weekends in new york. these has got to be the most dreaded of days among the unattached, straight or otherwise.
but somehow, for a single, gay dude (trust me, there'’s no redundancy here.), saturday nights attain almost these mythical proportions.
miss it, and one suffers from these vague hunger pangs throughout the week. fjord in it, and almost always, one carries this gnawing sense of disappointment the rest of the weary weekdays.
and then, there are those times, those really sweet times. the stuff made for hard to erase memories. memories that could undergird one’s shriveling ego throughout the next winter.
okay, so i'’m rambling. only because i just got back, all heady, from knowing (no wink, wink, here, if you know what i mean.) this guy.
first, some short sociological treatise on the proclivities of pinoy gay men here in the big apple. a sort of an abbreviated field guide to a very predictable species here in the gotham savannah.
it’s a rule, almost an iron clad one, that if you are a gay man who has at least 10% pinoy blood larking about in your fabulous circulatory system, then one is drawn to, almost without fail, to the fair skinned, blonde haired, preferably blue eyed, and most likely khaki/chino wearing dude.
in other words, the kayumangging bakla (brown faggot) almost always is a potato queen. although it doesn’t necessarily mean that all white gay men are rice queens, much to the consternation of most of my gay friends around here.
but that is not where i was going for. what i'’m saying is i am an anomaly of the species (story of my life, huh?).
for i am, almost always, not drawn to the white boys. and, horror of all horrors, i always have this jones for the fellow flips, the kapwa kababayan.
there, i’'ve said it. now, i can take the snidest of your judgments like a real man.
having said that, i guess, it would not come as a surprise to you if i now gush about this fellow pinoy dude i was introduced to in a private party downtown last night.
but come to think of it, i better not. memories like these are too precious for my arid life. i better keep them all to myself, all tightly capped in my canteen of life savers.
all i can tell you is that we talked and talked and talked. and apparently, we shared the same passion about a whole lot of stuff: those tone poems by taiwanese director tsai ming liang,(actually they'’re tedious movies to the uninitiated), the gourmet qualities of the crispy pata, the loveliest of our manila memories.
sure we talked about life, our piddling lives, and we both insisted that they must have meanings. meanings that we, despite our seemingly unliftable baggage, are still willing to afford them.
sure, we talked about living our own truths. and we both sighed after admitting that we both have no capabilities to speak of them.
and sure, he told me, after all these giddy talk, that he was leaving in a week. going to this music scholarship in stuttgart, germany.
sure, that is so not a problem with me, i told him.
writing down this post, i'’m reminded of this cruel line from a work by the french poet jean-paul toulet.
beware the sweetness of things.
for i could get used to them, right? sure, i know that.