Libya is Not Really Libya, Preggy is not Really Preggy, Etc.

Preggy, one of my favorite Healthy people, comes home on vacation from Libya. He says life is good in Libya. It’s not exactly paradise but people are disciplined and they drive like mad men, not unlike Pinoys. That at least makes him feel less homesick. He gets on the road to get to anywhere and it feels as if he was just in EDSA, only much cleaner and with zero MMDA. In Libya, they’re not allowed to eat pork which should make him even healthier because pork is teeming with cholesterol and no cholesterol is ever good. In Libya, according to Preggy, people don’t care for baths. Not only are Libyans practical, they’re also God’s gift to Earth’s water reservoirs. Who cares for bathing anyway when one is in Libya? No one.

So far, Libya = 3, Philippines = 0.

In Libya, according to Preggy, you have to get a personal, made-for-citizen liquor license before you consume liquor.

Libya = -0, Philippines and elsewhere = 10.

If you’re male and in Libya and you adore women, it might interest you to know that you won’t see much of them because they’re covered from head to toe. Sometimes not even the toes. But you can see their eyes. But if you’re a gay man and you like touching other guys’ hands, Libya awaits you.

Libya & Philippines = even.

Preggy does not have immediate plans of returning in stinking Philippines even though the women in Libya are heavily and eternally covered, which is okay because he is not a pervert. He’d stay in Middle East heaven even if he’s unable to surf the web for porn because the Libyan government blocks anything and everything that is obscene. This is also good as blockage of pornographic sites greatly fosters a Christian character, which arguably is of no use when you’re in the Middle East.

I, on the other hand, ambition Bangkok. It’s prettier and much, much better than Pasay. But nothing will come of this ambition because I don’t have half the ambition, talent, perseverance, skill, patience and character of Preggy. I don’t even have half his weight and there’s no point in trying.

I just heard from an obscene, porno-loving friend that there’s a Channing Tatum strip video currently circulating the web. If I were in Libya I never would have learned this. Which would have been fine because I myself am not a pervert. I like that I’m able to live in a country that trusts its citizens’ judgment, that allows its citizens to discern between smut and great web discoveries.

The only thing that was hard was the pole

I spent P1,500 on a girly strip bar. That’s a lot of money spent by someone who was unsure if he’s still going to enjoy seeing shaved vaginas rubbing on possibly stinky stage poles. Some of them are not even nicely shaved which made things look a lot more awkward than they already were. For the inexperienced, 1,500 is a lot of cash to be spending on a strip club and if you don’t get a hard-on, which is the minimum pay-out, that money is as good as burned. But if only for the experience, that amount is kind of fair because it will afford you the been there-done that bragging rights if you want to be perceived as a well-rounded ‘convert’. You’ve seen/ate pussy, now you’re into something else entirely and you don’t regret the choice, because it’s not as if you have a choice to begin with, but at least you’ve done almost all of them. Sick, but that’s being aspired to.

I don’t know what to make of that trip. Have I gotten so pathetic that I actively decide to go to strip clubs half-knowing that I would probably not enjoy the scene? Was I desperately trying to gauge just how normal old friends still perceive me to be even if certain suspicions were already aroused? On second thought, the price wasn’t too much. Not if you’re very concerned about friends’ perception of your sexuality. I’m not generally concerned about friends’ perception but it wouldn’t hurt to know if certain guy friends, those whom I used to have sleep-overs with, some whose dicks I’ve seen, aren’t suspicious of anything. Not that it would matter a lot since my guy friends are not the brusko type. They won’t beat me or ass-rape me or anything, but I don’t imagine it’s going to be better if they find out. So it was kind of a safe decision to describe some of the dancers’ awkward dancing and poorly costumed vaginas.

It felt like being in one of those socially relevant documentary specials about strippers. You know you’re not there to get aroused and you wouldn’t, unless you’re that horny. You stare at boobs, ass and pubic hair, you give a compliment if you feel like it, and you don’t give the impression of being bored and uninterested. You simply go through the motions. Those corny documentary specials that paint whores and strippers in a totally unarousing picture are true. Aroused was the last thing on my mind sitting next to Len, my tabled stripper. And how could I be aroused when, you know. But even if I hadn’t transformed, I think I still would have been hard pressed to get hard. Even if my stripper looked like Melissa George.

It’s just one of those things that I can’t justify anymore given my sexual orientation. You’d argue, ‘how could you get turned on when you’re clearly a homo?’ Nice point. It’s just like being caught with a lip gloss. It’s non-negotiable. And this is why I think that the 1500 I spent wasn’t a complete loss. It bought me a guarantee. So did I get hard? Guess.