There's a lot of sex in the city

After a movie-length bout of fighting off lethargy, all I got from watching Sex and the City was a sore heart.

I can't nail it in the head but I don't know why. Perhaps, it's because the movie was depicted so close to home that it either reopened some old wounds caused by heartbreaks or magnified the fact that I love but has no one to share it with. Perhaps, this was what Tiggah meant when he said "lugubrious," and frankly, I'd rather not feel anything than nurse lugubriousness inside me. I don't like the hollow it creates especially when I wake up from a disturbed sleep, 'cause it is during these times when the emptiness seems the deepest.

Foremost, it must be known that I am a staunch believer of love. No amount of heartbreak and pain can ever shake that belief. I fell, got bruised and scarred but the risk of taking my chance at love was worth it all. No regrets! The possession of that beautiful memory that's forever etched in my heart far outweigh the searing pain of the heartbreak and the long struggle that went with it. So, after everything has been said and done, when the pain and even anger has subsided, one can choose to either put one's guard against further damage or continue believing the beauty of a perfectly imperfect love. I choose the latter.

And I don't think I'm alone in that decision. The string of events that transpired over the weekend was a foolproof testament to that fact. Only that it is guised in its other subtle forms--one of them, promiscuity.

I, and two other office mates (names withheld until permission is granted), decided to take a firsthand look at the city's nightlife and confirmed it unquestionable implications to the throbbing sexual activities behind what meets the eye.

First stop was a male sports and entertainment club (Tarzan Boy) where dancers showed a lot of skin (read: all skin) for patrons to feast on while performing those provocative gyrations. As the night wore on, we noticed the seemingly patterned clothing economy: from tight-fitting jeans, to briefs that almost did not hide anything anymore, to thin and scant cloths that make you wonder why they're there in the first place, to nothing at all.

As if such display of bodies was not the way to cap the night, we proceeded to the heart of the city, to a place called "Numero Doce" where the crowd was just as aggressive. An almost-all-gay (alright, others call themselves bisexuals) music and dance bar, the sight of two guys kissing, oblivious of the people around, qualifies for the ordinary. And the chance of finding one of those guys necking with another guy is not at all flabbergasting. Gosh, that's how networking is defined in this place! When my friend whispered, "This is Sodom and Gomorrah," I could not agree more.

Indeed, there's a lot of sex in the city.

Whether this is a result of that interminable search for love or just plain promiscuity, I really cannot tell. Nor do I think it is for me to know.

As for me, the relentless quest is not yet over. Methinks that it won't stop until I find somebody who combines sex with love. 'Til then, I'll never say that my heart has found its home.

Anyone? lol