GIGI GOES GAGA

7 DAYS, 7 GUYS #7 - WANTING THINGS

Originally posted on November 19, 2004.

The heart wants what the heart wants.
- Woody Allen

As a 30-ish divorcée living alone with a cat and spending most of my waking hours with predominantly gay co-workers, my dating possibilities were slim at best.

I had spent half of my life as a highly social creature, meeting all kinds of people in all types of places. I was like Kevin Bacon, connected to almost anybody within six degrees of separation. I had a bounty of dating experiences and relationships which, thankfully, had mostly evolved into healthy friendships. For instance, when I moved from North Hollywood to West LA one year, my moving crew consisted of my boyfriend Allen and three exes. When I look back, the situation was truly comical even if I didn't think so then -- while the three in my past were bonding over their memories of my belongings, I would repeatedly hush them up with my deadly stink-eye, hoping that Allen wouldn't discover their single common denominator.

My friends kept assuring me I wasn't washed up, that my future was not going to resemble any episode of The Golden Girls. But then something funny happened; I realized I was quite happy being alone and doing my own thing. During my first Thanksgiving as a renewed bachelorette, I sat in front of the TV watching a teen flick while eating beef liver with onions and a cup of chicken matzo ball soup. There was no one to question my selection of entertainment or meal choice, and my life was peaceful.

One normal ordinary day, my former high school classmate Tina phoned me from all the way in Seattle. She had a friend named Arnel who was done dating young 20-somethings he couldn't relate to, and wanted to meet someone his own age. Tina didn't think he and I would form a love connection, but she knew we would get along. "Both of you like going to school," she said. "And you can talk about anything so you'll get along fine." I told her sure, give him my number; it would be great to know someone I could go to the movies with at a moment's notice.

From way back when, I've always enjoyed meeting people just for the sheer curiousity and fun of it all. I like hearing their stories, watching their reactions, and discovering their quirks and eccentricities. It's the same when it comes to men and dating -- I don't try to categorize the guy I'm having dinner with into boyfriend, husband, or other. What I'm more concerned about is getting to know him and figuring out if I like him as a person first. The rest just always seems to follow.

Arnel called me up one night, and we were on the phone for about four hours. I found myself laughing until dawn, heartier and longer than I remembered doing so in years. We talked about everything and nothing. The subject inevitably turned to music; we talked about albums we had been searching for in vain. "I've always liked the song Wanting Things by Astrud Gilberto since I was really young," I explained to him,"because it captures perfectly how I've always felt about my life."

He swore he'd find it and get me a copy of the missing piece in my collection. "Oh really, if you do that I'll love you forever," I joked breezily. And then he asked when we could meet.

For the first time in a very, very long time, I choked. I realized I wasn't ready to meet this guy -- or perhaps any guy, for that matter. I suddenly felt vulnerable, even insecure. I imagined opening the door and seeing his face fall at the sight of me. And I discovered just how vulnerable my spirit was at that point, because the mere thought of such a moment made me feel like shredding and falling like confetti into the ground. No, I definitely wasn't ready for rejection, or even apathy.

Oh sure, I've had my heart broken before. There were times I'd even felt like it had crumbled into little bits with no way of being put back together. But I'd always bounced back and pulled myself whole, never wanting to let failure get the best of me. I've always wanted to be able to look back at my past during my sunset years and know that I was loved and that I loved well all my life. But this time it was different somehow; my heart wasn't as flexible and resilient anymore. This is NOT what it wanted, I decided.

I got over my insecure self eventually. I was just meeting a friend and that's all, I repeatedly reassured myself. A few weeks later, Arnel knocked on the door, I opened it, and his face didn't fall. Neither did mine. He brought me a bouquet of wildflowers and said nice things about my apartment. After a little chitchat, we took the elevator down, and crossed the parking lot to his car. As soon as I slipped into the passenger seat, he asked if I liked the rapper Snoop Dogg. "Uh sure," I answered politely, with the fakest of smiles . Great, he replied, and popped in a cassette.

"Tell me how long must I keep wanting things," Astrud Gilberto began to sing. He had found my song. Arnel kept his promise, and so did I -- I will love him forever indeed. My heart knew what it wanted after all, and he was sitting beside me.

7 DAYS, 7 GUYS #6 - TEN PERCENT

Originally posted on February 11, 2005.

I just had dinner with a former grade school classmate; it's been decades since we last saw each other. It turns out we have a lot of friends and acquaintances in common -- most of them fixtures in the Filipino-American community in Los Angeles (i.e. activists, public servants, politicos, educators, and the like). I mentioned the name of a percussionist I used to see for almost a year. I wasn't surprised she knew him, but I reeled from what she said next. "He has only 10 percent of his vision left," she said. "He's blind."

It was like I had been punched in the stomach, even if I had expected this to happen all along. After all, when we were dating he constantly spoke about his degenerative eye disease, which had no cure. He was an angry young man in those days, and his failing eyesight was source (I suspect) of most of his angst and frustration. He could be very sweet and funny, but often he was cruel and smouldering with rage. Most of his anger was directed at me and his mother. In the end I couldn't take the heat and left the kitchen; his mother didn't have a choice. She phoned me shortly after she realized I was gone forever; that afternoon she cried and apologized for the way her son had treated me despite my best efforts to support him and his dreams.

The last time I saw him, which was a few years ago at the Filipino American National Historical Society conference at Loyola Marymount University, I could tell his eyesight had gotten worse yet I felt a certain kind of peace emanating from him. I stood back for a bit and watched him, then decided to slowly approach and say hello. He smiled broadly, as if he were both surprised and happy to hear my voice. In an instant, all the bitterness and resentment I harbored against this man for years disappeared. He smelled exactly the same as I remembered -- and when I mentioned this I could swear he blushed -- and he looked pretty much the same. But I felt -- no, I was sure -- he wasn't quite the same man I knew, although we didn't talk long enough for me to pinpoint the difference. Perhaps he had reached a positive level of acceptance about his disability, but I think he was happy mostly because he was finally doing what he loved most: playing music, his lifelong passion.

There was one thing I learned from him during our time together: of my dependence and complete trust in visual messages. He pointed out I often said things like "I see" or "Do you see my point?" On the other hand, he was suspicious of what he could see and relied on his auditory, olfactory, and tactile senses for the truth instead. In hindsight I believe this resulted in our frequent miscommunication: often, what I saw and what he heard just didn't jibe. Yet today, because of him, I don't put all my faith in what my eyes tell me and I don't always believe that seeing is believing.

Don't get me wrong: I trust my honed eye to tell me what I like or don't like, or if something looks right or not-quite-right. But after being with R. I've learned to realize, for instance, that I love contrasting textures put together, that I can never fall in love with a man who doesn't smell "right" to me, and that music can make my spirit soar or break my heart. And when I write, I don't just check if the grammar and spelling is in place, but that my words harmonize and have rhythm, don't stink, and (hopefully) touch the soul.

I suppose you can say I used to rely on only 10 percent of my senses before R. He and I were never destined to be together forever, but I know he was meant to come into my life even for a short while. I can see clearly now my life is richer for the experience: all my senses tell me that.

7 DAYS, 7 GUYS #5 - WEEKENDS IN SAN DIEGO

Originally posted on May 13, 2005.

I met D when I was not even 16. I was at a really popular mexican bar/restaurant in Makati at the time, hanging out with my college-age boyfriend and his bestfriend G. D was 23, a foreign student studying at the state university. He and his friend descended upon our table to say hello to the guys; they were inebriated and stoned, and they scared the hell out of me.

He looked nothing like anyone I'd ever seen. Although today he would fit right in a typical Boracay party scene, there was nowhere or no way he could have blended in during those days. My memory is fuzzy now, but he was tall and skinny and wore something resembling a loose tunic top and pants; around his neck was a shell necklace no Manila boy then dared to wear. I remember staring directly into his wild-eyed countenance, frightened by his dilated pupils, assaulted by his loud bravado and cocky American twang, and wishing he would just go away. I was relieved when he finally left, no doubt to continue the rest of the night in drunkenness and depravity. I did not like him at all but couldn't say so because he was G's older brother.

The next time I saw D I had just arrived in California to finish my studies; D and G had also returned a year or so before . The brothers had relocated to San Diego, about a two-hour drive south of Santa Monica, where I now lived. One weekend, G took me home to celebrate his younger brother's birthday. The siblings had pitched in to surprise the boy with a new bike, and so we met up with D at the store, where he worked, so we could buy and assemble the gift. If D had shocked me before, he threw me off even more now. He was no longer brash and loud; he was quiet and introspective, like his entire spirit had been sucked out of him. He looked quite sad and melancholy, and I found myself wondering what had caused the shift. It turned out he was missing his girlfriend who moved to the opposite side of the continent. I realized he was loving and sensitive; I had completely misjudged him. By the time I was headed for home, D was no longer my tormentor -- but an older, wiser brother.

The next time I saw D he became my savior as well. I was dating someone so completely wrong for me and found myself in San Diego for the weekend with the guy. The first night at his house I wanted nothing but to flee, I felt like crawling out of my skin. I hadn't spoken to D in years but I had kept his phone number. I knew I was going to leave the house somehow so I told Mr. Wrong I was meeting up with old friends -- which was fine with him because all he wanted to do was sleep. Then I phoned D, not knowing if he were home or if he would care to meet up with me. But I had to try nonetheless.

D picked me up and took me to the city's Gaslamp District. We walked around for a bit, and then settled in at a cafe for coffee and close conversation. It was a magical night; his voice and presence wrapped around me like a tight, warm embrace. I was no longer a teenager now and it was evident we were relating to each other as peers. I wanted so badly to stay with him and talk longer, but I had to go back. By the end of the weekend, D was no longer an older brother but a friend, and I broke it off with my sleeping non-prince.

A few years later, I was seeing F. I didn't know he and D were good friends -- they were both foreign students in Manila and bonded as brothers. F was leaving for Texas by the end of summer, and I decided the only way to avoid getting hurt was to bolt early from a relationship with a clearly defined time limit. It was D who convinced me to stay and enjoy every moment so I'd have no regrets later. The three of us spent a weekend in San Diego together; when it ended D had become my trusted confidante and adviser as well.

I don't know exactly how and when it happened, but D and I fell in love with each other a few years later. By then I was just a little bit older than he was when we first met. He confessed he was already drawn to me when he first saw me here, but I was 18 and he didn't want to take advantage of my youth. But now we were both older, we were dear friends, and we also loved each other. He was perfect. And we could have been perfect, too, if it hadn't been for me. Because now I was burned out -- from pursuing too many passions and not having enough time (not even for sleep) to do it all. Also I had made too many wrong choices, and was now facing my consequences head on. There was no room in me for anything else -- not for him, not even for me.

So one hot summer afternoon in my apartment as I sat in front of D, his endless legs and arms wrapped around me, I picked a fight with him. It was a stupid, trivial fight that meant nothing but I kept at it, unrelenting and unforgiving. It dawned upon D that I wasn't trying to end our fight; I was trying to fight my way to an end. And so he let me go.

I knew I was making a mistake I'd regret, but I also knew if we had continued our relationship he would have only ended up hating me. I couldn't live with that thought. So I never asked him back, even when that was all I wanted to do, and then spent the next few years in limbo -- frayed and fractured, unhappy and discontent, incomplete and completely lost. And then D found someone else and asked her to marry him.

He invited me to their wedding but I couldn't find the strength or will to go. How could I? When we were together he used to say he wanted us to marry; I wanted the same but knew I wasn't ready and didn't know when I'd be. I wanted to phone him again, just like I did many, many years ago, for him to come and get me. To save me like he did once before. But I knew only I could save myself this time, and now it was my turn to let him go. And so I phoned him, but only to say I couldn't make it and I wished him all the best. When we hung up, I cried so very hard for what I had lost; I was still crying on his wedding day.

I stopped crying a long time ago. D is happily married and has a beautiful daughter who adores her father; in the meantime I've found the man I intend to spend the rest of my life with. D and I are still friends, perhaps even better friends than we were before. But losing him taught me to fight for everything I love; because of him I know what it's like to let someone slip away because I can't hold myself together.

D might have been the one who got away -- maybe that was the best thing for both of us, perhaps that was the only way we both could have been happy. I've since put back my broken pieces together and continue to keep myself glued with unrelenting optimism and positivity. This time I have the wisdom to know what truly matters and the experience to hold on to it. There's no more room for regrets now, or ever. But plenty enough room for me and the one who won't be getting away this time.

7 DAYS, 7 GUYS #4 - ABOUT A BOY

Originally posted on February 8, 2005.

I fought over a boy once.

Well, maybe not exactly. But I wouldn't give up a boy, and almost destroyed a friendship.

My girlfriends and I used to occasionally hang out with this group of guys. We'd go to parties and clubs together, chill out at Denny's for a couple more hours, and then head home no earlier than 4 am. I had a jealous and possessive boyfriend back in Manila who would call often and unexpectedly to check in on me, so you can imagine this caused quite a bit of friction between us. Eventually, we broke up; I was just never meant to be shackled.

So when my college had its annual ball, I jumped at the chance to get decked out and let loose. My problem was I didn't know whom to bring along as my date: I hadn't checked out the local male scenery for months. The only guy I could think of who could clean up well, talk to anybody and dance well to boot was Rod, one of the guys we'd party with.

I had never asked a guy out before, so it took me days to gather the nerve to call and ask him to come with me. I was so nervous and could barely stammer the words out; when I finally did he said, "You're nervous -- that's adorable!" (Great, that was really smooth). "Of course I'll be happy to go with you; I'm really flattered you asked."

So Rod rang the doorbell, and he looked...really cute. And off we went to the Beaux Arts Ball; as expected, I had the best time of my life. He was everything I thought he'd be: fun, attentive, considerate, and charming. And he danced better than anyone else in the ballroom. Oh -- and did I mention he was a voice major (opera) and sang like an angel?

Long story short: we fell for each other but my friend had already fallen for him way before he and I ever went to the ball. I didn't know this at the time, of course, because she just wasn't the type to admit it whenever she liked any guy (it was a pride issue with her). When she realized what was happening, however, she asked me not to get together with Rod until SHE got over him. I could have been a better friend, I suppose, but hormones were raging and I couldn't wait to hear his voice and see his face whenever I could. Gigi had gone truly gaga.

And so when Rod and I drove to the beach one late night and he crooned "Can't Help Falling in Love" while the stars twinkled above us and the waves softly crashed to the shore, that was it. I was a hopeless goner. My girlfriend and I didn't speak for six months until she phoned me unexpectedly. We never even talked about why we fought; it was like nothing happened. When Rod eventually broke my heart, she was there to help me pick up the pieces.

I never fought over a boy again. Not even a couple of years later when another boyfriend dumped me so he could woo my other girlfriend -- and she chose to hang out with him instead. I never stopped speaking to her, and we're still good friends. That boy, however, is out of our lives forever.

7 DAYS, 7 GUYS #3 - WAITING FOR MY HEAD TO FALL

Originally posted on March 12, 2005

Rosanna's dad loved to tease me, but even more so after he had read my diary. He used to say -- repeatedly -- my life would be glorious and tragic, like that of Marie Antoinette's. What, I'd protest loudly, I'd get my head chopped off and have it fall in a bloody descent into an empty basket? He said I was missing the point. It was the way I'd live, not how I died, that would define me.

There were many times I've pictured my head inside that scarlet-splattered basket. I'm blessed with good sense but unfortunately cursed with a predilection for exploring the forbidden. It's like driving towards a set destination, knowing exactly which roads will take you there safely and fast, but deciding at the last minute to take a detour and see if you can reach your destination by traversing unknown, even unmapped, paths. I've always been tempted by possibilities, you see. Here's my conundrum: although I'm too cautious to take physical risks, I've been reckless with emotional ones. I won't take an actual rollercoaster ride, for instance, although too often my life itself has been one big scary one.

A few months before I was set to leave for the States to study, I went with my girlfriends to Bacolod for a bit of relaxation and adventure. We were invited to attend a casual party at someone's home and eagerly accepted. There were a lot of people there, all very nice and friendly, but I found myself needing a bit of space. Melancholy started setting in, it was hitting me that very soon I'd be finding myself in very new situations but without the support system to help me face them bravely.

There were a few people watching TV and chatting upstairs. I sat down and found myself mesmerized by a Van Halen video ("Jump"), and not really paying attention to anything else. I didn't even notice my friend's cousin walk in, take a look at me, and sit nearby. Actually, I didn't notice him around me for most of the evening; I was so into my solitary haze. When I snapped out of it and finally observed him, I was immediately unnerved. My good sense knew he had a tendency to self-destruct and incinerate anyone else in his immediate vicinity, but I couldn't help but want to feel the fire.

For the rest of our stay there, he was always around. That is, he always made sure he was beside me. He found out where we were headed, or else he dictated where we'd go. On the night we left for Manila, he took us to the airport and held my hand firmly as we walked across the tarmac to board the small aircraft. He told me he'd call and visit.

If there was one thing I learned about him, it was that he always kept his promises. He phoned everyday and in the weekends he flew to see me. And I learned my instincts were correct about the man: he was almost a decade older than me, had a young daughter (who lived with her mother) although he had never been married. As a youth he had been reckless: drugs and alcohol fueled his misadventures and he literally crashed and burned, even almost losing his life in one too many car accidents. But now that he was older, he seemed to have learned his lessons well albeit painfully. He was now running the family business, and was focused on settling down and starting a family.

There were times I felt like his equal, although there were instances I felt so much like a child still. I'll never forget we were having lunch one day and talking about serious things. I paused for a few moments and looked at him squarely in the eye. "So tell me," I asked, "What's it like going out with a college kid who still does homework?"

He was clearly offended, "What do you mean by that?" he asked as if he were challenging me. "What are you trying to say?" I backed off immediately and mumbled, "Nothing, I was just wondering." He never answered me, and we never talked about our age difference again.

When my departure was just around the corner, he kept trying to get me to stay. He said I was the one, that I was the one he wanted to marry. What? I was incredulous. I was way too young to settle down; I had the rest of my life in front of me. He insisted I could finish college in Ateneo and then get married, he said I didn't have to go away. I told him if I didn't go I'd always be wondering for the rest of my life what could have been. I explained I could live with regretting things I'd already done, but not things I never got to do.

All right, he threw down an ultimatum. If I leave, I'd never see him again. And when I got back, he'd be married. I remember sitting on the floor in almost complete darkness while he said this. I was quiet for a few minutes, then I had a vision of my ensanguined head in a basket. "I can't stop you from doing what you need to do," I replied. "And I need to do this." We hung up and I never heard from him again.

A year later, I came home to visit. Shortly before I arrived, my friend saw her cousin at a relative's wake. He approached her and said hello and asked her how I was doing; she said I was coming home. She told me he asked when I was arriving, and then he quietly said, "She's too late, I'm getting married next month." Once again he had kept his promise to me: I came back and he was already married.

I still clearly remember the day of his wedding. I was sitting quietly in my room, wondering what would have been if I had stayed instead. I didn't feel a single pang of regret. In just a year away and on my own, I felt I had grown up and learned so much. I knew even if I never returned to the States, I had been changed forever. And I also was certain if I had made the other choice, I would have been merely waiting for my head to fall.

Rosanna's dad was right after all: it was the way I lived that defined me. What made me different from Marie Antoinette was that I knew how to stay away from the guillotine, even if it appeared I was headed for it. My life was sometimes glorious, sometimes tragic -- but my head always remained intact, even if a bit shaken.

7 DAYS, 7 GUYS #2 - THE BOY NEXT DOOR

Originally posted February 27, 2005.

There's nothing quite like your first grown-up kind of love. I don't mean the love you experience as a true adult; I mean the kind you have that makes you feel you've grown up, even if you're really just a kid and have so much more to learn and experience.

I was 15 when I had that kind of love.

He was my sister's ex-boyfriend's brother, and he was literally the boy next door. His cousin, who also lived with them, got a new dog and Suzy wanted to check him out. She asked me if I wanted to come along, and I eagerly said yes. Minutes later, while the dog and I were bonding, Andrew came out of his room, all dressed up to go out.

I still remember quite clearly he wore a nice button-down dress shirt tucked into his trousers. His sleeves were folded up a bit. I remember him breezing into the living room, leaving a faint trail of Paco Rabanne cologne in his path. He put one leg up on the coffee table and adjusted his boots. Boots. No one ever wore boots then, at least not any boy I knew. Then Suzy introduced us and I heard a slight American twang when he spoke. Later on I discovered he had just gotten back from a year in (was it Connecticut?) as a Rotary Exchange student.

Cocky, cocky, cocky. That word kept echoing in my brain as he spoke to me. The guy was arrogant, no doubt, but I had no real reason to dislike him so I remained pleasant and friendly. While we were chatting, I found out he was going out with his friends, one of whom was throwing a huge party at her home the following weekend. I had been invited to the same party but still hadn't decided whether I was going or not.

By Wednesday or Thursday I decided I wanted to go; it was THE party and "everyone" was going to be there. My problem was I didn't have any way of getting there (I still didn't know how to drive then). Over dinner, Suzy suggested I call Andrew and ask him if I could hitch a ride. "Ha? I've never called a guy before!" I protested. "I don't even know him!"

"Ay sus," Suzy said, "It's just Andrew." Even mom agreed I should call him and ask. Both thought I was being silly. He was three years older than me and in college. I was in high school, with braces and frizzy hair. My usual get-up consisted of Adidas running pants, a short-sleeved knit polo, and sneakers. It would be like the kid sister tagging along with the older brother; even I thought so.

So Saturday came and Suzy helped me get dressed for the party. She lent me her dress, something drapey with a sash that wrapped around the waist, I think (she was being quite generous that night -- this was one of her "good" dresses). I wore heels to match, my hair was sleek and smooth, and I applied makeup extra carefully. I learned how to put makeup on by copying what I saw in Vogue magazine for years (Way Bandy was my hero), so I was actually pretty skilled at this point. I remember looking into the mirror, and both Suzy and I were pleased. I cleaned up well. A little spritz of cologne (might have been hers too) and I was ready to go.

The doorbell rang and I ran down and opened the door. There was no reason to play coy and wait upstairs while someone else let him in; it was "just" Andrew after all. I still remember the look on his face when I opened the door -- it was the same look he had as he turned around quickly to glance at me as we walked out through the gate.

We got into his car. He opened the door for me and I slid into the chair. The leather seat was smooth and slightly cool to the touch. And we were off. To this day, I remember vividly the feeling of sitting in that chair, feeling the chill from the air conditioner turned on full blast and inhaling a blend of the cold and his cologne. He popped in a cassette of dance club music. I felt so oddly grown up sitting there. We were mostly quiet on the drive from Makati to Greenhills, although he made good effort trying to make conversation. By the time we got to the house we were laughing and relaxed.

We walked in together; I could see my friends from the corner of my eye staring at him. But when Andrew spotted his friends, he took a sharp detour to the right and walked straight to join them without looking back at me. I couldn't understand why I felt disappointed, but I headed left and joined my friends, who predictably asked me about the guy I just came in with.

By the time the party was winding down late at night, most of us found ourselves at the gazebo by the pool. He was in one corner chatting with a few college classmates; I was in another catching up with an acquaintance I hadn't seen in years. Once in a while I'd look at him and see that look on his face as he glanced back. It wasn't long before Andrew and I were seated beside each other just taking in the scene and talking to each other. I remember feeling like I was no longer the little sister cramping her kuya's style; I soon realized that even this high school geek could hold the attention of this college playboy.

He took me home and we said goodnight. Within a couple of days he dropped by the house to say hello. That entire week he'd accompany me on my daily walk around the village after school and before dinner. I remember the first time he held my hand as we walked back from the park and, soon after, the first time he kissed me as we played cards at my house (I was such a kid, all I knew how to play was "Old Maid" and "Go Fish").

This was my first true love, the love that taught me about selflessness, sharing, and compromise. The one that taught me about heartache and heartbreak. And pure, pure joy. I was in college by the time we broke up; I was the same age he was when we first met. We really thought it would be forever, and we gave it a good try -- in fact we gave it everything we had. And although it ended, with us eventually going along our own separate ways and not ever thinking about each other for years and years, I'm forever grateful for the experience.

Sometimes I find myself driving alone late on a summer night. I turn the air conditioner on full blast and feel the music wrap its arms around me. I lean back on my leather seat and smell the cold air. It never fails: I always end up wishing the night never ends.