tuesdays with y***

in my previous blog, i mentioned of trembling in wait when last tuesday meant being not with morrie nor with mitch albom's five heavenly people, but in the company of my sexy fitness instructor. something in the essay, according to asian, seemed to picture him as "sobrang guwapo" whereas my description of him, upon review, appeared rather innocuous. i thought that the exuberance of the blog must have made him feel like an adonis incarnate, although that is not untrue and more--the guy is even filially pious and immensely adorable, the last trait complementing well his marketing prowess. quite a catch, you must say, but the guy's blissfully taken (not by me, of course; i'm unattached but not looking, but not spectacularly living out gabo marquez' one hundred years of solitude, either).
i also thought, if i acted like this guy's personal umalohokan, how much more with the guy whom i write poems for and about? i can't claim with dead certainty that i'm lucid and unbiased whenever my faculty for discernment spells four letters that read Y***. I feel like rhapsodizing atop the Himalayas whenever the smoldering-smothering-scorching hot hot hot y*** crosses in my simpleton mind. label me profane, but the nearest analogy for the fever this marc nelson deadringer has unknowingly infected me with comes no less than the speaking-in-tongues phenomenon that transpired among the apostles. for good measure, dear reader; the guy is lovable to the nth power, so much that i'd manually wash his laundry if he requested me to.
that is how self-annihilating the mere mirage of y*** renders me; just imagine how his actual apparition makes my heart dance the endless conga in a latin american mardi gras. it is just apt that my most anticipated day of the week is currently tuesday, when i get to see him in the blue bar where we first met. you might ask, what is a blue bar? is it a bar painted predominantly by the color blue? why blue, to begin with? will it make any difference if the bar was painted in any other color and name it, say, magenta bar, turquoise bar, or fuchsia pink bar? the resounding answer is, i don't know for sure. i can only offer my theory that the bar is so-called in order to contrast it from a gay bar where go-go boys seductively dance before patrons, conceiling the eight wonder of the world in skimpy trunks. if i must be literary, it may be named so to parallelize the symbolic color of sadness in gay men's lives. what i observed is, the blue bar serves as a convergence site for us gay people, a place where we can unapologetically show who we really are. it may be deplorable in some aspects like its promotion of imported homosexual, modern-collective, ageist and lookist ideologies, but this discreet society attests that gays can repopulate the mainstream.
it's a tuesday, yes, but i accepted an editing appointment. i shrugged, well, i can always visit the bar later in the night, but the final philosophy paper required intricate editing touches for it to merit an A. in beautifying the critique, i jeopardized the opportunity of seeing y***'s beauty. the clock's striking midnight, but the cinderella in me has not yet changed my gym attire. i look at my feet, and in them were grey adidas, not crystal stilettos. i conjured in my increasingly deoxygenated brain y***'s prince charming looks--the spiked hair, china eyes, rosy cheeks, cherry lips, ivory teeth, muscular body, honey-colored skin--and i began to salivate like the experimental canine of pavlov. the party's in full swing at the blue bar, and y***'s gorgeous torso must be exposed like all the other guys' around, but i am also half-naked and hobnobbing with y***, even if i were galaxies away on this particular tuesday.