"Why don't you bring those over here?" he asked, still smiling.
"Okay," I answered. And I arranged the stuff we bought so we can drink while sitting on the floor. I also brought along my pack of cigarettes and the ashtray. I put on the "Evil I" CD on the DVD player but turned the volume down because it was quite late. He was looking at the wall where my diplomas and certificates were hung.
"So... you graduated from UP?" he asked.
"Yes," I answered without elaboration. I did not really want to talk about UP.
"What course did you take?"
"Chem."
"What's that?"
"Chemistry."
"Wow, that's a very difficult subject."
I simply shrugged. If he only knew how much of a failure I am now.
"You must be a genius," he added.
"It doesn't matter much. It's nothing."
He just looked at me, and I thought he mistook my tone for arrogance.
"I mean," I hastily added, "There are a lot more people more intelligent than me. It doesn't matter in the long run. Everyone has their own weaknesses. Their own strengths. Their own issues. So in the end, we're all equal."
"You know I'm beginning to be impressed by you. In fact, I'm already... 40% impressed," he said, still looking at my certificates.
"I'm not trying to impress you," I answered quickly.
"Of course," he said.
"This is yours," I said, handing him the shot glass.
"So you're a teacher," he prompted.
"Not anymore."
"Why?"
"I just want to try new things," I told him. "I want to live many lives. I have a weird way of looking at the world. Most of my friends do not understand me. I'm jobless at the moment actually, but I want to be a barista."
"A barista?"
"A barista. Like those in Starbucks."
"Oh."
"And I also want to be a DJ. Not in the radio. But you know, in clubs," and I mimed scratching a vinyl on a DJ's deck.
He just smiled.
"I love music. And I make mixtapes too. I compiled this album we're listening to."
"Your music is different, I noticed earlier."
"They're indie songs. I'm into indie songs right now," I said. And I talked about my albums.
"I told you I'm weird," I finished. And I looked away, slightly embarrassed.
"No, weird is okay. I like weird people."
"Really?"
"Yeah. I knew it the first time I saw you. There was something different about you. You're not like the other guys I've met. Most of them, they're very cocky. And they talk nonsense. You're not like them. And they're boring to talk to."
"So I'm not boring?"
"No. That's why I'm talking too. I don't talk much when I'm with other guys."
"Thank you," I said, and I struggled to hide the smile blooming on my face.
"I also want to be a writer," I added.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. That's why I like dating. I like meeting new people. I love hearing their stories. It expands my experiences. Like I said, I want to live many lives."
"So... So you're making me a subject?!" he exclaimed.
"Yeah, sort of. Sorry," I said laughing.
***
"How many guys have you met from that site?" he asked.
That gave me pause.
"A lot," I answered simply.
"Have you met any decent ones?"
"Yes. I met all my ex-boyfriends from there. But I've been unlucky, these past few months. Haven't met anyone decent."
"Ouch."
I laughed, but I did not apologize.
His phone rang. He looked at the screen for a few seconds but didn't answer it.
"Who's that?" I asked him.
"My wife."
"Doesn't she know?" I asked. Although I knew that was a stupid question.
"Of course not."
"She doesn't suspect?"
"Maybe. But she loves me very much, my wife. She's a very good woman. Once her cousin saw me holding hands with a guy. Her cousin told her. She got mad. But not at me. She got mad at her cousin."
I said nothing.
"Don't you want to get married?" he asked.
"With a girl, you mean?"
"Yes."
"...No."
I wanted to add "Because I don't want to be unfair to the girl" but I thought that would be tactless of me.
"It's a wondrous thing, getting married," he said, and his eyes went dreamy. "You go home, and someone's there to cuddle with you. Someone's there to take care of you."
I said nothing.
"But I still like having sex with guys. With women, you have to do all the work. With guys, it's more laid back. Much more enjoyable."
I just looked at him.
"And with girls, isang kalabit lang..."
I didn't know what he meant by that so I kept silent.
"You should get married," he told me.
"Maybe. In the future."
"And I have a boyfriend too you know," he added, his voice already slightly groggy.
"Oh."
"It's great actually. They take care of you and..." his voice trailed off. "I'm so tired of this life... I'm so tired."
I looked at him and I thought of the story he told me earlier. How he came to Manila because he was brought along by a rich gay foreigner. How he was "collected" along with other boys and they all lived in this big condo unit. They were essentially sex slaves, he told me. How every night, when the old man was horny, he'd summon one of them to his bed. And after, he'd summon two. How they were forbidden many things. How two of them were thrown out because they fell in love with each other.
His was a story I thought I'd only read about in books. A story I thought I'd only find in indie movies. But there he was, a guy who lived that life, lying there in front of me. Getting drunker by the minute as he slowly slid down on the floor.
He was trapped in that lifestyle, I thought. Something from him was stolen and he wasn't able to recover. Now he's jobless. He's flitting from one rich gay man to the next just to survive. He's hanging out in Malate, hoping to find another gay benefactor. Joining "bikini opens." Selling his body. Just to scrounge up enough money to feed his ten-month-old son.
He's got no future. He was screwed up. He was trapped. He was... just like me.
"Come here," he said.
And then I kissed him. I kissed him as he lay there on the floor. And for a few moments, there was no one else in my world. No family sleeping upstairs. No doubts about my future. No uncertainties. No guilt at what we were doing. There was no one else but him. No one else. Nothing else.
His phone rang and I looked at him questioningly.
"Screw her," he said as he pulled me closer.
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