My room looks like an archeological excavation site at the moment, an arrangement that is naturally conducive to unearthing sentimental items. Slum books from grade school, class pictures, travel memorabilia. You know, stuff you want to look at when you’re 80 in your rocking chair. In case the world doesn’t burn beforehand.
Among these items that made me misty-eyed, some made my eyes go wide instead. I suddenly had a “WTF?!” pile, and as it happens, some were related to my sexual escapades (or lack thereof.)
It’s like I anticipated that sometime down the line I would be nostalgic for my days as a raging slut about town, a fruit ripe for the picking. Now that I have a boyfriend, my sluthood is now a subscription service of one. Maybe these artifacts were preemptive mechanisms against forgetting a crucial part of my history. It wasn’t a particularly happy time, but perhaps my prudish nature needs a reminder of my lustful side every now and then. A propos to my turning 29 last Monday, here are some souvenirs from my misadventures as a young woman who lived life with legs wide open.
Textbook Tearouts of the Female and Male Reproductive Apparatus (Bolivia, 2015, 22 A.B.)1
Needless to say, these were from my Virgin Era™️. I knew sex education in the Philippines was bad (is bad), but was it so bad that these would be my favorite souvenirs from my trip to Bolivia? Maybe I thought theirs would look different under the hood? Does sperm get altitude sickness as it swims up the body? I wouldn’t know, because no hablo español.
To be fair, both the Philippines and Bolivia were colonized by Spain, but only one of the two have random sex education materials lying about in a random school supplies store. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen illustrated reproductive organs rendered in full-colored HD glory in any textbook. God imagine these lying about in National Bookstore. The Sexually Repressed Catholic Titas of Ayala Alabang2 will combust. Maybe that’s why I was so excited to see these and keep them.
Given the lack of educational material on the matter, I’m not surprised that a year later I will pursue 3d versions of the aparato reproductor masculino with the vigor of a sperm cell lipsyncing for his life.
Sachet of Toothpaste from Victoria Court (Manila, 2016, 23 A.B.)
When I was younger, I would always try to hide from Victoria Court logo every time we passed by Pasig. She was equally enthralling and unnerving. I’d scoot down the car seat and shield my eyes from the sight, which is also the same way I would eventually exit the establishment 18 years later. I did not know then yet what a motel was, or that Victoria Court would actually be the best of. See this ketchup sachet-sized toothpaste? Sogo could never.
Now the question is: Who paid for the room? With whom did we come? WHY would I keep this? I probably thought that one day I would need to remind myself that I was once a whore. Who at least cared about dental hygiene. Or not, since it’s unused.
Negative HIV Tests (Manila, 2017, 24 A.B.)
Here is Actual Proof that I practiced (practice) Safe Sex. Yes. Hmm! Yes. Now you know. You know who else knows? A rando classmate from high school who was, apparently, the medical technician for the second HIV test I took. If you have the intials B.T. and you read this newsletter, bitch you could have told me asap! I was so nervous for three days!
The reason for that second HIV test was my panic in the operating room. I was there for a quick, hour-long, outpatient surgery. There were swollen lymph nodes under my armpits that needed to be extracted. It was still nerve-wracking, even if it wasn’t technically Serious. When one goes to the doctor’s in the morning with a fever, no one expects to be under the knife that same afternoon.
My mind was hazy under anesthesia, contemplating the decisions that lead me to the surgical table for the first time. My mind went: swollen lymph nodes → infection → HIV. Before he made the first cut, I asked my surgeon if I was going to die. “Why would you die?” “Because I might have HIV.” “Why would you have HIV?” “Well, doc, why do I have swollen lymph nodes in my kili kili?" I replied. He explained earlier that the nodes may be caused by a compromised immune system. Touché. So he arranged for me to take the test right after. Vicky - 1, Surgeon - 0.
Speaking of, I took home those extracted lumps in a small bottle. “Can I keep those?” I asked the assisting nurse. “Uhm… Okay po…Bakit po?”3 “Ipapakain ko sa aso namin.”4 I was so happy going home that day.
I wanted to keep those lumps-in-a-bottle as memorabilia. Unfortunately, they melted, turned rancid, and had to be disposed in the biohazard waste bin. So I settled for these instead.
Also, kids, make sure you get tested regularly. Fuck freely, fuck responsibly.
A Box of Condoms (Zürich, 2020, 26 A.B.)
This is my favorite one, I think. We saw a random sex shop in Zürich, but I was with my mother, so I skirted around for a while, gathering courage. It was right in the middle of a small square—unhidden! I love that. I always thought the Swiss-Germans might be more conservative than their German neighbors. But the moment I saw a grey-haired couple in their late 50s walk out, I was determined to gird my loins and go in.
“Hey ma, I’m going to go inside this sex shop, okay.” Casual. She rolled her eyes and stayed put. So my sister and I went inside while my mother waited outside. I wouldn’t say she’s prudish, but she’s definitely on the prim and proper side. Unlike her daughter.
Among the fun and fruity sex toys, I saw a rack with their selection of condoms. I remembered that I needed them plus grande. I brought two boxes to the cashier in different sizes. I rummage around in my bag. Of all the things, I forgot my wallet in the car. “Do you accept GCash?”5 I wanted to ask.
But I went outside instead. I approach my mother. “Uhm, can you pay for these condoms for me? I forgot my wallet. I’ll pay you back, I promise.” Incredulous, I think, is the word for my mother’s face. “Why do you need condoms from here?" in her squinty, eyebrows meeting, slightly pouty face. “She’s having a sausage problem,” my sister replied on my behalf. I explain my Vaguely European Sausage Problem. She looked like she was calculating this decision in one of her many spreadsheets. “What kind of mother does this make me? What would these mean for my grandchildren? What would I do if she ends up writing about this?“ she must have asked herself. My mother sighs. Ever the trooper, she walks towards the sex shop.
I’d like to say that I kept these as a memorabilia of a cute mother-daughter-sister moment, but really, it’s for size reference. Lol.
Frankly, I’ve been thinking about why I wrote about sex. The reason why this newsletter was delayed by a few days was because it started out as something completely different. It was supposed to be a more general gallery of weird things. But then I noticed that most of them were sex related. So I wrote another draft.
I’ve always thought sex was funny. “I wonder why I always find sex jokes so funny,” I ask over lunch one time. “Well, lolo did like sex jokes,” my sister said. Before he died, my grandfather casually joked about the clitoris to unwitting peanut sellers on the street.6 "Yeah, remember his favorite joke about about shaving vaginas?" my mother added.
A child was sitting on top of a tree, and a priest walks past. He sees the child, asks her to come down. “Hija, ito, twenty pesos, bumili ka ng panty.” Child goes home, tells mother that the priest gave her money to buy underwear. Hoping to be similarly bonus from the Lord, the mother sits on top of a tree the next day. The priest walks past. He looks up, and asks her to go down. Finally! Free money! Come to momma. “Hija, ito, twenty pesos, bumili ka ng labahang pang-ahit.” The priest told her to buy a razor for shaving.
I guess the fruit did not fall far from that tree.
What’s the weirdest thing you found while cleaning your room?
Do me a solid for my birthday and tell us all about it!
One woman’s indiscretion may be another’s source of smug self-satisfaction. If you know someone who might get a laugh out of this newsletter, it’d be great if you can share it!
A.B. = After Birth
Ayala Alabang = A luxurious gated community
Essentially: “Why, sis?!”
“I’m feeding it to our dogs”
Is this my life now, do I really have to spell things out for foreigners? Foreigners, do you mind if I don’t? I feel like I’m insulting your deductive abilities every time I spell things out. Anyway GCash is like Venmo for Filipinos.
Okay, non-Filipino speakers. Peanut in Tagalog is “mani,” which, if you think about it, looks like the clitoris. The tiny nuts inside Mr. Peanut, not Mr. Peanut himself. Also, I was wondering if that classifies as sexual harassment? He did it un-sexually, more like verbal calisthenics for him, if that counts. Man, is my dead grandfather going to be cancelled?