By the time we got to the restaurant, we were famished. We were not
really in a death embrace but we were no longer consciously avoiding
body contact either. The waiter seated us close to the end of the
restaurant-on-stilts over what I believed was Manila Bay. I concluded
that the area was specially reserved for lovers as that part was dimly
lit and away from the noise and clutter of the tables with large numbers
of guests. Another restaurant, about two hundred yards away had a
four-man band playing, a young lady belting out a sad Tagalog song I
was not familiar with. A gentle southern breeze blew the music our way.
My lady said the song was about a young girl whose lover was being
unfaithful, that the girl refused to believe the rumors and was begging
her lover to deny everything.
"Itanggi mo, itanggi mo. At kung hindi, mamamatay ako."
Such a sad musical composition. The lyrics were even sadder. I was
plunged into a dark intense mood. Luckily, a waiter came swaying to our
table. He had a very unstable waist and weak wrists. His voice was
surprisingly strong and masculine.
"Oy, ano Kuya, what are you going to order for your goood loooking lady?
Ay naku Miss, ang danda danda ng kutis mo. Ang mga pisngi mo, ang kinis
kinis, parang mga pulang tambis! Aaay, nakakainggit!"
He made me feel better. He made me smile. I made a mental note to give
him a good tip.
We ordered steamed crabs, fish roe adobo, and big clams. She told me she
gets a headache with white wine so we ordered some red Australian Yellow
Tail. We ate and ate and drank and drank. With the wine combined with a
subtle persuasion she began to really open up. She told me so many
things about her, including her childhood. She was particularly bubbly
about her high school years.
She ultimately noticed that our conversation was mostly about her. Wait
a minute, she says. Are you with the NBI? Or are you an American
balikbayan and you are really connected with the CIA? Humm, I think all
Americans in Makati are CIA, she smiled. We both laughed at her efforts
at making a joke. From that point on she insisted on calling me Mr. CIA Man.
When we finished eating I started to feel that the wine had crept to my
head. It affected her too. Her speech was beginning to sound slurred
with her S sounding like SH as in kutish instead of kutis when the
waiter came back to compliment her about her complexion again and to ask
if we wanted any more wine. Boy, oh, boy, I thought to myself, this is
going to be some easy pickin'.
The waiter had a taxi waiting for us by when we got to the exit door. I
gave him a hefty tip. In gratitude he attempted to give me a kiss but
abandoned the idea when he saw me glaring at him through my dark
glasses. He dramatically moved back but not before he held my forearm
with a lingering, clinging, touch perfected only by men of
unconventional gender preferences.
Mama, I said to the taxi driver in Tagalog, do you know any place we can
go to for dancing, you know, soft music and softer lights? The taxi
driver looked at us like he was suffering from indigestion. No place
like that anymore. Only heavy metal sound. Perhaps you can try the
Basement at the Intercon.
Great, let's go!
At this time, we were already holding hands like lovers, no kisses yet
but close to it as she would repeatedly whisper something in my ear and
grind her right bosom to my left arm. I love Australian wine! The
dyspeptic taxi driver could not help but take occasional glances at us
through his rearview mirror and had a near miss with a coconut tree
along Roxas Boulevard.
That made her giggle as she snuggled even more closely.
Time passed too quickly. We were at the Intercontinental Hotel. I was so
disappointed when the guard told us that they had closed the Basement
down the previous month. Luckily, the taxi had not left yet. I must have
had an obvious scowl. Seeing that, she started massaging my thumb then
cradled my chin with both hands. We can go to your hotel, listen to the
piano player and have a couple of beers. I leered at her with a
theatrical lecherous look on my face and teased, Are you sure you want
to go to my hotel? Sure, I'm sure, she huskily replied.
There is a small piano lounge at the Shangri-La. There was a lady singer
there that Saturday night. A couple were dancing cheek to cheek, chest
to chest, and thigh to thigh on the floor by the window. Most were just
sitting, drinking, and talking intimately. We ordered Mig Light. After
the first glass, she excused herself. After the first glass, I was
feeling good. After what seemed like eternity, when I was beginning to
feel abandoned again, she came back from the ladies' room and handed me
a stick of chewing gum, and resumed massaging my thumb.
The significance of the gum did not dawn on me until later when she
leaned over close to my face and said, Hi CIA Man, how you doin'? Here
eyes were droopy and oh, so seductive. I could smell the mint freshness
in her mouth. Aha ! That's it. The lady is ready for some good
old-fashioned smooching. I did not wait for a second invitation. I drew
her closer and started nibbling on her upper lip. I could feel her
breathe deeply and slowly. We were both on high stools with a similar
small high table between us. I almost keeled over. The exploratory
kisses became full blown ones, interrupted on for gasps for air and
gulps of beer.
The first time I saw her at the Agusan High School reunion, she looked
out of place, like a beautiful, multicolored gold fish in a tankful of
tilapia. The second time I saw her, she was even more astounding, like a
floating pink rose petal on a lake of calm water, drifting with the
wind. There was something about her that exuded class and
sophistication. At that moment in the Shangri-La piano lounge, it seemed
this woman was from out of this world, too beautiful to be human, yet
too seductive to be an angel.
It was not quite one o'clock but the hotel lobby was deserted. We got on
the elevator to the seventh floor where my suite was. There were two
Koreans in the elevator, golf players, I presumed, with that horizontal
crease along the forehead above which there was no sun tan. They reeked
of kimchee. The older one kept looking at her. I wanted to growl, "Eat
your heart out, you dumb chink !" Alcohol makes me belligerent. Although
it also gets me aroused.
By the time we got to my room, she was all over me. I just had enough
time to insert the card on the slot to turn the lights on and barely had
time to close the door. She let go of me and started to turn the lights
off individually except for the night light under the console and the
bathroom lights. She then partially closed the bathroom door just so,
that we may not skin our shins against the edge of the coffee table.
Me? I was fumbling with my shoes. I tried to act cool and collected but
I could not undo my shoe laces. I ended up forcibly pulling my shoes
out, tearing the socks in the process. Why does it seems so smooth in
the movies, remembering Richard Geere and what's her name? Am I supposed
to be sweating like this? My palms were wet and my mouth was dry.
She came towards me like she was floating on a cloud, silhouetted
against the backdrop of the bathroom light. The sight was too much for
an ordinary man to behold. My mouth got drier as she got closer. I held
my breath for what seemed like a minute. I thought she did not have
anything on anymore until our bodies merged. I could feel she still had
her underthings on.
It is my firm belief that the major manufacturing companies for ladies'
undergarments are involved in an international conspiracy to torture men
like myself. I think that is what Victoria's secret is.
Unmindful of my consternation with those tiny metal clasps of her bra,
she deftly unbuttoned my shirt, removed my undershirt, and with a fluid
motion, divested me of everything else. She touched me where I was meant
to be touched. It took a superhuman effort to control myself
and prevent an otherwise premature termination of events.
We did not bother to remove the bedcover as we fell in a tangled web of
limbs, exchanging perspiration and other body fluids, moving in a
frenzied synchronous movement until she stiffened in an uncontrollable
tetanic convulsion, followed by a long, stifled, guttural, primeval
groan, unable and unwilling to hold back this surrender to a careless
wonderful abandon.
I was not too far behind.
We laid there, spent, facing the ceiling, catching our breaths. Nobody
said anything. Words would have been an intrusion. Besides, talking
would have meant energy expenditure of which I was, at that moment,
completely depleted. I died and must have gone to heaven. I glanced at
the glowing desk clock. We had been in the room exactly twenty two
minutes. It seemed longer. I could feel her breathing and her heart beat
slowing down with mine. She slowly turned away. I hear a quiet sob. Was
she crying? I dozed off I don't know for how long. I heard a rustling, a
shifting of weight on the mattress, a slight tug on the bed sheet.
Later I heard a door click.
I was in deep slumber now. I was dreaming. I dreamed of my old dog,
Grits. I dreamed of that day when we had to put my old dog, Grits, to
sleep. My youngest daughter was crying softly when her mother came back
from the vet and told her that it was over. Grits was older than her. I
can never bear to see my youngest daughter cry. There was not a single
dry eye in our home that day.
One can never control one's dream, can he?
Sunshine peeked through the incompletely closed heavy blue velvet
drapery. Woke me up. The sun was about eight o'clock high. I had this
pulsating hangover. I hope it's not going to be a day-long migraine. I
looked around the room and went to the bathroom. The light and the
exhaust fan were on. It made noises like a helicopter. I turned it off.
I was alone.
I wrapped a towel around my waist, sprinkled some cold water on my eyes.
I saw the guy in the mirror. God, I looked awful, bloodshot eyes, the
few remaining strands of hair on my head standing on end like I had just
been electrocuted.
Whatever happened? Oh, yeah, as I started remembering.
I sat on the edge of the king size bed, facing the window, near the
headboard. I turned to look in the direction of the nightstand table. I
had placed ten thousand pesos in crisp, new thousand peso bill on the
table near her purse before I took my shoes off last night. The money
was gone. There was a neatly scribbled note written on a hotel
stationery, evenly spaced letters and words.
"CIA Man, you were wonderful. Look me up again when you are back in
town. You have my number."
Signed: D. B.
P S Thanks for the money, You're very generous.
I put the note down on the pillow, got up and looked out the window to
the busy traffic below. Another scorcher of a day, I thought. I could
see a jet plane at a distance, slowly, diagonally crossing the sky. I
stood to watch until I could no longer see it over the horizon. I had a
bitter aftertaste in my mouth.
"Life is crock pot full of shit", I cursed under my breath,
THE END
