i want to be a jerk

realization often comes a little too late, like in the midst of wolfing down a spicy burrito when one has spent a distinct amount of time starving, only to find out you have no cold milk on hand when the chili starts to burn your mouth in an algebraic progression of intensity.

i recently had to pause and rewind a p90x workout, not to take breaks, but to ogle at one of the models’ cleavage as she is working out. as in comical depictions of irrational hatred, i blindly leave out the fact that there are two other males in the video and another woman working out while i crazily stare at such a rather unprovocative sight.

only then i realized that, to quip the words of smart-mouthed folks, i certainly do “need to get laid.”

i grew up in a sweltering tropical country that gets more than its fair share of thunderous precipitation and ample sunshine that scandinavians would invade a country for. being such the way it is, our people are of mostly darker skin tones and are significantly smaller than most westerners, especially when compared to perhaps goliath russians or 10-feet minnesotans. the exceptions being the clearer-skinned mestizas and mestizos of mixed heritage, mostly of spanish descent and more recently, american and other caucasian races from europe and australia. these elusive individuals are often drafted into show business where my common countrymen would drool over while wallowing into our subliminally accepted lower stature because of our most unchangeable physical attributes. 

comes toward daylight in a popular party island in my home where one can easily be amazed at home humanity had successfully squeezed as much alcohol-serving bars to kids of all ages from eight to 108, party venues that host hormone-overloaded orgies of sweaty and grinding flesh from morning until the morning next week, and peddlers that rip off foreigners or anyone that appear not to have grown up within a 50-mile radius, one would wonder how come the staggering foreigners in their drunken stupor hire the most unattractive prostitutes and transvestites. 

that question lingered in the back recesses of my mind until i was old enough to figure out that most things, as einstein have believed in, are relative. to the wasted foreign orgy-goers, the individuals they picked are beautiful to them. them foreigners with the sunburnt tomato-red skins hiding their caucasian freckles, six-feet statures and proportionally long toes and fingers, find our native permanently sun-brownt skinned short ladies with relatively plumper lips and noses and extremities, pretty hookups worthy to be brides. so they do, a lot of them do bring their decidedly attractive dates to their home countries.

introspectively, the very women i find tantalizingly beautiful are those with silky smooth and clear schoolgirl complexions, high cheekbones, expressive eyes, eye-catching red hair; those not with sensual mouths that appear perfect for casual blowjobs in the closest dark alley but rather those with petite, heart-shaped innocent lips and soft and pretty cute noses the likes of moira o’hara, ingrid bergman, and chelsea fagan. the very features i seem to have been visually deprived of during my formative years.

we, the apelike endlessly and offensively pretentious mammals of this planet are mostly confused, despite our raging braggadocio that our kind are the only kind that has culture, and perhaps, logic. i usually do not, or maybe i do, whenever some careless soul permits me, to eavesdrop. the impersonal and callous city life back has reduced many of us into mindless zombie-like humans where an effort to discern what ideas are shared in public and that are to keep. once in a sweaty and grimy public transportation setting, two unfamiliar ladies made use of a bright and healthy potted anthurium nicely settled at one lady’s lap. the appreciate botanical fan eagerly asked, and had the proud owner refused to reply to her query, the cheery lady would have kept on with her amazement anyway. so off she went with her mind anyway and explained that it was so pretty because it looked fake.

on the other hand, one might have easily seen a scene like this play out at least once in one’s lifetime — one where the inquisitive individual may brightly quiz a proud floral carrier if the plant on display is plastic. if it was, that would have been such a brilliant artifact since it looked so real at first, and second, and other glances and would keep on being despite some substantial visual investigation.

a few of the endless lazy caribbean summers i spent whether with a cold bottle of beer or just passing unproductive languid afternoons daydreaming have made me come to a conclusion where people want exactly what we do not have. take michael jackson for example, since the resources are available, he turned his face into something i am mindlessly presuming to be what he would qualify to be a pretty face. a pretty face that shows opposite features of what he was born with.

perhaps, when you have a similarly agonizingly boring afternoon, you may want to think about this insight.

i grew up in a little artificial community of transplanted nerd families in a research facility among the farmlands and the ocean half an hour south of the city. everyone knew each other and everyone who worked there knew where each other’s houses are. those people see each other at work, see each other when they go home and see each other during parties. how exciting.

some 30 years ago, my parents thought they were done messing with prenatal affairs, immunizations, preschool, staying up late to feed the noisy baby. then i happened, perhaps one chilly december night, when my mom went home during the break while she was going for more school. that explains why i grew up with two significantly older sisters. and significantly older sisters have significantly older friends, who are presumably hot.

i’m such a callous prick that a long time ago, i was literally then a little prick. in my preschool age, but not yet in kindergarten, i learned that my sisters’ friends rode around the village on their bicycles. this was during the 80s when shorty shorts were short. at least with the ladies, i’m not too keen on learning what shorts the men wore. they have this friend named karen. karen had long lovely legs.

of course i didn’t know those limbs as such back then but recognizing what madly turns me on now are shapely legs and thighs especially when they are relatively long in proportion to a woman’s torso.

so lovely legs karen always stopped to kiss and hug me when i was a kid, probably four or five years old, where i was still plump and cute and my looks probably triggered the motherly and caring instinct in normal women. i learned she rides her bike after school and would surely pass the house around four in the afternoon. i guess i put two things together — shorty shorts and one young woman’s urge to hug me would be an  awesome combination come four o’clock.

she would come around the corner, banking to her left while making that 90-degree turn on our street corner, she would dismount her bike, come to me and kiss me or hug me. being a tiny little prick, my face would then be right at that sweet level where her crotch and her thighs would right be in my face. i liked that.

kids learn early and so did i on the concepts of cause and effect. it was a silent promise on my part with a matching effort to be out there as much as i can every four in the afternoon to assure myself of the prospect of an excited afternoon encounter. i still wonder though if i had an erection at that age.

i was part of a clique of 20 animals in high school. that included the studs from our small class and the worst offenders the teachers ever saw. since we were a bunch of assholes with raging hormones, it was expected we would be chummy with the hottest girls in our class of 110 (after 10 have been kicked out for cheating or flunking). everyone knows pretty girls like bad boys. i know, how presumptuous i am is directly proportional to how pathetic we were.

we graduated from high school at a gullible age of 15 and some at 16. three years later, during one of the christmas vacations, our group met again over bottles of gin, beer, vodka, and whatever that can create smoke (my country doesn’t have strict alcohol regulation laws). most of us went to the same state university but were on different campuses. this was a good time to catch up on how much of a dumbasses we were, ladies included.

we played a game as an excuse to constantly drink shots and bring up horny shit. the corresponding alcohol involved for every question beats the questions and answers asked so it’s leaning more to a drinking game. we all wrote down questions from the most mundane to the most outrageous on a piece of paper and stuffed it inside a bowl. those questions must be answerable by yes or no. pussies whose answers are no, get to down a shot of whatever was there before us. questions included but are not limited to:

• have you ever stolen something you couldn’t afford?
• have you ever walked into your parents having sex?
• have you fucked someone 10 years older than you?
• have you ever fantasized about a professor?
• did you fuck that professor?

as you can see, with a game like this, the most innocent one will be the most shit-faced, and probably the best bet for having their innocence screwed up that night. then one of the questions were

have you ever had sex with a non-human living thing

most of us downed that shot of lambanog, with the exception of one classmate. he was then going to school to saint vincent ferrer seminary to be a catholic priest.

my long time buddies and i always had worthless crap to do, like the worthless crap that we are. one day, after drinking a couple of 500ml bottles of the strong red horse beer at 7:30am, we decided we might just have fun going to school.

first stop: student union building, billiard tables. near it was the men’s room. as soon as we stepped in, we saw someone quietly crapping away in one of the cubicles, probably hoping the adolescent jerks who just came in wouldn’t notice his shoes and think of doing something with it. without saying a word, we seem to have just instinctively ran the water in the sink, cupped our hands to collect the water and stepped towards the cubicle.

we doused that poor dude with all the water on our hands. we sometimes wonder if he was a professor or if he was a student.