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blue chili, cambodia’s premier declared gay bar, has the most entertaining and the liveliest drag show in town….fridays and saturdays, at 11pm, the bar clears, patrons retreat to the sidelines, crane their necks, to watch a show that’s simply bubbling with camp, high energy, and ridiculous costumes. Almost all the time the mush-anticipated drag show has several of the following: slim and svelte trannies, with their washboard abs, gyrate bollywood-style, or do a mean shakira impersonation. Auk, the stylish owner, does her obligatory madonna tribute—complete with furs and platinum blonde wig—a dusky and pint-sized khmer plays a downtrodden provincial lass, who is inevitably mocked and scorned by her friends, tossed and slapped around, but finally gets her cute khmer boy, not much taller than her, in the end…the lady wannabe who sings a shirley bassey standard, never mind if the lyrics dont fit the lips, raunchy didi with her ooutlandish gestures and make-up, who starts coquettishly, and ends up inevitably grabbing someone else’s crotch, or mimics a blow job with ease……and on occasion, “guest” performers from an unamed southeast-asian country, not as svelte and much more buxom and mature, who mince and prance to whitney houston or beyonce classics, or screech out their lungs, celine-dion and jennifer-hudson style, complete with afro wigs a meter high, and leopard-skin shawls…. in short, not the sort of performance you’d want to bring your mother to.
this extravaganza plays itself out on the top of a bar that is about 18 inches wide, and about 3 meters long….with lots of foot-stamping on huge wooden clogs with ribbons, and tottering stilettos…for the better part of three quarters of an hour, the girls gyrate and swing, while the bar is wiped clean of bottles and glasses. sometimes one takes a step too wide and falls off, but thankfully, no broken bones reported…
but two saturdays ago, a twist to the usual show—sokha, bar co-owner and auk’s partner, saunters up the bar, does a sleazy dirty dance, takes of his shirt to show off a mouth-watering naturally hewn physique….as they say, “er na er” —farm-er, construction work-er, style, not the definitions obtained by hours of preening in gyms. he playfully opens the top of his jeans to show the abs, and the line of dark, curly hair leading to the crotch–teasing, teasing…the crowd loves it, hooting and screaming.
and that’s not all,,,the theme from zefirelli’s romeo and juliet (a time for us), adapted for a thai gay movie, “bangkok love story” begins to trill out of the speakers—two guys appear on the bar, one seemingly injured, with a blood stained shirt, and the other gently supports him, caressing and touching, dressing the “wounds”, while the other moans in what must be the ecstasy of pain and pleasure—nothing explicit so far, but it s a tad different from all the other performances…their eyes closed, they begin to caress each other, and finally, as “a time for us” builds to a crescendo, their lips lock in a passionate kiss, that lasts all of 15 seconds…the crowd gasps at first, then cheers, and yowls…camera phoens begin clicking…for the FIRST ever male-to-male public kising scene in the history of the cambodian stage !!!
this hot off the press memoir, by a close friend of the victadoras in cambodia, raymond alikpala, is a confessional tell-all, that most closeted gay men will relate to, particularly if they are in their forties and beyond. The 200 page-or so self-published book cover’s raymond’s life in the closet, from his childhood in manila, his schooling at the ateneo, an advanced degree in law from singapore, a year and a half as a jesuit novice, a few years in a prestigious makati law firm, human rights lawyering with Rene Saguisag, a job with the UN working with refugees and asylum seekers to his finding true love in a hotel gym in ho chi minh city. In between the outstanding scholastic achievements (cum laude in college, student leader/activist), the desire to be admired, and to “pass” as one of the guys, ray weaves a tale of loneliness, deception, and suffocation in the closet, until he finally begins to realize, well into his thirties, nga bakla pala sya…
those of you OUT there na, even if you’re not personally friends of raymond will wonder a bit at the drama, much of which is effectively self-created, but raymond skillfully weaves through the turbulence of the marcos-aquino years, throws in a first person’s account of the lenny villa slayings and the vizconde massacre to boot, the inner workings of a jesuit novitiate, dream analysis, the pleasures of bangkok rent boys, his preoccupation with masturbation, and his infatuations with male “best friends”.
raymond is a compulsive diarist, and quotes from his diaries of the 1980s make this memoir particularly engaging. many of his major life decisions he attributes to a desire to be with a special male friend rather than to any other sort of logic–amazing how one’s sexuality can shape those decisions, but perhaps this is not uncommon ! he continuously struggles with the cross of catholic religiosity, and in his late thirties, justifiably discards catholic teachings on homosexuality….those who are straight and who have never been in a closet of any kind will come to realise how oppressive being in the closet is, to gay men and lesbians.
First met Gil/Gilda/Marimar (GGM) in 2002, it was a day to remember…my friends T & B took me to meet this pinoy/pinay who lived along Hun Sen Park, in a small apartment that also served as her beauty salon, where with a wink, and a sly drawing of a curtain, and you got more than a shampoo, and she a facial. GGM had been in Cambodia several years by then, and was in an intersting stage of inter-sexuality, taking hormones regularly to be more voluptuous. GGM had a vicious cackle for a laugh that was indescribable and eerily characteristic, which s/he could turn up at will, like the canned laughter on a TV show. Or maybe GGM souned like that to stave off a nervous fit, or to attract attention, i really didnt know. But s/he was a character !
We had side-splitting laughter that day, it was like listening to a stand-up comic who hit you where it mattered…i dont remember the jokes, the double entendres, the slavishly sexual slants, and all the camping about, but all that mattered was that after an hour my sides were aching and i was literally begging her not to go on….GGM was so good at branding people with nicknames that fitted them to a T and which were wittily outlandish. Those names though, stuck for years, and eventually became “mainstream’ in a sense.
I had a haircut once done by her, but it didnt turn out as expected, so I didnt go very often, but whenever I was in town, we continued to meet up, whether for walks along the riverside, duly rating the smiling boys, or at the Heart of Darkness, where GGM memorably disappeared into a bathroom cubicle with a french tourist, and emerged with makeup smeared but with a beatific smil, while all the other gay men looked on enviously.
GGM was once a “japayuki”, her fotos from a stint there showed a rather svelte diva. with lovely legs, a fetching smile, and hispanic features…how she ended up in PP running a series of beauty salons and getting in and out of relationships I didnt find out, but with friends Cacai and Ruffa Mae, the tales of cruising were legendary, and the retributions and petty jealousies (generally over willing young men) were grand opera, albeit of the soapy type. “Marimar” was a term she applied to herself, this was the lead character in a popular Mexican telenovela with a wide following in Manila.
GGM, it was said, had a major influence on the emergent drag scene in Phnom Penh…she brought in a bit of style, a touch of make-up, bravado, and “mentored” a number of Phnom Penh’s future drag artistes, many of them did not have someone up close who could show them the way to dress up, bind the birdie, fluff the boobsies, or lip sync like there was no tomorrow. She brought some attitude in, beyond the screeching katoey images beamed in from Thai TV. Some of those protegees from 1999-2002 now are household names in Cambodia.
One time, i think it may have been 2004, I saw GGM on a motorbike, but with shorter hair and a bit of a stubble, looking unexpectedly “macho”. I learned that s/he was currently in a realtionship with a girl, and had stopped taking her hormones for a while. Somehow i couldnt imagine her back as Gil, the original birth certificate name. We didnt see each other very often after that.
Sometime in 2006-7, GGM developed a swelling of the right knee, that turned out to be a form of cancer. Finally s/he opted to return to Bulacan to have it treated, and the leg was amputated, but it was too late to do anything much more….she passed on in May 2009.
If there is drag heaven, Gil/Gilda/Marimar would be right up there, with a curling iron serving as her microphone…Au revoir, Gilda. Life is much more fascinating because of you…
Christmas Day post-dinner happenings are certainly rare in this Buddhist country, but the little spot of gay abandon in downtown Phnom Penh, just off the National Museum and the Royal Palace, had a night to remember–the Mr Blue Chili 2008 contest. The Blue Chili crowd had so much fun during the water festival, when they had the “Miss Water Festival 2008″ a tranny contest, so Blue’s endearing proprietor/tress, Khoo decided whe would have another contest this time featuring the guys. And so Mr Blue Chili 2008 was born. A week before the contest, the photos of 27 guys were posted on the website www.queercambodia.blogspot.com, for Online voting. The winner would be named ”Mr. Popular”. That got the excitement going as word of mouth about the event spread. Was the gay crowd in Phnom Penh ready for this ?
Well, Khoo and her crew threw an event to remember-to some jaded observer, it may have been something akin a rural village fair in neighboring Thailand, but the gays of Phnom Penh and their friends certainly had a rousing time. The staging area covered four shopfronts, and it was SRO that night. A long canopy was rented out to cover the whole area, and from the street it looked something like the usual set up for a streetside Khmer wedding, minus the grating music–the sounds were all disco or hiphop, startling several passers-by who craned their necks for a look. The crowd was a mix - europeans and north americans, colombian, south asians, singaporeans, chinese, brits, french, thai, a huge philippine delegation of about a dozen, vietnamese, and of course, local khmers and their boyfriends, parents and girlfriends. The inner room of the bar was converted into a dressing room, and one noticed a steady strem of guys going to the loos and checking out the dressing room on the way. Some of the guys had wardrobe and make-up assistants, who brought everything for them. This was pretty serious stuff for some ! Between breaks many of the guys stood around the bar, mingling with the spectators, and looking hopeful….
For the contest, the guys brought several outfits - one for formal wear, informal/jeans, and swimwear (actually all were in various kinds of underwear). Guys were called to the stage in groups of five or six, some looked very confident and cocky, others seemed quite nervous and restrained. The emcees, Rymor and Khoo. took turns introducing the contestants–names and height, and hobbies, mainly. A few ones immediately stood out, others looked forgettable–as they say in tagalog gayspeak, “pinabili lang ng suka, sumali na”, which loosely translates into, “just sent out to buy vinegar, and ended up on stage” . All were game and did not seem to know how to upstage the others, which made it pretty predictable. The two emcees carried the night, with their hilarious banter and campy chatter, liberally laced with sexual innuendo and occasionally groping contestants, who managed weak smiles back. It was probably good that few of the contestants spoke no more than a sentence of english, as their clueless looks and sometime blank stares just added to the fun. Khoo was resplendent in a body hugging red Balenciaga, while Rymor looked the perfect foil–manly in a black tuxedo. Must have been quite a struggle to do this, as all his friends knew that he was itching to do drag on any occasion. The whole pageant commentary was in english, and Khoo and Deedee, another drag performer, translated into Khmer or Chinese as necessary, as one contestant spoke only Chinese, prompting speculations of trafficking. Several lookers that Khoo took a fancy too were duly labelled as “My future ex-husband”.
Obviously not all guys had extensive wardrobes–some were clearing waiting for other contestants to finish so they could borrow the other guy’s jeans, and another guy’s cowboy boots. One was in a shirt that was described as “matching the color of the carpet in Blue Chili”, and others came in slacks in what was supposed to be the jeans portion, promting the emcees to state that a pair of levis had been stolen while being laundered. The provenance of the various jeans were laid bare–Psar Tom tuol Pong and O Russey market, or a neighbor’s clothesline, were the more common sources. Contestants who came in late and who kept the group waiting were inevitably described as having been “taken”, and one particularly effeminate contestant was introduced as a former participant to the “Miss Water Festival”. Some guys paraded in unlikely combinations of what they announced as sportswear–a dry-fit Tshirt, pirata pants, dress socks and moccasins. It was difficult to imagine what sort of sports could one play in that attire. Others brought along badmintor rackets as accessories. And during the swimwear/underwear portion, a few who were not as well endowed tried stuffing tissue paper into their crotches, making for some very unusual-looking padding. Some others were more relaxed while others had noticeable left-leaning bulges {”to the left, to the left”) yelled one enthusiastic onlooker. One participant has a little smudge on the front of his briefs, and one of the Emcees kneeled down on stage to volunteer to clean the smudge, while the other looked on with feigned disgust.
Some questions were asked of the contestants, during what could have been an interview, though thankfully they tended to give short pharases or yes/nos in response. Thus a quarter of the contestants described their major hobbies as “watching TVs, DVDs or/and playing computer games”. Others either didn’t understand the question, or found it difficult to answer, and were summarily dismissed with a curt “Thank you, contestant No…next contestant please !” Many of them said they liked sports but had little to say, except smile blankly. When asked about his favorite book, one contestant replied ”sex book” and collapsed into giggles. ”I’m not here for the money”, one gleefully declared–I’m here “just for the fun of it.” Not that the money mattered, but the top prize would be $100 and a modeling contract with a local agency. Runners up and winners of the special awards would each get between $10 and $20, and the others would get some experience…or hopefully might meet a nice guy to go home with that night.
The people tasked with rating the contestants, the judges, were kept on their toes. The panel was led by “Pierrre”, a reed-thin Belgian; a khmer native, and three from the Philippines, one in drag and looking very much like a pregnant Sharon Cuneta . Contestant No. 12, Thira, was an early favorite and garnered almost half of all the online votes. Thira had a virtual monopoy of the special awards–winning four of the five given out that night (except for the “Mr Big” who was selected for the nice fit on the crotch). Thira had a wonderfully engaging smile, broad shoulders, a well defined torso, but was definitely less well endowed. It would have been a crime had he won that one as well. One hoped that the awards would be more evenly distributed, but then, the chief judge was seen takling Thira out to dinner at KFC the very next day….
when you get past the age that life begins, you’re always a bit more self-conscious about the fact that you’re not getting any younger, and that those pretty young things wont even give you a second look (and maybe not even a first one). Yet, it warms the cockles of my heart of hearts to see friends who think they are past their prime, but definitely are still in the running, with their jowaz who are almost a generation younger. And yes, these are relationships that are more than the ONS - they have been going on for years. Take Tony, who is approaching fifty, yet has Hector, a lovely Khmer not yet 25, jealously guarding him for the past two and a half years. There’s 24 year old Stanley Mark, who has professed undying love, affection (and occasional sex) with Ven, who is old enough to be his Dad. And 52 year old Nath, who lived with 28 year old Alan, his cool call center friend. And there are several others, like Janto (34) who has been with Sam (57) for the past 9 years. Sam even separated from his wife and kids to be with Janto. There’s also 40 year old Sid, who has Rit, who is 15 years younger.
Ive always wondered how these relationships work out, particulalry since the age gap between the partners can be intimidating. But it seems that each really has a lot to learn from the other. There is a lot of nurturing and patience on the side of the older partner, who has seen his share of relationships. The younger guys are often more idealistic and hope that this will be their one great love, The older ones ‘came out’ long before they met the younger guys. Except in the case of Janto and Sam, because Janto was out earlier than his older partner. In a sense Janto helped Sam discover who he truly was and what he gruly liked, and a year after they met, they moved in together, and have been together the past eight years, travelling to different continents together. Hector has never introduced Tony to his family formally (ine time they bumped into each other at a fastfood joint when Hector was with his mom), so that was how Tony met the family–accidentally. Hec also wants to make the age difference less obvious, so he insists that Tony dye his hair regularly, feeling uncomfortable of being seen so often with a guy with gray streaks. Ven has steadfastly refused a face to face meeting with Stan’s family Nath met Alan’s parents and has actually had holidays with them. And Sid and Rith travel a lot together, but Sid has not come out to his parents.
Oh yes–one other thing: all the above relationships are bi-racial: none of the partners above share the same nationality or ethnic origin. Perhaps that’s a plus. There is also little ideologic discussions on gay identity–often these concepts are not found in the culture of on epartner, and discussions about who is/is not gay are often heated. This is where the popular apellation of ‘Men preferring to have sex with other men’ is a better description of the sexual relationship. Again, all the above partners tend not to dress or move effeminately.
All the relationships described above are ‘open’ to some degree. Each dates other people but prefers not to discuss this with the partner. None have tried threesomes with other people, feeling that this was unacceptable. Yet, occasional sex with others has been taken as a given. ‘Don’t ask and Don’t tell’ is the norm. It is not easy to say what might happen if one partner is caught with his pants down, since all think they have been careful not to be discovered, and have kept these occasional encounters shared with similar discreet friends. However it is likely if one vigorously defends the ‘it was just sex, we didnt kiss on the lips’ part, and denies the ‘emotional involvement’, the ‘falling in love’ bit, or avoids certain acts that show intimacy, all will be forgiven, but not necessarily forgotten.
Huge age gaps,cultural differences, the lack of emphasis on western identity politics, an overt preference for the masculine/straight looking men, and unwritten codes of conduct with other sexual partners–despite the barriers, these relationships are notable for their longevity, flexibility, tolerance and trust. Now if there was something like a ceremony to bind people together, I doubt that it would make the existing bonds any stronger….
Why dont you come to the party ?, Markey asked, in a lovely southern english accent. It was so unexpected to hear that familiar cadence, becasue this was at an outdoor kebab stand in Ulaanbaatar, the Mongolian capital.
And so I went…furtively organised, nobody really knew where the party was going to be held that night, except that there was a party, and it was going to be fun. For the past year monthly parties had been organised by a group of young Mongolian men, who just wanted some space for themselves to meet other guys, and not get worried about what they called ‘paparazzzi’ and police harrassment. Have a few drinks, disco-dance, snog, be intimate, perhaps a shag later…these ‘exclusive’ parties were a way for UB’s gay men to come together as a community. I was with a group that included one westerner who had been to Mongolia several times in the past, Peter; Zogor, who worked for a local youth organisation that ran a drop-in center ; Nurak, a lovley, fair, Kazah Mongol who loved to toss his mane of hair about; Jokla, who worked for a volunteer agency and who was just coming along for the ride, intrigued to be at such a party fopr the first time; Tusheko, an articulate and tough looking 21 year old, looking very much like the rough and tumble wrestler type, and of course, Markey, who was working as an English teacher, having just returend to Mongolia after several years abroad. “Dont expect too much, Markey intoned—this is not the UK”.
The nightspot near the University had been made exlusive for the night, and people without tickets were refused. A large “Welcoiem to the party” banner was emblazoned outside. People got to know of the venue only a day to a few hours before, through calling or texting others. When our gorup arrived at about 9 PM, it was quiet, but the best time to get good sofa-like, comfy seats, not too near the balring loudspeakers. It was a decent-sized place - about a half-sized basketball court. Strobe lights, disco balls, lasers, a dj, the works. Tickets were at 5000 tugruk ($4.50) each. The ‘tax’ as it was called, gave you a bottle of beer, half a liter of bottled water, and a plate of salad–cucumber, sliced tomatoes, julienned carrots, and salami. Entertainment was promised–and sure enough, at about 10:30 PM, the lights dimmed, the smoke machines started puffing, and sylph-like, a trio of ‘ladies’ in veils and flowing, diaphanous robes glided gracefully onstage, to the tune of what seemed like a belly-dance. They gyrated and the audienced whooped it up. Nurak, sitting beside me, whispered into my ear one of the few engliush words he knew–”Transgender”. “Three”. Indeed this was one little spectacle that night. Peter had been to one gay bar near Sukhbaatar square a year ago, and said that such public performances were extremely uncommon, but he had seen one such performance in the bar, which had since been closed down by local authorities, and the patrons harassed frequently. “Its very tough to be a gay man in Mongolia. People dont understand, can’t comprehend what its like. We are so lucky in other countries”, he said, shaking his head.
There was one other performer–a young man did acrobatic turns on a pole in the midst of the dance floor–turning somersaults in mid-air, doing splits, while the music blared and the lights sparkled. This pece was electric — every movement heightened by the flashing lights. He started bare-chested, with loose pantaloons, then gradually stripped, ended up wearing a thong, while vaulting across the dance floor. The audience of 80 gave him an ovation.
There was a dancing contest, too - Otok, dressed in a tank top that wouldn’t look out of place in a heaving gay nightclub, had nice movements and a sense of rhythm. These reminded me more of the gracefulness, sense of natural flowing movements and rhythm that people in the island countries seem to have–different from the often stilted, awkward-looking and asynchrous movements that one sees in other countries. The emcee gave out awards for best dancer of the night, as people cheered.
Then it was time for dancing once more—disco, and even some slow pieces, while guys danced together glued to each other. Even if one didn’t understand a tad of Mongolian, and many of the guys spoke no more than a few sentences of English, it was fun, friendliness and drinking all around.
Drinking. Mongolians, are in general heavy drinkers - the cold, long and harsh winters may have contributed to this, as people tossed about vodka like it was water. Despite the heavy drining, most people remained controlled, a few were raucous, a bit rough, and occasionally an argument would turn violent, with shouting, pushing, shoving–like any other bar. Cooler heads intervenned, protagonists tearfully apologized to each other, and a few minutes later they were at it again. One guy fell off a chair, taking three other chairs with him. He sat on the floor for a few seconds, looking as if in a daze.
Zogor got into a fight over nothing in particular. Probably some jelous boyfriend got upset. with the flirting, the cajoling and the humping and heaving. People will dance in a circle then sidle up to people they fancy. For me, being old enough to be a father to some of the guys there, it was pleasant and reassuring to be flirted at and returnign the sexy looks and suggestive hip thrusts. Some couples were more demonstrative–hugging tightly and kissing open-mouthed on the dance floor. No gentle pecks on the cheek for these cool mongol guys.
Markey was only partly right–the party wasnt like those in England, it was much friendlier and better !
(names have been changed)
Its one of those things you just dont expect to see, a super fabulous drag show, in of all places, colombo. the occasion ? the launch of colombo pride…venue for ‘A different drag’ was the city’s finest theater, and a mostly mixed crowd showed up, the 800 seat place was packed to the rafters. It looked like a very well heeled crowd—the event was a fundraiser for EQUAL GROUND, that does advocacy work on LGBTIQ issues….
but my god, the opeing number featured dazzling gowns and tuxedos as the drag queens and kings took to the stage with the ‘Ascot’ scene from My Fair Lady….with a difference. The guys playing the gals were decked up with plumes and gorgeous dresses that looked as though they had stepped out of the movie sets each one of them bowing and curtsy-ing, and almost two meters tall with the plumes and all, while the girls, well, they played the men, in tuxedos and ties, and of course, they all looked like mascots for the women, but that’s where the fun began. the role reversals were astounding. Imagine a lesbian dressed as a guy,, lip-synching to ‘Why cant a woman be more like a man’ . And then a lovely duo–a massive guy who looked like a carbon copy of Divine–mincing and strutting to the tune of ‘Money, Money, Money’ from Cabaret, with the Joel-Grey type played by a diminutive lady dressed in suspenders and a white shirt, complete with a mustache…fabulous camp.
And that wasnt all–excerpts from Grease, South Pacific, Moulin Rouge, Mama Mia,…all unforgettable. And they also did a comical version of the Dying swan—only this time the Swan was madame Divine again, replete with the wig, eyelashes all over, in a resplendent black tutu, while the prince, barely coming up to her shoulders, gamely tried to lift her during the pas de deux…cominc timing was perfect. There were a couple of Bollywood tunes, and a singhalese song featuring what else ? Sri Lankan schoolgirls in flowered frocks and pigtails, very obviously in their thirties and forties, wrinkles and flab and all, gaily prancing and skipping around as though they were joyfully coming home from school. The absurdity of it all was really something ! Then there was the West Side Story sequence, where the gals taunted the guys with ‘I wanna be in America’…..There were lots of showstoppers, too from the Sound Of Music, with the drag queens dressed in nuns habits and mouthing ‘how do you solve a problem like Maria’, and the Von Trapp kids, again with boys in drag playing the girls, and girls in pantaloons and overalls playing the boys, sweetly miming to ‘So Long, Farewell…”
A night not to be missed. Conceptually it was just amazing and executed perfectly, even down to the last mis-step, and the preparation , creative energy that went into the production was something very, very memorable…
June 23–Wimbledon starts. Been glued to the TV at night, can’t wait to see the match-ups. Its now been two years since I last saw a match at SW 19 (that, for the uninitiated, is the zip code for the village that hosts the world’s best known tennis tournament, and the most prestigious, for two weeks each year in June and July. Getting off from the train/tram station, you walk along the well sign-posted road for about a mile till you come to the gates. You meander through the main village street, past a series of shops and cafes, through what looks like a very residential upper crust subdivision, till you reach the gates of the All-England Lawn Tennis Club (AELTC).. Thousands of people are there before you, and you make your way to the end of a line that snakes through the village, through a parking lot, and a golf course, where enthusiastic marshals give out numbers, a brochure about the matches, and even stickers ‘I queued at Wimbledon’. They tell you stuff like how long it will be before you get to the ticket booths. Throngs patiently wait for the general admission tickets, which allow access to all the 18 courts save for Center Court and Court 1. . Tickets to these courts and most of Court 2 have already been sold through a lottery in February. Those who dont get the tickets through the lottery indulge in afavorite British pastime–lining up.
Forty five minutes later, I am at the gates, having gone through a series of above-ground walkways and clogged sidewalks. If youre there on the first Friday, several hundred people have already positioned themselves–with portable seats, food, cushions and blankets–to line up for the next day’s tickets, that of ‘middle staturday’, where some 2000 seats for center court and court one will be on sale on a first-come, first serve basis. Such is the attraction of the event they simply refer to as ‘The Championships’.
Its like a fiesta once you’re inside. Tradition predominates, in the obligatory white outfits, the officials in their jackets, straw hats and striped ties; the ball boys/girls in their uniforms, all prim and polite, The green, violet and white bunting and signage, as well as the violet flowers that are all bundled up in bouquets and pots overhead.. Boards announce the order of play and the results, and a match schedule is constantly being updated with the latest results.Booths sell wimbledon cushions and souvenir programs, which are updated each day. In keeping with the Brit tradition, there is of course fish and chips at the restaurant, together with pints of lager, scones, and baskets of strawberries with cream, all at ridiculous prices. It is advisable to bring your own food but authorities will stop you if you have a cooler or anything resembling a picnic box.
The Wimbledon museum and souvenir shops are usually packed, and there is a band playing. .The other attractions include the commercial booths where tennis gear and rackets are sold, and a children’s play area where one cantime the speed of one’s serve. The open courts on the grounds are a great place to see the world’s best players on the first week–many of the top players are just two to three meters away from the audience., and you can meander around courts 3 to 18 with ease. Here I saw a young Rafael Nadal-Perera who was ousted in the semis of the juniors in 2002–that same year that Maria Sharapova, in court 14, was astonishing everybody with her loud shrieking, but lost in the finals of the girls’ singles event. Venus and Serena were warming up on the outside courts in 2003, and Martina was playing her umpteenth doubles match –at the age of 47 ! join an ecstatic crowd on ‘Henman Hill’ — where a large TV screen is positioned, to show up close the matches on center court. It is a sea of people dotting the hillside, facing the TV monitor. Near it a booth sells returned tickets for Center court and courts one at reduced prices. Another queue to join…
The grass can be tricky. Its not a thoroughly even surface, unlike hard courts. Looks like a cross between bermuda and some kind of scrub. Balls are hit flat, with spin, or a mix–this results in almost unpredictable slide, spin, and skid, making shotmaking sometimes frustrating (except for Roger, who seems to thrive on such a surface). By midweek the serving area is a faded brown, but the survivors of the fourth round are now adjusting to the surface. . As expected, a number of seeded players have crashed out in the earlier rounds, and the qualifiers and wild cards are usually gone by week two. The wimbledon fever is infectious., it becomes an obsession for the brits who have been starved of a male champion since 1934 (well, Virginia Wade won in 1977 but that doesn’t seem to matter) and the pressure is on once more. Visiting Wimbledon during those two weeks of summer is an experience no tennis fan will ever want to miss. Why, even an event such as pulling up the court covers when a shower breaks out can be well applauded !
ay naku sa wakas si La mierda (thats me !) ay mag po=post na rin ng kabastusan….ARRIBA !
La primera concern ng mga MGM habang kumukulekta ng kayamanan at kalalakihan ay ang kanilang ‘fez’ at wither sila pa ay mapapansin ng mga guapo. well, advise ko lang, huwag na kayo gumising…pero, es verdad na maraming hombres jovenenes, or yung mga pa-young looking din, ay mahilig sa mga matandoosh, o sa mga ‘thunderbirds’. kanya-kanyang taste lang yon…ako., e mahilig ako sa mga matanda (definition as of 2008: somebody no longer in their 20’s–kasi yearly, moving target yan).
yung pregunta ay, saan na sila ngayon ?
Kasi kadalasan ang mga matandoosh ay indi masyadong technophile, kung baga wa access sa computer at sa internet. Humahanap pa rin sila sa mga classified adz ng Bulletin sa column ng ‘personal services’ at ‘escorts’. pumupunta pa rin sila sa mga sinehan sa Recto, sa Cubao, sa Meycauayan (tutoong Mecca pala doon). Pumipila sa Adonis at sa Chicos. Suma-stand-by sa mga CR sa mall, o sa mga bilyaran. Naka-timewarp pa sila sa part ng last century na wala pa uso ang txtm8s at chatting. O kaya pa daplis-daplis sa mga nakatayo sa LRT, the more crowded da better…o sa likod na row ng isang LoveBus. Kung minsan sa simbahan o sa patyo, sa sayawan sa baryo, o sa sari-sari store sa kanto. Isang beer lang may susunod na sa bahay. . kahit saan kung may ‘look’ lang, sundan ng smile at pa-flutter ng eyelashez…Pag weekend nag jogging daw sa Film center, o dyan sa jurassic. Basta me chance, i-try.
Paano nalang yung mga MGM na indi nag cha-chat, o pagod na sa kaikot-ikot ? Its so tiring naman, divah ?
Bakitch kaya pag tumanda, ang libog ay di naman nawawala (i mean, sa mga ka-edad natin, syempre) hwag naman sa mga may hawak ng Senior Citizen ID cards. Di pa ko qualified dyan, mga 15 years pa siguro (charing !) pero naman pag tumanda ka na, eto ang mga tips—at proven na proven na ito. Subukan mo at mabebenta na rin ang bingka mo.:
TIP 1. I -explore ang mga dark room ng sauna. use the lack of light, the play of shadows to your advantage. kelangan lang mabilis ang kamay. huwag nang mahiya, kasi yung mga bata mayroon pa yang attitude towards making the first move–parang kunwari di sila nau0una. Give them that privilege of thinking na maganda sila, na discreet sila, na indi sila patay na patay sa seks. hayaan mo na, pag na-touch mo na sila sa mga sensitibong parte, mag mo-moan din yan, di ba ?
TIP 2. gagamitin ang X-factor. I mean, the EX-perience factor. di pa nila na-experience ang helicopter, ng victory joe, ang pagtutuka at paglulon ng ahas, ang pagtulay sa alambre habang kumakanta, at ang pagsisid ng perlas na itim, di ba ? Pag may polstit ka, mas lalong magaling para kasing vacuum cleaner…subukan ang paglagay ng condom na di ginagamit ang kamay, aberr ? kaya nila yon ? Huwag nb pakipot–kasi Malu Wang na.
TIP 3. mag reinvent ka. mag pa-girl ! huwag mo na i-confuse ang mga mhin sa iyong mga attire at posturing na pa-macho. Matatakot pa yan, akala nila pulis kayo. Mag toss-toss ka ng iyong head at kunwari nag pa-pat ng hairdo mo (kahit wlang buhok ka), mag -tili ka naman every other minute, at ang iyong purse i-dangle mo. para walang kadudang duda, pati yung nasa Kinder 1 palang ay sasabi…look mommy, there’s a vaklah !
TIP 4. try an intellectual discussion. debate the rice and the gas crisis. speculate on whether Obama will get elected. discuss the best way to stop terrorism or prove the existence of god, or whether marriage should be allowed to same sex couples. The effects of climate change and global warming on the glaciers in antarctica or the survival rates of polar bears. Reveiw the film, ‘’the effect of gamma-rays on man-in-the moon marigolds’ or something like that. The effect is of course to put your partner to sleep, so mas madaling hadahin. Win ka na naman..
if all else fails, TIP 5 - ipakita ang iyong ATM card. Show me the Money, as they say…
Hasta la vista ! Viva las Maricones ! Espesyalmente las maricones abuelas !
The place is along a major thoroughfare in an unnamed southeastasian city fabled for its freewheeling, anything goes atmosphere. Lined up along the entrance are motorbikes. It is a place for relaxation. busiest after working hours, popular with the working class and the unpretentious. There are basic massage facilities - several tables for a rubdown that can be best described as ‘bare-knuckled’, with unseeing (blind) masseurs, a small and often crowded sauna, several bathrooms with broken sinks and showers but with lots of water, with several people sharing and beckoning, and a darkened rooftop area where men in towels puff casually, entwined in each others arms and legs, relishing the fleeting moments of intimacy.
It is a predominantly gay patronized sauna, though on one floor there are female masseurs available. You can get a massage and sauna for under four dollars. The massage tables are conveniently separated by flimsy curtains, so people can peek at what’s going on in the next table, joke around and gossip, and grab a quick feel here and there, and smiles all around.
The little girl, not yet three, sits with her father at the entrance to the massage room, Her dad works as the receptionist to this unusual place–hes probably had to babysit this afternoon . It must seem like such an unusual place, where guys seem so gentle,flirty and touchy-feely, none of the macho posturing of the outside world. From her view, this is such a different world from the rough-and-tumble, violent and harsh world outside the sauna. She is getting an education on how one can be male, but also affectionate, caring, and physically close. She sees people lie their heads on another man’s lap, or sit entwined in one of the lounge chairs, sometimes gently caressing, loving that feeling of bare skin against bare skin.
This little girl will grow up and learn about how men can be tender to each other–how comfortable these guys are lounging about, exchanging banter, lightly flirting and teasing, unself-conscious in partial nakedness. The little girl is entranced, her playfulness and charm is infectious, and she is conscious of being the only child in the facility. The guys in white towels make her the center of attention. They all stop for a chat and a bit of a hello. I practice a few english words with her, which she repeats with enthusiasm. She will grow up to be open, well adjusted, confident and secure, and if someone in her family turns out to be gay, she will be the first to give out the hugs….
Strike 2. Pesteh
About a month ago, I missed a flight from
Fast forward to last Tuesday night at 11 pm. A couple of friends saw me off and happily, we had a photo op outside. Walking in, the airport looked bright, shiny and new. Perhaps due to the lateness of the hour, there were no long lines, no milling crowds. Looking at the departure board, I felt the first touch of unease: no display for my flight. One query returned no answer. Two more led me to the counters at the end of Row C but another airline was checking in its passengers. A final question provided the only one of two explanations available: “sir your flight is on the 22nd”. Deja vetch!!
A lesson was just given out but I did not learn. I wasn’t paying attention, I’m a slow learner or I’m both. I committed exactly the same mistake: not looking at my own flight details. Tangadiveh?
The funny thing was two friends looked at it and failed to see the date, but confirmed what I knew to be the flight departure. P also checked earlier.
I absolyutly loathed myself on the 30-minute ride back to the hotel. To feel better, I asked my friends to go out and have a drink
If there’s going to be a sequel, I don’t want to be there.
It’s 10 am, Sunday. I’m listening to a radio station where the DJs tout their program as “less talk and more light rock love songs”. Not that that stopped them from talking lengthily! My attention was caught when sometime during one of their interminable conversations, this time something about relationships, the female DJ said something to this effect: “hello! 59 na ‘no” implying that older men (and perhaps older women?) should be boxed and put away, shelved and placed out of reach, consigned to homes to knit and do needlepoint, and wait for death. When did we become so ageist? When did we start to assume that physical and emotional feelings/needs of older people completely wither away as soon as they reach a certain age? When did we start to think that older people no longer had the right to love (except their grandchildren, if they had any) or have physical relationships? Where did this kind of thinking come from?
When you reach a certain age – anywhere from 50 up and for some, 40 up – get ready because people begin to make cracks about senility, reduced mobility, poor eyesight etc. It’s like you’re being primed for a sedentary life and being unobtrusively prepared for death. It’s a fact that human bodies slow down over time but this should not mean you have less feelings or your fate is to become more stupid and acquire Alzheimer’s.
What’s the difference when an adult says to a child “Sit here and wait. Don’t go anywhere” and an adult consigning their older family members/relatives to homes? Or for others, to obscure parts of their lives in order to reduce contact? It’s choice, which is not yet given to children. But for older persons who’ve gained self-determination (or a semblance of it), there’s absolutely no need to accept a lifestyle that’s restricted and defined by those who take away your choices.
Persons who are ageist really gets my goat, not that I keep one.
While waiting for their vehicle, a good but exasparating friend - to protect her identity, let’s call her Anna - asked a colleague “Do you go to the ‘Heart’?” For those not from this town, Heart or Heart of Darkness is a combination of a bar and a disco with a mixed crowd; gay friendly. Her co-worker’s answer: “Sometimes, but not forever.”
A friend visited a bar because he was best in horniness that night. Wishing and hoping for a booking, he started talking with a young man. At one point he asked, ‘How old are you?’ ‘Five dollars,’ the young man said.
One day, La Mierda and I decided to play tennis. Because she said she’s an animal rights activist , she invited Chino. When we arrived at the sports center, an attractive thirty something guy said something nice about Chino. We glanced at each other and the same thought crossed our minds: ‘Daddy!’. La Mierda initiated a gentle Q&A, using skills polished in a finishing school. After a couple of minutes of chika, we introduced ourselves. I’m Dora, I said. I’m La Mierda, say ng sister. And you? she added. I’m Cambodian, he said.
I can’t recall the story on this one: ‘I love you. I want to study English.’
Description of Jeff Palmer – very super bottom
Yes, the descriptions of luscious fruits, sensual shapes, stirring scents, got me all excited. But some of the fruits were missing…here is my own list of fave fruits in the
First on my list is the lumpy greenish fruit, about the size of a fist, with what looks like greenish-black armor plates. Smaller cousin of the Philippine guyabano or grapefruit, but a tad more fleshy and, when fully ripe, not a trace of sourness. Presenting —’Ah-tiss’. (Custard apple in english). If A is for Apple in the English alphabet, A should be for Atis in the Asian one. Unlike some other South-east asian varieties though, the Ah-tiss of the
Number two on the list is the exotic Mangcup (Mangosteen), as it is called in
Then there’s the pomelo, kroh-tong in Khmer. The size of a baby’s head, its almost leathery surface has a thick inner coat that surrounds the pinkish-white pulp. The biggest version of the citrus family of fruits. The pulp can be both sweet and with a slightly tart and biting aftertaste. Each individual bit looks like a teardrop, and biting into it releases a refreshing mix of flavours—also used in salads, with steamed shrimp, lotus roots, peanuts and mint leaves.
Lah-mut, or the sapodilla, known as
The Mango season–soon almost over, but with several varieties still available in the market. The green, crunchy and slightly sweetish one, best eaten with salt and a dash of chili—good for appetizers and yes, loads of fiber too. This one is also tops for the green mango shakes…and of course, the ripe yellow ones, of legendary sweetness, the smoothest of textures. Also heavenly when teamed up with sticky rice cooked in coconut milk….
You can’t have a posting about fruits without mentioning the ‘king’ - Durian. Tastes like heaven but stinks like hell. The only fruit to have been banned from hotel lobbies, aircon buses and elevators. I have ambivalent feelings towards the durian–that hard spiky shell and the creamy, ivory-colored flesh, and the nauseating smell that gallons of tiger balm can’t hide. Can’t understand why people love it, when it is the equivalent of old-sweaty-socks cheese to a discerning nose. Must be eaten only when one has a cold….
Mango season is ending. But it’s time for longkong and kulen. When I go to the local markets to buy fruits, it’s amazing – the bounty and colors. I also have the urge to caress them, feel the textures, and imagine the feel of colors on my palm.
Local fruits come from villages and rural farms: light brown skinned mien (longan to foreigners) with its saccharine, soft translucent flesh and hard dark brown and round pit; spiny kulen prey the shape and color of which reminds me of cockroaches; crisp green and sour potrie from backyards and small orchards; pale yellow phniew, soft but with enough body to remind me of men’s balls without the muskiness; small cheyk pong moan which literally means banana chicken egg, or the equivalent of senorita; kroicht thlong or pomelos from Battambang, excellent for salads or eaten with a slight sprinkling of salt and sold to passersby along the riverside; the refreshing juice of Battambang oranges; delicious manuwah or pineapples and the ubiquitous kroichma, the Kaffir lime.
Others have to be brought in from neighboring countries: flesh-colored longkong or lanzones, always sweet coming from Thailand as are the green mangoes that when peeled are equally rich in sugar. Red thick fleshy skins of delicately-flavored dragon fruits harvested from cacti grown in Vietnam – pale white meat dotted with innumerable black spots. Are these pits that are unable to germinate? Pale yellow round pears and small apples from China; larger ones from Japan
And then there’s me and my friends – non-native, sweet and sour in unequal proportions
One major, major concern of MGMs is of course, how they look to the younger generation. But Victadora is more concerned about keeping fit, (defined as enabling oneself to perform fairly strenuous tasks, enjoy an hour of tennis, jog for three-quarters of an hour, stay at a bar till one AM, and feel horny on a regular basis).
Fitness brings with it both self-confidence and assurance, secure in your own little world that things are ‘just right’, and that while you don’t exactly have a six-pack, you are comfortable with how you look and feel overall).
Fitness ain’t easy—the physical part of it is something you can schedule—brisk walking till you sweat and then going on for 10-20 minutes more, stair climbing, disco dancing, swimming, badminton or tennis. The house I share with Chino and his daddy/mommy is a three minute walk to the main city park, with its imposing stupa-like monument. This is busiest in the wee hours of the morning, before the crack of dawn. Hundreds of people walk around in circles, almost like automatons, all facing the same direction, walking east. It seems strange to see a few souls pounding the pavement, going in the opposite direction, seemingly against the current. We take this unorthodox route—for certain reasons. For example, it is easier to see coming eye candy – when the body shape, height, seems well, uh, a bit attractive, we do one or both of the following: (a) break into a jog, to get a closer view, and (b) break into a smile. That means extra muscles are being exercised—both the neck and the corners of the mouth.
In this country the guys are friendly—meaning, smiles are shared graciously, and a conversation started, which may well, mostly go nowhere.
If it looks like we have misjudged the object of desire (i.e. not as pretty as we supposed), we just look away, or carry on a conversation with ourselves.
We also have embarked on an ‘SRP’ – Stomach Reduction Program, that is. Trying vainly to fit into jeans brought four years ago. Doing a few sit-ups and leg raises while sprawled out on the bed, watching TV. We encourage each other, and do gym together. Having an exercise partner can really help.
The basic principle in keeping fit, maintaining a waistline that’s below one’s age (up to a certain age, of course) is putting in less (food) than what you put out (activity, exercise). In addition then to the sweat-inducing activities above, this means portion control on desserts, pastries, ice cream, fizzy drinks, and all types of sweets/sugars. Cutting down on rice consumption. More fruits, veggies, less fried food, and taking in fluids, a glass of water just before a meal. Chewing food a bit more slowly (30 times before swallowing, according to one article I read years ago).
Keeping reasonably fit through exercise and eating reasonably also wards off stress, promotes better sleeping habits, and makes me feel that every waking day is one more day of feeling alert, lucky and alive!
Said to be the hottest, newest, and wettest place to be in the Manila gay scene—a new ‘membership club’ kuning-kuno opened its doors a couple of weeks ago. Located not far from the corner of Buendia and Harrison, the nondescript exterior of the ‘QUEERIOSITY PALACE’ looks as though it would just have wanted to fade into the row of apartments along FB Harrison. Quite appropriate, if you ask me, for its intended clientele of ‘discreet gay and bisexual men’.
A skinny guy in white shirt, blue pants and a sailor cap sits near the entrance, looking nonplussed. He ushers you quickly into a small reception area, lined with a counter, where your two photo IDs are submitted and a membership form is filled out. Once they are convinced that you just wanna have a good time, are not a minor, or a senior citizen (older MGM, take note) they will take your P99 annual membership dues, and the charges for the night (depending on the time that you enter and on the kind of room you’d like to have, you pay between 160.00 and 400.00). You are given a number, you deposit your shoes and get a pair of slippers, and you are brought into the next room — the ’safety deposit ‘ area. Here, three more cutie sailor boys ask you to put in your mobile phone, valuables, etc in a plastic box; they record all this in a logbook–even the make and model of the phone, and then they will lock all your stuff up in a transparent (clear plastic) row of shelves — something like the post office boxes, except that they are all clear plastic–as you look on. You are given the same number for your shoes, your security box, and for the locker in the dressing room.
The dressing room is next–looks straight out of a movie set, with lightbulbs all around the corners of the huge mirrors, surrounded on all three sides–and there of course, are the cotton buds, the hair gel, but no mouthwash…
On to the locker room where another cute sailor boy takes you to the small lockers (not big enough to hang stuff) where you’re given a towel and a condom, as well as a key on an elastic band with your locker’s number on it. This happens to be the same number for your shoes, safety box, etc.
The restooms are fine, but no toilet paper–minus. Dipper and pail lang, and none of the extension hoses that you can spray your little butt with, unlike saunas in Thailand. The shower area is a long line of about a dozen showers, with ample shower power–no trickling here–but ther’s no hot water and it turns out to be a bit too cold for me. Anyway a nicle place to ogle–the shower floor is fascinating, made of stainless teel that’s non-slip. The gutter runs right through the middle of the stalls, and since there are no dividers you can glance left to right, up down, etc etc with ease. The showers are mounted back-to-back, so you actually have two rows of open showers. So far, so good.
There’s a bar that can sit around 8-10 people, and a small jacuzzi, can take at most 10-12, and a steam room on the ground floor–one section was closed off, which the owners say will be space for a gym. It will be a good location since those in the showers and those in the gym will be able to view each other, through glass that is just a bit translucent. The bar area, jacuzzi, etc has a white pebble floor that squishes as you walk. Good idea, you don’t need to mop up too often.
Excited ? There’s more upstairs…
The upper floor is spacious, with a few ‘queen rooms’ that have a full bath, and a twin bed. There are four such rooms; there is also a computer area, with three computers, which a number of people were surfing on…a decent sized room (about 16 sq m) with a flat screen TV showing adult gay films. No seats in this room, so you all line up standing by the walls watching those guys do fascinating things to each other…On the 2nd floor, more showers and toilets. The main rampa area has about 30 cubicles, each with a single sized bed, a fan, and roomy enough to accomodate five or six people, inf you fancy company. The rampa area is lit from the floor, with red fairy lights, located beneath transparent floor panels.
The second floor is done up in red and black–the red lights are on the floor and there are mirrors on the hallways, making it a little bit eerie at times, and highlighting valuable assets, sometimes in an unfavorable way. But generally visibility is OK, so you can smile at two meter’s length and be acknowledged or rebuffed. Temperature is kept a comfortable level.
So who was there that night ? There were about 30-35 people, age range from early 20s to early 50’s. Six Taiwanese, a couple of them muscle boys. Not bad at all. Most of course had their towels on–these are large towels, about 48" long. But a few roamed around in their briefs or underpants.
Overall, it strikes me as being a bit post-modern–concrete, steel, black and red lights, but also a bit home-y in parts. A good alternative to the Club Baths, and a more mature crowd compared to ‘F’. The minuses? No drinking water, no hot water, no sauna so far. Nothing like a groping room, and a gym to open soon. They don’t want people to wear caps, and have restrictions on people with long-hair (whether this is just the hair, or because somebody looks effeminate, I don’t know–but it all seems a bit arbitrary). These discreet kuno at mga pa-minta can be quite discriminatory with people who don’t fit their own sterotypical images of ‘men’ or who they feel are more ‘pa-girl’ than they are. It all looks a bit sexist, ageist and homophobic to me.
I have a feeling though that places like this have a market in Metro Manila, and I think it will be very popular in the next few months.
…I saw gray hair down there e I shrieked. Muted and lady-like of course.
Joke laang. Taken aback siempre. Pulled it out but more came to the funeral. For a time I was just resigned. Now it doesn’t mean a thing. Same for head hair. When the supply of melanin slowly failed, I was totally dismayed. I felt I was handed a notice informing me of my remaining time. And I didn’t have enough time to do the things I always liked to do, expected to, or even plan to. Then I was in denial (I dyed). Now, it just is. I’m nearing stage IV - quite soon, all white na ako. Even on those days!
I’ve reached a milestone of sorts: even if they were less than welcome in the beginning, I’m now cool with my gray hairs. But the whole aging thing is still a work in progress for me
Getting gray hair almost always indicates advancing age. Usually this is a gradual process–as formerly lush, lustrous curls lose their bounce and become thin and faded, there is often a look of regret, perhaps of nostalgia, for the ‘crowning glory’, which by the time you’re in your 4th or 5th decade, starts to fritter away. What used to be carefully all gelled, or moussed over, tossed about carelessly is now carefully dyed, pondered over every morning, or covered with a cap.
Gray hair on one’s head is one thing, but little can be done to alleviate the shock of finding out that yes, you do get gray down there. And it really seems to sprout overnight: one day its not there, the next morning, just as you look down, a single strand stands out, like an albino pup in a litter of black labradors. Sometimes you can get an early warning sign. A stray strand on your moustache, for example. But seeing it on the pubes is something else.
Indeed, one stray hair that looks different from the others especially down there where the sun don’t shine can upset some. I have friends who started shaving their pubic areas soon after, or who very demurely decided to wear swimsuts even on naked nights in saunas.
But, there is a more practical solution. Pretend its not there. Wear it as a badge of honor. Or like i did, pluck it out, blowing kisses as you go…
Prepare early, keep you eyes on the ball, swing and follow through. Reduce unforced errors. Stay alert for two hours. These are the things I tell myself on the way to the courts, in no particular order. And as I stretch and warm up. It’s a wonder I get the ball across, given all these self-reminders. I guess muscle memory helps – all those hours of hitting the ball with ‘marks’.
I’m very fond of tennis and I’m enjoying playing while I still can. My strenuous days are numbered, as I will inevitably slow down. I will no longer be able to chase or hit the ball with as much force as I like. There’s already the occasional twinge in my right knee.
Anyway, today I played very well – everything came together in the doubles: never losing sight of the ball and the rest of the drill. I made forehand winners on the run several times; my backhand topspin actually worked, scoring a couple of winners too. My volleying was also good. Overall, only a few errors. Bragging? Slight but it is just so totally satisfying. Sa singles, I lost the first set but I was leading in the second when we stopped. It feels so great I’d like to play again tomorrow although I doubt I’d play as well.
In the brief times that balls were being handed over to the server, I was looking at the shirtless athletes parading and momentarily stopping to watch the ongoing tennis games – outstanding eye candy in the early morning. Several had kroma around their waists. In the next court, there was a thirty something Chinito daddy.
And it wasn’t hot., the weather I mean. Perfect playing conditions. A first-rate beginning for a Thursday.
