Honey Flava

“Ah, let me guess—you’re about to reclaim your Catholic roots and participate in all sorts of Christmas-related goodness.”

“The whole shebang.”

Cyndi turned the ignition, clucking, “My dear, sweet, atheist Matt Esperanza’s rediscovering his roots—and all for him. You really must be in love.”

“God forbid, Cyn, God forbid.” I laughed as I stepped away. My friend and colleague slowly pulled out of her parking space, waved at me through her murky windows, and drove off. God forbid. Oh, sure. For a moment, I wondered whether I was fooling her or myself with such a glib, adolescent quasi-denial.

The age of travel, AD 9/11, meant overcompensating for delays, and that was what I did, which left me with little energy and even less good humor by the time the plane touched down at Ninoy Aquino International Airport before sunrise. I felt gutted. Between the homesick and half-senile grandmother on my right side and the young Filipina with blond highlights and blue contacts on my left, I had little peace. One seemed desperate to hold my attention as though talking incessantly to me about her grandchildren and dead husband cemented her firmly to her past, where she wished to remain. She also kept calling me Freddie.

The younger one flirted with remarkable brazenness. She admitted to being so shy with strangers till she went to America and learned to behave as American girls behaved—with an openness and confidence that could easily be mistaken for forwardness (or worse) in other cultures. She didn’t care, even making significant physical contact with our arms and shoulders and, yes, our knees. In thickly accented English, she told me I looked like a movie star. I nearly blew Coke out of my nose and into her face. Both women were able to catch some sleep. I never did.

Joaquin picked me up at five thirty in the morning, unnaturally chipper for the time.

“I had to skip out of misa de gallo early to get here,” he said as he stuffed my luggage in his car’s trunk. I stood and watched in a daze, expending whatever energy was left in me to keep myself from falling over in a faint. The temperatures were cooler than I expected but still a hundred times warmer than California. As it always happened when I stepped out into the open Manila air, my lungs felt like lead. The air seemed so thick and heavy even in the early morning hours, and I hoped that I wouldn’t fall sick the way I usually did when I flew home.

“You’re kidding. What time did it start?”

“Four in the morning.”

“I didn’t know you went for that,” I replied as I fumbled my way to the passenger door and crawled inside. Joaquin jumped behind the wheel with alacrity. I shrugged off my denim jacket and flung it onto the backseat, sagging in relief once the thought settled in my brain that I was finally, finally here.

“Oh, I do. All nine days till Noche buena.”

“You’re so Catholic.”

“And you’re still fuckable.”

I grinned, chuckling weakly, and he leaned close for a kiss. I welcomed it with as much eagerness and hunger as he gave it. In that brief moment of lips pressing against lips, months of separation swirled and coalesced and simply dissipated into nothingness. Philippine Holy Week of 2005 seemed to happen just a few days shy of Philippine Christmas season of 2006. Even with my exhaustion and dizziness, I chased after Joaquin’s taste, reacquainting myself with the faint remains of that morning’s Mass and the silky texture of his tongue against mine. Blessed wine and wafer, toothpaste, and his unique flavor filled my senses. I was suddenly aware of his hands fumbling with my pants and raised my hips to allow him sufficient purchase as he unbuttoned and unzipped. He pulled my pants and briefs down with some difficulty, then took my cock in his hand and stroked it with rough urgency.

My exhaustion suddenly forgotten, I didn’t give a damn that we were in a parking lot by the airport in the dark morning hours. I simply held him more tightly, my hands fisting his shirt, my breaths turning to muffled groans as he jerked me off, my cock thick and hot and dripping with every hurried stroke. Release came quickly. I stiffened and arched against him, my groans turning to stifled cries as I drenched his hand with cum.

“God, I missed you,” he murmured against my mouth after a little while. All I could do was nod, my breathing still erratic. I kissed him back—a wet, clumsy, openmouthed kiss—utterly spent and grateful.

He smiled as he pulled back, thumbing some moisture from my lower lip.

Jet lag took good care of my first two days. I stayed in Joaquin’s house in the Commonwealth area, sleeping and struggling with physical and mental acclimation by turns. In the m

eantime, he was busy with tradition. He got up at three in the morning for misa de gallo and didn’t come home till nearly two hours afterward, carrying two bags of freshly baked pan de sal for breakfast. Those bread rolls instantly became my favorite. Since moving to California, I’d gotten used to lighter fare in the morning as opposed to my mother’s more indulgent offerings of eggs, fried bangus or longaniza, and garlic fried rice when I was growing up in Loyola Heights.

I was hauled off for some shopping afterward. Joaquin frequented the “people’s markets,” which were open-air markets or a cluster of sidewalk vendors who sold all sorts of things for obscenely cheap prices (yet they were still open to haggling). We picked through Christmas decorations, most notably exquisitely made parol or star lanterns.

“Pickpockets are everywhere,” Joaquin warned me before we left the car. “Don’t get too carried away with the goods, or your ass is theirs.” He paused as he caught himself, then added, “That old-world ass of yours is mine, and I don’t care to share it with anyone else.”

“My, my. Possessive, aren’t we?”

“Don’t be sassy. I only see you once a year. I earned my possessiveness.”

We picked our way through the crowd, color, sound, and smell overcoming my senses. Hope and beauty all captured in elaborate and painstakingly made Christmas and house decorations bore down on me. Along with those came the drearier sights of grimy streets and run-down buildings, of filthy, stagnant pools of water, of impoverished people selling their wares, sitting and staring out from behind weathered masks that spoke of resignation and battered pride.

I felt some discomfort at the curious, appraising looks I received from vendors and customers alike. I tried my best to be blasé about it all, but I couldn’t help but wonder if I were being targeted for a deftly executed pilfering. In the crowd, I felt at least three people brush up against me. My money remained safe, but it was still touch and go.

Joaquin and I presently stopped at a stall that offered nothing but star lanterns.

“Do you have some kind of theme in mind?” I asked, carefully regarding an elaborate piece made of colored tissue cut into a delicate lace motif. It reminded me of a psychedelic snowflake.

“No, I don’t. I just want my house bursting at the seams with these things.” He grinned and held up one that was made entirely of capiz shells, which tinkled lightly in the breeze. “What do you think?”

“I love it. This will make the perfect nonpartner for yours.” I showed him the lacy one I’d been admiring.