What Is Not Mine, Is Not Mine

1:33 AM

It's been some time since I've posted anything, due to my very busy schedule. To spice things up a bit, here's a story from BlowingWind forum, a gay forum for Singaporean guys. Originally entitled "What Fucking Lies Beneath."

It's a bit erotic, so do read this when you're alone to avoid sudden erections, causing embarrassment.


Three years ago, I came to Singapore for a job posting. Singapore was at the heights of the property boom. The skyline of the island-state was dotted with cranes and construction signboards. Newspapers had more property launch advertisements than news. Everyone seems to be either moving house, buying a house, or profiting from the soaring price index.

Home prices skyrocketed so fast; the day I arrived I was shocked to discover that the rental of one-bedroom I earlier eyed upon had more than doubled, and with my housing allowance, I could afford no more than a puny room, probably in the outskirts.

Unknown to many, I was actually homeless for the first month in Singapore. I parked my luggage underneath my office desk and slept over in the airport. It was until I saw an ad in the supermarket notice board one day: “Store room for rent, contact XXXXXXXX, $300 per month!”

I called the number straight away, and a deep husky voice answered. It was the kind of voice that was probably produced by a huge Adam’s apple, and drawn from a big beer gut.

“It’s a storeroom, not a bedroom, but you can take a look if you like,” he said with some hesitation. “But it has windows, so perhaps you can live there if you want,” he then assured me. He sounded like a father figure. The gruff in his voice betrayed an affable, blue collar senior. Somehow after weeks camping out on the airport bench, what can be worst? I decided to make my way to the address on the advert.

The address was near the port, not more than half an hour’s drive from the city. Location was great. The apartments were actually previously sailors’ barracks, but subsequently privatised. Two rows of three-storey walk-ups, salt box-roofed, probably built in the 50s, looking rather quaint in this modern city.

The unit was on the top floor, the door was solid teak with a brass knob. I softly pounded on it, my vision was lured to a lighthouse in the distance, and ships blurring into the horizon. Nice view.
I heard the rusty door hinge squeaked, and a round but firm stomach tucked under a Heineken logo-emblazoned T-shirt and faded workman pants greeted my eyes. “Hi, you are Chin?” he said with a friendly growl.

He stretched out his hand, it was sized as a baseball glove, with thick meaty fingers, hairy beneath knuckles.“Hi,” I could hardly digest the sight of him. He smiled, his thick moustache fanned outwards. My palm was swallowed by his solid grip; there were grimy spots on his hairy outer palm. He realised his hands weren’t clean, “Sorry, I was oiling my tools,” he loosened his grasp of my hand.I entered the house, it was brimming with tools, old mariner memorabilia, carton boxes, vintage wall posters of machines, rolls of probably blueprints or maps ……… “Come, let me show you to the room,” he distracted me from my surveying of his living room. 

He led me to the back of the house, I was greatly drawn to his fleshy butts. They were round and curvy, and looked firm as sandbags. I could imagine them pounding like pistons when he makes love. His burly built made him walked with a sturdy gait, and anchored into every step with an audible thud. We passed the kitchen, something was cooking, and into the verandahoverlooking a verdant field. There was a door at the verandah that opens into the store room he was renting out. 

“Here it is,” he pushed into the room.It was an empty room, seemed no bigger than two carpark lots. A lone windowhung on one side of the wall, the floor was speckled with stains and age spots. It stank of rust and machine oil. “What used to be here?” I turned around and saw him bathing in the light from the window. He looked like a heavily-built powerlifter with limbs like tree logs. 

The room was somewhat small, it probably could only cram a single bed and a cabinet. He told me he used to make cleaning chemicals in the room, until his old machine gave way and he could no longer find spare parts to repair it. “I sold it for scrap metal, and got back 30 times of what the machine cost 30 years ago,” he said with deep pride. “Yes, just like Singapore property prices. Overnight, everything is valued so much more,” I complained, still sore that I could not afford decent lodgings. Singapore property boom had also caused all building materials to spike. Steel prices in particular. 

But his quaint little apartment seemed like a little oasis, tucked away from all hustle and bustle, even insulated from property craze. Sensing my uncertainty, “Tell you what dude, I charge you for $150 a month, and I’d fix the grouchy air con for you myself,” he offered with a handshake. “OK,” I was smitten by his sincerity, and also I really liked the quaintness of the house. “You gonna fix the aircon yourself?” I quizzed. “Yes, I am a super handy man. I can fix cars, boats, everything that has an engine,” he said with a pleased smile. “Come, let’s take a seat, I fix you a drink, and by the way, you can call me Uncle James,” he said, then disappeared behind the fridge door. 

“Hey,” he hurled a beer in my direction, and sat down on a nicely weathered leather armchair, parting his legs until a big ball of flesh formed at his groin. “Oops,” I spilled my beer as I took a double take at the load nudged between his arching thighs. It looked like a pair of tennis balls were stuffed under his pants. “You ok?” he arched forward, seeking to help. “Yes, yes, I am fine,” my cheeks were getting warmed up, not sure if he noticed my dirty-minded line of sight.

That same afternoon, I paid Uncle James just a month’s rent, and he drove me to collect my luggage in his pickup truck. Watching the thick bundle of muscles on his forearms twitch and twist and he helmed the steering wheel just added more heat to the already sweltering afternoon. “Uncle James, you look like you were some kind wrestler,” I could not resist asking. 

He let out a long breath, “Well, how should I tell you? I was Singapore’s most promising weightlifter, besides Tan Howe Liang. I won a lot of competition in the former Gay World Amusement Park, and my nickname then was “Iron Man James”. While training for the 1953 Olympics, I suffered an injury and tore my libia. Ever since then, I never took part in weightlighting competitions again,” he said with poignant pauses. “You mean the 1953 Olympics, so how old are you now?” I could hardly believe he was a sportsman in that era. “Haha, I am younger than Howe Liang,” he chuckled, wringing age lines around his tanned temples. 

“You can’t be that old,” I marveled at his still firm muscles. “I am turning 70 this year, my boy,” he glanced at himself in the rear mirror, as if to reassure himself. “No way,” I took the opportunity to grip his chunky biceps. They felt like rocks wrapped in flesh. My vision swept to his parted thighs below the steering wheel, the puffy bulk I swear to uncover someday. What fxxking lies beneath!!! 

That very evening, I moved into Uncle James’ apartment. It seems to me that there is much to uncover about him, his life. Uncle James only house rule: “There are no rules, you are free to walk into my room anytime, just as I would walk into yours. Treat this like your own.”In return for the cheap rent, I offered to clean the house, to which he gladly accepted as he says he needs “a chambermaid more than a wife.” 

That evening, Uncle James said he was going out for drinks with his old pals, and told me to settle in myself. As I didn’t have much belongings, it didn’t take me very long to pack, nor unpack. After filling in my stuff, and cleaning up my room, I decided to also help clean Uncle James’ bedroom. His bedroom is generally neat, just that it was chockfull of things. 

Entering into his bedroom gives me a tingling feeling under my feet, the excitement that I might discover more of him. His king size bed is covered with a faded, crumpled bedsheet. I sat down on his bed, a potpourri of overnight sweat, beer breath and hair cream tickled my nostrils. It was mildly pungent, but has an addictive kick. I stuck my nose into the mattress, it started to smell like home, guess I was homesick. I scanned his bedside table, there is a slanted lamp shade, reading glasses, a ball of tissue, and ……… oh interesting, a box pack of “Extra Diameter” condoms, I read the fine prints, it is a “Product of Germany”. 

It was a twelve piece pack, there are seven left. Extra diameter! I felt my pulse racing …….. Next to the bedside table was his laundry holder, I walked to the side of it, heaps of unwashed clothes form a wobbly tower. I grabbed them against my chest and threw them into the washing machine. Not sure how many weeks he has not done his laundry, but they sure smell like a metal locker that belonged to a sports jock. 

Looking into the washing machine, I caught sight of Uncle James’ underwear. It was a white, high-cut, full briefs. The rumpled cotton briefs was big, it could be a T-shirt. I hoisted it up with the ends of two fingers, flipped to the label, XXL Hanes. Guess it would be American size that could fit his muscled ass and bulgy groin. I sank my fingers into his briefs, caressed it like it was the finest silk.

I fantasised Uncle James pulling the briefs up to his groin, and create massive, masculine curves with his cotton in my hands. Suddenly I found a desire to bring it close to my nose, sniff it like fine wine. I found the most stains on the Y-front – rounded dark yellow stains sized like 50 cent coins overlapping. I sank my nose into it and inhaled like it was the elixir of life. Gosh, it might sound sick, but I actually like the smell of his cotton briefs marinated in sweat, urea and possibly pre-cum. I wish I could eat it. Sorry if I sound really perverted, but I actually massaged it over my lips. 

“Hey, you …” I was startled by a sudden holler. I turned around and saw Uncle James staggering into the house. I dropped the briefs like I was caught by police in the midst of shoplifting. “Oh …… Uncle Jamesss,” my voice trembled.Uncle James lurched into the living room like a polar bear shot in the foot. He dropped himself onto his favourite armchair with his limbs splayed apart like a jelly fish. “Uncle James, you ok?”

I sensed that he might be quite drunk, and was somewhat feeling a little relieved. He did not respond, although his blood-shot eyes were staring at me. Uncle James was evidently drunk. His cheeks were scorched, eyeballs shifting without focus. “Uncle James,” I shook his massive shoulders, could hardly get a grip. “Yeah,” he said throatily, eyelids fluttered to a close. “Let me help you up,” I tried to pull him from his seat but to not success. He seemed to weigh a ton. He started snoring, sometimes sounded like he choked on his own breath. His shirt and pants fitted so snugly on him, he looked like the Incredible Hulk, who is about to split through his shirt. 

Now that he was in deep slumber, I could openly marvel at his jumbo crotch. It looked like a plump carp was trapped between his thighs. Sensing that Uncle James was going to sleep on the armchair for the night, I decided to sponge him with a wet cloth, to make him more comfortable. Or was that really such a kind intent? Or was I finding an excuse to peel him off his clothes? During the property boom, a lot of people seem to be buying a house for a roof over their head, but actually they are speculating for quick bucks. By doing that, they drive prices up further, and worst, deprive others who really want to buy for a real housing need. Therein lies a moral dilemma. 

That night, I watched Uncle James shifted in his seat a few times, the shape of his crotch morphing into varying mounds. I could not put myself to violate him while he was in his sleep. Or at least not on my first day of rent. The following days, whenever I came back home, some nights I might not see Uncle James. He is a retiree, although I know he does some odd jobs from time to time, but he was usually home rather late. By then, I would either be asleep or want to have my own quiet time. In the mornings, he would be out for his morning walks as early as before day breaks, I might not get to see him. 

Then one night, it was past midnight, I was almost going to doze off, when I heard rumblings behind my door. Usually Uncle James comes back and would take a quick bath and retire into his bedroom. He seldom creates any commotion, even when he comes back drunk, which is quite often the case. I heard people talking, whispering, laughing. They stomped the ground. Hit the wall. I thought I heard a woman. I crept to the door, and took a peep. 

The old record player was turning, Frank Sinatra was singing through a mono stereo, and I thought I saw Uncle James waltzing with a middle-aged lady in the living room. She was wearing a floral skirt, her skirt ends swirls in the air, and Uncle James groped the lady by her waist and their lower bodies pressed together. I took a gulp of air. As I watched through the slit of the door, my heart was pounding, and my heart was crushed like a empty drink can. So he is straight. And he apparently has a girlfriend. He probably won’t be into guys, let alone me. They danced clumsily, toppling a small vase, knocked against furniture, but that didn’t stop them. I could hear them kissing at times, I saw Uncle James’ hairy tattooed arm snaked into the back of her skirt. 

Strangely, I felt like a loser. I don’t know what I have lost. It was like I first saw a nice apartment, but I subsequently realised it was already booked by somebody. The realisation that it won’t belong to me was crushing. After four tracks, and made a mess on the living room floor, they disappeared into the bedroom.

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  1. gosh , u like bears ...i like dilfs , we would make a good couple ! unless u have man boobs

  2. I don't have man boobs, but I have a beer belly that puts some people of my age to shame.