It's raining outside.

And I’m trying out a new app for my iPhone to publish posts here from my mobile since I have yet to find an official Blogger app. This looks fine.

Over and over.

It began with mushrooms. I had this passive fascination over them ever since I found out that some were toxic. That was a long time ago. I was still a kid then. I could only imagine colonies of humans slowly getting wiped out figuring out which mushrooms were poisonous and which were fine. Silly me, I thought. My fascination remained passive since I never brought it upon myself to find out exactly how our race was able to map out the edible mushrooms from the lethal ones. A few years later, I found myself watching a documentary on how anti-venom works. This was eventually followed by a trivial episode in science class where I had to learn how antibodies worked. And then I read some details about vaccines. Before I was a teenager, I had somewhat concluded that the human race was doomed to a painful existence.

The other day, my trainer threw a random phrase that I am (as well as other bodybuilders are) familiar with. "You have to destroy them to build them." Made sense. Muscle needed room to grow so tearing them with heavy work gives it gaps it could fill and build on. In the long run, more muscle makes one stronger, more powerful, and more resilient. "Bring it on." I said.

History also seems to agree to this. After the world wars, most of our grandparents who went through them can live through anything. Filipinos upheld their democracy from several oppressors both foreign and from within. Even the Catholic Church had to see their Christ die before the empire would rise after three days.

The big idea seemed to be resilience. The more we subjected ourselves to the things that harm us, the stronger we become not just against them, but overall. Yet here I am, all spent and shattered, just like the day my ex had left me, just after looking at the profile photo he had placed on his locked profile. And it was just one quick glance at that.

Some friends of mine claim to get over past lovers in days. Some hours. There are those who even brag minutes. I didn't really agree with that. My experience may be a bit limited. After all, I've only had one boyfriend. We've been apart for almost half a decade now. Still, I am not over him. But I am fine. In everyday words, I have moved on, but I haven't gotten over him. And I don't think I will ever.

Should I consider lobotomy? I believe that for as long as it is a memory, it will always be part of me. And if I get over it, I get over myself. The point in which that becomes possible perhaps would happen upon death. I don't think getting over someone is supposed to mean that it's over. To me, it just means that we have to live on top of it, stronger, more resilient, better. Or at least we try to.

I honestly can't explain why I am feeling like this after just quickly seeing his photo. Maybe I can liken it to getting bitten by a venomous snake. I haven't been bitten by one but I can imagine how painful it could be. I take it that even if one is given anti-venom and is saved from the poison, another encounter later on won't feel any less painful. But like the presence of anti-venom suggests, there is a capacity to get over it. That said, I think whoever got around to figuring out anti-venoms and vaccines probably had issues worse than mine.

So here I am. Still taken aback after seeing my ex's photo. But I know I will be fine. It just hurts that I miss him and I don't know if he thinks of me. And I wish he did. And I wish that I knew he did. Does. But I will be fine. I know I will be fine. Before I was a teenager, I had somewhat concluded that the human race was doomed to a painful existence. I'd like to believe this conclusion is still valid but it now comes with an addendum clause. The human race is doomed to a painful existence that is worth living.

Ever after.

Watch movies a lot? You know that moment where the crowd cheers, music plays, and amidst the triumphant cry of wedding bells, the couple kisses passionately and the theme song is sung by a choir as the screen goes blank? I believe in those. Then credits roll. We leave the theatre. Our lives go on.

To this day, I hold on to the notion that my happy ending will come. And when it comes, contrary to how we know it, it will start something wonderful, magical and marvelous. I have dreams of being kissed under a New York streetlamp, having my feet swept off in a fancy ball in Paris, or hugged tightly under a rainy Tokyo night. You know why? Because I know I deserve it. I deserve this happy ending.


While walking the dog and ogling over hot dads and delicious men walking about the park, my friend, in his 40's, brought up the idea of happy endings. No. It's not the same concept as I depicted above. Happy ending as he used it is a term to call extra service given by masseurs after a session. Yes. It is erotic in nature. To most single men mastering their midlives, this happy ending is the most practical way to end an episode of lust, longing, and desire. At this age, most have come to a sordid understanding that love is an illusion to mask getting off on a transactional basis. Each love story is a transaction. And each ending deserves a new beginning. After all, after the film, they all have their lives to lead. And boy are these lives successful. My friend is one such character. He is no stranger to these happy endings. His happy endings. And boy is he successful.

Much to your surprise, I have never tried this kind of happy ending. I've always believed that sex should not be something I pay for. I do tend to agree that there seems to be an element of trade that happens so I might be inclined to accept his view on relations as a transaction. Perhaps I can look at commitment as a very long dedicated transaction of devotion. Lets look into that some other time. Back to my friend. I asked him if he thinks he is worth a happy ending. He was quick to say "Well, I can afford it." when I clarified that I meant my definition of happy ending. Not his. We laughed. He is open to it - my idea of happy ending. But again, he points out that he already has a life he is happily committed to. "If it comes, it comes. If not, it's fine. Besides, I am not getting any younger." We smiled and resumed watching our dogs and the men.

I believe in happy endings. I deserve one. But I don't know if it will come.

Honestly, I guess it has a lot to do with faith. If it comes, good. Great. But if it doesn't, I wouldn't know it didn't. I'd be dead by then. Hopefully. Regardless, what makes this wait worthwhile is the fact that I make it worthwhile for myself. I believe that the path to happiness should be laid down with steps of happiness. Otherwise, existence would be quite a sad affair.

Do you think you're worth a happy ending?

Down to the last penny.

Not everyone can claim that they have a friend for a boss. I am blessed to have such an amiable relationship with the president of the company I work for. And no. Let me murder any possible thought that our friendship is in anyway an illicit connection. Because it is not. It is in fact a friendship I put in very high regard and respect. Our friendship preceded our being officemates. He knew me as a person first before he knew me as an employee. And I just think that it's nice to be able to have a breather from all the to-dos and tick-boxes we have to fulfill for the day and have a conversation with a friend over cigarettes or coffee. Which brings me to a very beautiful point from yesterday's topic.

But before that, to those unfamiliar about yours truly (you), I exude this particular sense of illicitness. I named this blog after that when I came to a full realization that I tend to attract strings of attention from individuals who are in commitments. Meaning, taken, not single, and or married on paper or word, straight or otherwise. Not my proudest trait, but I can't deny it. Hurt me a couple of times actually. It's like a mutant ability I can't control. My boss is well aware of my unusual condition. He's even bore witness to some interesting iterations of this power's manifestation. He does not encourage it. He actually levels me down to what I know to be inherently right. Now, on to the actual topic.

A few weeks ago, I remember hitting a popular local club for a nightcap. On this rare occasion it was nice to know that I can still charm my way into a crowd and get some guys to buy me drinks and some to ask for my number. But there was one guy whom I noticed who stood out from everyone else. He stood by the DJ's booth with a haunting stare looking at the crowd as if he wasn't there part of it. He had an air of detachment as if he was disconnected from the rhythm and the beats that night. He looked like he was thinking - quite a rare sight to behold in such a place. I knew I had to know him.



Turns out, he's a friend of a friend and after a little bit of research I got his name, found him on Facebook and added. By that day's end, he had responded to my message and friend request. And we were chatting. This is where tells me "I like your energy. You're spunky" and by the end of that conversation, he had called me "buddy". Progress, if I do say so myself. However, upon further researching I find out that he has been in a long-term relationship with some guy whom he had shared buying property with. Whoa. But I wasn't surprised. Firstly, guys like him don't stay single for long (if not at all). Secondly, I say my mutant powers were working in one way or another. Not surprised at all.

Let me put what bothered me in a question. How do I take a line like "I like your energy"? I can't. I dunno. I wasn't flattered. But I liked hearing it. So asked my boss over conversation as friends for advice. Quick in analysis and wit, he came up with a response. He believed that the man was trying to flatter me but since he wasn't a writer (he's into IT, very technical stuff) so his playfulness with words can be misconstrued as an effort at witty banter. My boss then comes to his point. "But he said it right? See, the point of the compliment is not the compliment but that you are worth flattering." I grew pink. A shade shy of red. It was a nice thought. Did this man really attempt to flatter me? See, with me, flattery gets you places. If I get it.

Of course my boss gave me grounding. "He's with someone. He's committed. You know your morals." I nodded. "You know what you want. Are you worth the whole shebang?" I remained silent as a smile formed underneath my breathing.

I am worth it.

Guilty by association.

A former boss once told me that I was designed to be a kept man. Hopefully by a really important gay man whom I am attracted to, no less. That would be a novel situation. Kept man. Of an important man. By day I get to live my life. Mundane. Stressful. Unassuming. Okay fine, those three words don't really describe my day-to-day, but you get my drift. And by night, I go home to this other life of things like my day-to-day, but only more expensive and lavish. Fine. It doesn't have to be lavish. I think the best part lies in the fact that there is a secret life happening on top of my normal one. But then again my bigger boss taught me to marry up. Hence, expensive and lavish are not bad to aspire for. But let's not lose focus. This isn't about being a kept man. Not yet.

Nothing turns me on more than an important man. A man who knows what he wants and grabs it by the balls. Preferably, mine. I like men who know what they are capable of doing and not reserving exercising this power. Men who inspire change. Men who lead rebellion. Men who decide fates. Don't let the poeticism fool you. The kink here lies in influence. Imagine being capable of influencing an influence. Overlapping his power. Making it your own. It's very attractive. Sexy. And… Oops I just got a hard on. Sorry about that.

I consider myself a powerful man. By virtue of beauty being a type of power, I must say I am quite powerful. I attract, manipulate, and seduce the weary important man. It's my nature. It's as if I am built for this kind of kill. It's not easy, but it's a way of life. Survival of the fittest. Of course, there is no perfect hunt. In the course of the chase, injuries are sustained. Some could even be near fatal. It's one thing to get turned on by a man who knows what he wants. But this attraction is also a double-edged sword. There's nothing I hate more than a man who knows what he wants. Especially if he wants me out.

It's one of the toughest battles I've ever faced - a man with a mind that's made up and the power to push that decision to 100% fruition. I have yet to develop a strategy against it. And my power can only go as far as skin-deep. Happened to me three times already. First with my ex. Second with an affair. And most recently with a doctor who played a really high stakes game. I won't go into details, suffice it to say that these instances illustrate defeat. Mine.

The thing with being attracted to important men is that to a certain degree, you'd be bound to a tick-box in their calendar. I never like that feeling. It keeps me at bay and powerless. However it would be enough for me to build tension and unleash an all-out assault when we see each other on said date. And after that, it all becomes fair game.

But why do I like important men? I don't have a definite answer. However I do have a hypothesis. I would like to think of myself as a value proposition. Let people like me. They give me standard like points. Let beautiful people like me. That would give me beautiful like points. Now if important people like me, that gives me important like points. By association, I prefer linkage with importance. Maybe it's a directional thing. Maybe I am gearing up for more important roles. Maybe it will work. Maybe not. But I would much rather have one important person like me over thousands of average Joes.

Easy come, easy go.

Easy was never my favorite word. I do enjoy the occasional challenge. I like it tough. I like it rough. But I concede to being easy as a strategy if I think it will bring home the bacon, beef, or the ever so rare lay. The other night I decided to get in touch with my easy side and give some lucky guy at the club an easy good time. Easy. Right. Then this guy I sort of fancy, an a acquaintance, walks in with some common friends. Great. His lucky night I thought. Easy, right? Little did I know being easy would give me a hard time.

First off, I haven't expressed to any of our common friends any interest whatsoever on this guy. I was, as how straight folk would say, keeping my cool. Second, I know he's still in this heart-broke sulking phase. Plus he's also sort of seeing other guys. Seeing, mingling, playing with other guys. Guys with an S in case you missed it. In fact, one of them was there. And in the course of the night they actually made out on the dance floor first among the group. But wait, that group doesn't go making out with other just like that okay? Just so we're clear. Just them. And then there's me.

So as not to feel the mildest guilt in attempting to connect with aforementioned guy I needed an alibi. That alibi came in the form of another friend of ours who was tipsy. I coerced him to kiss each other knowing he would prod the two of us to kiss as well. And it happened. Before you know it, we had our tongues at it, at the expense of kissing the other friend of course. Then the easiness set in. He would hold my hand in secret. He quietly felt me up from the back. He let me drink from his pitcher. I rested my back on him. Grinding. Slowly. Then he excuses himself. Bathroom break. Everyone was entitled to one. Two. Or even three. Besides, I've already given him the signals. Everything was set. And that was that.

A French exit.

Normally I would have been really frustrated. Good thing I kept my options open. But that's not the end of it. The next time I see him maybe I won't go so easy. Maybe.

In retrospect.

By the turn of the century, my blog and I were inseparable. No detail went unnoticed. No tear fell ignored. No kiss flew unwritten, in lyric or prose. By then writing had become my religion and blogging was the prayer I make after or before anything. I never got around to figuring out why I stopped blogging. Maybe I grew out of it. Safe answer. Maybe it just wasn't interesting enough. Some friends might get hurt. But somehow, somewhere along the way, blogging just lost its luster. For me at least.

Wasn't sure what exactly the reason is, but from multiple entries a day, my posts dwindled. First in number. Then in quality. I began to write less and share more. By sharing, I mean reposting, embedding, short of copying content other people have made that has in one way or another affected me. Somehow blogging for me began to evoke a certain sense of prayer that echoed pre-existing thoughts garnered by a collective consciousness that came to life online. It wasn't all about me anymore.

What used to be a very big part of my life started to take the backseat. Just as well. Everyone else seem to have caught on and the religion became a fad. At least to my understanding. Anything that becomes too popular just dies for me. And speaking of life, mine happened. Happens. And sometimes it happens so well that words can't contain it. Or sometimes what happens is just too precious to share or to make profound of for other people. Ultimately, blogging was not able contain what I thought it can help me understand. Life was getting too big to be put in words, lines, and entries. I couldn't write it all the time. Not all the time. Not all my time.

I was growing up. And it sometimes hurt.

Pilot.

I cannot bear to see an empty blog. More so if all I have right now are intentions of filling it up - of what with, I have yet to fully discern.

At this point though, I think introductions are in order. Don’t get too excited. I won’t be telling you who I really am. And if by chance in the course of this project you figure out who I am, I am already denying it. So why won’t I share my identity? Let’s face it, mystery draws curiosity. Curiosity generates interest. Interest invites desire. I want to be desired. It’s as simple as that.

Going back to the introduction, I may not be giving myself away, but I can give certain particulars about myself as ideas for you to latch on. Based on what I took up in college, my ideal job should have been a film critic. I love movies. I like writing about them too. Writing one would be nice, but it’s not a thing I must do before I die. However, starring in one is something I do hope to do in the near future. I am not an actor, but people do sense a matinée air about me. I command presence. I get my fair share of head-turning when I walk out in the wild. And I act like I don’t know it. I have a killer smile that can make you fall in love with me. Trust me. And I speak very well. Just to be clear, I don’t do calls for a living. I keep a flexible routine, mostly for exercise and family. I don’t think all of us are capable of getting over experiences. We just live on and let life pile up on top of them one after the other. We all make mistakes but if this were an answer to a beauty pageant question, I would be wearing the crown after this period.

Yes. I am gay.

So far I think I have fulfilled the basic requirement I have set out to do. This blog is no longer empty. And I have introduced myself. Sort of. That’s it for now. I know I will see you again.