Alexandria

Is it over? Am I alone again?
Has the sun finally set?
Is my world in the dark again?
I woke up in the glittering sun,
There was too much light, I squinted.
And when I got used to the warmth,
to the shining, shimmering sunlight,
It ended.
Just like that.
Like a candle finally giving in to the breeze.


I sit in the corner of my dark room,
It was flooded with light before.
I listen to the murmurs from the distance,
asking me why I finally succumbed to darkness.

"I finished the book," I said,
a tear flowing from my eye.
"I finished the book," I said again,
not knowing why.

My Alexandria's full of scrolls,
bound books that where never meant to be there.
And there, before the light flickered to death,
I put the book I finished
I never got to the end.
I just knew what would happen.


So I closed the heavy book I held in my hands
and placed it with the others I have read.

In the dark corner I drifted to sleep.
In the dark corner of my Alexandria I wept.


Is it over? Am I alone again?
In the dark corner of my Alexandria
I wait for the sun to shine again.

The Long, Lonely Road to Him

So there I was, in the midst of 3rd class hotels and videoke joints frequented by old, drunk farts, inside a chessy drag show bar. A nice, old but goodlooking drag queen starting lipsynching to a song I haven't heard for a while. It was a poem I was trying to tell him. I am loving again, and I wanted him to know that he was who I wanted to love, forever.

It was the second night. Everybody came to the office on Sunday, when it all begun. The news was welcomed with mixed emotions. Many dreaded that day. I looked forward to it. The fact that our job was in jeopardy did not compare to the excitement I felt. This was what I was waiting for. Rest, at last. The past few weeks after the promotion was tiring, I needed space.

When our Manager OIC told us that we needed to take leaves - forced leaves - I looked at my dear friend, Di Anne, and told her that this was it, that this was what we were looking for. We immediately planned for a much-deserved relaxation "thingie", and we decided to take a visit to Asin, a popular Hot Spring Resort center around 20 minutes away from the heart of Baguio City.

We rode a jeep to Asin, just the two of us, and enjoyed a whole day of just swimming and basking in the sun while submerged in warm, inviting jacuzzis. It was heaven. Pure bliss.

It was day 1, and we planned that by day 4 we would be sitting on a sidewalk at Session Road begging for food. The plan turned around. At 12:00 am, we found ourselves sitting on Ben's car, to Manila, after he had invited us to come with him to the Big City.

Arriving at Makati at around 5 a.m., we had coffee at the only Starbuck's which had a room for smokers, at Legaspi. That was after a warm, sweaty walk looking for an open Starbucks around the Harbour, Baywalk, and Malate.

Coffee finally ended and we found ourselves at a hotel along Makati Avenue. We slept for a couple of hours and had late dinner at Hai, a restaurant near Highstreet, near the Fort. It was Chinese food, and we loved it. We met new friends, and I introduced her to MamaBelz, and Zenos, Ben's friends way back from Elementary and College, part of Casa Guapa.

After a walk at Highstreet, Nath called us, telling us that we had to go back to Baguio, because operations will start the next day. So after that call we decided to ride MamaBel'z car to Cubao and visit Palawan. We danced the night away, after the drag queens showed us what they got. It was the end of the 2nd day.

Di Anne's departure was dramatic, to say the least. She was crying, thanking me and Ben for a wonderful time. It was her first "wala lang" visit to Manila, and I was glad to be part of it.

That night, before I went to bed, I asked a question so innocent, I thought the answer was the only way to my salvation. It was the end of everything. It was the end of my life.

He answered my question with honesty, something I have always expected in our friendship. what I didn't expect was the intensity of pain I was going to feel.

I slept crying, not knowing what to do. I wanted to go back to my heaven, to Baguio, where everything seems to be alright. But I fought that feeling.

When I woke up, I decided to stay, even for just a few hours. I wanted to be with him, to savor the moment that we were alone, together.

That day became the longest and loneliest day I have ever had, like the car drive from Kanlaon to the Bus Station at Pasay. I wanted to jump out of the car, to wave for a cab and get on the earliest bus.

It was 6:00 pm of day 3 when I got on the bus back to Baguio. There, he stood, with the person he loves, my bestfriend. Inside the bus was me, the man that loved him even if it hurt me like hell.

I slept all the way to Baguio. Except for the ocassional cigarette breaks on bus stops, I remained on my seat, trying to fight the tears that wanted to come out.

Baguio City was the same. Cold, foggy, like I left it a couple of days ago. And when I saw the familiar roads and street lights, I sighed. I was back home - back to where I belong.

I rode a cab home and immediately laid down on my own bed, in my leased apartment. I closed my eyes and remained calm. It was the end of a very long struggle.

It was the end of the long, lonely road to him.

Voyeur

I'd like to now what they are thinking.

I'd like to know who they are.

In the sentences they write,

the songs they sing.

He wrote about saying goodbye, about thinking

someone was his forever love.

He was wrong.

I was wrong.

I'd like to know who this man is,

The man who loved.

The man who got hurt.

The man who bled.

The man with the likeness of Adam,

the heart of Eve.

The Eve that stood in the corner

of love and hate.

I watched him as he slowly died.

I watched him and thanked God it wasn't me.

It was not me who died that night.

That night it rained.

Yes, everytime someone we knew was sad,

it rained.

It rained that night, that same night

the man with Eve's heart and me.

We lost something that night.

Our dignity.

Our hopes.

Shattered into a million little pieces.

I'd like to know what you are thinking.

I'd like to know who you are.

In the sentences you write,

the songs you sing.

To the man with Adam's likeness,

and the heart of Eve.

I envy you.

At least you have said your last goodbye.

A Cup of Coffee

Almost all the blogs I have read - well, most of the blogs made by gay men anyway - have the word "coffee" in it somewhere.

Coffee addicts, caffeine freaks, coffee beans, coffee cakes, coffee conversations.

Somehow, I relate to them. What does coffee have anyway?

The bitter black liquid has become a staple to every gay man above 18. Now it's this bean concoction, and unless its piping hot and $3.00 for a tall cup, it does not count. Maybe it's the high. Or the wakefulness - that sudden burst of energy that will eventually dwindle to nothing. Or the company.

Hey, I enjoy coffee even if I am alone. With a cancer stick on one hand and a mugful of fresh, brewed coffee on the other. Somehow, there's comfort in coffee. Like a warm, lazy Sunday afternoon, or a cozy night on a fuzzy carpet by a fireplace. The warmth fills a cold emptiness in anyone's existence, a wonderful bliss out of a heavy burden and a dramatic life.

In a way, that cup of coffee we always hold in our hands become a connection to friendship, a link to love sought.

I have a fantasy. About meeting Mr. Right. I am alone, in a coffee shop, nursing my Tall Caramel Macchiato, when someone comes over and asks me if the seat is taken. I will tell the guy it isn't, then instead of taking the chair to another table, he would sit down, and we will have a conversation so long that the coffee shop crew actually asks us to go because they have to close up. After that long, meaningful conversation over coffee, he would actually ask me out. He will get my phone number then we will have dinner.

Then we will have kids.

Then we will buy a house in the suburbs and live happily ever after.

IT'S A FANTASY, dang it.



So there. A fantasy had boiled from a cup of coffee.

A cup of coffee boiled from a handful of beans from the Amazon or somewhere.

A cup of coffee that brought friends together and made iron-clad relationships.

A cup of coffee that, for the next half hour, becomes my lover.

A cup of coffee that will be my constant companion no matter who leaves...


... or whoever stays.

Foggy, Faggy Baguio

(An ode to Sarah Jessica Parker's fictional Carrie Bradshaw character)

Baguio City. Home to fresh strawberries, fresh air and foggy faggy nights.

I am a 20 something, single, healthy gay man in a 90 something highly urbanized, cold climated city on top of the mountain ranges in a 3rd world country. People around me are constantly seeking for something all the time. A loaf of freshly baked bread, a cup of brewed coffee, the perfect pair of shoes, or, in my case, a love life.

Sounding like a personal ad for a long term relationship, I can not help but wonder why I, a very kind and outgoing gay guy, can not find someone who would love me like I want them to. And then it hits me. I am not what they are looking for. Most gay men in this city today looks for the same thing. Someone goodlooking enough to walk up and down Session Road with, or someone goodlooking enough to be in bed with.

Well, sorry.

Aside from the fact that I tend to hate model-gorgeous guys, I tend to believe that I do not have to go to the gym just to burn the fats and attract a male specimen. Nope, not me.

A couple of days ago, my friends at the office planned a "couples night out." We all get it. Friday night, a couple of beer bottles, and your closest friends with their lovely partners dancing the night away in each other's arms. Yuck.

I have enjoyed being single for at least 5 months, and believe me, it has been a blast. The fact is, as much as I want to give up being single just to be with someone special at the end of a tiring day, I enjoy being able to go out whenever I want and be with anybody I want. The thing is, I am in deep sh*t with work that I have shunned social life altogether. Not to mention my sex life.

I have a text mate. Yes, a text mate. A guy in his teens looking for someone to talk to. I tell him I am gay, and in a minute he sneds me a text message that somewhat read like disbelief.

"U R GAY?" he asked, all in BOLD, CAPITAL letters.

Hey, he was texting the biggest queer of all! But I was desperate, so I lied.

"Well," I said. "I just don't believe in Bisexuality."

True, to say the least. I do not believe in Bisexuality at all! I mean, if you have eaten "hotdogs" before, eating "shellfish" does not count anymore. Once you are gay, you are gay. So there, I was a 20 something "bisexual-who-does-not-believe-in-bisexuality" guy in cold, foggy city.


This morning, when I woke up, I decided to call the dentist and set up an appointment for teeth cleaning, and after I took a quick shower, I rushed to the clinic to avoid being late. Half an hour waiting in the dentist's comfortable but tight waiting room, I began to wonder - was I doing this because I wanted to look good, or is it because I wanted to feel good about myself? As the dentist sucked the blood out of my poor gums, I decided I was doing it to feel good. I have always been an advocate of feeling good to look good.

After the dentist appointment I went to my favorite salon and had a long overdue pedicure. The pedicurist had a hard time picking out my ingrown, and as I felt pain while she tugged on a very stubborn nail, I couldn't help but smile. I had gone through two painful beauty rituals, but when I looked into the mirror, it was just me! Just plain, old me. I stepped out of the salon and walked away, rushing to the nearest exit to get a much needed cigarette high. I puffed a cig and looked at my now-pink-toes. Gee, it really feels nice to have clean feet.


Session Road is now covered in fog, and I feel happy. I missed the old Baguio, the one I grew up in. Before it was all fog, almost deserted Session Road and just a handful of cars. Now it's smog, thousands of people and old, carbon monoxide emitting taxis. But I feel happy. And my feet is clean. I stop for a moment and thank God I am single. At least I can still enjoy foggy afternoons alone.

Now if someone could just be with me to enjoy this wonderful day.

Talk about irony.

Complaining Again

It's 5.oo am MNL time. I am famished, stressed, and irritated. Work is a blast, and I love what I am doing. It has started raining again, and I can't breathe.

Yes, I am complaining. Probably because I am tired. But at least I am not whining about my love life. THAT sucks.

I just came from work and I am really happy that I have the job. It is very fulfilling, to say the least.

The emails, the calls, the training, the constant changes. I LOVE it. But one thing is sure, nothing beats working when you get the salary you deserve. I have extra jobs, no extra monetary compensation. Now that's sad.

Our electricity was cut the other day, we did not have the time to pay the bill. Talk about darkness. It is a good thing I work at night. At least I slept better. But it was wonderful to learn that electricity is back. I get to watch those BelAmi guys before hitting the sack.

It has officially been 3 months since the last time I made love with someone. Now if lack of sex kills, I would be dead now. Ha ha. I am a walking, talking, sex-deprived zombie. LOL.


So I am famished, stressed, tired, sleep deprived and sex deprived.

I am complaining.

The Battlefield

"I'm already in my own watchtower where my towerblock lords over the silencing of the fields. I'm already in my watchtower where bloodshed is not near."

Someone told me that. And the funny thing is that I wanted to be there, in the middle of that battlefield he was talking about. The fields where everybody was fighting for one thing, and that being his heart.

He is Helen of Troy. A thousand ships sank because of him. And I survived the shipwreck. I stood there, in the middle of the field, my loins girded, my battle helmet in my hand and my shield in the other. I was wondering why I needed the shield, I was already wounded, hurt from the previous battle I was in. But I kept in near, hoping that my heart won't be speared, yet again.

I saw him, in his watchtower, looking over the soldiers vying for his love. He was there, resplendent in his silver armour and feathered helmet. His face glittered with hope that someday, the war will be over. He knows he had lost, that was why he left the battle to rest on top of everything. He wanted to leave, but he knew he needed to be there, to find out who wins.

His kingdom was torn, the war was between the Loved and the Loving. He loved him. He cannot let go of him, and although he knows someone is trying to win over his heart, he also knows that the loving person will not win. He knows, and yet he continues to watch over the bloodshed.

I am the Loving. And although I know I won't win, I carry my shield and my sword. I stand, in the middle of the war, letting my shining shield catch his eye. And yet he is focused on the other soldier, the one that slashed my heart into two.

The Loved soldier rode his horse to where I was, and I was surprised, hurt, and bleeding. And yet I kept my eye on him, the one on the Watchtower. I longed for him to stop looking at the Loved. I am here. I am Loving, I am loving you like I haven't loved anyone before.

As my heart bled, I was thankful that I was there, in the middle of the battlefield. I have proven that I am worth it, I know I can do it, and yet, without any hope that he will see me as what I want him to see me, I long for the end of it all.

My armor shone, in the setting sun, and I smiled as he smiled too, not at me, but at the Loved.

It was the end of the war.

As I stumbled, blood pouring into the grass, my life ending with a broken heart, I saw him look at me, and shake his head.

"I am not worth it, he seemed to say."

Oh, but you are my love. You are worth the blood I am spilling.

So in the battlefield, the man in the watchtower walked to the Loved soldier, and they rode their horses into the sunset.

I was left there, in the middle of the battlefield, the battlefield that I fought on.

I do not have any regrets. At least I died in my own terms.

At least I fought for you.

Waiting for the Rain to Stop

It was raining in Malate.

Of all the nights it can rain, it would be now, when it was the only time I had to enjoy a little piece of heaven.

It was a road trip, down to Manila, for the first time in the 24 years of my existence. I have never been to Manila alone, just once, and it was for something really important. I was with two great friends, Kiko, and Ben.

Manila was great, it wasn't like what I have always thought it was, the gateway to hell.

The air was just right, not scorching hot, and the taxi drivers were friendly.

The first night was spent just horsing around, taking pictures and sleeping. After the night we arrived, we headed to the mall, where we bought some things for that night's Pride Party at Malate. I was personally excited. I always wanted to dance to the beat of the bars I have heard of in stories, places I have only imagined in my daydreams.

That night, garbed in my precious white tank top, new silver chandeliers and trusty white leather sandals, I travelled to Malate. It was quite a short distance from the hotel we were staying at. Ben had a date, so it was just me, and Allan, a very good friend from Pampanga, and his friend, Jenny. Kiko stayed at the hotel, waiting for his lover to arrive from Europe.

It amazed me. Every street corner was full of gay men. Men just like me. Men who loves men. People Like Me. I was immediately mesmerized. This was Malate.

Then, just like that, the wind blew in from the South and it starting raining. Not the "cat and dog" kind of rain, but the drizzly, "sticky-when-you-dry-up" kind of rain.

My gold makeup was the first thing I tried to protect. I spent half an hour just trying to perfectly put the goddamn gold powder on my face. My hair was wet, and Allan, Jenny and I were running to and fro, looking for some of my Manila friends at the numerous bars around.

At last, after another heavy downpour, we got to the Rainbow Project, where some of my friends were. There, I realized, that no matter how eager I am to see my Manila friends, I would love to see someone else, be with someone else, dance with someone else.

He promised me he will be there. He told me he was going to be with me the entire night.

He did not come.

But I waited. He said he was coming.

At the Bed, I danced my heart out. The music throbbed in my ears as I moved, I ignored the beautiful men around me. My Baguio friends would envy me, I thought. Surrounded by beautiful, half naked men, and not a care in the world.

I was drenched in sweat, I felt like the queen of the night, but I was not happy.

The night ended like it ended before. One by one, my companions went home.

I was still hoping he would come. He promised he would come.

It was 4:00 am. In the middle of the street I walked, looking for a place to rest my tired, sandalled feet. After an hour in a nearby Starbucks I stood up, and I continued walking. I decided to go home, I was tired.

It rained in Malate that night.

It rained like it never rained before.

And as the cab I rode drove away from the place I thought was heaven, I wondered - when will I stop waiting for the rain to stop?