Diary of Masquerade 8

I am bewildered by his aura. In the dark, he seems wrapped in a faint glow—like a halo you’d see in paintings of saints. Maybe I need to get my eyes checked when I finally have the money. But with clients like this, I’ll probably go blind before that ever happens.

He stared out toward the far edge of the bay as we stood side by side in silence. The scattered lights from boats and ships shimmered across the water. One vessel passed by like a moving diamond, its glow drifting across the surface. We followed it with our eyes until it vanished into the distance.

The night carried its own quiet music—the rustling of palm leaves, the soft hush of waves folding into shore, the steady chirp of crickets. Familiar sounds. Almost comforting. Dark silhouettes slipped in and out of the shadows beneath the trees. Figures moved forward, reaching, brushing shoulders, touching, passing. A quiet choreography.

Normally, I’d leave by now. This kind of scene isn’t for me. My hustle is legit. I don’t work parks like this. I still have some self-respect left.

But I couldn’t leave Roberto. Not tonight. He looked like someone who needed a friend—badly. And for some reason, I felt responsible for him.

A cruiser walked past us, flashing a knowing smile. A few steps later, he stopped, glanced back, as if expecting we’d follow—drawn in by his walk, his wink, his invitation into the dark.

“Damn,” I muttered under my breath. “Not my type.”

Roberto let out a soft laugh.

“Do you feel it?” someone nearby asked.

A voice answered—loud, theatrical. I glanced over. A drag queen stood there in a loose blouse, sky-high heels, oversized earrings, and wild, multicolored hair straight out of a Cyndi Lauper video.

“Of course, darling,” the drag queen said, letting out a sharp, playful laugh. “They’re not lost. They’re just like the rest of us—looking for action.”

He gave his companion’s backside a quick pinch.

“Hey!” the other snapped.

“Quiet, witch,” the drag queen shot back. “You’re disturbing the angels. Angels with dirty minds.”

Someone from the darkness shouted, “Careful—you might choke, girl!”

Laughter burst out, then faded just as quickly. The figures melted back into the shadows. Even the wind seemed to pause. The insects went quiet.

And then it began.

The night came alive. More men appeared along the worn, unpaved edges of Lawton. They moved like ants—appearing, disappearing, circling back. They paused, studied each other, measured, sniffed out intent. When two found a match, they vanished together into the dark.

Everyone except me and Roberto.

We stayed where we were, watching this strange parade of men—different faces, different bodies, different styles—coming and going like waves.

Roberto broke the silence first.

“You go to college, right?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m a student.” My eyes drifted again, catching a guy in tight shorts. Something about him felt familiar.

I looked back at Roberto. “What about you?”

“I’m studying to be a doctor,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“A what?”

He glanced around, like he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “A doctor.”

“Really?”

That caught my attention. Not every night Manila Bay hosts someone from med school. Where I come from, medicine means status—money, respect, a whole different world.

“So what brings a future doctor out here?” I teased. “Looking for… organ donors?”

“I’m looking for someone to talk to,” he said. Then, almost as an afterthought: “Although… now that you mention it… interested in a transplant?”

I gave him a look. “That was terrible. Seriously—what do you want to talk about?”

Now I was curious. And hopeful. Guys like him usually had money.

He hesitated, then said, “Jeff… I want to talk about myself. My world. The things I’ve been pretending are real. I think… I think everything’s starting to fall apart. I need to face it. I need to take off the mask—before anyone else does.”

Except me, I thought.

We moved and sat on the grass behind the Film Center. During the day, it looked bright and soft. At night, it felt cold, damp against my skin.

I was still hoping—at least five hundred pesos. Something.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

Cold? I hadn’t made a single cent all night. That’s what I was.

I decided to be blunt.

“Look,” I said, “you’re good-looking, and I know you can pay. So before anything happens, let’s be clear—I don’t take less than five hundred.”

I’d never seen someone get offended that fast.

“You son of a bitch,” he snapped. “Didn’t I tell you—”

“I know, I know,” I cut in. “Just doing my job.”

He stood up. I grabbed his arm.

“I’m sorry. Sit. If you want to talk, then talk.”

The image of my landlady flashed in my head—my stuff dumped out on the street if I came home empty-handed.

He slowly calmed down. Tilted his head back, staring at the sky. God, he looked exhausted. Just like me.

“Lie down,” I told him. “Don’t worry about your shirt. The grass gets cut every day.”

He did, stretching out, eyes fixed on the stars.

Great, I thought. A love story. Fine. One night. I can handle that. Who knows—maybe someday I’ll even write it down.

I lay back beside him.

“I’m still trying to figure out that glow around you,” I muttered. “Seriously, I need my eyes checked.”

He didn’t react.

“Imagine this,” he said after a moment. “You’re me. Roberto Policarpio.”

I closed my eyes. Sure. Why not.

Then he shifted—rolling over onto his stomach, hovering slightly over me. The angle, the closeness—it triggered something.

A memory.

When I was fourteen, locked up in juvie. Daily sessions with some old, bearded shrink. “Behavioral modification,” they called it. He’d lean over me just like this, writing down everything I said like it was gospel. Always half-aroused, the sick bastard.

I played along. Did what I had to do.

That’s how I got out.

“What are you smiling about?” Roberto asked.

“Nothing,” I said quickly.

I turned away, propping myself up on my elbows. I couldn’t look him in the eye—not if this was going to get serious.

He went on.

“I wish I could escape everything,” he said quietly. “My past… my present… even the future. The past is full of regret. The present hurts. And the future…” He paused. “There’s nothing there.”

I felt it hit me, even though I didn’t want it to.

I tried to shake it off. “Nice line,” I said. “Who wrote that?”

He ignored me. Sat cross-legged like some kind of monk.

“It’s beautiful out here,” he said, looking up. “The stars… I keep thinking—what if one of them is another world? Another Earth. Somewhere I could go… and just be accepted. For who I am.”
2026-05-25 23:57:15
masquerade

diary of a Masquerade 7

Chapter 7

(The second meeting between Antonio and Roberto. Antonio wanted to earn rent money while Roberto wanted a listening friend.)

He arrived in khaki shorts and a silk shirt—too bright even for the night.

“You look like you’ve just been to Hawaii,” I quipped.

I noticed his smooth, shaved legs—shapely—and, damn, he had a good ass. But tonight, he wasn’t as enthusiastic as he’d been last night. He seemed serious, leaning against the trunk of a coconut tree, looking at me calmly with a hazy, empty gaze and shiny brown eyes. I hoped he wouldn’t pull another joke on me tonight. I needed money for rent.

“Hey, pretty boy. You heard me? What are you thinking?” I nudged him.

He inhaled smoke from his cigarette and stared at me until I felt uncomfortable. There was something not right about that stare—his pupils were abnormally wide, like a cat’s in the dark. A few strands of hair fell over his face, and he slowly brushed them back before turning to face the bay.

What the hell is he up to now?

“I failed to ask your name last night,” he said pensively. “I came home in high spirits, thanking the angels for finding me a friend, recalling the brief moment we had—but when I thought of your name, I realized I didn’t even know it. It was so stupid of me not to have asked.”

This is getting weird.

“Big deal,” I said. How many people even know my real name? My dead parents, my creditors, the registrar at my school… come to think of it, hardly anyone.

In my profession, revealing your true identity is a big no-no.

“What is your name?” he asked.

Just like in the movies, I’d learned to adopt different screen names for different situations. Tonight, I felt young, playful, monosyllabic, adventurous, bold, sexy, ready for action—and for money.

“Jeff,” I answered.

“No. Your true name.”

“Jeff,” I repeated, grinning.

“Okay, Jeff. My name is Roberto Policarpio.”

Damn. “You know, Nameless Adonis sounded much better.” I’d rather he kept his name secret like I did. But some people are just too honest, I guess. In this hustling game, sharing your name is risky. He needs to watch *Gigolo* and *Cruising* to learn that lesson.

He ignored my comment, dropped his cigarette, and crushed it under his shoe.

“Our wonderful conversation was abruptly curtailed by your hasty departure last night.”

His language tonight was formal—completely different from last night’s. Old-school, almost Elizabethan. It made me want to puke. He even sounded accusing.

“I told you, I had studying to do.”

“Now you tell me, what else is there on the other side of hustling?”

This son of a bitch is really dead set on knowing the secrets of me—and of Manila Bay.

“Roberto Policarpio, a person of your status need not see them. They’re just… how would I say it… animalistic.”

“The better,” he said.

“If I were you, I’d stay away from asking about hustling. Sometimes, even talking about it is depressing.”

“Why?”

I wished he would stop. “Because it makes a person sad.”

“No difference to me… Jeff, are you happy?”

“Happiness is relative. It depends on one’s point of view.”

“That’s what they all say. I want your explanation.”

“What explanation?” Damn. I’m here to hustle, and who am I talking to now—Socrates?

He turned his eyes to the bay. “Another explanation about life… explanations as to why I still linger in the night while the rest of the world is sleeping. Why, when I’m about to start a friendship, I’m abandoned.”

“Because you’re gay,” I said, trying to cut the melodrama quickly.

He was silent for a long time. Then he spoke again. “Last night, I remembered the runner who followed me, offering me a light even when I didn’t ask for it—following me from behind, begging for a little attention, a little sex. Will that be my future when I turn old and gray? Is that a punishment for being gay?”

“I said you’re gay. I didn’t say you’d become that runner when you get old.”

“I don’t want to be gay!” he screamed.

“Hey, hey. No yelling, please. You ask questions, I answer. If you don’t want my opinions, then go fuck yourself.” I kept my tone mild.

He calmed down but remained fidgety. Crazy fellow. He obviously had a personality problem. I wasn’t intimidated by his outbursts, though. In my job, surprises don’t surprise me.

“All I want is to understand more about myself,” he said, beginning to cry.

Oh boy. This is super-schizophrenia.

“Well, come and follow me.”

---

At night on Manila Bay, heterosexuals dominate the seawall, but after midnight another kind of gender appears—homosexuals borrowing passions and obsessions from one another. I had seen them before wearing masks of imaginary identities, as if trying to fool even God. This is the place where they do it all.

It was now after midnight.

We kept walking along the seawall. I stayed quiet. The squared rooms of the Holiday Inn surrendered to the sallow evening, their square lights switching off one by one. I slapped at the mosquitoes biting my skin.

“This is the other view of Manila Bay,” I said as we reached the road at Lawton. It’s a strip about two miles long, lined with herbs and vines crawling along a barbed wire fence. On the left are the old executive buildings of Congress and the Supreme Court. On the right, an expansive greenery being converted into a golf course. Along its way are entrances to universities and bus stops. It merges with Roxas Boulevard after passing through Luneta. Roxas Boulevard is the main coastline of Manila, leading up to the Cultural Center of the Philippines. It spreads arteries toward Mabini, noted as the red-light district of the sex capital of Asia.

“Jeff,” he said, grave-eyed. “I can’t stand being alone. I wanna die.”

I stopped. I’d had enough of this.

“Robert, I hate it when someone so good-looking and muscular like you says he’s so lonesome he wants to die. With all the starving, homeless, helpless people surrounding you, you still wanna die? Get a life! Join the Mother Teresa way. That Saint is my hero. Look—she was lonesome, old, loveless at forty. So she formed the Sisters of Charity or something. Now she’s the most popular spinster in the modern world.”

Hearing this, he smiled.

I continued. “Hmm. On the other hand, you wouldn’t look good as a Saint. You need to call somebody like that ‘toning guy’ on the late-night radio talk show—the one who tells you to prepare water he blesses via radio before you drink it. What about following my solution? What I do when I’m lonesome is write. I have this hidden notebook full of horrible entries. When I hear bad news—like a friend raped, a hooker killed in an accident, or another murdered by a serial killer—I jot it down. Every time I get depressed, I re-read my entries and say to myself, Damn, I’m still lucky. Though I had a night without a customer, John was hit by a truck. Then I feel blessed.”

He started laughing hard.

But by now, I was getting desperate for an income. I had to go. Bullshit. Why couldn’t he just do whatever he intended to do, then go to his business and I to mine?

“I don’t want to be gay,” he said again.

I blurted out, “Then go find a girlfriend.”

He looked at me with frightened eyes. “I don’t know if I could do it with a girl again after what I’ve gone through.”

Oh man, I’m really stuck with this guy.

“What happened? Were you gang-raped? Did you rape someone? Some people can’t handle such traumas, you know. Not me. I’m paid to do those. Nowadays nobody gets a bloody hand-shit or a blow-shit for free. I’m no nymphomaniac.”

“Nothing… I am not gay—anymore.”

He was going too far.

“As I said, since you’re so sure of your masculinity, just drop it all down here, you see, and hit the road. Along the way, if you find a nice-looking pussy, just grab it good. Simple.”

“No,” he answered.

I breathed deeply. Okay. For this last time, I’d try to help this wretched soul. I might not earn my rent money, but for the sake of humanity, I’d direct him to the right path of self-fulfillment—or whatever gays achieve when they finally accept themselves. I wondered if he even had money to pay me for this.

“Please, Robert, I’m not here to blackmail you. Just say it and I’ll find anything or anyone you want. It won’t be difficult with your good looks. I know the moves in the city. For a small fee, I can match you even with Queen Nefertiti. But first, tell me what you want.”

“The only thing I want is to talk with you. Will you quit these sexual innuendoes and listen?”

I’m telling you! These people come acting stupid at first and, in no time, turn into some big shit—insulting and ordering you around. The nerve! And they don’t even pay!

I sat down to keep my cool. I wished he were a politician’s son so I could at least add him to my list of connections as a consolation. Not that I needed it. Believe me, I have a long list of connections.

“Billie Holiday once sang,” I said, thinking of her—the favorite singer of all Manila hookers with her beautiful gardenia; some argue it was Eartha Kitt—
‘If I take the notion to jump right into the ocean,
It ain’t nobody’s business if I do…’

“You see, Roberto, I can offer nothing but sexual solutions. It ain’t my business if your dick atrophied, dehydrated, wrinkled, and fell off—as I’m now tempted to believe. All I want is to know what happened so I can help.”

Alex Maskara is Pinoy.
2025-10-06 15:52:15
masquerade