And I’m just the biggest joker for ever believing otherwise.

Alone in a darkened, quiet hotel room. Deep thumps of heartbeat stop me from going to sleep. Conflicting emotions and feelings raging a feverish war. The perfect depressingly sombre scene for my deeply melodramatic self.

This is what you’ve been given. The path you’ve finally accepted. Too foolish for too long, to think that you can somehow be something you were never meant to be. Unwanted as a child, moved here and there, an excess baggage much too bothersome to keep, to continually take care of, and definitely not worth the time and effort to love. How did you imagine it would turn out any different? Oh silly, silly boy. Gay, strange, contradictory, insecure, different, tainted. Who would desire such a useless, broken thing. A disappointment can’t be a treasure, no matter how much or how long or how hard you try to fight against the odds; your vapid smile and lame submission, your sickly sweetness and delusional understanding, your laughable attempts at giving compassion and nurture that no one even wants.

Now can you finally hear their whispers behind your back? Your laziness, your incompetence, your selfishness, your fake qualities, your insanity, your cowardice, your dramatics, your illusions and delusions, your incapability. A failure of a son, a brother, a friend, a lover, a student, an employee, a person, a human being. A nothing who wished and believed he was a something. See now how they see you. And accept. This is who you are. Everything that you touched turned to shit and you would still delude yourself into believing they’re gold? Oh you stupid, stupid gay, strange, contradictory, insecure, different, tainted little boy. The naivete you mistake for your wisdom, the craziness you thought was your genius, the blindness you took as your philosophy.

If you had any integrity or bravery or decency, you’d kill yourself right now. You’d jump off that balcony and let your ugly head hit the asphalt. But no, you’re still alive. You’re just staring at it and thinking about it but you’d never do it. Because you’re just a scared little bitch boy who talked oh-so-much more than he could do. Disappear, end, and be forgotten. Oh the weight that would lift from everybody’s shoulders. And what now? Are you going to cry? Is the pathetic little gay boy going to start crying now? Having a pity party, are we? Dry your eyes and stop whimpering, slut. It’s disgusting. It’s not sensitivity, it’s weakness. It’s never vulnerability, it’s YOUR FUCKING EGO LYING TO ITSELF.

Oh the trouble you’ve caused, the pain you’ve brought, the regret that you are. Dirty, perverted, conceited, lying, thieving, callous being that would do the world a favour by stopping to exist. But since as a little sissy you would never grow the balls to take the graceful way out, the least you can do is be gracious and walk away. JUST LEAVE, BITCH! That was the one thing you were ever good at doing and boy, that was damn idiotic of you to ever stop.

Heed my advice little Micha: Give the fuck up.

When I think of my mother, I tend to be overwhelmed by a mixture of varying emotions. As a family, we’ve been through a lot, courtesy of an absent, emotionally unavailable, and promiscuous father. So my mother raised us, me and my sisters; weathering our tumultuous personalities during puberty and sometimes until now, watching as her children each chooses their own way, trying to be the best mother that she can.

Make no mistake, my mother is no saint. She is a woman, with her own emotions and sins and regrets and flaws and passions.  And I wouldn’t want it any other way. Sometimes she gets caught up in her own life as we, her children, get caught up in ours. Sometimes we drift apart, sometimes we fight and argue and yell at one another, sometimes we disapprove of each other’s decisions whether vocally or in silence. And yet through it all, she’s my mother still, and I love her.

I remember living with a guy once. I was 17 and rebellious and I ran away from home on the day that I met him and simply didn’t come home for several months. When I finally notified my family about how and where I was, my mother came to visit. She knew I was gay, since I came out to my mother’s side of the family as soon as I started dating, and at the time I thought she was okay with it. Turned out I was wrong.

During one of her visits, she brought over two female Jehovah witnesses, who apparently told my mother that my homosexuality is “an aberration against God and a sin and treatable”. And treat me they did. With an exorcism of sorts – hand-laying, loud praying, the works. I was stunned senseless. And I went to a place I was very comfortable and familiar with: hysteria and high-drama. We stopped talking for some time. I just couldn’t forgive her. I felt betrayed, misunderstood, and unaccepted. Suffice to say that in my teens, I was a very angry child.

Looking back at it, though, I can’t feel the same rage I used to. I guess perspective is something that living and age give you. She felt like she was losing me and sought to understand me by means that she understood. She’s a mother; not a saint, but a woman. And for that I forgave but couldn’t forget. And at that point, I stopped being so open about my orientation to her.

Several years later, something else happened. My mother met someone. I didn’t mind – none of us did. At least until we met the guy and I just couldn’t like him. I tried telling my mother but she wouldn’t listen. Maybe she was in love. Maybe she was lonely. She continued on and made some bad judgments. I can’t and won’t go into detail because this part is her story to tell, not mine. All I can say is that it was a major occurrence which residue is still felt to the present moment.

At least something good came out of it. My mother and I somehow reached a kind of agreement, an understanding, that in our lives we’re allowed to make our own decisions no matter how much the other may feel that they’re a mistake; and that however badly circumstances and conditions leave us shattered, when the dust settles we’ll always be there for each other.

I watched her sleep for several minutes tonight, and right when the clock struck twelve I woke her up, wished her happy birthday with a tight hug and kisses on her cheeks. I told her I’m sorry for not being able to give her anything yet. She just looked sleepily at me and smiled and said, “Just mention me in your prayers.”

And now I sit here thinking, remembering, recollecting. Reliving the days and the memories that we’ve shared and hoping so hard that there’ll be plenty of other memories to come, together with this wonderful woman who is not a saint, but my mother. And I love her.

Well, they have the unfinished part down, I have to say. The floor is bare concrete and sandy and the air is heavy with the smell of construction. It has a-half-abandoned-industrial-building-you-have-raves-in feel to it,  minus the abundance of LSD and/or e. The only thing missing is actual workers, although honestly about more than half of the partygoers look (and dare I say it, smell) like they can pass as construction workers, albeit better dressed to varying degrees. The AC barely existent, the air circulation terrible, and…

Oh wait, the show is starting. A drag queen in a black and silver-sequined mini is taking reign of the bar, mouthing the words to an unfamiliar sad slow RnB song. She’s doing a hell of a job at it too, slithering on the glass and sweating away. Kudos to her, though. Drag is never easy, in my opinion. And as she steps off to a smattering of polite applause, she’s replaced by another performer in a black mini, vest, and sparkly boots. I’m a little unclear as to what this one is doing, since her idea of performing seems to be walking back and forth on the bar while doing some kind of ‘coreography’. Yep. Apostrophes. Even more prominent is the ‘apostrophe’ between her legs. Sister needs to take Tuck-In 101 again. I suspect she failed the class. Miserably.

But I digress. Let’s talk about music now. I was really excited that female DJ Rya was gonna play. Not so excited when she actually does, though. It’s somewhat… disappointing. Rya (if my memory serves) used to spin these awesome mixes with a thick and seductive RnB flavour. It’s sadly gone, replaced by run-of-the-mill techno blah and even some questionably ‘dangdut-y’ remixes. The next DJ however (who by the way, is topless and has a cute face and pouty lips you just wanna ply with french kisses) does awesome! I’m a hiphopster at heart and he spins and spins and spins his music and I spin and spin and spin my hips around on the floor. DJ K3llink, his name is, as I was told. Well sir, thank you and thank you again for a slammin’ set.

Oh and if I was sober by the beginning of this post, I’m sooo not now. Heaven’s infamous Killer cocktail is back! The taste somewhat differs from the headbanging and throatburning classic that I remember, but hey, if it gets me tipsy after a couple of glasses, sign me up! Questionable price, though. IDR 150.000 for a cocktail? Well damn, that’s about Dragonfly’s price range, which to be frank is a little too upmarket for a very recently resurrected up-an-comer to stand toe-to-toe with. Not sure if it’s a smart move but we’ll see how people react to it.

Friendly staff members help make the night what it is, hospitable and reasonably chatty without being in-your-face. The gogo dancers… Well one is kinda hot in a big-thighs-biceps-pecs-gluteus maximus kind of way. The other is LOL material. Flat butts in g-strings? Hell, naw!! The man needs to be fed, like pronto. If you’re gonna be almost naked in public, better make sure you look damn good doing it.

Okay. Now I’m home. Chapped lips and sore muscles are testaments to the amount of fun I just had. Best of luck to Tino Mandagi, Heaven’s manager (not sure if he’s manager or owner); best of luck with your current venture. Thank you Heaven, thank you glasses of Killer, and thank you Tara and Robert. As I always say, a night is only as fun as the company you share it with. Kisses, darlings!

Micha, signing out.

I just can’t seem to summon enough excitement or enthusiasm to obsess about my face, hair, body, skin, clothes, and look in general (wow experiencing gayjà vu right now. I’m sure I’ve written something along these lines before). In fact, just picturing the scene and crowd in my head exhausts me. Previous observation and experience have proven that Jakarta gays can be extremely clique-y and just downright bitchy. And right now, I’m so not in the mood for attitude.

I’m starting to feel like it’s getting more and more difficult for me to find a place that caters to what I want. And even more difficult to find company who suits my partying goals. And seriously? It sucks big time.

Feel the adrenaline moving under my skin

It’s an addiction, such an eruption

Sound is my remedy, feeling my energy

Music is all I need

Baby I just wanna dance

I don’t really care

I just wanna dance

I don’t really care, care, care

Who’s That Chick – David Guetta feat. Rihanna

Meh. And people wonder why I get high. Still, it’s only Monday. Let’s see what happens this weekend, shall we?

“In an altered state of mind, where things are glowing and pulsating in my peripheral vision and shadows seem to hold much more than they seem. Strange that in these moments when my consciousness feels like it breaking out of my skin that I’m always able to see myself with a sort of perfect, surreal lucidity.”

At least that’s over and done with. Somewhat. Still jittery and disoriented but when did that ever become a problem? Instead of trying to imitate normalcy, might as well roll with it.

Something has to end for something new to begin, hence the destined trinity of my existence. Viewed from a cosmic perspective, nothing is good or bad. Everything just is. And though it would be easier to succumb to Creationism and say that there is a preordained direction, I would rather say that there is a certain self-organization whose ultimate goal is simply attaining and maintaining balance and equilibrium.

From the sexual to emotional to spiritual, all courtesy of intoxication.

Miranda Hobbes: “True romance cannot exist without good sex.”

Samantha Jones: “And yet you can have good sex with someone you don’t like or respect… or even remember.”

Sex and the City: Secret Sex (Season 1 – Episode 6)

Sure, some guys offered to visit. But I just don’t think I’m up to handling their egos and demands, not when I’m at such a low point. Maybe I should give them the benefit of a doubt, that some guys can actually be caring and thoughtful and kind. Recent experiences have proved otherwise, though, and as much as I’d like to believe that there are decent guys out there…

Goddamnit every man is broken, every man is broken. How quickly I’ve forgotten again.

How does it feel like, I wonder, to go through each day questioning and denying and hating a part of yourself? How do you withstand the world voicing and sometimes forcing their opinions and judgments on you when you already don’t like yourself very much?

Yea, I was upset. Now, looking at and listening to you, I’m just sad.

“I wanted you bad, I’m so through with that

Cause honestly you turned out to be the best thing I never had

Oh, you turned out to be the best thing I never had

And I’m gon’ always be the best thing you never had

Oh baby, I bet it sucks to be you right now”

Best Thing I Never Had – Beyonce Knowles

Oh, thank God I’m pretty.

“Simple relationships are only for simple people.”

And that’s the way it just is, yea?

Well…

Both feminine and masculine qualities exist in all men and women to varying degrees. However, is fidelity an inherently feminine characteristic or is it simply another stereotype created and enforced by society? Does having more femininity or ‘being more in touch with your feminine side’ lessen the proclivity for unfaithfulness? Are more feminine people, whether male or female (and I’m referring to femininity as ‘having feminine characteristics, such as gentleness, empathy, sensitivity, caring, compassion, tolerance, nurturance, deference, self-abasement, and succorance‘ and not  simply ‘looking, acting, talking, etc. like a girl and/or woman), just more inclined to be faithful or do they think they should be faithful because they’re feminine?

Sadly I can’t answer these questions with absolute certainty since even experts and scientists are still debating the whole nature vs. nurture aspects of femininity and masculinity and whether they’re biological or social or both. Still, looking from the perspective of a casual observer, it does seem like the surmise have virtue.

… Oh shit.

What I just realised is that, by this rule, as a person who’s generally attracted by his polar opposite I am drawn to men with severe cases of machismo which means that as far as fidelity is concerned any kind of romantic relationship is prophetically doomed.

Oh.

Ooh.

My my, how greatly and fabulously fucked up.

“No matter who loves you, it doesn’t really matter unless it’s the one you love, too.”

My life has been a blur of men lately, of bodies coming in and out my door and on and off my bed. Twosomes. Threesomes. Casual conversations and deep ones. And yet what does it all mean? As it turns out, not much. The sex is nice; but honestly I can achieve pretty much the same result with my own hands. The intimacy is wonderful; but truthfully I can do without the emotional mess.

In a way it’s funny, these men and their desire to own and claim me. Most of the time I think it’s their own idea of me that they prefer than me actually.

But alas! Even monsters have to age eventually; and this one did not manage to do so very gracefully. The wand that was his pride and joy began to lose potency, its strength diminishing away as each day went by. It started failing to function even when the occasion called for it. It drooped sadly, an unfortunate looking, uselessly vulgar thing.

The monster, of course, went into a state of panic. And in his manic fury and terrible helplessness, he started to think, “I feel bad about myself. I feel bad about myself and I don’t like it.” He cried and moaned and stamped his feet and patted his balding head and rubbed his thickening belly and pinched his hanging man-boobs, searching for inspiration, when suddenly, “Ah! I know! In order to make me feel about myself, I’ll make others feel bad about themselves!” So he carried out his devious albeit wholly predictable and unoriginal plan. He became, for lack of a better term, a raging bitter bitch, honing whatever’s left of his wit that hadn’t turned to blubber into something resembling repartee.

And so he went about on his days, until one day he stepped out of his territory for a visit to a foreign land and he encountered an exotic looking creature, wild beyond belief and intricately complex: a younger monster-to-be with unpredictable potentials. Of course they shared a night together, with their monster souls calling out to one another such was the inevitability. Words were spoken and touches exchanged, kisses freely given and always returned. And for those hours spent together, the old monster remembered his past, glorious self. But like every other night, it ended and became just another fleeting and too often forgotten piece of memory. So they went their separate ways, each remembering the night as he wished, as all monsters and mortals do.

Had the story ended here, it would’ve been bittersweet. Unfortunately happy endings in monsterdom rarely come to be.

The old monster went back to his world. Time passed. He started shaping up, turning lard into considerable muscle and generally feeling pretty good about himself due to the attention he was finally getting again. He had completely forgotten about the night. The younger monster-to-be, however, didn’t. And over IM (yes, even monsters use instant messengers to communicate like everyone else) he happily and chirpily and gleefully recounted tales of his own exploits to his supposed mentor, each crazier and sweeter and more daring than before that it didn’t take long before the old monster started feeling threatened. “What’s this?” he asked his monster self. “Is my reign coming to an end? Is this young upstart thinking he can be better than me?”

So he did what he could and tried to crush the little monster. After all, better to nip  a problem in the bud, no? He said hurtful things and made snide comments, exploiting every inferiority the younger monster had. Well, the little monster might be younger, but he was a monster after all. And monsters are not known to take shit from anyone. Still, though he may be younger, he was more mature and therefore chose to walk away instead of playing the old monster’s tired and boring game. And as he turned and sauntered, leaped and danced away, the little monster said a little monster prayer:

“Dear Monster God, please protect the old monster with his graying hair and flabby ass. Let someone finally, truly love him for who and what he is. And ps. Cure him of his chronic limpdickosis. Amen.”

The End

You asked me to lick it, lick it and don’t ever stop. I strained to reach the innermost depths of your most private part as you pushed back into my mouth, asking for more. You drive me crazy and I like it. This moment feels like the start of yet another addiction: both frightening and exhilarating, feeling so right that it simply has to be wrong.

Damn the comfort, curse the way our bodies seem to communicate without us ever uttering a single word. This is just a crush, infatuation, sexual obsession. Call it what you will, name it what you want, I’ll try my hardest not to fall.

So does it matter that you love me, baby, and that I love you right back? If things don’t magically, wonderfully, inexplicably fall into place then how much does it matter that our jigsaw pieces fit together?

You say we’re water in a river, just freely flowing where we’re meant to be, over rocks and branches strewn in our path. Well baby maybe some rocks are just too large to flow over and some branches steer us away further from where ever it is we belong.

Save the drama for your Mama. Let’s keep this light and fun. I’m not gonna let go of more than I can get. Been there, done them. Not gonna settle for someone who asks for more than he can or will ever give.

Too fucking tired of feeling so fucking scared.

Oh. Oooh.

Yep, did not see this one coming. And yet, I came anyway.

The thing about an LSD trip, from my experience, is that it gives you a choice of who and what you want to be based on your predisposition and potential and largely affected by your state of mind and your immediate surrounding. So I suppose this is simply a manifest of one of my predisposed potentials? Huh. Wicked.

But back to you; writhing, moaning, sighing you. You like me, don’t you? You’re comfortable with me. Fingertips, lips, tongue, teeth. I won’t promise you what I can’t give but what I can I will. Don’t try to own me, baby, lest I disappear. For you, for us, for now, let this be enough.

Eight years of relationship, four years of living together. Text messages every morning and night without miss. Holding hands and kisses in public places. Him opening doors for you. “Eventually I want to get married, whether to a man or a woman, and I want to have children, whether my own or adopted. After all, what else are we looking for?” Building the connection piece by piece from the ground up since your University days and his high school ones. The first kiss, the first sex, your first love. And everything shattered with a photograph of him – in the shirt that you bought – and his new love, next to the love letter they wrote to each other. “I’m happy with him”, he told you on the phone after.

And here you are two years later, naked in my bed as I kiss the tears from your eyes, salty with the tang of heartbreak. Damaged souls consoling each other, rummaging for scraps of comfort in kisses and rubbing skin. I can’t compete with a memory, baby, and I’m not one foolish enough to ever try. All I can offer is a temporary respite, a passing relief, the knowledge that while you are in my arms you are infinitely, unconditionally loved.

And as I watch you sleep, I realise that although some things may never be forgotten they can be let go. But only if you want to. And only if you want it hard enough.

Every man is broken. Maybe I’m finally starting to get it right.

You’re still naked in my bed. Still asleep and, from the way your fingers twitch randomly, still dreaming. I won’t forget the way you made me feel. I’m gonna learn from it and I will be better than it. What did Lauryn Hill say? “What you need, ironically, may turn out what you want to be if you just let it.” Okay, Ms. Lauryn. Okay. I’ll let it. I’ll be it. Just watch me.

***

Beware the tempting glow of twinkling lights, the soft undercurrents of gentle emotions threatening to pull you in and under. Never forget that it’s part of the game. It’s all part of the game. Just a game. Fun, yes; but not meant to last. Tell yourself to snap out of it, that it’s not you, it’s the chemicals talking. Rid yourself of his scent, scrub yourself clean. Every kiss, every touch, every lick, every suck, every bite didn’t matter. It never did. It never does.

Don’t feel too comfortable lying in his arms, arms that you know have and will hold other boys like you, feeling just like you. Did you think you were different, that you were special, instead of a random pick right out of a line-up of other boys like you, thinking just like you? Every man is broken. Every man is broken. Repeat it until you get it right.

We’re all just running on empty, desperately scrambling, chaotically clutching to floating debris of our identity. Chasing fulfillment any way we can, strained arms reaching out greedily, lengthening, beating each other down.

Every man is broken. Get it right.

Still… (Yep, there’s always something, eh?)

Still I wish I had someone here with me. Someone who wants me, whom I want right back. Someone I can just cuddle with, no worries, no clothes, no drama. Someone I can just be myself with instead of an edited version that they wish to see. Someone to finally belong to.

…

But that ain’t happening anytime soon, now is it? Instead I get offers of one-night-stands and romantic bullshit that everyone with half a brain knows will eventually go nowhere. Yes, both can be distracting and amusing for some time but boy, they get real boring real fast. Aaand my quest to find new friends seems to be hitting a brick wall as well. Either they don’t find me interesting or I find them boring. Either way, not exactly the recipe for a long and lasting friendship.

Still… (Yep, again.)

Still, I can’t really complain. My relationships, whether romantic or platonic, have always just happened. I’m a big believer in chemistry and if it isn’t there, then it just isn’t. Sure they need regular upkeep to maintain but the beginning, due to connections or vibes or whatever you want to call it, just [BAM!], happens. Anything less feels like make-believe or imitation or (shudders) work.

Honestly, lately, it’s been a whole lot of blah.

Chemical gods be praised at these unforgiving times. At least I didn’t have to be fully-conscious through it all.

Now home, naked as God intended. My two friends just left. My two friends whom I just finished videotaping having sex right there on the leather couch in my room. Moans and groans punctuated the slaps of flesh on flesh as they raced to a very dramatic -and very messy- climax. Tissues. Words. Soap and water. More words. Cigarettes. Words, words, words. Done.

Shit, I’m winding low. The truly sucky fact about life is that every high must eventually come down. After the music dies, the lights turned on, and the trippy buzz wore off, I once again return to the complexity of me. The tattooed, strip-dancing, perverted, crazy-living partyboy’s fatal flaw: he’s a lonely, dreamy romantic at heart.

Dammit.

“Let’s get lost, get lost in the twinkle together. Let’s lose you. And lose me. And if it’s meant to be, well baby, we’ll always find our way back.”

Let me kiss your troubles away, soothe those wrinkles on your forehead with my lips and fingertips. Let me listen to your stories, warm your hands with my breath, make you feel like you have finally found a place for you to belong. Eroding your past and erasing your future, we only have here and now.

I’ll be here for you baby, anytime you flip that candy.

For what it’s worth, even as my head tells my stupid bruised and battered heart to finally stop, I do love you, baby.

I love how my thoughts and feelings swirl inside of me, seeping out through my eyes, my lips, my fingertips. The seconds of drawing everything inside of me before exploding in moments of intense clarity. I don’t do this for fun, baby. Well, not just for fun. I do this to maintain my sanity. My own chemical therapy.

I know you judge me. Please do. Feel free. I’m the oh-so-soft clay between your judgmental fingers, weighing me, testing me. Mold me into the person you think I am, the person you think I should be.

Floating out of my body, watching me, observing me, savouring the cool smoke that I inhale and exhale slowly. Ever so slowly. Always so slowly. Muscles tightening and relaxing as I in turn relinquish and regain control of my limbs. Surrendering to the thrum of the music through my veins before breaking free again. Playing with it, licking my lips as I do it. A sip of water to wet me, another cigarette to heat me up. Raising my head, tracing the skin from my jaw to my neck and going further down. And I’m not gonna stop.

I’m the one you can never handle, baby. Simply because I’m me.

“You love yourself too much to ever love me as much as I love you.”

“I love myself too much to settle for less than what I deserve.”

That is why it’ll never work. And that’s what you’ll never understand.

So I’m your first, huh? Your first ever? You’ve never been attracted to a man before? A boy has never turned you on? A glass of water, black coffee, a lit cigarette. Words. Looks. Smiles. No promises, no complications. A world of us that can only exist when no one’s around.

How can I shake you off when you’ll always be etched all over me?

“Thunder only happens when it’s raining
Players only love you when they’re playing
Women, they will come and they will go
When the rain washes you clean, you’ll know”
Dreams – Fleetwood Mac

J’adore Dior and L’eau Par Kenzo. A night of fingertips fluttering over skins, the graze of stubble, and warmth exchanged under the covers.

“For whatever it’s worth, a part of me loves a part of you”, I say.
“I love you, too”, you say.
A beat of silence that you broke:
“Too bad you’re here and I’m there.”

Stories of broken hearts and glass beads and the ink that records the things that touched you. Interludes in between kisses. Shared laughter. Freaks and non-conformists.

A text message:
“Thank you for making me feel special”, you say.
“That’s because you are”, I say.

I don’t go for Bigs, you don’t go for Barbies. Exceptions to the rule. The heat that seared my surface; dripping, flowing, running down.

“Love is a useless and irrelevant emotion.”

And yet here I am, free-falling.

I’m a flirt. I’m a tease. But I play for keeps.

Don’t make me fall in love, baby because that’s more than you bargained for. I’ll let you do what you want just as long as I want it. So what if my hips sway with yours to every beat of the song? They never said we’d go all the way.

I’m a peep-show. An ad. A trailer for sex.

Fuck the movie, baby. Not me.

I replied:
“Handle what, sweetie?”

His reply:
“I’m positive.”

And then he called. Apparently he and his boyfriend tested for HIV last week and went back to the lab to get the results today. The boyfriend’s negative. He isn’t.

He sounded fine on the phone, explaining that he and his boyfriend plan to stay together and ‘somehow weather through this although the boyfriend is increasingly paranoid because he’s not ready’.

That sounded alarm bells in my head.

Still, I couldn’t bring myself to tell someone who had just been told that he’s HIV positive that there’s a big chance his boyfriend’s going to leave him. So instead, I said what I could and told him that it’s not the end of the world, not even close; that even though this is now a part of him, it doesn’t define him. And that now it’s time for him to think about the things he wants to and can do and do them. And that no matter what, good friends will always stay and follow through.

It’s never easy, is it, this damn disease? Mostly because of the social stigma attached to it and the fear and paranoia it triggers. As if it isn’t hard enough already.

Damn it.

And now you’re gone. And there is only memory.

And this is for now, a goodbye.

We did not get that many hits. Yep. How’s that for a blow to your self-esteem? And if you’re wondering why the hell would I put my self-esteem in the hands of ocassionally oftentimes creepy men who troll online cruising sites, I guess I have issues I so don’t wish to delve into in this particular post.

Howeveeer.. Tara changed the profile pictures about a week ago to ones of us in tanktops, showing some of our tattoos. And suddenly it was hits and messages galore. Man, I knew that men are visual creatures, but c’mon! It’s bordering on ridiculous. And it’s seriously shattering some of my greater expectations of gaykind. Apparently I have to look a certain way first in order to be considered interesting. Huh. Shocking. Not. Blah.

Moving on. We’ve taken the experiment to another level, or at least another website: PlanetRomeo. The same profile. Mostly the same pictures. I suppose the experiment starts now. There have been some takers, none that particularly appealed to both of us, though. We’ll see what happens and I’ll keep posting developments. Ta!

I’ve chosen how I live my life. It may not fulfill the expectations or approval of others, nor be up to their standards, nor even be to their liking. But guess what? It’s my choice. Just as it is your choice to live yours. It doesn’t mean that you’re not allowed to judge me, though. Of course you are. Hell, I judge you, too. We all can’t help judging one another. But when you expect me to change into something or someone else when I don’t ever ask you to, who exactly is the deluded and misguided idiot here? You don’t know what’s best for me. Even I don’t know what’s best for me. We all just live whichever way we can and see what happens anyway.

So when you say that you’re worried about me, what exactly are you worried about? It’s not like you’ve been around me or helped me when I’m down and out or even ‘been there for me’. And please chill, I know that the world isn’t made of candy canes and cotton candy and that people are people instead of angels and that oftentimes in order to see beauty it takes not only willingness but a whole lot of effort. I know that. But hell, why should it be anyone’s concern if I want to believe otherwise? As if people don’t rely on their denials and justifications and delusions to live through each day. And if you think you don’t, well sweetie baby honey, that’s your own delusional misguided idiocy talking.

O boy.

I’m guilty of being a voyeur of other people’s interactions and relationships, observing and analyzing them in an attempt to better understand how others, the world in general, and myself operate and function in regard to one another. I don’t always like, approve of, or condone what I see but I still have to see it.

And what I’m seeing at the moment, is a whole lot of playacting. To say the right things at the right times at the right places in the right ways to the right people for the right reasons. It’s basically premeditated, predetermined interactions in order to fulfill a certain agenda. God forbid we should ever be who we really are or say what we really feel and think. And here lies the temptation: How much of ourselves are we willing to compromise or sacrifice for the sake of the limelight, the attention, and applause? Just how much of ourselves will we modify, alter, discard, and forget?

It’s drama, drama, and yes.. more drama. Performance rather than substance. And not much else.

I suppose that it mostly has to do with my inability or unwillingness to adapt to the direction and pace of modern life around me. People have this need to feel like they’re going somewhere and they pursue it with gusto, whether it’s their career or relationship or interest or passion or hobby or any particular purpose, whether imaginary or factual, whether profound or temporary. And they do it at such breakneck speed. I have to have it and I have to have it now. Well the thing is, I don’t.

So, where does that leave me?

As it seems, much behind. And very much alone. And I get it. It’s not so much that those close to me don’t want me in their lives, it’s just difficult to find the space and time to fit me in their hectic and often crazy schedules. Which is why this is not so much a complaint as it is an observation. A simple is as opposed to a demanding should be.

…

Yet after all is said and done, it still feels strange sometimes.

Wait. Maybe I do get it.

It’s the easiest way to take to influence people and manipulate the masses, isn’t it? It only takes “Because God says so” or “Because God wants me to” to turn any agenda into a holy crusade. Dogma takes away the need for the people to think for themselves due to its authority on the ‘unquestionable truth’.

Oh..

And here I thought religions exist to teach people to love God and one another better.

I’ve stated in my previous posts that I’m worried. Should I be scared now?

Born a Batakese Christian (albeit more spiritual than religious) in Indonesia, I’m an automatic minority. Being gay classifies me into a smaller box. And being openly gay puts me in an even smaller one. It’s safe that say that I get more and more compartmentalized into a tighter and tighter corner. As much as I didn’t like it, though, I got used to it. But when something like this happens, I can’t help thinking, “Why can’t people just leave well enough alone?”

Growing up gay was not easy, as it very rarely is for anyone who’s different in any way. The taunts and the teases, the bullying and the intimidation, the name-calling and ostracism were rough but as with everything else, I lived through it and those experiences became just memories, uncomfortable and unwelcome as they may be.

I wonder, how about this one?

What if we both share the same boyfriend?

The more we think about it, the more interesting the idea became. Since neither of us is willing to invest the total time and energy to a relationship, why not split the load? It’s also the more enticing because people that I’ve consulted about the idea have been giving negative feedback, mostly questioning whether Tara and I will start feeling threatened or competitive with each other. Well, there’s only one way to know, isn’t there?

So last night, I made a Manjam account, just to put the idea out there and possibly get this thing rolling. I posted a brief description and our profiles, along with pictures of Tara and I together and some by ourselves. As by this morning, we’ve gotten a meagre fifteen hits, but no messages. Oh well. To be honest I’ve had reservations about Manjam considering almost all of the profiles I’ve seen exhibits gym-muscle bodies among which our profile would hardly get the time of day, but I digress: that’s another blog entry.

So. Two boys. One Manjam account. Thirty days. We’ll see how this goes!

…

Yea, that was a lie.

I suppose I just don’t know what to write about.

…

That was another.

The truth of the moment is that I’m just too lazy. And not even in a pleasantly complacent, blissfully ignorant sort of way. This laziness is the by-product of my scatter-brained, distraction-hunting, if-I-don’t-think-about-anything-then-it’s-not-real escapist tendencies.

It’s a mess all up in my head. And as much as role-playing thrills me, the mood to don a maid’s uniform and start cleaning up is yet to come.

Although…

I have been thinking about something. Nothing significant, just a little thing which caught my eye a couple of weeks ago. See, I was at Apollo Bar and Lounge for the opening party of QFF (Queer Film Festival), an annual event in Jakarta and several other cities showcasing LGBTQ-related films, exhibitions, and events. It was just another typical Friday night at a Jakarta gay club, with typical Eurotrashy music you can sing along to and typical men and boys standing and walking and dancing around trying to pull off looking inviting and aloof at the same time.

And of course, there were the gay couples.

Whether they were insta-couples who just hooked up or actual couples who have been at it for some time, a swivel of the head in any given direction granted a look at (depending on their degree of inebriation and inhibition, but not necessarily in this order) hugging, kissing, cuddling, making out, groping men. Which is all fine and good. Despite being single and undersexed, I’d like to think that I’m not as embittered as to envy other people their happiness.

Yet.

In any case, they were interesting to watch. Or maybe the lack of any mind and/or mood altering substance from my system demanded that I be interested in something or risk death by boredom. Whatever. Point is, watch them I did. And it wasn’t long before I saw something that piqued my interest:

From time to time, I’d see this look. It was on their face, in their eyes and body language. A slight stretch of the neck. An almost imperceptible glint in their eyes. A glance or stare that lasted a few seconds too long. Even with a man/boy/hybrid in their arms, they were looking. Still. Whether it’s for their next great love or another hot body to explore or yet another pretty face to obsess over and fantasize about, they were definitely looking.

And it got me thinking.

Promiscuity is prevalent in the gay lifestyle, to the degree that it is not just accepted but expected. Yet at the same time, infidelity is one of the most common reasons for the demise of a relationship. Here lies the dilemma: What do gay men want?

“The thing with gay men is, we want everything.” Tara said over the phone. “We want it all. We want the relationship, but we’ll be damned if we let the opportunity of hooking up with a hotter, better-looking thing pass us by. It’s selfishness is what it is.”

“But that’s… pathetic. The concept of having it all is just so overrated and ultimately pointless.” I returned hotly.

“Of course it is. But that doesn’t change the fact that they’d still want it.”

And that pretty much says it all.

In a culture where men pretty much get to do whatever they want and freely set the norm for ‘acceptable’ sexual behaviour, the gay sub-culture consisting of only men takes it to new heights. As an acquaintance once said to me, “We can’t get married. And if we can, what’s the point? It’s not like we can make babies anyway. So why not just have fun?” He then elaborated on how fidelity and sexual exclusivity are values belonging to a heterosexual society and as I listened to him going on and on, I couldn’t help wondering if in our attempt to escape the confines of moral values that society imposes on us, we have somehow, somewhere decided to scrap them altogether.

What then, about love?

“What’s love?” Tara asked me between drags on his cigarette.

“Well, at least for me, when I love someone that means I want him to be happy and therefore I try not to do anything that might hurt him.” I replied carefully.

I could hear Tara inhaling and blowing cigarette smoke on the other side of the telephone. “Take W and M for example. During the last two months they have broken up four times. Four. All because W had action on the side and M found out. And yet they’ve gotten back together. W says he loves him.”

“How?” I incredulously inquired.

After a short silence, Tara said, “I don’t know. Maybe what they mean by love isn’t the same thing you do.”

And there you have it.

Apparently the road to happily ever after is not only long and winding, it’s also uphill.

Or at least in a perfect world, it would be.

But we know that the world is not perfect; and in the midst of this imperfection, accepting or even tolerating differences is much easier said than done.

Reminiscing back to my elementary school subjects, we were taught that Indonesia is not a secular country nor is it a religious country. It’s a ‘Pancasila‘ country, believing in one God but not one particular religion. It’s easy to discern the good intentions of the leaders who formulated this in the first place but as we all know, intentions and actual practice don’t always walk hand in hand or even see eye to eye. Indonesia’s days has always been and still is filled with religious conflicts and as socially unaware as I wish to be, somehow I just can’t seem to not care.

The way I see it, religion is a way for people to get closer to God. It’s a personal relationship between you and whatever notion you have of God and, therefore, is ultimately a very personal choice. Yet human beings are social creatures and, people being people, most of us need others to share and support our beliefs. This is where organized religion comes in, institutionalizing this faith as a collective to strengthen each other and work together for certain goals. Again, a noble concept of good intentions; but how exactly is the practice?

The world isn’t perfect, and as much as we would like to believe otherwise, neither is any one human being. Hence even the noblest of our intentions are often tainted by personal agenda, egotistical desires, and impure motives. And you know what? Religious leaders, no matter how hailed or touted, are people too. We make mistakes and bad decisions, cast judgments and prejudices, and so do they. Most of us think they shouldn’t; but where exactly does ‘should’ stand in life? Which is why religious teachings, which in essence teaches love – of self, of others, and of the Almighty referred to as God – can and are easily diverted or manipulated whether on purpose or otherwise. Especially in matters of faith, where right or wrong can only be endlessly debated without ever reaching a logically definitive conclusion yet ultimately decided by whatever dogma we happen to believe in, it’s too easy to forget our conscience and follow the lead of a charismatic, influential, or persuasive voice.

I don’t see the point in religious conflict because I don’t believe that any religion is better than others, just as I don’t believe that any particular lifestyle or belief system or personality is better. More suitable, perhaps; but not better. There’s no benefit that can be gained here from the old method of compare and contrast. And what and who exactly are we defending? Our faith? Our way of life? Our ego and how we think people and the world should be? It’s a pointless battle where nobody really wins at the end. As far as religion is concerned, it’s time to put God back into the equation and stop using the same God as an excuse.

I’d rather follow a clear conscience than any reward of heaven or threat of hell.

At times like that, I sometimes wonder if one day this is what it’ll be like when I die. Will I be struggling for survival then? What would it take for me to override my instinctual grasp on life and just let go?

Now, this is not a melodramatic cry for help nor is it a pathetic suicidal attempt announcement. Melodrama is overrated and suicide is just a tad too selfish. Not too mention distastefully unsightly. This is just a healthy curiosity towards death. After all, death isn’t something I’m afraid of. If anything, I’m much more intimidated by pain. The way I see it death is just the beginning of another adventure which at the same time serves as an ending to an increasingly predictable one anyway.

So yea, back to death, or more exactly, dying. While most people are preoccupied with what happens after, I’m more interested in what’ll happen right before and at the exact time of. Will I know that I’m about to die? What kinds of thoughts will run through my head? Will they be profound or inconsequential? Precisely a nanosecond before my heart beats for the very last time, how will I feel? Do I have any control over any of these? Does it even matter?

And do you know the most ironic thing of all? For someone like me, who if not exactly obsessed with death is awaiting for it eagerly, it usually don’t come quickly. In fact during the course of my life I’ve randomly met three fortune tellers who all told me that I’m going to live to a ripe old age. A really ripe old age. Blah. Truthfully the thought of getting old ranks second after pain on The List of Things I’m Most Scared Of. And it just seems so unfair. For example, I have a dear friend who for years lived without a kidney, and he had to go to the hospital twice a week where they hooked him up to a hemodialysis machine for hours. I know this because I used to accompany him there. Luckily, he’s got a transplant a few years back but his doctor said there’s no absolute guarantee that it will work out. Still, he perseveres through life. Trudging on and enjoying life the best that he can. If only there’s a way for me to give him several years of my share, I would (I offered him my kidney once but he refused. I meant what I said, though. You only need one anyway, right?).

If it seems that I’m ungrateful, I don’t think I am, really. And it’s not that I’m unhappy. Sometimes it just feels like too much of a good thing. It’s like receiving a gift and returning it at the store because you know you’ll never use it. It doesn’t mean you don’t appreciate the gesture, but it’s not something you want or even need. Unfortunately this is one gift you have to live with.

Literally.

Once upon a time, I was a very arrogant, selfish bastard with attitude to spare and Daddy’s money to throw around. Things came easy. Whatever problems I had were easily solved or at least quickly forgotten. Money may be the root of all evil but boy can it afford amusements and distractions. And now? Well, now I have to learn to support myself and work (gasp!) and scrimp and save and rely on the kindness and generosity of my sisters and friends just to make it through each day.

I really never thought I would end up here.

But you know what? I don’t mind it. Well, at least not anymore. After the initial shock, several months of depression, denial attempts, and some years of adjustment period wear off, I can even say that I’m grateful that it happened. My identity used to be very closely intertwined with my money (and my car and my jewellery and my skin and hair care and the list goes on and on), which was of course directly connected to my social status and the treatment that I was used to and expected in getting. And now, though the view from the other side is not necessarily better, it’s clearer. It’s easier now to recognize who were around me for my money or my status or whatever I offered and represented. It’s also easier to be grateful and not take things and people for granted. I guess it’s true what they say, you really don’t know what you got till it’s gone. Not that I want to get it back. It would be great if I do, but it’s not going to affect me in any way even if I don’t.

I’m just happy. Some people say too happy. Too strangely happy. Mostly because there’s no reason to it, or at least no obvious reason that people accept as a basis for happiness. It’s not born out of the achievement of a goal or fulfillment of a wish. It’s not the by-product of having fame or wealth or a relationship or any of the things that people find so essential for their happiness. It’s not even the wonderful effects of happy pills that I used to take almost everyday. This happiness just is.

I want nothing, or at least as little as I can possibly manage. I guess that’s where it comes from. Not wanting anything means never worrying if you’ll ever get it. If you don’t want something you won’t be disappointed if you don’t get it. Accepting things (and people) as they are means you can’t be let down when they don’t turn out like you want them to be.

So I go through each day, taking whatever life throws my way. I guess my lesson is that happiness isn’t in always getting what you want, but in accepting what you get, no matter what it may be.

Why?

Most people in a relationship need to feel that it’s ‘going somewhere’, whether it’s something solid such as living together or marriage or having children, or something abstract like achieving a sense of comfort or settling down into a sort of stability or developing each other’s characters and personalities as part of a couple. The point is, the relationship simply has to evolve or risk boredom, ennui, and the impending breakup that inevitably follows. An old cliché says that ‘nothing lasts forever’. The way I see it is, nothing lasts forever as it is. Whether we like it or not, change will take place and relationships that work are those which realise that fact and not only anticipate it but even generate it when necessary.

And what about my two friends?

They’re hitting the bump because they’re going in a circle. The same circle. Over and over again. Because discussions end in resolutions but not resolve. Because issues, whether deep seated ones or those floating closer to the surface go unspoken. Why do I write this as a blog entry, you ask? Well, as much as I want to sit them both down and play relationship counsellor, there are limits to what I can do. Mostly I play good listener and enthusiastic discussion participant because JR gets territorial whenever I meddle too much. So I do what I know how to do, and write. And maybe, just maybe, for them to read the written words would help make better sense of the whole thing. So here goes:

Tara wants JR to stop being so caught up with his self-image of having to be the ‘perfect boyfriend’ because all it ever does it create resentments on JR’s part and other unspoken thoughts and feelings, which then causes him to be sullen and withdrawn, which at the end only irritates and annoys Tara. He would also like JR to be more communicative and not be so defensive in discussions and to let go of the image JR has of Tara which, over time, has proved to be inaccurate anyway. Being successful and ambitious, Tara also wants JR to have a sense of direction in his life, especially in his career because after all, this girl needs someone she can look up to and be proud of. And last but not least, although this relationship may not last forever, Tara would like to make the best of it while it lasts and wishes JR would do the same.

JR wants to make the best of it while it lasts as well because, like Tara, he knows that this may not last forever but sometimes he gets caught up in his own thoughts and feelings and it gets hard for him to communicate them because they don’t always go along with the self-image he has of what kind of boyfriend he should be. He doesn’t want to be sullen and withdrawn but he can’t help it. Old habits die hard and though he tries to break them he often slips back into the same old pattern. Not because he likes it or he wants to but because he’s too used to it. And as far as a sense of direction goes, he feels he has one but he moves in his own time and sometimes he does get sidetracked by some other concerns. And sometimes, sometimes it all just feels so grown up and he just doesn’t want to.

So there you have it. They might read it. They might not like it. But hey, what else can a nosy busybody with a blog do?

When I was younger, much younger, all I ever wanted was to just blend in; to be able to be excited about the same things that everyone else was excited about, to be interested in the same things that others were, to find common ground and finally just belong. Now, though, I don’t care that much anymore because as it turns out, whether you’re wrong or right, good or bad, haters will still hate. Universal popularity is practically impossible and life’s too short to live by and for someone else’s approval.

And as for my being gay, I’ve never really understood why it’s that big of a deal. If it’s your inclination to procreate, then please breed to your heart’s desire. Build yourself a harem and see if I care. Yet why is my loving another man such an issue? As long as romantic relationships and sexual acts are consensual, who exactly am I hurting? And if it’s my ‘immortal soul’ that you’re so concerned about, is my homosexuality a bigger sin than the heterosexual man who cheats on and beats his wife? In any case, only God can judge me. And even if your inflated ego at one point or another convinces you to be God, you’re not mine and you never will be.

And if you don’t agree with me, good for you. That’s the whole point anyway.

p.s. This rant is because yesterday I came across the Daily Express headline “Now Asylum If You’re Gay” and today I happened to see a Twitter account in Indonesian language condemning gays and transvestites. Two separate things on very different scales yet both instigate the same feelings when I read them. Hatred is hatred, whether it’s printed in a tabloid or mindlessly typed and tweeted.

How do I get off this one, though?

Things begin and end. People come and go. Life cycles and recycles. And you’re spun round and round. Over and over and over again.

What? Did you really think you were eventually getting somewhere? What a beautiful delusion.