La Douleur Exquise (Part 5)

La Douleur Exquise (French): The heart-wrenching pain of wanting someone you can’t have.

But I've had him.
And I'd like to think I always did.

Summer. It was one hot Saturday night when my friends from all straight places decided to get me out of my temp-controlled room for a "few" drinks (and by few meaning bottles over bottles of liquor) and was promised a night full of fun and dancing. So, I slipped through my Armani's, fixed my hair and go.

Our destination: the hottest new place in town which explains why I couldn't say no—71 Gramercy. A top notch restaurant by day and an upscale New York-style bar and club at night on the 71st floor of  Manila’s highest residential skyscraper. And oh! Did I mention the view?

We were doing the usuals, shots here and there. The vibe and the good-looking crowd was pretty amazing. I was actually having fun again. Although I must admit, tequila-based cocktails are never a good idea... especially when mixed with Efavirenz.

I've reached my self-imposed limit of cocktails for the night. So I came up with an excuse to leave our table to grab some fresh air at the open bar outside. The moving lights are twisting and turning in time to the music casting familiar colored lights and shadows all over the bar and the clienteles. I made my way through the crowd with my mind suddenly paralyzed with apprehensions.

Ah, yes! A breath of fresh ai... smoked cigarettes. I walked further towards the beautiful Makati skyline view. There was a young couple in a passionate clinch near me. And there I was, fashionably gawky and a little uncoordinated trying to get what-happened-in-ARG(RITM) out of my mind for weeks.

But just when I'm about to close my eyes, a guy popped out of nowhere whispered, "Penny for your thoughts?"

Leaned and turned around, I was surprise to find him standing in front of me all dressed up. "Bakit ka nandito?", I hesitated. "Nabasa ko sa Twitter ni Trish pupunta kayo dito. Since may plans din ang friends ko of going here, I tagged along... hoping to see you.", he answered leaning towards my ears.

I wanted to walk away but I'm caught—spellbound. I don't know if its the alcohol and/or the effects of Efavirenz but I was full of emotions: pain, hatred, hesitation, anger, a few butterflies, and... oh god, word vomit,"I was hoping not to bump into you ever again, but here you are. Kelangan natin mag-usap, but not here." 

Irrationally unrestrained, I find myself in his place. I had so many questions I started to asked: Why'd you cheated? Have you been doing it before you got caught? Did you know I tracked and slept with each and everyone you cheated me with? Did you know I still get haunted by nightmares of you dying? Did you know I once loved you more than my life, and that I still do? I saw you at ARG, did you have HIV too? How long did you have it? Why didn't you tell me? ...and he answered perfectly, full of remorse. Unbidden and unwelcome tears pool in my eyes. He said he's sorry, really sorry, and hugged me, so tight I can barely breathe.

Hands are shaking, my skin tingles where his thumb traced over my face and lower lips, and glides off the tears in my cheeks. He grabbed my head and kissed me.

My hormones are racing, I kissed him back. His lips are demanding, firm and slow, molding mine. He starts unbuttoning my shirt while he placed familiar kisses across my jaw, my chin, the corners of my mouth and down under. Slowly he peels it off me and lets it fall to the floor. I hold him against my hips, feeling both our erection, which I languidly pushes into him. We can hardly contain the riotous feelings or hormones that rampage through our body.

I want him again so badly. Gripping his upper arms, I felt his biceps. "'Buka mo... taas mo paa mo," I ordered, and his quick to obey. "I'm gonna fuck you hard 'til you sore!", I murmured as I position my head of erection at his entrance. "Ahhhh!" he exclaimed, and I slammed into him. He cried as he felt again the weird sensually painful pinching sensation that used to enter deep inside him. Sorely reeling, I gazed down at him, moaning.

I was grunting, loud and hard. Until a voice came calling my name. It grew louder. I slowly opened my eyes and it hit me, it was all but a beautiful nightmare. Trish and another friend told me I passed out at the bar and they had to call their boyfriends to bring me back at her place. I was mortified.

I cried, not only because the sex wasn't real and passing out in a bar is a social suicide but I'm crying over the loss of something I never actually had—my self-pity, walloping crap of questions and his remorseful perfect answers of the things we were.

I have never been on the receiving end of rejection and I'm worried that if ever I'd decide to talk to him about it one day, my expectations will get sourly bitter even more to a point that I'd get hurt once again and never want to live.


To be continued...