Pussy Kamagong is Dead

**I solemnly swear that I am not fucking with you, my Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts, when I confess to writing this in 2/17/2011. I am not making that up. I was scrolling through my vomitorium today, 06/03/2014, when I chanced upon this unsightly mess of boo-hoo bullshit. I remember moving on from Five-Years J when I wrote this, and I present it to you now, just now, for your consideration. 

I love you more than an orgasm, really I do, but haha, your consideration does not make a difference, my Dearly Beloved. It really doesn't. This happened during one of those moments we all had at one stupid point or another, when you are wobbling drunk with self pity, when you are at your ugliest vulnerable, when you... oh fuck, to hell with that. To begin with, I hardly knew 
the man I fell in love with. But in the end, I knew him well, far too well, for he was the spastic mongoloid motherfucker who broke my heart. 

"He was the spastic mongoloid motherfucker who broke my heart." That shit will look golden in my vomitorium. And that pretty much explains why The Award of Best Dramatic Whatever in a Blog Post Role goes to what squeamish blech you will be reading now. 

(BEGIN DRAMA. DARKEN ROOM. CUE VIOLINS. CUE SPOTLIGHT. FAINT SMELL OF FART.)


It used to be that I write nice. I used to write laughter, and I used to write inspiration, and I used to write agreements, and I used to write goodness. I used to write love, and I used to write sunshine, and I used to write the full moon in its most radiant glory. I used to write friendship, and I used to write laughter, and I used to write applause, and I used to write admiration. I used to write love, and I used to write those blessed ejaculations, and I used to write the saving grace that we all needed at the most opportune time. But that writing has weakened, and that has, by and by, succumbed to a stroke, and it has lost its inspiration with all those tears I shed.  

I am suddenly at a loss for words, my words, the kind of words that I collect and employ with such darling endearment. That, however, didn't stop me from going back to the one release that, like masturbation, addresses my very specific urges. 

I still write. But I suppose I write different now, and my words paint a flowerless picture. I now write cold fire, and my words burn with a frozen heat that is both lifeless and consuming. I now write toxicity, and every stroke of my pen is laced with enough poison to secretly kill a dear, dear friend. I now write tears, and my written ideas are barren of smiles and good hope. I now write betrayal, and I detail its consequences with terrifying enthusiasm. I now write that heavy feeling of a heart that needs to cry, but can't, because it is severely dehydrated. 

That is assuming that I can still write. Two of my last posts are re-posts. And now I give you this excuse for murder.  

I used to think that I have cried enough. But crying never tolerated this residual hurt, and so it grew tired of me and resigned from its office. I can't cry again if I tried, and believe me I did because I had plenty of amazing chances, but I was betrayed by that saving grace. I think I have moved on, but I haven't crawled enough, so I'm still a mere feet away from the hurt that I was trying to get away from.  

I was just making that up. You can say that I am fucking with you, my darling punk reader. I have indeed moved on, to a dead certainty, but something changed in me. I write, no, I stab that deathly white emptiness with an unbridled lack of passion. I cannot assume to call it spiritless, because it is now possessed of this daring influence that has yielded to such unpleasant persuasions. I choke that pen, that knife, with murderous intent, and my stabbing is both livid and dead at the same time. 

This kind of writing killed my Pussy Kamagong. 

2/17/2011


(Rapid burial in earth is recommended for this sort of self-defeating, unappreciated pile of drama. Fuck, I should be well beyond this shallow drivel at my age, really.)

Shove It

**I get your message. "Life is beautiful now that I'm dying." But do not tell me how to live my life. I am careful. Shut up and pray for your health. 




I know a sexually promiscuous somebody who is now HIV positive. And his suddenly messianic take on life, replete with Jesus talk and bible walk, is alarming for somebody who was as sexually prolific as he was careless. I honestly don't get it. You fucked around with everybody, hit the HIV Jackpot, and now you're praying for everyone? 

Image from davidmcelroy.org

I have a message for you, Sir. And it will not surprise me if you think you should have heard this before, but haven't. You are lucky to have friends who will let you hear what you want to hear. It is not their fault that they are too polite or too reserved or too careful. I could use friends like them when, like you, I should find myself helpless in my sickbed. But anyway. 

You are living what is left of your thin-ice life on borrowed time. You are, at best, a cautionary tale. That's what you are. Please quit your "God is Good" message or that "Life is Awesome" mantra you are now affixing to everything you are saying. We get it. We know it. And we will enjoy more of it, too, because we will continue to learn from your being HIV positive. We will not do the things that you did, Sir. Or if we did, we will be very careful. We will live longer. 

Perhaps there is something I am missing. I am aware of that. I could mention it, but I will not, because my heart is too outraged by your Unlikely Sunshine Show. Your appeal to sympathy is dead to me, Sir. You are diagnosed with HIV before you were a Bastion of Optimism. That's what I am seeing, and I am sorry if I have to say that. 

Like I said, I know you fucked around. It is not a dirty needle, or some unsupervised blood transfusion. You fucked around. You sucked every hard dick that stared you in between the eyes before barebacking you with complete abandon. So fuck you. Shove your Gospel in your ass much like that unprotected cock that gave you HIV. 

And I am sorry, too, that you have HIV. I am sorry if I sound insensitive and could use some HIV myself if only to see things your way. I am sorry for a lot of things that you could be enjoying now but you can't because your maintenance medication and your physical tests and your xrays and what have yous take up most of your energy. I am sorry if I don't get it or if I don't get you, but it bothers me. I'm sorry if I should sound like a bad slogan (Being HIV positive brings out the positivity in you!). I'm sorry if I see through your appeal to sympathy or if you think I got it all wrong. I'm sorry if I think differently. 

I don't mean to sound apologetic. I was kidding. 

A Rape Story (Part 1)

**What you are about to read is wrongfully ripped off of the filthy pages of a friend's diary. I have nothing, absolutely nothing to do with the material that you may or may not choose to read. He got the fucking. I did the copying. We are talking rape here. You will, of course, choose to read it. And I am posting it here for your pleasure. 

Meanwhile, I am enjoying shutting you guys off with the disabled comments. I do not mean to be a stuck up bitch, oh hell no darling, but it saves me the goddamn trouble of having to explain why this post comes in two installations. 

Picture from the Hannington blog

Rape, to somebody with the shining morals and virtues of, say, a lump of charcoal is nothing more than getting sodomized without your explicit permission. That, there, is the size of the matter, the long and short of it, the gist and measure of this raping business. Oftentimes, the same libertine (or victim) may admit to liking the carnal trespassing altogether. Most especially when he has surrendered to him being un-rape-able (oh yeah, look at me now). 

My lover raped me this morning. I don't think he was as drunk as I guessed he was on account of he had the necessary strength to pin me down and then fuck me in the ass until he came. Ejaculation takes some time, most especially when the body is paralyzed with alcohol. But he went at it until he succeeded in his invasive mission. It took him about seven minutes, tops. 

We were drinking eight hours earlier that evening; we went through a box of the local brandy. A box of the local brandy is loaded with twelve one-liter bottles laced with 32% alcohol each. Potent, sure, but we were killing it with a thousand friends; it was four in the morning before anyone noticed. Before anyone Sober noticed. Our population of alcoholics was reduced to six. And this count included my lover, whose head was already in a 20 degree angle towards his next shot of fire water. 

We were home thirty minutes later. 

(Part Two is next week. I'm tired of long posts.)

Beauty Queen Teeth

I was smoking in front of TGIF while waiting for the mall to open when I noticed this beautiful face to my left. His perfectly blushed cheeks were radiant as they supported this killer pair of black shades. His lips were as purple as a bad bruise, his nose delicate and pointy like those of a little girl. His thin frame and wide shoulders were draped in this black number that had yellow streaks all over. His sense of fashion can use a little indoctrination, but his face was warm and friendly as it was comely, so I talked to him.

I gave him a warm smile; he was looking at me anyway. "Hi, ako pala si Momel." And he was like, "Hi, I'm Maimai," in that familiar high pitched voice that's as close as one gets to friendly strangulation. Again, Maimai here was beautiful, so I had to ask, "Contesera?" Contesera, or Beauconera, is a beauty pageant regular. And he said, "Dati. I used to, and I've been all around. Kung saan saan..." I butted in because I can't help it, "Taray, nationwide?" He didn't seem to notice, so he went on uninterrupted. "... pero thirty na ako. Matanda na. Graduate na ko dian." And then he gave me one of those obviously practiced smiles that conteseras shine with. And then Maimai's pretty stopped dead in its tracks.

He flashed this set of Very yellow teeth.

I am in my thirties myself, and I've seen a lot of yellow teeth, but seriously, Maimai's stains are the oddest. There's this heavy concentration of that school bus yellow on his upper row.  Which is the only teeth a beauty queen usually displays, and it rested on his lower bruise-purple lips. However, the yellow is darker, heavier even, on his two front teeth. Remember that funny bit where you stick chewed gum on your two front teeth? And then you smile, and the people who see it laugh in surprise because it's hilarious as shit? Because it's a joke? Far unlike Beauty Queen Maimai's golden treasure here?

I breathed a sigh of relief in secret; I was about two feet away from him. Anything closer, like within smelling range of his breath, and I could be spending my lunch hour with an oxygen tank. No, wait, smelling salts, strong ammonia, and then an oxygen tank. I could be paralyzed too, sure, if I didn't keep to my personal space. Anyway, I'm not saying that he's got dragon's breath. I'm not saying he's got killer halitosis. You know what? I'm sorry. There. I'm sorry if I jumped to conclusions. I apologize. So allow me to say this, and I'm saying this from the bottom of my heart: I'm sure, no, I know that beneath all that poorly maintained teeth, beneath all that yellow, beneath all that dental profanity... is just really stinky breath.

So Maimai here graduated from gay beauty contests because he says he's gotten old. Maybe it's high time for him to enroll in som Dental Hygiene School. You see, the same thing goes for old dogs and "old" fags. They could sure learn some new tricks. Maimai here can learn to brush his teeth. Good girl.

A Cumshot of Sadness

The thirties are a bracing time for any homosexual guy. Most everybody else you know, at least the straight ones, are already married and are starting their own families. These days, they are usually giving you death by vomiting with each hourly update of their babies' uncute antics. You then consider losing your Facebook account.

I am bitter. Your kids are hella pretty. For real. Having said that, let's move along.

They look happy, though, and they feel happy, and you know it. You can see it in how their smiles match that familiar twinkle in their eyes. You imagined you had that twinkle before, but after two sharply disappointing relationships, you realize now that you are just faking it all this time. Everybody else is getting married, and you are still praying. But then, surviving all that deception toughened you up a lot, so you are a little less inclined to give a shit. You are now praying less.

I am bitter. I love you, and thank you for kissing me twice on the forehead while I'm getting that arm tattoo. I will continue loving you in spite of whatever. Having said that, let's move along.








I mean it, homo. You are a gay guy in your thirties. Move along. You should know better than to dwell... there is a reason why it's a cumshot's measure of sadness.

Presenting Your Gay Nine-Ball Champion

**It's nice to look back sometimes.

Saturday, September 10, 2005 (3:30 AM, Doro's Place)

I am my own inspiration. Ladies and gentlemen, the local pool hall now has a new nine ball queen. You ever saw a gay guy champion a nine ball tournament? You ever saw a gay guy best 44 straight males in a game that's dominated by straight men? You ever saw a gay guy emerge victorious in a game that's not usually championed by homosexuals? Exactly. I saw all that in myself, and that was a mighty proud vision if you ask me.

It was a long twelve hours of nine ball pool. I can't say that it was an easy field since some of the fiercest competitors I've played with are in the roster. There were shotmakers who made it clear that they were very skillful while making practice shots before the tournament. There were players who intimidated without having to wield a cuestick. As a matter of fact, the person who taught me how to play good pool also registered for the same tournament, the same tournament I won. I beat them. I beat them all, and though I was drop dead tired beyond description, I was still waving my pool cue at the end of the day. And everybody was congratulating me at the end of the day, too.

Three years ago, in 2002, I had no idea that I'd be a nine-ball champion. Back then, I was so thoroughly clueless with the game, I wouldn't know a sidepocket from a hole in the ground. Before learning the game, I had the impression that a tiririt (bridge) was a playful reference to a guy with a small penis. I was so foreign to the game that the terms doblete (bank shot), sargo (break), and kumpiyansa (pool-wise confidence) were more than Greek to me. They were ngongo Greek spoken by a retard with a harelip. I was so lame with the game that my friends waited in turns playing with me since they don't mind playing for free anyway. I always ended up paying for the game.

But then, I started taking an interest in the game. For some reason, I felt that billiards was a sport that I wouldn't mind getting dirty with. It had a certain suave-ness which appealed to my natural suave-ity (ha haa, lack of words, ain't it a bitch?), and I knew I had to go for it. Or at least die in the process of trying. So I started hanging out in the local pool hall, watched how the real players danced with their cuesticks, took down notes, and I rolled up my sleeves. In the long run, I became a spotter (racked balls up), and I started quoting (refereeing) for money games (pustahan). I watched and learned, and I began to understand how it is played. I then progressed to becoming in-hall (harang), and I played against people with no one to shoot pool with. I used to keep track of my scores and my win-loss average. I started okay with an average of three wins in five or seven in ten, but I started looking good when I started averaging with eight in ten.

Eventually, I started playing money games myself, but I got tired of it not because of the plain suckiness of losing. I quit gambling because they just wouldn't pay up. But I continued with my ongoing training since, like any sport, it gets more exciting the more you get better at it. I got involved with my playing group, and I'd go all around Pasig watching big time money matches just to feel the intensity of such competitions. It was terribly inspiring, and it made me want to have my own cuestick.

My first cuestick was this common looking wand which produced brilliant miracles. There's this running joke with pool players that they're only as good as the stick they're playing. And there's a good reason why it's a joke. See, I'm playing good on a secondhand stick, and I loved it like it was an extension of my arm. It served me good for two years until it was donated to the pool hall. I then graduated to a prettier maple stick which went on to help me win my first pool championship. That's nothing more than a striking coincidence. It is true that I won with a better looking wand, but I kept and improved on the same skills that I learned with my first cuestick. If I were to acknowledge my victory with my prettier cuestick, then I might as well start claiming that a writer's as good as his pen. Or that a referee's as good as his counting skills.

I'm not world class, and I'm not good enough to be playing in TV. There's a whole army of better pool players out there who can easily beat me with one hand tied behind their back. I may have won my first tournament, but I'm not good enough to go on ahead and brag. But then, I still won my first tournament, and if anything, that's the best validation I could ask for. I get to be this accomplished in one of my better passions, and nothing, for the time being, could be as remarkable. Come to think of it, it's not that bad. I am better than myself three years ago, and I am loving the game with as much interest as I had the first time I met with it.

See, this was the only love affair I've had that actually did me good. I now know how it feels like to champion a pool tournament. I've never been this awesome.

I stopped playing when I fell in love and lived in with J. I still keep at it, from time to time, and I still remember how fierce I used to be.

Blood For Lube. Or Fagging Up Twilight

**Jessica Zafra held this contest in her blog one time, and she had her readers make up a sex scene for Stephanie Meyer's Twilight. Dull series. Bright idea. We were allowed to use any character for our submissions, and so you probably have an idea how that went. Her gay readers, including yours truly, were all too relentless with their entries. It resulted in a cornucopia of bestiality, necrophilia and incest that had most of us hard in a heartbeat.

The winning entry gets a Twilight box set, and it went to this guy, Root, who submitted an upbeat entry written in Tagalog. My submission had Emmett, Edward, and Jacob in this fantastical menage-a-trois, and here's how it went.

Emmett’s feet were silent as he walked along these hollow walls that led to the manor’s lower chambers. The night was hot with the warmth from these torches, the air was stale in between these brick walls, and he was just too eager to get The Job done. He allowed himself to grin as he recalled Jacob’s capture. That idiot dog boy didn’t know what hit him; that wine looked far too engaging, of course it should, that’s the point, and the dog indulged. Hell, he’d probably take a sip from the same cup himself, only if he didn’t drink with dogs, and, more importantly, if he didn’t know it was drugged.

Stupid werewolf. Stupid peace wine. Stupid interrogation. He didn’t know why he had to take part in this inquiry, it’s not like he raised a hand in participation. Edward should be able to extract the information they need, he alone should suffice and make quick work of the dog boy. He has to assist the younger Cullen in the process. But what harm can a sedated werewolf do?

He doesn’t get it. But he’s a few feet away from the last door on the right, that’s the holding chamber, so he might as well get on with it and see where it goes. The silence, however, was becoming all too pronounced at this point. It was altogether uncommon for he was looking forward to coercive threats, maybe some regulated torment. Controlled harassment at the very least, but there was nothing. Curiosity hurried him to that slight crack on the door.

What he witnessed caught him entirely by surprise. He half-expected the werewolf to be drowsy with the drugged wine, shackled in chains to better maneuver the investigation they have planned. But bathing in what little moonlight the barred windows allowed was Edward’s naked, glistening paleness. The vampire was standing with his back towards Emmett, his broad shoulders hunched, his firm, lean arms stretched downwards to support that slow forward thrust he’s developing with his muscular behind.

He never knew why, but he’s always allowed himself to imagine how a naked Edward Cullen will look like. Not that there’s anything wrong with this fantasy; they are brothers, yes, but that entitlement wasn’t biological. No, not at all, none of them Cullens are for that matter. A last name and puncture marks on the neck, that’s what they have in common, maybe superhuman strength and speed too. Actual familial ties are out of the question, which is why he’s letting his fantasies linger.

He couldn’t help but feel offended now that his wet dreams are finally coming to life, Not because he’s looking at his non-biological brother in the buff, but because somebody else beat him to it. On Edward’s naked ass were hands, it’s fingers gripped in selfish possession. It was Jacob’s. The wolf man’s face was concealed by Edward’s steadily lunging hips, but it’s hands kept their grip. Edward’s unstable gyrations occasion a glimpse of Jacob’s handsome face: his eyes shut in concentration, his lips enveloping Edward’s manhood, his cheeks bulging in sexual greed. Emmett detected an occasional muffled choke issuing from Jacob, and that drove him mad with longing.

To Emmett, that distant gagging was a cry for help, for back up perhaps. Maybe even reinforcements, but that won’t work. He wanted Edward on his own, and how he’d kill to be in Jacob’s place. How he’d kill Jacob to be in his place! But there wasn’t a hint of exhaustion in Jacob’s efforts because he’s beginning to tighten his grip on Edward’s behind. He’s controlling Edward’s gyrations now, pushing the vampire deeper into him, Edward’s hips alternating in between slow circular motions and steady forward lunges that are becoming all the more violent.

It was a sight well beyond imagining. It was a dream punctuated by Edward’s prolonged moaning with each violent thrust. Jacob locking Edward down with the will of his hands alone was altogether too severe for Emmett, and the movement on the vampire’s hips, those slow gyrations and sudden lunges, made him all the more feverish with desire. And what makes it all the more intense was that Emmett’s manhood was responding to this most persuasive display. He then knew he wasn’t dreaming. His throbbing erection made that clear.

Emmett’s tongue moved across his lips as closed his eyes in a spontaneous mixture of pleasure and jealous frustration. He knew he was losing control of his own hands to sexual surrender; he’s naked himself without him knowing it. He abandoned all caution in his own erotic darkness as he began to pleasure himself, his hands moving up, and then down, in that familiar stroke that was beginning to take haste. Ahhh, the rapture! He allowed his eyes to open, to feast itself once more in Edward’s naked paleness. He needs to take it all in to reinforce a mental picture that may not happen again.

He opened his eyes, and Edward was looking back at him. The vampire was grinning, his teeth displaying an invitation as he was maintaining that lascivious dance.

**I’ll stop here before this escalates to an anal scene where Edward bites his own hand so he can use his blood as lube.

My Gaydar Kicks Your Gaydar's Ass. And It Has WiFi.

**This isn't about taking care of your gaydar, but feel free to write about it in your own time. Oh, my friend doesn't look nowhere near like the picture I used.

I have this friend I call Horsefrog, and he just recently came out of the closet earlier this year. So we were having an argument in the cab, this newly out friend of mine, and we were trying to determine this other guy's sexual orientation. I was resolute, "Hindi bakla yun noh! (No, he's not gay) ." Horsefrog, on the other hand, was all too keen on the contradiction, "Hindi, bakla talaga yun! (Yes, he's gay!)"

I'm not having none of this, and so I was like:

"Paano mo naman nasabing hindi siya bakla, eh kung ikaw nga last year hindi mo alam na bakla ka? (How can you tell he's not gay, when you didn't know you were gay this time last year?)"

And that is how Horsefrog exploded in a mouthful of expletives.

Picture taken from The Work of Josh Culberson.

Suck on This! (A Love Story)

**Ahh, love is in the air!

It was a scene taken out of a Danielle Steele bestseller: two lovers locked in a passionate embrace, their tears washed away by a gentle downpour of rain. Time stops as their wet bodies warp tighter, his lips not letting go of his ladyboy lover as they are completely lost to the busy pedestrian hustle surrounding them. He is totally mindless of the occasionally mockery of outraged passers by. He will be proposing to him later this week.

Or maybe he already did, on account of I schedule my posts way ahead of time.

I'd like to congratulate my friend Bita (Ramil on his passport) for having one thing that the rest of us (straight or otherwise) can only dream of and write poems about and get totally frustrated over on the whole in this lifetime: a marriage proposal from the love of his life. So Geoff, I don't know you much, but please keep him happy, will you? And thanks for proving to us that love is blind to the false eyelashes, heavy concealer and false boobs.

A Repost from Christmas of 2004

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.

This post, however obscure, had a comment.

Quotes From To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar

**This is my favorite gay film; I taught myself to snap in a circle because I believe that I am the poor man's Noxeema Jackson. That's Wesley Snipes in drag, case you didn't know, and he was so totally super fierce with the false eyelashes and the feather boa. Here are some quotes from this fantastic wealth of gay wisdom. Enjoy!

Noxeema Jackson

* Little latin boy in drag, why are you crying?
* ...like the Miami Sound Machine just exploded all over you.
o when asked 'How do I look?' by Chi-Chi.
* I ain't drivin' you no more, Miss Daisy!
* Why do I feel like I'm in the Macy's Day Parade?
* Your mother.
* Look, that child is latin. You don't want to gettin mixed up in all that latin mess. She might turn out to be a sandinista or something.
* I do not do the bus. You obviously have me mistaken for Miss Rosa Parks.
* Look at her, runnin' like she runnin' across the border.
* Oh no girlfriend, did you just do a U-ie?
* When a straight man puts on a dress and goes on a sexual kick he is a transvestite. When a man is a woman trapped in a man's body and has a little operation he is a Transsexual. When a gay man has way too much fashion sense for one gender he is a drag queen. And when a tired little Latin boy puts on a dress, he is simply a boy in a dress!
* Check yourself Loretta, before you wreck yourself!
* If you want to let them know that there is steak for dinner, you got to let them hear it sizzle!


Chi-Chi Rodriguez

* The seats are like butter!
* We were so poor my parents married for the rice.
* I'm a princess! P to the R to the N to the cess!
* When Noxema asks 'Why do I feel like I'm in the Macy's Day Parade?'
* Cause you're as big as a float.
* I didn’t ask to come on this trip, did I? No, I don’t think so! Did I ask for you to be making me over, jump through all kinds of hoops like some kind of circus poodle? No, I don’t think so! And do I want to go to jail because of some cop killer? No, I don’t think so! So as soon as we get to the next town, I’m jumping on the first man and I’m riding him all the way to New York City and away from you two puckered up stuck up puntas because this trip sucks! It sucks!
* Vida, you know, you're not a queen because you rule people, or you sit on a throne, baby. You're a queen because you couldn't cut it as a man so you had to put on a dress, that's why.
* I decly ! ( I declare! )
* I love rough necks, tell me if I was your bread would you be my butter.
* Uptight cellulite dinosaur fossil face white honky cracker witch!
* lord grant me the serenity to accept that im am im just a boy in a dress and the courage to change with the fashions and the wisdom to know the difference
* I'm the latina Marilyn Monroe. I've got more legs than a bucket of chicken!


Vida Boheme

* Internal combustion, the ultimate accessory.
* What in gay hell?
* We are three young career girls...
* Now shes going to get herself kidnapped by some mountain man and we will have to go rescue her!
* Operation Decorator Storm...
* That's possibly-dead Sheriff Dullard!
* (In normal male voice) Get your hand off my DICK, buddy!

Thanks to WikiQuotes.
And who in the world is Julie Newmar?
And here's a list of my other favorite movies!

He Finally Came Out of His Closet

**I'm not writing this to offend you, though. Cheers to you.

It was one of those hand me down stories, the "a friend of a friend told me" sort. But, like most scandals are, it never lost its appeal. One of my friends, after twenty something years, admitted to his being gay. Thing is, he requested to have his confession kept in complete discretion as his admission was still a blood compact short of a top military secret. It was like he decided he was gay, but he's still thinking about it.

This doesn't mean that its a completely retractable confession. For real. You don't come out of the closet, and then wish you can come back into hiding. You might not know it, but when you say you're gay, you are saying it with the finality of a heart attack. Contrary to popular (make believe) belief, there's no gray area to it. That's a gay myth, and whether you like it or not, your admission's as flaming pink as it gets. You can't be gay and "discretely bisexual" about it; that's as grammatically impossible as a double dead chicken.

But then again, don't mind what I just said. Bullshitting is my element, and I'm totally in character. To tell you the truth, my baptism of fire was no more comfortable, my induction was really an awful bother, and I will be writing about it soon. I get it, and I understand; you're not completely prepared to shed your heterosexual shell. I'm not in no authority to tell you how gay you should be after your admission. I'm not the gay police. That's Jovit Moya.

I've known him for some twenty something years, and I was right all along. He was always Chun Li or Storm whenever we had those play fights as kids, and that lingering memory had this steadfast persuasion on my judgment. I tell you now that his confession was a perfect I told you so moment. And, being so, I was never offended by the fact that I missed the confession straight from the horse's mouth. I would have made fun of his relief anyway. I mean, that's how I play with my grown up gay friends.

Related Links:
Who in fucking gay hell is Jovit Moya? (Taglish)
Seriously, who in fucking gay hell is this faggot Jovit Moya?

I Give Myself Gifts on Christmas

I give myself gifts on Christmas. And yes, because I'm still going for the element of surprise, I wrap them presents until they're as pretty as summer. At least I'm sure that there's something to look forward to, some wonderful souvenir that will at least try to elicit a look of pleasant surprise, however practiced, come Christmas Eve.

I do this because I hate crappy gifts.

I AM buying the fancy idea poor people say a lot about thoughts counting more than the gift itself on account of I do tend to rain on somebody's Christmas day parade. On purpose. Most especially if I suspect that person to have wrapped this 10-piece shoe horn set with my name on it. Or if this other person gave me this monogrammed towel with the letters C A on it. Which is either a bad choice for a gift on account of my initials are R T. Or it might be a very cruel joke which meant the towel belongs to some Crazy Asshole.

But, like the good sport that I am, I always receive such presents with a fake smile. Or a straight face. Whichever is more appropriate.

The fake science that is Gift Shopping's pretty much hit-and-miss. You miss all the time, unless of course you're armed with a detail-specific wish list. Underscore specific since "porn," on its own, won't cut it if you get your kicks jacking off to gay male porn only to receive three volumes of heavy lesbian loving sea games.

Gay Beauty Contests

Beauty pageants have always been a staple in Philippine comedy. Or on any type of comedy, for that matter, as long as the stupid catches you off guard.

This is no exception. I watched this local Gay Beauty Contest this one time last week, and it was remarkable for a lot of reasons. And here are some of those reasons.

HOST: Wow, Candidate Number One, you are so very tall! What's your height?
Gay Candidate #1: I'm 5'9.
HOST: That's very tall! I'm 5'11, and it's very hard for me to be tall. So, is it very hard for you too?
Gay Candidate #1: Yes, it's very hard for me too.

I didn't get it. I'm 5'10 myself and it's not so hard, see?

HOST: Candidate Number Four, your question is, What is your greatest fear?
Gay Candidate #4: Ladies and gentlemen, that's a very good question. And to answer that question, I must say that, in all honesty, my greatest fear is blushing. Because if I blush, then that means I'm afraid. And that's why its my greatest fear. Thank you.

Anyway, that host sports a very fake, trying hard English accent a la call-center-agent-in-training, maintains that Candidates #16, #18, and #23 all love to watch TV during their spare times, and calls it the swimswear competition.

That was a long night. Out of twenty four candidates, we were treated to three Angel Locsins, three Katrina Halilis, four Marian Riveras, and one Black Darna. Much like a gay 12 Days of Christmas.

My Feminine Side is Very Sensitive

My nipples are my only feminine side. Everything else is gayer than pink leather pants.

Call it erogenous or downright plain-as-hell kinky, but you see, things just don't get any clearer than that.

Of course, you must understand that this is big coming from an admittedly gay guy so out of the closet. No, not my nipples. This admission, that is, and this begins to grow steadily lamer as it reveals itself to be a badly punchlined one-liner.

And yes, for that matter, I still keep in touch with my feminine side. Most especially during those kinkier alone moments.

Bashing Homophobes

**Here's what I wrote as a response to this gay bashing faggot doing business in a gay thread. In a gay oriented website. On a very gay day, I take it.

You know what your problem is? You're much too concerned with what other people think.

I'm thinking that your life revolves around satisfying other people's perception of you. And that is just dull. And pointless. And totally defines a certain "lack of character" specific to gutless invertebrates like yourself. Are you telling me that you're prioritizing the satisfaction of other people as opposed to your own personal gratification. Ain't that dull?

You probably invented this term. And I wish you hell for whatever it's worth.

You're gay and you know it. How old are you anyway? Are you telling me that you're going to live under the comfort of your gay-bashing shell for the rest of your life? That sucks. You're probably going to be one of those gay guys who gets married not because they want to but because they have to. For show. And we're talking about the same gay guys who commit to their homosexuality in the long run, therefore leaving an unhappy wife and a family in disorder. We're talking about the same gay guys who feel like they've been missing out on all this cocksucking gay goodness since they were too busy bashing faggots in their youth. We're talking about you.

You hate gay people with the balls to admit to their sexuality, and yet, simultaneously, you're praying for total acceptance of the third sex here in our country? Don't you think you're wishing for too much? And why in gay hell would you want to have open-mindedness towards homosexuality? Isn't that the same luxury most gay guys are praying for with religious discipline?

Of course.

Your posts are aimless. You're jumping from one argument to another. No, scratch that, you're not jumping, you're "hopping" on account of you seem to be changing your mind in a heartbeat. You're a fickle-minded closet queen easily swayed by the next argument that everybody seems to be agreeing upon. But it makes perfect sense. You know why? Because you're much too concerned with what other people think.

You get a life, get yourself a cock to suck, and tell me you didn't enjoy it.

Growing Up Gay Part 1: Another Gay Baby

I was crying when I was born because I knew right there and then that I was born with the wrong sexual organ.

I endured nine months of conception, and I was praying for a vagina all that time. So you would imagine my horror when I found out that somebody made a mistake and gave me a dick on my birthday. The doctor didn't have to slap my ass to make me cry. I looked down at my pea-sized penis, realized that THIS is final, and I cried. That hateful man in white robes then pronounced "It's a boy," and I cried even harder in protest. It was the greatest insult to injury. It was salt to my wounds. I cried like the girl I was supposed to be, but those three words pretty much settled things for me. So I bawled. I remember having no real words back then, but I was sure I was crying expletives in baby talk. Maybe even gay lingo in baby talk, but I was real pissed just the same

Maybe I was trying to delay my actual childbirth for another two months since I was hoping for an exciting change of plans. Tough luck. I was, I mean "am" born male, and I'm going to have to go through gayness in baby steps.

I remember this kid in kindergarten. You know how kids are, and how terribly inquisitive and excited they get when they're trying to register some new piece of information. Well, he wants to show us his dick. Maybe he found out there's something in between his legs and he's just so terribly happy about having something to masturbate. Yup, this little horndog's more than eager to flash his weenie to his classmates in kindergarten. And he did.

I remember actually asking him for an encore later that same day. Like that kid, I was terribly inquisitive and excited because I'm trying to register some new piece of information. But if anything, that served to validate the total gayness that is Momel. It is a validation since I knew I was gay way before that incident in kindergarten. I knew that even as a sperm cell, I was trying to catch the male egg cells.

Growing Up Gay Part 2: My Father

I don't know if I'm a lucky princess, but my childhood days were nothing traumatic for a growing Maximo Oliveros like myself. I didn't experience no major conflict with my father, but I remember this one time in grade six. I was studying in an exclusive all-boys school back then, and I remember writing this certain classmate a "letter." It wasn't the type of letter you'd give to a friend, and it's contents were most certainly nothing that a guy would write to another guy.

You have no freaking idea how my father raised hell for me when he found that letter sitting in his drawing table.

I remember playing something downstairs. I think it was chess, but my playtime was definitely interrupted all the same. I heard this thundering roar resonating with an obvious fury, and I became very very afraid for some reason. That voice bellowed "Rommel!" in it's righteous indignation. My name echoed throughout the first floor of our little house.

It had this peculiar effect on me. I don't know what it's called, but it must be the kind of fear that a gay kid goes through when his little queer secret's a few seconds away from discovery.

My baptism of fire into the gay world, my rite of passage certainly was not of the sexual nature. It was this recollection of myself, slowly approaching my enraged father holding that letter in his hands. He was not trembling in fury, but his eyes were those of a Gorgon. I stood still as stone in my tracks as he watched me approach.

He needed an explanation. I fabricated one in my gay confusion and terror. He knew I was lying. I ran. Literally. I stormed down the stairs and out of the house as fast as my queer legs would carry me, and I knew without turning back that my father was in hot pursuit. He was running after me only in his briefs, but that didn't stop him from catching me and grabbing me by the wrist.

He took me back home, but all I can remember, to my greatest relief, was him telling me to never run away again. He never raised in hands in punishment. He never talked about it again. But the rest, on the contrary, wasn't peaceful history at all. It was fucking ironic at the very least.

I never had no idea that the judgment I never received from my father was bestowed by these outsiders, these cretins with one track minds. Maybe I was lucky because I didn't have to endure any sort of punishment from my father, but then I had to suffer judgment from the rest of the world.

The universe has a sick sense of humor, doesn't it?

You know how those old school Jews were stoned to death in the Old Testament? There were no actual rocks for me, but I was heavily punished with character attacks. Although I was physically unharmed with this offensive, I had to nurse emotional scars.

Words are powerful bullets. They put holes in your heart.

I grew up realizing that my father never talked about that incident again because his brain wasn't nearly as small as these gay-bashing sons of bitches. These motherfucking bigots unknowingly shaped my developing mind, and I grew to hold these morons in contempt.

I still do.

Growing Up Gay Part 3: Look at Me Now!

I grew up hating prejudice. I used to ran away from it when I was a kid channeling Maximo Oliveros. I don't know why I hated it but something about other people's judgment makes me caustic at the very least. And what makes it worse is that these insults are just everywhere. Hell, even the most educated fool harbors either fear or prejudice towards my brethren, er, sister-en.

There's just no running away from it.

So I started looking at the gay guy they're bashing. There's no magic mirrors for me, but it was an extremely purposeful process of looking at myself. Let me see: I like men and women as friends, but I prefer to get past friendships with men and escalate these to something better. I walk funny because I choose to, and I have enough finger-snapping attitude for two genders. I sashay to Madonna, snap my fingers to Destiny's Child, and subscribe to Regine's vocal range. I don't cross-dress, but, at the very least, white belts are a dangerous fashion statement. And I know that you don't wear orange blush if your complexion's totally evened-out. And that's factoring in the color of your asshole.

Hell, these stupid buttcracks DO have a point. That clearly wasn't some straight guy's personal evaluation. I am gay, and they're just stating the obvious. But that's a pretty stupid thing for an already stupid guy to do. You know, state the obvious. Might as well discuss the weather, or the time, or the calendar date.

Anyway...

Yes, I am gay and nothing's stopping that. The most other people can do is talk about it, but I've grown to understand that prejudice is merely a part of any homosexual's diet. So I learned to eat it and shit it and move on. There's no stopping it since these imbeciles are everywhere. There's no justifying my homosexuality because, like I mentioned, these idiots do have a valid argument. I'm gay and that's all there is to it.

But come to think of it, that's not a very bad thing. That gay thing. Not at all. First, I get to channel the best qualities of both sexes. I get to feel like a woman minus childbirth, stuffy pantyliners, and boobs. I get to keep my penis because of my genetic make up. And what naturally born male horndog, regardless of his sexual orientation, knows nothing of the satisfaction brought about by his "nota?"

Second, being gay gives me all the right to hang out with my equally gay or gayer friends, and what fool knows nothing about how funny a gay guy can get? I get to laugh more maybe because I'm surrounding myself with funnier people. It's either that or because I'm looking at the world in very pink glasses. That makes things all the whole lot funnier because for some reason, these pink glasses trigger some part of the brain which makes making fun (of other people?) a secondary nature.

Why in gay hell would I want to go against that?

It's just two things, but it's a whole heaven of fun already. I like it, and am growing to love it with the understanding that this is going to be my life. I know that there's more to it eventually, and I might blog about it in the long run.

Ben Tumbling Discusses Gay Queen's Libog

I swear to God talaga.

My friend the Gay Queen is so freaking libog talaga sometimes huh. He's oftentimes making yabang to his bakla friends that he just got laid this one time or that and so on and so forth. To hell with that horny bitch kaya. Kasi naman eh, his amiga, Princess Baldo is always making hawa the libog to him, eh they're always in character pa naman all the time. I mean, you know, being the down to earth sobrang yaman people that they are, they tend to speak like me rin. Pero unlike me huh, they're sobrang kati noh! Like what Momel says when he's making "Pasok, Tulfo," they're like mga higad na made kain in the leaf ng gabi which was cooked to make laing. That's how kati he is. Exag noh?

Pero it's okay since they're both upper end rin naman eh like me. It's okay to be malibog and manyakis na bakla naman kasi diba it's not rape naman if you're paying for it. So bayot talaga the katwiran, right? So they have all that money like me, pero noh, they're sobrang libog kaya. And landi rin at the same time noh.

They're like Paris and Nicole talaga sometimes, pero shempre noh, like, feeling lang nila yun noh kasi they're both bakla. As in sobrang faggot na faggot kaya sila. And Princess Baldo has certain angles where she looks like a kabayo and her armpits are, you know, pang-Arabiana type kasi it's mabuhok. For real! Pero the Gay Queen finds Princess Baldo so freaking hilarious naman so she's cool. And she's also fashionista rin, like dapat lang, and she manages to fake her balakang by making siksik yung potholder nila sa jeans niya. Pero it's sometimes kaka-duda huh when she claims that she's a size-4 sa Celine pero she's 5'9 and 160 lbs noh. Kaka-crazy, right?

Anyway ha, I need to talk to that Gay Queen soon. As if that's possible naman noh, kasi that luka-lukang autistic Momel makes us up lang naman. For real. He's making pauso a multiple-personality disorder in his Blahg of Bullshit. So I was like, hello? The things people do talaga to make papansin noh? Whatever.

Anyway ulit ha, I'm sure the Gay Queens's going to read this blog soon, so let me write it here na lang for Her Poser Highness' sake ha. Naku hah, you better monitor your sexual activity kasi it's been so "alarmingly intense these past few days." Oh diba, "alarmingly intense" raw oh! That's Momel making singit and "Pasok, Tulfo." Anyway, yeah, like you've been so active lately ha, di na ata nakapagtataka if the next time you vomit eh may lumabas na titi.

Shucks, I'm sobrang gross talaga sometimes.

That's also me doing public service na rin. Safe sex, okay? It's like me making sisi na rin for not making paalala towards my ex-amiga Kris Aquino. Look at her now with her dripping STD, right? So there you go. Wear a condom and don't make pansin that jologs song by the bakla group Air Supply huh. What's that ba ulit? Making Love With Nothing At All? I don't make birit that song kasi eh, so I'm just making my best hula. You know naman na I still manage to care pa rin if I'm not busy making bilang my maraming pera or if I'm not making tambay in I-bank.