suntoy

August 13, 2007

Kung kinsa man nagsulti way rason para mopatay ug tawo kay sigurado wa pa katilaw ug suntoy.

Unsa man nang suntoy? Inday, undoy mao kanang dula sa mga way buot (immature ba) nga mga batang laki kay wa man jud ko kita nga babae na gisuntoy, ka delikado ana uroy basi unsay pay matuslok nuon.

Simple lang ang posisyon. Idikit inyong mga kamot unya siguroa nga gataroy ang inyong duha ka tudlo. Kanang tudlo ninyo nga gamit kung manudlo mo pamasangil sa uban ha? Dili kanang pang pak yu o pangkulkog ninyo nga tudlo kay baho na.

Huna-hunaa lang ang porma ni Eugene sa Ghost Fighter pero ayaw tawn itutok sa ilahang ngil-ad na nawong kay way mogawas na laser gikan sa inyong ray gun diha maski unsaon ninyo ug syagit. Ang buhaton ninyo, sundan ninyo inyo amigo (ayaw imong kaaway kay di na makasabot sa inyo joke maski unsa ka katawanan), assume da posisyon dayon ang inyong kamot, hulata magpuyo na siya, pungko ka sa iya may lubot dapit ug gamita ang inyong tanan kusog (utong ka sama sa upat ka adlaw ka na wa kalibang maski pila ka kapayas na imong gikaon) ug ipaslak nang imong tudlo sa iyang kibot!  

Uso nang suntoy sauna tong hi-skul pa ko. Suntoy didto, suntoy dire. Sumbagay didto, tamparos dire. Unsaon ta man nga daghan man pikon sa kalibutan. Busa ayaw katingala kung square amo lubot sa una kay notebook na siya amo giipit sa amo pantalon. Tanawon ta lang ug di mabali na inyong tudlo kung suntoyon ninyo ang nawong ni sheryl cruz.

Kahinumdom ko tong una ko nasuntoyan. Sama sa daghan pikon, daghan pud tanga ug usa nako didto. Unta diay nakabantay nako nga miabot na diay ang uso pagkakita nko mga studyante sa elementarya nagbaguod ug tabon sa ilahang kibot gamit ilang duha ka kamot. Mao pagsaka nako sa hagdanan padulong sa amo classroom, nakatilaw ko ug suntoy gikan sa ako bestprin. Salamat sa ginoo sa paghatag nako ug mga amigo nga gahuna-huna sa akoa basta na’y uso.  

Wa ko kasabot unsa gibati nako ato, kung kaihion ba ko o kalibangon. Nakatesting naman pud ko nasumbagan sa itlog mao makasulti ko nga lahi ra jud. Sakit tuod ang itlog pero kanang suntoyon ka, mura ka’g bata nga nakakaon ug pan-os na gatas, magsuka-kalibang ka jud sa kasakit. Naa gain ko nasinati nga klasmeyt gikalintura human masuntoyan. Naa pud usa nga misuka, pero bago lang man pud mi nahuman ug paniudto ato unya gisuntoy mintras nagkuha ug tubig.

Tungod kay buotan ko na amigo, syempre mobalos jud ko. Pila ka adlaw ako gipalabay para makalimtan niya iya gibuhat sa akoa. Panghambog niya sa amoa mga amigo giunsa ko niya paglubot. Katawa lang pud ko. Hahahaha! Lagi naisahan ko. Abi niya wa na to sa akoa. Di oy! Wa siya kabalo nga mura ko utok ug bao, di makalimot.  

Nakalugar ko pag pananghid niya nga mangihi lang siya pagulian namo sa udto. Upat ka adlaw na ang milabay pagkahuman ko niya gisuntoy. Sunod ko sa iyaha, gihulat nako nga abrihan niya iya zipper ug igawas iya manoy. Pagsugod niya ihi, luhod dayon ko ug gitusok nako ako duha ka tudlo sa iyang kibot, syagit dayon ug “kabalos na ko!!”

Tawn ako amigo, naihian iya karsones ug sapatos sa kahapdos. Wa siya kabalo kung undangon ba iya ihi o gunitan iya kibot. Syagit siya “Yawa ka bai! Ihian taka karon!” ug dayon tuyok atubang sa akoa. Syempre nakadagan nako. Ambot giunsa niya paguli nga basa kayo iya karsones, basta pagkahapon mi-absent naman to siya. Pila pud ko ka adlaw niya wa tagda. Tsk! Pikon jud.

*************************************************************

Lahi pa atoa. 3^rd year hi skul ko naay nahitabo nga di nako malimtan. Kani lagi magpataka ug suntoy2x maski sa mga di nimo suod. Basketbol to, wa ko labot sa dula kay nag guna ko sa amo CAT (PMT naman guro ang tawag ana karon).

Ambot unsay nahitabo kay nag guna lagi ko ug sagbot pero paglingi nako nag sinuntoyay naman ang mga laki didto nga ganina lang nagtanaw lang sa dula. Undang ko guna kay lingaw man pud ang suntoy basta dili ikaw ang biktima. Ug naay bryt na bata nakahuna-huna ug apilon ug suntoy iya klasmeyt na gadula ug basketbol. Pagdribol sa iya klasmeyt iya dayon gisundan ug gitusok ang lubot. Nangatawa tanan human miambak ang tibaghak! Pagkatapos siya mahuwasan sa kasakit, lingi siya sa nagsuntoy sa iyaha na gatindog gihapon ug gakatawa (Bryt lagi) aron mobalos.

Natingala nalang ko nga gisuntoy man niya sa may tiyan dapita. Nahilom tanan pati ang gasuntoy. Pagsaka niya sa iya polo nga uniporme, nangluspad siya ug wa katingog. Nakita nalang nako nga wala na iya pusod ug naay mitulo na dugo. Gidagan dayon siya padulong sa clinic.

Ako? I was like, ewwww.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Melissa

August 9, 2007

 

In a square inch panel,
We watch her die.
The bushy man pinions her pelvis
to the crimsoned floor.
His barbed thighs
cleave at milky, supple skin,
as his insolent tongue probes,
prods, and trespasses.

Frayed between bones and concrete,
We hear her screams.
Muted by the same
technology that bestowed us 3G,
stayed the specter of AIDS,
and cloned an unsuspecting sheep.
The bushy man snickers, while he squeezes
the twine that stifles her hands.

A peppery liquid fell
From the crack.
With nothing to scratch, she cut
into her palms.
Wishing pain could subdue cruelty.
Wishing she bleeds dry.
 
Outside, the shadows descend
on the Arabian desert. The breeze hip-hops
and tangos over the soil.
Cold toes kissing blisters as it carpets
silhouetted avenues.
A spattering of laughter
awakens the night.  

The  throbbing rod
Pushes inside her.
Inexorable in its single-minded purpose.  
The ache streaks in concentric
pattern from her loins to
her skull, consuming the air around her.
Corrupted by that single thrust,
the climax of all fairy tale stories
abruptly impeded by the words
“they lived happily ever after,”
as the princess falls
to the arms of her prince.
His foul breath treaded on the promise
To the love she left behind.
Her body knew nobody,
yet callused hands now  
Sullies her neck, breasts, navel.
 
As the bushy man thrusts,
She remembers Jun-jun who has
school fees due next week.
 
As the bushy man thrusts,
An image of Mama flashes,
her drooping breasts no longer
holds the juice of life that
sustained all her seven children
even as hunger ravished her
once-lithe arms.

Of the days when they slept with the firewood
remained unlit.
As famished tears blended with the piss
and sweat on the mattress.

Of rendezvousing politicians,
the legs of their pretty mistresses
high up in the air
in homage to his manhood,
in reverence to his pockets
as Inang Filipina,
her flag-like frock
scrunched up to her waist,
get sodomized from behind.
Over and over.

The bushy man ejaculates.
Her belly contracted to deny
an unfamiliar progeny
of dunes and black gold.
She senses it
Shooting up from her vagina,
to her cervix and to
God knows where.
She hears belt being buckled
as she huddles in a
fetal position,
closing her eyes tightly
in supplication to
the diety who ditched her:
"Please,don't let me
bear his child."

From somewhere,

she hears his fading footsteps.
The paved floor creates
a different resonance
from the bamboo slits back home,
upsetting a memory.
Of her mama walking slowly
away after tucking her to bed as
the treacherous bamboo floor
always stirs up the cat.

She reaches out for
the sheets to wash herself
of him, knowing it's
pointless.
She could still smell
The bushy man's stench
from yesterday.

And tomorrow.
Tomorrow, his friends will come.

No longer will she feel
an innocent kiss.
No longer will she welcome
a fleeting touch without cringing.

 

 

P.S.

To "Melissa" who got raped by a fucking Arab in Saudi: You don't know me and I seriously doubt you will ever get to read this but I'm sorry for the nightmare that you're in and for your dreams that we trampled. Vice President Noli de Castro already instructed officials in the Philippine embassy in Saudi to come rescue you. Could you please make way for them? They need space to bend over and pull down their pants as they allow your rapist to butt-fuck them again for the chance to send more like you to their deaths. Oh, did you know your favorite government officials are investigating how you managed to get there? Seems like it's going to be your fault why you got raped.

Cigarro

August 7, 2007

There’s something seductive about a man and his cigar.

I couldn’t quite figure it out why, really. Maybe the superciliousness of a cigar makes it alluring; or maybe the images on the airwaves that assaulted my senses over the years: the maverick who, after saving the world and getting the girl, smokes a cigar as a victory dance; the first-time father who lights up one after getting the good news from the doctor; and in some cultures, the rite of passage from boy to man.

History is also replete with powerful people who prefer cigar. At the top of my head, I’ve got the revolutionaries Fidel Castro and Ernesto “Che” Guevarra, communist Karl Marx, writer Mark Twain, poet Pablo Neruda, British statesman Wintson Churchill, inventor Thomas Edison, director Alfred Hitchcock, President John F. Kennedy, and psychoanalyst Sigmund Freud.

I mean, those names in the list kick ass!

There’s also the dynamics of exclusivity. Like pissing on an empty bottle without spilling a drop, cigar smoking has so far remained the domain of men. Though lately, Hollywood female celebrities were seen smoking cigars but look at the roster:  Sharon Stone (Basic Instinct), Linda Evangelista (supermodel), Demi Moore (G.I. Jane), and Gina Gershon (Bound, Showgirls). These are strong women who could cut your balls off, fry it with batter, and peddle it as Kwek-kwek in the street.  

Of course it’s easy to see the semiotics of the cigar and its association with power and triumph as opposed to a cigarette for example, which could be unfairly classified as the opium of the proletariat. To oversimplify the subliminal message, it’s a question of have and have-nots.  

In reality, however, cigarettes cut across the social class and it could be even argued that more famous people choose cigarettes over cigars. To mention a few, we have Princess Stephanie of Monaco, Christina Aguilera, Victoria Beckham, Drew Barrymore, Gwyneth Paltrow, Winona Ryder, Franklin Roosevelt, John Lennon, Oscar Wilde, Jean Paul Sartre, the man in black Johnny Cash, and the rebel without a cause, James Dean.

As you can see, the list proves that image is not the problem. My beef with cigarettes is that I could never stand the smell of second-hand smoke and the after-smell. The look of Guns and Roses’ lead guitarist Slash plucking those six-strings with a cigarette dangling on his mouth might look cool but, let’s just say, I ain’t keen on kissing him soon. It’s like a marriage contract, it looks good on paper but reality tends to throw you a curveball.

There’s also the pipe but for Chrissakes, who smokes a pipe these days? Maybe if I drove a Rolls Royce, I’d throw in a pipe and a top hat just to complete my image of a snobbish tycoon. The pipe has never looked cool. Even the people who smoke it are often pigeonholed as intellectuals and, by the theory of relativity, nerds. Who are they? Let’s see, relativity proponent Albert Einstein was one, then there’s C.S. Lewis, Alexander Graham Bell, astronomer Edward Hubble (of the Hubble Telescope), painters Vincent Van Gogh and Claude Monet, John Ronald Reuel Tolkien, and the fictional character Sherlock Holmes who couldn’t be seen without his ubiquitous pipe. Even on Popeye, the pipe looked weird.  

Okay, maybe JRR Tolkien and Vincent Van Gogh were cool but that’s only a testament to how dorky I am.

Though they may look identical, each premium cigar is unique because they were manufactured by hand. Tobacco leaves are aged under controlled conditions to reduce sugar and water content. Then the leaves undergo fermentation so the aroma, flavor and characteristic of each leaf permeate through before they can be rolled by a, well, cigar roller.

The cigars are then stock up in a box called a humidor. It’s no ordinary box since it can control the conditions inside and keep the cigars from drying up or amassing moisture.

Symbolisms aside, it’s also the way a man lights a cigar where each procedure carries weight. From the moment he picks a cigar from the humidor, he smells it for the aroma; he fingers its edges for dampness or dryness as they influence the taste of the cigar; he strokes it for consistency and perfection as any lumps in the contour is considered an anomaly and therefore unfit to be consumed.  

After choosing the perfect cigar, the smoker then clip the bottom and light up the top, not with a lighter, but with a match. The fire from the wooden match supposedly retains the flavor of the cigar.  

That kind of attention to detail could never be accomplished with lighting a cigarette, which seems to thrive on the concept of instant gratification. If I have to make an analogy, cigarettes are like having sex with prostituted woman who’s trying to achieve a quota for the night, reducing the time for foreplay since every so often, she asks you to speed it up because you’re hogging all her time along with potential customers.

The farthest I’ve come with a cigar was to smell it because I couldn’t stand the stench of tobacco smoke. Not with cigars, cigarettes and certainly not with pipes.  So is it a case of penis envy since the cigar is often seen as a phallic symbol? I wouldn’t even venture to overanalyze that premise.

Freud was once said to have turned defensive when he was grilled over his passion with cigars and how it relates to his own phallic obsession: “Sometimes, a cigar is just a cigar.”

And sometimes, a blog is just a blog.

Anti-hero

August 3, 2007

As can be gleaned from the previous post, I have no moral compunction whatsoever. In juxtaposition to that statement,  I'm wary of people who have high-regard of themselves as a virtual authority on values (specifically of the religious kind) and impose that knowledge on others by being generous with their scathing comments or scorn, whichever can generate more spite, when you stumble.

Sure, taking back what the kid stole would have been the correct thing to do but always doing the "right" thing never held much allure for me. And I don't think I'm alone in this. After all, the urge that drives people to a certain action is not really defined by how acceptable it is but because it feels good. The better it feels, the bigger the stake and in that regard, the term charity is most ominous because it is a selfish act cloaked in altruism. The lie is to help improve the lives of others when the motivation is selfish — to feel good. But I'll take charitable frauds to critics, who dish out vituperation without its pecuniary counterpart, any day. 

The times make it very hard for heroes to thrive. You know, those larger-than-life individuals that you look up to even if one day you grew taller and find yourself looking down on them? In this age of fast foods, Chinese knockoffs and pirated 16 in 1 DVDs, the laid-back, cigar-chomping, women-loving, and uncomplicated hero who sees the world in black and white just overstayed his welcome. In fact, this kind of hero when played in the movies is panned out by critics as “two-dimensional.” In its place, we now have the anti-hero. The angst-filled character who’s neither a protagonist nor an antagonist; the man we love to hate; the man who’s got more edges than a googolgon.

I belong to a clan with old-family values. Not unlike the Mafia (and try reading this aloud using your best impression of Marlon Brando’s Corleone), "family comes first." And like the Mafia, we have skewed sense of values. Church is for sissies, and so are pink shirts and uncircumcised men. Pretty much, everything in the 10 Commandments is fair game: stealing, adultery, taking the Lord’s name in vain, killing (I’m not exaggerating here), judging everybody else (and gossiping about it afterwards), or coveting (which predicates stealing).

However, there are two rules you should never, ever violate: Honor your parents and spare the women and children. Those things earn you a bitch-slappin’ right there. 

The result is bringing up a clan of rogue hybrids and anti-heroes. People who have no problem stabbing you to death right where you sit, seducing your wife, mugging you for talking funny, doing drugs, or gambling away that TV set. These are people who think prison is no badge of shame but fuck me if you won’t see them fight to death to prevent that from happening. Sa laktod na pagkabisaya, dili padakop ug buhi.

Yet I could never imagine myself raising my voice to my parents even if the accusations seem unjust or however I may think my position is correct nor could I fathom raising a hand against a woman or a child. 

Never.

And in all that distorted sense of values and mafia mumbo-jumbo, the implicit lesson is clear, for me at least. Anything that is justifiable is excusable. Try thinking of any crime or offense and I’m sure you will find a valid reason if you put yourself in the offender’s shoes, though admittedly you have to lower your standards from the communal to totally subjective point of view.

But I still think there’s no excuse for rape, beating your child silly, or talking back to your parents, which brings us all the way back to our bottom line: Honor your parents and spare women and children. Everything else is fair game.    

Crooked road

August 2, 2007

 

I wasn’t able to write about this immediately but I saw last week a student of about nine or ten years old adeptly swipe an FM radio from one of those sidewalk stalls along Crooked road.

Two steps towards the stall, reach out, lift, conceal, walk — all that took only a second or so. Of course, what I saw was the culmination of days of planning. That kind of seamless larceny doesn’t happen on a spur of a moment. He studied how the old lady manning the stall always seemed busy talking to somebody, a friend, a customer, or passersby. I know because I studied that vendor’s habits just to see how the boy did it.

Looking back, I think his timing was perfect. If I had to do it, I would have done exactly the same thing.

Let’s see, the time would be between 3:30 to 5 p.m. when the students or employees would have gone home from school or work. That way, the streets would be busy with students and workers. How is that important? Mornings wouldn’t have been as busy since people or students wouldn’t loiter around the area without risking being late for work or wherever students go these days. Plus, the vendor’s alert in the morning unlike in the afternoon when distractions and fatigue are sure to falter her sharp instincts.

Twice in a row I saw the same guy in a Muslim headgear taking up most of the lady vendor’s attentions at about the same time the crime occurred. This must be what the boy saw was the perfect opportunity.

Also, the thick crowd in the afternoon makes for a great screen to obscure the theft or, more importantly, a hasty retreat.

Being casual is the key. Who would anyone think an elementary student has the gall to steal in broad daylight?  The casualty can result to a potential witness second guessing himself, which in turn buys the boy some time to make his escape.

It’s rare for a witness who just watched a crime being committed to take action. Surprise renders the witness motionless while his/her mind process whether what he saw was real or not. The odds get higher if it was a first-time witness.

I wonder how the boy knew this.

His casual manner and the item he stole made me believe that it wasn’t his first time. I could understand if it was food he pocketed but an FM radio is so superfluous. This is something you brag to your classmates and friends afterwards. The kind you do on a dare. I wouldn’t be surprised if he narrated to his friends in detail how he pilfered the radio from a sidewalk stall.

I hate social profiling but the kid was clean, mestizo and quite portly. The kind of kid you see lounging around exclusive schools waiting for their ride home.  He’s got a Spiderman backpack which he hugged towards his chest to conceal the loot inside his white polo shirt.

I followed him towards Madayaw and while his behavior appeared casual enough, his strides was uptight, walking on tiptoe as his stance tilted at a nearly 45 degree angle — a taut little birdy in his first flight.

The traffic light at the intersection turned green. The boy stopped and I caught up with him and we were now standing side by side. His sandy hair reached out only to my solar plexus.    

I had to let him know that, you know, God was watching.

“Dong, unsa nang naa sa imong polo?” I asked him pointblank.

“Wala ‘ya oi,” he mumbled.

“Nakita nako naa ka gikuha sa tindahan ganina, asa to?” I probed, more stressful this time.

Subdued and anxious he showed me the loot, a black cube measuring 2” by 2” and still encased in plastic.

“Okay, tagoa na basi makita ka pa sa uban,” I said. “Asa ka uli?”

“Sa Matina ‘ya,” he replied, obviously surprised I didn’t turn him in.

I gave him P10 for fare back home.