Diary 4

stricken patrons who didn't have art or trade or education. My limelight and stardom extended as far as Balibago City and believe me, I've met GIs ready to part with green bucks with a little nod from my brown dick. I developed certain habits. Clean habits."

I stopped.

What clean habits? Who am I trying to fool?

Truth is, I did it all to extremes. My gang always found isolated areas in the village where we could drink till we all dropped dead. It was very rare, sadly, booze didn't come in our part of the country often. Mostly we smuggled cases of San Miguel and gulped all till we peed in our pants. I was the boss, and if there was one thing you provided when you were the boss, it was the happiness of your gang. Booze and all cheap shabu were my most urgent responsibilities.

My listener was following my story right on the dot. Very curiously.

"Excuse me," he said as I paused long, "What are you thinking now? Please don't stop your story. It is very out-of-ordinary."

Out-of-ordinary my ass. Some people are just too gullible.

I went on. "Notwithstanding, a few challenged my authority. One day, a boy outside of the village ambushed me along the bamboo strip I often passed "Psssst,' he called. I thought he was one of the fags. He sprung - a tinny little thing that kid; he gyrated and stroke his groin. "Romance me," he said insultingly. I punched him until he twirled like a windmill and dropped on the ground. He wailed like a goat. My hands, these are my assets. Big and strong and powerful. "Your hands belong to your father," my grandfather used to say about these hands. "Just wait and you will see them grow, but I warn you against smashing someone's skull or bones."

They lured women and fags. But these were not only my good physical qualities. When I stared at the mirror, I saw an exotic face maturing too soon; my voice was seductive and hoarse with a rough attitude; my brown skin was golden and I was not ashamed to display my nakedness in the river."

I took a deep breath. I'm getting bored. How many times have I told this same story in the past three yearss? I stared momentarily at my companion. His wide eyed interest would force me to keep telling this shit. I can tell. Damn. No, I need to end this. It is time for the bell. Wake up. I need money.

"I forewarn my potential challengers ahead of time. I tell them, "If I were pissed off and provoked, I would put you in your proper places within a blink of an instant. My contacts are extensive and don't tell me you live thousands of miles away, my power can reach that far to ensure you'll never dare again.""

My authority was manifested everyday. When I passed on the streets outside the village, everyone reacted with a certain deference. My regular haircut was free, my line of clothes were well provided, my pocket was always loaded, because I've got talent.

I stopped abruptly. Talents? What talents? I need to shut the mouth off. I might slip. Tell me all about petty crimes and I've done them too. My mastery was in the field of blackmailing. Every client in my area kept a secret that was reluctantly handed to me - adulterous women, churchmen who preferred other men - ready to be released anytime they made a false move. My threat when I said it was real.

The entire province of Pampanga became my prostitution ring though deep in my heart, I wanted to move further south, to Manila - the big stuff.

My listener was looking at me as if I was about to be transformed into Charles Dickens. Amen, my boy. Let it be so.

"I was disappointed when my folk told me I had to tough it out at Pampanga College for a degree in Education. Me, an educator? Oh boy was I mad. One night I just disappeared. I surfaced back during the burial of my grandfather, followed a couple of days later by my grandmother’s."

"Don't you have any other relations?" my listener cut my storytelling.

"My only brother was sent to an aunt in the South after our parents' death. Never seen him since then even during the burial of our grandparents. I received a telegram from him saying "No money for the fare to attend funeral." Hell. From then on, I knew he was a weakling."

From wide-eyed interest, his face became sad. Now, he was ready for my final sweep.

"Gaining total freedom, I enrolled in an exclusive Manila college to be a journalist, supporting myself by pulling tricks everywhere to come up with my annual tuition and allowances. I perform all the perversions I am asked to do. But only with the big shots. And no one in my school knows about my night tricks. For the past three years, I managed very well. Thank you very much. So there. I take no lower than one hundred pesos."

He grimaced and released a big sigh. "No I am not interested." And with that sigh, he slumped over his knees.

Shit, all that story for nothing? There went my pathetic autobiography... to dumps. Where did I go wrong? I was not about to give up though. In this business, if they won't buy you, sell them. For fifty percent commission.

"God I am so tired," he whispered. "Do me a favor, stroll with me for a while."

I trailed him from behind, still hoping for at least a hundred bucks, unable to take off my eyes from his firm legs, the walk, the original walk of Nameless Adonis copied by all young men of the Philippines, the aura of testosterone brimming to the edge, I could not disengage myself from him, still hoping he would buy me. He was so light despite being worn out. His poise was extraordinary. We strolled among the bougenvillas and santans and gardenias that bloomed along Manila Bay in the lovely month of January. The scent of dama de noche reminded me of my lost family.

"Listen, I know people who might just be willing to pay money for YOUR services..." I proposed to him in front of the Army-Navy Club, the country club of Manila Generals.

He paused as if in a trance, grabbed the metal bars of the Club's gate. The throbbing veins on his arms appeared as he gripped them tightly, as if in pain. He spoke distantly. "Once, I ate dinner in this exclusive club with Mikael Sarmiento. It was the best dinner I've ever had. But that is all over now."

"Who is Mikael Sarmiento?" I asked.

He jerked from a deep musing, as if disrupted from slumber. I realized then that something was wrong. Something different... his chest was not heaving, as if he was not breathing, he was not sweating, and despite his tight grip on the metal bars, the bars remained as still as if untouched. The tiniest detail that puzzled me most was when his metal wrist watch hit one of the bars. No sound. As we strolled along, his shadow... it was not there.

"You will learn about him as the days go by." He answered.

What he meant by that only God knows. I was getting doubtful, not about him, about me. I had frequent attacks of visual distortions and hallucinations due to early use of booze. I kept mum about them though to avoid being thought of as schizo.

I gave up any hope of obtaining money from him or through him. "So what is your reason for this Manila Bay visitation?"

He relaxed and slowed down. "Eight years ago, I lost my virginity to a young prostitute right here. The girl was wild. She expertly worked me up, oh boy was I satisfied. She did not stop until my last manly drop was squeezed."

"You mean oral?"

"Of course, that's the best." He giggled. "Look," he went on, pointing at the dark lining

Alex Maskara