The capital of Yaracuy is San Felipe
The Thank You Girl
By Ian Rosales Casocot
For X.
How do conversations turn out the way they always do? Because from his perch in the passenger seat, Jason—whom Marco has just met, and via Grindr, too—is now insisting that there are two kinds of gay guys in the world: those who like beauty pageants but not Broadway show tunes, and those who like show tunes but not beauty pageants. The bullheaded certainty of the pronouncement usually makes for a deal-breaker for Marco. Jason seems like a snob and knows it, too. Jason almost seems to flaunt the fact with the brio of an excitable bitch. But at least he’s a cute snob, Marco thinks.
They have been talking about the most mundane things, and the matter of OGTs finally springs up by the time they get to the third stoplight. Marco, slowing down the car, finds himself asking, “What in God’s name is an OGT?”
Marco’s car is a silver Picanto that is as gay as the silken scarf around his neck. They are bound for Costa Oriental, the other side of town, where he has promised Jason that a cup of cappuccino at this darling new café is pretty much enough to set anyone’s soul right, especially after a breakup. Jason’s Grindr profile had him pegged as a muscle boy currently on the mend—the boyfriend had left Jason a week ago, apparently, for a woman.
“You know, OGT,” Jason says. “Obviously. Gay. Trait.”
“Is this one of those silly things where people ask you to look at your fingers, and if you look at them palm down and with fingers extended, you’re totally gay, and if you look at them hand in a knuckle, with fingers curled in, you’re totally straight?”
Jason bobs his head lightly and smiles. “Well, yes and no. Kinda. But not really.”
“I used to get the same type of question with the way I’m supposed to look at the soles of my foot, too. Legs backwards, in a clinch—gay. Forwards, in a fold—straight. Downright silly, you know what I mean?”
“But have you often wondered how it was that gay men totally have these obvious traits that make them gay? I swear they make for functioning gaydars.”
“Like what?”
“Loving Madonna, for one thing.”
“I like Madonna,” Marco says, slowing the car at another intersection, willing the lights to quickly turn green.
“Well, there you go!” Jason replies.
“That’s an OGT?”
“You bet, like worshipping Liza Minnelli or Judy Garland is an OGT.”
“Who’s Liza Minnelli?”
“I will pretend,” Jason says slowly, “that you did not just say that.”
The lights turn green. Marco chuckles, speeding up once. “Are there more?” he asks.
“Figure skating.”
“I totally get that.”
“And Barbra Streisand! Yentl and Funny Girl! Ballet and opera. Loving all kinds of cheese. The Golden Girls. Small-sized tees in primary colors with prints of cartoon characters. And skinny jeans.”
“Skinny jeans just makes you a hipster.”
“And above all, musicals and beauty pageants.”
Marco ponders on that, and says: “I know someone who has memorized all the winners of the Miss Universe from way back in 1952.” Me, he thinks.
“I can sing all the songs from Oklahama! and The Sound of Music and Chicago to Spring Awakening,” Jason finishes.
“And that makes you gay?”
“That makes you obviously gay.”
Marco nods.
As he swerves the car right towards Acapulco Road, Jason looks at him and mentally undresses him. He nods at what he imagines.
At the coffee shop, Jason says: “If you must know though, the former—pageants—is babaw. The other—Broadway—is lalim.”
Marco, of course, rolls his eyes, sips his cappuccino, and smiles. “But what if you like both?” Marco wants to know.
“Oh, well.” Jason pauses for a bit. “Those who like both are, I guess, enlightened aliens from Venus who are different from you and me.”
“And what if you hate both—and you like Lady Gaga instead?”
“Let’s not go into that kind of complicated discussion, shall we?”
“Let’s not,” Marco gives him a teasing smile.
Jason looks at him, and then he says: “You know what’s my OGT?”
“Having a Grindr account,” Marco says.
Jason laughs.
“That—and also that right now, I’m mentally undressing you, and I like what I see.”
“Do you.” Marco teases him.
“Yes, I do.”
Marco gives him a long look, the quiet between them growing—and after a while, brewing in the silence, Jason escapes to his coffee, and sips from it like it is his truest religion.
“Here’s the deal, though,” Marco says.
“There’s a deal?”
“You like me, right?”
“Yep.”
“You like what you see, right?”
“You bet I do.”
“I used to join pageants, Jase.”
“Oh.”
“In fact, three years ago, I was crowned Hari ng Negros.”
“That’s a male pageant from where you’re from?”
“Yes.”
Jason smiles. “You look the part.”
Marco chuckles a little, looks down briefly at his lap, and then says, “I like to think I won it not just for my looks—I aced the interview portion, too.”
“You seem smart.”
“Smarts help—but really, there’s a strategy to the whole pageant Q&A thing.”
“Like what?”
“There are ways. You can sort of cheat, for example, by evoking the one answer that fits all sorts of questions—and they can’t even contradict you for it.”
“There’s a possible one answer for all sorts of questions?”
“Oh, yes.”
“What is it?”
“’As long as you put God in the center of your life, nothing can go wrong.’”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. You can’t beat God.”
“How does that answer everything?”
“Ask me anything, then.”
Jason pauses for a bit. He puts down the cappuccino in his hand, and then leans forward in his seat in the café. “Okay, try this. Which is a worse problem, prostitution or poverty?”
Marco mocks his coughing, and then goes: “Thank you for that question. Both poverty and prostitution, of course, are problems that plague all of us in this society, and weighing what’s worse won’t solve anything. But as long as we put God in the center of our lives, nothing can go wrong.”
“Wow.”
“I told you,” Marco says and quickly takes a sip from his coffee.
“What about this: are men more superior than women?”
“Considering the superiority between man and woman is a tricky question—but as long as we put God in the center of our lives, nothing can go wrong.”
“Oh sweet Jesus. It doesn’t make sense—but it works.”
“I told you, nothing beats God. Especially in a beauty pageant.”
“Was that how you won?”
“Are you crazy? I’d feel stupid if I used that formula.”
“What was your question?”
“How do you describe the color blue to a blind person?”
“Well then, how do you describe the color blue to a blind person?”
“The blind can’t see, but that doesn’t mean they cannot comprehend the world through their other senses. One such sense is touch. I’ll take my blind friend, lead him to a block of ice, and then I’ll tell my friend, ‘Do you feel how cold that is? That is like the color blue.’”
“You are fantastic.”
“Thank you.”
“You deserve that crown, Marco.”
“I actually got a sword, and a sash.”
“And I really want you now.”
“And that’s just it. Here’s a deal.”
“There’s a deal?”
Marco smiles at Jason. “Hold your horses, Jase,” he says. And then he starts: “There’s a term we use in the pageant world to describe contestants who don’t exactly make it to the final rounds of the competition.”
“Okay…”
“We call them the ‘thank you girls.’”
“The ‘thank you girls’? Why?”
“Because that’s what the pageant host always says after he has announced the latest elimination lineups. He turns to those candidates who aren’t called and then he says, ‘Thank you, girls,’ and they go back to their dressing rooms backstage.”
“Oh.”
Marco is now standing up. Jason sees that at his full height, Marco—dusky, lean, and muscular in the incandescent brightness of the small café—looks like a beautiful god.
“I’m not babaw, Jase.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I’m kind of a crown, actually—“
“Yes, you are.”
“And I hope you’re not a ‘thank you girl.’”
Jason takes that in slowly.
“So here’s the thing,” Marco says. “I have your number. I’ll call you in three days. I’ll take you to some hotel near Marikit Avenue—but you’d better know all your beauty pageant trivia like your life depended on it.” Marco leans very close to him, so much so that Jason can smell his aftershave. “I’ll test you. For every correct answer, you get a piece of whatever it is I’m wearing—until, if you’re lucky—you can have all of me fully naked in front of you. And then you can do whatever you please with me.”
Jason finds himself gulping. “For real?”
“For real.”
Jason breathes deep.
“Any pointers?”
“I’ll call you the day before to give you a clue.”
“Not now?”
“Not now.”
“How do I win?”
“One wrong answer,” Marco says, smiling, “and you will never see me again.”
“I’ll do my best,” Jason says finally.
And just like that, Marco is gone.
Jason pours himself to serious study of beauty pageants in the next three days, with an energy he himself finds bewildering. Is this how much he needs to get laid? Is Marco that hot of a prospect? Can’t he just get another less demanding trick from Grindr? But for some reason, he finds himself sticking to the task—and perhaps, he thinks, this is a way of moving on, of forgetting, of occupying his waking moments so that he doesn’t have to think of the things that pain him the most. And the subject is wonderfully trivial. And such an esoteric subject too—this glitzy, often ditsy, world of beauty pageants. One article he finds himself reading, from an old issue of Sunday Inquirer Magazine, begins: “In the old days, ancient societies used to appease the gods and solve the problems that plague them by sacrificing virgins. Today, we hold beauty pageants instead.” He laughs at that.
But what did Marco want to quiz him on? There’s just too much to know, to cover. History? The Eglinton Tournament of 1839 is considered by many to be the site of the first modern beauty pageant, sponsored by Archibald Montgomerie, 13th Earl of Eglinton. It was a reenactment of a medieval joust used to be held in Scotland, and the pageant was won by Georgiana Seymour, Duchess of Somerset, the wife of Edward Seymour, 12th Duke of Somerset. Her title upon proclamation was the Queen of Beauty.
Still others say that the first beauty pageant is really the mythological story of Aphrodite and the golden apple that led to the Trojan War. In that story, Eris, the goddess of discord, is furious that she has not been invited to the wedding of Peleus and Thetis thrown by Zeus. During the banquet, she throws a golden apple among the guests that bore a simple message: “To the most beautiful,” and promptly, three goddesses—Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite—claimed it. Zeus, eager to resolve the tension, called on Paris to make the decision and to give the apple to the goddess who best fit the description. Each goddess, in turn, visits Paris, disrobes for him, and bribes him. Aphrodite promises him the most beautiful woman in the world—Helen of Troy, wife of Menelaus—and to her, Paris grants the apple.
And lurches the ancient world to a war that would last ten long years.
Oh dear God, Jason thinks. Pageants are portals to annihilation.
Miss America, he also learns, is the oldest among the current crop of beauty pageants, founded in Atlantic City in 1921 and begun more or less as a bikini contest. Margaret Gorman, the first winner, was actually given the title The Most Beautiful Bathing Girl in America. Mary Campbell, the next winner, won the annual title twice—and then became first runner-up on her third try.
Nothing beats trying hard, Jason thinks.
Miss World was the second oldest pageant—founded in 1951—and Swedish beauty Kiki Håkansson was its first winner. Another Scandinavian beauty, Armi Kuusela from Finland, won the first Miss Universe title in 1955, and subsequently married a Filipino businessman. Colombia’s Stella Márquez won the first Miss International title in 1960, and also subsequently married a Filipino businessman.
Filipinos, Jason concludes, love beauty pageants this much. They marry them.
Finally, Marco calls him.
“So, have you been studying?”
Jason swears he can hear Marco smiling like a cock tease at the other end.
“More or less,” he answers.
“Good.”
“But there’s just too much to take in, Marc.”
“Which is why I’m calling you—to give you pointers for tomorrow’s ultimate test.”
“And what is it?”
“From what you’ve studied so far, tell me, which country in the world seems most pageant-crazy?”
“The Philippines.”
Marco laughs. “Oh, dear lord, no no no no no…”
“The U.S. then? They have these batshit crazy child pageants.”
“Nope.”
“Venezuela?”
“Good. Of course, it’s Venezuela.”
“I’ll focus on Venezuela?”
The first Miss World winner from Venezuela is Susana Duijm, 1955.
“And I hope you know your Venezuelan geography.”
Geography?
“I’ll pick you up at 7 PM tomorrow,” Marco says. “See you, Jase.”
What does Marco mean by geography? Jason’s thoughts race. Venezuelan geography? Why and what for? What has that got to do with beauty pageants?
Only much later does a singular thought occur to him. And Marco is right. Venezuelans are the craziest when it comes to beauty pageants. Venezuelans revere their beauty queens like Olympian goddesses. And Venezuelan girls are wont to aspire for the title Miss Venezuela so much that they will even go under the knife to approximate the Miss Venezuela type that wins pageants. And to get to Miss Venezuela, of course, you have to first win a local title—one of several state pageants held annually in the country that select candidates for the ultimate national prize.
After a quick Google search, Jason finds this: there are twenty-three estados in Venezuela, and one distrito capital.
Marco is going to give me a state capital test, Jason thinks. He smiles. And then he thinks, Let’s get on with this.
The next night, he finds himself totally correct in his crazy assumption. In the drive to Hotel Concordia, the wind snapping at their hair, Marco tells him: “I hope you know your Venezuelan states and their capitals, Jase. Or are we calling this quits now? Let’s go to that hotel room anyway, and drink the night away.”
“Oh, I’m ready,” Jason smiles.
“You are?” Marco says, a brief look of surprise registering across his face. “You know your Venezuelan states?”
“Twenty-three states, and one capital district.”
Marco laughs.
In the hotel room, the lights have been turned low. The bed near the window seems to hunger in its utter emptiness. You’re going to be on that bed soon, Jason thinks, all naked, and all mine.
Marco tells him to bring a chair to the center of the room.
Jason does so, and then sits even without being told.
“You look more than ready,” Marco says, smiling some more.
He stands a few feet away from where Jason sits—their distance a tease.
“Are you ready, Jase?”
“I am ready to see you strip naked in front of me.”
Marco laughs.
“Let’s start with a no-brainer then,” Marco begins. “Amazonas.”
Easy, Jason thinks. “The capital of the Venezuelan state of Amazonas is Puerto Ayaucho.”
“Good,” Marco says. “You sound like a proper schoolboy.” He takes off his watch.
“Portuguesa,” Marco begins again.
“Guanare,” Jason says, without missing a beat.
Marco takes off his baseball cap, and motions at throwing it towards Jason. Jason reaches out a hand, and Marco playfully swats it away. “And keep your hands to yourself, okay? You’re such a bad boy. Delta Amacuro.”
“Tucupita.”
Marco takes off his necklace.
“A necklace?”
“I have it on, don’t I?”
Jason groans.
“Falcon.”
“Valencia.”
“Nope.”
He puts on his necklace back again. “Too bad. So very early in the night to call the whole thing off.”
“Let me try again with Falcon.”
“We made a deal.”
“Please?”
“Okay then, just this one time. Falcon.”
“Coro.”
Marco smiles, and removes his necklace once more.
“Carabobo?”
“That one’s easy. I’ve already said it.”
“And what is it?”
“Valencia.”
He removes his wristwatch.
Marco has too many things on, dammit.
“All right, mister. You seem to have memorized a lot of Venezuelan states just for this,” Marco smiles, teasing Jason.
“I promised, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did. And if you have indeed done your homework well, you will certainly get all of me.”
“Let’s get on with it then, shall we?”
“Patience, Jase. We’ll get there,” he smiled.
“Cojedes?”
“Fuck, I can’t—“ Jason’s thoughts race.
“Cojedes?”
“San Carlos!”
“Good…”
Marco takes off his coat, and reveals a bright green polo shirt from Lacoste.
“Tachira.”
“San Cristobal.”
He takes off his polo shirt.
“You have a freakin’ undershirt on?” Jason says.
“I came prepared,” Marco says.
“Oh, man.”
“Patience, Jase. Patience and good memory are the best things to have to beat this game. Are you ready for more?”
“Yes,” Jason says, more determined this time. He wants to see the end of this charade and claim his prize.
“Yaracuy?”
“San Felipe.”
Marco takes off his undershirt. The skin off his body gleams with promise. Jason feels himself hungering for more.
“Lara?”
“Barquisimeto.”
“I didn’t expect you could even pronounce that right, Jase.”
“Take off those pants.”
“Not yet, Jase.”
And Marco takes out the handkerchief hidden in his back pocket.
“Oh, man,” Jason groans.
Marco smiles.
“Sucre?”
“Cumana.”
“We’re on a roll, aren’t we?” Marco says. He takes off his belt, and then sits down on the chair in front of Jason .
“Trujillo?”
“This one’s easy. Trujillo.”
“And for that, you get a shoelace.”
“Fuck.”
“It’s too easy, right?”
“Come on.”
Jason moans.
Marco painstakingly takes away the shoelace off the right-footed sneaker he has on.
“Let’s go for another easy one, for this other shoelace,” he says. “Bolivar?”
Jason sighs. “Ciudad Bolivar.”
Marco laughs, and starts taking away the shoelace from the left-footed sneaker.
“And another easy one, for the sneakers themselves. Merida?”
“Merida.”
“That’s for the right sneaker.” He takes that off.
“Barinas?”
“Barinas.”
He takes off the left one.
He has pink ankle socks on.
“Jesus Christ, Marco.”
He laughs.
“Cojedes?”
“San Carlos.”
That’s one sock.
“Monagas?”
“Maturin.”
That’s another sock.
“I think there are more states in Venezuela than I have clothes on,” Marco says.
“Good for Venezuela,” Jason says, eyeing the bulge in Marco’s pants.
Marco sees Jason eyeing him this way, and he slowly stands up, all barefoot, his torso glistening with sweat from the El Niño heat. He makes his way to Jason and grinds his denim-clad crotch against Jason’s face. His hard-on on Jason’s face drives Jason wild. Jason inhales him deep, Marco’s musk an invitation for ravaging.
“You like that, don’t you?” Marco says, smiling down at Jason.
“Let’s finish this game quickly, please?”
“I only have two pieces of clothing left, you know that.”
“Fuck, I can give you everything right now. The capital of Yaracuy is San Felipe. The capital of Zulia is Maracaibo. Sucre, Cumana. Nueva Esparta, La Asuncion. Anzoategui, ummm, Barcelona. Carabobo, Delta Amacuro, Tucupita. Miranda, Los Teques. Did I miss out on anything?”
Marco laughs.
“You forgot just a few. But let’s just give it to you. You’re good at geography.”
“Or reading maps.”
“Or you’re just horny.”
“I’m horny.”
“So let’s make this a little bit interesting.”
“What?”
“I only have my pants and my briefs on. That’s just two questions left, if you’re lucky. We have to make it more interesting.”
“But that’s not what we talked about!”
“Listen, do you want this?”
“Fine.”
“Okay then…”
Jason holds his breath.
“For my pants…”
“What?”
“Hold on.”
Jason feels himself growing delirious.
“What Venezuelan state has the most number of Miss Venezuela winners?”
“How would I know that?”
“You didn’t study enough?” he laughs.
“I can’t possibly know that.”
Marco smiles. “Just take a guess. They won the crown nine times. In 1963, 1966, 1978, 1982, 1985, 2004, 2006, 2012, and 2014.”
“I can’t possibly answer that.”
“I’ll give you three chances.”
“Fine.”
“So, which Venezuelan state has the most number of Miss Venezuela winners?”
“Caracas?”
“Caracas only has seven titles, tied with Miranda. But that’s a good guess, Jase.”
“No pants?”
“No pants. You have two more guesses.”
“Costa Oriental.”
He shakes his head. “They only have two crowns.”
Jason closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Guarico, then.”
And Marco looks at Jason with a surprised but amused look on his face. And then he comes close to him, so much so that Jason can feel the heat coming off his body. Slowly, Marco begins to unzip his pants, and when the denim’s top slides off the tight curves of his pelvis, Marco pushes them down slowly, until the pants peel off him, down like a melted puddle of denim on the floor. He steps off the pile and comes straight to Jason. He has white briefs on, very tight, their dark bands setting off the glistening of his body like a border meant to be crossed.
“And now, for the last question.”
“What is it?” Jason feels he cannot wait any longer. His heart is racing. “Sofía Silva Inserri is the first Miss Venezuela, from 1952, I know that.”
“Nope, that’s not it.”
“Maritza Sayalero Fernández is the first Miss Universe from Venezuela, in 1979,” I said. “I know that, too.”
“That’s not it, either,” Marco grins.
“So what is it?”
“Tell me the name of the most powerful man behind Miss Venezuela.”
And Jason doesn’t know how he knows, but the name just rolls off his tongue like it is the supreme knowledge of the ages.
“Osmel Sousa,” he says, almost in a trance. “The Czar of Beauty, the Cuban-Venezuelan pageant entrepreneur and president of the Miss Venezuela Organization.”
And Marco laughs heartfully—and in the dim light, he gets up from where he is sitting on Jason’s lap, and starts taking off his tight white underwear. And when he finally comes to Jason naked as a pageant king between segments, Jason breathes in all that Marco is.
I feel like there is a crown on my head, Jason thinks. And a scepter in my hand, and a sash around my body.
In Jason’s head, clear as the fireworks that ignite in the kiss that Marco gives him, Babs is singing “Happy Days Are Here Again.”
First published in Don’t Tell Anyone: Literary Smut, by Ian Rosales Casocot and Shakira Andrea Sison (Philippines: Anvil Publishing, 2017). Reprinted by permission of Ian Rosales Casocot.
Ian Rosales Casocot is a novelist and teaches film, literature, and creative writing at Silliman University in Dumaguete City, Philippines. He has won several Palanca Awards and the FullyBooked/Neil Gaiman Philippine Graphic/Fiction Prize for his fiction. His books include Old Movies and Other Stories (NCCA, 2005), Beautiful Accidents (University of the Philippines Press, 2011), Heartbreak & Magic: Stories of Fantasy and Horror (Anvil Publishing, 2011), First Sight of Snow and Other Stories (Et Al Books, 2015), Don’t Tell Anyone: Literary Smut (Anvil Publishing, 2017), and Bamboo Girls: Stories and Poems From a Forgotten Life (Ateneo de Naga University Press, 2017). He was Writer-in-Residence for the International Writers Program of the University of Iowa in the United States in 2010. He also does graphic design, and has produced the film documentary City of Literature, directed by the Chinese filmmaker Zhao Lewis Liu. He is the Founding Coordinator of the Edilberto and Edith Tiempo Creative Writing Center in Silliman. He is profiled in the literature volume of the Cultural Center of the Philippines [CCP] Encyclopedia of Philippine Arts.