My Blog

Happy and normal.
I can do that.

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 occurrence. 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.

living each day as if it was your last first.

"sex tayo."
a silence perturbed from a sound of a message tone reserved for a few.
and to whom, was the cerebration. an untimely proposition.
it was the misis.
oh, the misis. sent a few thousand miles from manila.
traversing her hymenal peak, i supposed. true to fact, and the fleeting moment, swoon further by a round with the elixir of life.

"cum to me,"
was my reply.
she was avid. she was away. consider she was restraining.
and i, in the same callousness of culminating the carnal aversion.

"i am horny."
it was an insurmountable trade-off. each spark doused by a buffing of the flesh candle. an attempt that would further fire the fury.
now her three words elicit a tsunami of boner images and thy wooding hormones.

she would still be 36 hours from the bedside.  away for fifteen days.  each passing day without her physical presence, remorse depletes, and seems certain to become a sullen and deafening idealism.

this suddenly came out from the playlist...

we arrive past the flow of pedestrian traffic.
that long jeepney ride. half the time, your outstretched arm hovers around.
it was past dusk. and i wanted to be on time for the basketball match.
such perfect moment. you came with the same agenda.

our stage was not the playing court, rather the lower box.
most of the time, there was silence. engorged at the frontal show of ball handling.
but moments when catchphrases were thrown,
do seem like invitation to in retort.

and the occasional glances.
at each others purview.

more than the occasion.
what followed suit, came the provocation.

this was unfamiliar territory - the journey back to start.
as you declare an unannounced detour.
you led me, and with assent i obliged.

unlike the earlier's grunt.
this one, no strut of eloquence.
only the language one does
without the vocal guts.

the year was 1999.
new to this place called manila.

and it happens again.
such gregorian run.

imploring at the spate of the governments drive against population control,
the abo-mind's siri of thought draws further.

instead of the wanton retort at the polar, yet band-aid ends of reproductive health.
not by restraint.
nor by choice.

in desire of an egalitarian decorum.

i declare.

instigate a man-gina majority.
where men and men (and women and women) predicates as the new bourgeois.

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

the gut set at oster #2.

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

the buffet has now progressed.

only the grunt of nadal and djokovic on static.

only the striped uniqlo between sheets and skin.

the hunt begins. the ding-dong screams.

lestat.

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

"are you sure you're above eighteen?"

he showed me his company id.

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

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

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

He held my hand and it never came off.

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

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

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

I sensed the invitation.

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

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