Aloe Vera

I think I'm addicted to Aloe Vera juice. I don't know if it is any good for me, but I like it. I don't know if I'll develop green skin, grow gills, or gain a V on my forehead. If in fact the juice was even green. Just the bottle's green, in a trick of modern marketing, to give the perception that the juice is green. Whichever, I have developed quite a taste for it.

I love all the little boy's foreskins floating around in it, just waiting to be chewed. Now I know what happens to all the little snippings once the bandages have been wrapped around their tiny little pee-wee knobs.

But I think, it is the name that makes me laugh the most. Can't you see it, Shirley is in the bingo hall setting up for the big match, starting in five minutes. She has always played with her life long school friend, who is notoriously late. Shirley checks her watch, adjusts her head scarf and fiddles with her pearl earrings. It's about to start, when she hears the familiar clip clop of her friends high heals. She adjusts her scarf and looks around and smiles when she sees her friend approach.

'ello Vera, she says warmly.

Pains and Pseudo Doctors

I've had pains in my throat and up my Oesophagus for the past few weeks, actually since I've been quitting smoking. It has only started since I have tried to quit. Except for those rare days when I had smoked far too much. Same feeling, nearly, almost.

Now I have quit every thing it seems to be worse, painful. More so when I think about it. Fine in the morning, after I've rested, getting progressively worse during the day. I turned down Shane's pot Sunday night. And last night. I just figure I have to, let my body finally repair.

So I went to the chemist - the same chemist who said I should get some antibiotics when my elbow was infected, who I didn't listen to, when I ended up in hospital - rather than just assuming I knew that it was the withdrawal/repair thing and short of going to all the effort of going to the doctor, the chemist is in my building. I said I wanted some ant acid and she agreed that it is probably "the repair" starting to kick in.

"If it lasts too long, you will need to go to your doctor."

Oh, there you go again, making predictions. I wish you wouldn't, I thought. I was happy with every thing you had said up until this point.

She smiled the smile of a killer - someone who is steadfast in their ideas and knowledge, who enjoys an expert position over others. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"Um, no thanks."

"Okay then." She stood and held her gaze on me.

She's kind of pretty, I thought. In a big, buxom, blokey sort of way. Bright eyes, dark curly hair, nice skin, tall, solid. You'd have made a good bloke, I thought. You'd be missing a dick, I assumed.

"So, nothing else I can do for you?"

Show me your dick, I thought, stifling a laugh. I looked at her, her expression having become fixed, almost strained. Smile of a killer. Time to go Christian. Move I told myself.

"Um, er, no. No thanks," I said.

I picked up my nasal spray (the same one that has rotted my gums, well, no, not really, from all reports that was probably the smoking too) and my Savacol mouth wash (helping to prevent my gums from rotting any further) and my box of double strength Mylanta, rubbed my chest, took one last look at bifo the chemist - still smiling, praying for me to leave, I could see it in the beads of sweat on her face - turned and left.

 

Bloke on Bloke

blokes look at blokes

sped up, slowed down, spaced out on grog.

a smile of interest

is all these show ponies need.

Do you think I'm handsome?

Do you think I'm big?

Do you think I'm fine?

Do you want to spend some time

with an interesting mind?

Do you want to play

with what I've got in my pants?

Lets dance?

 

Saturday Night Out @ The Pub

I came down from Bolago early. The sun was shining warmly across the blemish free day - blue sky, a gentle breeze, Renee Geyer singing. Gorgeous.

I was taking my mum shopping. Oh yes, I'm a good son, as they say. The fact that, for some inexplicable reason, she nearly drove me mad, with her incessant talking, until I wanted to strangle her, I shan't mentioned. Don't know why, maybe my biorhythms were low?

By mid afternoon, I was a little tired and I went for a siesta. Gorgeous, I recommend it to any one, every one. Breath out and let every thing flow, as my body melts down into the sheets and a warm, fuzziness envelops me. Breath in, breath out.

I went to the Laird with Adam and Raymond. They've just settled back in Melbourne, from Brisbane and are presently looking for a new house. They say that the prices are now ridiculous in Melbourne and they are being forced to look in the million $ plus price range just to get a decent house in the inner suburbs. I think they are looking in St Kilda.

"How's Manny?" Adam asked.

I saw the new guy from work, Charlie, at the Laird. I felt like I was getting looks and smiles from him, in the last few weeks, but decided that my imagination was being far too over active and that maybe I need a root, or some love, or a new interest and that all the new guys at work can't be gay, much less interested in me. I may now have to reconsider such thoughts. I think I may up the ante with him on Monday. The office affair may be back on the cards. Oh, listen to me being so full of myself. Jasus Chris! But Charlie is cute and now that I know he is gay, he may well have been batting his eye lids @ me over the proceeding few weeks. He would make a good specimen for the inaugural office liaison... we'll see.

I found myself @ 80, sometime around midnight. I was out to meet someone new, go boyfriend hunting, or some such thing, but instead I hooked up with an old fuk bud, Simon, who walked up to me and said, "I haven't seen you around here for a while."

"No, Simon." I laughed. "I think it has been four years."

He laughed. "Time flies, huh?" he replied. "I've missed you."

"Good pick up line," I said. "Does it work?"

He smiled his cheeky smile. "Do you want to escort me to a cubicle?" he asked.

It was getting late and I didn't want to be there still at day break, or some such nonsense and Simon is a passionate, cute, cuddle-sized bottom, with a hot arse and pretty much what I had in mind, even if I didn't have him in mind, when I entered the hallowed halls. "Sure, why not," I said.

"So I guess the answer is yes, then."

"That the pick up line works?"

"A-ha," said Simon.

I love watching the way bottom boy's eyes glaze over as you slide your finger up their arse.

He gave me his phone number and email address, as we parted company, saying do with it what you will.

I tossed it in the bin on my way along Smith Street, as I walked home.

Jogging boy/walking boy

I saw my next husband, jogging through the Carlton Gardens. He was jogging, I was walking. I decided that since all other forms of exercise seem to have deserted me at the moment, I'm getting back to basics and going for an hours walk at night - 3 times a week, minimum. Easy. I don't have to think. I don't have to get any thing together or get to the gym. Don't have to worry about flat tyres, goggles, where I left my speedos, or my playing partner. Just put the shoes on and get out the door. It's working a treat, so far.

My next husband was tall, dark and handsome and was wearing a pair of those black jogging tights, which fitted him like a glove. He had a fist down the front of them that rolled from side to side, with every step he took, under the flat, black material that stretched tightly from hip bone to hip bone. The stretchy material clung to his muscles; his tight calves, his taught thighs, the legs of a thoroughbred; the curve of his solid, round arse cheeks, chewed in the middle by his deep, arse crack. He had a blue singlet on the top, which clung to his shoulders and his back and around his broad shoulders. The singlet fell from the curve of his chest down the flatness of his stomach to the elastic of his black tights, which seemed only just able to hold him tight and snug down there. I stood and watched him run, marvelling at the fluidity of motion, marvelling at the beauty of him. Long sigh.

Who You See @ a Funeral

At the wake after the funeral, Julien turned to me and asked, "Have you had sex with any one here? Other than your two boyfriends?"

I laughed and was a bit taken aback. It was not the sort of question I expected to be asked in a house in Carrum.

"No, why?" I asked. "Have you?"

"Yes," replied Julien. "Can you pick which one?"

"You're kidding?"

"No."

I surveyed the room - actually, back yard - there were Simon's brothers, all straight. A splattering of gay boys, friends and ex-boyfriends of Simon's, none of whom, I assumed, Julien had had sex with. All the associated woman, none of who would be included. The crippled grandfather. The one-eyed aunt. The obese cousins. The gaggle of gorgeous nieces and nephews. A few babies. And a group of guys over the other side, all dressed in black suits. There was one with beautiful blue eyes and a soft expression, with an Eddie Munster hair line.

"The guy with the widow's peak," I asked Julien. "Over the other side."

"Bingo," he said. "A long time ago, in the Fitzroy Gardens."

"Are you going to go and say hello to him?"

"No," said Julien.

"Not even for old times sake."

"Um, no."

Mark makes me laugh. Remember, he lives in paradise. On the way home from the funeral, it had got to 4pm by the time we were heading back down the freeway from the outer suburbs to the city. By that time, the other side of the freeway, heading out of the city, was bumper to bumper, all the way from Dandenong back to Hawthorn, practically the entire length of the freeway.

"It is no surprise to me why people are so pissed off now a days," I said. "If they have to sit in that every day."

"It would be the perfect place for a length-of-hose road-side stall," replied Mark.

"What?" I said.

"Well, they could just stop by the edge of the road, attach the hose to the exhaust pipe and end it all," said Mark. "I know I'd want to if I had to put up with that every day."

I laughed. "The world would be better off with less population," I said.

"Maybe, Simon had the right idea."

Such is Life

I went for a walk after the funeral, today. A procession of people stood up and told how much they all adored Simon. How cheeky he was. How funny he was. How much they loved him. His life was so full. It was a life that any one would have wanted. As Mark said directly after the service, It didn't seem like a life somebody would want to walk away from. He played and work in the sport he loved. He had a boyfriend who adored him and who he adored. He had many friends who loved him dearly.

Julien, who came straight down from Darwin and I cried and consoled each other, as neither of us had seen much of Simon this year. "If I'd know," I said.

"Indeed," said Julien through his tears. "If I'd know."

The sky was grey and the clouds were weeping gently for Simon, as I headed up Johnston Street. The day seemed grey and seemed to hang heavy in the air. There was a chill in the breeze, as if to say the heat had gone out of life, just a bit, just for a time, in memory. Good bye my friend.

 

 

Fucken Taxi Drivers

Fucking, bastard taxi drivers. Incompetent bunch of pricks the lot of them.

Last night, I was following your typical dickhead taxi driver over to my mums. He was doing 40 kph in the middle of the road, taking up both lanes, and I was getting impatient with him, to be sure. When we came up to the Kew tram terminus, where there was a tram, on the other side of the road, about to turn into the tram station, what does this be-turbaned fuckhead do? Of course, he stops, suddenly and without warning and I hit the back of him. My ABS kind of skidded on the tram tracks.

He gets out and eyes me suspiciously, as he looks at the back of his car.

"There is no damage to your car," I say.

He looks at the back of his car, looks at me, as if he is about to say something, then he gets back in his car and drives off.

Nothing else was said.

Yes, okay. It was my fault because I went into the back of him. And yes, I was close to him, arguably too close, as I was sick of his snail pace and I was trying to push him along. But to stop when the road, heading east, is clear in front of you, just because a tram which was heading south may pull into the terminus. Fuckwit! Taxi drivers must be the worst drivers on the road.

My Peugeot now has a busted nose, it's kind of pushed in around the Peugeot badge. Not that anyone will notice, except for me. It's only very minor, but still annoying. I know I'm going to see it whenever I look at the car, though, reminding me that I'm an idiot for being sucked into and being affected by someone else's bad driving.

Hump Day

Cool. Fresh. The air on my face. Morning in my street, overcast, grey. The bins scattered, the rubbish men aren't careful with them - strewn across the footpath, some over turned. I head down the street towards where I put them out and despite the scattering of everyone else's bins, mine seem to be, relatively, in the same place that I left them. Between my house and the next, as the apartments up the lane always put their bins in front of my gate.

SB1 and SB2 were heading towards me, in summer shorts and blazers. Fancy, I thought. Fancy that it would be warm enough for shorts, not that they looked fancy; even if they were quite baggy shorts, seemingly, with swathes of pale grey cotton, flapping around their bare legs. SB1, naturally, looked mighty fine in his.

Only the rubbish bin was empty, as the recycle men don't come until late in the morning. Slackers! I took the rubbish bin into my yard, get it off the street, before the before mentioned apartment people from up the lane take my bin as theirs, despite all bins being numbered clearly.

I stepped back onto the footpath, as SB1 and SB2 were level with my gate. SB1 and I caught each other's gaze; blue, interested, beautiful, clear - all in my head? I followed the two of them to Gertrude Street.

Wir, wir, wir, wir, metal on metal, the sound of a tram coming around the corner from Smith into Gertrude. SB1 and his brother took off in hope of catching the tram. Like a gazelle, he ran. Big steps, like the wind.

I watched them go, until they disappeared behind the tram.

Gertrude Street was busy. My old uni lecturer was having coffee in Arcadia, as he often is, in the mornings; sitting in the window, looking out blankly, never a look of recognition. There was a brand new, olive coloured 207 outside Arcadia on the street, I wondered if I could live with an olive coloured car. I concluded that I could, as I cruised on by.

I decided not to catch a tram, as I've gained a few kilos over winter. I've stopped muffins, at morning tea and crap food for lunch and dinner and I've made sure I walk to and from work every day. I have to counteract stopping the ciggies, also. I have to get fit. I have to get trim.

I have to go out and find myself a new bloke... no more Manny.

It's funny, when I say to the girls at work, or the girls in the cafe where I eat my lunch, that I'm getting fat, they all laugh and either say,

We wish we had the weight problem you have.

or... Oh please, you are so slim.

 

Day 2

After I had railed against the Evangelical Christians going to parliament house, saying that Christianity will be listed a a mental disease in fifty years.

And complained how young mums with kids make me sick... all they seem to think is required is, "I'm a mum with kids," and every body just steps aside and lets them do whatever they (fucken) want.

"Is this day 2 of quitting smoking?" asked David.

"Yes," I said.

David laughed. "I would never have guessed."

I took myself off to bed a short time later.

Cool new Peugeot

206, 207, 306?

The (cute) mechanic, at City Peugeot, said that the 207 GT was the equivalent of the 206 GTI and the 207 GTI was the equivalent of my 306 GTI.

"It's as good as your car," he said, pointing to the red 207 GTI.

It looks like I have my new car picked out... not that it is going to happen this year, or next year.

(above is a 308 coupe)

Back to Day 1

 What a beautiful day. I took my car to the dealer mechanics, City Peugeot. I had to go, as there is a recall issue with the petrol filler/tube to the tank on all 306's. It was recalled in May, this is the first opportunity I've had, I swear. (and if you believe that, I have some nice beach side property in Central Australia you may be interested in) My friends have been laughing, since my last car went up in flames, they've been wondering why I haven't taken it in sooner for the recall. They think I'm tempting fate. But, isn't that lightening striking in the same place twice? While, I would never say that it won't happen again and I don't know the stats on car fires or lightening strikes, I'm assuming that I have had my share of burning cars and it is unlikely to happen to me, again. (touch some wood. spit on someone beautiful. feel up a dwarf) Anyway, it is now in being fixed so... neryah!

It's criminal that as soon as I think about calling Guido, or at least, Guido's service, now that he is o/s in parts unknown with what's his name, the urges start again.