shallow but glamourous lives: the problems of the wealthy

eleven thirty pm
saturday
bgc

while having a full-body massage at the luxurious guest room of a glamourous friend, marchescka futanezcha called, rudely interrupting my bliss courtesy of the expert hands of my gorgeous masseur who looks like brazilian model fabio ide and temporarily bringing me back to earth. ah the demon that is modern technology. these are the times when i wish i don't have an iphone, ipad and what have you, when all i want is to relish my own sweet, quiet, private time with one of manille's best looking but quite expensive men of leisure and a million pleasure.
a while ago, i was already dreaming that i was flying on the back of superman, the new version but of course, as part of our weekly tour of the universe and beyond, leaving me breathless as i felt the hardness of his muscles safely hidden but still very visible from his very flimsy suit. this, while he was embracing me tightly, making sure that i won't fall off from his sexy back.

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too lazy to rise from bed, my masseur, francois, kindly handed me my mobile phone. it took him a minute or two to find it inside my latest "w" bag from lv, where among others, alan holinghurst's the stranger's child is competing for space with two ipads, lipsticks, make-up, perfume, scarf, a pen, a notebook, two iphones, keys, a clutch, a rosary.
"ola marcheska," i said, feigning excitement upon hearing her throaty voice as if she has just spent the whole night cheering for prince harry at a polo match at the hamptons.
"where are you?!" came her snooty question. as though i was one of her minions, ready to serve at her disposal. to give her joy. ah, now you know the hierarchy of our little secret society.
flushed and still fuming from being interrupted, i almost shouted at her. but luckily, one of the things i learned from madam coolerwoman's finishing school in switzerland is to keep it cool even if everyone else is panicking and going crazy around you. what does it say again? "go placidly amid..."i can't remember the rest, sorry.  i failed my humanities class.
"i am having a massage with francois at mario's pad," i said, smiling at the near naked except for a towel francois, who continued to rub my feet with olive oil. oh, how i enjoy staring at his angelique face and demonique physique. the contradictions, i know luv. right?

"i thought mario is in switzerland for the summer?"
"he is, but his pad stays in global city, right? i am house sitting for him. at a huge fee, of course. this is better than writing those crappy press releases that don't pay well, anyway."
marchescka gave me her super glamourous laughter. the one that playboy billionaires, publishers, photographers, dirty old men, fading valentinos of the big screen, would pay a lot say a rare harry winston diamond ring to hear.
"i miss that bitchiness, my luv," she said. ah i can imagine her already. lazily lounging at the huge indoor poolside of one of her parents' mansions somewhere south of manille. wearing the still unavailable at the runway marc jacobs spring/summer collection floral dress with matching scarf that she used to tie her long, curly, black hair, oversized dark glasses and flirty sandals.
"so what's up," i said, suppressing a shriek as fabio's, i mean francois' soft, smooth and slippery hands rubbed my legs, where i am ticklish the most. i had to pinch him to keep me from dying and throwing away the phone. but francois, always stubborn, always teasing, continued doing it.
"what's that? did you just........" the witch on the other line said. i knew she was already imagining what francois and i were doing in mario's bed. "anyway, can we meet for lunch tomorrow?"
"you mean dinner."
"that's what i love about you, dahlin', you are so perceptive."
"where?"
"can you make it to batali's latest restaurant in new york?"
"i'll be there."
"ciao!" then she hung up, before i can even say baboosh!

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seven o'clock pm
sunday
cafe adriatico, malate

i knew she would be late, but i didn't mind. i already finished two glasses of martini and cosmopolitan and almost halfway through the last chapter of the stranger's child when marchescka arrived. as usual, the goddess brought with her a certain air of happiness, the joy of those romantic and dreamy summer nights spent partying in a yacht in cote d'azur or skiing in gstaad.
for this early dinner (lunch time for her. her constant travels are wrecking havoc on her sense of time. sometimes she would call me to have breakfast with her at three in the afternoon.), she was wearing another floral dress, a mixture of blue and pink, from lanvin, on her tiny arm was the lv's latest capucines, launched recently with michelle williams as endorser, a yellow hermes scarf and a ysl flat on her perfumed feet. no jewellery this time. so she had already gotten tired of the w that i got only last week after threatening the snobbish staff at lv in paris over skype?

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even without asking her, i knew right away that there was something bugging marchescka, heiress to a large asian conglomerate with exposures in shipping, banking, insurance, real estate, food, power, telecommunications, airline, broadcasting, mining, retail, among others. you probably haven't noticed it, but in your whole life, you probably consumed most of what her family's companies are producing and selling. yes, they own us.

"i am bored," the tanned marchescka said, sipping cabernet sauvignon. this after regaling me with her adventures in costa del sol, the latest playground of the super rich, and staring at me, amused, as i finished my dinner of grilled sea bass and steamed vegetables. she didn't eat anything to maintain her twiggy look. she is her current obsession, the seventy's (or was it the sixtys) supermodel.
"what else is new," i replied, staring shamelessly at the cute gweilo guy (blonde, black aviators, blue ralph lauren shirt, red cheeks from basking under the sun probably in palawan) at the next table, having coffee with a beautiful, petite filipina with shiny, cacao skin. "so what is it this time?"
"well..." then a sigh. "i don't know how to say this without sounding so oprahish. or beauty queenish."
i laughed.
"or crazyish." she added.
"that's a first. you, marchescka futanezcha, the queen bee even before it was made popular by gossip girl, could not say what she has to say?"
silence.
the waiter came over, handing me a note. then he looked at the cute gweilo at the other table. "it's from him, sir." the waiter, another cutie but in a working class way, whispered in my ear. i nearly kissed his smooth, brown face with nary a hair. i was guessing he must be only twenty. i could also smell his cheap perfume and his sweet breath.
"what is it?" marchescka asked.
"nothing," i said, blushing and immediately kept the note inside the pocket of my jeans. "anyway, continue your story. i am all ears and eyes."
"well. i just realised that we are turning, what, thirty two next year?"
"yes, thank you for reminding me that. what's your point exactly? that soon we will be needing botox. that i would have to dye my hair to hide all the greys? i have already accepted that a long time ago, dahlin."
despite herself, marchescka managed a monalisa smile at what i had just said.
"my point is, look at us sweetheart. we are both jobless. we can't even afford to live on our own."
"hmmmm. go on." this time, the gweilo waved at me, causing the girl in front of him to look at me. i played dead ma. poker face. i didn't want to distract the witch. (though i must admit, i already was.)
"so here is my theory. if we came from poor families, or even lower middle-class families, do you think we are still parasites and freeloaders at this point in our lives? i mean, we will probably both have stable careers now, driving our own cars, living in our own flats. just like our friend maria, the only middle-class in our group. she is so driven in her career that she doesn't even have time to watch a movie or have a massage on weekends."
"you are saying." the gweilo raised his glass of water. i raised my flute.
"exactly!"
"so you regret now being born into your super wealthy and powerful clan?"
she kept quiet. then finished her drink. the cute waiter came over to our table hurriedly, almost tripping on his shoes, to pour more wine into her glass.
"can i have a new glass please? this one is kind of dated already."
"of course, mam," the waiter said, smiling at me. then he winked before he left.
marchescka finally noticed us.
"you are so flirting with that waiter."
"correction. he is flirting with me. i am flirting with him." then i pointed at the gweilo who was seated at her back. marchescka turned around and saw him.
"wow! nice catch."
"i saw him first."
this made marchescka laugh so loud as if somebody just licked her ears.
"he's all yours. i just had my fill of european men."
more wine.
then she again talked about her european summer interlude -- partying on a yacht, getting high while riding a vespa, waking up naked at a stranger's suite, sitting at the front rows of top designers' shows.

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"you should have come with me, mahatma."
"i would love to. but you know i can't afford it. i've dipped enough into my savings and my inheritance. my  mother refused to give me some more cash. my credit card has been overloaded."
"what about grandma?"
"you know that all their assets have been seized by the court and their bank accounts are frozen pending investigation."
she sighed.
"dahlin that's because you were not listening to me. i told you to warn your grandma not to back up the election bid of xxxxxxxxxx for presidency and to instead support mr. aquino. but you did not listen."
"i know. i know. can we talk about something else please?"
"sure."
"i mean really something else. not your desire to join the lower middle class. that's already maria's turf. she is the queen over there."
then i raised my glass. we toasted ourselves, the gweilo at the next table, our parents, then maria.
"here's to all the fierce and driven marias all over the world."

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around eight, marchescka and i were drunk. we were so engrossed on our conversation that i forgot all about cute gweillo. when i remembered him, gweilo and his beard had left.

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good thing cutie waiter was available for the night. i asked him to drive me home, saying i can't drive because i was soo drunk.
that's all lovelies, fairies, princesses and wannabes.
have a divine week ahead.

(all pictures were taken from various web sites. no copyright infringement intended. this conversation is based on a true story, but the names of the main characters have been intentionally changed to protect their privacy. yes, mahatma is a real person too.)