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.

IRON WALL

One of the biggest challenges that I’m facing right now is finding a way to get my emotions across as expressively and as eloquently as I could, but without giving away myself too much.

This is definitely a tall order, considering that I’m not exactly known for holding back, at least in writing. Subtlety is not exactly my strongest point when I’m already faced with a blank white screen egging me on to put something that will definitely pack a punch, words that will serve as bright and bold exclamation points to the thoughts that I’ve been harnessing for quite a long time. Before, I can’t remember a time that I will hesitate to let my thoughts materialize for other people to see, damn the consequences.

A lot of things have already happened for the past few months, stuff that can be considered juicy enough to glorify or attack in writing. Before, my keyboard will go into overdrive as I squeeze all the gory details to be put on blatant display. No event or detail is bypassed; all of them must pass the intense vivisection from my mental to be produced into written form, as creative and as damning (or flattering, depending on the subject) as I can make it.

This was before pride and discretion reared their insistent heads on my agenda.

For a person of my thoughts and activities, discretion is usually a must, not merely an option. But before, I’ve been bending this rule to my liking and convenience; it is too tempting to dish a seemingly irrepressible happening to the few people that I trust, and thinking that lots of secrets, no matter how hard you try to conceal them, will always find its way out anyway, even with the tightest of covers. On the same letter, it is too easy to write about them and be defensive when some people inquire about its veracity – and most importantly, who the subject in question is. It’s so easy to apply a fictional twist to the facts that I divulge without altering the truth, just to put a light disguise to the emotions that I’ve been trying to convey.

But my experiences got deeper, my emotions got more complicated. Eventually, my personal maturity resulted to my need for privacy. Secrecy seems to be the only way to shield myself from scrutiny, which will eventually lead to the discovery of facts and feelings that may crush the wall of pride and self-importance that I’ve worked so long and so torturously to establish.

It’s not easy. I was never that good in holding back. I have always preferred to deal with the consequences of letting the cat out of the bag. Back then, it seemed more costly to suppress and put considerable strain on my reserve.

And right now, I’m harboring an emotion so intense it’s taking all of my considerable willpower to contain it.

So many times I’ve asked myself, “Why not let this cat out of the bag?

Because I stand to lose more than I have ever lost in my entire life. I stand to have my heart broken and dealt with the most crushing blow that I will ever feel.

And yes, it’s a matter of pride.

MY KUYA’S WEDDING

No, this is not a review of that Ryan Agoncillo movie. Ok?

My older brother was married just this Saturday, November 17, at the Chapel of Transfiguration in Calaruega. Despite my month-long irritation with the preparations for the event (which was brought about by my brother’s incessant bugging for my financial contribution to the expenses and his exaggerated worry about my punctuality on the wedding day itself) the ceremony turned out to be a beautiful and touching one, with just minor snags along the way.

Needless to say, I am very happy for my brother. See, we all thought that he will never get married. He was already 33 years old, with no serious girlfriend in sight. All these years of toiling hard in his work and making ends meet for us when my mom lost her job had taken its toll on his finances and his overall enthusiasm in finding the right woman. A lot of our relatives actually thought that I will be the first one to get hitched.

So my mom and I were shocked when he suddenly announced late last year that he was already getting married. He met Ira during a wedding (surprise, surprise) and they were actually both in the groomsmen-bridesmaid group. And just four months after they first met, they decided to be partners for life.

Of course, my overly cynical nature was at first, very skeptical about this much-awaited union. I suspected that my brother just wanted to put an end to all those expectations about his impending matandang binata-hood. All my malicious thoughts evaporated when I finally met my sister-in-law to be. The woman is definitely wifey and mother material, and she is soooo sweet, gentle and soft-spoken it is kinda sickening. She is the classic sugar, spice and everything nice. Let’s just say that next to her, I look like the devil incarnate.

My next reaction is totally expected from a baby sister who is used to be the only apple of her big brother’s eye. I got a little jealous of the intruder. See, I am a kuya’s girl, and I was more scared of him than my mother. But eventually, I learned to do away with my evil thoughts and considered her as my ate.

The most remarkable thing about the wedding, aside from the fact that it was pretty as a picture, given the scenic beauty of Calaruega, is that it made me more emotional that I normally am. I am not the type to cry at weddings, or any other touching ceremony. Yet, when I saw ate-to-be walking down the aisle in her Monique Lhuiller-inspired wedding dress, with tears streaming down her face (thank God her makeup was waterproof!) I felt my own tears well up, much more when I saw my brother almost about to burst to tears himself. I managed to keep mine from running down my heavily made-up mug in torrents because I remembered that MY makeup was NOT waterproof. I absolutely refused to ruin my perfectly cool and poised bridesmaid demeanour by boo-hooing my eyes out. But yes, I was that close to crying myself. I was really about to lose it especially during the end of the ceremony, when the priest told my brother that he can finally kiss his bride. He first gave her a light peck on the lips then with his eyes closed, enveloped her in a tight hug that, in my opinion, spoke more volumes than the kiss itself. They held each other in that emotional embrace before they kissed each other passionately, reminiscent of the way Richard Gomez and Lucy Torres kissed during THEIR Ormoc wedding.

It was definitely love pouring out in cosmic blasts throughout the church all the way down to the lower ends of the vast Calaruega gardens.

The only downside to the whole thing? It suddenly made think of re-evaluating my plans of being in singlehood bliss forever, or at least for a very long time.

Blame it on the ten people who kept asking me when MY wedding is going to be. After telling them over and over that I am enjoying singlehood way too much to get married soon, they retaliated by blabbing about the dificulties of having babies after 30, the importance of having a husband to take care of me etc etc ad infinitum.

Not that I have a choice at the moment. Getting married soon is not feasible since I don’t have a long-time, steady boyfriend whom I can wheedle a platinum and diamond engagement ring from. In fact, prospects (if there are any!) are downright dismal right now that any hopes of settling down are as comprehensible as Russian gibberish.

Aside from the obvious absence of a man, my own plans for career and financial security does not leave me much time and energy to actively check out the singles market for a decent boyfriend, much less a husband-to-be. Also, my standards are not easy to adhere to, for I require nothing less than intelligence and character from my prospective men. Lest we forget, men of that quality are hard to find.

And yes, I am still kinda enjoying the rush I get from my occasional bouts with promiscuity; although I have considerably toned down compared to my misadventures a couple of years ago. The thrill of sleeping with whomever I like, whenever I like is still too exciting to give up, something I have to do when a steady man comes along.

Sigh. Remind me not to go to weddings after this.

YOU MAKE ME WANT TO BE A BETTER WOMAN

Have you ever experienced those times when a particular line from a song or a movie gets stuck in your mind and stays with you all day and all night long, and will continue its incessant haunting for those days on end? For the life of me, I cannot grasp the reason why this line from “As Good as it Gets” became well, a mantra if you will lately. As far as I know, I have no one to dedicate this simple, but touching line to. Or maybe I’ve been watching too many Jack Nicholson movies. Actually, this line is originally, “You make me want to be a better man,” since it is Melvin Udall’s memorable line to Helen Hunt’s Carol Connely. But since I am a woman, I adjusted it to suit my gender.

It doesn’t say much at first glance. It is not made up of flowery words that can impress people with Shakespearean tendencies. I think it is touching in its simplicity, and if uttered with outmost sincerity, it can be the most significant thing that you can say to the one you love, even more powerful than that old, wasted line, “I love you.”

Why? Saying “I love you” to a person is just that – a straightforward declaration of affections that does not quite pack in enough punch, given the way it has been misused and abused lately. The truth is, this line has lost the effect that it is supposed to have, since you can hear this from people almost any given day. Whether it was said truthfully or in jest, it doesn’t matter. “I love you” has become a dime a dozen,

“You make me want to be a better woman…”

I can actually feel the thrill of saying this all the way to the innermost recesses of my emotions. The intensity simply tugs urgently at my heartstrings, even though I haven’t actually said this aloud to somebody. But already, I can feel the swell of emotions that I am expected to have just by imagining saying this to a person that I am supposedly madly in love with. Saying that you are willing to change and become a better person simply encompasses everything that an “I love you” has to offer – because it shows that the love that you have for a person is so strong that it is enough to make you do something dramatic and possibly life-altering, and the passion is so great it fuels up your desire to go boldly and without fear to something that is the completely opposite of what you have known all your life. To go bravely against what has been the most natural in all your existence – if that is not love, I don’t know what is.

Of course, this line is not suitable for those who think there is nothing more to change about themselves, those conceited bastards who think that they are fucking perfect just the way they are.

WHERE DO I GO FROM HERE?

I have never been in more serious deadlock when it comes to my love life (or lack of it.)

When a significant event happens to my hum-drum existence, it carries with it a set of pros and cons: it gives me the drive to write again about my angst with renewed passion, but it forces me to assess everything there is in my life at the present. The serious question about my intimate life will always rear its ugly head along with my reflecting about my career path.

Really, what do I have right now?

A little flashback is necessary here. A year ago, I had an unbelievable set of erotic friends whom I can call whenever the urge for meantime intimacy strikes me. It came to a point that I can have a different “friend” for every week within a month, well, more than that actually. I always brag back then that I will never lack in sex, because, well, there is always somebody willing to warm up the other side of the bed. I had a wonderful smorgasbord of willing and able men who I can entice to give several hours worth of erotic pleasure, no strings attached of course.

And yeah, there was that a year and a half “relationship” that was more off than on, a time where I both hit rock bottom and reached unbelievable heights at the same time. It was an experience that I would not recommend to anyone except to those who have emotional masochistic tendencies like I do. It was a roller coaster ride that I am not willing to repeat again, but one that I did not regret having. It was a lesson well learned and lived through.

Going to back to the present. As much as I hate to admit it, I am not getting even half of the sex that I used to get back then. Compared to my string of smoldering encounters of the past year, I have been living like a Mormon right now. Not that I haven’t had any this year, hell no. In fact, the most exciting sex that I had happened about three months ago, with a certain gentleman that I would not name here. Let’s just call him “Number One,” because he was at the top of my “to-do” list, and because, well, he truly IS number one, if you get what I’m saying. But he was just a one-night extravaganza, a bright red blimp in a cloudless sky. I think I remember telling Number One after the deed, “Darling, I’ve never felt so fucked!” He is the embodiment of “caviar sex,” something that happens rarely.

Caviar sex – I define it as sex that you don’t get to have often, something that is truly memorable, and not because you did it out of love. It was memorable because IT WAS FUCKING FANTASTIC, no matter what the circumstance was. And you don’t get to eat caviar everyday, right?

But that’s just it. Mr. Caviar Sex and some bits here and there (including Mr. Office Lay, refer to entry number) Aside from that, nothing more. Bubkis.

You may ask, what was the reason for the sudden death (haha) of my sex life? I remember telling my sexy YM flirt mate that “I was fucking more and enjoying it less,” hence my decision to severe ties with most of my boytoys. Not that they were starting to lack in performance or enthusiasm. These select guys are designed to snap into attention at the merest command. It’s just that I have become morosely jaded about the whole thing. Something is missing.

Another favorite line of mine here, from Bono: I still haven’t found what I’m looking for.

What is it that I’m looking for anyway?

Here is a bombshell: I am dying to be in love.

Why? I don’t believe that love is the answer to everything, unlike what those sappy love songs tell you. But I do believe that being in love can make a person feel better. It can add color to your life, it can give you something to look forward to, even something to live for.

Hey, I want to feel giddy. I want to feel light. I want to wear a big, goofy smile on my face that will be positively glowing with love. I want to have someone whom I can always hold hands with. I want to have someone who does not mind that I can look smashing in the evening and look absolutely ghastly in the morning. I want to have someone who can kiss me and make everything better.

And most of all, maybe it’s because I now wanted to feel sex differently. What was before an urgent, primal whisper of “You feel so good…” I want to be replaced with a soft, tender sigh of “I love you.”

Wait, I can have both, right? Hehe.

The trouble is, a person as jaded as myself will find it difficult to fall head over feet in love. I am a battle-scarred veteran that has virtually no tendencies of disillusion left in my mind and my heart. I’ve seen it all – the glorious rise and the heartbreaking fall; only I have experienced it more brutally than most people. Plus, I will always have to deal with one excruciating truth: it’s hard for me to find men who will not judge me because of my liberal views and way of life. My future mate has to love me, checkered past and all.

Here’s something for the men

I hate to repeat myself over and over again, but you men are all the same. That is why I always tell anyone who would listen that it is SO hard to trust men nowadays. You are hearing it from someone who has been beaten black and blue all over by a man, emotionally, that is. I understand that men are biologically inclined to look at other women, but when it comes to a relationship, why can’t you men just stay put where you are? Especially if you have a wonderful woman who loves you. I hate to say this, but men nowadays just do not know how to appreciate a good thing. Don’t you guys know that APPRECIATION is the key to everything, the same as giving flowers never go out of style? There is nothing that will make a woman feel so loved and secure than the feeling of being appreciated for all that she is and the love that she bestows? Unfortunately, yeah, old habits die hard. Again, quality men are so hard to find.

There are some men who love to leave things to chance, on the premise that what’s bound to happen will happen, and that there are some things that our beyond our control. Because of this line of reasoning, these men refuse to make the necessary effort to make things right.

For this, I must cite a situational example to prove my point, that of the occurence of coincidences. Most of the time, they are just that…coincidences. Nothing more, nothing less. But remember that you are talking to Miss Cynical here. Our views may differ greatly.

I myself have been victim to many situations where you will be forced to contemplate whether things DO happen for a reason. I understand what you were getting at, it IS a tricky coincidence. Like, of all the people in the world, fate has somehow managed create a most unlikely connection among the most unlikely people. It IS the damnedest thing. I experienced practically the same thing, only mine is truly a lot more complicated than others, for it involves five of us having a “how-the-hell-did-that-happen” connection. I saw it as some sort of a sign, only to discover it is just nothing. It just happened. No significance whatsoever. What a fucking let down.

Guys, it is YOU who can make things significant. I believe fate has nothing to do with it.

Love takes effort. But it is an effort well worth in the end.