Monday, January 15, 2007


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.


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