It’s raining when she leaves me.
The sun is out, though, and it’s just
another of the contradictions I associate with her.
Tiny drops of wasted sunshine pelt the parked cars
as I watch her run towards the taxi’s open doors.
I avert my eyes from the scene outside,
letting the curtain fall back on the show
that’s just ended without the entire cast’s knowledge.
I look back at the bed behind me;
the sheets are still rumpled at its edge,
and the pillows have yet to be re-fluffed.
They’re the only signs that anyone else
was even here, and only I can read them.
I notice only now that she even took
the complimentary slippers with her.
You know the type, the ones that warm your feet
as soon as you put them on.
The hours that we spend are not just alcohol affairs or smoky sessions,
but the process of the youth expelling energy through mouths wide open
and the inability to stand still for more than five minutes.
When we’re older, we’ll tell tales of how one-liners came to be
forever in our memories, and forget entire conversations while
remembering beer-induced speech deficiencies.
We’ll down a shot and be taken back to a night of 7 shots
and the face of a girl who’s had much, much less but is pretending
to be as drunk as me, and how we fit 7 people in the back of a sedan.
You’ll yak yarns about waiters and waitresses, bouncers and bums,
and fail to remember how much of it was fictional and which parts are true.
And all the while, the youth in you will hold back from spoiling it
for those who have yet to be there, because when you’re there you’re there,
and no amount of storytelling will ever be as good as that first sip of beer
on a Friday night when everyone else has left it and you for dead.
I’ll never picket for picketing’s sake.
I’ll picket against any law that makes ending life easier than beginning it.
I’ll picket against not being treated the way you deserve to be.
I’ll picket against closed-mindedness, because it leads to racism, violence, and hinders evolution in more than the socio-anthropological meaning of the word.
I’ll picket for good, clean fun and staying up late with friends, even on weekdays.
I’ll picket for the right to dream, and I’ll picket for those dreams to come true.
I’ll picket for self-expression, but with the condition that cultural sensitivity must come first.
I’ll picket both for and against faith, because while believing in the eternal is an integral part of our humanity, the blind obedience of an entire populace is a deadly weapon in the wrong hands.
I’ll picket for the reasons that feel right, the ones that create a stirring in my soul just by thinking about them, that I know with absolute certainty are what I believe and refuse to believe in.
It’s a million miles between where I am and where I want to be
The way to get there is infinitely blinding and paved with stones that can’t take the weight of my hesitation
And the thing that makes me want to leave so badly is the same thing holding me back
Fear of rejection
Fear of being insufficient
Fear of being out of my league
The road to you is one of a hundred laid out in front of me
And the first step is the hardest one to take
The ball’s in your court
Or am I the only one convinced that we’re playing a game?
Back and forth, the story goes
Left to right, ‘til the whistle blows
And when it’s all over I want a rematch
It’s about give and take
But you never agreed to the rules
And my mouth’s hanging open
While you walk away
There’s no point in arguing, it makes no sense
When it was never fair to begin with
Oh awesome Alexandra
I don’t think I’ll ever forget
When I thought you were a boy
Until you arrived for dinner
10 minutes late for dessert
But looking back, maybe just in time
Sweet, amusing Alexandra
Do you remember when we talked
About Wes Anderson movies
You said you hated Bill Murray
Until you saw The Life Aquatic
That’s when you started to call me Steve
My amazing Alexandra
Won’t you teach me to blow smoke rings?
Why not finish your food for once?
And though you always lose my lighters
You memorized every song by The Cure
And make me coffee with two sugars every time
Someone save me from staying home
Take me down to a bus stop
Or to an ambient coffee shop
Buy me a drink at a sleazy bar
Drive me around in a fancy car
Just make sure I’m never alone
Someone stop the homebound blues
Drag me to a fine art show
Take me where I never go
Bring me to where they’re all aloof
Or atop a skyscraper’s roof
You wouldn’t like it here in my shoes
Pag gabi na, tuwing aakyat ako sa lakarang tulay sa Bicutan exit patungong SM, nagmimistula akong bata’t napupuno ng takot dala ng aking mapaglarong imahinasyon. Pagbaba ko pa lang sa sasakyan ng aking kaibigan o ka-opisina na dederetso na papasok ulit ng South Superhighway, lumilingon na ako sa aking paligid, napapraning sa kung sino ang mga naghahanap lamang ng sakay o nagpapalipas ng oras at sino ang naghahanap ng biktima.
Habang naglalakad sa itaas ng tulay, nakakalimutan ko na isang minuto lang ang lakad na ito patungo sa kinauupuan ng guwardiya ng SM. Sa dinami-dami ng akyatan at sa lapad ng lakaran, sa bawat galaw ay lilingon ako sa paligid, halos nag-aabang na ng taong patakbo patungo sa ‘kin, ang senyales na dapat na rin akong tumakbo o sumigaw ng saklolo.
Sa paglalakad na ito’y lahat ay may sala hangga’t malampasan ko na sila, maliban na lang sa mga matatanda o ang mga may karga-kargang bata. Isang napakalaking buntong hininga ang tanging kapalit ng paglalakad na ito, at madalas ay nanggagaling lang ito sa pagtagpo ng aking mga praning na mata sa guwardiyang naka-istambay sa gilid ng sarado nang SM Bicutan.
Hindi ako madalas mapraning, at sa aking propesyonal at personal na buhay ay masasabing mayroon akong bilib sa sarili ko. Pero sa tuwing maglalakad ako sa lakarang tulay na ito, naaalala ko kung gaano ako kahina at walang kontrol. Isa itong paalala na mortal lang ako’t hindi ko hawak sa aking mga kamay ang kabuuan ng aking kapalaran.
Disclaimer: This is the first part of a yet unfinished short story. This part contains sexually explicit language, but the story as a whole should not be considered a pornographic one.
Dennis Pascual felt his knees almost buckle under from exhaustion. Sexy starlet Joanna Ilustre continued to writhe in mixed pleasure and pain with his every thrust. He grabbed her long, sweat-drenched hair in his left hand and pulled. Joanna moaned loudly. With his left hand, he roughly squeezed the curve of her full hips, and then gave her smooth buttocks another powerful slap. She gasped, and then turned her head around to face him. Beads of sweat were trickling down her temples.
“I want you to come all over my ass,” she said, biting her lower lip.
“I aim to please,” he said.
Dennis let go of her hair and held her by the hips with both hands, pulling back farther and pushing in harder than he had done in the half hour since they had come up to her hotel room. Joanna weakly reached for a pillow and put it under her face.
“Don’t,” Dennis said sternly. “I want to hear it when I make you scream.”
He quickened his pace amidst shouts of “Yes!” and pulled out just as he was about to finish, his semen spilling onto her butt cheeks as she slumped over the side of the bed, shivering through frantic breathing. Dennis wanted to pick her up and roll her onto the bed. Instead he saw Joanna pick herself up on weak legs as the image started to blur and fade to black.
“Was that it?” Dennis asked.
Marty Lizardo opened the door to the eXPerience Chamber, and walked up to the corner where Dennis sat with a box of Kleenex.
“For a lot of people, coming on Joanna Ilustre is enough,” Marty said. “What else did you expect?
Dennis pulled out a come-soiled wad of tissue from inside his pants.
“Well, I gotta give it to you, these XPs of yours are great. But I guess I wanted to cuddle her for a little while,” he said.
Marty let out a loud laugh. He finished completing Dennis’ charge form and handed it to him.
“Here you go. Present this to the woman outside. Oh, and if you want cuddling, I think we’ve got some XPs of Heart and Angelica,” Marty said.
Dennis opened the door to the main hallway, stepped out, and paused.
“Do you ever feel guilty, or tired of using all of this technology to pass on someone else’s experiences to other people? Not that I’m complaining about the quality of your service, mind you.”
“Here’s a counter-question,” Marty said. “Would you ever get tired of fucking beautiful women, drinking the best champagne, and seeing the wonders of the world without all the money, time, and energy that doing them would normally cost?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Dennis said. “Is that what your life’s like?”
Marty smiled.
“Good day, Mr. Pascual.”
