Papa Juicy?

Yesterday morning in the mall, trapped in the salon chair, hair color cream burning my scalp to the bone, I watched as a pretty young lady excitedly entered after spotting my girlfriend. I figured they must be pretty close the way they greeted each other like two long lost buddies.

They talked and laughed boisterously for a good ten minutes. As the hairdresser painted additional goop into my tortured mane I soon realized that I had evidently become the topic of the girl’s conversation. Both looked at me like someone checking out a puppy in a pet shop window. To let them know I was onto them I grinned and waved from under my protective sheet which set off even more giggles and even an understated high five.

Later on that day I asked Divine what all the fuss was about between her and the girl in the salon. She explained laughing (she loves to laugh!): “Oh, that’s my friend from the hotel across the bridge. She works in the restaurant. I haven’t seen her in a long time, and when she saw you she wanted to know if you were my boyfriend.”

“Okay, so why all the laughing while you guys were looking at me? Making fun of my ugly new hair color, weren’t ya?”

“No way!” she protested. "She said you looked like a papa juicy."

"Papa Juicy? What's that?" I asked, already having mostly figured it out.

My girl nodded and elaborated, "I know, I asked her what it means too and she said, “You know, a daddy masarap!” Divine really emphasized the masarap part.

She continued telling her story: And then I said, “Oh yeah, of course he is! Very VERY masarap!””

“Really? And that’s when you guys did that little high five?” I asked.

“You got it!”
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"Dang," I said, amazed at their brazeness, "You girls are WORSE than dudes!"
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I shook my head, totally flattered, completely pleased with myself, and utterly baffled. xxxxx

"Well, for the life of me I have no idea how you guys can think that way, but I have to admit that I LIKE it!”
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Just to confirm, I opened the bathroom door, turned on the light and looked at myself in the mirror. 'Nope, still ugly old me,' I thought.
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I made a wry face remarking, “Geez, are you sure I’m the one you guys were looking at? I mean, look…”
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Turning around I pointed back at the mirror, “That is a pudgy 51 year old face attached to an equally pudgy body. What the heck is wrong with you girls? Are ya blind? I’m old and I’m fat!” I slapped my gut to make my point.
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She laughed (her favorite response) and objected, “No way, you’re guapo, and you’re not fat, you’re macho! I love the way you look! If you get skinny I’m gonna trade you!”
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I chuckled along with her, “Back home, I’m old and ugly; here, I’m a sex object! God bless the Philippines, where the women are half blind or just have completely poor taste in men. No wonder I live here…”
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Here’s a coincidence: Throughout most of my military career I went by the nickname PJ, aka “Papa Juicy?” You know, I just might go back to that, now that I know what it REALLY stands for. (Hmmm.... There's a thought... stroking chin, looking up and to the right.)