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My Musical Crushes of 2011

Posted on 2011.12.25 at 02:25
Current Mood: accomplished
Current Music: the year of hibernation, youth lagoon

James Blake

Anthony Gonzales (M83)

Tyler the Creator

Bryce Dressner (The National)

Masculados Dos

Your Credit Is Good But We Need Shoes

Posted on 2009.10.10 at 01:58
Current Mood: apatheticapathetic
Current Music: "so far around the bend" the national
I got a strange offer last night.

The dude, who was likely smashed, approached me on the street and said he will use his credit card to buy me anything I want in 7-11. It was about midnight. Obviously he didn't have cash. In return, he said, I should get in the tricycle with him, where he will play with my privates on the way to his house. "Gagalawin kita sa tricycle," he said, but he kept saying "kotse" instead of "tricycle", then correcting himself. "Eto deal ko sa'yo," was how he opened his proposition, and he repeated it many times. He said I could buy anything I want. In Seven Eleven. With his credit card. "Alam mo," he looked me up and down. "Okay ang height mo eh." Then down and up. "Okay ang katawan mo." It was dark, guys. To be honest, I hesitated to walk into the convenience store with him with all the bright lights because he might immediately lose interest, haha, and also because I wasn't sure it was a good deal anyway. I was probably humoring him just because I wanted to know if it was for real, haha. "Ano kailangan mo?" He asked, almost bragging. "Kandila," I said. Brown out, guys. "Atsaka maiinom." I was thinking of what else I could buy in 7-11 to make it worthwhile, if ever. But I was pretty sure they didn't have frozen rib-eye steak or anything like that. The yellow glow of Andok's Lechon Manok made me think if maybe that was better, or if they accepted credit cards. I thought of lugging home a bunch of whole chickens. Actually I asked him if he was sure 7-11 accepted credit. I said someone was waiting for me and I had to go, but really I just wanted to go to Starbucks for the free wifi, where they accept credit cards, by the way, and the thought quickly passed my mind. I also quickly thought about how I had just spent the bills in my wallet a few hours earlier after treating a couple of friends to dinner, and how this credit card shopping bonanza could be instant good karma. Oh my god, I just realized, my credit card got rejected in that restaurant, the reason I had to pay cash, so maybe it really was karmic. Haha.

So anyway, the guy wouldn't let me go and it was too much fun anyway. "Cash mo na lang," I said, playing the game. But he seemed to struggle with that. Anything can be bought with credit card, I think he said. He asked me what I needed the cash for, and I said I had a date with my girlfriend this weekend. Oh, he asked me about a girlfriend early on. So he said, "Eto deal ko sa'yo." He would pay for my date, he said. And how? Somehow he was going to be somewhere in the vicinity of our date and my girlfriend wouldn't even have to see who paid for it. Oh my god, the brilliant ideas. So I said, Just buy me shoes. This is a good time to tell you, dear reader, that my shoes are rotting and I have no money. Anyway, he made a bunch of other "deals" before I finally agreed to jump into the tricycle with him, where he could touch, but ONLY touch, and with only the promise -- the promise! -- of him buying me new shoes, sometime in the weekend, with his prize credit card. It's not like I really believed it would happen, nor did I want it to. By the way, he said my dick should be hard before we got in, and it must be hard when he plays with it. So I was rubbing myself through my jeans before we walked over to the tricycle line. While I was doing that, I knew I was the loser in the deal, but it's not like I didn't get molested against my better judgement in the past. Of course, by the time he was fondling and jerking my dick with his smooth fingers in the tricycle, he wanted to suck it too, but of course I didn't let him. He seemed really frusrated and bothered, he was pressing his nose against my shoulders, whispering he wanted me to come inside his mouth, and so forth, and he was really really insisting I come with him inside his house, where the other people would be asleep he said, possibly his parents. He said he'll buy me 2,500 pesos worth of shoe. He must've calculated how much I was worth, because the thought of me picking out basketball shoes must've been scary. I said that's what I needed, but actually I was fantasizing about a pair of handsome Sanuks I saw in the mall which didn't have my size in any branch in the country. So anyway, of course I didn't even alight the tricycle. He paid twenty pesos to the driver, who was cute in fairness, and who probably knew what went on inside his vehicle, and with the twenty pesos the guy already gave me earlier, I left with Kuya Driver going back to the tricycle station, as the drunk guy trudged to his house, which was dark because of the brownout. I promised the guy I would text him, so I did, but he didn't reply. Then I went to Starbucks to internet. And what is the moral of the story? The fuck I know. This weekend, I will not have a date with any girlfriend, or boyfriend for that matter, and I will be wearing old shoes, and I probably wouldn't even get blown by a guy I like, but that one is at least workable in the short amount of time.

When Is It Okay to Leave?

Posted on 2007.04.25 at 04:26
Current Mood: cynicalcynical
Current Music: "billie jean" chris cornell
I ran into the ex-boyfriend of my friend Kung Fu Guy on the MRT train. They had just broken up. He had broken the heart of my friend. He'd left him.

I was feeling all smug and powerful when I recognized the guy who walked into the sliding doors of the train and stood right in front of me. I was feeling superior because he had some explaining to do. I was feeling like a king or a judge because I could detect his slight nervousness. He probably knew I would be interrogating.

Why did he leave my friend? After four years, why? I knew the official statement. Straight from my friend, straight from their mouths. He left him because he wanted his freedom again. In so many words, that's how I remember it. That somehow the love of my friend cannot match the love of his boyfriend, and the boyfriend must detach himself to find someone new. They called it freedom. But I wasn't satisfied with that answer. After four years, it doesn't seem to be a satisfying answer. I needed a real explanation.

I remember talking to my friend Kung Fu Guy in the moments just before their official breakup, during the final reeling, when Kung Fu Guy was feeling the cold brush of rejection, of getting no answers and being pushed away and being left to surmise what the hell is going wrong. I remember telling my friend, well, of course there must be a reason, you're entitled to a reason, we need to know, and I remember telling him, fuck, the reason better not be "freedom" because it would make me puke. It's the worst possible answer there could be. To trade four years of a relationship for freedom, that freedom must be totally priceless, golden, a calling that's truly unshakable, AND that relationship must be disposable. I remember telling Kung Fu Guy, I would prefer a reason that somehow involved another guy, a third party. Because that means you're up against someone. It's something I can accept. There will always be others who are better than us. More attractive, more successful, with qualities more suitable to our particular needs. It's something that must be accepted because it will always be true, no matter who no matter what. We run into such better people everyday. Couples run into them everyday. Another guy would mean your boyfriend probably found someone he thinks is better. It should be a difficult decision especially if he loves you. But freedom? What is that? What are you up against with that? Are you up against an idea? An idea that there's someone better out there? You, as a person flesh and blood, must suck, if he trades you in for an idea. After a first date or a second, people are expected to compare you against that idea. Should there be more dates or should I move on and explore others? It's expected with new acquaintances. But can it really happen after four years? Can anybody really leave someone they supposedly love? Is that really possible? To desire that separation, to choose it because it is desired? How weak is that love and how strong is that urge to freedom?

Recently, an LJ friend, I'm not saying who, left her boyfriend to be with a great unrequited love from her younger years. And although she had cried about it already and had since gotten back together with her boyfriend (I think), I completely understand her need to try it with the old unrequited love. That's an old unrequited love, for chrissakes. It's a what-if that can't be ignored. Of course it's a tough decision. But just to hypothesize, if it were a match between her boyfriend whom she loves for many years versus the call of freedom, the possibility of someone better, or even the possibility that someone she just met could be better, I would throw eggs at my computer screen. I would get irritated. I would question her love in the first place. Happily, I don't question her love and I admire her.

In the movie Two for the Road, Audrey Hepburn reaches a point in her life when she must decide between a French man she is currently having an affair with and her husband Albert Finney whom she has had a love-hate relationship through the years. I wonder what really went on in her head when she decided to stay. It's tough to choose between two great guys, definitely. But I'd like to think she also felt a tremendous sense of responsibility. How can she leave the man she's been with for so long? It's not just tenure, is it? It's perhaps also a setting aside of selfish needs because someone's life other than her own will be affected. Sounds like love to me. Call me naive, but it seems like we really prove our love in acts that benefit our partner more than ourself. I wonder what happens when someone leaves a person he's been with after 60 years, at age 80. Can he really do it? Suppose he envisions a better life for himself without his partner, with someone else perhaps, or with "freedom" to be completely by himself again, can he really leave if his partner will suffer alone? I would hate to be in a relationship with someone who will, down the road, choose "freedom" over me. More pressingly, I would hate to be in a relationship with someone who will one day up and leave without checking with my feelings, without working out a solution that would make his inevitable decision easier for me. I think I want someone who's not that selfish. Because there will always be big issues and tests, and anything can happen. And in the event that it does, I would prefer a partner who will care enough to still treat me right. One year, four years, sixty years. Call me naive again, but if someone says he loves me, I would think he's really thinking of me. I mean really. You can't just throw that word around. I would like to think I can be that kind of man. I already know love is not a feeling. I already know feelings change and relationships can get lukewarm and go through rough times. I know this. I also know it will never be an easy thing for me to leave someone I love. Not someone I'm having sex with or someone I'm dating or someone I'm getting to know, but someone I love. Is it still a wonder it's hard for me to find someone to call my partner? I can't just sign a contract then void it. If I say I'll spend my time with someone I love, I most likely will. I can't say for sure. I mean, who really knows? But my gut tells me how I will act down the road. I have a pretty good idea of the extent of my love. Today anyway. In the future, I may realize more things, better things. Maybe there's more to it. Maybe it is okay to leave. I might look back and see how stupid I was today. This love thing, man, there's always something new to discover. With each new thing, I feel like I'm becoming a better person. Isn't that fucking wonderful. Wait. Do I actually feel like I'm becoming a better person? Damn I don't know. I was pretty good to begin with, hah.

It's been a year and a half since my ex and I broke up. I'm not sure if I'm remembering it right anymore, but I think he said back then he wanted his freedom. It seemed like shit reason to me, and it made me feel like shit too. Would it have made more sense, would it have been easier, if he'd instead said he didn't love me afterall? Maybe I wouldn't have had to reconcile the idea of his loving me with the idea of his leaving me, not to mention the idea of his neglect and seeming non-concern. Recently, I'd been getting hints that he may want to hook back up. How the fuck is that possible? I don't know why I should even hate the word freedom. I've always thought it to be a valuable item. I've been single more times than I've been attached. Freedom is a blast. And it's not just about being available to choose from among many men. It's also about nobody telling you want to do. It's really more about acting on personal choice. In which case, love can be its own kind of freedom. And there can be freedom in love too, even in whatever kind of relationship. I don't know why I should hate it. They're both big beautiful things. I will have no one corrupt these words for me.

Welcome to Dalumat

Posted on 2006.05.29 at 04:38

Check out what people are saying about dalumat's Livejournal!

"it's the most refreshing read i've had in ages..."

"everytime I see your user icon, I skip other entries to read it."

"one of the most read lj's i know despite it being friends only..."

"Sick and funny."

"great stories... dramatic without going overboard"

"oftentimes, i read an entry from you and i get to think: 'shit, this guy put to words something that's bugging me for sometime, something similar about myself i know but can't quite put to words what. how does [he] do that?'

"i SO love how candid you are."

"what a thrill for poor, sheltered ol' me!"

"horny, eloquent and well versed."

"You bubble over and just ooze cool..."

"Dalumat is my LJ idol, noon pa."

"Your writing is superb."

"Grossly overrated."

Of course, they may not be saying these things anymore. Haha.

This shameless self-promotion masquerading as welcome page celebrates the fourth anniversary of my LJ, on May 30, 2006.

Join the bandwagon! Why not post your own glowing praises in the comments page? Hehe. Or be a new friend and introduce yourself.

This journal is friends-only.

The Importance of Feeling

Posted on 2006.05.19 at 03:32
Current Mood: indescribableindescribable
Current Music: ben folds & w.a.s.o. live in perth
A friend of mine will only like a movie if it meets a certain criteria: It must make her feel something.

I'm not sure if this is the hippest approach to appreciating art these days, but it does make sense. What good is the piece of music, or painting, or poem, if it doesn't make us feel? It doesn't even matter what the feeling is, if it is rage, or nostalgia, or sexual excitement. It only matters if it makes us feel.

I'm thinking the same could be said about the people in our lives.

When I was about 14, in my seat inside the aircraft miles above ground, in the low hum of slumbering silence around me, something beautiful came from the radio through the headphones into my ears. It was Crowded House's "Four Seasons in One Day". I felt something.

I felt the rush of a perfect song heard for the first time, the way the melody, the rhythm, the arrangement, the quiver of the voice, the gap of seeming non-sound in between the piercing notes, the way it all came charging like a mad flood and translated itself within me into a feeling.

Fuck me if I knew what that feeling was. But it was.

I stayed on that radio just so I can hear the song one more time, because I knew those in-flight programs eventually end and start over again. I wanted to hear the song again and again and again because I wanted the feeling to last. Maybe forever.

Years later, I finally got myself a CD of Crowded House's Recurring Dream. The slowly building intro of Track 13 flowing like syrup through the speakers felt like a reunion. I would play the song to death in weeks, months, years, so much so that I probably depleted the rush. I remember closing my eyes one time, trying to look for the feeling as the song played. That feeling up in the clouds, I would never feel it again. I could listen to the song now, but it won't be there. A feeling is not a photograph. You can't keep it in a box, take it out everyday to look at it, and it stays the same photograph. I doubt a feeling can be duplicated in exactly the same way. Coming back to the feeling will always be a slightly different experience. Maybe it could be similar, but you just know there's a shade of it that's off, like a pea under a thousand mattresses, like the difference between 35% magenta and 34% magenta.

But even if that first rush had been lost from "Four Seasons in One Day", I know this for sure: I never stopped loving that song.

I could pop it in my CD player right now, and when I hear it, I know it means something to me. Maybe I don't know how much, because how can I possibly quantify that? And maybe I don't know what that meaning is, the words for it. But there it is, and I could never in my entire life reject or disown it. Even if it doesn't make me feel anymore whatever it used to.

For so long, it has been a difficult question to answer: Is feeling the same as love? Is love a feeling? I think I know the answer.

For months now, I have wondered if my boyfriend, now my ex, had stopped loving me. I guess I'll never really know. But it seems there can only be two possible answers: One is that he will always love me. The other is that he has never loved me at all. Because the idea that he once loved me, but stopped along the way, just seems absurd now. I cannot imagine an end to love. I can imagine an end to feelings, a shift, a change, an obliteration, a transmogriphication, especially that rush, of the first time, the tingling sensations. With much repetition, it becomes unrecognizable, hard to find no matter how many times you hold his hand or try to kiss him like you did the first time. But love is a much more hard-headed sonofabitch, like titanium, like cockroaches. When it comes, it pretty much stays. I will love my bestest friends forever, even if I don't know why anymore, even if the specific feelings have been lost somewhere along the way, even if they don't come on the radio as often as they used to. I love my family, and I don't even know how that started. And certainly the feelings haven't always been positive. There was rage and disappointment and pity and fear, but none so still and reliable as that which is not a feeling. I would hate to think of my boyfriend, now my ex, as someone who invested in just the feelings, who put his hopes on it, bet the farm. I would hate to think it. I would hate to start another relationship with someone who discovered the rush and decided it could be like a photograph you can bottle forever. I would hate to be left alone after the rush dies because I know it dies.

This entry was inspired by repeated viewings for the past several days of the DVD Ben Folds and West Australian Symphony Orchestra Live in Perth, which made me feel something.

Sweet-Souled Genius, will you marry me?

My Favorite Romantic Leading Men, #2

Posted on 2006.04.05 at 04:00
Current Mood: touchedtouched
Current Music: "burning down the house" talking heads

Mark Ruffalo as Matt in 13 Going On 30

He looks frazzled, and he acts frazzled, but he's so soulful that soul seems to be pouring out of his pores, especially when he casts that twinkling gaze, a look that seems to be traveling inward as much as it is outward, matched with a boat smile of curious wisdom lips. He makes enough as a photographer just to pay the bills. When glamorous fashion magazine editor Jenna meets him again as an adult, he's at once too cool and too dull to be her match.

At 13, Matt is a fat kid who dances in spasms to "Burning Down the House" by Talking Heads from his own mix tape at Jenna's birthday party. Nobody else could get it. He loses his fats as an adult (not all of it), but he still seems to be the outsider who can dance to shit he likes. At 30, he wears a Talking Heads T-shirt. It's not so much about the Talking Heads as it is what that band represents: intelligence but also primal feeling. If people can't see what a hot guy he is, that's because most people are idiots.

I can't decide if he's the guy I am, the guy I want to be, or the guy I want to be with for the rest of my life. I'm in love with him.

More Mark Ruffalo goodness at Markruffalo.Net, where I stole this pic.

I am Not Like You Even If I am Like You

Posted on 2005.12.07 at 06:20
Current Mood: gloomygloomy
Current Music: "a fond farewell" elliott smith
A chunk of their young lives, their nights, was spent in gay chatrooms looking for the next big hook-up. To me, it seems like a way of growing up. They addressed, managed, satisfied their sexuality by joining a community, night after night, meeting people, making friends, finding sex. They got themselves out there. Maybe if they did it at 35, I'd say they were playing the field. But because they did it at 19, give or take a few years, I'd say they were also finding themselves, marking their gayness.

In that horrible movie Intermates, an assortment of gay men found each other in the chatroom for friendship and romance and trips to Puerto Galera. It's a true example, I guess, of how some gay barkadas start out on the internet and become a really solid group.

My ex-boyfriend was a former chatroom junkie. He made countless eyeballs, some sex, and a few friends. Yet he tells me now that it was all a waste of time. His friend, also a former chatroom junkie, says the same thing. I can see part of what they mean because when I spend an entire night on the internet, say, on Livejournal, I feel like I burned too much time for close to nothing. It can be a prison of sorts. Or maybe they're saying this because they've outgrown the chatroom lifestyle. Maybe they've grown up and they don't feel the need for it anymore.

I feel a little left out sometimes. I never had that kind of community growing up. I easily got tired of the chatroom once I'm inside, and I only have my lack of patience to blame, and maybe my unwillingness to open up.

In high school, my ex-boyfriend had a gay barkada. They could be gay around each other, and other boys in school, the straight ones, could treat them as gay, adjust to them, be the straight to their gay. It sounds to me now like a very good thing. I never had a gay barkada in high school. I had straight friends. Presumably.

My ex-boyfriend keeps in touch with most of his childhood gay barkada, while I lost touch with mine. He and his friends share a quality that I can't quite explain. They're very different persons in many ways, but I can sense a similarity in the way they view personal relationships, bonds, because well, it's the thing they have in common. They grew up building the foundation of a friendship together.

My ex-boyfriend has a history of getting tired with his romantic partners. I'm thinking maybe it's a deep-seated trait, that maybe he can afford to leave these new people once they stop being exciting because he can always go back to the comfort of his gay barkada.

I love my gay friends today, deeply, but I can never go back to my adolescence to live a kind of life shared with a number of boys of the same orientation. It's impossible.

I wonder if I ever really grew up gay all by myself. I wonder if perhaps it has borne some deep-seated traits I have in me now. Like, maybe, I don't know, how I seem to always know at the back of my head that when I leave people, or when they leave me, I will always fall back to the comfort, or whatever, of being alone.

For the record

Posted on 2005.11.13 at 15:11
Current Mood: relievedrelieved
Current Music: chariot stripped, gavin degraw
We broke up last night. It was good.

Piggyback Mountain

Posted on 2005.10.24 at 23:12
Current Mood: nostalgicnostalgic
Current Music: "you left the water running" maurice & mac
File under: Random Memories With My Boy.

In the movie A Very Long Engagement, there was this young boy who carried this girl on his back because the girl had a leg handicap, and he carried her up an endless flight of spiraling stairs to the top of the tower.

After the lights came up and the credits rolled and after a quick trip to the toilet, I carried my boyfriend piggy-back, then went down the stairs, out the theater doors, through the corridor. At one point, I was running and we were laughing and I wanted to go very very far but he got heavy and my legs got tired, and I put him down.

In the News:

Posted on 2005.07.26 at 05:11
Current Mood: sadsad
Iran executes two gay teenagers.

The Season of Passing Notes

Posted on 2005.07.07 at 06:02
Current Mood: morosemorose
Current Music: "incomplete" backstreet boys
When it is a woman, not a man, who administers the full-body massage, I expect nothing more than the massage. Therefore the only compelling reason for me to choose a (female) masseuse over a hunk who may or may not give extra service is the rate.

The last time I was at this affordable spa, I sort of flirted with the boy assistant in the locker area. I wrote about this. He eventually became somewhat of a phone texting regular. Turns out, he's moved up to the front desk. I recognized his voice instantly when I heard it waft through the open door. He didn't seem to recognize me though. He kept calling me "sir" in a polite, serviceman kind of way. I kept making intense eye contact just in case it could jog his memory, but he repaid my stares only with brief generic necessary glances that seemed to mean absolutely nothing. I waited for the supervisor type fellow to disappear, then asked the boy if his name was so and so. He said yes very plainly with a factory-processed smile and didn't even ask me how I knew who he was. I felt it was suddenly a challenge to find a way to remind this boy that once upon a time he told me he was falling in love with me. But then maybe I didn't really want him to remember that.

After the massage, as my friends and I were ready to exit, I gave it one last shot. I approached the front desk with my celphone in hand. I was about to ask this boy if he still had the same phone number. But before I could utter the words, he stopped me with a smile, handed me a folded piece of paper, and said, "Sir, may bago na po ako." It was his number, neatly written. He remembered me after all. Walking away, Kung Fu Guy laughed and pointed at the piece of paper, "Prepared ha!" They thought it was odd that the receptionist would hand me a note just like that.

Two weeks ago, a barista at a coffee shop did something similar. But he didn't hand me just a note. With the length of the message, it could've been a fucking love letter. Haha, not really. It went like this: "Why do you look at me like that anything wrong? Anyway I smell something are you bisexual? Anyway here's my number *********** I'll be out 2:30 A.M." with his name signed at the bottom. He later approached me while I was enjoying my coffee and pretended to be cleaning something in my general vicinity and made small talk. I offered him a seat, but he said they're not allowed to something or another. It was near closing hour.

So anyway, here's all I want to say. With all the trendy new ways of meeting people through the latest in communication technology, still nothing beats a folded piece of paper.

Knows Your Rights

Posted on 2004.12.19 at 05:41
ProGay's Tips on Unlawful Arrests on HomosexualsCollapse )

Really Dirty Dozen

Posted on 2004.06.09 at 01:34
Current Mood: thirstythirsty
Current Music: "why should you come when i call?" counting crows
So I went to the orgy last week.

The end.

Alright, alright, I'll tell the fucking story already.

Early Tuesday evening, hours before the event, Vince sent a message to everyone that they could bring a friend, same rate applies, as long as they were good-looking enough, "not chubby" and "hindi maglaladlad." I thought, right, a big bunch of fuckers pretending to be straight, as if the gaydar of one promiscuous veteran sponsor, who's surely been around and seen the world, wouldn't sniff out some of Vince's friends. Maybe Vince predicted some of the guys he'd invited would back out and he wouldn't meet his quota of ten, thus, the sudden open call. I imagined ten guys bringing a friend each, oh man, that would be a real crowd. It's orgy as pyramid scheme.

I was late. Before midnight, the group had assembled and were already snacking in the hotel room. Vince told me there were twelve of them, including the sponsor. I was to follow and make a grand entrance. I almost backed out because it was drizzling that night. Three cabs refused to take me, and the more I got rejected, the more I was eager to go to this damn orgy and end the anticipation and mystery.

I knocked on room 802. I was a bit nervous. The hotel was awfully silent on the way up there. Hell, the city seemed awfully somber that night. My hair would have been a little messy by now. Breath's probably fine. I knew somebody was peering through the peephole. I stood there and imagined myself to be a pretty package. The door opened. "Pasok," hushed a guy who was fully clothed. I could barely see him because he quickly retreated behind the door and then into the dark room.

All the lights were off, but there was some bluish light from the window with the curtains, and as I walked inside, I tried to squint, can't wait for my eyes to adjust, because right there, at the center of the room, on the huge-ass bed, was a mass of entangled naked bodies, some still with their underwear on. It looked like one of those paintings where birds turn into fish turn into birds. Like limbs arranged to create strange shapes. Look at it closely, and they're human beings. From afar, it was like the huge heart of a beast, steadily palpitating. It made just about the same amount of noise as a beating heart, too. Really quiet.

So I stood there, and I thought, man, how will I ever jump into that? I didn't know if it was safe to. Some of those guys could be coworkers or relatives or neighbors, whatever, and it'd be incredibly embarassing if we'd only find out when the lights are turned on, after the crime's been done. Also, I didn't even know if these guys were hot. How could I check them out in the dark, in those positions? I wished I could've surveyed them first, to pick prospects, perhaps weed unsightly ones, but ah, the consequences of tardiness.

The fully clothed guy who opened the door turned out to be, let's call him Exhibit A. He was sick so he wasn't joining. Later, he'd shed his clothes anyway and I don't know what else.

Exhibit Leo was there, and I couldn't make him out in the dark, but he sat on the edge of the bed and welcomed me and held my hand, and was pulling me in, but I went, whoa, I just got here. I asked aloud where the fuck Vince was, and a figure raised his hand.

For a while, I didn't know what to do. I was looking for a place to sit on, but there were clothes and bags flung everywhere. I sat on this couch with a load of junk on it. Somebody said, "Ano yan, poll watcher?" And there was laughter all around. Finally, Vince came over to where I was and tried to ease me a bit. I asked him where Sponsor R was, and he pointed to somewhere in the middle of the naked anonymous bodies. He seemed like a short, pasty, pudgy guy, but not really. He goes to the gym, but not enough, I guess. He's alright, probably. Then Vince tried to get me out of my clothes.

I sat on the edge of the bed with my brief on. Leo tried to kiss me, and slowly I laid my head down. Then somebody pulled my brief away. Later, I'll get to know him as, well, let's call him Exhibit J. I wasn't enjoying much because I was thinking about what would happen to my underwear, if I'd be able to locate it at all later. Then Sponsor R kneeled by my feet and started sucking my cock. I gave out noisy moans and grunts and cusses, which sort of broke the cold air, thank god, and I think Exhibit J enjoyed that, so he laughed and devoured my mouth, something that he'll keep doing till the end. He'd enjoy my cock too. He told me, Wag daw akong aalis sa tabi nya. But I did anyway.

So then I went crazy. I'd first study a guy's face in the dim light before I kissed him or whatever. I'm a face guy. I like to have a clear picture of a guy's face before I have sex with him. They'd do the same too. We'd stare at each other first, trying to make out what the other looks like, because, see, I've been the latecomer and nobody's gotten a good look at me yet. Most of these guys were pretty cute, surprisingly. I avoided the guys I already knew, but I mentally made an exception for Exhibit Aaron, whose bod I've always thought was hot, especially tonight, so I thought I won't mind. But I think he wasn't into me, or maybe we both had the same idea, to meet new guys, so nothing happened between us. But he did find me amongst the crowd and pulled me over to this guy who had the biggest and fattest cock there. He was cute too. He would be my favorite for the night: Exhibit D. He didn't suck cock that night, I don't know if he ever does. He said he has a girlfriend. He laid against the headboard with his hard cock between his legs jutting upward like the most obscene thing in the world. Exhibit Aaron watched me as I put that monster tool into my mouth. I'm not particularly a size queen, but this guy had strong appeal. I'd switch to other guys, but I'd come to Exhibit D.

One guy's mouth tasted like peppermint. Later, somebody would pass me this box of Listerine candy tape. So that's what it was.

Amidst this frenzy, I lost my erection. Apparently, I wasn't the only one. Maybe such a scene can hold my interest only for so long. Many of the guys would declare having "finished," which pissed off Sponsor R, I think, because he hadn't finished. Nobody was servicing him, and a few texted him begging not to be fucked because although they do allow themselves to get buttfucked, they wouldn't tonight in front of all these other guys. Somebody did get fucked though. I think I saw Sponsor R grinding his ass on top of Exhibit J at one point. Exhibit A the sick guy reportedly had it up the ass. And Exhibit Aaron went around pushing his cock against people's behinds.

In the end, four of us haven't finished. Exhibit D lied and said he came while I blew him. He said if Sponsor R found out he hadn't cum yet, he'd force him to fuck, and he didn't want to. I lied too. I think I was ready not to cum, to be honest. Exhibit J was in trouble because he said out loud that he hadn't, so he had this obligation to cum together with the sponsor. Apparently, Sponsor R laid out some rules before the sex began, before I entered, and one such rule was that everybody should cum. Another rule was no two people should break from the group. "Walang magsosolo." Also, the restroom should always remain unlocked. All of these rules have supposedly been broken, which is why Sponsor R seemed pissed at that point.

Exhibit D, Exhibit J, and I took a shower together, and we were discussing that it was probably up to us to get Sponsor R to cum or please him or at least get him to enjoy the last few minutes. I told Exhibit J that I'll help him out, play with Sponsor R a bit.

Exhibit D pissed in the shower, and I held my hand out to catch his streaming golden goodness, and he looked surprised for a moment, but then he caught my gaze and he beamed the happiest smile of the night.

So anyway, Sponsor R jerked himself off while he alternated between my cock and Exhibit J's, as I rubbed his body all over. Jeez, I'm such a whore. I can please if I have to.

Then everyone started dressing up. Exhibit Aaron told me, Tinamaan daw saken si Exhibit J, which explains why he seemed so attached to me the entire time. He was asking me if Exhibit J had a chance, and I said I hardly know the guy, so he "introduced" us to each other, we shook hands, and Exhibit J asked for my number.

It was so refreshing to see everyone in the light. Most of them were cute, I was right. They say Exhibit A looks like Joross from Star Circle Quest with the lights off, so they turned off the lights again so we can verify. You can hardly see his face in the dark.

I think some partners were formed that night. Somebody mentioned someone falling in love with another, and that guy rebutted with, "Chupaan ng chupaan, tapos inlab?"

My favorite Exhibit D and I were fixing ourselves in front of the restroom mirror when I said, quitely so the others won't hear, "Kunin ko number mo." He nodded. When I didn't do anything after that, he said rather impatiently, but quietly too, "Kunin mo na ngayon." I think I was also his favorite. He said his unreleased spunk was reserved for me.

Then the boys started shuffling out of the room, but a few of us were asked to stay. Sponsor R handed Vince a wad of cash to distribute to those who've left.

Exhibit J my admirer, Exhibit D my favorite, and I stayed behind. Exhibit A the sick guy was also asked to stay so that he can rest. We all followed Sponsor R to the elevator. Apparently, he had rented two rooms: one room for the "kababuyan" and another where he would sleep. Man, this guy had money. We took two flights up and entered his sleeping room. We didn't know what was going on.

Apparently, we were his chosen favorites. Soon, Vince had followed to the new room and we were gorging on room service clubhouse sandwiches and french fries. Sponsor R complained about the others, about those who went solo. He said the group was too large, and it probably wasn't a good idea to have too many guys at the same time. He couldn't focus, he said. He also said he'd rather not have the others around next time. He commented that Aaron seemed to have one goal in mind: magpalabas. Exhibit D described another guy, Exhibit C, "parang pusa" kasi "malinsik."

Then Sponsor R asked Vince if he had already figured out his "type" or why the three of us had been chosen. Vince took a shot. Is it because we were the most participative?, he asked. Nope, said the sponsor. Is it because of looks?, asked Vince. Nope, said the sponsor. Then we'd forgotten the topic totally. Can't remember why. But later it will be revealed anyway. It was all about dick size.

At that point, I really wanted to go home. Except that I really enjoyed the looks that Exhibit D and I were throwing at each other. Damn, he made that night for me.

We were on bed, and Sponsor R buried his face against the crotch of my jeans, and he stayed there for a while, refusing to get up so I can't go. I was beside Exhibit D and I was actually touching him discreetly under the comforter before Sponsor R plopped himself on top of me. Then Sponsor R said, Hindi raw sya tinagasan kanina nung maraming tao pero ngayon daw tinitigasan sya.

And so began Round Two. Let's cut this long-ass story short. When Sponsor R was sucking on Exhibit D, Exhibit D turned to me and mouthed the words "Nandidiri ako." He really didn't want to get off for Sponsor R. He kept motioning me to take over. He wanted me to do it. But I didn't want to push Sponsor R and take his prize from him. That would be too weird. So anyway, at one point, the three of us sat side by side on the edge of the bed, naked, while Sponsor R was on the floor alternating between our dicks. I think that was when he mentioned the dick size thing, that during the tryst at the previous room, Nalilito sya kung kanino sa amin ang chuchupain, or something like that. Man, he was in such a fun position. When I get rich, I'd want to suck three good dicks at the same time too.

So anyway, Exhibit D still didn't cum. Exhibit J was first to finish. Then I came on Sponsor R's face (he wanted it there), while he finished himself off. In the shower, Exhibit D masturbated while I stood watch. We were careful not to get caught. His spurts hit his belly, while I massaged his balls. He really did reserve it for me.

Morning light shone through the window, and damn, it was really time to go home. Sponsor R each handed us our pay. I pocketed mine without counting. In the restroom, I quickly took the bills out to see how much. It was double the promised rate. We said goodbye to Sponsor R. We talked about our talent fees on the way out of the hotel. We each received the same amount, even Vince. It still didn't seem enough though. Not for an entire night. But man, that guy must have spent a load.

It was six in the morning. I had to wake up for work in three hours, plus I had a date in the evening, which would turn out to be simple but wonderful. I walked home that morning filled with various thoughts and feelings, about whoring and guys and life in general, but I'll leave that out here. This entry had been gruelling enough already. I texted some of the guys good night, have a safe trip, whatever was appropriate, just to be friendly. They replied appropriately. I was still pretty excited over Exhibit D, but I probably shouldn't be. The next day, Exhibit J texted me saying he misses me, and hinted a bit of jealousy thing, something about "May *Exhibit D* ka na," which means he noticed. At that time, I'd already been sick. I'd been freezing in the night, shivering with the chills, and my dreams were awful and merciless.

You Get Paid to Attend a Party

Posted on 2004.05.31 at 00:23
Current Mood: excitedexcited
Current Music: all that you can't leave behind, u2
I get the strangest offers.

My friend Vince was on the phone a while ago trying to convince me to clear my sked for late night Tuesday.

I am to get paid to have sex with ten guys in a posh hotel.

I had to ask if it was going to be videotaped, and Vince said no.

Vince's "acquaintance" was sponsoring the whole affair. He just wanted to experience sex with ten guys at the same time. "Trip nya lang," Vince said. I didn't ask, but Vince was quick to assure me that the guy wasn't old. "Nasa thirties."

Vince was asked to pick the participants. Like a twisted version of Ocean's Eleven or such movie heists, Vince would assemble a team of the most highly qualified. Fucking unbelievable. A dream job, if you ask me. I personally know some of the guys he chose, and I'm not too keen on rubbing naked with them. Not that they're bad-looking. They're quite alright. It's just that they're like buddies already, and they don't get me hot anymore?.

Vince will be part of it, too. I have a feeling he wants me in for, you know, old times' sake.

Only two factors motivate me to go: One, the money, which is a teeny tiny amount. And two, I'm betting it will be good for at least a few laughs.

But my instinct tells me not to go. It's this naughty-boy-turned-good reformation phase that's yuck, so awkward. There's an uneasiness inside me that's telling me this ain't my scene anymore. It's a feeling. It's not some logical-moral-reasoning problem-solving pros-and-cons bullshit. I'm not saying I don't want to go because I've changed and seen the light and all that wonderful, welcome crap. It's more like a natural gag reflex. Like I actually don't want to do it. That my body would convulse at the act of whoring myself yet again and diving in a set-up that could be compromising in many ways I can't even imagine.

But that's one side. There's also a side that's excited and adventurous and poor and horny. See two motivations above. I've always been this way, haven't I?

Plus, I have a date that will coincide on Tuesday, but I guess that can be moved to another time. I'm excited about the date too, much more than I am about this debauchery. I'll talk about the date some other time.


Posted on 2003.06.22 at 15:48
Current Mood: bitchybitchy
Current Music: hungry times, cousteau
It has come to this.

This journal is now friends-only.

To LJ users who wish to read my protected entries, you may make a request to be included in my list, and I just might. I just have to know that I can trust you with my secrets.

If you've already put me in your friends list and I haven't returned the kindness, it's because I've become very wary of who to add. I will need to hear from you that you want in.

To the non-LJ users who have been reading my journal, you may continue to email me. Say the word, and I might send you the protected entries via email.

To the impolite anonymous fucks who fail to realize that their own sorry little lives must be dealt with first before mine, you can just stay away. Bring your shrink-wrapped brains with you.

Alright, let's get the show started.

Welcome to the new Dalumat.


Posted on 2003.03.17 at 16:30
Current Mood: listlesslistless
Current Music: jason mraz on letterman
I dreamed I was squeezed against Kristine Hermosa, sitting on a picnic bench, with a view of a quiet U.P. sunken garden and a sky that's alternately blue and magenta. We were whispering silly sweetnesses, giggling, while sharing on a bowl of soup. I began stroking the length of her shampoo-commercial hair when some guy, an asungot, appeared and asked me, Which do you think is more beautiful: her hair or the soup? Kristine looked at me, anticipating a romantic reply. Then I said, the soup. She laughed heartily like a girl in love. I felt I was too, because she was beautiful.

If I could have dreams like this, which is rare but once in a while, then I know that straight guys have gay dreams.

Mga Putang Ina

Posted on 2003.03.15 at 01:23
Current Mood: infuriatedinfuriated
Yes, it makes my blood boil. I don't want this issue to go away quietly.

Police and Media Raid A Movie House Frequented by Gay Crusiers, Violate Human RightsCollapse )

How You Can HelpCollapse )</lj-cu

House of the Rising Son and Daddy

Posted on 2003.02.05 at 05:51
Current Mood: satisfiedsatisfied
It all started just three hours ago.

When I boarded the passenger FX on the way to Cavite, I noticed he was looking at me in that strange, suspicious, exciting way that belies interest and caution. It led to much silly smiling, me and him, at each other. He tried to touch my knee, I tried to touch his. I liked the way his black T-shirt hugged his chest and arms even if it wasn't one of those shirts that were designed to. But he wasn't a big man; he just had a nice-fitting shirt that matched his nice shape.

I was prepared to hop off the van anywhere this guy was going. At my regular stop, he mouthed we should go down. Turns out he knows my usual stop because he's ridden with me before and he remembers. He said I was with another guy that time, and that must've been Kung Fu Guy.

His name is Vher. Same age as mine. Shorter than me. A bartender in a bar somewhere in Quezon City. He used to be a bartender in a restaurant in Makati. Nice guy all over. We walked and looked for a stop where we could assault each other.

We stopped at a Burger Machine for refreshments. I asked him questions.

Then, under the shadows beside a dirt road, we fooled around. We stopped when a figure from afar began to approach.

That was the moment he decided to take me to his home.

A few kilometers from my house. Deeper into the heart of Cavite. He said he lived with his uncle, but it sounded like a lie.

The streets that led to the house were dark and pestered with roaming, barking dogs. The front of the house looked like a large cage with its top-to-bottom gate and the huge dog that growled from the inside.

The inside of the house was cozy. He told me to stay quiet and pointed me to the elongated sofa against the wall. It looked more like a sleeping bench with its comfy cushion and homey throw pillows. I stayed there while he went to the rooms hidden from my view. I heard voices. His "uncle" was awake. I studied the appearance of the dimly lit living room. A Japanese wall ornament. Exotic-looking table pieces. Two fine rugs. Snazzy TV set and players. This certainly wasn't a family house. And I thought I wouldn't be surprised if perhaps under brighter illumination, it could appear to be a gay home.

Vher's careful steps told me I should act like I wasn't there at all. He was doing something inside his room, but I can't tell. Suddenly, the uncle appeared from behind the wall. He was silhoutted against the light from the kitchen, and I knew he could see me well. "Good evening po," I said. But it was actually early morning. He nodded and went back to whence he came.

Vher returned in only his boxer shorts this time. He sat beside me and said, "Alam mo na, no?" I said yes. It's clear. They were lovers. Vher was 24, Floyd was 44. They've lived together for five years. Floyd lived in the house longer.

Vher started to touch me, then pointed to the TV and asked, "Gusto mong manood?" He put in straight porn that looked like something that could be entitled "Indiana Jones and the Lust Crusade." It seemed like high-quality xxx.

Then Vher whispered, "Huwag kang susubo para hindi ma-turn off." He didn't have to tell me twice. Floyd, apparently, likes his boys as straight as possible.

Vher unbuttoned my polo shirt, then my jeans, then started to suck me. Floyd suddenly appeared from behind the wall again and sat on a chair next to the sofa. He watched me as Vher did his thing, and I think Floyd was even touching himself.

Floyd was a reasonably handsome man with eyeglasses, mustache, and balding head. He had also somewhat of a respectable demeanor, even if he was just in boxers and T-shirt.

But I couldn't look at him long, nor could I look at Vher. I kept my eyes on the screen, where two blondes were being fucked on a yacht.

Then the expected happened. Floyd joined in on the action. He and Vher took turns sucking my cock and licking my body all over. At one point I think they were licking my cock at the same time. They did it slowly. They laid me down. I was completely naked except for my open polo shirt. I closed my eyes, I looked at the TV. Floyd kissed me hungrily. His tongue was invading and it was huge, a gigantic lapping life form. I didn't respond. I was so into the act of the straight boy being seduced by the gay couple.

It took long for me to cum. Vher later said it's because people used to being pleasured take longer than newbies. I agree.

When it was over, they asked me to stay the night. Floyd asked questions, and I gave my usual made-up answers. I was looking at Vher to see how he would react to my lies. I kept answering in polite po's and opo's, and Floyd told me to just call him Floyd.

But I said I had to go. Floyd retired to his bed, while Vher and I exchanged numbers in hushed breaths. He walked with me outside. Vher wanted me to stay so that we could have sex, just the two of us, when Floyd leaves in the morning. I said we'll do it some other day. We planned on it. I want to see him again, if only to press him for answers that he was vague about. Like, how did they meet? The guy seems very interesting, and I think he's friend material.

He said they never have sex anymore, only on occassions like tonight when they have somebody over. And even then, I don't think they touch each other. "Ibang level na," he said. "Nag-mature." Vher said it's usually Floyd who brings home the boys.

Question to self: Strange as this experience was, why do I find it so completely unshocking?

New Evaluations in Hi-Fi

Posted on 2003.01.30 at 15:36
Current Mood: artistic
Current Music: green, r.e.m.
Inherited from many people on my friends list.

Instructions: Pick a band and answer only using the band's lyrics.


01) Are you male or female?
We were little boys.

02) Describe yourself.
The story is a sad one told many times.
("How the West Was Won and Where It Got Us")

03) How do some people feel about you?
Romantically, you martyred me and missed this story's point.
("Falls To Climb")

04) How do you feel about yourself?
I'm half a world away.
("Half A World Away")

05) Describe your girlfriend/boyfriend/interest.
Three miles of bad road.
("Crush With Eyeliner")

06) Where would you rather be?
Here's a scene, You're in the backseat laying down, the windows wrap around to sound of the travel and the engine. All you hear is time stand still in travel. You feel such peace and absolute.
("You Are the Everything")

07) Describe where you live.
The city on the river is a girl without a dream.
("So. Central Rain")

08) Describe how you live.
So fast, so numb that you can't even feel.
("So Fast, So Numb")

09) Describe how you love.
A simple prop to occupy my time.
("The One I Love")

10) Share a few words of wisdom:
Hey kids, rock and roll. Nobody tells you where to go.

Not everyone can carry the weight of the world.
("Talk About the Passion")