We in it shall be remembered; We few, we happy few, we band of SISTERS.

I spotted him loitering in the shadows of the convent across Governor Forbes Street. The boy was perhaps twelve and as clever and streetwise as every Filipino urchin. He had a burro with him. It was small animal, perhaps four feet at the shoulders. He called it “Ranúnculo,” which translates to Buttercup in English. That must’ve been the kid’s idea of a joke because the creature looked as just larcenous as its owner.

He dawdled in the shadows as we Anglos gathered at the wrought iron fence. I gave him a slight nod and he strolled over to join the gaggle of Filipinos on the other side. The Japs had hung up bamboo mats to prevent interaction between our two groups. That worked for maybe a day. Then convenient holes began to appear.

The heat was getting oppressive, meaning it was a typical June day in Manila. The humidity hovered around one hundred percent, and my ratty shirt was soaked. A little time passed. Then, the kid turned to me and said calmly, “Senor?” The coast was clear.

I looked around. Nobody on my side of the fence was watching. So, I poked a genuine American dollar through a hole. It was wrapped around a rolled-up piece of paper. I said, “Make sure this gets to Mr. Adevoso personally.”

He gave me a slight nod, which was far too adult, and strolled back to where Buttercup was grazing on grass growing between the cracks in the pavement. The boy mounted the little beast bareback, legs dangling, and clip-clopped off down the street toward the Pasig Bridge.

I was sure that my message would get to Adevoso. The Japanese occupiers might be vigilant. But the Filipino resistance was everywhere. My only worry was that someday the Japs would figure out who’d been writing those notes.

Grandpa arrived in the Philippines as a private with the First Nebraska Infantry. That was in 1898. He served under Otis and then MacArthur Senior while we “persuaded” the Spanish to vacate the premises and the native Tagalogs to let us stay. I had Tagalog friends who saw that as more of a conquest.

Gramps decided he preferred Manila’s heat and humidity to Ogalala’s blizzards. So, when he mustered out, he used his Army connections to set up an import/export business. The business grew as the Philippines became the lynchpin of America’s Far East strategy. By the time my dad took over in ‘29, Grayson & Son was the leading importer of materials for the U.S. military.

I got an M.D. from the University of the Philippines in 1938. Hence, I was technically a medical doctor. But I never intended to practice medicine. What did I care? My family was filthy rich. The only reason I’d spent all those years in school was to keep my dad off my back.

He’d wanted me to join the firm right out of prepping at the Colegio de San Juan de Letran school. But if I had, I would have had to show up at work every day and that would have gotten in the way of my fun. So Instead, I dedicated myself to becoming a professional student.

Yes – I’ll admit it ... I might have been smart, but I was shallow. On the other hand, the rest of my peers were just as bad. Fact is - we were universally useless, an over-entitled, spoiled-rotten bunch of rich kids with more money than brains or morals. Still, we were having one hell of a fun time.

They called Manila the “Pearl of the Orient.” It had been Spanish for over 350 years. So, it was more like Havana than the other Western-owned places in Asia like Hong Kong, Singapore, or Shanghai. The young crowd lived for its Western-style social events at the exclusive clubs, or betting on the Jai Lai and the big bashes they held at the Manila Hotel.

The Santa Ana cabaret was where everybody went on a hot Manila night. It was divided in half by a picket fence that stretched the width of its cavernous interior. You could get a decent supper on one side, served on white linen tablecloths by elegantly dressed Filipino waiters. The other side was reserved for dancing. The music from the twenty-piece orchestra filled both sides with the latest songs.

I was sitting on the dancing side when a couple sat at a table on the other side. I’d seen the guy around the Army and Navy club. His name was Giles “something.” Like me, he was a legacy from one of the soldiers who’d put down the insurrection two generations earlier, not an actual veteran.

He didn’t have my kind of money. But he was a legendary swordsman with the ladies. I could see where he got his reputation. He was a handsome fellow. But the woman he was with was out of this world.

Back then, there were still pure Spanish “aristocracia” living off the plunder from almost four hundred years of occupation. They mainly resided in the plantations outside of town. The woman was clearly one of those. She had long black hair and deep mysterious dark eyes that radiated roiling sensuality.

Her face was a perfect oval with high cheekbones and a tiny, pointed chin beneath a wide sensual mouth. Her nose was as thin and straight as a Conquistador’s nasal helmet guard. But her most stunning feature was her hard little body with a fabulous pair of legs.

The red cocktail dress emphasized her dark eyes and embraced her incredible curves like it was painted on. The round boobies in her scooped cleavage were like a couple of ripe mangos. They were so full and luscious that you were tempted to take a bite.

I was sitting with Vincente and Skipper at our usual table near the outskirts of the dance crowd, eyeing our prospects for the night. I looked over to see who was sitting down next to us. She and I locked eyes, and something inexpressible passed between us. I was lost.

She looked equally upset. But just then, Giles said something to her, and she turned her attention back to enchanting him. I could tell that Giles was just as mesmerized as I was. I had to meet this woman. But I didn’t know her name.

They had a policy about cigars inside the cabaret, and Giles had one sticking out of the front pocket of his blazer, just above the Army and Navy Club patch. So, I waited until they finished dinner, knowing he would go out onto the patio to have a smoke while his date lingered over her crème de menthe.

Right on schedule, Giles arose and said something to her. She gave him a dismissive wave, and he sauntered out the tall French doors and into the warm night air. Manila gets an average of eighty inches of rain a year. That’s almost seven feet for the mathematically challenged. Of course, all that rain’s a pain in the ass during the monsoon season. But it also produces some of the lushest and most exotic vegetation on the planet.

The terrace the French doors opened onto had broad flagstones and thick stone balustrades, ideal for somebody who wanted to enjoy an excellent hand-rolled Cuban. Giles was puffing away when I joined him with my own expensive stick. We nodded because we’d seen each other around, and I took a perch near him, leaning on the balustrade.

We smoked in silence for a while. Then I casually said, “I say old boy, that’s a smashing lady you’re with tonight.”

I knew he would need to brag. Guys like him always need to boast about their conquests.

He gave me a smug chuckle and said, “You have no idea. She’s the hottest woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of fucking, and I’ve been with them all.”

Now that was a chivalrous way to describe your date.

I said, continuing to sound disinterested, “Looks Spanish. They’re all hot-blooded.”

He laughed aloud and said, “Hot-blooded doesn’t begin to describe Margarita Santos-Marquez. She’s legendary. I’d almost give up philandering if she would agree to make it permanent. But she says I’m not right for her.”

I thought, “And she’s also a good judge of character.”

So, my mystery woman was from THAT family. Naturally, we all knew each other. The Santos-Marquez’s were almost as wealthy as mine, and they lived in Makati too ... how convenient.

I said, “Well, good luck, old chap.”

He said condescendingly, “Luck doesn’t have anything to do with it. We’re headed for the Manila Hotel after dinner. That woman can’t get enough of me.”

I thought, “Tres Galant!” But I just nodded and walked away. I now had all the information I needed.

Margarita was leaving with Giles when I went back into the cabaret. Did she glance in my direction? I plopped down next to Skipper. Rumor had it that he occasionally batted from the left-hand side of the wicket, but that was no business of mine. He was fat and jolly and knew all the gossip. I said, “What can you tell me about Margarita Santos-Marquez?”

He laughed and said, “Ah, the legendary Margarita. So, you’ve fallen under her spell too.”

I said, irritated, “What are you talking about? Who IS she?”

Skipper said, “Margarita’s beauty has been legendary among the Spanish planter set since her Quinceanera. But you know how closely the Spanish Plantadors protect the virtue of their marriageable girls. So, she was locked away at St. Scholastica’s until her eighteenth birthday.”

Skipper chuckled lecherously and added, “Now that she’s past eighteen and out of the clutches of the nuns, she’s been cutting quite a swath among the eligible Plantador elite. She was with Giles Pemberton tonight. So, I see she’s branched out to Anglos too. He’d be the obvious first choice.

I said, “Do you know where she lives, where she likes to spend her time?” Both Skipper and Vincente laughed and said singsong, “He’s got it baaaaad!!”

I ran into Margarita and Giles several times in the succeeding weeks. He looked enthralled. She looked bored. Margarita gave me a longing look whenever we saw each other. It was like she was wondering when I would make my move.

I was planning to. But I’d decided to take a different tack from the rest of the slavering dog pack. Margarita’s father was Don Carlos Santos-Marquez, whose ancestors had ensured that the family would never be poor by appropriating a few hundred square miles of fertile land around Mount Natib, above Balanga on the Bataan peninsula. Don Carlos was the patriarch.

That didn’t mean the family lived there. On the contrary, Bataan was too rustic for any civilized person’s taste. That was why the family home was not far from us in Makati.

I called on Don Carlos at his company’s office in Rizal. He took the meeting because he knew my family name. But he didn’t know who I was.

Don Carlos was a courtly fifty-one-year-old Spaniard with perfect Latin features and impeccable grooming. It’s what you get with ten generations of superior breeding ... all-in-all, an intimidating fellow. He gestured to a chair and said, “How may I help you, Senor?”

I said, trying to keep my voice steady, “I met your daughter a couple of weeks ago, and she enchanted me. But I know that I need your permission to court her. Hence, I am calling on you today to ask you for it.”

That was pure unadulterated bull feathers. The Don’s daughter was probably fucking Giles Pemberton’s eyeballs out as we spoke. But he didn’t know that - and being an old-fashioned Plantador, he believed the man must always ask the father’s permission before wooing the daughter.

My approach had impressed him. He gave me a gracious smile and said, “I appreciate any young person who follows the rules. There are so few of them in your generation. I know that you come from a good family. So, you have my permission. When would you care to visit?”

The first date was always a family affair. It usually involved dinner so the parents could confirm that you were a gentleman. I said, “At your convenience Don Santos-Marquez.”

He said, “You may call tonight if that fits your schedule.” I said, “Perfect!!” and he nodded in genteel acknowledgment.

Naturally, I wasn’t planning to simply show up with a smile on my face and a bottle of wine under my arm. I wore the appropriate dining costume: white linen planter suit with a white silk shirt and club tie. There was a formal introduction to the parents at the entrance. Then I was led in by the butler to take my seat at the family table. That’s how things were done back then.

Margarita was sitting with her two younger sisters, carefully sequestered at the far end of the table. That was to ensure against any hanky-panky between the woman and her suitor. I know that sounds ridiculous, given Margarita’s real-life adventures. But conventions had to be obeyed, and the parents never really knew.

Margarita looked startled when I walked in. She knew a “gentleman caller” was coming, but she didn’t know who. Then her expression changed to one of cunning respect. She knew EXACTLY what I was up to, and she played along like the blushing virgin that she wasn’t.

Formal introductions were made. I handed Margarita my card, gloved hand, of course, and gave her sisters a dashing smile as I said, “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, girls.” They all tittered shyly, while their older sister gave me a surreptitious look that almost made my socks burst into flame.

The dining was delightful, as it always was in the better families in Manila. That evening’s main course was a Pancit Guisado that perfectly blended Spanish and Filipino cultures, reminiscent of paella and Tagalog sisig. We ate and drank wine and chatted about the trivialities that ruled life amongst the uber-wealthy. Then Margarita and I were allowed to get to know each other.

It isn’t what you’re thinking. A duenna was sitting with us – of course. But she was Margarita’s old nurse and fabulously hard of hearing. Thus, we could talk in whispers and still obey all the conventions. So, I said earnestly, “I saw you at the Santa Ana, and I had to meet you. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on.”

She gave me a secret smile and said, “I was hoping you would ask me out. But this is the cleverest ploy ever. My parents and sisters are infatuated with you.”

I said, “So, Giles didn’t ask your father’s permission?”

She said dismissively, “Giles is a blockhead. But he has his uses. I have a tough time getting nice guys to approach me, so I have to settle for those who are too self-centered to know better.”

I said confidently, “Can we meet again?”

She said, “It’s what I was hoping. I’ll see you tomorrow at the Santa Ana.” She stood, extended her hand, and said loudly enough for the nurse to hear, “Thank you for visiting me. You may call on me again next week.” Then she gave me a lascivious wink and swept back into the house, with the nurse trailing in her wake.

I was standing beneath the portico of the cabaret when Margarita’s taxi pulled up. She was in another one of her red dresses with plenty of succulent cleavage and gorgeous legs on display. She glided up to me, put her hand on the side of my cheek, and said in her husky, seductive voice, “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

I would have stood there for as long as necessary to have a moment in time like this. But I had to be a wise-ass or lose my cred. So, I said with implication in my voice, “I can be patient.”

What I meant by that remark was clear to both of us. Margarita tapped me lightly on the cheek and said, “It won’t be long.” Her dark eyes pulled me down a long, slippery slope to a valley of endless carnal delight.

She seized my arm possessively, and we strolled into the club. As we were seated, I glanced over to the other side of the house just to see if Skipper and Vicente were there. But, instead, I locked eyes with a thoroughly pissed-off Giles Pemberton.

He rose from his seat, walked around to the dining side of the room, said something to the Maître d,’ and chuffed up to our table, snorting fire. My standing to meet him would give his indignation more status than it deserved. So, I decided to play it cool. I looked at him with bored contempt and said, “Yes??”

He was standing over me threateningly as he said, “I say, old chap. That’s bad form trying to steal my girl!!!”

I glanced casually at Margarita and said, “What about it, Margarita? Am I stealing HIS girl?” But of course, I knew what her answer would be. She was NOBODY’S girl.

Pemberton had pissed her off. She slowly turned her head and looked at him as if trying to decide. Pemberton did everything but spread his tail feathers like a peacock. Then she said in a bored voice, “Go away, Giles. I’m with Erik tonight. Get in my date book if you want to go out with me.”

I couldn’t resist a smirk. I knew I’d made an enemy for life, but what did I care. I was rich. I was with the hottest woman in Manila, and I was going to get my brains fucked out tonight.

There’s so much late-night traffic in the lobby of the Manila hotel that they have extra desk clerks just to check in the people who’ve suddenly developed the urge to experience the “finest living in Asia.”

I’d gotten my room key before going over to the Santa Ana. So, I handed my supercharged Mercedes SSK 710 roadster off to the valet and breezed across the lobby to the lift. Our passing turned heads. I was an object of envy for every straight male and a few of the more questionable females.

Men are sighthounds by nature, and Margarita is not a woman we can ignore. You stare at that fabulous heart-shaped ass and those perfect tits, and you get that little twinge. It’s no doubt genetic, tied to our survival as a species. And yes, I agree ... No woman would mate with us if they knew what was happening in our primitive little brains.

Our room was expensive, even by Manila Hotel standards, bayside view with tall French doors leading to a substantial balcony and a massive bed. I’d played my hand masterfully to this point, and I wasn’t going to blow it at this stage by grabbing her and ripping off her expensive evening gown. These things take patience and class.

So, I smiled and said, “I have some bubbly chilling on the veranda, darling. Shall we take a glass?” She acknowledged the gambit with a sultry, secret smile that told me, “Well played!”

Manila Bay was as romantic as ever, dotted with ships and with a silvery moon cutting across it. I could see the lights on the far-off Bataan peninsula and Corregidor at the mouth of the bay. I popped, poured, and handed her a flute. She was looking at me with her mystical dark eyes shining.

The breeze was fragrant with hibiscus as the gentle onshore breeze ruffled the lace curtains. The humidity was down, and the night was warm and embracing. Naturally, there were ship noises immediately in front of us and the sound of traffic on Dewey Boulevard behind us. But it was calm and peaceful up there on our balcony.

Margarita’s stunning beauty begins with her perfectly proportioned oval face. But the depth of her huge dark eyes promotes her attractiveness from something merely special to extraordinary. Those eyes were looking at me with an equal measure of appraisal and desire. It was like she’d made a preliminary decision, but there was something she needed to find out before she made it permanent.

We were standing side-by-side, leaning on the railing, sipping our drink, when she took my flute and set it next to hers. Then she put her hands on my arms and turned me fully toward her. She was ready. The waiting game had paid off.

She grabbed the back of my head and pulled me down for a scorching kiss. She moaned, her mouth opened like a flower, and we exchanged probing tongues. That should have been the point where I grabbed her by one butt cheek and a tantalizing melon and carried her off to bed.

But then again - that was what she expected. So, I put my arms around her and gently pulled her to me. My left hand was decorously at her waist, and my right hand was on the skin of her bare back. Then I bent her over in a kiss like something out of a romantic storybook.

She hesitated, confused for a second. Then she made a slight noise and began to kiss back enthusiastically. It was finally time for the endgame. I took Margarita’s hand and led her gently toward the bed. She looked a little dazed – good!

I stopped beside the bed and stared directly into her deep dark eyes. She was looking back as I gently unzipped her gown. It was like gazing into the eyes of a hungry tiger. Unspeakable forces were about to be unleashed.

I already knew that Margarita was wearing nothing but a thin pair of panties and a garter belt. Very little material was in the front of her dress, and the entire back was missing. But the sight that was revealed as her dress fell to the floor was something I’ll never forget.

Margarita Santos-Marquez had an amazing body. All the proportions were perfect, not too much, not too little, just right. She had every one of the female contrasts, hard and soft, broad, and narrow, tiny, and large, smooth, and slightly hairy. At that moment, the tips of her beautiful breasts rose and fell like the Pacific in a typhoon. And she was clearly experiencing a transcendingly lustful moment.

I was shucking my clothing as she gracefully assumed the classic prone position, hips thrust forward and open, shoulders and palms lying flat on the bed, her nearest leg stretched out flat, toes pointed, the other bent in anticipation. Now she was gasping like it was a matter of life and death. I climbed between her invitingly spread legs and paused. The aim was to make her need it and want it.

She made an impatient sound as she grabbed and inserted me. The trip up her fiery passage triggered a loud groan of satisfaction. She had a hard body except those two exquisite little melons squished against my chest, and she was hot. It might have been a matter of just a couple of degrees, but her mouth and other orifice were blazing.

When I hit bottom, her eyes opened so wide that I could see the whites around them, and she shrieked. This woman definitely felt it. This was going to be a wild ride. She grabbed the back of my head and dragged me down for another blistering, open-mouthed kiss. Her incoherent noises as our tongues dueled were an auditory gauge of her arousal.

Then she wailed, slammed her arms and legs around me, and began to buck furiously while muttering in Spanish. Like most Anglos, I didn’t have the Spanish tongue, but I could tell what she was saying by the emphasis on the words. The Spanish term I knew was “folar,” which means fuck. That was every third word.

I was on top of her. But I had no sense that she was helpless underneath me. I had to use all of my strength just to corral her because she was throwing me around, writhing and bucking with frantic urgency. My beautiful partner was lost in the act.

We were both sweating from exertion on that hot night and her natural lubrication was so copious that I slid all over the place, trying to stay in her. She wasn’t helping by her agitated movements. In fact, if you’ll pardon the inappropriate analogy, it was like wrestling a greased pig.

Then she added one more novel sensation. She began to growl. It wasn’t a grunt or a moan. Instead, it was a full-throated sound that would have been suitable coming from a timber wolf. That primitive noise raised some atavistic instinct, and I lost it.

I put my arms behind her knees and spread her wide. She growled deeper. I pounded on her so hard that sailors on the ships in the harbor must have heard the wet slapping. Finally, she let out an almost hypersonic shriek, and her hard body jackknifed beneath me. Her eyes were wide open, almost frightened, her mouth formed the most expansive “O,” and her passage went nuts.

She put her hands against my shoulders and shoved me off with uncanny strength. Then she flopped around on the bed like a recently boated sailfish. Her face registered the distress you would see on a person experiencing excruciating pain – or pleasure.

I hadn’t gotten my cookies yet. So as soon as she stopped flopping, I opened her back up and entered her again. She lay there panting and exhibiting all the symptoms of a person in shock.

As I slid back into her, her hips made a furious up and down motion. She hyperventilated loudly and reflexively came again. I began violently pounding down the home stretch, and she started crying. It wasn’t sadness. It was like she was blowing off emotional steam.

I finally crossed the finish line, and there were a couple of moments that I will never be able to recall. Margarita was making odd gurgling noises of satisfaction right next to my ear. At the same time, I was engaged in what felt like a series of life-threatening spasms.

I finally rolled off and lay next to her, arm on my forehead, trying to get my breathing back to normal. She looked like she had passed out, or she was maybe deep within herself, experiencing the same sense of unreality.

What WAS that!!?? Calling it sex wasn’t close to correct. It was more like the first human mating ... intensely primordial and feral. I looked at her, puzzled. She was just as confused. Finally, I said, sincerely and honestly, “I have never done anything like that in my life, have you?”

I know that was an ungentlemanly question, and I would not like the answer if she’d said, “Yes - daily.” But I just had to find out.

She said wonderingly, “I don’t know what came over me. I know what an orgasm feels like. But this was something different. It was like I had lost control of my soul. For a moment, I wasn’t sure I would survive it. It absorbed my whole consciousness.”

And that was how Margarita Santos-Marquez and Erik Grayson became an item around town. I’m not sure you would call it love. It was more like we shared the same superficial values and qualities. We were beautiful people who were wealthy, over-entitled, and wholly self-absorbed. Our duty was to show the less remarkable members of the species what social and cultural superiority looked like.

We went to all the best parties and did all the expected things. Margarita’s stunning beauty was as much an accessory as my expensive clothing and hot sports car. It was proof that I was the top dog. I did the same thing for her. Having a rich and handsome lover with an impeccable family pedigree and a resultant sense of upper-class style made her the woman that every other woman wanted to be.

Better yet, we had elevated sex to an art form. Margarita was gorgeous and sensual, of course, but there were women in Manila who were close to her level of attractiveness. Nevertheless, Margarita had something that separated her from conventional beauties in the same way that famous movie stars elevate themselves above merely attractive women. She could give an erection to a stone idol.

The thing of it is ... Margarita really “felt” it – right down to the tips of her bright red painted toenails. So, she could surrender herself in a way that made a guy feel like he was the most powerful man in the universe. It gave her an innate eroticism that screamed WOMAN!!

Of course, in those ridiculously egotistical days, my pride was justification alone for spending all my time and money entertaining her. I was the envy of my peers. But something else was also beginning to happen - I was getting to know Margarita, and I liked her.

She had a role to play as a society femme-fatale and played it well. But there was an elemental freshness about her, a sense of humor and joi-de-vivre that made her a great companion for day drives out to Nagsasa Cove and Malabrigo Point or just sitting and talking on a hot Manila night on the porch of the mansion.

I wouldn’t call it love. That’s because I only had room in my heart for one person – myself!! And I know that was also the case with Margarita. In effect, it was more like two selfish people who enjoyed spending time with each other. But we were constantly together, and that familiarity brought us closer in ways neither of us had experienced before.

We might have eventually married and lived the moneyed life of our parents and ancestors ... social climbing, discreet affairs, and all. But then the Japanese arrived and changed that.

Not that we’d have ever noticed it, but the world around us was evolving in meaningful ways. There was a war in Europe, and Japan was having its way with the Chinese. The United States was still sitting on the sidelines, but the question was ... when would we be dealt into the game?

The papers said not to worry. Japan would never attack the Philippines because Manila Bay was the home of the mighty U.S. Asiatic Fleet – a line of defense that our enemies could never cross. The problem was that Isoroku Yamamoto was a daring poker player, as he’d proven during his student days at Harvard, and he was about to deal us into the game.

It was another hot and humid night in early December. Margarita and I were attending a crazy-wild party at the Manila Hotel’s Fiesta Pavilion. The 27th Bomb Group threw it. They had recently arrived from the U.S.

It was typical for the era, marked by raucous laughter, off-key singing, the tinkling of glasses, and squealing girls. Margarita and I were sitting under a cascade of scarlet bougainvillea in the Hotel’s Bamboo Bar when I wittily remarked, “I hope they can fly better than they can sing.”

I’m such a comedian. I just kill myself...

One of the women sitting with the aforementioned flyers sniffed and gave me a disdainful look. I said under my breath, “Stuck Up Bitch!!” Margarita dissolved in laughter. The party went on into the wee hours of the morning. I remember it well because it marked the last fragile moments of my happiness.