About fortuities and a vandalism

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09194998649


I was here.

I saw you passed by outside and I followed. You saw me enter the cofeeshop, more than twice. I took my time buying a cup because I was stealing glances. I took a nearby seat and counted enough change for the fare home. I was relieved. I noticed you had a calculator and I was stupid to mumble something like I had to know the value of Pi, up to eleven digits after the decimal. But now you know I’m actually smarter than that.

You rang me up the next day. You liked me more and more. Shyly, I admitted feeling the same. We gave each other presents. You hated flowers, moreover, you wouldn’t give me one. I hated your bad days, and told you to pick your fights. You preferred the train because you avoid overreaching for lazy passengers’ fares. And I knew they’re called pushcarts for good reason, thank you, but still I liked to pull on them. But we counted the months. I sang you Your Song. And then you actually sang it better. We had plans. We gave each other morning and parting kisses.

Later, I got so down, when it took longer than expected to find another job, I waxed the floor and bought new rugs. You slipped on one, I was terrified you’ve broken more than a wrist. You did. You laughed it off and said you look more rugged with the cast. I agreed, not just because I was sorry. I drew a crack and from it emerge nuns, priests and trains, and I helped you in for baths, in dressing up for work. I enjoyed it, you didn't have to thank me much. We hoped for marriage. Someday, maybe.

Then came a difficult fight. I gave you a bruise, not before long did it turn from crimson to ugly violet. You were drunk and kicked down chairs.

It got better somehow with a long talk and lots of compromise. We missed each other, you approached me in a manner I knew too well. I pushed in early, you hurt a lot, we had to stop. I did it again and you yelled “Easy, Tiger!” In French. Well in any case, you wouldn’t have called me that if you hadn’t wanted it rough, I knew that too.

Anyway, by the time you're reading this, if you ever happen to read this, hopefully we each still pay half of the month’s rent. And that you never forget again your credit card in case I got too excited buying groceries pulling on carts at the supermarket . Forgive me if sometimes you have to mop the bathroom so often. I’m wasteful, I flood the floor and keep forgetting to close the tap. Don’t worry. I knew all along you burned my favorite dress shirt with the iron. And it’s OK, as long as I get to borrow yours. I secretly envy your good taste.

In the event that one of us had declared it over, I hope we didn’t fight too much on who gets to take care of Marcello. He’s not our kid (weren’t we contemplating on adoption), but our jack russell. You wouldn’t have agreed to naming our child Marcello anyway.

Either way, you must be absent-mindedly scratching your eyebrow now, I’m right, ain’t I? No, don't stop, it's cute. With a few potholes here and there, some uphills, a major quake or two (I hope not literally but who knows), I can’t say for sure if we’d still be standing. But whether I’m waiting for you outside (dinner's on me tomorrow, in that case) or not :-( , I should have told you earlier on when something’s not working pretty well...

It’s the bad plumbing here, you see, you should have taken the other stall.

Tee-hee.


For 09279877854


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The Ideal Guy Day ni Aleph

Disclaimer

Hindi kasi ako nakuntento sa isang ideal guy lang so ang ginawa ko para bongga, inisplit ko na lang sila sa marami, at nakasama ko silang lahat sa isang araw. Define malandi. I know right?

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• At Home

The day starts with Zero.

Zero was the guy I homed in at the gay club I went to last night with my friends. He wears his hair long that it touches down to his shirt. A pretty guy, as one friend noted, but definitely straight-acting and with a nice gentle smile. If I had the chance to dance with him I would’ve put my hands on his nape, which would be so soft and smooth, would’ve ran my fingers through his mane. And when he least expected it, I’d have pulled on the roots of his hair, not too hard, but just enough to see his expression when he winces. Actually, I don’t know what had gotten into me but I also brushed lightly on his butt on my way out of the CR. 100 SLUT points for me. Later, I had the courage to talk to him and asked for his number. One big problem though: he doesn’t have a number. So he said. Isang malaking wehhh, di nga, tatawa na ba ako, hindi porket Koreano ka magaling kang magtaekwondo.

But I get it, he’s just being polite and no, he’s not Korean (but dang, koreanovela guys, gaganda talaga ng styling ng buhok nila). Funny thing is, I can’t really recall his face now. It must be the hair. I’m a sucker for that. And since it was my first time to go to a queer bar, I kind of wanted his number for a trophy/souvenir. Yun naman ang kalakaran doon diba?

Oy, enough time in front of the mirror, Aleph, you’re running late.


• At the Campus

Ikaw na, ikaw na talaga. Why do some people seem almost perfect? Buti na lang atheist ako kundi sasabihin ko na namang ang daya-daya ni Lord.

Exhibit A.

Group reports day. My jaw drops when he enters the room. So this is what he’ll look like when he’s already got an office job. Hmmm, eh kahit pagsesekyu papatusin ko, para lang makita sya araw-araw at mabati ng Ang ganda ganda ng umaga [andito ka na kasi], noh ser? Or if I’m his boss, patay kang bata ka, sigaw ako lagi ng : I’ll see you in my office now, Mr. Tiu! Repeat 5 times a day with You can take off your clothes, I mean ,your coat. *ahem, ang init ano ba ‘to...* Pwede ring 10-15 times if it’s a particularly stressful day. With the same slip.

Articulate with his ideas, opinionated but open-minded. Knows how to lead a group but has a warm presence. I’ve got this classmate who’s the perfect boyfriend material, except that he’s straight. Aigoo. And that’s the only thing that makes him flawed in my world, imagine that. He’s an unbelievable devourer of books, and I don’t mean it’s because he reads 10 books a week. Actually, it takes him months to finish a book he really likes, savor talaga. He likes Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow (shet, di ko nga matapos yun eh), delights in the tenderness and grace of a mind’s voice in Ishiguro’s novels, and practically is in awe of Borges, too. Surprisingly (or maybe I shouldn’t be surprised anymore), he’s a good reader of poetry too!

Despite the heavy work load now that the semester’s ending, how does he still manage to look like that? No pimples, no eyebags, I mean, come on! He’s gotta be feeling tired like all of us. But nada, it doesn’t show at all. Matalino ka na, yummy ka pa. Hence the conclusion: Pota ka.

Lunch break. Something sweet for dessert: the maintenance hunk in our building. Without so much as an ounce of effort but the gel in his hair, this scruffy lightly-bearded moreno guy never fails to look hot despite his crappy cleaner’s uniform. I know he’s catched me so many times already checking him out. Today he feels generous and lifts his shirt to reveal an awesome pack of non-gym ”laking-kanto” abs on a super duper flat tummy. He’s pretending to wipe his nose. Really now, really? I just died. (NOMG, I just channeled that hag Rachel Zoe.)

So back from the dead, I go to my remaining class for the day—it’s for 3 hours straight. Gawd. The only thing that makes it bearable is Boogs.

We call him Boogie ‘cause he’s a dancer (well, mostly hiphop and bboy), he loves football and badminton, has a good built, lean physique (imagine no abs, but still sexy) and ding ding ding, he’s gay. So what’s wrong with the equation here? Gusto ko man magbitaw ng linyang Let lips do what hands do that one time he tried to teach me how to do a routine hands-on, it seems to him I give off more of a friendship vibe. We get along pretty well in fact. He has this outrageous sense of humor that cracks everybody up and his lamest jokes are usually cute. Aside from
musicians, I think the funny guys are actually a smart group.

The only thing Boogs and I don’t agree on is football. My god, watching this sport bores the hell out of me. You know, theoretically, I can understand why basketball is exciting, but in football a game can end 0-0. That’s some crazy shit. Sorry Boogs, I’ll concede the players are hotties in shorts, fine (wallpaper nga niya si Yoann Gourcuff eh, pero mas type ko si Xabi Alonso), but I’ll skip the whole 90 minutes and just watch them swap sweat-drenched shirts with each other.

As the class wraps up, I basically force Boogs to drop me off at the mall. I tell him I have a date. But only after he annoyingly mocks my choice of movie does he agree. Nagsalita ang magaling, he probably doesn’t know he pronounces Hitchcock, Truffaut, or von Trier with such disturbing breathiness and relish. Despite being a movie snob and condescending to the tastes of the “lowbrow public”, I know for a fact Boogs actually enjoys watching the series of Step Up movies, plus Twilight due to a shirtless Taylor Lautner. Of course. Magkasama ba naman kami on all those occasions eh.


• At the Mall

Actually I have no date and I just lied to get a free ride. I’m just buying notebooks, pens and more paper. I’ll burn an hour reading at a bookstore probably and then meander down grocery aisles too. Plain ordinary happiness.

But if I have a date, let me think. I wish it would be a musician and we’ll drop by an instrument shop. He’ll pick up a few guitars, strum some chords and remark which ones sounded better. I wouldnt’ be able to tell the difference honestly. And when I see the price tag, sabihin ko bigla: Uy, ibaba mo yan! If I’m luckier, he’ll be a kick-ass band drummer who maintains a nicely trimmed stubble but is thinking of growing a beard. He’ll fix back his tousled hair with his fingers. Only recently has it grown long enough to be tied but I’ll stop him because I think the curlicues at the ends are divine.

Sigh. Shrug. Sashay.

I lean tentatively on the railing and see a flower stall. Maybe that someone could also know about flowers? At least more than me. He’ll tell me which are geraniums and lilies because I have no idea what they look like. Maybe he doesn’t like daisies that much, but he’ll stoop down to eye a bunch of yellow-greens I haven’t noticed yet, and tell me how beautiful these cymbidium orchids are. Which leaves me speechless. I love the color is all I could say. He adds, gusto ko rin yung brown & yellow variant pero ang ganda-ganda nitong chartreuse, ano? I’ll never be able to answer his question probably. Because I’ll just stare at him for a few stupid seconds since I’d like to kiss him at that point already and see him blush to a certain shade of red which only I would name.

Every time I’ll see that color, sasabihin ko sa kasama ko: Tangina, chartreuse yang kulay na yan, alam mo ba yun? Sabi ng boyfriend ko. Sinearch ko pa nga sa wikipedia eh. Stop arguing with me, sino bang bading sa’tin dito?


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Last message sent 12:45 AM.

I’m here in Manila and he’s where the weather is more capable of making up its mind. Snow if it’s supposed to snow. Reasonable, because called-for by the season which is understandable. Unlike here, where I can easily be cold, not being used to it, and on another night, wake to sweat greasing wherever hair meets bed.

Here, fortunately, we get on mostly by being cheap, and if it’s more than what we can afford, there are more than enough ways to get a compromise in our favor. We have a strong sense of property, make no mistake, but only on things that’re ours. Like the change in my pocket, the front windows are lighted hence the incessant jingles, dry like prayers in masses I don’t attend anymore.  Dim the lights. OK. Verify that I’m human. Download. I’d rather spend an hour waiting for this to finish. That’s all needed nowadays for a simple chuckle, a laughing out loud (though not to the point of rolling on the floor naked), occasional slight tugs on the heart, or a welling-up of something leaden down your chest, too. No more walks, well we really can’t, even if we want to. To watch the same movie is enough. We pride ourselves on our simplicity and the minimal requirements for our salvation.

Have you watched it?

Watched it. Always we like beginning with the economy of words. Everything fine? Fine, how’re you there? Here, still ok, good. Good. It’s a habit distance necessitates, that it replicates itself, otherwise a collapse. We are learning to appreciate transitions: courtesies, deflections and delays, testing if the other’s really there, what comes forward or retreats. Eventually, one gives in.

The last one’s a hardcore which he recommended after our pitiable success on cybersex. Both of us were on the floor, naked, sitting against the edge of our beds. My hands got confused, my hardness got lost between all the enter, backspace and up-down strokes. This time however, we start it as we’ve watched it on the video. He mimics a director saying something along so what are you both up to until why don’t you two start whenever you’re ready. I tell him I am kissing him gently and sense the gradual swelling inside his "trousers". He’s turns aggresive and pins me down on the bed, but shyly I warn him there’s the hint of bitter city fumes on my neck. He is pleased. He says he’s tracing the trail of hair that starts down my navel which thickens as he goes lower. I assert I know how to return the favor, you know, so I do. He goes wild. I say to him we need to slow down. And to my joy, he refuses. He says he’s on top me now and that my knees are up to my shoulders. I ask him please take it slowly and he grants my request like the gentleman that he is. We both say how warm: his, sliding inside me lengthening, and mine, taking in opening and closing in on him. He commands that I reach up and kiss him. No problem. Then I pull him down lower so that I feel his full weight on me. He tells me he’s nearly there and I reply I could tell by the way his thrusts are quicker yet they linger. I hold him from behind with both my hands, and exhale you’re so good I don’t even need to touch myself much. I remember the breathlessness of his face, his forehead creasing, I hold it in my mind.

A moment. Then, I let go.

You could say we’re conservative, we both love missionary. After a short pause, a message from him comes up: Finally! 


Finally, I repeat to him, with the small happiness of small confirmations.  Not as good as the real deal though, we both admit. I’d really like to “cyber-cuddle” you know, but I have to go. Sad face emoticon, man-whore, he jokes he feels used. Go then, go. Smiley.

I remember our agreement that Under the Tuscan Sun is just as bad as the Harry Potter series but who cares, we love them anyway, and then our ecstatic ravings about Chungking Express, that until he comes back, I’ll be waiting for that ticket.

This is still great, I mean, us.

I’m idling on the keyboard thinking of something funny to add because this is too mushy, even for me. The cursor blinks. A small icon says he’s typing, so I wait. Too long, he’s hesitating, must be backspacing. What’s he going to say?  The icon stops but nothing shows up.  Fuck. Fear. Disbelief. Name it. All in just a space of a second.

Then, there on the small box, appears suddenly a very short answer: Us.

Before I could even say something back, he logs out. So I find myself looking out of the window into the evening; I like looking out windows. I haven’t been feeling like myself lately, not until now.