Diary 36

The lobby of Philippine Star Hotel was dimly lit. A romantic overture from AIDA opera was being played in the nearby amphitheater. The Manila ensemble was performing in honor of an Italian diplomat.

I was there for another reason.

Another diplomat from an Asian country needed to be entertained.

I paused for a moment. The lobby was all red from ceiling to walls to carpet. Chandeliers were hanging from the ceilings. A gallery of oriental paintings was displayed on the walls. The ambience reminded me of the Temple of Forbidden City in the Last Emperor movie. I loved that movie. My eyes were fixed on the oil painting by Manansala. Odd, I thought. Filipino paintings sometimes appeared misplaced, in this case, the big Crucifixion of Christ was surrounded by Japanese nudes. They needed to fire the interior decorator. I lingered in front of the painting. Christ, bowed toward his suffering mother who stayed with him until his last breath. You are luckier Christ, here I am, herded to hell without a mother, a father, a friend, being crucified alone. Not a single tear is being shed for me.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder. "Robert." I turned and raised my eyebrows. There was a comical, playful look in Arnie’s eyes. Gone were the nights when hustling made me cry, shook uncontrollably, always promising I’d never do it again. Time formed habits, I became acquiescent eventually. Arnie and I had developed a beneficial partnership. I was the merchandise. He scouted for my buyers. Out of every deal, he took thirty percent, the remaining was mine. It was not an unfair deal. Every encounter was prearranged. Arnie gave me the key; I entered a strange room, stripped off my clothes; played the roles expected of me, and when done, I would leave without even saying goodbye. How many tricks have I nurtured through the years? Some of my clients were really sick, I played some sickening games - from gentle massage to wrestling, at one time, a client asked me to pee over him. I learned to lick, to kiss foul mouths, there was one who asked me to cut him with a razor blade. It doesn’t bother me now though I get restless every time I see blood, I maintained safety all throughout, except that cutting, I could not resist it, the client paid me a lot. I was always particular about time - thirty minutes, an hour or the whole night of service depended on the dole out. When done, I jump into the shower, grab food or drinks and pore over my textbooks, for my next day’s classes.

Tonight, I was paid triple the usual rate. I prepared myself for anything. My client was a diplomat.

"Come in," a heavily accented Asian bid me to enter the room. I smiled. Orientals like me are kind of different from Westerners. The latter are hotter, time-conscious, pull me, drag me and bang - they’re done before I can say pick-a-boo. Sometimes, I can not even tell if anything happened at all. Asians have slow, gentle, maternal approaches before consuming me like I’d never live another day.

"Please sit down," offered the man, he pointed his candle shaped hands to the sofa. His soft-spoken ness relaxed me. With clients like these, I can keep my centrality intact, alive and full. How many times have I done things as numb as dead? I am not always hired for sex. Once, I spent an entire evening with a Dutch tourist who wanted nothing but talk of Philippine politics, he was a researcher I think. One time, I accompanied an elderly British gentleman in touring Manila. The Filipinos in my opinion were the most difficult. They made sure they made the most out of heir money.

Through the years, I’ve furnished myself with client profiles. All of them possessed common personalities - whether hot or wild or desperate or dangerous during the ceremony of sex, they always concluded in casual talk, as if in talking, I’d return to them the respect and dignity of being human, which they momentarily lost.

Most of them were married, hiring me under intense anonymity. They’ve lived successful lives as fathers and pillars of communities, company executives, even leaders of their countries. In muffled whispers they talked about their wives and mistresses, daily occurrences such as divorces, the joys brought by their siblings. With sad eyes they confided suppressed longings, or curiosities about sharing passions with their own sex. My job was to fill that longing, that curiosity, to participate in their experimentations, of arriving at their own conclusions and decisions. I freed them from their illusions and confusions. So many experiments failed, so many taboos were broken. So many families and children destroyed forever. So many lives lost. It was like the revenge of a child within these men, a child deprived of so many things due to so many reasons - social pressures, family values, religion - a child breaking out, reclaiming its freedom, closing the door behind to play childhood games long ignored. This child spoke to me: "I was told not to get intimate with a man, to hide my feelings for him. I am macho you see, emotionless, firm, tough. Children and women depend solely on my strength and will. Help me be myself for a moment, just this moment. Let me know the man that I really am, let me feel the man that I lost."

Occasionally, a brute child appeared.

"Here’s a toast for a very wonderful evening," the Asian diplomat handed me a strong drink. "Cheers", I smiled. Deep inside, I was thanking him for the excessive money he paid.

We drank and chatted about current events for quite a while. I felt silly doing nothing. I was drunk when the entire room appeared to twirl around me. Two strong hands grabbed me. There were other people inside the room.

"What is this?" I screamed. My heavy eyes searched and saw black shadows behind me. They dragged me toward the bed; I was kicked in the stomach. I rolled on my side. They twisted my arms and with straps, tied me to the bed bolsters. I shuddered at the prospects of the night. I closed my eyes tightly and groaned.

"Give it to me, oh please, give it to me," pleaded the man while he unbuttoned my elegant evening suit. My torso exposed, another kick was struck on me. I thought I was stabbed by a sword. I trembled, cold wine was poured on me as a warm tongue ran around my nipples. I chilled. "That’s it, that’s it," the man giggled. I was ready to pass out, I could not count the number of hands that caressed me.

I felt a burning sensation. My eyes widened in disbelief. "No! I don’t do that thing." I squirmed. "No. God, No." Another jab landed on my stomach. "This is not part of the deal." I begged.

The pain was excruciating.

I stepped out of the room at three o clock in the morning. The diplomat slipped a thick rim of peso bills in my pocket. "I didn't know you were still a virgin, it was so wonderful," he bowed.

In the hotel’s lobby, a bellboy supported me by the elbow as I trudged toward the elevator. My legs wobbled. I pushed him away. "Back off!" I shouted. He blushed.

While waiting for the elevator door to open, I leaned on the stair rails, about to throw up. My body ached all over. My eyes caught the Crucifixion by Manansala. I wept. The bellboy watched me with pity.



August, 1990

Dear Lord,

Sometimes I summon all my courage to face you. I break down in doing so. I hear you asking me to stop now.

There are certain things I just can not give up. My ambitions, my struggle to live. No, it is not the time to stop now when I am this close to my goal. If my dreams fail, I’d rather die.

Sometimes I probably like what I’m doing. This lifestyle provides my needed company, the act of receiving money in exchange makes it more appealing. Yet, when I remember you, my Lord, guilt and shame overpower me. For you shout at me - Death for Roberto Policarpio. God, I feel so lonely.

The world has been unkind to me. I don’t know where to fit myself into. Am I gay? What is gay? I don’t even know what is.



If there was one thing I needed most, it was money. The following year, I’d be in my fourth year Med- a full time clerk. Another year, I’d be in an internship. I had to make a lot of money before the year expires, I didn’t have the time for this anymore, the following year.

Contacts and connections were important. I posed nude for a picture that was distributed to all professional pimps Arnie Te could find. I became a regular in hotels, restaurants, gay bars, even in bath houses. I did not resist all styles of lovemaking and perversions.

I opened the door of the isolated building called Bath House, climbed the narrow stair and stopped at its lounge. White washed walls bore a seductive motif. Men clad in towels heralded the activities inside. There was a synthetic lily creeping up the gray door. Two large pots of bamboos stood on the sides of the stair landing.

I come here per Arnie’s instructions.

"When you arrive at the door, pay sixty pesos at the window. Once inside, strip off your clothes and wrap the towel and wait."

"Wait for what?" I asked.

"Come on Robert. Don’t be so naive. The client has a bath house fetish.

Inside on of the cubicles, someone opened my door, pried into me, looked at me with longing eyes, winked, waited for my response, when I shook my head, he pleaded, negotiated, offered unheard of sexual acts, even money, when denied, he left. He was followed by another who did the same. Twenty people came while I waited for my client. Some even recognized me from my modeling days, a true humiliation, but I didn’t have anything to lose anymore. My God, if I were promiscuous, twenty people in a night meant AIDS.

My client appeared.

I did not look back when I left. AIDS kept haunting me. I better get tested. I better stop this. I tried to count my savings. I think I saved more than needed. I crossed Roxas Boulevard on my way to Vito Cruz to catch a taxi. But the fresh winds coming from Manila Bay attracted me. I strolled along the stretch of the seawall. It was all dark. Finding an isolated spot, I stopped. Asking. Asking.

I faced Manila Bay like a victorious soldier after a violent war. I assured myself I was still in control, strong as a metal, a solid rock. But the steel outside was deteriorating inside, my muscles were crumbling, my body was breaking apart. The waves gently strode before me. I wanted to float on the water and be part of the calm. I wanted peace.

My questions lingered, disturbing me - I felt so guilty all these years. I am sinful. I don’t know anything anymore. There are so many questions in this world I cannot comprehend.

The wind turned colder. It covered me like a shawl for a dead man. People and faces paraded before my eyes. My parents, Arnie, Frank, Mig, Mikael, Ronnie, Tia. Who are they? Why did they come into my life? God, please answer me.

I am a coward. I should have been clenching my fists and cursing the world. Why can’t I cry like a child in a cold dark night? Or should I have enough sense to die?

I remained standing in a deep trance until the silence was broken by the sound of trains and early morning vehicles. The air turned gray due to morning smog from unknown sources. I turned around and my eyes caught a solitary man in red pants and shirt bearing his identity - Metro Manila Aide. He was sweeping the road of garbage left by the night strollers, walkers, hookers, hustlers, killers, lovers, homeless, all sinners. I felt envy towards the man. This man, this lowly man may have awakened in the comfort of his home, he probably greeted his wife a good morning and his kids may have looked at him before he left, expecting him to come home before the next darkness falls. Our eyes met. I suddenly felt embarrassed, afraid of becoming intimate with him. I walked away. I walked away from the past, from my lost identity; I bid farewell to my three years without God.