Winter of Our Dreams

Politicians lie

as the planet dies.

We are in the winter of our dreams.

New Car

I've got to catch the train to Ringwood today to pick up the car. Wish me luck... on all counts.

10 1/2 hours later...

She flies! He flies! It flies! Goes well. Cool, huh? 18 trouble free kilometres, thus far. Got to love the French. I've had all the French brand name cars, I was thinking today, on the train to Ringwood - Renault (gold), Citroen (Green) and Peugeot x 2 (both white).

I was going to take it for a spin up the highway to show it to Mark and Luke, but they are at the movies, which might mean they are headed here. Hope so.

Manny had two tickets to Little Britain, which he called me about as I was heading out to the burbs to get the car. I don't think he was very impressed when I said I just couldn't go. Oh well. Dear Manny. 

Sex on Tap

I went jogging with G, or do I call him Big Boy? Perhaps, it can be Big Boy G. He's my Greek mate, we've been friends for years.

As we jogged down by the Yarra - the times, in between, I wasn't getting called piss-weak for walking - he was telling me about his new girlfriend, Valentina - lawyer, power suit brigade.

She can't keep her hands off it, mate, said G. I've never known a bitch like her. She's amazing. Two girls jogged towards us dressed in black body suits. They looked like power-dykes to me. I wondered if I was too ghettoised?

G started to smile.

What?

I shouldn't have been thinking about Valentina and shit, in jogging shorts.

What?

He slid his hands in front of his shorts.

I looked down.

He slid his hands away. Pretty good, huh?

Jesus, G! I looked away.

Valentina chokes on it.

Bigger hands than mouth, then, huh?

Way bigger!

I looked back at him. Put it away.

I don't care. She's addicted to the peen - as G calls it - maaatttee, taking off all the wog boys he's ever known. She can't keep her hands off it.

It's okay for you to take off the wogs, I said. But it's not okay for me?

He grabbed my head and staged a mock pulling of my face into his groin.

Well, I wouldn't say derogatory things about your lot, he said. But you can. It's the same thing.

Our feet went thud, thud on the grass, together.

That's all you guys ever think about, I said. Ya Peen!

G sort of snorted a laugh. And like you guys fucken don't?

I don't know, it always seems to be more of a mutual thing with guys, I said. You boys just have this self-obsessed desperation that just seems to be about you, because you get turned down so much.

Get fucked! said G. You are so full of shit!

So full of shit that it is getting you hot under the collar.

This is - he emphasised the 'is', as if to confirm rather than tell - why most straight guys hate you guys, you know, said G. Because you can get sex whenever you want and then you just can't help but brag about it.

He increased his speed. But you sure can't fucken run.

I caught up to him, determinedly, it nearly killed me, but I wasn't going to show it. Unfortunately, my voice went up an octave. Can too!

Get fucked fag boy, said G, laughing between his gasps.

Don't call me fag boy. Big breathe! You wog cunt! I said, breathing hard. Same principle applies.

Come on. G slapped me playfully on the arse, with a full hand. We hoofed it up the Punt Road hill, in sink.

I could still feel his hand on my arse.

G got married when he was thirty and divorced when he was thirty five. For months, he walked around saying, Hi I'm G and I'm divorced. Hi I'm G and I'm divorced. I don't want to say that, he'd almost whine.

You've got to snap out of this, buddy.

You know Christian, he'd say. It was the one thing I never - emphasis on never - wanted to have to say. It was always something that was going to happen to someone else.

May be?

Mate, I'm the only divorced member of my whole family. The only one!

Then he went into a decline for the rest of the year. He shut himself away, cut himself off, completely. My mate Silvia pulled him out of it, with some old fashioned loving. She said he was hot sex; could go twice, very confidently. Always made her cum. They are not together now, the split was mutual, but it seems to have bought him back to normal.

"Nick (G's real name. Don't ask me why I call him G) has the most perfect penis," enthused Silvia, one night when she'd had too many chardies. 

Bigger, Faster, Stronger

Steve, Gavin and Carla. R&B played. The three of them circled the two chairs, each keeping a corner of their eye on the other, with the other eye firmly fixed on the prize.

"Omenta! Omenta! We all fall down," whispered Carla.

They prowled like wild cats, ready to pounce.

The music stopped. Both boys instantly sprang sideways, with athletic precision and claimed a chair each. Carla was left standing, ready to make her move.

The smile disappeared from her face. "Oh, that's not fair," Carla whined. "You two are bigger and stronger... you've got an unfair advantage."

"You wanted to play, sis," said Gavin. He shrugged.

He turned his head sideways to a smiling Steven and kissed him firmly on the lips.

Long weekend

I didn't get home until just now. I thought I could smell something dead as soon as I walked in the front door. I've got a very sensitive sense of smell. But I decided that I was still being paranoid about the last massacre and the fact I have never found that particular carcass. I sometimes wonder if it is some where, just out of sight, going green. Missy was bleating from the back yard. She hadn't been fed since Friday.

I did arrange for someone to feed her, don't get me wrong, but it was only for Friday. But she said, don't worry if you can't get back, I'm just around the corner. When I called her to ask her to do cat duty on Saturday - she was house sitting for Tim and Nicholas just around the corner - she said, she had given Missy a whole can, on Friday, but had locked the key inside the house. Stupid people? You've got to wonder. How do they cope with the real difficult decisions in life?

You gave her a whole can of cat food? I thought. Fat girl will love you.

I felt bad, but what could I do. It wasn't like she'd starve.

She hasn't left my side, rubbing against my legs continuously. I don't think it is the food that she minds as much as the company.

I went to check my washing in the front room and found the source of the dead smell. A (may be) Pigeon tucked into the corner of one of the rooms, closest to the front door. I can assure you, I didn't want to look that closely.

Missy looked away - she even looked guilty - as if she hadn't notice and wandered away up the hallway... leaving me for the first time.

It would make a great short film, I thought, as I rolled the carcass into the plastic bag. Of course, we'd need smell-a-vision. I winced. Bad Boy Bubby'esque. I laughed. Hidden camera, to catch all the bird on cat action. Wild safari. Then the body lying there. Life is cheap, may be short. Finite. Night, day, night. Me cleaning it up. Missy in her Mrs Hyde outfit, dancing off. Time lapse photography. Life and death.

Well, maybe not a great short film. I'd had a joint by then, I could see it all.

Missy kept clear the whole time I was clearing up the carcass. She is, of course, now asleep on my foot.

Mark's just found out that his blood pressure is extremely high, after a spider bite he got on is foot. High blood pressure is a hereditary thing for him, his whole family has it. I told him he was my reason for living and he burst into tears. And he is my reason for living, my forever after; someone I have known for seventeen years, someone I will know forever.

I am Mark's rock. As corny as it sounds, we have unconditional love. We're soul mates.

I adore Luke and he adores me.

Life is good.

Manny called and bored me so badly, with his petty worries, I fobbed him off.

I smoked cigarettes all weekend, the function wasn't good. Bunch of piss pots. Jasus!

I didn't pick up my car, it wasn't good, either. It was actually about a clutch peddle problem, which I was slow in telling them about, to tell you the truth. They could fix it Monday, no problem.

I do hope they aren't the dodgy brothers? To tell you the truth, I have been so ineffectual during this whole car sale, my level of disinterest means they could have pulled anything over me. I just wanted to wiggle my nose and have a car. The rest of it is bullshit.

The RACV gave it the green light; suspected worn clutch, maybe some engine work. All termed regular service items, adjustment items, at this stage. This is an eight year old GTI, you have to expect a bit of wear, it's that kind of proposition. This one comes with a three year warranty, (it's not a factory warranty, it's a dodgy brother's used car salesmen warranty, but a warranty, none the less) and is still $4000 cheaper than the competing cars for sale.

And it was the only car with a sunroof, which is the actual reason I picked this particular car.

So, even if I have to spend $4000, touch wood that I don't - please universe no, you should see my finances - I'd still have a GTI with a sunroof... with a new clutch, or rebuilt engine, whatever (and may be the warranty on this car will actually pay some of/all of the cost... and maybe it's a con, who knows); none of the more expensive cars had warranties, may be one, they were all private sales and none were claiming any brand new parts, no recent rebuilds or new clutches, so I'm no worse off?

That's my reasoning, any way.

But what will the Peugeot specialist say, when I take it to him? Cross your fingers.

I can't quite believe I have to go to work tomorrow. Rachel will be shitty with me taking a morning off to pick up my car, Tuesday, after I have just had a week off. But, she'll be cool with it, in the end. I'll work back, if need be, no sweat. And quite frankly, and I mean this with love, who really cares if she's not.

I'm getting a new car!

 

How Many Times Have I Been in Love?

Cupid does not so much shoot a well aimed arrow, as fire a scatter gun.

How many times have I been in love?

Three, may be four.

Then there are those in between ones, I could very well have, but... May be two. (Manny would fit into this category, sad but true)

Perhaps there are still a few more flying my way? (Even though I have found my soul mate, in Mark) In love? It would be nice to fall in love.

How many times is normal?

One for ever? There you are standing in front of me, the embodiment of my future. You are mine, I am yours.

Or should we love many? Taste the fruit, it is there to be eaten, after all. Hey Adam, do you want an apple?

An Australia Day tribute to some of our migrants, who came to this country without being able to speak English, in many cases, who made this country great... Mr Howard

Gotta Love a Wedding.

I went over to Tim and Nicholas', Mary was there. I thought they were pissed off with me, can't remember why? I think fancing the cousin, Craig, made me feel guilty of something. Not sure what? Just generally guilty for my thoughts, I guess. I want to make it with a straight man? Who has a wife and kids? But, Nicholas hugged me warmly and said he'd missed me. Tim laughed about them going away also, but Mary was house sitting for them, so she could feed Missy for me. No problem. Pop over.

I think Tom has made me feel a bit paraniod about friendship. But Tim said he and Nicholas were looking for some where cheaper to live. Nicholas said he'd decided he wanted to move back to my place. We all had fun together. Then they were both smiling at me and offering me wine.

I'm off to Bolago for a wedding; more than 200 guests. Our biggest wedding. Although we've done quite a few at 180, without a hickup.

You know, you just gotta love straight boys, they just don't engage. It's just not in their repertoire. You can say something camp like, Did you here about the new Dream girls movie.

No mate.

They've been brought up that we're all normal, so they treat us as such. Some of them get real cute about it, you know, kind of flattered. But some just don't seem to notice.

We have a young bloke who works for us at the functions. He's cute, seventeen. The funny thing is that he doesn't get my attention nearly as much as his cute thirty-five year old dad, who is handsome with a cheeky smile.

Twice he's been around at the end of functions and I've wondered who he was? At the same time noticing his good looks. Gushing professionally more than I might in normal circumstances.

I'm fine mate, he'd say. A big, open smile. Just here for Jason.

Oops, I'd think, that's his dad again. We've met before. Doh!

I'd be ordering the staff around and they'd be listening and taking notice, the only place that happens, now, let me tell you. I sometimes forget that I have that power, until they are heading away saying, yes sir. I kind of like it.

Can I help you?

Is Jason ready? he'd say. He said to drop by around midnight. Big (gorgeous) smile. Am I too early?

No, not at all.

Jason's dad again... stop smiling, you idiot.

I'll wait in the car, he'd say. If you can tell him I'm here. Sweet smile. Genuinely not wanting to get in the way.

I must commit him to memory, I think. Jason your dad is here.

Anyway, gotta keep moving. Bank, cheque for the car, the 11am train.

big boy 3

Call Boy

I took a train over to Manny's. The boy called me up and said how about it... in his sexiest, huskiest voice. I'd settled on the couch with Josh. We'd smoked a couple of pipes. I wasn't sure if I was going, or not. I sat back on the couch and thought about catching PT. I'd always expect him to come by PT because he hasn't got a car, but I hadn't done it once in the time I've not had a car.

But then Josh convinced me when he said, Aren't you going over to your boyfriend's place, with a kind of a snarl. He spat the words out in frustration, as the guy he's been (trying to) seeing had cancelled, yet again and Josh was, shall we say, really up for it. It looked to him like I was just taking my guy for granted.

Now I wouldn't exactly say that it was spite that got me off my arse, but it wouldn't be far wrong.

Yeah I am, I said, as I got to my feet.

You are? said Josh.

I'd never caught a train over to Manny's place before and since I get the car on Saturday - yay - I kind of thought I should, at least once. You know, so it looks good... better. Besides, if I stayed home it would only be Josh moaning about Paul the Slav.

Yes, I said... because I, um, er, can. Big smile. Ha, ha. See you. Another big smile.

The trains were late at Parliament and everybody looked cross and frustrated; tired, sweaty faces staring at the television screen - well, at least they are used to that - in vain. People were on their mobile phones telling loved ones how late they were going to be, or just whining down the phone at them. Some one to talk to. never be alone. 5 minutes, 10 minutes, who cares, I thought. May be it is a conspiracy between the train companies and the phone companies to bolster profit.

How cute are the train stations on the Broadmeadows line; Kennsington, New Market, Ascot Vale. Just adorable, picture book style.

Manny was gabbering on about the beautiful Stuart when I got there. Stuart had given Manny all his old videos, as he's replaced them all on DVD. There were boxes of them.

How does he afford to, well, live? I asked.

He'd kill me for telling you, said Manny. But...

So, the beautiful Stuart is a male prostitute. I should have thought of that (not sure why, actually?); nice car, nice apartment, no visible means of support.

He paid me cash for my Mk2? Was that a give away?

Hot arse. Gymed body. Alleged, big, thick cock. Handsome face.

Manny said it would cost $400 to watch him and Stuart make out. I laughed.

Blue eyes. Cropped hair. What else is a boy to do with all of those natural advantages?

Stuart is studying nursing at uni, I guess the two could be compatible occupations - both looking after the well-being of others.

I thought Stuart was like Manny and lived on welfare, study grants, hand outs. Manny is Greek, so of course he lives on a pension, but Stuart has money and nice things, and isn't perpetually broke, which tends to point to either hooker or drug dealer. Apparently, the former, a high class call boy, at 30. I'm sure his mother is proud. He used to work at the casino, it's where he first started getting offers. He is a very good looking, sexy boy, I'm not surprised. He just oozes sexiness, naturally. Before that he was a chauffeur for a prostitute. I've never made the connection, before. I just thought he went to uni.

Manny reasoned that he'd only have to do two clients per week, which would only be two hours in the whole week...

What else am I going to use my gym-toned body for? said Manny. Four hundred dollars and I've doubled my pension.

Of course, Man.

Stuart says he could set me up with two clients.

Yes, Man.

I slid my hands up his T-shirt and twisted his nipples. His eyes glazed over. He kissed me passionately. 

Kid Peugeot

It will be like dating the hot little brother, all of a sudden. You know, going for the younger sibling. The second youngest brother, in the family. He’s white and he has a sunroof, and from front-on, he looks the same. He has exactly the same sized donk, literally – like brothers do – but with a body half the size. He’s pretty with a cute arse. I felt like I wanted to brush the fringe out of his eyes, when I test drove him today. He purred, as I manhandled him.

This one has only two doors and is a hot hatchback, with the same 16 valve 2 litre engine, my sports sedan had in it. I’m sure he will be lots of fun.

Kid Peugeot, is what He-who-shall-remain-nameless, said of him. He’s like the cheeky kid brother.

I don’t know when I get him, mechanical checks withstanding. Cross your fingers.

I’m back on the road. Finally. I kind of liked life without him, though. I don’t need the angst, in fact, I prefer the simpler life with no wheels. It is more peaceful. It is calmer, travels at a much more even pace; trains, trams, bikes and feet. Life’s more relaxed, without having to venture out on to the road with all those other idiots.

But there’s nothing that turns me on more than his sweet exhaust pipe and sexy rear and that grunt when he really gets going. He goes off. Whoosh! Woof! Nobody gets me as hard, as he does; that push in the back, that display of raw power.

I called Manny and left a dirty message on his answering machine.

“Boy are you going to get it more often.” 

What Day Is It?

Day seven. That's 210 cigarettes I haven't smoked - and $100 worth of pot. Who am I kidding, $150 worth.

The terrible depression of day 4 and 5 has stopped. That was hard to deal with, even if I have dealt with before, when I have given up smoking, previously. But, the intensity was much stronger this time, I’m sure. Or, it might just have been that I had Josh around to reflect my mood, rather than simply hiding away in my room unreflected, on my own. Whichever? I seem to be over it now. Yah!

Exercise has helped.

I rode over to Lottie's on Saturday and got another flat tyre, the back tyre, would you believe. I got a flat tyre on the front last weekend when I rode over to her place. Fuck, I was annoyed. I could barely hide it from her. She's been calling me ever since to see if I'm okay.

I so wanted to get into an exercise routine to coincide with quitting. I wanted to ride my bike every - second, to be realistic - day. But how can I when the universe is against me, so?

Lottie and I ate lunch together and then I chopped down some branches that were coming over into her place from the neighbours. She has such a thing about over-hanging branches now a days. I think she thinks they are going to slither threw her window, like snakes and get her in the night, if she doesn't keep on top of them.

It had rained a lot and my clothes were still damp when I caught the tram to come home. The aircon on the tram was freezing, so I got off at Barkers Road and just started walking. Fuck it, I need the exercise, I thought. When the rain started again, I thought, Great, you picked the only road around, to walk down, which has no public transport. So, I walked in the rain from Burke Road to the Kew tram terminus, on Church Street. It was fantastic, the day was warm, humid and it washed away all of my worries. A tram took me the short distance from the terminus to Victoria Gardens, where the driver declared that the tram was broken and that if we all got off and waited he’d go back to the terminus and get a replacement. So, I ended up walking home from Ikea. The beautiful Stuart drove past me in my old Mk2, but he didn't see me, thank goodness... the state I was in, it was preferable. I was soaked through by the time I got home, but it felt glorious. Freeing. Liberating. I think I exercised all my smoking demons… on that walk in the rain. So yesterday, I thought fuck it! Who needs a damn bike? I pulled on my running shoes and went jogging for an hour - which turned out to be forty minutes, but hey, who's counting. I can build up to it.

I met up with my mate G, I'll call him Big Boy, just by chance, who was jogging around East Melbourne, heading to the Yarra. He's big and solid and hairy and flirty with a great smile. He was just wearing green running shorts and nothing else; hairy chest, hairy stomach, hairy legs, in true Greek boy style. (What is it with me and Greek boys?)

"Hey Christian, you still want to look down my pants?" He pulled the front of his shorts out and flashed his killer smile.

"Just run, you dumb fuck," I said. "And stop making promises you are not going to keep."

"If you can catch me... you can... you can," running backwards, big smile. "You can suck it," he said. And then he flipped around and his big, thick, hairy, thighs took him sprinting away from me.

I ran hard, but had no chance of catching him.

big boy 2

Washington Post Neologisms

Once again, The Washington Post has published the winning submissions to its yearly neologism contest, in which readers are asked to supply alternate meanings for common words. The winners are as follows:

1. Coffee (n.), the person upon whom one coughs.
2. Flabbergasted (adj.), appalled over how much weight you have gained.
3. Abdicate (v.), to give up all hope of ever having a flat stomach.
4. Esplanade (v.), to attempt an explanation while drunk.
5. Willy-nilly (adj.), impotent.
6. Negligent (adj.), describes a condition in which you absentmindedly answer the door in your nightgown.
7. Lymph (v.), to walk with a lisp.
8. Gargoyle (n.), olive-flavored mouthwash.
9. Flatulence (n.) emergency vehicle that picks you up after you are run over by a steamroller.
10. Balderdash (n.), a rapidly receding hairline.
11. Testicle (n.), a humorous question on an exam.
12. Rectitude (n.), the formal, dignified bearing adopted by proctologists.
13. Pokemon (n), a Rastafarian proctologist.
14. Oyster (n.), a person who sprinkles his conversation with Yiddishisms.
15. Frisbeetarianism (n.), (back by popular demand): The belief that, when you die, your soul flies up onto the roof and gets stuck there.
16. Circumvent (n.), an opening in the front of boxer shorts worn by Jewish men.
    
    

The Washington Post's Style Invitational also asked readers to take any word from the Dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing one letter, and supply a new definition. Here are this year's winners:

1. Bozone (n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down in the
   near future.
   
2. Foreploy (v): Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of getting laid.
   
3. Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period.
   
4. Giraffiti (n): Vandalism spray-painted very, very high.
   
5. Sarchasm (n): The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it.
   
6. Inoculatte (v): To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.
   
7. Hipatitis (n): Terminal coolness.
   
8. Osteopornosis (n): A degenerate disease.
   (This one got extra credit.)
   
9. Karmageddon (n): It's like, when everybody Is sending off all these really bad vibes,
   Right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like, a serious bummer.
   
10. Decafalon (n.): The grueling event of Getting through the day consuming only things that are good for you.
    
11. Glibido (v): All talk and no action.
    
12. Dopeler effect (n): The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly
13. Arachnoleptic fit (n.): The frantic dance performed just after you've accidentally walked through a spider web.
    
14. Beelzebug (n.): Satan in the form of a mosquito that gets into your bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out.
    
15. Caterpallor (n.): The color you turn after finding half a grub in the fruit you're eating.
    
16. Ignoranus (n): A person who's both stupid and an asshole

Big Boy

Sad Times Indeed

It's a sad indictment on Australia that Sheik Hilaly can't exercise his freedom of speech in expressing his views, without some hysterical (racist) reaction from the punters about deporting him from this country. To all those morons I say, he is an Australian citizen.

Please note, freedom of speech is not dependant on people liking the message. (I know people have a great problem with this proposition now a days)

I blame this on Howard, who has been using racism (the war on terror. citizenship requirements that are quasi white Australia policies) as a political tool - not to mention making a practise of deporting Australian citizens.

Just as an aside, the war on terror was created by the Christians when they invaded Iraq, don't forget that. But I digress.

Nothing the sheik has said is that new, or interesting, for that matter. Nothing he has said hasn't already been said by many, many other people through the ages.
Lets look at the two messages that come to mind.

1. Immodest women will be treated as nothing more than raw meat.
2. Immigrants have more of a right to this country than those who came here as criminals

• These are hardly new messages.
• For the first one, go back to any Christian pulpit predating the last twenty to thirty years any Sunday to hear that repeated ad infiniteum. Not to mention, it is what many parents say to their sixteen year old daughters, as they head out for the night on Saturday night.
• And the second, with the current hysteria surrounding tough-on-crime sentencing, I'd have thought it would have resonated with most of the punters. You know, criminals have no rights.

I don't agree with either proposition, but I will defend his right to express his opinion. And they are hardly revolutionary thoughts.

At least if he says it out in the open, (And he always has) those opinions can be challenged with differing points of view. Discussion and debate are created and, after all, that is a democracy. If we go with the stupid, lynch-mob mentality, he is still going to express those same views, but they will be expressed in private, with very little opportunity to express countering views. (As is the case with any censorship)
The people who are wailing for his head, are just as sad as any view he has expressed, may be sadder. (Step up all ye sad rat-faced receptionists and give the people your message. Oh you have no message to give? You just want to criticise from what you've read in the sensationalist press?)

All the while, the members of our in-every-way-but-in-name Christian Federal government are addressing fundamentalist Christian movements, Catch the Fires Fellowship (Don't I just wish that they would all burn) and Assemblies of God - imported directly from the great US of A to spread hate about anyone who thinks differently to them.

This government has over turned euthanasia laws, has quashed same sex unions in the ACT, has attempted to stop the abortion pill, has stopped abortion being made legal and has tried everything to stymie stemcell research. The only common thread to all of these decisions, Christian beliefs. We now even have Christian counsellors being deposited in Australian Schools.

Personally, I think Howard is a far more disgusting individual than Sheik Hilaly will ever be. At least the sheik is honest with what he thinks as he expresses it publicly, while Howard is underhand in spreading his Christian message, all the while demonising Muslims, fanning the smouldering hate in this country for his own political needs.
Wake up Australia!

Go Tom

You know, I'm having trouble accepting a word of Tom's response, as yet again, it is so totally self-focused that it doesn't even make a passing attempt to take into account the differences in what he & I might have been doing.

For the passed twelve months, at least, Tom has sat around and done nothing, absolutely nothing, other than scream Me, Me, Me, to anyone who cared to listen, while I have, on quite a number of weeks, worked 7 days a week, pretty much. Now I don't expect anything for having worked so hard, that was my thing and my choice and it should mean nothing to anyone else, however, at the same time, I don't expect to be criticised for the times I haven't had time to put into other people.

Tom spends his whole life focused on Tom, financed by his parents, usually pepped up or slowed down as his desires take him and woe betide any one who...

... oh, who cares? Why am I even spending energy on this? Get fucked Tom! You are sooo deluded. It makes me furious!

This is the email I wrote in response, which I'm not going to send. I'm going to just sit back and breath, instead and just let time do it's thing... whatever that might be.

I think your hysterical reaction over the last couple of weeks (months) is bullshit. I think you’re most recent email is bullshit, too.

As far as your pathetic whine about your birthday is concerned, I have already addressed that but, just for the record, I had a dinner on that night that had been organised for six months, quite possibly a year, which is a standing Xmas date with a group of friends I have known since we were teenagers together. I’m sorry I didn't drop that for something that had been organised a few weeks previously on a whim. Apart from the late hour, I couldn't have come afterwards as I was with Mark and Luke, who you did not invited to your birthday. Now, I know it is your style to dump people for a better offer, but it isn't mine. And quite frankly with the preceding few months in mind, I’d rather have been with Mark and Luke, anyway.

As far as the dinner at Rachel’s is concerned, Josh invited you to that, not me. I had no intention of inviting you.

And as for Throb, you do make me laugh. I had invited you earlier in the day, in exactly the same way that I/we/you have ever organised to go to Throb, on nearly every other occasion. That complain is the most laughable, dare I say self-obsessed.

It must be very easy to sit in judgment when you sit on your arse doing nothing. It must make it easy to criticise others and be blind to how much more they do than you. I’m very sorry that your world doesn't extend beyond the end of your nose.

And no, I have barely seen Guido and on the few occasions that I have, let me assure you, your name hasn't even been mentioned. It has been your other friends who have been aching to, lining up to, enthusiastically wanting to, tell me about your spiralling drug use.

I don’t think…maybe, you (don’t) lie about your drug use, but I think you can be very deluded about it. No, I'm sorry, I think you lie about it.

I’m sorry I have disappointed you so much. Consequently, at the close of this email I will not be responding any further, either by phone or email or any other means. Have a nice life, buddy. Thanks for the good times, we had some, hey.

But I didn't send. (That last paragraph is pretty final and pretty brutal, even for me) I decided to stop being childish and to just give it some distance. Sometimes it is as cathartic just writing a response, delivering it isn't always essential.

But it is how it has made me feel. I could send it, finishing at, "...I will not be responding any further." (end) Silence, for a while.

If it's true and he has finally slipped into health mode, he'll be apologising with in weeks, in a week. We'll see.

With No Hard Feelings

Hey Christian

Thank you so much for telling me how you feel. I hear you and fully understand where you are coming from.

If that’s how it is for you, then it IS good that we have some breathing space. No one likes to be corrected needled and picked on. If it’s a relief for you to not be around me, then it’s good we aren’t around each other at the mo’.

I miss you, but then, I’ve missed you for a long, long time.

I was sad that you hadn’t called Christian.

The “gee you’re very quiet over there” email last week – after I told you exactly what my issue was just the week before – Throb Friday – wasn’t worth answering. I was willing to discuss what was in my mind and in my heart, but not pretend that none of what I said or felt even existed.

But now I think maybe this is a better way to express it for me too.

There are two things going on here for me.

The first issue IS the same one since I came back from the States Christian.

You give me zero energy. That hurts. You show no interest, you ask no questions, you make no phone calls.

For me there were three last straws – not coming to my birthday, getting Josh to call me at 7pm to have dinner with Rachel (you have never asked me to dinner ever anywhere with anyone, another ouch at the time), and then thinking of me at the very last moment re Throb.

I’m not blaming you here Christian – just telling you.

Now, this is the second thing – and I have only come to this in the last week or so, so forgive me if it is muddled.

I’ve tried way too hard to make you be something that I realise now that you don’t want to be.

I remember the Christian that used to laugh and ask questions and tell amusing stories, and for so long I have tried to bring him out again in you, the zest for life that YOU taught ME. I have missed him, and mourned him, and felt “responsible”, that I should be able to bring that shining man back, for all to enjoy and admire. And I’ve felt like it was my fault, my failing, that I haven’t.

So, I’ve tried to keep you engaged, forgiven your lack of communication or interest, pretended they weren’t happening, written it off to you taking too many drugs (when you take them) etc again and again until finally I too have had ENOUGH.

Now I realise how much energy I have invested in trying to get you to be someone who you are not. Someone who you were maybe, but not who you are now. I haven’t accepted you, as you are.

So, that’s where my criticism etc has stemmed from I think. I’m really sorry that I’ve put us both through that.

We both deserve better than that.

So, a psycho bitch I may well be, but then again Christian, when wasn’t I?

You know, I hear the anger in your words, and I can understand that. I’m sorry my behaviour has made you angry. It’s a good thing that I’ve stopped “trying” I think.

You can write all of this off to my “excessive drug use” too, but Christian, I have only been receiving praise from my friends for my demonstration of discipline and self-control. I haven’t touched a drug since Jan 1, not even pot (yes from lack of availability), and I’ve gained 3 kilos in the last fortnight. I’m working out 4 times a week, and feeling mostly very healthy. So, I don’t know who this EVERYONE is that is telling you otherwise, but I suspect it’s Guido who is not exactly my biggest fan. (I think I am going to fix his little red wagon if he doesn’t stop talking about me, but that is another story). Anyway, you know I don’t lie about my drug use.

So, that’s how it is for me.

Thanks for giving me the opportunity to explain all of that, and getting clear about it myself.

No hard feelings here, just a bit of sadness. And I really am sorry that I haven’t been accepting of you as you are.

All the best.

Tom

Tom & I

Tom and I are now officially estranged - he picked up the towel he kept here and left his front door key behind on his way out, while I was at work yesterday.

We still haven't spoken. I didn't race in and make it right for him. I didn't call and put my case. I didn't apologise. I didn't play his game, as he stated that I must - stated to everyone but me, I might add. What he told me was that he needed more from me, on maybe three, or so, occasions. What he told everyone else was that he has told me the deal, clearly and in detail.

What I've actually got from him was, a message on my answering machine; some inarticulate words in person; and a request for more from me over the phone a few weeks back, just before Throb, after which he hung up in my ear before I could reply.

I'm surprised it has got to this. I would have thought we'd have kissed and made up long before this, but...

Tom has seemingly been pissed off with me ever since he returned from America and Canada, some months ago. He has just seemed pissed off with me. He has done nothing but criticise me for what I've done and what I've said. He has just seemed continually annoyed with me... so I withdrew.

And what I have found, is that I have enjoyed the separation. I have enjoy having friendly people around me. I have enjoyed the relative peace. I have enjoyed not having Little Mr Angry around.

I've actually preferred this to what preceded it.

I decided that as (former) best friends (how much like high school is this going to get?) I should at least say something. Silence if fine, for a time, but then it just gets weird. I hadn't sent any of the previous emails I had written, so I sat down this morning and just wrote without thinking too much about it.

Personally my luv, I think you are losing your mind. I have only withdrawn because you have been so pissed off and angry with me, I’d say since you returned from America/Canada that I can’t really take it any more. I can’t put up with the constant corrections of what I say, I can’t put up with the picking, I can’t put up with the constant needling that I have got from you. I think it is sad that it has got to this, but, to tell you the truth, I have found this recent separation something of a relief.

It’s nice to be around people who actually seem to like me.

I suspect what everyone is saying and I mean everyone, is true, you are doing far too many drugs. Well, let’s put it another way, shall we, what are you doing that doesn’t involve drugs?

But, you’re a big boy now.

I’m sure I’ll see you around, at some stage.

hit send. Gone.

Time for breakfast.

I've got the day off. I'm off to Ringwood to look at a car.

 

Day 4 - Back to Crap

I feel like shit; tired, nauseous, flat, sweaty, vague, dizzy, weak and, maybe, just a little depressed.

The first week is always a killer.

Withdrawing? No fucking shit, Sherlock!

I'm going to bed.

That's 120 cigarettes I haven't smoked, though... so it's not all bad. And I haven't felt like having one, not really. My mind has played tricks on me, sure, but it has only been fleeting.

My ex-girlfriends and ex-boyfriends (I have two of each) have all called and given me encouragement. Got to love 'em for that.

 

Uncle Will and the Satchel

My work satchel broke, the bottom finally wore through, I've had it for a number of years. It has lasted longer than the friendship of the person who accompanied me to the CBD that day I bought it. My house keys were hanging out, which is a pretty good reason to invest in a new one.

I have quite a satchel thing, I've had quite a number through my working life. The one that has just finished it's days was the first one I had that wasn't leather and it was the one that lasted the longest.

So, I decided to have a look through the ones I had at home, rather than just buying a new one. I much prefer vintage over new, I've always been like that. There was one sitting amongst the broken ones - I must get them repaired sometime, or throw them out - that belonged to my great uncle. It was fine, nothing broken, ready to go. Considering the great uncle in question died in 1960, long before I was born, the satchel is in remarkably good shape.

So, on the tram this morning, I wondered how old it was? Presumably, since my uncle died in the January 1960, the satchel hadn't seen the light of day since 1959. That's nearly fifty years that it hasn't been used. So, how old must it be?

I like it. I like the idea that my uncles hands touched the same place that mine do - it is our only connection as, as I said, he and I never met.

His initials are embossed in gold in the top right hand corner. He is a four namer, William Patrick Joseph Meredith, just like me, Christian Aloysius Ignatius Fletcher. He would have known the perils of four names and the difficulty of fitting them onto official forms or the superiority of the sound when they are read out.

I ran my fingers over the gold lettering, just how he would have, our second connection. I held the handles, just as he would have.

What would have been inside that satchel the last time it was used? Certainly not a mobile phone, or keyless entry car thingies - despite me not having the car they once activated. He had a silver St Christopher medal key ring that fitted his 1959 Vauxhall Cresta, which he had taken delivery of just a few short months before he succumbed to his weak heart. (My great aunt continued to drive the car and use the key ring for some thirty years after that)

I've only seen photos of Billy, as my great aunt, Ada, used to call him. "My dear Billy," was the way she would always start a sentence about him. I remember serious photos of him always, seemingly, in an overcoat and hat. From all accounts, he was a kind man, quiet and much loved by all those who knew him.

I like the idea of carrying a small part of him around with me.

 

Calm to Furious in 2 Seconds Flat

I thought I was doing okay, holding it together, being calm and kind to myself and those around me. I went to Nashi this morning to get muesli – I hadn't been to the supermarket for weeks, but Josh and I went tonight, we even remembered those damn, green bags – for my breakfast, only to discover they didn't have any.

“You haven’t got any muesli,” I exclaimed furiously! (Seeing red. Pulse rate accelerating exponentially. Head spinning.) “Why haven't you got any muesli?” I demanded to know.

“No we haven't,” said the nice girl behind the counter, calmly and quietly. ”Would you like me to make you up some?” Big smile. "It would be no trouble."

“Um… oh, yes.” Step back. Calm down. “That would be… great.” Breath, Christian, just breath. “Thanks.” Pulse rate slowing. Head stopping spinning. Smile. 

Day 3 - Feel Like Me

Day three, maybe I do feel like me? I'm hanging on, taking this seriously, thinking, I don't want to be that person to whom the doctor says, We found something on your lung, we'd like to do a biopsy...

Thick head, temper sped; from calm to furious in the blink of an eye. I think it gets easier, every time I try; I feel okay, don't want to cry. I don't want to kill. I don't want to fall to my knees and scream!

Josh went out drinking with Shane and Mark W, last night, interestingly coming to the same inescapable conclusion that Mark W. is just pain boring. You know, there's a really good reason why Shane fell for Matt; not so many good reasons why Shane dumped Matt (instead of Mark W.) when Mark W. laid down the law. I didn't go out, I hid away in my room and watched the Golden Globes. Still baby steps. Keep out of harms way and all that.

My mind is still at the playing tricks stage. I think about a smoke when I've finished my lunch. I reach for my packet as I leave the building at the end of the day. It still smells good as I walk through somebody else's exhale.

I think I might go and eat something soon, just a carrot, or lettuce, or bread...

... this should be my mantra...

...I don't want to grab my enemy around the neck and squeeze until they are dead.

Well, no more than any other, normal, day.

I didn't think twice before ripping down the new shower curtain covered in ducks that Josh had put up. I threw it on his bed with a note saying, Get Fucked! Put the other - clear - shower curtain back up. I wasn't having that for a millisecond!

I feel pretty good, to tell you the truth.

I think, maybe, it does get easier every time I try.

 

Day 2 - feel a little better

I sleep better as a non smoker, light and airy, not like I've been poisoned. It's like sleeping on goose down and not like sleeping on chemicals.

I've got warm hands and warm feet. My sinus' have cleared up. My chest feels much clearer. I don't feel like coughing, or clearing my throat.

It's my quiet week at work, so it doesn't matter if my thought patterns go west. I can get pretty vague for the first three days, at least.

But the secret now, is just to stop thinking about it, get it out of my mind.

And day 2, actually, the very worst is over all ready... but, I don't kid myself.

Day 1 - feel like crap

Day one of giving up smoking. I'm feeling kind of rattled, out of sorts, like my head is somewhere else, soon to return. I think it does actually get easier the more times you try to give up. This doesn't feel impossible, just annoying. It's like I'm waiting for something to happen.

All day at work I was in a fog, a daze. I tried to avoid most people. I tried to work quietly.

I feel shitty and nasty and quiet and tired and bitchy and crap, all at the same time.

I headed off to the pub for a bevvy with my mixed salad. I've got to get my diet under control, straight off. I don't want to end up like one of them fatty's in trackies that I see in the mall; toothless losers who've given up. I don't want to look like one of them.

I was in the lift, a bit pissed after lunch - well, what else does one do when one is spinning from cigarette withdrawal - and, other then me, it was an all girl lift. It was hot today, kind of humid hot and, I tell you what, not something I usually come across, but one of those girls need to wash it! Ewww! I started to giggle, I was mindless, (read tipsy) as I truly wanted to say something. I was delirious from nicotine depletion. My guard was down and my angst was up. They all looked at me as though I was weird, as I eyed them one by one. Was it the tall, red-head, the buxom blond, or the midget in the nylon cardy? Was it the rat-face receptionist from the other law firm? Or the pretty girl with the nice smile? It couldn't have been the old cleaner because hers would be dry, like the Sahara, smoothed over like Barbie. I thought such things were just misogynistic rants and untrue, but... ewww! Maybe it's just my sense of smell returning already? Nah! Filthy bitch! Slurp, slurp! Mother of Pearl.

Let's hope my sense of taste doesn't do anything special, I don't want to want any more food than I do. No food replacements, not even for a day. Diet and exercise, here I come. Fatty fucking piglettdom here we DON'T come! Of course, you wouldn't read about it, my bike has a flat.

Anyway, I'm retreating to bed. I'm taking my lap-top to the cot. Lay my head down. The lack of nicotine makes me sleepy, tired, lethargic, horrid, not nice to be near. This is full on, draining, tiring, debilitating, but it only lasts a week, max. (he says nervously) This is the truly awful bit, after which it can only get better.

Wish me luck.

Who's That Boy?

I know not to drink and drive, it's too messy, you are bound to spill it. Driving stoned is much more sensible.

I learned not to dye my hair when I am pissed, I ended up looking like a Panda the last time I tried that one on.

I've come to the conclusion I should never use chatlines, or text, for that matter, when I'm inebriated. Too much to regret once the fog has lifted. Doh!

But, when I'm staggering home pissed from wherever, I still can't go passed Fitzroy Kebabs, without making a (hard) right hand turn. This has nothing to do with diet or vomiting, or sobering up, for that matter and has everything to do with the boy behind the counter. Now, I don't want to offend anyone's ethnic sensibilities, so I won't guess what nationality he is, but he has all the right genes for my particular tastes. Suffice to say, he is a wog boy of many natural charms with the unusual addition of the most beautiful blue eyes.

Surely, other people have noticed him? Surely, the Q & A boys must have salivated over him, as I do?

He makes me drool. He makes me inarticulate. I know I linger, unsteady and ogle him - considering the whole mutual respect thing, between gay boys and straight boys - is that so wrong?

Quote of the Week

Nobody wants an old queen. I could set myself a light in a gay bar and all the boys would do is light their fags off me - Rupert Everett

Message to a Friend

 Here are two emails that I have written to Tom, but, as yet, haven't sent. I can't decide.

Tom

If you are so bored and have so little going on in your life, at present, that you are going to persist with this infantile behaviour, don’t expect me to respond any time soon. Quite frankly, Tom, what are you doing with your life? ...other than fucking it up by stuffing great quantities of drugs down your fat gob?

Christian

Tom

Just in case you haven’t realised, I’m not playing childish games with you. I’m far too busy and I’m simply not up for it. If you want to play them, go right a head, but I’m not participating.

I think, quite possibly, you have far too much time on your hands. I think, quite possibly, you are doing far too many drugs. I think, quite possibly, you are losing the plot, my friend.

Christian

Now - I realise they are not that dissimilar - which one to send?

Friendship

I have a little plaque that was my, much adored, grandmothers that sits on my desk. It says,

A friend is not a fellow who is taken in by sham,

a friend is one who knows our faults and doesn't give a damn.

I was going to send this to Tom in an email.

But, Shane and he-who-shall-never-be-mentioned, say that Tom is up to his old tricks, as they use the same drug dealer and even their drug deal raised his eyebrows and shook his head.

As I suspected, Tom is so bored, with nothing to do, that he is looking for drama to fill his life.

If that is the case, I guess I'll have to wait for Tom to come down, before I reason with him. (or smack his face)

For someone who is so intelligent and who has so much to live for, considering what he has been through, it is quite sad really.

If you start doing drugs for any reason other than to have fun, (and other than occasionally, you know, xmas and easter) you are on a very slippery slope, my friend. I guess that's what I need to tell him.

I can feel an intervention coming up... 

The Boys Are Pissed (off)

I was bad, wicked, vindictive. Read pissed. I met up with Shane (very pissed) and Mark W (quite pissed) and Kevin, of all people, at the Laird. (I'll get back to Kevin) I was saying something about Manny - who wasn't there, naturally - saying that he complained that I didn't call him and Shane said, "I think that's what Tom says also."

"What?" I said.

"Tom has issues with you," said Shane.

Tom's playing childish games. He's got a bee in his bonnet about me not calling him up. (the fact that he is bored and doing nothing and I haven't had time to scratch, doesn't seem significant in Tom's eyes. I've worked ten hour days all week) I've email him four times this week, twice today, to see how he was and to ask him out to the Laird, all of which he's ignored. Apparently, it's by phone and speaking live, otherwise he's going to stay pissed off with me. Well, I don't want to play.

"He told you that?" I asked Shane.

"A-ha," said Shane.

So I sat down next to him, in that "if you don't have anything nice to say, come sit by me," kind of way.

We'd both been drinking and Shane has issues with Tom too.

And then we, basically, knifed Tom - figuratively speaking.

Well, Tom's been meddling in Shane's relationship, with Mark W and Matt, culminating in Mark W getting so pissed off that he declared an ultimatum to Shane that it was either him or Matt and Matt got the heave-ho, causing ructions in Shane and Mark W's relationship - ructions that I think are deep and very serious. Tom admitted to Shane, New Years day, under the influence of something that he'd deliberately interfered in Shane's relationship with Mark W and Matt.

So tonight the boys got together (or as he-who-shall-not-be-mentioned says, The Sisters Grim) and tore Tom apart. Josh just looked on with his mouth agape. He says he's too scared to say anything. "You were all such fantastic friends, what is going on here?" asked Josh. "What's happened since I've been in Germany?"

I wonder if Tom's ears were burning?

We've all been friends for a very long time and Tom has a tendency to interfere in all of our lives when, well, quite frankly, when he is bored.

Tom lost much of his power base tonight, let me tell you. In fact, he'd better be very careful. I didn't realise how pissed off Shane is, I didn't realise how pissed off I was.

I don't deal with infantile very well. I don't suffer fools, or foolish behaviour, gladly.

The Water Restriction Myth

The govt sends 120 billion litres down the open irrigation channels to farmers and because of evaporation, only 20 billion litres gets to the intended destination, every year in this hot, brown land. One of the open irrigation channels is, at present, being piped, but the other channels are not, due to the cost.

They say, 100 billion litres is enough water to supply Melbourne for three years and yet residential users are about to have the strictest water restrictions imposed up them. Residential uses being something like 5% of the total water consumption use.

What did I say earlier in the week about idiots being in charge?

This just makes me want to thumb my nose at the authorities and use water as I see fit, irrespective of the restrictions. We should all flout the law to pressure (pun intended) those in charge to do something about this ridiculous situation.

I say, use water whenever and however you want. Residential uses are being used as scapegoats, yet again, for the govts incompetence.

(not) My boy Luke (sigh)

Ah, Luke. Handsome Luke. He came scampering into my office my first day back at work, his blue eyes sparkling, his gorgeous grin set just so. He told me how he drank his way through the Xmas break. He partied hard. He was incommunicado for the first two days back, which kind of made me sad – well, sad is way over stating it – that I delayed my return for two days, just because I could. I could have gone over and gently played with him. He can be all floppy and so adorable, at times.

Ah Luke, blue eyes and dark hair, my favourite combination – if it's an Aussie boy and not, well, you know what I like, by now. Luke has "Christian's boyfriend" written all over him, I just wish he'd stop to read it himself.

I had a dream about him. It was one of those ethereal dreams, happening in dreamy, time-lapse images, with stretched light behind him, like being on one of those whirly things in the park as a kid. Luke was spinning in slow motion around me, laughing and smiling, his handsome face with eyes only for me. I was trying to kiss him, he was dodging me playfully. Then he was lying on my bed, his shirt ridden up and I was blowing raspberries on his stomach, which made him laugh and kick, gently, like a five year old. I had one hand on his nipple and one hand on the front of his tracksuit pants, on his hard-on. I could taste him – I know you are not supposed to have such sensations in dreams, but... I swear – he tasted salty and sweet, smooth and warm. His skin was as soft as velvet rubbing across my mouth.

I fell asleep on his chest, listening to his heart beat. His heart was mine.

I thought about that dream, as he smiled adorably at me, standing there in my office. I smiled at the recollection and he even asked me what I was smiling about. Funny, huh? I should have just told him.

He told me about the book sales at Fed Square, he'd been to. He recommended some books that he though I might like. He's smart and interesting and is interested in literature and politics and people and the world, pretty much.

Sigh! It's kind of nice to have a crush, even if it will always remain unrequited.

Some Thing to Eat

What I've Done?

I worked as a boy-packer at Coles Supermarket, in a far off suburb, which my mother got for me, when I was still at school. I worked long shifts, 9 to 9 over the holidays. I thought it was grand.
I worked at Coles, closer to home, where I learned that people steal merchandise from their place of employment. We were called into the office to have it explained to us. I learned that they get caught and the police are called. I learned that they get sacked. Just like that.
I worked as a store man for my father’s faculty. There was nothing for me to do, but if I didn't fill the position their funding would have been cut. I used the time to do my homework. Paid to do homework, now that can’t be bad.
I worked for a bank between failing year 12 and repeating year 12. I found that bank managers were not to my liking; fat, single-minded, relics from some forgotten era. Me and my friend Jackie, resigned the day that another staff member resigned, just to give the old bank manager the shits. We thought we were very clever.
I worked for a hardware shop, in my uni days. I had no idea about hardware, but it was a friend of the family who got me the job and I learned fast. I’m not sure, however, if I was ever really cut out for it, I couldn't saw a straight line and I couldn't hammer a nail. One old cobber surprised me with his answer when I told him the cost of four litres of paint.
“Jesus fuck me Christ the cunts are expensive, aren't they?”
This private school boy from the eastern suburbs didn't really know how to respond to that.

I worked for a corporate bank in a very grand, just renovated, building in the city. The building was the reason I accepted the job, to tell you the truth. I wanted to travel overseas, so I wanted to work just for a time, to top up my spending money. They promoted me 3 times in 8 months and then they tried to talk me into staying when it came time to leave. They seemed genuinely pissed off when I walked out the door, despite the fact I was employed on a temporary basis.
I got implicated in a bank robbery, for my time at the corporate bank, but that is a long story involving Interpol, which can wait to be told for another time.
I worked for an entertainment company, upon my return. I was sent all over the state, as I was considered the “single” manager. I was caught up in some serious misconduct, which I had no idea of when I was accused. I had no idea what they were talking about. As it turned out, the serious misconduct was the work of a much more senior manager than I was, at the time. After he admitted fault, I got an apology, of sorts. Yes, I would call the apology inadequate, but that was as apologetic as they were ever going to be, so the 2IC explained to me. As a consequence, when I asked for 6 months leave, a short time later and they explained to me that they needed me on board and not traipsing around Italy and Greece, they declined my request and I had no hesitation in giving in my notice. I think they were a little surprised.
I worked for a family company, 2 years later when I came back to Oz. They said they needed me, I accepted reluctantly. I learned never to work for family owned companies. Those closest to me were far more poisonous than any of those mentioned above.
I did consulting work for a year, or so. I loved going into different companies and righting the wrongs. I loved the fact that I didn't have to get to know anyone and could walk out at the end of the day without a care. But the work couldn't be relied upon and it was often interspersed with weeks of no pay.
I worked for a communications company, where, on Monday morning, the boss' mood depended on how much cocaine he had done the two days previously. We used to have big, company parties, always on a week night, where the boss would encourage all of us to play-up as much as we could. He'd always be the last man standing. And anyone who didn't make it into the office the following day was threatened with the sack.

I worked for my first law firm and I loved it so. The fact that it was housed in one of the cities finest office buildings didn't hurt. But then they nationalised my role and my department moved north to be run out of the Emerald City. We’d love you to move to Sydney, in fact, if you do we’ll pay you this much more. I declined, Sydneysiders being how they are.
I now work for my second law firm, in the drab end of town. It’s a miserable company to work for; never before have I met a more unhappy bunch of people. But they pay me well to stay and they think I’m pretty good. Some days, I don’t think the ulcers are worth it. Most days, I know the ulcers aren't worth it.
I dream of giving it up and writing. Of course, there is the mortgage and the little matter of puting food on the table. But, what the heck? I've come to the conclusion that most of the work force aren't my kind of people anyway.

The Working Week

Monday morning go slow. A gentle breeze blows up the street. My head is weekend-thick. Is that my brain, or is that the space where it used to be? Step, one foot in front of the other. Nearly there.

A young girl walks her dog. Tommy, from the paint shop, leers at her, in her low cut top. He catches me, catching him, he looks contrite, but still steals a last glimpse at her legs before she disappears up Napier Street. He has her stripped naked by the time he looks back at me. He smiles.

The fat Asian boy, from the local shop, smiles at me, as I walk by. I smile back.

"G'day," he says coyly. He almost bats his eyes.

"Hi,” I say. He looks like he has lost weight, with only one roll obvious around his waist. (not even a roll, I'm being unkind)

I'm glad Nicholas said that the fat Asian boy makes eyes at him too. I was beginning to think it was me going nuts, imagining such things. Tim says that Nicholas thinks that all men are making eyes at him. The curse of the beautiful, I guess.

The start of the working week, yay! At least it’s cooler today. We're all surfs working for the machine, which is worth jack shit. The world is going to hell. There are idiots in charge, I think, as I look both ways before I cross the street. None of us do any thing important, just work to maintain the status quo.

Leah says that she does some thing important, because she works with cancer ridden kids. (she's actually the CEO, so I'm not sure how much, actual, kind contact she has) Why do people who work in such jobs think they are doing something worthwhile? Kids, illness, most of those kids won't make it; little clumps of bones in little shallow graves.

A cool breeze blows down the street. I wonder who has got it right?

“Hey mate,” says the homeless guy on the steps of the old post office. “Have ya got a spare smoke?” I often give him a cigarette, the only, as the beautifully groom concierge in San Francisco said to me once with a smile, bum I do give to. Don't know why?

“Sure,” I say. I pull out my packet and hand over a cigarette.

“Busy day?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say. “Gotta pull it together after the Xmas break.” He takes the fag with a bruised and bloody hand. I don't ask.

“How about you?”

“I’m in the office already, aren't I?” He laughs with a throaty, emphysemic kind of cough. “Busy day all right.”

Bright Spark

 I came to two conclusions when I was on my ride over to Lotties.

1. I could ride my bike over to Manny's. Easy. Why I have never thought of that, I really don't know? I am slow sometimes.
2. Never wear boxer shorts and track suit pants when you are bike riding. Ouch!

Exercise Sunday

It's raining! Yay!

My exercise regime is back on track, albeit only recently. I'm not going to be 5 kilos over weight next New Years Eve.

But, of course, I'm smoking again. Grrr!

I don't know how the fat chicks in tracky pants, or the beefy blokes in King-Gees with beer guts do it. I can feel the bit I've gained hanging off me. It feels odd. It's so much more about how I feel and not how I look - although, not completely. I am a fag, after all. It is about how I look, too. How do those pigs I see everyday in the city feel? They must just feel foul.

I give up smoking. I put on weight. I start smoking again. Christian's quit smoking merry-go-around.

I've been riding my bike every second day, in preparation for riding it every day. Mostly, that is an arse requirement. I find my bum is the sorest part, to start off with, when riding every day.

Today is the second day and the rain comes down.

He, he, he thinks quietly to himself - berating himself for being a lazy bastard.

Of course, the rain only lasted a minute, so it's back to bike riding.

Must go and get my act together and ride over to Lotties. Can I ride stoned? Note to self, no more joints.

But first, there is the newspaper to read and coffee to drink... and the couch to lay on. Ah! (big yawn)

Sunday Morning Blues

Thick head, throbbing so

Sore jaw, impossible to chew

Tired eyes, the sleep is thick

The weather's cool, thank the universe

It must be time for a joint.

(well, it must be 6pm some where in the world)

Time to visit a few blogs.

Fun & Games

I went out to the Peel, Throb, with Josh. He makes me feel like an old woman with how much he wants to go out. All the time, he's always goading me about leaving the house. But, I guess, he's on holidays and we had left-overs from New Year's Eve. The place was packed, we didn't get there until just before 1am, my preferred arrival time, but Josh was keen. I talked him into watching "The Anniversary" Bette Davis at her magnificent best and grotesque worst, otherwise he was champing at the bit to head out from early evening.

We danced and danced. My head was spinning most of the time. Just a sea of faces all moving to the same time as me. The commune of dance.

There were a lot of out-of-it people. The crowd was thinning about 4am.

Penny was there, I hadn't seen her for ages. She was making no sense, when I found her. She was rabbiting on talking about nonsense, as she does. I didn't care. I wondered if her boyfriend, Bryce, was with her. I tried to ask her, but all I got in response was a confused look, as though she knew she should have heard of somebody named Bryce and she was sure it would come to her. Pill-happy Penny.

It didn't matter.

Penny was wearing a white tutu inspired dress, ballet shoes and cream ribbons in her blonde hair. She looked like a porcelain doll.

All I could think of was that creamy white skin of Bryce's and that beautiful abdomen, which disappeared down the front in his pants, always with the top button undone.

Penny danced with Josh and I. She's like the little doll from a music box, except she grooves instead of spins.

Tim and Nicolas turned up.

"Hey," said some warm breath on my neck. Beautiful Bryce was standing next to me grinning. He'd arrive with the other two. They'd been at another club, to hear some DJ play. They are all a bit south side, at heart, those three, despite none of them actually living there. But any time they get a chance, it's over the Yarra with them. Tim and Nicholas like to keep each other away from temptation, so they party in foreign lands, where the punters are too young for their, particular, tastes. Bryce is just a gay man trapped in a straight man's body.

Bryce slipped his T-shirt off. Smiled. His beautiful chest, sexy nipples and a flat stomach with single figures in body fat. I don't think I've ever seen such a perfect body as his.

"Been here long?" He slurred. His eyes were sunken.

"Yeah, a while." I was gazing at his chest.

"I've just arrived," he said, looking down at his chest, too.

My bladder ached.

"I've got to have a piss."

"I do too. I'll come with you," said Bryce

Bryce took my hand, as I led him through the crowd. The place was busy. The urinals were full. A cubicle became vacant, just as we walked in. Bryce pulled me inside and shut the door.

I pissed like a horse.

Bryce hesitated at first, stood back.

"That was lucky, hey?" he said. His jaw was quivering. His eyes were barley open. He had that grin on his face.

He stood opposite me undoing his pants, on the other side of the bowl, struggling. I watched him pull his fly apart and pull his black jocks down. I looked away. He wasn't meeting my gaze. I looked down again.

Nice cock, Brycey boy. Nice foreskin.

My piss took forever, Bryce seemed to do about two drops. Mine finally stopped. It was a relief. Bryce stood there with his eyes closed, his cock still out. He just stood there like he'd gone to sleep. His fat cock hanging down. He was perfectly still.

I took his cock in my hand, wondering at the same time if it was braking my vows about hitting on straight boys and the mutual respect thing. I was shaking. It felt good, like chimpanzees grooming. I squeezed it. I held it, as he went instantly hard. Big fleshy thing, hard and hot, with skin like velvet. It curved up beautifully. It was solid. His knob was red. The thick vein underneath pumped. I rubbed my hand up and down it, it was smooth against my skin. He groaned softly. His precum was wet on my hand.

"What a nice, big, fat dick you've got Bryce," I said. It felt hot.

He opened his eyes, smiled wantonly, pulled his cock out of my hand, did up his jeans and left.

Rule number 1, never speak to straight boys when they are out of it and you are playing with their cock, it always brings them back to reality.

I found him on the dance floor hugging Penny. Both in a stupor. They were dancing with Tim and Nicholas.

Josh had been off with some young Italian named Sebastian, he'd met at 80 the other night. The three guys Josh has met since he's arrived back in Melbourne all want to settle down and get married to him and be boyfriends.

"Ah, beginners luck," I said. "You're a new face again, you have been away for six years, after all."

"But this is the first time in my life that I am single and I kind of wanted to try it for a while," moaned Josh. "Just to see what I'm missing out on."

Bryce grinned over Penny's shoulder at me.

Today, we have slept for most of the day. We've wandered around the house like zombies, ghosts in the darkened corners, grunting at each other.

I've eaten shit food and watched porn and smoked lots of pot. But mostly I've slept.

Josh had the 3 guys lined up, but some how managed to come home alone. He made a brief appearance, just now.

"Hey," I said, as he wandered back up the stairs again. "What happened to all your boyfriends?"

"Get fucked mole," he replied. "What happened to yours?"