to the little boys in all the "grown-up" men

hey hottie

you think you're so hawt
the way you strut
just because you have 
sick-pack abs?
a hair style straight
from the old f-four band
the epitome of all things
"bakya?"

you keep on saying:
"that's so gay!"
every time a handsome young man
approaches our table to shake my hand
or "i am not gay"
when i tried holding your hand
under the table, of course.

but when you finished downing
two glasses of cosmopolitan
you kissed my lips not just once,
or twice, or thrice
to the delight of everyone in the club.

"i am not gay, hey!"
you shouted when i tried touching your face
with my trembling hands
yet you keep on touching my thighs
and admiring their firmness
then later at night
you can't help but touch
and clutch
the enormous thing in between those thighs.

you think you're smart and well-read
just because you have an opinion
about kris aquino's love life and how
she only falls in love with the wrong men
because deep inside her,
she's really in love
with nobody but herself.

how deep, i thought admiringly
remembering you were only sweet nineteen
but then i remembered reading a comment
similar to what you've just said on the
brilliant blog for the intellectuals:
the well-written and flawless fashion police.

then later that night,
i almost puked
when you spelled "fairmont hotel"
as "faremont hotel."

you think you're so cultured
just because you've seen one movie
at the recent cinemalaya festival
i was impressed, again
but when i asked what movie it was
you said it was THE one that starred
a former rapper's son
i simply smiled and offered a toast:
"here's to culture and your brilliant head."

you laughed, flattered
missing the irony
in every word that i've said
but what can we expect
from someone like you
who cannot even think
even when using the tiny head
right between your legs!

---- mahatma gandah, still drunk from last night's fling.