Alex Maskara
Thoughts, Stories, Imagination of Filipino American Alex Maskara
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Diary of a Masquerade
~
(Warning: sensitive content, written in my early 20s dealing with the decade 80's. Edited through AI. This is meant for mature readers.)
Chapter 3
Antonio spins a hustler's gospel for Roberto Policarpio—a grand, dizzying monologue of Manila’s nighttime underworld, all in the hopes of getting paid.
---
After teaching them everything I knew, my boys were promoted—globally. These sons of Manila ended up lighting fire on hostel beds, car backseats, cheap motels, and even under the starless skies of the world’s grandest cities. Paris, Amsterdam, London, New York... and our very own Santa Monica Boulevard. “Damn those Filipinos,” the foreigners say. “Who taught them to be such exquisite tarts?”
Their humble teacher? Still standing right here, by Manila Bay—your divine mentor in stilettos and sin. I should be offering entire *semester courses* in the Art of Hustling to the country’s top universities. With credits. Full lecture halls. Thesis defenses.
But beware—outside my circle of trained neophytes lie the closet queens and repentant sinners. The ones who show up quoting scripture, condemning Sodom, praying for the salvation of homosexuals... only to turn around five minutes later, whispering their price. I’ve seen it too many times. These “holier-than-thou” sickos are the most dangerous. Their guilt runs deep. And when their shame boils over, it’s us they blame. Some of them even carry knives. Some of them pull triggers.
And yet—shame on me—I still give in. Especially when I’m broke. This line of work? You can never keep money. The cops make sure of that. They show up at midnight, threaten to lock me up unless I “grease their dicks,” and I’m not even speaking figuratively.
I've never had a proper police record until recently. A few months back, some bastard arrested me for “indecent exposure.” Indecent, my ass—I was *mooning* him. That’s art! Then he plants weed in my pocket and starts his little drama. “Oh-ho! You’ve got drugs, my boy. You're in trouble now.”
Marijuana? That’s not even a drug in my book. So I threw a name at him—a big-shot NBI guy I serviced back in the day—and told the cop if he locked me up, I’d sing his bedtime habits in public. Can you believe it? The idiot *called* the NBI guy to check. And when he realized I wasn’t bluffing, he howled like a stray dog, tail between his legs.
I've even met queens who challenged me to a fistfight under the influence of cheap gin. I still ended up fucking one of them—for a fee—with my *actual* fist. Some people pay for the full experience, I suppose.
And in this city, Manila? I can no longer tell who's gay and who’s not. One night, an officer from the Philippine Army—yes, an actual officer—pulls up in a government vehicle with two women. He does them right there, for over an hour. And once the women leave, he leans in shyly, asking if he can try it with me next.
But the most curious creatures of all? The older ones. The confused. The ones who no longer know where their compass points. I’m almost sure Roberto here belongs in that category. These guys follow a script: first, they act scandalized when they find out what I do. Then, they criticize my lifestyle. And finally—they ask me that classic *manly* question:
“So, what about women?” Roberto asked.
I rolled my eyes. “Avoid them. Women? They think hustlers are lovers. One fuck, and they start asking what time you’ll be home. They’re fatal. Too emotional.”
He looked out at the bay. “I didn’t know we Filipinos were this free. This wild.”
“Oh, honey,” I smirked, “you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. This is Manila at night—gateway to demons, illusions, and sweet masked seductions. Here, boys like you enter the masquerade, shape your disguise, live it up, and vanish when it’s over.”
He cut in, “I’m curious. What made you start doing this?”
That question again. It ticked me off. “Are you *interested* in me or what?”
“Of course,” he said. “But before I pay, I need to know your quality. Your story. Isn’t that how business works?”
At the mention of pay, my ears perked up. Babe, for the right price, I’ll make you feel Charles Dickens himself is telling you bedtime tales.
“My grandparents raised me,” I began. “God rest their souls. They took me in after my parents were murdered by the NPA. Refused to pay rebel tax. Boom—dead. That moment shattered our family.
My grandparents tried. They really did. I saw them working the rice fields, backs bent, joints screaming, just to feed me. It filled me with guilt. So I promised I’d become independent as soon as I could. Right after high school, I ran.
They never understood. I feared I’d hastened their death. But once I could fuck, I used what I had to survive. I started with Bernie—the town’s hair stylist—and from there I became the toast of the village queens. Business boomed. I was always away. Grandma would send the whole town to look for me, not knowing I was just behind our house, grinding away with a cosmetologist.”
I could see it in Roberto’s face—his fascination growing. He leaned against a coconut trunk like a wide-eyed child hearing his first fairytale.
“Don’t tell me they didn’t suspect,” he interrupted.
“Oh, they caught me. Once or twice. But they denied it to themselves. They thought I’d outgrow it. The village didn’t believe in homosexuality—it was just a ‘phase.’ So with that blind eye turned, I earned the nickname *Prince of Hustlers.* Their suspicions turned real once tourists started coming—pedophiles with cameras and money.
‘Why?’ they asked, ‘We don’t even have a tourist attraction!’
Our village was wedged between two mountains. I recruited boys, paired them with anyone who liked their brown skin and full lips. Once the boys started wearing gold chains and Levi’s, the truth was undeniable. That’s when they ran me out of town.”
“Damn,” Roberto muttered. “You could be charged with trafficking.”
I smirked. “Maybe. But the only lawyer in our town? My most loyal client.”
He laughed, genuinely this time. “Go on.”
“By then I was a full-fledged hustler and pimp. I stayed in school. Oh, the job security there! Went to church, too. Almost seduced the priest. Poor man got scared when I offered him communion of a different kind.”
I noticed Roberto shift uncomfortably. Maybe he’s religious.
Time to switch gears. This is the language of survival: tell people what they want to hear. I’m aiming for a jackpot here.
“Don’t get me wrong,” I said, softening. “I’m not some two-bit whore who spreads legs at the sight of a peso. I’ve grown. I’ve got standards now. Bigger balls. And sharper tastes.”
2025-04-21 10:45:58
masquerade
Diary of a masquerade 3
(Warning: sensitive content, written in my early 20s dealing with the decade 80's. Edited through AI. This is meant for mature readers.)
Chapter 3
Antonio spins a hustler's gospel for Roberto Policarpio—a grand, dizzying monologue of Manila’s nighttime underworld, all in the hopes of getting paid.
---
After teaching them everything I knew, my boys were promoted—globally. These sons of Manila ended up lighting fire on hostel beds, car backseats, cheap motels, and even under the starless skies of the world’s grandest cities. Paris, Amsterdam, London, New York... and our very own Santa Monica Boulevard. “Damn those Filipinos,” the foreigners say. “Who taught them to be such exquisite tarts?”
Their humble teacher? Still standing right here, by Manila Bay—your divine mentor in stilettos and sin. I should be offering entire *semester courses* in the Art of Hustling to the country’s top universities. With credits. Full lecture halls. Thesis defenses.
But beware—outside my circle of trained neophytes lie the closet queens and repentant sinners. The ones who show up quoting scripture, condemning Sodom, praying for the salvation of homosexuals... only to turn around five minutes later, whispering their price. I’ve seen it too many times. These “holier-than-thou” sickos are the most dangerous. Their guilt runs deep. And when their shame boils over, it’s us they blame. Some of them even carry knives. Some of them pull triggers.
And yet—shame on me—I still give in. Especially when I’m broke. This line of work? You can never keep money. The cops make sure of that. They show up at midnight, threaten to lock me up unless I “grease their dicks,” and I’m not even speaking figuratively.
I've never had a proper police record until recently. A few months back, some bastard arrested me for “indecent exposure.” Indecent, my ass—I was *mooning* him. That’s art! Then he plants weed in my pocket and starts his little drama. “Oh-ho! You’ve got drugs, my boy. You're in trouble now.”
Marijuana? That’s not even a drug in my book. So I threw a name at him—a big-shot NBI guy I serviced back in the day—and told the cop if he locked me up, I’d sing his bedtime habits in public. Can you believe it? The idiot *called* the NBI guy to check. And when he realized I wasn’t bluffing, he howled like a stray dog, tail between his legs.
I've even met queens who challenged me to a fistfight under the influence of cheap gin. I still ended up fucking one of them—for a fee—with my *actual* fist. Some people pay for the full experience, I suppose.
And in this city, Manila? I can no longer tell who's gay and who’s not. One night, an officer from the Philippine Army—yes, an actual officer—pulls up in a government vehicle with two women. He does them right there, for over an hour. And once the women leave, he leans in shyly, asking if he can try it with me next.
But the most curious creatures of all? The older ones. The confused. The ones who no longer know where their compass points. I’m almost sure Roberto here belongs in that category. These guys follow a script: first, they act scandalized when they find out what I do. Then, they criticize my lifestyle. And finally—they ask me that classic *manly* question:
“So, what about women?” Roberto asked.
I rolled my eyes. “Avoid them. Women? They think hustlers are lovers. One fuck, and they start asking what time you’ll be home. They’re fatal. Too emotional.”
He looked out at the bay. “I didn’t know we Filipinos were this free. This wild.”
“Oh, honey,” I smirked, “you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. This is Manila at night—gateway to demons, illusions, and sweet masked seductions. Here, boys like you enter the masquerade, shape your disguise, live it up, and vanish when it’s over.”
He cut in, “I’m curious. What made you start doing this?”
That question again. It ticked me off. “Are you *interested* in me or what?”
“Of course,” he said. “But before I pay, I need to know your quality. Your story. Isn’t that how business works?”
At the mention of pay, my ears perked up. Babe, for the right price, I’ll make you feel Charles Dickens himself is telling you bedtime tales.
“My grandparents raised me,” I began. “God rest their souls. They took me in after my parents were murdered by the NPA. Refused to pay rebel tax. Boom—dead. That moment shattered our family.
My grandparents tried. They really did. I saw them working the rice fields, backs bent, joints screaming, just to feed me. It filled me with guilt. So I promised I’d become independent as soon as I could. Right after high school, I ran.
They never understood. I feared I’d hastened their death. But once I could fuck, I used what I had to survive. I started with Bernie—the town’s hair stylist—and from there I became the toast of the village queens. Business boomed. I was always away. Grandma would send the whole town to look for me, not knowing I was just behind our house, grinding away with a cosmetologist.”
I could see it in Roberto’s face—his fascination growing. He leaned against a coconut trunk like a wide-eyed child hearing his first fairytale.
“Don’t tell me they didn’t suspect,” he interrupted.
“Oh, they caught me. Once or twice. But they denied it to themselves. They thought I’d outgrow it. The village didn’t believe in homosexuality—it was just a ‘phase.’ So with that blind eye turned, I earned the nickname *Prince of Hustlers.* Their suspicions turned real once tourists started coming—pedophiles with cameras and money.
‘Why?’ they asked, ‘We don’t even have a tourist attraction!’
Our village was wedged between two mountains. I recruited boys, paired them with anyone who liked their brown skin and full lips. Once the boys started wearing gold chains and Levi’s, the truth was undeniable. That’s when they ran me out of town.”
“Damn,” Roberto muttered. “You could be charged with trafficking.”
I smirked. “Maybe. But the only lawyer in our town? My most loyal client.”
He laughed, genuinely this time. “Go on.”
“By then I was a full-fledged hustler and pimp. I stayed in school. Oh, the job security there! Went to church, too. Almost seduced the priest. Poor man got scared when I offered him communion of a different kind.”
I noticed Roberto shift uncomfortably. Maybe he’s religious.
Time to switch gears. This is the language of survival: tell people what they want to hear. I’m aiming for a jackpot here.
“Don’t get me wrong,” I said, softening. “I’m not some two-bit whore who spreads legs at the sight of a peso. I’ve grown. I’ve got standards now. Bigger balls. And sharper tastes.”
2025-04-21 10:45:58
masquerade