Breastfeeding in Cabs, Part Three -- How Would You Faggots Like It?

**And so, ladies and gentlemen, the homo is inflamed.
**My last post was about vaginas, so this post makes sense.

My mouth started watering when I heard those sucking sounds from that little breastfeeding shit a foot away from me in that FX (poor man's cab). And that bothered me, because fags like me don't get worked up over such trivial nonsense like, of all things, sucking sounds. Sucking sounds are me working my delightful black magic. Tch...Tch...Tch...Tch... I'm used to it, but I subscribe to an entirely different octave of sucking sounds. Sure, cocksu... fellatio maybe in the same range to the untrained ear; one almost cannot distinguish the sounds made by sucking on a nipple from the sounds made by sucking on a cock, but if you must listen closely (haha)...

I used the phrase "sucking sounds' four times in that preceding paragraph.


But, in spite of that, I'm remaining confident with my sexual preference, my deviation so to speak, and all its unearthly however worldly abominations notwithstanding. Because I'm gayer than you.

(Bitchfit in three... two... one...)

Because I'm gayer than you, waay gayer than you and that effeminate shit with those skinny jeans and pointy white leather shoes that you refer to as your "special friend." I'm soo gayer than you two, and your Starbucks eyeball, and the ladies medium shirt that you wear with military discipline, and that funny Bench Fix crew cut, and that secret proficiency in Swardspeak that you practice with your fag hags, one of which poses as your girlfriend, if I might add, and that gym membership too. I'm gayer than all that, combined, and then still have enough homo in me to import to Iran or somewhere.

Throw in your cock-smelling breath while you're at it, and I'm STILL the gay cup that overfloweth.

(End of bitchfit)


So you'd understand how bothered I got when my mouth started watering in response to all that breastfeeding. In a motherfucking cab. It doesn't really matter where it happened. But what gets my panties in a bunch was when I was suddenly, and for no real reason, worked up over the insane sucking sound that kid made to the comfort of her very liver. It suckled, and it suckled, and it suckled, and it was rhythmic, and wet, and it seemed to go on forever.

It drove me nuts, I'm telling you, until I couldn't take none of all this suddenly gruesome pressure. So I took out my dark blue work jacket, covered my head in it as if I'm trying to sleep, and then swallowed my excess saliva. All of it.

And there were lots of it, I could have drowned in my own throat. And nobody would have noticed because I was faking sleep.

No, I didn't get an erection, oh Thank You Lord, but I was all too freaking disoriented all the same. I was thinking about it all the way home, too. Maybe I was a closet-king all along, but I dismissed that nonsense in a heartbeat the moment I got home to my fucking live-in lover J.

Close Encounters With the Vagina-ed Type

**I went through almost half a pack of Marlboro Lights as I was writing this awful episode. It turned out that writing, alone, didn't cut it; I had to do something about the excess mental stress that this incident damned me with. It was almost ten cigarette sticks on one recollection alone; imagine how utterly reduced I got towards the end of this event.

The closest encounter I've had with a vagina, in all my gay thirty years, was with that of a transgendered man. It happened in the early hours of last Sunday, October 17, and it will continue happenng in my head for the rest of my years. I was beyond shocked; I was haunted. And with the aggravation that that grim image gave me as I walked home that morning, I swear I looked like this guy.


Anyway, here's what happened.

It was about two in the morning, and there were three of us homos parked in front of my good friend O's sari sari store. We then heard the subdued roaring of a motorcycle engine going out, and somebody saying "Ano nah!" in that distinct faggy inflection you can only hear in the Philippines. It was O's lovely, lovely friend S, and he had a pambahay shirt on these very short cotton shorts.

I never met him before, but he's beautiful.

His name was S, like the chocolate, and he looked like a beautiful 24 year old call center agent. He was really 36, but his shimmering skin, smiling features, and luscious long locks postponed his aging process by a full decade and then some. He was what is known in the local gay vernacular as a Japanera, or a Timer. A Japanera, or a Timer, is somebody who's made several business trips to Japan, usually for years on end, as an entertainer. And he was a shining success as a Japanera, so it goes well without saying that his youth, and his breasts, and his hips are enormously well-invested. He is almost a complete feminine achievement, and he can deceive to his girly heart's content if only he talked less. But he was a charming conversationalist, polite and acknowledging, and he was the sweetest artificial daisy there was.

It turned out that S had more to him than meets the deceived eye, and it was all revealed in the next hour of lively and loaded gay reminiscing until S had to leave. At that point, my friend O, he owns the sari sari store, called me, and he was like, "Momel halika, tingnan mo ung pechay ni S. (Momel come here, look at S' vagina)." Of course I was curious, so I took a peep at his surgically reassigned vagina.

Madre de dios.

Here's what the gracious S did to accommodate his captive, and increasingly stressed, audience. Remember he was wearing those loose cotton pekpek shorts? The kind that Richard Simmons would wear in his work out videos? And he was sitting on the driver's seat of this motorcycle; imagine the angle. From that position, S spread his legs apart, and then he lifted his left knee. He pulled the inner left hem of his shorts towards his right, and there it was. S' surgically re-assigned vagina.

Hijo de puta.

It was dark. It was the beef tapa that was marinated in soy sauce to make bistek with. Only it was diagonal, and it had, for something so wrong, hair in the right places. Of course, this is assuming that hair grew out of those places; my selective memory of straight porn can only be so faint. S' surgically reassigned vagina was in that same spot where the trunk of his cock used to be. The vulva (slit) started about five inches below his belly button, it was about four inches long, and it terminated somewhere in that area where his testicles used to be. It was lumpy, and it was dark, and he had it done in Thailand where SRS (sexual reassignment surgery) was dirt cheap. That probably explains that small tattoo next to his singit, and it said "Made in Thailand. For Export Only."

I kid. There were no tattoos.

I heard S say "Oo, may mani yan," as he played with his man made labia. I didn't care to investigate if that was meant to be joke. I was getting an operation myself -- I was getting an indelible memory tattooed in my head.



I didn't want to touch it, OH HELL NO, because I wouldn't know what will happen to me the moment I laid a finger on somebody's vagina. Even if that somebody was a man. And even then, if I touched it, I will smell my fingers, by and by. Its dreadful how smells amplify the memory of something already that eerie. So I satisfied myself with flinching in silence and had a cigarette the moment S drove away in his motorcycle.

It was all visual, but for some odd reason, the experience left a bad taste in my mouth.

And in spite of what happened, I am still grounded on this blind faith towards a higher, supreme grace, an absentee divinity, a marvelous force that gives each one of us the most needed saving coincidence. I remember looking at S' reconstruction, and thankfully, my mouth didn't water like it did on the Breastfeeding in Cabs episode. That will be my tragic unmaking, and I will not hear the end of it.

My Next Post Will be About Vaginas. Meanwhile, Here's One of My Blogging Secrets --- Notepad¹

**If you're using Windows, then do Start > Programs > Accessories > Notepad. There are times when it doubles as a magnifying glass of sorts. And I'm swearing by the way it illuminates your posts when I'm reading them.

Here's what I always do when reading your posts -- I copy-paste your recent entry into an open Notepad, and then I read it from there. It's because I can read it from there without the distracting necromancy that is HTML. The thought is naked, the composition is bare, it's just me and your words in their final arrangement. Reading it in this white blank space, and in that no-nonsense Arial font (size 11, regular), allows me to digest the fiber of your thoughts presented in that signature way that only you, the writer, can arrange them. I'm getting closer to your style of writing this way, not to plagiarize, but to familiarize, and I can arrive at a more, shall we say, human response.






Unless of course I just don't get the shit that you wrote. In which case I do The Quick Brown Fox Jumped Over the Crazy Poodle several times until I'm satisfied. And then I'll go back to what you blogged about, and then be an awful jerk about it just because.



This is why most of my comments are closer to home. I don't want to look and sound generic.

¹Awful. It's been about a week since my last post. Jesus H. Christ, talk about lazy! Sorry about that, boys and girls.

Blog Soup #10: The Taxi Driver and Freddie Aguilar, Khie-Khie Pai, and Thank You Goes a Long Way!

The first thing I asked that taxi driver was if he had change for five hundred pesos. He said he did. And then he paused, look at my face, and said "Kamukha mo si Freddie Aguilar." (You look like Freddie Aguilar.)


I was screaming in my head, Ibaba mo ko! Ibaba mo ko! Freddie Aguilar ka pa, syet!!! But I didn't, because I was ten minutes away from getting late. And besides, that made for a validation. See, I sometimes call myself Freddie Anne Curtis Aguilar Barretto for kicks, and so that comment really didn't offend. And it was a funny story, too, so I really don't mind. There's nothing painful about it, Kuya Eddie, and I even gave that driver seventy pesos for a sixty peso drive.

I was doing research for a set of Trivia Questions¹ when I discovered this most curious, unheard of puppet in that all-time childhood favorite Batibot. Her name's Khie-khie Pay, and here's her Wikipedia Entry

Khie-Khie Pai, a Bruha orWitch (Reseth Neniel) who, flies at midnight with her broomstick. She is fond of doing VOODOO, playing with her favorite voodoo doll named JC her crush known as Bhu-bhu Yhug.

Khie-Khie Pay. That would have been my drag queen alter ego, and I can either be Khie-Khie or Khie Pay, and I'll start using it now because it sounds fantastic either way. That's too good a name, it's more than a steal, it's a snatch. Also, that can be my American Name, on the phone, while I'm at that kinky night job. I can hear it now -- "Hi this is Khie-Khie, how can I help you today? Whaddaya mean where am I located? I'm the happiest place on earth."

The Afternoon With Jessica Zafra post was responsible for two days of unprecedented page loads. Thanks to Madame Zafra for allowing the shameless self promotion in her comments, and to Glentot for the link, to those wonderful people in my Facebook network who took the time to humor that shout out, and to those amazing bloggers in my roll.



You should know my panties are wet with tears right about now. But seriously, thanks and cheers you all!

¹I love those snippets of unneccessary information that you don't really need, but you like knowing just the same because they are reminiscent. What was the name of She-Ra's horse? Of He-Man's tiger? Of that forgetful fortune teller in Batibot? Which Bioman died? You know the drill, and yes, this is a project I'm working on.

An Afternoon With Jessica Zafra

**She held this writing contest in her blog and she invited five of her favorite entries to cocktails. I was one of those lucky fan girls, and this is what happened that afternoon.

**Now, just so you know, this is a long post. I could have divided it into several posts for economy, but that senseless publication will be the death of me. Leaving people hanging out there almost got me punched once. I was in high school then and...

The People In That Table
The date was set to begin at four pm. I was unfashionably late by around thirty minutes, not because I wanted to, but because Salcedo Village was too big, and the taxi driver was too stubborn to stop and ask for directions.

There were five people in that table, and four of them had glasses. That includes Ms. J-Zaf. And aside from my person, there were three other fan girls in that table. QSDN works in a bank. Cochise_miz is working for one of the finest call centers around and has been at it for six years now. Sad_ism has lived in Singapore for two years now and mentioned "yogurt business" several times that afternoon. I remember their online handles more than their offline names. No, wait, the truth is I forgot their real names and left it at that.

The place was cute, and I'll leave it at that.

Clockwise from left: Ms Jessica Zafra, Cochise_Miz, Sad_Ism, The Gay Jerk Who Can't Do Captions, and QSDN.

Now I thought the most intense conversation I had over alcohol was with this tattooed frat guy. We talked about withdrawn Christianism, the occult, the end of the world in 2012, leftists, and Anton Szandor La Vey¹. But all that was weather talk and a flaccid penis compared to the Peter North-ish discussion which took place with this incredible group of fan girls. And that's because of the honest truth that they all spoke in uninterrupted English.

Seriously, there wasn't enough English in the world to accomodate that table! They asked questions in English, answered questions in English, joked in English, and ate their liver pate in English. The way they dispensed English on that table was an extravagance of Imeldific proportions. It was that serious, I tell you. I mean, who uses the word "dilapidated?" In a social situation? Offline? In the third world? In the Philippines, of all third worlds! But then, we do have The Mistress of the Universe in our humble quarry. We needed to rise to the occasion, so I reckon there's nothing surprising about all that effort. On the other hand, I didn't even try to measure to their generous English excesses. I work in a call center, and I speak in English if and only if I have a headset on. I don't talk it outside my billable hours. So I talked homo instead.

What We Talked About
We talked about real hot rugby players slash electricians, walks on cemeteries, Bembol Roco in Maynila sa Kuko Ng Liwanag, sports (yes, sports, but it was real brief), our online handles, vaginismus and John Lloyd Cruz, Hayden Kho and who was the worst partner he had in those videos, David Celdran and one of the Pangilinans, trains, India, the Chinese, taxi drivers and their crazy monologues, saying "Brush" instead of "Cheese" when having your picture taken, baby powder on your husband's eggs, and Twisted 9. Twisted 9 will be red, by the way. No metaphors there; it will be red.

Yes, it was a mouthful of talk, but there were still the expected pockets of awkward silence. Those were, of course, properly addressed. She had us prepare five questions each. And there's a snap snap snapping loud fag in the ranks. Plus, there's nothing like having a common denominator, like Jessica Zafra, to keep the group interested. But there were still the expected pockets of awkward silence, and we can't help it. Because some of those moments represented awe.

Would you look at that, I can do cheesy!

And I must admit that I was almost out of talk during the last hour, but that wasn't because I've ran out of things to say. It's just that the wine got to me.

The Food
The wine got to me. My constitution's built to withstand the local P150 a liter brandy. Anything in the higher end gets to me, and that Kier² (sounded like it) got to me. We also had these cute gay biscuits which were puffy and sweet and of varying pastel colors. It was what that faggot John Lapuz would be in his next life. The liver pate was an anemic Reno Liver Spread. And it was fantastic, and it had leaves and a grape for presentation. And there was another bowl of bread, for the pate, and it was splendid in its quiet interior design.

Addressing J-Zaf³
Now a gay guy, particularly a loud and out-there gay guy like the one "standing in front of you," has a ready term of reference to address the one they're speaking with. For women, it's usually any of the following: "ateh, teh, ganda, mader, mammee." A man is "kuya, daddy;" the fresher ones go by "baby;" the fresher strangers are "Jason, Michael, Eric, John, Iking" and so on until we get the name right, and then we are rewarded with an acknowledgment. That invariably never happens, but we keep at it because it's fun. An acquaintance, especially when I forgot their name, is "fren." The same term of reference is used on real friends. The only difference is that it is pronounced with a distinct sweetness on the inflection, "fre-een," and, by then, it is endearment.

I addressed Ms. Zafra as "Madame" all throughout that afternoon. If you should remember, they all spoke English while I spoke Homo. I was all smiles and "Hello Madame!" when I got there. And I went like "Thank you Madame!" when she gave me this autographed book (which I wasn't expecting, by the way). And then I was "Kakaloka naman yan Madame!" when inspecting her curious Castle Ring. Nobody in that table seemed to address that reference, and I kept at it, and I was pleased.

And I was all the more pleased because I'm finally sitting with the one female I've been sincerely trying to impersonate all these years. You can see I'm too pleased. I smile a lot in person, but when I'm in the Awful Presence of the Mistress of the Universe, I let it all out. Teeth, gums -- all out! They were so out there that I swore I heard the seams of my mouth rrripp. Now if this was a painting, it will be oil on forehead. And T-zone. And cheeks. And I'd like to thank my sponsor, Petron Unleaded, for the retouch.

The Mistress of the Universe
The Mistress of the Universe was wearing this dress that's got this shade of violet to it. She also had this red scarf wrapped around her neck, a pair of brown fabric earrings, and I remember this gold-plated ring with this miniature castle on it. Castle. Ring. Her hair was thick, wavy and framed her face because it fell from both sides of her face, and it made the signature rimmed glasses all the more pronounced. And before I forget, she was wearing this crazy ring with a castle on it.

The Mistress of the Universe was subect to fits of sneezing that day because she was recovering from a cold spell. But that didn't stop her from surprising those four fan girls that was her captive audience that afternoon.

And we were!

Contrary to what I was accustomed to, there wasn't a trace of venom about her person! Everything about her was a pleasant surprise, most especially if you've been following her near-toxic material with eagerness. No, she wasn't wicked. She was armed with the best manners, a ready smile, and a firm handshake. No, she wasn't snarky. She spoke in this almost baritone that hummed of energy. There's nothing condescending about the way she talked; there is this spirited intonation which was common to both singers and storytellers alike. No, she wasn't a bitch. She was a generous and accomodating host, and she gave everybody books, autographed books at that. And, to top it all off, she also shared a writing tip.

She said that one should have a pet subject, something that only he can write about because he knows it like the back of his hand, and he will never run out of passion and material.

The passion and material bit was me improvising; she never said that because that kind of thing goes well without saying anyway.

Lessons. Yes, Lessons.
Meeting one of the greatest people in your estimation is the reality check I needed as a blogger. I've been blogging for some time, and I've this following, one fan, and I think I've got it made when I started earning from it. "Hell yeah" is the word until I'm in the same table as The One Female I've Been Sincerely Trying to Impersonate all these years. She's got several Palancas, books with an insane readership, real influence, and a newspaper column; I've got this blog with a Page Rank of 2. I can't be any more humbled than after spending an afternoon with what can be one of my greatest influences. You can't be any more grounded than that. Otherwise, you are coffee beans.

Grounded. Coffee beans. Get it? Hello?

Being a gay jerk is my pet subject, and I was never clear on that until she said it. I thought I was just being a dick all along.

And I'm beginning to love the closet-nerds all the more this time around.

¹Anton Szandor LaVey was the American founder and High Priest of the Church of Satan as well as the author of The Satanic Bible.
²The drink is actually called Kir. It's white wine with creme de cassis.
³Got this from Glentot of wickedmouth.com