides, you can't catch bad hygiene. Only STD," Stanley reasoned.

Just as I suggested changing the topic, Stanley said: "Well... the reason I raised this topic is...."

Carl and I turned to Stanley and waited.

"I'm actually kinda seeing HornyExec now."

"Eeeeeeeewwwww," Carl and I said in unison.



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

 

 

 

[Blogger Adam]

Face Value

 

http://adamandtheboys2.blogspot.com/?m=1

 

During one of my trips back to Singapore recently, Carl announced some breaking news to me.

It was over supper at Swee Choon after we had made our rounds at Mustafa Centre for some mindless late night window shopping.

As we sat down at the indoor section of the dim sum eatery - still bustling at 2.30am with a clientele of hungry youngsters - Stanley took it upon himself to start the press conference.

"So, ladies and gentlemen, thank you for making time to attend this very important press briefing about Mr Carl Chang," Stanley said, as he handed me and Carl a laminated copy of the menu each.

"The news is quite breaking," Stanley said, appointing himself as Carl's spokesperson.

"In fact, it's not only breaking, it also involves inserting, probing, and poking around with a tool," said Stanley, who has a talent for turning all things mundane into something scandalous.

Carl the dense one forced an awkward smile.

With his new short hairstyle which gave him bangs, coupled with his python-sized biceps and bulky frame, Carl ticks all the right boxes that make up a himbo.

Meanwhile, I started ticking all the right boxes to make up a hearty meal - making sure I ordered the eatery's signature deep fried mee suah, char siew bun, my favourite carrot cake, and chicken feet which only I will eat.

"Adam, pay attention, this is a matter of life and death," Stanley said dramatically, stressing the word death by switching to a raspy voice.

I looked up at Stanley and gave him an exaggerated firm nod and returned to my task.

With Stanley, I had learnt to ration my attention, given his penchant for theatrical openings whenever he has news to break.

My sex bunny friend Stanley loves beating around the bush - sometimes, even going as far as to beat someone else's bush. 

But let me get to the point.

Carl has decided to get a nose job.

It's no surprise - Carl had on many occasions made that quite clear.

The press conference at Swee Choon merely reaffirms that - and sets out a timeline for his surgery.

It would not be done in Seoul as previously announced.

Instead, it'd be done at an aesthetic clinic at Paragon for a fraction of the price.

Months into Carl's decision, he had been doing some very serious research.

"Hey guys, watch this," Carl wrote in the WhatsApp group chat two months ago.

It was a YouTube link which opened up to some Thai reality show.

"This is called Let Me In," Carl typed, supplying us context for the first time in his life.

"It's a plastic surgery show - they give people free plastic surgery and they all become very beautiful," Carl explained.

Stanley immediately said he too watches video clips that lets people in - and they're all also beautiful people.

Curious to see what the heck this is all about, I clicked on the link too and despite not understanding a single word uttered on the show, I was hooked.

Stanley was too.

He was so wowed by the show that he made all his other friends watch it too.

In his words, the show turns Ugly Ducklings into Lovely Fucklings.

A typical episode would feature a guy or a girl, born with some form of deformity - which, in Thailand's case, always seems to be crooked or prolonged jaws or jagged teeth.

They then go to South Korea for major renovation and three months later, return to a studio in Thailand where they'd catwalk down an aisle with new clothes and a new face.

Carl was deeply inspired that, months into watching Let Me In, let himself go.

He called up South Korean plastic surgery clinics but realised that he could do it on home ground given that Singapore should be a safe enough place to go under the knife.

Plus, it'd be a fraction of the cost.

And so, Carl booked a slot to see the plastic surgeon in Paragon.

What I didn't know - which Stanley was about to say - was that Carl became increasingly obsessed with cosmetic surgery in recent weeks.

"I'm gonna spill some beans on Carl," said Stanley who also likes to spill his seeds on other men.

"Carl is annoying me to death with his plastic surgery obsession," Stanley said, rolling his eyes at Carl.

Our dense friend pouted and tried to look hurt.

Apparently, Carl had started commenting on everyone's facial features pointing out imperfections and how those can be fixed.

Watching Let Me In has turned Carl into a surgeon himself.

And to prove his point, there and then at Swee Choon, Carl pointed out that I will need major reworking on my face.

My cheekbones are okay, according to Dr Dense.

But I have an imperfect face because it's not asymmetrical.

Stanley threw his head backwards and groaned.

Then Carl asked me to put my forefinger to my lips as if I were a primary school kid made to silence myself.

The tip of my forefinger has to touch the tip of my nose, and it has to be pressed as close to my lips as possible while making sure the finger is perpendicular to the ground.

If there are no gaps when between the base of the forefinger and my chin, then I have a perfect face.

I did exactly as Carl instructed and found a gap of two fingers between my chin and the base of my forefinger.

Carl turned pale.

"You have an imperfect face," he said with a gasp, as if he had just discovered I had cancer of the chin.

"Stanley has a perfect face," Carl said with a beam, as if hoping to change that grim subject of my newly discovered imperfect face.

Stanley rolled his eyes towards the Swee Choon ceiling.

Carl says he himself has an imperfect face because he has around one-and-a-half finger spacing between his chin and his finger.

The way to fix this is to knock out two of your back teeth then push out the jaw line such that it can fill up the gap, Carl said seriously.

"Are you thinking of doing that?" I asked, with some fear in my tone.

"No," Carl said. "Not yet."

"My plastic surgeon says one thing at a time. We'll do the jaw after we fix the nose," he continued, making it look as if getting a new nose is as simple as a few mouse clicks on Taobao.

According to Carl's surgeon, Carl's oversized button nose would be fixed first.

He would shave off a large bulk of the bulb of Carl's nose and then give his nose some height.

That would help bring out Carl's features.

And then, Carl can sign up for other facial renovation.

For the rest of the supper, Carl couldn't stop putting his forefinger against his lips to measure the gap as if his chin would shift forward on its on with the passage of time.

Stanley later said Carl was beyond hope.

"I remember horsing around as a kid with my fellow primary school classmates," Stanley said.

"And I swear measuring body parts with fingers was way more fun back then, compared to Carl's method."



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