Thursday 28 December 2006

Saab 93

Mum and dad heard the 280E start up, at Xmas and dad saw the black smoke belching out of the 280E's exhaust. (How much is a Mercedes engine rebuild?)

Apparently, a day later mum said to dad that considering she'd given me the 280E all those years ago, it was maybe time she got herself a new car and gave me her 2 year old Saab 93.

In between times, the last few of her cars have gone to my siblings, so she thought it was my turn.

So, yesterday, mum took delivery of her new car and her Saab 93 now sits in my driveway, or at least, it would if I had a driveway. 


It is out in the street behind Fiona, as though it is sniffing Fiona's arse. I feel kind of sad, when I should feel happy. I don't think I am ready to give up the 280E just yet.

Sunday 17 December 2006

Fiona

A gay friend, my lovely friend Keith, who has no idea about cars, which will become quite apparent, got into Fiona and I was about to drive him somewhere when looking incredulous, holding his hands up like everything inside the car was just too precious to touch.

He said in a new age/wondrous tone. “This is like an old Mercedes.”

I looked at him blankly and said, “It is.”

He looked wide-eyed like he didn’t understand me. He tilted his head and his eyes begged me for an explanation.

“This is like an old Mercedes… because it is.”

“What?” said Keith.

“It is an old Mercedes.”

It was funny.

We both laughed.

We had the same sense of humour, Keith and I.


Saturday 16 December 2006

280E Mercedes

Fiona is gold, but you get the picture, I'm sure.

280E

It looks like I'm just about up for a new car. The 280E is beginning to blow smoke and, I reckon, she's lost a bit of power.

Not the 280E... or Fiona, as Mat called her, because of her metallic gold paint work and white lambs-wool interior. Mat said she was a girl's car; she looked like a middle-aged Brighton woman, bravely hanging onto her youth with too much jewellery and too much fake tan.

Mat, said I got away with it because of my dark, wavy hair. Whatever that meant? Something about me loving the beach. Ex-non-surfie, to be truthful. Hardly, I never tried surfing. I just liked the flat, tranquil beach, early in the morning, watching for the waves. It used to clear my head, sort of put stuff in perspective. It was the one place I used to let go of all my fear. I've just got the hair, had the hair, that's what Mat meant.

My mates have often said the car is a girl's car. 

“Looks like a fucking powder-puff,” said one of my mates.

Mum was just trading it in on a new model and wasn't going to get much for it, relatively, you know what trade-ins are like, when my brother wrote off my car and they felt sorry for me being at uni with not much money. Of course, on the face of it, an aging Mercedes for a uni student wasn't, perhaps, the best choice.

But having said that, the 280E has never broken down, or let me down, for that matter. She's been a classy old bird all the years I've had her, despite what everyone around me has said at various times. Believe it or not, people, boys have been impressed by that car, over the years. It always kind of amused me, since I've always just got stick about her from everyone else, my secret weapon.

I've blown too many joints to remember, smoked crystal meth before weddings and popped pills up city alley ways at night, in that car. I've had sex, on a few occasions, in the front seat, and the back seat.

Sad to think of her gasping her last breath.

Mat just laughed when I suggested I could get a purple Monaro, at one of those moments when he was dishing Fiona. I saw one driving down the Calder, it looked slick. Mat said the idea was too laughable. I didn't expect him to react that way. I'm not sure what he meant, exactly? Something about changing my name to Spiro. Then he was talking about his ex-boyfriend's cock, some Italian mechanic named Tony who, apparently, had a salami as big as his wrist.

When I told him I meant mid-night purple, nearly black, he laughed more.

“Beaudy!” he said. Thumbs up.


Saturday 2 December 2006

Out of My Head

I rode my bike around the Yarra. Swift. Sleek. Skimming the corners. Flying. It's the thing that keeps me sane. Wind in my hair, the burning in my calves.

Cool wind on my face and on my chest.

Faster than the wind. Just staying in front.

I ride for an hour. I try not to stop, except for little children and traffic lights just at the very end.

That last hill is a killer. I try to take it in one stride.

I love that feeling at the end, once I've dismounted onto my unsteady feet. Gasping for breath. But in a healthy, cleaned out the arteries, kind of way.

I went out drinking with Sebastian and Cam. Sam was there. We just kind of came face to face. Noisy bar, could hardly hear each other speak.

"How are you? How are you?" we said at exactly the same time.

"You look good. You look good." Awkward freeze. "Nice to see you Blake. But, I've got to go. I'm meeting someone." He smiled. He looked confident, handsome.

"Me to", I said. I hadn't seen him how long? Not out. Not dressed up. All our wayward nights at uni, together, flashed through my head, seeing him standing there looking gorgeous. He was the last person I had expected to see.

He did look good.

Then he was gone.

I went riding to get him out of my head.


Thursday 28 September 2006

Friday 1 September 2006

Maty Mat

Mat left this note pinned to my front door when I got home.

Dream a little Dream of me...

say night night and

kiss me.

But in your dreams – whatever they be...

dream a

little dream

of

me.


He drew stars and a sun and her lips red and full. I wanted to kiss them, as I slid the key in the lock, I suddenly felt frivolous and giddy. I suddenly felt light on my feet, as though the pure fresh air had lifted me up, joyously. I suddenly felt warm and tingly.

Into the shadows of the house, no lights on, no one to say welcome home babe, no one to smile and take me in their arms.

I felt that chill of strength, when you are on your own, but you feel perfectly at ease.

I felt strong, wings of steel. Nothing could hurt me. Nothing could trouble me now.


Sunday 27 August 2006

Done Anything Xiting Lately?

Chook says: hi Blake

Chook says: don’t pretend like ur not there

Chook says: i know ur there

Chook says: if u were bussy u wud sign out

Chook says: yer thats rite

Chook says: not just say u were away

Chook says: dnt they teach u that in uni???

Chook says: uve got a lot 2 learn

Chook says: child

I wandered back from the kitchen where I’d just made myself avocado and vegemite and cheese toast, a cup of tea and had poured myself a glass of red wine.

Chook says: oi

Blake says: I'm not even signed into msn?

Chook says: lol well im talkin 2 u so u must be

Blake says: don't know how that works?

Chook says: haha freaky deaky

Blake says: sure is

Blake says: weird, huh

Chook says: yer i reckon

Chook says: bloody msn

Chook says: 😊

Blake says: how r u?

Chook says: alrite..... burnt and tired u?

Blake says: you've been out in the sun?

Chook says: yer went 2 the pool and then went 2 the beach

Chook says: tiring day

Blake says: I'm tired from doing nothing

Chook says: lol is that wat u did 2day

Blake says: watched a movie, watched TV, slept.

Chook says: orrite wat movie didja watch?

Blake says: a Spanish one called... Y tu mamá también, about couples cheating on each other.

Chook says: lol... not spanglish??

Blake says: nah... where the boys in the relationship eventually get it on…

Chook says: ohk

Chook says: done anything xiting lately?

Blake says: nah

Blake says: life's boring

Blake says: done nothing

Chook says: lol wat bout ur friends? r they boring?

Blake says: yep

Chook says: lol ohk

Blake says: they all went out last night without me... and then emailed me today to tell me what a good time they had. What's that about?

Chook says: lol oh not very nice

Chook says: what’s that about?

Blake says: they didn't mean it in a bad way...

Chook says: they didn't mean it in a bad way?

Blake says: no.

Chook says: how did they mean it then?

Blake says: Oh, you know, people just think about themselves, self focussed, and they just don’t think about the other person. Just don’t expect it from mates.

Chook says: Poor Blake

Blake says: Ha ha, I wasn’t trying for my own pity party.

Chook says: Sounds to me like u were

Blake says: Ah no, I’m just good on my own and I’m just not as needy as other people and this is sometimes what happens.

Chook says: Big strong Blake.

Blake says: It has its good side and its bad side.

Chook says: And what r they?

Blake says: Sometimes it’s nice just not to be bothered, and sometimes it isn’t nice to be forgotten. There is strength in both positions

Chook says: wise words.

Blake says: yeah, that's me full of strength and wisdom.

Chook says: that’s why I like chatting to u 😀

Blake says: Ha ha


Saturday 26 August 2006

Being Gay

Estimates of the incidence of homosexuality vary considerably with the definition of what homosexuality actually is. Some consider its most important aspect to be sexual behaviour between members of the same sex, while others stress inclination or orientation. The definitions can be described as same-sex sexual activity, same-sex sexual inclination, and same-sex sexual identity. These may be further broken down as sexual behaviour that may occur among persons of the same sex who do not identify as homosexual. Individuals who identify as same-sex loving are not always sexually active, although they normally are, whether due to necessity, circumstances, or personal choice. A person may have same-sex sexual thoughts or inclinations without ever acting on them, or regarding themselves as having a same-sex sexual orientation. But generally, it must be said, that is is sexual behaviour that is the defining aspect.

Once same-sex desire or behaviour has been singled out for attention, and especially negative attention, the question naturally arises: What makes people same-sex attracted? For many years the common assumption, shared by many scientists and actively encouraged by religious communities, was that the “normal” human sexual orientation is exclusively for the opposite sex. Sexual studies carried out during, and after, the mid twentieth century led psychologists and doctors to recognise homosexuality as a legitimate orientation of its own. Since then similar acceptance has grown for non-exclusive orientations, such as bisexuality.

The general understanding, by some scientists, is that rather than a single cause being involved, there is instead a combination of factors that act to determine each individuals sexual orientation – as with any human emotion. Nurture, nature, or some combination of the two are often thought to determine human sexual behaviour.

Other schools of thought say that they don't know what the reason is. While other experts say what does it matter. Do we have great scientific study into what causes heterosexuality?

The causes of sexual orientation have been the subject of much discussion and research, with little conclusive evidence. Usually, research on sexual orientation has been focused on the reasons for homosexuality, obviously because the world tends to view itself as straight.

The experience of those who identify as gay, suggests that sexual orientation is set in early childhood and maybe in some individuals set even earlier.

In surveys of gay men and lesbians, the majority assert that they were born gay. Most report that they knew they were "different from the other boys and girls" from an early age, often by puberty and not uncommonly before. This kind of anecdotal evidence is considered by many to be strongly indicative of the likelihood that orientation is not a choice. Instances of individuals stating that they chose to be gay are extremely rare to nonexistent.

Many gay men and lesbians, after they have “come out” to their family, friends and the world in general report in surveys that they would not want to change their sexual orientation.

Some people, primarily Christians, but conservatives too, advocate the view that people's sexual orientation follows from their behaviour. That is, if they try homosexual acts, they might like them and thereby acquire a same-sex-attracted orientation. Many gay people would counter this argument by saying “if only it was that simple.” In fact, some also believe that a heterosexual orientation is formed in the same way, and that the only genetic element is in the basic underlying sexual desire.

Of course, there is strong evidence that “religious types” would say whatever it takes to uphold their particular religious views.

Some people who identify as “straight” may have occasional interest in members of their own sex. Likewise, many people who identify as “gay”, or who might prefer same sex activities or relationships, have engaged in heterosexual activities or even have long-term heterosexual relationships. Such heterosexual behaviour by people who otherwise show same sex attraction has often been part of concealing one's same sex orientation. This is probably becoming less common as acceptance of same sex attraction increases.

Sexual activity with a person of the same sex, does not necessarily demonstrate same sex orientation, but is considered same-sex-attracted behaviour. Not all who are attracted to, or have sexual relationships with members of the same sex, identify themselves as same-sex-attracted or even bisexual. Some people frequently have sex with members of the same sex yet still see themselves as heterosexual. It is important therefore to distinguish between same-sex-attracted behaviour, same-sex attraction, and same-sex-attracted identity, which need not be the same thing. For example, people in prison, the military, the clergy, or other sex-segregated environments may engage in situational same-sex behaviour despite being opposite-sex orientated outside these environments. In addition, some people engage in same-sex behaviours for reasons other than desire. Examples are male prostitutes who earn money by having sex with other men. While some male prostitutes are homosexual, a significant number are not.

Various forms of same-sex sexual activity is prohibited under law in many countries. Usually, though not always, such laws are termed sodomy laws, but also include issues such as age of consent laws, "decency" laws, and so forth. Laws prohibiting same-sex sexuality have varied widely throughout history, varying by culture, religious and social taboos and customs, etc. Often such laws are targeted or applied differently based on gender as well. For example, laws against same-sex sexual behaviour in England during the reign of Queen Victoria, sodomy or buggery laws were aimed specifically at male same-sex sexual activity and did not target or even address female same-sex sexual activity.

Historically

Many early civilisations, such as those of ancient Greece and Rome, accepted same-sex behaviour as normal. In general, they did not make a distinction between homosexuality and heterosexuality as orientations. Homosexual and heterosexual responses were considered to both be natural and normal feelings that manifest to a greater, or lesser, degree in different individuals.

Ancient Greece gives us the earliest western documents concerning same sex relationships. In ancient Greece, same-sex relationships were a societal norm. Certainly, these relationships did not replace marriage between man and woman, but occurred before and beside it.

There is a long history of same-sex marriages in the western world. Many early western societies tolerated it. Surprisingly, they even celebrated same sex relationships. There are some evidence of same-sex marriages in ancient Rome. They can also be traced in ancient Greece, and even in medieval Europe. There are also some other evidences of Same-sex unions among Native Americans and Africans.

For example, the Emperor Nero is reported to have married, at different times, two other men in wedding ceremonies. Other Roman Emperors are reported to have done the same thing.

The increasing influence of Christianity, which promoted marriage for procreative purposes, is linked with the increasing intolerance of homosexuality in Rome.

The Greek civilisation considered it quite normal for young men to have older male mentors with whom sexual interaction was common.

In Europe during Hellenic times, the relationships between Greek men and youths who had come of age were analogous to marriage in several aspects. The age of the youth was similar to the age at which women married – the mid-teen – and the relationship could only be undertaken with the consent of the father. This consent, just as in the case of a daughter's marriage, was contingent on the suitor's social standing. The relationship, just like a marriage, consisted of very specific social and religious responsibilities, and also had an erotic component.

Similar examples can be found in Rome too, with well known "writings," in which a common acceptance of younger male, older male sexual activity is described. There was no serious debate about the causes of sexual orientation, because generally people were free to follow their personal inclinations.

There is much evidence that shows that same sex sexual desire has been recorded from ancient times in the east. This desire is the reason behind same-sex unions, usually between men. It often included some difference in age. Information on relationships among women in ancient times is very rare, may be because women were not afforded equal status with men, so that, while men were free to pursue sexual and romantic pleasure both within and without marriage, women often were not.

Male love was encouraged in China, especially in the southern province of Fujian. Men would even marry youths in elaborate ceremonies. The marriages were long lasting. At the end of this marriage the elder partner would help the younger find a wife so that he can settle down to raise a family.

Is there any examples of homosexual relationships in the history? Of course there are! But, the sexual orientation of pre-modern figures is a topic of intense controversy. It may be accepted, for example, that the sex lives of historical figures such as Alexander the Great, Plato, Hadrian, Virgil, Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo and Christopher Marlowe included or were centred upon relationships with people of their own gender. Terms such as homosexual or bisexual might be applied to them in that sense. But many regard this as risking the anachronistic introduction of a modern social construction of sexuality that is foreign to their times. For example, their societies might have focused upon the sexual role one took in these encounters, namely active, passive, both, or neither, as a key social marker. This particular system of designation is currently the norm in many areas of Latin America.

Some historians have claimed that same-sex marriage has been documented in many societies that were not subject to Christian influence. In North American, among the Native American societies, it has taken the form of two-spirit-type relationships, in which some members of the tribe elect to take on female gender with all its responsibilities.

They are prized as wives by the other men in the tribe, who enter into formal marriages with these two-spirit men.

In Africa, among the Azande of the Congo, men would marry youths for whom they had to pay a bride-price to the father. These marriages likewise were understood to be of a temporary nature.

The Hebrew Old Testament clearly indicates that King David had a sexual relationship with Jonathan, the son of King Saul. Much to the embarrassment of the Vatican, the Catholic theologian Boswell has uncovered proof that, up until the fourteenth century, the church was routinely performing wedding ceremonies for same-sex couples. King James, who ordered the English translation of the Bible which bears his name, was a homosexual, a fact of which the translators were well aware. This fact displeased them, but since he was the king, they could not express their displeasure openly. Although on the surface, they were careful to be certain that their translation flattered and pleased the king, they also used it to attack him in a way he could not fight.


Friday 25 August 2006

Taught To...

We are taught to hate, but not to love. We are taught to be ashamed of ourselves and our bodies. We are never taught to appreciate the innate beauty that each of us has in simply being alive. 

We are taught not to celebrate our differences, but to use them against one another. We are taught to fear and condemn and not to trust those who are different.

I read recently that something like 95% of women don't like their bodies. Do you think this will be transferred to the children? Do you think this is a good source of where our newly found prudishness comes from?


Monday 21 August 2006

The 7 Signs of Man

Lust, Gluttony, Greed, Sloth, Anger, Envy, Pride…

Who are we kidding? Sins? That’s who we are, through and through. That's what makes us human.

I can see them all with our straw-coloured hair boy Jason in his fotty – oops, ha ha, it is only frotty shorts when he is lying face down on his bed, rubbing his crotch into the bed clothes thinking about buddy James’ big cock in the shower after his western suburbs footy practise – footy shorts, the ones he's had since year 12 and which are now straining a bit at the seams.

Lust... he's got half a woody.

Gluttony... he's eaten way too many fish and chips and the top button is undone and the elastic band of his undies is visible.

Greed... he's running bare foot down the street towards home with armfuls of food bags, his arse looking even more pert than usual as he runs into the distance.

Sloth... laying on the couch comatose, his legs spread, akimbo, for the world to see.

Anger... every muscle in his bare torso taught, his waist narrow, his undies showing above his shorts, as he rages against the world.

Envy... his hand down the front of his shorts rubbing his hardon wantonly as he gazes off into the distance.

Pride... walking back up from a dip in the ocean, his wet shorts hugging all of his manly lumps in his shorts, leaving very little to the imagination. When that fat slug bounces around because he's taken his undies off for the swim as the wet elastic chaffs around his balls and across his arse.


Monday 31 July 2006

Sunday 30 July 2006

I'm Shagged... Literally

I had the house to myself.

Mat and I took drugs and screwed all weekend. Glass pipe packed every hour. Sitting up in the middle of the bed, the doona draped around each of us like swathes of material from a high fashion film shoot.

I'm shagged... literally. We both have sore dicks. Covered in muck, sticky to the touch. Sweating and sighing, exhausted.

Mat played sheep. I played drover.

Mat played catcher. I played pitcher.

Mat's arse can take it longer than I can give it, ain’t that the truth. He likes it face down and on his knees the best. Although I put in a few hours, so I think that is pretty respectable, um, er, delivery, and he was happy with that.

Then we both suck on the glass pipe again. Ah, that acrid smoke, I love it. Mat loves it. You can crave just the taste.

Then we can both lay there pulling ourselves for hours watching porn from the internet, in a second round, also the truth. Glass pipes being what they are. 

True of all boys, really.

And by then it is taboo porn, brother on brother, father and son… you can find any sort of deviation on the interwebs.

We’re making up stories, I can run an alternative narrative on any porn, that is what I do, after all. I’m quite the chatterer, as we lay there in the semi dark, towels all around, the sheets drenched with sweat and other fluids. The panel heater pulled into the room and set on high until we both feel we are going to expire.

We’re in our own cocoon, the outside world ceases to exist, and the hours just disappear. What day is it? How long have we been…? I have no idea. It is no longer clear. I love that. I love the drugged-out tear in the space time continuum, that is the best. Life as you know it, no longer exists. Nirvana by pipe. It is fantastically great.

(no wonder it takes the dumb people down. You have to be smart to make it out the other side)


Saturday 29 July 2006

Can You Hear It

Can you hear it? 

Are you sure? 

Listen closer? 

What can you hear if you really concentrate? 

What?

That sound.

What sound?

The sound just then?

I heard nothing.

That's because you are busy talking.

Well, how rude.

To hear, you've got to listen.


Are you saying I don't know when to shut up? Is that what you are saying? That I talk a lot? Is that what you are saying to me...


Yes.

But don't worry, you are not the only one.

The whole world, really, the whole world...

So may of us are only really interested in what they have to say.


Saturday 22 July 2006

Funeral

My mum went to the funeral of the young son of a friend. He died in a car accident. (Word is he was pissed) He'd been a great football player, a handsome, sporty guy. The apple of his mother’s eye. 

The priest said that we could all take great comfort in the knowledge that he's kicking the football around in heaven for all eternity.

“I thought they were all nuts when they said Amen,” said Mum. “Dust. The kid’s dust. That’s just life. What kind of comfort is it giving that kind of cruel, false hope?”

“It's all right mum, because daddies in heaven now,” I said. Mum knew I was talking about my father, her husband. (Surely, I don’t need to tell you that that was sarcasm?)

She laughed. “He was a good man, you father.” She tousled my hair. “He’d think they were all nuts, too.”


“Your husband for 50 years,” I said.

“Yes, 50 years,” she repeated. “It was just like it was yesterday that we were getting married.”

“Do you miss him?” I asked.

“Every minute of every day,” she said. She looked off into the distance, like her life was running through before her eyes.

“I miss him too,” I said.

“I could have done with another 50 years,” she said. “The first 50 just wasn’t long enough.” Her eyes turned just a little glassy, as she gazed out the back window.

She looked back at me and smiled. Wide eyes momentarily. “Come on, let’s get lunch ready, it’s not going to prepare itself.”


Wednesday 12 July 2006

Lunch

There is a young guy who is a waiter at the cafe where I eat lunch, with short hair and a baby face. He wears an apron tied around his waist. He wears his black pants so low on his hips that they only barely cover half his arse. With his white shirt still tucked into his pants, the soft white cotton covers the top of his cheeks, clinging like lycra. What a sexy, peach of an arse it is too. I tell you, I nearly get a boner sitting there watching the tops of his cheeks working, as he walks past with the next plate in his hands. What perfect man mounds (I can't believe I wrote that) for sure. I just know, I'd like to part them and lick him until he was nice and wet.

Too much information?

Fuck it!


“What would you like?” he asks.

“Shouldn’t that be ‘are you ready to order’?” I reply.

“Sure, if you like,” he says.

“Well, go on, say it,” I say.

I can hear him breath in. I watch he surprising taught chest expand. “Are you ready to order, sir?”

“Because, I know what I’d like?”

“Well, that’s a good start.”

“But, I am pretty sure it’s not on the menu?”

“I’m not following?”

“That is a shame.”

“Because I can only help you with things that are, actually, on the menu?”

“Are you sure about that?”

He pulls his eye brows into an adorable furrow on his forehead. “I’m… pretty sure.”

“Because I would dispute that…”

“Would you?”

“Yes, if there was anyone who could help me to what I’d really like, it would be you.”

He tilted his head and squinted his eye, his expression said I have no idea what you are talking about, which was a great shame. If I was really honest, his expression also said, I wish this guy would get on with it, I have other customers to get to.

I pictured him face first over the table, having loosened off his belt and jeans waist button, sliding his pants off his beefy butt and down over his thick masculine thighs, him looking me in the eye saying, “Would you like a piece of this…” of course, if it was really happening, he’d have a lubed finger working his hole as he said it.

He cleared his throat.

I came back into the moment and found myself staring directly at his not insubstantial crotch, that being where his sexy face had been in my mind just moments ago.

I instantly raised my eyes up to his eyes, just as he self consciously moved his left hand in front of himself.

The colour of his blushing cheeks gave me some idea that he might have twigged as to what it was I really fancied.

Shields up. “I’ll have coffee, thanks,” I said.

He turned and walked away, and there it was…


Friday 7 July 2006

Sign of the Times

Don't you hate it when people use all of your margarine and replace it with that light shit, because they think it is better for you? (I am talking about housemates here, of course)


2023 - margarine? Really? I have used butter for years. Ever since Dante showed me his blue porcelain butter dish in which he used to keep his butter in the cupboard. Genius, I thought. Butter doesn't have to be kept hard in the fridge. I think I changed over immediately. More than I can say for poor old Dante, nothing kept him fresh. After a series of strokes, he ended up living in govt housing on health benefits in a less than desirable suburb. Poor Dante. He never really made it in life, which turned out to be a series of disasters, really that is the best any of us can say now.


So many people in this world are so unaware. Unaware of anything outside their own circle. They don’t know, or don’t care, how other people live in this world.

I often find those who don't travel to be the worst

Practically, 100% of the population said that immigrants should uphold Australian values, like bloody parrots, (parroting the conservative govt who are saying it to appeal to those very people. It is a circular argument made solely to get votes) How many of them could list what those values are? (What are Australian values?)

It's funny how racism raises its ugly head in Australia, now that it is Howard Government policy. (You could be excused for thinking racism is an Australian value thanks to Little Johnny Howard and how he has vilified certain, shall we say, non-Christian races) Stop the boats! Man the borders! Fortress Australia! Stop – the most vulnerable people on the planet – refugees!

And people just accept it.

So many sheep, so few drovers. (The gay boys lament, right there. Ha ha)

Half the population could die and truthfully the other half of the population would clap. We've not evolved.

Have you noticed that people will just walk in front of you in the street, now, only focussed on what their want to achieve?

So many people are so self-focussed. (Of course, I blame conservative politicians)

Conservative politicians have used to policies of division for so long to get ahead, really cleverly blaming the other side of those tactics all along.


Wednesday 21 June 2006

It Originally Finished Here

This is where the original FletcherSatchel finished.

This is where, in June 21st 2006, that I lost track of this blog.

So the original material in this blog went from February 18th 2006 to June 21st 2006.

Anything after June 21st 2006 has been added in 2010.

It wasn't until March 07th 2010 that blog.com asked me if I wanted to change to the new format and revive the old Blog, which I did.

March 2010, I changed the name to Use the Remote.


I changed the name to My Other blogFletcherSatchel, 2015, maybe.

Then I changed it back to Use the Remote.

Monday 19 June 2006

Winter

I don't know why, but the winter does me in. Everything shrinks, I mean everything, the days, the light, my will to live, everything. I think it has something to do with the dark, actually, too many bad mushroom impersonations. It just makes me want to do like a bear and hibernate, slip away to somewhere warm and and comfortable and quiet.

Shorter days, shorter life, or, at least, less will to live, less inclined to move.

Of course, it makes Spring glorious, like a perpetual new day and something to look forward to.

The sun comes out again and we all cheer.


Saturday 17 June 2006

Saturday Morning

I met Carlo at the bakery, he is running errands for his mum. I want sweet focaccias, my normal Saturday morning fare, they only have date scones. Well, that was the next thing I fancied.

What?

I exit the shop with the brown paper bag in my hand feeling just the lightest bit disappointed. Carlo is just coming in. He follows me home, saying something about not having seen me around. We smoke half a joint, which I have in the ashtray in the kitchen, ready for after my orange and walnut focaccia. I put brewed coffee on, as Carlo goes cross-eyed. He does a little dance, right there on the tiled floor. He's an eager puppy. He says it is his happy dance. The boy loves pot, it's good to see.

He's beautiful. He's got the sexiest legs, on him, in his tight shorts. He's a hairy Italian boy who just oozes sex appeal.

Ah! Ah! Ah! He gulps for breath. On his tip-toes. He kicks. Up against the granite. AAAhhhhhhhhhh! His stomach clenches. Ahhhhhhhhhhh! He crunches his arms in front of himself, as he pirouettes on one toe. Dark olive skin. Black hair. Ah! Muscles in a tank top. His lips glistens pink. Green eyes. Ahhhhhh! He kicks again with the same power of the first. Thick legs. Hairy stomach. He's stroking the air above him, almost Bollywood. He's gaining his breath. Ahhhh! He spins. He stops, arms out. An eighteen year old smile, unblemished skin, other than the beads of sweat on his stubbly top lip.

He sits back against the kitchen bench. He smiles.

"Wanna go again?" he says. Big grin, white teeth. That wog boy voice, husky, cheeky. He holds his hand out. "Here, I'll show you."

Sometimes, I just want to eat him like a sweet focaccia.


I put coffee down in front of him.

“Do you want milk?”

“No.” He pulls a face.

“Do you want sugar?”

“Of course.”

“I forget that.” I get the sugar bowl and a spoon. “It always seems the wrong way around?”

“What does?” asks Carlo. He slides the teaspoon into the raw sugar and drags a heaped spoonful out and stirs it into his coffee.

“You guys…”

“You mean the wogs?”

“Yes. You like sugary black coffee. And I always imagine you’d put some milk into your coffee.”

“Nah.” He slides the spoon back into the sugar bowl extracting a second heaped spoonful of sugar. “Sugar.” He stirs the second spoon of sugar into his coffee. “Not milk.”

“But, milk just enhances the taste of coffee, where sugar changes the flavour.”

“Says you.” Carlo raises the coffee cup to his lips.

“Yes, I say.”


“How about that sweet focaccia?”

“Weren’t you doing errands for your mum?”

“They can wait?”

“When is she expecting them done?”

“Oh, she’s used to how her errands get done.”

“Slow, or not at all.”

“Getting done when they get done,” says Carlo. “She had three sons.”

“Are you all alike?”

“Sweet focaccia,” repeats Carlo. “She does expect her errands done this morning sometime?”

“Date scones,” I say.

“You can date a scone,” says Carlo. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“They’d sold out of orange and walnut focaccias, I got date scones.”

“Date scones?” questions Carlo.

“They taste good with lashings of butter,” I say. “Like everything does.”

“Like everything?”

“Everything tastes better with butter?”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“Okay, give me one of your date scones then.”

“Coming up, sir,” I say.

I get the brown paper bag and a plate and the butter.

“Do you think I would?”

I cut the scone in half and lay the two halves on the plate.” “What?”

“Taste better with butter?”

I run the knife through the butter and spread a generous amount of butter over the scone. “Yes, yes you would.”

Where would you butter me?”

I spread a generous amount of butter on the other half. “Where it would do you the most good.” I push the plate towards Carlo.

“My mother warned me about boys like you,” says Carlo.

I cut another date scone in half, lying the two halves down on the kitchen bench. “I wonder what you mother would say at the sight of your buttered arse.” 

“She’d say that’s my boy.

I spread a generous amount of butter on both halves of my scone. “That’s my boy? You think she’d say that’s my boy at the sight of your glistening butt hole?”

Carlo smiles as he sips his coffee.


Friday 16 June 2006

Week's End

I went face down in the mull bowl, to drown my sorrows. The higher you get the fewer - ha, ha. 

I fell asleep on the couch in front of the open fire, tired out. Warm. Safe. Not a care.

I slept the sleep of a dead man; the lost night of Friday. The week's end's night nurse. All Fridays are the same - fall down, or go insane, not much in between.

Crackle sounds the wood in the flames. Red and yellow and green.


Sunday 11 June 2006

Yesterday

After breakfast, Mat and I went home for a siesta.

We lay in each other's arms and rubbed our half-hard cocks against each other absentmindedly.

I love Mat's chest, like every muscle-boy's chest. Although, he is not strictly a muscle-boy, he's just naturally blessed.

Mat fell asleep first.

I sucked his nipples gently, they got hard, ripe and red. He groaned sleepily.

I kissed his sleeping face.  He hummed in his throat, happily.

Then I must have fallen asleep too.

And, you know, any troubles seemed so far away.


Saturday 10 June 2006

Al fresco

Saturday morning breakfast, very important. Very "behind" sunglasses. (No photos, thanks) We went out late, drank vodka and danced.

Oh yes, doesn't your shit not stink, says the waiter's eyes as he views what is in front of him.

"Menus," he says.

No mate, I just don't want any photos today. I'm not signing anything, was the look I gave him.

"Coffees?" he says.

"Yes," I say.

"Shall I just bring a selection?" he says sarcastically.

I like him already.

Mat gives the order.

We sit there staring until the coffees come.

"So, you ready to order?" says our waiter.

We both move our heads in unison to look at him. We both move our heads in unison to look at the menus. We both move our heads to look back at him. Without saying anything.

"Shall I give you some more time?" he says.

I look at Mat, Mat looks at me.

"Perhaps another week," says our waiter. He laughs.

I give my order, my voice even surprises me with how croaky it is.

Mat gives his order.

We drink our coffee and in no time the food arrives.

Mat and I giggle behind our foggy eyes, dark sunglasses, his has my big egg breakfasts reflected in them.

I laugh. Mat looks quizzical, as quizzical as anyone can look with sunglasses on. 

"You've got eggs for eyes."

"Huh?"

I shake my head. "Never mind."

"You have Fairy toast eyes," he says. He caught on quick.

Strong coffee. Somewhere in the sun with an ashtray. Maybe a cool breeze, if it could be managed. A newspaper and my boyfriend's foot resting gently on mine, was what I had wished for in my head.

And that's what I got. Oh, minus the newspaper.

The waiter came over. "Everything okay?"

"Would you have a newspaper?"

"Do you think you can?" he questioned.

"I'll give it a go," I say.

He smiled and went and got a newspaper.

He brings two. "Thanks," I say.

We both read the news as we eat our food.


Friday 9 June 2006

Food and Warmth

The usual Friday night deal. We ate. The fire crackled. We smoked pot. No sooner had I smelt Mat's warm, milky smell, with my face against his chest, than I was out like a light. On him. No, really on his chest. He had to move me carefully, come out from under my spell, so to speak. Crawl out. Arrange me delicately on the couch, taking up all the space, a dead weight.

I was held in my boyfriend's arms, my very favourite place to be.

Mat played games on his own, as I snored face down, rather indelicately across the furniture.

We stayed up until 3am. It was 4am by the time I got to bed.

Ah, Friday nights, the one night when every other night can just fade away, Friday nights stand on their own. There is no other night like them. There is nothing to do for the longest time at any other time in the week. Friday night is nobody's night. Nobody should be making demands; nobody should have any expectations. As the sun sets Friday evening, there is loveliness for everybody. Oh yes there is.

Just food and warmth, that is all that matters. Food and warmth.


Sunday 4 June 2006

Go, Go, Go

Lay around all weekend, wrapped in a doona on the couch watching the Sunday programs, having my head patted and fed grapes, being cooked for and adored.

I wondered what all the single people were doing? On their own?

Mat lay next to me and slept most of the way through it, the weekend, that is, when he wasn't patting my head, or feeding me grapes, or cooking me food. His breathing like a heartbeat, rhythmic, life reassuring. Calming, like patting a cat, or hugging your dog.

Go, go, go; drift, float.

Sometimes life is just this simple. We don’t have to make it any more complicated than this?

Ah. Stretch.


Thursday 1 June 2006

Chilled

I sat around and smoked dope all morning.

I went out to see an ex-girlfriend, who has a 2 year old and is six months pregnant who doesn't think she is going to cope when she has two.

What could I say? Nothing. I just listened.


"If the next one was a boy, I don't know what I'd have done."

"And is it."

"No. that was the first thing I wanted checked." my friend said, with an air of certainty about it.

We ate lunch and then we took the two year old to the park. 


"He never stops, he just never stops."

She seemed sad, not joyous at all, at the birth of the next one.

"It's just not how I imagined it to be."

I thought she was going to cry. Maybe that second dope cookie was kicking in. I took her hand and squeezed.

All she ever wanted to do was to have kids.


Tuesday 30 May 2006

Monday 29 May 2006

All The Way Home

I was making good time back from the country, Marvin Gaye sang, What's Going On. The sky was blue, my heater pumping, my sun-roof open. I'd drunk too much coffee, my bladder was grumbling. Tight. I couldn't drive much further. It was starting to hurt, not good hurt, either.

I'd been partying all weekend. My throat was dry.

I stopped off at the dunny at Gisborne, on my way up to the country. I needed a piss. That's all. promise. Minutes later I heard another car drive up. This tradie guy came in, in over-alls. Country bloke. Nice looking, kind of corn fed; sandy blonde hair, tanned, from working outside. He made no attempt to hide looking over at me. I went hard instantly. So did he.

“Give us look mate,” he whispered. I turned and showed him. “Nice”, he said, as he took it in his hand.

“Suck my cock, will ya buddy,” he said. 

He saw me look down at his hand with the wedding ring.

“My wife doesn't understand.”

I got on my knees. His foreskin tasted bitter. His pisshole was big. He grabbed the back of my head and pushed my face all the way down on it. He had a nice cock, it filled my throat.

Then there was footsteps. I stood up. A young farmer-boy came in and was standing next to us. Dark buzz cut hair. Nice face. Well built. Thick legs. He had his hand down his yakka's stroking something big.

“Show us,” said tradie guy.

Farmer boy flopped out a huge fat cock, dripping with pre-cum. Tradie took it in his hand, farmer boy moaned, as tradie squeezed it.

“That feels good,” said Farmer boy. “I like my dick being squeezed.”

Tradie squeezed it again. Farmer boy moaned.

We stood next to each other at the urinal, three big cocks slipping through our hands. Farmer boy was the hardest, like steel. He stood in the middle, with each of our cocks in either hand. Tradie and I both squeezed Farmer boy’s big dick. It was thick. Solid.

Farmer boy “Have you got a girlfriend?” said. “Mine won’t.” He looked down at his massive cock. “Scared,” he said.

I can go with that, I thought. “Yeah,” I said breathlessly. “Sure, I got a girlfriend. Jessica. She's interstate.”

Tradie stepped around and we formed a triangle, literally. “Does she like sex?”

“Yeah, she does,” I said.

“How does she like it?” whispered Tradie in my ear.

“Either on her back, with me sitting up pushing down on my cock sliding it straight into her.”

“How else does she like it?” whispered Farmer boy breathlessly.

“On her knees with her snatch open wide with me filling her in completely,” I said. “She just loves…”

At that, Tradie guy and farmer boy’s cocks turned into metal rods and they both came in big, white gobs, all over my feet. They hung off my shoulders as they spasmed to the last, tradie guy shaking violently. I was the last to cum, the sight of those two cuming got me off good.

Farmer boy left quickly, slipping his fat, cum-dripping cock back into his pants.

“Thanks mate,” said tradie guy and then he was gone too.

I'll never understand straight boys, I thought, as my central locking sounded clunk open, as the gums waved in the breeze and the sky stretched blue all the way home.

I got in the car. It started first turn of the key. I gunned it a couple of times. I selected 1st gear and drove away.


Wednesday 24 May 2006

Dawn

I woke up at 5am on the couch; cricked neck, a sore back. The fire was out, one of the logs had even fallen out. I tossed it back in.

The last thing I remember was Big Brother Adults only. And four, or so, joints. I did the maths, well, at least I'd had eight hours.

Joel, my mate from London, was on-line, on msn. Hello, hello, he said, like that annoying plant sale ad. The ad was annoying, not Joel. We chatted until the sun came up. He's in love and off to Paris to follow his heart.

I made tea and rolled joints and discovered that the log I'd tossed back into the hearth had sprung to life... fire, much to my joy.

I sat bleary-eyed and watched the sun come up, it was fantastic.

Some of us just aren't cut out for 9 to 5, as my mate Brad likes to say.


Sunday 21 May 2006

Weekend's Slip Away

The afternoon just floats away, drifts, just like that. Gone forever. Two days never go as quickly, as the days of the weekend.
All over now, big, fat cow.

The ratio of days that begin with S to all other days beginning with any letter in the week is the smallest day to fun ratio there is. True fact. So the feeling that S days go quicker is not imagined at all.

Saturday 20 May 2006

Fun and Games

I went out to the Peel, with Penny. She was bringing the e's so why not, how could I refuse. She was making no sense, when I found her, clearly she had started before our promised start together. I didn't care. Whatever. She was rabbiting on and dealing the pills from her hand-bag as if she'd never ever heard of the concept of under-cover cop. I just wanted to see if she'd bought Bryce with her. Her boyfriend, that is buddy, not lover. I tried to ask her but all I got in response was a confused look, as though she knew she should have heard of somebody named Bryce and she was sure it would come to her. Not the sharpest chisel in the box, our Pen

It didn't matter. I didn't want her to catch on. Not that I was up to anything... not really, just something Paul had said about Bryce the last time I saw him. Penny was wearing a white tutu inspired dress, ballet shoes and cream ribbons in her blond hair. She looked like a porcelain doll.

All I could think of was that creamy white skin of Bryce's... and that beautiful abdomen, which disappeared down into the front in his pants, always with the top button undone.

Hey, said some warm breath on my neck. Beautiful Bryce was standing next to me grinning. He slipped his T-shirt off. Smiled. Beautiful chest. Flat stomach.

Hi.

Been here long? He slurred. His eyes were sunken. Fucken drug addicts.

No, just got here. I was gazing at his chest.

Me too, he said looking down at his chest too.

My bladder ached.

I've got to have a piss.

I do too. I'll come with you.

He took my hand as I led him through the crowd. The place was busy. The urinals were full. A cubicle became vacant, just as we walked in. Bryce pulled me inside and shut the door.

I pissed like a horse.

Bryce hesitated at first, stood back.

That was lucky, hey?

Then he was undoing his pants, on the other side of the bowl. I watched him pull his fly apart and pull his jocks down. I looked away. He wasn't meeting my gaze. I looked down again.

My piss took forever, Bryce finished before me. Mine finally stopped. It was a relief. Bryce stood there with his eyes closed, his cock still out. He just stood there like he'd gone to sleep. His fat cock hanging down. He stood still. He'd had 3 e's.

I stood back and just gazed at him, as I buttoned up my fly.

Nice dick, Bryce, I said.

He opened his eyes, smiled wantonly, pushed his cock back in his pants, did up his jeans and stumbled out the door.

I leant back against the wall, as the black and the dark merged in the rushing amphetamines in my pupils and thought, stupid straight boys.

Later, I found him on the dance floor hugging Penny. Both in a stupor.

What a surprise.


Sunday 14 May 2006

Masseur

I was staying with friends at their guest house in the country.

I'd retired to my cottage, the night was over, the guests were now on their own.

I was just laying on my bed, the fire was blazing, I'd just stacked it up for the night. The forty watt bulbs barely did their best, just how I liked it.

I thought about all the chocolate easter eggs that I'd eaten. More alarming was the fact that I enjoyed the easter egg hunt. It was a fresh night, barely a need for a fire. The door was open...


... Tonight was the first time I'd, actually, told people that I was a fully qualified masseur. I'd never been brave enough to tell anyone in the past. It would mean that I was expert enough to answer their questions, that I was expert enough to diagnose their ailments. 

Working at the half-way house as a volunteer had boosted my confidence immeasurably. It had even been fun, once I stopped shaking, and thinking all the time that I was going to fuck up. It was rewarding, once I'd stopped being tongue-tied. 

It had been hot when Daniel came in, the maintenance boy, to give it a go. I got to touch those muscular thighs.


Tonight, had been fun. I'd even got a few tentative offers of work. Handsome Max was keen to have his corked-thigh done. Smiley, dark, shaggy-haired, blue-eyed, big, white teeth, gentle mannered, Max.

Fuck nine to five, I thought. This plan may actually work. Then I could hone my singing talents more flexibly. You set your mind and babe, it's that easy. And if singing is only ever be a pipe-dream, so touching people and making them better, isn't such a bad outcome.

Even if that’s all I ever do. Plan B, so to speak.


The joint smoke curled around the lamp light. The frogs croaked in the lake. The place I could just lay back and let go.


“Hello.”

“Hello,” I replied. Someone was at my door? Who the hell?

“It's Max,” he said. His handsome face slide through the door with a smile. “Er. Um. I hope you don't mind?”

I wondered what I may have minded. “No, not at all.” On the contrary, I thought. “Come in.”

“I saw your light on.” Smile. Very nervous. Continues to smile. Fixed. “Remember, Mark sent me down for you... um... er... earlier. That's how I knew, er...”

“Cool,” I said. How drunk is he? They all discovered the spirits late, the footy guys and their girlfriends and they were already smashed on beer and wine.

“I couldn't sleep... with the thigh and all. You said you were going to have pot...” he looked at the joint.

“Sure. Absolutely.” I looked at the joint in my hand. I handed him the joint. I wondered if he'd remember that he told me the two things that dope does for him, why it was so hard to give up as he rabbited on in my ear. And that was sleep and sex. It puts him to sleep and it turns him on. 

Max puffed hard twice on the joint, then swallowed. His handsome face contorted, then relaxed, as he exhaled. He puffed hard, twice again. Double shots. He did it a third time. Big smile. Big exhale.

“Good party,” he said.

“You were a good bunch. Nice guys,” I said.

He went to hand the joint back to me, then he withheld, smiled kind of drunken, flirty, gently, “Do you mind if I go again?”

“No. I don't mind.” Go for your life, I thought.

Puff twice. Exhale. Puff twice. Exhale.

He handed it back to me, in jerky body movements, like he wants to get close. And then he can't. He's drawn. He's repelled. It'll put me to sleep. My leg's aching a bit. Been on it too long. Gorgeous smile.

He really is a man, I thought.

“Happy to help.”

“Good night.”

“Good night.”


He kind of lurched toward the door.

“Hey...?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Thanks.” He moved closer to the door. “Rebecca's asleep. And... er... my leg was throbbing. I just needed something.”

“Happy to help.”

“That'll be good... Thanks.”

Awkward pause. Is he going or not?

“Um.” He's steps back through the door. “I don't suppose you could give it a rub, for me. My thigh?”

Then, I'm sure, he smiled cheekily, double entendre style. But, admittedly, the dope was really starting to kick my arse. I was tired and what I really needed was sleep.

“It's kind of late...”

“I think that, and the dope... would really help.” There, that same smile again.

“Okay.” Was this all in my head. Had I been working too many hours?

“Where do you want me?”

“Well...” I got up. “On the bed.” Where else?

He lay down on his stomach.

“It's your thigh, roll over.” He rolled over obediently.

He looked up at me, eyes completely glazed. I looked down at him. Time froze. His eyes closed several times. He looked serene. Sleeping beauty.

“You have to take your pants off.”

“What?” he mumbled. I think he was drifting off to sleep.

“If you want your thigh massaged, you have to take your pants off.”

Don't make me do it, I thought. 

His hands came around to his belt. He undid them and I pulled them down, he lifted his arse, so I grabbed the bottom of his pants leg and pulled them off.

He had boxers on. They had creased and ridden up, concertina-style, from being crumpled in his jeans. I could see the tops of his thighs. I could see his purple testicles and I could see a glimpse of his flaccid, uncut, cock hanging down where his boxer-short leg should have covered.


I had some massage oil by the bed. I warmed it between my hands. He, appeared, to have gone to sleep.

Handsome... Max.

I rubbed the oil into his thigh. He moaned. I worked my fingers along his, hairy skin. He groaned. He had solid thighs. He had beautiful, velvety olive-skin. Neatly covered in, surprisingly, fine hair. 

“How's that?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“So, it’s your right thigh?”

“Yes.”

“Is the pain localised in your thigh?”

“Yeah… I guess.”

He did sound too confident. “What I mean, there is no referred pain from anywhere else?”

“Ah, no.”

“Referred pain from your lower back?”

“No.”

“Do you have any pain anywhere else?”

“No, not really.”

“Not really?”

“No, no other pain.”


I rubbed his thigh right up to his hip. He didn't flinch. The legs of his boxers were loose. He flinched a little when my finger dug deep into the tissue of his thigh on either side of his leg.

“Do you follow the football?” he asked.

I rubbed the inside of his thigh. He shook a little. My fingertips dug into his skin, he groaned. I hoped they were warm, couldn't afford to have him jump in too much paint.

“Oh, I used to, but not so much anymore.”

“It was a great win for The Devils.”

“Yeah, I heard.

“Jorgenson played…”

“That’s about the extent of my knowledge, really, The Devils winning.”

I rubbed back down his thigh. He didn't say anything. No groan that time. He was silent. I rubbed back up his thigh. I wondered if he'd frozen up. 

Had I got it wrong? Failure is more than a rejection, it is a brake in the guy code of ethics. A line is crossed, which may never be healed.

“How does that feel?”

“Where?” he whispered.

“Is that relieving any of the soreness?”

“I guess,” he said.


My hands rubbed back up his thigh. I was feeling muscles and his masculine size. I could feel the man that Max is.

He lay on his back with his head resting in the face hole in the table.

I grabbed his shin and bent his leg slowly to his chest.

He groaned that time.

My hands moved rhythmically back down his leg in time.

I pushed his knee over his body for a slow stretch.

I instinctively, worked on his knee, for a moment, just to see if it had any issues, he was silent.

His thigh relaxed in my grip. Serene. Surrender. 

He groaned when my hand slipped around the back of his thigh and squeezed the muscles.


I dropped his leg back down. I poured some more massaging oil on his thigh. He opened his eyes and stared at me. 

“How does it feel.”

“You have magic fucken hands.”

Mostly, in my experience, especially after booze and mostly, but not always, as long as it’s gentle, I'm sorry girls, but most of your boyfriends are putty in my hands. I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t care where I touched them


I started on Max’s left thigh.

He was compliant.

I pushed my fingers into the centre line of his thigh, I pushed fingers in a straight line up his leg

“Yes, don't stop,” he said. He was sweating on his forehead, I could see. 

“So… good?”

“You know what you are doing.”


“I just love what you are doing.” Groan. “Yes, just like that.” I squeezed his muscle in his thigh all the way up. He gulped a bit for breath. Groan. “Oh yes. I don't care. Yes!”

Making the big, strong guys call out in relief, I like it. 

“Have you ever done this before?”

“Um... er... ah... yes... I've played with footy for a few years. So, yes, with the club masseur.”

“Okay.”

“You've got an amazing fucking touch,” he said. I gripped his right thigh hard again so he felt the full heat.

“Yeah, wow,” said Max. Guttural growl. “You can squeeze it... hard!”

“Do you like that?” I asked. He opened his eyes. We held each other's gaze.

“I can’t believe how much better that feels.”

Handsome Max his face told the story. He never looked so relaxed.


I told him to lie there for five minutes, or so, even if it was my bed and it was late, but he got up, visibly jelly-like. I was pleased.

If I can make them tremble, as they get up off the table, it’s better than any compliment.

He stood in front of me in the 40 watt globe light, all six foot whatever of him. In his boxer shorts, riding up his thighs as though they may give the whole show away any moment, but don’t, and nothing else.

He runs his hand through his hair and looks bleary-eyed standing in the middle of my cottage, inert. Pleasured into stillness.

“I gotta go… er… ah, best time I’ve had keeping my pants on.”

“Next time we’ll have to get them off too,” I said. It just came out, almost despite myself. I was stoned and tired and I really just had to stop.

“A happy ending would be the only thing better,” he said. He looked at me and his handsome face broke into a broad smile. He grabbed his stuff. “Thanks.” And he was gone.


Sunday 7 May 2006

Too Much

Oo! My bonged-over head.

I've just smoked pot, pretty much, all weekend. Wooo! The plant is nearly all gone, I gave myself that leeway. Soon, gone forever… everish.

The light fades.

Big smile.


I sit outside on my back veranda over looking my rear garden and just keep rolling those joints. Magic fingers. Sitting at the wrought iron table sitting on the wicker chairs.

The smoke floats over the side fence and I often wonder what they think.

Even when I think I will wait a considerable time before I roll another joint, I’ll be back out there rolling some more.

I have the mull box on my knees, with the mulli in the mull bowl on the wrought iron table.

I can look at the time for one joint and then, because my head is so thick, I can forget all about the time I smoked it.

I pre-cut the roaches, I cut up a whole lot at once, so I am ready.

Then, when I have kicked back and am puffing through the next joint, I remember that I took the time I smoked the previous joint and when I look at my watch, so often it has only been 30 minutes, 20 minutes, 10 minutes on occasions.


“Ha ha, what am I like,” I say.

“You are a head,” says Matt.

Then I repeat the process over and over and over again, until Matt. Is looking cross-eyed at me.

“It’s too much,” Matt slurs.

“I don’t make you smoke.”

“I know,” says Matt.

“You never say no.”

“You never stop smoking,” says Matt.


Shrug. What do I care? I like being stoned so fuck it, so what if I am a pig with it. It just makes me even nicer.

Smoke pot kids, it is the best thing you can do.


“You should just grow a funnel in the top of your head.”

“You are very funny.”

“It would be easier.”

“Very funny.”

“In fact, in evolutionary terms, give it a thousand years and your descendants will probably come with funnels,” says Matt. “A big cartilage funnel out the tops of their heads.”

“My descendants?” I say. “In a thousand years?”

“Yeah, it’s how they’ll develop.”

“Do you think I am going to have kids?”

“Oh, yes, well…”

“Do you want to have kids?”

“Ha ha ha.”

“Apparently, they can mix our sperm now and we can both father one kid.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I read that somewhere. It was developed just for gay guys.”

“It was developed just for gay guys.”

“Yeah, a little me and you.”

“A little me and you?”

“Yeah, could you imagine what he’d be like?’

“Imagine.”


Thursday 4 May 2006

Winter Mornings

Hasn't it been cold? The insides of my thighs are cold when I go jogging in the mornings. The hairs on my legs bristle, seemingly in the breeze, like Velcro. The cold air burns in my lungs, and I cough, just a bit, until my lungs warm up to it, which doesn’t take long, eventually it burns, just a bit, once I’ve gone the distance. My foggy head spins with the cold wind on my face, and is awakened all at the same time, as my feet go boof, boof, boof on the concrete. 

The fragile beauty of the sunrise makes my heart beat faster, as the day breaks, and the light rises all around me as if out of the ground.

The contained beauty of the dark, gives away to the expansive beauty of the light. I run through the veil as it lifts and the dark goes away, and the sky above turns that shade of blue that you only see at first blush in the day.

And suddenly the world expands, with a gentle whoosh, well, not really a whoosh at all, more like a fffffffffff, as the air exhales from the dark of the night.


Tuesday 2 May 2006

Matt's Jocks

I love it when Matt is in his jocks. He has such a bubble-butt that the cotton moulds and clings to, round and firm. Two handfuls.

He has a furry crack, I love to run my fingers through that furry crak, down under the elastic as he hugs me, into the sweaty ravine, sliding my finger tip up and down.

He has such a bulge that pulls the material down so that his pubes show over the elastic, like something heavy hangs there. He pushes it against me, it's squashy and full.

He has great legs, muscular and hairy. The backs of his thighs are really sexy, curved and thick.

I'm never so turned on than when I have my lips on his lips and my hands on his sexy arse, squeezing.


He has full, soft lips, and breath like a summer breeze. I love running my fingertips in the curve in the small of his back.

I love, the cut of his abs, the bulge of his pecs, his sexy neck. I love the back of a man’s neck. I love most of all how he fits into my arms just naturally.

Not to mention that he tells me things that make me think.

He says things constantly that make me laugh.

He does things all the time that makes me smile.


Monday 1 May 2006

Dino

Let's talk about the Italian hunk in Big Brother 6, who is just so gorgeous, beautiful, in that Italian-refined handsome, dark, beautiful, lovely, kind of way named Dino.

I'm excited at the immanent return of Big Brother Adults Only to have a very private viewing of Dino as he showers himself and rinsing away inhibitions with affection. And we all sit there with our chins on our hands gazing at the handsome guys doing what they do.

We could talk about the young men in general, the beauty of such 20 somethings, the most breath taking strength and display of manliness we glimpse at in our fast disappearing time on this earth. 

Our fleeting youth. Moment of beauty. Our 15 minutes in the light. Remembering those guys we danced with. The time we had. The excitement of being young and desirable.

Beauty is a sad thing really, as it is fading as soon as it is attained. Still, it is glorious while it is. Nothing quite like it, especially when it is worn with nonchalance, that is the best.


Sunday 30 April 2006

Quiet Sunday Arvo

End of the weekend. End of the month. Nearly the end of the first half of the year. Life is going frighteningly fast. Whoosh! Flash... before my eyes. Zip! Gone!

The first month of Autumn, the leaves start to fall. The colours of Autumn, yellow, orange, red, purple, and brown. Natures glory. Dazzling. Then the garden sheds it’s clothes. It’s jackets, its jumpers, its coats, stripped bare for the winter, it is minimalist for the cold. 


“Don’t you love autumn?”

“I prefer summer.”

“But all the colours?”

“No, I prefer summer.”

“Don’t you love jumpers and coats and long walks under the red, orange and golden leaves on the trees?”

“I prefer the sun.”

“But isn’t it lovely to stand in front of open fires?”

“I prefer the heat?”

“Standing in front of air conditioners?”

“Well, yes, I guess,” he said. “And swimming in the sea.”

“Snuggling down under warm blankets and being able to sleep.”

“I just prefer the heat.”

“All those nights you can’t sleep?”

“Yes please.”

“Well… each to his own.”

“Each to his own... and isn’t that a great thing?”

“It’s a great thing?


Saturday 29 April 2006

Matt, Me & Carlo

It was late last night when the doorbell sounded. Matt and I looked at each other with that time old expression, who could that be at this late hour. I think, Matt even looked at his watch. Perplexed look. We were lounged on the couch.

Standing at the door was a very drunk, very wonky-eyed Carlo. He looked nervous in his drunken state.

"Hi, I hope I'm not..." he slurred.

"Not?"

"It's not too late, is it?"

"No, Matt and I were just watching a movie."

"Mat's here?"

"Yes."

"Oh.

"It's okay, he won't bite."

Carlo laughed and his face almost creased into a smile. "Maybe I want him to."

"Well, maybe he will."

"I got scared the other night when you asked me to come home with you two guys."

"But now you're not?"

"No." He stepped through the door. "I'm still a bit."


"Don't be, we're really friendly." I was trying to make a joke, but it just came out as dumb."

"My parents are down the beach house." His trademark cheeky smile made a glimmer of an appearance. "Can I stay."

"Forever?"

"The night?"

"All night."

"In your bed... with you two?"

"That's very direct."

"Aren't you going to ask me in?"

"Come in."


Carlo sat between us on the big couch. He looked very pleased with himself.

“I’m here to apply for the boyfriend position,” said Carlo.

“What boyfriend position?”  asked Matt.

“The boyfriend to the two of you?”

“We weren’t advertising,” said Matt. “I’m not sure we even have a position.”

“You know, it is often the non-advertised positions that are the most sort after.”

“I see,” said Matt. “At least we all know where we stand.”

“I’d make a great little brother to you two.”

“You think so, do you?”

“Yes,” said Carlo. “I need to learn so much… and I am a really fast learner.”

Matt snorted through his nose. “I’m sure you are.”

I just sat there and listened to the two of them. Matt like him I could tell.

“I am the latest model, all the latest, um, attachments.”

“Money back guarantee?” asked Matt.

“Full service warrantee, 10 year, roadside assist,” said Carlo.

“Can we take you for a test drive?”

“I’m hoping you will,” said Carlo, smiling.


He ran his hands down my leg and Matt's at the same time.

"What are you trying to do, Carlo," asked Matt.

Carlo smiled. "I’m just being friendly."

Carlo lent over and kissed him. Matt kissed him back.

“That’s friendly,” said Matt. 

“Too much?” asked Carlo.

“No,” said Matt.

Carlo looked at me. He leant over and kissed me. I kissed him back.

He kissed me enthusiastically.