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 Could be Worse

I find it Sorely irritating when some bitch throws a pity party over the littlest shit. Really. There's just no end to it, there is always something to complain about, and I find that attitude most disgusting. So she meets Mr Right, but she can't get over his small dick and cries about it in a series of pathetic Facebook statuses. He gets a job that offers to double his last salary, but Human Resources draw the line on cross dressing. He meets his biological mother for the first time in twenty five years, imagine the drama, but he can't get over her cross eye What if it's hereditary, he asks. Oh motherfucker, please. 

It is bad enough that you are dead, isn't it. We will bury your ceaseless whining together. 

Things find a way of turning from bad to worse. They always do. And if you will allow me, my Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts, let me influence your perspective. We will bury your ceaseless whining together. I hope to hell and high water this exercise helps. 

Scenario #1: You're a forty year old gay hair dresser, and you found out that your 16-year old jowa (boy toy) has been cheating on you. 

It Could be Worse: He's cheating on you with the 42-year old hair sweeper in the same beauty parlor you work in. 
It Could be Worse: That 42-year old hair sweeper is also a gay male, and he's a few years older than you are. 
It Could be Worse: You're a forty year old gay hair dresser, and you don't have your own beauty parlor yet. 

Scenario #2: You're dead. 

It Could be Worse: They haven't located your body yet.
It Could be Worse: They have located your body, but it is decapitated. Your head is missing. 
It Could be Worse:  They have located your body, your head has been chopped off, and the only identification they have of you is your Very small penis. Oh the humiliation. But look at the bright side, Dearly Beloved. You're dead.
It Could be Worse:  Two people identified you by your very small penis. They are this forty year old hair dresser (who doesn't have his own parlor yet) and this forty two year old hair sweeper in the same beauty parlor. 

Scenario #3: You're a gay man, and you've never had sex with another man ever. 

It Could be Worse:  Your man boobs have hairy nipples, and you are morbidly obese. 
It Could be Worse:  You don't have a job, which is why you can't afford to have sex with another man ever. 
It Could be Worse:  You still live with your parents, and there is always someone home. You don't know where to have sex ever. 
It Could be Worse:  You're 56 years old.  

Scenario #4: You could be losing your job. 

It Could be Worse:  Your BFF gal pal friends forever "inner circle" Boss quit yesterday, I think. Oh, you didn't know?
It Could be Worse:  You don't have any profitable skills except for licking your Boss' boots and then kissing her ass. In that order, from the ground up. 
It Could be Worse:  Your new Boss loathes no-talent suck-ups like you. She's one of those rare people who hold skill and hard work in high esteem, so yeah, she hates you a whole fucking lot. 

Scenario #5: A good friend loaned you P500,000, but she died of some weird cancer.

It Could be Worse:  I'm kidding. She's healthier than you are, and you're still in debt. 

Scenario #6: Your boyfriend of six years left you. 

It Could be Worse:  He found you out. Your "second Facebook account" was hardly the most discrete thing, stupid. 
It Could be Worse:  His phone has 1GB of your dick pics. And each picture is smaller than the last. 
It Could be Worse:  His "My Cheating Ex -- Dick Pics" folder, the first one, has had 2,753 likes and 620 shares an hour ago. Let's see you Photoshop/Camera 360/Retrica your way out of this, pencil dick. 

Scenario #7: Your dick hurts when you urinate. 

It Could be Worse:  You're suddenly feverish in the afternoons. 
It Could be Worse:  There are traces of dried up discharge on your boxers. This is when you wake up in the morning, the discharge is yellowish, and it doesn't smell like wet dreams. Think infected wormy cheese. 
It Could be Worse:  The rashes on your palms make masturbating torturous. Most especially when you're hardly sustaining an erection recently. And the ejaculate feels like balled up barbed wire slowly shooting out of your dick's eye. 
It Could be Worse:  You've never had sex with another person ever. 
It Could be Worse:  You're 48. 
It Could be Worse:  It's a new kind of killer syphilis. And it's airborne. You have it now, and you will die a virgin. 

Scenario #8: You remember a handwritten letter given to you, in secret, by one of your most honest, closest intimates. You regard his opinion with an admiring shine on your eyes. He is a well-traveled, well-educated man of the world, a jack of all trades possessed of the regal confidence of a king. Sigh. You treasure that letter to this day, and its message resonates in your being. The four words in that letter, "You are stupid, friend," are worth their weight in gold. You keep it with you, as a rallying inspiration, for you have resolved to modify his opinion of you when you two meet again. 

It Could be Worse:  That letter was written two years ago. 
It Could be Worse:  You are still stupid. 
It Could be Worse:  You cannot find Noble Friend anywhere. He probably blocked you in Facebook or something. 

Scenario #9: You practiced your habitual tardiness to perfection, and you are now an instance away from summary dismissal. Anyway, your shift starts at 5am. It is 5:20 am now, and you're still hailing a cab. 

It Could be Worse:  It's raining harder than your last erection, and you don't have an umbrella. 
It Could be Worse:  They declared Storm Signal Number 3, and it's funny how you have no idea. Maybe they kept it a secret. 
It Could be Worse:  The reason why there are no taxis at 5:40 am is because several streets are closed down due to chest-high flash floods. It is the Third World, so what do you expect. It is one of those days when the taxi drivers have a valid excuse. You have better luck hailing an Ark. Meanwhile, it is now 6:05 am. 
It Could be Worse:  You are three hours late for work, haha, you are soaked to the tits, but you don't really have to report to work today. It turns out that they approved your leave for today, woo hoo, and you didn't have to go to work in the first place. But you did. 
It Could be Worse:  You are on leave, but you are stranded in the office. 
It Could be Worse:  See Scenario #4. 

Scenario #10: There is no Scenario #10. 

It Could be Worse:  You found this list rather amusing, and it Needs to have a Scenario #10 because you are beyond obsessive compulsive. This list cannot stop at Scenario #9. That is simply out of order. You are upset now because you are the peak of anal retentive. 
It Could be Worse:  Let me tell you the truth, Sweet Nuts. This list doesn't have a Scenario #10. Seriously. I wrote this shit, and that's final. There is no Scenario #10. 
It Could be Worse:  You are now white-hot seething in your OCD panties that this list doesn't have a Scenario #10. You now have this pressing need to let me know how much you hate me because I'm such a cock-blocking jerk. 
It Could be Worse:  I disabled the comments. 

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.