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Hollywood, public health threat?

And yet another remarkable story cited by World Sex News. Highlights as follows: "Hollywood might be bad for your health... Blockbuster movies paint a consequence-free view of sex and drugs. "Dr. Hasantha Gunasekera, the study's lead author... said the findings are troubling, 'given the HIV and illicit drug pandemics in developing and industrialized countries'. "...Researchers studied a September 2003 list of the 200 biggest box-offices successes of all time... [and] of the 87 movies in the study, 28 contained sex scenes, a total of 53 scenes in all. Only one film 1990's 'Pretty Woman'... contained a 'suggestion of condom use, which was the only reference to any form of birth control'. "Most movies contained episodes of unprotected sex in which the 'only consequences were social embarrassment'. "'Basic Instinct' had six sex scenes, no birth control and no 'public health consequences' although death by ice pick was a threat... 'Die Another Day' contained three episodes of sex 'all new partners, no condoms, no birth control, no consequences at all' but at least no drug use. "Eight percent of the films contained depictions of marijuana use, and 7 percent other non-injected drugs... Characters smoked tobacco in 68 percent of the films and got drunk in 32 percent. "Only a quarter of the movies were entirely free of behavior such as unprotected sex, drug use, smoking and drinking..."

Stupid smile plastered on the closet door

Okay, I was smiling stupid and was beside myself while reading through text messages from someone unexpected. My BFF hastydevil was with me... BFF? Best friend forever, according to hasty, already enshrined in some online dictionary... he had to say something about how I became blissfully moronic looking all of a sudden, egged me to spill whatever-it-is... I had to prepare myself for another Lola Basyang moment, all potential fabulism included, but then, I actually didn't want to. Sometimes memories are best relished when it's a mess of disjoints, probably what causes the stupid smile in the first place. To organize into some cohesive narrative sometimes kills the pleasure.

The lucky texter was someone in my past when I thought I could make a complete turnaround of my dreary, too-sudden-to-plateau career path (thanks to the 1998 Asian-whatever financial crisis). I enrolled in a short certificate course on Internet "programming" sometime back, before becoming fully entrenched in NGO work -- please mind the quotes. There I met... uhmm... him -- god, I'm still having closet issues, I'm 32! The guy wasn't really hard to like -- not excessively geneticized for the Hollywood walk of fame, but really, really -- uh -- nice (?) He had this smile that made me appreciate what affective meant. A manner about himself that suggested he's really proud of his fitness, confident to be moving in his own skin. When he turned his attention on you, it's as if he's been anticipating your chatter. He's really sooo likable.

Eto na si Crush... that's what I usually told myself when he arrived in class... imagine that, I was pushing into the thirtysomethings and I get this high-schoolish, gurlish crush... But here is something of the more adult nature, one that I fondly remember. It was a rainy day, many of us came late, he came in much later (which wasn't usually the case between him and I). He was teased by the office-attire-wearing majority for looking very sporty -- I was in my usual jeans, sneakers and comfy cotton tee-shirt, no questions asked from them, I was cast as somehow a techie slacker. While the rest I think continued to regard him for his sporty jogging pants, matching jacket and shoes, I spied on his revealing, suggestive crotch-shape and damn-yer-so-fine firm ass. That was it, I was distracted for the rest of the time... what did CGI mean? For all I cared, the visual was burning in my mind... for all I cared, CGI meant crotch-grab-it (and grab it now!). And that was one moment that I could now really, really swear I'm a person of simple pleasures. That was it for me: wild, graphic imaginings almost commensurate to sexual orgasm -- and please mind the almost-word.

We became somewhat good friends afterwards. Together with other classmates, we even thought of forming some kind of consultancy consortium for web development. Until of course some of us had other career concerns -- some went abroad, mine went on to community work. With the indulgence of some other friends, I even got onto one of the favorite pasttimes of gayhood, the "is-he-isn't-he" mind-fuck game. Which really started with his one unguarded moment in class: while doing some classroom exercise, he was humming beside himself and damn, he sings like he was a madrigal in the past life. We benefited from the same tertiary schooling, likewise in liberal arts, and he was a choirboy. So what? The activist alterego in me was crying foul: no stereotyping! Then the grouping of the wildly imagined consortium; in tow were some of the better looking guys, and then me -- please mind the segregation (the better-lookings, then me). Again, so what? Then accidentally meeting him in a mall, him in the company of friends, coming out of a theatre -- turns out he also has distinct taste for theater. Again and again, so what? Then later on him learning I was doing condom use promotion in gay hedonna (a.k.a. White Beach, Puerto Galera), with a twist of increased curiosity in what I really do. Then accidentally meeting him again at a gathering of guys of "presumably similar/same persuasions" but his association was mainly because of some sport. The mind-fuck never reached an authoritative conclusion... damn, this game, but then again, I think the bigger issue here was honesty; in any kind of relationship, it's a Big-H issue.

I was never really honest with him about who I am. We exchanged text messages with sometimes slight innuendos but never faced our -- no word for this that I know at the moment -- relativities with our identities, sexual identities. Nothing too forward on text, e-mail, face-to-face. It's a closet issue, I know... I wanted to be honest, I swear, but somehow stifled the idea back into the closet. Why it should matter between us? If we were on friendly terms because of some lofty career/entrepreneurial purpose, why should identity disclosure become a biggie? Maybe because I wanted to know, but feared for the likelihood of losing our friendship, the potential damage to the infantile consortium was not even part of the equation. It's almost a cliche...

In the end, at least on this chapter where I relived my memories of him and discussed my feelings with hasty, he was not someone for me who would potentially be the one that will tear apart my stabilizing-over-the-years relationship with hunny. But he was and still is Crush, someone I really want to continue to admire, grow old with as a friend, in a relationship no longer snagged by untold truths/unspoken lies, under the terms of full honesty and openness, regardless whether we're guys of same/similar persuasions or poles apart sexual-relativity-wise. Now, if only life's circumstances could continue opening opportunities, the first one being tonight, him and I finding ourselves re-connected once more...