The Financier

Living alone is never easy—especially when you’re young and still clueless about how to survive life’s harsh blows. I lost my parents early, and my grandmother was the one who took on the impossible task of raising me. Even with her shaky knees and failing eyesight, she pushed through. She made sure I stayed in school, that I grew up right, and that I felt loved. In a world I didn’t yet understand, she was the one steady thing I could hold on to.

I was in my second year of senior high school when she finally passed away—my only family, my only home. Overnight, everything fell on my shoulders. I had to quit school just to keep myself alive. Food, electricity, daily expenses—I felt the weight of all of it for the first time. And really, what kind of job could someone my age get? Who would hire a clueless kid like me? If even college graduates struggle to land a decent job, what more someone who barely finished senior high?

Fortunately, my grandmother left behind a tiny neighborhood sari-sari store attached to our house. In the Philippines—especially in rural areas—stores like these are common. Going to town takes time, and transportation isn’t always convenient, so having a small store nearby saves the whole neighborhood a lot of effort and hassle.

The earnings weren’t much—there wasn’t much to sell either—but they were enough to keep me fed and keep a single light bulb glowing in my rundown shack every night. That little store became my lifeline. It’s where I learned how to handle money and stay strong even when business seemed hopeless.

Now that I’m twenty-five, life is still a struggle. It didn’t improve much because opportunities for people like me don’t come easily. I tried looking for stable work, but luck was never on my side.

I still haven’t gone back to school. Instead, I chose to nurture what my grandmother left behind. The tiny sari-sari store never grew into anything impressive, but I expanded my inventory little by little. Somehow, the income started to move in a better direction. I can at least afford groceries for myself from time to time.

As things improved—though barely—I also learned the art of saying no. It helped me a lot, especially when you see people who are struggling just as much as you, and you want to help, but you can’t because you’re barely surviving yourself. In many poor communities here, it’s common for people to borrow goods and pay later. Store owners often allow it because everyone knows each other. They call it “utang”—credit, but with goods instead of money. But that practice is one of the biggest reasons mini-stores don’t last. People don’t understand that, like any business, the capital has to keep moving. If too many delay their payments, the store collapses.

In our neighborhood, I became known as stingy and unapproachable—because I don’t let people borrow from the store. To some, that makes me the bad guy. But to me, it’s survival. And honestly? It works. My mini-store is still standing.

At my age, I often mull over the “what ifs.” There are so many things I want to do but can’t. I get jealous sometimes—seeing neighbors with new appliances, renovating their homes because their kids finally found stable jobs, or taking vacations whenever they want. Me? I’m still tied to my little store every day, watching people pass by and wondering if I’ll stay like this until I die.

But even with all that, I’m proud of myself. I have no debts. My livelihood is honest. I don’t cheat people just to make a profit. I get to eat two to three times a day. I have a house—though small—with a roof to protect me. A home I can call my own. And that counts for something.

If there’s anything gnawing at me these days, it’s the hunger for a man — not the fantasy, not the idea, but a real fucking man. It’s embarrassing to admit that at my age, I’m still untouched. A virgin. A gay man who’s never even had the chance to explore the thing he’s been craving his whole damn life.

I’ve never seen another man’s dick up close. Never felt one twitch against my palm, never smelled one heavy and warm right in front of my face, never tasted that mix of sweat and heat, never had one push inside me and make me forget my own name. My desire has only grown sharper, dirtier, more desperate with every year that passes.

But I’m not stupid — I know the rules of this world. Wanting a man costs money. Real money. And that’s something I don’t have. No straight, good-looking guy is going to give me his time, his body, or even a second glance without me offering something in return. Cash. Gifts. Support. Whatever form of “compensation” they can squeeze out of me.

And I refuse to starve just to feed my dick’s fantasies. I’d rather bury the hunger than waste what little I have on a quick, forgettable fuck. That’s why I don’t flirt, don’t chase, don’t even bother trying. I can’t afford the kind of men I want — and wanting them without being able to pay is its own kind of torture.

People in our neighborhood like to label me the “conservative” type. They say they never see me flirting, never see me running after men like the others who treat the street like their personal hunting ground. But they’re dead wrong. I’m not conservative — I’m broke. I don’t have the luxury to live the kind of wild, messy, dick-chasing life they think I’m refusing. If I ever actually got the chance? I’d probably be wilder than all of them combined.

And I don’t even hide it. Whenever the topic comes up, I say it straight, no shame, no filter: I want dick. If there’s a straight, good-looking man willing to fuck my mouth and my ass without asking for a single peso, I tell them to send him my way. They laugh every time I say it — like it’s a joke, like I’m just being dramatic. But they don’t know how close my desire is to turning into desperation, how it sits right under my skin, burning and clawing its way out.

Still, even with all that hunger, I’ve learned to be content with what I do have. My life is simple — hard as hell sometimes, but calm. No big explosions, no disasters waiting to drop on my head. And honestly? That alone is something I’m grateful for. Peace may not fill the empty places in me, but it keeps me alive long enough to hope they’ll be filled someday.