The Angel

I knew I cannot come out to my college friends. At least not in some formal revelations that I would initiate. They were homophobic, some of them proudly so. I remember having conversations with them, of their other friends telling them they're gay and them being all nice and okay about it, until backs are turned and their real opinions come out. No matter what they say, I'll never be comfortable with them, a friend remarked. They have this image of gays: fairies, sissies and pansies. If women were the weaker sex, gays were the weakest. I had wondered--and sometimes laughed in my head--how they would react if they had found out I was of the fairy kind. I who can outrun them, outbox them and out-drink them. Nobody had an inkling, nobody suspected because I didn't fit the image of their stereotypes. But I knew at some point, they will wonder. And I knew it, too. I know I have to eventually stop being friends with them. When I started working, I began to put some distance

I don't know what my line of thought was last night; it tends to drift off from one to another. But one of that was my ex. He had emailed before, a curt how are you, and I didn't reply. I remember the last time we talked, late last year, the first time we had talked in a very long time. He was in the US then. He went to Florida thinking I was still there. But I had moved. He had said all the right things, as if reading a script from a romantic movie; I laughed, mostly. Plumbing the depths of whatever heart I have, I couldn't find anything for him. No love, no regret, no hatred, no bitterness. I talked to him as if we were two strangers seated beside a bar, having a drink. I wasn't reminiscing or wondering how he is or what part of the world he's in. But I realized why I never wanted to reconcile with him. Not simply because he was dating others while we were together. But a more fundamental reason, one that took me some time to see. He was a typical gay guy, a

I was reading something last night when a short story popped into my head. The memory--and the story--came out of nowhere, like remembering something I didn't know I've forgotten. The story itself was like a long soliloquy. One man, at the beginning of fall, ruminating about the crowd that has fled the summer haven in New York to go back to their respective, somewhat dreary lives. He observes a couple who lives on the beach, the same way he has observed them for years. A little bit far and distant, but longing, sometimes plotting, to be part of their lives. One rainy night, he decided he needed some spice, something he didn't have so he'd be forced to ask them, strike a conversation and, perhaps, get invited inside--it was raining hard, after all. He had imagined what the inside of their house looked like, how the conversation would go; perhaps some drinks and an introduction, but nevertheless a gateway, into the life of the couple that, for so long, he had admired.

Whenever someone would ask me, I used to say I'll never do it, in a low growl that said, how can you even ask me that question? I used to think it was unnecessary, completely symbolic, and it makes a mockery of the real thing. I used to think I never needed it. Until the world, in a way, opened my eyes. It was last year, I remember. I read a news article about a man denied of seeing his life partner of more than 40 years in his last moments because they're not, in any way, related. Only family and bloodlines were allowed. He who spent all his waking and sleeping moments with the dying was barred because nothing in the law said they were related, not by blood nor by ring. There were several other stories I've read through the months. Of health benefits not being extended to a partner simply because they weren't married; of partners being denied lodging simply because both of them happened to be males; of the killings in African nations simply because of who they are.

A few minutes before boarding, they told us that our flight will be delayed for a couple of hours because they found a gas leak on the plane and we had to change planes. I didn't know whether it was a good or bad omen. I looked at the bright side thinking that at least they discovered the leak while we were still on land, instead of thinking that I will be stuck in the airport for more than ten hours. Twenty hours later, I was at NAIA terminal 1, lining up at the immigration for my passport to be stamped. I had to remove my jacket because I started sweating profusely. I didn't know if it was because of the heat or the excitement, but my hands were cold. My heart felt like it was about to explode, the way it beat rapidly and furiously. I couldn't believe that I was in Manila again. I couldn't believe that I had come home. It took me awhile to get my two checked-in baggage. I had the time to sort of settle down and let the feeling sink in that I was really back, that

I saw it among the recommendations when I checked my Amazon account, a novel about a gay man remembering his life, spanning 50 years of the American gay culture. Although I've read novels with a similar premise, the book still piqued me enough to buy it. I haven't read it yet, because it just arrived today. But it made me think about my experiences. From the moment I slipped quietly and anonymously online up to this time. I've made a lot of mistakes, mostly trial and errors, in trying to get it right on how to be gay, because for the most part, I didn't know how to be one. I looked up (or down, depending on the situation) on those I've met and encountered, the way they act, move and behave; their beliefs, views, whims and even fantasies. But they were all different. There were the players and two-timers, those in committed relationships but looking for something discreetly on the side, those with terrible hangover from past loves, the i'm-really-straight-but-i

I had this weird realization when I was talking to BIG friends sometime ago. I told them I needed a lot of beautiful women to get over Natalie Portman getting engaged and having a baby. They asked me who and I named several at the top of my head, all of them Hollywood beauties who I like seeing onscreen. It doesn't matter whether they're in crappy movies. They're silly crushes, really. And BIG friends would remind me that Natalie is still my one great love and they're all just distractions to get over my heartbreak. Funny how I can have so many women crushes, but very few men crushes. At the top of my head, I can only name two Hollywood actors. It made me wonder whether I'm straight or simply confused about my sexuality. Kidding. I realized I don't easily admire people, not physically at least. One of the easiest way to turn me off is to have a headless, topless picture. No matter how ripped the body is, I look away. I admire people based on several factors,