So sad this morning to hear of the unexpected death of Laura, an old fiend and former dentist. I will always remember her bizarre taste in music, her dark humor, and her unwavering belief that a person’s worth is tied to their oral care routine. Last year, we wanted to meet and work together again on something and I am very, very sorry that will never happen.
I've mentioned her in a 2015 blog post, and today I will rerun the tale...
Not So Happy Ending
Not so long ago, I went for a drink in a pub in Ortigas. I had second thoughts about entering the establishment when I noticed there were so many people inside. There were men with ironic beard and pretentious hairstyles dressed in rolled up chinos and check shirts; women in vintage sundresses, skinny jeans, and acid wash denim cutoff shorts; actors and models trying to look hip; and a bunch of call center agents who wanted to get drunk before they start their graveyard shifts. There was this famous guitarist at one table, with shock of white hair, who had enchanted colegialas with his fretboard skills during the 80s. I saw a radio DJ holding a cat, and an ex-MTV VJ smoking pot at the far corner of the bar.
The place was cozy. It had all the looks and class of an upscale hangout, but the energy and vibe of a local tavern. The walls were decorated with faux abstract paintings, and a very old grand piano lent the space a vintage, rustic feel.
It was 10 pm. I was alone and had no plans of mingling with anyone, until I saw a familiar face. It was Laura, my dentist. She smiled appropriately as we met, then leaned over and kissed me on my cheek. This gave me immense pleasure, and it took a few minutes for me to arrange my thoughts.
Obviously, I had developed an intoxicating crush with my dentist. She was thirty-one, married, and had a nice rack. But I had poor social skills and I found the idea of making conversation with her quite intimidating. After a few bottles of beer and a couple of joints, we found ourselves talking to each other about some pretty personal stuff. She had to leave early because of a 6 a.m. flight to Caticlan, but that encounter lingered in my memory – the beautiful dress she wore, the smell of her hair, the spark in her eyes.
Stoned, disappointed, and sexually aroused, I made my way out of the pub and eventually arrived outside a seedy massage parlor in downtown Manila. It was more of a jack shack really, but sex was never impossible.
I walked into the parlor and was introduced to a horde of petite masahistas. I picked a girl who looked like a less attractive version of Kim Yoo-jung and paid the owner in advance. For about 20 minutes, she gave me a nice back rub. Then she told me to flip over and she started to give me a handjob. Eventually she agreed to have sex, but a drowsy, jaded, depressing kind of sex.
The next day, I woke up feeling guilty and confused about the whole thing that the only option was to smoke weed, listen to music, jerk off, order pizza, smoke weed, watch movies, then jerk off again.
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