A Night Out With a Lady Boy in the Philippines

Spain Vs. Taiwan (My Time)

(Spain)---   I could smell the cheese. I could taste the bread.

(Taiwan) – Buzzing scooters kept me awake.

(Taiwan)-- The society stared at their phone.

(Spain) -- Parents supervised kids with a mug of wine.

(Spain) -- Spanish filled my head. My feet shuffled forward and back, I screamed, “I will never leave!!”

(Spain)-- I rank the atmosphere in Spain a 10.

(Taiwan)-- Rain scares most. Teachers beat individualism, personality, and opinions that differ, out of more.

(Taiwan)-- I rank the atmosphere in Taiwan at a 1 (on a lively day)

(Spain & Taiwan) They both nearly killed me, in their own way.

I left Spain before the Honeymoon period ended. I stayed in Taiwan long enough to drive a car.

 I Want To Sing Pusong Bato (Filipino Song)

Rum emptied my glass. Rum repeated this process seven times.  

The outside heat kept melting my ice.

Conversation elevated my mood.  Riding ‘top down’ made me laugh.

***Top down- piling six people into the side car of a motorcycle in the 

Philippines, (five of them Filipino, one of them Josh) ***

French fry grease fought to keep my brain from fuzzing into the night. 

French fry grease lost the struggle.

I promised Chris (the only person who spoke English) I could sing a Filipino favorite, Pusong Bato.

The wind fought with the driver (unknown name). He struggled to keep the bike, and the side cart, on the road. 

The wind won on several occasions. The driver paused to drink his beer.

His wife, the owner of the hotel, slapped his leg for drinking while driving.

His wife called her property a hotel. Busted ceiling pieces covered the common area. It looked like a dump.

The hotel smelled like a hostel. I called it a hostel.

I yelled ‘Top Down’ at every awkward pause, on our way to the karaoke bar.

The girl in the ‘Top Down’ mobile looked at the trees blowing on the mountain. She glanced at a dark ocean. She never made a sound.

The other guy’s (unknown name) eyes locked onto his cell phone. He spoke English. 

His friends envied him. His friends had flip phones. His friends looked over his shoulder to examine his smart phone.

Chris told me three times, during seven shots of rum, about his wife that cheated on him.

Let’s Sing FILIPINO STYLE!!!

The sexy cocktail waitress took an order of six beers. 

The sexy cocktail waitress queued my song, Pusong Bato. (Filipino Song- Broken Heart)

Chris & I sat on the couch. He could touch his knee with my knee.

The married couple sat on a different couch.

Phone guy stood at the bar. Phone guy’s eyes locked down on his phone.

The girl’s eyes itched to dance.  She stood alone.

With a half empty couch, Chris never released space from my side.  This cultural difference drives me nuts. It reminded me of Spain. I still coped with it.

Chris & I told some jokes like “Where are the sexy girls?”  I felt awkward being the only foreigner. I wanted to laugh.

I could watch NFL Football with Chris.

I could teach him the rules. I could teach him to give people space. We could drink beer. We could have fun. Maybe, I could even cook meatballs.

Chris confirmed my suspicion that half of the dudes liked dudes, with an alcohol intensified comment of, “Too many gays.”

He meant he wanted to talk with straight women. I stood behind this desire. I don’t think that means we bash gay people.

The rum and the beer told my brain I could sing.  The french fry grease did not de-fuzzify my fuzzy brain.

Chris & I joined the song. I don’t remember the song.

My friend Mark sings for tips. He also sings for employment.

My friend Mark needs full concentration if I sing along to his campfire tunes. He doesn’t want to butcher the song.

He compares it to a flat screamer.

At table two, a group of five adoring dudes of a 50 year old Filipino dude sat.

They clapped at every break of the song. They probably called him, Sir.

The 50 year old Filipino dude looked grateful for the admiration of his ability.

Chris & I joined in this guy’s song. We thought our words could not be heard.

After the song, the microphone flung at my face. The dude had heaved the microphone at me.

50 year old Filipino dude: (in perfect English) “ Ok, Mother Fucker, you want to sing !?! Then, Fucking Sing!!”

My rum brain told me he wanted to hear me sing. Chris’ brain took the microphone from my hand. 

Chris’ brain told me to set the microphone down, and wait for the next song.

We sat through six minutes of music only to The Final Countdown, by Journey.

He got to sing the next song. His table kept admiring him.

Oh, You Want To Speak Tagalog?

The bar didn’t care, except for 50 year old Karaoke pro man

I had never been to Asia. I had never been to Taiwan.

My dad told stories how my Uncle married a Filipina woman.

The word Filipina had an exotic flair.

I obsessed over Filipina women for three years in Taiwan.

Filipina women’s employers make life nearly impossible for dating.

My obsession still increased for Filipina women. 

I decided to increase my chances of dating a Filipina (in my head)

I learned how to Karaoke a super cheesy song, Pusong Bato.  It means broken heart.

I sang it for some of my lovers, with potential only, from OkCupid. 

They normally didn’t talk to me after that.

The bar did not stop.

50 year old Karaoke pro man licked his lips.

The music to Pusong Bato came on the speakers.

50 year old Karaoke pro man blurted out: “ Oh now you think you can fucking speak Tagalog? (Filipino language) I want to see this! “

I held the microphone by my chest.

50 Year Old Pro Karaoke Dude eyes pierced into the center of my heart. My hands shook a bit.

I fought back with my flat screamer style singing in a language I don’t know.

By the third song pause, he stood on his feet. His admirers copied his stance. They clapped in unison.

I stopped fighting with my notes.

“Top Down—One More Time”

We piled back into the side car & the motorcycle. The driver lost some fights with the wind.

The driver paused to drink his beer more often.

I kept yelling “Top Down!” This elicited laughter.

Age has passed me by. I don’t have the same excitement for life when I was twenty-five.

I wonder why often. 

I wonder if it is like when I am with a girl for too long, and the sex life worsens. So, I think my sex drive is lower.

The laughter came stronger from the person sitting next to me. She grabbed my hand, and put it on her thigh.

I felt excited like in Spain, not about the girl. I felt excited about the atmosphere. The food for three days was also tasting well.

She grabbed my hand to hold it.

My Rum brain thought she liked my singing.  My Rum brain didn’t care about her appearance.

My Rum brain couldn’t wait to get back to the hostel.

She kept laughing at “Top Down!”

We un-piled from the side car. She asked: “Where’s your room?”

I hurried her into my room. I opened the door.

My left arm wrapped around her waist. Her fingers reached for my shoulders.

I reached to turn off the light again. The grabbing felt passionate.

The kiss felt aloof. She turned on the light.

“It’s ok, I’m a boy?”

Me: “What?”

She told me: “ Sorry, I am smoking (her English sucked) “

She returned to my room. I know absolutely nothing about the transgender community.

I thought about the blog. I thought I had to do something to make this a memorable story.

My rum brain took over. Shame filled my heart more than anything.

I reached for her boobs, “What are these?”

She responded with the obvious answer, “Foam!”

I felt more shame. I felt stupid. I felt drunk. I wanted to forget the whole thing.

Me: “Ok, I’m sorry. You need to go.”

She responded by grabbing my nuts. My hand blocked her attempt.

She responded again: “Come on, just try it.”

Me: “Ok, I’m sorry. You REALLY need to go. “

I held the door open. I waited for her to leave.

I locked the door. I didn’t want any psycho tactics.

The Aftermath… I wanted a moment, but…

I stood in shame by my hostel window. I could see her walking home.

She must face this struggle often.

I can’t even comprehend her struggle.

Our society needs improvement in transgender & LGBT rights.

I do not doubt this.

I wanted to imagine her struggle.

Again, I just felt more shame than anything. I felt cheated.

How could I have not seen it coming?

How could I have drank so much?

What I like

I like the eye contact. I like the incidental contact.

I like the batting of a woman's eyes. I like the tension. I like to hold the door for a woman. I like the process.

I like to hear a women scream.

I like to watch her body cringe. I like to feel the sweat coming off her. I like her to want me.

I like a boob in my mouth, and a vagina in between my legs.

I can’t change that. Some question if I do like the above scenario.

Apparently, I have a lisp.

I keep girls around as friends.

Sometimes, I hang out with them when I know sex is not in play.

I don’t always stand up for myself.

I have never been in a fight.

The accusations used to drive at my very being. Now, the accusations make me laugh.

I have met women who don’t like to hear boob in my mouth, and vagina in between my legs talk. When women don't like this talk, they normally attack by calling me a sexist pig. They seldom envoke a polite and respectful conversation. They want me to change how I think and feel because they believe it is wrong. Why do they get to say what is right? I think a man has a deep and carnal instinct to please a woman. A boob and vagina come along with  this pleasure sometimes. Why do I have to censor this thought? What purpose does telling me I am wrong serve? Why do we have to designate special No Censor days? Just so we can say what we think.... 

People rush to be victimized or offended.  Just like, I rushed to be victimized when people questioned my preference.

It doesn’t mean I don’t respect women. It doesn’t mean I don’t love a women’s body, personality, and everything else.

It describes my feelings.

We all want respect. We all want honesty. We all want to be loved.

So, if I told you what she did was wrong, pretending to have a vagina, many would come to her aid.  There's more to a woman than a vagina. We still currently assume any woman you are talking to has a vagina in the straight community.

I think it is a fair request if you don’t have a vagina, to tell a man that you don’t have a vagina.

Again, why do I need to censor that? 

If she tells everyone she doesn’t have a vagina, she will never get love. I will get that.

Luckily, she didn’t allow things to advance too far before telling her secret.

She has to live such a life of isolation. I get it.

I would call it a draw, in a night of misdoings. I needed to stay more aware, especially in that environment.

She pushed to get some satisfaction or enjoyment. She crossed a boundary. She, at least, didn’t cross a giant boundary.

Ten years ago, or even five years ago, I would have been way more pissed than shamed.

I don’t know. What do you think?