ANGELUS IN DOMO BALNEARIO

I wish!

Did you ever come across that pressure to smoke though you don't seem to enjoy it anymore? O, you don't smoke. How 'bout the compulsion to drink in spite of the feeling sick from getting drunk? So you don't drink either. Ok, ok... How about that feeling of wanting to have sex at the same time not wanting to have one for reason of morality, fear of gonorrhea, had too much the past days, whatever...

You will go to hell for being such a phony. But wait! For being a hypocrite, I would have to kill you first.

September 25, 2006. Makati office. Blogging at company expense. Har, har, har...

This has been a long standing entry. Everyday, without let up, I could vividly remember the things that have happened to me after June 21 of 2005. Life since then has never been the same. I think that was the day The Bull was born. I was never known to be the bully before that date. Yes, The Bull was there all along waiting to be born. But the pains of bitterness brought it out in this world. I was so horribly angry that I see things clearly as black and bleak. Especially relationships. Yes, that again. I think it was during those times that I have turned away some suitors (I did not say "so many"; if I did, I'm not taking it back) for the belief that I never, and will never ever again (I sweared – yes, there is an ed) subject myself into such vile human tendency – the tendency to be in-loved (supply silence here). Would you like me to rant once more as to why I hated (stress past tense) the idea? Love? Relationships? Nah, you can read a lot about such ranting in my previous entries. Some of them have even resulted to some ignominious litanies about the one who got away. Thank gods he went away! Good riddance!

This entry, however, is my ode to that cute angel I met at one of the bars (if you can translate my title froms its Latin, you would know it’s more than a bar) down E. Rodriguez (that obviously is a clue). I met him even before I met Bagbag so this is not about Bagbag. It was during those bitter days when I would be restrained from slapping a guy who would approach me with IWANTTOBEYOURBOYFRIEND introductions. Or, if he’s not so cute, I respond by saying IWANTTOBEYOURDEATH. Ok, this boy is around 21 (does one year matter?). He was cute alright so I was a little polite. And kind. And kinder. Until I became even solicitous (say charitable – give my all. Hint!). After some action that almost produced a genetically dreadful entity involving two male chromosomes, the boy engaged me into some casual chat (is it the same as casual sex?). He inquired as to whether I have a lover. I said I just buried one, limbs all separated. He asked if I ever look forward to having one. I asked if this guy should have limbs. I told him I’m not one for a relationship… Anymore! I remember there was fire blowing out of my nostrils when I said that. But like an angel that he was, he interjected that I shouldn’t be bitter at all. In fact, the way I deliver these telegramatic (if you know telegram) statements showed that I was hiding my inner cravings to be in-loved again. To have that relationship I so wanted.

Why can’t I be bitter? It’s legal than committing murder.

Then he illustrated his point with a story:

Once he had a boyfriend. He would hurry from school to be with his boyfriend. He would cook for him. Bathe him. Prepare breakfast for him (shit, I did those). I think he even had a police blotter for not going home (I had one sa Puerto Galera) one night. Then the relationships, just like any relationships (including yours), ended. His bestfriend told him he was on the losing side since he was all dedicated to the guy. For what?

But he said with a sonorous smile, “Nope, I was the happy one.” He did all the things that made him happy. Or simply put, he was happy doing those kind things. He never lost anything for doing the things that made him happy (look, my apologies for thrice paraphrasing the same thought; I’m trying to put it the way the boy put it). One must never get tired about getting in-loved, he pointed out. He agrees that relationships never last. So does being full after a good meal. We go hungry again. And so we eat. No matter how one enjoys sleeping, you have to get up somehow and stop sleeping to do something else again. But never say one will never go back to sleep. Or never eat. Like smoking for smokers. Like drinking for drunkards. Like sex… Hypocrite!

I paused for a ten-second silence. But it felt like hours. Here is a 21-year old lecturing me about what I ought to have known at 36 (I was 36 then; no, this year). Somehow, love is like that. Relationships are like that. Only much much more complicated to refuse. You don’t want it anymore the very same time you want it after all.

Until now, I still think of that boy. He could be one good lover. I hope he doesn’t have to let go of those ideals for a tattoo that serves as a scar for a failed relationship. God bless him. But we already know that.

Scarred for life with a crying eye.