To My Dearest Neighbor (Part 2)

Um, okay. I didn’t keep my promise. Sorry about that. If I buy you a decent set of earplugs, would it make things better between us?

Are you alright?

Okay. I admit it. I’m not fine. Far from it. Let’s dissect my wounds and pour alcohol on it. See, I have to go through this.

The first few days since the last time we talked to each other, I couldn’t bear to sleep in my own bed. That double-sized airbed held too many memories. That little piece of inflatable thing bore the sweat and stains of too many nights of carnal pleasure, those nights when I exercised all my sexual know-hows just to make him happy, those nights when I have outdone myself to give him the best pleasure that I could possibly give. For him, I gave the best performance of my life, as cliché as that shitty line may sound. That bed and the four walls of my bedroom served as eyes and ears to my ecstatic cries and deepest sighs, those times when I practically screamed out his name everytime I feel him deep inside me, dissolving my sanity with every thrust he makes.

I turned to sleeping in my living room, on that extra mattress that I’ve unceremoniously dragged from the dusty shelves to the bare floors. There, I would cry to the point of exhaustion, and sleep would finally come over me when I was already too tired to stay awake.

I eventually moved back into my bedroom. For another few days, I slept crosswise in my bed in order to avoid remembering the spot which he usually occupies. A couple more after that, I resumed to sleeping in my natural position.

Okay, I thought. With my sleeping issues solved, maybe I’m on the road to recovery, even though it was kinda fast. You know, like those times when you have a wound and you think it’s time to take the Band-Aid off. I thought that it was just a matter of time before I can say “Hey, I’m motherfucking fine, it’s just a scratch” without lying through my teeth.

So I tried to own up to it. I stopped listening to my playlist of agonizingly senti songs and tormented my ears with hip-hop and metal instead. I committed myself to several freelance projects, thinking that I am already emotionally fit to work myself to the bone.

I even tried to get intimate with another guy. Not to the point of having sex, but just plain kissing and stuff. It was going really well, or so I’ve thought. The damnedest thing happened when Mr. Hot and Smart Guy took me home and he was saying goodnight. He put his hand on my shoulder lightly. I felt myself automatically recoiling from his touch. Still, I let him kiss me.

Bad idea. It was the worst kiss I’ve ever had in my entire life and not because he was not a good kisser. It was just totally devoid of pleasure for my part, so bland, so horribly tasteless. It actually disgusted me, like I’ve just kissed my own brother. It was as erotic as wiping the dust off my laptop.

Needless to say, I did not invite him to stay for the night. If I can’t even kiss a man right, I surely could not fuck him properly. I may be heartbroken, but I still care about my reputation in bed.

I should have listened to the warning bells that sounded off inside my head after that awful moment, as I was chugging a bottle of Red Horse to calm my nerves. I should have realized how serious the situation was, given the fact that I couldn’t even bear to have sex, something that I truly love doing. I couldn’t bear to let another man touch me, period.

But I didn’t. I still carried on with my stupid charade and continued my Miss America bit, smiling so hard until my jaw practically dislocated. I traded dirty jokes with the boys even though I enjoyed it as much as I enjoy scrubbing my damn toilet.

And so the other night, I subjected myself to another test. I decided to do the one thing that I’ve been dreading to do ever since the day the shit hit the fan.

With all the emotional strength that I could muster, I opened my front door around 12 am, the time that he would usually come to my apartment. With a cigarette in hand and my music player on, I stood within the door and stayed there for as long as I could. Suddenly the pain came raining down on me in heavy and relentless torrents as I remembered those times when he would be standing on this exact spot, waiting for me to let him in. The pain increased tenfold when I remembered those times that we would part right there, when I would turn my face to his so that he can kiss me goodnight, or good morning, since it was already dawn.

After several minutes, a heavy lump started forming in my throat. My eyes started to well up and my breath was coming in short gasps. I tried to stifle the cry that was threatening to explode any minute then. Fuck, I told myself. I have to learn how to stand outside the door of my own house without having to battle the urge to sob my poor battered heart out. Shit, I HAVE TO.

But it was too, too much for me to take. After a few more minutes, I broke down in heart-wrenching sobs, right in front of my door, not giving a fuck about my sleeping neighbors. I dissolved into a sorry mess of endless tears and utter hopelessness. Those days of trying and pretending to be okay did me in.

Inside the house, my laptop speakers came on cue:

I guess it’s just no use

When every part of me is still a part of you…

And I still got your face

Painted on my heart

Scrawled upon my soul

Etched upon my memory, baby

I’ve got your kiss still burning on my lips

The touch of your fingertips

This love so deep inside of me, baby

No, I am definitely not alright. I’m tired of being the most pathetic liar in the universe.

To My Dearest Neighbor…

You will be ecstatic to know that I will be pretty much in solitary confinement for the next few weeks or months. First of all, you will not be disturbed by my animal screaming and moaning in the midst of your restful slumber for quite a long time. See, the man whose name you kept hearing over and over again in the middle of the night will be not be coming to my domicile anymore. I am gonna spare you the painful details but all I can tell you is that it’s not pretty. Let me get over it first. Mentioning it is painful enough already. The thing is, I’m not in the mood for any kind of intimacy right now and I certainly don’t feel like inviting men over to my house. At least, not for the next few months. Friends are allowed to visit, but only if they come bearing useful gifts, like a humongous bottle of Red Horse. You will be seeing more of me because I intend to ask my boss for a few days or a week off. In this agitated state, I don’t trust my writing capabilities. I am mentally and emotionally unfit to work.

The second one, well, you won’t be so glad to hear about this, but you will be hearing lots of heartbreak songs coming from my apartment within this period of time. I know, I know. I’ve already terrorized you with nonstop George Michael and Jeff Buckley ever since I moved in here, but this is the least you can do for a neighbor with a shattered heart. To get you more prepared for the oncoming auditory onslaught, here are some of the songs that you would be having a mighty LSS with. In no particular order:

• I Can’t Make You Love Me by George Michael
• Forget Her by Jeff Buckley
• Kissing a Fool by George Michael
• Making Love (Out of Nothing at All) by Air Supply
• Reason for Breathing by Babyface
• You Oughta Know by Alanis Morisette
• Foolish Games by Jewel

Yes, I know some of the songs in here are uh, quite questionable, especially item number four. Let me clarify that I do not listen to Air Supply under normal circumstances but see, when someone just made mincemeat out of your heart and poured acid on your remains without any sign of remorse, you tend to do things without the supervision of your brain and personal tastes. Go ahead, cringe. Throw a few tomatoes at my front door if you must. I promise you this will only last for a few months. Pray that I get over it easily, or it will be eternal damnation for your eardrums. Last time I checked, listening to Air Supply is not a valid excuse for eviction. Yet.

Third, ignore the sounds of crying and sobbing that will surely pierce through your walls for the first few weeks. Understand that every corner of my house reminds me of him and that I dread going home to this unit every night. Understand how I must feel everytime I go to my room and lay in the same bed that he and I used to have sex. Understand that everytime I open my door reminds me of his late night visits. Understand that every motherfucking square inch of my house brings memories so painful I feel like dying many times over each time I remember them. Understand that the person responsible does not give a fuck about my feelings, not one goddamn bit. Why would he? He’s with somebody else already. I am of no use to him anymore.

That’s it for now, neighbor. I have to go out and buy some more tissues. We will have a little chat, you and I, when I’m feeling a lot better. Oh, and please return the broom that is usually hanging by the side of my door. I’m not so devastated enough to forget that it’s MY broom and I do have to clean, heartbroken or not.

In Pursuit of Monogamy

A couple of months ago, I realized that the years of engaging in promiscuity have already worn me out. It doesn’t thrill me anymore. I have to try something new. I need to do something exciting.

I have to be monogamous.

Funny, isn’t? While other people are getting into all sorts of wild sexual encounters because they are bored with their sex lives, here I am restricting myself to fucking just one person because I’m bored with being promiscuous. Never thought I’d see the day.

It came as a regal shocker of the highest level to those who have known me for the longest time. These people have seen me collect and dispose lovers on a regular basis. Of course, those who really know me are aware that I’m the most faithful partner one can have in an honest-to-goodness relationship. They would not be surprised at all if I played the monogamy game in this situation. What made their eyebrows shoot all the way north is the fact that I’m trying to become monogamous when I’m not in a relationship at all, in a setup where romance is not even an active factor.

“Damn, he must be that good,” a friend said unbelievingly while we were downing several bottles of Red Horse in Malate. “I mean, so good that you willingly put a chastity belt to lock up that wonderfully active keps of yours. Wow. And to think he’s not your boyfriend or anything. Ayus. He must be hung like un taureau.”

We’ll leave it at that. But really, that’s not the point.

Let me explain. Promiscuity possesses an almost illegal thrill that one should experience at least once or twice in his lifetime. God knows I’ve had that definitely more than once or twice. Back then, it was too easy. Everytime I get hot and bothered, I can always call somebody who can screw me whenever, wherever. It was an erotic convenience that I have fully exploited. It probably didn’t help that these guys were hankering for my ass for the longest time and were pretty much willing to do anything I asked them to do. One of them was game enough to lie on the floor and have me step on his back, and I was wearing a deadly pair of black stilettos. You get the picture.

I’ve had so much desire on my hands, so much power. Not only was I indulging my dominatrix tendencies to the hilt, but I was gleefully acquiring body count as fast as I could say “Next!”

And then I got tired of it all. Just like that. Probably because whatever gratification I have felt was mostly mental, not physical. I was only satisfying my ego, not my body. Believe me, it does not go hand in hand. At the end of the day, it wasn’t so good after all. At first, I dismissed it as some kind of a prolonged boredom phase or some sort of an extended PMS episode. But it wasn’t. It got to a point that getting it on is as appealing as doing a thesis on quantum physics. I became utterly bored with sex, a concept that is downright laughable a year ago.

I know deep down that what my body craves for is that wonderful feeling of knowing where everything fits, which comes with familiarity. Knowing which buttons to push, which knobs to play with. Familiarity may equate to boredom for some people, but for me, it’s a huge turn-on. The more I’m accustomed to my partner’s body, the more intense I would be.

So I made some sort of vow that the next man who comes along, even if he is just a fuck buddy or an erotic friend, will have the luxury of having me all to himself. Whether this is right or wrong is something that I did not really dwell much on. Technically, if I’m single, I’m not obligated to be monogamous. It’s only fair. Exclusivity is for those who are in a relationship. But I decided to break that rule, knowing that I would break a lot more as I go on with my mission.

Of course, I considered the possible emotional implications of what I was about to do. I thought about it long and hard. There are risks, and the stakes are definitely high. I don’t have to spell out the complications. After mulling about it for several days, I made a decision.

Thus, I slammed my doors on promiscuity. In my case, the basic rule is “one at a time.”

As for that fortunate hombre who is probably enjoying the knowledge that I’m not screwing some other guy, well, let’s just say that his timing was impeccable. It helps that he’s got one of the most beautiful dicks I’ve ever seen, one that I could suck on hungrily all day. Staying monogamous is very easy because well, he’s really great in the sack. The man knows how to touch me. And since he’s the only one whom I’ve been sleeping with for quite some time, the pleasure is increased ten folds. Every touch is exquisite. His finger, tracing that erotic route from my neck down to the small of my back can already make me whimper helplessly. A light, teasing lick on my nipple can already make me gasp and grab at his hair. And everytime I mount him, I become so wet that my juices gush down continuously on him and soak his balls thoroughly. Yes, there are “valid” reasons for my “faithfulness.”

Needless to say, such overload of pleasure was quite impossible back when I was hopping from one bed to another. Yes, I am definitely reaping the rewards of putting on that “chastity belt” and giving him the key. Of course, no one can tell how long I’m gonna let him have it or for how long he’s willing to keep it. But it’s totally irrelevant. I’ve proven my point.

100 Things About Me (26-50)

26. Given my intense, palpable hatred of Ortigas, it’s not surprising that I hate Megamall as well. The place is simply too large for my comfort. I never fail to get lost like a bloody idiot everytime I go to the damn mall. I don’t know where Mega A ends and Mega B begins. And don’t bother asking me about Mega C. It’s hopeless. I can be stupid that way.

27. I’m a kuya’s girl. He became my sole parent when my folks separated and my mom had to go abroad. The man’s a martyr; he was the one who had to deal with my coming-of-age angst, developing breasts and my first monthly period. He is the type of brother whom you can coerce to buy you sanitary napkins at the sari-sari store because you ran out of supplies and you are already menstruating all over the place. When my mom lost her job in the Middle East, it was my brother who supported me all throughout college. Tuition fee in UST even back then, especially for my course, is not exactly cheap. His sacrifice was immense. As far as I’m concerned, my kuya is the best brother in the world. He deserves a monument. This is why I’m more scared of him than I am of my mom. If my kuya tells me to jump off the top of a building, I’d do it, because I’m certain that he installed a safety net for me to land on.

28. My favorite dessert is Blueberry Cheesecake.

29. I can’t eat balut. I just can’t.

30. I had quite a nomadic childhood. Sort of. I was born in Manila, and then spent a considerable part of my young years in Alabang and BF. Alabang Town Center was Alabang Twin Cinema back then, if I’m not mistaken. When unfortunate circumstances forced us to leave the south, we settled again in Manila. I spent my elementary years in Taft Avenue, studied for one year in Quezon City then went back to Manila again. My endless relocating stopped when I entered high school. My brother and I gained control of my grandparents’ house in Malate, and we stayed there until the house was destroyed by a fire sometime in 1998.

31.I have chronic biyahilo. I’m very sensitive to motion, especially when inside vehicles. Everytime I take a cab, jeep or bus, I pray that the driver is not some maniac whose idea of a good time is to step on the breaks every five seconds with all the force he’s got. Because if he is, then I would surely step off the vehicle later on with a roaring headache. This is probably why I haven’t taken road trips or have gone to vacations that much; I may throw up in the middle of the journey. My friends told me to stop being a wuss and start taking Bonamine.

32. I used to sing. Before my voice box turned into the pathetic croaking machine that it is today, I had a crystal-clear voice that can hit the high notes of the Whitneys and Mariahs of the world. I can belt out “One Moment in Time” without any trouble at all. What happened, you may ask. Some traumatic experience in a competition made me stop singing altogether. I ate all the ice cream and ice candy that my teeth could handle and stopped training. Thus, the tragic end of my “singing career”, one that never was.

33. I used to sing in a church choir.

Yeah. You heard that right. Not because I genuinely wanted to ruin a solemn  celebration of God with my horrible croaking, but because some community service requirement forced me to. I was prepared to hate it, but the darnedest thing happened – I actually liked it. Soon, I was singing not only during the morning but also during evenings as well, whenever I can spare time. Now I have to be honest with y’all, lest you think that I’m dishing out a steaming pile of horseshit here. It’s my flirtations with the altar boys that made me stick with it for as long as I did. Hehe.

34. I picked up my first paperback when I was in fifth grade. The book is from the Sweet Valley High series, I forgot the title. Needless to say, I practically became a walking encyclopedia of all things related to Sweet Valley High and Sweet Valley Twins. Back then, I could probably make a diagram of Jessica and Elizabeth Wakefield’s relationship with everybody else in the book. The Wakefield twins with their sun-bleached blond hair, size 6 figures and matching lavalier necklaces. Their dad is Ned, who is a lawyer, their mom is Alice, an interior designer and they have a brother named Steven, a law undergrad. They drive a Fiat Spider and their favorite hangout is the Dairy Burger. They go to school with lotsa people, including Lila Fowler and Bruce Patman. Lila is new rich and Bruce is old rich. They can’t stand each other. Lila lives in the Fowler mansion with her dad, George. Bruce drives a black Porsche with a vanity plate 1BRUCE1.

Go ahead, feel free to scrawl NERD across my back. I deserve it.

35. I read Sweet Dreams too. If you are a true scholar of Sweet Dreams novels, you MUST know the answer to: What does P.S. in P.S. I Love You mean? More points for you if you still know the title of the novel that followed this one. Nyahahaha!

36. Other women shop for clothes, shoes and whatnots whenever they are depressed. Me, I go shop for books. My retail therapy involves me going to the nearest Booksale branch in my pambahay outfit and browse the store’s shelves relentlessly for my bargain babies. Secretly, I want to be a mysterious book dealer, just like Olivier Martinez in Unfaithful. Not so secretly, I want Olivier Martinez’ hot Gallic ass.

37. I love pearls, real or fake. I keep several pairs of faux pearl earrings in my jewelry box. I plan to buy a set of ridiculously expensive South Sea pearls for my 30^th birthday.

38. I can hear our bank agent dissolving into fits of uncontrollable laughter now.

39. I’m a cat person. I love all animals actually, but feline creatures have the ability to make me go softie. Seeing a sick, maltreated kitten shivering in the rain is enough to ruin my day. I used to have a puskal named Batman. He died because he got into a fight with a humongous rat. My cat killed the rat alright, but not before the filthy rodent scratched my Batman’s eye with his rabies-filled claws.

40. Question of the day: Am I in love? I don’t know. Not a yes, not a no, not even a maybe. I just don’t know. Denial? Maybe.

41. I was forced to restrict the access to my Friendster profile. Some uber religious relatives in Canada have been checking out my risqué, feeling-bold-star photos, and I don’t like it. They must think I’m living a life of sin. Which is not far from the truth, come to think of it.

42. I think British men are very sexy. Their sense of humor is the best, plus their accent is enough to make my G-strings melt. Bloody hell.

43. I love Spaniards too. Hello, Javier Bardem? I’d let him fuck me in the ass. Heehee.

44. I don’t believe that Brangelina is in Bora right now. Please prove me wrong.

45. My bestfriend’s name is Mona. Nowadays, she spells it as Monna. What’s with the double N, I dunno. Some vanity thing, no doubt. We’ve been buddies ever since high school. A lot of people think that we look alike, although she would always point out that I’m way ahead in the sex appeal department. Now you know why she’s my BFF.

46. I dabbled in theater acting while I was in college. No, I wasn’t part of Teatro Tomasino. Rather, I volunteered my shameless ass whenever there is a class play. When we were tasked to stage Tatarin, a Nick Joaquin classic, I auditioned. The part calls for someone who could portray a sexually-repressed woman who is dying to let it all out. During audition, the actors were asked to produce the best masturbating cries and moans we could muster.

I got the lead role.

47. I wear white clothes only when I’m indoors. My favorite pambahay and sleepwear (next to naked, that is) is a clean, white sando, the kind that you wear under a flimsy school uniform. Everytime I go to a department store, I raid the pre-teens section for those sandos. Yes, I can still squeeze into those tiny underthings, believe it or not.

48. Oh, I was a tomboy back in high school. During the first couple of years, anyway. I gave white roses to a girl because she was so darn pretty. Now I’m hotter than her. Brag, brag, brag.

49. But you know, I don’t really brag that much. It’s not necessary. Other people will do the bragging for me.

50. Are you starting to hate my guts now? Good. Because I don’t care. And remember, there are 50 more left on this list. Suffer.

100 Things About Me

Let’s start with the first 25…

1. I hate confrontations. I’m not the confrontational type, despite my angas attitude. I’d rather seethe or break bottles in private, or with someone I trust.

2. I like smashing/throwing bottles when I’m mad or totally frustrated. It doesn’t have to be a glass bottle; a mineral water bottle will do just fine. But of course, nothing beats the thrill of violence associated with breaking glass bottles into pieces.

3. But this does not mean that I’m a dominantly violent person. Yes, I can be violent, but I throw things only when there is a very valid reason. For example: there is this one time that I saw some naughty messages on my then-boyfriend’s YM…and they were not mine. The unfortunate hombre was not able to come up with a reason good enough to placate my legendary temper, so I gathered all his remote controls and threw them at him and his very expensive Mac desktop. Totally understandable, right?

4. I’m a stickler for privacy. This explains why I choose to live alone. I don’t like people coming over my house unannounced, unless they are close friends of mine. And unless you brought a bag full of money with you, I’d be royally pissed if I see you on my doorstep without me knowing you’ll be dropping by.

5. I’m a book addict. Booksale, Powerbooks and Fully Booked are some of my most favorite places in the world. I prefer to buy books at bargain prices because I’m such a cheapskate. If I can’t find a book at Booksale or those stalls along Recto and University Belt, that’s the only time I will get it at those high-end bookstores. I also love bidding for books on e-Bay.

6. I’m a voracious ukay-ukay shopper. Whatever designer items I have I got from the ukay at prices you’d never imagine. The only thing I won’t buy from those shops is footwear. I like my shoes brand-new, no matter how cheap or expensive, thank you very much.

7. My favorite drinking holes are Anthology Bar and Blue Room, both in Malate. An ice-cold bottle of Red Horse is my favorite poison.

8. I love swearing. It’s an outlet. And I don’t care if you think that’s disgusting. Fuck you.

9. I can drink tap water and survive. I will resort to drinking mineral water only if the liquid that is coming out of the faucet has a suspicious-looking color.

10. I love aviator sunglasses, no matter what brand. This is the only type of shades that I’ll wear. None of those oversized I-look-like-a-giant-bug pair of shades for me. I’m praying that some generous soul will give me a pair of Ray-Ban aviators for my birthday. Hehe.

11. I’m a closet Britney Spears fan. I dance to “I’m a Slave for You” when I’m home alone, complete with the hand-twirling bit. And I never get tired of watching her performance of “Baby, One More Time” during her Las Vegas concert, the one where she danced in the rain. It’s the sexiest Britney Spears performance I’ve ever seen. I love it to death.

12. I’m a proud Guns n’ Roses fan. Of course, I’m referring to the original band. Back in high school, I’d scrimp on recess and lunch money just to save enough to buy the Use Your Illusion cassette tapes. Yes, cassette tapes. I’m one of those stupid fools who placed a mirror beside the album cover to see if there is a picture of the devil cleverly hidden within the blue and orange portraits. I wore cycling shorts and a bandanna across my forehead because I wanna be Axl. I strummed our pitiful walis tambo because I wanna be Slash. I was THAT crazy.

13. I can never have enough black tank tops. I can wear them everyday for the rest of my life.

14. I can be very frugal. When you’re writing for a living and you have to support your mom, yourself and whatever vices you have, it’s only natural.

15. I eat like a man, especially when served with my mother’s cooking. Place a bowl of hot and spicy sinigang on the table and I will eat a minimum of two plates of rice in one sitting. I can eat sinigang everyday for the rest of my life.

16. The best way to my heart is through my stomach. I had a boyfriend who loves taking me out for breakfast, lunch or dinner. He would cook for me whenever I’m staying over at his pad. He made it his responsibility to fatten me up and make sure I eat right to put some meat on my slender bones. I loved that.

17. I hate Ortigas, as in I really hate the place. Ortigas is hell for commuters, especially if you work in the area. I’ve worked at Tektite for a couple of months and I loathed every minute of it. Recently, I’ve had several job offers from there, all promising attractive remuneration. I turned them down as soon as I learned they are located at motherfucking Ortigas.

18. I love fucking. C’mon, who doesn’t?

19. I have moles in um, strategic parts of my body. The biggest one is somewhere down there and it’s kinda hard to miss. If a lover doesn’t know where they are, then he really doesn’t know me. But then again, I don’t normally fuck with the lights on or in broad daylight, so maybe there’s an excuse.

20. I like kissing girls, especially very pretty girls. For me, that Katy Perry song is so ten years ago.

21. I’ve had sex with a woman and it felt really nice. This does not prove that I’m a lesbian, or a bisexual. This just proves that I love to experiment.

22. I only had a couple of boyfriends in my 28 years of existence. I know this is fairly surprising, considering my so-called “experience,” but it’s true. Lovers, (remember that I’m using the term in the most general sense) I’ve had plenty, but boyfriends? Probably because I consider relationships as a serious matter. Or maybe I’m just hopelessly repulsive, I don’t know. I take relationships seriously. When I’m in a commitment or just plain head over feet in love with someone, I give whatever I can give. I make effort. I try to make him the happiest bastard on Earth. I love to fuss over my man. Maybe that’s why I’m choosy.

23. Another surprising fact: I’m truly a monogamous person. Really. If can I find somebody that I’m totally compatible with sexually, I can forget about sleeping with other men. No matter what the setup is.

24. I have a hopeless habit of denial everytime I fall in love. Some deeply ingrained pride refuses to believe that I have actually fallen for someone like a ton of bricks. I try to fight it until it becomes obvious that I’m just wasting my time denying it. Then I exercise the most extreme act of cowardice: disappear on the unsuspecting guy. I do that because I’m chickenshit.

25. I don’t like faking orgasms. It’s stupid and pointless. It’s totally unnecessary. If he can’t make me cum, then he can’t make me cum, period. I’d rather teach him how to satisfy me than make him think he is fucking Casanova. I’m with the guys here – I would be hurt if you try to fake an orgasm with me, if that’s actually possible.

Book Lust: SLASH

Wow. It’s been what, almost 3 months? I’ve been that busy, eh? Aside from trying to make enough dough to pay the bills and catching up on my reading, I’ve been occupied with loads of personal issues (read: emo) which I find hard to blog about, probably because the people involved are the ones who read my blog regularly and…you know how it is. For the first time in several years, I just don’t know what to say. Seems to me that I’ve run out of steam, but no. There IS a lot of steam inside me, I just don’t know how to fart it out. Haha.

Or maybe I just don’t have enough time, hm?

Anyway, speaking of reading….

I. WANT. THIS. BOOK. I’m a die-hard Guns ‘n Roses fan (the old band) and Saul Hudson is practically a deity to me. I don’t care if he wears that top hat for all eternity or keep those unruly probably-infested-with-lice curls for the rest of his life, I don’t give a shit. Slash is god. And no amount of bashing from heavily botoxed Axl or that emaciated druggie from STP can convince me otherwise.

That scent…

I have an erotic weakness for men’s perfume.

One of the things that I love to do whenever I get intimate with a man is smelling his neck. I lean on his shoulder, turn my neck to his and inhale deeply on that area behind his ears. I’m fortunate that most of the men that I’ve gone out or slept with smelled exceptionally good. I’m VERY particular when it comes to a man’s scent. The best men’s perfume that I’ve smelled so far is Drakkar Noir. So old school of me, I know, but Drakkar is one of those classic perfumes that smell so masculine without being too strong.

But a man doesn’t have to wear an expensive designer perfume just to turn my olfactory senses into overdrive. He could be wearing drug-store variety cologne like Axe and still smell so darn good. Hell, he could be wearing only soap and aftershave and still turn me on. For me, the smell of a man who just came out of the shower is one of the most heavenly scents in the world. It all depends on the man and how well his skin blends with the smell. It also depends on the memory associated with it.

Scent alone has the ability to remind me of memories that I thought I’ve long forgotten. I’ve been deliciously reminded of one such memory when I was walking towards Greenbelt yesterday. As I was heading towards the mall’s entrance, I almost bumped into a guy who was rushing towards the parking lot. As he ran off to the opposite direction, I caught a clear whiff of his perfume.

Oh my God. That scent…

I felt such a rush that I had to stop in the middle of the street for several seconds while I regained my composure. I recovered just in time to avoid a Chevrolet Suburban from flattening me to the ground.

That scent. It brought me back to the time when I was still working at the tallest tower in the country. I had this gorgeous supervisor (whose name I won’t mention, of course) whom I have been salivating for ever since he interviewed me for the analyst job. I was ecstatic when I got accepted, even more when he became my immediate superior a couple of months after I got in. I’m telling you, that man had the uncanny ability to make me wet my panties everytime he looks at me directly whenever he was issuing some office-related task. This obsession with the boss didn’t make me lose my control however. Not until several months later.

We bumped into each other at a party. Let’s just say it wasn’t the kind of party that you would want your boss to see you in. And vice-versa. We just laughed it off and he said, “Don’t worry, what happens here stays here.”

Fast forward to one hour later. We had a few drinks too many and we were in the middle of the fucking dance floor doing something that would put Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey to shame. My nibbling and sniffing tendencies were at full play. I wrapped my arms around that neck and inhaled deeply.

Jesus Christ, but he smelled SO good.

That did me in. I kissed the boss furiously and he kissed me right back. Soon we were all over each other in full view of God and everybody, not giving a shit what they think. I unbuttoned his shirt and took in more of that masculine scent. It drove me nuts. I nibbled delicately on his chest and worked my way up his neck again. Like a gentle vampire, I bit his neck firmly but carefully, making sure not to leave any marks. His hands were massaging my breasts. I grabbed at his waist and pulled him closer to me. He was hard. He was ready.

I wish I could tell you that we ended up in some room with a red, round bed and that we fucked each other’s brains out, but no. After having my fill of his scent (and his neck) I somehow regained whatever marbles I had left and realized that I JUST MADE OUT WITH MY BOSS.

I told him, “I have to go, it’s getting late.” Bullshit. It’s only 2 am.

He looked at me carefully. Slowly, he replied. “Ok. Are you sure you can go home by yourself?”

“Yeah. I’m sure. Bye.” Without waiting for his answer, I spun on my stiletto heels and left him there.

We saw each other the following Monday and resumed normal flow of things. We didn’t discuss what happened or gave an inclination that we were thinking about it. We didn’t need to say it out loud, but in our invisible antennas, we were both in agreement that yes, whatever happened there will definitely stay there. No thinking of what-could-have-beens. No contemplating on what should or shouldn’t have happened. Damn it.

It was during one of those one-on-one meetings months later that I was able to work up the nerve to ask him what perfume he was wearing.

“It’s BLV Pour Homme. Bvlgari. You like it?”

I shrugged. “It’s okay.” Baby, you have NO idea. I thought. If I can only have my way, we will be locking that goddamn door right now and I will hike my mini skirt up so you can see my white lace thong. I will push you back in one of those leather executive chairs and I will impale myself on your hard, throbbing dick and screw you till kingdom come. I swear, I will bite your neck again and again and I will make sure to leave marks this time. You hear me?

I left the room before I had the chance to blurt out what I was thinking.

So I went to one of those stalls in the mall that sell original perfume per ml. I bought a small vial of the damn perfume and rushed home. I went to my bedroom immediately and opened the vial. I sprinkled the scent liberally on my pillows and sheets. Soon the room was filled with his smell, and I got so turned on I had to do what I had to do. Wink, wink.

That vial has long been emptied and I have moved on to other offices, moved on to other men. Curiously, that scent didn’t haunt me again until yesterday. It’s been a long time, but the smell brought back the memory as if it happened just moments ago.

My New Year’s Resolutions

Now I might not be able to do some or ALL of them, but I will definitely try my darnedest. Good luck sa akin, haha.

• PROCRASTINATION, I must get rid of.

• Get to work on time. For the love of God, I must learn how to wake up earlier than 9 am.

• Regulate my sleep. AVOID OVERSLEEPING.

• Cut back on smoking.

• Work on my abs and do sit-ups regularly.

• Start on some anti-aging regimen. I don’t really need it yet, but I’m in my late 20s. I’d rather practice prevention now. Those wrinkles and crow’s feet are not gonna be lovely.

• Lessen my intake of Lucky Me Pancit Canton. The MSG will kill me.

• Learn how to cook lutong bahay dishes. It’s about time that I get in touch with my Kapampangan side.

• Watch more movies. Build up my DVD collection.

• Read more books. Buy more books. And yeah, start reading the untouched stack of titles that I have at home. I hardly have time for reading these days and it’s so depressing.

• Make my apartment more hospitable. Wehehe.

• Lay off the fashion magazines and buy more worthwhile reads, such as Time and Newsweek. In my profession, knowledge is power. Besides, those recycled articles churned out regularly by Cosmo are not worth my 150 pesos anymore.

• Put more stuff on my resume. Increase my professional marketability. Naks.

• SAVE, SAVE, SAVE. And make more money. My bank account must contain cash other than the Ninoys coming in from my salary. I humiliate myself whenever I check my account balance.

• Pay all my debts. I plan to be debt-free by the time I hit my 30^th birthday.

• Visit my mom more often. Accompany her whenever she wants to go around God-knows-where in Marikina. Sigh.

• Get her a health card.

• Remind all of my relatives not to name their daughters Portia. I reserve this name for my future little girl. But yeah, I still have to consider whether Portia will go well with the surname of the future daddy, whoever he is, hehe.

• Eliminate unnecessary people from my life. No, I’m not gonna clean their clocks, I’ll just spend less time with them, if not avoid them altogether.

• Know who my real friends are. Will avoid those jerks who profess to be your friends just so they can get what they want from you.

• Start looking for a regular guy who won’t go asshole on me. Just ONE guy. (Man, this is gonna be HARD).

• Learn how to love again. And be loved in return.

A little older, a little drunker…

There’s no better way to greet your birthday than getting drunk with your closest buds. Exactly what I did the other day when I bought buckets of Red Horse (San Mig Lite for the wusses, haha!) for several of my MTC friends at Esquinita somewhere in Sgt. Esguerra. Thanks for burning my pockets and getting my “Armani” blouse wet. And yes, pangarap nyo na lang talaga ako, sorry. Hahaha!

Thanks, guys! We’ll see each other on the 29th