Aloe Vera

I think I'm addicted to Aloe Vera juice. I don't know if it is any good for me, but I like it. I don't know if I'll develop green skin, grow gills, or gain a V on my forehead. If in fact the juice was even green. Just the bottle's green, in a trick of modern marketing, to give the perception that the juice is green. Whichever, I have developed quite a taste for it.

I love all the little boy's foreskins floating around in it, just waiting to be chewed. Now I know what happens to all the little snippings once the bandages have been wrapped around their tiny little pee-wee knobs.

But I think, it is the name that makes me laugh the most. Can't you see it, Shirley is in the bingo hall setting up for the big match, starting in five minutes. She has always played with her life long school friend, who is notoriously late. Shirley checks her watch, adjusts her head scarf and fiddles with her pearl earrings. It's about to start, when she hears the familiar clip clop of her friends high heals. She adjusts her scarf and looks around and smiles when she sees her friend approach.

'ello Vera, she says warmly.

Pains and Pseudo Doctors

I've had pains in my throat and up my Oesophagus for the past few weeks, actually since I've been quitting smoking. It has only started since I have tried to quit. Except for those rare days when I had smoked far too much. Same feeling, nearly, almost.

Now I have quit every thing it seems to be worse, painful. More so when I think about it. Fine in the morning, after I've rested, getting progressively worse during the day. I turned down Shane's pot Sunday night. And last night. I just figure I have to, let my body finally repair.

So I went to the chemist - the same chemist who said I should get some antibiotics when my elbow was infected, who I didn't listen to, when I ended up in hospital - rather than just assuming I knew that it was the withdrawal/repair thing and short of going to all the effort of going to the doctor, the chemist is in my building. I said I wanted some ant acid and she agreed that it is probably "the repair" starting to kick in.

"If it lasts too long, you will need to go to your doctor."

Oh, there you go again, making predictions. I wish you wouldn't, I thought. I was happy with every thing you had said up until this point.

She smiled the smile of a killer - someone who is steadfast in their ideas and knowledge, who enjoys an expert position over others. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"Um, no thanks."

"Okay then." She stood and held her gaze on me.

She's kind of pretty, I thought. In a big, buxom, blokey sort of way. Bright eyes, dark curly hair, nice skin, tall, solid. You'd have made a good bloke, I thought. You'd be missing a dick, I assumed.

"So, nothing else I can do for you?"

Show me your dick, I thought, stifling a laugh. I looked at her, her expression having become fixed, almost strained. Smile of a killer. Time to go Christian. Move I told myself.

"Um, er, no. No thanks," I said.

I picked up my nasal spray (the same one that has rotted my gums) and my Savacol mouth wash (helping to prevent my gums from rotting) and my box of double strength Mylanta, rubbed my chest, took one last look at bifo the chemist - still smiling, praying for me to leave, I could see it in the beads of sweat on her face - turned and left.

 

Bloke on Bloke

blokes look at blokes

sped up, slowed down, spaced out on grog.

a smile of interest

is all these show ponies need.

Do you think I'm handsome?

Do you think I'm big?

Do you think I'm fine?

Do you want to spend some time

with an interesting mind?

Do you want to play

with what I've got in my pants?

Lets dance?

 

Saturday Night Out @ The Pub

I came down from Bolago early. The sun was shining warmly across the blemish free day - blue sky, a gentle breeze, Renee Geyer singing. Gorgeous.

I was taking my mum shopping. Oh yes, I'm a good son, as they say. The fact that, for some inexplicable reason, she nearly drove me mad, with her incessant talking, until I wanted to strangle her, I shan't mentioned. Don't know why, maybe my biorhythms were low?

By mid afternoon, I was a little tired and I went for a siesta. Gorgeous, I recommend it to any one, every one. Breath out and let every thing flow, as my body melts down into the sheets and a warm, fuzziness envelops me. Breath in, breath out.

I went to the Laird with Adam and Raymond. They've just settled back in Melbourne, from Brisbane and are presently looking for a new house. They say that the prices are now ridiculous in Melbourne and they are being forced to look in the million $ plus price range just to get a decent house in the inner suburbs. I think they are looking in St Kilda.

"How's Manny?" Adam asked.

I saw the new guy from work, Charlie, at the Laird. I felt like I was getting looks and smiles from him, in the last few weeks, but decided that my imagination was being far too over active and that maybe I need a root, or some love, or a new interest and that all the new guys at work can't be gay, much less interested in me. I may now have to reconsider such thoughts. I think I may up the ante with him on Monday. The office affair may be back on the cards. Oh, listen to me being so full of myself. Jasus Chris! But Charlie is cute and now that I know he is gay, he may well have been batting his eye lids @ me over the proceeding few weeks. He would make a good specimen for the inaugural office liaison... we'll see.

I found myself @ 80, sometime around midnight. I was out to meet someone new, go boyfriend hunting, or some such thing, but instead I hooked up with an old fuk bud, Simon, who walked up to me and said, "I haven't seen you around here for a while."

"No, Simon." I laughed. "I think it has been four years."

He laughed. "Time flies, huh?" he replied. "I've missed you."

"Good pick up line," I said. "Does it work?"

He smiled his cheeky smile. "Do you want to escort me to a cubicle?" he asked.

It was getting late and I didn't want to be there still at day break, or some such nonsense and Simon is a passionate, cute, cuddle-sized bottom, with a hot arse and pretty much what I had in mind, even if I didn't have him in mind, when I entered the hallowed halls. "Sure, why not," I said.

"So I guess the answer is yes, then."

"That the pick up line works?"

"A-ha," said Simon.

I love watching the way bottom boy's eyes glaze over as you slide your finger up their arse.

He gave me his phone number and email address, as we parted company, saying do with it what you will.

I tossed it in the bin on my way along Smith Street, as I walked home.

Jogging boy/walking boy

I saw my next husband, jogging through the Carlton Gardens. He was jogging, I was walking. I decided that since all other forms of exercise seem to have deserted me at the moment, I'm getting back to basics and going for an hours walk at night - 3 times a week, minimum. Easy. I don't have to think. I don't have to get any thing together or get to the gym. Don't have to worry about flat tyres, goggles, where I left my speedos, or my playing partner. Just put the shoes on and get out the door. It's working a treat, so far.

My next husband was tall, dark and handsome and was wearing a pair of those black jogging tights, which fitted him like a glove. He had a fist down the front of them that rolled from side to side, with every step he took, under the flat, black material that stretched tightly from hip bone to hip bone. The stretchy material clung to his muscles; his tight calves, his taught thighs, the legs of a thoroughbred; the curve of his solid, round arse cheeks, chewed in the middle by his deep, arse crack. He had a blue singlet on the top, which clung to his shoulders and his back and around his broad shoulders. The singlet fell from the curve of his chest down the flatness of his stomach to the elastic of his black tights, which seemed only just able to hold him tight and snug down there. I stood and watched him run, marvelling at the fluidity of motion, marvelling at the beauty of him. Long sigh.

Who You See @ a Funeral

At the wake after the funeral, Julien turned to me and asked, "Have you had sex with any one here? Other than your two boyfriends?"

I laughed and was a bit taken aback. It was not the sort of question I expected to be asked in a house in Carrum.

"No, why?" I asked. "Have you?"

"Yes," replied Julien. "Can you pick which one?"

"You're kidding?"

"No."

I surveyed the room - actually, back yard - there were Simon's brothers, all straight. A splattering of gay boys, friends and ex-boyfriends of Simon's, none of whom, I assumed, Julien had had sex with. All the associated woman, none of who would be included. The crippled grandfather. The one-eyed aunt. The obese cousins. The gaggle of gorgeous nieces and nephews. A few babies. And a group of guys over the other side, all dressed in black suits. There was one with beautiful blue eyes and a soft expression, with an Eddie Munster hair line.

"The guy with the widow's peak," I asked Julien. "Over the other side."

"Bingo," he said. "A long time ago, in the Fitzroy Gardens."

"Are you going to go and say hello to him?"

"No," said Julien.

"Not even for old times sake."

"Um, no."

Mark makes me laugh. Remember, he lives in paradise. On the way home from the funeral, it had got to 4pm by the time we were heading back down the freeway from the outer suburbs to the city. By that time, the other side of the freeway, heading out of the city, was bumper to bumper, all the way from Dandenong back to Hawthorn, practically the entire length of the freeway.

"It is no surprise to me why people are so pissed off now a days," I said. "If they have to sit in that every day."

"It would be the perfect place for a length-of-hose road-side stall," replied Mark.

"What?" I said.

"Well, they could just stop by the edge of the road, attach the hose to the exhaust pipe and end it all," said Mark. "I know I'd want to if I had to put up with that every day."

I laughed. "The world would be better off with less population," I said.

"Maybe, Simon had the right idea."

Such is Life

I went for a walk after the funeral, today. A procession of people stood up and told how much they all adored Simon. How cheeky he was. How funny he was. How much they loved him. His life was so full. It was a life that any one would have wanted. As Mark said directly after the service, It didn't seem like a life somebody would want to walk away from. He played and work in the sport he loved. He had a boyfriend who adored him and who he adored. He had many friends who loved him dearly.

Julien, who came straight down from Darwin and I cried and consoled each other, as neither of us had seen much of Simon this year. "If I'd know," I said.

"Indeed," said Julien through his tears. "If I'd know."

The sky was grey and the clouds were weeping gently for Simon, as I headed up Johnson Street. The day seemed gray and seemed to hang heavy in the air. There was a chill in the breeze, as if to say the heat had gone out of life, just a bit, just for a time, in memory. Good by my friend.

 

Fucken Taxi Drivers

Fucking, bastard taxi drivers. Incompetent bunch of pricks the lot of them.

Last night, I was following your typical dickhead taxi driver over to my mums. He was doing 40 kph in the middle of the road, taking up both lanes, and I was getting impatient with him, to be sure. When we came up to the Kew tram terminus, where there was a tram, on the other side of the road, about to turn into the tram station, what does this be-turbaned fuckhead do? Of course, he stops, suddenly and without warning and I hit the back of him. My ABS kind of skidded on the tram tracks.

He gets out and eyes me suspiciously, as he looks at the back of his car.

"There is no damage to your car," I say.

He looks at the back of his car, looks at me, as if he is about to say something, then he gets back in his car and drives off.

Nothing else was said.

Yes, okay. It was my fault because I went into the back of him. And yes, I was close to him, arguably too close, as I was sick of his snail pace and I was trying to push him along. But to stop when the road, heading east, is clear in front of you, just because a tram which was heading south may pull into the terminus. Fuckwit! Taxi drivers must be the worst drivers on the road.

My Peugeot now has a busted nose, it's kind of pushed in around the Peugeot badge. Not that anyone will notice, except for me. It's only very minor, but still annoying. I know I'm going to see it whenever I look at the car, though, reminding me that I'm an idiot for being sucked into and being affected by someone else's bad driving.

Hump Day

Cool. Fresh. The air on my face. Morning in my street, overcast, grey. The bins scattered, the rubbish men aren't careful with them - strewn across the footpath, some over turned. I head down the street towards where I put them out and despite the scattering of everyone else's bins, mine seem to be, relatively, in the same place that I left them. Between my house and the next, as the apartments up the lane always put their bins in front of my gate.

SB1 and SB2 were heading towards me, in summer shorts and blazers. Fancy, I thought. Fancy that it would be warm enough for shorts, not that they looked fancy; even if they were quite baggy shorts, seemingly, with swathes of pale grey cotton, flapping around their bare legs. SB1, naturally, looked mighty fine in his.

Only the rubbish bin was empty, as the recycle men don't come until late in the morning. Slackers! I took the rubbish bin into my yard, get it off the street, before the before mentioned apartment people from up the lane take my bin as theirs, despite all bins being numbered clearly.

I stepped back onto the footpath, as SB1 and SB2 were level with my gate. SB1 and I caught each other's gaze; blue, interested, beautiful, clear - all in my head? I followed the two of them to Gertrude Street.

Wir, wir, wir, wir, metal on metal, the sound of a tram coming around the corner from Smith into Gertrude. SB1 and his brother took off in hope of catching the tram. Like a gazelle, he ran. Big steps, like the wind.

I watched them go, until they disappeared behind the tram.

Gertrude Street was busy. My old uni lecturer was having coffee in Arcadia, as he often is, in the mornings; sitting in the window, looking out blankly, never a look of recognition. There was a brand new, olive coloured 207 outside Arcadia on the street, I wondered if I could live with an olive coloured car. I concluded that I could, as I cruised on by.

I decided not to catch a tram, as I've gained a few kilos over winter. I've stopped muffins, at morning tea and crap food for lunch and dinner and I've made sure I walk to and from work every day. I have to counteract stopping the ciggies, also. I have to get fit. I have to get trim.

I have to go out and find myself a new bloke... no more Manny.

It's funny, when I say to the girls at work, or the girls in the cafe where I eat my lunch, that I'm getting fat, they all laugh and either say,

We wish we had the weight problem you have.

or... Oh please, you are so slim.

 

Day 2

After I had railed against the Evangelical Christians going to parliament house, saying that Christianity will be listed a a mental disease in fifty years.

And complained how young mums with kids make me sick... all they seem to think is required is, "I'm a mum with kids," and every body just steps aside and lets them do whatever they (fucken) want.

"Is this day 2 of quitting smoking?" asked David.

"Yes," I said.

David laughed. "I would never have guessed."

I took myself off to bed a short time later.

Cool new Peugeot

206, 207, 306?

The (cute) mechanic, at City Peugeot, said that the 207 GT was the equivalent of the 206 GTI and the 207 GTI was the equivalent of my 306 GTI.

"It's as good as your car," he said, pointing to the red 207 GTI.

It looks like I have my new car picked out... not that it is going to happen this year, or next year.

(above is a 308 coupe)

Back to Day 1

 What a beautiful day. I took my car to the dealer mechanics, City Peugeot. I had to go, as there is a recall issue with the petrol filler/tube to the tank on all 306's. It was recalled in May, this is the first opportunity I've had, I swear. (and if you believe that, I have some nice beach side property in Central Australia you may be interested in) My friends have been laughing, since my last car went up in flames, they've been wondering why I haven't taken it in sooner for the recall. They think I'm tempting fate. But, isn't that lightening striking in the same place twice? While, I would never say that it won't happen again and I don't know the stats on car fires or lightening strikes, I'm assuming that I have had my share of burning cars and it is unlikely to happen to me, again. (touch some wood. spit on someone beautiful. feel up a dwarf) Anyway, it is now in being fixed so... neryah!

It's criminal that as soon as I think about calling Guido, or at least, Guido's service, now that he is o/s in parts unknown with what's his name, the urges start again.

Long Afternoon

Got up at 7am. Early. Wide awake. Must stop using the brain mystifier during the day, first thing in the morning, at all, as then the days would be more present and alive, even if it is just perception. Maybe, I'd feel like I was doing some thing, contributing, living. Must stop hiding away on the weekends, shutting out the world. I had the second case of hiccups in as many days. Just as I took my first drag, just as my first sip of brewed coffee was lining up with my mouth. Annoying? Oh, yes, indeedie. Bloody hell! Just tiring.

Just as I got comfortable, Sunday arvo, in bed in front of ABC Sunday Arts show, I decided that I couldn't just sleep my weekends away. (guilt is a terrible thing) So I got up and did stuff. Achieve. Do. Produce. Later, I opened one of Andrew's happy books at the page which said Recharge - rest, be still, indulge yourself, think of yourself, spend the day in bed.

Bugger! Even the ooky-spooky books are telling me to be slothful. Why fight it, I thought. At least now I could feel justified in my inactivity, I guessed. I had a nana nap in the afternoon, on the couch.

I watched Idol with David. My favourite, Ben, is out, makes it hard to be enthusiastic.

Went to bed early. Smoked the last of the pot. Giving up tomorrow.

Recycling Shouldn't Cost More

I finally had my personalised number plates put on my car. I got the mechanic to do it while the car was in being serviced, as each existing plate were attached to the car with a pop-rivet in each corner and I don't have a drill to drill them out. I'm not that gay, I could have changed them myself, if I'd had a drill, no problem.

I'm good with all of that stuff, from having a father who could do any thing, from lecture a group of uni students, to changing a washer, to fixing a car. I learned by watching him and now can do lots of handy things your standard issue, urban gay boy, generally, can't do. Of course that is a stereotype, but I'm sure you get my point. I can fix things, I don't always need to call a tradie in to do the job.

If I keep the original plates and put them back on the car when I sell it, it will cost me a $100 transfer fee. But, if I have a new set issued, at that time, using up more of the worlds resources, it will cost me $28 for the plates. I think Vic Roads need to get with these modern, recycling times. Surely, it is just a number that has to be allocated to a car by the stroke of the computer keyboard? Why the $72 difference?

My Dead Friends

You know, after Tom died, I thought who will be next? I concluded that nobody would be next. I didn't expect any of my friends to die immanently. So, Simon hey? That was a quick next.

Gorgeous Simon. Outrageous Simon. Hysterically funny Simon. Was there any one ever funnier than Simon when he was firing? (Gretchen the German milk frau, playing How to Host a Murder, comes to mind) Generous Simon. Sad Simon.

Fergus died of AIDS, tragically young. And here's another one who I had, sadly, forgotten about, Tom Waters. He leapt off a building, early one Sunday morning, tweaked off his face after Sleaze, after an argument with his boyfriend, Phillip. Anthony went mad. Tom de Brant died of cancer. And now Simon Mansfield, dead before forty.

My dead friends. They were all friends. I can still see them all together, laughing, loving. All dead.

I wonder what your life time friend allocation is? I seem to be racing through mine.

You know. Really, it is very inconsiderate, them dying. I'd made this great bunch of friends. They carried my history and stories of me of when I was coming out and finding my feet. They were the people who know me.

Do you mean I have to do it all over again? Or at least, continue to make friends. I thought there would come a time when I could coast. Friends? Check. Taken care of.

Lottie says after each person's death. "Oh Christian, it's a good thing you have so many friends."

I've got friends from school, primarily straight boys. Of course, there's another one, Alex, he's dead too. I have friends from my teenage years, as a teenager in a Christian youth group. Funnily enough, we were primarily straight couples who were very sexually active. I've had two girlfriends, we were very young. And I have gay friends, who changed my life and complimented my inner most feelings so completely.

And I'm the world's most unreliable friend. "Christian never rings, but that's just Christian," they all say. "We all know that."

I don't know how I get away with it.

So, it's tier 1 friends, who are taking the hits, at the moment. My gay friends. Tier 2 and tier 3 are all doing okay. No casualties to report. Except Alex, of course. And I read in the Old Grammarian news letter that another of my peers had died, Lewis Horizon, although, I haven't seen him since school. Tragically young, it said. 

Another, so soon.

My mate Simon's boyfriend Bernt, call me on Monday to say that Simon had been missing since Saturday night. Simon had flipped out. Did I know he did that?

Yes, Bernt. He hasn't done it for a long time?

No, he hasn't. If he contacts you will you give me a call?

Simon, in many ways, has lived an extraordinary life. Great tragedy, with his parents dying in a car accident, when he was eighteen, with three younger brothers, just when he was about to compete in the Olympics. But, Simon turned it into selfless personal triumph, by giving up his life and single-handedly raising his brothers, for ten years, playing both mother and father, paying the mortgage, all the bills. Everything.

Everybody who met Simon loved him.

Then it all turned to tragedy again when his brothers, as adults, took every thing. The parents Will, after all, gave equal share to all the boys. Some how they got everything because Simon took his in cash and spent it on his brothers... something like that. We were all gobsmacked, at the time.

After that, Simon didn't know what to do and he dissolved into fierce pot smoking for a number of years. He eventually fell into depression.

Then he met Bernt and like Cinderella, everything turned to gold again. Everybody felt that Bernt was the prince who Simon so much deserved.

But the depression returned. The pot smoking had left it's damage on Simon. He was one of the 5% who is susceptible to mental health issues if he smoked pot. He was so good and so happy and normal for 99 per cent of the time. He was watched when he wasn't, but they were few and far between, for so many years now.

Unfortunately, on Saturday night he got away. And in one of those rare, unbalanced moments of his, he killed himself. Such a gorgeous man. Much adored.

We've Become a Mean Bunch

Why do people say "Good, he got what he deserves," when talking about Ben Cousin’s woes.

Why are people so pleased with him being sacked from The Westcoast Eagles?

I think it is because it makes every thing right in those detractors’ worlds – and since we're basically a lazy lot – without them having to do any thing at all, pretty much. It means they can make sense of their own decisions. It means that anyone who dares to live out side everyone else's mind-numbingly boring decisions & lives is struck down for daring to be different, as should be the case, hey? It means the Lemmings, who make up the majority of the world's population, can go on jumping off the cliff, because any source of rebellion has been quashed.

Dare to be different? Dare to have just a little fun? Not on this increasingly conservative right wing Australian society's watch. No siree Bob!

Nicholas' Blue Jocks

I'm wearing Nicholas' jocks, today. Nice, stretched pouch @ the front, doesn't half give me a thrill when I put them on, thinking that I am where the beautiful Nicholas once was. Rubbing where he rubbed. Sweating where he sweated. Scratch my arse and my finger goes up Nicholas' bum. I'd better be careful otherwise I'll be heading out the door with a boner.

Is that sick?

 

Boy Friend Come Home

Shane said, tonight, that he should be packing to go to a Perth conference, as he puffed on a joint. He leaves Thursday morning.

"Oh, I've had such a busy two days and I just can't be bothered."

"You've got one more night," I said. "So no need to panic."

"Except, Matt comes home tomorrow tonight and I'll be somewhat, um, distracted."

"Oh, it's going to be a long night then, buddy."

"It's going to be a very long night!" Shane smiled. "I can't wait to see him."

"Is that 3 weeks?"

"He's not going to know what hit him," said Shane, laughing.

 

Still Smoking

My non-smoking malfunction is continuing. I just don't seem able, at present, to get my head into non-smoking mode, again. It's such a filthy habit. I can smell it on everything about me, now that I've spend most of the year not smoking. Clothes, sheets, bedroom. Pooh! Yuk! It's foul!

Fat cat

Fat Cat

Do you think if cat's had thumbs they'd rule the world?

Of course, if my cat had thumbs, she'd be so fat she wouldn't be able to move. She's be a fat chick in tracky pants, for sure. She is getting bigger and bigger. My friends now say scoldingly, Oh Christian that cat is getting enormous.

But she is on a strict diet, I whimper in her defence.

She's getting fed by someone, some where. I've contemplated stopping feeding her altogether, but some how that doesn't seem right. She's my cat, after all.

She struggles through her cat door, which makes me laugh, now a days. It shouldn't, but it does.

60 Minutes to Live

In a survey, Britons were asked if there was an asteroid heading towards Earth and they had 60 minutes to live, what would they do?

54% said they would spend it with loved ones or on the phone to loved ones.
13% said they would accept the inevitable and reach for a glass of champagne.
9% said they would have sex.

So the top 3 places were love, alcohol and sex.

The bottom 3 places were shared, nearly, equally by God, junk food and looting.

Lauri's Favourites @ the Moment

hi here's my latest music fav's

chaka khan - funk this

rahsaan patterson - wine and spirits

betty lavette - scene of the crime

renee geyer - dedicated

billy holiday - remixed and reimagined

What Was I Thinking?

I think I have manifested pains in my chest. I kept thinking about the bogey man cancer, I used it as a smoking deterrent. You’ll get lung cancer. You’ll get lung cancer. You'll get lung cancer. Which made me quit. But the point is, I kept thinking about lung cancer. And now I've got pains in my chest. More so when I think about it. So, I conclude that it is largely psychosomatic. But still? What was I thinking? Idiot!

I kind of had that realisation this week and every thing since has been about how your mind can mess with you. David's Happy Cards, all of them, as if it was some sort of telepathy. Now Shane has been talking about it, tonight. The power of thought to give you disease.

On the bright side, I've got dope and nobodies home, so I might just get shit-faced and watch porn. Fuck it!

Shane's gone to fuck a trolley dolly in Matt's bed, while Matt is over seas. Matt's housemate is overseas too.

I’m still smoking cigarettes. I know, I know. Tomorrow I quit. For sure!

I was going to do some writing tonight, but now I can't be fagged.

They'll write that as my epitaph. He couldn't be fagged. I'm a lazy fucking bastard...

All of my school report cards. Christian is a boy of such great aptitude. Maybe one day he might decide to use it.

Actually, a couple read, A very excellent student. It's amazing what happens when you have good teachers in subjects you like.

But all of the rest...

Shane's on his way home with Nandos. The trolley dolly couldn't have been great. Never go out with a loaded gun, said Shane. He must have taken Viagra because it stayed hard. Shrug. But that's okay.

You know. Grimace. Air stewards? Always found them a bit girlie, myself. Not that there is any thing wrong with that, of course. 

Consenting Adults

A beautiful, 30 year old, Greek chic, Gina, at the Hen's Night on Saturday night, said she wanted to see her husband get off with another man, but he won't be in it.

I laughed. Those straight boys, I said. No sense of adventure.

You know, then sometimes he gives me the idea he might be in it.

Why?

Well, he's inquisitive more so than objecting. You know, like he wants to. He keeps talking about it. Asking questions.

Or is that wishful thinking?

She laughed.

She wondered if it made her abnormal, she laughed again.

What turns you on, turns you on, I said.

She said she asked him how he'd feel about her getting off with another chick.

So, he'd be all right with that?

Yeah mate, he's real happy about that idea, don't you worry. She laughed again. You know, I'd be in it. I'd love a girl to go down on me. I couldn't do it to her, though... maybe? I reckon another girl would know... you know what I mean?

Yeah, some chick is going to go for that? I thought. Sure, I do.

So I think it is only fair that he lets me watch him. She looked around to see if any one could hear her. We watch gay porn. Two guys together, it turns me on. I want to see two guys together... for real.

You know, two guys together isn't exactly novel for me, so I'm not really sure where to go with this, I thought. You want to see some guy suck him off?

Sure.

What's you husband like? I had to ask.

My husband is hot, she said. Handsome. Buff. Italian. Financial Accountant and topless barman named Johnny.

My head spun. A buff, shirtless, Italian boy named Johnny. Be still my beating heart. Can that be true? I thought. I said lamely, Big cock?

She smiled and held her hands out in front of her. Italian, mate?

It always freak me out just a little, to be truthful, when a girl says mate. I don't know why, but that word is purely a male domain word, in my mind.

I smiled and thought, Why didn't you bring him? Oh, hen's night.

So you pick up a gay guy together?

A bi guy.

He has to screw both of you?

Sure? Why not?

Sure. Why not? Easy. Internet.

You don't think it is sick?

No. Baby, you haven't seen any thing, I thought. Every body's sexuality fits in along a continuum. There is no gay or straight. Moral or immoral. They are constructs. Consenting adults are consenting adults.

You know you are right.

Is this sex 101, or what? I thought. What crap am I sprouting?

She lent over close. I want to see a guy fuck Johnny up the arse, she smiled. It's the only thing I can't do. You know, no equipment. She pointed to her crutch with both hands.

Yeah, I got that.

So, I want to watch it. Two guys. One I love. She smiled. It's just sex, after all.

You could get a strap on. I'd had a joint, I couldn't get into it. The boy on boy thing.

She ran with it. I wanted to, but he said it was too gay for him. She laughed. He'd kill me for telling you this...

But you are going to tell me any way, I thought.

...but when we take e's he loves my finger up his arse. Makes him moan. He loves it!

That doesn't make any sense, I said. How can it be gay at all, if you are a hetro couple?

She laughed.

He's got more nerve endings up his arse than he has on the nob of his cock.

Apparently, she said.

He wouldn't be the first straight boy to be freaked out by that, I said.

My step-son Fen was a prime example. He couldn't believe it when his girlfriend used to finger his arse. He'd be high and he'd rave on about how gay that used to make him feel.

You have to lull him into a false... um, er, give him a sense of security. You have to make him feel secure in it.

So how do I get him to agree? Gina said.

That's something you have to work out, sweet heart. I laughed.

She laughed.

I winced over the fact that I had just called her sweet heart.

Lazy, fat Tuesday

Smoked today, don’t know why, as it really wasn't over bearing. I haven’t got my mental processes charged, clearly. Didn't smoke until lunch time, though, so that must count for something.

18.45 and two joints down.

Shane's gone swimming - I should have so gone with him.

David's gone teaching - I so should take a yoga class.

I should be doing something. In the past, when I have got bored with one particular exercise, I have found another, relatively easily. I swapped from running to, aerobics to cycling, broke that up with a few years of gym. Then I did walking, at a push, swimming, which I've done with Shane. Now when I think about any one of them... bored, bored, bored.

I should go and symbolically buy a new pair of runners and force myself to go walking. That's the easiest one of all to do. Look at the world. Fresh air. Out of the house and away from my computer. I should be able to manage that, you would think?

Smoking Monday

Smoked today. Bought a pack at lunch time, more through some sort of mental thought process than any real physical craving. I kind of talked myself into it more than craved it.

Chatted to Shane about life and loves until David came home and wanted to know why we were not watching Idol, which had been going for twenty minutes.

Jacob Butler was kicked out. I so wanted him to go, until it actually happened, then I felt sorry for him. He's a good singer, but he needs to drop five kilos. Why is it that the girls are told to shed fat and the boys are not?

Went to bed early and watched porn.

 

Random Thoughts

Every day should be Sunday in the country; fresh air, singing birds, rustling tree. The sun shinning just so in the blue sky.

Cindy Gambino can't stop loving her ex-husband who killed her three children. It is just the stupid leading the stupid, really. Those boys are probably better off.

A chemical that when dropped on enemy soldiers makes the men sexually irresistible to each other? Presumably, it would work on any straight boy? Every gay boy's fantasy. I wonder if you could spike a straight boy's drink at a club?

It brings a whole new meaning to date rape drugs, hey?

Shane gets back from Byron today.

I found a new pot dealer, Shane will be pleased... or not? We decided to do the whole non-smoking pot thing while Guido is in parts unknown. Oh well?

I've got to go and find myself a man. I haven't had sex since the last time with Manny. I believe that was in July, some time. Bloody hell, how time flies. My (city) boyfriend position is wide open. Any applicants considered. 

Family Saturday

I'm smoking like a chimney. Fuck it! How did that happen? I had been so good. Oh well, back to the drawing board.

I'm off to my mum's for lunch with her and my sister and my two nieces. It's a lovely day, too nice for family duty. I'm running late, of course. I haven't even had a shower, as yet. Bad Chris.

I love them dearly, but it just seems like a duty some days, like it does today.

I've been in a strange mood lately, not knowing what I want to do with my life. That's not even the big picture, the future and all that, I don't know what I want to do on a daily basis. Go out, stay home? Go to the country, stay in the city? That sort of stuff. Whenever I decide the alternative seems instantly more appealing. What's that about?

As much as I hate to admit it, I think it's time to find a new man in my life. Of course, that means I must leave the house and put in all that effort. The Internet, I hear you say? I find I procrastinate on the Internet and never meet up with anybody. I've found, historically, that I'm much better going out and pressing the flesh, so to speak, which means an endless round of sex clubs and bars to find him.

I guess, I should just relax and go and enjoy my family. They are the unconditional love providers, after all. Hey?

 

If I Could...

If I could be in two places at once: @ home and @ work, every day.

If I could give away a fortune - to who: stem cell research

If I could sing one song to a loved one it would be: You are so beautiful - Joe Cocker

If I could fly - I'd spread my wings and take you by the hand and soar into the blue...

If I could make one dream come true - it would be: To spend one last day with Tom.

If I could change one thing about my image: More confidence, less shy around strangers.

If I could clone a physique it would be: Manny's

If I could choose the lead role in any movie it would be: Shortbus

If I could turn back time I would: Fall in love with Mark all over again

If I could fix one thing is this world it would be: eradication of religion, so the punters never knew they once had it. 

Patrick

I may have met a boy named Patrick. Hmm, Patrick? I've never been with a Patrick before. It's as good a name as any. It can never be shortened to Pat. That's terrible. But, Patrick is good. We'll see.

And a dedicated bottom. Manny and I were, essentially, two tops who struggle for supremacy over each other. Which lead to some great sex, don't you worry. But we had to make it work. Even if Manny, oh, all right, me too, did it passive aggressively, at times.

And negative.

The one thing a negative, positive couple can't do.

Manny was positive.

Ultimately - required tests all completed, of course, boys and girls - I want a bottom boy I can bare back.

I should be fucking Luke. I've been flirting with him lately. People still refer to him as my boyfriend. He and Mark still do.

The beautiful drunk greek girl was telling Luke he was hot and that she wanted to sleep with him. Don't you think he's hot?

I rubbed Luke's handsome face and looked into his eyes, and said, Yes he is hot. Very hot.

Luke blushed.

Are you sure he's even gay, said Gina.

I smiled at Luke, Very sure.

David says I should have a wish list. Patrick is as good a name to start with as any.

I'll keep you posted. 

Bunny Boilers and New Age Thinking

David and I sang Matt Happy Birthday over the phone. Libran, 1st of the month. He called just as he was boarding a plane and said he was touched, he said it made him cry. But, he was coming down from Tropical Fruits. Good drug's, I said.

He's off to San Francisco for a couple of weeks. Shane is staying in Byron until Sunday.

Nicholas arrived right on 9pm, smiling at the door, handing me something straight away, as soon as I opened the door, hand to hand, like secret squirrel. He asked if I wanted to come down home. I was stuffed and just wanted to retire to bed. He said he was tired too, mouthed stoned, smile beautifully and rode off into the night.

David read me a card that one of his students sent him. David wrote her at a crisis point in her life, just out of the blue. The small miracle allowed her to get through two unplanned pregnancies, in a row and her husband being poofter bash and rape, and seriously beaten. She'll be forever grateful to have found such a beautiful soul in David, he will never know how much it meant to her. Blah, blah, an A4 sided page of sentiment, seemingly jammed onto one greeting card.

"How did she get all of that onto there," I asked, as soon as David had stopped reading.

Not only had she typed the entire speech out in miniature and pasted into the inside cover of the card, complete with hand-monogrammed initials, on the other side were ten cut out circles, each with a cliche type in, pasted to the other side. It sent a shiver up my spine.

"She's a bunny boiler," I said. "That is the handy work of a blackmailer or a serial killer."

David was horrified.

I got "Strength" in the Gods & Angels cards. Be myself, it said. That is the ultimate strength, apparently.

How hard can that be?

The Last Words From Guido

Oh yes, my last conversation, from a week a go, with Guido. He's a trip, that's for sure. He also offered me his new 4WD Mercedes, "you know, just to keep the battery charged," which I politely declined. (I know, you don't want to owe Guido)

“Ya gonna have to stock up, my man,” said Guido. “Any last requests before I head off into the blue yonder, for parts unknown. Return date pending until fuck knows when.”

“You going away?” I wasn't sure if that was quite the right expression to use with Guido.

“Yeah yeah, Chriso, going away, even a dog gets some time off, you know? And this fucken dog is fucking off.”

“Going any where special?“

“Yeah, yeah. Bahamas... with Junior. Just got to lay on the beach, for a couple of months and stop. Stop! Stop! Stop! FUCKING STOP!” he screamed. “All business and no play and all that... Shame Anna-Nicole won’t be around.“

“Junior?”

“Junior? Haven't you met him?”

I wasn't really sure how I would have met him, however. “No.”

“Oh, just the cutest grammar school boy you've ever laid your eyes on.”

“Grammar School?”

“Parents are flakes, lost every thing in the dot.com crash, or something? Get a real fucken job, that’s what I say. They can't look after their kids now, so I pay the school fees and take a little, um, shall I say, cream off the top for my trouble, if ya get what I mean?” He did an uncanny mimic of Hannibal Lecter’s and a nice Chianti.

“Is that legal?”

“Yes, yes, perfectly. I said high school not prep, you fucker,” he laughed his throaty laugh. “Well, legal in most countries. I guess, I'd have to be careful in Perth and some states in the US.” He laughed again.

“Jesus, Guido!”

“You should see the snatch on him,” he said, in that breathy, fast talking way he has of talking. “All day fucken sucker! I can taste his liver from back there.”

“How old?” I had to ask.

“Old a nuff to fucken bleed that’s how fucken old!”

“So he’s up for it…” I wanted to say with you, but I thought the incredulousness in my voice may have been too evident. I wondered if the kid had been indentured into Guido’s entourage.

“He likes the bling... and I like his thing.” He laughed again. “All of him, actually. Every bit. Genetically gifted, football captain, big feet, legs up to here, big chest, tiny hips, you get the picture.”

“I’m beginning to.”

“I might put him in a few movies, yet.”

I guessed I knew what sort of movies Guido was talking about.

“So what do you want? Speak now…”

“No thanks Guides, I’m cool.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s what they all fucken say. Suit yourself…just don’t turn into Mr fucken Whiny Pants when your out, because there will be no Mr Guido to run to your candy arse beck and fucken call. See ya when I fucken see ya.”

Dial tone.

The Eyes Have It

I smoked bongs with Nicholas. Not bad for a sick day? He's getting me some. I know, weak as piss. Cigarettes, too! I've had a major non-smoking malfunction.

Guido is in the Bahamas with some Eastern Suburbs families teenage son. He likes them young. He told me to stock up, before he left. I said that I wouldn't be wanting any, nobly and promptly turn to cigarettes again. That was some what of a false economy, now that I look at it.

Handsome Nicholas, however, makes the smoke twice as pleasurable. Sweet. "Another bong, Chris?" Not that I think about him that way, I don't, he's like a little brother, truly. He's a mate, really. But sometimes, when the smoke is good and the conversation lively, I can look at his piercing blue, bedroom eyes and his handsome Italian'esque looks smiling seductively, as he does and think, Nicholas, you are one beautiful man.

We ate big, juicy meat balls in bolognaise sauce, on spaghetti.

Of course, Nicholas' cousin's baby bonus children - four kids under eight - were there. Tim's been babysitting, I'm not sure why, Nicholas' cousin doesn't have a job, naturally. But she's got her commission flat and no custody battle's until December, so she kept telling me. I like her, but boy can she talk. All of Nicholas' family are like that. I like them, in a lot of ways, because they are real. Stupid, but real.

David met Nicholas for the first time. "But he doesn't even seem gay." Welfare has it's benefits, butches them up. If ever there was a case where the gay gene saved a boy, it's Nicholas. He's far too pretty to be straight, was the response from quite a few of his commission house relatives. He even has them in caravan parks in Tasmania. Two of his girl cousins came on to him last time he visited the isle. I can always hear the banjo start up when Nicholas tells me another of his families horror stories, every one of them with five baby-bonus children a piece.

But I tell you, you can see which of the boy cousins got the same genes as Nicholas, just sprinkled amongst them. Woof!

 

Pinch, Punch First of The Month

I got really busy, yesterday afternoon, and I chopped back the pesky Creeping Fig that I planted some years ago on my side wall. Originally, I planted two, at either ends of the laneway that is next to my house. The other one turned into a monster, some time back and when it threatened to turn the house into something that resembled Cousin It, it had to come down. The remaining creeper was, for some reason, a little slower and wasn’t a problem when gargantuan was removed. However, since then, it too has turned into a monster.

A ladder, a pare of secateurs and a sunny day was all I needed. I nearly got distracted on gaydar, but saw sense as soon as the cute boy named Patrick said he wanted to come over. My timing could have been better, but it did give me the impetuous to get up the ladder and get what I had intended to get done, before I fucked up the rest of the day, quite literally.

I got it done, yeah for me. Even when I felt like stopping, I was buggered. I pushed on, as I knew that if I left it there it would never get finished and arguably, it would have looked worse half chopped back than if I’d left it in the first place.

Anyway, my point is that this morning I had a blister on my finger from all the chopping and I decided that I just could go to work in that state.

So, here I am, home and luving it.