Letter to Sam

For those wondering, Sam is my only guy best friend.

Dear Sam,

I just want to thank you for stepping on my self-esteem for the past 10 years like some dried up leaves that just fell from a maple tree.

Since grade school, you kept on pushing me to the front because we had to arrange ourselves according to height. Turn to high school, you kept on pointing out my acnes like they were some abnormal skin disease I contracted from Mars. Not to mention, you kept on whispering to Joana, Stacey, and Sarah about the irregular growth of my nose hairs.

And hell my face went red when you were telling everyone about my balbon-ish skin and face. Actually, I still don’t know where I got the genes from. Both Mum, Dad, and sis have flawless skin. Do I need to apologise to you because God bestowed a rugged facial feature to a Filipino-Chinese?

Because of you, I actually felt I was the ugliest person on earth by the time I entered college. Ron, my course blockmate, even worsened the situation when he humiliated me in Math class because I entered the room all sweaty from the commute.

“Use a perfume, and wipe off your sweat, will ya?” he said it very audibly, so that all of our blockmates can hear. The class just snickered in unison.

I then remembered you during that time. With all the cute mestizos and Chinitos walking around our hallways and cafeteria, it just comes to show that I am at the bottom of the hierarchy when it comes to face value.

There…. Four years in college whisked away. I was holding on to my four-clover leaf, hoping that someday, someone will like me based on my inner beauty, not on what’s seen by the naked eye.

However, the world doesn’t work that way innit? I do want ask you about the times you spent in the gym, perfecting your 6-pack abs, and toning your pectoral muscles. Of course, physical attraction comes first, then that’s where it starts to become deeper. I’m not saying that there has to be a physical connection, but it’s rare for two people to go straight to delving each other’s inner selves.

So, my college life just arrived and left with no guy (or even girl) fancying me, save for one guy back in freshman year. I was still in denial stage at that time, so the relationship didn’t really materialise.

And the path to an all-time low didn’t stop there. By the time I had to go to Europe for my exchange studies in 2008, I had to swallow my pride as Caucasian blokes flooded the streets with their sharp features, bluish grey eyes, messed up blonde hair, and lean slender bodies.

During my 19th birthday, I actually wished that my mum would marry a Caucasian, so that I can strut freely with all the girls and guys being swooned by my celebrity-like appearance. How despicable of me, you reckon.

It’s because of you my dear friend.

And now, fast forward to 2010.

It all took some persuasion from by college best buds Trix and Nica to actually say that I don’t look that horrible at all. I still remember what Nica told me while we were on Trix’s car en route to Manila.

I can’t wait for you to have a girlfriend, because I know that she will be very lucky gal under your tender loving care and gentlemanly values.

Damn, even though I am not easily moved by touching words, what she said just pierced into my heart made of stone. However powerful her remarks may seem, your 10-year instillation was so effective that it stuck in my mind like a barnacle. Sad to say, it has already left an indelible scar that won’t disappear until I die.

As people would say, the tree would not stop growing unless you uproot it. You’ve planted the seed deeper than usual. That is why it would be hard, if not impossible, to weed it out.

As an occasional sadist, imagine the delight I experienced when 10 humongous acnes sprouted out from your oily forehead like mushrooms. Joana and I were quietly snickering whilst you were shopping for Panoxyl in Watson’s.

Returning to the present, your constant complaint on how I look made me suffer even more because of the repercussions that come with it regarding prospect-searching on the other side of the norm. You must know that gays in general are more inclined to judge the person based on his/her physical attributes, which makes the less blessed ones worse off.

Well, one can actually apply the social inequality quote here…. “The rich become richer, and the poor become poorer.”

I should ask you this Sam… Am I enough for this cute guy on the Tube? Is my face value sufficient for Olya, Akhal, or more importantly… Art?

Well, Art is a different case. I have to protect him from you Sam, because if ever you see him, you might scrutinise every part of his face like the way you did to me for all these years.

Art doesn’t look like the typical boy-next-door type. But you do know the notion of “it grows on you” right? Well, his features are epitomised by that quote.

Yes, this letter seems to stem from pure sheer hatred I’ve kept for 10 years, but not to worry. The good things we’ve shared outweighed all that. You were almost always there when I needed help, just like how real camaraderie works. I just hoped you were a better best friend to me.

So with that, I have to thank you Sam, for everything you’ve taught me.

P.S. This will never be received by the other party. And unless my gaydar is really messed up (which I think it is, really), I think you are one of us as well.

Oh, and happy 22nd birthday by the way. Wish I was in Mall of Asia right now celebrating with you lot.

Cheers,

Josh

Biography

June 2, 2010

Hey there. How is your name related to the British entry in the Eurovision Contest?

It was the first ever instant message I got from someone in Manila Gay Guy. I just joined 2 days ago after finally accepting the inevitable truth.

That I was gay.

Within those two days, I did nothing but to peruse the blog for Dear Migs letters. Also, being the Europe freak, I downloaded and watched the Eurovision Song Contest 2010 as well, only to find out that Germany won with Lena’s Satellite. During this time, I was still waiting for updates regarding my application in a university in London.

Wow, you actually googled my name. After hitting Enter, I just put on a smug.

Before signing up to MGG, I was thinking what pseudonym I can use. Thinking about United Kingdom’s representative for Eurovision, together with the thought and prospect of going to Britain in the near future, I decided to take his name as my temporary nickname.

No, I didn’t. I actually watched the Eurovision as well.

My heart skipped a beat. A Filipino PLU, also a Eurovision fan? This is… one in a million.

With my shaky hands, I decided to type commentaries regarding the performances like there’s no tomorrow.

And that’s how the name stuck. And I don’t effing care if Josh placed last in the contest. His humility’s too hard to resist.

-----

Ok then, so you might know by now, that Josh Dubovie is not my real name. It’s just my pseudonym.

And for those who tried to google ‘me’, you will actually be directed to a real person.

And this, my friends, is the real Josh Dubovie, my first ever British crush.

Actually, now I am thinking, it’s not really creative of me to get another person’s (and an artist at that) name, for a lot of reasons.

One, who knows, his peers or agency might sue me for plagiarism.

Two, readers might imagine and fantasize that I am as cute as him. Sorry my friends, he is as cute as a button. I, on the other hand, am as cute as a scarecrow.

Is Mr. Dubovie too foreign? Should I Filipinize my surname? 

But it already stuck with my cyberfriends, and I can’t change it anymore, I guess. Furthermore, using his name can be a reminder of the time I finally accepted who I really was.

Besides, Josh Dubovie sounds good to me.

Obfuscation

“In third place, is Mr. Dubovie.”

I can hear a pin drop. We were having classes regarding information security when someone entered, saying that he was there to award the top three merit students in our batch.

I quivered as I was standing up to get recognised by the whole class. I limped a bit as I was going out to reach for the certificate.

“Come on now, do not be shy! I am the one getting embarrassed here,” said the award giver.

Seriously, it was so sudden that words couldn’t escape my mouth at all. My vision and hearing were still blurry because of the claps and cheers I can see and hear. I can’t see Art and Tina, but somewhere amongst the crowd, it seemed that I can hear their jeers and woohoos as well.

After shaking hands, I zoomed back to my seat to prevent further discomfiture. I’m really not that great when it comes to public events, especially when I am the one being placed in the hot seat. Calling my attention is not one of my strong points, and I hate being recognised for doing something exemplary.

My face went red as my seatmate patted me coupled with a greeting of congratulations. The Filipinos at the front mouthed ‘congrats’ while waving at me. I can’t take the humiliation anymore. Haha.

After the break, as I was about to sigh and take a quick nap, someone hugged me from behind. I turned to see who it was.

With his wide smile and cute dimples, it was Art. Oh ‘twas a long time since I last saw him. I still have some questions regarding his two failed invites during the festive break.

He kept on muttering words of kudos, but my head just filtered all the sound resonating in the classroom. All I can feel were his arms as he patted me like a father congratulating his son of a job well done. My heart was still beating a bit faster a couple of seconds after he let go of me.

“Josh, libre, libre!” He chanted. Tina joined him, and it was really embarrassing. I wanted to evaporate on the spot.

Oh, and they didn’t even stop as we made our way to the common room to buy some snacks from the vendo. Gene arrived as well and warbled with those two as they continued to mortify and haunt me.

As soon as break’s over, I ushered Art and Tina to transfer beside me because there’re two vacant seats beside me.

Yawn. Lecture was getting a bit boring even though the lecturer had impeccable British accent. I was mouthing and repeating what he’s saying every now and then.

“What’s obfuscation?” Tina whispered unexpectedly.

I was wondering where the hell she got that word. I checked the lecturer’s PowerPoint, and it was there.

After checking it on my mobile, Dictionary.com finally enlightened me. It meant confused, difficult to understand.

“You’re obfuscating me,” I addressed to the both of them, while snickering. For all they know, I was trying to send mixed signals as well.

“You’re obfuscating me,” I said again, while my eyes were just on Art. He was just laughing, apparently unaware of what the hell I was trying to address. I didn’t need to worry, because it seemed that it was too subtle to be even picked up.

You are really obfuscating me. Some of my mates were already discouraging me from continuing to pursue this ‘roundabout relationship.’ The car cannot go on circles forever, you know.

That is why, I will try to convey a couple more hints starting from today. It’s now or never.

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Scurrilous Swiss

May 13, 2010.

Domodossola. Only a few minutes before we get to the Swiss border.

A few hours ago, my mum, sis, and I bade farewell to Dad, as he was left behind in Turin to prepare some stuff to take with us back home. We were to go back to Manila after two days.

The train’s chugging along the hilly landscape from Milan, all the way to Geneva, our destination. I was watching an episode of American Idol on my iPod nano. Sis was eating some chips, while Mum was just there, sleeping. She must be tired from this 5-hour trip.

I looked outside the window. There’s a lake on my right. Its beauty allured me to think about the arguments I had with Dad a couple of days ago.

He did not approve of us going to Switzerland, because for one, the Spain-Portugal trip was already proved to be pricey because we didn’t get Eurail passes, and the lack of rest due to country hopping proved costly in terms of our health.

We have to go to Switzerland, I muttered. I mean, this Eurotrip will not be complete without the taste of the Swiss chocolates and the tour around the exquisite lakes and the affluent houses situated on top of the hills, overlooking the crystal clear waters of Lake Geneva. Not to mention, some of my mates have been there, while I haven’t. It’s the competitive spirit that drives me to take this last sightseeing trip of the month.

I got disturbed from my pondering when the train stopped at Domodossola station. A group of Asians got off with their heavy backpacks, while talking amongst themselves very loudly in what might seemed to be Korean. Behind me, a couple of young Caucasian girls were laughing very loudly at the sight of the lost Koreans as they were standing on the platform.

They kept on pointing at them and muttering/snickering in French. For all I know, they are so racist and rude.

-----

It was already 9 in the evening, and the sun was just setting. We already passed by Montreux, so it means that Geneva will be the next stop.

We were prepping up to get off, when my mom’s mobile rang. She answered the phone and talked in Tagalog. Then, I heard the Caucasian Swiss girls behind us giggling again, and tried to mimic my mom’s tone and speech.

My sis looked at me, and she seemed disgusted. I felt the same way. I was so tempted to tell them off, but how can I do that? It’s their land, and we’re just visiting. Plus, their status seemed to be better off than ours because they have the money to shop in Milan’s high streets (based from their Prada and Gucci shopping bags with them).

Yes, I know that you guys have a better quality of lives than me and my family, but how dare you guys have the audacity to look down on other nationalities.

Finally, after what seemed to be forever, the train finally stopped at Gare du Cornavin in Geneva. I ushered my mom and sis to get off quickly, before we were to be further scrutinized by those teenage girls.

We were heading to the exit when I saw the girls again, from my peripheral. They were being picked up by a 40-year old lady, also Caucasian. It must be one of the girls’ mum, I thought. And there was this man on a chauffeur uniform getting the 20 shopping bags they were all bringing.

I told my sis what I saw and she said, “Oh those stupid rich bad asses.”

I laughed at the end and told her that, we will also be like that someday, just shopping until our wallets can bleed no more, minus that rotten attitude.

Hidden Under a Cloak

*beep*

The cold wind tried to make me shiver as I stepped out of Bus 343 at Elephant and Castle station. The weather was bitterly cold on the second day of the year. It’s a bank holiday the next day, so that might explain why this place was unusually quiet.

I checked my watch. It was 9:40PM. Work will begin in 20 minutes.

I tried to look for the Coronet Theatre. Good thing it was just beside the Elephant and Castle Shopping Centre. The bouncers at the entrance greeted me with their usual tight and stern expressions. After a bag check and an explanation about my evening job, I was finally allowed to enter the theatre.

Or should I say bar. The Coronet is technically a theatre, but it can be transformed to a dance bar for parties of all sorts. I was there to do cloakroom for the event. The cloakroom guys will be the ones who will safe keep the guests' coats by giving them number tags so that they can pick them up later after the party.

I entered the cloakroom. Hell it was cold as it was located outside the theatre. Seems that I won’t be taking my coat off anytime soon. How ironic, as I'll be working in a cloakroom.

Since I was the first one there, the coordinators were ‘kind’ enough to ask me to put number tags on about 400 hangers. I was working on my 186th hanger when someone tapped my shoulder.

“Hey! Long time no see!”

It was Olya and his same red parka from the last event we catered about 3 weeks ago.

“Hey! How’ve you been?” We shook hands. My hands were again, cold, like last time. I gave him some number tags, so that I can do some catching up with him while getting the job done.

“I’m fine, thanks. How’s your Christmas and New Year?” he asked, while concentrating on his hangers.

“Not too bad myself. I got a bit fat due to my uncle’s constant feeding. Haha! How about yours?” I was already on my 257th.

“Not good… I was alone the whole week. My friends went back home to celebrate. I watched the countdown in Westminster by myself actually,” he said half-heartedly.

During that time, I just wanted to hug him, but then again… I had to finish these before the coordinator comes back, not to mention he might punch me in the face if I did hug him.

Thank God three more people arrived, and we managed to finish preparing about 600 hangers before the coordinators returned. One of them asked us to huddle around her so that she can brief us about the event. As expected as it can be, the surprises just kept on coming.

“Tonight’s event is just straightforward. Just get the coats from the guests, and give them a number tag. Each coat and bag will cost them 2 pounds each.”

Wow. 2 pounds just for keeping their coats? That is insanely costly. Oh well, since they are partygoers, they’ll sure have a lot of money.

“Oh, by the way, tonight’s event is a gay party. So it will be loads of fun!” the coordinator said impishly.

Oh. Dear. Lord.

-----

“I worked at a gay event before. They tip big, seriously… don’t worry!” said one of my colleagues, who was trying her best to pacify my other male cloakroomers. It was only 10:20, and the doors will not open until 11, so we have time to rest and prep up.

“We have to be careful when going to the toilet!” Olya commented while patting my shoulder. Wow, his comment just ticked me off a bit. It seemed to have a small trace of homophobia.

At that moment, I was still speechless. The surprises just kept on coming. First, Alexandra Burke’s mini concert, and how this? If only this catering party pays well, I will seriously do a full time work rota here.

Gay party? It will be actually my first time going into one! And the best of all, I won’t be a partygoer, but I will be the one serving them. So imagine the delight I had when I heard what the event’s gonna be. PLUs from all nationalities will gather at this dance party that will celebrate the onset of the New Year.

And they will have to pass through me (and my colleagues) if they want to ensure that their coats are in safe hands.

Back in my mind, I felt a bit sorry for myself, because I can’t mingle with them. But I couldn’t afford to get laid at the start of the year. Lol.

---

“Thank you very much sir,” I said as I took the coat from him. The cute Caucasian bloke gave me a pound as tip, winked at me, and then went inside the bar.

It was already 12 midnight. I kept my composure as gays on top of the hotness meter just kept on coming. They came in various forms… butch, drag, athletic, twink, bear, etc. (Just tell me if I used some of the terms incorrectly). Damn, if I only I always get assigned to parties like these, I might fish a prospect sooner than I thought.

I kind of struggled, partly because of the European goodies I was seeing, but it’s mainly because of their coats. They’re hardcore expensive, to the point that each coat can equate to a month’s expense. I have to take care of their Prada parkas or Burberry trench coats. And wow, the tips just kept on coming as well. The tip box just went past the 10 pound mark, and we were only hanging about 200 coats.

I was about to give the number tag to this another cute guy I was serving when he asked me, “Do you sell fags?”

Even though I knew that he meant cigarettes, I still froze. It was amusing, well, in that context.

“No, we don’t. The other cloakroom sells them.”

“Can you come with me please? Oh pretty please?” He grabbed my arm as I was about go to the back and get his change. That was a bit shocking but amusing at the same time. Before I can react, my girl colleague talked to him and said that she can show him the way to the other cloakroom. He agreed and let go of my hand, and winked at me.

Second wink of the night. Either I am that cute and they’re hitting on me, or they’re just being uber friendly. I’d go for the latter one then.

-----

Finally, after about two hours of the constant routine of getting the coats and giving the tags and change, I was tired… and nature’s calling me. The other cloakroomers bade me good luck as I went out and headed for the toilet.

Since the toilets were inside the premises, I had to pass by the dance floor before reaching my destination. It was hot and stuffy, literally and figuratively. I can’t see much because of the mist emitted from the smoke machines. The pink, blue, and yellow neon lights just illuminated the dance floor, with hundreds of men dancing to the tune of a techno song being played by the DJ with his sound mixer.

The place was kind of cramped, so I have to squeeze myself and just push myself to get to the toilets, as they would also not hear me if I say excuse me. Most of them are in their tank tops, while some are just… shirtless. Imagine the horror/delight I was feeling back then.

Finally, toilets. I double checked to see if it was the men’s or the women’s because apparently, the guys were all lining up to the cubicles… no one’s peeing on the urinals. And they were just there, chatting amongst themselves in the toilets.

I think I know the reason why they’re lining up. I’ll just have to double check with my friends as soon as I get home, I think. I just took a quick pee on the urinals (while double checking if someone's prying me or not), then went straight back to the cloakroom after a couple of more pushing and making way.

Nothing much happened after I returned to the cloakroom. It was considered to be the ‘quiet time’ when all the guests have arrived and were having the time of their lives inside. Apart from the couple kissing passionately a few metres from the cloakroom (which I kept on giving quick hidden glances at them), I just sat there, chugging on my Red Bull, and waiting for people to start going home.

A few minutes after half 2, and the coordinator finally asked me and another person to call it a night. Our services weren’t needed anymore; thus, I can have a good night’s rest back home.

So technically, I can… join the party. But the 4-pound tip I got after dividing the tip box’s contents evenly was just enough to by me a pint of lager worth 3.50. Rather than spending it, I just decided to really call it a night and headed off to the nearest bus stop.

As soon as I took a seat on the upper deck of Bus N171, I had to comprehend the things that just happened.

First and foremost, I forgot to say goodbye to Olya. Anyway, it was really a gratifying experience, serving the LGBT community. I mean, compared to the customers I was serving at the bakeshop, they’re totally more friendly and courteous, and not to mention they initiate small talks, which I totally fancy. They’re really fun to be with I guess.

it was as if it struck me hard. God seems to be giving me a message. Being exposed to a gay party at the start of the year? Hmmm.

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A Letter to Josh

Congratulations, Josh. After a month-long battle, you are now officially blogging in real time.

That non-stop typing in the Central line train and on the red double-decker buses had finally paid off. Now, you don't have to keep on setting the post's publish date and time. Readers (if you have some) can be updated in real time about you and Art…. este, about you and your London life.

Sure, some deadlines have to be met, which meant that some of the events have to be removed from the timeline, but who knows? Maybe when things get quiet, you can impose the flashback style of writing.

Don’t forget to thank Adam Chua, who took a handful of soil from the ground to mould you. If God created Adam, then Adam created you. Without him, this blog will be inexistent, and the passion for writing would never ever emerge from deep down inside your unconscious mind. His perfect descriptions of how London works make you want to continue his fanciness for one of the most beautiful cities in the world.

You have to thank your cyberfriends as well, who were there with you in times where you needed help in living a new reformed lifestyle, even though they are like 6000 miles away… the life from the other side will sure be a burden without them.

This 2011, I hope that you will be more successful in terms of your secondary life, which will one day, merge with your real one. I also hope that you can inspire others as well in the posts that you will create. Well, as you also keep on saying that you want to write as good as Adam, Marky Sy, or Fickle Cattle, I’ll wish that as well… keep on reading books!

And lastly, since love life has been virtually nonexistent for you for the last 20 years, I hope that this will be the year that will finally turn the tides around. Good luck, and blog on!

Cheers,

Your Creator

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New Year Woes

“10… 9… 8… 7… 6…”

My eyes were just glued on the telly. I don’t want to miss anything.

“5… 4… 3… 2… 1!”

BOOM BOOM

As the Big Ben struck 12, the booming just went all out. We were watching the New Year countdown live on BBC1.

The London sky was just illuminated by the thousands of colourful pyrotechnic devices used in the fireworks display. The London Eye, which was the centre of the annual New Year’s exhibition, was showered with blue neon lights.

For the whole ten minutes, I was just staring at the screen, looking intently as Britain's capital showcased its celebration for 2011. It was massive. It just pwned SM Mall of Asia’s fireworks display.

I hugged my tito and tita while the crowd were singing Auld Lang Syne. I thanked them for everything they did for me during my 4.5 month-stay. Without them, I dunno how the hell I would survive.

I quickly greeted my closest friends here a happy New Year and best wishes regarding our status here in the country. We were just about to go up to eat our sumptuous media noche when my mobile beeped.

1 New Message from Art

Same to you mate, same to you. Happy New Year!

Art. I want to kill this guy for two main reasons. First, he was inviting me to go skating at Winter Wonderland in Hyde Park. Of course I was interested, but I never heard from him since. When he replied back, I bailed out because (as my mind is stronger than my heart) I had to keep track of my December expenses. Ice skating was 11 quid… Too much man.

Second, he was again inviting me… to watch the fireworks in central London. Yep, you lot might think that it can be the sweetest date ever, but about 250,000 people are expected to cramp themselves in that small space in Waterloo, Westminster, and Embankment area, and not to mention that they have to endure temperatures of 2 degrees Celsius.

I've thought about it actually. I can go with him on New Year’s Eve since I've already finished my obligation with tito and tita last Christmas Eve. God that noche buena and English lunch was just heaven… It made me 5 pounds heavier though.

And then, as expected, I never heard from Art again. So fine, I decided to spend the New Year with my uncle and aunt and at one of their friend’s employer’s house in Chelsea. Sure enough, when I was on my way to meet them, Art replied again, asking me if I can accompany him to capture some videos of the countdown.

He’s just so confusing, really. I dunno how long I can keep up with him. I decided that 2011 will be different compared to the past 21 years. Either I just let him be, or I take action and get to the bottom of this.

-----

“Just choose a room, Josh,” said my aunt’s friend, who is the caretaker of the house that I will be spending the night in.

After that very scrummy media noche that consisted of beef, prawns, salmon, and noodles, we had some drinks, and after 4AM, we decided to call it a night.

I decided to tour the house a bit. Man, the house had 4 floors and a basement. There were three bedrooms, 1 master bedroom, 2 toilets plus a massive master bedroom toilet, 2 dining rooms, 2 living rooms, a library, and an entertainment room. The caretaker told me that Chelsea houses some of the most expensive properties in the UK. We’re looking at prices of about 2 million pounds, the minimum. Bless my soul.

I decided to take the first room on the right on the 2nd floor. Man, it was massive. I quickly unpacked my stuff and prepared myself for my first slumber of the year.


I lie down on the queen size bed, pondering what the future will bring me this 2011.

Career wise, I hope this will finally be the year I will make my stamp in the UK. I have this idealistic dream of mine to own a house in London, which is supposedly the city with the most ludicrous property prices. Tita Rose was very optimistic and kind to tell me that she knows that I will, someday, be able to own a house just like this one.

Well then, I am ready to face 2011 with a new hope.

Love wise, well… that would be a different story altogether. And hell no… Valentine’s Day is coming up… not again.