Did I say something wrong?
(Oops, I didn’t know I couldn’t talk about sex)
Imagine there’s no heaven, as John Lennon once did while dreaming up peace on earth. There’ll be no hell. There’ll be no morality. No good, no bad, either. Imagine how free we would be.
Or how lost. Or how doomed. I remember the first time I witnessed sex in public. It was at the good, old Giraffe, the riot of a club in the mid-‘90s on street level at 6750 in Makati. The first few years, it was the club, but I mean THE club! It was new, new, new, not new as in newly opened, but new as in it changed the whole night scene. Before Giraffe, you walked into a club and you looked for a table, but at Giraffe, you didn’t want a table. You had to be on your toes, ready to dance, ready to mingle. And you stood right next to the likes of Aga Muhlach or Gretchen Barretto or Eric Quizon or Tweetie de Leon.
In those first few years of Giraffe, it was sort of like a mixed gender club. No one cared if you were straight or bi or gay, unless they were sizing you up for a hookup. Otherwise, you just danced, danced, danced, Corona in hand, lime swirling through the amber liquid in its clear-glass bottle. There was no dance floor, so you danced where you stood or you danced on the table top, yes, you did—what the table top was at Giraffe was the ledge at Faces of the previous decade.
Madonna’s “Secret” was all the rage and I remember it playing mostly just before 2 a.m. Fridays or Saturdays, just when the music was revving up, alcohol was kicking in, and the party was nearing its peak. “Mmm mmm, somethin’s comin’ over,” whispered Madonna in her sex kitten voice and the party would somehow compress, the bodies
It’s not true that I had nothing on. I had the radio on. — Marilyn Monroe