Palawan. No, not the island.

I read a post in Multiply about Palawan 2, a gay bar in Cubao. The blogger goes to the bar frequently and reading his post made me look back to the first and only time I went there.

Three years ago, I met Oliver in a site called guys4men. In fact, I already have a blog post in my livejournal account (http://purple-lantern.livejournal.com) about him, the one about the goodlooking guy from Alabang who flirted with me when I still had a boyfriend, became the middleman between me and his best friend when I became single again, decided that he liked me when his best friend and I were finally getting close, and dumped me after our first night of doing "the deed."

Anyway, during the time when he was still the middleman between me and his best friend Mike, they took me to a place called "Palawan." At 19 and relatively new to the gay/bi/whatever scene, I was up for practically anything. They could have taken me anywhere---the massage parlors that offered "special services," the bathhouses horny men frequented to get dirty rather than get clean, the myriad bars in Malate where every gay man knew everyone else's name, or to some park or lagoon where the grass-covered ground was just as good as a motel bed. That night, they chose to take me to Palawan. 

Now, Palawan is actually divided into two places: Palawan 1 and Palawan 2, the KTV bar and the dance bar respectively. Mike was feeling a little melancholy (the word "emo" wasn't cool yet) and he wanted to let it out by singing out loud in public. Oliver, who had been tickling and groping me inside the bus on the way to Palawan, was going to meet his boyfriend at Palawan 1. I, on the other hand, being the new one in the group and as Mike's unofficial date, was just in for the ride.

Palawan 1 was situated in a narrow alley. Walking on the way over to the entrance reminded me of those alleyways you see in American movies where the unwilling victim gets mugged, shot, and left for dead. A trail of smoke lingered by the doorway, coming from the men who was standing by the entrance. Some of them looked me in the eye, down to my foot, and back up to my eye again, which made me feel self-conscious and so I looked away.

"Ready ka ba? Tutuloy ba tayo?" Oliver asked me.
"Ah, yeah. Sure," I answered.
"Sure ka, okay ka lang?"
"Oo. Ikaw, okay ka lang?"
"Bakit, concerned ka?" he grinned. I laughed.

Upon entering inside, I discovered that the place didn't look anything special. It was a dark, dingy, air-conditioned bar no different from the ones in Fernando Poe Jr. movies where the villain usually spent his time whiling away his money on semi-naked, unwilling damsels in distress. Only, there were no women inside. The place was half-full so we were able to get a sit at one of the tables at the side. Mike ordered the first batch of San Mig Lights
and an hour or so later, the place gradually filled up with people.

"Okay ka lang?" Oliver asked me.
"Ah, yeah. Medyo nacuculture-shock lang ng 'onti."
"Hindi nga. Shit, gusto mo alis na tayo?"
"Hindi, okay lang ako. Seriously. Besides, kakanta pa 'ata 'to," I said, pointing to Mike, who gave me a nod and a grin.

"Alam mo, usually kung pupunta ka dito, maganda kung mag-isa ka lang," Mike told me.
"Talaga? Bakit naman?"
"Kasi makakapagikot-ikot ka. Makipagkilala, ganun."

At that point, a tall guy wearing glasses passed by us on the way to the inner bar.
"Model ah," Mike remarked.

Since I wasn't used to drinking beer (I find the taste unpleasant. I prefer to drink cocktails and mixes.), my bladder filled up almost immediately and it called out to me to unload some of the added baggage. I excused myself to go to the C.R.. If I thought the bar was already dingy, seeing the comfort room made my rating of the place go down another notch. It was a cramped space with unpainted walls, a lone light bulb, and a single toilet bowl which everybody was lining up for. All the gay men inside were either coifing up their hair, checking their looks, lining up in front of the toilet bowl, or looking at each other, which made unloading a little difficult.

When I returned to our table, Mike was already getting ready to sing his piece. I don't remember the title. All I know is that it was a sad song about goodbyes and not moving on and still feeling the hurt, etc.. I realized that since we entered the bar, everyone who had gotten hold of the microphone had been singing nothing but songs about goodbyes, not moving on, and still feeling the hurt, etc. Everybody was singing sad songs sadly. It was, well, sad. I didn't get why people would go back to a place that was so sad.

After Mike's song, Ushen, Oliver's then bf, arrived and  gave his then boyfriend a kiss. He looked at Mike and said, "Akala ko ba nakaalis ka na?" referring to Mike's supposed departure to Hong Kong to find work.

"Hindi pa naman," Mike said, irritated by the sudden hostility. Oliver had told me that Ushen felt jealous towards Mike, being the former's best friend and all. I found that a little odd, and cliche at the same time.

"Si Raydon," Oliver introduced me.
"Uy, pare!" Ushen said, giving me a low-five.
"Hi," I smiled, and low-fived back.

Another round of San Mig Lights later, we moved on to Palawan 2. Palawan 2 was the complete opposite of Palawan 1. For one, the entrance was nicer and well-lighted, not to mention the inside of the place looked cleaner. At the time, a pageant called "Mr. Palawan" was taking place and we stood near the stage. There was the casual wear part, the swimsuit part, and the talent portion. There was this one contestant who immediately became our favorite, the guy who came wearing a ripped shirt during the casual wear part of the contest. His shirt wasn't the only thing that was ripped.

"Shit, gusto ko na tuloy bumalik sa gym," Oliver said.
"Laki ng katawan. Ganda ng abs," Mike said.
"I like his shirt, did he make it himself?" I asked.
"Hmm..." Ushen hummed.

During the swimsuit portion, there was this guy who kept hiding behind the curtains and was shaking as he made it to the stage. I didn't really blame him. Gay men are really...REALLY... scrutinous when it comes to looks, especially the body. If I were in his place, I would have melted into a puddle and they would have had to mop the floor with my embarassment.

As the judges were deciding on the winners, there was an intermission by a tranny, singing some diva song whose title I, yet again, have forgotten. He closed his act by screeching at the top of his...her lungs and showing his genitals in front of the audience, which got him lots of laughing and applause.

Mr. Guy with the ripped shirt and ripped abs didn't win but as the contest was over, no one really minded. The lights were beginning to dim which meant the dancing part was starting, giving me a chance to look around. I remember the blogger from Multiply saying  that he always found different categories of people inside Palawan. There were the Roman-esque men with the god-like faces and bodies, the chubby ones and the chubby chasers (explanations not really necessary there), the regular ones, the hipons (yummy bodies but disposable heads), and the not so yummy ones.

As strange as it may sound, I didn't see them, the  categories of men I mean. They all looked the same to me, similar people in different colors. We all looked the same to me. At the time, I was no different. My being new to the place didn't make me any different, any better. I felt like I was being pulled in. Had we stayed any longer, I'm not sure I would have made it out. But Mike, Oliver, and Ushen didn't feel like dancing. 

I probably wouldn't have danced either...probably. I'm not a dancer. I mean, I dance...inside my room or my place, by myself, wiggling and jumping around, shaking my hips, extending my arms, listening to my iPod, closing my eyes, but I repeat, by myself. I danced in a group performance once when I was in Grade 1. I don't know how I would have fared side by side boys and men who probably led their cheerleading team or their dance troupe or their street jazz group or what. I was used to dancing alone.

As we left the place, I didn't even look back. Ushen was the first to go since he lived at the north side of Manila whereas Oliver, Mike, and I, lived in Alabang and Paranaque.

"Nice meeting you," he said, sending me a hand signal as he boarded the bus home.
"Same here," I answered.

The ride home for me, Oliver, and Mike was pleasantly silent, not counting the roar of the bus's engine. Oliver sat beside me and placed his hand on my shoulder. When I didn't respond, he laughed quietly and removed his hand from me.

"Gusto mong matulog sa'min?" Mike said.
"Sige. Late na din eh. Baka wala nang jeep papunta sa'min." I accepted. I felt that Mike didn't want to sleep alone that night.

When he and I got off, Oliver texted him that he didn't want anything to "happen" between Mike and me. He texted me the same thing. I didn't pay it any mind but I think Mike did, seeing that nothing did "happen." 

Since then, I haven't been anywhere else that was remotely regularly gay. I haven't gone to Malate nor Government, I haven't been to those bathhouses and massage parlors or gym saunas I keep hearing about, I haven't been to Puerto Galera (nor do I want to since I heard about Jurassic), nowhere. And I don't feel particularly inclined to do so. I'm not that person, the one that frequents bars to have a good time. I think my naturally introvert self would rather stay home and sleep, or go elsewhere than go to the quintessential pink places here in the Philippines. I'm a lurker, and in turn, a semi-outsider in that world. It feels empowering and relieving in a  way, being outside the  pink currents and hotspots. It feels like being so keeps me from becoming cliche, from repeating the stories everyone else is having.

I get tempted once in a while, especially when I come across anecdotes that say beautiful men sans-shirt would just come to you and hold you while you're dancing---no inhibitions, no rules, no formal introductions. Just the touch and the transient gazes would be enough.

The thing is, I don't want that to be enough.