If you've never lived with your family inside a military compound, it may be hard to understand the feelings of confinement. Especially for a teenager. Most especially for me, as I grew to crave independence and autonomy.
The fifty homes were surrounded by bob-wire fences, with armed guards on the two gates. We all knew the Filipino guards and even their families who lived in Quezon City just outside our compound -- that didn't mean we liked them, as they were our captors (from the eyes of a barely eighteen year old woman-child). Because they kept us in our approved space and that made us feel imprisoned, we necessarily found other ways to rebel, explore, experiment and grow up. This is the story of one of those nights, 30 years ago this summer.
The adults were all down at the pool -- another party where they blew out their minds with booze. There wasn't much else for them to do. There wasn't much for us to do either. The nights were always long, humid and sweet smelling. We wandered around the compound like lost children, past the basketball court, behind the work shed, where we shared part of the bottle of Jack that we had lifted earlier from the bar at the pool.
Ken and I had held hands a few times when no one was watching. We were in no rush to let anyone else know about our attraction to each other -- our secretive behavior was stirring our desires. When he asked me to come with him to his bedroom, it was such a rush of fear and anticipation. Fear of being caught. Fear of our need to explore our sexuality. Anticipation of being with Ken and what that would lead to. Fear of losing my virginity at just 18. Fear of not being able to control myself and my desires.
His room was typical for the 70's -- posters on the walls of his favorite musicians. Pink Floyd, Aerosmith, Bad Company, all looking down at me. Canvases were stacked against one wall where he had started numerous projects. A black-light lit up the space over his bed and illuminated his tie-dyed pillowcases and white t-shirts thrown casually on the floor. Ken lit a sandalwood cone incense; the smoke swirled lazily toward the ceiling while the heavy sweetness filled the room. He then lit a J and handed the roach clip to me. While I enjoyed the buzz, Neil Young's haunting voice sang to us, and only to us.
I had expected to be held, to be kissed, but I was in for quite a different experience. Ken reached into the chest beside his bed and brought out twelve small jars of florescent body paint and a few small brushes, all of differing sizes and textures. Without saying a word to me, he used the smallest brush to paint an orange peace sign on the inside of my left thigh, with a trailing kite's tail down the back of my leg. He took his time with his initial project, making sure the paint was heavy enough for the circle, and re-dipping the tiny brush back into the jar, over and over. All the while, he kept pausing, catching my eyes with the intensity of his glance, and the soft quirky smile on his face.
Ken was just a month younger than me. At about 5'10" and 150 pounds, he was still lanky, like most teenagers. His soft light-brown curls shaped his baby face. But his hands, he had the hands of an artist with long strong fingers. I had heard about his love of painting, but this was the first I had seen any of his work. I guessed I was to be the canvas.
