The Sun Sets on Josh's Time Here

The gorgeous Royal Park. It should be a national treasure and not earmarked by conservative politicians to have a freeway exit put through it

In Through the Out Door

Josh left. He just grumped at me when I asked him if he'd washed the sheets, jokingly, not expecting him to have, as he whirled around trying to get every thing done, before the taxi arrived at 6pm. “Give me some fucken credit,” he said. “Washed, folded and dried.”
He left forty dollars on the kitchen bench for the bills. "Since you keep going on about it, he said."
I asked once... just to needle him, sure, but only once. That's what it's got to. He's so stingy with his money, any mention of it sends him into a spin. I worked them out this morning, they came to about ninety dollars each. He never paid the last of his rent. I didn't ask about that and strangely, he didn't mention it.
We just stood in the kitchen in the remaining minutes before the taxi arrived and had very little to say to one another. How long had he been here? Five months.
He arrived a friend, botted off me non-stop and left a... judgement reserved. See ya, buddy. One day?
I had my hair cut, finally. Yey! Well, it was either that or curlers. Ha, ha. I like it long, but it's too hard to manage. It was about three weeks over due. I had to go back to my old hairdresser, as my new hairdresser, by default – he-who-can't-be-mentioned left the salon and went back to teaching – is moving, from Fitzroy, because a needle exchange is opening up directly across the street. They can't have that, oh no, no, no. It's no surprise to me the owner lives in Templestowe.
I introduced myself as Christian Fletcher speaking to the old hairdresser who, halfway through the appointment booking said, "Is this Chris from xxxx?"
"Yes, Tony, it is."
"What's with the serious voice? I didn't recognise you."
"I'm at work," I said. "I guess that must be my work voice."
"I know Chris from xxxx, not Mr Fletcher," he laughed. "Don't use the other voice again, it's intimidating." We both laughed. I didn't realise I had a work voice.
He has a new apprentice who is amazingly handsome. He's a grunge boy with tats up his arm. Black hair, dark features, gorgeous smile. He wears his jeans under his arse, exposing his pert, round butt. The cops told him to pull his pants up, late last Friday on the street. When he and his mate – I didn't get a gay vibe or a straight vibe from him – mumbled fuck off under their breath the coppers arrested him for drunk and disorderly and locked him up for a few hours. My, my, it is conservative times that we live in, to be sure.
The apprentice lifted the back of his black t-shirt, cheekily. "See, it's not so bad."
"No, not bad at all," I said. Very nice, I thought.

Shane came over and got the key. He moves in today. Next! He looks shell-shocked, but, then again, he and Mark W have been together for five years, so it’s pretty much to be expected.
“I’m just going to bring my clothes over,” said Shane. “I just have to get out of there. I have to get away from Mark. I just need to get out.” He looked exhausted.
Shane's an aggressive bottom, so I guess we'll have a procession of big blokes through here, in the next little while, giving him comfort.

Me, David and Shane, being house buddies, it’ll be fun.

A Night on the Couch

Manny is going through a weird period. He's not happy. His poisonous, born again Christian mother is on his case, which always depresses him. You're going to hell, you know that don't you, she says. For your wicked lifestyle choice.

How many valium he takes is in direct response to how often he sees his mother.

He said, Thursday night, that he had someone else interested in him and he didn't know what to do. You know, because I can't commit to him. I guess that is supposed to make me sweep him up in my arms and tell him he's mine forever.

You do what you have to do, Man, I said.

I think commitment develops over time. I don't think giving it a title makes it any more real or any more permanent, or any more committed. It is what it is. It is about two people who want to be with each other, who, pretty much, only have eyes for each other. That is the two of us. But, because I won't give it an official label, because I won't call it something, will you marry me, Manny still thinks of it as temporary. I've been with him for 4 years, I've been monogamous with him for about three years. He says it is the longest relationship he's had.

But if you want to be boyfriends... you know Manny, you would have to, actually, step into my life, from time to time. Like tonight, Manny called and asked if I was sober. I'd only had one joint with David, we were watching The Note Book - American schmaltz. David said it was one of his favourite movies. I laughed at it's corniness.

Sure I am Man. Where are you?

I'm just around the corner.

Come over.

If I come over can you drive me home?

I'm watching a movie. I was in track suit pants. I was on the couch with a rug over me and a cushion. I was in my bunny slippers. There was another joint in my sights.

I thought we could go to my place, he said.

Come over here and watch the rest of the movie with me, I'll cuddle you and make you forget you angst and I'll drive you home after.

Can't you come to my place?

Well sure, after the movie.

I just want to get home, replied Manny. Just you and me.

Come over here.

Nah, I'll call you tomorrow.

Okay, see ya.

And he was just around the corner.

David and I smoked what was left of the pot watching Big Brother, the games and Up late. We cooked pesto pasta and ate yogurt. We watched the search for the new Pussycat Doll, against my better judgement, as David has been living being a new pussycat doll all week, since watching the show last Friday. He's been breaking into one of their routines on whim, all week, all over the house. The answer I got to the washing machine problem last weekend was, I bet you wish your girlfriend was hot like me...

autumn leaves

Autumn at Last

The leaves have started falling, finally. It seemed weird that we are nearly at the end of autumn and the leaves are still hanging onto the branches, grimly. But, they were starting to blow up Bourke Street in gusts of wind, today. It was kind of lovely, a living carpet of triangular leaves floating above the concrete, swirling one way and whooshing another. They floated across my feet, drifted around my ankles and then were gone again.

I think autumn is my very favourite time of year. Even late. I must go down to Fitzroy Gardens and watch the yellow fall across the sea of green, watch the black branches of the elms start to appear, watch the world fall slowly away to the sparseness of winter.

Big coats, scarves, maybe gloves... er... maybe not. Feel the bite of cold on my face, feel that certain kind of alive that only crisp, clear mornings give.

I love the seasons, I love the change. It's true, I care less for summer now that it is becoming so hot and if it wasn't for the dark, maybe, winter could be my favourite. Although, it is hard to beat the colour of autumn or the awakening that comes with spring. Maybe, it is these in between seasons that I like the best?

 

Cute, adorable really. What a sweet face. I'd so like to run my hands through his hair

Audit Guy # 4

The auditors are in, it's that time of year. We have two, usually, who turn up every year. Every few years one moves on and the other moves up, to lead the new fole, all dough-eyed and eager. There's been the good looking athletic, blokey type with the nerdy protege. Then the nerdy one lead the new sweet Indian one, whose chatty, with a dry whit. The latest protegae is Peter. But I chatted to the sweet Indian boy for the first day, he's very cool. He's the sort of guy you feel as though you have always known.

I've got a new guy, Harnesh said. You'll meet him later.

He talked football with Rachel. They are both from Geelong, so, naturally, they are crazy Geelong supporters.

Then today. Cough, cough. Hi I'm Peter. Dark hair, fair skin, a couple of pimples. Blue eyes, like shattered glass. He looked like Tom Cruise, twenty years ago. Big, white shinny teeth. High cheek bones. Dark eyes. Big chest. Nice waiste.

The view is fantastic, he said. Just breath taking.

Yes, it is, I said. The bay is beautiful, it has such different moods.

I bet you get that a lot?

When we first moved to these offices we got told that a lot.

I bet you did, he said. Big smile. Bright eyes, blue. Black hair, my very favourite, I thought.

We wanted to put a sign up saying, Yes, we've seen the view, can we move on, I said.

He laughed. He had gorgeous eyes when he laughed, sparkly. He nearly batted them at me.

We're used to it now, said Rachel.

It's nice to sit back occasionally and just take it in, I said. It's good for the soul.

It's natural light, said Peter. You should be in an internal office. He rubbed his eyes like a three year

old. You end up like... he said. Big smile. We all laughed. He caught my gaze.

He spoke so well. Private school. Have to be. I’m your new auditor, Peter.

God, your gorgeous, I thought.

He was glad to meet us. Shook our hands. Nice and big. He made eye contact. Nice and warm.

He talked a lot, described the process. He spoke precisely. Clearly, kind of practised, but still with a little innocent charm. His eyes twinkled.

He needed recs from Rachel. She did them. He focused on her, intently.

He was solid. Built like a football player. Nice shape. Nice bulge. Big dick. Big package.

He was looking at me, as I looked up. Pretty face. He couldn’t help but smile. He blushed and looked away. He couldn’t hide that I’d noticed. He looked back. He couldn’t help but smile. He widen his eyes and came out of character, just for a second, by nodding his head like he was interested. Just momentarily. Gone immediately. That nod said, I have got a big cock.

He looked back at Rachel. She was asking him what samples he wanted. What was the criteria?

He looked sideways several times. Flirting, was he?

Did he want to pick them, or could we just pick them at random. We could pick them at random. He could pick with Rachel, that was fine. It didn’t matter who picked. He was polite and charming. He said twenty five, at some stage. He smiled a lot. Three months worth. Same forensic drill. Small samples, just for an initial report.

Black pants. Nice arse, solid. Stood squarely. He seemed kind of distracted after that and kept looking in my direction, smiling, picking up on any thing I said.

If the initial report was 100% there may not be any need for further testing. He wasn't sure. Harnesh would decide.

I smiled back. I sat back and watched him.

So are we 100%, I asked.

So far. Sweet smile.

Whatever you want to check, I'm not afraid, I said. There's no other way to be than organised.

So every thing was okay? asked Rachel.

Every thing was great, he said. We found every thing.

Aren’t people like this every where?

No, he said. Crooked smile.

Rachel got him his files and I gave him a lift with the excess ones, back to his desk. He looked back when I returned to my office. I smiled back at him. He blushed again.

He came in a bit later said that there was one thing he was having trouble with. We both helped him with a complicated formula. He was charming. He caught me checking him out a couple of times. He has dimples when he smiles.

He came over later and thanked us. I’m back he said. Smiling with the usual twinke.

Did we pass? I asked.

Why, yes. Of course, said Peter, politely. You passed with flying colours.

Thanks for every thing, said Rachel.

I'll do some more testing in the morning, he said. Half a day.

He was hot. He stood in our office doorway, smiling. Thick thighs. Bigger bulge in profile, like a football guard pushing out from inside. Tasty package.

The tax accountant came into our office. Rachel, sorry. Can I have those figures.

He was looking right at me, as I looked up.

Very nice to meet you, he said, blushing. Eyes ablaze, coming out of character, as Rachel was distracted. He shook my hand firmly, like he didn't want to let go. See you tomorrow, he said, just a little breathily. He let go of my hand. Coughed. Tomorrow. He smiled. He held my gaze as he walked away. Eyes blazing.

Mark and Luke bought the washing machine over. I did two loads. It leaked water on the floor. Great! But at least it works. We watched Big Brother with David and his Mark. When Josh said that he’d met a Manny, at Comfest, I said you’ve got to be joking. He wasn’t joking but he didn’t want to see Comfest Manny again. Just as fucken well, I thought. I'm not sure if I believe what Josh says.

Gay boy Nick went into Big Brother. I tell ya, I think Zoran is a fag. His ears pricked up the moment Nick walked in. He’s the one who makes all the gay comments. He always say he wants to hug the other guys. Sure, In jest, but it still seems to always be him.

Zoran's hot. Pretty. I’d like to see him snog another guy.

We ate Indian and David and his Mark went to his Mark’s house, after Big Brother. They had a fight and, maybe, have broken it off.

Mark and Luke left early, well, early for them, they are not 9 to 5’ers. Luke rolled quite a few joints.

I was pie-eyed watching the Catherine Tate Show.

 

Getting a Little Precious?

Grant Denyer responds to being asked about an exhausting week with the line,

"I feel like I've had sex with a black man."

And he's branded sexist, racist and homophobic? His comments were described as deplorable, pandering to negative stereotypes and that he should be referred to the broadcasting watch dog. We're getting a little precious, aren't we?

He was saying that he felt more fucked than he ever has, like he'd been rogered with a big cock.

Please guys, let's stick to derogatory remarks that are truly hate filled and leave humour out of it.

I kind of see it as a compliment, if I see it as any thing at all. The act that would tire him out the most would be sex with another man and that the man who would tire him out the most would be the man with the biggest cock.

He also said, "I'll be the host who looks like he's been riding a horse for a week." Now maybe all the horses in the world should take out anti-vilification law suits.

If anything, I see the criticism as homophobic. The good politically correct folk of this world don't want homosexual'esque comments to become the norm in polite conversation?

I mean, that is all very simplistic, but let's save our outrage for people who are really filled with hate.

 

Shopping for Men

I bought Manny some black jocks, when I was shopping, in Myer. Not that I’m that sort of boyfriend usually, but I couldn't resist. As I was standing in front of the briefs display, admiring all of the muscle-bound, undressed pictures, I couldn’t help but picture him in some of them. You see, Manny is a boxer shorts kind of boy, but, his arse and the tops of his thighs are just made for tighter jocks than boxers. I love the hair in the small of his back above his round, firm cheeks. I love the hair escaping under the elastic from his abdomen, spreading out across his stomach.

I was only looking for socks, myself – the ongoing quest of having socks with no fucking holes! Brave new international trade world? Yeah, right. Just give me a pair of socks that will last longer than six months! But it’s funny what the power of advertising will do, hey? My eyes were drawn to the colourful muscle bound, near naked pictures.

I used to have a boyfriend – the Italian one – who couldn’t buy undies without getting so turned on that he’d need to have sex, afterwards. I always think of him when I’m in the jocks section, funny hey? It was exciting going undies shopping with him, let me tell you. Even if we were looking for shoes, or tap washers, or ant poison, if I was able to steer him to the men’s jocks, he’d be captivate, like a kid in a lollie shop. And then he’d look angsty, like he didn’t know where to look and then he’d morph into toey, kind of restless, till he’d finally whisper in my ear, Let’s get out of here. I’d steer him there without saying a word and then it was like magic. I’d just watch his face turn from open and sunny to focussed and serious. He’d almost scowl with the concentration visible on his forehead.

The undies section still holds a certain, what shall I say, special place in my heart… well, not exactly my heart, because of Lauri. I can’t walk passed without thinking of him, without memories flooding my brain.

We did it in a city alley way in the middle of the day, in the labyrinth somewhere behind Myers – ah, what the hell, we were just kids back then – after one undies buying foray. That was hot.

Ah boyfriends – their smell, their taste, their physical presence, the funny things that stay with you. I can still remember what was unique to each of them, with just a whiff of a memory. Those small things that stay with you, I love those things.

I don’t know if anyone else does this, but I can still feel what each of their hands felt like in mine, even Alex. His hand was fine and bony, like there was no extra fat on it and he held my hand tight, like he was in control. Antony’s – I don’t think I’ve ever spoken about him on here before. There is too much sadness surrounding him (one day I'll write about him) – was long and he used to hold his hand over mine, so often, backwards. Lauri’s was big and fleshy and warm. Mark’s was/is exactly the same size as mine and he’d hold my hand gently, like the connection was something precious. Luke and I hold hands like brothers, kid brothers. Manny holds my hand tightly, like he is never going to let go. His hand is dry with smooth skin.

Alex would lead. I’d lead Antony. Lauri and I would take it in turns, depending. Mark and I were kind of equal, side by side. I’d lead Luke, more often than not. Manny and I kind of wrestle, in a sense, for lead place.

And… laugh… that kind of describes our sexual roles, too. It’s funny to think of it that way, because there is some truth in it.

I got Manny black trunks, the kind with the longer leg and a defined pouch at the front. I got him three pairs. One pair has a kind of arrow of material pointing down to his bulge, like it needs any kind of high light. I can’t wait to see him in them. I’m tempted to drive over to his place, right now, to get him to model them for me.

Skin like chamois that disappears all the way down the crack in his arse. Don’t you like them fast, hard and fast. Willing to let it all hang out to pass the time in the day. Something to do so boredom doesn’t take them away. Not minding where they leave their card, or their scent by the yard. In your yard, on your furniture, kitchen bench, after the two of you have sparred. All the more fun to remember their claim, on your life and your time, it isn’t a crime to want to indulge in the pleasures of the sublime. It’s friendly, it’s nice, it’s what gives life spice. Let go, drop your trousers, and take it slow, if that is really the way you have to go. 

Oh Come On Boys!

I'm having a washing machine drama; the old girl finally has packed it in. It wouldn't completely drain of water. And then it wouldn't drain at all; the bowl was full of water at the end of the wash, which is a pretty good sign the thing is cactus. I've had to syphon it out with a hose; the times I watched my father take petrol from the car for the lawn mower, when I was a kid, came in handy, after all.

Not to worry, help was at hand. Mark got me another washing machine and all I had to do was lift the old one into the car and go fetch the new one.

Easy! Well, I couldn't do it on my own...

At the risk of promoting negative gay boy stereotypes, I shall continue... knowing full well that I just had the wrong selection of queers in attendance. (Mark is now going to bring it down on his own, Wednesday)

In the middle of draining the machine of water and replacing the tap washer, there were three muscle bound gay boys, gym heads the lot of them, present. Pumped. Toned. Fine, physical, specimens of men. So, naturally, I thought I had it in the bag.

First, we had to deal with the grime that had built up behind the machine over the, how many, years? There was no point letting eight feet shuffle that up the hallway carpet. The spilled water had now mixed with the dust and it had turned it to grey sludge. Mixed in was old soaped powder box rips, wire, bits of card, a couple of soap scoops, paper clips, miniature cake of soap remains, biros, sticks, flea collars, clothes pegs, mouth guards, cotton, wax, scissors, cotton wool buds, dental floss and nail clippings.

Two gay boys looked as though they wanted to faint, as I mopped the dust, water slime and tat into my pan.

"OMG!" said one.

The other clutched his throat. (I kid you not... and I'm not talking about effeminate boys)

"It's only dust," I said. "It's just got wet, that's all."

"Get the disinfectant," said one, as the other's face screwed into a grimace.

"It's just wet dust... predominately!"

I cleaned up the grime quickly, as Biff and Chuck went green and appeared unsteady on their feet.

"All we have to do is move it out the front to the car and lift it in."

"How heavy is it?" said one.

"I'm not good with this sort of stuff," said another, rubbing his muscle bound arms, protectively.

"Why the hell do you guys go to the gym, anyway?" I asked incredulously.

Truly, they looked at me like I had just lost the plot completely.

"Because I want to look good," offered one tentatively. The other nodded in agreement.

 

Wog Boy hair, just the best to run your hands through. I tell you, there is nothing quite like it, as it is good for what ails you. You want to de-stress, find yourself a wog boy and slide your fingers into his locks, thick and strong and full of more body than the local collective gym buddies. I'm an expert on it, with Leigh, and Lauri and Carmine, but not Manny, his always had so much product in it it was set like a rock.

Day Dreams

There is a beautiful Greek boy, John, who works in my office. He's handsome, athletic, with a tendency to smile. He's gorgeous; late twenties, just got married. I have to be careful when I look at him, I have to keep my eyes focused on his face, because if they drift away from his handsome smile, or his beautiful eyes, I find I'm checking him out, before I know it. What a sexy man! And, what a nice person he is, too. Sweet, friendly, easy going. He is just one of those lovely men, interested and interesting.

Sometimes we have to work together on stuff, like yesterday. I had just been talking to Manny before John came into my office. Manny had been talking dirty to me.

John was talking to me about something and I was imagining what he would feel like in my arms, feeling Manny as if he was John. I could feel his breath on my face, like I do when Manny kisses me. I could taste his sweet, warm lips on mine... just as sweet as my own Greek boy.

I was reaching down to the button on his pants...

"Chris... Chris," he said. "Where have you wandered off to?"

"Oh, um?" Refocusing on his gorgeous, sweet face, feeling the hard-on in my pants. Manny's face suddenly morphing into John's - being quite amazed at the small journey I had just been on. "Oh, no where? John?" Laugh. Shake my head again."You wouldn't believe me, um... if I told you." I could feel the sweat beading on my forehead... as I squeezed my legs together, enjoying the feeling of pressure there.

Quizzical look. "So, did you get all of that?" said John

"Yes." Shake of my head. "Sure. Sure." Smile. "I think I got a pretty good idea..."

He smiled back. "Good." He smiled again.

I smiled at him.

View From My Office

Love And Old Watches

After my father died, five years back, my mum gave me 2 antique Rolex watches that were his. He hadn't worn them for years and he only had them because the tropical island on which he lived, where he and mum met, was duty free, or tax free. Speaking of love, which I have read about on a few blogs just lately, what a way to meet? My father had another girlfriend and my mother, initially, told him she wasn't interested, but he wooed her under the palm trees by the Pacific Ocean.

The watches had languished in a draw for, well, many years, as mum, dad and the island were back in the days before they were married. So naturally, I had a look on the internet to see if I could see what they were worth. Don't get me wrong, I have no intention of parting with them and would, in fact, wear them if I wore watches any longer.

Counting those two, I have seven watches that I don't wear. I had quite a thing for watches once, but some how I got out of the habit of wearing them and, of course, I now use my phone for the time.

I just wanted to see if I could see watches like them, for interest sake.

Ever since, I have been receiving spam emails about antique watches. I do wonder what is the point of them sending me this stuff? I understand it costs them nothing and that I should never respond. But why?

Having said that, the spam emailers don't know that they give me a reason to think of my father, every time they send me a new email. I got three of the stupid things today.

Sometimes, I get those watches out and hold them in my hand and think of my dad, quietly, silently, on my own. I can almost hear the crash of the waves on the beach, I can almost see young lovers under the fronds of the coconut palms.

I remember my dad. I miss him, you know. He was the greatest. There was nothing he couldn't do. I think of my mum and the life she lead, now ticked away like those old watches, lonely and sad and on her own. It breaks my heart.

Is love ultimately about having your heart broken... if you live long enough? The ultimate reward for a long and happy relationship?

 

3rd of May

Sunshine and rainbows,

the rain washed the day

feel the cool, winter is on its way.

Big lightening, big thunder

our lives are ebbing away

I can't believe it is the 3rd of May.

Into bed

rest my head

it is what I do best, as I've always said.

As I Begin to Drag My Knuckles Around on the Ground

I've got to get some exercise back into my life, I'm beginning to feel it, when I get up. 

Er?

Not exactly coming into the months known for sportiness. Oh, the dark?

Where did the daylight savings go?

I'd better join the gym? Ha, ha. Go watch all the straight boys grunting and sweating.

Then go watch them in the change room towel drying themselves from the wetting.

I guess they know that we look at them, check 'em out, see who's packing, and who's got naught.

It's all true, worst fears realised for the homophobes, we've checked you with your knickers down, don't you worry about that.

Looking at Girl's Bits

Just recently, it has occurred to me that I look at woman's breasts, I don't seem to be able to help it. Especially if they have a nice pair, or if they are out and exposed. I know this is a very strange thing for a gay boy to do, but my eyes just go there, automatically. I find, if I'm not careful, I'm looking down at a girl's tits when she is talking to me, before I know it, just like you always hear them complain about straight boys. Perhaps, it is the latent het boy struggling to come out. Ha, ha!

Rachel, who I work with, sits to my right. We're great mates, we've worked together for years. But because of the angle on which she sits and because of the way girl's shirts button up, I often find my eyes look down and at the gap that, is so often, exposing her chest, when we chat. It's crazy, but my eyes do it without me thinking.

What sort of crap gay boy is Chris, she must think.

Sometimes, I have to deliberately stare out of the window to stop my eyes from wandering.

It's not a sexual thing, really, it's just an observational thing. I just look, no intent what so ever.

Girl's breasts must drive, more interested, straight boys nuts, is all I can conclude.

I wonder if I have always done it?