Dear Reader,
It’s been, wow, too long long.
I’m itching to write regularly again.
Also itching is my sex bunny friend Stanley for a whole host of other reasons — but that’s a can of worms if we explore that.
But explore we will.
The itch to write, that is.
Give me some time to find my groove — I have a lot to catch up on with you guys.
It’s, after all, been wow, way too long.
Love,
Adam
Dear readers,
I have been overwhelmed with work of late -- and I'm sorry for not posting anything in the last few weeks.
Will find time when I'm less swarmed because there have been various updates in our lives.
Stanley found a new job.
I'm starting to view new apartments.
Carl is still dense.
It's official.
The two lines on my test kit have changed my life for a while.
And I'm very happy.
Yes, I feel actual joy from having COVID-19.
I don't mean any offence to those who've caught the virus before I did -- especially at a time when there were no vaccines and no clarity of the flu beast.
I'm truly thankful that I am getting COVID-19 only now, two years after the pandemic first broke.
And there are many things to be thankful for.
The fact that I'm triple vaxxed (a status so golden that people actually list it in their Grindr profile, as Stanley my sex bunny friend shared).
The fact that I have no underlying medical conditions.
The fact that I live in a wonderful country Singapore where tele-consulting a doctor and have meds sent to your place is just within a few taps on my phone.
My sex bunny friend Stanley would Amen to that, given that he too, taps on his phone and gets sex sent to his place.
I'm also truly relieved that I live alone -- no need to worry about isolating myself from my family members, or have to mask up and visit the toilet after shouting warnings to everyone else to steer clear.
But that's me being thankful.
There's a fine line between being thankful and feeling happy to get COVID.
And I think maybe I've crossed that line.
Perhaps, I'm writing this -- and feeling joy -- 'cos I am too privileged.
That the only thing I am fussing over is whether my taste buds are affected (as opposed to whether the virus will attack my aged lungs and lead to my eventual death).
But there's no denying that I am happy.
For the longest time, I had not slowed down at work, and having had COVID made me do just that.
Just a bit.
But I did slow down.
There was no way I could focus on reading research papers or writing reports when my body felt like it's just been kicked around by a baby elephant.
Besides, having COVID finally gave me the perfect -- and responsible -- excuse to stop meeting people.
It's emotionally draining when everyone of my friends wants a piece of me.
I'm not complaining about being popular. I am complaining about being emotionally emptied whenever I meet people.
Stanley agrees because he also feels emptied whenever he meets people.
But I'm in no mood to explore that story today.
And so, on Day One of my COVID, despite being extra exhausted, I made it a point to enjoy my self-isolation.
I put my iRobot to work every morning so that I can have a clean home to recuperate in.
I went on to place all my grocery orders online, stocking up on drinks that would cool my body, buying sensible food items that my body needed for recovery.
I would drink water as if I were addicted to it.
My meals comprise fruits -- sometimes a large bowl of mixed fruits with non-fat yoghurt, sometimes, a large bowl of fruit salad with cheese and olives.
In between, I would make myself a cup of hot peppermint tea, and allowed my comfortable sofa to hug me while I binge-watched Netflix.
During that time, I put my iPhone on Do Not Disturb because that's part of my recovery process.
And boy, did I love the me-time.
I didn't tell everyone I had COVID.
I don't want to be one of those people who deem it vital to post a photo of their positive result on IG.
Why? Why must you all do that?
I did tell just a handful of people -- my partner J, younger brother Barry (but not my sister because that one will raid the pigeon boxes of Chinese medicinal halls and sweep up entire NTUC shelves and send them to my home, along with hourly messages to ensure I am not dead and decomposing alone at home).
Best girl friend Nisa and Stanley are the only ones outside my family to know.
Yet, I'm fortunate enough to have gifts flooding my doorstep.
One package came with an assortment of Chinese medicines, each one to help me deal with my individual COVID symptom.
Another care basket came from outside of Singapore -- from my overseas friends who are also work mates. It comprises gui ling gao -- some bitter herbal jelly that's meant to cool one's body heat, as well as honey sea coconut drinks.
Yet another one sent me tubs of soothing beancurd that's enough for me and my descendants.
Knowing that I have such love from people is comforting.
Best of all, I feel totally rested and am grateful.
And I guess looking at things from this perspective, and feeling joy from it, is what being positive truly means.
Revisiting some of my old blog posts that I wrote about my Stanley and Carl.
The following piece was penned in August 2010:
===
After working nonstop for a stretch of 25 minutes right after breakfast
the other day, I thought I should reward myself with a Facebook break.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the island, someone was already up and
about in the virtual world too. In just one minute, Carl had posted a
grand total of 29 updates on his Facebook page.
A sample of them reads as follows:
I am fat.
No more char-tow-kuay from Ghim Moh for me.
I hate my tummy.
I hate myself for missing gym.
No more supper for me!
No more prata!
No more tummy!
No more!!!
Concerned, I quickly What'sApp-ed Stanley, who replied that a gathering was in order that very night.
"Urgent meeting at Holland V tonight. 7pm. Pontian noodles then coffee club", read his activation message.
Later that night, at 7.30pm sharp, all three of us turned up at the
market, where food and drinks were promptly ordered without so much as
to pause and air kiss one another.
"I have a confession to make," Carl said, after a few seconds of toying with his bowl of noodles.
"Mmmm, it's such a bliss to be finally able to taste food," Stanley interjected in between noisy slurping.
"I've been eating way too much and I haven't been gymming. And, guys, I have a tummy."
"Erm, I think we know that already?" Stanley replied way too quickly,
and was rewarded with a look from Carl that, if he were a puppy, we'd
quickly scoop him up, turn him over, and give him a loving tummy rub.
"No, what I meant was, I think we all knew that at exactly 9.12am, along with the remaining 457 of your Facebook friends.
"Besides, darling, you look fine just the way you are," consoled Stanley. "Hey, Carl, you still want that wanton?"
The meal went on grimly for the next few minutes before Stanley broke the silence again.
"You know," Stanley said, pausing for air from vengeful munching of his
food, "one of the best things of my recent sickness is, when I wake up
in the morning, there's just so much of dried booger for me to dig. It's
immensely liberating. Let me see if I can find them... See?"
Both Carl and I set down our chopsticks at once.
"Anyway, I'm sure you'll be able to lose whatever imaginary fats you have lah Carl," Stanley said.
At the rate Stanley's going with his booger, I'll be damn surprised if he doesn't.
Unfazed by Stanley's string of comforting cliches, Carl looked us in the
eye, then said morbidly, "my fats are not imagination".
There and then, amid some 130 hungry diners at Holland V market, Carl
lifted up his bright orange tee and showed us his offending body part.
"See?!" he said to us, pinching his wobbly tummy in position, jiggling
it with such negative vibes that any stray cat, dog or rat within a
five-metre radius of Carl would swiftly scramble away.
"Carl, please, we're eating!" Stanley pleaded.
That night, after Stanley dropped off a very wounded (but newly rounded)
Carl, I turned to Stanley and asked if he remembers episode Force
Feeding.
Years ago, Carl the beefcake was Carl the cupcake. Petite and very
skinny, our then 19-year-old friend often felt very inferior.
Nobody likes a pack of bones, he used to say.
Then one day, at the now-defunct Burger King in Holland V, Carl announced to us that he had found the answer to his predicament.
But first, I read that "force feeding" is an essential step for skinnies
to take before they start gymming, so that the body has something to
beef up, he went on with the enthusiasm of an insurance salesman.
And before we knew it, Carl put his jaw muscles to good use as he began
chomping on his burger forcefully, mouthful after mouthful without
stopping to chew properly, as Stanley and I stared at him, jaw dropped.
"I wonder how he got that fat," Stanley said without
emotion, as he drove. "That reminds me, I think I'll stop eating beef
burgers for the next few days."
As I showered later that night, I looked down at my own body. Sure, I
don't look like I just stepped out of the pages of GQ, and yes, there
are imperfections. I need a bit of nipping and tucking here, a bit of
lipo there, and I can do with some botox. But the thing is, hey, I love
my body. Well, at least I don't hate it.
But these days, thanks to porn sites, we gay men are doing what fashion
magazine models are doing to anorexic teenage girls. We're force-feeding
and gymming just so we can look like one of the desired body categories
predetermined by porn websites: Beefcakes lah, athletic jocks lah, lean
fit lah, swim bod lah. And so on, and so forth.
Which makes me wonder, why is it that we can't set our own
standards when it comes to beauty? Why do we have to subscribe to the
notion of beauty set by society -- and in this particular case, porn
websites, of all things?
To be honest, we have, on more than one occasion, tried to do something to ourselves in order to look good.
That umpteenth crunch for muscle definition, late night running for the
lean, mean, sexy machine look, or abstinence from carbs (Stanley, if
you're reading this, please stop offering me portions of your rice).
But at the end of the day, trends change. What if, someday, after all
the carb abstinence, and all that religious gymming, society decides
that, hmmm, fat is the new sexy? What are we to do with all those
muslces?!
If we're running for the sake of health, or gymming to strengthen our
core muscles for agility, fine. But overdoing something -- and for
the wrong reason at that -- isn't fantastic.
We have seen with our own eyes how Carl functions in gyms.
As if possessed by the Incredible Hulk himself, Carl huffs and puffs,
each set more intensive than the last, before finally turning green --
from all the exertion.
Yes, it's worth it because results reflect on his body -- as long as he maintains that figure. But to what end?
Just because Carl let loose for a few months, and ate a wee bit more than usual, our dense friend is now also very tense.
So there and then, I came to a karmic conclusion: That we should not
seek acceptance first and foremost, from friends, family, or other
eye-roving gay men.
As a friend once told me, we have to learn to love ourselves before others start to love us.
So, yes. That's it. I'm gonna have to sit Carl down and tell him
this. Over a plate of our favourite char-tow-kuay from Ghim Moh market.
The following post was first posted in 2010:
-------
I was rummaging my wardrobe for appropriate wedding wear when the phone rang.
"I give up. I have nothing suitable for tonight," the exasperated voice went. "I hate straight weddings."
"To look straight, rule number one is, ditch any shirt that makes you
look like you're a tightly wrapped mummy. And no skinny jeans either," I
warned.
Forty minutes later, Stanley's cab picked me up at my place, and we
sheepishly eyed each other's body-fitting tailored shirts that showed
off our broad shoulders and narrow waists. With matching skinny jeans.
Turns out, the only thing we decided to ditch that night, was our fear for looking too good to be straight.
"Well, at least, I promise you we'll be the two most gorgeous looking
men in that table of former straight platoon mates," Stanley said.
"By the way, I'm giving $80 hor," he said coldly.
According to Stanley the economist, since we gay men are never gonna one day earn back all those angpao money that we keep giving the straight people, $80 is more than enough.
"Any idea who we'll be sitting with later?" Stanley asked tenderly into his iPhone.
"Hmmm, Robbie,"
"Oh, that fat Ah Beng. I wonder how is he now. Is he still selling DVDs?"
"Chan, Razak, Mike,"
"Razak?!" Stanley suddenly jerked his head up, his horrified eyes wide as testicles.
"Yeah, what's wrong? I never knew you both didn't get along?"
"Oh, shit. There goes my babi and my wine. With Razak, that
means we're sitting at the Muslim table! The last time I sat at a Muslim
table, we were eating Soup Kambing while the rest were slurping on
Shark's fin, for Heaven's sake!" Stanley exclaimed, sounding as if all
his shares have plummeted at one go.
Another 40 minutes later, we stepped off the cab, checked each other,
and strolled into the cocktail reception, looking as fashionable as
possible.
Tonight, our platoon mate Jayven was marrying his JC sweetheart June.
Jay is a one-time banker who hung up his LV briefcase for the bulky
suitcase, to pursue a joint career with June. The gorgeous bride, June,
is a petite but feisty character, and also a former broadcaster who
decided she'd fare better serving chicken or beef 70,000 feet in the
air, than to smile and read on air.
"My, my. They both certainly invited the whole of SIA here tonight,"
said Stanley, whose roving eyes and tone of voice suggest after-dinner
plans reserved for dogs on heat.
When we settled at our table -- and learnt that Razak would be the only
one having the halal food -- Stanley whispered urgently into my ear:
"Shit, is it too late to add the $30 I took out of my angpao?"
As with all wedding dinners, we risk the awkward situation of being seated with a motley crew of strangers.
But this crew, Stanley is more than happy to be put up with.
After all six of us introduced ourselves to the four gorgeous friends of
Jayven and June(two guys, two gals), we broke the ice after a few
glasses of beer and red wine.
After the third course, Stanley announced that he and I needed a smoke break.
"But I don't even smoke," I mouthed the words to Stanley in protest.
"If I ever have to hear one more word of Razak's fourth baby, or Mike
and his fiance's HDB renovation, or Chan and his perpetual football
talk, I will turn pink. And trust me. You don't want me to turn pink,
hunny," Stanley said, arching one brow, clearly desperate to invoke Diva
Aretha Franklin.
"And how thoughtful of Jay and June to fill the remaining four seats
with, of all people, gorgeous crew who're engaged to each other!"
"Aiyah, weddings are always like that lah, Stan. Hang in there, and
soon, we can join Carl and Ah Boy at Tantric. T.K's gonna be there too.
Hang in there, okay?" I encouraged, as Stanley continued taking in deep
breaths and puffing out clouds of smoke, staring blankly ahead.
The wedding went on with more talk of eh, Stan, when you getting married ah? You leh, Adam, got girlfriend already or not?, as
well as even more updates of Razak and his beloved children, his advice
to Mike's impending HDB sweet home, and so on and so forth.
Stanley, meanwhile, couldn't be bothered with conversation. Our friend is on a mission to stretch his angpao's worth, helping himself to every possible glass of red wine in the ballroom.
By the time we got to the Ee-Foo noodles, Stanley was in a parallel universe of his own, completely shut off from the ongoings of Table 24.
From the corner of my eye, I watched worriedly as a very happy Stanley
wobbled his way to a table of air-stewardess, looking at them very
seriously in the face before grinning, "Chicken or beef ma'am? to each
and every one of them.
The air stewards' table, on the other hand, found Stanley very humorous
when he walked up to them and asked them, quite seriously, "coffee, tea,
or me?"
Before dessert could even be served, I had to excuse myself from the
table to support Stanley, who had by then transformed into a jelly fish.
"But I'm just starting to have fuuuun!" Stanley giggled as I dragged him out for some fresh air.
That night, while on the cab back home from our uneventful wedding dinner, Stanley looked up at me from my thighs, teary eyed.
"I hate weddings, Adam. I hate weddings."
"I know. Close your eyes. We're on our way home now".
That night was the one and only time I didn't reprimand Stanley for getting himself so drunk.
The following post was first published 12 years ago, in 2010:
=====
"Come to think of it, I've never told any of my straight friends that I
was gay," said Stanley, whose eyes -- for a refreshing change -- were
fixed on the road.
"Eeeks, you stupid driver!" Stanley squealed in horror. "Some cab
drivers ought to be told," he huffed, as if the swerving vehicle broke
Stanley's heart.
"Like I said, it feels so strange to be telling your straight friends, especially after all these years of acting straight."
How true.
Stanley may not be that tight in other departments, but where his gay life is concerned, trust me, his lips are tight. Sealed.
Like most of our gay peers, Stanley and I probably belong to a
generation where we either act straight or act blur to avoid being
probed. Wait, Stanley actually enjoys that, but let's leave that story
for another day.
Meanwhile, Carl's Uni-going boyfriend Ah Boy, has no qualms about
telling one and sundry of his inclination. While Ah Boy is not loud and
proud, he is perfectly comfortable with his sexuality -- friends and
loved ones including his parents, are some of those in the know. Good
heavens. Youngsters these days.
Later that night, it set me thinking: Is it so important that straight friends know we're gay?
Well, perhaps.
Ever since having outed each other in NS, Stanley and I have spent our
remaining years building layer after layer of walls, to fortify our
closets. Carl on the other hand, believes in building layer after layer
of muscle, hoping to attain that same effect.
But after all these years of being locked up in a far, far away castle,
key thrown away, I have, Heaven forbid, begun to let my hair down like
Rapunzel.
It actually all started four years ago, when a school mate's younger brother passed away suddenly.
Gee, life's too short, I thought.
It was then that I decided to tell at least one important person in my life, that I was gay. Just one.
So on one late weekend morning in 2006, I texted the Best Friend. I need to see you for a while. Starbucks near our place, in 20 mins?
It took me
all of 10 minutes to come clean the secret I've kept from the Best
Friend for 14 years. His reaction? Why did you wait so long to tell me?
Did you think I would have forsaken you? A series of friendly rebukes
and assurances of he still loves me later, I felt like the lightest
earthling that day.
And because it was liberating to tell one important person in my life, I thought, hmmm, maybe I could tell just another. Just one more.
And so, naturally, it was Nisa, my best girl friend.
But it didn't feel complete. How about planting alliances at the
workplace too? And so, Alexa and Hazeline -- two of my closest
colleagues -- joined the club. Oh, how about selected friends from Uni?
Just like that -- as if I were possessed by a persuasive insurance salesman -- I added one name after another to my list of those who know.
Each time I confessed, I am almost guaranteed the same reactions that very night. SMS-es that go somewhere along the lines of Thank you for sharing that part of your life... and I still love you. And it's always from the more sensitive gals.
The guys on the other hand, are quick to forget my confession as quickly as they accepted me.
Today, while I'm not loud and proud, I have come to terms with my sexuality.
I will probably tell the next person whom I feel particularly close to,
because to me, I'm literally opening up to that new person.
It's like saying, the door's right open. Step right in.
Okay, that sounds like Stanley.
The year was 2005.
And the location, Chiang Mai.
My partner J and I were on one of our affordable vacations after we got together three years before that.
Our first ever couple holiday in 2003 was in Genting Highland and that's a story for another day -- I promise.
Today though, I am inspired to write about our Chiang Mai trip.
It was very special not because it had all the elements of romance. There were no grand restaurants, nor did we launch into a Hollywood kiss in the middle of an elephant camp.
In fact, to put it really bluntly, that holiday was shit.
The sort that was watery, hot and sticky.
The two of us had, back then, eaten at a roadside stall and the rest is history.
I cannot even remember what we put into our mouths but what did come out, now that, I remember.
That night, J and I were curled up like cooked prawns in our bed, feeling feverish, pukish and super shitty.
As a young and full blooded youth on holiday with the love of his life, I had been dreaming of this moment.
Two of us lying in bed, spent, and weak from all the purging, and dear God, I should have been more specific.
The rest of what we did in Chiang Mai was a blur.
I cannot remember at which stage we got food poisoning. Or how long we were suffering for during the 9-day trip (we also visited Bangkok during that leg).
What I did remember rather clearly, was the look on J's face.
The poor boy looked so pale that it hurt me deeply.
I also remember fetching him hot tea, and feeding him warm porridge. And he in turn stroke my hair and patted me to sleep when I was shivering.
But we bounced back rather quickly and miraculously, managed to recover during the holiday.
While flying back from Thailand to Singapore, J told me that it was the most memorable trip.
"I think this trip made us fall in love deeper with each other," he said. "Because we took care of each other when we were ill."
Then, to my utter surprise, he leaned in and kissed me on my cheek on the plane.
The reason I'm writing this today is because of a recent event that had got me thinking about a couple's relationship and longevity.
And as I write this in 2022 and reflect on J and my memorable trip, I remind myself that it's not every day that we end up with someone we love.
And it is very important for us to treasure what we have.
Fret not.
Nothing drastic has happened between J and I and we are both as loving as can be -- in fact, more so.
But yes, my post today is indeed triggered by an event that has affected both of us in a deep way.
And I promise -- like how I would write about our first Genting Highland trip -- to post about it soon enough.
But for today, let me just share this very private, very moving bit of my memories from the 2005 Chiang Mai trip.
Meanwhile, if you have a special other, treasure him or her.
And if you're single, treasure your loved ones.
On this note, I wish everyone happy thoughts and much love.
