Ahem... tagalog ito. Pero hanggang title lang yan. Mahahalatang bisaya tayo.
We could have discussed about the abuse on the ozone layer which made this summer unbearably sweaty than the past years. We could have toasted Trillanes for making it in and, as of the last report in ABS-CBN, out of the senatorial race. We could have demonstrated our level of intelligence by deciphering the basis of morality from the writings of the French and German thinkers. But we don’t have to. We know we are intelligent.
So here we were in Chelu on a Friday night. Oblivious on whether there were enough cute guys to test our market value. Or whether there were enough gays in the area to say this is the night to see and be seen. Tonight, I’m with my friends. My very intelligent friends. And since we have not been seeing each other for days, a pseudo-reunion is in order. So we settled on gossip. And it’s not about our friends nor ex-friends. O, no. We are not going to make celebrities out of their absence. We, instead, gossiped about ourselves.
Rollo, although surprisingly out of his usual hang-out in Palawan 2 Cubao, was always on the prowl for boys. His eyeballs was almost jumping out of their socket as he hunts them out of the crowd. I whispered to Praxedes that Rollo would again be successful in fishing out the tabula rasa from the perceptive ones. We used this Aristotelian idea of the mind as a clean slate to refer to boys who have nothing in between their ears. It works for Rollo though as he could simply write his name on their empty minds and these boys will remember him forever.
Praxedes was still in euphoria remembering the guy of his birthday eve a couple of days past. Big, brawny, and the flawless skin that makes you doubt if he was indeed a provincial lad fresh from the tuna shores of General Santos. Brandon is a masseur from Utopia Spa. His was the torso that spans wide enough to contain the lengths of a mathematical equation on the workings of the universe. Praxedes remembers very well how the lights went dim when the guy bent over him as he laid down for the sinful massage. Like a nimbus cloud looming. Whew! Irefragabile!
No exaggeration. Just plain adulation. Under the pangs of envy.
Far inside Chelu a guy facing me while embracing another was looking at me with smiling eyes. I hissed back with a sharp stare that says, “Hey! I am not the porn star of your fantasies!”
I’m bad. Proudly.
Ryoichi, was with a date. The guy will remain a date.
Like Ryo, Nighao was also with a date. His date wasn’t some new conquest he would usually pride over us. They used to be friends since late nineties and, in fact, I thought the guy was already out of the country just like the rest of the gays who have retired from the scene. They may have had sex or two but we can always assume that when it comes to Ninghao without having the guilt of being wrong. O yes, we’ve also retired from the scene. From time to time. Only to come back to Malate anew as if the place has the irresistible call such as that of nature’s.
Chelu was celebrating their fourth year. Beer was four for Php100.00. It was enough for me to carouse with my ever-faithful lover, Red Horse. Had two rounds of the promo and I had a blast having eight bottles. Short of saying I was having an orgy.
At dawn Praxedes and Ninghao dragged me to Aristocrat for breakfast as I was in drunken stupor. This restaurant used to be my family’s special occasion hangout during my boyhood. Little did I know that this is going to be my breakfast place after my weekly Malate shindigs. O, I should stop the reminiscing before this turns into a commercial.
In the restaurant, I hurried into the restroom to barf and ended up in the ladies’. Went to the men’s room and threw up on the lavatory as it was still being cleaned. The janitor was watching me dirtying the newly washed marble. While I was reaching for my throat for more trash, I gave the same sharp stare at the janitor. Sharp enough to say WAGMOAKONGPANOORIN... glug, glug, glug...
Breakfast came with humongous slabs of pork and chicken adobo. Chokolate-eh is not to be missed. Ninghao ordered pansit he did not even touch. So I took the responsibility to finish it as well on top of everything else that was served on the table.
Ninghao’s ex who happened to cow-towed with us to Aristocrat insisted that the cake I bought here for my birthday is called chocolate sans-rival. Obviously, because it’s sans-rival inside, chocolate outside. Duh! Like I care what it’s called. Like men, you don’t even ask their name. You just eat them.
He kept insisting. I said I don’t know. The last time I told him that I was giving him the sharp stare that growls STOPWITHTHE SANSRIVALCHOCOTHINGY! Then there was green ooze dripping out of my mouth.
Praxedes was more pacifying with this name-ordeal. He stood up, went to the bakeshop and asked about the cake.
No. I’m not telling you what he found out. Wala lang...
Ninghao dearie, please get a hubby who can put discussion on the table. One that’s beyond baking. It would save Praxedes the walk to the bakeshop next time we’re having breakfast.

