shamelessly seducing fate

"young, young man. did anyone ever tell you you look like a young prince out of the 'arabian nights'?" -- blanche dubois, a streetcar named desire.

i have always loved blanche dubois. i feel her -- delusional, living in her own private world, promiscuous yet pretends to be coy. even virginal. so gay!

last night, in late celebration of my forty third year on earth, i hopped from one bar to another even on a tight budget. luckily, like blanche, some kind strangers paid for my poisons for the night -- stella, lots of it, tequilla and mojito. no cosmo for this not so grand old dame, i reserve that for sinfully lonely nights. when the mean reds strike cruelly like a phantom without the opera. or too much of it. chos!

inside a bar where a filipino band was playing, i was surrounded by hong kong's young and beautiful, as though i had died and went straight to nirvana. naturally, the only thing to do was to sway to the beat of raining men, holiday, material girl, like it was the wild eightys and ninetys again. what can i say, the filipino band loved these songs as well.

then there was adelle, singing out her heartache in a sad, soulful, crystal clear voice. poetry, actually, masked behind a danceable tune -- rolling on the deep.

"the scars of your love, remind me of us

they keep me thinking that we almost had it all

the scars of your love, they leave me breathless
i can't help feeling

we could have had it all."

*****

so there i was, dancing along with the filipina singer. in total abandon, as if it was my last day on earth. as if the lovely angels would beacon me to leave this wonderful, smoky, dimly-lit bar full of sweaty, swarthy bodies, anytime. soon.

channeling adelle in splendid marc jacobs, i gyrated, shook my head, swayed my hips, jumped, kicked my feet. i didn't care. no it was not the alcohol dancing. it was just the little child in me, screaming silently, wanting to get out. and i let it. it's sexless. safe. only to be proven wrong later on. (so read on)

if you've seen your grandmother dancing while on acid with a bad military haircut, wearing dark jeans and tight-fitting black shirt, then subtract forty years and that's me. trying to seduce fate. shameless.

it was freezing outside, something something degrees, but inside it was hot as, forgive the french, hell. i was sweating even if i removed my jacket and scarf. i was tempted to dance bare naked, but the hong kong police might put me to jail. actually, it won't be such a bad idea. god knows this little island of glass and steel buildings and crazy, expensive luxuries needs some excitement from time to time. plus, you need to feed the hungry paparazzi from time to time to stay in their good graces. (in my previous life, i did. i paid for it dearly. feeding the paparazzi frenzy, i mean!)

then a young man bumped into me. he was on his way to the back of the bar where the toilet was. he looked at me, smiled and apologized. i didn't hear him too well because of the loud music, but i could read his pouty lips -- sorry. i smiled and winked.

it was a brief interaction. but his face -- smooth, cappuccino skin, well chiseled nose, tiny pouty lips -- stayed. played to the beat. i kept on dancing. the singer smiled too, noticing how i reacted to that almost dream like scene. short. sweet. ephemeral (sorry, i so totally love this word. i have to use it).

when he passed by again from the toilet, he stopped right in front of me, stood so close i could almost swallow his cigarette breath. then he danced. slow, gentle, sexy.

then he held me at the back and we swayed together, two lonely shadows merged into the night. he must be the dark angel sent to fetch me back to hell.

*****

adelle kept on. the soundtrack of the night. of my night.

"there's a fire starting in my heart,

reaching a fever pitch and it's bring me out the dark......."

then he kissed me, on the neck. i pushed him gently. i didn't want a scandal on the dance floor (as if my dancing was not scandalous enough).

"this isn't volume," i told him, my lips on his right ear. (volume was a famous gay bar in hong kong, though most nights, because the music was divine and the habitues were glorious, the crowd was mixed -- men, women, fairies.)

"it doesn't matter. we are just kissing."

(i wanted to correct him: technically, we are not kissing. you are kissing me. there's a difference. but i dare not say it. too afraid to ruin a promising encounter.)

his accent was different. not chinese. not english. not american. he looked latino though. but i did not ask. there was plenty of time for that.

"how young are you?"

"guess."

"sixteen?"

"close."

"i don't want to go to jail for seducing a minor."

"i am old enough, don't worry."

"i'm thirsty," i said, wanting a beer.

"me too."

then he dragged me out of the dance floor to the back of the bar. holding me tightly, he led me away. i followed like a strayed cat. even having cat thoughts -- there is milk at the end of a dark tunnel. meoww. we ended up inside a room that was a bit dark, if not for a glimmer of light coming from a small window. it was full of beer bottles and cans, wine bottles, etc. no, the etc here is irrelevant.

"are you..."

"shhh.."

"sure you want.."

kisses. hands all over. then the zippers went down. more touching. fondling. slow, deep breaths. careless. abandoned. hot burger sizzling in the oven. then rain. hot water from the sky. fluid, graceful movements in the dark. poetry of lust.

i could still hear adelle even if the door was shut. even when we were miles away from the dance floor. we were in another planet. entirely ours. an island with no sharks. starless, but not bleak.

"you had my heart inside your hand

and you played it

to the beat..."

this time though, adelle sounded cheerful. as if she could feel what i was feeling, hear my empty thoughts. feel my secret longings now being fulfilled.

lips, his. burning. hands, now clumsy, now keeping me closer. his hands still smelled of penhaligon liquid soap and cigarettes. resting on my head. my knees on the cold, damp floor. there was a long, hard log in front of me. surrounded by grass, rooted deeply into the earth. it smelled of the earth too. but it was a lovely, manly scent. the scent of life, fire, desire. the log was hungry, thirsty. alive. shaking to my every stroke. 

his hands, soft and huge, kept pulling me closer to it. deeper. deeper. adelle vanished. moans. more. there. yes! bliss.

then we switched positions. my back, slammed on the wall. cold. lovely. 

his hands. on my butt. my hands. on his head. i touched his soft, smooth hair. his warm lips on my soul. then his mouth. eager. hungry. feeding. like a fish. my log on his mouth, soft, slippery and wet.

then i exploded like a million cannons on new year's eve. 

jack kerouac's on the road suddenly came into my mind:

“the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.” 

%%%%%%%%%

adelle. came. back. sharing my bliss.

"rolling in the deep

you had my heart inside your hand

and you played it

to the beat



we could have had it all

rolling in the deep

you had my heart inside your hand


but you played it
"

then the strong smell of the sea filled the room.

we went back inside the bar. it looked different now. more alive. from the eyes of a newly fed vampire. everything seemed to move, even the black and white pictures on the wall, the candles on the tiny square tables, the glasses and bottles on the shelves. (yes, these lines were inspired by anne rice. so don't fret. i admit. i am a literary thief. but who isn't? at least my thoughts were original. haha.)

******

three a.m. the bar was still full. adelle had stopped playing.

i heard blanche. in a hungry, sleepy, tired but still seductive voice.

"i don't want realism. i want magic! yes, yes, magic. i try to give that to people. i do misrepresent things. i don't tell truths. i tell what ought to be truth."

we stepped out of the bar, sharing  a bottle of stella on the street. there were a dozen or so strangers. smoking. talking. laughing. dancing. it was cold. his hand was locked on my shoulder. i felt safe. protected.

bottle in hand, he said: "i lost my virginity to adelle."

"you mean it was your first time to be blowed over?"

he smiled. i love his lips. thinking about where they had been made my knees weak. made me crave for more. ah, i was insatiable.

"no."

"then what?"

"it was my first time to give a head."

i smiled. took the bottle from his hand and drank it.

then his phone rang.

he talked -- in spanish. he spoke fast. i couldn't understand a thing.

then: "i have to go." to me.

"why?"

"that's my mom."

"but."

"it's late. i have to go home."

"what's your name?"

"angelo."

seriously? but i didn't say it.

"can i have your number?''

"you're mahatma gandah right?"

"yes, how did you know."

"my friend who was with me earlier knows you. he used to work in a bar in lan kwai 

fong where you always hang out."

"what's his name."

"sebastian."

seriously? again, i did not ask. how did they come up with such fancy names? or their parents? they must be writers. fantastic writers. for coming up with such names and for freeing into the earth such beautiful children.

sebastian. angelo. i can't remember meeting a sebastian. maybe i forgot about him.

"i have to go." then he kissed me again. on the lips. right there on the street. in full view of the world. chos!

then i remember he hasn't given me his number yet.

"your number."

"don't worry. i will see you again."

"where? how?"

"i will." 

fade to black.i went inside. still in a daze. my body still trembling. burning. this time it was madonna's turn to serenade the slowly disappearing darkness- like a virgin.

luvly!

******

(yes i am turning a new leaf. i am now in the mood to have fun noting that my expiry date is about to come. actually, i am past my expiry date. i am now, officially, unfit for human consumption. a health hazard. anyone who touches me will have to call the department of health and sanitation for a medical exam. you see, i had a bargain with god when i was fifteen, when i almost died of a disease -- i was sickly when i was young -- to let me live until forty and after that, he can do whatever he wants to do with me. turn me into a nun, a frog, a rose, or heck, even a fly. who cares. that's why i have been so careless with everything -- luvlife, finances, relationships -- because i know in due time, all of these will be taken away. no hard feelings, but that's the truth. if you don't believe me, then you are as delusional as blanche. i luv!)

******

here is adelle, by the way. if you care.

(ps: i don't own the photos in this post. no copyright infringements intended. please inform the author if you want them removed. than you.)

the wasteland of our discontent

"happy people are not humans. they are aliens who want to invade the earth." -- mahatma gandah

why did i bother to come back, i wondered as i searched the smoke drenched bar -- filled with sweaty young men dancing to the band's version of pitbull's americano -- for somebody nice enough to go home with. there were about a hundred men and women inside the bar, at least eighteen and up, all genders, wearing their weekend uniform: cut off denim shorts and skin tight blouson for most of the girls, and jeans and shirt for the boys.

it was a bar for upper and middle class kids. most of them were speaking in english or a mixture of english and filipino. latest model of cellphones and iphones on their hands. some even brought the tacky ipads to take photos and send messages. i was guessing, most of them were probably spawns of the thieves in the government who wouldn't mind spending millions of pesos for their children's whims and cravings because they were spending money that wasn't theirs.

***********

amid the crowd, one guy caught my attention. chinito. tall, lean with spiky hair. he was in black jeans, red checkered shirt with the sleeves folded up to his elbows.

i was in my weekend best too: dark jeans (d squared), black v-neck shirt (ck), cardigan (rl) and blue sneakers (paul smith).  no underwear.

i smiled at him. he gave me a cold stare.

my first rejection for the night.

somehow it dampened my spirit. i wanted to leave but it was raining.

so i decided to stay for a while, regretting my decision to come back to this bar.

earlier i left for another bar. but it was boring there. the crowd was mostly middle-aged guys singing along with the band to the tunes of vst and company and other old tunes from the seventy's, eighty's and ninety's. i am a modern man. i deserve something current.

*****

at almost two a.m., the rain stopped. i left. outside, it was a bit cold. but i didn't mind. there was something liberating about walking on a cold night on dark alleys with just the minimal clothing to keep you warm. suddenly, i wanted to go home. take a hot shower. lie in bed. sleep. i longed for a long sleep, the kind that will make you forget all your troubles away. and so i walked in search for a cab, as elusive on a rainy night as water in the desert. opps! an obviously bad metaphor. or simile.

i kept walking. the streets were filled with people, mostly drunk, who were on their way home. or to a motel. or to another party where i was obviously not invited.

after a few minutes of walking, a bar caught my wandering eyes. insomnia. (i thought this was the same bar along julio nakpil street years ago when malate was at the peak of its popularity and where gorgeous kids from the super upper east side, bohemian artists, wandering writers, penniless poets, frustrated actors and lonely hunters like me would hang out. to spend the night with other sad, restless souls.) the name of the bar was an apt description for the crowd that had made malate its home.

it wasn't. the same old insomnia was gone. it was a reincarnation of sorts. more modern, less convivial.

there were a lot of koreans outside, smoking cigarettes, drinking. talking in korean. i could barely understand a word they were saying. but they were all gorgeous, fashionably dressed. obviously wealthy. this could have been us, filipinos, i thought, if the government and its officials, politicians have not been screwing us left, right and center and stealing public funds, wasting government resources. if we didn't let them. if we have been wiser, more vigilant, less forgiving. like the singaporeans or the koreans. look at them now. then look at us now. we used to be wealthy, of course. there was a time when the philippines was the second richest in asia next to japan. when filipinos traveled overseas to shop, to wine and dine. unlike today when we go out of the country to clean other people's homes, take good care of other people's children, cook their food, take them to school, then wait for them at the gates at dismissal. in between, we do their laundry, shop for their needs, even take their dogs for a walk. i dismissed these current of thoughts. they were giving me a headache.

(if the headlines are true, then we are run by thieves, a syndicate of the "honourables" who sucked the country dry, leaving the majority of the population with nothing except their broken wings and famished stomachs. how could these people accused of corruption ever sleep well at night? go to church? feed, shelter, educate, lavish their families with stolen money?)

i went in.

the receptionist, who was seated right beside the door, asked me to pay the full entrance fee even if it was already late. almost morning.

because curiosity had gotten the best of me, i paid.

inside was seoul, in a party mode.

there were plenty of cute koreans in their twenty's. some of them were with their filipino friends, others 

with their filipino girlfriends.

the kimchi invasion, i thought. first, the korean telenovelas on our homes (winter sonata was my mother's favourite). now their citizens enrolled in our universities to learn english.

it's cheaper here, of course, than say going to the united states of obama to study.

of course i love kimchi and other korean food.

as far as i was concerned, korean food has always been here, way ahead of their telenovelas and their well-dressed, shiny youngsters.

the dancefloor was full. i joined them. sweaty bodies gyrating to psy's gangnam style.

*******

then i got bored. nobody seemed interesting and interested on me. by now, i reeked of cigarettes (the bar allowed people to smoke inside) and beers. my breath smelled of stale beer.

more walking.

i stopped to buy mints from a hawker. he was a young boy, about six i think. where are your parents? i asked. they're dead, he answered matter-of-factly, with no bitterness in his tone. he was wearing an old blue shirt with a superman logo and shorts. bare feet. why are you still awake? i usually make a lot of sales at night, he answered. then he ignored me as he kept on walking, approaching other people on the streets if they wanted to buy cigarettes, candies. 

in my next life, i thought, i would be very rich so i could help out all these poor young people living on the streets. but this was wishful thinking. another one of those ideas that i would forget or abandon the next day. if there is justice in this world, this young boy should grow up as a successful business mogul, be comfortable for the rest of his life.

there was another one buying cigarettes. i stared at him, forgetting about my manners. he was edible enough for the night. in shorts, jacket and flipflops. no, i take that back. he was good looking enough to be on the cover of candy magazine. young enough (early twentys?) to feed.

i followed him, let's call him candy boy, inside another bar.

a few minutes later, i was sitting on a table with him and his friend, drinking san miguel lights.

we talked about important things after the usual introduction such as the quickening inflation in china, the investment grade ratings for the philippines, the pork barrel scam, the federal reserve's plan to start tightening monetary policy at the world's biggest economy later this year.

&&&&&&&&&&

more talk.  i was getting anxious. more beer. more cigarettes. in a dark, cold, crowded, noisy bar.

it was already a quarter past four in the morning,  but they haven't agreed yet to come home with me for another round of beer. or at least candy boy.

in fact, candy boy was more interested in the girls at the other table than on talking to me, the fallen star.

it was his friend, cigarette boy (he was always smoking even inside the bar, ignoring the fact that it was no longer allowed and he could end up in jail for doing so) who kept the conversation alive.

if only you were as cute as candy boy, i thought.

****

ah the irony.

kung sino pa ang gusto mo, sya pa ang ayaw sa yo.

in english, if you are fat and in your forty's, be prepared to spend more to get the guy that you want.

at five, the bar was about to close.

candy boy was willing to go home with me only if cigarette boy would go too.

but cigarette boy was reluctant. he wanted to go with the girls from the other table. yes, candy boy was able to chat with them and got their names and numbers.

tired, sleepy and drunk, i told them i was going home.

with or without them.

i went outside.

it was nearly six.

the sun was hurting my eyes.

a taxi stopped and i got in.

sleep.

sleep.

sleep. 

as the driver navigated through manille's filthy, smelly streets. where beggars and homeless people slept and lived on the streets. their meagre resources displayed on dirty pavements: old, worn out clothes and slippers, a stove, some broken plates, plastic glasses and bottles with water. 

after a few minutes, the driver woke me up. in front of my apartment. home. at. last. tired. i slept immediately. the bars were still in my worn out, sweaty clothes. i didn't even make it to bed.

when i woke up, i felt cold. i slept on the concrete floor, with the aircon at its full blast. i had no idea what time it was or how long i had been gone. 

immediately, i looked at my old sony ericsson phone. this is how modern technology has changed the way we live, the way we have fun, the way we wake-up. i had ten missed calls and five messages from candy boy, asking where i was.

the messages were sent at around six thirty to seven in the morning, when i was already in the dream land.

twelve hours ago.

stale as the wine and cheese that i left on the coffee table the other night.

**********

ah another day, another night wasted in the land of our discontent.