Mar 2009

I died today.

I lay motionless as catatonic in a fluffy chair that I rest. My arms oblivious on the arm chair. My hands dangle and my fingers stiff as if tugging with gravity. My head on my right shoulder, vacuous like a pumpkin, dead as a ten-pin ball. My hair covers my eyes, all left is a gaping mouth, lips lined with dryness and wafts poison. All that is animate and breathes life is a fly buzzing out from my esophagus. I am wearing my best shirt. Checkered of brown, white and beige, 6 brownish-pearly buttons, white glowing undershirt. And just a piece of blue jeans not very unique. My feet like of a marionette untied, toes all point to the right.

"Who killed me? Why did I die?" I examine myself sullenly from mid-air, my past. The cold corpse, my past.

I look at the horizon where the chair and my body are seated, earth carpet of wild flowers and breeze palpable with dapples of florets of dandelions. The stretch is wider than my vision, whites, greens, and pastels. I descended down to my own corpse, attempts of contact fail. Yes, I am a wraith, not even an odor neither dew.

There is a certain high from not wearing underwear. It is very masculine and boyish.

I had a long trip from Cavite back to Makati. The sun was up and scorching and dust was irritating my eyes. I was feeling a little dizzy, hung over and dehydrated. But I didn’t care, I was feeling so carefree and nonchalantly sexy. I was enjoying the high in every moment on my way home.

I was a gangster as I changed bus in the bustling Baclaran.

I was whistling a tune as I find my way through the labyrinth of Buendia MRT Station crossing EDSA to get my jeepney ride to Makati Avenue.

I in fact never cared if there was a pendulum beneath my black Roxy board shorts, when I noticed a female passerby glancing at my crotch area. And so, I noticed those two pretty red laces hanging in front of my fly and bouncing off on my both legs.

I got off at Petron in the corner of Buendia and Makati Avenue. Even without my ipod I was walking to the beat of an imaginary house tune.

I decided to grab a smoothie at Treats to quench my parching mouth. As I entered the store I noticed the very warm yet very erotic smile of this gay attendant. I thought it was flattering. “Sir, wala pong The Big Chill today.” With that remark, I headed to the huge cooler and grabbed a Zest-O apple juice and a pack of Marlboro Lights by the counter.

A pack of apple juice in my left hand and a stick between my right fingers, a black back pack accessory, a vintage grey top, the wind in my hair and my uber low-waisted black Roxy board shorts… I was in a different dimension. “I am a bad-ass, pretty boy, straight-guy-girl-magnet, smirking at you baby. Pizzazz!”

published on http://www.parteeboi.blogspot.com on Monday, February 9, 2009

These stupid eye balls and good looking gay guys. Liars. Duplicitous. They will give you false pretenses that they like you. All of the sudden they become MIA, intangible as fart. They become part of a thick memory in the “asshole” compartment.

But my heart will not be silenced and I am not to become lovelorned.

I am young and I am pretty sure that my days are still endless like the ocean. I know that one of those sometimes calm and sometimes rough days, like how the ocean survives a storm and goes with its low and high tides, that at the end of every storm and passersby crossing on its surface, someone will dive into my deep and I can remain calm in his arms.

posted on http://www.parteeboi.blogspot.com on Tuesday, February 24, 2009

A bleep ended his slumber. He reaches for his phone, leaving a slope in his pillow and supports his body with his right elbow. Hazy, his vision adjusting to the light and reads a message from his boyfirend.

"Mi, papartee ata kami later with Layla and Kim. Si Kim may kasama daw na cute guy."

He slumps his head back to his pillow and sighs. He frowns. His thoughts start revving from dormancy. He doesn't trust his gut, looking for a better reaction than irked. Finally, he says, busies his fingers, dials an infinite phone number which reads,

"OK. U behave Di, you know may asawa ka na. :-)"

He rested his phone on his chest, raising simultaneousy with his breathing. Too toot. Raises his phone, a silhoutte of himself mirrors in the screen, presses the asterisk and the OK buttons and the screen glows with a whitish light. The message says,

"Mi, chinito pa yong fren ni Kim. :-). Di ka selos?"

His reply reeking with jealousy and anger, knowing how his boyfriend fancies chinese-looking guys.

"Should I?"

Waiting for some comfort, he did not get anything but, "Hmpf!"

Him: Well, yeah, I am a lil bit jelous. But I should trust you ryt? Can I trust you with this?

Boyfriend: Oo naman. Pero ano talaga nararamdaman mo? Tell me.

Him: Nanginginig na ako sa galit.

Boyfriend: Huh? Mi, wag ka na selos please. :-(

Him: OK. I trust you, have fun! :-)

Boyfriend: Ewan ko sayo, di ka na nagseselos. Di mo ako love. Tampo na Dadi.

Him: OK. If you wanna have fun and partee, I'm letting you. If you want me to get jealous, well I am jealous. In fact, I am just consciously convincing myself that I shouldn't because you love me. What else do you wanna hear?

Boyfriend: :-(

Now, he is totally confused.

He is fumbling with his reasons. He can't draw any logic to untangle the knots of obfuscation. His head has hollowed again, all he hears is the whistling breeze of a wasteland.

He is trying to justify if he is entitled of his jealosuy. Yes. He is feeling jealous, but it is a kind of jealousy that trust can resolve. He feels that he owes it to his boyfriend, to put trust before jealousy.

So he did.

But it seems like it isn't what his boyfriend needs from him. His boyfriend wants him to be jealous. And so he gives in.

Now he hates himself. He loathes the idea that he had to bottle up his feelings so it appears pleasant to his boyfriend's tasting. He abhors his cowardice to lose an asshole-in-the-making boyfriend. He is turning to be placatory, when he used to think he is a princess. Like a candle lighting a match.

posted on http://www.parteeboi.blogspot.com on Wednesday, March 4, 2009

I woke up today with three shiny and huge zits on my face. I just stood up in front my mirror looking sternly at the three zits with so much fury and concern. They seemed to look like a certain constellation called "Shame." Then I caught myself teary-eyed, with no exaggeration. A pang of so much panic struck me. I've started thinking of buying a tube of Panoxyl, or a tube St. Ives Blemish Control Apricot Scrub. I thought my Clean and Clear Active Clear no longer does the trick. Simultaneously, I thought of a Pimple Treatment Facial at Let's Face It, or a P100.00 pimple shot at Forever Flawless, or see a dermatologist and spend a lot of money despite my financial plight. I was so scared.

I took my regular Landmark jeepney going to work. By the vehicle's entrance I noticed this very fair and cute guy who sat near the entranceway and thought of sitting next to him so the wind won't ruin my do. He was facing towards the front and faced towards the rear as I entered his vision. He seemed to be avoiding the sight of me.

I felt so bad about myself and I can see my self-esteem rolling on the floor. I want to pick it up but I'd rather stay motionless and feeling too conscious of getting more attention.

I rested my eyes on this yellow sticker. It says, "Jojo Binay the next president." For a second, I fleetly forgot my pimples, I was baffled with what I have just read and I was busy with my thoughts.

The idea was readily repulsing. I haven't imagined Binay ruling the country, but happy that Binay is Mayor of Makati. I never imagined anyone sitting in his seat. I thought Binay is the only Mayor Makati should ever have. The yellow sticker didn't seem to be strange at all, it is slowly making sense and finally replaced GMA with my idea of a president (of the Philippines, Obama is my ultimate idea of a president). It is not a bad idea after all. That sticker which reminds me of Cory Aquino was sold on me.

To me, my pimples represent poverty, corruption, flanking literacy, famine, unemployment, you name it. In a country full of uncertainty and skepticism, one should decide a remedy. If I will buy my self a tube of Jojo Binay to heal my pimples, I am hoping, and I am sure many are hoping too, that my pimples will disappear and will give back my face its deserved beauty to face the world with such pride and glory.

"Only Belo touches my skin. Who are you?" Rhona Parker, Gay and Friend

posted on http://www.parteeboi.blogspot.com on Thursday, February 19, 2009