I dearly love to drive. I missed it sorely during the pandemic lockdowns. So, you can imagine my ecstasy when they were lifted and I could drive on the regular. My main tools for escapism are meditation, fiction and algorithmic rabbit holes. But with the hellish cacophony of shrieks at home, screeches, barked orders and raised voices, from toddlers and adults alike— you just have to get away from them all from time to time!
So I grab the keys to the car our father lent us. I make the excuse of of buying groceries. I start the engine. And I leave. And I drive and drive and drive.
No destinations. Just loving the feeling of getting away. And also the constant feeling of always being in motion. I love the panoramic scenes of semi-urban life reeling past me. One of the greatest travel writers, Bruce Chatwin, describes this as the Anatomy of Restlessness. It’s the thrill of being constantly on the move, of never having to be satisfied in a single place. A yearning he has sought after for most of his short life. I seem to also possess the same spirit.
I like to observe the peoples along the roads. And how they struggle and find joy living their everyday. I like seeing the quaint, colorful and dusty shops that sell ordinary things. I like seeing pain that’s cracked dry buy our sadistic, tropical sun. I love driving near the coast where behind a line of buildings is the great Sulu sea, and cargo ships seem to have the buildings as their ocean. I drive and I drive and I drive. I like seeing different versions of the same things and things of different versions. And I drive and I drive and I drive with no place to get to.
Having to drive a lot, it’s understandable that my noble steed, a hardy Toyota Fortunner SUV, longs to be bathed. To be rid of grime and dirt, washed and refreshed for the next great local voyage. These days, about twice a month, I like to have our car washed at a little establishment on a busy road corner.
I discovered it on a Sunday afternoon during one of my aimless wanderings. I’ve noticed the carwash before but never bothered with it. But having two consecutive bad experiences with my usual go-to, I thought I’d stay open minded to checking other carwash places. I turned to that particular corner, absentmindedly looked to the left and I saw a young man drenched in sweat and pushing a green motorcycle covered in soapy water. Nothing like a fit, drenched body of a young man holding a drenched, green motorcycle to grab my attention.
I immediately pressed the hazard button and, much to the irritation of the drivers before me, made a perilous U-turn. I hastily concluded that that measly speck of dust I saw on the windshield merited a complete and professional cleanup. The SUV hadn’t been professionally handled in three weeks, anyway.
Reaching the place, I gave him a honk and a thumbs up to the man, gesturing my question if they could have me. To which he gave a thumbs up in response, twirling his very beaten hand towel. I drove inside to the cramped shop. I thought they mainly served motorcycles as my SUV just about fit. But as though God wanted to give me time with the fit, young man, the seven other motorcycles they had just finished started their engines and drove away.
I think most of us are already conditioned to the hotness of carwash men/women/queer/nonbinaries since we’ve watched them on media. They’re certainly portrayed as such in movies and music videos. And no other demographic in “normal” occupations possess the tools as they have that promote, shall we say, a certain excitement. Their hoses, their water, their engines, their rags. Lexical descriptions help too: wet, spritz/squirt/spray, foam, grime, dirt, squeeze, coat, wax, wipe, sweat, push, shine… oh so much more! And the young men did all those!
As I parked, one shirtless guy followed another, and the three of them huddled near me as I gave my instructions. “Just a usual washing. No wax, please. And a little vacuuming on the front seats. Be careful not to wet the inside; there are some groceries in there.” And they silently obeyed and washed the car while also attending to the newcomers.
As I quietly observed them from the waiting area, watching them focusing and wiping the car to shiny perfection, I chanced some photos of them cleaning. I felt instantly and deeply troubled by what I had done and did a quick search for what counts as voyeurism.
As I read the definition repeatedly, I realized with a troubled, somewhat guilty relief that I didn’t technically fall into the category. I actually didn’t feel any salacious reaction. There was no sexual pleasure to be had. There was no gaze or imaginings. It was simply, actually, and only, a sheer, great happiness of seeing young men’s bodies. Nothing else. Period.
But feelings are deeply complex and intertwined to be defined clearly. I messaged a friend to be sure. And he warmly replied that he totally understood. He even shared a poem from a famous poet in the country who’s had a similar experience with watching construction workers from inside an office. A little wilder than mine but on the same scope, I suppose.
When the cleanup was completed, I timidly showed them the photos I took of them. I wondered whether I could post them online, to which all three gave me smirks and thumbs up. “Oo naman! [sure!]”, they said. I drove away feeling a little happier.
I have exciting news to share: You can now read We’s Newsletter in the new Substack app for iPhone.
With the app, you’ll have a dedicated Inbox for my Substack and any others you subscribe to. New posts will never get lost in your email filters, or stuck in spam. Longer posts will never cut-off by your email app. Comments and rich media will all work seamlessly. Overall, it’s a big upgrade to the reading experience.
The Substack app is currently available for iOS. If you don’t have an Apple device, you can join the Android waitlist here.