Off to the Country

7am

There was someone on the couch as I went to grind my coffee. It was Lisa. Bzzzzzz! I grind my coffee anyway. Well, you will understand that nothing gets in the way of coffee, it is a universal truth.

The light is dim and still and silent. Morning light. It's always difficult when someone has crashed on the couch. Still? What can they really expect? I sit quietly on the couch. My coffee cup makes a definite clunk when I put it down on my wooden coffee cup. 

I make a mix. The multi seems exceptionally loud. There is not real way to work a multi quietly, not really. And it has to be done. It is beyond my control, as they say. That thought makes me giggle. I bring my hand up to my mouth as though that is going to stop the giggle. Even the rolling machine makes a defining clack as it closes and shoots my joint out the top.

I light my joint, and sit back. I sip my coffee. I gaze at Lisa for no real reason other than she is there. It's quiet and still.

I take so long between drags that my joint keeps going out. The light makes loud click, click, click noises as I re-light it.

I've smoked 3 joints. It’s 8am.

Lisa didn't stir on the couch, she'd been too drunk to get herself home. She was sleeping ugly. You know how drunk people often sleep with a distorted snarl on their faces, or ooze saliva, or snore like an injured pig? Lisa had the distorted snarl.

I thought about Manny and him saying, “Come play with me,” last night. I thought about him still being in bed. I decided to get my shit together and visit him on the way to Bolago. Suddenly I want to kiss his lips, suck his nipples, suck his cock.

I called him and told him to stay in bed. He was still in his jocks when I got there. He got back into bed. I got in with him. He’s so gorgeous to have sex with. Kissable. Adorable, olive skin, white sheets. He smells good and he tastes nice.

His beautiful arse feels good with my hands around it. I kiss him and tell him how sexy he is. He groaned as he came all over me, on his bed, on his back, in the gentle morning light.

We did it again, as we sat in the lounge.

SMS. 12.28. Morning. Just had a hot time with Manny… my foot won’t stop shaking on the accelerator. On my way to Bolago – Christian

SMS. 12.30. Stop texting while you are driving! - Tom

Party pooper, but I guess he is right. I'd only ever text on the open road, not that that makes it okay, I'm sure. I can't really text around the city, not that I'd want to, as I drive a manual car.

It was hot driving up to Bolago.

The function was in full swing when I got there. I felt tired. I decided to have shower number three before I changed into my black gear.

All the usual suspects were working.

Matt, the new boy, has a really hot arse, even if he is eighteen. He’s nice.

Aby and I always suss out the talent. I’d already noticed Mr Blue-Eyes, one of the guests. What gorgeous blue eyes.

Later in the night when he was drunk, Mr Blue-Eyes was very friendly. He told me I looked after him well. He was very touchy, after his wife went to bed. I told him he was my best customer. He told me he loved that.

"I'm here to look after you all night," I said.

"I'm looking forward to it," he replied, smiling crookedly, holding my gaze, drinking his umpteenth beer.

"My pleasure," I said all breathy. The sound of my voice almost made me laugh, I sounded like every juiced up diva you've ever heard.

"Do you kick on after this?"

"Sure," I said. "It's hard to go to sleep straight away, after this."

"I suppose you have to be in the know," he touched his nose, "to get invited?" He smiled. His eyes twinkled.

"Oh, um." I smiled. He smiled. "Something like that," I smiled.

I gazed at him, he wasn’t hard to look at, as he danced on the dance floor, later. He danced sexy as he stared at me staring at him. That wanton smile, as if he hadn't noticed me looking, he danced his sexy dance, I’m sure, just for me.

Ah, straight boys, they love to flirt with gay boys, which is okay, I kind of like flirting with them too. Our big, strong, straight boy brothers. It's sexy in its own way, you know, breaking down the barriers, even if it takes alcohol to facilitate it.

I saw him stagger off to his room, sometime after that.

SMS. 22.29. Thursday 2 far away… – Rachel

Back to the Grind

The city seems to filled with genetically gifted men, all around me. Would you call it the middle of summer? I guess, I would.

I went out for a boozy lunch, couple of hours, with the girls today. The bottles of wine keep coming, it is that time of the year for it. And as what always happens, I got a head ache for the afternoon. Maybe, I just don't drink enough? Although, work is the last place I'd chose to be if I was smashed. No thanks. Maybe, I need to drink more water?

I head back up to my 40th floor office to see out the afternoon. I sit and stare out my picture windows looking over the bay. I, actually, love my office.

From my eerie in the sky. From my belfry on high. From my perch in the clouds. From my platform looking all around. Up high, looking down.

"You've got a good view," the plebs endlessly squawk, as they come to bother me. "I know you're busy, but... wow, the view from here is amazing."

I wanted to stick a sign to my door, but Rebecca wouldn't let me.

"Tsunami viewing platform... and yes, we have noticed the view."

I love how my huge, glass, sliding office door slides shut with a kind of cone of silence kind of closure, closing out the world.

Tom messages me with his plans in the afternoon. He’s making plans to get out of home again and get his own place.

Miss, that sounds like a plan. And Caulfield isn't so far, just the other side of the city, certainly much closer than your parent's house and the wasteland that surrounds it and its.

It’s his parent’ rental property that has just become unexpectedly free. He was looking in Abbotsford so he was close to all of us on the Northside.

"Abbotsford, blah, blah, blah – well the nits I like anyway." Nits? I couldn't work this one out? I can usually work out the meaning of most sentences, but not this?

It's been so lovely at work, this week. Well, lovely if one has to be there, natch. No people! No pesky phone calls all day. No cars on the road, no traffic congesting the streets. So fewer idiots.

(But, as I told you, hot boys, in shorts, sauntering along in the street.)

Everything in corporate world, unhurried and relaxed... except for one, there always has to be one, dropping stones into our calm pond. A NEW chick who didn't get paid, who has just been tormenting us all about it. Doesn’t seem to understand she needs to talk to HR. Profoundly stupid to antagonise senior staff members when they look into the problem and then graciously say no, with full explanation and reasons. (In the ONLY quiet week we get all year, what's more) And then to mix us all up and start sending emails to people she has just, moments before spoken to, unwittingly, asking it all again. (Not smart, she ain't going far, I can assure you) Giving herself away telling half truths, telling the actual person what he, or she, has just said... which, you guessed it, we knew that we didn't. Well, not quite as she put it. (Twisted completely in her favour, anything negative left out) Does she not get that we, actually, know what we are talking about... we are the people who make the decisions... unless she was foolhardy enough to give a partner a call at his house at Portsea. She was the type, every one of us could pick it. And now when we think of her, we will all naturally think trouble. It's not a smart way to ingratiate yourself. Silly girl.

The quiet day finally came to the end. These quiet days won’t last, they will end soon, must savour them while I can.

It’s that time of the year, the cafes are empty, the sun never, seems, to stop shining. Long shadows in the afternoon... cool breeze up Bourke Street.

I left work @ 17.06, everyone else had gone, except for Andrew T, as Stella, his wife, was picking him up. Swivel in his chair, smile, chatting. Flash his crotch @ me, like a scene out of Basic Instinct. Ah, the beautiful, Greek Andrew T. Casual clothes Friday. How he packs a pair of jeans. I couldn't help but look, oh, I know, what am I like? He's the only one whose hot arse Rebecca has commented on. I would have liked to be a fly on the bedroom wall when Stella got home recently from an extended trip to Iran, after being away for three months. They really are a beautiful couple, they would have gorgeous sex, they would have beautiful babies.

And then, of course, I am down, amongst it all. I had a joint in my pocket from this morning, I don’t know what possessed me, as I would never normally. Oh, I don’t know, call it the holiday season, call it what I asked Santa for, or would that be the New Year’s elves? Oh, I don’t know, but clearly, I was feeling reckless, New Year and all. I slipped up that [filthy] back laneway that I knew went nowhere and only seemed to be used for storing garbage bins, and nothing else, and lit that doobie up. I drew heavily on that spliff, wondering what my job prospects would be if I was caught doing this, exhaling the smoke up over my head as far as I could blow the stuff.

I scurried off to... to... goodness me, where was I going, huh? That joint is already kicking in something fierce.

I was thinking about Andrew T and Stella went I went to the porn shop on Russell Street, I couldn't help myself. "Yeah Andrew, fuck me," I could hear her soft voice. I didn't buy anything, just looked @ the pictures.

Whoosh!

I scuttled off home... maybe. I have no idea. Actually, I strolled home humming, "Soldier on with Codral, soldier on," with a huge smile. (Ed note – if you don’t know the television ad you won’t get it)

So, 2006 huh? Fuck me! The last six years, where did they go… Ground Hog anyone?

SMS. 17.27. Oh happy days! – Christian

SMS. 17.29. I am in Victor Harbour with my parents in a grotty hotel that hasn't been updated since the 60’s & quite possibly not cleaned since then either. So what the fuck is this oh happy days bullshit? – Rachel

SMS. 17.32. Victor Harbour? For goodness sake! – Christian

SMS. 17.34. Fuck off! I am stuck here for 3 days. Told Emily 2 fake being sick so we can go home. I am coming home 2 Melb next week – Rachel

SMS. 17.34. You could be doing my work bullshit. At least my day is over, he, he, he – Christian

SMS. 17.35. This is the kinda motel people go 2 commit suicide – Rachel

SMS. 17.36. Lovely! Have fun – Christian

SMS. 17.37. R u free 4 dinner next Thurs? – Rachel

SMS. 17.37. I could be? – Christian

SMS. 17.38. Good keep it free then. God knows I need something 2 look forward 2! – Rachel

SMS. 17.43. (Tom) The blokes in town this arvo… woof! – Christian

The house is full for dinner, Tim and his Friday nights. It's good though, don't get me wrong. And even a choice of menu. Goodness. Why can't I ever get that organised?

Get organised? Oh, I have to so get organised. Get things done, so many things. Wake up, straighten up, clean up, shape up, smarten up. Productivity up. Maybe that could be my New Years resolution. No point going for something too specific.

Wake up, straighten up, clean up, shape up, smarten up... in 2006!

Tim cooked for everyone. Curry or roast lamb. I've got roast lamb and I'm not hungry. I should have been, not sure why? Was it the booze from lunch and the pot from after work? I don’t know. 

Tim and Sarah and Lisa went and got a DVD. I chatted to Tom while they were at the shop.

Nicholas and Adam played play station in Tim and Nicholas’s room. 

Tim and Sarah came back with horror. I quietly gathered my stuff together and scuttled off to bed. In bed by 9pm.

SMS. 21.43. Thank God 4 alcohol – Rachel

SMS. 21.50. Thank the universe for dope – Christian

Manny called at 10pm horny and wanting sex. I couldn't, but almost, persuaded him to come over.

Mark called late to say he missed me.

I smoked a doobie in bed before I turned out the light.

No Photos, Thanks, says Aby

Ben G.

Ben came into my head as I strolled to work. Maybe he’d be in working, I thought, after the holidays. It's nice that he's moved to my floor. He came and stood next to me, at the urinal, recently. Now, when was it? Just before Xmas, I do believe. Unfortunately, I was finished. I was turning away. Bugger! I so wanted to look. I tried to look a little, but, too late.

Have I ever written that sometimes I walk down Bourke Street whispering, Ben G, Ben G. Not that often, but often enough. It amuses me. I was this morning, not sure why this morning, but I was.

I got in early this morning, being too frightened of being late, made me way early.

“Hi Chris, how are you?” said a voice, first thing, as I stood at the urinal.

“Oh, hi.” Handsome, I thought. It was Ben. Suddenly, there he was.

Maybe there is a god, after all. Am I going to have to re-think this whole atheist thing? Seriously?

We'd make great b/f's, I wanted to say, blurt out. You and me.

"How are you?" he asks.

I remembered my decision about him @ the urinal, I’d just look, not try to hide it, as I tried to sneak another look at what he held in his hand.

I still can picture his abdomen, that time in the toilet in our old offices, when he was changing, for the Xmas Party. He was in camouflage pants, he lifted his t-shirt to show me. His abdomen was tanned, toned, masculine. The material was flat against his muscled stomach. The elastic of his jocks just poked above the waist band of his pants. His bulge packed them out nicely, like a fist behind his fly.

“Just a bit of fun,” he said, as he looked intensely into my eyes. He always looks intensely into my eyes. So often, I've wanted to kiss him.

"I'm good," I said. Then I was brave, now or never, I just dropped my eyes.

I saw the softness of the cotton of his jocks, white through his completely open pants; his blond pubic hair against his brown skin; the round contours of the front of his jocks, against his thighs; how soft and round and warm he would have felt to touch, held gently, cupped, in my palm.

The smell of his hair. The touch of his skin

His eyes. His breath. His soft lips.

Time de-accelerating. The slow motion strobe of our hearts.

He shook his cock. There it was, raw, pink, bare skin, in his hand. He made no attempt to hide it. I made no attempt not to look. Curly pubic hairs, foreskin. Nice. Good size. His nob slipped out of the end of the folds of skin, all red and slippery, every time he shook it. It was beautiful. Fat and pink, like it had never seen the light of day.

I looked up. There must have been still drugs in my system from New Years Eve, it was horny, I was coming on to him. I was going to reach out...

I shook my head. "How are you?" I said.

His face flushing red; his sexy voice croaking, as he tried to say something, but couldn't. The smile, turning away embarrassed, turned on, nervous, putting his (I imagined) hardening self away. He pulled his jocks up.

"I'm good." He zipped his pants up. "How was your Xmas?" The beautiful smile. Inquisitive and fragile, at the same time.

"Good," I said.

These blue eyes, looking intently. He could smile with them, so easily.

"You know, like every other Xmas." I shrugged.

The expectant pause. We smile at each other, momentarily silent.

"You know how they go," I said.

We washed out hands, slowly, under the warm flow of water. We both sneak looks at each other in the mirror – well, that’s what I imagines anyway.

"Yeah, I do," he said. "Nice though. Family and all." Smile. Hesitation at the door. Like there was more, the promise of more.

"Yeah," I said.

The last glance back. Smile.

"See ya," he said.

“See you,” I said

Then he was gone.

Ah. He’s so gorgeous. I smile to myself in the mirror. Adjust my hair.

I imagine what my face would look like pressed up against his. I wondered what my fingers would feel like, sliding into his undies. I think about what his foreskin would taste like on the end of my tongue. 

Wait until I’m in the lift with him next. I hope he has tight pants on.

I shake my head. I check my face and hair one last time in the mirror, then I exit the toilet too.

Back to Work

I ordered 10 new DVD porn, over breakfast. It was my reward to myself for going back to work. Of course, it made me late. I finally got new batteries for my DVD remote and now it works like a normal remote.

I didn't get to work until 9.30, but Rebbecca didn't get there until about 10.30, she said she just couldn't make herself get out of bed. It’s a part of her new non-caring attitude.

It's good to have a boss who is always in after 9. For a while there, neither of us were getting in until after 9am, as were the rest of the, shall we say, "offices" as we're called by those, shall we say, who don't have offices. We were all wandering in at 9, 9.15, 9.30. Our big boss had to have a word to all of us.

"I know you guys work twice as many hours as them out there. I know you are all back to well after 6pm most nights and I feel awkward asking you this, but the plebs are complaining, you are making them feel like you guys can just wander in when you feel like. Can you try to get here at 9am, at least for a week, or so, I'm sure it will blow over."

Nothing changed, we're all still late. It means, I can still stroll in at 9.05-9.10 some mornings and still beat Rebbecca.

Coming Down Bad!

I drove Nicholas to his mother’s, he asked me to. He said he was leaving and that it was over. Tim had been too weird. He didn’t know what was wrong. Tim didn’t want to tell him. Or, what Tim told him didn’t make any sense. Anyway, he knew he was sick of it.

I didn’t need to know any more.

It’s 21.25. I’m all alone to eat my Rocky Road ice cream. The day I try to make up for Tim and Nicholas’s generosity in the food department… I think you can break that covenant at certain, often glorious, times in your life, but in the end we are all alone.

I can’t be with Tom when he is going through this harrowing, life threatening experience, he has to do it alone.

I can’t be with my mother at the end of her life, I can’t take her burden, she has to do it all alone.

Secular. What is the true meaning of secular?

Billions of sections.

It’s what makes us great and poor.

Tim’s prowling the corridors, intermittently, like he wants to talk about it. He’s turned all the lights off, mostly he is in his room. I don’t want to talk about it. The only drama re relationship break up I want to do is about my own. Otherwise, no thanks.

I’m hiding behind my computer, eating Rocky Road ice cream.

The only thing that Tim has said about Nicholas, was that it was like living with Forest Gump. Which, may prove to be more prophetic really, than Tim’s sensibility would allow. Fluke you say? I think.

(Ed note – I now think that the Forest Gump reference may have been alluding to Nicholas’s doped sensibility)

Oh, how I’d like a big, pretty simple boy like Nicholas to cuddle up to at night. And I don’t know about simple, exactly, perhaps uneducated, I found him more entertaining to talk to than Tim, for the most part. 

He told me that sad story about his mum punching the teacher at parent teacher night, after which he had tears in his eyes.

“Embarrassed. Never again,” he said. 

I reckon that Nicholas has had a really hard life and I don’t know where simple stops and lack of opportunity starts. He’s really very sweet and good natured and laid back.

Where does making up for past lost opportunities. Back to housing commission, back to his mum’s. What happened to his nurturing?

Nicholas’s a stoner, to be sure and Tim didn’t like what dope did to him in almost exactly the same way as Mark doesn’t like it in me and Luke, as even, Sophie didn’t like it in Nick, to mention just a few. Same relationship story.

Nicholas is such a breath of fresh air. He needs to be loved. I’m not saying that his mum doesn’t love him, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure she does, but loved in that normal existence kind of love. Loved kindly and nicely and beautifully. Like a long summer’s day. Patted and gazed at. Kissed. Beautiful eyes full of love, who could resist that.

What weird thing happened in Tim’s head? Something. He’s not saying.

That smile. That laugh. That good nature. That cheeky engagement with the world. Who could resist that, when all it would have taken was to treat him kindly.

I’d certainly have cuddled him and kissed him and treated him kindly, if he was mine. Some chore. Who could have resisted that?

And now it’s 22.15 and as we all know, I have to go to the tar pits tomorrow.

Nite.

I squash a moth that flew between the screen and my eyes. It smashed over my hand in a broken mess. That’s life, I guess.

Grass fire

What I Remember

Here we are the 03rd of January and it’s all over; fireworks, kissing, good will towards fellow men and them ill-humoured Jews being ill-humoured about rocket launchers in backpacks. What are they like?

All over for another year. Boo-Hoo. Bah-humbug. I’m getting fat. Get me to the church on time. You CAN’T make me go back to work! I should just sell everything up and bugger off! What year did you say it was? A lot of nonsense really, goodness me, who can keep up that pace? People are just mental. Nuts! Did ya see ‘er? Jasus! Look at that one! But we already knew that, didn’t we. That people are nuts. Are you keeping up?

And since I did all of my Xmas shopping in two hours on two consecutive nights, on my way home from work, the silly season actually wasn’t so bad. People who ache to shop should be killed! The fat man has stopped singing, well, not until New Years Eve really, got to love them Boxing Day Sales to keep the all stupid, all singing, all dancing, shop, glut, fest rolling until twelve days after the bleedin’ nailing to the cross… er… um… the birth of commercialism… um… chocolate…rabbits! Whatever? It’s all bullshit invented to quell the masses. 

I spent Xmas in the country. All over and wouldn’t you know that nobody kept the wrapping paper for the poor. Rip! Tear. Gone! But we had reindeer over the table, all twelve in a row and presents and pudding, two different kinds, for everyone. Our parents all stayed the night, which, by about 9pm, I was thinking wasn’t such a bright idea, all the day and all the night and then the day, again? But the oldies retreated early and we, naughtily, smoked pot in the lounge for the rest of the night, not giving any of them another thought, so it all turned out all right in the end, none of them got up in the night. Thank goodness.

I did write quite a lot of script writing, I think twenty pages, not sure, as I also played around with the formatting, for ages.

But New Years Eve?

I was going to the Laird with Tom, and Manny, when Tom cancelled, unwell. Mark and Luke had guests and would be working, I needed to go out, spread my wings, be myself.

I left Bolago thinking I was getting drugs, to get a text message, I kid you not, as I pushed the button to the roller door, at home, that I was getting none! AH! I just wanted to retreat, back away and yes, I know I should have had my air-conditioning re-gassed, yes, I know it isn’t cold, drive back to Bolago, in 42.5 degree heat, are you mad? Then I was going to Raw Hide with Nicholas, then we trawled around for you know what’s, or at least Tim did, not me, so no great drama there, although it felt like it.

That segued neatly to Tim and Nicholas fighting, just bitchy with each other, and me realising that I didn’t want to go all the way to Prahran in post 40 degree heat, to realise I’d be stuck with no taxi if I didn’t like it! New Year’s Day, sweetie! As Nicholas found out when he had to walk all the way home, in the morning.

But I digress…

Then I remembered Manny, more out of desperation in getting out of Prahran, than any notion of his well being. Bad Chris! I couldn’t let him spend it at home on his own. Could I? – him declining the invitation, later, as he always did, reminded me why I forgot about him in the first place – deciding I could settle for sucking his wogboy face for the night, yum, yum, only to have him do his hermit routine, again. Me too stoned to drive by this time, natch. Not wanting to be locked up in his tiny flat just with him, anyway, deciding to really just wanting to retreat back to Bolago with him, to spend it sitting together in the moon light by the lake, just the two of us. Realising that I’d like to do that, but not with Manny. To cursing all boyfriends! Wailing moonwards, well, maybe I just thought it. Tim pouting, Nicholas getting cross, hiss, spit! It was suddenly looking as though I was going to spent it with Tim at home, him pouting, watching First Wife’s Club! The irony wasn’t lost.

Head spinning. Feeling giddy. Everything was turning to pooh. (From my childhood and so much Pooh Bear, I find it difficult to write pooh any other way) Collapsing on my bed. Closing my eyes and thinking thoughts like, why do I bother and what is the fucking point… hands in the air… no doubt… listening to my own breathing…Pooh, I said. Bugger ya all! Fuck this! Tim told Nicholas I wasn’t going out with him, more out of spite, being cross with him, than information sharing, but it saved me doing it, although I rushed right in and took over when I heard Tim telling Nicholas, with a spit in his tone… as I came back down the stairs.

Having decided to just die my hair, and go to the Peel and take the fucking drugs and forget everything! Nicholas stomping out cross, see ya. Leaving pouty Tim with me, who came back to life a bit, sans boyfriend. Then spending the next few hours with Tim glued to his phone texting, Nicholas, no doubt, but he didn’t say, he didn’t say much at all, for the rest of the night. So I went and danced at the Peel.

It was a good looking crowd, sexy boys, out of it boys… cute, flirty boy who wanted me to fuck him after he caught me perving at his arse, more out of far-tooooo-many-pills, than any sexy posture I may have pulled. I pushed him away good heartedly. He was a twink. Tim going home, me dancing more, pretty boys dancing all around, shirts off, shirts on, sexy bulges in their pants they seemed happy to show off, great music, nice vibe, the night still feeling young. But I had a heat/stress headache, which had been coming on slowly and I cursed it too. One thing e’s can’t do is cure headaches, make them worse, if anything, all that teeth clenching, I pushed on, it was a struggle, I had sore feet. When I decided to pack it in, you know something’s wrong when I go home with two pills in my pocket. I was tired, it had been a boiling hot day and everybody around me had been a downer, nobody to give me a pep-up, spiritually, or chemically, they had all gone to ground. Nobody smiled serenely at midnight… or at antics. Shared, was very thin on the ground. I retreated to home by 4am.

I sat up in bed at 9am with the little plastic bag still with two pills in it, one red, one green – actually they were white, but don’t you think red & green sounds so much nicer, so much more in keeping with the season – and cursed myself for not trying hard enough! Silly me. I should have danced for days.

I didn’t think about recoveries seriously enough. Clearly. Although, I remember thinking about them. Woosh. Gone.

The rest is a blur, really. What else can I say? How many days has it been? It feels like a weekend, now. Oh… bother!

I’ve kept myself doped to the eyeballs on marijuana, which has been nice, if a little tiring. Draining. Numbing. You know that sense of not doing anything, it is a hard one to reason away, life slipping by, when one eye is looking in one direction… you can spend only so many 10’s of hours on the couch, without feeling that you may not have made as good a use of your time as you perhaps could have, don’t you think?

And tomorrow? I bought a Tuesday tattslotto ticket, which I never do. I’m desperate. Not to go back to work, that is… not desperate, desperate, you understand

PS. The first day of looking after my mother’s dog, its arse is bleeding out of a peculiar looking red lump, the likes of which I never seen before.

PPS How bad can it be to go to bed @ 4pm. 

What Day Is It?

I took the drugs and danced till 4am, at the dirty old Peel, when my head ache was too much, from clenching my damn jaw, damn it. Maybe Perry is right, 1/2 a valium with everything that's his life motto. After all of those self improvement courses, that's his answer on life.?

My life moto, when it comes to drugs, is Just have fun.

It’s a lazy, dreamy, pot-blurred, kind of day. It is warm, the sun is shining and Tim is watching TV and I’m trawling gaydar… and the clock is ticking. Tick, tick, tick, on what is left of a weekend. 

Boo-Hoo! You can’t make me go back there, back to the 9 to 5 of the salt mines. I want to be on holidays for the rest of my life. (I had better put my TattsLotto tickets in, as quick as…)

Tim watches Oprah, Tina Turner is on. Has there ever been a singer more gorgeous than Tina Turner? I don’t think so. So is 100% class. And, you know, Oprah is a pretty classy chick herself. So, I watched engrossed, practically, with my chin resting on the clasped backs of my hands with a dumb grin on my face.

I went and slept for some of the afternoon. Hazy, lazy, float away hours. I love that post-drug twilight. Lying in bed and just floating away on a feeling of tranquillity, naturally after you have peaked and danced and worn it out completely, then you float. You'd be excused for thinking that taking drugs is justified just for that very feeling.

Mum called around dinner time to ask me over because she hadn’t seen anyone since, I can only assume, I dropped her off on Boxing Day. No, I'm sure about that. But I was too stoned to go. I felt guilty until Nicholas passed me another bong.

I woke up on the couch sometime in the early hours. The world had gone, suddenly, quiet.

Now, I’m fucked, messy, tired, emotional, as the bride always slurs at the end of the wedding and I’ve just been delivered a new bag of pot. So, nightie night then.

Merry New Year!

Jan 01st 2006

SMS. 3.49. Oh my god, it’s a quarter to six in the morning, just got in from a marathon 7 hour DJ set, I’m now listening to the birds and having my first joint, grease me on the nose bowling day, not impressed :) – Lauri

I went to bed about 4am.

I got up at 9.20am.

SMS. 9.25. 42.5 here yesterday, I was fucked just from that. Went to the Peel. Had fun at the dirty old Peel. Got home 4am, just woke up – Christian

SMS. 9.31 Still buzzing. Now smoking bongs, doin bumps… how did that happen? Ah coffee! Need more of that – Lauri

SMS. 9.32. 2006 huh? How did that happen? – Christian

It was a glorious sunny day. The cool change had come and now there was a cool edge to the wind when it blew. Unlike the radiated heat of yesterday. The change is good, needed even. It’s so nice to have fresh air and not radiant heat, well, radiated air bearing down, sucking you into it.

SMS. 11.00. (Tom) Happy New Year, miss – Christian

Nicolas and I did bumps of speed around the coffee table.

I went and bought rugs with Nicholas, at The Exhibition Centre, New Years Day, speeding & buzzing off our brains. It was languorous walking by the Yarra, if a little, what would I say, fucked up. Sun shining, abandoned car parks, shimmering in the light - perving on Nicholas' sexy butt, as he walked ahead of me. Oh, come on, those thighs and that arse, in dark blue 3 strip Adidas track pants that are snug on him after I have had a night of drugs, come on? I can be excused. All that was missing was us holding hands. Oh, I don't mean that with Nicholas, I'm not going to hold Nicholas' hand, but that was how it felt the two of us window shopping like a couple of boyfriends.

The Great Sale. There were too many regimented forms, tables of stuff for as far as the eye could see, far too many for drug addled brains.

I bought a new rug for the lounge room, $66 marked down from an, alleged, $725. Is it illegal for them to inflate the original price when they mark down? I thought, as I fingered the price tag. I didn't need a new one, but Nicholas insisted, wouldn't let it go and, in the end, it was just easier to pay the $66 than to disagree.

And then the rain came down and it was cool and we all gave thanks.

SMS. 13.27. (He who cannot be mentioned) Happy New Year to you too. I hope 2006 (do you believe that?) is the best ever – Christian

And you know, I almost meant it. 

Still, it doesn't hurt to be nice, as my grandma used to say. (That's the grandmother who made millions from property development - and not the grandmother who sat in her lounge room smoking Kool cigarettes and, told to me when I was an adult, drank brandy, heart broken that my grandfather had died and left her some years earlier)

dog sniffing

Sniffing Around at the Last Minute

All over for another year. Tick off 05 into history. All done, never to return. (blink and it will be 2105) I hardly get to mourn the loss and I have to be back at work… by the 04th, boo-hoo!

I decided that I wanted to go out and take drugs and dance for the night, without a care, swan song for the year passed. Swim on the breeze, groove mindlessly on the beat. Float - boom chicka, boom chicka. Sunrise.

I asked Tim if he could get me drugs. I knew it was too late, when I asked, but you never really know, if you don't ask. I hate people who ask at the last minute, so normally I wouldn't. But, what if Tim said that they only went in the afternoon to pick them up. What if he said he was just on his way? He could only say no too.

SMS. 9.51. (Tom) How are you miss? – Christian

SMS. 09.58. (Tim) I guess, you’ve already got stuff for tonight? – Christian

SMS. 10.09. We have… what did u need? – Tim

SMS. 10.15. I thought u probably would have… I just thought on the off chance if u hadn’t – Christian

SMS. 10.16. But… what were you after – Tim

SMS. 10.19. 3 e's – Christian

SMS. 10.20. What time will you be back? Will see if we can arrange it, but will need some money – Tim

SMS. 10.22 In an hour? – Christian

I can be any where in an hour, if party tricks are to be picked up.

SMS. 10.22. Ok will ask – Tim

SMS. 10.32. How hot is it down there? – Christian

SMS. 10.32. I haven’t left the house. Not game to – Tim

I drove down sometime around 11am. I decided that if I was going to do it, I should just get going. Leave... and hope.

I had just driven up to the roller door. I had, literally, just pushed the roller door button.

SMS. 11.35. Sorry can’t get on to anyone… think it might be a bit late – Tim

Ah! I just wanted to close the roller door again and drive back to Bolago before anyone saw me. What am I doing here without drugs? Bugger!

SMS. 11.47. Hi there, I am doing okay. How are you? – Tom

SMS. 11.52. Good. I could go to RawHide, if we’re not going to the Laird? – Christian

Sometime later… I broke my own rule and called Guido at the last minute.

“Yellow.”

“Guido?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s Christian.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I was wondering…”

“Of course you were fucken wondering, it is New years Eve. Go on shock me.”

“For tonight?

“You know there aren’t too many people I fucken like, your lucky I like you. You are going to have to blow me one of these days.

“I’m not blowing you.”

“Fucken ingrate.”

“So, how will…”

“I’ll be there soon,keep your butt plug in.”

“Oh, okay, thanks.”

“Well, you’re not coming out to Boganville are you, besides, I’ve got a new E55 I can’t get enough of driving, so you are lucky. And I have deliveries.”

“Thanks Guido, you are the best.”

“Blow me.”

“Ha ha.”

“You still live in the same shithole?”

“Yes.”

“Later.” He ended the call.

Sometime near midnight.

Guido pulled up out the front.

“Here.” He handed me a large envelope.

“Thanks, how much?”

“Fuck off. Later.”

“Okay, thanks…”

“Get out, I’ve got other punters to see.”

The big Mercedes took of down my street at a great rate.

Pills got, tickets sorted, ready to go… and it is a million degrees down here, I think I’m going to die. Even dying my hair and having a shower hasn’t helped much. I feel like if I took drugs and danced in a confined club, I’d stop breathing.

Oo baby, it’s hot.

Then I got to thinking about being in Prahran for New Year's Eve… and the possibility of not being able to get home... when I wanted to, when I so chose. Taxi’s New Years Day?

I think I just want to take drugs and dance at The Peel. Close to home. All that return trip nonsense out of the way. I wanted to do the same thing, no matter where I was. Close my eyes and listen to the tunes.

I think I really want to go back to Bolago, where it will be gorgeous tonight.

And then I realised how awful I’d been, after Tom cancelled I just naturally went into drugs/dance mode, but Manny was coming to the Laird too. I just forgot about him. I guess, it’s, subconsciously, that I know he wouldn’t take drugs and go out dancing.

I just called him. Surely, he isn’t at the gym, it’s 40 degrees.

I close my eyes and stop for a minute.

Just lying on my floating bed with Manny, listening to the cool, sounds of the forest... is, suddenly what I'd like to be doing. I hold that thought, wonder why I didn't follow that idea? A boy’s entitled to change his mind, isn’t he? I try to convince myself.

Shake head. Open mouth, exhale and make ugly noise with my cheeks. Ah!

Just take the drugs, the club will be air-conditioned, dance till 7am, catch a tram, if you have to. Manny is, probably, not likely to even show up, you know what he is like. You’ll, probably, get a taxi in the morning, wherever you are. You normally have taxi-hailing charm.

Oh, I don’t know what I want to do.

I'll send an email to Josh.

Nicholas went to Raw Hide

SMS. 20.10. Love you all, thanks 4 a great 05. Have a great night, see you in 2006 x – Leah and Stu

SMS. 20.25. B4 the sun sets on 2005, before the memories fade, B4 I get drunk and lose my phone may we wish you a happy & prosperous New Year – Tim

Tim and I went to the Peel, you know, like buddies do. Mates.

SMS. 23.18. May the New Year bring joy and delight darlings xxoo – He-who-shall-never-be-mentioned.

night time drive

The Calm Before the Storm

SMS. 8.27. Not much happening in Melbourne anyway – Tom

SMS. 9.21. Lying on my bed reading. Life’s hard – Christian

SMS. 9.35 Yes thanks love! How about you? – Leah

SMS. 9.45. Big. Lots of family. Cooked for 30. And now it’s too damn hot! But it’s cooler in the country than the city – Christian

SMS. 9.52. So where r u? – Leah

SMS. 9.48. They are worried my transplant is failing – Tom

SMS. 10.23 Bolago… and it’s lovely – Christian

SMS. 10.24 (Tom) Fuck! – Christian

SMS. 10.24. They always say the worst thing first. We will see xxx – Tom

I called Tom, he was in the Alfred waiting room. He doesn’t know what’s going on. It is wait and see time, I guess.

SMS. 10.35. Might come down next weekend 2 c Wilma-Joan. R u around? – Leah

SMS. 10.45. Got a wedding next weekend – Christian

It’s hot. Too hot to lie on my island and read my book, even. My phone was out of space for new messages. Marina (Con and Lila) and Elaine (Marina’s sister) were out the front, in the garden, chatting to Luke, as I cursed, as I realised the message space problem. I had to fess up - to storing all of my sms' in my journal. But, as it turned out, Marina keeps a journal and does something similar, to me, recording her sms’ in her journal. Perhaps, I’m not completely alone in my madness, after all. It is comforting.

I retreated, in doors. Besides, it was coolest behind the computer in the office.

Con was the first Asian boy I really turned on to. (That's not entirely true, I had had sex with Asian boys at sex clubs) He's buff and he's strapping and he was the first Asian boy I really lusted after what-was-down-his-pants. You know, dirty, sweaty.... Just by the by...

SMS. 14.19. (He-who-shall-never-be-mentioned) Happy fucken Xmas – Christian

SMS. 14.24. (Shane) Did this good girl wish that bad girl happy Xmas? How remiss! I hope you and bad girl Mark W. survived it – Christian

I read Dead Europe on my bed for the afternoon, sweating to a nice, shiny sheen, until I had to strip my T-shirt off and chase a breeze. The garden was beautiful, in the evening. At the end of a long summer’s day, when the sun had gone down, feel the residual glow. Luke and I help Mark do some pruning and some plant removal.

I watched TV until late, the death of Marlyn Monroe until 1am, after Mark and Luke went to bed.

Then I got inspired and wrote some of my script until 3am, at which time it was still a warm summer’s night.

beach boy

It's Nice Lying Here

It was a gorgeous afternoon, the sun lay across the lawn beyond my window. I decided that I want a bed with windows around two sides; just glass as a bed head, just glass up against me as the day turns to night. So I can lay on my stomach and just gaze, unhindered, at the world all around. 180 degree view. Garden stretching away, as far as I can see.

I switched on my phone, it had been off for a day. Oops!

SMS. 16.02. Hey Christian, you want to go out for a drink tonight? Will be back in two hours – Tim

I had two messages from Nick. Ring me, ring me. Urgent!

SMS. 17.54. What? You’ve decided you’re gay? – Christian

I spoke to Nick. He’s good, coming out of his self-induced seclusion. It’s his New Year’s resolution. We spoke briefly about Silvia R.

Have I mentioned that Nick and Silvia Romero were seeing each other, quietly, for a time. Silvia was the first girl since Nick's post divorce seclusion. But I digress...

I said that Silvia had said nice things about him. But, when he asked me what, the only thing I could think of was that she had said that Nick had the most perfectly shaped penis. It just didn’t seem the thing to say, at that moment and really, I had nothing else. I must tell him that straight girls and gay boys do girl-talk… and about him. That’ll rattle him.

Of course, he wanted Guido’s phone number.

SMS. 18.05. (N) 040x 1xx 2xx – Christian

I spoke to Manny who told me that it was 37 degrees in Melbourne today, 36 yesterday, 38 Friday and 39 Saturday, ooo! There go my plans for going home tomorrow, I suspected. 23 Sunday… maybe I’ll go home Sunday.

SMS. 21.02. I’m @ Bolago in the, apparent, cool. How was the isle? – Christian

SMS. 21.03. Fantastic… I’m as red as a choir boy’s moisty… ps two messages from Manny. He wants to know where u r and your mobile no? – Tim

SMS. 21.29. I just spoke to him. Gave him my mobile no for the umpteenth time. Must come down and smack his arse. Prob see you tomorrow – Christian

SMS. 21.30. Ok. C U then. May come out with u New Years… I don’t want to go to Raw Hide, not my scene x – Tim

I tried calling Tom, but he wasn’t answering. I haven’t spoken to him for a week, despite him leaving a message, bad Christian.

SMS. 21.46. (Tom) Miss? – Christian

I lay in the cottage and smoked pot and lay on my bed with only one candle burning. Michael Jackson (Off the Wall) and then Roberta Flack lulled me to a relaxed place. I so wanted to gaze at the sky and the stars outside, but it was too dark.

SMS. 22.01. (Tom) Been writing script. Lovely and cool here. Was coming home tomorrow, but now Manny has told me the temps in Melbourne, maybe I’ll come home Saturday. I’ll see. Haven’t decided. Did want to come home tomorrow, but being a petal with no aircon, scared I might melt – Christian

Note to self, get your fucking aircon regassed!

SMS, 22.06. (Shelly) Did you hang tinsel on it? I did. 10 metres – Christian

SMS. 22.12. (Rachel) So that’s it then? – Christian

SMS. 22.14. (Leah) Did you have yourself a merry little Xmas? – Christian

SMS. 22.52. All over bar the shouting – Rachel

SMS. 22.57. To next year, then – Christian

SMS. 22.57. Off 2 Adelaide 2morrow but Fabio limped home with a hole in his side, guts protruding, so now we sit & wait 4 operation result – Rachel

SMS. 23.04. I’m lying in the cottage with one candle burning listening to Roberta Flack. Very chilled. Good luck with the cat – Christian

I sms’d Rachel, Leah, Shelly, but not Jill. Don’t know why?

SMS. 23.12. (Jill) Are you melting yet? – Christian

Because she never answers… that’s why. I can hear Josh Gale saying, Turn it up, luv. Or put a new battery in it. You... you do it. Jill explained why she doesn’t answer her calls, because her new blackberry/gizmo phone has such a soft ring that unless she has it by her ear, she can’t hear it. She's tired everything to find the volume control, to no avail. Techno Jill.

(Ed note – Jill tossed her fully loaded, super blackberry out of the car window in Kingsway, watching cars pulverise it to nothing, after she missed yet another call regarding work contracts, because of its, apparently non-adjustable, soft ring tone. She’s back, happily, using her old Nokia) 

Is it only Wednesday? Yes, Wednesday? It is Wednesday, isn’t it? Yes it is, Wednesday. Wednesday, it is. Only Wednesday. Wednesday, all day. How lovely.

The sky is blue, the sun is shinning brightly and the garden shimmies, in all its glory, fair sparkling in the hot summer sun. Colours to the sky.

And it's only Wednesday. Did you know? Wednesday. Yes, Wednesday. Only Wednesday. It's only Wednesday. How about that? Wednesday. Just turned. Middle of the week. That's all it is. Wednesday.

sausage in the sun