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The Nipple Monologue

I am Mike Arroyo’s nipple. I have a few black hairs around my flabby areola, but Gloria doesn’t mind—maybe because a few kinky strays are no match against Nani’s thick brush of a moustache, which must be a million times more titillating. What bothers Gloria, however, is that I almost resemble her own nipple—take a close-up picture of me, and you’d mistake me for a woman’s nipple, save for the hairs. (But heck, some women I know have nipple hairs too. Just ask Mike.) Notwithstanding the fact that as Mike Arroyo have aged and gained weight, I’ve also gained cleavage—which bothers Gloria even more!

But I leave those things for Mike and Gloria to settle. After all, I only come out at odd moments. Often, Mike Arroyo buries me under layers of fabric. I think he does that in retaliation to my “hard-headedness.” When Gloria’s brand of republic was still young (and I wonder if it would ever get old?), I used to throw my weight around the palace. I was very ill tempered, even over little inconveniences. For example, whenever a cold aircon draft brushes me, I would stand out very, very angry; I would poke through Mike Arroyo’s diaphanous barong tagalog and make my presence known! All the old farts in Gloria’s cabinet would stare at me as if they didn’t have nipples themselves! And I would defy them even more! Hah! I am Mike Arroyo’s nipple, and I am very, very angry!

 It embarrasses Mike Arroyo. My cockiness, I mean. When the latest SWS survey came out, the one about Gloria’s popularity being a lot lower than it used to be, Mike Arroyo realized I must have been the one causing it. “You and your stubborn little head,” Mike Arroyo would scream at me at the mirror, “you don’t look good in photo ops, you little shit! You make me look like I should stand beside the likes of Maui Taylor and Rica Peralejo! You make me look like a bloated Pamela Anderson! You make me look... sexy?”

 The epiphany shocked Mike Arroyo. I make him look sexy! Me, a lowly nipple, pulled it off. No wonder all the dirty old men in Gloria’s cabinet would stare at me with half-shut eyes, probably wishing the same thing: if only Mike Arroyo were a girl. Oh my, those bitch tits!

 So from then on, Mike Arroyo would make it a point to bury me under layers of thick cotton. And in time, I ceased to be one of his problems. Other difficulties, however, have surfaced—scandals, controversies and other very unimportant things. I fully empathize with him. During private moments in the bathroom, when Mike Arroyo would stifle a tear before the palace mirror, I would make it a point to mightily protrude, if only to remind him of my constant presence. Oh God, how I hate those buffoons who have dared question Mike Arroyo’s intentions! I hate them. Mike Arroyo is a very sincere person. He is truly a softy. Take me for example. I am a nipple, like what you also have. If you tickle me, wouldn’t it make Mike Arroyo laugh? If you prick me, would I not bleed? If you nastily pull out the few black hairs around my flabby areola, wouldn’t Mike Arroyo wince in pain and develop a complexion that will remind you of a dressed chicken? Oh yes, that’s Mike Arroyo for you, a softy inside and out. That’s why when some low life in the media attacked Mike Arroyo’s truly noble deeds, I was the very first to exclaim, in my dismay: “Et tu, Brute?”

                            Copyright (c) 2004 by Joe Bert G. Lazarte