it lingers

Reunited and it feels so good
Reunited 'cause we understood
There's one perfect fit
And, sugar, this one is it
We both are so excited 'cause we're reunited, hey, hey

It usually gives me a flash back, a back-to-the -future scene by means of my armpit time machine. Just with a little brush it brings back the old time of baby powder, Garfield, nenuco, and the hush-hush handshaking with the milkman inside the closet of a naive mind. But when stroking transcends to auto pit diving, the machine shambles and goes back and forth to various timelines -from hot summer hostage sausage up to the first simmering unbelievable work out and then the routine boxing with the bald champ. Oh it drives me crazy, just like a dose of ecstasy. Oh baby, do you like musky?

Hey, babe what can you say about my kili-kili?
Hmm…it’s way far better than coffee
What? What you mean by that?
“Giggles” It’s pampagising
So, it smells unusual? So it’s mabaho?
No, it’s not babe, it’s that not unusual, not that unpleasant, It’s not that mabaho
Come on’ , you’ve just said, it’s not that unpleasant, it’s still the same, mabaho! (galit-galitan, asking for more lambing)
Babe, I like it, it’s not like that…

Oh my armpits, the one that I adore much, and the odor that sways me to a different kind of libido. Deodorant is seldom being used and categorically the masculine scent by it is a no-no. Artificial muskiness is upsetting for once the real aroma releases, it fuses and thenceforth creates a strong stench, the putrid smell that prevents you from dancing all night and creating a sexual chemistry. Because nothing compares to the natural scent, I stick to the basic - wash, scrub, and cool outfits. I prefer it that way, my own aroma, the aftereffect of heat, sweat and the intensifying pheromones. That is why I usually do pit checking from time to time even in public places, just to take a dose of my obsession. I don’t care about what other people may say, I care much about my ecstasy.

nb.So babe, you like my kili-kili?
If you do, dive in, put your face in my well-trimmed kili-kili and then lick it, savor, and be aroused intensely.

I’m not your papa

Don’t call my name, don’t call my name, I’m not your papa.

You're my Honeybunch, Sugarplum, Pumpy-umpy-umpkin. You're my Sweetie Pie. You're my Cuppycake, Gumdrop, Snoogums-Boogums, You're the Apple of my Eye

These are the terms of sweet nothings, the soft soap that brushes away the prickliness in life. But it’s also the endearment that set off an engagement in our statement, oh it perfectly rhymes.

You used to call me baby, just like a kid with a dirty nappy. Darling is uberly mushy that it makes you gag for I’m not the blue-eyed boy that you crave for. Sweetheart is no longer applicable because yours is already archaic and tangy. Babe has the context for you of the animal-in-the-city, and honey as you said is only for the bear with no undies. Love reminds you of your dad and his mistress making love in the attic. So you just decided to call me baby, again just like an aging man with a soiled nappy. Then one night, I was able to get in inside your closet and I found out that it was papa that you used to call your exes. I questioned myself on why I am just your baby? The absurd comparison brought about a serious conclusion; I am a baby just like an old man with a dirty nappy and your exes were the papa with great authority. They’re papa, papables that you couldn’t disagree. They’re papa, papables that you called yummy. Oh, I forgot isn’t papa because you had the theatrical production of mama and papa’s mission impossible? Pathetic me, I am the product of the composition, a baby with a dirty nappy out of the mama and papa awful love story.

So from now on, stick with baby and don’t ever try calling me papa.

 n.b. I hate papa just like the catsup that is made from banana, I prefer that is made from tomato, kahit bolero, masarap sa puso.

Bad Kiss

Because your kiss, your kiss is all that I miss...

Still couldn’t dismiss the kiss that night, the kiss that lingered throughout my day and still surfacing in some cold nights. Sometimes it gives pauses in my busy day. And there are moments that it plays vividly in my mind that I could almost hear it, feel it, and taste it so real. 

Sometimes it is good to be bad, because sometimes bad is really good. I think it also applies in kiss, there is good kiss and bad kiss. I asked a friend about it, and he just told me that it is not about the kiss itself, it is more of the kisser; therefore, for him it is good kisser and bad kisser. But based from my meandering experience, there is actually a bad kiss. Yes, it happened to me. Bad kiss is not something that is sloppy, a beginner or an idiot sucker. Bad kiss is neither the romantic kiss nor the squelchy brute kiss. It is not the licking of tongue, and not even the biting and shredding off your membrane. Bad kiss overshadows good kiss. It mounts above the romantic and wild. Because bad kiss is bad. And bad is not just good, it is heaven. A bad kiss is like the forbidden fruit. Thou shall not eat that fruit. Thou shall that execute that kiss. You should never commit bad kiss, because it will drive you crazy.

Bad kiss exists.