I've realised that it is going to be rather hard to write my blog and keep it anonymous, away from prying eyes, with Josh around. He is smart and quick and inquisitive and if he spots me writing it, even for a milli-second, he'll be into it and reading the lot. He'll only have to catch a glimpse of the name and...

I love the freedom anonymity gives me. I don't want an audience of friends reading it, not for a second. Already, I'm beginning to modify what I might say about him, in my head, just on the off-chance.

Grrr!

But, I did change my home page from Blogger to Google, this morning, just to keep that much away from him, when he uses my computer. May be a little late, but better late than...

"Everyone is blogging," he said, after he checked his emails the first time.

I should have thought of that, before he got here.

Anyway... I'm off to the country.

Home is Where the Heart Is

You know, sometimes I look around my house, especially when the sun is setting and the day is drifting into night, when the light has become fragile at the panes of glass and it seems so still and quiet, contained and silent and it, almost, makes me feel sad. Not sad in a sad way, but sad in a reflective way. Melancholy, maybe, for all the things that have gone before, all the people I have known, all the good times and, yes, all the bad times - for all the things that have been.

I always wanted to live on my own, right from the very start, when I moved out of home and bought my first house. Tom still can't believe that I have never rented. I was fortunate to have had an old aunt, who despite having been married for thirty five years, was most probably a lesbian (Lottie had been reading up on the "gay" gene, at one stage, how it is, allegedly, passed down through the maternal side and came to the conclusion that my aunt was where I got mine from. Thanks Auntie, I love you even more because of it. I miss you, when I think about you like this) and who never had children, who left me enough money to buy myself a house. It didn't seem like such a big deal at the time, I didn't feel rich, or anything like that, but was more involved in finding a house that I could afford, which was, probably, the cheapest house in Fitzroy, at the time, but a house and mine. So, I guess I was lucky, even though I didn't think that way at the time. I was breaking out and discovering the world and that's what was on my mind, rather than reflecting on my good fortune.

Well, anyway, people turned up and flatmates need homes and friend's needed to congregate and I never ever did manage to live on my own, until now - which is kind of ridiculous, as my current house is twice as big as my first house, which would have been a much better proposition as a single person's dwelling, anyway...

Don't get me wrong, I've had the best time, the most fun and have had the most amazing friends because I shared my house and life. We all had more fun than any group of friends ever deserved to have. We loved, we laughed, we played, we talked, we fought, at times and we all, nearly, not quite, slept with one another. We scared new-comers, who didn't quite fit in, we embraced and loved those who did - some fitted into both categories, Tom ran from the house, on his first visit, but then became the main instigator in the scaring, eventually. It was a big party house, there for a time and we all partook, guided and cajoled... we got quite a reputation and a number of us had the strange experience, when we were out some place of being invited to a great party by a perfect stranger, which, as I'm sure you have guessed, turned out to be here.

Many a time some trade would utter, as his first words, as he was being led in, I've been here before.

I loved every minute of it and wouldn't change one, single second...... which is probably why my time on my own hasn't quite been the euphoric experience that I have harboured since my first days in Fitzroy.

When the sun is going down and the day has become brittle and I sit (purposefully) in my lounge room and drink in the quiet, I can still see all the faces and I can still hear all the laughter.

And I'm not really sure if I want to live on my own, any longer.

Anyway, my (rather long-winded) point is that I no longer am going to be living on my own. Josh lands on my doorstep tonight, after five years in Berlin, for a couple of months, at the least. He is hyperactive and naughty and I love him dearly.

And Mark called me earlier this week to say that our friend, David M, is heading to India and is looking for some where to live when he comes back, in a couple of months, for six months. Then today, David called me, when I was flat out and some how I found myself saying yes, to which David M practically squealed with delight and then said, I'd so love to live with you Chris, it would be for six months to a year, max. It will be great! (Suddenly, it is a year?) He's centred and spiritual and oozes calm and tranquility, (Even if most of his yoga students don't know he was once a filthy crystal addict, bottom, I do) which only makes me want to mess his hair and throw dirt on him.

And he who shall never be mentioned - one of my closest friends, who specifically forbade me to ever mention him in my journal that I have kept through all of the above mentioned times and which I, from time to time, threaten to publish - asked me months ago if he could move in...

which I had started to consider, just recently.

So, there goes the neighbourhood... here, take my hand, hang on tight, here we go again. Every thing will be grand.

And my house old mate, Simon, called today - I called his boyfriend, Bern, for car advice, yesterday - to say that we hadn't seen each other for three years - three fucking years, my how busy we all have got - and that I'd better get my arse over to his place on Sunday for a Xmas barby, as it had been far too long.

Is there something in the air... other than smoke?

Who is going to be next?

Or is that three?

Cancer Tom & Cancer Kylie

Tom's going into hospital today, for some tests, he has a lung problem. He & I went to Perry & Wesley's 8 year anniversary bbq and some guy named Brett's, from Adelaide, farewell to Sydney - he's been building up in the gym all year in preparation and, yes, he'll go down a treat in Sydney because of it - who apparently I have met before, but I couldn't remember him. Tall, dark and handsome, you'd think, would be immanently remember'able, but no. Every one's first words in reply to Tom's news, were, Of course, you have given up smoking? But no, Tom sat there all night and hacked his way through every cigarette. Through all of his cancer treatment and his lungs have always been a weak point, Tom has never given up. He hates being told to do anything and he has steadfastly refused to quit. The hospital wanted to admit him yesterday morning, but he refused.

Tom has Kylie tickets for Saturday night and he says no matter what he's going, even if it is with drip pole in hand. (I don't think so) He says that the St John's Ambulance, or whoever is providing medical back up, has had to be greatly increased due to the greatly increased numbers of cancer patients who are going to Kylie's concerts in a show of solidarity.

Tom said, that she wears so many feather boas so that no one can, actually, tell that she is singing through her trecioctomy.

Perry, who is a big Kylie fan, who went a few days ago, says that she is so lack lustre on stage, hardly moving much at all, apparently, that it is clearly evident that she is way down on energy to previous concerts, due to her illness. In fact, all the people last night, who had been to see her, (all big fans) all said that she is washed up. This is it, this must be her farewell concert, they said. It is over for her. They said the concerts were okay and the costumes and sets are faaabuuulous, but she was a mere shadow of her 2002 best.

Personally, I've always thought that "the singing budgie" was the best description of her talents.

Time to retire to Paris with your millions and your handsome boyfriend, Kyles. (Even if I predict that he'll dump her for a fully working model, you know, with ovaries, in the foreseeable future. That's the way it goes, sad but true)

It's over, babe.

And Now For a Real Singer...

Give Me An Inch...

Just looking back over my blog for the last week, or so, it all got a bit too gay, now didn't it. I was never going to be that sort of blogger. Hmmm, how did that happen? Maybe, I'd better take my camera out this weekend and make amends.

Note to self, go easy on the fag shit, Chris.

But before I do, Patti La Belle has a new cd out, The gospel according to Patti La Belle. (Squeal!)

 

Something to Chew On

Monday Night... and Everything is All Right

I gossip about frivolous things, but I never tell secrets that shouldn't be told. I can always keep secrets, I'm good at it, if I know I have to... because I learnt long ago that...

... my mouth gets me into trouble... big time! (I first learnt that when I was persecuted by my grade 6 teacher... I was too smart for him and he didn't like it. I ended up with shingles @ the age of 11) Too blunt, my boss said to me the other day, shaking his head. I say what I think.

People don't like that today, they mistake someone disagreeing, for rudeness. (They mistake passion for attitude)

I live on my own, so nobody cares if I flush the toilet; wash the dishes, clean the house or leave the place on a weekend. (I must get out more. I'm not at all sure that blogging is good for me.)

I'm never satisfied with my body, which is stupid, as we'll never be as good looking as we are today.

I'm going to buy a treadmill.

I don't care about people, necessarily, I'm good with my own company. People are stupid... mostly.

Rat-faced receptionists the lot of you. (until proven otherwise, of course)

I'm very laid back - a friend of mine said, you are so laid back, it must get uncomfortable with all that pressure on the top of my head.

I'm so the opposite of a control freak it is probably detrimental to my well being. Take more control over life, I say. Is it just my inherent laziness?

I'm rarely jealous of others - I share my life, my house and my boyfriends with ease... although the latter is in for reconsideration.

I must dump Manny... ah, beautiful Manny... so I can get some intelligent conversation in the evenings... you know, like a real boyfriend.

I'm a whinger only @ work... but that's because I'm so sick of people not doing their job properly. I hate it when I hear my voice whine, because I'm not, generally, like that. I hate that work does that to me.

I never leave the water running while I brush my teeth, but I cheat with the water restrictions. But I figure that I don't water nearly as often as I'm allowed to, so what difference does it make if I water during the day, instead of at night?

I think and analyse too much, at the expense of "doing." I am the world's worst procrastinator.

I judge people. But I don't care about being judged. Give it your best shot. (Be clever with it and I'll love it, no matter what you say)

I'm rarely offended... you'd have to be really going to do that.

I don't have any goals, dreams, I seem to have exhausted them all - oh yes, to be a published writer, I nearly forgot.

I've been feeling down this last week and several people have called my boss to ask if I was all right. "Chris is just not his usual bubbly self, is there something wrong."

Is there something wrong? (I've been sick, truthfully) Have you not been listening for the last, oh, year? Do some work you lazy cunts!

I have cynicism in bucket loads to spare - I have to work at being positive. People can't handle the truth.

I'm considering monogamy for my next boyfriend - it's time they can put up or shut up, keeping it special for the two of us suddenly has some appeal.

I've got my act together about a car. I've made two inquires about Peugeot 306 GTI6's. Yay for me.

I'm smoking too many cigarettes, yet again. How did that fcuking happen?

He who shall never be mentioned - you would have had to have been following very closely to understand - bought over 3 joints and we smoked them all.

Beach Boy

Bad Penny

I just have to make a comment on that, in my opinion, poisonous piece of slime, Pauline Hanson's threatened return to politics. My question is, how is a racist like her able to take a place on centre stage, in Australia, to spew her evil, mostly untrue, racist bile? Surely, the anti-vilification laws - which I don't agree with, just by the way, but in this case I'll make an exception - can be used to shut her vile mouth?

Even more disgusting, is the fact that she may be vilifying certain members of Australian society to a) earn money, on her past efforts she would stand to make, something like, $200,000, even if she looses at the next election, or b) she may be doing what she is doing now to generate publicity for her up coming memoirs, to be published shortly.

 

Boyfriends 2

top.............................................................................top
sexual power struggle...........................................wrestle for dominance
large and uncut.....................................large and cut
loves Beau.......................................smitten by Vince
open relationship...............................tag-teams young bottoms
laid back.......................................hyperactive
only play together

Plays, Bulges & Dance Parties

I was thinking about dance parties, as I strolled passed Fed Square, not really sure why. Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was the cute boys in the city - walking home after seeing Tomfoolery, which was very good, funny and satirical. How cute is Burt Labonte? (middle, picture below) For a moment there, I daydreamed about how he would look in my bed in the mornings, with sleepy eyes, as my boyfriend - maybe it was the sense of fun that the play produced, maybe just because it was Saturday night and I was heading home... and not heading out.

I've realised, just lately, that I've become a terrible crotch watcher. I'm not sure when this particular new turn started? But I have. I'm wondering if men's jeans/pants are cut differently to how they once were, as I never used to be like this, in the past. This is a new revelation. But men now a days seem to have much fuller crotches than they once did, or that I remember. The interesting thing is that blokes pick up on it, where I was once of the opinion that men only noticed women, they didn't notice what other men were doing. But they do - I guess there is greater emphasis place on the size of the bulge than there once was. They react in interesting ways - mostly I find they smile, more of a quizzical grin than a smile of recognition, but a smile none the less - pleased that their manhood is getting the recognition that it so rightly deserves. My personal favourite is the ones who look down just to check how impressive their bulge actually is. Some guys stare back, in a kind of wanton, I love it when some one looks at my cock, kind of way. Men are very cock-centric, straight or gay.

But I digress... dance parties?

A guy I knew, Neil, I'm not really sure what to call him - really an acquaintance, the boyfriend of a great friend - wore a T-shirt to one dance party that said, Good girls deserve rape. The evil, rat-faced little bitch, who deservedly died of AIDS some years later, wondered why, late in the night, he was held by one boyfriend, in a dark corner of the dance floor, while the other boyfriend shoved his finger, forcibly, up his arse.

Shane wore a T-shirt to another dance party that said, Bob a head-job, he found that guys were making him suck their cocks all night. He said to me at the end of that particular night, that he was on a personal best for how many cocks he got in his mouth for the night.

But the outfit that I wore to another dance party, sure opened my eyes. My mate Andrew and I went to one Red Raw in matching, private boy's school uniforms. Andrew and I looked very similar, both with dark hair and green eyes, like we could have been brothers, people used to all comment on the fact. (In fact, we introduced each other as brothers there for a time) Dressed in identical outfits and being particularly baby-faced (at the time) and, even if I say so myself, both quite handsome, we caused quite a stir, let me tell you. (Because of the outfits, you understand) I have to say that there are a lot of men, out there, in all age groups, who have really serious school boy fantasies.

Not only were we propositioned by many, many men, we were proposition in the filthiest way you can possibly imagine. These guys not only hit on us, they gave us lurid detail of what exactly they wanted to do to us and what they wanted us to do to each other. At times it was a feeding frenzy, I kid you not. I'm really not exaggerating. I have my fare share of propositions when I've been out, but I can't imagine that it is in any greater number than any other boy about the place, but that night... jasus!

The other thing that also got a lot of these guys going was when we told them we were actually brothers - a little trick that Andrew and I played on more than one occasion - and then pashed each other, or slipped our hands down each other's pants, that little show always made the punter's tails wag, let me tell you. Gay men have serious brother fantasies too, don't be mistaken.

One gorgeous guy, dressed only in Calvin Klein's, with muscles to spare, who was particularly smitten with us - he told us that it was love at first sight and that he'd do any thing to get us into his bed (I think he even offered us money) - practically spoofed in his pants when we told him we were, actually, brothers and then made out in front of him. At the risk of being a little too tacky with the detail, as I kissed Andrew, I slid my finger up his arse, which made him moan (and go all floppy) in that hot way he always did. Calvin Klein man slipped his hand down Andrew's pants too, just to be sure that my finger was truly inserted. The bar in his jocks, after that performance, was saturating his white underwear with pre-cum, by the time we had finished.

Andrew and I ran away to dance, after that, leaving him begging us not to leave him.

We took each other home, in the morning, not taking up any of the many offers that came our way... and... I'm sure you can guess what we did all day.

I Think I Can, I Think I Can...

Oh I am so wrecked. After partying with Tim and Nicholas, Sophie and Jenny, all night, I got home at 7am, or at least, I was lying in my bed at 7am. I so wanted to transport Manny over, with a wiggle of the nose like Samantha Stevens, or have him appear in a pink mist like I dream of Jeanie, so I could slide my hands into his jocks and lick his body until we both fell asleep. I called him and slurred down the phone, When you wake up, jump straight into a taxi and get your arse over here.

I think I was asleep five minutes later, so it was a good thing he didn't, me sleeping like the dead and all.

Now I've got to get myself to the concert hall by 4pm to see a play, Tomfoolery, with Lottie. I feel exceptionally plain. Just fucked! I'm okay, if I don't move. My mouth is like the Sahara.

Manny's just called, apparently, he couldn't understand what I said on the message. All I heard was something about a taxi, he said.

Get over here, I demanded. (Before I throw all of my toys out of the toy box) I need to do things to you. (I know I've got that tension building up in me, that only Manny can dissolve)

There was a brief pause and then his voice came back all husky and low. I've just organised to go to the gym with Stuart. He's had an argument with his boyfriend and needs some company. (Good for him)

I'm beginning to forget what you look like.

Manny laughed.

What time will you be home from the play, his voice said, silky smooth.

About 7, I guess.

I'll be there by then, he said. I need you... too.

Good boy, I said. Correct answer.

So, do I walk to the concert hall, as I usually would, hoping like hell the exercise might just clear my head. Or, do I wimp it and catch a tram, it is as hot as hell out there today, after all.

So, it's on with my vintage Adidas Romes and out the door. Wish me luck.

 

Burn Baby Burn

The city is covered in a pall of grey/white smoke. You can see it and taste it. It gives everything an eerie, almost translucent glow. (Paul up Late is right, it would have been a great day to take photos)

The high country is alight, with several fronts expected to join up into a 100 kilometre fire front, some time over the weekend. Some say it could burn all summer and that by the time it is finished 25% of the state could have been burned, from the middle, east to the coast at the pointy bit. We haven't seen conditions like this since witches-tit Friday, way back in 39, oh how the old timers will be able to reminisce.

Linking?

Am I a complete idiot - I'm not, I can show you my pieces of paper - but I just don't get the linking thing. I'd like to link to the blogs I read and like, but it all seems too difficult. It makes me feel like I need a degree in IT. Is it as hard as it appears to me? Or am I just stupid? (Be kind)

Manny's Nipples

It's not a good photo, I know, just taken with my phone. But they are the nipples I like to... well... (blush) big smile.

I had to cut his cock off, even though I was tempted not to, as it is my very favourite thing, but there are somethings that, maybe, I just want to keep for me.

Xmas Party

Oh, my head should be hurting, I drank an awful lot, it's a good thing that I don't get hangovers. Lunch was at midday, I think I got home at 9pm - it was still light, anyway. My head should be hurting and while it's not, I don't feel great. The shakes? No, I wouldn't say that I have the shakes, exactly. Maybe, a slight internal tremor. A little buzz in my system, maybe and not, particularly, in a good sense.

Cute (gay) Michael sat next to me and we drank beer, one for one, with me pushing the numbers up and him complying - just how I like my boys to be. I had squid and the fish of the day and tirimisu. It was a lovely lunch and a gorgeous day.

Cute Steve sat opposite me - and for all you racist idiots (although, even differentiating here, is kind of racist, in itself) there is a hot Asian boy - who has just changed from IT to Finance, my boss, Rebecca, sat next to him. We didn't stop talking the whole lunch. I flirted with Michael, just a bit, which, I'm sure, Rebecca picked up on. No, she did. Michael has the most gorgeous smile - for all you boys who are bought to your knees with a sexy smile.

We all went drinking afterwards, naturally, at some Irish pub.

I raved with gorgeous Luke, I am so attracted to him. He said he wanted to sit next to me at lunch, that I was his favourite, but it didn't work out that way. (He was quite tanked by then) I wanted to lick him, when he said that. (Let me just say here, for the record, that one of my golden rules, vows, if you like, is that I never hit on straight boys and I never do, no matter what I might say here in the privacy of my own blog. If we want straight boys to respect us, we must remember that it is a two way agreement) He is sooo adorable, smart, interesting, passionate, handsome, I could talk to him for hours. (I 'd marry him in an instant, he has perfect boyfriend written all over him, in my eyes, except for...) At one stage, I said something about a pretty girl and he responded like it would make any difference to me, which was the first time he and I have hit the me-being-gay territory. Then we talked about that and politics and drugs. I said we should take ecstasy together and he hi-fived me and said he'd love to... on a hill, looking at the stars. Jasus! I thought, when he agreed, the before mentioned agreement withstanding, I'm not sure that I could be trusted to keep my hands to myself, if Luke and I got trashed on drugs together. No, no, of course I could, he says nervously.

Michael told me about how his boyfriend didn't understand him and how his relationship with, I shall call him, Justin, wasn't so good, which was the first time he and I have openly discussed our gayness together. He basically said that he was staying in it because they owned a house together. Well, I told him what I thought about that and he agreed. However, a short time later, he left, kind of suddenly and a number of people wondered if he was okay, as he looked kind of upset. Oops, I thought, I hope I didn't cause that. But, he'd drunk beer with me over lunch and then he'd changed to spirits, at the pub and I noticed him hitting them back real hard, as I chatted to Luke. So, he was pretty smashed, which could have been the reason he left, which, after all, was the reason I left myself, not long after that.

I staggered up Little Lonsdale Street, maggotted. (My spell checker wants to change this to faggoted, is there such a word? Weren't we all faggoted at birth, at conception?) If I thought about it and I consciously tried not to, I had the feeling that I just wasn't going to make it, too far, too drunk. So, it was stare at my feet time, one foot in front of the other, think about nothing else. If I tried to focus on anyone else, I could feel the mongoloid expression tight across my face, like quick drying cement.

Manny called, not long after I got home and true to how the sound of Manny's voice always makes me feel, all the alcohol went straight to my cock and I soooo wanted him to come over. I was promising him the world, I think even marriage. (Oh the demon drink) Even money, for a taxi and not his body, you understand. His voice just got lower and more husky, which always drives me nuts - in a good way, as only he can. But he didn't come, it was too late for public transport, despite me getting a number of pregnant pauses from him, which is always the sign that I've just about got him hooked. Damn him not having a car. Even talk of his sexy Greek-boy nipples, didn't get him here, my fail safe - when I have his nipples between my fingers, he is completely under my control, I can get him to do anything. Now, if I'd only had a proxy, to lift his shirt and squeeze them tenderly, he'd have been at my place, guaranteed.