In the beginning, there was only one. His gentle touch upon my bosom would send shivers down my spine. His soft lips would travel from my neck and down my back, occasionally leaving teeny-tiny bite marks. His breath would mix with mine as our movements began synchronizing once we go faster and faster and faster...He would make me moan, yell his name to the heavens above as we both came to a wondrous finish.
He made me crave him – his scent, his touch, his presence - the way no one ever did.
But if there was one thing that I'd truly desire. I'd desire for him to be on top of me, leaving marks all over my body – making sure that I was his and his only.
I enjoyed every moment I spent with him. I enjoyed running my hands down his torso, wrapping my legs around his waist and getting to see what he tastes like.
It was such a wondrous feeling. I felt changed. I felt new. I found myself becoming drawn to him – to his views, to his culture. He spoke of many things – things I have yet to see and experience. These were the things he told me I would get to encounter if I only allow him to enter me, to explore me. And so, I did.
I was fixated. I was young. I was naïve.
I began to give him all that I had. And I swear, I would have given more, if I could have.
But then, his gentle touches became rough. His soft hands became calloused and started wrapping around my neck. His soft kisses turned into small bites that drew blood.
He began to take without my consent. He took, and took, and took...until finally, I was left with almost nothing. I had become someone I never thought I would be. I slowly lost myself. And yet, he kept on going in deeper and deeper and deeper.
This went on for many years that it began to feel like more than a hundred.
I was left to be like a small paper doll that was both beaten and bruised. He wasn't satisfied, however. He wanted more. And so, he took on many other women. And I just watched until I no longer could, so I closed my eyes.
When I finally opened them, there came another. He knocked so softly upon the gates of my being that I barely noticed him. He offered me a gentle smile and helped me up. He brushed the dirt off my hair and clothes and told me how lonely it was until he laid his eyes on me. He said I was beautiful as he lightly caressed my cheek.
I wanted to give in to his words, but how could I believe him? I was neither beautiful nor wondrous. I was a maiden that gave her all to a man who didn't deserve it. I was dirty and unworthy. I told this to him and more, but never did he leave me. He just smiled and gave me a kiss on my forehead.
He told me that I needed saving but I was just scared. He said that he was the one to save me.
He began to fill my head with stories, much like the first one did. But his were stories of love and adventure, of hopes and dreams. And I found myself falling once again. It was as if I never learned my lesson.
But how could I not? He saved me from an oppressive partner that would have caused my own death. Surely, he was not like the first.
And so, when I finally gave myself to him, I had no regrets. He was so wonderful. He was so gentle. His kisses were not as rough as the first one's. His lips did not leave marks down my body. His caresses did not hurt my bosom. He was everything that I dreamt of and more.
We had made love. That's what I told myself back then. It was the act of making love, not just sex, not just passion, but love.
I believed this for years, as he created new worlds for me, as he began to change me. He loved me. That's what matters, right?
It didn't matter if I was against some of his wishes. It didn't matter if I barely had any say on certain things. For whenever he kissed me, I would feel his love for me. It would burn right through our clothes and our hands would roam around both our bodies.
But then again, perhaps, that was the problem with me. I loved him too much. I gave him too much. And so, I became blind to what was right in front of me – that I was losing myself even more by adoring him too much.
For adding the words too much onto everything that you do will always leave you with regrets.
I ignored all the signs. I ignored everything. All because I loved him too much.
He was far worse than the first. For the first may have wrecked me, but at least I was quite whole when he came.
But this man, he came when I was broken, he came when I was lost, and I thought I was finally found. But he only dragged me deeper to a vast hole of emptiness.
And so, when the third one came, I felt unworthy. I felt like a whore. I felt like a beaten slave used by men just for their own pleasure.
I was nothing but a toy with which they could showcase their power and dominance.
These and more I had accepted as my fate when the third one forced himself onto me. It was at the back of my head as he'd forcefully push himself deeper inside me, as he'd roughly grab my breasts and bite them – claiming it as his.
I'd feel sick whenever I allowed nights like that to happen to me. But this was what I was, right? Just a mere plaything for men.
So I stopped caring when he'd choke me as he moaned and came inside me. I stopped caring when he'd leave scratches upon my bare skin, occasionally drawing blood. I stopped caring when he pounded into me deeper and deeper until he finally destroyed me. I stopped caring at all.
I lost sight of who I was and who I was going to be. I completely lost myself.
I guess this was the price of not following the path of chastity.
I must admit there were other men besides these three, but they were the ones worth mentioning, for they were the ones who left a huge impact on me.
I know, you might be wondering what happened after the third man? Did he leave also?
Yes, he did. For the second man came back and saved me again. Or so I thought.
I allowed myself to be swept off my feet again. I allowed myself to believe him and his words once more. I allowed myself to think that this time I wasn't going to lose myself.
But looking at it now, I never really did gain my identity back. Up until now, they still have a hold on me – on who I was before, who I am now, and perhaps even who I'm about to be.
Yet I still hope that, you my children, will someday help me regain who I was before they came, help me remember who I am.
But who am I, exactly? Forgive me for not saying this sooner.
I am the Philippines, my dear child. And those three men who did nothing but take everything from me, were none other than Spain, America and Japan.
