I'm Shagged... Literally

I had the house to myself.

Matt 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.

Matt played sheep. I played drover.

Matt played catcher. I played pitcher.

Matt'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. Matt 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)

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.

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.”

Lunch

There is a 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 tucked into his low hung pants, the soft white cotton covers the top of his cheeks, clinging like Lycra, like arse cleavage. 

I’m not complaining, such things don’t bother me. I imagine it might bother some people, people with kids, of course, old people who have forgotten life, too old to remember biting into a ripe peach when the juice runs down over your chin.

“What would you like?” he asks.

“Shouldn’t that be ‘are you ready to order’?” I reply. I’m not sure why I was antagonistic.

“Sure, if you like,” he says.

“Well, go on, say it,” I say. I know why I was being antagonistic, I was a bit pissed.

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

“Because, I know what I’d like?”

“Well, that’s a good start. What can I get you?”

“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 pulled his eye brows into a furrow. “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 had a brunch meeting with Cinnamon and we’d ordered pastries and wine and Cinnamon and I had ordered a bottle because it was cheaper than by the glass and, of course, we’d drunk the bottle, you know because it was there. We’d already done the work we needed to do and we’d got onto the younger generation and how they thought they knew everything, unquestioningly, and how annoying that was. We both just wanted to do their heads in, you know, just once.

Cinnamon wanted to take the guys and put them over her knee. “Oh, I’d like to…” She swept her hand through the air.

I wanted to baffle them with words so much so they’d realise for themselves they didn’t know everything.

“No, it has to be physical,” Cinnamon said. “Skin on skin.” She looked far more excited than she should have been.

“No, it has to be cerebral, it’s the only way you can get them to change.”

My waiter cleared his throat.

I came back into the moment and found myself staring directly at his trousers, my gaze had wandered as my mind thought of the earlier meeting in the day.

I instantly raised my eyes up to his, just as he self consciously shuffled from one foot to the other. He was blushing just a little, so maybe he had some idea to what I was drawing attention.

“Oh, I… I’ll have coffee, thanks,” I said.

“Coffee is on the menu.”

“Yes, of course,” I said. I smiled as if I didn't know what he meant.

He held my gaze. I assume he was waiting for my special order.

I smiled and tilted my head. I wondered if he was putting himself through uni?

“Coffee?” he repeated.

“Yes,” I said. “Coffee.” I was light and breezy personified.

He furrowed his brows as if in question? He turned and walked away, and there it was, the arse cleavage walking away.

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.