Out of Our Misery

I took another day off, I hate my (work) life. I decided if I don’t have the guts to resign, I can, at least, use up all my sick days.

David was home too, he wanted me to wake him before I left for the office, so he didn’t spend the day asleep. He was awake, lying in bed, when I flung his bedroom door open.

Wake up. It’s later than you think. I took a sickie.

Why?

I’m so bored, I could, I could…

Could what?

Kill myself.

Do you want to? Let’s just do it.

Okay, let’s do it

How would we do it?

With knives…

On the couch…

Slit our wrists…

With scalpels…

Our arms right up to here.

Yes, let’s do it.

So there’s blood…

Lots of blood!

Come on.

I want to…

We could paint our faces with big, red, lip-stick smiles…

Yes…

With thick eye-liner and great big fake eyelashes…

Yes!

And prop ourselves up on the couch…

Smiles painted on…

With our arms our here…

Bleeding…

For when Shane comes back from Mardi Gras

Could you imagine…

Him, off his chops so badly…

Confronted by that…

Welcome home…

Happy Mardi Gras!

We could get balloons…

And streamers…

Shave Missy and paint her face with a big, red, lip-stick smile too…

Three days later.

Oo, pretty.

Hmmm, could you imagine…

Shane, still off his face?

Happy Mardi Gras!

Both cackle hysterically

Teach him for going to Mardi Gras without us.

It would sure show him!

Yeah!

Yeah!

 

Yesterday's Women

Yesterday's woman were strong women who not only had jobs, but careers. Who raised kids and ran households and had successful marriages. Who bought houses and cars and who helped their husbands and children get through life without complaint.

Today's woman are whiny, namby-pamby woman who think they are incredible for combining children with part time hours after paid maternity leave, expecting the whole world to pat them on the back and to make allowances for them.

Lying Nude

Deep in the Valley

Stocky boys tend to have deeper arse cracks. All that man flesh, all that hair; hand deep into his bum, feel him right inside. Yum.

Kiss him behind the ears. Feel his back arch, as his butt touches you.

He'll moan, a bit, to get you in the mood. Feel him relax, as you break the seal. His breathing changes. The rhythm steadies. He starts to sweat. Buck. Push back. Find for his lips, red and ripe; his neck stretched to the max; hard strong. Hand to his throat, strong, whiskers, Adam's Apple. How muscular he feels... as he goes over the edge. Stands upright, shaking and quivering.

Boyfriends

I've always fallen for people who have lots of confidence, lots of charisma. I've always been the sweet, silent type next to the confident, loud gregarious one. I've always been the rock, to the flying bird. I've always been private school boy, type, while they've been Guliver.

They've always explored and showed me wondrous things that have made me say "wow." And I've always let them - given them freedom, given them support, given them love and something to believe in.

I gave them logic and grounding and permission and a sense of themselves that allowed them to believe that they were beautiful people who were very loved. They were all handsome men, I, somehow, confirmed it.

I've given them intellect and interesting things to think about. Together we've always been able to conquer the world.

It's a Boy Thing

I like, He was a little light on his feet, almost as much as I like shirtlifter.

Friends of Dorothy's is universally liked, surely? Because we were all like the lion back then, we just needed courage.

Pooh puncher, or donut maker, I'm not so keen on.

A fart as a poofter's love call leaves me really cold. 

Wednesday Wednesday Wednesday

I've taken another sickie. That stomach of mine? Once I get a taste for the day-off there is no stopping me. I called in from my bed on my mobile. I couldn't even stand to get out of bed, this morning. I just called and then pulled the doona back up and took more zzzz's, no guilt. It can't be good for me, feeling that way. I might take my coffee and go back there. The day is mine.

I worked out that I'm, some thing like, 2 years ahead with my mortgage payments. It's why straight people hate us so - no kids and all that disposable income. So why am I working so hard? At something that makes me unhappy. It makes no sense.

I can feel a resignation coming on. I wish I had the guts, you know. I've just given up pot and tobacco, I can probably do anything.

And the rain comes down and the sun disappears, like a blokes testes in cold water. A cool breeze blows in through my balcony doors, it's bracing, thrilling. I can do anything I want. I could get used to this. Nobody is going to thank me for working, I don't have any kids. There is no prize at the end of it, just dementia and incontinence. We are all equal in the old people's home in the end, no matter what we did during our lives, with only our regrets to keep us company.

I love the cool Melbourne breeze after a stinking hot day. It's invigorating. I clears the sweat. It blows all of the head aches away.

All I have to do is write something, a moderate seller, some thing successful. Those two clairvoyants always said I would. Two years to write a best seller and I'd never have to work again - well, go to work again to a job that makes me unhappy, where I help other people with their wealth.

All of my tutors - well, most of my tutors at uni - said I had it in me.

"You are as good a writer as any one," they said. "The thing that distinguishes successful writers, for the most part, from ones that don't make it, is actually doing it. A bit of luck and being in the right place, of course, doesn't hurt, but mostly it is believing in yourself and sitting down, putting in the time and writing. Sticking at it."

I might head out for breakfast. I might go for a bike ride.

Kiss me and wish me good luck.

Time to believe in myself and step forward fearlessly.

Wednesday Wednesday

I've taken another sickie. That stomach of mine?

I worked out that I'm 2 years ahead with my mortgage payments.

I've taken the day off just because I couldn't be fagged getting out of bed.

It's why straight people hate us so - no kids and all that disposable income.

I called in from bed on my mobile. I might take my coffee and go back there.

I can feel a resignation coming on.

And the rain comes down and the sun disappears like a blokes testes in cold water.

I could get used to this.

I love the cool Melbourne breeze after a stinking hot day.

All I'd have to do is write a best seller, those clairvoyants always said I would.

I might head out for breakfast.

Two years to write a best seller and I'd never have to work again.

I might go for a bike ride.

Kiss the salt mines good bye.

 

Lazy Tuesday

I took today off work just because I could, really. I'm feeling a bit anxious about every thing. Probably, a reaction to the anaesthetic. Wink. Better rest up. No use having a, um, er, relapse.

No use rushing back to work in times of illness. Why do any of us do it? Oh yes, money. Surprised look. :o

So, I'm of to The Fitzroy Gardens to read my book, for a few hours under the trees and then Smith Street for lunch and then I reckon I might go hunt down a boy for the afternoon.

Sounds like a plan to me.

Sounds like a nice day. smile.

5 hours later...

Ah beautiful. The sun, the sky, the park, the dappled sunlight scattered across the green, green grass. I ate fruit salad and drank coffee on the terrace at the cafe, in the middle of the park under the shade of the elms, and read the Age from cover to cover. It was gentle and quiet and serene.

There was a lady with two Ridgebacks at the next table, she was dainty and the dogs were well behaved. They had some kind of muzzles on, but the owner told the waitress they were just a way of controlling the dogs while they walked and that they weren't aggressive at all. There were a couple of mothers with preschoolers, who didn't annoy the crap out of me, surprisingly. I wondered about their little brats muzzles when they first walked up, but they played quietly as their mother's drank coffee and chatted.

There were joggers and soccer players and walkers and readers and sitters and snoozers all enjoying the glorious day. There were women with prams and elderly couples with each other and workmen with utes and girls with sun hats and Asian tourists with cameras and two men in suits holding hands - there really were, well, it is Fitzroy, after all, they looked adorable walking through the park.

I lay back and read my book under the elms. Some thing real. Bliss.

Day off Monday

Fuck! How hot is is? Day off work, nice. Always nice.

But, of course, I went for my gastroscopy. Can't have a day off just because. Oh no, that would never do.

I walked to the clinic. I left early, so I stopped in the Fitzroy Gardens just to enjoy the morning. There were lots of people around, doing much more worth while things than the 9 to 5 gig. Drinking coffee and having breakfast. Reading under the shade of the trees. Running their dogs, riding their bikes. Just walking and enjoying the sun.

The clinic has terrible signage and, of course, I didn't take any paperwork with me. Well, it was Jolimont Road, which is about as long as a tidily weenie. Where the fuck was it? Tick, tick, tick, to my appointment, as I walked up and down. I couldn't find it. After sitting so luxuriously in the Fitzroy Gardens and all, de-stressing, I started to stress. Finally, I saw what looked like a career secretary, out having a fag, who whirled me around and pointed me in the right direction pronto, with a, "Yeah luv, right over there." Long fake fingernailed fingers indicating across the road.

The staff were all so nice. I felt nothing, as the actress said to the bishop. The last thing I remember was, "You'll just feel an overwhelming sense of relaxation."

"My friends say I'm overwhelmingly relaxed now."

"Well, you shouldn't be needing this procedure then..."

I was completely out to it. Felt nothing, knew less.

Then is was, "Christian, Christian, are you okay to get to your feet?"

They gave me a cup of tea and a biscuit, like the blood bank and made me wait for a while, propped up in a Jason Recliner, with a rug. I wanted to tell them I'd driven more out of it after dance parties, but they made me wait for my ride, before I could leave the building.

"Every things okay," said the Doc. "No ulcer." But they did take biopsies. I wondered why, but I was a bit too scattered to question him.

Apparently, I have oesophagitis, reading the paperwork they gave me, when I got home. Whatever that is?

Path to Enlightenment

We all spend our lives trying to make ourselves bigger on the earth, master it, become powerful over it, when true enlightenment comes from making ourselves smaller, a part of the earth, just one part of something bigger, living within.

Passed our Prime

It's kind of sad that the pinnacle of human endeavour happened something like fifty years ago. Sure, we have better gadgets now a days - things we don't need, for the most part, things with tremendous land fill potential. But nothing really new.

In the area of medicine, I have to agree there have been huge advances, but in nearly every other aspect of life there has been a falling away.

We've passed our Golden Age, probably in the mid Twentieth Century.

We can get around the planet quicker, to see the devastation first hand - poisoned skies, poisoned seas, endangered species, starving people.

If you are really lucky, you may get to see a loony religious halfwit blow themselves and others up.

But generally, nothing has really changed in fifty years - mum, dad, two kids, a house in the suburbs, two cars, parents go to work, children go to school. They go to the beach at Xmas, after presents, dinner and a sleep.

Kids grow up, get married and put their parents in a home.

Repeat.

Peanuts

A tour bus driver is driving with a bus load of seniors down a highway when he is tapped on his shoulder by a little old lady. She offers him a handful of peanuts, which he gratefully accepts, as he is a little peckish.

After about fifteen minutes, she taps him on his shoulder and she hands him another handful of peanuts.

The seniors are having a lovely time, chatting and laughing, as they head out into the country.

Eventually, when she is about to hand him another batch, he asks the little old lady, 'Why don't you eat the peanuts yourself?'

'We can't chew them because we have no teeth', she replies.

The puzzled driver asks, 'Why do you buy them, then?'

The old lady replies, 'We just love the chocolate around them.'

My Valentine

Shane asked if it was wrong to give your boyfriend head to see if he develops symptoms of gonorrhoea to see if that clag in your throat is an STD? Shane cleared his throat. That I probably, um, he cleared his throat again, picked up down the beat while jogging.

He smiled.

I laughed.

Sure, why not, I said? That’s what boyfriends are for, surely.

Absolutely, said Shane.

Matt would be a good sport about it.

Well, it’s cheaper, quicker and more time efficient, said Shane, than going to the doctor, myself.

Besides, I said, Matt would make a great crash test dummy.

He’s my very own crash test dummy, said Shane, and I'd love him for it.

And you could get him to get you a script when he goes to the doctor with his very own drippy cock…

You catch on quick, said Shane smiling. But I always knew that about you.

We both laughed. If Tom had still been around, he would have said the evil cackle of life long friends.

 

The Way it Makes Me Feel

I love the wind. Always have. I like it blowing strongly, the stronger the better. It makes me feel powerful. Alive. A living being. In the moment. In the universe. Of this world.

I love it when it is so powerful that, when I'm leaning into it, it is holding me up. Arms out stretched. Let go. Balancing from the waist down.

I love the cool. I love the crisp.

I never understand people who say they don't like it. Ginger horses and all that. You know, there are so many people who talk about it like they have an aversion to it. Giddy like a drunk. Why? Because it messes up their hair, may be? Blows a little dust and we all know how we all hate messed hair and a little dust, now a days. Perception is more important than feeling.

I like the cool. I like the freshness. I like the cleanliness, of it. I like how it feels on my skin. I like the way it makes me feel all over. Tactile, rather than presentation.

Touch my skin. Feel.

Switch off.

I like my sheets to be cold and crisp when I get into my bed. The cool wind of the night. I like the cotton to be cool as it touches me. Bracing, cold, alive, invigorating. Wrap myself up crisp, for a night of rest, a cool slide into the dark, for a fresh tilt at snooze.

It makes me feel alive. I like the fact that is stops me from thinking and allows me to feel. Almost, a little meditation. Lay very still and feel the nerve ends tingle. Clear your mind.

Change for the Better?

All of my friends are telling me to resign. Get out of the salt mines and do something worth while with my life. David read me my astrological moon reading, or something and it was frighteningly, word for word, as if it had been written about me.

Have faith, just resign, be more creative, believe.

Rachel says she needs someone to do her books. (Gads, do some one's book work, it's been a while) I could also work in the restaurant, if I wanted, part time. Like old times, she says. When we were uni students and we did the poor waiter thing, together. But I haven't been a broke uni student for a long time. I'm not that person any more. Although, it would be easy, except for the lack of money, natch. Relaxed. No responsibility. No high-flying corporate world back-stabbing bullshit.

Retire from the rat race, leave all the pointy-faced rodents, that make up the corporate maze, behind. The lying, the cheating, the point scoring, the scheming. Did I say lying? Awful people, who'd sell you down the river, as quick as look at you, to come out on top, to end up looking good, in the end.

We have an executive director of HR and Marketing who will tell whatever lie it takes, burn whoever, to make herself look good. She doesn't even hide her contempt for her lesser worker. Do as I say. Make me look good. Take the blame for me, unashamedly, as she connives her stay at the top. And anyone who dares to disagree, leave the fold, she completely ignores them. Go over her head and you are asking to die, professionally. We call her the golly, as she has lots of curly black hair and a rat face. She's truly awful. How do these people get salaries of five hundred grand when everything they do is based on untruths, spin and lies? She's a blood sucker, to be sure.

I counter her with the C.E.O. if ever I want to go over her head. It's risky, but effective. The C.E.O. loves me, as I do her.

Sell the house, have a life changing moment, be brave, says Rachel. Follow your dreams. Get away from the awful people. Do something that is real. Write.

I knew I was going to have a stack of emails waiting for me Monday, regarding a problem we were having, the Brisbane office was having, from Friday.

Oh, I was dreading the stupidity that would be waiting for me. As I headed into the office this morning, I said to my favourite mate @ work, Stacey,

"Someone needs to go berserk in the Brisbane office with a gun," I said. "That would fix it."

"You’re terrible," she said. Muriel, I thought. She laughed. "You shouldn't say things like that." Even if I was kidding.

"Not as terrible as them," I said. "Clueless, unashamed, bitches."

We both laughed and I wondered if I should rethink the whole work thing, if that is how I am feeling Monday morning.

And right on queue, the Brisbane office bought up every example of their incompetence and blamed it on me. Just like that. Without a care for logic, in their usual, clueless way. It's breath taking that they just don't get it. Even more breath taking that they don't get that they don't get it.

Attack is the best form of defence, I guess.

The National HR director said she would have weekly meetings with me, when I threatened to resign. "No Christian, don't do that," she said. "I'll sort them out for you, personally."

I worked late.

Sexy Steve was working late, too. He had those black pants on that cup him so well at the front and which slide down over him beautifully at the back. Sexy? Yes, I'd say he is sexy. He came in and chatted to me for a while. He's pretty to look at.

Buttons & Beads & Dreams

shiny pins and assorted buttons,

a cupboard full of balloons,

a pocket full of stars;

silver, rainbows upon rainbows,

silver as far as you can see.

An infinity of sparkles,

laid across soft rich black velvet.

aloha, come run across moon beams.

fiddles and cows.

Everyone jump.

Lay Back and Enjoy the Day

What a beautiful day. I left the girls from work, at Bolago, sitting in the sun, chatting, relaxing, in Mark & Luke's hands and drove back down to the city around midday.

I've been stressing so much lately about stuff - it would be no surprise that I have an ulcer - well, not so much stressing as just over processing every thing. Just thinking non-stop about every little fucking thing. It's been doing my head in. I've just been worrying about every little detail of everything so badly. So, I needed a thought stopper. I needed something to stop my brain acting like a machine gun of what if's and what could be's.

The sun was dappled in my back yard, the tree ferns so green, the gum tree's smooth skin silver in the sun light. I got a blanket and a couple of large pillows and the novel my ex sent me down from Sydney. I got green tea and a bowl of grapes and a gentle breeze blew. I read for a few hours, slept for a few hours and then read again. I just tuned out for the afternoon. It was the best de-stresser.

It was glorious.

The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox - Maggie O'Farrell.

I like her. She writes like me. Plenty of dialogue. It's just the way I write. It's good to see somebody else write in a similar way.

Better Safe Than Sorry

I'm having a gastroscopy Monday week. Yeah. Everybody tells me I'll like the drugs.

Good drugs, they say.

This is a medical procedure, I say.

That's when you get the best drugs, they say.

I can't help but think of Heath Ledger.

Secretly, I think they are right.

While my stomach is much, much better than it was and I couldn't say I was in any pain any longer, it still doesn't feel completely normal. It just feels weird and, not to put too finer point on it, I'm having, what I could only describe as, fishy gastric reflux. Mmmm. (Come here lover, smell my breath) Better safe than sorry, huh?

Apparently, there is a screen. Don't look at the screen, they say.

I can watch the thing go all the way down my throat to my stomach, up on a big screen.

I'll need drugs just for that, let me tell you.

It's been getting me down a bit, I have to say.

Charlie, at work, asked me if I'd ever had anything shoved down my throat, when talking about the forthcoming gastroscopy. Do you think he is flirting with me?

 

End of the Week

I think I am suffering a little depression, as I've never felt this way before. The doctor said it was quite common for people who have given up long term dope habits to feel depressed. He said I could go on anti-depressant medication for a short time. I said that the point of giving up smoking pot and cigarettes was to stop putting chemicals in my body, although I did get his point. He said it should lift shortly, the fog should go and the malady should stop.

I just don't feel like doing anything. I feel like I'm dragging my sorry arse through life, at the moment. I have no enthusiasm for anything, nothing seems appealing. It is all I can do not to crawl into bed at the slightest opportunity.

I haven't much felt like writing.

Exercise helps. Riding my bike has helped a lot.

The girls from work are going up to Bolago for the weekend, which should be interesting with my current state of mind. They are all my favourite people, Beck and the other girls, so it should be a joy, but it just seems like an effort. They've gone up tonight, I've delayed my arrival until tomorrow.

I'm off out now to have dinner with my ex-boyfriend. He's over from NZ. See, ex-boyfriends are good for something.

Back on the Yarra Track

Some of the genetically gifted boys on the jogging track have to be seen. Thick thighs, solid arses, hairy legs, oh those hairy legs. I think I'm a bit of a legs man - all the way up, thanks. One two, one two. Straight boys bulges, some flop around. The sweat on their singlets, down their chests, the serious looks on their faces. The sheer beauty in their determination, as the sweat drips on their skin.

Tall, lean blond boys. Thick, hairy dark boys.

Yes, I'm taking myself in hand (no, not like that. Well, certainly not on the jogging track, although some of the boys I see might make me want to) and I'm back to riding every second day. I can't be this chubby person any longer. Always happens when I give up smoking, the tummy expands. Good thing it goes just as quick, if I exercise it properly.

Anyway, there are two places I stop at drinking taps to, um, er, drink - under the Punt Road Bridge and up Studley Park Drive. So, I'd just stopped up Studley Park, getting my breath before I had a drink, when this guy in lycra bike pants comes jogging down the hill towards me. Now, I thought boy's dicks shrank when they jogged and I don't know what he was thinking as he jogged down towards me, but I tell you... kind of bent to the right, like an inverted banana. Thick. Bouncing. He leant down for a drink in front of me, as I continued to pant, good legs, I thought, hot arse, before he jogged off, grunting as he went.

Nice, I thought.

I like guys to jog in black, the best, especially in summer, sets off their suntan and muscles. Thick legs, muscled arms. Singlet. Shorts. Sweat. Yum.

Out and About

Saturday night I went to one of my old mate's fortieth birthday party. We used to party together, Mardi Gras, Red Raw all of the gay parties. More recently, she's got married to a very handsome Italian, she's Italian herself and she's had two, well, Italian kids. A boy and a girl, lovely. She always wanted to be a mother and have kids, but she never really found that the experience lived up to the dream. She found it hard work, almost too much. But I think she is used to it now.

I went with Mark and my step daughter Jane. We walked to the Provincial. All the old gang were there. All the old party crowd, up one end of the table. None of us go out much now, out out, I mean, clubbing out, off our faces out, I guess we've moved on. Kids, houses, businesses, responsible things. It's awful how it gets you, hey? The money thing: set yourself up, work hard, amass wealth, get a head. Buy more things. Money, money, money. I guess we've all done reasonably well.

Some Flowers From Bolago for a Sunday Afternoon

Angels are Listening

Loquacious sat in front of Epiphany, her head tilted slightly backwards. Epiphany brushed her long hair with languid strokes. The warm spring water lapped at her feet, gently washing her porcelain toes clean.

Loquacious gently rubbed her fingers through the sand in slow ‘s’ patterns.

“I don’t know,” said Loquacious. “All this sitting around, sure it’s relaxing. Sure it’s nice not to be hurried, or over-taxed, for that matter, but really, shouldn’t we be doing more?”

“I’m sure it will come,” said Epiphany. “He has good people around him, after all. Good people who will point him in the right direction. Set him on the right path, so to speak.

Epiphany raised her eyebrows. Loquacious opened her mouth to speak, but shrugged and smiled, instead.

Above them was sapphire above milky white clouds, floating passed, Loquacious looked up at them longingly. Flying above the clouds bought back treasured memories.

“It’s not even for myself that I am concerned, or you, as I am for those naughty boys,” sighed Loquacious. “Where are they now, do you think?”

“Oh, Aloysius went down to the Valley of Sons to speak to Antonio,” said Epiphany. “I suggested to Ignatius that he went along too, you know, just to keep an eye on things.”

“But that was days ago.”

“Yes,” said Epiphany. She ran the brush right to the tips of Loquacious’ hair. It sparkled in the sun light, golden. “Yes, it was. Those two have no concept of time, you know that.”

Epiphany stroked down with the brush, rhythmically. They were both still, otherwise, caught in the moment. Their faces were reflective, serene and still. The stillness that comes with deep understanding and deep love.

“They could have got up to any kind of mischief by now,” said Loquacious. “I don’t know, maybe it’s me, but I worry about those two with so much time on their hands and so few demands upon it. Always up to something. Always looking for something to do. All that restless energy.”

“You only need to trust... them too.”

Loquacious shook her hair freely, shiny and glistening and laid her head back into Epiphany’s lap.

The sun was a golden orb against the sapphire blue. Time slowed.

“Wait, wait,” said Epiphany. “What was that?” Loquacious looked up at her. She looked away and squinted her eyes, as though she was listening to something far away. “I think he’s talking about us. Acknowledging us. Yes. Yes, I’m sure.”

Loquacious sat up, she turned to look at Epiphany, her eyes were wide with surprise. “What? About us?” She raised her hand to her slender neck and smiled broadly. “Finally? Really? Oh my, how amazing. Do you think he gets it? Realises.”

“He is. Yes, he is,” said Epiphany. “He truly is.”

“Oh my,” said Loquacious. “Goodness. Finally.” She smiled. “Oh my, my, my, after all these years, to be acknowledged. To be spoken of. To be known, do I dare? Who told him, do you think?”

“I think you know who told him.”

“Yes, yes,” said Loquacious. “Precisely.” She rubbed her hand across Epiphany’s beautiful face. “You always knew.” She leant forward gently and kissed Epiphany on the lips. “You smell sweet.” She raised her shoulders and swept her open hands through the air. “I’m so excited.”

“So do you,” said Epiphany. “Smell sweet.” She kissed Loquacious on the forehead, the bridge of the nose and on the lips, with slow tender kisses.

“Butterflies,” said Loquacious.

“Faeries,” said Epiphany.

Then the wind whistled, blowing down over them, stronger and then stronger again. A steady gust, singing like chimes, smelling like lavender, cool on their skin, imbued with glitter. Aloysius came flying through the sapphire, with Ignatius, holding his hand, as they always did when they flew. Aloysius leading, his dark hair parted across his forehead, Ignatius’ blonde hair rustling on the breeze, catching the sun.

The two boys landed gently, with no sound and with no pressure from their ballet slippers on the emerald ground.

“Look lively,” said Aloysius. “He’s talking to us, putting in a request for us to deliver on a desire.” He smiled. “Finally. Who’d have thought.”

“Positive affirmations, at last,” said Ignatius. “Do you believe it? Can you believe it?” He danced a waltz on the spot.

Ignatius smiled at Loquacious and Epiphany, as he hugged Aloysius from behind. Aloysius smiled at the girls also, strong and proud.

“We have a mission,” said Aloysius excitedly, his green eyes sparkling. Ignatius hugged him tenderly, rubbing his face into the small of Aloysius’ shoulder, as he stretched his arms across Aloysius’ chest.

“How long have we been waiting for this day?” said Aloysius.

“He has asked, finally,” said Loquacious.

“We must go,” said Epiphany.

The two boys smiled in front of them, standing up straight. “Yes, we must go,” the two said in unison.

At that very moment the Wind Faery appeared in front of them. Her Mother of Pearl wings beating behind her, as she flew backwards up into the sapphire yonder. She moved her hands to her lips and blew through her fingers back at the angels and then she was gone, as quickly as she appeared. The wind blew gently around each angel’s ears.

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

All four smiled, as they knew who it was from.

Simon'esque

Saturday Morning with Simon

I saw Simon at the newsagent, this morning, when I was between buying a USB memory stick and coffee beans & a cherry muffin. My local coffee shop makes the best organic cherry muffins. I was buying the newspapers. He was buying tattslotto.

I didn’t speak to him. I didn’t acknowledge him. I ignored him, as I always have. We have sex together @ sex on premises venues, perform the most intimate acts on each other, but we don’t talk outside in the real world. We don’t acknowledge each other as people, being people. It's as though he belongs in a certain place in my life and it is only there that I'm going to know him.

He's nice, too. Quite presentable. Witty. Cute.

Funny really. The things we do.

It’s me, I can't blame Simon, although he doesn't say hello either. I just don’t think. It’s habit, a bad habit. As I was getting into my car, I thought, Why did you do that? As I turned the key in the ignition, I thought, You should go back in and say hello. As I drove away, I thought, Next time I will. It’s just ridiculous!

 

21st Century Public Transport

Making people move, staking your spot, gaining some space on a crowed tram is difficult in the mornings. People won’t move, they are just like that now a days. I suspect it is selfishness, I'm pretty certain it is stupidity, myopia, maybe. They'll just stand there and look at you and still they won't move. Even when you say "excuse me" or "may I get through," they'll only move enough to turn around and look at you dumbly. They may wriggle a bit, lean slightly, usually enough to move them a couple of centimetres, but certainly no discernible distance for anyone to get passed. They may even move into your path, as is often the case, making it more difficult.

So, you have to demand your space. Pushing through is a good tactic, often the only tactic, if you can stand the filthy looks from those who thought nothing of giving you no space at all. Push through, don't look back. Lead with the shoulder. Take no prisoners.

I love the people who stand in front of the ticket machine who, when you say you need to buy a ticket, think that after they have looked sideways at you that is all they need to do. The woman who look at you, as if to say, I'm hanging on here, you'll just have to find another ticket machine, are my favourite. I just push them sideways, usually. Hope they'll crash to the floor. One did once, I loved it.

However, I have found that more subtle tactics are usually best. I've found that a brief case up the arse for boys makes them move smartly. Just slide it into their crack and if they don't get it immediately, you know things happen on crowded trams that you have to ignore sometimes, keep gently pushing it in further. Maybe rub it up and down a touch. And for woman, generally grazing their tits with your hand, if you can, or an arm is just as good, makes them move quicker than anything. Slide your hand through the bodies, as if you are coming through and after they have looked at you dumbly, give their tit a squeeze, they'll move.