Kilohertz & Calamansi

“A segment for the fundraiser broadcast. Names adults choose for themselves. Not a confession booth. Not a quiz. Just people talking about words that make room for their lives.”

Gael considered that. “Would you use our memos?”

“Maybe pieces. If we both agreed.”

“You want strangers to hear us in Booth B?”

“No. I want strangers to hear that they can choose what belongs to them.”

“That is not the same pitch.”

“Argument Two,” Gael said, taking the marker.

I folded my arms. “We are calling that an argument?”

“You got defensive in under ten seconds.”

“Fine.”

ARGUMENTS: 2

“I don’t want our private recordings used because you feel brave today,” they said. “I don’t want bravery to become a deadline.”

“You’re right.” I broke off a piece of bread. “I got excited and made it about my timing.”

“Thank you.”

“What if we invite people to record anonymous notes? They can use a name, skip a name, change their mind halfway through. No one owes the station a tidy ending.”

“That is better.”

“I also thought we could call it Coming Clean.”

Gael closed their eyes.

“Argument Three?”

“Argument Three.”

ARGUMENTS: 3

“That title is terrible,” they said.

“It is a working title.”

“It sounds like shame wearing a station lanyard.”

I laughed despite myself. “Fine. Dead title.”

We filled the back of the scorecard with lines for the segment.

A NAME CAN BE A DOOR, NOT A CAGE.

YOU CAN CHANGE YOUR WORDS.

PRIVACY COUNTS AS A CHOICE.

NO ONE OWES A COMPLETE STORY.

Gael added the last one.

YOU GET TO DECIDE WHO HEARS YOU.

“Usable,” I said.

“Very usable.”

By the time the bread bag was empty, we had six clean takes between us. Gael totaled them with careful strokes.

USABLE TAKES: 11 ARGUMENTS: 3 KISSES: 4

They handed me the marker.

“One more category adjustment,” they said.

I wrote beneath the kisses.

HONEST ANSWERS: 8

Then I looked up. “Can I kiss you?”

Gael smiled. “Yes.”

KISSES: 5

The ink had not dried before fundraiser night filled every plastic chair in the station lobby. Gael’s kulintang samples cracked beneath the opening appeal, bright metal notes cut with synth bass. I counted down the first donor break, watched the pledge total climb, and let myself enjoy being good at my job.

“Usable take twelve,” Gael said through the talkback.

“Thirteen if the next caller cries on cue.”

“That is evil.”

“That is radio.”

At nine twenty, every light in the station went black for one beat.

The board died. The donation screen froze at thirty-eight thousand four hundred pesos. Backup power gave Control A its thin blue emergency strip, then that cut out too.

The audience groaned. A volunteer dropped a stack of pledge cards. Rain hit the windows so hard it sounded like loose gravel.

Gael reached across the console and took my hand. “Green?”

“Green. Annoyed, but green.”

The chief engineer came through the studio door with a flashlight and a face that told me everything before he spoke.

“Live hour is delayed,” he said. “Could be twenty minutes. Could be longer.”

The audience waited through one more failed restart. Then the station manager thanked everyone, promised updated donation links, and sent people home with paper bags of pandesal. By eleven, the lobby held only folded chairs, damp flyers, and the smell of coffee gone bitter in its urn.

Gael snapped their synth case shut.

“Come home with me?” they said.

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes. I want you in my apartment. I want sex with you. If you get to my door and that answer changes, I will walk you to a ride and complain about the power company with you instead.”

I took their case from them and carried it toward the exit. “Good answer.”

“Point for courage?”

“Maybe two.”

At their apartment, I set the case beside the couch and caught the front of their shirt before they could reach for the light.

“I want to be precise,” I said.

Gael went still. “I like precise.”

“I want you to undress me slowly. I want your mouth on my cunt until I come. I want to touch you exactly how you ask. Then I want the harness, a condom, and I want to be on top. I want to decide when faster means faster.”

Their eyes widened, then their grin arrived.

“My turn,” they said. “I want all of that. I want you to ask for every change. Yellow means we pause. Red means we stop. I want your mouth on my chest. I want your hand under my briefs only when I say green. And I want to hear you tell me when something feels good.”

“That last one is easy.”

“Green?”

“Green.”

“Can I take off your dress?”

“Yes.”

They unzipped it with both hands, then waited while I lifted my arms. The dress fell onto the floor beside my shoes. My bra followed after I said yes again. Gael kissed my collarbone, then took one nipple into their mouth.

“Good?” they said.

“Good. Keep going.”

Their hands moved over my ribs, my waist, my hips. Each pause felt like room made for me, not a delay. When they lowered to their knees, they looked up.

“Mouth?”

“Yes. My clit first. Firm. Keep one hand on my hip.”

“Got it.”

Gael put their mouth on me and followed every instruction. Their tongue worked steady circles around my clit. I held the edge of the couch and told them when to press harder, when to keep the rhythm, when to stay exactly where they were.

“There,” I said. “Do not change that.”

They did not.

I came hard, my bare foot striking the couch cushion. Gael stayed with me until I said, “Enough. Still green.”

They stood and kissed me.

“Your turn,” I said.

“Green. Shirt off. Briefs stay on until I ask.”

I pulled their shirt over their head and kissed their chest, tasting rain and calamansi soda on their skin. I took one nipple into my mouth while my hand rested over their briefs.

“More pressure,” they said.

“Here?”

“Exactly there.”

Their hand covered mine, guiding it beneath the fabric. I kept the pace they showed me. Gael’s hips lifted against my palm, their mouth open around my name.

“Don’t change it.”

“I’m not changing it.”

They came with their hand gripping the couch cushion beside them. Afterward, they laughed once, bright and surprised.

“That was extremely usable,” they said.

“I listened.”

“That is hot too.”

Gael reached for the harness. I held out the condom.

“Can I put it on?”

“Yes.”

I rolled it over the silicone cock, checked the fit, then handed the harness back. Gael fastened it around their hips and lay facing me on the couch.

“I want to ride you,” I said.

“Green.”

I climbed over them and lowered myself slowly. The stretch made me stop halfway down.

Gael froze. “Yellow?”

“Green. I wanted a minute to feel it without talking over myself.”

“Take all the minutes.”

I settled fully, then began to move. Slow at first. My hands rested on Gael’s shoulders while they watched my face for every answer.

“Your hand?” they said.

“Yes. On my clit. Same tempo.”

Their palm moved against me, firm and steady. I set the pace. When I wanted more, I said so.

“Faster.”

Gael gave me faster.

“Harder.”

They held my hips and met me with careful thrusts. I came again, folded over them, laughing into the curve of their neck because I had asked for every part of it and received every part I wanted.

“Still green?” they said.

“So green.”

When I was ready, I told them. They withdrew, helped me down beside them, and brought water from the kitchen without making it a ceremony.

By morning, the scorecard sat between two mugs of coffee and a plate of pandesal.

Gael drew a new grid on the back.

PACE: SLOWER 2 / FASTER 2 TOUCH: ASKED 6 / ANSWERED 6 COURAGE: SAID IT 3 YELLOW CALLED: 1

“You forgot one,” I said.

“What?”

“Yellow belongs under courage.”

Gael handed me the marker. “Half the votes are yours.”

I added it beneath the last line.

COURAGE: 4

“We should make the memos weekly,” I said.

“As a program?”

“As a project first. We record after every fundraiser shift. We approve every cut together. Nothing goes on air unless we both want it there.”

Gael tore off a piece of bread and passed it to me.

“Names, privacy, music, bad food opinions,” they said.

“Calamansi rankings.”

“Essential public service.”

I wrote WEEKLY MEMOS: 1 in the empty margin.

“Usable take,” Gael said.

“Very usable.”

The next Friday, rain ticked at the station windows while Gael and I sat shoulder to shoulder in Control A.

The edit clock read 28:14.

Six memos. Three anonymous callers. One kulintang loop Gael had rebuilt after deciding my first cue sounded “like a bank commercial having a bad day.”