Alex Maskara
Thoughts, Stories, Imagination of Filipino American Alex Maskara
Welcome
Diary of A Masquerade
~
“I am what I am, I am my own special creation…”
I began humming the popular Gloria Gaynor tune, an anthem among Manila's gay community. Roberto ignored my singing and continued talking, seemingly too absorbed in his thoughts to notice my attempt at humor.
“You know, I was raised by a mother who was obsessed with having a baby girl. She lived under the illusion that I was the daughter she had always wanted.”
“Don't worry,” I quipped. “You are.”
He either didn't hear me or chose to ignore me.
“I grew up confused. In her little world, I was her beautiful baby girl, always dressed in pink, with curly hair and all that sentimental nonsense. All that shit.”
“And now you're a fag, a sward, a fruitcake, a fairy, a tootsie, and everything else!” I added, unable to resist.
He slapped the back of my neck.
“Stop it!”
“Ouch! Roberto, face the truth.”
“I'm trying. Hard. Can't you see?”
“It always begins with this kind of brooding. Eventually, you'll get over it. They call it coming out. Go ahead. I'm listening.”
He sighed.
“The trouble is, when illusion clashes with reality, you try to escape both by creating another illusion. And when that one falls apart, you create another. It goes on and on, until you can no longer distinguish what is real from what you've invented. Jeff, I'm tired.”
“Well, at least that makes you creative, doesn't it?” I said.
Then, for reasons I couldn't quite explain, I added, “By the way, my real name is Antonio Salamanca.”
What the hell. I don't feel like Jeff tonight. I feel lousy, rotten, and penniless. I might as well use my real name.
Roberto barely acknowledged my confession. He was too deeply immersed in his own.
“Sometimes,” he continued, “an illusion becomes so beautiful, so much a part of your life, that losing it feels like losing someone you love. And its death demands a long period of mourning.”
“Ain't that the truth?” I replied, my sarcasm beginning to lose its edge.
I was starting to understand him. Beneath his carefully chosen words was a pain that somehow found its way into me. I forced a laugh, hoping to lighten the atmosphere, but sadness had settled over his face. He looked terribly depressed. Perhaps he would get over it in time. Perhaps not.
As for illusions and reality, I had always thought they resembled old soldiers. They never really died; they simply faded away. Or was that what General MacArthur had said? Or John Wayne? I couldn't remember which. My mind had a peculiar habit of wandering into irrelevant territory whenever a conversation became too serious.
Roberto, however, was not finished.
“When I was in premed, I told myself that if I had to make a decision about my sexual orientation, I should make it then and there. I wanted to settle the matter once and for all. I would either become straight or accept being gay for the rest of my life. I refused to accept the latter.”
He paused, staring toward Manila Bay.
“I tried to surround myself with people who would accept and respect me for trying to live as a straight man. I thought that if I could build the right friendships, adopt the right behavior, and find the right woman, everything would eventually fall into place. It was my way of surviving.”
“And?”
“I failed. I tried to find a girlfriend, but that failed too. Eventually, I gave up trying to become someone I wasn't. I withdrew from people and began living a solitary life. Call it selfishness, cowardice, or whatever you want. I simply got tired of pretending. And now, here I am, abandoned and lonely.”
A visible strain crossed his face. Yet something extraordinary was happening. As the confidence and artificial charm slowly disappeared, another face began to emerge, one more vulnerable and, strangely enough, more beautiful than the one I had admired earlier.
The Nameless Adonis was gone. Before me sat Roberto, a man burdened by a lifetime of expectations, disappointments, and impossible attempts to reconcile himself with the world.
“Still,” he continued quietly, “even in isolation, the past refuses to leave me alone. Sometimes I think it finds happiness in my misery.”
“Certainly,” I murmured.
It was the only word I could manage. I wanted to comfort him, but I was also struggling to conceal the effect his words were having on me. Our eyes met, and for a moment I couldn't look away.
My thoughts began wandering again.
Who would understand?
Who would ever understand men like us in this city called Manila?
Around us, the night seemed to deepen. Along the seawall, bushes and tall grasses swayed gently in the breeze. Moonlight filtered through the thick foliage, illuminating the secluded places where men gathered to pursue desires they could neither openly acknowledge nor entirely suppress.
Here, along the dark stretches of the bay near Lawton, the city appeared to have two separate lives. There was the Manila of daylight, with its churches, schools, respectable families, and rigid expectations. Then there was this other Manila, concealed beneath the trees, where lonely men searched for affection, companionship, or perhaps nothing more than a fleeting escape from themselves.
Thank God for the moonlight. At least it revealed something of the world that darkness tried to hide.
Silence settled between Roberto and me as we gazed across Manila Bay. The distant lights flickered over the water, and the breeze carried the faint sounds of a city that never completely slept.
For a while, nothing seemed to matter except the images forming in our minds. Reality had retreated, leaving behind memories, fantasies, illusions, and the masks we wore to survive.
Perhaps Roberto was right. Perhaps we spent much of our lives constructing beautiful illusions, only to suffer when reality finally demanded their destruction.
I could feel my eyelids growing heavy. Roberto's voice became increasingly distant, blending with the gentle rustling of leaves and the murmur of the sea. Before I knew it, I had fallen asleep.
And then Roberto entered my dream.
He stood before me dressed entirely in white. Behind him stretched the quiet expanse of Manila Bay, illuminated by a full moon suspended over the water. His face was calm now, free of the anguish I had witnessed earlier. He seemed almost weightless, as though the burdens of his life had finally been lifted.
He began to speak.
“The full moon is moving westward, casting long shadows over everything solid on earth. Tonight, the moon belongs to me alone. It is my only love, my only friend. It is as sorrowful as the gray clouds drifting across the sky, yet as joyful as the flickering lights dancing upon the bay.
“No one can take its beauty away from me. Somewhere within that light, I imagine someone watching over me, someone who understands without asking questions, someone who loves without demanding that I become somebody else.
“One day, I will rise and travel upon its light. I will dance to the gentle music of the sea breeze, and when I grow tired, I will rest among the peaceful branches of coconut trees.
“And perhaps there will come a time when this moonlit night will never end. Together, we will travel from star to star, from moon to moon, from galaxy to galaxy, from one universe to another, until time itself disappears and eternity becomes our home.”
His voice faded into the night.
I don't remember what happened afterward.
What I do remember is waking up to the unmistakable arrival of another day.
The first sounds that reached me were footsteps. Rapid, rhythmic footsteps, followed by the occasional voices of men and women passing nearby. My eyes opened slowly, and through my blurred vision I could make out people jogging and briskly walking along the grounds of the Cultural Center of the Philippines.
Morning had arrived.
I was lying on the grass somewhere within the CCP complex, my back damp from the dew. I sat up, feeling stiff and disoriented. A few early-morning exercisers glanced in my direction, some appearing amused by the sight of a young man who had apparently spent the night outdoors.
I must have looked pathetic, caught unprepared by daylight, alone and without any obvious destination.
My first instinct was to check my knapsack and wallet. Everything was still there. Nothing had been stolen, although there wasn't much worth stealing in the first place.
I was still penniless.
Then I remembered Roberto.
Where had he gone?
I looked around, hoping to find him sitting somewhere nearby, perhaps watching the sunrise or waiting for me to wake up. But he was nowhere in sight.
I regretted not asking for his telephone number. Despite my teasing and occasional sarcasm, I had enjoyed talking to him. He was an interesting man, and his confessions had revealed a depth of feeling I hadn't expected from our casual encounter.
Perhaps he had simply grown tired of talking to someone who kept falling asleep. Perhaps he had realized that I was a poor listener, more interested in making jokes than understanding his suffering.
Or perhaps he had decided that our conversation belonged to the night and should end with it.
Whatever his reason, he was gone.
Now is the time to be a man.
I said this to myself as I stood up, brushed the grass from my clothes, and began walking slowly toward Vito Cruz.
I checked my watch. It was five o'clock in the morning.
I should have left earlier. It was Sunday, and I knew what Sundays meant at the CCP complex. The place would soon become a sprawling arena of joggers, walkers, cyclists, and people engaged in every imaginable form of exercise. Some came to improve their health, others to socialize, and still others to be noticed—or to notice someone else.
Manila had its own peculiar rituals, and Sunday mornings at the CCP were among them.
Before leaving, I turned around for one last look at the thick canopy of trees lining the seawall. Only a few hours earlier, those shadows had sheltered the secret encounters of men who could not openly live the lives they desired. Beneath those branches, the night had been alive with movement, whispers, furtive glances, and the quiet transactions of human longing.
Now the place looked entirely different.
The bushes were still. The shadows had vanished. Dragonflies hovered among the leaves, while butterflies fluttered around the flowers. Sunlight was beginning to reach the spaces that moonlight had barely touched.
There was no trace of the peculiar gathering I had witnessed the night before.
It seemed almost impossible that the same place could contain two such different worlds within a matter of hours. Had Roberto and I been the only witnesses to that strange nocturnal gathering? Had everything really happened, or had the night already begun transforming itself into another one of those illusions he had spoken about?
I stood there for a moment, studying the deserted grounds.
How barren everything looked now. How ordinary. How empty.
The party was over.
And Roberto, the beautiful, troubled stranger who had spent the night revealing the hidden sorrows of his life, had disappeared with it.
As I resumed walking toward Vito Cruz, one final question lingered in my mind.
Where could his home be?
And, perhaps more importantly, was there anywhere in Manila where a man like Roberto could truly feel at home?
2026-10-25 04:33:28
masquerade
I am bewildered by his aura. In the dark, he seems wrapped in a faint glow—like a halo you’d see in paintings of saints. Maybe I need to get my eyes checked when I finally have the money. But with clients like this, I’ll probably go blind before that ever happens.
He stared out toward the far edge of the bay as we stood side by side in silence. The scattered lights from boats and ships shimmered across the water. One vessel passed by like a moving diamond, its glow drifting across the surface. We followed it with our eyes until it vanished into the distance.
The night carried its own quiet music—the rustling of palm leaves, the soft hush of waves folding into shore, the steady chirp of crickets. Familiar sounds. Almost comforting. Dark silhouettes slipped in and out of the shadows beneath the trees. Figures moved forward, reaching, brushing shoulders, touching, passing. A quiet choreography.
Normally, I’d leave by now. This kind of scene isn’t for me. My hustle is legit. I don’t work parks like this. I still have some self-respect left.
But I couldn’t leave Roberto. Not tonight. He looked like someone who needed a friend—badly. And for some reason, I felt responsible for him.
A cruiser walked past us, flashing a knowing smile. A few steps later, he stopped, glanced back, as if expecting we’d follow—drawn in by his walk, his wink, his invitation into the dark.
“Damn,” I muttered under my breath. “Not my type.”
Roberto let out a soft laugh.
“Do you feel it?” someone nearby asked.
A voice answered—loud, theatrical. I glanced over. A drag queen stood there in a loose blouse, sky-high heels, oversized earrings, and wild, multicolored hair straight out of a Cyndi Lauper video.
“Of course, darling,” the drag queen said, letting out a sharp, playful laugh. “They’re not lost. They’re just like the rest of us—looking for action.”
He gave his companion’s backside a quick pinch.
“Hey!” the other snapped.
“Quiet, witch,” the drag queen shot back. “You’re disturbing the angels. Angels with dirty minds.”
Someone from the darkness shouted, “Careful—you might choke, girl!”
Laughter burst out, then faded just as quickly. The figures melted back into the shadows. Even the wind seemed to pause. The insects went quiet.
And then it began.
The night came alive. More men appeared along the worn, unpaved edges of Lawton. They moved like ants—appearing, disappearing, circling back. They paused, studied each other, measured, sniffed out intent. When two found a match, they vanished together into the dark.
Everyone except me and Roberto.
We stayed where we were, watching this strange parade of men—different faces, different bodies, different styles—coming and going like waves.
Roberto broke the silence first.
“You go to college, right?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m a student.” My eyes drifted again, catching a guy in tight shorts. Something about him felt familiar.
I looked back at Roberto. “What about you?”
“I’m studying to be a doctor,” he said, barely above a whisper.
“A what?”
He glanced around, like he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “A doctor.”
“Really?”
That caught my attention. Not every night Manila Bay hosts someone from med school. Where I come from, medicine means status—money, respect, a whole different world.
“So what brings a future doctor out here?” I teased. “Looking for… organ donors?”
“I’m looking for someone to talk to,” he said. Then, almost as an afterthought: “Although… now that you mention it… interested in a transplant?”
I gave him a look. “That was terrible. Seriously—what do you want to talk about?”
Now I was curious. And hopeful. Guys like him usually had money.
He hesitated, then said, “Jeff… I want to talk about myself. My world. The things I’ve been pretending are real. I think… I think everything’s starting to fall apart. I need to face it. I need to take off the mask—before anyone else does.”
Except me, I thought.
We moved and sat on the grass behind the Film Center. During the day, it looked bright and soft. At night, it felt cold, damp against my skin.
I was still hoping—at least five hundred pesos. Something.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
Cold? I hadn’t made a single cent all night. That’s what I was.
I decided to be blunt.
“Look,” I said, “you’re good-looking, and I know you can pay. So before anything happens, let’s be clear—I don’t take less than five hundred.”
I’d never seen someone get offended that fast.
“You son of a bitch,” he snapped. “Didn’t I tell you—”
“I know, I know,” I cut in. “Just doing my job.”
He stood up. I grabbed his arm.
“I’m sorry. Sit. If you want to talk, then talk.”
The image of my landlady flashed in my head—my stuff dumped out on the street if I came home empty-handed.
He slowly calmed down. Tilted his head back, staring at the sky. God, he looked exhausted. Just like me.
“Lie down,” I told him. “Don’t worry about your shirt. The grass gets cut every day.”
He did, stretching out, eyes fixed on the stars.
Great, I thought. A love story. Fine. One night. I can handle that. Who knows—maybe someday I’ll even write it down.
I lay back beside him.
“I’m still trying to figure out that glow around you,” I muttered. “Seriously, I need my eyes checked.”
He didn’t react.
“Imagine this,” he said after a moment. “You’re me. Roberto Policarpio.”
I closed my eyes. Sure. Why not.
Then he shifted—rolling over onto his stomach, hovering slightly over me. The angle, the closeness—it triggered something.
A memory.
When I was fourteen, locked up in juvie. Daily sessions with some old, bearded shrink. “Behavioral modification,” they called it. He’d lean over me just like this, writing down everything I said like it was gospel. Always half-aroused, the sick bastard.
I played along. Did what I had to do.
That’s how I got out.
“What are you smiling about?” Roberto asked.
“Nothing,” I said quickly.
I turned away, propping myself up on my elbows. I couldn’t look him in the eye—not if this was going to get serious.
He went on.
“I wish I could escape everything,” he said quietly. “My past… my present… even the future. The past is full of regret. The present hurts. And the future…” He paused. “There’s nothing there.”
I felt it hit me, even though I didn’t want it to.
I tried to shake it off. “Nice line,” I said. “Who wrote that?”
He ignored me. Sat cross-legged like some kind of monk.
“It’s beautiful out here,” he said, looking up. “The stars… I keep thinking—what if one of them is another world? Another Earth. Somewhere I could go… and just be accepted. For who I am.”
2026-05-25 23:57:15
masquerade
Diary of a Masquerade 9
“I am what I am, I am my own special creation…”
I began humming the popular Gloria Gaynor tune, an anthem among Manila's gay community. Roberto ignored my singing and continued talking, seemingly too absorbed in his thoughts to notice my attempt at humor.
“You know, I was raised by a mother who was obsessed with having a baby girl. She lived under the illusion that I was the daughter she had always wanted.”
“Don't worry,” I quipped. “You are.”
He either didn't hear me or chose to ignore me.
“I grew up confused. In her little world, I was her beautiful baby girl, always dressed in pink, with curly hair and all that sentimental nonsense. All that shit.”
“And now you're a fag, a sward, a fruitcake, a fairy, a tootsie, and everything else!” I added, unable to resist.
He slapped the back of my neck.
“Stop it!”
“Ouch! Roberto, face the truth.”
“I'm trying. Hard. Can't you see?”
“It always begins with this kind of brooding. Eventually, you'll get over it. They call it coming out. Go ahead. I'm listening.”
He sighed.
“The trouble is, when illusion clashes with reality, you try to escape both by creating another illusion. And when that one falls apart, you create another. It goes on and on, until you can no longer distinguish what is real from what you've invented. Jeff, I'm tired.”
“Well, at least that makes you creative, doesn't it?” I said.
Then, for reasons I couldn't quite explain, I added, “By the way, my real name is Antonio Salamanca.”
What the hell. I don't feel like Jeff tonight. I feel lousy, rotten, and penniless. I might as well use my real name.
Roberto barely acknowledged my confession. He was too deeply immersed in his own.
“Sometimes,” he continued, “an illusion becomes so beautiful, so much a part of your life, that losing it feels like losing someone you love. And its death demands a long period of mourning.”
“Ain't that the truth?” I replied, my sarcasm beginning to lose its edge.
I was starting to understand him. Beneath his carefully chosen words was a pain that somehow found its way into me. I forced a laugh, hoping to lighten the atmosphere, but sadness had settled over his face. He looked terribly depressed. Perhaps he would get over it in time. Perhaps not.
As for illusions and reality, I had always thought they resembled old soldiers. They never really died; they simply faded away. Or was that what General MacArthur had said? Or John Wayne? I couldn't remember which. My mind had a peculiar habit of wandering into irrelevant territory whenever a conversation became too serious.
Roberto, however, was not finished.
“When I was in premed, I told myself that if I had to make a decision about my sexual orientation, I should make it then and there. I wanted to settle the matter once and for all. I would either become straight or accept being gay for the rest of my life. I refused to accept the latter.”
He paused, staring toward Manila Bay.
“I tried to surround myself with people who would accept and respect me for trying to live as a straight man. I thought that if I could build the right friendships, adopt the right behavior, and find the right woman, everything would eventually fall into place. It was my way of surviving.”
“And?”
“I failed. I tried to find a girlfriend, but that failed too. Eventually, I gave up trying to become someone I wasn't. I withdrew from people and began living a solitary life. Call it selfishness, cowardice, or whatever you want. I simply got tired of pretending. And now, here I am, abandoned and lonely.”
A visible strain crossed his face. Yet something extraordinary was happening. As the confidence and artificial charm slowly disappeared, another face began to emerge, one more vulnerable and, strangely enough, more beautiful than the one I had admired earlier.
The Nameless Adonis was gone. Before me sat Roberto, a man burdened by a lifetime of expectations, disappointments, and impossible attempts to reconcile himself with the world.
“Still,” he continued quietly, “even in isolation, the past refuses to leave me alone. Sometimes I think it finds happiness in my misery.”
“Certainly,” I murmured.
It was the only word I could manage. I wanted to comfort him, but I was also struggling to conceal the effect his words were having on me. Our eyes met, and for a moment I couldn't look away.
My thoughts began wandering again.
Who would understand?
Who would ever understand men like us in this city called Manila?
Around us, the night seemed to deepen. Along the seawall, bushes and tall grasses swayed gently in the breeze. Moonlight filtered through the thick foliage, illuminating the secluded places where men gathered to pursue desires they could neither openly acknowledge nor entirely suppress.
Here, along the dark stretches of the bay near Lawton, the city appeared to have two separate lives. There was the Manila of daylight, with its churches, schools, respectable families, and rigid expectations. Then there was this other Manila, concealed beneath the trees, where lonely men searched for affection, companionship, or perhaps nothing more than a fleeting escape from themselves.
Thank God for the moonlight. At least it revealed something of the world that darkness tried to hide.
Silence settled between Roberto and me as we gazed across Manila Bay. The distant lights flickered over the water, and the breeze carried the faint sounds of a city that never completely slept.
For a while, nothing seemed to matter except the images forming in our minds. Reality had retreated, leaving behind memories, fantasies, illusions, and the masks we wore to survive.
Perhaps Roberto was right. Perhaps we spent much of our lives constructing beautiful illusions, only to suffer when reality finally demanded their destruction.
I could feel my eyelids growing heavy. Roberto's voice became increasingly distant, blending with the gentle rustling of leaves and the murmur of the sea. Before I knew it, I had fallen asleep.
And then Roberto entered my dream.
He stood before me dressed entirely in white. Behind him stretched the quiet expanse of Manila Bay, illuminated by a full moon suspended over the water. His face was calm now, free of the anguish I had witnessed earlier. He seemed almost weightless, as though the burdens of his life had finally been lifted.
He began to speak.
“The full moon is moving westward, casting long shadows over everything solid on earth. Tonight, the moon belongs to me alone. It is my only love, my only friend. It is as sorrowful as the gray clouds drifting across the sky, yet as joyful as the flickering lights dancing upon the bay.
“No one can take its beauty away from me. Somewhere within that light, I imagine someone watching over me, someone who understands without asking questions, someone who loves without demanding that I become somebody else.
“One day, I will rise and travel upon its light. I will dance to the gentle music of the sea breeze, and when I grow tired, I will rest among the peaceful branches of coconut trees.
“And perhaps there will come a time when this moonlit night will never end. Together, we will travel from star to star, from moon to moon, from galaxy to galaxy, from one universe to another, until time itself disappears and eternity becomes our home.”
His voice faded into the night.
I don't remember what happened afterward.
What I do remember is waking up to the unmistakable arrival of another day.
The first sounds that reached me were footsteps. Rapid, rhythmic footsteps, followed by the occasional voices of men and women passing nearby. My eyes opened slowly, and through my blurred vision I could make out people jogging and briskly walking along the grounds of the Cultural Center of the Philippines.
Morning had arrived.
I was lying on the grass somewhere within the CCP complex, my back damp from the dew. I sat up, feeling stiff and disoriented. A few early-morning exercisers glanced in my direction, some appearing amused by the sight of a young man who had apparently spent the night outdoors.
I must have looked pathetic, caught unprepared by daylight, alone and without any obvious destination.
My first instinct was to check my knapsack and wallet. Everything was still there. Nothing had been stolen, although there wasn't much worth stealing in the first place.
I was still penniless.
Then I remembered Roberto.
Where had he gone?
I looked around, hoping to find him sitting somewhere nearby, perhaps watching the sunrise or waiting for me to wake up. But he was nowhere in sight.
I regretted not asking for his telephone number. Despite my teasing and occasional sarcasm, I had enjoyed talking to him. He was an interesting man, and his confessions had revealed a depth of feeling I hadn't expected from our casual encounter.
Perhaps he had simply grown tired of talking to someone who kept falling asleep. Perhaps he had realized that I was a poor listener, more interested in making jokes than understanding his suffering.
Or perhaps he had decided that our conversation belonged to the night and should end with it.
Whatever his reason, he was gone.
Now is the time to be a man.
I said this to myself as I stood up, brushed the grass from my clothes, and began walking slowly toward Vito Cruz.
I checked my watch. It was five o'clock in the morning.
I should have left earlier. It was Sunday, and I knew what Sundays meant at the CCP complex. The place would soon become a sprawling arena of joggers, walkers, cyclists, and people engaged in every imaginable form of exercise. Some came to improve their health, others to socialize, and still others to be noticed—or to notice someone else.
Manila had its own peculiar rituals, and Sunday mornings at the CCP were among them.
Before leaving, I turned around for one last look at the thick canopy of trees lining the seawall. Only a few hours earlier, those shadows had sheltered the secret encounters of men who could not openly live the lives they desired. Beneath those branches, the night had been alive with movement, whispers, furtive glances, and the quiet transactions of human longing.
Now the place looked entirely different.
The bushes were still. The shadows had vanished. Dragonflies hovered among the leaves, while butterflies fluttered around the flowers. Sunlight was beginning to reach the spaces that moonlight had barely touched.
There was no trace of the peculiar gathering I had witnessed the night before.
It seemed almost impossible that the same place could contain two such different worlds within a matter of hours. Had Roberto and I been the only witnesses to that strange nocturnal gathering? Had everything really happened, or had the night already begun transforming itself into another one of those illusions he had spoken about?
I stood there for a moment, studying the deserted grounds.
How barren everything looked now. How ordinary. How empty.
The party was over.
And Roberto, the beautiful, troubled stranger who had spent the night revealing the hidden sorrows of his life, had disappeared with it.
As I resumed walking toward Vito Cruz, one final question lingered in my mind.
Where could his home be?
And, perhaps more importantly, was there anywhere in Manila where a man like Roberto could truly feel at home?
2026-10-25 04:33:28
masquerade
Diary of Masquerade 8
I am bewildered by his aura. In the dark, he seems wrapped in a faint glow—like a halo you’d see in paintings of saints. Maybe I need to get my eyes checked when I finally have the money. But with clients like this, I’ll probably go blind before that ever happens.
He stared out toward the far edge of the bay as we stood side by side in silence. The scattered lights from boats and ships shimmered across the water. One vessel passed by like a moving diamond, its glow drifting across the surface. We followed it with our eyes until it vanished into the distance.
The night carried its own quiet music—the rustling of palm leaves, the soft hush of waves folding into shore, the steady chirp of crickets. Familiar sounds. Almost comforting. Dark silhouettes slipped in and out of the shadows beneath the trees. Figures moved forward, reaching, brushing shoulders, touching, passing. A quiet choreography.
Normally, I’d leave by now. This kind of scene isn’t for me. My hustle is legit. I don’t work parks like this. I still have some self-respect left.
But I couldn’t leave Roberto. Not tonight. He looked like someone who needed a friend—badly. And for some reason, I felt responsible for him.
A cruiser walked past us, flashing a knowing smile. A few steps later, he stopped, glanced back, as if expecting we’d follow—drawn in by his walk, his wink, his invitation into the dark.
“Damn,” I muttered under my breath. “Not my type.”
Roberto let out a soft laugh.
“Do you feel it?” someone nearby asked.
A voice answered—loud, theatrical. I glanced over. A drag queen stood there in a loose blouse, sky-high heels, oversized earrings, and wild, multicolored hair straight out of a Cyndi Lauper video.
“Of course, darling,” the drag queen said, letting out a sharp, playful laugh. “They’re not lost. They’re just like the rest of us—looking for action.”
He gave his companion’s backside a quick pinch.
“Hey!” the other snapped.
“Quiet, witch,” the drag queen shot back. “You’re disturbing the angels. Angels with dirty minds.”
Someone from the darkness shouted, “Careful—you might choke, girl!”
Laughter burst out, then faded just as quickly. The figures melted back into the shadows. Even the wind seemed to pause. The insects went quiet.
And then it began.
The night came alive. More men appeared along the worn, unpaved edges of Lawton. They moved like ants—appearing, disappearing, circling back. They paused, studied each other, measured, sniffed out intent. When two found a match, they vanished together into the dark.
Everyone except me and Roberto.
We stayed where we were, watching this strange parade of men—different faces, different bodies, different styles—coming and going like waves.
Roberto broke the silence first.
“You go to college, right?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m a student.” My eyes drifted again, catching a guy in tight shorts. Something about him felt familiar.
I looked back at Roberto. “What about you?”
“I’m studying to be a doctor,” he said, barely above a whisper.
“A what?”
He glanced around, like he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “A doctor.”
“Really?”
That caught my attention. Not every night Manila Bay hosts someone from med school. Where I come from, medicine means status—money, respect, a whole different world.
“So what brings a future doctor out here?” I teased. “Looking for… organ donors?”
“I’m looking for someone to talk to,” he said. Then, almost as an afterthought: “Although… now that you mention it… interested in a transplant?”
I gave him a look. “That was terrible. Seriously—what do you want to talk about?”
Now I was curious. And hopeful. Guys like him usually had money.
He hesitated, then said, “Jeff… I want to talk about myself. My world. The things I’ve been pretending are real. I think… I think everything’s starting to fall apart. I need to face it. I need to take off the mask—before anyone else does.”
Except me, I thought.
We moved and sat on the grass behind the Film Center. During the day, it looked bright and soft. At night, it felt cold, damp against my skin.
I was still hoping—at least five hundred pesos. Something.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
Cold? I hadn’t made a single cent all night. That’s what I was.
I decided to be blunt.
“Look,” I said, “you’re good-looking, and I know you can pay. So before anything happens, let’s be clear—I don’t take less than five hundred.”
I’d never seen someone get offended that fast.
“You son of a bitch,” he snapped. “Didn’t I tell you—”
“I know, I know,” I cut in. “Just doing my job.”
He stood up. I grabbed his arm.
“I’m sorry. Sit. If you want to talk, then talk.”
The image of my landlady flashed in my head—my stuff dumped out on the street if I came home empty-handed.
He slowly calmed down. Tilted his head back, staring at the sky. God, he looked exhausted. Just like me.
“Lie down,” I told him. “Don’t worry about your shirt. The grass gets cut every day.”
He did, stretching out, eyes fixed on the stars.
Great, I thought. A love story. Fine. One night. I can handle that. Who knows—maybe someday I’ll even write it down.
I lay back beside him.
“I’m still trying to figure out that glow around you,” I muttered. “Seriously, I need my eyes checked.”
He didn’t react.
“Imagine this,” he said after a moment. “You’re me. Roberto Policarpio.”
I closed my eyes. Sure. Why not.
Then he shifted—rolling over onto his stomach, hovering slightly over me. The angle, the closeness—it triggered something.
A memory.
When I was fourteen, locked up in juvie. Daily sessions with some old, bearded shrink. “Behavioral modification,” they called it. He’d lean over me just like this, writing down everything I said like it was gospel. Always half-aroused, the sick bastard.
I played along. Did what I had to do.
That’s how I got out.
“What are you smiling about?” Roberto asked.
“Nothing,” I said quickly.
I turned away, propping myself up on my elbows. I couldn’t look him in the eye—not if this was going to get serious.
He went on.
“I wish I could escape everything,” he said quietly. “My past… my present… even the future. The past is full of regret. The present hurts. And the future…” He paused. “There’s nothing there.”
I felt it hit me, even though I didn’t want it to.
I tried to shake it off. “Nice line,” I said. “Who wrote that?”
He ignored me. Sat cross-legged like some kind of monk.
“It’s beautiful out here,” he said, looking up. “The stars… I keep thinking—what if one of them is another world? Another Earth. Somewhere I could go… and just be accepted. For who I am.”
2026-05-25 23:57:15
masquerade