Sexidents - Toilet

It wasn’t planned. I couldn’t get out of it. He started it.

This hilariously sarcastic ad campaign created by Grey Worldwide for the MTV Networks says it best with its Sexidents series.

Sex is no accident. Always use a condom.

This particular one is entitled Toilet.


Sex is no accident. Always use a condom.
So, what's your excuse?

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Temptation

In the straight crowd, they say there is such a thing as the seven-year itch, which I think means that seven years into a marriage or relationship, reevaluation of the partnership happens, and infidelity tends to step in. Okay, fine. So maybe I’m not straight enough for this to even remotely apply. But honestly, I am feeling an itch. And it’s been just six months into my relationship. So it’s a six-month itch… not even close to seven years. But already, the itch is creeping in. Heavens help me.

Ex-boyfriends of years ago have been making their presence felt again. Not really wanting to try again, but just for old times sex sake. Even the one ex with whom my breakup was far from civil has been haunting me. As in he lied to me, cheated on me, owes me money, and made up stories, to the point that I’m tempted to infect him with my HIV and some STDs just to get back at him… But then, to give him the pleasure of my sex would just be too much in his favor, so I haven’t acted upon his advances.

Some former fuck buddies are back. These are guys with whom my trysts can still stir an erection in me even after all these years, so completely forgetting these hot guys and the hot sex is completely alien to me. I’m not sure if it’s a gift or a curse that I am able to keep fuck buddies of years and more years ago. I guess I try not to be a wham-bang-thank-you-man kind of guy, and can actually build a friendship on the foundation of great sex. And great sex it was indeed.

Pozzie friends should be expected. I’ve had more than my fair share of positively romantic proposals. And if I ever did give in, it would be more than just because we were both HIV positive. These guys are smoking hot and oh so my type! Some pozzie friends, have even been crossing from the Yoga for Life line. I’m beginning to question my principle of not shagging in my own backyard.

Speaking of backyards, I even have a neighbor in my list. As in the guy lives about a block away, in a house that I walk past every single day. Hey, it’s not my fault that he followed me home a couple of times and mustered up the courage to talk to me the next chance he got. But man, a block away? Who are the people in your neighborhood? I now know one of mine. How much more convenient can it get?

Strangers, of course. Buses, the MRT, the mall… good thing I’m not even really into bathhouses, gay bars and other more rampantly sleazy places. And then the internet. Oi. Fine, my fault for still having my accounts on personals sites up. But even without those, even Facebook is becoming a potential cruising place for me. Argh.

Unfortunately, fidelity has never been one of my strong points. I mean I have managed to be completely faithful to some guys I was with… okay, fine… I think I’ve done it twice out of seven. But those two periods I was able to do it, I did under my own power and choice. But, mind you, it was never easy.

I’m not blaming any of these male stimuli for being hot. It’s my fault for giving in to seduction. And until now, I have never regretted having sex with anyone. It was my choice every single time.

It’s just me. I love sex. I absolutely love sex. I love giving pleasure. It fulfills me. I gain pleasure from giving pleasure. And to a point, I let it define my role in life. Who doesn’t want to be of service to others? Some do it through charity. I just happen to do it through sex among other things.

So I really hope the boyfriend knows what he got himself into choosing me as a partner. I mean, yes, he does know every mince of past that I have. He knows I’m HIV positive. He knows I’m a slut. He knows I have the sexual charge of five grown men. He knows I have kinks others can only imagine. He knows it all. But the one thing that makes the story different is that he chose to accept it all. Darn.

So I’m trying. I’m trying extremely hard. It’s not frickin’ easy. At all. And the boyfriend hinting he’d be open to letting other guys into our relationship is not helping my noble cause. Argh.

We all know I’m no angel. So just wish me luck on my huge endeavor. May I make it through my six-month itch. And the seven… And the eight… And… And as Eva Eugenio once sang, O tukso, layuan mo ako.

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The Blame Game

Yoga for Life has been going on for nearly five months already. Every so often, our Yogi Bear and Babe make it a point to survey how the participants feel, both physically and mentally, so in the future an analysis could be done to produce concrete data on how yoga has benefited the participants. Along with that, they ask for feedback. Now while most of the feedback is positive, there has been negative feedback as well. One in particular, that piqued my... uhm... fancy.

During the celebration of one of the monthsaries, amid all the fun and laughter before the yoga practice, someone spoke up. After congratulating the community on the success of the program, this person pointed out that he did have one piece of negative feedback to give. I was a bit surprised actually... and curious. Everyone listened intently.

Apparently, one of his friends - someone HIV-positive - met someone else at one of the Yoga for Life sessions. And apparently they got it on. They had sex. They had unprotected sex. And what made it worse was that the person he had sex with was among the HIV-negatives who were there supporting the community. Oh boy, indeed.

As much as I wanted to speak out - biased as I would be towards Yoga for Life, yes I would defend the program to the death - I didn’t want to be a proponent to any outburst. I kept my mouth shut, but my mind was ranting throughout the yoga session. Relax, surrender and let go? My ass.

Really, the point I wanted to make was... What was the point exactly?!

It just wasn’t clear to me how that was supposed to be feedback on the Yoga for Life program. So they had sex. Fine. But unless they did it at the venue, on their yoga mats, in the middle of a yoga session, then what’s the deal? Is the Yoga for Life team expected to keep an eye on each and everyone each and every minute even outside the confines of the yoga session? It may just me, but I think not.

So certainly, the issue could have been brought up before our Yogi Bear and Babe and maybe the rest of the core group. But to have to subject even first time attendees to something like that was unthinkable... not to mention inconsiderate.

And the way it was made to seem like negative feedback on the program was outrageous. If someone had felt they’d been fouled, would it not have made more sense for that person to speak for himself? But no. A spokesperson ranted on his behalf. So to me, whether it was indeed meant to be negative feedback on the program from the person directly involved was still questionable.

Okay let me make it clear. It’s not that I don’t care that someone was put at risk. But HIV is not and should never be a blame game. But if you want it that way, let’s play.

So HIV-positive got acquainted with HIV negative. Now really, should Yoga for Life have prevented that?

So HIV-positive and HIV-negative got it on and got carried away. That’s their right. But that’s their responsibility as well.

So maybe HIV-negative assumed they were both negative. Never, ever assume. Blame awareness and education, or the lack thereof.

So maybe HIV-positive assumed they were both positive. Still, protection is for everyone, even HIV-positives. And not just to protect their partners. Did HIV-positive forget about superinfection? Did he forget about other sexually transmitted infections? Who’s to blame for that?

So on that note, if HIV-positive really meant to blame Yoga for Life for what happened, on what basis?

As someone who already was and already knew he was HIV-positive, it can be expected that he would know all about HIV. So for me, if there’s anyone to blame, it would be whoever it was who gave this guy HIV counseling, whether it’s his doctor, his nurse, or his peer counselor. He obviously didn’t learn much if he actually thought he could play victim and blame a yoga program for his misfortune.

Actually, from the beginning, I questioned whether this was actually a rant from HIV-positive, or just his spokesperson telling a story adding his own ranting tone and feel. And recently, I confirmed what it was.

I initially didn’t know who HIV-positive was. Until, during a recent yoga session, I unexpectedly happened to hear something. It was a guy, telling his yoga friend, about how he hooked up with someone at yoga after he tested positive, and how that person thankfully still turned out negative after being tested after the hook up. I thought to myself, “So, it was you.”

It was interesting how the guy told his story. A bit cocky, without a tinge of remorse. Sort of proud, even. Hello, he told it loud enough for me to hear, right? Wisely, his yoga friend pointed out how there was still that little complication of the window period and how he shouldn‘t rest on his laurels just yet. That was the last I heard.

Clearly, it seemed HIV-positive didn’t get the full impact of what happened. And as much as I wanted to pull him aside and slap some sense into him, it would be counterproductive to subject him to public humiliation. And I’m sure if I took him on in a blame game, he would’ve lost.

I’m still tempted to pull him aside one of these days and engage him in a bit of counseling. But it will have to be done discreetly, as I have no plans of intimidating him, scaring him, or shaming him into oblivion.

My point will simply be... enough with the blame game. Take responsibility for your actions. Sex is a personal thing. So don’t even attempt to have a spokesperson speak up for you.

And a spokesperson too should know his limits. Stop spoon feeding. If someone is old enough to produce sperm, then he should be old enough to take responsibility, too. He’s too old to be playing the blame game. And neither should you take on playing the blame game for him.

This is a lesson that applies to everyone. Take responsibility. It applies even to safe sex. Take responsibility for yourself. Protect yourself. It’s your right. It’s your responsibility.

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Sex Week

Sex-wise, I’ve been such a good boy. Not totally good, but relatively, I could’ve used a whole lot more. After my sexless Papi-stage, sex has been few and far between, and more vanilla than I’d prefer to be. A combination of choice and chance. I just wasn’t going all out just yet. There was an election day fuck, a feast of german sausage, and some mini servings of vanilla here and there. Ugh, I’ve been good. I’ve been too good. I’ve been good long enough.

I wanted sex. I didn’t need it. I wanted it. Enough goody-two-shoes.

I finally gave in to my accounts on some gay personals sites that were craving for attention. I wouldn’t want to give them too much time speculating about my absence, right?

So I took the initiative to plan out some sexy time. What? I’m single. I’m horny. So? Go!


Episode 0 (Yes, even before Episode 1...)
Monday. I was rushing home. I crossed the overpass. I made eye contact with someone going the opposite direction. I glanced back. He was looking. I continued walking, turning to look every so often. He was still looking. He stopped at the end of the overpass. I was at the opposite end making my way down. I could see his silhouette against the bright lights behind him. His arm was up. He was inconspicuously calling me over, pretending to be fixing his hair. Should I, or shouldn’t I?

Should I! I was particularly brave this day. I turned around and climbed back up the stairs to cross to meet him. He walked beside me. “Anong gusto mo?,” he asked. Confirmed. He just wanted to get off. He led me to his car, where he nervously tried to get it on. He had me explore different parts of his buff body with my tongue. And despite the hesitation every time someone would pass by, he came. It wasn’t much action, but it was a good quickie to start the week.

Episode 1
Still that same Monday. The first planned session of the week. A guy I met online was inviting me over to his place. So I made it home, had dinner, showered, and waited for the go signal. His roomies were gone. He sent me a text message calling me over. A tricycle ride, a short walk, and another tricycle ride... I was there.

This was my first eyeball in a while. I wasn’t as nervous as I usually am on eyeballs. Odd. Might be the age. My age. He was much younger. He led me in, and we sat and talked in the living room. Then he led me into the bedroom, where we did the deed… in his roommate’s bed. Yikes. In the end, we were spent. He thanked me. I thanked him. And a condom manufacturer thanked us both. I finally got the chance to bring my condom stash to life.

Episode 2
Fine, I rested a couple of days. The next session I had was set for Thursday. Someone I met online was inviting me over to his friend’s place after work. The rain and traffic that day were really challenging my determination. But it was set, and I didn’t want to back out at the last minute. So late and wet as I was, I made it to the meeting place. From there, he bought us some takeout for dinner, some drinks… and of course, rubbers and lube. And off we went to his friend’s place.

A long walk and a tricycle ride later, we were there. He keyed the door and… oh. Of course. It was naïve of me to think we’d have his friend’s place without his friend. So, I was going to have my first threesome since a while ago. I’m not new to it. I know what it takes to balance two cocks at one time. I just haven’t been able to practice lately. And it showed. I was a bit awkward admittedly, but at the end of the evening, I got them both off. Whew!

Episode 3
This particular one, I told you about already in The Bad Trip. It was the fortunate or unfortunate and unexpected falling into place of all elements of being in the right place at the right time, all for one hot and steamy encounter. But one of the biggest factors that allowed this to happen was actually another surge of braveness that evening. Hell, I hopped in a stranger’s car... doesn’t that say it all? I can’t exactly say I’m more confident, maybe just more daring...

And all this happened, while I was on my way to...

Episode 4
So there, fresh... or not so fresh... from an encounter with a stranger... yes, cum-breath and all... I headed off to meet up with the guy with whom I’ve been dating most regularly. Good thing he didn’t suspect anything. We’ll, it’s not like we’re a couple or anything just yet, so it should’ve been fine anyway. I just needed to work within my green mind to downplay the afterthoughts and the afterglow and concentrate on the task at hand.

Well, this particular one shouldn’t even be part of this list because, technically, I’d really consider this a date more than a sex session. That particular evening, we just hung out at his place... albeit half or totally naked... teased a bit, napped a bit, and basically enjoyed the time together in private... in a comfortable but non-orgasmic way. Anyway, this guy is a whole other story, so I’ll tell you more about him in his very own post probably.

Episode 5
Saturday, I had an eyeball. The guy didn’t even have a picture in his profile, but then again, that may have just intrigued me more. We planned to check into a motel and do the nasty. Our preferences were a perfect match. That was something I was looking forward to. I got pissed a bit with how hesitant and finicky he was with the actual meet up, with him worrying that I was “halata”. Saying, “I’m here. Meet me. If you don’t like what you see, then just tell me off,” did the job.

Me? Halata? Hello?! So we met. Him leading me to the motel may just have meant he did like what he saw. He wasn’t so bad himself. He was older than I was, but looked good. Er na er. And he lightened up once we started talking and getting comfortable in bed. So sans all the sordid details, after two spent condoms and getting him to cum three times, I can confidently say that he enjoyed every minute of the four hours we spent together. This was one perfect fuck. And he’s looking forward to more.

Episode 6
To cap off a whole week of steamy encounters, I unwittingly ended with a bang. Reviving some old buddies I used to jam with, a conspiracy ensued to have hot fun. Of the buddies I used to have, the guys I had less qualms about keeping in touch with were the “strictly safer sex” guys. My sensibility says I wouldn’t have to convince them to safer sex. While with the rest, they’d probably be wondering why I suddenly shifted to safer sex after years of doing it with them unprotected.

So with worries like that out of the way, five horny guys got together and had a whole lot of fun. Fetishes and kinks all the way. Oh, you’re still stuck at lucky number five? Well, a five-some isn’t even the maximum I’ve ever had, so you shouldn’t be surprised at all. In the end, all five of us had fun, the chemistry surprisingly still there despite not seeing each other for over a year. Close to perfect. But the perfect way to end the sex week.


So there. Seven sessions for a week. An average of one per day. From a regular date to old buddies to new eyeballs to total strangers. From an intimate one-on-one to an unexpected threesome to a full-fledged orgy. From total vanilla to going all the way to having the kinkiest of kinks. This was one hot, hot week that gave me the sex fix I wanted. And I’m left saying to myself, “HIV and all, I still got it.” Pak!

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Bus Buddy

An ordinary weekday morning. I hopped on a bus on my way to work, all seats were taken. I stood in the aisle. I took a seat that became available at the rearmost of the bus. I was followed by others who had just gotten on.

And then, of course, as buses are somehow the root of some worldly desires for me, it got weird.

A guy took one of the other seats in the six-man row I was in. My peripheral vision was teasing me. Was he looking at me? I’m oddly visually challenged. I’m far-sighted. So I can’t really scout out guys who are seated too near. Or I just don’t really want to seem too obvious. Hmm.

As people got off along the way, I was able to transfer to the two-seater just ahead. I still felt like I was being watched. It was just him left in the row behind me. He was oddly leaning forward foregoing comfort for something else. But a lady was seated across from me, which may have been stopping him from making a move. Or I was just being too presumptuous.

We had reached Shaw Boulevard, and I felt him gathering his things. He slid over to the aisle. I felt his hand on my headrest. I heard a piece of paper. Then a couple of taps. I was intrigued but remained unobvious, both to him and the lady seated across. He got up and headed up front to get off. I tried looking out the window to see if he’d give one last glance, but didn’t spot him.

So what was that? Was he indeed trying to show interest? I remembered the sound of paper I heard. I ran my hand up the headrest and took a piece of paper slipped into it. It was a bus ticket. Today’s date, the fare, the origin and the destination. At the back, a name and mobile number was scribbled.

I had all the options in the world. I could have thrown it away. But then, of course, I’m a pleaser. I had a chance to make someone happy. How could I just ignore the guy? A guy who did not shove my face into his crotch on the first bus ride for a change? So yes… I sent a text message to the number.

And then the exchange began. He was relieved that I noticed the little message he left in the bus. Naman! I’m not that dense. With that, we became text mates. We’d text daily, at least mere good mornings or what not. This went on for a number of weeks. Maybe a month.

One Saturday morning, I was on my usual mall routine with my mom. At the hardware section, while looking at rechargeable lamps, my eyes caught a glimpse of someone. A guy. Tall, dark and neat, built with a little bit extra. We just stared at each other, short of saying “You look familiar,” “Where do I know you from,” and “Is that you?“ It was him. We didn’t talk or anything. We just texted.

At some point during that text conversations, I realized how ridiculous it was for us to be relying on chance to see one another. So I suggested that we plan out the next time we’d bump into each other. He agreed.

August crept in. And upon establishing the common point of our respective daily commutes, we agreed to meet and share rush hours. I arrived at the bus stop first, he came in a bit. Must’ve been funny seeing two grown men who couldn’t wipe the smiles off their faces.

We hailed a bus that would run our common route. We took seats beside each other. Sometime during the trip, he took my hand and held it the rest of the way, not even minding if other people would see. Cool. It was really nice having a hand to hold through traffic. There was a movie playing on the bus, too. Vic Sotto and Rosanna Roces. Basta Ikaw, Nanginginig Pa. Oy, is this a sign from the heavens? Not really. We were really without the kilig of it all because we were giggling at how ridiculous the movie was. He tapped my leg before getting off at his stop.

The next day, same thing. We rode together. Same bus line. No Pinoy movie this time, which we giggled about again. Again he had my hand firmly in his. Rush hour again. Traffic again. He got to his stop again, and tapped my leg. As he stood up he looked at me, sort of waiting for me to say something or wanting to say something himself. I’m sure I had a confused look on my face. He leaned in and gave me a smack on the lips. And then he turned and trudged to the front of the bus to get off, not even looking back.

Wait... what just happened? But no more confusion, I had a smirk on my face by this time.

I got a text message from him shortly.
“Ingatz”
     “Ikaw rin. Hmp nanggugulat ka. Hahaha.”
“Hahaha… Nakuha ko ba sa bilis?”
     “Oo. Kung Pinoy movie yun, dapat sasampalin pa kita. Hahaha.”
“Hehehe… Sige di na nga maulit.”
     “Oo. Di na mauulit na magugulat ako.”
“Hahaha… So laging ready ka na?”
     “O baka ikaw na magulat. Sige. Ingat ka ha.”

The next day, same thing. Without the movie. And without the smack. He didn’t even hold my hand. I felt he was teasing me. So I took initiative and grabbed his hand. Hmp, akala mo makakatakas ka ha. So there. We were officially bus buddies, and this was our daily routine. I felt like I had a date every single day. I did, sort of.

Okay, fine, we haven’t always been that patweetums. I think there’ve been three occasions that he holds my hand and leads it towards his crotch for me to feel his erection through his slacks. But that’s the farthest we’ve gone. Nope, he still hasn’t shoved my face into his pubes. But he’s managed to keep me curious as to what’s down there. Wholesome, but naughty.

As of this writing we’re still on it... our daily date. I think in almost a month, we’ve missed just three or four days, but I liked how the days we missed together aren’t a big deal. Because on days we were together, the least we’d be is just napping in the bus holding hands. Nice.

Basically, we're barely past being acquiantances. I don't know his surname. Not even his real name. I don't know what he does, nor does he know what I do. And no, I haven't told him the virally significant secret that I hide. Not like he'll catch anything by holding my hand.

So there, now you know my bus buddy. We’re not a couple. No commitment. No I-love-yous. Just something comfortable. And major-major safe. A huge ego boost, for me, at least. Nice. Really nice. And naughty too sometimes.

Isn’t life great? And aren’t buses too?

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The Bad Trip

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After the Glow

Condoms. I'll be honest. It's only lately that I've gotten a liking for condoms. Only lately, when I've really needed them.

The condom choices out there are absolutely amazing. From different brands, to different materials, to different thicknesses, to different sizes, to different colors, to different flavors, to different textures and what not. But wait, there's more.

As is, choosing a condom is difficult enough. But then there's one other thing that can be added to the mix... anyone want a glow-in-the-dark condom?



And so I tend to wonder, why would someone be so particular about using a glow-in-the-dark condom? Here are my top 10 theories.


# 10
Because you believe that it can mesmerize your partner into giving in.

# 9
Because it makes your weiner look bigger.

# 8
Because you just don't get the idea of darkrooms.

# 7
Because you don't want your dong in places it's not supposed to be.

# 6
Because you really want to see his or her insides.

# 5
Because you really want to emphasize that it's a bulb.

# 4
Because Meralco rates have gone up insanely.

# 3
Because you've been told you're not very bright.

# 2
Because otherwise, it's not going to be easy to find.

# 1
Because you want to give your partner more than just an afterglow.


Hahaha. Okay fine, but I tried.

But other than the question of why a glow-in-the-dark condom... the bigger question would be... What were three guys doing sharing a tent and having a glow-in-the-dark condom on hand? Hahaha.

Let's think positive... at least they were prepared... for anything.

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The Cocky Asian

I’d been messaging with a European guy a couple of months ago, with him planning a trip to Manila in May. Physically, from pictures and descriptions, there was chemistry. And it was mutual, too. He liked me and I liked him. Sexually, we were a match. When the time came that I was convinced that he indeed was coming and that it wasn’t just a prank, I had to tell him that I was HIV-positive. Well, okay, I didn’t have to tell him, but I wanted to, so he could take that factor into consideration. I was prepared for any response. But I was hoping for the best.

I won’t deny that I’ve done it with men of different nationalities. I may even be too proud. I remember, during my pre-test counseling, that was among the questions asked… what the nationalities of my sex partners were aside from Pinoy. I listed them down proudly, from Asians all the way to Caucasians. Hell, I didn’t care about being thought of as a global slut. At least I told the truth, right?

So far, with my non-Pinoy conquests, the Caucasians in particular, I’ve had a pretty good record in the sex-to-HIV field. It just really seems that they’re more open-minded about the issue. A couple of them were okay with it, even if we had unprotected sex prior to finding out I was HIV-positive. They even made it known that they still wanted to have sex with me. Hmm, haba ng hair...

I think the worst reaction was from one American guy who went into panic. What if I am sick?, What if lose my job?, and I’d rather die! were among the hysterics that he gave me. He pushed me away. But shortly after, he made his presence felt again, apologizing and revealing that he was actually in a long term relationship with someone who was HIV-positive, too. I never did figure him out.

Even now, I still touch base with a number of foreigners who find me online and who still look forward to meeting, mating and more with me, even after disclosing my HIV-status. Potential meets and mates in the future. And knowing me, right now single and all, I’m game.

And so... back to my story. Last week, I was in touch with my European guy, as he shared his itinerary with me, laying out the days we could possibly meet. And finally, last weekend, the fateful day came. Would it push through? Or would it fall through?

I had to work overtime last weekend, a one-to-sawa meeting that was to taunt my pending date. With just half an hour to spare before our agreed time, I was off. I rushed home to freshen up, and zoomed off into the night headed for the guy’s hotel. I was so fast that I left my mom wondering what could cause me to pop in and out of the house with such speed.

Already late, I took a cab straight to my destination. I got there and asked the receptionist to buzz his room. He asked me to wait, he’d fetch me at the lobby. So I sat and waited. Odd. I wasn’t nervous. I usually am on first meets like this. Really odd.

I heard steps coming down the stairs, and there he was, the same as he looked in his pictures. He led me up to his room, stepped in, as we both plopped onto his bed. He offered me a drink as we got to getting to know each other. And as casually as we were talking, so did our hands start groping. One thing led to another... and another... and another.

Indeed, the virtual chemistry we’d established chatting, messaging and e-mailing were expectations we did live up to, kink and all. And with that, I added one more to my list of nationalities. Yes, I had my German sausage. The issue of safer sex was addressed by the fact that he was mostly into oral... making it relatively safer... and he was an oral-inserter at that, meaning he preferred to be the one getting blown... making it relatively safer again. Take note, I use the words “relatively safer”, as oppose to being absolutely safe.

But as if that wasn’t enough, he surprised me again when he performed some oral on me as well. I appreciated it, but before long, we turned back to our preferred roles. Soon, the scents of steam, sweat and sperm filled the room, and we were spent.

As we cooled off, we got back to talking... about everything under the sun. From work, to family to our motherlands, to his Philippine experience, and other stuff. Of course, we touched on my HIV experience as well, and he expressed how appreciative he was of my honesty with my status, and I expressed my appreciation of how open-minded he was. After over an hour of conversing, we were both ready to call it a night. So I showered and headed on home.

The following day, we were still in touch, and there were plans to meet that night again. The plan didn’t push through though, because we both took the time to rest for our big tomorrows… him for his early flight home, and me for the start of another work week. But at least the desire to meet again was there. Argh, the sex... ahh, I mean the chemistry was that good!

Was it the fact that he was Caucasian? Well, probably not that in particular. I’m not particularly what they'd call a Potato Queen. I'm just a cocky Asian. Hehehe. Although, I do remember an American friend of mine tell me that I was the type who matched well with Caucasians, himself included. Because I’m open-minded? Maybe. My dry humor? Possibly. Hmm, wait... mukha ba akong katulong? Just kidding... let’s call it... exotic. Hahaha.

So once again, I proved that HIV-positives can still have sex. Safer sex, but hot sex nonetheless. And I do believe it factored in significantly that I was not burdened by the need to be carrying my HIV baggage at the back of my head the whole time, and that we were both completely consensual to everything that happened that evening.

So there. Disclosure of my HIV-positive status isn’t exactly damaging my sexlife. Not even with those who are negative. Just the way it should be, with Caucasians or otherwise. That’s what safer sex is for. Hopefully more Filipinos will follow suit. Let’s prove that this kind of knowledge, power, acceptance, openness and awareness isn’t something that only Caucasians are capable of.

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The Hot Weekend

Fine, my birthday is over. But was it over when it was supposed to be? The truth is, unlike any other in previous years, my birthday this year sort of got an extension of sorts. I mean, yeah, I did have a "celebration" somehow on the day itself, but the celebrations didn't end there. It leached on into the weekend. The hot weekend. The hot birthday weekend.

For the first time ever I think, I had a day blocked off for a birthday treat. I mean back when I was still in school, my birthday didn’t count because it would always be summer vacation. When I started working, there would always be birthday leaves set aside. And for other persons in my life, there actually came a time when I’d hibernate for the whole day and just be by myself.

I know it sounds pathetic, but I’d disappear, stay unreachable, and just space out. It wasn’t that I was lonely, I just really loved being alone. Plus, the fact that I hated attention. The worst that I had done on a birthday? There was one year that I left the house early, checked into a motel for a whole day, and in a series, watched porn, jerked off, showered, slept, and repeated. Till the night crept in and I headed home. Needless to say that was one draining birthday.

This year would be different. Thanks to LuckyTrese who almost never let a day pass without asking when and where my birthday blowout would be. Fine. A blowout once every 32 years isn’t bad at all, right?

So Saturday was the day, and it was to be a pozzie day. I met with BFF at the MRT, and headed on south in the afternoon heat. We made a stopover to pick up a newbie who I was to be meeting for the first time. And from there, we headed to Mall of Asia.

One by one, people showed up. My pozzie grandkid, a couple of my pozzie kids, my pozzie parent, and pozzie bloggers LuckyTrese, E, APositivePointOfView and RecordBreaker. All generations well represented. Sounded like we were a lot but had everyone invited showed up, we may have just doubled in number. Agh.

We had dinner. Italian, because I said so. A tomato based penne, a pesto spaghetti, and a couple of pizzas, bacon cheeseburger and double anchovy. Yum. Of course some of us got their fill just eyeing all the hot boys in the resto. Shameless, shameless, shameless. But allowed. Hehe.

From there, we took a stroll back and forth down the baywalk. Not realizing that no one had any idea where we were going. Finally, our gala boys decided to head to Malate. We left E behind, who was heading out of town that same evening. I was really glad he showed up, late but nonetheless. Oh and E’s gift, a little figurine with my picture and the words “Sexy Star” on it? Priceless. E... such an a-hole. Hehehe.


With his spot quickly filled by a new negative friend standing in for his unconfirmed-pozzie friend, we were off to Malate. We were conveniently approached by a driver who offered to take all ten of us. Considering the long queue for taxis, we took it. And this driver was something. We weren’t conscious about getting all homo with him, but amazingly, he was riding along. Type ni manong si Derek Ramsay! Tarush!

Malate. A nice, cool, chill bar served as our refuge, as we made the most of the final hours before the upcoming election’s liquor ban kicked in. I just had a couple of bottles of Red Horse. Others had their own concoctions. A couple stuck with non-alcoholic drinks. And almost all quenched their thirst with more eye candy. Hot stuff. Hehehe.

I think it was before midnight that we hit a fork in the road. One group would go on partying into the wee hours, and the other would head home. I, of course, headed home. ARVs, two bottles of beer, and going way past my bedtime did it for me. Slept like a baby.

Sunday was no rest day. I had lunch with the extended family. Nope, not for my birthday, but a combination of Mother’s Day and my mom’s 60th birthday. Wow, 60. Senior citizen. She now qualifies as my dependent. I wonder if she’d be comfortable being a dependent of someone who would also technically qualify to have a disability? Hmm.

Anyhoo, again, several generations were there, from my grandmother to my cousin’s daughter. I made the most of the buffet lunch, chowing down on four platefuls of such viands as lasagna, tempura, baked potato, and sushi. Worth it, except when, at the end of the meal, a cousin asks me why I seemed so thin. After eating all that? What was I supposed to say?

The rest of the day, I declared too hot to move. Didn’t even want to go to the mall. Just stayed home and slept. Ran a few errands as the sun set. And a quick go-see with BFF in the evening. I needed to save my energy for the next day. It was, after all, going to be election day.

Woke up early the next day. I was ready, actually excited, to vote. My mom and I took the two minute walk to the polling precinct thirty minutes before it was set to open. Credit that for my being number 7 to vote. We beat all the lines, and were done in about 5 minutes. All went well, except for the more than generous amount of indelible ink I got. Indelible AND incredible. And then it was hot again.

But surprisingly, something got me to brave the heat. I got a text message at around 10:00 am, from someone saying he was horny and asking if I was free. This was an old buddy, who I’d been successfully avoiding during the time I thought I was in a relationship. Now that I was single, what was to stop me?

So in fifteen minutes, I was off on a short walk to his place. It may have been a year since I last saw him. Sat down, talked a bit, caught up, and then the clothes came off. I was almost sure I was going to enjoy with this guy, because I did every time before. It was always fun, with no inhibitions nor strings attached, and we were just such a perfect sexual match. Both the bottom and the cumeater in me were always happy. Teehee. I know, TMI.

And with a Wham! Bam! Thank you, man!, I was outta there in less than an hour. So I was bad. I was really bad. But it was good. It was really, really good. Another good drizzle to end an 8 month drought. A good, long, hot, sticky drizzle to cap off the hot weekend.

I... had... sex. Gasp. Right now, I just consider it as one of my birthday gifts to myself. Having safe fun... being carefree... giving in… for now. But at some point, I will really need to take a good look at myself and decide where I’m taking this.

Right now, I can feel the old B.I.T.C.H. creeping in. Pre-HIV. The B.I.T.C.H. who enjoyed sex a lot. The B.I.T.C.H. who could handle 6 guys in one session. The B.I.T.C.H. who had as many as three separate sessions in a day. The B.I.T.C.H. whose record was having 100 guys in the span of 4 months. I amaze even myself.

I could go back there. But do I really want to? Do I really need to? Think, think, think.

I’m not saying sex is a no-no. I’ve always said that even HIV-positives can have sex... safe sex, or course. But if I just really needed to release the sexual tension, my right hand is always on call, right? I just don’t want to find myself using sex as too much of an escape. I don’t want to catch myself playing with others’ emotions. A predator, I refuse to be. An opportunist, I am not. Pure evil, far from it. But an angel, I am not either. I still absolutely love sex.

And with that, my long, busy, hot birthday weekend came to an end. Hot. Really hot. Till next year. Maybe it’ll get... even hotter.

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Blowing Candles

Parties and presents. Cakes and candles. Greetings and gifts. Yes, it was… my birthday. It was my 32nd birthday. Yes, 32 years on the face of the Earth. I’m not ashamed to say I’m 32. Not one little bit. Not at all.

But with my birthday always being strewn between several other occasions, like Labor Day, the elections, Mother’s Day, both my parents’ birthdays, and several others, it was never really a big deal. And I liked it that way. Was this year any different?

Before, it’d be easy to get greetings personally or via mobile. But this was my first birthday post-Facebook, where Facebook takes all the work out of trying to remember everybody’s birth dates. So, though supposedly expected, I am astounded that I got tons of greetings. Yes allow me some room for pride, but I was absolutely amazed!

Of course, family. I was happy to hear from my sister who I haven’t talked to in a while. Then there was my pozzie posse and other pusits who shouted out. There were old friends from school, even way back elementary... oi, history. Some greeting from those who were more than friends, from former fuck buddies, guys I dated, crushes, ex-boyfriends, and lo and behold, even an ex-girlfriend! I know… GASP! Hell, even Cebuana Lhuillier greeted me... I used to frequent Cebuana when I used to send cash to Baby Nathan and others who needed help. Hehehe.

The day itself was not meant to be a biggie. Because there was no longer such a thing as birthday leave for me, I was at work. I wasn’t planning on a blow out or anything, but my gurl friend in the office arrived with a cake in hand with my name written all over it. Aww... both the cake and the gesture… sweet. So sweet.

Over lunch, I got asked what I had planned for the day. Nothing really. No dinner, no nothing. They had to cheer me on though. “Birthday sex! Birthday sex!” Hahaha. Not that I was pressured. But I wish. I wish.

I had been texting earlier with the guy I had been dating this past week. Initially, he suggested we’d celebrate together Saturday night, but I’d already made plans with the pozzie posse. I asked him what he was doing that evening. He said he was free. I took a leap. “Then you’re mine tonight.” Was that me? Was that me?

Figuring out where to meet, we decided on somewhere halfway between our respective workplaces. But the meeting area being near his place and his offer to take me home after just didn’t make any wholesome sense. Gulp. I know my logic was rocked, but oddly, I was still a go.

So we met at Shangri-la, and like the heavens were on my side, we got there within minutes of each other, and actually bumped into each other without having to agree on where exactly we’d meet. From there, it was dinner at California Pizza Kitchen. It was penne for me, ravioli for him, and focaccia between to two of us. Absomalutely yummy. Agh. Both Italian boys we are. We are.

Frozen yogurt was next. Coconut for him, New York Cheesecake for me. Still felt sinful for yogurt. And with that, there were loads of calories to burn. He took me for a walk. A couple of blocks in, I knew I wasn’t heading home. I put my arm around his shoulder, my way of telling him I had no fear. No fear. And a couple of blocks more, he held my hand in the dark of the night. That told me, we’re okay. We’re okay.

We got to his place and settled into his room. All sweaty from the walk. Both of us. I love a guy who sweats. Because I sweat. A lot. Sitting down and cooling off, he stripped down to his skivvies. He said it was hot. Yeah, right. And although we’d been flirting a lot in recent days, I still needed that cue. That cue. That cue.

Okay, just to make things clear, this was someone who knew about my HIV status. Hell, he knew so much about me there wasn’t much left to hide. So he knew exactly what he was getting into seducing me into bed. And to me that’s hot.

It was hot indeed, so I took my shirt off. We hugged. We sat facing each other. He leaned over and we kissed. And two hours later, we were plopped on the bed, spent. Both spent. Two hours?! I know...

We both washed up, dressed up. He drove me home, and dropped me off as we kissed goodbye. I believe I got home around 11:00 pm, the only time I drank my ARVs since I ignored my alarm when it rang while we were in the middle of things. And with that I basked in what he calls a post-coital glow that was expected to last a good three hours.

I know some of you might think it’s just sex. Just sex. But sex is a huge thing for me. I have absolutely no qualms about having it on a first date. So this time, three wholesome dates before getting it on was quite different. Quite different.

Sex. It’s usually a make or break thing for me. But it’s not like I want a certain type of guy or expect certain sizes or demand certain acts. I mean, yeah, I have preferences, I have preferred roles, I have my fetishes and kinks, but they’re not carved in stone.

It’s more on chemistry for me. The comfort. Someone who knows what he wants? Great. Someone without hang-ups? Perfect. Personally and sexually, I’m really more of a pleaser. It ain’t about me getting pleasure. Having my partner drowning in ecstasy does it for me. Satisfying someone satisfies me. Part of the masochist in me, I think. I think.

For a first time for us, it wasn’t bad at all. Yeah, of course we did have to figure each other out somehow, and getting there after a single sessions is a lot to ask for. But our still keeping in touch even after the deed seems like a good sign. A good sign.

And for a first time for me in what... eight months?! OMG eight months without sex?! What kind of life is that to live? Hehehe. Well it was a choice for me. And for this kind of a birthday milestone to break my sexless streak... rigid candles blown till the hot wax flowed... not bad at all. Not bad at all.

So there, that was my looooong birthday day. Too bad it fell on a Thursday, otherwise I could’ve extended it into the early morn. Of course I needed to go to work the next day, albeit hungover not from alcohol but from a lack of sleep… and of course, basking in that afterglow. That afterglow. That afterglow. What a gift. What a gift. The afterglow of candles blown.

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Stupid Love

Love works a different way in different minds. The fool it enlightens, the wise it blinds. – John Dryden

Love. I lost it. Nope, nothing sudden or new. It’s been going on – or off – for some months now. It just took me a while to really muster the guts to say it out loud. I just always never knew how to answer how “we” were. Because I really never knew. I was always the last to know. Amazing how it takes other people to drum into your head and make you feel how stupid you’re looking already. And every time, I’m made to feel that way, I can only smile and shrug and take it. I’d say that I was okay. I was. I really was... I think.

Was I being stupid? Stupid, the dictionary says, is being slow of mind, or lacking intelligence or reason. Falling in love makes one stupid? How could that be? Well, definitely, I deny being slow of mind, because after all, I did get to where was, didn’t I? Lacking of intelligence? Well, I have that accounted for. Because when it comes to love, intelligence is sooooo overrated anyway. Maybe lacking reason. Well I think love can justify itself. If it is for nothing more than the unadulterated state of mind that love can bring, that’s reason enough. Now, if anyone can devise a foolproof way of rationalizing and concretizing love into whys and hows, well then you can gouge my eyes out.

If being “stupid” like this was supposed to be wrong, then maybe I should know what I should be doing right now. Drop everything, pick up where I left off, go straight, get married, have three kids, and live in a house with a picket fence? Maybe I should do that, huh? Well, you know my answer to that one. Many others have made a hobby out of being stupid and they have several different reasons. Trust me, I’ve seen much worse.

But for me, if it means sucking all the passion out of life, putting a little more of myself into it, not letting anyone get more out of my life than I do, enjoying the life that I have, having the life that I want, even if it means listening to my heart, dancing to the rumba beat, putting my heart on the line for someone I love, even for a small moment, for the simple reason of who-knows, could-be, and we’ll-never-know, well, then I’d rather be stupid. Wouldn’t trade it for anything. And you can quote me on that.

I don’t think I was being stupid at all. Brave, maybe, and God knows what I wouldn’t give to be even a fraction braver, albeit more “stupid”. Giving is best if it is given willingly. And I gave willingly.

Yes I don’t deny that sometimes I realized that I was going way off my path for something that seemed so perfect yet so unattainable. Sometimes, I can’t help but submit to destiny. Sometimes, the only thing that drives me is the hope, the anticipation, the passion, but still, that doesn’t make it pointless to pursue. I can only dream to be like that, a person driven by true passion, fueled by pure hope.

But ultimately, in love, as in anything, the decisions are mine to make. The philosophies of look-before-you-leap and better-safe-than-sorry are much overrated, and may have better applications than love. Use those mottos for sex, not for love. More importantly maybe, I’d rather thrive on live-in-the-moment and no-regrets.

I have no regrets. Lost a love? Well, I can still love him... as a good, good friend... no regrets. Not even for the months and months of not really knowing where I stood... no regrets. Not even for the months and months of believing I was dating someone exclusively, only to realize that I was not being exclusively dated myself... no regrets. Not even after months and months of only wanting to be intimate with one person, and barely even getting to first base... read: yes, months and months without sex is sooooo unlike the bitch I was built to be... no regrets. Not even months and months off the dating scene and now finding myself chucked back on the meat rack... hell, I have a dates lined up starting tonight... so why regret? Hehehe.

If anything, I’m actually glad to have gone through this. I’m glad to realize that I am capable of making the sacrifices that a commitment can demand from me. I’m glad to know that life hasn’t left me too jaded, and that I do still have at least this little to offer if and when the right guy comes along. I'm glad that I still have the gall to worry about love, which means I'm not doing so bad HIV-wise.

Too much a martyr? Hahaha. Too idealistic? Maybe. Too mushy? Indulge me. Too stupid? I wouldn’t admit it.

Honestly, I believe one to be more stupid if he lets the chance to experience true love pass him by. It’s not true that love is blind, or stupid for that matter. With all due respect to John Dryden, that may just have been the rationalization of some pathetic person who wished not to admit he could fall into such vulnerability. Love always has its reasons, mysterious as they may be.

How about you? Go back to the times that you felt love made you stupid. Did it really? Think about it. But even better, don’t think. Feel it.

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Getting Stoned

Egged on by BlackPool, I recently joined an online forum that was inspired by the barrage of HIV in the news lately. It was actually a good venue for discussion, populated primarily by Filipinos in and around their twenties, the exact demographic that is now said to be most affected by HIV and AIDS. Easier said than done, apparently.

It started out as a healthy discussion. But I think my coming into the thread seemed to stir things up. Initially, it was probably something new to them to have someone who actually was living with HIV to be in the discussion. Some had gone through this blog, and professed how much of an eye-opener it was for them. I was glad to some extent. Hell, some of them even cried. Cried?! I don’t really know why.

But then, all good things come to an end. One of the voices in the thread who wished to stir the pot in more turbulent ways came across one particular entry of mine, Sex After HIV, where I talked about how I had been doing in the sex arena as of around 7 or 8 months after finding out I was HIV-positive.

If you remember, I had been wading through the remaining ripples of my old fuck buddies, alibi-ing out of the unsafe sexers, and limiting myself to the ones who had always practiced safer sex. I was mostly not disclosing my status at the time. That’s when I started getting the flak.

Why wasn’t I disclosing? Considering that condoms are far from completely safe, what would I do if the rubber ripped and I unwittingly infected someone who I didn’t tell of my HIV-status? Would saying sorry make up for it? Interesting questions, indeed. But aside from questions, judgments were also being thrown around.

Their point? People who I was having sex with had the right to know. Ergo, according to them, I owed to disclose my HIV positive status to my sex partners, so they could choose whether they still wanted to have sex with me or not. Otherwise, I was to be robbed of the right to have sex. It was so bad that at some point, one person accused me of being careless with others’ lives because I no longer had any future to look forward to. And then of course there was the one statement that said people like me didn’t deserve to live and should be fed to an incinerator. Okay. A bit low.

The truth of the matter was that that post was made back in January 2009. Having sex with twenty guys in a span of 7 or 8 months was such a low already, compared to the around 100 I had sex with in that same period the year prior, when I had not gotten tested. And right now, I can say that in that same period a year after, I don’t think I’ve even had sex with 5 persons, and I’ve already made it a habit to disclose to most before anything could even happen.

It’s so bad that since dating Papi, I have not had sex. Yes, as in zero. Okay, two, if you include my right hand and a rubber pussy. Hmm. It has all been by choice, and not because of a self-inflicted law that forbids an HIV-positive person to have sex. But I chose not to defend myself in the thread in that way. I chose to take their debate to heart.

Why was I not disclosing? Because I believe that my disclosure of my status is my option. It is my right. And it is your privilege. The truth of the matter is that still many people are more afraid of having protected sex with someone who is known to be HIV-positive, compared to having unprotected sex with someone who does not know his or her HIV status. Analyze it. Yes, it is the wrong mindset to have.

Condoms not being completely fool proof? Well, part of using condoms does entail using it consistently, meaning always, and correctly. I know how to use condoms correctly. Do you? That way, you reduce the risk of condom failure to as little as under 2%.

And if the condom should tear? It is actually we HIV positives who have delved so much into the topic who know all the inside information as to what to do with accidental exposures to further cut down the risk of infection.

And of course, add to that the analysis that the irrational fear of these negatives shows their biases, their penchant to blame, and their need for information. We HIV positives do not merely use condoms to protect others. We use condoms to protect ourselves. We protect ourselves from other STDs that are out there. We actually have long lives ahead to look forward to, and must protect it from further complications.

HIV-positives having sex is a fact of life. And sadly, I cannot say confidently that all of us do confine ourselves to protected sex. And that’s just speaking of those 4,000+ who have been diagnosed already. Remember, we are only the tip of the iceberg. What about the rest of those who are carrying the virus that remain undiagnosed?

Think about it. Even if all 4,000+ of us who’ve been diagnosed stop having sex completely, that would not stop the spread of the virus. Not while possibly an equal or greater number of people are out there getting their freak on, unknowingly carry the virus and not getting tested.

One final attempt to mock and put the blame on HIV positives, specifically me, drove my point across. The same person who wanted to throw me into an incinerator said something to the tune of, “Thanks to people like this pathetic excuse for a human being, we HIV-negatives are now are limited to choosing between abstaining from sex, being mutually faithful with our sex partners, using protection always, or becoming part of the pozzie posse.” Duh?! So, he actually did get my point. Whatever else could I have been trying to say? I rest my case.

I just find it funny how some people don’t get the value of a look into the life of someone with HIV. Granted, based on the Sex After HIV entry, I was far from perfect. But then I’m not here to be perfect. I’m not here to be a saint. I’m here to tell my story, whatever it may be. It will be up to you to find the message that will be of greatest value to you.

It is the kind of a ready-to-incinerate attitude that is most destructive to the cause. It actually made me realize something. No wonder there aren’t more HIV positives coming out and disclosing their HIV statuses as readily. Because there still are self-righteous and judgmental people like these who are just ready to burn us at the stake. It’s sad. It’s really, really sad.

But funnily, these are the same arrogant people who... heaven forbid... if they ever do get diagnosed with HIV, will be flooded with regret and depression for sure. Agh. This stems from nothing else but fear. Irrational fear. And as Master Yoda says, fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, and hate leads to suffering.

My point was really simple. Fine, of course, there is some responsibility on the shoulders of us who are HIV-positive to protect our partners. But we are far from being primarily responsible. The fact will always remain that it is primarily and most importantly every individual’s responsibility to protect themselves.

A lesson learned that I may have been too brutally honest in telling my story here. But hey, since when has being honest been a bad thing? Will I start editing myself to look more perfect as expected? Hell, no. Let those who are without sin cast the first stone. Because as I’ve realized, if my confession of my supposed “sins” scares people into either abstaining from sex or using protection, then I’ve done my job.

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Bitch in Love

Yes, I dare say it... LOVE.

He’s my type. Nice built. Clean cut. Those eyes. That smile. Discreet, but carefree. An amicable aura. A great sense of humor. He’s so much my type that he was the type that could easily intimidate me. The type that I’d usually consider way out of my league and just settle on admiring from afar.

It was funny how Papi and I started. Like I said before, I’d seen him at the RITM a lot, but hardly ever got to talk with him. He was just too bibo for a shy guy like me. Although, looks-wise, he did always get my attention.

The only real time I got to know him was when he was out of the country. I don’t recall exactly how, but we became avid chatmates on YM. Nothing romantic. I was a friend. No showbiz. He was going through a cool off with his boyfriend at the time, and was set on wooing him back. I was trying to coach him through it, especially during the times that he was down.

Evidence of our friendship was the fact that he was totally honest with me… about his good and bad sides. I felt his remorse and his sincerity. He became someone who I just wished to see happy. And at that time, I knew getting back together with his boyfriend would make him extremely happy.

Sadly, it didn’t seem likely. It broke my heart hearing how sad he was. I remember, on my birthday, he poured his heart out online to me. It didn’t ruin my day. I was just glad to be there for him, and appreciated how he shared his feelings. Somewhere along the way, I knew I loved this guy.

Upon his return to the country, he was planning to meet his new ex-boyfriend one last time at the same place where they first met. It was one last chance to win him back. I imagined that, at best, it would be so kilig to the bones. But he had one request… for me to be in the area on that same day and time, in case things didn’t make a turn for the best, and he needed to be “saved”. I was honored.

But as things turned out, that day never came. Circumstances brought him to realize he had done enough wooing. So instead, he promised we’d go out together sometime, his way of thanking me for the support that I had given him.

It was August that we first met since he came back. I was at the RITM with some newbies, while he had an appointment with the dermatologist. We didn’t spend much time together because I couldn’t leave my troops. But Papi and I did hug, and I got a peck on the cheek to my surprise. It still makes me smile to read the text message he sent after that. He used the words OA and sobra to describe how happy he was to see me. I may just have been happier.

After that, we sort of played around online. He told me to add him as my in-a-relationship-with guy on Facebook, and he added me too. It was funny how people were so surprised by that little move. We were honestly just playing around. But when asked if it was true, if we were serious, and how it happened, we just honestly attributed it to love. Friends should love each other, right?

I wasn’t going to fall in love with Papi. I already was. I know at some point, I questioned myself. Was it all really just a game? Why was I secretly wishing he’d love me for real? I was. I really was. And getting messages from Papi saying, “Walang divorce sa Philippines. Lagot ka.” just made me more confused. Were we, or weren’t we? No courtship ensued, no questions were asked, and no answers given.

A time soon came when temptations were coming my way one after another. Invitations to have sex with this guy and that. But I was happy with Papi. Would it make sense to prematurely commit to exclusively dating him? Was I assuming too much?

I took a chance. I sent him a message. “Ok lang ba kung loyal na lang ako sa iyo?” I cringed upon sending it. I feared that I’d look stupid and that he’d laugh at me. But looking stupid and being laughed at is nothing new to me. So I said how I felt. His reply almost made me cry. “Dapat lang!” And with that, B.I.T.C.H. was a good boy... and for good reason.

Our Kimmy Dora date came along in September. The misunderstanding we got into before our date was a milestone. I was shocked at how affected he was. And I was shocked at how affected I was that he was. Friends shouldn’t be like this, I remember thinking to myself. So many questions needed answers. And the kisses, hugs, and other displays of affection that peppered our Kimmy Dora date gave me some answers.

If you noticed, I never ever said we were in love. Or that we were a couple. We were dating, yes. Certainly, I had fallen for him. I loved him. And he loved me... as a friend at least. It wasn’t my assumption to make whether he was in love with me. But I was sure I was happy.

I am happy. Even if we live on opposite ends of the metropolis, I’m happy. Even if, as evidenced by Ondoy and Pepeng, the heavens always ruin our plans of meeting up, I’m happy. Even if we didn’t see each other for more than a month, I’m happy. But I missed the guy. And it takes a lot for me to miss someone. Despite that, I admit, this was still the most secure I’ve ever felt in any relationship. “Patience, my love,” he’d remind me.

Thankfully, we got a chance to see each other again at the RITM Halloween bash. Take note, this was just to be our second “date”. I could’ve seriously broken down upon seeing him after such a long time. But I kept it together.

Though we couldn’t stop our usual PDA, I could say we weren’t too clingy. Yeah, I sat on a beanbag with him sprawled between my legs for a time. We did hold hands and did manage a number of smacks in public. We only kissed torridly twice, I think, first behind a closed door with one other person in the room, and second out in the moonlit parking lot before we parted ways. Of course, I admit I racked up enough hugs to make up for the more than a month’s wait. But we were far from clingy. Otherwise, we wouldn’t need to send winks and kisses from across the room, right?

It’s weird. It’s different. We haven’t exactly been celebrating monthsaries, nor giving flowers, cards or chocolates. And we haven’t even gotten to the sex part either, which for me, is sooo different. But the attraction is there… on my part at least. Roar!

But still, it’s nice. We each have our own lives, but I cherish what time we spend together immensely. It’s comfortable. No pressure. No burden. No leash. It’s happy. I think it all boils down to the fact that I just want him to be happy. And if I would be an instrument in that happiness, I’d be honored. And the happiness, his and mine, does make things all worthwhile. Hay... I love the guy.

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Pyramid Scheme?

I think we all know the common but mistaken notion that HIV is a gay-only disease. Lately, even the Department of Health came out with statistics showing that HIV infections among MSMs, or men who have sex with men, have been increasing in the Philippines. Could it be the fact that Filipinas are more conservative that makes heterosexual transmissions less likely? Or could it just be that more homosexuals are getting tested than heterosexuals? Or it is just one complicated pyramid scheme?

Conservatism and unknown HIV statuses will be difficult to quantify. But since the philosopher and the scientist in me have been acting up again, I’m so tempted to try to figure out some idea as to why HIV is linked to homosexuals. So banking on pure logic, let me try to analyze.

For this analysis, let me zero in on sexual transmission. And for both heterosexual and homosexual acts, let me focus on insertive sex, meaning vaginal and anal sex, since these are considered higher risk acts as compared to oral sex and other forms. Let me also make the assumption that the people involved are not consciously protecting themselves from HIV. Also, let’s factor in the statistics that say that the possibility of an insertive partner passing the virus to a receptive one is ten times more likely as compared to the other way around.

Imagine starting out with one HIV-positive male at the top of a heterosexual pyramid. He has two choices, vaginal and anal sex. It may be safe to assume that vaginal sex is the more common practice, especially in a relatively conservative society such as that of the Philippines. And because of the potential of pregnancy, heterosexual encounters, unless done within the context of a relationship at least, will more likely be protected. As such, that lowers the chance of the top level male passing it on to the second level female, unless in cases of the less common unprotected anal sex or pregnancy-prone unprotected vaginal sex.

On the other hand, starting out with one HIV-positive male at the top of a homosexual pyramid, assumed in this case to be insertive as well, leaves him with no choice but anal sex. And with no risk of pregnancy, and the assumption of not consciously protecting themselves from HIV, he does not have any other reason to use protection. Let’s just say, if he really couldn’t stand the idea of a fudgy banana then he wouldn’t be go anywhere near that place.

So at this point, all factors considered, including the fact that anal sex is more risky because of the absence of natural lubrication in the anus versus that of the vagina, making the anus more prone to lacerations due to friction which then become possible sites for exchange of bodily fluids, it seems that there is a higher chance in the homosexual pyramid for the HIV to be passed to the second level as compared to that of the heterosexual pyramid.

From the second level of the heterosexual side, the infected female will always be a receptive partner, primarily because she has nothing to insert. Second level males on the homosexual pyramid, on the other hand, can be purely receptive, or able to swing between being a receptive and an insertive partner, more commonly termed as versatile. Thus, at minimum, the infected second level male on the homosexual side will be as efficient in transmitting the virus as an infected second level female on the heterosexual side. But, should the infected second level male on the homosexual side suddenly turn insertive, the chances then multiply ten times.

Am I making sense? Are you still with me? Or have you nosebled to death?

Anyways, if we go further down the pyramids, it should make sense that further transmission of HIV in the homosexual one will indeed be more likely. Could this analysis be a logical explanation to the higher risk of transmission of HIV among homosexuals? I don’t really know.

Now I’m not saying everyone should turn heterosexual to make it less likely to contract HIV. Nor am I saying that everyone should confine themselves to oral sex so they will be completely excluded from either of my pyramids. Because any which way you look at it, no matter how small of a risk a sex act is, it is still a risk. Even if you say that there’s only a one-in-a-million chance, I say you just might be that unlucky one. Comprende?

So, now tell me, are you willing to take that risk?

- republished from Positivism's Ka-Blog!

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Pushing the Limits

Sigh. Remember the days. Those innocent days. The days when nice hair did the trick. The days when a deep voice sent your mind reeling. When beautiful eyes could melt you on the spot. When a sweet smile could make your jaw drop. When a gentle touch sent chills down your spine.

I remember those days. Those days are gone. I’ve dared to push past them. And past many of my limits, too.

Let’s just say I moved onto bigger things. My eyes would no longer be content with just hair, eyes and smiles. I remember the time when peeping into the sleeves of guys sitting across me in a jeepney and seeing their hairy armpits was one hell of a turn on. Then, when that wasn’t enough, I wanted to see guys in sandos or tank tops. And then I wanted to see more... bare chests.

From there, I liked seeing a guy’s treasure trail leading down into his pants or shorts. Then I came to savor every time I got a peek up the legs of a guy’s shorts. Remember those tommy-tommy days? And then I needed to see a guy in underwear or swim trunks, complete with the bulge and the pubes. And then even that wasn’t enough. I wanted to see them buck naked.

At first, of course, I would only get to see guys stripped down to the flesh in pictures. And then they were naked in pictures, having sex. Detailed sexual encounters were not far behind, be them in verbal or written form. And boy, could I picture every scene in my head. And then the pictures and stories merged, and I got to watch sex on videos. I didn’t even have to imagine anymore.

And from just watching them, I wanted to be with them… I wanted to be them. Seeing wasn’t enough. I wanted to touch them and be touched. I was mimicking what I saw in pictures and videos. And yes, I came to a point where I thought and believed I could even do better than some pictures and videos that I had seen. Oi, you’d be surprised…

Truly, I barely left anything to the imagination, and barely anything of me was left to the imagination either. I was pushing my sexual limits further and further. I would say I almost had no limits. I was just so game for anything. I dared. I enjoyed the dare.

I’m painting a picture of myself as such a daredevil right now, but believe me, I could’ve been worse. I could’ve pushed myself even more. When it comes to places I could go to, my limits were hardly ever pushed. When it comes to seedy and blatant places, I’m a wimp.

I have never been to a gay bar. Neither as a client, nor as someone who works there... just to make that clear. I just always thought that, unless I had money to “ipit in the singit”, it would just be a feast for the eyes, and it’d just leave me with blue balls and a heavy puson. Aside of course from the fact that I feel it’s going to be a waste of money.

I have never been to a bathhouse, or gay club, or whatever you call these F-, Q-, and E-type places. I always worried about being labeled as the new putahe of the place. Yeah, pretty paranoid, I know. Not knowing who I’m going to be groping with in the dark doesn’t help either. And again, there’s the fact that I think it is an unnecessary expense.

I’m proud to say that I’ve been to a massage place once. I already knew I was HIV-positive at the time, so I knew my limits. Plus I went with a friend, so I wasn’t going to be there cruising or anything. I was told that it was actually a legit massage place, even though it’s clear that staring at others’ nakedness is acceptable in the wet area, and the sauna has so many dark hidden corners very inducive to doing steamy stuff. But I was really just there for the massage. And that first and only body massage ever was great. Fine, I admit, I ended up giving a blowjob to the friend I went with, but honestly, 99% of the time there was spent just relaxing. Okay, fine, 90%.

Dance clubs are a different thing. Yeah, I’ve been to a couple. I don’t think sex is supposed to happen there, but, especially if it’s somewhere in Malate, it becomes pink and seedy nonetheless. I mean, yeah, people are there dancing, but you’ll notice that some guys’ eyes are dancing around more than their bodies are. Minus points for the paranoid and anti-social like me, and the taunting of my claustrophobia in these places doesn’t help either.

So far, I think my limits with motels are those which I pushed to the limit. The privacy they afford does wonders for introverts like me. I’ve been to a lot of them, especially prior to my finding out I was HIV-positive. The first time I was actually able to step into a motel was back when I was 17. I know. Menor de edad.

It can be awkward going into a motel as a same-sex pair, but several years ago, I realized that females going in with their boyfriends have much more to “lose” in terms of dignity than I do. I’m not sure if it was a turn for the better or the worse, but no longer was I ashamed to be seen walking into a motel with another guy. People working there know what happens behind all those doors. And hypocrisy and judgment were not part of their job descriptions. See, that’s how far south my mentality has gone.

So really, my limits have been getting pushed. Some of them, at least. I have dared. But I tend to question myself. When should one stop daring? When should one stop pushing his limits?

At this point in my life, post-HIV and all, I’m starting to notice I’m not pushing my limits – sexual limits, specifically – as much anymore. Of course, it helps that I’ve pretty much pushed all my limits already. And in all that pushing, I hardly have any regrets. I can almost confidently say Been there, Done that to most things. I may have tried almost everything at least once... sans of course sex with the opposite gender. Okay, I’ve tried at least everything that fits my principles. O diba, I have principles daw?!

So maybe I’ve stopped pushing my sexual limits. Why? It’s not because I’ve gotten too old for it. And neither is it because I’m HIV-positive. I could have sex if I wanted to. But that’s the thing, I no longer want to. I’m beginning to realize I no longer need to. I mean, I want to have sex, but allow me to be cheesy and say I want something much more meaningful this time. Okay, that really sounded cheesy.

Basta, it feels like I’m beginning to see that I no longer need to prove anything to myself. I don’t need to be constantly daring myself and pushing my limits... not sexually, at least. That’s not a bad thing, right? KJ ba? Baka kunin na ako ni Lord? Don’t worry. I’m still me... complete with all the fetishes, kink, fantasies and horniness. I’m just taking more control. I’m daring to limit. And I’m limiting the dare. But for life’s other dares, just keep ‘em coming! Push on! Push on!

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Spilt Milk

Monday rush hour. Braving the rain, armed with my trusty umbrella, I took a jeep to the MRT station. Jam-packed and with the plastic sheets pulled down over the windows, yes, I was kept dry, but I suddenly felt my claustrophobia creeping in. Logically, my eyes went to the rear of the jeep, hoping to at least see some air. But no, someone was hanging off the back of the jeep, blocking that view as well. But against what little light there was, I felt the man’s eyes looking at me. Was he smiling? At me?

I checked him out a bit. He was probably in his mid-20s, tall, fair-skinned, dressed in just jeans, a shirt and a cap, and good looking, I thought. I remember wondering if it was someone or something else he was looking at. But I still felt it was me he was looking at. I shrugged it off. He got down ahead of me, and I eventually lost sight of him.

Making it up to the MRT platform, I stood at my usual place, the middle door of the third coach. Waiting for the next train to come, I couldn’t help but look around. I was surprised to spot the same guy standing just two meters to my left... and still looking at me... this time, from head to toe. I was now sure he was checking me out, complete with an impish smile on his face. I busied myself looking around, panicking, honestly. I regret trying to check on him with my peripheral vision, only to realize he now stood right beside to me. Oh, fuck.

When the train finally came by, everyone seemed to get sucked into its open doors. Rushing in, I felt a hand wrapping around mine... yes, it was him. I couldn’t help myself. The next thing I knew, my hand had betrayed me and clasped back, revealing my interest in him, too. Inside, he made sure to stand next to me. It seemed he still wasn’t convinced that I was interested, and still made little efforts of looking my way, rubbing elbows, and finally holding my hand as he concealed it with his bag. I looked back, rubbed back and held back. That’s what he was waiting for.

He soon struck up a conversation of whispers. We introduced ourselves and found out I lived near his brother’s place, where he stays on weekends. He asked if he could drop by sometime... I said maybe. I was getting off ahead of him, so before we got there, he asked for my number and saved it on his phone. He rang me up to make sure I got his number, too. It was time for me to get off... the train, that is. And with that, I fell in love with the MRT.

I just felt so good about myself. It was such an ego boost. He was just... so... interested! I couldn’t believe how aggressive this younger guy was. Or maybe he just judged my age wrong. I’d blush if that was the case. But honestly, it was so extremely flattering. His moves gave me the kiligs.

We were texting a bit during the following hours, and establishing our preferred roles in bed, it was clear he was after sex. And we were a perfect match. I jokingly guessed that he had a relationship, which he confirmed... he had a girlfriend. Okay, I can deal with that. And so it was set, we were to meet the following Saturday. He was to come to my place... honestly, I was excited. But then my dilemma of revealing my secret came with the excitement.

During the following days, I tried not to worry too much. It was my hormones that were taking control. I cleaned my room and changed the beddings, and even replenished my supply of prophylactics. It should’ve been so simple, but not for me. I knew I was worried, because I found myself asking a number of my friends whether I should tell this guy about my HIV or not. Opinions varied, and I was still at a loss. The decision would still be mine to make.

Well, it was more like I knew what was right, but didn’t want to take the risk of “losing” this guy. I didn’t want to make the decision. So Saturday crept up slowly and the time to decide was looming. He just couldn’t wait. Friday night, he sent a message asking if we could meet already. This was it.

I was in a jeep when I replied, finally revealing my little secret. I told him I was bothered about not telling him about it, and mentioned that it was my way giving him the chance to change his mind. Honestly, I was expecting the worst, but really hoping for the best. I stuffed my phone back into my pocket as soon as it was sent, anxious of what reply I was going to get.

After five minutes, I checked for a reply. Nothing. Another five minutes. Still nothing. Maybe he was busy. Maybe he was thinking about it. For the next hour, I was flipping my phone every five minutes... and the realization that he was no longer interested was hitting me again and again and again. I felt sad. Sad that I was reduced to an HIV-status. Sad that it tipped the scales against me.

Do I regret telling him? Well, the sex in me says “Sayang!”... but my consuelo-de-bobo would be that hopefully he realizes that you can’t tell one’s HIV-status just based on looks alone. Hopefully, he’ll play safe from now on. But damn! I really, really wanted him!

So there, I chose to do the right thing, but ended up with nothing. I guess the worst part about it is that he completely lost interest, not even considering the option of being friends at least... he just didn’t want to have anything to do with me. Ouch.

But you know what? I can’t blame him. That was just the harsh reality of things... for now. I took another risk, and lost again. Nope, I gotta convince myself that it’s his loss, not mine. No more use crying over spilt milk. After all, I could always spill my own milk... by myself.

Post-script:
As of Saturday afternoon, he sent me a text message asking how I was and if what I had confessed was true. I just said it would be such a bad joke to tell. He admitted doubting its truth, and I ended up lecturing him about the fact that you can’t tell one’s HIV-status based on looks alone. Nothing again after that. Sigh.

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Of Cams & Scams

This latest barrage of sex video scandal thingies has really gotten out of hand. The media, the senate, some leftist organizations... just everyone’s gotten in on it, or is at least trying, so I refuse to be left behind. Just as expected, my fingers always have something to say.

For those who don’t already know, we’re not talking here about the allegedly-sexy-but-really-not-that-sexy video of him singing and dancing in his underwear along with an equally-clad her. It really wasn’t sexy to begin with. I even found it funny. So that particular one was more of a scam than a scandal.

There are, however, real, all-the-way sex videos here. Was I shocked? Not really. Excited? Not really either. The problem I have with this situation is that other people seem to be shocked for the wrong reasons.

For some people, it boils down to medical ethics. Medical ethics?! What’s medical and unethical about it? Is it the having sex part? Is it the having sex with several different women? Is it the video part? Is it the lack of consent of the other party?

It’s not so uncommon for a doctor to have sex. Doctors are humans. And they have sex. Trust me, I know. Now, if it’s the having sex with different women part, geesh, they’re doctors, not saints.

As for the video part, with the technology these days, everyone now has the chance to fulfill a fantasy to become a porn star. It may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but you have to admit, it’s certainly something that can definitely tickle the imagination.

I have no excuse for not having the other party’s consent to do the videos. Is he a genius for getting away with it? Maybe. But personally, I would’ve been pissed that the videos weren’t any better. I actually think the videos would have been better if the women were in on it. If there’s anything foul about it, it’s making me believe it’s a sex video when it didn’t even turn me on!

Besides, with or without the video, I do believe that they could and would still have had sex. Again, sex happens. Whether you like it or not, it does. So don’t get self-righteous about it. Would it suddenly have become ethical if he didn’t get caught with the videos?

For some, it’s about abuse of women. I always wonder whether these women’s groups really mean what they say when they fight for equality. I’m sorry, but this is just overplaying the kawawa-factor of women. Just because someone suddenly chooses not to wear make-up, not to have her hair done and not to dress like a slut, doesn’t automatically make her the victim.

I think for me, the worst part I’ve heard is about the involvement of drugs. Well, certainly, being under the influence of drugs can cloud your notions of what’s right or wrong and cause you to make choices you might regret. But then again... did anyone get forced into taking drugs in the first place?

Sex. Videos. Scandals. They happen. Just like HIV, they are a reality. So quit making a big fuss out of it. I dunno. I just think everyone should have been mature enough to just take responsibility for their actions. Don’t go around just blaming others. It’s there. Deal with it.

It’s like HIV. Unless you were forced into unprotected sex, then you have no one to blame but yourself. But actually, don’t blame yourself. Suck it up and take it... the consequences, that is. Oh, and speaking of unprotected sex, people should have had more vigilance against that occurrence in the videos than the videos themselves.

And just like HIV, it’s seemingly all about stigma, it’s seemingly all about shame. Aren’t we all just being a tad self-righteous?

Anyways, seeing those video scandals didn’t really leave me scandalized. It just left me wishing things were hotter, clearer, more creative, and honestly, bigger. Basically, better. Trust me, I’ve done much better... ahh... err... I mean... I’ve seen much better. Oopsy.

I don’t know if it says more about me, or more about the videos, but I was anything but shocked. I guess I have a higher threshold for scandal these days. Or maybe I always have. It’s probably because I have dirty secrets of my own. But then, who doesn’t?

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