More and more people were coming in, most of them men who flashed outfits that made them appear like they're clones of each other. Sitting next to another one who was anxiously puffing his cigarette as if under pressure, I looked like I just came straight from bed.

The sight of it frozen me. It scared me, actually. This was the same place that became the reason for my depression last year. Well, it was not because of Station 183 but because of the superficiality married to the entire compound that housed 183--Rizal Promenade.

I wanted to tell Gwapo to persuade housemate and Queen Nostrelia put down the plan and hit a "sober" place instead. Earlier, Gwapo said he wanted a place much dimmer than 183. I said it was a 50-50 battle because I soooo dreaded 183. But even before an actual pleading can happen, housemate and Queen Nostrelia have already bought us four tickets.

So I was there, feeling like one the many excess passengers of an overly loaded boat waiting for it to sink. Everyone were in a frenzy while I was barely moving, afraid that the whole place will explode (And if that happens, at least 60 percent of homosexuals in Davao will be listed as victims).But after few shots of that blue liquid, I loosened up and it was not too long until I realized I am already as deranged as the others.

Gwapo, while he refused to leave the wall for fear that somebody might assume the spot, was also starting to gyrate and this woman kept on brushing her back on his body. Suddenly, a goodlooking male stood beside me, his right hand holding a bottle of beer. He looked dazed and despite the air of delirium that ovewhelmed the place, his only dance step was that left-and-right sway that led his arm and a portion of his body to constantly touch mine. He looked dazed and controlled. He looked like a good looking battery-operated machine.

I dismissed him and instead tried to engage the guy who later told me that I am cool in front of his girlfriend.

Gwapo was supposed to be out for only two hours and three hours have passed and we were still dancing like there was no bukas. I wasn't expecting to stay that long inside a place to crammed up one can barely feel that his crotch is already undergoing dissection or can feel the complaint of an abused butt (only that this abuse is the kind that one would always like, more or less, depending on the abuser).

And that night, I was abused. And I don't know if I liked it. Maybe, I allowed the abuse. It happened while people were slowly leaving the bar, collecting their reserved sanity. The abuser was shorter that I am and much shoter than the dazed man who later I realized had a band-aid on his nape.

Like the dazed and band-aided man, abuser was also holding a beer, drinking the bottle up with that kind of sexy smirk. Abuser came near me. Then close enough for me to smell the sweet breath. Abuser was a big tease, a huge contrary to the toned built covered by a body-tight shirt. I grabbed abuser by the waist and turned the body around as the music remained up, challenging the tympanic membrane.

Suddenly I forgot about everything as I entertained the thought of being laid that night. And as I was basking on the lights of the bar, I knew my friends' eyes were witnessing yet another moment of me being wasted.

I felt my abuser's butt pressed against my crotch and it felt good. My hands travelled slowly from the flat stomach up. There I realized that abuser has (swollen) breasts. Abuser was a woman.