What a day
I went to a massage parlor as I usually do. This time there were two things different: I went to a parlor near my place, and the place looks, feels and — as I will learn the hard, kinky way — touches weird.
The moment I stepped into the place, goosebumps moved.Together with the blast of the aircording wwere eyeballs of men sniping right at me. The massage therapists were interstingly bulky and muscled…like bodybuilders.
One client who was about to pay was obviusly one from the third sex. The other one sitting on the couch fired a head-to-foot glance at me. He was male, but he was reading Cosmopolitan. Had he talked or moved I could have assessed orientation with a higher level of confidence. But Cosmopolitan was enough for now.
“Hi Sir,” my therapist introduced himself. Gulp. This guy could beat me up black and blue and I’m lucky if I could live to tell tha tale.
I sat down and removed my shoes and socks. BUt I could hear the crunchy snaps of fingers whisking on a back of someone from the inside. I want that too. “Can I have a body massage instead?”
“Sure” my bodybuilder therapist smiled. It turned down to be one of the worst decisions of my life.
I slipped into a thin white boxer shorts. Looked up to the ceiling as if in prayer and laid flat down with my head right into those head hole. Maybe I’m just paranoid.
Then the guy stood directly over my head. Stretched. Then reached out for me. I realzied that the top of my head was touching an area of his body I dare not say. I imagined and smiled at how morbid we looked like if one was to watch us from a distance.
The dude, from the same position, then reached for my shorts and pulled it down. I kinda expected it. Until he pulled it fully down. With my buns screaming for the light, kissing the sweet dew of the airconditioning breath. I’m dead.
“Is this your first time here boss? I haven’t seen you here before,” he asked,” i muffled something just to make some sound. This is what molestation is.
So while i laid down flat, and he standing straight with my head uh, smack down his uh crotch, he reached down for my uh…buns. First it was only his thumbs which were on the soft pudgy mound, making smooth, slimy circular slides from the base of my spine to the two cheeks. But then the eight other fingers joined. No matter how much I deny it, his two hands are grasping, clawing, munching its way into my big fat butt.
“Is the pressure okay, boss?” he said. “Yeah,” I muffled. This is hell.
After almost two hours of squeezing, squeaking and fondling. My ordeal was over. Trembling, I drank my little cup of tea which was actually water with lots of sugar and some green coloring in it.
Then my bodybuilder walked towards me. Smiling. His biceps bulging. His chest exploding from his tight white undersized shirt. His hair shimmering and his teeth glistening through the soft yellow lights of the hallway He gave me a card. Then smiled. He actually had dimples.
Trembling, I looked at the card.
“Sanny 09273237765″
No way!
Day 1
I’m starting a big project today. About what, I still won’t say. I’m afraid other reporters would see what I am up to. As if there is anybody reading this blog. But I am working on something. I am planning to leave and I want to get out with a big hurrah, a coup de grace. There are so many things I would have wanted to achieve before I ‘move on’ but circumstances and that devil behind her big bloddy desk forced me to time warp to that day when I have to say goodbye to this company and to the people I have been with for eight years.
But I’m not done yet. I’ll finish this special report first. And I have another one already scribbled in my little blue book. Argh. I thought I’m on my last lap. And here I am outlining two lengthy huge projects.
I make an outline. Thank you English composition teacher Mrs. Capili of St. Mary’s College. You taught me how to make outlines. The way it looks, I’m bound for a three-part series. Humm…I’m starting to imagine the long and late hours at work. I gotta have my oxygen mask…uhmmm…now where are my headphones. Shit. I need music to keep me alive, lest I’ll be hearing sounds of Sa Piling Mo murmuring from our lifestyle section. Also made lists of people whom I can interview. Gee, there are lots of them. I also need three “common tao.” One rich, one poor, one normal – not so rich, not so poor.
Then I’ll go send faxes to the people I’d like to talk to. They’re busy people you know. Some with the private sector, businessmen, who would really prefer not to get their names in the newspaper about an issue that affects the community. Affects the community meaning, it hurts the people because some people are not doing their jobs. Those sort of things.
This is where a skill I learned from high school would come in handy (thanks Letran Knights). I talked to two secretaries of two big men and got them to commit thet they’ll find time for me. They’re Cecille and Emily. Cute. Let’s roll.
I have landed
I am a journalist. I am part of that rare breed of men and women who see themselves as rare, exotic, special. I always have a pen in my pocket (average lifespan: 2 days), and some piece of paper somehwere in my body (average lifespan: 2 hours). I have an inelegible handwriting (encrypted notes to prevent copying), and I only have a few friends outside the industry. That is my life, that is my curse.
Many journalists consider their work as a staus symbol. They brandish their press cards and announce to every room they enter that they are journalists and they should be treated special. Many of my colleagues driver their SUVs or walk around like celebrities. Most of these guys are dead. Like many other industries (politics especially), our profession lives in a world of hypocrisy. We fight for other people’s rights yet many of our kind are underpaid. We call for fairness and equal access to everybody yet we flash our press card likes it’s an access pass to just about anywehere (screw the rules I’m from the press). We announce that we represent the people yet we think we are celebrities who deserve special attention, who deserves pampering, especially from government officials. We are as worse as everybody else.
But many are still here. I am here. This is my livelihood. I am like an accountant, an engineer or even a call center agent. I am here because I earn from this industry. I stay here because this is what I do best. There is no money here. There are a lot of problems here. But this is home I guess. That makes the difference.
