Oh Monday!

Oh, a big weekend. Woosh! Gone! Head spinning! Don't know how Matt got up and went to work. He's a better man than me. He kissed me good bye from the bedroom door. 

“Hey, babe?”

I managed to open one eye, and even then it was difficult, to see him standing there looking all shiny and new. I don’t know how he did it. I was spinning and I was lying still, barely moving.

Air kisses. Cute.

I’m presently between contracts, so I just lolled about in bed all day, like I had all the time in the world, which I did, essentially, if you get my meaning, drifting, waking, drifting, waking. Joint. Lying back on the pillow with the doona pulled right up under my armpits. Drifting, waking. Drifting. Another joint.

I wanked over the mail boy. I’d just managed to crawl out of my bed swamp, the urge to piss had got too great to ignore any longer. I was standing unsteadily on my feet scratching my arse congratulating myself for having got that far, and there he was with his bike. Cute, Italian to be sure, well, he sure looked like it. Maybe it was creative visulation, I don’t know, I had had some acid at some point in the previous evening. He in those tight blue shorts with great legs, hairy legs that went all the way up to his arse. I lay in bed and visualised what that would look like, I cannot lie. Peeling his out of them. Kissing his lips. Oh yeah, that hot postie guy.

Then I pissed like a horse, which seemed to take forever, you know when that happens. You get bored of it before you ever stop pissing. How much water did I drink? I am the rehydrating queen though, that is true. 

Then back to the day. I lay my head back on the bed, lying out flat. I feel so comfortable I just want to die in the position. I laugh to myself, I wonder if these who had a neurotic come down would let that thought wreck the rest of their day? Nyr! Probabaly.

My head feels okay even if my mouth doesn't. It’s dry. Oh, so dry. Excessive MSG kind of dry. But that may be the pot. I’ve smoked a couple, big grin. Got to stop grinding my teeth and slashing my tongue as I maniacally rub it around the edges of my teeth.

It ends up hurting so bad.

I had new track pants especially for today. There is something lovely about big, thick, new track pants when you are, shall we say, coming down.

I’ve got to stop walking around just in my jocks. I had to chat to my neighbour in that state. She caught me in the back yard, as I tip-toed out to my car, bare-feet tends to entail tip toing, to get my new track pants I thought were out there, and there she was, Jackie Joe, in her back yard, in a bonnet, gloves to her elbows and Ratchet Secateurs in her hands, and then yap, yap, yap, ensure. 

“Oh Josh, there you are?”

“Ah, yes.” What the hell did she mean by that? “In the flesh.”

“You getting out to do a bit of gardening?”

Do I fucken look like I am getting out in the garden? “No, um, no, I’m just going out to the car.”

“You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you something?”

Oh, dear universe, not today? “Oh… yes?” I could hear the feebleness in my voice. Was I having trouble breathing.

“This side fence of our, do you think we need to think about replacing it?”

What? 

“I’m beginning to think it has moved, I really am?”

“What? Do you think? Next door?”

“Next door?” Jackie Joe squinted her eyebrows and looked at me waiting for an explanation of what I had just said.

“The fence.”

“Yes… the fence? Our fence, not the fence next door.” Jackie looked utterly confused.

“You said it had moved.”

“Yes. The foundations just don’t look the same. Have you noticed?”

“Huh?”

“The foundations of the fence. They look somehow altogether different. Not that I can really put my finger on what is different. They just don’t look as sturdy and upright as they once did. Did you say if you had notice? Er? Or not?”

What else could I do but stand there and talk, well, listen, even if for a split second I considered making a run for it? Trunks and a T-shit, it would have looked like I was wearing shorts, I guess. Let’s hope.

“Um,” I say. “I’m just going to go to my car. Now.” That was all I could manage. And then I tiptoed away. Not really sure why I tiptoed? I think somehow it was not to make too much noise which may have started Jacki Joe up talking again.

“Oh, okay,” she said.

The new track pants weren’t in the car. Damn! I peered around the higher fence that separated the car port from Jackie’s place until she had her back turned and was butchering a camelia bush, and I dashed for my back door as quietly as I could humanly manage.

I laughed to myself, as I headed back inside for my trackie pants. Now where were they? Don't ask. Suffice to say, I'd better put a load of washing on.

The new track pants were sitting on top of the washing machine exactly where I had left them.

I should have put on washing. Yes. I should have cleaned up. Yes, of course. Let’s face it, I should have had a shower. How many days had it been. What happened to think it do it? I still remember the exact moment when the day fell away, as I slid my arse into the lounge room couch and leisurely opened my laptop. Oh, you know, when you look up the news headlines, just to see what is happening in the world, and before you know it, you are looking at ladderback chairs in Provence and the sun is setting outside. You know those days.

I remember the moment I saw an unsmoked joint just lying on the coffee table like a gift from the universe.

Well, look at that will you?

I remember the moments not long after when I plumped up the cushions and slid my feet up onto the couch, pulling my laptop onto my lap. Oh yes, I remember that distinctly.

Pretty soon I looked up with who knows what number cigarette between my fingers, to see a hazy smoke cloud hanging in the room, and it black beyond the windows.

Matt will give me that look, when he sees how stoned I am. That look that says disappointment. That look that says he is disappointed with me. Oh babe, sad tone.

"Hey honey, welcome you home," I say. Trying to out cute the disappointment in his face. Trying to use his affection for me to overcome my shortcomings, at least in that moment. Big smile.

Then he'll notice that no cooking has been done and he'll tell me I'm cheeky for trying to distract him with my happy nothing-to-be-seen-here face.

“Chores, you left me chores?’ I happily question. I’m not used to having chores to do, that just hasn’t been my life up until this point.

If all else fails, I'll either suck him off, or send him home to his place. 2006. If he is bemused by my cheekiness, I’ll go for his belt buckle. If he is seriously cross, I’ll have to start an argument pretty swiftly and send him to his place smartly so I can get back to lolling about on the couch pleasing myself, you know, as you do.

Ha ha, yes life can be that simple.

You know, boyfriends are all well and good, you know, sure they are. Oh, it’s true, that I couldn’t see life without him, he is genuinely lovely, and he loves me and he is good for me. Oh, I’d be so lazy without him pushing me and prodding me to do things, when I seriously want to sit on my lazy arse, but seriously I think not living with them is the secret to a happy relationship, you should always have some place else to send them, especially on hangover Monday.

In fact not long after, despite being all Donna Reed this morning promising to make him a lovely dinner for when he gets home from work, I phoned to say I had a killer migraine and I had to take a raincheck, and that he should head home to his place after work. I’m sure I had never said raincheck ever before in my life, which almost threw me entirely, but, you know, as I have said before, I am such an excellent liar, I knew years ago I had to never tell them, as it would not end well for me, and like a pro I kept up the narrative without wavering.

He wished me a speedy recovery and blew me kisses and told me that he loved me.

And when I was done, I rolled myself a great big, congratulatory joint and checked out the cantinas of Tuscany.

Well, you know, the alternative was disappointment all around, and I ask you who wants that?

Brad's Blue Pants That Fit Him Well

Brad liked a fancy belt on his jeans. He liked some colour on the pale blue jeans he preferred. Pale blue was definitely his colour, being blonde haired and blue eyed. His mother had taught him to wear pale blue from a young age. She used to brush her fingers through his blond hair telling him he was the most handsome boy in the world.

“You are definitely a pale blue boy,” she used to say. She’d slide her fingers through his thick fringe. “What are you,” she’d asked?

“A pale blue boy,” he’d reply.

“And what kind of pale blue boy are you?” she’d then ask.

“I’m my mum’s pale blue boy.”

“Yes, you are my perfect pale blue boy,” she’d say. She would then wrap her arms around him and squeeze him tight, kissing his face all over until he squealed and told her to stop.

"My handsome boy," she would say. She'd brush his thick hair back into place with her fingers. “What are you?”

“I’m your handsome boy,” Brad would say.

And, I guess that is rather nice. A mother professing her love for her little boy. Gorgeous, we all think. Hearts melt all around the world and the sight of that beautiful blond boy’s face gazing adoringly back at his mother.

Oh yes, so lovely.

Good job, mum.

Yes, well, that has been every woman’s reaction to Brad’s mum ever since, really. Well, no, no it hasn’t.

Brad is very good looking, yes he is. Brad is athletic, yes he is. Brad is well built, he certainly is. Brad has added to the work his good genes did invitro with his gym ethic ever since he grew a set and wanted to, well, dominate would be the word, women and the world.

Brad certainly did believe his mum when she told him he was the most beautiful boy in the world. It is an idea he took with him into adulthood where he now thinks he is the most beautiful man in the world. In fact, Brad thinks he is god’s gift to all women.

He believes women not only adore him, but they should adore him.

Brad not only thinks he can do anything to which he sets his mind, he also thinks he can do anything he wants. And quite regularly, he does, well, he certainly gives it a go.

The Boyfriend

Matt is such a sexy guy. Handsome and sexy. I love kissing him and sliding my hand down his pants. That flat stomach of his is a slide down which to slide my warm hands. 

He stretches, and arches his back giving me better access. He groans contentedly as I wrap my hand around him.

“How was your day?” he asks.

“Yeah, good,” I say. “How was yours?”

He spreads his legs a little more. “Oh, better now,” he says.

“We should have a joint,” I say.

“Sure,” Matt says. “I’ll roll, you keep doing that.”

I reached for the mullbox on the coffee table with my free hand, we both lean sideways to facilitate the move. I pull it towards me across the polish surface of the coffee table. We both straighten up. I rub Matt’s knob with my thumb, it is suddenly sticky and wet. He clears his throat. I lift the top of the mullbox off. I grab the mulli and the wooden dish into which I will grind the mix. 

I hold up the cigarette packet, Matt takes a cigarette from the box. He is like a prong in my hand. 

I wouldn’t say that Matt’s cock is my favourite part of him. I love his eyes and his smile and his laugh, too.

I lick the cigarette and deftly crumble it into the bowl with one hand. Matt holds the mulli, I work the handle and the ground mix falls into the bowl.

I love Matt’s mind and the way he thinks. I love his sense of humour. 

Matt drops a bud into the mulli. He picks it up and grinds it with both hands.

I slide my hand up and down his cock. He breaths heavily, spreading his legs further apart as he grinds.

I have pre-cut roaches I hand one to Matt, he rolls it into a cylinder as I rub my hand rubs up and down.

I love how kind Matt is to people, he is much kinder to people than me.

I open the machine with one hand, Matt puts the roach in the place it should go. I tip the mix in. I pat it down with my fingers.

Matt is starting to breath heavier, I like that too.

I manage to rip a paper from the packet with my free hand. I hold it up to Matt’s wet tongue to lick, and he does.

Mr Perfect Cock. Straight and thick and long.

I sit the paper in the machine, Matt closes it with both hands. A perfect cylindrical joint pops out. "Do you want first puff?"

Matt tries to answer but it is like he is losing the ability to speak.

“Okay. I’ll go first.” I put the joint in my mouth. My hand is working him now with a tight grip. I pick up the lighter from the coffee table.

Matt looks at me, his eyes close up, he throws his head back against the back of the couch and he cums in my hand.

"Good boy," I say. I light the joint and take a big drag.

Matt shakes.

I blow a cloud of smoke into the room.

Matt puts his hand on top of my hand, as my hand goes back to working his knob. He groans, and looks at me still a little cross-eyed.

I laugh. "Look at you," I say.

He snots and coughs and laughs as well. 

He looks at me with heavy eyelids.

I take another drag on the joint. I offer it to him.

His unsteady hand appears and takes the joint from me.

His dick is now soft and wet and sticky in my hand still down his pants.

He drags on the joint. He exhales a cloud of smoke.

I lay my head back against the couch next to his.

He rolls his head sideways and looks at me. “I made a mess in my pants.”

“You sure did, babe,” I say.

I slide my head closer to his and we kiss gently.

I slide my hand out of Matt’s pants as I hand him the joint. I lick his cum off my fingers. To tell you the truth, I hate the taste of cum, its disgusting stuff, but, it was early in our relationship and they are the things you do.

Matt drags on the joint, watching me lick his cum from my fingers.

Ah, the Truth About Porn

My mate, Tim accused my other mate, and his boyfriend, Nick, of cheating on him because he watched porn. 

My head spun. 

There's a tough call. I mean, I can kind of see his (stupid) point, weirdly, if you have that kind of relationship, you know, buttoned up tighter than a… not really sure how to finish that analogy… a homophobe’s arsehole at a gay orgy. 

You know, if you both agreed to only have eyes for each other, I guess. Maybe? If you had to be that uptight?

I've never thought about it that way before, myself. Cheating, presumably, on your own in a room on your own? Is that even logical? I’m not really sure about that.

Later, I found out that Nick had told Tim earlier that he didn't like Tim watching porn. What? My head spun again.

Oh, I see what this is about now. (is that revenge porn?)

It's not about porn, it is about lying. Is it?

Ah the (unnecessarily) tangled webs we weave.

All the things that could go wrong with a relationship, the trip ups, the fails, the problems, the hurts, the misunderstandings, the let downs, the boring bits, the pain, the lies, even the white lies, I can’t really see the above being one of them.

Is it self sabotage? Or just sabotage?

I mean, seriously, in my book anyway, talk about getting upset over nothing.

Still, if you tell your boyfriend you don’t like him watching porn, and then you watch porn yourself? I, guess, that is something. I’m just not quite sure what that something is?

I wanted to laugh and say, You are kidding me? But Tim wasn’t laughing, as her poured his, who knows what number, chardonnay for the evening.

Nick and Tim aren’t really compatible anyway, I’ve always said that. Tim is a drinker and Nick is a pot smoker and never shall the two succeed. If you are in an addictiondiscordant relationship, it rarely works, I’ve always said that too. Pot smokers and drinkers rarely understand each other.

I would have thought that porn was the safest way to get your jollies which doesn’t involve your significant other. There are all those people, mostly chicks, who tell us that porn is a terrible thing, that it is really bad for us. I admittedly tend to think that is, probably, just girls disapproving of the things men do. I wonder if there is any, actual, evidence that porn is bad for anyone. I don’t know?

I always think of them as Christian Girl Scouts who wouldn’t even let their boyfriends go down on them as they think that is unnatural, you know, those wowsers who bang on about porn corrupting the minds of the youth, but maybe that is just my bias.

Back On The Horse

“I decided I'm sick of sleeping tablets, after being upgraded from Temazapan, which just wasn't doing anything anymore, to a whole Valium, whilst I was in hospital,” says Andre Arno

“The accident?” says Jackson Jones.

“Yes,” says Andre. “Because of the accident.”

“Recovery is a bitch,” says Jackson.

“The thing with Valium is, is that it has a half-life of 22 – it takes that long for you to get half of it out of your system,” says Andre.

“So, you feel groggy?” asks Jackson.

"Over 24 hours it's actually cumulative, and yesterday I just felt kind of slow, drugged, all day.”

“So, no Valium last night,” says Jackson Jones.

“My god, I was awake until 6am,” says Andre.

“Sleep deprivation is a bitch,” says Jackson. “That so leads to errors in judgement.”

“It was kind of okay in a way, with my mind floating around generally happy thoughts, and also thinking about RMIT work that I STILL have to do. Not long now.”

“How’s that going?” asks Jackson.

“I even got up and reviewed what I had done so far, and made some notes for the report. Considering my goal had been to get back to it by January 31, before the accident, it wasn't a waste of a night.”

“The things you can get done when you can’t sleep,” says Jackson.

“But my god, sooooo sleepy today. I got up at 11, fell unconscious on my couch at 1.30, woke up to some stupid TV show, and I'm still fucked,” says Andre.

“What are you going to do tonight?” asks Jackson. “Sleepwise?”

“Tonight, I'm taking HALF the valium and a herbal sleeper that Mum gave me – she doesn't want to share her Serapax with me,” says Andre.

“And how’s the latest project going?” asks Jackson.

“I was supposed to go up the country again this weekend but I'm not. I should have got organised and gone Sunday – gotta use that car that I bought after all,” says Andre.

“Oh yeah that car has been sitting for long enough,” says Jackson.

“Yes, yes it has,” says Andre.

“Gotta get back on the horse, as they say,” says Jackson.

“I'm also going to the Good Guys and get myself some new AV equipment. I couldn't even watch a DVD last night,” says Andre.

“It’s good to go back to work,” says Jackson.

“So, a DVD recorder/VCR combo ($450 at the moment!) and MAYBE a new TV now that the footy season is coming up,” says Andrea.

“Well, if Scott, or Roly, or I can help you with your project, just ask, you know that?” says Jackson. “You okay for equipment after the accident?”

“I can't live with a fucked TV, despite my protests about never having time to watch the damn thing,” says Andre.

“So, what are you going to do?” says Jackson.

“I did see a lovely wide screen flat CRT for less than a grand that I think I would really like,” says Andre.

“Is that good enough for what you want to do?” asks Jackson.

“Fuck LCD and Plasma – who wants to pay 3 grand for an idiot box?!” says Jackson.

“Well, if you need me, or the boys help, just ask,” says Jackson.

“Thanks,” says Andre. “What would I do without you guys?”

“What’s the latest one?” says Jackson.

“Hand To Mouth, about homelessness,” says Andre.

“Hitting the heartstrings,” says Jackson. “Good thinking.”

“I prefer to think of it as social interest, myself,” says Andre. “Do you know how much homelessness there is in this rich country?”

“No, but I am guessing it is shameful.”

“Shameful it sure is,” said Andre. “It needs some light shone on it.”

“Light to kill the dark places.”

“Light to let the helpful thinking out into the open,” said Andre.

“Still, you need to get some sleep before then,” said Jackson. “You have to build up your strength before you can save the world.”

“If I didn’t know you better, I’d think that was sarcasm,” said Andre.

“Is it my tone?” said Jackson. “Because I meant the exact opposite.”

“You flatter me?”

“Well, if anyone can save the world…”

“That’s a question?”

“It would be you.”

“If I am so smart, how do you explain the accident?”

“Bad luck?”

“Not much of a super hero if my kryptonite is bad luck,” said Andre.

“Super hero?”

“You had me saving the world a few sentences back,” said Andre.

“If you can solve homelessness, you are well on the way to solving equality, which is probably on the way to saving the world.”

“Well, I haven’t solved it yet,” said Andre.

“I know you and what you can do when you set your mind to it.”

“If I don’t fall down and hurt myself,” said Andre.

“Well, that is a given.”

“Flattery?” said Andre.

“Sarcasm,” said Jackson.

“If I don’t become a junkie trying to get some shut eye,” said Andre.

“Well, that hardly seems likely?”

“So, you never read my last study?” said Andre.

“Oh yes.” Jackson laughed. “Didn’t that get the chattering class, um, er, chattering, you recommending legalising illicit drugs because prescription drugs do more harm in society anyway.”

“I’d call that irony, considering my current situation,” said Andre.

“Maybe self realisation, more than irony.”

“Well, yes, of course,” said Andre. “Either way, it spells my downfall.”

“That’s a little dramatic?”

“Or luscious,” said Andre. “It takes me back to my uni days.”

“Ah, how time flies when you are having fun.”

“The problem being, I have too many commitments now days to fall apart,” said Andre. “More is the pity.”

“Oh, you make me laugh.”

“Well, at least that makes one of us,” said Andre.

“You should laugh more.”

“I’ve taken too many sedatives,” said Andre.

“Oh, yes, I’m guessing that would only come across as madness.”

“What would?” asked Andre.

“Laughter on downers.”

“Now there’s a challenge,” said Andre. 

“Like laughing after Botox.”

“Oh, dear god,” said Andre.

“You’re laughing,” said Jackson.

“I don’t know which is more delicious,” said Andre.

“Don’t say I never make you laugh.”

“You make me laugh all the time,” said Andre.

“Just not deliberately, I suspect.”

“Well, I always said you were, shall we say, perpendicular,” said Andre

“When have you said that?”

“Have I never said it to your face?” asked Andre.

“You are still laughing.”

“I must be feeling better,” said Andre.”

“You must be.”

“Well, how about that?” said Andre.

“How about that?”

A Child?

Would I like a child, people ask me? Won’t you miss never having children? Maybe, I will. Perhaps, I'd like a child, I think. Would I? Will I? I don’t know. Maybe, I won’t know what I won’t know.

I'm surprised how taken I am with my nephews. They are cool little guys.

I'd be good as a part time dad. Now, I guess, that is a problem right there. Even I know kids need more than a part time dad.

But, I'm smart, told (you gotta say it that way) I'm good looking, I have good teeth. No health issues. I'm creative and considerate. 

And my mother says I'd make a good father.

“You're better with kids than your brother, who'd have thought,” said mum.

“Who’d have thought?” I asked.

“I don’t mean I’m surprised,” said mum. “I meant you the one not having kids, and your brother is.”

I talk to them like people. I don’t talk down to them. I don't dictate what they should do. But then again, I stay their favourite uncle because my visits are infrequent. They barely see me. And I tell them naughty things. And I don't have to look after them full time.

A little person to go on into the future after I'm dead? Is that what life's all about, having kids, watching how your progeny turn out? Would he look like me, the way I look like my dad? Would he look like his mum? Would his eyes twinkle like hers? 

Would he be kind? Would I like him? Would I want him to be around? Would I want to be around him. Would I approve of him? So many questions? So many unknowns?

I’d want to hear his opinions, to see how he thinks. Be surprised by his questions. I’d want to watch him fall in love, be giddy. Get a broken heart. Pick up the pieces brush himself off. I’d want to see how he deals with that?

I want to see him elated when he has success at what he does. I want to see him be successful, in as much as how he views himself.

A mini me, growing into a full sized me? Is that what we hope for? I don’t know? I don’t need him to be like me. I just want him to be happy. And interesting? And Smart. And Funny. Is that what we hope for, for them to be everything? I guess we do.

Just be you? Surprise me. Whatever you want.

But not in, let’s say, a religious, conservative, prudist, uptight, pig headed, arrogant, conservative sort of way. Oh my, imagine if he came home and said he’d found God. I’d have to take him to a physiatrist, get some conversation therapy. Pierce the theist bullshittiest.

Gay? No, I don’t care. Trans? I wouldn’t wish that for them. But, if he was, then it would be what it is.

Just lovely, smiley, and smart. And his own person, reasoned, and thought out.

Yeah, sure, I’d like the perfect kid. Who wouldn’t.

You know, if I was going to have a kid? Find some nice girl to donate sperm to. If I was going to do that? If? I don't know? The world hardly needs more kids, hey? For me to be a part of the great breeding experiment. I don’t need to be a part of.

So, if there's a nice lesbian out there who wants a cute gay boy to father her child... sure, I’d think about it.

But, you know, you can’t help but wonder some times. How would he turn out? How would he make me feel? I’m guessing the more important question is, how would I make him feel? What would he look like when I look over at him and our eyes meet?

Promise

A promise is made

When eyes say good day

And don't easily say good bye, again