You're That Bitch: & Other Cute Lessons About Being Unapologetically Yourself

by Bretman Rock

I’ve hung out and identified with women my whole entire life, which is probably why I’ve always felt my femme side so strongly.

I gave the phone back to my dad, and he and my mom had a nice conversation, like everything was fine and fuckin’ dandy. But remember, my mom’s a Scorpio. She was already plotting.

Turns out it’s a Polynesian word, and it’s not even derogatory! Back in the olden days, māhū were accepted as a “third gender,” and had really cool spiritual and social roles. Māhū were teachers, priests, and healers.

It’s funny because there’s also a third gender celebrated in Filipino culture, too, babaylan. Babaylans were traditionally shamans and healers and could be male, female, or trans. It’s kind of a shame that I didn’t know that māhū and babaylan were both such beautiful words and spiritual roles until later in life.

I realized nobody had been paying attention to me. So I needed to be more dramatic. I decided to hide under a big heavy comforter on a bed and try suffocating myself. Nobody knew I was in there—nobody even knew I was hurting so badly—and I eventually passed out from the heat and dehydration.

constantly questioning their own masculinity. In school, I don’t think they actually disliked me because I was gay; it was because I was actually more confident and more masculine (and also more athletically gifted) than a lot of them. Physical and mental strength has nothing to do with gender. Just because I’m gay doesn’t make me weaker. And that made them vulnerable. So they acted out toward me. After that realization, I started not giving a shit about what they thought about me. I understood that they were just projecting. Maybe they wanted to be more like me, maybe they wanted me and couldn’t deal. Who knows.

There’s just something about queer kids and mermaids that makes sense. Maybe because they don’t have genitalia, so we don’t know if they’re a boy or a girl.

The best primer, the best thing to start with, is your own self-fucking-confidence, and an understanding of who you are. Because if you build your makeup over your insecurities, you’re just going to be a pretty, insecure person.

You might not be crying in a penthouse, but when you are crying about something, take time to look at what you do have, and what matters more than whatever the fuck someone who doesn’t know the real you at all just said to you.

I mean, my back cramped up from carrying the only cute genes at my school.

LoL

I officially dropped my last name, Sacayanan, and from then on I was forever known as Bretney Spears or Bretman Rock, and I treated myself as if I was genuinely already famous. Walking to high school every morning, I put my headphones on and blasted generic audio of crowds cheering. (I literally googled “concert screaming” and found some good ones from Hannah Montana and played that instead of music.)

He manifested

Girl, that was a bullshit excuse. The bitch just didn’t want to buy me a phone (not me calling my Scorpio mom a bitch . . .).

LMFAO

I got unofficially inducted into the micro influencers club, you know, where they were all doing shout-out-for-shout-outs to swap or add followers. At this point, all I wanted—all we wanted—was fame. Those early days were such a different time to be an influencer.

Lowkey me lol

Then, one fateful afternoon, I was trying to record myself dancing dramatically to Beyoncé’s “7/11” in our living room, and had asked my sister, Princess, to wait before crossing in front of me to get through to the other side of the room. But the bitch walked through my shot anyway, carrying her stupid-ass red Solo Cup, ruining my best take yet—so I reflexively smacked the back of her ponytail super hard. The way her hair went, girl, and the way I snarked, “Are you fucking serious?”—well, that shit went viral, period. That was a watershed moment—I went from 10,000 followers to 2.5 million almost overnight, and the rest is herstory.

Get this video

The hardest part of my job now is staying relevant and creative without losing my soul or my mind—I don’t know exactly why some of my content works the way it works, but all I know is that I’d rather be relevant for falling on my ass than weird drama or bad shit.

humble af

“Yo, my mom told me to never delete this picture because she always knew you were going to be so much more. We want to pull it out one day when you come out with your first movie.” It’s so cool to hear from people who have believed in you for so long, from before you even believed or really knew yourself.

Tears

one of my friends, and she works at Playboy.” Why the fuck didn’t that bitch say so? It just so happened that she was in casting. If I hadn’t had a craving for sushi that night, one of the biggest moments of my life might have passed me by. The lesson is, always listen to your heart and your stomach.

much attention. I’d seen straight men like Bad Bunny and Bruno Mars on the cover of Playboy. (Or at least not out-at-the-time men. Because I get a bisexual vibe from at least one of those bitches. Anyway, we’re not here to talk about that.)

CALL THEM OUT

And last of all, don’t be mad if you’re like, “Why am I aroused by this?” Embrace it, ho. If this is making you mad, then it’s doing what it’s supposed to do, which is creating conversations around sexuality. This type of anger is what moves society, it’s what makes progress. If you’re saying that Bretman Rock doesn’t belong here because Playboy is for sex, well, sex is for all genders. And if you tell me that Playboy is for men, well, gay men are men too. Period.

Yasss

Turns out he had been reading the story when Facebook and Instagram infamously went down for an entire day, so his page was open to it all fucking day long. “I’m not gonna lie, you’re sexy,” he said bashfully. “I’m not gay, but you’re sexy.” For this big straight Hawaiian man to put his masculinity aside, I could barely even comprehend. It still gives me goose bumps to think about this conversation to this day. Not long after that happened, I was walking my dogs and my neighbor, he’s like this old—oh God, I hate calling people old, but he’s a white, silver-haired straight man, and it’s relevant to the story, bitch—yelled at me, “Bret, I saw it!” “What’d you see? My missing chicken, Blazie? Where she at?” “I saw your Playboy cover! Congrats, man. You’re so hot!” Like a sixty-year-old-man calling you hot early in the morning? Cock-a-doodle-do.

Hahaha

“My body is my temple.” I burn incense before every workout, and I lay out all of my crystals right in front of me. I do a meditation. After every workout I burn palo santo for spiritual purification and energy cleansing. I don’t show that part of my ritual because I don’t want people to think I’m weird. But I do see it as an extension of a spiritual practice. Working out is so much more than sweating and sculpting your body. It’s a time to really be with yourself, appreciate your mind and body, and test all of your capabilities.

Nobody was listening. Next thing I know I’m in motherfucking handcuffs, and not in a zexy way, being dragged through the airport like a common criminal. These coppers were the most dramatic fucking people I’ve ever met in my whole entire fucking life.

LOL

That bitch had no fucking patience. You know who taught me how to drive? YouTube. Actually, I first googled “How to start a 2015 Dodge Charger.” Then I drove myself to 7–Eleven (illegally) and bought Hawaii’s driver’s manual book. Then I taught myself how to go forward and parallel park. And that was it. Bitch, within a week I got my permit.

He then asked to take my fingerprints, and I was so sweaty, my fingerprints would not read. We tried it four or five times on each hand, rubbed alcohol on them, put them under a fucking fan, nothing, bitch. The 30 milligrams were starting to hit hard. Was I even a human being, or was I an alien? I was so worried I’d be detained, I literally shit myself. Well, more like sharted in my pantalones.

she wound up dating comedian Jo Koy for a while, who is Filipino. Coincidence? I think not.

Rihanna said, and she sat on my little knee. I swear, I got a good whiff of Rihanna, and it smelled like rich puss. Rihanna has such a good scent, bitch, I know she’s famous for it. I know you’re gonna ask, so I’ll tell you what it was like. If I could describe it, I would say the scent is like if the top florist in the world handpicked the finest roses and extracted the scent with the finest craftsmen tools. Rihanna smelled like pure roses with a hint of vanilla. Rihanna smelled like what you want your funeral to actually smell like. I’ve been to lots of funerals, and the roses smell like death. No, that bitch smelled like what your first step into heaven should smell like.

If I even tried have a conversation with my mom today about why we got hit, I would probably get hit for just daring to have that conversation. She’d probably throw a slipper at me if I said something like, “Mom, you know, what you did to us when we were kids was so wrong.” She’d be like, “Wrong my ass. Give me that belt before I wrong your face again.” She’s that type of energy. She don’t give a fuck. She’s the type of bitch (oh my God, not me calling my mom a bitch again)—she’s the type of mother who would knock us around in public. If we were in trouble, girl, the whole Walmart would hear about it. There was no “Wait till I get home,”

But she’s my mom, and she’s always been clear that absolutely no one can fuck wit me when this bitch is protecting me. My mom is truly the one person that makes me feel like no one can hurt me in this world. She is my biggest shield in the world, and she’s always standing by to help heal me if I need her.

when I meet famous people is that they have acne, too. Nobody’s skin actually looks that good in real life. I would still never post a picture of me with acne, but let me tell you, all these bitches have acne, girl, they got big-ass pores, they got wrinkles, and they’re far from perfect.