One More Time

It was time to go, but I was still lazying on my bed.

And for valid reasons, I daresay. For one, as with some of my contemporaries, my priorities have shifted, making current endeavors more pressing than attending socials. But more importantly, a tinge of embarrassment always cracks my otherwise generally confident self, despite having attended this gathering for several years: It was, once again, time for the bi-decade grand alumni homecoming of our university student publication, and unlike most others, I did not finish my stay until I graduated from college.

I’ve always dreamed of becoming part of the most prestigious campus paper in the country. I took pride in being one of the only four first years (in a 30,000 strong student population at that) to be admitted to the publication---something that the paper has never done before. I basked in the glory of being recognized as one of the best, of being part of a new history.

But writing for the paper was not a walk in the park. I experienced chasing news riding a police mobile with intimidating law enforcers and law offenders, chasing evasive school officials for an investigative report I was writing on the university’s seemingly irregular spend on power and utility expenses, chasing big names in the world of journalism and literature for a feature article…. The work I needed to pour into the paper meant sacrificing time with my classmates and, more concerningly, with my grades barely making it to the passing mark, compromising my dream to enter graduate school and be an expert in my field.

And so, after a year of writing for the paper (six months of which spent on sabbatical), I made a decision. I gathered the courage to speak with my editor-in-chief and filed for my resignation.

For this reason, it always feels I do not deserve to converge in a room of esteemed journalists, media personalities and National Artists whenever I attend our grand alumni homecoming. Unlike most others, I feel like I do not deserve to be celebrated as a writer, as an Amihan*.

Yet, I made a commitment to reconnect with with old friends with whom I shared the same passion as college students. Finally, I got up, raced to put on my bowtie, and traversed the Saturday Manila traffic jam.

A myriad of memories and emotions flooded in the moment I stepped foot onto once I called home for four remarkable years. Restaurants that my student budget would not have afforded seemed to have become commonplace; no heads turned despite walking in gray tuxedo in a sea of uniform-clad students (an unlikely scene versus a decade back!); old buildings glowed in fresh paint; and new infrastructures have either surfaced or are undergoing renovation.

So much has changed over the last ten years, and the college student in me longed for something familiar, something I can claim my own.

Gladly, some things did not---and perhaps, will never---change. My college building still stood proud and strong at the center of the campus, majestic as ever. Architecture and Fine Arts students still flocked the gazebos, rushing to finish their plates. The cobbled Plaza Mayor still felt pleasantly rough to my feet. The nighttime breeze still blew cool and soft on my skin.

My heart took comfort on these little snippets of familiarity. You are home, my doubting self encouragingly whispered, as I gazed onto the façade of the newly erected edifice that housed the grand gathering.

The self-doubt weighing against my chest eased. “Let’s do this one more time,” I breathed, and finally crossed the foyer to the grand alumni homecoming.



*Amihan - Like the cool northeastern wind, alumni writers of the Varsitarian come back home, once every five years, to celebrate the struggle and the glory of being part of the country's premiere campus newspaper.

The Brewing Storm

Amihan flew to the highest point in the city. Her eyes fixed at a far distance, apparently blank but definitely seeing, surveying the dark clouds and lightning that were forming above the sea. She remained calm but the sides of her eyes creased, as if taking a fighting stance against an impending attack, but it was only because she was witness to something no typical eye could see.

"It's coming faster than what I anticipated," said a voice behind her. She turned to see Habagat, who silently followed her in flight. She, however, pretended that she did not hear, and remained focused on the storm that was brewing.

"But it's not me, Habagat," she said desperately. "That's why I'm here, observing, trying to figure it out—because it's not me who's creating all the rain and the wind."

Practical Magic

There was once a witch named Gillian Owens. While mixing potions one morning with her nieces Kylie and Antonia, the former shared that she couldn't wait to fall in love. Amused, Aunt Gilly asked her little one a simple question, and she had her reasons—personal experiences—for doing so.

"You ever put your arms out and spin really, really fast?" Aunt Gilly asked.

"She does it all the time," the younger Antonia quipped.

"She does?" Turning to Kylie, she said, "Well, that's what love is like. It makes your heart race. It turns the world upside down. But if you're not careful, if you don't keep your eyes on something still, you can lose your balance. You can't see what's happening to the people around you. You can't see that you're about to fall."

That morning saw the greatest magical potion the three witches had ever made. 



Original post published October 27, 2010

Hoarding

Only the stern looking gym fit guy remained when I returned to the steam room. Beside him was a vacant space, followed by a lean skinhead that was not around previously. He immediately locked eyes with me, and taking it as my queue, I took the vacant seat between the two men.

I did not waste any moment. I purposefully swayed my legs so that each would softly brush against theirs on either side. Both started fondling their bulges. I went on my own, and in no time, we were taking our cocks out of our undies like soldiers wielding their swords.

My mouth watered upon seeing their manhood. One was average sized, but the stern looking guy's was huge both in girth and length. Prominent veins traversed the surface from the base, leading to a smooth, well-endowed head. My craving went out of control. I dived into his engorged tower while a hand attended to the skinhead's.

Both men proved to be intense. Each demanded for constant tongue attention, pulling my head off the other's tool so I can pleasure his own. Both pumped into my mouth with no mercy, intent to get milked by a cum pig's throat.

But the door swung open, and it was time again to disperse.

Hidden

Everyone in the room disappeared. One got dressed and immediately left, while the others took a shower and prepared to leave. I had no intentions of going home, though. Two was not enough.

I wandered into the locker room to let some time pass. The intruder might still be enjoying what was left of the steam. Moments after, I saw the middle aged man heading for his locker. Realizing that his locker was adjacent to mine, I followed suit.

That side of the locker room was almost deserted. The middle aged man started to dress but never tore his eyes away from my crotch. After double checking that no one was around, I took out my cock and teased: his eyes squinted a little, as if moaning, when I started to jerk off. I stopped and wiggled my tool, inviting him to come over and continue what he did in the steam room. His eyes gave the room a quick scan, and after confirming that no one was around, he moved closer, stuck out his tongue and licked the tip of my head.

We sensed somebody approaching. The middle aged man finished getting dressed, pressed his ass against my bulge before heading for the exit, and went home.

With the time that passed, I felt it safe to go back to the breeding den and hunt again. There were two men inside, both a year or two younger than myself. One looked like a viable prey. A much older, stern looking gym fit man came in, not expressing much interest but the growing bulge in his sexy green undies expressed otherwise. He took a seat on my right.

The viable prey went out for a drink in the communal fountain. I followed him outside, staying by the corner as he had his fill. Locking eyes with me, he went inside a shower cubicle and left the door ajar.

I slipped inside after confirming that no one was watching. I locked the door and immediately went on my knees and started what I do best—cock worship.

But this younger, twinkish guy had other ideas. He flipped over and spread his ass cheeks. A tight hole came in sight: pulsing and puckering, as if panting, breathing in and out and craving for attention. I gave it a few teasing taste with my tongue before devouring it whole. When his hole was sloppy and wet, I inserted a finger, to which he cringed and politely said no.

Feeling hungry to experience the heat of his insides, I stuck out my tongue and dived. It landed on the  rim and went past the opening. The boy reached out and slammed my head into his ass. He wanted more of the tongue fuck, and I gave it to him despite having a hard time to breathe.

I went back to his cock to catch some air. He pulled out and whispered that he was close. He grabbed my head and yanked his cock deep into my throat, and I felt warm juice filling my tonsils as his cock pulsed violently inside my mouth.

He pulled me up for a soft kiss and muttered thanks. I discreetly opened the door and left the cubicle, my eyes on the steam room once again.

To be continued

Hunting

I had been feeling hungry for almost a week, and that night, I promised that I would feed.

I immediately sensed that the men I was with were just as famished. Perhaps it was the absence of steam that made it easily evident—there was no fog to obscure the craving on each one's faces from view. Or perhaps, it was the thirst that emanated from each one's skin that fueled what remained of the heat that the steam room contained before it was shut off. Either way, I was in the presence of hungry pigs, and I couldn't be any luckier.

But it's not always easy. There seemed to be a stray. He was seated on my left, pretending to be oblivious of what was going to transpire. He was attempting to make himself more challenging to read: he avoided everyone's gaze and hid in the room's darkest shadows. He kept his blue towel wrapped around his waist, but it was not enough to conceal the manhood that has gotten hard underneath. With the correct triggers, I knew that this man would unleash the demon in him; yet, there remained a small fraction of doubt about his intentions.

In the meantime, I took the opportunity to lock eyes with the other to communicate silently: seated diagonally across me was a middle aged man, hair gradually taken away by his years but the gorgeous face remained. I knew him from three years back. We never fed each other's hunger before but would bump into one another when searching for prey. It was effortless to communicate—his eyes switched between my own and the soft bulge that poked from underneath my briefs. They would also drift to the guy on my left, burning with a questioning look that mirrored my own thoughts about the man in blue.

The door creaked open and another guy came in. He went straight to the other corner, hiding in the shadows while giving me an unfaltering stare. He didn't make a move, though—everyone was trying to feel if the blue-toweled man was indeed a stray

I was feeling impatient. I went out to have some water to ease the discomfort. When I came back, the blue-toweled man was gone. The guy from the other corner has taken his spot on my left. The door swang open once more and in came another. I was becoming intensely hungry, so I did not hesitate. I locked eyes with the newcomer, and when he returned the gesture, I knew it was time.

I massaged the bulge beneath my briefs. The newcomer responded by doing the same. The middle aged man locked eyes with me and licked his lips seductively. The guy on my left let his towel hang loose to give room to his growing manhood.

The middle aged man stooped down and took my cock head into his mouth. The warmth and wetness that greeted my tool gave an ethereal bliss. Yet, it wasn't enough. I needed to feed. My attention shifted to the easiest target: a hand traveled to my side, and in no time, it has already formed a first around the cock of the guy on my left.

He moved closer and gestured me to lick his nips. I willingly obliged as he unwrapped his lower body to expose his cock. My guts lit up and growled. The towel he set aside revealed a huge monster: around 6 inches or more, curved and still slightly soft. I wasted no time. I dove in and took it into my mouth. The feeling of his manhood in my lips was intoxicating. I was in deep ecstasy, and the reality that I was finally quenching my thirst intensified my hunger even more. I was going to make this dick rock hard, I told myself. I formed a fist with my hand and jacked it up and down his joy stick—

Fuck, I said to myself as the door opened. Everyone was back in a non-suspicious position in a flash. It was the blue-toweled man. He took the other end of the room and once again hid in the shadows, but I did not want him to. The moment his eyes darted to my direction, I took out my cock and jacked off with him watching.

He sat on his corner, frozen. I didn't care. I knew he wanted this as much as everybody else did. He could watch, or just beat his tool just like the other one had been doing since the very start. Not minding him anymore, I went back to my 6-inch monster and pleasured it like the hungry pig that I was.

There was movement on my side. The blue-toweled guy joined our corner, and the middle aged man had his cock in his hands.

Another monster. Smaller than six, but very thick and hard. I could not miss such a delicious meal. I let the cock in my mouth slip out so I could chase after the other.

It was, however, a resource that I had to share with the middle aged man. I first settled into cupping the balls with my lips while the older man sucked on the head. My lips moved to the base of his cock, going up and up until our tongues battled for territory. The blue-toweled guy moaned in extreme pleasure. Two mouths were sucking his cock at the same time.

The middle aged man and I exchanged wet and sloppy kisses while alternating on sucking that adorable manhood. Not forgetting the other, I left him to savor the meat and went back to my original piece. I ran my tongue and lips on its side before taking it in once again, but this time, very deeply. His moans would dominate the room each time the tip of his cock hit the depths of my tonsils, mixing with my own as the middle aged man stroke my cock while sucking the blue-toweled guy's.

The guy on my left pulled out of my mouth. "Malapit na ko," he gasped through his moans. He jacked off fast until his man juice started shooting out.

Seeing those thick wads of hot cum brought me to a state of trance. It smelled appealing and irresistible, like how blood is to a vampire. It was... hypnotizing. Without a second thought, I grabbed his cock with my mouth and used my tongue as a catch basin, savoring the sweet saltiness of his cum before swallowing. I then went after the first streaks of cum that landed on his stomach. I was devouring each bit like a true cum slut when the door suddenly swung open—

To be continued

All Souls' Day

The warmth I so dreaded finally surfaced. It had been swirling at my feet all morning but I chose to dismiss it deliberately, keeping in mind that I had more important things to do than stay home in bed. I cringed at the thought of our friend and family doctor; seeing, inside my head, the lines on her aged forehead crease, with yet another blunder (the very same, in fact) that I was to commit. She had been advising me to take it slow and rest, as the work, academic and personal matters I had to attend to in the past months overwhelmed not just my spent spirit but also my fragile body.

I placed the back of my hand against my neck. It was not as bad as I thought, but I didn't want to take chances. I grabbed a glass of water and a tablet of paracetamol as I strode to my room.

I tidied my space before going to bed. A small butterfly fluttered away from my closet door as I pulled it open to keep the bag I used for the day. I then checked if everything I needed for work the next day was in my office bag. Sure that all was set, I let myself fall into the comforts of my sheets and everything around me quickly dissolved into darkness.

An hour or so passed when someone roused me from my sleep. I opened my eyes a little and battled with the brightness that bounced around the bedroom. I didn't realize I slipped to turn off the lights. When my eyes have finally adjusted, I did not find any other being in the room but for the small butterfly from earlier, perched on my lower right arm.

"My little boy," its female voice said, "My sickly, little boy."

A mix of joy and gloom erupted within my chest. She had long ago been gone but I could never forget—the croaked, sweet voice, the gentleness of the touch, the characteristic scent she carried from the kitchen, the warmth that wraps my skin each time she was around. We shared this room since I was a child, until it was time for her to go and move on.

"Grandma," I acknowledged with a smile. "Yes, I am sick again."

The butterfly started to take form. I could not figure its face, but the plumpness of the silhouette that glowed golden orange told me it was indeed my dear grandmother.

I made space on the bed and the figure took the place. It sat beside me while I remained lying down.

"You look fatigued," she said, sweeping her fingers through my hair. "I have never seen my boy this tired. Work and school did not treat you well the past few months."

I looked up and replied, "That's true. I have never been this tired my entire life. I have never slept a good five to six hours just to wake up tired. I have never had fully booked weekends. I underestimated the load work and school would give. I took on so many things. There was no turning back when I realized I couldn't do it."

"But you did." Her lips curved into the same crescent we would always wait for in the night sky when I was in kindergarten. She remained silent and continued streaking my hair, until:

"You didn't have to visit today," she commented. "You knew that going out to the heat of the sun would strain you. You should have taken the opportunity to rest."

I returned her smile and answered, "How can I not? It's the only thing I look forward to every after Halloween."

I closed my eyes and savored the warmth of her fingers brushing on my scalp. I could feel myself swimming, once again, toward the peaceful void of subconsciousness. We remained this way for quite a while; a few moments more and Grandma broke the silence once more.

"Does your back still hurt when you're sick?"

"Yes," I mumbled through sleepiness.

"Come here." She gently lifted my arms and wrapped them around her waist. I pushed myself up a little and rested my head on her lap. A palm went up and down my back, just right at where it hurt, with just the right amount of pressure, just how she would do it years back. The comforting effect was immediate.

"Thank you for visiting tonight." My eyes were closed and I could barely stay awake.

"Thank you for letting me," her sweet voice replied.

"Come anytime," I muttered. "Our no-visits-until-I-say-so agreement is long over."

I heard a chuckle that seemed to come from a distance. "Yes, you told me that when you visited two years ago."


* * *


My eyes shot open. I felt so much disoriented, not knowing what time it was, not even realizing that I dozed off. I tilted my head to the side. The wall clock read a bit past 9:30. I was asleep for a good 15 minutes.

Sensation started to return to my limbs, making me aware of something that I was holding in my hand. It was the bag I used earlier today, the last item I was to put away before going to bed.

I got up and went toward the closet. I have already pulled the door open when I realized there was a small butterfly perched on the surface, now flying away and exploring the expanse of the room that used to be hers.