Wednesday, August 31, 2011

Soiled Virgin

A fresh sheet. Immaculate in his whiteness. Evenly spaced lines streak his face. Hinting that he knows more than he lets on with that blank stare. He quivers, ever so slightly, at my touch. He beckons, yet holds himself back. What is his story?

He calls out to his prey, snugly cradled in my breast pocket. Its bold blue ink warmed by my chest. I can feel the virgin's longing. I take the innocent from its haven and gently place down my offering. He tastes. One drop. And it forever soils him.

He takes. And takes. The victim's life flows from its core and spills onto him. It fills his corners until the host is spent. A shell with a chewed out tip a shade lighter than the rest. As for him, he is indelibly changed. Raw and naked, beautiful in his ugliness, he splays himself out for all to see.

photo from here

Sunday, August 28, 2011

The Signs

"How will I know if he's, you know, cheating on me...." she asked, her voice trailing off to a whisper.

"You'll notice," I told her, as I pushed a slice of lemon into the bottle before taking a swig. "You know, the small stuff. Things you typically dismiss."

"Like what?" she prodded, as she gripped her own bottle tightly with both hands. There was a moment's pause as I tried to recall things I have long forgotten.

"His scent. I mean, he'll smell differently. In the morning he's his usual unscented-bar-of-soap self, then comes back reeking of lilac or lavender. You'd probably think he showered in the gym, but..."

She cut me off. "And once you ask him about it, the next time he comes home, he'll head straight for the shower and drown that invisible bouquet," she added knowingly.

I decided to fan the flames. "And if he starts bringing clothes in the shower so he's fully clothed coming in and out, he's definitely hiding something."

"A kiss mark!" she exclaimed wide-eyed, her head bobbing vigorously.

It was a full minute before she said another word. "But you know what? Shouldn't he start turning cold already? That has not happened, though..."

It was my turn to cut her off. "I guess that's true. But some can become even more affectionate and work harder to please you. Out of guilt perhaps? I don't know."

"Or out of pure evil, so that you won't know what hit you," she lamented.

Just then her partner barges through the front door, gives us a quick greeting, drops a bag of Godiva chocolates on her lap, and rushes into the bathroom. My friend bit her lip and eyed the gift suspiciously. "It's the signs," she mouthed, as she looked at me helplessly. I inched closer to comfort her.

Then there was an explosion of sounds, barely muffled by the bathroom door, then quickly followed by the apologetic sound of flush water. I lit one of the small jars on the table, and the soothing scent of jasmine began dispersing calmness across the room.

photo from here

Thursday, August 25, 2011

A Game of Thrones

I've been nursing a bad case of diarrhea for a week. It's funny how the anus can so easily hijack one's body and flaunt its dominance over all other organs, including the brain. You can't think. You can't function. You suddenly have only one purpose in life, and that is to purge.

It probably trumps the heart as well. And one's dick. Between falling for prince charming, effing a hot guy, or doing number 2, which do you think takes precedence? When you got to go, you got to go. It is more primal than love and sex. You give in, you let go, you let it all out. TMI?

Between trips to the loo, I just stayed in bed, awash with self pity. I let myself wallow in the drama. And after the negativity was spent, I felt better and wrote this down on a piece of toilet paper: if things gets shitty and out of control, just take a seat and let it run its course.

photo from here

Saturday, August 20, 2011

A Geisha's Life

I met up with my future employers for drinks. I'm not due to report to work until the middle of next month, and I don't think social invitations this early were customary. With the tanking markets and companies announcing job cuts, I suspected it was a pseudo elimination round.

I went to the bar early, hoping to make a good impression with my punctuality. They arrived after a few minutes. In suits and ties in the sweltering summer heat. I felt underdressed in my typical friday night shirt, jeans and loafers. I was Gap in Hugo Boss territory. 

But I played the part. The corporate handshakes. The measured smiles. Hints of what I hear in the markets (read parroting CNN). Complementing the choice of red wine. Wit. My inner Sayuri/Hatsumomo has been repressed for so long that I was surprised it all came to me so easily.

Then it was over. I was warmly welcomed before we left, so I guess I'm still in the running towards becoming America's Next Top Model. Then the fatigue just hit me. I was drained from the meeting, but more so with the realization that no matter how hard I try to escape, this is the only life I know.

Thursday, August 18, 2011


Propped against the rim of one of twin glass cups, it stood over a thin film of crusted toothpaste at its base. Unlike its neighbor, its flayed bristles dried out and started collecting dust a long time ago.

Inches away lay a blue plastic razor. Barely used, still as sharp as ever, but has grown to be quite the loner. Countless neighbors have come and gone, and it has found it pointless to get to know them better.

They have stayed in place where you left them.

Still waiting. Unmoving.



photo from here

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

Ang Gabing Umulan Ng Mga Tala

Madilim ang gabi, ni ngiti ng buwan ay hindi sumilip. Marahil ito ay nagtatago, nagmumukmok sa pangungulila't pagkainip. Iniwan itong nag-iisa ng kaniyang dating mga kasama. Dahil ito ang gabing umulan ng mga tala.

Nakaupo siyang mag-isa, nag-iisip sa sala. Malungkot at nakatanaw lamang sa labas ng bintana. Kumalas ang mga bituin mula sa kanilang kinalalagyan. At marahang lumutang pababa upang siya ay samahan.

Nagkalat sila na parang mga bubog sa daan. Makinang, mapang-akit, lahat nagkikislapan. Matiyaga niyang pinulot ang bawat isa. Namangha sa angkin nitong kariktan bago ito ibinulsa.

Mainit ang mga talang kaniyang inangkin. Nagsimulang magbaga ang kaniyang damit, katawan at damdamin. Tinangay ng hangin ang nag-aapoy niyang kabuuan. At biglang nagliwanag ang buong kalangitan.

Hindi siya mahagilap ng kararating na asawa. Tiningala nito ang bulalakaw, na sabay raw sana nilang nakita. Sumilay ang ngiti ng buwan, at ito'y ubod ng pakla. Hindi na siya nag-iisa, kaniyang panunuya.

photo from here

Sunday, August 14, 2011

Magaling Ka Ba?

Habang hinihintay ko ang aking inorder sa bar, narinig kong bumulong ang aking katabi sa kanyang kasama. Magaling daw siya sa kama. Napalingon ako. Makalaglag-panty nga naman ang lokong foreigner. Bonus pa ang french accent. Pero kung ikaw yung nasabihan, maniniwala ka ba?

May tao kasing ini-equate ang husay sa sex sa partikular niyang katangian. Gwapong mukha, bortang katawan, laki ng kasangkapan, dami ng posisyong nalalaman. Pero minsan, kahit nasa gitna na kayo ng kapusukan ng isang Adonis, eh gusto mong itaas na lang ulit ang panty mong nalaglag.

May mga tao kasing sablay. Sexy nga pero bobo sa anatomy sa dilim. Kung ako sana'y aso at walo ang utong ko, eh baka nga naman may mahanap na siyang isa. Baliktad naman ang iba. Ang unang masunggaban, di na titigilan. Gigil to death hanggang dugo na ang matikman.

Meron ding may sinusunod na manual. May sequence ang steps, may bilang din kung ilang kalikot at kadyot. Para lang kayong may ina-assemble na DIY na mesa. May iba namang ang daming posisyong gustong i-cover. Bakit, may quota? At kung maka-emote sa salamin, akala mo may kamera.

Sa mga nakasiping mo, ilan ang napakulot ang daliri mo sa paa? Kailan ka huling naloka? Yung bang ayaw mo siyang tumigil pero itinutulak mo rin siyang palayo dahil ang sarap ay di mo na kaya? At hindi lang dahil sa pagputok ng bulkan ha.

Eh ikaw, sa tingin mo ba'y magaling ka sa kama?

photo from here

Tuesday, August 9, 2011

Market Value

With the ongoing global markets meltdown, this may just be my shortest stint in a job. With companies trimming headcount, the new post will likely be cut even before I start. Good thing I have my investments to fall back on. Oh wait a minute. Explain markets meltdown again?

Hubby is so engrossed with the unfolding of the financial armageddon, that it's impossible to have a conversation without him quoting Reuters or its Sino equivalent. All these analyses on the S&P's downgrading of the US, and he only gives me a puzzled look when I interjected that Ate Guy is back.

I'm poor, so no shopping. Hubby is possessed by aliens. Friends are busy at work. What's a bored guy like me to do? What else but hit the bath house. No, not that kind, but the typical neighborhood one that's in every other corner of this city. The Chinese version of Japan's onsens.

I enjoy the saunas, warm baths, body scrubs, massages and just chilling out. Just ignore the fact that most people here like to sport overgrown bushes of jungle-ic proportions, and you'll be relaxed to the point of zen. It's cheap as well. Entrance is anywhere from 40 to 120 pesos.

While these are family places, one does get the occassional stares and smiles. All harmless though - not the place where one gets dirty. But when it happens, I admit it boosts my ego. This is not one of those days though. It seems my value's gone down the drain with the rest of the markets.

photo from here

Sunday, August 7, 2011

Kulang (Incomplete)

This is not just for those who are single and looking.

If you're searching for that missing piece (not necessarily a person) which you think will finally make you feel whole, you might find these two videos interesting:

The Missing Piece

The Missing Piece Meets The Big O

photo from here

Friday, August 5, 2011


Have you ever felt trapped? One day, you're enjoying a perfect morning. The next thing you know, you're lying in a confined space. You can't stand, can't sit up. You can't even turn and lie on your side. All you see is the wooden sheet barely six inches in front of you, and the growing moist spot where your breath has condensed.

You can't turn your head to look around you. But your hands and bare feet can feel the corners and edges of the cramped wooden prison. You can't breathe. You start to panic. You scream for help, as you move around and feel for a way out. All in vain. You get desperate, and the wet spot in front of you catches your attention.

You try furiously to claw your way out with your fingernails. Splinters pierce your skin, and your nails start to chip. Blood starts to flow from your fingers, down to your hands, then arms from all the scraping. But the wood does not yield. And after a while, you realize the futility of it all. And as you hear the muffled pounding outside, nail after nail, you surrender.

"Yes, Auntie," I whispered.

"That's great Sean. As I said, she's a lovely girl. You'll see for yourself on Sunday," she replied, just as I heard the sound of the hammer hit the head of the final nail.

photo from here

Thursday, August 4, 2011

Crimson Wings

I lay face down. Unmoving. My eyelids fluttered. Trying yet failing to shield my eyes, as they gradually turned glassy. My mouth twitched. The caked spittle around it cracked. The corners somewhat curled up on the verge of a smile. As I slowly bled out on the canvas.

It soaked up the spilled color, more vibrant as I faded. Quickly filling the blank space in strong, angry brush strokes. From where I lay, I stared at the Rorschach as it bloomed. It seemed random. Devoid of meaning. As senseless as this scene.

The crimson crept and unfurled into wings that sprung from behind me. I felt light. Free. Then there was a light knocking. The sound of wood on wood pulled me back. It tiptoed around and stopped before me. Heels. Polished patina. Ruby. I remember we got them on sale.

Then I wet myself.

photo from here
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