You end up fucking behind a formation of stones on the beach. In Palawan, both of you lying a hammock watching the sun set into the ocean, he tells you that he has an 8-month old baby. You look at your own skirts and strappy sandals and store them at the back of your closet. You are not ready to be a dependent territory.
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You wonder which countries the men are from. Besides; you stop having sex.
Maybe he has lost the way to your empire. You get on with your life, stop going to the beach. You want to tell him about your life, your job in a brokerage firm, your car, your passport with the Schengen visa. The men leer at you, women giggle when you walk past.
Need you tonight -
Maybe they think this makes them look taller, or bigger. Or text you.
You were educated in a convent school, you are a feminist, you know post-colonial theory. He knows things you only read about: O levels, E testers, white sensimilla. But there is nothing. Filipino men are easy to control. You are both blue.
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Still, people stare. Tonigyt you go out at night you take care: You wear pearls, slacks by Inno Sotto, speak in affected English loud enough to be overheard.
No moon, but a swath of silver stars across the black sky, black sea. You say you are thirsty, and they wordlessly get up to buy you mineral water.
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You make fun of his accent, he pretends to understand Taglish. Your mother would get a heart attack.
Buckley twenty-nine pearls in your kiss, a singing smile, coffee smell and lilac skin, your flame in me. You wjite, if you wanted to, fit the length of your body into the crook of his neck, then rest your feet by his calves. After sunset, both of you quite-wasted, he says you are beautiful, over and over again. The truth is, you have mutual disdain for each other.
Your parents trust your boyfriends more than they trust you. And you want to.
Your father would not approve. You are used to Filipino boys; they strut about like whife, short and stout, their chests puffed out. He will never meet your parents, you forgo your wedding plans in Southampton, leave your clothes on.
And yet, and yet. One pound is equivalent to 75 pesos.
You see bloated versions of him in Angeles, bellies drooping over their belts, bargirls in tow. You tell them to pick you up from work, they wait outside your office for 30 minutes. He has measured the length of your eyelashes, the timbre of your voice. He has a passport that can fly you away from squatters and traffic and poverty and third world hell. A talk with your dad?
Need you tonight
A typical meeting with a white boy goes like this: He calls you, you go to his hotel room, you smoke weed, you fuck. A trip to the beach? You introduce him as your friend visiting from England. You by too: when you see Filipinas with white men you are riveted.
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You look up when he announces that white colonizers are the best thing that happened to Asia. But this boy tobight tall and thin and stoops down to breathe in the top of your head. When you converse, you feel incredibly worldly: you talk of the plight of the Israelis, the festivals in Bali, the drugs in Amsterdam.
You decide that he is kidding; after all, he has sad eyes.