A Fairy Tale
Once upon a not-too-distant-time, in a twin tower with wrap-around lanais in Hawaii, there lived on the edge of Waikiki two single men. One was from the Philippine Islands; the other, Los Angeles. Then one November night, they decided to bang a gong, get it on. But no one was surprised, dropped dead or threw a fiesta on Keoniana Street, because door-to-door humping was a common occurrence in gay Honolulu. It is as common as rain on one side of the street and sun on the other.
Everyone knows your name in Honolulu. And if you’re gay and out, it isn’t only your name that is public knowledge but who and when and where and how big and how long it took. So always be on guard. BIG MAHULANI SISTAH IS WATCHING: I’m not kidding. Ask me how small gay Honolulu is and I will tell you it is measured in inches rather than blocks. And as for the annual parade, don’t blink or you’ll miss the dyke on bike and three pick-up trucks carrying drag queens and Bert, who has more body piercings than San Sebastian.
There are seven same-sex bars and clubs in Waikiki, most of them scattered along the pussybar district of Kuhio Ave. Geographical fact: Kuhio Ave. is sandwiched right between the Police Headquarters on Kalakaua Ave. and the Ala Wai Canal (Honolulu’s version of Venice, but with tilapias and yummy-yum-yum canoe paddlers instead of gondoliers).
At the center of it all is Hula’s Bar & Lei Stand, Honolulu’s gay mecca and the only outdoor cruising bar. Trolls and closet cases congregate around a huge banyan tree. Hula’s is a multi-purpose bar: part-discotheque, part-billiard room, part-café where the future is read every Thursday for $20 and dates are made every Wednesday when all clear drinks go for two bucks. And happy hour is every hour on the hour, so drink as much as you want, as fast as you can, because the lot is on the market, up for grabs, convert gay mecca into outlet stores, cineplex, macadamia nut factories.
Where Was I
Oh, yes, the two single men living in identical wrap-around lanais. What baffled the residents of Keoniana Street was the news they received the morning after the two men—one from P.I., the other, L.A.—exchanged grunts and spit:
“Are they nuts?”
“Who do they think they are?”
“Sounds too fishy.”
Predictions and bets were made:
“I give them a month.”
“Make that two weeks.”
“One day.”
“Six hours.”
Even Edgar, the best friend of the one from P.I. warned him. “Ten days max, Vince,” Edgar said. “You really honest-to-goodness think it’s gonna last? Open your eyes. Dave’s a rice queen, for chrissake.”
The men in Vince’s lovelife…
Seth Kahanu: four months if you don’t count the two months they dated before Seth mustered the courage to confront Vince. They were in Seth’s truck, waiting for the light to change in the Kapiolani-Date intersection. Seth turned to Vince and told him in Pidgin English, “Eh, babe, you like go with me or what?”
“Go where?” Vince asked, confused. “I thought we’re going to Zippy’s for your birthday.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Seth stopped to think of the word. “Steady.”
There was Russell Takeshi Tanaka: one year, on-and-off, plus a three-month trial “engagement” period.
If one-night stands count then Karl Yamagita matters.
If fuck buddies count then count the three months with Albert Kekoalani Ching (Cheung?). Albert was a super-duper guy, a great lay, and Vince would’ve continued doing him had the Hapa-Hawaiian-Haole babe not confessed that he was a bisexual on parole, had a restraining order from his ex-girlfriend, and had to attend mandatory anger-management classes at Kalakaua Intermediate cafeteria on Tuesday nights.
Christopher Velasquez was nine months of domestic partnership, which is equivalent to forty-five heterosexual years.
After Christopher came Vince’s shortest relationship ever. A guinness-record-breaking time of six days. And Vince had his mother to thank for it.
When Vince told his mother that he had finally dumped Christopher after a near fistfight quarrel at Star Market over toilet paper brands—Vince had liked Charmin, for its scent; Christopher had insisted on three-ply unscented Scott—Mrs. de los Reyes took it upon herself to play matchmaker, to find her son a better and bigger catch.
“I thought it was just the two of us, Mom,” Vince said, seeing the third place setting. It couldn’t be for my brother, Vince thought, Alvin’s still in Amsterdam trying to seal a relationship with a KLM flight attendant.
“Is Jing coming?” he asked.
“Oh, please,” his mother said. “Your sister would rather pull a double in the hospital wiping her patients’ butts than have a Thanksgiving turkey with me.”
“Dad?”
“Your father had his last supper here eons ago.”
“Then who’s coming to dinner, Mom?”
“Dave,” she answered, casually.
“Dave?” Vince conjured up the Daves in his mother’s life. Then, “No. You didn’t? Why?”
“I like Dave. He’s a really nice guy. Good looking too.” Vince’s mother and Dave were gold members of the same fitness center. They saw each other thrice a week, at six a.m., for the hi-impact step aerobics with Maggie del Rosario, the Filipino Rosie Perez.
“Plus he’s always helping me out with the fancy foot moves,” she said, “and you already know how Manang Bilat Maggie enjoys watching us break our bones.”
“Mom, stop setting me up,” Vince said. “You don’t think I can run my own life?”
Vince’s words went in one ear and out the other. “Give Dave a chance,” she said. “He’s very sweet. Next week, he’s going to show me how to use free weights.”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” Vince said.
“He also said that whenever he tries to talk to you at Hula’s, you snub him.”
“So?”
“Snubbing is not good, anak. You’ve always been a snob, and you have to stop. It’s not healthy; only gives you wrinkles.”
Vince’s “I’m leaving” was accompanied by the doorbell.
“Oh, anak, be a good sport and go answer the door. I’ll go and carve the turkey.”
After dinner and two bottles of red wine, Vince’s mother said, “Why don’t you hitch a ride home with Dave, Vince? If it’s okay with you, Dave.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Mrs. de los Reyes,” Dave said, “we’re practically next door from each other.”
Merlot-tipsy, Vince found himself in Dave’s apartment, with Dave opening yet another bottle of wine.
“He opened a what?” Edgar yelled into the mouthpiece when Vince phoned him the following night.
“It’s okay, Edgar. The wine wasn’t that bad,” Vince said.
“You going crazy or what? He made you drink Vendage, Vince. You never drink wine that’s under ten dollars,” Edgar continued. “That motherfucking cheapskate Haole. This is a sign, Vince. Pay attention to what that bottle of Vendage is telling you.”
“What are you talking about, Edgar?”
“If he had any respect for you, he could’ve gone out to ABC, which is only a stone’s throw from your building, thank you, and bought your high-maintenance ass a bottle of Mondavi or Kendall Jackson.”
“Never mind, Edgar.”
“I’m telling you, Vince. It’s a sign.”
What Vince did not tell Edgar over the phone was that on that morning, after he and Dave had brushed their teeth, kissed and exploded in each other’s mouths, Dave had wrapped his arms around Vince and asked, “Babe, do you have any soy sauce in your apartment?”
Baffled, Vince had asked why.
“I’m gonna cook us breakfast,” Dave explained.
Dazed, Vince stuttered, “Oh, oh, oh, okay. Kikkoman or Aloha?”
“Surprise me, babe,” Dave said.
He’d spent the morning after in Dave’s tub, lathering with Neutrogena, while Dave was in the kitchen frying eggs and SPAM, and brewing Lion’s Kona coffee. After breakfast, they’d called in sick to their respective jobs, and spent the entire day kissing and bottoming for each other to Prince’s Purple Rain, the CD on repeat mode. After the dove shed its last tear, Dave popped the question.
“Yes,” Vince said. “I’ll even walk your dog.”
“You will?” asked Dave.
“But.”
“But?”
“Under one condition,” Vince added. “Name it,” Dave said.
“Mo. No. Ga. My.”
For six days, Vince walked Dave’s Doberman pinscher Sally, around Kapiolani Park. For six days, he ate Dave’s breakfasts—crispy-burnt SPAM, Portuguese sausage, corned beef hash with eggs over easy, San Francisco minute rice, and Lion’s Kona coffee. For six days, he went straight to Dave’s condo after work to share a bottle of Vendage Merlot then fucked the night away to Wendy, Lisa, and the rest of Prince’s revolution.
But all good things, whether we like it or not, must come to a close. By the sixth—no, the fifth—day, Vince was getting sick from eating Dave’s SPAM and Portuguese sausage. By the fifth—no, the third—day, he had cultivated a deep hatred for Sally, who caused him major embarrassment at Kapiolani Park by trying to hump every dog she saw. Like master, like bitch.
Speaking of master, Dave’s monogamy was nearing its expiration date. If it hadn’t, in fact, already passed.
“What you expect?” Edgar shouted over the phone on the seventh day. “Monogamy to guys like Dave is like a loaf of Wonder bread. It only lasts for a couple of days and then, mildew.”