Saturday, November 14, 2009
Hello, pEXers!
Ok, so I heard people are talking about my blog in pEX. Anyone care enough to share the link? :)
Friday, November 13, 2009
Illustrado
Kailan kaya ilalabas ang libro ni Migs Syjuco na "Illustrado"? I want to read it. I want an XBOX360 too, and a new TV for our apartment. My flatmate is reading a book called "Superfreakonomics", and I read it whenever he's not around the house.
Other than my blog, what are YOU reading, you horny unclefuckin' lot you?
Other than my blog, what are YOU reading, you horny unclefuckin' lot you?
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
whatever
Sup, bitches? Fuck, I didn't know you were all that horny! Haha.
So, I contacted some of you who showed interest re: my last post. 8 out of 10 were just curious about my price and my looks, and the other 2 who were actually serious about the transaction, I'm meeting later this week.
Of the 8 annoying faggots who wasted my time, 5 offered to take me out on a date. Rule number 1: I DON'T DATE THE SAME SEX. I don't even hang out with my friends, for fuck's sakes.
Within a few days of finding out my number, some of you motherfuckers thought it would be really cool to pass it along. So now, I am beset with intrigued, lonely faggots who "just want to have a talk".
RULE NUMBER 2: I DON'T LIKE CHATTING WITH YOU GUYS. I'm anti-social, motherfuckers. Deal with it. I DON'T want to hear your coming out stories, I don't want to deal with your imagined stories of persecution. I am a professional psychologist-slash-escort; people PAY TO TALK WITH ME OR HAVE SEX WITH ME. You DON'T get to talk with me about YOUR PROBLEMS for free.
So, let me lay out some ground rules, people. If you want to have a "CHAT" with me, you're going to pay for my PROFESSIONAL CONSULTATION FEES. That's slightly higher than my escorting fees, so you might as well get on all fours and take my cock up your ass because it's cheaper.
And, oh, yeah. I changed my numbers now. STOP CALLING.
So, I contacted some of you who showed interest re: my last post. 8 out of 10 were just curious about my price and my looks, and the other 2 who were actually serious about the transaction, I'm meeting later this week.
Of the 8 annoying faggots who wasted my time, 5 offered to take me out on a date. Rule number 1: I DON'T DATE THE SAME SEX. I don't even hang out with my friends, for fuck's sakes.
Within a few days of finding out my number, some of you motherfuckers thought it would be really cool to pass it along. So now, I am beset with intrigued, lonely faggots who "just want to have a talk".
RULE NUMBER 2: I DON'T LIKE CHATTING WITH YOU GUYS. I'm anti-social, motherfuckers. Deal with it. I DON'T want to hear your coming out stories, I don't want to deal with your imagined stories of persecution. I am a professional psychologist-slash-escort; people PAY TO TALK WITH ME OR HAVE SEX WITH ME. You DON'T get to talk with me about YOUR PROBLEMS for free.
So, let me lay out some ground rules, people. If you want to have a "CHAT" with me, you're going to pay for my PROFESSIONAL CONSULTATION FEES. That's slightly higher than my escorting fees, so you might as well get on all fours and take my cock up your ass because it's cheaper.
And, oh, yeah. I changed my numbers now. STOP CALLING.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Whoring for a Cause
Ok, so here's the deal.
I'm going to drop my rates really low. For at least 500php, you can give me a blowjob for 30mins. That's an unbelievably cheap price considering who I am.
Now, all of that--the entire 500php--will be donated to charity. I'll be giving it all to a relief ops of my choice that is involved in helping out victims of the two recent typhoons.
This promo will run for a week only. From October 19-25.
Leave your contact details in the comments section if you're interested.
I'm going to drop my rates really low. For at least 500php, you can give me a blowjob for 30mins. That's an unbelievably cheap price considering who I am.
Now, all of that--the entire 500php--will be donated to charity. I'll be giving it all to a relief ops of my choice that is involved in helping out victims of the two recent typhoons.
This promo will run for a week only. From October 19-25.
Leave your contact details in the comments section if you're interested.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
You Got email from SUN
I really dont understand why some people need friends to factor in their decision making. I may be cold, but at least im calculating properly.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Monday, July 6, 2009
A Devil's Threesome
So... I went to the mall today, and I left my car at home because it's Monday. Mostly went to check out clothes, did some grocery shopping. Really boring shit.
Aboard the FX on the way home, I sat at the middle cab. There was just me, and this girl who didn't look anything exceptional. We waited for the FX to get filled before we can leave, and I was totally lost, plugged into my iPod.
Then, the conductor opened the door, and ushered in a couple. The girl was fucking hot, and the boy was lean, lanky, and fuckable. I met the girl's gaze, and she froze. She was supposed to get inside the cab first, but I dunno, must have felt flushed when she realized she will be spending the ride next to me. So, quickly, she turned to her boyfriend and asked him to go in first instead. The boy checked me out, he grinned. Now, I have flirted and flirted back gazillions of time in my life, and that, my friends, was a flirty grin. The boyfriend held my gaze and cooed his girlfriend to get in first and sit next to me, in between us.
We spent the rest of the ride, glancing at each other, all three of us. My right arm would brush at the girl's left breast lightly, and she'd press herself back coyly. The boy toyed with the girl's fingers, biting his lower lip suggestively, watching me watching him watching. Yeah, I think he wanted to see me fuck his girl while he lick my balls, that's what.
Aboard the FX on the way home, I sat at the middle cab. There was just me, and this girl who didn't look anything exceptional. We waited for the FX to get filled before we can leave, and I was totally lost, plugged into my iPod.
Then, the conductor opened the door, and ushered in a couple. The girl was fucking hot, and the boy was lean, lanky, and fuckable. I met the girl's gaze, and she froze. She was supposed to get inside the cab first, but I dunno, must have felt flushed when she realized she will be spending the ride next to me. So, quickly, she turned to her boyfriend and asked him to go in first instead. The boy checked me out, he grinned. Now, I have flirted and flirted back gazillions of time in my life, and that, my friends, was a flirty grin. The boyfriend held my gaze and cooed his girlfriend to get in first and sit next to me, in between us.
We spent the rest of the ride, glancing at each other, all three of us. My right arm would brush at the girl's left breast lightly, and she'd press herself back coyly. The boy toyed with the girl's fingers, biting his lower lip suggestively, watching me watching him watching. Yeah, I think he wanted to see me fuck his girl while he lick my balls, that's what.
Monday, June 29, 2009
You Got email from SUN
Sometimes, i stay in bed the whole day because dreaming of you is the most i can have. My waking hours are but the interludes to our lives spent together. Reality is what feels the most real, and can anything be more so than my breath on your hair, your toes on the crook behind my knees, and our eyes on each other? You're mine, my love, if only for this side of reality on my bed.
You Got email from SUN
I want someone who wants to be a housewife, and nothing more. Ambition is overrated, and i have more than enough for the both of us. Are you out there, whoever you will be? Are you making the same mistakes as me?
Thursday, June 25, 2009
You Got email from SUN
Saw an F150 modified with hid, twirling mags, and other silly shit. Now that's what you call a pimpship!
You Got email from SUN
A family of jologs took my parking space. I watched through slitted eyes as they step down from their cheap ass ride. They all have blond dyed hair, flat noses, and shirts loose from several washings. I hate dirt poor, tasteless, orcs. I wish nothing but the worse for the jologs class.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
ConAss
Ain't that bad. Trust me. What this country needs right now is to control the masses. The masses are unlawful, and miseducated. We need consistency. Consistency can be achieved by having the same set of leaders working on a common goal (guided by a united principle) over a long period of time.
Sorry, guys. But I'm with the Admin on this one.
Sorry, guys. But I'm with the Admin on this one.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Monday, April 13, 2009
25 Random Things
It's been a while since I last posted here. Like fucking an ugly customer, It's hard to get back to blogging once the momentum is gone. Anyway, a few months ago, everyone I know wrote 25 Random Things about themselves. I felt it was very self-indulgent, and frankly, quite boring. People were too safe. It could have been an interesting social experiment, but it failed on account of people's inhibitions.
Now, because I'm bored, I'm going to try to come up with a list of 25 Random Things About Myself. Let's see how this one goes.
1.) People immediately assume that I got my looks from my dad because my mom is very, very morena. Not true. Mom said my dad was half a bottle of tequila in the 80's, and possibly of Pakistani origin. Or Japanese. She was going in-and-out of the country during those hazy year that I was conceived. She used to be an executive assistant to a Marcos crony who was a cultural attache of sorts.
2.) My grandmother says I got my looks from a distant ancestor who came to the Philippines by way of the USS Thomas. Mr. and Mrs. Great-Great-Grandparents were teachers, both Americans, who had their children born and raised in Tarlac. Those children married natives (except for the youngest, who went back to the States, and was shot by a mugger in New York; she was 19, and the bullets had a clean exit through her lungs). For two generations, the white gene was recessive, occassionally giving some of my relatives fair skin, or lightly shaded hair color. I got the best of the bargain. Unfortunately, someone up my family tree line must have fucked a midget. I'm only 5'8" tall.
3.) My mom's brother raised me like one of his own as I was growing up into my early teens. Uncle Jun has 3 boys of his own, and he never made me feel different. His wife was nice. They weren't exactly the most affectionate of relatives,but they did me good. They run an ice plant, supplying our province's capital with almost 40% of its ice needs. My cousins and I used to play around in the ipa (rice husks) that were used to cover the massive blocks of ice for delivery. When I was 7 or 8, I thought the ice blocks were as big as icebergs. One summer, my uncle ordered his manager to make for us kids a swimming pool filled with rice husks. They dug a shallow but wide pit in the backyard of the factory, covered it with canvas, filled it with rice husks to the brim. We only went "swimming" there once; it was too itchy.
4.) The first time I had STD, I went to see a doctor practicing in a hospital here in QC. The doctor asked me some questions, I answered as honestly as I could, thinking he was a doctor who deals with leaking penises and rotten cunts everyday. He wrote several requests for testings that I should get. I took the list downstairs to the laboratory, handed it to the girl on the counter. The girl on the counter was pretty, and she was young. She must have still been a student, or has only recently graduated from school. She took a look at my list and said, "These test are for STD!" She was almost cheerful. "Yeah," I said with a grin. "Who's this for, then? You?" she asked jokingly. I smiled at her and nodded. She lost her smile gradually.
5.) Sometimes, I get indecent proposals from insanely young boys. Most often whenever I would take a piss at a public urinal in malls. Or even simply while walking around. But only when I'm alone. I think they're hoping for a dangerous tryst. Young as they are, they look for excitement and adventure, and I'm the stuff their fantasies are made of. Too bad they can't afford me. So, sometimes, to amuse myself, I'd wink back at them, smile back at them, ask them to follow me to a more discreet place. Alone with them, I put my arms around their shoulders, and whisper lovingly in their ears, "Don't fucking move. This is a hold-up. Give me your wallet, you fucking sonofabitch." Almost ALL of them would run away at that point. Some of them are so scared, they freeze up. Those who stay long enough to ask me if I'm serious, I push hard against the wall before leaving with a warning "Don't trust anyone, kid. The city's harsh, it will eat you whole." One time, I did the same trick to a stocky young man, couldn't be any older than 20. He was wearing plastic-framed glasses, and his backpack was sagging from all the stuffed animals dangling from a keyring attached to one of the zippers. "Don't fucking move, or I'll slit your motherfucking throat," I whispered to him, my soft, red lips and his ears close enough to touch. He broke into tears. "Shhh..." I said, trying to comfort him. "Please don't cry, baby. I was just kidding!" He wouldn't stop crying, so I ran away.
6.) I remember a Mendoza in grade school. He was either my best friend or someone who bullied me. Possibly, both. I remember him now because I'm running out of things to write here, so I took a look around and my eyes fell on a blue umbrella I got free from my bank. I suddenly had this memory of Mendoza and I stabbing each other with ballpoint pens, and getting sent to the Principal's Office. This happened in the province where I had my primary education. As soon as we got back from the Principal's Office, I picked a fight with some other boys. Oddly enough, Mendoza came to my defense. The other boy kept throwing paperballs at me, so Mendoza opened his umbrella as a shield. Now ain't that a random factoid.
7.) I came from a family who made it a point to use English as a first language. As I've said, I'm descended from a Thomasite, those American teachers shipped to benevolently assimilate the islands of the Philippines as part of their manifest destiny. Don't get me wrong. I didn't come from the landed gentry. One might consider our family affluent, but never influential. My grandparents insisted on prioritizing education over any other aspects of our individual development. They banned us from watching Batibot, or any other locally produced tv shows. I grew up on Sesame Street, on Enid Blyton books, on illustrated versions of classics like Robinson Crusoe, The Swiss Family Robinson, Gulliver's Travels. I had no trouble imagining myself in the worlds of C.S. Narnia and Treasure Island because evertime I would look at the mirror, I saw a thin, reedy, white kid. I only started looking Indian in my late teens.
8.) I don't think I'm handsome. I'm exotic. I think that's where my appeal lies, and that's what I try to cash in on. Honestly, I don't think I ever had a chance in showbiz, my face has too much character in it. I'm too exotic.
9.) Biggest talent fee I got for a single night: Php250,000. But not in cash, though. A British national who was in town saw me in a fashion show. My pimp Adelle made me tag along because she had several talents on the show, and she needed someone to keep her organize, and be on the look-out just in case some of her wards decide to go freelance and book themselves without her permission. The British national work for the British embassy in a nearby S.E. Asia country, and was in town only because of an invitation extended by a society couple. Apparently, I caught the British national's eye, and he booked me that night for the weekend. He took me to Hong Kong, all expenses on him. I had fun, he took me to places, and all he asked for was companionship. There was sex, of course, but it felt less of an obligation, and more... part of the program.
10.) Once, I babysat for a kidnapped infant. An ex-gf of mine--well, a former female fling, at least-- kidnapped the youngest heir of her aunt. She had the help of one of her college friends (a short, stout lesbian), and her current live-in partner. I didn't know the baby was stolen until I showed up at her apartment, and they left me alone with the baby. They went out to buy some baby stuff (diapers, formula, clothes), write a ransom note, find a way to send the ransom note to the baby's parents, and, yeah, they saw a movie in between. The baby was cute. I didn't know his name, but I called him Benjamin. It suited him. He had three teeth, and was growing two more. He peed a lot of times, so I had to change his diapers. It was the first time I did it, and it wasn't as hard as I feared. He didn't cry much. Oooh, I remember cradling him in my arms, and singing him to sleep. It felt good. I gave them some advice on psychological manipulation. I told them to scare the parents enough so that they would avoid asking police involvement. "Send them a .3gp video of the kid crying, make it look like you're going to hurt the kid if they call the cops. You HAVE TO scare them enough into cooperating. If they think you're soft, if you assure them you won't hurt the baby, they'll call the cops. Once the cops are involved, the con's up. They'll never pay ransom, they'll give you marked money. Worse, they'll pay the ransom, but the cops will pocket it after you're nabbed." I looked at the kid. "If one of you has a cellphone that can take videos, take one of this kid bleeding. A superficial wound on the arm won't hurt the baby permanently. Well, as long as you take good care not to have it infected." They didn't listen to me. They asked for ransom without scaring the parents enough. My ex-gf's new bf got shot when he went to pick up the ransom, the lesbian was arrested, and my ex-gf--who was taking care of the baby in their hide-out, eventually surrendered to the police, giving them a wild tale of how she was kidnapped along with the baby, and that she was forced to cooperate with the kidnappers. Her "story" included a brave escape attempt after their kidnappers didn't come back for two days. She is now living with the lesbian.
11.) I lost my virginity in the province at the age of 11. A bunch of older kids I was hanging out with convinced a girl to give me a blowjob while they watch. They must have been 14 to 17. I can't remember her name. The girl who sucked my cock while my friends watched was way older than I was, she was fully developed. She was very thin, I remember, and I could smell her hair. Her hair smelled very nice. This is how it happened: one of my friends borrowed his father's tricycle. He drove it, and the rest of us rode inside. We picked up the girl, it was all pre-arranged. It must have been during the summer, because I remember this happened in the morning, and it couldn't have happened in the morning if I had classes. I don't remember seeing her ever again after that.
12.) Once, a client shoved me inside a closet when his wife came home earlier than he expected. I thought those things happen only in the movies, or in badly plotted teleseryes. I pulled my pants up quickly, putting my shirt on at the same time. I don't know how I managed to do that. To get out of our predicament, the client talked to his wife really loud so I could her what was going on. He took her outside, making up some silly story about an emergency call. I heard them leave the apartment quickly. Alone in their house, I helped myself to our agreed fee from the wallet he had left by the bedside drawer. Also, I took home an almost full bottle of CK Be from his dresser. I was about to leave when I noticed several paperbacks stacked under their coffeetable. I took the liberty of substantially reducing clutter in their abode by grabbing several paperbacks as well, and shoving them inside my backpack.
13.) An agent from my previous job was found dead in his apartment. Whoever did it tried to burn his body to hide evidence of the stabbing. It scared me because it was something I know I am capable of doing.
14.) I can't stand people who smell bad. I go through a 100ml bottle of perfume in a month. I spend a lot of money on smelling good. Some people collect books, some people collect DVDs, some people collect stamps. I collect perfumes. I have bottles of EVERY brand of perfume for men available in the market (give or take 2 rare ones). I try to get newly released scents within the week they were launched.
15.) I don't go see a dermatologist regularly, although Adelle -- my manager, my handler, oh, hey, my pimp-- insists on me seeing one at least once a month. I usually self-medicate. Here are the basics to maintaining one's appearance to its optimum: Vit. E -- take one daily, either Myra-e or Squibb will do you wonders. There's a lot of expensive, imported Vit. E supplements out there (like Kirkland), but you'll only be paying extra for the cost of shipping that the importers paid for--which is totally unnecessary because the locally manufactured Vit. E supplements work just as good. Most people believe in glutathione, I don't. Although, there's no harm in popping a capsule once a day. It's important to invest in a good moisturizer and body lotion. For a moisturizer, Olay Total Effects is a really, really good investment and worth every peso of it. Apply lotion on your body after everytime you take a shower or a bath. I use a whitening lotion not because I want to have fairer skin, but because it evens out my tone. Also, most whitening lotion nowadays have sunblock mixed in. Go for the one with the highest SPF (usually indicated on the label). Use facial scrubs FREQUENTLY but NOT INTENSELY. Gently massaging your face with a good facial scrub (personally, I use St. Ives Apricot Scrub) everyday helps your face to produce retinol. Retinol fights skin aging, and helps your skin to regenerate faster. Scrubbing daily will help you look fresh longer.
16.) I would like to visit Egypt someday. The country, its rich heritage and mysteries, beckons me.
17.) I don't play videogames. The last time I was totally immersed in the artificially constructed reality of a videogame was years ago, via popular console known as the SNES. My cousins and I would play Earthworm Jim all night long. My cousin Tupe (Christopher)--the youngest, and the one I'm really close with--is a gamer, though. He likes management games (?). Usually, he and I talk about running the Ice Plant someday, and our plans include buying out the nearby rice mill as part of our expansion plans. Somedays, I'm scared of how serious he sounds until he starts to use analogies he got from Sim City.
18.) My cousin Mark and I bullied one of his classmates into getting a tattoo. Mark is the eldest of the three cousins I grew up with as brothers, and he's a natural at being a bad boy. Drunk on his father's (my uncle's) success at running the Ice Plant, and several other business ventures (including our hardwood farm by the southern border of the province), Mark is typical rich kid trouble. He was once accussed of raping a classmate, until his mother settled the case outside of the court of law. He is a run of the mill sociopath, and the only thing more scary than a sociopath is a malignant narcissist like myself. Mark and I can be a totally destructive (borderline catastrophic) duo worthy of Batman's vengeance. By the age of 20, Mark had several stab wounds, and have stabbed, shot, beaten countless other boys. He was enrolled in the DLSU for his college education, but was sent home after a few months due to several "incidents". Anyway, we bullied one of his classmates into getting a tattoo of the words "Pogi Ako" arching over his right nipple. We did it by pretending to be interested in getting similar designs, and then we made him have it first. Then, as he was begging us to go next, we said no flatly, and started to walk out of the tattoo parlor casually. He broke down in tears before we reached the corner.
19.) My first indecent proposal, I got shortly after I was circumcised. I was sort of a popular figure in the town where I grew up--mostly because of how I look. News of the eventual seperation of my foreskin with the rest of my manhood became town interest, and several blushing maidens were named as potential marriage prospects. People expected my growth spurt, in fact, they demanded it, what with my lineage suspected of being superior to their pygmy origins. I disappointed them, I guess, growing no taller than most of them. Anyway, by the town plaza was a beauty parlor run by a gay man people call Monica. Unlike most gay people, Monica is very prim, and proper. He runs his beauty parlor with utmost diligence and integrity, despite its minuscle size of being no bigger than the smallest bathroom in our house. Monica's parlor could only entertain up to two customers (he only had two chairs, one of them manned by his friend, Rita the Toothless), but his waiting area (a bench outside his parlor) was always filled with housewives and girls waiting for their fairy-fairy godmother to work his magic, transforming their dry, limp hair into glorious mane of captivating beauty with a simple wave of his wand, his curling iron, his blower. Anyway, one time my aunt asked me and Tupe to fetch Monica from his salon. Monica doesn't take house calls, except for my aunt. Monica came to our house and spent the afternoon treating my aunt's hair with hot oil, and painting her nails (hands and toes) to match. In return for Monica's services, my aunt paid him double, and gave him several old cosmetics of hers she was no longer interested in. I was tasked to carry the loot and walk our guest to the gate. On the way out, Monica casually inquired about my recent circumcision, and offered to give me free haircuts for the rest of my life. He said this with a nervous smile, and when I handed him his plastic bag filled with my aunt's discarded Manila-bought cosmetics, his fingers lingered on my wrist longer than they should. In the creeping darkness of the early evening, I saw how sad Monica was, and at the tender age of 12, I couldn't bear the thought of breaking his heart by rejecting his advances, so I never showed up in his salon ever since. Today, Monica's parlor still stands, and Monica's magic works to transform the drab and the dull into momentary glamour, and the quiet, modest man is now sharing his bed with G-boy, our grade school valedictorian who now earns his living driving a tricycle. G-boy is married, has one boy and one girl, and both of them call Monica "Tito".
20.) The first time I fell in love was with a girl named Valerie. I didn't know it was love then, until I started thinking of things I should have done for her, done to her, long after she has left to go back to the States. This happened years ago, several summers before my circumcision. I may have been in 3rd or 4th grade, I can't remember now. My aunt has a sister who babysat for Valerie's twin sisters in Nebraska. Her family spent a couple of days in our house as part of their month-long vacation in the Philippines. Valerie's sisters are twins, and they are the most darling, most adorable, motherfuckers you'll ever see. Maybe Valerie and I were 8 then, and the kids were perhaps around 4 or 5 years old. The twins were always together, running around, and easily scared the shit out of Mark. They only talk in English, and Tupe (at 6 or 7) naturally became their de facto tour guide, showing them around the wonderful vistas of our house, the scenic views from the windows, the various nooks, crannies, and crevaces they could easily find themselves trapped or lost in. Francis (my cousin in the middle) was also crushing on Valerie, so we ended up being best of friends and eventual jack-off buddies in the evenings when we would recall Valerie's soft, musical manner of speaking our names in her Nebraskan accent which to our ears were exotic, dark and full of sunshine at the same time. Mark, on the other hand, had earlier decided he wasn't interesed in Valerie, on the account of her not showing interest first when we came to pick them up at the pier. Francis and I followed Valerie everywhere she went, and we waited two steps behind her for any opportunity that we could make ourselves useful to her better enjoyment of our humble little town. When we all went to take Valerie's family to a popular tourist destination nearby (a beach of glinting, sparkling white sands before all the tourists and all the closested homosexuals flooded in, drenching the ocean with their AIDS), Francis and I had several arguments as to the task of carrying Valerie's stuff for her. We stayed in the resort overnight, and the next morning, before everyone woke up--most especially, before Francis woke up--I went to their cottage and called out to her from the porch. She came out immediately, she was an early riser, and had been reading a "The Bobsey Twins" book since she woke up. (I remember it was The Bobsey Twins she was reading because at that moment, I decided to read the stuff she was reading as soon as we all go back home with the hopes of impressing her with my encyclopedic knowledge of things that interest her). Her parents weren't up yet, and she was getting hungry. I asked if she would like to explore the beach with me, just the two of us, and she said yes. Her hair was long, straight, shiny, mine is short and itchy. She smells nice, l smell like the sea. We walked around the resort, jumping over empty buffet halls and beachside open cottages and under coconut trees and behind boulders and we let the ocean lap at our feet, picking up seashells she thought was pretty, and I let her hold on to my arm when she pretended the rocks were slippery and she was afraid of falling.
21.) I'm not a good writer. Thanks for all the comments you leave here on my blog. Honestly, I don't think I have the gift of working with words. However, I know I am a good reader. I read stories, I read people, I read behavior, I read textbooks, I read random factoids from the internet. I read events in history. I read, that's what I'm good at doing.
22.) You've seen me on TV.
23.) I am malignant narcissist, but you know that already.
24.) People are asking me to write my memoir. A project like that would definitely feed my ego, but I am hesitant as to its viability. I fear I will only be spending my time and effort on a project that wouldn't really be successful.
25.) Of the 25 things I've written here, one of them is a lie.
Now, because I'm bored, I'm going to try to come up with a list of 25 Random Things About Myself. Let's see how this one goes.
1.) People immediately assume that I got my looks from my dad because my mom is very, very morena. Not true. Mom said my dad was half a bottle of tequila in the 80's, and possibly of Pakistani origin. Or Japanese. She was going in-and-out of the country during those hazy year that I was conceived. She used to be an executive assistant to a Marcos crony who was a cultural attache of sorts.
2.) My grandmother says I got my looks from a distant ancestor who came to the Philippines by way of the USS Thomas. Mr. and Mrs. Great-Great-Grandparents were teachers, both Americans, who had their children born and raised in Tarlac. Those children married natives (except for the youngest, who went back to the States, and was shot by a mugger in New York; she was 19, and the bullets had a clean exit through her lungs). For two generations, the white gene was recessive, occassionally giving some of my relatives fair skin, or lightly shaded hair color. I got the best of the bargain. Unfortunately, someone up my family tree line must have fucked a midget. I'm only 5'8" tall.
3.) My mom's brother raised me like one of his own as I was growing up into my early teens. Uncle Jun has 3 boys of his own, and he never made me feel different. His wife was nice. They weren't exactly the most affectionate of relatives,but they did me good. They run an ice plant, supplying our province's capital with almost 40% of its ice needs. My cousins and I used to play around in the ipa (rice husks) that were used to cover the massive blocks of ice for delivery. When I was 7 or 8, I thought the ice blocks were as big as icebergs. One summer, my uncle ordered his manager to make for us kids a swimming pool filled with rice husks. They dug a shallow but wide pit in the backyard of the factory, covered it with canvas, filled it with rice husks to the brim. We only went "swimming" there once; it was too itchy.
4.) The first time I had STD, I went to see a doctor practicing in a hospital here in QC. The doctor asked me some questions, I answered as honestly as I could, thinking he was a doctor who deals with leaking penises and rotten cunts everyday. He wrote several requests for testings that I should get. I took the list downstairs to the laboratory, handed it to the girl on the counter. The girl on the counter was pretty, and she was young. She must have still been a student, or has only recently graduated from school. She took a look at my list and said, "These test are for STD!" She was almost cheerful. "Yeah," I said with a grin. "Who's this for, then? You?" she asked jokingly. I smiled at her and nodded. She lost her smile gradually.
5.) Sometimes, I get indecent proposals from insanely young boys. Most often whenever I would take a piss at a public urinal in malls. Or even simply while walking around. But only when I'm alone. I think they're hoping for a dangerous tryst. Young as they are, they look for excitement and adventure, and I'm the stuff their fantasies are made of. Too bad they can't afford me. So, sometimes, to amuse myself, I'd wink back at them, smile back at them, ask them to follow me to a more discreet place. Alone with them, I put my arms around their shoulders, and whisper lovingly in their ears, "Don't fucking move. This is a hold-up. Give me your wallet, you fucking sonofabitch." Almost ALL of them would run away at that point. Some of them are so scared, they freeze up. Those who stay long enough to ask me if I'm serious, I push hard against the wall before leaving with a warning "Don't trust anyone, kid. The city's harsh, it will eat you whole." One time, I did the same trick to a stocky young man, couldn't be any older than 20. He was wearing plastic-framed glasses, and his backpack was sagging from all the stuffed animals dangling from a keyring attached to one of the zippers. "Don't fucking move, or I'll slit your motherfucking throat," I whispered to him, my soft, red lips and his ears close enough to touch. He broke into tears. "Shhh..." I said, trying to comfort him. "Please don't cry, baby. I was just kidding!" He wouldn't stop crying, so I ran away.
6.) I remember a Mendoza in grade school. He was either my best friend or someone who bullied me. Possibly, both. I remember him now because I'm running out of things to write here, so I took a look around and my eyes fell on a blue umbrella I got free from my bank. I suddenly had this memory of Mendoza and I stabbing each other with ballpoint pens, and getting sent to the Principal's Office. This happened in the province where I had my primary education. As soon as we got back from the Principal's Office, I picked a fight with some other boys. Oddly enough, Mendoza came to my defense. The other boy kept throwing paperballs at me, so Mendoza opened his umbrella as a shield. Now ain't that a random factoid.
7.) I came from a family who made it a point to use English as a first language. As I've said, I'm descended from a Thomasite, those American teachers shipped to benevolently assimilate the islands of the Philippines as part of their manifest destiny. Don't get me wrong. I didn't come from the landed gentry. One might consider our family affluent, but never influential. My grandparents insisted on prioritizing education over any other aspects of our individual development. They banned us from watching Batibot, or any other locally produced tv shows. I grew up on Sesame Street, on Enid Blyton books, on illustrated versions of classics like Robinson Crusoe, The Swiss Family Robinson, Gulliver's Travels. I had no trouble imagining myself in the worlds of C.S. Narnia and Treasure Island because evertime I would look at the mirror, I saw a thin, reedy, white kid. I only started looking Indian in my late teens.
8.) I don't think I'm handsome. I'm exotic. I think that's where my appeal lies, and that's what I try to cash in on. Honestly, I don't think I ever had a chance in showbiz, my face has too much character in it. I'm too exotic.
9.) Biggest talent fee I got for a single night: Php250,000. But not in cash, though. A British national who was in town saw me in a fashion show. My pimp Adelle made me tag along because she had several talents on the show, and she needed someone to keep her organize, and be on the look-out just in case some of her wards decide to go freelance and book themselves without her permission. The British national work for the British embassy in a nearby S.E. Asia country, and was in town only because of an invitation extended by a society couple. Apparently, I caught the British national's eye, and he booked me that night for the weekend. He took me to Hong Kong, all expenses on him. I had fun, he took me to places, and all he asked for was companionship. There was sex, of course, but it felt less of an obligation, and more... part of the program.
10.) Once, I babysat for a kidnapped infant. An ex-gf of mine--well, a former female fling, at least-- kidnapped the youngest heir of her aunt. She had the help of one of her college friends (a short, stout lesbian), and her current live-in partner. I didn't know the baby was stolen until I showed up at her apartment, and they left me alone with the baby. They went out to buy some baby stuff (diapers, formula, clothes), write a ransom note, find a way to send the ransom note to the baby's parents, and, yeah, they saw a movie in between. The baby was cute. I didn't know his name, but I called him Benjamin. It suited him. He had three teeth, and was growing two more. He peed a lot of times, so I had to change his diapers. It was the first time I did it, and it wasn't as hard as I feared. He didn't cry much. Oooh, I remember cradling him in my arms, and singing him to sleep. It felt good. I gave them some advice on psychological manipulation. I told them to scare the parents enough so that they would avoid asking police involvement. "Send them a .3gp video of the kid crying, make it look like you're going to hurt the kid if they call the cops. You HAVE TO scare them enough into cooperating. If they think you're soft, if you assure them you won't hurt the baby, they'll call the cops. Once the cops are involved, the con's up. They'll never pay ransom, they'll give you marked money. Worse, they'll pay the ransom, but the cops will pocket it after you're nabbed." I looked at the kid. "If one of you has a cellphone that can take videos, take one of this kid bleeding. A superficial wound on the arm won't hurt the baby permanently. Well, as long as you take good care not to have it infected." They didn't listen to me. They asked for ransom without scaring the parents enough. My ex-gf's new bf got shot when he went to pick up the ransom, the lesbian was arrested, and my ex-gf--who was taking care of the baby in their hide-out, eventually surrendered to the police, giving them a wild tale of how she was kidnapped along with the baby, and that she was forced to cooperate with the kidnappers. Her "story" included a brave escape attempt after their kidnappers didn't come back for two days. She is now living with the lesbian.
11.) I lost my virginity in the province at the age of 11. A bunch of older kids I was hanging out with convinced a girl to give me a blowjob while they watch. They must have been 14 to 17. I can't remember her name. The girl who sucked my cock while my friends watched was way older than I was, she was fully developed. She was very thin, I remember, and I could smell her hair. Her hair smelled very nice. This is how it happened: one of my friends borrowed his father's tricycle. He drove it, and the rest of us rode inside. We picked up the girl, it was all pre-arranged. It must have been during the summer, because I remember this happened in the morning, and it couldn't have happened in the morning if I had classes. I don't remember seeing her ever again after that.
12.) Once, a client shoved me inside a closet when his wife came home earlier than he expected. I thought those things happen only in the movies, or in badly plotted teleseryes. I pulled my pants up quickly, putting my shirt on at the same time. I don't know how I managed to do that. To get out of our predicament, the client talked to his wife really loud so I could her what was going on. He took her outside, making up some silly story about an emergency call. I heard them leave the apartment quickly. Alone in their house, I helped myself to our agreed fee from the wallet he had left by the bedside drawer. Also, I took home an almost full bottle of CK Be from his dresser. I was about to leave when I noticed several paperbacks stacked under their coffeetable. I took the liberty of substantially reducing clutter in their abode by grabbing several paperbacks as well, and shoving them inside my backpack.
13.) An agent from my previous job was found dead in his apartment. Whoever did it tried to burn his body to hide evidence of the stabbing. It scared me because it was something I know I am capable of doing.
14.) I can't stand people who smell bad. I go through a 100ml bottle of perfume in a month. I spend a lot of money on smelling good. Some people collect books, some people collect DVDs, some people collect stamps. I collect perfumes. I have bottles of EVERY brand of perfume for men available in the market (give or take 2 rare ones). I try to get newly released scents within the week they were launched.
15.) I don't go see a dermatologist regularly, although Adelle -- my manager, my handler, oh, hey, my pimp-- insists on me seeing one at least once a month. I usually self-medicate. Here are the basics to maintaining one's appearance to its optimum: Vit. E -- take one daily, either Myra-e or Squibb will do you wonders. There's a lot of expensive, imported Vit. E supplements out there (like Kirkland), but you'll only be paying extra for the cost of shipping that the importers paid for--which is totally unnecessary because the locally manufactured Vit. E supplements work just as good. Most people believe in glutathione, I don't. Although, there's no harm in popping a capsule once a day. It's important to invest in a good moisturizer and body lotion. For a moisturizer, Olay Total Effects is a really, really good investment and worth every peso of it. Apply lotion on your body after everytime you take a shower or a bath. I use a whitening lotion not because I want to have fairer skin, but because it evens out my tone. Also, most whitening lotion nowadays have sunblock mixed in. Go for the one with the highest SPF (usually indicated on the label). Use facial scrubs FREQUENTLY but NOT INTENSELY. Gently massaging your face with a good facial scrub (personally, I use St. Ives Apricot Scrub) everyday helps your face to produce retinol. Retinol fights skin aging, and helps your skin to regenerate faster. Scrubbing daily will help you look fresh longer.
16.) I would like to visit Egypt someday. The country, its rich heritage and mysteries, beckons me.
17.) I don't play videogames. The last time I was totally immersed in the artificially constructed reality of a videogame was years ago, via popular console known as the SNES. My cousins and I would play Earthworm Jim all night long. My cousin Tupe (Christopher)--the youngest, and the one I'm really close with--is a gamer, though. He likes management games (?). Usually, he and I talk about running the Ice Plant someday, and our plans include buying out the nearby rice mill as part of our expansion plans. Somedays, I'm scared of how serious he sounds until he starts to use analogies he got from Sim City.
18.) My cousin Mark and I bullied one of his classmates into getting a tattoo. Mark is the eldest of the three cousins I grew up with as brothers, and he's a natural at being a bad boy. Drunk on his father's (my uncle's) success at running the Ice Plant, and several other business ventures (including our hardwood farm by the southern border of the province), Mark is typical rich kid trouble. He was once accussed of raping a classmate, until his mother settled the case outside of the court of law. He is a run of the mill sociopath, and the only thing more scary than a sociopath is a malignant narcissist like myself. Mark and I can be a totally destructive (borderline catastrophic) duo worthy of Batman's vengeance. By the age of 20, Mark had several stab wounds, and have stabbed, shot, beaten countless other boys. He was enrolled in the DLSU for his college education, but was sent home after a few months due to several "incidents". Anyway, we bullied one of his classmates into getting a tattoo of the words "Pogi Ako" arching over his right nipple. We did it by pretending to be interested in getting similar designs, and then we made him have it first. Then, as he was begging us to go next, we said no flatly, and started to walk out of the tattoo parlor casually. He broke down in tears before we reached the corner.
19.) My first indecent proposal, I got shortly after I was circumcised. I was sort of a popular figure in the town where I grew up--mostly because of how I look. News of the eventual seperation of my foreskin with the rest of my manhood became town interest, and several blushing maidens were named as potential marriage prospects. People expected my growth spurt, in fact, they demanded it, what with my lineage suspected of being superior to their pygmy origins. I disappointed them, I guess, growing no taller than most of them. Anyway, by the town plaza was a beauty parlor run by a gay man people call Monica. Unlike most gay people, Monica is very prim, and proper. He runs his beauty parlor with utmost diligence and integrity, despite its minuscle size of being no bigger than the smallest bathroom in our house. Monica's parlor could only entertain up to two customers (he only had two chairs, one of them manned by his friend, Rita the Toothless), but his waiting area (a bench outside his parlor) was always filled with housewives and girls waiting for their fairy-fairy godmother to work his magic, transforming their dry, limp hair into glorious mane of captivating beauty with a simple wave of his wand, his curling iron, his blower. Anyway, one time my aunt asked me and Tupe to fetch Monica from his salon. Monica doesn't take house calls, except for my aunt. Monica came to our house and spent the afternoon treating my aunt's hair with hot oil, and painting her nails (hands and toes) to match. In return for Monica's services, my aunt paid him double, and gave him several old cosmetics of hers she was no longer interested in. I was tasked to carry the loot and walk our guest to the gate. On the way out, Monica casually inquired about my recent circumcision, and offered to give me free haircuts for the rest of my life. He said this with a nervous smile, and when I handed him his plastic bag filled with my aunt's discarded Manila-bought cosmetics, his fingers lingered on my wrist longer than they should. In the creeping darkness of the early evening, I saw how sad Monica was, and at the tender age of 12, I couldn't bear the thought of breaking his heart by rejecting his advances, so I never showed up in his salon ever since. Today, Monica's parlor still stands, and Monica's magic works to transform the drab and the dull into momentary glamour, and the quiet, modest man is now sharing his bed with G-boy, our grade school valedictorian who now earns his living driving a tricycle. G-boy is married, has one boy and one girl, and both of them call Monica "Tito".
20.) The first time I fell in love was with a girl named Valerie. I didn't know it was love then, until I started thinking of things I should have done for her, done to her, long after she has left to go back to the States. This happened years ago, several summers before my circumcision. I may have been in 3rd or 4th grade, I can't remember now. My aunt has a sister who babysat for Valerie's twin sisters in Nebraska. Her family spent a couple of days in our house as part of their month-long vacation in the Philippines. Valerie's sisters are twins, and they are the most darling, most adorable, motherfuckers you'll ever see. Maybe Valerie and I were 8 then, and the kids were perhaps around 4 or 5 years old. The twins were always together, running around, and easily scared the shit out of Mark. They only talk in English, and Tupe (at 6 or 7) naturally became their de facto tour guide, showing them around the wonderful vistas of our house, the scenic views from the windows, the various nooks, crannies, and crevaces they could easily find themselves trapped or lost in. Francis (my cousin in the middle) was also crushing on Valerie, so we ended up being best of friends and eventual jack-off buddies in the evenings when we would recall Valerie's soft, musical manner of speaking our names in her Nebraskan accent which to our ears were exotic, dark and full of sunshine at the same time. Mark, on the other hand, had earlier decided he wasn't interesed in Valerie, on the account of her not showing interest first when we came to pick them up at the pier. Francis and I followed Valerie everywhere she went, and we waited two steps behind her for any opportunity that we could make ourselves useful to her better enjoyment of our humble little town. When we all went to take Valerie's family to a popular tourist destination nearby (a beach of glinting, sparkling white sands before all the tourists and all the closested homosexuals flooded in, drenching the ocean with their AIDS), Francis and I had several arguments as to the task of carrying Valerie's stuff for her. We stayed in the resort overnight, and the next morning, before everyone woke up--most especially, before Francis woke up--I went to their cottage and called out to her from the porch. She came out immediately, she was an early riser, and had been reading a "The Bobsey Twins" book since she woke up. (I remember it was The Bobsey Twins she was reading because at that moment, I decided to read the stuff she was reading as soon as we all go back home with the hopes of impressing her with my encyclopedic knowledge of things that interest her). Her parents weren't up yet, and she was getting hungry. I asked if she would like to explore the beach with me, just the two of us, and she said yes. Her hair was long, straight, shiny, mine is short and itchy. She smells nice, l smell like the sea. We walked around the resort, jumping over empty buffet halls and beachside open cottages and under coconut trees and behind boulders and we let the ocean lap at our feet, picking up seashells she thought was pretty, and I let her hold on to my arm when she pretended the rocks were slippery and she was afraid of falling.
21.) I'm not a good writer. Thanks for all the comments you leave here on my blog. Honestly, I don't think I have the gift of working with words. However, I know I am a good reader. I read stories, I read people, I read behavior, I read textbooks, I read random factoids from the internet. I read events in history. I read, that's what I'm good at doing.
22.) You've seen me on TV.
23.) I am malignant narcissist, but you know that already.
24.) People are asking me to write my memoir. A project like that would definitely feed my ego, but I am hesitant as to its viability. I fear I will only be spending my time and effort on a project that wouldn't really be successful.
25.) Of the 25 things I've written here, one of them is a lie.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Monday, February 9, 2009
Blowing Other Jobs
I.
Manolo's apartment was half the size of mine, but it was so sparsely furnished, it actually felt roomier.
"Hanggang next-next week lang naman," he explained apologetically.
There was the bed, the table, the kitchen sink, and the toilet. The toilet is more appropriately referred to as the water closet, actually, what with it doubling as the shower room as well. What little clothes Manolo had left in his possessions were stashed under the bed, along with his shoes, and other junk. There was a pair of 30-lb dumbbells lying under the table.
Christian was cooking instant pancit canton, so Manolo did most of the talking.
"Bakit di mo subukan? Ok naman ang sahod," he said.
II.
I met Manolo and Christian one long ago night. They were callboys, then. At that time, I wasn't exactly new to the trade, but I was going through a particularly rough patch. I borrowed some dough from a loan shark a neighbor recommended, and he wanted his money back immediately. I had nothing. I've been sending invitations through my network, but none of my former clienteles was interested that particular night.
Let me get this straight: I'm not a callboy. I'm not a streetwalker. I don't stand in the dark, displaying my ware.
I'm high-class.
That means I charge by the hour...
...and I charge a lot.
Through the course of this blog, you will learn more about this difference between me and some of my friends (among them, Manolo and Christian). All in due time, my dear readers.
So, back to the story of How I Met Manolo and Christian: I was desperate, and I was young. I was 19, then, and although I was physically fit, and streetwise, I knew I couldn't stand against an angry loanshark. He already sent someone to harass me by hanging out with me one whole day a couple of days ago, and I had to introduce the "tail" to everyone in class as my cousin. The tail literally followed me around campus, making sure everyone within hearing distance hear that I was in debted financially--and indebted heavily at that. It wasn't physical harassment, it was worse. I almost lost my patience, I shoved him back a couple of steps, and he started creating a scene about the money I owe. I promised to cough up the dough I owe them within the week just to make him stop.
With nothing but a few pesos in my pockets, I decided to swallow my pride and do something very, very pedestrian: stalk the night for customers.
III.
The Quezon City Memorial Circle is ringed by a wide highway called the Elliptical Road. The Elliptical Road is lined with various governmental buildings, including the Quezon City Hall, the Department of Agrarian Reform (a.k.a. Farmer's Squatting Place), the National Housing Authority.
Along this circular avenue revolves the lives of male prostitutes.
And it's conveniently accessible from my place within 10 minutes by walking.
The way I saw it, if I went to stand with the Circle Boys, I would be risking my reputation. Someone I know from school could pass by. I had to take my trash away from home. I had two choices. Hustle in Makati, or in Manila.
Since I had no money for gas then, I decided not to take my car. Both Makati and Manila are accessible via bus. I could get better paying clients in Makati; I also had a higher risk of getting beaten up in Makati (there were some gangs going around at that time, according to the talk). Manila was cheaper in terms of fare. I also considered the psyche of potential clients. Knowing the old adage of not bringing your trash home, I was thinking QC-based potential clients would probably be cruising around in Makati. Manila was still risky in that aspect, but substantially less so.
Manila it was, then.
I took an FX to Taft Avenue, and asked to be dropped at the Pedro Gil Stn. of the LRT. From there, it was a short walk towards the Philippine Women's University, a popular hang-out for callboys.
Have you ever wondered why callboys and hookers always flock to the same place? How come you don't see them scattered all over the city? The answer's rooted in animal psychology. In order to survive the desert, animals had to "remember" watering holes. This data is passed on through several generations, until it becomes almost instinctual for them to follow the road towards the nearest watering holes. Watering holes in deserts and jungles are popular congregation spots for animals of different species. Animal brain developed until it wasn't exactly a thinking process, but an instinctive process to equate "Hungry = Go to Water". As predators notice the correlation between watering holes and various animals (or to them reads as "various preys"), they processed a new knowledge which they then passed on through their offsprings: "Watering Hole = Many Animals = Many Food = Profit!". Until, eventually, humankind ruled the world, and the oldest profession in history was born: prostitution. Prostitutes--like most cunning business adventurists--frequented established spots together because that's where clients would "most likely" be looking for a trick. You can perhaps stand by EDSA or Commonwealth or Katipunan waiting for a customer, and YES, you can get one, but standing in established spots (like Quezon Ave for hoookers, QC Circle for callboys) multiplies that chance a lot. More clients looking for your service means the better you can bargain for it (although, you would have to contrast that bargaining with the fact that you're in competition with other 'service professionals').
Anyway, that's how I met Manolo and Christian. They're callboys, regulars of the PWU. The first time I saw them, they were eyeing someone driving a car. They were caressing each other's well-developed chests to entice the customer. The customer passed them by after some consideration, stopped in front of a much younger callboy nearby, picked the kid up.
I walked towards them. There was no need to pretend with these boys. They knew I was there for the very same reason they were. We each got booked later that night. I came back to the spot a few hours later for a 2nd booking, and found them both there as well.
We traded numbers. Like most industry, it's better to keep a network of peers than not. We promised each other to pass around bookings that we couldn't handle or couldn't commit to. Manolo said he was expecting a Japanese "guest" in a few days, and he'd invite Christian and me over if his guest was to have any other Japanese friends with him. I said, sure, yeah, and gave my name as "Aldwin."
The next day, Christian sent me a message. He asked if I had notice the kid who was picked up shortly before I arrived. The kid was being hunted by the police; his customer was found stabbed several times in the neck, the face, and the gut.
IV.
To "fit in" Manolo and Christian's world, I had to inhabit the persona I had created as "Aldwin." I have told you about Aldwin before. I told them I was from Kalookan, and used to hang-out in the Circle, but I left a customer angry when I punched him in the nose for not giving me the amount we agreed on. Fearing repercussion, I was lying low from the Circle. "Until things cool down a bit," I told them.
Manolo, Christian, and the other callboys I know assumed I had the same sob story they do. I don't bother correcting them. What good would it be, telling them I'm educated, I drive my own car, and our family business in the province is doing well enough to give me a substantial monthly allowance? Would they have believed me?
V.
"Bakit di mo subukan?" Manolo asked me. "Ok naman ang sahod."
Christian was done with the pancit canton. He served it on a plate, and brought some pan de sal with it to the table. He took the litro of Coke from the grocery bag under the table, and twisted the cap off. "Tsaka, OK buhay dun, di tulad sa Saudi. Kala lang ng mga tao dito, muslim-muslim kasi Dubai. Pero, hindi. Cosmopolitan na rin sila."
Odd choice of word: Cosmopolitan. A friend of mine, a flight crew (not The Pilot, trust me) used the same word to describe the same place: Dubai, Cosmopolitan. (Yes, my friend does get indecent proposals, and he accepts them, but only when they fly Business Class)
(I suspect Dubai has some sort of tourism campaign going on, and they're using "cosmopolitan" to push their agenda. That's the subtle psychological manipulation of advertising at work, people. You can't help but appreciate how words have tremendous impact on people's subconscious. If any of you are from Dubai, or had recently come from that country, can you verify this? Do they have a tourism campaign (Like the DOT's "Byahe Tayo!") anchored by the concept of being "cosmopolitan"?)
Christian had been working in Dubai for some months now as a busboy for one branch of a popular chain of restaurants. "Kulang na lang i-table ka," he said about the tip. Manolo will join him "next-next week" (which was he put it last week, and the week before that).
"Tiga-balat ng patatas," Manolo joked when I asked him what he will do there. I don't think he actually knows what he will be doing there.
Why don't you try it there? they asked me.
I know it's a question most people are wondering about. Someone even left a comment here in my blog about it. So, why am I in this business? What is a good, decently raised Catholic boy doing in an indecent industry?
I wish I can tell you I enjoy it. I don't The sex part is disgusting, really. I have had STD's for a grand total of 3 TIMES by the time I was 24 years old.
VI.
I do it for the power. I do it for the worship.
As I keep repeating in this blog, I have long diagnosed myself to have malignant narcissism. Us malignant narcissists are fixated on getting worshipped, being adored, being constantly affirmed of our vital role in history.
I was watching a documentary on The Unabomber the other day, and was impressed when the FBI claimed they established a "new criminal profile" based on The Unabomber: The Lone Wolf. When the forensic psychologist explained the features of The Lone Wolf as a criminal profile, I compared myself to it, and found myself oddly proud that I fit the bill.
I do it because I see in people's eyes how much they want me. How much they want to bathe themselves in my glow. It's in their eyes, the longing, the wanting, the craving.
The worship.
VII.
An old friend of mine, one from school, actually, contacted me. He's setting up a new venture.
"Power Wellness Center," he said. "It's going to cater to people living power-driven, power-hungry lives. It's a place people go to for their wellness." He sounded positively excited. "It's like going to the hospital before you need to go there. My wife, she's a nutritionist, she'll do 'nutrional consultation' and device diet programs. You and I can be 'emotional and psychological health councellors'."
"Sounds like a fancy way of calling a shrink," I said.
"Exactly!" he said. "I took some training in Eastern health practices, that's my specialty. You can do that pop psychology you do, and sleep with the desperate housewives to jump start their sex lives," he said. My heart skipped a beat, but then I realized he was just kidding, and had no idea of my other life. "I know a girl who does all this yoga thing, and she's a registered nurse, so she'll also offer botox and gluta injections."
"I'm not sure, bro. It sounds exciting, yeah..."
"Think about it."
VIII.
Then, there was also that job interview I went to last month.
"Mr. Du Jour," The Editor said. "What exactly can you contribute to our publication?"
I slid a list across her desk towards her. It was on a plain bond paper torn crosswise.
"What's this?" she asked.
"That's a list of local male celebrities suspected to be homosexuals," I told her.
She shrugged and slid the list back. "You got this from the internet. Big deal," she said. Clearly, she was unimpressed.
I took a ballpen out, and encircled three names.
I slid the list back to her.
"I slept with these," I said. I was bluffing. I only had sex with one of the three names I encircled, and only because his cousin--a politician--was drunk, and forced both of us to do it while the politician watched. But the two other names, well, I know someone (or someone who knows someone) who had sex with them.
She glanced at the names I encircled. She wasn't amused. "Old rumors," she said. She didn't even touch the list.
I took the list back.
I added 2 more names to the list.
Two male showbiz personalities I have personal knowledge of preferring the company of men over women.
2 names that have managed to remain squeaky clean despite the internet's persistent information dissemination.
2 names that have never before been accused of being gay.
I knew I hit gold when she tried to force her smile out of her face. She stared at me, straight and challenging.
She tapped one long fingernail over one of the names.
I named his condo building in Makati.
She kept tapping.
I gave her which floor.
She kept tapping.
"There's a portable DVD player in his RAV4. He watches himself jacking off when stuck in traffic," I told her.
She leaned closer, and smiled at me in a way that told me she was going to let me in on a secret. "His studio--" and by that, she meant the TV network holding an exclusive contract with the model-actor I just named. "--gives me good money to keep his shit out of my magazine. He pulls big bucks for them, you know?"
"I suppose I can go on top of a mountain and scream his dirt out in the open, and they'd come to the rescue and launch a massive PR campaign to clean up, eh?"
"Even if you go to their rival TV network, no one would air that out. The rival TV network would only use that information to weasel a guesting from him," she said. "But I like you, boy. I like your spunk. How soon can you start?"
"I have to file a resignation. 30-ish days?" I said.
Welcome to day 20.
IX.
Manolo and Christian ate instant pancit canton sandwiched in pan de sal. It wasn't how I usually enjoy instant pancit canton, but I have put worse things in my mouth to survive.
"Bahala na," I told them. "Pag naka-ipon ng pang-visa."
Christian wolfed the remaining pancit canton on his saucer. "Tumatanda ka na, brad," he told me. "Umiba ka na nang linya."
Manolo's apartment was half the size of mine, but it was so sparsely furnished, it actually felt roomier.
"Hanggang next-next week lang naman," he explained apologetically.
There was the bed, the table, the kitchen sink, and the toilet. The toilet is more appropriately referred to as the water closet, actually, what with it doubling as the shower room as well. What little clothes Manolo had left in his possessions were stashed under the bed, along with his shoes, and other junk. There was a pair of 30-lb dumbbells lying under the table.
Christian was cooking instant pancit canton, so Manolo did most of the talking.
"Bakit di mo subukan? Ok naman ang sahod," he said.
II.
I met Manolo and Christian one long ago night. They were callboys, then. At that time, I wasn't exactly new to the trade, but I was going through a particularly rough patch. I borrowed some dough from a loan shark a neighbor recommended, and he wanted his money back immediately. I had nothing. I've been sending invitations through my network, but none of my former clienteles was interested that particular night.
Let me get this straight: I'm not a callboy. I'm not a streetwalker. I don't stand in the dark, displaying my ware.
I'm high-class.
That means I charge by the hour...
...and I charge a lot.
Through the course of this blog, you will learn more about this difference between me and some of my friends (among them, Manolo and Christian). All in due time, my dear readers.
So, back to the story of How I Met Manolo and Christian: I was desperate, and I was young. I was 19, then, and although I was physically fit, and streetwise, I knew I couldn't stand against an angry loanshark. He already sent someone to harass me by hanging out with me one whole day a couple of days ago, and I had to introduce the "tail" to everyone in class as my cousin. The tail literally followed me around campus, making sure everyone within hearing distance hear that I was in debted financially--and indebted heavily at that. It wasn't physical harassment, it was worse. I almost lost my patience, I shoved him back a couple of steps, and he started creating a scene about the money I owe. I promised to cough up the dough I owe them within the week just to make him stop.
With nothing but a few pesos in my pockets, I decided to swallow my pride and do something very, very pedestrian: stalk the night for customers.
III.
The Quezon City Memorial Circle is ringed by a wide highway called the Elliptical Road. The Elliptical Road is lined with various governmental buildings, including the Quezon City Hall, the Department of Agrarian Reform (a.k.a. Farmer's Squatting Place), the National Housing Authority.
Along this circular avenue revolves the lives of male prostitutes.
And it's conveniently accessible from my place within 10 minutes by walking.
The way I saw it, if I went to stand with the Circle Boys, I would be risking my reputation. Someone I know from school could pass by. I had to take my trash away from home. I had two choices. Hustle in Makati, or in Manila.
Since I had no money for gas then, I decided not to take my car. Both Makati and Manila are accessible via bus. I could get better paying clients in Makati; I also had a higher risk of getting beaten up in Makati (there were some gangs going around at that time, according to the talk). Manila was cheaper in terms of fare. I also considered the psyche of potential clients. Knowing the old adage of not bringing your trash home, I was thinking QC-based potential clients would probably be cruising around in Makati. Manila was still risky in that aspect, but substantially less so.
Manila it was, then.
I took an FX to Taft Avenue, and asked to be dropped at the Pedro Gil Stn. of the LRT. From there, it was a short walk towards the Philippine Women's University, a popular hang-out for callboys.
Have you ever wondered why callboys and hookers always flock to the same place? How come you don't see them scattered all over the city? The answer's rooted in animal psychology. In order to survive the desert, animals had to "remember" watering holes. This data is passed on through several generations, until it becomes almost instinctual for them to follow the road towards the nearest watering holes. Watering holes in deserts and jungles are popular congregation spots for animals of different species. Animal brain developed until it wasn't exactly a thinking process, but an instinctive process to equate "Hungry = Go to Water". As predators notice the correlation between watering holes and various animals (or to them reads as "various preys"), they processed a new knowledge which they then passed on through their offsprings: "Watering Hole = Many Animals = Many Food = Profit!". Until, eventually, humankind ruled the world, and the oldest profession in history was born: prostitution. Prostitutes--like most cunning business adventurists--frequented established spots together because that's where clients would "most likely" be looking for a trick. You can perhaps stand by EDSA or Commonwealth or Katipunan waiting for a customer, and YES, you can get one, but standing in established spots (like Quezon Ave for hoookers, QC Circle for callboys) multiplies that chance a lot. More clients looking for your service means the better you can bargain for it (although, you would have to contrast that bargaining with the fact that you're in competition with other 'service professionals').
Anyway, that's how I met Manolo and Christian. They're callboys, regulars of the PWU. The first time I saw them, they were eyeing someone driving a car. They were caressing each other's well-developed chests to entice the customer. The customer passed them by after some consideration, stopped in front of a much younger callboy nearby, picked the kid up.
I walked towards them. There was no need to pretend with these boys. They knew I was there for the very same reason they were. We each got booked later that night. I came back to the spot a few hours later for a 2nd booking, and found them both there as well.
We traded numbers. Like most industry, it's better to keep a network of peers than not. We promised each other to pass around bookings that we couldn't handle or couldn't commit to. Manolo said he was expecting a Japanese "guest" in a few days, and he'd invite Christian and me over if his guest was to have any other Japanese friends with him. I said, sure, yeah, and gave my name as "Aldwin."
The next day, Christian sent me a message. He asked if I had notice the kid who was picked up shortly before I arrived. The kid was being hunted by the police; his customer was found stabbed several times in the neck, the face, and the gut.
IV.
To "fit in" Manolo and Christian's world, I had to inhabit the persona I had created as "Aldwin." I have told you about Aldwin before. I told them I was from Kalookan, and used to hang-out in the Circle, but I left a customer angry when I punched him in the nose for not giving me the amount we agreed on. Fearing repercussion, I was lying low from the Circle. "Until things cool down a bit," I told them.
Manolo, Christian, and the other callboys I know assumed I had the same sob story they do. I don't bother correcting them. What good would it be, telling them I'm educated, I drive my own car, and our family business in the province is doing well enough to give me a substantial monthly allowance? Would they have believed me?
V.
"Bakit di mo subukan?" Manolo asked me. "Ok naman ang sahod."
Christian was done with the pancit canton. He served it on a plate, and brought some pan de sal with it to the table. He took the litro of Coke from the grocery bag under the table, and twisted the cap off. "Tsaka, OK buhay dun, di tulad sa Saudi. Kala lang ng mga tao dito, muslim-muslim kasi Dubai. Pero, hindi. Cosmopolitan na rin sila."
Odd choice of word: Cosmopolitan. A friend of mine, a flight crew (not The Pilot, trust me) used the same word to describe the same place: Dubai, Cosmopolitan. (Yes, my friend does get indecent proposals, and he accepts them, but only when they fly Business Class)
(I suspect Dubai has some sort of tourism campaign going on, and they're using "cosmopolitan" to push their agenda. That's the subtle psychological manipulation of advertising at work, people. You can't help but appreciate how words have tremendous impact on people's subconscious. If any of you are from Dubai, or had recently come from that country, can you verify this? Do they have a tourism campaign (Like the DOT's "Byahe Tayo!") anchored by the concept of being "cosmopolitan"?)
Christian had been working in Dubai for some months now as a busboy for one branch of a popular chain of restaurants. "Kulang na lang i-table ka," he said about the tip. Manolo will join him "next-next week" (which was he put it last week, and the week before that).
"Tiga-balat ng patatas," Manolo joked when I asked him what he will do there. I don't think he actually knows what he will be doing there.
Why don't you try it there? they asked me.
I know it's a question most people are wondering about. Someone even left a comment here in my blog about it. So, why am I in this business? What is a good, decently raised Catholic boy doing in an indecent industry?
I wish I can tell you I enjoy it. I don't The sex part is disgusting, really. I have had STD's for a grand total of 3 TIMES by the time I was 24 years old.
VI.
I do it for the power. I do it for the worship.
As I keep repeating in this blog, I have long diagnosed myself to have malignant narcissism. Us malignant narcissists are fixated on getting worshipped, being adored, being constantly affirmed of our vital role in history.
I was watching a documentary on The Unabomber the other day, and was impressed when the FBI claimed they established a "new criminal profile" based on The Unabomber: The Lone Wolf. When the forensic psychologist explained the features of The Lone Wolf as a criminal profile, I compared myself to it, and found myself oddly proud that I fit the bill.
I do it because I see in people's eyes how much they want me. How much they want to bathe themselves in my glow. It's in their eyes, the longing, the wanting, the craving.
The worship.
VII.
An old friend of mine, one from school, actually, contacted me. He's setting up a new venture.
"Power Wellness Center," he said. "It's going to cater to people living power-driven, power-hungry lives. It's a place people go to for their wellness." He sounded positively excited. "It's like going to the hospital before you need to go there. My wife, she's a nutritionist, she'll do 'nutrional consultation' and device diet programs. You and I can be 'emotional and psychological health councellors'."
"Sounds like a fancy way of calling a shrink," I said.
"Exactly!" he said. "I took some training in Eastern health practices, that's my specialty. You can do that pop psychology you do, and sleep with the desperate housewives to jump start their sex lives," he said. My heart skipped a beat, but then I realized he was just kidding, and had no idea of my other life. "I know a girl who does all this yoga thing, and she's a registered nurse, so she'll also offer botox and gluta injections."
"I'm not sure, bro. It sounds exciting, yeah..."
"Think about it."
VIII.
Then, there was also that job interview I went to last month.
"Mr. Du Jour," The Editor said. "What exactly can you contribute to our publication?"
I slid a list across her desk towards her. It was on a plain bond paper torn crosswise.
"What's this?" she asked.
"That's a list of local male celebrities suspected to be homosexuals," I told her.
She shrugged and slid the list back. "You got this from the internet. Big deal," she said. Clearly, she was unimpressed.
I took a ballpen out, and encircled three names.
I slid the list back to her.
"I slept with these," I said. I was bluffing. I only had sex with one of the three names I encircled, and only because his cousin--a politician--was drunk, and forced both of us to do it while the politician watched. But the two other names, well, I know someone (or someone who knows someone) who had sex with them.
She glanced at the names I encircled. She wasn't amused. "Old rumors," she said. She didn't even touch the list.
I took the list back.
I added 2 more names to the list.
Two male showbiz personalities I have personal knowledge of preferring the company of men over women.
2 names that have managed to remain squeaky clean despite the internet's persistent information dissemination.
2 names that have never before been accused of being gay.
I knew I hit gold when she tried to force her smile out of her face. She stared at me, straight and challenging.
She tapped one long fingernail over one of the names.
I named his condo building in Makati.
She kept tapping.
I gave her which floor.
She kept tapping.
"There's a portable DVD player in his RAV4. He watches himself jacking off when stuck in traffic," I told her.
She leaned closer, and smiled at me in a way that told me she was going to let me in on a secret. "His studio--" and by that, she meant the TV network holding an exclusive contract with the model-actor I just named. "--gives me good money to keep his shit out of my magazine. He pulls big bucks for them, you know?"
"I suppose I can go on top of a mountain and scream his dirt out in the open, and they'd come to the rescue and launch a massive PR campaign to clean up, eh?"
"Even if you go to their rival TV network, no one would air that out. The rival TV network would only use that information to weasel a guesting from him," she said. "But I like you, boy. I like your spunk. How soon can you start?"
"I have to file a resignation. 30-ish days?" I said.
Welcome to day 20.
IX.
Manolo and Christian ate instant pancit canton sandwiched in pan de sal. It wasn't how I usually enjoy instant pancit canton, but I have put worse things in my mouth to survive.
"Bahala na," I told them. "Pag naka-ipon ng pang-visa."
Christian wolfed the remaining pancit canton on his saucer. "Tumatanda ka na, brad," he told me. "Umiba ka na nang linya."
Thursday, January 29, 2009
The Devoured Doll
I.
"Look what I found," Drake said as he entered our apartment.
The water in the pot in front of me boiled violently. I turned down the heat a bit, dropped the packs of dehydrated noodles in, and threw the empty plastic wrapper of the instant pancit canton I was preparing. I turned around to face my roommate. "Aliens. In the sky, are they?" We've been marathon watching episodes of The Middleman on our DVD.
He threw an object on to our table. It was a foot long, made of plastic and rubber.
"Found it upstairs," he said. Upstairs is the rooftop of our apartment complex. Our compound is basically a rectangular lot with rows of apartment units on all sides (except the gate side). Two storeys, but most of the housing units are on the second floor. The first floor's basically parking space, one unit's the office for the landlord and his errand boys (who take care of the electrical works, etc), and there's a small space for storage that the tennats share communally.
There's an empty space in the center of the 2nd floor overlooking the parking space below. Iron railings run around this whole to protect people from accidentally falling to their deaths (or, to their very awkward physical deformity, if they're lucky).
The rooftop is an empty space where a small room housed two old-fashioned washing machines (with spin dryers). There are clothesline running all over the rooftop as well. Usually, to save some money and to avoid relying on laundrymats too much, I wash my own underwear and socks and hang them upstairs to dry. (Also, this isn't important, but just so you know, there's a woman who comes every Saturday and Sunday to offer her services as a laundrywoman, but it's kinda hard to have her because the tennants in Apartment 15 have three kids, so she basically's fully booked washing all their dirty clothes.)
I picked up the object he found and inspected it closer. "Upstairs? You found this upstairs?"
"Yeah," he said, starting to fold the shirts he had had hanging upstairs to dry. "The bitches were devouring him."
Anyway, the rooftop is where Drake keeps his bitches.
As I've told you before, Drake gets his financial resources mostly from his parents' remittances, but he has also invested a portion of this to a business venture involving breeding dogs and selling them on Sulit.ph. He has an arrangement with our landlord that he pays an additional rent for the space taken by his cages upstairs. Once in a while, when the dogs get restless, he'd take them out for walks. When there's a storm outside, he'd wheel the cages into the laundry room. I brought him a fortune plant a couple of years ago so he would have some place to throw the dog turds. That inspired him to keep buying several ornamental plants on rubber pots, so the rooftop's now populated with fortune plants, a row of santans, some flowering shrub I don't know what to call, and a bouganvilla (he's trying to make it crawl all over the laundry room, like ivy vines).
"I'm thinking, it's one of those kids from 15," he continued. "Those brats must have fed that to the dogs on a dare or something."
"Yeah," I agreed hesitantly.
What he found: a plastic Ken doll, stripped naked. The dogs must have been playing with the doll for quite some time, it was mangled with the dogs fangs. Ugly scars where the dogs bit it punctured the doll's face, body. They must have thought it was a chew toy.
"Hey," Drake called out. "Hey!"
"What?"
He flicked his chin upwards in a nod, so I turned around and remembered I was cooking something. The boiling water and the noodles had started to run down the sides of the pot. I lowered the heat a little, stirred the noodles.
II.
I believe that paranoia is gestaltic. Our brain functions in such a way that we form shapes, we see forms, we organize order from chaos. We see bunnies in cloud formations, we see images of the Virgin Mary on bread toasts, Jesus on agricultural crops. We see faces in cigarette smoke, we see patterns where there is none.
For example: a series of objects may be totally unconnected to each other, but, when taken together, forms a relationship of sorts. How does one connect a mangled, horribly mutilated doll to one's life? How does one take a note slipped under the door anonymously? How do these things add up?
Paranoid traits are symptomatic of the malignant narcissism I have diagnosed myself to have.
Maybe...
Maybe I'm just paranoid. Maybe these things are unconnected, random objects, and the only reason why it's logical to think of them as related is because of my fear of being persecuted.
If so, then why is there a mark on the devoured doll--a mark on its left shoulder, an etched design, somewhat circular, penned in with permanent marker?
A mark located exactly where my tattoo is.
"Look what I found," Drake said as he entered our apartment.
The water in the pot in front of me boiled violently. I turned down the heat a bit, dropped the packs of dehydrated noodles in, and threw the empty plastic wrapper of the instant pancit canton I was preparing. I turned around to face my roommate. "Aliens. In the sky, are they?" We've been marathon watching episodes of The Middleman on our DVD.
He threw an object on to our table. It was a foot long, made of plastic and rubber.
"Found it upstairs," he said. Upstairs is the rooftop of our apartment complex. Our compound is basically a rectangular lot with rows of apartment units on all sides (except the gate side). Two storeys, but most of the housing units are on the second floor. The first floor's basically parking space, one unit's the office for the landlord and his errand boys (who take care of the electrical works, etc), and there's a small space for storage that the tennats share communally.
There's an empty space in the center of the 2nd floor overlooking the parking space below. Iron railings run around this whole to protect people from accidentally falling to their deaths (or, to their very awkward physical deformity, if they're lucky).
The rooftop is an empty space where a small room housed two old-fashioned washing machines (with spin dryers). There are clothesline running all over the rooftop as well. Usually, to save some money and to avoid relying on laundrymats too much, I wash my own underwear and socks and hang them upstairs to dry. (Also, this isn't important, but just so you know, there's a woman who comes every Saturday and Sunday to offer her services as a laundrywoman, but it's kinda hard to have her because the tennants in Apartment 15 have three kids, so she basically's fully booked washing all their dirty clothes.)
I picked up the object he found and inspected it closer. "Upstairs? You found this upstairs?"
"Yeah," he said, starting to fold the shirts he had had hanging upstairs to dry. "The bitches were devouring him."
Anyway, the rooftop is where Drake keeps his bitches.
As I've told you before, Drake gets his financial resources mostly from his parents' remittances, but he has also invested a portion of this to a business venture involving breeding dogs and selling them on Sulit.ph. He has an arrangement with our landlord that he pays an additional rent for the space taken by his cages upstairs. Once in a while, when the dogs get restless, he'd take them out for walks. When there's a storm outside, he'd wheel the cages into the laundry room. I brought him a fortune plant a couple of years ago so he would have some place to throw the dog turds. That inspired him to keep buying several ornamental plants on rubber pots, so the rooftop's now populated with fortune plants, a row of santans, some flowering shrub I don't know what to call, and a bouganvilla (he's trying to make it crawl all over the laundry room, like ivy vines).
"I'm thinking, it's one of those kids from 15," he continued. "Those brats must have fed that to the dogs on a dare or something."
"Yeah," I agreed hesitantly.
What he found: a plastic Ken doll, stripped naked. The dogs must have been playing with the doll for quite some time, it was mangled with the dogs fangs. Ugly scars where the dogs bit it punctured the doll's face, body. They must have thought it was a chew toy.
"Hey," Drake called out. "Hey!"
"What?"
He flicked his chin upwards in a nod, so I turned around and remembered I was cooking something. The boiling water and the noodles had started to run down the sides of the pot. I lowered the heat a little, stirred the noodles.
II.
I believe that paranoia is gestaltic. Our brain functions in such a way that we form shapes, we see forms, we organize order from chaos. We see bunnies in cloud formations, we see images of the Virgin Mary on bread toasts, Jesus on agricultural crops. We see faces in cigarette smoke, we see patterns where there is none.
For example: a series of objects may be totally unconnected to each other, but, when taken together, forms a relationship of sorts. How does one connect a mangled, horribly mutilated doll to one's life? How does one take a note slipped under the door anonymously? How do these things add up?
Paranoid traits are symptomatic of the malignant narcissism I have diagnosed myself to have.
Maybe...
Maybe I'm just paranoid. Maybe these things are unconnected, random objects, and the only reason why it's logical to think of them as related is because of my fear of being persecuted.
If so, then why is there a mark on the devoured doll--a mark on its left shoulder, an etched design, somewhat circular, penned in with permanent marker?
A mark located exactly where my tattoo is.
Why People Should Pay Good Money to Talk To A Shrink
I.
There's a reality I had to come to terms with as soon as I earned my degree in Psychology from The University: shrinks are not in demand in the Philippines.
Don't get me wrong. There are a lot of opportunities for psych majors, not counting the outsourcing industry. One can join the academe and teach, or concentrate on general education, or specialize in SpEd. One can also be a guidance counselor or go corporate and be an HR drone.
There has been some discussion in school about it. Of course, we were naturally concerned about the low demands for psychiatrists/shrinks. First, it's rooted in the Sikolohiyang Pilipino. We are generally a very public society. Our troubles, our worries, our fears, we share to members of our community. (The problem here, as you can guess, is that members of the community do not feel the need to exercise discretion in sharing information disclosed to them for specific/special reasons). Why pay money just to talk with a "professional" when you can unload your emotional baggage to your neighbor, your cousin, your friend, your freaking blog?
This is a sharp contrast to Western societies, where emotions, and opinions are mostly self-edited in order to avoid offending other members of the community or to avoid public judgment of personal persuasions.
Thus, in the Philippines, advice is freely given... even in the most inappropriate of situation.
II.
As a psych grad, I don't usually offer my advice and psychoanalysis for free. I know the dangers. When people try to engage me, though, I only give them access to a level of my expertise I'd like to think of as the "Para sa Masa" level. This blog, if you notice, is way above that level. I'm actually sharing more than I should, so you fags should be happy.
Anyway, one of the dangers in asking for professional advice without paying the appropriate fees is the patient's openness to your input. When they're not willing to pay your professional fee (read: exchange something of value for a service), then they're not THAT willing to take your analysis seriously.
III.
Take my friend Drake who I share this apartment with.
"Why are women so materialistic?" he asked.
This wouldn't have been weird had we been in the middle of a conversation. But we weren't. It was high noon, and I was in the middle of a peaceful slumber (please bear with the nocturnal habits of an outsourced agent).
In my defense, my mental defenses weren't up yet. I was dimly aware of his spatial position in the room. I still had my eyes closed, and I could only tell he was somewhere in the kitchen/dining room area by the sound of his voice. I reached for a pillow to cover my head and deny his existence.
"Why are women so materialistic?" he continued.
"Not all," I mumbled through the cotton pillow I was trying to suffocate myself unconscious with.
"Yes, they are! Most women I know are materialistic!" he said adamantlly.
Now, I've lived with Drake (not his real name, sorry) for quite some time now that I have a "Drake" file folder in my head, parsing out his traits, characteristics, neurosis, etc. Actually, I may have an entire drawer dedicated to Drake as a patient/subject. I do this to everyone I know, actually, so don't get the wrong impression that Drake is an interesting character. He's dull, annoying, and I'd gladly trade him for movie tickets. I don't particularly hate him, I just don't feel a connection worth treasuring.
Anyway, I knew at that moment, even in my half-awake state, what he was going through. Drake has insecurities about his image, and he compensates by showing off his material assets. In the past 3 years, he has gone through 2 cars, dozens of cellphones, and perhaps hundreds of thousands in pesos for "dating expenses" he informed me off. He gets a monthly allowance from parents (who are both working abroad: one in Italy, the other in the USA), and he breeds dogs and sells them on Sulit.ph.
Drake likes fairskinned girls. The sluttier they are, the better. As I've said, he has insecurities. He doesn't deal with rejection well. In fact, he avoids any chances of rejection. He's a serial dater, actually. He spends most of his time online, trolling social networking sites (MySpace? Friendster? Facebook? Multiply? Yes. He's in all of them.), and his Yahoo Messenger's filled with chicks to the full. LITERALLY. Every day, he had to delete someone just make space for a new one. He justifies this behavior by monitoring his Sulit.ph ads every minute, believing that he's not actually wasting his time when he's multitasking.
"Maybe they're not materialistic. Maybe you are," I mumbled, half-consciously.
He was silent.
I should have stopped there, but since I wasn't aware yet, and I wanted to go back to sleep, I continued.
"The problem with you is that you keep getting attracted to materialistic women because your self-image is built on the foundation of material affluence. Once you destroy that image, you have to come to terms with your identity, and you're not happy with what remains, what survives, so you seek a significant other who would help you sustain the self-image you are happy with."
By the way he slammed the door on his way out told me he wasn't particularly happy with my reading.
What a fucking baby.
-----------
Up next: "Manwhore 101: How to Manipulate Your Woman"
There's a reality I had to come to terms with as soon as I earned my degree in Psychology from The University: shrinks are not in demand in the Philippines.
Don't get me wrong. There are a lot of opportunities for psych majors, not counting the outsourcing industry. One can join the academe and teach, or concentrate on general education, or specialize in SpEd. One can also be a guidance counselor or go corporate and be an HR drone.
There has been some discussion in school about it. Of course, we were naturally concerned about the low demands for psychiatrists/shrinks. First, it's rooted in the Sikolohiyang Pilipino. We are generally a very public society. Our troubles, our worries, our fears, we share to members of our community. (The problem here, as you can guess, is that members of the community do not feel the need to exercise discretion in sharing information disclosed to them for specific/special reasons). Why pay money just to talk with a "professional" when you can unload your emotional baggage to your neighbor, your cousin, your friend, your freaking blog?
This is a sharp contrast to Western societies, where emotions, and opinions are mostly self-edited in order to avoid offending other members of the community or to avoid public judgment of personal persuasions.
Thus, in the Philippines, advice is freely given... even in the most inappropriate of situation.
II.
As a psych grad, I don't usually offer my advice and psychoanalysis for free. I know the dangers. When people try to engage me, though, I only give them access to a level of my expertise I'd like to think of as the "Para sa Masa" level. This blog, if you notice, is way above that level. I'm actually sharing more than I should, so you fags should be happy.
Anyway, one of the dangers in asking for professional advice without paying the appropriate fees is the patient's openness to your input. When they're not willing to pay your professional fee (read: exchange something of value for a service), then they're not THAT willing to take your analysis seriously.
III.
Take my friend Drake who I share this apartment with.
"Why are women so materialistic?" he asked.
This wouldn't have been weird had we been in the middle of a conversation. But we weren't. It was high noon, and I was in the middle of a peaceful slumber (please bear with the nocturnal habits of an outsourced agent).
In my defense, my mental defenses weren't up yet. I was dimly aware of his spatial position in the room. I still had my eyes closed, and I could only tell he was somewhere in the kitchen/dining room area by the sound of his voice. I reached for a pillow to cover my head and deny his existence.
"Why are women so materialistic?" he continued.
"Not all," I mumbled through the cotton pillow I was trying to suffocate myself unconscious with.
"Yes, they are! Most women I know are materialistic!" he said adamantlly.
Now, I've lived with Drake (not his real name, sorry) for quite some time now that I have a "Drake" file folder in my head, parsing out his traits, characteristics, neurosis, etc. Actually, I may have an entire drawer dedicated to Drake as a patient/subject. I do this to everyone I know, actually, so don't get the wrong impression that Drake is an interesting character. He's dull, annoying, and I'd gladly trade him for movie tickets. I don't particularly hate him, I just don't feel a connection worth treasuring.
Anyway, I knew at that moment, even in my half-awake state, what he was going through. Drake has insecurities about his image, and he compensates by showing off his material assets. In the past 3 years, he has gone through 2 cars, dozens of cellphones, and perhaps hundreds of thousands in pesos for "dating expenses" he informed me off. He gets a monthly allowance from parents (who are both working abroad: one in Italy, the other in the USA), and he breeds dogs and sells them on Sulit.ph.
Drake likes fairskinned girls. The sluttier they are, the better. As I've said, he has insecurities. He doesn't deal with rejection well. In fact, he avoids any chances of rejection. He's a serial dater, actually. He spends most of his time online, trolling social networking sites (MySpace? Friendster? Facebook? Multiply? Yes. He's in all of them.), and his Yahoo Messenger's filled with chicks to the full. LITERALLY. Every day, he had to delete someone just make space for a new one. He justifies this behavior by monitoring his Sulit.ph ads every minute, believing that he's not actually wasting his time when he's multitasking.
"Maybe they're not materialistic. Maybe you are," I mumbled, half-consciously.
He was silent.
I should have stopped there, but since I wasn't aware yet, and I wanted to go back to sleep, I continued.
"The problem with you is that you keep getting attracted to materialistic women because your self-image is built on the foundation of material affluence. Once you destroy that image, you have to come to terms with your identity, and you're not happy with what remains, what survives, so you seek a significant other who would help you sustain the self-image you are happy with."
By the way he slammed the door on his way out told me he wasn't particularly happy with my reading.
What a fucking baby.
-----------
Up next: "Manwhore 101: How to Manipulate Your Woman"
Saturday, January 24, 2009
How to Manipulate Your Gay
Everybody has a gay. Be it a lover, a friend, a professor, or a new acquaintance. A gay can be very beneficial to a boy, a young man, or someone who looks like either a boy or a young man.
With my expertise as a master mindgamer, manipulator, and damn fucking hot sex machine, I am now arguably the definitive go-to guy when it comes to training hustler wannabes into the art of manipulating a gay for benefits. I am now sharing them with you through the goodness of my heart. Listen well, my young padawans, and listen good.
The key to successfully manipulating a gay for benefits is confidence. You must gain your mark's confidence through careful suggestions, hints, and behavior. It's not how good you look, how well built you are, or how big your dick is. It's all about how well you play the con game. I have long diagnosed myself to have malignant narcissism, and unless you can admit to having one as well, then you can not pull a successful con.
If you have worked in a call center long enough, or if you have experience working for Famly First, then you'll find this relatively easy.
First, some clarifications: at the heart of any confidence trick is the victim's (or "the mark", sometimes "the target") own greed. A good conman doesn't play with people's TRUST, he plays with their CONFIDENCE. There's a difference. People get tricked into scams not because they're trusting, but because they are confident that they will gain something great by engaging with the con artist.
Thus, one should not feel sorry to con a gay. You can NEVER trick an honest gay, only the greedy ones, the ones with hidden motives, the ones with the secret desires, can be truly corrupted.
Moving on... here are some pointers on how to successfully manipulate your gay for benefits.
I. Treat him like a man.
Gays enjoy the cursory illusion of being treated like "one of the boys". Call them "pare" as much as you can, they'd like that. EVEN IF they admit they're gay, you have to keep on ignoring that and pretend that you "don't believe" he is gay.
Say things like: "Pare, sumama ka lang lagi sa kin, gagawin kitang tunay na lalake." And "Pare, sayang ka, eh. Siguro, kung susubok ka lang ng chicks, makakabuo ka kaagad."
Invite them to play basketball. Don't worry. They will never play basketball. Gays don't play basketball, they play volleyball. If your mark's a tall gay, then you can say things like "Pare, sayag, dapat nagbabasketball ka, dami mo siguro chicks." They will love that.
Pretend IGNORANCE. Even if your gay is starting to hint interest in you, IGNORE HIS ADVANCES in order to challenge him more. Gays are biologically male, and as such, are tied to the psychology of being excited when facing challenges.
BEWARE BEWARE BEWARE: Never ever treat your gay like a woman. Treating a gay like a woman will make him believe you are interested in something romantic. He will start behaving like a girl, and like a true female, will start MAKING DEMANDS. You DON'T want that. You don't want your gay to send you messages like "Bakit di ka nagtetext?" or "Hmph." or asking you questions about the friends you're keeping.
II. Invest in Your Gay
Every peso you invest in your gay will have a profit margin of 10x ROI. Part of gaining a gay's confidence is making him believe that you are financially independent (You ARE financially independent; you just enjoy spending his money instead of yours) and are not interested in his money. This will also CHALLENGE him into OUT DOING the amount you have spent on him.
Treat a gay into a frappucino in the ballpark of 100-php and you can expect to be treated to a movie and dinner amounting to 1000-php. Wear a 500-php shirt, and he might give you a pair of 5,000-php shoes. This is mathematics.
III. Always Smell Strong
It doesn't matter if you smell good or you smell bad as long as your body scent is STRONG AND OVERWHELMING. Bathe in cheap Afficionado perfume (that is, if you can't afford original, expensive perfumes like I can) or don't shower for 3 days. This is an either-or tip.
Gays are big on smells. They want to smell you a lot. A person's scent is a subconscious reminder to his significant others of his presence when out of the line of vision. You must establish your presence with your scent.
When playing rough with your "pare", make sure he gets a health dose of your armpits. Pretend you're not conscious of how you smell.
IV. Show Some Skin
Show some skin--BUT NOT A LOT, AND NOT OFTEN.
The technique is to give them a bit to stir their phantom wombs, but not enough to satisfy them, and not often enough that they get accustomed to your body. Never let a gay get familiarized with your physique, or you will lose the whole con altogether.
V: Profit
Finally, when it comes to reaping the rewards of your hard work, do so subtly.
Make your mark think IT'S HIS IDEA to "help" you out. Never suggest a solution, but present "your problem" in such a way that the solution is clear, and he would make the leaps of logic easily without your help.
Sample dialogue: "So, yun. Di ko nga alam kung saan ako kukuha ng pang-tuition eh. Kung may mahihiraman lang ako, makakapag-bayad naman ako sa susunod na padala ni mama."
Always put up a token resistance. "Ano ba, nakakahiya naman. Baka sabihin nila, ano." is a classic reply to ANY AND ALL OFFER OF ASSISTANCE.
Do not ask for anything; always pretend you're just "borrowing".
When going around the mall with your gay, it would be helpful if you make your tastes clear in order to help him pick out a birthday/graduation/special occassion gift for you next time that he's alone. "Fuck, sayang, mahal pala tong bagong Nike Zoom Le Bron VI! Gustong gusto ko pa naman."
Not all benefits are financial. You can ask your gay for help on matters concerning your studies, or for other opportunities:
"Shit, ambobo ko talaga. Babagsak na naman ako sa class kasi di ko magawa ng tama tong project ko."
"Kung makakahanap lang ako trabaho, di makakatulong na ako kina mama."
"Buti ka nga may auto, eh. Ako, pa-commute-commute lang. Kailangan ko pa naman pumunta ng Subic para pick-upin yung padala ni Mama sa tita ko dun."
Bonus Tip: One of the best scam to pull on a gay once you've gained his confidence is the Multilevel Marketing Scam Gay Version: "Pare, ayos yung in-ooffer sa akin nung kaibigan ko. 14,500 lang ang fee, tapos kada-2 downline, may 500 ako, plus automatic, 10,000 pesos na GC's sa Jennelyn Shoes at Play and Display. Sulit di ba? Yun nga lang, san naman ako kukuha ng 14,500. Sayang. Kayang-kaya ko mag-sali ng mga tao sa downline ko eh."
This is an easy con to pull because your gay will be interested in the profit as well. He will see this as a joint venture.
But of course, you're not really putting that money into any multilevel marketing scheme, are you? Not when you can afford a new cellphone with that money.
So, after a few weeks, you need to put on another act: "Putang... Ulol talaga yung Jhong na yun! Tinakbo pera ko! Uupakan ko yun pagnakita ko eh!"
There. I hope that helps. If you have any questions or clarifications, feel free to leave them in the comments section.
Yours,
Boy De Jour
With my expertise as a master mindgamer, manipulator, and damn fucking hot sex machine, I am now arguably the definitive go-to guy when it comes to training hustler wannabes into the art of manipulating a gay for benefits. I am now sharing them with you through the goodness of my heart. Listen well, my young padawans, and listen good.
The key to successfully manipulating a gay for benefits is confidence. You must gain your mark's confidence through careful suggestions, hints, and behavior. It's not how good you look, how well built you are, or how big your dick is. It's all about how well you play the con game. I have long diagnosed myself to have malignant narcissism, and unless you can admit to having one as well, then you can not pull a successful con.
If you have worked in a call center long enough, or if you have experience working for Famly First, then you'll find this relatively easy.
First, some clarifications: at the heart of any confidence trick is the victim's (or "the mark", sometimes "the target") own greed. A good conman doesn't play with people's TRUST, he plays with their CONFIDENCE. There's a difference. People get tricked into scams not because they're trusting, but because they are confident that they will gain something great by engaging with the con artist.
Thus, one should not feel sorry to con a gay. You can NEVER trick an honest gay, only the greedy ones, the ones with hidden motives, the ones with the secret desires, can be truly corrupted.
Moving on... here are some pointers on how to successfully manipulate your gay for benefits.
I. Treat him like a man.
Gays enjoy the cursory illusion of being treated like "one of the boys". Call them "pare" as much as you can, they'd like that. EVEN IF they admit they're gay, you have to keep on ignoring that and pretend that you "don't believe" he is gay.
Say things like: "Pare, sumama ka lang lagi sa kin, gagawin kitang tunay na lalake." And "Pare, sayang ka, eh. Siguro, kung susubok ka lang ng chicks, makakabuo ka kaagad."
Invite them to play basketball. Don't worry. They will never play basketball. Gays don't play basketball, they play volleyball. If your mark's a tall gay, then you can say things like "Pare, sayag, dapat nagbabasketball ka, dami mo siguro chicks." They will love that.
Pretend IGNORANCE. Even if your gay is starting to hint interest in you, IGNORE HIS ADVANCES in order to challenge him more. Gays are biologically male, and as such, are tied to the psychology of being excited when facing challenges.
BEWARE BEWARE BEWARE: Never ever treat your gay like a woman. Treating a gay like a woman will make him believe you are interested in something romantic. He will start behaving like a girl, and like a true female, will start MAKING DEMANDS. You DON'T want that. You don't want your gay to send you messages like "Bakit di ka nagtetext?" or "Hmph." or asking you questions about the friends you're keeping.
II. Invest in Your Gay
Every peso you invest in your gay will have a profit margin of 10x ROI. Part of gaining a gay's confidence is making him believe that you are financially independent (You ARE financially independent; you just enjoy spending his money instead of yours) and are not interested in his money. This will also CHALLENGE him into OUT DOING the amount you have spent on him.
Treat a gay into a frappucino in the ballpark of 100-php and you can expect to be treated to a movie and dinner amounting to 1000-php. Wear a 500-php shirt, and he might give you a pair of 5,000-php shoes. This is mathematics.
III. Always Smell Strong
It doesn't matter if you smell good or you smell bad as long as your body scent is STRONG AND OVERWHELMING. Bathe in cheap Afficionado perfume (that is, if you can't afford original, expensive perfumes like I can) or don't shower for 3 days. This is an either-or tip.
Gays are big on smells. They want to smell you a lot. A person's scent is a subconscious reminder to his significant others of his presence when out of the line of vision. You must establish your presence with your scent.
When playing rough with your "pare", make sure he gets a health dose of your armpits. Pretend you're not conscious of how you smell.
IV. Show Some Skin
Show some skin--BUT NOT A LOT, AND NOT OFTEN.
The technique is to give them a bit to stir their phantom wombs, but not enough to satisfy them, and not often enough that they get accustomed to your body. Never let a gay get familiarized with your physique, or you will lose the whole con altogether.
V: Profit
Finally, when it comes to reaping the rewards of your hard work, do so subtly.
Make your mark think IT'S HIS IDEA to "help" you out. Never suggest a solution, but present "your problem" in such a way that the solution is clear, and he would make the leaps of logic easily without your help.
Sample dialogue: "So, yun. Di ko nga alam kung saan ako kukuha ng pang-tuition eh. Kung may mahihiraman lang ako, makakapag-bayad naman ako sa susunod na padala ni mama."
Always put up a token resistance. "Ano ba, nakakahiya naman. Baka sabihin nila, ano." is a classic reply to ANY AND ALL OFFER OF ASSISTANCE.
Do not ask for anything; always pretend you're just "borrowing".
When going around the mall with your gay, it would be helpful if you make your tastes clear in order to help him pick out a birthday/graduation/special occassion gift for you next time that he's alone. "Fuck, sayang, mahal pala tong bagong Nike Zoom Le Bron VI! Gustong gusto ko pa naman."
Not all benefits are financial. You can ask your gay for help on matters concerning your studies, or for other opportunities:
"Shit, ambobo ko talaga. Babagsak na naman ako sa class kasi di ko magawa ng tama tong project ko."
"Kung makakahanap lang ako trabaho, di makakatulong na ako kina mama."
"Buti ka nga may auto, eh. Ako, pa-commute-commute lang. Kailangan ko pa naman pumunta ng Subic para pick-upin yung padala ni Mama sa tita ko dun."
Bonus Tip: One of the best scam to pull on a gay once you've gained his confidence is the Multilevel Marketing Scam Gay Version: "Pare, ayos yung in-ooffer sa akin nung kaibigan ko. 14,500 lang ang fee, tapos kada-2 downline, may 500 ako, plus automatic, 10,000 pesos na GC's sa Jennelyn Shoes at Play and Display. Sulit di ba? Yun nga lang, san naman ako kukuha ng 14,500. Sayang. Kayang-kaya ko mag-sali ng mga tao sa downline ko eh."
This is an easy con to pull because your gay will be interested in the profit as well. He will see this as a joint venture.
But of course, you're not really putting that money into any multilevel marketing scheme, are you? Not when you can afford a new cellphone with that money.
So, after a few weeks, you need to put on another act: "Putang... Ulol talaga yung Jhong na yun! Tinakbo pera ko! Uupakan ko yun pagnakita ko eh!"
There. I hope that helps. If you have any questions or clarifications, feel free to leave them in the comments section.
Yours,
Boy De Jour
Do I Got A Story To Tell
I'm quitting my day job.
Well, technically, I'll walk away one day, and never show up for work again.
That is, if I play my cards right and The Editor gives me a callback.
Well, technically, I'll walk away one day, and never show up for work again.
That is, if I play my cards right and The Editor gives me a callback.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Barackistas United
I.
I woke up in the middle of the night to find my flatmate watching Obama's inauguration. He wasn't particularly noisy, our TV set was barely audible. Maybe it was the energy from that crowd that I felt and eventually disrupted my slumber.
In anyway, I only half-opened my eyes, and went back to sleep.
There are talks in the office about the Democrats' policies on outsourcing, and people are worried.
I couldn't care any less.
I know I'll pick up the pieces. Maybe find a decent HR job. Or a gig as a guidance councilor in some high school. That'll be a blast. Me, in that kind of environment. Imagine the scandal if they found out one of the parents are getting my "services" for some after school private lessons.
II.
Just to give you a sense space: Our apartment is basically a square box. There's a loft on the side of the door/corridor, and to get there, we had to climb on the metal ladder mounted on the wall. It's big enough to be considered a sleeping area, but it's too far high up to actually be one. Especially since my flatmate and I are both boys, we'd be running the risk of rolling over the edge and killing ourselves. Imagine that: falling to your death from the loft of your own flat.
There's a sink, a bit of tiled space, and some cupboards beneath it. We call this our kitchen. We have a single burner that runs on electricity. Near that is our square table that can be folded for extra space. It's a dining-cum-study-cum-drafting table. We have our closets standing side-by-side to visually divide that area from the living-cum-sleeping area.
By living-cum-sleeping, I literally mean living+sleeping and cumming. Most of our shit, we've stashed in the loft above (like my abs rolling machine, my books, his fucking bicycle). On the space that greets you as soon as you enter the door, we've laid down a couple of thin, spongey mattresses. This is where we hang out, laze around, sleep. You must think it's homoerotic to have two boys sharing what constitutes as one bed, but it's not. We are stinky, smelly boys, and we don't fall into graceful, sexy poses as we sleep. We wake up in awkward angles, smelling of sweat and spoilt saliva. We sometimes get too lazy to take a shower. This isn't your Abercrombie and Fitch catalogue, not a series from Showtime. This is real life, and real life isn't as sexy as the boys you see on TV.
Just in case you're wondering: NO, I don't DO my flatmate. I've never DONE him, and NEVER WILL DO him.
And he has no idea of the double life I live.
I woke up in the middle of the night to find my flatmate watching Obama's inauguration. He wasn't particularly noisy, our TV set was barely audible. Maybe it was the energy from that crowd that I felt and eventually disrupted my slumber.
In anyway, I only half-opened my eyes, and went back to sleep.
There are talks in the office about the Democrats' policies on outsourcing, and people are worried.
I couldn't care any less.
I know I'll pick up the pieces. Maybe find a decent HR job. Or a gig as a guidance councilor in some high school. That'll be a blast. Me, in that kind of environment. Imagine the scandal if they found out one of the parents are getting my "services" for some after school private lessons.
II.
Just to give you a sense space: Our apartment is basically a square box. There's a loft on the side of the door/corridor, and to get there, we had to climb on the metal ladder mounted on the wall. It's big enough to be considered a sleeping area, but it's too far high up to actually be one. Especially since my flatmate and I are both boys, we'd be running the risk of rolling over the edge and killing ourselves. Imagine that: falling to your death from the loft of your own flat.
There's a sink, a bit of tiled space, and some cupboards beneath it. We call this our kitchen. We have a single burner that runs on electricity. Near that is our square table that can be folded for extra space. It's a dining-cum-study-cum-drafting table. We have our closets standing side-by-side to visually divide that area from the living-cum-sleeping area.
By living-cum-sleeping, I literally mean living+sleeping and cumming. Most of our shit, we've stashed in the loft above (like my abs rolling machine, my books, his fucking bicycle). On the space that greets you as soon as you enter the door, we've laid down a couple of thin, spongey mattresses. This is where we hang out, laze around, sleep. You must think it's homoerotic to have two boys sharing what constitutes as one bed, but it's not. We are stinky, smelly boys, and we don't fall into graceful, sexy poses as we sleep. We wake up in awkward angles, smelling of sweat and spoilt saliva. We sometimes get too lazy to take a shower. This isn't your Abercrombie and Fitch catalogue, not a series from Showtime. This is real life, and real life isn't as sexy as the boys you see on TV.
Just in case you're wondering: NO, I don't DO my flatmate. I've never DONE him, and NEVER WILL DO him.
And he has no idea of the double life I live.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Menage a Trish
I.
I woke up yesterday afternoon planning on a productive weekend where I get to do several chores including my laundry, doing significant work on my first novel, an application for this gig abroad, and, perhaps, pick up a trick at the mall. Post-Church trafficking in malls is good; for some reason, all that holiness gets desperate people horny.
Instead, I rolled over and jacked off.
And it's all Trish's fault.
II.
Question: Is it "fantasizing" if you jack off to a girl thinking about the previous sexual encounter you had with her, or is that just, like, enjoying a replay of a particularly intense basketball game?
III.
Trish's message on my phone: "Hi! 0917xxx2482 is my new number. I won't be using *this* number anymore after today. - Trish"
Trish's message in my head: "Hi! Fuck me, you dirty boy."
IV.
This is how I met Trish: My classmate in this elective class (Philosophy 198: Business Ethics; there were some Business Administration majors, Philo majors, and as a Psych major, I thought it would be helpful in my (former) future career in the field of H.R.) I was taking in college fancies himself a performance poet. He invited everyone in class to a poetry event (boring), and I thought he was particularly extending the invitation my way as a way of subtly flirting, but I was mistaken when I did show up and he introduced me to his gf--Trish Deluxe.
Ok. Maybe Deluxe's not her real family name. It's just that I don't want her googling her name and turning up in my blog.
Trish Deluxe is hot. She's 5'6" (says her driver license), fair skinned (my weakness), smooth all over (fuck, Im getting hard). Her tits are small, though. She's tisay, and could have joined and won any reality-based artista search, except there's one problem: she's v. intelligent.
Too smart for her then-boyfriend, my classmate.
I know I've met my equal in Trish. I have this silly little boy's crush on her the moment I saw her. She's the Catherine Zeta-Jones to my Pierce Brosnan, the Angelina to my Brad. We could have been a powerful couple, and ruled the world together. Except she's the youngest in a brood of artists, and I'm a boy-for-hire.
V.
Her boy (my classmate) was performing on stage.
"Are you really enjoying my boyfriend's performance or are you just being polite?" whispered a sultry voice behind me.
I didn't have to turn around to know it was her. "Matter of fact, ma'am, I'm finding your paramour quite the character. I like his humor: dark, relevant, but not too heavily so."
"He's espousing the elimination of established authority figures. Are you an anarchist as well?" she challenged.
I kept my gaze focused on her boyfriend on stage. "It is easy to mistake anarchy for chaos, when in fact, there is some sense, a sort of, perhaps rudimentary in form, of a unique sense of order in an environment devoid of predetermined authority figures."
She leaned closer. I could smell her perfume:D&G Light Blue for women. I know because it was the same scent my Comm II professor wore when I sucked her pussy in her room at the Faculty Center; bitch gave me 2.25 for all the hard work I did on her.
"That's bullshit," she whispered, drawling her words so that the soft fricatives of her statement would caress my ears in their warmth. "That's bullshit, senyor, and you know it."
I chuckled. I wanted to take her roughly at that moment. I wanted to grab her hair, throw her on the table, and stab my cock inside her pussy.
The crowd broke into applause. Her boyfriend's set has ended. He came down from the stage grinning at her. He gave her a wet, long kiss as soon as he reached their table. I congratulated him, and praised his performance.
Trish and I didn't talk to each other for the rest of the night.
VI.
Found her on Friendster. She's quite the well read bitch. I didn't recognize half the books she wrote on her profile as her favorites. Most of them by French writers, and I couldn't stand French writers. She speaks a bit of French, a bit of Spanish, and the boys who know her, who knows of her, are smitten with her.
She has a brother who looks as hot as she is and for a moment I was confused with my motives. Hehehe... Her brother's older by a couple of years, and they hang out with the same rich, affluent, artistic brats that could have only been spawned from the South-side of Metro Manila: Las Pinas, Alabang, &al.
My message to her: "Hey. Do you think your boy will find out if I ask for your number?"
Her reply: "Perhaps. Shouldn't you be more concerned with how he will take it?"
My reply: "Not really. I'm worried about beating his face in."
She gave me her number.
VII.
Her boyfriend dumped her a couple of weeks after we met. Turned out, my classmate and a girl in our class had been screwing each other for quite some time now. The girl actually looked a bit like Trish: same built, same tisay features. Poetry Boy obviously had a type.
Trish sent me a message. She sounded OK with the whole dumping thing, but I've been in the company of desperate, hurt, sad women enough to know the difference. She picked me up in school, she drove a white Lancer. She didn't have to say it, but I was guessing she was hoping her ex would see her.
Trish that day was Final Paper Material. Some of my friends from my Dep. of Psych-based org has this code for severely fucked up people: Final Paper Material. They're the sort of people who you could write a Final Paper on simply by spending an hour analyzing them, breaking them down into their issues and neurosis, compartmentalizing their intentions, motivations.
We made small talk in her car. We both knew where we were going. We talked about the song on the radio, about places we've been to (her: trips abroad; me: Boracay), small shit.
We ended up in Pasig, in a motel I've been to a couple of times already. Apparently, so had she.
VIII.
Trish was born rich, grew up rich, and lives rich.
Class guilt was written all over her. It was why she hooked up with Poetry Boy, and it was why she was fucking with me then. She was so rich, the lifestyles of the poor and downthrodden excite her.
She wouldn't touch the great unwashed, though. She was guilty of her class, yes, but she wasn't cheap. I was perfectly pitched to satisfy her in this aspect.
Behind closed doors, as soon as the garage doors were rolled down, I threw her against the wall.
"Wait! Turn on the TV," she asked.
I burrowed my face in her hair. "Later, you whore."
I talked dirty to her in Tagalog. There's nothing more excitingly carnal to a conio chick than dirty talk in Tagalog, and to Trish, it worked amazingly.
"Ang inet ng puke mo," I whispered to her, rubbing my hard cock between her buttcheeks, and I had one of my hands shoved inside her jeans, flicking her soft, warm, meat. "Tangina kang, puta ka." I banged my head against hers gently, rhythmically pounding half of her face to the wall. "Eto gusto mo, eto, eto, eto..."
I dragged her to the bed, still maintaining my hold from behind. She pulled her blouse over her head, and I momentarily had to let her go. She was fumbling with the buttons of her jeans, so I helped her by pushing her down to the bed, turning her on her back, and pulling her pants off of her legs and threw it over my shoulder. She had matching black undies, and she looked fragile, helpless.
I spat on her face.
"Puta kang puta ka," I told her. I pulled my shirt off over my head.
I gave her the dirtiest fuck she could have ever wanted, made her feel cheap, used, violated.
She thanked me afterwards, and she allowed me to take a video of my middle finger going in and out of her cunt.
IX.
I can bore you with the details: how I roughed her up, kissing her eyes as she cried (in joy? in pain? in shame?), spitting in her mouth, slapping her face with my cock. How I bit her arm, near the ball of her left shoulder, gently at first, deeper then, harder, until she moaned me to stop. How I lifted her legs, lifted her back, how I threw her into the doggy pose, how I pressed a pillow against her face until she coughed, half-suffocated, as I pumped in and out of her. How I was grabbing her hair as I rode her. How I covered her mouth with my palm when she was starting to beg me to stop, and that she was starting to get sore.
I was thinking of these things as I jerk my throbbing cock yesterday afternoon. It was hot, I was sweating, my flatmate was out to hear mass (or pick up his laundry, fuck if I care), and I was recounting how I made Trish Deluxe felt alive by repeatedly killing her personas.
One by one, they all fell, Trish's personas. The Strong Woman, the Rich Girl, the Nice Girlfriend, the Lover Scorned. I stabbed them all with the coldness of my manhood, the rough edge of my dark side.
Until she alone remained.
Trish. My pretty one. My lovely, intelligent francophile belle de jour. She fell asleep with her head cradled on the nook of my left armpit. I could smell my semen on her hair mixed with her sweat, and what remained of her D&G Light Blue.
I kissed her tenderly on her forehead, almost lovingly.
She never found that one out.
X.
I thanked her for updating me on her new number. Small talked. She was bored with her current job, and was lately been enjoying ice cold milk while she smoked. I told her some stupid details about doing my laundry, and we both kind of started to reply to each other's messages less and less urgently, until it was dark outside, and I didn't notice we had stopped the conversation ages ago.
Maybe I should give her a call.
I woke up yesterday afternoon planning on a productive weekend where I get to do several chores including my laundry, doing significant work on my first novel, an application for this gig abroad, and, perhaps, pick up a trick at the mall. Post-Church trafficking in malls is good; for some reason, all that holiness gets desperate people horny.
Instead, I rolled over and jacked off.
And it's all Trish's fault.
II.
Question: Is it "fantasizing" if you jack off to a girl thinking about the previous sexual encounter you had with her, or is that just, like, enjoying a replay of a particularly intense basketball game?
III.
Trish's message on my phone: "Hi! 0917xxx2482 is my new number. I won't be using *this* number anymore after today. - Trish"
Trish's message in my head: "Hi! Fuck me, you dirty boy."
IV.
This is how I met Trish: My classmate in this elective class (Philosophy 198: Business Ethics; there were some Business Administration majors, Philo majors, and as a Psych major, I thought it would be helpful in my (former) future career in the field of H.R.) I was taking in college fancies himself a performance poet. He invited everyone in class to a poetry event (boring), and I thought he was particularly extending the invitation my way as a way of subtly flirting, but I was mistaken when I did show up and he introduced me to his gf--Trish Deluxe.
Ok. Maybe Deluxe's not her real family name. It's just that I don't want her googling her name and turning up in my blog.
Trish Deluxe is hot. She's 5'6" (says her driver license), fair skinned (my weakness), smooth all over (fuck, Im getting hard). Her tits are small, though. She's tisay, and could have joined and won any reality-based artista search, except there's one problem: she's v. intelligent.
Too smart for her then-boyfriend, my classmate.
I know I've met my equal in Trish. I have this silly little boy's crush on her the moment I saw her. She's the Catherine Zeta-Jones to my Pierce Brosnan, the Angelina to my Brad. We could have been a powerful couple, and ruled the world together. Except she's the youngest in a brood of artists, and I'm a boy-for-hire.
V.
Her boy (my classmate) was performing on stage.
"Are you really enjoying my boyfriend's performance or are you just being polite?" whispered a sultry voice behind me.
I didn't have to turn around to know it was her. "Matter of fact, ma'am, I'm finding your paramour quite the character. I like his humor: dark, relevant, but not too heavily so."
"He's espousing the elimination of established authority figures. Are you an anarchist as well?" she challenged.
I kept my gaze focused on her boyfriend on stage. "It is easy to mistake anarchy for chaos, when in fact, there is some sense, a sort of, perhaps rudimentary in form, of a unique sense of order in an environment devoid of predetermined authority figures."
She leaned closer. I could smell her perfume:D&G Light Blue for women. I know because it was the same scent my Comm II professor wore when I sucked her pussy in her room at the Faculty Center; bitch gave me 2.25 for all the hard work I did on her.
"That's bullshit," she whispered, drawling her words so that the soft fricatives of her statement would caress my ears in their warmth. "That's bullshit, senyor, and you know it."
I chuckled. I wanted to take her roughly at that moment. I wanted to grab her hair, throw her on the table, and stab my cock inside her pussy.
The crowd broke into applause. Her boyfriend's set has ended. He came down from the stage grinning at her. He gave her a wet, long kiss as soon as he reached their table. I congratulated him, and praised his performance.
Trish and I didn't talk to each other for the rest of the night.
VI.
Found her on Friendster. She's quite the well read bitch. I didn't recognize half the books she wrote on her profile as her favorites. Most of them by French writers, and I couldn't stand French writers. She speaks a bit of French, a bit of Spanish, and the boys who know her, who knows of her, are smitten with her.
She has a brother who looks as hot as she is and for a moment I was confused with my motives. Hehehe... Her brother's older by a couple of years, and they hang out with the same rich, affluent, artistic brats that could have only been spawned from the South-side of Metro Manila: Las Pinas, Alabang, &al.
My message to her: "Hey. Do you think your boy will find out if I ask for your number?"
Her reply: "Perhaps. Shouldn't you be more concerned with how he will take it?"
My reply: "Not really. I'm worried about beating his face in."
She gave me her number.
VII.
Her boyfriend dumped her a couple of weeks after we met. Turned out, my classmate and a girl in our class had been screwing each other for quite some time now. The girl actually looked a bit like Trish: same built, same tisay features. Poetry Boy obviously had a type.
Trish sent me a message. She sounded OK with the whole dumping thing, but I've been in the company of desperate, hurt, sad women enough to know the difference. She picked me up in school, she drove a white Lancer. She didn't have to say it, but I was guessing she was hoping her ex would see her.
Trish that day was Final Paper Material. Some of my friends from my Dep. of Psych-based org has this code for severely fucked up people: Final Paper Material. They're the sort of people who you could write a Final Paper on simply by spending an hour analyzing them, breaking them down into their issues and neurosis, compartmentalizing their intentions, motivations.
We made small talk in her car. We both knew where we were going. We talked about the song on the radio, about places we've been to (her: trips abroad; me: Boracay), small shit.
We ended up in Pasig, in a motel I've been to a couple of times already. Apparently, so had she.
VIII.
Trish was born rich, grew up rich, and lives rich.
Class guilt was written all over her. It was why she hooked up with Poetry Boy, and it was why she was fucking with me then. She was so rich, the lifestyles of the poor and downthrodden excite her.
She wouldn't touch the great unwashed, though. She was guilty of her class, yes, but she wasn't cheap. I was perfectly pitched to satisfy her in this aspect.
Behind closed doors, as soon as the garage doors were rolled down, I threw her against the wall.
"Wait! Turn on the TV," she asked.
I burrowed my face in her hair. "Later, you whore."
I talked dirty to her in Tagalog. There's nothing more excitingly carnal to a conio chick than dirty talk in Tagalog, and to Trish, it worked amazingly.
"Ang inet ng puke mo," I whispered to her, rubbing my hard cock between her buttcheeks, and I had one of my hands shoved inside her jeans, flicking her soft, warm, meat. "Tangina kang, puta ka." I banged my head against hers gently, rhythmically pounding half of her face to the wall. "Eto gusto mo, eto, eto, eto..."
I dragged her to the bed, still maintaining my hold from behind. She pulled her blouse over her head, and I momentarily had to let her go. She was fumbling with the buttons of her jeans, so I helped her by pushing her down to the bed, turning her on her back, and pulling her pants off of her legs and threw it over my shoulder. She had matching black undies, and she looked fragile, helpless.
I spat on her face.
"Puta kang puta ka," I told her. I pulled my shirt off over my head.
I gave her the dirtiest fuck she could have ever wanted, made her feel cheap, used, violated.
She thanked me afterwards, and she allowed me to take a video of my middle finger going in and out of her cunt.
IX.
I can bore you with the details: how I roughed her up, kissing her eyes as she cried (in joy? in pain? in shame?), spitting in her mouth, slapping her face with my cock. How I bit her arm, near the ball of her left shoulder, gently at first, deeper then, harder, until she moaned me to stop. How I lifted her legs, lifted her back, how I threw her into the doggy pose, how I pressed a pillow against her face until she coughed, half-suffocated, as I pumped in and out of her. How I was grabbing her hair as I rode her. How I covered her mouth with my palm when she was starting to beg me to stop, and that she was starting to get sore.
I was thinking of these things as I jerk my throbbing cock yesterday afternoon. It was hot, I was sweating, my flatmate was out to hear mass (or pick up his laundry, fuck if I care), and I was recounting how I made Trish Deluxe felt alive by repeatedly killing her personas.
One by one, they all fell, Trish's personas. The Strong Woman, the Rich Girl, the Nice Girlfriend, the Lover Scorned. I stabbed them all with the coldness of my manhood, the rough edge of my dark side.
Until she alone remained.
Trish. My pretty one. My lovely, intelligent francophile belle de jour. She fell asleep with her head cradled on the nook of my left armpit. I could smell my semen on her hair mixed with her sweat, and what remained of her D&G Light Blue.
I kissed her tenderly on her forehead, almost lovingly.
She never found that one out.
X.
I thanked her for updating me on her new number. Small talked. She was bored with her current job, and was lately been enjoying ice cold milk while she smoked. I told her some stupid details about doing my laundry, and we both kind of started to reply to each other's messages less and less urgently, until it was dark outside, and I didn't notice we had stopped the conversation ages ago.
Maybe I should give her a call.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
The Pilot Episode
I.
"You're too smart for this," The Pilot said. Like there's such a thing. "You're too smart to be in this... trade."
What he meant was I was too smart for him.
"What gave me off?" I asked. I usually play dumb for clients. Unless I was specifically booked to entertain with my wits, I assume the persona of "Aldwyn". I like the name "Aldwyn" for one of my personas. Its root is English, but most people think it's a combination of names, possibly, of my "parents". "Aldwyn" as a persona is a boy who grew up in Kalookan, who likes basketball, and is saving up money for a new cellphone. There's always a new cellphone every Aldwyn's saving for.
He was playing with my flaccid manhood with his left hand like it's some phallic meditation beads. This occupied him while he compose his thoughts. "I talked about the flight simulation program we use to train, and you didn't ask me to explain what simulation means," he said.
Technically, he wasn't a full-fledged pilot... yet. He still lacked a couple of flying hours for his licence, but he told me flying burns gas, and diesel for planes is expensive. He's working in a traffic control tower for the domestic airport while he saves money to afford the flying hours he's lacking. I call him The Pilot for the uniform he wears.
I dropped the act. There's a fragile moment when I have to shed off a persona and face a client as who I really am. After getting naked, doing the things they want me to do, having them do the things they want to do to me, this moment, when I have to strip off a persona, this moment is when I feel most vulnerable. As a psychology major, I am burdened with the automatic response to keep on analyzing all actions, all reactions, including my own.
Wearing a persona to "face" a client makes the job easier because on some level, I could fool myself that it wasn't "me"--the I persona, the Self-- that is involved in the transaction. I created "Aldwyn", "Marcus", "Lex", et. al., as masks: artificial egos for public consumption.
"Does it turn you off, then?" I asked The Pilot. "This knowledge that you're paying for the services of an individual who is your intellectual equal, perhaps, even your intellectual superior?" I was on my full psychologist mode. I was talking to him in my shrink voice, the one I use to deal with phone-in customers in my other job.
"What?" The Pilot couldn't keep up.
"Well, seeing that a sexual transaction like this is basically a form of power trip. You assumed the role of the 'paying customer', wherein power, in the form of cash, is transferred from you to me in exchange of services--sex, coitus, buttfuck-- which you have to presume I would not have performed willingly, giving you, then, the illusion that you possess a power to which I would surrender a part of my will, my self, my identity, in order to taste a pittance of.
"And now, realizing that the person, the other party, who you were planning on displaying your possession of this power and how you spend an amount of this power for something trivial as casual sex, is actually... priviledged more than you are... does this insult you in some way or does it turn you on more?"
The Pilot propped himself up, supporting his upper body on one elbow. He looked down at me, his eyes scanned my face. He was seeing me in a new light.
He slapped my mouth lightly, playfully. "Fuck you," he whispered.
And he did.
II.
The Pilot pays good. He has booked me thrice now, including this latest one. That makes him a regular. He's not exactly generous, but he pays good, and he never forgets to give me a little extra from the amount we agreed on.
III.
My fan has struck again.
I call him "my fan" because he pays me an insane amount of attention.
INSANE is the operative word here.
Slipped under the door of my apartment was a note.
"PUTA."
I stood there for an indefinite amount of time staring at the note. It was written on a plain bond paper, cut off to about a square of 3-in per side.
One word: an accusation, a truth.
It could be nothing. Maybe my apartment mate was scribbling something, or maybe he was playing a game, or maybe this could be a totally random note he had kept in a notebook until it fell to the floor and now, there I was, being paranoid over a slip of paper.
Paranoia. The fear of being persecuted. Often associated with guilt.
Fuck. I'm doing it again. Analyzing my own thoughts, treating my own emotions as text for deconstruction.
Maybe that's not bad, I thought.
Which is how I got started into this whole blogging thing.
Perhaps, in order to make sense of all of this, I need to treat my own thoughts, emotions, insights, as a 'case' for analysis. My life as a text for deconstruction. Perhaps I'd discover something I missed in the moment, and look back at these blog entries, and find the answers I've been looking for.
Or maybe find the questions I should be asking.
III.
I decided to keep the note. I went to the closet I assembled which also serves as a sort of divider between the sleeping area and the dining-kitchen-laundry area of the small, cubic apartment I am sharing with a friend. I threw the door of the closet open, kneeled and reached for a shoebox. I took the pair of Nike shoes out (somewhat new, used only a couple of times; and NO, this isn't a gift from a client, thank you), and dropped the note inside. The shoes I parked under the hanged shirts. I shoved the shoebox back to its place.
IV:
I am Boy de Jour. You don't know me.
I could be one of your friends. I could have dated your sister. I could have fucked your mother. I could have satisfied your father the way you used to before you realized it was wrong.
I could be the boy you have a crush on in school, at the office, on the bus, in a coffee shop, in Friendster.com.
I could be sitting right next to you while the professor discusses Jungian analysis and Skinner boxes.
I could be sharing a smoke with you before we both go back to our cubicles to deal with the Western helplessness with basic technology and credit card accounts.
I could be the smiling face in a billboard you passed by on your way to work.
I am the son of the night.
You don't know me.
Or, maybe you do.
"You're too smart for this," The Pilot said. Like there's such a thing. "You're too smart to be in this... trade."
What he meant was I was too smart for him.
"What gave me off?" I asked. I usually play dumb for clients. Unless I was specifically booked to entertain with my wits, I assume the persona of "Aldwyn". I like the name "Aldwyn" for one of my personas. Its root is English, but most people think it's a combination of names, possibly, of my "parents". "Aldwyn" as a persona is a boy who grew up in Kalookan, who likes basketball, and is saving up money for a new cellphone. There's always a new cellphone every Aldwyn's saving for.
He was playing with my flaccid manhood with his left hand like it's some phallic meditation beads. This occupied him while he compose his thoughts. "I talked about the flight simulation program we use to train, and you didn't ask me to explain what simulation means," he said.
Technically, he wasn't a full-fledged pilot... yet. He still lacked a couple of flying hours for his licence, but he told me flying burns gas, and diesel for planes is expensive. He's working in a traffic control tower for the domestic airport while he saves money to afford the flying hours he's lacking. I call him The Pilot for the uniform he wears.
I dropped the act. There's a fragile moment when I have to shed off a persona and face a client as who I really am. After getting naked, doing the things they want me to do, having them do the things they want to do to me, this moment, when I have to strip off a persona, this moment is when I feel most vulnerable. As a psychology major, I am burdened with the automatic response to keep on analyzing all actions, all reactions, including my own.
Wearing a persona to "face" a client makes the job easier because on some level, I could fool myself that it wasn't "me"--the I persona, the Self-- that is involved in the transaction. I created "Aldwyn", "Marcus", "Lex", et. al., as masks: artificial egos for public consumption.
"Does it turn you off, then?" I asked The Pilot. "This knowledge that you're paying for the services of an individual who is your intellectual equal, perhaps, even your intellectual superior?" I was on my full psychologist mode. I was talking to him in my shrink voice, the one I use to deal with phone-in customers in my other job.
"What?" The Pilot couldn't keep up.
"Well, seeing that a sexual transaction like this is basically a form of power trip. You assumed the role of the 'paying customer', wherein power, in the form of cash, is transferred from you to me in exchange of services--sex, coitus, buttfuck-- which you have to presume I would not have performed willingly, giving you, then, the illusion that you possess a power to which I would surrender a part of my will, my self, my identity, in order to taste a pittance of.
"And now, realizing that the person, the other party, who you were planning on displaying your possession of this power and how you spend an amount of this power for something trivial as casual sex, is actually... priviledged more than you are... does this insult you in some way or does it turn you on more?"
The Pilot propped himself up, supporting his upper body on one elbow. He looked down at me, his eyes scanned my face. He was seeing me in a new light.
He slapped my mouth lightly, playfully. "Fuck you," he whispered.
And he did.
II.
The Pilot pays good. He has booked me thrice now, including this latest one. That makes him a regular. He's not exactly generous, but he pays good, and he never forgets to give me a little extra from the amount we agreed on.
III.
My fan has struck again.
I call him "my fan" because he pays me an insane amount of attention.
INSANE is the operative word here.
Slipped under the door of my apartment was a note.
"PUTA."
I stood there for an indefinite amount of time staring at the note. It was written on a plain bond paper, cut off to about a square of 3-in per side.
One word: an accusation, a truth.
It could be nothing. Maybe my apartment mate was scribbling something, or maybe he was playing a game, or maybe this could be a totally random note he had kept in a notebook until it fell to the floor and now, there I was, being paranoid over a slip of paper.
Paranoia. The fear of being persecuted. Often associated with guilt.
Fuck. I'm doing it again. Analyzing my own thoughts, treating my own emotions as text for deconstruction.
Maybe that's not bad, I thought.
Which is how I got started into this whole blogging thing.
Perhaps, in order to make sense of all of this, I need to treat my own thoughts, emotions, insights, as a 'case' for analysis. My life as a text for deconstruction. Perhaps I'd discover something I missed in the moment, and look back at these blog entries, and find the answers I've been looking for.
Or maybe find the questions I should be asking.
III.
I decided to keep the note. I went to the closet I assembled which also serves as a sort of divider between the sleeping area and the dining-kitchen-laundry area of the small, cubic apartment I am sharing with a friend. I threw the door of the closet open, kneeled and reached for a shoebox. I took the pair of Nike shoes out (somewhat new, used only a couple of times; and NO, this isn't a gift from a client, thank you), and dropped the note inside. The shoes I parked under the hanged shirts. I shoved the shoebox back to its place.
IV:
I am Boy de Jour. You don't know me.
I could be one of your friends. I could have dated your sister. I could have fucked your mother. I could have satisfied your father the way you used to before you realized it was wrong.
I could be the boy you have a crush on in school, at the office, on the bus, in a coffee shop, in Friendster.com.
I could be sitting right next to you while the professor discusses Jungian analysis and Skinner boxes.
I could be sharing a smoke with you before we both go back to our cubicles to deal with the Western helplessness with basic technology and credit card accounts.
I could be the smiling face in a billboard you passed by on your way to work.
I am the son of the night.
You don't know me.
Or, maybe you do.
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