A Wechat Message
It was the first message I got from him.
"Insert smiley face here"
"Sa lips, mwah! Laplapan."
Boners often wake me up in the morning.
I knew where it was heading, so better ask what he wants before I pay attention with someone else.
"Nkdpa lng. Tigas ni curvey ko."
How story arcs take a life of its own, with the central character unaware of the events unfolding is still a subject of rumination.
It baffles me, as the fog of war hinders my ability to foresee my direction.
Who would have thought the narrative that started with a resounding "no" to a one night stand at the beginning of the month returns with foes stoking flames that are supposed to trigger bed wars. The last one was a guy I met last month. The absence of chemistry makes the meet-up a failure. But his determination - to at least spend some time with me at some private corner - went on until he realized that I was taking him for a ride.
So he quietly retreated. He stopped sending sweet nothings and hollow words of concern knowing his moves will get him nowhere.
But I didn't stop with him. Knowing that abstinence requires creative forms of orgasmic fulfillment, I downloaded apps for my smartphone to flirt-talk with my growing number of playmates. Some of them also happen to be acquaintances in a popular social media website.
Incognito elsewhere, I have become my slutty self. A reincarnation unlike the one I've been on the Blue planet. Instead of seeing people and deciding to hop in bed with them or not, I send digital images that are supposed to stay private. I get praises for things some of my friends would only speculate. And to toy around with someone's basic instincts was my game. Once a stranger's intent becomes pronounced, there is no way a meet-up will ever happen.
Unless a person spots a chink in my armor.
I have learned not so long ago that playthings aren't supposed to cross the realms of real life. For they blur the lines of attachment, and often shakes inner peace. So I move on, biting provocations from random sexually appealing strangers. Copulating with the use of a hand-held device - with my other hand pumping my gear stick. Becoming the person I once laugh at, for being so mechanical to attain self-pleasure.
It is when strangers ask for meet ups - to do it humanely that I fall back - unable to seal the deal that will potentially unlock my passage.
For I have grown a little weary of eyeballs that end in bed.
And it's consequences.
Jaded, perhaps. Prude, not entirely. Maybe, the resistance to all forms of real, instinctive sex has grown defiant believing that when a liberator does come, he will find me intact and unbroken. The union we would forge will be untainted with smudgy histories; and that the bonds we nurture in its infancy will be bereft with doubt and infidelity.
But time is no longer my companion. And one of these horny days, I would really give in to that need; to that urge and suspend my penchant for artificiality. I just hope that when it happens. Sana. I end up with the right person. Someone, who instead of taking a chunk of my humanity, will at long last, put me back together and make me
"Tgnan mo n lanh pg ng-meet tyo."
"Malaki siguro si curvey."
"Kaw bhala kng immeet mo aq."
End of conversation.