By Raydon L. Reyes
THE BOXES of pizza are piling up again. I wonder to myself why I don’t throw boxes out as soon as I’ve emptied their contents. The garbage converter is just around the corner from my room. I could easily just put the boxes in a garbage bag, throw it into the chute, and let the molecular reconstruction technology do its magic. Those boxes can definitely do more good once they’ve been turned into books for school children. Or toothpicks for saucy patrons of five-star restaurants. But somehow, I always seem to forget to do so until the gap between my dining table and the ceiling disappears completely.
Actually, the boxes aren’t the only things that are piling up. The dirty dishes have also amassed in the kitchen that I can’t even see the bottom of my sink. My clothes are everywhere; I don’t know which ones are clean and which ones need to be sent to the washer. And hair is all over the place. Why is there so much hair? How is it that even though I’m the only one who lives in this small, studio-type condominium, strands of hair still manage to contaminate most of my floor space and furniture?
This isn’t exactly the mood I was hoping for. He’s on his way over now and I doubt that the ambience of pizza boxes and wayward hair is conducive for what we have planned tonight. Not that he would stay the whole night, but still.
What was his name again? Oh, right. I don’t know his real name. The only thing I know about him is that headless picture of his torso and his online handle, thick_crust. That’s how it usually goes, anyway. Who gives his real name on that website nowadays? Besides, it was his username that got me interested in the first place.
Mozza_rella07: Hi.
Thick_crust: Hey.
Mozza_rella07: Asl? Nice picture you have there.
Thick_crust: Tnx. 27, m, Cubao. You?
Mozza_rella07: 23, m, Ortigas, near the train station at Bonifacio avenue.
Thick_crust: Cool.
Mozza_rella07: So… you like pizza too?
Thick_crust: Yeah. Hehe. You?
Mozza_rella07: Yup. *points to my username.
Thick_crust: Right. Do you have pics to show?
Mozza_rella07: Yeah. They’re in my private folder.
Thick_crust: Password?
Mozza_rella07: Um… “pepperoni.”
Thick_crust: Okay. I’ll check… How tall are you?
Mozza_rella07: I’m 5’8. How about you? Can I see your face?
Thick_crust: No face pic. I’m very discreet. But you won’t be disappointed. 5’11, gym-fit, moreno, very good looking here.
I don’t really know what made me believe what he was saying. Usually, I’m wary of people’s descriptions of themselves on the Internet. Most of the time, they either tend to exaggerate or to hide crucial details that, had you known about them, would have pushed you to cancel any plans you might have had with those posers. Like cheese_stick, who told me he was slightly older than me, but that I would like his added wisdom and experience. Apparently, 40-year age differences passed for “slightly older” nowadays. I remember the cold chill that ran through my spine when I opened my front door and saw a bald man who could have passed as my dad’s older brother who liked spending too much time under the sun. I also remember the baffled look on his age-spot-ridden face as I pushed the “SLAM” button to my front door and double-locked it just in case. There was also italian_sausage69, who failed to mention the various warts growing on his (dare I say it) sausage.
Still, I had a strong fetish for tall, muscled, brown-skinned men, and I wasn’t about to lose my chance at a hot night just because I had trust issues. Besides, I can always rely on the “SLAM” button should thick_crust turn out to be another faker.
Thick_crust: Hmm… you’re cute. You didn’t tell me you were a lean mestizo.
Mozza_rella07: Hehe. That actually explains my username.
Thick_crust: Clever. You know, I like cheese. ;)
Mozza_rella07: Really?
Thick_crust: Yeah… especially when it melts in my mouth. Lolz
Mozza_rella07: (gulp) Well, why don’t you have one here at my place? You free tonight?
I guess I should have asked for an hour’s head start to clean up my place before I said he could come over. How I wish I could afford one of those robot maids. In panic, I lock my eyes on the first mess I see and start working on it. I decide to do the dishes first, since my kitchen will be the first thing he sees once I open the door. After that, I grab my laundry basket and pick my clothes up from random spots in my room like my couch, my refrigerator handle, my hologram generator, and my stove-cum-oven.
God, how long has it been since I last attempted to use this thing? I remember getting it from my parents’ house because I wanted to learn how to bake my own pizza, just like Martha Stewart did in the early 2000s. But eight or ten burnt crusts and salty sauces later, I took an indefinite leave from my own kitchen and went back to ordering my food over the phone. Making my own pizza was too much of a hassle. Speaking of which, I should be ordering one right now before thick_crust gets here.
I place the laundry basket down near my bed before I get my cell phone out of my pocket and dial.
“Good evening! Android 8472 speaking here at Pizza Paradise! How may I help you?” says the mechanical voice from the other line.
“Hi! I’d like to order a pizza for delivery please,” I reply as I get an adequately large garbage bag from my drawer and place the empty pizza boxes and the rest of the trash inside.
“May I get your citizen code?”
“It’s ML9280.”
“Am I speaking with Mr. Lance de la Rosa?
“Yes.”
“Nice to hear from you again, sir! Your last order was a regular-sized, three-cheese pan pizza. Would you like to have the same order?”
“Yes, please. Same address.” I am already in the garbage converter area and have just closed the lid of the chute.
“Good choice, sir! I’ve tried it myself!”
“I doubt that,” I mutter under my breath.
“Your pizza will be delivered hot and on time in 15 minutes! Thank you and please call us again.”
When I get back to my unit, I extricate my vacuum cleaner from the drawer under the sink to take care of the hair and dust situation. It’s one of those old models that don’t have an artificial intelligence hard drive installed, so you have to carry it around while it sucks up the dirt. Fortunately, my small apartment doesn’t pose that much of a challenge for my practically ancient appliance, and I get done just as the pizza delivery robot arrives at my front door.
“Delivery for Mr. Lance de la Rosa.”
“Thanks. Here you go,” I say as I pay the thing and deposit its tip into its coin slot.
There isn’t much time now. Thick_crust will be here any minute and I’m still sweaty from all the cleaning. Hurriedly, I take all my clothes off, get my towel, and proceed to my bathroom. I turn the shower knob and let the cold water run down my body. Thick_crust wasn’t wrong when he noticed I was a mestizo. At birth, I already had creamy white skin that revealed I wasn’t a pure Pinoy. People kept telling me I got it from my father. I believed them.
My father is actually an American who once visited the Philippines and hooked up with my mother. It was the usual story of a rich and sheltered westerner who came to the tropics looking for romance and adventure, but found my mother instead. And so, I was born out of that cliché story. Of course, another part of that tale involved my father not marrying my mother but agreeing to pay for everything as a consolation. I even got to keep my Filipino surname.
But it’s not all bad. Even though I see him only once or twice a year, at least he gave me great skin. Not to mention he also bought me this condominium unit as a graduation gift.
I hear the doorbell ring just as I finish rinsing. Still dripping wet, I take my navy blue towel from the rack and wrap it around my waist. I put my slippers on, walk towards the front door, and push the “OPEN” button.
“Uh, hi! Mozzarella seven?”
“Yeah. Thick crust?” I answer, slightly embarrassed. He slowly looks at me from my face down to my trunk, waist, legs, and feet. He must find it odd that I would answer the door like this.
“Aren’t we supposed to eat first?” he winked.
“Yes!” I laugh, “I didn’t know you’d be here so soon. Come in.”
He sits down at the couch and I hand him the remote to my hologram generator.
“I’ll just take a minute. You can watch some shows first.”
“You don’t have to change. I like what you’re wearing right now,” he teases.
“Very funny.” I feel my ears ignite. Not five minutes had gone by and I’m already blushing.
Going back to the bathroom and changing only takes half the time I promised. For some reason, I want to go back as soon as possible. He is standing when I return, fully clothed. He wasn’t exaggerating about his height, or anything else for that matter. His tall and muscular physique hinted at a love for sports and other extreme physical activities. His face, well, let’s say he looks like a very young version of Joem Bascon. His sun-kissed moreno skin is only highlighted by the white tank-top he is wearing. And the fact that he is wearing only that and a pair of shorts reveals a casual and relaxed air that instantly makes me bring down my defenses.
The burning in my ears now spreads to my cheeks because of his half-smiling gaze. He is confident that I am surveying his appearance. More importantly, he is sure that I am now starting to desire him. This is a person who is sure of himself and what he has to offer. Good. That’s how I like it. This is not the time to diminish his ego and come out as the superior one. Tonight, I want him at his best.
“Where is the pizza you promised?” he utters, breaking the silence.
“Right here,” I lead him to my dining table. “So, did you have a hard time getting here?”
“No. Don’t worry about it. I just took the train and walked straight to your building.”
“It’s a good thing the train station is open 24 hours now.” After all, robots don’t need sleep.
I watch him take his first bite of pizza. My mother once said that nobody looked attractive when eating. The motions of biting and chewing with a full mouth do not really qualify as seductive behavior. But for some reason, I feel even more drawn to him as I watch him take enormous bites out of the triple cheese special. Or maybe I’m just hungry myself.
“Aren’t you going to have one?” he points to the carton of cheesy goodness.
“Not yet. Maybe later.”
”I’ll leave some for you then,” he smiles. He understands why I won’t be having dinner tonight—at least not before he’s done here. After all, both of us wouldn’t want to have to clean up any unnecessary mess later.
“I’m Lance, by the way.”
He looks at me and hesitates for about three seconds.
“It’s John Paul, J.P. for short.” He reaches out his hand to me and I grab it, a gesture that might have been more appropriate back when he was still at the front door, but who cares about technicalities?
“You really live by yourself here?”
“Yeah. I work at an outsourcing company a couple of blocks away, so I stay here during the weekdays. I’m actually from Pampanga. What about you?”
J.P. then proceeds to tell me about how he once worked as a cashier at a major burger place in Manila, even with a degree in restaurant management under his belt. But when the big guys decided to replace the crew with androids, he was one of the thousands of patty-flippers that got the axe. His only chance at work now is to apply to those high-end restaurants that promote old-fashioned human waiters in full costume as their advertorial hook.
“These days, you need to study computer science, too, if you want to be a restaurant manager,” he remarks. “Even janitors and street sweepers are being exchanged for machines.”
I merely nod in agreement. Politics and economics are the farthest thing from my mind right now. What I am paying attention to is the fact that he’s almost done finishing his half of the pizza. Three bites more. Two. One. He gulps down a glass of water and then he’s back to looking at me.
“Can I go to the CR?” he asks.
“Sure. There’s a bottle of mouthwash inside the medicine cabinet if you need it.”
“Alright, thanks!”
After he closes the door to the bathroom, I walk to my bed and arrange the sheets… though I don’t know what for at this point. Perhaps it is just an unconscious way of calming my nerves down. Seeing him emerge from the comfort room and leisurely walk towards me melts those nerves away. I rise up to meet him.
J.P. doesn’t waste any time. He rapidly reaches around my waist and before I know it, his lips are pressing against mine like there’s no tomorrow. I feel his hot breath and immediately, I wrap my arms around the back of his neck and reciprocate. He bites my lower lip just as he takes my shirt off and throws it aside, his eyes taking a few seconds to examine the slim figure standing before him. Pushing me down the bed, he practically rips off his sando, revealing a well-defined chest and six-pack abs that girls and gents would willingly kneel in front of. Compared to him, I probably look like a strip of lean chicken beside a quarter pound of beef. But I’m certain that’s the way he wants it, otherwise he wouldn’t have come.
He looks at me with such intensity, thirst, and rage, as if he were about to pounce on me and devour every last inch of me. Already, I know how this will turn out—with him forcing his way inside, pushing and pounding in full force, splitting me in half, tearing me apart, bellowing curses until we both reach the point of no return. A cold chill rushes all around my body, not out of fear but out of sheer excitement. Not waiting a moment longer, he climbs on to the bed and pins me down.
****
It is early in the morning. I turn my attention to the window and rub my eyes. The sun hasn’t even come up yet. I look around the bed and feel my sheets, all ruffled and wet. J.P has left; probably sneaked out while I dozed off. I try to get up and it is only now that I begin to feel the pain, like someone had dropped a load of bricks on me. Well, I was definitely hit by something hard tonight!
Standing up, I stagger my way to the mirror and check my appearance. Some scratches, a couple of bite marks, a few drops of dried blood on my inner thigh—nothing too serious. I’ve gone through worse in the past. Besides, a few tablets of water-activated, cell-repair nanobots and I’ll be completely healed in a few days. Hopefully.
But then there’s the issue of the pungent scent hanging heavily around the room, emanating from the sheets and my own body. The smell of sweat, saliva, and semen all mixed together and invaded my sensitive nostrils. For a while, I contemplate on taking a bath at once and scrubbing it off myself. But I decide against it. I want the odor to stay with me for now, at least during the few hours I have before I go back to work. Besides the obvious disarray that exists on my bed, it is the only proof I have that last night happened. It was real—not just some holographic simulation I bought from the film pirates of Quiapo.
The box of pizza is still on the dining table, half-opened; its contents half-eaten. It seems I won’t need to have breakfast delivered today. I sit, open the box, and munch on the cold slice of pizza.
Outside, dawn is already breaking. The robotic street sweepers swiftly line the streets with their brooms in hand. -###