Thursday, January 29, 2009

The Devoured Doll


"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 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!"


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.


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 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


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.


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.


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

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 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.

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.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Barackistas United


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.


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 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.


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?


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."


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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


"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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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

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.