It was a pool party one evening on the rooftop of Tides in Boracay, and I saw it fit to drag two same sando-wearing dudes together for a broto (bro photo). These two friends of mine had never met until that night but that didn’t stop them from bro-ing it out in front of the camera, laughing out loud between lines like “I know where you shop, bro” and “no big deal.” Thirty minutes later, one more bro walks in, sporting the same striped top. I guess great bros think alike.
Now pool parties are obviously a bro’s breeding ground. Not only is it a celebration of extended pambahay apparel, but guys can also show off whatever physical artillery they’ve been working on in the off-season. As a physically laid-back bro myself, Boracay Labor Day weekend meant spending it in mild labor: holding my stomach in, regardless of which bro I encounter. But on nights like that, tummies seem to hide well within the club’s flashing lights.
I also don’t know how or why, but girls have this ability to sense the slightest of flab and adopt this “aww” mentality. I guess it’s not so bad seeing as how it has a way of breaking the ice by way of her warming up to you in an instant. And by warming up I mean calling my almost-invisible stretch marks “zebra stripes” and “mini lightning rods.” Damn it.
Nevertheless, chick approval wasn’t a priority. The collective mentality, as I observed, was more along the lines of the overheard motto PIOLO (Please, I Only Live Once), an island remix of YOLO (You Only Live Once). If you were seeking approval from all genders and hybrids that weekend, PIOLO was the way to go.
That pool party had PIOLO written all over it. The good time was around 6 PM to 9:30 PM, just before word got out and jejes started pouring in, amassing like this choral recitation. But before it was packed, the poolside was evenly spaced out. Couples hot-bubbled in their own pool corners, girls moved like Jäger, and the gays gyrated in their glittered trunks and trench-deep V-necks. Before you know it, the bros ran the whole thing, and this is how most of them did it:
Bro activity #1: Canon-bro dive while dragging a scared girl along with you.
A certain dark-skinned bro, for instance, grab-carried Andi Eigenmann and dove to the pool with her. She looked terrified but ended up surfacing with a smile. Not all bros can pull this off – with a celebrity at that. If I had done the exact same thing, I really would’ve been slapped (then stabbed).
Bro activity #2: Know all the lyrics to Nicki Minaj’s Super Bass.
Do it because true bros can’t be too cool all the time. Hipster bros would do this ironically, of course.
Bro activity #3: Wear to scare.
Some broutfits (bro outfits) scared the dork out of me but you still need to carry on and wear something or nothing to your skin’s content. Personally, I just had my usuals: my camel-print shorts, disposable sando, sunglasses, and a neon orange cap – all of which are removable once your confidence builds.
Bro activity #4: Don’t treat a bro to a pool water-contaminated drink.
Dance and do a 360 degree turn before giving your friend a beer – a beer from the bar and not from under the water like I once had from a certain laughing bro.
Bro activity #5: Sacrifice for the brotherhood.
When your friend takes off with all your valuables because he needed instant room privacy for whatever reason, allow him to do so but track his room number down after.
Thus ends my observations. Without the abundance of these bros in all shapes and sizes, Boracay would probably just be some island, waiting to be bro-ed.