Just who the Heck are We!?

Ever notice how different sets of people know us for entirely different things than another?

Just take names for example. Chances are, most of us are known by different names for each circle of people we move in.

I am known as "JD" in Agiw Productions, the comic book group a friend and I started way back when we were still in college. "JD", of course, stands for Jonas Diego.

Back in college, I was known by my surname, Diego. Turns out there was another Jonas in my college so to avoid confusion, I started using my surname as my first name. Besides, I thought being called Diego was kind of cool. It started getting weird after a while because my girlfriends called me Diego instead of Jonas, which sounded more like an imperative statement rather than a term of endearment.

Indeed, my family never got used to the fact that my wife (and later ex-wife) called me Diego.

My family called me (still does, actually) by my little boy nickname, Jon-jon. That was fine if you’re a four-year-old kid but becomes an embarrassment when you’re already past twenty. Childhood friends further shortened my nickname to just plain Jon, which was more acceptable to my ears.

When I became a volunteer DJ for a local community FM station in Los Banos, we took to the habit of calling each other by our call signs or air names. Mine happened to be Raven. Up to now, when us fellow disc jockeys chance to meet with each other, we still revert to calling each other by our old air names.

Most people nowadays know me as just plain Jonas, which doesn’t sound as bad as I thought it was when I was younger.

I used to envy my brothers and sister for having such strong and cool sounding first names. Ate Marichu is Maria Soccoro, Kuya Bobby is Salvador, Kuya Jun is Eduardo Sultan Diego, Jr., and I was just plain old Jonas. My mom says I was supposed to be named Francisco (because I was born on St. Francis’ Day, October 4) but, for one reason or the other, they decided on Jonas instead.

Plain old Jonas does have its advantages though. Except for college, I was almost always the only Jonas in any group I moved in. You have no idea what some of the troubles some of my friends who have more “generic” names went through because of the commonness of their names. It becomes worse when you also have a generic surname like dela Cruz, like my mom’s cousin (which they say is, technically, my lola…but that’s another story).

My lola’s name is Juana dela Cruz, I kid you not. The problem was somewhat solved when she got married and took on the surname of her husband.

So, I guess I have a lot to be thankful for my name. After all, I could have gotten it worse, don’t you think?

One of my uncles used to swear that he had a classmate when he was in college with the most unfortunate surname of Bagonggahasa. To add insult to injury, the owner of the surname was also a girl. I would have had my surname legally changed (as soon as I was of legal age) or gotten married and possessed my husband’s surname with a fury if it was me.

I was never able to find out if it was just a fanciful story told by my uncle or if it was in fact based in fact. It takes no great leap of imagination, however, the horror one has to go through with a name like that.

Another such name was Sweet Puspus.

I was still working for an Environmental NGO back then and I was making the I.D.s for an activity we were having when I encountered this one. I did a double take, re-read it quite a number of times, and double-checked it with the membership officer. Yep, that’s her name alright.

What was her parent’s thinking!?

Yes, I was definitely lucky.

Names are important because, unless you have money and a good lawyer, you’re probably going to be stuck with your until the day you die. Lots of culture (including pre-hispanic Philippines) believed that picking a proper name is a very important act because they believed a name tells who you are and the virtues you possess.

Remember Malakas and Maganda? It’s no mistake that some of our ancestors are named Marikit or Matapang. People back then are named for the virtues and quality their parents wanted (or hoped) they would someday possess.

So, new parents out there, name your babies well. I know Sweet Honey Pie sounds so cute as you coo to your 1-year-old bundle of joy but think long term for a moment. Do you think she can survive a name like that if she turns out looking like a hag when she grows up? Trust me, it does nothing for your kid’s confidence to be stuck with a name like that.

If you’re assured of beauty and great genes for your kid, the go ahead I say. Knock yourself out! It may even be great foresight on your part for the time when show business discovers your kid and takes her to the silver screen. The name alone promises great marketing for her career. I can see it now.

Metro Goldwyn Meyers present Sweet Honey Pie in Barely Legal Part 57.

Just avoid the more ludicrous names. If not for us then do it for your kid. You have no idea how it grates the general public to hear someone named called Sweet Honey Pie being called over a loud speaker or a Public Announcement system (“Sweet Honey Pie, come on down! You’re the next contestant on The Price is Right”).

A friend once told me a good test to find out if a name is acceptable or not.

Go to your backyard, open the door, and yell out “(insert proposed name here), kakain na tayo!” 10 times. If you can do this without feeling silly, breaking out in laughter, or going insane chances are it’s a pretty good name for your kid.

As for me, I’ve grown accustomed to my name and I think I’ll stick with Jonas for a bit. Still way better than being called Liberace.

The Big Bang!

“Er, what do I do next?”

I was lying in my bed totally naked totally at the mercy of my hormones and various other emotions swirling inside me. A half naked woman was sitting up on top of me giving me a look, which could’ve meant that she thought I was trying to be cute or that I was a total idiot.

How do I get myself into these things?

It was a Saturday and I’ve just finished my ROTC class. I picked up my girlfriend, had some lunch, and went back to my then deserted dorm purportedly for a short nap. Things started with a kiss, which turned into heavy petting until we were finally overcome and we gave into the heat of the moment.

So far so good, I think.

First my clothes went and then she went on top. She discarded her top and her bra in one fluid motion (you just got to love dancers). It was during that time that my mind decided to desert me (Sorry, sir. This is just way too much stimulus for me. Call me when it’s over.)

I really didn’t know what to do next.

By that time, the gorgeous girl on top of me took matters into her own hands…literally (thank God for women’s lib). If by now you still hasn’t got it yet, yes indeed.

It’s my first time.

I was doing the nasty, porking someone, rocking and rolling, or to put it more simply, I was having sex.

I was in my second year in college and she was my freshman girlfriend. You’d think that I would have known more about this kind of thing by that time but the truth was I didn’t.

My dad never took me to the town whore to initiate me to the world of carnal pleasures. My friends in high school talked about the subject in hushed tones (the nuns made us believe that even thinking about sex is baaaaad…). For goodness’ sake, I was uncomfortable seeing dogs do it in the streets.

I’m a late bloomer, you see.

I got my first girlfriend when I was already in 4th year high school (some friends had girlfriends as early as grade 6!) and the only orgasms I got (until that memorable moment when I lost my virginity) was of the self induced kind, if you get my drift.

My right hand and Traci Lords were two of my constant companions.

When I got my college girlfriend, naturally, the possibility of sex didn’t seem as far fetched as it was when I still roamed the hallowed halls of my small town catholic school. I just didn’t know how to go about it.

Anyway, like what any self-respecting geek would do when faced with the prospect of the unknown, I boned up (pun intended) for sex by doing research about it. I read books and magazines, watched dirty videos (for reference and techniques), and even polled friends who already had some experience in the matter (it would have been funny if it wasn’t so pathetic).

Which didn’t help one whit because, as mentioned earlier, my brain went AWOL on me during the deed.

Suffice to say that, after my mind went blank, my partner “introduced” me to her “special place” and by then, instincts took over and pretty much everything else came naturally.

I thought I knew everything there was to know about sex (you get deluded by too much reading) but nothing really prepares when you’re there in the moment actually doing IT.

Suddenly it’s not just sex anymore. It was akin to a religious experience. Corny but true.

It went beyond two sweaty bodies dancing to a rhythm as old as humans itself. Older, in fact. It went beyond getting some. It also became about giving something back. It was more than being pleasured but giving pleasure.

It stopped being about me. It stopped being about her. It started becoming about us. By that point we both lost ourselves and I was seeing pinpricks of light in my eyes…

I was still pretty much glowing way after our skins have cooled and our heartbeats returned to their normal pace.

I am on a high; it was my first time after all.

Suddenly I was struck with the insecurity that must plague men from time to time especially in situations like these. This girl had others before me while this is just my first time. Did I do good? Was she merely being kind? Was I stellar, or merely just adequate, or (God forbid) lousy?

I was probably the lousiest lover she’s ever had and she’ll be laughing behind my back with her friends.

Suddenly, she turns to me.

“I’m not doing anything after lunch tomorrow” she said.

“If you’re not doing anything …”