another sad refrain

"here comes another young man; here comes another heartache," -- mahatma gandah.

dear x,

tonight, i am going to sleep with some pieces of you -- a shy, embarrassed smile; a naughty story about a fling that almost led to the break up with your girlfriend; a school project; a tour in some far flung province on the day that you will be allowed to vote. i really couldn't complain, nor ask for more. after all, i know right from the start that there are a lot of girls and gays who are after you.

but you chose to be with me tonight.

honestly, i was hesitant to see you again. first, i have nothing to offer you but my undivided attention and time to listen to your stories, some woes, some exciting adventures. beyond that, nothing. i don't have money, nor do i drive a car, nor do i own a luxurious flat, things that most boys your age would want from an older, flabby, wobbly, greying gay men like myself.

it's nice to know that you are not after those things. my apologies for prejudging you. it's just that i have dated a lot of young boys before and they were always disappointed every time i refused to lend them money, buy the latest cellphone or expensive rubber shoes that they wanted, and when they found out that i didn't have a car, not even an old, third hand one.

(one of those boys left me standing in the rain, at around midnight in the middle of nowhere, while he took off in his father's expensive car after i told him i no longer had money for gas.)

second, i have become jaded. after many a heartaches, after being fooled by the seemingly innocent smiles of those devils pretending to be angels, it has become difficult for me to trust another one, specially a great looking young man like yourself, who is being chased around by pretty girls and wealthy gay men willing to buy your every whim.

during dinner, a simple one because you said you would feel uncomfortable in an expensive restaurant (a relief since honestly, i couldn't afford it either), i was tempted to ask you this: what do you want from  a middle-aged gay man like me? why are you being thoughtful? why are you being nice? why do you keep on sending those messages saying "good night", "good morning", and everything else. childish, i know, but they can really melt the heart of someone who has been alone for nearly six years now. (i am so vulnerable right now that i can fall in love even with a meralco post.)

i did not.

not because i was afraid i might be hurt, or even scarred by your answer. but because i was embarrassed to be acting like a love struck teen-ager. i am forty-five, for goodness sake, i should be able to handle my feelings. but it's true what they say: in love, we are all teen-agers, regardless of age. we all act like innocent adolescents when we are in love.

no, i am not saying i am in love with you. far from it.

so where is this headed to?

i don't know.

but one thing is for sure -- before i get hurt, before i get burned, before i get scarred once more, i need to stay away from you. while i still can. i have to stop behaving like a moth to a lamp.

thank you for the attention. for the time that you spent with me. for the thoughtful messages, the adolescent stories about your flings and your studies. lastly, thank you for your gorgeous smiles.

hope you will have a fruitful life with your girlfriend.

as the british loves to say: "cheers!" (even if there's nothing to be cheerful about. even if the note says, you are about to be fired from your job. :) )


xoxo

mahatma gandah

(p.s. you really look great in your dirty white school uniform, made even cuter by the school id that was hanging on your neck. honestly, i felt like your old, ageing aunt all the time that we were having dinner.
this mall, where we met tonight, will forever be a part of my life. thank you for letting me take your photo in your school uniform. this will remind me of the great abyss that divides us, that between us, stands another young man of twenty seven years. hopefully, it will make forgetting a tad easier.)

&&&&&&&

a song for you:

and for myself: