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From: kyig6809@uxa.cso.uiuc.edu (Kenneth Yerro Ilio )
Subject: Potato Eater
Message-ID: <1992May15.194447.6529@news.cso.uiuc.edu>
Sender: usenet@news.cso.uiuc.edu (Net Noise owner)
Organization: University of Illinois at Urbana
Date: Fri, 15 May 1992 19:44:47 GMT
Lines: 352


                          POTATO EATER
                     by Eulalio Yerro Ibarra Copyright@ 1992

     I am a potato eater.  That's what they would call me back
home.  In gay Filipino speak, that means I am a bakla who shuns
other Filipinos, and instead chomps on white meat, almost
exclusively interested in a Kano, a white foreigner.  If given a
choice, I would rather go out with a white man or a mestizo, a
half-breed, or someone who looks like a white man.
     My preference for Kanos has always been a source of much
trepidation on my part.  To my "politically correct" colleagues,
I am still perpetuating a stereotype that they have been trying
to smash.  Even back in the Philippines, just because I would
always be seen in the company of white men, I would always be
branded as an Amboy, An American boy, afflicted with colonial
mentality.  And when I would be in the tourist belt cruising for
an af m (as a white man is also called in Filipino sward speak),
people would automatically brand me as a call boy, a hustler, a
civam, a shaolin, or whatever term was fashionable at that time,
leeching money off some rich old Kano.  Intellectually, I know
that I am maintaining some form of imperialistic ideal here,
something akin to the rich-white-man-exploiting-a-third-world-boy
syndrome.  Well, call me a stereotype, call me a colonial, that's
what I'd say to them.  My political beliefs have nothing to do
with my sexual life in this case.  It's my dick which knows
what's better.
     I don't know why I became a potato eater.  But ever since I
was a kid, I had always dreamed that some white knight in a
shining armor would someday sweep me off my feet and carry me to
a far, far away land.  In high school in Manila, while I would
emulate my classmates in their lusting for the voluptuous elder
sister of Denise Clyde, our plain and homely American classmate,
inside, I wished that Denise had a brother instead.  Someone whom
I pictured in my mind, like the sister who was rumored to put out
with Filipinos, had eyes as blue as the November sky, and hair as
fair as the color of corn - just like Mr. Marvin, the American
Peace Corps volunteer in my hometown.
     When I was college in the University of the Philippines
wrestling with my sexuality,  I witnessed an incident which
became a major turning point in my peripatetic life.  I remember,
just before I turned twenty, Mother's, a sauna and massage parlor
with a beer garden featuring a live band and topless dancing
girls, opened near our house in Quezon City.  For want of better
things to do, I frequented that bar with my classmates after
school, to drink beer and flirt with the skimpily-clad dancers,
who were mostly young Visayan women fresh off the boat from Samar
and Leyte.
     We also sometimes patronized the massage parlor, which in a
machismo society of the Philippines, generally meant screwing the
attendants.  I would always choose an older woman (No. 69), who
started our session with the question, "Powder, lotion, rubbing
alcohol, or derecho na?"  I would, however, decline her
invitation for the derecho na part, not because I did not like
her, but I was too afraid of getting the tulo, a form of
gonorrhea which is hard to treat.  For the likes of her were
notorious in spreading that.
     The attendant would always feel slighted, saying that I was
always insulting her beauty, "just because I am older than the
others, you don't want my body, eh?  Oy, Totoy, I am far better
and more experienced than them.  Just give me a try."  I wished I
could tell her the truth.  So to appease her, I would always let
her demonstrate her abilities on me - full body massage, capped
by her jacking me off with her adroit hands - which would horrify
me tremendously.  I would always pretend to enjoy it though, and
afterwards, I would brag to my friends how terrific a lay my
attendant was.  "You guys should try her one time."
     I did not indulge myself in the sauna that often though, as
it was a little bit beyond my student budget.  But I was always
in the bar, especially toward closing time when they had a show
featuring girls performing incredible tricks with their vaginas -
demonstrating their famed muscle control - like picking up coins
on the floor and putting them inside beer bottles or the more
amazing (and surely dangerous) feat of stringing razor blades
together with a piece of thread.
     Friday nights were even special nights.  Those were the
nights when the bar had a fuck show, and the mostly male audience
was invited to participate, with the promise, as announced by the
DJ with a fake American accent, that all the drinks ordered in
the participant's table will be on the house if he didn't orgasm
in twenty minutes with their girls.
     "So come one, come all, come on up the stage, and enjoy!"
     I was always in Mother's on Friday nights to watch the fuck
show because there was always this Army man, a constabulary
colonel, a big and burly muscular lout with a dick like a horse's
who intrigued me.  He would always be the first to participate on
stage (Ha! it's better to be first, when their cunts are still
fresh!), to screw the same plain-looking young girl he always
enjoyed ravishing, the one with the underdeveloped tits and a box
that could pick up a peeled hard-boiled egg and lay it on stage,
sliced.
     I was always fascinated by their act.  To me, it looked like
it was a finely choreographed number.  To the tune of Frank
Sinatra's My Way which he requested to be played, without
preliminaries, the army man would screw the girl roughly.  He
would be lip synching the song while fucking the girl.  This
singing would then would graduate to loud moans and groans while
he wildly trashed about, with the flimsy wooden stage creaking,
and the hapless lass just lying there impassively on the narrow
bench which served as the bed, biting her lower lip, while the
army man sometimes pointed his .44-caliber service revolver to
her head and pumping her aggressively without coming.
     At about the last minute, the girl would then start to grunt
and moan just like the army man, sometimes even squealing for
effect.  She would lick the army man's throat, and lock him with
her legs around his waist, while her hands clung to him,
squeezing his ass cheeks.  She would rub her crotch to his,
really contracting those pelvic muscles - to finally successfully
milk him just before the twenty allotted minutes was over.  She
would then leave the army man on the bench, spent, with a smirk
on his face.
     Every Friday night, it was like this, like a ritual for both
of them, and for me - for the army man to screw his girl and try
to resist her cunning ways, and for me to watch him lose.  I
hated that army man.  He was the same man who ransacked my room
when the military came to our house in the middle of the night,
to 'invite' my father to spend a month in the dreaded stockade in
Camp Crame just after a few months Marcos declared martial law in
1972.
     Our house was surrounded by a battalion of soldiers bearing
armalites, and several of them went inside our house and turned
it inside out searching for whatever it was they were looking
for.  They then took my father away.  They said he needed re-
education.  They said he had been writing subversive poems that
were inimical to the goals of the New Society.  The following
days, my brother and I combed the detention centers in Manila to
look for Tatay.  We bribed guards with twenty peso bills so we
could go in and check if my 64 year-old university professor
father was among the common criminals that were incarcerated in
the stockades.  It was three days after that that we learned
where my father was, thanks to his fraternity brother who was a
ranking officer in the army.
     I was very young then.  I did not know what was wrong with
my father's poems.  He usually wrote about political freedom,
liberation, and revolution in hushed tones, but these words did
not mean anything to me.  Not until I had come to America that I
learned the true meanings of these words, because back in the
Philippines, even with the new government under Tita Cory, I had
never experienced how it was to be truly free.  It is true in my
country, though, that one is free to be born, and especially to
die in the hands of the military.  Life is that cheap.
     I surely knew what the face of tyranny was, though.  Until
now, whenever I see uniformed military men, I freeze in terror. 
Because they remind me of the soldiers who came to my room and
pointed their armalites at me while they searched my belongings. 
And one of them was the army man whom I enjoyed watching being
outwitted by an ordinary-looking girl at Mother's.
     One particular Friday, I had a double treat watching the
fuck show, not only was my favorite man in uniform there but
after him, there was this Kano, a student from a nearby
university who was egged on my his friends to go up the stage and
join in the fun.  He seemed to be a new Kano in the bar, I had
never seen him there before.  Three of the girls on stage picked
up his friends' cue, so they came down and pulled the Kano from
his table.  He did not offer much resistance, he looked like he
was too drunk to fight.
     The Kanos had been a fixture in that bar since it opened,
but they almost always kept to themselves, except of course when
they were flirting with the girls.  They were mostly medical and
veterinary students from the surrounding universities and the
girls were always coming on to them, asking them to participate
in the show.
     There was a big anticipation in the audience when the Kano
went up the make-shift stage to join the girls in the limelight. 
Many patrons moved toward the front and surround the small stage,
pushing each other to have a better view.  Those who were far
away from the stage stood on chairs, or like me, on tables, so we
could have a better vantage point to what went on with the Kano
and the four women who were lasciviously dancing around him.  The
army man of course, got the best view in the house - as he was
putting his clothes on, he placed his chair right in front of the
platform, so he could see the action, up close.
     There was a general murmur of agreement in the audience when
the girls started to strip the Kano out of his school uniform. 
He hesitated for a moment and attempted to leave the stage when
the girls ripped his shirt off.  But the crowd jeered and cheered
him to have a go at it.  He didn't have any choice.  Either
perform or face the mob.  There was a big hurrah when the girls
finally undressed him into his shorts.  For he was just
transformed into a god.
     The Kano stood there on stage, tall and proud, worshipped by
all - he was more than 6' tall, massively built, with a smooth
body, large chest, muscular torso, washboard stomach, narrow
waist, full buns, tree-trunk-like legs, dark curly hair, pouty
lips and blue eyes which was accentuated by his golden tan.  Even
his friends back at his table, all Kanos themselves too, except
for one Filipino runt who spoke in a clearly studied American
accent, were clapping and hooting in obvious appreciation.  It
seemed like the Kano just jumped out of one of those SoloFlex
advertisements from the pages of GQ into Mother's.
     It was obvious that the Kano knew that he looked good on
stage because he started to pose like a body builder with a big
grin on his face, lapping up the accolades, even offering to the
adventurous ones from the audience to feel his well-developed
biceps while he was flexing.  And when the girls ripped his white
boxer shorts off, there was even a wilder of applause, well, more
of a gasp really, for the Kano was just hung like a donkey,
bigger than the army man, and he was already semi-erect!
     It seemed like the Kano had a dick about one and a half foot
long, as round as a San Miguel beer bottle, at least it looked
like that to me, with a ridiculously small knob though, and balls
as huge as Bangkok santol fruits hanging low to his thighs.
     Two of the girls with him on stage fled, shrieking and
running away from there after they saw the Kano's monster dick. 
They complained to the manager, hysterically saying that they
didn't want to participate.  They were afraid that they might get
hurt handing the Kano's giant tarugo.  But the army man waved his
gun to the girls, ordering them to come back.  The soldier was
like a mad man, clapping and shouting and directing the girls
what to do with the Kano up there in the spotlight.
     The Kano wasn't there for long though, not even five
minutes, for as soon as one of the older women worked on him with
her expert mouth, he came right away.  Just like that.  Poor
woman, the Kano came in gallons, and he held her head against his
crotch, not letting go before he finished, she must have drowned
in his come!  She was gagging and spitting semen all over the
stage.  She also spat toward the audience, making the people
around the stage stampede all over the place, laughing while they
ran the hell away from there.
     The Kano's performance was so anticlimactic, the audience
felt they were robbed of something.  Some actually booed the Kano
for his dismal showing, because they were expecting a wild show
and wanted to see him work the girls, just like, as one of them
said, what he saw in an American porn Betamax tape.
     The audience saw more of the Kano just the same though,
because one of the girls, apparently the girl he was flirting
with earlier that night, hid his clothes, and he had to sit down
back in his table stark naked.  He didn't seem to care.
     The whole spectacle just left me with a feeling of
excitement, an excitement I was sure I had already experienced
before, but just refused to remember.  But in that bar that night
with the Kano up on stage, it came to me in a flash, jolting me,
the remembrance of the first time that I had this kind of
sensation, a remembrance that I had been suppressing all my life. 
It was when I was still a kid in the province, maybe, I was five,
six years old then.
     My yaya Vital, who was also our lavandera, our washer woman,
brought me along with her to the river to wash clothes together
with other lavanderas of other families.  While my yaya and her
friends were gossiping about their respective households, a
gravasan, one of those large trucks which haul gravel from the
river to wherever it was needed, thunderously announced its
arrival.  It stopped near where we were, and its crew, instead of
commencing to load their truck with gravel and sand, decided to
wash in the river, stripping themselves naked in front of us.
     The men, there must have been eight of them, probably teen-
aged boys, but they looked like big men to me, were all lean,
dark and muscular, except for their mestizo foreman who was fat
and paler, and who just sat on a huge rock, fanning himself in
the shadow of the rickety gravasan.  His crew was happily playing
and splashing like kids in the water, displaying their nudity
without shame in front of the girls.
     I noticed that the men had hair on their crotches, which
looked odd to me because I had none, and wanted very much to have
some, right at that moment.  Most of them had skin extensions
over their potoy, rather, their boto, which also looked odd tome
for my potoy was paltak, and I did not understand why.
     The men started to tease the girls, holding and pointing
their boto at them, asking the girls to join them in the water. 
In response, the girls were giggling and screaming, and pointed
to the men's boto, acting as if they were shocked, joking how
small they were, and also taunting them to come near them in
return, while at the same time holding their palo-palo, the piece
of wood which they used to pound clothes to extract dirt.
     One girl whose name was Norma, pretended to want to go and
join the men in the water.  Her friends mockingly restrained her,
and then they all collapsed in laughter.  (My yaya actually
wanted to push Norma in the water.  Vital hated Norma to high
heavens.  She said she slept around with the senoritos from all
the families in town and told everybody about it.  She said she
saw her and my cousin Nong Junior doing it under the big sampaloc
tree behind our house.)  It was all good-natured banter, and
everybody was laughing and having a good time.
     I, on the other hand, was having sensations at the pit of my
stomach, from looking at all those naked men with their boto
surrounded with hair, flopping in the wind.  I was particularly
enthralled by the half-breed foreman who had now since joined his
minions in the water.  He looked like Ben Hur in the face.  Ben
Hur was the first movie I had ever seen, it was scary and
exciting, and Ben Hur was the first Kano that had stuck in my
mind.  Unlike Ben Hur though, the supervisor was stripped bare-
assed.  I had never seen Ben Hur naked in the cine, I sure wished
I had.
     Mr. Biso, as the supervisor was known, had a hairy body and
an exceptionally larger boto compared to those of his men, and
his huge balls were eakgak, hanging low to his thighs.  His boto
then started to get otog, while he was playing and wrestling with
the others.  This excited me and also elicited nervous squeals
from my yaya and her friends.  The other men, probably out of
sympathy, were getting otog too.  Then the girls got quieter,
their laughter became stifled, and soon they remained silent,
except for a few muffled giggles here and there.
     I had difficulty in breathing as I watched the naked men
dancing in the water, with their proud boto all standing in the
air.  I kept beating on my chest because I thought I was going to
die, for my heart was racing to the winds.  And to my
astonishment, my potoy also stood proud, the proudest of them
all.  I tried hard to hid my excitement from my yaya, but she was
too busy to notice it, for she too was having her silent scream,
probably THE quietest scream of her life.
     But that was a long time ago, and those memories came back
to me in the shabby bar where the Kano was being stripped on
stage.  Watching the Kano's clothes being peeled one by one, my
throat became dry, my heart was palpitating really fast,
sometimes missing a beat here and there, I thought I was going to
die.  I couldn't breathe!  I was scared, really scared, for I
noticed that I wetted my pants, just from looking at the naked
white boy with the muscular body and the big dick.  I felt so
much disturbed by it that that night, I must have downed more
than a case of San Miguel beer, to drown that exciting but
unpleasant feeling away.
     I surely had my fill of amusement that night.  My head was
light from too much excitement, and my stomach was queasy from
too much beer.  Walking home, I puked several times in the
streets and one more time, very violently in front or our gate,
retching slime and my guts out.  I swore I would never drink
again.
     I knew that my father was furious at me when I came into the
house reeking of alcohol and vomit.  He was still up, waiting for
me.  But he really didn't say anything.  In the morning, at
breakfast, he said something in Spanish to me, that old harsh
language that he failed to teach me, and to which he always
retreated when he was upset, or angry.
     I understood what he said.  I had two years of Spanish in
high school and was taking an advanced course in the university
at that time, perhaps because I wanted to recapture the glory of
my Spanish-speaking ancestry that my father always reminisced
about but deprived to share with me.  In front of his chorizo de
Bilbao, estrellado, champurado, and chocolate e, he said
something to the effect that maybe if I had been born a girl, I
would have already become a puta by that time.
     In my mind, I agreed with him, for I needed some kind of
escape.
     Or maybe some attention and a little bit of love.
     My dreams that night were full of images of the Kano - that
he was Bruce, the secret Kano pal of my childhood, now turned
into an Alexander the Great, and I was his page boy, schooled in
the art of love, giving him soothing massages after a hard day in
the fields of battle, or into a General Douglas MacArthur and I
was his Filipino aide or ...  I would have many dreams like this
with the Kano transformed into many forms and guises.  In time,
my life became a relentless search for the Kano, for someone who
looked like the Kano god in the fuck show at Mother's.  It became
a search which dictated my life, eventually bringing me to the
hustler bars in many cities in Australia, New Zealand, and now
the United States.  I'm just a fool I guess, for my dreams, well,
they are only real when they are raging inside my head.
-- 
Kenneth Yerro Ilio           Life is a foreign language
Veterinary Biosciences       Every man has mispronounced it ...
University of Illinois                 - Carlos Bulosan
  at Urbana-Champaign