Month: March 2013

Yes, I’m An Alien

A toned and good-looking man in shirts and jeans boarded a green and white taxi along Makati’s Makati Avenue one May evening.

“To Timog Avenue, please,” he told the mustachioed Filipino driver with a bulging tummy.

“Saan po sa Timog, sir? (Which part of Timog Avenue, sir?)” the cabbie inquired, looking at his passenger in the rearview mirror.

“GMA 7,” he said.  The guard nodded, indicating he knew the place.

“Dito po tayo sa EDSA dadaan, sir (We’ll take Epifanio de los Santos Avenue [or EDSA], sir),” the driver suggested to his passenger, who muttered “okay” in approval of the driver’s choice of the fastest route to his destination.

The car turned right on Jose Rizal Road, cruised under that portion of Epifanio de los Santos Avenue (or EDSA), made a 180-degree turn around the Guadalupe Nuevo Cloverleaf Park, just before the Jose Rizal-San Jose Street junction, climbed onto EDSA and began crossing Guadalupe Bridge above murky Pasig River.

The traffic flow being light on that part, the cab accelerated towards the stated destination under the moonlit summer night.

While traveling on the multi-lane highway, the passenger noticed the driver was watching him in the rear view mirror.  This man has been observing me since we left Makati, he told himself.  While it did not occur to him the driver might turn out to be a robber, he remained observant, too.  He tried to notice his head movements from the corner of his eye as the car cruised on EDSA.

They were now weaving through a moderate traffic build-up between Ortigas MRT station and Shaw-EDSA intersection.  Finally, unable to conceal his concern and own curiosity, he turned to the driver and asked just as the latter tried to watch him again in the rear view mirror: “Bakit?”  His rather distinct foreign-sounding accent evident in the way he spoke.

“Ah, eh, foreigner po kayo, sir? Mestizo po kasi itsura ninyo, (Are you a foreigner, sir?  You look mestizo)” asked the half-embarrassed but curious-looking cabbie.

“I see,” the guy mused feeling relieved and half-grinning.

Just then Mr. Inquisitive Driver asked the weird questions the guy often heard from curious folks he encountered everywhere he went around the metropolis.

“You Mexican, sir?” asked the driver about his passenger’s nationality.

“Me? No.” responded the passenger, surprised at the query thrown at him.

But the cabbie appeared unsatisfied with the brief response of his passenger.  He felt he wanted to find out more about him, if only to satisfy his inquisitiveness.

“You Taiwanese, sir” the driver inquired again of the now amused guy in the backseat.

“I’m not Taiwanese, sir,” the man replied chuckling.  “Why?”

“Hmm, you look Taiwanese, sir, Mexican, Spanish, mestizo-looking,” the driver insisted.  For a moment, the guy was reminded of his Spanish and Chinese ancestry.  His maternal great-grandfather was Chinese-Hispanic while his paternal grandparents were of Spanish stock.

Traffic slowed as they approached the Cubao, Quezon City tunnel.  Ahead, they could see several traffic aides guiding the vehicles to move slowly past the wreckage of a vehicular accident.

“But you’re a foreigner, sir?” the cabbie further inquired.

“Yes, I’m an alien!” the guy replied smilingly at the driver who was looking at him in his rear-view mirror.

“Hahaha!” the driver burst into laughter.  The amused passenger got carried away and laughed too.   The driver must have thought his passenger meant he was from outer space.

After about ten minutes, they managed to emerge from the tunnel, accelerated towards the direction of Kamuning flyover, avoiding it just as they neared an intersection, cruised and made a U-turn under the flyover, and turned right on Timog Avenue.  Finally they arrived on Timog.

“We are in Timog, sir,” the driver reminded his passenger in English.

“I know.  7-11 po, (7-11 Store),” the guy said.

The taxi stopped in front of 7-11 store, dwarfed by the towering GMA 7 building.

“Yan po ang 7-11 (That’s 7-11 store),” the driver said pointing to the famous international shop as he turned around to see his passenger about to alight, “’yan po ang GMA, sir, (That’s GMA, sir) pointing to the tall structure at the corner of Timog and EDSA.”

“Doon po ako sa kabila (I am going to that bar over there),” the guy pointed to Adonis Bar on the other side of the street as he handed him his payment, “But it’s alright.  I’ll get off here.”

“Diyan po kayo sa Adonis Bar pupunta sir?  Iyang gay bar na ‘yan? (You are going to Adonis Bar, sir?  That gay bar over there!?)” the cabbie asked, a bit troubled.

“Yes, sir,” the guy replied, “Keep the change.”

The passenger opened the door and alighted from the cab.  And just before he slammed the door, he heard the driver remark:  “Bakla pala ‘to (This guy is gay).”

The Shoe Store Guard

THERE he was standing inside the shoe store his agency had assigned him to guard against thieves, his attention focused on the shop’s two wide entrances.  The establishment happened to be on a major thoroughfare, which occasionally had its share of petty crimes.  So staying alert and keeping a close watch of all the people entering and leaving the place were among his priorities.  Helping him observe the people and the area were the several female sales clerks the ethnic Chinese owner had employed.

The guard looked clean and tidy, appeared smart in his blue and white uniform and seemed confident in what he was doing.  He was about five feet and six inches tall, which height was not bad at all, though a few more inches would be helpful.  He had fair complexion and slanted eyes, which obviously revealed his racial background, that of the yellow or Mongoloid race to which the Burmese, Chinese, Japanese, Malays, Thais, Vietnamese and Philippine islanders, except the Negritoes, also belong.

From afar, he looked fresh and boyish but a closer inspection revealed a much fresher and cuter person.  Adding to this rare pleasant appearance amongst Filipino private security guards were his clean and well-filed trimmed finger nails.  It’s such a shame one couldn’t see the toe nails, but the finger nails were enough reason to believe this young man did care about his personal appearance.  But of all the facial features that attracted Trog the most were his pink lips, which reminded one of Filipino actor Polo Ravales’es own pink lips.  They were unlike Angelina Julie’s pouty lips but they were absolutely kissable.  The Gods must have been kind to this Far East Asian specimen they gifted him with pink lips.

There were no hair strands rolling out of his nicely shaped nose, which was good news.  Even a stolen glance at either ear indicated negative result.

He smelled of a familiar cologne, the one Trog had smelt all too often on train coaches, on buses, in the malls, and on the streets.  And it’s a good cologne because the scent was pleasant and not overpowering, although it was familiar and cheap.

There, however, was something lacking in the package: gym-sculpted frame.  A mere look at his body showed he was lean, but not thin, and had no broad shoulders, something evident among athletic men.  At least he had no bulging tummy, a common issue amongst virtually all Filipino private security guards, save those few souls who had managed to maintain a flat abdomen through sheer fitness training.  But what the heck!  Chiseled body or not, it did not matter.  This young guy was healthy-looking, boyish and cute, clean and fresh and appealing in his own right.

Does he have bad breath? , he thought to himself.  Only by getting him to talk would one know if he harbored it.  So talk he did.

“It’s just 350 a day, sir,” the guard said of his daily wage while avoiding Trog’s serious gaze at his otherwise innocent-looking face.  Trog did look dead serious while trying to sense the smell of the guard’s breath.  There appeared to be no bad breath but the guard must talk some more, if only to confirm his initial finding.

“Will PhP500 a day make you happier?” Trog countered with a flirty smile.

“Maybe 500 or 600 will do, sir,” the guard remarked looking a bit shy.  That’s when he flashed that rare smile Trog had hoped to see.  Trog had become quite familiar with the area where the store was located and would even walk past it whenever he passed through the area.  Fact is, he had twice visited the shop and those occasions afforded him a chance to observe the twenty-something security guard while on duty.  The smile was awesome, which only boosted his personality.  While it was true he rarely grinned, he did not frown at all.  One is tempted to think a smile was a luxury for this man but the absence of an occasional grin did not make him ugly either.

“You can work in a macho dancer bar,” Trog jestingly whispered to his traveling companion who tried unsuccessfully to photograph the store guard.

The smile made him even cuter in some ways.  His pinks lips were the envy of most men, straight or homosexual, his breath smelled well and his good looks were a rarity in his chosen industry.  He was not that gorgeous but he was not ugly either.  What more could one ask for?  As to whether he could work as a stripper, one wished no macho dancer bar executive could spot him and talk him into working in a male entertainment bar as a macho dancer establishment was also called.

They Are Damn Small!

A rosy-faced, good-looking male guest casually strode in with a tranny manager behind him.  Thinking ahead of the latter, he selected a table halfway between the entrance and the stage and found himself sitting opposite a middle-aged blonde Caucasian woman who seemed glued to the activity on stage.

Anticipating the scripted pleasantries the manager would exchange with him, he quickly initiated some non-sense chat while gesturing for one of the waiters watching from the sidelines to take his beverage order.  He knew the name of the game amongst numerous MDB (macho dancer bar) managers and the idea of flattering him or talking him into immediately getting a dancer-tablemate didn’t sit well with him.  As a patron, he knew he had to call the shots and hate people imposing their likes or choices on him.

“I’ll be fine here,” he told the pesky bar executive, “and I’ll let you know if I want a dancer to join me.”

“Okay, just call on me,” muttered the fairy.

He turned away and began drinking his juice (he never drank beer for he hated its better taste).  The manager rose from his seat and returned to the lobby, if lobby it was called.

I am relieved, he thought to himself.

He reviewed the people around him.  They were mostly local women with a sprinkling of several East Asian ladies, who were conspicuously seated right in front of the stage.  He sensed the vertically-challenged servers on his right were observing him, but he ignored their serious, if not troubled, look.  He focused his attention on the strippers on stage: four buffed dancers executing dance moves despite their seemingly stiff bodies.  He suspected they were trying desperately to impress the non-Philippine female patrons, hoping to cash in on their dough.  These macho dancers were under the impression these women would give fat tips to Filipino male strippers.  What a mentality!

Every now and then, guests erupted into loud cheers, prompted by the performers’ teasing them with their opened flies.  At one point, the shouts grew louder as the strippers began taking off their tank tops one after the other.  One of them appeared daring enough to remove everything he had on except his bikini which covered whatever was left of his dignity.  It looked like many started to go gaga over him (or were they feigning it?) as he teased them with his fully erect cock the head of which was peering out through the side of his undie.

While the crowd nearest the stage grew excited, one patron appeared unimpressed and she was the lone white customer in the audience.  Then suddenly their gaze met.  He smiled.  She smiled back.  And almost immediately, she stood up and joined him at his table.  She had overtaken him so much so that he had no chance to stand up as a sign of courtesy to a woman when she neared him.  A man should rise from his seat, when a woman approaches him was his mother’s constant advice.  They shook hands, taking turns introducing themselves to each other.  It turned out she hailed from Miami, Florida.  He, a Pacific islander, on the other hand, was just passing through the archipelago and decided to spend a few nights in the island nation’s metropolitan capital.  He offered to buy her a drink; she declined but thanked him for his thoughtfulness.  She had had enough, she told him.

“Actually, I’m about to leave,” she told him, “but seeing you all alone at your table, I thought you needed some company.”

“Is that so?” he remarked a bit surprised.  A quick check on the time on his mobile phone revealed it was almost midnight.

“I’ve been here since 8 or 9 and all I’ve seen were small dicks,” she grumbled, rolling her eyes in disbelief.   Which remark caused both to laugh which caught the attention of the waiters standing nearby.

“Why do Filipino men have small dicks?” she asked wondering why they were not as “endowed” as the white men.

“At least mine is bigger than theirs,” he joked.

“Lucky you, unlike these Filipino men,” she blurted out.

“Has it something to do with their race?” he countered as he requested the assigned waiter for yet another drink.

“Well, I don’t know,” she sighed apparently disappointed at the “average sized-cocks” she had seen that entire evening.

“My God, they’re damn small!” she growled, kind of cursing those Asian strippers on stage.

It was at this point that she got up and bade him good-bye.  “I hope you’ll have a good time,” were her parting words as she darted for the door.

“I hope so,” he replied looking at her direction.  She smiled at him.  “Take care of yourself,” he shouted.

She looked at him one last time and quipped: “Thanks, you too.”  Then she disappeared.

“My god, they are damn small!” seemed to intrigue him for a moment.  Does size really matter?

Ignoring the thought for the time being, he enjoyed himself, later getting a cute stripper to join him until mid-dawn.

Does size really matter?  Share your thoughts.

On Personal Hygiene

Bad Breath: A Big Turn-Off

MANY of us get smelly breath at some point in our lives.  Lick the back of your palm, let it dry, and then smell it.  That’s the smell of your breath.

Sometimes, you are tempted to think halitosis or bad breath is associated with macho dancers because many of them, indeed, harbor bad breath.  They smoke a lot and don’t bother to brush their teeth after every smoking session.  Compounding the problem is poor oral hygiene, which, coincidentally is also an issue amongst numerous outsourcing workers.  But that is another story.

To the macho dancers, brush up.  Brushing helps remove that repulsive cigarette smell and prevents bacteria build-up in your mouth.  Follow it up with a gargle of a good quality mouth wash.  Also, flossing creates a remarkable difference in one’s hygiene habit.

It would be a wiser idea to start making it a habit to brush up as many times as you can, especially after puffing a cigarette or two.  All you need is a quick trip to the wash area or restroom.  Learn to brush your tongue, too, and the back of it, where bacteria usually grow.  Make it a point to always smell good and appear fresh just before joining your mates in an all-cast show or your guest who requested you for company.

Several times, Trog noticed this particular boyish-looking stripper with kissable pink lips and pinkish nipples and flawless skin go on stage still a bit sleepy.  Apparently, he had been awoken from a slumber which he had taken while awaiting his turn to perform.  One wonders why floor managers don’t address this issue on appearance; or, perhaps they are aware of this but they just don’t give a damn.

What kind of a guest would table a dancer with bad breath and who looks like he has just risen from bed?

Those Neglected Ears of Some Dancers

IN a popular macho dancer bar in Quezon City one summer night, Trog noticed a woman in her early 40s snuggle up to her table-companion, who appeared to be twenty years her junior, as if to announce they were a couple who could do just about anything even in hostile Philippine public.  The guy seemed uneasy finding himself in an awkward situation but sort of obliged to the advances of his guest.  Moments later, she began licking his left ear.  The touch to that fleshy appendage must have jolted the unsuspecting dancer, who tried to move away after feeling ticklish from the wet touch on his ear.

“Hope those ears are clean,” Trog quipped, half-smiling, as he turned to his dancer-companion.

Were those ears clean?  Are yours clean?

You appreciate the efforts many MDs (macho dancers) put in looking good, clean and smelling fresh and getting fit, but you can’t help comment on the way some strippers neglect their ears.

MDs should clean their ears regularly.  If you’ve got time to dress smartly, to powder your face, and to lift some weights, surely there is no reason you can’t spare a few minutes for your precious ears.  After all, they are part and parcel of your body and clean ears are part of “the good MD package.”

Who would want to date a guy with dirty ears, anyway?

Those Long and Dirty Nails

YOU just don’t understand it.  There before your very eyes: an average-looking, gym-toned stripper with those disgusting long and filthy nails.  Why do you grow them long? : To scratch on the walls, or use them to pick booger, or use as weapons?  Only women sport long nails.  Men don’t.  Of course, the other breed of women, the transvestites and transsexuals can grow their nails long.  But men and straight-acting, straight-looking, straight-talking, straight-feeling, straight-thinking gay men don’t and never!  Long nails are women’s domain.

Long nails can harbor germs and bacteria and that’s why you cut or trim them and clean them.  You trim them, they grow again, and that’s why you trim them again.  And that’s why a nail clipper was invented.

And you trim your nails at home and not in the workplace, in public, on the train or bus, or in front of the camera as in the case of that Filipino news anchor who was, and is, devoid of etiquette.  Whew!

It does not take fifteen minutes to trim and clean your nails but some macho dancers are lazy enough to take care of their nails.  True enough, there are those who just don’t mind growing their nails long, which are a disgusting sight to behold.  They think sporting long nails is fashionable.  There was this East Asian-looking stripper who earned the moniker “gangster” because he didn’t only wear blings, including rings on almost all his fingers, he also enjoyed sporting long nails.  But despite this appearance, he proved to be a skilled, sexy dancer and had this cute smile.  He rarely got tabled for reasons even he could not figure out.

A vanity kit containing, among others, a nail clipper, a tube of toothpaste, a roll of dental floss, a bottle of mouthwash, and a tongue scraper would be a perfect alternative to the usual cash reward or tip money.

What do you think?

Cash Or Material Reward?

MONEY seems a common reward.  Is there any way one could be creative and imaginative in one’s choice of a reward for a stripper’s awesome stage performance?

Let’s say you know the performer to be the sole bread winner of his family, which is the case of many macho dancers, and the dancer’s dancing skills really impress you, the customer.  You want to reward him for his excellent show, but you decide cash is out of the picture.  Can you offer two sacks of Thai-produced rice?  Will you hand him a card indicating the prize or prizes he expects to receive from you, a satisfied and appreciative patron?: two sacks of Thai-produced rice, one boxful of Mega Sardines, two dozens of Purefoods Corned Beef, two dozens of Argentina Beef Loaf, one boxful of Lucky Me! Instant Pancit Canton, and two dozens of eggs.

Or, if he has a child who still uses disposable diapers, will you reward him with a month’s supply of disposable diapers?

You wonder how the FMs (floor managers), waiters, bartender and the disk jockey would react to your unconventional method of showing your appreciation of a macho dancer’s dance performance.

How would the macho dancer take it?  Would he be as appreciative as you are?  Would he leave the stage laughing to his heart’s content?  Would he be mad?

How would you know?  You haven’t tried it yet.  Why don’t you give it a shot?  For a change, you know.

What’s A Cat Doing In A Macho Dancer Bar?

ONE late July evening three years ago, Trog went to Club Maginoo on Timog Avenue in Quezon City.  A friendly looking FM welcomed him in the lobby, ushered him inside and seated him at one of those tiny square tables positioned against the wall and opposite the seemingly large stage. He ordered pineapple juice as he was not alcoholic and some finger foods.  He also offered to buy the manager who had joined him some drinks but she politely declined.

She suggested an all-cast show but he was quick to say it wasn’t necessary.  Instead, he asked her for someone who knew how to smile, was rarely tabled, courteous, and wouldn’t talk much about one’s personal life.  It seemed she knew exactly who he was looking for.  He asked to be escorted to the holding area (or aquarium as some would call it) where he could choose from amongst the strippers.  She led the way past the rest room.  There were several in there: short, tall, very tall by Filipino standards, small, big, buffed, gym-toned, athletic, ugly, average-looking, good-looking, and truly attractive and appealing.  He picked a young average-looking dancer over the hotties any MDB manager would die to offer to customers.  Trog had this unusual preference for those least or rarely tabled entertainers who still managed to smile despite the constant rejection they went through each night they were in the bar.

As expected, the two exchanged pleasantries, with the stripper inquiring about his guest’s nature of work and place of residence, subjects Trog really hated being questioned about but to which inquiry he gave limited answers, just to satisfy his table-mate’s inquisitiveness.  It seemed they easily got along well with each other, cracking jests from time to time to enliven their night.  Every now and then, they shared their opinions on the performances of the dancer’s fellow strippers, but Trog’s young table-companion seemed to be kind of sympathetic to his own kind, withholding judgment on the shows they both had seen so far.  Trog understood his soft stand and imagined how he would handle the same thing if he were in his shoes.  As they carried on their talk well into midnight, a furry creature suddenly appeared near them from nowhere.  Trog noticed it was a feline, greyish-white in color, staring at him, as if curious about his presence in a strip club.  Then without any warning, it turned away and slowly made its way towards the cashier’s booth where it must have stayed until Trog left the bar just before sunrise.

“What’s a cat doing in a macho dancer bar?” Trog asked his table-mate who chuckled hearing his question.

“I don’t know how it got in here.  It stays in the kitchen where he gets to eat left-over food,” the dancer replied smilingly.

“Has it ever jumped on stage during a show?” Trog continued.

“Thankfully, no,” the smiling entertainer assured his guest.

“Is it a straight cat or it must be a gay one, huh?” Trog jokingly asked.

“Can I table the cat?”

“Bwahahaha!” the two laughed out loud.

When Beauty And Appeal Fade

BY the mid-30’s, many macho dancers are no longer beautiful and sexy, although they were in their day.

Beauty begins to disappear when they reach thirty and the loss of appeal follows.  These two elements fade because in the early to mid- thirties, you begin to slacken in your fitness training, become even more saddled with family problems and the possibility of losing your job beckons every now and then, which work issue only adds to the stress build-up.

Those who started their fitness regimen in early twenties or late adolescent years are going to maintain their figure well into their late thirties.  The reward is worth the effort they put in their younger years.  They will remain sexy, appealing and marketable.

But will the bar employers continue to employ them once they turn 30 years?  Is there or should there be a macho dancer bar which employs dancers between thirty years and forty years old only?  If there is such a strip club and the 30-something strippers are as gorgeous and yummy as that excellent Philippine actor named Gabby Concepcion, you will want to go to that establishment.  And go you will!