Sex sells. Sex kills. Sex change.

And this is the part of the story where we discover something big, and I mean big, about the author:

Drey is a tomboy.

No, I don't mean lesbian. I mean tomboy. But we'll get to the lesbian part sooner or later.

So here's what happened.

I got a text from a friend today. Here's the conversation:

Him: Who won Miss Universe?
Me: God, I don't know. But the Spurs won 91-79...

And it hits me. Am I supposed to know these things because I'm a girl? I had to text a gay friend to ask who won the pageant, as I found myself embarrassed not knowing.

I remember another gay friend's criteria for finding out if a guy is gay or not, and believe me, it is quite fool-proof:

1. Must know Miss Universe winners, current and until maybe 10 years back.
2. Must know Oscar winners in major categories, current and maybe until 5 years back.
3. I forget--but definitely nothing about knowing who won the NBA finals, current and maybe until 10 years back.

And I start to remember all sorts of things:

1. My Turnabout poem mentioned basketball, rock music and bicycles. You remember that really cheesy song a few years back about a Dad-daughter moment with something like butterfly kisses on her hair or something? Boy, that was totally alien to me.

2. I was talking to another guy once about boxing. Out of nowhere, he goes: "How do you know all these things? I feel like I'm talking to a guy here." What do you answer to that?

3. Doesn't help too that my nickname is Drey, which many people think is a guy's name. Not that Andrea is an improvement, especially if I finally get to go to Europe. Oh, and when I was applying to that scholarship in Japan, my professor kept addressing his correspondence to a Mr. A. Teran. That's my dad, man!

4. Oh yeah! In college, I had really short hair. Every time I'd enter the MacDonald's in Katipunan, shouts of Good Afternoon, Sir! would greet me. I turn around, nobody but moi.

5. Once I watched a Red Bull-San Miguel game at Araneta Center. I was rooting for San Miguel, but happened to sit near a bunch of Red Bull fans--98 percent male. Anyway, San Mig gets a bad call from the ref, and I scream--Tangina, ref, bulag ka ba?! All the guys were looking at me and everyone on that side was quiet--I think it was a deer-in-the-crosshairs moment there for a minute. Until one old guy shouts--Ref, patingin mo daw mata mo, sabi nya! I breathe the biggest sigh of relief ever.

So what now?

Conclusion: Drea isn't only not-Filipino-at-all. She's not even a girl!!! Wow, talk about a major crisis.

*****

Now for the interesting part.

***
(Note: For those of you who have read J.D. Salinger's For Esme--with Love and Squalor, you remember the "squalor" part of the story, where the initial narrator changes or is changed into somebody totally alien, unrecognizable, and from an I to a third person? Well, assume that shift before reading the story below.

And just to be sure, can a piece of creative non fiction be used as evidence in court? Lawyer friends, get back to me on this.)
***

Before my best friend left me for Japan, we went to gigs together. Whenever we meet anybody at a bar, first question they ask is, "Are you sisters?" When we answer no, they follow up immediately with, "Lovers, then?"

Once we were crazy enough to answer yes, and pretended to flirt with each other. Boy, was that a hit. This guy was almost drooling, asking if we could kiss in front of him. My best friend answers, "You can't afford it." He just kept begging most of the night.

Just before we were about to leave, he tells me to hold out my hand. I do, and he places something in it before closing my hand into a fist. I ask him what it is, he answers, "Look later."

So I get into the cab after my best friend, and I open my palm. For being fake lesbians who will never, ever kiss--in front of guys or not, or for any amount of money (Wait... Hmmm.)--we were quite convincing, apparently. I was holding a fistful of pot.

Sweet.