I wear my slightly yellowish old polo shirt and my brown pants with small patches and zipper giving out as I also gaze at my reflection in our tall musty mirror standing just outside my small room. Buttoning my shirt, I recall the hands doing it for me last night, showering me kisses all over my face, my body inching to come closer at him, gasping for more. The exact commencement of our secret meetings every Saturday night, its details and my initial reactions, at his concrete clean white bungalow just two blocks away from our quaint two-storey wooden moth-covered house, I cannot remember. What I am certain is we’ve been doing it for years. And as the years draw on, the act continues to excite me the way a can of coke can turn my mood upside down. His kisses suddenly become the soda I can no longer resist, and his sweat dripping all over my body provide a sensation that leave me thirsty every time. Am I getting crazy? When I was still in 3rd grade, I know I wrote my heart out to a girl I fancied in a poorly written, drawing-covered yellow paper I stole from my mom’s “Sari-sari store”, but I cannot call to mind why I suddenly stopped adoring girls around my age or even lasses two to three years ahead of me.
Am I a gay? Or have I “gayed”?
Nina, a pale and slim classmate of mine, who always shoots her right hand during class recitation to show she’s more advanced, has expressed her fondness of me, and attempted to place her voluptuous yet dry lips on mine while we were cleaning the classroom. To decent lads like me I presume, she’s a good offer. Instead, I felt a bolt of knots in my stomach, the little creatures I had inside twisting as though chasing each other. I anticipated then loads of green would come out of my mouth, so I kindly excused myself and hurried to the restroom four rooms away from our class to unload them. She took it as an insult and later on spread the rumors that I am gay. The bullying started after that. Well, I act manly if that makes a difference. I do not tie my shiny hair with a female’s hair knot and I do not wear my mother’s Sunday heels when she’s not around.
Am I gay or have I “gayed”?
Does my contact with Kuya Lito morphed me into the person I was not? I do not put on make up and wave my body, crack jokes in front of the class to put on a show.
Am I gay or have I “gayed”?
And then I realized everything about me revolves around him.
If I see my black leather shoes, I would imagine him removing then while going down further below that take me to a Nirvana I cannot deny.
If I see my polo shirt crumpled, I would remember him pushing me down his bed, shoving his mouth in my mouth and his hands gripping my arms hard that I could only close my eyes and give in.
If I see my pants, I would recall him lowering the zipper, sometimes leaving it open without removing the button to entice me or frequently removing it right away as if a beast is ready to devour the prey. It would take me to a place removed of scenes of my parents throwing silverwares at each other and spitting sour sentiments with words I presume to mean I am a mistake.
If I see my bag, I remember him putting all sorts of fruits he gathered a day before from his farm in Digos. And that would fill my stomach and emotional well enough for seven days before we meet again; enough to displace my parents’ absence on Sundays and Mondays, to diminish the impact of my parents’ insistent altercations and squabbles from Tuesdays to Wednesdays and enough to erase the feeling of guilt of being born into this world every Thursday and Friday when both would berate me for no apparent reason.
Am I gay or have I gayed?
I do not sashay in front of this mirror every night as portrayed in —–‘s Sirena music video. I do not look for guy textmates and pretend I am a woman! I am not gay! I am not! A cloud of invisible mist dissipates into thin air. Fisting my knuckles and throwing them at the side of my head while I continue to ask, am I gay? Did I find the solace I needed with a man and end up being what people call “salot sa lipunan”?
The throws move faster…
I look at my eyes and start piercing into my soul at that moment with these incessant questions of guilt.
The throws move faster and faster…
Guilt? Am I guilty? Why should I be blamed? Faster. Is the feeling of being wanted a form of addiction or is it the act itself that makes it addiction, or is it both? I throw rapid and stronger punches this time as tears streamed down the floor. Is numbing myself from care and love for my parents to give them the happiness they want still my own fault?
I am gay? Have I been gayed? No! I am not gay! I am not gay. I am not gay… I am gay? I am gay. I am gay!
I stop, still staring at my sweat and blood-stained polo shirt. Then I realized I am just looking at a victim.