Joppi

Previously: Ice Block

I fondly remember how you came into my life. 

It was last summer, and one of the dick pictures you posted on Twitter caught my fancy. There was nothing peculiar about it, except that it was bundled with other photos that reveal your true passion: coffee making. The exact words have escaped me now, but I recall telling you that I see beyond the perversion. That I find your photos artistic, and I think you're a nice guy who seldom gets into trouble. 

That you are worth learning.

The words might have sunk deep, for I saw the beginning of your transformation. Less you flaunted your dirty mind, and instead posted crafted words that resonate with your delicate side. It is unfortunate that I am beginning to see the Gundam Pilot as a steady date, hence, our ties were limited to occasional sexts tempered by pillow talks. In spite of the caution, I was paying close attention to our conversations. I was hoping to find a common thread in your stories that may draw me closer to you. 

This didn't happen for the announcement came too sudden. I already renounced my freedom on Twitter when our embryonic friendship was about to take shape. I knew you felt abandoned, but nothing could be undone. You came too late, and in our day-to-day banters, I failed to find a spot to anchor my feelings.

Time had robbed us. 

We walked away from each other knowing there's no chance of getting back. But there you are still, ready to provide cover when the ex and I separated ways - twice.

--

Ours should have been the classic rebound story, with you taking the place of the ex after he left for the flimsiest of excuses. Your patience is noble, and so is your perseverance. If I had any complaint before the pre-Christmas eyeball, it was your hesitation to make a move. Only after the second breakup did we set the date for the meet-up. By then, I was merely keeping a promise: a show of gratitude for holding me together when I was about to spiral out of control. And it was a memorable late-afternoon lunch: the stroll around Binondo, the feast at the Chinatown Mall, the revelations of a romance I would forever regard as a sham. If there was lacking in that first encounter, it was your stories. Either I was preoccupied with my own, or I didn't pay attention to your narratives.

At a hindsight, the Binondo hangout encapsulates my unsteady state of mind, and your place had I let you pursue what you truly felt for me. It will be a one-sided partnership, a union replete with heartbreaks, a relationship I might not take seriously given the infidelities of the past. But you carried on, with your everyday greetings on DMs, instant messaging apps, and sometimes, even on SMS. You would always have a comment about my rants, and even put stars on most of my trivial Twitter updates. I let you have your way believing infatuations fade without strong encouragement. This is why I decline your invitations to watch movies, or even see you during my free time. The ambivalence would have gone on if it never reached the point where the guilt becomes too unbearable. I had to step in and ask you to cease encroaching. Brutal as it sounds but this is how I care. There is injustice knowing I can never reciprocate the attention you give, and if it means driving you away to realize the futility, then so be it.

The hurt ends with me.

---

"I just want to be left alone. :)"

"Haha. Wala naman bago dun paps. Hehehe. :)"

"Unless you don't want to get upset and frustrated, I suggest you keep your distance."

"Stop sending DMs and Viber message to me. Let me be the one to reach out, in my own accord."

"May nagawa ba ko Mugs? Pero sige." In truth, this question hurts the most. You deserve fair treatment given the kindness you show.

"Wala, nalulungkot lang ako kasi todo effort ka mag-care sa akin pero hindi naman ako ganun ka-focused sayo."

"I find it unfair because if I were in your shoes, I won't exert much effort."

"I am not expecting anything in return naman. You are a friend of mine. And I know where my place is. Pero kung gusto mo na tumigil ako, cge."

"That's the difficult part. Not expecting. You think if I respond very warmly, you think you won't get encouraged to exert more effort?"

"Oks na. I'm stopping. :)"

"Thank you."

I know this is not the end. That I am not breaking ties, but instead, saving the friendship you recognize. In time, when you learn to be less intense. When you realize there's no point of missing someone you only saw once. And when you start telling stories, instead of trying to find where my soft spot is, I would reach out, and probably, hang out with you like I've always thought we would.

Until then. Let this entry be a token of my remembrance. 

I will always remember.

Paper Dolls

As kids, we were forbidden to touch playthings, the opposite sex claims as their own, as this might turn us into effeminate boys when we grow older. Such is the rule for most households where gender roles were pronounced and any display of girly behavior was frowned. This was strictly enforced, except in our house, for I sometimes had to spend time with my sister to strengthen the sibling bonds, and maybe, to learn the rudiments of sensitivity so I may never have the impression that females are weaker and different from men.

While suspicion lingers that I was merely left to do as I please, the liberty allowed me to acquire those colorful dolls sold at some corner store in school. The two-dimensional cut-outs are made from thin sheets of cardboard paper. Its sundry outfits and accessories are separated so that it could be worn by securing the folding tabs over the female figure. I recall dressing the dolls when no one is looking. At a young age, I was certain of getting into trouble when my father finds out I've been playing with girls' stuff.

But still, I pursued such pastime, alone, for reasons I no longer recall.

It was a fleeting fancy, much like the plastic water guns and Styrofoam planes that took out a chunk of my allowance. While the dressing up part didn't transform me into a couture expert or a fashion designer, it is with much appreciation that I cherish this memory while playing Covet Fashion app on my Android phone. 

Olaf Strackynzky Design

Though it might have been a deviation from my character to indulge in such time-waster, (knowing I only played it to impress upon my gay friends my prowess in clothing digital dolls with branded shoes, jewelry and dresses) there is immense joy in knowing that on my twelfth year of gay hood, I was able to connect with that obscure childhood memory, whose juvenile curiosity lead him to venture into the world of fabrics and colors.

And write his story.

Enemy Of The State

Our story tells of a tribe more ancient than all the peoples who call these islands home. They have set their holdings in the south, creating a Thalassocracy extending down to the shores of Java. These locals were bound by one creed, and in the ages to come, no conqueror from the West could bring them down to their knees. Towns get burned and lives, slaughtered. But they return with resolve to stand their ground and protect their God-forsaken homelands.   

The American Imperialists know this, and have left them largely untouched. The Spaniards won, but a strip of land we now call Zamboanga. In the three centuries they evangelized the Indios, never were they able to bring the cross to the Moros. And so Uncle Joe used the art of persuasion, and money to pacify the Maranaos, Badjaos, and eventually the Tausugs, who have paid the price during the butchery at Bud Dajo.

When the Americans left, very little would be heard of this tribe, except that they are to be feared. Restive and weary of outsiders, only one leader had the madness to recruit their warriors to be trained, and used against Sabah. They were to occupy the state in behalf of the Sultanate, and when this didn't go well with the trainees, they too were slaughtered in what is now known as the Jabidah Massacre. 

The First insurrection took place soon after, with the torching of Jolo setting the fires of a larger armed struggle. Entire generations caught in the crossfire would hardly know of peace. To this day, the Moro Homelands remain a patchwork of local feifdoms propped by the Malacanan, and towns under control of the rebels.

The idea of a sovereign republic exists only in parchment.

I tell of this tragedy, for its connection to the recent carnage in Mamasapano, Maguindanao. Forty four police officers died in the hands of the MILF after the failed arrest of a foreign terrorist left them at the mercy of bandits and rebels. Three days have already passed and only scant reports trickle down the media. Whispers tell of mutilations: of the dead being paraded in the streets like skinned trophies, of the outsiders being mounted on spikes to serve as warning to those who would cross the line. There was even a video clip going rounds on social media showing the fallen with their heads cracked open, bodies peppered with bullets, and missing body parts scattered on the ground.

Such is the handiwork of the beasts.

Much as I would like to lend my voice for the end of the Bangsamoro peace process, and blame the MILF for the mass slaughter, history is a painful memory of how time and again, we refuse to listen to their story. I recall some years past, I came across a sari-sari store at the edge of the Pasig River. Its storekeeper telling not to venture into neighborhoods where Muslims dwell. I heeded the warning without asking the consequence of my transgression and I returned home unharmed. The MILF said they were never given advisory that a police operation will take place near their camp; that over 300 men armed with rifles will hunt down a fugitive wanted by the same masters who were responsible for the genocide at Bud Dajo.

And so before pointing the blame to people and demanding their blood, try to imagine spending a lifetime with a gun as companion. Put yourself in the shoes of someone, whose mind is constantly fucked up by the everlasting prospects of war.

Then realize that some armed band showed up one night, violating the very land your ancestors fought so you can lay claim to it.

How would you respond - even punish the trespassers who had the gall to shoot bullets when you thought peace was at hand?

Ask, should this happen to your tattered home.

Would you show no mercy?

The Cat With No Name

Previously on: The Infestation

She was dropped, rather unceremoniously, in front of me one morning and rather than cower under the table, the cat approached my stretched hands to rub her head against my knuckles.

It was our first encounter.

She was dispatched from our ancestral house to counter the growing rat population at home. Droppings were everywhere and even the food on the table wasn't spared when nobody's looking. My sister already sounded the alarm. She was even willing to hire the services of a specialist to see the pests demise from our sight. Only after these creatures appeared in my room, squeaking, and gnawing on wood did I act with urgency. The fly paper counter assault did little to stop their advance. Not even the peanut butter coated bait drew them into the sticky trap.

It must be the feline's brutal attacks that finally drove the critters away. Overnight, the mice no longer dash behind the furniture. The bins were even left open, certain that nothing will jump out when we put spoiled food items in. Except for the stink that wafted from the toilet when the cat decides to take a dump, the guest didn't pose much of a problem. She even eats the leftover dog food once the house companion had her fill. It was, the most convenient of arrangements.

I thought we could keep her for good. But the house is shared with residents who might pose a threat to the cat. While my sister doesn't want her because of the poop, it is the children that worries us more. It didn't help that the nephew who has asthma was her tormentor. I was told he was caught pulling the cat's tail when the nanny wasn't looking. Also, the frequent snarling, when the cat walks close just as the dog is eating might happen when the tykes are nearby.

There are many ways to get scratched by a cat's claw. It is just a matter of timing.

The animal was never given a name for reasons of impermanence. It was a temporal arrangement whose end was to remove the mice from the house. Nothing more. Resigned to this reality, the cat was given courtesies the dog never enjoyed. She was carried around like an infant, hugged, like a ragdoll, gets to check the rooms without being shooed. She even gets to climb my bed and sleep beside the pillows. 

She was more of a house pet to me. And maybe, I was more to her than a reluctant host.

In her days of stay, and nights of mouse hunting, the cat afforded an aspiration, a wishful thinking should a time come when I would have to live my days in hermitage:

Mugen, in his advanced age gets up from the bed to start his daily rituals. Lumbering with a cane towards the terrace, to tend to his basil and lavender plants he has nurtured from days past, a short-haired, tri-colored cat much like the one he lets into his room many, many years ago trailed behind. With her tail stiff and pointing at the ceiling, she rubs her body against any hard surface when she catches up. The inseparable companions lived their days, like life finally completes its cycle.

For the old man, I think of at this moment, he asks nothing more.

The Five Blessed Days

Take away the religious traditions and blind adoration and all you can see is pure joy: reverie; the collective goodwill of 100 million souls.

- Thoughts while watching the flock attend Pope Francesco's Eucharistic Celebration at Luneta while a storm passes overhead.

The Rockstar

Twenty years had passed since the Most Holy Father came to these shores, and turned the non-believers into his most ardent followers. I was barely a teen then when the country was chosen to host the World Youth Day celebrations. Being the rockstar pope, St. John Paul II was received with ecstatic fervor by a grateful nation. To this day, I still have fond memories of him as the pope mobile paraded in front of me.

I was among the throngs of faithful who waited for his motorcade to pass. He was off to the Malacanan to see the president. It is said that Fidel Ramos broke protocols by personally welcoming the Successor of Peter as he embarks the plane at the Villamor Air Base. The role has always been reserved for the second highest official of the republic. 

The esteemed guest, however, was a special case.

--

We stood for hours near the street junction going to the palace for the Papal entourage to appear. St. John Paul hasn't even left the Apostolic Nunciature and yet, well-wishers have already gathered to greet him. Some had even placed rows of monoblock chairs on the sidewalks for the pious elders to sit on. Transistor radios and portable TV sets were brought as well to keep everyone aware of the motorcade's location. Soon, word flies that his Holiness has already left his residence. The news brought cheers all the way to the crest of Nagtahan Bridge, where one can see the thousands more lining Quirino Avenue to catch even the faintest glimpses of the pope. 

It didn't take long for us to feel the Pontiff's nearing presence. Motorcycle escorts with hazard lights turned on began to converge under the Rotunda, and then, the first of the black SUVs that make up the holy entourage appeared on the horizon. You can see the people in the distance waving their hands, as the spectators behind you surge forward, pushing you within inches of the road. The monoblock chairs, which used to support weary hips earlier, have now become stools for the same elders to stand on. Parents, who brought their children had to piggyback the youngsters as the crowd squeezed whatever space was available. And then the moment came. The locally-made jeep made its way into the crowd, where the red-skinned Pope in his white vest, waived to the faceless, nameless flock, which for a moment, leave them suspended in a rapturous daze.

---

That day, I was able to see St. John Paul II twice, for his motorcade needed to pass the same rotunda for the family gathering at the University of Santo Tomas. The second encounter might have been less crowded, (at least, from where I stood) and eventful, but to catch a glimpse of him once more sealed the memory of a man now venerated by millions around the world.

---

A few hours from now, another rockstar from the Holy See will make pilgrimage to these lands. Church leaders say his purpose is to touch base with the people of Tacloban, who, just a year ago reeled from the most powerful typhoon in recent memory. Preparations got fever pitch a few days ago, with some major roads being blocked to simulate the passing of Francesco's motorcade. Crowds are expected be in millions - and that - is on his day of arrival. There is no doubt the pressure is intense, with Pnoy himself leading the inspections to make sure no detail was overlooked. Meanwhile, local media continues to hype the Pope's coming, with full coverage even of his pastoral visit to Sri Lanka.

I may have been a little less religious these days. I don't even hear the mass anymore. But like most people being caught in the frenzy of the Pope's visit. The historic occasion is an opportunity to bring out a memory, and to see the nation as it really is: festive, jovial, a people who would move heaven and earth to make a guest feel comfortable. This realization made me appreciate all the government is overdoing just to be sure of the Pontiff's security. More than embarrassment in the global community, the mega event production bonanza, with the Showbiz Republic at the helm tells so much about our society.

In ways very few will understand, our flair for the dramatics is a trait I embrace as mine.

So I went to the Quiapo Church on the eve of the Pope's arrival, to pray, for his safe stay in the country. A storm is brewing in the east, while memories of past stampedes continue to hurt as collective wounds. I have not even thought of a possible assassination attempt from extremists who might take advantage of our security situation. May these thoughts remain in the figment of my imagination.

For whatever purpose, the act was done to be one with the faithful.  

Enjoying the view of the Quirino Grandstand at 3 AM

For I too, am still part of the flock. And in my little, solitary ways, this is how I make ready for the Rockstar's coming.

Grand Theft Generation

Against my wishes to get out of my man-cave and leave the house that afternoon, the urgency of performing the errands overruled the desire to procrastinate - again. It was money matters I have to fix - a yin yang of sorts as I had to pay my credit card bills, while e-mailing the documents needed to claim a raffle prize. 

So off I go to the computer shop that has been around the street since the Triassic times. I still owe them 20 pesos, a due I forgot to pay when they had no change and I promised to return the next time I would rent a computer. That was ten years ago. I come and go as I please nowadays, with the utang apparently forgotten, like the ancient desktops they keep replacing to stay ahead of competition.    

It didn't take long for the attendant to get the documents from my hands so they could be scanned and turned into a digital file. While waiting for the machine to finish reading the hard copy, I saw this young girl in front of me, playing a video game created for prepubescent boys and adults - who have nothing to do but simulate a bandit life.

Known collectively as the Grand Theft Auto, I know very little about the game aside from its seamless world and violent content. I had thought of acquiring a bootleg copy some years ago. But knowing it might interfere with my virtual dollhouse also known as the Sims, to refrain from installing it on my hard drive seems to be the most prudent move. GTA went on to become the hottest selling video game of that year. It even spawned several incarnations because of its open-ended gaming concept, which to this day seems appealing to children who were not even born when the first game hit the shelves - including girls.

And she played like nobody is watching: her burly, middle-aged white trash avatar wearing wife beaters and jeans fired missiles that caused buildings to explode. Then, she used a rocket belt to survey the terrain from an altitude. I do not know what fun she reaps from such game save for being hooked to such mindless violence.

Is she trying to prove that girls like her can always outplay the boys?

The curioser in me would like to scratch the surface and find out where she gets the money for such indulgence, or why, of all the pastimes, she picked something girls her age would never touch. Does she have older boys as siblings? Is she an outcast in class? But, for a gender-bending generation where she belongs, questions lose relevance when you realize how egalitarian and twisted our time has become.

"Maybe she used to be a warrior in her past life." The afterthought lingered long after my 'ninja' moves snapped the image with my trusted phone.

"Or simply, she's a boy trapped in a girl's body." The second theory seems more acceptable. 

There goes another lesbian awakening.

Written for the Round Table Challenge

Cock Pic

"Bulge mo na lang kulang."

The Bag Hanger posted on my timeline after he caught me teasing another Twitter friend, whose bulge I claimed was a face towel tucked under his shorts.

"Show it. Share to us." He dared.

Victorian Age prudery requires that I should have never accepted his challenge. After all, I am dealing with social media accounts whose owners love posting pictures of their weenies and bulges for all to see. While I do condone their behavior, I recall saying on the same social media platform before that I don't talk to dicks. Hence, the blocking of several accounts whose display pictures show their family jewels instead of faces.

So what happened?

In the age of selfies, with Kim Kardashian "Breaking the Internet," to show off your private parts has become the "cool" thing especially for people with exhibitionist streak. Maybe it's human nature defying old taboos, or perhaps the joy of being unchained from the bounds of propriety.

All I know is it tempers the libertine leanings, while providing space for sensual expressions. 

In a lifetime that precedes the Gundam Age, I too, have caved in to the digital needs of the flesh.  It was the next best thing given the risks and troubles of live act performance. Having a high-resolution camera attached to the phone made it easier to snap pictures of the hard-on and send it to the playmate who is expecting some visual delights. 

There is nothing to hide. This was part of the trade-off.

And since this new dare was a sort of gentleman's agreement with lads, who still see me not as playmate but a friend, my hope is that the gesture to post the hardcore photo through private message was meant to show that I'm not as snooty as many people have impressions of me.

So one morning, despite the biting cold, and a boner that refuses to cooperate, I laid on my back after pulling down my jerseys. And after fondling the junior (while conjuring memories of past encounters) until it gets to a point that the pole stands stiff, albeit showing signs of limpness, I positioned my Sony Xperia's camera some distance away from the shaft, so the flattering shot impresses the recipients.

"Because I promised."

A private note I composed attached to the picture.

"Enjoy!"

Hours later, both lads sent a collective response.

"Sarap."

Pariah

Fiction

The day after the massacre, Amir, who resides in a middle-class neighborhood in Bordeux woke up feeling rather strange. In his apartment where two other Berber immigrant families live, the children, whose squeals disrupt his sleep, didn't wake him. Not even his next door neighbor, whose Unia and Khansa Batma songs add to the noise wasn't played that morning. A coincidence, perhaps, since he used to bang the wall next to his bed to tell the teen to put down his speakers' volume.  

Leaving his bedroom to reach the doorway, he walked past shards of broken glass from the window. He was too tired the night before that he didn't hear it crash when some no-good doers thought it was fun to hurl some pebbles into his room's direction. After taking a leak, he dragged on to the front door to pick the newspaper he reads before breakfast. 

It was never delivered. 

So was the daily milk ration he use for his porridge. 

This has never happened. 

He was about to walk back when he spotted a neighbor, a surly guy holding a copy of the latest issue of Le Figaro. He didn't mind the front page picture of the hatchback used by the terrorists, what he found bothersome was his stare.   

"Nique ta mere." The Frenchman said, almost inaudibly.

"Tu peux répéter s'il te plait?" The neighbor responded by spitting on the pavement while still looking at him. Being used to this treatment, he walks back to his apartment only to step on a Koran smeared with human feces.

"Humanité." He sighed, before picking the holy book to wipe off the fecal matter, and put it back at the mosque, which later that day, would be torched to cinders.

Several French mosques were attacked following the killing of 12 people at the office of the French satirical newspaper Charlie Hebdo on Wednesday, according to reports.

Around 8pm local time on Wednesday, shots were fired in the direction of a Muslim prayer hall in Port-la-Nouvelle in southern France. Meanwhile Ouest-France reports that several percussion grenades were thrown into the courtyard of a mosque in Le Mans, west of Paris. 

Mosques Attacked in France Following Charlie Hebdo AttackTime

Ice Block

Previously on L'Heure Bleue:  Missing

A Twitter Direct Message:

"Into the Woods."

Insert a smiley emoticon after the invitation.

"I-calendar mo na." 

His message received no reply.

"Papa Muggggsss!!! Miss you." The guy made his presence felt again, two hours after his first barrage. Irked, I carried on watching the first episode of Black Mirror and forgot the whole thing.

I thought it was the end of it - for that night. After all, I have already conveyed my muted disinterest. 

But no. 

Leaving the office after the short teleconference with our Jewish clients, the guy sent another direct message. I didn't let it go unnoticed this time. Thoughts can no longer be suppressed. And in a very gentle but frank response, I told him to fuck off.

"Mugggie, January 31 pala, Saturday. Into the Woods pag puwede ka." 

"Toy," I tapped on my touchscreen. "Medyo nakukulitan na ako. I can't say yes to an invitation I cannot commit on."

No longer did I hear from him after he apologized.

--

I knew this would happen.

Our lunch date at the Lucky China Mall a month ago went so well that it might have spawn an idea that I would be looking forward to more hangouts. While I don't discount the possibility of seeing him in the near future, there are two things one should understand about me: That I don't like being forced into situations I have no control. And that, the "missing you" part is something I reserve only to people who matter.

It's like saying "I love you." to someone who can never be yours.

Lately, I find it extremely difficult to understand some guys' idea of attachment. Another fellow on Twitter, who I accommodated by sensibly talking to him on the phone for 2 hours, misses our conversation. From the tone of his last direct message, he wanted to talk badly. Another chap, I engaged in edging last week started calling me daddy. Remembering that stranger who used to call me "dad" in some lucid dream, the kid never heard from me again. He too, apparently got attached when I told him I'd ram his tight ass and breed him real good.

Of course, that was sext. Latest government estimates say there are 500 new HIV cases last November. And for obvious reasons, the news didn't surprise me.

--

Albert Einstein is often quoted saying that insanity is doing something over and over expecting different results. Feel free to label me insane after this revelation, but this cycle has been going on repeatedly.

There is no escape. Only atonement.

I wish to convey my apologies to these men and tell them that the idea of a more intimate association is not forthcoming. And that the sweet overtures I show are mere courtesies. It takes more than words - and deeds, to make romantic possibilities happen. In the past, the response came too late and I would suffer more from the "what-ifs." and "why-I-didn'ts."

To this day, I am still beset by some regrets.

Also, much as I would like to stay away and remain detached for the rest of the year, the narratives of heartaches and repeated trysts come with sovereignty. Singlehood guarantees one's liberty to explore and get tangled with people in more ways than I could write in the blog. Hence, expect some juicy confessions from time to time.

And finally, despite claims of missing no one, in a twist that is utter madness, I learned last New Year that I still reserve a special place for that one soul I'd wish to go back in time when he used to say "I love you" in awkward whispers and tell him,

 I was his for all time.