The week before that, I had this horrible first date with writer guy. I had to travel all the way to Pacita, only to be... horrified. From my skin, I can still faintly smell my dread of being physically and emotionally raped but then, this new guy seemed not as desperate. And he was much better looking besides.
Exhausted, I settled on an egg-shaped chair in the cinema waiting area, stretching my legs and getting sideways looks from the other gays who were thick as flies in that mall until he texted me that he was on his way. I went down the escalator and waited for him at the Foodcourt.
It was another thirty minutes until he came into my view. He was wearing a Thomasian black shirt, paired with nice-fitting jeans and loafers. He was more effeminate than I thought, but he fit his clothes well. His arms were well-shaped, and his face strangely familiar. He looked a lot like one of my ex's in person. He was a catch, all in all, and I found myself strangely conscious of my own body, and cursed the pimple protruding from my right eyebrow.
We had dinner, and we made some small talk. Although in truth, I did more listening than talking. I found out that he was a teacher also, and he went on about his teaching experiences, never asking me stuff about myself until the conversation begged for him to do so. It was okay, though. He was cute, and I loved how he playfully smashes his water bottle whenever I tease him about some small thing. He did not eat much because his belly was becoming larger, he said. He was obviously a health buff. And that did not bode well for the chances of him liking me.
The janitor was beginning to mop the floor and put up the chairs when we were done (he only ate half his food) and we decided on having some coffee. I loved how he was not afraid of touching my arm and leaning on me occasionally. I thought that those must be signs that he doesn't find me repulsive at the least.
I enjoyed listening to him talk more while I drank my caramel macchiato, and for once I wasn't smoking because he said he was allergic to cigarette smoke. He said I can smoke but I should stay 100 feet away from him (as if he was a gasoline truck). I said if I can wait for him for two hours, I could stand not smoking for the night. It was a trial though, and I really had to put my arms around my neck to resist lighting a stick.
Once, as his lips were sucking on the straw of his vanilla ice-blended, he gave me a lidded look and smiled (he has a really cute smile). I wasn't sure if he was trying to be provocative but I sure was provoked, and I found myself mesmerized (really I was) and I had to pull myself away from his stare. "What?" he asked teasingly. "Nothing," I said, hiding my smile in my cup. My, what a lucky guy I was that night.
After, he insisted on taking a walk because he said his tummy was so full he needed the walk to burn the fat. I chanced a feel at his tummy and I said he was overreacting. "Care for a donut?" I said as we passed by Krispy Kreme, and he pulled my arm and we playfully flirted right then and there in the open. I've never felt like that in a long while. That feeling of being with somebody who is not ashamed of expressing how he feels about you.
"So, where are we going?" he asked after minutes of walking around (for the second time for me, aimlessly) around Cubao and immediately I thought of taking him to a motel but I was too damned shy to say it out loud. "Where do you want to go?" I asked. "Anywhere is fine with me," he answered.
That must have been a go signal but I had to summon my courage until I led him in front of Eurotel. "Do you mind if we stay here for the night?" I asked. He said "Okay", with a touch of coyness I found endearing. "I was pointing at Chowking, not the hotel," I joked, and he patted me playfully on the arm. "Oh I hate you," he said.
All the time, I was waiting for hints that he really does not want to sleep with me (because really, it wasn't a fair trade) but when we were on the bed, he was the first one who pulled me to him. He was so strong I felt mildly manhandled, and then he paused and said "You're wearing something I'm not wearing."
"What is this, a pop quiz?" I joked. And I racked my brain for the answer. Was it a riddle? Was it a sex-related joke? Awkward minutes passed by with me sitting on top of him, still clueless on how to answer his question, until he took my hands and guided them to the answer. All I was able to say was, "Oh..."
He was good, I admit. Both in the obvious and in the emotional aspects of it, and I found myself trapped in my own head, wondering at how good and patient he was with me. And I felt first hand things I've only watched before.
Hours later, we were watching the motel TV, with him lying on my tummy. I was caressing his muscular back and his hand was stroking my thigh, and I once again, I thought if there was a chance we could be together. There were things I disliked about him, that was true, but he was so fun to be with. He was cute, and he was good! But that mature part of me reminded me not to be carried away, and it pointed out the sheer ease of how he did this whole thing. He was an expert at these things. And to be an expert, he must have had lots of practice.
He fell asleep first and I dimmed the lights because I saw his eyes squinting (yes I was watching him sleep because I'm romantic that way), and when I snuggled back beside him, his hand reached for me and he hugged me. I looked at his sleeping face for a few more moments and wondered at how I got him there with me at all. I've had terrible dates since this year began but looking at him there beside me made me think it was all worth it. This time, I won.
The phone rang and it was time for us to leave. He was so sleepy I felt guilty for dragging him into staying the night with me. With my help, he was able to sit on the bed, even though his eyes were still closed. The first thing I noticed was how disheveled his hair was, and so I took his comb and attempted to flatten his hair.
I was doing too much, I thought, and that was not good because that would indicate desperation. And once I've roused him enough, I settled on just waiting for him to get dressed, stealing looks at how perfect his chest was, reflected on the dresser's mirror. A last hug before we closed the door behind us, and off to the elevator we went.
The early morning air was fresh and clean, and I asked him if he would like to have some breakfast. "No," he said. "Coffee?" I asked. "No, you've done enough," he told me.
We reached EDSA and he told me to cross to the other side, but I insisted on waiting for him first to catch his northbound bus and he said okay since he took off his contacts and couldn't read the bus signs well. His bus came too soon and before he walked away, he turned around, smiled, and thanked me for my time. Somehow, I knew then that that was the last time I'll ever see him.
My mother was sweeping outside when I reached home. I looked fresh and clean, not the usual look she'd expect from someone who she thought spent the night drinking. She never asked questions though, and I went directly to my bed and noticed for the first time how my knees and elbows were beginning to get sore. I checked my phone, hoping he would text me that he got home safely but I had no new messages. I woke up in the afternoon, and still, no messages from him.
Another time, I would have moped about it. Another time, I would have wept at the idea of him not texting anymore. Another time, I would have been confused why he was so sweet and how we were okay together but in the end, he did not want to keep me. But my biggest emotion it turned out was awe at how I was learning to play this game. That sometimes, you just enjoy the moment and that's it. That things on the surface shouldn't always be given weight.
It may not have lasted but I'm okay, and perhaps it really was better that way. I had a good night, and that is that.
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