Camp On A Thursday Afternoon

I met up with an old friend at a mall called Trinoma in Quezon City. She's a semi-famous actress who does character roles in soaps but she's totally cool and totally grounded about her career. And she was also late: late night taping, bad after-the-rain traffic, disorienting f***ing parking lot. But we've been pals for ages so I waited patiently.

And she also promised to bring me a box of my favourite buko pie - a bribe before the fact that filled me with positive thoughts: Well, now that I've time in my hand, I might as well enjoy it.

I started touring the mall and realised instantly that it's chockful of mid-level and street brands. (But it has a fantastic garden and water features woven into the landscape. Not just the usual koi pond and token topiaries amongst which people smoked, but a real integrted and well-planned Southeast Asian garden!) The best places are the bookstores, National, Fully Booked and Power Books, and the local brands Fino, Jewelmer, PabDer and Gourdo's - some of which are retailing foreign sourced products. I bought a book by Noam Chomsky and an issue of Rogue, a money clip and billfold, browsed through Jewelmer's collection and settled on a couple of kitchen knick-knacks.

In a short ime, I was seated at Mary Grace Cafe for a hearty sandwich.

Still no sign of Madame Sarah Bernhardt.  



They even named a peony after Ms Bernhardt.
And it has no thorns!

 I sat outside the cafe and faced the crowd. There were so many attractive young men - three out of every five passersby, I kid you not! - brown-skinned, with rippling muscles and beautiful open faces, hints of well-tended facial topiary, full lips, wet glances. I suppose there were hot girls too...

But for every three attractive young men parading, only .5 was appropriately dressed. Most of them were in baggy hoop shorts and shirts, or singlets, shorts and flip-flops, or really badly put together outfits. I don't imagine everyone to turn up like fashion plates or fashion victims, but I thought everyone should make an effort to dress up. It's not really about brands and money put into an outfit - it's really imagination and taste.

Enter La Bernhardt. I prepared to speak in her peculiar language - and I guess of those who work in the theatre - a language that operates on subtexts and ellipses.

"I'm so sorry for turning up in this old rag, Dahling.
I was in such a rush..."

"Johnny Baby! It's been years!" This hyperbolic greeting was promptly followed by three-turn beso-beso, European style. (She was in Singapore just in October; I even hosted her to dinner.)

"Yes, I'm amazed I recognised you at. It's been loooong!" (Better speak the bitche's language. There's buko pie at stake.)

"And you! You don't age. Super envy! What's that you use on your face?" (She just had to bring it up!)

"SK II." (Obviously, I abbreviated the entire list of salves, unguents, masks and potions that I use!)

"But you've been sunning. I can see the super tiny lines when you smile." (Yes, a punch and hook after the kisses.)

"How was Valentine's?" she asked before a feigned hesitation, "Oh, no I shouldn't! Bad, bad. I know he's not here...." She then did that gesture of zipping up her lips and locking it up for good measure.

Other than that merienda progressed without an incident. We were sincerely happy to see each other again. A common friend, she told me, was performing at the UP Ma. Guerrero Theatre that night and, naturally, we spent the next hours over coffee debating whether or not we should see the play.

"Nah, opening nights aren't good. They're all still feeling heir way around the material. Did you go to Nonon's production of King Lear with an all-male cast? Well, presumably...," she said. "I saw it on the opening night; it was a mess."

We parted ways the same way we met: Three-turn beso-beso European style and more exaggerated promises to keep in touch and 'do-this-again-it's-so-lovely-a-pity-we-don't-get-to-do-it-often-enough'.

Minute lates, buko pie box in hand, I stood in front of the mall entrance waiting for my Mum's driver. It must've rained hard while we were having coffee, the ground is drenched, but we didn't notice. We were away from the noise and pollution and chaos and ugliness that is Metro Manila. We were surrounded by beautiful boys and the prospect of anonymous sex in the toilet. We were in climate-controlled world, insulated, isolated.

I could get used to this.  

Credits: (Image of Sarah Bernhardt Peony from http://www.fiftyflowers.com/) (Image of Ms Sarah Bernhardt from http://www.fanfix.net/)

How The Heart Sometimes Breaks

It's an interesting cock, I think to myself as I lift it from a well-trimmed pubic bush. I smell a hint of vetiver as I move my face closer to it but I can't decide whether or not it's Guerlain or Rochas. It's an old and moneyed scent. Okay, the guy's loaded; it's probably artisanal perfume. I hear him laughing softly, a silly suppressed laughter fuelled by champagne.

It's an impressive cock, although limp and pendulous, I decide as I balance the swollen head on the tip of my tongue. My lips part to take its massive girth. My throat moves in anticipation of a possible assault.

"Wait," he says, "my champagne's flat. Let me ask for some fresh ones." He pulls back and zips up.

I stand up and straightened up, find myself giggling as well, and in terrible need of fresh bubbly. "Yes, go on. I need some myself."

Waitstaff comes bearing two flutes and a fresh bottle of Cartier vintage champagne. Fills the glasses, bows timidly and starts to turn around. I can sense he's very nervous. He's young after all. His bird neck rising from his smart uniform is the dead giveaway. Sixteen?

"Hey, pengyou, here" he says, waving a hundred renminbi bill.

The boy protests; he doesn't want the money. He can't take any money. All good here, sir. He leaves almost running.

"Well, communism is alive and well in the land of Uncle Mao."

We take turns sipping champagne and look around us. Old buildings of different provenances and styles, mostly lacking paint and architectural lighting surround us. There are art deco facades and some Neo-Classical domes. This is an ineresting part of Shanghai. The building that we are in is a former museum then government office. Tonight it's swathed in reds. International bigwigs are celebrating a Cartier milestone. Celebrities are everywhere. Hey, that's Carina Lau! In the far distance is the Bund, its towers ablaze with coloured neon lights like theme park towers. International architecture meets Peking opera hues.

"Well, that was good, what you did." He finally says. He moves his face closer, his nose almost touching mine. He wasn't going to kiss me. He is looking at me intently through a veil of drunkeness. Christ, he's drunk.

"Now my turn." He puts his glass on the parapet and proceeds to kneel down, almost losing his balance as he does. He fumbles around my crotch and I unzip to help him. Take my cock out. Semi-hard. I look at it and smile. Mighty impressive for an Asian cock. Proud, stiff, shiny. I offer it to his mouth. He takes it, tentatively, then in one go it disappears into his mouth. My cock stirs. It enjoys the sensation. The moist warmth.

I turn to see a man watching us in the dark. I can't tell who it is. But I pull back this time. No free show here. Go away.

The man turns and walks away. Not hurriedly, but with determination.

I follow him as he steps out of the dark and into the light.

It is Han. He saw everything.

---------------------

This is very painful for me to write; it is, after all, an episode that Han refuses to talk about. But I have to purge myself of such dark, depressing memories. And I want to acknowledge how hurtful and foolish I had been.

It's Valentine's Day, well, almost. I look inside my heart and find there's only one man there. It is Han. He has seen everything.

Gay and Gruff

In Spanish, the pepper spice is called pimienta while pepper the vegetable is pimiento. In Tagalog, it's paminta and sili, respectively, the latter from the word chilli pepper.

No, we are not going to share recipes and food notes. I am making the distinction as my frustrated annoyance at the common Filipino expession, 'paminta', grows.

The expression comes from pa, a prefix denoting to do or act upon and min, a variant of mhin, which is a gay word for men. The word therefore means 'to act or behave like a man'. Its transformation into 'paminta' is typical to the Filipino gay language's form of embellishment. But let's not belabour the fact.

My quarrel with this expression is that it assumes that all gay men are naturally effeminate and anyone behaving otherwise is only pretending, or worse, dissembling. This stereotyping is untrue and unfair to us. Some of us are naturally effeminate while others are naturally masculine in mannerisms and carriage. I doubt that there's any attempt from the second to fool anyone, especially if they've already confessed to being gay, by behaving like the average straight men.

Stereotyping puts us in a pigeonhole. In extreme cases, it limits our choices to express ourselves or to be who we are. It is often done to inhibit and intimidate us so that we would be wherever they want us to be: wrist limp, voice soft and all facial hair micromanaged.

I know of so many young and old homosexuals who are naturally masculine. True, there are some of them, especially from th eolder generation, who were pressured into it. Back then, even if one were inclined towards girlie stuff, he would restrain himself for fear of ostracism.

But times have changed, we've come a long way, and we should include in the rights we have fought for and won that one about carrying ourselves in whatever manner we please - provided we are true to ourselves.

So if you're gay and gruff - or gay and Zsa Zsa Gabor - it's fine. There's a place for you under the sun. Just make sure you pack your tiny Japanese Speedos and a bottle of Banana Boat oil.

Hand Jive

With a few carefully placed questions, I got to know his name. Jeff. I first saw him at our gate helping one of the maids unload market baskets from a tricycle. I was instantly interested - for someone who lives in the province, he has an alert air about him, a worldliness and confidence that showed in the way he carried himself. I knew he was younger than me, but how young exactly I didn't know. Compared to other young men in the village, most of whom were shy, unseemly and provincial, Jeff seemed to know what he's got and how to use them.

"He often ferries me home from the market," the maid revealed. "He lives three houses down the road next to the acacia tree." Of course in provincial terms it's a few kilometres away and the acacia tree, one of twenty within a ten-metre radius, is more of a description than a landmark.

"I don't seem to remember him," I said distractedly, hoping my intention was adequaely concealed. "Get him bathed and ready, right here, right now" was what I really wanted to say.

"He used to come here a lot when he was a kid. Played with your younger cousins during summer."

"Oh, so how are the tomatoes this morning," I said instead, certain that I had everything I needed to know.

Not a week has passed when Jeff was literally in my hands, delivered by fate and some urgent errand.

I guided him to my room to hang some pictures and we went to business immediately.

"Kuya, dito ba okey na," he asked from the step-ladder, high enough for me to look under his cutoffs.

"Higher would be better," I suggested.

He raised his arm and balanced himself by lifting his right leg, a position that offered me a much better view of his full pouch.

He looked down and found me staring at him. "Mamaya na," he said.

I'm not one to wait so I reached up and felt his crotch. He carefully lowered the screwdriver and the hook, stepped down and faced me. He was excited; I could tell by his breathing and his open mouth. I unbuttoned and his cutoffs and let them slide down his knees. My hands easily slipped inside his briefs, feeling the roundness of his butt and, as they moved towards his crotch, discovered that he was eager to be explored.

Jeff hard cock is impressive. It's straight and lightly veined, rising from a thick pubic patch, with purplish mushroom head and thick shaft, circumcised and visibly clean. The tip was just getting moist. Damn, this young man is hot! But I wasn't ready to put it in my mouth. I wanted to tease it, play with it, see what my hand can do with it. As we sat on my bed he undressed hurriedly. I caressed his balls while he attempted to get me out of my clothes. Ah, an equal-opportunity bugger! I got out of my shirt and let him play with my cock through my boxers. I was amazed by how quickly things were turning to my favour. I didn't even suspect he was into this. I didn't even suspect he had an inkling who I really was or what my intentions were.

I could hear the thud from his chest. He was very, very horny. I let my hand slide between his thight, cupping his balls loosely and teasing the ridge between them and his arse. His hips bucked involuntarily. He wanted action. I felt his arm around my shoulder pushing me towards his crotch. His other hand meanwhile was trying to get into my shorts.

I yielded. I took off my shorts and spread my legs apart. His hand quickly surveyed my thighs, my balls, my cock - not nearly as hard as he was but starting to get interested in what was going on.

I focused on him again and started jerking his cock. His hips began to buck again. I realised he was making loud noises. I silenced him with an aggressive kiss.

I nudged him gently into the pillows and began jacking him off in earnest. He writhed on my bed, raising his pelvis to meet the rhythm of my wrist. He struggled to keep quiet but let a few moans escape.

Then he came. A young man's eruption. Rapid. Intense. His semen flew in all directions, laning on his chest and the pillow, the headboard. I continued milking his cock until he gripped my hand and begged me to stop. He was gulping air through his mouth, his eyes shut tightly.

I rested next to him, wallowing in the heady scent of his manliness and his copious cum. Suddenly I felt his hand on my crotch.

"Ikaw naman, Kuya..." He wanted to return the favour.

"Huwag na. Okay na ko." I lied.  

   

 

Old Enough To Be Your...

Unless you've found 'the one', and hearty congratulations to you, btw! - you will likely spend your days as a slave to strategic dressing, gym fads, ulthera and unguents, and blood-type diets. That or till you hit the age of fifty, whichever comes first, when you no longer care who sees you in bed in the morning. Why? Because we all want to remain the hot fantasies we nurture in our heads.

Although common amongst straight men and women as well, this condition is more pronounced amongst us gay men, what with our heightened aesthetic sense and a healthy tendency to challenge the status quo. We know instinctively the sell-by, use-by dates on the latest haircut, bags, shoes. jeans. Butch or Nelly, we care about our deportment and clothes much more than the average Joe does. Even when we scan the sports page - out of sincere interest - we also take note who among the mebers of Soccer Nippon Daihyo have the nicest haircuts or who from Real Madrid packs a full lunchbox.

A couple of days ago, I got a surprise call from Eternal Wanderer and we got to talk about everything. He's funny, clever and thoughtful, and I felt like I was talking to an old friend instead of someone who happened to be passing through my blog. Before we ended our chat we promised to go out for coffee and more chat. I reminded him that I'm old - yes, it's a drag when you show up to an innocent meet-up and the other party hides his surprise at how old you are - and that hanging out with me might be a notch below a parish bingo social. He assured me it won't be a problem.

That got me to thinking about myself and Han. He's pushing fifty and I'm almost in my mid-forties. Neither of us looks or feels old; we follow a rigorous health and fitness regime, we maintain an keen interest in technology, travel, investment and world affairs; and we bang each other like mad. But I am sure we're trogs in the eyes of some young men. Although it doesn't bother me personally, I am very aware that if I were single, I would have a difficult time to find a mate because, sadly, of my age.

Likely scenarios come to mind:

"ASL pls?"

"43, male, east coast. you?"

(Chat guest closes window.)

"Are you John?"

"Guilty as charged."

"I think my uncle went to school with you."

(Dinner progresses painfully.)

"John, right?"

"Yes. You're Steven..."

"Yes. Well, you don't look your age at all. You seem much younger."

(I text a lifeline to pull me out of the blind date.)

Surely, we will all grow old and perhaps become less desirable. We will all be replaced by preening young guys with pecs and abs and money in the bank. But while we're young, while poppers still work to fuel our libido, while we can still get it up thrice, four times in a row, while we have a wardrobe filled with Margiellas and vintage McQs, let's dance and celebrate youth and beauty.

I guess my blessing is that I am naturally drawn to older, mature and successful men. And because I found Han, barring health problems and erectile dysfunction, we can only grow more interesting as the years pass.

Up Da Butt

Getting fucked up the arse is the new black. It seems every new guy I meet has some juicy titbit to share about this previously delicate, intimates-only subject. I was having drinks with a couple of guys I just met and they openly told me about the first time they tried anal intercourse. I felt undermedicated and virginal. But I pressed on for details.

Such barside confessions are not limited to bottoms; enthusiasts of initiating the act as well as those who change sides frequently are equally candid about the experience. In the past, we used codes to indicate such preference.

In the film Cruising, starring Al Pacino, the code was red bandanna tied to the wrist or left hanging out in the jeans backpocket. If I remember right, left wrist or pocket means top, right means bottom. Alhough the film was set in late 1970s New York, one could imagine how such a code was adapted elsewhere. No one, presumably, outside the gay community cracked the code.

Today, such codes are cheekily emblazoned on t-shirts declaring whether one is a 'Catcher' or a 'Pitcher', but even then, the distinction is not very clear. Amongst gay men, being top or bottom does not necessarily translate to being a fucker or a fuckee. A top ina  homosexual relationship, studies say, does not always prefer anal intercourse. Yes, there are other ways for a top to express his dominance; he may be the suckee, not the sucker.

An article I read about lesbian partners says that unlike gay men, gay women tend to assume fixed roles within their relationships such that there is the 'man' and the 'woman'. The roles, apparently, carry physical manifestations. It would seem true as erstwhile partners Lindsay Lohan and Samantha Ronson have shown. Even Ellen Degeneres and her partner Portia de Rossi seem to follow the 'man and wife' stereotype, where the more masculine partner sports manly clothes and haircut, and behaves in a more masculine way. Such is not apparent among openly gay partners; take Neil Patrick Harris and his partner - they could pass for buddies whose only physical connection involves a basketball.

But we can't draw clear-cut distinctions. In gay relationships, there are pairings of a masculine and an effeminate man. The assumption of roles may not extend to cross-dressing but it still cannot be denied.

Up the butt does not indicate being submissive - and this is a compelling distinction that I don't quite understand. Apparently, another study suggests, being aggressive or submissive determines one's role. Does that mean that a fellow who likes it up his arse and demands it aggressively from his partner is the top?   

Q&A Portion

I was exhausted after a trip to the hospital to retrieve my test results, show them to our family doctor and wait for him to prescribe medications and lifestyle change. I slept over at my brother's place in Greenhills in order to cut down travel time. I was at Medical City at eight, proceeded to cardio department to get my last results and walked over to my doctor's clinic in the next building.

I previewed the results and with my limited knowledge of medspeak decided that nothing threatening was in there. Pancreas, liver, kidneys, heart, bladder - all working very well. I even exceeded the target for stress test. My only problems are fat deposits in my liver, slightly enlarged prostate and high blood pressure.

"You have to cut back on your alcohol intake, and avoid rich foods," Dr Quah told me. "That should help stabilise our blood pressure and give your kidneys a bit of a break." He also took out a list of food that I should take in moderation or avoid altogether. He asked me to focus on aerobic exercises and go easy on isometrics. "You're already muscular, you don't need to lift weights too much.

Damn, I can't even have too much water!

"I'll give you something for your prostate. This medication can also lower your blood pressure drastically so don't jump out of bed in the morning - you might fall down. Take it easy." He also enumerated the other side effects of the drug, including minor erectile dysfunction.

"Don't drink too much water when you retire at night. Your bladder will be too full and put unnecessary pressure on your prostate."

Then he proceeded to ask me some very private questions. As much as I don't mind him asking me these - after all, he has taken care of my entire family for nearly 15 years now - I didn't know how much to tell him. I am almost certain he doesn't discuss his patients' proclivities with other patients, unless maybe if there's something life-threatening that the next-of-kin should know about.

"How has your sex life been?" He knows I'm single.

"Good. I guess."

"What do you mean by 'good', " he asked. "Do you have a steady partner?"

"No, but I'm not that active in the sack." I lied.

"Hmm..." He didn't sound convinced. "What do you mean by 'that active'." Dr Quah is going Socratic on my arse. 

"I have sex about thrice weekly - on average. Is there anything I should worry about? I know about these things and I'm careful."

He just smiled back.



As God is my witness, I shall go hungry again...

 "I know about Han," he said cheerily as I stepped out of his clinic.