Alex Maskara
Thoughts, Stories, Imagination of Filipino American Alex Maskara
Welcome
Diary of A Masquerade
~
Chapter 4
[The storytelling continues, but something strange begins to manifest in Roberto Policarpio before Antonio’s eyes...]
“I had patrons. Stricken types—no art, no trade, no education. But they adored me. My stardom stretched all the way to Balibago City. Believe me, I met GIs who’d part with green bucks at the slightest nod from my brown dick. I picked up certain habits. Clean habits.”
I stopped.
What clean habits? Who the hell was I fooling?
The truth? I took it all to the extreme. My gang and I always found some forgotten corner of the village where we could drink ourselves into unconsciousness. Booze was rare in our part of the country. But we’d smuggle in crates of San Miguel, then piss ourselves blind. I was the boss. And being the boss meant you made your gang happy—booze, shabu, and the cheapest thrills money could buy. That was my job. My goddamn responsibility.
My listener followed every word like scripture. His attention unnerving. He leaned in.
“Excuse me,” he interrupted during one of my pauses, “what are you thinking now? Please don’t stop. Your story—it’s very out of the ordinary.”
Out of the ordinary, my ass. Some people are just too gullible.
I continued.
“Sure, some fools tried to challenge my authority. One day, this kid—he couldn’t have been more than thirteen—waited for me on the bamboo path I took daily. ‘Psssst!’ he called. I thought he was just another sissy trying to flirt. But the punk leapt at me, wiggled his skinny hips, and grabbed his groin. ‘Romance me,’ he said with a snarl.
“I lost it. Punched him square in the face. He spun like a toy windmill and dropped, wailing like a slaughtered goat.
“These hands? These are my weapons. Big, strong, dangerous. ‘They belong to your father,’ my grandfather used to say. ‘They’ll grow into instruments of power. But be warned—never use them to smash skulls.’”
But I did. And not just skulls. These hands lured women. And fags. And clients.
I wasn’t just built strong. I looked good, too. Exotic face, golden brown skin, hoarse voice with the right edge of seduction. I was proud of how I looked naked at the river. I wasn’t shy about it either.
I sighed. Bored. I’d told this damn story too many times over the last three years. It was practically my resume. My listener, though, had those wide eyes—the kind that wouldn’t let you stop.
God. I needed money.
“I warned people not to mess with me,” I said, revving up again. “Told them flat out—if you provoke me, I’ll destroy you. Doesn’t matter if you live a thousand miles away. I’ve got contacts. Power. Influence. And memory.”
When I walked down the streets outside the village, people gave me that respectful glance. I got free haircuts, new clothes, a full pocket. Because I had talent.
Pause.
Talent? What talent?
I should’ve shut up. But the words came spilling out.
Petty crimes? I’d done them all. But blackmail? That was my domain. I knew every dirty secret in the barrio. Priests with their little lovers. Wives with affairs. I didn’t even need to ask. They offered me their shame voluntarily—just to keep me quiet.
Pampanga was my kingdom. My brothel. But I dreamed of something bigger. Manila.
My listener stared at me as if I was about to transform into Charles Dickens. Let it be so. Amen.
“So,” I said, “you can imagine how pissed I was when my folks forced me into Pampanga College for a teaching degree. Me? An educator? Fuck that. One night I just disappeared. Returned only for my grandfather’s funeral... then, a few days later, my grandmother’s.”
“You got any other family?” he asked.
“My brother,” I replied. “He was sent to live with an aunt in the South after our parents died. Haven’t seen him since. Not even for the funerals. Sent a telegram: ‘No fare money.’ That’s when I knew. Weakling.”
His face changed. From rapt attention to quiet sorrow. I was almost ready for my final move.
“After cutting ties, I enrolled in an exclusive college in Manila to study journalism. I paid for it all—tuition, rent, allowance—by pulling tricks. Every depravity imaginable. But only with the big shots. No one at school had a clue about my nightly performances. I managed just fine. For three years. And I charged no less than one hundred pesos.”
He grimaced and sighed.
“I’m not interested.”
And just like that, he slumped over, folding into himself.
Shit. All that for nothing? My glorious autobiography—dumped like trash. Where did I go wrong?
Still, I wasn’t giving up. In this business, if they don’t buy you, then you sell them. For fifty percent commission.
“God, I’m so tired,” he mumbled. “Walk with me. Just a while.”
I trailed behind him, still hoping. His legs—muscular, poised, hypnotic—led the way. The walk, the original masculine strut, the kind Filipino boys tried to imitate but never quite mastered. His body moved like it was sculpted from sweat and pride.
We walked through bougainvillea, santan, and blooming gardenias along the stretch of Manila Bay, the scent of dama de noche stirring up memories of a family long lost.
“I know people,” I said, half-whispering. “People who might pay you for your services...”
We stood outside the Army-Navy Club, the playground of Manila generals. He gripped the metal gate tightly. I saw the veins on his arms pulse with tension. He stared blankly, like remembering something painful.
“I once had dinner in this club,” he said softly. “With Mikael Sarmiento. The best dinner of my life. But that’s all over now.”
“Who’s Mikael Sarmiento?”
He jerked his head as if waking from a dream. That’s when I noticed something was off.
He wasn’t sweating. His chest wasn’t rising. His grip on the metal bars—tight, tense—produced no tremble in the bars themselves.
Even stranger: when his wristwatch tapped against the gate, it made no sound.
As we walked... I noticed he cast no shadow.
“You’ll learn about him,” he said cryptically. “In time.”
What did he mean? Only God knows.
Maybe it was my mind again. Years of alcohol and substances had left me with occasional hallucinations. I didn’t talk about them. Didn’t want anyone labeling me crazy.
Still hoping for some coin, I asked, “So why the trip to Manila Bay?”
He slowed his pace.
“Eight years ago,” he said, “I lost my virginity here. To a wild young prostitute. She knew what she was doing. She didn’t stop until the very last drop left me.”
“You mean oral?”
“Of course. That’s the best,” he giggled.
Then he pointed to the dark horizon.
2025-05-13 18:44:28
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 4
Chapter 4
[The storytelling continues, but something strange begins to manifest in Roberto Policarpio before Antonio’s eyes...]
“I had patrons. Stricken types—no art, no trade, no education. But they adored me. My stardom stretched all the way to Balibago City. Believe me, I met GIs who’d part with green bucks at the slightest nod from my brown dick. I picked up certain habits. Clean habits.”
I stopped.
What clean habits? Who the hell was I fooling?
The truth? I took it all to the extreme. My gang and I always found some forgotten corner of the village where we could drink ourselves into unconsciousness. Booze was rare in our part of the country. But we’d smuggle in crates of San Miguel, then piss ourselves blind. I was the boss. And being the boss meant you made your gang happy—booze, shabu, and the cheapest thrills money could buy. That was my job. My goddamn responsibility.
My listener followed every word like scripture. His attention unnerving. He leaned in.
“Excuse me,” he interrupted during one of my pauses, “what are you thinking now? Please don’t stop. Your story—it’s very out of the ordinary.”
Out of the ordinary, my ass. Some people are just too gullible.
I continued.
“Sure, some fools tried to challenge my authority. One day, this kid—he couldn’t have been more than thirteen—waited for me on the bamboo path I took daily. ‘Psssst!’ he called. I thought he was just another sissy trying to flirt. But the punk leapt at me, wiggled his skinny hips, and grabbed his groin. ‘Romance me,’ he said with a snarl.
“I lost it. Punched him square in the face. He spun like a toy windmill and dropped, wailing like a slaughtered goat.
“These hands? These are my weapons. Big, strong, dangerous. ‘They belong to your father,’ my grandfather used to say. ‘They’ll grow into instruments of power. But be warned—never use them to smash skulls.’”
But I did. And not just skulls. These hands lured women. And fags. And clients.
I wasn’t just built strong. I looked good, too. Exotic face, golden brown skin, hoarse voice with the right edge of seduction. I was proud of how I looked naked at the river. I wasn’t shy about it either.
I sighed. Bored. I’d told this damn story too many times over the last three years. It was practically my resume. My listener, though, had those wide eyes—the kind that wouldn’t let you stop.
God. I needed money.
“I warned people not to mess with me,” I said, revving up again. “Told them flat out—if you provoke me, I’ll destroy you. Doesn’t matter if you live a thousand miles away. I’ve got contacts. Power. Influence. And memory.”
When I walked down the streets outside the village, people gave me that respectful glance. I got free haircuts, new clothes, a full pocket. Because I had talent.
Pause.
Talent? What talent?
I should’ve shut up. But the words came spilling out.
Petty crimes? I’d done them all. But blackmail? That was my domain. I knew every dirty secret in the barrio. Priests with their little lovers. Wives with affairs. I didn’t even need to ask. They offered me their shame voluntarily—just to keep me quiet.
Pampanga was my kingdom. My brothel. But I dreamed of something bigger. Manila.
My listener stared at me as if I was about to transform into Charles Dickens. Let it be so. Amen.
“So,” I said, “you can imagine how pissed I was when my folks forced me into Pampanga College for a teaching degree. Me? An educator? Fuck that. One night I just disappeared. Returned only for my grandfather’s funeral... then, a few days later, my grandmother’s.”
“You got any other family?” he asked.
“My brother,” I replied. “He was sent to live with an aunt in the South after our parents died. Haven’t seen him since. Not even for the funerals. Sent a telegram: ‘No fare money.’ That’s when I knew. Weakling.”
His face changed. From rapt attention to quiet sorrow. I was almost ready for my final move.
“After cutting ties, I enrolled in an exclusive college in Manila to study journalism. I paid for it all—tuition, rent, allowance—by pulling tricks. Every depravity imaginable. But only with the big shots. No one at school had a clue about my nightly performances. I managed just fine. For three years. And I charged no less than one hundred pesos.”
He grimaced and sighed.
“I’m not interested.”
And just like that, he slumped over, folding into himself.
Shit. All that for nothing? My glorious autobiography—dumped like trash. Where did I go wrong?
Still, I wasn’t giving up. In this business, if they don’t buy you, then you sell them. For fifty percent commission.
“God, I’m so tired,” he mumbled. “Walk with me. Just a while.”
I trailed behind him, still hoping. His legs—muscular, poised, hypnotic—led the way. The walk, the original masculine strut, the kind Filipino boys tried to imitate but never quite mastered. His body moved like it was sculpted from sweat and pride.
We walked through bougainvillea, santan, and blooming gardenias along the stretch of Manila Bay, the scent of dama de noche stirring up memories of a family long lost.
“I know people,” I said, half-whispering. “People who might pay you for your services...”
We stood outside the Army-Navy Club, the playground of Manila generals. He gripped the metal gate tightly. I saw the veins on his arms pulse with tension. He stared blankly, like remembering something painful.
“I once had dinner in this club,” he said softly. “With Mikael Sarmiento. The best dinner of my life. But that’s all over now.”
“Who’s Mikael Sarmiento?”
He jerked his head as if waking from a dream. That’s when I noticed something was off.
He wasn’t sweating. His chest wasn’t rising. His grip on the metal bars—tight, tense—produced no tremble in the bars themselves.
Even stranger: when his wristwatch tapped against the gate, it made no sound.
As we walked... I noticed he cast no shadow.
“You’ll learn about him,” he said cryptically. “In time.”
What did he mean? Only God knows.
Maybe it was my mind again. Years of alcohol and substances had left me with occasional hallucinations. I didn’t talk about them. Didn’t want anyone labeling me crazy.
Still hoping for some coin, I asked, “So why the trip to Manila Bay?”
He slowed his pace.
“Eight years ago,” he said, “I lost my virginity here. To a wild young prostitute. She knew what she was doing. She didn’t stop until the very last drop left me.”
“You mean oral?”
“Of course. That’s the best,” he giggled.
Then he pointed to the dark horizon.
2025-05-13 18:44:28
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