To my companion, my biggest love, my greatest artwork: this BLOG...

all throughout these years I am so happy we have surpassed many an adventure!!!




Thursday, August 29, 2013

Agent Provocatrix

There's just something about the transformation

of an exquisite undergarment in a shop's window glass display

into EROTIC lingerie when worn by a beautiful WO-MAN !!!!!!!!!

New photos of me wearing my VIP GUESTS' gifts of lingerie at my VIP lounge:


Wednesday, August 28, 2013

His Swan Song....

Another feather is clipped off of my wing...

Where I tread the subject of the passing away of a loved one, I always brace myself for the inevitable wave of sadness, gloom and despondency. There is always a load that attaches itself to my back like a Murakami-an invisible monkey/creature which climbs on you like a tangible shadow. Like a cloud that hovers over you so that it limits your line of sight, when someone who is dear to you passes away, it really darkens your day.

Early in the morning, when the residues of the sins of night were still palpable and visible, had not been cleaned by the rinsing of the rising sun yet, someone very dear to me died. He was our gay mother, a most funny fellow who wore makeup and was the healthier and more relatable version of Boy George because of the thick eyeliner and stunning lipstick. Funny and always seeming to be a happy person who sang karaoke songs when someone treated him by punching in a coin on the song machine. And indulging as always in the wonderful libation of alcohol when someone of course was friendly and neighborly enough to buy him a bottle or two or more.

Before any of us ever became SOMEONE or SOMETHING or went SOMEWHERE, if that means anything at all in the context of our Third-World existence, we were happy gay kids who sneaked out of our parental confines at night. Congregating at my ''once-famous and rich friend's" humble abode, we painted our faces with the cheap eyebrow makeup, baby white powder and ate red bubble gum so that the red coloring of the gum would stick to our lips like red lipstick. We were happy, carefree little gay kids who were trapped in the daily discipline of class, homework and the Holy Rosary but reveled at the freedom of laughter with childhood company, handsome young colleagues and the discovery of the pure but tumultuous shores of puberty and the sexual desire to explore only with kids of our same sex! It was a heady time but our binary existence of obedient schoolchildren in the morning and wild, LORD OF THE FLIES-esque almost Bacchanalian existence at night needed to have an anchor so that it could integrate into social reality, instead of existing as a two-fold fantastical, unreal series of experiences.

Miss Jacky the name of our gay mother, became sort of the eagle who sheltered us under his wings. The relationship with him did not go into such level of intimacy in that we lived with him at his humble abode with his sisters and brothers, it was just that every night when we gathered round the karaoke bar we hung in, he MISeducated us to EDUCATE us. Not so much a mentor in that he would school us on the ways of life, rather he taught us more to be street-wise and to be wary of the ways of the men who wanted to take advantage of us while we were young, or the men we wanted to take advantage of. There were makeup tutorials but they were never serious. We were given freedom there and lightly verbally chastised when we plucked too much hair from the brows or wore black bubble gum lipstick daily lest everyone mistook us for savage raw squid eaters.

Karaoke songs were Ate Jacky's forte. His voice has a falsetto that had lots of volume to it that he had no trouble with the high notes of actual female singers. He sang Whitney Houston songs day in and day out. We loved it. At one point he also liked my singing but as the years passed my ability to sing faded as storm and stress wore me. He also sang local diva songs, it seemed to me the higher the notes and the more the singers screamed in those songs, the more he loved singing them and giving them his own falsetto version. We adored him. He sort of like serenaded the place with his singing. Neighbors and the local boys whenever they went to our watering hole would invite Ate Jacky to their table to partake of the ecstasy of alcohol and sing the female songs they secretly liked. It was one festive day after another. Boys, lots of boys everyday and the young gay kids had a grand time...

Then slowly LIFE happened. WE transitioned. We took on a path in life where we wanted to follow through with what we started. We became beautiful butterflies, transfigured from the ugly gay boy larvae that we were. We saw the opportunities, we wanted to make money, we wanted to travel, we got involved in men with means. Like Teutonic soldiers following an ethos that Ate Jacky instilled in us years ago, we took advantage of the men who desired us. Predate and never become prey.

Ate Jacky, because he was older, settled for a job at a salon. Makeup and hair styling jobs were his day jobs and sustained him around the period when we were still hanging out a lot. It was inevitable for him to settle down to the monotony of a beauty salon, the short hours but the large gaps in between clients, possibly the boredom of too much smoking while waiting for customers, the slow deterioration of his finances possibly because of all the card games and the cash paid for hooking up with younger and younger men eventually ate him up.

We began to see each other less and less. We pursued our materialistic tendencies, he hung onto acceptance through the purchase of intimacy like a penniless sugar mommy. I do not want to be so cruel but it is quite possible the best way to picture how his life went on.

Then deterioration of health started to consume him. He was diagnosed with a liver condition where the wastes of his body needed to be removed through two catheters through some part of his abdomen. He was bedridden for the rest of his life. I was shocked when I saw him just weeks ago. It was the first time I had seen him in years, the only news I hear, snippets and tidbits from new faces who claimed to be Ate Jacky's friend I was saddened, struck, I wanted to break down and cry but knowing me it is not so easy even for me. It was not an easy task to retain my composure. I almost never cry unless it strikes at the core. I brought him fruits. He was happy to receive a visitor from the old circle of the LORD of the FLIES girls. His gay brother told me I was the only one from our group who visited him. Everyone always found an excuse not to, even when they were literally just blocks away from our Ate Jacky. When I left without talking too much, he SMSed me and asked me why I left so soon. I made a promise to come back. I wanted to come back but I had another long trip in me before I would be able to make it back.

Then the news came hours ago- something in my core broke down. I cried. I had makeup on, I did not care. I cried. I did not care if tears streamed because for me tears are almost testament to thick emotions even though this alone IS EXTREMELY strange for such a rational person like me. I cried before I slept, I cried when I woke up in the middle of sleep, I leaned against the wall while I was on my way to the toilet. I do not know why but somehow Ate Jacky was an essential figure in my formation- One of the central influences in my desiring to be a woman to be desired. A figure to admire for being laborious in beauty but effortless in song, it was wonderful to be with him. MAYBE inspiration is a heavy word but for sure ATE jacky is a barometer of how further and further I am going from the people I need to be close to.

They are all leaving me. The world is slowly taking on a claustrophobic form. It will all close in on me and surrender will be my only option.

I have to take this monkey off my back - among many other monkeys. Or else another feather will get clipped off.

It's a jungle out there...


Monday, August 26, 2013

a year later... NEW PHOTOS...

Yes the cabal of VIP members is alive...





and we did another photoshoot for you..

very personal, very very bare, very raw....and the most nude people I have gotten so far...

But nevertheless my photographer did a fantastic job of..

taking it to a really dark level, almost as if I was your dark little secret
that you wanted to keep in the closet ....

and dress with the LA PERLA armory and Agent Provocateur garbs...

and take out when you wish to, when the wife is away etcetera HAHA


Here is the top secret link and you need a YAHOO ID to get access and my permission of course at

Wednesday, August 14, 2013

headaches for your hangovers...

tell me how to cure this..

I am quite unique in that although I am in a colorful but troubled and tumultuous profession: ONE which is quick to render further injury to the Achilles' heels of THE emotionally fragile (semantics overkill if I am able to say something about this statement), I also STRONGLY feel the lingering effects of no strings-attached and yet romance-involved encounters. I mean there will always be strings attached to any encounter between two human beings looking to connect whether short or long-term, e.g courting, drinks, even money if that makes sense.

 Honestly I also do experience these romance hangovers. Like a small load that's in my handbag or a monkey on my shoulder, to exemplify one of those Murakami fictional characters, which is unwanted, unnecessary but sticks to me like blood clots on the skin. There is a concerted effort from all the sensory powers-that-be to remove it, to extract it, fumigate my brain to remove it and yet it persists, existing and even growing like mildew, moss in wet places.

Thoughts of the experience, his body, the sounds of his words, the initial awkwardness and shyness in the beginning, topics that make no sense but make sense initially, the effort to find a common ground for conversation, then the smooth transition towards physical contact, eye to eye, touching with the hands, skin to skin, then ardent kisses, the rest following like protocol and yet spontaneous and non-robotic.... all this normally I place inside a capsule which I try to deposit in some forlorn and forgettable chamber in my mind...

But it becomes fatal when I misplace that capsule, that misshapen, allegorical egg case containing the molecular events that transpired. When I accidentally place it at a certain part in a lobe where the synapses are at their busiest, where the neurons hit each other at every nanosecond, where the impulses are at their busiest... so that every time I try to turn away from the event, it hits me anew that it was true, it really happened, and it was special despite my constantly denying it.

I begin to question. What was so specifically special about him? Was it his voice, the nuances brought about by tone and vocal condition? A laugh here, a serious tone there? Did he have a cold that day or does he always sound like that on his normal days? Was it his face, the subtle distribution of bumps, pimples, one spot oily, the other spot totally dry, the shape of his lips, the Chinky eyes, the imperfect but beautifully acceptable nose? I try to pinpoint something somewhere so that if I am able to find something I might concentrate on exterminating and forgetting it like a hired hand fumigating a termite-infested wooden closet.....

In hopelessness I surrender. It really is true, the pounding, the dryness of thought, the disconcerted feeling brought about by the emotional deluge of that singular experience. Like vodka flooding my system and dehydrating me, so this nagging, persistent feeling drowns me and disrupts my mental oxygen supply.

Talking, going out with friends, trying to interact and mingle among people who are jovial and less emotionally connected with me doesn't help. I could easily laugh with them and try to be as cerebral as I can be with our conversations but still when things settle down, when I am alone in my thoughts, the discombobulation returns, the hangover returns and I am left inept and restless, a riddle waiting to be solved, an oxymoron waiting to be dissected into words that coincide and make sense...

Should I take the easiest route for me? Immerse myself in the addiction that is men, men and more men to occupy my physical and mental faculties? Indulge so that the wonderful forgetfulness of the different faces and bodies envelop me to the point of suffocation, thereby rendering the hangover incapable of debilitating my thoughts any further? Like an antibody to combat a deadly virus, paracetamol to lessen the pain....

I can overcome this.

Oh but I shouldn't...

Oh I should...

Sharing can be therapeutic...