Mandatory First Brazilian Wax Survival Blog Entry

7 01 2011

Disclaimer: This entry is not recommended for humans under 18, and blood relatives of the author. Especially the latter, because it will be gross and awkward the next time I see them.

So I got my nether region waxed the other day, and it was a horrible, horrible experience. I would like to think of myself as impervious to all kinds of pain, including tattooing, dysmenorrhea and common social situations, but hot damn, getting waxed down there is really something else.

I’d been wanting to get waxed for quite a while now in order to feel cleaner and keep my man-slave at bay, but I finally got around to it only upon learning how common the practice had become. I figured, if most girls could do it (and I imagined most girls being pansy-assed compared to me), then I could do it.  I strutted into that waxing salon yesterday like I’d lived there all my life.

The fact of the matter is, however, getting your pubes ripped out from the roots with a clump of wax is getting your pubes ripped out from the roots with a clump of wax. The whole experience was anti-intuitive: giving away your hard-earned cash to feel incredible pain over and over and over again. To give all of you a clearer idea, my thoughts during the actual process went something like this:


I was supposed to just rest my thigh against the waxer’s torso to steady myself, but I was practically kneeing her over and over again from the pain. I was clutching the towel so hard, I could feel my nails digging into my palm through the terrycloth. I tried staring at one blank spot on the ceiling, tried going through my repository of happy thoughts, but nothing. I was tearing up; I was gasping.

The waxer cheerily informed me that I had bled a little.

I was dazed when we were done, stumbling out of the salon and plodding aimlessly around the mall like a solider told that the war was over. I guess a Brazilian’s also akin to losing your virginity; there’s that moment after when all you can think of is Thank god, THAT’S over.

I know I’m coming off as melodramatic, and I know the waxings will get less and less painful from month to month due to finer hairs, but things like these need to be vented, yo. They need to be documented for, well, posterity. Something to calm me and/or future spawn down the next time one of us gets new ink or has a trike run over her leg.

Of course, I will do my best to make this a regular thing, nonetheless. There’s no denying that the finished product is very, very beneficial. I had good reasons for going and these reasons still stand. It’s just a bitch is all. And suffice it to say that my man-slave owes me big time. I’m thinking about 3-4 dinners-on-him per month/waxing should do just fine.

So hi, everyone. My name is Margie, and I’m a (smooth and supple) pansy-ass.

(Image from


LGBT Pride March 2010: Putting the ‘Fun’ Back in ‘Fundie’

6 12 2010

Partners in crime (fighting).

I had the BEST time at my very first LGBT Pride March. I went as Ladyboy Wonder to my man-slave’s Buttman, and bore the special rainbow version of the Filipino Freethinkers logo for the length of the parade.

I brought along my purple multi-setting vibrator (which I got for free; it’s a long story), and it was put to good use by several FF’ers, most notably Cy the Purple Pimp Excommunicator…

So hawt.

Red the Pedo-Priest (who is with Garrick, our resident Molestee, in the photo below)…

Who's your padre?

…and Bea, our Vicar with a Vag.

"Yes, I have a vag!"

Our token slogan for the march was the mind-numbingly stupid (and therefore strangely intelligent) “Salt is a sin!” We chanted this and other slogans most especially upon meeting the Christian fundamentalists — a.k.a. ‘fundies’ — parked on every other corner with their anti-LGBT gear.

The pun run.

Photo-bombing the fundies, in fact, was the highlight of the march. Never have I been so excited to see an ultra-conservative. We’d hurtle towards them screeching in glee, ready to be photographed with our counter-protest signs, eager to cause a kerfuffle and drown out their hate speech.

We made several awesome photo-bombs, but the photo below is arguably the most awesome of the lot:

Family portrait.

It pains me to note that the streetkids were thrilled at the sight of Buttman and could not give a fig about his Ladyboy Wonder, but that’s okay, because our gaysome twosome made for excellent photo ops regardless:

With Carlos!

With Sailormoon!

And with Wonderwoman!

We even won ‘Best Theme’ at the end of the march, which was very awesome, albeit pretty confusing, since we didn’t really have a theme in mind, unless fundie-spotting is a theme. Or Pedo-Priest. Or Purple Pimp. Or Gay Comic Book Heroes.

I look forward to next year’s march. Apart from the endless hi-jinks, I truly enjoyed showing my support as an Ally of the LGBTs, and not just because I’m part-Babaeng Bakla, part-One-of-the-Boys.

Salt is a sin, brothers and sisters! Salt is a sin!

(Photo 1 by Steve Gelano; other photos by JM Aguilar)

Mandatory Post-Epic Party Blog Entry

1 12 2010

That's a lotta talong.

At one point in last Saturday’s Excommunication Party, I had to hand Carlos Celdran a bag full of sex paraphernalia as a prize for trumping two other participants in the Talong-Condom speed-sheathing game. I believe he sheathed 10 talongs in condoms in less than a minute, which is likely the number to beat in today’s vegetable speed-sheathing circles.

By the end of the night, I had a sense that the Filipino Freethinkers had succeeded in showing and drawing further support for the RH Bill and a secular society, and a huge bag of condom-covered eggplants.  It was that kind of party.

Obviously, the start of our modeling careers.

Dirty games aside, we had a photo/graffiti wall; a special confession booth where you could have your rants/lamentations on the RH brouhaha filmed; a special performance from improv group SPIT; a viewing of the now-infamous Satan, Get Out! video; speeches from Celdran, Akbayan Party List Reps Kaka Bag-ao and Walden Bello, Democratic Socialist Women of the Philippines’ National Chair Beth Angsioco, comedienne Juana Change, and fellow FF’er Dr. Sylvia Claudio; the presence of the alarmingly pretty Rep. Risa Hontiveros-Baraquel…

Tonight, we dine in hell.

…the recreation of Da Vinci’s The Last Supper, heathen-style…

I saw the sign.

…and the Manifesto in Support of Choice, the most awesome piece of paper I’ve ever had to sign thus far.



I throw my panties at my fellow FF’ers! I have never been more proud to be part of a bunch of blasphemous bastards, and I look forward to our future shenanigans in the fight against Bullshit. Yeehaw!

(Photos 1, 3 and 5 by Karlo Espiritu, Photo 2 by JM Aguilar, and Photo 4 by Tania Arpa)

Pucker Up

10 11 2010


Behold my duckface.  Duckfacing is apparently a huge trend amongst today’s youth, and I have taken a shine to it quite quickly, as I appreciate its subtle evolution from the standard kissy face.

The above photo was taken the day my fellow Filipino Freethinkers and I visited the Myth of the Human Body exhibit in Taguig. Couldn’t hide my excitement, obviously, as we were just moments away from a building full of this:

Plastinated corpses are very awesome. Was a pity there weren’t any non-human animal corpses on display — other countries’ exhibits have them, and word is that the latest creature to be preserved in all its meaty glory is an elephant (!!!) — but it was still a great experience. For a mere Php 350, you’ll get to see stuff you won’t likely see anywhere else. And a few dozen penises.

Sweet, innocent people.

Photography isn’t allowed until the very end of the exhibit, where you and your friends will have to make do with a wall-sized poster and a couple of cardboard cutouts. But that was okay, because I still got to duckface! (Click on photo for bigger duckface goodness.) So, that’s me duckfacing with the impossibly hot Freethinker gang…

In a state of undress.

…and this is me duckfacing with my man-slave, who is not duckfacing because he is, like, totally lame. This, by the by, is the only time you will ever see me sporting actual muscles, because I am quite jiggly in real life.

Again, the exhibit is definitely worth it, although you shouldn’t expect to get totally creeped out; it’s not that kind of deal. And you’re better off without a tour guide, because ours was too, well, uninformed.

You can find the exhibit at the NeoBabylon Building, 9 Bayani Road, AFPOVAI, Taguig, which is a building you will not miss as it is festooned with huge plaster Greek gods and a few of their topless babes (refer to the first pic).

And the duckface? So worth adopting, if only because doing so will allow you to take part in one of today’s grandest cultural movements, one so particularly significant that it has been commemorated quite stirringly in the audio-visual presentation herewith. Cheers.

Mandatory Post-Baguio Boitday Inggitan Blog Entry

15 09 2010

Babe(?) in the woods.

Baguio’s always awesome, and last weekend’s last-minute birthday getaway was worth it. It was 3 days and 2 nights of being happy and cold and well-fed, and I wouldn’t have traded it for the usual pity party I throw myself each year — the one involving me, a mall, a bit of saved-up cash, and a false sense of abandon.

True, the place wasn’t as cold as it used to be, but it was still sufficiently nippy. Still had that crisp mountain chill. And it rained quite a bit when we were there, which made the air a bit more freezetastic. Hay, I hate the sun.

"Miss, magkano?"

The man-slave, of course, was in tow. Besides being excellent arm-meat throughout this adventure, he was also an excellent haggler, which made finding good accommodations at 4:30 AM a piece of cake. In case anyone was wondering, it was a clean room in a transient lodge, with a queen-sized bed, cable TV, your own bathroom with a hot shower, daily breakfast, and proximity to Burnham Park. 1k a night. A very sweet deal.

Take THAT, lesser attractive tourist couple!

The man-slave hadn’t been to Baguio in a while, so we went to the usual tourist-ridden spots. Asked a stranger to have our picture taken at the Mines View suicide ledge (after he stopped staring in disbelief at our disposable camera); bought jams and cookies from nuns; mocked the swan boat riders at Burnham Park; scrambled through the rickety wagwagan labyrinth, etc.

The man-slave wanted to have our picture taken in full-on Igorot garb next to a full-on lola Igorot, but there was only so much blatant cultural exploitation I could take.

The fat of the land.

Most of our time was really spent eating, though. Had the best birthday breakfast ever at my all-time fave Cafe by the Ruins: butter-smothered French toast with honey-citrus syrup, fresh fruit, serious slabs of bacon, butter-smothered tuna/salmon sandwich, soft herbed bread with sharp herbed cheese, baked kamote fries, and the strongest cups of coffee. Goddamn.  And the best part: a large pizza in Manila cost more than our final bill.

Eating the fat of the land.

Speaking of pizzas, we also latched on to Vizco’s, this non-descript den of deliciosity on Session Road which served tasty, tasty Italian food and the best strawberry shortcake bar none. Wrap n’ Roll at Camp John Hay’s Filling Station was also awesome; their beef kebabs were as thick as textbooks.

The fat of the land (is in my thighs).

And no last-second vacay would be complete without an afternoon stuck in the woods. After scarfing down the kebabs, we decided to take a leisurely stroll down Camp John Hay’s EcoTrail, which we imagined would be a lovely little path lined with bounteous florae, where we could slow-burn the bricks of meat in our bellies and just generally, y’know, commune with nature etcetera etcetera.

Disoriented woodland creature.

Don’t let these pictures fool you. That was some serious Rambo shit we did up there.  It wasn’t a trail, even. It was a stream of mud with the occasional loosened rope bridge snaking its way up and down god knows how many steep little hills.

SUCK IT, Henry David Thoreau!

Unfortunately, my man-slave and I are no longer well-versed in this ‘physical exertion’ thing, so we did more of a heaving clamber than a stroll. At every turn or dip of the hill, we thought we had reached the end, only to scramble onward and find another hill or trench in wait.  We were there for an hour.

Call of the wild.

But we did get awesome pictures.

Mandatory Pose-before-Local-Artwork Baguio Picture

Naturally, I felt a little sad on our last night, all emo’d out on the Oh My Gulay! balcony overlooking the city. But I was even sadder once we hit Manila. I’m usually very vocal about my love for this mangled metropolis, usually see myself as a pure and proud product of its grit and artifice, but I was absolutely devastated to be home that day.

I’m considering this a sign of maturity.

Mandatory Apartment Birthday and Life Birthday Blog Entry

8 09 2010

First off, a very happy first birdie to my apartment; despite a fire and the occasional vermin takeover, I am quite pleased with my digs and hope it continues to not fall apart. My man-slave and I have tried our best thus far to make it look less like a fallout shelter by reupholstering the couch in happy colors, papering part of one wall with posters, and lining one bookshelf with three neon buddhas, and we will continue to prettify it however we can.

Now, about my birdie. It is very, very fortunate that the start of my 25th year of life falls on a legal holiday, because it has given me license to hie off to Baguio with the man-slave for a couple of days. Baguio is my most favoritest city in the entire country because it is always trenchcoat weather over there, and I can eat all the ube jam my gut can take, and every single taxi driver is a non-malicious sweetheart. And speaking of taxis…

Last night proved to be the latest installment in the saga that is my commuting life. The taxi I was riding was hit in the rear by a van in the middle of Commonwealth. The cab actually swerved sideways, but the driver hit the brakes right before other vehicles could ram into us. The lower left-hand side of the cab was beat up pretty bad, but what was more unnerving was that the van owner, whose fault it obviously was (since we were in front and were cruising down the road straight and steady), was the one throwing a hissy fit. So there we were standing in the middle of Commonwealth at rush hour, listening to some lady squawking and squawking.

Anyway, I will take last night’s mini-mishap as a sign that, yes, it is only right that I take this little vacation of mine, because life is short and y’all know the rest. Happy birdie to me.

Shout-Out to My Homeboy Kevin!!!

12 07 2010

Saturday night was a great comfort. And not just because Kevin upped the validity of my readership (I am 85% sure he is not a pervert), although that was certainly heartening. I spent it with good people, and felt like myself for the first time in a while.

I haven’t been feeling too hot these past few months, but it’s good to know I have friends and my man-slave to help me figure out what’s what. I can’t really expound on what’s been happening lately without going Prozac Nation on all y’all, so for the time being, below is a teensy treatise I punched out recently:

In Defense of Your Perversions