Another One For The Road

And when at long last, we emerge from this rut,
I tell you, We'd be in a far better place.
That is something I'd always smile about.

Gumball and Darwin
The Amazing World of Gumball

The Wheel Winds Again

You think, “This is life, this is just how it is and how it’ll always be.” But you are living through something. And while, logically, you must know that there was a time before now, when things were different, and that there will be a time after now, and things will change, it’s so hard to remember right now: 

Everything will change. 

Previously:  When Life Gives You A Reason To Fuck

It merely took a day to spin out of control.

I saw it coming.

All these formless angst and anguish must take shape, and like an imaginary ball of lust, it bounced off over portals that masquerade as "dating sites."

So I was back in Wechat and Grindr, and by design, I also took a leave of absence at the raketship to make time for that ritualistic room overhaul, which I did only once this year. One week, to be exact. Seven unspoken days when I let the rage go unchecked and indulge what the groin has been desiring all this time.

At first, it was easy to get off, if you catch my drift. A dash of libidous words there, coupled with exchanges of photos in various states of undress here, and the horny self is satiated.

But it was never satisfied.

I had so much idle time that week, that i made double the rounds I do in a day. Soon I began engaging in video calls - with boys 10 years my junior. I would make them stroke their weenie or finger their hole, and at one time, I did some money shots to the delight of the 20 year old kid on the other side of the line.

On Grindr, I inflated my ego. I let myself get drunk on the complements I recieved from posting full frontal photos. A couple of times, the teasing almost lead to an encounter in a motel. And like I always do in situations like these, I find ways to retreat for reasons of self preservation.

Until the pent-up repression exploded into a real, mindless assault.

The first act happened one early morning. The Wechat guy sent an invitation to chat, which I accepted almost immediately. There were no pleasantries. Not even a request for a face photo. Five minutes after our introductions, I was already heading towards his place - a mere walking distance from my house.

It was a random encounter: a quickie that didn't end up in fucking (unlike the previous sextings where I usually tell the boys I'd stuff my schlong into their wet holes.) His was hung and amazingly stiff. I had a hard time letting it all slide down my throat. After the deed was over, I asked if he was a top. Without thinking it over, a nod confirmed my suspicion.

It was a one-time encounter, for I had removed the Wechat app after returning home. On Grindr, I have been talking to a chap who found me hours after installing the app. What began as wholesome conversations lead to dinner and drink invitations. And when one who enjoyed the other guy's company has a place of his own, getting invited to stay overnight is not far off the itenerary.

For the first time in two years, it was me who walked away from someone's lair.

The next day.

I would like to believe I'd be forgotten. That our tryst was a romanticized one night stand that you just shake off after taking a cold shower. But it didn't. Perhaps, realizing that both of us may have too many things in common, an invitation was forthcoming, and I got screwed once again during the middle of the week.

There were times that night, I'd take breaks from work-from-home job so I can steal a kiss and wrap my blanket around his upper body. He would show a faint smile before returning to slumber. Perhaps, an appreciation to a person he may never see again. In such idyllic setting, I was made to believe that it was possible to start over: that I would not have to use my own blanket when I take a nap beside him at daybreak. And I was convinced too of the possibility that maybe, if we hold on to each other a little longer, I might give feelings another shot, disproving that long held notion that it takes a long time before I get past the mourning.

But who am I kidding, really?

I did sleep beside him that morning, under his sheets with my arms embracing his hypermasculine frame, and in my dreams, I sincerely wished to return at that lavender spot, where I longed for the assuring hands of another and not this steely gloves I wear now.

For when I wake up, and that angst and anguish fill again the void once occupied by love, never will my care and devotion transcend into a full and unconditional union with the other.

The Fourth relationship attempt has failed. And like in the past two cycles I have been through, the mind dictates what I should have embraced all along.

That I am better off alone. 

You are alive in a memory. 

You, are once upon a time. 

The Illusion Of Things Never Changing

I Wrote This For You

The Hour Of The Wolf

Mendiola Bridge, 3 AM

"What was I thinking?" I shook my head, as I hurried past the J. P. Laurel gate going to Malacanan. 

It was past 2 in the morning, and I was at the middle of my shift. For some reasons, the 2 packs of Nissin Yakisoba I gorged that evening still felt heavy on my tummy. My boxers seem to have grown too small for my thighs, and hours before daylight, the need to burn that excess calories assaulted my self esteem. I would need to get out, not to head to the gym, but to walk and clear my head.

The earliest of the Mendiola joggers have yet to get up and prepare, but I was already there on their grounds, trying to find my way to the other side of the palace complex in San Miguel. The street outside the Presidential office was eerily empty, the huge trees, which awed me during the day, have become menacingly terrifying during the Witching Hour. The cold November air didn't help calm the senses. Only Trance music, that supplied upbeat sounds kept my pace. I was halfway through my stroll when peripheral visions of fire hydrants being mistaken for Duendes nearly got me racing towards the nearest lamp post.

I would have to find another route returning home. The heart could no longer take the distortions.

So I turned back at Casal street where the trucks and occasional bikes from Ayala zipped inches away from the sidewalk. There, I risked getting mugged, and hit, or come across some vagrant in need to vent his frustrations on everything. Save for Ndoto my smartphone, I didn't bring money during the tryst. The ATM could provide much needed relief, but then, how can I be so certain they were not planted with devices that would draw off my cash?

I dashed past Mendiola and then Bustillos. The heart was still racing, but the mind was eager to get home. The streets were no longer empty, but the post-midnight strangers were enough reason to raise my guard. As to why go through all this trouble for clarity, the answer remains elusive. What is certain was the resolve to take a cold shower upon my arrival, and carry on the job tasks needed to be done before I could cocoon in my bed and embrace sleep.

Unpretty

He would say that I seemed to have added a few pounds every time we meet.

"Dati may collarbone ka pa, ngayon wala na." He said with disdain, one time, when I joined him at his gym to work out.

As if not satisfied with his observations, he would then provide a laundry list of ideas to counter my weight gain.

"Kumain ka kasi 4x a day. Huwag kasi isang bagsakan." He said in jest. I would then listen, only to brush it off afterwards.

"Huwag ka mag alala, papayat din ako!"

After all, despite my busy work schedule, never did I stop going to Eclipse. I even included jogging between my work-out days just because the home-based job removes so much physical activity.

He, meanwhile, religiously goes to the gym three times a week. He doesn't eat rice at night, and takes a few bites of bread and fruits in the morning. His discipline was unparalleled, and so was his demands - which he conveyed through the subtle comments about my built. I used to not pay attention to these snide remarks believing they were thoughtless musings. But as his repeated comments dent my self esteem, a memory drawn from a time when I was obese re-emerges, forcing some old wounds to open.

"Ang taba taba mo na." He would then try to lift my legs to put himself in between.

"Hihiwalayan kita pag lumaki ka pa." The boyfriend would later say it was a joke, but the neglect I felt was achingly real. 

Years later, he would see me turn into the muscular guy he desired me to be. But by then, I was already preoccupied searching for validation from other men. In Guys4Men and elsewhere, they abound and I indulged in their attention, and in all the betrayals I did, there remains the scar of his words.

I have never forgotten his threat.

Fast forward into the present, and the comments I have been receiving as of late somehow made its way into the question of his sudden coldness. I try to remain steadfast, believing everything was just a phase. For I have bounced back to my ideal weight so often that my clothes never needed size replacement.

So was his promise that our second relationship has yet to see its best days. 

It is only after the words stopped being repeated, and the guy, whose vanity issues didn't sit well with my expanding girth suddenly announced the breakup - through email - did i realize that maybe,

All that mattered to him was having a boyfriend with a chiseled body. Not someone who will accept him even if he turns out to be the biggest mass gainer in our relationship.

And as for me two weeks after the breakup:

I will have the last laugh.

Kelly Heights (First Part)

On these great plains,
there are visions of the clouds
turning red at partings,
where the earth sighs
away from the warring skies.


The Last War Party, Ruel De Vera
The Most Careful Of Stars


Previously, Melancholy Heights

Back when I used to be a prominent member of a local student council party in UST, the seniors among us would party the night away after the day-long meet and greet at the college lobby, and end up spending the early mornings in some quiet and relaxing place in the city. 

The socializing, among my party mates holds many memories, for it was during these after-school "overnight meetings" did I first taste the Manila club scene. That, of course, is another story. This entry is about my love affair with Cloud 9 in Antipolo, and how I discovered the place thanks to my political associates.

I was lucky to be part of that group, who decided to hold a meeting on a Saturday for some organizational planning. It was the summer before I turned Senior, and the meeting ended late at night. The cool kids of the Arts and Letters, with their wheels and club gears had no plans of going home. There's always the choice to go to Timog, at Phenomena to dance. 

But that's an option not everyone in the group accepts.   

When another orgmate with a car arrived, the group composed of around 15 girls and boys made their way into the waiting vehicles. There were four cars in the convoy and despite the protests of others, the group made their way to Timog for some night of merrymaking at the dance floor. 

"I was at the back seat of the second car. Yung driver namin na freshman eh naisipan makipagkarerahan dun sa kasama niya sa unahan. It was on a sidestreet along the Scout area, ang kipot nung kalsada pero nasa 60kph yata yung patakbo ng mga kasama ko. Parang ewan lang. We come out from one main street intersection to another, until dun sa isang kanto, biglang lumusot yung unang car saktong may BMW na paparating. 'As in inches lang ang pagitan', sabi nung Freshman driver nung unang car. Pati yung mga kampanteng pasahero sa loob eh biglang nawala ang antok."

The club was packed and the gatekeepers refused to let new guests in. The still unoccupied Ozone disco, whose infernal remains rest just a few steps away reminded the owners of Phenomena of its tragedy. Since there were no Starbucks along Timog back in 2001, our elders thought of returning to the place where they used to wait for sunrise, high up in the mountains; where the vista of a waking city graces the pilgrims from the plains.

People who have been there, and who have seen the city from such heights call the spot, "The Overlooking." 

-tobecontinued-

When Life Gives A Reason To Fuck

Previously:

Something That Is Real




"Pre"

"San ka?"

It was a Viber message from an unknown number.

"Office Why?"

"Kala ko naman nasa inyo ka."

He was referring to the street where we both live. The truth was, my colleagues and I were wrapping our meeting in the office. We will take our work home.

"Haha bakit?"

"Lam mo na."

I get it.

"Long time ah!" 

I replied, grinning.

"Hahahaha"

"Ngaun lang d naging busy."

"Bukas pa uwi mo?"

"Yup."

"Ay sayang."

"Awtz."

Ending the conversation there, I was certain not to make a move for any encounter to happen.

Barely a week after the break-up and there they are, making a nasty comeback. It's like life's taunting my resolve, and saying it straight to my face that I am meant to be a slut. The guy was one of those random encounters; the last among the nameless faces I met on Planet Romeo for a "quick fun." Had he not mentioned the street of my residence during our correspondence, I would not recall our history. 

He was out of my life long before summer has begun. 

I recall our time, and how we did it at the bathroom of his dormitory. He would make contact before midnight, sneak me into the compound and into the toilet area, and there, while pretending to take a dump, he would suck my dick as he pleasured himself. He had a weenie, by the way. Unimpressive, given my high standard. It was one of the reasons I never asked for his name. But more importantly, after the deed was over, he would tell me to leave the dorm after he exits the scene. No talks. Not even goodbyes.

Like he never slobbered my face in the heat of our quickie. 

Despite these cycles, he would re-emerge from time to time, asking if I am game for some "alam mo na," moments. For a manly guy who says he has a "girlfriend," his invitation is a source of astonishment. Why look for me when he has other choices in our neighborhood? Why keep asking, if I keep declining? I felt my crotch when I arrived home that night, and choosing between a cold, and recycled encounter, and a lock-down inside my hollow quarters, I resigned to the thought that some job-related tasks await - besides getting cock-sucked and wet-kissed by a stranger who I will never recognize, and never see, as part of my life.

Back To Zero

Dear Mugen from 2009,

My apologies for getting in touch, now, just when you have probably thought I have figured things out. I may no longer share your need for affirmation. But you and I cannot escape our fate. Years into the future, I would still lose my battles. I would be crushed from within; hurt in ways you may have easily deflected. The difference now is that I refused to see the writings on the wall. Unlike with you and Phanks, you engineered the dissolution. 

You mounted a rebellion.

I am writing to you to find solace. No. I am seeking resolution. You were a tough kid, with a mind set for tomorrow. Five years after publishing this entry and you will get acquainted with a Mugen who is set to settle down. Time is running out. I no longer have the strength to play around and explore like you did in many, horrible ways the future me would find it difficult to confess. 

I remember, you had a goal before: To be able to pull out the shard lodged within your heart in a matter of days. Did you achieve your target? Did you ever run away and never look back? Tell me how because I need insights.

My mind tells me to flee, yet my feet remain stuck, until perhaps, I find out the depth of his lies.

Allow me to end this log as spontaneous as it came when I screen shot that entry you had many summers ago. Of course, I knew what happened next, how it took you another year before you let someone breach those walls. 

And to be honest, this is what I am terrified of.

Knowing how we've cradled that solitude long enough to find joys in being alone.

There are reasons to believe that I may never seek this road called love again.

I will tell you what happened in time. For now, let me mourn our loss.

Lead Us Astray

A fake news portal wrote, "let there be darkness for six days."

And the world believed. 

It took just mere three paragraphs of sloppy storytelling for the space agency to release a statement refuting the "news." 

But the world merely shrugged off the truth. 

Seven days had already passed and the article is still being shared on social media. After all, it was a subject matter that catches everyone's fancy, besides political and celebrity scandals. Humanity's fascination with the absurd - and the people who believe them will never run out.

This is our bane as a species.

Thus, it would not come as a surprise if some people really did stock up on supplies. Meanwhile, the pious had probably repented and gave away their belongings like the last time - when some televangelist said the Rapture will take place on a specific date. Woe to those who looked forward to the end times. The world didn't turn into cinders and the deceivers went on peddling their lies.

What is even stranger, however, is that no matter how many times these "news articles" and "forwarded texts" lead us astray, we keep on embracing anything and everything that would put a break to our mundane and monotonous lives. 

To the point of doubting the information gatekeepers, whose names they always put on the line.

"I think it's a hoax but I'm still distressed." A friend said to me on Twitter.

"Tell me the source and I can tell you if it's true." I said, assuring him of my strong connections with the gatekeepers.

The friend then sent the news link.

"Just by looking at the word "hospitol" and I knew it was absolutely fake." I told him. He promised never to share the link to his followers.

For all intents and purposes, the case is closed between us and our audience.

But in some isolated corners of the social web, where mindless panic edges over scholarly discernment, one click of the mouse button: a retweet, a share, and the world will come tumbling down, forcing authorities to release statements debunking the terrifying things written on the article.




  

Minsan Lang Ikaw Bata

One day, I walked inside the Toy Kingdom for reasons no longer I can recall. It might have been one of those random visits, whose pretext was to buy a toy for my nephews. I did buy something at the store - a die cast jeep from Hotwheels - which I bought for the kids. But i kept the toy in my room for so long, that i was inching towards owning the die cast myself.

Toy cars.

I had plenty when i was a little boy. I used to simulate traffic jams on the floor complete with cardboard boxes in place of buildings. I had so many die cast toy cars and so many of them got lost and broken. I have managed to save a few. They now make up the cache of trinkets and mementos that occupy the upper shelves of my dresser.

To this day, they remain hidden from our little boys. The thought of turning them over still terrifies to no end.

Returning to the die cast toy jeep i have subconsciously possessed, the act, which slowly manifest every time i find some painted metal object with wheels lying around the house reawaken the kid within. Maybe it was the collector in me who springs into action, it might even be the hoarder taking over.

As far as i know - and it happened to me many times over -  when a die cast toy car gets into the shelves, it's time to invoke the conscience and remind myself.

"Minsan lang ikaw bata."

---

"Bigyan mo din ako ng ganyan sa birthday ko ha?" Lenin pointed at the miniature Chrysler jeep inside the loot bag. Its contents are among the first presents I would give away this Christmas.

"O sige next time." I was supposed to say. The toy was actually meant for his younger brother, who like him, has fascination with die cast vehicles.

"Wait"

"Kunin mo na yung toy." He then slid his hand to claim, that object he's been eyeing since last month.

"Happy Birthday..." I said, as he walked away to show his mom his on-the-spot present. 

Written for the Round Table Challenge

One More Time

How many one liners have you erased before you were satisfied with this draft?

Ten?

Twelve?

We have lost count.

And how many times have you thought of returning, only to fall back at the last minute? 

Since the 27th. Two months, after you have gone away.

Truth is, we have nothing here to look at, but derelicts of a forgotten age. A time, when we glorified our achievements with unsung artistry, even when our pockets stayed deep and empty. And yes, we still long for those days, when we squeezed work between lives; when we celebrated long walks with soulful musings; when we were, clandestine writers of events, vowing never to breathe a word that such space - this realm - exists.

Then, silence begins to engulf our thoughts for there was nothing really to pen anymore.

Because we would rather keep the stories to ourselves than waste hours crafting the perfect narratives for this self-indulgent exercise.

Besides, other mediums of expression abound. 200 characters, and we're done sharing stories.

But we are, creatures of habit and we have long accepted that writing is a lifelong, personal pursuit. And it leaves a strange scar in the chest knowing we have given up our craft for monetary gains; that we had so many unfinished stories left abandoned in life and in texts that will see no end.

For we hardly distinguished one from the other.

And so, we return to this blog to reclaim the lives we had lost; to tell the unsaid events of the last two months; and pen the endings of some tales we have already weaved in memory. There maybe no certainties in our presence this time. But at least, we made attempts at reconnecting.

This is Mugen, writing back, and these are my stories.