My Blog

sashimi.
maki.
lengua.
scallops.
talaba.
penne.
tempura.
beef carving.
bibingka.
dark chocolate ice cream.

the gut set at oster #2.

i am away. yes, once again. from the two female ashes. several hundred miles, an inguinal cue for sam to take the abo-hand.

the buffet has now progressed.

only the grunt of nadal and djokovic on static.

only the striped uniqlo between sheets and skin.

the hunt begins. the ding-dong screams.

lestat.

he was slim. silky slim. hairless, and silky slim. he reminded me of college high school days with the soccer varsity team.

"are you sure you're above eighteen?"

he showed me his company id.

yes, it was time. THE first time. this thirty-one-er.

will need to prep his little wand. and probe the fortresses of anal land.

i needed the curiosity fix. and he was on a homo glandular itch.

He held my hand and it never came off.

Alone. I was sitting at the tail-end of an fx van. It was practical and necessary to take the ortigas commuter stand. Lest the parking crawl along the shopping strip which would toil half the spending time. Just a breezy walk a few blocks apart to the basement ramp. And no more than a few loots to carry once abound.

The back door shuddered. It was he. Caught in the same distress as I probably was. But seemed ready for the taking with the target he got. As I pored only to the windowwatch and unoticed his crotch.

He took the space on my empty side. Not the expanse of the parallel line in front. As my hand was lying on his now paid slot. He did not complain. Instead, even rested his warm hand to break the solitary mark.

I sensed the invitation.

And it only took a head gesture to his direction. I didn't realize it meant a form of consent. As he went on moving my hand. And took it to between his mistletoe to a trail where the magic wand wafts to a barrel gun.

The trip took no more than three jingle bell songs. But his jingle, he made sure it was all the way.

"here, hold my hand."

there never was a spiel such as this to say when you're around. when this hand almost always slides onto familiar ground. like yours. like perfectly fitted glove.

it must be awkward for the uninitiated ear. irked at the uttering of endless i-love-you's. there not one, not even a plenty conveyed. what may seem sufficed, to see each passing day a day. for as long as dusk sets and one turns to see. there was you.

you must be thinking.

such hands that warm an otherwise barren palm.

whether ximending, or this times square ground.

if i let a smoke of pink surrender. what chi force will you unwind.

will you hear me?

i am gay bi.

bro,

firstly, you should not believe in all things you see or hear in the world wide web. moreso, claims or promises. however convincing or sincere they may be. this is not an ordinary soiree of minds.

secondly, you yourself should not be obliged to expect anything in return. it is not a give-and-take situation. again refer to the first point. if you receive anything tangible or positive out of this, take it as an uncommon occurence. rather than the norm. and there is no need for an explanation from other people's behavior. there are no rules to speak of.

thirdly, in your case, you seem to have grown an attachment. which is the worst thing that could happen. whether the other party can reciprocate is not the issue. whether you have invested time, money, or other resources... this is the risk for such a trial and error arrangement. to err is a possibility. but to persist is a futile attempt.

if sympathy is your plea, then it is clear that you cannot receive it from the former. the next is your best bet.

ashed

the seat number read 7-B. a "b" for a middle coach arsehole fundament receptacle.

a few hour's ride at thirty five thousand feet above sea level wasn’t the city-boy's-midnight-train planned on a return flight to manila. unlike the pedagogical of us (which means most, actually) who would prescribe to a two, or unbelievably, a three hour check-in rule, i have an aversion for waiting a boarding call and have the calculated habit of arriving at the airport at exactly the last angstrom.

and if there's one among many, many a quadrant our national flag carrier warrants a facelift inorder to keep pace with competition is a decent internet check-in facility.

i dareso vocalize on this, as one cannot live in retrograde paper and pen. well, a few episodes of hypertensive crisis was more the pareto analysis enroute to this particular commuter's nightmare. while qeueing last at the counter, a slight argument with the behind-counter-staff in drab-deep-blue-scarf was the offing as i insisted my luggage wasn't overweight. only immigration can potentially delay a quick escapo into the destination's aeroparque, so a baggage carousel soiree was implored unnecessary. so she, the bitch, returned the favor, by applauding the most egalitarian of all suppositories - the last row, center seat.

the constant sound of water gushing from the lavatory annoys me. terribly. and the perpetual human line distracting your breathing aisle. and typically of this flag carrier, the last row would almost always be deprived of having their masticating automony. "sorry sir, naubusan na po ng fish. masarap naman 'tong beef," said the perky female flight attendant. "sorry sir, we ran out of orange juice. would you like a cola instead?" never, will i ever, again attempt on teasing my gastric juices even with a sip of CO2-infused liquid taken at a fraction of atmospheric pressure. burp if one must, but fart musn't let, thus wreck thine gut.

so at this flight, the choice of a aisle seat at the tail end or a forward section middle seat was the only toss coin. without a checked-in luggage and imagining the horrifying line at NAIA, the front row was the easy decision. at 1.8 meters, i can still tolerate the leg room for a few hours ride without the need for a bladder break.

while the meal service trays were collected, i was unentropically tidying up to prepare for the remaining flight time's doze. but the seatmate to my left attempted to open a conversation.

"so what brings you to the philippines? for a vacation?"

a he. caucasian, maybe late thirties. of sky blue iridescence. lean guy and likely taller than me. his accent befits american.

"oh. im a filipino. coming back from a business trip." yeah, i know. people casually see me as korean. even koreans salutate me with the effin-yoseyo's like i was that the other glee actor.

and that short statement bouyed a trip-long conversation. about his business. why he relocated. his small call center company situated in the south. the placed he travelled in the country.

but i wasn't complaining. or, rather, his got my attention. it. was unmistakably a scene stealer. and it seemed like it was growing.

engorging.

and naturally, when the stretch is tight, there is a spontaneous need for a stick shift.

but i soon began my remorse, so the retreat. so i mentioned i was married.

his reply was knee-jerk - since so was he.

regret?

he took out his wallet. and in the most blatant show of pacified behavior, i nodded back and forth. it was a picture of him and his lovey dovey.

yeah. he's married to a twink.

33 slides.
90 minutes.
the boss.
the bosses boss.
the bosses dotted-line boss.
the boss of the bosses boss.

the fact that i was sweating over a temperature-controlled boardroom set at 18 degrees centigrade.

gastrocolic reflex.
it must have been the yoghourt on an empty stomach for breakfast.

but it was two minutes before nine in the morning.
every who was seated.
an attention unlikely to accede after half past ten.

then only, this crap of the matter can break free.

.....

the post-mortem, a farnesque-ly exit.
a point for the tally, and on to the next.
at eighteen months, if i am still under the hatchet.

hoegaarden.
to stiffle the h scale.
likely, the hotel bed for one, will be one.

still, i wish it was home.

will i ever get to,
to where it is that i am going.

will i ever follow through with what i...
with what i have planned.

i guess it's possible, that i have been a bit distracted
and the directions for me are a lot less in demand.

in demand.

will i ever get to where i'm going
if i do will i know when i'm there
if the wind blew me in the right direction.

yeah. would i even care.

i would.

i take a look around, it's evident the scene has changed.
and there are times when i feel improved, improved upon the past.
and there are times when i can't seem to understand at all.
and yes it seems as though i'm going nowhere

really fucking fast.
nowhere fast.

will i ever get to where i'm going
if i do will i know when i'm there.

if the wind blew me in the right direction.

yeah. would i even care

i would.
i would.
i would.
i would.

.....

but i wouldn't. nr zal ik niet.

if eyes can tell me
unyeilding a lovestory
what would i see?
how far does it truly
without becoming
just a necessity

can hands deceive me
when all it did entirely
bestow this peace
take hold and ease

a force compelling
warrant an urgency
will it set free
and pass on eventually
what would it be?

the builder took a long and quiet pause while traversing his sight down into the horizon. said the engineer upon notice of the former’s introspection, “he has learned his lesson, has he?” too preoccupied, all that the builder could remark was a slightly perceptible nod while remained on the lookout. sensing his resolve, the engineer dropped the shoulder load and joined the eventful stake.


now seeing his two companions fully engaged in a tacit, yet inaudible conversation, the fisherman joined. “whats the catch?” he said. only silence pervaded. neither spoke nor acknowledged the attendance nor the inquiry. it was then the seafarer’s cue. a glance at the meager occasion, and he saw the reason for the commotion.


“any lost soul?” the shepherd inquired upon passing by. the three men remain bowed. he too, took notice. and remained in observation.


it was now becoming a line. the builder, the engineer, the fisherman. and also the shepherd. an audience only they could see. and the builder knew. like a roll of 35mm, he has seen. and has been, until the last frame. he has built several like this before.


yet his eyes were still glued like an anticipated rerun.


“you’ll be ok, lil boy sam.” the builder finally whispered, as the boy made his stretch to the tunnel with the blinding light.

you wake up one day.


the sun was supposed to pierce your east window pane. it was. all telltale signs of the morning bash. yet not the early salutation that gets you kindled. it is time. yes, it is. too much glare on the scheming sun.


that day is today.