It was our first heated argument. At the Burger King, of all places. Somewhere at Seoul’s gay district—we had our very first conversation without any mention of Miss Dominican Republic’s national costume for last years’ Miss Universe.
Some remark I made on his lover from few lovers ago ricocheted as retaliatory I-hate-this-and-that-about-you. Like a tong-its game (gin & rummy) in your neighborhood wake abundant with M.Y. San crackers and commoners’ coffee, things went hardcore and hate cards were laid.
Consciously, we’ve been avoiding any altercations on matters that matter. Like that homo sitcom, we were Will and Grace, Karen and Jack: spatting over the artistic merits of Bata Bata Paano ka Ginawa versus Titanic, what is the capital of Gabon, our waist lines and other people’s non-gym-going waist lines, commuting on jeepneys and my I-don’t-eat-at-food courts policy. It’s comfortable stuff only.
It’s as like as chalk and cheese this time: embarrassed stares, wrinkled noses. We said things to each other that we meant to say ages ago. Things we never thought the need to discuss them may arise…like Ever Bilena on cosmetics.
I’m not going to write about it though. I tell about other people too much.
Here’s what I can share though:
One is ever grateful to the heavens for a best friend with
1. two co-dependent nervous systems—for his penis and for himself,
2. with a taste for the mongoloid-ish oriental boys which cuts down any competition between us, and
3. with a twisted understanding of love but with the generosity to parade his broken heart and sore, sometimes violated ass once or twice once and again to set example to the likes of me who understands the game of love less.