Some of my best memories of the local gay clubbing scene, which I’ll refer from now on as The Scene, happened around the vicinity of the corner of Orosa and Nakpil. That intersection was once the center of the universe. It was a cosmos in its own right, complete with its own set of rules and enforcers. The pecking order was simple enough for those who were part of The Scene, but was something that outsiders could never even begin to fathom.
I knew my place in the hierarchy and just like everyone else like me, I was trying – sometimes desperately – to claw my way to the top. I never did get there, but I came close. By the time I was just about ready to charge, something changed. Suddenly, the cosmos warped and that area of the universe deflated, quickly becoming a hollow shell of its former gloriously fabulously over-the-top self.
I mourn the death of the shining star known as Orosa-Nakpil, and I can’t help thinking that my own actions contributed to its demise. While I was never a regular patron of the bars and clubs in the vicinity, I dabbled a lot and just like everyone else like me, I took pride in being an enthusiast. It was the early 2000s and I was a young gay man searching for an identity, for meaning, for a purpose. I was looking for affection, attention, attraction and emotion. I needed to feel special, that I belonged, that I was not invisible.
It’s hard to talk about homosexuality without touching on social norms, conventions and expectations. Let’s just say that The Scene defied all that and gave bois – yes, that word is intentionally spelled that way – like me a place to be truthful. The Scene was our pact of honesty. Our own little cosmos was our safe haven. In it, we were free.
To understand my point, I have to take you back to the year 2000, when the American version of the TV series Queer as Folk debuted. The show was about a group of gay friends who each had his own issues. It was groundbreaking in the sense that it was a frank discussion about The Scene. While the characters were, on some level, stereotypical, the show explored complex personalities; personalities that were once on the sidelines and depicted in pop culture as one-dimensional. The themes of Queer as Folk might have been a reflection of the times in the Western world, but in the Philippines, they were unheard of.
I’d like to think that the show was instrumental in the formation of the Orosa-Nakpil cosmos. The most popular gay-oriented dance club of the 2000s was obviously patterned after Queer as Folk’s Club Babylon. It was a fantasy, an illusion, a dream state that tired, weary and conflicted souls could enter to feel something. It didn’t have to be joy or lust or an emotion that remotely resembles love. It just needed to be something. Anything.
And that, in itself, was reassuring. The thumping beat of the vocal house track that the DJs would spin were actually reassuring enough: That you were in the cosmos, that you were shielded from the judgment and persecution of the outside world, that you were not alone. It was comforting to know that you were home.
Of course, judgment and persecution also exist at home. There was nothing as inclusive and exclusive – accepting and isolating – as the cosmos. Those contradictions kept The Scene interesting; it kept the balance of things. It was where the out-and-proud actor was treated like a star and not the sidekick he usually plays on TV. It was where drag queens were welcomed, celebrated and revered for their hair-and-makeup skills, impersonation abilities and lip-syncing panache.
What happened in the cosmos stayed in the cosmos. It was where the closeted celebrity could let loose and not be outed. “It would be our little (open) secret,” our knowing eyes would tell him. Without phones that can take and send pictures directly to the World Wide Web, secrets were relatively safe. You could do a lap in nothing but your too-tight underwear barely keeping your erection from flopping all over the place. You could be touching, feeling and making out with three people all at once in some backroom or alleyway. A dozen guys could’ve seen your penis while you were peeing, either because you were showing off or you were using one of the urinals in the middle of the men’s room – those mounted on the transparent wall. Still, your dignity would be intact come Monday morning when you get to the office in a crisp shirt and tie. Pristine. Virginal. Saintly.
But the cosmos was also a wretched place of rejection, betrayal, deceit and occasional prostitution. Make no mistake about it; queers are judgmental. And we are not afraid to show it. The cosmos was a smorgasbord of eye candy, potential partners and lovers and a constant supply of hard-bodied young men looking for other hard-bodied young men. There was something for everyone – including but most definitely not limited to the twinks for those who like ‘em young, lean and smooth; the bears for those who prefer a little meat (and a lot of hair) around the bones; the otters for those who’d rather have the hair without the extra pounds; the jocks for those who can’t get over their college fantasies; and the daddies for those who have old-guy fetishes – but not everyone got what they wanted. Feelings were bound to be hurt. And they did get hurt. Constantly.
Loyalties and boundaries were tested. Friendships and relationships were on the line. One’s self-worth, convictions and sometimes, sanity hung in the balance. It was a never-ending three-way tug-of-war among the intellect, the emotions and the stiffening penis. It was a game that very few won but we played along nonetheless.
But all of us had to grow up eventually. We couldn’t stay bois forever and keep playing the game and dance every weekend night away. At some point, we had to become men. Have I reached that point? I have no idea. But I knew towards the late 2000s that I had to move on. I had to let The Scene go.
I’m @EdBiado on Twitter and Instagram
