The Six Year Battle With the Demon With the Speech Defect

**It's not exactly a battle, far from it, but there is a bittersweet triumph. And he's not really a demon. He's almost divine in his all-white uniform. And it's not really a speech defect, mind you. I just said that minute half-truth quarter-truth simply for effect.

This was preceded by The Speech, a most hurtful experience that I posted and concealed somewhere in this here blog. The pen that coined that post was far too boss than the sword, and it had my dying heart and its weakening throbbing beats impaled all the way into the hilt. Fucking-A!

I was man enough to hear it twice from him today. Thrice even, if you add in the first time he said it back in 2006. Or was it 2007? I planned this all along, really. I needed to let go, and I called to hear him say the words that I needed to hear from him. It was hard enough the first time, and it was too brave of me to actually plan the hurting this time around. And the part where I asked him pretty please to say it again, for the third and final time, that's just plain masochism. And that was exactly the kind of healing hurt that I need to move on. For release.

My heart is suddenly tethered to some familiar magnificent weight. This I will bear and live with until I'm finally strong enough to lift those six years away. I know this is ideal, and will be the most productive I've been this year. These past six years, when you think about it. And I will endure because that is the only penance I can do until I've shaved all those memories away. Wish me luck, goddamned it.


This has been one of the bravest things I've done in my lifetime, calling W and asking him to say the words I needed for release. Come to think of it, I can just sit back and let things roll, seeing as I am already aware of the harmless stagnation behind all this correspondence, but no. I wanted him to say it. I planned and scripted and called to hear him say it. "This will not prosper beyond friendship," that's what he said, and that was, for all the right reasons, exactly what I wanted, NO, needed to hear. He was one of the better memories of my twenties, however unfounded and grounded on playful imaginings, but I needed to move on. I have to move on; I just turned thirty, and I gather I needed to dust off the childish lack of judgment that I maintained for the better part of my twenties. Which I did.

At the same time, for a cruel self-inflicted follow through, I asked him to stop indulging me and my whims and my daydreams. He complied with a casual "okay," in that surprising tone that was just proper for remembrance. He said it in the way one makes when acknowledging the weather. And that dismissiveness was exactly what I needed. Cloudy with a chance of Grade-A hurt.

So W, if you're reading this, and you probably aren't because of all my masochistic requests, but let me address you anyway on the off-chance you Are reading this, because there are times when you're just too accommodating for your own sake. For the love of the letter R, you need to stop that already. You probably aren't (reading this, that is), but I just wanted to say one last thing to consummate all those six years that got me nowhere fast, and I mean this, too -- Thank you. Thank you for being you.

I know that this didn't hurt you as much as it did me, hell, not even. And what the fuck am I saying? You? Hurt? (I reckon you're still reading this, W, if you even are, and I need to address this to somebody. That would have been all too fucking mental otherwise) I've always imagined myself, and then in the long run understood to a dead certainty, that I've always been the sole emotional benefactor to all those foolish six years. That I am, always has been, and that was the way I wanted things to happen well into this final episode.

And you know what? It hurts like a motherfucking third world manual circumcision. But I know there is growth in this. I honestly do.

August 10, 2010

From 9pm to 4am

**It took six years for this light bulb moment to take place.

I wonder how this will proceed.

After three years, we found ourselves talking on the phone for more than a few hours than is necessary. We were on it from 9pm to 4am, just like the sweet old times (and I say sweet like a charged surfer dude, not because it is beloved), and he was his usual accommodating self. I realized I missed the same chatty jerk that I really liked for some reason, and I say jerk with polite deference and honesty. He's probably cute, but he's more than that, really. I find it troubling and wonderful at the same time that we can actually talk without getting real tired about it.

We haven't been hearing much from each other since 2007, though. That was when I moved out of my mother's house to live in with the first man whom I shed tears for. And we only had this opportunity just recently, W and myself, to salvage what communication we had left. That was last evening when we talked for about seven hours straight, although I had to take a couple of ten-minute cigarette breaks. I did most of the talking, sure, but that was how it was always been in the first place.

I tell myself that I'm not cheating on my live in partner, J. I'm simply catching up with W, whom I met way earlier than J, and with whom I had more in common with. I wonder why I just said that? And I wonder why I've been writing about W hell of a whole lot lately. And I wonder why I can't stop trying to recall W's face and funny talk - he tends to slur his Rs like he's half-gargling them.

Ohh, shit. This brings me back! This brings me way back, and sweet motherfucker, going back got me nowhere fast. And things are way different now, and I'm far too mature now, oh hell yeah, even for one of the better distractions of my twenties. Maybe I'll just cut things off with W before things go out of control; I know full well that I'm in for a long motherfucking haul. And I'm referring to myself when I say "things." And besides, he'll be leaving for the US next year, and I know he'll make it, because he's way too magnificent for this bullshit third world hole and its goddamned plumbing. I'm thinking it will be ideal to cut my losses this early on. But I'm also thinking of sending him a text message; I don't know what I'm going to tell him, but I'm doing this to reach out.

NOTE TO SELF: Fuck, definitely letting go. And I tell myself I'm doing this because he doesn't deserve none of this no more. I'm talking about W.

August 9, 2010

He Might Be Coming!

**I was supposed to post this two days prior to my 30th, but I was held up by all the preparation, and I can't really serve a blog post to my guests.


The Abattoir of Overused Metaphors defines "excited" as a girl on Christmas Eve underneath the tree with a colorfully wrapped box, large and unopened, in her small hands, her eyes marked by that indelible anticipation, maybe even worry, because, for the life of her, she can't figure out if the puppy she has always wanted will live through to Christmas morning confined in this little airless box most especially when it's no longer making a sound. If you're familiar with that tired figure of speech, then you understand what I'm saying. And understand that That little shit has got nothing with the terminal stage-four expectation that has afflicted me just recently. Damn straight.

See, there's this great guy, W, that I've been on to speaking with keeping an online correspondence with these past six years now. We started in 2004, and we're still at it in 2010, although there has been a few hiatuses in between because, surprisingly enough, we had offline episodes to attend to. I tell you, it was pretty much a lifetime's worth of drama, and false hopes, and unfounded expectations. And the usual banter, and countless emoticons, and laughter. And saving chat transcripts, and fleeting disappointments, and four hour conversations on the phone. And more offline stories, and alarmed girlfriends, and more drama. It was six years worth of all that, and then some, plenty enough for a whole population and have enough to import to Iran or something.

And we've never met. Never, not once these past six years, although neither one of us seems to mind because it's all too perfect, this correspondence, just the way it is. And simultaneously stagnant and pointless when you think about it. It is a mutual thing, I reckon, the not-having-to-meet part of things, and I think, perhaps, I'm glad that we arrived at that unspoken agreement. So we go ahead with the drama, and the countless emoticons, and the offline stories because we have established, three years into this lovely confusing mess, that we're better off with this static state of things. Because it works, for some reason, and we'd rather not know why it works. Because knowing might spoil things, and I can't have that now, although...

And so we left it at that until I ventured an invitation to my birthday a week back. And that is why that little shit and the dead dog she'll be getting for Christmas has got nothing on me and my coming 30th. So there.

**And it didn't happen. We never met. He was held up by this girl, Ester, and that bitch seriously rained on my parade. Rained. Literally. That cunt was a fucking tropical depression, and he was, with truth to the letter, completely suspended by all that rain, which was pouring in curtains. But my 30th was the best and happiest and the most complete so far, with every major routine of my Being well represented by the people that counted the most. Minus one, of course. Six years is still six years.

August 10, 2010

This Is Exactly What You Need, Stupid

**It's either this or a punch in the face, right?

I think he's better off there than here, and that's for all the sound reasons. Primary of which will be this - It will put all your delusions to a fucking screeching halt, stop it dead in its tracks, and that will allow the rest of your life and all its lower expectations to crawl along like nothing hopeful happened to it in 2004. Think of it as the long overdue euthanasia that you so unknowingly deserved for even letting things happen in the first place. And what makes it better, delicious even, is that I know he'll make it. He's far too good for this messy third world hole and its Goddamn Plumbing, and he Deserves to go out there and get himself a skip in his step. I'm all in. I see no real advantage; this make believe love story that's going on in your head will never come to fruition anyway. I'd much rather he get all the chips because he deserves it, all of it, and I pray him an ounce of greed so that he becomes mindless of The Unnecessary Distraction that's he's entertaining because he's just too much of a gentleman in the first place.

You, on the other hand, get yourself out there. You'll be thirty soon.

The Bitter Pill Speech

**These are snippets of the consuming speech that finally unhinged all those six years. I'm trying, but it's hard to write this now, because the withdrawal symptoms are surfacing to harass my every effort. And, simultaneously, I'm trying to remember how I delivered this, to him yesterday afternoon. And how he said the words I badly needed to hear. I know the delivery killed me twice in passing, thrice even, come to think of it, but I need to hang on to the littlest detail, however hurtful and masochistic and unkind, because this is all I have left.

That being said, allow me to let slip a most shallow and pathetic defense - See, a man with tattoos has got to have something to demonstrate, otherwise, it's all for show.

And I chose to keep this as a buried post because I can't have this glaring at me. And I really said everything in The Speech, and I never realized until now that reading can be so brave.

START OF SPEECH


ME: Gusto kita, totoo, pero alam mo naman itong lagay ko, at alam ko rin namang hindi puwede. Ilang taon ko rin tong tinago, dineny, at ngayong kausap na kita ulit eh sabihin mo na rin, gusto ko sa yo na manggaling, na hindi talaga puwede at walang mangyayari sa atin talaga. Uulitin mo lang yung sinabi mo nung huling nag-usap tayo sa telepono (that was about three years back in 2007, and that was the first defeat), ulitin mo lang yun kung naalala mo pa, at sabihin mo ng malinaw, para maging klaro sa akin.

(DELETED PART FOLLOWS, I wrote this, true, but I left it out, didn't have to tell him, didn't see the need, all too fucking self-defeating if you ask me)

ME: Pero hindi naman ibig sabihin nun eh wala na tong ganitong nag-uusap tayo. Nasa sa iyo yun. Heto, masaya ko sa ganito, gusto ko malinaw sa yo yun. Ayoko lang ng may inaasahan ako na wala naman talaga dapat. Mayroon akong ulterior motive, oo, pero alam ko namang walang mangyayari doon, at habang wala akong naririnig sa yo eh sa palagay ko hindi mawawala iyon. Kaya heto at pinaghandaan ko na ito, itong SONAng ito, para maging malinaw na at maging klaro na talaga. At nang mahugutan na rin ako ng tinik. Kaya yun, ano masasabi mo?

(HE ANSWERS WITH THE EXPECTED RESPONSE AT THIS POINT. Yeah, I even included the theatric sequence. How drama-queen is that?)

ME: Yaan, yan lang ang gusto ko marinig. Edi tapos, hindi na ako uma-asa, hindi na ako hoping. At least ngayon eh klaro na talaga sa kin ang lagay ko, dapat lang, at puwede ko na tigilan ang mga daydream ko. Haay salamat (sigh). Osha, babay!

(LONG PAUSE for the effect)

ME: Haha! Hoy tanga, andian ka pa? (This was supposed to represent the comic relief that I knew I needed at this point, but I was all too knee deep in all this drama to even try. Which is why this was deleted)

(END OF DELETED PART)

(CONTINUATION OF ACTUAL DELIVERED SPEECH, written on a separate piece of paper because this was further inspired later that same day, 08/10/2010)

ME: Naalala mo ung nag-usap tayo sa phone kailan lang? Yung 9pm to 4am? Na-realize ko na heto na naman ulit ako eh. Hindi ako normal pagdating sa iyo. Kasi kahit papaano, kahit sa tinagal ng pagkakataon na di tayo nagpang-abot eh bumabalik pa rin sa akin ang expectation sa mga pagkakataong andian ka na ulit. Nagiging makulit ako, nawawala ako sa huwisyo, palagi akong may ini-intindi pagdating sa yo. Hindi ako ganito, hindi dapat ganito, ayoko ng ganito ako at wala akong control sa sarili ko. Kaya ang hiling ko eh ang marinig sa yo, in the most final and decisive tone, na tigilan ko na dahil walang mangyayari at ipagpaliban ko na ito ng tuluyan hanggang sa dumating ang pagkakataong mawala na sa akin ang lahat ng mga kababawang to.

ME: Yun ang gusto ko, yun lang, at hangga't maari eh dagdagan mo ng puwersa at conviction ang pagkakasabi mo, please?

(HE DELIVERS THE EXPECTED RESPONSE. And I took it all in, like the man, the defeated man, I have always been, and I tried to conceal the hurt that I knew will be there, but my own heaving sighs betrayed the goddamned charade and I was all too fucked for my own good.)

(CONTINUATION OF ACTUAL DELIVERED SPEECH. This is the height of masochism, the salt that is rubbed with sadistic glee to my self-inflicted wounds. This part, however, was never scripted, unrehearsed, a most damaging improvisation that I know I should be regretting)

ME: And, kung puwede lang, sana huwag mo na kong ine-entertain, sa kahit anong medium pa. Please, para sa akin, para di na ako magka-ganito ulit.

(ALL EXTEMPORANEOUS FROM THIS POINT ON)

HIM: Panong entertain?

ME: Ganito, ganitong nag-uusap tayo.

HIM: Yan ba talaga ang gusto mo? Oo o hindi?

ME: Hindi ko masabing Oo, hindi ko rin masabing hindi, pero sa palagay ko eh mas mabuti kong oo, para na rin sa akin. (I say this in retrospect - Eh?)

HIM: Okay.

(I remember these parts all too vividly. This was unnecessary, but it was the final disintegration I didn't know if I needed.)

The Six-Year Talk that I pursued, persuaded even, culminated in an exchange of Thank Yous and Im Sorrys at this point, and then we promptly hang up. I never heard from him since then, which was good, because it was the sick vision- mission behind this masochistic exercise.

August 11, 2010

13th of the Month for the Gay Guy

**I'm writing this as a sequel to something I wrote before and this explains my what I feel about the situation in full detail. Anyway, I'm getting sick and tired of what the two of us have in here, and talking about it twice already calls for a conclusion. And a pack of Marlboro Lights. And maybe even uninhibited sex with a complete stranger, but that's a different story. Anyway, I need to finish this once and for all, and I'm sealing the lid on the coffin with this one. And for the record, with what I'm feeling at the time I wrote this, it might as well be a Friday.


We agreed to not allow any extra-curricular motherfucking bullshit mush to take place in between us. Call me unlawful, but I'm already missing him the last time we talked eight hours ago.

See, here's the thing: I'm gay, he's straight. Parameters have been set to avoid getting uncomfortable with each other, and those preventive measures are working like a goddamned charm. It's sometimes unbelievable that we didn't have to talk face to face to understand that we have this lovely conversation taking place for a full ten months now. As a matter of fact, the communication's so terribly freeflowing that we find ourselves talking for four to five hours straight in the early hours of the morning with not as much as a clue that it's already taking that long. And yet, it's this developing ease of conversation that tends to raise ugly hell for the gay guy involved.

Maybe you're not understanding what I'm trying to say here, but it's just that the more we talk, the more interested I become, and the longer we talk, the more unbearable it appears. Recall that we talked about setting boundaries where they see fit, believe me they couldn't be any more appropriate in between a straight guy and a gay guy, but I have to admit that there suddenly are things which are less difficult than fulfilling my end of this agreement.

Compared to this, a root canal without the anaesthesia is singularly bearable. Twice all over.

I know it's fun and easy and full of all that creamy goodness, but his being straight is a disappointing loose end. And for that matter, make that two loose ends. Newsflash, he has a girlfriend, and in this equation, that is a BIG minus. See, I've always had the worst luck as a housebreaker. Thankfully, I've long since abandoned that post.

Yes, I'm glad that he's happy talking for hours on end. But when will I be happy, REAL happy, for a change?

I agreed to not let myself get a little with him on the understanding that it simply is the right and the only thing to do. It's such a beautiful correspondence that anything even remotely resembling a threat deserves to be eliminated as soon as possible. But how can that be be when sometimes, I just can't help myself?

Gay Gold Online

This was a letter I wrote to this guy I'm speaking with online for nine months now, and just two months ago, I found out that I was actually flirting with a straight guy. Well, it came as a big motherfuck of a shock to me, and and the first thing I had in mind was that I was barking at the wrong tree. I might as well terminate the correspondence for what it's worth.

I'm mighty impressionable by nature, and sometimes, that is a weakness.

By the way, I referred to him in the third person in this letter for the purposes of narration.

Wonald and myself are in good speaking terms again. He's straight, I'm gay, and maybe I'm just clearly stupid or whatnot, but I used to think we were flirting. It appeared to me, at least. What's even funnier was that I even overreacted to a situation brought about by my own reckless abandon.

Fortunately, I was able to pacify my frustration with a generous lamentation on my inexcusable lack of caution, and I apologized to myself, profusely, for almost allowing lightning to strike twice. Silly me, but I hope we're okay now, and I think we are. I even find it comfortable hearing him talk about his girlfriend, and thank God for that.

He's straight, damn straight, and the news is as comforting as a level-8 healing spell, to put it in RPG-talk.

I'm gay, he's straight, I'm a moth, and he's this enchanting flame on a dancing candle wick. But I'm a moth with a burned wing, so I'm smarter, and I know better than to get the other one singed. Straight people leave me flightless, and for the love of me, I'd rather be available crippled than to be permanently handicapped at all.

You do understand where I'm coming from, right?

Temptations are only interesting when they're delightfully attainable, but for the most part, the thrill of the hunt begins to fade as soon as the object of your attention withdraws all possible avenues of interest.

But hey, he is, for all the right reasons, a most fine gentleman, and he could never have stressed it enough himself. I still find it quite curious though, how two upbeat men of varying sexual orientations get to maintain a delightful correspondence online. And even more so now, when all polite restrictions, all in the name of common courtesy of course, have been established.

The question remaining is how wonderful will the spontaneity be in this kind of agreement? It might sound helplessly futile, but how do I let go of an understanding which aims to question my basic understanding of these matters. I have always led myself to believe that anyone you meet online is a potential love-interest, otherwise, they're simply a waste of my precious time. It's basically THAT black and white. But in this case, I have no other reason to cling on to, maybe that pleasant realization that there does exist an interesting alternative. Apparently, I've struck gold since no other gentle wisdom characteristic of this intelligent asshole would even bear to tolerate my gay and overflowing bitching.

But seriously, the question "where do we go from here," is also considerable, but that would imply terminating something as delightful for what it's worth. And I would like nothing better than to see how two bitching assholes of varying sexual orientations would tolerate communicating with each other on a semi-regular basis.

Basically, you're online, and you've pleasantly butchered all dwindling hope of an "extra-curricular friendship." You just love my honesty, don't you? Simply put, it's flirting online minus all the strict reasons with which flirting is defined. And though it was made so bleeding clear, I still go for it with a sheepish grin, wondering how in the world this will progress.