I wonder how he is really like in person.

For the past 6-7 months, I nurtured this idea of him as a person who does not respect other people’s time. Managing to squeeze you in his tight calendar is his way of making you feel privileged, because, yeah, he’s one hot busy guy. So imagine my rage when he actually decided not to show up on our first date without properly informing me. Oh, he did. He texted a friend in Saudi, then Saudi friend texted my girl friend, and my girl friend had to relay the bad news to me. I was in the middle of the traffic jam already on my way to that resto…The jerk did not even bother to save my number.

I almost cursed that day and wished the earth would open up and swallow him in. Because if I ever see him, even just a strand of his hair, I’d be delighted to nuke him right where he stands. So he’d better not send a word, call or text because I would be spitting fire at him to my heart’s content.

I was angry. Really angry. I think he felt the tremor so he sort off disappeared from my radar.

But, as usual, time heals all wounds, and it makes you forget all those little sins. Sensing the storm was over, he made his presence felt a month ago. And because I don’t normally harbor any ill-feelings that long, I started becoming civil and managed to joke about his last year’s no-show. He seemed to be a nice guy, just like what his best friend told me. Looks like we’re bound to get along well after a pretty rocky start.

Who knows.

All I heard was the sound of the car stereo playing “Victims of Love” with its ear-piercing chorus. There were so many songs available in the entire pop music history I wondered why the jocks couldn’t choose a more suitable one to play. This was not the first time I heard that particular song play in Bloody’s stereo.

Maybe the song had a personal message had I only listened carefully instead of exchanging glances with Bloody behind the steering wheel.

This was the second Joyride. And the topic was Puppy. I never saw Bloody this excited over something that stoked his ego. It made him feel superior above all God’s creatures, including the squid. Nothing beats the thrill a man gets from squashing an opponent in a race to a woman’s heart. In Bloody’s case, he did not even have to lift a finger. It was I who sent Puppy off the ring already peeing in his pants.

Of course, Bloody wouldn’t dare mention his latest victory. He knew I easily get turned off by sheer arrogance. So he played it safe in a kind of reverse way. You know, like why not pick Puppy over him. He’s handsome, single and about to get rich. He seemed serious about making babies with me while he, Bloody, was already a very complicated family man with a string of girls willing to be knocked up anytime. He might even have AIDS. I belong to a different caste, he said. Like The Chastity Belt Club. It made him feel unworthy. I didn’t know that his testosterone had reached the pious level already.

But the mere thought of me dying a virgin distressed him. I might catch ovarian cancer, cervix cancer and all types of weird diseases attributed to unused reproductive system. But he swore on other people’s grave not to hold my hand either. The electricity the contact generates could mess up his brains and send alerts to launch that “baby arm” down there. So he made us a deal. Just in case I changed my mind about the postponed trip to The Flower Farm, he would gladly oblige me with a tour.

I punched his six-pack abs and the devil laughed.

I played this particular scene a hundred times over inside my head -that night when Bloody saw me with Puppy inside the mall. It was actually a deliberate move to be seen in a place we both frequent – to spite him, to show that I had a life apart from what he thought a mediocre way of living, and yes, to prove that he was that dispensable.

“You do not have the monopoly of girls in the planet.” I thought. “Because you can never have me. And I can have good-looking dates as well.”

Well said. But things were a lot more different in reality. The moment our eyes locked, my face was flushed crimson red and my knees started to wobble. I was no less than a meter away from the walking Kryptonite.

“Hi.” Bloody’s eyes were smiling under that brown cap. He came along smooth, so sure of himself, and my world stood still. This was the kind of guy who did not need some rescuing. And he could certainly ruin a date.

Somehow Puppy noticed the sparks flying above my head as Bloody quietly made his exit to the terminal. He sensed competition.

“Do you know that guy?” His brows wrinkled.

“Um. Yes. He’s a friend.”

“Really?” Puppy had crossed the line reserved for my dead father and future husband.

“Wait. Am I not allowed to have friends now?” I growled.

Puppy wiggled his tail in agreement, which was actually a bad sign. I didn’t like guys who do not have the balls to stand up for what they believe. Guys who severely lacked identity. I completely lost my appetite and felt sorry for Puppy. I knew it wasn’t his fault. But I was born with certain preferences. I wasn’t even normal to begin with.

I bade Puppy goodbye when we reached the mall’s exit. He still acted like a true gentleman no matter how embarrassing the night was for him. I wished him well on his trip back to the Middle East and lots of good luck in finding his daughter in Macau. Puppy was like a brother to me.

I reached the terminal and saw Bloody standing beside his blue-violet van with a lighted cigarette in between his fingers. He waved at me and smiled. He knew he had just won.

I made a promise to myself to avoid Bloody as much as I can even if that would mean taking the long way to home or simply catching a ride to work in a different terminal in one of those smelly and sweaty old rickety vans. But the thought of him persisted like a rash. So I sought advice from an old friend, Mistress Yoda, who explicitly told me these words of wisdom: “To forget a guy, get another guy.”

Like a good student, I put this awesome insight to a test. So I tried out a different venue to fish for guys without getting bitten. I spent a couple of nights lurking inside Yahoo! Chat sporting a cool handle called “Dancing Red Shoes”.

There I met “Puppy” – a thirty something guy who looked perfect from all camera angles. With eyeglasses on, he was like Super Boy.

Since he was in town for vacation, I agreed to meet him up in Podium on the basis of pure good looks. Puppy did not disappoint. He looked like a Makati executive with sleeves up his elbows. From time to time, he would check on his Blackberry or flip a pack of Dunhill with his other hand. I could tell the guy was either nervous….or bored at his wits.

While having dinner, he threw in those usual questions – and general assumptions – that pertain to my celibate life. They no longer shock me. I have been comfortable living in my own skin and knowing the fact that I really don’t know how to attract the proper guy for me. I was no longer surprised when Puppy confessed that he had a wife who left him to marry a rich man, and whisked his daughter away to Macau.

I told you. Why I seem to attract these men bearing these tales of bad marriages, I have no idea.

To sum up Puppy’s sad story, he just came home to exact vengeance on his in-laws who consented to the affair and show the world that he is no weenie. So he took my hand and asked me to be his girlfriend. I burst out laughing.

“I think what you really need right now is a lawyer. I’ve got friends.” I immediately withdrew my hand and dug deep into my pockets. “Let’s go home.”

After that movie date disaster, I moved on to the next plan. A friend asked me to take on a dinner assignment somewhere near Good Guy’s workplace. I thought it was a best excuse to invite Good Guy over and scrutinize him further layer by layer. I had it scheduled and informed him about it a week before. Who would refuse a free dinner, right?

The big day came after a pretty bad week in the office. It culminated in a hyper-charged Friday and as expected of an unlucky day, I went through that exasperating series of unfortunate events. That meeting in the office did not go quite well as I ended up a toast on my seat. On my way, I almost mauled a taxi driver for his overcharging meter so he dropped me off in the middle of nowhere. My feet inside those black pumps hurt from walking because some freaky taxi drivers decided to become choosy of their destinations that day.

The world has gone mad.

When I reached the restaurant, I was already in a fight mood. I was this angry volcano ready to spew out hot molten lava at the slightest provocation.

Good Guy came a bit late and he apologized profusely. While we’re having dinner and catching up on our post-movie date lives, I was mentally assessing whether I wanted him to be a boyfriend or just a friend who I only see four times a year. The basic question was “Why do I like Good Guy?”. Then, a whole lot more. Was it because he got promoted? Overflowing talent? Kindness? Or was it because I was left with very few choices since my prospects have recently crossed over to the “dark side” to become pink butterflies?

What would his best friend my ex-boyfriend say? And why in the world does my ex’s opinion still matter?

It turned out that the seismic effect of our first meeting on him has gradually worn out in the passing of time.

I don’t blame him. After all, that was almost a decade ago when I still held the throne of his ideal mate. People change and their preferences shift from Jollibee to McDo and then Burger King. While Good Guy morphed into a rock star from an obscure and extremely shy guy, I remained the faithful girlfriend of his best friend. Now, there is no compelling reason why he would waste his time on someone who is not even Jessica Alba‘s toes nor the penguin she fed in the movie. Women started rearing their heads toward his direction. What sort of peculiarities do I have to stand out in the mob?

The truth is I was the only one experiencing the after-shocks while he was there enjoying his gyoza.

The dinner lasted for an hour. The conversation progressed from appetizers to museum curators, dead people and nothing else. There was no after-dinner-let’s-have-coffee talks, not even a walk in that polluted park. He had to go back to work. I was also tired and sleepy and my feet hurt already. I was pretty exhausted for anything romantic I fell asleep in the bus.

I woke up one fine morning and decided to take matters in my own hands. I would have not been labeled “stalker” in my early years if it weren’t for my reputation of stalking boys I had a crush on in high school and getting their vital information their sweethearts did not even know about (i.e. parents’ names, siblings, ambition, definition of love – don’t ask, it sucks.). It’s time to put the old charm to work.

Two weeks after I visited Good Guy in his museum and rubbed elbows with people whose names I only read about online, I sent him a text message inviting him to watch a movie with me in two hours. (Brushing his teeth and travel time were included in the calculation). But not without a bribe that said “It’s free”.

Good Guy quickly jumped on the free movie trap. In less than two hours, we were at the cinema lobby.

He looked tired and sleepy and crumpled all over. I felt guilty about breaking his siesta just to watch Indiana Jones with me leaving him with not much time to put on his make-up (hehe). Actually, Good Guy is not exactly your kind of metrosexual guy who sprays Axe on himself to attract flies. It no longer surprises me whenever goes around wearing whatever shirt or pants he could grab from his closet, walks on his extra large slippers and carries with him a backpack like an Abu Sayyaf alerting mall security with suspicion.

It was the first time he saw me with a make-up on, wearing jeans and a girly blouse. None of those intimidating corporate attire that often made me look like his mother. This was a deliberate change in tactic – act weak, act girly. I guess that made him go blink blink in a funny way when he saw me from across the lobby. He probably failed to guess what actually hit me…or him.

I bought the tickets, he volunteered to buy food. Gentleman, eh. Thank goodness, he has quit taking Boy Bawang to the movies. (Woo-hoo! An upgrade!) While waiting in line, we talked about a lot of things from my bad singing to his blossoming career. And he gave me something. It was a book I was borrowing from him.

While watching the movie, we were busy nibbling on our chips, whispering trivias in between “Did you know this sequel cost blah blah?” and rolling our eyes each time someone burst out a gut of laughter.

After the movie, he asked if I enjoyed it and I said the worst line ever, “Yes. Is the LRT still open?”

Where the heck did that come from?

I should have said “yes” which might have segued to “Hey, let’s have coffee and talk about what a wrinkled Harrison Ford is doing in the 2008 sequel.” But words escaped me. I left my heart and brains at the cinema, probably in one of those empty popcorn buckets.

I really do have this nasty habit of saying the wrong things at the wrong place and time. So we said our quick goodbyes and parted ways at the gate. I didn’t even try to look back. I really should have. But for some insane reason like pride, I didn’t.

Arrrgh!