**"Kkkrkkkrkkk... kohokkkkk... krkrkk... KOHK..." That there is the sound of me choking. Meanwhile...I am increasingly suspicious of the merits of couplehood. What the hell's the God Damned point when I know full well that it's not going to last anyway? I am rather weary of the "seize the moment" scheme of things. This excuse is suddenly an awful bother because my relationships will not last, never has, and never will.. Underscore never will; fuck forever. 
Five years behind the two of us meant nothing, really, because I was still on my own after all those years. Sure, I learned something the hard, choke-on-tears way. And I had no choice but to, dahh, charge it to experience. I suppose I could drown myself, if we're talking choices, but my constitution's seventy percent adamantium. The other twenty percent's glitter and the remaining ten percent's sperm. This is because I am a homo, and I am just saying. What's the point of couplehood when it's not going to last anyway? Relationships are sacred, and they require a dedicated amount of patience, devotion and a serious assful of emotional investment. It takes time and industry to stay together in spite of the many fuck ups that give your relationship a good cervical bruising. Staying together is an impressive undertaking. But is it really worth it when I know full well that it's not going to last anyway? Relationships fall apart, and what else do you have to show for it? A person can't have too much life lessons; he will vomit the excess out of his shitter. Most relationships are an unprofitable waste of time, diligence, and patience. I could be masturbating the whole time I was in a relationship and be thoroughly satisfied until I'm half blind. 
I've had my share of the beautiful privileges that come with an intimate couplehood. I've had my share of those hugs and those kisses. I know how it feels like, felt like, will feel like. And it is no different now from how it was with my crumbled five-year relationship. Tender is the touch of the one you love. I know how it feels like, felt like, will feel like. And it is no different now from how it was with my crumbled five-year relationship. Being introduced to his mother feels like rocks. I know how it feels like, felt like, will feel like. And it is no different now from how it was with my crumbled five-year relationship. Tempting, but I won't segue the fucking because that will ruin this tender momentum. So I won't. And I am terribly apologetic for that, my dear unwashed reader. And here's a confession. I should be crying now because I just realized the most depressing, rock-bottom truth about being gay. Our intimate relationships are not meant to last. I can be with a jowa1 for a year or two or five, but we will not last. Fuck forever. And then I will scamper from one temporary pairing to another. We will meet and then date and then become an item. And then we will fight, and then make up, and then I will doubt, and we will break up, and then we will break up for real. My trust in relationships will decay a little more with each failure. And it will be that same tiring cycle all my short life. I will be so consumed by my makeshift romances that I will forget to keep track of time. And then, suddenly, I will be far too old and withered to pursue another relationship. And then I will commit suicide by masturbation. It's a sad, lonely life. And I figured they call us that, Gay, for a reason. If we cannot have a truly happy life, then we should at least have a cheerful label. Gay. It's mostly a pity thing, I suppose. That being said, I have elected to give couplehood another chance. This is where I am right now, and I am growing rather fond. It is not necessarily sweeter, but it makes living a thoroughly energizing experience. Haha, I choke on a lot of things, and that includes the things I say. 1 jowa = bastardized term for lover
I skipped school for two weeks when I was in Grade Four. And that wasn't because I was bullied. Oh hell no. Far from it. And I'm not being defensive when I mentioned the bullying shit. It is because I was enrolled in this exclusive all-boys school then, and queer kids like myself are, and this is not a statistic, a curiosity in that knee length pool of testosterone. This was in the Eighties. Gay kids then were loud only amongst themselves. We were never harmed or sneered at because we took to ourselves and our homosexual tendencies weren't as loud or as aggressive or as flamboyant or as eager as the kind you see now. They had no real reason to threaten us because we had manners and bearing and all that exquisite crap. Sure, we were surrounded by these boys who were built for the bullying business, but I was never punched in the face. I was never kicked in the shins. I always had all of my lunch money to myself. And I never dreaded physical education because, aside from those awful PE shorts that concealed my skinny girly legs, it was physical only for the education and nothing else. Of course, all that catching and throwing and running around and talk of Dr James Naismith was just as useful to me as my male hormones. But I got home in the afternoon unharmed, and I'm satisfied and bruise-free while I'm enjoying shit cartoons with my orange zesto in one hand. 
My last name is pronounced as Tool-yaw. And you can well imagine how terribly impressionable young boys get; I was a shellfish all throughout elementary in consequence. I'm telling you, there's just no end to the name calling. It's "Hoy Tulya!" in the morning, where it's at its loudest summit. Hotdogs and star rice, as it turns out, were the breakfast of growing assholes with what can be champion potential. Meanwhile, the name calling simmers down towards the first Angelus, and then it gains momentum during science class whenever Mrs Whatsherface happens to mention that devilish shellfish. But I wasn't bothered enough to take those insults to heart. Those kids were corny bores. They were a gross sarcasm to the bullying business. They can never be offensive even if they were cross-eyed, worked in groups, and had terrible body odor. Were talking about kids who can only try so hard, but they will never be funny even if they had the advantage of a sfeech depect. These bullies were of very little stock, had zero quality, and were bankrupt of any creativity in the fine art of insults. Why, nobody even though of making faces while they're throwing their lines! There is no mimicry to their punchlines, their jokes were second hand, and they worked with the gullibility of a mob. A stupid, stupid mob. I was surrounded by these lousy, no-talent jerks. And I thanked God for this simple fortune. A gay person can only be insulted, or buckled, if and only if the punchline is so magnificent that it is beyond a ready comeback. These kids used the same material to its deathbed.
So, was I bullied as a gay kid? No. This is because I knew then, like I knew and validated now, that I am a bigger asshole than most straight guys my age. The only difference is that, this time, I have learned to give the dirty finger with my eyes crossed. Those kids my age were never uninteresting. They just don't get what it takes to tick me off. I skipped school for two weeks because I have taken this intense liking, this aggressive interest towards cutting classes. Life was sweet. I lived on nothing but doughnuts and coin-operated arcades back then. I should have been learning the intricate processes of photosynthesis and prepositions, but I was mastering the thirty lives trick in Super Contra instead. Of course, I was thoroughly reprimanded when they found me out; I still remember that scene in the principal's office. 
She had those motherly, old eyes about her, the sweet and smiling kind, and it is with those eyes that she asked me why I cut classes for two weeks. I said I was bullied too much. And I said it with a straight face. And I even said it softly, for theatric effect, with the voice of the oppressed, haha. I even named names. That episode gave me one of the most practical lessons that I use to this day: I learned that the most effective way to tell a lie is to do it quick and with conviction. Now I admit, I'm a jerk; I could barely look at those kids as they were hauled into the principal's office for an explanation. But I was relieved because I got to cut classes at other people's expense. I was a cautionary tale, but it was for the wrong, unsincere reasons. Somehow, when I look back at that delinquent fit, something tells me that I chose the right kind of waywardness. Because I am now a gay punk. 
I hate it when babaeng baklas try to outgay me.
There's this pekpek (cunt) who actually corrected my gay lingo with another mispronounced gay term I know I've never heard of before. I'm sure it sounded familiar, but it isn't spoken in that borderline nasal inflection that my cross dressing friends use. And, for all the right reasons, her correction sounded wrong.Miss U¹ was corrected with Tita E². They both refer to the same thing, which is to take a shit. You know how flexible swardspeak is. Anyway, she pronounced Tita E as "tee-tay," as in "bitay (execute)," as in Judge Max Asuncion: Hukom Bitay. It should sound like "Tee-ta Eee," stress on the second e so it sounds like the tagalog word for shit. She had a point, but the execution's self-defeating. It must be the grade-F, 50 peso callboy man juice she's swallowing those days."Ay mali yan. Miss U ba talaga tawag don? Hindi ba dapat Titaey?"
Sure, you can say it in any which way possible, but it should sound familiar to the homo that you're talking to. What's the point in an unintelligible secret code anyway? Swardspeak is flexible, and it was meant to confuse and amuse the straights. It is our pig latin, the gay morse code, and we are its only authors and editors. Your versions don't count. Read my cock sucking lips, bitch: They. Don't. Count.Just so you're aware, you grandisima puta, swardspeak is exceedingly variable. One word can take on a lot of different forms, and all these forms are acceptable. That's how darling that makeshift language is. That's what makes it stand out and infectious. But then, pronunciation is key. I admit, you don't need to be borderline nasal; but try to make it sound okay. No, the to-mah-tow and to-may-toe argument doesn't follow here. It is largely popular, the tongue of the Filipino faggot, but it's not an official language yet. So don't give us no excuses. We are the officiators of that darling vernacular. Shove that tomato up your cunt. You should quit your imagined authority. I don't even know your name.So let's call her Pining. And her last name's Garcia. Pining Garcia. At gusto kong suntukin and suso niya. Betch!
That sounds like a song, but it hadn't a hymn to it. I like how it sounds though; if you want to say that line "susuntukin ko suso mo eh," then say it like you mean it. It sounds funnier that way. Your eyes can use a little threat, but avoid saying it with an arched eyebrow. Her name may be fabricated, but her awful bastardizing was that of real life culture stealing bitches who try to claim our gayness with their own made-up perversions. I know it wouldn't work anyway; the gay mojo is cultured by a lifetime of discrimination, fear, and this futile hope to fit in.Gay people are funny, I think, because their sense of humor grew to become one of the finest defense mechanisms in their arsenal. Babaeng baklas (Uber Fag Hags) are merely trying to imitate this funny by hanging out with the real baklas too much to be able to absorb some of our developed humor. They do acquire some of our mojo, by and by, but their punchlines are still hollow because they are lacking the inspiration. But they don't mind.In their heads, they have evolved from loyal fag hags to makeshift Vice Gandas. Name one famous fag hag that is funny by default, who doesn't have any visible gay influences about her, and is armed with the perfect timing and the quickest wit for insults. Anyone in mind? Anyone yet? Exactly. So we'll have to borrow one of our own, just for reference. And his kind of humor is a favorite with these isolated babaeng baklas.
The makeshift Vice Ganda Fag Hags are just so oozing with the gay influence that they imagine they can scatter the faerie dust themselves. But their punchlines are hand me downs, their delivery spiritless and uninspired, and left to their own devices, they will come up with one borderline funny joke by the time the gay guy produced four. And he has another one coming up, just wait for it. And that's just the jokes and the insults; the facial expressions are left out to make it a fair competition. It will never work. They grew up straight, they never had our fears, and they have no need to develop any of our defense mechanisms. We don't hear none of it in their delivery. This is why us gay folk are way funnier than any babaeng bakla, however hard they try. This is why we were able to improvise a darling slang that is increasingly everybody's favorite. And this is why I don't take too kindly to girls correcting my gay lingo. I find that absurd. It's like teaching an American how to speak with an American Accent. Sure, I'm pissed. I mean, it makes us proud to hear you ladies speak that verbal free-for-all in the elevator, or during those cigarette breaks, or when you're cruising with us. We have become so national, and we love it. But you will do good to never edit us. Because the next time that she does, I swear to God, talagang susuntukin ko siya sa suso. 
¹Miss U refers to the act of taking a shit. The reference is taken from the title holder's sitting on that throne.
²Tita E is the gross version. The second syllable Ta is truncated with the third syllable E. Exactly.
Update: I am now reminded of what one darling punk, Pat, mentioned in his Hate List. Allow me to quote this line. You may or may not agree, but I find this absolutely golden to a degree.
14. Popular expression-mongers. Ikaw na! ‘teh! which I find funny back when the gays had exclusive rights to speak it. Straight girls ruined ‘teh.
I was watering my plants, potted plants -- no metaphor there, and there was this group of kids playing Bring Me. Now, the purpose of that game, like most other games, is to win, and the first kid to deliver the officiating young bastard's request wins. They call him Emcee in those darling Jollibee kiddie parties. Bring me a wallet, bring me a one peso coin, bring me a venereal disease until she ran out of senseless things to request.I was within earshot of these little motherfuckers, and she was fresh out of ideas. You can hear it in that suspended "Bring meeeeee...eee...eee... ano pa gusto niyo?" ("Bring meeeeee...eee...eee... what else do you want?") One of her friends, a little devil boy of around six, loudly whispered in her ear "a bakla (a faggot)."It would otherwise have been funny if these kids were of legal age. Hell, kinky even, but no. I would have erupted in this fluent litany of foulmouthing if this little sonofabitch was 16. But he was around six, and I would not dare. That would have been immature. So I took out my hymn book of damaging prayers and wished he grow up gay. And he will be ugly, fat, and dumb, and he will be cocksucking on the providence of his parents until he's forty. Amen.That being said, let's all define the word Fag Hag
They're basically these chicks who love the gays so much that the only thing that they don't have in common is a firstborn. Some of the most popular haggots are Marie Antoinette, Chelsea Handler, Grace Adler, Kris Aquino. And the reason why I'm saying this, in the dullest, uncharacteristic manner is because this is the best segue to the following post endorsements. Click! 
**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.
I was having a cigarette this one afternoon. And there was this little neighborhood kid, her face in between our iron fence bars. She's this girl around five, perhaps, who was trying to strike a conversation in the way most daring, inquisitive kids her age are inclined to. She was like, "Kuya, sawayin mo nga itong si, si, si boy (and then she covered what was a forgetful smile with her left hand) kasi akyat siya ng akyat dito oh! (Hi, can you tell this little boy to stop climbing your gates please?)" She was pointing at our green iron fence which was about seven foot high. And then I told her, " Huwag kayong umakyat diyan, mataas yan, baka mahulog kayo (Don't climb up that gate, that's too high for you kids!)" in a calm voice that's appropriate for reprimanding kids her age. And then the boy, her daredevil playmate, joined in on the conversation with a very intelligent observation. "Bakla! (Faggot!)," the little sonofabitch said in a half-scream that would drive closet queens my age crazy with helplessness. I knew better, so I kept smoking. At that very moment, the little girl shouted in protest, "Hoy! Hindi siya bakla! (Hey! He isn't a faggot!)" towards her daredevil playmate who was already a good distance away at this point. She then turned to me and continued with her unbroken attempt at small talk. She said, "Hindi ka naman bakla, diba? (You aren't queer, right?)" while moving her hands up and down the iron fence flanking her cheeks. I smiled at her and said, "Huwag mo paglaruan yang gate, marumi yan. (Stop doing that, those gates are dirty.)" Unfazed, she responded with a playful "Di naman ako umaakyat sa gate eh! (I'm not climbing up your gates!)" And then she looked at her hands and wiped them briskly on her shirt. "Ay oo nga, marumi nga! (You're right, it is dirty!)" I finished my cigarette, went inside, and thought to myself. That little kid is going to be a fine fag hag someday. Her daredevil playmate, on the other hand, will be the agony of any given closet queen.
Now here's a really related post
Little Girl, What Makes You So Nice?
**Shit, and the poor little thing has got Wifi, too!
I think their ultimate heartthrob is well endowed. With this boner that ultimately throbs itself into a fierce erection. That stands at attention towards the masculine delectability of another potential heartthrob. Who may or may not mind the unexpected attention. Because they've been masturbating a lot in the closet. And they need some action, Now!, because their perspiration smells like mothballs. But I could be wrong. Wait until I upgrade my gaydar. And I'll even name names. Or at least I could give them some lame pseudonyms like "The Ultimate!" Ultimate Power Bottom, that is. At least there's still something ultimate about them.
And there you go.
**The trouble with being kinky is when you've arrived at the twilight of your twenties.
I'm a sneeze away from my thirties, and I fucking hate that. I celebrated my last year in my twenties last month, and I made sure to invite a lot of people in their early twenties just to make me forget. There were three people in their thirties in the guest list. Just three because I don't want to start hanging out with people my technical age yet. Maybe I wanted to get the feel of that age group; they will be my proper crowd in another year, and I might as well start practicing now.
I celebrated my 29th birthday last month, and its going to be another eleven months before I'm no longer spunky. I really shouldn't be counting because I've eleven months left to do the kind of things that people in their twenties can get away with. I've another eleven months to maintain the reckless alcoholic that is me during the weekends. I can still be promiscuous and feel appropriate on account of you can't be a horny fag when you're in your thirties because you will be scary. I've another eleven months to revel in form-fitting jeans and my ladies-medium shirts because that same set of clothes are most inappropriate for people in their thirties. It's so hard to have standards; you're midlife crisis gets the worst of it.
People my age are getting married and are beginning to reproduce. It's either that or they're sending their eldest to kindergarten while they're on their second attempts at their youngest. If this, to me, sounds like a news report, then it probably is, because I've been so distracted all these years by the finer gayer things in life to take notice. I was cruising for gay sex whereas they were seriously contemplating an engagement ring. I was getting a tattoo whereas they were getting married. I was faking domestic bliss with my lover whereas they're moving in and starting an actual family. All propped out with the ring and kids sharing their last names. I'm a year away from my thirties, and I look 23 when stressed out, and I'm just beginning to pay attention to what trivial accomplishments I've been mindlessly piling up.
Thankfully, I'm not balding. That will be the death of me.
**I wouldn't write this now if it weren't for you, Sis. No really, I'm referring to an off line sibling, and I'm not being chummy with the object of this post.
We should call it Silly-pines because everything here's getting increasingly ridiculous. They have thieving fools in the governance, and they get away with buttfucking us tax payers off of our hard earned cash. We have imbecile recording artists reviving random songs taken from some karaoke songbook and compiling them in some 450-peso brainshit album. We have Kris Aquino and Boy Abunda. And we have Bebe Gandanghari.
He used to be the dashing Rustom Padilla once upon a time, but the fagged out Bebe elected to kill that action star to give way to some aging drag queen that's as heavy on the act as he is on the blush on. That fag's mainly the point of this post, and I just wanted to pitch in the "Silly-pines" crap because I thought it sounded cute. But when you think about it, there is something agreeable with us being the "pearl of the orient." I mean, how fittingly appropriate for us to be compared to something that's created out of irritation. Which is all the more irritable now because of the unnecessary and unrelenting publicity on yet another faggot.
So he looks smashing enough for both genders, but that's immaterial. Irrelevant, even, because what makes this borderline indigestible display of new found gayness is that he seems to be enjoying it too much. Which is okay and all, but he used to be The dashing Rustom Padilla. I'm still looking for some sort of ceremonial gesture that'll mark his transition for what its worth: a burning of the closet mayhaps, or a long bath maybe to rid himself of the smell of mothballs and cramped space, or he can choose to burn Rustom Padilla "in effigy." Just give us something, anything to celebrate this moment, because that very fake moment in the Big Brother house don't count for shit; we were well aware you're a nominee for eviction. And you're just appealing to sympathy.
My problem with that is I'm not seeing none of it. I mean, what newly out gay guy is THAT flamboyant all of a sudden? My issue with Bebe is that I still can't get over his imaginary transition from Rustom to Bebe. If there was any to begin with. All I remember was that he came out in the Big Brother's closet, and he's suddenly this irritable drag act in the span of a year.
What's the rush? I mean, is he catching up for lost time? Because if he is, then Eric Quizon's got a lot of work to do.
Related Post:
Rustom is My New Darna
Jesus, I don't deserve this kind of distraction; the guy's not even my type. I have to cut the act now; it's been a week already, and I think I've apologized enough. All this unnecessary attention for a new year's resolution? I don't see anything wrong about "showing a lot of motive this year around," but there are, well, better smelling men out there. What I'm saying is that the ends don't really justify the means. Not usually. I'm not up for a scandal. Or for a sexual experience that will remain available for regretful recall.
All the elevators in the office are equipped with wall-to-wall mirrors good enough for four people standing side to side. And there's this fag who can't seem to get enough reflective space with which to admire his dry hair, big pores, and oily skin. It's always the same ritual with him every unfortunate chance I get to share the elevator with this vain toad. What makes this ugly fool stick to memory is that not only does he compete for the mirror space, but he doesn't stop pimping himself up until everybody else has quit doing their business three minutes ago. Quit hogging the mirror space. Your shallow sense of accomplishment can't get any more shameful than that. There's not much to look at to begin with.
I saw this dude one time, and he's wearing the fiercest skinny jeans and this white coat coupled with the craziest tote bag to complete the metrosexual charade. He walks with this sashay that's totally characteristic of the confused urban male. I'm telling you, this guy's got taste.And he's wearing a goatee, too. That's like the ultimate in closet queen fashion.
**It's nice to have pretty friends.
I have this close acquaintance with a 14-year old dude who has the makings of a fabulous beauty queen. He prefers to be called Luisa, but his birth certificate refers to him as Luigi. He's taking female hormone pills this early on because apparently, you can never be too young to be beautiful. It's a fact best proven by his first accomplishment in his first beauty contest; he outranked fifteen veteran pageant contestants in a 25-strong beauty contest that had boobed transsexuals in the roster.
Its fucking outrageous, I tell you, unfair even that some bucky lastards get to have the elusive Gorgeous Gene. They're guaranteed a lifetime of worship, catcalls, beauty contest titles, and unsolicited free sex. And it gets no better than that, because there goes all the golden opportunities available to us gayfolk. In the third world, at least. Them in the unfashionable end of this spectrum live life anonymously as statistics in the all too de rigueur payroll. Because its the only way they can get laid.
I'm comfortably lodged in the precise middle of this spectrum where the margin of conceit is at it's most critical. See, I'm neither prettier or uglier than the next screaming fag out there, and that leaves very little room for the life threatening "I am beautiful, hear me roar" tantra. I'm afraid it's a comfort zone that's closest to home, and I'm not complaining or none. It's the inner Pageant Candidate in me that's crying foul.
**This is a hitherto unpublished post, and the title ought to clue you in on that one detail. I have this word file in the old computer where I write at random when unrestrained. We are still together though. What you're about to read hasn't seen the light of a real confession, and I'm still hoping to conceal in real life what cruel infidelity I'm about to dispose of.
So here's what's been happening to me as of the late: I'm in a relationship right now. But my friends don't like him, they make it real clear that they don't like him, they raised hell just to make their point, and my friends now hate me for sticking with the guy.
He doesn't know it, but I already cheated on him twice with two of his friends.
I'm trying to sort things out, and I talked to him about calling it quits. I must have asked the wrong question, but it turns out we're still together. See, I'm knee deep in all this, but I'm still grateful that my offline friends have forgiven me for not being so visible these past few weekends.
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**Personally, this decision is like faking an orgasm. And that is just so biologically impossible or downright pointless for somebody with a penis.
Would you rather be looking for the man of your dreams or your G-spot?
I was buying something from the local sari sari store this one night, and I was observing my personal policy of being totally ignorant of the people around me. That's me being so totally beyond myself with all this coolness. And then I heard this little pipsqueaking inquiry coming out of nowhere, as abrupt as it was uninvited. "Hoy, bakla ka ba?" It registered from this little girl of no more than four years. She had pigtails on, and she was wearing this shirt two sizes larger. I told her "Oo, bakit?" in the most matter-of-fact manner possible for speaking with somebody as young as she is. She then surprised me a sweet sweet smile. This is the smile most parents are probably looking forward to after a day's work, the kind of smile which made kids so delightfully endearing despite their tendency to become rudely inquisitive. This is the smile which warms and cheers and causes you to smile in return. I never expected that, and what she said with that smile just arrested my righteous indignation however inappropriate.She smiled and she said, "Wala lang."Honestly, that little angel's going to be some lucky gay guy's loyal fag hag in the future.
I have this crush (yeah, kadiri noh?) on a straight guy five years younger than myself. That's the bad thing. The good thing is that I would love to go out with him if he was 25, and what makes it good is that it's impossible. See, there is just no way that a 25 year old gay guy can be as fantastic as the sweet soul and the alcoholic tolerance of that kid. I mean, no other 25 year old gay guy can be as fantastic as the sweet soul and the alcoholic tolerance of that kid. What makes it better is that I'm not getting into anything just yet. Call me a picky noseblot, but I'm allowing myself the privilege of getting to choose who I'm going out with. Wouldn't you? It appears that I'm dwelling on the impossible. For some strange reason, this shares the same kind warmth as a gay guy masturbating to straight porn.Thinking of these things makes me stop to tell myself, "Momel, sometimes you're just so baboy talaga."
