Between a boyfriend and HIV talk

I WAS SUPPOSED to meet a guy, who could have been a future boyfriend, in the morning of Aug. 9.

He was in an Iloilo hotel, and I thought I should interview (audition?) him over brunch before he flies to Manila.

But there’s this HIV/AIDS talk in the local high school set to start at 9 a.m. of the same day.

So I told the guy, “Go ahead with your breakfast, and if I finish early in Dumangas, I’ll try to catch you before you leave for the airport.”

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I was thinking I could even take him to the airport since I have a car and a driver anyway.

I was not invited to the HIV/AIDS talk, but since I’ve been shamelessly advocating for routine and regular HIV testing on social media for three years now, I felt compelled to go.

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I’m rather friendly with the faculty and staff of this local high school.

They know me.

And they know I mean well.

I’m pretty helpful with their projects.

I also know the local coordinator of the talk.

She’s a high school classmate; and she follows me on Facebook, so she knows my advocacy.

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When I arrived before the participants, and before everything else was set up, my former classmate told me she’ll give me time with the microphone after the scheduled speakers.

So, I waited for two hours and 55 minutes for my turn.

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I got the microphone exactly five minutes before noon.

(I texted the possible future boyfriend, apologizing; and, of course, he has already checked in at the Iloilo airport by that time, for his 1 p.m. flight.)

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Anyway, I watched and listened to the whole proceedings of the supposedly AIDS/HIV talk.

And I was not a very happy audience because, for three hours, they prostituted the event.

At least 30 minutes of those three hours (but more like 45) was wasted on formalities, introduction of speakers and rural health personnel present, and the masturbatory “thank you” for cumming. (Keep the pun!)

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I really felt the lecture was masturbatory.

(But more on that later.)

And then, the 2.5-hour speaker talked about Adolescent Health, and more specifically, Teenage Pregnancy.

If I heard it right, the speaker was from the Population Commission.

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In all his/her 2.25 hours of lecture — I am not playing the gender pronoun game because it really doesn’t matter whether the characters here are masculine or feminine — (s/he had a 15-minute break), the speaker dedicated maybe 30 minutes on HIV/AIDS discussing freaking modes of transmission, barriers and protection, and all those crap that Grade 8 students already know in their study of Biology.

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And the audience were senior high school students.

Grades 11 and 12!

Ages 17-19!

The speaker was so dainty that s/he called the penis in the diminutive Pitoy.

At that point, I lost it, and I screamed Buto!

Because I cannot let them perpetuate the wrong information especially concerning a scientific fact on sexual reproduction.

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Pitoy is the penis of an infant until about puberty.

Buto is the penis of a male from adolescence until he dies.

Or until he elects operative surgery for sex reassignment.

I know that some buto are so small that they look like a seven-year-old’s pitoy.

But that is really another topic.

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A stupid rural health nurse called me on that (behind my back, of course), calling me vulgar.

The exact passed on gossip was: “He (Peter Solis Nery, me) was not content with pitoy, he yelled buto.”

See, the stupidity and ignorance?

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We are talking teenage pregnancy.

Reproductive health.

Getting pregnant.

Pitoy cannot make you pregnant.

Buto can, however small it is!

However pitoy-like its size is! (To be continued/PN)