Some kind of warning: I usually don’t write anything R-18, or use profane words in the Experiment. Then again, this falls into the immediate category of “practice sessions.” I’m not good at writing anything erotic or pornographic or anything like that – I’m a horrible fictionist – so I guess more practice is needed after all of this is said and done. Should you let your kids see this? Hmmm… I don’t really know. - Marocharim
The traffic light was red, and so was the district just ahead.
It was 2:00 in the wee hours of a Sunday morning. From the other side of the road, I can make out the figures of some of them. One was discreetly and seductively flapping the hem of her tiny red dress to passing vehicles. Another one was in the more familiar Catholic schoolgirl “costume,” who tried to appeal to the Lolita fantasy of every possible Humbert Humbert in an SUV or sports car. There were twins on the other side of the road, both dressed in translucent, skimpy white nightgowns, hair done up in pigtails, and their long, thin legs encased in white stockings in white low-cut boots, “dealing” with a foreigner looking for the “companionship” of some “Flippinas.”
Being one of only a few vehicles on the road, though, our attention was caught by one of them.
She was wearing one of those spaghetti-strap blouses, and one of those very tight denim shorts. She was wearing four-inch stiletto heels, which made her sway with every step. Her long legs were clad in fishnet stockings. There was no mistaking what she was doing, and there was no judgment either. Yet there was no mental undress, nothing left to the imagination.
From underneath the glow of a solitary street lamp, she started posing. It seemed so slow for a 20-second stop, but from elsewhere, it looked like a dance. From my eyes, though, she looked like a machine. The seconds went ticking by slowly, and so did her movement… carefully choreographed and timed like a Swiss watch.
She put her hands behind her head and kept her feet wide apart, moved her hips sideways and bent over, showing us the contours of her ass. Her hands went to her knees, and moved her upper body sideways. She then faced forward and sat on her heels; she opened her legs wide and ran her hands along her stocking-clad legs, along her body, and back up her hair. A sway of the hips here, a flick of the hair there, and the woman walks toward the taxi’s window.
The driver was getting uncomfortable. He seemed to have crossed his legs, trying to hide his arousal. I looked coldly out the window, uninterested, wondering how much the woman would make me pay for a “service” I was not interested in. A strip-show, perhaps? A lapdance? Maybe a blowjob at the back seat. Or reverse cowgirl and a bonus of doggie-style on my bed, if I choose to take her home. I didn’t have the money for it, though, and I wasn’t really interested in the prostituted. I had my mind on other things, like sleep, or perhaps the twins.
Another twenty seconds. She approached the window, touching herself along the way. She made a show of standing by the window, slowly but surely bending over. The crotch of her white denim shorts was a bit damp to the sight, and she moved lower. Lower, for us to see her braless tits tinted with a hint of rouge. She made a show of rapping the window, which prompted my excited driver to look ahead and pretend to be as uninterested as I am. Perhaps he was imagining his erection away with thoughts like the President’s breast implants. I wouldn’t know.
Her mascara was thick, her eyeshadow was less than perfect, trying to hide her eyebags. Her face was wrinkled not from age, but from the pollution. Yet what struck me was her mouth, as she approached closer and closer to the window, hoping to strike a deal with a young man on the back seat, or a taxi driver looking to cheat on his wife.
She tucked her hair back on her earlobe with her fingers, the black nail polish standing in stark contrast from her hands calloused by laundry bars and whitening powder. I can see one of the cheap plastic pearl earrings that adorned her ear. She noticed that the driver looked straight ahead – perhaps imagining something like like the MMDA impound lot – so she flashed a smile at me.
My cold, drunken stare changed from indifference to keen observation. From behind the thick pouty lips, I can see the jagged edges of her teeth. From behind the thick layers of ruby red lipstick, I can see scarring wounds. From behind the thick layers of foundation, I can see the sores just near the corners of her lips.
After what seemed like an eternity, the light turned green, and off we went. The driver went quite slowly, so I was still able to take a last glimpse at the streetwalker approaching the railings. Her rear was thrust high up in the air, but her frizzled bedroom hair was covering her face.
* – The painting is Richard Lindner’s “Pillow and Almost a Circle,” sourced from The Davidson Galleries.
The year was 1985. My parents tell me my name took after Ferdinand Marcos. In the Solid North, “Apo” loomed like a monumental presence, both metaphorically and literally. There was the veneration passed on to the Ilocano President, and there were the statues and highways named after him. Not to mention the children named after Lakay Marcos.
