Beautiful Day

Wow! What a beautiful morning it was. The sun was a little fierce, truthfully. I had to shade my eyes with my hand, but that may have had more to do with me.

Ben and I stayed in and did pills, we had a fun. Lushed and lovely, is what I'd call it. He had to go see his grandma this morning. It's funny the things gay boys do the morning after they've done d's.

So, I sat on my balcony and watched the morning sun seep into every cell of the day. It sparkled, and glistened. The sky magically blue. The air crisp, like something very new. It was beautiful. I shivered with anticipation. Well, I guess not so much with anticipation, as... big smile.

I'm going back to bed.

 

My Boy Ben

Congratulations, it's a big, healthy, bouncy boy. Ben. The newest one, the one left standing, of the three I was seeing, post cull.

He’s bouncy because he’s young, under my lower age limit, at 25. Like a big puppy, in a lot of ways.

He's big, because he’s tall, over my height limit at 6.1.

All my boyfriends have been older, or younger, than me, though, so I don’t really see age gaps. I’ve never been aware of them with older, or younger, boyfriends. Manny was, actually, the closest in age, just two years.

They’ve all been the same height as me too, now I think about it.

Twenty five year olds have lots of energy, now don't they. But, it’s not necessarily a bad thing, probably good, actually. I can be a lazy bastard, truthfully.

He’s tall, dark and handsome, so what’s not to like, hey? I don’t even mind that he’s taller than me, like I normally do. I’m 5.10, so I guess it’s only a matter of a few inches.

He said he was a pup, when we first met, so that’s what I call him. He calls me sir, because it makes him laugh. Then he tries to cute me out with puppy faces, often it works.

He’s employed, he has a life, friends, a car, things to do, people to see... which is always good.

He’s sweet and funny. He flies aeroplanes, so I call him my Flyboy. I haven’t seen him in his uniform, yet, but that could prove to be hours of fun, in itself.

He’s got great hair.

He’s a good kisser.

He’s cheeky.

He’s got a nice smile.

A nice smile, good kisser and makes me laugh, my three non-negotiables for a fella. My only must-haves for a bloke.

He’s got good teeth.

He’s got many good bits, actually.

He’s enthusiastic, with a love of life. A good antidote for my natural cynicism.

We play well together.

 

I Love a Boy in Stripy Underpants

And then he danced, and everyone was captivated

Pregnant On a Tram

Standing up for a pregnant woman on a tram? In this rationalist economic world, if you get on a tram, no matter what condition you are in, you'd better be able to cut it, babe.

If you look back to nature for an indication of what to do, every instinct to the core of any males being should tell him to kill another man's baby. That's the law of nature.

It was one of those new trams, low slung and long, with a number of articulations, snaking its way into the city. And while I wouldn’t say that the tram was packed, all the seats were taken. I got my favourite seat, one of the singular, white plastic ones, up near the front. A ring side seat, one might say.

All was quiet, the normal morning hum, everyone resigned to the position they had obtained, seeing out the slow roll into the CBD. The sun flickered in through the windows on one side.

Well, not everyone was accepting of the position they’d got.

"Well thank you very much for being such a gentleman," said the pregnant woman with an exaggerated tone. Big eyes. Wild expression.

"Listen here lady,” said the handsome man in a suit seated in front of her. “As a married women with children you get everything and as a single man without children I get nothing, so shut up and just enjoy your privileged position."

"It's really lovely where this world has got to, now isn't it, when a man won't..."

He raised his hand making an opening and closing mouth with his fingers. "Yap, yap, yap," he said, as he turned and looked out the window.

"How dare you!" he felt a sharp poke in his shoulder from pointy finger tips, because I certainly did watching it. "Look at me when I'm speaking to you!"

Oh yes, winning friends and influencing people with that statement, I thought.

He widened his eyes as he shot his gaze back at her. "Let me guess, you are a lawyer?"

"What does that have to do with this?" She spoke in a kind of restrained shriek.

"I'll take that as a yes," he said. "Same uptight angst that all female lawyers have. Never really going to make it in a man's world."

"I'm sorry?" she demanded.

"Would you leave me alone?" his tone was one of exasperation.

He turned away, as if he was done with her.

"Get up!" she demanded.

He was taken aback.

"Get up!" she demanded again.

He recoiled.

"I'm not going to take it!"

She glared at him. She was shaking.

He cleared his throat.

"Would you like me to push you away?" he said, in a low voice.

"Oh yes, very nice. You'd hit a pregnant woman?"

"It would be the first time I've ever hit a woman," he said. "But for you, I'm prepared to make an exception."

"I can't believe your attitude..."

"You need help and may I suggest you seek it out before you do yourself, or your baby, harm."

"I DO NOT NEED HELP! You are the one who needs help!"

"Fuck off you mental case."

All eyes were gazing at them. Another woman led the pregnant woman away, tutting at him and making cooing noises at her.

The tram stopped at one of those new super stops in Bourke Street, I think it was Queen Street, where our man made a sudden getaway.

 

Rafa

The door opened and closed. There were a few footsteps and then nothing. A throat cleared. Silence.

Satchel looked up from his bed, pulling the eye mask from his face. Standing by the door was a beautiful boy with brown skin. “Um... hello.”

“Hello, sir.”

Satchel propped himself up on one elbow, lazily.

“I’m Rafa.”

“Rafa?”

“Yes.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty.”

Shirtless. Muscles. Denim. Underwear elastic thick and wide. Calvin Klein showing above the waistband of his jeans. Abs perfectly defined. Nipples like chocolate drops. Brown skin like velvet. Arm across his chest. Smile. The most endearing question creases across his forehead. Black short hair, brushed to a point across the middle of his head.

“Nice to meet you.”

Beautiful eyes.

“I’m here for the night.”

“Oh... yes, of course.”

“Is there something wrong?”

“No.” Satchel rubbed his face to relive the tension. “Just a phone call that now makes sense.”

“Am I not to your...”

Satchel didn’t want the young man to complete that sentence, it just seemed tacky, cheap. “Spin around.” It was the only thing he could think of.

Rafa spun on one ankle, pushing off with his other foot. Arms out. A slow languid rotation. Effortless, like he’d done it many times. He smiled again when he was again facing Satchel.

Satchel gazed silently.

“Is something wrong?” asked Rafa, breaking the silence. “If I do not please you...”

“No...” Satchel shook his head. “Yes.” Satchel couldn’t help but smile. “You are very... nice. I’m...” He raised a hand up involuntarily. “pleased.” He sat up, careful to keep his sarong in place, he wasn’t, really, sure why, considering, but he did. “I wasn’t expecting this... you.”

“Oh.” Rafa looked perplexed.

“My production company got you for me.” Satchel laughed the laugh of the ridiculous; exhale through his nose, mouth creasing up at the sides. “My two sisters got you for me... obviously, think you might help relax the tension. I have trouble sleeping, you see.”

Rafa smiled. Beautiful teeth. Gorgeous, really.

"So...” Satchel shrugged. “What do you do?"

"Anything you want." Rafa smiled engagingly. "You're paying me for the privilege."

Silence. Satchel was stunned. He was not often speechless. He needed help on this production, but they way it was going it would need to be from God, Allah, Krishna, Nadoo, someone. It wasn’t the flesh that was weak. He could send the boy away, but that was probably rude, meant he wouldn’t get paid, who knew what. Fuck!

“Um... do you make coffee?”

“Of course.” Rafa looked perplexed again. “But... you only have to call room service...”

“I was kidding... Rafa. That was a joke.”

“I would be happy to organise coffee for you?”

“No,” said Satchel. “Actually, why not. You can order yourself some too.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

 

Beautiful Italian Boys

At Lunch

I placed the "reserved" sign, as well as my newspaper, on the cafe table and went in to order my lunch. That’s the procedure, reserve your table with the silver triangular signs provided and go in and place your order. Some people take the table number with them, so people can't double book the table. I guess, it doesn’t matter which way you do it.

When I came out, there were three wog-chicks by my table, one of them had placed her stuff on one of the chairs.

"I'm sorry, but I've reserved this table," I said.

"But we've just ordered on it," said the younger, prettier of the three women. Gorgeous really, beautiful eyes, black black hair, just the type to make a straight boy’s tail wag. However, unfortunately for her...

"But, you haven't reserved it," I said. I looked down at my Age and reserved sign.

"We were here first,” said the pretty girl, a little more determined. “We were just ordering our meals."

"I'm sure we were probably here together, but,” I shrugged. “I reserved the table."

Three differing perfume scents seemed to engulf me, as I felt the chill associated with nicotine depletion of my first day of quitting smoking, run up my spine and disseminate through the cells in my body.

"Well, be a gentleman and give us the table,” said the older, less beautiful juzzi type with voluminous hair. She proceeded to sit down, as though that was all she needed to say.

The process is that you give the cashier the number of the table so your meal can be brought to you. So, it was either me, or them, heading inside to change the details at the cash register.

"In these days of equality, no," I said.

The older juzzi-type stood up again. The three women stared at me and then they all looked down at my reserved sign sitting between them and the table.

"You're no gentleman," she said. "That’s clearly obvious!"

I shrugged. I wasn't sure what to say. I held the superior position of being in the right, after all.

They headed inside, as I made myself comfortable, ready for my lunch to be bought to me. The two younger women came back first and took one of the many vacant tables, across from me, looking back at me.

I opened my newspaper and started to read.

The older one came back out, still with the other table’s number in her hand, detouring passed my table.

"You're no gentleman," she said, as she walked by."You're a pig!”

I’m a normal issue gay boy with a standard issue sharp, acid, gay tongue, who was on my first day of quitting smoking, you do the maths. This could have gone very badly for her and her friends. I felt like I had been exceptionally patient.

I smiled at the thought of what I could have been saying to her. She had on too much makeup and clothes which were a couple of decades too young for her, desperately clinging to her youth. There she was strutting about in her cheap shoes taking the moral high ground when she was clearly in the wrong.

Then she was back, she’d done a u-turn somewhere between the tables. “My husband and any of his friends would have been gentlemanly enough to give us that table.” She said as she passed by again. Kind of hit and run.

I sat back in my chair and watched her strut away. Every cell in my body ached for a reply. I could feel it solidifying on the tip of my tongue. But I didn’t say anything. My guns were cocked, as they say, but I didn’t fire.

Then she was turning and heading back again.

“I hope your food tastes like shit." She spat the shit.

I exhaled loudly. "Why are you being rude to me, I haven't been rude to you," I said. "I have just told you the process."

She rubbed her hand under her chin, in that European fuck you kind of way, at which point I looked down at my newspaper and started reading.

The cafe owner came out and said, "I'm going to give you free coffee today."

"You don't have to do that," I said.

"No, I do. I want to."

I've learned lately just to accept such offers. "Okay. Thanks."

The girls had obviously said something when they were in changing their table number. More than one thing, no doubt.

They sat just opposite me, but I didn't look at them once. What is that old saying, the best revenge is a life lived well. I read my newspaper, ate my matriciana pasta and drank my free coffee.

On their way out, the older one said, "I see all your friends joined you... pig!"

I guessed that was clever, but I wasn’t sure.

I didn't look up.

 

Athletic Straight Boys

And then he wrapped his hand around it firmly

Day 4

Day four off the fags, off the pot, off everything except for fresh, city air. And feeling fine. I only smoked for a week, 3 packets of cigarettes, not even and yet it is the full withdrawal, yet again. What was I expecting, rose buds and sunshine? Hey?

I've been coming home and going to bed early. I've just recently discovered that DVD's don't have to be porn. Who'd have thought? Friends, okay that's been a while, my introduction to this new world. Then came OZ. And now, I'm watching Top Gear. It's fantastic. No soul destroying, life destroying, want to take out your gun and kill them, advertising.

Dumb, Dumb, Dumb

I'm amazed that at Swanston Street the punters get off the tram, like lemmings, straight into the hands of the ticket inspectors standing there on the platform. Here's a tip for those commuters who don't have a ticket, don't get off. I know it's evolutionary. Get off at the next stop where, invariably, there are no ticket inspectors waiting. People really are dumb, aren't they. Or is it just unaware? It never ceases to amaze me.

Off they get.

"Can I see your ticket, please."

"Um, no, I don't have one."

Dah, dah!

You just can't fix stupid!

Up ya bum!

Shane's back and so is the vodka. Of course, I blame him for the drinking in the house, my drinking. It's always good to have somebody to blame, naturally. I just don't think about it unless somebody else does. We've been through a bottle since Thursday and I spent two days in the country. Of course, it's all the other hangers on and not just the inmates, you understand.

Last night, I should have been hammered, Mark W. was mixing, but we all behaved. My tolerance is still way up there, clearly, despite a two month break.

Mark W. is straight back to being here every other night, a misery until we get a drink into him. Saturday, Shane asked him to lite a fire.

"What do I do?" asked Mark W.

"Douse yourself in kerosine and light a match," I offered... with a slight edge to my tone, Mark W. having been around 3 days in a row.

He looked at me then back to Shane for an answer, no reaction. Of course, this was pre-drink.

Boyfriends/exboyfriends of housemates have always been a problem. It's funny how they don't see if if they don't want to. Human nature, I guess. I don't know what the deal is with Mark W. and Shane, but he'll just get dumped when Shane finds a new guy.

Let's drink to Shane finding a new bloke.

Mark W. can mix them.

Up ya bum!

Levi Johnson

Sara Palin's ex-son-inlaw, Levi. I'd look at his Playgirl spread

Or his jack-off video. Come on Levi, get it out. You are only young and pretty once

Telstra is a Piece of Crap

OMG! Is the world fucked, or is the world fucked?

I had to call Telstra to report a fault on my mum's phone. When I call her, now that she is succumbing to the passage of time, sometimes it takes her a while to get to the phone. And sometimes she is outside, or not at home. So, often the phone will ring out without being answered. When my mum's phone rings out, it doesn't simply stop ringing it, seemingly, goes to a fax machine, well that is the sound it makes. My mother does not have a fax machine, does not have an answering machine, does not have a compute, in fact, all she has is the simplest of phones. So, apart from not wanting to be charged for the call connecting to a non-existent fax machine, I want the problem rectified so it doesn't happen.

Do you think the good Filipino woman on the other end of the line can understand what the fault is? No, not a chance.

And, not only have Telstra reduced their customer service to a level where it is non-existent, they managed to send a technician to work on my mum's phone, who managed to damage the house alarm to such an extent that he left the key pad sounding a high pitched wail every five minutes, a key pad that is next to my mother's bedroom, leaving her unable to speak.

When I called back today to complain, not only did the good Filipino woman on the other end not understand the problem yet again, she was insistent on sending another technician out to fix the problem from inside the house, completely missing the point that the first technician was inside the house.

Actually, the forth Filipino woman, because the first three hung up on me at some point in each phone call.

I wasn't rude, I didn't swear or lose my cool, but I was insistent. When they said that they understood what the problem was, I asked them to explain back to me what the problem was that I had asked to be fixed. They either got it completely wrong - you mother's incoming calls go straight to a fax machine, you mother's phone rings three times and then goes to her fax machine, your mother can't get incoming calls. None of the four women that I spoke to could grasp what the problem was.

Telstra it is just not good enough!

I have left notes for the next technician to call me before he does anything. I assume he will speak proper English and, unfortunately, he will be hearing from me in no uncertain terms.

The Bottom Line

The boozing in our fair city is really the politicians fault, a monster of their own creating. The fact that the current government approved the exponential growth of liquor licences withstanding. In this economic rationalist world the politicians have taught us that only the bottom line counts. John Howard taught us that only money matters. Kevin Rudd had confirmed it. Hospitals, Universities, everything has to make money. People don't count, only money does. The unemployed on welfare are looses and don't matter. Social programs don't matter. The environment doesn't matter. Historical architecture doesn't matter. pristine wilderness doesn't matter. People don't matter. Only the mighty dollar is paramount and anything worthwhile must make a profit.

So, accordingly, individual's bottom line is them themselves. Only they matter. It follows logically. Politicians have taught us that nothing else matters more than number one. Their number one is the cost, our number one is ourselves. The politicians have taught us to be mean, it's a simple fact.

Let's face it, governments attempts to cut the smoking rate, to cut the drinking rate, to cut the road toll, even, has nothing to do with the health and well being of the people, it has everything to do with the cost of these things on the government’s budget.

Let's face it, the Vic labour govt is just trying to clean up the mess it has made, and it's, the public, who seem to be getting all the blame.

Aussies Need to Cut Drinking, Smoking: Report

Australians are among the heaviest drinkers in the world and 98,000 cases of alcohol-related disease could be prevented by cutting drinking habits by a third, a new report has found.

We drink more than Americans (more than 660 standard drinks a year), Canadians (632), Swedes (520) and Norwegians (505), the report's researchers from Victoria’s Deakin University and the National Stroke Research Institute say.

The VicHealth-backed study found that reducing the average annual intake of 773 standard drinks per adult to 505 drinks a year would save 38 lives and $1.2 billion.

The study also found if the rate of smoking was cut from the current 23 per cent of Australians to 15 per cent, 5,000 deaths would be prevented and more than $900 million in health, production and leisure costs would be saved.

The report is "breaking new ground in developing a model that estimates the economic benefits of the home-based activities and leisure that are essential to our daily lives", co-author and Deakin University Health Economic Professor Rob Carter said.

Prof Carter said the report - The Health and Economic Benefits of Reducing Disease Risk Factors - found the financial savings would benefit families and workplaces.

"Production and leisure includes the increased economic benefits from paid work (such as reduced absenteeism) plus unpaid, home-based activities, like caring for families, as well as leisure activities," Prof Carter said.

Australians are big drinkers, according to the report.

We drink more than Americans (more than 660 standard drinks a year), Canadians (632), Swedes (520) and Norwegians (505), the report's researchers from Deakin University and the National Stroke Research Institute say.

VicHealth chief executive Todd Harper told a conference in Darwin on Wednesday that cutting the drinking rates to 505 drinks a year and smoking to 15 per cent were realistic targets that would bring massive benefits.

There would be 98,000 fewer new cases each year of alcohol-related disease, 21,000 fewer years lost to illness and death, 158,000 fewer annual new cases of tobacco-caused illness and 71,000 fewer years lost to illness and death from smoking.

"The 15 per cent smoking target has already been reached in California, where effective policies have seen low smoking levels achieved," he said.

"And these targets point to large gains for relatively modest changes in the behaviours that lead to chronic illnesses.

"If Australia followed California's lead in increasing tobacco prices, using the proceeds for Quit-style social marketing, and tightening smoke-free policies in public areas, smoking rates here could drop even more."

According to the report, 13 per cent of adults drink alcohol at risky or high-risk levels, and alcohol added 2.3 per cent to the nation's health burden, with consequences including alcohol dependence and road accidents.

The smoking reduction target set by the federal government's National Preventative Health Taskforce is to reduce daily smoking to 9 per cent or less by 2020.

Second Day

Second day of quitting smoking. Yay. Good thing it's a day off. It is feeling ugly, despite not appearing so on the outside. Even if I did yell at my poor old mother.

It's still raining. It seems so foreign. Everything is wet. It hasn't been that way since I don't remember when? Pitter pat the rain sounds on the roof. That smell of a wet day in the air, I haven't known that for so long.

 

Stephen Gately

How Tragic is that?

How tragic is the Stephen Gately death. Let's say the reports are correct, and there is no telling that they are, your in the bedroom having a nice time with a bit of trade, who, putting it bluntly, you wouldn't really care about once you'd cum, while your loved and cherished husband is in the other room too pissed to play. And he chokes on his own vomit and dies, presumably, just a certain number of steps away.

If you'd only been in the lounge you could have easily stuck your finger down his throat and cleared his air ways, rolled him on his side, whatever.

How would you continue? How awful. The regrets you'd have for the rest of your life.

Not that it is his fault, of course, but...

I feel so sorry for him.

Gay Marriage Only a Matter of Time

The interesting thing about Matt Lucas' ex-husband being in the news, be it under sad circumstances, was that all the news services used the term "husband" when talking about two men. The news readers I saw said it quite naturally, as though they'd been saying it forever.

People only have to get used to hearing the term and their defences will be diminished, as their objections will slowly ebb away.

Once it becomes come place (Ed note - is that a Freudian slip, or what?) common place, a part of the lexicon, the laws will be changed.

Hey, right wing religious fucks, we win.

What is the written equivalent of putting your thumbs in your ears, wiggling your fingers and waggling your tongue?