Ladlad: An Anthology of Philippine Gay Writing by J. Neil C. Garcia and Danton Remoto

Author:J. Neil C. Garcia and Danton Remoto
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9789712733352

BUT that was a fortnight ago. Now I was there again, making a go of it, alone. When I stepped down the Scotrail at the station in Edinburgh and hailed a black cab, I felt a thrill run through me. It was the thrill of a nobody in another country, the delicious thrill of anonymity. If shadows could feel, perhaps, this was how they would feel.

Saturday night had just begun but the place was already packed. Faces always swung to the entrance the moment the door opened. Eyes roved from your face down to your pecs, your crotch, your thighs.

I looked around. There was nobody I knew. No friend from the GaySoc this time. I walked straight to the bar.

I ordered the same drink. Gorgeous wasn’t there.

To my left, a man was looking me over. I turned to him, full-face. He looked like my mad uncle.

“Have I seen you before?” he asked in a thick brogue.

“I’m afraid not.”

His face cracked into a smile. “How do you find this city?”

I paid for my drink. “Lovely,” I said, “but cold.”

“Ahhh—” he said, his “ahhh” floating in the air like the balloons in cartoons.

“Yes?” I asked, scanning the bar, looking for a seat.

“Err—perhaps what you need is human warmth?” he said finally, pressing my left shoulder.

“Yes,” I said, “you’re right. Bye.”

And with long strides I crossed the bar and sat in a corner.

The table beside me had copies of The Pink Paper. At the university, the GaySoc members would leave hundreds of copies of the free weekly paper in Robbins Hall. In a few minutes, they’d be all snapped up. But only around ten people dared to sign up for the GaySoc.

The night was getting warmer. The temperature of the crowd was rising as well. Any moment now, the dance floor downstairs would open. I picked up the latest Gay Times. Hanif Kureishi on the cover. I loved his My Beautiful Laundrette, which I’d seen in Manila. Jessica insisted that I watch the tape before I left for London.

I watched the film in the sala when everybody else had gone to sleep. But just when the punk played by Daniel Day-Lewis began kissing the Indian boy, my grandmother stepped out of her room. I thought I’d die. I told her I was watching the tape for a term paper I’d to write, then pressed the control for fast-forward. The images on the Sony TV blurred. She gave me a pained look (perhaps her arthritis and urinary-tract infection had been bothering here again). But without saying anything, she went to the bathroom.

Of course, when she’d gone back to her room, it was flashback again. Then freeze. It was my first time to see two men kissing urgently, with passion and perhaps the beginning of love.

But now, somebody sat from across me. I looked up. Oh dear, another wreck. A caterpillar moustache. I didn’t want to talk. The green light atop the disco’s door began to blink. Time to jive. I stood up, then disappeared downstairs.

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