Day 0.
April 17, 2025: Port, Patience, and the Ghost Town of Batangas
I took the afternoon bus from my province to Batangas Port—because I’m that committed. Based on traumatic flashbacks, I knew the port becomes a mosh pit of sweaty humans by Holy Week, so I wisely booked us the 7am ferry the next day. This meant everyone had to be at the port by 4am (cue eye rolls and silent death wishes).
Reason #1: I needed to ocular the port situation and potentially become the sacrificial lamb who queues early while the rest of the gays sleep in.
Reason #2: We had exactly one van that allegedly seats 18 people but actually fits 17 if one sits on someone’s emotional baggage.
By 11pm, I reached the port—and surprise! It was dead. Not “Holy Week chaos” dead. I mean, zombie apocalypse dead. Everything was closed, the place was eerily silent, and I half expected a tumbleweed to roll by. So I parked myself on a cold bench in the lounge and pretended I was fine.
Day 1.
April 18, 2025: Van Drama, PWD Shenanigans, and the Quest for Beds
By 3am, the Viber group chat came alive like a gay séance. Our Manila meet-up was at a KFC in Buendia—because nothing says “we’re off to paradise” like fried chicken at dawn. The van was there on time. The people were early. But alas, math failed us: 18 queers + 1 cramped van = high-pitched complaints and existential dread.
One guy even claimed he was only “half-ass seated”—which, in van terms, is basically squatting with dignity. FYI: van rental companies will always lie to you. Lesson learned: cap it at 15 gays next time, or prepare for mutiny.
Despite the tight squeeze, they arrived at Batangas Port in one hour, and I welcomed them like a jolly concierge—minus the lei and fake smile. Sure, they looked annoyed, but everyone was in one piece, so we call that a win.
Then came the ticketing fiasco. One guy, F, bailed and passed his ticket to R (who was apparently his understudy?). Since F had a PWD ID, R had to act disabled for 10 minutes just to make the ticket valid. I was not amused. But we pulled it off—with mild legal risk and maximum gay audacity.
Waiting Game & Awkward Silences
By 5:30am, we were all in the lounge—twenty strangers sitting like contestants waiting for a reality show twist. No one was talking. Classic first-day energy. Honestly, we need to figure out how to make gays interact better during trips. Next year, I’m assigning social liaisons. Think of them as emotional flight attendants.
One bright spot: I reconnected with RC, a true believer in this “trip for gays, by gays” vision. He even gave me a shirt that didn’t fit him, which was equal parts sweet and shade. RC is the kind of guy who sounds like he came straight out of Ateneo but vibes with everyone—even the kanal crowd. A rare breed.
Arrival: Sun, Sweat & Soft Drinks
By 7am, we were herded into our ferry’s VIP cabin. (Yes, we’re bougie.) After an hour-long sea cruise, we landed at Balatero Port and hailed tricycles to Mangyan Hotel. That’s when we realized VL’s group was missing—turns out they waited for the van like it was the second coming. Miscommunication, or gay telepathy failure? Either way, tricycle it is.
At the hotel, no rooms were ready. Yay. So we dumped our bags in a random meeting room and watched half the group jump into the pool while the other half cracked open bottles of beer. Nothing says "relax" like sneaky pre-noon alcoholism.
Lunch happened in a roadside carinderia that looked sketchy but served fish that didn’t kill me, so 5 stars. Reminder: don’t drink the water, unless your stomach’s made of steel or regret.
Pro Tips When Visiting Puerto Galera
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The farther from the beach, the cheaper the food. Walk like your budget depends on it.
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Local water is for locals. Bring your own bottled life force.
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No nearby pharmacies. If you get sick, you die fabulously.
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Check-in times are lies. Pester the front desk until they cave.
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Bring cash. GCash is cute, but your money still talks louder.
Finally: The Rooms, The Roomie & The Respite
Around 2pm, hallelujah! Rooms were released. I was paired with AB, a lovely guy from Iloilo who flew in just for this trip. He’s older, mellow, and not into drama—which, in this group, made him basically a unicorn. We both collapsed into bed and power napped like responsible adults… who will drink irresponsibly in five hours.
Hosted Dinner & Hiyas Shenanigans
Dinner was held at a BBQ joint I discovered years ago. They don’t take reservations, so I pulled a Filipino Karen and begged my way into an early table. By 6:30pm, we were shoveling grilled meat and doing our best to break the ice. Note to self: next year, add icebreakers with actual shots. Let alcohol do what awkward silences can’t.
Post-dinner, it was time for Hiyas—the gay mecca of Puerto Galera nightlife. It was Good Friday, which meant Jesus was dead, and so was the music. But that didn’t stop us. No beats? No problem. We had tower drinks and internal rhythm. I stayed behind to hold the table while others got dolled up. Naturally, I started drinking—because what’s one more drink when your liver’s already on its farewell tour?
Jurassic White Beach: The Gay Safari You Never Asked For
By 10PM, the gays came trickling in like a slow-motion montage from a budget Pride movie—glitter, crop tops, and poor decisions in tow. I played bartender, handed out vodka like communion, and once the headcount hit critical mass, I slipped off to finally change. The night was still young, and so were our mistakes.
We danced (read: wobbled) at Hiyas until 2AM, and in our drunken brilliance, decided it was time to pay pilgrimage to the island’s sacred gay grounds: Jurassic.
Jurassic: A Cautionary Tale in Sand and STDs
Now, if you’ve never been, Jurassic is where gays migrate at 3AM like horny frogs during monsoon season. It’s less "secret beach" and more “open-air Grindr with zero supervision.” For some, it’s about the thrill. For others, it’s about watching the thrill. I’m the latter. A certified voyeur with a minor in poor life choices.
I brought along a few Jurassic virgins to show them around like some deranged camp counselor. The place is divided into two sections: the Cave, which sounds mystical until you realize you’re just three feet away from tetanus, and The Jungle, for those feeling brave, reckless, or snake-bite-curious.
Tonight though? Oddly quiet. It was almost 4AM and I was just standing outside the cave, moonlight on my face, wondering if everyone else had been swallowed whole by the Jungle (or each other).
Then came Guy #1—a quiet flirter. After a few glances, he approached. We started with mutual stroking but, like my career choices, it led nowhere. He retreated to his post. Exit, stage left.
Enter Guy #2: taller, drunker, hornier. He dove into my crotch like a man who dropped his keys in a urinal. I hesitated—I couldn’t even see his face, and my inner hypochondriac was screaming “oral syphilis!” Still, he was persistent. He pulled out a condom and basically impaled himself on me. I know, I know—mistake number one through fifty. I was on PrEP, but still, my common sense had clearly gone home early.
Even mid-act, I tried to redirect him to another guy (because apparently I was now running a sex referral service), but he dragged me to the cave and insisted we go missionary on the sand. Romantic, except the sand was basically broken glass and my knees were paying the price. Eventually, my equipment gave up—clearly it had higher standards—and I politely bowed out.
He tried to lure me back with the classic line, “mas masarap ako sa kama.” Tempting, but I’d already made one catastrophic choice—I wasn’t about to go for the sequel. I tossed the used condom into the rocks (eco-sin, I know), rinsed off in the sea like some slutty mermaid in crisis, and stared at the moon wondering how my life got here.
When One Finish Isn’t Enough
Did I learn from that? Of course not.
I wandered into the Jungle’s more discreet covered area, where I found Guy #3—standing alone like a gay vampire waiting for a hookup. He was cute. We made out like high schoolers in a janitor's closet, and soon enough we were stroking each other like we were being paid by the minute. We both finished (finally), and I figured that was the Universe telling me: go home, slut.
Back at the hotel, my roommate was already asleep. I, in my last sliver of dignity, showered and passed out in nothing but underwear.
5AM Plot Twist
Then—plot twist—at 5AM, I felt hands. Not divine intervention. Just my roommate feeling me up like a vending machine. Chest to crotch. Slow strokes. I figured I’d be limp forever after tonight’s chaos, but alas, my body betrayed me. I didn’t want to kill the vibe or his feelings, so I let him carry on. Eventually I came. He turned his back and went back to sleep like it was just a regular Tuesday.
We never spoke of it. Breakfast was… polite. Awkwardly polite.
Moral of the Story?
If you ever feel like your life's a mess, just remember: somewhere out there, a glitter-covered gay man is washing sand out of his ass at sunrise, wondering the exact same thing.
Day 2.
April 19, 2025: A Journey Through Shame, Pharma, and Fried Bangus
I woke up drowning in regret—classic hangover mixed with Catholic guilt lite. As an Olympic-level overthinker, I immediately launched into a full-blown internal TED Talk titled "Why Are You Like This: A Cautionary Tale."
See, normally—even inebriated—I have a strong internal voice that screams "DON’T DO IT, STDs ARE REAL" louder than a drag queen during Pride. But last night? That voice? Dead silent. Muted. Ghosted me like a Grindr hookup after asking “what are we?”
So there I was, tossing and turning in bed, marinating in anxiety while trying to enjoy my breakfast of fried bangus and eggs, except now it tasted like guilt and poor decisions. And then it hit me—DOXY PEP! The little miracle pill the gays whisper about like it’s Voldemort. Take it within 72 hours and boom—STD defense mode activated.
There was just one small problem: no one in the group brought any. Which begs the question: why are we even gay if we don't pack Doxy Pep for trips like these? Isn’t that part of the starter pack? Passport, poppers, and prophylactics? Apparently not.
Cue main character moment: I became that person—traipsing under the unforgiving 11am sun, dust sticking to my shame, chasing the nearest pharmacy like my life depended on it. Luckily, one of the guys in the group is a doctor (thank you, universe), and he scribbled me a prescription like a gay savior in board shorts.
I thought I’d have to go all the way to Calapan, but hallelujah—there was a Mercury Drug on the way. Not only did they have Doxy Pep, but I also ended up buying meds for a few sickly souls in our group because apparently, I’m Florence Nightingale now.
I popped the pill the moment I got back to the hotel like it was communion. It was 1pm, the sun was blazing, and I was too emotionally depleted to function—so I passed out. When I woke up, surprise: my face looked like a marshmallow that lost a fight. Turns out I’m allergic. Cute. Still, I’d rather puff up like a sad pufferfish than get a lifetime subscription to antibiotics and existential dread.
One of the boys warned me about potential resistance and that I shouldn’t take it lightly. Bro, I’m literally a walking hormonal cautionary tale—I’m not here for bacterial roulette.
The Afternoon Spiral: From Existential Thoughts to Oily Bulalo
Later that afternoon, I joined A and J for what they called "refreshments," which turned out to be some local bulalo swimming in oil so thick it might qualify as a separate dish. I had concerns—about cholesterol, blood pressure, and why I continue making bad decisions—but ate it anyway. YOLO, I guess.
And that’s when J casually drops the bomb: he has a serious heart condition. Like, "could-drop-dead-any-second" serious. I was shook. He looked healthier than my life choices. It was one of those moments where time slows, and you suddenly feel very mortal—then you take another spoonful of oily broth because life is short and cardiac arrest is apparently always lurking.
After this near-death luncheon, we made the ill-fated decision to go on a food trip, which, with A and J, should be classified as a form of torture. These two are so indecisive we walked the entire circumference of White Beach looking for food they couldn’t even define.
Under the hellish noontime sun, I swore to never agree to go out with these two again unless I develop a foot fetish and want to shoot myself in it. And guess what? We ended up right where we started. The exact same food stall. I have never hated people more affectionately.
Jurassic Revisited: Now with Fewer Genitals
Eventually, I ditched them and walked alone back to the infamous Jurassic, because clearly I hadn’t learned a single thing from last night. The trail was quiet, except for a few naked guys taking artistic nudes among the vines like they were auditioning for a nature-themed OnlyFans. Others were roaming around, clearly waiting for "something" to happen. Spoiler: nothing did.
Mostly I was worried I’d get bitten by a snake—actual reptile, not metaphor for shady gays. That forest is a lawsuit waiting to happen. But hey, so far no casualties, so we’re good.
(PS: Want more of A and J’s tragic comedy? Read: The Great La Union Labor Day Fiasco)
The Final Night: Cocktails, Confessions & Crashed Dreams
Back at the hotel by 4pm, I decided to do some laps in the pool—laps being a generous word for flailing in water while contemplating my life. The pool was gloriously empty until a group of middle-aged titos parked themselves by the entrance with shots of tequila. It was giving barangay fiesta with insurance policies.
By 7pm, I was back at Hiyas securing our usual table like a seasoned party planner. Not many from the group showed up, but I wasn’t in the mood to beg for company. I came to party, and party I shall.
There, I bumped into a familiar face who updated me on his life—apparently now aiming for Greece after Dubai didn’t quite work out (classic). He brought along some Twitter-famous alter guys for a selfie session, because clout waits for no one. The group finally joined by 10pm, and by midnight, it was another glorious chaos.
Some guy said he recognized me from a Pansol event. I did too—eventually. But whether it was the meds, the cocktails, or my fried brain, I was too buzzed to keep going. I excused myself and made a bold proclamation: "I’ll nap and head to Jurassic by 2am. Just a nap!"
Narrator: It was not just a nap.
I woke up at 5am. Sun up. Dreams down. Jurassic was officially closed. But because I am committed to poor decisions, I went anyway. Nothing there. Everyone had packed their genitals and gone home.
But I did leave something behind: I threw up in the forest. A parting gift. A piece of me forever embedded in White Beach.
The Aftermath: Sleep, Survival, and Sweet Escape
I was wrecked. Like, emotionally, physically, spiritually. So the remaining hotel hours were spent in bed, praying that I’d survive the journey back to Manila without hurling in a moving vehicle.
Day 3.
April 20, 2025: The Exodus
The last morning in Puerto Galera was… dead. Like, funeral-dead. I dragged myself out of bed for breakfast, only to find I was the sole survivor of the buffet. My roommate? Missing in action. The others? Probably still nursing Mindoro Sling-induced amnesia. The weather joined the pity party too—it was gray and drizzling, basically nature’s way of saying: “Party’s over, queens. Time to face your real life.”
I briefly fantasized about staying an extra day or two—you know, living my best stranded-on-an-island fantasy. But my wallet laughed in my face. Thanks to back-to-back Thailand and Puerto Galera escapades, I was now financially ruined. Not even a 200-peso massage fund survived. Reality check: I had just enough for the bus ride home. And so, like every good tragic hero, I chose the practical ending. By 10 a.m., the whole gang reluctantly shuffled out of the hotel.
The tricycle ride to the port was mercifully quick, though of course it wasn’t allowed past the gate. Because why make things easy? We had to walk the last stretch like medieval peasants. I got in line for ferry tickets, but being the shady bitch I am, I pulled out my online booking and skipped the whole damn queue. People in line looked at me like I’d just summoned Satan, but sorry sweeties, knowledge is power—and I’m street-smart enough to weaponize it.
While waiting outside the port (because apparently half our group has no concept of time), I ran into the most random blast from the past—the throuple I’d seen at Chakran gym in Bangkok during Songkran. Yep. Them. Apparently, the global gay community is smaller than Grindr’s “nearby” radius. You can’t escape. Ever.
After some confusion, we discovered one of our group members was already inside the lobby, chilling silently like some kind of diva. No message, no signal, nothing. Just vibes. My god—people like this should come with a warning label. I swear, next trip, I’m curating this group like I’m casting RuPaul’s Drag Race.
Inside the lobby, it was basically The Walking Gay. Rows of hungover men in sunglasses, looking like extras from a zombie apocalypse—but make it fashion. The air was heavy with the stench of regret and SPF 50. You could practically hear the collective thought: “What the hell did I do last night?” Puerto Galera in a nutshell: hook-ups, hangovers, and memories that won’t even survive the next group chat cycle.
The ferry was late, because of course it was, but eventually we boarded. We got into the so-called VIP lounge, which looked bougie at first glance—rounded sofa seats, almost cruise-like. But five minutes in, the sparkle wore off. Everyone passed out like narcoleptic toddlers. Only a random Japanese husband with his Pinay wife seemed interested in chatting, while the rest of us surrendered to exhaustion.
After hours of silence and staring at the sea, we finally docked in Batangas. And oh, the chaos that followed. The bus lane was Hunger Games meets The Amazing Race. People were elbowing like their lives depended on it. Honestly, I was ready to stand all the way to Manila—battle-hardened veteran that I am—but my friend R was a freshie to this madness. Miraculously, we scored two seats. It felt like divine intervention. Naturally, we celebrated with gourmet bus food: a sad sandwich and a boiled egg. Michelin star experience, 10/10.
Four hours later, Manila welcomed us back with traffic, smog, and my favorite restaurant—Jollibee. I devoured my chicken joy while a beggar tapped on the window, but sorry hun, I was too broke and too dead inside to play philanthropist. I just wanted to eat, crawl on a bus, and drag my sorry ass home. Would I have stayed another night in Manila if I had cash? Maybe. But in the end, going straight home wasn’t the worst idea. At least I didn’t bankrupt myself further. Besides, I’ll need whatever coins I can scrape together for the next gay mess adventure.
The Hangover: Gay Island Final Notes
And so, another Holy Week in Puerto Galera came to a close—not with fireworks, not with redemption, but with me clutching a sad sandwich on a provincial bus, trying to remember if I’d packed dignity in my overnight bag (spoiler: I hadn’t). Would I do it all again? Of course. Because like toxic exes and cheap gin, Puerto Galera has that irresistible charm: it wrecks you, empties your wallet, questions your life choices, and yet… you’ll still be back next year with glitter in your hair and lies in your mouth.
So here’s to another round of bad decisions, STD roulette, and tricycle rides of shame. Puerto Galera 2026—brace yourself. The gays are coming, and apparently, so am I.
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