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