One time I sat next to a shemale inside a stifling internet café. She was clad in soft see-through, which paid homage to her unbelievably shapely torso, her white push-up bra, and red underwear. If she was not too camp: boisterous, loud, and faggot-y, everyone would have thought they’re staring at a stunning Eve.
Next to her, perched on a high stool, was a security personnel. He was eyeing her, as if dissecting, as though wanting to open up something. When he couldn’t stop himself he asked, “Manganak sad mo, bayot?” (You queers can get pregnant, can’t you?)
My good seatmate replied, “Bogo ka? Ignorante ka? Diin man kang bukira gikan?” (Are you an idiot? A caveman? What remote hinterland have you come from?)
But Guard was not to be deterred by the insults. In fact he was smiling, as though expecting the attitude. Other staff started to gather and grin. “Pwerte man nimong seksiha. Para unsa ra man diay nang inyong kagwapa?” (You’re incredibly gorgeous. For what is all your beauty about?)
“Suma’a ba’g ako’y molubot nimo, manabdos kaha ka? Piste!” (What if I’ll fuck your asshole silly, would that make you pregnant? Bullshit!)
***
My PUJ passes by Tres de Abril each time, and tonight the street was flooded with light and humans. All their necks craned towards a makeshift stage, where about twenty winsome lads were jumping and stamping to the music. A dance contest, I thought. By the look of it it must also be the Most Bleached Hair contest, and Most Uncomfortably Icky Furred Jackets Contest, and the Baggiest Pants Contest as well.
It seems to me that our neighborhood dance groups find it fashionable to don tons of stuffy fabrics – they are to dance for God’s sake! – and lighten their hair like it’s been frayed by too much sunlight, and think they look cooler than the rest of humanity. I look forward to the day when they don’t have to do that, and wear traditional loincloth (bahag) or camisa de tsino to breakdance instead.
Well I thought that was what makes tonight something extraordinary. I was in for a big surprise though. A few meters away from the stage, did I see about ten statuesque cross-dressers walking in a single line at the middle of the road.
What a vision! When you see them prancing womanly-like, their skimpy pink skirts revealing stocky legs, there is no way to miss them. When the PUJ moved past them I did not resist a good laugh, and so did the toothless konduktor. “Mga bayot!” he blurted, guffawing.
Just as he said it, I was stumped. My mirth was gone. I laughed for the reason that they paraded in their glorious selves, a specter enough to steal the night’s show. They are uninhibited, liberated, terribly freer than the rest of us who preferred to just watch them from a comfortable distance.
