Planet pink
December 19, 2003 | 12:00am
Malate, on any given weekend, is a universe all its own. Nakpil and Orosa streets are not main gimik thoroughfares but constellations teeming with beer galaxies, stellar Shu Uemura stardust and grand Friendster eyeballs.
A breather for the weary young professional after a day’s work, a desk jockey’s haven after a squabble with paperwork, a corporate honcho’s escape-from-it-all…(oh heck, I’m throwing the travelogue blabber to the bin)…a place where drink-all-you-can al frescoes can actually prompt you to put your finger down your girlfriend’s throat and ask "What would I tell your mom?!" or probably wake up in some stranger’s bed and whimper the next morning, "Pare, aren’t you the guy from the gym?!"
For most people, Malate is just another place to dine, drink and be merry. But there’s the token ingénues of Malate – the charmed and the ‘shock-a-billies’ – that have made Malate the place where diversity is celebrated, where individuality is acknowledged, where liberties are reclaimed.
In Malate, it is always permissible for guys to wear their mother’s Cinema Secrets (or Johnson’s mini pack if you’re on a budget – but a shade way too light mismatching your neck is considered tacky and tasteless). It’s okay to douse yourself with a heavy whiff of D&G’s Light Blue (or its Prescripto equivalent), and definitely, it’s all right to look as you please (wear the latest look from Ino of David’s Salon or don the Gandang Ricky Reyes look, it’s your call).
In Malate, you can find she-men in their testosterone poises, men in two-sizes smaller, second skintight shirts (preferably People Are People or Vittorio), and guys buffed on their steroid diet giving other guys an eyeful. Yes, only in Malate does the flamboyance of the flaunting minority, the meekness of the closeted majority coalesce in harmony.
I suspect then, as I believe now: Malate is not a refuge, Malate is a stage.
And so there I was, on a nosebleed stagedive in Malate. Together with my gimik associates Buttercup (he doesn’t have delusions of being a Powerpuff Girl, methinks it’s a hushed declaration of his, uh, underdog preference in closed-door pursuits) and Iyakii (a cutie with too much lovelife to share), we trudged our first stop: Bed.
The long queue was a parade of nations – a white man with a heavy British twang had his arms in square knot with a pretty brown thing (who seemed gasping for air); a Chinese gypsy with a bushy, furrowed brow was perpetually flexing his muscles to its Creatine’s worth; and a hunk of a blonde in dreadlocks was totally engrossed with a lad you’ll file under PG-13.
Of course, there were the "unsightlies" – guys wrapped in their own version of deconstructed fashion (Mich Dulce would barf, they looked like de-construction workers on a holiday), softie baldmen in wristbands (I dunno, but I detest effeminatas who wear those testosteroney wristbands, not unless they come in Wonder Woman silver pairs), and those poseurs who were simply cuss words made flesh.
"So this is where the action is..." gasps Buttercup. And by "action" he means the loud, bouncy, rowdy music filling the air with lots of Samantha Cox and Whitney Huston, the "happening" staircase (where a side trip ladder climb means bodypart-to-bodypart touch ups – you need not mind strangers’ brushing your strategic parts, and surely, a stranger’s kiss should not be taken as an aversion but an act of flattery), and the oh-so-infamous aquarium loo. The urinals are separated by a giant aquarium wall (one can take a leek and a bonus peek at strangers unloading their cargo), a good thing for the peewees but such a bad thing for the fish – their water is constantly warmed up.
The entrance fee comes with a free drink, usually a beer or a gin tonic (more tonic than gin), but your fave zombie costs a whopping P180. Comes in a footlong glass with gargantuan ice cubes, the zombie is so sweet a Julep juice with a tinge of Gilbey’s comes close, fact is, it’s so darn sweet you’d swear the goblin from which it was named after could be wearing a nasty Close Up smile. But wait ‘til it kicks up its vile, you’ll end up assessing what you had for dinner on the dancefloor.
Half the crowd at Bed is beautiful, the other half feels they’re beautiful. With lots of zombie and frequent foundation retouches, it’s hard to know the difference.
Buttercup and Iyakii were busy snouting who’s wearing what and who’s kissing who, while I was busy counting my "blessings" on the dancefloor. The pleasure principle was fleeting, it was time to move on.
A leapfrog away is Red Banana. This used to be a lesbo joint (La Di Da) before it was closed. I find it poetic that a lez place would spread its, er, wings, unfortunately catch flies (no pun intended, really), fold its doors...and voila!...a banana emerges!
Bed has its aquarium, Red B has its red sheets. The red, velvet kurtinas conceal the better spots of the place. Simple and unpretentious, the red curtains deserve Mensa accreditation. Only a genius with raging hormones to spare would think of such a simple (yet effective) marketing tool. Yards of red sheets actually translate to a steady market, which comes week after week. And for what? Well, drop by and let the magic of the red sheets tell the story.
The dress code’s operative word is tight, as in tight tees you score in Osh Kosh sizes (I saw some A/Xs, a couple of Bench and lots of People Are People). Dins of conversation rival the heavy dense music (which includes anthems from the Village People, Hagibis’s Katawan and the totally dancefloor burner Absolutely and Shiny Disco Balls). A makeshift ledge adorns the dancefloor where buffies in different stages of undress dance in full abandon.
Drinks were offered by a bevy of friendly oldsters, but for fear of a night-out blackout, I opted for the charismatic "Ice tea na lang po…" The ice tea came with a wink from Philip The Bartender and a warm and friendly "Should you need anything else…" then came that friendly wink again. I guess my perennial order of "More ice, please…" spelled polite disinterest. Meanwhile the conversation with the Pterodactyls was boring me to a coma. I was slowly rotting in my own skin. When the obligatory YMCA burst in the loudspeakers and the oldsters started doing the patented hand movements, I knew it was time to go.
It’s almost dawn, and when you’re in Malate, you’ll hate the sun for showing up. But then come sundown, you rise to the occasion…Malate will be there calling.
(Are you pink enough for Malate? Tell me about it at sarcaster_star@yahoo.com Bed is located at the Nakpil-Orosa Courtyard while Red Banana is at the nip of Nakpil and Orosa Streets.)
A breather for the weary young professional after a day’s work, a desk jockey’s haven after a squabble with paperwork, a corporate honcho’s escape-from-it-all…(oh heck, I’m throwing the travelogue blabber to the bin)…a place where drink-all-you-can al frescoes can actually prompt you to put your finger down your girlfriend’s throat and ask "What would I tell your mom?!" or probably wake up in some stranger’s bed and whimper the next morning, "Pare, aren’t you the guy from the gym?!"
For most people, Malate is just another place to dine, drink and be merry. But there’s the token ingénues of Malate – the charmed and the ‘shock-a-billies’ – that have made Malate the place where diversity is celebrated, where individuality is acknowledged, where liberties are reclaimed.
In Malate, it is always permissible for guys to wear their mother’s Cinema Secrets (or Johnson’s mini pack if you’re on a budget – but a shade way too light mismatching your neck is considered tacky and tasteless). It’s okay to douse yourself with a heavy whiff of D&G’s Light Blue (or its Prescripto equivalent), and definitely, it’s all right to look as you please (wear the latest look from Ino of David’s Salon or don the Gandang Ricky Reyes look, it’s your call).
In Malate, you can find she-men in their testosterone poises, men in two-sizes smaller, second skintight shirts (preferably People Are People or Vittorio), and guys buffed on their steroid diet giving other guys an eyeful. Yes, only in Malate does the flamboyance of the flaunting minority, the meekness of the closeted majority coalesce in harmony.
I suspect then, as I believe now: Malate is not a refuge, Malate is a stage.
And so there I was, on a nosebleed stagedive in Malate. Together with my gimik associates Buttercup (he doesn’t have delusions of being a Powerpuff Girl, methinks it’s a hushed declaration of his, uh, underdog preference in closed-door pursuits) and Iyakii (a cutie with too much lovelife to share), we trudged our first stop: Bed.
The long queue was a parade of nations – a white man with a heavy British twang had his arms in square knot with a pretty brown thing (who seemed gasping for air); a Chinese gypsy with a bushy, furrowed brow was perpetually flexing his muscles to its Creatine’s worth; and a hunk of a blonde in dreadlocks was totally engrossed with a lad you’ll file under PG-13.
Of course, there were the "unsightlies" – guys wrapped in their own version of deconstructed fashion (Mich Dulce would barf, they looked like de-construction workers on a holiday), softie baldmen in wristbands (I dunno, but I detest effeminatas who wear those testosteroney wristbands, not unless they come in Wonder Woman silver pairs), and those poseurs who were simply cuss words made flesh.
"So this is where the action is..." gasps Buttercup. And by "action" he means the loud, bouncy, rowdy music filling the air with lots of Samantha Cox and Whitney Huston, the "happening" staircase (where a side trip ladder climb means bodypart-to-bodypart touch ups – you need not mind strangers’ brushing your strategic parts, and surely, a stranger’s kiss should not be taken as an aversion but an act of flattery), and the oh-so-infamous aquarium loo. The urinals are separated by a giant aquarium wall (one can take a leek and a bonus peek at strangers unloading their cargo), a good thing for the peewees but such a bad thing for the fish – their water is constantly warmed up.
The entrance fee comes with a free drink, usually a beer or a gin tonic (more tonic than gin), but your fave zombie costs a whopping P180. Comes in a footlong glass with gargantuan ice cubes, the zombie is so sweet a Julep juice with a tinge of Gilbey’s comes close, fact is, it’s so darn sweet you’d swear the goblin from which it was named after could be wearing a nasty Close Up smile. But wait ‘til it kicks up its vile, you’ll end up assessing what you had for dinner on the dancefloor.
Half the crowd at Bed is beautiful, the other half feels they’re beautiful. With lots of zombie and frequent foundation retouches, it’s hard to know the difference.
Buttercup and Iyakii were busy snouting who’s wearing what and who’s kissing who, while I was busy counting my "blessings" on the dancefloor. The pleasure principle was fleeting, it was time to move on.
A leapfrog away is Red Banana. This used to be a lesbo joint (La Di Da) before it was closed. I find it poetic that a lez place would spread its, er, wings, unfortunately catch flies (no pun intended, really), fold its doors...and voila!...a banana emerges!
Bed has its aquarium, Red B has its red sheets. The red, velvet kurtinas conceal the better spots of the place. Simple and unpretentious, the red curtains deserve Mensa accreditation. Only a genius with raging hormones to spare would think of such a simple (yet effective) marketing tool. Yards of red sheets actually translate to a steady market, which comes week after week. And for what? Well, drop by and let the magic of the red sheets tell the story.
The dress code’s operative word is tight, as in tight tees you score in Osh Kosh sizes (I saw some A/Xs, a couple of Bench and lots of People Are People). Dins of conversation rival the heavy dense music (which includes anthems from the Village People, Hagibis’s Katawan and the totally dancefloor burner Absolutely and Shiny Disco Balls). A makeshift ledge adorns the dancefloor where buffies in different stages of undress dance in full abandon.
Drinks were offered by a bevy of friendly oldsters, but for fear of a night-out blackout, I opted for the charismatic "Ice tea na lang po…" The ice tea came with a wink from Philip The Bartender and a warm and friendly "Should you need anything else…" then came that friendly wink again. I guess my perennial order of "More ice, please…" spelled polite disinterest. Meanwhile the conversation with the Pterodactyls was boring me to a coma. I was slowly rotting in my own skin. When the obligatory YMCA burst in the loudspeakers and the oldsters started doing the patented hand movements, I knew it was time to go.
It’s almost dawn, and when you’re in Malate, you’ll hate the sun for showing up. But then come sundown, you rise to the occasion…Malate will be there calling.
(Are you pink enough for Malate? Tell me about it at sarcaster_star@yahoo.com Bed is located at the Nakpil-Orosa Courtyard while Red Banana is at the nip of Nakpil and Orosa Streets.)
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