Speaker of My Kind

Still alive

2006-07-21T16:29:00.000+08:00

It's almost a year since I last wrote anything in my blog.

In a nutshell, I went through my first year of law school (which is utter hell saved only by the drinking sessions with my classmates), fell in love (we're going to celebrate our first anniversary tomorrow), got arrested (actually I voluntarily surrendered), took a leave-of-absence from law school to finish my masters degree (which is 8 years in the making), and trying to juggle two jobs in order to have enough money to fix my delapidated pick up and buy for myself the latest iMac.

I have so many ideas running in my head but that hellhole known as law school clipped my wings for a whole year.

But now I'm free.

So this is love

2005-11-10T15:32:00.000+08:00

The entire month of October passed by without an article or two. I'm still floating, from law school, all the cases and codals, and from my work at the office.

It's a good thing my munchkin is with me. He anchors me.

I don't have to go crazy over everything. He uncomplicates me.

I don't have to be anxious about the future. He stills my restless soul.

So this is how it feels like. Just like what Jodie Foster said in the movie "Contact", "I had no idea. It's so beautiful".

Dear Yvette

2005-09-26T16:57:00.000+08:00

It finally happened. I've let go of the things I'm afraid of and made myself vulnerable to another person. It took some time before I decided to enter this state. I over analyzed it, problematized, theorized and nuanced every possible argument. My Ego fought with all its might, not wanting to be subjugated by this overwhelming feeling. A lifetime of letting my Ego rule my heart and look where it brought me.

But now, it's different. It is the most unbelievable feeling, the adrenaline rush of jumping off a cliff, knowing that someone's going to catch you.

It finally happened, Yvette. I'm in love.

Two weeks to go

2005-09-26T16:53:00.000+08:00

My fingers are itching to upload my articles and stories gestating in my mind since June. Law school can really stifle the creativity of a person. After October 16, I will be posting my articles and stories regularly.

Truth

2005-08-23T12:20:00.000+08:00

Are we condemned to feel inadequate when we hear the good fortune of a gay friend who is deeply involved in a loving a nurturing relationship? Is it inevitable that we feel envious that a guy, someone we don't even know, has a boyfriend and that they are eternally committed to each other. Is the capacity of other gay men to fall in love and stay in love a yardstick with which some of us measure our own capacity to love? If so, are we that insecure?

Does the heart know immediately when it is in love? Is there an overwhelming tide of emotion that washes over ever fiber of a person's being? Is there a gentle tug at his heart or a soft whisper of affirmation? Or does the heart concede to what is convenient and settle for what is stable?

Envy, the green eyed monster that makes you wish you ordered what the guy at the other table has.

I've been here before.

No history, no identity.

White and Orange Roses

2005-08-16T10:51:00.000+08:00

I just received 24 white and orange roses from my munchkin. It came with a card and a piece of paper with his poems. I already got the hint that he was up to something when he kept asking if I'm going to leave the office today. He told me that I should just stay. I told him that he shouldn't bother himself and that it was enough for me to see him and be with him, no need for anything else.

Then the roses came.

It came in a huge yellow box. And the guy who delivered the roses was smiling. I guess it was his first time to deliver flowers to a guy instead of a girl. I can't keep myself from smiling and giggling, just like a girl. And all of my officemates commented on how beautiful the roses are and asked who sent them.

"From my munchkin", i said.

Yearning

2005-07-26T09:29:00.000+08:00

I’ve often wondered if you find the time to think of me. I ask the question because I find myself not finding a day that I don’t think of you.

We haven’t met. We haven’t seen each other’s face. The words that left your mouth have yet to reach my ears. My gaze has yet to caress your face. The distance of time and space between us, however, has not broken the beating of our hearts. I know that my heart beats for you. And yours for mine.

I proclaim to the world that I’m juggling work, law school, and other productive endeavours that a responsible citizen of this country should be engaged in. And yet, I secretly yearn that you are on your way to me. I take comfort in the fact that you secretly yearn for me as well, hoping that I wouldn’t take too much time before I get to you.

I want you to want to know everything about me. I want you to be strong enough to deal with my honesty. I don’t want to engage in a pissing contest with you. I am not afraid to be weak when I open my mouth to speak. And when I try to be the best, I can still be a little less. I want you to pursue me. I want us to dance.

I am the emotional platform that you can dive from. I can shut the world out and make us the center of the universe. Whisper your fears and I shall shield you from them. Tell me your problems; I will carry the weight with you. Your dreams will be my dreams. Your failures, my hurts. Your triumphs, my joy.

But it seems hopeless. You are taking too long. I feel unsettled, perturbed, the very foundation of my being shaken by this imaginary absence. Your absence. A gaping hole in my entirety.

I go out regularly, meet other men, have beer with them, hoping that one of them maybe you. I fancy them. They fancy me. But it’s always the same. “You’re extremely smart. You’d make a good friend. Can I be your friend?” I have enough friends already.

Intense, that’s how they describe me.

And you are my match.

And you will come to end this need.

Soon, hopefully.

Plea from my heart to you

2005-07-11T13:42:00.000+08:00

I’m not going down on my knees
Begging you to adore me
Can’t you see it’s misery
And torture for me

When I’m missunderstood
Try as hard as you can
I’ve tried as hard I could
To make you see
How important it is for me

Here is a plea
From my heart to you
Nobody knows me
As well as you do
You know how hard it is for me
To shake the disease
That takes hold of my tongue in situations like these

Some people have to be
Permanently together
Lovers devoted to each other forever
Now I’ve got things to do
And I’ve said before
That I know you have too
When I’m not there
In spirit I’ll be there

Here is a plea
From my heart to you
Nobody knows me
As well as you do
You know how hard it is for me
To shake the disease
That takes hold of my tongue in situations like these

Here is a plea
From my heart to you
Nobody knows me
As well as you do
You know how hard it is for me
To shake the disease
That takes hold of my tongue in situations like these

Hooverphonic version of "Shake the disease" by Depeche Mode

Long live trip hop!

Ugly Duckling

2005-07-10T23:41:00.000+08:00

I learned the truth at seventeen
That love was meant for beauty queens
And high school girls with clear skinned smiles
Who married young and then retired

The valentines I never knew
The Friday night charades of youth
Were spent on one more beautiful
At seventeen I learned the truth

And those of us with ravaged faces
Lacking in the social graces
Desperately remained at home
Inventing lovers on the phone

Who called to say come dance with me
And murmured vague obscenities
It isn't all it seems
At seventeen

To those of us who know the pain
Of valentines that never came
And those whose names were never called
When choosing sides for basketball

It was long ago and far away
The world was younger than today
And dreams were all they gave for free
To ugly duckling girls like me

We all play the game and when we dare
To cheat ourselves at solitaire
Inventing lovers on the phone
Repenting other lives unknown
That call and say, come dance with me
And murmur vague obscenities
At ugly girls like me
At seventeen

("At Seventeen" by Janis Ian)

Out again

2005-06-14T09:43:00.000+08:00

I came out of the closet on the last semester of my senior year in UP. After that, most of my friends and the people I work with are, more or less, aware of my gender and have accepted it more as a statement of fact rather than a malleable supposition. This has been the case in the past six years until last week.

During registration, a very good friend, who’s preparing for the bar right now, assisted me. While waiting in line, we talked about the law, law school, politics, God, life, and love. And sex, of course. It was during that time that I noticed several students of the college who were, more or less, bona fide members of the federation. So I asked my friend, “are there ‘out and out’ gays here?” “Of course!” she replied. “I see. I thought I would be the first openly gay lawyer who graduated from this institution” I retorted. To which she replied, “sorry to burst your bubble but many have gone before you”.

The first day of class was uneventful. All of us were eager to get the readings and case lists from our professors. All of us wanted to get ahead so as not to lag behind during recitation. While all of these things were going on, I scanned the room for other “sisters”. There are three to four of us, give or take. Some, I’m not quite sure yet. Others, obviously gay. But no one admitted nor volunteered the information. Even the lone lesbian in the class.

I never thought that I would feel this way. My first day at law school made me cautious of how I act and speak. I became conscious of my demeanor lest my gayness would come out. On one hand, I felt like weighing my words and actions. I feel like it is not yet time to reveal my sexuality to them. But on the other hand, I want to get the revelation out of the way so that I can sink my teeth into the rigorous study of the law. I feel like my classmates already know but they have enough good sense to ignore it. Hay, what’s a girl to do?

A week ago, I was preparing myself for the kind of questions the professors would ask me. I even thought of the scenario when the professor would categorically ask, “are you gay?” A simple “yes” would be my response. That would surely make the class whisper their confirmations and insults and affirmations. Right now, I couldn’t care less. I have 200 cases to read for this week, I’m about to finish Asimov’s “Prelude to the Foundation”, and I’m going back to the gym next week.

Coming out isn’t as fun as it used to be.

Law school

2005-05-31T01:17:00.000+08:00

Last November 2004, I made a deal with God. I said, “God, I will cross the bridge half-way. I will take the qualifying exams, prepare for it for a grand total of 1 month (which turned out to be 1 week), pay P1,500 for the exam fee, and wake up early on a Sunday morning to take the exams. Should I pass, it means that this path is for me. If not, I will take it as You closing this door on this opportunity and I will treat it as a sign that You have other plans for me.” I have been very consistent. I would always pray for many things from God. But at the end of each prayer, my heart would always whisper, “put me where I am most needed. Your will be done. In this instance, I felt God nodded in compliance with this deal. But, knowing God, I bet that He, or She, has something else in mind.

And so, I woke up early on a Sunday, brought pencils, an eraser, a sharpener, cigarettes and a lighter. I also bought an overpriced drink, which was too sweet. No breakfast, just oatmeal. I didn’t review the night before. I told myself that if this is what God wanted me to be, I would pass the test (rationalizing for not substantially preparing for the exam and coming up with a decent excuse if I don’t pass it).

When I went inside the building there were a lot of people waiting for the exam to start. Most of them were fresh graduates. Fresh meat. Faces filled with hope. Their eyes fervently looking beyond the exam and seeing their lives lived as lawyers. Yes, I was about to take the toughest (according to those who took it and those who prepared it) law entrance exam in the country.

We were accosted to our respective rooms, were given the instructions, and then we started. I wasn’t scared. I took the exam before. But I didn’t pass. It was not meant for me, at least during that time. Like the nervous faces I saw, I, too, was once a fresh graduate who submitted himself to the exam. And I didn’t pass. Not time yet, I told myself.

So I began to answer the questions. Pretty basic. It wasn’t like this before. My recollection was that the questions were harder. Or was I wiser? I got to the reading comprehension part. Very basic. The vocabulary part was a cinch. I was laughing a bit. It wasn’t that hard at all. I cursed when I began to answer the math part. 40 word problems to be answered in 30 minutes. Are they crazy? So I did the most logical thing to do: I guessed the answers. Better not leave any blanks.

After the exam, I went out of the building, lit a cigarette, called a couple of friends to inform them that it is done, and I’ve let go of it. I did my part, God. It’s Your turn.

A week after my birthday, February of 2005, a friend from law school informed me that I passed the entrance exam. At first I could not believe it. I checked the website of the law school and, lo and behold, my name was there. I was stunned. An officemate was jumping up and down, apparently more excited than I am. Finally, God came through for me. But, as I suspected, there’s a catch. Though I passed the written exam, I have to be interviewed by the professors. Of the 200 that passed the exam, from the 2000 that took it, 100 students would have be interviewed to vie for the limited slots. There’s always a twist. God never played fairly.

I found myself taking a leave of absence for work. There were six of us waiting to be interviewed. Five of them were fresh graduates. I told them I also graduated recently. I just finished my master’s degree in the same university. Nervous laughter. We were competing for the available slots. Too bad for them, I’m better at mind games. I’ve always been consistent. Get a job first. Know how the world works. Then go to law school so that you would have a context, a framework to work with.

My turn finally came, five professors in front of me. The oldest caught me off guard. “You are white as paper. How are you feeling?” he asked. “Dehydrated, sir.” I answered. My futile attempt at disarming the interviewers. They remained unperturbed. I answered their questions with confidence and passion. Most of the questions were hypothetical. I was hoping for something more substantial. I wanted to tell them that I’ve been working for the farmers since I graduated. I know how the system works and the reason why I’m endeavoring to take up law is to help the farmers. If that doesn’t get me in, then this law school doesn’t deserve me. But they treated me like I just graduated from college.

I left the room feeling disappointed. That was it? That’s the interview? I’ve encountered nastier interviewers during college. I was expecting more. More issues. More debate. Is this what I truly want? But then again, what I want is not the issue. Your will be done.

A week before the results of the interview came out, I chanced upon a personality test in the internet. One of the questions asked was “what would you rather be: a teacher or a lawyer?” I answered: Teacher. What does that say about my state of mind? Am I decided on what path to take? An officemate of mine provided the answer: a path is just a path. Only the heart can discern its value. And since God already owns my heart, His, or Her, path is the path that I will take.

A day from now, I will be attending the two-day orientation for freshmen at the College of Law in the University of the Philippines. I will be attending night-law since I’ll be working during the day to support myself. I will, yet again, abuse the system and get a loan from the University to pay for my tuition. I’ve already informed my lawyer friends that the “Send Our Friend to Law School” Foundation is accepting donations. Law books, words of encouragement, and cash (cash is much preferred). Everybody’s excited about the whole thing. For five years, I will not be able to travel abroad. Not even domestically. Law school is demanding. At least that’s what they say. It’s a lot like love, you have to commit yourself to it. At least that’s how I see it.

As I sit in front of my computer, typing and burning my lungs, I couldn’t help myself and laugh about the whole thing. Last Friday, I rushed to the university to submit a document to get my admission slip in Law School. They wouldn’t give it to me since I don’t have a certificate of graduation. In order for me to get that, I need to get clearance from the University Registrar. That would take 2 weeks. Enrollment is next week. And so, I put on my sweetest smile and convinced the University Registrar to bypass protocol and give me the document. My smile worked and I’m off to Law School.

For someone who is so unsure, I moved heaven and earth to submit that document in order to get in. Maybe I’m not as uncertain as I thought I am. God is not only good all of the time. God has a plan. And God has a plan for me.

Dear readers

2005-05-28T03:36:00.000+08:00

Allow me to deviate from the usual pattern of stories and articles posted in my blog to clarify certain points brought to my attention as a result of communicating with some of the readers.

First, I write when inspiration hits me. It might be triggered by a song heard, a phrase read, an uttered word, a silent moment shared, an unexpected image, a whisper from God. This would explain the irregularity of uploads (plus the fact that I have a job and a life to boot). As such, anyone can do it. Just get a pen and a sheet of paper, go to a quiet place, take five deep breaths and clear your mind, and then start writing. Don't edit yourself. Don't think that what you're writing is jibberish. Just put it all down in paper. Tears might start falling from your eyes. Or you might find yourself laughing at what you wrote. But at the end of the exercise you will realize that you actually wrote something.

Second, the emotions expressed in the stories and articles do not necessarily reflect the current state of my mind and my heart. I wrote some of the articles long before they were uploaded. Some I wrote for thirty minutes and immediately posted them. There are other stories that I finished writing but I'm still not contented with the way it is written. There are two stories I wrote that I don't have the courage to post.

Third, I write these stories and essays to explore the thought processes, the heart, and the soul of the Filipino gay man. I nuance and problematize such things in order to contribute to the growing discourse on gay culture in the Philippines. The stories and articles are not necessarily actual events in my life. But they are bits and pieces of the truths held by every gay man in the country- every hurt, every joy, break up, love making, one night stand, etcetera.

So, dear readers, I thank you for reading my musings on being gay. To those who posted their comments, double thanks. I truly enjoy reading all of your comments (especially from the egroups).

And you're right, Yvet. There are many silent readers. I almost lost faith. I was about to be consumed with hopelessness, feeling that I am a lone voice in the wilderness. Then they started to reveal themselves. The world doesn't seem so small after all.

First degree

2005-05-23T10:30:00.000+08:00

Pare, I have to tell you something. Last night, I was dreaming. I was lost in a prison cell. Huwag ka mabibigla pero when I woke up, I was screaming. Nagulat ako kasi I was calling out your name. Alam mo, dude, the judge and the jury, they all put the blame on me. ‘Di ko ‘to maintindihan pare, won’t you help me please.

Alam mo ba na only you can set me free. Kasi I’m guilty, guilty as a boy could be. Come on, pare, can’t you see. I stand accused of love in the first degree.

Someday, ‘tol, I believe, you will come to my rescue. Unchain my heart you’re keeping and let me start anew. Kaso, the hours pass so slowly, since they’ve thrown away the key. Ano ba pare, can’t you see that I’m lonely? Won’t you help me please?

Only you can set me free, ‘tol. Kasi I’m guilty, guilty as a boy could be. Hindi ko maintindihan, can’t you see. I stand accused, pare, of loving you in the first degree.

(Lyrics from the song, “Love in the First Degree” by Bananarama)

In our defense

2005-05-11T17:40:00.000+08:00

I recently read an interview of a very famous hairdresser/make-up artist who used to be gay. But after finding Jesus, he turned away from his homosexual ways. He admits, though, that he still gets tempted, finding men still very attractive. But the Lord, the Universe, or some unknown force that has unraveled its majestic splendor and power, always finds a way to “deliver him from sin”. As I take a drag from my cigarette (luckily I bought a pack before going home), I pondered on what he said. I didn’t feel outraged, that would be too fundamentalist of me a la Tamil Tigers. Had I been younger, I would have raised hell and ranted about it to my officemates the next day (captured audience for my sanctimonious musings about being gay). Had I been a bit more cynical, I would have agreed with him and rushed to the nearest church, confess my sins, and embrace the normal, straighter life (which is too boring for my taste, perish the thought). But my youth has caused me much to lean on it for understanding. And cynicism is a complete waste of my time. Life is too short to spend on time that has gone by and thinking that the only by-product of time is a jaded heart. However, I cannot sit idly by and settle comfortably being mediocre. Indifference is an allergy much too often welcomed by many but later on develops into a very nasty rash. (Very bad for the skin)

So, I find myself writing a treatise, a discourse of sorts on defending the federation. The make-up artist, together with some of his contemporaries, who, after finding God, Buddha, or reading a book about the practice of mystical Judaism known as Kabbalah, have turned their backs on being gay. Their lifestyle before advocated the beauty, flamboyance and inherent right of every man and woman to revel in their homosexuality. But now, sadly, being gay has become a sin in their eyes. And what is the basis of this realization? The Bible, what else. The book of truth containing the words of God. Images of homosexuals cavorting with each other in Sodom before it was blown into smithereens with an antimatter bomb (yes, I’ve read “Angels and Demons” by Dan Brown, simply unputdownable) come to mind. We are reminded of certain passages that condemn homosexual acts, such as St. Paul’s letter to the Corinthians putting us in league with thieves, robbers, murderers, and adulterers (but in retrospect, with the rising power of the Pink Peso, we have become the target of thieves, robbers and even murderers. I will discuss adultery in another article)

The Bible, its teachings and verses, is clear on the matter. Vatican II extends the argument further: condemn the act (no matter how intimate it may be) but forgive the sinner (the brainless homosexual blinded by his or her carnal desire to copulate with the same sex). Pity the homosexual who acts on his or her nature, for surely their souls will burn in hell (similar to the sulphur-spewn hell of the movie “Constantine”)

But then, I wonder, is God that small, that narrow-minded? Would a loving, benevolent God create such beautiful, fashionably enlightened, articulate and witty beings and condemn them to the eternal fires of hell? Such a conception of God, or Goddess, is like attempting to contain the Pacific Ocean in a test tube. I’m not saying that homosexuals, who miraculously found God after singing a couple of halleluiahs and praying the rosary, are extremely narrow-minded. I am sincerely happy that they’ve discovered God’s grace in this lifetime. What I find cumbersome is the arrogant certainty with which God is confined in a small box. That God has already declared an all out war against homosexuals. Bayots beware!

As I write these words, I am reminded of a book that I’ve read years ago. Its unconventional packaging added grace and class to its core message. Most of us, I hope by now, are familiar with the book “Letters from the Closet.” It is a collection of postcards, journal entries, and letters between a closet gay priest, his ex-girlfriend who turned out to be a lesbian, and his mother. The exchanges revealed the struggles of a gay man as he tried to reconcile his homosexuality with his family, his friend, and God. As I recall the liberating message of the book, I am reminded of Ruth’s unyielding love for Naomi. I am reminded of Jonathan’s unconditional love for David. I recall a passage written by St. John, “Remember that the world hated Me before you”. I am reminded of God as a jar maker and us being his masterpieces. One being different from the other. One neither less nor greater than the other. As His, or Her, creations, we have our individual paths and purposes in this life. I am created this way, who am I to question the design of my creator. God is so much bigger than our intellect, world constructs, and conceptions of what is right and what is wrong. “God is so much bigger than our attempts to confine him.” God will understand.

I don’t go to church regularly but I abide by God’s law: love one another. Everyday, I try to live a life that would please God. I transcend my homosexuality and live up to the honor of being a child of God. Does loving another gay man make me less qualified to be God’s child? Does having a loving and nurturing relationship with another man assure me of a one-way ticket to hell? God is so much bigger than this. God understands.

For a split-second, I feel sorry for gay men who successfully rationalized their denial of homosexuality based on an epiphany of God. But, like I said, only for a split-second. What I feel for them is happiness for they have found God’s “sacred delight” (read Max Lucado’s “Applause of Heaven”, though he does not approve of homosexuality. Nor does C. S. Lewis in “Mere Christianity”) I cannot rob them of this profound discovery nor judge them as denying their true nature. Only God is in a position to judge all of us. What I want to say, however, is this: Cottlestone Pie. This is my Inner Nature. (“Tao of Pooh” is a great read but I’m still struggling with its application in good governance).

As a gay man living in these modern times, I have, through God’s grace, reconciled with my homosexuality. I am attracted to other men. I want to explore a romantic relationship with another gay man. And if, God willing, I meet my match, I would love and cherish him till the Angel of Death takes the last breath in my body. So that when I appear before God and He, or She, asks me what I have done in this lifetime, I will humbly say, “I am your child who tried to live my faith. I was a good son to my parents, an understanding brother to my siblings, a loyal friend, and a good citizen who served my country. I loved one man in my life with all my heart. And now he is crying because he has yet to understand why you took me away from him. I just wish he’s not bawling his eyes out and crying like a drama queen.” If God asks, “You’re gay?” “You made me this way”, I would respond. If God shakes his head and says, “Gay? I did not create you as such. Homosexuals are forbidden to enter heaven. Helping AIDS victims in third world countries and adopting stray cats cannot serve as your pass in Heaven. Too bad, you’re going to receive a post-humus Nobel Peace Prize for serving the people.” “I won a Nobel Peace Prize?” I’d ask. “Yes. And your gay lover would receive it in your behalf. Don’t worry, you’ll see him in hell after six months.” (God, indeed, has a sense of humor. That I know for a fact) Sadly then, I would bow my head and slowly descend to hell where the party is just getting started.

But, if God smiles and says, “Well done My son. I have prepared a two-story town house for you with a view and a coffee shop nearby where you can write.” I would sing the loudest halleluiah and wave the trademark rainbow flag as I saunter into the pearly gates of heaven.

I have a hunch, though. By the time I die and slowly ascend towards the pearly white gates for judgment, I’ll see the trademark rainbow flag waving proudly beside St. Peter. But seeing the old man wearing a shirt with the imprint, “We’re queer, we’re here, get used to it” would be a stretch. One could only hope.

I am Joe’s heart

2005-05-09T10:17:00.000+08:00

Since Joe was inside his mother’s womb, I have been pumping blood all over his body. Through his childhood, puberty and adulthood, I have grown with Joe. I felt his passion for the arts, his hunger for knowledge, and his devotion to his loved ones. But there’s something peculiar about Joe, about me. Whenever Joe would look at another man, I would skip a beat. Joe and I find their bodies sexy. We were drawn to them like a magnet. Later on I realized that I beat not for women but for men. I’m attracted to another man’s heart. And through time, I didn’t find it peculiar anymore. I am Joe’s gay heart.

I am Joe’ active heart. I usually beat fast when Joe goes to the gym, when he’s climbing walls at the local climbing center, or when he has to meet a deadline at work. But something is different, something delightful is happening within Joe right now. All of this started when Joe met Jack.

I was beating normally, well more normal than usual since Joe was drinking coffee in a café while writing in his notebook. I was trying to cope with the amount of caffeine and nicotine Joe was consuming when suddenly, I began to beat faster. I tried to make sense of it by asking Brain what is happening. Brain told me that Eyes saw a man looking at Joe. At first, according to the news of Brain (he’s somewhat of a gossip) that the man was glancing at Joe furtively. Then, as reported by Eyes, the man smiled at Joe. It was about the same time that I began to palpitate. I thought it was the combined effects of cigarettes and coffee. But then, other chemicals were flooding Joe’s system. Brain told me that endorphins and adrenaline were being released in huge amounts. Electrical bursts in Joe’s synapses are going off like fireworks. Then, I began to beat at a faster pace. I was feeling anxious and excited. It was at the exact time when the man Joe was looking at approached our table and introduced himself. Ears told Brain who told me that the man’s name was Jack. Eyes said that Jack was very attractive, exactly the type that Joe dreams of during REM stage. Nose said that Jack smelled really nice. Nose doesn’t have a wide vocabulary but we still love him. Ears was in full attention, listening to the voice of Jack. The information Ears received was immediately transmitted to Brain. And Brain, the over-thinker that he is, began to match the information with the data of Joe’s ideal man. A perfect match. I told Brain, Eyes, Ears, and Nose to maintain a low profile and be cautious. We’ve been here before. Joe can’t take another beating. I can only be broken so many times. But Brain was insistent. He was all over the place. He told Lungs the news and Lungs, for his part, had to control Joe’s breathing. Joe’s groin area was a different story. They were all abuzz about the news, surely brought about by Brain’s instigation. But I told them, keep it down. This has happened before; the initial excitement of meeting someone new always registers this effect on Joe. But in the end, it is I who will Joe ask for answers. I am Joe’s cautious heart.

I am Joe’s beating heart. I’ve been skipping a beat, so to speak, after Joe met Jack. They’ve been seeing each other for quite some time now. Eyes is all over Jack: his face, his hands, his lips. Eyes can’t even focus on the movies Joe and Jack watched. Ears was more attentive than usual, clinging on every word of Jack. Ears was making sure that he heard everything correctly because, by now, Brain was asking for a detailed report every minute. Brain tends to over analyze everything. Brain thinks too much. He interprets Jack’s words, every syllable, even the way it was said and the tones used. A simple phrase such as, “Do you want to go now”, has numerous interpretations: “is he bored, does he want to go without me, should I say I still want to talk to him.” Poor Brain, he’s been working overtime since Joe met Jack. Brain has replayed all of the dates of Joe with Jack. Every time, he would focus on a single moment: a touch, a smile, a nod, and come up with a thousand interpretations. But I kept telling everyone, especially brain, to slow down. I have to be sure. I have to be certain about what Joe feels about Jack, what I feel about Jack’s heart. I am Joe’s doubtful heart.

I am Joe’s guarded heart. Through the years, I have been broken many times. Joe loved all of them. I loved all of them. Every time I feel a connection, I would speak to the heart of Joe’s current object of affection. All of them told me that they love me, they love Joe. That Joe, I, was the one they’ve been looking for. I am flattered, of course. All of them promised the moon and the stars. Most of them kept with my pace. Some of them even made me quiver by quoting Neruda. But all of them said goodbye to me, to Joe. Joe couldn’t understand. Brain tried to theorize every break-up. But Brain couldn’t give Joe answers. Joe would always end up with questions for me. I cannot answer him because I am broken. After each break up, I would build a wall around me. Every time that I would be broken, another brick would be laid and cemented. When Joe asks if I could still love again, I would tell him to give me some time to rest. Eventually, I would tell Joe to be hopeful for love would find us inevitably. But I am scared. What’s the point of finding love if I would still end up broken? I am Joe’s jaded heart.

I am Joe’s feeling heart. You’d think Joe only listens to Brain. As Joe learned from the past, love is truly an affair of the heart. This is my domain, my area of expertise. Joe asked me a lot of questions about Jack. He kept nagging me about how I feel about Jack. I’d tell him that I’ve built a wall around me to protect myself from being broken again. But the truth always escapes me. I had to be honest with Joe. “Jack’s the one, Joe.” I’d say. I’ve spoken to Jack’s heart and we are in agreement. Jack’s heart is in love. Jack is in love with Joe. And I told Joe, affirming Brain’s proposition that Joe was in love with Jack. I am Joe’s loved heart.

I am Joe’s bleeding heart. Last night I felt a knife pierce through me. I tried to do my usual work, pretend that everything is as it should be. I kept telling myself that if I just wait and patiently count the hours, I would feel Jack’s beating heart again. But Eyes has been crying since last night. Ears are deafened by the silence in Joe’s room. Hands long to touch Jack’s Hands. But Jack was nowhere to be found. Brain has replayed the scene over and over. Like watching a big T.V. screen, all of Joe’s organs, the entire body of Joe, recalled what happened. Jack broke up with Joe. Jack said it wasn’t working out and that he met someone else. Mouth had no words to tell Jack that he’s making a mistake. Lips were shut tight while Eyes fought back the tears. But the heaviest of burdens was pressed against me last night. I was feeling Joe’s pain. Brain’s questions are now my questions: why, what happened, what went wrong, am I not enough. And I listened. I asked. I pleaded for Jack’s heart to respond. But Jack’s heart was silent. Jack’s heart was afraid that he was making a mistake, a huge mistake. Jack’s heart was terrified of my honesty, my commitment, and my love. Jack’s heart cannot fathom the depths of my love for him. So he withdrew. He kept his distance. He remained quiet. In his silence, we both knew the truth. Jack didn’t meet anyone new. Jack wasn’t seeing another guy. Jack’s heart was afraid. Afraid of what I was prepared to give: a love with no conditions, no doubts, and no questions. I was willing to compromise, to overlook Jack’s shortcomings. I love him despite his weaknesses, his faults, his frailties. It was too much for Jack’s heart to take.

I am Joe’s broken heart.

A loving and nurturing relationship

2005-04-22T13:34:00.000+08:00

A love that is shared unconditionally. A love that is neither stifling nor suffocating. It is the energy that flows between the two of us, circling our being, our essence. It is this love that is translated in our routine, our day-to-day activities. I make sure you have a towel inside the bathroom because you always forget to bring one. You put one tablespoon of sugar in my oatmeal and two tablespoonful of powdered milk because this is how I like it. You confiscate my cigarettes but leave the lighter lying around because you know I lose it all the time. I buy you hair wax because you don’t like gel. We compliment each other. We fit, effortlessly.

We grow in the relationship. You nag me to focus on the cases I’m handling. But, at the same time, indulge my idiosyncrasies. You buy art paper for my paintings. You recently gave me a new yoga mat. You accompany me to the store to buy new rock shoes for wall climbing. I nag you for being so focused. I surprise you by visiting you at the office. I bring you to exotic restaurants knowing fully well that you’ll order the safest viand on the menu: chicken. I secretly send your poems to a magazine and surprise you when it gets published.

Have we forgotten how we met? Of course not! We recall it with immense delight. Two lost, insecure souls in a sea of equally lost and insecure souls. Both type “A” personalities, assertive, articulate, assholes. We matched each other’s wit in the ensuing verbal swords play. Our intellectual masturbation was heightened by our physical attraction to each other. We wanted each other so badly but we waited. Not on the first date, the first meeting. We wanted to be friends first, knowing fully well that friendship is the bedrock for any relationship. We’re tired of the game though we’re both players. It seemed that the one-liners, the repartee that comes before a casual encounter is lost in our firs meeting. This is serious.

The first date was followed by dinner, then coffee, then a movie. Always filled with substantial exchanges. We talked about politics, God, relationships, and how Bananarama contributed to defining the 80s. Our desire for each other’s bodies was exceeded by our fear of diminishing the moment. We were afraid to fall in love, to wear our hearts on our sleeves. But we yearn for each other’s embrace, each other’s kisses. We’ve had our fair share of men. We’ve both been burned by love. We were willing to wait.

I don’t recall the exact date and time when I realized that I was in love with you. All I remember is that we were walking, after dinner or a movie. You were raving about the plot of the movie we just saw. “Riveting”, you said. I nonchalantly disagreed with your assessment. You stopped walking and stared at me in disbelief. “How could you not appreciate the intricate presentation of human emotions in the movie?” you queried. I smiled teasingly and said, “Gotcha.” You put your arms around me and said, “Bitch.” As you held me tightly, I began to hear a soft whisper from my heart, “I’m in love with you.” I didn’t know what to say, my mouth had no words to say this to you. Regardless of this disability, I love you. When I finally mustered enough courage to admit my love for you, you just said, “What took you so long? I’ve been in love with you since the first time I saw you.” I was surprised, stunned, floored. And before I can utter my witty comeback, you grinned and said “And I thought you were smart.”

Bitch.

We never had sex. We made love. Passionate, sensual, attentive. Our nakedness surpassed the things that our hands can touch. Our hearts were bare, vulnerable. Our union exquisite. It was not a matter of thought but a dance, movement of hands, lips, eyes, and words. The physical pleasure overshadowed by the overwhelming truth that we are making love. And as our passion burst amidst the sweat and moans, we softly kiss each other and smile. I close my eyes and feel your fingers running down my face. “Why are you trying to memorize my face?” I asked.

“So that even when I close my eyes, I would still be able to see you.”

We have our problems, that is certain. Our insecurities would surface once in a while. Unanswered phone calls. Unexplained absences. Why did it take so long before I met your friends? I don’t want to meet your past relations posing as buddies. You were suspicious of me. You never confronted me about my liaisons. I never had sex with other guys. We would talk about it. In my absence, in your silence, our eyes would meet, we would understand each other. As we lie next to each other, we forgive each other’s transgressions, plant sweet kisses, and sleep in each other’s embrace knowing that we would see each other in our dreams.

It seems that the long wait is over. You found me. I found you. Julia Fordham was right, love moves in mysterious ways.

Goodbye

2005-04-12T18:51:00.000+08:00

My throat is sore. Probably from all the chocolates I ate last night. Probably from belting songs by the Carpenters. Probably from the cigarettes I've been smoking since I last saw you. You need time to think. You need your space. I'm giving you time. I'm giving you your precious space. Karen was right. It's better to say goodbye to love.

I'll say goodbye to love
No, never cared if I should live or die
Time and time again the chance for love has passed me by
And all I know of love is how to live without it
I just can't seem to find

So I've made my mind up I must live my life alone
No, it's not the easy way but I guess I've always known

I'll say goodby to love
Knowing there's no tomorrow for this heart of mine
Surely time will lose this bitter memories
And I'll find that there is someone
To believe in and to live for
Someone I could live for

All the years of useless searching finally reached an end
Loneliness and empty days will be my only friend
On this day love is forgotten
I'll go on as best I can

You Anchor Me

2005-04-12T10:54:00.000+08:00

Why am I attracted to you? Is it your salt-and-pepper hair, coy smile, the confidence you exude, the nonchalance by which you meet my advances? You’re older, I know. You look at me and you see a player. Indeed, I am. Or rather, I used to be. I know all the tricks, all the lines, where to put my hands, when to speak, when to shut up. And yet, such games have lost their appeal. Their charm has faded with time.

Am I in love with you? I don’t know. But I want to find out. It may seem to you that time is passing you by. Precisely the reason why you’re looking for someone who will settle down with you. Are you afraid to gamble? To risk your precious time in something that is uncertain? But what is certain in life? Death and taxes. Change.

Time spent with someone is better than time spent alone. It may not work, it is a possibility. However, by the time you’re sixty, I’ll be fifty. And I’d still be holding your hand. I’d steal kisses whenever no one is looking. You’d sleep wrapped around my arms. I’ll be the last person you see before you sleep. And you’ll be the first person I’ll see when I wake up. Growing old doesn’t seem bad after all.

We are dancing. We know the steps. I pursue you, you withdraw. I do not yield and you leave some space to keep me going. You pursue me, I am flattered. You ask for assurance, I smile.

So this is love. Or maybe falling in love. I feel so out of my skin, out of my comfort zone. I feel like a kite being swayed by the wind, lost in the sky but hoping that a tug would pull me back. You make me feel uncertain. This is all new to me. My mind cannot keep up. For once, my heart is taking the lead. Your smile arrests my restlessness. Your glance pierces my soul. Your voice stirs my slumbering soul. I am consumed by you, by the thought of you.

And yet you keep your silence.

Tonight I Can Write The Saddest Lines

2005-04-04T12:57:00.000+08:00

by Pablo Neruda

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example, 'The night is shattered
And blue stars shiver in the distance'.

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved him, and sometimes he loved me too.
Through nights like this one I held him in my arms.
I kissed him over and over again under the endless sky.

He loved me, sometimes I did love him too.
How could I not have loved his great eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have him. To feel that I have lost him.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without him.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter if my love could not keep him.
The night is shattered and he is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied because it has lost him.

My sight searches for him as though to go to him.
My heart looks for him, and he is no longer with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We both of that time are no longer the same.

I no longer love him, that's true, but how much I have loved him.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch his hearing.

Another’s. He will be another’s. Like my kisses before.
His voice, his bright body. His infinite eyes.

I no longer love him, that’s true, but maybe I do love him.
Love is so short and forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held him in my arms
My soul is not satisfied because it has lost him.

Though this is the last pain that he makes me suffer
And these the last verses I do write for him.

(Changes in the pronouns were mine)

Punyeta

2005-03-29T13:01:00.000+08:00

Bakit hanggang ngayon naiisip kita? Bakit bawat text message na number lang ang lumalabas sa cell phone ko ay iniisip kong sa iyo galing. Minumulto ako ng iyong alaala. Umaasa pa din ako. Naghihintay. Alam kong hindi mo na ako naiisip. Wala na ako sa iyong ulirat. Kung magkasalubong man tayo sa mall o magkita sa isang kapihan sa Timog Avenue, hindi mo na ako makikilala. Hindi mo na ako maaalala. Pero ikaw, ikaw, naka-ukit ang mukha mo sa isip ko.

Sandali lang tayo nagkita, nagkakilala. Sa minsang pakikipag-ulayaw ay nakilala mo ako, nakilala kita. Hindi ko pinalampas ang kakulitan mo. Tinapatan mo ang yabang ko. Pareho tayong maangas. Pareho tayong manginginom. Pareho tayong nalasing. Iniyakan mo ang mapait na karanasan sa pakikipag-relasyon. Nilunod ka ng mga yakap ko. Hinalikan mo ang labi ko. Nanahimik ako. Nauwi tayo sa iyong silid at natulog ng magkayakap. Subalit hindi ito naging sapat upang pag-usbungan ng mas malalim na pagkakakilanlan. May kompromiso ako, nasagutang susubuking tuklasin ang posibilidad. Ikaw naman ay banidoso, kailangang uminog ang mundo sa iyo. Agad mong minasama ang pagtatapat ko. Masakit ang iyong mga salita. Iniwan kitang nagtataka. Hinabol mo ako. Pero malalim ang sugat.

Burado ang number mo sa cell phone ko. Ayokong matuksong batiin ka, kumustahin. Pinasalamatan ko ang distansya sa pagitan natin. Hindi ako matutuksong puntahan ka, bisitahin saglit. Magkaiba tayo ng mundo. Alam kong sasaktan mo lang ako. Hindi kakayanin ng puso kong makipagsugal. Hindi sapat ang mga salita mong ako lang ang magiging laman ng puso mo. Kilala kita. Kilala ko ang mundong pinanggalingan mo.

Punyeta. Bakit ikaw pa ang lumapat sa mga hinahanap ko. Makisig ang pangangatawan, matigas ang kilos, mahusay makipag-debate, hindi umaatras, lalaking-lalaki, pero baklang katulad ko. Walang tumapat sa mga sumunod. Wala ni sa kalingkinan.

Ayaw na kitang maisip. Nagugulo ang mundo ko. Marami akong gustong gawin, mga trabahong naiwan, mga kaibigang kikitain, marami pa. Hanggang ngayon naapektuhan mo pa rin ako. Sa tuwing pupunta ako sa grocery, sa coffee shop, sa inuman, naiisip ko, baka sakali, mag-krus ang landas natin. Sa mga kantang naririnig ko, mga kantang minsan nating inawit ng sabay, naaalala kita. Sa tuwing titingin ako sa kawalan, sa kalsada, sa mga dumadaang tao, naiisip kita.

Minsan mong sinabi sa akin na may nasumpungan kang irog sa tahimik mong paghahanap. Isang pala-isipan, panghihikayat na ayusin muna ang kompromiso at muling suungin ang naantalang pakikipag-tunggali. Ngunit huli na. Nasabi na ang nakasusugat na mga salita. Dumaan ang panahon ng paghihintay. At ngayon ay nagtatanong na lamang…

Naiisip mo rin kaya ako?

Punyeta.

By the Book

2005-03-23T18:52:00.000+08:00

It begins with silence, a sigh, a look of longing. We are together, alone. Our bodies infinitely apart. And yet, the distance is bridged by the intensity of your eyes. They look at me, they see me. You smile, a sweet smile. I smile back. We are both silent, both of us breathless in anticipation. Wanting to move but afraid to wound the moment. This moment, as our eyes lock, our gaze intense, and our breaths stalled. This moment that we are about to kiss.

Your hand reaches for my cheek, touching its surface, quivering. I gasp, the tips of your fingers filled with electricity, flowing from the point of contact. Your eyes continue to search my depths. They swim in my abyss, searching for answers without asking any questions. And you begin to move, closer, breaking down the distance until we are face to face. I can feel your breath, heavy, touching my skin, caressing, soothing. We are both breathing deeply, waiting. And then, it begins.

Your hand gently cups my cheek as you prepare me for the inevitable. I close my eyes and part my lips. And then, I feel you. The tip of your tongue teasing my upper lip. Softly, gently, a teasing intruder, slowly outlining its boundaries. Discovering every detail. And then you move south, equally attentive to my lower lip, careful not to be offensive. A light touch, caressing, soothing. You play with my lips, knowing what I want yet not giving it.

I place my hands on your face, trapping your jaw and positioning it for the attack. But then, you stop. You withdraw. You smile and open your eyes. I question, I doubt. And before I protest in disagreement, your lips engage my lips. The pressure heavy but tender. We both breathe deeply, gasping. Our chests heaving. Your right hand slides behind my nape, pushing my head towards your lips. Your lips, my lips, no longer separate, but one. And as you loosen your grip, a surprise of immeasurable delight. Your tongue pierces my mouth, a welcome intruder, slowly exploring the moist cavern. Your tongue moves excitedly, gaining momentum. Forcing its presence in my mouth. Your will, your strength, centered on this moist warrior. And then, your tongue meets its match. My tongue, like a good soldier, wards off your intrusion, matching your intensity. My tongue encircles your tongue, embracing the wetness. I move forward. I clutch your nape with my right hand. I advance for the kill. The warrior retreats as my tongue enters your mouth. Undiscovered terrain. A blind navigator. I search its landscape, its shape, its form. An imprint made in my memory. We inhale deeply. We moan. We gasp.

And then, you withdraw. My tongue follows, chasing after the warrior but finding no one. Both warriors retreat, moving back to the fort. Our lips part, cursing the growing distance. We inhale deeply as we open our eyes. We meet each others’ glances with a smile. It is done. It is finished. The pounding of our hearts continue to escalate. Your eyes speaks volumes, your mouth begging for words. But I am quick to the draw and I say…

“Give me my sin again.”

Teorya

2005-03-17T17:05:00.000+08:00

Pauwi na naman ako galing sa pakikipagtagpo sa isang estranghero. Sex Eye Ball ang karaniwang tawag sa prosesong ito. Dalawang tao na nagkakilala sa maikling panahon sa internet. Nagkahulihan ng kiliti. Naglatagan ng matinding pangangailangang pang-laman. Nagkasundong magkita. Nagtalik. At ngayon, pauwi na naman ako. Ilang beses na din na nangyari ito. Hindi naman madalas. Kapag matindi lang ang tawag ng laman. Sa mga ganitong pagkakataon, madali makahanap ng katalik. Madaling naisusugal ang seguridad, ang posibilidad na mahuli, makunan ng kamera, magkasakit. Hindi na binibigyan ng diin ang kagandahan ng mukha, kakinisan at kakisigan ng katawan. Walang pagsisinsay kung nakapag-aral ba, matalino, marunong mangatwiran. Basta’t nagtagpo ang libog, nagkaroon ng puwang upang tugunan ang init ng katawan. Basta’t pumasa, makaraos lamang.

Walang masama, katuwiran ko. Akin ang katawang ginagamit ko. May pagtanggap sa katotohanang ang pagnanasa ay kailangang tugunan. Tulad ng pag inom ng tubig kapag uhaw.

Uhaw. Uhaw sa pakikipagtalik? Uhaw sa init ng katawan ng kapwa lalaki? Libog lamang ‘yan. O libog nga lang ba?

Mayroon akong teorya. Sa maikling panahong sinubok ang larangang ito, ang larangan ng malayang pakikipagtalik, may ilan akong napagtantong mga katotohan sa buhay ko at, maaari, sa buhay nating lahat.

Bakit tayo naghahanap ng katalik? Dahil sa libog, sa init ng katawan na maaari lamang matapatan ng isa o ilan pang kapwa maiinit na katawan. Madaling sabihin. Dahil sa libog.

Ngunit ano ang lihim na katotohanan sa likod ng paghahanap. May ilang mangangatuwiran na libog lang ‘yan. At ito ay totoo. Subalit, sa aking palagay, may nagkukubling dahilan sa ganitong sapantaha.

Ano ba ang ating hinahanap? Katalik. Kahit sandali lamang ang pagniniig, ito ay tugon sa ating paghahanap. Ano ang nangyayari sa pagtatalik? Depende sa napag-usapan, sa napagkasunduan. Maaaring humalik ngunit hindi sa labi. Maaring lumapat ang dila pero hindi puwedeng ipasok. Maaaring dampian ngunit hindi puwedeng kagatin. Maaaring isubo pero hindi puwede palabasin. Maaaring makipagtalik pero hindi puwede umibig.

Pag-ibig. Isang masalimuot na katotohanan. Iba’t iba ang kahulugan batay sa pananaw ng iba’t ibang tao. May nakapagsabi na ang pagtatalik ang pinakamataas na antas ng pagpapahayag ng pag-ibig sa aspetong pisikal. Ang pag-iisa ng dalawang tao, ng dalawang katawan.

Masalimuot ang umibig. Hindi ito humihiling o nakikiusap. Ito ay nag-uutos. Kailangang maglaan ng oras, emosyon, pera, at ang iyong buong pagkatao, katawan, puso, kaluluwa, upang ito ay maging ganap. Para sa ilan na nasumpungan ito, ikinagagalak ko ang inyong pagtuklas. Huwag ninyo itong hayaang makawala. Bigkisin ninyo ito ng mahigpit, alagaan at pagyabungin. Ang pag-ibig ay isang desisyon. Desisyon na mahalin ang isang tao bagamat lantad ang kaniyang mga kahinaan at pagkukulang. Desisyon ito na suungin ang buhay ng magkahawak kamay, magkatuwang, sa konteksto ng isang relasyon.

Ang pakikipag-relasyon. Higit na masalimuot sa pag-ibig. Ito ang pang-araw-araw na mukha ng pag-ibig. Anong oras tayo magkikita? Saan tayo kakain? Kumusta ang araw mo? Bakit hindi ka nag-text? Anong oras tayo magkikita bukas? Mag-iingat ka pauwi.

Karamihan sa atin ay naghahanap ng ka-relasyon, ng isang taong mamahalin at magmamahal sa atin. Ilan sa atin, marahil, ay alam ang bigat at sarap ng pakikipag-relasyon. May ilan din na napaso ng init nito.

Alisin ang pag-ibig sa dalawang taong nagtatalik. Ano ang kalalabasan nito? Hindi isang mababang uri ng relasyon kundi pagharap at pagtanggap sa isang katotohanan. Kailangang tighawin ang uhaw. Kailangang busugin ang gutom.

Ito ang aking teorya. Sa aking pakikipagtalik ay may hinahanap ako. Tiyak ang aking mga pangangailangan. Mariin ang halik, mahigpit ang yakap, may lambing ang haplos, masikip, masarap, basa. At kung kaya pa, kung gusto pa, maaaring ulit-ulitin. Ngunit sa pagtugon sa mga pangangailangang ito, lumantad ang tunay kong hinahanap. Sa yakap, sa init, sa halik. Ang malayang pakikipagtalik ay may nakapaloob na kagustuhang masumpungan ang pag ibig.

Sa bawat lalaking aking nakapiling, may bulong ng pag-asa at pagtatanong: ikaw na ba?

Sa pagbaybay ng taxi sa kahabaan ng EDSA, bigla akong napatanong: hanggang kailan ko ito gagawin? Hanggang may libog sa katawan ko? Hangga’t may internet na magagamit? Hangga’t may nagkukusang-loob na makipaglaro? Hangga’t hindi ka dumadating.

Sa isip ko, ikaw lamang ang tunay na makapagpapaligaya sa akin. Alam mo kung saan ako hahalikan, gaano kariin ang kagat, gaano kahigpit ang yakap, gaano kasikip, kabasa. Alam mo ang mga salitang ibubulong, kailan mananahimik, uungol, sisigaw sa sarap,at hihinga ng malalim. Sa piling mo mawawala ang aking lumbay, ang lungkot ng aking puso, ang piping kahilingang mahalin din. Ang iyong katawan ay hindi na iba bagkus bahagi na ng katawan ko. Tayo ay lapat, tiyak ang sukat, magkatugma. Sa piling mo ay hindi ako mag-iisip kung ano ang susunod na gagawin, saan hahawak, saan hahalik. Alam ko ang mga salitang ibubulong ng palihim, kailan tatahimik, huhumaling sa sarap, at pagdaka’y hihinga ng malalim. Sa piling mo ay hindi na ako maghahanap. Payapa ang aking damdamin. Walang pag-aalinlangan, pagtatanong, pag-iisip.

Subalit, may taglay na bigat ang aking teorya na nakapaloob sa isang katanungan:

Kailan ka darating?

Enter you, razersharp

2004-11-26T13:32:00.000+08:00

I never thought I would meet someone like you. When I was looking for a quick fix, you jolted me from my not-so sober state. Our exchanges that night, that first night, pulled me out of my drunken stupor. Though I know that you were feigning interest, I appreciated the effort. I was relentless in engaging you in verbal combat. You did not yield. Instead, you met my challenge head on. You may not know it but I drove home lucid and sober.

Grounded and levelheaded, that’s who you are. As I soar and playfully outline the drama of my life, you anchored me with your sane remarks. You were constantly laughing at my antics. It was the performance of my life. But it felt natural. I was talking to a real person.

But, how real are you? You changed your story. I was alarmed. It was like peeling an onion. You have so many layers. You are very guarded, cautious with your words. The richness of your past does not only intimate sophistication and maturity but it also hints of a baggage that you carry. I sense your honesty. I am not easily frightened. I told you that you deserve an award for your achievement. You laughed and modestly declined.

I asked, “How do you know if you’re already in love?” and you replied with, “When you constantly think about him. When you crave to be with him. That’s when you know that you’re already in love.” But then I argued, “I think about you a lot. I think about our witty exchanges. I’ve been unyielding in my effort to invite you to have coffee with me. Does that mean I’m in love with you?” and you said, “You’re crazy!” And yet, I always have to ask, “How much time do we have?” because you are always busy. Je ne sais pas, mon ami. Je ne sais pas. C’est tout nouveau.

We have yet to see each other.

Though we know the intimate secrets of each other’s lives, we have yet to see each other’s face. Though, in our brief discussions, we’ve come to know each other’s struggles, we have yet to feel each other’s presence. We have so many things to explore about each other. But the stars and Fate seem to have other plans for us. Offline messages were sent. Offline messages remained unanswered.

Bottomline, we clicked.

I will not put color in our exchanges. That would be too presumptuous of me. I will not ask the universe if you are the one. That would be too hopeful.

I will simply whisper my heart’s desire:

Would you have coffee with me?

Melancholic Body Builder

2004-11-24T13:25:00.000+08:00

Our encounter was serendipitous. Our days were filled with longing. Our nights were wrapped in magic. Our verbal exchanges were priceless. I was almost swept away. But you were merely playing a game.

It was over even before it started. I was honest, you became petulant. I said I was drawn to you, you said I was unattractive. I told you that you are more than your body, you cried. I said, “you are beautiful”, you kissed me.

I have seen your beauty. But my honesty frightened you and it is not in my nature to lie.

I saw beyond your handsome face and muscular body. I took a peek inside your eyes and saw the sadness you are swimming in.

I was drawn to you.

I was willing to swim with you. But instead of reaching for my hand, you swam away.

My confidence perturbed you.

Like you, I’m a player too. But I ceased playing the game when I told you the truth.

I know you could, and would, hurt me. But I was willing to suffer the exquisite pain you so willingly flaunted.

I only have one heart and I need to protect it. You have been careless with your body thinking that they will never hurt your heart. But your carelessness does not deceive me. Your free spirit does not hide the pain that pierces your heart.

I see you, my melancholic body builder, I see you.

I am neither a trophy to be won nor a medal to be worn.

This is who I am.

First Move

2004-11-12T21:50:00.000+08:00

I'm almost done with my coffee. My brain is now suffereing from nicotine overload. It has been nearly two hours and I find myself still waiting in this coffee shop. It's a good thing I brought along a book, something to keep my mind off him.

I saw him just this afternoon inside the chat room that I was checking out. He had his webcam on. So, naturally, I imposed my presence on him and didn't bother to ask permission if I can take a peek. Surprisingly, he willingly obliged. After a click of the mouse and a couple of seconds, an image appeared. I was not instantly taken by his looks (he was not impressively good looking). But it was the aura of manliness that he exuded, his confidence, and the intensity in his eyes, which caught my attention. His image made such an impact that I immediately sent him a private message. "You seem very manly. Too bad you're very far from where I am right now. I'd love to have coffee with you sometime." Clicked "send" and off my message went. Was I expecting a reply? Of course. And as if in response to my expectation, one immediately came: "asl and stats pls". Jesus Mary and Joseph, the classic reply. "28, male, not within your zip area." That should jolt his brain cells. "30, male, I'll be within your zip area this evening. Is the invitation still open?" Floored. I was simply floored.

And so here I am, drowning myself in caffeine, enacting a scene that has been played out by so many people, so many times, and in so many places: the classic "eye ball". His last call indicated that he was 10 minutes away from the coffee shop. I told him that I was sitting at the farthest end of the smokers' area, with a book, and 3 ash trays filled to the brim. He just laughed. A taxi passed by. Then another. And another. Why am I counting the cabs passing by? Am I too anxious to see him in person? Maybe I should just get up and leave. Although he did say he's on his way. Amidst these thoughts, the combined effects of caffeine and nicotine, plus the din here at the coffee shop, a taxi pulled over.

I saw him already, at the corner of my eye, as he alighted from the taxi. Being the pompous prick that I am, I simply gazed in the other direction. Dark blue polo, snug fit jeans, neatly combed hair, wet look. Was that a bag? Yes, it's a mailman's bag. About the same height, same girth, same stance. I already saw him walking towards me but I insisted on taking the last puff of my cigarette. "Hello", he said and immediately sat down. In the spirit of being polite and courteous, I said, "You look very harassed, would you like a cup of coffee or water?" "It's ok, I'm fine" was his firm reply. "Would you like to stay here or go somewhere else?" I curiously asked. "Actually, I'm a bit hungry. Let's look for something to eat." And with that, I led him to my car. His presence was so overwhelming, his masculinity was oozing out of his pores. I was hypnotized and entranced by his confidence and decisivenes. This is not a democracy.

"Aren't you going to eat?"

"I'm not hungry, thank you. So tell me something about yourself."

"What's there to tell? I'm more interested in knowing you"

"You first."

"I work in a hospital. I take care of the sick."

"A good samaritan, very good."

"It's a living, I can't complain. What about you?"

"Researcher, pretty boring stuff."

"Why don't you eat? Would you like to taste this?"

"Don't do that, people might think we're on a date or something."

"It's okay, don't be bothered by what they'll think or say."

"You're pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?"

"Is there any other way of living your life than by being sure of yourself."

Floored, yet again.

It was already past midnight and all the day's work is slowly catching up with my body.

I asked him, "Is it okay if we go now? I'm really sleepy and you have a long way to go before reaching your destination."

And his reply, "Let's not leave yet. I still want to know more about you."

Am I hearing this correctly?

"I really need my nicotine fix, would you mind terriby if we go now?"

"You know, that thing will kill you."

"I know. I've been trying to quit. But i need someone to tell me that I should stop smoking."

"Stop smoking."

The ride to the bus station was fast. Small talk. Nothing earth shattering. Then suddenly, as I shifted gears, my hand accidentally brushed his left leg.

"Sorry about that. Don't want you to get the impression that I'm hitting on you."

"That's okay."

"You know, you should be very careful when you say 'it's okay'. A person might construe that as a willingness on your part to be taken advantaged of. Just like me. By hearing those words, I might get the idea that it's okay for me to take advantage of you."

"Fine by me."

Awkward laughter to an invitation. Must focus on driving.

As I stopped my car in front of the bus station, I shook his hand and said, "It was nice meeting you. Give me a call if you're in town again. I'll buy you two bottles of beer." While saying these words, his grip became tighter and tighter. His eyes were staring at mine, the intensity of which was so palpable, so thick, that it nearly knocked me off. Without saying a word, he let go of my hand, opened the door and began to descend from my car. But before completely getting out, he suddenly looked back at me. For a split second, he went back in, closed the door, grabbed my nape with his left hand, and kissed me on the lips. I felt his stubbles hit my chin. I felt his left hand caressing my nape. I felt his chest heaving over mine. Without saying a word, he opened the door, went out of the car, closed it behind him, and waved goodbye at me. All I could say was, "Take care on your way home" and hurriedly drove my car and turned right in a street corner the general direction of which is a mystery to me.

Still intoxicated by the kiss, I immediately lighted a cigarette and puffed its contents to make sure that what just happened was real. As the nicotine ran through my lungs, I made a decision to stop the car. If I don't, I would definitely end-up in tomorrow's newspaper. ("Car crash caused by unexpected good night kiss") I grabbed my phone and started composing a text message: "Meeting you is such a delight. It even comes with a good night kiss. I contemplated on bringing you to a not-so-well-lit place but decided against it because you might hit my face." Before sending it, I received a new message. It was him. "Take care on your way home." It was a completely different message from him, independent of what I sent. And so I waited, trying to figure out where I am and how to find the best route home. Three minutes, five minutes, ten minutes passed. He did not respond. Before losing my mind, I turned up the volume of my stereo and lit another cigarette. He's not going to respond. He's not going to call. I will never see him again. What happened tonight was just a fleeting moment, an event between two people whose paths will never cross again.

And then my phone began to make a sound, signalling that I have an incoming message.

"The bus is about to leave. I was just waiting for you to make the first move."

Who are the bisexuals in your neighborhood?

2004-11-10T18:11:00.000+08:00

They suffer discrimination from the other members of the federation. They bask in the ambiguous orientation they have chosen, neither affirming nor denying the adoption of a particular stance. They may look like us, speak like us, even participate in the fabulous parties that we organize. But fundamentally, they are different from us. By declaring our homosexuality, we made a choice that involves exclusivity and commitment. We are gay men who choose to love other gay men. It takes courage to declare that. It takes commitment to embrace it as a principle in life. But with bisexuals, it is a different ball game. As the term connotes, a person is deemed a bisexual if he or she is sexually and romantically attracted not only to the same sex but also with the opposite sex. Meaning, Joe may want to have sex with Jane and, later on, with Aidan. Maybe at different intervals or at the same time (which is another topic to be discussed later).

From where I come from, it is safer to declare oneself as a bisexual than a true blue gay man. The word "gay" has been closely associated with a specific section of the entire spectrum of men who prefer to love men. Such a section refers to the effeminate types, the cross dressers, the flambouyant sisters who daringly strut their stuff while wearing 4" pumps. When a person says "I'm gay", the listener would immediately be bombarded with images of men wearing make up, wigs, and women's clothes. On the other hand, a bisexual man may say that he is sexually attracted to another man, and may have actually engaged in intimate relations with a man, but that doesn't automatically make him gay because he is still attracted to women. That factor cancels out the images produced by the word "gay". It becomes socially acceptable to be bisexual because the possibility of having an intimate relationship, even sexual at that, with a woman, still exists. The apparent confusion becomes a badge, a medal that is proudly worn. Hence, it is safer to be a fencesitter than taking a firm stand (very similar to Switzerland and other "neutral" Scandinavian countries)

So, who are the bisexuals in your neighborhood?

Saying I love you

2004-11-09T12:04:00.000+08:00

It is the biggest gamble a person can make. Professing an all consuming emotion that places the speaker at a very vulnerable state. For the person saying the words, it is an expression, a catharsis, a higher level of being honest. At the same time, it opens a floodgate of expectations, a need to be reciprocated. Though a load has been lifted, a new burden takes its place. Will he say he loves me too? Is he feeling the same thing? Have I opened myself too much for him? Then the speaker comes face to face with the reality that saying the words "I love you" is like going down a one way street. The words are uttered, its meaning felt, and it cannot be withdrawn. It is a decision that the speaker commits to. It is an admission that the love he feels is so overwhelming that, regardless of the feelings and reaction of the recipient, such an emotion needs to be expressed.

"I love you. You don't have to say anything. I just wanted you to know."

Do I love you?

2004-11-03T14:01:00.000+08:00

How do I know that I love you? Is loving you a pull in my heart that I would always feel? Is it the smile on my face when I remember you? Is it wanting to be with you, the anxiety I feel whenever the clock reaches 5PM and I know that you’ll be leaving your office to see me? I’m afraid that I might only think that I love you. That I’ve convinced my heart that what I should feel for you is love. What is the measure of love? What are its parameters? Can it be defined? Is it a consuming feeling that envelopes a person’s whole being? Is it an ache I feel when I don’t see you? Is it the frustration I feel when I don’t hear from you? And when you do call, is it the butterflies in my stomach? My mind is capable of convincing my heart to feel all of these things. My heart has been aching for a love that my mind has learned to manipulate my heart into thinking that I do love you. If that is the case, then what I’m feeling is not love. It is a mere state of mind, a fulfillment of my needs, the void my heart has felt for many years. But isn’t love a feeling that fills the heart to the brim, an overwhelming sense of coming home. Then I’m more afraid because I don’t know if it is truly love that I feel for you. But then again, should love be something that I should think of? Isn’t love, more than anything else, an emotion to be felt? I don’t want to say I love you and have doubts if it is my mind that is speaking or my heart. What I know for certain is that I miss holding your hand; I miss kissing your lips, I long to embrace your warm body. I want to stare into your eyes and smile whenever you break eye contact. And I tease you for doing so. I don’t know if I love you. But maybe I do.

Raised by lesbians

2004-11-03T13:59:00.000+08:00

After coming out of the closet, my lesbian friends acted as surrogate parents that raised me as their own. They have been with me, guiding my every step, through my formative years as a gay man. Quite ironic actually, I have more lesbian friends, with their gorgeous looking and very loving girlfriends, than male gay friends. Most gay men I meet would either want to date me and shag me or abhor my very butch behaviour. (Isn’t it supposed to be a turn on?)

I learned how to value friendship from my lesbian comrades. I learned how to be compassionate, firm and decisive from them. I learned how to love unconditionally and embrace pain from every relationship and break-up they went through.

Lesbians, at least the ones I know, have a high tolerance for pain. The love they give is always conjoined with pain they are willing to experience. They don’t have the illusion of forever. The intensity of their love, at that precise moment, is forever. I was there in every heartbreak, every tear that fell for each love that cannot be equaled or reciprocated. I witnessed the consuming and passionate love my lesbian friends posses. Sometimes, I wonder if such feats of unimaginable proportions are a function of them being lesbians or by their humanity. Whatever the answer is, their experiences served as guideposts and milestones of how I view life and how I would love in the future.

Full Spectrum

2004-11-03T13:57:00.000+08:00

A spectrum that contains all the colors of the rainbow, that’s how I view my kind. We come in different forms, different persuasions, behaviour, and fashion sense. On one end you have the flamboyant and extremely effeminate type whose mantra is “I am a woman trapped in a man’s body”. On the other end, you have the butch type, the gym bunny who basks in his masculinity. The rest of the sisters are in between. We come in different sizes and shapes but we have a common denominator: we prefer to love and have intimate (read: sexual) relations with men. Butch or fam, we all kneel to worship the one eyed glory attached to the male physique. More than the act itself, we recognize and embrace the part of our humanity that enables us to prefer to love men.

Though a spectrum best describes and captures the wide array of gay men in my culture, I see myself as distinct from them. Some say I fall under the category of the straight acting butch type (too butch even for my own good since most of the people I meet still think I’m straight and that the masculinity I exhibit is just a put on, a show). But I am masculine and I am quite comfortable with my masculinity. But when I open my mouth and start speaking, when people hear the timbre of my voice, the expressions and language I use, they immediately recognize that I’m gay. People try to confine me in their neatly wrapped boxes, “you’re butch”, “you’re fam”, you’re this, your that. But I stubbornly but diplomatically refuse to be typecasted. Being gay, by itself, is a celebration of diversity and uniqueness. It presents an alternative to the prevailing straight dominated culture. But being gay, for an individual, in my opinion, is a celebration of a person’s struggle to define himself based on his innate values, dignity, intellect, and, most important of all, the choice of whom to love.

My brand of being gay

2004-11-03T13:53:00.000+08:00

It is not a shirt I wear or a placard I brandish. It is an ID I keep in my wallet and only show to those who want to confirm if indeed I am a card carrying member of the federation. I’m not referring to the Star Trek Federation, mind you. I am a member of the federation of men who choose to love and have a romantic relationship with other men (with all the perks and niceties, together with the negative allusions it entails). I am a gay man. Just like any other human being who is a member of the upwardly mobile middle class.

In the morning, I would compliment my boss’ choice of clothes, how it matches her footwear, and the bracelet that serves as an accent piece that pulls the entire ensemble together. At the same time, I would chastise her for not allocating enough time for styling her hair to achieve maximum style and volume. Through the course of the day, I would rant about not meeting the man of my dreams and still not finding myself in a loving and nurturing relationship with another gay man. When it’s time to leave the office, my straight male officemates would invite me to a drinking session. And if circumstances are conducive, we would even go to a girly bar and watch the performers strut their wares on the stage. Upon reaching the bar and ordering our beer, we would commence with our contest: who among us row of burly handsome men can illicit the elusive smile of the naked female performer on the stage. I would usually win. I won’t end up having sex with the girl (perish the thought) a wish that my officemates are bent on realizing. I would rather be a friend to these girls and give them tips on how to maintain the luster in their locks.

Suave. That is how they would describe my ability to blend in the crowd and yet maintain my uniqueness. (All us queens come equipped with mobile spotlights, you see). My brand of homosexuality, in the eyes of my female friends, is an affirmation of the positive traits that a gay man posses, a sensitive yet firm disposition, loyal and trusted friend to each and every fag hag, and impeccable fashion sense. My kind of homosexuality, on the other hand, is not an affront to the masculinity and macho culture embraced by my male colleagues. It is not an act or a put on. It is not contrived or done out of necessity (I do admit that I enjoy bonding with my male friends). It’s just the way it is. Being gay is a part of me. It is a facet of my life that defines me as a person but it is not the end-all and be-all. I do not flaunt it nor highlight it whenever the opportunity arises. Nor do I deny it whenever it is under siege or even questioned. Being gay is just another part of me, the same way that my values, education and upbringing define me. Maybe it’s just another form of being in the closet, dismissing being gay as “just another facet” of my personality. But I’d rather think that it is an evolution in the way we perceive our homosexuality. An acceptance that we are gay but there are other dimensions that define us as a person.