Would You Delete a Dead Friend From Your Friendster List?

**Cannibalized¹ and amended, all for your reading pleasure. Or displeasure. I've been writing about vaginas and breastfeeding recently, and I was supposed to follow suit with a helpful tip on where to get your offline porn. But it will be Halloween in a few days, so I gathered this will be better received.


The last time I saw him was in Teriyaki Boy in the Mega Strip. We were four tables away, and I was just so involved with my lunch that I elected to stay put and just greet him later. I was too hungry to be sociable, then, and I'd far rather attend to my rice than to get up and exchange pleasantries. I remember them calling the waiter, so they probably haven't ordered yet. I was thinking that I'll probably approach them later, after I've had lunch. But this heavy lunch was followed immediately by a couple of cigarettes, and since the air was so perfect outside, we decided to freshen out and smoke for another thirty minutes.

I never got to approach him. But then, I reckoned I'd just "make kuwento" the next time I saw him. Or maybe I'd just send him a quick message in Friendster and try to catch up on things. Not entirely personal, and not very warm; I am a jerk at the very least, but at least it goes to show that I'm trying to keep in touch.

That message never happened. I was just so busy with my offline life that signing in to any of my online activities became the least of my concerns. Turns out that I'll have no chance to say hello at all. It was a few weeks since I last saw him that I learned of his death in a car accident. He didn't die from the accident itself, but he died from the internal injuries brought about by this terrible collision.

I didn't say hello when I had the chance. And, like the irresponsible friend that I am, I never went to his funeral at all. Maybe because I didn't know what to make of this situation which I never thought possible. But for the most part, I dreaded the thought of seeing any of my friends in a coffin.Fast forward to almost five years today, and he's still in my Friendster list. And, like the recovering social networking junkie that I am, I'm still logging in to it from time to time. But I guess there's still no point in sending him that message. I don't think they have Friendster from where he is right now.

¹This is a repost from July of 2007.

You Gave Me Flowers This Day Last Year

And you shouldn't have. I remember they were white, and they smelled of the cologne you wear after gym. We went out on two dates after that, and we shouldn't have. I also remember how you held my hand like you were stealing a kiss. This was before the flowers. We were drinking then, and it was after the first bottle of brandy that you asked me if I was seeing someone, and I said I'm no longer interested in that shit because that was true. And you gripped my left hand with your right, ever so quickly, like you were stealing a kiss. And you shouldn't have. This was a year ago, too, before the flowers, and you shouldn't have.

We progressed to calling each other the kind of names shared by drunk texters, and we shouldn't have because I started waiting for your texts. I knew then that something's not right. You don't usually text, though, you call, and I looked forward to those too with a smile in my heart. I shouldn't have. I was confident that I've gotten over wasteful shit like what we were going through then. You shouldn't have given me flowers. You shouldn't have encouraged me.


You shouldn't have. Now I'm a mess. I'm a haggard mess because I'm trying to impress some guy in prison. This isn't easy, you see. There is no way in hell that three visits in a work week is healthy. They aren't. It's not easy to be all friendly and shit towards turd figures of authority who call you names and ask a lot of bullshit and call you sexy while they're moving their hands up and down your waist and ass. It's not easy to be all smiles and cheer because I just got home from a nine hour shift. It's not easy to spend less on myself because I wanted to spend more on his food and his toiletries and his groceries. I had no fucking idea that they charge fifty pesos per visit. Hell yes.

I had no idea that I'll be going all out for someone now this time last year. What makes it worse, though, is that I'm doing this under the pretense that I'm trying to get to know him better. What I know so far is that he tested negative, and that he seems nice, and that I'm still a hundred percent doubtful. I do know for a God Damned fact that this will not work out. I don't doubt the familiar hurt that's just waiting to pounce on me and grip my heart between its saber teeth. I'm losing sleep now, and I'm losing weight too, and I'm always tired, and this never happened before you encouraged those hijo de la gran puta feelings.

I'm sorry but I sort of hate you now for giving me flowers this day last year. I was happier before you did that. For real.

My Last Break Up Was in February 2014

**And I remember every written detail of it like it was copy pasted in this week's update. I'm still waiting for the next break up though. But I need to have something to break for that to happen. I'm not in anything like that as of this writing, so I guess I'll have to wait.  





"No, I'm good. I'm okay with my Roman Catholic thing." 

I was stunned at how easy and casual those words slipped my lips. I have been through similar break ups, but there wasn't enough of them. I was cool, which was uncommon for I am letting go of a happy love. I was direct, which was unnatural for I'm sure I could argue my way back in if I wanted to. It was a happy kind of love after all. But I said No with the finality of a summary execution. And I said it twice in case he missed it the first time. One can never be too sure, my beloved Sweet Nuts.  

It was the casual kind of No, the everyday No, the dismissive kind of No you'd use when the high school graduate behind the counter offers to upsize your fries. 

"Would you like to upgrade your fries, sir?" 

"No, I'm good. I'm okay with my Roman Catholic thing." 

And he tried that again, and his voice was broken now. It was just the two of us in that dark room. We were lying in bed, smelling of our poisons: I, cigarettes, he, cheap brandy. It was humid, in spite of the reassuring noise of the creaky electric fan, because we chose to huddle with the sheets below our necks. It was his idea. My head rested on left arm, his right leg over both my thighs. We were clothed inside the cocoon that was smothered with the smell of dried sweat and saliva. It would have been the sweetest thing on most days. But we were breaking up on the dead hour of that Wednesday morning. 

The smell of alcohol could have been downright criminal if he had plenty, but he was drinking for only two hours, for I timed it, and his breath was only slightly offensive. My nose was a few inches below his lips, and his mouth was troublesome with the nearly drunken rhetoric. Everything he said had this faint smell of cheap brandy, but anyway. 

"You know I love you, By." And he kissed me below the left ear. It smelled. It tickled. "But this is what I'm used to. I grew up loving the (insert his Religion here), and I know I can save you. I want to save you, By." He kissed me on the left cheek, and then on the jawline, while his right hand played with the ruffled hair on my forehead. We are still cocooned in that smelly blanket. My arm pits are beginning to shed tears of their own. 

"You remember that time you joked about not wanting to join us because you don't even have time to go to your church? I know you're a good person, but you can't be without Jesus." He hugged me tighter, and his cheeks hugged mine, and I can feel my face moisten with his breaking voice. Which is odd because my face never gets damp when we are this close. It is usually my southern regions, my physical Mindanao, my Puerto Princesa that gets rather worked up and excited when we are left to our own devices, but enough of that. My Baby's voice has broken, and he proceeds with the admirable courage he borrowed from his cheap brandy. 

"By, please. I know you are a good person, and I love you for that. But I know I can save you if you let me. So what's it going to be? It's either you join my religion, or we'll call it quits." 

"Would you like to add a sundae to your meal, sir?" Because that's what it sounded like to me. 

Again, dearly beloved Sweet Nuts, remember that my nose was a few inches below his lips. And I got to thinking. If this is what redemption smelled like, then I'd far rather sign up for the other place. I'm kidding. 

I knew, for some reason, that he will pop that question, by and by. But I never imagined that it will involve these consequences. Ours were the happy kind of love that was protected by our family and friends. It wasn't gossip-proof, but it rallied on. And it pushed through, and it sprinted, and it jumped, and it conquered (vomit) the two-year mark. We are looking forward to our third year together when he had to ask that infernal question. Goddamnit. 


It is during charged times like this that I miss my cat the most. That jerk Prince hasn't been peeing for three days before he finally died in 2013. We thought it was just gas, or some boy cat broke his gay-ass heart, or some bad leaves he ate. The vet said it was normal for cats to nibble on potted plants. But there was nothing, absolutely nothing normal with how Prince lay sprawled below the sofa the day he died. 

What We Talk About with My Android Friends

**And by "Androids," I mean my biologically male beloveds who have achieved such amazing augmentations to their, and I use this term apologetically, to their "masculine" forms. One of them still argues, to this day, that giving birth will soon be transferable. I'm still arguing against that. 

Notice how that first line was a murder of modifiers? 

1. Where this or that's nose was stitched.

2. Surgery aftercare and precautions. I learned that recovering from a rhinoplasty can be a terrible thing for heavy smokers who just can't stop.

3. Who's the best nose doctor in Manila?

4. Sidewalk stalls in the Emirates that offer walk in surgery.

5. Cup size, butt size, and how much collagen or silicone or tire black these add ons received.

6. Where this or that's silicone implants were injected. And where it hurts more.

7. Hotel rates.

8. Asian currencies and their peso equivalent.

9. Double condoms as a safety precaution.

10. The inconvenience of sharing a hotel room most especially when one or the other has a paying guest.

11. The life-and-death-ness of flushing drugs in the toilet bowl. Most especially in a foreign country where the general population speaks Mandarin. And tonight's high-paying pangyao has this habit.

12. Hoarding female hormones, oral collagen, injectable glutathione, and has anyone mentioned liver damage yet? Nope.

13. Forehead contours.

14. The aging androids mention "Minoxidil" quite often.

15. Her being bailed out of this Singaporean prison because of her legendary beauty is really an urban legend. The truth is that she plead guilty, and then they lowered her sentence. But they allowed her, and her alone, to continue taking her female hormones behind bars.

16. Pictorials for their profiles in that ladyboy website.

17. I heard she was sore for weeks after she got her brand new, fully functional vagina. They were whispering that she didn't have to take a psychological exam prior to her sexual reassignment surgery.

18. If you want to know what a sexually reassigned vagina looks like, then you might want to read  Close Encounters with the Vagina-ed Type.

19. I wrote Close Encounters with the Vagina-ed Type in October 2010. And I can still see what it looks like with unnerving vividness.

20. He was chatting with me from inside a closet because his roommate had a paying client. This gives him peephole access to the perfect intercourse between business and pleasure. 

HBD to Me

You get to greet a person on his birthday once a year. So I don't think it's good fucking form that you abbreviate your well wishes with a god damn HBD. Girl, we're talking about a one time deal in 365 days, so I think it's just proper. Perhaps I'll let your HBD slip if you still have finger cramps from masturbating too much, but you don't. FY. And it doesn't matter to me that it's in social media. Who has time for real interaction these days? The least you could have done was to spell out your greetings. It's once a year. OMWTFGAF. 

I'm exaggerating of course. You know I'm a dick who loves dick. TY. 

I meant to enlarge on this update some more, and I was on leave for five days. But I was drunk for four days, and I had to attend to my sexy lady guard job on the sixth. 

Blackie

My neighbor, Old Flaccid, decided to be a noisy motherfucker that morning. 

He kept shouting the same word twice per repetition, "Blackie! Blackie!," in this pattern that gave him breathing intervals. He was old, you see, and he looked like he was decaying because of his skin. It has the character of a withered scrotum. Old Flaccid needed to breathe, I guess, on account of this unproductive yelling, "Blackie! Blackie!," could be too much for his age. There is still some posture in him, however, and there is still some grit and spit and all purpose anger with each "Blackie!" that issued from that old mouth. He can't be that old. 

I will not know, for sure, just how old Old Flaccid is since I've tried my best to ignore him for the better part of a decade. I would hazard a guess and announce that he's a few years younger than the Ark of the Covenant, but I could be wrong. What I'm sure of, however, is that the calm of this wonderful 7am morning died to Old Flaccid's noisy reports. He was as loud as the loudest "I don't give a fuck" in the manner of bitter old people, and I wish he was senile so he'd shut the fuck up. 

"Blackie! Blaaackie!" 

Now what you need to understand, My Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts, is that Blackie is this long haired cat that perched himself on top of this concrete wall that surrounded Old Flaccid's property. He's a feet away from these suspended electric cables that were interesting in what they can do to breathing things. And what you need to remember is that Blackie is brown. He's as brown as the golden feces of a one year old. He's as brown as undigested almonds. He's as brown  as the moisture on your underwear when you were praying to Jesus for dry fart a few seconds ago. I'm telling you, I have seen that cat several times before, and by cat I mean Blackie, and I've always known him to be brown. I'm looking at him in this morning sunlight, and yes, he is brown. 

"Blackie! Blaaackie!" 

Blackie was ignoring Old Flaccid's authority because he had people to count. I guess that's what he's doing with the way his brown head followed everybody that passed his concrete wall. How long has he been at it? 

"Blackie! Blaaackie!"

Blackie's eyes pierced Old Flaccid's general direction. And they had the feline equivalent of "I wish you were senile so you'd shut the fuck up." I have seen that cat several times before, and I only liked him today. 

"Blackie! Blaaackie!"

The Story Behind This Tattoo

**The Mistress of the Universe, Ms Jessica Zafra, my liege, my grace, commissioned me to write a book review for "The Bloody Chamber" by Angela Carter. I submitted my compliance March 2013. And this is where it all started. That means there's a part two on account of I don't want to drown you, My Dearly Beloved, with billions of words. Who will read me then?

The next installment will be the review that served me the biggest piece of humble pie. 

We finished this tattoo, Her, on September 28, 2014.

I emailed my book review on March 2013.

Bloody is Right

**So I called Customer Service at National Bookstore in Rockwell to inquire if they already have my review copy. She said they have this book, The Bloody Chamber, and it's black, and it's by Angela Carter. I asked if it mentioned "fairy tales" somewhere, and she was like "Ay wala po eh." She sounded like she really wanted to help. So I asked her to describe to me what the cover looked like. And she said, "Ano po siya, may bungo po, tapos may belo." Skulls and veils. I honestly have very little idea as far as the book I will be reviewing goes, so I suppose I can work with something like that. 

Help yourself to a bite-sized rundown of each fairy tale that was, well, zombified in this collection. Meanwhile, I will be soaking my badly punctured eyeballs in some ice cold rubbing alcohol. I want to see if they can be in any more pain than they already are. 


1. The Bloody Chamber (Blue Beard) 

This is exactly what the Blue Beard story will be if it were kinkier, mentioned "cunt" and "we've not taken luncheon yet" in that order, and if it won an award for the Best Use of "Impale" as a Euphemism. However, what makes this version different is that it's a hundred miles long, and that it is the heroine's mother that does the rescuing. And did I mention it is way kinkier?

2. The Courtship of Mr Lyon (Beauty and the Beast) 

Plain, boring, vanilla. No twists here, seriously people, keep moving. This is Beauty and the Beast like how you will read it in most any children's book that isn't Walt Disney. And it ended on a decidedly romantic tone. Which is exactly what I needed if I were bulimic. Or if I've had too much firewater to drink, and I need to puke some more. 

3. The Tiger's Bride (Beauty and the Beast) 

The tiger's "sole desire is to see the pretty young lady clothed in the nude." Or she Must see that naughty tiger naked. What seemed to be an engaging refresher in bestiality... climaxed in this magical pain in the nuts. Blue nuts, really, if we're trying to be honest here. 

4. Puss in Boots (Guess What) 

I now have this special fondness for this nasty little gem because of the following phrases: "takes his fill of her lily-whites," "his half flag hangs all the time at half mast," "lick the coal dust off my dicky," and "she falls back on the bed, shows him the target, he displays the dart, scores an instant bullseye. Bravo!" Indeed. What happens here is that Puss' master falls hopelessly in love with a married woman who, in response to his accurate darting, becomes a poisoner. And they lived happily ever after. 

5. The Erl King (German Folklore) 

I could be wrong here, but the Erl King is depicted in German folklore as a spirit who haunts forests and carries off travelers to their deaths. Well, it's either me with a Page Rank of 0, or Wikipedia with a Page Rank of 9, so there. Anyway, the unnamed heroine falls for the mysterious Erl King and engages in profane mysteries under the leaves with him. That last part was verbatim. His magical seductions then lose their potency. And she begins to imagine that he will be turning her into a bird. And she will become part of his collection of caged singing birds. So she strangles him with his hair.

But if he had his ways, and he succeeded in enchanting her into a bird, then she will become a cuckoo, for sure. 

6. The Snow Child 

A count finds his dream lolita in the mysterious Snow Child that suddenly appears naked on the road. He and his wife, the Countess, were travelling then. She was immediately jealous of the Snow Child's beauty, and she devises several unsuccessful attempts to dispose of the beautiful stranger. Of course, none of her plots triumphed; her horndog of a husband saw to that. But she manages to have the Child get her a rose from a bush. So she did, and she pricked her finger on a thorn, and she bled and died. The Count, then, "thrust his virile member into the dead girl," whoa, I know, and the Countess watched her husband get off of the Snow Child's corpse. 

7. The Lady of the House of Love (The Twilight Saga. Haha, no idea.)

She's a vampire, and he's a soldier. With the way these stories are finally picking up, I suppose you can guess what happens when he finds himself alone with her in her mausoleum. Chambers, I meant chambers. Nope. Nothing. No sex here. Blue balls. However, she leaves him with the dark, fanged rose plucked from between her thighs, verbatim, and dies in the morning. The rose blooms in a pot in the barracks, by the way. 

8. The Werewolf (Little Red Riding Hood) 

This three-page twist to Red Riding Hood's exploits might as well be a very sophisticated Tales for the Midnight Hour episode. It would have been nice if all her fairy tales were this brief. Yes, they were mostly intriguing. But some of them can be wordy to a fault; there were time when my eyes felt like they were like crawling on the moon. And you know what else could be nice at this point? Some Advil. 

9. The Company of Wolves (Little Red Riding Hood) 

This is almost like The Lady of the House of Love. However, she is Red Riding Hood, and he's a werewolf with a ginormous schlong. They're all alone in grandma's cabin in the woods. And they're both naked. Woo hoo. But then the author decides to restrain her usual wordiness, of all times, and we are left with the two of them lying "tenderly" in bed the next morning. Blue balls, people, blue balls. 

10. Wolf-Alice (Not Alice in Wonderland)


An unlikely partnership develops between a corpse-eater and a girl raised by wolves. He's really a gangster-ass werewolf with a preference for near-fresh corpses, and she's a Capricorn with issues. Haha. I think they fell in love or something yawn like that. But it has decaying old castles, moonlit graveyards, and superstitious townsfolk who can try to chill a little. 

Antisocial Social Media (Part One)

**This is an introduction. 

All it takes for one night of alcoholic social lubrication to turn exceedingly dull is when everybody has an internet connection and a smartphone. And everybody, by way of popular decision, communicates with a Qwerty keyboard and a series of downward swipes as opposed to talk that uses the mouth. 

We were having an okay time with the local brandy when they ran out of relevant things to say. And then all discussion ceased halfway through that delicious liter. It was one in the morning, and the person to my left, She, her eyes, I noticed, tired of movement and focused on the clock instead. It is now 1:05 am.The person to my right, He, I noticed, shifted himself to her general direction and picked up his smart phone. There was nothing discrete with how he gestured his phone to her. So she picked up her phone and started typing. It is now 1:07 am.

The person to His left logged in to Facebook after taking a swig of brandy a couple of minutes ago. That was the last we heard from him, save for the occasional Dubsmash videos and half-drunk murmurs about unfriending. 

The person to Facebook's left asked Her for the WiFi password. His pockmarked face was both comical and greasy, I noticed, when he smiled his request. She gave him my password, which is okay, since I can always change that anytime I felt like "You get your own God Damned internet subscription, Greasy." I noticed that Greasy's smile widened as his fingers began swiping downwards on his phone. We never heard from him from that point on. This was far from regretful since Greasy wasn't much of a talker anyway. His one contribution to our social gathering was to occupy space and have mass, for sure.  

There was a faint vibration to my right before He picked up His phone. We lost Him completely when He started typing on His phone. She was just as prompt with Her reply, and He was the only one smiling now. Something may or may not be mutual between these two, I noticed. Meanwhile, our half-empty bottle of brandy is mutually ignored at 1:24 am.  

I have half a mind to pick up a book instead. The other half is considering throwing the internet router in a pail of water. The shot glass was pitiful in its unemployment, and nobody else noticed.  

Be Still, Little Kitten

**There is no greater horror than the truly unexpected. 

Its small, whiskered face rested on a black and white head that floated on a puddle of red. It was lying on its side, in this gutter that was otherwise dry with cigarette butts. Its two front paws clawed furiously towards the air, each motion weaker than the last, like it was drowning and soon will. Its little arms were brisk in movement, and it seemed more like a hummingbird now than a kitten. Its small mouth was agape, and its tongue, pink, was rigid with each weakening effort for air. 

I cannot unsee this, my Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts. Could you? 

There is this dying kitten a few feet away from me, and I am still of the honest opinion that cats do have nine lives. This terrible vision, however, modified my opinion, made me think, if you will. Cats earn their eight other lives as the go along in life, much like our vacation leaves in the office. This kitten, no more than a foot, didn't have that chance to earn more, so it's hanging on to the one it's losing. There was another kitten next to it, just as small, perhaps its sister, and it was smelling her. But it was cautious for its nose was a few inches away. 

My feet were the troubled wind that rushed home. I cannot look back at it, because I will detect another haunting detail that I might have overlooked. We had a cat when I was around ten years old, and it ate one of its days old kitten because it was mad with hunger. I remember how small those intestines were as they littered our green kitchen floor. Meanwhile, I am now possessed of this gnawing urge to document. And I am writing this a few minutes after this horrible vision has tattooed itself on to my mind's eye. It is only a few minutes, and I hope that unloved little creature received the one appropriate mercy it deserves. I hope it has stilled its convulsions. 

Tatay Doro

**"Tatay" is Third World for "Father." 

The sheer irrelevance of this picture to this post is truly a jarring thing. But I'm using this anyway because old people covered with tattoos are nothing short of inspiring. 

You will think that his smile was congenital, like a hare lip, the way it  was always on him every time, every single time I saw him. Every single time. This went on with remarkable consistency all those years I knew him since 2003. And it never occurred to me, not once, to ask him if he ever tired of smiling. He was already old the first time he smiled at me on the first day we met. Doesn't his face tire of all that cheer? He wasn't smiling today because Tatay Doro died of a heart attack Friday at nine in the morning. And whoever did his make up did an admirable job. He looked 70. 

I once wrote about championing a nine ball tournament in 2005. Imagine that. An effeminate gay guy winning a billiards tournament. And I mention that because Tatay Doro is a memorable part of my Pool Playing Years. His was the name on the billiards hall where I was an official queen in 2005 and 2006. I was there four to five hours on any given Saturday, and then around three hours Sunday. My kinky night job was rather taxing to my then true passion, and making the time to play pool on a week day was a bitching adventure. But I managed to squeeze in around two hours a day, alternatingly perhaps, because I needed to play pool. Tatay Doro always had a table ready for us, and a smile, and we never waited more than ten minutes on the off chance that we had to wait for our turn. 

Rumors have it that Doro's Place closed in 2008 because someone gambled most of the capital. That may or may not be true, and it doesn't make a difference now. I remember seeing Tatay Doro less and less since the usual opportunity was no longer open for business. But I remember seeing him every now and then, in between unexpected glacial periods, and his collared shirts were getting bigger and his face was getting smaller. His smile was beginning to lose some of it's sunshine, but the difference is ever so faint. That smile was still there. 

I imagine that he's somewhere in these gardens now in the last day of his wake. The report of his death is stunning, which is an unusual word for anything in your News Feed. I had to pay my last respects to this solid man of cheer. It is now eight pm on a humid Sunday evening, and I am surrounded by old age. Perhaps he's sitting on one of those cream colored monoblock chairs in that table of well dressed old people. Hardy was one of his truly dedicated friends, and he's here in spite of the second stroke he suffered last week. I see Tatay Doro seated on a chair behind Hardy, his ear a few inches away from Hardy's labored speech. I imagine he's catching up to a dear friend who came to pay his last respects. I notice that Tatay Doro's gray hair is still thick in spite of, how does he do that, and that pair of shades, brown is on him like it was every single time he waved hi. Did you know that he never took those shades off, not once? That smile felt genuine without the eyes anyway, so I don't think that matters at all. And I think he's smiling at me now. 

Morocco

This is not him. His teeth are whiter, if you can believe that. 

I was on my way to buy two bottles of Merlot when I saw this picture of a happy boy. It was a large enough picture, maybe a foot by a foot and a half, and the boy had the whitest alabaster teeth I've seen on anyone. It was dazzling. He was a chubby brown boy, Third World brown, and he was in his school uniform. His smiling face was looking at something to his right. Perhaps he was listening to a funny friend who's about to unload the best punchline in the world. Perhaps, with that sparkle in his eyes, he was looking, with courage, at the class muse, and that a close friend captured his infatuation in a picture that will soon be enlarged. Perhaps he was listening to good news, maybe a long weekend that's shaping to be the best weekend ever, and that explains his adorable smile. He's a happy boy, and his picture is a delight to look at. 

Have I mentioned how dazzling his teeth were? 

I will call him Morocco. Or Mor. I cannot disclose this shining boy's real name, not because I don't know it, which I do, but because he's just fifteen years old. I happen to know his real name, and Morocco sounds close enough to the name that was printed a few inches below his picture. I know he's fifteen, and I know that for a fact, because he was born July 1, 2001. I am not making that up, that date, on account of it was printed below Morocco's real name. I am not making any of this up, just so you know. Morocco died on February 27, 2016. This date was printed directly below his date of birth. 

Your Weirdly Handsome Face

**It's all fun and games, a goddamn fiesta, until someone loses an eye or hits the age of forty. Whatever comes first. 

Image borrowed from Tattoo Short List dot com

I'm attracted to your Weirdly Handsome face. Keep smiling, please, because your ugly, rodent teeth keeps me from crushing on you further. I wonder how your dick smells like? And are you doing sit ups now? I ask you this, in my head, on account of I can't help but notice how tight your fine, fine ass has become, how pronounced, how it shouts from that pair of straight guy jeans you're wearing. It wakes me wonder how your forward thrust is like. And yes, how's your day going so far, you Weirdly Handsome darling? Did you sleep well?

Let's get this out of the way. I hardly give a, well, a fuck as to what you call those butt work outs. Homo, please. The details and inner workings of your Cruising First, Fitness Last way of life are dead to me. Your jargon have gone the way of disco. I know how you prefer dicks with biceps and a six pack, and ripped things you put in your mouth are of no interest to me. I don't give a protein-enriched shit. I call it as I see it, and I see a Weirdly Handsome Man's ass with spectacular tightness. 

I was watching him walk in slow motion, for that's how he registers, and I imagine my vision buffered a bit since Weirdly Handsome here is standing next to me now. Weirdly Handsome borrowed my mirror, eeek, and he stood next to me, eeek, so he can fix his hair. This goes to show that God loves the gays, too. And His Providence is standing next to me, fixing his hair, eeek. He is far more ravishing up close, his fair skin luminous, his steely Shogun eyes looking down at my mirror while his long, slender fingers were grooming his hair until it is in perfect disorder. He's as slim as a cigarette, and his cheekbones are orgasmic. There were three pimple marks on his left cheek, one below his ear. He's been biting the nails on his right hand. 

I once attended a writing workshop, and My Mistress taught us that you don't have to describe everything. I will apologize now, Your Brilliance, but I will hazard a trespass. I am crushing on his Weirdly Handsome Face, and this is making me choke my sentences with adjectives. I heard somewhere that this flowery habit is borderline criminal, as far as writing goes, but hey. Let me help myself some more now, and I will rehabilitate myself later on.  

I am in awe of his Weirdly Handsome features, from his steely, Shogun eyes to his fine, tight ass and the lanky frame these gifts belong to. Have I mentioned that I'm pushing 36 this August, Dearly Beloved? And I'm still crushing on Weirdly Handsome here? How fucking tough luck lame is that? But I am crushing in secret, apparently, because the Object's awareness undoes the enchantment. And I want to sustain this strangle hold on my inner (fan) girl for as long as I can. Listen here, Dearly Beloved. I will be turning 36 this August. I've been fiercely independent for more than a decade now. I have smashed a rat's head with a hammer until I'm satisfied that it is dead. I have a right armful of tattoos, and my left one will no longer have visible skin by May this year. I braved my departure from my ten year job with hardly a sigh. And I'm still crushing on some Weirdly Handsome guy at this God Damned age.   

How fucking tough luck lame is that. 

Meanwhile, Weirdly Handsome's hair wax makes him smell minty old. As in pensioner old, or adult diapers old, or dried piss on brown slacks old, or Juan Ponce Enrile old and why isn't he dead yet. He's always been a delight to my eyes, this Weirdly Handsome guy who thanked me for the mirror with a flash of his rodent teeth. Meanwhile, I had no idea that he will be a pungent felony to my nose. This goes to show that God loves the gays, too. Thank you Lord. Now if he can flash those rodent teeth some more, please. I will be pushing 36 this August, and I can't keep on crushing on you no more. 

It's Like Eating Rainbows With Your Hands

**Writing about other peoples' love stories is such devilish fun most especially when you're seeing the demolition in progress. I am a prick, and that is why I have decided to do that.

Perhaps the one entertaining thing about infidelity is when you have front row, VIP access to the confrontation between the cheating boy and the jilted lover. Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder, yes, and there is no stranger beauty than the infidels lying between their teeth. The intonation of the liars, ah, what sadistic music to the ears. Marry all these sensations to the body language that sheds the lying to pieces. What a wonderful show. 

You can tell how unprepared this post is. 

Notes on The Bikini Open (A Blow by Blow)

**Seeing all these lean, oiled bodies parade in the smallest of underwear aroused, of all urges, the need to write. That, my Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts, is some truly absurd, counter-cocksucker shit. But I have this list to show for it. Meanwhile, cheers to my 450th post. 

Credits to Barangay San Miguel's Facebook Page for the event, the pictures, and the material.

1. This impressive fiesta of faggots made up 110% of the audience. What's curious is that, with their long hair and their fake boobs and their potholder hips, they're mostly of the effeminate variety. I was wondering where the "discretely bisexual" population is, and then the male contestants started sashaying on the stage. 

Work it. 

2. The people in charge have decided to kick start the Bikini Open with a prayer. The audience complied to the emcees' request to stand up, and then the DJ played "The Prayer" as popularized by Celine Dion and Andrea Boccelli. Or Boticelli. Or Whatevercelli. 

I'd like you to meet two of my funniest friends, Powkie and Anton. 

3. This old lady to my right captured all this ceremony with her tablet whenever she felt like it. 

I do not selfie out of principle, so here's a photo of me in the crowd. The black tanktop I'm wearing should give me away. 

4. The best seats in the house are, of course, enjoyed by the judges. And then the next best seats, obviously, are those enjoyed by their friends. I was sitting behind my judge friend where I have dedicated, full frontal view. This, My Dearly Beloved, is VIP access. 

5. They had feathers, and spears, and sequins, and gilded scepters, and all shades of glitter, and magnificent halos. And that's just the men, those beautiful boys and their blameless sock bulges. The women are, well, they're okay.

Feathers. A spear. Sequins. Contestant Number 14 here sheds all that, and then some more, in the latter part of this sexy show. 

6. There's this drag queen who did a lip syncing gig. Her name's Maja Kubrador, and her act will be my death by laughing. 

Maja Kubrador is the natural beauty on the right. She elbow drops and then hadoukens her partner on the second intermission. 

7. One of the female contestants said she'd like to "Thank Oxygen for my pants." I had no idea what that dumbass was talking about. What pants? Meanwhile, I was thinking of thanking oxygen for the air. You have no idea how crowded this gym is. And the air smells like cocksucker breath, too.  

There's your homosexual litmus test. Yes, I am 100% fierce, thank God.

8. I look at the contestants' tattoos, and I promised myself that I'll get more. Way more. You see, my Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts, the tattooed contestants are way sexier. 

And there was this other male contestant with tattoos on both of his knees. Meanwhile, Spear Boy here can impale me anytime as long as I'm not on lady guard duty.

9. It is the dragging motion with which these ladies and gentlemen sashay... no, walk... no, trudge across the stage that I find... It was unusual, at first, when Contestant Number One walked like she needed minor surgery on her left hip or left knee, or maybe a liposuction on her left foot. And then it became common when a succession of candidates, up to Contestant Number 28, continued faking this nearly sexy handicap. 

She limps towards the front and center, literally, and then bares all creamy whiteness. I guess it's some rehearsed handicap that's common with Bikini Open contestants.

10. I feel that it is my noble duty to report that one of the male contestants gazed at the other male candidates in a remarkably predatory behavior. 

Work it. 

11. His teasing would have given me an instant erection if he didn't have too much foundation on. And concealer. And if his nose wasn't that lined. Or his lips that MAC pale. 

Creamy. 

12. Reflectorized underwear. 

13. You are killing me, Maja Kubrador. Your comedy is a felony, that's what it is. 

She climbs the walls of the gymnasium in this number. In those slacks.

14. You can make out the very fingerprint of their cock heads on those bikinis they are wearing. And no, it's not the fabric. It's something else. Are those, perhaps, fake cock heads? 

It will be funny if the female contestants had cock bulges too. Imagine this: Contestant Number Five walks to the center of the stage to receive the bouquet of flowers and cash prize given to the Thickest Hair. Her eyes smile her appreciation, the crowd  applauds, and then her left nut slides out of it's poor tuck.  

15. Like I said, the tattooed guys are always the hottest.

My basement flooded everytime Contestant Number Two walked that run way. Every single fucking time. 

 16. It's the boys and their push ups, and their spider web bikinis, and their seductive gymnastics. One bikini was garters and an eye patch, and it was red, and the way his balls juggled left and right in them was spectacular. He smiles vaingloriously, and he's taking it all in. They're doing all these for so little cash, but something tells me it's more than that. 

Two words. Cockhead fingerprint.

17. My friend, the judge, had the best best seat in the house. No contest. No fucking contest. You don't see the contestants displaying their biggest angles from where you are in the back row, right? 

18. At the end of this long day of beautiful teasing boys who allow themselves to be air-fondled, and their encouraged crotches, and their glistening litheness, and their suggestive gymnastics, at the end of all this, I am suddenly sick of dick. 

This is Dick. Dick has been walking around progressively smaller bikinis for more than three hours now. Dick is tired of this shit and shows it on his face. Dick is honest but persevering. Be like Dick. 

19. There is something slightly melancholic about seeing these men and women displaying themselves with nothing more than a smile and an eye patch, or spider webs, or ropes of fabric. 

This is where, after about three hours, they give out the minor prizes and send the losers home. The remaining contestants parade in smaller bikinis after this brief intermission. That goes on for another hour or so. The losers are lucky.  Be like the... I'm kidding, My Dearly Beloved. Be like Dick, instead. 

20. It has been four hours now, and nobody has won yet. 

Let Me Hug You, Girl

**I need to be good at something. I'm not saying this because I'm drunk, but because I really need to be good at something else, and not just putting dicks in my anus. So let me write some more, instead.

It is now five in the morning, and I can hear him fucking her in the other room. There is no groaning or moaning or cursing involved. Where's the sexual grammar that blooms with expressive delight? And this is decidedly boring most especially when there's nothing to see. It's the irregular thrusting sound that muscle upon muscle upon the iron frame of a four post bed that's giving them away. It's muffled, but distinct, a soft whoomp/creak followed shortly by a series of irregular whoomp/creeks, whomp... creak, whomp... creak, whomp... creak, whomp... creak, pffooottt went my unoccupied ass, and then a succession of the usual whoomp/creaks.  

I am not one to judge. Maybe it is acceptable for two consenting, exceedingly drunk adults to fuck each other most especially when they're attracted to each other right off the bat. Several hours of brandy ignites, and then intensifies, the magnetic intention, and his erection, and that explains my listening to the Whoomp... Creak Show. I get that, and I am not going to knock on their door just to be a lousy friend and tell him that his real girlfriend will not know anything. I say real because there is an alarming increase in the population of Drinking Sessions Girlfriends. I have no choice but to come to terms with that minority. The Whoomp... Creak Show will not air otherwise. 

It is now 5:40 in the morning. And they're still at it.

I now bear Unfortunate Knowledge. His forward thrusts are singular, and I can give you a list of three or four dirty boys that will out fuck him ten times out of ten. This is not what disappoints me, however. I used to look up to him because of his flowery homilies about loyalty and fidelity and The Great Love, you know, the usual crap that weakens in the face of two liters of brandy and three hours of flirting. I'm still hearing him fucking her in the other room. The Whoomp... Creak Show is still airing. Whatever happened to all that face, pretty boy?

I mildly wonder how looking at him tomorrow will be like. He did me no harm, he bore me no false witness, he ruptured none of my tight orifices, he did me no wrong. It is now 6:10 in the morning, and I am waving a cheerful Fuck You to fidelity. I learned today that Nearly Nothing beats a raging erection.

Love Your Dogs

This group of kids ranging from four to six years old were my captive audience as I gave my dog a bath in the garage. Cohen, least exciting name for a dog, was roughly 30 pounds. His fleas were 70 percent of his body weight, I suppose, for I felt those blood sucking grapes behind his ears, and along his back, and between his toes, and under his arm pits and leg pits, and all over his wet body. Those parasites felt dreadful as my gloves lathered Cohen's infested torso. He was more of a tree now, I imagine, than he was a dog. And he bore the most vicious fruit for they were pallid and had multiple legs that thrashed as I picked one off him for inspection. 

I asked one member of my audience, a girl of four I imagine, if she had a dog. That smile on her face as she shook her head was a beautiful thing of innocence. What about a cat, then? She said no because they were too poor for pets. And then I had half a mind to gift her with one of Cohen's fleas to get her started. And Cohen, being the sweetest plagued thing with feet that he is, I'm certain Cohen wouldn't mind sharing. He's a darling, I tell you.

Cohen died a slow death later that year. The vet said that rat urine inflamed his liver to bursting, and my heart continues to bleed for his presence, fleas and all.