I am changing

Would you enter into a relationship with a straight man? If I got asked this question thirteen years ago, I would have emphatically and categorically said, “No way!” Thirteen years ago I used to sneer and laugh at my fellow, usually older, gay men who are only sexually attracted to presumably straight men for being so tragically clueless. For me, engaging in a relationship with a straight man is like walking on a narrow one-way street that leads to a dead end. I mean, what is the extent of a straight man’s actions in bed when he is with a gay man? And where does the relationship lead to other than him abandoning “that part” of his life to rejoin the rest of the straight world by marrying a woman or worse, marrying a woman and having the gay man stick around as wedding planner, devoted godfather to his child, and generous provider of financial and emotional support?

I have seen too many movies and too many tragic figures to understand and firmly decide that this is not the way I will live as a gay man. Even if my concept of monogamy at that time was also based on a heterosexual framework (a sad situation, but a different story), I have decided that the men I will have sex with would only be gay men. Thirteen years, four boyfriends, and countless flings and affairs later, where do I stand?

Contrary to my earlier decision, I have slept with straight men and found them generally boring in bed, unless they were intoxicated or particularly horny. A friend told me that the pleasures in sleeping with a straight man lies not in the act itself but in the “hunt”, pardon the pun. It’s in the journey that leads to bed, or some other place where the sex act is performed. I can agree to that belief. The “hunt” can indeed excite one but as all excitements go, the feeling is fleeting. It’s a temporary high, at best. I haven’t, however, succumbed to any invitation to enter a relationship with one. And there have been attempts to entice me, let me tell you.

All things change, no matter what we say to the contrary. People, climate, feelings, and even sexual preferences change. My own concept of monogamy has changed as well. My current partner and I are committed to each other, even if we are both aware that he will eventually marry, largely because of a strong cultural imperative. He is Cambodian and the eldest male in his family. Expectations are high that he will marry, no matter how he identifies himself (gay? bisexual? who cares?). We have talked a lot about this. He says the same thing, that his marriage will change nothing between us, that his feelings for me will remain the same. But what about my feelings, I asked myself. I am uncertain as to how I would feel when he does marry. It’s not a question of ‘if’ but ‘when’ it will happen. He is 35 years old; way past the ideal marrying age for a Cambodian man so I imagine the pressure will be greater.

So for me the suitable question would be, “Would you enter into a relationship with a married man?” Because I do not equate being married with being straight, I regard it as a different question, to which I honestly have no answer now.

But going back to the first question, my answer now would probably, “I don’t know”. I have a friend who, for most of his life, had been involved with gay men only. As he approached middle-age, he found himself involved with a younger straight man who is living with a woman and their toddler child. Aside from the occasional financial help to the young family, he also provides emotional support to the couple, either by listening to their problems and by providing advice. Many of his friends think the relationship is detrimental to him but he is unfazed and determined. He is happy and content when they are together. He is always reassured of his “special place” in his heart and life. Although jealousy sometimes rears its ugly head, it is something that my friend owns up to and is prepared to work out within himself.

Do I think the same thing will happen to me in the future? I don’t know. I have a vision for the future; my so-called ideal world, if I may be indulged to label it. In this world, there is no need for labels. Straight, gay, bisexual, transgender, bi-curious, discreet, questioning, Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, all these will not matter. Our identities will not be confined to our behaviours. In this world, families will not only be determined by genes and gender, but also by emotional and spiritual bonds that people share. And the only arbiter of morality will be our own conscience.

In my ideal world, my friend’s relationship will not be an issue for comment, analysis, and recommendation. And the question I posed at the start will not in the least bit be relevant.

A house is not a home

I moved to my present flat in July 2005 in order to preserve my sanity. My partner had stopped speaking to me in February, without even explaining the reason why. This uncertain situation devastated me because I had no inkling whatsoever that our relationship was in any trouble. He just upped and went away. That time I was occupying a one-bedroom flat that I was renting for $110 a month. Not a bad deal actually, considering that it was furnished, as most flats here in Cambodia are.

I went to Manila in March and put on the bravest face in front of my family and friends. When I returned to Phnom Penh in April, the last nail was driven into the coffin. When this happened, I didn’t get out of bed for a week, didn’t go out of the house for about three weeks, and I turned off my mobile phone. However, I soon found out that staying in my flat proved more tormenting. When we were together, he would spend the night 3 or 4 times a week. He would come over anytime during the week unannounced, which I didn’t mind–and we would spend hours just hanging around, making out. Each little corner of my little flat has been indelibly marked by his presence.

So when he was gone, I felt haunted. I would see him at every turn, more so when I was punch-drunk. Soon after I started getting funny ideas about ending it all either by going back to the Manila or just ending everything right then and there. The only thing that roused me from my stupor was the barrage of job offers that fell on my lap. I realized that working is an excellent way to cope with depression, compared to let’s say, Zoloft (which I almost took, upon a friend’s advice).

So I worked and worked my ass off until I could almost forget that I was miserable. My bank account got fat. I had rebound sex with many guys. Did a few drag shows (another story). But still, whenever I went home, my heart would sink so deep within my body I feared it would drop to the floor eventually. I knew I had to move out of that flat soon.

The timing couldn’t be more perfect. At that time, because of the increasing amount of work that was coming my way, I needed a bigger working space, and I found that my finances could handle a two-fold increase in rent. Fortunately, a friend knew of an apartment that had just become available and when we checked it out, it was perfect for me. Two rooms, one bathroom, one large living room, and an L-shaped verandah that ran along the side of the flat. Air conditioners in all rooms of the house, furnished, a stone’s throw from the Philippine embassy, in an upscale neighborhood. These things made up for the disproportionately small kitchen/dining room.

I quickly made a deposit and moved in. And I have been staying here for more than 2 years and I have no plans of moving out. My landlord and I have a good relationship. Whatever I ask for, he provides right away. However, right from day one I had wanted to do something with the house. I like the fact that the ceilings are high, so I have big walls that I regard as a canvas. Unlike my first flat, this new place aroused my interest to decorate.

This, however, turned out to be a very slow process, in the two years I have been living here what I managed to do was to replace some furniture with pieces I bought on my own, which were mostly restored Cambodian furniture and some Balinese pieces I got from a local importer. I got really busy with work. I also reunited with my ex 8 months after moving into this new flat. That, however, merits a story of its own, which I hope to share at another time in the future. It was only this year that things began to move at a faster rate: I had managed to have some of my drawings, posters and photos framed. I bought reproductions in Saigon. When Kaloy arrived from the Philippines, he helped me execute my design for the living room. The photos compare the living room and hallway back in 2005 with its present state.

I had one wall of the living room painted red, installed a couple of shelves, and hung two Chinese lanterns on the corner.

I filled the bare hallway with a few pieces of furniture and hung paintings and photos on the wall.

I am satisfied with how it turned out, even if the painting process got protracted because Kaloy’s method was trial and error, and had to adjust with his ‘moods’ also. Now my flat feels more like my home, if only because I had put my stamp on the place. Marked my territory, so to speak. The work, however, is not finished yet. I intend to have 1 wall of the 2 bedrooms and the kitchen painted also. Blue for my bedroom, green or purple for my home office, and orange or yellow for my kitchen/dining room. There are still many things to be done, and I hope to have the time (and money) to do them all.

Sorry seems to be the hardest word

People who work in the media are constantly under pressure to deliver good stories that many will read, watch or listen to. It doesn’t matter whether you do hard national news, witty editorials, local updates, or entertainment-related news; journalists and writers must deliver all the time. Like actors, journalists are only as good as their last story. Still, many people thrive in this high pressure profession. What is the pay-off? For a few, buckets of money and fame; for others, personal fulfillment of seeing your thoughts in print or broadcast form. Still for others, power; be it power to make change or to help others. There is no denying the power of mass media.

But we all know that with great power comes great responsibility also. Journalists and writers must ensure that a sense of ethics frames their writing. And this is for everyone: from the writer of a small-town newspaper to editors of nationally-circulated broadsheets, to broadcast journalists.

I first heard of the call for Malu Fernandez’ head (or blood) from my fellow bloggers. I do not know Ms Fernandez. She apparently writes for Manila Standard Today and for People Asia Magazine, where the travel story appeared. I read with mounting dismay each scathing comment of Ms Fernandez against OFWs (Overseas Filipino Workers) she flew with and encountered at the Dubai duty free shops. I tried to find some due cause for her discomfiture but found none. Her story did not mention any of these OFWs engaging her in what-she-would-consider mundane conversations or forcing some products unto her. It seems that the mere presence of OFWs both on the plane and on the duty free shops annoyed her enough to ‘pop sleeping pills’ to escape the prattle and chatter.

I wonder if she would react the same way if the Filipinos she encountered were white collar workers like stockbrokers, financial analysts, and consultants, or moneyed, or simply belonging to a higher social and financial status than her.

Apparently the article resulted in angry emails being sent to the editors of the magazine. But what caused further damage to Ms Fernandez was her response to her story. I will not delve into the details of her response (just follow the link), other than she remains unapologetic for doing what she did because she thought she was being ‘acerbically witty’. She added that even her friends found the article ‘hilarious’, apparently because they all belong to the same economic background. She also imparted a lesson in contemporary history by saying that the Philippines was built on ‘the foundation of haves, have-nots, and the wannabees’. Interesting, isn’t it?

Again, I wonder, to which of these groups does Ms Fernandez think she belongs to? Judging from the middling quality of her prose, the incessant need to name-drop and mention all sorts of brands, and too much emphasis on air ticket classes and bank account balances, I would put her somewhere within the third group, elbowing her way out to make it closer to the first group. But then, it’s just me.

I read the article over and over again and still thought that it was not funny at all. It was very personal, true, but I found it very superficial also. I have read countless articles of ‘high scoiety’ people and found them engaging, and sincere; some were even well-written. But there was nothing engaging and sincere in Ms Fernandez’s article. But again, this is just me and my opinion.

I can respect her for saying that what she wrote was funny and witty if indeed she and her friends saw it that way. I am not in the position to say that other people’s perceptions are wrong, even if I don’t agree with them. But Ms Fernandez should remember that she is not writing for herself and her friends only. If she feels that this is the case, she should just write a journal and share it to her circle of friends only, not to have it published in nationally-circulated publications and get paid for it as well.

As I said in my letter to the editor of the Manila Standard Today, the issue here is ethics on the part of Ms Fernandez. Because ethics affects sensitivity and respect for other people.  I mean, Ms Fernandez, you don’t have to be a politician to know that OFWs around the world are already sacrificing so much by leaving their families so they can earn enough money to improve their lives. You see, unlike you, many OFWs don’t have much choice. So they go abroad even if they experience all sorts of discrimination and abuse from employers and other unscrupulous people. The last thing they need is for a fellow Filipino like you to insult them in the guise of ‘being humorous and tongue-in-cheek’.

I hope this makes you understand why people reacted negatively to your article. In your writing you project yourself to be someone who is intellectually superior to many people but not all intelligent people are rude or obnoxious. You see, it takes more intelligence to be patient and polite to others who do not share your IQ level. Also, as someone who seems to know the best things in life (hotels, cosmetics, perfumes, fashion, even friends), you don’t seem to see the line dividing good taste and bad taste when it comes to being acerbic. That line is very thin (and I am also risking crossing the boundaries in telling you this) and it requires a keen vision to really see it and understand what it stands for.

Being a columnist you hold the power not just to entertain your readers with your travels and escapades, but please do not forget that you can also utilize this power to share meaningful things about life and living, not just ways to put others down in order to uplift your self. You do not have to apologize for what you wrote, especially if you feel that you were just being true to yourself when you wrote those words. The least you can do is apologize for the negative feelings that your words caused, and a firm commitment that such misstep will not happen again.

It’s hard, I know. 

One day in your life

I turned 34 a week ago (August 10) and I marveled at the speed with which it passed, without any fanfare, or what would my mother regard as a ‘proper’ celebration. A proper birthday celebration constituted having at least 20 people over to dine on a minimum of 5 main courses excluding appetizers, 2 desserts aside from the birthday cake, free-flowing cold drinks, with singing and dancing as optional activities.

I had to work. That was my primary excuse. And it was true. That week, I was finishing the project proposal I was developing for a new client (Derrick’s NGO) and at the same time I was doing the lay-out of the Cambodia Country Profile on AIDS for another client. I even skipped the consultation meeting I was supposed to attend (as a member of the Technical Working Group on MSM) because I had deadlines to meet. Deadlines trump volunteer work anytime. Especially if the deadlines will result in money being paid to moi. 

Aside from these, I also did not feel like celebrating because of an argument I had with my mother in Manila over a most indelicate matter, which I will not disclose (forgive me). I spent the most part of the morning replying to greetings sent to me by family and friends through SMS, from here to Manila to the States.

But an hour or so before lunch I suddenly had this urge to do something. Something that has been taught to me by my mother and grandmother about one’s birthday.

I immediately checked my refrigerator for its vegetable and meat contents, made mental notes then ran off to my favorite supermarket. After eating lunch, I set my housekeeper to chop vegetables into their appropriate sizes while I boiled a slab of pork belly, a whole breast of chicken, and gizzard and liver. Then I went back to my computer. I made return trips to the kitchen to check on her progress and to let the meats rest before they were to be chopped, too. Derrick came at around 2.30PM to give me feedback on the draft document that I submitted to him early in the week. We discussed the draft and the comments as I made return trips to the kitchen to sautee, stir, and blend.

At 4PM I sent this SMS to 5 of my friends: “Luto na ang bihon”. This was a surprise to them, since I hadn’t invited anybody to a party in my house like I did in the past 2 years. Derrick had to leave at 4.30PM to go back to his office. At around 5PM my friends started coming. Though I only sent messages to 5 people, around 10 arrived to share the pancit bihon that I cooked. I explained that this was not a real party in the sense that there was only the noodle dish, buttered bread, and cold water. I had to cook something like pancit so as not to break tradition and risk having bad luck. Because I wasn’t ready to die. Not just yet.

Kimrun arrived at around 6PM and gave me chocolates in a heart-shaped box. For the first time that day, I felt really good. He couldn’t stay long, though, because he works nights.

My friends left around 7PM, and I was poised to spend a quiet evening by myself but Kaloy arrived. I explained that all of the pancit had been eaten. After reheating some food for dinner, Kaloy and I just sat by the verandah, talking as he drank his daily dose of beer. He left shortly before midnight, and I went back to work on my computer and slept at 2AM.

Gone were the years when I felt giddy with joy and anticipation days before my birthday, when I had an almost-permanent smile on my face the whole of the day itself, and when I remained excited a week or so after the celebration.

Have I kissed those days good-bye?

  the product of idle hands

Sister Blister

It might sound strange but I came to know two of my favorite singers today through CNN. It was late 2002 when it first happened. That time I was still in the Philippines, content with my professional and personal life. I was in a friend’s house surfing channels while waiting for him finish his shower so we can go out. I do not remember the name of the particular program, but it had something to do with new faces to watch in the entertainment scene. Her first album, ‘Come Away with Me’ was reviewed and the voice over praised the 23 year-old singer whose voice was described as a cross between Billie Holiday and Nina Simone. Two albums later, I still love Norah Jones.

And now, five years later, I’m here in Cambodia, still content with my professional and personal life (after a protracted period of turmoil, which is really irrelevant to this story), and CNN introduced me yet again to another 23 year-old girl whose voice was described as ’sounding like Shirley Bassey after she’s had a few drinks’. Her album ‘Back to Black’ was reviewed and lavishly praised for its fresh reinterpretation of 50’s & 60’s girl-group music. I was immediately entranced as I watched her, with exaggerated cat’s eye make-up and slept-on beehive as she sang about how they tried to make her to go to rehab but she said, ‘No, no, no!’.

After watching her in CNN I googled Amy Winehouse and was surprised at the amount of information I got about her. Where had she been all my life? God! I found out that she has released 1 album in the UK in late 2003 called ‘Frank’ and she’s received a number of prestigious awards for her singing and songwriting. At the first chance I got I looked for her CD in my neighborhood friendly (pirated) CD shop and I almost jumped for joy when I found it.

The album was such a pleasure to listen to. I hadn’t listened to an album wherein I liked all the songs in it for a long time. The songs are not happy songs, mind you. But they resonate and evoke such feelings long after you’ve finished listening to them. My friends were equally bowled over when I played her CD for them. My favorite track is called ‘Love is a Losing Game’ and this hasn’t been released as a single, but I managed to find a clip in YouTube.

I got curious as to how her first album sounded because I learned that it had many jazz influences. Shades of Norah Jones, perhaps? When I got the chance to listen to ‘Stronger Than Me’, the first single from Amy’s first album, all thoughts of comparisons to Norah Jones went flying through the windows of my second-floor apartment. I mean, they’re both great musicians and vocalists, but Amy is pure grit and world-weary angst. Think of Alanis Morissette turning to alcohol instead of going to India to cope with her angst.

Even if Amy Winehouse’s singing seems covered by a veneer of specific musical styles (such as jazz and doowop music), underneath you can see her true gritty self peering through. Just watch this clip, a live version of ‘Stronger Than Me’ that I also got from YouTube.

Aside from her music, many things have been written about Amy Winehouse’s life, mainly about her appetite for alcohol. Her dramatic weight loss. Her old-school pin-up girl tattoos. Her temper. Her tremendous stage presence. How she sang Michael Jackson’s ‘Beat It’ with Charlotte Church punch-drunk. Her US television debut in David Letterman’s show where David thought she looked like a Ronette. She just got married while touring the US and she’s received 3 MTV Video Music Awards nominations. Her latest video was directed by another favorite, David LaChapelle. It’s deliciously freaky, let me just say. Dame Shirley Bassey has reportedly said that Amy Winehouse should be singing the next James Bond theme. A Rolling Stone magazine cover story is aptly titled ‘The Diva and her Demons’.

I pass no judgment on Amy Winehouse’s supposed drinking problem. I am just hoping that these ‘demons’ do not get the better of her. I would love for her to stay in this world and continue enthralling us with her music for a long time.