back in the smut biz
My old PornMeister called me up out of the blue and asked if I wanted to start writing porn again. Since I will take nearly any writing gig for enough money (except what a friend of mine once did-- speechwriting for Erap. Now, THAT'S shameful!), I gleefully said yes.

This time it's prose. I used to do porn comics, which I suspect was easier because the pretty pictures enabled me to get away with just "ooh, ooh, aah, aah" dialogue most of the time, and concentrate on what, for want of a better word, we'll laughingly call the plot. Still, apparently people liked it; if you type my name on any search engine, mostly you'll find folks from all over searching for the creator of As Snow, As Blood (my first porn storyline, based very loosely on the Snow White folktale).

Anyhow, since I do have a kinda-sorta following, I figure I'll go with a similar theme and mess around this time with the story of the poor Goose Girl (who some of you may remember as that princess who went around talking to her decapitated horse, Falada). I'll probably start with the fateful scene where the princess and her treacherous maidservant stop mid-journey to get a drink of water at a nearby stream. (And you know that's not all that's going to happen, don't you?)

This will end up online somewhere, and I'll post the link here once it's up. But squeamish readers must never, ever click it! You've been warned!


little girl get well, step one!
My daughter Sage has recovered from her recent bout with fever (which kept her from trick-or-treating last week, poor thing!), and has begun ramping up her budding vocabulary with astonishing speed. Just this morning, she told me she was eating "betfust", wanted to "priss" the elevator buttons on our floor, and persistently attempted to monopolize all phone conversations ("Hllo! Hllo!"), regardless of who was calling for whom.

Let me tell you, it is a surreal experience discussing pornographic themes with your PornMeister while your not-quite-two-year-old is acrobatically trying her best to grab the phone.


Post-Partum Digression: part 8 of an 11-part essay

The Seventh Month

Several dozen Auntie Ann’s pretzels later (fortunately, all my cravings were commercially available), I was out in Malate, after having attended a friend’s wedding. Not for the first time, I tried to figure out exactly how one managed to have fun at such get-togethers without being able to drink or smoke or even eat sushi.

Unjustly, I was convinced that all the cool conversations were going on at the other end of the table, while I was forced to sit with the nonsmokers and teetotalers, who no doubt sensed my status as an unwilling stranger in their strange and healthy land. Nevertheless, they were kind enough to try and make small talk:

“So, how’s the baby?” they asked.

“Fine,” I replied.

“And how are you?” they inquired.

“Fine,” I answered.

“You’re just dying for a smoke, aren’t you?” Faintly accusing.

“YESSS!!” I exclaimed.

Okay, so maybe the non-scintillating conversation was mostly my fault. Then again, they were gobbling boquirones and guzzling Coca-Cola at the time, so I felt that a touch of hostility was not unwarranted. It was just so unfair that all the good things in life (including, in about a month or so more, sex!) were Bad for the Baby. I sipped morosely at my lemonade and fantasized about the champagne, sashimi, coffee, and Marlboros that I would consume (possibly simultaneously) on my hospital bed immediately after delivery.

Not that the state of pregnancy was completely without its perks, mind you, especially in the Philippines. Shoppers went out of their way in crowded malls not to bump or jostle me. Compassionate people would occasionally let me slip in ahead of them at the ATM line. Folks I knew (and even some I didn’t know!) went around offering me food, transportation, a place to sit, a helping hand to carry even the most inconsequential burdens. Total strangers would spot me from across the street and smile benevolently.

The downside was that all these kindly individuals seemed to feel justified in going around rubbing my by-then-tumescent tummy and making rude personal comments. These were along the lines of, “Your nose is swollen, it must be a boy,” “Ang pangit-pangit mo na, siguro lalaki ‘yan,” and “What the hell has happened to your skin?!” It was just lucky that my feet hurt too much from supporting my extra weight, thus preventing me from insulting them back and giving them a good, hard kick to get them out of my personal space.

Instead, I had a drink to cool off. But a girl can only take so much damned lemonade…