Diary of a Masquerade 5

The Art of Hustling

They were walking along the seawall that curved behind Roxas Boulevard, the infamous stretch near Manila Bay that lovers claimed as their own. By day, the promenade offered lazy views of the harbor and the silhouettes of ships vanishing into horizon fog. But by night, it transformed. The salt air turned heavier. Lamplight flickered on the rippling water. And in the quiet shadows between palm trees and weeping willows, passion bloomed discreetly under the veil of darkness.

Antonio grinned wickedly and nudged me. “Nothing’s changed,” he whispered. “Same spot. Same swaying palms. Same desperate moans. Lovers on top of lovers—taking turns like it’s a cheap motel that never closes.”

I bent low, letting my gaze follow his pointing finger toward a pair tangled near the rocks. My ears tuned in. For a second, I almost felt complicit in their secret.

That’s when he stepped away.

"Hey!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "Someone's watching you two! There’s a voyeur behind the coconut trees!"

“Dammit!” I froze, then bolted after him, rage bubbling. I caught up with him in front of the U.S. Embassy gates, grabbed his collar, and yanked him close.

“Don’t you ever pull that kind of crap on me again!”

He was laughing uncontrollably, barely able to stand. “Relax, man! It was a joke!”

“Joke my ass. What if someone thought I really was a perv?”

He kept cackling like it was the best punchline in the world. We finally sank onto a stone bench under the long shadows of a weeping willow, waiting for my pulse to settle.

After a few moments of silence, he asked, “So, what’s the secret of good hustling?”

The question caught me off guard. It felt too calculated, too cold to be casual. But also… inevitable.

“What, thinking of trying it yourself?” I teased.

“Nah. I’m just curious. You said you’d teach me everything you know.”

“Did I?” I muttered, raising an eyebrow.

“You did. And I’m holding you to it.”

I sighed. “Fine. But no double-crossing. I’m serious.”

He blinked. “Double-cross you? Man, this isn’t a mafia movie.”

“I’m just saying,” I replied flatly. “Let’s be clear from the start.”

When he nodded, I leaned back and let the lesson begin.

“The art of hustling,” I said slowly, “isn’t just about lying on some mattress waiting to be used. That’s amateur stuff. A real hustler is part therapist, part actor, part spy.”

Antonio was listening now.

“You start with observation. From the moment a guy opens his mouth, your radar better be on. Is he lonely? Is he manic? Is he drunk, high, delusional? You adjust your energy to match his—but don’t ever let your words exceed his. Silence is power. Too much talking makes you look desperate.”

He nodded slightly.

“Scan him. Check for physical signs: posture, breathing, bags under the eyes. Look for weapons. See if he’s carrying something strange—bags, bumps, bulges. You don't want to be alone with someone who might pull a gun... or die mid-act. Do this while you're answering questions—short and sharp. Yes or no. Always be in control of the charge. Adjust price depending on his wallet, but make it clear: the less he pays, the less you give.”

I paused, studying Antonio’s face. Still with me.

“Now here’s where it gets anatomical,” I smirked. “There are five body zones clients notice: butt, thighs, chest, shoulders, and eyes. In that order.”

He grinned. “You serious?”

“Dead serious. Don’t get fooled by thinking the crotch is the star—it isn’t. The butt? Should be square, not round. Round is for women. For us, it’s got to be solid, masculine, defined. The thighs? Full and muscular, rubbing slightly when you walk. That makes them imagine the rest.”

I stretched slightly on the bench as I continued. “The stomach doesn’t need to be ripped. Flat is enough—as long as it’s in proportion to your chest. The chest? Needs to be open, nipples forward, never slouching. Shoulders? Wide, arched like an eagle’s wings, the kind that own a room. And the eyes… ah, the eyes…”

I lit a cigarette, let the smoke drift between us.

“They’re the hook. The unspoken proposition. Eyes carry everything—desire, danger, defiance, or submission. If you mess up eye contact, it’s over.”

Antonio yawned.

I narrowed my eyes. “You bored?”

“Everyone knows this stuff,” he muttered. “You just described every fitness model on Instagram.”

“But not everyone knows how to use these parts. Hustling is performance. You don’t just walk into the night; you become the night.”

I stood up and mimed the stance.

“You wear black. Always. Clothes should hug the body. And if your body isn’t great? Fake it. Pads. Compression. Doubling up on underwear. You lean against a post—vacant lots, abandoned buildings, forgotten parks. These are your stage. You wait—not with eagerness, but with mystery. You don’t hunt. You lure.”

I took another drag, then exhaled toward an imaginary client.

“You shift weight. You cross arms. Tilt your head just right—not too eager. Tilt the chin, narrow the gaze. Let him initiate the smile. Otherwise? Game over.”

Antonio rolled his eyes playfully. “You sound like a priest preaching sin.”

“I’m a realist preaching survival,” I said coolly. “And once a deal is struck, be honest. Set boundaries—no rough stuff, no unsafe play. Be respectful. Polite. Clean. And never forget: it’s a business of loyalty. You screw up once, word spreads like wildfire.”

He finally gave a low whistle. “Damn, you’ve really thought this through.”

“I lived it,” I replied.

We fell silent, watching the tide roll back against the seawall where earlier shadows of lovers were now gone—replaced by waves, whispering secrets.


But on the street, he wore no name—only the eyes of a man who had seen too much, yet lived to pass it on.
2025-07-03 02:12:39
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