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I'm vulnerable. I'm vulnerable (but) I am not a robot.

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

heatstroke

Pinocchio Disclaimer: I’m possibly more or less not definitely rejecting the idea that in no way with any amount of uncertainty that I undeniably do or do not believe this post is a work of fiction, if that indeed is what it isn’t. In short, this was way before we became a couple, Z!!!


An all-expense-paid trip to Boracay. Why would anyone say no? For six whole days, I would have no deadlines to think about, no meetings to attend and most importantly, no love life or other emo thoughts to think over. I could stretch my legs, read a book by the shore, maybe get a tan or something. There was just one catch. It was a family trip which meant I had to butch it up for about a week.

I survived mainly by keeping a low profile, making sure I didn’t ogle too much on the passing shirtless hotnesses. I spoke only when needed and always at a lower key. My voice kept breaking every now and then. At night, I’d lock myself up in my hotel room and listen to gay music, puffing heavily on my e-cigarette. (That’s right. My parents don’t know I smoke either. Sometimes I wonder if they know anything about me. But that’s a completely different post altogether and believe it or not, I actually have a story to tell today.)

The story starts in the middle of day four. My sisters and I were walking along Station 2 when someone suggested we get coffee. The heat was ridiculous and the city girls in us needed a little taste of home. We all knew a couple of overpriced drinks on ice would breathe life into our very bones and so off to Starbucks we went.

The group assembled on the second floor while I was tasked to get the drinks. I took all opportunities to have me-time so even if I had to carry a gazillion drinks up a sandy staircase, I didn’t really mind. The queue was a little long and I was starting to get a little bored until *insert harp strumming here* I saw a man who would change my life forever.

He was standing just a few inches from me. It was his musk that first got my attention. I could smell vanilla with a slight wooden hint mixed with the sweet scent of sweat and sunblock. I looked up to find a tall, white man with curly chestnut hair. His face was full of stubble, like it had been days since he held a razor. His cheekbones looked like they’d been chiseled in and when he spoke, you could see a very light dimple on his left cheek. Now you should know I’m not really into white meat but there was something about this boy that I could not ignore. He wore dusty flip-flops, grey board shorts that dangled amply, and a long-sleeved plaid polo that he’d left unbuttoned. Thank God he left it unbuttoned. I could see his chest. Thought it was a little humble, it looked like it would be a perfect place to rest my head while watching a nice DVD. A mess of curly hair covered his belly and beneath it, you could see the sickest six-pack known to man. I watched as the careless strands dove deeper and deeper and deeeeeeeeper into his shorts.

Suddenly, the islands sounds started to blur away. From far away, a woman begins to sing her song.

Nowhere, yeah we’re going nowhere fast.
Maybe this time, I’ll be yours. You'll be mine.
C-c-crazy, get your ass in my bed.
Baby, you’ll be just my summer boyfriend.

I was still me. I was still in the middle of a crowded Starbucks but it felt like my whole life had just been proven true. It’s like everything that happened before I laid eyes on this Adonis were establishing shots in a silly romantic comedy. In my head, I pictured us running along the beach- line A and line B crossing at a blinding speed. And when we meet at point C, he’d lift me up and we’d turn and laugh like they do in those cheesy 80’s movies. I saw us cuddling, sharing mojitos on the seashore, all the while recounting our lucky stars that conspired and caused us to meet at an unsuspecting café.

Let’s get lost. You can take me home.
Somewhere nice we can be alone.
Bikini tops coming o-o-off.

We’d hold hands in the sunset and he’d kiss me under a coconut tree. I’d tell him how I loved him even before I knew how to love. He’d look me in the eye, a few tears glistening and he’d say…

“Sir? Sir? Sir?!” The barista woke me from my daydream and I was, in equal parts, annoyed and embarrassed. I fished out my mobile phone from my pocket and barked out my drink orders. At the very end, I asked for my usual: an Iced Venti Americano with two pumps of white mocha. Adonis was at the bar waiting for his drinks and I was stuck near the counter, staring, melting, imagining the life we would have together.

In hindsight, I’m guessing it was all the gayness I was repressing. Remember that I’d been butch for almost 100 straight hours (pun fully intended) and I badly needed an outlet. I told myself that if this had happened in Manila, my imagination would not be running that wild. But then I caught another glimpse of this sex on a stick and before I could catch myself, I fell headfirst into another daydream.

We were covered by the blanket of night. The stars were our roof and the sand was our bed. He tore my clothes off as I hurriedly stripped him of his. I ran my hands along his abs, the ridges firm and sharp. In between moans and loud slurping kissing sounds, I could hear the barista recapping my order. His voice sounded like he was underwater. I snapped back to reality momentarily to hand the barista a few crumpled bills from my pocket. I reminded myself that my family was just a few feet away. I could not blow my cover; not after twenty-five years of being safe and snug in their closet. I took one last look at the man who made my blood race as he walked away.

Don’t be sad when the sun goes down.
You’ll wake up and I'm not around.
I’ve got to go, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh.
We’ll still have the summer after all.

---

“Hot ba yung amerikano?” the barista asked. I looked at him and noticed he was smiling a knowing smile. Only then did I realize he was part of the federación. I felt validated; like somehow, I wasn’t the only one appreciating such beauty. I smiled back at him, recalling the smoldering piece of man-candy who was just at the bar, and in the gayest voice I could find, I released all the tension building up in my chest.

“Hot ba yung amerikano? SOOOOBBBBRAAAAAAA!!!” I exclaimed. The beki barista chuckled as he scribbled on my cup.

Segue to fifteen minutes later and my sisters and I were sprawled like cats on the beach. The eldest was enjoying a generous serving of Passion Iced Tea. My second sister was cooling down with a decaf no-whip Caramel Frapuccino. My third sister just finished her sweet Iced Caramel Macchiato. And then there I was, stuck with a drink as hot as the blistering sun.

“What kind of crazy person orders a hot drink on such a hot day?” my third sister crudely asked. The barista and I obviously miscommunicated. While I thought he was remarking at my Adonis, he was actually confirming my drink order. And so in the middle of Boracay, on a day that bordered on 37°, I dug my feet into the sand as I sipped my extra hot Venti Americano with two pumps of white mocha.

“My throat’s acting funny,” I lied in the low voice I use when I speak to family. All the while, my eyes scouted the shoreline for my beautiful boy with the chestnut hair and the sick abs.

♫: Lady GaGa | Summerboy (2008)


The Emo Blogger's Happy Blogging Challenge: Crazy-Happiness

Wednesday, April 11, 2012

on april and zac efron


I was in bed this morning thinking it’s been a week since I wrote anything and I should probably get to it. I fired up my laptop and started drafting this stalker story I’ve had in my head since the weekend. Somewhere in the middle of “I’m not really here” and “My skin blends into the walls,” I got a little lost. I couldn’t remember what I wanted to say or where I wanted to take my stalker. I completely forgot my story.

A few minutes and a fuji apple later, I was bored to tears. I was ready to give up. I saved the single paragraph that materialized before my brain conked out and resolved to entertain other story ideas. I’ve always wanted to do a sort of retrospective on how things were like for me this time last year. I went through my vintage buoys and to my surprise, this is what I found tucked in the bowels April 2011.

B4N. As I look at my archives, I realize I haven’t written anything real in a long time. It feels like I’ve lost my purpose, my reason for logging into Blogger week after week. I started this blog because I wanted a means to express myself. Why then does it feel like I’ve stifled my own voice?

My life’s a little fucked up right now. There are things I need to discover, feelings and ghosts I need to deal with and so I’m taking a little break from blogging. It’s a decision I made with a heavy heart but one I know I need if I hope to return to some semblance of normalcy. I’ll be back faster than you can say not-another-blog-hiatus or didn’t-he-do-this-last-year? Hopefully, by that time, I’ll have found the real reason for my unhappiness. To friends, followers, lurkers old and new, wish me luck as I venture into a new quest of self-discovery.

Okaaaay… not an easy angle to spin. Let’s check out what I was doing two years ago.

AFK. Just to make things clear, I’m still on hiatus. There are a few things I still need to finish before I can fully commit to this page again. I realize that my last post, if anything, was a bit vague on the issue and so I wanted to write a quasi-epilogue to explain.

Another hiatus? That last post I was referring to didn’t help much either.

BYE FOR NOW!!! I’ve come to the conclusion that I need a little break from blogging to focus on other stuff. My life is a mess right now and I think I need all the epiphanies I can get for myself. I won’t be closing this blog. It’s become such a big part of me that to shut it down would be like cutting off an appendage. Anyway, I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. Maybe it’ll take a day, maybe a few weeks or maybe a year. I don’t really know. One thing’s for sure, I will be back and I’ll have a lot more buoys to share with you then.

*fingers crossed* Three years ago?

BRB. In completely unrelated news, I’ve decided to take a break from heavy blogging. I’ve recently reacquainted with my first love- fiction. I finally finished writing a story (two years after I wrote my last story) plus I’ve got a few buns in the oven just waiting to be written. Like most infants, they need all the attention they can get and so to do that, I decided to limit my blogging. *hangs up Do Not Disturb sign* See you in a few weeks (hopefully with something good)!

Ugh. Four years ago?

No posts. Show all posts

Waddapack?! I didn’t even bother to write anything in April 2008. I checked and I was right in the middle of a nine-month hiatus. NINE MONTHS. If I were a celebrity, people would’ve gossiped that I had a baby or something!

I sat there, completely mind-fucked by my writing patterns. And all this time, I thought I was just tired. I didn’t know that this month typically saw me hiding from this blog and that I had four years of historical data working against me. What is it about April that dries my pen? I chewed on this question for a little bit and when there weren’t any easy answers, I just said fuck it. Daddy needs a little break anyway. And besides, I’ve always been such a sucker for tradition.

So this is me hiat-ing. I’ll be back in a week or so unless giant snails take over the world (in which case it’s every man for himself!) While I’m gone, here are some gratuitous pictures of Zac Efron that will change your life. You can thank me once you’ve thrown your used Kleenex away. :x



♫: Zac Efron | Get'cha Head In the Game (2006)
Photos: buzzfeed



The Emo Blogger's Happy Blogging Challenge: Obsession

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

three of three: right or wrong


I guess you’d think it was silly but I still remember the exact moment I realized I was in love with him. It was in the early days when things weren’t complicated. He was escaping from a destructive relationship. I was picking up broken shards of my heart. We were simply distractions to each other.

“Are you seriously asking me this question?” he asked as he flipped the cap off a fresh bottle of beer. The bar was practically empty. Most of the drinking crowd had already gone home yet there we were, still crawling our way through another bucket.

“Yes, I am.” I answered. “I believe there’s plenty you can learn from someone based on the food he identifies with.”

“Well,” he said, looking up in thought. “I guess you could say I’m a lot like bangus.”

“Milkfish? Seriously?”

“Yeah. Growing up, I saw a lot of them back home in the province. Did you know they can practically grow anywhere? Like it was completely normal for you to see bangus in little creeks or in the flood when the storms came in.”

“Ooookaaaay,” I said in disbelief. “How does that make you a milkfish?”

“Well, I guess it’s sort of like how… these days, it feels like I’m just swimming in mud.” He stubbed his cigarette into a full ashtray. A few stray butts fell to the table as the speakers chimed in a Jack Johnson record on loop. “It would be nice to think that someday, I don’t know. Maybe someday, someone would think I was beautiful.”

His eyes looked so lonely. I was never sentimental, never truly cared for anyone before but at that moment, I knew I could spend the rest of my life making this boy realize how special he was, how truly beautiful he was in the mud.

I always saw myself as plain tortang talong. It wasn’t that I couldn’t aspire to be anything more than eggplant omelet. It’s just, I always found the way that you cook it to be pretty interesting. You grill it or burn it on a stove then you mash it to bits with a fork. You have to fry it with a scrambled egg because let’s face it, no one sets off to eat just an eggplant. It always has to be prepared with something else. It goes through such a beating and at the end, it tastes exquisite. I guess you could say I’m a lot like that. It would be nice to think that all the shit I’m going through is temporary and when all this is through, maybe someone out there could say that I was deserving of his love.

I knew what we were doing was wrong. I’m not stupid. I didn’t wake up one day and say oh, I think I’m going to steal a husband today. I tried to fight it but it was always too strong for me. Each night, I said to myself this is the last time I’m seeing him. I promised every night would be the last. But there was always something in the way, some little thing he’d do that would remind me of one simple truth: there was no way my heart would let me live without him. I could hold my breath till I turn blue and each heartbeat would still call out his name.

“Hello,” he said, his eyes lighting up from alcohol and optimism. He was playing one of his little games. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m the guy who does nothing right. I’m the guy who let you down when you were 16. I’m the one who fucked you up when you were 23. I’m the guy who broke your heart, who breaks your heart. Have a drink with me,” he offers, his drink held high in the air. “Did I mention I do nothing right?” I raised my bottle to meet his and the clink sounded lovely but lonely.

“Hi,” I said, a skewed smile on my face. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“And you are?”

Seven words and I broke my own heart. “I’m the guy who stayed anyway.”

He said he’d had his suitcases packed and stored in the trunk of his car since Monday and he was just waiting for the right moment to leave. On the day he was to arrive, I barely got anything done at work. I was nervous. My hands were sweaty with anticipation. I didn’t know what to expect.

He said he’d be home by 8. I cooked dinner, something I stopped doing since I was always out at night with him. By midnight, I still hadn’t heard anything from him. I checked my messages a couple of times. I kept trying to call him but he was always out of reach. The dinner sat cold on the kitchen counter, the oil turning white and solid. By 12:30, I sent him a three-word SOS: Where are you?

A gentle knocking wakes me at 4:25. I was still fully dressed, supine on the sofa. My neck and lower back wrestled in pain as I stumbled across the living room to the front door.

“I’m sorry,” he greeted. “I’m here.” He was drunk. It looked like he swam through cases of beer to get to me. He could barely stand, let alone carry his suitcase. He put his hand on my shoulder and collapsed to the floor.

I wanted to berate him. I wanted tell him how cross I was because he didn’t even call, didn’t bother to check in or anything. But when I saw how he looked, I knew to bite my tongue. That night found him leaving the woman he swore he’d be with forever. I’d probably be drinking like a fish too if I ever had to break a vow like that.

I carried him to the bedroom and took off his shoes. I grabbed a washcloth and a basin from the bathroom. I slowly stripped him of his shirt and jeans. My washcloth ran warm water all over his skin, stripping him of the day's dirt, his sweat and regrets. All the while, he kept mumbling about how sorry he was and that he came as soon as he could.

As I sat there giving a sponge bath to a man who’d just left his wife for me, I couldn’t help but think of all the different circumstances that aligned to bring him to my bed. That first cigarette, the many nights at the bar, the stories we shared, the first time we kissed. I recalled the night he told me he was leaving her and how it felt like I was alive for the first time.

You can judge me. You can call me names. Cheater. Liar. Home wrecker. It doesn’t even matter to me anymore. They’re just words. As random as cat, coin or comb. I just loved. I just listened to my heart. How can that ever be wrong? I loved a man and I did all I could to keep him in my life. I fought for my happiness. Doesn’t that sound like someone you know? Doesn’t that sound like you?

Part 1 | 2 | 3
♫: The Civil Wars | To Whom It May Concern (2011)
Photo: The Kiss



The Emo Blogger's Happy Blogging Challenge: A Criminal Mind