Wednesday 29 April 2015

Police Work

The office has windows on one side, looking out into the rest of the offices, covered in venetian blinds.

The other side of the office looks out onto the roof top terrace with windows across the wall, also covered by venetian blinds. The double desk is at one end of the oblong room, behind which is a door leading to a small bathroom and kitchen. The door is on the wall opposite the desk.

Ben has packed his pipe, which is on the desk.

Ace comes out of the bathroom. "Get over here," he says. Ace motions with his head to the office desk.

“Ha…” says Ben. He takes the steps around the desk to be facing Ace. Ace puts his arms around Ben’s shoulders and gazes into his eyes.

There is a knock on the door and then the door opens,

Ace and Ben pull apart.

Duff’s head appears around the door. "What's the details?" he asks.

“Huh?” says Ace.

“Um, er, Anything I need to know?” asks Duff

"Later," says Ace. “Later.”

“I’m just trying to…” Duff seems to loiter and hang in the doorway.

“Out,” says Ace.

“Out,” says Ben.

Duff’s head disappears. The door closes.

“Now where were we?” says Ace. He steps towards Ben.

“Something about stress relief.” Ben sits on the corner of the desk.

Ace puts his arms around Ben’s neck. He pushes his crotch into Ben’s crotch. He rubs up against Ben.

Ben kisses Ace. Ace kisses him back passionately.

There is a loud knock at the door.

“What the fuck,” says Ben.

“Not now,” Ace calls out.

“It’s Sergeant Carmichael. I was asked to report to you to debrief.”

“I’d like to debrief him,” whispers Ben, as he stands up.

Carmichael is an enthusiastic career cop, going places. He is a handsome, Italian boy from Doncaster who is good at what he does. He is going places.

“Just a moment,” says Ace. He steps away from Ben. Ben moves his jacket to cover his pipe still on the desk.

Ben stands up and brushes his hands down his shirt as though he is hiding the evidence.

Ace walks around to the back of his desk. Ben leans against the sideboard in the office.

“Yep,” says Ace.

Sergeant Carmichael comes into the office.

“Detective Zorad.” He sees Ben. “Detective Burrows.”

“Sergeant Carmichael,” says Ace.

"How'd you go?" asks Sergeant Carmichael.

"Dunno," says Ace. "We are just at the beginning."

"Any suspects?"

"No, none of any consequence," replied Ace.

“No leads?” asked the handsome sergeant.

“You could put out some feelers for a Rupert Whippet?”

“The husband?”

“The husband,” says Ace.

“Nobody seems to know where he is,” says Ben.

“He’s unaccounted for, at present,” says Ace.

"Okay, sir."

“Other than that, there is no obvious signs of death,” says Ace.

“We’ll have to wait for the path to come back,” says Ben.

“You got any ideas?” asks Carmichael.

“No, none,” says Ace and Ben together.

“No signs of break in. No signs of disturbance. No signs of injury.”

“It’s as though she lay down and died on the lounge room rug.”

“We’ll head over there later today and chat to the neighbours,” says Ace. “And hopefully by then we’ll know more about the husband.

“Okay,” says Carmichael. He smiles at Ace. He smiles at Ben. He smiles at Ace again. “We’ll wait for path.”

“And the crime scene boys,” says Ace.

“Wait until they have powdered… um… dusted,” says Ben.

“Should be finished soon,” says Ace.

“Okay,” says Carmichael.

“Check into the Whippets back ground, see if there is anything to know, history, complaints,” says Ace.

“Sure.” Carmichael leaves the office.

“I need a smoke,” says Ben. He picks up his smoking paraphernalia from the office desk and heads to the office balcony door.

“I’m going to make a call,” says Ace.

Ben disappears out onto the balcony.

Thursday 23 April 2015

Ace


Back at the Office

Ace and Ben stride through the offices towards their office. The station is busy, the uniform guys are all milling around eating donuts and drinking coffee.

One of the uniform guys catches their eye, as they walk passed. Carmichael is an enthusiastic career cop, handsome, Italian boy from the eastern suburbs who can always be relied on. He is going places, clearly.

Ace believes Carmichael has his sights set on homicide.

"How'd you go?" asks Sargent Carmichael.

"Dunno," says Ace. "We are just at the beginning."

"Any suspects?" asks Carmichael.

Ace turns and looks back at the young sergeant. "No, none of any consequence."

"Okay, sir."

Ace would never admit it, but he likes it when Carmichael calls him sir. There is something about the way he says it.


Duff, Zorad and Burrow’s assistant, watches them walk in, two fit handsome guys. Duff sits back and watches Ace and Duff pass by.

"What's the details?" asks Duff.

"I need you to find all the details you can on a Rupert Whippet," says Ace.

“What do you know already?”

“His wife is dead and he is missing,” says Ace. “Find out where he is.”


Ace closes the door behind Ben. Ace turns the lock. Ben pulls his pipe from his jacket pocket. Ace takes his jacket off, then he turns to Ben, busy with smoking accoutrement in his hands.

"Come here handsome." Ace manhandles Ben's jacket from him. "Take this off." He takes the pipe from Ben's hands. "That can wait."

Ace grabs Ben, pushes him up against the office wall and kisses him passionately.

"I want you."

"This case has really got you stressed out," says Ben.

"I need to stop thinking about it for a moment."

Ace pushes Ben over the desk. "Hey!" Ace puts his hand in the middle of Ben's back and pushes him face first over the desk.

"I’m glad I can be your distraction..."

"I know you like it." Ace reaches around and undoes Ben's pants. "It's why I like you." Ace rips Ben’s pants down. Ben feels the cold on the backs of his muscular thighs. Ace slide his fingers into the sexy crack in Ben’s arse. Ace licks his finger and slides it back into Ben’s arse. Saliva drips down in strings from Ace’s hand.

"Jesus!" says Ben. He lays his hands flat down on the top of the desk. He pushes back onto Ace’s finger. Ben has powerful legs covered in blond hair, the hair disappears into his arse crack.

Ace undoes his own pants and his hard cock springs into view. Ace spits in his hand. He spits again. He wipes the spit on his cock, it drips down onto the carpet.

"Did you lock the door?" asks Ben.

Ace spits into his hand wipes more spit into Ben's hairy crack.

"Duff may learn something," says Ace.

Ace spits into his hand again, he rubs his spit over his cock a few more times then lines it up. He pushes up against Ben's sphincter.

"Oh, fuck, Ace."

Ace pushes into Ben. "Come on baby, relax," says Ace. He strokes his hand along Ben's spine, up and down. "The door is locked."

"Ah, that feels..." says Ben. Ace pushes hard into Ben. "AH! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Ace's enormous cock slides into Ben's tight arse.

“You have the best arse, baby,” says Ace.

Ben moans loudly. Ace slides his hand around over Ben's mouth. "Shhhhhh." He pushes his dick all the way into Ben.

"Everything okay in there?" Duff's voice was on the other side of the door.

"Yes, good," says Ace. "Just working a few things through." Ace fucks Ben long and slow.

"He knows," grunts Ben, as he pushes back on Ace’s big dick.

"Let me know if I can help?" says Duff.

"Sure, he'd like to help," says Ben. Ben groans quietly, trying to stifle any sound, as he is filled up by Ace.

"No, that's okay," says Ace, as he fucks Ben quickly.

"Do you think he has a peep hole?" says Ben. “Ah! Ah! Ah! Oh my god!”

"You’d like that wouldn't you?" says Ace. He speaks quietly into Ben’s ear.

Ace pushes hard into Ben. "AH!" Ben Bleats.

Ace leans down to Ben’s ear. "Perhaps, he has a camera set up," he says quietly.

Ace stands up straight and strong and pushes hard into Ben again.

"AH!" Ben bleats.

Ace leans down to Ben’s ear again. "Do you want him to hear?"

"You want him to hear?" says Ben accusingly.

Ace pulls out of Ben. He reaches down and picks up Ben's undies. Ace stands up again, and reinserts into Ben as quickly as he can.

"Ahhhhhhh!" Ben moans long and low, as Ace’s huge cock slides back into him again, slides in until it can’t slide in any further, until it spears the wall of Ben’s anus. “Oh… fuck! Yeah!”

Ace reaches around and stuff Ben's patterned jocks in Ben's mouth.

Ben says something but it isn't audible.

Ace grabs Ben’s thighs and picks him up by the legs. Ace picks up the strokes. He pushes into Ben hard. Harder. Longer. He pushes into Ben again, he pushes into Ben again, he pushes into Ben again, until Ben starts to groan, deep down in his throat. The handsome blonde pushes back against his lover so he gets more of his lover inside him.

"Oh yeah," says Ace. "Oh! That's my boy." He is fucking Ben hard, his skin slaps against Ben’s skin.

Ben grunts and groans as he pulls himself underneath his stomach. His sexy arse is full of Ace's cock, like a greedy mouth, stuffed full. Ace turns sideways and fucks Ben hard. Ben masturbates furiously as Ace rams him.

Ace pulls out of Ben and masturbates quickly until he cums on Ben's shirt, up and down the back of Ben's shirt.

Ben grunts and moans and spasms as he cums all over the office floor.


Ace grunts and flicks his hands across the carpet. Ben moans as he stretches his arms out across the desk. Ace buttons up the fly on his jeans. He buckles up his belt. Ben stands up and tucks his shirt back into his pants. He smiles at Ace. Ace picks up Ben's jocks from the desk and wipes his forehead before he opens the top draw of his desk and drops Ben's jocks inside.

Ben flexes his shoulders. "Is the back of my shirt wet?"

"You'd better put your jacket on," says Ace.

"Great."

"I'm going to wash my hands."

Monday 20 April 2015

Sunday 19 April 2015

The Death of Mrs Whippet

Detective Ace Zorad is a worried man. There is no evidence, no obvious signs, nothing is immediately apparent. The old girl is dead on the rug in the lounge room and there are no obvious signs of how she got there.

The photographer is doing his job. The medical team has just arrived and is starting to mark out the scene.

Ace’s partner, Ben Burrows leaves him standing next to the body and leaves the room.

“How long do you need?” Ace asks the medical team.

“The rest of the afternoon,” replies the medical examiner.


Ben exits the crime scene by the rear door. He walks down to the end of the garden, on the gravel path that crunches under his foot steps, where a nice Mandarin Tree grows next to the veggie patch. Poor Mrs Whippet, he thinks. He pulls a small gold pipe from his jacket pocket, which he grips between his lips, as he gets a small leather pouch from his other jacket pocket, from which he takes something dry and green that he pushes into the pipe, still between his lips. He folds the leather pouch and ties the string around it and places it back into his pocket. He removes a lighter from his pocket, where the pouch has just gone, flicking it until there is a flame. He lowers the flame to the pipe and sucks.


The back door bursts open. Ace is striding towards Ben.

"It beats me how the old girl ended up on the rug dead," says Ben.

"And you think that is going to help?" says Ace. He looks at the pipe in Ben’s hand as Ben sucks on it. He watches Ben exhale a cloud of smoke.

Ben Shrugs. Ace hates it when Ben smokes. Ben knows that.

"Your eyes are already red," says Ace. There is a demeaning tone to his words. He shakes his head.

“I have eye drops in the car,” says Ben. “When did you start worrying about…”

"There is nothing. No sign of injury. No sign of break in. Unless there is some medical history." Ace shrugs.

"Perhaps, it is suicide?"

"Ha ha!" says Ace. "That is the only thing I am sure it is not."

Ben slides the pipe back into his mouth, the metal mouthpiece hits his teeth, it makes him laugh, for no good reason. He flicks the lighter, tentatively. He giggles again. Nothing is funny. He sucks as the flame burns. He exhales the smoke. He looks up at his handsome lover.

"Oh Jesus! Look at you," says Ace.

"Fresh air," says Ben, before he realises he has said it out loud. It is only when he hears his own voice. He snorts amused. “All I needed was fresh air.”

"When I could really do with you as sharp as possible," says Ace. “You are out by the lemon tree…”

“Mandarin…” Ben turns to look at the tree.

“Whatever…”

He looks back at Ace. "You know it relaxes me." He shrugs. "I'm sharp."

"It makes you vague." Ace is dismissive.

"It puts me in the zone," insists Ben.

"But, can we wait until we are away from a crime scene."

“Why? Says Ben. “Are you worried about getting arrested?

There is a momentary silence. Ben flicks the lighter again. The pipe gurgles as it is lit. Gurgling. Flick, sounds the lighter. Ben coughs. The lighter flicks, and flick’s again.

Ben coughs. "There is no physical evidence." Ben’s voice is strained.

"No," says Ace. “Nobody has seen anything.”

"Are we taking about Mrs Whippet?" Ben holds the pipe up. "Or are we still talking about me?"


"Jesus Ben." Ace strides down the long garden path to the rear door to the property. He walks back. "She must have known them."

"She must have let them in."

Ace strides down the path again. And walks back. "Is there a Mr Whippet?"

"There sure is," says Ben. "Rupert Whippet. The neighbour told me when she came over for a sticky. She didn’t know where he was though."

"So where is he?"

"Work, I’m guessing."

"We’ll need to speak to him first," says Ace.

“You are talking about him like he is suspect number 1 and not a grieving husband.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

"Get the car," says Ace.

"You’re driving." Ben laughs. “You get the car.”


The sun is shinning brightly out in the street. Ben steps to the nature strips, as Ace does a fast u turn and pulls the charcoal grey Citroen Goddess up in front of Ben. He pulls the door handle and the frameless door swings open for him. Ben slides his arse into the passenger seat, with its big, soft cushions, and its Darth Vader headrests. Ben sinks down into the seat. The door clunks closed.

"It must be the husband, in that case," says Ben. "He must be suspect number 1."

"He sure is," says Ace."

"So, where is Mr Whippet?" says Ben.

“That is what we are going to find out first,” says Ace.


The Citroen’s tyres make a crunching sound on the debris in the gutter as the car accelerates into the traffic.

"Back to the station?" asks Ben.

"Aye Aye, detective."

"Let's go... detective."

Monday 13 April 2015

I Am Not A Robot

I've transferred this blog today, with my bulldog against my left leg and my boyfriend, Mat, at his laptop next to me.

I have created so many posts that blogger now makes me prove I am not a robot every time I make a new entry. I love the test words I have to retype to prove I am not a robot, whatever that means, they make me laugh. I started writing them down about half way through.

Oolly is the word. A good name for a nerd. Does he have hair in ringlets like Shirley Temple, or would that be more likely to be black dreads hanging down his back? His name is Sasha. I think the later, unless of course, he surfed too, then it would be the former. Yes, definitely.

Or was it Nareen? Or is that where they are from? A lovely farming community just an hour out of Melbourne. Their parents still live there, they go home for Xmas and birthdays. They never forget the oceans views of home.

The things you have to say to prove you are not a robot, it has come to this, who'd have thought. I'm not even sure what a robot does on blogger, but it makes no never mind.

Oh, have a coffee instead, match the pictures, which are the same. All that coffee is going to my head.

Or maybe bread? Ah bread, the stuff of life, with some cheese and some grapes and maybe some pear paste, if you want to be right on note. On trend, is that what they say for tragic fashionistas?

I see red... or is that just a cut on my head?

Now it is Baily, instead. Blond and handsome, and ruggedly fit.

ctess... cute as a button, in a white cotton dress.

Baily ctess undress... he's olost in her pubic patch, as her summer dress falls to her feet.

they eat bread when tess is naked, sitting on her peach

they drink wine from mugs, which dribble down baily's chin

tess calls baily locia as she unbuttons his shirt

tess wants to eat bailey's steak, something she knows she is good at, despite her innocent look

then she doexp'd him

and he ageki with delight

and he yonsums on her stomach with a deep groan

tersg was the sound bailey's handmade rubbing his skin

then bailey took tess in his arms and they rthea together

until there is gisco all over both of them

bailey lent down and licked tess' funge, she squirmed

and he ediqued her out

until she relemed.

She had never felt that before.

(Feel free to make tess a boy, in fact, I encourage you to.)


Sunday 12 April 2015

A life mantra of which more people should take more notice

Saturday 11 April 2015

Your Psychologically Challenged Cousin

This blog is like your retarded psychologically challenged cousin, nobody really knows what to do with him, they know he's schizophrenic, but that is the extent of their mental health knowledge.

You've seen him in his undies, you have seen he's got a big wang, you've seen he's got nice buns around the rear, but it hardly seems appropriate to touch them. 

Sure, he’s old enough at 20 years of age, but…

I think that is this blog, the truth dressed in dirty clothes. It started off as a fictional narrative of a made up character, in the beginning. 

Then it was just fictional stories individually, like I was work shopping them. I was work shopping them.

(I let it go for 3 years)

Then it became reality, with all the names changed and a liberal licence with the truth. A kind of fictional truth.

(I let it go for another 3 years)

Then I used it to record conversations between S and I, because I love him and I wanted to record them just for myself. They make me smile when I go back and read them. But, may be now, with this new version I might just keep them private once again. Maybe they aren’t so interesting to everyone else.

(I let it go for another 3 years)

Then it was pornographic images, dick shots, for a while, during the "I doubt that I could save this blog," period. 

Then I used it as a poetry blog, (with the porn returned to draft form) but I decided to start my own poetry blog on a more reliable blogging platform, with more of a poetry name so interested people could find them. 

The reliable platform was where I have always maintained my main blog, FletcherBeaver.

It was still on the other platform, blog.com (which doesn't seem to work any longer) and it was becoming wildly unstable, which was kind of ironic. Was I just going to let it go?

But no! I'm now changing it over entry for entry from to blogger.com, just for posterity, just for my own interest. I tried to do the back up and restore from backup but it didn't like it. I can now go back and read it on Blogger, without it failing on me continually like it did on blog.com. That Bad Pathway was driving me nuts. 

And, for FletcherSatchel Mk2, I photoshopped off their willies, just to get with these new PC times we live in.

And why, I hear you ask? Because, essentially, I am a hoarder at heart and I can never bear to part with anything, sad but true. I can't throw anything out, not even my words, it would seem.

And that was going to be it, a historical document just for my own interest. I'm not sure that it is going to get too many new entries going forward, unless I can find a way to differentiate it from my main blog.


But… now that I had it, it seemed stupid not to use it… more than one blog being difficult, being as it may. 

So that meant fictional, that is what it is now. 

I'm going to write some fictional nonsense from time to time, just to keep it going.

I can go back a rewrite things/everything, though, because that is what fiction is, re-writing and imagination.

2015

And it was just sex stories there for a while, but I have tried to change a lot of them too, into something else.

I changed its name again to Use The Remote.

Slowly, in the recent years, I have changed it to a fictional blog. I have re-written all of the posts from 2023 to 2015 and they are now all fictional, all made up stories... kind of adapting what I already had, so if some of them seem, ah, how do I put it, difficult, that is why.

That’s it. My identity changed blog is now healed. Ha ha, do you like that? It has an identity, it is fiction all the way, baby.

28.11.2023


Friday 10 April 2015

I'm Semi Fascinating


Who's a Pretty Boy Then?

Darsh was a handsome Indian guy in a Jet Star uniform, with a name tag. He smiled, tilted his head, stepped sideways, and swept his hand in front of himself for me to walk through before him. Tall, dark and handsome, with the body of a football star, or an athlete, or an Indian prince (maybe that is just me). And those black trousers and black shirt just fitted him perfectly.

“I’ve just flown in from Hobart,” he said.

He looked me in the eye and smiled as I hesitated. His beautiful eyes twinkled, his lips parted gently to show a row of pearly white teeth. My breath was taken away just for a millisecond. I guessed he knew it, he had the self assured smile of a man who was born handsome.

"After you." His voice sounded like honey.

I nodded, as if to say thank you, and stepped past.

That jawline, that bone structure, that skin. I won't tell you how he filled out those black trousers. (They could have had their own identity and separate billing) Suffice to say, I would have been happy following him.

"Thank you."

"Oh no, it is my pleasure," he said.

I looked back and he was still gazing at me. I nodded my head again and smiled.

He smiled too. I wouldn't have been surprised to see glint sparkle off one of his teeth, as his lips parted and his eyes twinkled. 

He winked.

I laughed nervously to myself as I turned the corner. I took in a big breath and exhaled quickly.


What was I doing? I asked myself. I laughed at the thought. So easily distracted. No, seriously, any pretty face and I go gaga.

Did I have my carryon bag. I felt for it over my shoulders. My laptop, I suddenly thought? Back pack, I said to myself. Backpack. I’m so used to carrying my computer bag in my hand.

The mirror finish floor tiles spread out in front of me all the way to the escalator. I wondered if a mirror finished floor was really a good use of funds?

I stepped onto the escalator and descended to the floor below and the luggage carousels. B1 ground into life as I approached as if there was some sort of sensor detecting my approach. Those goddam coincidences that occur every moment of every day in which my spiritually aware friends are forever searching for meaning. No, I said to myself, sometimes it is just a carousel starting up.

I stood waiting for my bag, as though I was waiting for a bus that was never coming. I’m good at falling into that default stasis setting that I find is required at least once in every day. It’s the secret to life, I often think, don’t try and fill in the boring bits constantly, take them as a gift to be enjoyed and just stop and feel your own skin, stare off into space, tune out.

The bags were talking a while. I should have gone and had a piss, I’m only going to have to go to the toilets with my bag anyway. I should have gone when it was only my dick I had to hold in my hand. The thought makes me laugh. The woman in the red hand knitted jumper and tweed skirt standing next to me with the pointy face eyed me suspiciously. Is he a nutter, I could see the expression written all over her face, as she witnessed me, seemingly, spontaneously laughing. 

Oh yes, I think, life has become a very serious affair, now hasn’t it. I wondered, momentarily, what she’d do if I just laughed out loud really heartily, I wondered if it would make her move away, and then that made me chuckle again, and she observed me carefully with side eye even more so because of it.

I wanted to say, Boo! Just for the hell of it, you know, to relieve the boredom of waiting, but, of course, I didn’t.

I looked straight ahead, no use scaring the punters any more than necessary. And there was Darsh standing over the other side of the carousel. He smiled when he saw me look at him, waving, without moving his hand from his side, making a circle with his fingers. I felt myself nod in recognition. You know, automatically, as you do. Hello there, I see you.

Then, I didn’t really know where to look. To my right and I was looking at Helen Lovejoy, if I looked straight ahead, I was gazing at Darsh, so I looked to my left and the still empty language carousel, grinding on its endless quest, at which point the first suitcase mounted the panicle of the conveyor belt and dropped into view. 

Another coincidence? Of course, Tamarin Moonbeam would say there are no coincidences in life and that I possessed important spirituality and power. Seriously, I think? If only I could manifest my suitcase in double quick time, and my suit case suddenly came into view on the black rubber conveyor belt. I chuckled audibly, and the lady in red, next to me, took a few steps away from me, clearly convinced I was some kind of loop.

I was readying myself to grab the handle of my bag, as it approached, approached, approached. And as it got close, a hand to my left reached in and grabbed it and hauled it off the carousel.

“Hey?” I said, as I turned to see who the mystery hand belonged to.

“Allow me,” came the silky tones of Darsh’s baritone voice.

“You were over there,” I said. “Just moments…”

“I know,” said Darsh. “But then I saw from where the language was coming, and figured this was the optimum position… right here by you.” He smiled. His teeth sure were white up close.

“Yes,” I said. I looked down at my suitcase by my feet. I looked up at Darsh. “Well, thank you.”

“Oh, don’t mention it,” said Darsh.


I reached for my suitcase, Darsh reached for it too, I wasn’t exactly sure why. “Allow me…” And we ended up holding hands, momentarily. He pulled his hand away.

“It’s okay, I’ve got it,” I said. “But thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Darsh.

There wasn’t really anything to mention, I thought. Got hands, sweetie, got hands, said Edina Monsoon in my head. 

I smiled.

Darsh smiled.

You really are handsome, I thought.

“My bag will be along soon, no doubt,” said Darsh.

“Yes,” I said. “Good luck.”

“Good luck to you too,” said Darsh.


Bag? Check? Carryon bag? Check. I headed for the exit.

There were more of those mirror finished floors stretching out in front of me, sliding all the way to the outside.

The air was fresh outside. I walked to the taxi rank. I like catching late flights into town, the airport is quiet at such times, not that that is guaranteed, but on this occasion it was true. The concours to the taxi rank was deserted, there is a certain melancholy loneliness that is enjoyable arriving late to an airport, particularly when it is home territory. 

My suitcase was heavy by the time I got to the railings delineating the lines for the taxis. There were several people ahead of me. It looked like a business man with a copy of the financial review, a mother and son coming home from somewhere. Otherwise, it was grey concrete and empty spaces.


“It’s a quiet night at the taxi rank,” a voice says behind me.

“Yes… indee…” It was Darsh he’d arrived at the taxi rank. “We meet again,” I say.

“Of all the gin joints…”

“In all the towns…” I say.

He laughs. “What do you think the wait time is?” He points to the front of the taxi rank with his chin.

“Oh, it won’t be any time,” I say. “To wait at all is kind of unusual.”

“I am waiting in silence. In a city that is bustling. Whose inhabitants are hustling. Stationary in this place. For want of a taxi to take me away from here.”

“Very poetic,” I say.

“Oh, I am full of them,” Darsh says.

“Go gently into the night, until a taxi cab comes into sight, to facilitate you with your…  um, plight?” I shrug.

“Why not,” says Darsh.

“Homeward bound,” I say.

“Well saved,” he says.

At that point a Yellow Taxi comes along the main roadway and stops at the taxi rank.

“Like magic,” says Darsh.

“Oh yes, I am full of it,” I say.

“Magic?” questions Darsh.

“But of course,” I say.

The businessman with the copy of the financial review gets into the taxi and it drives away.

Two more taxis’ appear and stop at the rank.

The mother and son get in one taxi. Then there is one waiting for either of us.

“Where are you going?” asks Darsh. “Can we share a taxi?”

“Emerald,” I say.

“Well, I’m going to Cockatoo, so you are on my way,” he says. “Shall we share?”

“I don’t see why not,” I say.

The driver is out of the car and at the boot, which he’d already popped open. “Let me get that,” the driver says. He takes my suitcase and then he takes Darsh’s. We get in either side of the back of the car. 


Wednesday 8 April 2015


Approx 10% Gay?

Kinsey said that any given point in time, he estimated that approx 10% of the population is gay. Ever since those with Jesus in their lives have been trying to get that percentage down to 1%, or closer to it. You see, if there are fewer gay people then the world doesn't have to make such a great allowance for them, therefore the God myths are, somehow, relatively of greater importance.

And now a days, when active Jesus devotees, and not just all those people who have no greater imagination than to call themselves what their parents, and their parents before them called themselves, measure approx. 8% of the population, the actual figure becomes important, well, more so in the god botherers heads than anybody else’s, you understand.

It is, actually, mean spirited, really. The practice of taking other people down to make yourself look better. Blowing out the candle of others to give your own candle more oxygen with which to burn brighter. It is not loving your fellow man, it is not treating others as you would wish to be treated, so how Christian really are all of those Christians, I ask you?

But, what those with Jesus in their hearts – you know where the love ought to be, shame they lose sight of this – are trying to prove is that there are more straight boys, that a greater proportion of men are straight than, perhaps, there really is. What they fail to grasp is that a huge percentage of the hetro male population engage in gay sex. 

There is a spectrum along which we all fit. So, even if 10% are exclusively gay, there is another 10% that are 25% gay, then there is another 10% who are 50% gay, then there is another 10% who are 75%, then you have your 100% straight guys.

(I'm only using these numbers for illustrative purposes, I am not claiming they are 100% accurate)

All men are capable of gay sex, because they are sexual beings who like sex. They are capable of having sex with each other, and they often do. They just don't talk about it, don’t make it known.

I think Kinsey's estimate is, actually, kind of low.

I love all of the straight boys I have had sex with. They are good at it and enthusiastic too. They generally know exactly what they are doing because they are men too and they know what to do. It is not a mystery to them. And they are generally keen because it is only sex they are after.

They just want to fuck, and when they just want to fuck, they are not thinking about anything else. They are just thinking about sex, and they just do it, no more thought really required. And because they just want to fuck, they are into it. Do you understand what I am saying? There is no longer gay, or straight, at that point, there is just sex, two people wanting to have sex, wanting to have sex with each other, and that’s what happens.

No more inhibitions, what they want has been negotiated and accepted, no more holding back, all parties agree.

In the party scene when we were all in our twenties, straight boys engaged in a lot of gay sex, for different reasons. They were suitably inhibition free after taking pills and powders all night. And their gay mates are available. They were drunk, alcohol gets their pants off, yes it does. They hadn’t scored with a girl. Contrary to popular belief, gay bars/parties are not good places to pick up chicks. You know what gay bars/parties are good for? Picking up guys. And here is one that the prudes have real trouble with, straight boys like gay sex. 

Some straight guys just don’t listen to the status quo and they like getting off. It is easy. They were horny. The other guy was available. Gay guys are up for it. It was just sex and it was no big deal. They liked getting fucked in the arse because, you know, girls couldn’t do that for them. And gay guys were cool with just having sex and going their separate ways. Gay guys don’t expect him to call them afterwards.

I’ve heard one straight guy say, “I just liked the equal and same strength battling with me for dominance. It was a real turn on to see who was going to end up on top when we made out.”

Another one said a similar thing. “I got turned on by not knowing who was going to pin who down.”

Another straight guy once told me, “You know, gay guys are just really up for it, there’s no bullshit. No endless negotiation.”

Another said to me, “You guys suck good cock.”


There was lovely Simon, who was between girlfriends, who was really sensuous, was a great kisser, who fell asleep holding my hand covered in our cum. In the morning he was up early, he made me coffee, told me he had the best time. “Why?” I asked.

“It was easy, like there was no expectations,” he said. “It was just sex for fun, I really liked it.” 

“Sex for fun,” I said.

“Yep,” he said. “There should be more of it.”

“You wanna do it again.”

“Yeah, sure. Some day.”

“With me?”

“Of course, with you.”


Simon and I met at uni, first day. He was from the country, so everything was new to him. 

He’d split from his girlfriend to come to Melbourne to come to uni, she didn’t want him to go, she wanted him to stay in Dubbo and be a farmer.

“What more do you have,” she said. “You have it all here.”

“I wanna see the world,” said Simon. “Or at least, more than Dubbo.”

The girlfriend wasn’t too please. “My biological clock is ticking,” she said.

“You are 21 years old?”

“I know. That is what I am saying?”


We discovered things together, that is what 1st year is like. 

He discovered beer, but I wasn’t so keen.

I discovered ecstasy, and we were both pretty keen. We went to dance parties and danced. Girls liked him, I’m not sure I liked that. Girls didn’t like me so much, well, that’s what I thought. 

“They like you okay,” said Simon. “It’s you who doesn’t seem to like them.”

We discovered dancing. We both liked that.

Late, one night, we were really out of it. It was really late. We were sitting out the back of some warehouse, where the sun was about to come up. I just had the urge. I couldn’t stop myself. You know, 2 e’s in. I cuddled up to him. He was warm. He put his arm around me. And kissed the side of my head.


We both closed our eyes, there in each other’s warmth. Momentarily. I don’t know what Simon was thinking, but I know what I imagined.

“I love you,” I said. I’m not really sure where that came from, the drugs, of course.

“I love you too,” he said. He hugged me tight.

I hugged him. My hands began to feel him, his size, his strength.

Simon had sandy hair and a great smile. He had a well developed chest and a narrow waist. He had thick thighs and a beefy butt.

He jumped up. “Come on.” He held his hand out.

“What?” I took his hand.

“Come dance.”

We took another pill and danced until the sun came up and the music stopped.

We got back to my place. I don’t remember how we started kissing, but we did. We tore each other’s clothes off and had hot, drugged out sex. Simon was no inhibited.

I remember his torso covered in both our cum before we both passed out.

Sometime Sunday afternoon I woke up. Simon was sitting on the bed naked sipping coffee. “Good morning sleepy head,” he said. He handed me a coffee.

“You awake.”

“Yep.”

“How long have you been awake.”

“A while.”

“You should have woken me up.”

“You looked so peaceful.”

“What have you been doing?”

“Thinking.”

“Thinking about what?”

“Stuff. Lots of stuff. You? What we did. How beautiful the morning is. It is quiet here.”

“Regrets?”

“What? With you?”

“Yeah?”

“No, none.”

“None?”

“No, I liked it.”

“You liked it?”

“Yeah, sure. It was easy. It was fun.”

“You wanna do it again?”

Simon looked at me and smiled. “Finish your coffee.” He smiled. “Tiger.” He laughed.

“Have you ever…”

“No.”

“Never?”

“No,” he said. “I do it again, though.”

“With me?”

“Of course, with you.”

“Oh, good,” I said. I wanted to do it again with him.


We went out and had lunch at a café around the corner from my place. Simon had a big breakfast, but only really picked at it. I have mushrooms on toast, which sound like a good idea until they were sitting in front of me.

We drank coffee.

“So,” said Simon as we sat there. “You want to be boyfriends?”

“You and me?”

“Yes, you and me.”

“You know that would mean more…”

“Sex?”

“Yes.”

“Sure.” He smiled that smile that made even the greyest day sunnier. “But, I like being with you. All of you.”

“I do too.”

“You know what I really liked?” 

“What?”

“When you took my hand and we held hands walking onto the dance floor.”

I could still remember Simon’s big hand in mine. Warm and strong.

“I felt like someone,” he said. “I felt like…” He screwed up his face in thought. “Like I belonged… in that… and it felt good.”

Wow. I wasn’t expecting any of that. I wasn’t expecting to have sex with him either, not at all.

“So, you wanna be gay.”

“No.”

“Boyfriends kind of means that.”

“Why?”

“Because we are two guys.”

“Can't a straight guy and a gay guy be in love with each other?”

Now we were in love. This was going fast, more than fast, it was going places I never thought about. “Um.” I shrugged. “Yes.” I sat back in my chair and looked at Simon. “I guess.”

“Then, that’s what we are.”

“Hard to explain to other people.”

“Why so?”

“They won’t understand.”

“Who cares if they do,” said Simon. “But, I reckon they will understand by seeing us.”

“I guess.”

Simon drank his coffee.

“Is this too much?” He smiled.

Too much. It was too much, really. But it felt deliciously too much.

“You are not answering?” said Simon.

What the fuck. I wish it was me who had the guts to just say it and not let doubts stop me.

“You are still not answering?”

“My head is spinning,” I said. “But it is spinning in a good way.”

Simon reached across the table and took my hand. “My head is spinning too,” he said.


So, for the rest of first year, we had quite an intense relationship. Simon telling anyone who asked that he was straight, me telling them I was gay. That led to quite a few conversations, not that either of us cared. Oh, I guess we cared because it was about us.

The sociology students wanted to study us. I think some of them did unofficially.

Gay guys wanted to get with us. Straight guys were fascinated and had lots of questions.

Over the first year holidays, Simon met Tessa down at Lorne with his family. He told her all about me. Tessa didn’t like me, she could barely conceal her dislike for me.

She asked me what my intensions were. “What do you think is going to happen, from here?” And, I remember hoping the earth would just open up and swallow her right at that moment.

It’s okay, you have him. I knew this day would come one day, I am not stupid, but you don’t have to gloat. “I don’t have any expectations,” I said. A gracious exit, I thought. Set them free, and all that.

Simon and I drifted apart. And that was that. We remained friends for the rest of uni, but started mixing in different circles. Simon got all sporty and joined the sporty guys.

And me. Well? I kind of got through uni on my own, after that, with a few friends. Uni was never the great big, social experiment that others had, well, not after Simon. It was pretty tame, post Simon. It wasn’t until I got a job and threw myself into the gay scene that I found my group and my place in the world.