I remember hating the words “fag”, “gay”, “bakla”, “bading”, “agi”. I remember always cringing, my defensive ramparts raised mighty high, and my seething temper rear its ugly head whenever I’d hear them. Then I grew up a little more, loved myself a little more, and the vicious power of these words seemed to wane. Or so I thought.
The other night, at my childhood friend’s wedding reception, I found myself in some disconcerting circumstance. Glad to have met and reconnected with several friends of yore, I ate and drank the night away; noticing myself more confident and less conscious than ever before. It’s always this way. Each time I go home, I find myself gaining more strength, letting go of the baggage I used to lug around in my childhood and adolescence. But this night, I was just caught off-guard. I almost ignored what happened and thought nothing of it, till it clung to my memory, prying my eyes wide open when I wanted to sleep.
After all the activities during the wedding reception, the lights dimmed and the lounge act made its way on stage. People started dancing. Bottles of scotch, wine, and vodka made their rounds on every table. Many of us got even wilder after each cheap rendition of current pop tunes. I kept going in and out of the hall with friends, glass of poison in hand, socializing while smoking cigarettes by the hotel veranda.
By the nth glass of vodka and cigarette stick, I found myself tired and sitting by myself. Soon, several high school mates, a year older than me, made their way towards my space. They were in some inebriated romp, dancing like those drunken uncles we usually recoil at the sight of. I actually found the scene funny and silly, till they got closer and one started straddling me. Then the other joined in, rubbing my head. It was fine at first, I joining in the fun, until things got long-drawn. The fun of it all seemed to subside, and I found myself mocked; and ultimately, offended.
Not one to wear such feelings on my proud sleeve, I smiled away and pretended that I was cool amid it all. But I caught another school mate laughing and the rest of the people by the table in some unsure gaze, their smiles crumpled. I couldn’t help but feel embarrassed. As soon as they stopped dancing, I gave myself another glass of vodka and twenty minutes till I left the hotel.
On my way home, I felt like I was an awkward adolescent again, running away from taunts and cruel peers. That dance kept repeating itself in my head. Till I got to the shower, till I brushed my teeth, till I crept into soft shell of my sheets, the dance teased my thoughts like a mischievous imp.
I shared the incident the next day with my childhood playmates, and I found my gay friend’s quiet anger rise as he drove his car. Like me, though we’ve lost contact at some point in our adolescence, he’s had his own share of cruelty. He was surprised and vexed that such an asinine attitude towards homosexuality happened again, considering that we were all adults already. He shared a similar experience, adding that he had to say something acerbic to put the bastard in his place. Immediately, I hated that I found myself bashful and silenced last night. I hated doubting my courage and strength as a gay man, having always thought myself a rabid bitch when the situation called for it. I hated playing out the scene in my head, me berating them and putting them in their place. I hated that that was all I was left with, raw feelings from the night before.
Showing posts with label gay. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gay. Show all posts
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
The Leviathan 3
THE LEVIATHAN (con't.)
Josef's hand was vigorous on Felix's shaft, rubbing hard but gently. Josef savored its firmness, while Felix let out short and quiet gasps, surprised at the tenderness of such seemingly inexperienced fingers.
Soon Felix thought it unfair to not return Josef's favors. He was curious and wanted to give too. His own fingers began searching for Josef's stiff member. A tinge of anxiety invaded his thoughts as he reached over. Did it make him different from the other boys, this pleasure of receiving and giving? And what of the girls, those moist crevices and perky breasts, he fantasized about while alone in the bath? Was it all a front? Was he changing his mind about his desires?
Both held each other in the tightest of embraces, hungry for the other's manhood. There was more stroking, kissing, and muffled moans. They had not a care that their heads pressed heavily on Paul's stomach. He was deep in sleep after all, his body quiet and still except for the grumble of his faint snore.
The excitement at the novelty of their familiar bodies did not wane. It was all the more delicious for it was clandestine. Their classmates and teachers were at a nearby hut, rowdy and drunken. It electrified them knowing the possibility that they could be found out. It thrilled them to be in on a secret, their semi-nude bodies covered only by the warm blanket of a dark night.
Soon, temperatures began to rise, their breaths more fiery with each succeeding touch. Their kisses grew unquenchable, their grasp on each other more voracious. The bestial dance was reaching its apex. They felt their spirits soar higher and higher, as familiar tremors grew even louder from within. They both knew what was next and held their breaths. Their senses began to implode. Closer and closer, they approached the molten core of each other's center. Finally...they erupted.
Spent, they both quivered in each other's arms. They turned towards the night sky and felt a calm begin to settle. They lay side by side, not moving, not speaking; their minds still raw from all that transpired. Slowly, they welcomed sleep.
Above them, there were countless stars in the dark firmament. They were like eyes, like a multitude of angels looking down upon the leviathan washed ashore.
Josef's hand was vigorous on Felix's shaft, rubbing hard but gently. Josef savored its firmness, while Felix let out short and quiet gasps, surprised at the tenderness of such seemingly inexperienced fingers.
Soon Felix thought it unfair to not return Josef's favors. He was curious and wanted to give too. His own fingers began searching for Josef's stiff member. A tinge of anxiety invaded his thoughts as he reached over. Did it make him different from the other boys, this pleasure of receiving and giving? And what of the girls, those moist crevices and perky breasts, he fantasized about while alone in the bath? Was it all a front? Was he changing his mind about his desires?
Both held each other in the tightest of embraces, hungry for the other's manhood. There was more stroking, kissing, and muffled moans. They had not a care that their heads pressed heavily on Paul's stomach. He was deep in sleep after all, his body quiet and still except for the grumble of his faint snore.
The excitement at the novelty of their familiar bodies did not wane. It was all the more delicious for it was clandestine. Their classmates and teachers were at a nearby hut, rowdy and drunken. It electrified them knowing the possibility that they could be found out. It thrilled them to be in on a secret, their semi-nude bodies covered only by the warm blanket of a dark night.
Soon, temperatures began to rise, their breaths more fiery with each succeeding touch. Their kisses grew unquenchable, their grasp on each other more voracious. The bestial dance was reaching its apex. They felt their spirits soar higher and higher, as familiar tremors grew even louder from within. They both knew what was next and held their breaths. Their senses began to implode. Closer and closer, they approached the molten core of each other's center. Finally...they erupted.
Spent, they both quivered in each other's arms. They turned towards the night sky and felt a calm begin to settle. They lay side by side, not moving, not speaking; their minds still raw from all that transpired. Slowly, they welcomed sleep.
Above them, there were countless stars in the dark firmament. They were like eyes, like a multitude of angels looking down upon the leviathan washed ashore.
Monday, October 19, 2009
The Leviathan 2
I couldn't help but blush reading through the succeeding portions of this story. It's shocking for me how I've managed to write such sinful and lewd prose when I was just a teenager! Raging adolescent hormones and hyper-imagination maybe? Perhaps I've toned down as I've grown older. Perhaps sex has lost its novelty now that I am in my twenties, constantly bombarded by overt obscenities.
___________________________
THE LEVIATHAN (cont.)
The feeling as both their mouths caressed one another was exhilarating. Lips met and parted, only to be joined by a fragile string of saliva. Their soft wetness was unbearable, sending an explosive arousal between the two. Tongues explored and tasted insatiably. Cheeks, lips, chin, gum, tongue.
As this communion drew faster, their hearts kept up in high tempo, the warmth of their breaths spreading onto each others' skin. The bullets of sweat that gave their limbs a malicious glow in the moonlight came with a sour odor that mingled with the sea's salty perfume. Josef relished this sensory assault, joining Felix in his muffled moaning.
Josef's right hand could not contain itself any longer, and soon it began to crawl like some spider to the lower reaches of Felix's body.
His fingers slowly unraveled Felix's shorts, revealing his underwear. The feel of the garter and cotton alone sent an electric current across Josef's arm. It was the fulfillment of a fantasy that had long been subjected to suppression, control, and frustrated self-touching.
Even more slowly, Josef's hand slid beneath the garter. The hair was a tangle yet it satisfied his curious touch, his fingers finding it perversely wonderful. Felix's penis was a surprise, too. It was now throbbing, erect to the fullest; its head immensely warm and firm.
The hand moved down towards the scrotum. The hairs were sparse but they were enough to send tingles down Josef's spine. It had tightened as Felix's shaft continued to throb, while Josef's fingers eagerly searched for more sensory pleasures.
to be continued...
___________________________
THE LEVIATHAN (cont.)
The feeling as both their mouths caressed one another was exhilarating. Lips met and parted, only to be joined by a fragile string of saliva. Their soft wetness was unbearable, sending an explosive arousal between the two. Tongues explored and tasted insatiably. Cheeks, lips, chin, gum, tongue.
As this communion drew faster, their hearts kept up in high tempo, the warmth of their breaths spreading onto each others' skin. The bullets of sweat that gave their limbs a malicious glow in the moonlight came with a sour odor that mingled with the sea's salty perfume. Josef relished this sensory assault, joining Felix in his muffled moaning.
Josef's right hand could not contain itself any longer, and soon it began to crawl like some spider to the lower reaches of Felix's body.
His fingers slowly unraveled Felix's shorts, revealing his underwear. The feel of the garter and cotton alone sent an electric current across Josef's arm. It was the fulfillment of a fantasy that had long been subjected to suppression, control, and frustrated self-touching.
Even more slowly, Josef's hand slid beneath the garter. The hair was a tangle yet it satisfied his curious touch, his fingers finding it perversely wonderful. Felix's penis was a surprise, too. It was now throbbing, erect to the fullest; its head immensely warm and firm.
The hand moved down towards the scrotum. The hairs were sparse but they were enough to send tingles down Josef's spine. It had tightened as Felix's shaft continued to throb, while Josef's fingers eagerly searched for more sensory pleasures.
to be continued...
Sunday, October 18, 2009
The Leviathan 1
Found this story among the loose sheets of paper inserted in one of my dusty journals. Found several drafts and poems alluding to this too, and picked out the better version that I wanted to share.
I wrote this just fresh out of high school. I studied in a strict, Catholic all-boy's school, so you can imagine all the stifled raging hormones that gushed on to these pages! It was inspired (fictionalized, if you like) from a senior class trip, one of the last ones till our graduation from secondary school.
I've changed the names (I actually used the real ones when I wrote this!) and tweaked some areas just a tad bit.
_____________________________
THE LEVIATHAN
Like some leviathan washed ashore, their three bodies were sprawled on the cool, white sand. Paul was on his back with Josef's head resting on his stomach. Josef hugged Felix tightly with both his arms, his head nudged on Josef's neck.
The night was fervid. There was an accumulation of moist almost everywhere. What added to this wonderful hell was the drinking spree earlier that caused reality to steer off its tracks. Fantasy was creeping in, Josef and Felix falling slowly to its ecstasy.
As they lain on the beach, each enjoying their own private thoughts, a sheet of twinkling stars hovered quietly above them. The moon, as if ashamed, hid part of itself behind a patch of shredded clouds. Its remaining half gave an enigmatic glow to the surroundings as darkness waited in every corner for the clouds to disperse, waiting to eat the light into its different world.
There was a breeze that offered respite from the warm night, caressing the coconut trees till they bent gracefully. Animals hidden amongst the shadows crept about. It was not only a sight to see but a world of sounds as well. The waves gently splashed on the shore, making a lullaby against the symphony of crickets. All these gave life to a world seemingly dead.
Paul was in his own world. He was half asleep, his thoughts invaded by memories of high school life. Opening his eyelids from time to time, he caught glimpses of the glittering sky. He felt he was floating in space, amongst the billions of stars that seemed so nearby. Yes, he was drifting into the abyssal world of dreams.
As Josef and Felix lay entwined together, a fever began to rise between the two. Josef began putting gentle kisses upon Felix's forehead, his arms holding him even tighter and closer to his breast. His kisses were soft, Felix thought, as he felt Josef's tender lips discover his face. They touched his furry brows, warm forehead, eyelids, nose; and finally, Felix's wildly wet lips.
to be continued...
I wrote this just fresh out of high school. I studied in a strict, Catholic all-boy's school, so you can imagine all the stifled raging hormones that gushed on to these pages! It was inspired (fictionalized, if you like) from a senior class trip, one of the last ones till our graduation from secondary school.
I've changed the names (I actually used the real ones when I wrote this!) and tweaked some areas just a tad bit.
_____________________________
THE LEVIATHAN
Like some leviathan washed ashore, their three bodies were sprawled on the cool, white sand. Paul was on his back with Josef's head resting on his stomach. Josef hugged Felix tightly with both his arms, his head nudged on Josef's neck.
The night was fervid. There was an accumulation of moist almost everywhere. What added to this wonderful hell was the drinking spree earlier that caused reality to steer off its tracks. Fantasy was creeping in, Josef and Felix falling slowly to its ecstasy.
As they lain on the beach, each enjoying their own private thoughts, a sheet of twinkling stars hovered quietly above them. The moon, as if ashamed, hid part of itself behind a patch of shredded clouds. Its remaining half gave an enigmatic glow to the surroundings as darkness waited in every corner for the clouds to disperse, waiting to eat the light into its different world.
There was a breeze that offered respite from the warm night, caressing the coconut trees till they bent gracefully. Animals hidden amongst the shadows crept about. It was not only a sight to see but a world of sounds as well. The waves gently splashed on the shore, making a lullaby against the symphony of crickets. All these gave life to a world seemingly dead.
Paul was in his own world. He was half asleep, his thoughts invaded by memories of high school life. Opening his eyelids from time to time, he caught glimpses of the glittering sky. He felt he was floating in space, amongst the billions of stars that seemed so nearby. Yes, he was drifting into the abyssal world of dreams.
As Josef and Felix lay entwined together, a fever began to rise between the two. Josef began putting gentle kisses upon Felix's forehead, his arms holding him even tighter and closer to his breast. His kisses were soft, Felix thought, as he felt Josef's tender lips discover his face. They touched his furry brows, warm forehead, eyelids, nose; and finally, Felix's wildly wet lips.
to be continued...
Friday, September 18, 2009
Tall & Beautiful
Cabin fever nearly got the best of me today (unfortunately for me, there wasn't a single hair to pull out!). So I rifled through my boxes of memories here at home, posted a lot of old pictures online, and found this essay that made me smile. I remember writing it for some straight male friends in the past, them clandestine and craving for fashion advice. I sent them this for their perusal(!). The piece is a peek into some of my own philosophies on style.
-------------------
TALL & BEAUTIFUL
I've always hated leafing through men’s lifestyle magazines. Well, that’s a lie. I admit I get great ideas on dressing well. I fantasize about wardrobes that distinguish me from the hoi polloi . I also fantasize about the men. But that’s another story (don't worry, my dear hetero reader).
So what am I saying? Many times, I find men’s lifestyle magazines ridiculous. There are the clothes that cost a regular employee’s minimum wage, the promoted lifestyle that require a five to six-digit monthly income to sustain. And oh yes, not everyone can be that tall and beautiful! I say this with all my bitter heart. Though I exhaust myself lifting barrels at the gym, secretly watching suspicious growth pill infomercials on the shopping channel, and admiring the Adonis-like men who strut past the coffee shop I hang out in, sometimes I feel I fall short in my attempts to be in some model's shoes.
No. I will not surrender to the thought that only in fantasy can I enter the seeming impenetrable world of men’s lifestyle magazines.
I, even only 5’4” in height, can still be tall and beautiful. Yes, men like me or even those who try to claim to be an inch taller that what they actually are (you know who you are), can make fantasy a reality. It is my goal that post-digestion of this article, I have imparted and shared some possibility, some hope, some knowledge on discovering or resurrecting the giant Adonis in all of us beautiful and petite men. Here are some basic styling tips, to heighten ourselves beyond the prevalent standard of men's high fashion.
• First of all, stay away from common and mass-produced International brands. They cater mostly to men of their race; where a small size for them translates to a large for us. Would you believe that I actually fit in what they label "For Kids"? Leave the baggy style to the adolescents and the real hip-hoppers. Nobody wants to drown in an excess of fabric right? Well, unless you’re Elizabeth on her coronation day. Besides, if you resort to mass-produced garments, you’re bound to meet a twin somewhere in the mall. Being an individual is always important.
• When you’ve finally settled with the fashion aesthetic you’re comfortable with (e.g. preppy, casual, sporty, S&M), consider either local brands or products from our cute Asian neighbors like Korea, China, Taiwan and Japan (yes, ukay-ukay included). In most cases they carry the size just right for us: a small is really a small. Be wary of department stores because aside from having the same shirt with the guy across at the far end of the MRT, many of their fashion lines come in safe and bigger sizes to accommodate mass consumption of their products.
• Take your time when shopping. If many optimists urge us to live each day like it were our last, then dress up like it were so. I don’t mean deck yourself with boughs of holly, silly. I’m referring to keeping in mind the same urgency. Hence, to anticipate the end, time is of the essence to prepare for it right? Try on the items you like and don’t just pick them out like bread in a bakery. Take note that though it may look delicious on a mannequin or a hanger, it does not necessarily mean it will on you.
Taking one’s time also allows the consideration of price. Unless money is no object to you, go ahead and do an Imelda. For those conscious of a budget, keep in mind that there is always a cheaper alternative somewhere. And it’s great if you’ve got your girlfriend, sister, gay friend, or mother with you so that you consider endless comments and ideas aside from the ones running through your head.
• Make sure that the fit is just right. If it’s too tight that you find yourself constricted and uncomfortable, stay away from it. Pigs in a blanket are yummier served on a platter. Remember that most items shrink further after washing and drying. And there is the issue of the silhouette or what is commonly known as the ‘cut’. Ask yourself (and whomever you’re with) if it flatters your body type. Does it shorten your legs? Does it expose your child-bearing hips? Does it make you look sharp or like a hobo? Does it conceal your jelly-belly? And the most important question, Does it look like you're wearing the clothes or are they wearing you?
• What’s your favorite color? I say mine is green but it brings out the dark circles under my eyes. And sometimes, if I'm not careful I could look like a grasshopper or a forest patch. Though you’re itching to have that indigo shirt, to your friends it may make you look like an aubergine. Keep these in mind, and consider that it may be better to look at your favorite colors than to wear them. You’ll be surprised at how you’ll actually like how you look if you just try on a color other than your favorite.
Do pick a color that compliments your skin tone. If you’re on the fair side, light colors are great for a fresh and preppy look and dark ones accentuate what you’ve worked so hard to shield from the sun. Darker guys should stick to either light colors to lighten their complexion or dark colors that flatter and not clash with their skin tone. If you’re a black beauty, stay away from those tangerine and burgundy shirts lest you disappear by twilight.
Remember that colors have a life of their own and can swallow you alive unless tamed. Remember Big Bird? What comes to your head when you think of him? YELLOW and not the bird right? Do not let the colors you wear speak for you. Use them to work for you. And that includes extending your height vertically. Keeping tones close to each other when mixing pieces creates an illusion of continuity, thus lengthening the wearer. Juxtaposing clashing colors between a shirt and a pair of pants only cuts you horizontally, announcing how petite you are to the world.
• Someone once said that shoes are not mere accessories but an extension of your whole outfit. And by this, he was pertaining to the tip of the shoe. Thus, the usual options: Square-toe? Pointed? Round? Consider this first: how does it balance your whole look? Does it lengthen me in my ensemble? So, Square-toe? Never! Unless you’d like to look like a robot or worse, have the misfortune of having all your toes hacked off by a butcher. Round? Too round and all you’ll need is a tutu to frolic with a basket of flowers. Pointed? Careful with this one or you can look like Santa’s long-lost helper. The safest choices are the varieties that subtly elongate to a not-so pointy end.
• Lastly, WALK TALL. When one is comfortable with his chosen ensemble, confidence will simply flow like the rivers of the Amazon—--in all directions. Clothes do not make the man. You do. The right fit, the right colors, and the right shoes wouldn’t matter without the right attitude. So, taking charge of one’s fashionable life and making the clothes work for you makes any glossy magazine fantasy a reality. Great things come in small packages right? Really, they do.
-------------------
TALL & BEAUTIFUL
I've always hated leafing through men’s lifestyle magazines. Well, that’s a lie. I admit I get great ideas on dressing well. I fantasize about wardrobes that distinguish me from the hoi polloi . I also fantasize about the men. But that’s another story (don't worry, my dear hetero reader).
So what am I saying? Many times, I find men’s lifestyle magazines ridiculous. There are the clothes that cost a regular employee’s minimum wage, the promoted lifestyle that require a five to six-digit monthly income to sustain. And oh yes, not everyone can be that tall and beautiful! I say this with all my bitter heart. Though I exhaust myself lifting barrels at the gym, secretly watching suspicious growth pill infomercials on the shopping channel, and admiring the Adonis-like men who strut past the coffee shop I hang out in, sometimes I feel I fall short in my attempts to be in some model's shoes.
No. I will not surrender to the thought that only in fantasy can I enter the seeming impenetrable world of men’s lifestyle magazines.
I, even only 5’4” in height, can still be tall and beautiful. Yes, men like me or even those who try to claim to be an inch taller that what they actually are (you know who you are), can make fantasy a reality. It is my goal that post-digestion of this article, I have imparted and shared some possibility, some hope, some knowledge on discovering or resurrecting the giant Adonis in all of us beautiful and petite men. Here are some basic styling tips, to heighten ourselves beyond the prevalent standard of men's high fashion.
• First of all, stay away from common and mass-produced International brands. They cater mostly to men of their race; where a small size for them translates to a large for us. Would you believe that I actually fit in what they label "For Kids"? Leave the baggy style to the adolescents and the real hip-hoppers. Nobody wants to drown in an excess of fabric right? Well, unless you’re Elizabeth on her coronation day. Besides, if you resort to mass-produced garments, you’re bound to meet a twin somewhere in the mall. Being an individual is always important.
• When you’ve finally settled with the fashion aesthetic you’re comfortable with (e.g. preppy, casual, sporty, S&M), consider either local brands or products from our cute Asian neighbors like Korea, China, Taiwan and Japan (yes, ukay-ukay included). In most cases they carry the size just right for us: a small is really a small. Be wary of department stores because aside from having the same shirt with the guy across at the far end of the MRT, many of their fashion lines come in safe and bigger sizes to accommodate mass consumption of their products.
• Take your time when shopping. If many optimists urge us to live each day like it were our last, then dress up like it were so. I don’t mean deck yourself with boughs of holly, silly. I’m referring to keeping in mind the same urgency. Hence, to anticipate the end, time is of the essence to prepare for it right? Try on the items you like and don’t just pick them out like bread in a bakery. Take note that though it may look delicious on a mannequin or a hanger, it does not necessarily mean it will on you.
Taking one’s time also allows the consideration of price. Unless money is no object to you, go ahead and do an Imelda. For those conscious of a budget, keep in mind that there is always a cheaper alternative somewhere. And it’s great if you’ve got your girlfriend, sister, gay friend, or mother with you so that you consider endless comments and ideas aside from the ones running through your head.
• Make sure that the fit is just right. If it’s too tight that you find yourself constricted and uncomfortable, stay away from it. Pigs in a blanket are yummier served on a platter. Remember that most items shrink further after washing and drying. And there is the issue of the silhouette or what is commonly known as the ‘cut’. Ask yourself (and whomever you’re with) if it flatters your body type. Does it shorten your legs? Does it expose your child-bearing hips? Does it make you look sharp or like a hobo? Does it conceal your jelly-belly? And the most important question, Does it look like you're wearing the clothes or are they wearing you?
• What’s your favorite color? I say mine is green but it brings out the dark circles under my eyes. And sometimes, if I'm not careful I could look like a grasshopper or a forest patch. Though you’re itching to have that indigo shirt, to your friends it may make you look like an aubergine. Keep these in mind, and consider that it may be better to look at your favorite colors than to wear them. You’ll be surprised at how you’ll actually like how you look if you just try on a color other than your favorite.
Do pick a color that compliments your skin tone. If you’re on the fair side, light colors are great for a fresh and preppy look and dark ones accentuate what you’ve worked so hard to shield from the sun. Darker guys should stick to either light colors to lighten their complexion or dark colors that flatter and not clash with their skin tone. If you’re a black beauty, stay away from those tangerine and burgundy shirts lest you disappear by twilight.
Remember that colors have a life of their own and can swallow you alive unless tamed. Remember Big Bird? What comes to your head when you think of him? YELLOW and not the bird right? Do not let the colors you wear speak for you. Use them to work for you. And that includes extending your height vertically. Keeping tones close to each other when mixing pieces creates an illusion of continuity, thus lengthening the wearer. Juxtaposing clashing colors between a shirt and a pair of pants only cuts you horizontally, announcing how petite you are to the world.
• Someone once said that shoes are not mere accessories but an extension of your whole outfit. And by this, he was pertaining to the tip of the shoe. Thus, the usual options: Square-toe? Pointed? Round? Consider this first: how does it balance your whole look? Does it lengthen me in my ensemble? So, Square-toe? Never! Unless you’d like to look like a robot or worse, have the misfortune of having all your toes hacked off by a butcher. Round? Too round and all you’ll need is a tutu to frolic with a basket of flowers. Pointed? Careful with this one or you can look like Santa’s long-lost helper. The safest choices are the varieties that subtly elongate to a not-so pointy end.
• Lastly, WALK TALL. When one is comfortable with his chosen ensemble, confidence will simply flow like the rivers of the Amazon—--in all directions. Clothes do not make the man. You do. The right fit, the right colors, and the right shoes wouldn’t matter without the right attitude. So, taking charge of one’s fashionable life and making the clothes work for you makes any glossy magazine fantasy a reality. Great things come in small packages right? Really, they do.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
isaac
Daddy tells me he loves me very much. i love him very much too. So i guess it’s OK that we play games many times. He loves me and i love him, and the games are OK, i guess. But sometimes i’m not really sure.
It’s the games we play at night that are different from the games we play during the day. When Mommy’s around, Daddy plays daytime games. They’re all fun actually, but sometimes i just don’t get it. Daddy tells me that i should keep the nightgames a secret. He looks funny every time he puts his pointing finger on his lips and says Shhhhhh. Why can’t i tell Mommy? Daddy says we share something special. He says we’re boys and Mommy’s a girl, and she won’t understand. Daddy’s smart, so i guess he knows better. Well, maybe it’s OK to keep some secrets from Mommy. i know Mommy will understand. Daddy and me love each other, and we love Mommy too, so i guess it’s OK to keep secrets from her.
When i feel like it, the nightgames we play are OK. But there are nights when Daddy gets bad. When i don’t feel like it, he hurts me. He pushes me on the bed real hard, he gets very heavy; he starts sweating, and makes funny noises too. He also whispers in my ear again and again that he loves me very much. When Daddy says that he loves me, i try not to mind that it hurts. It’s just that sometimes it gets really painful. i cry but Daddy doesn’t hear me. He keeps pushing my face hard on my pillow, and sometimes i can’t breathe. That’s when i start to close my eyes and pretend i’m buried underground.
i’m waiting for Daddy now. i hope he won’t be bad when we play later. If he hurts me again, i’ll just close my eyes. i'll play dead.
It’s the games we play at night that are different from the games we play during the day. When Mommy’s around, Daddy plays daytime games. They’re all fun actually, but sometimes i just don’t get it. Daddy tells me that i should keep the nightgames a secret. He looks funny every time he puts his pointing finger on his lips and says Shhhhhh. Why can’t i tell Mommy? Daddy says we share something special. He says we’re boys and Mommy’s a girl, and she won’t understand. Daddy’s smart, so i guess he knows better. Well, maybe it’s OK to keep some secrets from Mommy. i know Mommy will understand. Daddy and me love each other, and we love Mommy too, so i guess it’s OK to keep secrets from her.
When i feel like it, the nightgames we play are OK. But there are nights when Daddy gets bad. When i don’t feel like it, he hurts me. He pushes me on the bed real hard, he gets very heavy; he starts sweating, and makes funny noises too. He also whispers in my ear again and again that he loves me very much. When Daddy says that he loves me, i try not to mind that it hurts. It’s just that sometimes it gets really painful. i cry but Daddy doesn’t hear me. He keeps pushing my face hard on my pillow, and sometimes i can’t breathe. That’s when i start to close my eyes and pretend i’m buried underground.
i’m waiting for Daddy now. i hope he won’t be bad when we play later. If he hurts me again, i’ll just close my eyes. i'll play dead.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Rising to the Occasion
After another disaster earlier, attempting to un-inhibit myself in a tryst, I caught a bus with another commuter who seemed interested in me. Lanky with black-rimmed glasses (real, by the way), he was actually handsome upon second glance. Skimming through the seating arrangement in the half-filled bus, I caught the eye of a seemingly cute guy in the upper rows. My insecurities rendering me to shrink, I immediately took on the empty two-seater right behind him. “Nerdy”, following behind me, took the empty space beside “Cutey”. With the both of them cramped together, I was to witness their quick-forming relations all the way home. Left already with a broken ego earlier, the sordid duo in front of me made the long way home almost insufferable.
I began recounting how dirty I felt, post-tryst. I couldn’t help feeling down as the other issues I thought I sorted out already began rushing in. I felt uglier than usual, smaller and insignificant. All these exacerbated by the duo in front of me, quickly hitting it off, as I could tell through their furtive glances and guarded movements.
Trying to drown out my thoughts and the scene playing in front of me, I turned up the volume of my i-pod, opting for some loud house music; while curiosity and envy swam in my head. To make things worse, thinking that the cute guy would get off alone, it surprised me that the other dude followed in haste. Then I thought to myself, why shouldn’t he? The guy was indeed cute, and you’ve got to hand it to the other guy for his courageous pursuit. Through the oily window, I watched them scamper along, imagining what else the evening had in store for them: an exchange of numbers? a tryst? a brewing future relationship?
As always, I got to the sanctuary of my unit alone. I got my mail and opened my phone bill hastily while riding the elevator, attempting to convince myself that I had something important to look forward to. It was due next week. Great, more money to shell out. I felt all the more down on my way up.
After quickly stripping my clothes off, I almost swallowed my fast food takeaway in front of the T.V. After a cigarette by the window, I jumped in the shower to wash away the day’s excess, and sang to myself melancholic tunes, relishing the womb-like safety of the bathroom's accoustics.
I got to bed, cushioned my head with pillows, my mind still hard with thought. Even with the T.V. glaring in front of me, my fingers relentlessly surfing channels, I wasn't really paying attention. I couldn't stop thinking. I couldn't help bashing myself for reverting back to my dismal distresses. I couldn't help feeling frustrated at my current space: stuck and petrified. I couldn't stop feeling... hungry!!! Oooh! Martha Stewart started baking in the Lifestyle channel!
As soon as she was done, I put on a jacket and a pair of shorts, took the elevator and bought me a pastry downstairs. Though it almost tasted like hardened papier-mache sprinkled with sugar, it made me quite happy. After smoking a stick, watching people pass by, I couldn't help but smile. I couldn't help thinking that all's well really. Life's still good, even when you've got a pathetic pastry in hand.
I began recounting how dirty I felt, post-tryst. I couldn’t help feeling down as the other issues I thought I sorted out already began rushing in. I felt uglier than usual, smaller and insignificant. All these exacerbated by the duo in front of me, quickly hitting it off, as I could tell through their furtive glances and guarded movements.
Trying to drown out my thoughts and the scene playing in front of me, I turned up the volume of my i-pod, opting for some loud house music; while curiosity and envy swam in my head. To make things worse, thinking that the cute guy would get off alone, it surprised me that the other dude followed in haste. Then I thought to myself, why shouldn’t he? The guy was indeed cute, and you’ve got to hand it to the other guy for his courageous pursuit. Through the oily window, I watched them scamper along, imagining what else the evening had in store for them: an exchange of numbers? a tryst? a brewing future relationship?
As always, I got to the sanctuary of my unit alone. I got my mail and opened my phone bill hastily while riding the elevator, attempting to convince myself that I had something important to look forward to. It was due next week. Great, more money to shell out. I felt all the more down on my way up.
After quickly stripping my clothes off, I almost swallowed my fast food takeaway in front of the T.V. After a cigarette by the window, I jumped in the shower to wash away the day’s excess, and sang to myself melancholic tunes, relishing the womb-like safety of the bathroom's accoustics.
I got to bed, cushioned my head with pillows, my mind still hard with thought. Even with the T.V. glaring in front of me, my fingers relentlessly surfing channels, I wasn't really paying attention. I couldn't stop thinking. I couldn't help bashing myself for reverting back to my dismal distresses. I couldn't help feeling frustrated at my current space: stuck and petrified. I couldn't stop feeling... hungry!!! Oooh! Martha Stewart started baking in the Lifestyle channel!
As soon as she was done, I put on a jacket and a pair of shorts, took the elevator and bought me a pastry downstairs. Though it almost tasted like hardened papier-mache sprinkled with sugar, it made me quite happy. After smoking a stick, watching people pass by, I couldn't help but smile. I couldn't help thinking that all's well really. Life's still good, even when you've got a pathetic pastry in hand.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
A World without Words
The other night, a friend and I caught Compagnie Montalvo-Hervieu in “La Bossa Fataka de Rameau” at the CCP Main Theater.
The show starts off with a large screen dead-center on stage, projecting a flower pot’s detail of a woman’s naked back coming to life. Perched on a head of a lion that also comes to life (eventually morphing into an elephant), the animation then becomes a backdrop as soon as the first dancer makes her entrance. Immediately, I began to welcome expectations of a zany journey, charmingly disjointed and Alice-in-Wonderland-like in structure; qualities that only the French can seem to pull-off without being ludicrous or pretentious. True enough, I got what I expected and more.
The dancing I have to admit was nothing too special; the dancers imitating animal movements (the chicken dance made me chortle as friends and I would usually do so whenever we’d feel silly), taking on free movements, often repeating the same steps. What caught my fancy, aside from the voyeuristic pleasure of seeing sweaty French men gyrating and yelling before me, was the message that came across. Amid all the modern choreography (an amalgamation of street dancing, jazz and ballet), most of the dances were set against Baroque music by French composer, Jean Philippe Rameau. It appealed to me that the show was celebrating the simple and pure joy of dancing, no matter the music.
I could relate to their showing man’s insatiable craving to “use all the bones” in one’s body to let go, to transmit, and to express and celebrate freedom. After all, I always take the time out to shut myself from the world, lock myself in my room, strip to my skivvies (or naked), and dance like there’s no tomorrow. I always feel happy right after. Endorphins and burning calories aside, as well as the surprise at finding me capable of being a pop star, the shedding of inhibitions loosens the cork up my ass. I even did this when I was slaving away in an office, often locking myself in the bathroom with my i-pod; shimmying like crazy, tie and long sleeves intact. Funny, once in the hallway of my condo, back from a night out with friends, I felt this sudden urge to break into dance. First, of course I made sure that no one was present; and that my favorite song was currently playing on my i-pod. Then, ten seconds into my Janet Jackson choreography, I caught my brother’s head peering from the door! In shock, I violently stopped midway as if post-epileptic seizure (or Turrets!), and gingerly made way to the front door. I vowed to be more careful next time.
What I found the most poignant about the evening’s show was the portion where the clown (whose tragic-like presence seemed to tie all the vignettes together) begins a melancholic soliloquy on the limits of speech. Set against a beautiful backdrop of an underwater view of a tiger swimming (its head above water), she began asking “would you feel my heart even if I don’t speak of it?”. It struck me how powerful actions are, and how life can manage to exist without words. Immediately, the graceful savagery of dancing as an expression of freedom took on an even deeper level.
Discussing this over dinner, my friend added that he had read somewhere how words tend to diminish or convolute what one actually means or would like to convey. And now, I think of what another friend once told me what one of her Philosophy teachers once said: “Why do we hide in the dark jungle of words?” as he attempted to understand what a student was actually trying to say. And now I compound my pondering even further with the question, are words really to blame or is it the meaning we give/have given them?
A discussion earlier in the evening, while waiting for the show to start, my friend and I carried on an almost-heated conversation on labels (i.e. how we brand people). I have heard this said by some people before: that they scoff at labels and would rather leave it out of any discussion. I admit that I get peeved whenever I get these remarks upon asking or confirming the sexual preference of someone. I feel it like the pink elephant that everyone chooses to ignore in a crowded room. Why should it matter negatively? Why should we walk on egg shells when we call a gay man a "gay man" if we can call straight men “straight”?
My friend’s voice began to rise continuing his defense that labels shouldn’t be, that they degrade the homosexual populace. With my cigarette trembling on one hand, I let out thick smoke ferociously, and spat out that the reason why he hated being labeled “gay” was because he still had not come to terms with his own sexuality. I explained that it was only logical to call a man who liked men “gay”, and that there need not be anything more to it. “Call a spade a spade” as another friend puts it. Why should you deny yourself of what and who you truly are?
He reasoned that “gay” had negative connotations. I agreed to this, but furthered my argument by saying that these connotations should not speak for all those labeled as ‘gay’. I was making him understand that to label someone ‘gay’ is to simply verbalize his or her sexual attraction to the same sex. Why should it need more meaning? To ignore this only furthers whatever stigma exists, just like the pink elephant getting pinker (its presence felt all the more) as people try their best to ignore it.
Then I realized my anger and frustration speaking in my behalf that night, and worked at changing the subject. As the evening progressed, and even to this day, I continue to consider our argument that evening.
Bombarded with images of scrambling animals on the large screen and animal-like dancers on stage, I considered other thoughts, grateful that it took my mind off the conversation on ‘labels’. I understood and agreed that we somehow tap into to the animal in all of us whenever we dance. And yet, given that a world can exist without words, are we really that different, if not ‘above’ the animal kingdom? Are words an excuse for all of us to betray our ‘inner animal’? Even when words escape us, we try to make up for it through simile and metaphor, or an extensive dissertation: words, words, and more words. Tonight’s show made me realize how many of us attach much negativity to our primordial inner animal, or to "primordial" truths we’d rather not face for that matter. All the dancing I just saw, all the dancing I have done is too pure and liberating to be a bad thing. Is it fear or arrogance that deters us from embracing the dance? When it comes to living life, wouldn’t you rather just strip, let go, and shimmy like there’s no tomorrow? But then again, these are just words; of course, to which actions speak louder than.
The show starts off with a large screen dead-center on stage, projecting a flower pot’s detail of a woman’s naked back coming to life. Perched on a head of a lion that also comes to life (eventually morphing into an elephant), the animation then becomes a backdrop as soon as the first dancer makes her entrance. Immediately, I began to welcome expectations of a zany journey, charmingly disjointed and Alice-in-Wonderland-like in structure; qualities that only the French can seem to pull-off without being ludicrous or pretentious. True enough, I got what I expected and more.
The dancing I have to admit was nothing too special; the dancers imitating animal movements (the chicken dance made me chortle as friends and I would usually do so whenever we’d feel silly), taking on free movements, often repeating the same steps. What caught my fancy, aside from the voyeuristic pleasure of seeing sweaty French men gyrating and yelling before me, was the message that came across. Amid all the modern choreography (an amalgamation of street dancing, jazz and ballet), most of the dances were set against Baroque music by French composer, Jean Philippe Rameau. It appealed to me that the show was celebrating the simple and pure joy of dancing, no matter the music.
I could relate to their showing man’s insatiable craving to “use all the bones” in one’s body to let go, to transmit, and to express and celebrate freedom. After all, I always take the time out to shut myself from the world, lock myself in my room, strip to my skivvies (or naked), and dance like there’s no tomorrow. I always feel happy right after. Endorphins and burning calories aside, as well as the surprise at finding me capable of being a pop star, the shedding of inhibitions loosens the cork up my ass. I even did this when I was slaving away in an office, often locking myself in the bathroom with my i-pod; shimmying like crazy, tie and long sleeves intact. Funny, once in the hallway of my condo, back from a night out with friends, I felt this sudden urge to break into dance. First, of course I made sure that no one was present; and that my favorite song was currently playing on my i-pod. Then, ten seconds into my Janet Jackson choreography, I caught my brother’s head peering from the door! In shock, I violently stopped midway as if post-epileptic seizure (or Turrets!), and gingerly made way to the front door. I vowed to be more careful next time.
What I found the most poignant about the evening’s show was the portion where the clown (whose tragic-like presence seemed to tie all the vignettes together) begins a melancholic soliloquy on the limits of speech. Set against a beautiful backdrop of an underwater view of a tiger swimming (its head above water), she began asking “would you feel my heart even if I don’t speak of it?”. It struck me how powerful actions are, and how life can manage to exist without words. Immediately, the graceful savagery of dancing as an expression of freedom took on an even deeper level.
Discussing this over dinner, my friend added that he had read somewhere how words tend to diminish or convolute what one actually means or would like to convey. And now, I think of what another friend once told me what one of her Philosophy teachers once said: “Why do we hide in the dark jungle of words?” as he attempted to understand what a student was actually trying to say. And now I compound my pondering even further with the question, are words really to blame or is it the meaning we give/have given them?
A discussion earlier in the evening, while waiting for the show to start, my friend and I carried on an almost-heated conversation on labels (i.e. how we brand people). I have heard this said by some people before: that they scoff at labels and would rather leave it out of any discussion. I admit that I get peeved whenever I get these remarks upon asking or confirming the sexual preference of someone. I feel it like the pink elephant that everyone chooses to ignore in a crowded room. Why should it matter negatively? Why should we walk on egg shells when we call a gay man a "gay man" if we can call straight men “straight”?
My friend’s voice began to rise continuing his defense that labels shouldn’t be, that they degrade the homosexual populace. With my cigarette trembling on one hand, I let out thick smoke ferociously, and spat out that the reason why he hated being labeled “gay” was because he still had not come to terms with his own sexuality. I explained that it was only logical to call a man who liked men “gay”, and that there need not be anything more to it. “Call a spade a spade” as another friend puts it. Why should you deny yourself of what and who you truly are?
He reasoned that “gay” had negative connotations. I agreed to this, but furthered my argument by saying that these connotations should not speak for all those labeled as ‘gay’. I was making him understand that to label someone ‘gay’ is to simply verbalize his or her sexual attraction to the same sex. Why should it need more meaning? To ignore this only furthers whatever stigma exists, just like the pink elephant getting pinker (its presence felt all the more) as people try their best to ignore it.
Then I realized my anger and frustration speaking in my behalf that night, and worked at changing the subject. As the evening progressed, and even to this day, I continue to consider our argument that evening.
Bombarded with images of scrambling animals on the large screen and animal-like dancers on stage, I considered other thoughts, grateful that it took my mind off the conversation on ‘labels’. I understood and agreed that we somehow tap into to the animal in all of us whenever we dance. And yet, given that a world can exist without words, are we really that different, if not ‘above’ the animal kingdom? Are words an excuse for all of us to betray our ‘inner animal’? Even when words escape us, we try to make up for it through simile and metaphor, or an extensive dissertation: words, words, and more words. Tonight’s show made me realize how many of us attach much negativity to our primordial inner animal, or to "primordial" truths we’d rather not face for that matter. All the dancing I just saw, all the dancing I have done is too pure and liberating to be a bad thing. Is it fear or arrogance that deters us from embracing the dance? When it comes to living life, wouldn’t you rather just strip, let go, and shimmy like there’s no tomorrow? But then again, these are just words; of course, to which actions speak louder than.
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