Interlude: Boralicious

I heard it from HB. It came out spontaneously from him after hitting the gym two months back. He was referring to the physique we must try to achieve come the time of our planned road trip to Boracay. I thought, “Are we not boralicious yet?” I thought. Last week, we put the word “boralicousness” to the test.

First day. We saw the first boralicious people in the island. They were the dragon boat paddlers. Some are stocky, some are lean, and some are muscular. They looked strong, have tanned and toned bodies and most of all, very athletic. They disrupted the tranquility of the waters with their chants as they row in unison in high precision and speed. They were a bunch of muscled men trying to impress spectators who have wished that they had the same physical stature and prowess as them.


Second day. We were checking the establishments along the beach and saw the endorser of SEAAIR. He is Marc Nelson. Tall, muscular, and good-looking, he is the epitome of the 21st century David. The body in those print ads can make you drool.

“Photoshop lang iyan.” My housemate retorted. “Hindi ah.” HB chided. I did not comment. I might say something they would both disagree. Few minutes later, the photo in the banner comes to life because just some feet away stood the object of contention. I made sure to glance at his gut. Would I confirm what my housemate said? Nevertheless, Marc Nelson is boralicious number two.


Third day. While we were looking for souvenir items for our co-workers and friends, especially for our roommate who was by that time thought abandoned, we spotted a couple, male and female, eating inside a hotel restaurant. The guy’s head followed our direction and even made an eye contact. “PLU ang boyfriend niya.” My housemate pointed. “Yeah.” I agreed. I thought we just have met our third boralicious beings in the island.


Last day. The fourth boralicious people we encountered were the skim boarding guys. They are very lean, average heights and evenly tanned young men. Their dark skins accentuate the cuts on their torsos. They run and slide their boards in the shallow waters of the shore trying to outdo one another. They knew they are the object of admiration and envy from the bystanders. They showed off in front of the cameras not realizing that some and I am one of them, was focusing on their bodies more than their skills.


Boralicious is being delicious in Boracay but it is not about food. It is some concoction of words to describe the conscious desire of people to possess the kind of body that exemplify the vainglorious concept of beauty brought about by consumerism and commercialism. It does not ensues profundity rather superficiality. It is not even an attitude or a lifestyle. It is merely a temporal condition of a physical state of being.

Boralicious is not worth dignifying. People are more than their physical form. It is simply a spice good enough for the taste buds and not for the stomach. Boralicious has no value in relationships. It has no social relevance.

We left Boracay with the word “boralicious” buried in the white powdery sand of an island tagged as paradise. Whether it should be resurrected, time would only tell.

Sidetrip: Room7

I am an exhibitionist, to borrow an adjective from a new blogger friend, an “eternal” exhibitionist. I would want everyone to see and adore my body in whatever medium possible, and the hell I care if they would call me all body and prick but no brains, no face, no car, no etc. etc. etc. The fact remains though, only few, very few possess the kind of body that I have.

I am not only an exhibitionist. I am also an adventurer. It is a lethal combination, I must say. As an adventurer, I would seek the annals of exhibitionistic territories less known to the average Joes and Janes. It doesn’t matter if I don’t have any idea of the culture I am horning in. What matters is that there is a new world to explore.

Last weekend, when I was alone, bored, and horny, I conferred for new locations where I can show off my ware and hoped to meet my match. My search brought me to a strangely named address, Room7. I dressed, or I should say undressed, for the occasion.

Room7 is a multi-cultural community. When I entered the room and scanned the gathering of people, I saw a hodgepodge of colors, ages, sexes, and sizes. The people were in different states of nakedness. Some were in their shorts, some were in their briefs, some were in their shirts only, and some were still fully clothed. Furthermore, I saw that most people who have shed their undergarments off were playing with their genitals. They were also in their different states of arousals. For a while, I was inside Room7 unnoticed like wallpaper taken for granted.

“Nice body, tripper.” Someone finally acknowledge my presence. He was one of some few people who watched me after I entered Room7. He was fully clothed and looks Asian. I guessed he finally decided to say a word because I am also watching him. I thanked him for the compliment.

The single conversation we made alerted some people in the room. They started to watch me and I took time to watch them also as a sign of acknowledgement. They started to talk to me and most of them prodded me to take my undergarments off. I hesitated and told them I am new here and I don’t feel like showing off this early. The Asian guy however was very persistent in asking me to strip. I declined his plea.

“How much it takes to get you naked?” He asked. I told him I don’t strip for money. “Who can make you strip then?” He asked again. “Guys who have the same body type like me.” I replied. “You guys are conceited bunch.” I could argue but refrained from it. People inside the room were aware of the conversation and my popularity plummeted. There goes attitude. I thought.

I still stayed. Retreating the room would only mean that my ego was bruised. I looked around, scanning for people who would get my interest. I would watch every new guy who would enter, at least they did not have any idea what transpire earlier inside the room. My scanning stop when I saw a lean naked man watching me. He looked like mid-eastern or a mix of African-Latin in descent. He looked nice and he was masturbating watching me. It was a turn on. I did not stay to look at him though. I busied myself looking for other alternatives.

At last, I thought I have seen a star in gay porn. He was a body-builder type, huge pecs, biceps, and delts. He has a tattoo on his arm and chest and by the looks of it, he is ready for any sexual engagement. Unfortunately, he was busy in his self-gratification than the people watching him. I watched the body-builder while the African-Latin was watching me.

I was already having a hard-on watching the body-builder and while being watched. I exposed my engorging cock for the interested eyes. The Asian guy and several of my protesters earlier were watching me again. I am not sure how many were looking at the body-builder but I knew he had a competition.

Room7 offers a different kick on my exhibitionistic behavior. It has an international flavor and offers competition. Inside, I could determine how I fare in an international market against the multi-racial concept of ideal or beautiful. In addition, I would have an idea of the universal preferences in terms of color, body type, tool size and other superficial indicators of male sexuality. Finally, Room7 is worth an adventure, an experiment.

The War (1+1/3)

The Engagement. The command center is full alert. Two push buttons are ready for use, one for warhead launching and the other one for evacuation. The missile that is quietly resting underneath the silo is already initiated. It starts to extend its triple modular framework. It is distending the silo to accommodate its length before it will fully rise, face the bright skies, and wait for its release.

The targets already know that something is aimed at them. All they could do is to disarm whatever it is. They could be careless in doing so but it is worth their try. If they could disarm it, they would win.

One of the targets is making his move now. He must determine where the missile is and disarm it. He needs to know its properties: length, girth, shape, etc. Surprised however, he realizes that the missile silo is different from normal. Most silos are built in such a way that missiles are cramped inside. Therefore, the missile is upright in its confinement. This silo’s area is bigger that the missile could be anywhere.

The comforter guy slide down against the sliding door of the train to allow his hand reach further down. Although my cock is already getting hard underneath my boxer shorts, my jeans is still preventing it to spring up north. After minutes of fumbling, he finally feels where my cock is. He starts squeezing it until it really got hard. I am wearing loose jeans so he tried to encircle his fingers around my dick and stroke the length. I inhale deeply. I turn my head to the sliding door trying to act normally. I saw the reflection of the binder guy on the train’s door. His eyes are in the direction of the comforter guy.

The comforter guy continued on his orchestrations of my cock. I could feel my precum coming out. It wets my skin. I am not sure if it would create a spot on my jeans but I hope my boxers would prevent it from showing. I look at the chest of the comforter guy. For a slim guy, I could see the definition of his chest. I could not the see the breastbone. I imagine licking his chest with my tongue and nibble on the nips. I lean back my head to the driver’s hatch and close my eyes.

I am feeling what the comforter guy is doing with my cock. My eyes are still close and I am anticipating that the binder guy to my right would join the hand of the comforter guy. Perhaps, they would decide to unzip my jeans and play with my dick. Two warm hands holding, playing, and jerking my dick off inside the train and I would unload my fury on the fur jacket of the comforter guy. This would be my first.

Suddenly, the hand releases its hold to my cock. It starts to find its way inside my jeans. The hand starts to get clumsy and I could see the busy movement under the jacket. Anybody who would look our way would surely notice it. In synchronize movement, the binder guy moves closer to us providing more cover. The comforter guy becomes bolder and really inserts his hand inside and pulls my dick upright. The cold feeling that my dick is receiving suggests that it is out of my jeans and my belt is touching it.

“Shaw Boulevard Station, Shaw Boulevard Station.”

The target refrains from his disarmament of the warhead but instead of moving away he moves closer like a chameleon trying to adopt to the color of his surrounding. His co-conspirator also moves in. The targets just allow the flow of traffic behind them. They do not move. Indeed, it is very dangerous to get caught and they could be well aware of the consequences. Imprisonment may not necessarily be the punishment but the exposure of their activities would be enough to prevent them to operate in this territory.

I am sweating in my corner. My targets are still within range, in fact, in very close range. However, one of them is holding my dick. I could not move. My cock is so hard and its head feels like bursting since comforter guy is squeezing the shaft very hard. I could remove his hand but how could I do that if I am also enjoying it.

Ten seconds after, the sliding doors behind comforter guy start to close. The space he and binder guy vacated earlier is not spared by the influx of commuters from the Shaw Boulevard Station. Passengers are already occupying it. My body and the targets’ bodies are nearly crushing at each other making no room for movement. In spite of that, the hand enclosing my dick did not budge.

Comforter guy resumes his manipulations. Well-hidden from the rest of the train’s passengers, he exposes half of my dick from my trousers and moves his hand up and down. He quickens his hand motion trying to make me blow my load. The binder guy on the other hand remains to be a spectator of the event that is going on between us. He never lowers his hand to feel me. He is just standing there, hiding us from possible detection.

I feel like I am going to explode. I cough. Comforter guy is startled by the noise I just created. He stopped. I relax a bit, breathing hard. I need a moment to relax the build-up of orgasm in my groin. I cough again.

Realizing that I am only stalling my pending orgasm, comforter guy starts the jerking movement of his hands. I tried to control myself not to ejaculate. I regulated my breathing as hard as possible and think of morbid things. I am also hoping that the train will reach the next station before any inopportune event takes place. Comforter guy is also sensing the orgasm building up. My cock is engorging every minute.

“Ortigas Avenue Station. Ortigas Avenue Station.”

This is my stop. I turn to face the driver’s hatch not only to release the hold of comforter guy but to tuck my cock inside my jeans. I fasten my cock under my belt so it would stay upright and cover it with my shirt. I must be careful however. Any movement that would raise my shirt would expose part of my dick.

I ease my way out together with the other commuters exiting the train passing my two targets. I look at them. The comforter guy has a puzzled look. I could see from his face the struggle whether to follow me or not, but I am hoping the latter because I would not entertain him anymore. The binder guy remains impassive.

My cock starts to soften but unfortunately, it is making a tent inside my trousers. My hard-on is still evident. I tried to hide it away but it bumps into something. It is a man’s behind. I glide my hips to the side to avoid it but it is too late because the man in front of me turns his head, his eyes glaring. I move back and make an apologetic gesture with my hand. He glances below to determine what hit him. I immediately cover my tent but he caught it just the same. I move back again in embarrassment. I let two commuters to pass ahead of me before I proceed to the door.

That was close. It would be more embarrassing if it were a woman. She could make a scene. I walk slowly to the station’s exits. I glance over my back if the targets followed me. None of them did. I could not see the man my dick victimized too. All is clear and I am ready for my real destination.

The War (3/3)

The First Wave. 1510PM, aboard the train going to rendezvous. What could be most fulfilling than to seize two flags using a single missile?

The comforter guy is lock-on to my thermal seeking warhead. He could feel it but there is no way for him to escape. The people surrounding him pin him down to his location. On the other hand, the binder guy is just at firing range. I could choose whether to hit him first or totally make a ninety degree turn and unload the nuclear warhead all to the comforter guy.

The train arrived and the door opened. The passengers aboard start to gush out like soldiers disembarking from armored personnel carriers with weapons drawn to unseen enemies. It is rather dangerous to push my way in so I give way before some shameless and brute passengers could get a chance to nudge their armaments on my body. It took only seconds before some space become available for the next batch of commuters. I rush inside and occupy the nearest corner just right in front to the driver’s hatch. It is a strategic position, isolated and inconspicuous. I pivot to face the entrance and guide the target to my position. He did not disengage to the heat of my warhead and as soon as the binder guy positions himself to my right, comforter guy squeezes himself to my left. Two targets are set in place.

The iron beast starts to move. Run neither by gas nor by coal, it glides smoothly. The people inside squeezing their bodies on each other, breathing heavily, sucking as much air as possible and standing still to minimize the heat generated by their own bodies. The air-conditioning could not offer much relief for the beast is over-capacitated. I could see the mist from the air vents and imagined the prisoners of Auschwitz waiting their fate. This beast has control over us. If it curves on its tracks, our bodies follow its direction. The rhythm of the beast is the rhythm of the passengers.

The symphony that the beast creates becomes mantric putting the passengers into a spell and numbing the senses. However, it offers no effect to us three. We are creating our own small deflecting force field, me at the core. The radiation coming from me contaminates not all but only two people. We are three people with the same wavelength, with different missions to serve at first but detracted as soon as our roads crossed.

The comforter guy starts to push himself more on my position. He is almost leaning on me, his arms pressing on my chest. He could feel my heartbeat if he wants to. Taller by two inches than me, my eyes could only level to his nostrils. I could not look up for it may attract attention. In fact, the movement one can do in this highly cramped area is the head. Its movement is very visible. I could only use a 180-200 degree angle observation with my eyes.

I tried to sense what the binder guy is doing. He is leaning on the glass-covered hatch of the driver’s area just like me. Both of our shoulders are pressing on each other. He is pushing me closer to the comforter guy. Unusually though, both of his hands are clasping the binder to his chest. What is he doing? I asked myself. Is he conspiring with the comforter guy? I have to create the worse scenario.

Sandwiched now by two conspirators, I tried to reevaluate the situation. What are these guys up to? I need to think ahead of them. What is the strategy? I need to know.

The comforter guy is actually carrying a furry winter jacket, maybe a pull-over. It occurs to me that this could be possibly his arm of engagement. He is carrying the jacket on his left forearm folding it against his waistline. With his right hand on his sides and his right shoulder leaning on my chest, whatever movement his hand will do underneath has zero visibility to everyone including me.

The binder guy on the other hand repositions himself. He shifted his body perpendicular to my side. His hands are still on his chest clutching that binder securing the comforter guy’s forthcoming maneuvers. Likewise, he is diverting the attention from the comforter guy. He is becoming a blinder.

The plan of the conspirators is unfolding right before my eyes. The comforter guy will engage me while the binder guy will secure the engagement. The engagement could start very soon and we are not yet halfway to the next train station. They are fast and the only worry I have now is, what if a blade will stick out of the winter jacket. I prepare myself for the worst scenario.

Suddenly, something brushes casually on my left leg. I am sure it is not metal for it is not cold and hard. It is rather warm and firm. It is a hand. The warhead is getting hot. It is ready to engage.

The War (2/3)

The Transport. 1530 HR, Saturday, MRT Boni Station. The afternoon is hot. The weather agency has again inaccurately predicted that the Siberian wind would still send chills to the nation. They are notorious in committing that blooper but luckily I am in my most comfortable t-shirt, jeans, Chucks and boxers. On the other hand, I would still wear this combination even if the temperature is below normal temperature. I am just not comfortable having several layers of clothing.

There are two lines of commuters waiting as each one is being subjected to routine inspection. Two more ladies and it would be my turn. I have no prohibited items in my possessions. My service does not require machines or any equipment to accomplish. My skill is enough. I looked at the lady guard as I stood in front of her. She frisks me with haste. She could not afford to dilly dally her routine considering the long queue of commuters behind us. That is a very careless maneuver however and if I am a terrorist, she had just made the most terrible mistake she could ever commit in her entire life as a security guard. She lightly guided my hips to proceed to the revolving gate.

Halfway to the staircase, I heard the train arriving. I dash. I could not afford to be late in a service because it would harm my credibility. I highly value my punctuality. It is my simple way of showing my great respect of the person I am meeting with. Adversely, my speed and agility to dodge the throng of commuters rushing up the stairs did not help much because the train has left already when I reach the island platform. I could only do nothing but sigh in my exasperation and wait for the next train to arrive.

One by one, people gather around the platform. These people are not really in a hurry. It is a weekend and every one must be in their leisure mode. Either their destinations could be malls or their friends abode. This is the day of relaxation for them while mine is work. My client is probably waiting for me in his apartment. He would be waiting for my message and then he would pick me up in a designated place, a rendezvous.

The wait for the train is taking longer every minute past. Both opposing directions of the train are already filling up and I am almost stepping on the prohibited yellow line of the platform. I am already hearing the apologetic voice of the train’s personnel over the public address system and I am already getting restless. The people around me are also getting annoyed about the delay. Patience is a virtue, I told myself. I thought I might as well use the extra time in scanning the area for possible people like me.

Experience tells me that there are people like me in places like this. I have met them several times and we even acknowledge our existence in whatever means possible. People like me are either hunters or preys. Sometimes, there is an exchange of roles. I scan the area for possible targets and in matter of seconds my sensor locked onto someone to my right.

He is tall, slim, and fair skinned guy. He could pass as a twink. He is looking. I start counting, one, two, three, and four. Four seconds seems to be long. A five-second look is already a give-away. He was carrying a thick, khaki-colored fabric folded in his forearm. I thought it was a traveler’s garment fabric case. At second glance, it looks like a comforter because of its thickness, and then it becomes a fur-like garment, a winter jacket. Considering the approaching summer heat scorching this afternoon, who could have brought that piece of garment in a place crowded by people? He unlocked his eyes. He is busted.

The second guy is picked up by my radar while I and the guy with the comforter are checking each other out. He is average looking, average height, thin, and curly hair. He is wearing a blue and white t-shirt and jeans. He could be just a college student because he is carrying a binder. His simplicity is a good camouflage to average radar. He is not looking at me but his eyes are glued to the comforter guy. That is enough to reveal his cover. He is a sniper caught by his own carelessness. His rifle lens reflects and I caught him without him even knowing it.

There are two people like me within this small perimeter area. What is to be expected in this particular scenario? Would there be intentions unveiled? This is becoming tense and a possible encounter among the three of us is forming.

The War (1/3)

The Communication. “Can I avail of your services?” This is a text message received from a familiar person. I reread it because there is one word that caught my attention, “service”. I want to make sure what he could possibly mean by that. Is that a coded message? I recalled the records stored in my archives to find a relationship to the name and to the service written in the message. There is no room for misinterpretations. It is too dangerous to make assumptions.

I offer several services. My services are specific to each client. Each service has its own rate. It is never free. Sometimes I cancel transactions because my client and I could not agree with the price. I never allowed anybody to bargain unless he or she is of significant to me. I already have my reputation and bowing to anyone’s wishes is degradation to my services.

The sender of the message is a client from the past. He is a wealthy man. He resides in one of the most influential and residential areas of the metropolis. Some years back, he has sought my “service” and I delivered what he wanted. He was satisfied with the service that he communicated several times. He wanted another one. I admit that he is a good client. He paid good and even offered a tempting proposition. I turned it down nonetheless because I have already given up my loyalty. I told him that he could still get my services but it is impossible that I would serve two masters at the same time.

After backtracking on his case profile, I already know what service he is referring to in the communication. I evaluated the message and the possible scenarios that might happen. It could happen again. I could turn him down once again. I could tell him that I have other projects on hand. I consulted my colleagues about this and surprisingly they give their consent. They said, “You are a professional. It is extra income.”

It is money indeed, a very easy one. In a shorter time, I would receive a sum four times my hourly rate. I would not even give an extra effort because I am very familiar with the territory. However reluctantly, I did not reply to the communication hoping he would seek someone else’s services.

The following day, I received the same message again. How bad did he want the service? I asked myself. Is it reasonable or justifiable for me to ignore it? If I am considering this service as some kind of an inherent mission, why should I deny him of something that is beneficial? I have nothing to lose anyway. I could always be strict with my rules of engagement. I bet he would respect that, as he is respectable himself. Even though I am currently doing something for two more clients, I could always take a break and render my service for another one.

“ETA is 1600 HR.” I replied.