BY MAURO GIA SAMONTE
Last of two parts
(Disclaimer: This narrative is a creative interpretation of real-life events, and thus contains fictional elements and other embellishments. No disrespect or harm is intended.)
TIME seemed to slow down as Mary Rose’s nakedness merged with Vincent’s as he impulsively stretched his arms to catch her and cushion her fall.
Completing the poetry in their movements were the avid reactions of Jamal and his men as they gathered around the couple to enjoy the unfolding toro, the colloquial term for a live-sex show.
But then time froze for both participants.
Except for forestalling certain violation by the Abu Sayyaf bandits, Mary Rose had no reason whatsoever to go through the ordeal. She and Vincent were co-workers and buddies, yes, but shared no emotional bond. As they say in Filipino, “Trabaho lang. Walang personalan (All for work. Nothing personal).”
Vincent was much older in the industry than Mary Rose, who got initiated in broadcast journalism after graduating from college nearly a year ago. In fact, the straightforward Vincent is married, with no reputation for cheating at all. That venture into Abu Sayyaf country was just one of those routine, albeit perilous, professional news coverages he and Mary Rose did in tandem. Being more experienced, Vincent was glad to be able to contribute to the development of Mary Rose as a broadcast journalist.
Taking a snack together during a break in their work one time, he opened up a topic.
“You’re not getting any younger,” he told her.
“So?” she asked.
“I don’t see any boy wooing you.”
“How sure are you?” she said, laughing.
“Nobody’s been fetching you after work, as is normally done by boyfriends.”
She looked at him, amazed at how his deduction was correct.
“You’re right. Nobody’s there to do that fetching.”
“You’re insulting yourself,” he said.
“Insulting… what?”
“By not having a boyfriend at your age.”
She grew serious, minding her sherbet.
“You’re definitely not ugly,” Vincent remarked.
She went on suckling the straw in her drink.
“Surely you could count boyfriends for beads in your rosary.”
Mary Rose shrugged her shoulders, even as she attempted to laugh off the topic.
“Why?” he pressed the issue.
With a girlish tease in her eyes, Mary Rose drew her face close to him, making like whispering a secret.
“I don’t want to lose my virginity.”
They laughed.
Proof in the pudding
JAMAL’S men laughed as Mary Rose dropped on Vincent. It entertained them exceedingly to see Mary Rose nearly scoring, as if it were a shooting competition, a bullseye or a ball skirting the hole for a near-ace.
At any rate, in the case of Jamal, the sight made him feverish with demonic envy: Vincent’s crotch getting crushed by Mary Rose’s thighs.
Jamal skipped breaths, his tongue subtly licking his lips.
But seconds ticked by, rapidly it seemed, with Jamal and his men anticipating the show, but no sign of it starting.
Jamal grew mad. He stepped closer to the two, drawing his .45, cocking it, then pointed it at the two. He focused the pistol on Mary Rose when he spoke.
“You’re his wife. Prove it!”
Mary Rose was not intimidated by the gun. She had been covering the police beat and crime scenes so much that firearms and violence have made her practically immune to terror.
It was the sheer obscenity of what she was being told to do that was nauseating her. How could a girl ever make love to a man that wasn’t her sweetheart? And in her case, she had sworn to keep her chastity intact for the boy she would eventually marry, and only after entering into the sanctity of marriage.
Mary Rose could only cast a pleading gaze at Vincent. He melted in a lovely reminiscence.
Kuya to a sister
IT had been a hard day’s work. From an assignment in a suburban part of Metro Manila, Mary Rose and Vincent were going back to the studio, seated together in the front seat of the van, with the crew in the back seat.
“It’s been tiring, Kuya (big brother),” Mary Rose said, sliding a bit into her seat to settle into a more relaxed position.
“Well, come to think of it,” Vincent said, inching aside to give room for Mary Rose’s movement.
“Yes?”
“Life is really about getting satisfied by something you get after so much tiring.”
“As people say…”
“The harder the struggle, the sweeter the success.”
Actually, Mary Rose didn’t finish her words because she began dozing off. Soon she was snuggling up to him. He let her, anyway, even moving so as to get her more snug on his bosom.
They had been that way for long already. The shared challenges, along with the little rewards, in the industry had deepened their relationship into that siblings share.
Times had not been few when Vincent would liken their relationship to that shared by the boy and girl in the phenomenal movie Blue Lagoon, which starred the beautiful Brooke Shields. From a shipwreck in the Pacific Ocean, the two are washed ashore on an island together with their mother, and when the woman passes away, the two are left to fend for themselves against the vicissitudes of surviving on the bare provisions of nature, like fish and fruits. The children forge through it all by themselves, from gamboling in the waves or romping through the little torrents of the stream for endless play or chasing some little wild animals for food.
And then comes the inevitable. One morning, the now-adolescent boy rushes to join the now-adolescent girl in her apparently play by the bank of the river, but she repels his advance by throwing stones at him, yelling, “Go away!”
The boy withdraws, not quite understanding what has happened.
Only a woman, through sheer natural instinct, would know that what is happening to her at the moment is a distinctly female concern that is not to be divulged to a boy: she is having her first menstruation. She was on the waters’ edge, trying in vain to stem the flow of blood from her crotch by washing it.
Everybody knows that once a woman reaches that period in her life, she is ripe for procreation. Issues of morality, whether from the standpoint of the religious or from those advocating so-called norms of civilized social conduct, have through the ages clouded this primordial need of a man and a woman to copulate. But on an isolated island, where no such norms prevailed, a girl reaching the age of puberty just must find a mate, even if that happens to be her brother.
The tires of the van hit a bump on the road. It shook Vincent off his thoughts of Blue Lagoon. At the same time, Mary Rose woke up. Realizing she was pressed close to his chest, she straightened up.
“Sorry,” she said.
“No worries,” he told her. He drew her to his bosom again, even pressing her head there gently, his hand caressing her hair.
“Sleep, sis. You’re tired.”
She deeply appreciated the touch. She dozed off again, feeling snug and safe as she burrowed her face in his breast.
Proof of the pudding
SO now, while images of Brooke Shields and Christopher Atkins making love by a bonfire in Blue Lagoon seized Vincent’s mind, the sight of Jamal’s .45 caliber being poked into Mary Rose’s head struck Vincent as throwing them into just that kind of inevitable coitus, though they may be brother and sister.
Exasperated, Jamal coldly issued the ultimate command to Mary Rose: “Shoot him. Or I’ll shoot you.”
As Mary Rose continued to defy the command, Jamal abruptly replaced his .45 into the holster and then snatched her, already unzipping the fly of his pants.
Vincent knew what Jamal was up to. Images of Mary Rose reeling and being tossed in an orgy with Jamal and his men horrified him. Being the doting kuya that he was, his impulse was to shield her. He grabbed Mary Rose away from the Abu Sayyaf leader, laid her on the ground and lost no time in beginning to undulate on top of her.
At the start of the act, it was a rough rummage Vincent did of Mary Rose’s flesh with his manly faculties. Actually he was a gentle lover, but he deliberately did the stuff of bomba actors in the 1960s if only to convince his captors that he was indeed Mary Rose’s husband, and he was taking absolute liberty with whatever that pleased him of her physical endowments.
But then at the ultimate union of genitals, both Vincent and Mary Rose could not but melt in a lovely poetry of motion that was a veritable reprise of the brother and sister of the Blue Lagoon gifting each other for the first time the pure bliss that intercourse brought.
Quite satisfied with the duo’s performance, the bandits went back to their quarters.
Only Jamal stayed behind, keenly observing the mannerisms of Vincent and Mary Rose as they softly gathered their scattered garments. Vincent, up on his feet, was visibly contrite, stealing apologetic glances at Mary Rose, who stayed seated even as she reached out for the pieces of her own clothing.
Done with gathering their clothes, the two started to head back to their quarters.
At that precise point when Vincent helped Mary Rose get up, Jamal stretched to pick a burning stick from the bonfire with which to light his cigarette. He gaped almost in horror as he saw Mary Rose’s butt leaving a big blot of blood on the ground.
“That woman bled!” he exclaimed to himself.
His conclusion was verified when he noticed that as Mary Rose was being led away by Vincent toward their hut, a streak of fresh blood was snaking down her inner thigh.
Jamal raged to himself, punching his groins.
Epilogue
THE kidnapping of Vincent and Mary Rose was a sensational one. It was significant for many reasons. It highlighted the importance of broadcast media in the overall national polity. The exploits of the two definitely contributed to the government effort in really neutralizing the Abu Sayaff menace. And in the case of Mary Rose, it should exalt her to a singular notch of heroism unparalleled in the annals of broadcast journalism.
What greater price can be exacted from a girl in order to get her job done than the sacrifice of her chastity?
It was no extraordinary day that weekend Mary Rose brought a three-year-old girl to play at a mall fun center. They were having fun when the ball the tot was playing rolled away, ending by the feet of a man. The girl rushed to get the ball, but stopped as the man—Vincent—knelt to pick it up and offer it to the child.
“Mommy,” said the girl, turning toward Mary Rose, who rushed after her.
Mary Rose picked the girl up and carried her in her arms. She had already recognized Vincent as she approached so that it was no surprise for her when he rose to offer the ball to the girl.
“Hi,” said Vincent.
“Hi,” said Mary Rose. “How are you?”
“Fine,” he said. “And you?”
“Moving on,” she said, visibly gritting her jaw.
“Nice to hear that,” he said. “Been long since we worked together last.”
“I like it that way. You’re a married man.”
“You could find someone else…”
Mary Rose pressed a smile on her lips, shaking her head slightly.
“I’ve given myself once,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to give it to anyone else anymore.”
The girl in Mary Rose’s arms now grabbed the ball away from Vincent’s hand.
“Give me that!” said the girl.
“Darling, don’t be rude,” Mary Rose lightly admonished the girl.
The girl clipped the ball tight in her arms, saying, “This is mine.”
“And he is yours,” said Mary Rose, indicating Vincent.
The girl gaped.
Vincent butted in, “About time you know, darling. I’m your Daddy.”
In the delightful din of the fun center—the cheers, the laughter, the joy, the endless excitement of people in their respective pursuits of happiness—Vincent, on foot, engaged Mary Rose and their daughter, riding a horse on the carousel, in a very merry chase.
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