Ohhh. Update.

The basic formula of dating before fucking failed for me so I tried fucking before dating.

Once the sex was out of the way the “getting to know you” part just breezes through.

Of course it helps if the person you fucked first and dated next is actually interesting and can carry on a conversation with you AND your friends and moans like a caterwauling elephant around cum-time.

Will just see where this, uh, thing goes and try to stop myself from labeling things.

PS: Was about to tag this under “Luuurve”. Stopped myself.

First Date

The Choosing

He was cute, of course. And smart. A combination that has become an oxymoron for its sheer rarity. And he was the one who initiated the contact which sent my ego fluttering in demented ecstasy (When I hit puberty I was fat and pimply. That fat and pimply kid is still there despite the weight and acne loss. So. . . we not only take self-validation whenever we can. We wallow in it in the most obscene manner imaginable).

He looks family though but I thought maybe that’s just because we are in the same city and that whole small world thingamajig. Also, certain details about his person points towards a certain person who I was sumkindova interested in the past but, um, didn’t pursue because, um, I wasn’t ready yet. heeeee.

God! I reread my sentences and realized my writing is shit.

Anyhooha, we were supposed to meet earlier but that didn’t fall through. Work thing meeting blergh. I had a back-up plan which I cancelled because, well, I want my TehPershDett to be with him and not some second-rate loser who I don’t even like.

So we rescheduled.

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.

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I can’t write this entry–partly due to sentiment and partly due to my inability to articulate.

Suffice it to say that I like him and he seems to share the same feeling. The kicker is we have different goals for whatever this thing will or will not turn out to be.

That is all. Bow.

Oh F*ck!

Yeah.

Fuck indeed.

I’ve bitten off more than I can chew and it’s effing overwhelming.

On the plus side though I’ve realized that a fully functional brain isn’t a barrier. Bitchiness is. And it was intestinal fortitude that I was lacking not social skills (now I’ve had more than the usual “intestinal fortitude” that I was used to and my intestines have gone spastic. Hello stomachache. Hello diarrhea).

Relax. Stop preempting things. Just breathe.

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.

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Overall though. . . I feel pretty **cue music**

So far

It’s too early to say that a dumbed down version of myself is more likeable than the current me. So far, both versions seem equally unappealing (You know, I should just wait. Really. Delayed gratification. Marshmallow.).

Or maybe I should just smile back at the person who’s sending vibes that he’s interested in me.

Nice-ness in a dating setting is something that I have not had very much practice in.

And Being Nice is NOT Being Stupid. Just deal with it and do it.

 

Or maybe I shouldn’t have said that “I was leeching off the parentals while waiting for my board exam results” as a response to “what do u do?”

maybe something more impressive but vague like, um, “i’m currently experiencing a period of transition in my career” or something like dut.

dang.

The Local Board Exams Are Over

And I’m off to participate in an experiment.

 

Details later.

I, social retard

Why do my social skills fly out the window whenever I’m in the presence of my, ahem, crush. I avert my eyes. I stammer. And I can’t wait to run away screaming.

And when he’s not around I keep pining like a pathetic teenager–our great love affair flashing before my eyes in high definition video, surround sound, and with such astounding vividness that jeepney drivers, my review seatmates, and random pedestrians stop in their tracks, entranced by the sheer magnitude of my telepathic broadcasting (Translation: I sometimes “act out” my fantasies in public. Unconsciously, of course. “Acting out” one’s fantasy by oneself in public is visually similar to an insane person mumbling by his lonesome. Hence, people stare.). If I’m not pining for him, I’m plotting the painful demise of his feeling pretty, tweety-bird looking  girlfriend. What a total whore! Like, hellooooo! Just because your skanky fat ass wears glasses doesn’t mean that anyone’s convinced that you’re anything more than a bottom licking skank bag.  

And I am so totally waaaaaay prettier than her. according to my friends. hahaha. 

—–

I did ask him out. Several weeks ago. It wasn’t a “Let’s go out on a date and have sex after” ask out but more of a “hey, let me show you around” ask out. He said no. Because he has something as trivial as a review the next day. **eye roll**

Being the hystrionic that I am, I interpreted it as a snub and planned to ignore him the next day because, well, um, he needs to work for my forgiveness.

And I did ignore him. For a day.

And now, a few weeks later, we barely say hi to each other anymore and the former ease and comfort that we had is gone and is replaced by this overwhelming embarassment that rises from my stomach and fills my whole being.

Bummer.

Regression

And so I received a text message from a friend extolling the virtues of love and that it’s all worth it to drop your guard, throw caution to the winds, make froufrou with reckless abandon, or words to that effect. I normally scoff at forwarded text messages and delete them with vehemence just for the sheer cliche-ness they contain but somehow this particular annoying text hit a chord inside me and kept on plucking at it that I can no longer ignore said chord-plucking text message.

So I’m risking it.

Because I’m too old and had been using cynicism as a mask for my idealism for far too long and it’s tiring and I don’t want to die alone with my hypothetical cat (Percival, who, by the way, is a total bitch) who’ll eat half my face before the stench of my decomposing body overwhelms my neighbors’ hatred for me and, en masse, they break down the door to jeer at my corpse.

And, well, because I’m thin again. Somewhat. Yesh. Self-esteem is inversely proportional to weight.

Plus, he’s cute. And I like him. And I haven’t seen him in a month. And I missed him. And I kept imagining us meeting at an airport to say goodbye and I run up to him and kissed him and blahblahblah love is a many splendored thing. And my friends’ eyebrows go on orbit whenever I lament his leaving. And when I saw him again last week I kept grinning like an idiot.

Sorry. I haven’t had a crush for the longest time. There.

But I’m not sure if he’s gay though. But Ron told me that he asked him if he’s hairy and he said yes and Ron asked him to show Ron his hairiness and he did by raising his shirt and he was hairy not that that’s of importance and whenever I joke at my table he laughs at my joke even if he’s on the other table and he seems to like me and I don’t know if maybe I’m just imagining his laughter or he liking me. That scares me. Unilateral delusion is scary but only upon confirmation.

It’s two days until confirmation review on Monday.

Two days.

I’m not going to declare my undying love for him. I’m only going to ask him out. But still. . . heee

Shtoopid

I’ll be frank. I hardly was ever fond of religious people. My early pubescent life careened through the crowded hallways of guilt and self-loathing because I believed that I was a sinner and would need to be exorcised to be worthy of God’s love.

Phooey.

The aforementioned guilt and self-loathing I compensated for by being extra loud therefore making me the easiest target among my gay posse for stupid boys who also had self-esteem issues. For a while, this set-up made my life interesting.

We grew up, eventually–me, my posse, and the stupid boys. The teasing ceased. One of the stupid boys even asked for a fuck–he was the instigator of most teasings and therefore was number 1 in my People To Die Horribly List. And incidentally, because god has a sense of humor, he was also the hottest one and the one that I pined for the most. My inner slut was still, well, deep deep deep down inside. I refused him, of course. And to this day I wanted to bang my head on the wall for being a prude.

Tangential ang lola. Anyway. . .

And so saturday’s class was a disappointment. I should’ve had heeded the signs early on and just high-tailed my ass out of there. But, no. I didn’t. I just had to be fair and just because that’s what decent people do.

The morning session was interesting and illuminating. The topic was “Sexuality Across the Ages” and the speaker was this engaging woman in her early fifties who remained humorous and unperturbed despite the constant idiotic questioning of the stupidest guy in class (they were classmates in college so maybe she knows what he’s like and was used to it).

The afternoon topic was supposed to be “Men as Partners of Change in Reproductive Health”. I elected to stay because, well, I’m a man (despite the objections of other people) and the topic seemed promising.

The speaker was a member of Couples for Christ. The speaker’s powerpoint was titled “Natural Family Planning”. My internal alarm sounded off but I ignored it. Fairness and Openness to Views Different from Mine pressed on my shoulders and ordered me to stay seated. So I did. For three hours. In those precious three hours I learned that:

1. Women should be judged solely by the state of their hymens.

2. Women with non-intact hymens are sluts and are unfit for marriage. Boys will not be attracted to her and the ones that are are only interested in having sex with her.

3. The Hymen Integrity Belief System must be perpetuated or else society will decay.

4. The Will of God is a book that you can read anytime. But only if you’re Christian. And it’s easy to understand too.

The speaker, Dr. Earthworm, was such a wonderful speaker that in every seminar that he had given people always came up to him and had praised him profusely and had expressed how his talks will change their lives.

At the end of class, Dr. E dawdled and kept asking for, “Any Questions?” One classmate took pity on him and gave him what he asked for. Hmmmmph

Serves him right, I guess. A class is a class. It’s not a platform in which you trumpet your completely unrelated and near-sighted religious propaganda.

Beneath the Facade

From a long time ago and from another life. Come to think of it, there’s little difference with then and now. Buuuuut, there’s always hope. Yes.

I am scared of guys. Straight guys.

I do have straight male friends and I’m comfortable with some of them. But I tend to be a bit apprehensive with dealing with the others. You see, being gay and all, I’m not really THAT schooled with the complexities of male gestures. Especially with the handshakes that they do and its derivatives.

But the male gestures stuff aside, I find it hard to sometimes even open a conversation with the typical male person. I have had semesters where I haven’t uttered a single word to the male persons in my immediate vicinity. Well, not really. I did talk to some of them–to ask for paper or an extra pen–but that doesn’t really count as an actual conversation, does it? This explains why some of my economics blockmates perceive me as “tahimik” and unobtrusive.

HAHA.

Me? “Tahimik” and unobtrusive? Geez. Even I giggle at the mere thought of it. Nevertheless, it’s true.

As a matter of fact, I sometimes balk at starting conversations with some of my former blockmates in biology. And these are the guys that have seen me claim to be able to walk straight and climb trees to prove that n liters of “lambanog” are insufficient to inebriate me. I admit that the frequency and intensity of shared drinking sessions aren’t really accurate yardsticks for friendship but at least it should have taken away my discomfort. Up to this day, I even practice the Eyes Game with some of them. You know, that social game where the two parties are aware of each other’s presence but still persist in averting each other’s eyes so as to avoid greeting each other.

I don’t recall having this kind of problem in high school. Or even if I did it was much much milder compared to the present. Maybe because before I wasn’t exactly the traipsing tramp that I am now (I exaggerate. I don’t really traipse around now. Actually it’s more like “blipping sporadically in the seismograph”). Back then, I still had the keys to my closet. Hence, I feel more secure. Now, although I keep telling myself and others that I’m out of the closet, I feel that it’s not the whole truth.

I’m not out of the closet. Far from it. I’m just peeking through the cracks. I open it a bit sometimes to let more of me be seen but I also slam it shut whenever I feel vulnerable.

I just hope that someday soon I’ll be strong enough to open its doors and step out. I will climb upon a pedestal and all eyes will be on me. It would be a cool afternoon–the soft yellow light kissing the contours of my face. My cheeks will be all flushed and my lips ruby-red. My posture will bear no traces of its former slouch. I will be regal. I will be proud.

I will be me.

Where I am now

On Baking. I’m currently learning how to bake cakes and other bread products as a delayed guilt reaction for being a leech. So far, I had produced butter cookies with mashed eggshells and mocha chiffon cake with butter and fudge icing. Truth be told, they taste better than my bland description.

On My Studies. I’m done with nursing. Yes. That. Was. Three. Years. Of. My. Life. Majority of said three years was spent masking my contempt for the whole fucked up system of clashing gigantic egos. I will be taking the board on November so my life now consists of shoving carbohydrates down my throat in between mouse clicks. I’m currently taking a class on gender, sexuality, and reproductive health. Most of my classmates are affiliated with so and so government agency and so and so school. I’m the only not affiliated with any agency and She’s the Man is on and Channing Tatum is hawt in a kinda dumb club-toting kind of way.

On My Social Life. I have none.

On My Plans For The Future. First, lose weight. Life begins 5000000 500 5 pounds from now. Don’t believe the crap self-esteem pundits feed you. YOU ARE FAT. AND NO. IT. IS. NOT. OKAY. Second, cultivate ambition. Mediocrity is boring after 24 years. Third, flirt more. You’re more good-looking than you think and there are more horny guys than the predominantly straight population led you to believe. Uglier guys have had more boylets because they don’t have the same issues as you do. Seriously. You’re 24 and it’s about time to skank it up.