Futile

In the early hours of the year, I told myself I will not salivate over unopened boxes of condom or envy the boy who tossed himself off to every man on the street. I said I will seek more meaningful sex; an adieu to the constant bullshit to seek attention through grinding with no single man.

It lasted for more than a month.

The night was majestic in Zambales. All the surfers were dead tired and the tourists drunk but the scent of the wind is inviting- salty from the waves pounding the shore, calming from the absence of pollution in the air. We were drunk, probably high. He grabbed me in the communal bathroom. I almost caved in only to be saved, thankfully, by a guy who only wanted to embrace the banality of the bathroom.

The drinking continued in the shore, where campers blissfully basked at the roundness of the moon; the heat that emanated from their bonfires only quelled by the more intense and parching craving of our bodies as he attempted to lure me with his boy-next-door charm. I refused to be sucked in. I told him we should probably wake a drunk friend so he can move to his bed and get a better sleep.

I diverted my attention further; joining, instead, a group of fresh college graduates playing cards. He was just sitting there, in the corner of the common room, pretending to tinkle with his phone even though he knew, and he knew that I knew, that he had no chance of getting a decent cellular connection in the area. After a few more games, I bid the night off.

At two in the morning, probably three, he was already at the foot of my bed. Resistance was futile. Only covered by cheap mosquito net and thin fabric to serve as curtain while I pretend to end the day with a sober sleep, I was too transparent.

That is how the year ended. Another crooked one.  Or maybe, it's another start; another chance to forge a make believe shift to the good side when all I along I cradle the darkness of the night.