Kathisophobia

What exactly do they feel
who fear the commonest thing?
In Fear Factor I learn that man
could have a phobia of sitting down,
and I can’t help but snicker
at the thought of someone panicked
at the sight of a chair. Perhaps
he is someone otherwise normal,
a bank executive or lawyer,
who knots his tie the same way
as the next person, relishes chicken
like everyone else. But in malls
he stays clear of the furniture section,
which makes his heart almost jump
with its monstrous sofas and divans.
At weddings he is the one odd guest
who claps for the bride and groom
out by the church door, unable to stand
the wooden pews gathered inside
like a pack of wolves. And when
you visit his house, isn’t it weird
how he will not offer you to have a seat?
How the two of you will stand
in the middle of an empty space,
exchanging stories on your feet?
Oh, the possibilities are endless
when you imagine a life shaped
around one fear! The blind dates
he stands up because he cannot sit,
the movies he watches erect as a stick.
Even the simple act of relieving himself
oh for him cannot possibly be simple.

But then what is it like to finally meet her,
the one woman who loves through
the cramps, who thumbs her nose
at the varicose veins begun to spread
like webs on her legs? She might be
plain as a mop, but for him she is
unimaginably beautiful, standing
before him like a dutiful salesgirl,
offering her love like a box of shoes.
I feel almost envious when I picture them:
two poles, rooted on the ground forever.
When other couples who have slumped through
a hundred candle-lit dinners have divorced
and then remarried, the two of them
go on and on unbending through bad weather.
It doesn’t matter that ivy grows and covers them
from the feet up. Alone in his fear,
they remain the last couple standing

B's Birthday

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, B!

Here are some pics taken during B's birthday. I'm still in the process of resizing all the image files, so they'll be easier to upload. I'll publish the others soon. Promise.

(At Club Manila East)


(We took refuge from the summer heat under this tree.)


(Beer, anyone? Or how about something sweet instead hehe?)


(Just beyond are the waves.)


(Why are you laughing so hard, Arc? Is it because of Kenneth?)


(B, Eric, Larry and some guy -- I don't know who :))


(And -- taraaaan! -- one of the many hot dudes at Club Manila East.)

My Magic Cloak

More than joint aches and a receding hairline, what brings home the fact of old age to me is the death and/or the declining health of a few beloved people. A few months ago, the father of my friend and former piano teacher, Alma, passed away. He was followed, after a long bout with cancer, by the mom of one of my dearest friends, Tess. And just yesterday, the mom of an officemate, one of the few people I trust in our department, passed away as well.

I've never met my officemate's mom, but I am lucky to have known papa (Alma's dad) and nanay (Tess' mom) when they were still alive. Papa was a thin, short fellow who carried himself like a soldier. He always stood ramrod straight and spoke in a low, almost stern voice that I would have found intimidating had he not been the incredibly warm and friendly fellow that he was to me. During the time that I was still taking piano lessons from Alma, he and mama would always go out of their way to make me feel not just at home but a real part of the family. They would even serve me snacks -- usually, puto and softdrinks -- even though I was paying Alma less than 200 pesos a month for the lessons.

Tess' mom I had little interaction with, mainly because she was a shy woman who liked to hide in the kitchen. But I remember rare moments when she would burst into laughter while lying on the sofa and watching Eat Bulaga in their cramped living room. At those moments, she looked like a female Buddha, so full of life and guileless joy that nothing, not even a hand-to-mouth existence, seemed capable of dampening her spirit.

I can only imagine the amount of grief that Alma, Tess and my officemate felt over the loss of their parents. To my mind, that loss is like an erasure in an extremely valuable painting, a white scar where Mona Lisa's smile used to be. No matter that everything else in the painting remains the same, the entire painting itself has become so unsettlingly different, that we too, mere museumgoers that we are, find ourselves altered by it.

In my case, the alteration took the form of a realization: I won't be forever twenty-two, which is where I still am now psychologically. Time will come, hopefully not soon, when my mom will not swoop in every time the laundry piles up in the hamper and my dad will not be sitting on his favorite chair on the porch, waiting for me and my sister to entertain him with a little conversation. Time will come when, instead of sweating it out on the court and flirting with other boys, I will be walking arthritically to the grocery or drugstore and brandishing my senior citizen's card at the sales clerk.

I don't mean to make aging sound like such a dreary prospect -- I'd like to think that there are loads of joy waiting for every person at any stage in his life, sort of like a hotdog and Coke stand at every train stop -- but it is true that for many PLUs, especially those who choose to not "go straight" and get married, old age seems like a dark and lonely road. One of the most heartbreaking true stories I've ever heard was about a friend, a gay man in his sixties, who lived alone and decided to go to the drugstore one night because he was feeling a little ill. He'd barely gotten out of the house when he had a mild stroke, lost consciousness and fell on the pavement. Since no one was around at that late hour, he just lay there for what must have been a long time, under the moonlight, surrounded only by his dogs. (The good news is he survived and is more or less back to his normal -- and naughty --self.)

I'm not exhorting anyone to "turn straight" and get married; the same fate does befall lots of married people as well, after all. I am merely trying to illustrate what the death of a parent can make someone feel. On Edsa, there's a billboard that says "Every time a baby is born, a new dad is born too." I think the same applies to the death of parents. Every time a mother or father dies, an orphan is born, who is different from the person he was before if only because he doesn't have that magical protective cloak, which having a parent gives. A cloak that keeps us from going out naked and vulnerable into the world. (Naturally, I don't speak for those who never even saw their parents or whose dad or mom proved to be unspeakably cruel. Perhaps those people had to make do without a cloak all their lives.)

That said, I'd like to believe that, when and if the time comes (knock on wood) my own parents leave this world, I will discover reserves of strength that I didn't even know I possessed. Hopefully, I will be able to use all the things that my parents have taught me to survive and be happy, not simply to get by but to honor their memory. That's what a friend and ex-lover did when his mom died; a happy-go-lucky guy who spent nine years in college, he has since become the family "patriarch" (he has a lover, plus two married siblings with children) and makes surprisingly grown-up decisions about everything from finances to child care. And his success owes a lot to the fact that he does things the way he thinks his mother would have done them.

Which brings me to this furtive, recalcitrant hope: though we can lose our magic cloaks and become vulnerable, we can also learn to find or weave another one. It may not be the exact same thing, but it can help us get through some of our darkest moments.

***

Here's a cloak I want to weave for the future. It's a pretty ambitious one, so I don't know if I'll be able to actually make it.

This cloak is in the form of a house. This house has many rooms. One room has many books, a big window that lets in light and a giant poster of Meryl Streep. It will belong to my friend the Mel Man.

Another room has a small garden. Its bed is a small stage. In this room can stay my friends Darwin and Maeng.

Beside it is another room with a table and playing cards, and a big comfort room with cubicles. Here is where Arc and Winston (yes, they are together) will renew their passion for each other.

Down the hall is a room with lots of pirated DVDs and an extra bed for "guests." This is where Sam will stay.

And there will be more rooms -- for Tess, for Nelson, for Jon (something Tori Amos-inspired, maybe) -- where they can all grow old happily in, always just a few steps away from a loving friend.

And, of course, a room for B and myself, which I'm sure will have nice, flowing curtains and, like Mel's room, lots of books as well. This room will be adjacent to the big living room where we will all gather, to trade stories about past and present "bookings," to play Pinoy Henyo or charades, to sing songs like this (click on it!) those nights we most need to feel warm, loved and safe.

What I'll Remember B for

For me, it's that afternoon three years ago when we went to La Union from San Carlos on a motorbike. Just for the heck of it. I hadn't ridden a motorbike in years, but I knew cute guys on motorbikes made B weak in the knees, so when I saw his brother's motorbike parked outside their house, I thought, There are only two possible endings here. Either I'll look like a complete fool or he'll fall more deeply in love with me.

I took a deep breath and told myself, What the heck.

The truth is, I'm no man's man. I think I'm masculine enough to pass, in certain contexts, for a straight guy, but I'm not above asking B, who's into Project Runway and beauty pageants, to twist the cap off a Coke litro for me. I'm also scared of heights, frogs and speed, which is why I hate ferris wheels, avoid the countryside, and drive like my grandmother. (Of course, a lot of straight guys share those exact same phobias.)

One of the stupidest things I've ever done, in fact, was agree to ride this huge metal contraption called the Whirlwind in Big Bang Alabang back when I was in college. I was then dating a girl named Toni Weinstein, who was pretty and sweet but also quite low on serotonin -- she didn't feel alive unless she was performing some sort of daredevil stunt. So one by one we tried all the rides and stunts, from the giant slide that left me with skinned elbows to the Superman rope, which made me feel like a biologist moving from tree to tree in some rainforest. Everything went well enough until we reached the Whirlwind, which was like a huge ferris wheel, except that the riders didn't sit in some car but got strapped standing up to a piece of metal.

Upon seeing it, all my neurotransmitters went haywire, but I wanted to live up to my macho swagger, so with a confident grin, I bought two tickets for Toni and me, got strapped to a pole, was spun till I lost all notion of south, east, west and north, and died of a heart attack a hundred times in ten minutes. Honestly, why would anyone ride the Whirlwind unless he's preparing for a trip to outer space? Why would anyone in his right mind think that having his internal organs rearranged would be a source of pleasure? After the ride, I told Toni how awesome the whole ride was and then ran to the nearest comfort room to disgorge my dinner.

But that afternoon, as I zoomed down the highway on B's brother's motorbike, B wrapped his arms around my waist and laid his cheek against my neck, giving no heed to the people who might see us, and I felt, suddenly, invincible, as though I could ride that motorbike to the end of the world, as though I could make it fly! So I started going faster and faster, even when it began to rain hard enough that I had to squint to see the road, even when the wind blew the raindrops against my face so hard, they stung.

All that mattered was that moment: the two us tearing down that endless glistening road, the sea to our left, mountains and fields to our right. And B, his arms around my waist, whooping like a child. At that moment, I was the handsomest, tallest, strongest man in the world, and there was absolutely nothing I wouldn't be able to deal with, not even a giant frog with ferris wheel-shaped earrings.

Of course, like everything else in life, the spell of that moment ended. We turned back, drove home, took a long, hot shower. And the next morning -- surprise of surprises -- the strongest man in the world was snivelling. Back, you might say, to the skinny, geeky poet who'd rather read a book than don a leather jacket.

But despite lasting only a few hours, that experience will make me remember and cherish B forever. For as short as that experience was, it gave me a glimpse of what I could do or be, and taught me how deeply I could possibly feel. Besides, the way, ehem, he rode my bike in bed that night was worth the cold I had for days after. :)

Happy birthday, baby. Hope you'll like this birthday gift. (Click on it!)


(Hey friends, in celebration of B's birthday, please share with us your most memorable moment with B in the comments section. Thanks!)

Can Art Stop the Traffic?

Here's an interesting article from the Washington Post about whether art can stop the traffic. Definitely makes one think.

Real, Quezon

Last year, my dad bought a small bungalow in Real, Quezon, which lies near the point where a river meets the sea, and over the last few months he's spent quite a princely sum having it renovated. Although the house isn't finished yet, he is terrifically proud of it, so when he asked the whole family to spend the holy week there, none of us had the heart to say no, even if my sister and I didn't share my dad's passion for the countryside and couldn't imagine life without cable TV.

To make sure the entire vacation wouldn't be dreadfully boring, B and I asked some of our closest buddies to tag along -- Winston, Sam, Darwin and Maeng -- and brought playing cards (for tong its), a volleyball set, a TV, B's laptop, and Sam's playstation. Some of our titas and cousins came as well, and that turned the whole thing into a mini-reunion.

And what a vacation it turned out to be! Although the TV couldn't pick up any station -- not even channel 7 -- we didn't get bored at all, as my sister and I had feared. We had fun playing beach volleyball and laughing at Winston's acrobatic (trans. belly-first) digs, gulping down lambanog with my dad, playing charades, frolicking in the sand, and squealing in our most girlish voices -- ooops, wasn't that just Winston again? -- while getting tossed around by the huge waves. And although the place was no Boracay, it had a certain charm to it, which, city slicker though I am and will always be, will definitely make me come back for more.

Just too bad our other friends -- Arc, Melvs, John V., Nelson, Papat, Richard and EJ -- couldn't come with us. It would have been a blast if they had been around.

Well, maybe next time. :)

(Beach volleyball with the gang, my brother-in-law, Jay, and his cousin, Noel. Unfortunately, Winston, B, Mael and I lost and had to buy Jay and Darwin's team buko pie and Coke.)

(Winston and Maeng after a few shots of lambanog. Hmm, may ahasan bang nagagaganap hehe?)

(Just 10 minutes from the house is this two-level waterfall, which, according to Noel's dad, is also called Taktak, just like the one in Antipolo. A narrow, winding path lined with gorgeous flowering plants leads to the falls. You can jump from the second level into the deep waters below. One cute guy did, much to B's delight.)

(Here are two of the pictures taken by Darwin. Turns out he's not just a terrific singer and landscape architect, he's a pretty good photographer as well. Oh and yes, he can do amazing tricks with a handkerchief too. :))

Pinoy Gay Blogs

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Porn Dreams

I sometimes picture myself in their place,
but the result always comes out funny.
Instead of the beautiful blond pumping away
at his clone, there is me, a bumbling stick figure,
almost comical in the way I grunt and groan,
while the bent-over lover twice my size,
and with hands that can snap my head off easy,
begs for more, yeah baby, give me more.
So with all my strength I pummel him,
but in the end it’s like there’s some mistake,
as if I’m in a puzzle where you try to spot
a table with a missing leg, or an ear
too big to be anywhere near human.
In this one, I am what’s wrong of course,
because even in my imagination I hate to see
myself naked among glorious bodies,
men with arms bulging like sacks full of rice,
men with smiles that put the sun to shame.
So even in my fantasy I adjust myself
the way you’d adjust the color on your t.v. screen.
With every dream I get a little taller, till I can
dunk a basketball without leaving the ground.
With every dream, my body fills out,
my skin gets smoother, my dick grows so big
that no mouth can get around it.
Before you know it, they all fall at my feet,
the Americans with their tree-like torsos,
the Romanians with their lazy smiles,
the Brazilians with their intense eyes,
for I’ve become the perfect brown god,
so beautiful I can almost fall in love with myself.

(I noticed that all of my poems in this blog are so cheerless, so I decided to post this one. Hope it makes you guys smile. :))

Vash

Wasn't able to blog for more than a week. The PC at home was on the blink and there was so much work at the office last week that I couldn't even sneak to the pantry for a quick snack, let alone open my blogspot account. My time was spent training, training, training, which wasn't so bad actually -- my trainees were a fun bunch -- except that my voice got hoarse and I was left with hardly any chance to get my creative (and other) juices flowing.

I hate it because I made a promise to myself that I would blog consistently -- at least once a week -- even if it meant sacrificing some valuable "me" time, i.e. playing volleyball, watching 4400. One good thing though: My friend, the Mel Man, came to Manila for a quick visit (I wonder why) and, because I'm now a blogger, gave me a gift: an Olympus Fe230 with 7.1 megapixels. Not brand new, admittedly, but still quite a generous gift, which is why though I miss him terribly and want him to leave anesthetizing Singapore for good, a part of me is also happy that he decided to become an OFW in the first place. After all, it's his hard-earned Singapore dollars that allow us to have wine and cheese in some of the fancier bistros in the metro whenever he's around. Usually, my other pals and I just have gin guyabano and Tortillos.

Now if only someone would give me a laptop, too!

Speaking of training, I had to break a few hearts yesterday. Hard as they tried, 3 out of the 14 guys in my class just didn't deliver in the final assessment and were thus not admitted into the account. It's always difficult for a trainer to see some of his trainees fail -- I always have to ask one of the account product trainers to break the sad news of their failure to them -- but, as much as I want all of my students to make it, some of them just aren't cut out for the call center industry. I mean, how can they survive on the floor when the only parts of speech they know are nouns and verbs, and only the base forms of verbs to boot?

I was actually rooting for one trainee yesterday -- though I knew the odds were stacked high against him -- if only because his was a different sort of sob story from the ones I usually hear. His name was Vash -- though he pronounced it Bash -- and he came from a public school in Dasmarinas, Cavite. He'd worked before as a sewer in a garment factory, and he obviously yearned to rise above his circumstances. Just like many Filipinos too, he believed that a call center job was the ticket to a better life.

And yes, he was also gay. This actually didn't come home to me until the second half of the first day when we had a storytelling activity. In this activity, everyone had to demonstrate his command of verb tenses by talking about his scariest experience. Naturally, most everyone talked about ghosts and muggings -- what Simon Cowell would call "safe answers" -- but Vash bravely shared a more personal story. According to him, when he was still in high school, he had waist-length hair, which apparently (though I found it hard to imagine) made him look like a girl. One day, coming home from a party, he took a jeepney that, the hour being late, carried no other passengers. Halfway through with the trip, the driver suddenly turned left and drove his jeepney to a dark spot behind some trees. Then he faced the scared Vash and told him -- in Tagalog, I presume, though Vash had to say it in English, after looking at me self-consciously and asking if it was okay for him to go ahead and say it -- "I kill you if you don't BJ me."

Despite having anticipated what he would come out with, I was still shocked by the brutal honesty of that sentence, its unintentional humor, which made the whole class roar in laughter. I must admit, with some shame, that I, too, had to try very hard not to laugh, even though I knew what happened to Vash was terrible. It wasn't just the clunkiness of that sentence, but also the sheer idea of Vash, who wasn't exactly the prettiest gay on the planet, getting sexually assaulted that made that his revelation tickle some cruel funny bone in my and everyone else's body. It's a mean thought, but that sentence probably wouldn't have been half as funny despite its faulty construction if Vash had been the kind of gay who could really pass for a woman and join beauty contests. Unfortunately, he looked like he should be wearing a hardhat. :(

Vash's story, sadly, didn't end there. After the rape, Vash plucked up enough courage to call one of his teachers, who advised him to file a complaint. When he went to the police station however, the policemen just laughed at him and told him to forget about it. "Okay lang yun," they said, probably with a sneer on their faces. "You're gay anyway."

After hearing that story, my heart went out to Vash, and I tried my best to help improve his communication skills in four days. But it was a lost cause. Not only did he have the kind of b and v defect that would make a North American customer quake in anger and demand an English-speaking agent, he also couldn't string three sentences together.

So, yesterday, during the assessment, I tried to nudge him, in as subtle a manner as possible, towards his other passions.

"You like dancing, don't you," I said.
"Yes, I like dancing very much."
"Don't you want to pursue dancing instead? Maybe you can become a DI."
"I think about before but I have no connection."
"Well, maybe you can go to Japan. I know some people who went to Japan and made a lot of money."
"That is my plan before but not anymore."
"Why?"
"Well, I read that Japan is banned, so I change my mind."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, Japan is banned. Entertainers can't go to Japan anymore."

But of course.

To Vash's credit, even though he didn't pass, he texted me the morning after the assessment. It was a short, simple message, which I'll repeat here to show that one doesn't have to speak flawless English to touch someone else's heart.

"Sir gud morning. Tnx po khit papanu nadagadagn ung knowledge ko..Ahhm sir tnx again ur d best.. Vash po 2."

Thank you, too, Vash. Keep on dreaming.

Objects and Fathers

Pictures snapped at sun-
Bright moments, your old
Fuzzy sweater with its
Faded yellows, the music
Box that sang your small
Heartaches away, shoe
With broken heel, doll
With arm missing – I’m
Building some kind of chapel,
A place to remember you by,
To body forth from
A set of random objects –
Almost nothing – something alive.
It is here I will gaze up at you,
Wherever you are, half-
Praying the picture with your
Lovely grin, the shoes that
Like my hands have cupped
Your feet, the doll whose hair
You braided
In my tantalized presence,
Will return you to me
In whatever kind of reincarnation.
I know none of these things
Can bring just that kind of miracle,
But it is myself I have faith in,
My need for you I trust
To see these objects
Work their god-like magic.
For isn’t that what love is
All about? Letting
The grieving heart see
A gleam in objects that cannot
Now or ever smile or glow
Or sing again, then
Letting these objects
Take all credit for their
Gleaming, happy enough
That we have love, happy
In the pure bright act of believing.

Little Mr. Songbird

It's really embarrassing, but when I was a kid, I honestly believed I was a good singer. And I don't just mean I-can-carry-a-tune-kind-of-good either, but Bagong kampeon good, which probably says a lot about the degree of my childhood delusions.

Such was my confidence in my singing ability, in fact, that one time, when I was around eight years old, I joined a singing contest in our baranggay. It wasn't really a big contest, certainly not as big as those we usually had during town fiestas. There was just a small, makeshift stage -- a table covered with a red cloth -- and a lone guitarist to accompany the contestants. No crinkly Japanese-paper flowers thumbtacked to the wall, no letters cut out of a cartolina and sprinkled with glitters. One of the three judges was my aunt; another was the local hilot.

It was our neighbor Tess who nudged me in the rib and told me "Uy, sali ka. Mananalo ka dyan." We were standing among the crowd that had gathered around the stage that time, waiting for the contest to start. "Ayoko nga," I said, but without conviction, for deep inside I agreed with her: I could win this thing.

Needless to say, after a few more pokes, I allowed myself to be persuaded, and before I knew it I was up on the stage, in my shorts and t-shirt, with a microphone being thrust into my hands. This was in the early eighties and Menudo was the big thing in music, so naturally I sang one of their hits: If You're Not Here.

I don't have a good memory, but strangely enough I still remember that moment with the vividness of a Van Gogh painting, the sky shining blueblack, the lamppost spilling yellow light on the asphalt, my wounded, eight-year-old voice cutting through the night with all the longing and sadness I could muster.

Then suddenly -- I don't know why -- I realized that something wasn't right. My singing wasn't right. I was too young and too stupid then to know anything about pitch or slipped notes, but I understood, maybe from the faces of the people in the audience, that this wasn't the Bagong Kampeon moment I'd dreamed about many times. Quite the opposite. This was like the moment I pretended I'd done my homework and my teacher, Mrs. Carigma, whacked my butt with a ruler in front of the class.

When it was over, I slipped surreptitiously to our house and locked myself up in my room. After a while, my sister knocked and told me, in an attempt to make me feel better, that I'd won but the prize was awarded to someone else because it wouldn't look right for me to win with my aunt as one of the judges. Instead of being happy, I felt even worse because that meant someone had told her I'd made a total fool of myself.

I didn't go out of the house for several days after that. When I did, it was as though the contest never happened. Well, one kid teased me by mimicking the way I sang If You're Not Here. I think I hurled an empty Alaska can at him.

I'm happy though that that delusion ended early rather than late; otherwise I might have ended up one of those William Hungs and Reynaldo Lapuzes who brazenly display their utter lack of talent on the world stage. I admit I still sing from time to time, in the shower or in the car, or in front of a videoke machine, when I've downed enough glasses of gin guyabano to have an excuse afterwards. My friends, some of whom are terrific singers (like my buddy, Darwin, whose picture appears below), don't seem to mind. If they do, I applaud them for being such wonderful actors.

And thankfully I've discovered where my true gifts lie. I'm not going to tell you what they are lest I come across as a windbag, but one thing's for sure, they don't require exercising one's vocal chords.

Seduction of the Innocent

When I was in high school, a woman came to our house every week to do some gardening. With her came her assistant, a tall, swarthy fellow in his early twenties who often squatted shirtless among my mother's roses while pruning away dead twigs.

I don't remember his name anymore, but I know he had longish hair that covered his ears and a lazy grin.

Whenever he was around, I'd usually station myself in the kubo's terrace, my nose pressed against a book, and steal glances at the sweaty, brown V of his back. Some days, I even got a glimpse of his white briefs.

As it turned out, my stolen glances didn't go unnoticed. One afternoon, secretly watching him from the terrace as usual, I saw him get up, turn towards me, and wink. Then, biting his lower lip, he slipped his right hand inside his pants, adjusted something inside, and made his eyebrows bob up and down once in a kind of nod. Immediately I panicked and hid, pretending I didn't see anything.

From then on, I avoided him as much as I could. Funny. I'd wasted so many hours just waiting for his briefs to show from underneath his pants, but when he finally made what I thought (and still think) was a sexual invitation, not only did I run away, my desire was replaced by fear and loathing.

For the truth is, I started to hate him. Every time I bumped into him in our compound (I could only avoid him so much), I'd smirk and walk away, looking digusted. He, however, must have seen through me, for he just laughed a teasing laugh every time I snubbed him, and one time, when no one was looking, even grabbed my hand and put it on his crotch. Of course, I bolted.

I guess I wasn't ready then to confront my desire's implications. I guess I was too scared by the thought that somebody knew I was one.

Years later, after I'd finally come out to my parents, after he had long stopped coming to our house, I sometimes wondered about him, and in my naughtier moments even imagined myself paying him a visit. Of course, by then, he was probably already in his thirties, with a wife and kids in some hovel, and a beer tummy. But in my fantasies, he remained the slim-waisted gardener who'd winked at me from the rosebushes and made me touch his thing. It was I who'd changed, having become braver, bolder, ready to bob my eyebrows in agreement.

But like many things in life, those naughty moments passed pretty quickly. And, anyway, it would have been too embarrassing to fish for his address.

(Wag nang mahiya. Share din kayo ng seduction experiences nyo in the comments section. :))