THE invitation was enticing to arouse interest as it was inciting to stir up curiosity. “Exclusive All Male Extreme Shindig. Brace Yourself. Surely You Will Come. It’s On Us.” it sez on very tastefully embossed copperplate font etched on thick velum paper.
Hmm.
The Hosts—a couple I’ve met in a photo shoot that I’ve directed for an advertising client, a closeted photographer and his IT pro partner. The Venue—a palatial Manila condo chartered on a penthouse overlooking the city’s bright nightscape. The Mode—highly discreet, uber exclusive.
Nine o’clock. Sharp. “I can be fashionably late…” I tell myself.
I prepped up and geared for battle.
I scrubbed on Body Shop’s Arber Body Wash, buzzed my skinhead to its smug best with the razor, made sure le pubes are trimmed to its decent length, swabbed a gunk of Petroleum Jelly on my lips and pondered on my garb.
It was a toss between a TopMan tanktop cum sporty vest and a plain black V-neck cK tee. “You’d shed ‘em off anyway…” my inner bitch was telling me, so the cK shirt won in the final tally. I’ve paired it with low rise denim jeans, a D&G black belt and my trusty leather Brassboots. No accessories, no underwear. A whiff of Bulgari completed the look.
Loved it. I adored the image in the mirror; and as narcissistic as I am, I squandered on the idea that this brusko pink is gettin’ some tonight.
The unit was epicurean teeming with lavish accoutrements of worldly thingamajigs—crystal chandeliers, Swarovskis, fine china, the works. Projected on the wall was an impressive slide show of nudes, I assume, from the host’s body of work.
“Red or white, sir?”
I knew the waiter dressed in leather pants and boots and nothing else—he moonlights as a gogo boy in a club that I frequent in. He gave me a naughty grin and a wet wink.
The table served a cornucopia of lush offerings—strawberries, imported and unidentified variety of cheeses, pills (yup, party pills with a CAUTION slip “Pop Only What You Can Handle”..oh-so thoughtful) together with an assortment of lubes and rubbers.
I saw a bar owner I know, a lady who does cameos on ABS-CBN, a refined gentleman who is a noted architect, a handful of steroidites (gym rats whose diets include steroids), a bunch of twinkies, and one (thank, god) effeminate in drag.
The ramble began.
We saw, we conquered.
And did I mention that we all came?
Ha.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Thursday, January 24, 2008
The Invitation
The mysterious invite sez...
"Exclusive All Male Extreme Shindig. Brace Yourself. Surely You Will Come. It's On Us."
It's this Saturday. Hmm...
"Exclusive All Male Extreme Shindig. Brace Yourself. Surely You Will Come. It's On Us."
It's this Saturday. Hmm...
Perplexed with bullshit, bedazzled by crap
WHEN somebody tells me I’m hot, I cringe.
When somebody tells me I’m cool, I squirm.
What exactly is ‘hot’? Just what makes one hot and the other, uhm, lukewarm, or worse, cold? Would you rather be ‘hot’ or ‘cool’?
I’m often greeted with “My, you’re hot!” (Yup, Mary, I don’t have any problem with self-confidence.). I would easily dismiss it as 1) mere chatroom talk on mother cruise ships g4m, g.com, etc, or 2) a booty wordplay for a quick lay (nothing wrong with that, really).
Whisked inside the wet sauna, I was charted to the same bum talk by a stranger “You’re hot, man!” but then again it could just be that I was just all ripped and pumped from the mercy of my gym trainer (later I’ve realized my towel was hung too low that my pelvic bone was almost transparent). Minutes after in the Locker’s Area, I chanced upon an old acquaintance who asked how I was, told him I was fine, and he said “Cool.”
Are we slowly losing the words? Why are conversations conking on contractions? Are everyday tête-à-têtes becoming an extension of text messaging? Is this just a passing whiff of the times? Are ‘hot’ and ‘cool’ the straight peeps’ version of the gay man’s multi-purpose ‘chorva’?
I am perplexed with this bullshit, bedazzled by this crap. But then I am both ‘hot’ and ‘cool’ so I ain’t complainin’. Hehe.
When somebody tells me I’m cool, I squirm.
What exactly is ‘hot’? Just what makes one hot and the other, uhm, lukewarm, or worse, cold? Would you rather be ‘hot’ or ‘cool’?
I’m often greeted with “My, you’re hot!” (Yup, Mary, I don’t have any problem with self-confidence.). I would easily dismiss it as 1) mere chatroom talk on mother cruise ships g4m, g.com, etc, or 2) a booty wordplay for a quick lay (nothing wrong with that, really).
Whisked inside the wet sauna, I was charted to the same bum talk by a stranger “You’re hot, man!” but then again it could just be that I was just all ripped and pumped from the mercy of my gym trainer (later I’ve realized my towel was hung too low that my pelvic bone was almost transparent). Minutes after in the Locker’s Area, I chanced upon an old acquaintance who asked how I was, told him I was fine, and he said “Cool.”
Are we slowly losing the words? Why are conversations conking on contractions? Are everyday tête-à-têtes becoming an extension of text messaging? Is this just a passing whiff of the times? Are ‘hot’ and ‘cool’ the straight peeps’ version of the gay man’s multi-purpose ‘chorva’?
I am perplexed with this bullshit, bedazzled by this crap. But then I am both ‘hot’ and ‘cool’ so I ain’t complainin’. Hehe.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Pure dung!
('Got this from an errant schmuck who stalked me for eternity. Stay away. Please.)
The Writings on the Wall
"It's been two days, and my heart is still bleeding.I have come back to where I came from 3 three years ago. My world, as I know it, has been torn to pieces. My whole being feels like it's crumbling down, and my theme song is The Scientist.Three years ago, I promised myself, I would never want to feel this way again. Three years ago, I thought that something as painful as this would never happen to me again. But fate unfailingly played another joke on me, and it's not funny at all. Murphy's law is still in order.Why?....I wish this feeling would go away...I had to let go. It's the right thing to do...but why does it feel so wrong??? As the cliche goes, sometimes , the right thing to do, is the most painful, and excruciating thing as well.I'm too tired crying, but the tears don't seem to run out.*@#!,....brace yourself from doing something foolish-- restrain yourself from the easy way out. That's not how things should be done. The feelings are still there, but bear the grunt. You should know better. Some people are better off apart.I love you, baby, but it's time to move on. It's all for the best. Thanks for everything...and take care of yourself, and I wish you a wonderful life...without me. You'll be fine. =)"
The Writings on the Wall
"It's been two days, and my heart is still bleeding.I have come back to where I came from 3 three years ago. My world, as I know it, has been torn to pieces. My whole being feels like it's crumbling down, and my theme song is The Scientist.Three years ago, I promised myself, I would never want to feel this way again. Three years ago, I thought that something as painful as this would never happen to me again. But fate unfailingly played another joke on me, and it's not funny at all. Murphy's law is still in order.Why?....I wish this feeling would go away...I had to let go. It's the right thing to do...but why does it feel so wrong??? As the cliche goes, sometimes , the right thing to do, is the most painful, and excruciating thing as well.I'm too tired crying, but the tears don't seem to run out.*@#!,....brace yourself from doing something foolish-- restrain yourself from the easy way out. That's not how things should be done. The feelings are still there, but bear the grunt. You should know better. Some people are better off apart.I love you, baby, but it's time to move on. It's all for the best. Thanks for everything...and take care of yourself, and I wish you a wonderful life...without me. You'll be fine. =)"
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Will Viktor get me laid?
YOU wouldn’t miss it if you’re like me who would always snatch a glimpse of himself in any reflective surface. The mirror speaketh loud as if to convince you to believe the harking words etched on its face.
‘A pair of Viktor can get you laid…” it sez.
Wipe the cynicism off your quizzical face, look at the bright side and give hope to the style-deficient and the fashion-depraved. For the horizontally-challenged and the flair-impaired, Viktor deserves some slack.
In our narcissistic pink world, you can get joy in a bottle, glow in a (lip-and-cheek stain) stick, a good tan in a foundation, and now you can get laid too—thanks to a pair of pantaloon. Let’s concede, sistahs, in fashion what you wear is who you are. Designers are hailed as sanctified icons and a good label can be your ticket from the hot clubs of cool.to the hedonist’s bed of sham.
It hits me: status goods are the new aphrodisiacs.
Just like any status accoutrement, a fashion aphrodisiac is a whimsy bourgeois acquisition. The protagonists of so-called good taste and the pseudo-purveyors of style would say that the price tag is the undisputable status trademark. When you wear your aphrodisiac, make sure to send in the clowns and sing the chorus on your way to the cash registers “…isn’t it rich?!” Dahlin’, status goods should be indispensably expensive!
A pair of Viktor jeans seems to be the coolest acquisition of the moment. Its wide variety of textiles and colors—from stark black to earthy tones of mocha and camel to immaculate whites—Viktor offers, not only a pair of jeans, but the promise of, uhm, ‘getting some.’ Never mind the tacky Japanese cats waving by the store window or the letter dishes bought on sale from the nearby Podium kitchen shop, Viktor jeans are custom-made, ergo, they should guarantee to hug your gonads and invite others to do the same.
The catch is in the tag: a whopping five-oh-oh-ouch! Five thousand pesos is enough to make you squirm (and probably churn out a silent scream!). Let’s do the math: A pair of Viktor jeans is equivalent to a three-month worth of gym bill (with unlimited emote sessions in the sauna). A pair of Viktor jeans is commensurate to one hundred cups of short Americano with white mocha at Starbucks. A pair of Viktor jeans can feed a family of ten for a week.
Is it worth it? Go figure. Will Viktor get you laid? Are you willing to pay—literally—the price? In the words of The Beautiful Gretchen, “They are verrrry expensive!” I dunno with you, but my virility is packed elsewhere than my wallet. And you say you don’t pay for sex. But that’s another story.*
‘A pair of Viktor can get you laid…” it sez.
Wipe the cynicism off your quizzical face, look at the bright side and give hope to the style-deficient and the fashion-depraved. For the horizontally-challenged and the flair-impaired, Viktor deserves some slack.
In our narcissistic pink world, you can get joy in a bottle, glow in a (lip-and-cheek stain) stick, a good tan in a foundation, and now you can get laid too—thanks to a pair of pantaloon. Let’s concede, sistahs, in fashion what you wear is who you are. Designers are hailed as sanctified icons and a good label can be your ticket from the hot clubs of cool.to the hedonist’s bed of sham.
It hits me: status goods are the new aphrodisiacs.
Just like any status accoutrement, a fashion aphrodisiac is a whimsy bourgeois acquisition. The protagonists of so-called good taste and the pseudo-purveyors of style would say that the price tag is the undisputable status trademark. When you wear your aphrodisiac, make sure to send in the clowns and sing the chorus on your way to the cash registers “…isn’t it rich?!” Dahlin’, status goods should be indispensably expensive!
A pair of Viktor jeans seems to be the coolest acquisition of the moment. Its wide variety of textiles and colors—from stark black to earthy tones of mocha and camel to immaculate whites—Viktor offers, not only a pair of jeans, but the promise of, uhm, ‘getting some.’ Never mind the tacky Japanese cats waving by the store window or the letter dishes bought on sale from the nearby Podium kitchen shop, Viktor jeans are custom-made, ergo, they should guarantee to hug your gonads and invite others to do the same.
The catch is in the tag: a whopping five-oh-oh-ouch! Five thousand pesos is enough to make you squirm (and probably churn out a silent scream!). Let’s do the math: A pair of Viktor jeans is equivalent to a three-month worth of gym bill (with unlimited emote sessions in the sauna). A pair of Viktor jeans is commensurate to one hundred cups of short Americano with white mocha at Starbucks. A pair of Viktor jeans can feed a family of ten for a week.
Is it worth it? Go figure. Will Viktor get you laid? Are you willing to pay—literally—the price? In the words of The Beautiful Gretchen, “They are verrrry expensive!” I dunno with you, but my virility is packed elsewhere than my wallet. And you say you don’t pay for sex. But that’s another story.*
Monday, January 7, 2008
King Kong Barbies!
BETWEEN the great sexual divide of the straight man’s world sprawling with Dockers and Dickies and the gay man’s universe teeming with photogenic misses is a line that binds the disparity together. Best seen under rose-tinted Ray Ban aviators, one thread stitches these parallel worlds in harking harmony—fashion.
Amidst a bevy of she-men who garbs fab with RuPaul accoutrements on high level aura mode (Shante! Shante!), there is an emerging parliament of gay men that shuns ruffles and chiffons, abhors vertigo heels and head-splitting slits, defies high-nose threaded brows and simply veers away from thick foundation makeup worn like second (and third and fourth) skin.
Enter the King Kong Barbie.
.
Whisked at front row of the recent Philippine Fashion Week, I was amazed to see how my sistahs dress up the oxymoron—y’know, uber macho and virile fashion hanging on both the decidedly effem and the buffed gurls. Some were fashion victors, while others were victims wearing their flaccid virility on their sleeves.
At the bench, mascula-dolls, buff girls, and dandy dudettes wore their cockiness and pseudo-macho flamboyance. They looked so fashion-literate (I’m sure they all know how to spell f-u-c-h-s-i-a). They pose as if their faces can only be touched by the holy trinity—Shu Uemura, Shiseido and, eeek!, San San, and their farts can only be sweet and innocent like baby’s breath. Leather bands on limp wrists, tattered jeans on bubble buns (worn oh-so-low strung some cracks went on a peep show and wrinkled lotsa noses in collective “Ew!”), and baby tee’s two-sizes smaller seemed to be the order of the day.
On the other side of the kleiglights, the runway has morphed into a testosterone hardcourt with male models volleying for what is brawny and bright.
With observant gazes adoring good ol’ fashion’s virility and kissing washboard bods of sex-packed six pack-abs and tattooed dreams, today’s gay men-gone-bad mod is a welcome mix of two disparate cultures of the straight and the flamboyant that create an unprecedented third—the King Kong Barbie.
He is the New Now Thing.
Welcome his harking entrance, add his name to the list…and then you know it’s okay if you feel like blushing when that mist of baby’s breath come wafting through the air.*
Amidst a bevy of she-men who garbs fab with RuPaul accoutrements on high level aura mode (Shante! Shante!), there is an emerging parliament of gay men that shuns ruffles and chiffons, abhors vertigo heels and head-splitting slits, defies high-nose threaded brows and simply veers away from thick foundation makeup worn like second (and third and fourth) skin.
Enter the King Kong Barbie.
.
Whisked at front row of the recent Philippine Fashion Week, I was amazed to see how my sistahs dress up the oxymoron—y’know, uber macho and virile fashion hanging on both the decidedly effem and the buffed gurls. Some were fashion victors, while others were victims wearing their flaccid virility on their sleeves.
At the bench, mascula-dolls, buff girls, and dandy dudettes wore their cockiness and pseudo-macho flamboyance. They looked so fashion-literate (I’m sure they all know how to spell f-u-c-h-s-i-a). They pose as if their faces can only be touched by the holy trinity—Shu Uemura, Shiseido and, eeek!, San San, and their farts can only be sweet and innocent like baby’s breath. Leather bands on limp wrists, tattered jeans on bubble buns (worn oh-so-low strung some cracks went on a peep show and wrinkled lotsa noses in collective “Ew!”), and baby tee’s two-sizes smaller seemed to be the order of the day.
On the other side of the kleiglights, the runway has morphed into a testosterone hardcourt with male models volleying for what is brawny and bright.
With observant gazes adoring good ol’ fashion’s virility and kissing washboard bods of sex-packed six pack-abs and tattooed dreams, today’s gay men-gone-bad mod is a welcome mix of two disparate cultures of the straight and the flamboyant that create an unprecedented third—the King Kong Barbie.
He is the New Now Thing.
Welcome his harking entrance, add his name to the list…and then you know it’s okay if you feel like blushing when that mist of baby’s breath come wafting through the air.*
My Top Ten Local Lust List
10. Y, Fitness First gym instructor – I constantly share good “workout” sessions with him—on and off the gym, hehe.
9. Ram Sagad, Century Superbodies wnner – he’s got me screamin’ “Tuna! Tuna! Tuna!” Not buffed, not lanky, just right! So meaty, so delish!
8. Tim Yap, hottie eventologist – Shindig Boy Tim guested in my defunct Wave 89.1 radio show, Fashion Radio, and there was this intense sexual vibe hovering about the studio…but then again he’s not a PLU, or so he sez.
7. Jon Avila, model/PBB housemate – I would go sexxxy bareback for ya, baby!
6. Marc Nelson, model/Amazing Race Asia contender – But only when he’s with Rovilson, hehe. They look so lush together, I would readily be their third wheel! Please, please!
5. Victor Basa, model/PBB housemate – I’ve chanced upon him at The Podium garbed in plain tee and dirty, lowdown pantaloons and a skateboard to boot! Oh my, I had my drool frothing in the corners of my mouth!
4. Rocky Salumbides, Pinoy international model – This rising and rising ramp Lothario had me in front-row-center fashion show biting my lips and whetting my appetite! Yum!
3. Jake Cuenca, artista –Fate waved her fairydust on my pavement and had our paths cross, wherelse, but the shower room of Greenhills Fitness (separate showers, of course!). The soap stud had my palm run wild. Uh-oh.
2. This guy from the Cobra drink commercial - I would stick a Popsicle up his tush and slurp him all night!
1. This mystery guy I’ve hooked up with at Fitness First Alabang—he got my mind (and Zsazsa Zaturnnah knows what else) stirred up! Gosh, I was so smitten, I forgot to get his digits! Nitwit me. Where art thou?
9. Ram Sagad, Century Superbodies wnner – he’s got me screamin’ “Tuna! Tuna! Tuna!” Not buffed, not lanky, just right! So meaty, so delish!
8. Tim Yap, hottie eventologist – Shindig Boy Tim guested in my defunct Wave 89.1 radio show, Fashion Radio, and there was this intense sexual vibe hovering about the studio…but then again he’s not a PLU, or so he sez.
7. Jon Avila, model/PBB housemate – I would go sexxxy bareback for ya, baby!
6. Marc Nelson, model/Amazing Race Asia contender – But only when he’s with Rovilson, hehe. They look so lush together, I would readily be their third wheel! Please, please!
5. Victor Basa, model/PBB housemate – I’ve chanced upon him at The Podium garbed in plain tee and dirty, lowdown pantaloons and a skateboard to boot! Oh my, I had my drool frothing in the corners of my mouth!
4. Rocky Salumbides, Pinoy international model – This rising and rising ramp Lothario had me in front-row-center fashion show biting my lips and whetting my appetite! Yum!
3. Jake Cuenca, artista –Fate waved her fairydust on my pavement and had our paths cross, wherelse, but the shower room of Greenhills Fitness (separate showers, of course!). The soap stud had my palm run wild. Uh-oh.
2. This guy from the Cobra drink commercial - I would stick a Popsicle up his tush and slurp him all night!
1. This mystery guy I’ve hooked up with at Fitness First Alabang—he got my mind (and Zsazsa Zaturnnah knows what else) stirred up! Gosh, I was so smitten, I forgot to get his digits! Nitwit me. Where art thou?
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Thanks, Toy Armada!
I GOT a belated holiday gift from The DJ.
Funny how I can still be smitten after all this time.
Blush.
Funny how I can still be smitten after all this time.
Blush.
Charlie McBeal
AND so it came to pass that I broke Charlie McBeal’s heart.
In a sea of pink men at Bed last night—including two ex’s (the hottie dj and, ugh, the lukewarm HeWhoseNameShallNotBeSpoken) and amidst a bevy of nameless fuckah flings and a throng of almost-but-not-quite bf material—the thud was meek but nevertheless, felt.
You see, for eons now (dating as far back when I was still tied up to the curb with HeWhoseNameShallNotBeSpoken) Charlie McBeal was already sending me feelers. He would send sweet sms, Pablo Neruda quotes (which I sooo adore), fly to where I was at my beck and call, and we actually had, uhm, friendly dates. But his efforts of courtship were futile ‘coz I was still in a relationship. I am not reeking with virtues, but I put a lotta stock on fidelity (at least emotionally) and I give my partner the reverence and loyalty that he deserves when I’m in a relationship.
As expected, my relationship with HeWhoseNameShallNotBeSpoken went kaput, and no sooner that I can say eureka, Charlie McBeal was on a wooing prowl.
He came to my rescue—listening to my motley of excuses as to why the relationship failed, giving me his shoulder for comfort and holding my hand as I make my foray to detoxify from the friggin’ ex.
Charlie McBeal was a catch—he’s a hottie with a good head on his shoulders, heck, he’s a lawyer (no less) who was one of the topnotchers in last year’s Bar Exam. Obviously, I had to upgrade from HeWhoseNameShallNotBeSpoken and Charlie McBeal was the anointed successor slash likely candidate.
But…
For some very strange reason, he didn’t quite make the cut. I dunno, something was amiss. And I cannot put a finger on what’s he’s missing.
“I love you, Louie, I really do. I think each day on how it could work, but I’m afraid the feeling is not mutual…”
I was getting dizzy with my own dilly dally dance of committing or not.
I know, it would be terribly unfair to make him wait if I, myself, isn’t sure if there’s a green light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. I don’t want him to waste his time with no assurance that one day I will be jolted from my craziness and finally jump onto a relationship with him.
Charles, dear, this is what’s best. This is what’s right.
In a sea of pink men at Bed last night—including two ex’s (the hottie dj and, ugh, the lukewarm HeWhoseNameShallNotBeSpoken) and amidst a bevy of nameless fuckah flings and a throng of almost-but-not-quite bf material—the thud was meek but nevertheless, felt.
You see, for eons now (dating as far back when I was still tied up to the curb with HeWhoseNameShallNotBeSpoken) Charlie McBeal was already sending me feelers. He would send sweet sms, Pablo Neruda quotes (which I sooo adore), fly to where I was at my beck and call, and we actually had, uhm, friendly dates. But his efforts of courtship were futile ‘coz I was still in a relationship. I am not reeking with virtues, but I put a lotta stock on fidelity (at least emotionally) and I give my partner the reverence and loyalty that he deserves when I’m in a relationship.
As expected, my relationship with HeWhoseNameShallNotBeSpoken went kaput, and no sooner that I can say eureka, Charlie McBeal was on a wooing prowl.
He came to my rescue—listening to my motley of excuses as to why the relationship failed, giving me his shoulder for comfort and holding my hand as I make my foray to detoxify from the friggin’ ex.
Charlie McBeal was a catch—he’s a hottie with a good head on his shoulders, heck, he’s a lawyer (no less) who was one of the topnotchers in last year’s Bar Exam. Obviously, I had to upgrade from HeWhoseNameShallNotBeSpoken and Charlie McBeal was the anointed successor slash likely candidate.
But…
For some very strange reason, he didn’t quite make the cut. I dunno, something was amiss. And I cannot put a finger on what’s he’s missing.
“I love you, Louie, I really do. I think each day on how it could work, but I’m afraid the feeling is not mutual…”
I was getting dizzy with my own dilly dally dance of committing or not.
I know, it would be terribly unfair to make him wait if I, myself, isn’t sure if there’s a green light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. I don’t want him to waste his time with no assurance that one day I will be jolted from my craziness and finally jump onto a relationship with him.
Charles, dear, this is what’s best. This is what’s right.
Friday, January 4, 2008
Rectum Erratum
“TEN, fifteen,” they said. “Twenty tops. More than that would be a cause for concern.” My friends were troubled, they actually gave me a straight-men-as-friends quota.
Between a hetero’s world that is so square it could well be a box and a homey’s universe that reeks Dolce & Gabbana (and best seen under rose-tinted Ray Ban aviators), I am allowed, as told, only twenty straight guy friends. But I’ve got a loadful, a cadre that could make a whole battalion and wage war against acid washed jeans and Prescripto imitation parfums. So I am under fraught observation.
Though I have assured my lovely bevy of she-men that “it ain’t a deal, really” it wasn’t enough to unfurrow the brows in orbit of brusko pinkies, divine divas and dandy dudettes (yes, the fab protagonists of the great sexual divide). My sistahs were fidgety—obviously anxious despite vicious doses of dedma on my part and lots of inquisitive, prodding eyes on theirs—that a straddling to the ‘other other side’ was imminent.
Their collective quip was nothing short of sour and spicy—from the impudent “Oh my, we’re getting a bit too butch, aren’t we?” to the insolent “Isn’t it a little too late for a cross-over?” to the sarcastic “Balls are for lickin’, not for dribblin’.”
While I’m an all out pinkie who eats and breathes gaiety and gayness (I suspect my fart’s mist is actually fuchsia), not all my friends are. I actually navigate in mixed circle.
Among PLUs (People Like Us) this is either applauded as a revered sign of conquest—nothing short of emancipating freedom—an ‘inter-species’ harmony, or, scorned as a dubious attempt for a free locker room peepshow or a prelude to an opportunist’s shag—drunken or otherwise.
I know, there is a line that separates mankind from men-of-my-kind. No, not a thin, vanishing line as some gender optimists would profess, but a line so bold and heavy it could replace the Ped Xing grid in this gay Metro painted Barbie pink and baby blue. And just like a confused pedestrian who would dare tread the line beyond the strict boundary, this emphatic, definitive line poses clear and present danger.
It cuts both ways.
Straights are infamous for their lack of flexibility when thrown into a bin of pink men. Picture this: A straight guy sighted with a gay man in tow would be suspected of extra ‘friendly’ liaisons, more so if he’s seen within a ten-kilometer radius from a commercial mall, then the words ‘Kept Boy’ would be stamped to his forehead. Find a guy who brandishes himself with simple hygiene and he is deemed vain, if he uses more than soap and water then he is cast under suspicion. Sordid attempts to rectify this notion have been made in the past, but the closest marketing stooges can do were to sire a dude named David Beckham and coin the word ‘metrosexual’ to justify an excuse.
Interestingly enough, a gay man swarming in the soup of heterosexual company is no different.
Find a lone gay guy in a drinking session with a pack of straight men and he is either dick-savvy or he just got paid. A sore thumb standout among drunken men is not a man of virtue but a gay guy with budget.
The two poles are as foreign and distant as north is to south. Cynics say the only thing that connects the dots is the stuff that you take out from an ATM machine. Should a need for one from the other arises, a hetero in need would readily pull down his pants while a gay man would readily pull out his wallet.
Ugh.
If these contentions were true, then why am I sharing a nonchalant ritual of relief (that and only that) in the Men’s Room with my posse of straight friends? How can I share with them a wet sauna garbed only with a face towel (which is even restricted in the hot pool)? And though I cannot play basketball, why do they make up my cheering committee when I feebly dribble and shoot the ball to a missed basket (no, it’s not my long, endless legs or my joggling man boobs)?
Bringing me to a Carrie Bradshaw moment—I couldn’t help but wonder, could these parallel worlds, separate and different, coalesce in harmony?
Yes, Miss Bradshaw, and you don’t need sistah Stanford Blatch and bitchboy Anthony Morentino to prove it.
One word: respect.
The thing is, I know my limitations as their gay guy friend and they know theirs.
I banish their rabid fear that gay men are man-eaters by simply being one of the boys. And just like little Miss Carrie, I look beyond what Mr. Big literally means.
In the gym where half of the buffies are pinkies, I exchange beauty tips as much as I get dietary supplement advice from both sides. I’ve learned the metabolic benefits of taking extra virgin oil as a fat burner from the straights, in the same manner that I acquire the meritorious sexual advantages of olive oil from the ‘backburners’ (topically applied, of course).
I don’t ask about my straight friends’ sexual conquests, although I always get an earful of their locker room shag inventory. In return, they don’t pry to ask me who among PLUs have recently made the big switch from top to bottom (Rectum erratum, no less), who ‘upgraded’ from part time, curious bisexual to full-pledged dick worshipper, and who among the gym instructors are actually hiding in their mirror-balled-boa-feathered shell.
Sink this in: True friendship wanders without direction, it navigates without boundaries. Someday, I hope, we will all live, love and learn without self-righteous rules, restrictive borders and yes, even priggish quotas.
In the meantime, my straight friends are still cheering me on the hardcourt, as for my bevy of pinkie chums, let me just say we’re learning some new trick to do with balls. Hehe.
Between a hetero’s world that is so square it could well be a box and a homey’s universe that reeks Dolce & Gabbana (and best seen under rose-tinted Ray Ban aviators), I am allowed, as told, only twenty straight guy friends. But I’ve got a loadful, a cadre that could make a whole battalion and wage war against acid washed jeans and Prescripto imitation parfums. So I am under fraught observation.
Though I have assured my lovely bevy of she-men that “it ain’t a deal, really” it wasn’t enough to unfurrow the brows in orbit of brusko pinkies, divine divas and dandy dudettes (yes, the fab protagonists of the great sexual divide). My sistahs were fidgety—obviously anxious despite vicious doses of dedma on my part and lots of inquisitive, prodding eyes on theirs—that a straddling to the ‘other other side’ was imminent.
Their collective quip was nothing short of sour and spicy—from the impudent “Oh my, we’re getting a bit too butch, aren’t we?” to the insolent “Isn’t it a little too late for a cross-over?” to the sarcastic “Balls are for lickin’, not for dribblin’.”
While I’m an all out pinkie who eats and breathes gaiety and gayness (I suspect my fart’s mist is actually fuchsia), not all my friends are. I actually navigate in mixed circle.
Among PLUs (People Like Us) this is either applauded as a revered sign of conquest—nothing short of emancipating freedom—an ‘inter-species’ harmony, or, scorned as a dubious attempt for a free locker room peepshow or a prelude to an opportunist’s shag—drunken or otherwise.
I know, there is a line that separates mankind from men-of-my-kind. No, not a thin, vanishing line as some gender optimists would profess, but a line so bold and heavy it could replace the Ped Xing grid in this gay Metro painted Barbie pink and baby blue. And just like a confused pedestrian who would dare tread the line beyond the strict boundary, this emphatic, definitive line poses clear and present danger.
It cuts both ways.
Straights are infamous for their lack of flexibility when thrown into a bin of pink men. Picture this: A straight guy sighted with a gay man in tow would be suspected of extra ‘friendly’ liaisons, more so if he’s seen within a ten-kilometer radius from a commercial mall, then the words ‘Kept Boy’ would be stamped to his forehead. Find a guy who brandishes himself with simple hygiene and he is deemed vain, if he uses more than soap and water then he is cast under suspicion. Sordid attempts to rectify this notion have been made in the past, but the closest marketing stooges can do were to sire a dude named David Beckham and coin the word ‘metrosexual’ to justify an excuse.
Interestingly enough, a gay man swarming in the soup of heterosexual company is no different.
Find a lone gay guy in a drinking session with a pack of straight men and he is either dick-savvy or he just got paid. A sore thumb standout among drunken men is not a man of virtue but a gay guy with budget.
The two poles are as foreign and distant as north is to south. Cynics say the only thing that connects the dots is the stuff that you take out from an ATM machine. Should a need for one from the other arises, a hetero in need would readily pull down his pants while a gay man would readily pull out his wallet.
Ugh.
If these contentions were true, then why am I sharing a nonchalant ritual of relief (that and only that) in the Men’s Room with my posse of straight friends? How can I share with them a wet sauna garbed only with a face towel (which is even restricted in the hot pool)? And though I cannot play basketball, why do they make up my cheering committee when I feebly dribble and shoot the ball to a missed basket (no, it’s not my long, endless legs or my joggling man boobs)?
Bringing me to a Carrie Bradshaw moment—I couldn’t help but wonder, could these parallel worlds, separate and different, coalesce in harmony?
Yes, Miss Bradshaw, and you don’t need sistah Stanford Blatch and bitchboy Anthony Morentino to prove it.
One word: respect.
The thing is, I know my limitations as their gay guy friend and they know theirs.
I banish their rabid fear that gay men are man-eaters by simply being one of the boys. And just like little Miss Carrie, I look beyond what Mr. Big literally means.
In the gym where half of the buffies are pinkies, I exchange beauty tips as much as I get dietary supplement advice from both sides. I’ve learned the metabolic benefits of taking extra virgin oil as a fat burner from the straights, in the same manner that I acquire the meritorious sexual advantages of olive oil from the ‘backburners’ (topically applied, of course).
I don’t ask about my straight friends’ sexual conquests, although I always get an earful of their locker room shag inventory. In return, they don’t pry to ask me who among PLUs have recently made the big switch from top to bottom (Rectum erratum, no less), who ‘upgraded’ from part time, curious bisexual to full-pledged dick worshipper, and who among the gym instructors are actually hiding in their mirror-balled-boa-feathered shell.
Sink this in: True friendship wanders without direction, it navigates without boundaries. Someday, I hope, we will all live, love and learn without self-righteous rules, restrictive borders and yes, even priggish quotas.
In the meantime, my straight friends are still cheering me on the hardcourt, as for my bevy of pinkie chums, let me just say we’re learning some new trick to do with balls. Hehe.
The Pamhinta Chronicles
I OFTEN CURSE my inability to fly—so instead, I occasionally menstruate and write.
The ink in my veins is not red, it’s pink—make that flamingo pink. But flamingos are flamboyant like Kuya Germs and gaudy as Kuya Boy that emasculates the discreet, straight-acting, but nevertheless dick-worshipper that fittingly describe my posse of pamhinta pink men. No, pamhintas are not flamingos, they’d rather be peacocks. You get the picture.
This blog, Brusko Pink: The Pamhinta Chronicles, is an astute account of this ever-increasing gradation of gay men who occupies almost every square foot of Malate and peppers the face of every gay-friendly turf in this pink (yes, peeenk!) Mega City.. The Pamhinta comes in various incarnations and these pages throb of snippets of his life that is destined to fabulousity and grandeur. His life is celebratory, though sometimes dysfunctional with his ill-fated forays into the rueful journey of living, loving, losing and learning through life.
I should know. Because I am.
File me under Muscle Mary, King Kong Barbie, mascula-doll, or just plain unscented wordsmith. I am proudly a pamhinta, and when I’m cranky, I write. When I’m happy, I sweat off glitter and write about it. When sh*t happens, my middle finger rises to the occasion and pound on Mac. When romantic anguish eats me up, I take a little mush suicide and seek company with sistah Julia Fordham and write. I am a pamhinta who loves his pink life to the fullest—I dance bare top on the ledge, I sing my lungs out, I sanitize my life with a sarcasm diet (I don’t eat pork, I just love men). I advocate monogamy, I recommend intellectual intercourse, and I promote, uhm, world peace when I am not writing.
Welcome to my blog. Welcome to the wonderful world of The Pamhinta.
Louie Cano
January 2008
The ink in my veins is not red, it’s pink—make that flamingo pink. But flamingos are flamboyant like Kuya Germs and gaudy as Kuya Boy that emasculates the discreet, straight-acting, but nevertheless dick-worshipper that fittingly describe my posse of pamhinta pink men. No, pamhintas are not flamingos, they’d rather be peacocks. You get the picture.
This blog, Brusko Pink: The Pamhinta Chronicles, is an astute account of this ever-increasing gradation of gay men who occupies almost every square foot of Malate and peppers the face of every gay-friendly turf in this pink (yes, peeenk!) Mega City.. The Pamhinta comes in various incarnations and these pages throb of snippets of his life that is destined to fabulousity and grandeur. His life is celebratory, though sometimes dysfunctional with his ill-fated forays into the rueful journey of living, loving, losing and learning through life.
I should know. Because I am.
File me under Muscle Mary, King Kong Barbie, mascula-doll, or just plain unscented wordsmith. I am proudly a pamhinta, and when I’m cranky, I write. When I’m happy, I sweat off glitter and write about it. When sh*t happens, my middle finger rises to the occasion and pound on Mac. When romantic anguish eats me up, I take a little mush suicide and seek company with sistah Julia Fordham and write. I am a pamhinta who loves his pink life to the fullest—I dance bare top on the ledge, I sing my lungs out, I sanitize my life with a sarcasm diet (I don’t eat pork, I just love men). I advocate monogamy, I recommend intellectual intercourse, and I promote, uhm, world peace when I am not writing.
Welcome to my blog. Welcome to the wonderful world of The Pamhinta.
Louie Cano
January 2008
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