Till Then

I've been checking his email and hoping that i would see a message from the guy I loathe. But there weren't any.
It was impossible that they won't exchange messages.
The last time I asked him he told me that he likes the guy so much. That was a blow to my face - a painful one.

He wasn't sure about me though.
I remember whenever I would ask him he would say, "I don't know.."

The uncertainty killed me.I have been dying since.I can't deal with this anymore.I'm off to the lost lands to hear a lone bird singing a sad lullaby.

Something You are Sure Of

I chatted with you today...
Wanted to say things like what i did or how i am.
I am not ok.
I'm still hurting but i'm trying to move on with my life.
It's really difficult.
I never felt this coming.
I thought we were fine.
I guess I just was blinded by all the love I have for you.
I asked you how he was... and more questions...and then you said it..

Me: because i felt that we were so in love
Me: that nothing was wrongyou: and we were..
Me: but i guess i was wrong againyou: and we could still be...
you: i dont know..
you: at this point i dont know anymore...
Me: i can't deal with uncertainties
you: what i know is that i also love him already..

I started to get numb after reading that.
I died.
and died again and again..

Several deaths...

Under the Bed (revised)

[1] When I was younger I used to hide under the bed in the master’s bedroom and made it as a refuge from the shouts of my mom for lunch. I disliked vegetables, which my mom cooks ever so often. Under the bed was my perfect world. A world of strawberry cream rivers and fruit jelly rain; chocolate tree tops and candy flowers. It was the best place a kid could ever want. Unlike other beds mine had no monsters that chew on blankets and eat unsuspecting kids underneath it.
[2] I felt different growing up; it was not an easy childhood. The kids in the neighborhood would tease me and call me names, sometimes my younger brother would defend me from their name-calling but I was never relived from the anxiety that it brought me. At that time I did not know why my playmates made fun of me – their reason behind every taunt and laughter. I would usually ignore them. Until one kid started cursing me: “Bakla! Bakla! Ang mga katulad mo ‘di bagay mabuhay sa mundo!” He felt my fist on his face after he said that.
[3] I feared the word (bakla) everytime I would hear it. My mom was one of those who instilled that fear in me. I was in my second grade when my mom accompanied me to school because it was our school’s foundation day. The students of every level were required to dance on the school grounds under the heat of the scorching sun for our field demo. “Oh! Joanna, Hope!” (A song I barely remember. The only words I can hear echoing in my memory is, “Hope, Joanna, hope, Joanna,” repeatedly sung by a guy who seem to chant the lines, not sing them, “Caribbeanishly”) was the title of the song were to groove on to. I felt really uncomfortable with our costume. We seemed to have crossed over from the Caribbean to the rock covered grounds of our school. The boys and girls wore white cotton pants and skirt, respectively, and the same top: red-blue-yellow ruffled sleeves and the white cotton, where the colorful sleeves were connected, was to be tied (think summer of 80s). The only difference was the girls had undershirts and we had none. Before the synchronized shaking of the colorful ruffled sleeves, my mom saw me hiding my nipples by pulling the knot on the shirt tighter. Her eyes widened and discreetly said, “Ano ba… Ayusin mo nga ‘yang galaw mo. Para ka niyang bakla e Ano ba ang kailangan mo itago.” Truth was, as a chubby child I never was comfortable showing off my big boy-boobs and belly to the public. I came to fear the fact that I was gay and I tried to stop myself from being one. The bed became my refuge from my mom’s constant nagging. I stayed there for years.
[4] Every school year I would have different girl crushes and I would let one of my classmates know so he or she would tell my other classmates and start a teasing frenzy between me and that girl. When I was in my first year in high school I had a “crush” on a new student. She never liked me. I told one of my close friends that I had a crush on her and eventually she learned about it. She got awkward with the idea. She did not talk to me for months and that triggered my “romantic” tendencies: I gave her a certificate of apology I made myself; and letters – I wrote sorry letters to her even though I knew that I should not be apologizing. It lasted for a year. She eventually got fed up and confronted me – dumped me in other words. Then came second year and she got together with one of the mediocre boys in school and because of that I got really disappointed so I gave her a card to express my wasted feeling for her. I had a few attempts after that, I even tried to court a close friend of mine but some other guy won over me. I tried to be “normal” but I failed. Under my bed was where my guy crushes were.
[5] I knew that I was gay and that I would want to be with a guy but I was in denial because of the possible disappointment of the people around me (especially my mom). But it was not easy hiding under the bed. I discovered the chat room when I was in college. It was my secret world besides under the bed. I was 17 when I first dated a guy I met from the chat room. He was 25 and was working in a telecommunications company. I acted as if I was straight and he was quite effeminate. I did not like him but I did not know how to dump people all I could do is ignore them or hide from them. We went out 3 times and went to different restaurants every time. He paid the bills through his credit card. I would call him at night; I wanted to hear stories from a man who I know had had lots of exposure with the gay culture. He ended up falling for me. I ignored him after realizing that he wanted to have a relationship with me. I was not ready. I got scared and hid under my bed. I hugged my teddy.
[6] I dated a few guys after that and finally I came out to one of my close friends when I was in the College of music. I was now ready to face reality – that I am gay and I did not have any power to change that. It was in our bowling class and I told her that I was dating a guy. She was not shocked but instead she smiled and hugged me. For the first time in my life I felt “accepted”. I felt confident enough to come out to some of my other close friends. I ignored the fact that some of them might find it offensive (considering two of my closest friends are homophobic).
[7] Slowly, I was creeping out of the comforts of the space under the bed. Coincidences don’t happen. I believe that your actions lead to certain events. While I was inside my room reviewing my lessons, my mom came in and out of the blue she asked me, “Are you gay?” I said a resounding no. She knew that I was lying (I was never a good liar and my mom knows it when I lie), so she asked again. I finally said, yes. She was devastated. She ran to the master’s bedroom crying. I followed her and she closed the bedroom door. My mom sat in the bed wiping her tears; I sat on the bed, my back facing her, and asked her why she was crying. She told me that she was disappointed and scared of me growing old with no one by my side to take care of me. I did not try to defend my side I just sat there crying. More discouraging words came out of her but I forgot most of them or I deliberately erased them from my memory. I was hurt that night. I found comfort under the bed once more.
[8] Soon after, my dad who would usually be working overseas knew about ”me”; he did not try to hit me or violently shove my head into a drum filled with water. Instead, he was silent about it but once on a while he’ll throw sarcastic remarks whenever he would see some gay character on television. “Ano ba ‘yan, puro ka-baklaan! Ilipat mo nga ang tv…” he once remarked when we were both watching a gag show, even though I was unlike the stereotype gay-parlorista you see on television. I chose to stay as masculine as I can be. In my friends’ and family’s eyes I never changed but their views about my gender did. I was now subjugated to too much skepticism like every gay man in the Philippines. Much of it I blame on the macho culture embedded in the system of every Filipino. My dad had it. He never confronted me about my gender. My family tried to shrug it off. I crept out from under the bed.
[9] Out of the comforts under the bed: I was dumped for another; depressed; moved on; infatuated; stumbled and fell face first to the ground; stood up. I loved again – He made me feel more passionate with my art. I can firmly set foot on the ground because he would always be there to hold my hand. Together we watched stars fall and made magic with cardboard boxes. Now, I could say that I would never grow old alone.
[10] “In every heart there is a room
A sanctuary safe and strong
To heal the wounds from lovers’ past
Until a new one comes along…”
- “And so it goes” composed and sung by Billy Joel

Under the Bed

When I was younger I used to hide under the bed in the master’s bedroom and made it as a refuge from the shouts of my mom for lunch. I disliked vegetables, which my mom cooks ever so often. One instance I hid there and to my surprise when I looked up I saw my dad naked. I never forgot that incident.
I felt different growing up. When I played with the neighborhood children they would usually call me names and say that my actions were too soft for a boy. I would usually ignore them. Until one kid started cursing me, he told me that I wasn’t supposed to be in this world and that I was better off in the dumps. He felt my fist on his face after he said that (There goes the softie giving the bully a good spanking).
It was not an easy childhood. The kids in the neighborhood would tease me and call me names, sometimes my younger brother would defend me from their name calling but I was never relieved from the anxiety that it brought me. At that time I did not know why they make fun of me and the reason behind every taunt and laughter. Also, most of the time my mom, whenever we would be in public, would discreetly say to me, “Ano ba… Ayusin mo nga ‘yang galaw mo. Para ka niyang bakla e.” I came to fear the fact that I was gay and I stopped myself from being one. The bed became my refuge from my mom’s constant nagging. I stayed there for years.
Every school year I would have different girl crushes and I would let one of my classmates know so he or she would tell my other classmates and start a teasing frenzy between me and that girl. When I was in my first year in high school I had a “crush” on a new student. She never liked me. I told one of my close friends that I had a crush on her and eventually she learned about it. She got awkward with the idea. She did not talk to me for months and that triggered my “romantic” tendencies; I gave her a certificate of apology I made myself; and more letters – I wrote sorry letters to her even though I knew that I should not be apologizing. It lasted for a year. She eventually got fed up and confronted me – dumped me in other words. I had a few attempts after that, I even tried to court a close friend of mine but some other guy won over me. I tried to be “normal” but I failed.
I did not give up on liking or admiring girls (I still do sometimes – I actually have girl crushes), I just knew that I was gay and that I would want to be with a guy but I was in denial because of the possible disappointment of the people around me (especially my mom). But it was not easy hiding under the bed. Finally I came out to one of my close friends when I was in the College of music. I was now ready to face reality – that I am gay and I have no power to change that. It was in our bowling class and I told her that I was dating a guy. She was not shocked but instead she smiled and hugged me. For the first time in my life I felt “accepted”. I felt confident enough to come out to some of my other close friends. I ignored the fact that some of them might find it offensive (considering two of my closest friends are homophobic).
Slowly, I was creeping out of the comforts of the space under the bed. Coincidences don’t happen. I believe that your actions lead to certain events. While I was inside my room reviewing my lessons, my mom came in and out of the blue she asked me, “Are you gay?” I said a resounding no. She knew that I was lying (I was never a good liar and my mom knows it when I lie), so she asked again. I finally said, yes. She was devastated. She ran to the master’s bedroom crying. I followed her and she closed the bedroom door. My mom sat in the bed wiping her tears; I sat on the bed my back facing her. I asked her why she was crying and she told me that she was disappointed and that she was scared of me growing old with no one by my side to take care of me. I did not try to defend my status I just sat there crying. More discouraging words came out of her but I forgot most of them or I deliberately erased them from my memory. I was hurt that night. I found comfort under the bed once more.
Soon after, my dad who would usually be working overseas knew about”me”; he did not try to hit me or violently shove my head into a drum filled with water. Instead, he was silent about it but once on a while he’ll throw sarcastic remarks whenever he would see some gay character on television. Though I was unlike the stereotype gay-parlorista you see on television. I chose to stay as masculine as I can be. In my friends’ and family’s eyes I never changed but their views about my gender did. I was now subjugated to too much skepticism like every gay man in the Philippines. Much of it I blame on the macho culture embedded in the system of every Filipino. My dad was one of them.
I wouldn’t blame anyone for my current state. Some studies say that the environment causes homosexuality, in which case the absence of my dad in most of my life could be a factor. But I did not consider that because if that was the case both my younger brothers would also be gay.

You see us most of the time but its either you ignore us or give us prejudice. I think that as someone who is considered a deviant in the society, our goal is not to be accepted but, our outmost concern is that we be respected as a part of the society we are in. Homosexuality has been around for centuries even the Greeks have artistic representations or relics that show it. Despite my confidence and liberal thinking, sometimes, I still crawl under the bed hoping for the assurance that in the future life for “our kind” will be better.

Return to Sender

My dad just left today.
He was off to a cargo ship to be a boatswain for 10 months or so, as it always was for years now. I never knew what he does there, though I researched what a boatswain is and here's the definition: 1 : a petty officer on a merchant ship having charge of hull maintenance and related work 2 : a naval warrant officer in charge of the hull and all related equipment.
I honestly am not in good terms with him.
We had a fight just recently, about a monthe ago, about certain issues that were never resolved. Being the hard-headed-ego-centric son that I am and him the macho-introvert-silent-dad that he is (not considering that we have anger management issues too), we never talked nor confronted our problem. Since (what? forever) I realized that I need something more that financial support, I tried to go for juvenile delinquency than being mature about our issues.
I would be branded as selfish (or maybe I am just a psychotic brat), and I know that sometimes (or most of the times) I am. I think I have certain ideas of empowering myself but never to the disadvantege of others, for me that's more of self centeredness than selfishness.
My dad and I never understood what our relationship came to be.

But if i had the chance (or he would read and understand all that's written here) I would want to say:

Pa,
I'm sorry that I couln't be the son you want me to be, I know this is such a cliche but we both live in that premise, I seldom see you as my dad. You don't know why I'm like this and I don't know what you think of me as: your son or just someone who needs support(close to being a patient in a mental institution or someone in a orphanage).
Less the pride, I think our relationship would be better.
I'm sorry pa.
I should have been better than this. I could be but I chose not to be.
I still have to throw all these excess emotional baggages in me.
I still have to change for our own good.
It's me.
I shall be the one to sacrifice.
It's my turn.

Your son.

Monday Mornings

As I try to write something today, I hear the "distant" guitar strumming of the person I fondly call "dad". I am 23 and still in school. People my age, most of them, are working already; Successful office workers; employees. And here I am still in school. Very much dependent on my parents' money, though sometimes some commission will come my way and that's where I earn my own. Every morning I usually hear a different "wake up call": My mom telling me the importance of time, money and how I waste them because of mot attending my classes (just the other day she insisted on waking me up and I told her that I have no morning class and she did not listen, she continued her "morning sermon") , my "dad" playing the guitar (the only tune he's mastered: Anak by Freddie Aguilar), my used to be phone now just serving as an alarm clock, and the morning sun that scorches my skin (about two months ago I never experineced this because there was a mango tree in our backyard, my dad cut it off).
It's nine in the morning. I have to go and take a shower.
"Dad" is still playing his out-of-tune rendition of Hotel California.
These are the times I wished I never went to the College of Music and developed my "ear".

Confessions of a Woman

I am a whore. In high school if I learn that some classmate of mine has a crush on me I’ll invite him to the prayer room after the flag ceremony on Mondays. Disrespectful and immoral but that is the only place in campus (where nobody seems to go) that I can seduce him and let him touch my breasts; his hands will tremble while touching them and I will love the tension. Slowly my hands will be in contact with his crotch and he will moan while I touch him. He will beg for more but I will stop and give him a tender kiss on the cheeks. He will scream in agony. I will walk away triumphant, knowing that I am irresistible and nobody can have me.

Many try to love me; every one of them fails. I always think that I am born to be an object of adoration (just that). Young men (virgins) need me; I give them the experience they want. Men of age want a young girl so I pose as a college student even if I never went to the university near the ladies dormitory where I stay.
Every morning I go home to the dormitory and notice a young man. His hair is long and pony-tailed, he will look at me with piercing eyes and it never fails to heat up what’s between my thighs. For once, I want him.

He unexpectedly grabs me and directs me to the storeroom. There he rips my clothes and I try to resist but I just cannot: He is mine. He starts caressing my breasts with his strong firm hands. Each movement has an equivalent moan. I feel his buttocks and knead them like a baker’s dough. He goes down and licks me. I touched my breasts. Every time he thrusts his tongue inside me I gasp for breath. Then without warning…

I farted.

It ended there. I wanted him but he always ignored me after that.

Embarrassing.

Holiday Cheers

What matters to an artist is not experience, but inward experience
- Cesare Pavese

I tried to get out of bed Monday morning but neither my heavy head nor semi-paralyzed limbs allowed me to. Instead, the warmth of the sun that beamed through the window beside my bed forced me to get up and slowly walk to the bathroom.
As I was eating breakfast I could feel my calf muscles ache. It felt like I was still standing singing Filipino Christmas Carols to mall goers – songs like, “O, Magsaya” (the Filipino translation of “Joy to the World”).
It was Saturday when we went to this mall in Alabang, not to shop for Christmas gifts but, together with our suit bags, place ourselves to designated stations in the mall where we would be singing. We dressed up in our priced barong and the ladies in their balintawak, walked to one of the stations, formed two lines and sang with bright faces to passersby. With every song there would be a few people listening and some would simply ignore our singing.
We would sing the same repertoire in each station and in each station I would see people smiling and singing along. Less the sore feet, it was fun seeing the eyes of the people around you brighten as they heard our harmonious voices.
For collectively almost 5 hours (we had breaks in between stations), for two days we sang in the mall and I experienced the physical exhaustion only that Monday morning. And yet I never regretted going to the mall and singing for the people. Until now I can still feel that unexplainable joy I felt; it was greater than the joy I felt when I first learned to whistle a tune.
After breakfast I rode a bus to Quezon City. I would be going to a condominium unit to paint a mural of Peter Pan and Tinkerbell for two kids’ age 5 and 7. I would be again filled with happiness knowing that when the painting would be done they too will smile and the cycle would go on and on.

The Man I Love

Someday he’ll come along,
The man I love.
And he’ll be big and strong,
The man I love.
And when he comes my way
I’ll do my best to make him stay.
– “The Man I love”, composed by George and Ira Gershwin

The semester had just started and there I was late for my class. I was a few meters away from my classroom’s door when I accidentally bumped into someone. I hurriedly picked up my books, went inside the classroom and sat down. My professor did not notice me because he was drawing a diagram on the board. I slouched on my chair and tried to relax so I would stop hyperventilating.

He was like the son of Venus. He entered the room gracefully as if he was walking on water – each step an effortless movement. His hair was pitch black and it moved like silk floating in the air. He walked towards me. I was staring at him as he came closer. He stopped in front of the chair beside me and, before he sat down, smiled at me. I looked away and pretended to be listening to our professor.

He leaned until his lips were near my ears. Then he whispered, “I’m Jay, sorry for blocking your way.” I looked at him embarrassed. “I’m so sorry I hope I did not hurt you,” I said discreetly while our professor was listening to the question of our classmate. His eyes glittered in contrast with the dullness of the cream-colored room. Our professor dismissed the class. I stood up and looked back at him – he was in a hurry drawing the diagram, which he missed when he went out of the classroom, in his notebook. I smiled and walked away.

After I met him I would usually go to class ahead of time and wait for him to sit beside me. We seldom speak to each other. But sometimes he asks for paper whenever we would have a quiz, what the professor said if he does not catch it, or he would just smile at me whenever I say goodbye after class. Sometimes I would catch him staring at me, he would look away and I would smile at the thought of him liking me. Soon after, Jay accompanied me out of our classroom to the jeepney stop. We would have conversations about art and music – from Boticelli to Picasso and Bach to John Williams.

One day after our usual boring class he asked me, “I don’t know how to say this but will you go out with me this weekend for dinner and maybe a cup of coffee after?” I was taken aback with what he said but to my surprise I said: “Yes, that would be fine.”

I arrived thirty minutes earlier in the Persian restaurant. The place was not as crowded as most of the restaurants during weekends. The chairs and tables were filled with vine-like sculpted patterns, which I guessed to have come from the Middle East. While I was trying to amuse myself by counting the glasses of water a man on the table in front of me drank, I could hear soft music from the sitar player on a platform beside the entrance of the restaurant. Jay came at exactly seven o’clock. He was wearing a navy blue shirt that accented his toned arms. He smiled when he saw me. When he was settled down he said, “I hope you like the place.” I nodded and asked him, “I never new this kind of place exist here in the Philippines. When did you discover this restaurant?” He told me that his friends would usually tell him good places to dine in. That restaurant was the most recommended place of his friends.

The evening had no dull moments. Jay ate slowly and I talked so fast that sometimes he would choke every time I would tell a joke. After dinner we paid our bill and went outside to his car. We drove off to the nearest café. It was just nine o’clock so there were a few customers in the café either sipping coffee or smoking their lungs out. We settled ourselves down inside on a mint-green-colored sofa. He asked me what coffee I wanted but I told him that I want hot cocoa instead. He went to the counter to order our drink and sat beside me. “I hope we could be free from the misconceptions of the people around us. What’s ‘normal’ in this world anyway?” he said after sipping his cup of espresso. I put down my cup of hot cocoa and said giggling, “Calm down. Don’t be too serious, you might hurt yourself.” He smiled. “It has always been a struggle for most of us and in someway we always tried to be ‘normal’ but in the end we’ll realize that this is what we are and we don’t need to change that.”

Jay took me home. It was minutes before midnight and only the streetlights illuminated the way to my home. I was silent while he was driving. I just smiled watching him concentrating behind the steering wheel. He would smile back at me whenever he can. It took us a fifteen-minute drive to reach my home. I went down his car and said goodbye.

I changed into my pajamas and lied down on my bed. I stared at my orange-painted ceiling and reminisced what had happened to us that day – his smiles, the way he would move his hand while he told a story, the smell of the perfume he had on, and his laughter that seem to reverberate joy to the people around him. I imagined him beside me that night. I hugged my pillow as if it was he. I never had that chance that day to touch him. I slept with the thought of his hand brushing my hair.

Two months passed and we usually went home together. During weekends we would stay in my home to watch art films that we have bought in a shop near our school. It was a Saturday when we watched “Sometimes in April” and I cried most of the time. We were the only ones home and he tried to comfort me by putting his arms around my shoulders. I told him that I was fine and he stood up and got me a glass of water. Most of the time we would try to be together I would contact him after my classes and ask him if he was free to meet up with me. We would hangout in a coffee shop or just stay in his car and chat.

One evening after a long day at school, I was startled with the realities of this society. I never tried to ask myself if Jay was what I wanted but I knew that I was different. I was normal physically and no one would suspect that I was different. But Jay knew that I was and I knew that he was…

I was not ready for this.

The next day was a Friday and it was a holiday. After breakfast I contacted him and asked him if he could come over so we could talk. It was the best time because my parents left for Baguio to my grandparent’s. He lived about forty-five minutes away from my home; so I hurriedly took a shower, put on my favorite boxers, jeans and shirt and sat down on our Kamagong sofa to watch television. I fell asleep. I was awakened by the squeaking sound of our gate. I went to the door and saw him glowing under the light of the morning sun. “Josh, I need to tell you something,” he said while going in the house. I closed the door. We stood there in our living room. He did not say anything. He just looked at me and I knew what he meant He held my hand. I closed my eyes.

He kissed me…

We'll build a little home
Just meant for two
From which I'll never roam
Oh, what would you
And so all else above
I'm dreaming of the man I love

Solitary Soul

Written while listening to "Psycho Doctor" from the anime Fruits Basket

I hear the leaves fluttering outside my window
As scenes from the not so distant past
Flashed inside my head
Like a silent movie in Black and White.

I felt the coldness of the wind creeping on my skin
I closed the window and lied on my bed.
Once more I felt
The stillness of the room.

I closed my eyes and began to feel
The emptiness – sending me to a deep slumber
In my dark cold room
I lay slumped on a corner.