Bughaw. Kayumanggi. Pilak. Ginintuang Puso.

Labis ngang mayaman ang Pilipinas sa mga likas na yaman. Kahit saan ka man mapunta, mayroong magagandang tanawin tayong maipagmamalaki. At higit pang nagpapaganda sa ating bansa ay ang magagandang katangian ng mga taong naninirahan dito. Nariyan ang bayanihan, ang pagtulong sa mga nasalanta ng kalamidad, ang kung anu-ano pang nagpapatunay na sa kahit anong estado ng buhay, marunong tayong magmalasakit sa ating kapwa na siya namang ating maipagmamalaki, at tunay na hinahangaan ng mga dayuhan. Tayo mismo at ang mga katangiang ito ang sumisimbulo ng ating pagka-Pilipino. Tayo mismo ay isang tunay na likas na kayamanan ng ating bansa!


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Something Unrequited

   Cigarette butts lay idly on the tray as smoke erupted from Michael’s lips trailing its way blindly into nothingness. He stared at the ceiling as he sat on the porch with his feet touching the floor.

   “Do you love me?” he asked as he contorted his face to make a funny gesture. He was looking at Jane who was lying in the bed in a crouched position.

   “Jane!”

   “Hmmf?” she was not listening.

   “Do I make you happy?” he asked again in a more serious but less-troubled manner.

   “You never fail to make me laugh, Mike. Always,” she said as she looked directly into his eyes, through and through. ”Do I make you happy?”

   Michael smiled and closed his eyes. “I never thought of that. But now that you've asked,” he began. “I don’t think I could never be the happiest person on earth right now. Everytime. All the time.”

   It was tempting to feel his eyes a little burning and wet, but he parried the dread. He opened his eyes and scanned her as the crowing of roosters erupted from the outside.

   “I have to get dressed, Mike,” she said as she stood up and bent down to pick up her clothes. She started to dress herself up as quickly as she could. “The kids needed to be in school and my husband will surely freak out if he finds out I left early.”

   “And what if he did? What will you tell him?

   “Jogging,” she answered as she tie her hair into a more peaceful knot. “That always does the trick.”

   “In stilettos?” he badgered. He couldn’t resist laughing.

   “I can sort that one out. That shouldn’t be a problem.”

   “Your husband is a fool,” he muttered.

   She darted a look at him as she picked up her bag. “And you think you’re any different?”

   “Well, yes,” he retorted. “I make you happy and he doesn—”

   “I didn’t say that,” she cut off.

   “I just asked you and you said—”

   “—That you make me laugh,” she completed as she walked up to leave. “That’s different, Mike.”

   “Wait,” he followed her and grabbed her on the elbow and turned her around. “Do you love me?”

    Still bare and tugging nothing but desparation and sudden rejection, he looked into her eyes, through and through. The roosters crowed a little louder and now the sky is visible through the windowsill.

   She looked into his eyes ever so dearly; apologetically and sympathetically. The crows talked and echoed, paired with passers-by chirping and some motorists honking the streets as the chill continued to embrace his bare muscular body.

   She opened her mouth but words were dead and silent. She closed it as she took his hand off her elbow, turned her back at his and opened the door leaving him bare, broken, and undone. She walked towards the pavement as the musical of the crows belted the melodies of gloom and melancholy; turned left on the first alley, and then, she was gone.

On Blowjobs and Getting Off

This afternoon, I had an exciting thought: Over the years of having sex, which part of it did I really like and enjoy? Have I really liked it; or have I faked it and got on with it just to get off?

I sent a "Sex Anthropological Research Question" to a few people regarding a specific phase in sexual intercourse: Oral Sex. I asked people about their opinions about oral sex (of course, there's felatio and cunnilingus, but my market is a sea of gay people). I asked them if they liked giving and/or getting head.

A cluster of gay people confessed that they like both. It's like reciprocating a kiss that leads to another thing. It's like doing to your partner what you want to be done to you. Thus, the Law of Reciprocity. To most people on that cluster, giving head is more than just exchanging body fluids, not to mention seminal. There's just this inexplicable subtlety in giving head -- the priceless feeling that you are the vital player in bed. In some cases, others prefer giving blowjobs while they masturbate until they both come(a fetish only them can explain, but at least, it works for them). And there are also people who just like getting head and not giving any. And there are those, of course, who don't like it. Or just the idea of it. They say it's gross and disgusting.

True enough, it is; but also, sex is just as disgusting as it is enjoyable.

I was successful to classify the clusters: The Givers, The Ones Who Reciprocate, The Passive One, and The Self-righteous Bitch. I was once a Self-righteous Bitch. I don't like giving head but I like getting it. You see, sex works in different ways. To some, including me, just getting worked at and not doing anything at all gives you potency and power. It gives you superiority. It boosts up your self-esteem in ways you can not define. It makes you masculine and machismo.

On the other hand, the same thing works for The Givers. That in giving head, they acquire power. That in working their jaws arduously they gain control over the situation. They possess the advantage of finishing the game instantly, or play with your balls until you cry for the climax and beg for more, making The Giver the master of the game.

You see, they may be on their knees but they got you right on the balls. And that is a wise game plan that works all the time that makes you twitch as you arch your back, and explode.

And explosion is all that matters. Because we are, after all, The Self-righteous Bitches.

I’ve been here before. I’m sure I have. But I just do not remember when and how it happened. I can’t seem to find the holes where these seams are dangling from. Every thing is vague and unclear; a blurry image of what we once had. Or… did we really have it? The more I think of it, the more unsure I get. The more I reach a realization, the more it slips away. But how do I hold on to these? I’m weak to clench it tightly, yet I do not want to let it go. I’m too afraid to hold it dear for it might just burst into a fine china, escaping my grip swiftly. But this is a close cull. One move, and it might just lead into another mishap. How do I hold it? Do I hold it gently or tightly? I do not know what to do this time. Because with either touch, you’re still drifting away.