Chapter 3: The Interrogation
The perfume in the air was gunpowder and gardenias. Daphne stared back at me from the mirror, a sharper, more radiant version of myself, the black smear from Jerry’s question now blended expertly into a smoky wing. A flaw transformed into intention.
“He didn’t come,” I said, my voice flat, the Daphne falsetto switched off.
Jerry paused, a segment of orange suspended halfway to his lips. “In his pants, you mean.”
“No, Jelina.” I picked up a rhinestone, dipped it in lash glue, and pressed it to the corner of my eye. The cold prickle anchored me. “He didn’t come at all. We just talked. And then we slept.Literally. On the floor.”
The silence was thick, broken only by the wet tear of another orange segment. “Huh,” Jerry finally grunted. “A talking head. With a plump, delicious-looking ass. Who knew?”
I swiveled on the stool to face him. He was draped in his pre-Jelina sweats, a king on a threadbare velvet chaise. “It wasn’t just talking. It was…” I searched for Omar’s word. “It was sharing an electron pair, or some shit. It was chemistry.”
“It was chemistry last week with that bartender from West Hollywood, and you left smelling like well tequila and regret.”
“This is different.” My protest sounded weak, even to me. I turned back to the mirror, securing the heavy, beaded choker around my throat. It felt like a collar. A statement. “He sees me. The me behind the me, you know?”
“I know the me behind your me better than anyone, anak,” Jerry said softly. He stood up, brushing orange-scented fingers on his sweatpants, and came to stand behind me. His hands settled on my bare shoulders. In the mirror, our reflections contrasted—his practical, concerned face above my glittering, armoured façade. “I just don’t want that sweet boy’s electron pair to short-circuit your main power grid. You have a show in twenty minutes. Daphne is not a mopey bitch.”
He was right. The bass from the club vibrated through the floorboards, a primal call. I took a deep breath, shoving the image of Omar’s morning smile into a mental compartment labeled ‘Later.’ I flipped the switch.My posture straightened. The slight slouch of David disappeared. The gaze in the mirror sharpened, glinting with a challenge that hadn’t been there a second before. “Daphne,” I said, testing the resonance in my chest, “is a superstar. Now, hand me the panotsa.”
Jerry grinned, the worry evaporating. “Now you’re talking.” He passed me the oversized, feathered fan, a masterpiece of absurdity and defiance. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”
The walk from the dressing room to the side-stage curtain was a transformation tunnel. The muffled bass clarified into a pounding track. The scent shifted from perfume to sweat, alcohol, and anticipation. I peered through the gap in the curtain.
Neon Sin was breathing. The Tuesday crowd was thinner, but they were my crowd. The gays who lived for art over popularity, the queens from other bars on their night off, the shy college kids clinging to the walls, their eyes wide. I scanned the shadows near the back.No Omar. Not yet.
My host, a queen named Margo Despair in a sublime beetle-shell gown, finished her announcement. “...and you know her, you love her, the Pearl of the Pacific, give it up for the devastating, the delectable, DAPHNE!”
I burst through the curtain.
The light was a physical blow, hot and white. The roar of the crowd was a wave that lifted me. I hit the first mark, struck a pose, the fan obscuring my face. The opening bars of my remix—a throbbing, tribal version of a classic Aegis ballad—crashed over the room. I snapped the fan down.
For the next eleven minutes, I was not David. I was not the boy who ate panqueques on a sunlit floor.I was fury. I was joy. I was a typhoon in sequins. I lip-synced to the heartbreak in the lyrics, my face a tragedy mask. I death-dropped at the climax, the controlled chaos of the fall erupting into a whirlwind of spins on the floor. I rose, flushed and heaving, to the scream of the crowd.
I owned them. Every eye.Every breath. I strutted down the runway, catching tips between my fingers with a merciless grin. I bantered with Margo, a sharp, practiced exchange that drew laughs. I was perfect.
And then I saw him.
He was standing just inside the entrance, backlit by the hallway light, a silhouette of hesitation. Omar. He was dressed simply, a dark sweater and jeans, looking utterly alien and entirely beautiful. Our eyes met across the swirling crowd and colored lights.
Something in my performance shifted. The fury bled out. The joy remained, but it softened, became more open. My next pose, aimed directly at him, wasn’t one of defiance, but of offering. The song ended on a final, ringing note. I held my final pose, chest heaving, eyes locked on his.
The applause was thunder. I took my bows, blew kisses, but my energy was already funneling towards the exit. I practically ran offstage, sweating and triumphant, back into the dim back hallway.
Jerry was there, holding my robe. “You were electric,” he said, wrapping it around my shoulders. “And you saw him.”
“I saw him.”
“Go,” he said, giving me a gentle shove. “I’ll handle the vultures. But David?” I stopped. His face was serious. “Remember the compartment. You’re still holding the spotlight in your hands. It’s hot. Don’t drop it on someone who doesn’t know how to catch it.”
I nodded, squeezing his hand. Then I was moving, the robe flapping around my legs, towards the back door that led to the alley.
The night air was a cold slap after the club’s wet heat. The alley smelled of garbage and damp concrete. And there he was, leaning against the brick wall, his face illuminated by the buzzing neon of a ‘Sin’ sign. He looked up, and his hesitant smile unraveled something tight in my chest.
“You,” he breathed. “You were… that was… I have no words.”
“Chemist at a loss for words?” I teased, leaning against the wall next to him, our shoulders not quite touching. The adrenaline was still singing in my veins, making me jittery. “I’ll take it.”
“It was a controlled exothermic reaction,” he said, the words tumbling out. “You released so much energy. The room… it combusted.”
I laughed, the sound raw and real in the quiet alley. “Yeah, well. It’s my job.” I glanced at him. The awe in his face was undiluted, pure. It wasn’t the lust I was used to, the hunger for Daphne. It was wonder. For the art.For me. It was terrifying. “You came.”
“You invited me.” He said it like it was the simplest equation in the world.
We stood in silence for a moment, listening to the muffled bass from inside. “I’m still… keyed up,” I admitted. “From the show. It takes a while to come down.”
Omar pushed off the wall and turned to face me fully. “Can I help?”
The question was innocent, but the way he looked at me—direct, curious, wanting—was not. The last of Daphne’s armor cracked. Here was David, sweaty, in a robe, stubble already shadowing his jaw.
“Yeah,” I said, my voice dropping to its natural register. “You can.”
He didn’t kiss me. He stepped closer, into my space, and slowly, deliberately, put his arms around me. He pulled me into a hug. It was firm, solid. He rested his cheek against my temple. I stood frozen for a second, then melted into him. The rough brick was at my back, his plush warmth at my front. My heart hammered against his. I could feel the residual tremors from the performance leaching out of my muscles, absorbed by his steady hold.
I don’t know how long we stood there. A car honked on the street. A drunk couple stumbled past the alley mouth, laughing. He just held me.
When I finally stirred, he loosened his grip. I pulled back just enough to see his face. “Thank you,” I whispered.
“You’re shaking.”
“Adrenaline dump.” I took a deep, steadying breath. “I need to get cleaned up. And then… you still want to meet Jerry? It won’t be glamorous. It’s leftover Chinese and probably him bitching about his heel blister.”
Omar’s smile was like the sun coming out. “I want that. Very much.”
An hour later, we were in the cluttered, cozy chaos of our apartment. Jerry, now out of drag and in a ratty T-shirt, had transformed into the ultimate mother hen. He’d heated up the leftover Kung Pao chicken and egg rolls, opened a bottle of cheap red wine, and was holding court on the couch.
“So, Omar,” Jerry said, pointing a chopstick at him. “David says you’re a genius. Explain to me, a simple beauty queen, what the hell an electron pair is.”
Omar, sitting cross-legged on the floor by the coffee table, launched into an earnest, simplified explanation. Jerry listened, feigning intense concentration, then winked at me over Omar’s head.
The night dissolved into easy laughter. Omar asked Jerry about drag, about the Philippines. Jerry, disarmed by his genuine curiosity, dropped the protective snark and told stories about our early days, the failed performances, the wardrobe malfunctions. I watched them, this two-most-important-people Venn diagram overlapping in my living room, and felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the wine.
Eventually, Jerry yawned extravagantly. “Okay, boys. This queen needs her beauty sleep. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” He gave me a significant look—a look that said ‘be careful’ and ‘I like him’ in equal measure—and disappeared into his bedroom.
The quiet after he left was comfortable. We were on the floor again, much like in Omar’s apartment, but here the landscape was familiar: my manga stacked haphazardly, an empty wine bottle, the fuzzy glow of the TV on mute.
“He’s wonderful,” Omar said softly.
“He’s my family,” I replied simply.
Omar nodded, understanding the weight of that word. He looked around, his eyes landing on a framed picture on the shelf—me and Jerry, years younger, arms slung around each other on a Pride float, faces painted with glitter and pure, unadulterated joy. “You looked happy,” he said.
“We were.” I followed his gaze. “We are.” I turned back to him. The question from the dressing room, Jerry’s crude, protective question, surfaced. “You know… you could have.Last night. Or tonight.”
He knew what I meant. He played with the fringe of the rug. “I know.”
“Why didn’t you?”
He looked up, his dark eyes earnest in the low light. “Because you’re a reaction I want to study. I want to observe every step. The slow build. The catalysts.” He reached out and touched my cheek, his thumb brushing the spot where my makeup had been, where Daphne had been. “I don’t want to rush and miss the intermediate compounds.”
His words, so uniquely him, hit me in a place I didn’t have a name for. It was the most romantic, most scientifically bizarre thing anyone had ever said to me.
I caught his wrist. “What if I want to be rushed?” My voice was a low thrum.
He leaned in. His breath was sweet from the wine. “Then tell me.”
So I did. I closed the distance and kissed him. This wasn’t like the soft, exploratory kiss on his rug. This was David, post-Daphne, adrenaline replaced by a different, more demanding fire. I poured everything into it—the loneliness behind the spotlight, the hope he ignited, the pure, sharp want for his mind and his body. He met me with a surprised gasp that melted into a moan, his hands coming up to fist in my shirt.
When we broke apart, we were both breathing heavily. I rested my forehead against his. “Your place or mine?” I murmured.
“Yours,” he breathed. “Here.”
I stood up, pulling him with me. I led him to my bedroom, a small space dominated by a large, unmade bed and stacks of books. I didn’t turn on the main light, just the small lamp on my nightstand, casting the room in a warm, intimate glow.
We stood facing each other. The bravado was gone. I was just David, tired, real, wanting.
“I need you to tell me what you want,” I said. “No assumptions. No missed intermediates.”
Omar’s cheeks flushed. He looked at the bed, then back at me. “I want… you. Everything. But I’ve never… with a man.”
“That’s okay.” My voice was softer now, a contrast to the stage boom. I kept his hands in mine, my thumbs tracing his knuckles. “We can go as slow as you want. No pressure, anak. Just what feels good.”
He nodded, swallowing hard. His pulse fluttered visibly in his throat.
“Tonight,” I continued, choosing my words with a care that felt foreign, “we can just… explore. I want to taste you. All of you.” I felt a hungry flare low in my gut, thinking of the curve of him I’d felt against my back. “I want to lick that big, plump ass of yours.”
A sharp, startled breath escaped him. His eyes widened, but not with fear—with a dawning, eager comprehension.
“But for anything else,” I said, holding his gaze, “we have to be patient. My cock is… substantial. Fucking you without prepping you properly would be painful, not pleasurable. Chemistry, right? You need the right conditions for the reaction.”
He licked his lips, a nervous, quick motion. “By big,” he whispered, “how big do you mean?”
I released his hands. The room was very quiet. I could hear the hum of the refrigerator down the hall, the distant sigh of a car passing outside. I reached for the waistband of my sweatpants.
“Eight inches,” I said, the words flat, factual. “Of pure Pinoy steel.”
I pushed the fabric down and let my cock spring free. It was half-hard already, thick and heavy. I watched his face, the cascade of reactions. Scientific curiosity first, a sharp, assessing look. Then a slow, visceral recognition of scale. Then, a warm, deep flush that spread from his cheeks down his neck.
He didn’t look away. He leaned in closer, his analytical mind seemingly overriding his shyness. “It’s a different… architecture,” he murmured, more to himself than to me. He didn’t touch, just observed.
He leaned closer, his breath a warm ghost over my skin. "The vascularity is significant."
I let out a choked laugh. "That's one word for it."
The cool air of the room met my damp skin, tightening it. I watched him watch me, his intellectual fascination slowly yielding to something darker, more physical. His own arousal was evident now, tenting the front of his jeans. The flush on his neck had deepened.
I reached out, not to grab him, but to rest my hand lightly on his shoulder. "Observations are great, papi," I said, my voice dropping to a low, rough register. "But science is hands-on." I gave him a gentle push backward until his calves hit the edge of my bed. He sat down with a soft exhale, his gaze still locked below my waist.
The study lamp haloed his curls, catching the gold in his brown eyes. He looked up at me from the bed, and something in his face had changed. The hesitation was dissolving, replaced by a focused, almost solemn desire.
"Okay," he said.A simple word. A surrender. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip.
"Stand up," I said. "For me."
He rose, a little unsteady. The sweater and jeans, so modest, suddenly seemed like complicated packaging. I took my time, making a show of it. The soft shhh of the cotton sweater as I pulled it up and over his head. The click of his belt buckle, the rasp of his zipper. I pushed the denim down his hips, letting them pool at his feet.
He stood before me in just his briefs, pale skin glowing in the lamplight, his build soft and generous where mine was sharp and lean.
"Beautiful," I murmured, and I meant it. I traced the line of his hip, the swell of his belly, feeling him shiver under my touch.
Then, I turned him. I placed a firm hand on the small of his back, a gentle pressure until he was bent forward, bracing himself on the mattress. My other hand hooked into the waistband of his briefs and pulled them down.
His ass was full, round, perfect. Two handfuls of softness. A low groan escaped me, purely instinctual. I ran both hands over the curves, kneading gently.
"You're all brain, all day, thinking so hard," I whispered, leaning over his back. My voice was gravel. "But this... physics doesn't lie, anak. This body needs something else."
I dropped to my knees behind him. The worn carpet scratched my skin. I heard his sharp intake of breath just before I pressed my face into him. The scent was clean, musky, uniquely his. I licked a long, slow stripe from his taint to the base of his spine. He gasped, his knuckles whitening on the comforter.
I ate his ass with a single-minded hunger I usually reserved for the stage. Not a tentative exploration, but a claiming. I licked and sucked at his rim, teasing it open with the flat of my tongue before probing with the tip. My hands gripped his hips, holding him steady as he shuddered and pushed back against my mouth with a quiet, broken sound.
The taste of him, the softness, the way his whole body trembled—it was a symphony. My own cock throbbed, heavy and neglected between my legs. But this was his first time, and I wanted him drowning in sensation, his mind wiped clean of everything but this.
After what felt like an eternity, I stood up. My jaw ached pleasantly. I guided him to turn around, to sit on the edge of the bed. His lips were parted, his eyes glazed and wide.
"Look at you," I said, my thumb tracing his wet, swollen lower lip. My other hand took his, wrapped his fingers around my shaft. His hand was hot, his grip tentative. I moved his fist up and down, showing him the rhythm, the pressure. "You studied the data. Now apply it."
He understood. He shifted, getting to his knees on the floor between my legs. He looked up at me, his face a perfect mix of worship and carnal curiosity.
"Do it," I said, cradling the back of his head. My accent thickened, the words blunt and crude because in this moment, that was the purest truth. "Suck my big Pinoy cock."
He opened his mouth. The first touch of his warm, wet tongue on the head was electric. He was clumsy, all lips and teeth at first. I guided him patiently, with my hands and with low, gritted-out instructions. "Slower... use your tongue there, on that vein... that's it... deeper now, just relax your throat."He learned fast. His natural curiosity became a wicked asset. He listened to my hitched breaths, watched the twitch of my muscles, and adjusted. The scrape of his teeth became a perfect, controlled edge. His mouth was a hot, willing cavern. He hollowed his cheeks, sucked hard, took me deeper each time until I felt the head nudge the back of his throat.
"Fuck, just like that," I choked out.
His eyes were streaming, but he didn't stop. He looked up at me through wet lashes. The visual alone, his plush lips stretched around me, his cheeks flushed with effort, was going to end me. The tight coil in my gut wound tighter, a screaming, imminent thing.
I pulled him off by his hair, gently but firmly. A string of spit connected his lips to my glistening tip. He gasped for air, his lips swollen and slick.
"Stand up," I rasped. He did, wobbling, leaning into me.
I stroked myself fast, my fist a blur. My other hand pulled him close, forcing him to watch.
"I wanted to eat that perfect ass," I breathed, the words hot against his ear. "Now I wanna mark this perfect face."
My release hit me like a sudden electrical storm. It wasn't a sigh; it was a punch of air forced from my lungs. Thick, hot stripes of white painted his cheek, his jaw, caught in his eyelashes. He flinched at the first sudden warmth but didn't pull away.
I kept him there until I was spent. My heartbeat was a frantic drum in my ears. I looked at him, panting, spent. He was a mess. My mess. He slowly opened his eyes, blinking. He reached up a hand, then stopped, unsure.
"Don't," I whispered. I leaned in and licked a single stripe through the mess on his cheek, tasting salt and bitterness and us. "Perfect reaction."