hi here's my latest music fav's
chaka khan - funk this
rahsaan patterson - wine and spirits
betty lavette - scene of the crime
renee geyer - dedicated
billy holiday - remixed and reimagined
I think I have manifested pains in my chest. I kept thinking about the bogey man cancer, I used it as a smoking deterrent. You’ll get lung cancer. You’ll get lung cancer. You'll get lung cancer. Which made me quit. But the point is, I kept thinking about lung cancer. And now I've got pains in my chest. More so when I think about it. So, I conclude that it is largely psychosomatic. But still? What was I thinking? Idiot!
I kind of had that realisation this week and every thing since has been about how your mind can mess with you. David's Happy Cards, all of them, as if it was some sort of telepathy. Now Shane has been talking about it, tonight. The power of thought to give you disease.
On the bright side, I've got dope and nobodies home, so I might just get shit-faced and watch porn. Fuck it!
Shane's gone to fuck a trolley dolly in Matt's bed, while Matt is over seas. Matt's housemate is overseas too.
I’m still smoking cigarettes. I know, I know. Tomorrow I quit. For sure!
I was going to do some writing tonight, but now I can't be fagged.
They'll write that as my epitaph. He couldn't be fagged. I'm a lazy fucking bastard...
All of my school report cards. Christian is a boy of such great aptitude. Maybe one day he might decide to use it.
Actually, a couple read, A very excellent student. It's amazing what happens when you have good teachers in subjects you like.
But all of the rest...
Shane's on his way home with Nandos. The trolley dolly couldn't have been great. Never go out with a loaded gun, said Shane. He must have taken Viagra because it stayed hard. Shrug. But that's okay.
You know. Grimace. Air stewards? Always found them a bit girlie, myself. Not that there is any thing wrong with that, of course.
A beautiful, 30 year old, Greek chic, Gina, at the Hen's Night on Saturday night, said she wanted to see her husband get off with another man, but he won't be in it.
I laughed. Those straight boys, I said. No sense of adventure.
You know, then sometimes he gives me the idea he might be in it.
Why?
Well, he's inquisitive more so than objecting. You know, like he wants to. He keeps talking about it. Asking questions.
Or is that wishful thinking?
She laughed.
She wondered if it made her abnormal, she laughed again.
What turns you on, turns you on, I said.
She said she asked him how he'd feel about her getting off with another chick.
So, he'd be all right with that?
Yeah mate, he's real happy about that idea, don't you worry. She laughed again. You know, I'd be in it. I'd love a girl to go down on me. I couldn't do it to her, though... maybe? I reckon another girl would know... you know what I mean?
Yeah, some chick is going to go for that? I thought. Sure, I do.
So I think it is only fair that he lets me watch him. She looked around to see if any one could hear her. We watch gay porn. Two guys together, it turns me on. I want to see two guys together... for real.
You know, two guys together isn't exactly novel for me, so I'm not really sure where to go with this, I thought. You want to see some guy suck him off?
Sure.
What's you husband like? I had to ask.
My husband is hot, she said. Handsome. Buff. Italian. Financial Accountant and topless barman named Johnny.
My head spun. A buff, shirtless, Italian boy named Johnny. Be still my beating heart. Can that be true? I thought. I said lamely, Big cock?
She smiled and held her hands out in front of her. Italian, mate?
It always freak me out just a little, to be truthful, when a girl says mate. I don't know why, but that word is purely a male domain word, in my mind.
I smiled and thought, Why didn't you bring him? Oh, hen's night.
So you pick up a gay guy together?
A bi guy.
He has to screw both of you?
Sure? Why not?
Sure. Why not? Easy. Internet.
You don't think it is sick?
No. Baby, you haven't seen any thing, I thought. Every body's sexuality fits in along a continuum. There is no gay or straight. Moral or immoral. They are constructs. Consenting adults are consenting adults.
You know you are right.
Is this sex 101, or what? I thought. What crap am I sprouting?
She lent over close. I want to see a guy fuck Johnny up the arse, she smiled. It's the only thing I can't do. You know, no equipment. She pointed to her crutch with both hands.
Yeah, I got that.
So, I want to watch it. Two guys. One I love. She smiled. It's just sex, after all.
You could get a strap on. I'd had a joint, I couldn't get into it. The boy on boy thing.
She ran with it. I wanted to, but he said it was too gay for him. She laughed. He'd kill me for telling you this...
But you are going to tell me any way, I thought.
...but when we take e's he loves my finger up his arse. Makes him moan. He loves it!
That doesn't make any sense, I said. How can it be gay at all, if you are a hetro couple?
She laughed.
He's got more nerve endings up his arse than he has on the nob of his cock.
Apparently, she said.
He wouldn't be the first straight boy to be freaked out by that, I said.
My step-son Fen was a prime example. He couldn't believe it when his girlfriend used to finger his arse. He'd be high and he'd rave on about how gay that used to make him feel.
You have to lull him into a false... um, er, give him a sense of security. You have to make him feel secure in it.
So how do I get him to agree? Gina said.
That's something you have to work out, sweet heart. I laughed.
She laughed.
I winced over the fact that I had just called her sweet heart.
Smoked today, don’t know why, as it really wasn't over bearing. I haven’t got my mental processes charged, clearly. Didn't smoke until lunch time, though, so that must count for something.
18.45 and two joints down.
Shane's gone swimming - I should have so gone with him.
David's gone teaching - I so should take a yoga class.
I should be doing something. In the past, when I have got bored with one particular exercise, I have found another, relatively easily. I swapped from running to, aerobics to cycling, broke that up with a few years of gym. Then I did walking, at a push, swimming, which I've done with Shane. Now when I think about any one of them... bored, bored, bored.
I should go and symbolically buy a new pair of runners and force myself to go walking. That's the easiest one of all to do. Look at the world. Fresh air. Out of the house and away from my computer. I should be able to manage that, you would think?
Smoked today. Bought a pack at lunch time, more through some sort of mental thought process than any real physical craving. I kind of talked myself into it more than craved it.
Chatted to Shane about life and loves until David came home and wanted to know why we were not watching Idol, which had been going for twenty minutes.
Jacob Butler was kicked out. I so wanted him to go, until it actually happened, then I felt sorry for him. He's a good singer, but he needs to drop five kilos. Why is it that the girls are told to shed fat and the boys are not?
Went to bed early and watched porn.
Every day should be Sunday in the country; fresh air, singing birds, rustling tree. The sun shinning just so in the blue sky.
Cindy Gambino can't stop loving her ex-husband who killed her three children. It is just the stupid leading the stupid, really. Those boys are probably better off.
A chemical that when dropped on enemy soldiers makes the men sexually irresistible to each other? Presumably, it would work on any straight boy? Every gay boy's fantasy. I wonder if you could spike a straight boy's drink at a club?
It brings a whole new meaning to date rape drugs, hey?
Shane gets back from Byron today.
I found a new pot dealer, Shane will be pleased... or not? We decided to do the whole non-smoking pot thing while Guido is in parts unknown. Oh well?
I've got to go and find myself a man. I haven't had sex since the last time with Manny. I believe that was in July, some time. Bloody hell, how time flies. My (city) boyfriend position is wide open. Any applicants considered.
I'm smoking like a chimney. Fuck it! How did that happen? I had been so good. Oh well, back to the drawing board.
I'm off to my mum's for lunch with her and my sister and my two nieces. It's a lovely day, too nice for family duty. I'm running late, of course. I haven't even had a shower, as yet. Bad Chris.
I love them dearly, but it just seems like a duty some days, like it does today.
I've been in a strange mood lately, not knowing what I want to do with my life. That's not even the big picture, the future and all that, I don't know what I want to do on a daily basis. Go out, stay home? Go to the country, stay in the city? That sort of stuff. Whenever I decide the alternative seems instantly more appealing. What's that about?
As much as I hate to admit it, I think it's time to find a new man in my life. Of course, that means I must leave the house and put in all that effort. The Internet, I hear you say? I find I procrastinate on the Internet and never meet up with anybody. I've found, historically, that I'm much better going out and pressing the flesh, so to speak, which means an endless round of sex clubs and bars to find him.
I guess, I should just relax and go and enjoy my family. They are the unconditional love providers, after all. Hey?
If I could be in two places at once: @ home and @ work, every day.
If I could give away a fortune - to who: stem cell research
If I could sing one song to a loved one it would be: You are so beautiful - Joe Cocker
If I could fly - I'd spread my wings and take you by the hand and soar into the blue...
If I could make one dream come true - it would be: To spend one last day with Tom.
If I could change one thing about my image: More confidence, less shy around strangers.
If I could clone a physique it would be: Manny's
If I could choose the lead role in any movie it would be: Shortbus
If I could turn back time I would: Fall in love with Mark all over again
If I could fix one thing is this world it would be: eradication of religion, so the punters never knew they once had it.
I may have met a boy named Patrick. Hmm, Patrick? I've never been with a Patrick before. It's as good a name as any. It can never be shortened to Pat. That's terrible. But, Patrick is good. We'll see.
And a dedicated bottom. Manny and I were, essentially, two tops who struggle for supremacy over each other. Which lead to some great sex, don't you worry. But we had to make it work. Even if Manny, oh, all right, me too, did it passive aggressively, at times.
And negative.
The one thing a negative, positive couple can't do.
Manny was positive.
Ultimately – required tests all completed, of course, boys and girls - I want a bottom boy I can bare back.
I should be fucking Luke. I've been flirting with him lately. People still refer to him as my boyfriend. He and Mark still do.
The beautiful drunk Greek girl was telling Luke he was hot and that she wanted to sleep with him. Don't you think he's hot?
I rubbed Luke's handsome face and looked into his eyes, and said, “Yes he is hot. Very hot.”
Luke blushed.
Are you sure he's even gay, said Gina.
I smiled at Luke, Very sure.
David says I should have a wish list. Patrick is as good a name to start with as any.
I'll keep you posted.
David and I sang Matt Happy Birthday over the phone. Libran, 1st of the month. He called just as he was boarding a plane and said he was touched, he said it made him cry. But, he was coming down from Tropical Fruits. Good drug's, I said.
He's off to San Francisco for a couple of weeks. Shane is staying in Byron until Sunday.
Nicholas arrived right on 9pm, smiling at the door, handing me something straight away, as soon as I opened the door, hand to hand, like secret squirrel. He asked if I wanted to come down home. I was stuffed and just wanted to retire to bed. He said he was tired too, mouthed stoned, smile beautifully and rode off into the night.
David read me a card that one of his students sent him. David wrote her at a crisis point in her life, just out of the blue. The small miracle allowed her to get through two unplanned pregnancies, in a row and her husband being poofter bash and rape, and seriously beaten. She'll be forever grateful to have found such a beautiful soul in David, he will never know how much it meant to her. Blah, blah, an A4 sided page of sentiment, seemingly jammed onto one greeting card.
"How did she get all of that onto there," I asked, as soon as David had stopped reading.
Not only had she typed the entire speech out in miniature and pasted into the inside cover of the card, complete with hand-monogrammed initials, on the other side were ten cut out circles, each with a cliche type in, pasted to the other side. It sent a shiver up my spine.
"She's a bunny boiler," I said. "That is the handy work of a blackmailer or a serial killer."
David was horrified.
I got "Strength" in the Gods & Angels cards. Be myself, it said. That is the ultimate strength, apparently.
How hard can that be?
Oh yes, my last conversation, from a week a go, with Guido. He's a trip, that's for sure. He also offered me his new 4WD Mercedes, "you know, just to keep the battery charged," which I politely declined. (I know, you don't want to owe Guido)
“Ya gonna have to stock up, my man,” said Guido. “Any last requests before I head off into the blue yonder, for parts unknown. Return date pending until fuck knows when.”
“You going away?” I wasn't sure if that was quite the right expression to use with Guido.
“Yeah yeah, Chriso, going away, even a dog gets some time off, you know? And this fucken dog is fucking off.”
“Going any where special?“
“Yeah, yeah. Bahamas... with Junior. Just got to lay on the beach, for a couple of months and stop. Stop! Stop! Stop! FUCKING STOP!” he screamed. “All business and no play and all that... Shame Anna-Nicole won’t be around.“
“Junior?”
“Junior? Haven't you met him?”
I wasn't really sure how I would have met him, however. “No.”
“Oh, just the cutest grammar school b*y you've ever laid your eyes on.”
“Grammar School?”
“Parents are flakes, lost every thing in the dot.com crash, or something? Get a real fucken job, that’s what I say. They can't look after their kids now, so I pay the school fees and take a little, um, shall I say, cream off the top for my trouble, if ya get what I mean?” He did an uncanny mimic of Hannibal Lecter’s and a nice Chianti.
“Is that legal?”
“Yes, yes, perfectly. I said high school not prep, you fucker,” he laughed his throaty laugh. “Well, legal in most countries. I guess, I'd have to be careful in Perth and some states in the US.” He laughed again.
“Jesus, Guido!”
“You should see the snatch on him,” he said, in that breathy, fast talking way he has of talking. “All day fucken sucker! I can taste his liver from back there.”
“How old?” I had to ask.
“Old a nuff to fucken bleed that’s how fucken old!”
“So he’s up for it…” I wanted to say with you, but I thought the incredulousness in my voice may have been too evident. I wondered if the kid had been indentured into Guido’s entourage.
“He likes the bling... and I like his thing.” He laughed again. “All of him, actually. Every bit. Genetically gifted, football captain, big feet, legs up to here, big chest, tiny hips, you get the picture.”
“I’m beginning to.”
“I might put him in a few movies, yet.”
I guessed I knew what sort of movies Guido was talking about.
“So what do you want? Speak now…”
“No thanks Guides, I’m cool.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s what they all fucken say. Suit yourself…just don’t turn into Mr fucken Whiny Pants when your out, because there will be no Mr Guido to run to your candy arse beck and fucken call. See ya when I fucken see ya.”
Dial tone.
I smoked bongs with Nicholas. Not bad for a sick day? He's getting me some. I know, weak as piss. Cigarettes, too! I've had a major non-smoking malfunction.
Guido is in the Bahamas with some Eastern Suburbs families teenage son. He likes them young. He told me to stock up, before he left. I said that I wouldn't be wanting any, nobly and promptly turn to cigarettes again. That was some what of a false economy, now that I look at it.
Handsome Nicholas, however, makes the smoke twice as pleasurable. Sweet. "Another bong, Chris?" Not that I think about him that way, I don't, he's like a little brother, truly. He's a mate, really. But sometimes, when the smoke is good and the conversation lively, I can look at his piercing blue, bedroom eyes and his handsome Italian'esque looks smiling seductively, as he does and think, Nicholas, you are one beautiful man.
We ate big, juicy meat balls in bolognaise sauce, on spaghetti.
Of course, Nicholas' cousin's baby bonus children - four kids under eight - were there. Tim's been babysitting, I'm not sure why, Nicholas' cousin doesn't have a job, naturally. But she's got her commission flat and no custody battle's until December, so she kept telling me. I like her, but boy can she talk. All of Nicholas' family are like that. I like them, in a lot of ways, because they are real. Stupid, but real.
David met Nicholas for the first time. "But he doesn't even seem gay." Welfare has it's benefits, butches them up. If ever there was a case where the gay gene saved a boy, it's Nicholas. He's far too pretty to be straight, was the response from quite a few of his commission house relatives. He even has them in caravan parks in Tasmania. Two of his girl cousins came on to him last time he visited the isle. I can always hear the banjo start up when Nicholas tells me another of his families horror stories, every one of them with five baby-bonus children a piece.
But I tell you, you can see which of the boy cousins got the same genes as Nicholas, just sprinkled amongst them. Woof!
I got really busy, yesterday afternoon, and I chopped back the pesky Creeping Fig that I planted some years ago on my side wall. Originally, I planted two, at either ends of the laneway that is next to my house. The other one turned into a monster, some time back and when it threatened to turn the house into something that resembled Cousin It, it had to come down. The remaining creeper was, for some reason, a little slower and wasn’t a problem when gargantuan was removed. However, since then, it too has turned into a monster.
A ladder, a pare of secateurs and a sunny day was all I needed. I nearly got distracted on gaydar, but saw sense as soon as the cute boy named Patrick said he wanted to come over. My timing could have been better, but it did give me the impetuous to get up the ladder and get what I had intended to get done, before I fucked up the rest of the day, quite literally.
David stood and pretended to hold the ladder for a short time, until he got bored.
I got it done, yeah for me. Even when I felt like stopping, I was buggered. I pushed on, as I knew that if I left it there it would never get finished and arguably, it would have looked worse half chopped back than if I’d left it in the first place.
Anyway, my point is that this morning I had a blister on my finger from all the chopping and I decided that I just could go to work in that state.
So, here I am, home and luving it.
Shane and Matt have gone to Byron for a ten day break. Lucky them. They are going to Tropical Fruits tonight.
My sister went to the Grand Final with her eldest daughter. She parked her car at my place, so she didn't have a problem with parking. She got back at 6pm, they both barracked for Geelong, they were waving blue and white flags at the door and cheering when I opened it.
So, I packed up my stuff and was heading to the country. Just as I was about to leave, I had a sense of, what am I doing? Is heading off to the country running away from my life, putting off heading out and meeting someone? What am I doing? What do I want to do? I didn't know. I was drawn to both scenarios. So I sat on the stairs and flossed - when in doubt procrastinate.
I was suddenly feeling lonely, which I never do normally. I realised I wanted a guy in my life, that I missed Manny... for the first time. Is that bad?
David came home and found me on the stairs with a huge length of dental floss - I had a dental floss malfunction, to be sure - saying that I looked like a little boy, sitting there.
I told him how I was feeling and he said that he was going out later, after he'd been out for dinner and we should go together. So he headed out to dinner and I hung at home, trying to get some work done on my script.
I found a packet of cigarettes in my bedroom and smoked them all. David was horrified when he came home, later, to find the house full of smoke. He was even more horrified when he caught me having one in the kitchen. "You look weird smoking now," he said.
I decided to go to the country, in the end. I was feeling tired and the thought of falling asleep under the trees suddenly seemed more appealing than a bar. I text David from the car, as I left and he called, before I had even got out of our street, with, "How dare you! I thought we had a date?"
He guilted me into staying. (which was good) I turned the car around and drove the 100 metres home.
So we went to the Greyhound for a drink. David wanted to go to MegaFist at 80, but somehow watching guys up to their elbow in some other guy's arses just didn't do it for me. David said I could just watch, be a guest, as he put it, but somehow that seemed to be a far worse proposition. It so gets David going. He loves it. Whatever happened to a kiss and a cuddle? I could have cruised upstairs, of course.
So we settled on the Greyhound, I haven't been there for ages, nothing has changed. We met up with some friends.
Some drunk chic, with great tits, tried to pick David up telling him he wasn't gay. Girls are funny how they do that. David's mate V was there. He has an identical twin brother, not that C was there. I've always thought V was cute, when I can tell him apart from C that is.
They were a friendly crowd. Cruisey. Chatty.
There was the mandatory tacky drag show. What is it with men dressing up as woman and lip-sinking badly, a la Britney Spears, to crap songs. Surely, in this day and age, if you want to be a drag queen, you should get up there and sing with your own voice. Lip-sinking is so 1970's, surely?
When you see someone you want to go home with, you say I love you and you get together.
When it gets messy, you say I don't love you any more and it's over.
I used to think that I didn't have a type, something Tom used to scoff at. I've been with a variety of boys, three boy friends out of five have been Aussies. But, there has been a variety of olive skinned brothers. Lying here in my sick bed, I got to thinking about them.
Michael, a fine boned Greek boy, handsome as hell, who I used to hook up with at 80. He loved being fucked.
Lee was a big, boofy Greek boy who looked like an Adonis as he stood before me in his white and blue striped jocks, his giant slug of a cock swelling. Lee was hairy and I loved it. What legs! He wanted to marry me and live happily ever after. I wanted to explore the world.
Dean was a handsome Sicilian, who stuttered, who was a nervous, virgin twenty two year old pup, who'd ventured out just for a look on a whim, when I undid the belt of his jeans. We became the best of friends.
My beautiful Italian boy friend, Lauri; perfection with beautiful green eyes. Every centimetre of that boy's body was perfect.
Carl was a Maltese straight boy who I had a platonic relationship with that eventually turned sexual in a spa late one night after being out. He doesn't really count as we only had sex once, except we had this boyfriend, clubber thing previously for years. He was just beautiful.
Maurice was a cheeky Italian, who liked nothing more than me arriving late and tipping him upside down. I've never known a boy who like it up his arse quite as much as Maurice did. He'd come alive with dirty talk. He was always trying to get me to bare back him. He loved cumming twice as he got screwed, never losing his hardon.
Manny was quite simply the boy I like sleeping with more than all the others on the list. Sexy gym-head who kissed like an angel and who felt like heaven in my arms.
So, there's been a few, I guess. It's been my experience with Mediterranean lads, they like cocks and tongues. They all have loved their arses licked and their beautiful cocks sucked. Beautiful skin; they taste good and they smell good.
Come on Tom, send me Nick. You said you would if you possibly could.
I'm home sick.
I've been fighting off a cold all week and I thought I was going to make it through, despite Lottie telling me to stay home in bed. But, my cold seems to have developed into a nasty cough, over night and my head's aching.
A boy should listen to his mum.
I was dressed and about to drag my sorry arse out into the rain to head to the office, when it all became too much and I decided I just couldn't do it this morning.
So here I am.
At home with a blanket. Feeling snuffled up and pretty much like shit. Boo hoo.
(Can you hear the violins Fernando?)
Good thing I like being at home, it is, after all, my preferred place to be, even if it is a complete waste being home when you are sick. I should take more sick leave when I am well, then I could really enjoy it.
Big sneeze.
I can vague out sitting on the toilet, be miles away in some thought, off in some twilight world, when I'm taken back to my childhood, at the precise moment that I wet the bed, when I nonchalantly piss. Whatever the visual is in my head, for a millisecond, it doesn't match the physical act, like motion sickness, which was the wake up trigger for me as a child. I shiver, as I remember all those times, as a kid, where I was dreaming of taking a leak and as soon as I let go, I'd be woken in my bed, sometimes, still in the act of wetting the sheets; with that feeling of being out of place, being caught out, of falling, wanting to call out Nooooooooooooooo!.
I wet my bed until I was quite old, five or six, maybe a bit older. It wasn't until we were away on holidays with my cousins and they all had to see the upturned mattress drying that I decided that I would never wet my bed again and I never did.
I shuddered, as an adult, as my five year old self made his presence felt. It's interesting how strong those embarrassing moments, as a child, still are.
Funny the things you think, hey?
All my friends want to get off with the Car City Boy. He's one of those rare, universally liked, men. I think it's his cheeky smile.
I wonder what his name is? He looks like a Nick to me.
Friday Man - boyish face, thining hair, eyes that burn when they look. Thirty. Inquisitive. Suit pants which show an enormous bulge. He knew I checked him out.
SB1
Slitherin and Revolta - He's slimy. bald. Tall. To made up, pinstriped suits. Too conscious of himself. Chunky jewellery. She's tall, gangly. Hangs off him. Stares intently at him. Obsessed. You can smell it about them
Spanky - thin, handsome, thirty something. Looks at me out of the corner of his eyes. Once barred up when he caught me gazing at his, not inconsequential, bulge.
Ha ha, the things you have to dream up to make minutes on PT pass.
I'm not feeling well - flu, cold, cancer, quitting smoking, I don't know what it is, but I'm harrumphing off to bed. Everybody around me has been sick, with fierce bed-ridding flu's to shit full head colds, they have been falling like toy, tin soldiers bowled down with a giant, red balls. I guess, it had to be my turn, eventually. Grrr! It's as though my body has been fighting it for a few days and winning. I've been taking Essential Greens (mega wheat grass) in the mornings, something Matt got me onto, so maybe they are helping me win? Suddenly, however, after a good fight for a few days, I don't feel like I'm winning any longer.
David cooked me dinner, he's a luv.
I might head to bed with my lap-top and work on a new header picture. The boy in his jocks was only supposed to be temporary, until I found a photo that was better. I just liked the way the soft, white, cotton outlined the crack in his arse. May be something a little less cliched?
I love the way my company puts so much effort - or is that tax deduction dollars - into learning and development and education for our employees. Grow your career, as they say. The thing that they don't understand is that I don't have a career, (I guess, technically, I do) I have a job. I have so many other things that I would rather be doing. My job is only a means to an end. A distraction to the good stuff. I so don't need a job to keep me entertained. We are all brain washed from such an early age to think that we need one. A career, that is, not a job.
My bastard lap-top won't connect the wireless network here, in the country. Actually, it connects fine, automatically, says that the xxxxx network has an excellent connection. But when I try to open the Internet, the computer says that it can't find the server.
I'm sure it is probably only a simple thing to fix.
Oh, why the hell am I such a computer cretin?
I got up early to write, 6.30am. I have been pissing around with Help on my lap-top, ever since. Oh, that and getting the open fire going again and warming up the coffee machine. When I really felt the urge to push my lap-top off the coffee table, I knew it was time to stop and head for the PC, in the study.
I laughed to myself when I thought about it. It is only money that stopped me frizbeeing it at the stone walls. If I was Packer or Pratt, I think it would have been very satisfying to watch the non-working lap-top disintegrate on impact. What stops the rich from doing that?
I guess a few computer lessons would be the glass half full option, huh? If I was a man of independent means, I'd love to study computers. They'd be fascinating.
I haven't written anything, naturally.
I think I might cook some thing for breakfast. Poached eggs, anyone?
I have an original screen print of a duck above my desk in my study. It has been loathed and loved equally by my friends over the years. The artist has become quite famous since I bought it as a teenager and, I guess, it is probably worth something now.
Was I an odd young man, instead of getting drunk and staying out late, as a teenager - that came later, don't you worry about that - I collected art work? I was encouraged by my mother and an interested friend of hers. I never bought that rare hand coloured etching by Lloyd Rees, however, big mistake, considering the old boy has since died, but that is another story, but I bought a number of pieces, which I still have.
But I digress... the duck hit everything on the way down - lower paintings were bought down, my computer screen was knocked forwards, my lamp knocked sideways, my birthday cards and assorted stuff on the desk scattered, to land upside down in the middle of the room. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, as I surveyed the trail of destruction. But nothing was broken, amazingly. I expected the glass to come tinkling out and the frame to be skewed when I picked it up, but no, nothing, no damage at all. It could have been a huge disaster.
So, was the duck flying south? No, surely, this time of year it would be flying north.
We stayed in and watched television. We watched the footy and ate Japanese. I ate sushi and drank chilled water, Shane and Matt drank red wine out of buckets, as they do.
Shane's back from Sydney. He's been in South Sydney on a conference where the food was served bay-marie style.
"It probably wasn't good before it even went in there and then they allowed it to sit for an hour. I was trapped on the highway in a local (pokies) club out of Cronulla with no other choices for eating anywhere else. It was hell."
Shane was barracking for Collingwood, it's where he's lived for the passed five years and Matt was going for Geelong. Shane said do you want to make a bet to make it interesting?
Sure, said Matt.
Winner goes top, said Shane.
Matt smiled his cheeky smile and agreed.
David came home, from dinner with an old sex buddy, and did card readings for all of us. I got prosperity and abundance, thanks to Lakshmi. The card said we should make a shrine to her as it would please her and the place for it was in the left hand corner of the house looking in from the front, which meant a corner of the lounge room. David was so excited that he said he was going to vomit - which is the highest form of praise for anything from David.
Oh and Day 5, I here you ask? I had a couple of joints, is that so bad? I haven't smoked any thing all week, and still no cigarettes for months, which must count for something?
None of us were going out. It was stumps not long after midnight.
"Ready for bed," said Matt, with his trade mark cheeky grin.
"Sure," said Shane. "I'm up for it."
"Damn right, loser," said Matt.
Oh, back to the dentist. The continuing drama. There has never been anything wrong with my teeth, it has been my gums that are causing the problem.
My old East Melbourne dentist always seemed to be pissed off with me. I stretched a six month appointment out to eight months. I hadn't given up smoking and, unbeknownst to her, I didn't go to the periodontist when she instructed me. All in all, our relationship had run its course and I've changed to a lovely St Kilda dentist. It's a bit further, sure, but he has lovely blue eyes and an easy manner. And he's gay, which isn't a prerequisite, but it's nice none the less.
When I told him that I'd buggered my knee jogging, he said, it’s not your knee you're supposed to bugger.
I know, I said. And it doesn't hurt the same, either.
Where, all I got from Stella was, Don't make me responsible for your dental hygiene.
No... no, of course not, I bleated... a little confused. It is my responsibility... personal responsibility and all that, I guessed?
But you know, a bit later, once I'd got home, I thought, Don't make you responsible for my teeth? What? You are the dentist? Essentially, it was that remark that made me trade Stella in for Martin – pissed off by the responsibility comment, I ask my doctor to recommend a new dentist
Anyway, my gums have been anaesthetised for a deep clean on the problem pockets. I tried talking on the phone, straight afterwards, but my mouth wasn't working properly and I descended into laughing at myself, the retard, on the corner of Ackland and Barkly streets, as my mate, Jill, asked me what was wrong. All I could do was laugh, as my lips felt like they were twisting around on each other, as Jill's voice became more alarmed, which, of course, made me laugh even more.
Her father had fallen down some stairs and she was in hospital and not wanting to be toyed with.
I guess that means lunch is off, I said, sounding, not unlike, Frankenstein... maybe, a gay Frankenstein... now, there's an image to take to bed with you, boys.
When I first met Manny, there was another guy who I was interested in, also. In fact, he was, probably, a much better match for me, because he was smart and had just finished uni and was wanting to explore the world, but he was an Aussie boy and Manny was Greek and so the wogophile in me picked Manny over Terry.
I guess, it had always been in the back of my mind that, probably, one day I'd catch up with Terry and start up again with the boy who was, actually, much more suitable boy friend material than Manny would ever be.
Well, guess what, I finally caught up with him again and surprise, surprise, he's no longer interested like he was. What do I expect when I passed him up for the prettier model?
Don't get me wrong, I think Terry is gorgeous and the two of us used to be really keen on each other. But, the truth is that I passed him over for somebody else.
I can't help feeling pissed off, with myself, I guess, but it is also day 3 of quitting smoking, so maybe I should just head off to bed and stop thinking about it... and every thing else.
Day two of giving up smoking, that's not attractive either.
I want to scream. I want to lay on the floor and bang my hands and feet on the ground. I want the anxious, just about to lose it, feeling to go away.
I'm going to bed, as soon as my washing has finished.
WHEN IS THAT FUCKING WASHING EVER GOING TO FINISH!!!!!!!
It's such a double edged sword, while I feel like I'm on the edge and might fall off at any moment, I also feel so much better for not smoking. There is me screaming my head off and falling apart some where off in the distance, while I feel calm and in control up close.
I like what Cate Blanchett had to say on plastic surgery...
I can look at a man or a woman in their fifties and all I see, when they've brushed it all away with surgery, is self-obsession and fear, and that's not particularly attractive.
Best practise? That's when the incompetent staff get the competent employees to do their work. And if you show some talent and nouse, you will most likely be dragged into committees and meetings, in place of the incompetents, just for your efforts.
The bosses scramble for the staff who make them look good, as that's what's ultimately important, that is what's paramount in office 21st century.
The incompetents, the stupid and the clueless get away with producing rubbish, or, as is the case with our policy writer and O, H & S manager, nothing at all. Go figure? They must be sleeping with someone. Or more to the point, the person/people who hired them don't want it to look bad on them, so they do nothing.
Well, that has been my experience in my corporate law office.
Bozz-eyed Sunday; I've been smoking pot for the last few days. I'm giving up smoking tomorrow, so I have to finish it off today. I can't be tempted with any stashed away, tomorrow night. Shane's interstate for a week with work. I have to sober up and head to a family gathering at 6pm, for mine and my brother's birthdays, they are close together. Wish me luck.
I've done nothing much all weekend. Slept. Smoked. Rested. I don't know, am I wasting my weekends? Absolutely, you dumb fuck! I've been content to sleep my way through the last few. I must get out more, that's one thing I'm certain of.
It was my birthday. I didn't tell anyone at work, except at the very end when Rebecca asked me if I was going to the country for the weekend.
Mark and Luke cooked me dinner. Luke cooked, Mark helped.
David, Shane and Matt gave me presents.
Jeff came over late, looking as handsome as ever. I've always had a secret crush on Jeff, which I've never told anyone one about... except, Tom, of course. Suddenly, I feel numbingly sad... my first birthday without him. Birthdays were always Tom's thing. In true Tom style, when he told me about his failing kidneys a month ago, he said that he just wanted to make it to his birthday, 21st Dec, before he had to really think about it...
We had chocolate cake with candles in front of the open fire. I blew them all out in one puff and everybody cheered. Funny little tradition, hey?
Jeff puffed on the joint. Raymond is still interstate, due in Melbourne in a few days. I wanted to sleep with Jeff. I thought it would be a nice birthday present.
Of course, I didn't. I kissed him sweetly and wished him good night.
There is something identical about Jeff and me, uncannily alike. It turned the two of us on, once. Narcissistically so. It was like having sex with myself, there for a time, with Jeff.
David gave me a marijuana DVD, Magic or Madness. I'm a Liver Yang type, clearly. Shane and Matt gave me the first two seasons of Weeds. Is there a theme here?
Shane and Matt went to the Laird. Jeff went home, as did Mark and Luke. David went to bed. I smoked a joint by myself, in front of the open fire and thought of Tom.
Here's to you buddy, for changing my life for the better. I miss you.
I staggered off to bed, after 1am and woke up at day break with my laptop whirring away next to me on the bed. It is going to lead to tears, I thought. I can just tell.
Patricia Karvelas, Political correspondent September 13, 2007
JOHN Howard has told his partyroom gay and lesbian couples should not be given the same rights as defacto heterosexual couples.
Mr Howard was responding to backbencher Warren Entsch, who asked him to make a quick decision on the issue cabinet left to the Prime Minister's discretion three weeks ago.
Mr Howard told Mr Entsch in the Liberal partyroom meeting yesterday that the issue was "complicated" and he did not believe in giving gays and lesbians equal treatment.
Moderate federal Liberal MPs, including Mr Entsch, fellow Queenslander Peter Lindsay and Victorian Greg Hunt, have for the past two years pushed colleagues to end the legal discrimination of same-sex couple in key areas, such as superannuation and public service pensions.
The Australian Christian Lobby has been campaigning to stop the Howard Government and the Labor Opposition from granting same-sex couples full defacto relationship status.
Following a heated discussion in cabinet late last month, Mr Howard decided to make the final ruling on whether gays and lesbians would be given equal rights under commonwealth law. Conservative ministers had argued it was not a high priority and that they had been inundated by opposition to major reform.
Ministers were also concerned at the expense of reforms - millions of dollars in extra social security payments.
But Environment Minister Malcolm Turnbull, Employment Minister Joe Hockey, Defence Minister Brendan Nelson and Attorney-General Philip Ruddock supported the reforms. Mr Turnbull and Mr Hockey are understood to have argued that with large numbers of gay voters in their Sydney electorates, Wentworth and North Sydney, reform could not be put off.
The package includes equal access to the Medicare safety net and the couples' rate threshold for the Pharmaceutical Benefits Scheme.
Under current laws, married or de facto heterosexual couples without children qualify for the 80per cent rebate under the Medicare safety net after reaching $716 in out-of-pocket expenses between them. A Human Rights and Equal Opportunity Commission report reveals 58 federal laws deny same-sex couples and families basic financial and work-related entitlements.
I caught the earlier tram, I had to be in a meeting by 8.30. Friday Man was on the earlier tram. It was nice to see him, him and his boyish looks. He has a stare-like gaze too, which is hot. Burning eyes. Baby faced.
We stood facing each other in the articulation.
The boy sure is hung. His big dick was pushed straight down in his pants, where it bulged over his balls. It pushed out in his suit pants, like a fist. He had a blank look on his face, as he listened to his ipod. He saw me looking and his only reaction was to gaze down, vaguely.
I decided to move away from him, thinking it was all in my vague, morning brain and took a seat looking away from him, in the front section. When the seat opposite me became vacant, he came and sat in front of me, pointing his ample crotch at me, again. The boy's got a big cock, he's got three distinct bulges in his crotch. The boy's pretty, as he gazes blankly at me, bouncing his thigh.
A young woman went to her mother and told her about her life and how things were so hard for her. She did not know how she was going to make it and wanted to give up. She was tired of fighting and struggling. It seemed as one problem was solved, a new one arose.
Her mother took her to the kitchen. She filled three pots with water and placed each on a high fire. Soon the pots came to boil. In the first she placed carrots, in the second she placed eggs, and in the last she placed ground coffee beans. She let them sit and boil; without saying a word.
In about twenty minutes she turned off the burners. She fished the carrots out and placed them in a bowl. She pulled the eggs out and placed them in a bowl.
Then she ladled the coffee out and placed it in a bowl. Turning to her daughter, she asked, 'Tell me what you see.'
'Carrots, eggs, and coffee,' she replied.
Her mother brought her closer and asked her to feel the carrots. She did and noted that they were soft. The mother then asked the daughter to take an egg and break it. After pulling off the shell, she observed the hard boiled egg.
Finally, the mother asked the daughter to sip the coffee. The daughter smiled as she tasted its rich aroma. The daughter then asked, 'What does it mean, mother?'
Her mother explained that each of these objects had faced the same adversity: boiling water. Each reacted differently. The carrot went in strong, hard, and unrelenting. However, after being subjected to the boiling water, it softened and became weak. The egg had been fragile. Its thin outer shell had protected its liquid interior, but after sitting through the boiling water, its inside became hardened. The ground coffee beans were unique, however. After they were in the boiling water, they had changed the water.
'Which are you?' she asked her daughter. 'When adversity knocks on your door, how do you respond? Are you a carrot, an egg or a coffee bean?
Think of this: Which am I ? Am I the carrot that seems strong, but with pain and adversity do I wilt and become soft and lose my strength?
Am I the egg that starts with a malleable heart, but changes with the heat? Did I have a fluid spirit, but after a death, a breakup, a financial hardship or some other trial, have I become hardened and stiff? Does my shell look the same, but on the inside am I bitter and tough with a stiff spirit and hardened heart?
Or am I like the coffee bean? The bean actually changes the hot water, the very circumstance that brings the pain. When the water gets hot, it releases the fragrance and flavour. If you are like the bean, when things are at their worst, you get better and change the situation around you. When the hour is the darkest and trials are their greatest, do you elevate yourself to another level? How do you handle adversity? Are you a carrot, an egg or a coffee bean?
May you have enough happiness to make you sweet, enough trials to make you strong, enough sorrow to keep you human and enough hope to make you happy.
The happiest of people don't necessarily have the best of everything; they just make the most of everything that comes along their way.
I love this, the comments of comedian Sarah Silverman, who savaged Britney Spears on stage immediately after her MTV performance.
"She is amazing," Silverman said. "She is 25 years old and has already accomplished everything she is going to accomplish in her life."
The cleaner comes and cleans my room once a month. Changes my sheets, does my clothes, dusts, cleans. The first time sheet put my cock rings together on the mantle piece, I vowed she'd never have to deal with the things she shouldn't have to and I have made sure porn, pot and toys were put away before her arrival, ever since. I wondered what she thought when she held the leather band in her hand?
I've never met the cleaner. She's been cleaning the house all year. So, there is a woman, I have never met, regularly in my bedroom dealing with my most personal things. Funny to think about.
It's always a thrill to come home after she has been, though. Every thing is in it's place, every thing is tidy, shiny, neat and clean. The air even smells rain forest green.
David hasn't been seen since yesterday, he had some hot date.
Shane and Matt have gone to 4X4. Matt looked sexy with his Italian arse hanging out of his leather chaps.
I visited my mother for lunch. I have to get out more. I have to step back into life.
The sun is gloriously bright. The sky, a wash of blue.
Curtis Mayfield sings slow.
I think I'll have a nap, till Idol starts.
The guys have gone out tonight, to a birthday party. I went to bed early.
I just woke, TV is blaring with some deluded christian, momentarily, as I wake, in that moment between sleep and consciousness, there are two of us in the room and one of us is evangelical. Welcome to my nightmare.
I scramble around for the remote control, in a daze and clunk goes the teli. Silence.
My lap-top is next to me on the bed, it's stars in the black sky, screen saver activated. I swear, one day, I'll fall asleep and kick it off onto the floor. I wonder how hard it will bounce on the wooden floors? My cocoon, my swamp, my cave, only I'm protected.
I have just rolled a j and have just been down stairs to make coffee. The house is quiet. The coffee smells strong. The night is eerily still against the windows. I pull the doona over me. The noises of the night sound outside; car doors, rubbish bins, voices calling out what to do, where to go next. Silence. A lone pair of stilettos come clacking down the entire length of street; soft and distant, deliberate and loud up close, fading away again.
4am, Saturday night. I sit up against the wall, not one of my many pillows manages to get behind my back. The wall is cold. I shiver. I was in bed early, Saturday night, what's wrong with this picture? I should go out, now. I'd need pills to dance.
The street sweeper whirls past outside.
I smoke the joint on my own.
I must remember I still have good mates.
It was lap-tops at twenty paces, as we all sat around the coffee table tapping away at each of our lap-tops. The sun streamed in the windows. Tom's last music compilation playing.
Perry came over in the middle of it all and we drank coffee and smoked pot. We talked about Tom, did the post mortem on the funeral and thought Tom would have been pleased.
It's still weird to even have those thoughts. He still seems so alive. I can still picture him standing right there.
Matt's mobile has Googie Gomez, from the Ritz, as ring tones.
You don't think I know what goes on in here? All you men going boo, boo, boo...
And Chris going, Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
It makes me laugh.
It went off several times while we chatted.
Tom's coffin wasn't environmentally friendly, but was made from the best quality, non-renewable rain forest timber, according to Perry. Tom's favourite Tamarama sunset shrink-wrapped onto the wood. It had been open for people to view, at the very beginning. But I didn't look, I was too frightened to go behind that curtain. Well, not frightened, as such, but wanting to remember his living face. Apparently, everybody else looked.
David kept pushing his lap-top away and exclaiming, "Isn't it great that we are all working together." Then he'd promptly get up and wander off.
Matt, Shane and I rolled our eyes at each other, smiled and kept working.
