Current mood:	weird
Current music:	John Legend - This Time
Entry tags:	lessons, love, something else

Ang pagputol sa neo-virgin state.
At about 2am today, there was a guy sleeping in my bed. Which is odd. I've never brought anyone home since second year college five years ago, and that included illustration boards and books and excuses about pretend class projects. I did not tire of casual sex, I started getting boyfriends and having sex at their place - infinitely more convenient and less hassle than keeping a bunch of names and places on your phone book (Jay Katips, Aaron Anonas, Jeff Proj. 4, etc).

Someone introduced us Saturday night. The pimp heard from someone that I was horny up to meet prospects, and he was free himself. That night wasn't the typical, petite b movie-dinner-coffee-sex lineup. You see, he's a full-time organizer. You ask him what he does, that's what he'll tell you. Magpakilos, mag-organisa. And I found it hot. If activists can love their country - something inanimate, unresponsive, and don't give oral sex - so fiercely, I figure they, or perhaps we to some degree, should be one freaky bunch. "Exciting to ah. Makati boy meets FT (full-time)," enthused the pimp. We had a few beers and finished the night atop Vinzons Hall under the stars. Making out in the rooftop so close to the stars and pneumonia is always made of win.

We were texting again the following night, and before I knew it, he was in my doorstep. Maybe my sister's pregnancy has emboldened me, since now no one can accuse me of being the whore in the family. Still, it's good that everyone's asleep (planning the morning exit was another thing). He sat on my bed, inspected my books, smoked, sipped coffee, and talked about the revolution. My bed is small, and a few minutes later, we were a tangle of limbs. He was my type, after all; tall and thin, soft-spoken and wore black-rimmed glasses. In the dark after the deed, his hand on my tummy, my hand on his hand on my tummy, I finally came to terms with utter brevity of things.