Enter you, razersharp

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

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

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?

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

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?

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

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

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

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.