Friday, September 12, 2014

You and Your Good Manners

**What you will read here, my Dearly Beloved, is inspired by the colorful story telling of one Very Lewd Friend. I happened to be a Very Good Listener, and so I am sharing it with my choice of words just because it could be funnier.  





Good manners rule with a shining crown. Image borrowed from jenny9119999.


I am familiar with compliments, and I receive them with equal courtesy. Good manners, you see, improve a person's estimate of you and seals you in their favor. It takes some getting used to, most especially if you are lacking of compliment-ary property, but you will get your share, by and by. Develop a skill, Dearly Beloved, and hammer your mastery with religious practice. Yes, it does make perfect. Yes, it refines you until it comes rather easy to you, second nature, really, and people will notice. And then we go back to the subject of compliments. 

"Ang galing mo pa ring chumupa," said He of the Borrowed Penis. I did not know what to say to that, so I bit his left tit instead. Courteously. How do you nibble a nipple with good manners? With practice, of course, and you need to go back to the first paragraph now because I don't think I'm getting to you.  

Friday, September 05, 2014

Tips for Your First Tattoo (Part One)

**There are millions of qualified... tipsters out there, but read on if you want to hear it from this gay dude. Whatever. This long-ish post does not include tips on after care or maintenance. That will be for the next mouthful.  





You will meet a genius artist in the future, and She will administer miracles on your skin. Trust me. I owe my first half sleeve to the awesome brilliance of my current artist, Rakel Natividad.  





I think I was 23 when I got my first tattoo. It wasn't like I have always wanted to get inked. No my Dearly Beloved, that was never the case. I wasn't one to try to look cool. "Cool," whatever that is, doesn't look cool on me anyway. 


Tip #1. Don't do it because you think it makes you look awesome. Just don't. You see, there will always be someone with more ink, prettier ink than you, and then you won't find the balls, the slightly littlest mini-balls to stand next to them. What then? Be humble. There will always be someone with a larger, far more beautiful piece. 
What I'm saying, Dearly Beloved, is that your ink belongs in the dermal layer of your skin. And it stays there until you die of AIDS and then decompose. The problem with some people is that they let the ink crawl up the veins that connect to their brain. This mutates to an unbecoming ego that wasn't there in the first place. That ego will make a dick of you. Bitch, please. Don't be a dick with ink. Be humble. 


This is where the ink goes, and this is where the ink should stay. Picture borrowed from sciencebuzz.org

I was on my second telemarketing job when this dude in the office, Lucky, asked me to go to some parlor with him. I was a little on the slow side then, I didn't get the joke, so I agreed in a heartbeat. It wasn't because Lucky was cute; he had a dog's name and his complexion was the feces of an old man with colon cancer. It wasn't because Lucky was rock and roll; he was this soft-spoken, straight guy who had the blue ribbon manners of a prince. Lucky wasn't the kind of guy who gets a tattoo. He doesn't have the pluck or the spit for it. Yes, he had a nice pair of pearly white shiners, and he was built like a hard fucker, but I went with him only because he was getting tattooed for the first time. 

I was 23 then. What the hell do I know of people who get tattoos? 


Tip #2. Unless you are equipped with a thoroughly bankable skill set, and by "bankable" I mean "profitable," try to get yourself a steady job before getting your first visible tattoo. Most companies take it easy on the admission of tattooed employees, but this colorful percent of the workforce possess  equally indelible qualifications. If you have neither skill nor experience, then this tip is for you. Yes you. Nobody else. But you. 
Think about it, noob. What can you and your tattoos do? 
Funny. I mentioned "job" in the same breath as "telemarketing." But I sold useless online yellow pages for nearly two years, so yes, I suppose I know what I'm talking about. Shut your pie hole. 

Of course I was curious! I have never seen Lucky get tattooed, or anyone getting tattooed for that matter, so I said yes faster than your ejaculation. It was in the height of this charged curiosity that I decided to get tattooed myself. Why the hell not? If Lucky can get one, then why can't I? I wanted to know how it felt like. I don't mean to state the obvious, or to be a repetitive homo, but I was exceedingly curious so I decided to get a tattoo myself. Fuck Lucky, flucky haha, and his tattoo, I elected I'm getting one, too. I was 23, and I was reckless. 


It's supposed to look like this. Picture borrowed from Taiwanese Secrets.

I decided to get a Chinese character for Passion. And it will be red. I was 23 then. That was more than ten years ago. My first tattoo was "Passion" in red Chinese characters. I used to have such pedestrian taste. I don't miss it none. 


Tip #3. You "can" disregard relevance and meaning and epiphanies and significance as far as your first tattoo goes. Throw drama to the wind and just go for it. This saves you the trouble of explaining your first tattoo to everyone who pretends interest and asks about it. You can go like' "Why the hell not?"
The thing with tattoos, and I say this on a personal note, is that each individual puncture wound embeds more than a rebellious streak in your being. It's deeper than that indelible piece of art on your skin. You can choose whatever you want, fuck relevance, because it is more of a mental experience than it is masochism. It changes you a bit. And you can always cover up that piece of crap design you devirginized your skin with. Do it for what the pain will do to you.  
Later on, you will find a better artist when your taste in tattoos mature, and She will administer miracles on your skin. Trust me. 

I chose "Passion" in red Chinese characters because everybody's getting Chinese characters somewhere. Truth is, I was never that Passionate about anything then. Like I said, I don't miss the shallow decision-making process I employed in my twenties. That is so exceedingly gay.


Tip #4. Try to refrain from black ink for your first piece. Black is the hardest to cover up. 

We were in his artist's shop a few days later for the consultation. Gene T. was this smiling dude in his mid-thirties, big eyes, bushy eyebrows, yellowing teeth, white shirt, and a ponytail. He could be hot if he didn't go AWOL with a ten-thousand peso deposit ten years later, but that's another story. You see, he could have at least replied to my texts or answered my calls or made his presence known, the smell of burning candles will work, but no. Oh hell no, Dearly Beloved, he took off with a ten-thousand peso deposit and my loyalty ten years later, and I'm still sore in some places. 

Meanwhile, I was shining smiles and then some more the first time I met Gene T. Again, he could be hot if he hadn't taken off with a ten-thous... He agreed to take us in, Lucky and I, as clients, and our sessions were scheduled the following Saturday. He charged 1,000 php for every four square inches of skin. We left with our designs and a one-thousand peso deposit, five hundred each, and then I got even more excited. I was so wet with anticipation, I was a goddamn flood gate. I'm getting tattooed! 


You cannot get any more excited than that. Picture borrowed from Davelashbrook.



Tip #5. Be all polite and nice and civil and law abiding and New Testament and Code of Hammurabi and all that creamy goodness towards your artist. He will embellish your skin with forever art. You should know better than to be on his bad side. Be nice and grateful to your artist. 
Having said that, I recommend that you please consider tipping your artist. Seriously, Dearly Beloved, tip. Ten percent is ideal. Not only is it common courtesy, but the gesture will take you a long way. Be nice to your artist.  

Gene T's tattoo parlor opens at around 10:30-ish in the morning, mall hours, and we, Lucky and I, had two bottles of the local beer they serve to weak types like us at eight that morning. Can you, my Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts, can you find it in your loving heart to blame us if we were drinking that early in the morning? Sure, we were young. Sure, we were stupid. Sure, we had change and a few hours to spare. But we were getting a tattoo an hour or so later, and we had to brace our weak, weak telemarketer hearts. 

We smelled like a brewery when we got to Gene's shop. I will spare you the details of the tattooing process, for that will be another two hundred thousand words, but I will write that by and by. I will tell you this much, though. Gene finished my red "Passion" in a little under two hours. It hurt, sure, like a bitch, but this wonderful hurt explained why certain people get repeat tattoos. 

And, on a related note, I bled like a virgin. Touched for the very first time. I wouldn't have been drinking earlier had I known then what I'm about to share now. 


Tip #6. Do not drink alcohol before your session. Alcohol thins the blood and makes profuse bleeding happen. Expect some blood as the needles puncture your skin, but it's not supposed to drip. Alcohol guarantees that, for real. Again, my Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts, do not drink alcohol before your session. 
Hell yeah. Picture borrowed from Quickmeme.

I was smiling beyond myself when I saw this beautiful, foreign Chinese character on my right arm. It felt sore, and it felt warm, and a thin stream of blood trickled down my elbow as my reflection smiled back at me. Gene wiped the blood off with a wet tissue, and then he wiped the rest of my tattoo clean. Oh that motherfucker smarted, really it did, but it felt better, encouraging even, when he smoothed a thin layer of petroleum jelly on my new ink. 

Gene told me to keep applying petroleum jelly on my tattoo for the next couple of days. Try to keep it dry, he said, it will heal eventually, he said, and it will be far more beautiful, he said. He never mentioned anything about the smell of a wet dog while the tattoo is healing, but I didn't mind that. I knew I was ready for my next tattoo. 

What of Lucky's tattoo? Remember his was the complexion of the shit of an old man with colon cancer? And he chose black ink for his first tattoo. I imagined I saw some of it, but I said it looked rather dashing on him anyway. It was dragon-ish-esque something.  


Tip #7. Take your hands off your dick, Dearly Beloved, for I am about to say something of paramount importance. Thank you. After care is boss. After care is boss. After care is boss. After care is boss. After care is boss. Thank you. 

I can write about the proper way of caring for your new ink in the future, but I am now tired and can use a little kinky myself. Anyway, I solemnly swear, My Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts, to follow through with Part 2 sometime soon. I'll see you then. 

Saturday, August 16, 2014

Pussy Kamagong is Dead





**I solemnly swear that I am not fucking with you, my Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts, when I confess to writing this in 2/17/2011. I am not making that up. I was scrolling through my vomitorium today, 06/03/2014, when I chanced upon this unsightly mess of boo-hoo bullshit. I remember moving on from Five-Years J when I wrote this, and I present it to you now, just now, for your consideration. 

I love you more than an orgasm, really I do, but haha, your consideration does not make a difference, my Dearly Beloved. It really doesn't. This happened during one of those moments we all had at one stupid point or another, when you are wobbling drunk with self pity, when you are at your ugliest vulnerable, when you... oh fuck, to hell with that. To begin with, I hardly knew 
the man I fell in love with. But in the end, I knew him well, far too well, for he was the spastic mongoloid motherfucker who broke my heart. 

"He was the spastic mongoloid motherfucker who broke my heart." That shit will look golden in my vomitorium. And that pretty much explains why The Award of Best Dramatic Whatever in a Blog Post Role goes to what squeamish blech you will be reading now. 










(BEGIN DRAMA. DARKEN ROOM. CUE VIOLINS. CUE SPOTLIGHT. FAINT SMELL OF FART.)


It used to be that I write nice. I used to write laughter, and I used to write inspiration, and I used to write agreements, and I used to write goodness. I used to write love, and I used to write sunshine, and I used to write the full moon in its most radiant glory. I used to write friendship, and I used to write laughter, and I used to write applause, and I used to write admiration. I used to write love, and I used to write those blessed ejaculations, and I used to write the saving grace that we all needed at the most opportune time. But that writing has weakened, and that has, by and by, succumbed to a stroke, and it has lost its inspiration with all those tears I shed.  

I am suddenly at a loss for words, my words, the kind of words that I collect and employ with such darling endearment. That, however, didn't stop me from going back to the one release that, like masturbation, addresses my very specific urges. 

I still write. But I suppose I write different now, and my words paint a flowerless picture. I now write cold fire, and my words burn with a frozen heat that is both lifeless and consuming. I now write toxicity, and every stroke of my pen is laced with enough poison to secretly kill a dear, dear friend. I now write tears, and my written ideas are barren of smiles and good hope. I now write betrayal, and I detail its consequences with terrifying enthusiasm. I now write that heavy feeling of a heart that needs to cry, but can't, because it is severely dehydrated. 

That is assuming that I can still write. Two of my last posts are re-posts. And now I give you this excuse for murder.  

I used to think that I have cried enough. But crying never tolerated this residual hurt, and so it grew tired of me and resigned from its office. I can't cry again if I tried, and believe me I did because I had plenty of amazing chances, but I was betrayed by that saving grace. I think I have moved on, but I haven't crawled enough, so I'm still a mere feet away from the hurt that I was trying to get away from.  

I was just making that up. You can say that I am fucking with you, my darling punk reader. I have indeed moved on, to a dead certainty, but something changed in me. I write, no, I stab that deathly white emptiness with an unbridled lack of passion. I cannot assume to call it spiritless, because it is now possessed of this daring influence that has yielded to such unpleasant persuasions. I choke that pen, that knife, with murderous intent, and my stabbing is both livid and dead at the same time. 

This kind of writing killed my Pussy Kamagong. 

2/17/2011


(Rapid burial in earth is recommended for this sort of self-defeating, unappreciated pile of drama. Fuck, I should be well beyond this shallow drivel at my age, really.)

Friday, March 28, 2014

That's What the Ex is For

**I'm talking about Five-Year J.





Tell me, Dearly Beloved, when was the last time you wanted to sharpen a knife so badly? You want to know what my ex, that well-meaning jerk, told me earlier? I'm talking about Five-Year J, my first love haha, who I've written about numerous times before. Anyway, we are friends now, and we were texting when, in an uncommon display of vulnerability, I opened up to him. I said that I wish I could have something (or someone, I meant someone) to last me forever. He said I have my tattoos.  

I was hoping he'd say something along the lines of "You just wait, you are the best thing ever, he will come soon, and he better hop to it on account of your awesome loving won't stay unloved for long." He said, and I quote, "You have your tattoos, hehehe." 

I'm hurting here, fool. I could use some cheering up. Oh fuck it, feel free to sound distracted while you're dispensing with the fake encouragement, yes I'm still talking to you J, but I need to hear it from you. We were together for five years. And I don't know what it is, but I have this feeling, this gnawing gut feeling that I can count on you for a valid reassurance, perhaps a validating reassurance that everything will be alright. 

Keep your panties on, love. I am not interested in you as a lover anymore. You were some of the best years of my life, but I have moved on. I have. I am rather pleased to the tits when you told me you got married to her. I imagine the doves shitting on your wedding cake, for it was a Real Ceremony with the bells and whistles and secret disputes over how ugly the other family is, and how both sides wish the baby gets most of its features from them because that is just the right and proper thing for the little bundle of shit. 


I wish you two the best and worst of the married life in equal, sustaining measures. You're a good guy, J, and I mean that. You deserve the kind of permanence and care and the social acceptability that only she and her child-bearing hips can promise. You're the kind of guy that deserves a real family, alright, a conventional family to come home to. You have gone a long way. Think about it. You're no longer going home to your gay lover and his cat. The cat died last December, not that it's relevant, and I wish you well in your married life. 

Yeah, please do not let that bitch mouth you into submission. You are the head of your acceptable family, J, and you keep it that way. When push comes to shove, and her nagging has risen to four frightening octaves, punch her on the boobs and cram that breast pump down her throat. That will shut her up, for sure. Show her who's boss. 

Anyway. 

I meant to say that I am happy for you, but I need you to tell me that everything's going to be alright. Need is a big word, and it is just the right size.I wanted you to tell me that there is some one out there for me, which is exactly what everybody has been telling me that it's rather ridiculous, but it means something coming from you. You know me. And by that, I mean you really know me. 

I am exceedingly orgasmic that we are friends again, but I kind of hate you and your bad jokes. However, I did not expect what you texted next. 


Andito naman ako eh. Magkaibigan naman tayo, diba? Alam ko naman mabait ka. Hindi kita kinalimutan. Ikaw lang ang kumalimot, tama ba?


"I'm here. We are friends, right? I know you're a good person. I will always remember you even if it seemed like you forgot about me." 


My two exes. The ex-lover and the ex-cat. And by ex-cat I mean he died in December 2013. I miss the cat more.


This is exactly the validating reassurance that only your ex can promise. This, here, is what the ex is for. I do not wish to enlarge on this no more, for my panties are moist again, and I need a quick change. I'm okay now. 

Friday, March 21, 2014

I'm Having a Half-Sleeve Done

**Of course, Sweet Nuts, I am referring to the kind of tattoo that wraps the length of skin below or above the elbow with punctured ink. 









She made my characters pop. Love it.
I'm having a half-sleeve done, and I will not write about it in length yet. However, allow me to share the details you could be interested in. My new artist is the awesome Rakel Natividad. She lives in Sta. Cruz, Laguna with her husband Markus, and she has been tattooing for about thirteen years now. My former artist was great, however he sort of turned into some degree of a mean prick during the last few months of our artist-client relationship. He kind of went off with a ten thousand peso deposit. 

It's a trust thing, you see. He has been my tattooist for a few years now, and if I can trust him enough to embellish my skin, then I sure as hell can trust him a full deposit. That asshole quit answering my phone calls a week after he did a four by three outline on my right arm. That is in inches. Four inches by three fucking inches. It was done in an hour. This outline was barely three thousand pesos. His shop closed September of last year and he is still not answering my phone calls on both of his numbers.



This outline of my wrap took about five hours to complete. 
For what it's worth, he was nice to me for the first few years. Gene was usually accommodating and brotherly and all that bromance-ly shit. He was nice to my friends and he was nice to my partners and he was wicked with the needles. I will probably charge it to experience, all ten thousand pesos of it, and I'll hope for the best as far as he goes. I hope he's  dead now or something like that.  

Anyway, Sta Cruz, Laguna is a good three hours away from where I live. I waited three months for the first of three sessions, and I sat in some bus for three hours just to have her masterful hands work their magic on my upper right sleeve. 

I need to share this, Sweet Nuts, for I think there is some freaky universal karma at work here. See, I wouldn't have met the awesome Rakel Natividad if I didn't leave Gene A-Hole. I hope the same idea translates with the failed two-year relationship I had with this noisy little stick of a square-faced boy. A better tattooist has taken me in as a client. In the same vein, I could be meeting a better partner sometime soon. I certainly hope so. That would be a bitchin' turn of events. 



Line work. Arm pit. Capital pain.
It will take Mam Rakel three sessions to finish my first half sleeve. Her craft is a steal at P1,500/hour, and she requires a P1,000 deposit for each session. This deposit is inclusive of that session's total number of hours. My first session was in March 9, 2014, and it was five hours of line work. The first two hours were spent on direct-to-skin drawing, and then I took a fifteen minute cigarette break. She tattooed the line-work for the next three hours. It was a lovely kind of pain if it wasn't such a terrible murder to that area above the armpits. I totally lost my bad-ass vibe the moment she got to lining that area. 

Her billable hours start once the needle sinks in. She did not charge me for the first two hours of direct-to-skin drawing. She's an angel with a gun, a tattoo gun, and her disposition is the apex of humility. I know. I don't really say exceedingly homosexual things like "apex of humility," but she really is, so I did and that's that. 



The Awesome Rakel Natividad is the one with the white gloves. This photo was taken from her Facebook Page.


Meanwhile, my next session will be on Monday, March 24th. I could be going alone, I said "could be" if You are reading this, but that's the least of my big girl problems now. 

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