Desafinado: Slightly Out of Tune - 19. Walking On A Dream

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CHAPTER 19: WALKING ON A DREAM

"Tapos na," (It’s done,) said the barber.

Fingering my hair in the mirror—the cut was sleek. I haven’t had a haircut this short in almost a year. Scissor cut tapered on the sides; that’s what I asked, and this barber delivered. They priced the haircut at around $2.00, so I gave him $100.00 worth of tips. Grinning as though he had just won the lottery, the barber said, "Salamat pards." (Thanks bro.)

I grabbed the backpack and headed to the pier to meet Albert. He’d gone into the bazaar to buy something. Probably some sweets or snacks we could eat on the trip, or a sunblock lotion since I’d told him we had run out.

The sun was blinding in this preposterous heat coming off El Nido Pier. I wiped my face and armpits with a towel and checked the time. We still had two hours before the ferry departed. Today was the day when we were heading off on a boating adventure, mainly the El Nido Island Hopping boat tours, which comprise several travel destinations. This was the original trip Daniel had planned for their vacation, before the accidental mix-up Albert had where he boarded the luxury yacht cruise and was swept into the trajectory of my sweet, sweet arms. In the back of my mind, Daniel’s spirit may have blown a guiding wind for Albert to be led onto my path. Life without him seemed... unimaginable at this point.

Pulling up our ferry tickets, the H.M.S. logo was signed underneath a piece of paper. I didn’t know how to tell him that this boat tour was also part of my company’s smaller businesses. That several ferry boats currently docked at El Nido’s pier were mine. The lies were surely building up. At what point do I tell him I’m not an impecunious manager but a capitalist billionaire trying to obfuscate the soaring inequality of his good opinion over the fact that I’m someday going to inherit a hundred billion dollars worth of empire? Nah. He will not leave me because I’m rich. He’ll probably leave me for lying to him. Stupidly panicking and erasing my thoughts aside, I took a pen and aggressively blotted the H.M.S. Tours below the ticket.

Raising my arms to cover myself, I found shade under a canopy. I was wiping off the sweat under my brow; the heat was turning out to be brutal.

The woman manning the stall selling ice-cold beverages said, "Gulaman sir?"

Jugs of see-through plastic containers filled with a dark, almost cola-like liquid, orange with white boba bits, and green with gelatin strips, enticed me to get two cups of this brewed concoction. Anyone would be thirsty in this weather. P60, or $1.20, for a cup of gulaman and pandan juice was a sweet deal. She swirled the ladle inside the jugs and poured the liquid into the cups. I haven’t had gulaman in a while, and the cotton candy and taffy-flavoured drink certainly hit the spot. Although, I wasn’t sure if Albert would be into anything questionably green-coloured.

Gulping the drink in one go to quench my thirst, I heard a voice behind me say, "Hey, sexy. How much for an hour?"

I quickly turned, and Albert was whisking his moustache, licking his lips, and batting his eyebrows. Wearing a white shirt, jeans, and a huge backpack, he looked like he was going on an excursion, not to the beach. "I’m not for sale," I said. "But I’m more than available for my boyfriend."

Encircling me as he continued whisking his stache, he said, "Your boyfriend is lucky to have found himself a rough stallion. This’ll do." He cupped his mouth and projected his voice around the surrounding area. "Hear ye, hear ye! This kind sir is a fine specimen of a breeding horse. You may admire him. You may pet him. You may even touch him. But only I can ride him. Do we have an understanding, good citizen of—"

I grabbed him and held his mouth while I bit my cheeks to keep from laughing. "What’s gotten into you?"

"I’m telling the world that you, kind sir, are hot," he said, taking my hand off his mouth.

I let him go and placed an arm on my hip. He didn’t even notice. "So, do you like it?"

"What should I like?"

"My haircut," I said, with a dour expression reeking off my face. "You’re not going to say anything?" I handed him the cup filled with green liquid. "There. In case you’re thirsty."

He gazed up, touched my face, and began rubbing my cheeks. "Oh my goodness. Is my darling upset all of a sudden?" Then he turned to the cup and drank the beverage. "Wow. This is lovely. What’s in this?"

"Pandan juice."

"Really nice."

"Hits the spot, right?"

"Indeed it does."

"Wait. I’m being sidetracked," I said. "You have said nothing about my hair. I’m waiting."

He motioned for me to lower my head. I did as told, and he frisked my hair, perhaps testing my hair follicles for durability and softness. "What are you doing?"

"The thing is, if I’m on top of you, I would prefer it if I could hold on to something. And your hair is perfect to—"

I swatted his arm, and he laughed. "That’s not funny. You joke about this, yet you have no follow-up. I can’t jerk off forever, mon coeur. My right arm’s getting bigger than the left." It’s true. Lately, he had been very suggestive of sex, but he had no initiative to do anything about it. I ran out of steam since he would always make a joke out of anything sexual. But this time, it was hitting differently. He was talking about my hair. This was personal. "No more sex talk for you, unless you mean it."

His face turned serious. He closed his arms and said, "Alright then. Let’s do it now. I’m good. I just went to the loo, cleaned myself up, and I’m ready. Do you want to do this or not?"

"What are we talking about?"

"Sex. Sha-gging me. Come on. There must be a stall nearby. I could do some riding there if you catch my drift."

My heart stopped. Was he serious? Or was he playing with me? "Are you sure?" asked the little man between my legs that suddenly awoke inside my briefs. "You really want to do it?" He nodded. I looked into those green orbs just to make sure. "Ok. There’s this bathroom stall where I’m sure there are no visitors—"

"I CAN’T BELIEVE you’d think I’d stoop low for this mister wanker!"

And I can’t believe he 360’d this argument from me. So I asked, "So, no?"

"What do you think of me? A bloody house pet who’d shag wherever and whenever I felt like it. The bedroom is meant for that. How dare you think that I’m uncouth, ill-mannered, and uncivilised?"

"So no then?" I asked again, just trying to make sure.

"A big no!"

"Not even a handjob?"

"You’re pushing it," he said.

He was curling his mouth despite the attempt to show he was serious. Being a prude doesn’t suit him. That night, when he dragged his tongue across my armpit and dry-humped my crotch, looking like he wanted me inside him desperately—where was that Albert when I needed him? There was no other way but to unleash my secret weapon. The weapon that defeats anything he throws against me; I pulled out my phone and showed him the recording. He was watching it with his mouth wide open.

"When was this taken?" He said as he covered his mouth, watching himself dance rabidly in a parking lot. At one point in the video, he was twerking.

"Who’s sitting on the high horse now, huh? Albert on drugs is looking very interesting."

I raised my arms and dangled my phone where he couldn’t reach it. "Delete that video now! Delete it."

"I won’t. Not until you kiss me on the lips. Not on the cheeks, but on my lips."

"Faggots."

I peered into my surroundings.

"What a bunch of faggots."

I desperately searched the area for the person who’d said the disgusting word. The sound was male. Did it come from a group of high school students eating fishballs in a rickshaw? One of them snorted, and another cachinnated. Their backs were turned. Hearing their conversation closely, they were laughing about a friend who’d given flowers to one of their classmates and got turned down. It’s not them. I glanced around and saw a bunch of people eating at this small food stall with a seating area on the roadside. Peering sharply at the men dunking their siomai in the soy sauce dip, one of them frowned at me. I eased my expression and smiled.

None of the locals would know how to say a disparaging term or a word used by disgusting people aiming to offend people like Albert and me. Homophobia was never rampant around these parts. Not even in remote places, as long as you’re acting with decorum. Making out in the streets would be considered improper. Heck, not even the straights would kiss in public. Kissing in general is frowned upon in countries like this one in Southeast Asia. But even if Albert and I were to tongue each other in the mouth, I’m sure the locals would dismiss or laugh about it and forget something like that existed later on. They would never set upon us with a pitchfork, crying to kill the queers. That’s not the Filipino population that I know of. They’re kind, hospitable, and friendly. Not this voice filled with vitriol and hate.

"Hey faggots. Can you stop doing gay shit? It’s offensive," said a guy with a southern drawl sitting by the coffee shop across the street. A foreigner. Figures. And definitely American.

I looked over and saw a guy in a tank top wearing a baseball cap. His arms and chest, which bulged from his singlet, were also smothered in hair. What little skin his hair didn't cover, his tattoos did. He had a redneck beard with a handlebar moustache—the scraggly kind you’d see on hillbillies. But even the hillbillies had more decency than this piece of joke.

He was with his friends, and there were four of them. There were three guys and a girl; the girl was quiet and was sipping her drink. I could almost sense her embarrassment with her eyes staring at the table, flicking to the side, but never to us. While the men glared at us with contempt.

One guy, who looked like the girl’s partner, ate his cake while nodding sideways. He said, "We could hear you from over here. What we heard was disgusting. You should be ashamed actin’ like that in another country ya’ll."

The shorter, disease-ridden-looking one, ok, maybe not riddled with disease, but the short, lanky-looking one, said, "Ya’ll ain’t sure if them faggots aren’t messin’ with yah. I reckon they’re thinkin’ of doing the nasty with the two of ya’ll, thinkin’ of sucking your cocks and doin’ what else is god forbidden in this world." He then nudged the normal-looking one, the tank top redneck. "Come on, Craig. Show 'em your cock. I betcha’ one of them will be kneeling to get it milkin’." I was staring at the short one, and he said, "That tall fellar’s ready to suck you dry. Look at em’ licking his lips."

That was it. That was all I needed to cross the street in haste and in rage, go over their side, look at the tank top-wearing redneck in the eye, and say to his face when he stood up, nose flaring, "What’s up, bro, huh? What’s up? Do you have a problem with us?" I pushed him hard, and he lost his bearing and his step, and was thrown off onto the chair behind him. You've got something to say to us, huh? Then say it to my fucking face." He must’ve underestimated my height and built from a distance. He barely reached my neck, while my arms were the size of his neck.

Albert grabbed me by the arm and started tugging on it. "Darling! Come on. This isn’t worth it."

The entire street suddenly became rife with life as those eating at the carinderia came outside to look at the commotion. The students at the rickshaw were pointing at us, and the lady selling gulaman suddenly shouted, "May away." (There’s a fight.)

The redneck eyeing me for a fight glanced at Albert. That look. I was sure of that look. It’s that same look when you coveted something you desired. That foreboding look that launched a thousand ships to Troy from Sparta. And as I glanced at this closeted homophobe gazing at Albert like he’d had a love-struck moment, I was a hundred percent certain that this walking turd was into my boyfriend.

I pulled back my arm and was ready to torpedo his face when Albert suddenly held my wrist like a Zen Buddhist monk. He calmly said, "Please. Let’s go. The people are staring." My head swivelled, and I saw everyone gathering around the vicinity. "This was meant to be a good day. Let’s just make it a good day and go. Please. For me."

"Ok," I said, complying with his wish, as I looked into those green orbs and saw nothing but kindness.

As my punching arm lost its velocity, the top tank redneck raised his fist, ready to settle the score, when Albert lifted his hand and pleaded with his palm. "No! Not today!" he shouted. "Put your hand down, mister. We’re leaving peacefully. Please, control yourself." Like a moth to a flame, the man lowered his fist as we turned around and walked out of there.