I remember meeting this guy. Oh, he's just perfect. I met him during this gig. Wasn't really well-attended, although I figure it's because the band wasn't really that well-known. Understandably, the venue was small. He was wondering why the venue was so small. Figured they'd go on to great things, thinks the band better get used to performing for more people. I couldn't agree with him more.

He's fit, he's nice, he's funny. We got along quite well. Not really like we've known each other for ages, but there is something in common. He likes the things I like and we can talk about anything, even the things we don't like, endlessly. And did I tell you he's hot?

So, after the gig, we set off for a few drinks, hailed a cab, and the next thing we knew, we were making out on the back seat...

Oh, oh, oh, oh, please. What did I tell you about telling me stories like this? I told you, my imagination's too vivid for my own good. Tell me something and I'll visualize it in my head. That's how my mind works. Right now I'm imagining him groping you, and you taking your clothes off, and him unhooking your bra.

We weren't naked. We were just kissing, that's all.

I can still imagine things.

Imagine someone else. Another guy in his place. Another girl in my place.

I can still imagine things.

Oh, stop it.

Thanks to the American stereotype of the religious kind, I realized, perhaps belatedly, that the Philippines is a relatively conservative country. I don't know how exactly this connects with the thought I have right now, but I guess it's got something to do with the way we go around sex. In the extreme, it's limited to bedrooms, within the confines of marriage, and with one person. (With all this talk of marriage, it's inevitable that my mind will pace towards the honeymoon. One, we are growing old. Two, I am such a pervert.) Maybe I am naïve, or in my own words, deprived, but the idea of people jumping head first into baseball metaphors gets me a little, I don't know, complicated.

But it shouldn't be that way. I'm in that prime demographic! I pick up magazines for the photographs rather than the words. I'd like to think I can appreciate the aesthetics of the soda bottle. It's not the size, although sometimes size is daunting; it's proportion that matters more. Heck, some know I have a more, uhh, carnal side. "You've been checking her out?" "Yes, I'm afraid so, and I noticed her butt is quite big." It should come naturally, but it all feels wrong.

We did it in the back of a car. It was two in the morning. I don't know. We both felt hot, and that leads to sex.

One, that's somebody else. Two, that's an actual story. Three, I don't know how the heck I get these people to tell me these things. While my imagination drives me crazy, I treat this whole thing matter-of-factly, the way they do. It happens in life, yes. It's common, maybe, I don't know.

So, uhh, how does it feel?

It feels great. What's gotten into you?


During these testing times I wonder why some people have to resort to taking their clothes off to feel great. Not that I don't know how they define great. I am in that demographic. And you shouldn't know these things. Anyway, it's a fleeting moment. Just a fleeting moment. Whether you hit a home run or a foul ball, it's just a fleeting moment. After that, what? As much as I want to accept that it's a normal thing, the thought still makes me cringe - and yet it's thrilling enough to compel me to consider Rachel and Puck's one-episode stand as a "great" moment, although it was actually a suggestion.

I'll probably sound gay here, or at least an idealistic wussy who can't get started on anything, but for folks like us who look for something beyond a screw - maybe it's more a privilege than a prerequisite, I don't know - feeling great isn't just enough. I figure, whenever I say I am deprived, it's got nothing to do with sex.

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