Sn'day Arvo

Supermarket, washing, cleaning the kitchen, I'm in my domestic goddess mode. Thank the universe I don't have to vacuum and dust, thank you cleaner.

Hair in curlers, wrapped in a scarf, nylon brunch coat with tea stains, fag out of the mouth, natch. Just call me Gladys. I've been zipping around the house, lifting, moving, sorting. Well, not exactly. But I'm glad I looked in the mirror before I went to Safeway, I nearly didn't and I looked like, well, um, Gladys.

I had to go to Safeway, I had no food in the house and I thought better of a lamb kebab. I was starving, coffee and cigarettes just don't cut it.

Of course, there is a reward for all of this, Manny's practicing his music and should be finished and need of TLC by early evening. So, I had to get every thing done that I had to get done, before the new week. I'm exhausted! Ha, ha, ha!

Tom's coming over for a cup of tea in between. I've been up to my old tricks, not answering phones, but I'm getting better. I'm sure there must be a phobia regarding this. I forced myself to call back, it's not that I'm antisocial, as such, and it's not that I don't want to see Tom, who I haven't seen for ages, I just get lost in my own world and hate to be disturbed. Hello Chris, this is the world calling!

There is nobodies company I like better than my own.

I think I've got a hangover. Where are those pills?

Then off to Manny's... the best cure for a head ache that I know.

Now, if You Imagine Them Blue, with Long Legs...

Boy's Night Out

I was, practically, drunk and disorderly on my walk home last night, not that anyone noticed me staggering through Fitzroy, in the dark. Bongs and a nice chardy (not my usual poison) made me stagger, let me tell you.

I'd been to dinner with Tim and Nicolas, Nicholas' cousin and her baby-bonus children and a fat, mentally deranged friend of Tim's, someone he used to work with, who was the most bizarre, never-stop-talking type I'd ever met, at a pub in Fitzroy. Fat Bizarro Girl stole food off the children's plates, everybody noticed, spoke with her food in her mouth and quaffed wine like there was no tomorrow.

We sat outside. We were entertained by a group of boys, who were on a pub crawling buck's night, who'd come in costume. There were tennis players, Elvis look a likes, jockeys and seventies retro. One fine specimen of a man - tall, athletic, handsome - wore a stripey, seventies jersey top and a pair of blue pants so tight that they could only be described as "sprayed" on. Literally.

My goodness, did those pants get our attention. Nicholas' head was turned, in such a way that I've never seen before. He's the dutiful boyfriend, usually, to be sure.

Blue pants boy left nothing to the imagination. Not his fine legs, not his great arse, not his huge cock that was, clearly, pushed downwards in his jocks. I would say he was cut.

The whole group, who'd clearly had quite a few beers, were totally cockscentric. A number of them clearly had tennis balls or socks stuffed into their jocks. They played with them, discussed them and showed them off to their mates. They were all standing around comparing packages, at one stage.

"I thought I had the tightest pants on (and he did)," said blue pants boy, rubbing his hand seductively down his thick bulge, as another seventies throw back - yellow pants boy - arrived.

"I don't know," said yellow pants boy, grabbing his bulge, as he spoke. "They are pretty tight," he said looking at blue pants boy.

"Is that all you?" asked the seventies rock star - he quite a hunk himself.

"Yes," said blue pants boy, rubbing his hand down his shaft again. (The boy was hung, everybody could see it... no, could actually, see it )

"Damn!" slurred seventies rock star. "I wish I filled my pants, just like that," he replied, gazing at blue pants boy's crotch, which could only have been described as lustfully, while he rubbed his own bulge, intently, as if checking in comparison.

Nicolas turned to me with a huge smile. "Those blue pants sure are tight."

"He wouldn't want to dribble after a piss," I said.

We both laughed.

What is it with straight boys, when they get together with beer, being turned on to their own cocks?

 

There is this boy - The first time

I walked along Mary Street, towards the tram. My bag was heavy hanging off my shoulder, how much home work did I have? How many day dreams were filling my brain? My head spun. The sun shone brightly. The end of the day. Escape.

Alex was at footy practise.

Mr Martin’s green Triumph Stag was sitting in all its glory in the street. He was about the best looking teacher Smithton had on offer, not that I ever fancied any of my teachers, pity, but I fancied his car. Its sleek curves were sexy, its chrome work sparkled, its automatic gearbox was, well, a disappointment. You big girl, I thought. Fancy wasting a fine car…

Turned up collars, suave dressing style an over abundance of after shave, exceptionally well spoken…and an automatic gear box? What did that say about Mr Martin?

I could see my reflection distorted sideways in the paintwork of the curved rump of the Stag, like one of those novelty mirrors. I moved sideways and my reflection turned to a long, flat line over the wheel arch. My face appeared in minuscule in the chrome around the door handle. My face shot out sideways when I moved it a long the shiny paint work, like my skin was being pulled by an invisible wire, like a Dali painting. I moved it back and it was a locket portrait, again. I moved it sideways and it was the work of the Spanish master.

I quietly enjoyed my reflection.

The last teacher’s car that I admired was a metallic, silver blue, two door XM Falcon, with twin, chrome exhausts, that one of my primary teachers, Miss Fellows, drove.

I remembered my first gay thought – the men’s underpants ads in my mother’s Woman’s Weeklies, withstanding, the fascination with those started long before. I shook my head. I tried to push it down, I tried to deny it, but it was vivid.

I was standing in assembly and I remember thinking the boys in front of me, who were in fifth and sixth grade, had nice legs, in their grey shorts and white socks. I was at state school. We were in the quadrangle, that red-brick state school architecture all around us, double story on one side. We were facing the hall – 60’s kitsch – we used to practise ball room dancing in, with Miss Quan. I went to a private boy’s school from grade 4, so I was in grade 3 at the time of the thought. How old did that make me?

It wasn't a sexual thought, it wasn't a conscious thought, it was more of a fascination... an attraction. I remember their tanned legs. It must have been summer, possibly at the end of the year.

My first sexual act was in my first year of Smithton, the following year. Ah, Nathaniel Miller, I remember him well. I had my first orgasm, as did Nathaniel – he told me – even if neither of us ejaculated. He didn't need to tell me, I felt it, our hips jerked together.

So I was, we both were... what year was it? Eleven. We were both eleven.

He had curly dark hair and olive skin and was somewhat Italian in looks. I've been chasing Nathaniel Miller, ever since. He had 3 brothers, they all looked alike, all handsome. They all went to the school. The brothers were all older.

It was behind the white board, at the back of the class, after 3.30. We held each other's gaze, even if we didn't kiss. It was tender and gentle, even if I was unsettled by it. I didn't know what that feeling was, in my groin.

Some mucking around amongst the boys happened earlier in the day. The teacher hadn't arrived, as yet, he was late. Some one did something to some one else, gave a wedgy or grab their nuts. Dares were given, joking followed. Neither Nathaniel, or I, were involved in that, we watched from the side lines, on the periphery.

Nathaniel and I picked up on each other's fascination. We caught each other's gaze, interest, fascination just as each of us had the same realisation. We saw it in each other, at the same time.

We never spoke, but we held each other's gaze. I think I felt that feeling for the first time, a buzz in the stomach, an ache in the abdomen, call it what you like. We kind of kept the gaze during the afternoon, intermittently and both just dawdled, after the bell. We were the last two left in the classroom, everybody left quickly, the teacher also, which wasn't so usual, but sometimes they said they had to leave.

It was instinctual for both of us. We didn't need to vocalise our plans. We stripped completely and Nathaniel lay on top of me and we rubbed our cocks together there, behind the whiteboard, at 4pm.

It only happened once. We both set off each other's radar and the rest just followed, naturally. He left Smithton pretty soon after; I guess it must have been the end of the year that he left. He seemed gone almost instantly, so I'm assuming we got together in the second half of the year, because suddenly he was gone.

Nathaniel went to another boy's school, I can't remember which.

I saw him once, one afternoon, many years later. You see, he lived just a few houses from Smithton, which made the reason for him going to another school, across town, all the more mystifying. We approached each other, walking in opposite directions. We recognised each other from a distance, he'd grown well and proud, with his dark, good looks. We both hesitated, both nearly stopped. We were face to face, the mythical meeting. He hadn't changed, except for growing into a man. Our eyes met, held...

He crossed the road and disappeared around the corner, without looking back. By the time I caught up, he'd gone into his house and out of sight.

I never saw him again.

“Mr Fletcher?” Martin was approaching the car with his keys in his hand.

“Oh…nice car,” Mr Martin. “It’s a classic now.”

“Oh, I don’t think quite yet,” he replied. “But I’m sure it will be, one day.”

He got in and the car burbled to life, with its deep growl. I watched it drive away, the shadows from the trees sliding across its duco.

I looked sideways up Mary Street towards Nathaniel Miller’s house.

I adjusted my bag, on my shoulder, the weight of which suddenly became very apparent. 

Friday Night

Too tired? TOO TIRED! What? Off to bed?

Oh, I gotta laugh. Serves me right, after what I did last weekend?

Manny's been running around all day. He's been practising his music all afternoon. He's beat.

Bugger!

He doesn't have a vindictive bone in his body, re last weekend, he apologised for not being up to it. He sounded so tired, poor babe.

"No, no, come over," he said, reconsidering, hardly able to string the words together. "I won't be up to much, but when I see you..."

He'd be asleep on my shoulder in minutes, which is kind of a nice place for him to be. I love that trust. I love that feeling. I love reaching around and stroking his face, feeling his stubbled skin - Greek boys always have stubble - listening to his breathing, listening to the little noises he makes when he's out to it, just looking at him. Men are beautiful when they are asleep.

Handsome boy. Sweet dreams sweet prince.

Manny

Be Nice to Your boy... boyfr... Mate, Chris

Ah yes, I'm a bad... um... er... boy... er... boyfr... er...mate. Yes, I am. Over the weekend, I was so wasted on green that I didn't answer any calls from Manny. I didn't answer calls from anyone. I just deleted them Tuesday morning, as I left for work.

I hadn't heard from Manny since. Nothing, all week.

I was taking my car in yesterday morning to finally get serviced, the weekend problem coming back from the airport, prompted me too. So, I headed out and hopped in, hoping like hell there wasn't anything too majorly wrong with it, as I hadn't driven it since. Firstly, the central locking didn't work, the door just unlocked with the key, no whir, just a click. Damn, I thought, fearing a major electrical malfunction. I got in and turned the key and nothing, absolutely nothing. No errrr. No click. Nothing! The dash board stayed dead, not even a glimmer of light.

Fuck! I'll just have to go to work. But I can't just leave it here, what's going to happen? Maybe the good fairy will come along and weave magic? Fuck!

I was meeting with the C.E.O. at 9.30.

Fuck!

So, I opened the bonnet and looked at the battery - truthfully that is, practically, the extent of my skills - and wouldn't you know it, the battery terminal connection was hanging half off. I had a new battery put in a few weeks ago and they must have left it lose. Yah! I got a spanner and tightened it, but it wouldn't stop turning. I tried again. Still wouldn't. I took it off and had a good look and the bolt that tightened the two ends was snapped in the middle. The idiot battery man - tall, dark and handsome. Looked good in overalls. Nice arse, if I remember - must have broken it. Yah for incompetence, again, I thought, as I marvelled that it had kept going for this long.

The car then started, no problems, as you would expect... hope.

Manny had said last Friday, Just get back in it and head over here. I called him, yesterday afternoon, to say that he was right, even if I didn't know what was wrong with it at the time.

"Oh, long time no hear," said a boy, clearly with his feelings hurt.

"You were right about the car," I said. "Nothing major, just the battery terminal."

"That's great," said a very subdued Manny.

"I'm sorry I didn't call you back," I said. "That's why I'm calling now."

"Well," said Manny. "I was going to wait to see how long it took you."

"I'm sorry."

He laughed, kind of pleased. "What did you do all weekend?"

"You know what I did."

"Smoked pot?"

"Yes."

"Did you do any thing else?"

"Nah, went to the shop for cigarettes."

"Me either," said Manny. "When do you get your car back?"

"Friday," I said. "Tomorrow."

"Come over tomorrow night?"

"Sure," I said.

Afternoon Dreaming

I look out my office window across to the bay; over the city, dotted with buildings, keeping the shore line curved, in an arc, around the dark expanse of water. 

Boats come and boats go. I can only dream about their exotic destinations. 

Cargo boats; some like floating, square boxes, some with long noses and a tiny brain, at the back, to navigate them, some with funnels, two a piece, and still others covered in cranes and winches and all manner of machinery. 

No matter which, I dream about them going. 

I fantasise about a deck chair on the bow, maybe a knee rug for the wind, long, golden drifts of sunshine, surrounded by blue, blue water all around me for as far as the eye could see, with a book and a drink and not a care worth considering.

That's what I think in the afternoon when I stop to look out my big, picture windows.

Sad But True

I can't wait for Josh to go. It is sad but true. I've been botted off by experts in the past and I swore it wouldn't happen again and yet it is. Why do people think it is okay to let somebody else pay for the things they use? Friends are often the worst culprits.

Josh and I had certain agreements, up front, about what how he was supposed to contribute to the costs of running the house. I never said, oh yes, come and stay with me for 6 months and I will provide for all your needs. No and I don't think it is reasonable to think I would. We've since had discussions about it. He's clearly not going to meet them, however.

It's sad to see a friendship drain away over such trivial matters but, I'm afraid, it is. I've been in this position before, where I've given people the benefit of the doubt and they have taken the easy way. And it's going to happen again. I mean, I'm not talking about teenagers, I'm talking about thirty year olds, closer to forty than thirty. I'm not talking about kids who don't, or shouldn't expect to, have means to pay for themselves. I'm talking about fully functioning adults. The thing I hate most is being made to be the Landlord Nazi, when they have asked to come and live with me. I've bought it up several times. How many times do I have to?

The worst thing about all of this, is that it turns me into a passive aggressive monster, one of my worst traits, when pushed. 

When I first came across this photo, I was struck by how much it reminded me of Alex. It stopped me and made me look twice the first time I saw it. It is not him, but it could be him. Somehow it is the attitude and the expression that captures Alex so well.

How many weekends did I look at him just like that, at his place when his parents were down at their Mornington Peninsula beach house.

He never wore boxers, he wore those wide sided briefs the type his mother would buy him, in 3 packs. His hair was just like that, same colour and with the same highlights.

He always wore a gold chain. The hairy legs are his, the chest is his and the shoulders are his. Yeah, sure the body is his.

The decor of his parent's house was reminiscent to this also, it gave that ex-Doncaster-show home vibe. They had a red velvet lounge suit, which I was on often enough on my knees. And we were always sponging it down afterwards, as both of us were like energiser bunnies when it came to each other and not really very careful about the mess we made.

There is this boy - Alex and Me

Monday morning, my dad dropped me off at the front gate, as he always did. Sometimes late, sometimes not. You’d think being a teacher he’d have us there on time? But, I guess, being a university lecturer he had more of a concept of time being fluid, I can only suppose. Mostly, I was on time, but fortunately we always had form assembly from 9 to 9.30, which always got me to school on time, so to speak.

Most of the class was already there. Tall, good looking, Mr Lyon, our year 11 form master, was already talking. I took my seat next to Alex.

Mr Lyon had been cajoled into the infamy of the Reynolds class. I rolled my eyes when I realised, even I was bored with the subject, suspecting all along it was crap. Get another story guys, I thought.

“You boy’s really aught to get over it. It’s not a badge of honour, you know. It’s not an achievement. You guys are really doing yourselves a huge disservice by perpetuating this ridiculous rumour.”

“But is it true?” said Raymond.

“Come on. Enough.” He looked concerned, worried even that we would want to pursue this. “Your English essays were pretty good…”

Alex pushed his thigh against mine. I’d only just slipped into class, we hadn't spoken, as yet. Big, warm and thick, right where I liked it.

Lyon was handing out the essays.

“Hey Roberts,” Dominic A. whispered from behind. Alex withdrew his leg like a dirty secret, which, of course, it was. “Have you got the answer for question 10? Of the homework?”

Alex looked at me with his nervous eyes, as he turned around. Nervous energy, that is. Nervous for my eyes. No doubt, they were on bright shine moments later, by the time he had fully turned around. He leaned over the desk behind, his arse pert in the air. I wanted to touch it, feel his curves, his warmth, him alive under my hand, as I did nightly, well, afternoonly? (Is there such a word) I had to stop myself from looking at him, turn my head away.

My favourite part of a man, where his torso ends and his legs finish – from opposite directions, of course. I still love the way the slim waist flowers into hips and arse. I love the way a belt sits on a man, higher at the back and lower at the front.

Alex had the sexiest arse. It tapered in, from the hips to the cheeks, on either side, it was slightly turned up, pert, if you like and it had a well defined crack, starting from the middle, opening wider, in a triangle, as it disappeared underneath.

“No can do,” said Alex. “I didn't do it.”

“Shit!” said Dom.

Alex wore his pants tight, not circulation constricting tight, but snug, fitting. They were tight across his, thick, thighs and across his hips, which made him bulge, well, you know where.

“I've got it.”

“What?” said Alex, turning back to me?

“I've got it.”

“I know you've got it,” Alex whispered.

“The homework.”

“No drama,” said Alex, turning back to Dom with his, usual, car salesman spin. “Taken care of!”

I still don’t know what Dom did for Alex for the supply of homework. I don’t think anything, to be honest. It was just a part of being on the footy team, a part of football camaraderie. It was a part of Alex shoring up his support with whomever.

Alex turned back to me, still sitting, so that I was looking at his groin, which was in line with my face. He looked down at his groin, momentarily and then at me and smiled and then resumed his seat.

“Roberts?” said Mr Lyon.

Alex jumped. I was in no doubt about what he was thinking, as I was still thinking about the front of his pants. I could tell that he thought he’d just been sprung, as I thought he had been.

“Ah…yes, Mr Lyon?” Alex slid back down into his seat. Falter, sunshine. In the blink of an eye, he’d pulled it together. I could almost see the sweat sucked back into his pores.

“What were you just doing?”

I pushed my thigh against his. He pushed it away with his thigh.

“I was just…um, discussing the homework with Dom, sir. For Politics. There was a question that Mr Armadas wanted my help with… sir.”

“I see,” said Mr Lyon. Then he looked at me. “Surely, that should have been done before now?”

“You know Dom, sir,” said Alex, with his hands, as a question, in the air. “Does everything at the last minute.” Cheekiest possible grin.

Everybody laughed.

“Okay,” Lyon said. Then he looked at me. Alex looked at me too. “Just help… you don’t need to do it for him.”

“Of course, sir,” said Alex. “I know the rules, sir.”

Lyon looked at me suspiciously. I decided that I was being paranoid. I held his gaze until he resumed handing out the essays.

It was a strange kind of question. We weren't in silence studying. Alex wasn't disturbing any class that was going on. It was form assembly, we were supposed to be talking, that’s what it was all about. Form assembly was an opportunity for the class to get together and be a class, since we were mostly split into electives by year 11 and never really saw each other, as a whole. The only thing Lyon could be objecting to was me sizing up Alex’s lunch… and Alex letting me. You know, like it’s already been in my mouth.

“Give me your homework,” said Alex. “I’ll get it back to you at recess.”

I opened my folder.

“Down the change rooms,” whispered Alex. “With my hand down your pants…”

“Mr Fletcher.” Lyon’s hand put my essay down in front of me. 17/20. Lyon was standing behind me, apparently, looking at Alex. I would have thought in earshot, but…

“17 out of twenty, very good,” said Alex. He tousled my hair like I was a good boy. “Would you have one there for me, sir?” Alex looked up angelically, big puppy dog eyes. I could have licked him.

Alex got 16/20, as was our habit all through school.

“Oh!” He feigned disappointment.

I was out on the oval, with Raymond, having just returned from having a cigarette, at recess, when Alex came strolling over.

I liked watching him walk towards me, it always made me feel good, made me smile. He seemed like mine whenever he was coming to me.

“You stink,” were his first words.

“You got a mint,” I asked Raymond, my smoking buddy.

“Here’s you homework,” said Alex.

Raymond handed me a packet of Steam Rollers.

Alex nodded his head towards the end of the oval. “I've got something I want to tell you.”

Alex looked at Raymond.

“I've got to go, anyway,” said Raymond. “I've got to get to the library.”

Alex and I walked away from the school buildings.

“How was that in class today,” said Alex. “Do you think Lyon knows…

“Knows what?”

“Do you think he saw?”

“Saw what?”

I, of course, knew exactly what Alex was talking about. I think this was just my way of keeping an upper hand over him.

“You looking at my cock, you idiot!”

“Relax,” I said. I held my hands up in exclamation marks. “Schoolboy lovers outed by teacher, I can see the headline.”

Alex looked around, checking. I knew there was no one within earshot.

“Shhh!,” said Alex, like a snake. “Don’t joke.”

“Lyon knows nothing,” I said. “Besides, you were the one sticking it in my face.”

“But, that look on his face…”

“He knows nothing.”

We got to the fence. Alex sat up on it. I stood next to him and we looked back at the school.

“Smoking will kill you, you know,” said Alex.

“Something has to.”

“Yeah, but it doesn't have to be self-inflicted... ” He punched me on the shoulder. "You know."

“You’ll kill me,” I said.

I didn't know why I said that. It just came out, from some held, hidden truth. I guess Alex made me nervous. No, Alex didn't make me nervous, but the truth did.

Boys were playing football. Craig Cameron and Andrew Johnson were kicking to Dom A and Benjamin Saint. Boys sat in circles next to them, how no one got trodden on, I’m not sure. Others sat, on seats dotted around the perimeter, in groups.

“Are we really lovers?” asked Alex, gently.

I laughed, snorted through my nose. “I've got to get to class. I want to ask Barnaby about a question I’m having trouble with.”

I started to walk away.

“Hey?”

I turned back. “What?”

“Are we?”

I couldn't help but smile. “I guess, Mr Roberts,” I said, walking backwards. “That we are.”

Alex smiled his beautiful smile and the sun caught his fair hair and it glistened brightly. 

What Happened Easter Monday?

Here comes the smoker. That's what they'd be saying behind the counter at my local shop. Here comes the smoker, again. He's put on weight, hasn't he?

Bloody giving up smoking! Grumble, grumble.

Do you think they talk about us when we are gone, those running the shop, the deli, the 7 11? He gets styvos and never wants a carry bag.

No, hang on. I can remember a time when he bought two ice creams and he asked for a bag then. So, he has said yes at least once that I remember.

Well, hardy ever.

I sometimes day dreamed, that was our secret game, See if he takes one, this time. They always seemed to smile, just after I said no, no carry bag thanks. The "Say No" game.

Surely the smile wasn't from the instant profit on the bag calculation?

Do you think they have pet names for us - Red, Skinny, Smelly, Bad-hair, Hot Boy, Hot Girl, Rabbit?

When I walk in its, Here comes Smoking Man. He always buys the newspaper, sometimes both.

Can anyone fit the Age on a cafe table comfortably and eat their lunch? It's breaking the habit. Hedging my bets, just in case the Age fails to amuse. I want gossipy real life crap for a public holiday morning reading.

I've been home all weekend. I've only ventured out to the milk bar to get fags - and ice creams and fish and chips and neenish tarts. Oops!

Get a look at the smoker, does he look like he's been on a mindless hooch bender, or what?

Getting more and more disheveled, by the day, no doubt. I don't think I had a shower, yesterday?

Can I have a packet of styvos?

I've got a beanie for when it's really bad.

That long, never ending walk to the milk bar. In reality, it's only two blocks, but sauced, it's the longest plank in history. I always know when I'm out of it, I don't make contact with the milk bar proprietors.

Ooh, no. Not looking. Not looking. No eye contact, they whisper behind the counter. How are you feeling Smoking Man? No bag, thanks. No eye contact. Fifty dollar note. None. Change. Not well today, Smoking Man! They cheer silently.

I've got pet names for them. Fat Boy, Puppy Dog eyes, Mini Me, Doofus, Boss Man, PussFaced Son and The Gusher...

The sun was shining brightly, I had to cover my eyes. Ah, the smell of early morning, nothing like it - a fresh, but still wet behind the ears, hello.

The cleaning lady is coming today. I'm glad I remembered that. I have to present some semblance of normalcy for when she comes. I wonder what time?

Christine. Her name is Christine. Like the car. Well, not quite like the car, hopefully.

I was going to text David to cancel her, but decided that cancelling her on the morning she was due to work didn't have much integrity surrounding it.

I'm glad I didn't appear like an apparition in the hall way, with my pants around my ankles, barking like the harp seals are now, as she came through the door. I'm glad I remembered she was coming, so there is no risk of that happening.

Can I have a packet of styvos, please?

Integrity, shmegrity, I wish she wasn't coming now.

It's MY HOLIDAY as well! Even with a broken car, I can have a good, uninterrupted, holiday too! What idiot works on a public holiday? Put your feet up, woman, take a brake, it might never happen. Spend the day with your family. moist sigh.

She must be completely mad, she's prepared to go into gay boy's privates, further than any gay boy cleaner ever would. I wonder if she knows what all those leather bracelets have really been used for, as she arranges them neatly in a basket on my bed room mantle piece.

10am. I could have another joint, I reckon.

I wonder if she needs a hep A shot? Well, I've been monogamous all year, so she hardly needs one with me. But it's a thought, hey?

How Hot is This Boy?

I know I don't usually show, gratuitous, guy shots, but I've slept all day - the last thing I remember was going for a nap at midday, with a joint - and you've got to have something to do to entertain yourself at 3am when you can't sleep. Cute, isn't he?

At Uni

Gavin had made the running squad at uni. He was in the finals.

Isabella was back on one of her infrequent return trips home. She's taken Steve shopping for Gavin for some running clothes.

The cellophane wrapper crinkled in Isabella's grip. "How do I know which ones fit him?"

"Just get small, they stretch," said Steven.

"But that seems so haphazard," replied Isabella. "Is Gavin really small?"

"He's the same size as me, I'd buy small, then they are snug."

"You're the same size, of course," said Isabella. "Where are the change rooms?" She took Steve's arm with a firm grip.

There wasn't much room in the change rooms with Isabella, as well. Steve looked at Isabella pleadingly. "Just put them on, Steve. I ran modelling agencies before call centres." Steve still didn't look convinced. "I'm a middle aged woman, Steve. You are a little too young for me."

Steve dropped his pants and took the black tights from Isabella's hand.

He pulled them up to his waist, they were snug.

"Let me see." Isabella's hand slipped up under Steve's shirt, pulling the shirt out of the way, coming to rest just under Steve's nipples, her hand on his skin.

Nothing was hidden under the black, stretch material. Nothing but the truth. Every thing was very real, every contour, every muscle.

"How do they fit here?" Steve jumped as Isabella's hand caressed his balls. "Not too tight?"

"No," Steve choked out.

"Young men," said Isabella. She laughed. "I forget how modest you are."

 

This guy looks like the beautiful Stuart, except the beautiful Stuart has bright blue eyes... and the best arse, just by the way.

The beautiful Stuart is Manny's ex boyfriend and Julien's ex boyfriend. Bought my car? Wanted to move in? Are you keeping up?

You've just got to love green eyes. Green eyes and dark hair. My boy friend Lauri had green eyes like this...

Our Boy J

The clouds parted, and power and glory shone through like search lights scanning the ground. Angels floated down, playing harps and wriggling their wings, seductively over their chubby little rumps. There were trumpets and fanfares and foot soldiers in leather.

I stood amongst the cursed and doomed of the world, my generation, proudly.

And then there he was. A little more buff than I remembered, but it was unmistakably him.

"Hey, J," I yelled out. "J, it's Christian."

He looked around.

"J, over here, with the doomed."

He looked straight at me. Did he have blue contacts in?

"Hey Chris."

Then he was standing next to me. He brushed the angel foot soldiers away. He cut his hands through the air horizontally and the trumpets and the fanfares and percussion stopped. The clouds rejoined and there was silence.

"Good to see you buddy."

"Great entrance."

"Oh, it was nothing," he said. "Just a little something Aunt Clara taught me. Before she headed for the twilight home, that is."

"Very impressive."

"So you liked it?"

"Very much."

He pulled a head-set from his lap-lap. "The entrance was a great success, thanks Libbers." He looked back at me. "I had to draw the line at the ermine cape." He raised his eyebrows. "I asked him where that got him?"

We both laughed.

"So, where have you been?"

"Oh, I've been lifting weights with Gianni and doing lunch with Di, on Ceres. Nice girl, good legs." "I thought you looked more toned."

"Does it show?" He did a twirl.

None of the faithful showed up, too busy castigating the world. Although, a few were still harping at the doomed, in the distance, too intent to notice. He helps those who help themselves, was the faint whisper of their words on the breeze.

J looked at the gathered crowd. "So, who do we have here?"

"Oh, these are the cursed and the doomed..."

"Cursed and doomed?" he asked questioningly. "I thought you were all supposed to be loving your fellow man?"

"Well... I've been trying to tell them."

"There should be no cursed or doomed," he said. "Love thy neighbour, love thy enemy, that's what it's all about."

"I think the message got lost in a million agendas..."

"It is all about selfless love," he said. "Did nobody listen?" He raised his hands in the air.

"Interesting theory," I said, jokingly.

"What were, practically, my last words," he asked, rhetorically. "You can tell the righteous from the damned by whether they'd fed the hungry; slaked the thirsty, clothed the naked, welcomed the stranger and visited the prisoner."

"I think money got in the way."

"Didn't they listen to the camel and the needle stuff?"

"What can I say?"

"You are all supposed to share," he said. "If you did there is plenty to go around."

He spoke into his head-set again. "I'll be here longer than I thought. It won't be a quick trip after all."

He looked back at me. "Turn the other cheek stuff?"

"Ah, no."

"So there is a lot of violence..." He grimaced. "Killing?"

He could tell by my look. "In your name, sometimes."

"I see."

The sky was the most brilliant blue, the sun shone brightly. Birds sang. Nature was at its most spectacular.

"So are you here to take vengeance?"

"Huh?"

"You know, on those who didn't follow the gospels?"

"What, take vengeance on them who knew not, and obeyed not the gospel?" he said. "You blokes make me laugh that you've stuck with that old book. Don't you ever update?"

What could I say. I shrugged and looked around. "Not me."

"You're like old Italian immigrants adhering to the old traditions long since let go of in the homeland."

He pulled a toga over his head that, seemingly, appeared from no where.

"Ah, what a mess." he sighed.

There were sandals at his feet, which he stepped into.

"So, did you really name the whole thing after me?" I had to ask.

He smiled. "Come on, I've got a new book for you to read," he said. "This time the main character's name is Brian."

"Genius," I said.

 

Saturday Night's Alright

The pot is pretty good. Guido eventually turned up; red eyes, slow brain function. Good smoke, he said. Home grown. His smile still lights up a room. He'd been to two parties and he had, I think, four more to go.

I can write for two days... uninterrupted, do some real writing and not be addicted to blogger.

The sun has faded and it has gone dark the next time I look up and take notice. How did that happen, I think.

The door bell rang at 11pm and I was so busy blogging, completely engrossed. I had three windows open, I had a lot to close.

Imagine, if it is Manny, he can't read what I've said about him. That thought made me stop and think. Honest Chris, I pride myself on it?

So, I was slow getting to the door; I can have private thoughts, how much do I have to tell him? When I finally did, there was nobody there. I walked outside, said hello. But nobody.

I walked back inside scratching my head. Fuck, what if it was Manny? He's got that disposition, lots of nervous energy, he'd leave quickly.

I walk back outside and say hello again.

Nah, he would have called by now. He'd have come by public transport - he's not beyond taxiing it, even if he is broke. He's gay, after all, some things don't change.

Either way, he wouldn't have given up so easily.

I wish he'd drop in. Grrr!

If he'd ever just drop in, I'd probably marry him on the spot.

Unless, he comes back soon, then I'd just shag him.

I've been working on two short stories, both started some time ago. I made the most incomplete make sense, gave it a story. It came to me quickly. Add the family, at the beginning. Let him talk to the dead guy, poetic licence. Now I just have to flesh it out. It's about a young guy coming out to his parents, to a mother who's brother had died of AIDS, some time earlier. The uncle comes and talks to him.

I don't usually write gay stories, I've never wanted to be a "gay" writer, as such. But, David asked my why, the other day? Then I asked myself why? And the only thing I felt, to be honest, was internalised homophobia. Funny huh?

The most complete is coming together. It's about a young guy who's girlfriend has just been killed. It's slow. Final stages. Initially, it was just his thoughts, bookended by his dreams of her. I've changed its name, so it refers to him and not her, it's his story. Re-set it. I made him running, while he's thinking. In the present, the only thing he wants to do, is run. There's not much subtext, yet.

I'm at the stage, with both of them, that I can't tell any more. I'm written out.

My tutor's short stories were quite short - I counted the words - but she seemed to get so much detail in. Every sentence has to count as a paragraph. Every sentence has to say something. She got it, I guess that's why she's won awards and competitions... and is published. I'm not sure if enough happens in my stories.

I've got two more, at the notes stage to continue, after the two I'm writing now. I've got to push myself, I get distracted so easily. I've got to enter some competitions, get out there.

My head's spinning.

I'm going to bed.

The Gospel According to St Christian

Gods and Monsters

My God is a fuck,

with the man I love.

Jesus was the big cock

around who the boy disciples flocked.

I only see the holy spirit

when a black woman sings,

wailing on high

up on heavens wings.

Allah is so cranky

that he can't show his face.

The Jews have weak stomachs

that's why they watch what they eat.

Buddhists pretend to be happy,

while Hindus do it with cows,

all the time the Jehovah's

are kicking down your doors.

The Mormons have shiny white teeth,

and five wives a piece,

who'd have thought that?

Catholics are anti everything,

unless, of course, it feels bad.

And the Scientologists,

well, they are completely mad.

The deluded go to church

in tweed cardigans and skirts.

The angry go to mosques

wrapping their brains so they don't hurt.

The nauseous go to synagogue,

all day Saturday, I believe.

Some worship fat idols,

some go to confess,

some wear coloured glasses,

why, is any one's guess?

The meek shall get down trodden,

by all of them, as they push

the competition away

and the atheists, who love everyone

will inherit the earth that way.

 

Boys in Blue

How pathetic was the NSW police raiding the first gay cruise out of Sydney. They searched all twelve hundred passengers and found five with drugs. All that for five people? Do the NSW police not have something better to do? Do they not have any real criminals to catch? How much did that cost the Australian tax payer? It almost amounts to homophobia, in my book.

What is happening in this country?

All that was missing was a pissed off drag queen throwing a brick at them. I would encourage them.

Happy Fucking Easter

Josh has gone to NSW. Mark and Luke have gone to the beach. Tom has shingles and kidney problems, too much chemo, after all. Fuck, I think when I think about him. David's gone to Queensland, I drove him to the airport for a four o'clock flight. On the way, my car started to cough and splutter and miss and carry on, to the point where I thought I wasn't going to make it home.
I was going to Manny's on my way back, but cancelled in fear of mechanical failure. He's just called. Give it another go, he said. Just get in it and start heading to my place. Oh, come on, he said, when I laughed. I so want to see you. Don't make me put a porno on again, he laughed.
You know, my boyfriend position is wide open, there for the taking, Manny. But you know, it is always me going to him. It's always me, Come over, come over and usually I don't mind. But, now that my car wasn't working, it was a perfect opportunity for him even the score. But no.
So, I'm home alone, for Easter, with no car to go any where.
So, I broke down and sms'd my drug dealer, getting stoned was the only option left. I haven't bought pot all year, after all. And it's Easter, I thought. It's a long weekend, why the fuck not?
No, not today, replied my drug dealer. Tomorrows good.
I could be dead tomorrow, I snapped crossly, as I tossed the phone onto the couch.
Blah! Happy fucking Easter.

So, I settled on the couch to read, defeated. My tutor, from uni, has published a book of short stories, so I was reading them. The next thing I know, it is four hours later and Mark and Luke are waking me up saying come to The Peel. They didn't go to the beach, after all. They had three lines already made on the kitchen bench. Come on, they said.

So, we went to Throb. It wasn't very crowded. Wog boys and Asian boys were predominant, just to my liking. Wog boys that is. Although, I'd have to give the cutest boy award for the night to an Asian boy, with smiley eyes and a cheeky grin. Handsome and happy, possibly aided, but who cares, dancing energetically.
The only thing I can say is the DJ at the Peel doesn't have a fucking clue. Mix songs together, mate. Try and match the tempo from one song to another, buddy. Take the crowd on some sort of journey. Any journey, it wouldn't have mattered. Take it up, bring it down, but in some kind of seamless direction. The music was some kind of retro naff, era in determinant. The crowd didn't even seem drugged out enough not to care.
It's a sad day when Knock on Wood is the only song to get me dancing.
As I sat and watched over the dance floor, I wondered if any of the younger guys thought that any of it was new. Here they were out, hip and cool, grooving. Nirvana ending their school life and childhood, adults finally. I wondered if anything had changed in gay night clubs for the previous forty years, other than hair? Imagine being a part of the club scene when it really was new? Now that would have been cool. There must have been a pure energy, joy, if you like back then replacing the cynicism and the jaded club land we now have. Imagine hearing all those songs for the very first time.
I imagined getting all the gay guys from all the clubs from all the eras and having a party right across Australia. A party along a ninety mile beach. A huge dance floor built across the desert on a perfect night. Imagine having all of those men together in one time. Now that would be cool.

Happy Chocolate Season

It's chocolate season! The time of year that we buy into all the marketing ploy and go out and buy chocolate for everyone. Big eggs, little eggs, caramel filled eggs, hard, solid eggs. Hollow, thin, gold and silver wrapped, large and small eggs. Carob, yogurt, white chocolate, dark chocolate and hand painted.

I offered to hand-paint Manny's eggs for him, he said the thought gave him a hard-on. What would his poisonous, born-again, devout Christian mother say? Nothing, she doesn't know I exist, which is just the way I like it. I don't have to buy her an egg, other than a large one strapped to a suicide bomber egg... but, I digress. Manny laughed and said I'd have to wait until Greek Easter for his painted eggs.

It's the Pagan holiday for giving sweets. Bless the Pagan gods.

I usually don't eat, I pass them on to Mark and Luke instead, who are chocolate fiends. Not that I have trouble with tooth decay. (Nervous laugh) But, chocolate isn't my thing. Sure, if you put a plate of it in front of me I'd eat it, but... I'm more of your pastries kind of boy.

All those diets, in a couple of weeks, who needs them.

Still, I guess it is better than hanging off a wooden cross, for three days, to gain a bit of notoriety.

 

Big Smile

I went to the dentist, today. Actually, it's the hygienist, for my six monthly clean. Stupid me, I was late for my appointment, almost three months late. I think Stella was cross with me. That's the hygienist. I'm bad at keeping appointments, especially my dental appointments.

You see, I've never had a filling, which, up until a few years ago, I used to be very smug about. No, no I don't get decay, my teeth are strong, no rot here. Big, pearly white, smile. The dentist, it's a breeze. I'd go intermittently.

But then, a few years ago, not having had a regular dentist, since my uncle, who was my dentist for all those years as a kid, retired, I started going to the dentist/hygienist.

Yes, Mr Fletcher, your teeth are lovely, white and strong, but, er-hem, your gums are a mess.

What? I said. The smug dentist-smile wiped clean off my face. What do you mean?

You have gum disease and we are going to have to work at saving your teeth. You must come every six months.

What? Why? How has this happened?

Smoking, Mr Fletcher. Smoking. How many do you smoke a day?

What do you mean? I said. I thought the only thing smoking did was make your teeth go yellow or brown?

And ruin your gums, said Stella.

What? Why didn't someone tell me?

So far, I have lost one tooth and now, because I let my appointment run out to nine months, instead of six, which is why Stella is cross with me, it looks like I'm going to lose another tooth.

I'm an idiot!

The dentist came in and looked at my x-rays. "That tooth is stuffed," he said. "There's good bone left on one side, though. Oh well, send him off to the periodontist - at $500 an hour - maybe she can save it, but I doubt it."

I'm not brave enough to say just pull it out. Am I going to spend another $500 just to have the periodontist confirm, the already, second opinion? I'm going, though, I see it as teeth karma, for not getting to my appointment in six months.

I'm losing beautifully, white, healthy teeth because the bone that keeps them in place is being ruined by my continued smoking.

Again, I'm an idiot!

Socks

Is there some secret to buying socks that last more than, oh, six months? Is there a great cosmic sock secret that I'm not privy to? Surly, in this day and age, I can get socks that aren't threadbare within no time at all?

Or are they made that way, deliberately?

SMS. 18.12. Sorry, I can't make it next week for dinner – Christian

I’ve just got to stop accepting dinner dates in the middle of my busiest week.

SMS. 18.13. Hrumpf – Rachel

The Razor

Josh used to use my razor all the time, despite his denials. I set small traps for him, with deliberate placings, so I know he did. I started keeping my toilet bag, with razor inside, in my bedroom, after I left it lying on my bedroom floor, after being away for the weekend.

I guess he uses David's razor now. I'm sure he would. What responsibility do I have to tell him that David is HIV+? Josh, probably, wouldn't know. Or am I betraying David's trust, remembering, Josh doesn't use anybodies razors, anyway.

Oh My Aching Head!

I had a, as we like to call it, bong-over this morning, to be sure. (Not that I smoke bongs) I had a head ache till midday, I didn't get what was wrong with me till lunch. I thought I was coming down with something. I was slow, VERY slow. Fucken slow!

It all suddenly came clear to me, as I poured the sachet (and a half) of coffee into my cup. Why I was tired, why I couldn't stop yawning. It was Monday morning, to be sure, but that wasn't enough to explain why I was feeling so wrecked. I constantly had my hand over my mouth. I felt a bit queasy, as well as having an aching head. Blur is how I felt and I didn't know why, until the thought of coffee turned my stomach, some what. Oh yes, of course.

What a morning for Josh to decide to walk into work with me. Poor Josh, he must have thought I was, what is becoming apparent, my normal grumpy self. I seem to be always grumpy with him now.

How the hell did I do it for, oh, how many years? You know, I've always said walking to work was for health reasons, I just didn't specify how. That walk to work cleared many a foggy, doped head, before I got to the salt mines, let, me tell you.

I couldn't do it now. Nay, I don't want to do it now.

Homeward Bound

I left Bolago just as the sun was in its wane; still visible, still vibrant, still apparent, but the sparkle had gone from its shine.

I always feel melancholy when I come back from the country, especially in the late afternoon light. The sun was wide and bright across the road, dazzling in the blue sky, as I headed down the highway. There were long shadows across the bitumen with crisp, bright edges, snaking ahead in front of me, out to infinity.

I turned off the CD and cruised down in silence. The sunroof was open, a cool breeze blew in. Leaving behind nature, leaving the green, leaving the cockies flying after an eagle? Leaving tranquillity, leaving the great peace of mother earth’s lungs? I think that is why I turned the CD off…just the sound of the wind and the great panorama stretching out in front of me, undisturbed. Sweeping fields, the pine plantation that I say is like being in Canada, crisp light, waving gums, a horizon you can, actually, see.

Sweeping down on that great big, black ribbon, a liquorice strip, velcroed to the alloy rims of my car, male female. The world’s orgy with the automobile was forever propelling me forward: precision French carrying me tirelessly, away. Bye bye Chris...tian, was the unspoken chant of the trees. Whoosh, said the wind. The sun’s, warm fingers slowly began to slide down my back... gone.

I swung up into the city, as the highway gave way to a congestion of freeways, all cleverly made from concrete and steel, beautifully slipping under and over each other, hard and cold. The sun had set and the light became that subdued empty, right after the golden ball dips behind the invisible horizon and before the light fades away completely.

My thoughts turned to Manny and his handsome face and his beautiful lips and… his loneliness, a part of which I contribute to. I’d said I might call, as I passed by, drop in, but my time to myself, clearly, seemed too precious to divide up in his direction. If I dropped in, I wouldn't be home till close to midnight, I knew that and I just wanted to go home and chill, in my own space, before I had to start the new week. So, I didn't call and I didn't drop in and that part of me, which, I guess, he has, ached and felt loneliness for him and I felt bad.

But not enough.

We talked later and he said he’d wished I’d come over.

David and I had smoked pot and I was comfortable and I didn't regret my decision…almost. David and I chatted and drank tea

Now darkness has descended and the weekend is truly over and I have to iron a shirt, and the cold, hard, facts of life come crashing in.

I want it to be the weekend every day.

Lessons Learned

With the dams and the lakes emptying, the lessons we learned in 2007, if you are going to kill someone, hide the body in the sea. Apparently, they are pulling cars and bodies out of ever where now the lakes and the dams are dropping. 

Apparently, unsolved murders are being solved because if it. 

How's that? 

A silver lining? 

Nyr! Nobody like Aunt Olive Joan Gregson, the mad witch from Warracknabeal, anyway. Who wants that carcass back? 

I still remember the look on her face as she went under the front of the car, her own Volvo 164. Talk about laugh.

And that tired old carcass was heavy getting it out of the boot of the car all the way until it slid under the water of lake. 

And now, after all this time, it might resurface, oh, there’s no counting on that.

Speed Camera

I got caught by a speed camera coming home from the country, on Sunday night. Don't get me wrong, it was my fault and mine alone if I was speeding, I'm not trying to claim otherwise.

But…

I was coming down Victoria Parade heading down to cross over the intersection of Russell Street. The lights, at Russell Street, changed to green, as I came over the hill from Lygon. There was a car at the intersection, a Ford Focus, that started off toward Nicholson Street, in the left hand lane, a lane that splits into two a few hundred metres up Victoria Parade. I came down the hill behind that Focus with the intention of slipping past it on the left, as the lane split. I didn’t apply my bakes, I just took my foot off the accelerator and cruised in behind it. The driver of the Focus would have seen me coming down behind him, catching up to him, if you like.

It happened kind of quickly and wasn’t something I was really thinking about, as I did it. It was just one of those things, driving on instincts rather than having any definite plan. As I came over Russell Street, and up behind it, the Focus started to slow down and slow down, to the point that I had to apply my brakes and yet he continued to slow down.

What are you doing? I thought.

As the lane split into two, the Focus moved into the middle of the two lanes effectively blocking my path.

What ARE you doing? I thought, again.

He just sat in the middle of the two lanes.

Bloody hell! I swung to the right and accelerated passed him. As I passed him, he looked over and gave me such a contemptuous smirk that I was in no doubt that he had down it all on purpose.

Maybe, he thought I was approaching him faster than I was and he was intimidated, maybe he is just perpendicular and wanted to spoil my, perceived, fun, maybe he just has a small penis, I don’t know. I didn’t care. I just thought he was being infantile and driving in a manner that, actually, causes accidents.

I was annoyed by him, I don’t deny it. Idiot! I thought. I pushed my foot down as I went by. I slipped back into the lane I was intending to be in, in the first place, once I’d passed him.

I was passing a truck, on the inside lane, as we both approached Nicholson Street. And then, FLASH! FLASH! It was like lightening, seemingly, sparking all around us.

I thought I had miss-judged and had driven right through a red-light camera, but, as I looked up, the traffic lights were green. The truck and I crossed the intersection together.

Bloody hell! I thought. Are red-light cameras speed cameras now, as well? They must be and I glanced down at my speedo and, I only think now, that it was dropping back from 80 kph.

Oh fuck it!

How fast was I going? My car accelerates so quickly… especially with a cross foot.

I don’t speed, normally. What’s the point? There are too many traffic lights in the city now to speed. The only thing you do is get from one set of traffic lights to another using twice as much petrol, as is necessary. You don’t get any further ahead; you just meet all the same cars that you were sitting next to at the previous set of lights. You may get there faster, but you don’t get any further ahead. I cruise around the city on the speed limit because there isn’t any point dong otherwise.

Country roads are a different matter, certainly.

I’ve drive up the same section of Victoria Parade, for years, every weekend and have never had a fine. It’s always when I have to deal with idiots that trouble seems to happen.

Not that it wasn’t, ultimately, my fault, don’t get me wrong.

Curses!

No doubt, Mr Focus got a good laugh when he saw the camera flash.

I did go and look at the intersection, just this morning, and I was, somewhat, momentarily, elated when I saw that the red-light camera was, actually, on the right hand side of the road. Could I have slipped in behind the truck and have been obscured? Could I? Think back… the truck was slightly in front of me, in the right hand lane, when the flash went off? But it was a long truck. I don’t know? Maybe? It would be grand and somewhat fair, as I, truly, don’t speed, normally.

How does the camera know which vehicle is speeding if they are, practically, side by side?

Who knows? Time will tell, I guess.

 

Melbourne

Hanging on Regardless

Hang onto that ticketing machine, girl, white-knucked, determined, tunnel-vision, scared. We're all fearful, I know, taught to be, encouraged – spend, spend, spend, you frightened rabble – dob in a nonconformist (they are probably a terrorist), rat on your neighbour (they are probably a dole bludger, or are cooking up ice), take your place, stand your ground, don't let anyone push you around, even if they are trying to make their way to where they should.

She gazed at me with a defiant stare, as if to say, try to move me.

Move you will, I thought.

I’d walked because there were no trams. They were slow, this morning, well, non-existent, actually, so I walked. Too late to walk all the way to work, as I’d left the house late, but not enough time to hang around the tram stop for a tram that wasn't ever going to arrive. I've learned, don’t wait at the tram stop, as suddenly it can be half an hour later, just start walking. I walked all the way to Spring Street, before a tram appeared, so there was a group of people waiting.

"I need to buy a ticket," I said. Get out of my way you idiot, I thought.

She moved sideways, a fraction, just a suggestion, enough not to be rude, but rude none the less. I had to lean over her, as she doggedly retained her place.

It’s a ticket machine, I thought. People need to use it, but Miss Selfish didn't care. And I’d be the bad guy if I pushed her over, I thought. Go figure? The thought of her landing spread-eagle on the tram floor amused me for long enough to make my purchase. Before I was done, her hand was back on the hand-rail, at the front of the machine, in my way, staking her inconvenient position, regardless.

There was extra change in the coin return, so there is a god, after all, I thought.

"Excuse me," I said, with enough intention to indicate I was coming through if she got out of the way, or not. She rolled her eyes, incredulous and snorted through her nose, as if I was being completely unreasonable. She didn't move more than a whisker. Essentially, she just stood, rolling her torso a centimetre. So, I picked up my brief case and pushed through, dislodging her from her selfish stance. She, kind of, fell sideways, without losing her balance, mores the pity, but I didn't look back, as I slipped through the cabin and, by chance, got myself a seat, as a woman stood up to alight the crowded tram, just as I came through.

So, there you go.

Change of Seasons

I'm loving this cooler weather, let me tell you. I can resume walking to work, without sweating like a marathon runner, by the time I get to the office. It's good to get out into the morning air and feel the fresh air in my lungs, again. It's good to feel the blood pump, as a way of waking up. I'm glad summer is over, quite frankly.

Next Monday is my date for quitting smoking, again. You know, I've been feeling miserable this year, which has been strange for me, as I'm usually a happy, positive, cynical but positive, person. It dawned on me, walking home from work, last night, that it is probably because of the number of times I have quit smoking this year. I'm always going through the angst of withdrawal, I'm always battling the pain of breaking an addiction, I'm always struggling with a process that is, in a sense, debilitating. I find it tiring to quit and if I'm constantly going through it...

Not that I have any conclusions on this, only that it is, probably, a good thing to realise. And, I'm not going mad, I'm not being beaten down by the modern world and I probably don't need to go and see someone. (not that there is any thing wrong with that)

So, next Monday it is!  

Incompetence

Incompetence, is my pet hate, at the moment. I find I'm always saying, if only people would do what they are supposed to do, the world would be a much happier place.

Last night, my mum called me to say that her cleaners had taken her freezer outside to defrost it and had left it sitting in the back yard, could I come over and put it back in the kitchen.

What the hell?

What were the stupid cleaners thinking? Not to mention all my mum's ruined food.

I know this seems to be a small thing, but it just seems to happen more and more. People doing half of what they were meant to, or trying not to do what they are supposed to do at all.

My new car is a case in point. The R.A.C.V. was incompetent, the car yard was incompetent, the road worthy people were incompetent and I got stuck with a $2000 bill to fix it.

The bike riders without their lights at night is another example.

Why is it that so many people try to do the least amount possible to get by? Don't they feel any shame? Don't they have any compassion for their fellow man? It amounts to cheating. Are we now a race of cheaters, happy to do anyone in that we can, if it means we get further?

 

Bike Riders

What is it with bike riders?

A month, or so, ago, I was backing out of my drive way when I heard someone going,

"Oo, oo, oo!" Followed by, "Watch it mate!"

There was a middle aged couple riding bikes along the street behind my car, in the dark with no lights.

"Hey," I said. "Get some lights, I can't see you."

"Why don't you go and get fucked!" was the reply.

"I cannot see you..."

"Ah, fuck off!"

Tonight, I was pulling out of a T-intersection, after I had let a car go by, when I heard a blood curdling scream. "Watch where you are going you fucking arse hole bastard!"

In front of my car in the dark was a girl on a bike, again, with no lights on.

"Get some lights, I can't see you!"

"Are fuck off, arsehole."

"Well, die then you miserable, fucking bitch," was, ashamedly, my response.

What is it with stupid people in the world, abusing other people when they are clearly - or not - in the wrong? I am so sick of idiots.