In and on love: delirious ramblings written on the eve of Valentine’s

I love as if it is my last day alive. I am never scared to risk it all for love. I love to love because the act of loving is more than a reason to fall in love and to remain in love. I am confident that all the people I loved in the past and the person I love now never complained and will never complain that I lacked passion, that I did not love them with fiery intensity, only the opposite, that I loved them too much. Love propels me to reach for higher grounds, to do things beyond my human abilities. Love may have caused my past follies as to write the most prosaic of poetry, but my best prose was made poetic by love.

I am the happiest when I am in love. I walk with insouciance, almost flying; I defy gravity. When I am in love, all the food I eat taste like my mother’s specialty dish; I finish all the books I read; a ‘hard read’ isn’t true; I write in the most fluid of manner, unblocking my constant writer’s block; I lift the heaviest of weights, run the longest mile, and swim the most laps; I hug the tightest. I kiss the wettest.

When I am in love, my hypothalamus hypertrophies to a size bigger than my skull, my heart beats so powerfully that I fear it’ll rip my ribcage from inside, that member stands most proudly (its hardness and length rival that of my femur).

When I am in love, this one without any attempt on exaggeration, I become a better version of myself.

I don’t stutter when I am in love. I am calm when I am in love (like a cold gush of wind from an evening breeze). I chew my food slowly when I am in love. I imagine I look good when I am in love. I listen more, talk less when I am, of course, in love.

When I am in love, I quit being sarcastic. I cut on my acrid remarks, dramatically doing away with my often sardonic way of laughing when I think that the world has become hyperbolically un-clever. I become nice, even nicer than a nice cup of tea. I knowingly leave my stiff upper-lip on a train to Stratford-upon-Avon and from there totally forget about it. I become warm, warm enough to boil water 24,000 ft above sea level.

I am not irritable when it’s Valentine’s Day. I look forward to it like how I did for Christmas when I was seven, that is, if I am in love. Like today.

I want to remain in love, to love until the world gets fed up and decides to burn me in stake because of this love. There’s no sweeter reason for dying than to die for love.

And no better reason for living than to live for love and the person I love.

But how pleasurable this banality is

Somebody once told me that I overrate sex, that I am too caught up within its crafty, labyrinthine path that one day I’d wake up totally enmeshed in and unable to escape from this game I all too enjoy playing. I laughed at the person giving me the remark, disregarding his comment as something at the height of naïveté. Sex moderates itself and the idea of being ‘oversexed’ is a fallacy. Sex operates within the bounds of diminishing marginal utility; inevitably one will get tired of it. And besides, I reason, that I am not getting any younger, the natural course of things is to slowdown. And thirty, forty years from now I shall altogether lose interest in it.

But he went on by saying that I’ve redefined moderation to a point that it becomes unrecognizable and unbelievable. My appetite for sex, he observed, is beyond compare. It’s as if I’ve been starved of it for years and reintroduced to it; I’ve transformed myself into a maniac who needs sex like one needs air and water to survive. I gave him a meaningful wink that caused him to almost choke in the oxygen he was inspiring. “Spare me,” he emphatically declared.

“And are you sure you’ll live for thirty or more years?” He jokingly asked.

“Well, I only intend to live until in my fifties. I do not dream of growing too old to be unable to perform well in bed,” I sarcastically answered.

“That is if you reach that age without having contracted syphilis, chlamydia, gonorrhea, or God forbids, HIV,” he finally said.

I looked straight to his eyes and asked, “What do you want me to do? Stop doing it and become an asexual salmonella like you?”

“What I mean is moderation. I do not have to define what moderation means in order for you to understand it. I have complete trust in your intelligence and ability to comprehend.” He paused, “And you’re all too aware that you are over-doing it.”

I was silent for more than a minute, sipped my cup of lukewarm cappuccino, and before me came a surge of countless images of the faces of people I had sex or made love with (as the two are totally different ideas and acts). I confused one from the other, forgot when I had the most unforgettable, the best, or when I did it for the first time. Sex has become too cheap and easy. And it was I and my almost insatiable thirst for it that made it too cheap and easy.

It’s as if my entire existence rests on this platform whose sole purpose is to seek pleasure. Sex ceased to be an emotional experience for me, and I do not remember whether it ever was an emotional experience shared with another person. What I know is that it is an exercise that dissipates bodily heat, facilitates an exchange of bodily fluids, and mediates the union of emptiness contained within equally empty bodies. But how pleasurable this banality is.

Be a guest writer

For how can something be truly a representative of a certain sector if it is a thinking of an individual who has, for the longest time, been trying to isolate himself from the rest of the world?

Only after a necessary question is asked do we begin to find the correct solution.

There have been plans during the conception of this blog to invite guest writers. Few people responded. The articles submitted were either too specialized or to technical for the tone of this blog. There were email correspondence that showed promise but eventually died out. Either the proponents have given up or I was too inefficient in updating this blog that I ended up losing the people who could’ve been partners in realizing the main objects of this blog – letting twenty-somthings express themselves and challenging existing stereotypes associated with these group.

It so happened that I belong in this group who are in the forefront of change caught in a setting of constant flux. You may brand us ‘confused’ if you find yourself in the extreme end of cynicism or ‘simply seeking adventure and trying to have a real taste of life that they are just starting to live’ for people who empathize with our struggles.

They say that the twenty-somethings of our time are apolitical, indifferent, disinterested, selfish, even asexual. But time and again we have proven them false. We saw ourselves involved in the very vortex of change situated in different venues: in our family, community, university, the national scene, and in the world. We are as diverse as the colors that represent us, the job we do, or the opinions we have of life in general.

We questioned prevailing mores, challenged the status quo, and transcended our supposed fate. We work in places unimaginable during our parents’ days. We travel to places beyond the confines of the comfort of our culture. No one can impose their thoughts on us, compel us to stay in one place, or do what we hate to do.

This blog is a celebration of that free spirit. And what better way to celebrate this spirit than to write about it.

Going Against the Current is inviting all twenty-something to write about anything – your experience, victory, defeat, first love, travel, work, passion, art, angst, sadness, frustration, hope, dream, plans for the future, disappointment, opinion, political leaning, school, sex, writing, food, fear, prognostication, prediction, criticism, anger. . . .

. . . .anything.

(You may send your entries to And from there we’ll see.


(Inspired by the short story Sunspot by Luigi Perandillo)

They met in one of the inconspicuous areas of the department store. They agreed to meet at two in the afternoon but it took them three hours to play hide and seek until they ended up seeing each other’s face, aside from several exchanges of semi-nude pictures before, for the first time in person at 5:23.

It was not their first time to have, what members of the younger generation call ‘eyeball’, what for them is a modified version of blind date except for the absence of a party that instigates the meet up. They’ve had the same when they were younger, although the means of conducting it, establishing contact, was rather crude during their time, a decade ago. The fundamental aspects remain the same-the thrill, excitement, disappointment, rejections, surpassing expectations, or falling in love sometimes.


They found themselves inside a motel in Cubao. They made love as if they were lovers. They spent each other. They kissed after, this time, less passionately; passion being replaced by genuine feeling of compassion.

It occurred to them that this is one of those encounters that are not supposed to last, to lead into something deeper. It has to end right there and then. They wore their clothes, in reverse order, without looking at each other. One of them offered to pay the bill for the room; the other agreed. Not talking to each other, they entered the taxi, ordered the driver to stop in a crowded bus stop in Boni, alighted from the taxi, and went on their separate ways.

They forgot to ask for each other’s number; they did not bother to ask for each other’s name. No nothing. But both knew that what they felt during that moment was love, if only it lasted longer.

They are both approaching the downhill slope of their lives, but for reasons they don’t know, they opted not to ask anything for the thought of what could have been, was for them more powerful than love itself.

Living without SEX (for now)

I’ve never had sex for as long as I can remember.

I thought I could never live without it, not until now do I realize that I can. It feels good to prove, more to myself than to the world, that indeed life without sex is possible. Sex may be a bliss, but without it life will still go on. It’s not like air, water, or food. Although man is a sexual animal, it does not mean, however, that he should also actualize the physical process of inserting the sexual organs to whatever available orifice in the other person’s body .

It’ll always be a part of one’s adventure, one’s journey towards maturity. I started experimenting with it when I was sixteen, too young for somebody who grew up in an ultra-conservative, predominantly Catholic country. This conservatism may just be superficial for it is an untold, un-talked about public knowledge, but sex or sexuality in general is tolerated so long as it is a private matter, not vulgar.

Writing about sex is new for me. I’ve never tried going beyond the confines of social commentaries before, but it occurred to me that sex is also social if we look at it as an interaction between individuals. Even though it may seem too clinical to look at sex as a social contract, but indeed it is a social contract that demands mutuality, reciprocity, exchange, getting benefits. So writing about sex has been long overdue. I think.

We often tend to romanticize sex, especially if the context is in  the Philippines where it is held sacred, something that only couples blessed with the holy matrimony can immerse themselves into. But sex is a need. It may not be as urgent as the need for air or water; nonetheless, it is a need human beings must satisfy or else they will deny themselves of their humanity (or animality). Well, for me, sex used to have this sanctity. I held it with high esteem, that any sexual act that will prove sacrilegious will only demean sex and will therefore render it less pure, filthy, of the devil. But as I grew older, I, little by little see it as like any other mundane things that human beings must do in order to survive.

We change.

I consider my self relatively experienced when it comes to sex. In fact quite knowledgeable. I’ve had a decent number of encounters and partners. I’ve reached a certain point that it became too compulsory but not too mechanical. Sex like any other entities, I surmise, is also governed by the law of diminishing marginal returns. That is to say, it’ll come to a point when maximum satisfaction has been reached that the addition of new encounters, or partners, will not anymore lead to increased pleasure, in fact it’ll, only lead to coldness, triteness, lack of desire, a feeling of being fed up.

I will not be too arrogant to claim that I have reached that point when it comes to sex, but let us just say that I wouldn’t want to reach that point. For sex minus the excitement will create nothing but soreness and sores (pun intended).

Depiction of the missionary position by Édouard-Henri Avril
Depiction of the missionary position by Édouard-Henri Avril

Having this respite from my multi-colored sex life allows me to think about what it means to have sex. I remember that the most unforgettable love-making I had were with the persons I love. The best ones with the one I am loving now. Sex, no matter how hard we place value to it will never be what it is without romance, without love. We may look at sex as a de-romanticized act of exchanging bodily fluids. No problem. Sooner or later sex will not be enough to provide what the soul needs. It may be entertaining, definitely, but it is entertaining so long as orgasm lasts.

What’s that, 0.8 of a second for men, five minutes or none at all, if not faked, for women? That, for me, is not very entertaining.

I am confident that I shall never reach that point of maximum satisfaction based on the law of diminishing marginal return graph because entities other than those programmed to seek pleasure are at work – love, respect, faith. It’s not just about my penis.

Living for several months without sex used to be unimaginable. But not anymore.