Lighting out for the territory ahead

An open letter to the young woman in gold dress who look like Lei of Prettier than Pink after getting wet in the roofdeck pool of the Tides resort in Boracay

Dear Lei,

Although I realize that there’s little chance your name is Lei allow me to call you Lei because your resemblance to Lei Bautista of Prettier than Pink is very notable and it excites me to think that you, too, sings beautifully and the two of us can sing some beautiful music together.

Read on. I’m sorry. I might have gone a little strong on that first paragraph. But that is how I feel, no matter how trite that singing beautifully together thing might sound. I feel that way truly and so I write this letter in the hopes of following up on that three-second eye contact moment we’ve shared together that hot and humid night during the Tides launch in Boracay.

Yep. That was me. I’m confident you’ll remember because I look like Ian Veneracion. Not many Filipinos are tall and hefty like us, and do not look like Chinese. Also, before I forget, my name is Bert. So, Hi!

Please don’t take offense at my calling you Lei. It is at any rate a compliment. Although I must say that I admire you’re not having a blonde streak on your head. Some might find it sexy. I don’t. And probably you don’t, too, and that sends out a message that you feel sexy about yourself and don’t have to do anything to tell people that.

I should call you Brown Sugar, if I may add, because you’re well-tanned and awfully sweet that night at the roofdeck of the Tides Boracay. In a room full of socialites and spotted with celebrities, both young and old, wearing gold dress for the grand opening of the Tides resort in Boracay, you dazzle their goldenness. You shine the brightest. And your tan and my tan will make precious babies someday, if the heavens permit.

Now, that’s the bullshit part. Here’s the truth:

You and I love one another. Not always maybe. But that night at that serendipitous resort in Boracay we were. Remember that minute when some well-known actress got her Chanel purse wet and broken and you stood there uncaring and removed from the trifling concerns of mankind? That was the time when our eyes met. And nobody, not even that ruckus, could penetrate the separate getaway we’ve made for ourselves out of that Boracay getaway.

We want to make out with one another. What the hell. Making out is healthy. You seem like a perfectly fit young woman, your flushed face tells exactly that. And I, well, I’m a Sunday triathlete/ironman who practice runs and bikes during lunch hours and smoke a lot to stay underwater longer. I stay longer than any man would boast. And that makes all the difference.

In closing, it is my fondest hope that this letter finds you well, and re-creates the magic of that night we shared at the Tides Boracay. It will stay with me, I’m sure, for always. Now let’s start on that beginning, on my bed, naked, unless we want to live the rest of our life with that flash of memory biting at us.

Yours in destiny,

Schubert Reyes


How one hour made me lose my self-respect

It is unfortunate but there really are things you put together in a lifetime that can suddenly go down in mere minutes. No matter how trite it sounds, that is true. And I’m not even stretching facts here. If you want proof of that, try the Swedish massage at the wellness center of this hotel in Cebu. Now, let me qualify that before they put vermin in my lunch this afternoon.

It is not about the massage itself that made me lose my self-respect, but the fact that it was someone gay who gave me that massage! I don’t go along well with gay people if you want to know. I think they’re all right, though. Just let them stay out of my way.

If an encounter is unavoidable I get so guarded up, and if it involves contact I dread to think what will happen. But of course I DO know what will happen. That night I saw my manhood took a vacation.

It was a one-hour session, as was the usual. I frequent the spa inside the hotel whenever work brings me to Cebu. And every time it was the same trusty masseuse I looked for. That night I went there with some clients. They started to go to the rooms and all and then when I asked about that masseuse they told me she wasn’t there.

The operator, she told me if it was okay that “a man will do you.” And there emerged Efren. He was a brown-faced, clean-cut man of about 30, with stocky frame and was built like a boxer. If you know how to be so civil in such a situation, tell me how. I went to the room, grudgingly, like the wellness center at the Cebu hotel was a dental clinic.

Now, what happened there in the room was supposed to be normal. He gave me a massage like he would give it to anyone else. He touched me, in a professional way and all, let’s be clear about that. Afterwards I dressed up and went outside, the clients had a nice relaxing time and we all went for beers at the upstairs bar in the hotel. I needed that.

Hello world!

Finally, years after alt-tabbing to blogs that I like in between dull afternoons and soporific meetings in my Manila office, I now have my own space in this thing they called the blogosphere.

To my friends, do not tell my wife about this. (And, please, I don’t know but if it occurs to you to add me up as a friend in Friendster or FaceBook, add the one with the still single and very macho-looking Anthony in it.)

To those half-past dead of boredom, this will probably save you. Believe me. To web creeps, tell your friends about this blog instead. It’s better there. To Cathy, that links to your blog. Sorry.