Two Thousand Eight Hundred Eighty Minutes

I AM BACK TO BACK TO BACK TO BAAAAAKLAAAAA!

Witchelles kong aakalaing pagkashorpos ever ng halos isang taon eh ditangchinabelles din akembang jojogsak - ang pambansang lugar ng mga badinggerzie . . . . MALARS!

Wai sa plano ever kez that Saturday na umatakchinabelles doonchinabelles but then . . earlier that day eh nakareceive akembang ng shorwag kay Claudine - ang pinakamaasim kong friendiva na pinaglihi yata sa kinalburong hilaw na kamias . . . . at bukod pa sa kanya eh pati si Rica eh out-of-blue eh bigla ding nagparamdam. Naloka naman daw ako dahil medyo ma-orgality of culture na din akembang na nag-solo-flight dahil witchelles ko naman bet na gambalain ang mga buhay-buhay nila at nagpasko at nagbagong-taon na nga't lahat lahat eh witchelles pa rin kami nagkakasight-sight.

Naging bisi-bisihan naman kasi ang Lola Rica sa kanyang world tour na pati ang Papua at Cambodia eh witchelles niya pinalampas at si Claude naman eh as usual . . . . pag inaatake ng kabaliwan eh super-retreat sa sarili niyang mundo ever na siya lang ever ang nakakaintindi ever! Ever!

Parang yesterday's dream lang . . . . super remember kez pa ang nakakalorkey hey hey hey na momentzzz namin ditangchiwa sa Malars na nakapagpasimula ng blogsivang itekla at itekla na naman . . . may another momentzzz na naman akey na tinatalak.

As usual eh akembang na naman ang pinaka-early-bird-catches-the-worm ang eksena kaya waiting-in-vain na naman ang drama kez sa buhay sa kanto ng Nakpil at Orosa habang ninamnam ang e-coli bacteria sa mga fishball at tukneneng na nilalapsalauriat kez and at the same time eh mega-sightsiva sa mga badinggerzie na rumarampa sa harap kez at in fairness . . . . halos washington na akez learnchi. Different faces . . . . . different names . . . mga fresher version of ourselves. Kakaloka!

"Bernardina!"

Nahearsung kez ang boses ng baklang Rica na halos umalingawngaw sa apat na sulok ng Malate.

Nang makanearness-of-you na siya eh as usual . . ang madugong ritwal ng besohan . . . . isang ritwal na witchelles na witchelles mawawagtus sa mga baklang magkakaibigan.

"I heard that you have a new tarbaho na ha," chika ni bakla, na halata namang wicthelles concern ang nasa jisip kundi ang intensiyong makasagap ng latest chismis.

"True," talak ko.

At tinalak ko sa kanya ang litanya ko sa bago kong workaloo at ang lahat ng pinagdaanan kong malasoap-operatic na momentz the past month.

"Hay naku maresssseeee . . . . .keri lang yan. I know you naman. Look at the brighter side of things . . . . maganda ka pa rin naman," chika na Ricang punung-puno ng kajijian.

"Ano na naman ba ang mga pumasok sa isip nyo at nagyaya na naman kayo dito?" askiley kez.

"Oh well! It's a time for joy . . . a time for peace . . . a time when hearts are set free . . . ."

Naloka naman akembang sa linya. For the sake na may maitalak ang bakla eh pati ang songaling ni Jamie Rivera eh irerecite.

"Kailangan natin to have fun. It's a new year. And we need to start this with a bang!"

Di rin nagtagal at nag-grand-entrance na ren si Claude at after a few minutes eh dumating na ren si Francheska.

Di na nagpatumpik-tumpik pa ang mga veykla at umatakchinabelles na sa Bed.

As usual eh jampacked na naman ang lugar. Witchelles ko bet magpakaipokrita or whatever but then nung gabing iyon eh parang witchelles ko bet mangarir. Ewan ko ba pero parang wala akez sa mood.

Gumetching na kami ng mga drinkaloo namen at humanap na ng spot na pedeng territoryohin.

Yung last time na umatak yata akez sa Bed eh yung na-sight ko pa si Vicky Wet! Kalorkey at ngayon eh nyortista na ren siya. Hahahaha.

Sa hayun na nga, mega observation lang akey sa karagatan ng sangkabaklaan na parang sinasamba ang mega-danz-danz na music. Isang gathering ng mga nilalang na may iisang hangarin . . . ang magpakasaya . . . . at kung sinusuwerte eh humada o magpahada at pag super suwerti talaga eh ang ma-take-home na parang Kenny Rogers lang. Nakakatuwa nga naman pag super sight ka sa kanila . . . super dance galore to death na parang wala nang haharapin pang kinabukasan para magdance . . . . mega-jump up and down . . . . . at most of the time eh mega ma-yummy effect para naman bumenta that night.

I'm on my thrid beer . . . . si Rica at si Francheska eh karir mode na . . . kaming dalawa na lang ni Claudine ang parang mga tuod na miyembro ng Confradia de San Jose - mga manang na parang napaglumaan na ng panahon . . . . pero . . . . . may biglang yumanig sa nananahimik kong mundo.

Sa isang ledge sa dancefloor eh may may-I-sight akong bagets . . . . unang sight ko pa lang sa kanya eh kakaibang shockwave na ang na-felt kez sa flat kong mga dibdib. Natuwa naman ako . . . . . . bagets, nagpaalam akez kay Claude at chikang aatak lang sa dancefloor.

Umatak nga akez para lang makalapit sa kanya.

I was standing a couple of feet away from him. He's up there sa ledge . . . above me and the others. Super dance siya to the highest level. He's different compared to all the utawsingbelles doonchinabelles. He's super white . . . as in . . . . white . . . parang kokomban! Nakajacket siyang itim . . . and his whole porma is super kakaiba na he stands out. Parang ang packaging niya eh isang punk-goth-rock star. Sa porma pa lang niya eh alam mo nang hindi siya generic na parang karamihan sa mga badinggerzie doonchinabelles na parang Tide na meron ka lang tatlong piso eh makakabili ka na sa kahit na anong suking tindahan.

Witchelles akez gumagalaw sa kinatatayuan kez. Super drinkaloo lang akembang ng beerangju habang super-sight sa kanya. Ayaw din talagang magpaawat ng mga tingin ko.

Nang tumagal-tagal eh parang betchay ko nang lumapit ever nang ma-experience ko naman siya ng malapitan . . . pero pag-sight kez eh may mga veklores sa harapan niya super enchance sa kanya . . . na-kyorkot naman akez na kumropit dahil obvyosa namang nag-set-up na sila ng defensive perimeter sa lugar na iyonchie na kung sinetchiwa man ang kumropit eh sure na sure na kundi tadyak eh siko sa ilong ang maaabot.

Wai akez magawa kundi kag-sight lang sa bagets. Witchelles ko learn kung kag-sight ren ba niya akey hey hey hey pero at that point eh witchelles ko naman bet magpaka-ilusyonada para jisiping super-sightsiva ren siya sa ken.

"Uy magsayaw ka naman . . . " chika ni Francheska na bigla na lang nag-appear sa likod ko.

Humarap ako sa kanya. At hinila palabas.

Super ask siya kung saanchienabelles kami aatak, pero hinila ko lang siya hanggang makaesquierda kami ng Bed.

Chika ko sa kanya na I just needed a breath of fresh air.

Jumupostrax kami sa labas at gumetching ng mas mumurahing beer.

Super laklak to death lang akez.

Super wonder-bra naman si Francheska, kung anung meron . . . hanggang chinika ko sa kanya ang bagay na parang ni minsan eh witchelles ko najisip na ichichika kez sa tanan ng buhay ko.

"I think I'm in love!"

"Ha?!"

Ma-giraffe iexplain . . . . madaling sabihin na masyado lang akez na-excite at super exaggerated lang ang declaration kez . . . pwede ring sabihin na sa tuwing nakakalembang ang kampana ng kabaklaan kez ng isang betty-mae kez eh naichichika kong "I'm in love!" Pero . . . keri kong ichika with deep conviction . . na iba ang na-felt ko that night . . . . . iba . . . as in ibang . . iba.

At felt na felt kong witchelles din naniwala si Francheska. Pero may-I-best-in-supporting-actress na lang ang drama niya.

"E di lapitan mo. Kausapin mo . . . . Who knows?" chika niya.

Matagal-tagal din akong nag-jisip at nag-jipon ng lakas ng loob ever. Pagkashorpos ng shotlong beerangju eh hinatak ko na siya pabalik ng Bed.

Dire-direcho akez sa dance floor . . . kung saanchienabelles ko siya huling-huling na-sightchinabelles but then . . . pagdating kez doonchienabelles . .. . eh . . . harsh of all harshness . . . . he wasn't there anymore.

Shit!

Sinuyod ko ang buong dancefloor . . . .. wala siya.

Bumalik ako kala Claudine at chinikang may hinahanap ako . . .

"This is it . . . this is really reallly it . . . . "

Tinaasan lang ako ng kilay ng mga bakla.

Deadma.

Umisquierda ulit akez at nakipagsiksikan paakyat sa second floor mireseng makipagsikuhan akez at magkamatay-matay ang mga dailiri ko sa paa sa kaaapak ng mga bading.

Sinuyod ko ang buong second floor, pati ang CR at pati na rin yata ang mga ilalim ng couch eh sinilip ko. Nowhere in sight ang bagets-come-punk-come-masarap-bonahin-come-one-come-all!

Bumalik na naman ako kala Claudine.

"How can I lose a guy? How can I lose a 5 foot 6 guy . . . divinely white . . . guy who just took my breath away . . . "

Parang akong si Sisang baliw-baliwan sa harapan ng mga friendiva ko na nakanganga lang at wa sa pagkareact. . . I swear . . . I could've gone wild and gone ballistic that momentzzz pero . . . pinigil ko lang ang sarili ko.

"Doon tayo sa taas . . . marami ka pang makikita don," sabi ni Francheska . . .

Even though witchelles ko bet ng iba . . . marami man sila . . . . isa lang naman ang gusto ko that night . . . nagpahila pa ren ako kay Francheska.

Sa kalagitnaan ng pakikipagsiksikan namin para makarating sa second floor eh parang biglang huminto ang oras.

Huminto din ako. Hawak-hawak ni Francheska ang kamay ko. Hinihila niya ako pero parang nasemento ang mga paa ko. Hila to death pa ren siya sa aken.

"I will not move from this place forever," chika ko kay Francheska habang nakasight ako sa bagets na kaniney ko pa ineeffort na masightchinabelles.

Wala nang nagawa si Francheska. Umisquierda na lang siya at jiniwan na akez doon sa kinatatayuan ko.

That whole time eh nakasight siya sa aken. Nakasight din akez sa kanya.

Hanggang sa lumapit na lang siya sa akin at ibinalot ang mga kamay namin sa isa't isa.

Nagyakapan kami nang super higpit na parang old lovers na first time uli nagkita after 47 years and 11 months.

At simula nang mga oras na iyon eh literal na witchelles na kami naghiwalay . . . . the first minute was counted . . . . and there are two thousand eight hundred and seventy nine more.

*

THE SURPRISE

Contrary to what I've said . . . . . we didn't end up in a cheap motel . . . . haha!

It's more of a "Class B Motel"!

Anyway, he was great in bed. There is no other way to put it. It seemed nothing less than transfiguration. Conversing, he was fidgety and evasive, given to arrhythmic pauses and odd spasms of laughter. But when he got out of his clothes he took on the fluid self-assurance of a dancer. His physique was modest and sinewy, with veined arms and a prominent rib cage. That night, he was naked so quickly he might have been wearing a suit the kind that macho dancers in Chico's use. He was dressed one moment and nude the next, while I was still unfastening the last button of my shirt.

"Pa'no mo nagawa 'yon?" I asked.

He smiled, and helped me out of my own clothes. His movements were swift and efficient but gentle. He had abruptly traded his skittish, roving manner of calm focus and suave, unhurried competence. He unbuttoned my jeans and slid them tenderly down to my ankles, wrapped his arms around my waist and lifted me, with only a hint of strain, up onto the bed.

I was not excited by him. I was excited by the idea of sex, the ease of it - I had gone out and caught someone, an unclaimed man who was mine to do with as I liked. I admit it - there was a streak of sadism in my lusts. There was the taint of vanity. I chose ordinary men who would not refuse; who would feel lucky to have me. I did not thrill to the sight of their flesh - which was either bulky or scrawny but always abashed and grateful - so much as I did to the fact of their capture. As Mr. Mind-Over-Matter set me on the bed I was aroused in the general, unfocused way that has become familiar. I would let him command the sex but I would leave the motel room undefeated. Part of me was already gone as our chests touched for the first time and our legs fumbled for position. I was more important than this. The excitement I felt was edgy and not entirely pleasant, like a swarm of bees inside my chest.

Mr. Mind-Over-Matter nuzzled my shoulder, ran his fingers lightly along my ribs. He had a dry powdery touch. There was something sweet about his earnestness and his elusive beauty. There was something dreadful about it.

He lay for a while on top of me, peppering my chest with kisses. Then he deftly revolved our bodies so that I was on top. I got a thorough look at him, for the first time. He was thin but big-boned, his abdomen is densely furred. His cock angled off to the right, raggedly skirted by a vein. His gaunt, hairy stomach and skewed cock suddenly repulsed me. Usually with strangers there was a moment of shock like this, when I fully comprehend the privacy of their bodies. Looking at his thin torso, I felt as if I had caught him in some indiscretion. I saw the otherness of him, and it flipped me over from excitement to disgust - my own agitation soured, and I began bluffing my way through, cramming his cock blindly into my mouth. I was already thinking of going home or just have an emergency drink with my friends. Even as it happened, this was a story I would tell them. We would shake our head together and discuss the perplexing scarcity of love.

"Relax", Mr. Mind-Over-Matter whispered. I didn't answer, because my mouth was full. When he repeated it, I pulled my head up and said, "I'm perfectly relaxed, thank you." I would make him come quickly, come myself, and be back in my own skin, free on the street, back in reality.

He slipped away, directing me to lie belly-down on the mattress.

"Masyado kang tensed," he said. I skeptically obeted, and he began massaging my back, tracing the curves of my shoulders and spine with his fingertips. "You're very tight," he said. Whatever that may have meant, I just said, "Thank you."

Against my better judgment, I consigned myself to his hands. I disliked being told I was tense - it seemed he had recognized a flaw in my character. For the occasion of sex I always slipped over into an identity that was not quite my own. When making love I was like my own hypothetical older brother, a strong, slightly cynical man who lived adventurously, without qualms that beset my other self. While at bed or on the MRT I daydreamed of powerful, angry men who needed me to ease their pain. In bed with meek strangers I thought only of quick orgasm and escape.

Mr. Mind-Over-Matter worked my back with ardent delicacy, his fingers expertly following the confluence of tendon and bone. When I remarked on his proficiency he said, "Pinag-aralan ko 'to". I would learn that he often to that to other people to earn money, stressing on the part that those services are strictly professional.

Under his ministrations, I relaxed almost against my will. Without having decided to, abruptly, I fell asleep. It was utterly unlike me. But I'd been keeping late hours, and working long days. The sensation resembled that of slipping under anesthetic. One moment I was awake, looking at wall with a boring wallpaper, and the next I was being roused from slumber by a kiss.

I startled, and nearly jumped off the bed. For a moment I lost track of everything. Where was I, and whose cologned jaw was this? "Shh," he whispered. "It's okay."

"Shit! Nakatulog ako?" I asked. I was groggy and ashamed. Had I snored? Had I drooled?

"Saglit lang naman, okay lang yon," he said. He kissed my neck and gently but steadily positioned himself between my legs.

"Sorry," I said. "Di ko naman sinasadyang tulugan ka . . . . "

"Ssshhh," he said, stopping me. "This is a dream you are having."

For some reason, I obeyed. Although my instinct was to return to myself, to quickly polish off the sex and get on about my business, I decided to relax. There was surprising, voluptuous pleasure in it. I let him manage things in and out lovemaking passed as if in fact I was dreaming. He carried it through the way a diligent student pursued all his projects, with scrupulous attention. If our coupling lacked the abandon of true passion it has a schooled solildity that was the next best thing. Mr. Mind-Over-Matter could perhaps write a full length novel in one sitting. I bet that he could even tell all the capitals of all the countries in the world. And he could tell how far to thrust, when to withdraw, when to throw in an unexpected move. I gave myself up to it. He enjoyed being in command, and I relinquished my own desire to impress.

We made love three times that night. After the first time we did not roll away. I didn’t make my escape. He held me, and I stroked his sparsely haired thigh. I could smell his sweat, which was sharp but not unpleasant. We embraced in silence for ten minutes or longer. Then he said, "Are you ready again?"

By the time I got dressed, the motel room lost some of its strangeness as if we live there.

I dressed and decided to go. He wanted for us to go down together but I insisted on going first, I wouldn't want a desire for us not to part our ways. It would be painful. I blew him a kiss and went out.

This was usually my favorite moment, after the sex was finished and I was restored to myself, still young and viable, free to go everywhere. That night, though, I felt irritated and weightless; I couldn't quite pick up my sense of myself. Cubao lay quietly in its bath of dark light. A group of hookers strolled the sidewalks and jeepneys roared by.

I was infused with a bodily pleasure that was intricately, brittlely edged in regret. Something had been lost, at least for the moment-some measure of possibility. I walked away, but couldn't shake the feeling. It followed me like a thief.

-THE END-

The 20+ mind-over-matter guy

I was hesitant at first. I have never experienced a wholesome eyeball since . . . . like never. For people who are not familiar with the "eyeball" thingie, it would be my deepest pleasure to enlighten you on the matter. It is somewhat a jargon nowadays that is used when two people who were corresponding through text, internet (email, online community or chat) or like in the dark ages snail mail (penpal, as if it still exists), decided to meet after a certain amount of time. Well, it is really supposed to be wholesome, though in our world, there’s this thing that is called "S.E.B" or "Sex Eye Ball". This is usually applicable through chat . . . you enter a chatroom, which is more of like a meatshop (bagsakan ng karne) where you post an ad . . . . you state the things that you are looking for for a possible "hook-up" (this can be instant or scheduled). . . tall, short . . . lean, chub . . . goodlooking, average . . . . TOP or BOTTOM, etc. Or you can just browse through the main chatroom and fish while reading the ads . . . if you feel that you fall to that certain category that a certain chatter is looking for . . . you engage him in a privy . . . then you chat . . exchange pictures . . . sometimes talk dirty . . . and if you come to the point of mutual attraction . . exchange phone numbers . . . . and after 30 minutes . . . you are already having sex in a cheap motel room in Cubao or probably meet after two days or so depending on your availability.

Another reason why I'm hesitant is the fact that this meet-up was initiated by an online bond, which I find, more often than not, pretty much fragile and unrealistic. In the cyberworld, there are a lot of things that can be said . . . . and there's no way of telling if such things are true or just a product of a disturbed person's mind who created an alternate identity in the internet just to escape from reality - and why would someone want to escape something pleasant? You do the math!

After a couple of self-consultations, I finally made up my mind.

I will meet him.

*

We decided to have an early dinner at Italliani's in Gateway. Since he's from the North, it would just be fair for the both of us to meet there.

I thought I would be late, coming from Ortigas to Cubao. The traffic was grueling. I thought that traffic was always grueling, even if the heavens would open up and a storm of brim and stone would not make the traffic more comfortable. But the worst thing that could happen when you are stuck in traffic in a box-type taxi-cab with an aircon barely spitting "conditioned" air and you couldn't smell anything but diesel is when you are on your way on your first date and you are anticipating or rather expecting someone who would actually meet (or exceed) your standards. And while thinking about these things . . . the "what-ifs" arise from your polluted mind . . . What if I wouldn't like him? What if he looks different from the pictures you saw, as if he just went through a major surgical operation gone totally wrong? What if he couldn't talk about anything because he doesn't make any sense at all? What if he is a total psycho that would just tear your clothes apart in the middle of the restaurant and make love to you in front of all the people???? (uhmmmm . . . . that one can fall under the expectations list).

The thought of backing-out crossed my mind a couple of times but before I could really finally decide on what to do, I was already in Cubao.

There were no another choices but to get that night over with.

I arrived at Itallianni's ten minutes earlier and helped myself with the freebie bread that goes with the balsamic vinegar. They give you these things so that, as a customer, you wouldn't be able to stomach to change your mind and move to a cheaper restaurant once you realized that Cafe Bola is cheaper.

I was so overwhelmed with the bread and the fact that I would spend almost 300 pesos for pasta, I didn't see him enter and approached my table.

"Bernard?", he said trying to sound confident though the trembling of his voice is pretty much obvious.

I raised my head from the "golden" menu and stared at him for a second until I nodded my head and asked him to take a seat.

For a moment, I was relieved . . . . there were no signs of any major surgical operations gone wrong . . . he looks pretty much the same with his pictures, if not better.

His face was thin, and edgy, the nose and chin too sharply pointed for ordinary handsomeness, though his color was fair and his eyes were as innocent as a child's. His was the sort of face that, given a proneness to vanity, could be agonized over in a mirror - a face that could switch from beauty to plainness and back again. I've seen a lot of faces like that, the not-quite-handsome faces of young men and women who have been fussed over by their mothers and who believe, with rigorous if slightly apologetic hopefulness, that they can make a future with their looks.

And there we were, star-crossed voyagers sitting across one another hoping that that night would be the night that we were waiting for since the Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks tandem spurred the word "Hopeless Romantic".

We were silent, nobody spoke a word. Both of us tried hard to conceal whatever we were thinking and preoccupied ourselves with what to eat.

Until we ordered. Finally, he spoke! Hallelujiah! He can speak!

"How was your day?" he asked. A depth of scrutiny passed briefly behind his pallid eyes. He was trying, without deep conviction or curiosity, to figure me out.

I stopped my mouth from opening. I know myself, if somebody asks me how my day was, I'll go on ranting about sordid stuff, and that might go on forever. I thought that it wouldn't be a very nice impression if I do that at that moment.

So, I just said, "It was fine."

It was followed by a series of questions pitched from my side to his and from his to mine as if we're playing 20 questions.

One question. One answer.

One question. One Answer.

Until, we got the hang of it and we became at ease at each other, we started to expound what we were saying. The conversation went along over the sour pasta. It just went on and went on.

We were talking as if we knew each other for a very long time. We share some thoughts. Words and stories just flowed out of our mouths like the Grand Rapids rushing to get to the vast ocean.

After the dinner, we shared the bill.

On our way out, he asked me if I was already tired.

I looked at my watch, it's only 9. Still early. So, I told him, not really.

He smiled and asked if I want to get a drink.

I looked around. We were in Cubao. Where in the world are we supposed to drink there?

He said he knows a place. Quite shabby and not very fancy.

I said yes, why not.

We walked around Araneta while still making "kuwento", he was telling me about his misadventures about love and relationship. We share the common sentiment . . . . both of us our sour losers when it comes to love. And while walking, I just noticed that his arm is around my shoulder.

I have to admit, there was a blush moment there.

We got to Aurora, near the LRT2 station.

We crossed the street, pass the "bugaws" and "the girls" that would come to you and whisper 'Sir, babae po ?

If only they knew . . . . I thought.

Finally, we got to this place . . . . . PALAWAN.

It looks like an ordinary KTV bar that you would expect to see in places like Cubao. But I never thought that that place was a haven for badinggerzies from all walks of life and appearance.

He asked if I've been to that place.

I said that that was my first time. And I was quite shocked to see that on a Wednesday night and at that time . . . . it’s already packed.

It is a kind of place that really wouldn't matter how it looks like or what you're drinking but rather what matters the most are the people who are going there. The people that you can meet. In short, it is a big fishing ground!

There was this feeling, as we walk through the place, of eyes glaring at you as if scrutinizing every inch of your body.

We occupied a small table in a dark corner. We ordered beers and I told him that the place was nice.

And then, we walked our way again through a conversation talking about the usual things, this time, delivered brief accounts of our origins and ambitions.

Mr. Mind-Over-Matter was all edgy inattention, the sort of a person who shreds napkins and taps his feet and fails to hear fully half of what's said to him.

After what seemed to both of us a decent interval – three beers and casually flirting one another – we decided to check in to the nearest hotel where he introduced his surprise . . . .

2 be continued . . . . . .