Monday morning quarterbacking at G Hotel in Manila
Saturday and Sunday passed, quite really fast and seriously busy. I thought Friday never passed and I actually had a weekend that had been uselessly a breeze. Then that Friday with the girls blindsided me early this morning. And suddenly the Friday night looked really real.
The realization came slowly. Reading by the window of my hotel room at the G Hotel in Manila, I felt something on my lower back. I was in a baby tee and I thought it was just a cardboard or something that my lower back was pressed on behind me. I touched it and felt nothing.
Maybe it was the book (Memories of My Melancholy Whores by Gabriel Garcia Marquez) and the suddenly dull morning in my Manila hotel room, that I couldn’t lie still and felt compelled to strain my neck and see what was on my lower back.
I walked to the mirror beside the armoire in the hotel room, rather hurriedly and not like I was walking into the solution of some mystery. I was just irritated and wanted to see what was up with it.
Then it hit me: I had a tramp stamp printed on my lower back! I don’t know how to explain this but at that time my mom and dad and flashes of my catholic upbringing came to me at little multiple scenes.
It’s not so much about the permanent stain. It was merely henna and that I should not worry, I told myself. Still, thoughts of these girls backriding with motorcycle cuties came to me, and of those who flash their boobies at concerts and TV shows.
I’m not sure why I have thought of those things. It’s probably because it’s how tramps are portrayed in the movies, tattoo and all. Now I got my own tramp stamp and I’m no better than them. I knew I got it. I got the tattoo rather consciously and ready. Also I got it with henna because I knew better. I hope.