Love Of My Life

When I was fourteen, I dreamed that one day I would have a boyfriend. But at that age, it seemed to take forever, boy time moved slowly and it felt like I never would. Pudgy and fifteen was not a good time for me. Nightly I checked my breasts to see if they’d grown bigger than my waist. Boys were becoming more interesting, with their thick arms and broad shoulders and their slender torso’. The sense of them, their presence was catching my eye.

My little brother was suddenly able to hold me down when we’d jostled for sibling supremacy. Where, up until that point, I was easily able to overpower him. And like every other girl at that age, I had one of life’s realisations that he, as with every other boy, would be forever stronger than me. Nooooooo, screamed the voice in my head, at the inequality of life, as I lay pinned to the ground with him smiling on top.

But the opposite sex didn’t seem to notice me, didn’t seem to know that I was alive. I was a late developer, well, later than most of my girlfriends around me. They seemed to understand the boy girl thing much quicker than me. It seemed to be a secret that I was forever waiting to come clear. Boys made me nervous; it took me a while before I could relax in their company.

Then suddenly I shot up, my puppy fat fell away and my plainness seemed to be a thing of the past. I learned that boys liked tits and I got good at jiggling them around.

When I was sixteen, I got a boyfriend, his name was Dean. We kind of drifted together, the last people in our group of friends without partners. We were two wallflowers tentatively reaching for each other and our hands slipped together, warm and nervously. I thought he was nice. We spent our days together, we watched movies and rode our skateboards on the weekends. We spent our holidays surfing down the coast where his parents camped each year. The sun, in my teenage years, set like a giant glass ball shimmering as it descended into the sea. The days and nights were golden. We thought we’d live forever, the never ending days of youth.

But there was no passion, just best mates, that’s all we really were. We lost our virginity by the beach in a tent on the sand, one New Years eve, drunk on beer and cask wine, in a whimper it was gone.

In college, I dated a passionate guy. His name was Joe, short for Joseph. We got a flat together to save money as we studied for our degrees. He made me his life. We wore each other’s cloths and we always had to be touching wherever we went. Most weekends we’d be found draped all over each other, semi-naked, studying in bed together, the TV on, smoking dope, just the two of us.

But he was too emotional. Everything was an emergency. If I was late back from work, or too long out in the car shopping, he’d be hysterical when I got home, crippled with fear. He was a drama queen, cried all the time and sulked if I didn’t pay him enough attention and in the end he threatened suicide when I said I was leaving him. So I decided I needed a boy with stability.

When I was twenty-five, I found a very stable mate, his name was Casey. He had a plan, worked out when he was eighteen, to be an IT manager for a medium size company that was going somewhere. He was right on target when we met. He got his degree with honours, he picked the right company, he was on track, he was on the way up. He worked long hours, working late most nights and when he didn’t, he played Volley ball with the guy’s on Tuesdays, the same guys from school that he’d played with for seven years. We both drank out on Friday nights, together, with an assortment of friends. Pretty soon my life was sailing along as steadily as Casey’s was.

But he was boring. He was totally predictable and never got excited about anything. We had Foxtel, which came with thirty-five channels. Every other night we’d crash in front of the television, late and he’d channel surf, relentlessly. We stopped talking and we seemed distant there on the couch. We had sex in the dark, sporadically, suddenly, without talking and then we’d roll over and go to sleep.

We’d have fish and chips every Sunday night, our only night off from the gym.

Life became so dull that I decided I needed a boy with some excitement.

When I was twenty-eight I found an exciting boy, his name was Andrew. He was dark and handsome; he drove a sports car and had money in the bank. He loved to party. We partied hard together.

I got a tattoo.

We rushed from one party to another, never settling on anything for too long. We picked up girls, we picked up boys, and we had dirty sex in all sorts of locales. He did mad, impetuous things and flirted with everyone he met. He introduced me to drugs, ecstasy, MDA and cocaine and some sexual escapades that I’m still not at all sure were legal.

His favourite drugged out fantasy, now that raw sex was out of the question, was “The Rainbow kiss.” When I had my first period around him, in the first few months of our relationship, he got all excited in bed that morning. It was a drug-fucked moment, one of many. There had been a major party the night before from which we’d only just come home. We were tripping at daybreak as we lay in our bed.

The rainbow kiss is oral sex, the sixty-nine position to be exact. He licked my pussy and I sucked his cock until he came in my mouth. And then we’d kiss, me taking my blood from his lips and he his cum from my mouth. It drove him nuts.

But I couldn't keep up with him, with his energy, his sexual appetite. I had a boob job; one cup size bigger, a B to a C. He made me miserable as often as he made me happy, as his attention continually wandered elsewhere. He was great fun and energetic, and as sexy as hell. But he was direction-less and we were rapidly dissolving into just a series of drug related cycles, one after the other. Coming down hard on a Tuesday became my reality. I had to take six months off work to travel to Europe to get over him and my addictions.

So I decided to find a boy with some ambition.

When I turned thirty-one, I found a smart ambitious boy with his feet planted firmly on the ground. His name was Sam. I called him Sammy and I loved him without reserve. He was about to make partner in his Architecture firm, my IT consultancy was just getting off the ground. So I moved in with him, it just seemed the natural progression.

We had the perfect life, matching Saab’s and an option on bigger premises for my venture. We had a block of land in the Ottways on which we camped with our Rottweiler dogs, in the summer when the weather was hot.

We got married over looking the sea; our two dogs were attendants and our close friends gathered around. The surf crashed just below and a cool breeze blew. We built a mud brick house over looking the sea. We even talked about children.

We bought a bigger house every other year and the latest cars. We borrowed heavily. We were on the “A” list socially.

He was so ambitious that he fell in love with a multimillionaire’s daughter, a corporate lawyer and he dumped me. I lost everything with our fancy mortgages and contractual obligations. What I had left he took as a parting gesture, with the letters of assurity that he had me signed, just before it all feel apart. That was last stupid thing I did, right before I realised our marriage was over.

He’s now running a design company, an arm of a global construction conglomeration, owned by his father-in-law, with little miss charity queen giving the orders by his side.

I am forty now and I am doing consultancy work. All my friends are having children and seem as happy as can be. Natural childbirth for the first kid, as responsible thirty-something mothers should. And then knocked out on whatever the doctors would give them, for the second birth, remembering how much the first one hurt.

I met Dean the other day, the first time I’d seen him since we split. He’s looking good and doing well and his boyfriend, Damien, seems nice.

Joe committed suicide; apparently his family was shocked and just kept asking why? Andrew got caught dealing drugs and he is now doing time.

I made a packet from the 2YK bug. I work for myself. I work my own hours; I prefer it that way. I own my own terrace house, which I renovate when I get time.

I am in high demand.

I work four days a week and on the fifth, I do as I please. I still work more hours a week, than most people do in five days. I make a good living and I have some treasured friends.

I think I am going to write.

I had a nose job. I got that pesky bump, which I’ve always hated, removed.

Now I am looking for a man with a nice smile, interesting whit, a life of his own and a big, hard dick.

Taking Over The World

7:45a.m.

My eyes crack open and everything is hazy. It is morning. My head is thick, a foggy cloud has settled behind my eyes in the night. It doesn’t feel as though it is going to shift any time soon. I wonder where I am. I contemplate headache tablets.

7:46a.m.

The sheets feel nice; they could almost be my Egyptian cotton. I snuggle down. I’m in good hands.

7:47a.m.

Oh my god, it is my own bed and these are my sheets. It has taken me how long to realise? I drag myself up on to one arm and survey the room. I see that I’m not alone, although I have no memory of that particular fact. He has his back to me and I gaze over his shoulder to see his face. “Phew,” I exhale audibly. Not bad. I congratulate myself and wonder what his name is?

I wake the stranger and tell him I am late for work, so I won't be able to have breakfast with him. I apologise as I help him look for his underwear.

I remember the material of his boxer shorts tearing as I ripped them off him last night. I remember his arse. My single memory; I hope more will come back to me as I search. I find the torn boxers at the end of a pile of clothes, strewn from the door to the edge of the bed. We must have been good.

His boxers are fucked, though one leg is nearly ripped off them.

I loan him a pair of briefs, an old pair just in case I never see him again.

He looks good in them as he stands in front of me pulling on his shirt.

8:00 a.m

His name still eludes me, “See you,” I say. We kiss. His lips are soft. His stubble is sharp. “I’ll give you a call,” I say, as I usher him out the door. My bare feet are cold on the doorstep.

“Yeah, okay,” he says. “That would be cool,” and he smiles. He has a nice smile. He gives me that morning-after look, when there is an awkward moment of silence. That look is somewhere between submissive and nervous, angelic and scared.

His jeans look good on him as I watch him walk away.

8:01 a.m

I fold the piece of paper with his telephone number on it and put it in the wooden box on the mantelpiece, where I keep all of my phone numbers. They are all together, but I rarely call any of them, too many men, too little time. They are just trophies, memento’s. Once I got them all out and counted them. There was fifty-five.

His name is Mathew. It is written on the scrap of paper that has his phone number on it. I try to remember how many Mathew’s I have slept with.

I can’t.

8:02 a.m

I remember my new loofa as I step into the shower. I remind myself again why I live alone, as I pick up the loofa from exactly where I left it, in exactly the same condition that I left it in.

I remember that I live alone when I reach for my Lime body- wash, as I gaze down I see that the soap scum is now forming layers on the tiles.

8:20 a.m

Pinstriped or plain suit, what sort of day is it? I decide to go with my new the three-button black, as it is the only suit that will go with the only shirt that is clean and ironed.

I make a mental note to get the phone number of whoever does Nick’s laundry.

8:30 a.m

I make a high protein breakfast while watching the “Today show”. I wonder if the stories I've heard about Tracy Grimshaw are true. Maybe?

I’m cross with myself for not going to the gym, yesterday. It’s now been three days.

I brush the cat fur off my suit for a second time, when I forget and sit back down again to contemplate Tracy’s sexuality.

Apparently, she has “Dyke icon” status.

9:00 a.m

I climb into my MX-5 and decide against the Gucci sunglasses. I’m trying not to look too much like that guy I saw the other day with his perfect sun tan, his perfect, matching, tipped hair and his perfect, black, SLK. I think his hair and his skin were exactly the same colour. He made me laugh spontaneously, out loud, as I glanced over at him, when he pulled up next to me at the lights. What a cliché?

And then my best friend Jason laughed when I told him the story and he said that I owned a girl’s car, too. I disagreed with him, but it has stayed on my mind since.

Perhaps I should get a new car?

9:30 a.m

I stroll into the office. I’m impressed with myself. I’m practically on time.

9:31 a.m

I close the door to my office and the phone is already ringing. I hesitate before I pick it up. Am I up to talking yet? It’s my drinking buddy Nick. He laughs about the guy who spent the night at my place and the fact that I couldn’t remember his name. “Hate that,” says Nick. “It would be much easier if we all had name tags or the same name, or no names at all, for fucks sake.”

“Fuck cards,” I say. “Standard issue, required to be given out before anyone gets... horny.” My head is still foggy.

“Issued at birth, “ Nick says.

“And you simply match the face to the ID,” I say.

“But you can’t even remember meeting him,” Nick points out, with his sarcastic laugh. It’s still too early for me for Nick’s, sarcastic, laugh. “So you wouldn’t remember the card even if he had given it to you, stupid.”

Nick is very competitive and his humour can border on being rude when he gets going. Translation: when he’s being witty than me. “No card would help you, too many brain cells gone on the night.”

I tell him that the word is that his boyfriend is sleeping around. But quickly add, “It‘s probably not true, as I only heard it third hand and from a very unreliable source.”

All my sources are unreliable, but only with keeping secrets.

9:45 am

I see that all my clients plans are back from the draftsmen, a day early. I suspected that I was going to have to spend the good part of today chasing up those plans.

I feel a bit woozy. I am still stoned from my late night with what’s his name.

10:15 am

I leave the office, telling my secretary that I am “meeting a client for lunch.” I pretend not to notice her roll her eyes and I just stop myself from reminding her that I am the boss in this situation. (although I haven’t yet made partner status).

I must be more hung over than I think.

10:30 am

I head to my hairdresser for my weekly appointment. I think I need colour too. It always makes me feel better, the morning after, when I’m feeling plain. Just sitting in the chair for an hour, doing nothing recharges me. I close my eyes and think about blue clouds and floating in mid air.

I purchase P.P.S. “Goop.” I have no idea how that is different to all the other products lined up in my bathroom, but if Tony recommends it...

11:30 am

I run into my personal trainer at the gym. I question him about Human Growth Hormone. I’ve been reading the reports about the Olympic games. Party season is about to begin, after all. Why should I be concerned about some mild liver damage, when I know it would make me look better?

I spend thirty minutes on the treadmill and thirty minutes on the machines; being intermittently disturbed by friends on my mobile phone. I prepare a mental-schedule of which men I want to sleep with and those who want to sleep with me. I try to organise the list alphabetically, but with the phone ringing constantly, who can think.

12:30 p.m.

I have a ten-minute top up on my tan in the fly buzzer, as Jason calls it. I reassure myself that solariums are safer then the ozone, depleted sun. I schedule a waxing in time for Saturday night’s party, where I know I will end up shirtless.

12:45 p.m.

I pay my trainer for the anabolic steroids, and half listen to his warnings and schedule a workout in two days.

I shower. The mildew has still not been wiped from the shower recess. I think about the Tinea I have just battled and defeated. I make a mental note to bring it up with the guy on the desk, or change gyms. I am still contemplating my options as my friend Nick’s boyfriend, Mark, enters the change rooms.

I decide on my first option.

I take ten minutes hunting for a mystery item that is lost somewhere in my gym bag, as I check out Nick’s boyfriend undressing with attitude. His hands run down his flat torso and slide under the elastic waistband of his briefs. He slides them down, all the time gazing down at himself, swaying his hips just slightly. As though the music is playing and he is the star in his very own peep show. He has a nice tiger tattoo on his arse and a highly defined tan line around the top of each leg and around his waist. He has a fine covering of black hair that extends from the top of the back of each thigh and disappears up the crack in his firm, round, white, arse. He bends over to pick up his shorts, from his sports bag, almost on queue.

I immediately regret turning him down at that bar, last week, when he was drunk and wanting it. Oh, best friend’s cute boyfriend’s...sisterly obligation, it’s a grey area, that’s for sure.

1:15 p.m.

I meet a guy for lunch from Manline, the telephone chat line. The only facts I know about him are his height, weight and cock size. The waiter recognises me from a bar, we give each other the “secret” look, and I laugh to myself with the thought of it. I am whisked past the heterosexual couples who have been waiting patiently for a table, for thirty minutes. I smile all the way to my table. We’re taking over the world, I think to myself.

He arrives a few minutes later. He looks nice, as he approaches the table with the waiter, kind of thirties matinee idol, but with shaggy hair.

Well...that’s the image I’m going with.

He is wearing a suit; he has come straight from work. “I’ve got the afternoon off, I’m not due back in the office until tomorrow,” he says, as we drink our first glass of wine. I like him already.

His name is Luke. He’s an accountant. He seems smart. He’s had two serious boyfriends and a couple of not so serious ones. He has a “not so serious” one happening at present. I interpret “not so serious” as those it’s okay to cheat on.

He’s not as big as he said he was, I suddenly realise, in between sips of wine.

He had a girlfriend before he discovered his true sexuality, but he never went down on her. Which he is still relieved about, especially since it still seems to be a fairly strict yardstick, today, of the true quality of a young mans, particular, gay gene.

One of his parents is still alive, who he visits most weekends. He travelled around Europe last year, with his best friend, Rita. And he had twisted testicles as a child, which had to be operated on.

Jesus! I’m continually amazed by what you find out about a person when you actually have a conversation before sex.

2:30 p.m.

“Coffee at my place,” he says. I soon find out people lie on phone lines.

It’s an awful moment when you’ve just got your hand inside some guy’s jocks and you realise it’s all over for you.

“I’m sorry, I’m too stoned,” I say. I make a mental note to always have a joint before sex so the excuses, at least, ring true to me.

I’m out of there in ten minutes making a mental note to give up phone chat lines once and for all.

3:45 p.m.

I meet Jason for coffee and cake at Gluttony. We are both late.

We discuss IVF rights for Lesbians and single mothers.

“And you know what really gives me the shits,” says Jason. “This crap about the homosexual agenda.”

“Yeah, who came up with that?” I say, puffing on a Styvie.

“Like we all got together and drew up a plan,” he says, passing me the ashtray.”

“It’s just a nice face for bigotry and for the Christians to hide behind with their hate,” I say.

Jason laughs. “Like poof’s could get up early enough to be that organised?”

“It shit’s me that the Christian right can still event new terms like the whole “equal rights not special rights” campaign to mask their sad views.”

“Oh it’s all the lies they tell,” says Jason. “Recruitment, special rights, protect the children...”

“Well, what about the gay children.” I say, beginning to feel the effect of my four, or was it five, glasses of red at lunch. “And what about their children and the Christian values they have stuffed down their throats from birth?”

“We should assume control,” says Jason with that sparkle appearing in his eye. “Of government, of the states, of local council.” He thumps his fist on the table. “There’s enough of us in all those jobs, now, to stage a coup. We should get an agenda, we should unite, we should show them all.”

“Destroy all Christian marriages,” I say.

“Recruit the children,” says Jason

“Only the gay ones, of course. We wouldn’t want to be hypocrites,” I say

“Fuck it, recruit them all. Kindergarten through to year twelve.” Jason thumps both his fists on the table. “Recruit them all into our amoral, filthy lifestyle.” The waiter appears beside Jason and asks if everything is all right.

I sip my coffee to stifle a laugh.

“Secure control of the media,” Jason whispers. “Isn’t one of those media moguls son’s gay?”

“Television has practically taken care of itself,” I say. “Even I’m sick of how many gay characters there are now.”

“You will have to molest the innocent children and I will give AIDS to as many people as I can,” says Jason, almost sounding triumphant. “See if we can get “The Pissed Christ” back. It can feature at a pornographic “art” exhibition that will be subliminally satanic and it’ll turn people away from Jesus without them ever realising why. They’ll burn in hell forever.”

4:10 p.m.

Time permitting, we will solve all of society’s evils and the world will be a much nicer place. We will have, dancing girls and dancing boys and we will, no doubt, look like we are having way too much fun in the process.

I’m still laughing as I leave the café. I decide to head home; there’s no use going back to the office for only an hour.

5:00p.m.

I take a power-nap. I apply cucumber gel and draw the curtains and rest from the stress of world conquest and from being so fabulous.

The trams clunk, clunk rhythmically at the end of the street. Like the noise of a branch, with a rope-swing rocking below it, back and forwards, back and forwards. I’m in a beautiful forest; there’s a wood nymph, dressed in…

The joint is making me woozy and dazed…

6:30 p.m.

I open a fabulous new bottle of Merlot and pick at the remains of the macrobiotic food containers, which litter the inside of my fridge. I contemplate an energy drink, but with the wineglass in the other hand, I decide maybe not.

6:45 P.M.

I bake Special K for the weekend, which I get from my friendly vet. He was very formal and professional, when I first started to visit his surgery. That was until I dropped that I was going to Mardi Gras, one time when I was there with my cat. He shrieked and seemed to change physically, before my very eyes, when he realised we were in the same club, as he put it. Now he hugs and kisses me whenever I see him and offers to get me Special K, whenever I want it. As he feels me up during the consultation, on the white laminae, scrubbed very clean.

It’s not my favourite drug, but hey, when the cupboard is bare, what can you do?

My cat wasn’t even sick, last Thursday, when we went.

I bake it as per Nick’s instructions, scribbled on the back of a business card, when we were both in a sex-on-premises venue, late one Sunday morning, when the trade was bad.

I test the recipe. You only need the tinniest amount, I remind myself.

I make a mental note to quantify “tiny.”

7:00 P.M

I toss the empty wine bottle into the recycling bin and go to Saba. I need new shirts, my solution to the washing problem. I’m feeling a little unsteady on my feet. The decor seems a bit surreal. I’m not sure if I’m amused or dizzy. I feel both. The only other shopper in the place seems to have six arms.

7:40 P.M.

I snap out of my stupor, close my mouth and stop lecherously eyeing off the boy behind the counter, who is wearing tight jeans and a singlet torn all the way down to his navel. I begin to shop.

The racks are a blur of black and the hangers make a click, click sound, as I slide them across the chrome rack, like a drag queen’s heels on concrete.

8:30 p.m.

I have dinner with bitchy friends, at a restaurant we will all be “over” before it gets popular. They are all chatting and drinking beer and smoking cigarettes, when I get there. I am late.

Our orphan dinner club, for boys without partners. The foot-loose and fancy-free, the confirmed bachelors and the recently divorced. Mostly they are the recently divorced. We are all squeezing in a meal between working late, hitting the gym and heading out to a bar. When we realise we have forgotten the time, once again, it’s like last call at a singles night.

10:30 p.m.

I decide on night-cap at a local bar, which mostly involves trying to avoid alcoholic queens who can't navigate a crowd with a lit cigarette in one hand and a Stoli in the other.

“Queens who still smoke are so last century,” says Nick, just as I reach into my jacket for my cigarettes. I make a mental note to at least try to make an attempt to stop on the weekend.

“They spend half their life at the gym and yet they still smoke,” says Nick. “I just don’t get it?”

“No, me either,” I say, but mostly I don’t get his point.

The bar is busy and smoky. The pool table is booked for the next few hours. The lighting is dim. The walls are painted black. Nick and I separate, no use looking as though you have a boyfriend in tow.

June Allyson is there, of course. An older gay man, who is always to be seen out in the bars, on any night I, or any of my friends, choose to go out drinking.

“She practically lives here. Dirty old bitch,” says Nick.

We call him June Allyson because he has white hair cut into a bob. He is always wearing a pin-striped shirt, normally blue and white. He always has a half filled glass in his hand, as he swans around the bar with a vacant expression, chatting to anyone who is unfortunate enough to make eye contact with him.

“He gives me the creeps,” I say, as I lick the beer froth from my top lip.

12:00 a.m.

“Joint at your place?” he says. He is John, the six foot two, mountain of a carpenter I met at the same bar, last week. He says he works out every second day and chuckles when he says everything about him is big.

I scull what is left of my beer. I remember that my sheets aren’t exactly clean.

“How about your place, I say. “My flat mate’s got friends over.”

12.30 a.m.

I find out, yet again, that men lie in bars, too.

The Jogger

The jogger from up the road has been jogging a lot this year, he's got really into it. He's looking great. Those little shorts that cup his sexy arse like the proverbial glove, look great. Those muscular cheeks, flexing as he runs, look great. The blue cotton looks painted on some days, like they nearly fit him, still. His thighs are solid, curved at the front, hairy, which runs all the way up to his arse, I am sure. And when he jogs topless, just with that slash of blue material around his hips, in the summer, sweating, glistening, he looks sexy as.... 

Oh? Everyone watching him jog past, I would guess, wants to lick him, I’m sure. Otherwise, you are dead inside. (Oh, that’s just me? Are you sure?) No, they do. I have seen the faces of the people in the street swivel like carnival clown heads their eyes chasing him down. I remember when he was just a kid in the street, but he has now grown into a man, and he’s grown into his looks, and what looks they are.

He smiles and waves at me as he heads up the street, well, that is how I see him anyway. Fit, I think, as I watch him run to the far corner and disappear. I'm sure I'm not the only one who thinks that?

I want those undies when he has finished the run. What would he think? 

“You want what?”

“Your undies.”

“My undies?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

I cup my nose with my hands. “I'm taking a big breath,” I say.

“Really?” he replies. And he stops running. 

What would he think as he processes the request?  Would he just slip them off, without another word? 

He shrugs. I think he is secretly chuffed, that he is thought of as such a lad, but he keeps a straight face.

Standing on my lawn, he drops his blue shorts to his feet. Holding my gaze, he slides his white briefs down over his thighs, and they too drop to his ankles.

Would he hand them over, just like that? 

Holding my gaze, he reaches down and grabs the undies. The girls across the road wolf whistle and whoop as they get a good view of his split beaver as he reaches down. (I told you it wasn’t just me)

The girls are slapping their thighs and calling out.

Would he be bowled over? Be speechless,  voiceless, blank, as I raise them to my face? And sniff?

What would he be? What would he think? At that moment? Would he be flattered? (he should be) or would he be lost for words? Absurd? Amused? Want to run from the room front lawn?

He holds my gaze. As I take a big whiff of his damp, white, cotton undies, his mouth turns down ever so slightly in a grimace.

I take another big sniff. “I’m keeping these,” I say.

“But…” he says

“Put your shorts back on son? Before you head out into the sun. You might see your mum,” I say. “You might not know what you have begun? You can run, we've seen your form, now we can see your plums.” He turns away from me. “Bum.” The girls whoop again with the front view. He turns back. “How you are up for fun. You are the special one, we can see that now.”

“I’m leaving you with your shorts,” I say.

“I’m not sure they will hold everything in, you know, as I run.”

“You’ve got to make do with what you’ve got,” I say.

He pulls his shorts back on. The girls across the road groan. “No, no, no,” they call out.

“Off you go,” I say. “Us standing here like this is pretty gay.”

He looks at me with big eyes, at the suggestion.

“Run!” I say.

He salutes me, which I thought was kind of odd. He pulls off his t-shirt and waves it around over his head in a helicopter victory gesture.

The girls over the road cheer. “Come back and see us when you are done,” honey,” one of them calls out.

“We’ll run a bath,” calls another.

I hold his undies to my face and sniff some more, as I watch him run off down the street.

"We've got soap!" The girls across the street call out in unison.

His undies are still warm from his body, against my face.

Hot

It's hot and sticky, just hot and sticky. I can't sleep. I'm liking summer less and less and we haven't got into the full detrimental effects of global warming yet, they are to come. It's going to be putrid.

We're never going to sleep again. The whole world population will be climate change insomniacs, too hot in the summer, lying in pools of their own sweat, to wet to sleep, and iced over in the winter with their teeth chattering too much to slumber.

Melbourne is really humid now, where once it never was. Never! It used to be dry heat in olde Melbourne Town. Hot, but dry. It used to cool down at night, so you'd at least feel a hint of a night time chill in the air to aid your snooze, even if it was only a hint, at some time after night having turned to morning. But not anymore. No siree Bob!

I wish I had more pot. I guess that's not the answer. Oh, why isn’t it. Just dumb myself down enough so as not to notice the weather at all. Knock yourself out. It’s a plan.

We're all going to have to move to Tasmania and cohabitate with all the two headed, cousin fucking, island freaks, trying not to stare.

What is it they say about cousins? Incest is best. How many guys have I met over the years who say their first sexual experience was with their cousin? Oh, too many to count. Well, at least it is now legal to diddle your cousin down in Van Diemen's Land, that has to count for…

Oh, yes, boy & girl cousins marrying, oh yes, that’s it isn’t it? Not boy cousins, where is my head? They marry their cousins and have two-headed babies because of the shallowness of the gene pool. Yes.

“I’d like to introduce me wife Ellie-May.”

“Thank you, Bobby-Joe, thank you for the luvly introductiony.”

Bobby-Joe drags his knuckles across the floor backwards and forwards as he grunts in appreciation.

Ha ha, ho ho, nothing wrong with it as long as they don’t come and live next door to me with their 12 fingered son, and their 3 breasted daughter.

But, I digress. Unless we start taking climate change seriously, we are all going to, ah, er, well? Die. It is that simple we are already feeling the effects of it now in our weather, with humid Melbourne, come on people let’s do something about it before we are no longer able to do something about it.

So? What do you think is going to happen? Dystopian hellscape, because we don’t learn and we can’t quite over come our greed? We spend the rest of eternity wandering the vast desert landscapes as we have destroyed the once unique blue planet. You know where the Tasmanian inbred habit of pissing on each other comes into use for liquids to eek of a decimated existence on the vast dried up crust of our world.

Or, do we tell conservatives to go to hell with their ideas of wealth capitalism and we build a self sustaining lifestyle for everyone to benefit by, rich and poor?

So, which do you think is our future? Take everyone to a bright new future, or die, most likely, a horrible, suffocating death? Not trying to be too much of a downer, but seriously people, if you are not going to listen to scientists…

Well, you know, I know which outcome I suspect will happen. Sad Face. Human beings are really, really smart most of the time, but then they can be as dumb as a box of rocks, seriously they can. And it is usually all tied up with their one gigantic flaw. Greed.

“It’s hot, isn’t it.”

“Yes, it is hot.”

“Unseasonably hot?”

“Oh, yes, it is, isn’t it.”

“The weather is changing?”

“Oh, no, it’s not. It’s always been changeable.”

“Do you think?”

“Oh yes, of course.”

“You vote conservative, don’t you?”

“Yes, how did you know?”

“Oh, just a hunch.”

Lovely Simon Comes Over

A little pot, it'll help me sleep. Oh, cheeky smile, whatever it does. I don’t need anything to help me sleep, it’s the thing I do best. Big smile. 

It feels good that’s why we smoke it, let’s face it. And that’s the primary reason they won’t legalise it, because it makes people feel good. It is a part of the Fun Police’s agenda.

It's hot, isn’t it. I seem to have the sweats. I've been moving fan to fan. It’s not just me, it’s the heat. Fffyr.

I've got to work tomorrow. I had today off. At least, I was productive and just didn't look at internet porn all day. I wrote a bit.

My housemate's boyfriend Simon was over. He's nice, but he's an evil pot smoker. I'd stopped, but just these last couple of days. Good on big, handsome, blond, strapping Simon.

He is much more suited to me than Jack, if only he saw it.

Simon always asks me about my writing.

I’m nicely stoned.

Oh, lovely, handsome Simon. He is just about near perfect. No, really, what a gorgeous man. He is interesting, he is funny, he is good natured, he is always positive and in an up mood. And he brings pot with him when he comes over. He couldn’t be more perfect.

He really is just lovely. And Jack says he isn’t all that interested in him. I just can’t understand that.

I wish he was coming over to see me.

I’d take him off Jack in a heartbeat.

When the doorbell sounds, I can’t believe I begin to feel excited when I know he is coming. It’s like being a twenty years old again.

What Do I Reckon?

What do I reckon? I reckon the world is doomed and life sucks! (for a lot of people, anyway) That's what I reckon!

And I also reckon that I’m pretty lucky. Loving parents. Happy childhood. Good education. Good inheritance. Don’t know what the minimum wage people are doing? Crying, I suspect.

I'm getting older day by day and it's all slipping away, faster than ever. I guess mid forties isn't that old, but some days, you know what, it feels like it. It's frightening how fast it is all heading away, gone. 20s. 30s. 40s. Sometimes, I just want it to stop for a minute, so I can catch my breath, but no that's just not how life is.

Keep up, stay awake, keep on track, keep at it, keep striving, keep scratching at the walls of the salt mines. Keep stashing it away, as old age is now user pays. Retire later, now it is nearly 70 because the politicians keep fucking it up, too many political donors to repay to make plans for the everyday man to retire comfortably.

You only get one shot at it.

Just the one.

Fuck me!

Coming through!

Find a recording of Patsy Cline, Stop The World And Let Me Off, and give it a play. Play it again. And after that, play it again.

And I have enough bread, to make the rate of shit I eat less for myself personally in the shit sandwich some people say is life.

But big business wants to pay everyone less, irrelevant of profits. No one is getting a pay rise. We have to pay the CEOs too much.

“Oh, come on, be reasonable,” a CEO once screamed at me. “I CAN’T LIVE ON LESS THEN 600K A YEAR!”

Conservative politicians want to pay the rich more.

Oh, come on, that is all they know, that is who they aspire to, so of course they want to pay themselves more.

Conservative govts want to ignore climate change, as they want us all to ignore climate change.

It is an inconvenient fucken truth to making themselves rich. Be reasonable.

So, unless you are really lucky, good brain, wealthy parents, you are most likely to die poor choking on the planet’s atmosphere, certainly your children will.

That’s what I think.

Free education. Free medical. A robust welfare system. These are the things to make life better for many. And the lucky country had them once, what happened to them? Conservative politicians took them away, it isn’t any more difficult than that.

It's true.

What do the people who live pay check to pay check do? Not a lot, I suspect. And life goes so quickly and you have no money with which to grab on to it, and you have blown your one shot. Is that fair?

Some people get very rich, probably acquiring more money than they can spend in their life time, while others don’t have enough money to live.

It’s not how it should be?

We need more equality and less tax cuts for the rich.

That’s what I think.

We need to make life better for everyone. Fuck the rich. [Why do we idolise the rich? Have you met many of them? A lot of them are awful people. (admittedly, there are plenty of nice ones too) You should be happy taking more and more tax from most of them. It's a good thing, not a bad thing.]

There is a real problem, when half the world is eating itself to death, watching the other half starve as they fill their fat fucken faces with more.

There is a real problem, when half the world is eating itself to death, watching the other half starve, as they fill their fat fucken faces.

The rich don’t care about you,

The rich don’t care if you live, or die.

The rich don’t care if you suffer,

They don’t care if you live in pain.

And if you don’t have enough,

of course, it is your own fault,

everyone can see that.

You know what the rich’s main solution for the homeless and the poor is,

Move them away out of their sight so they don’t have to see them.

Problem solved, Prue.

Oh, I know, so easy, Sue.

They should let us run the place, Prue.

Good grief, they so should, Sue.

Get good cleaners.

And get some colour in the place.

With lovely flowers.

Yes, lovely flowers.

Who isn’t cheered up by lovely flowers?

Noone, Sue. Noone.

And some lovely chairs.

Yes, lovely chairs.

Job done, Prue.

Job done, Sue.

The Dining Room

No one on stage. There are shadows across the room from the afternoon sun shining through a widow. Voices from off R. A middle aged woman and a man in overalls appear in the doorway.

Woman

…it’s just in here, this way.

Man

Oh yes, she looks like she’s seen better days all right.

Woman

You see, as I said, I’m afraid it’s hopeless, gone in the legs, as they say.

Man

Well…this sure is a beautiful room.

She looks at the man and then at her hands.

He walks around the table, running his hand over the surface of the table. He bends and looks underneath.

Woman

Yes, I love coming in here in the afternoons, I read a lot. Do you?

He looks out from under the table.

Man

What?

Woman

Read. Do you read?

Man

Ah, no. Don’t have time.

Woman

No, most men don’t have time.

He ducks his head under the table again.

Woman

It’s hard to get, a good man…

From under the table

Man

Huh?

Woman

Tradesman. When you’re on your own, like I am.

Man

That’s what we’re here for.

Woman

Yes, but so hard to find. One that knows what he’s doing, who can do the job.

He stands up and faces her

Man

I think you are being a little hard on…tradesman in general.

Woman

Are you interested? Should she be put out to pasture, gone in the legs

Man

Oh no. There’s not much needed here, but a little TLC.

Woman

They are the words I’ve been waiting to here.

She runs her fingers over the tabletop.

Woman

She was beautiful once, I suppose that’s hard to believe now.

Man

No, that’s not hard to believe. She still is.

The Bar

He walked into the bar and ordered a drink.

The bar stretched halfway along one wall, plain and old. Soft elevator music filtered through the smoky haze that sat in the air. The dark décor seemed to be chipped on all its edges; dark wood panelling covered the walls to head height. There was clever lighting that did not seem to shine on anything above the top of the panelling. Round drop shades, like those found above grand full-sized pool tables, hung down in a straight line in the middle of the room.

There were booths, one after the other, along two walls curving in a horseshoe at the very end of the room. Square heavy tables fixed to the wall at one end and square heavy, bench seats with high backs and faded studded red leather upholstery, around them. There were high back chairs separating each table, giving each area a sense of privacy.

An old, and once prestigious, men’s club, now suffering like the old members’ arteries and liver sclerosis, as faded as their wives complexions.

He selected a seat in the corner of the dimly lit room. He sipped his scotch, straight, a double, no ice. He sat, rested his head against the high-backed chair. His hair needed hair cutting, he could feel it on his ears. He ran his hand through it, the hair gel had let go, he was damned if he could master that stuff. His face twitched. He exhaled loudly took hold of the glass in his, leathery, hand and downed half of its contents. He put the glass down with a clunk when he was finished. With a weary struggle, he took a packet of cigarettes out of the pocket of his black woollen coat, which he was sitting on awkwardly. He felt a pain in his hip as he twisted around to free the black wool. He selected one of the filterless cigarettes and tossed the packet onto the table. It slid across the wooden tabletop, for a moment, he thought, it was going to slide right off the other side. He lit his cigarette tossing the lighter after the cigarettes. He sucked hard on the brown filter, rested his head against the back of the chair again, closing his eyes once more, as he blew a thick stream of smoke towards the pressed metal ceiling.

It had been a busy day, time for peace, time for quiet contemplation. The bar was empty, as it was most nights. He dissected the day with a few chugs of the best, before he headed home. People came here to drink alone, mostly, or perhaps in pairs, but always in privacy, which the booths allowed. He finished the last of his drink and ordered another by clicking his fingers in the air to signal the waiter.

The red-haired woman picked up her drink and began moving toward him. A checked skirt, grey blouse, blue jacket, no stockings and a pair of those strapless high heals that look near on impossible to stand in, let alone attempt to walk. Her red curly hair was clearly died, post menopause henna. Her sagging breasts were exposed, more than she would have liked. A button that had come undone on her blouse, she was oblivious. Her fat rear wobbled, as her thick, white legs, with tortured ankles and flaking skin on the heels, took short, staccato, steps. Her ankles miraculously kept their position a top of the high shoes with no visible means of support, as she moved across the room.

Her heels clicked across the wooden floor; handbag, carry bags and coat all bunched up in one hand, leading with her drink in the other hand. Her blouse separated more, with the struggle with all she was carrying. The faded cream lace bodice of her slip, exposed.

“Is this seat taken?” Her voice squeaked slightly as she spoke. She blew the fringe out of her eyes.

He rubbed his face, opened both eyes wide, as if he needed two eyes to take the complete vision of her in. They eyed each other in silence.

“Um…no,” he said, as he realised that an answer was required. He grunted more than he spoke. There was an unwillingness in his tone, even he could hear that.

“Do you mind if I sit here…then?” She sounded tired.

“No…no I don’t.”

She sat down. What she had had in her hand was strewn sideways across the seat next to her as she sat. She began to rummage in her bag as soon as she was settled finally pulling out a Glomesh cigarette case and lighter. The top snapped open and she took out a cigarette and offered one to the man whose table she had just invaded. He declined, holding his hand up with a burning cigarette between his fingers. She puffed on the cigarette fiercely. 

“Would you like one?”

“Um…no.

The case clunked on the table top, when she put it down. She puckered her lips, with the cigarette sticking straight out from the middle of her mouth, as she flicked the lighter. It wouldn’t light. Flick, flick, flick, flick, flick. She rummaged in her bags, with the sound of shimmying plastic.

“Sorry.” She pulled another lighter from her bag. “I’ve got another one. It’s okay.” Flick. Flick. The flame glowed yellow. She puffed fiercely.

She smiled. She glanced down. She turned sideways and buttoned up her blouse. She turned back. She clutched her throat.

He again closed his eyes; he was retreating from her, he was retreating from the world.

“I’m not disturbing you… am I?” she said, more as a statement than a question. His eyes cracked open again, almost despite him. “Tell me if I am.” She smiled nervously. She puffed her cigarette, blowing the smoke in big gestures.

He gazed at her, rubbed his eyes slowly and exhaled. He didn’t want to engage, but felt he had to say something. She reminded him of his wife. He couldn’t help but smile.

“I’ve been married for thirty years.”

“I just want to sit and drink my drink, love,” she said. She laughed. “I wasn’t proposing happily ever after.”

“Just as well,” he said.

“Just as well?” she repeated.

“Because there is no such thing.”

She raised her hand to her mouth and sucked on her cigarette. “There is happy… and there is ever after…” she said.

“But never the two shall meet,” he said.

She picked up her drink took a decent chug. “And never the two shall meet,” she said. She laughed. She puffed on her cigarette.

“It’s not my first rodeo,” he said.

“Darl,” she said. “It’s not my tenth rodeo, let me tell you.”

“The secret is to just hang on,” he said.

“The secret is to know when to let go,” she said.

“And I guess that is where we will always differ,” he said.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “You can teach an old dog new tricks.”

“You reckon, do you?”

“Yeah, sure,” she said.

“It’s been my experience that old dogs don’t want to learn new tricks,” he said. “That old dogs are very happy with the tricks they know.”

“You’ve just got to use the right treat,” she said.

“The right treat?” he repeated. “And what would be the right treat?”

“Whatever it is that makes your old dog sit up and beg.” She laughed. She took a long drag on her cigarette.

“Sit up and beg, you say.”

“Sit up and beg,” she repeated. She blew a cloud of smoke into the air.

“Now that’s just dirty talk.”

“You catch on fast,” she said.

“They have always said that I’m good at thinking on my feet.”

“They have always said I am good at the dirty talk.” She puffed on her cigarette while she held his gaze.

They gazed at each other. 

A silence fell down between them.

She smiled.

He watched her smile.

“Should we order another drink?”

“Yes.”

Religious Truth

Taoism: Shit happens

Buddhism: If shit happens, it really isn’t shit

Hinduism: This shit has happened before

Islam: If shit happens, it is the will of Allah

Catholicism: Shit happens because you deserve it

Protestantism: Work harder, or shit will happen

Materialist: Whoever dies with the most shit, wins!

Atheist: I can’t believe this shit

Militant Agnostic: I don’t know shit & neither do you!

Judaism: Why does shit always happen to us?

Eco-Spiritual: Compost Happens. It’s all good shit.

Rastafarianism: Let’s smoke this shit!

A Night At Home

Friday night, the end of the week. Nobody could be bothered cooking so fish and chips, broke our healthy diets. 

We watched Crocodile Dundee 2, so our taste deserted us too. 

We curled in each other's arms on the couch. Eventually we'd fall asleep. Lovely!

Arms and legs entwined, like my knitted octopus that my grandma made me as a kid. Those thick legs wrapped so easily together. And its arms did the same. Green pearl stitch, with wire in the very middle to give it some strength. Fancy. Thick stuffing that made them feel real, like Pooh Bear realness. I loved it, as I love you, happily curled up together.

“That’s not a knife,” you say. “This is a knife.”

You make me laugh. You are too funny. “You know I like your knife,” I whisper.

That makes you smile.

I cook popcorn, you know ‘cause it’s, I want to say corny, cliched. That’s what you do, isn’t it? When you stay in to watch a movie. I roll a big doobie. And I make tea for when the pot hits and we need something to wash down the popcorn. You know those bits that get stuck between your teeth and your gums, we’ll need tea to flush them out. We munch on popcorn from the bowl cleverly balanced on both our outstretched legs.

Buster my bulldog lies stretched out asleep at our feet. He snores gently, I don’t think a house is complete without the gentle snore from a Brachycephalic K9, squashed nose dog.

The room is as warm as your heart makes mine. As warm as Buster's fur coat.

The room lit with the blue light from the TV.

“Do you think we will be together forever?”

“Sure.”

“That isn’t the romantic answer I was, er, fishing for?”

“We’ve got as good a chance as anyone.”

“Do you think that is better?”

“Better?”

“Better than your first answer?”

“Sure.”

“You really don’t know how to play this game, do you?”

“I’ve never really been good at playing games.”

“But this is romantic answers 101.”

“Is it?”

“Sure.”

You laugh. “I saw what you did there.”

“So, not dead from the waste up.”

“Wow!”

“Should we try this again?”

“Sure.” Your face breaks into the cheekiest smile I have ever been.

“Do, you, think, we will be together forever?”

“Yes, darling, I do.”

“Erh?” I rotate my hand from side to side in mid air. “Now with some feeling.”

“You have pretty much sucked any feeling this may have had out like bone morrow from a cutlet.”

“Oooo!”

“I forget you’re vegan sometimes.” You laugh nervously.

“Do you think we will be together forever?”

“I can think of no one else on this planet with whom I’d want to spend forever?”

“Ooh!”

“There isn’t, you are the one.”

“I hate you.”

“That’s my girl.”

Alice in Wonderland

Eddie offered a cigarette from his packet to Cam, which Cam took. Eddie then patted his pockets for a lighter but couldn’t find one. Cam produced a lighter from his packet and lit both of their cigarettes.

“I went to see Alice in Wonderland,” said Eddie.

“Isn’t that a chick’s film,” said Cam.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Eddie. “It is more of a classic.” 

“Did you go alone?”

“What furtively up the back in a trench coat?”

“Good look at a kid’s film.”

They both laugh.

“No, I went with Max to Imax.” 

“Max’s cinema.”

“That’s what Max said.”

“And?”

“I wanted to hate it, but didn’t. I wanted to hate Johnny Depp, but I didn't, except for those eyes. What was with those eyes?”

“What’s with the eyes?”

“They digitally enhanced them and made them bigger on his face.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” said Eddie. “Because they could, I guess.”

“Tim Burton.”

“Tim Burton.”

“I thought they made him look a bit, ah…” Eddie felt his face crease into a wince.

“Creepy?”

“Special.”

“Frighten children?”

“He even seemed to have a lisp.”

“So, it was good.”

“It was quite good.”

“Not exactly a ringing endorsement.”

“Well, it's not the original Alice in Wonderland story, it's an interpretation of what could have come next…”

“An interpretation?”

 “Something like that.”

“Only Tim Burton.”

“Well, I haven't seen the original in years, I haven't read the book in more years than that, so it was all a bit vague to me.”

“But not the original story?”

“Well, what I could remember of it.”

“Ah, all those stories,” said Cam. “They get us through our childhood and then they just kind of float off into the ether of our distant lives.”

“They did something with the Red Queens head too, making it bigger than it should be.”

“Why?” Cam made large questioning eyes.

“Tim Burton,” Eddie said deadpan.

“Tim Burton.” Cam nodded in agreement.

“She was the best thing in it.”

“Helena Bonham Carter.” Cam tilted his head in agreement.

“Helena Bonham Carter.”

“Did Max like it?”

“Oh, you know Max, he doesn’t say much.”

“True, he doesn’t say much at all.”

“He did make one parting comment, though, as we walked across the terrace to the Nicholson Street tram.”

“What was that?”

“I quote, I was hoping that Freddie Krueger would turn up at the end of it, it would have made it a better film.”

“Ah Max. Loves a good massacre.”

“He really should go and teach in an American school.”

“His natural habitat.”

“He could pervert the minds of children, and if he really lucked in, he could watch them all die when he was done.”

Eddie and Cam laughed.

Tumdy Dah

Tumdy dah, what a lovely car, under the tree, covered in bees, flapping wings, knocking knees.

Stingers ready, curled tenderly.

Watch them swarm into the sky, like a flying mat, or a hair net flung.

Flick of the wrist and they are all gone.

A black mist in the air, not a care,

as they fly away to over there.

Build a new hive for the queen,

forgetting all about where they have been.

Okay, back again... reboot, me shoot

Where have I been? How long is it, how many years? Wow! Life zips along at a great pace now doesn't it. So, where have I been? Round and about, living, breathing, tasting, eating. Giving up smoking, getting fat. Riding my arse off to try and loose it again.

Being a good poofter. Being a bad poofter.

Being reclusive, ah, what can I say? Been there, done that. Is anything new? I don't think so.

So much to tell you, where do I begin?

Let’s just say, I want to be a writer. Or, at least, I am a writer, I have been doing it since my early teen years, I want to be a better, a good writer, a writer of fiction, let's see what happens.

This is Where 2010 Started, Rebooted, as They Say

This is where this blog restated in real time, this is where it cranked back into life. I'd forgotten all about it, really. (it was on another platform) I had my real blog to write, my main blog.

What is this blog meant to be? Firstly, it was fictional, then it was fictionalised reality, then it was a mixture of the two. After that, nobody really knew.

But, "they" (the old blog system operators) asked me if I still wanted it (they were going to archive it), and truthfully 2 blogs are too many blogs to write, so I said I still wanted it, when I really didn't want it (I am a terrible, sentimental hoarder of things) and here we are, it will stumble on in some form, or other.

Who knows what I am going to write in it? The scraps. It is a blog without any true personality.

Mostly it is just nonsense, with a little pointed reality hidden amongst its posts, but don't read too much into it, as it is mostly, as that lovely Dutch boy once said to me, "Shit in the Cupboard."

He was trying to say ‘shit for brains’, but it came out as ‘shit in the cupboard.’ We all said, “What?” And it took some time to work it out. And hilarity ensued.

It has always stuck with me.

It’s ‘shit in the cupboard.’ That’s what it is.