Hot January Night

I took Josh to my friend Rachel's restaurant for dinner. We ate outside, it was, despite all of my whinging about the heat, a beautiful night for it, with a gentle breeze off the beach. We ate anti pasta and oysters and salmon and steak and coconut ice cream with mangoes and drank sour vodkas.

I told them both how I'd changed all their names (one night, in a stoned frenzy, a few years back) , they think I'm talking about the journal that I have kept for years, and Rachel says she wants to be called Fifi, so Fifi it is.

Fifi has a new waiter named Renaldo. My mouth fell open, as did Josh's, when he bought the first drinks. Talk about my "perfect" look in men. He's just turned 30, Lebanese, short dark hair and a smile that curled up, just slightly, at one corner. Handsome. Polite. Of course, straight. And for all of you who like them built, apparently in a bulking up stage at the gym, with a tight green t-shirt that showed off his body to perfection. For my own personal taste, I'd have to let the psi down 25%, but other than that, pretty much, absolutely, perfect. I think I'm in love! (I wonder if I could get Fifi to sneak a photo of him?)

We caught one of the last light-rails back to the city. There were two guys scrounging for cigarette butts at the South Melbourne light-rail station. I lit up before I realised what they were doing, so, of course, they were straight over to ask for a cigarette... with toothless grins. Then a guy appeared off the light-rail, out of town, with a joint in his hand wanting a light. I nearly burned him when I tried to light it for him, so I gave it to him to light. As he handed it back, he stepped forward toward me and kind of grunted in a strange kind of threatening way and then wandered off. It was quite bizarre and led me to believe that he was suffering some kind of drug psychosis, as he reminded me of my stepson Fen when he used to carry on like that. Then he wandered straight out into the traffic and cars were skidding to a stop, as he gave them the finger. The hair on the back of my neck raised up. He might as well have, actually, been Fen with that performance. Funny the things you remember... from the dark past.

The light-rail was packed. One thing about the heat, it strips the boys down to very little clothing. One guy, in a singlet and baggy, blue shorts, scratched his leg nonchalantly, as he chatted to his friend, which bunch the material of his shorts at the front, which showed off his massive cock just lying there to the right, thick and long down his leg. I couldn't stop looking at it (five vodka sours later) like a car crash. I had to move before he spotted me staring. You should have seen that thing.

The city was alive with people. There were cute Indian boys, taxi drivers and friends, eating out on the footpath, at the top of Bourke Street, when we stopped to get cigarettes. They had beautiful skin, like velvet. Dazzling white teeth and eyes.

The house was stifling, even the cat had a sweaty face. I am so sick of feeling wet from the heat.

We went to the Laird and drank beer and watched all the Spit & Polish boys playing dress ups. The night air was sticky with heat; thick, pea soup consistency. What little breeze there was, was, thankfully, cold on the sweat on my face. We staggered home by 3am. (I have the day off today)