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"Well, if Sebastian doesn't get himself some pussy very soon," said Shane. "We're going to have to enrol him in Straight Boy 101." |
"The things you shouldn't do with children, was the name of the movie," said the drunk guy.
"What?" I said. Did he really just say what I think he said? I smiled. I thought it was funny; it would make a great art house title. Was it Freudian? I wondered.
"The ten things you should know about..." he slurred. "What did I say?" He was smiling, looking at me, with that bozz-eyed, boozy stare, like he was waiting for me to help him.
"The things you shouldn't do with children?" I asked.
"What, mate?" he said. The smile slid right off his face. His forehead furrowed.
I started to laugh, because I was sure that he thought that it was me who just said the thing about children.
He was looking quizzical. A bit surprised.
I decided that I should stop taking and just walk away.
"What?" he asked.
Joey Douglas was a man’s man. One of three children, catholic upbringing. Played footy at school. Attended university. Married in his early twenties. Three children of his own – the usual hopes and dreams for them. You know, whatever they wanted, as long as they were happy. He became a member of the school dad’s club. Cheated on his wife. Divorced. Work became his life. Played golf. Drank at the pub with his other divorced mates.
Joey’s wife Isabelle moved to Europe, after their marriage went south, after a job offer she couldn’t turn down, leaving Joey to raise his three teenage children on his own.
Whatever they wanted, as long as they were happy. The children’s mantra was tested early, when his son Gavin announced that he, in fact, like boys rather than girls. Both Gavin’s sisters supported him, apparently, they had known for some time. Gavin’s friendship with his mate, Ben from school, wasn’t everything he and Gavin purported it to be, so his two sisters took great delight in telling their father, once he knew his son's secret.
Joey couldn’t see it, Gavin had girlfriends in his teenage years, girl’s liked him. Gavin was a strapping, handsome lad, tough on the footy field, a boy any father would be proud of. He had lots of mates. Drank beer. He didn’t lisp or have a penchant for fluffy jumpers.
Then came the day that Gavin was bringing over the lad he had fallen for, as Gavin put it. Joey’s girls offered to be there to support their dad, if he needed it, but he said he could and should handle the situation on his own.
Joey’s mind raced; first of all with the picture of a handsome, accomplished, well spoken young man, Steven Grandcourt, whom he, was astounded, would be satisfied with as a husband – is that what you call them now a days? – for his son, Gavin. They seemed like a couple of mates. Boyfriends, Joey said to himself, as he watched the two of them together at the bar fixing a couple of beers.
After Gavin had introduced Steven to Joey, he announced that he planned to marry Steven, if it were at all possible.
Steven was a nice boy - firm handshake, spoke up for himself, could talk about sport, drank beer and acted like any other twenty year old lad.
But then came the further speculation would Gavin be satisfied with Steven, if Joey was taken with his choice of a lover. There was no knowing what would meet his boy’s taste, or touch his affections, in a long term sense. It might be something else, and thus the image of the perfect suitor gave way before a fluctuating combination of qualities that might be imagined to win Gavin’s heart.
What do boys see in other boys? Joey had no idea. He didn’t even like the way blokes smelt.
A quirky sense of humour.
An individual laugh.
The way he tilts his head when he looks at Gavin.
The way he walks?
The size of his… Joey shook his head. What did he know? It hadn't been all that long, in the greater scheme of things, that he'd known that his boy, in fact, liked men. He guessed he was still getting used to the idea, although he suspected, in all reality, that he had had long enough to get used to the situation.
In the difficulty of arriving at the particular conclusion, was this a life long meeting, like his daughter Claudia and her beau Jasper? Or was it something else? All the part time men in the life of his other daughter, Carla?
He guessed because Gavin had said that he was in love, it would necessarily signify that he was in love and that Joey would have to accept Steven, as permanent.
Joey was surprised at his own reaction to his son’s announcement, in as much, as he liked Steven and the two of them together seemed quite normal, almost instantly.
For whatever marriage had been for himself, how could he desire it less for his son? He couldn't. Eventually, he suspected, he'd get used to saying Gavin and Steve rather than Gavin and Eve, for instance. It was just a matter of familiarity, nothing else.
Would he give his son away, if there was a ceremony? He suspected not, but how was he to know what was usual in such circumstances.
Two grooms? Would there be bridesmaids?
The difference his own misfortunes made was that he never dared to impart so much to Gavin on the desirableness of marriage, dreading an answer something like that of the future Mrs Douglas, when her deluded (3 times divorced) mother urged the acceptance of a suitor, said,
You will be happy, my dear.
Yes, Mum, like you.
He and Isabella turned out to be hopelessly mismatched, despite her mother’s blessing.
It was very different to what the mother had said towards the end of their marriage, when Isabella was considering staying with Joey for the children’s sake, despite Joey’s indiscretions.
Your womanhood will rot should you consider this, you silly billy.
Yep Ma, but it itches for him.
She left any way, when Gavin was relatively young. Joey had too many girlfriends behind Isabella's back. The fact that she left her son and daughters also, scandalised her reputation and bought certain kudos to Joey, kudos, deep down, that he knew he did not deserve. How would Gavin know how to behave with a betrothed?
In relation to the problematic Isabella, at least, Mr Grandcourt would measure up? Joey had never been a shining beacon of conjugal bliss for his son to observe. So would Gavin measure up?
In the end Joey decided, no matter what example he had set for his son with his wife Isabella, Gavin must desire Steven Grandcourt and Steven Grandcourt must desire Gavin. It was that simple and immutable. He could only bless them being together, the rest was up to them. And, despite the two, twenty two year olds, looking good, happy together and maybe in spite of the astronomer’s announcement, courtesy of Gavin’s two sisters, that Gavin and Steven were made for each other, it was, after all, still up to them.
Isabella laughed when Joey, finally, told her about their son’s desire for another boy, during one of her infrequent trips home.
“I thought such an upbringing of absent mother and rampant masculinity, from his father, was in danger of producing a son with the same foibles as the father,” said Isabella. “I never thought it would lead to my son choosing to take masculinity to his heart and his bed, in such a way.”
“Perhaps, he needed his mother, after all,” said Joey. “And not some corporate, high flying mentor.”
“Who would have thought that you would raise the perfect little poofter.”
“He wants to have a commitment ceremony,” said Joey. “And he wants you there.”
“Don’t make me laugh,” said Isabella.
“He’s serious.”
“Marriage?” said Isabella.
“Marriage,” said Joey.
"Did he learn nothing from his mother and father?"
"Apparently, not.”
"So this boy..."
"Steven."
"Where is he from? What are his prospects?" said Isabella. "Is that what I'm supposed to ask?"
“Did you ask the same question of Claudia and… um… Carla?”
“I believe, I did,” said Isabella.”
"He’s a lawyer, from a good family," said Joey. "He makes Gavin happy, you can see it, it is obvious to anyone who observes them..."
"I can't believe what I am hearing," said Isabella. “And a lawyer of all low-life professions.”
"If you spent more time in your son's life, you'd..."
"You'd understand what a charming faggot he has turned out to be."
"You would understand him better, Isabella," said Joey. "And maybe, just maybe, you'd be able to drop the 1970's bigotry that, quite frankly, doesn't suit you..."
"This is our son we are talking about..."
"Our son who you are supposed to love unconditionally."
Isabella opened and closed her mouth. She picked up her wine glass and took a large chug of the dark red fluid. "It's time, I guess," she said. "I just need some time to get used to the idea."
"You've got the rest of your life," said Joey. "To get used to the idea."
“Three son’s in law…”
“That is if Carla ever settles down.”
“Who’d have thought?”
“You always were a man’s woman,” said Joey. “I thought that would have suited you best.”
“When do I get to meet this young man?”
“As with everything in life, Isabella, that is up to you.”
 |
Clearly, the bottom is in the red bathers. Bigger, taller, stronger |
You know what they say about the poofter basher, at school? He's the closet fag. There have been so many recorded cases of this that it is now an undeniable fact. What he really wants is for his victim to kiss him and love him, he just doesn't know how to ask.
I have personal experience of this. The most anti gay, poofter bashing boy, when I was at school, Nick, the big, tough Greek boy, I slept with when we were both in our twenties. He was passionate and keen and he had the most beautiful olive skin covering his beautiful body. He wasn't shy and certainly seemed to be over his old hangups, despite having a girlfriend at the time.
He said he put up the façade, at school, because he was so terrified of the other boys (and his father) finding out how he felt that it used to make him blind with rage.
As it clearly is with Fred Phelps of the Westboro Church. The man bangs on so much about sodomy that his heterosexual orientation has to be called into question.
My answer to Fred Phelps - right after my question of why do we even give these minority, hate filled, nut bags air space at all - mate, if you want to be sodomised so badly why don't you just go out and get your arse hole popped with a big cock and do the rest of us a huge favour.
Back to my question - Why do we give such hate groups, with only 70 followers, after all, any air time what so ever? We don't give it to antisemites. We don't give it to white supremacists. We don't give it to racists. Why give it to someone like like Fred Phelps and his freak show Christian homophobes?
Jeep Wranglers as far as the eye could see. Green and dark and brooding, lined up one by one, like a parking lot for war, or the cliched set of some awful Tom Hanks movie. I'm thinking there was netting and guns, I'm sure there were rooms and sales invoices.
The inventory list said mine was there, some where amongst the multitude. I hadn't seen it for several years, not since I sold it, to that cute Italian boy, Remy. Remy and I used to flirt on the occasions we met to discuss the car. The flirting stopped when he bought his mate, Chris.
OEL was the number plate, I ran around amongst the sleeping vehicles trying to find it. In and out of rooms, like a maze, all jam packed full of silent Jeeps, all the same. All green. Flipping covers and patches and tarps to view numbers plates that never were mine. Climbing over some to get to those at the back. Under and over, around and about, from room, to room; running boards and soft tops, some with bull bars, some not.
The light was yellow, constant sunset beyond where I could see.
Was there sirens? Were there search lights? Was I alone in my quest? There were shadows and camouflage and netting by the mile.
But OEL was not to be found.
Warren staggered, a little. His head swum in a sea of beer schooners and shots. He and Jimmy had been celebrating Jimmy's birthday, down the pub for the afternoon. They played pool until they were too drunk to hit the ball. Warren had been shouting Jimmy and a few others who they'd met while they were there. He suddenly felt overwhelmed by his handsome mate Jimmy.
"I want a bit of biff sniff," slurred Warren. He grabbed Jimmy around the shoulders and looked him in the eye. He could feel Jimmy's breath on his face.
"Biff what?" said Jimmy.
"A bit of biff sniff." Warren could feel Jimmy's breathing increasing. "You don't even know what it is and you're getting excited." Warren pulled Jimmy to him, until Jimmy's face was against his.
"I'm not getting excited," said Jimmy. His devilish grin giving him away. A big grin he couldn't loose, as Warren pulled his eyes up against his, until their noses touched. Warren licked Jimmy's face all the way around to the side of his head.
"I want to sniff your biff," said Warren, in a whisper, in Jimmy's ear.
Jimmy smiled broadly and shivered.
Warren slid his tongue into Jimmy's pink lobe. He held Jimmy's head with both his hands.
"Have you got a hard-on?"
Jimmy shivered again. Warren could feel Jimmy's body tremble against his. Jimmy laughed, although he tried not to, deep down in his throat.
"Are you excited?" whispered Warren, his voice deep and low.
Jimmy kissed Warren, nibbling at Warren's skin. He laughed, kind of softly, quietly.
"Have you got a hard on, yet?" whispered Warren, almost inaudibly. Drunkly.
Jimmy tried to wriggle out of Warren's grip, laughing, but Warren pushed him over and licked the back of his neck. Breathed in Jimmy's hair. Chewed Jimmy's hairline.
Jimmy groaned. "Stop it," he said unconvincingly.
"I want your biff sniff."
Warren's voice vibrated on Jimmy's neck. It tickled Jimmy, made his skin sensitive. He pushed against Warren, rubbing his skin against Warren's mouth. Shivering. His face flushed red.
Warren pushed Jimmy face down on the couch, with his right hand on the back of Jimmy's head, pushed his face into the soft cushions. His left hand pulled Jimmy's shorts down over his round cheeks. Warren pushed his nose deep into Jimmy's crack and inhaled deeply. The bristles of hair swept Warren's nose. He pushed himself up over Jimmy's back to his ear.
"Your biff sniffs very nice, young Jimmy."
Jimmy grunted and tried to wriggle around, but Warren had his head in both his hands once again, as he slipped his tongue back into Jimmy's ear, licking it inside.
Jimmy groaned, deep, long, satisfying, as he pushed back against Warren.
I was at some sort or pumping station, which at varying times may have been a logging station, on a river, beside a forest, in a valley. The air was eucalyptus scented, I was rugged up in an overcoat and a scarf. The air was crisp, cold, my breath fogged out as I exhaled. I was discussing, with my mother, the sale of a house to a friend of hers – Pam, who died last year – whose relative was standing near by, listening. Maybe we were standing beside a pile of cut down trees, it seemed to be early morning. Kookaburra's flew passed and landed on the eves of the building. We were discussing the process of house settlement and the adjustment for rates, oblivious to the friend's relative being present.
Then I was stepping over a fast running river, from a lime green mossy bank to the mossy bank on the other side. The river was too wide, in most places, so I had to be careful where I crossed, so as not to fall into the water. Then there was a large group of people around me also wanting to cross, all jockeying for position, after I had crossed. Then I was looking back instructing my mother, who was standing up on the, now up high, other side of the river, how to cross safely.
I had a dream, that's how long it has taken the effects of the pot to wear off. I love it. I love being able to remember my dreams, once again.
Last night, I dreamt about grasshoppers and dope and a large Great Dane, bigger than me. I was trying to get all three home, along a very stylish avenue, where the tips of the trees met in the middle over the road. The dog's name was Scooby and he was six feet tall. The grasshoppers kept trying to escape not matter how I held my hands. They kept jumping out between my thumbs and I had to keep catching them, chasing them. I lost the dope along the way, flung every where, like confetti, as I went for the insects. I had to let the Great Dane go, so I could keep hold of the grasshoppers, the pot was already hopeless. I had to get the grasshoppers home and under jars. The Great Dane followed me any way, licking the back of my neck, all the way.
I was standing at the lights this morning, at the corner of Gertrude and Brunswick Streets waiting for a tram. It was a beautiful morning, quite busy, there were people crossing at the lights and there was a line of cars, down Gertrude, waiting to turn into Brunswick.
Suddenly, a silver Falcon ute, about five cars down Gertrude Street, started to blow its horn and I could see the fat guy, squeezed into the cabin, remonstrating and yelling, as he continued to toot. The little crossing man, at the lights, had turned red and pedestrians were continuing to cross on the red man.
Goodness me, fat boy, I thought. You'll have a stroke in a minute.
He looked laughable on a gentle, sunny morning. There wasn't even a great line of traffic in which he was having to wait.
Fancy being that pent up angry? How many ticking anger bombs are there in cars, just like him, waiting to explode at the slightest provocation? I felt sorry for him - this is just negotiating the traffic lights, how did he cope with really difficult things in his life?
The saddest aspect to his outburst was that he doesn't even know his road laws. Cars must give way to pedestrians. The little red man is there for the pedestrians information. It is not there for the drivers to be able to tell when they can run pedestrians down with impunity.
I felt sorry for him, as he thrashed his car up to the lights and flung it around the corner still gnashing his teeth, spitting and seething. You could almost see the cab of the ute swollen out with rage, like in a Disney cartoon.
I felt even more sorry for the next person hyper-tension boy meets on the road, who he takes that anger out on; anger that has been caused by his own ignorance, dare I say, his own stupidity.
I don't know what is going on with my stomach? The pain went away for twenty four hours with the first pills I took. Then it came back, but it was different. My stomach felt tight, solid, kind of weird. A wandering pain. So, I came home yesterday and went to bed. Today, I don't know how it feels, kind of like a memory of the pain that was there. Maybe, I'm just being impatient and when the doc said take the pills for two weeks, he meant it will take two weeks. Maybe, I want instant gratification and it's just not going to work that way.
May be I do have an ulcer?
May be I don't.
All I know is that I'm sick of it.
I just know that I have to live a healthy life from now on. Now I've given up smoking, I have to join the gym, exercise, eat right and only drink mountain spring water and eat vegetables still with the dirt on them. That is because I am the worst patient, I am really bad at being sick. If I was sick for any extended length of time, I just know I'd take the pill or drink the drink and end it without resistance.
I'm going to call up my old mate Jill and head out for lunch. Friends you have known since you were sixteen are always good to unload on over Sunday lunch, otherwise I'm just as likely to stay home and contemplate suicide, as a means of a cure.
Does anyone else see it as amazing, beyond belief, really, that medical science is on the brink of finding cures to Alzheimer's and Parkinson's disease, to name but two, and those of us in the community who believe in the completely unsubstantiated, two thousand year old myth and superstitions of Christianity would attempt to stand in their way at every chance they get.
It's beyond belief that the Christians would want for people who suffer from terrible diseases and afflictions to stay existing in their current pain and anguish simply because the cures don't fit with their chosen Christian beliefs.
It seems to me that the Christians think that if they state that it is an ethical mind field often enough they'll get the wider community to believe that it is an ethical mine field.
For my money, the few cells that make up the embryos in a petrie dishes that are used for this research are expendable. I'm more than happy for scientists to adapt the, so called, miracle of birth to make the spare parts that will one day cure my Alzheimer's disease, my cancer, my paraplegia. Please doctor, you make use of those embryos to find the cures that will benefit all of us. And, quite frankly, if the Christians don't like it, they don't need to access any of the benefits of that research.
I can guarantee you that the staunchest Christian opponent will be fronting up to the medical clinic in the future when they are diagnosed with early on set dementia. It is this point that I actually find the most appalling. The stanchest, loudest, most out spoken Christian critic will 100% for sure, absolutely no doubt about it, want the benefits of the research when it is they who are diagnosed with Parkinson's disease, or have been crippled in an accident. That is the part of this whole debate that I find the most infuriating.
Christians, in the end, always turn out to be the world's worst hypocrites. Very few of the 21st century Christians have the ability to turn the other cheek, as their boy Jesus instructed them too, but they all have the two faces of hypocrisy swinging into action when it suits them the most.
I was depressed last night so I called Lifeline.
I got a call centre in Pakistan.
I told them I was suicidal.
They got all excited and asked me if I could drive a truck.
Well, apparently I'm not going to die. I don't have stomach cancer, or any such nasty thing. I won't have to have chemotherapy. I won't have an extended hospital stay. There is no palliative care in my foreseeable future. So, isn't that good.
The doctor was very blase. My hypochondria was playing up a treat!
Apparently, it's just a touch of gastritis. One pill a day for two weeks and it should be gone. If not, I will have to go back and be tested for an ulcer. But, I should notice a big improvement within 24 hours, if it is gastritis. And guess what, two pills and twenty four hours later, it's nearly gone. Goodness. Don't you love modern medicine. Don't you love it even more when you stop panicking and actually go to the doctor and allow modern medicine to do it's job. Life's good. I feel so much better. Yeah!
Marvellous!
Life's good. The sun is shining, the sky is blue.
I can stop thinking about my immanent demise and start thinking about other things.
I took my mother to St George's hospital to see a specialist. She had some tests done, we were going in for the results. It was a sunny day, blue sky, hot sun.
There is a new building being built on the old car park, next to the main building. It looks like it has not long been started. As we walked from the new, dirt car park to the specialists rooms, the burly, blond, shirtless builder, on the first level of scaffolding, dressed only in white shorts, squatted down to take something out of the hot young, shirtless, wog-boy apprentice's hand. Burly blond's baggy shorts leg opened right up to show his bulging red jocks, at eye height, just as we passed by.
Mum was looking up at the near by tree wondering what type it was.
Burly blond might as well have just taken his shorts right off. Nice thick, muscular legs, well hung. The wide leg of his shorts just opend right up with the way he was crouching.
I think that might be a blah blah tree, said Lottie. You don't see one of those every day.
Fuck me! I said. You don't see one of those every day! I couldn't help it. The man's jocks were really packed, bulging, straining to contain his big sausage. Nothing left to the imagination. He was tanned, muscled and sweating.
What darling, mum asked?
We walked by. He grabbed the implement from the young hotties hands and stood up.
It's a great tree, mum, I said. A great tree.
Manny called today, out of the blue. We haven't spoken in six and half months. He'd had a dream about me, so he thought he should call.
It's going well with his new boyfriend Vinnie, even if he did say they were more like best friends than lovers. Vinnie, of course, moved in with Manny, as I knew he would, pretty much from the very beginning. A full time boyfriend is what Manny always wanted, after all, which was one of the sticking points between me and him.
He says that he and Vinnie collect antiques together. I think he means bric-a-brac, collectibles, more so than antiques, as such.
He says he thinks about me often, as I do him. Sometimes I think I should call him, just to hear his voice, see how he is, but decide against it, thinking I should leave him to his new relationship. I think, I should continue moving on.
He wanted to know that I didn't think he'd done the dirty on me, dumping me like that for Vinnie. He wanted to know that I wasn't shitty with him.
No Man, I'm cool. I have nothing but lovely thoughts about you.
You should call me sometime, he said.
Maybe, I replied.
I met up with an old friend. An old party friend, to be truthful. I don't know how long it is since I've seen him, maybe five years, I guess maybe more than that.
His name is Greg and he used to be the quintessential muscle boy, when we used to party together. He had a penchant for the tiniest pairs of stretch shorts, stretched over his amazing bubble-butt and thighs and... He was a big, boofy boy, all muscles and in magnificent shape - physically perfect, if you like them big, which I don't as a rule, but he was really pretty to look at and really easy to... well, you know? We liked each other.
Short dark hair. Square jaw. Rye smile. Full lips. Easy going. Green eyes. Funny. Unashamedly sexy. Exhibitionistly not shy, it was almost embarrassing, nearly... if you were in with him.
The tiny little shorts were a fair indication of why they used to call him horse.
Actually, everyone used to call him Big Greg, maybe it was only me who called him horse, after those drunken - did I say drunken? Close enough - mornings way out on St Kilda pier, being spied on by the penguins, as the sun came up. Greg sitting down on the rocks, out there at the end of the pier, with the only clothing he had on - enough material for a few small handkerchiefs - around his ankles, had to be seen to be appreciated. It was fun. The sun glinting it's first orange rays in his eyes, on his skin, across my face. The dark sky fracturing, turning light, glowing bright, shiny, new. The day rising out of the ashes of the night.
He used to whinny like a thoroughbred and rub his face on my shoulder when I called him horse. You know, stamp his feet... lick me.
It was the first time I'd seen him in ages. I didn't, quite, recognise who he was, at first, momentarily, although I knew I knew his face. He was out of my head, I didn't expect to see him. And, while he was dressed in a shirt and jeans, pretty much covered up to how I remember him normally, it's funny I didn't remember the handsome face. I was, embarrassingly, blank with him.
"Oh my God! Greg! Fuck!" I felt like an idiot.
"Christian," he laughed. "I've missed you." He wrapped his arms around me and we hugged. Big, bear hug, like he used to always give me. He still smelt as sweet, fresh, clean, like a new day. He has skin like honey, soft, like a babies.
We both smiled like we weren't going to stop. I could feel pain in my face.
"How have you been?" I asked.
"Great," he said. "Living in Brisbane."
"The sun?" I asked.
"Love," he said coyly. He bowed his head and batted his eyes... which always looks fetching on a big, solid boy like Greg. "You? Mark? Luke?"
"No. But, they are good."
"Still together the three of you?"
"Not so much. Best friends, though. We still call each other boyfriends."
"I love you guys."
"They'd love to have seen you," I said.
He smiled, lent into me. "Do you want to go down to St Kilda pier, later, watch the sunrise?"
His eyes twinkled like I remember them twinkling.
It's strange, the passage of time had had an effect, in some sort of intangible way. We were different people, clearly. We were changed. We still looked the same, well, he did, so I can only assume, I did too. But, that spark of familiarity had diminished, lessened, dissipated. The passage of time had come in between us and although I couldn't, actually, put my finger on it, some thing was not the same.
I think we hesitated where once we would have embraced each other. I think we stood back, where once we would have stepped toward each other. We smiled at each other. Stole looks, at each other, out of the corners of our eyes. Smiled. Gazed. Talked over each other and at the same time. Smiled some more. Had butterflies in our stomachs, well, I did. Talked. Smiled. Hesitated. Talked. Hesitated. Smiled.
What day are we on? Day 8 and feeling great. Except for a bad, sore stomach. I don't know what is wrong with it, but it hurts. My house mates have had it, well, they'd had similar stomach complaints. Shane's had it. Matt's had it. The beautiful Sebastian has had it and now two girls at work say they have got it.
David is in San Francisco and while he is there, Sebastian is sub-letting his room until he finds a place of his own. He was going to stay up @ Bolago, but has since decided to come and work in Melbourne. Mark & Luke say it is because he is looking for pussy. He says that he needs to meet more people. I think the two reasons add up to the same motive, actually.
So, I've made an appointment with the doc on Thursday to discuss my stomach problems. I'm not convinced it isn't to do with smoking, or the quitting there of. Probably, some nasty yeast infection, or candida, or some bacteria thingummy. Chlamydia, any one? I naturally have a touch of the hypochondria, so, of course, I have suspected the worst and have steadfastly kept away from the doctor out of fear, thinking it would clear up by itself. But, I had the realisation today that if it is not stomach cancer and not terminal, then there might be a very good reason for it and, therefore, a simple remedy and I don't have to go on in discomfort, like I am. Besides, I thought, better or not, what exactly am I waiting for before I go to the doctor? The passing of blood? Vomiting after food? So Thursday it is, wish me luck.
 |
Jimmy stepped out the door, dressed in shorts and a singlet, raising his hands in the air as if to say that he was ready.
Warren dropped his cigarette on the dirt and ground it with his shoe.
Warren looked Jimmy up and down. "Is that the best you can do?"
"What?" said Jimmy. His face broke into a smile, as if he was saying he was in on Warren's joke. But Warren's face didn't change, didn't break into a smile. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"
"Well."
"What?"
"No fly, no phallus," said Warren, looking at Jimmy. "It's that simple." He ran his hand down over his crotch, as he said it, and let his tongue loll out of his mouth.
"Huh?" said Jimmy. He was always distracted when Warren did that.
"You need a zip to make it look as though you have something to take out."
Jimmy felt a twinge as Warren looked at the front of his shorts.
"But some of my favourite shorts don't have a fly," said Jimmy looking down at his pants.
"Well, you'll always look dickless then." said Warren. He spat on the ground.
"They are comfortable with a draw string, or elastic, waist." Jimmy grabbed at the waistband of his shorts.
"Do you want to be known as a knob, or for your knob?" said Warren. “At least get some knee high socks.”
"I want to be known for my great personality and my sparkling whit..."
"Bullshit," said Warren. "That's bullshit. When you want to get laid, you don't care if people think you're a good bloke, or a funny bloke. You just want them to fancy you and look god damn happy in the process."
"A good personality is a great aphrodisiac."
"A big meaty cock," said Warren, as he grabbed the, not inconsequential, bulge in his jeans, squeezing it tight. "Is what gets the punters wet."
Jimmy shrugged.
"Don’t you want to hear, Yes Jimmy. Yes Jimmy. Yes! Yes! Yes!"
"I don't care. I like these shorts."
“Well, get used to the one hand pump then…”
“I do all right…”
“When was the last time someone went down on you?”
Jimmy opened and closed his mouth. He squinted his eyes, pulled his mouth into a grimace and walked ahead.
“Can’t remember?” asked Warren.
“Today could be my lucky day,” said Jimmy, turning around and smiling. “I could meet…”
“Only if I go down on you,” said Warren.
“What?” said Jimmy, a little surprised. The butterflies in his stomach flapped at the thought.
“Close your eyes, you wouldn't know the fucken difference.”
“I'd know it was you," said Jimmy. "I mean, I'd know the difference.”
Warren smiled broadly. “I bet you’d spoof in seconds, it’s been so long,” he said. "Someone would just need to touch it and ah, ah, ah!" Warren threw himself on the ground and made mock body spasm movements. "Warren, Warren, Warren."
“Not if you’re sucking my cock, buddy.”
“Get em off and we’ll see,” said Warren sitting up. His eyes turned to slits, his expression one of, I dare you.
“Get fucked!” Jimmy didn't like Warren teasing him like that. It confused him.
“Turn around and bend over then.” Warren stood, pointing at Jimmy, turning his hand in a circle.
Jimmy was breathless. He had to keep walking so Warren wouldn't notice.
A new girl started this week. I kid you not, she looks like something out of a lagoon. I was a bit taken a back when I turned around to greet her, as she was introduced to me.
"Christian, this is Fatima."
Ugly. Ooo! Just fowl! Imagine going through life looking like that? Revolting. No, really revolting. Big teeth, overshot jaw, beady eyes.
It was all I could do not to breath in sharply, in shock, as I looked at her.
"Nice to meet you," she said. Did she have a lisp, on nice, or was I imagining it?
Her face seemed to be covered in hair, like a mans. Her fringe came right down, nearly, over her eyes, certainly over her eye brows, which was probably a good thing. She is built like a truck driver, with bulbous thighs and pigeon toes. She has braces, I kid you not and glasses so thick, they look like Myers windows. They make her eyes look bigger than they really are, creepily so. Was she a little cross eyed?
"Welcome," I said. "Nice to meet you too." I sounded believable.
She smiled in return, which made her metal covered teeth prominent and her eyes squinted out of view, all together. She looks like the gateway to Luna Park, but not nearly as attractive.
But, her most prominent feature is her arse. Talk about butt-woman. I'd say 50% of her body is her bum - she is a body attached to an arse. Her bum is so fat that there is only a hint of a crack pointing downwards, on it's lowest edge. She kind of has to swing it as she walks. Coupled with the turned in foot, I tell you, it was all I could do not to laugh, as she waddled away.
Quazi who?
She had a ring on her left hand, which I thought was nice. Someone for everyone. The ring emphasised her stubby fingers. Absolutely amazing - there is some blind guy some where who likes fat chicks, I thought - but nice, none the less. I was kind of pleased for her, if I could have cared at all, of course. Well, I'd only just met her, give me a break, I don't have to care.
Fortunately, she's in IT, away from me, across the other side of the floor, so I won't be having any involuntary gagging, if I come across her unexpectedly.
What must it be like to have been ugly all of your life?
I've always been used to going out and picking up whoever I wanted. I doubt she would have had the same pleasure, without a lot of alcohol being involved.
Isn't it interesting that religious behaviour is so close to being crazy that we can't often tell it apart.
-- Dr Gregory House
.... day 3 - the critical point. David says he's scared of day 3, with good reason. We bite and gnash our teeth so easily. Both Shane and I are on day 3, @ the same time. We've told David to keep his distance, to keep all sudden moves to a minimum, to keep talking to what is, actually, required. David is the happy, chatty, warm one of the inmates, usually. He's always smiling, nothing usually bothers him. He looked from me to Shane and back again, tonight and declared he was going to his room.
I looked @ Shane and said, "Probably, a very smart decision."
Shane hissed something about the next person he was going to kill, @ which point I decided to take myself off to my bed and out of harms way. Out of every one's way.
I'm tired. I'm grumpy. I'm on a short fuse, I can feel it. Everybody is giving me the shits.
I just want to scream and yell and break something, I can feel it in me. I can feel the anger bubbling. Anger that is contained and which, I know, won't come out. It will dissipate before it explodes. But it is there, I can feel it inside me. It is a strange feeling, as I'm, generally, a very laid back kind of guy. Things don't bother me, normally. So to feel the devil inside, scratching, it is, kind of, weird. It's not so much a monkey on my back, as evil in the pit of my stomach.
My mind has done it's normal, usual, mind game stuff... finish a project @ work "Have a cigarette," says my head... sit down @ home with a coffee. "Where are your cigarettes?" says my head.
"Ah, quit it," I say, as I threaten to hit myself. "I've just got to forget."
Just breath, feel your centre, feel the gentleness of the day and everything will be okay, I tell myself.
Everything is going to be okay.
More Catherine Tate, that's what I say.
I'm good at giving up, I'm just not good @ staying off them.
Here I am back @ day 2, again. It makes me want to scream. Back here. Back to withdrawing, again. I feel tired and grumpy and out of sorts. I've headed to bed early with my Catherine Tate DVDs.
Nothing much else to say, except good night.
Five more days and I'll feel normal again.
Yeah, he says weakly. Can hardly wait. Waves the anti-smoking flag.
Tries not to think about it.
Nobody is listening, Christian. They've heard it all before.
No, this time! It's going to be great. Watch this space.
I smell better already. My taste buds are cheering. The world is great!
That's nice that you've called your PC Tom. What a year, hey?
I have not much on until the next few weeks. It's Schmuddlwetter here - rain trying to be snow and just being ice. Sometimes you can't walk about from slipping. A class here, a class there...
How long is the beautiful Sebastian there for? I might visit him this year if he's back - I liked the pics of his boofy, beefy mates and that he's brought them with him to youse, lucky yeuse! But don't forget, they like it if you call them South Tyrolean, it is an autonomous bit of Italy after all and should never have been hacked off from Austria.
But then, who needs Austria?
I had another meeting on the coast on the weekend for our Peace camp. Now it's more of a "What is Europe" camp. But still, plenty of room for copulation. I am sure we will get pushy stroppy politico-activist types coming anyway so it won't matter so much - they'll complain and find all our holes anyway. But it's coming together and indeed, much to my passing out with my eyes open when I heard it, they will PAY us too - and I was gunna just volunteer. So that's good.
You gunna make backups again on your PC and send em to the vault here for safety, like you did in the past? When I read the first email, about your PC crashing, I thought - faaaaaark. Not happy Jan or anyone. So glad she's right, chook.
When's that book coming out?
How's this for a nice quote: time is our friend, not a robber.
I quite like mulling over it.
The Germans are a bit nuts you know. When I was with the Catholics they had me bedded down with the nephew in the cellar in the roll out mattress arising from his bed. The 14 year old nephew and grandson. They know I'm gay and yet didn't want me in the unmarried daughter's room (my mate Uta) even tho that's what we did. I didn't want to be seen as preditary nor as not accepting the honour of acceptance and it is all very innocent, but for crying out loud - how else do they think these things happen with priests and uncles and family friends...?
I don't know the kid and alone, in a closed room, sleeping (horror): seriously, it's my word against his and as they said, IS there anything we should worry about? and If something DID happen then he would tell us and of course we would accept it as if he told is then something DID happen. My god, avoid the whole thing, and put me in with Uta until the kid is at least of age and maybe then I can get a good night's sleep. An interesting exercise in internalised homophobia too, but really, I know Uta, not him.
And no, I don't know if he was well hung and I missed me chance - he is on the 12 side or 14, if you read me, not the chunky 17 year old side of 14.
Well, Happy New Year to you too and less people dying thanks.
I'm off home to get rotten and watch movies without dicks.
Happy happy,
Josh
Mark and Luke decided to get out and about yesterday, after being cooped up for days, to see what state every thing was in. There was a break in the weather, a window of opportunity, so to speak. So they headed into Woodburn, the nearest town. They got into town alright, but then the skies opened up again and the rain came down again and it was touch and go getting back to our friend's house again. Our friend M was driving, in their old 4WD – the windows were all wound down, but the windscreen was completely fogged due to the humidity, which T (his wife) was wiping continuously so he could see. As they got closer to home, they saw the river had risen which they had to cross it to get back to the house. So, through they went. They were nearly to the other side when the back of the old 4WD went down into the water and started to fill, quickly. It looked bad, momentarily. But M's skill as a driver, or just plain, dumb luck got them through, when the wheels caught and full acceleration bit into the dirt and the old truck engine roared and up she came, out of the water back onto dry land.
"I'm not sure how we got across that river," Mark said to me. "I thought we were going down, but then out we came.”
And then they were cut off and the road out was declared unusable. It looked as though they were stuck, no way out.
Then today, some old bloke came down the river, with his boat, to collect them. An old timer, who knew the land, and the river, like the back of his hand.
"She'll be right mate," said Jock. "We'll get ya outer there, don't you worry about that." Kip his Kelpie barked from the front of the boat.
They left their hirer car behind @ M & T’s and headed up stream, with Jock, to Balina to catch a plane out.
Mission accomplished. They've made it out safe and sound.
They'll be home tomorrow.
Mark & Luke are on the central N.S.W. coast, after going to Tropical Fruits for New Years Eve. They are staying with friends of ours, in what, is usually, an idyllic setting. It's on a bend in the river, surrounded by bush. It's normally lush and beautiful.
Now, they are almost, completely, flooded in. Luke said he hasn't seen the blue sky and the rain hasn't stopped falling since they got there. They are going to try to get out tomorrow, via forestry roads.
"Yeah," said Luke. "Home a week early." He sounded nervous.
I'm not sure what that means, cracks in the bush, goat tracks, sealed roads? I just hope it doesn't mean they do any thing heroic, or stupid, with swollen rivers.
Please universe, look after them.
My PC died New Year's Day. Bias hard drive recovery........... I knew it was coming, it has had the wobbles for some time, it is quite old and I need a new one. It gurgled back to life momentarily, today, like a dying corpse in the bed, breathing it's last, as I got the last of my e-mails.
I have renamed it Tom.
Thank goodness for my lap-top.
I've been trying to decide on the options to replace it, for the last month, or so.
I think I have decided to go with the new tower and to continue to have two computers. A new tower is going to be bigger and stronger than my lap-top and it means that if anything goes wrong with either computer, I still have another one to use. This way, I'll never be without a computer. I have computer anxiety whenever my computer is out of working order.
It's hot, we are melting. We were going to go to the pool, but we saw sense. I'm watching Oprah, on my first day of quitting smoking, everything, all forms of smoking are being stopped. So kiss my arse if you want me to be nice, is what I'm telling my friends.
David says he is scared. Actually, I'm okay. Love not working. Love being home. Love being on holidays. Love the summer. Love the fact that my chest isn't hurting and love the fact that I can breathe. And quite frankly, if someone has to die in the process of me quitting smoking, well, really it is a small price.
Thinking about the last week, I didn't get to suck a cock at New Year. Sad Face.
However, with my friends doing it hard overseas, I've got so little to complain about.
Josh emailed, he is on his own in his, what sounds like, charming council flat, in Berlin, and I quote...
not to forget, the menacing loomingness of me cheap Berlin council flat, living off takeaways and listening to the radiator hiss and leak, bones knocking, sores festering on me bits. Throw all that in for a party? ...He spent Xmas Day with Catholics? It's troubling, he has to be watched, as he is a recovering Ex-Christian. He had the dirty little christian secret right up until he met me, oh - fuck me - ten years ago.
He's in a dodgy eastern-block internet cafe, where they sell everything from cigarettes to Polish youths. I ordered a 17 year old with a cock down to here and an arse like a ripe melon.
Aby emailed too, apologising for her extended silence, questioning, life, love and the universe. She's been down on her knees in the seamier sides of New York City and Berlin, getting to see the powerful and demented agendas that will, no doubt, affect the whole world.
Apparently, the answer lies here. http://zeitgeistmovie.com/index.html
It tells us things we already know and has it's own agenda, but that being said, it's heart is in the right place - Aby.
I haven't looked @ it yet. I'm not that enamoured about saving the planet, humans don't deserve to be saved, well, I mean, what other species, on this planet, poisons it's own nest? It's not a long term survival characteristic. But for those of you who are...
I'm eating a lovely peach and mango, green salad with eggs and tomatoes and cous cous. Yum! There is a cool breeze blowing from two fans, which Matt bought around.
We're wondering if we should up our carbon foot print and have air conditioning installed. Rather than simply re-arranging the deck chairs, as the planet sinks, we would rather be cool, as we go down.
We're off to the Laird tonight to get plastered.
I was out on my balcony, in the glorious sunshine, having a smoke, when this amazingly buff boy lent out of the window of the house across the road, to see what the noise was that two car loads of, recently arrived, friends were making. Big, buff, beautiful. The way he lent out, I could see right down his abs to the waste band of his jeans. (I think my favourite part of a boy, is when he's shirtless and in jeans, then it is the expanse of flesh just above the waistband of his pants. Pant!) Just incredibly perfect. Buzz cut. Milky skin.
He sent my mind racing off with dirty thoughts.
You know, I must want sex, I keep noticing cute boys every where. I'm not sure why I'm not going out there to get it? I didn't think about picking up a guy at the party new years day, the perfect opportunity, I just danced. (Besides, I find I'm way better with sex straight than munted.)
I do, actually, know why. From always having open relationships and sharing my boyfriends with all the punters, happily, I have, some how, morphed into a serial monogamist, without even trying. I'm not so interested in casual sex, any longer, it so often means nothing. I just want a regular guy I can call mine. Just a nice boy who has a healthy sex drive and a dirty mind, that's not too much to ask for? I love the after glow of good sex, it's calming for days.
It's what I miss about having a boy friend, being able to play with him, whenever the urge takes me. I haven't had sex since July, since Manny. Well, I have, with an old sexy buddy, but that's just draining the pipes. It's not hot sex like with Manny or with someone I really like. I miss Manny physically, only physically, is that a bad thing to say? I still want to have sex with him, but, over all, I don't miss him enough, truthfully. I don't miss him enough to go back to making the allowances I used to have to make with him.
This year, I need to find a new boy friend.
Time for Nick to make an appearance.
(If you don't understand the Nick reference, I explain it 2nd Sept 2007)
I guess that means a year of going out on the hunt. Be still my sweet liver.
In the mean time, I might just sit on my balcony, in the glorious sunshine and watch the world go by. I so love not going to work.
What a gorgeous day, blue skies, sunshine and a cool, cool breeze. I've been around to the shops twice, couldn't get it all in my brain the first time. A bit frazzled, 3 e's. The breeze up Gertrude Street was heaven sent. The out of it people were not - a buff, shirtless boy with his girlfriend, who couldn't have got his eyes to both look in the same direction, if he tried. And a couple of boguns, in ACDC t-shirts, who headed into the shop, in front of me, and spent up big on booze.
Nurse Betty was fun; inside dance floor, balcony to groove on, buff boys, good music and most of my friends were there. And, I feel remarkably good, all things considered. A little frayed around the edges, sore jaw, a little achy, but, pretty much, okay. Who said drugs were bad for you? Take no notice of your parents kids, experiment and find out for yourselves. It's funny really that the authorities and parents only give you the down side, they don't tell you that the majority of recreational drug uses are having so much fun.
The feuding factions (of my friendship base) weren't both represented; Shane staid away, so the ex-boyfriend, Mark W, and his posse could enjoy themselves. David didn't go either, as he'd been in rehab, he, he, he, actually a retreat for six days where he wasn't allowed to speak. So he was floating on his own, natural, cloud when he got home, just as I was leaving for the party.
There's always one boy at every dance party with who I become fascinated, for at least part of the night. Some times for a short time, some time for much longer. Drugs do that to me. There's always one. Eyes, face, chest, the way they dance, the curve of their arse, the way they laugh or smile, some body part that captures my imagination. Last night, it was a hairy-chested, shirtless, stocky, whiskered-face, beautiful blue eyes, scruffy hair, pieced nippled, Aussie boy. He was just wearing jeans, which sat kind of low on his hips and gave him the most perfectly shaped bulge in his pants. Seemingly, shaft down, giving him that long, half-bonner, separating his two, large round balls, look. You could see his genitals, nicely cupped by blue denim. I couldn't take my eyes off his bulge, for the first few hours of the night, on and off. It's not really a sexual thing, as such, more of a fascination. Although, if it's a boy's cock you are looking at, it can't help but be sexual.
He got it too. I got his attention. He was a cool dancer and he started doing subtle moves that involved his hands in the waist of his jeans, pulling his pants up, pushing them down, generally showing his bulge off. As his beautiful blue eyes came to gaze at me with intent. He was gorgeous.
And Nick, I hear you ask? Well, my good mate Sebastian - there are a couple of Sebastians, so don't get confused. Let's say that this one is Sebastian C and the other one is Sebastian P - turned up with a cute Italian boy. And if he hadn't got my attention already, he certainly did when Sebastian said, "Christian, this is Nick." We spent a lot of the night dancing together. I realised Nick reminded me of my ex-boyfriend Lauri. He had the same smile - it was so the same smile as Lauri that it threw me a little. He had brown eyes instead of green. When Lauri used to get excited, or out of it, he had a line that used to form straight up his forehead, with a couple of faint ones either side, we used to call it his chooks foot. Quite amazingly, Nick had the same thing. But, I was too aware of getting carried away on drugs and being too full on with him, so I held back all night. Probably, the completely wrong tactic, no doubt, but that's what I did. Even the fact that we both flirted really gently and intermittently with each other, smiles and responses, throughout the night didn't stop the reserve I had with him. We made comments about people, with our eyes, all night. You know if people invaded our dancing space, or were really out of it. We'd both end up laughing because we just got what the other one was meaning all night, just naturally, without any words of explanation.
However, Sebastian loves nothing more than a protege to go out with, so I'm sure I will run into Nick again.
At one stage, when I was coming back from the bar with my bottle of water, I thought I saw Tom, out of the corner of my eye, dancing on the dance floor. After the party, I was telling David and he responded with, "How do you know it wasn't Tom?"
That never occurred to me until David said it, which sent a chill up my spine, because I hadn't thought of it that way.
I must be more out of it than I realise, as my eyes welled with tears, as I thought of Tom.
My first New Year without him.
Love you Christian.
Love you Tom.
