Oversized

Roy stood in front of Todd’s door. He rocked backward and forwards on the soles of his feet, as he waited for his ring to be answered.

Todd opened the front door, with a big gesture. Roy couldn't tell his mood, Todd had that look on his face, again – kind of wide-eyed, slightly surprised. Was it good? Was it not? Roy couldn't read it.

“Have you been out to look, at the finished job?” Roy asked, nervously.

“Yes,” said Todd. “You were right, bigger is, um, er...” he looked away. “Better.”

Roy couldn't help but smile; he felt the muscles in his face crease, almost involuntarily. “The way it catches the morning sun, from the side of the house...”

“It is beautiful, you were right to make the suggestion.”

There was silence. They looked awkwardly to the ground. Todd looked passed Roy, as if he was looking at the day and then he looked back.

I thought we could go out, maybe, get a bite to eat... see a movie... perhaps.

“Roy.” Todd sighed heavily. “I can't,” he said. “It wouldn't work...”

“It doesn't matter,” said Roy. “It's not that important.”

“It does to me,” said Todd. “It is important to me.”

“I've... I've heard about this new thing,” said Roy. “A relaxation technique.”

“What do you do? Only use the first few inches?” said Todd. “I'm not sure I'd ever get used to that pain... or want to...”

“I love you,” said Roy. Suddenly. Kind of out of the blue. He even surprised himself.

Todd sighed long and hard. He smiled sweetly, nervously. “You have a big heart, and... that's the problem,” Todd said. “It's a damn shame. A damn shame, 'cause I like you a lot.” He stroked the side of Roy’s face. Tears welled in his eyes. Roy wanted Todd to touch him more.

Roy was supposed to be just building Todd's deck, that's all. A simple cash transaction. They'd been attracted to each other right from the beginning, some weeks ago. Roy has fallen hard for Todd. They'd slept together, last Friday, after too much red wine. Todd was, well... disappointed isn't quite the right word.

Roy had just finished off the deck, now. On time and on budget, even with the increase.

“I could have surgery, I guess,” said Roy. His smile disappeared from his face as quickly as it appeared. “If they can do it the other way...”

“Don't be daft,” said Todd. “Not for me... not for anyone.”

“At least I am ready to make suggestions. Try...”

“Such, as it was... that you got it in, or how long you have it in, or how you are…” said Todd, tongue-tied. “No!" He looked at the ground. "I can't." He stepped back. "I'm sorry.”

He closed the door.

“Wait!”

Roy felt like a part of him had died, he thought, with surprise. He felt physical pain. He felt a chill up his back, like a pain from his kidneys, or something.

It wasn't fare, it should be an advantage, but all it does is strike fear into men's hearts... makes them recoil, fearful, back away, bleed.

Roy went out and stood on the deck, in the winter sunshine and his heart swelled, as he looked across the deck to the valley stretching out as far as the eye could see. It truly was beautiful, breath taking and now there was a platform from which to view it. He’d imagined drinking champagne with Todd sitting right there, on his deck. It was bigger, at Roy's suggestion, than what Todd had wanted, initially. It looked grand; he'd been right to suggest the bigger size. Ironic, he thought.

Why do you want such a big one? was the only comment Todd’s mother had offered, when she first saw the finished deck. Todd and Roy couldn't look at each other, after that, it was the morning after the disastrous night before.

Roy wished he'd had time to tell Todd, he'd not be back, not tomorrow, not any time, but Todd had closed the door before he got a chance. If Todd knew he'd never see him again, would Todd have reconsidered? Who knows? He was going to travel and see the world. There was nothing keeping him there, any more, he could stop kidding himself that there was.

Manny, Manny, Manny

Manny called almost on queue, to say he was bored last night so he went out, first to the Laird and then to the Peel. Of course, he was going to call me and come over, but...

... but what Man?

He would, of course, have practically walked past my front door to get to the Laird and the Peel. Well ten metres of it.

Why is it that when I feel that I'd like him around the most, he heads out to entertain himself? (Not that I told him. And I know men aren't, generally, mind readers)

Or, is that me wanting my non-commitment relationship and my non-commitment cake too?

But he always seems to do it. The, admittedly few, - and I guess that is my answer right there, huh? - times I'd really like him to be around, he is always AWOL.

I guess you should just marry me, then... gorgeous, Greek-boy smile, his usual, annoying, answer to any such complaints, I might have. Grrr!

Well, There You Go

My arm made a remarkable recovery, yesterday, between St Vinnies, in the morning and going to see my own doctor, in the afternoon.

How are you, my doctor asked?

Okay, I said. Grumpy. Shitty. Over it.

That's no good, said my doctor. Come on, lets take a look at it.

When I took the sling off, the swelling had reduced, considerably and the redness had almost faded, it was as though he had charm it right back to normal.

I was pleasantly surprised.

No, you still have to wear the sling for another 5 days, said doc. No you still can't drive.

It's very hard typing one-handed. There aren't too many things that are best done one-handed? Speaking of which, Manny has been noticeably absent during this whole illness process. Of course, breaking into that boy's gym, food, body worship regime, may take a little more than a pussy elbow. I may need to end up in emergency on life-support, to gain his full, undivided attention.

Actually, that's not really fair, but I would have thought he would have turned up to see how I was with me being home, sick for three days.

Actually, thinking about it, I wonder if he even knows? It all seems to have happened so quickly.

When did I last speak to him?

He's better in a towel than a crisis.

Sunny Friday

8am

I watched American comedies, all afternoon. What else was there to do? I just wanted the day to pass. I favoured Jennifer Aniston, not sure why?

I'm much more of a Jennifer fan than an Angie fan, Brad's an idiot! But I'm also more of a fan of Vince Vaughan's looks than Brad's, until I watched "The Break up" in which Vince is fat and not attractive.

"Rumour has it" was good, but then again anything with Shirley Maclaine in it has to be good.

I really liked "Friends with Money." It was more internal than the others.

I also watched "The Devil Wears Prada." Streep being a bitch, it has to be worth a look.

I didn't necessarily watch them for their quality, but their quantity was pretty much assured to make a quite afternoon on the couch disappear. I wanted fluff and pretty fluff at that.

Anyway, I'm off to hossy for more antibiotics, straight into my veins, as one of the good doctors so aptly put it.

It's 11.11.

As I slipped passed the fat lady on the wheelie bed, on my way out, puffing on a ciggy, with the whiter than white sheet almost covering her gangrenous toe and past the rake thin man, in the Sydney Swans trackie top, on crutches juggling his ciggy on his good side, I slipped on my beanie and it was all I could do not to cry, as I headed to Gertrude Street. I'm not very good at being sick, 3 days and I'm over it. The doctors think my arm is getting better; while the swelling and redness is becoming less intense, it is still spreading out further along my arm. I'm sick of the sling pulling on my neck and I've got to wear it for another week. I want to drive, I want to go to the country. I want to use both my hands.

I could feel the sun glistening on my tears, as they sat on my cheeks, as I walked towards home. I wiped them away and nobody noticed. I felt so alone.

Of course, that should read, I felt so sorry for myself. Mark has offered to come down every day from the country to look after me. My friend Jill says she is at my call twenty four hours a day and that I must call even for the most trivial thing - she knows of a woman who died from septicaemia from a rose thorn prick, recently. Jill calls daily, as does Mark. Lottie has offered to come over and stay.

But you know, when I'm sick I just want to deal with it myself; into the world on your own, out of the world on your own and when it's matters of illness and health, again, you have to do it yourself, nobody can do it for you.

I must call Tom. He had a kidney biopsy, today.

Phobias and the Like

I guess I can say that my poisoned elbow has got me over my phobia of needles. I've had a drip in my forearm vein for 3 days, which is unheard of for me.
I remember, the first time I had a drip in my arm was for a CAT scan, some years ago. I very nearly freaked out, on that occasion. I remember feeling a glimpse of what completely loosing it felt like. I remember thinking, I'm a second from completely freaking out! I was sliding down that murky tunnel. The machine buzzed and I slid further in.
I couldn't let that happen. I wasn't going to be that person. You see, you have to keep completely still for a CAT scan and my logical brain (thank the universe for it!) thought, The reality is that eventually they would just put me back in here to start the scan again, if I did freak out. They would only make me do it again. And I didn't want to do that. The machine buzzed and I slid again.

So, I thought of one thing and I concentrated on it with every thing I had. I transported myself out of that dingy, basement laboratory out on to a beautiful country road with one of the most beautiful saloon cars ever made, the Jaguar Mk 2.
I looked at every detail of that beautiful car, from rear bumper bar to the gorgeous boot, to the exquisite door handles, to the spoke wheels (they do come without spoke wheels, but naturally I wouldn't be thinking about those cars) to the beautiful grill and sexy head lights, to the "Leaper," the bonnet ornament, in ever, minute detail. It took blue, maroon and green saloon cars before the scan was done. I went into stasis, to stop myself from completely falling a part.
The nurses voice came in and retrieved me from a very far away place.
Okay Christian, we're done.
Get this thing out of my arm, were my first words.
Yes, yes. Just a moment and...
GET this thing out of my arm NOW!!!! I bellowed, through gritted teeth. I'm sure the veins in my eyes were burning red. I'm sure my intensity engulfed her immediately. She whipped the needle out without another word needing to be said.
So you see, when the doctor, at St Vinnies, told the nurse to put the drip in my arm and to leave it there for three days, I felt the same anxiety rising up from the pit of my stomach, bile washing my teeth, but I told myself it would be fine. Just stop, be calm, don't worry. I told myself not to look away when it was being inserted and I didn't and it was fine. I watched the 2 centimetre needle disappear under my skin, into my vein, and the world didn't stop and I didn't die.
The point is, that I've had this drip in my arm for three days and I've hardly thought about it.
I guess you can get used to any thing, it's just a matter of going through it. I guess you can get over phobias. It's beginning to itch, but that is a different problem.
I've got over my phobia of flying, by telling myself that I'm just not scared any more. I told myself the fear was irrational, as flying is one of the safest ways to travel. I told myself that if I can push my car up to 150/160 on the country roads around Bolago, without a second thought, I have no right to be scared of flying. And it worked.
I now seem to be over my needle phobia... I'll make a junkie yet. Ha, ha. It suited me when me and my friends got into drugs, when half of them got into injecting speed, my needle phobia kept me standing with the half who wouldn't shoot up. We were told we were wimps. We were told we were children. We were told we didn't know what we were missing. As it turned out, the ones who did shoot up all ended up having a problem with it. They are all fine now, but that is a different story for another time.
I'll have to work on my fear of heights. But, I reckon that the height phobia has a greater physical element to it. It makes me disorientated and nauseous and dizzy. I'm not sure how to deal with the physical manifestations. I think the mental ones are easier to deal with.

Kiss Me

A Loose Piece Of Skin, Who'd Have Thought

I picked at a loose piece of skin on my left elbow, nonchalantly, in a beer garden, as I drank beer with mates, on a carefree, balmy Friday night, two Fridays ago, at The Laird. Who the hell would have thought that would lead to 3 days in hospital (as an out patient) hooked up to an intravenous drip. My arm has to be in a sling for how long?

Ahhhh!

Yes, I have to go back to hossy tomorrow. And then I have a high dose of oral antibiotics to take for the next week. The infection is half way to my shoulder and half way to my hand. My elbow still resembles a witch's hat... or is that skin pulled tightly over a witches tit, with puss for the nipple?

Bloody hell!

The moral to this story is, um? Moisturise your elbows?

Oh, I don't know. Fucken hell?

The Arm Gets Worse

The doctor said that I should come back if I didn't notice it easing off in the next two days.

Today, the infection wasn't just my elbow, oh no, no, no, it had spread half way down my forearm. So I called the doc, who was off for the next three days, so the receptionist said, Just come in, I'll get another doctor to look at it.

When I was at the clinic, I asked if I could see my own doctor, as I didn't want to see Doctor X, but no, my own doctor was remaining busy and some what out of reach.

No, I can't squeeze you into see your own doctor, said the receptionist. But you are the first in line for Doctor X.

Okay, now I have to say it, I thought. The trouble is that I don't like Doctor X, I explained.

Oh, okay, I can put you in with Doctor Y, at 12.

Cool, I said. I like Doctor Y, he's a nice bloke.

The few times I've seen Doctor X, he has treated me like an idiot, but more to the point, I have thought he was an idiot.

Oh my goodness, were Doctor Y's first words, as I showed him my elbow.

That can't be good, I thought.

Anyway, he sent me to hospital. I've been in St Vinnies getting intravenous antibiotics, for the afternoon. (other people go out for a long lunch) I now have my arm in a sling, a drip in my arm and the rest of the week off work. (other people go to Fiji) I have to go back tomorrow for more intravenous antibiotics. Yeah!

Now, I'm going to lay on the couch and watch day time television. I wonder which is worse, hospital or day time television?

Sickness Abounds

This was the email I sent to Tom, this morning -

I've got a sore toe, sore knee, sore forearm, sore elbow. I have a bad, dry cough and I feel cold-like sick. At least, I don't have a head ache today, but, I guess, the day is still young.

How are you?

I wasn't to know that during the day my elbow would swell like a baboon's arse, to such a degree that I'd be having it cut open by 5pm and drained of puss.

Apparently, I have a major infection.

Have I been feeling unwell? asked the doctor.

I have been feeling like a crock of shit! Doc.

I'm not surprised, she said.

This was Tom's email that awaited me when I got home.

How are you? How was your weekend?

Mine was very quiet, I barely left the house. I have “kidney failure” apparently – I’m still pissing so apparently it’s not deadly. They told me this on Friday. Of course, I pooh-poohed that and said, “I’m dehydrated! I’ll go home and drink!”

Well, I drank and I drank and I drank and yesterday my kidneys still only showed “10-18 per cent” functioning. 

So, today I am waiting for them to call when they have a bed.

I've had to withdraw from most of Uni, already missed last week.

Oh it’s all ‘challenging’! I don’t like having to change my plans!

BUT, I will let them do what they need to do and finally let my body rest, as well.

Anyway that’s me. Grrr!

Gimme a call on the mobile sometime soon?

xxxx T

I wasn't to know Tom was admitted to hospital in the afternoon. I was going to go and visit him, but my elbow is very sore and I don't think I could drive. I know I couldn't drive, maybe, if I had an automatic, but I don't. It's my left elbow, I'm sure I couldn't change gears and steer, at the same time.

I can't bend it above my chest, which may be because of the way it's bandaged up rather than the incision itself. I laughed, when I tried to drink my tea while I was on the phone, even when I swapped hands, it was still useless. I can't work two arms at once, no matter what I have in each hand.

When the local anaesthetic wore off, it really started to hurt. 

Michael and I didn't speak. Nothing, not a peep.

Lovely Michael

The lovely Michael, at work, sent me this email, quite out of the blue, yesterday afternoon.

Michael

Behave now :o)

What? I thought, feeling the faintest chill of excitement. I wondered what he meant? He told me a few days a go how he wants to split up from his boyfriend, is in the process of splitting up with his boyfriend. I thought, when he told me, now is my chance to sleep with him, break all my rules about work colleagues for the first time. (Ha, ha, not really, its just the thought that is tantalising) You gotta love gay boys sympathies, now don't you?

What was he thinking? (with the email)

How should I respond?

Christian

make me :)

I wondered what he'd reply with? Michael and I have been friendly enough, a little flirty, in the beginning, but not so much lately.

Michael

Touche` :o)

Same mouth diagram. Does that say something in itself?

Christian

nice mouth action... imagine if the wind changed.

Is that too tacky, I thought, as soon as I sent it? Is this all in my own mind? Am I being too obvious? Or is he flirting with me?

Michael

Naughty!

Pull back, leave them wanting more? Or go in harder? I couldn't decide, so I pulled back, just for the time being.

Ah, handsome Michael, with the gorgeous smile. I wonder what his intentions are?

We'll see what happens today?

 

Who Cares About the Environment?

John Howard unconvinced about the climate change catastrophe

The only move our disgusting Prime Minister makes, as far as global warming is concerned, is to roll out a nuclear energy package that will make his rich mates even richer.

This has nothing to do with green house gases, or the environment, it has everything to do with the free market economy and the uranium industry. He stacked an inquiry so he'd only get a favourable outcome for nuclear. The little bastard, 70 year old, Prime Minister is just using it as an opportunity to get enrichment of uranium acceptable with the electorate.

He is still not taking the environment seriously. This is not the time, nor the issue, to be a political opportunist, Howard.

He seems to have been successful, thus far, in hoodwinking the public into believing that nuclear energy is green, in the sense that nobody is challenging him on the claim, when it is any thing but green. It is marginally cleaner that coal, when all things – mining and toxic waste – are taken into account. But it is still trading one filthy fossil fuel for another.

When are we going to get some, actual, inspiration from our leaders on the worlds problems, other than mining the hell out of the planet, shooting anyone who disagrees and licking that great super power America's arse?

You know, I didn't think there was anything left in politics to make me go HEY YEAH! Yes! Yes! YES! YES! YES! (a la Meg Ryan from When Harry met Sally) but there is and it is up to the very good people of Bennelong. Come on guys, do the rest of Australia a favour and give that little fucker, our disgusting Prime Minister, the ignominious end that he truly deserves. Come on, vote in Maxine McKew! Hell, you could vote in Janet Howard’s cancerous cunt, for all I care, just give Mr Sheen the fitting political end that the little wart so truly deserves.

Lovely Daniel

Daniel Radcliffe's Equus photos show the boy has grown up.

Harry Potter strips down, I’d like to see that, I thought, so I went on a hunt to see what I could find. What I found is that we’re really screwy about nudity, aren't we.

Here’s what one reader said - which was representative of quite a few.

He was such a good actor until he ruined his reputation and respect with this stripper act! gross! He’s ugly now!!!!!! - Aimee

Parents complain of shirtless Harry Potter photos. Spare us all!

Why are we so fucked up about nudity, or Daniel’s stripper act, as so many of the punters have commented? I guarantee there would be barely an audible squeak if he was killing people with a gun rather than taking his clothes off.

Why do we not blink at violence, but gasp at nudity?

Why is the human body not a thing of beauty?

And no, Kimberly, it’s not wrong that you want to cover him in chocolate. Bobby is bringing the whipped cream.

Also what’s the objection to his body hair? As you can see, he hardly has any. Sterilised into oblivion?

I loved the mental picture of the pro-nudity pundits, when they commented on his nude scenes, If he can pull this off, it will be good for him and his career.

I’d like to watch him pull it off. The Equus role, that is. Best get myself to London, hey?

The truth is that I’d rather read about Equus and look at Daniel Radcliffe’s toger than hear the endless regurgitation of Iraq atrocities and the Taliban's resurgence, Iran's nuclear Armageddon, global warming, or how evil Islam is going to bring about the end of the world, as we know it.

How do I feel? (Day 4)

The constant gnawing and the gentle lightness in the relief; a juxtaposition of amazing opposites. It’s a good, freeing feeling and a slow, nagging shrinkage of essential fuel for every cell – although ever cell, actually, feels so much better, if they could only stop kidding themselves and acknowledge that the change is for the good. Everything is better; breathing, lungs, warmth of the peripheries. I've got toasty feet, which can be somewhat distracting. Not to mention sleep, which is as light as a souffle and as fulfilling as one hundred nights of slumber.

Grumpy leg and grumpy arm syndrome, actually, feel good; comforting, alive and fulfilling, like feeling is returning. Clean – like the disruption is facilitated with mountain fresh water… and good intentions. Without the constant poison of cigarettes, there is a certain lightness of being.

It’s all good. Maybe the angsty feeling is “normal” and it’s just that I've smoked for so long that I can’t recognise it, any longer.

The secret is to just stop thinking about it, to get it out of your head, but I want to scream out loud and rage against the world and I want to shrink myself down into the smallest, stillest ball.

I feel like a rat-bag with the best of intentions.

I'm already snotting up and coughing up crap, which is truly delightful, but this weird cold that I have had may have something to do with that. The dry, hacking cough. You should see the tissue, first thing in the morning. Eew! But, as Lottie says, It's better to get it out than in.

Rachael, at work, has had the same cold. She is on her second batch of antibiotics in an attempt to get rid of it. Maybe, I need some drugs too?

Delirious

I went to bed early. I don't think Josh quite believed me when I said, at 19.30, that I was going to. But, day 2 of quitting smoking, I just have to keep a low profile. I had something quick to eat and then headed to my room. I don't remember what I watched on teev, as the withdrawal from nicotine makes me sleepy, tired. Drained, really. I drifted in and out, the shadows reached in through my windows and balcony doors and stroked my head. Sleep is as light as a feather, without the poisoning effects of cigarettes. For the first week, sleep is best, just give in, don't fight it.

In a sense, it is like floating on a cloud, as every cell in my body re-adjusts; alive with withdrawal, or alive with life, it's perception. Glass half-full, glass half-empty, just depends how you look at it.

The twilight world of withdrawal. Floating, in a sense, free, freeing. I admit that my bed is my favourite place to be. Whoosh! Whoosh!

I remember opening my eyes and seeing Manny sliding his pants down. I remember him sitting across my lap, his hairy legs, his slender arse. I remember his cock hard on my stomach, as he leaned down and kissed me and whispered, Are you awake?

I remember his soft lips. He's grown a beard, at present, it's, surprisingly, soft on my face. I remember his smell, that Manny scent.

Just passing by, he whispered in my ear. I just wanted you.

I felt like the guy in the Sheridan sheet add, as he got dressed again. He's so beautiful, I think I was purring.

That's the first installment of your reward, said Manny.

For what?

For quitting smoking, he said. There's more where that came from, if you stay off them.

I promise, I said, sleepily.

That's my boy, he said.

Then he was gone...

And now, him being here seems like a dream. Was it just a dream? Was he here? I'm really not sure, now. Do you think he'd be offended, if I called him to ask? How offended could he be, at least I'm dreaming about him.

I guess, I could ask Josh. He would have had to let him in.

Stranger

If only she could get away from him, she could out run him, easily. He was grossly fat, after all. Disgusting. Like jelly, it was true. He breathed with his mouth open. He repelled her. He had small, closely set eyes.

He was all hands, arms, he seemed to have more than the usual number. He kept hold of her, no matter how she struggled. She could smell his BO, pungent and sour, as he held her tight, his arm around her neck. She could feel his spongy fat, against her chin, as he dragged her through the garden.

How naive had she been? This sort of thing happened to other women, not her, not women she knew. He just wanted directions - could she look at his map and tell him the direction he had to go. He just said he needed more light to see it, through the gate into the sun. She hadn't even realised until he grabbed her, it just didn't occur to her. He held her in a head-lock, with his fat fore-arm jammed up under her jaw, as he pulled her out of sight. He was saying that she shouldn't resist, that she should give-in, that way she would come to less harm. She was going to be his play thing, for a while. If she resisted, he couldn't guarantee what he would have to do to her.

He had bad breath, sour, like onions and off-cream. His voice was soft and gravely, like a strained whisper.

He'd dragged her into an abandoned house, she'd never taken any notice of before. Her shirt had ripped, a nail had jammed her in the back, from a door frame, it was supposed to keep the door closed. Her mouth turned dry with the pain. Her shirt felt wet where the nail had got her.

He'd thrown her to the ground, on the dusty, concrete floor and she was still winded, as she felt him on top of her, his hands slide up her skirt, from behind. His fingers under the elastic of her panties. She froze, didn't know if she should kick or squirm.

"Roll over! Roll over!" he demanded.

She rolled to her right. She had to think. Quickly. What was she going to do? She had to do some thing, before he did. It was only the two of them, now.

He was crouching. He went to stand up, but he slipped and fell sideways, onto his hip and elbow, like a whale out of water.

She pulled her legs to her chest, without thinking too much. It was instinctive. He was repulsive.

"Hey!" she screamed. He looked up. She felt a surge of power from the pit of her stomach the likes of which she had never experienced. Her legs shot out like uncoiling springs.

He looked completely surprised, as her high heal struck him in the cheek, puncturing the flesh, blood spurted, as his hands raised to meet it. Her other un-shoed foot struck him in the eye. She felt her teeth clench so hard, as her foot met with his eye socket, that she wouldn't have been surprised if she'd broken them all. She could feel the bone of his scull on the heal of her foot. She wanted to shake it clean, wash it, cleanse it.

He went over backwards. His head fell back, his mouth open like a torn purse. He went over like sixteen bags of shit.

She scrambled to her feet, tried to. Couldn't. Fell. She was shaking, uncontrollably. Powerless.

His head clunked on the concrete floor and rolled sideways. His mouth open, his eyes open, staring at her. The high-heel of her shoe still puncturing the flesh of his cheek.

She pushed away from him, slid across the floor, until her back was against a wall. She pushed herself up it, to her feet. There was blood on her arm, from the nail. She walked around the edge of the room to the door, so she didn't have to go close to him, lying prone on the floor.

She looked back at him, the grotesque thing, like something congealed on the bare floor. She looked away.

She ran out of the derelict house. She coughed, as she breathed in the fresh air. She couldn't stop coughing. Sobbing. Coughing, as she tried to breath. Her face was wet, with tears, salty, not sticky like blood.

 

Lovely Carl

This photo reminds me of a straight boy I used to have a thing with. It's not him - I don't know this guy - but he bares, er, bears an uncanny resemblance to the lovely Carl. The photo bought back such vivid memories. It's funny the people we let go of, as I did with Carl, for no apparent reason. I wonder what he is doing now? I guess, he is living his life happily, probably not far from where I'm living mine, as he always lived in the next suburb. It's funny the people we used to know and the lives they have probably lived.

He was gentle and sweet and really lovely, not to mention the obvious crush he used to have on me. He was my first straight boy crush. He used to seek me out at dance parties and clubs; he used to give me his jacket, if I was cold, he used to hold my hand as we walked through the crowd, he wouldn't let me out of his sight. Once, he gave me his singlet because he thought I'd look sexy in it. We used to dance the night away and he used to look at me with that look of adoration, attraction, that other boys did. I guess, I looked at him the same way.

My boyfriend didn't mind, he thought it was adorable and sweet.

His girlfriend didn't mind, she used to say to me, I don't mind if Carl is with you, he really likes you a lot, you know. Apparently, I was the only "other" person in his life, their life. She gave me her blessing, I guess, because she knew I'd always give him back. I just wanted to play with him, I didn't want to keep him. I was happy for him to go home at the end of the night, well, not always straight away, but, Annie didn't mind that either.

I like him being with you, she'd say. I don't always want to go out. (Carl always wanted to go out, he was a party boy) I know he's safe, we're safe, when he is with you.

They were both gorgeous. Enlightened people. I hope they are still together.

Woe Is Me – Or Let Me Whine, Just For A Minute, Because It Is My Blog

I went over to Manny's last night and pulled a muscle over my rib cage, on my left side. And that was just from sitting on the couch, while we were watching the Academy Awards, leaning on his shoulder. I've got this strange cold that has developed straight into a dry, persistent cough. My small toe – second small toe – still hurts from where I landed on it when fell down the stairs, a few days ago – when I turned mid-step to go back to check if I turned the iron off. My right knee is still clicking, although it's not painful – I just thought I'd mention that.

Oh, and I've got an infect sore on my left elbow, from me inexplicably (How many pots did I have?) picking at a tiny skin tag, I guess you’d call it, at the pub (That's the Laird for home sick Melbourne boys) last Friday night, out in the beer garden, which is now oozing puss, whenever I squeeze it. Great. 

I'm a wreck! How old did I say I was?

Tonight, I started the coughing thing, clutched my pulled muscle, as it hurt mid cough and kicked the single step into the kitchen, again, with my damaged toe. That hurt so much, I nearly choked on some half coughed-up phlegm – I'm sure you wanted to know that small fact – as I went to grab from my aching side to my throbbing toe, which only made me start to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. At which point, I started to cough again, which made my side shoot with pain again, which caused me stand heavily down on my sore toe, after which I nearly collapsed, completely onto the floor, seeing stars, from the pain. 

I headed to bed, after that.

Monday Homeward Bound

Ah Monday, there is a cool breeze blowing across the, not so, muggy day. People are smiling, as the heat is kept at bay. Hoorah, hoorah, they all say. Or was that just me? He, he, I think, as the blue sky curls around the fluffy clouds; wisps across the sky. The Rainbow Lorikeets twitter from the Jacaranda trees, as if in play. I watch them fly and wonder what it would feel like to be so free. The gardens have been dug for the autumn show. The agapanthus are blue, but, then again, aren't they always.

I cross between the banked up traffic going slow and out-walk them all. The drivers look hot and bothered stopped in the peak hour and I think that may be I am free. Not time-tables, no red lights for me, just one foot in front of the other. A bus turns across my path, even though I have a green man. Ah well, what does it matter?

Bike riders weave around me. The skater boy goes "clack" over the gutter. An old lady strolls with an equally old dog, as though time has completely stopped for her. She smiles back at my smile at her and tilts her head just so. I imagine her saying, How do you do? How do you do, I think in return. She has grey hair and skin like fine, cracked, porcelain and a serene demeanour.

The trams go clunk, clunk by. The elms wave their majestic branches, down Victoria Parade. I walk between them, feeling small.

The traffic snarls, but not at me. Engines roar as the lights turn green, like something depends on them being first.

The tree's shadows are dappled on the path, in my street, a gentle breeze blows, as I see my front gate.

Hot Summer

It's the first morning, for a very long time, where it has felt cool when I have walked around to the shops. There was a cool breeze down Gertrude Street, fresh and crisp. I don't think I have felt that for the longest time. It's been warm and sticky at 8am, for months.
Global warming? You don't have to tell me anything. It's been constantly hot, muggy, for a very long time. I don't think I've sweated so much in all my life. Personally, I'm hoping it's signalling the end of summer. Come on Autumn, that's what I'm saying. I can't wait for the leaves to turn orange and yellow and fall gently to the earth, floating down on a cool breeze.

Let's hear it for winter.

Anyway, I'm off to the country. Enjoy the city heat.

Life's Good

It's amazing what a couple of weeks can do. Jasus! This time last month, I was stressing about my finances heading south, big time! I thought, I was going to run out of money, for the first time in my life. I couldn't sleep there for a few nights.

My new car cost me all my savings – actually, in the end, it didn't really, but it felt like it at the time, especially, when a bunch of big bills rolled in, also.

But then, I pulled in my spending habits – although I'm still smoking - and took a good look at the state of the Christian nation and today, it's not so bad. It's funny how stress begets stress. It's funny when you are going down that path of anxiety, it all seems much worse than it really is. Lottie slipped me a couple of thou, sure, – I'm the dutiful son, after all - as did Mark – if you can't rely on your partner, he said. Besides, I've been helping him with his business finances for a couple of years without ever asking for anything in return. Usually, I'm not very good at asking for help, it's an admission of failure, in a sense. It's a pride thing, sure.

I've still got to pay a couple of thou on the car repairs, thank you crap RACV, but hell, that can be put off for the time being, a couple of months, if I'm lucky.

Life's good, I'm whistling a happy tune.

Life's good, is my mantra, as I walk out of the building after work, every night. Just say it. Life's good. It's a good, positive affirmation. I think, if you think miserable thoughts, you will be.

I feel great.

 

Dinner with Lauri

It was my ex, Lauri's birthday, last Tuesday, so I went over to his parent's place for a big wog dinner. He's in Australia, with his current boyfriend, for a few weeks. There were the parents, the uncles and the aunties, the brother's and the sisters, nieces and nephews and the friends, gay and straight. I so love those big, wog family get-togethers, they are really cool. Big and noisy and food forever. English and Italian; conversations where one person is speaking one language and the other person is answering in another.

The food was cooked outside in the kitchen in the garage and on the BBQ and laid out in side and we all ate on a big long table in the garden, between the vegi patch and the rabbit hutch. Everybody chatting, laughing and drinking, into the night.

Lauri and I got caught smoking a J when his mother and other gusts came out the front. His mother's only reaction was to call us cheeky boys. I love his mum, she's gorgeous and she always loves to see me. Then we smoked it with a few of the rels standing around, admiring the olive tree and the lemon tree and nobody seemed to care. Wog families are so carefree when it comes to some things that Aussie families would freak out about... and then they're weird about other things that Aussie families wouldn't care about. I think that's why I love my time with them, different values, different ways of living.

It's such a big, extended family, loving, melting pot, Lauri and his family. I told him he was lucky and he replied, To think I was embarrassed by them for so many years.

We ate, we drank and we all sang happy birthday. Lauri, of course, had three cakes, the prodigal son, after all, returned. His birthday is such an occasion, he just loves it.

Towards the end of the night when the guys had had plenty of wine, they started saying that nephew Carlo - Lauri's sister's 17 year old son - was definitely... I'd never thought that before, I've known him since he was four, after all. Then I caught his eye catching mine and he smiled and he kept looking, as I deliberately looked at him. He was coy and sweet and blushed a little, but mostly he smiled and sparkled. Yep, I thought. How about that? I reckon he is one for our team. Cute Carlo, who'd have thought? It had never crossed my mind before.

Then I realised he was looking over at me all the time, after that. What beautiful, big, brown eyes, he has. What a cute smile. So I kept catching his eye and he kept looking and smiling and looking away and looking back. Whenever I spoke, he seemed to be inordinately interested in what I was saying.

The siblings and the guys were the last to leave.

As we were all leaving, Carlo was standing in front of me, as we waited for everyone to get their shit together and say good bye. I was bad, I couldn't help myself. I ran my eyes down Carlo to the bulge in his shorts and then back up again. He blushed and instinctively moved his hand in front of his pants and then blushed and smiled and his eyes looked at me with a burning intensity, fixed on me. I smiled and he smiled in acknowledgment, we connected there and then, standing between the garage and the side gate, as the other's chatted in the distance. Then his mother came out with his sister and said, Come on lets go and Carlo left, looking back at me until he was around the corner of the house and out of sight.

When I got out the front, he announced, to me, proudly that he was driving his mother's new Honda. I smiled and said great and his eyes stayed locked on me. I smiled and said good bye and he did to. He waved enthusiastically, as I drove off.

Silly hey, but I couldn't get the smile off my face, as I drove away. I wondered if he had his uncle's big... well, you know what I wondered... probably, I thought, and then I smiled even more.

The Incompetence of the R.A.C.V.

R.A.C.V. vehicle inspections are not worth the paper they are printed on. Apparently, their mechanics are so easily fooled by car salesmen’s tricks that they can’t spot an oil leak when they see one.

“We can’t report on it if the car has been cleaned before we get there, said the manager of vehicle inspections.

If the car salesmen clean the oil leak before the R.A.C.V. mechanic gets there, it renders the R.A.C.V. mechanic incapable of seeing it.

“So you are admitting to incompetence?” I said. “Surely that is the job you have been paid to do?”

“If we can’t see it, we can’t tell you.”

“So you are telling me that used car salesmen’s smoke and mirrors get the better of you?”

“I don’t think you understand what I am saying?”

“On the contrary, I understand very well.”

I, literally, bought a car that I wouldn't have bought, certainly not without some repairs being done before I bought it, if it weren't for the R.A.C.V. giving the car the green light, telling me that it was free of faults that the car, actually, had.

The R.A.C.V.'s incompetence has cost me $2,200.00. Beware!

Running With G

G talked me into going running, last night. Well, it was more of a walk, my knee is still clicking badly. I’m sure I can feel bones rubbing together. Clunk, clunk. Clunk, clunk.

Come on you pussy, run, he said, as I slowed to a walk.

Na-ah!

Ah-ha!

Na-ah!

We were doing our best cheesy, American sitcom take-offs.

I can’t, my knees crap, I said. I warned you before we came out.

You girl.

You’re a girl.

Am not.

Are so…

Then he pulled down the front of his shorts and waggled his cock at me, in the middle of Fitzroy Gardens.

Not a girl!

Put it away…

So you reckon the boys would like it?

(It’s funny how straight boys, at least, want to know they are desirable, even to guys. G normally appears quite chuffed when I tell him one of my gay mates fancies him)

I remember the time he came around in a panic, his girl friend, actually, his wife at the time, had managed to stick her nail extension up his piss slit when she’d been pulling him off and he had bled every where, profusely. He whipped it out and asked me if I thought it looked damaged.

I gave him the same answer then, as I did now.

Make it hard and I'll tell you.

Ha, ha!

Sure the boys would like it…you seem to want to.

Ha, ha, said G, again.

If you waxed your back, that is.

What’s wrong with my…he looked over his shoulder, at which point he realised he had a t-shirt on. He punched me on the arm. It hurt.

You know, when I think about it, G and I almost have a teenage relationship. We’re like brothers, teenage brothers, in a strange kind of sense. He only ever had sisters and I was never close with my brother, so we have that relationship that we would have had with close brothers. We play, we muck around, we kid with each other. We talk the biggest load of shit, really. I guess we've know each other for quite some time.

He says he can mess around with me, flash his cock, ask me if I think he needs to trim his pubes, be quite intimate with hugs and kisses, he always wants me to massage his shoulders and stuff like that, because he knows I’d never hit on him…like a brother. And I would never hit on him, it would be like hitting on my own brother. Oooo! (grimace) is my only reaction at the thought of getting sexy with G.

Some of my mates still reckon G wants to have sex with me.

No, he doesn't, is always my answer.

You’re kidding yourself.

No, I’m not.

Damned if they do and damned if they don’t – being comfortable with gay guys, or not being comfortable with them. You know, at the extreme, they are either homophobic or closet cases; sometimes, in a sense, they just can’t be comfortable with who every one is. We don’t always let them, well, that’s what G says.

So we walked around Fitzroy Gardens, G complaining the whole way.

Come on, run a bit.

Walk a bit, you tosser.

I’ll never burn enough carbs at this rate.

And you've got those luv handles developing nicely too…

What! (He doesn't have an ounce of fat on him) He twisted at the waist like a super model.

I ran a bit, just to shut him up. The dappled shadows from the elms were beautiful.

Do you think I need a hair cut?

Well, now that you mention it.

And what are you trying to say with your hair? he said, in his best Queer Eye for the Straight guy voice. (I am in desperate need of a hair cut, it is true) Is long hair back in? Or are you planning the op, some time soon?

Nah, just been busy.

Well, you’ll never get a guy looking scruffy like that, he lisped. Let me tell you maaate! Turning from bitch to butch on the turn of his thick, neck muscles.

Ha, ha, I said. At least I can be faithful.

Get fucked! He punched my arm, again.

Well, have you?

Get fucked!

Well?

Yes, he said, suddenly sounding exasperated. You've taught me well.

G used to say that he could screwed around on his girlfriends because he knew it was only sex and it didn't mean any thing. But if his girlfriend screwed around on him, it meant she didn't love him and she wasn't committed to him. He could tell me that with an absolute straight face and mean it. That, amazingly, took many, many hours, years of discussion to convince him otherwise.

He pulled his t-shirt off. How am I looking?

You look great, you big poofter. He’s been doing gym 6 days a week and he really does look great.

He smiled. (He’s just been in Queensland) I put on my red speedos (he ran his hands over his crotch) and went and sun baked on the beach, up at Trinity. He smiled his broadest grin. The bitches just circled, it was fucken fantastic!

6.1, handsome, Greek, with a super gym-toned body, you do the maths, I thought.

Come on, Claudia, I said. Let’s head home.

The Trouble With Josh

Mark's giving shit to Josh. Last Wednesday, when Mark made one of his rare visits to the city to buy a new car, he and Josh were alone in the lounge room in Fitzroy.

How's the new job going? asks Mark, sounding friendly and interested.

New job? I don't have a new job?

Aren't you working? asks Mark, feigning surprise.

No, I'm not working, says Josh.

So, what are you doing with yourself? asks Mark, curiously.

Oh, laying around the house, watching TV, says Josh. I'm sure he was being smart, with that answer. You know, stamping some authority,

Well, why don't you get off your arse and clean the house then? says Mark, pointedly.

Mark doesn't like Josh, he thinks he is a user. Josh has been staying at my place since mid December and, in all reality, he hasn't contributed any thing. Mostly, he has borrowed money from me to survive.

Last weekend, when I arrived home on Sunday night, he said my bike had a fat tyre and I'd have to get it fixed. I thought about that for a couple of days, you see, Josh is really self-focused, he wouldn't just notice the tyre on my bike went flat. He wouldn't see it unless it directly involved him.

My bike tyre, I bought up with Josh. How did it go flat?

How do these things ever happen, said Josh. A nail, some glass. Who knows?

Who was the last person to ride my bike? I asked plainly. Before the tyre went flat?

Okay, he replied defensively. I'll get it fixed, if that's what your trying to say?

I didn't tell Mark this.

Josh's response to cleaning the house question, was to leave the room.

When Josh answered the phone to Mark, yesterday, Mark asked how the house cleaning was going?

Is there something you want? was Josh's reply.

A couple of my friends have commented that they felt Josh had allowed them to believe that he was me on the phone when they called. He has allowed the conversation to proceed passed what would be normal in such situations. Julien said he was kind of creeped out by it, that he felt more creeped out by it the more he thought about it, like he had been violated. Of course Julien relayed this info onto Mark.

The tyre on my bike is still flat.

Kiss Me

Early Sunday

I'm eating chocolate biscuits for breakfast, as the cockies call to each other, in the trees outside. I know, it's a great way to stay svelte, but I'm just picking, as I have my first coffee. There's a glass barrel next to the kettle, left out from the woman's retreat, where they sat around and gazed at their vagina's with hand-mirrors. Well, I'm still not smoking, although, I hit the pot with Luke and Mark pretty hard last night. But, not cigarettes, even after smoking with Lauri, Friday night. Just don't light that first one in the morning, and then I'm right.

I came up here to get away from the stifling heat of what would have been the city, last night. It was glorious, too. I was almost cold, as I headed to my bed last night. The stars were magnificent, Mark and I gazed at them, diamonds in the black sky. But, you know, I'd still rather hang with Mark & Luke than anyone, heat or no heat. They are still my favourite blokes. It looks like the two of them might be starting the long break up. I think they want different things, I think they both know that. They are going to counselling, as the two of them say, so they can have the best break up ever. I think Luke is going to go travelling, head overseas, maybe. It will be strange not having Luke around, it's been a long time, he's gorgeous. I'll miss him, if they split. I adore Luke.

The country is the only place to be when the temp is nudging forty. We lose sight of the fact that it is only man's construct, the evil that man does that heats up to unbearable temperatures, left to nature, it is always cool in the evenings to sleep, the natural universe's cooling system always kicks in when the sun goes down. The more man works against nature, the less likely he is to survive. I used to love that great big melting pot that is the city, but now I just see it as getting too big and too angry and too over-heated to really enjoy. I might think about moving to the country, one day.

That's all I wanted to say to that woman who tried to run me over the other morning, It doesn't have to be this way. But then the current governments of today are saying it's alright to go to war, it's alright to fight, so what do I expect.

I'm lucky, I have some where to go when the city gets too angry to survive in. Bolago, is only an hour away, after all, I could even commute.

I'd most likely go by train, but it would also be fun tackling the traffic in the GTI. Have I told you what a cool car it is? It sticks to the road like a go-cart and it accelerates like an F1. I came up the old road, non-dual highway, on the way up here, just to put the GTI through it's paces. I passed every thing on the road, even in 6th gear. Although, chucking it down to 5th and hitting the accelerator is the most fun. Into 4th and it's just a rocket, from 100 to 140 in seconds. It's just like my Cooper S - the real Mini variety and not the cynical marketing exercise of the baby BMW masquerading as a Cooper S - but the GTI has airbags and crumple zones for every day life. Breath taking! Its performance makes me cackle, like a man possessed, as everybody else appears as a diminishing dot in my rear-view mirror.

That's fun! Ha, ha, ha, ha!

We all play it too safe now a days. Over regulated and over-fed, we're drowning in a sea of rules and affluence. Our wealth is like quicksand and we're now up to our necks in it. 3 minutes to midnight, as they now say.

Touching

I think I'll call you Dick,

I think I'll hold onto this,

rub it like that,

watch your eyes close,

watch your face turn to bliss.

Nipples are made for sucking

Hanging Out on a Friday Night

Last night, I was hanging with Tim and Nicholas' cousin Caroline - 5 children, 3 father's, baby bonus' for all, thank you John Howard - we'd been off to see Tim and Nicholas' new house, same street, 400 and something rather than 100 and something. Caroline never stopped talking, I mean never; the twins, her operation, the car accident, never having stayed in one house for twelve months, how she didn't drink, hick, her eyes were glassy, how her father gave her her first shot of speed (I mean syringe) when she was fourteen (so it's not just the accident)... it's a good thing I like her, heart of gold, otherwise you'd just want to suffocate her with a pillow, let me tell you.

We drank wine, in the empty house, admired all the rooms, opened all the windows and doors, sussed out the spot for the dope plant and generally felt sorry for the neighbours when we realised how close they were, what with Tim's penchant for loud, bubble gum pop. Nicholas cracked the shits because the lease said "no pets." They couldn't get him to understand that was a standard lease clause, because their current lease doesn't have it. He'd decided he didn't want to move, he'd cracked the sads, "it's just another fucken house, what's all the excitement," and had gone to bed.

I was off the the Laird to meet up with my ex-boyfriend, so naturally, I didn't get there until late. I drove, which I'd never, never normally do, but I was leaving later than I had intended. My ex, Lauri, had a whole bunch of friends there, he was so pleased to see me, bear-hugs all round. He was a bit drunk and started to introduce me as his mate, but then he must have realised and he grabbed me in his arms and kissed me hard and laughed, his beautiful, green eyes sparkled and he said, My ex-boyfriend, this man is my ex-boyfriend. It was nice, sweet.

We'd both given up smoking, so naturally we both smoked all night.

Lauri kept filling my empty glass, with half of whatever schooner, whoever had just bought him. I drank slowly, but probably ended up having three schooners (collectively) in two, or so, hours and Tim had filled my wine glass several times in as many hours, before I got to the pub, so I wondered if I was over the limit when I drove home. I decided to go when I started to flirt with one of Lozza's mates and he started to flirt back. I don't know, I never think it is a good look to start hitting on friends, or ex-boyfriends, mates. How Scott filled those shorts, though, nice smile, interested eyes...

I don't think I've ever driven over the limit in my entire life, as I just don't drive, normally, if I go out drinking. I could have been, maybe? Oh who cares, I thought, when I was parked safely in my back yard. It's good to live a little, we're all "safeing" ourselves into paralysis, these days.

I've got a bit of a headache today, though, which is a sure sign of imbibing too much...

 

Lap-Dance Me If You Love Me

Love is a lap-dance

thick thighs covered in hair,

until somethings getting bigger 

where I sit down.

Kiss Me