This guy dozed off on the tram with his phone in his hand so, naturally, I took a photo of him. You know, as you do.

I think they look kind of cute when they are asleep, cherubic, defences.

Of course, I am not going to say anything about those people who take it as a metaphor for him sitting there with his dick in his hand, no, I'm not going to mention those types.

He Pretty’s Up the Office

On my way around to get my first coffee, Nicholas Wray, one of the IT guys, was reclining back on his chair and the crotch of his tight blue pants resembled the Olga’s. I couldn’t help but notice. Woof! 

Monday morning! I thought.

Mid morning, I went to get another coffee, and Nicholas was in an office on the phone, standing in profile against the floor length windows, and the bulge on him was just as impressive. Standing up, I could also see his arse was like two cushions you just want to, I just wanted to, stick your, my face between.

I think he is my favourite work boy thus far.

I found out later he is 35 and unmarried. Er, shrug, whatever, I only want to look. He pretty’s up the office.

Let's Deport the Racists

There was a helicopter hovering overhead, annoyingly. Previously, it has been the traffic helicopter which is beyond annoying. But, being Sunday, I couldn’t see anyone checking the traffic.

We walked into town. There were police everywhere. There seemed to be some sort of protest going on. We found out later it was right wing racists marching through the streets.

It is really sad to see that racists feel emboldened to walk the streets of Melbourne in broad daylight today. The True Blue bunch of cunts, or whatever these sad, hateful twats call themselves. Once, not so long ago, there would be shame involved in admitting your hateful beliefs in public. Let’s send the racists back to whatever country their grandparents/great grandparents/however far back you have to go, came from. We don’t need them here. Australia would be a better place without them.

We could take in equal numbers of refugees to replace them, you know, people who would appreciate living in this country without spreading hate.

Gone Swimming

We went swimming at midday, our new exercise routine, now that Sam has learned to swim. Yay for Sam. We drove to the Leisure Centre. We haven’t managed to walk there yet, as we thought we might. Or ride our bikes, for that matter. We used 2 more of our discounted swim vouchers. Those discount vouchers disappearing off what we have left is encouragement to keep going. If that makes sense.

There was nobody worth looking at in the change room, very disappointing that. There never is, not that I go there for that. I only mention it because the men in the change room are so not worth looking at. I’d pay money not to see them naked.

The staff, on the other hand, are another matter, like that would come as a surprise to anyone. The lifeguard who looks like he has a permanent hardon comes to mind. And the swim instructor, almost makes me want to take up swim lessons again.

We swam laps. 25 metre is doable. I can do two laps without stopping now. Pretty good, huh? Oh, come on, not bad.

I went to the toilet about halfway through. I accidentally walked into the girl’s change rooms, again. Oh, I had on my goggles obscuring my sigt. Luckily for me, the entrance to the change rooms heads off to the left, and not to the right as in the men’s change rooms, so I do pick it up very quickly and haven’t actually gone in. Lucky for me. But it is the second time I have done it. If there were cameras, I might get put on the Leisure centre’s Sex Offenders Register. Ha ha.

The Future Looks Bright

We ate Sloppy Joes for lunch. We sat looking out the window and ate. Two strapping young men walked up in hiviz, they looked like they might be in construction. Shorts. Thighs like tree-trunks. Arses on them off which you could bounce tennis balls. 

Something caught their eye and they decided to eat at Sloppy Joes, too. They sat outside on the tables on the footpath.

The thing about the two of them was that one was a blond Caucasian, and one was brown, and they looked so cute together, such a contrast. They were both straight, I assume. (I, of course, instantly thought of them as boyfriends, but that is just me.) They looked very straight. Work buddies looking for lunch. Lots of new black Australians, changing society, and soon we’ll all be friends, just like that. (That is kind of a naff thing to say, I guess, but it is what I thought) That is the future, I thought. Thank the universe for the future.

Ivan Ivan Ivan

Years ago, I had a “thing” with Ivan Gapp, a nice boy with a nice sausage on him, who liked it up the patooti, more than he liked anything else. Good strong legs, a handsome face, but essentially a bogun from the hills of Melbourne out east who pushed back better than most boys I’d met up until that stage. (I think it was the football playing thighs)

We were young, he was a bit younger than me. 26 and 18. He’d just had his 18th birthday, he and his mates wrecked the house in which the party was held, if I remember rightly.

I came from a stable home life, middle class eastern suburbs, he was from bogun stock. (I think his father made moonshine on the side) I thought he was a nice guy, a bit rough around the edges perhaps. I think that is what I thought of him, he was nice and I liked doing it with him. To him. He liked having it done to him.

He was a change of life baby, (hand to face) clearly a mistake, as he had much older siblings, all of who were in the services, police, army, firemen,  suppositories for the less endowed with life’s opportunities, you get the type. I’m sure they all voted with the National Party.

He got thrown out of home by his deeply homophobic parents and disowned not long after we stopped seeing each other, when, in an unguarded moment he told his bible thumping ma and pa that he was gay. Out on his ear, no money and homeless, which resulted in a pretty disturbed Ivan, although that really came after he and I were done. I didn’t find out about this until sometime later.

I used to go and fuck his blokey arse on his bed at his place. Quite a number of times during the day when his parents were at work. I can’t imagine what would have happened if we’d been caught. It would have been a fucking nightmare.

He and I were very different, but we reconnected and kept up a kind of intermittent contact through our gay years on the gay scene over the years.

I had nice boyfriends. He became HIV positive, became an activist, then a drug addict, and then he spent some time in jail for bad things he did to people while he was under the influence of drugs. Hold ups with syringes of HIV tainted blood, that kind of thing.

His life got really fucked up, mine went from strength to strength.

Then we lost contact for some time, but recently we became acquainted again through a mutual friend.

He befriended on Facebook. He propositioned me and I turned him down. “I have a lovely boyfriend I don’t cheat on. Sorry.” The Paul Newman quote came to mind as I turned him down. Why would I go out for hamburger, when I have steak at home?

Ivan was impressed. That is his modus operandi, I would find out later. He’d proposition guys and then when they took him up on the offer, he’d call them dirty, cheating dogs and abuse them. I think he has separation issues.

I got to witness the true psychosis of his mental state through his ridiculous number of posts on Facebook every day. Too many. It did my head in.

He loved to tell people what the hell was wrong with them, but couldn’t handle any criticism, coming back at him. If that happened, he would rage against whoever the poor sap was who dared to question him.

Eventually, we had a disagreement about gay marriage and he blocked me, essentially, because I dared to disagree with him.



And that was that. It was a relief for me. Phew! Thank the universe that is over, is all I could think.



More recently, Aggro Ivan Gapp, or one of his many insane profiles, kept coming up on my Facebook feed because we are both connected to the same [name of page] group. So, of course, I had a look at what his current rave was all about. Same old stuff, look at me, look at me, look at me. Yap, yap, yap, yap, yap. Angry, angry, angry. Rage, rage, rage! He is always the victim of some perceived hurt.

He is smart, I will give him that. And he became an IT expert while he was in the slammer. In fact, he spent his entire time while locked up studying several degrees. Yay. Good for him.

Well anyway, he must have some app, or something, which has picked up that I have been looking at his never ending diatribe against the world. I didn’t think that was possible, but apparently it must be. And he has sent me a message, which I haven’t opened, but I can read the beginning of it. “Blah, blah, blah,” making demands of me. I can just imagine what the rest of the rave will be. So, the current mission, which I have accepted, is to exit stage left – he having multiple profiles withstanding – and to delete the message he has sent me without reading it.

I now invoke the Windsor rule with IG, and that is silence. I'm not going to respond, I am never going to respond to him, he comes with too much anger for me. He has proved to me that it is not worth my time to respond, it only makes him irrational if you don’t agree with him.

I don't believe he is rational, because he’s not. It would only lead to some sort of ranting circle of death, (figuratively speaking), where nobody gets out alive and everybody suffers. Life is simply too short to waste my time with this guy. Get therapy, is what I would say to him (such words would send him off in something that resembles a homicidal rave) … that is, if I even gave enough of a shit to say it.

He has many profiles and if necessary I will block every one of them, one by one.

His posts are mind numbingly boring and when he blocked me, however long ago it was, it was nothing but a great relief. I'm not heading back down that path of insanity with him.

Poor Ivan, I feel sorry for you, you are one fucked up unit, but I don't even have a second of my time to waste with you. Sorry. Bye luv. Felicia, ta ta, as they say.

Let's hope he doesn't obsess over me. Let's hope that is the last message I get from him. I'll float away into the distance, and once I am unattached to the [name of page] page, I will (mercifully) never hear from him again.

He is the first person I have deleted Facebook.



And then, out of the blue I get a friend request that says, “Ivan has accepted your friend request.” I never sent him a friend request.

First of all, I unfollowed him and put him on a restricted list, quick as a flash, thinking that would cover it, but 5 minutes later I unfriended him. I don’t want to be his friend, I don’t want to be subjected to the hate he spews over people, and I don’t want to receive his bordering on psychotic number of posts per day.

But, I didn’t send him a friend request? How did he do that?

Running for the Tram

Don’t you hate it when people who are walking behind you in the morning are talking loudly on their phones, as some twat was doing as I walked passed St Pats this morning. It is one of the things I like about walking to work in the morning, the quease and piet. It is almost therapeutic, one foot in front of the other, steady rhythm, the cool breeze whipping around one’s ears.

The constant yap kept up behind me, the idiot on the phone didn’t turn off at any of the plethora of alternate streets they could have taken.

Grrr!

So, then there was a tram coming and at the last moment I decided to catch it. To get away from Mr Yappy, as much as anything else.

So, I ran to catch a tram just before Spring Street, but missed it. I find the new trams, as nice as they are, never wait to pick you up, like the old one always seemed to. I don’t know if the doors are computer controlled rather than manually operated, or what have you, but they never wait, unless you are standing right there to get on. (Actually, this was one of the old single car trams, and I missed it by a mile, but who lets the truth get in the way of telling a story, I ask you?)

So, fuck it, I ran to Collins Street and caught it there. I love the new low rider trams (which, I guess, won’t be new when you are reading this. They are hardly new now, just new compared to these old dinosaurs) I flung myself into a seat and heaved and gasped. (What is it they say, short bursts of intense exercise are better for you than practically anything else)

“That was a good run,” said the lady sitting opposite me.

“Oh, I guess,” I gasped.

“I watched you run down the street.” She was gorgeous, dressed all in black, of course. Collins Street Melbourne, a Melbournian’s spiritual home.

“Well done,” she said.

I was panting. “It must be good for me, I think.”

“I’m impressed that you made it.”

“Get the blood flowing.”

“That is quite a run.”

“Oh, a bit of exercise in the morning.”

We both smiled. She was lovely.

It was a cold morning, we were all rugged up.

“Oh, but I am hot now,” I gasped. I took off my double-breasted woollen coat. I had on a short-sleeved short underneath. I find our office, like most other offices, is over-heated in winter. I wear short-sleeved shirts almost year round, just in winter I cover myself with a coat to and from work.

She shivered at my action. “I don’t feel the cold,” I said.

“Oh, I do,” she said. She flexed her fingers, wrapped in black leather gloves. And she smiled.

I love those moments on trams, the friendly chat. They don’t happen so much on trains. I think it is because the tram is connected to the street in a way that a train is not. Small moments of connection and joy, it is what life is all about, after all.

Sexual Harassment Training

I’d just got to work, and I was just finishing writing my journal on my phone that I’d been writing on the tram, when Declan arrived. I’d switched on my computer and I was still standing, as I was about to go and get coffee. He started taking off his motorbike gear, which he does every morning. I switched my phone over to camera, it was already on mute. I was still standing up, so I got the framing easily. It just looked like I was checking messages, or something. He pulled up his top and his t-shirt underneath rode up. I pushed the button on my camera and got good shots of his taught bare torso. The timing was good, more luck than anything else. Bad me? I know.

Cute Declan. He looks half Italian and half Vietnamese and he’s as cute as anything. He’s little and he’s handsome and he has a hot arse and you could just bend him over and fuck him so easily. He might squirm, but that would just add to the thrill, of it.

I had induction, starting at 9am. It came up on my calendar, I didn’t know until that moment. Really, I thought? Again. I know it has to do with their legal liability, but really, do we have to do it over and over again. There were four of us, all new. We had to do sexual harassment training. Companies are frightened of being sued, more than they care for any of their staff. Funny, I thought of the near naked shots I took of Declan barely an hour before.

Nearly An Oops Moment

I ate muesli and drank coffee and I was ready to leave for work at 7.45am. I like to get to work early, so I can leave early in the afternoon. It is nice to clear out of the CBD before every moron and his dog sets off for home.

Too much contact with the GP just makes me hate them more. Ha ha.

I thought at the last minute that I’d send my poems for the last 2 years to my work email address so I could print them on the work printer, they are always nice to read on the printed page. So, I decided to return send the email on which I sent my contract home, as I couldn’t remember my work email, it was just easier that way. So, I was rushing, as I wanted to get out the door and get going. I was pushing down on my mouse button, when I noticed I was cc’ing in the HR manager who sent me my contract in the very beginning. 😬 

I threw my mouse across the coffee table in an effort to stop the email from sending. How it didn’t send, I don’t know, as I had pushed send. There must have been a millisecond in it.

Oh, could you imagine?

I may have been able to talk my way out of it. “I had my night class and my printer at home was broken.” Except, I’m new and the file was 75 pages.

I could have said that I wanted to read them on the screen at lunch time. Like you do with 75 pages.

Oh, it wouldn’t have really mattered, not really, but it was better that it didn’t happen.

At The Pool

We head into the change room to change before our swim. The change room is busy, guys everywhere.

To get a locker, you are given a barcode on a piece of paper, at the front desk, which you take into the change room and you scan on a barcode reader on a screen attached to the lockers, which allows you to choose one of the lockers for which you set a temporary pin number for the time you are using it.

The wiry lifeguard with the ponytail was in the change rooms helping a rather nice looking boy with a hairy chest who had forgotten the password he set for his locker. The life guard fixes his locker and then turns to another guy who had also forgotten his password, (I’m guessing this is a common occurrence) who is standing a little way away from the lockers.

“Do you remember the number of your locker?” the wiry life guard asks the guy standing over by the basins.

“No, I can’t remember?”

“So which locker did you have?” asks the lifeguard.

“No, I don’t remember.”

“Oh, okay. What time did you get here,” asks the life guard? “I’ll look and see what lockers were taken up at that time.”

“I couldn't tell you," says the guy.

Oh, I was loving this. Mr Stupid cleared had the memory of a gold fish. He’d probably head out of the change room later and say pool, in a surprised voice, not remembering where he was.

I look at Sam. He whispers to me, “It is no concern of yours.”

“Okay,” says the life guard. “Was your locker on the top or the bottom?”

The genius shrugs.

“Okay,” says the life guard. “I’ll open a few lockers and we can look in them.”

The lifeguard opens the first locker inside which is a black backpack with red trim. The life guard says to the guy, “Is this your stuff?”

“I can’t see from over here,” says the guy.

I wanted to say, hang on just a moment, I’ll draw you a picture of the contents of the locker to see if you recognise it, or better still wait until I get my phone and I’ll take you a photo, but I don’t.

“Would you like to come over here and have a look,” says the life guard. The first moment that I hear his tone come off the cheery tone he has been using up until this point.

I’m grinning like a Cheshire Cat at Sam, by this stage. Sam gives me a nudge and gestures for us to leave the change room. I want to stay and see it out to the end, but Sam gives me his cross eyes. We proceed to leave the change room.

Einstein is gazing into the locker with an open mouth. “Um, er, I don’t think my back pack has any red on it.”

How many lockers to go, I think?

I give Sam big eyes and raise my hands in the air as if to say, Can you believe this guy? Sam pushes me, and we leave the change room.

The Returns Queue At Bunnings

I took Buddy to Bunnings to take back a pot that I had bought. We stepped up to the queue for returns. There was a (small rat-faced) guy there with all sorts of things on the counter. He was one of those people who was being very busy in one spot. Then there was me and another guy, we both got to the counter at exactly the same time, and we were each telling the other one that they could go first. As I was momentarily distracted by the 3rdguy, Buddy walked to the counter, as dogs do, and he sat down, (unfortunately) leaning against the first guy’s leg.

“Ah!” said the guy. He shook his leg as if to shake Buddy off. He turned to look at me. If looks could kill, I’d be dead.

“Sorry,” I said. Okay, so that was, some may say, less than idea. I’d hate to see his reaction if something really went wrong, I thought, but whatever.

So, I stepped behind him. Then he wanted to manoeuvre a large box on the counter, but he had to step backwards to move the box and, again, Buddy and I were in the way.

“Ah! Er! UM!” He waved his hands at me, in my face.

It was an L shaped counter so Buddy and I stepped away from Little Mr Busy, to the point of the counter, diagonally into the shop floor, to give the guy space. I didn’t know that the trolley around the L-shaped corner was also his.

When he had finished (I would say OCD) arranging the items on the counter in front of him, he wanted to get the rest of his stuff from his trolley, but again, we were in the way.

“AH.” Look of death. “ERRRR!” He couldn’t easily get passed. “OHHHH!” Again, he waved his hands in my direction.

So, we got to the dreaded point where I felt I had to say something. “Hey mate,” funny how I butch it up with the word ‘mate’ on such occasions. “Are you always this grumpy, or have you just saved it all up for me today?”

He kind of groaned, but essentially, he ignored me.

Then he was finally done, and he wanted to move his trolley around so he could put all his stuff back in it.

Now, let me just say, there was the entire, empty, Bunnings foyer and then there was me and him and his trolley and the other guy who was a little further away again.

He turned and looked at me. Big eyes, as if he was willing me to move… or evaporate, or explode, or something.

Nah, I wasn’t having by this stage. Essentially, Buddy and I had been standing still the whole time and he’d had a problem with us no matter what we’d done.

“You know what, you can walk around me mate, and you can take up as much of this foyer as you please to do it.” I accompanied that with a Sale of the Century hand gesture.

Which he did, tutting as he went.

I stepped up to the counter and the first thing the nice (some may say rather cute) Bunnings man said was, “I’m sorry for all of that.”

“No problem.” I smiled.

I told the 3rdguy waiting that he could go before me, just to make it look like I was really the nice one.

Some people, I thought.

A Very Melbourne Tram Stop

 

Long Weekend Gone

What did we do today? Well, Sunday is cleaning day and we missed it by going to the country, so what do you think my bossy boyfriend made us do? Sweeping, dusting, vacuuming.

No swimming today. I told Sam we should aim for every second day as we start out. He is keen to go every day. Shrug. I think we should ease into it.

Back to work tomorrow. I have to get used to the idea all over again? Suddenly, the end of a long weekend, actually, means something. I'm not sure if I like that? My favourite YouTubers have put up new content and I won't be able to recline tomorrow at, say, 9.30am with a coffee and watch them. Whose idea was this job anyway?

Beer & Cock

Off To The Country

I was up at 6.45am, as you do on Sunday mornings. (Roll of the eyes)

We headed to Rachel’s at Mount La La, her new place in the country, for the first time. We headed out through Footscray. We went through all those suburbs that we all pretend not to know the whereabouts of, Deer Park, Caroline Springs. We turned off the Western Highway at Ballan. (It sounds like an expensive sports car, or vomiting) The scenery became picturesque, as the ground began to undulate. Suddenly it was a bit hilly and the road began to wind. Mount La La was picturesque, I could see why Rachel liked it.

Everybody I know is getting a country house.

We got there at 10.30am, and there was the green house, just like the photos, except it was grey. Rachel always thought it was blue.

Son number one, Anton, was there, as were son number two, Oliver and his friend. Rachel, of course, was there. Peter was asleep because he was just recovering from a knee reconstruction. Ned, the Rottweiler, and Buddy seemed to be fine, initially, Buddy rushing about to say hello to everyone excitedly. Ned gliding about aloofly. It didn’t last, however, it descended into biting and growling and Ned was put in the car. Not long after, Oliver and his friend left. I don’t know if it had anything to do with the dogs? Maybe. I guess.

Anton left pretty quickly too, driving off in Rachel’s convertible.

Everybody cleared out. Was it something we said?

Rachel made us an egg breakfast, with toast and avocado and coffee. Peter got up on his crutches. We chatted. I told Rachel I had a new job, she rolled her eyes. Rachel is one who doesn’t think I should be working.

We walked around the yard. The sun shone. The air was cool. The air was scented with fresh country sweetness. They have lovely views out the front stretching out as far as the eye could see.

There were lots of dogs in the neighbouring houses, the dog next door barking incessantly, which wasn’t so good.

We left at 2pm. We sailed down the highway towards home. The sun shone.

We got home at 3pm.

We were at the pool by 4.30pm and we swam laps. The life guard tonight had great legs, nice and thick, baggy shorts. He had his hair in a pony tail, even if it was short. He was handsome. He walked up and down. He was a well built boy, you could just tell he’d had a beautiful cock.

I asked him if it was always quiet on Sunday afternoon. He knelt down in front of me as he told me that other than Saturday morning and Sunday morning when there were swimming lessons and Sunday afternoon when there was aqua aerobics, starting any minute, mostly the pool was pretty quiet, as the hardcore swimmers liked the 50 metre pool up the road. I felt quite pleased with that response, as I was careful not to look at his crotch which was pointing at me. Hairy, thick thighs. I knew if I looked I’d want to slide my hand up the leg of his pants. I just knew it would be a mouthful.

The men at the pool are old and out of shape, hairy and some are simply repulsive. Those there were like society beyond the walls of gym, fat and ugly in the grip of the obesity epidemic. There were a couple of emaciated hairy ones. I’m not sure which are worse? So far, there are no fit pretty ones.

We went to Woollies. The quiet of a slow period of shopping, clear isles, empty registers. You could swing a cat and not hit anyone, but of course you wouldn’t.

We ate cauliflower soup for dinner. My job was to cook the onions and the garlic and then the potatoes and the cauliflower, then Sam takes over at the chicken stock stage. I cooked six slices of thick toast, despite Sam telling me to only cook four. I didn’t listen to him. The toast is how you eat the thick creamy soup. You don’t need a spoon when you have thick toast. Blah, blah, blah, too much bread, Sam said.

We watched Grand Designs, don’t you hate New Zealand accents, Mystery Road, I’d fuck Aaron Pedersen, Whiteley, I wish I owned some of his paintings, one of his paintings.

We're drinking lots of coconut water. Let's hope it is, actually, good for us and that its health benefits are not just another great big corporate lie, in the long list of big business lies, to maximise profits.

We all know we can't believe big business any more.

Big Blue Banana

I was up at 7am. I let Bear out and I fed Milo. I lit a fire. Although it was a bit cool, I lit it as much for the ambience as for warmth. I wrapped a blanket around me and turned my computer on.


Bible reference – I’ve been stirring up some Christians on Facebook for my own amusement. You know what it is, Christians never give up, they never stop giving their god-delusion point of view. They never stop bleating their crap. So, where I might normally not really give too much of a rat's arse about what these people say, I decided to keep it up to them. You know how they always like to have the last word, well, I decided that I would have the last word.

The bible has been translated from ancient texts more than once, it has been edited to suit the religious leaders at various points in time and it has had many gospels removed, so it really is a flawed reference. The word of god, according to which edit? According to who? Who knows, really?


Sam got up somewhere around 9am. We drank coffee and ate banana cake that I made for David yesterday.

10.20am. I found the band Racing Cars debut album, Downtown Tonight, on iTunes, I was surprised. I played it for the first time in many years, fingers and toes? It was good to hear it again. You've got to love Apple Music.

The sun came out.

11.11am. We headed off to Clifton Hill to go swimming. Sam learning to swim breaststroke in his spare time when he went home to visit his family recently has given him a love of swimming, it would seem.

It is a 25 metre pool, which is good for me, I can’t swim 50 metres. We settled into the slow lane to do laps. I did freestyle, Sam did breaststroke. Sam did well, considering he couldn’t even swim before he went home.

There was a rather cute life guard there with a birthmark on the side of his handsome face in baggy blue shorts. He looked like he had a permanent erection in his pants, it really did, it was rather distracting. I had a look several times just trying to work out what was going on in his shorts, and I can’t really think that it was anything else other than what it looked like. And it was not insubstantial. Like a big, blue banana.

The water was warm, it made our skin feel good. It was buoyant, warm and embracing. Sam’s watch counted the laps. I think we did 30 laps, not bad for our first time.

We head to Victoria Street and ate Hoi An food.

Jill called, she is back from America and she was at her friend’s place. She wanted to know when she could come over and pick Bear up.

We did grocery shopping. At the butcher with all the marble. At plastic surgery grocery, (I tend to have nicknames for everyone) even if she wasn’t there. I sat outside Saigon Village on the plastic tables in the main walkway, like I normally do. Then I headed to Woollies to buy stuff. There was a looser chick who cut me off to get to the self serve checkouts before me, who then she fed small change into the machine, and I thought to myself, what a surprise.

We came home and took the dogs to the dog park. There was a mutt and the small white poodle, I think, called Ziggy. Both kept having a go at Buddy. One more snap at my boy, I remember thinking, and I am heading over there to have a word with the owners. I’ve got to stick up for Bud.

Jill arrived. She stayed for dinner.

Rachel sent me a photo of a Rottweiler visiting her and said we should head up to Mount La La to give it a pat. Get in the car and come now, she said. We agreed to go tomorrow for breakfast.

Jill came to pick up Bear and she stayed for dinner. Sam cooked candle nut noodles.

We went to bed at 10.30pm.

Banana Cake and stewed apple, two of my favourite things, although not normally together. You could, though, they would go very nicely together, it's just that I normally don't combine them. Maybe, I should?

Truthfully, I make banana cake when the bananas turn black in the fruit bowl and are no longer good for eating.

I make stewed apple to put on my muesli, or porridge, in the mornings.

Home For A Day

I was up at 6.50am. I cleaned up the kitchen from last night, which I clearly didn’t do, while the coffee brewed. What time did I fall asleep on the couch last night?

It was still dark, it rained a bit. I went and cleared the gutters, as I read somewhere that we are going to get a lot of rain. Of course, now a days, even the weather channel is going for ratings so you can't even believe them.

Sam cooked porridge, he served with my stewed apple.

8.45am. David called, he is home from Amsterdam for 24 hours (tomorrow he is heading to Bali) and is going to return his drag outfit from the Life Ball in Vienna, at midday.

So he was coming to visit.

I had rotten bananas to make a cake. So, I headed to the supermarket. I’d bagged up the 5 cent pieces I’d discovered in the box in our room the other day, and I fed $7 worth into the self service checkout machine without a care.

I made the cake listening to Boz Scaggs, A Fool To Care.

The cake was in the oven and the kitchen cleaned up by 11.11.

Sam arrived home and David turned up. We went to Smith Street to eat, well, Sam and I did. David went to the bank to try and short out why his credit card had stopped working in Europe. Clearly, he had eaten, as David never passes up food. He is only home for a day. He leaves for Bali at 7am tomorrow morning, on some new airline I’D NEVER HEARD OF. Molino, Moldano, or something. The cross between the Indonesian and Malaysian owners. Malindo Air, perhaps. 

"Do you think you are going to die?"

We ate banana cake and drank coffee.

David had fallen out with his 2IC on his retreats, I’m not really sure why, (he only thinks of himself and if the person he has helping him doesn’t share that same self-focused dream it doesn’t work. He falls out with them regularly) so he headed off to her place in St Kilda to sort that problem out.

Sam “worked from home” in the afternoon.

My Week Is Done.

That is my week done. Not so bad. What was I nervous of? Three days is, actually, quite nice. It makes Thursdays magical. (fairies and dragons and trolls, under a bridge, it has it all) What is there not to like? Everybody should work three days. Lovely. 

I'm done. My week is over. I smile to myself.

I stopped and photographed the roses on the way home, they were beautiful. White roses in the catholic garden, still claiming purity, I assume.

Back To Work

At 8.20am, I joined the misery parade walking to work. Cold and grey somehow seemed appropriate for the morning. There are lots of people walking into the city now a days. Cadavers all dressed in black on that never ending march to the centre, misery etched on all their faces, sad. Rugged up against the cold; black wool, black jackets, black suits, in Melbourne being a black city.

I walk to the free tram zone on the very edge of the CBD and then I catch a tram down Collins Street, as I don't leave early enough, to get there early enough, so I can leave early in the afternoon.

And work was okay, like an old pair of stilettos, you know they fit and you know eventually they'll hurt you. 

 

Secret of Life

"Work hard, work hard," said my friend's teenage son, Patrick, who I have always thought was gay, who naturally seems to gravitate into my orbit whenever I am around. He's doing year 12 and says all he hears is people telling him to work hard.

"Secret to life," I say.

"But nobody tells you when the pay off is for working hard?" said Patrick.

"I'll tell you, it's in thirty years time, when you will be thankful for working hard." Forty years, maybe, but I was being kind.

"Thirty years?" His voice squeaked. He looked embarrassed. I felt embarrassed for him.

"Yeah, that's the bit they don't tell you?"

"What?"

"You doing all of this so ultimately you can pay for your own nursing home costs."

"All of what?"

"Life, haven't you been listening?"

He said he wanted to kill himself. He has a touch of the dramatics about him, as I said.

"Sprog up a couple of kids, and a nice funeral, that's all that's promised," I said. "At least if you work hard, you'll be able to take your mistresses to nice hotels, you know, when your kids hate you and your wife has more interest in shopping than you."

Patrick's eyes widened. “Mum!”

I felt a hand on my shoulder. "Stop scaring him." It was Patrick's mother Jesse. "At least wait until year 12 is done."

I'm pretty sure that Patrick's eyes widened in the recognition that babies and girls weren't in his future, nothing to do with working until he was old, something I'm sure Jesse missed.

"Tell the terrible man to stop," Patrick said jokingly.

"He won't sleep now, you know that," said Jesse.

I could help him sleep, formed on my lips, but I simply smiled instead of speaking. "I'm sure he'll be okay."

I instantly pictured Patrick jerking off in his bed.

Jesse and I were in the kitchen later and the words, Do you think Patrick is gay, were materialising on my lips, but, she has never mentioned it, and I thought better of asking.

Later, Patrick offered to roll me a joint, within Jesse's earshot. I looked over at her.

She shrugged. "What can I do, he's 18."

I Like Mike Ross

I’m watching Suits. Yes, it is very topical, at the moment, I guess, me going back to work and all. Adrianna enthused about it on Sunday night. She said the main character, Harvey Specter, was hot. She did that hand shaking gesture that I have never really understood, but, I know, that people don’t do that hand gesture unless they really mean it, I have deduced. She’s hooked, she said.

Hooked. I don’t get hooked on TV shows. Ha ha. But Adrianna emphasised how good looking this guy is, so I had to have a peak. Harvey Specter is very polished and handsome, but I, actually, fancy his intern, Mike Ross much more.  He’s cute, he reminds me of my school boy boyfriend, Alex, who I have written about before. Alex made all of his money in real estate, but he could have been Mike, there is a similarity.

I watched a few episodes last night. 

And here I am watching mid day Tuesday. 

My Heals Clip Clopped on the Deserted Footpath

I hate this time of year, well, perhaps hate is too strong. It was dark already as I walked through the gardens to the Richmond train station, on my way to Lauri’s, my ex’s dinner.

It is my bit for the world environment, besides, if you go to the south side, by the time you find parking, it is just as quick to go by train, one stop, two stops from Richmond station.

I listened to Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On. The park was gorgeous, really, the muted hues of autumn, but it was essentially night time. I don’t mind the dark, really, but I prefer the sun.

Off to Clara Street, Peter (Lauri’s ex, one before me) is away. I gathered Pete was somewhere between Shanghai and Seoul, nobody was quite sure. What was he doing there? Nobody was quite sure? Someone joked he was working for the peace process. I thought he was a painter, a successful painter. (perhaps he could paint the fat orange one and the insane fat one) Lauri and Leroy are house sitting. It’s a nice house. Peter has lived there for years, well, ever since I have known him, and that is longer than I care to think about. Pete has always lived there.

I walked from South Yarra Station to Peter’s. In my mind, it was a short walk, but I wasn’t 100 per cent sure. I didn’t want to be early, I didn’t want to be late, I wanted to arrive at 6.10pm, for a 6pm dinner, it was a dinner after all, couldn’t be a fashionable half an hour, that is too cruel on the cook.

Funny thing was that Lauri kept giving me directions to Pete’s, when I have been there 100 times, always with Lauri, granted it was a few years ago, more than I care to think about.

I got there about 6.10pm. I was the first one there. We drank wine. Lauri told me about his latest treatment.

Sebastian, Adriana, Miss Chris, duly arrived by Uber. Sebastian had just moved into Miss Chris’s place, (the two people with the most challenged sense of arriving on time, are now living together) and Adriana lives near by, so, of course, they Uber’d it together. They arrived late, of course, there could be no other out come. Not Adrianna, she’s not a late one. Johnny, (I wish I fucked Johnny when he was young) arrived, by tram, on his own, and Matt arrived last. Matt and I came by train, the others by Uber, nobody drove.

So, yay for our carbon footprint. Oh? No, not really, hey, a lot of the transport was internal combustion engines. Yay for me, Matt and Johnny.

Leroy cooked. The broccolini and asparagus were over cooked, with some charred nuts of undetermined origin. There was pork that was just slightly over cooked, so close, fennel and orange cut up and thrown in a bowl, and a cake bought from a shop. (grimace) The food was ordinary. This is from a man whose main claim to financial security is from restaurants. All I could think was that I was glad, or not glad (evil grin), Sam wasn’t eating it, he would have said something afterwards. He’s not diplomatic when it comes to food, either. People all fall for Sam’s charms and think he is the sweet one. “Oh, really, Sam’s not coming?” They are a pack of bitches.

Shit food is an exception. You see, Sebastian usually cooks, but he’d spent the weekend moving.

We drank wine and smoked pot. We laughed as if twenty five years hadn’t passed at all.

We all left about 10.30pm, all except Matt. All at once. One left, we all left. Sebastian, Chris, and Adrianna got their Uber and Johnny’s Uber mixed up and there was much confusion in the street. Well, the Uber drivers weren’t stoned, they could have sorted it out, I ask you. I must admit, I stood back and rocked on my feet and enjoyed the moment. It was a bit like herding cats though, to be truthful. And then they were gone and I was left standing in the middle of Clara Street on my own. I’d worn black shoes, my heals clip clopped on the deserted footpath as I walked towards Toorak Road, echoing in the thin, cold air.

I caught a taxi in Toorak Road. A nice Shri Lankan driver was behind the wheel. I laughed to myself about the time I, spaced out on pot, having had a night with Adriana, we’d had cookies and bongs, I told a taxi driver that he’d have a really nice cock. It just came out, it was a moment when my filters were at zero capacity. I couldn’t believe what I’d said. It was truly a did-I-just-say-that-out-loud moment? He squirmed and told me that he was a happily married man. We didn’t speak for the rest of the trip. I didn’t because I clearly couldn’t trust myself. It was lucky the taxi was dark and that he couldn’t see my head blushed red, for various reasons, I grant you. I don’t know why he didn’t say anything else? Not even when I paid the fare. I looked at the metre and gave him the nearest note to cover it. And stumbled out the door. I chuckled to myself at the memory.

I didn’t speak as we turned up Punt Road and steadily accelerated.

Something Far Worse

I vacuumed the lounge room. Clearly, Sam has change my once happy yearly spring clean, maybe twice a year plus spills, to a two week cycle, three week cycle, depends how you count. He and I do it every Sunday, and I guess I have got used to a certain look. He went away on a Friday, (I’m sure there was a pre-emptive clean just before he left though, mutterings about how I can't be trusted, or something) and I didn’t do house work that Sunday, or last Sunday. So that, now, means it, apparently, takes 2 weeks for me to reach my cleaning threshold. Gosh there is debris all over the floor, now isn’t there? I kept thinking. I've been ruined.

I swept the back yard, it is macadamia nut season. They are like marbles on the paving. But more than that, is that they just come and come and if I didn’t sweep them up my back yard would be full of macadamia nuts. They cluster like minions.

I hung the washing out.

I have to go to my ex's dinner party tonight. Oh, I make it sound like the worst gay cliche, don't I, it is not. Most of them are DJ's and cool. My old choofing gang. I just can't be bothered. (I play out the whole Catherine Tate skit in my head before I move on) It means I have to leave the house and talk to people. Yay. Go to a party on my own. Poor me. They are all old mates, it is just me.

I mustn't smoke too much, otherwise I'll be brainless. But that is the catch22 thing, now isn't it, you smoke more to ease yourself into the public humiliation. Ha ha. I've been told that I had this sense of humour since I was a little boy. Tiny, angelic, rosey red cheeks, big green eyes, and out of his mouth came the blackest remarks, they say. I was a dark-humoured, cynical, 5 year old moppet of a child who'd stop dowager aunts in their tracks, with the things that came out of his 500 year old mouth, someone was famously known to say... once.

Anyway...

The whole day of chores has been a delaying tactic for going out. I've always said that, make the chores a distraction from something far worse, and the chores do themselves. 

The house is clean.

The dinner will be great. Someone else is cooking, what is there not to like?

The nearly-winter, morning sun. It is cold. Well, cold for Australia. Over night it got down to 5 degrees Celsius. It is now 15 degrees. Brrr!

Cold Morning

I am watching Harry's Garage on YouTube. Buddy is sitting in my lap, as he likes to do when the morning is cold. My legs are around him, like crossed legs not quite closed. His head is on my thigh. He is like a hot water bottle, all 26 kilos of him.

My legs have now lost all feeling, I can't even detect them to move them out of the offending position for some relief. Buddy has no desire to move, let me tell you.

I'm in pain. Oh, just my legs, not spiritually, or emotionally. Ha ha. I've just got to stand up. (if only all pain management was so easy)

10.30am. It is chilly but sunny, time to take the dogs to the dog park. Two dogs is a handful.

Shining Sun

The sun is shining, it is nice. Crystal clear. Some may say sparkling. It is glistening in my garden, warm and bright. The sun is glinting in my eyes, just as it peaks over the fence. The leaves turn dark green and light green where the sun seems to shine right through them.

We're Filthy

I was shocked to discover how dirty our kitchen is. I was making a cup of coffee, the coffee machine sits on the back bench in the kitchen, the one that gets less use as a work bench and more use as that place to put stuff. I started to rub the granite bench top, as the coffee machine did its thing, with my fingernail, and something scraped off. "Euw!" 

Then I noticed there was a kind dust mat under everything, just inside where we, clearly, have cleaned with the sponge. That led to daring to look behind the big wooden bowl, with all the pasta piled into it, that I can't remember when was the last time that it was moved. 

"Ah!" 

There was a crusty mound there of indeterminate origin. "Er." Grimace.

I thought we were clean people. Of course, Sam would blame me.

"I'm the tidy one," Sam would say.

And while technically he is correct, he cooks and I clean, I'm sure that doesn't include the long term cleaning maintenance, surely that is a core, structural household chore, to be shared? I clean up from the day before, with the main emphasis on the kitchen area. (I'm not really building my case, am I?)

It was all putrid. Grimace. Dirty kitchen. Familiarity breeds blindness. You just don't see it after a while. You get used to it and you end up not really looking, as the scenery, essentially, stays the same.

I'm waiting for Sebastian to come over, he said he'd be here by 10am. Sebastian is always two hours late. If he tells you he'll be over at a certain time, the joke is that you can just add two hours to the digit and save everyone the stress.

10.45am. Comes the text from Sebastian, Just woken up, how about midday? So, I have plenty of time to clean. Yay me!

I have one magnet on the fridge that says, A mind is a terrible thing to waste on housework.

I'm listening to Janis Joplin. I started with her first album, and now I am on album number 4.

Buddy is asleep in my arms as soon as I sit back down. He thinks he is a chihuahua, a 26 kilo chihuahua. More accurately, a bulldog is a dog that is hyper aware of his own space, but has a total disregard for anyone else's space. It's one of the things that make them bulldogs.

Cold and Grey

Ha, ha, I took the dogs to the park on foot. Normally, always, Buddy won't leave the house unless both Sam and I are there to walk him. 
Some people say, "Isn't he cute gathering his pack around him."
"Isn't he annoying," I say. "Try moving a 26 kilo bulldog who won't move, then see how cute you think it is."
So, that was a sucess.
The plan was, I was just going to drive to the next street. I knew if I did that once, however, Buddy would always want to go in the car, walking would then be out of the question. So, this was the moment. Having Bear staying, I just hoped it would have a good affect on him. I know that when Buddy decides to sit down in the street, one bark from Bear gets him going. 

Buddy wouldn't leave the lounge room, the usual deal. He just won't set one foot into motion to come when called. So, I got Bear to bark at the front door and Buddy came running, ready and raring to go walking. 

I was suitably sedated, as one might say. I wanted to waft around to the park, as if on a gossamer wing, or whatever that expression is? As soon as we got going, I realised there would be no wafting involved, no, not today. Walking two dogs is not as easy as it sounds, they both walk at a different pace, in different directions, often at the same time. One minute I am doing the splits, the next minute I feel like I am in a straight jacket. We stopped to chat to some people in the street, at which moment Bear looped me for a second time to get to the lovely people, wrapping me like a mummy in dog leads, and threatening to topple over at any moment. "Pat me! Pat me!" If Buddy had pushed against me, I'd have been a gonner.

"Ah, yes, they are," I step out of the death loop of dog leads, "er, quite a handful."

It was cold and grey, my expectations far out weighed the reality. A cold wind blew. Quite chilled. I couldn't get my fingers warm. There were no other dogs in the dog park. It looked like it was going to rain the whole time we were there.

But, I think that is only the 3rd time I have walked Buddy to the park by lead.

Heading home is never a problem for Bud, he's like a homing pidgeon. He can be off his lead to head home, on occasions, a quite Sunday morning, or something, but today we needed the safety of a lead.

Buddy harrumphs down on the cool tiles.

The doorbell rings. I go to the door thinking it will be a delivery man, to find my sister on the other side. I've just blown a split, I had just thrown it in the ash tray outside, as I came inside to the door. I feel a bit cross-eyed as our eyes meet. Don't look away, don't look self conscious. Meet her gaze, you have nothing to hide. Smile.

Just be cool, and you will never have to explain something she has never tried or would know nothing about.

She drinks tea, I drink coffee. We chat away, she is none the wiser. I tell her I am stressing about this new job and how, if I was really honest, I don't want to do it. She tells me to work for a couple of months, get a couple of good tax returns, then if I don't like it, resign, and stop thinking about it. Two months goes quick. "You can literally just walk out, at any time, if you want." She's working somewhere in town, today, I guess. She did say, but I can't remember now.

I keep smelling fish and chips? It's cruel.

Time to light the fire and watch Netflix. At this point, I am glad that I did not buy any more ice cream.

Bear is keen to see if the fire lighters are edible. She is a walking stomach, that dog.

I'm watching all the gay movies, one after the other, as though that is the normal world.

Brokeback Mountain

I watched Brokeback Mountain in bed. I’m still conflicted about it. I like it, despite not being able to understand what Ennis Del Mar says. I like the cinematography. I like the sparseness. I like the angst between the main character. I like the beauty of the whole thing. 

I like the pace, despite thinking they just kind of suddenly fuck in the middle of the night in a tent in Montana? When there was no real build up. No hints. No longing looks. No real flirting. (But, I did jerk off to the sex scene, thinking about Jake Gyllenhaal taking it up the patootie.) Jack should have showed a bit more arse in that scene. A bit more nudity boys, I reckon

In fact, when Jack is making eyes at their best couple-mate’s husband, later in the story, it is much more believable. 

Essentially, Jack and Ennis are unrequited, really. They miss out on happiness. No happy ending, or even some kind of ending for the two of them.

Jack is beaten to death in a homophobic attack. Aren’t we a bit sick of the loser gay story line? Always the victim. 

They could have chosen to live together in that late/final scene they have together. There could have been a believable story line there. Maybe Ennis’ daughter approved of a relationship with Jack. Maybe his wife could have told him that now she realises what was missing in their relationship, now that she is with a man who wants her sexually. Maybe they could hide it in some quirky way, I’m not being completely unrealistic for the times. I'm sure there are true stories of gay men who did exactly that.

How Many Showers?

I wondered how long ago was it that I had a shower, maybe Friday morning, which would drive Sam mad. Then, seeing the lonely sight of one razor in the container, again, (funny how some images affect you) kind of stabbing straight to the heart, I realised I had a shower Saturday morning before I went out to lunch with my old friend. She got 2 breakfasts, more than most of my friends get. So, not so bad, just one day.

I did a double fist pump in the air, Oh, it was small and subdued, that was until I caught myself doing a double fist pump in the air.

I found the kitchen scissors in the bathroom, it feels like I have been looking for them for days, so that was good to know.

I wondered how many times I'd brushed my teeth? Head tilt? I clean my teeth twice a day, it is automatic, not really something I ever have to think about. So, yay for me.

I've got to go out and pay some bills, damn life intruding. Suck the fresh air into my nostrils, and take in the vitamin D. I still haven't got my exercise routine back on track. Not really sure why? Is it the cold? I got my blue exercise hoodie back from a friend's mum, she put new wrist bands on it. The old wrist bands were hanging like rags, even I couldn't wear it any longer. Good to go for another 20 years. So yay for Evelyn. Maybe, it is the dark? It always nice to exercise on a sunny day.

Who's A Pretty Boy?

This guy came and stood next to me at the train station when I was off out to lunch. He was gorgeous. Widow's peak. Eddie Munster grown up. Jules says it is creepy taking photos of people, but I was lining up the station when he walked in front of my camera. It's true. I couldn't help but imagine his penis after that. As you do.

Cookie, Ice Cream, Cookie Sandwich

I bough chocolate chip cookies. I bought frozen custard ice cream. I put them together in a cookie, ice cream, cookie sandwich. It was a sugar overload, if I am truthful.

I watched terrible movies on Netflix.

The open fire burned.

Sam Is Away

I take Sam to the airport, he'll be gone for two weeks. It feels like I am not there to take care of him, when he is gone. That's all. He can take care of himself, that's the good part. He grabbed my Parrot headphones as he got out of the car. 

"I'm taking these."

"What?" I say. 

We had an incident, earlier, with the apple EarPods, he said he was taking them. I told him I used them all the time. He got snarky, I relented. (They are, actually, his EarPods, what could I say really?) I took the headphones to listen to music in the car on the way home from the airport.

"But I use them more," I say. (But, again, they are, actually, his headphones, what could I say really?)

What am I like?

He is just as likely to give them to a nephew. Damn. (Of course, then he'll buy new ones. He is reducing his carbon footprint if he is recycling, or some shit. No, hang on, isn't that the problem? I'm confused.)

It's been raining.

I've got nothing to do for 2 weeks, just me, Buddy, Bear (Jill's in London) and Milo. We'll all be on the bed. I'll have ice cream. The teli is on, mainly just to light the room.

I play John Farnham, Help. It is the next song to play on my phone. Live. Full sax. The best voice, ever.

It is cold on the balcony.

Then I play Joan Armatrading, The Joan Armatrading album. This album has been a friend longer than all of my friends. It is in my top ten of all time great albums.

Then I play Tracy Chapman, the Tracy Chapman album.

Then I think some black boy porn.

Is that terribly Freudian, or something? Don't know, too stoned.