I Burnt My Coffee Pot

7am. I burnt my coffee pot while I was off in dreamland thinking about a day off. The pungent smell of rubber in the air, as the seal in the coffee pot melted, bought me back to reality.

11am. The truth of the morning was that I was stonkered. Dragging my feet. I’m not sure I’m going to make it, I thought, as I dragged my sorry arse up Young Street. I felt like I was walking a bit sideways, my centre of gravity was a little... er... um, compromised. The walk to work only just cut it. I just start walking and I forgot. That rhythm was good to get the blood pumping, brain cells sparking, lung tissue filtering. Water. Kidneys. Park. Feeling fine. Shop fronts. People. The lift.

Intermittently, during the morning, I had slight head-spin moments, a stumble. A couple of times. Three at the most. I had to check and check and check everything again and again and again. Triple check for autopilot days, to be sure. Avoid the phone. Answer everybody by email, even phone messages. I can get away with it for one day, better than stumbling over my words and feeling found out.

The paranoia only lasts till midday.

A big lunch and every cell was pumping.

The clouds behind my eyes, cleared.

Early to Shine... Healthy, Wealthy, What?

Bing! 6am. I'm awake. What goes on?

I could take today off? I'm having tomorrow off for the yearly financial paperwork sign off. Rachel said take today off too. I said no, don't know why, some strange work ethic. All I'd have to do is text her. She'd be cool with it. What to do?

Would I just be wasting a day? (no doubt)

You know I want to!

An Australian, a Kiwi and a South African

An Australian, a Kiwi and South African are in a bar one night having a beer.

All of a sudden the South African drinks his beer, throws his glass in the air, pulls out a gun and shoots the glass to pieces.

"In Seth Efrika our glasses are so cheap that we don't need to drink from the same one twice," he says.

The Kiwi, obviously impressed by this, drinks his beer, throws his glass into the air, pulls out his gun and shoots the glass to pieces.

"Wull mate, in Noo Zulland we have so much sand to make the glasses that we don't need to drink out of the same glass either," he says.

The Australian, cool as a Koala, picks up his beer and drinks it, throws his glass in the air, pulls out his gun and shoots the South African and the Kiwi. He turns to the astonished barman and says,

"In Strailya mate, we have so many bloody South Africans and Kiwis we don't need to drink with the same ones twice."

 

Smoky Saturday

I haven't seen the G man, I was thinking. He gets a girl friend and I never see him again. Just like a straight boy. I miss those nights where he was drunk, after a night out with his wife and he'd hug me drunkenly and tell me he loved me and secretly rub his hard-on on my arse, as he hugged me tight. Often, his wife would be standing next to him. What happened to that Nick? (G's real name)

Truthfully, I like his friendship for many more reasons than the rare drunken moment I have described above - just thought I'd titilate myself with the thought.

I don't know why I thought about him today.

Missy went missing, a number of times, when I was supposed to be giving her medicine. She finished the course, but not strictly in the way it was intended. But finished, none the less. Now she has one suspect tiny, puffy bit, around the abscess. So I'm hoping like hell I don't have to pay another $450 to have her completely healed. I tried to squeeze it, like the vet showed me, but nothing came out and I wondered if I was mutilating her for nothing. But she never acted like any of it was sore, so that has to be a good sign

My buggery speeding fine arrived in the mail. $215 dollars, although I mistakenly told Lottie that it was $250 and she handed it over. So I actually made on the deal. Three buggery demerit points though.

The cleaning lady is an absolute amazing gem. She cleans like no other cleaning lady I've ever had. She is a one in a million, never to be had more than once in one life time. I've learnt by experience. David and I gave her some extra money this week, in appreciation.

I'm smoking pot and cigarettes. I have to stop smoking. I'm getting really chesty again. Doesn't that sound like something a mother would say? But, unfortunately, true.

I spent Lottie's fine money on pot. She'd be proud.

Shane is moving in, he is a big pot smoker. Josh and I have even got health conscious David back onto joints. In only how many weeks? You do the maths.

I turned down sex with Manny. I can't drive. And fuck him, he said he was coming over here, today.

Josh goes on Tuesday. I will be sad to see him go.

Public Transport

The tram was crowded this morning, full of the usual suspects; half asleep, half stupid, half caring, half capable, half there.

There was a blond boy, standing with his gorgeous dark-haired girlfriend, the contrast in their complexions was immediately apparent. How beautiful are you two, I thought. He had the most piercing blue eyes, the type with pale blue corneas with dark blue circles outlining them.

There was a woman whose thighs were so fat that they seemed to move independently to the rest of her. As she walked, it set of a kind of Mexican Wave in her thighs, under the material of her pants. I'd hate to have been slapped in the face by either of those suckers.

I lent forward to let a guy pass behind me and he stopped and stood in the space that I had vacated, to let him pass. Are people really that selfish, or that self focused, or that unaware? Oh no you don't buddy, I thought, as I lent back and our bums rubbed together. It felt kind of nice, warm, soft. He moved away slightly. You know, just enough. I stood up straighter. Our bums rubbed again. He had, what felt like, a nice arse, pert, spongy. He moved away, again. I stood completely straight. Our bums rubbed again, I could feel his crack on mine. He moved into the rear carriage.

I thought you'd see it my way, buddy, I thought.

Mass Consciousness

One school of New Age thinking tells us,

You have to focus all of your energy on what, or who you want to be powerful in the world. You have to stop thinking about all that is bad in the world, because even if they are negative thoughts, you are still giving all that is bad in the world energy.

You just have to focus on the positive and let all else fade away. Feed all that is good with positive thought and the world will be a better place.

It is that easy. The people have the power to change the world.

The Real Manny

Manny

He'd kill me for doing this, but this is he who keeps me warm on cold nights. Actually, more like this is the boy I snog on the couch in front of the TV, but I'm sure you get my meaning. 

He didn't ask what I was going to do with the photo, so I didn't tell him. How's he gonna find out, I ask you? I think he was just about to take his pants off, at the time, hence the mood lighting.

He was about to take his pants off, Anzac Day came early.

Drinking and Smoking and the Guys

 We were all out at the Laird. It was packed and I was supposed to be meeting Tom.

Housemate David and his new guy Mark. David had had two vodkas and was saying what a cheap drunk he was.

Shane was saying that he was single, emotional and drunk... and looking for a guy with a big cock.

Like that will help, at this point, I told him.

Certainly can't hurt, slurred Shane.

Well then, it's certainly not big enough, I replied.

He-who-shall-never-be-mentioned asked where I'd been and if I'd lost his phone number, pointedly? He provided a steady stream of joints, especially after I'd run out of cigarettes. Every time I asked him for one, he'd reply, How about a joint? He had the never ending Tim Tam packet of joints, so it would have seemed.

Sebastian was there too. He and I said wicked things about Shane, as we are want to do. Shane made some disparaging comment about Matt. Ex-fucking-boyfriends. Spit on the ground.

Like he thinks it's hard to break up with Matt, I said to Sebastian. Shane owns property with Mark W, lets see how nasty that one gets.

"Denial, luv," said Sebastian. "It's a wonderful thing."

Tom never turned up, although I got a few texts from him saying his arrival was immanent.

Manny didn't go, we watched Big Brother together and then I tucked him into bed, figuratively, of course.

"Why who wouldn't have thought that a three-way with and Italian wasn't going to end in tears," said Sebastian.

We both laughed

"I'd like to say that I warned him," I said. "But I actually didn't."

Everybody laughed. I passed the joint.

I didn't stay too late. "I've had a shag, a couple of beers and a couple of joints, I'm ready for bed," I said at 1am.

"Are you okay to drive," asked David, in housemate brotherly love.

"I'm pretty stoned..."

"But you've only had one drink?"

"Two."

"Oh, you're fine then," he replied.

Kiss, kiss and I was off.

I saw Tom's car halfway down a long street, half way to my car. He must have finally turned up. He must have been getting a drink as I left the building. I stood next to Tom's car and felt anxious about missing him. The road was long and dark, far to my car. I looked back and the road was long and dark and it was far to go back. I stood next to his car and bounced on the balls of my feet and shoved my hands deep down in my pockets. The car was like a snow mould, sitting there in the dark. Almost, obscenely white, with it's handicapped permit, against the black of the night.

I was too stoned to walk back. I looked behind me. I kept walking.

Anzac Day

For Anzac Day, I'm going to get Manny to dress up in a private's uniform... and then I'm going to invade him. 

Grrr!

Manny

Manny's a crack up. He was supposed to call me at 6.30pm and he's just called now, sounding dead tired.

"I'm a bit late, I know," he said. "What time is it? Is it too late for you to drive over?"

I'm going to bed to dream about his big brown eyes, his gorgeous smile, his beautiful hairy chest, and other bits of him that I'm sure you can guess.

His head asleep on my shoulder... that always makes me love him.

Sweet dreams, Man.

Morning of Freaks and Beauty

I was in the post office paying two bills. I'd left my half of the money for Josh, but he was too busy watching porn and scouring the internet to go to the bank. Good on ya, I thought.

Mark thinks I'm ridiculous going to the post office to pay bills, but I walk past every morning, it seems so easy.

Get with the 21st century, says Mark. Do it on the internet.

I like the post office, it seems real, there's life there. One of the loud, mental ladies of the area came into the post office and proceeded to give us her banking history and hair dye requirements at the top of her voice, as she waited in line. Apparently, she came in on the wrong day last week when she should have been at the hairdresser. Oh bless her, I thought, as I gazed at the wide grey GT stripe in her otherwise black hair. You might want to try a lighter shade at your age, I was going to offer, but thought better of it. Wouldn't it be nice to have such simple worries. She put a smile on my face, with her nuffy innocents.

I'd left it a bit late to walk, so I hopped a tram. Face-lift lady was on the tram. She has skin as tight as a proverbial drum and androgynous features because of it. I looked out of the corner of my eye at her, staring straight ahead, to get a look at the scars behind her ears. She kind of noticed and craned her creepy head in my direction to see what I was looking at. She's like a plastic mannequin, not a wrinkle, not a line, nothing much moves. I looked straight ahead after she had looked at me, wondering if she was, in fact, a tranny. Not sure, the jury is still out on that one. She put a smile on my face too, which is, probably, more than she can do.

I slipped into my foyer with minutes to spare. Strapping dark, maybe Indian, boy was at the lift, in my foyer. He's my next husband, he just doesn't know it yet. He, he. He has the most beautiful face, square jaw, big, brown eyes, red lips, I can't help but gaze at him. He has a chest you could play drums on and an arse, so chunky and so sexy that, as he exited the lift, I imagined running my tongue through the hairs up his crack, as I followed it... er... him, with my eyes, out of the lift... Jasus! I shook my head. It wasn't even 9am? I would have adjusted my tie, if I wore one. I looked at the girl who remained in the lift, she hadn't noticed.

He put a smile on my face. Which is what I'd like to do to him. 

Shane and Manny

Shane's moving back in. He's "having a break" from Mark W and apparently, he has dumped Matt also. I asked him if "having a break" from Mark W, was a "break" with the idea of getting back together, or if it was a "break" as in the most polite way in saying it's over? He just kind of looked upset and said he didn't know, just a break. Me and my big mouth. I told him if he could even make a single decision while he was going through a break up he was doing better than most.

Josh leaves in a few weeks, after which Shane will move into his room. I amused myself with the thought of texting Josh - if, in fact, he had a mobile phone - saying not to come back, I'd let his room. Just to see the look on Josh's face - if, in fact, I could see his face through a mobile phone.

Shane's been around to discuss it, we had a couple of joints.

Shane and my other housemate, David are ex-boyfriends and David is in Shane's old room, when Shane lived here the last time, when David was his boyfriend. Josh's room was once Fergus' room, who went out with Shane and is how Shane and I met. Shane became an unofficial housemate living here with Fergus, the first time Shane lived here. So, Shane is moving into what is now, technically, his ex-boyfriend, David's, house, into his ex-boyfriend, Fergus', room.

Are you keeping up? Yes, it's a tangled web.

Shane is probably the person I have lived with most out of everybody, nearly, probably, several times, so he's like an old pair of socks. It'll be cool living with him again.

A pot smoker though, one draw back. Shane and I are old pot smoking buddies from way back. Fergus was a big pot smoker, from the era when this house was a big party house. I could easily be reclaiming old habits with Shane around.

Oh well, there could be worse things.

Fergus is dead.

I so wanted to get into Manny's pants this arvo/tonight, but he was in a funny mood and not up for it. I just had to relax and breath, otherwise I would have been begging. Well, not begging, but insistent, cajoling, single-minded, fixated, demanding... may be not demanding, either. But, frustrated... pleading. Oh come on Manny!

He laughed and said, My horny boy. I'm gonna eat again and go to bed.

So, I just said, okay Man, that's cool. (fiddling with my packet of cigarettes)

Maybe tomorrow night, he said. Can we catch up tomorrow night?

Sure! I said, a bit snarly.

I'm going to bed.

Shane's a computer geek, he can finish off David's and my wireless network. Yay! And he can take fucking "Hearts" off my damn computer. Stupid, mindless game.

Too Much Information?

1. Stubble... good or bad? How often do you shave?

I'd say stubble looks good, it feels good, but I do prefer a clean-shaven for a long snog. Otherwise, I get skin irritation around my lips. The secret is to have the same amount of stubble. I love body hair; hairy chest, hairy stomach, hairy legs.

2. How often do you kiss (read make out) with who?

Once a week, if I can. In fact, I'm sure today is the day. I must make a call, talk dirty down the phone.

3. Have you ever placed a personal ad or answered a personal ad?

Yes, both, but not for a long time now, though. I never found it a good way to meet people. I'm more your in-the-flesh kind of boy. I have little desire to date, as I have sex covered with a sexy partner just for that purpose. I'd rather do the boring bits on my own.

4. Where was the first place you ever had sex?

The back of my fifth grade classroom.

5. After a night of great sex, who do you tell? How much?

I don't really tell any one. I think about it to myself for a while after, bask in the after glow. Occasionally, I used to tell Tom, but no really gory details, though. Although, I'd be up for telling, if someone asked, but it just doesn't go that way.

6. Have you ever kissed your partner on the lips after oral sex without brushing teeth, nor washing/gargling/rinsing out mouth? Turn on or off?

Yes, all the time... from all areas back to his mouth. It is neither a turn on, or a turn off. It's just a part of good sex.

 

There is this boy - My twin Garth

Garth Barclay was my first platonic boyfriend, in grade 6. He had dark, curly hair, as I did. He had good looks, he was popular. He needed to shave, in grade 6. (I'm not sure boys ever shaved in 6th grade, but that is my mental picture of him)

He looked like me and I looked like him, amazingly so from all reports. He was my first, and only, twin experience thus far. (Well, not exactly, but we’ll get to that much later) We used to drive the teachers nuts. They couldn't tell us a part. “Garth, Christian? Christian, Garth?”

"Which one are you? Christian or Garth?" asked the library teacher. "I can never tell you two a part. I wish you’d stop coming in together."

It would make us both smile.

We both liked it. We used to find each other to stand in line together.  I remember us holding hands, but that is probably me and we probably didn't. (Then again, in grade 6?) We were inseparable all year. We had the twin thing going on there for a while.

Garth was boistrous, he played football at lunch times. He always came in for the afternoon with his shirt tail hanging out. But he was sweet to me, as I was sweet to him. (sweet on him) We had our own thing going on. We always sat together, we wanted to be bookends. Old Dickson used to get furious.

Albert Dickson was our 6^th grade teacher and my nemesis. He was cruel and vindictive.

"If you dear boys do insist on sitting together," he'd whine like Bernard King. "Although, why a thoroughly nice boy like Garth wants to sit next to a thoroughly horrible boy like Christian – the old bastard hated me - "I will never understand." I think he could sniff a younger, cuter, smarter gay boy present and used to think, I have to tear him down, for my own preservation – "You will have to wear name tags."

"If one of us is thoroughly horrible and one of us is thoroughly nice," I would ask cheekily. "Why do we have to wear name tags?"

"Thank you Christian," he'd spit back. "I can pick horrible, when I hear it."

Garth would rub my back when Dickson was mean to me, Garth was my hero, he'd always find me, we'd always hang together.

I got shingles that year, from being forced to spar beyond my years, by a biter old homophobe, married forty years with children – in his polyester suits and cravats and his coiffured grey hair. (The man was the biggest closet homo, I don't know how people couldn't see it?).

Both our mothers picked the wrong one of us as their son, in the school photo. It was a set-up. We asked them pointedly. I was amazed when Garth told me.

"My mum picked you, saying it was me." I was taken aback when my mum did the same thing, even if Lottie only hesitated over Garth and then picked me. After which, I remember I sighed in relief.

Garth went to a high school from year 7. His parents could no longer afford the fees, or something, I can't really remember now. All I heard was that he was leaving. We were both devastated. We said, "Twins forever," the day he left. We shazambed! our knuckles afterwards, in silence. We gazed at each other for the longest time, our last time together, before Garth's mother pulled him away by the hand. I watched him go, as he did me.

I've never had another twin – everyone would say years later that David Sweetman looked like my brother, but never another twin. I wonder if Garth still remembers? I wonder if he still looks like me?

Monogamy

I guess I believe in emotional monogamy, rather than sexual monogamy. In this world of whirling faces and too-many-men-not-enough-time kinds of attitudes, it's nice to have someone special in my life.

I don't think I'm really up for casual sex, any more. Don't get me wrong, I used to be, (Tom says I've slept with more men than anyone he knows. A claim I, naturally, dispute) but even when I was, shall we say, more of an enthusiast, I was so often left with the feeling, afterwards, of I-wish-I-hadn't-done-that, or get me out quick. This is not a judgement thing, fuck whoever you like, I would encourage you, even. But, I'm not sure that I ever found it that fulfilling, to be honest... not as fulfilling as having a boyfriend, sure.

I think it always used to be about self esteem, I think it always used to be about self acknowledgment and I think I now know that's not how you get those things.

I've always had this joke with Tom about knowing the name of the guys who we'd just fucked. Tom never cared, hardly ever bothered to even ask. But me, I always asked. Afterwards, I could always tell Tom their names. I could never just do the completely anonymous sex thing. I always had to find something I liked about the guy, otherwise it just wouldn't work for me. Even if it was snatched conversations in the dark, at a sex on premises venue. At some point between giving the nod and watching them blow, I'd have to stop and chat a bit. Often, that snatch of conversation was crucial to whether I'd continue, or grab my towel saying I needed a break.

I was always more interested in what was attached to the cock, more so than what size it was.

My point being... and I think I do have a point left here some where... to me, monogamy isn't about sex, monogamy is about wanting to be with someone. Monogamy is about being attracted to who someone is and wanting to be with that person because you want to be... and getting that in return. It is about mutual attraction. It's a heart thing. It's about being warm and fuzzy inside when they are around and them feeling the same way. It's about being honest, it's about being safe (that's the old fashioned meaning), it's about being nurtured, it's about being sure. It's about connection.

It's about holding hands, just naturally.

It's about leaving together, because you just don't want to leave with anyone else in the entire world.

And sexual monogamy?

I wouldn't accept my boyfriend leaving me on a night out to chase after someone else. I wouldn't accept him not turning up when he's supposed to because he's having sex with someone else. I wouldn't accept him interrupting my time with him because of someone else. I wouldn't accept him chasing after other people all the time. I wouldn't accept him being obsessed with finding extra marital sex. I wouldn't accept him sleeping with my friends or ex-lovers. But, if I was doing what I'm doing, otherwise happily entertained and it happened to come along for him, then it wouldn't matter, I wouldn't mind. Good luck to him.

I wouldn't accept him lying about it.

Missy and Manny

Missy has a big lump on her back. I told her she was a little bitch because of it. More fucking money! My finances haemorrhaging, at the moment, big time. Doesn't rain but pour, hey? She's cranky because I'm not feeding her until we return from the vet. Actually, where has she gone? Shit! Gotta go and find her. Half an hour till we leave.

An hour, or so, later...

Missy is now in hospital having her abscess lanced. She didn't go quietly, meow, meow, meow, all the way. Even a chuck under the chin, through the bars, at all the traffic lights didn't help calm her. Poor Missy. I'll pick her up tomorrow. Of course, it was decided that she should be micro chipped, as I have never had that done, another fifty dollars, then I can register her with the council, something that hadn't occurred to me until tonight. Not sure why?

Manny got depressed, yesterday and went to the pokies and blew all his money, so, of course, I bailed him out.

"I want to ask you for a really big favour," he said, first thing in the conversation. "I've got myself into a jam."

Oh, here we go, I knew what was coming next. That boy? Bloody hell! I so wanted to say no. But what do I do when he hasn't got any money for food for two weeks? Let him starve? My rational, thinking self says yes, let him. If I keep bailing him out, he'll just keep doing it. Won't he?

But, he hasn't done it for a long time.

I said to Rachel that I was lending him money, again, waiting for her to scold me... my yardstick. But she said, Poor Manny, what can you do? She likes him a lot.

He came into work and got $500 from me.

"Thanks, you saved my life."

I waved him good bye and kind of suspected that I was, maybe, doing the opposite. That boy? I should slap him rather than give him money.

He called me tonight and said cheekily, "Come over and I'll work off some of the debt."

"Ha ha," I said.

"I've shaved." Cheeky laugh. Always a good thing for a Greek boy to do before...

 

Sand and Stone

Two friends were walking through the desert. During some point of the journey, they had an argument and one friend slapped the other one on the face.

The one who got slapped was hurt, but without saying anything, wrote in the sand:

Today my best friend slapped me on the face.

They kept on walking, until they found an oasis, where they decided to take a bath. The one who had been slapped got stuck in the mire and started drowning, but the friend saved him.

After he recovered from the near drowning, he wrote on a stone:

Today my best friend saved my life.

The friend who had slapped and saved his best friend asked him, "After I hurt you, you wrote in the sand and now you write on a stone, why?"

The friend replied, "When someone hurts us we should write it down in sand, where the winds of forgiveness can erase it away. But, when someone does something good for us, we must engrave it in stone where no wind can ever erase it."

Gun culture

So some guy took a gun and shot thirty odd people dead. Why does America feign disbelief about this? It is the original gun-totting, war mongering, shoot 'em dead Texan Ranger country.

Your president sanctions killing, advocates war and, as the Governor of Texas, he put more people to death than any other governor in the history of your country.

On an individual basis, it is tragically sad. I can't imagine anything more terrifying than being hunted down by a mad man, in a place where you are supposed to be safe, where you are supposed to be growing, where you are supposed to be free to steer your young life in the most positive of directions. It is the stuff nightmares are made of.

But with the crazy gun culture in America... if you guys want guns, the right to bear arms, you've got to live with it. I can't imagine, as a nation, why you would want that.

Ages of Men

The man with the obvious wig, like a clichéd helmet of hair that my eyes were drawn to immediately, was sitting opposite me. What was he thinking when he looked in the mirror this morning, that nobody would notice? It looked ridiculous and I couldn't help blurring my eyes to see what he would have looked like without it. I wondered if he put it on like a bike rider would put his bike helmet on, one swift easy action. (clip under the neck?) It didn't even have a part just a join where the thatching met before heading off in opposite directions in two, big, mono-coloured sweeps around each side of his head.

He looked kind of sad sitting there, looking out from underneath it. Sad and obstinate in his age defying gesture, like a man sitting there with, something like, an ice cream cone up ended on the top of his head that nobody is supposed to notice.

The man next to him had shinny, coal black, hair, goatee and sleepy puppy dog eyes looking out from under his fetching droopy eye lids. He stared expressionless out of the tram window at the morning. Such a perfect study of fine male features; a straight jaw line, clear blemish free olive skin, black eyebrows like his hair, red lips with a perfectly shaped (the thing between your lip and nose) underneath a perfectly straight nose. All captured in a momentary snap shot, perfectly still and oblivious to my gaze.

Politicise my morning with your dark expressionless look; beauty captured perfectly still, encapsulating every little boy’s journey into manhood.

Don’t scare me, wig man, I shan't look at you. Don’t show me my destiny, however many decades it might be away.

The ages of man.

Before – dark-haired beauty.

After – bewigged decay.

The essence of men, like a still life, a study, a life drawing in front of me to view, to distract me, to attract my attention, to repel me, as I mindlessly trundle up Bourke Street, early for work.

What a Loser

Tom Watson is a loser, Tom Watson is a loser.

I've done a detailed spread sheet on this.

Tom Watson is a loser, Tom Watson is a loser.

They are not taking me seriously!

Tom Watson is a loser. Tom Watson is a loser.

Cry blond boy, cry

Tom Watson is a loser, Tom Watson is a loser

Did ya mother not give you enough attention?

Loser. Loser.

OCD mummy?

I'm not compulsive. I'm NOT compulsive!

Loser, loser. Tom Watson is a loser.

Cleanliness is next to Godliness.

Take that tie off loser boy.

Do I have to wear casual clothes on casual Friday?

Tom Watson is a loser.

Play with my head, because I'll play with yours.

We're nearly there...

Loser boy. Loser boy.

Interesting Health Fact

Did you know that in the human body there is a nerve that connects the eyeball to the anus? It's called the Anal Optic Nerve, and it is responsible for giving people a shitty outlook on life.

If you don't believe it, try to pull a hair from your arse and see if it doesn't bring a tear to your eye.

Sn'day Arvo

Supermarket, washing, cleaning the kitchen, I'm in my domestic goddess mode. Thank the universe I don't have to vacuum and dust, thank you cleaner.

Hair in curlers, wrapped in a scarf, nylon brunch coat with tea stains, fag out of the mouth, natch. Just call me Gladys. I've been zipping around the house, lifting, moving, sorting. Well, not exactly. But I'm glad I looked in the mirror before I went to Safeway, I nearly didn't and I looked like, well, um, Gladys.

I had to go to Safeway, I had no food in the house and I thought better of a lamb kebab. I was starving, coffee and cigarettes just don't cut it.

Of course, there is a reward for all of this, Manny's practicing his music and should be finished and need of TLC by early evening. So, I had to get every thing done that I had to get done, before the new week. I'm exhausted! Ha, ha, ha!

Tom's coming over for a cup of tea in between. I've been up to my old tricks, not answering phones, but I'm getting better. I'm sure there must be a phobia regarding this. I forced myself to call back, it's not that I'm antisocial, as such, and it's not that I don't want to see Tom, who I haven't seen for ages, I just get lost in my own world and hate to be disturbed. Hello Chris, this is the world calling!

There is nobodies company I like better than my own.

I think I've got a hangover. Where are those pills?

Then off to Manny's... the best cure for a head ache that I know.

Now, if You Imagine Them Blue, with Long Legs...

Boy's Night Out

I was, practically, drunk and disorderly on my walk home last night, not that anyone noticed me staggering through Fitzroy, in the dark. Bongs and a nice chardy (not my usual poison) made me stagger, let me tell you.

I'd been to dinner with Tim and Nicolas, Nicholas' cousin and her baby-bonus children and a fat, mentally deranged friend of Tim's, someone he used to work with, who was the most bizarre, never-stop-talking type I'd ever met, at a pub in Fitzroy. Fat Bizarro Girl stole food off the children's plates, everybody noticed, spoke with her food in her mouth and quaffed wine like there was no tomorrow.

We sat outside. We were entertained by a group of boys, who were on a pub crawling buck's night, who'd come in costume. There were tennis players, Elvis look a likes, jockeys and seventies retro. One fine specimen of a man - tall, athletic, handsome - wore a stripey, seventies jersey top and a pair of blue pants so tight that they could only be described as "sprayed" on. Literally.

My goodness, did those pants get our attention. Nicholas' head was turned, in such a way that I've never seen before. He's the dutiful boyfriend, usually, to be sure.

Blue pants boy left nothing to the imagination. Not his fine legs, not his great arse, not his huge cock that was, clearly, pushed downwards in his jocks. I would say he was cut.

The whole group, who'd clearly had quite a few beers, were totally cockscentric. A number of them clearly had tennis balls or socks stuffed into their jocks. They played with them, discussed them and showed them off to their mates. They were all standing around comparing packages, at one stage.

"I thought I had the tightest pants on (and he did)," said blue pants boy, rubbing his hand seductively down his thick bulge, as another seventies throw back - yellow pants boy - arrived.

"I don't know," said yellow pants boy, grabbing his bulge, as he spoke. "They are pretty tight," he said looking at blue pants boy.

"Is that all you?" asked the seventies rock star - he quite a hunk himself.

"Yes," said blue pants boy, rubbing his hand down his shaft again. (The boy was hung, everybody could see it... no, could actually, see it )

"Damn!" slurred seventies rock star. "I wish I filled my pants, just like that," he replied, gazing at blue pants boy's crotch, which could only have been described as lustfully, while he rubbed his own bulge, intently, as if checking in comparison.

Nicolas turned to me with a huge smile. "Those blue pants sure are tight."

"He wouldn't want to dribble after a piss," I said.

We both laughed.

What is it with straight boys, when they get together with beer, being turned on to their own cocks?

 

Friday Night

Too tired? TOO TIRED! What? Off to bed?

Oh, I gotta laugh. Serves me right, after what I did last weekend?

Manny's been running around all day. He's been practising his music all afternoon. He's beat.

Bugger!

He doesn't have a vindictive bone in his body, re last weekend, he apologised for not being up to it. He sounded so tired, poor babe.

"No, no, come over," he said, reconsidering, hardly able to string the words together. "I won't be up to much, but when I see you..."

He'd be asleep on my shoulder in minutes, which is kind of a nice place for him to be. I love that trust. I love that feeling. I love reaching around and stroking his face, feeling his stubbled skin - Greek boys always have stubble - listening to his breathing, listening to the little noises he makes when he's out to it, just looking at him. Men are beautiful when they are asleep.

Handsome boy. Sweet dreams sweet prince.

Be Nice to Your boy... boyfr... Mate, Chris

Ah yes, I'm a bad... um... er... boy... er... boyfr... er...mate. Yes, I am. Over the weekend, I was so wasted on green that I didn't answer any calls from Manny. I didn't answer calls from anyone. I just deleted them Tuesday morning, as I left for work.

I hadn't heard from Manny since. Nothing, all week.

I was taking my car in yesterday morning to finally get serviced, the weekend problem coming back from the airport, prompted me too. So, I headed out and hopped in, hoping like hell there wasn't anything too majorly wrong with it, as I hadn't driven it since. Firstly, the central locking didn't work, the door just unlocked with the key, no whir, just a click. Damn, I thought, fearing a major electrical malfunction. I got in and turned the key and nothing, absolutely nothing. No errrr. No click. Nothing! The dash board stayed dead, not even a glimmer of light.

Fuck! I'll just have to go to work. But I can't just leave it here, what's going to happen? Maybe the good fairy will come along and weave magic? Fuck!

I was meeting with the C.E.O. at 9.30.

Fuck!

So, I opened the bonnet and looked at the battery - truthfully that is, practically, the extent of my skills - and wouldn't you know it, the battery terminal connection was hanging half off. I had a new battery put in a few weeks ago and they must have left it lose. Yah! I got a spanner and tightened it, but it wouldn't stop turning. I tried again. Still wouldn't. I took it off and had a good look and the bolt that tightened the two ends was snapped in the middle. The idiot battery man - tall, dark and handsome. Looked good in overalls. Nice arse, if I remember - must have broken it. Yah for incompetence, again, I thought, as I marvelled that it had kept going for this long.

The car then started, no problems, as you would expect... hope.

Manny had said last Friday, Just get back in it and head over here. I called him, yesterday afternoon, to say that he was right, even if I didn't know what was wrong with it at the time.

"Oh, long time no hear," said a boy, clearly with his feelings hurt.

"You were right about the car," I said. "Nothing major, just the battery terminal."

"That's great," said a very subdued Manny.

"I'm sorry I didn't call you back," I said. "That's why I'm calling now."

"Well," said Manny. "I was going to wait to see how long it took you."

"I'm sorry."

He laughed, kind of pleased. "What did you do all weekend?"

"You know what I did."

"Smoked pot?"

"Yes."

"Did you do any thing else?"

"Nah, went to the shop for cigarettes."

"Me either," said Manny. "When do you get your car back?"

"Friday," I said. "Tomorrow."

"Come over tomorrow night?"

"Sure," I said.

Afternoon Dreaming

I look out my office window across to the bay; over the city, dotted with buildings, keeping the shore line curved, in an arc, around the dark expanse of water. 

Boats come and boats go. I can only dream about their exotic destinations. 

Cargo boats; some like floating, square boxes, some with long noses and a tiny brain, at the back, to navigate them, some with funnels, two a piece, and still others covered in cranes and winches and all manner of machinery. 

No matter which, I dream about them going. 

I fantasise about a deck chair on the bow, maybe a knee rug for the wind, long, golden drifts of sunshine, surrounded by blue, blue water all around me for as far as the eye could see, with a book and a drink and not a care worth considering.

That's what I think in the afternoon when I stop to look out my big, picture windows.

Sad But True

I can't wait for Josh to go. It is sad but true. I've been botted off by experts in the past and I swore it wouldn't happen again and yet it is. Why do people think it is okay to let somebody else pay for the things they use? Friends are often the worst culprits.

Josh and I had certain agreements, up front, about what how he was supposed to contribute to the costs of running the house. I never said, oh yes, come and stay with me for 6 months and I will provide for all your needs. No and I don't think it is reasonable to think I would. We've since had discussions about it. He's clearly not going to meet them, however.

It's sad to see a friendship drain away over such trivial matters but, I'm afraid, it is. I've been in this position before, where I've given people the benefit of the doubt and they have taken the easy way. And it's going to happen again. I mean, I'm not talking about teenagers, I'm talking about thirty year olds, closer to forty than thirty. I'm not talking about kids who don't, or shouldn't expect to, have means to pay for themselves. I'm talking about fully functioning adults. The thing I hate most is being made to be the Landlord Nazi, when they have asked to come and live with me. I've bought it up several times. How many times do I have to?

The worst thing about all of this, is that it turns me into a passive aggressive monster, one of my worst traits, when pushed. 

When I first came across this photo, I was struck by how much it reminded me of Alex. It almost bought tears to my eyes the first time I saw it. It is not him, but it could be. Some how it is the attitude and the expression that captures Alex so well.

He never wore boxers, he wore those wide sided briefs the type his mother would buy him, in 3 packs. His hair was never quite as long as this, but it is the same colour and has the same highlights.

He always wore a gold chain. The hairy legs are his, the chest is his and the shoulders are his.

I also think that the decor of his parent's house was reminiscent to this.

There is this boy - Alex and Me

Monday morning, my dad dropped me off at the front gate, as he always did. Sometimes late, sometimes not. You’d think being a teacher he’d have us there on time? But, I guess, being a university lecturer he had more of a concept of time being fluid, I can only suppose. Mostly, I was on time, but fortunately we always had form assembly from 9 to 9.30, which always got me to school on time, so to speak.

Most of the class was already there. Tall, good looking, Mr Lyon, our year 11 form master, was already talking. I took my seat next to Alex.

Mr Lyon had been cajoled into the infamy of the Reynolds class. I rolled my eyes when I realised, even I was bored with the subject, suspecting all along it was crap. Get another story guys, I thought.

“You boy’s really aught to get over it. It’s not a badge of honour, you know. It’s not an achievement. You guys are really doing yourselves a huge disservice by perpetuating this ridiculous rumour.”

“But is it true?” said Raymond.

“Come on. Enough.” He looked concerned, worried even that we would want to pursue this. “Your English essays were pretty good…”

Alex pushed his thigh against mine. I’d only just slipped into class, we hadn't spoken, as yet. Big, warm and thick, right where I liked it.

Lyon was handing out the essays.

“Hey Roberts,” Dominic A. whispered from behind. Alex withdrew his leg like a dirty secret, which, of course, it was. “Have you got the answer for question 10? Of the homework?”

Alex looked at me with his nervous eyes, as he turned around. Nervous energy, that is. Nervous for my eyes. No doubt, they were on bright shine moments later, by the time he had fully turned around. He leaned over the desk behind, his arse pert in the air. I wanted to touch it, feel his curves, his warmth, him alive under my hand, as I did nightly, well, afternoonly? (Is there such a word) I had to stop myself from looking at him, turn my head away.

My favourite part of a man, where his torso ends and his legs finish – from opposite directions, of course. I still love the way the slim waist flowers into hips and arse. I love the way a belt sits on a man, higher at the back and lower at the front.

Alex had the sexiest arse. It tapered in, from the hips to the cheeks, on either side, it was slightly turned up, pert, if you like and it had a well defined crack, starting from the middle, opening wider, in a triangle, as it disappeared underneath.

“No can do,” said Alex. “I didn't do it.”

“Shit!” said Dom.

Alex wore his pants tight, not circulation constricting tight, but snug, fitting. They were tight across his, thick, thighs and across his hips, which made him bulge, well, you know where.

“I've got it.”

“What?” said Alex, turning back to me?

“I've got it.”

“I know you've got it,” Alex whispered.

“The homework.”

“No drama,” said Alex, turning back to Dom with his, usual, car salesman spin. “Taken care of!”

I still don’t know what Dom did for Alex for the supply of homework. I don’t think anything, to be honest. It was just a part of being on the footy team, a part of football camaraderie. It was a part of Alex shoring up his support with whomever.

Alex turned back to me, still sitting, so that I was looking at his groin, which was in line with my face. He looked down at his groin, momentarily and then at me and smiled and then resumed his seat.

“Roberts?” said Mr Lyon.

Alex jumped. I was in no doubt about what he was thinking, as I was still thinking about the front of his pants. I could tell that he thought he’d just been sprung, as I thought he had been.

“Ah…yes, Mr Lyon?” Alex slid back down into his seat. Falter, sunshine. In the blink of an eye, he’d pulled it together. I could almost see the sweat sucked back into his pores.

“What were you just doing?”

I pushed my thigh against his. He pushed it away with his thigh.

“I was just…um, discussing the homework with Dom, sir. For Politics. There was a question that Mr Armadas wanted my help with… sir.”

“I see,” said Mr Lyon. Then he looked at me. “Surely, that should have been done before now?”

“You know Dom, sir,” said Alex, with his hands, as a question, in the air. “Does everything at the last minute.” Cheekiest possible grin.

Everybody laughed.

“Okay,” Lyon said. Then he looked at me. Alex looked at me too. “Just help… you don’t need to do it for him.”

“Of course, sir,” said Alex. “I know the rules, sir.”

Lyon looked at me suspiciously. I decided that I was being paranoid. I held his gaze until he resumed handing out the essays.

It was a strange kind of question. We weren't in silence studying. Alex wasn't disturbing any class that was going on. It was form assembly, we were supposed to be talking, that’s what it was all about. Form assembly was an opportunity for the class to get together and be a class, since we were mostly split into electives by year 11 and never really saw each other, as a whole. The only thing Lyon could be objecting to was me sizing up Alex’s lunch… and Alex letting me. You know, like it’s already been in my mouth.

“Give me your homework,” said Alex. “I’ll get it back to you at recess.”

I opened my folder.

“Down the change rooms,” whispered Alex. “With my hand down your pants…”

“Mr Fletcher.” Lyon’s hand put my essay down in front of me. 17/20. Lyon was standing behind me, apparently, looking at Alex. I would have thought in earshot, but…

“17 out of twenty, very good,” said Alex. He tousled my hair like I was a good boy. “Would you have one there for me, sir?” Alex looked up angelically, big puppy dog eyes. I could have licked him.

Alex got 16/20, as was our habit all through school.

“Oh!” He feigned disappointment.

I was out on the oval, with Raymond, having just returned from having a cigarette, at recess, when Alex came strolling over.

I liked watching him walk towards me, it always made me feel good, made me smile. He seemed like mine whenever he was coming to me.

“You stink,” were his first words.

“You got a mint,” I asked Raymond, my smoking buddy.

“Here’s you homework,” said Alex.

Raymond handed me a packet of Steam Rollers.

Alex nodded his head towards the end of the oval. “I've got something I want to tell you.”

Alex looked at Raymond.

“I've got to go, anyway,” said Raymond. “I've got to get to the library.”

Alex and I walked away from the school buildings.

“How was that in class today,” said Alex. “Do you think Lyon knows…

“Knows what?”

“Do you think he saw?”

“Saw what?”

I, of course, knew exactly what Alex was talking about. I think this was just my way of keeping an upper hand over him.

“You looking at my cock, you idiot!”

“Relax,” I said. I held my hands up in exclamation marks. “Schoolboy lovers outed by teacher, I can see the headline.”

Alex looked around, checking. I knew there was no one within earshot.

“Shhh!,” said Alex, like a snake. “Don’t joke.”

“Lyon knows nothing,” I said. “Besides, you were the one sticking it in my face.”

“But, that look on his face…”

“He knows nothing.”

We got to the fence. Alex sat up on it. I stood next to him and we looked back at the school.

“Smoking will kill you, you know,” said Alex.

“Something has to.”

“Yeah, but it doesn't have to be self-inflicted... ” He punched me on the shoulder. "You know."

“You’ll kill me,” I said.

I didn't know why I said that. It just came out, from some held, hidden truth. I guess Alex made me nervous. No, Alex didn't make me nervous, but the truth did.

Boys were playing football. Craig Cameron and Andrew Johnson were kicking to Dom A and Benjamin Saint. Boys sat in circles next to them, how no one got trodden on, I’m not sure. Others sat, on seats dotted around the perimeter, in groups.

“Are we really lovers?” asked Alex, gently.

I laughed, snorted through my nose. “I've got to get to class. I want to ask Barnaby about a question I’m having trouble with.”

I started to walk away.

“Hey?”

I turned back. “What?”

“Are we?”

I couldn't help but smile. “I guess, Mr Roberts,” I said, walking backwards. “That we are.”

Alex smiled his beautiful smile and the sun caught his fair hair and it glistened brightly. 

What Happened Easter Monday?

Here comes the smoker. That's what they'd be saying behind the counter at my local shop. Here comes the smoker, again. He's put on weight, hasn't he?

Bloody giving up smoking! Grumble, grumble.

Do you think they talk about us when we are gone, those running the shop, the deli, the 7 11? He gets styvos and never wants a carry bag.

No, hang on. I can remember a time when he bought two ice creams and he asked for a bag then. So, he has said yes at least once that I remember.

Well, hardy ever.

I sometimes day dreamed, that was our secret game, See if he takes one, this time. They always seemed to smile, just after I said no, no carry bag thanks. The "Say No" game.

Surely the smile wasn't from the instant profit on the bag calculation?

Do you think they have pet names for us - Red, Skinny, Smelly, Bad-hair, Hot Boy, Hot Girl, Rabbit?

When I walk in its, Here comes Smoking Man. He always buys the newspaper, sometimes both.

Can anyone fit the Age on a cafe table comfortably and eat their lunch? It's breaking the habit. Hedging my bets, just in case the Age fails to amuse. I want gossipy real life crap for a public holiday morning reading.

I've been home all weekend. I've only ventured out to the milk bar to get fags - and ice creams and fish and chips and neenish tarts. Oops!

Get a look at the smoker, does he look like he's been on a mindless hooch bender, or what?

Getting more and more disheveled, by the day, no doubt. I don't think I had a shower, yesterday?

Can I have a packet of styvos?

I've got a beanie for when it's really bad.

That long, never ending walk to the milk bar. In reality, it's only two blocks, but sauced, it's the longest plank in history. I always know when I'm out of it, I don't make contact with the milk bar proprietors.

Ooh, no. Not looking. Not looking. No eye contact, they whisper behind the counter. How are you feeling Smoking Man? No bag, thanks. No eye contact. Fifty dollar note. None. Change. Not well today, Smoking Man! They cheer silently.

I've got pet names for them. Fat Boy, Puppy Dog eyes, Mini Me, Doofus, Boss Man, PussFaced Son and The Gusher...

The sun was shining brightly, I had to cover my eyes. Ah, the smell of early morning, nothing like it - a fresh, but still wet behind the ears, hello.

The cleaning lady is coming today. I'm glad I remembered that. I have to present some semblance of normalcy for when she comes. I wonder what time?

Christine. Her name is Christine. Like the car. Well, not quite like the car, hopefully.

I was going to text David to cancel her, but decided that cancelling her on the morning she was due to work didn't have much integrity surrounding it.

I'm glad I didn't appear like an apparition in the hall way, with my pants around my ankles, barking like the harp seals are now, as she came through the door. I'm glad I remembered she was coming, so there is no risk of that happening.

Can I have a packet of styvos, please?

Integrity, shmegrity, I wish she wasn't coming now.

It's MY HOLIDAY as well! Even with a broken car, I can have a good, uninterrupted, holiday too! What idiot works on a public holiday? Put your feet up, woman, take a brake, it might never happen. Spend the day with your family. moist sigh.

She must be completely mad, she's prepared to go into gay boy's privates, further than any gay boy cleaner ever would. I wonder if she knows what all those leather bracelets have really been used for, as she arranges them neatly in a basket on my bed room mantle piece.

10am. I could have another joint, I reckon.

I wonder if she needs a hep A shot? Well, I've been monogamous all year, so she hardly needs one with me. But it's a thought, hey?

How Hot is This Boy?

 I know I don't usually show, gratuitous, guy shots, but I've slept all day - the last thing I remember was going for a nap at midday, with a joint - and you've got to have something to do to entertain yourself at 3am when you can't sleep. Cute, isn't he?

At Uni

Gavin had made the running squad at uni. He was in the finals.

Isabella was back on one of her infrequent return trips home. She's taken Steve shopping for Gavin for some running clothes.

The cellophane wrapper crinkled in Isabella's grip. "How do I know which ones fit him?"

"Just get small, they stretch," said Steven.

"But that seems so haphazard," replied Isabella. "Is Gavin really small?"

"He's the same size as me, I'd buy small, then they are snug."

"You're the same size, of course," said Isabella. "Where are the change rooms?" She took Steve's arm with a firm grip.

There wasn't much room in the change rooms with Isabella, as well. Steve looked at Isabella pleadingly. "Just put them on, Steve. I ran modelling agencies before call centres." Steve still didn't look convinced. "I'm a middle aged woman, Steve. You are a little too young for me."

Steve dropped his pants and took the black tights from Isabella's hand.

He pulled them up to his waist, they were snug.

"Let me see." Isabella's hand slipped up under Steve's shirt, pulling the shirt out of the way, coming to rest just under Steve's nipples, her hand on his skin.

Nothing was hidden under the black, stretch material. Nothing but the truth. Every thing was very real, every contour, every muscle.

"How do they fit here?" Steve jumped as Isabella's hand caressed his balls. "Not too tight?"

"No," Steve choked out.

"Young men," said Isabella. She laughed. "I forget how modest you are."

 

This guy looks like the beautiful Stuart, except the beautiful Stuart has bright blue eyes... and the best arse, just by the way.

The beautiful Stuart is Manny's ex boyfriend and Julien's ex boyfriend. Bought my car? Wanted to move in? Are you keeping up?

You've just got to love green eyes. Green eyes and dark hair. My boy friend Lauri had green eyes like this...

Our Boy J

The clouds parted, and power and glory shone through like search lights scanning the ground. Angels floated down, playing harps and wriggling their wings, seductively over their chubby little rumps. There were trumpets and fanfares and foot soldiers in leather.

I stood amongst the cursed and doomed of the world, my generation, proudly.

And then there he was. A little more buff than I remembered, but it was unmistakably him.

"Hey, J," I yelled out. "J, it's Christian."

He looked around.

"J, over here, with the doomed."

He looked straight at me. Did he have blue contacts in?

"Hey Chris."

Then he was standing next to me. He brushed the angel foot soldiers away. He cut his hands through the air horizontally and the trumpets and the fanfares and percussion stopped. The clouds rejoined and there was silence.

"Good to see you buddy."

"Great entrance."

"Oh, it was nothing," he said. "Just a little something Aunt Clara taught me. Before she headed for the twilight home, that is."

"Very impressive."

"So you liked it?"

"Very much."

He pulled a head-set from his lap-lap. "The entrance was a great success, thanks Libbers." He looked back at me. "I had to draw the line at the ermine cape." He raised his eyebrows. "I asked him where that got him?"

We both laughed.

"So, where have you been?"

"Oh, I've been lifting weights with Gianni and doing lunch with Di, on Ceres. Nice girl, good legs." "I thought you looked more toned."

"Does it show?" He did a twirl.

None of the faithful showed up, too busy castigating the world. Although, a few were still harping at the doomed, in the distance, too intent to notice. He helps those who help themselves, was the faint whisper of their words on the breeze.

J looked at the gathered crowd. "So, who do we have here?"

"Oh, these are the cursed and the doomed..."

"Cursed and doomed?" he asked questioningly. "I thought you were all supposed to be loving your fellow man?"

"Well... I've been trying to tell them."

"There should be no cursed or doomed," he said. "Love thy neighbour, love thy enemy, that's what it's all about."

"I think the message got lost in a million agendas..."

"It is all about selfless love," he said. "Did nobody listen?" He raised his hands in the air.

"Interesting theory," I said, jokingly.

"What were, practically, my last words," he asked, rhetorically. "You can tell the righteous from the damned by whether they'd fed the hungry; slaked the thirsty, clothed the naked, welcomed the stranger and visited the prisoner."

"I think money got in the way."

"Didn't they listen to the camel and the needle stuff?"

"What can I say?"

"You are all supposed to share," he said. "If you did there is plenty to go around."

He spoke into his head-set again. "I'll be here longer than I thought. It won't be a quick trip after all."

He looked back at me. "Turn the other cheek stuff?"

"Ah, no."

"So there is a lot of violence..." He grimaced. "Killing?"

He could tell by my look. "In your name, sometimes."

"I see."

The sky was the most brilliant blue, the sun shone brightly. Birds sang. Nature was at its most spectacular.

"So are you here to take vengeance?"

"Huh?"

"You know, on those who didn't follow the gospels?"

"What, take vengeance on them who knew not, and obeyed not the gospel?" he said. "You blokes make me laugh that you've stuck with that old book. Don't you ever update?"

What could I say. I shrugged and looked around. "Not me."

"You're like old Italian immigrants adhering to the old traditions long since let go of in the homeland."

He pulled a toga over his head that, seemingly, appeared from no where.

"Ah, what a mess." he sighed.

There were sandals at his feet, which he stepped into.

"So, did you really name the whole thing after me?" I had to ask.

He smiled. "Come on, I've got a new book for you to read," he said. "This time the main character's name is Brian."

"Genius," I said.

 

Saturday Night's Alright

The pot is pretty good. Guido eventually turned up; red eyes, slow brain function. Good smoke, he said. Home grown. His smile still lights up a room. He'd been to two parties and he had, I think, four more to go.

I can write for two days... uninterrupted, do some real writing and not be addicted to blogger.

The sun has faded and it has gone dark the next time I look up and take notice. How did that happen, I think.

The door bell rang at 11pm and I was so busy blogging, completely engrossed. I had three windows open, I had a lot to close.

Imagine, if it is Manny, he can't read what I've said about him. That thought made me stop and think. Honest Chris, I pride myself on it?

So, I was slow getting to the door; I can have private thoughts, how much do I have to tell him? When I finally did, there was nobody there. I walked outside, said hello. But nobody.

I walked back inside scratching my head. Fuck, what if it was Manny? He's got that disposition, lots of nervous energy, he'd leave quickly.

I walk back outside and say hello again.

Nah, he would have called by now. He'd have come by public transport - he's not beyond taxiing it, even if he is broke. He's gay, after all, some things don't change.

Either way, he wouldn't have given up so easily.

I wish he'd drop in. Grrr!

If he'd ever just drop in, I'd probably marry him on the spot.

Unless, he comes back soon, then I'd just shag him.

I've been working on two short stories, both started some time ago. I made the most incomplete make sense, gave it a story. It came to me quickly. Add the family, at the beginning. Let him talk to the dead guy, poetic licence. Now I just have to flesh it out. It's about a young guy coming out to his parents, to a mother who's brother had died of AIDS, some time earlier. The uncle comes and talks to him.

I don't usually write gay stories, I've never wanted to be a "gay" writer, as such. But, David asked my why, the other day? Then I asked myself why? And the only thing I felt, to be honest, was internalised homophobia. Funny huh?

The most complete is coming together. It's about a young guy who's girlfriend has just been killed. It's slow. Final stages. Initially, it was just his thoughts, bookended by his dreams of her. I've changed its name, so it refers to him and not her, it's his story. Re-set it. I made him running, while he's thinking. In the present, the only thing he wants to do, is run. There's not much subtext, yet.

I'm at the stage, with both of them, that I can't tell any more. I'm written out.

My tutor's short stories were quite short - I counted the words - but she seemed to get so much detail in. Every sentence has to count as a paragraph. Every sentence has to say something. She got it, I guess that's why she's won awards and competitions... and is published. I'm not sure if enough happens in my stories.

I've got two more, at the notes stage to continue, after the two I'm writing now. I've got to push myself, I get distracted so easily. I've got to enter some competitions, get out there.

My head's spinning.

I'm going to bed.

The Gospel According to St Christian

Gods and Monsters

My God is a fuck,

with the man I love.

Jesus was the big cock

around who the boy disciples flocked.

I only see the holy spirit

when a black woman sings,

wailing on high

up on heavens wings.

Allah is so cranky

that he can't show his face.

The Jews have weak stomachs

that's why they watch what they eat.

Buddhists pretend to be happy,

while Hindus do it with cows,

all the time the Jehovah's

are kicking down your doors.

The Mormons have shiny white teeth,

and five wives a piece,

who'd have thought that?

Catholics are anti everything,

unless, of course, it feels bad.

And the Scientologists,

well, they are completely mad.

The deluded go to church

in tweed cardigans and skirts.

The angry go to mosques

wrapping their brains so they don't hurt.

The nauseous go to synagogue,

all day Saturday, I believe.

Some worship fat idols,

some go to confess,

some wear coloured glasses,

why, is any one's guess?

The meek shall get down trodden,

by all of them, as they push

the competition away

and the atheists, who love everyone

will inherit the earth that way.

 

Boys in Blue

How pathetic was the NSW police raiding the first gay cruise out of Sydney. They searched all twelve hundred passengers and found five with drugs. All that for five people? Do the NSW police not have something better to do? Do they not have any real criminals to catch? How much did that cost the Australian tax payer? It almost amounts to homophobia, in my book.

What is happening in this country?

All that was missing was a pissed off drag queen throwing a brick at them. I would encourage them.

Happy Fucking Easter

Josh has gone to NSW. Mark and Luke have gone to the beach. Tom has shingles and kidney problems, too much chemo, after all. Fuck, I think when I think about him. David's gone to Queensland, I drove him to the airport for a four o'clock flight. On the way, my car started to cough and splutter and miss and carry on, to the point where I thought I wasn't going to make it home.
I was going to Manny's on my way back, but cancelled in fear of mechanical failure. He's just called. Give it another go, he said. Just get in it and start heading to my place. Oh, come on, he said, when I laughed. I so want to see you. Don't make me put a porno on again, he laughed.
You know, my boyfriend position is wide open, there for the taking, Manny. But you know, it is always me going to him. It's always me, Come over, come over and usually I don't mind. But, now that my car wasn't working, it was a perfect opportunity for him even the score. But no.
So, I'm home alone, for Easter, with no car to go any where.
So, I broke down and sms'd my drug dealer, getting stoned was the only option left. I haven't bought pot all year, after all. And it's Easter, I thought. It's a long weekend, why the fuck not?
No, not today, replied my drug dealer. Tomorrows good.
I could be dead tomorrow, I snapped crossly, as I tossed the phone onto the couch.
Blah! Happy fucking Easter.

So, I settled on the couch to read, defeated. My tutor, from uni, has published a book of short stories, so I was reading them. The next thing I know, it is four hours later and Mark and Luke are waking me up saying come to The Peel. They didn't go to the beach, after all. They had three lines already made on the kitchen bench. Come on, they said.

So, we went to Throb. It wasn't very crowded. Wog boys and Asian boys were predominant, just to my liking. Wog boys that is. Although, I'd have to give the cutest boy award for the night to an Asian boy, with smiley eyes and a cheeky grin. Handsome and happy, possibly aided, but who cares, dancing energetically.
The only thing I can say is the DJ at the Peel doesn't have a fucking clue. Mix songs together, mate. Try and match the tempo from one song to another, buddy. Take the crowd on some sort of journey. Any journey, it wouldn't have mattered. Take it up, bring it down, but in some kind of seamless direction. The music was some kind of retro naff, era in determinant. The crowd didn't even seem drugged out enough not to care.
It's a sad day when Knock on Wood is the only song to get me dancing.
As I sat and watched over the dance floor, I wondered if any of the younger guys thought that any of it was new. Here they were out, hip and cool, grooving. Nirvana ending their school life and childhood, adults finally. I wondered if anything had changed in gay night clubs for the previous forty years, other than hair? Imagine being a part of the club scene when it really was new? Now that would have been cool. There must have been a pure energy, joy, if you like back then replacing the cynicism and the jaded club land we now have. Imagine hearing all those songs for the very first time.
I imagined getting all the gay guys from all the clubs from all the eras and having a party right across Australia. A party along a ninety mile beach. A huge dance floor built across the desert on a perfect night. Imagine having all of those men together in one time. Now that would be cool.

Happy Chocolate Season

It's chocolate season! The time of year that we buy into all the marketing ploy and go out and buy chocolate for everyone. Big eggs, little eggs, caramel filled eggs, hard, solid eggs. Hollow, thin, gold and silver wrapped, large and small eggs. Carob, yogurt, white chocolate, dark chocolate and hand painted.

I offered to hand-paint Manny's eggs for him, he said the thought gave him a hard-on. What would his poisonous, born-again, devout Christian mother say? Nothing, she doesn't know I exist, which is just the way I like it. I don't have to buy her an egg, other than a large one strapped to a suicide bomber egg... but, I digress. Manny laughed and said I'd have to wait until Greek Easter for his painted eggs.

It's the Pagan holiday for giving sweets. Bless the Pagan gods.

I usually don't eat, I pass them on to Mark and Luke instead, who are chocolate fiends. Not that I have trouble with tooth decay. (Nervous laugh) But, chocolate isn't my thing. Sure, if you put a plate of it in front of me I'd eat it, but... I'm more of your pastries kind of boy.

All those diets, in a couple of weeks, who needs them.

Still, I guess it is better than hanging off a wooden cross, for three days, to gain a bit of notoriety.

 

Big Smile

I went to the dentist, today. Actually, it's the hygienist, for my six monthly clean. Stupid me, I was late for my appointment, almost three months late. I think Stella was cross with me. That's the hygienist. I'm bad at keeping appointments, especially my dental appointments.

You see, I've never had a filling, which, up until a few years ago, I used to be very smug about. No, no I don't get decay, my teeth are strong, no rot here. Big, pearly white, smile. The dentist, it's a breeze. I'd go intermittently.

But then, a few years ago, not having had a regular dentist, since my uncle, who was my dentist for all those years as a kid, retired, I started going to the dentist/hygienist.

Yes, Mr Fletcher, your teeth are lovely, white and strong, but, er-hem, your gums are a mess.

What? I said. The smug dentist-smile wiped clean off my face. What do you mean?

You have gum disease and we are going to have to work at saving your teeth. You must come every six months.

What? Why? How has this happened?

Smoking, Mr Fletcher. Smoking. How many do you smoke a day?

What do you mean? I said. I thought the only thing smoking did was make your teeth go yellow or brown?

And ruin your gums, said Stella.

What? Why didn't someone tell me?

So far, I have lost one tooth and now, because I let my appointment run out to nine months, instead of six, which is why Stella is cross with me, it looks like I'm going to lose another tooth.

I'm an idiot!

The dentist came in and looked at my x-rays. "That tooth is stuffed," he said. "There's good bone left on one side, though. Oh well, send him off to the periodontist - at $500 an hour - maybe she can save it, but I doubt it."

I'm not brave enough to say just pull it out. Am I going to spend another $500 just to have the periodontist confirm, the already, second opinion? I'm going, though, I see it as teeth karma, for not getting to my appointment in six months.

I'm losing beautifully, white, healthy teeth because the bone that keeps them in place is being ruined by my continued smoking.

Again, I'm an idiot!

Socks

Is there some secret to buying socks that last more than, oh, six months? Is there a great cosmic sock secret that I'm not privy to? Surly, in this day and age, I can get socks that aren't threadbare within no time at all?

Or are they made that way, deliberately?

The Razor

Josh used to use my razor all the time, despite his denials. I set small traps for him, with deliberate placings, so I know he did. I started keeping my toilet bag, with razor inside, in my bedroom, after I left it lying on my bedroom floor, after being away for the weekend.

I guess he uses David's razor now. I'm sure he would. What responsibility do I have to tell him that David is HIV+? Josh, probably, wouldn't know. Or am I betraying David's trust, remembering, Josh doesn't use anybodies razors, anyway.

 

Oh My Aching Head!

I had a, as we like to call it, bong-over this morning, to be sure. (Not that I smoke bongs) I had a head ache till midday, I didn't get what was wrong with me till lunch. I thought I was coming down with something. I was slow, VERY slow. Fucken slow!

It all suddenly came clear to me, as I poured the sachet (and a half) of coffee into my cup. Why I was tired, why I couldn't stop yawning. It was Monday morning, to be sure, but that wasn't enough to explain why I was feeling so wrecked. I constantly had my hand over my mouth. I felt a bit queasy, as well as having an aching head. Blur is how I felt and I didn't know why, until the thought of coffee turned my stomach, some what. Oh yes, of course.

What a morning for Josh to decide to walk into work with me. Poor Josh, he must have thought I was, what is becoming apparent, my normal grumpy self. I seem to be always grumpy with him now.

How the hell did I do it for, oh, how many years? You know, I've always said walking to work was for health reasons, I just didn't specify how. That walk to work cleared many a foggy, doped head, before I got to the salt mines, let, me tell you.

I couldn't do it now. Nay, I don't want to do it now.

Homeward Bound

I left Bolago just as the sun was in its wane; still visible, still vibrant, still apparent, but the sparkle had gone from its shine.

I always feel melancholy when I come back from the country, especially in the late afternoon light. The sun was wide and bright across the road, dazzling in the blue sky, as I headed down the highway. There were long shadows across the bitumen with crisp, bright edges, snaking ahead in front of me, out to infinity.

I turned off the CD and cruised down in silence. The sunroof was open, a cool breeze blew in. Leaving behind nature, leaving the green, leaving the cockies flying after an eagle? Leaving tranquillity, leaving the great peace of mother earth’s lungs? I think that is why I turned the CD off…just the sound of the wind and the great panorama stretching out in front of me, undisturbed. Sweeping fields, the pine plantation that I say is like being in Canada, crisp light, waving gums, a horizon you can, actually, see.

Sweeping down on that great big, black ribbon, a liquorice strip, velcroed to the alloy rims of my car, male female. The world’s orgy with the automobile was forever propelling me forward: precision French carrying me tirelessly, away. Bye bye Chris...tian, was the unspoken chant of the trees. Whoosh, said the wind. The sun’s, warm fingers slowly began to slide down my back... gone.

I swung up into the city, as the highway gave way to a congestion of freeways, all cleverly made from concrete and steel, beautifully slipping under and over each other, hard and cold. The sun had set and the light became that subdued empty, right after the golden ball dips behind the invisible horizon and before the light fades away completely.

My thoughts turned to Manny and his handsome face and his beautiful lips and… his loneliness, a part of which I contribute to. I’d said I might call, as I passed by, drop in, but my time to myself, clearly, seemed too precious to divide up in his direction. If I dropped in, I wouldn't be home till close to midnight, I knew that and I just wanted to go home and chill, in my own space, before I had to start the new week. So, I didn't call and I didn't drop in and that part of me, which, I guess, he has, ached and felt loneliness for him and I felt bad.

But not enough.

We talked later and he said he’d wished I’d come over.

David and I had smoked pot and I was comfortable and I didn't regret my decision…almost. David and I chatted and drank tea

Now darkness has descended and the weekend is truly over and I have to iron a shirt, and the cold, hard, facts of life come crashing in.

I want it to be the weekend every day.

Lessons Learned

With the dams and the lakes emptying, the lessons we learned in 2007, if you are going to kill someone, hide the body in the sea. Apparently, they are pulling cars and bodies out of ever where. 

Apparently, unsolved murders are being solved because if it. 

How's that? 

A silver lining? 

Nyr! Nobody like Aunt Olive Joan anyway. Who wants that carcass back? 

I still remember the look on her face as she went under the front of the car, her Volvo 164. Talk about laugh.

And that tired old carcass was heavy getting it out of the boot of the car all the way until it slid under the water of lake. 

And now, after all this time, it should resurface, oh, there’s no counting on that.