NISUGOD na pagkamptat ang makeup ni Stephanie tungod sa iyang singot nga hinayng gadagayday sa iyang aping ug agtang, gatubod gikan sa nagpintig niyang hubon.

 

“Nagmantika na man ni akong nawong uy. Sus, kaulaw baya,” matod pa ni Stephanie sa iyang kaugalingon.

 

Ningkusmod si Stephanie, nangyam-id samtang nagpinsar sa sunod niyang lihok.  

 

“Wa nas Panyang,” nagpadungog ang usa sa mga nanan-aw. “Masiak na gyud tawn ni,” hirit pa’s usa.

 

Nilabay ang usa ka minuto, lima, napulo, wa lang gihapon milihok si Stephanie, wa masayod sa mga gutlong naghinay-hinayg kasaag sa mga ngiob nga iskinita sa Kamagayan. Wa na gani siya kabantay sa singot nga nipundo sa iyang ilong nga karon nagtulo-tulo sa korona sa iyang reyna. Tak. Tak. Tak. 

 

Nanghuy-ab ang usa ka lalaking tiguwang. Niuwang ang irong kibol sa silingan, murag niduyog sa nipiyaik og “My Way” sa videokehan. Ni-agulo ang adik sa atbang. Kaalingugngog ba.

 

Nisamot ug kaguol si Stephanie kay perteng hayaga sa ploresen ibabaw sa chessboard. Klaro kaayo ang naghibat niyang dagway. “Giatay man ni uy. Nganong gipaningot man ko, di man ta igang.”

 

Sa iyang atbang, nanghinambid ang usa ka batan-ong lalaki, daw haring naglingkod sa iyang balkonahe, naglantaw sa iyang ginsakupan. Pamilyar iyang nawong, pero di masubay ni Stephanie kung kanus-a ug asa kining nawnga niya unang nasiplatan. Hinlo ang hinapay. Inutaw ang polo. Murag bag-o pa ganing ligo.

 

Alang sa mga nag-alirong nilang duha, mabantayang wa gyud mahimutang si Stephanie, kang kinsang sampot ang ganina rang sigeg bag-id sa monobloc. Apan ang iyang kaatbang, relax kaayo. Plastado ang kamot tumoy sa lamisang bildo, ang mata karon nagtaroy sa mga kapayasong mata sa babayng nagsige na lag lingiw kay di makaako ug tan-aw sa iyang mga pisang puti nga murag gadungang nawad-ag buot.

 

“Day, tarunga kuno na day.” Naigking si Stephanie, nangluspad. Nihilom ang mga nanan-aw. Ang iyang iyaan takulahaw lang nibarog. Nagmanok-manok man to ganina sa suok, nakamata diay.

 

Gatarong man tawn ko tiya, uy.  Kanunay man gyud tuod ni magtarong si Stephanie. Kinsa may babayeng dili magtarong kung iya nang kaputli ang hisgutan? Labaw na gyud kung ikaw na lay nahabiling dagang birhen sa inyong lugar. Labaw na gyud kung kanang lugara Kamagayan.

 

Daghag sikreto ning Kamagayan. Naay mga sikretong bisan asa lang magkatag, puli-pulihan lag dawat murag batang burikat. Sa laing bahin, aduna puy sikreto nga sagrado pas estatwa sa birhen sa Lourdes. Usa anang mga sikretoha kay si Stephanie.

 

Sukad gisugdan ni’s iyang tiya nga raket dinhis piot nilang luna, wa pa gyud mapildi ni si Stephanie.

 

(Atangi…)

“DI LAGI ko borikat.”

“Saba diha,” ingon ang kontraktor samtang gahubo sa iyang pantalon. “Unsa man diay ka.”

Nairita ang kontraktor sa tubag sa dalaga nga naglingkod sa tumoy sa higdaanan dinhis iyang kwarto, Room 359. Buot pa unta niyang istoryahon usa kaysa diretsog darok. Mas nindot man gyud nang palamian usag gamay. Iya ra gung gipanguta kung bag-ohay pa ba siyang namorikat. Buot unta niyang bitkon kay ingon man gud tong bugaw nga birhen pa kuno ni. Unsa bang tubagon man hinoon siyag yaga-yaga.

“Basta dili ko borikat.”

Letse ni ay, huna-huna pas kontraktor. “Unsa lagi ka?” Nisaka ang tingog sa kontraktor. Niinit og samot iyang ulo. Nibukal ang gin sa iyang dugo. Letse ning bayhana, gihagit gyud ko ay. Gusto niyang dapatan. Pero gapugongpugong lang siya kay maka-isplikar na sab siya aning Kalay, ang iyang suki sa Kamagayan. Maayo raba kaayo ni niya. Kani gani ron, ma-o pay pagtawag niya, wa damtig singko minutos, nanuktok dayon sa iyang kwarto dinhi sa hotel. Murag instant mami. Kung iya ning hilabtan unya mupalag, di na nya siya matagaag nindot sunod. Nindota raba aning gipada sa iya ron, haskang humota. Ang nakaapan lang kay imbes iya na untang gipatuwad, iya na man hinuong gikalalis kung borikat ba siay o dili. “Kung di ka borikat, unsa man ka? Birhen sa Regla?”

“Dili.”

“Santa sa kwaresma?”

“Dili.”

“Si Santa Filomena?”

“Dili.”

“Si Santa Klaralaroylaroy?”

“Dili.”

Nibuhakhak ang kontraktor. “Kung di ka borikat, di sab ka santa, unsa man diay ka?”

“Anghel.”

“Anghel! Anghel sa imong mata!” Na nayabag na. Unsa man diay ning gihatag ni Kalay  nako. Nakahunahuna ang kontraktor nga tawgan niya sa cellphone ang bugaw sa Kamagayan kung nganong nagpada og buang dinhi sa hotel. Bi atong tawgan.

“Ayaw.”

Nakurat ang kontraktor. “Unsay ayaw.”

“Ayaw tawgi si Kalay, wa siyay labot ani. Og dili ko buang.”

Nanglimbawt ang balhibo sa kontraktor kung nganong nakabasa ang iyang kuyog sa iyang gihuna-huna. Nayabag na gyud. Gihapuhap niya ang nagbutod niyang tiyan. Nirason ang kontraktor nga basin hubog ra siya. Hubog ra siguro ko.

“Dili pa ka hubog. Nakainom lang,” ingong ang babay, nga sa panan-aw sa kontraktor murag nipahiyom. Nakasimhot siyag pangalimyon sa kalachuchi. Iyang gitutokan ang babay. Bawg nig pilok og ang mga mata murag lumboy. Puti pa kaayong kalimutaw. Hamis kaayog nawong, murag nagsiga, bisan pa sigurog walay makeup. Talinis ug suwang, nindot kaayong ingkibon. Sa iyang tumo-tumo, mga trese o kwatorse anyos pa siguro apan ang lawas murag maayo na kaayong pagkahulma. Klaro kaayo sa piot niyang blouse og miniskirt. Wa siya gatuo nga ingon-ani kanindot ang musulod sa iyang kwarto rong gabhiona. Napukaw og balik ang biga sa kontraktor, bahala nag maguwang lang nig gamay sa iyang kinamaguwangan.

Nilingkod ang kontraktor sa higdaanan ug nikab-ot kay buot niyang haploron ang buhok sa babaye, nga tungod sa kataas nitandog na sa matress. Bahala nag luag nig turnilyo basta lami.

“Ayaw.” Nibarog ang dalaga ug nagpalayo. “Wa ka kadungog sa akong giingon ganina?”

“Nga unsa, nga dili ka buang?”

Nikatawa ang babay. Dakong kahibulong sa kontraktor kay nilanog man ang kwarto, murag ang lanog kung naa sulod sa basilika. Di man ingon-ani ang buhakhak niya ganina.

“Kataw-anan ka noy. Apan wala kay hinungdan, dubok ang imong kalag. Ang mga tawo nga sama nimo, kinhanglan papason ning kalibutan, kinhanglang silotan.”

Naglibog na sab ang kontraktor kung mahimoot ba siya o mapungot ba og samot. “Nanghulga ka? Unsa-on man ko nimo, patyon? Patyon sa kalami?” Nibuhakhak siya, apan walay lanog.

“Kung ma-o kana imong gusto.”

Gibunlot sa babay ang kontraktor sa iyang abaga ug gibalibag siya sa matress. Wa kalihok ang kontraktor, nakurat kay sa kanipis sa iyang braso kusgan man kaayo, murag ang ilang foreman sa construction site nga nibira niya adtong niungot siyas imburnal. Human siya gipahayang, nipatong ang babay niya nga karon ga-panty na lang, nagpiyong-piyong samtang gidat-olan iyang tiyan, nagyamyam og, sa pandungog sa kontraktor, Latin. Naglisod og ginhawa ang kontraktor.

“Ma-o ni imong gusto ha?”

“Oooo,” tubag pas kontraktor.

Nibag-id ang babay samtang gitangtang niya ang butones sa iyang blouse. “Ingon-ani?”

“Ooooo.” Nikab-ot ang kontraktor, buot mugakos sa babay nga karon ga-ikid-ikid sa iyang atubangan. Gisubay niya ang strap sa bra padulong sa buko-buko. Dakong kahibulong niya sa iyang nahikapan. Adunay ga bugdo. Di man sab hubag, murag gipili-pilo nga panyo. Iyang gihimos. Adunay gasiwil, hamis, murag nagpilit nga buhok. Murag…

“U-unsa man ni?!” Nagkurog ang tingog sa kontraktor nga nangutana.

“Gusto-ka mutan-aw?” Gitangtang sa babay ang iyang strap. Nilugwa ang iyang dughan atubangan sa simod sa kontraktor. “Kini?”

“Dili kana.” Nagkurog, gihikap niya ang likod sa babay. Gisubay niya ang punuan nga murag niturok gikan sa iyang buko-buko, daw hitas-on og pad. Balhibuon kini, sama sa pako sa iyang sunoy.

“Mutubo pa na,” ingon ang babay, dayon hawid sa duha ka kamot sa kontraktor.

“Unsa man ka?” Nadat-ogan sa kakulba ang kontraktor. Wa na siya masayod sa iyang buhaton. Nisuway pagbunlot ang kontraktor apan walay bawt iyang kusog sa batan-ong babay sa iyang atubangan. “Unsa man ka!”

“Wa gyud ka maminaw ganina no.”

Samtang gasigeg bunlot ang kontraktor, nagkabug-at ang babay nga nagpatong karon sa iyang dughan. Nagkabug-at. Sigeg syagit ang kontraktor apan ang iyang tingog wala mulanog. Nagpadayon ang ilang paglugnot, samtang nitago ang buwan sa mga panganod, nanambo.

Pagtaud-taud, nihilom. Nana-og ang babay sa katre. Gisul-ob pagbalik iyang bra, blouse, sayal og sandal. Nanudlay. Nitindog siya atubangan sa lalaking gabuy-od sa katre, gabitay ang usa ka kamot, nisulirok ang mata, gaawhang ang baba. Gipahid sa babay iyang pad sa nawong sa laki, ug napapas ang kurat sa iyang nawong, nahimong ngisi.

            Pipila ka gutlo human nakagawas ang babay, naay nanuktok, laing babay, mas guwang gamay. Sa dihang walay nitubag giliso sa ikaduhang babay ang doorknob og nisulod nalang sa kwarto. Apan kalit lang nilanog ang hallway sa usa ka makalisang nga siyagit. Nidagan ang babay og nigawas sa hotel. Nisakay ug taksi balik sa Kamagayan kay musumbong kang Kalay kung unsay iyang nakit-an sa Room 359.

hehehe

At the start, I tried to restrain myself from cussing while blogging. However, I realized that this can be quite difficult. Luckily for me, I found a simple solution: substitution. Instead of the usual asterisks, every offensive word will just have to be replaced with this word: blog. To see what I mean, here's a sample list:

*When the blog hits the fan...
*Hey, motherblogger!
*Two words: Blog you.
*He's definitely blogged up.
*That son of a blog stole my chick.
*Ignore him, he's a bloghole.
*Her brother is a bloghead.
*Suck my blog.
*Go blog yourself.
*Blog, I'm screwed.

See? It's possible to write without being a potty mouth, or potty brain, whatever.

Yesterday I did the unthinkable: I had a foot scrub at the spa. I had imagined this favorite pastime among females to be such an excruciating experience for males. I was right. And having one together with female strangers only highlights this feeling of queer isolation. While a woman would be enjoying every second of the scrub, a man would be cringing in his seat, cursing his feet for leading him there.

That exactly was how I felt as I found myself stuck inside a cramped, partly humid room at the foot spa yesterday afternoon.

To add to my misfortune, I spent my scrubbing session with two lovely Korean tourists. I had no idea what they were saying to each other while the foot masseuse was inspecting my feet (I imagined them saying: “My goodness, what an ugly pair of feet”). They were probably just enjoying themselves there, but I felt uneasy, embarrassed, paranoid. It couldn't get worse than this. And it's just a foot scrub!

I’m not scared stiff of spas but I’m not fond of them either. Almost a year ago, I had a full-body massage at the same spa, courtesy of a Father’s Day gift from my wife. That was my first time to be inside a massage parlor. (The second time – you guessed it – was yesterday’s visit.) If not for that gift, I would not have meandered into such a place that smells like my spinster aunt’s dresser. Besides, I can always get a massage from someplace else, like the barbershop, or beg for a nice back rub from my wonderful wife.

The gift package consisted of three treats: one, a full-body massage; second, a foot scrub; and third, a facial. After getting that full-body massage (which was fantastic, by the way), I swore never to get a foot scrub. (Why get one? I’m male. I don't need pretty feet.) And I’d rather catch pneumonia than get a facial. Scrubs and facials are for women and metrodorks. But not for me, mama. So I told my wife that we’ll just go to the spa together, and while she’s enjoying the foot scrub and facial, I’ll have two hours of body massage. For obvious reasons, she was thrilled.

But months passed and we never found the time to visit the spa (we always ended up in a restaurant). And yesterday, to my horror, I realized that the soles of my feet were already covered with greenish calluses, which resembled Donald Rumsfeld’s face. (I wear sandals nearly everyday, exposing my manly feet to the elements.) My heels were infested with cracks, which had stubborn dirt for occupants. I was terrified to think that I would wake up one morning to find that the soles of my feet, which by then had transmogrified into a separate living thing, had left its negligent owner.

After failed attempts to purge my soles of the grime (used detergent, didn’t work), I decided to get a foot scrub.

“First time, sir?” the foot masseuse said. Whether the two tourists understood a word, I didn’t give a fart. I was bent on getting this foot scrub business done and over with, the final rite before a man’s walk of shame, only I was plopped on a well-cushioned chair. But I felt sorry for the masseuse. Using this scraper of some sort, he scrubbed my feet, which had been soaked in soapy water, to get rid of the first layer of dead skin, to no avail. So he scrubbed harder, and faster. It was like peeling a coconut using a butter knife. His fellow masseuses had more fun scrubbing supple Korean feet. My masseuse’s stern face betrayed a sense of futility. And this process, which was supposed to be done in 45 minutes, was taking forever.

When it was over – beady lotion, herbal oils, foot massage and all – my feet, to my pleasant surprise, was light as air. The mint cooled the skin, as though fresh breeze was flowing around my legs. I slipped into my sandals: it felt like walking on glass. I touched my heels: they were smooth and soft, like ripened mangoes. I felt like a newborn girl.

When I emerged from the room ahead of the two women, the counter attendant asked if I wanted the facial.

Now this was too much. Having mush lathered on your feet is one thing, but having all that gunk all over your face is another. So having a facial was out of the question. The problem was, my jealous back was telling me it needed some pampering of its own. But since I’ve had enough smelling girly goop, I headed straight to a nearby Thai massage parlor. I heard they never use lotion down there; just some precise finger jabbing on key pressure points. I bet it’s worth the short walk. Besides, I’ve got refreshed, sprightly feet to take me there.

I hate Bill O’Reilly. Which doesn’t explain really why I stop clicking the remote as soon as I see that haughty face of his on Fox News Channel. But I must hear what he has to say next, whether while trying to terrorize his quests or disgorging platitudes for all his viewers to lap up. I can’t help it. And I’m not even American.

Just this morning, I watched with glee as O’Reilly ranted at how Time magazine came up with its list of 100 most influential people in the world. In his usual belligerent mode, Kill Bill spewed vitriol and toxic wit at two Time editors, who, in turn, were composed enough to give compelling answers. One against two and the bout is dead even. Here was a classic prizefight unfolding.

Then the phone rang – our telephone rang – in the middle of O’Reilly’s tirade. It was my wife. She wanted to talk. In the middle of O’Reilly’s tirade. How can she do this to me? I love my wife but had to cut her short (“Talk to you later dear, Bin Laden’s just been caught and it’s on BBC”). I was sure O’Reilly was up to something.

Luckily for me, O’Reilly was still at it, but this time he was like an Abrams tank gone haywire. Kofi Annan, he said, shouldn’t be on the list, citing the UN’s oil for food mess. Al Jazeera, the arabic news channel, shouldn’t be on the list because putting it in there is utterly anti-American. Sean Penn, Nicole Kidman and Simon Cowell do not influence anyone, so they have no business being in the list. The Time editors tried to explain, but Bill, in classic O’Reilly fashion, was obdurate as ever and tried to smother their answers with his brilliance.

Now why was O’Reilly so incensed over Time’s list? Simple: he wasn’t in the list. You see, Bill O’Reilly believes he is the shining light of every conservative gone astray, the beacon of righteousness and morality of New America. But to his chagrin, Bill O’Reilly, this most narcissistic of anchormen, surpassing perhaps colleague Geraldo Rivera, was ignored by the influential magazine (a sister company, by the way, of Fox competitor CNN).

The following segment had the Fox anchorwoman (pardon my lack of gender sensitivity) asking viewers to respond to their call-in poll “Should Bill O’Reilly be in the list of 100 most influential persons?” Good Lord.

I hate Bill O’ Reilly. But I love watching comedians on TV. And at heart, Bill O’Reilly, stripped of his suit, straight face and that distinguished look, is a comedian pretending to be a journalist. And nothing is as funny as a man making a fool of himself. On TV. And that I can’t afford to miss.

A man can love several women at the same time without betraying any of them, says the novelist Gabriel Garcia Marquez. I, a monogamist, agree, not because I'm a patagonian hare.