And So I’m Back…

…from outer space.

Upon entering a relationship—even when it became an open one—I never found the urge to go back to the place where “the thrill is in silence.” Perhaps it was too far. Perhaps the ubiquity of gay hook-up apps made it unnecessary. Whatever my reason or reasons were, the raid on CB by the police (twice, in fact) sealed its fate for me. I let my old membership card expire, and I didn’t bother renewing my membership.

It’s been almost six years since I last set foot in this place. The gym area and the TV room look the same. The stairs leading up to the second floor is the same, including the row lights placed on the banister. The second floor looks the same; even the bathroom looks the way it was 6 years ago.

But when the attendant showed me to my room, bingo! Aha, here’s something new. They now have a built-in drawer in side the bed. Inside the drawer is a huge plastic storage box, the kind you buy in SM. You can now store your valuables inside the plastic storage box, for added safety. I decided to stuff my clothes, wallet, and shoes inside the box.

The showers are still the same. The steam room though has been expanded—they ate up one shower stall to make room for the extension.

Up on the third floor, everything remained as I remembered it. The small free-for-all rooms, enough space for two guys to stand. The open-air smoking area. The dark room. Even the posters remained the same.

And even some people remained the same. “Hmmm, I remember him.” “Oh my, he still goes here?” “He looks familiar.” But there are also new faces; I wonder how many of them will turn out to be recurring new faces.

The second floor smoking area has become the choice area for those who want others to see them do it. Several times I saw it get crowded, a sure sign that a “show” was ongoing.

The music, thank goodness, is new. I mean, they still play wall-to-wall dance music, but at least they didn’t play any Gregorian monks chanting. (Oh wait, that was in Fahrenheit. Wrong bathhouse!)

Had a pretty straightforward hook up—nothing out of the ordinary, nothing blog-worthy.

Who knows, maybe next time, I encounter another polio victim. Fingers crossed!

Lumandi Ka, Papa

“Can you still move?”

“Lo.”

Just a couple of messages I received on Grindr and other similar online apps. And that’s because I clearly state my real age on my profile: 51 years old.

Clearly these guys were trying to get a rise out of me. Luckily I remain largely unaffected by such attitude, because ever since I marketed myself as a “daddy” I’ve have a good number of 20-somethings (and a few 30-somethings) approach me, wanting to hook up with me. Apparently daddy issues are more prevalent than I thought among Filipino gay men.

Like this 21-year old senior college student who lives 6 short blocks away from our house; a brisk walk to his house won’t take more than 7 minutes. The first time he messaged me, he wanted to do it, but his parents were at home. We didn’t push through with it.

Sunday morning, he messaged me: “Are you free? My dad will be gone for about an hour.”

“Sure,” I replied.

“What can we do in an hour?” he asked.

“We can do a lot of things within just 30 minutes,” I assured him.

We wait until his dad went to mass (the church is less than 5 minutes away from their house), then I walked over to his place.

When I arrived just outside their house, he was standing at their porch, nervously glancing at his neighbors’ front yards. He wanted to make sure no one would see him sneak a stranger inside the house. I quickly snuck inside.

After he made sure the front door was locked, we headed to his room. His 50-inch flat screen TV showed a PS game on pause. The moment he locked his bedroom door, he immediately pulled me over to the side of his bed. He took off his eyeglasses (which made him look nerdy; his post-teenage pimples didn’t help either), sat down on the side of the bed, and pulled me closer. I pushed him down on the bed and kissed him hard on the lips. Even though his mouth was full, he kept making these excited noises.

Soon our clothes were tossed on the floor beside the bed.

He hugged me tighter and tighter as I kissed and licked him all over his face. And he moaned louder as plunged my tongue in his ear. “Oh god, oh god, oh god,” he said, which made me think, “His dad must be in church already at this point, and he might also be saying, ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God’ at this very moment.”

And as I let my tongue travel down and towards the back of his neck, he whispered into my ear, “Abuse me, daddy.”

At that point I wanted to stop and conduct an in depth interview. Why do you want me to abuse you? Were you abused before? Did your dad abuse you when you were younger? Was it an uncle? A neighbor? How old was the guy?

Then I thought, I really ought to stop speculating, accept his inputs, and just go with the flow. It’s so very improvisational theater.

(Of course, all that thinking earlier happened within several nanoseconds only. Otherwise I’d have lost my erection and my interest in having sex.)

I felt I had to say something. “You’re body’s mine,” I whispered back in his ear.

“Oh yeeeeesss, yeeeeeesss! Daddy, I’m all yours,” he hissed back in my ear. I was glad his response was that, because my mind was already berating me at that point, “Really Joel? ‘You’re body’s mine’? How cliché is that?!”

He whispered again, “Do what you want with me, daddy!”

So I said, “I wanna cum inside you so badly.”

Suddenly he snapped out of it. “No, no, no,” he said in a normal voice, not whispering. “Not without a condom.”

I too was out of the moment in a snap. “Of course!” I replied. “I don’t want to do it without a condom too. I meant next time. Not now, of course.”

He looked relieved. “Ah, okay, okay.” Pause. Then he added, “Next time, I want you to fuck me.”

“Oh sure,” I nodded. Now where were we?

Several minutes later I paused and looked at my phone. “The mass should be ending soon. Your dad will be home soon.”

We decided to cum together at the same time on his chest.

A few minutes after, I was poised near their front door while he was outside their porch, waiting for his all-clear go-signal.

Can I still move? You betcha.

Am I a lolo na? If to you I am, then I’m a lolo who can still f**k your ass sore.