Love story, sort of: The rich girl and the macho dancer

First of 3 parts

A year ago, I wrote an article about women slowly but surely invading gay bars like pirates ransacking tiny, hopeless fishing villages. They come like ferocious vixens upstaging gays in bars that rightfully belong to the pink panthers. Gays should have an exclusive place of convergence!, I screamed. Women must find their own watering hole to quench their own thirst for fun, relaxation and entertainment. That article was all about "territories."

In relation to that article, I received a letter from Sandra that I’d like to share with you.

This is a true story:

They were worlds apart.

She was a renaissance person – descended from a lineage of heroes, educated in the best schools and reared in a cross-cultural context ... a linguist, who was likewise conversant with the language of music, theater and the visual arts ... a loner who nourished her intellectual leanings with a penchant for reading ... but also a highly sensitive soul who did not care very much for material pleasures, instead finding fulfillment in giving happiness to others, particularly to victims of unjust social mores.

He was an abandoned Amerasian child – given up at birth by his Filipina mother, reluctantly left behind by his serviceman father ... shunted through various homes by a grass-peddling foster parent, but eventually reared within the hallowed halls of the Church as sacristan to a Columbian missionary ... until circumstances forced him to uproot himself and find his place in a cruel world where physicality, sensual pleasures and material belonging measured success.

But they were fated to meet.

She had come from a fashion show which received so much media hype due to the daringness of the garter collection presented. Together with some colleagues who wanted an experience to fittingly cap the skin-expansive showcase they had just witnessed, she hied off to Tramo where bright neon lights blinked "Big Papa’s."

"Here now, setting your groins on fire to the music of Michael Bolton – Bikini Boy number 13 – Antonio!"

He was a deity come to life – Narcissus in white bikini briefs. Obviously a product of regular workouts at the gym, his physique demanded attention. A 46-inch chest coupled with a 27-inch waist, nice and firm buttocks, well-shaped legs, and flawless white skin marred solely by a bearcat tattoo on his right shoulder appealed to her Libran standards of beauty and symmetry. His face was mestizo-haughty, framed by long curly hair which made him look like a cross between Banderas and the Ultimate Warrior.

But it was his eyes that caught her attention. When he loomed above her with his towering 5’10" frame, she was totally oblivious to the slow, sensual swing of his hips, and could only stare at those deep obsidian pools that carried so much pain and anger.

Egged on by her friends who set out loose change on the table, she picked up a crisp P20 bill – the biggest denomination there was – and shyly tucked it into his hip garter. He laughed, apparently noting the meager amount, but whispered a husky "Thank you, ha!" into her ear.

In the dark, she followed his movements as he dressed back into his tight black jeans and a white shirt, which made him look even more attractive. Even as he sat at a table with a customer, she sneaked a glance every now and then, utterly fascinated by the fact that he looked even more striking in clothes than out of them. She went home with a spring in her step ... totally lost in dreamland.

Five days elapsed before she was jolted by a message on her pager:

"Ako ’yung kaibigan ni Alan. Tawagan mo ako sa 871-____. Antonio."

She found out that a colleague had actually gone out with one of the other dancers, had given him her pager, and asked him to tell his friend that he was her "type."

She ignored the message, but reveled in the thrill of an adventure about to unfold. Two days later, he called her at the office. Wrestling with ambivalent feelings, she chatted with him, briefly at first because she was swamped with work. But he doggedly asked when he could call back to talk to her longer. And he did, until finally, she consented to go out with him on a videoke date that same night. (To be continued)