Three Stories

“I left him because he was cheating on me.”

“How did you find out?”

 “You just know.  It's...I can't explain it. The way he seems so fidgety when I catch him surfing on a computer late at night, or when he tells me he's visiting his parents and it felt like a lie, or when he's just uneasy around restaurants or public areas. A lot of small things really. They just added up into this one huge thing. Then I checked his phone messages and found out for real.”

“What did you do?”

“I told the guard at my apartment building to never let him up. I then called him and told him I was breaking up with him because he was unfaithful.”

“And?”

“Well, it’s not as easy as I’m telling it right now. It hurt like hell at the time, and I had to grieve in my own private way, but I needed to do it you know? For myself? In the end, I realized my dignity was more important.”

***

“When I found out about it, I honestly didn’t know what to do. At some point, I felt like I wanted to kill him.”

“But why did you stay?”

“Because I love him. And he reassured me that at the end of the day, I was still the most important person in his life. The others were just flings. Random encounters.”

“You believed him?”

“Well, yes. I know it sounds silly, but I really do.”

“Ok, I respect that, but how do you feel?”

“I feel hurt a lot of times, especially when I don’t know where he is, or why he isn’t texting, or when he says he’s out with friends. I also feel paranoid and insecure. But I love him, and the idea of him leaving me…I can’t stand it.”

“How about the idea of you leaving him?”

“Honestly, it never even crossed my mind. Well, maybe once or twice. But mostly, I just feel grateful he’s there.”

***

“Cheating is only cheating if it is against the rules in the first place. When you both accept the idea that it is impossible to be in a monogamous relationship in the first place, without either or both parties straying at some point, then the easier everything will be. You just have to make allowances really.”

“That seems awfully cynical.”

“And true. Honestly, for me, I wouldn’t really mind if my husband strayed as long as: a) I never catch him, b) he doesn’t get some girl pregnant, and c) he doesn’t come home with some venereal disease and infects me with it. Ignorance is key.”

“I think you just broke through the cynicism meter here.”

“Well, guess what? I’m not kidding. And frankly, I’m content and generally happy. At the end of the day, it works for me. And really, that's all anyone can ask for in a relationship. Whatever works for you.”

“But what if you find out?”

“Well, I’m keeping my fingers crossed that never happens.”

Photo taken here.

Body Issues

When I was a teenager, I hated how I look. I hated how my hair seemed so straight and wiry, how high my forehead was, how far apart my eyes were. I especially hated my nose, which I thought seemed so flat and squishy. I looked a lot like my father, and I sometimes resented the fact that I inherited a lot of his physical attributes. 

So, like any other kid going through puberty, I had a lot of insecurities. And the fact that my skin decided at that particular point to break out with a gajillion pimples just seemed like extra unnecessary crap piled onto an already steaming mound known as my life. 

I'm not sure when I decided to embrace my features. But I remember a particular moment, when I was walking by a mirror one day, and noticing the slight hunch of my shoulders, and the way I seemed to drag my footsteps. I remember thinking that just because I hated the way I look, it didn't mean I actually had to look like I was the most hatefully ugly creature in the world. So I made a mental note to make sure I stand a little straighter, and I carry myself as if I thought I was gorgeous. It took a while before I got used to pushing my shoulders back, and carrying my feet, but at some point I learned how to, and that was when I changed. 

The change was mostly internal I think. A shifting of perspective. Days where I looked at the mirror and thought, "I don't look so bad". Or moments when I felt that I totally rocked. My confidence grew, and I started really liking how I looked, how different I seemed to be from any other person. It was then that I realized I actually liked being me, and that I really had nothing to complain about. 

Then one day, I realized how lucky I was. I wasn't perfect, but the imperfections made me feel more, well, me. And I loved the idea that, maybe, I was created exactly as I should be. 

Photo taken here.

Snapshots: on HIV

The first time I heard of the increase of HIV cases in the Philippines, it was from my friend Manuel. He worked as a researcher for various international organizations as well as the Department of Health. We were in a coffee shop, just hanging out, talking about unimportant things, when he brought it up.

"I don't think I should be telling you this," he said. "It's all still confidential. Well sort of. Actually I don't know. Anyway, I want to tell this to you as a friend because I want to warn you."

"What?"

"Well, there is substantial data coming in that shows an alarming increase in HIV cases this past year."

"How alarming?"

"Very. Before, HIV cases were limited substantially to female sex workers and to heterosexual men who had sex with them. The new cases are coming from men who sleep with men. The most vulnerable people, well, according to the limited information that I know, are those who work in call centers."

"Why?"

"We don't know yet."

"That's scary."

"I know."

***

I was having dinner with my friend Ron when I learned that the Philippine Daily Inquirer ran an article about the increase in HIV cases, where they underscored the fact that most of the new cases came from gay men who worked in call centers. I asked him how he felt, as a gay man who actually worked in the same industry.

"I don't really know how I feel about it," he said. "Well, first, because it's not like I'm having a lot of sex right now. Second, I've always been careful. STDs scare me."

"Does it make you more wary of having sex with people from the same industry?" I asked.

"Not really. Well, maybe. I don't know, I've always been careful," he insisted.

***

We were in photographer Niccolo Cosme's exhibit commemorating World AIDS Day when Wanggo Gallaga came out as a gay man afflicted with HIV. The room was expectedly tense. His voice was clear, though there were moments that I thought it would break. His speech was short, and purposeful. When it ended, there was a moment of silence. The type that seemed so deafening.

Then applause. I looked at my friend Ioanis, who asked me to come with him. There were tears in his eyes. I realized there were some in mine too.

I made it a point to walk up to Wanggo right after to commend him for his bravery.

***

"I think this epidemic, if you can call it that, is almost inevitable really," a friend said to me one day.

"What do you mean?"

"It's like this, we all know that HIV is real, but at the same time, we also felt that HIV wasn't really a problem within the Philippine gay community. At least until now. The number of people who actually practiced safe sex is woefully low. Barebacking is a given. We should have expected this."

"I agree. I think we looked at World AIDS Day as one big party. The literature was there, and the warning signs. We didn't listen I think."

“Here's my theory. I think that before, we've always thought of HIV as a problem foreigners have. Some disease that people in America or Africa get, but never for us here. We were isolated. We felt safe in our cocoon. So we got lazy, and we forgot the danger. Now we're paying the price for our failure and our apathy."

"Well, let's hope the price doesn't get too high."

"Well, yes , but even one case is one case too high."

***

"My roommate's ex just got diagnosed with HIV."

“How did you know?”

“He told me. Besides, word gets around. We’re not exactly a large community.”

“I must admit, this is really starting to scare me.”

“Me too.”

“What can we do?”

“I’m not really sure. All of this just seems so new. It shouldn’t be, but that is how it feels to me. It’s scary.”

Photo taken here.

Intimacy

We were drinking in a popular wine spot in The Fort a few months ago when my close friend Ioannis, obviously inebriated and uninhibited, referred to sex as a "sport". To be fair, the sentiment wasn't completely out of nowhere: once you mix adults, alcohol and conversation, thoughts naturally seem to flow towards this more "primal" direction. But the statement was still interesting on several levels: Did he mean that it was competitive? Physically taxing? Something only a group can do?

When we asked him to elaborate, he said that he didn't mean it in the sense that it was a competition, only that the acceptance of one's inherent sexuality should be something fun and exhilarating. He underscored the idea that sexuality should be celebrated, not restrained. He found it unusual and unnecessarily restrictive to continuously dampen one's "natural" needs, simply to conform to an arbitrary societal standard. He said that we are all in charge of our own happiness, and that sometimes the bravest, and the most important thing we can do for ourselves, is to acknowledge the things that make us happy and to do something about it. He pointed out that if we refuse the things that make us happy, then what's the point of being alive?

We concurred, if conditionally. The idea sweeps at other ideas in too general a manner, and certain circumstances and factors must also be taken into consideration, but we did agree that he raised a valid point.

Afterward, he fell asleep on my other friend's lap, drunk and oblivious to the world. Ioannis has a lot of endearing qualities, but he is definitely not the classiest person when intoxicated. In fact, I consider it a minor victory that Ioannis managed to keep his shirt on while he was so obviously sloshed.

(Although, to be fair once again, I think that alcohol can sometimes bring out a person's brilliance. The lack of inhibitions it induces does not only refer to emotional inhibitions, but also to intellectual ones. I wouldn't be surprised if someone discovers that some of the world's best ideas were thought up during stages of extreme intoxication. In fact, I seriously think that someone should do a study on the relationship of alcohol and philosophy. I'm sure that a lot of the greatest philosophers in the world are non-classy, hardcore drinkers).

A few weeks later, Ioannis gets a boyfriend, whom he loves dearly. When asked about the status of their relationship, he said that they had an "open" one; that is, they are allowed to have sex with other people, subject to a few ground rules. When I asked him to elaborate on those rules, Ioannis said that he was okay with his boyfriend having sex with someone else, but that he would not be able to stand the fact if the connection between the boyfriend and the other person transcends sexuality and enters a more intimate and personal sphere. He said he can stand sexual indiscretions, just not emotional connections.

I didn't really understand what he meant, but when I asked him to elaborate further, he said he also couldn't explain it. Rather, he gave examples, such as "holding hands, kissing, going out on dates". He still believed in sex as a sport, so he felt that one could engage in it without any emotional investment, but as soon as it becomes more than sex, he said that he feels that that is where he should draw the line. When I asked him how he would know when, as he defined it, the relationship of the boyfriend and the third party becomes more intimate, he said he doesn't really know how, only that he would know. Sex can be just sex, he argued, but once it mimics the symptoms of love, then that is when there would be problems that would arise.

I still didn't understand, but I let it go at that. I have resolved, not too long ago, to try not to judge the decisions my friends make in matters of the heart. Is it possible to separate one's emotions when engaging in an act that is physically intimate in nature? I'm not so sure. In my head, it seems improbable, but I've been wrong before. Whatever works I guess. Whatever gets one through the day.

Photo taken here.

A Little Vanity

When I was much younger, I never cared about how I looked. I chose clothes based on their level of comfort, with hardly a consideration for color combination or fit. I had no control over my hair; my dad was strict in that regard, and mostly he required us to wear our hair like a soldier’s crew cut: no mussing about, no fuss.

I think it was in college when I started treating clothes as something more than fabric to cover my body with. You could say that it was in college when I realized that life is easier when you look a certain part: people are nicer to you, and you become more confident. Maybe the second is a consequence of the first, which doesn’t really matter; bottom line, life is easier.

So I started developing a certain look that reflected who I was as a person, and which made me look more attractive than, well, how I’d look if I didn’t do anything at all. It took a while before I developed the confidence to start experimenting with fashion, and lately, I’ve become much more “progressive” with my sartorial choices.

I’ve also experimented with my hair, although I’ve developed a preference for jagged, uneven and spiky edges. I usually put Clay-Doh (Bench) or Goth Juice (Lush) to keep the style in place; the former, when I want a dry, matte, casual look, and the latter when I want it to look more shiny and businesslike.

I tend to be much more conservative in the office though, since I work in the law industry, which is an industry known for its less than liberal point of view. I don’t mind though, since in that context I usually just experiment with color (not too loud) and fit. My hair is still spiky and jagged, but I’m not budging on that one.

I enjoy dressing up. Some people prefer to wear casual stuff all the time, even when going out to dinner. I find that frustrating, because I prefer that when I’m going out to dinner with friends, we all look like, well, we are going out to dinner. I dislike seeing people who look like slobs when they are in another person’s company. For me, dressing up is a way of showing another person that you respect him or her enough to actually make some effort.

I’m one of those people who consider what I wear an extension of who I am, which, at first, seems superficial, although under closer analysis isn’t really. It is part of me, in the same way that what I write in this blog is a facet of my personality. It does not wholly define who I am fundamentally, but it is one piece in this large puzzle I call my life.

And to my dying breath I will argue that fashion is art, and though ephemeral, when executed masterfully, serves to deliver the same breathtaking magnificence embodied by the best examples of prose and poetry. I am not its most talented proponent definitely, but I don’t think it’s that hard to learn to appreciate its beauty.

Photo taken here.

Love Evolution

Before JT, I've never actually been in a long-term relationship. The nearest I can think of was my first, which lasted a year, but it was so riddled with drama, break-ups and make-ups, that I'm not even sure I can call my partner at the time my "boyfriend". He was more my lover I guess, precisely because the relationship we had was rooted on more, uhm, primal concerns. 

It's different with JT because, well, he's my friend. I mean, technically, he's more than a friend, but what I mean is that our relationship is based on the same values that a true friendship is rooted on: trust, loyalty, empathy. The attraction is there definitely; I find him really handsome, and I'm hoping he reciprocates the admiration, but more than that, I like him; his personality, his laugh, his values. The things that make up his person, I love. I guess what I'm saying is that when I say I like him, I like him both in a physical manner, that is, how he looks, as well as in those other aspects that make me enjoy his company. 

A friend told me that she thinks that love is a "decision"; that is, that you have to wake up everyday deciding to continue to love a certain person. I told her I disagreed. I said love is a feeling, not a decision. To say that it's a decision is to dilute its unique quality, its rarity, because the thought implies that one can just decide to fall in love with anyone, in the same way one decides to buy a shirt or a car. Love requires a mixture of conscious action and serendipity; certain circumstances must arise, certain elements must fall into place. To say otherwise is to make love as mundane as, well, everything else. And love is anything but mundane.

She never agreed with me, although I pointed out that maybe what she meant is that love transforms into some thing not as easily described or defined as what it was in the beginning. It's still love I think, but it manifests itself differently. After three years of being in a relationship, I told her that the relationship I have with JT evolved, from something that seemed totally based on superficial reasons: looks, having fun, sexual compatibility, to something not as easily described. I told her it was much like my love for my family: (seemingly) inevitable, and forever.

Photo taken here.

Dreams are Still Tricky Bastards

I was watching television in my bed when I saw a distant clump of alien-looking things floating outside my window and moving towards me . I didn't know what they were, but I noticed they were multi-colored, and stuck together like that, kind of shaped like a human brain. The nearer it got, the more anxious I became. I moved across the room to get further away from it. When light suddenly hit the floating unknown thing, I realized they were balloons tied together, with a note at the bottom. It bumped into a glass pane. I opened my window, eased the whole bunch into my room and pulled at the note.

Honesty, or A Conversation between Friends

“So you think I'm in love with Benjamin?”

“I don't think anything. I'm just teasing you.”

“Ok, but what do you think?”

“I don’t want to think anything. It’s your life.”

“But I’m interested to know what you think.”

“Of course not. You’re not really interested in what I think; you just want me to affirm what you believe.”

“So you think I'm that easy to read?”

“Hahaha, oh please. I've known you for years. I could read you easier than a book. Even if I met you right now, you're still transparent as hell.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Fine, here's an example. Take Anthony. You said you're glad you broke up with him but really, you were hurt that he did not pick you.”

“That's not true.”

“And I don't believe you.”

“I broke up with him because Anthony found it difficult to get along with my friends, and I felt I had to pick one over the other.”

“Well, yea, you told me that. But it doesn't really change the fact that, well maybe not 'loved', but you liked Anthony very much. And you want to exude this persona of coolness, as if people never break up with you. And fine, if you want to keep it up, it's a perfectly valid way of living your life; I'm just saying that you don't need to lie to me. Or if you do lie, you're going to have to accept the fact that, even if I don't mention it, I can tell what you're really feeling.

Plus, well, having Anthony not pick you is kind of embarrassing. Hell, having feelings for someone like Anthony is embarrassing. So I sort of get why you need to lie. I'm just saying you really can't expect me not to know the truth.”

(silence)

“I hate you.”

“Hahaha. Of course not. You love me. You just can't argue with the fact that you know I'm telling the truth.”

Photo taken here.

First Date

I once dated this guy named Jason, a part-time model who was in a commercial for a popular facial wash a few years ago. It was a semi-blind date; I saw his commercial, so I knew how he looked like, but he had no idea how I appeared at all. For all he knew, I could be troll with a huge wart on my nose, but he agreed on the date, so I figured the person who set us up probably told him a lot of good things about me. We agreed to have dinner in Cafe Breton.

The moment I met him, I immediately thought that he was much better looking on TV. It surprised me just how short he was. A friend once said that commercial models tend to be shorter than ramp models, but I didn't know they could be that short. But he was cute, and I figured the date could still lead into something more interesting and fun.

When he saw me, he immediately launched into a tirade about how the taxi ride going to the restaurant was so horrible. The rant took a while, and it kind of set the tone for the rest of the date. He was pissed at everyone. I tried to act more upbeat, but he wasn't buying it. Our conversations felt awkward and contrived.

In the middle of dinner, a friend texted me that him and his boyfriend were hanging out in a bar in Greenbelt, a 10-minute walk from where we were. He asked me if I wanted to meet up. I figured the date couldn't get any worse, so I thought why the hell not? I asked Jason, and Jason said ok. I told him that if he didn't mind, I'd prefer to walk to the bar because I didn't want to go through the hassle of parking all over again. Jason said he didn't mind, although I did notice the shadow of a scowl on his face. I dismissed it, and thought it was probably just my imagination.

So we met with my friends, and had a few drinks. Jason was still in a dark mood, and at that point, I stopped caring. It was a first date for pete's sake, it's not supposed to be that hard. If he wasn't willing to have fun, there was no point forcing him.

On the walk back, he told me he was pissed at me because, he said, first, I made plans with friends even though I knew we were on a date. I told him that's why I asked for his permission first, and when he said yes, I took that at face value. There was no reason for me to think he was lying. He said, notwithstanding, I should have known it was rude in the first place. I didn't really want to argue, but I thought that him teaching me about manners was the height of irony. But I figured silence was my best friend.

Second, he said that he was angry because I made him walk to the bar. I told him I asked him about that too, and he also said yes, so I took that at face value. I didn't even know him that well; there was no reason for me to think he meant something else. He said I should have known he was already very tired from the horrible taxi ride he endured to get to the restaurant. He said I should have already taken that into consideration, and I should have known he'd be too tired to walk. I remained silent, mostly because I just wanted the date to end, but also because I didn't want to argue with him anymore. I thought of how stupidly difficult he was, and that for someone I've met for the first time, he acted too much like a longtime boyfriend. It was annoying beyond words.

The whole experience made me want to swear off dating models completely. If he was representative of the bunch, I figured I'd be better off dating adults. The date wasn't so much a date as it was babysitting a 12 year old. Looks can only go so far. At some point, we're going to have to have a conversation, and talking with someone who never stops whining is really just torture. Maybe the date would have been much better if he just kept quiet and looked pretty.

Photo taken here.

Trading Up

Over ice cream in a popular dessert place in Makati, James told me an anecdote that touch on a peculiar aspect of dating which all of us who've been playing the dating game for a while can probably relate to. The story revolved around a friend of his named Patrick, a successful and wealthy executive, who was single and looking for the love of his life. At some point, he dated a guy named Franco. It seemed they got along splendidly; their personalities meshed well together, and they enjoyed each other's company. With the relationship itself, at least with how they interacted with each other, it appeared that they had no problems.

The only obstacle they had, really, was that everyone thought that Franco was not within Patrick's league. He was not a looker, or successful, or blessed with a charming personality that could have made up for all these lack. In short, he was woefully average; there was nothing about him that was extraordinary, except for the fact that he seemed perfectly average in every sense. Patrick's friends had no idea why he was dating the guy, and outside of the fact that he really liked Franco, it seemed that Patrick had no idea either. Because he gave his friends' input on the people he should date a great deal of importance, and also because he believed that what they were saying were true, he decided to dump Franco. It wasn't a bitter break-up, but of course Franco had ended up with a broken heart.

Fast forward a few months later, Patrick learned that Franco was dating a guy named Benjamin. Benjamin was a popular banker who was even better looking, wealthier, and more successful than Patrick. Patrick couldn't understand what happened. The reason why he dumped Franco in the first place was because he felt he needed to trade up, so to speak, and irony of ironies, Patrick ends up alone, while Franco traded up from him. He thought the whole thing bewildering.

Now this anecdote is interesting for me because, when I was still dating, I always fell into this trap, where I was never contented with the one I'm with, and always kept a roving eye on a possible trade up with someone "better" than whom I was already dating at the time. Here's what I learned from those experiences: that is the worst possible way to date someone. It's not a matter of being with someone within your league, at least in the superficial sense; it's about being with a person you love. You either like someone or you don't; you either love someone or you don't. If you put too much stock on the unimportant things, thinking that there is only a particular pool of people you could draw from whom you could date or fall in love with, you limit yourself unneccessarily. I've since learned that falling in love (or "like" if you prefer) is always a tricky thing, and better to accept the experience as a gift, than look for problems that weren't even there in the first place.

Photo taken here.

Heartbreak

It was 8 years ago when I found myself staring at a phone number I both did and did not want to call. I was still living with my parents then. I was lying in bed, in a small bedroom half-cloaked in darkness, the only light coming from a small fluorescent bulb hanging above my nightstand. I remember my heart pounding, and the voice in my head saying I shouldn't do this, this could only end in disaster.

I should have listened. But I didn't. I didn't know if what I felt was love; but back then, I thought that it was. It was a craving, an obsession over something I knew I couldn't have. But I hoped that, over my otherwise flawless arguments, I was wrong; that this, whatever it was, could work.

I found myself dialing that number. It was a unique experience; I felt like I didn't own my body. I was both waiting for him to pick up the phone, and watching myself wait expectantly. I could feel my heart pounding still.

"Hello."

"Hi, it's me."

"Yea. What's up?"

"I really don't know how to begin."

"I can't stay long. I'm kind of with...someone right now."

"I'm sorry. I just need to tell you this."

Silence. I held my breath for what seemed like an eternity until he said "ok."

Everything came out in a rush. "I know you're in a relationship right now, but every time you are with me you keep telling me it's not working, and I feel like we have something, you know? And, and I was hoping that, that once you get a clear head, a clear idea of what you really want out of your life, you'd realize that he's not right for you. That I am, that more than anything, I want you to be happy. I can make you happy."

He did not respond. I continued, "I guess what I wanted to say is that, at the end of the day, I hope you realize that I am the better choice, that I am the better man. I hope that you could see that you should pick me. Not him. He doesn't see you the way I do."

"He doesn't love you the way I do," I also wanted to say, but I stopped myself before I embarrassed myself further. I knew his answer even before he said it, even before I finished talking, even before I dialed his number.

"I can't deal with this right now." He was trying to keep his voice light and upbeat. I realized he was putting on a show for whomever he was with at the time. "I'm just busy right now. Let's talk later ok? Ok? Thanks for calling. I appreciate it."

There were no fireworks, no epiphany. Nothing on the other end. The complete absence of any reaction from him humiliated me. How pointless that whole conversation was; how useless.

Then it struck me how silently a heart can break. And how the silence of one heart breaking into a thousand tiny pieces can be so deafening.

I realized what I forgot. He was my first love, but I wasn't his. Perhaps love wasn't even there after all.

I placed my phone on the side of my bed, closed my eyes, and tried to sleep. I hoped that everything would be better in the morning.

Photo taken here.

Mourning

I met Gino in first year high school. He was a transferee from another school, so it was the first time we met each other. We became seatmates, shared a couple of jokes, but were never really friends. I remember him as smart and articulate. He wasn't the best in class, but he was definitely above average.

After that year, we never became classmates again. I saw him once in a while, and worked with him in a school play during senior year, but our relationship never went beyond casual acquaintances. We interacted around the same circles, but our conversations rarely moved above polite small talk.

I was in college when I heard the news. Gino died in a plane crash. The news was shocking to say the least. He was young, definitely, but more than that, it came completely out of nowhere. I made plans to go to the wake with my friends to pay our respects.

The plane crash and its relation to Gino's death is notably depressing in one more aspect. You see, Gino was traveling with his family. And when I say family, I mean the whole clan. They just came back from a family reunion. The plane crash virtually wiped them all out.

When we came to the wake, there were 6 coffins, of varying sizes. I asked my friend Ron where the other dead were being kept. Ron said he didn't know. I saw Ioanis crying in a corner. Another acquaintance, Anthony, bought several garlands of sampaguita. He was carefully, artfully, arranging them on Gino's casket.

The news of the plane crash was certainly huge, and appeared on a lot of local news shows. The fact that one family came from a reunion made it even more tragic, so particular attention was brought to Gino's family even more. His best friend, Louis, told me that there was at least one survivor that he knew: Gino's mom. She wasn't able to attend the reunion because she was sick. She stayed at home while her family flew to Davao.

There was a short mass, and prayers were said over each of the closed caskets. Ioanis was still sobbing, and it was getting louder by the minute, but he was trying to compose himself. Ron's eyes were red, as were mine. There was a lump in my throat. Beyond grieving for a lost friend, we were, or at least I was, grappling with the absurdity of the situation. How could this happen? What does this mean? Why this complete unfair arbitrariness?

A few weeks after the funeral, I met up with Louis, and asked him how he was. He told me he's okay, and that he was making it a point to visit Gino's mom every week to see how she was. He told me that the first time he saw her, she was almost catatonic, but that she's getting better by the week. He was also worried for her. He didn't know, rather, didn't want to think about, what she would do if left to her own devices for too long. He wanted to share in her pain.

He said he missed Gino. But there was nothing he could do. He's moving on, he said.

I have one lasting memory of Gino, which is forever etched in my head. It was Christmas season, and one of his friends handed me a gift. We were seniors then. I opened the package, and found a large statue of an angel, as well as a love letter. I thought it was sweet. It was one of those instances that made me feel, during those difficult years, that I meant something to someone. Even someone I didn't really know. It made me feel glad to be alive.

Photo taken here.

Objectively Beautiful

My boyfriend Jt and I were lounging around his hotel room. I was flipping through channels so fast I could barely understand anything. He was reading a book. At some point we came across this toothpaste commercial which featured an Asian actor with dark skin brushing his teeth, going about his day, then dancing with a girl in the end.

In the middle of the commercial, Jt said, "He's very hot."

I looked at the guy. I thought that, objectively, he wasn't really that hot at all. Cute maybe. "No, he's not. He probably slept with someone to get the part."

"He's so hot. Look carefully."

"I am. He's not. He's cute at the most. Maybe semi handsome. That's it."

"Dude, he is hot. Objectively."

"No, he's not. I mean, look at that nose. That is not a hot nose."

"Well, he's hot for me."

"Well, you've got weird taste in men."

Silence.

"Well, duh."

"Obviously except for me. I'm objectively cute."

Photo taken here.

The Masks That We Wear

I was in a club in Makati with my friend Toph, looking down from a ledge at a large group of people dancing. Toph wasn't in a good mood, and when he's not in a good mood, he has a tendency to rant.

"Just look at them. It's so disgusting."

Eyebrow raised, I looked at him sideways, curiously. "What do you mean?"

"Everything is just so fake."

"Fake?"

"Fake. I mean look at that guy." He pointed at a guy dancing on a small stage to our left. "I'm sure that when he's at home, he's a minimum wage worker who probably had to save money all week just to be able to get in here. But here he acts like he's the coolest guy ever created in the history of the world. It's so annoying."

"I'm sure that he's just here to have fun."

"Of course not. Look at him. That swagger, that annoying posture. He acts like he's God's gift to mankind."

I didn't really know what to say. So I kept quiet.

"See, I have a theory," Toph elaborated. "A lot of these people who act so cool, and so composed, and so goddamn perfect are really losers out in the real world."

He now had my attention. I looked at him directly. I wanted to see if he was sincere.

"See, look at that guy." He pointed to another guy dancing in a dark corner of the bar. "I know him. He's jobless, and practically homeless, and he sells soap to random people as a means to get by. I even know one person he slept with whom, right after they did the deed, he tried to sell soap to. It's just all so sad. But here, look at him. He acts like he owns the place."

"Well, he doesn't really act like he owns the place, but I get what you mean. He does seem a bit conceited."

"That's because he is. And I don't get it. These masks."

"We all wear masks Toph. You know that better than everyone else. Hell, it's your job to make something or someone look better than he really is. I think you call that marketing or advertising. In the real world, we call that lying."

"Hahaha. What can I say? I'm a corporate prostitute. And I get what you mean. But it's one thing to wear a mask and know it's a mask, and another to believe it is the real thing."

"I agree. But we all need to wear masks sometimes."

Photo taken here.

Rules are Like Super Important (Rule-breaking too)

When I first started dating as an openly gay man, I turned to television shows for rules. Because I felt that rules were important. And because I had no clue what I was doing.

So, you start out with the "no kissing on the first date" rule, which really just works on the heterosexuals (I'm not sure about the lesbians). Gay guys are like bunnies. Kissing is important.

That rule transformed into the "no sex on the first date" rule. Which I managed to follow for a time. Until I realized that gay guys are like bunnies. Sex is important. (And I'm a gay guy, just to remind you).

Which metamorphosed into a third rule: "I will only have sex with you if I like you" rule. Which I've broken so many times it became crazy-stupid. Gay guys are like bunnies. And it gets worse when you're drunk and in the mercy of beer goggles.

Then I stopped having rules altogether. Which is a disaster. Not having rules is an invitation to heartbreak. You fall in love and emotionally connect to soulless automatons that vaguely resemble humans, and break the hearts of good people just looking for someone to connect with. So, we're back to square one. Rules are important.

When I met Jt, I had made up another rule. It was the "I will not get into a relationship with someone while I'm in law school because I will break down and cry from the pressure of both school and the relationship and I don't want to have a nervous breakdown and I promise to the universe this will only be about sex" rule. I broke that one. And I've never been happier.

So what's my point? My point is that dating rules are important. But make sure they never get in the way of your happiness.

Here's another one. I really can't make up your rules for you. No one can.

Photo taken here.

Dark Sky

When I was a sophomore in high school, the all girls' school next to our school decided to hold a dance. My tutor then had a niece named Samantha who was my age, so she asked me if I would want to go with her niece as a date. Except she didn't say date, she just asked me if I could go.

I thought about it, and concluded that if I wanted to stop being "confused" about my sexuality, I had to start going out with girls. So I said yes.

It started out simple enough. I had a driver, so I picked Samantha up at around 8pm. We didn't really know each other, so the ride to the school-covered-court-turned-dance floor was long and awkward. I tried initiating conversation, but we both knew I was just forcing it.

When we came to the dance hall, we just sat in a corner. And sat some more. And remained silent. It was one of the longest nights in my young life.

At some point, her friends decided to rescue her from me, who was quite possibly the worst date created in the history of mankind. And I completely understood. She made a few apologies, obviously insincere, and ran with her friends. She never looked back.

I went out to a small grassy field, and stared at the few couples who were cuddling in corners. I didn't really feel envious; just sad. I tried to go back and sit with Samantha, but it was no use, and with her friends there, the date just grew more and more awkward.

So I went back out, and laid on the grass. My driver had already left. He said he'll come back before midnight. I still had a couple of hours.

I remember the sky, like a deep purple marble stone, infinite and ominous. And at some point, the sensation of falling. I sat back up, heart beating fast. There was a sense of loss I think, though I did not understand what it was. There was definitely loneliness.

Samantha never spoke to me again. The few times I saw her, she acted like she didn't know me. I really couldn't blame her.

At a point later in my life, a distinguished writer criticized a story I wrote. She said she didn't understand the image I was trying to evoke. "How can one fall towards the sky?" she asked. She was being rhetorical of course. She meant to show me that my metaphor didn't work.

I didn't bother explaining. I knew she wouldn't understand. "How do you fall towards the sky?" she asked. If she wasn't trying to be snarky, I would have answered, sincerely, "I am talking about the same thing, only they are not the same thing. There is fear, instead of freedom. The same way that you fly."

Photo found here.

Coming Out (A Tribute)

When we were children, my younger brother and I never got along. “Like cats and dogs,” everyone said, and it was true. It was mostly my fault, although I blame evolution. Older brothers, it seems, just like tormenting their younger siblings, and I was particularly talented at it.

One summer, our parents enrolled us at tennis lessons. Before going to the courts I told him that he’s not allowed to speak with me, or be within two meters of my immediate vicinity. When he walked up to me sometime later, I told him to go away. He didn’t talk to me for a week.

There are times when I can be particularly nasty. We were having dinner, and he said something I didn’t like. I retorted, “at least I’m not gay,” looked at him, then snickered. His face grew red. He stood up and walked out.

Even as a child everyone knew my younger brother was gay. What talent I had in hiding the little things that betray my desire for the same sex, he seems to have missed out on. Our tutor was particularly cruel, telling me one time that I needed to look out for my brother, because he shouldn’t be allowed to grow up like that. She stressed the last word in the same pinched tone she reserved for rats or cockroaches. You didn’t need to be brilliant to know what she meant.

One night, I was perhaps 15, and my brother was 13, when he walked up to me, eyes teary and red. He told me he wanted to tell me something.

Even then, I knew what it was. And I waited for the expected confession.

“I am gay,” he said. And just like that, he was out. He told me he wanted to tell our parents, and I answered, in that nonchalant way I find so necessary (because I assumed indifference meant strength), that I didn’t care what he decided. It was all up to him.

But that was a lie. Because I did care, in that fundamental way people can care. “I wish I was him,” I thought, but I shot the idea down as soon as it came. “I’m not gay, I’m just confused,” I remind myself.

But I knew in my heart that I was envious of him. Because he was brave in that particular way I couldn’t be at the time. He asked himself the hard questions, and found himself strong enough to answer with the truth. I admired him in a way he has never known.

I love my little brother, though I have never told him that. It is just not said in our family. We love, but we do not speak of it.

So these words I write are a tribute, and a gift. To you, whom I admire, I wish you the best in life.

This is not my story, but sometimes I wish it was.

Initially written for theorg-y. Featured photo taken here.