under construction

when october bends

2011-10-31T00:20:00.000+08:00

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.

jingle all the way

2010-12-17T22:20:00.000+08:00

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.

the ball that drops at times square. and it's not new year.

2010-11-13T13:10:00.000+08:00

"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.

past participle

2010-10-15T18:00:00.000+08:00

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

leg room

2010-07-27T01:53:00.000+08:00

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.

delta hedging

2010-06-23T00:14:00.000+08:00

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.

nowhere fast

2010-06-09T21:57:00.000+08:00

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.

uncertainly

2010-05-06T21:49:00.001+08:00

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?

in 35mm

2010-03-13T09:37:00.002+08:00

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.

11th hour and coming

2010-03-04T08:36:00.000+08:00

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.

sweet surrender

2010-03-02T02:17:00.000+08:00

don't shove your way into tears again. days like this will pass uncounted. like moments you wonder if there is another. moments that seem no company can ever afford to keep a smile glowing behind the mouth you show

take away that sadness. i tell you, it will be just fine. just a shrug more of strength to overcome. the heart has its way of beating through the toughest turmoil. and neither is it today.

if solitude is your worst enemy, it is only you then that dictates this turmoil. it cannot grow, cannot conquer without the conscious presence of you remembering. it fades the time you choose to let it pass along. intangible, like a distant past.

see, you can imagine more than being alone. imagination is your best escape.

so come now, hear me above what one mind can conjure. rest well. you deserve it. and let me join you in your sleep. let this pair of arms warm the coldness sweeping your heart. an embrace that touches through skin. i can hear the gentle throb reminding you that one is alive. an occasion to seize an opportunity.

hear these soft whispers coming. lips gently pressing as you feel the air sweeping your ears, "you will be fine, my friend. you don't have to be alone."

the unnecessary thermocline

2010-02-21T21:29:00.003+08:00

i leaned back pressing myself against a couch early friday afternoon. twelve thousand pesos swiped for this garden view. a textbook recipe for a post-valentine plan with the other half.

the curtain dampened the shade of the blaring sun. it somehow casts a perfect hue inside this room. she would have loved this weather and the respite laid on a silver platter. it would have been a perfect weekend getaway.

a moments glance and a hotel staff came along leaving a platter of fruits and a 2008 cabarnet.

"shall i now open the wine, sir?"

"no," i responded without eye contact.

"not today."

...

she was not surprised. after all, it was a whirlwind occasion that antedated this onslaught.

one moment, both you were engaged on a mind blowing sex. the next morning, she was cold and furious at your routine personal hygeine. the afternoon as you pick her up, she was eager to have your sweet embrace. then another bitter argument over domestic chores as nightcap. the proceeding sunrise was status quo.

"i still got the room for us."

"i have a lot of things to finish at home. "

"even just a short swim before you start?" she's fond of threading in water as me.

"i said i have a lot to do."

...

it is summer.

the water soothes your entire integument. you float over an endless expanse drifting lower toward the seabed. at one point, a sudden draft of warmth awakens your mental slumber. the border well defined and is distinct. hovering from one depth to the other, you feel the invisible temperature change. like traversing from water onto oil.

then another one catches you. then another.

you know it happens. a very natural phenomena. but still, it catches you off guard.

like that i love you

2010-02-16T16:03:00.002+08:00

like endless lovespell.

like fairytale that never ceases to end happily ever after.

like you.

linger this open ended tender cuddle. behooves you like soft velvet texture of merlot. with only a moments aging, it mellows to a wanton volition this palate covets.

like tomorrow. always a sanguine future awaiting each passing sunset. bouyed by the next and each tomorrows occassion being beside you.

love like there is no waterloo. beyond buenas or malas, it pervades. a rotation that knows no endpoint.

love like there will always be tomorrow to share.

confucius says...

2010-02-14T22:33:00.004+08:00

"continue the straight path and fortune will come your way," said the fortune cookie.

of all cookies held inside this fishbowl. it just had to make sense. perfect sense. the missus was inside the theater, waiting for her bag of nibbles. who would have thought it was at this kiosk named taters. the server, who hurriedly completed my to-go order, prodding at the last minute as i carried the fodder toward the cinema foyer.

"sir!" he half-shouted. "please take one cookie. its free."

a divine messenger. not the proverbial words of confucius nor gospel truth. but was much closer to the heart who questions. this morning's altar kneel, this issue out on the table.

i hear you, mr. builder.

the chimera strain

2010-02-11T00:05:00.003+08:00

why the predominant majority of human handedness prefers the right side isn't really clear to science. neither is it willfully chosen and willfully changed. at the latest, it may be developmentally determined or earlier on as an expression of genetics.

but the greater rarity (and interest) in this asymmetry lies with a far few who claim to possess ambidexterity. not an extraordinary feat, but by a few number who belong to this list may refer to as talent.

and an advantage.

now how the left minority speaks of this cross dominance is commonly taken as just a phase of adaptation prior to realizing the other end of the pole.

but i differ. and propose that, at least for a great number, it is them. the marginal who strives to attain normalcy by obligating themselves to being able to fit the one side while preferentially more inclined to the other.

the genera is therefore acquired or innate.

but it is du jour.

being bi is the new breed.

el comercio de carne

2010-02-04T23:28:00.004+08:00

that monday after dusk, avenida del libertador was less than abound with the usual pedestrian traffic. it must be the season, as i recalled the weather forecast. cold air now gusting in front of your face, trapped only by the hood and the scarf wrapped around the neck. this is how less than ten degrees centigrade feels like as you pass through the district of recoleta.

there was a veil of silence only perturbed by the footsteps and the intermittent scuttle of motor vehicles. you knew your way into that calle called cordoba, where kiosks began to line the sidewalk. fifteen minutes of solitary walk, then a sparingly familiar lenguaje greets you.

"buenas tardes, senyor."

a few more salutations were raised. the porteño was talking in deep, colloquial rioplatense. you nod the greeter as you continue to pace your way past the cobbled street. the lunar glow now casting a silhouette behind your course. the sight of the usual string of cafe pans out as you now walk further down the lane. beyond the street lights, you cautiously detour a dark alley. it's not the usual path an uninitiated pursues. to proceed with caution is the aviso.

but this is the place you have wanted to witness. amigos beginning to surface as they notice a humanly arrival. a pack of wolves, ready for the roasting.

like at home, you contend solely at the immersion. and no doggie bag in the order.

hear me

2010-01-27T12:07:00.003+08:00

hey there, what’s up
muse much, no nap?

tell me, this one
all ears, and eye
a beer, ill buy

your crush, he’s hot
don’t fret, i can’t
you suck, i won’t

well fuck, i do
but ass, no breach
the wife, my lone

but please, don’t dive
just yet, find more
his aim, will show

like last, be sure
he was, an ass
that too, has passed

but cry not now
it won’t, if wise
you’ll know, next time

here now, a hug
a friend, that’s right
i will, just thug

there was just you

2010-01-25T21:49:00.002+08:00

23 jan 2010

0430H

the lightswitch clicks as you enter this desolate room. unchanged and still unlit, the room remains shrouded in darkness. you then remember, hence the struggle towards the powerbox. only a shadow of a corridor glow sparks your way into this small expanse.

a snap from the mainswitch resonates. then a sudden brightness pierces through the room. you take a panning glance at the void space. into this stuffed emptiness you have called home. the silence numbs you. dampened firmly at the absence of a commotion. the watch tells it's half past four in the morning. past a drive headed to the workplace, a dinner sojourn, and eight beer bottles, this same space you earlier left had a familiar warmth of human traffic.

but now, only an echo of stillness greets you. broken only by the thought of warm-blooded company. you open the windowpane. a cold and swift pre-morning gust disturbs the stale air.

there was just you.

thirsty. as you open the doorfridge, you hoped. for a moment there you imagined. a gentle fingertap touching your back. then an all too familiar voice, "da - ddy... choc - late.... pleeeaaaase." you would have said your obligatory remark under the usual conditions, "not now baby ash. only after you eat your dinner." but there was none. not even the familiar clutter of a toddler left on common ground.

nowhere headed now but straight up the second floor room. there a bed lay barren, folded sheaths creased to a seamless fold. it was fit for two.

but then there was just you.

tired. and now sober. you could've asked a cuddle from the other half.

not today, ash.

not today.

kneel.

2010-01-10T22:44:00.008+08:00

there's only a few land allowing
a man holding the flag of R.P.
without a visa to walk its soil.

this land they knew as the promised
windswept from a barren horizon
now laden with milk and honey.

inside a temple i set foot
drawn in homage to its heavenly father
the words that bind a communion of faith.

in these soul-telling words
the same yet inscribed as another voice
a hymn told in more speakable form

but what truly inspired me to kneel
as i see yet the same words of prayer
yet this, only my distant land can understand

ginoo, ang akon gina saligan
ang imo paghigugma
kag ang pagtawad sa akon'g ginatago

sa pagpili ko sa ini nga dalan
sa pag sugod sang ini nga semana
gina pangayo ko tani

mas laba nga pagpasensya
gapin pa ang pagkapyot sa akong asawa kag bata
nga biskan mahigko, maayo gihapon nga bana.

cheat day

2010-01-09T21:33:00.001+08:00

i stress on the plural form. or to further articulate, cheat years would be a more favorable term. yes it has been that long. at not minding what i eat or getting the due sweat to make up for the excessive gut feed.

i was one of the plenty-like-us falling for the gym trap and bungeed into this cadence early on in college. before that, i was a frail, tall ectomorph. i burn calories easily and sweat a lot at the minutest of heat and at the smallest jolt of activity.

so getting into the beefed-up meat market became a welcome proposition. feeding further the already insatiable see-food diet, and i mean eating what i see, wasn't even considered a task. at all. i envy those who are paid to do things they'd enjoy doing, sans the lure of money. now if a perpetual food taster would be anything close to profitable...

and yeah. growing the bulges and cuts at the right places was a sure ticket to the pedestal. more than just being the top guy on the dean's list. more than the few taking notice at the peter parker transformation. more than the panning eyes as i wipe my sweat during rounds of play.

more of the stares at the changing or the sauna room. and the illicit proposals evoked by the visceral display.

so when work eventually got in its way, oh wait. what's work but a means to earn a larger pot at your disposal. a swankier gym. and a one on one PT for a gym buddy. what with the eventual missus confessing to having swayed by a multi-packed abs. after the wedding bells, still faithfully stucked at this healthy routine. until the first baby scream, and the indelible rants of fatherhood. the walk to the gym, the courts, or the swimming pool. all dwindled to ground zero. the post-game binging spree turned just the spree sans the game. well, once in a blue moon a bit of sweat is consummated. which wasn't enough to cope with the still voracious appetite of five to six meals a day.

and now this... at a previous days morning yawn. waking up dawning at a weight 15 pounds higher than the last conditioned load. a high jump. and i dare not speak on the delta of the body fat.

the gym floor was just seven flights down, i jerked, and told myself to get up to get myself a blast. i struggled at the attire. apart from the training shorts and sando, dress socks and a sanuk is all i have.

so at the minutest of urge to take on the metal braw, i chanced at the mirror before taking the mad dash down.

then the time is checked to mark the morning schedule. at this hour, it will either be the gym run. or the feast at the breakfast buffet. but not both.

oh what the heck.

let's count this as just another cheat day. and the cheat is still on!

the quick fix

2010-01-03T01:18:00.002+08:00

inside this banyo, bigger than a studio flat in a metro.
i was sitting at this lone chair with a center hole.
the anal release. 'til all of dirt's emptied.
remnants from a sequence of conscious intake.

a flush was needed. only a lever to press.
bid farewell this organic debris, then on to the next.

clunk.

clunk. clunk. the metal sound banging on ceramic hood.

what should've been a long gush of running fluid.
crap. dark matter was still suspended.

i eye on the next best tool of trade.

a balde.

full of water thrown at the caulder.
this should force the unwanted matter to its prolonged slumber.

so the remaining daylights, spent on this southeastern corner.
a total of nine dusks after christmas.
all laid at in-law's bed.

with each use of the toilet service.
the same disappointment embraces the seated.
resorting to a manual labor.

until today.

at this house settled across a church, the town park and the bayside palengke.
not for a house of three.
but for a dozen. and add a few more for the kalesa.

two rooms sharing this lavatory.
nobody paused.
and took a look at the cause of the malfunction.
for it was only a detached coil.
strapped back to its position.
came back to its full service.

why no one wondered,
and got beyond the surface.
to see what was wrong.

instead, settled the quick fix
while the root of the problem
they remain in attrition.

hunting for hammam

2009-12-31T18:23:00.002+08:00

hoşgeldin greets me as i took this first breath of air from marmara. this foreign land is quaintly uncommon than most that i've been. it's an east-meets-west-cum-pope-meets-muhammad melting pot of sorts carbon dated all the way back from BC. and literally, each side of a bridge at istanbul's city center greets you to an outskirt of yet another continent without need for immigration.

and what does one do first to immerse in this ancient turkish land? by all means, get a turkish bath. hahahaha...

i had no initial idea that this tourist trap took a more sensual implication especially within this audience. as much as onsen-hopping in japan takes you to a visual cruiseship. historically, the turks were fond of bathing in public, which was a handover from its hellenistic neighbors. it was the starbucks of their laden times. the to-see and be-seen spot for a rendevous.

so there i went to this stack of old ruins near the grand bazaar. it wasn't the chic, minimalist spolariums doting the upper deck of the city. but in contrast, felt more like walking into a cobbled set of arabian nights. i couldn't argue the historicity. this place had a century-old clientele on its collar.

so i paid in lira roughly the equivalent of three ninoys. then was issued a red, checkered towel as body wrap while inside the floor to ceiling marbled-halls. yes, down to the heated slabs which had the semblance of a sacrificial altar for five. the wet floor looked like an oversized steam room lining a mosque. well, calling it a room would be an understatement with its tall, majestic dome where the lighting emanates. my first concern was staying clean in this supposedly place for cleanliness. a few hundred years of moisture without a sizeable overhaul does not give you that assurance. lysol wasn't invented until a few decades back. and i doubt its popularity at this side of town. i was even half doubting whether to use the turkish bakya to walk through the wet flooring.

as i sit on one of the corners wondering if i should start my own soliloquy, the scrubber who escorted me inside the wet area now came tapping my shoulder. his english vocabulary counted to less than a hundred... no make that fifty words. so it was a play of gestures and mono- or bi-syllabic words. he was half naked as i was, wearing the same issued set of paraphernalia.

the thought of a he sounded inviting for a moment when i entered this hole in the wall. turkish men. descendants of persia.

instead, what greeted me was undeniably old. a lolo material. complete with a beer belly akin to third-trimester pregancy. i was behaved like a gradeschool student throughout the routine.

he gestured to lay flat down, my belly pressed at the heated centerpiece stone table. while still draped with a towel i took my position and tried to relax. and while finding my space of nirvana, literally pails and pails of hot water splashed without warning. it was his style of wetting the meat. the scrubbing came next was equally merciless. done on a smaller, more private room, he took his piece of scrub and frisked a layer of skin from head to toe and without much regard. sticking yourself into a tunnel car wash would have been a less engaging endeavor. and for the massage. it wasn't done with oil, lotion or powder but with heapfuls of soapsuds to lubricate the fast and furious hand strokes. and more pails of hot water doused all over me while trying to settle down.

i left the wet area spotless and without a scab of dead skin in me. and left turkey with less than a grim of horror from a turkish man's hand.

moving on

2009-12-15T07:53:00.003+08:00

the moon casts a silent glow
heavenly breeze flows down this soil
what might is
and not
the second hand still shifts
no matter what

just say if nay
so this will pass
how hard a metal it is to crack
a hammer ill find
to make a crash.

but then if yes is what you have
you need more striking ways to cry
no more am i
this stubborn fry.

not anymore,
as what you thought i always am.

night cap

2009-12-13T12:07:00.005+08:00

this veiled city. muffled along an outskirt called guijo street. enter all human laden in dark drab wander. past midnight, whom all else begin their R.E.M. slumber.

the air is marked. so is your right inner arm past the entrance man.

bedazzled farther than the sight one spots from left to right. the auditory sound. glaringly deafening than a treat from a 5.1. a twist of spoken melody only heard at this nightly run. a revolver of different acts. each one its own rookie take of emo grunge. unsigned talents this stage their command.

the seventh. or was that an eight. a round they served on a freezing gown. shouting chats finally a journal respite. the chairs now flanked, giving way a sway of urban trot. followed only by this panorama of musical blast.

past another jagger. then another. the phone beeps a string of text.

"uwi ka na. si baby ash kanina pa umiiyak."

the eyes set at the shorthand now pointing to three. then the glance to the glass. the last round downed in one swallow. thirtyfive kilometers. a drive down south. then west. the gates came open to meet your rest.

glad to be back the other night at last. not a monthly stop, more likely a blue moon stash.

hero within

2009-12-09T01:24:00.004+08:00

it was all over news. efren peñaflorida and his catwalk to the hollywood theater. this ordinary guy's pedestal climb courtesy of our trademark global influence over the world wide web. in his acceptance speech, he mentioned of hidden hereos within.

sans the camera lights, there was another one. a lot closer to my heart. her name was missis ash.

between almost two years from getting married and our first born, there were 24 then that we made ours. kids aged three to five years. at least on weekends. that was the count.

cute. and horrible.

missis was raised an engineer. but had this undeniable itch for teaching. and no better deserving she went than to those that cannot afford one. her first, a lesson plan adapted for an urban slum.

all year long. saturdays and oftentimes on sundays too. she took it as a loyal crusade. the few nights preceeding weekends weren't spent on a mall, club or a restaurant row. but at home, preparing for the next days teaching plan. and spent was hers entirely, as the group she joined didn't have much funds to throw.

the kids she's known. an entire bag of class stereotypes. a bully. introvert. gossip-girl. happy-go-lucky. even a mama's boy. all packed on a small makeshift she proudly calls her class. all she needed was a roof, a blackboard, and hard ass guts. she even made herself ready by enrolling to a diploma course, all done on her dwindling free time. the chairs and tables and feeding fund. they came as well from all donors grant.

it was the first time this change process was tried on this side of the street. day one, the parents where at the back. and most cynical of her deck of cards. the toil took heavy pains. a deep-seated kalye mentality. at their age, a few cussed-laden conversations greets each classroom argument. a few more hard-headed angels who did not knew the word politeness. missis taught more than just the A, B and C's. above all shapes, colors and animal names. she taught them how to say please, sorry and say grace before a meal.

they where just kids. once you see them smile, you melt with positive pride.

so i was there. instead of the gym, the basketball court or in front of a television wall. i was missis ash's designated driver. and kargador. and teacher's assistant. and the event chronicler.

but most of all, proud husband to an unsung hero. on her final mark, a paper trophy and a music sung by her own flock.

ikaw ang tangi kong idol, missis ash.

not just mine

2009-12-06T15:43:00.001+08:00

it was just a date. me, the missis and the rest of the gang. all counting to nine. a legal other each has, except for one. but he brought with him a companion we saw the first time.

he said he was eyeing. this girl he was with last night. she was likeable. independent. sophisticated. the carrie bradshaw we used to watch. we had all eyes set to her. a hot seat laid come chitchat time. and she was cool to mingle. pleasantly endearing to all of us.

but soon he paid his and her tab, then excused for the rest of night. part of his plan was a one on one, which we didn't mind.

or did we.

hidden between the small talk was the tabloid news no one read aloud. this he whom we know. has (or as he claims, had) a baggage left behind. his none other than he had for a decade now. since college they were living in as one. even going full fledged sans the blessings of the church.

he claims it was already a past. a freedom he can have. but his other one we came to understand. also a he by all standards. thus, his decision, the question in everyones mind.

no other parties involved, as they claim. it was their mutual decision. untying their imaginary knot. and a family life they wanted to pursue. no one clearly understood this arrangement they had. he was now living alone. and his ex-he, stayed on the flat they shared since years ago. they would still call each other friends, but steadily moving into each one's way. a move he would tell missis, was the right thing to do.

"sa tingin mo, will he tell her?" missis asked as we walked to the parking slot.

"can he?" i asked.

"kawawa naman yung girl if he wont. but i don't know if she can take it." missis was just concerned. it was her longtime friend.

the car was now in front of us. "yeah," was my reply, as i let go of missis' hands.

x-file

2009-12-04T19:52:00.001+08:00

here's another plan.

soon's gonna be another calendar flip. not the rite of passing from the birth canal, but of the altar march. seems like this is going to be a long run with missis ash.

yeah and it's a recurring itch. ash has this fondness for making sneaky surprises. the kind that blows his missis' day. so it better be a grand plot she would never thought her other half would pull off.

she's prolly supposing it'll be just a gift. or a candlelit munch for two. an after-dark slack from work or from motherhood is her thing these days. there never is too often a rant to stop from her office or domestic tasks.

the first day of work week, missis ash wont know. she's coming in for not for her desk. but a trip towards the aeroparque. a hostage take her husband has marked.

this coying man took pains to run. his missis' boss too damn hard to sway. but then the only way as one's got a mighty will. a two day off without the staff's consent. was just what little sam's began to conspire. a bargain with her chief, ash knows is a heavy, and tricky pact with the devil. he will owe him a mountain in return. nevertheless, a vindicated task.

the morning drive will come out like this. it will be the usual steer to the CBD, but her sweet lover will unknowingly declare an emergency. a self-proclaimed quarantine he will say. and vast seas away from this urban decay.

enough pack of stuff all laid out beforehand. a two-piece match isn't a work attire after all. nor is sunblock a familiar stack in her makeup bag. and baby ash. well, left out to the trusty hands of her missis ash's folks.

oh and what a picturesque facility they will stay. not a finger to lift a decent chore. not a moment, this lad thinks she will get bored. two sunsets is what he will ask. all alone. of course the wine stands in between. and what the devious mind will connive.

so its a hush. 'til revelation day. highly unlikely this silence disturbed.

public display of erection

2009-12-03T10:38:00.002+08:00

you.

yes homo erectus, you. too often a bench press you do.

tumescenting isnt a vital sign. nor a strobe light in perpetual surround. wang-gorged to a woman. pick the only one. no more to be sown, especially to a man. and never on public's mind. too much a noise this roaring a tiger, heard from his impound.

not a switch, i know. power sword never too easily ignored. but neither a rebellion this james dean you can fold.

mind over matter they say. so think harder and not a boner. and ruminate less with the foilage at bay. practice you had, early on campus grounds. no salute for the flaccid junk. even with dingalings on parade come shower time.

other firsts you had when the marital knot was still a future grab. on one, she takes you in this QC land, where a rub and a stroke is order at hand.

my gawd! hormones in astray. as the wet area, onsen-style in display. a thick cover and a lot of cold water. to douse a growing gun still lodged in this holster. and the massage, no less became a fruitless struggle. the attendant asked, a dick or a slit? silly question or so you thought. you looked down and assured it was a pecker in his way. and so one came along, rubbing oil, skin pushed onto yours. unhappy thoughts you pictured to stunt the growth, as he might mind you were in for his schlong all along.

so keep it private. or restrained. excalibur stuck firmly in stone. gray skull the closet only he-man knows. keep it inside, only on one's and missis' dutiful hands.

how woody is thy wood

2009-11-30T20:33:00.000+08:00

let's take a short test, shall we? just choose the best answer that describes your sexual abilities in the last four weeks:

1. How do you rate your confidence that you could get an keep an erection?
1 - very low
2 - low
3 - moderate
4 - high
5 - very high

2. When you had erections with sexual stimulation, how often were your erections hard enough for penetration?
1 - never, or almost never
2 - a few times
3 - sometimes
4 - most times
5 - almost always or always

3. During sexual intercourse, how often were you able to maintain your erection after you had penetrated (entered) your partner?
1 - never, or almost never
2 - a few times
3 - sometimes
4 - most times
5 - almost always or always

4. During sexual intercourse, how difficult was it to maintain your erection to completion of intercourse?
1 - extremely difficult
2 - very difficult
3 - difficult
4 - slightly difficult
5 - not difficult

5. When you attempted sexual intercourse, how often was it satisfactory for you?
1 - never, or almost never
2 - a few times
3 - sometimes
4 - most times
5 - almost always or always

now total the numbers corresponding to the answer for each question. the possible scores range from 5 to 25. the likelihood of having erectile dysfuntion is based on your score and is classified accordingly as:
- severe: 5-7
- moderate: 8-11
- mild to moderate: 12-16
- mild: 17-21
- and no erectile dysfunction: 22-25

next: more wood talk

the truth serum

2009-11-21T20:12:00.005+08:00

out came a mobile phone from the trouser pocket. an unread message from an unlisted number began flashing. a long smile unconsciously carving my face as i read it.

"sino yan, kabit mo?"

mrs ash was sitted on my right while i was driving the after office rush hour traffic. she saw my fixation over what the phone's lcd screen had to display. instead of the road ahead.

"oo. si number three."

i turned my head in her direction and winked as our eyes met. she seemed unwary with the reply.

the next move was a calculated scheme.

"honey," now speaking on a more subdued tone, "can i play badminton tonight?"

--------------------------

there's only one finger less than a handful of people in this world who's an elbow tag with sam. and unlikely not a finger more to add. people who sees the lil boy sam and not the sam covered in ash's drag.

until early this year, ash was adamant at keeping sam a closed book. happily minding his own business. the few moments that sam was loosely in control, ie alone scouting the internet, he happened to saw ex-blog jock B's nook. this jock's mi ultimo adios caught sam's attention, so a few open ended questions were fielded.

this jock replied.

and so started a flurry of conversation. the jock has his issue then, and sam was all ears appreciating the dynamics of this chats PLU bill. sam had his own barrage of issues with mrs ash too, as would any couple would endure. and the jock knew how to listen and play mr phil.

before the ex-blogger made his periodic disappearing act, he tendered a soiree of sorts for sam with two others of this same class - jock Y and jock T. comrades jock B also met in the confines of his ex-blog. who jock b knew he can trust. for this lil sam was a naked mustard seed too fragile to let loose on open crust.

and the last counted finger. then the subject of the jock B's inspiration. as he talked about him night and day. his playboy bunny.

so this went on for a few weeks. or months. merrily chatting without the need (and the risk) of disclosing the ash this world sees. this bunch became sams council of nicea. feeding him with the tricks of trade, the rules of engagement. not that sam was likely to engage this freedom. a few more YM ID's sam also got along well with, as there was no need to stag a berlin wall when all they see is an avatar to read.

soon enough, the confines of the world wide web became too short a runway for this Y, L, B and sam to stray. one damn good pretty night to unwind, sam took further his first coming out and had a round of lite with jock Y. a milestone in sam's, and especially ash's right. the next revelation became easier with jock's L and then M.

three warm-blooded jocks whom sam found his circle of trust. often with dinners, and a few out of town sorties. the bug is now to unleash sam without mrs ash making a know-how. either a night or a weekend-long flight.

and now at thirty, sam makes note, that eyeballs aren't after all about sex. and with this fate, sam is, and will likely be fulfilled, at being just a virgin.

graffiti carved for the rock stars.

where the winds sigh

2009-11-17T06:44:00.002+08:00

there was no more obvious gesture of provocation than the hand falling on towel ground. he let out a slight, perceptible twitch in response. a knee jerk reflex, I thought, but i guess his consent tapered this advance into submission. no practice, but he came prepared for the taking.

he was in good hands.

touch me, all silent
tell me, please. all is forgiven
consume my wine
consume my mind
i’ll tell you how, how the winds sigh

beyond the television noise was his audible breathing pattern. now deeper and more rhythmic. his head, still lazing comfortably above my shoulder, now extended to my neck as breathing groung. in return, my cheek was grazing his dense cranial hair. the friction must have let out a heightened olfactory embrocation to make me want to lay on it endlessly.

back to my left hand. still feeling his frontage, it was now trying to make its way inside the towel. no words to speak for the matter. even the visions captured by the eyes were secondary to what was trailblazing.

and everything fell into cruise control. as if seemingly premeditated.

the clock's second hand progressed as always, the tick of time moving to a slow, anesthesized pace. it was an hour's worth of bed theatrics till checkout and neither one was rushing the moment.

touch me, just try it
now, there. that’s it.
god, that’s heaven
i’ll love your light
i’ll love you right
we’ll wander down where the sins cry

my advances. his indulgence. he let my uninhibited imagination carry out the deed.

the next scenes were gasmic, but both were being cautious. there was no sex involved. not even an exchange of saliva. it was all a play of touch until each one had his share of blast. a tight embrace was the closest i could ever have.

it wasn't like this before. i was reserved. an introvert. unlikely to strike a word nor phrase to a stranger. but here i was, taking on another man to fill in an unrequited desire. he didn't mind he was threading on the forbidden. it was an all too sudden ménage. too brazen to think and appreciate the consequences.

careless. or carefree. he was pilyo in an attractive way.

this scottish brew went on for a few months. i turned into his monthly visitor. we had our blinding moments in the hotel bed. and casually walked as two buddies while on outside pass. still no humping 'do - he wasn't ready. and i wasn't willing.

in between was a few hundred miles distance which was connected by exchanges over at YM and SMS. i would often wait for mrs. ash to sleep before we engage in verbal, or virtual jerk off.

until that moment he mentioned the 143 digit.

"i love you."

touch me, just like that
now lower down, where the sins lie

love me, just for a bit
we’ll wander down, where’s the winds sigh

which made me realize he was just a dependence i couldn't afford. lil boy sam was still mr ash.

he may be in need of love. but this love he cannot claim from ash's other half.

he may be lil boy sam's chosen loved one. but love isn't this sam's preference to run.

touch me, just like that

2009-11-08T04:54:00.005+08:00

"nakaligo ka na?"

was the first question i raised upon his entrance. he made a half-smile. then shook his head in a pleasant disagreement.

i didn't know how to act. what to say. we were trapped sharing equal moments of silence, as if one was waiting for the other to take the first bite. the ceiling was a handy companion taking on blank stares. the room felt like an oversized elevator with two passengers on a prolonged trip up.

too much frost fueling the chill. a second more, i might scare him to retreat. so i got him a towel.

which he readily grabbed, then placed on top of a table. his next steps were tacit. casually, he started taking off his clothes. while my eyes remain wandering at all places apart from his.

then the last piece of clothing he left unremoved. his stack of outerwear neatly folded alongside the towel. i've seen him in this same garb, or lack of it, just the other day. he looked sinfully boyish wearing them boxers. apart from that, it was all skin. dangerously the inviting kind. i glanced a second too long. the garter holding his underwear hanging treacherously far below the navel. too inviting.

as he went into the bathroom, the door was left partially open.

touch me, just like that
and that,
oh, yeah, now, that’s heaven
now, that i like
god, that’s so nice
now lower down, where the figs lie

the sound of gushing water and twisting showerhandles resonated. a heightened sense of listening when one cannot see.

an invitation? damn such non-verbal cues. he wasn't playing it as any wet, willing and desperate man would do - direct and explicit. i took a sit in a bed corner, blindly staring at the tv, in hopes of catching any form of insight. food for thought for this folly that i fell for.

the banyo was now silent, devoid of any activity. i was still sitting at the bed corner.

he came out in a towel. fresh. clean. clammy. ready for the taking. i was striving to send out a telepathic message. just one word. and three letters. s e x.

words that never left my mind. nor did it come out of my mouth.

worse part, he was as naive as i was. there staring at the room avoiding full eye contact.

"antok ka pa?" i was struggling to initiate a short talk.

for which he drew closer, now sitted next to me. and telling what went through last night until a few hours ago with his friends. he was still on his towel, still tucked a few inches below his belly button.

the conversation succeeded for a brief moment. a few more chit chats, then again silence enveloped the scene. both of us were just staring at the television set. a music channel.

it was a tounge twisting impasse. no word falling from any of the neural cortices towards the mouth. i was desperate to cut off the dead air.

then, without warning, i felt a hand. then an arm. a gentle embrace radiating my shoulder. with such warmth i could just close my eyes and let the moment linger.

i stared at him. he hanged his head over my left shoulder. his hair now brushing the surface of my lips.

then the impossible happened. my hand swayed over and landed on his crotch.

where i go, when i go there
no more shadows anymore
only men with golden fins
the rhythm in them, rocking with them, to shore

where i go, when i go there
no more weeping anymore
only in and out your lips
the broken wishes, washing with them, to shore

in conclusion: the winds sigh

after you, then who?

2009-11-06T01:27:00.000+08:00

"tol happy fathers day..."

was one of the last string of messages i recalled him sending. before finally obliging myself to let go and live without a six year old mobile number that kept him within reach.

to sever contact was cold turkey. his was a compulsion that's difficult to wipe away with a single swab. not with a pocketful of sunshine i thought he brought. but to insist isolation was the only escape from this indulgence. to live with more than one is too much.

where i go, when i go there
no more memory anymore
only men on distant ships
the women with them, swimming with them, to shore

i was newly married then. fresh from the marital vows committed under oath and under the catholic church. what the mouth spoke, and the hand wrote then, the mind made its own agenda.

i guess he was as confused as i was. and innocent. his actions seemed tentative and unsure, as if done for the first time. he wasn't offering any friendship, and one can surmise that from the gut. no doubt i was. and i knew i didnt know how to act. how to play the cards. it wasn't a tested formula. and the repercussions all mine to loose.

his started as a brief chat over at a local gym. which ended between passing glances at the locker room exchanging numbers. i took the first step. he didn't seem interested at first, but notheless took that now ex-mobile number.

the night progressed with endless exhanges of sms. who he was. what he has become. and the same replies came from me. well, i wasn't ready to share the whole side of me, so i made a few ambiguous statements just to protect my privacy. but he was relentless pursuing at everything he could percolate about me. the night capped with him asking a call. he was on prepaid on a student allowance so i volunteered the first hello. it's those calls you make that runs without you knowing the conversation has already ended. no time to think of something witty or wise. just the tone of a disconnecting line making you pause and realize you didn't use much of the thought process to come up as a flirtster.

his last offer was to come to my place and meet face to face once again. i just met him a couple of hours ago. lying on my hotel room bed then, i was ready to leave for manila the next day.

he seemed attractive. no doubt he was young. very young considering the age difference then. yet as he claimed he was already eighteen. i was drawn over his youthfulness. the sense of being carefree. unlike the calculated life i thought i was in.

i was planning to check out at 10AM for a mid noon flight. at eight i was ready to go down for breakfast. the first order after waking up was to check the phone. there wasn't any missed calls. nor unread messages. thirty minutes into the meal, i called him up.

where i go, when i go there
no more whispering anymore
only hymns upon your lips
a mystic wisdom, rising with them, to shore

he just woke up, out from an all night tryst with his friends. i remembered. he had his own set. but no more than that, i suppose. he said he was coming over. how long, i asked. his place was a ten minute ride. add a few more minutes for a quick shower. i told him he can shower here at my room.

i was surprised at my reply. and he? he was knocking 20 minutes then.

next part: touch me

the jock itch

2009-11-03T00:14:00.004+08:00

lemme try tweaking an old adage -

"all work and no play makes ash a horndog."

that goes for too much stress hormones flowing through my veins the past two weeks. a corroding overdose which must have haywired the rest of my pituitary juices, including this boner-ducing, cum-collecting sortie.

i'm going to call this x-filey an itch, as it has become one. from down there. not literally, of course. but striking off as a "green" compulsion. anytime, and at no moments notice. not even a spark needed to ignite.

but what's characteristic about this hoopla, this horntardation's prey were all non-imaginary. not some man-love taking on the mythical facade of the likes of papa p. all took off from either my past, or the current. or flying from things i closeted to do.

firstly, there was the missis. my first and most convenient line of outlet to dissipate this pressure cooking. who took careful note of this sudden surge in libido. but who took the excesses as "bastos" while i was only striking at every opportunity to graze. i always need to remind myself of this edict. that for women, each is a full fledged ritual. while for us, dear male readers, it is only just a walk in the park.

missis was then, an easy quota to reach. plan b please.

now this basketball guy whom i shared a ring hooping balls, one weekend afternoon, got a handful of parking space over at dreamland. a jock in the making and pleasantly charming, he was all sweat. the sweet-smelling kind. and for christsakes, turning up in court wearing only sandos and boxers! who wouldnt like to go elbow tagging or even within rubbing distance while playing defense to him? to his defense, he was exceptionally good at dribbling. while i took the time passing glances eyeing on his crotch. another mental note - cotton briefs get soggy at the deluge of sweat.

bar none, the rest of these clandestine visions took form with my long time badminton partner. yeah, call it incestuous. but sue me for clinging on to an amateur dick magnet himself. he stands about as tall as i am, a tad skinny-er, err... leaner, than myself. yet took the better and fairer of the vanity genes known to genomics. i'd say he's a pubescent and pinoy version of mtv vj utt. and i never realized how ~~close~~ intimate i was to this guy until now. think numerous butt tappings, chest bangings, locker room changes and alcohol binging. hell we've even shared toiletries and clothes in the interest of commonality. at one point while bedridden with a viral infection, he was alone and helpless in his pad. i took some groceries and medicine to his place, took his pile of laundry out to the shop. and offered a sponge bath to pacify the high grade fever. yes, i've seen him wearing his birthday suit. accidentally, of course. and without malice. *wink*

now he's migrated first world. and im stuck with the last fantasy of him and his embrace. in bed. and in the nude. *wink* *wink*

so what's the moral of this story? none. even call it immoral for the matter.

i'm lucky i dont sleep talk.

NB: Pardon my slur.

the october affair

2009-11-01T16:26:00.004+08:00

"Alive. Alive. Both of them."
- Artemis Fowl: The Time Paradox

lil' boy sam took a long time out.
halloween's mark was the end of tunnels light.
work got in all of ash's way.
caught in distraught with a high profile case.

no affair in between.
men or women for that matter.
just seemingly tortuous days. still spilling onto endless nights.
the whole gregorian cycle. wasted on a paid fight.

each moment is a stretch, no more to spare.
the tick tock wand all in payrolls hand.
thats why this closed book made no click nor register.

still here, yes i am.
but the long wait it now over.
no more spiders web to thread on.
not another day to fallow from.

sige na nga, sweldo naman

2009-09-28T00:37:00.002+08:00

these past few days, i was in the midst of contemplating on more stringent means of stretching ones hard-earned buck and cut the non-essentials from the daily toil. there were a number considered dispensable, and even a few bordering on the extravagant. expenses that i could definitely live without, and even at that, stay comfortable. the current state of my saving plan can be improved, and was then eyeing at opportunities where money can grow further on its own, as well as money that can stay liquid in cases of an emergency.

the first order this weekend was to buy a few long delayed household stuff. i thought of just making a quarter-hour walk or taking a few minutes of jeep ride to a nearby mall. but coming out of the driveway, the horizon was making its gloomy impression. the land was drenched, hazed with an endless outpour of the rain.

"sige na nga, sweldo naman," as i was making a careful effort of tabbing my expenses. gas and parking would cost more than a stroll or at worst, the cheapest public transport. but i was unprepared with the weather condition, thus the detour into the parking level towards the slot where the car stands.

the mall began its opening hour and was still devoid of human traffic. passing through the food stalls, i realized i wasn't able to take breakfast at home. as the thought of hunger was setting in, the food displays were becoming a distracting temptation.

"sige na nga, sweldo naman."

the first stop was the hardware. it was an easy journey as i was preoccupied with a bunch of munch while walking towards the store.

it just happened that the mall was marked for a weekend sale.

"sige na nga." a few quick glances at my favored brands. glances which translated into a swipe of a credit card. i continue to argue that i was still within my monthly spending limit (sans the revised saving plan).

then the last dash was at the grocery to take in a few week-long provisions. the few ending out with a few more goodies stashed in cart. the impulse to take on more than was planned was thoughtfully justified. "sweldo naman."

i was then on my way home. three bags heavier.

coming through at a busy intersection, i drove the car to a halt. an outpouring of rain continued. a frail, little girl came knocking on my driver side windshield. she was peddling a few strands of sampaguita. the sound of liquid passing up a straw distracted the eye contact between me and the girl as i was sipping this cup of milk tea.

"magkano?"

"bente po."

"ang isa?!?"

"opo."

sige na ash. sweldo lang naman yan.

"akin na lahat," taking out bills worth one hundred and twenty pesos. and the two loaves of pastry i bought. she beamed towards me with a gleeful smile.

i knew they may be into some form of a collusion. on why the government, who we pay a sum of hard earned taxes as trust to restore a sense of order and comfort amongst our society. on how these kids brave the torrential rains that has beset us the past two days. but more uncertain over the future they will receive.

on how we cannot remain as spectators. but change agents.

sweldo lang yan ash.

my malate

2009-09-19T19:24:00.001+08:00

earlier i had the chance of strolling along the fabled lanes of this district called malate, just a few hours before sunrise, and saw the breadth of change since the last immersion. the point of reference was half a decade ago, back when i was still an endemic specie of this neighborhood. the characters julio nakpil, guerrero, vasquez, remedios, maria orosa were all too familiar street names, and back then, as i myself took temporary residence along adriatico, could walk around these alleys without fear of being mislaid. but after a career move, malate, who then was second home, became just now an uncommon passing lane. it was sad to see the iconoclasts that then defined my reputation of malate disappearing into the commercial row that it is now.

this is the malate that i grew to remember...

fine dining at alda's kitchen along adriatico (near padre faura) without leaving a gaping hole in your pocket. the menu was predominantly italian with all their selections for pizza and pasta. the cordon bleu and sausages were top choice for entre. pasted on its cobbled walls are vintage posters of theater acts during the time of the met theater's rennaisance.

any reason is worth walking towards twc or third world cafe. it was the watering hole of choice for my kind. the ambiance was relaxed and laid back (i just refuse to use nonchalant as a description). and they had a third floor rooftop view. the drug of choice was a house mix called submarine - concoted with one liter of draft beer and a shot of lambanog. served in a frozen mug straight from the chiller, a shot glass-filled coco-alcohol dunked inside the goblet. a typical inuman of 3-5 rounds with my barkada once ended up early with a barfing spree. as the bartender, without prior warning (and consent!), exchanged draft beer with the pulang kabayo as the former's stock was used up. this place is now demolished and used as a garage.

arts venue - this one is along taft avenue, near quirino. cheap alcohol. live, head-banging kind of rock genre. adjacent to a bilyaran. a mass of jologs audience. but it was still a hit. i remember that altercations would always be a common scene here.

who would forget the venti size donuts on sale at the midtown hotel lobby pastry shop? this defunct hotel resides where robinsons place midtown wing now stands. they had a very loyal following and a human line appeared at each time the pre-closing sale sign is posted. and two flights above the hotel lobby was the gym - where students received a preferential rate. with towel service and pool use, this was a come-on, drawing student from as far as the taft-vito cruz circle.

penguin cafe struck me as the ultimo symbol of bohemian malate. in parisian-esque motif, art splashed decor colored its walls vis-a-vis a regular stage for art performances, gigs and exhibitions. it was "classy" but not restrained. as you enter, you breathe a menage of coffee, tobacco and upholstery aged over time. what i remember most about this hole is their male restroom which had a ceramic min-tub as a male urinal. so the intent was for it to be shared. i didnt notice seeing that linux-ly statue and the neon sign at the mouth of remedios street approaching the circle last night.

speaking of parisian, cafe breton began its roots in this environ. packed in the middle of a row of dutch village stalls at maria orosa, it was where i had my taste of their crepe. and the scene where i took out most of dates for an after dinner night cap.

dc diner - think of the tv series true blood, with its southern american-style diner. this one is along padre faura, opposite the PAL learning center.

still speaking of food, hap chan at malvar near pan pacific and wok in beside remedios church - they say these were the original of those popular chinese food chain. singkit had their original to-go base here as well. and the cheesecake place at jed and julians along adriatico, just almost opposite the library, was also a draw.

mind over man-gina

2009-09-18T05:57:00.002+08:00

keeping this internal affair confined can be insurmountable at times and unexpected at its best. growing up, i previously had the assumption that being able to swing both ways would be an advantage. not in an egalitarian sense of having two in a co-equal footing but the thought of having a choice. which initially meant as a larger pot of gold to be immersed with. and that it would just be a matter of choice one can engage at in the end, the same manner as clinical as pressing an on/off switch.

which wasn't the daily reality at all.

yes, one had to choose. but at the time it was not only conventional to fit into the set shoes laid by a divine command. it was the only card laid for one to play.

when one is asked to dominate, firstly done is to pacify the rejected other. and the divergent existence is often left hanging inside the closet - with fear, seclusion and uncertainty. but with consent. as the pacified, in its utilitarian mind, finds this as the most beneficial of all reasoning.

amidst this restraint, the outward self also strives to keep pace with its own definition of normality. not at all big a task as we have grown living this concept of fundamentals. but taking that step to live a straight life, it always seemed an endless effort to put your best foot forward. all else left behind (and hidden) is considered by this utopia as a character flaw.

all this conflict with having and making a choice and the dilemma of retrospecting ones decision is just first chapter. if one is having difficulty hiding the smoke, let us just say there's also a world of smoke alarms waiting at each opportunity to sound off. being identified or getting caught is a very real possibility. with being gay, one just has to be in terms with himself. and thats it. the coming to terms and others coming to terms with his is the most difficult part. but with being bi, one has to contend further. from the purist straights and also with the purist gays who cannot consider ours a different pathology. it is a damned if you are one. and further damned for being, and either choosing, one over the other.

this is sam and ash, talking as one.

the nth dance

2009-09-16T01:24:00.000+08:00

she will be honey
despite him half-covert
from this other facet
his life blood
to circulate
her nearness
he must create

three tunes
and counting
there is no hindering
all the same song
this music to beckon
to this pair
of jaded ped

with him
dancing along
she wont be
left all alone
for he will always do
a hold in her hand
as the music sounds
and lead
this dance on cue

...

i miss writing for you misis a.

dry box

2009-09-10T07:32:00.002+08:00

its this hard plastic case reinforced with steel. with a thick o-ring that renders it impervious to water and air. and a purge valve to equalize any sudden changes in external pressure.

this case is guaranteed watertight and unbreakable. certified according to standards by the military, logistics and air transport industry. the warranty it carries is valid for a lifetime's use.

you hear stories of this case weathering all sorts of natural disasters as well as trauma brought about by fire and explosion. they say you can drop this from a multi-storey building and the contents would still end up as salvageable.

if its something worth protecting, this case is the first line defense. one cannot be safe enough to be assured from physical abuse. not with the limitless possibilities of attack.

what's inside must be really important and valuable.

i wish there was this same course to shelter the little boy sam.

ice breaker

2009-09-07T22:51:00.003+08:00

i am frail. sickly. several times hooked to an IV. and the next one's scheduled for a slice right inside my head. the surgeon said it i would need at least 3 hours of inhaling anesthesia for him to open a hole, fix the problem and suture it back. plus a weeks rest and a month of rehab before everything goes back to my definition of normalcy.

my body likes leaving scars behind. i get a lot of it from growing old - pimples running out of my face extending at my back, scratches, cuts and bruises, fire burns, rope burns. i've some stitches to prove how clumsy i was back then.

i have a problem with hair growth. it recedes at the ideal places. yet too much at the usual places. and more at the wrong places.

the fact that my head's too big for my frame. as are my joints. take a look at the tallest basketball players - they suffer this case of acromegaly. but mine was a bit insensitive for the pumped growth hormones.

and the personality. i never was mr congeniality - a classic INTP according to Myers-Briggs typology. i can last the whole day without the need for a conversation. socializing is on a need-to-do-basis. my life is too laid down, too de kahon. people who attempt to, well, they either surrender or end up having epistaxis (a clinical term for a nosebleed).

so why would you still want to know me?

could it be number two?

2009-09-03T07:42:00.002+08:00

then again, this speculation crossed mr ash's mind.

could it be the reason for the recent spate of bipolar-ian episodes? even baby ash wasn't spared.
and the apetite. and the gustatory choices one has to pursue.

the paternal instinct is not as sensitive. yet the basic tenets of logic cannot be ignored.

tyrone sounds like a good name.

unaccompanied

2009-09-02T22:27:00.000+08:00

tonight i began to drive alone, the destination being long and far away from the city lights. for sure it will be a struggle, as with the rush hour and the state of construction along the highway. but i didn't care anymore. the miles will stretch to more than two digits. and at this time, at least twice the time is expected for me to arrive.

it was a choice to correct a previously made mistake.

but then you called. i knew you would. and you didn't offer any explanation. only a clear demand to go back.

i hesistated. i have already conditioned myself to endure this trip. albiet a impromtu decision, i have made preparations and all. no mental game for me at this pressing moment. only a reason to rectify an innocent offense.

i am not doing this to please you. nor to make a stand nor evade you. i do not see why you make yourself as the protagonist in this case. you are not the issue. i was certain you would act against this. and the arguments continue to stand, whether the action veers to proceed or revert.

i opposed casting a tear when you made your point. amidst the resilience, i heard your plea. you didn't have to pretend to portray an iron fist. i act better at pretending to be numb.

ahead of me was a u-turn. but then, i could just drive away.

if i opt to heed, the problem remains. and then it would make sense for you to grin at winning this emotional fistfight.

i disappoint myself.

safety stop

2009-08-31T14:20:00.001+08:00

at thirty years, i would say my assimilation process with this other-ness had a delayed start. even if awareness has struck me alongside puberty, i have only recently become more comfortable with what is, what can become and with what i can't. in those gapping years, reality has convoluted into two levels - the ash and the sam. they are the work of the same hands and the same mind, but live in two different paths bounded by a 38th parallel. there is no truce to speak of, as it is unconditional that these two realities remain separate. now the fear that either ash or sam recedes is if situations would occur where sam's and ash's paths would intersect and the world that one sits will recognize the others that lives beneath. this is a growing fear, as the line drawn between is imaginary. for these two realities sits on the same world and walks on the same soil.

basa

2009-08-30T21:28:00.012+08:00

the sea is my second home.
the swim takes me to depths where no air threads.

the sound ceases to disturb my secluded abode.
only a distant muffle to engage the silence below.

and the sight is another tale.
lives that suffocate without being wet.

the absence of air is my ardent escape.

twisted

2009-08-27T01:41:00.004+08:00

madretsma
kokgnab
gnijieb
seria soneub
snriac
llih lepahc
iam gnaihc
negahnepoc
trufknarf
gnok gnoh
lubnatsi
rimzi
grubsennahoj
ulabanik atok
rorok
rupmul alauk
gnihcuk
wocsom
gnanep
htrep
tekuhp
notecnirp
oreniaj ed oir
aynas
oluap oas
eropagnis
yendys
iepiat
viva let
oykot
egdirbdoow
hciruz

...

happy are those living with a twisted mind.
they who see reality in a different light.
they who speak reality in their own light.
they who share reality in hope of a new light.

and happier are those
who sees, who speaks, who shares
their own shine
to those whose twisted mind
show no light.

wild thing

2009-08-26T12:44:00.008+08:00

this is a tale of two crawling beachcombers, cheli-X and cheli-Y.

cheli-X, appearing on the left, assumes the female role in this story. anatomically, her broader and rounder abdomen differs from the male's pointed and thinner cephalothorax. but this female cheli-X as we label her may had been a Y all along, as genetically males of this particular genera can revert sexes at appropriate conditions.... and this is another story.

now these two chelis on this cloudy day took on a more human behavior as they become forceful accomplices to this in-human-e intervention called role playing. and this particular role these two chelis are volun-told to portray we will call as (drumbeats please) ...

the world wide wild-ass wacking act of the wang.

act 1. first blood is green

cheli-X and cheli-Y meets for the first time. and first impression counts, especially when you're paraded in the nude. the eyeballing (more like a total body scan) takes its due course, and two green minds intertwine.

as the mind says, the body will follow. and soon enough, when the hormonal peak reaches its threshold of no return, the first skin contact signals the marathon run.

act 2. ora et lingua - the mouth and tongue job

once the common intention is discerned, instinct (or rather urges) predominate the act. as first base, this cheli takes their turn sniffing the other ones man- (or woman- or gay-) hood. but the sniff is such a sensory overload so in the course of action, it lets the tastebuds overtake and seize the steering wheel.

a word of thought on the tongue - as the doting laborer, its goal is to provide the contrast (or complement) from the sucking action of the mouth. a point of focus amidst the sea of ecstasy. and in the same line of thought as we describe the act where the mouth lodges its vacuum effect, the tongue's site of excitation describes the deed, be it a penni-, cunni- or ana- lingus.

act 3. who'se on top?

the top takes the aggressor position, generally speaking. and also in general terms dictates the pace of the intimacy. coming from this point of view, the top maybe described not in terms of position but of the giver in a give-and-take process.

an important point for the toppers is to know their partners Ws and H - where, when, what and how. as achieving act number four is not only a one way street but two acts to achieve. if the top can't, let the other assume top position.

act 4. in search of the blinding light

acts two and three and all other acts of the same derivative rally singly one after the other to achieve a common effect - to reach a climactic blinding light. the external signs range from a scream, a long sigh, from a twitch to a momentary convulsion, or any abrupt change in behavior from a steady accelerating pace of activity.

as each cheli takes his or her own pace, the other must buoy up in support of their partners due course. otherwise, frustation is in the offing.

act 5. the great depression

after the storm comes the quiet period. not a word more in description.

NB: im having too much sun on my head

sex on the beach

2009-08-17T02:30:00.003+08:00

little boy sam was alone too long.

solitary in a metaphorical lore.

he's had the A's and Z's to keep him company.

yet the sam in him talked to nobody.

this sam as he calls,

never had known, moreso told another soul.

but hidden beneath a thick wall,

a muffled cry of a little boy's mind bellows.

amidst finding other sams he would have wanted

a slice of a cake his best offer.

whoever lends an ear and a shoulder.

however in this pursuit,

his fear took greater precedence.

that other little sams would drown his existence.

and just as he would have walked that desolate cove,

the builder on his cloud took the matter in resolve.

three kindred sorts.

sams ending in B, Y and T.

they then took this once forlorn sam aboard.

to a beach a fraternal bond was born.

(the beach is said. the sex is up next)

differential diagnosis

2009-08-14T09:41:00.005+08:00

this cannot be happening.
as i checked again. and again. and yet another relentless stare. it was still there, etched out on skin like a permanent mark. maybe it was just an innocent scratch, i supposed. a zipper burn or sand abrasion? but could it be.... a syphilis sore? i never saw one, so i relied heavily comparing pictures at the net. although, i argued. there were some fundamental differences to rule out the nasty bug. but the arguments, overshadowed by doubts. and this would be the only possible fit.

if there's a shadow of doubt, then there is a chance. for a binary mind who either thinks zero or one, there can be no gray matter to leave hanging out.

contact tracing.
there were only two possibilities, either the missis or this boytoy. misis would be a highly unlikely suspect as i am almost sure of her monogamy. and she came out negative a month back from the pregnancy check.

this boytoy - he was really just a boy. who played with my toy a few weeks ago. as unbelievable as it may seem, there was no humping, screwing nor shagging (my long-standing conviction still appears successful to overule the hormonal drive). but enough skin contact, in theory, to make the wiggly bug transfer from the host to its new abode.

remorse.
i couldn't take my mind out of this anxiety throughout the whole business trip. time after time, i would take a discreet glance hoping it would disappear. it just looked just like any ordinary scrape of the skin.

the builder must have issued His warning sign to this now unfaithful sam.

ruling in.
i didnt have the guts to see a doctor. not even with close friends who happened to be one. but i needed answers. so when i got back, i forged a prescription for a blood test. a bogus patient's name. to a nondescript lab. and it was out of town. added a few more routine tests to come out like a pre-employment check. i was even almost tempted to draw my own blood and pretended it was for another man.

i did my history taking. took the boy out on a casual talk on my own version of the truth serum referred as kampai-yan. he didn't realize i was probing and seemed comfortable sharing his past chance encounters. he claimed never having any ONS's and all other skin encounters apart from being forced to getting a BJ from an older lad a few years back. claims having a rash once in a while, but those were from food allergy. but i further took him into an almost passing binge. to get him to bed, stripped of all his clothes. it took all my then un-sober might to focus onto making a physical at his groin. he didnt have any signs. a good prognosis, but still wasn't convincing enough.

thinking of the worst scenario, the common cure was a single intramuscular shot. i can make myself to self-inject, but the problem would be taking the forged prescription to the pharmacy. luckily, some leads of an oral alternative. which i can easily buy over the counter in this country of ours.

the verdict
so i waited for the pathology report. it took a few nights for it to be ready. i was preparing for the inevitable event and told myself it would be a very, very long abstinence to halt another transmission. to the misis would have an excuse, as it was a mutually unpleasant thought to do the deed while she was pregnant.

the d-day arrived and i was having cold sweats waiting inside the lab. as i received the paper, i zoomed on the serology report. the report that would tell the fate and tragedy this dishonored sam would be on that careless mistake.

half-shakingly holding the paper, the words read and came into me in slow motion..

non-reactive.

there was my saving grace.

faux alarme

2009-08-12T11:54:00.004+08:00

"i just had my period this morning."

and so was mrs ash's text message a week after that grandoise talk . the thought of the second one became just another passing thought.

a sigh. it will be another try.

i hid the phone back without even making a reply. the morning sun was still creeping its way up above the sea and the sky's great divide.

i pulled on my boardshorts, googles and ear plugs. the moment was perfect for a morning swim.

and then. as i headed and gone paddling my way against the rolling waves,

a haunting, pardon my français, faux alarme moment flooded my mind.

the year was 2007. an out of town getaway for a last mooning event with the honey before her full pregnancy rest has just ended. she stayed a few more days with friends while i crossed the border for work.

soon after settling inside my designated room, i thought of making a swim at the hotel pool. it was the same googles and ear plugs brought out from the travel bag.

i undressed. then took a long glance between my inner thigh.

between the penile shaft and the mushroom hat.

it was semi-flushed, barely a dot.

a scratch? no, it looked more like a lesion - a barely noticeable scrape of the outer skin.

a sore? maybe a sore! no, no... not a sore!!!

i still recall the abc's of std's. and if memory serves right, this is a candidate for the tuskegee fight.

(next post - the differential diagnosis.)

grandes esperanzas

2009-08-09T23:49:00.004+08:00

before that usual period came to end a casual conversation, mrs ash made a note she was delayed. not for work, nor any particular activity that was overdue. rather, the regular bloodshed supposed to come in monthly cycles was parading the indian connection.

uh oh.

not that i wasnt up to laying the red carpet for another baby ash. the fact remains - and misis is well aware of this arduous intention, to have four little abo's crawling and thriving our branch of the family tree. but the timing was coming too soon, and too early for this ash's comfort.

the speculation was grounded on two likely gasms within that preceeding window period of seed germination. either that night she took upon herself to, without warning, lay on top of me without reason (and who am i to restrict her version of the scotch mist). or that other morning baby ash number one was out on an early pass and we had the matrimonial bed to ourselves.

and i am not an ardent fan of wearing the latex glove. pride, as you can discern, is one of my personal virtues. if procreation was not the act's intention, i have that arrogant yet careless security blanket of just pulling out the gun away from this tajma hole before that 21-gun salute fires away. how many of us are guilty of this excuse? perhaps all, if not all unplanned pregnancies.

so that post-conversation monologue proceeded with a semi-anxious, semi-pleased thought stuck on my mind. would it be number two? would it be a mr this time? would the nine months of bittersweet agony called husband to the pregnant wife become part dieux?

to end the speculation, an easy test should follow. which would only take a few drops of mrs ash's pee. this strip to show one band or two to say if there's a cause or just a flu.

and the next couple's casual conversation...

the unforgettable fire

2009-08-05T21:31:00.004+08:00

fly.
your wing that's chaste and pure and free.
whose shine, an undeniable shade of sun,
for all this land to dear and see.

thee.
you who taught us
to seek what is right,
not by a stroke of a deadly gun
nor a shed of innocent blood.

but by a faithful fight.
a sign of the cross to the one above,
beseige this neverending run.

grieve.
this day be still
when heaven looks below.
the honor, to mourn a mother's fire,
her children seek her endless glow.

now.
we who walk past this day,
moved by a path her life she lay.
her cry, her cause.
etched to each these grounded soul.

..........

salamat tita cory.

manu stupare

2009-07-29T06:37:00.005+08:00

"honey, hindi na tayo nakakapag sex gaya ng dati ano?"

back when the wife and i were still unmarried, we would find almost any occassion and location - at the hotel/motel room, car, my place, her place, her friends place, the beach, the bed, the banyo, the sofa, the floor, to do that act of then indecent deed. we even chanced upon fooling around on my office chair once upon a horny time.

"oo honey. kase naman, hindi na tayo sexy." was my silly retort.

she had something else in mind to ask. "honey, kapag ba we're not doing do it,"

"do you still masturbate?"

the word caught me face blank. not as she used a one too clinical term. but by how her curiosity will be fed by my honesty.

masturbation. from the latin word manu stupare. meaning to defile/pollute/rub with the hand.

i can still remember how this unending cycle of the quick fix began. it was the early school days, back when peer pressure and the raging hormones tended this newly found pastime. it was the inescapable braging right to proclaim one as having touched first base into manhood. hidden below classroom desks or a huddle in the boys comfort room, the freshie proves how he gets and sustains the woody, stroking it to pleasuredom until those finale jizz shnizzles.

that then became every man's personal addiction. and without cost at that.

i had a semi-serious conversation once on what considered a healthy and non-giddy shootfest. the agreed norm then was at least a daily routine to as often as 5 and even 7 in between sunshines. yeah, a milking machine! (you dear reader. one of you is the pervert who claims this record). and age seems to indicate a discounting factor for this variance, from its libidal peak during puberty, until a male specie tapers to his version of menopause, or until one progresses to seeking a skin contact other than ones hand. i am wondering though, if there is any difference in frequency between a man and the pa-man? who would claim the upper hand?

and at each man's life cycle, an attempt of doing a cold jerky in defence of conserving the juice (or for other acts of self-preservation) will occur at least once. the attrition rate will be an asymptotic curve that will only provide temporary success up to a point of cumcolepsy - a condition where the slightest stimulation induces the state of happy valley. male sanitary napkins or "brief liners" have not yet been invented to collect this type of discharge.

by the way, my reply to the misis was "yes. the last one was this morning in the bathroom."

she took it as if it was any normal occurrence.

covert operation

2009-07-28T07:34:00.001+08:00

"lola!" speaking to an elderly brother-in-crime i buzzed.

"i need an excuse."

"eh?" was his startled reply.

"the trip. what will i say to the misis?"

"just tell her the truth. that you'll be out with some buddies at the beach."

"but she'll ask, wouldnt she? who i'll be with."

the misis will definitely probe. and she knows all my homies.

"new buddies," suggesting a spice of honesty.

"people she hasn't met yet."

i can vividly imagine her reaction.

"she'll end up asking to meet these buddies in the future."

"c'mon. you tell good stories."

"maybe to you, yes. im not good at making palusot. while hiding the cold sweat."

making grand excuses like these drives me agitated.

"and she's good at smelling my ass farts."

"you're not lying. you are going out."

his conviction was infectious.

"with buddies."

"new ones. to get to know them better."

"sabagay."

the imagination sinks in.

"and she will ask, are there girls joining?"

and then a short grin.

"to which, i will say will all honesty. none."

humor breaks the ice.

"sabihin mo."

"matino ito. hindi nambababae."

laughter.

not just your best medicine.

but now a snarly pretense.

temporary interruption

2009-07-23T07:51:00.003+08:00

dear folks,

there will be a week-long interruption of programming. this director, writer, producer and cast (of course with his family) will take a distant retreat to his promise land. a well earned and deserved break from the daily grind that is manila.

- the destination -

the dark mark

2009-07-23T00:16:00.001+08:00

Laticauda colubrina, commonly known as banded sea snake.

it's a docile, inoffensive sea creature. but at the strike of a bite, its venom 10x more deadly than the fabled black mamba.

my first encounter came at the shores of cagayan de oro. then it reappeared while threading the waters of bohol, malapascua, guimaras, and recently at masbate.

the sea snake shying away over my presence.

san miguel island, masbate

one particular close encounter. i joined a check-out in sabang, puerto galera. we wanted to pass through this popular "hole in the wall" formation enveloped with sponges and corals. as i exited the hole, a too familiar creature was coiled by itself two arms length my portside from where i was floating. seeing as unaggressive, i wanted to move to a closer view. but the dive master preempted my curiosity and immediately signalled a closed fist, which in diving semaphor meant as danger.

snakes would also come as strange visions during sleep, though i never really made an effort dissecting its subliminal representation. over the internet, they say it may pertain to change or transformation, oppressed desires, an imminent fear, phallic symbol, or temptation.

for whatever purpose these appearances evoke, either as dreams or as wild encounters, i may not fully understand. but for now, an undeniable lure is certain... a longing to leave the slytherin mark on my back.

walk with me

2009-07-21T13:16:00.001+08:00

if she was a guy, would she:

- ever admit to committing a mistake?
- fret if the toilet seat's up. rant if a toothpaste is left uncapped. scream at a drop or two of urine or a speck of poo trail. reprimand for an unhanged towel.
- resort to crying as an excuse or to have her way done.
- fill an entire row of shoes of the same style, but of different color.
- drive you to your office less than a kilometer from your place, since hers is two cities away?
- and when you fetch her, asks you to wait two more hours at the parking without any option of protest as after all, it is her office's fault. but when you arrive five minutes late due to unexpected traffic, you get the ire of a whining horn.
- disturb you in a meeting to update you of HER office's daily chismis. if you then hang the phone, she complains of you being insensitive.
- drag you to a mall to show a dozen wardrobe changes. and feel unloved if you didnt buy her at least one.
- expect to have the last word in an argument. anything you say after that becomes another argument.
- expect to know all dates, places, firsts, and lasts, else labelled as heartless.
- say "its your decision", "do what you want", "its up to you" or "im ok". but get blamed for the minutest oversight.
- think that she can change your bad habits.
- render a thousand and one moods. and always have her period as an excuse.
- still ask you day and night if she was getting thinner. and "yes" or "no" is never an answer.
- demand at least an hour of foreplay
- get pissed if she asks how she looks with the clothes she wears and you reply "ok".
- need to be indulged, bought flowers, hands held, write sweet nothings, shower compliments just to get her in bed. while she just turns naked to turn you on.

and the long list goes on. each a reason against taking your hand and walking with you to forever-dom.

ours run on opposite ends of the mind. in all our lows and pains, unity wasn't a regarded prospect. i admit at times supposing to walk alone. or thinking of walking the other side of the road.

but there is this inescapable reason to stay.

last night i dreamnt your end. and i woke up flooded in tears. moreso, drowned in fear of walking this earth alone. that beyond this disparity, the touch of your hand heals and comforts all anxiety.

i cannot promise you all heavens. but be certain i will be here to walk with you.

i love you.

tease me baby, till i loose control

2009-07-17T01:17:00.001+08:00

ding. dong.

a human form awaits the other side of the door while you awaken yourself en route to the peephole.

the door swings to reveal the timely visitor.

"hey." the eyebrow raises to motion a welcome gesture.

"kuya." a casual smile then greets you. like that from a beloved friend.

"long time ah. pasok ka." you pat him in the back then extend a swaying hand toward the room. "busy parin?"

"opo. start na po ng pasok next week."

the two of you proceed towards the edge of the bed. he takes of his chucks, then his socks. then starts to fold his pants.

"sikip nyang pants mo ah. meron akong shorts dyan, gamitin mo na lang."

"ah... ok lang po kuya."

you insist. "ok lang. hindi ko na yan gagamitin."

"wag na po. tanggalin ko na lang 'to," says the guest while holding the waistline. gravity takes toll on the pants as it comes falling down, exposing his briefs covering the manly junk. he goes to the toilet to take a leek and to wash his hands. While you go au naturele and take position yourself over the bed.

"kuya hard parin?" he asks.

"oo. katulad ng dati," with a half grin you reply.

the soft duvet cushions your weight as your bare skin presses the gentle sheets. the cold warmth of the beddings providing a sensous relief. the softness almost consumes your senses to sleep.

but then...

a gentle yet firm heat begins to caress your back. the strokes form a kneading pattern that translates pressure to therapy for your muscles.

slowly, a sense of hightened calmness builds at each rub...

GI Generation

2009-07-13T08:58:00.002+08:00

"michael jackson is black?" said a pamangkin as he was seeing the artist's looped videos and his kinky do plus the racial rawness for the first time. this youngers cohorts werent even born when the tunes of billy jean and beat it first looped over the airwaves. the day the jackson died was the day i turned 30 (there goes the move from being teen to the twenteens and now to the thirtyteens). the pamangkin is only 12 as of this writing.

which underlines the gapping changes 18 years between our youth that todays crop would never enjoy (or struggle). i speak a few paradigm realities as example:

- coke was only coke (no cherry, vanilla, light or zero). burgers were eatan as plain or with cheese.

- getting a nervous breakdown when brownout hits while illicitly watching porn on betamax. the tape wouldnt eject without electricity, thus the panic. brownouts were a fairly common occurence.

- before microsoft word was wordstar and wordperfect. excel evolved from lotus 1-2-3. but even before these electronic marvels came the typewriter.

- faces, euphoria and limits. peps, fat tuesdays and third world cafe.

- that makati supermarket, true to its name, was located at greenbelt and not at alabang town center.

- top sider, espadril and tretorn.

- gasoline was 18 pesos a liter. or taking the love bus between cubao and makati to enjoy fiesta carnival. and a pocket full of lrt tokens.

- no keyboard to use for chat but by the tenacity of your vocal persuasion. telebabad was the common outpouring (lagot ka lang sa partyline). telephone numbers werent dialed then by the push of a button but by, true to the verb, dialing a wheel.

- and radio communication devices, walkie talkies and other puch-to-talk handhelds paved the way for a conference. Before YM became lingo for yahoo messenger was AKA for young man.

- no airsoft nor paintball. it was habulan or cops and robbers with matching wooden guns.

- piracy over recordings in casette tapes and betamax. your friendly video rental shop would always have a backroom (or a kahon) to choose your R, X or XXX-rated flicks. and gay porn was rarely in circulation.

- playgirl was the only pink paper on shelf. but it was taboo to even look at it back then. visual redress was derived from seventeen and GQ magazine.

- oh yes, the BMX generation. karate kid. rambo. rocky balboa. top gun. and beverly hills 90210 with jason priestley, luke perry and shannen doherty on it.

- cable TV and internet were at its infancy. dial up speed was then the fastest way to zoom over the digital highway.

the healing hand

2009-07-07T15:41:00.003+08:00

they say there is a pill for every ill.
a drug on hand to heal all known bug.

but this condition i feel,
never has been doused
by a drink of a seed
or a prick of the skin.

no cure in sight
but by the skill of a single human hand.

still this only remedy,
nowhere near the unwell.
the distance, two thousand miles apart.

now theres no other means.
a morbid reality but to wait.
in the meantime,
a steady patience to palliate.

a childs voice

2009-07-07T09:49:00.002+08:00

will the little boy sam who i once was, regard this little no more that i since became?

.....

when we look at our past, we see a naive self wandering towards uncertainty. we age, commit mistakes and learn from the fall. it is just but humanly inate of us to adapt. at certain times, we may become callous. scared from the miseries of the past. shy away from change and stick to being status quo. yet we cannot escape the inevitable reality of our transformation. the present becoming a collective outcome of our past decisions as it paces itself into an immediate future that we either embrace or hide from.

.....

what once was a seed may live to grow as a towering plant. but that is just wishful thinking. how many of us would land on rocky, unfertilized soil. how many of us brave the difficult weather. how many of us turn into prey to the higher food chain before we even grown our own seeds. we speak of dreams. we chart our aspirations. but at the end of the day, we only hope to succeed.

.....

a child believes. an adult justifies. the boy lives. the man toils.

memoirs of a dark past

2009-07-02T21:23:00.001+08:00

darkness incessantly covers this starry, flaccid night. no lunar reflection to glisten the celestial sky. brightness singly emanating from the mother ship you are about to alight.

the hull tilts as you take your first step down a chase boat. your eyes adjust. pupils dilate unto its largest size. the mind hovers in fear as you gaze unto a horizon swept by an uncomfortable blackness.

after the last warm-blooded soul paces inside the craft, the lifeline to the mother vessel disengages. the smaller motor roars, moving away from the string of flourescent lights affixed from the larger boat.

several minutes past. your life raft now flashing its own solitary beam. the shoreline a few hundred meters distant faintly registers an image. the navigator directs the spotlight in search of terrestrial markers to indicate the site of interest. a few more minutes of trailblazing, then the motor chokes until it ceases to shudder. the crashing silence disturbed only by a gentle pounding the waves create. the calmness is cue for everyone to prepare.

there were five of you in this pack. the head hunter, giving her last words of advice. each one makes a final check on theirs and their buddies' equipment.

"clear? going down." the leader pronounces as she takes the first plunge.

you are next on the starboard to take the dive. the vest is half inflated, the other hand holding your mask and mouthpiece. the flashlight switch now pressed to emit its own glow. a tumble is forced and a back roll ensues. the gush of cold water permeates your suit. a momentary disorientation.

taking your head above sea level, you adjust to full bouyancy. the same darkness lingers. your lifeblood beneath this gloom is within arms reach. the waterproof torch now fully clasped by your fingers.

the water has never been so opaque as this as with your previous dives below a glistening sun. what lies beneath? a vision of nothingness. without the light, your field of view down to less than a meter from sight. you cannot even see the stroke of your fins, moreso what lies beyond your reach.

a headcount, then the signal to descend. as you deflate, the lead weights strapped on your waist takes it toll. slowly you sink, the black sea consuming the entire you. strings of light beams sway back and forth to illuminate the surrounding. now the moving images you see becomes a vision of awe.

the experience of threading into outerspace. a space walk. as you float in an almost state of zero gravity, only the sound of your constant breathing registers. interlaced beams of light pierces the dark void of the undersea. the other vision in your periphery, still enveloped in infinite nothingness. what you see ends only as far as where the narrow beam of light travels.

slowly, you climb down to 60 feet. the bottom now partially shown as a reflection of your light. an underwater forest teaming with different sets of occupants. you fixate on the mix of creatures in carapace: crabs, lobsters, shrimps. and the cuttlefish with how its skin color changes at a whim.

your team drifts further to a sandy bottom and huddle close to each others company. the leader, now signaling to turn off all held lights. then pitch black - a fearful instance played by the mind. but as instructed, you move your hands in front of you, and a luminous play of planktons greets your sight. the interest easily overshadows the previous moments phobia.

now the pack swims around the reef until compressed air drains in one of the tanks. your gauge also points near the red line. bottom time streches a half and quarter of an hour long. but with fear now conquered, you wished the experience was made longer.

as you take a five minute safety stop 15 feet below the surface, you tilt your eyes down the dark chasm past the paddling fins. but now you do not need to focus a beam of light to take away a previous fear. experience tells it, darkness is nothing more but an empty space.

priorities

2009-06-28T15:08:00.004+08:00

i was counting the local currency left inside my pocket. a two dollar bill. then one, two, two and half, no, three dollar coins. and the smaller coins total twenty, fourty, sixty, seventy, seventy-five, eighty. i had five dollars and eighty cents to be exact.

the burgerking stand was a tempting invitation. but the cheapest meal was six dollars and seventy cents. i was even willing to have my credit card swiped in exchange for the whopper, but they didnt accept plastics as payment.

grabbing a pre-flight lunch was de rigeur for the tail end of the plane i was assigned as the disparity between the regular and the no-meal seat was more than a months meal allowance. i needed to scrooge for this unexpected trip.

i took the next hawker stall, which looked more probable to fit my budget requirement. the chicken curry rice was four dollars and fifty cents. but the cheapest drink, a small bottled water costing two dollars! lest i was prepared to take the sip at the water station. and i didnt, so it was a toss between the fish ball noodle or the singaporean laksa. At three dollars and eighty cents, the meal plus drink was a perfect fit.

and so there i was at the second floor food court, relishing the four pieces of fish balls in a broth of mami noodles. and a cold small glass of tasteless water to down the munch. a stark contrast from the 15-dollar-a-mug beer downed from the past night's shindig. and resting on two liter bottles of choya and a bag of belgian dark chocolates bought a few minutes before. it is what you call, priorities after all.

the hotel service

2009-06-24T01:20:00.004+08:00

the elevator door slides open. a stale air surrounding the foyer greets the visitor.

cautiously, you approach the door showing a number given to you.

its a little past midnight. just the right time to be walking past these corridors.

a cautious search concludes. now in front of you, a door like any other inside this hotel floor.

your eyes gaze at both sides of the carpet-lined hallway. it is empty. the sound, only the hymn of silence.

a long breath ensues. as your lungs momentarily fill with air to deflate a rising tension, your field of view fades away to force the calmness.

as you exhale, the eyelids began to separate. you now see the same door. the same number.

the moment finally arrives. the time is almost half past midnight.

your right hand slowly reaches the doorbell.

as the index finger approaches the button, you begin to hesitate. a short pause.

what the hell.

you push the knob three times in succession.

now a long pause. the silence deafening. your toes starting to curl as the wait becomes endlessly uneasy.

you press the doorbell once again. this time, out of desperation.

and suddenly, a silhoutte grazes the light coming out between the base of the door and the floor.

the light emanating from the peephole suddenly turns dark.

your head slightly bowed. then an audible scream.

two bolt clicks, then the door swings open.

slowly you tilt your head up, engage a seductive grin and utter, "hotel service massage misis sam. plus all the way extra service."

at the same time, your left hand reaches out in front of you. a stem of red rose and a bottle of red wine greets the tenant.

happy birthday to you, little boy sam. the next step is now left to your imagination.

---------------------------------

since two sundays ago, the misis left for a two week long business trip. which led to a rollercoaster of emotions for the little boy. and a trip to the beach along with friends was supposed to occur, but got decked at the last minute. the little boy suddenly had three days away from work to dispose. loneliness hits hard, so a ticket was booked two days before the three and a half hour flight happening tonight. an unplanned agenda which the misis isn't supposed to know.

and oh, it will be the eve of the little boys birthday when he and the misis meets - the little boys only wish written on his birthday list.

continuing the straight path

2009-06-22T23:31:00.001+08:00

i never did take a serious retrospection on how marriage and homosexuality can co-exist inside the life of this little-no-more sam. until this blogger's advise appeared from a previous post:

"You know Ash, and this is just a suggestion, if you think your wife, and this depends on how well you know your her, is the type of person who can take the truth (eventually) from you then maybe it would do you both good if you
reveal the truth to her.

Take note also, as you are most likely well aware of, that not everyone can take the truth about a person.

It would also help if you seek help, professional that is, on how it[would] be best to tell the truth to your
wife. Again, under the premise that you strongly believe
that she'll be able to take it.

Timing might also be crucial. Should you inform her
asap? While your kid is young? When you already have several kids? When your kid/s is/are already probably married?

Apologies for my unsolicited advice. You did say you "will never say these things" to your better half. It's just that I know someone who's wife already knows and maybe because I just cant help but try to extend help that is probably not needed in the first place."

while his beliefs seem logical, rational and well regarded, it got me into a self-awareness over the weekend and ended up looking back how i managed to harmonize these two immiscible ideologies.

so here’s a summation of those thoughts. an outline of ash’s basic tenets for his social (and sexual) existence:

1. i do desire and have the same attraction for men.
i had this awareness down from my youth. it was something that i then longed and hopelessly attempted to remove. but the process only made me realize it being an inseparable part of my existence.

avowed, i took the next best strategy for something akin to a chronic, incurable condition. like diabetes or hypertension where one is either born or acquired with it, the goal is to control its symptoms and mitigate the effects. often check if it goes beyond the normal. make sure it does not progress to a complication. and living a “healthy” lifestyle, away from triggers that may aggravate the condition.

the plan appears to be working well.

caveat – calling it a disease is only used as a metaphor.

2. coming out is my own decision and mine only to make.
people may make and express their own opinions about issues, base their judgments on critical observations, even state matters of fact and logic. and i do appreciate the sincerity of people providing different perspectives into this coming out process and their creative ways into coping with it.

but no one can force, induce or influence theirs into my decision. the decision is, after all, part of my human right and a divine privilege if you go by my religion. the consequences, also mine to stand by.

and i intend to keep this secret all to myself and to a trusted few. the closet is not the best place to hide, but i do not mind staying the rest of my life in order to enjoy the things i treasure more. it is what after all life has taught me - enduring snippets of life’s sacrifices to appreciate the better of the rest it can offer.

so in order for me to maintain the secrecy, each activity that may potentially expose my covertness is a calculated process.

3. getting married was the happiest and wisest decision i have made
i did not get married out of societal or family pressures. nor to hide an inate side. nor to take it as a means to make me straight.

back during the hunting (and being hunted) stage, i never realized i would eventually march along a wedding altar. as my hunts always ended up as failures. i wasn’t the alpha nor even any of the greek-lettered male. i have my strengths but nurturing a relationship wasn’t one of them.

she started as the friend. after a few movies, food binging, dives, surfing, and out of town trips, she then became the constant companion. somebody inseparable from my psyche. until eventually, the consciousness came down stunning the heart. it wasn’t love at first sight, but rather love evoked and love sustained. like the breath of fresh air, getting married was the most natural course.

4. staying into marriage is a conscious commitment.
that’s what all books about relationships say. it is dynamic. no such thing as a honeymoon in permanence. so conflict becomes inevitable, and usually suggests that change is warranted. without the context or its resistance to change, conflict ends up becoming destructive.

this one facet of my life i’m willing to commit each day until her last. and if there’s one thing i have learned from her absence beginning last week, is that a greater part of me becomes dysfunctional without her presence. i struggle to live alone.

5. i do not seek nor inclined to create an intimate relationship apart from what i have committed, be it a girl, a guy or a gay.
i enjoy the intimacy with my wife. it’s not something we just do out of routine nor an obligation to fulfill each other’s urges but as a physical extension of our longing-ness to be within each other’s company. her constant presence is the reassurance. the closeness of her skin, a subliminal urge.

so why the rationale for a third wheel?

sex is not a pretence and an excuse. i admit, a few times images of another human form come into play during the course of having sex with the wife. and i’m no saint when it comes to this relationship.

but sex is just an urge that can be tamed according to #1.

and her love, an overflowing presence that negates the need to find another “i love you honey” in my heart.

6. lastly, i am not the victim. my wife and family will be.
my wife and family deserves a good husband and a good father. maybe even a good grandfather, but that choice is not mine but my children’s.

they say that coming out to her will be a liberating process. but to whom? only to me.

why the need for her to carry my cross? why the need to transfer this burden over to hers? there’s so much comfort in living the life we have endearingly established. why live in the truth that can ruin her life now?

yes, i know she deserves to know the truth. the same way we demand one. and as we claim that openness and honesty in one’s faults and limitations is the lifeblood of a relationship. but is this the only means to achieve the end-all of companionship?

image of you (remastered)

2009-06-14T22:50:00.001+08:00

first was the blog post.

and then the privilege
coming from his highness
and his talent.

an inspiration,
then the notes came flowing
plus a cameo on youtube.

a gift this blog will endear.

IMAGE OF YOU
adapted from ash677
composition and music by prince_cloud

I opened my eyes this morning
And there you were still sleeping
One hand outstretched to mine
The other cuddling our pillow

I took your hand, led it to my face
A warm tender comfort, ill surely miss
Nights from now, youll just be a silhouette
Its just me and an image of you

Chorus:
And to wake up empty handed
No morning kiss to cherish
No tight hug that surely melts
My heart and soul
Its just me and the old radio
And your static voice on the phone
And an image of you
In my heart and soul

Before my eyes closed last night
You told me not to worry
Caressed my face, with a butterfly kiss
Wiping my tears, saving my eternity

Walking alone, driving alone
Coming back home will be much harder
To see an empty chair, empty home
Its just me and an image of you

Chorus:
And to wake up empty handed
No morning kiss to cherish
No tight hug that surely melts
My heart and soul
Its just me and the old radio
And your static voice on the phone
And an image of you
In my heart and soul

fourteen days

2009-06-14T15:30:00.002+08:00

there will be fourteen days.

almost a human and a half handful.
to contemplate.

each day the sun will rise
and make its way.

all earth's souls seek an engage.
each life tries a smile on their face.

while one heart
his stage will be grey.

more than a tenant lost

emptiness
his melody in refrain.

no chords no hymn
only a muted cast of gladness
stowed on a bay.

they no need to worry
this guy will be ok.

ode to fatherhood

2009-06-12T12:09:00.002+08:00

the little boy, who is little no more, now has his own little one to grow.

once the little boy sam, he's now a full fledged daddy to a baby girl sam.

past a year ago, the baby was born. and daddy was there, inside the baby theater, holding a camera on hand. as soon two baby legs were lifted, loud cries echoed on the aseptic walls. to which sam let a gleaming smile. and yes, sam also let a silent cry.

the little child's coming out was a long try.

for two nights, sam's honey bun grimaced at the pain of the perky baby sam, while still within the honey's baby can. but the baby girl's top was an inch too wide for the natural glide. so the honey bun's doctor had to make more room through a stomach slice.

the little boy sam, who became husband to the honey bun, was at hand throughout the run. but he can only hold so much of the honey bun's ordeal. the pain was hers, and hers alone to feel.

the fleeting moment, then the exit to the birthing place. little boy sam was a new found man. a new head was carried home for the new dad to feed.

which brings new hardships for the couple.

but beneath endless nights of diaper changes, warming milk bottles and lullabies.
but above the constant fear of dirt, sickness or tumbling down the bed.

a stare,
a coo,
a smile,
and the word "da-da".

thats all enough to lift a weary daddy sam.

image of you

2009-06-11T07:39:00.001+08:00

i open my eyes this morning,
and there you were still sleeping.
one hand outstretched and another cuddling a pillow.

i take the free hand and let it touch my face.
a warm, tender comfort i will long covet.

before my eyes came to a close last night,
you told me not to worry.
your hand extended towards a cheek
wiping away a tear
before it ended up falling down the bed.

four nights from now,
i will have to confront by just an image of you.

only a static-pitched voice from a telephone
to comfort my sleep.

and to wake up emptyhanded.
no one to choose my clothes
nor a matching tie to wear.

i will have to walk alone. and drive alone.
i will miss driving you to work.

coming back home will be an effort.
to see an empty chair beside me
and much more empty space.

it will only be me and the radio.
it will only be me and an image of you.

happiness is

2009-06-04T08:12:00.007+08:00

an endless stretch of sand on a sunny beach.
a walk with another hand on one's hand.

a chat to a honey bun, your head leaned on the others shoulder.

and with eyes closed, the scent of a too familiar skin penetrating your nose.

but how come when i open my eyes,

a glimpse of a recent past is alluding my mind?

a walk to the beach, yes.

a lonely walk.

nothing but cold air to caress

the subtle frown coming out of your face.

its the beach, yes.

but then you are wrapped abound

on heavy clothes

and a heavy heart.

another beach, yes.

this time you sweat a lot.

but then again

you are still all alone.

you decide not to walk

but take a stroll on a concrete path.

away from the life and laughter

that abounds on the sandy ground.

and the next picture,

a snaphot you will take a few weeks from now.

the camera lens will open

and zoom to the human form.

the shutter prepares to click

to a field of just another single man.

men in tights

2009-06-02T22:11:00.007+08:00

i found god
on the corner of first and amistad
where the west was all but won
all alone, smoking his last cigarette
i said where you been, he said ask anything

"you found me"
the fray

..........

in your most usual way
you held a key,
unlocking that little sam in me.

a sweltering steam enclosed
set free by seraphs in a cloak.

friends indeed,
chi-force to a lost and lonely seed

..........

to the ex-blog jock,
myster-ry boi,
and to boy bastos.

i am thankful. seriously.

homophobia

2009-06-02T00:07:00.000+08:00

it was the usual day at class.

my seatmate was a close friend for over a year now, and he considers me his best buddy. i was then hanging out with my own set of barkada. he was not comfortable joining a groupie, thus kept his own set under the name A-S-H.

but back to what started as a usual day for me.

i was sitting on my desk doing the usual routine. and he was there sitting on my left. he motioned something for me to lean on my side and listen. i couldn't fully remember the lines he spoke, but it was the end statement that struck the greatest.

it was break time in between class, either morning recess or lunch. looking jittery, he started with the phrase, "i have a secret to tell you."

he must have thought long and hard how to break this silence to me.

i paused. did not react. i glanced at him for a while, then deliberately looked away. i thought i was betrayed. i couldn't manage to say a word. all i did was walk away. i was angry at myself for being a friend to someone who ended up owning a disease called faggotry.

i gave him the cold shoulder the next two weeks. or was it a month? the first few tries he would force several conversations with me in class, on the phone or along the hallways. but i deliberately avoided him. the person he considered a friend was on self-quarantine.

i didn't know how he coped and survived with his coming out process. the next few weeks, he eventually told the rest of his close acquaintances, beginning with the opposite sex. and then eventually the whole school knew who he was.

and that was his liberation. forget the uncanny stares while strolling down the school ally. and the silent whispers behind his back. he was secure of his wants - and that was all that mattered to him. while the rest of us remain in the hiding.

and to me, so much for being a friend.

N.B. i was still cold to him until the eve of graduation. i guess he did not need me to be happy and walk through the rest of high school. but at the final march, i shook his hand and bid him good luck.

stop or go

2009-05-31T19:34:00.000+08:00

traffic rules are meant to be suggestions.

i always end up saying this alibi to my foreign counterparts whenever they visit the philippines and after having their share of cruising and enduring the highways of manila. we locals never seem to consider these as the rule of law.

to us, we end up thinking..

that a yellow light does not mean to yield but to hurry up,
a full stop sign makes us step the brake pedal lightly yet the speedometer never ends up going down to zero kph,
and a pedestrian standing is considered a distraction and a waste of gasoline.

yet when this defiance is alleged to us, we rationalize...

an emergency that exempts us from law is in the vicinity,
we know the road or traffic condition better than any system,
or think of it as a waste of time to follow someone else's rules.

and when we get caught violating,

we even make excuses,
argue,
or even pay our way out.

we judge our own creative instinct being far superior than set rules. despite a guiding light providing a clear sign when to stop or go and when to turn or yield. and sign posts which advises us what to watch out for and what to expect.

a light that knows the path all too well. and rules which were made to safely bring us to our destination.yet we suppose we can outdo, outrun and outsmart a higher one.

do we choose to wait for a greenlight before we move forward? or never step on the brake when the redlight beams upon us?

rules or no rules, its our choice. and the outcomes our responsibility.

black eyed piece

2009-05-26T23:37:00.018+08:00

"saan ka pupunta?"

mrs ash casually asked as she sees me preparing to leave home.

"ahmmm... will just be hanging out with my sports buddies. be back for dinner." told the wife in a hasty, non descript manner to avoid more inquest. i was surprised that the misis appeared to believe the explanation then nodded in acceptance.

first offense of the day: dishonesty.

i was at the peak of an addiction for this particular sport that rendered at least 2 nights a week of heavy playing plus the occassional weekend afternoon crunch. which then brought me to this "injury" requiring an indefinite leave of absence from the sport and all of its relatives.

my wife was just obeying the doctors prescription and became my personal punong bantay. she would, after all, only look after my full recovery at the shortest course. but the compulsion was too hard to resist.

the gear was sneaked the night before and was now hiding in the trunk. i would just have to hide the soiled clothes and slip them over to the laundry coming back from the game. it was a long but deserving 40-kilometer drive from our place. the hunger must be fed and the game must be played at all cost. and by all means.

which leads to the second offense: avarice.

the game jumped off well, two teams sweating it out to cover the opponent. the favor swings back and forth between the two teams, adrenaline coming out from each accomplice.

a particularly aggressive duel stretched long. i was in the middle of making a touchdown. then, a whappack! which got me into a dizzy spell. but notheless still rushed with the game.

i tried to compose myself to get back, but i somehow felt this stinging pain over the side of my left eye. a quick check over the area of contact. when i stretched my hand away, i saw the blotch of red liquid smeared on my fingers. it was a small cut over where the two eyelids meet.

the game was set to a halt as i had to assess the full extent of the damage. the area around the eyes were now swollen, a clot trying to show its skin color. first aid was the order of rescue.

"patay. how will i hide this from the misis now."

then brings the third offense: deception.

"be home in 45 mins. love you." was my text to the misis.

the adrenaline was now overshadowed by a mix clotting, swelling and pain factors. the whole stretch of time driving back home, i thought of creating the perfect diversion. the lies to mask the previous lies. funny how we try to come up with the wildest alibi instead of just speaking the plain truth.

i approach my wife to give the welcome home kiss. "huh. ano nangyari sa mata mo?" she now probed.

"uhmmm..."

but before i got to speak the first word, she already knew what happened.

"naglaro ka ano?!?" the voice sounding much more striking and the face well contoured. i forgot my diversion. and the naked truth was the only thing i could utter. past the cold shudder, she took a look at the damage and then made her obligatory marital advise

"matanda ka na ash. alam mo na ang ginagawa mo."

with a feeling of guilt yet a fair sense of belongingness, she then let me kiss her cheeks.

which leads us to the first and most important lesson of the moment for mr. A-S-H: forgiveness.

i love you, my sweety bun :)

the cut and the black eye

threesome to choose one

2009-05-25T11:58:00.000+08:00

little boy sam is faced with a personal decision. should he?

follow his gut
follow his heart, or
follow his head

these are three minds of the same being, but different on its own regard. they may offer the same thought, but the motive behind is distinct.

the gut mind or kutob is that strange, unconscious being that gives insight the moment a decision needs to be made. it is not governed by rational nor emotional thought, but by a sixth sense. it usually stands as an early warning device. some people claim to stand by their instinct, and profess it usually ends up as the right choice, but will a choice be made out by the mere twist of the gut?

to follow the heart is the "human nature" that separates us from the brawl of the living kingdom. it puts premium over the needs, emotions and well being of the person, or another person or circumstance it holds more. it chooses chemistry over compatibility in a relationship. but can we blindly trust from within? will the heart always conquer all things?

following the rational mind makes us think first before the act. thinking puts us in a detached point of view, separating the bias that comes along with forming the decision. it is reasonable, logical and objective. but do all decisions have to be rational and consistent? the mind might know what is right or wrong, but will it make us happy?

so which upperhand will take the wheel?

people usually say they know what they want, but why do people still end up making the wrong choice?

the pursuit of manhood

2009-05-21T08:49:00.003+08:00

N.B. The first section is a nose bleed moment. skip if you must.

referring to your mental institution this patient named A-S-H, a 29 year old, male, flipino, married with one child, and middle child of three siblings, for possible management for egodystonic sexual orientation.

this patient was first seen for consult february of this year as an adult male, tall in structure, well groomed and clad in casual street clothes. according to patient, "pagod na ako maging bakla. gusto ko nang magpakalalake." mood is anxious, affect appropriate and euthymic. eye contact is sparse. patient denies any hallucination (auditory or visual) and suicidal ideations. oriented to three spheres (time, place and person), coherent, with long attention span and good abstract thinking. he claims no addiction to smoking, alcohol or drugs. no apparent delusion and racing of ideas and with circumstantial thought process. patient's insight to illness is extensive and claimed previous failure to aversion therapy. "na-aattract ako sa babae at lalake. ayaw ko na sana ma-attract sa lalake, kaso hindi ko mapigilan kahit ano gawin ko."

treatment plan - for psychotherapy and possible social integration.

.....................................

what does one have to do, or have to prove, to exercise acceptance into "manhood"?

to begin with, why is there even a need to follow the process of acceptance into todays norms of religion, marriage and family.
why we have to fit ourselves in certain stereotypes to be able to carry out social roles and expectations.
why social roles are even assigned and labelled according to who or which has most.
and why not a man valued for his worth and not by his inability to be worthy one or few times around.

i am a husband. and a father. and i seek my own identity.
to some, it may be conflicting. and only a matter of time before it backfires.

but coming home early this morning, i enter my room and saw two bodies cuddled in bed - the wife and the baby.

i kissed them long and slow.

then said to myself, this manhood is worth fighting for.

love ko 'to

2009-05-20T01:02:00.001+08:00

"welcome to mcdonalds! can i take your order sir?"

the cashier-slash-server hastily declaimed in statutory cadence as soon as the tray was given to the customer in front of me.

i figured i needed a bolus of pre-game carbo fix to last me the whole night. this fast food joint was the most convenient choice.

"uhmm, isa pong quarter pounder with cheese. tapos large fries at orange juice." i cautiously ordered as i took a glance at the menu.

"sir add po kayo to upsize the fries and orange juice."

"ok."

"and additional regular fries pala. for take out yan."

"ok sir. your total order is one hundred seventy six pesos." the cashier-slash-server took note as she entered the order in the cash machine.

i took out my wallet and handed a five hundred peso bill.

"sir do you have smaller change?"

"wala eh." i initially replied to avert the extra effort of coming up with her request. but i eventually took pity at her dilemma.

"ay teka..." while taking out my wallet to search for smaller change. found beneath the clutter of receipts was a hundred peso bill and four twenty peso bills.

while making my own search, the cashier-slash-server made the final press to consummate the transation. and the receipt was printed. and then she hastily carried out the order.

"miss, eto po. meron akong one hundred eighty pesos."

suddenly surprised by the gesture, she accepted the sum of money and returned the five hundred peso bill. then looked at her right.

"sir, sir!" she called the shift manager.

"sir, na punch ko kase ang five hundred pesos. yung total bill ay one hundred seventy six pesos."

scratching her head, she then asked her supervisor in total innocence,

"yung binigay po ay one hundred eighty pesos."

"magkano po ang change sir?"

i cringed not in pain nor her ignorance, but by how clueless her face was. i tried reasoning out to myself, "maybe she just had a particularly hard day."

but she forgot to add tissue and ketchup in my to go bag.

the ethics of pick-ups

2009-05-18T12:30:00.000+08:00

the itinerary was to enter the busy quiapo neighboorhood and into pilar hidalgo street to pick up the underwater camera casing i ordered the previous week. the place was a shoppers tale for the camera buff as an array of related equipment and supplies were sold venti-slice less than their mall counterparts.

now a cheap, quick and relatively safe passage into manila's haven of notoreity needed to be drawn, so i perused that the connecting train system would fit the criteria. i knew my way into the tracks as i've used this before to carry myself in and out of school and then in and out of my first work. it would be a leisure trip to memory lane.

going down from carriedo station, i was eager to blend into the human traffic as i carried a sum of money to pay the tab. as a form of camouflage, i wore an old white printed shirt, semi faded jeans and my trustful sanuk to cushion the long walk. a folded umbrella doubled as a handy batuta just in case someone had the idea of amassing the money from my pocket. i made sure the rosary my wife gave was in my pocket. carrying it was a school habit that continued on religious grounds.

the pick-up was effortless and i was soon traversing back to the mrt station from the lrt line. i got down into a parked mrt coach half-sweaty and half-smelly from the mid-afternoon walk. as i enter the train, i grabbed the nearest pole near the exit and leaned my side to rest. i was now gleaming to take this new acquisition to a test.

the train was beginning to pack up with the rest of the commuters. just before the train door began sliding to a close, two boys inched their way inside. they look like they came from a school along vito cruz station with the way they dress and from the looks of their faces. they crammed their way just beside me, and we were now elbow to elbow as the train began to move. i overheard them chatting and the lingo used definitely came from that green university.

now trying to mind my own business, i noticed the taller one reached for his nokia and began texting away. curiousity got into me as his phone screen came into my view. i saw him making a quick tap on his phone keypad which read,

"sex tau. game ka?"

the vulgarity was a shocker. for this boys age and stature, his libido was something, well, un-natural. and then he typed another text.

"cge na kahit blow job lang ok na"

he was about 5'7", a bit slim, smooth and fair, trying to grow a short goatee. he didn't even looked (or trying to look) metrosexual unlike most of his peers from his school, but appeared the average boy next door who just graduated from high school. he looked very innocent. and he was cute. and he didn't look anything gay.

then a passing thought... could he be directing his text to me? a heartbeat skipped then accelerated at the thought. my eyes dilated in a split second. would this proposition even be remotely possible in real life? was i even throwing an inviting stare at him? how could he have smelled this hidden blood in me? this was all too good, err to bad to be true.

"magallanes station."

the PA system went out to signal the first stop. and this was my final stop.

i let a long sigh to calm the excitement, then closed my eyes. my hands reached the right leg pocket and the rosary was first to make its presence. oh my, the heavens are surely giving me a sign.

i quickly avoided the distraction and took out my phone. beeping sounds now began to resonate signaling the closing of doors. i was still inside the train, motionless. instead of stepping out, i made a fake call over my celfone, making sure the voice would be audible in two arms length.

"oy, musta? just read your text man. sige, game ako kung game ka. ano, kita tayo sa guadalupe station? north bound. dun ako baba."

guadalupe as this was a familiar stop that can accomodate a couples carnal desire.

more short talk and then i pretended to hang up the call. i observed for any obvious reaction but he was not looking or making any gesture of approval. he was half-busy talking to his buddy. i tried to close my eyes, now guilt starting to invade me. i was already then, a married man.

"ayala station."

the mass of people began to build up as soon as the doors opened. with the external pressure toiling inside, i felt his slight push. i was facing him and his back was in front of me. by this time, his back was casually brushing my hands at each short motion.

and then a passing thought. i repositioned my arms and the plastic bag it carries so that my chest and pelvis would now be in potential contact with his behind. as the train began to accelerate, the inertia kicked in and a momentary push ensued. i felt the semi firm bulge of his buns. and it fiddled its way throughout the next stop. my little junior now began to make its presence felt.

"buendia station."

a short commotion followed at the stop as the arrangement changed shape to accomodate the inbound and outbound passengers. i could not continue to follow his back so we ended up lining almost side to side. amidst the packed setup, he managed to bring up his hand and typed two letters,

"c u"

i didn't see him sending the message to any of his contacts. a short pause after it was constructed, the draft was then deleted. now i noticed him glance into my periphery. the next step clouded inside my mind as the train began to slope into a stop my angels hoped would never come.

"guadalupe station."

as the door opened, he prepared himself to get off. he was first to come out as he was nearer the exit. i didn't want to walk his way. my heart was now pounding a drumbeat. i thought of letting my feet glued to the train until the doors began to close. to shutdown the opportunity.

i let another long sigh. then walked along blindedly out into the train tarmac. bahala na nga si batman.

initially i thought i lost the sight of him. then he appeared in the vicinity. he was leaning on a wall, looking at his phone, waiting for a cue.

then our eyes met face to face the first time. he was now seriously looking at me. probably half smiling, as i cannot see his expression clearly. his posture gave away his intentions.

i was now flushed. half panicking. as i cautiously walked towards him. i drew nearer and nearer to his attraction. the experience was very alien to me.

and then i received a text.

it was from the wife, asking what time i'm picking her up tonight. my mind fell to the ground. and the realization was now very vivid and my actions now firm.

i took my celphone once again. made another fake call. walked as fast as i could to the exit without straying my eyes elsewhere. i took the overpass to the other side and hoped this time, no one will follow me. i slipped the next available train and closed my eyes to oppose any distraction the entire ride.

i hoped the boy still had spare cash for his next ride.

two lips

2009-05-15T09:40:00.004+08:00

two lips juxtapose
the orbicularis oris converge
muscles contract to accomodate

skins of opposing force
elicit the other host
a sensory outburst of neurotransmission

and each owns heart
transmitting a heavenly fury
endorphins igniting the euphoria

the hunger blah

2009-05-14T09:18:00.002+08:00

there's no halo halo without ice
heat turns oil into a frying goo
you'll need yeast to leaven the bread
and wine. no fruit becomes wine without the bug.

i'm missing an ingredient.

more flight talk

2009-05-14T00:08:00.011+08:00

i love the sensation of being on flight and being carried by sheer gust of wind.

my childhood dream was to become a pilot or a builder of planes. school notebooks would be filled with sketches of planes, rockets, and everything that flies.

at work, i strived to pursue a project lead role in order to travel. i eventually got my wish, and got myself burned out of travelling. in a span of two years, i've collected enough flight miles to be able to shuttle to and from the american soil each day of the week.

then the opportunity of being able to course a flight of my own became available. it was a small, well, almost a plane. the seat was only for two. i had a stick on my own but a pilot was there to make sure everything's in control.

me and my kariton

there were no walls, only the seatbelt to strap you to the rails of the plane. it looked fragile and i was able to lift the thing on my own. its motor was smaller than what's used in an outrigger boat.

but i wanted to see how it feels to be on top. so off we took the line in the uncemented airstrip. it didn't need to accelerate much in order to gain the momentum to step into thin air.

the "high" was liberating. you can feel the power of the wind, and yet the plane was stable and cruising on its own. once you try to reach your hand out of the perimeter, you almost loose it to the wind. and when you look down, you see the glaring height that divides you and the terrain.

above the flock of birds

following the river trail

.............

note to file: i miss being free

leaving on a jet plane

2009-05-12T22:24:00.002+08:00

it starts with a check in.
to find yourself a place
that makes you most comfortable.

you then approach the gate
that will shuttle you through.

a little wait,
then the plane approaches.

you look at it.
however big or small,
you pray it will hold the ride.

as you come to board,
you tuck yourself in
and buckle up,
as what everyone else does.

you feel the rush as the plane accelerates
then starts to climb up.

the journey begins.

you know your final destination.

the ride may take a smooth path,
sometimes a turbulent route.

to pass time
you take a nap,
read a print,
watch a show
or eat a snack.

you may hear a distant voice,
the captain affirming the route.

and then
just then,
amidst clouds and thin air,
a doubt may spark your mind.

you then think
will this plane safely make it to its final land,
and tell yourself, another cycle is complete.

or come crashing down,
free falling from above.
leaving you unable to make any more a ride.

.............

note to file: if you find me posting this, then it means i safely made it through this trip.

bi the way

2009-05-10T23:02:00.010+08:00

to my dear wife,

i am writing you this letter
in hope that you may not read this as mine.

three years being together
then almost four years into marriage,
i could not have wanted any way my life to end up
except to grow old with you.

i look forward to each morning
waking up and seeing you beside me.
kissing you a good day,
driving you to and from work,
and then kissing you again
before you rest through the night.

a few times, differences would enrage between us
and cause to disregard our bond
and yet we always end up taking back into each others arms.

but then there is no greater weakness
than what im about to say.

that there is another side of me
that remains hidden from all of these happiness.
an inate side concealed.

will you still love me
will you still hold me
will you still look at me and speak to me

if i say that the man you loved
is different in a different way.

that the man you kiss every night turns out
sharing his attraction to both sides.

i love you.
i cannot see you get hurt.
especially with this circumstance.

many times i have strived myself to change.

the first time i told those three words to you, i tried.
before i gave you the engagement ring, i promised.
then before we marched that wedding aisle, i vowed.
but i guess there would always be excuses.

again circumstance.

until i finally accepted
that change is something not possible with this condition.

that first night, the night when we had the first kiss,
i didnt come back home just yet.
i was out with friends until it was "all the way"
to a masseuse.

a few weeks into being engaged,
someone told me he loved me. he kissed me.
and i almost fell for him.

then as we are now living under the same roof,
i would let myself get into a similar mess again.

i once asked a friend who had the same weakness
but had the courage to end a wedding march.
and his defense,
he told me he cannot stand being a traitor.

this is what i feel now.

i feel i am betraying you.
living each day
fighting the deceit that this secret separates me.

this morning as we were making love,
i lost an erection.
you thought it was just the hangover.
then hugged me instead.
and as you were embracing me, i shed a tear.
you felt the emotion.
and you kissed me.
you then asked whats wrong.

i said, "happy mothers day. i love you."

you have forgiven me for a shortcoming you didnt know.
i let a long sigh
and closed my eyes thinking

i can never
and will never
say these things to you.

the scheming shiznit

2009-05-07T08:19:00.004+08:00

the stage is set for tomorrow's stag.

in two weeks, a close one strikes the game-over button of single blessedness and enters the simplicated, un-sassy role of being the other half of another one.

and the task of organizing this rite of passage landed in my hands.
(im no best man nor the sibling, but they assume the hat fits me fine.)

what where they thinking? :)

unless they would want this facet of homosociality become my personal visual playground for the night?

*grins*

i triaged a checklist to cover the agenda:

1. attendance

the scheme is to get his group of twinks to congregate in perfect attendance. the list is a mix of good potential.

now, to maximize the potential...

2. alcohol

a few shots of alcohol sparks the testosterone.
a few more undresses the inhibition.
and a lot more will keep the rest of the night in temporary amnesia.

which will all be to my advantage.

mind you, a few times i joined this group into a binging spree, it gets wild with capitals W.O.W.

3. activity

if the fuel is fully-tanked, i need to spark the fire, so bring in the tramps!

man, i couldn't get any referrals for less than 5k! (the flesh business looks more lucrative than my desk job. and tax free at that!)

but the choice, a jackpot in itself. as i wouldnt mind banging this christine reyes look a like.

so this.

this is todays grand scheme of things.

goodbye my friend

2009-05-06T12:23:00.005+08:00

he was rich. he had a mansion for a house with a pool for a playground.

he always had a dedicated sundo from school and would always eat lunch from home.

he was the only child. and he lived with his dad.

while i,

i was the middle class young man who lived in a family of five.

i join the school service and eat baon as lunch.

he became a seatmate from school. a transfer student, he seated behind me as his family name was sorted next to mine.

he casted the first smile. then stretched a hand.

we had the same love for water, the computer (with his father’s commodore 64 and my dad’s XT), GI Joes and ZOIDs (he had the whole battalion while i only had a handful of the man-dolls) and avengers comics (again, his was a stack-full).

past school activities, he would invite me to his place during weekends. and more often during the summer.

we would swim the whole afternoon in his pool in briefs or sometime with none. we would shower together, then watch endless cartoons over chippy or pringles.

until we fell asleep. i recall him laying his head onto my shoulder. which i would reciprocate in return.

we did compare our notes, and his was definitely larger. and uncut. he was of half caucasian descent and the influence was passed down under.

few times i slept over at their place. his room had two beds, but his yaya agreed to put us into only one. we talked everything our age including sex.

he became a constant companion. i was perfectly happy when i was with him. he would always look at me and smile.

but our world of happiness did not last forever. his dad was an expat and the time came for his dad along with him to leave.

no, i didn’t shed tears, nor sorrow. i wasn’t old enough to realize was I was missing.

the last time we partied over at his house, it was the usual run. when my dad fetched me over at their place, there was no hug nor a handshake. just a wave and a word of thanks.

oh i did make a kiss, but it was to his dad.

each year as i we would drive and pass by his house, i would ask myself, when will he come back? but he never did, and i never saw him again.

he would have been a tall and handsome man, as his dad was.

i wonder if he would have the same preference as mine?

1.1 on "what does it mean to be in between"

2009-05-05T13:46:00.005+08:00

i am no master of psychoanalysis. to a self-discovered mind who realized his difference with what is acceptable, i've had my share of the coping cycle of denial, anger, bargaining and depression. and acceptance, which up to this point i claim to fairly acknowledge to myself. but acknowledging to others is a different perspective that i cannot confidently realize.

i do not know if orientations evolve and progress but i now have enough reason to acknowledge that i belong to the archetype that considers sexual preference over both. in label terms, you can describe me as bi-sexual. sa kantong usapan, isa akong silahis.

i was born where the great divide between the yin and yang completes a circle of harmony. and growing up, it was conditioned behavior for boys to involve themselves with attraction to girls. i had nothing against chasing girls and found it even pleasantly entertaining and rewarding to be in the company of one.

but another side of myself began to grow alongside this mindset.

two earliest memories from my childhood pointed to this divergence. first, when not being fully satisfied by the absence of naked men while rummaging through a collection of playboys and penthouses from a neighbor. and second was from 'animal house', which gave me my first boob exposure in betamax. while pretending to cover our eyes by default, i recall saying that a mans frontal would complete the viewing experience. i was lucky no one at that time had the maturity to tie this to my being different.

and then there was the setting of an all boys school which i endured for eight years while into pre-puberty. this mass of young men was a social litmus for differentiating the norms for my peers.

i also recall two more vivid memories.

first was with the football elementary varsity which i belong then. training always entailed sweat, dirt and mud, thus the regulation post-shower activity. "we are all men right?" the alpha-male would first pronouce to claim exclusivity. everyone would nod with assent and then, with a sudden burst of confidence, stripped without inhibition, as if it was the most natural of all occurrences. most of us were thin, barely muscular and just about getting into our teens. the shower stalls had dividers but without the curtain and oftentimes we would share cubicles just to join in the conversation. i remember always trying not to grow an erection.

the second was my initiation to self-pleasure. this time it was an overnight camping activity with four unsupervised little sams sharing a small tent to sleep through the night. but sleep was the least of our agenda. a little alcohol laced inside our coleman jugs and some illegally loaned graphic magazine seeded the night of male bonding intimacy. it climaxed with us doing ourselves the deed all at the same time. i peaked the first out of (live) visual overload.

1. what does it mean to be in between?

2009-05-03T15:35:00.007+08:00

little boy sam was standing next in line with little sam’s mom.

“mom, i’m having cheeseburger and fries.” the boy was half-grinning at her mom with the thought of finally eating his favored chow at the fast food stand.

little sam’s mom nodded silently. but before the mom made a call on the server, little boy sam made a change of mind.

“oh wait, mom. i think i want to eat fried chicken and spaghetti instead.”

the mom turned to little boy sam, “so which one would you like to eat for lunch?”

looking at the print, little boy sam stared intently at two opposing images. “i think this one.”

but with a short glance at the other side of the menu, little boy sam moves his finger past another picture and said, “but the other one tastes really good too.”

“mommy… can i get both?” the little boy now declares with a desire of resolving his craving.

the mom took a firm and concerned look at little boy sam then said, “you can only pick one as your tummy will not have room for another.”

“but i'm hungry enough to eat both of them,” little boy sam tried to justify.

“by the time you finish one, you will no longer feel the need to try the other one.” the mommy said to little boy sam to end the discussion.

---

little boy sam and little sam’s dad drove their way for the little boy’s routine summer activity. it was little boy’s first day to take a course in martial arts. like most of his friends in school, little boy sam wanted to learn the sparring stance as he would see them done on television.

now arriving at the destination, the car slowed down until it went to a full stop. little boy sam stepped down the car and passed through a corridor to the main hall. the throb in little boy sam’s heart began to pace closer as he paced his way nearer to his new attraction.

yet with all the gush of blood now passing around the little boys body, little sam’s dad, who was all along walking with the little boy, was surprised to see the boy pause.

then the dad heard a distant yet audible chain of melody coming from a musical instrument. he saw little boy sam peeking through a room before the hall.

“dad, can i also learn to play the piano?”

“sam, you will not have enough time to do both karate and piano this summer.”

“i can! i can dad! i will run to the next room right after the first one ends.”

now little sam’s dad, seeing his son’s eagerness to both interests, knelt on both knees and looked straight in the little sam’s eye.

and said,

“yes i know you can my little one. but after the first one, your legs and hands will just be too tired to continue the next one. you will sweat a lot, maybe even too hungry to stay. then you’ll just find yourself miserable for not being able to learn and enjoy the class unlike the rest.”

behind little boy sam

2009-04-30T08:34:00.008+08:00

hello reader.

i am glad the world wide web has brought you to this space called my blog.

let me introduce to you to the man behind little boy sam, which goes by the name of ASH.

prior to this, you may have noticed me lurking as the “anonymous” in a few blogs. the chismoso prevails over me, and i admit enjoying everyone’s take on their own box of chocolates.

at first i did not like the idea of sharing my own and prevailed at existing only in the comment box. as i was reading more, i thought, what was within my journey that’s worth writing? it was simple. uneventful. bordering on the bland. i would be boring to the readers.

but then i thought, i can write my blog for myself. as my own pensieve. whatever social experiment would be an added benefit to me and to you.

thus, “under construction” was constructed. and it is still is a work in progress. the way each ones is.

about myself:

i grew up down south.
childhood was spent in the 80’s where atari was the console of choice and the XT was the latest innovation for a PC. the boob tube was then limited to 13 channels.

never thought of myself as an intellectual.
of all subjects, i flunked religion and filipino. i stay late in school even during exam week, but only to play sports. i ended up challenging myself and succeeded to be admitted at the state university. the block bordering taft avenue, padre faura and pedro gil was my laboratory, stepping out of college after Y2k.

i am tall, dark and chinito…
tall as i stand almost 6 feet. good genes come from both of my parents lineage.
dark as i love anything related to the sun and water. but you can keep me equally happy in dry land.
as for being chinito, this i cannot verify from my ancestry. but i do easily pass out as singaporean or korean.

i have a wife and a baby girl.
i never thought i would end up happily married. for one, i was also the typical torpe – silent and introverted. tag me along with a girl and I would be as cold as stone. but luck was at my side as i literally found her in the streets. she never hesitated making the first move, and the rest is a lover's story in itself. we tied the knot a few years back. the day i saw her walking the aisle, i whispered to myself, “this is the happiest i can be”. she continues to be the reason i grow. and we plan to raise three more little ones.

oh and the other thing,
i have my share of attraction for the same sex.
but more of this contradiction will come in this blog.

i love to travel.
i have been to all continents save for the two polar caps. i am lucky as travel is attached to my work. but i do not work for the airline industry. nor a courier company. i have a desk work which entails helping out people with their sickness… but i’m no doctor. i failed to realize this dream back at the university. you can find my pseudo-clinic amidst the tall buildings in ortigas.

i used to maintain a blog
for all things about me that everyone knew. now i plan to speak the things no one else sees. secrecy is my most guarded asset but i will try to let it out under the privacy of this alter-ego.

so come back if you must, this anonymous blog is yours to read…
drop a line, but do keep the ethics of decorum. your words are not only mine to see.

prologue

2009-04-28T23:28:00.007+08:00

"little boy sam will do just fine," said the builder.

"little boy sam will grow like any little boy until he becomes little no more. then the little boy can stand on his own."

"but forever he will be the little boy sam i know."

and then the little boy began to open his eyes and smiled.

and as what the builder planned, little boy sam grew up until he had his own mind.

little boy sam, who was little no more, then found a partner of his own. and then the little boy and his partner raised their baby girl sam.

but no one saw that little boy sam had other things in his mind.

and all these times the builder glanced, paused, and thought, “little boy sam will do just fine.”

this story is the mind of little boy sam.