ZEN Bitchin'

Until now, I still find Valentine’s day to be  a strange holiday. From my childhood I remember that it coincides with Teacher’s day at school, a time when we give flowers and little gifts to our mentors after mass or a short program on the nobility of teachers and teaching as a profession. In high school Valentine’s day is usually when the Junior and Senior Prom is held–a time of serious adolescent anguish for me. In our home, Valentine’s day is usually observed by a somewhat special dinner cooked by my mother, with the night ending with me being tucked in bed a little earlier than usual. My parents are not the romantic, touchy-feely type of couple. Their affection for each other, I’m afraid, is for the most part, Edwardian. They are very decorous, and cautious of revealing too much of themselves. This is probably why I’m such a cold-hearted bitch myself. Of course, I joke. In recent years dinner is still being served, but with the physical improbability of them being able to tuck me in bed early, I now take it upon myself to “conveniently” vanish at the appointed time.

Here in Buddhist Cambodia, where I have seen Valentine’s day for at least 5 years, I’m still surprised at the increasing fervor in which this holiday is being celebrated. I would venture an opinion that it rivals–if not exceeds the celebration of Christmas, in terms of the commercial aspects of this particular holiday. From almost every street corner of Phnom Penh, vendors with flowers, balloons, plush toys and other gifts sprout like mushrooms after a rainy day. Blame this on the increasing purchasing power of the so-called middle class Cambodians, or on the fact that more than half of Cambodia’s population is under the age of 24, even on the youth’s love of anything barang (foreign).

Now, there has never been a Valentine’s day when I had someone to celebrate it with. It always come at at time when I had no lover, or if I had one, we always seemed to fight a week or a few days before that day, to reconcile a few days after, or never. Some of my friends think it’s a deliberate effort on my part, but it’s not. Really. I don’t mind spending for some gifts, silly as some of them might be. Though I’m clearly not the world’s biggest romantic (refer to my Edwardian parents above), I still long for that day when someone who’s not my friend will greet me a happy Valentine’s day with a kiss, or God forbid, a gift of sweets or of fragrance. But there are times when life seems to play a practical joke on me, forcing me to laugh at myself rather than risk being laughed at by others.

February 13, year ####. One of my favorite malls. I lock gazes with a man as I am browsing in a bookstore. X is 36 years old, dressed like a young executive, a brown Jansport backpack slung on his somewhat broad shoulders in place of a briefcase. We end up watching a movie, fingers entwined, his head on my shoulder. In the comfort room, a man in a white shirt and blue corduroy jacket smiles at me while we stand in front of the mirror, washing our hands. His jeans barely contains his thighs and buttocks. Y and I shake hands then start to kiss. He pulls me out of the room when three laughing boys enter. We talk in the lobby. X, whom I had almost forgotten, looks for me in the toilet and clears his throat after finding me in the lobby. After a few awkward seconds I introduce them to each other, and for a while we chat. Small, autobiographical, non-sexual talk.

But it soon becomes apparent that we are not there to talk. I discreetly lace my fingers over Y’s hand. X amiably hangs his arm over my shoulders. We grin foolishly. Laugh like mischievous Catholic schoolboys. We check into a motel near the mall, splitting the bill equally among us. Y calls room service and orders six bottles of beer. X fishes out a pack of fried peanuts from his backpack. He is shivering. Tells us it’s his first time to enter a motel with guys. Y, who’s my age, laughs. “With a guy or two guys?” X says both. But after half a bottle of beer, he is raring to go. Soon we all are. After coming, X gets up, grabs a towel and rushes into the bathroom. The sound of the shower nearly drowns out Y’s languid, sleep-laced speech.

When X emerges from the bathroom, he explains the rush. He’s married. The wife should be mildly worried by now. It’s almost midnight. We stare at him as he puts on his clothes, combs his hair, fixes his tie. Perfunctorily he asks if we’re staying and leaves without really waiting for our response. Y laughs. We didn’t even get his last name. Alone again, we snuggle. Lap up the remaining beer. Kiss. Laugh. Make love twice. While resting Y blurts that he ought to stop cruising at the theater. I ask him why. “My lover. I don’t want to keep on hurting him.” This is it, I think. No more round four. “I think you two should discuss this. If you can’t be faithful, you might want to open the relationship.” Y says the lover wouldn’t be pleased. “Well,” I said, “it’s either that or you change. Which is more possible?” Y smiled at me and the sweetness of that smile made me understand the predicament of his lover. Such beauty cannot be contained, and consequently, should not be possessed by one man alone. Loving Y would break anyone’s heart, surely. Unless one is willing to share with the world.

It’s almost 3AM when Y and I walk out of the motel, our hair still wet from the shower that we took together (round 4, as it turns out). His calling card is a brittle weight in my breast pocket. We hail a cab and he suggested I take it. He opens the door for me. As I’m about to get in he holds me by the shoulders and almost decorously plants a firm, wet kiss in my mouth.

“Happy Valentine’s day!”