Saturday Night on the Prowl

David and I went to Sircuit. We were heading for 80, but stopped off in Smith Street for a drink first.

Beer and vodka, first things first. It was busy. We chatted briefly downstairs getting our drinks down. David was impatient and encouraged me to scull the last half of my schooner.

We went upstairs. Nothing much to start off with, even if there were lots of feet walking. The one cute guy we saw, David headed off after, not to be seen again.

I had sex with a short, nuggety, Italian looking, guy name Rafael, well, it was close to that. He was nice – good kisser, muscular body, thick solid cock, nice to make out with. Sexy arse – deep, hairy crack. We were getting on fine, until he reached over and picked up a condom packet, ripped it open and slid it on.

“Um, no... buddy...”

He smeared, what felt like, a pitchers glove sized amount of lube up my arse.

“I... haven’t...” I tried to say between kissing him. “I don’t...” He was trying to turn me around, as I played with his arse. I slid my mouth around to his ear. “I haven’t been fucked in years.”

“Okay. I know...” After which, I got another industrial sized gob of lube up my arse.

“No, buddy.”

“Come on, just try.”

“No mate.”

“For me?”

For me, I thought. Nice try. Acting like a boyfriend after fifteen minutes of knowing you, I don’t think so.

I laughed. “I was gonna fuck you.” I slid a finger between his cheeks, pushing it in slightly. He resisted Two tops wrestling for booty.

“Cool,” he said... eventually.

I can bottom for a boyfriend. Pretty much, I have to be in love with you, if you’re gonna get you rod up my shoot. Almost.

We kissed slowly and rubbed hardons & balls together. He was hot. We sweatily climbed all over each other. He pumped a fire hose capacity of cum all over himself, in the end. Very impressive.

We got dressed. I told him my name, as we were about to leave the cubicle, natch – I always have to exchange names, it’s just my thing. Tom used to always think it was weird. David, kind, of agreed when I told him. Rafael had a sexy accent.

He came to the toilet with me. He put his arm around my shoulder, as we headed down stairs, which I would normally like, but last night felt it was, kind of, too familiar. Don’t know why? May be it was him. He was waiting for me at the hand basin, but it was a basin for one, so I headed through the labyrinth of toilets to find another. As I turned to head back around to Rafael, two boys were standing, waiting for the basin, blocking the hallway to back around the other side, so I headed out the nearest, other door.

Squelch, squelch, went my arse. Where is he? I thought. Squelch, squelch. More to the point, where is David. Squelch, squelch. I walked down the front to the smoking section. Squelch, squelch. David wasn’t out the front, or anywhere to be seen. Squelch, squelch. Pulling the jocks out of my arse. Squelch, squelch. My god, who’d be a bottom, I thought. Squelch, squelch. This is intolerable. I was right by the door. Squelch, squelch. I’m taking my slime arse home, I thought. Squelch, squelch. This is foul. Squelch, squelch. I headed out the door.

Halfway up Smith Street, walking like a girl – is that what they are doing when they are tugging at their knickers, pulling cotton out of damp areas? – I realised I didn’t say good bye to Rafael. Oops. He was, clearly, waiting for me. And usually, I am that type, to hang around and be chatty afterwards. Oh well.

So, what is the etiquette with trade? Chat afterwards, or not?

Lovers

Jimmy was coming around, he'd just called. Warren wanted to be revved up for him. On it! Happening!

His dealer had just been around and while the meth, that Warren had bought, had been meant for the following week, out dancing, he had new syringes and he'd bought quite a lot. So one point was never going to go astray, if it was in anticipation of his boy Jimmy.

He liked the sound of that, quietly to himself. My boy Jimmy.

The needle pieced his skin and he breathed in sharply. It was the searing pin prick to the skin which made him sweat and ache for more. The hit itself, while it made him shake and his eyes roll backwards, maybe, was just a means to an ends. But the fine metal sliding into his skin is what he craved - the delicious pain, the feeling of a stinging foreign body inside him was what he hung out for.

He'd pretty much given it up now, he used to do it a lot out dancing the circuit. But the circuit got to be every Saturday, Sunday, sometimes Monday and something had to give. It was too easy to fall into that get high routine, but it was really draining, emotionally and financially. Just occasionally, now.

Then bang! Straight to his brain and his cock and then all he wanted was Jimmy in his lap. Jimmy didn't know about "Warren's little helper."

Jimmy didn't know how fired up Warren was and how fired up Jimmy made him. Jimmy thought it was all natural for Warren. Highly sexed was what Jimmy called Warren. Hot Lebo boys! He had no idea of Warren's means to an end, means to Jimmy's end.

Warren stood in the lounge room, his head spun. His jaw vibrated. His eyes felt heavy.

Warren had told Jimmy to come over in shorts, some lame excuse about dancing all night. He hoped Jimmy would. He hoped he didn't sound too weird.

Last time, they'd just hung out together, neither said anything. Warren couldn't stop thinking about it the whole time he was with Jimmy. Too scared. Warren could feel his inhibitions fall away with the buzz through his body. He knew Jimmy wanted to now, he just had to make it happen.

Warren felt toey. Inpatient. Horny. He put music on and danced around the lounge room. The music pulsed through his body, as bells rang in his ears. He grooved to the beat, thinking he didn't remember bells in that track.

He leapt for the volume control. The music died. The bells rang again. He jumped toward the front door. He checked his face in the mirror, pushed at his hair and opened the door.

Jimmy had worn shorts, baggy shorts. Dark blue. And a singlet.

"Hi," said Jimmy, nervously.

"Hi," said Warren.

Jimmy came in, they circled until the door was shut.

"Hi," said Warren, again.

"Hi," said Jimmy.

Warren went to kiss him, he thought he was going to explode. Jimmy kissed him on the lips. It felt good. Warren grabbed him and kissed him again. Jimmy kissed back without hesitation.

Warren kissed him again, pushing him backwards into the couch. His mouth was strong. Jimmy sat down. He tasted good. Warren lay on him, sliding his hands up Jimmy's shorts. Jimmy's lips were soft. Warren gasped for breath. "I fucken love this!" His hand went around Jimmy's hard-on. He squeezed it.

"I'm going to hell," Jimmy gasped. "But I love it too!"

Warren covered Jimmy's mouth with his. Jimmy's mouth was wet, warm. Warren rubbed his tongue across Jimmy's. Jimmy pushed his tongue out. Warren suck Jimmy's lip, then sucked his tongue. Jimmy breathed hard. Warren breathed hard and rolled around onto Jimmy. Jimmy's legs parted, Warren pushed his hard-on against Jimmy's. Jimmy moaned and pushed his against Warren's.

Weekend with Charlie

Wow! I'm out of practise. Charlie asked me what I was doing on the weekend? Was I having a quiet one at home like I did last weekend.

I hadn't thought about it, I said.

He was staying home watching all the stuff he's been downloading over the last week, he said. He was going to be home alone.

He smiled at me, you know, real friendly.

Did I say, Did he want do some thing, or did he want some company, like I intuitively knew I should. No, I let doubt creep in and pulled back.

I said, Really, what have you been downloading?

He went on to tell me about the Jesse James movie he'd downloaded and the moment passed.

I'm way out of practice. Talk about slow.

He's cute. I like the way he smiles at me. I like the way he found me at work drinks, tonight, touching me on the arm to say he was there, just naturally. Smile.

He said at work drinks, that he had a dinner on tonight, he’d forgotten about. He raised his eyebrows, as if he was sorry.

Pity, I said. I was going to come watch downloads with you.

He laughed.

I lay on the couch all night, on my own, smoking pot and watching The Bill. Open fire. Cat @ my feet - actually, the cat was there because of the open fire and not me. It's cat, after all.

Shane’s in Adelaide for a tranny friend of his 40th birthday.

Apparently, David was meeting some swami... at...

“And where did you meet the Hugging Llama, I asked?” Temple? Cathedral? Mosque? I thought.

“Sandown Race Course,” replied David.

“On how many levels is that wrong, I asked?”

Bad Company sings, I'm Ready For Love.

Do you think she fucked both of them?
The two lads after a skin full all in together.
Both the boys were up her, in bed tonight.
She scratched out their faces, because of what she did.
Drunkenly getting done over, over and over again.

Work Girl

A girl at work who, as they say, often makes inappropriate comments, which always make me smile, said that I looked hot today.

She's always pouting her lips, or saying she is hot, when she comes into my office. She often wears low-cut tops and she is always bending over at me at my desk.

Stupid huh, but I didn't know what to say back to her. I went blank. Nothing. It seemed odd, like an instant vacuum was formed. I guess that's how straight boys feel when we hit on them.?

Good Morning Sunshine

I stopped at the lane way, just before work, for a smoke, before I got in the lift for the salt mines. The building work is still going on, on the corner of Bourke Street and William Street; CBW must be the ugliest building in Melbourne and it isn’t even finished yet. The supervisors were standing around in Bourke Street, one in particular, I think I'd like to call Angelo, was on his phone and he came and stood on the other side of the planter box to me to speak. Classic wog boy look. Olive skin, thick black hair, tanned face. Big brown eyes. 5 o’clock shadow at 9am. We gazed at each other, I'd like to think, but, really, I gazed at him.

He winked at me when we caught each other's gazes. Instinctively, in a friendly way, as straight boys do.

I smiled back and imagined him naked.

There were people milling all around the lift doors, as I turned the corner to the lift wells. A lift opened right by me and I slipped in, seemingly unnoticed. I pushed my floor and pushed the "door closed" button quickly. The doors slid shut. Just as they were about to close, completely, a foot protruded through. The doors were nearly together. The foot started kicking, as a wail went up on the other side of the doors, as an arm came through, flailing.

"Ah! AH! AHHH!" As the lift doors parted again, through came another arm and then a bald, rat-faced head.

"AH! AH!" He pushed the doors apart again with a Superman pose. He was short and bald, wearing glasses. "AH! AH!" He was in. He wore a crisply ironed pink shirt. He bristled. Another guy followed him in.

"There was a bunch of secretaries blocking the door." He rolled his eyes and shook his head. "I nearly missed it.

I wanted to say, There are six lifts, buddy, you need to calm down. But I said nothing, I was taken a back. And the bald, glasses wearing head stood there and seethed, looking from me to the other guy and back.

He was the first to get off, at one of the small law firms below us. I looked at the other guy, who was laughing.

"I think a few anger management classes wouldn't go astray with that one," I said.

"Absolutely," said the other guy. "Could you imagine working for him?"

"No doubt a partner," I said. "Over extended in an era of rising interest rates."

The other guy laughed again.

I walked to my office thinking, I'd never seen any thing like it.

 

Why Dogs Bite People

Holding the Man - Melbourne Theatre Company

You know, not so keen. The main actors, actor, Tim, was good. John was good too, a little wooden in places. All the other cast members, played multiple characters and it was as if in the differentiation of those characters, they overplayed most of them. Annoyingly so.

Girl's played boys in sexual scenes, in a gay play? I'm sorry, but that never works for me. They played them for laughs, okay, sure, but the subtext was serious, Tim's promiscuity and his and John's fate. It didn't ring true, it took me out of the story and dumped me back in a dark theatre.

Some thing good to say about it... you did get a sense of the depth of Tim and John's relationship. So that was nicely played, by both of the main actors.

It's not a bad play, but it certainly doesn't deserve to be sold out. (Unless, of course, all Melbourne Theatre Company plays are all sold out. I don't know?) The good bits were good, but the bad bits were jarring.

I know it's all about marketing and branding, if you like, now a days, but maybe not everything has to have the last drop of blood drained from it.

If you want to meet John and Tim, read the book.

Saturday Night

"Take me out. Show me the big city," said Titania. "Introduce me to friends."

"Sure," said Christopher. "I'm supposed to be heading out with Warren and Jimmy. "You can come too."

"Varren? Jimmy?"

"My best mates," said Christopher. "We went to school together. I think they are..."

"There are vhat?" asked Titania.

I think they are... you know... " Jimmy made pelvic motions.

"Gay?" said Titania.

"Just now, may be, getting together before my eyes," said Christopher. "They think I don't know, I'm sure."

Christopher noticed for the first time how beautiful Titiana was. Willowy blond, fine bones, petite. She had a sharp angular face that soften when she laughed. Long, sandy blond hair that glistened in the breeze.

She was very serious. Only spoke at a minimum. Gazed long and inquiringly. He face rested naturally in a blank expression, as though she was taking every thing in.

And then she'd smile and she was beautiful again.

"Vhat you take before... go out?" asked Titiana.

"What?" said Christopher. He'd been agonising over shocking Titiana going out on the party scene. He thought it would all be new to her.

"Pill? Powder? said Titiana clearly. She laughed. "I learned pill? powder? when I go out in London."

"You've been to London?"

"I study there?"

"You're not a refugee?"

"NO!" To this she sounded shocked. "I'm a lawyer."

"You take drugs in Russia?"

"Ve take many drugs in Russia, we have to," she said. She sighed and the life drained out of her face. "Vhat else to do?"

"Wow," said Christopher, a weight had been taken off his shoulders.

"Sure I take them in London," she smiled, "first," she said. "But, I find them Russia too. Moscow not so different."

"I thought you were a poor artist, you met Anna through painting..."

"I meet Anna in Moscow night club doing cocaine off toilet seat."

 

Early Hours

Wow, hasn't it been raining. And it's still raining. Thursday morning I watched some shops in Gertrude Street have water lapping under their doors.

I went out and took and E and danced at A Bar Called Barry, with Tim and Nicholas and co – Patricia, Sarah, fat Nikki, and a bizarre friend of Nicholas’ called Cathy. Too many drugs over the years for that one, I suspect. Found under a rock, I believe.

None of the girls, we meet out, ever believe Nicholas is gay - big, strapping, dark-haired and handsome boy that he is. There always seems to be a gaggle around him, saying that it can't be true.

The music was heard-every-song-a-zillion-times 80's retro. The club only ever filled up to half full, maybe a few more.

Tim went home and then called Nicholas to come home, the usual shenanigans with those two.

I took E, I danced and I only drank beer as a fluid. Oh, my aching head.

The Lunch

I had lunch with Charlie. We didn't really get onto the business, just talked about travel and spiritualism. I didn't even ask him if he's got a partner, we just chatted generally.

The quiet talker, is our Charlie. We have to have lunch some where relatively quiet so I can hear him.

First Day Back

I slept in a little, smoked cigarettes on my balcony and generally wafted into work, knowing that Beck wasn't going to be in until later in the day, but I still got there at 9.03. I even let an 86 go by so I could go to the newsagent to pay a bill. The secret is not to just stand there and wait for the next 86, the secret is to walk to Nicholson Street so as to be able to catch a 96 as well as an 86.

Busy tram, bug-eyed woman standing in front of the ticket machine, who moved an inch for me, as is usually the case. Pest, I thought. She looked a bit downy to me, but maybe it was just the unfortunate eyes – mouse hair, plain looks, dumb expression. Anyway, as I was mentally chastising her, I spied a vacant seat through the crowd and forgot her instantly, slid through the crowd in one movement and sat down.

As I got myself settled, I spotted through the crowd a handsome Asian boy, 6 foot, athletic, with thick sunnies on and the ubiquitous hand, in his pants, snugly fitted, fingers curled under, nice knuckles. Nice light grey pants fitting him well. Gotta love a boy in pale grey pants. He looked like he was on the pump in those pants, jutting out in profile, right in my line of vision. I imagined the black sweatiness, even if it was early in the day.

The tram was a little crowded so I gazed freely (I gaze freely, crowded or not) He looked over in my direction and then, as the crowd thinned, he walked over to me and stood in front of me, just on the other side of the door barrier. He looked straight at me (as straight as I could tell in sunnies) as if he knew, facing me so I could continue to gaze. Nicely fitted pants, I thought. He stood facing me, glancing at me as if to check if I was still looking. I was, through the gap in the door screen. Nice, I thought. It’s funny – and I could be imagining this, granted, but it happens often – how some guys tend to face me and not look away when I am on the morning gaze. He was gorgeous; black hair, olive skin, handsome face, nice hand in his strides.

I looked out the window and watched Bourke Street flash by. I much prefer the low rider trams, with the pedestrians at the same level, it seems cosier.

I need to get a man... or new porn in my life, I thought.

 

Now, If I Could Only Find One Thing To Write About

Now, if I could only find one thing to write about, it would be good. You know, something to take through to its completion. I have a million things started and half written, but finishing has always been my problem. That's where the hard work comes in. Inspiration is always at it's most powerful when I have can get lost in it, stop thinking and just write.

 

How About?

So how about this? David did my tarot - I'd been thinking about tarot for days, don't know why. So it was not as surprising to me, as it was David - which said that a boyfriend is in the picture (2 of cups) and that I don't, actually, have to do anything but wait. Gotta like those odds.

Backtrack slightly, I've been flirting with a boy at work, Charlie, for sometime now, without ever really realising that I was. Well, I did, but I tended to put it down to my imagination, despite the fact I got the feeling he was into me too.

The two of us have been going to have lunch together for a while but, with one thing and another, we haven't yet. The last time he, regretfully, cancelled, I definitely got the impression that there was more going on there than I had previously thought. Oh, I don't know, maybe it was the way he looked at me, with sparkling eyes, maybe it was the (unnecessary) nervousness of his plea, maybe it was just the body language, whatever? But I got a certain feeling from him I just don't get with most boys.

So I looked up his employment records - not so ethical, I grant you - and he is a Cancer.

Back to the present, the Cancer card was in the correct position on my tarot reading.

Really?, I thought.

We do smile and wave at each other in the office - something I'd never do normally.

We did spend the entire Xmas party dancing together.

We do have a rapport with each other that I don't have with other guys in the office.

We always end up chatting together at work drinks.

So Charlie, huh? Well? He's funny and smart and well travelled and does stuff and is cute and sexy.

So...

Changing the Rules

"Hi," said Warren, standing at the front door.

"Hi," said Jimmy, still with the door handle in his hand. He suddenly became aware of it. He felt a buzz in his stomach, as he saw Warren standing there.

"Jimmy Westborough, I presume," said Warren, making a gesture of bowing, but never really moving. Holding Jimmy's gaze.

Jimmy liked to go by the name of Westbro, it reminded him of the wild west. But it, actually, came from the fact that his family came from the West Borough. Warren said it reminded him of suburbia and apron strings and cut grass on Sundays and people without a clue. He couldn't get passed the borough connotation, it made him feel centred and whole.

"It reminds me of where I came from, you know," said Warren.

“It makes me think of power and the future and everything working out fine,” said Jimmy.

So Jimmy Westbro it was. Action Man, he used to think, fantasise about it, laugh at. He still had the tights and the green cape he wore to the fancy dress party, at the end of school, when he went as a super hero. He lost the g-string his sister had made him wear the night he went out as Westbro Man.

"Well, you can't have it all, you know, flopping about down there," said his sister. "You're my brother and I love you, but there are limits."

Jimmy thought of his sister and couldn't stop himself smiling. He wanted to say, can't have it messy down there, but didn't.

"Green Hornet?"

Warren's arch rival to Westborough Man was the Green Hornet. Not so much arch rival as sparing buddy. Warren thought up the environmental super hero to counter Jimmy's creation. His surname is Green, it wasn't such a stretch. It was boy's stuff, it had never meant so much, before.

Warren cocked his head and spoke as if he spoke of a truth. "You have your mission..."

Jimmy swore he was sweating. "Should I choose... to... accept?" Spoken defensively.

They held each other's gaze and momentarily their peripheral vision stopped working.

"As usual, this tape will self destruct in ten seconds." Warren's monotone broke the trance.

Jimmy sat up in bed, inhaling sharply, grabbing the pillow to steady himself. He looked over at his bedside clock. Midday. He’d slept the morning away. Why was he dreaming about Westbro Man? He hadn’t thought about that in a long time.

The doorbell rang, it's shrill bell-like jangle. Jimmy jumped. Dived out of bed, pulling his track suit pants on as he ran up the hallway, half asleep. He looked through the peep hole. It was Warren jigging up and down on the souls of his feet.

He pulled the door open. The sun blinded and, at the same time felt warm on his torso. He shaded his eyes with the palm of his hand. Warren came back into focus.

"How did you pull up," said Jimmy. "How drunk were you?"

Jimmy so wanted to sound normal. He grimaced at the drunk connotation. Straight to it; the big black monster. Warren looked shiny.

"Yeah, drunk hey." said Warren. "Can remember much. Didn't see much of yesterday."

Over Lunch

Our eyes met over my salad lunch and his coffee with a friend. He hung behind just naturally, when his friend left and we were in Little Bourke Street exchanging numbers in minutes. We text in the afternoon and ended up having sex in a toilet in the building next to mine, later that afternoon, last Tuesday.

Eugene's been texting me all week since. He's nice and all but has a boyfriend and can only have sex in toilets during the day. Can't be contacted after 16.00.

So, once was fun...

The Monkey is Back

You go off the pot and you go off porn. The head clears and you get things done.

Conversely, my bedroom floor is covered in DVD's. Must go clean up.

I locked myself away in my bedroom. Cancelled all calls.

It's that post-holocost haze out side, so hot it is burning the colour out of life. Everything and everybody has that burning, pinkish hue.

Would the Real Titania...

Washing on. Dryer humming. Stereo thumping. TV blaring, in the lounge and in Christopher's bedroom. Lap-top still on, on his bed, after a little early morning net surfing. Dishwasher chugging. Air-conditioning whirring. PC downstairs on, where he has been answering email and net surfing.

Christopher stopped in the middle of it all and laughed. Carbon footprint? He wondered if he believed the doomed theory, because then there was no hope and he didn't have to care? Or, was he a part of the problem and was he kidding himself along with the rest of the middle class. His jury was still out on that one.

He lit a joint.

The doorbell rang.

He waved his hands around in the air, as he stubbed it out.

He opened the front door to find a pretty, young girl standing on the other side. He expected it to be some religious nuts, or time share salesmen, or save the earth types. He brushed his hair off his forehead and smiled at the gorgeous girl standing in front of him. He'd been somewhat annoyed to be disturbed, but he was raining that mood back at lightening speed.

"'allo, I Titania." She smiled sweetly. "I vrite to you."

Christopher open and closed his mouth, nothing came out. He was stunned. Oh please, he wanted to say, but he stopped himself.

"Yes," he heard himself say instead.

"I vrite you?"

She was beautiful.

"You know?"

"Yes."

"You, Christopher?"

"Yes."

"I come stay vith you?"

It hadn't been a dream. He was surprised. Suspicious. Distracted. Delighted. He could feel himself straightening his back.

"Anna sent me."

It wasn't one of Anna's joke, after all. He'd been sure it was.

He could, literally, feel himself pulling his head back. He could feel his eyes getting bigger and it was as if he had no control to stop himself. She looked crestfallen.

"It not ok?" She was shaking her head.

She was a real person, he was saying it over and over in his head. He'd been sure it was Anna all along playing with him.

"Ok?" She asked softly, as though she had already worked out that the answer was that it wasn't okay.

There was silence, as the two looked at each other. Christopher shook his head. I guess I have to say something, he thought.

"Yes," he said. "Yes. Okay." He tried to smile, but he was wary that someone was going to jump out of the shadows and scream fooled you!

Titania smiled.

"Come in," said Christopher. "Yes, come in."

"I stay vith you?"

"Yes." He exhaled loudly. "I guess."

She smiled. She picked up her suit case and followed Christopher inside.

"It is so big," she said. "You must be millionaire."

"No, just a terrace house." Christopher tried to smile again, he felt his cheeks hurt as he tried. "Lots of Australians..." he showed her into the lounge room, at the rear of the house.

"You handsome as Anna told..."

"Would you like a drink? Or something to eat."

"Yes, of course."

"Have you just got here..."

"Huh?"

"Australia?" said Christopher. He took her suit case from her, their hands touched, her skin was smooth. She blushed. "Have you just arrived?"

"Yes. Yes. Just from Europe."

"I cook for you, I clean for you," said Titania. "You very handsome I..." she smiled coyly and touched her lips with her finger.

"Oh. Well?" Christopher could feel his cheeks burn red. "How, um, how long do you, um, want to stay?"

"I stay until you have me," she said. "And then I go, no problem." She smiled. "But I hope you happy to have me long time." She held his gaze, waiting for his answer.

"You can stay however long." Christopher didn't know what to say.

"Anna say you beautiful man. She say you very good. You know?" Christopher wasn't sure what the question was. Titania dropped her voice as though she didn't want anyone else to hear. She stepped closer."Anna say you enjoy me." She looked up at him with big eyes.

Christopher could feel his face blushing, beyond his control.

"She say I enjoy you, too?" Titania straightened his shirt, as though it was crooked.

Christopher could feel Titania's breath on his face she was standing so close.

"Do you know?" she whispered. "Anna say I look after you."

Christopher suggested they go site-seeing, walk, eat, breath in some fresh air.

Christopher took Titania to Lygon Street where they ate pasta. They drank wine and Christopher felt a little drunk by the time they left the table. They walked into the city and looked at the CBD.

"I need to walk off the wine," said Christopher.

"It such big city, Anna no tell me."

Christopher thought she was beautiful.

They walked home through the Exhibition Gardens. Titania took Christopher's hand. She cuddled into him, hugging his arm.

"It so beautiful," she said. "I lucky."

"It is beautiful," said Christopher. He didn't often take the time to enjoy the gardens, he was so often just rushing through. He looked at Titania, she was wide-eyed taking it all in. He felt so comfortable with her, as though he'd know her for a long time.

They walked under the elm trees toward home. A father played ball with his son. A woman walked her dog. A jogger sweated as he headed in the other direction.

"You know you don't have to do anything," Christopher said. "You can just stay. I'm happy for you to stay."

"I don't understand?" said Titania.

"It's okay," said Christopher. 

Nice Shorts

I went around to the shops, it was hot. Burning in the sun. I needed milk. A girl and guy were walking the other way, in shorts and singlets. They were both laughing and lost in each other. The boy had on thin blue cotton shorts and no undies. It was obvious; I could see him pushing against the inside of his shorts. More boys should. He had a nice, big, thick cock hanging down; circumcised, nice knob, I could see it clearly. He seemed to be oblivious, or he didn't care.

They passed by without even, seemingly, noticing me.

I thought, he might as well be wearing nothing. Nice it was too. I could see the folds in his skin.

The sun shimmered just above the road. A gentle breeze blew, blowing cold across the sweat on my skin. God reminding me of sin?

 

Seasons in Melbourne

It's amazingly hot in Melbourne.

Strange Conscience

I went around to get coffee beans, cherry muffins and some pot.

Max had laughed down the phone when I'd called him earlier. "What's happened to you, luv?"

And then I got a drug dealer with a social conscience. "I've got half bags for fifty, or I could even do a twenty dollar bag, just for you." Max's green eyes sparkled at me. "If you just want a couple of smokes.

Max's boyfriend Tiffany, said from under a geometrical blonde bob, from the other couch. "Having a bad day, doll?"

When is Guido coming back, I thought, as I hesitated in indecision.

"No, not a bad day." I could feel my face spread with a fake smile. "No." I could feel butterflies in my stomach. "It's just my weekend off... and I just feel like it." Maybe you should change your smoking habits, if you are now justifying them to a man who can only have sex with other men dressed as Barbra Streisand, I thought. "I'll take the twenty dollar bag."

That's Max needing his men to be dressed as Barbra Streisand before he can have sex and not Tiffany. I laughed at the prospect. I looked at Max.

"You were doing so well," said Max's handsome Italian face looking up at me.

"Yeah, well," I said. "I still am."

"I can see that," said Tiffany's baritone voice. Then she did that annoying you-are-kidding-yourself laugh. You know that self righteous high ground they have no business occupying. I could see the track marks in his arm.

Now, I'm just pissed off that I have come home with a bag with a few crumbs in the bottom. What was I thinking? Ah Guilt, god love it.

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly

I went to see The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. It seemed interesting, what I saw of it. It was Friday night, the end of the week. I've worked two weekends in a row. We had a couple of joints before we went in, I was asleep within 10 minutes.

I'd also been to work drinks, hanging with Charlie. He's nice. But throw in stubbies of Carlton, maybe three. Actually, it started at a farewell lunch, when I ordered a pint because they didn't have schooners not realising how much bigger pints were. Then not thinking that I'd get another pint when the guys went for more drinks. I wafted around the office all afternoon.

In the cinema, I tried to wake myself up so many times, but couldn't. The giving in was glorious.

It's a pity, the movie was really interesting the way it was shot in the beginning from the eyes of a man waking from a coma, coupled with sleepy eyes. It was mesmerising. I was right there.

Apparently, the movie was great. Both Mark and Luke were impressed, telling me I had to go and see it again, as I stumbled to the car - thinking I was in Brunswick Street, only to have my entire reality spin when Lygon Street came into focus. Everything looked shiny and black and was moving fast.

The Next Day

Jimmy's head pounded, as he opened his eyes and let the morning day light seep in. The sun shone in from behind the curtains. His bedroom was quiet, he dared not move.

How much did he drink? Oh, he rubbed his forehead. Fuck! What did he do? With Warren? He got excited all over again, lying there in his crumpled sheets.

Was it a dream? He and Warren? Fuck me, he thought.

Was Warren setting him up? No, he couldn't have been. He was as enthusiastic as Jimmy. You don't set someone up by actually going through with it. You set some one up by looking as though you are going through with it, but then don't.

A dream come true? Is that what it really was? All he'd ever wanted. For how many years? Was it true? Could it be true?

Was he so drunk he dreamt it?

Would Warren remember?

He rubbed the corners of his eyes with his finger tips. Warren? Fuck me, he thought again. He couldn't get the smile off his face. He closed his eyes.

They just fooled around a bit until Warren wretched and passed out and dribbled and snored. Jimmy had left pretty soon after that, staggered out the door.

Did he knock over a lamp on the way out? He couldn't think about that now.

That last look back at Warren, his shirt unbuttoned, his arms over his head, was emblazoned in his memory. Would it be the last time he would see Warren? A view to remember him by?

He slid his hand under the sheet, no guilt.

Oh my god!

All he could feel was fear. It didn't mean I'm a poof, he thought, even though he suspected it probably did. It didn't mean... Warren was either. Just... best... mates, that's what it meant? He wondered what Warren felt?

Would he ever know?

Would he ever see Warren again?

Should he call him?

He wondered how long it would take Warren to call?

He started to shake. He suddenly felt cold. He sank down into the bed clothes and pulled the doona up around his neck.

 

Off the Wagon

I smoked pot. First time in two months. That's pretty good. Two months!

There was no coughing. No, "Why did I ever do that?" No, yuk. Straight back into it, no problem, as if I'd never been a way. "This is great,"

Sitting around in the long afternoon sun , gloriously warm, perfect end of day. Kick back. "Don't mind if I do." Inhale. That easy.

Gotta luv a long weekend.

 

Queer Film Festival

I went to the Queer Film Festival, with David, to see "A Four Letter Word." Bad acting and bad dialogue with all the cliches thrown in, which ended up having a certain charm in the end - it was like the actors warmed to the project by the last scene. Not awful, kind of watchable. It needed greater development. Couldn't recommend it, though. The seats were more uncomfortable than the script, but only just.

David was chatting afterwards to, who I thought was, an old sexy buddy of mine, James. When David introduced him as Sam, I thought I must have been mistaken, but continued to think the likeness was remarkable as we chatted. Later, when David and I were walking up Flinder's Street I said that Sam reminded me so much of my old buddy James and David laughed and said it was James and that he had changed his name. David called Sam to tell him, who said he was a little surprised when I didn't acknowledge who he was, but just decided I must have had my reasons and didn't say any thing. Funny, huh?

It was nice walking home through the city in the evening - warm, shiny and busy.

We went to Sircuit afterwards and drank beer and vodka & cranberry juice and watched the boys play pool. I keep telling David he is going to have to butch up his alcohol tastes.

 

Cinnamon & Honey

Bet the drug companies won't like this one getting around. Facts on honey and cinnamon: It is found that a mixture of honey and cinnamon cures most diseases. Honey is produced in most of the countries of the world. Scientists of today also accept honey as a "Ram Ban" (very effective) medicine for all kinds of diseases. Honey can be used without any side effects for any kind of diseases.

Today's science says that even though honey is sweet, if taken in the right dosage as a medicine, it does not harm diabetic patients. Weekly World News, a magazine in Canada, on its issue dated 17 January, 1995 has given the following list of diseases that can be cured by honey and cinnamon as researched by western scientists:

HEART DISEASES:

Make a paste of honey and cinnamon powder, apply on bread, instead of jelly and jam, and eat it regularly for breakfast. It reduces the cholesterol in the arteries and saves the patient from heart attack. Also those who have already had an attack, if they do this process daily, they are kept miles away from the next attack. Regular use of the above process relieves loss of breath and strengthens the heart beat. In America and Canada, various nursing homes have treated patients successfully and have found that as you age, the arteries and veins lose their flexibility and get clogged; honey and cinnamon revitalize the arteries and veins.

ARTHRITIS:

Arthritis patients may take daily, morning, and night, one cup of hot water with two spoons of honey and one small teaspoon of cinnamon powder. If taken regularly even chronic arthritis can be cured. In a recent research conducted at the Copenhagen

University, it was found that when the doctors treated their patients with a mixture of one tablespoon Honey and half teaspoon Cinnamon powder before breakfast, they found that within a week, out of the 200 people so treated, practically 73 patients were totally relieved of pain, and within a month, mostly all the patients who could not walk or move around because of arthritis started walking without pain.

BLADDER INFECTIONS:

Take two tablespoons of cinnamon powder and one teaspoon of honey in a glass of lukewarm water and drink it. It destroys the germs in the bladder.

TOOTHACHE:

Make a paste of one teaspoon of cinnamon powder and five teaspoons of honey and apply on the aching tooth. This may be applied three times a day until the tooth stops aching.

CHOLESTEROL:

Two tablespoons of honey and three teaspoons of Cinnamon Powder mixed in 16 ounces of tea water, given to a cholesterol patient were found to reduce the level of cholesterol in the blood by 10 percent within two hours. As mentioned for arthritic patients, if taken three times a day, any chronic cholesterol is cured. According to information received in the said journal, pure honey taken with food daily relieves complaints of cholesterol. (By the way. if you're taking cholesterol medicine STOP! They all contain STATIN which weaken your muscles...including YOUR HEARTand none has been shown to stop heart attacks or strokes!!!!

COLDS:

Those suffering from common or severe colds should take one tablespoon lukewarm honey with 1/4 spoon cinnamon powder daily for three days. This process will cure most chronic cough, cold, and clear the sinuses.

UPSET STOMACH:

Honey taken with cinnamon powder cures stomach ache and also clears stomach ulcers from the root.

GAS:

According to the studies done in India and Japan, it is revealed that if honey is taken with cinnamon powder the stomach is relieved of gas.

IMMUNE SYSTEM:

Daily use of honey and cinnamon powder strengthens the immune system and protects the body from bacteria and viral attacks. Scientists have found that honey has various vitamins and iron in large amounts. Constant use of honey strengthens the white blood corpuscles to fight bacteria and viral diseases.

INDIGESTION:

Cinnamon powder sprinkled on two tablespoons of honey taken before food relieves acidity and digests the heaviest of meals.

INFLUENZA:

A scientist in Spain has proved that honey contains a natural Ingredient which kills the influenza germs and saves the patient from flu.

LONGEVITY:

Tea made with honey and cinnamon powder, when taken regularly, arrests the ravages of old age. Take four spoons of honey, one spoon of cinnamon powder and three cups of water and boil to make like tea. Drink 1/4 cup, three to four times a day. It keeps the skin fresh and soft and arrests old age. Life spans also increases and even a 100 year old, starts performing the chores of a 20-year-old.

PIMPLES:

Three tablespoons of honey and one teaspoon of cinnamon powder paste.

Apply this paste on the pimples before sleeping and wash it next morning with warm water. If done daily for two weeks, it removes pimples from the root.

SKIN INFECTIONS:

Applying honey and cinnamon powder in equal parts on the affected parts cures eczema, ringworm and all types of skin infections.

WEIGHT LOSS:

Daily in the morning one half hour before breakfast on an empty stomach and at night before sleeping, drink honey and cinnamon powder boiled in one cup of water. If taken regularly, it reduces the weight of even the most obese person. Also, drinking this mixture regularly does not allow the fat to accumulate in the body even though the person may eat a high calorie diet.

CANCER:

Recent research in Japan and Australia has revealed that advanced cancer of the stomach and bones have been cured successfully. Patients suffering from these kinds of cancer should daily take one tablespoon of honey with one teaspoon of cinnamon powder for one month three times a day.

FATIGUE:

Recent studies have shown that the sugar content of honey is more helpful rather than being detrimental to the strength of the body. Senior citizens, who take honey and cinnamon powder in equal parts, are more alert and flexible. Dr. Milton, who has done research, says that a half tablespoon of honey taken in a glass of water and sprinkled with cinnamon powder, taken daily after brushing and in the afternoon at about 3:00 p.m. when the vitality of the body starts to decrease, increases the vitality of the body within a week.

BAD BREATH:

People of South America, first thing in the morning, gargle with one teaspoon of honey and cinnamon powder mixed in hot water, so their breath stays fresh throughout the day.

HEARING LOSS:

Daily morning and night honey and cinnamon powder, taken in equal parts restore hearing. Remember when we were kids? We had toast with real butter and cinnamon sprinkled on it!

CALMNESS IN OUR LIVES

I am passing this on to you because it definitely works and we could all use a little more calmness in our lives. By following simple advice heard on the Dr. Phil show, you too can find inner peace.

Dr. Phil proclaimed, "The way to achieve inner peace is to finish all the things you have started and have never finished."

So, I looked around my house to see all the things I started and hadn't finished, and before leaving the house this morning, I finished off a bottle of Merlot, a bottle of valium, bottle of Bailey's Irish Cream, a packet of serapax, a packet of Tim Tams, the remainder of my old Prozac prescription, the rest of the bag of pot, some cheese cake, and a box of chocolates.

You have no idea how fucking good I feel right now. Please pass this on to those whom you think might be in need of inner peace.

Have a GREAT day!

 

Out of Our Misery

I took another day off, I hate my (work) life. I decided if I don’t have the guts to resign, I can, at least, use up all my sick days.

David was home too, he wanted me to wake him before I left for the office, so he didn’t spend the day asleep. He was awake, lying in bed, when I flung his bedroom door open.

Wake up. It’s later than you think. I took a sickie.

Why?

I’m so bored, I could, I could…

Could what?

Kill myself.

Do you want to? Let’s just do it.

Okay, let’s do it

How would we do it?

With knives…

On the couch…

Slit our wrists…

With scalpels…

Our arms right up to here.

Yes, let’s do it.

So there’s blood…

Lots of blood!

Come on.

I want to…

We could paint our faces with big, red, lip-stick smiles…

Yes…

With thick eye-liner and great big fake eyelashes…

Yes!

And prop ourselves up on the couch…

Smiles painted on…

With our arms our here…

Bleeding…

For when Shane comes back from Mardi Gras

Could you imagine…

Him, off his chops so badly…

Confronted by that…

Welcome home…

Happy Mardi Gras!

We could get balloons…

And streamers…

Shave Missy and paint her face with a big, red, lip-stick smile too…

Three days later.

Oo, pretty.

Hmmm, could you imagine…

Shane, still off his face?

Happy Mardi Gras!

Both cackle hysterically

Teach him for going to Mardi Gras without us.

It would sure show him!

Yeah!

Yeah!

 

Yesterday's Women

Yesterday's woman were strong women who not only had jobs, but careers. Who raised kids and ran households and had successful marriages. Who bought houses and cars and who helped their husbands and children get through life without complaint.

Today's woman are whiny, namby-pamby woman who think they are incredible for combining children with part time hours after paid maternity leave, expecting the whole world to pat them on the back and to make allowances for them.

Lying Nude

Deep in the Valley

Stocky boys tend to have deeper arse cracks. All that man flesh, all that hair; hand deep into his bum, feel him right inside. Yum.

Kiss him behind the ears. Feel his back arch, as his butt touches you.

He'll moan, a bit, to get you in the mood. Feel him relax, as you break the seal. His breathing changes. The rhythm steadies. He starts to sweat. Buck. Push back. Find for his lips, red and ripe; his neck stretched to the max; hard strong. Hand to his throat, strong, whiskers, Adam's Apple. How muscular he feels... as he goes over the edge. Stands upright, shaking and quivering.

Boyfriends

I've always fallen for people who have lots of confidence, lots of charisma. I've always been the sweet, silent type next to the confident, loud gregarious one. I've always been the rock, to the flying bird. I've always been private school boy, type, while they've been Guliver.

They've always explored and showed me wondrous things that have made me say "wow." And I've always let them - given them freedom, given them support, given them love and something to believe in.

I gave them logic and grounding and permission and a sense of themselves that allowed them to believe that they were beautiful people who were very loved. They were all handsome men, I, somehow, confirmed it.

I've given them intellect and interesting things to think about. Together we've always been able to conquer the world.

It's a Boy Thing

I like, He was a little light on his feet, almost as much as I like shirtlifter.

Friends of Dorothy's is universally liked, surely? Because we were all like the lion back then, we just needed courage.

Pooh puncher, or donut maker, I'm not so keen on.

A fart as a poofter's love call leaves me really cold. 

Wednesday Wednesday Wednesday

I've taken another sickie. That stomach of mine? Once I get a taste for the day-off there is no stopping me. I called in from my bed on my mobile. I couldn't even stand to get out of bed, this morning. I just called and then pulled the doona back up and took more zzzz's, no guilt. It can't be good for me, feeling that way. I might take my coffee and go back there. The day is mine.

I worked out that I'm, some thing like, 2 years ahead with my mortgage payments. It's why straight people hate us so - no kids and all that disposable income. So why am I working so hard? At something that makes me unhappy. It makes no sense.

I can feel a resignation coming on. I wish I had the guts, you know. I've just given up pot and tobacco, I can probably do anything.

And the rain comes down and the sun disappears, like a blokes testes in cold water. A cool breeze blows in through my balcony doors, it's bracing, thrilling. I can do anything I want. I could get used to this. Nobody is going to thank me for working, I don't have any kids. There is no prize at the end of it, just dementia and incontinence. We are all equal in the old people's home in the end, no matter what we did during our lives, with only our regrets to keep us company.

I love the cool Melbourne breeze after a stinking hot day. It's invigorating. I clears the sweat. It blows all of the head aches away.

All I have to do is write something, a moderate seller, some thing successful. Those two clairvoyants always said I would. Two years to write a best seller and I'd never have to work again - well, go to work again to a job that makes me unhappy, where I help other people with their wealth.

All of my tutors - well, most of my tutors at uni - said I had it in me.

"You are as good a writer as any one," they said. "The thing that distinguishes successful writers, for the most part, from ones that don't make it, is actually doing it. A bit of luck and being in the right place, of course, doesn't hurt, but mostly it is believing in yourself and sitting down, putting in the time and writing. Sticking at it."

I might head out for breakfast. I might go for a bike ride.

Kiss me and wish me good luck.

Time to believe in myself and step forward fearlessly.

Wednesday Wednesday

I've taken another sickie. That stomach of mine?

I worked out that I'm 2 years ahead with my mortgage payments.

I've taken the day off just because I couldn't be fagged getting out of bed.

It's why straight people hate us so - no kids and all that disposable income.

I called in from bed on my mobile. I might take my coffee and go back there.

I can feel a resignation coming on.

And the rain comes down and the sun disappears like a blokes testes in cold water.

I could get used to this.

I love the cool Melbourne breeze after a stinking hot day.

All I'd have to do is write a best seller, those clairvoyants always said I would.

I might head out for breakfast.

Two years to write a best seller and I'd never have to work again.

I might go for a bike ride.

Kiss the salt mines good bye.

 

Lazy Tuesday

I took today off work just because I could, really. I'm feeling a bit anxious about every thing. Probably, a reaction to the anaesthetic. Wink. Better rest up. No use having a, um, er, relapse.

No use rushing back to work in times of illness. Why do any of us do it? Oh yes, money. Surprised look. :o

So, I'm of to The Fitzroy Gardens to read my book, for a few hours under the trees and then Smith Street for lunch and then I reckon I might go hunt down a boy for the afternoon.

Sounds like a plan to me.

Sounds like a nice day. smile.

5 hours later...

Ah beautiful. The sun, the sky, the park, the dappled sunlight scattered across the green, green grass. I ate fruit salad and drank coffee on the terrace at the cafe, in the middle of the park under the shade of the elms, and read the Age from cover to cover. It was gentle and quiet and serene.

There was a lady with two Ridgebacks at the next table, she was dainty and the dogs were well behaved. They had some kind of muzzles on, but the owner told the waitress they were just a way of controlling the dogs while they walked and that they weren't aggressive at all. There were a couple of mothers with preschoolers, who didn't annoy the crap out of me, surprisingly. I wondered about their little brats muzzles when they first walked up, but they played quietly as their mother's drank coffee and chatted.

There were joggers and soccer players and walkers and readers and sitters and snoozers all enjoying the glorious day. There were women with prams and elderly couples with each other and workmen with utes and girls with sun hats and Asian tourists with cameras and two men in suits holding hands - there really were, well, it is Fitzroy, after all, they looked adorable walking through the park.

I lay back and read my book under the elms. Some thing real. Bliss.

Day off Monday

Fuck! How hot is is? Day off work, nice. Always nice.

But, of course, I went for my gastroscopy. Can't have a day off just because. Oh no, that would never do.

I walked to the clinic. I left early, so I stopped in the Fitzroy Gardens just to enjoy the morning. There were lots of people around, doing much more worth while things than the 9 to 5 gig. Drinking coffee and having breakfast. Reading under the shade of the trees. Running their dogs, riding their bikes. Just walking and enjoying the sun.

The clinic has terrible signage and, of course, I didn't take any paperwork with me. Well, it was Jolimont Road, which is about as long as a tidily weenie. Where the fuck was it? Tick, tick, tick, to my appointment, as I walked up and down. I couldn't find it. After sitting so luxuriously in the Fitzroy Gardens and all, de-stressing, I started to stress. Finally, I saw what looked like a career secretary, out having a fag, who whirled me around and pointed me in the right direction pronto, with a, "Yeah luv, right over there." Long fake fingernailed fingers indicating across the road.

The staff were all so nice. I felt nothing, as the actress said to the bishop. The last thing I remember was, "You'll just feel an overwhelming sense of relaxation."

"My friends say I'm overwhelmingly relaxed now."

"Well, you shouldn't be needing this procedure then..."

I was completely out to it. Felt nothing, knew less.

Then is was, "Christian, Christian, are you okay to get to your feet?"

They gave me a cup of tea and a biscuit, like the blood bank and made me wait for a while, propped up in a Jason Recliner, with a rug. I wanted to tell them I'd driven more out of it after dance parties, but they made me wait for my ride, before I could leave the building.

"Every things okay," said the Doc. "No ulcer." But they did take biopsies. I wondered why, but I was a bit too scattered to question him.

Apparently, I have oesophagitis, reading the paperwork they gave me, when I got home. Whatever that is?

Path to Enlightenment

We all spend our lives trying to make ourselves bigger on the earth, master it, become powerful over it, when true enlightenment comes from making ourselves smaller, a part of the earth, just one part of something bigger, living within.

Passed our Prime

It's kind of sad that the pinnacle of human endeavour happened something like fifty years ago. Sure, we have better gadgets now a days - things we don't need, for the most part, things with tremendous land fill potential. But nothing really new.

In the area of medicine, I have to agree there have been huge advances, but in nearly every other aspect of life there has been a falling away.

We've passed our Golden Age, probably in the mid Twentieth Century.

We can get around the planet quicker, to see the devastation first hand - poisoned skies, poisoned seas, endangered species, starving people.

If you are really lucky, you may get to see a loony religious halfwit blow themselves and others up.

But generally, nothing has really changed in fifty years - mum, dad, two kids, a house in the suburbs, two cars, parents go to work, children go to school. They go to the beach at Xmas, after presents, dinner and a sleep.

Kids grow up, get married and put their parents in a home.

Repeat.

Peanuts

A tour bus driver is driving with a bus load of seniors down a highway when he is tapped on his shoulder by a little old lady. She offers him a handful of peanuts, which he gratefully accepts, as he is a little peckish.

After about fifteen minutes, she taps him on his shoulder and she hands him another handful of peanuts.

The seniors are having a lovely time, chatting and laughing, as they head out into the country.

Eventually, when she is about to hand him another batch, he asks the little old lady, 'Why don't you eat the peanuts yourself?'

'We can't chew them because we have no teeth', she replies.

The puzzled driver asks, 'Why do you buy them, then?'

The old lady replies, 'We just love the chocolate around them.'

My Valentine

Shane asked if it was wrong to give your boyfriend head to see if he develops symptoms of gonorrhoea to see if that clag in your throat is an STD? Shane cleared his throat. That I probably, um, he cleared his throat again, picked up down the beat while jogging.

He smiled.

I laughed.

Sure, why not, I said? That’s what boyfriends are for, surely.

Absolutely, said Shane.

Matt would be a good sport about it.

Well, it’s cheaper, quicker and more time efficient, said Shane, than going to the doctor, myself.

Besides, I said, Matt would make a great crash test dummy.

He’s my very own crash test dummy, said Shane, and I'd love him for it.

And you could get him to get you a script when he goes to the doctor with his very own drippy cock…

You catch on quick, said Shane smiling. But I always knew that about you.

We both laughed. If Tom had still been around, he would have said the evil cackle of life long friends.

 

The Way it Makes Me Feel

I love the wind. Always have. I like it blowing strongly, the stronger the better. It makes me feel powerful. Alive. A living being. In the moment. In the universe. Of this world.

I love it when it is so powerful that, when I'm leaning into it, it is holding me up. Arms out stretched. Let go. Balancing from the waist down.

I love the cool. I love the crisp.

I never understand people who say they don't like it. Ginger horses and all that. You know, there are so many people who talk about it like they have an aversion to it. Giddy like a drunk. Why? Because it messes up their hair, may be? Blows a little dust and we all know how we all hate messed hair and a little dust, now a days. Perception is more important than feeling.

I like the cool. I like the freshness. I like the cleanliness, of it. I like how it feels on my skin. I like the way it makes me feel all over. Tactile, rather than presentation.

Touch my skin. Feel.

Switch off.

I like my sheets to be cold and crisp when I get into my bed. The cool wind of the night. I like the cotton to be cool as it touches me. Bracing, cold, alive, invigorating. Wrap myself up crisp, for a night of rest, a cool slide into the dark, for a fresh tilt at snooze.

It makes me feel alive. I like the fact that is stops me from thinking and allows me to feel. Almost, a little meditation. Lay very still and feel the nerve ends tingle. Clear your mind.

Change for the Better?

All of my friends are telling me to resign. Get out of the salt mines and do something worth while with my life. David read me my astrological moon reading, or something and it was frighteningly, word for word, as if it had been written about me.

Have faith, just resign, be more creative, believe.

Rachel says she needs someone to do her books. (Gads, do some one's book work, it's been a while) I could also work in the restaurant, if I wanted, part time. Like old times, she says. When we were uni students and we did the poor waiter thing, together. But I haven't been a broke uni student for a long time. I'm not that person any more. Although, it would be easy, except for the lack of money, natch. Relaxed. No responsibility. No high-flying corporate world back-stabbing bullshit.

Retire from the rat race, leave all the pointy-faced rodents, that make up the corporate maze, behind. The lying, the cheating, the point scoring, the scheming. Did I say lying? Awful people, who'd sell you down the river, as quick as look at you, to come out on top, to end up looking good, in the end.

We have an executive director of HR and Marketing who will tell whatever lie it takes, burn whoever, to make herself look good. She doesn't even hide her contempt for her lesser worker. Do as I say. Make me look good. Take the blame for me, unashamedly, as she connives her stay at the top. And anyone who dares to disagree, leave the fold, she completely ignores them. Go over her head and you are asking to die, professionally. We call her the golly, as she has lots of curly black hair and a rat face. She's truly awful. How do these people get salaries of five hundred grand when everything they do is based on untruths, spin and lies? She's a blood sucker, to be sure.

I counter her with the C.E.O. if ever I want to go over her head. It's risky, but effective. The C.E.O. loves me, as I do her.

Sell the house, have a life changing moment, be brave, says Rachel. Follow your dreams. Get away from the awful people. Do something that is real. Write.

I knew I was going to have a stack of emails waiting for me Monday, regarding a problem we were having, the Brisbane office was having, from Friday.

Oh, I was dreading the stupidity that would be waiting for me. As I headed into the office this morning, I said to my favourite mate @ work, Stacey,

"Someone needs to go berserk in the Brisbane office with a gun," I said. "That would fix it."

"You’re terrible," she said. Muriel, I thought. She laughed. "You shouldn't say things like that." Even if I was kidding.

"Not as terrible as them," I said. "Clueless, unashamed, bitches."

We both laughed and I wondered if I should rethink the whole work thing, if that is how I am feeling Monday morning.

And right on queue, the Brisbane office bought up every example of their incompetence and blamed it on me. Just like that. Without a care for logic, in their usual, clueless way. It's breath taking that they just don't get it. Even more breath taking that they don't get that they don't get it.

Attack is the best form of defence, I guess.

The National HR director said she would have weekly meetings with me, when I threatened to resign. "No Christian, don't do that," she said. "I'll sort them out for you, personally."

I worked late.

Sexy Steve was working late, too. He had those black pants on that cup him so well at the front and which slide down over him beautifully at the back. Sexy? Yes, I'd say he is sexy. He came in and chatted to me for a while. He's pretty to look at.

Buttons & Beads & Dreams

shiny pins and assorted buttons,

a cupboard full of balloons,

a pocket full of stars;

silver, rainbows upon rainbows,

silver as far as you can see.

An infinity of sparkles,

laid across soft rich black velvet.

aloha, come run across moon beams.

fiddles and cows.

Everyone jump.

Lay Back and Enjoy the Day

What a beautiful day. I left the girls from work, at Bolago, sitting in the sun, chatting, relaxing, in Mark & Luke's hands and drove back down to the city around midday.

I've been stressing so much lately about stuff - it would be no surprise that I have an ulcer - well, not so much stressing as just over processing every thing. Just thinking non-stop about every little fucking thing. It's been doing my head in. I've just been worrying about every little detail of everything so badly. So, I needed a thought stopper. I needed something to stop my brain acting like a machine gun of what if's and what could be's.

The sun was dappled in my back yard, the tree ferns so green, the gum tree's smooth skin silver in the sun light. I got a blanket and a couple of large pillows and the novel my ex sent me down from Sydney. I got green tea and a bowl of grapes and a gentle breeze blew. I read for a few hours, slept for a few hours and then read again. I just tuned out for the afternoon. It was the best de-stresser.

It was glorious.

The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox - Maggie O'Farrell.

I like her. She writes like me. Plenty of dialogue. It's just the way I write. It's good to see somebody else write in a similar way.

Better Safe Than Sorry

I'm having a gastroscopy Monday week. Yeah. Everybody tells me I'll like the drugs.

Good drugs, they say.

This is a medical procedure, I say.

That's when you get the best drugs, they say.

I can't help but think of Heath Ledger.

Secretly, I think they are right.

While my stomach is much, much better than it was and I couldn't say I was in any pain any longer, it still doesn't feel completely normal. It just feels weird and, not to put too finer point on it, I'm having, what I could only describe as, fishy gastric reflux. Mmmm. (Come here lover, smell my breath) Better safe than sorry, huh?

Apparently, there is a screen. Don't look at the screen, they say.

I can watch the thing go all the way down my throat to my stomach, up on a big screen.

I'll need drugs just for that, let me tell you.

It's been getting me down a bit, I have to say.

Charlie, at work, asked me if I'd ever had anything shoved down my throat, when talking about the forthcoming gastroscopy. Do you think he is flirting with me?

 

End of the Week

I think I am suffering a little depression, as I've never felt this way before. The doctor said it was quite common for people who have given up long term dope habits to feel depressed. He said I could go on anti-depressant medication for a short time. I said that the point of giving up smoking pot and cigarettes was to stop putting chemicals in my body, although I did get his point. He said it should lift shortly, the fog should go and the malady should stop.

I just don't feel like doing anything. I feel like I'm dragging my sorry arse through life, at the moment. I have no enthusiasm for anything, nothing seems appealing. It is all I can do not to crawl into bed at the slightest opportunity.

I haven't much felt like writing.

Exercise helps. Riding my bike has helped a lot.

The girls from work are going up to Bolago for the weekend, which should be interesting with my current state of mind. They are all my favourite people, Beck and the other girls, so it should be a joy, but it just seems like an effort. They've gone up tonight, I've delayed my arrival until tomorrow.

I'm off out now to have dinner with my ex-boyfriend. He's over from NZ. See, ex-boyfriends are good for something.

Back on the Yarra Track

Some of the genetically gifted boys on the jogging track have to be seen. Thick thighs, solid arses, hairy legs, oh those hairy legs. I think I'm a bit of a legs man - all the way up, thanks. One two, one two. Straight boys bulges, some flop around. The sweat on their singlets, down their chests, the serious looks on their faces. The sheer beauty in their determination, as the sweat drips on their skin.

Tall, lean blond boys. Thick, hairy dark boys.

Yes, I'm taking myself in hand (no, not like that. Well, certainly not on the jogging track, although some of the boys I see might make me want to) and I'm back to riding every second day. I can't be this chubby person any longer. Always happens when I give up smoking, the tummy expands. Good thing it goes just as quick, if I exercise it properly.

Anyway, there are two places I stop at drinking taps to, um, er, drink - under the Punt Road Bridge and up Studley Park Drive. So, I'd just stopped up Studley Park, getting my breath before I had a drink, when this guy in lycra bike pants comes jogging down the hill towards me. Now, I thought boy's dicks shrank when they jogged and I don't know what he was thinking as he jogged down towards me, but I tell you... kind of bent to the right, like an inverted banana. Thick. Bouncing. He leant down for a drink in front of me, as I continued to pant, good legs, I thought, hot arse, before he jogged off, grunting as he went.

Nice, I thought.

I like guys to jog in black, the best, especially in summer, sets off their suntan and muscles. Thick legs, muscled arms. Singlet. Shorts. Sweat. Yum.

Out and About

Saturday night I went to one of my old mate's fortieth birthday party. We used to party together, Mardi Gras, Red Raw all of the gay parties. More recently, she's got married to a very handsome Italian, she's Italian herself and she's had two, well, Italian kids. A boy and a girl, lovely. She always wanted to be a mother and have kids, but she never really found that the experience lived up to the dream. She found it hard work, almost too much. But I think she is used to it now.

I went with Mark and my step daughter Jane. We walked to the Provincial. All the old gang were there. All the old party crowd, up one end of the table. None of us go out much now, out out, I mean, clubbing out, off our faces out, I guess we've moved on. Kids, houses, businesses, responsible things. It's awful how it gets you, hey? The money thing: set yourself up, work hard, amass wealth, get a head. Buy more things. Money, money, money. I guess we've all done reasonably well.

Some Flowers From Bolago for a Sunday Afternoon

Angels are Listening

Loquacious sat in front of Epiphany, her head tilted slightly backwards. Epiphany brushed her long hair with languid strokes. The warm spring water lapped at her feet, gently washing her porcelain toes clean.

Loquacious gently rubbed her fingers through the sand in slow ‘s’ patterns.

“I don’t know,” said Loquacious. “All this sitting around, sure it’s relaxing. Sure it’s nice not to be hurried, or over-taxed, for that matter, but really, shouldn’t we be doing more?”

“I’m sure it will come,” said Epiphany. “He has good people around him, after all. Good people who will point him in the right direction. Set him on the right path, so to speak.

Epiphany raised her eyebrows. Loquacious opened her mouth to speak, but shrugged and smiled, instead.

Above them was sapphire above milky white clouds, floating passed, Loquacious looked up at them longingly. Flying above the clouds bought back treasured memories.

“It’s not even for myself that I am concerned, or you, as I am for those naughty boys,” sighed Loquacious. “Where are they now, do you think?”

“Oh, Aloysius went down to the Valley of Sons to speak to Antonio,” said Epiphany. “I suggested to Ignatius that he went along too, you know, just to keep an eye on things.”

“But that was days ago.”

“Yes,” said Epiphany. She ran the brush right to the tips of Loquacious’ hair. It sparkled in the sun light, golden. “Yes, it was. Those two have no concept of time, you know that.”

Epiphany stroked down with the brush, rhythmically. They were both still, otherwise, caught in the moment. Their faces were reflective, serene and still. The stillness that comes with deep understanding and deep love.

“They could have got up to any kind of mischief by now,” said Loquacious. “I don’t know, maybe it’s me, but I worry about those two with so much time on their hands and so few demands upon it. Always up to something. Always looking for something to do. All that restless energy.”

“You only need to trust... them too.”

Loquacious shook her hair freely, shiny and glistening and laid her head back into Epiphany’s lap.

The sun was a golden orb against the sapphire blue. Time slowed.

“Wait, wait,” said Epiphany. “What was that?” Loquacious looked up at her. She looked away and squinted her eyes, as though she was listening to something far away. “I think he’s talking about us. Acknowledging us. Yes. Yes, I’m sure.”

Loquacious sat up, she turned to look at Epiphany, her eyes were wide with surprise. “What? About us?” She raised her hand to her slender neck and smiled broadly. “Finally? Really? Oh my, how amazing. Do you think he gets it? Realises.”

“He is. Yes, he is,” said Epiphany. “He truly is.”

“Oh my,” said Loquacious. “Goodness. Finally.” She smiled. “Oh my, my, my, after all these years, to be acknowledged. To be spoken of. To be known, do I dare? Who told him, do you think?”

“I think you know who told him.”

“Yes, yes,” said Loquacious. “Precisely.” She rubbed her hand across Epiphany’s beautiful face. “You always knew.” She leant forward gently and kissed Epiphany on the lips. “You smell sweet.” She raised her shoulders and swept her open hands through the air. “I’m so excited.”

“So do you,” said Epiphany. “Smell sweet.” She kissed Loquacious on the forehead, the bridge of the nose and on the lips, with slow tender kisses.

“Butterflies,” said Loquacious.

“Faeries,” said Epiphany.

Then the wind whistled, blowing down over them, stronger and then stronger again. A steady gust, singing like chimes, smelling like lavender, cool on their skin, imbued with glitter. Aloysius came flying through the sapphire, with Ignatius, holding his hand, as they always did when they flew. Aloysius leading, his dark hair parted across his forehead, Ignatius’ blonde hair rustling on the breeze, catching the sun.

The two boys landed gently, with no sound and with no pressure from their ballet slippers on the emerald ground.

“Look lively,” said Aloysius. “He’s talking to us, putting in a request for us to deliver on a desire.” He smiled. “Finally. Who’d have thought.”

“Positive affirmations, at last,” said Ignatius. “Do you believe it? Can you believe it?” He danced a waltz on the spot.

Ignatius smiled at Loquacious and Epiphany, as he hugged Aloysius from behind. Aloysius smiled at the girls also, strong and proud.

“We have a mission,” said Aloysius excitedly, his green eyes sparkling. Ignatius hugged him tenderly, rubbing his face into the small of Aloysius’ shoulder, as he stretched his arms across Aloysius’ chest.

“How long have we been waiting for this day?” said Aloysius.

“He has asked, finally,” said Loquacious.

“We must go,” said Epiphany.

The two boys smiled in front of them, standing up straight. “Yes, we must go,” the two said in unison.

At that very moment the Wind Faery appeared in front of them. Her Mother of Pearl wings beating behind her, as she flew backwards up into the sapphire yonder. She moved her hands to her lips and blew through her fingers back at the angels and then she was gone, as quickly as she appeared. The wind blew gently around each angel’s ears.

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

All four smiled, as they knew who it was from.

Simon'esque

Saturday Morning with Simon

I saw Simon at the newsagent, this morning, when I was between buying a USB memory stick and coffee beans & a cherry muffin. My local coffee shop makes the best organic cherry muffins. I was buying the newspapers. He was buying tattslotto.

I didn’t speak to him. I didn’t acknowledge him. I ignored him, as I always have. We have sex together @ sex on premises venues, perform the most intimate acts on each other, but we don’t talk outside in the real world. We don’t acknowledge each other as people, being people. It's as though he belongs in a certain place in my life and it is only there that I'm going to know him.

He's nice, too. Quite presentable. Witty. Cute.

Funny really. The things we do.

It’s me, I can't blame Simon, although he doesn't say hello either. I just don’t think. It’s habit, a bad habit. As I was getting into my car, I thought, Why did you do that? As I turned the key in the ignition, I thought, You should go back in and say hello. As I drove away, I thought, Next time I will. It’s just ridiculous!

 

21st Century Public Transport

Making people move, staking your spot, gaining some space on a crowed tram is difficult in the mornings. People won’t move, they are just like that now a days. I suspect it is selfishness, I'm pretty certain it is stupidity, myopia, maybe. They'll just stand there and look at you and still they won't move. Even when you say "excuse me" or "may I get through," they'll only move enough to turn around and look at you dumbly. They may wriggle a bit, lean slightly, usually enough to move them a couple of centimetres, but certainly no discernible distance for anyone to get passed. They may even move into your path, as is often the case, making it more difficult.

So, you have to demand your space. Pushing through is a good tactic, often the only tactic, if you can stand the filthy looks from those who thought nothing of giving you no space at all. Push through, don't look back. Lead with the shoulder. Take no prisoners.

I love the people who stand in front of the ticket machine who, when you say you need to buy a ticket, think that after they have looked sideways at you that is all they need to do. The woman who look at you, as if to say, I'm hanging on here, you'll just have to find another ticket machine, are my favourite. I just push them sideways, usually. Hope they'll crash to the floor. One did once, I loved it.

However, I have found that more subtle tactics are usually best. I've found that a brief case up the arse for boys makes them move smartly. Just slide it into their crack and if they don't get it immediately, you know things happen on crowded trams that you have to ignore sometimes, keep gently pushing it in further. Maybe rub it up and down a touch. And for woman, generally grazing their tits with your hand, if you can, or an arm is just as good, makes them move quicker than anything. Slide your hand through the bodies, as if you are coming through and after they have looked at you dumbly, give their tit a squeeze, they'll move.