Let’s Start At The Very Beginning

It’s a very good place to start. When we read, we begin with A-B-C. When we blog, we begin with coming out.

Coming out stories are never the same for two people. But despite individual differences and peculiarities, the coming out process has over-all arches that are similar to other coming out stories. So, if any of my recounting sounds familiar, well and good. That means you’re not the only one going through it.

I was born in March 1966, making me a Piscean Fire Horse; I’d like to imagine myself as a fiery sea horse. I was born to two full-time working parents. I was the second child, second son; eventually, I’d have five more younger siblings (and we’d lose one of them, the second-to-the-youngest, when he was just 4 years old).

At the time of my birth, Ferdinand Marcos was on his third month as president, and there were no malls, mobile phones, or the internet. We also did not have a landline phone at home; back then, my mom was concerned that the maids would hog the phone while she and my dad were out working.

Growing up, I sensed I was different from other guys; boys fascinated me more than girls. I remember staring at my dad’s naked torso (especially his developed chest—he used to work out when he was still single) whenever he’d walk around the house shirtless. Everything I saw and heard among my peers, the elders, and in pop culture said that I should be interested in girls. But try as I may, I was never attracted to the opposite sex. (I once kiss a girl—our neighbor—on the cheek, but I didn’t like it; I was more anxious than excited. Why did I kiss her? We were playing bahay-bahayan, and she was the “mom” while I was the “dad”. I never took on that role again as a kid; today though, I’ve embraced my “daddy” role. But I’m getting ahead of myself.)

When I was born, we lived in a small, two-floor apartment in Cubao. (Fun fact: we lived one street away from our cousins, who lived one house away from the Tan Caktiong’s. Yes, the owners of Jollibee. My cousins remember the time when they’d sell their burgers at their garage. Perhaps they were taste-testing the future Yumburgers.)

I don’t remember much of our stay there, except for certain clear memories: [1] For Christmas I received a battery-operated toy F-14 fighter plane that had blinking lights, retractable wings, and ran in circles, stopped, then ran again;

[2] We had a surly old maid neighbor whom we called “Karakatoa, east of Java” because she was wont to explode her top like the volcano;

[3] I was afraid of thunder more than lightning (although I’d already cringe when lightning flashed because of the loud clap that’d follow it); [4] We watched the TV show “Gentle Ben” featuring a little boy and a gentle black bear;

[5] We had a unique Christmas tree. Unlike the usual pine tree-shaped ones, ours was a 6-feet high wood-and-plastic ornamental tree that I suspect was originally meant to be merely interior decoration; instead, my parents would bring it out every December and drape Christmas lights and décor on it.

In 1970, we moved to SSS Village in Marikina, and until today this is where we live. (Years later, I’d move out. But in January 2017, I moved back in.) Growing up in suburbia, I made friends with the kids of our immediate neighbors. On our left was Mayette (the girl I kissed on the cheek); on the right was a boy named Nes, who was several years older than my brother and I, and whom I had a mild crush on. Nes was more street-smart than us, but deep down he was also a nerd like us. His eyeglasses made him look gentle and smart too. I always looked forward to when I’d see him shirtless. Years later, I was fascinated by the hair that grew around his nipples and around his navel that trailed downwards into his shorts. One summer he didn’t go out of the house because he was circumcised. My brother and I were scheduled to be circumcised in a few more years, so I wanted to visit him to see what was done to his penis. But we weren’t allowed to see him either.

One day Nes introduced us to a friend of his, Abel. Abel was unpolished, a little uncouth, and rough around the edges. He had awful teeth, and didn’t share our same interests. I didn’t understand why someone like Nes would be friends with him. But still Abel came to visit Nes more and more. I didn’t like Abel, but there was something about him that drew my attention. Unlike Nes, who never talked about anything remotely related to sex, Abel was very sexual in an unconscious way. He’d reach in, shift or scratch his dick inside his briefs, then after pulling his hand out, sniff his fingers without any trace of self-consciousness. It’s as if he needed to know how he smelled down there, and I was intrigued and repulsed by the thought that I wanted to know the smell of his fingers.

But even with Nes and Abel in our lives, I never experienced anything sexual with a fellow boy (whether neighbor or classmate) or even an adult male. I wasn’t curious to know what another boy’s penis looked like; I had seen my younger brothers’ penises, and for me, that was that. There was nothing intriguing or fascinating. I remember seeing my grandfather peeing outside on our garden wall (I guess he felt he can just take a piss anywhere he goddamn pleased), and I caught a glimpse of his penis. That was the first adult penis I saw ever, and it was long, dark, and seemingly enormous. There was something grotesque about it. I’m glad mine did not look like that, I thought.

I remember though how fascinated I was with Batman, Superman, the Flash, and other male superheroes who wore tight outfits that showed off their chiseled chests, and underwear (or in the case of Flash, no underwear at all) outside of their leotards. I was drawn to the drawings of muscles around their armpits and their trunk-like thighs. Because Batman and Superman wore “tighty-whitey” brief-like costumes (What was the belt for? I knew Batman had a utility belt, but what about Superman? Did the belt help keep his underwear from dropping too low?), I tried to copy them by wearing a tight belt above my Jockeys. But my briefs kept going down whenever I’d vigorously move, so I tightened my belt further while hitching up my briefs even higher. This caused my cock and balls to be squeezed even tighter; I realized I liked the feeling.

In my quest to have tighter underwear, I decided to tuck my briefs into the crack of my butt, like the way ballet dancer’s dance belts (commonly known as “thongs”) are worn. And I realized that the friction between cotton and my ass crack produced a delicious feeling too, along with the feeling I get with my cock and balls. And with me pulling up my briefs to make it even tighter, all that friction eventually led to me experiencing my first dry orgasm. I liked it so much that I kept at it during siesta time in the afternoons. Until one day my ejaculation was so intense, I immediately fell asleep. When I woke up, our maid and my other siblings were in my room. Obviously they saw how I wore my briefs and belt, but they were polite enough to pretend they didn’t notice it.

That was the last time I wore a belt and pulled up my briefs.

A few years later, I discovered the joys of jacking off. But that’s for next time.