Day 3 - Feel Like Me

Day three, maybe I do feel like me? I'm hanging on, taking this seriously, thinking, I don't want to be that person to whom the doctor says, We found something on your lung, we'd like to do a biopsy...

Thick head, temper sped; from calm to furious in the blink of an eye. I think it gets easier, every time I try; I feel okay, don't want to cry. I don't want to kill. I don't want to fall to my knees and scream!

Josh went out drinking with Shane and Mark W, last night, interestingly coming to the same inescapable conclusion that Mark W. is just pain boring. You know, there's a really good reason why Shane fell for Matt; not so many good reasons why Shane dumped Matt (instead of Mark W.) when Mark W. laid down the law. I didn't go out, I hid away in my room and watched the Golden Globes. Still baby steps. Keep out of harms way and all that.

My mind is still at the playing tricks stage. I think about a smoke when I've finished my lunch. I reach for my packet as I leave the building at the end of the day. It still smells good as I walk through somebody else's exhale.

I think I might go and eat something soon, just a carrot, or lettuce, or bread...

... this should be my mantra...

...I don't want to grab my enemy around the neck and squeeze until they are dead.

Well, no more than any other, normal, day.

I didn't think twice before ripping down the new shower curtain covered in ducks that Josh had put up. I threw it on his bed with a note saying, Get Fucked! Put the other - clear - shower curtain back up. I wasn't having that for a millisecond!

I feel pretty good, to tell you the truth.

I think, maybe, it does get easier every time I try.

 

Day 2 - feel a little better

I sleep better as a non smoker, light and airy, not like I've been poisoned. It's like sleeping on goose down and not like sleeping on chemicals.

I've got warm hands and warm feet. My sinus' have cleared up. My chest feels much clearer. I don't feel like coughing, or clearing my throat.

It's my quiet week at work, so it doesn't matter if my thought patterns go west. I can get pretty vague for the first three days, at least.

But the secret now, is just to stop thinking about it, get it out of my mind.

And day 2, actually, the very worst is over all ready... but, I don't kid myself.

Day 1 - feel like crap

Day one of giving up smoking. I'm feeling kind of rattled, out of sorts, like my head is somewhere else, soon to return. I think it does actually get easier the more times you try to give up. This doesn't feel impossible, just annoying. It's like I'm waiting for something to happen.

All day at work I was in a fog, a daze. I tried to avoid most people. I tried to work quietly.

I feel shitty and nasty and quiet and tired and bitchy and crap, all at the same time.

I headed off to the pub for a bevvy with my mixed salad. I've got to get my diet under control, straight off. I don't want to end up like one of them fatty's in trackies that I see in the mall; toothless losers who've given up. I don't want to look like one of them.

I was in the lift, a bit pissed after lunch - well, what else does one do when one is spinning from cigarette withdrawal - and, other then me, it was an all girl lift. It was hot today, kind of humid hot and, I tell you what, not something I usually come across, but one of those girls need to wash it! Ewww! I started to giggle, I was mindless, (read tipsy) as I truly wanted to say something. I was delirious from nicotine depletion. My guard was down and my angst was up. They all looked at me as though I was weird, as I eyed them one by one. Was it the tall, red-head, the buxom blond, or the midget in the nylon cardy? Was it the rat-face receptionist from the other law firm? Or the pretty girl with the nice smile? It couldn't have been the old cleaner because hers would be dry, like the Sahara, smoothed over like Barbie. I thought such things were just misogynistic rants and untrue, but... ewww! Maybe it's just my sense of smell returning already? Nah! Filthy bitch! Slurp, slurp! Mother of Pearl.

Let's hope my sense of taste doesn't do anything special, I don't want to want any more food than I do. No food replacements, not even for a day. Diet and exercise, here I come. Fatty fucking piglettdom here we DON'T come! Of course, you wouldn't read about it, my bike has a flat.

Anyway, I'm retreating to bed. I'm taking my lap-top to the cot. Lay my head down. The lack of nicotine makes me sleepy, tired, lethargic, horrid, not nice to be near. This is full on, draining, tiring, debilitating, but it only lasts a week, max. (he says nervously) This is the truly awful bit, after which it can only get better.

Wish me luck.

Who's That Boy?

I know not to drink and drive, it's too messy, you are bound to spill it. Driving stoned is much more sensible.

I learned not to dye my hair when I am pissed, I ended up looking like a Panda the last time I tried that one on.

I've come to the conclusion I should never use chatlines, or text, for that matter, when I'm inebriated. Too much to regret once the fog has lifted. Doh!

But, when I'm staggering home pissed from wherever, I still can't go passed Fitzroy Kebabs, without making a (hard) right hand turn. This has nothing to do with diet or vomiting, or sobering up, for that matter and has everything to do with the boy behind the counter. Now, I don't want to offend anyone's ethnic sensibilities, so I won't guess what nationality he is, but he has all the right genes for my particular tastes. Suffice to say, he is a wog boy of many natural charms with the unusual addition of the most beautiful blue eyes.

Surely, other people have noticed him? Surely, the Q & A boys must have salivated over him, as I do?

He makes me drool. He makes me inarticulate. I know I linger, unsteady and ogle him - considering the whole mutual respect thing, between gay boys and straight boys - is that so wrong?

Quote of the Week

Nobody wants an old queen. I could set myself a light in a gay bar and all the boys would do is light their fags off me - Rupert Everett

Message to a Friend

 Here are two emails that I have written to Tom, but, as yet, haven't sent. I can't decide.

Tom

If you are so bored and have so little going on in your life, at present, that you are going to persist with this infantile behaviour, don’t expect me to respond any time soon. Quite frankly, Tom, what are you doing with your life? ...other than fucking it up by stuffing great quantities of drugs down your fat gob?

Christian

Tom

Just in case you haven’t realised, I’m not playing childish games with you. I’m far too busy and I’m simply not up for it. If you want to play them, go right a head, but I’m not participating.

I think, quite possibly, you have far too much time on your hands. I think, quite possibly, you are doing far too many drugs. I think, quite possibly, you are losing the plot, my friend.

Christian

Now - I realise they are not that dissimilar - which one to send?

Friendship

I have a little plaque that was my, much adored, grandmothers that sits on my desk. It says,

A friend is not a fellow who is taken in by sham,

a friend is one who knows our faults and doesn't give a damn.

I was going to send this to Tom in an email.

But, Shane and he-who-shall-never-be-mentioned, say that Tom is up to his old tricks, as they use the same drug dealer and even their drug deal raised his eyebrows and shook his head.

As I suspected, Tom is so bored, with nothing to do, that he is looking for drama to fill his life.

If that is the case, I guess I'll have to wait for Tom to come down, before I reason with him. (or smack his face)

For someone who is so intelligent and who has so much to live for, considering what he has been through, it is quite sad really.

If you start doing drugs for any reason other than to have fun, (and other than occasionally, you know, xmas and easter) you are on a very slippery slope, my friend. I guess that's what I need to tell him.

I can feel an intervention coming up... 

The Boys Are Pissed (off)

I was bad, wicked, vindictive. Read pissed. I met up with Shane (very pissed) and Mark W (quite pissed) and Kevin, of all people, at the Laird. (I'll get back to Kevin) I was saying something about Manny - who wasn't there, naturally - saying that he complained that I didn't call him and Shane said, "I think that's what Tom says also."

"What?" I said.

"Tom has issues with you," said Shane.

Tom's playing childish games. He's got a bee in his bonnet about me not calling him up. (the fact that he is bored and doing nothing and I haven't had time to scratch, doesn't seem significant in Tom's eyes. I've worked ten hour days all week) I've email him four times this week, twice today, to see how he was and to ask him out to the Laird, all of which he's ignored. Apparently, it's by phone and speaking live, otherwise he's going to stay pissed off with me. Well, I don't want to play.

"He told you that?" I asked Shane.

"A-ha," said Shane.

So I sat down next to him, in that "if you don't have anything nice to say, come sit by me," kind of way.

We'd both been drinking and Shane has issues with Tom too.

And then we, basically, knifed Tom - figuratively speaking.

Well, Tom's been meddling in Shane's relationship, with Mark W and Matt, culminating in Mark W getting so pissed off that he declared an ultimatum to Shane that it was either him or Matt and Matt got the heave-ho, causing ructions in Shane and Mark W's relationship - ructions that I think are deep and very serious. Tom admitted to Shane, New Years day, under the influence of something that he'd deliberately interfered in Shane's relationship with Mark W and Matt.

So tonight the boys got together (or as he-who-shall-not-be-mentioned says, The Sisters Grim) and tore Tom apart. Josh just looked on with his mouth agape. He says he's too scared to say anything. "You were all such fantastic friends, what is going on here?" asked Josh. "What's happened since I've been in Germany?"

I wonder if Tom's ears were burning?

We've all been friends for a very long time and Tom has a tendency to interfere in all of our lives when, well, quite frankly, when he is bored.

Tom lost much of his power base tonight, let me tell you. In fact, he'd better be very careful. I didn't realise how pissed off Shane is, I didn't realise how pissed off I was.

I don't deal with infantile very well. I don't suffer fools, or foolish behaviour, gladly.

The Water Restriction Myth

The govt sends 120 billion litres down the open irrigation channels to farmers and because of evaporation, only 20 billion litres gets to the intended destination, every year in this hot, brown land. One of the open irrigation channels is, at present, being piped, but the other channels are not, due to the cost.

They say, 100 billion litres is enough water to supply Melbourne for three years and yet residential users are about to have the strictest water restrictions imposed up them. Residential uses being something like 5% of the total water consumption use.

What did I say earlier in the week about idiots being in charge?

This just makes me want to thumb my nose at the authorities and use water as I see fit, irrespective of the restrictions. We should all flout the law to pressure (pun intended) those in charge to do something about this ridiculous situation.

I say, use water whenever and however you want. Residential uses are being used as scapegoats, yet again, for the govts incompetence.

(not) My boy Luke (sigh)

Ah, Luke. Handsome Luke. He came scampering into my office my first day back at work, his blue eyes sparkling, his gorgeous grin set just so. He told me how he drank his way through the Xmas break. He partied hard. He was incommunicado for the first two days back, which kind of made me sad – well, sad is way over stating it – that I delayed my return for two days, just because I could. I could have gone over and gently played with him. He can be all floppy and so adorable, at times.

Ah Luke, blue eyes and dark hair, my favourite combination – if it's an Aussie boy and not, well, you know what I like, by now. Luke has "Christian's boyfriend" written all over him, I just wish he'd stop to read it himself.

I had a dream about him. It was one of those ethereal dreams, happening in dreamy, time-lapse images, with stretched light behind him, like being on one of those whirly things in the park as a kid. Luke was spinning in slow motion around me, laughing and smiling, his handsome face with eyes only for me. I was trying to kiss him, he was dodging me playfully. Then he was lying on my bed, his shirt ridden up and I was blowing raspberries on his stomach, which made him laugh and kick, gently, like a five year old. I had one hand on his nipple and one hand on the front of his tracksuit pants, on his hard-on. I could taste him – I know you are not supposed to have such sensations in dreams, but... I swear – he tasted salty and sweet, smooth and warm. His skin was as soft as velvet rubbing across my mouth.

I fell asleep on his chest, listening to his heart beat. His heart was mine.

I thought about that dream, as he smiled adorably at me, standing there in my office. I smiled at the recollection and he even asked me what I was smiling about. Funny, huh? I should have just told him.

He told me about the book sales at Fed Square, he'd been to. He recommended some books that he though I might like. He's smart and interesting and is interested in literature and politics and people and the world, pretty much.

Sigh! It's kind of nice to have a crush, even if it will always remain unrequited.

Some Thing to Eat

What I've Done?

I worked as a boy-packer at Coles Supermarket, in a far off suburb, which my mother got for me, when I was still at school. I worked long shifts, 9 to 9 over the holidays. I thought it was grand.

I worked at Coles, closer to home, where I learned that people steal merchandise from their place of employment. We were called into the office to have it explained to us. I learned that they get caught and the police are called. I learned that they get sacked. Just like that.

I worked as a store man for my father’s faculty. There was nothing for me to do, but if I didn't fill the position their funding would have been cut. I used the time to do my homework. Paid to do homework, now that can’t be bad.

I worked for a bank between failing year 12 and repeating year 12. I found that bank managers were not to my liking; fat, single-minded, relics from some forgotten era. Me and my friend Jackie, resigned the day that another staff member resigned, just to give the old bank manager the shits. We thought we were very clever.

I worked for a hardware shop, in my uni days. I had no idea about hardware, but it was a friend of the family who got me the job and I learned fast. I’m not sure, however, if I was ever really cut out for it, I couldn't saw a straight line and I couldn't hammer a nail. One old cobber surprised me with his answer when I told him the cost of four litres of paint.
“Jesus fuck me Christ the cunts are expensive, aren't they?”

This private school boy from the eastern suburbs didn't really know how to respond to that.

I worked for a corporate bank in a very grand, just renovated, building in the city. The building was the reason I accepted the job, to tell you the truth. I wanted to travel overseas, so I wanted to work just for a time, to top up my spending money. They promoted me 3 times in 8 months and then they tried to talk me into staying when it came time to leave. They seemed genuinely pissed off when I walked out the door, despite the fact I was employed on a temporary basis.

I got implicated in a bank robbery, for my time at the corporate bank, but that is a long story involving Interpol, which can wait to be told for another time.

I worked for an entertainment company, upon my return. I was sent all over the state, as I was considered the “single” manager. I was caught up in some serious misconduct, which I had no idea of when I was accused. I had no idea what they were talking about. As it turned out, the serious misconduct was the work of a much more senior manager than I was, at the time. After he admitted fault, I got an apology, of sorts. Yes, I would call the apology inadequate, but that was as apologetic as they were ever going to be, so the 2IC explained to me. As a consequence, when I asked for 6 months leave, a short time later and they explained to me that they needed me on board and not traipsing around Italy and Greece, they declined my request and I had no hesitation in giving in my notice. I think they were a little surprised.

I worked for a family company, 2 years later when I came back to Oz. They said they needed me, I accepted reluctantly. I learned never to work for family owned companies. Those closest to me were far more poisonous than any of those mentioned above.

I did consulting work for a year, or so. I loved going into different companies and righting the wrongs. I loved the fact that I didn't have to get to know anyone and could walk out at the end of the day without a care. But the work couldn't be relied upon and it was often interspersed with weeks of no pay.

I worked for a communications company, where, on Monday morning, the boss' mood depended on how much cocaine he had done the two days previously. We used to have big, company parties, always on a week night, where the boss would encourage all of us to play-up as much as we could. He'd always be the last man standing. And anyone who didn't make it into the office the following day was threatened with the sack.

I worked for my first law firm and I loved it so. The fact that it was housed in one of the cities finest office buildings didn't hurt. But then they nationalised my role and my department moved north to be run out of the Emerald City. We’d love you to move to Sydney, in fact, if you do we’ll pay you this much more. I declined, Sydneysiders being how they are.

I now work for my second law firm, in the drab end of town. It’s a miserable company to work for; never before have I met a more unhappy bunch of people. But they pay me well to stay and they think I’m pretty good. Some days, I don’t think the ulcers are worth it. Most days, I know the ulcers aren't worth it.

I dream of giving it up and writing. Of course, there is the mortgage and the little matter of puting food on the table. But, what the heck? I've come to the conclusion that most of the work force aren't my kind of people anyway.

The Working Week

Monday morning go slow. A gentle breeze blows up the street. My head is weekend-thick. Is that my brain, or is that the space where it used to be? Step, one foot in front of the other. Nearly there.

A young girl walks her dog. Tommy, from the paint shop, leers at her, in her low cut top. He catches me, catching him, he looks contrite, but still steals a last glimpse at her legs before she disappears up Napier Street. He has her stripped naked by the time he looks back at me. He smiles.

The fat Asian boy, from the local shop, smiles at me, as I walk by. I smile back.

"G'day," he says coyly. He almost bats his eyes.

"Hi,” I say. He looks like he has lost weight, with only one roll obvious around his waist. (not even a roll, I'm being unkind)

I'm glad Nicholas said that the fat Asian boy makes eyes at him too. I was beginning to think it was me going nuts, imagining such things. Tim says that Nicholas thinks that all men are making eyes at him. The curse of the beautiful, I guess. (the truth is that they probably are)

The start of the working week, yay! At least it’s cooler today. We're all surfs working for the machine, which is worth jack shit. The world is going to hell. There are idiots in charge, I think, as I look both ways before I cross the street. None of us do any thing important, just work to maintain the status quo.

Leah says that she does some thing important, because she works with cancer ridden kids. (she's actually the CEO, so I'm not sure how much, actual, kind contact she has) Why do people who work in such jobs think they are doing something worthwhile? Kids, illness, most of those kids won't make it; little clumps of bones in little shallow graves.

A cool breeze blows down the street. I wonder who has got it right?

“Hey mate,” says the homeless guy on the steps of the old post office. “Have ya got a spare smoke?” I often give him a cigarette, the only, as the beautifully groom concierge in San Francisco said to me once with a smile, bum I do give to. Don't know why?

“Sure,” I say. I pull out my packet and hand over a cigarette.

“Busy day?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say. “Gotta pull it together after the Xmas break.” He takes the fag with a bruised and bloody hand. I don't ask.

“How about you?”

“I’m in the office already, aren't I?” He laughs with a throaty, emphysemic kind of cough. “Busy day all right.”

Bright Spark

 

I came to two conclusions when I was on my ride over to Lotties.

1. I could ride my bike over to Manny's. Easy. Why I have never thought of that, I really don't know? I am slow sometimes.
2. Never wear boxer shorts and track suit pants when you are bike riding. Ouch!

Exercise Sunday

It's raining! Yay!

My exercise regime is back on track, albeit only recently. I'm not going to be 5 kilos over weight next New Years Eve.

But, of course, I'm smoking again. Grrr!

I don't know how the fat chicks in tracky pants, or the beefy blokes in King-Gees with beer guts do it. I can feel the bit I've gained hanging off me. It feels odd. It's so much more about how I feel and not how I look - although, not completely. I am a fag, after all. It is about how I look, too. How do those pigs I see everyday in the city feel? They must just feel foul.

I give up smoking. I put on weight. I start smoking again. Christian's quit smoking merry-go-around.

I've been riding my bike every second day, in preparation for riding it every day. Mostly, that is an arse requirement. I find my bum is the sorest part, to start off with, when riding every day.

Today is the second day and the rain comes down.

He, he, he thinks quietly to himself - berating himself for being a lazy bastard.

Of course, the rain only lasted a minute, so it's back to bike riding.

Must go and get my act together and ride over to Lotties. Can I ride stoned? Note to self, no more joints.

But first, there is the newspaper to read and coffee to drink... and the couch to lay on. Ah! (big yawn)

Sunday Morning Blues

Thick head, throbbing so,

I roll over and gaze at the world.

Sore jaw, impossible to chew,

last night, what the fuck did I do?

Tired eyes, the sleep is thick,

me and the sheets are sticky and wet.

The weather's cool, thank the universe,

I haven’t yet moved my mouth to converse.

It must be time for a joint,

(well, it must be 6pm somewhere in the world)

for my lifestyle, it’s right on point

I sit up, the room spins, 

that’s the way Sundays begin.

Time to visit a few blogs. Ha, ha, that's what we do when we're a hung over flog.

Fun & Games

I went out to the Peel, Throb, with Josh. He makes me feel like an old woman with how much he wants to go out. All the time, he's always goading me about leaving the house. But, I guess, he's on holidays and we had left-overs from New Year's Eve. The place was packed, we didn't get there until just before 1am, my preferred arrival time, but Josh was keen. I talked him into watching "The Anniversary" Bette Davis at her magnificent best and grotesque worst, otherwise he was champing at the bit to head out from early evening.

We danced and danced. My head was spinning most of the time. Just a sea of faces all moving to the same time as me. The commune of dance.

There were a lot of out-of-it people. The crowd was thinning about 4am.

Penny was there, I hadn't seen her for ages. She was making no sense, when I found her. She was rabbiting on talking about nonsense, as she does. I didn't care. I wondered if her boyfriend, Bryce, was with her. I tried to ask her, but all I got in response was a confused look, as though she knew she should have heard of somebody named Bryce and she was sure it would come to her. Pill-happy Penny.

It didn't matter.

Penny was wearing a white tutu inspired dress, ballet shoes and cream ribbons in her blonde hair. She looked like a porcelain doll.

All I could think of was that creamy white skin of Bryce's and that beautiful abdomen, which disappeared down the front in his pants, always with the top button undone.

Penny danced with Josh and I. She's like the little doll from a music box, except she grooves instead of spins.

Tim and Nicolas turned up.

"Hey," said some warm breath on my neck. Beautiful Bryce was standing next to me grinning. He'd arrive with the other two. They'd been at another club, to hear some DJ play. They are all a bit south side, at heart, those three, despite none of them actually living there. But any time they get a chance, it's over the Yarra with them. Tim and Nicholas like to keep each other away from temptation, so they party in foreign lands, where the punters are too young for their, particular, tastes. Bryce is just a gay man trapped in a straight man's body.

Bryce slipped his T-shirt off. Smiled. His beautiful chest, sexy nipples and a flat stomach with single figures in body fat. I don't think I've ever seen such a perfect body as his.

"Been here long?" He slurred. His eyes were sunken.

"Yeah, a while." I was gazing at his chest.

"I've just arrived," he said, looking down at his chest, too.

My bladder ached.

"I've got to have a piss."

"I do too. I'll come with you," said Bryce

Bryce took my hand, as I led him through the crowd. The place was busy. The urinals were full. A cubicle became vacant, just as we walked in. Bryce pulled me inside and shut the door.

I pissed like a horse.

Bryce hesitated at first, stood back.

"That was lucky, hey?" he said. His jaw was quivering. His eyes were barley open. He had that grin on his face.

He stood opposite me undoing his pants, on the other side of the bowl, struggling. I watched him pull his fly apart and pull his black jocks down. I looked away. He wasn't meeting my gaze. I looked down again.

Nice cock, Brycey boy. Nice foreskin.

My piss took forever, Bryce seemed to do about two drops. Mine finally stopped. It was a relief. Bryce stood there with his eyes closed, his cock still out. He just stood there like he'd gone to sleep. His fat cock hanging down. He was perfectly still.

I took his cock in my hand, wondering at the same time if it was braking my vows about hitting on straight boys and the mutual respect thing. I was shaking. It felt good, like chimpanzees grooming. I squeezed it. I held it, as he went instantly hard. Big fleshy thing, hard and hot, with skin like velvet. It curved up beautifully. It was solid. His knob was red. The thick vein underneath pumped. I rubbed my hand up and down it, it was smooth against my skin. He groaned softly. His precum was wet on my hand.

"What a nice, big, fat dick you've got Bryce," I said. It felt hot.

He opened his eyes, smiled wantonly, pulled his cock out of my hand, did up his jeans and left.

Rule number 1, never speak to straight boys when they are out of it and you are playing with their cock, it always brings them back to reality.

I found him on the dance floor hugging Penny. Both in a stupor. They were dancing with Tim and Nicholas.

Josh had been off with some young Italian named Sebastian, he'd met at 80 the other night. The three guys Josh has met since he's arrived back in Melbourne all want to settle down and get married to him and be boyfriends.

"Ah, beginners luck," I said. "You're a new face again, you have been away for six years, after all."

"But this is the first time in my life that I am single and I kind of wanted to try it for a while," moaned Josh. "Just to see what I'm missing out on."

Bryce grinned over Penny's shoulder at me.

Today, we have slept for most of the day. We've wandered around the house like zombies, ghosts in the darkened corners, grunting at each other.

I've eaten shit food and watched porn and smoked lots of pot. But mostly I've slept.

Josh had the 3 guys lined up, but some how managed to come home alone. He made a brief appearance, just now.

"Hey," I said, as he wandered back up the stairs again. "What happened to all your boyfriends?"

"Get fucked mole," he replied. "What happened to yours?"

 

Vanilla boyfriends

bottom.....................................bottom
full lips..................................deep arse
likes his balls sucked................orally fixated
foreskin fascist.................drinks cum
loves genital frotage......deep kisses
in love....................in love

Let's talk about Manny

Josh says that Manny is my boyfriend, despite my protests to the contrary. He says I should acknowledge the fact, if only to myself.

Ah, beautiful Manny. He could be my perfect man. After 5 years, he still makes me weak when he unbuttons his shirt. He has the most beautiful chest. He has nipples like strawberries that taste sublime on my tongue, plump between my lips. I can chew them for hours. They are the trigger to his "G" spot, all I have to do is squeeze them and he is completely under my power. As with most - if not all, but I haven't tried them all yet - Greek boys his chest and stomach are covered in the most perfect display of hair. I love running my hands down through it... to all his delights.

I loooove kissing him, as my hand slides into his pants. Then he is mine.

He has the most beautiful lips, I don't think I have ever kissed a boy who tastes so sweet. I could spend the rest of time connect to him like that. His face flushes, slightly, red and he gets that gently intense, focused completely on me, look on his face, as I can feel his breath on my face, as our mouths touch. I could kiss him forever.

When he is lying on top of me and I have my legs and arms rapped around him, as we kiss the rest of the world could happily fade away.

He is gentle and sweet, pure of heart. And, I guess I should acknowledge, he adores me.

But his world is very small, all he does is his gym routine and his obsessive food regime, otherwise there isn't much else going on. He watches a lot of television. He doesn't work, he doesn't drive. I'm interested in the world and he will never expand my mind, or make me go "wow" with something he is interested in, because he has so few interests. I need a boyfriend who will challenge me and Manny never will.

He said to me the other day that this was his longest relationship.

Manny Waxed Smooth

That Funny Old Universe

It's funny how the universe has a way of picking me up and reminding me of what I, actually, have, right at that exact point when I am being completely self indulgent and pathetic...

I was pissy with my friends - thank you Tom - thinking they had, for want of a better expression, deserted me, when I opened my emails this morning to find this from my friend Julien...

Darling Chris, twas just so delightful to spend time with you over the christmas period. Your presence at Bolago is always so so wonderful. I miss that laughter and whit more than I can ever remember. You're a gem Chrisso.

Love Jules x

Thanks universe for picking me up before I got completely out of hand.

I must go call Tom.

 

Hot January Night

I took Josh to my friend Rachel's restaurant for dinner. We ate outside, it was, despite all of my whinging about the heat, a beautiful night for it, with a gentle breeze off the beach. We ate anti pasta and oysters and salmon and steak and coconut ice cream with mangoes and drank sour vodkas.

I told them both how I'd changed all their names (one night, in a stoned frenzy, a few years back) , they think I'm talking about the journal that I have kept for years, and Rachel says she wants to be called Fifi, so Fifi it is.

Fifi has a new waiter named Renaldo. My mouth fell open, as did Josh's, when he bought the first drinks. Talk about my "perfect" look in men. He's just turned 30, Lebanese, short dark hair and a smile that curled up, just slightly, at one corner. Handsome. Polite. Of course, straight. And for all of you who like them built, apparently in a bulking up stage at the gym, with a tight green t-shirt that showed off his body to perfection. For my own personal taste, I'd have to let the psi down 25%, but other than that, pretty much, absolutely, perfect. I think I'm in love! (I wonder if I could get Fifi to sneak a photo of him?)

We caught one of the last light-rails back to the city. There were two guys scrounging for cigarette butts at the South Melbourne light-rail station. I lit up before I realised what they were doing, so, of course, they were straight over to ask for a cigarette... with toothless grins. Then a guy appeared off the light-rail, out of town, with a joint in his hand wanting a light. I nearly burned him when I tried to light it for him, so I gave it to him to light. As he handed it back, he stepped forward toward me and kind of grunted in a strange kind of threatening way and then wandered off. It was quite bizarre and led me to believe that he was suffering some kind of drug psychosis, as he reminded me of my stepson Fenn when he used to carry on like that. Then he wandered straight out into the traffic and cars were skidding to a stop, as he gave them the finger. The hair on the back of my neck raised up. He might as well have, actually, been Fenn with that performance. Funny the things you remember... from the dark past.

The light-rail was packed. One thing about the heat, it strips the boys down to very little clothing. One guy, in a singlet and baggy, blue shorts, scratched his leg nonchalantly, as he chatted to his friend, which bunch the material of his shorts at the front, which showed off his massive cock just lying there to the right, thick and long down his leg. I couldn't stop looking at it (five vodka sours later) like a car crash. I had to move before he spotted me staring. You should have seen that thing.

The city was alive with people. There were cute Indian boys, taxi drivers and friends, eating out on the footpath, at the top of Bourke Street, when we stopped to get cigarettes. They had beautiful skin, like velvet. Dazzling white teeth and eyes.

The house was stifling, even the cat had a sweaty face. I am so sick of feeling wet from the heat.

We went to the Laird and drank beer and watched all the Spit & Polish boys playing dress ups. The night air was sticky with heat; thick, pea soup consistency. What little breeze there was, was, thankfully, cold on the sweat on my face. We staggered home by 3am. (I have the day off today)

Scat Queen

Pooh, like glue

all over you. 

Gay & Straight Boyfriends

Chris                                                         Justin
gay                                                     straight
bottom                                                    top
takes justin's cum                                           takes drugs for sex
fuck me, big straight boy                 my girlfriend doesn't understand
make me cum                                       bend over

The Trouble With Tom

I think I have decided to dump Tom as a friend. (well, maybe) Funny to see that in print, as we have been best friends for so many years. We've been around the world together. We have lived together. We have been great mates.

It all started a couple of months ago when Tom left a message on my answering machine - midday Wednesday, when he knew I was @ work - saying that I wasn't paying him enough attention and that I had better start being a better friend. This was out of the blue, nothing, that I could discern, had changed. Just Tom.

I've been through years of chemotherapy with him, lived through him nearly dying, twice. And previous to that we'd been the wickedest of friends, charming and scaring people in equally measures.

But, you see, it has always been about Tom, his best and worst features rolled into one. It was always a part of his charm, as he is clever and funny with it, winning more hearts than he lost.

But over the last few months he has withdrawn so obviously from me, at the same time blaming the separation on me, as my fault. And now, I think, we have wandered off into "playing games land" where he is not contacting me at all, waiting to see how long it takes for me to contact him. We used to talk daily. It's weird.

And I'm over it!

Over the Xmas break, the only interaction with him was me getting stuff from Guido for him, as he had - as is his way - interfered in his guy, P's, private life, causing P's boyfriend to dump him, as far as P is concerned, anyway, that P told him that he was pure evil and to never contact him again. I mean, that was okay, I was happy to do it, but his method of pick up just left me wondering. He stayed just long enough to grab the stuff and to make three calls, telling whoever was on the other end that he was looking for some where to drop in to visit for a while. Then he left with barely a thank you, just a grunt out of sight as he headed for the door.

So now - childishly, I acknowledge - I'm going to withdraw contact. Probably, for just a while, probably to prove some pathetic, fucked up point, but silence is what he's getting.

I think he is bored, I don't think he has enough to do, I think he is hanging around just filling in time, but I'm not going to be the whipping boy for his frustration.

He has said to me on a few occasions that he is frightened that all the chemotherapy has affected his brain and that I should tell him if I notice him doing anything odd.

Well, Tom...

We'll see. I'm sure it won't end up in not being friends any more, we've known each other for too long for that. But if it does, thanks for all the good times, buddy.

And stooping to an even more childish level, (I can't believe I'm writing this. I think I am more upset by this than I am letting on) I was the last one to email and I was the last one to phone. Just for the record.

2026, it makes me very sad to read this, that I couldn't have been the bigger person. Tom's 10 year battle with Leukaemia was hard on everyone involved. But, it ruined Tom's life. Wonderful, smart, funny, naughty, thoroughly exceptional, one in a million, Tom. He was a better person than me.

They Found Him At The Bottom of the Pool, Once The Music Had Stopped

Once a Catholic

That idiot Health Minister Abbott has given the idiot Catholics the key role in developing a pregnancy counselling service. What???? That's like putting property developers in charge of heritage control - you know exactly what their minds will be thinking. Once again proving that religious types care more about upholding their own (sad, out dated) views than they do about caring for people.

You can believe what you want, I'm all for it, but when it starts to affect other peoples lives it's not on. And at such a delicate time in a woman's life.

This government has to go!

And quite frankly, who cares if there are 100 thousand abortions in Australia every year? Good on those women for not bringing all those unwanted children into the world. They should be applauded, not criticised... and certainly not criticised because it offends someone else's mythical beliefs.

I have known a number of women who have had abortions and none of them, not one, have suffered trauma afterwards because of it. (another myth spread for the good of those with religion)

 

Yes, sir!

Out all Night

I accompanied Josh to Club 80. Actually, we were going out drinking, but every where was closed, like a ghost town, (we left home late) so 80 it was. Ah, dear old 80, the years I must have spent at that place, although, not for a while now. The 80'esque ambient music has gone, I was disappointed. There was something about that music, for all those years, that was comforting, like going home for mum's cooking. I watched a guy, threw a hole in a door, getting fucked, thanking sir for every stroke inwards. Ohhh thank you sir! I've been a bad boy, sir! I could hear his arse going slurp, slurp, slurp. I watched a cute, drunk guy, come zipping out of a cubicle, in his jocks with a hard-on, strangely with his finger up his arse, (maybe he was frightened it would close over, I thought) desperately checking other cubicles for condoms, as his big dick bounced around. I watched a small Asian guy getting his face fucked by a really big bloke, with a really big cock in a dark corner. The little guy didn't miss a beat, to his credit, although, how he got all of that in there, repeatedly down his throat like he did, without puking, I'm really not sure.

I stood around like a shag on a rock and got propositioned by Christopher, the expert arse licker, whose opening line was something about him never going to meet the man of his dreams in a place like that, so he might as well give it away. I told him that I'd met all of my boyfriends in places like that. Which is true. Maybe that says something about the standard of man I'm looking for? Which is not true. Listen to me, all of my boyfriends. I've had three - not counting Manny. (And not counting Alex) I don't think Christopher believed me when I said getting my arse licked does nothing for me.

There was a drunk guy who had a habit of, practically, standing on my foot and leering with what, I can only assume, was a come hither look. He creeped me out, he wouldn't leave me alone. So, I retired to the movie room and watched Outrageous Fortune.

You see, I was quite mellow and heading off to bed - Manny had dropped in a few hours earlier and had performed very well, 10/10 - when Josh wah, wah, wah'ed about heading out. Why he couldn't have headed out without me... oh yes, we were going out drinking.

Josh picked up some big Macedonian bloke, who humped him senseless and then spoofed all over his face, apparently, in megalitres - hair, face, neck, chest.

I left them at 3am, as they canoodled on the couch and wandered home and put the rubbish out, before I drifted off to sleep quite content.

Tough Boyfriends

monogamous                                           uncut
greedy bottom                                  thick thighs
takes it raw                                      tough sex
dribbles cum                                    feltches his arse
takes it hard, from behind                         in love
bent cock                                 thick and long

New Year

The Peel was packed. We came home at 4am, so I could change my shirt - a pale grey panelled t-shirt is not a good colour to wear when it is wet. Half the material was dripping and sticking to me, the other half was dry and a much paler shade of grey. I looked like a train wreck. Once I sat on the couch, however, I was done. I had just the one joint then got sleepy and just wanted to go to bed.

I took 3 e's New Years Eve and 2 New Years day. Guido gave me a ten-pack, with the words, "Don't skimp on the fun on New Years Eve." (I wonder where the rest of them are now? Hmm?)

We went to Tim and Nicholas', around 10am. Nicholas' sexy cousin Craig was there. I'm sure we give each other the eye, even when he was sitting next to his (fat/plain) wife cuddling his last born. Still looking inquisitively. You know the look, held just a little long, always looking over at me.

I'd taken more just before I left home, so I was pretty fierce, I was up to holding his gaze. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, I felt as we chatted, as I wanted to slide my tongue into his mouth with every word he spoke.

He's gorgeous. Cropped hair, olive skin, quirky smile, tough boy image.

We popped a pill and walked to Nurse Betty, but all the door sales had been sold. So we walked home again and I was in bed by 4pm.

Manny called just after that. He'd gone to bed by 10pm New Years Eve. He was full of dirty promises, but all talk in the end. He wanted me to go over there and spend the night with him, but I was far too comfortable (wrecked) where I was to move, by then.

 

Anton

I pulled my t-shirt over my head. I scratched my back. 

"Hold still," said Anton. He lay back on the bed and held the camera to his face. 

"Smile."

The flash blinded me, I couldn't see.

"Do you want something to hold on to?"

"A hand rail?" I said.

"No problem," said Anton. His voice was husky and low. "Hold onto this."

Good Bye 2006

Happy New Year

I look at my mum and my heart bleeds for her. She's a woman who lived, travelled the world, lived in London for years, spent new Years Eve in Sitches, Santorini, New York, Paris, who met my father on a Pacific Island when she was too bored to stay in Melbourne, when she finally did return home.

I never dreamed of marrying and having children until I met your father... he changed all of that, she has often said. And I love him for it. (Which is why she always said to us, go to university and get a degree and travel the world, never find someone and settle down and have a family) She didn't have me until she was forty, after all.

She and my father did well, amassed wealth, (she could do any thing she wanted, true) but, I can see in her, it all means nothing when you are old and sitting at home on New Years eve, a widow alone.

"I'll be in bed before twelve, don't worry about me."

Happy New Year, Lottie. I love you mum.

I have to get back into jogging or riding my bike. I haven't jogged since I was in Sydney for work a couple of years ago. Jogging around the Rocks and the harbour and Circular Quay, ending at the Opera House, sure beats jogging around Fitzroy.

I was going to start as soon as day light savings started, but I haven't once. I should try down through the Fitzroy Gardens and around the MCG. A couple of times around there should do it.
I used to jog with my dog, I miss him.

I don't want to feel fat next New Years eve. I always get fat when I give up smoking. The demon weed!

Happy New Year.

One More Sleep

Josh and I have been to see two movies in the last couple of days. Josh picked The Queen, a bit like a documentary, but done well with original footage spliced in. It was good, but, I think, I prefer it when Helen Mirrem gets her tits out.

I picked Shortbus, which I thought was great, although, I'm not sure if they were sure where to finish it. I don't know if I'm stupid, but I didn't understand the explanation of the title.

"I used to want to change the world, now I just want to leave the room with a little dignity."

I've been shopping, everything is ready, it is the second last day of the year. Guido is a pal sometimes, he made a delivery last night. He went camping to get away from all of his clients, and the madness that is his life, but found the solitude too much, so he hi-tailed it back to the big smoke. He says only he's seeing select... um... er... people, preferring to let the rest think he's away, but, I reckon, he's probably telling everybody that.

So, it looks like it is going to be the Peel. (Always difficult going out New Years eve, as I don't like getting to clubs until way after midnight) Otherwise, it would be Witness Protection, (which I think I'd prefer) but, I don't know, no car. I don't think I want to dick around with taxis'. It's New Years Eve after all? I'm off to Tim and Nicholas' at day break Monday and I can walk from the Peel to their house.

I just want to dance.

Mark & Luke are off to Tropical Fruits. They left today.

I'm now referring to Manny as the dumped guy. He was supposed to turn up on Thursday and, yet again, he didn't. I'm not calling him. Fuck him! And if I don't hear from him until after New Year, he really will be the dumped guy.

So, I guess, that means I'll be out looking New Years Eve. But, you never find them when you look, huh? So, I guess, that means I'll be dancing away in my own little world until the sun comes up. Hey presto, a new year.

(Hey Harley, I'm up for it)

No New Year's resolutions, they're lame.

Catch 22

Ben Affleck was too cute when he said his boyfriends name was matt

I’d like to fly to the moon on a lover’s breath

I want to stare into his eyes and feel safe.

I'd like to watch Robbie William's and Jonathon Wilks pashing, high as kites, drugged to the eyeballs. I'd like to watch them making out.

Jonathan Wilkes, what a guy

I want to give love it's best shot

I could imagine Heath and Jake as lovers

I want to stop looking, knowing that I have found the one.

Deep, down in the Batcave, George Clooney and Chris O'Donnell what a couple

I don’t want to be afraid. I don’t want to be afraid

.

Whoosh... All Over

It's quiet, all over for another year... except for the extra kilos. I can hear the clatter of Xmas rolling away in the distance, ready to come back from the other direction in... how many days? Start counting all ye olde Xmas'ophiles, Jesus Freaks, myth peddlers, charlatans, merchants & shop keepers.

New Years Eve, here we come!

My Favourite Guy

Jason

A big, buff young guy sat diagonally opposite me on the train, in a blue singlet and long denim shorts. He had a crotch that was full. He was twenty something and gorgeous looking.

Well, being the dirty, crotch perv that I admit I am, I couldn't help but gaze at his. He had big balls, round and prominent. They looked like cricket balls. His cock lay over the top of them, like a slug. He had sexy, hairy legs, well, carves.

He and his three buddies, took up a 4-pod themselves. They looked like four country lads, heading to town. Because of the angle I was sitting, none of the friends could see me clearly. He got it, so quickly; first gaze of his bulge and he was looking at me out of the corner of his eye, coyly. I only glanced. I swear. I was reading the newspaper. He was listening to his ipod, the others were talking, so they weren't, really, paying him so much attention. I had been gazing at his still, handsome face. I love catching people when they are in another moment.

He checked out his own crotch, after I did, like he was checking to see what it was that I was looking at... the realisation dropped, he looked back up smiling and blushing, then looked back at his ipod. Then he'd occasionally look back at me. When he barred up, he crossed his hands in his lap and looked seriously down at his ipod. He'd push down on it, so subtly. He'd look at me intermittently, after that. If our eyes met, he'd stifle the smile and look away, but always holding it just that fraction too long - the gaydar trigger.

Then, his eyes darted over at me, I was looking. Both hands in the air pretending to scratch his back, exposing his hard-on, subtly, for me to see. Nice and fat, dressed to the left. Big. Quick glance at me. A momentary flash of a smile. Back to his ipod.

His name was Jason, one of his friends used it.

I wonder if young couples know that if they name their son Jason, he has a far greater chance of growing up to be gay?

Well, I mean, doesn't it seem like, of all the twinks coming out of Homo School, now a days, most of them seem to be called Jason?

Jason loves Matthew.

I have a hair dresser called Jason.

But cousin Jason plays football.

Jason dumped Kylie for Darren.

Imagine how many young Jason's are having love-ins with all the boy Argonauts, every Saturday night?

Missy is rapped around my foot purring.

I think Josh is home. He sent me an email saying he would be.

Must go and pick up... um... er... what it is that I have to pick up for new year's eve.

Jasus! I'm off to Lotties for dinner that's why I came home from the country. No more joints. Gotta straighten up. Fuck! I hate staring at her across the table kind of bozz-eyed.

The Second day of Festivus

Don't you just love the holidays? We sat around all day, in front of the open fire and watched the end of the Friends marathon - I was never a Friends fan while it was on, but I piss myself, now, when I watch it - followed by Project Runway - I never watched that when it was on, either. We smoked pot, got the munchies and ate all of the leftovers, all day.

Luke's voice woke me some where around 3am saying, Come on, bed time. I remember being unsteady on my feet, as I got up and followed after him. The shadows from the open fire - that Mark lit, by my bed - flickered across the ceiling, as I drifted off to sleep.

 

Jason & the Argonauts

Celebrate Festivus

Gavin and Steve were sitting on the floor with their backs to the seat of the couch. The Xmas trees lights flashed. Stopped. Blinked. Then flashed again. Gavin had spend Xmas day with his father and mother. They'd both flown back from England together and announced Xmas day they were buying a house together in Melbourne. Steve and his sisters were shocked, as their parents had been divorced for ten years. Steve had spent the day with his family. Boxing day was the first time they'd seen each other.

Gavin had put up the tree, he wanted his apartment to feel, at least, a little Xmassy. It just didn't feel the same, otherwise.

"A week long celebration, starting Festivus Eve," said Gavin. Finishing New Years day."

"You buy presents for all those you love and air your grievances," said Steve. "Then you give them presents."

"And you eat plumb pudding with caramel sauce and cream and ice cream."

"Kriss Kringle?" said Steve holding up four gift wrapped boxes.

"I thought we weren't doing the... present thing?" said Gavin.

"You're the one I love," said Steve. "I couldn't help myself."

It was the first time Steve had said he loved him, just like that, no booze, no drugs, no excuses.