I Still Don’t Know How A Big Top Daddy Can Have A Small Penis?

Sam wakes me and asks, “What time is your sister Gill coming?”
“10.30.”
“It is now 10.30.”
“Oh shit!”
I sit up and know what puppies feel like in the first few days of their lives. I open my mouth wide, as though, that is, some how going to help.

I’m out of bed in seconds and heading to the door. Shane tells me, from the other side, that Gill is already here, just as I reach for the handle.

“Tell her I will be five minutes.”

I’m out of the shower in two minutes, dried in three, dressed in four, on the stairs in five minutes. and Gill and I are walking out the door a minute later.

Gill and I have lunch with mum. She takes her walker this time, after essentially, running out of energy for the return walk home the last time we took her out for lunch. We, practically, had to carrying her the last few metres.
She doesn't finish a complete sentence over lunch.

I’m home by 1pm. You've got to love these beautiful summer days.
Sam went to Victoria Street for food. He's keen on his food, is my boy. He always wants to know the plan for the next meal. Menus are never far from his consciousness.

The doorbells sounds. I think it is strange as Sam took my second set of keys. I have a big set, a second set with an M, which looks like a W if held upside down, key ring, and a singular front door key, my smallest set. He said he took the W keys, why would he be ringing the doorbell?
I finish what I am doing and head to the door, to see a Leather Top Shane meeting trade. “Come up to my room,” he says.

I don’t know how a big top daddy can have a small penis? It's a contradiction in terms.

Sam, and I, buy roast chicken, from the supermarket, and ingredients for salad. Sam reminds me about all the raw mushroom salads I made him when we first met, with a shiver. I think he is exaggerating. He thinks it is insane to have raw mushrooms in salads, or  anything for that matter.
"But, they aren't cooked." Quizzical look.

We talk about making a banana cake... but who has over ripe bananas, none are sitting in the bowl for that long, we are too pleased to see them.

We make gooey, thick, chewy brownies, instead. Double choc, extra thick. It has to be rich and chocolaty, if it is a brownie, otherwise it is a chocolate muffin, or slice.

Shane appears several times in various manifestations of a leather outfit and rolls joints. He gives us pot, which I am only too happy to receive. I don't tell him I already have pot.
“Trade is having trouble getting off my bed.” He wants us to ask.
“Too out of it?” Really, this tired old cliche.
“No, tied up.”
“Oh?” Really.
“Oh.” Out of it look.

Sam reminds me how long ago Shane bought his bag of pot… as some kind of learning curve for the possibilities of the longevity of the bag, instead of being the pig that I am.

Shane comes and watches TV late and rolls more joints and tells us he is trashed. Sam, later, notes how intuitive, I am.
“That was a return visit,” says Shane, “so there’s one of my trade I haven’t scared away.”
I immediately think about the small penis again.

We watch TV, there is nothing on. Apparently, we have another gay movie to watch, Make the Yuletide Gay – who chose these movies? – so we watch that.
Sam continues to tell me off for the frequency of my joint rolling.
“You do as you are told with everyone of my other instructions, just not this one,” says Sam after I roll the latest of an endless stream of joints.
He’s right of course. I wish I could be more like Luke who smokes a joint every four hours during the day. I wish I could be that person.

We go to bed at 11.