ten days yesterday

My name is Jessy. My life in 2008, after I turned thirty-one back in January, had been a turn of misleading events that had led to murder and suicide. I will not draw the elements of the events in this text the way I would have, because events can be told in lies and fabrications and I want to tell the truth here, as I have, both unintentionally and intentionally lied to a dozen people in my last thirty years for reasons that I will never EVER understand. I want to be shameless. Bold. Daring. Memorable. I want to tell myself, after I have told the story that for once, I have been saved and that I will go on with my head held up high, happy at last for conquering something that I have always found unattainable: the truth.

I want to start with Thursday.

The day started at 4 PM after I woke up from a drinking party with my new friend Billy, who was still curled up at 4 PM right next to me. We started drinking Wednesday night and collapsed in bed at 7 AM the next day, in my tiny caffeine-stained room, in a city called Dubai, in the United Arab Emirates. A room that carried a haunting medieval smell of must, the purple walls of sin and objects from my homeland Philippines scattered everywhere from the wooded coffee coaster to the 2008 Calendar that screamed SM City.

I went to my laptop, wiped my snotty nose, lighted an already crushed cigarette from the ashtray and wrote my friend Julie, who is living in Canada with her fat Canadian husband and her one hundred children. I heard in my mind a voiceless me, thus, I trusted my fingers instead as it robotically typed in my ancient and battered Dell.

Dear Julie,

Had my mind been adrift or my schedule swamped me for the powers that be but heck I am feeling friendly and happy for the last two days. To tell you honestly, I watched that film, THE EXORCISM OF EMILY ROSE, saccharine and sucking my thumb like a baby, my mind swimming in the sea of love (such distraction!) in front of gory graphics and the possessed Emily Rose wailing in demonic Latin, beautifully orchestrating my artery turbulences.

His name is Billy.

I did not know it from the beginning that we will spend the entire Sunday afternoon in bed, making love and soothing our tense up bodies like it was some new baptism. I guess I haven’t had such “satisfying” sex in a long time amid the one-nighters who sped their way and about my wretched path for the past year and the string of flings I mistook as lovers (as always) but here comes this man, this stew of a man named Billy Guzman, buffed and tall, pale but athletic (basketball makes him come) who came amid my already-been-juggling-acting-schedule and somehow eased everything up. And I mean, when he came, I was in deep focus with my work as I opened a new branch single-handedly while managing a high volume restaurant at the Mall of the Emirates. It was tough and he walked past . . . gently.

But this is not gentle at all. I woke up today after a hundred hours of sleep, ready for yet another grueling day, feeling jumpy and fearing that this is all a dream – that this is all – a joke. It wreaked my senses from the bathroom, all the way to Burger King where I get picked up. It seemed a bit odd that I suddenly felt mundane after a very compromising afternoon with Billy, with whom I was going out with for the last two weeks. As if the last two weeks had not been pure bliss. OK, there goes the cynic in me. I guess I have to let my friend Lena stop from giving me the benefit of the doubt and remind me instead to smell the flowers. It is my fault really. I always require my closest friends to do the mental work for me every time I consider going for a relationship for the simple reason that I am brainless (aren’t we all?) when I am in love.

Damn it. Anyway, let me talk about Billy.

BILLY is from Bacolod. An Ilonggo. A pear-shaped island in coast of Mindoro, in southern Philippines where everybody is believed to have been possessed by the sweetness of their undertones while its shellfish language vibrates an almost pious appeal as the people’s tongue almost always do not consider the profane. In lieu of what others say I have always believed that it is indeed a place where people has such a minority appeal and yet appears to be confident and righteous. You can always tell if somebody topped the bar exam or the CPA exam for simply being an “Ilonggo”.

But my man is such an underdog in this event that he always feels insecure being with me. That is pretty common to me and I guess after going out (or living with) very self-doubting men for years, I have mastered the genre of nursing such demeanor. So comprehensively speaking, I am well aware that beneath the shy smile and the curious Scorpio eyes is a man whose 29 years compressed a battle with drugs, a taste of rural poverty and rustic demands and somebody who walks with insecurity, yes, but WITHOUT fear. And I like that. I like that a lot. Actually his body is enough paragon of psychological satisfaction because at 5’11, he’s got a rock solid body and I was impressed with myself for appreciating that as I have always been into gaunt, addict-looking blokes. Well, I guess things and tastes do change.

Dubai is getting colder each day and it is always fun to walk from my apartment to Riggah Street and feel the sting of the morning upon my face. I guess it has been a while since I appreciated these little occurrences. Had I been adrift with work (the constant fight with the system!), adrift with my slipping away self or simply adrift with the chaos of falling in love again.

What do you think?


I pressed Send and thought about what to eat. I went to the refrigerator and took a week-old green apple. I stared at it and wondered about consummation. I began talking to myself . . .

“ Lena is a BITCH !!! She only befriends me to make her pathetic stupid life a little happier. What an unhappy bitch. Who the fuck cares about having a fucking one-nighter with the cutest DJ at Club Penelope? Who cares if she has one? What about shoving that box table in her throat? Oh I would play Bjork’s Army of Me over and over again seeing that bitch choking herself to death!!!”

“Billy has a small dick. No, it is alright. It is an alright dick because it gagged me a bit sucking him last night. Or was I just over beered? Yes, his dick is small. I mean, Yamen is almost seven inches long, his is . . . how long is his dick? His dick is small. But I am happy with him. He is funny. No, I just think he is funny because I want my friends to think that he is interesting when actually I can feel my face muscles hardening from smiling too much whenever he cracks his repetitive stories to keep me from screaming with mad fury”

“I should buy this Amy Winehouse CD. I should pay my rent soon. I should go to the grocery later and buy some eggs. I will cook potato and sardines omelets for dinner. Shit, is Billy staying? I don’t have food in the house. We are ten days yesterday, oh my, ten frigging days claiming I am indeed in love !  I wish he will go. No, I need shagging. Yet another round before I go to work tomorrow. He should stay. I should go out now and buy some eggs and potatoes.”

“This apple rocks.”

“I wish I can convince David to lift me tomorrow. Traffic is horrible at 9 AM in fucking Dubai and taxis are completely useless as they will never drive me to the office – definitely! – for a mere 14 dirham. These horrible cab drivers will choose those Russian tourists at the taxi stand as they pay more and they don’t know the roads so they can always drive them Russians around as they busily look out the window, awed and all, oblivious of the skyrocketing taxi meter. Damn!”

“I am fat!”

I threw the apple at the garbage bin and missed it. First bad-day-it-is-going-to-be-insignia thank you very much.

So, I decided to go out to buy the eggs anyway.  I sped past my drunken lover, my door, unto my new beginnings knowing that after I pressed Send to the email I just sent, became another suicide.  Of murdering existence to be baptized anew . . . to move.

My name is Jesse.

I know myself.  I have spoken about Thursday but I know I will lie if I told you about Friday and the days soonafter.  I live in a suspended plane of beauty and I hide the ugly.  Or maybe I do recognize it in my head but cannot articulate it in writing.

I crawled back to bed and gave Billy a blow-job.

About this entry