Sunday, October 31, 2004

So few men

Some chicks hate gay boys because of the competition they pose on the man market. It always strikes me as odd because, according to what's most widely accepted, they have 90% of the market covered, 80% on Saturday night.
Devan laughed. "Where do I fit in?"
"No where, buddy," I said. "You guys don't fit in any where. You're not even a good bi-sexual. You, pretty much, only sleep with girls."
"No I don't," said Devan seriously.
"When was the last time you slept with a guy."
"Um?" He squeezed his lips together. "Um?"
"Well?"
He laughed. "I don't remember."
"So you don't even figure in this conversation," I said. "You're just giving it to chicks anyway."
"Okay, I'll shag a guy."
"Go on then," I said. "Let's go get a drink and put you to the test." I was on my feet in moments. "Let's go." Devan got to his feet with a defiant look on his face.
"The Laird?" I wanted to see Devan make good on his claim.
"Sure, I'm up for it."
"Or a sex club?" I said, as we headed down the hallway.
"Let's go for a drink."
"Chicken." I opened the front door.
"Fuck off," Devan stepped into the front yard.
"You have to pick up a guy and take him home," I said, as I followed him down the front path.
"Okay. How will you know that we do anything?"
"Dev, I was never planning on being in the room with you, your place or a sex club." We were walking in the middle of the street, Dev was next to me. "There has to be a certain amount of honesty involved."
Dev laughed as though he was about to get away with something.
"Souvenir his jocks."
"No," insisted Devan.
"Take a photo of him naked on your phone?" One of Devan's hobbies is photography.
"Oh, come on!"We were heading down Gertrude nearly at Smith.
"I will just believe you if you tell me you did it."
There were taxi's and people every where in Smith Street. Sunday night seemed to be buzzing.
"I'll try to take the photo."
I laughed. "I wasn't really serious."
"About picking up a guy?"
"Nice try," I said. "About the photos." I slapped Devan on the back. "Let's go."
Guys like Devan, he's handsome, no surprise there. When we used to all "party" hard, he used to do boys and girls. He used to like picking up straight couples to play with and gay boy bottoms, if he just wanted to get off. Since we've all been partying less, he has tended to have girlfriends.

Sunday, October 24, 2004

That old story

Jesus is blocking the doorway for most of us. If he'd just get out of the way, if all of that brainwashing from childhood would vanish, we could all, hopefully, pass through to freedom and live much freer and happier lives, judged only by our own moral compass. Yes, we all have one, it's just that the Jesus Heads habitually attempt to stop us using them.

Wednesday, October 20, 2004


Table For Two

She saw him on the far side of the street, heading her way. He was looking up at the names on the shops. He was concentrating so hard to find “The Granite book shop,” that he looked as though he was going to walk right past her. It was no longer Granite’s, she hadn’t realised.
“Dean,” she called. He looked around, saw her, smiled in acknowledgement and immediately started surveying the cars for a gap to cross.
He smiled broadly, as he approached her. She thought his eyes looked nervous.
“You look different?” He furrowed his brow. They kiss.
“It’s my hair.” Donna reached up and touched it.
“Oh yes, of course.” He took a step back to look. His eyes widened.
“Do you like it?” said Donna and she fixed her eyes on his and waited for a reply.
“Do I like it…?” He took hold of her hands. “You’ve just had it…cut?” His voice quavered up half a tone.
“Yes,” she said. His face relaxed. “Do you like it?” He looked at her hands.
“Um…err…yes.” He looked back at her face and smiled, nervously. “Yes of course.” He blushed. His shoulder twitched. “I like it a lot.”

“Sorry I’m late,” he says. She looks all right, how he remembered her. “It doesn’t seem to be called Granite anymore.” She looks apologetic. Nice smile.
“No, I should have told you.” She shrugs her shoulders. Natural. Calm, like he imagined normal people did. He liked her, again, instantly. Now, if he could only stop looking away every time their eyes meet. Just nerves, he takes big breathes. “I don’t come into the city, much.” He suddenly remembers when the last time it was that he came into the city last. “Except when I met you.” He looks straight to his feet when her eyes meet his. “Of course.” He finds he is holding his hands clasped in front of him. He hadn’t done that since his grammar school days. His cock jumps with a flash of excitement.

Handsome. Polite. Sexy. “I forgot when I gave you the directions, comes from living in one place for too long.” It must be nice to be just a kid. I bet he still lives with his parents.
“But it must feel nice to find a place where you feel like you belong?”
Idealistic, as well. She felt a rush of maternal lust. She wanted to play mother son. The joint she had smoked loosened her inhabitation's. He looks like her sexy nephew, Leo.
She steps back to look him up and down… Nice! He’s looking at me, he’s smiling. Oh…say something, before my cheeks explode, they are so red. “You look nice.”
“Thanks,” he says, as he fiddles with the ring on his little finger.
Silence. Her head spins, as traffic whizzed past on the street, with intermittent gusts of wind at her feet.
Younger men, she thinks and she has to stifle the smile on her face. “Shall we go in?”

Table for two. He’d picked the restaurant, to meet. She picks the round table, so no advantages. Clearly it was his version of classy, chick picking up d├ęcor, to be sure. It was mind numbingly expensive. The wallpaper was flock. The lighting was so low, it was almost impossible to see her meal. A quiet hush fell over the darkened room, when all the seating was complete. Just the candles, like it was some bizarre ritual, a sea of candles held up in ceremony to their wealth and whispers. It’s all ours, we intend to keep it, the whispers say. She suddenly feels back in the eighties.
He is so young, what the hell am I doing?
“Oh.” He stands up, almost with a bow, but not quite. His napkin falls from his lap to the ground. “I’ve got the fifty dollars for you.” He pulls his wallet from his back pocket. “Before I forget.” He hands her the money. “You saved my life that day.”
He sure is handsome.
He retrieves his napkin from under his feet.
They look at their menus. He sneaks a look at her, she catches him and smiles. His eyes dart back to his menu. She touches her hair and then looks back at the seafood risotto.
She resists the urge to rub his thigh with her foot.
The waiter takes orders for drinks and reminds Dean that it is no smoking when he goes to light up.
“I should give them up,” Dean says as he slips the packet back into his pocket.
The waiter wipes the table and deposits a bowl of cashews in front of them.

“Nelson Mandela is coming out,” she says. “I went to get tickets. I had only just got here, myself. I was scared that I was going to keep you waiting.”
“Is he a singer?”
“Nelson Mandela?”
“Nelson…” He raises his hands up and smiles the smile of men when they know they’re wrong, but have to maintain the superior position. It’s a kind of a put down from the losing side. Years of patriarchal society. “Who?”
They need to breed that smugness out of them, she thinks. Generation Y. He has beautiful eyes. A hairy chest, all ready. What am I doing here? This is madness.
“African politician,” she says, as she picks at the nuts. “Was in jail for most of his life.”
Dean shrugs in response.
“Your drinks,” says the waiter.

“Today is the anniversary of my parent’s marriage,” she says. “Forty years. I can remember when it was twenty years.” She sips her champagne. “Do you believe in forever?”
She brushes her hand against his. He doesn’t pull away. It’s a good sign.
“Yes, I do.” He smiles nervously. “Forever, that is.” He smiles again. “Aren’t we taught to... all our lives.”
“I want... “ What is she saying? Too late now to stop. “Um... er... to be just like my parents. He slides his hand over hers and squeezes, then pulls it away again.

“Your dinners,” says the waiter.
“Never really thought about it,” Dean says. He shifts in his chair nervously and tucks the napkin into the collar of his shirt, as the waiter puts the oversized white plate down in front of him.
Red meat. Green vegetables.
She couldn’t help but picture him in a party hat. Oversized plate. Huge cutlery. Streamers. Balloons.

“How old are you anyway?” asks Dean.
“Forty,” she says. She wonders if he’ll believe her.
“Wow!” He sits back in his chair. “Really?” His voice rises above the hush. The woman with the big hair and the pale blue suit, buttoned tightly across her bosom scowls. The man with the silver grey hair winces, both turn instinctively towards the outburst.
She blushes and giggles nervously. He likes that.
“How old did you think I was?”
“I thought you were in your late twenties,” he smiles. He checks the other patrons have stopped looking. He leans in close. “You have great tits for a forty year old.”
She blushes, not expecting that. They both sit back in their chairs and smile, gazing at each other.
“And you are twenty?”
He smiles. Blushes. Starts to say something but then doesn’t. Smiles again. Then looks her in the eye. “Eighteen, just turned.”
“I’m old enough to be your mother,” she says and immediately regrets it.
“I know,” he says, with such an intense stare she no longer regretted her last remark.
“Please don’t tell me you are at school, living with your parents?”
“I still live with my parents,” he says. “Most of my friends do.”
“School?”
“No, left last year,” he says. He rubs his foot against her leg. “But I’ve still got my Xavier uniform, if you want to see me in it.” Cheeky grin.
She felt a stab in her stomach. He was coming onto her. He was beautiful, unblemished. She really wanted to lean across the table and kiss him.
“Do you want desert?” Donna asks.
“No.” He rubs his stomach. “I’m training tomorrow.”

It is a low stress day, she decides as she walks up the street alone. It is probably best. She thanks the universe for them, low stress days, not young men. Those days when you swim in the fast lane and don’t get hurt, don’t get trodden on. Those days when your brain tells you that you just don’t have the tolerance for any of that bullshit anymore. The pretence. You just got do what you’ve got to do.
He looks disappointed when she says she is going. She said she was tired, but she just had to get away and think about what it was that she was about to do.
She should have fucked him, he was choice cut. Suddenly, the feeling of tiredness left her. She thought about his smiling face. She positively skipped those last few steps to her car.
She took out her mobile and bought his number up on the screen. She wanted to strip him down like a project.
Come over tonight, late... for your desert, she texts. I won’t tire you out for training, too much, I promise.
Sure, (smiley face) don’t tell mum, he texts in return.

Saturday, October 16, 2004

Why is Manny with Glen?

Manny asked me if I knew why he was with Glen.

I said that the two of them had tried longer than I’d been around and that they both had a need to give it a go.
He spoils me, said Manny. And you know I like that. And you and I are never going to progress past what we are now, are we? (Silent pause) I know that. (Change to sexy voice) But you make my cock hard, whenever I think of you. (Sexy laugh) I’m hard now.

Tuesday, October 12, 2004

Manny and the other bloke

I had lunch with Manny and we both got turned on and wanted to... um... eat each other. But Manny is still going to have a relationship with Glen, I told him that he should, get it over and done with and just do it.
Glen wants to spoil him with money. Manny's going to let him.
Manny was going home to put more scabie cream on. Give a boy with OCD scabies and you can bet your bottom dollar he will get obsessive with the cure.

Monday, October 11, 2004

Lebanese Gracie

The merry go round was silent, still. He could see the chipped enamel paint on the eyes of the horse’s heads. The Ferris wheel stood like a giant, frozen to the spot, eerily silent, except for the intermittent clang of metal. Ticket Booth’s shut up. Shutters closed. Chains padlocked. Queue barriers empty, flapping in the breeze. Just a maintenance man using a drill, as litter blew past him like tumble weeds.
It was like being at the farm sales yards after auction, with his farmer uncle, when everyone had gone home.
He strode in dress in faded stove pipe jeans and Cuban heels, worn on the outsides of each boot. He walked over on his boots that way; his mother said it was because he was a cowboy in a passed life, although with her strong Lebanese accent she could have been saying cardboard puss love. Maybe she was suggesting some packing for her beefy son's bad podiatry.
He headed for the maintenance man.
"Excuse me?"
The maintenance man kept drilling, didn’t turn or acknowledge until he was done. Then he let the drill slide to the ground, wiped his face with an old rag he had strung through his belt and looked in our man's direction.
"Ah." Eyebrows up. "Yep?"
"Do you know what happened to madam..." He looked over in the direction of the stall he thought his sister used to occupy.
"That fortune teller, Lebanese Gracie from stall 3?"
“Yeah, that’s her…”
“She's been bung for a while mate. Got it all wrong with Nostradamus and the coming of Fox to Sydney Show grounds. Mad, bad…”
“I don’t understand…”
“She's been put away. Didn't have a visa, or somefink…”
Our man looked confused. “But she’s Australian, I don’t think…”
“Oh buddy,” the maintenance man looked weary, pushed at his hair as if there was something in his fringe. “I got that from Josie.” He raised his eyebrows and grimaced. “Notoriously unreliable, so don't put too much chalk up on what SHE sayed.” He smiled a world weary smile. “But she and… um… er…”
“She’s my sister. Madam. I’m her brother Anton. I’m trying to find her…”
“I’m Keith.” He held out his hand to Anton, they shook, Keith held Anton’s hand a little longer than what was required. “Josie’s your girl, then. She and your sister.” Keith made O’s with the pointer finger and thumb on each hand and the rubbed each O together.
“Can I talk to her?” Anton said. “Is she around?” Anton smiled his most convincing smile.
Keith looked him up and down, almost checking him out on the downward look, so much so Anton moved his hand to cover the front of his jeans, involuntarily. Keith cocked his head. “She’d like you, okay.” Keith looked down Anton’s body again. “You know what she’d want for information…”
“I’m sorry?”
“And it’s strictly payment up front with our Josie…”
“What do you mean?”
Keith tipped his hand to his face, as if he was having a drink. “No what I mean?”
“No… not really.”
“A fine boy like you.” Keith looked him up and down again. “She’d be very keen...”
“I thought you said Josie and my sister were…”
“Josie likes ‘em young and Greek…”
“I’m Lebanese.”
“Whatever! You’re just her type.” Keith raised his eyebrows. “You go in there and tell her you’re Gracie’s bro.” Keith cocked his head again. “You’d be lucky to get out of her caravan without torn cloths and losing skin…”
“I’m sorry?”
“You got skin.” Now Keith was looking at Anton’s crotch. Keith looked up again. “Know what I mean.”
Anton didn’t quite know what to say.
Keith looked down at Anton’s jeans again. “Like chamois, I bet.” His tongue slipped out the corner of his mouth, running around the bottom lip surface.
“A fine boy like you…”
“Can you just tell me where to find Josie, please?”
“You’re a big boy, aren’t you?” Keith raised his gaze up to Anton’s again and looked at him with lecherous eyes. “What’s in it for me?”
“In it for you?” repeated Anton incredulously.
“For information on Josie. Supply and demand,” said Keith. “What do I get? What have you got to… um…er… show me, in exchange?” Keith smiled, then he dropped his eyes back to Anton’s crotch.
Anton shifted on his Cuban heels and felt something like the embarrassment that he always thought the bulls, at the show, must have felt when his farmer uncle was inspecting them for quality and size.

Saturday, October 09, 2004

Josh's man

Brown eyes and big hands
envelop me.
Incomprehensible grunts as he
wants me
feels me to be his.
Burrish jowls
thick neck
tenderly thrust
back,
behaired back taught
and legs wraught, each taught by seasons of soccer and hockey past
to give, but not give lightly.
A plough of a man
turning the cynic's heart
to sods and clods of love's
own earth,
and fertile ground for my own desire to want to hold and have part.
And manky foetid ranky reeks of cheezy smeggy crud
curdishly,
bold and unashamed,
line the rim
of his airy hanging skin,
of folds something-metres long and bobbing earnestly, energetically
pulsating smooth as silk, oily like olive-paper
weighty as a boulder
pumped and shining as a plum
and sweet as a fart.

Friday, October 08, 2004

Slow

I want to rub cocks
and fuck as the sun fades
orange in the west
long shadows
mist on the glass.
I smell your musk.
no where to go tomorrow
who knows what time it is
as the open fire burns slow
no lights but its flickering glow
burning orange
on our naked skin.

Thursday, October 07, 2004

Sonnet

I have to say good bye
I know I'll break your heart
but it's time to stop eating
from a shelf down
I'm not heading along that path
to find another ten years gone
Big fish small pond
but I never agreed to a bird bath
I need an ocean in which to swim
with someone bigger than me
I'm the ocean floor, only those above
I want to dream about space flight
with you right there with me
understanding what I understand.

Wednesday, October 06, 2004

My perfect guy

As the sun shone through the clouds, after a rainy morning, I puffed on a cigarette and contemplated.
My perfect guy would be my height, he'd have nice chest, he’d walk a certain way. He wouldn't have to have muscles, but he'd be in shape. He'd be kind of scruffy; in other words, he'd be less concerned with his appearance than he would be with being comfortable. Daggy maybe, in a sophisticated way.
He'd have an opinion, he'd have something to say.
A nice smile and/or laugh would go a long way.
He'd most probably be dark, but not necessarily, blond is okay. He'd have a job, or at least something to do. Hopefully, he'd have an interest in the arts, even if he wasn't personally involved.
He'd be sarcastic. He'd be funny. He'd suffer no fools. He'd love gardening. He'd love cars. He'd love cats and dogs, equally.
He wouldn't give a damn about fashion, he'd just set it in a very nonchalant way.
He'd be old enough to have a few scars, there's beauty in them, I say.
But most of all he'd be kind and he'd be sweet and he'd be as honest as the day is long.

Sunday, October 03, 2004


No mum

We were looking at the “Biggest Paedophile Ring Smashed” on the front of the Age.
"You know your father was a paedophile!" said Lottie.
"What?" I said.
"Well, he had all of those pictures hidden away up in his cupboard. He always just seemed to want to look at their bottoms. I never understood why."
"He didn’t have pictures of children, though?"
"No." Surprised look. "Not of children. Of women, usually with big breasts."
"So he wasn’t a paedophile then? This article is about the exploitation of children. He just had porn."
"When I used to find them, I used to throw them out," she said. "Get rid of them. Out of the house. Disgusting things!"

Saturday, October 02, 2004

House of my own

I got up before 8am and Rob was sitting on the couch watching television and drinking beer. Oh good, I thought.
I just soooo want to live on my own. I just want to live with gay people. One gay person. Straight people just aren’t the same. It shouldn’t be that way, but, when it comes down to it, straight people have internalised homophobia, they can’t help it, it’s all a part of being the majority in society. In the end, they are the norm. Like when Ab said she wanted a dance party at Bolago which her mother could come along to without the fear of witnessing two guys sucking each other’s cocks. Admittedly, she was tired and stressed, but there is some truth in those words, for her. What makes the straight world, when pushed, think that we will do something that goes against the norm. Like we’d be inclined to suck cock when there is a middle aged woman with in the vicinity. Hello?
You know, “So Gay!” like “dirty liberal,” like its odd.

Friday, October 01, 2004

The old problem

The old problem of partners of inmates raises its ugly head again. Rob’s lovely and all, pretty sure, funny too, handy as well, fixes computers, Geek boy Ab calls him, but he's beginning to hang out here again on weekends.

I don’t know why it doesn’t work, but I can feel it in my bones that it's not going to work again. Partners of housemates just like hanging out here, it's not new.

I don’t really want another person hanging out, when I don’t really want it to be more than me, when it comes down to it. But it’s Ab’s home too and I can’t say anything.

I want to buy 109 down the street and move there.