In provincial politics, loyalty is a currency often indistinguishable from romance. As local elections consume Marinduque, the battleground shifts from the ballot box to the bedroom, and every gift, every argument, and every reconciliation becomes a calculated maneuver.
Despite our brutal honesty and the STD fallout, DJ Pol and I still found ourselves pulled graviationally toward one another. The lines between our relationship, his marriage, and his affair with Dr. Becka had blurred into something endlessly chaotic.
My family thought I was losing my mind, and perhaps my money, to him. Unice, pushed by our relatives, even pulled me aside into her room, crying as she begged me to stop seeing him because she pitied Mitch. I realized then how deeply subjective morality in our society was. A brother or an uncle parading multiple women was tolerated, even expected as a display of macho prestige, but the same behavior from a woman was entirely condemned.
One night, my patience snapped entirely. John came to my place late after a meeting with his political party members. Junjun had prepared food and cold beer. While we were sitting together, John's cellphone began receiving text messages. He replied promptly, casually claiming it was just a friend. But when one message clearly implied they were lovers, and that the sender had a husband who was currently on his way home, I demanded John call her immediately.
The moment the woman answered, John switched into an abruptly stiff, business-like tone. He started talking rapidly about "printing tarpaulins" for his campaign. But the woman on the other end didn't take the cue. Her voice was undeniably sweet and casual, directly asking if he was speaking so formally because his wife was listening.
Furious, I snatched the cellphone from his hand. I spoke directly into the receiver. "I'm not the wife," I told her sharply. "I'm just a mistress, exactly like you."
Before I could say another word, John grabbed the phone back and shut it off. He wasn't even angry. He just kept denying they were lovers. I silently took a bottle of beer and drank it as if it were water. My body, entirely unaccustomed to alcohol, reacted violently. My feet grew so heavy I could no longer stand. Junjun had to half-carry me to my hut while my mind raced, unable to process the sheer exhaustion of competing against a seemingly endless roster.
Before flying back to Japan, I secretly went to an electronics hub in Manila with my brothers. I bought an incredibly powerful public sound system meant specifically for John's campaign. But I hesitated to give it to him. I felt like I was constantly competing financially with Dr. Becka, whom I knew was pouring significant money and resources into his political run.
The election day arrived, and John still had no idea about the sound system sitting quietly in our chapel. Sitting with Sunty and Abe, we monitored the provincial results. Our entire slate swept the election: Sunty won a seat on the provincial board, and DJ Pol was officially elected as Vice-Mayor.
Abe and I waited near the phone the entire following day, hoping John would contact us to celebrate. Nothing came. When we finally called to congratulate him, he tersely claimed he was "simply too busy" with election matters.
Weeks after the election, I returned to the Philippines. Mitch and his Japanese friends, Mr. Sugawara and Mr. Kimura, were visiting to celebrate my birthday, and we decided to host another massive community wedding to mark the occasion.
Abe and I went to the Torrijos town hall to coordinate the event with the Mayor. We also sought out the newly minted Vice-Mayor, DJ Pol, to formally invite him. When we arrived at his office, his staff went inside to announce our presence. Moments later, John emerged from his office — and walked straight past us, completely ignoring us, heading silently toward another room.
Insulted, I turned to Abe and told her we were leaving.
It was a ridiculous, charming, entirely manipulative gesture — and he knew it would be just enough to win us back. Laughing, I laid out the invitation to the birthday party. He agreed to come, then immediately asked if I would be willing to secretly travel with him to Laguna for a police-military training seminar before Mitch arrived.
A deal was struck.
John and I traveled south of Manila to a private resort outside a military camp. We rented a secluded room containing its own indoor pool and Jacuzzi. John would leave for his training during the day, returning at noon so we could have lunch together.
While in Manila, we went to a specialized tailor to have his very first set of proper police uniforms made to order—something he had desperately wanted but never owned despite holding his lieutenant rank for years. I also took him to a department store and bought him expensive Onesimus native shirts for his upcoming oath-taking as Vice-Mayor, explicitly demanding he throw away the shirts Dr. Becka had bought him.
Despite the underlying friction, our time in Laguna felt incredibly intimate. I even purchased him the exact luggage bag he requested. He was gentlemen-like, attentive, and seemingly grateful for my support.
Upon returning to Marinduque to host Mitch, John snuck over to my property one afternoon, grinning as he ate fresh crabs on my veranda. I introduced him carefully to Mitch simply as an "elected Town Councilor and a friend." Mitch, entirely unaware of the truth, heavily praised the young man's political achievements.
I didn't immediately turn over the tailored uniforms to John. I kept them hidden, perhaps as leverage, knowing how easily he could vanish once his needs were met. Eventually, we took a clandestine afternoon drive to a hotel in the neighboring town of Sta. Cruz. The passion was notably dim; he was rigidly paranoid about Nick, who was sleeping in the front seat, overhearing us.
When it was time to part ways, I finally handed him the bag containing his custom police uniforms and another box holding an expensive bottle of wine for his upcoming birthday. He kissed me quickly on the cheek, thanked Nick, and walked away into the darkness.
When I called him from Japan days later, the phone line was dead. He had completely discarded the number.
Through Sunty, I acquired a new number, but when John answered, his voice was freezing cold. He began deliberately making other people answer my calls. The ultimate blow, however, came during a community service day with his students. I called the number, managing to get him on the line. He absentmindedly mentioned his family's scheduled ferry trip to Manila had been canceled.
I called back later that afternoon. Someone answered, but the voice wasn't his.
It was Mean, his wife.
Before I could even speak, Mean unleashed a barrage of insults more violently degrading than I had ever imagined possible. The sheer vitriol she used to describe me left my mind completely blank. She attacked my character, my morals, calling me names that would make a prostitute blush. Then, she slammed the phone down.
The following day, I called him back just to ask what had happened. He casually replied that she had "simply grabbed the phone from his hand." There was no apology. No defense. He used his own wife as an executioner, letting her deliver the killing blow to a relationship he no longer needed to maintain.
In this chapter, the transactional nature of the affair becomes brutally undeniable. John's willingness to weaponize his charm—dancing the cha-cha without music to defuse anger—contrasts sharply with his cold, calculated exit the moment he receives the tailored uniforms and campaign victory he sought. The narrative strips away the remaining romantic illusions, exposing how financial provision and emotional manipulation were intertwined.