Is It Monday Again?

Last day of October. 31st. 55 days until Xmas. (Oh my f'ing G'd...) Ho Ho Ho. Jesus fuck me christ the year just disappeared. ("Oh don't say that, dear." I can still hear Lottie's voice, even if she has been dead for 10 months. "It's not nice." Dear mum. 2 fingers in the air, "Fuck them," I say) Snap of the fingers. Like all good homosexuals, the year just went Poof!

(And to that dark-haired boy, who was surely of age, walking up from the beach, outside the Sommers Post Office Cafe, Saturday afternoon, dressed only in baggy black shorts... I'd sure like to see you go poof! Young and beautiful. Did he know I was checking him out the way he slid his arse up onto that handrail?) Ah Summer, I'd forgotten about all of your delights.

But I'm getting sidetracked...

Monday morning.
I got out of bed at 10am, as you do. Buddy and Milo had been snuggled up to me in the doona, Buddy stretched out next to me, Milo between my legs, between my knees sound so much nicer, hey? curled in an arch. I'd been reading about halfbikes, they look like lots of fun, and the sun was shining in through my balcony doors, so I leapt out of bed all inspired. (I don't know about all of you, but with the state of the world today, I am finding it more and more difficult to get out of bed in the mornings. Halfbikes seemed as good a reason as any... and it is healthy and exercise...)

"Come on Bud," I said. Buddy followed me downstairs.

As soon as I leapt out of bed, however, the sun dimmed, and as Bud and I thundered down the stairs it disappeared behind a cloud and the day looked suddenly very grey. Sam sent me a message that we already have 3 bikes that we didn't ride, which are near on impossible to store out of sight in a terrace house, and that rushing out and buying a half bike was a really stupid idea. He then gave me 4 things, read chores, that I should do rather than buying something new. Boohoo.

Buddy and I looked at each other, the wind somewhat taken out of our sales.

Nerh. The sun has come out again, I'm off for an hour's walk. No bike riding today. 

PS. I found a half bike on gum tree for 1/3 of the price, I'll call tonight to see if it is still for sale.

Just by the way...

As we walked home from haircuts and lunch in the CBD yesterday, Sam said, "I want to buy a game controller, (that I'll probably never use), you have to come back into the city again later." This went on for 3 hours and I was meant to play along diligently, unquestioningly. 

We had to wait for Jill to come back from Queensland to pick up Bear who we'd been minding for the last week. Of course, her plane was late leaving the Gold Coast, so she didn't get to our place until late in the afternoon... blah, blah, blah.

7pm. We were on the steps of the GPO meeting the guy with the half price controller... I can't tell you how many times I've been in the Sunbury train station car park, or some such place, meeting Igor, buying goods out of the boot of his car with Sam.

"How do you know they're not stolen?" I ask.
"Who cares," Sam replies. "It looks legit."

... so I reckon he can support me in my half bike search.

Anyway, I'm going for a walk. The sun is out again.

Listening to Leo Sayer, Giving It All Away.

Buddy on the beach yesterday and what a glorious day it was too. Lovely Sommers on Western Port Bay.

The Pope And The Atheist

The Pope and an atheist are discussing the existence of God. It all goes quite amicably for some time, but as the hours pass, finally, the Pope gets frustrated. The Pope angrily says to the atheist,

“You are like a man who is totally blindfolded in a dark room looking for a black cat that isn’t there.”

“With all due respect Pope,” says the atheist, “I think there are great similarities between us both.”

“What do you mean similarities?” says the Pope.

“Well,” says the atheist, “I think you are like a man who is blindfolded in a totally dark room looking for a black cat that isn’t there. The only difference is that you found it.”

Dave Allen

Keith Haring, Collingwood

Okay, So That Was A Lie

I got up at 7.15am. I told Sam, who was still in bed, it was 7.15am, actually, 7.18am by that stage, and he said he didn’t care.

"Don't you have to go to work?"

He accused me of buying another bag of pot, but I said, “no, I was just efficient with the first one.”

“Rubbish!” A rather unexpected slap to the left cheek. But he didn’t say any more, he seemed to have bought it all too, it would seem, and I got clean away with it. (Against the greater truth that you never get away with anything)

He accused me of lying about what I ate, of all things, as there was the fried rice dinner still in the freezer. “I’m not lying, why would I lie?” I said. “What do you do, take inventory as soon as you get back?”

“Rubbish!” I ducked out of the way of the second slap. (Actually, there was no second slap.)

“I ate fish and chips last night,” I said. “No, the night before, last night I slept through. I ate muesli for breakfast and lunch yesterday.

It is overcast and grey.

Sam left at 8.15, with his laptop under his arm. He waved and blew kisses all the way down the street until he turned the corner and was out of sight.

8.45am. Third joint. Third coffee. The wind blows.

Aghast that Tony Abbott is trying to make a political come back of sorts, I am sure I have PTSD from his previous term as prime minster. And, "Stop the Boats."

I'm, mildly, surprised when I learn that it is Friday.

Buddy climbs into my lap as I drink my coffee. Clearly, Sam has even found the time to poison the dog with flea juice, he smells like we should change his name to Monsanto. I try to encourage him back to his own bed.

I think the lounge room smells like farts too.

Is it me? I do a mental check of when I last showered?

 

They are pulling down Dallas Brooks Hall to build, what else, more bloody apartments. Another 3000 in East Melbourne. Personally, I think the Dallas Brooks Hall should have been heritage listed, and the developers should have been made to make apartments out of it under those guidelines. It would have proved for interesting apartments. It would have evolved the suburb, let it grow, somewhat, organically.

Play Time Is Over

I came to at 4am and continued smoking pot. I made coffee. It was dark.

I read the Fletcher family history (brother) Will sent me. It is very interesting and I looked at it for quite a while. I am still pissed off with my brother and sister about the sale of my mother’s house. Don’t think you can get around me with obvious family history research.

6am. I go downstairs for muesli. I clean up the kitchen at the same time. It has to be done before Sam gets home, 6am seemed as good a time as any to cross it off the list.

The bedroom smells like farts, I think, when I return.

A bomb has hit the bedroom desk, I have the ice cream container, which I am currently using as an ash tray on the balcony, to shove all of the debris into, plenty of time.

6.45am. Go downstairs and make yet another cup of coffee, I don’t know, I have lost count. I take the fish and chipper rappers and the ice cream container and put them in the bin. I dry and put away all the dishes I washed earlier, while the coffee machine chugs through its sequence. The kitchen is spotless, as is required by Susan To.

I roll yet another joint. The morning is quite beautiful from my balcony. The morning sun is like honey.

I lay down on the bed next to Buddy.

10am. I wake up again.

I lay down with headphones and music.

Midday. I ate muesli.

Sam asked me if I’d done my walk, I replied that it was too cold. When I bothered to look up from my balcony chair, I could see it was a sparkling day. Grrrr!

Pretty much, after that, it was sleepy time. Right through. Out of it.

I, think, I got up at some point and fed Buddy. I propped the back door open for him, as it was a sparkling day, and whilst he looked out he didn’t go out.

I vaguely remember, Family Feud and The Project.

From what I can gather, Sam got home from Brisbane around 9pm. He woke me from a deep slumber.

It made me a fairly unresponsive target for the tsunami of criticism upon his initial return, as I was unconscious, and the initial unpleasantries were gotten through rather quickly, it would seem, with me being asleep.

Apparently, that little rat Buddy raced around in circles and couldn’t get out to the backyard quick enough, supposedly, he was holding on so badly. Of course, I got chastised for that. I could have damaged him.

Sam got to see everything, laid out bare, and I didn’t have to defend myself. And by the time I was fully responsive, he was only really interested in going to bed. Exhausted.

I said that I’d slept all day and that I probably couldn’t get to sleep, so I took my box of tricks and headed downstairs.

Sam came downstairs, after me, well, initially at least, I thought he came down to tell me off some more, but then I got the distinct idea that he came down for the joint itself. That’s my boy, I said quietly, under my breath. If only you were a pothead too, my life would be so much easier. He couldn’t really say much as Andy was in the kitchen messing around with his little bits of tat.

“Lovely to come home to be greeted by… then he did a rather unattractive impersonation of someone sleeping awkwardly.

“I didn’t know when you were coming home?”

“You didn’t care enough to ask.”

Oh that is not true, I distinctly remember finding out when he was coming home and mentally calculating what hour I was going to be in trouble?

“Oh come on, I’m sure I asked, you were just bad at replying.”

“Find where you asked me, and show me.”

I couldn’t.

Lovely factory conversions

7am

Miss (me) had clearly had far too many of his 'happy ciggies' when he tried to get the bins through the front door without waking the entire household this morning. Bang! Crash! Shh.

Anyway, managed it without waking the entire household and that is job for the day done, crisis averted, sweetie.

Sam is working in Brisbane, he left at 4am. That was quick, I hear you say. Who are your sources?

That was last week, Sam was furious. I just went and got it Thursday, it was a sunny day I was sweeping, I just needed a little lift. Far from demotivating, I find I do stuff. A couple of j's and I just start doing the stuff that needs doing.

Of course, Sam's take on it may be slightly different, You are a boring, fat, slob who never stops eating, and when you do manage to stop putting hand to mouth, you fall asleep (on the couch, usually, later in the evening. And who doesn't?) Chuckle. Nervous look. I'm sure the truth is somewhere in between, of course, Sam is at work when I am most productive.

What he did miss was my stealth manoeuvre, yesterday afternoon, to replenish my 'stash', he failed to sense that one. Points off, I thought my boyfriend was made of sterner stuff. You are making it too easy.

As far as his 2 days away, I have been saying all week, as I will be left under my own supervision, I shall supervise myself as I see appropriate. My supervision is my supervision. And somehow I got away with that one. I said it initially, and wasn't shot down in flames, so I repeated it, constantly, and often, until it became a part of our dialogue. So we had a temporary cease fire on that one. (christian 1, sam 0)

But I'd run out yesterday morning, but I had wisely given up progress reports on the dwindling stash, that one took me quite some time to grasp. So he-who-thinks-he-runs-the-ship lost track.

I started smoking cigarettes around lunch time, and the first one was disgusting, and I just wanted to give it a little green garnish, but know, I was going to be good. All afternoon, I was going to be good. Then at 4pm I decided, who's idea was that? Who said I had to be good? Not moi. What is 'good' anyway? Somebody else's paradigm of some interpretation of what 'good' might be. And against all odds, I was sitting back on my garden chair with a coffee and a spliff @ 4.45pm, who said it couldn't be done.

Then I just played it au natural. Like taking candy from a baby.

I'm wondering if this was once my aunt's pharmacy in Johnson Street, Collingwood. I remember going there often as a kid. It didn't quite look like this then, it has been given a retro make over

The Photos Are Now Silent

I looked back over my family photos. I was looking for something, one of my mum's old photos I used at the beginning of my blog. Since I wrote whichever piece, I have rescanned all of my old prints. So now I have a better resolution image to upload.

I've just done a big revision of my blog. Yes, far too much time on my hands. I've been weeding out the draft copies. Where I once had 460 drafts, I now have 269. A lot have been things I half wrote back then and then for whatever reason I have left them and never finished them. I've gone through and finished them and published them. What I couldn't remember, I made up, all with in the spirit of what I had been writing about. There are many that I have deleted, just a few words, or something, recycled waiting as new drafts to be used again.

I realised with the death of Uncle Evan this year, the voices on my parent's generation have been silenced. The old photos used to bristle with life and stories when Uncle Evan was still around, when my mother and my father were around to tell me about the day a particular shot was taken. The photos would be stepping off points to the history that came before me, but that portal has now been closed. Those images are now set in stone, their secrets safe.

Of course there is Aunty Marie, she is my dad's side, I should go chat to her, before her memories slip from my grasp too. Before I say, yet again, if only. But, My mum's side, all the voices are now silenced with the death of my mum and her sister in the last twelve months.

Never will I know just what that smile meant in that shot.

I look at the photos differently now, I realised to day, they have all now slipped away. The photos are silent.

I think of Auntie Marie. Sixty years Evan was there, next to her, beside her, raising four kids with her, and suddenly he is not there any more. Auntie Marie has a strong catholic faith, I'm guessing that is getting her through.

What is it? "Hang on Ev, not long now." And she will get to see him in the after life. Auntie Marie is 84. I guess that is not so very long to be without him.

I make up my mind to go and see her. Get off my arse and go chat with her. She is lovely, it would be nice. Soon, I think.

Just because he is pretty

Fletcher and Roberts

Me and Alex. Year eleven was a big year for me, romantically. Alex and Leah. Alex and I had been noticing each other all through year 10. We got together in year 11 assembly, Alex just asked me straight out in his usual confident style. Alex always got what he wanted.

I don’t know why I was thinking about him this morning?

Leah and I got together at the back of a youth group church hall, chaperoning fat Wendy and her first date, Hammer. My hunting grounds knew no bounds. Oh, I shouldn’t write that, it was a time of discovery.

It quickly became Fletcher and Roberts in year eleven. Only one teacher whoever, really, picked it. Mr Brock, Lachlan Brock. The rumour was always that he was gay. We found out after we left school who were the gay teachers, but I don’t think we ever really knew it while we were at school. The French teacher. The school camp master. The biology master. The bushwalking master. Oh yes, the head of music, that was the only scandal Smithton had to endure. The Group Head Master of Music left his wife and eloped to the Gold Coast with a year twelve boy, as soon as the year was done.

But, other than that, there was no funny business.

I only know that because I walked into The Peel with Alex, it was a Sunday night, the day we screwed. And as if to, literally, say you cannot escape your past, all five masters were standing at the back bar. We turned on our heals and walked straight out the door again. We laughed so hard, read nearly crapped ourselves, as we fled down Wellington Street. We walked back to North Fitzroy where Alex’s car was. He got in and drove away. What are the chances, I ask you. Maybe, our old Smithton masters held up the bar at the Peel every night, who knows.

It must be 10 years ago that I read that Alex had died, in The Smithton Old Grammarian. Just suddenly like that, In Memorium. I was shocked. Ten years after we left school. I always thought we’d meet up one last time. I was ready for our ten year reunion, my ten year man, I’d learned some new tricks. I still don’t know what from? Gone.

Alex and I were Audio Equipment organisers, Mr Brock was the head of that department. Audio Visual, I guess, down the strange corridor into a world all of its own, lots of black. It even had its own smell, a black smell. Mr Brock used to live down there. He was really a senior teacher, in superiority, Year 10 Group Master, but because of his position, non-teacher, we didn’t, exactly, treat him as such. Or was it that we always knew that we were men of the same persuasion. I don’t know now? That wasn’t easy to grasp. Not that I thought in those terms back then, it was really just a feeling that I didn’t understand, and I seemed to connect with other males who didn’t understand those same feelings too. And occasionally we’d reach out to each other, and not always sexually, despite what others, who may want to bring us down, might say. Brock never wanted to have sex with me, nothing like that, but it is natural to connect on gay men alike basis. Not that I thought so clearly then, I only think this stuff now, looking back. All I knew was that he’d smiled and I’d smiled and some how we were both at ease when we did that.

Alex and I always went down together, we volunteered, we’d volunteer for everything, Alex and I, knowing the two of us, we probably made detours to the change rooms to suck each other’s cocks, you know, just on the way. The vice captain of the school and the captain of the football team and a lead batter in the under whatever’s cricket, and I was head of the debating team, yes, I know, hot, quite a smart kid, leader in the 500 competition, played in the orchestra, one of the leaders in the bushwalking club, I guess, known for having a big mouth. Well documented as a smoker in year twelve, one of the guys the year 12 group master would bot cigarettes off, if he was out. He’d deny it, I guess, but that was the era that I went to school.

This particular day, Alex was away, I can’t remember why.

It was first period, we needed audio visual equipment. As I struggled with the trolley, Brock leapt up and opened the door for me. He laughed and said, “Fletcher and Roberts," said Brock. "It's always Fletcher and Roberts. Where is your side kick?"

“He’s away, sir.” Shrug. “I don’t know why.”

“It’s always Fletcher and Roberts, isn’t it?” He looked me directly in the eyes. I felt like I had been read, his look of understanding was so strong.

"I don't know what you mean, sir." I didn’t really understand why I was blushing. Suddenly exposed.

“You two are buddies, always together,” said Brock.

I’m sure I looked blankly back at him, I seem to remember being lost for words. Did he just imply… was rushing through my mind? The first person, well, there is Tab, the first adult.

“Oh, don’t think that is a bad thing,” said Brock. “I think it is nice.”

I would have denied it, I could have, but I didn’t. I knew, that he knew, and that I knew he knew, and he knew that I knew. It was one of the most terrifyingly truthful moments of my life.

And it was okay, the world didn’t stop. My head didn’t explode, like I expected it to.

And I went straight to fucking Alex’s arse in my mind, that is really what Brock is talking about, as that’s all it could ever really have been, by that stage. I remember I blushed and smiled.

The moment froze. Just me and Brock, suddenly I grew as big as he was in my mind. I instinctively knew that Brock was gay too, in that moment, and he was a successful, reasonably good looking, gay man, telling me that life was okay.

I’m sure I would have though of a response, now we’ll never know, because right at that moment, my sparkly, sun-shining-out-of, Alex stumbled through the door, with what seemed like even more floppy hair, the strands separated with sweat, smiley face. 

“Sorry. Dad’s car wouldn’t start. Did I miss anything?”

And then it was Brock and Fletcher and Roberts, in Brock’s office, just the three of us. Brock smiled, and as if he knew I was stuck in the moment, and needed someone to say something to snap me out of one of my first ever epiphanies, Brock looked at me and then to handsome Alex and then back to me. “No, you are just in time to help Christian,” said Brock.

And you must remember that Alex was at my shiny-new-toy stage so I was keen to keep looking at him. “No. Nothing.”

Alex looked at me, then looked at handsome Mr Brock and then looked back at me. Alex shrugged. “Good then.”

“Take the other end of the trolley,” I said.

“Nice talking, boys,” said Brock. He went back to whatever it was he was doing, I didn’t really notice.

But, I can tell you, that Alex had on what looked like his second pair of suit pants, maybe his pants were at the dry cleaners, he was clearly wearing last years pair for whatever reason and they were tight over his muscular arse, as he manoeuvred around the trolley. Grey woollen trousers, freshly ironed white shirt, striped tie. Blonde floppy hair. A fringe. Blue eyes. Big, handsome smile. I can close my eyes…

“What was all that about?”

“Nothing.” I was still processing it, I told Alex in real time, as I came to my realisation. “Me. You. I don't know?"

"What do you mean?" Alex is not dumb, he's one of the smartest guys I know. I saw him withdraw, as he realised what “it” meant. Scared. New material to deal with. He looked at me. Serious eyes. Processed. The world didn't explode. Cock of the head. And there was that smile, the smile that launched a thousand deals, the smile that broke my heart.

“Huh? What do you mean?”

Eventually, one of the boys, Scotty Bug, a few years after me and Alex, and well after he left school, a couple of years after he left school, moved in with Brock as his lover. But Brock would have taught him. Scotty Bug the athletic swim star. The champion hockey player. Who became Dr Scotty Bug. Brock and Bug. They had a long term relationship and, as far as I know, they are still together.

Alex would smile, and he’d kiss me, he had big, soft lips. He’d giggle when we kissed, as if we were doing something naughty, or like we were doing something good. Well, only in the very beginning.

Sometimes, I’d sit next to Alex, in the dark, as we watched some audio visual, which the two of us would have set up, so we’d sit down the back, last to take our seats. I can still feel his woollen trousers stretched over his muscular thigh. I can still feel his hand pause just that little bit too long, as our fingertips caressed, before he’d pull his hand away, and I instinctively would pull my hand away too. Only Tab ever noticed, he looked at Alex and I in ore, I’m sure. Sometimes he’d comment, quietly, whispered, and Alex and I would look at each other, then look back at Tab, blankly, not giving an inkling away to him. But, he always knew. He knew that we knew he knew. The two of us just never gave it oxygen with him, it frustrated the hell out of him.

You know those dogs in the Bugs Bunny cartoon, the bulldog and the little dog that was always asking the bulldog what to do. Alex and I were two bulldogs, and Tab was the small yappy dog. However, where the little dog always came out tops in the cartoons, he never did in real life, not with Alex and I. The little dog never had his day and after school Alex and I did not share Tab’s rise to the top of the medical profession, to heal people, to make up for his mogul father’s lack of love in Tab’s life.

We pushed the trolley out into the quad, but still between the building so nobody could see us. Alex came right over close, puffed himself up, pushed his chest out, he had a good chest, and said, 

“Is Brock onto us.”

“Yeah,” I said all breathy, I can still hear myself say it. I nuzzled Alex’s neck. We pushed the trolley around to the classroom. Through the door into the main corridor, up the far steps, the steps travelled less often, the smokers steps. We’d carry the trolley up three flights. The smokers would look nervous, puffing away on their fags on the top floor. Alex would push the trolley in from there, I’d smack him on the arse as he went. Nobody noticed. Nobody said a word. We were the smart kids, it was probably ironic. I’d sit with Chook and MacDonald and bot a puff on a smoke. A couple of puffs, and then I’d run after Alex, managing to touch him again, before we’d get to class. He’d jump at the classroom door when I’d touch his arse. He’d give me big eyes, from under his floppy fringe. And a serious face. Some times he’d lean across and kiss me as he opened the door, I don’t know how we didn’t get caught, but we didn’t. But I am sure we were always jumpy when we re-joined the others. Nervy. On edge. We were both jumpy around one another, like someone had just pinched someone’s arse, usually someone had, I’m surprised nobody noticed. But I think year 12 boys are naturally touchy, kind of exploring their territory. And probably jumpy.


It was five years after school, that I met him again, in the street in North Fitzroy, just out of the blue, we bumped into each other.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” He’d had his hair cut short back and sides and I wanted to shag him so bad. Who is that sexy guy? That was my sexy man. He was married by then and had two sons, maybe three. He sent them to Smithton, he was big on the dad’s committee. So what, I'd say, I was still seeing Leah, when she'd go out, and get drunk, and couldn’t find a shag, and she’d be at my window at 3am wanting to screw, I didn’t give him that much detail. I met him on the island outside Piedes. He looked hot, the short hair really suited him. I told him I had an empty house just around the corner. Which I did. 

What could he say? 

We shagged on my bed, he was very enthusiastic, like no time had passed, but all the time had passed, as we both now knew what we were doing. He was a man, he fucked like a man. There was no way I wasn’t putting my cock up his arse. Where Roberts had been the dominant figure while we were at school, the way he shut me out of his life after year twelve, after his mum pretty much sprung us. We were dressed, and we were just sitting on his back deck drinking juice, when she came home, unexpectedly early. I had just forced him to take my cock up his arse, when he told me he couldn’t see me any more.

“Come on Fletch, it’s not school any more,” said Alex. “Its time to grow up.”

I pushed him on to the couch and pulled his jeans down, and pulled his jocks down, he struggled, but his cock gave him away. He was soon kissing me back, telling me how much he wanted it, again. There was his mother’s hand cream on the table, the next thing I had it on my cock and then I pushed my cock into his arse. He thought I was just roughhousing around, right up until I penetrated him, ah a couple of 18 year olds. He struggled, I struggled, then I pushed him forward onto his hands, he was off balance, he went over real easy and I pushed my cock up to my balls into his arse. He inhaled sharply, I can still hear that to this day. And I fucked him hard. He came violently all over his parent’s leather couch.

“That’s grown up,” I said. 

I can still see him wiping the cum from his hand and stomach, his jeans and jocks around his thick thighs. We’d cleaned up. We were very relaxed. His mother came home right after that. The air smelt of the two of us sweating. She looked at us strangely, me warily. Alex said, “This is Christian.”

“Nice to meet you Christian,” she said, like she really meant the opposite. She could clearly sense something about me. I sensed she sensed it. “I’ve heard so much about you?”

“Nice to meet you Mrs Roberts,” I said. She wasn’t supposed to be home. I stood up, I’m sure I looked and sounded guilty. “I’ve got to be going.”

“Already,” she said. She meant the opposite.

I had my mum’s Saab, it was the summer after we left school. His parents were away, my parents were away, we caught up for sex through that whole period. I was fucking Alex and I was fucking Leah. It was the only time I ever cheated in my life and it was for the entire time I was with Leah. Shrug.

Alex and I went to Tasmania. Alex and I drove to Adelaide. Alex and I fucked in hotels around Melbourne. Alex and I had sex all the time Leah and I were having sex. I was getting good at it. Screwing Leah, screwing Alex. Alex and I were going out together, that glorious summer after we left school.

Then, Alex’s mum came home unexpectedly early from the beach house. I think she’d heard a lot about Christian and her son. Alex walked me out to my mum’s car.

“She could smell your arse in there,” I said.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“A mother never forgets the smell of her only son’s arse.”

Alex looked back at the house, then looked back at me. He couldn’t help but smile. “You really are disgusting.”

I drove away off into the sunny day in the cool Swede, feeling pretty chuffed with myself, I remember. 

After our next meeting, he told me for the first time that he could never see me again. Broke my heart. We lost track. He wanted it that way.

He said he could never see me again, for the second time in his life, as he left my house that day. His jocks would have been glued to his arse all the way back to his wife. He would have to have had a shower as soon as he got home, not to be found out. Her husband came home with another man’s cum up his arse, I’m sure he would have done anything for her not to find out about that. Well, not that I knew of. Broke my heart again? No, I never expected him to, it was over by then. Just a memory. I was discovering my new suburb and the places men go to meet each other. But it was good to catch up. One for the road. He was his beautiful self. We weren’t jumpy with each other, sparking off each other. Devoured each other for the last time. I sent him back to his real life.

“Do I say its good seeing you again? It’s good seeing you again.” He smiled, and nuzzled my neck. He hugged me passionately on my veranda in the afternoon sunshine, as if he didn’t care who saw. For the first time ever, really.

I never saw him again.

more apartments, of course

The Sun Blazes

I bought pot, last Thursday. It was an absolutely glorious day, what else was a boy to do. (Sam read this over my shoulder, and then supplied me with a rather detailed list of alternatives) I was cleaning up around the house and I thought to myself, self? It would be much nicer doing this stoned, so I got some. Sam was furious, quiet not speaking kind of, um, er, furious. (roll of the eyes, grimace)

This morning he told me not to get anymore, as he always does. Something about not showing consideration, "You are taking me down this slippery slope with you, are you aware, I hope you are pleased with yourself." Grit teeth fury. 

What can I say, the boy is no fucking fun. 

Again suggesting that he does not partake, is, apparently, not the correct answer here, just in case anybody wants to avoid the new burst of fury such a suggestion brings forth. However, Master Sam is going to Brisbane for work, on Wednesday.

Shake of the head. "Tutt tutt. You are not going to be here?"

"Do you think you are funny?"

I told him that he had a major problem with his argument, he is going to Brisbane on Wednesday, and he won’t be here.

“Left under my own supervision on Wednesday,” I said. Sharp inhale of breath threw gritted teeth. “That's where it all falls down, sunshine." I was doing my best impersonation of a Chicago gangster, I am not sure why? "I can’t be held responsible.”

He made threats to beat me. (Truthfully, before anyone takes that seriously, he occasionally gives me a very gay slap on the arm if he is really cross) The usual Armageddon type stuff.

I wrote a whole piece about me and Alex my year twelve boyfriend at school, I have written about it before, this was the next instalment, but I decide not to publish it, its not cooked yet. It needs to say more to warrant its existence.


Sam says I eat, and eat, and eat, and get fat when I am stoned. He says I am asleep on the couch by 7pm, that's how much fun me being stoned is. And am I seriously going to give up work and become a pothead for the rest of my life. Stuff like that.

I ask him why he makes any of that sound like a problem?

He does some rather angry interpretations, that are purported to be me, I feel like I am in a scene from Absolutely Fabulous, Sam is Saffy and I am Edina.

I ask him when he is going to work?

I stumble to the door, which for some reason I find awfully amusing, I am not sure why, which didn’t build my case, I am aware. Sam is saying something to me that involves the physical description of his pointer finger and thumb being held close together, the meaning of which I fail to grasp.

The morning sun is suddenly burning brightly, every vampire got a shiver and none of them know why, as the front door is swung open. I kiss him good bye on the hearth, then wave my hand and make kissy faces until he turns the corner and is out of sight.

The sun blazes, its long shadows contrast starkly with the red brickwork of the fence.

A flower in Swanston Street

Flowers in Swanston Street

Turning Into An Old Perv

I must be turning into an old perv, I think. I go for a walk every day for an hour. I think if I do an hours exercise every day, I can sit on my arse for the rest of the time. Funny, David often calls me during my walk and we chat away. He calls me on his blue days, when I am out being healthy, telling me how depressed he is. I make him laugh.

Any way, I digress...

I take my walk up Swanston Street, passed Melbourne uni, and are there some cute boys who go to Melbourne Uni. I have my head phones on, I am lost in my own world of music, and it is like a steady stream of Ford Models. (maybe, I exaggerate a little, but I am sure you get what I mean) past my eyes. I look straight ahead, steady like a galleon, but it is a cute passing parade and there is a smile on my face.

Apparently, despite all the evidence against him, he is still the way

The unnerving stare of the devoutly catholic, captured beautifully here. The determination of the deluded, some might say

Jon Thinks He Can Smell Something?

Jon thinks, What is that yogurty, nutmeggy, strawberry aroma... as he pulls his nose out of his boyfriend, Christos' hairy arse crack?

Christos is on his knees, down on his elbows pulling his cock furiously, as he likes his arse being licked. He is quite the bottom guy, is Christos.

"Can you smell anything?" asks Jon.

"No." Gasp. "It wasn't me." Gasp. "Why?" Gasp. "Don't stop."

"It smells like yogurt..."

"What?" moans Christos. He rests his forehead on his arm but he is still pulling himself. "Yogurt?" He sounds incredulous.

"Have you been eating yogurt?"

"NO!" wails Christos.

"Or strawberry..."

"What?" Groan. "No!" Groan. "Fuck Jon, don't stop! I'm nearly, I'm nearly..."

"Or is it nutmeg?" Jon rubs his nose with the back of his hand.

"Jesus Jon, NOT FUCKEN NOW!"

"What do you think it could be?" Jon sniffs the air.

"Who cares!" cries Christos. "Lick my fucken arse, will you!"

"What?"

"AH!"

"Oh?" Jon turns his head sideways and slides the tip of his tongue quite forcefully inside Christos' quivering anus, sliding it in and out like a piston.

"Oh yeah! Oh fucken yeah" Christos' hand starts to beat himself faster. "Yes, just like that." Thwack, thwack, thwack goes his hand.

"I han till mell it." Jon's words are muffled, as would be expected.

"Oh MY FUCKEN GOD!" screams Christos, “What?”

Jon pulls his face out of Christos arse crack. “I said I could smell it.”

“Smell WHAT?”

“Yogurt, or nutmeg, or strawberries,” says Jon. “Didn’t you hear me?”

“I’m sorry, but I had my mind… on… something… else.” Christos balls his fists out in front of him and drops his head.

“Sorry,” says Jon.

“SORRY?” Christos collapses onto his stomach. “Ah!”

“I got distracted.”

“Clearly!”

Jon laughs. “It made me feel like fruit salad.”

“I don’t BELIEVE you!”

“Oh… sorry… come on, let’s finish.” Jon slaps Christos’ bare arse. Jon’s hand stings. He shakes it in mid air.

“OMG!” Christos grabs his arse and rolls into ball. "Fuuuck!"

“Oh, sorry… again,” says Jon. He can’t believe he just did that. “Do you want fruit salad." Jon laughs. "You know, if I get some?”

“No, no I don’t.” Christos spits his words at Jon.

Gorgeous little thing. I had to go into town and pick up leftover curry from Charlie, apparently, when I asked Sam later why, Charlie doesn't like eating leftovers. Curious, I thought. Anyway, after I'd picked up the food, I continued on my daily walk, down Lygon Street where this little beauty resides on a box outside one of the restaurants. I walked for an hour with chicken curry over my shoulder, I figured since it was cooked, it would be okay.

Shocked and Amazed

I don't tend to get shocked by the awful things people do, I tend to be immune to such things. I just sigh, and roll my eyes some times, check the address to see if it is anywhere close by. Tutt on some of the details, where the always outraged are outraged and roll my lip and maybe grimace for the harder cases. Whatever?

I tend to get more greatly affected when people do something that is nice. I well up on the really good deeds. I cry easily, tears of joy. Heroes and rescues, always make me cry. The saviour coming over the metaphorical hill with the cavalry at the very last minutes, when all seems lost, always gets me. Shivers. Good samaritans.

Is this a 21st Century disease? We're immune to the bad details of life, as that is what the media continually picks to get our attention, so we have a disorder to that sort of stuff. Sad sells, misery makes money. We are bombarded with the ugly and the bad. 

It is one of the reasons, I am sure, that the presidential hopeful, the male one, I'm not saying his name, has got such traction. "I'll make American great again." Don't believe the hype, you dopes, America is great. It just has to elevate all of its people to greatness, but, of course, that doesn't sell.

Is this a type of Affluenza? We're more comfortable with the sickness in the world? It's kind of sad when you think about it, kind of means we all live with a joy deficit.

But, of course, me writing this is, actually, buying into it. There are great things in the world, every where, all around us. 

It was just that I was watching the news the other day - I have slipped back into that mode - and something terrible happened in the world and after we'd listened to all of the terrible details, I turned to Sam and said, "Do you want cake?" Seemingly not even reacting, not one bit.

Scary Clown Sightings in Australia Since September

Racebo the Clown

This is Harassment

Well. What is it they say, no where to hide? Josie (the new boss chick who took over from Jack) has been calling me constantly this week. Every day, three times yesterday. I told my friend Jill that it was bordering on harassment and she didn't see any humour in it.

"At least someone is calling you for work, be grateful."

Yeah, well that wasn't what I wanted to hear. Jill is home on an obese woman's emergency diet, so I am guessing her patience is thin. (Oh, making it personal to deflect the criticism, bad Christian) Ha ha, I was kidding, of course, the constant phone calls were really setting off my guilt about not working, but Jill didn't, exactly, see it that way. 

I told Josie I'd call her when I was back from my weekend away over the grand final weekend. No, I didn't go away, I've been here the whole time. It was an excuse, so I could cancel our meeting last Thursday.

Which part of, I'll call you, does this chick not understand?

Anyway, she called me Monday, she called me Tuesday and she called me 3 times on Wednesday. This seems a little obsessive, I thought to myself, when I was on my walk yesterday. Maybe, she has got an assignment for me. Maybe, it is an assignment I have done before? Maybe, it was a client that asked for me specifically. They do that, you know, despite the gruff exterior I display on here. So, what can I say, guilt kicked in, and I started to think that I needed to contact her.

Email is my preferred means of communication. I clearly have to train another one on this preferred method. 
Just email her, I told myself, don't think about the calls you have ignored, so what. Surely, she'd say she had a job for me, if she had a job for me in a return email. You'd think, wouldn't you? So I did. I emailed her.

She had no job. She was just trying to sure up her numbers. Keen to reschedule our meeting. Yeah, good for you, I thought.

Oh, there you go. I must reschedule my appointment with disappointment... er, her. Yeah. I can hardly wait.

Oh, dear universe, I must write something, so I don't have to go back to the salt mines. Please don't make me go back to the salt mines, just yet. Then I said real fast after that, dear universe, please don't let me horribly miscalculate and wake up at 75 penniless saying to myself, "Boy, did I get that horribly wrong." Then I giggled to myself, what is it they say, "It is better to be poor and happy than rich and miserable." Then I think to myself, You are the only person who has ever said that, you are quoting yourself. And I was sure that was some form of twisted megalomania. Then I thought about lunch.

His Back Twinged

His back twinged as he bent down to pick things up now a days and he was only in his early forties. He had exacerbated his "bad back" playing indoor volley ball too vigorously the night before with his team the Northern Lights, sure that was true. He had twisted the wrong way, going into hard against Wei Tran, which had been fairly foolish as Wei Tran was much younger than he. His back wasn't normally this bad, but he did suffer from some permanent tenderness now a days, there was obviously some degeneration, of sorts. He wondered if it would feel twice as sore in another forty years, twenty years, ten, probably worse than he imagined, pretty soon, as he assumed the degeneration was going to be much worse in future years. Or was that just his glass half sensibility? He knew now what his parents meant when they groaned with the ravages of time when he was a kid. He never thought he'd get to that just the same, but he had.

He picked up his brief case, straightened his jacket and prepared to head out into the cold.

He winced and took a step forward.

"Oh." Groan. Wince. It will get better again, soon. But what if it didn't get better, what if this is it? Glass half full, glass half full, he repeated in his mind.

Creak sounded the front door, not unlike how his back felt. The fresh air hit his face almost immediately. He breathed it in in big breaths pretending that it was the temperature of air that was making him gasp and not because of his recalcitrant back. He deadlocked the door with the key in his hand, the key ring of keys jangled as he did. He stepped out onto the veranda and turned and pulled the door shut behind him. It made a reassuring clunk sound. His back twinged, he gasped again.

He turned, steadied himself and then stepped foreword with one foot tentatively.

"Oh, ah," he said. Oh bugger, he thought.

He stepped forward with the other foot. "Oh."

He gripped the hand rail in his right hand and gingerly stepped down the single step to the front path. He turned and looked back at the front door. He scratched his chest and rubbed his back, his brief case in his back scratching hand swung backwards and forwards with each scratch and he pretty soon stopped scratching. He walked to the front gate, he thought, as if he'd shit his pants, he hoped no one was looking. He laughed at the thought, which seemed to twinge in his back as well. The heavy metal gate clanged as he swung it open, it clanged again when he closed it on its old latch bolted to the brick fence.

His trusty red MGB was sitting on the street, just along from his front gate. He slid the worn, silver key into the door latch and then pushed the button on the handle and he pulled the door open, it made a clack sound as it always did. He tossed his brief case across onto the passenger seat. He slid his suit jacket off and flung it after his brief case. The putting on and taking off of the suit jacket was a ritual, one he would repeat all day.

He slunk down into the low slung car with some difficulty this morning. The car sat low to the ground, with his legs almost out straight in front of him. He wondered if he'd have to get rid of the car, in how many years? Most of his family wouldn't be so sad about that happening, as quite a number of them thought that Ryan was living in the passed, trying to hang onto the last shreds of his youth by still driving the old sports car.

His back ached. It seemed to ache right down into his arse crack, which suddenly seemed itchy and he wanted to slide his finger into the top and scratch it. It was no use, he was in no condition to perform such a feet of dexterity, so he ignored the itch, hoping it would go away. It didn't. He wriggled his bottom backwards and forwards, as best he could, hoping that would do the trick. It didn't, the itch remained.

He fitted his harness across his chest, securing the two buckles. He slid the key into the ignition, he pulled on the choke, turning it to the left when it was fully pulled out to lock it into position. He turned the key and the car gently rocked from side to side as the engine began to turn over under the long curved bonnet that stretched out in front of him. He turned the key off and turned it on again.

The engine caught, and the car fired into life with its loud, throaty exhaust note. He pushed down on the clutch, his back twinged again and he inhaled breath sharply with the pain. "Oh fuck it," he said quietly to himself. He selected 1st gear, slipped off the handbrake, flicked on the indicator switch, checked his mirrors and pulled out onto the road. His back twinged again as he changed gears. His back twinged with every gear change. It twinged in 2nd, it twinged in 3rd, it twinged in 4th. He cursed the day, every time he changed gears.

Really, the bible was the forerunner to Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter. What the ancient imagination could come up with to explain the things it didn't understand is really quite interesting 

Paris, Monday

Taylor Swift was spotted speeding through Paris in a black van with what was described by one observer as 5 males strippers in police uniforms.

Or is it that Kimmy has a new coffee table book coming out entirely dedicated to her arse?

I guess we'll just have to wait for the next instalment of her reality TV show, Kim Gets Taken Hostage in Paris.

Apparently, Kris Jenner's initial response to Kimmy's robbery in Paris was, "Were the camera's rolling?"

Charlie's Shorts

Charlie wore very small shorts, he liked the feel of them, he liked the way they felt across the tops of his thighs when he ran. When he looked down it looked as though he had an enormous cock, he liked that too. He ran the palm of his hand down over the front of his shorts, it felt soft and squashy and a good size.

He sat down onto top of the brick wall in the sun. The added pressure across his legs and crotch from the stretch of the material of his shorts felt pleasing pressing down on his good sized bulge. The shorts were really too small for him, let’s face it, but that is why he liked them.

He loved the feeling of them hugging him tight. He liked the feeling of the shorts leg around his thigh. He liked the feeling of the shorts grabbing in the crack in his arse and he liked the feeling of the shorts grabbing him under his balls.

He looked out over the ocean stretching out in front of him in a broad blue slash filling his vision. He sat down on the bluestone wall and took it all in. He liked the warm concrete capping against his bum, the heat seep into his skin, warming him from the arse up. He could feel it warming his hips and the backs of his thighs. That energy, made him feel alive somehow.

He crossed his arms across his chest and felt very content with the world. He felt very content with himself.

He could feel that effects of the splifs he smoked before he left the house. He could feel the edginess seeping from his veins into his bones. He could feel himself begin to twitch, which was always a good sign that it was good shit that he’d just inhaled.

He liked being out in the day and out of it, behind his sunglasses feeling like nobody knew, like he was invincible, like he was safe behind shields.

The old lady, walking her small white puffy dog, nodded as she passed by. Her violet hair glistened in the sunlight. Charlie nodded back. He felt his cheeks crease into a smile. She had soft blue eyes, and a slash of red lip stick across her mouth. Otherwise, the boardwalk was empty, just Charlie, the afternoon, the sun, the blue sky and the seagull hovering in the air.

He closed his eyes and watched the sun dance orange on the inside of his eyelids. Purple when he squeezed them tight. This was the art of keeping perfectly still beneath the gorgeous sun’s rays. Just breath.

He felt his shorts hugging him. He felt his singlet rub across his nipples. He felt a pleasing hum in his body. He pushed down on his crotch with the palm of his right hand surreptitiously. He could feel the tingle flow right through his entire body, from his perineum, up his spine to his shoulder blades. He could feel his desire instantly respond.

A gentle breeze blew. The sky dazzled with blue.

He rubbed his palms on his hairy thighs. The hair on his legs tickled and massaged his the palms of his hands. He felt agitated, in a really good way. Disturbed, magically so.

He could feel the hum, he could feel the buzz, he could feel the zzzz, the rumpa pa, the tum di dum, the Ta Da, the zsa zsa zsa!

Something touched Charlie’s foot. He looked down to see the wide panting mouth of a pug dog. The cute little dog jumped up and jumped up and jumped up again.

A well built blond guy walked up. Singlet. Shorts. iPod, ear phones, sunglasses. Barefoot. Back pack slung over one shoulder. “Buster!” he said. The pug spun around and tilted his head to one side. He had a hand rolled cigarette between his fingers. The sun shone down on his blonde hair, making it look golden. His skin was tanned.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” said Charlie.

He removed his sunglasses and took his earphones from each ear.

“I’m Harry.”

Charlie removed his sunglasses.

“I’m Charlie.” The sun was suddenly bright.

Harry smiled. “You seem… um… very chilled, my friend?”

“Me?” asked Charlie, somewhat surprised by the question.

Harry tilted his head and laughed, “Yes... you.”

Charlie shrugged. “You say it like it is a bad thing.”

“Really.” Harry said more as a statement than a question.

“High on rife… um… life,” said Charlie. Damn, he thought.

Harry shrugged. “I don’t believe you.”

“Don’t you?” said Charlie. “The blue sky, the fresh breeze.” Charlie gave Harry the once over. “The scenery. What is there not to be chilled about?”

Harry puffed on the cigarette and then offered it to Charlie. Charlie raised his eyebrows in question, as he pushed his hand through the air towards Charlie.

Charlie took the joint from Harry.

“Do you come down here much?” asked Harry.

Charlie puffed on the joint. He coughed as he exhaled. “No… not really. You?”

“Just to walk Buster.” Harry motioned with his chin towards the dog, now lying on the concrete looking up at them. Buster tilted his head when he heard his name and his curled tail wagged.

“Cute dog,” said Charlie. He handed the joint back to Harry.

Harry declined. “Finish it. I’m pretty ripped.”

“Actually, I’m… um.” Charlie shrugged. He put the smoke to his lips, it was just easier.

“Chilled, huh?”

“Huh.”

“You look chilled?”

Charlie laughed and slid his sunglasses back on. “The blue sky, the fresh breeze…”

“The scenery,” said Harry, mimicking Charlie. “It a great afternoon, the sun is shining, why not.”

Harry sat down on the wall next to Charlie and gazed out to sea as he puffed on the rest of the joint. “Makes me too horny.”

Charlie laughed. “Me too.”

Harry looked down at Charlie’s shorts. “Nice shorts.”

“Thanks.”

“Hot… really.” Harry raised his eyebrows and his forehead creased, and broke into a laugh that he seemed to try to not break into.

Charlie thought Harry had a sexy laugh.

Harry smiled and held Charlie's gaze longer than he should have.

Charlie knew what was coming next. He felt nervous and excited in equal measures.

"You live around here?" asked Harry.

“Just down the road.”

“Interesting,” said Harry.

Charlie decided to ignore the obvious implication, just for the moment. “In what sense?” He smiled, despite himself, he couldn’t seem to stop himself smiling.

“In the sense of those shorts you are wearing…”

“Say what?” said Charlie.

“Surely, you aren’t telling me that you wore those shorts to blend into the crowd.”

“Yes, I am,” said Charlie. He knew that wasn’t true, but he wasn’t going to be called out on it.

Harry flicked the finished butt onto the path. Buster raised his head and looked in the direction of where the butt landed.

“If I wasn’t trying to impress you,” said Charlie. “I’d give you a lecture on littering.”

“Are you trying to impress me?” asked Harry.

“Are you impressed?” asked Charlie.

“It’ll take a bit more to impress me.” Harry looked down at Charlie’s shorts, then looked up and smiled at Charlie.

Charlie instinctively spread his legs and leant back with his hands balancing behind him

“You are very tanned, you must hang out down here a lot?” said Harry.

“You are very buff, you must hang out at the gym a lot,” said Charlie.

“You’re very handsome, your daddy must be good looking.”

“Actually, my mum was a beauty queen,” said Charlie. “Miss Eastern Suburbs 1985.”

“That’s no surprise to me,” said Harry

Charlie smiled.

“That you came from the eastern suburbs,” said Harry. “Not that your parents were genetically blessed.”

They both laughed.

“I bet you were a private school boy,” said Harry.

Memories from Smithton Grammar School Kew flashed through his mind. “That seems like a life time ago now,” said Charlie.

“You’re not answering the question.”

“I know,” said Charlie. He smiled at Harry. He could feel a dull ache in his face from all the smiling he was doing. He must really like this guy, he thought. He hadn’t smiled so much since Carl flirted with him from the football field in year 12. “So where did you grow up?”

“The city.”

“Which part?”

“Here.”

“St Kilda Beach?”

“Well, not, actually, on the sand, you understand.”

“Very trendy.”

“Oh yes.”

“So, speedos and zinc cream for you, I presume.”

“Speedos and zinc cream,” Harry repeated.

“Speedos,” said Charlie. He looked at Harry and smiled. Harry’s blond hair glistened in the sun.

“And zinc cream,” said Harry. He smiled at Charlie. “If you took me home I’d show you my tan line.”

Charlie couldn’t help but laugh. “You’ve got all the cheesy lines covered, haven’t you?”

“What do I have to do to see inside those shorts?”

Suddenly Charlie felt emboldened “Go on a date with me on Friday?”

“A date?”

“Yeah, a date,” said Charlie. “So I can get to know you better.”

“Old school,” said Harry.

Charlie shrugged. “Call it what you want, what do you say?”

Harry looked as though he was uncomfortable with the idea, he looked serious for the first time. He shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”

“Are you going to come?” asked Charlie.

Harry smiled. “Sure.”

“No, really?” said Charlie. “Don’t say you are going to come, if you have no intention.”

“I said I would.”

“There is no harm, if you don’t want to, just say so now.”

“I will,” said Harry.

“You choose where we go then.”

“Me.”

“Yeah, that will tell me more about you than anything.”

Harry looked quizzical. “Okay.”

“Give me your phone number,” said Charlie.

Harry gave Charlie his number.

“Now, let me call it.” Charlie hit call on his phone.

The sound of a muffled phone started ringing. Harry pulled his phone out of his backpack. “See, it’s the real deal.”

“That’s not what…”

“Oh, it was too.”

Buster whined from the footpath in front of them.

“He wants to be fed,” said Harry.

“Okay,” said Charlie. “Until Friday then.”

Harry got to his feet, as did Buster. He spun around in circles. “Until Friday,” said Harry.

Charlie watched Harry walk away, his thick thighs, his sexy arse, his broad shoulders, his blond hair glistening in the sun.

Charlie could feel butterflies buzzing about in his stomach.

Harry spun around and smiled as brightly as the sun. “Wear a suit, then.”

“You are giving me a hardon,” Charlie called back.

A woman passed from the other direction with her young son. “Morning,” said Charlie, with a nod of his head.

Mistakes Ridden Malcolm

Of course, Malcolm Turnbull's political judgement has always been poor from the very beginning, when he joined the wrong political party. The man with Labor beliefs and ideals joined the Liberal Party. How can anyone take him seriously when he can't even join the right party. How can he ever be a success when he makes such a critical error of judgement?

Just Because

Just look at that arse. Don't you just want to tongue that out