Category: Gay

Categories
Gay Health

Shoreditch House

‎”During times of universal deceit, telling the truth becomes a revolutionary act.” –George Orwell

Sitting high above Shoreditch listening to German film producers discuss the “Vest Village”.

A beautiful black girl is swimming in the pool.

I am drinking coffee, eating poached eggs and listening to Haydn’s cello concerto.

It is a beautifully gray London day.  The bitterness has vanished, no longer raw…swept out of the city northward to snowy Scotland.

As per all of the subscribe requests.  When I go private on the 21st I think you will be prompted by the site to apply etc.  I’ve no idea…does anyone else know?

Last night student demonstrators separated the royal cars from their out riders and scared the poor Duchess of Cornwall.  Good pictures on BBC website.  Nasty old cow.

I have spent the past few days in Worcester with Tim and my God daughter Immy.   Drove up North after a busy Wednesday in London.   I had lunch with Edward (a new collectible) and Andrei my young friend who is currently studying political science at Cambridge.  Andrei is not gay but has been voted his colleges GLBT representative.  How is that for inclusive?

I met Andrei on a train when he was 17.  Of course he wants to make film but has decided, very sensibly, to go to film school when he is 30-when he has something to say.

After our lunch we met Charlie in Soho who was very impressed with Andrei but not so with Edward who he had met three times before but Edward never remembered.

Edward flies to NYC today.  Startlingly handsome, intelligent, elegantly dressed and really enjoying his young gay life.

Edward has just turned 24 years old.

He is being flown to NYC by a rich American he met briefly at a party last weekend.

Remember those days?

Thank you Freddy for doing the same when I was a little younger than Edward.

After lunch/tea I drove to Chelsea to be formally charged with Common Assault.

The kids who I had the screaming fit with this summer after Jake’s iPod went missing (he lost it in a drunken black out)…anyway, those kids refused to drop the charges so I will have to go to court and deal with it.

Any fine I may pay I will sue Jake for half of.

Sex Rehab is showing on British TV so I am beginning to have people come up to me here.  It’s fun.  Not as intimidating as I thought it might be.

Worcester is a pretty cathedral town in the Midlands.  I am sure that it very pretty in the summer.  Nowhere in England looks that good on a miserable wet winter evening.  Had a great time with Tim.  He seems to be getting on very well after his triple heart bypass.

Andrei

Last night I met Edward for a quick drink in Soho and then manhunt date number 19 turns up.  A BEAUTIFUL french man with green eyes.  We quickly made our way to Shoreditch to his ex council apartment and fucked for a very long time.  One of the better parts of my inheritance from Jake.  My new-found ability to fuck.

We fucked and fucked and fucked.

I still think about Jake when I fuck.

We had a really amazing time.  This morning he asked if I wanted to see him again.  I said yes but I meant no.  He knew what I meant.

Hospital on Tuesday morning.  Not thinking about it.  9.45am.

[wpvideo zsVySzB8]

Categories
Gay

This is Nearly at an End

Dear Readers,

So, many of you have followed this blog since the beginning.  I don’t mean this time around but when I was writing in 2005/2006 before I shut it down.

I shut it down last time for the same reasons I am going to shut it down this time: because it suits me.  There is no pressure, no threat, no coercion from anyone in particular.  Not from slime ball or his slime ball family.  Not from anyone.

Even though my friend Sharon Marshall thinks I will never get another boyfriend when they read this..the truth is, I wouldn’t/couldn’t get another boy friend with or without this blog.

There are a host of other reasons not to be my boy friend other than what I have written here about Jake or others.  There are plenty of published reasons not to have anything to do with me what so ever.

I will list some of them:

ex con

Celebrity gossip

appalling reputation

don’t drink or take drugs

elitist

bad temper

Well, the list just goes on and on.  The blog merely let people know how shameless I am about all the above.

Those same people refuse to acknowledge any triumph I might have had.  It is as if I were only ever bad…well, my dears, you get what you pay for.

Nope, the blog is going private because I decided that on the 21st December 2010 I would cease to publicly blog.  It was on this day last year that Jake contacted me (see below) and my world was blown apart.

It was on that day that a man with shady intentions hijacked my life and for all the love I felt and all the hate I endured I wouldn’t have it any other way.   I am grateful to have been able to share with you what he and men like him try to get away with.

It is QUITE RIGHT that he is shamed publicly for doing what he did.  What he did to me and his girl friend of seven and half years is far worse than any crime I may have committed.

Ask any woman who has been lied to.

He will never face a court for what he did but he deserves to.

I am moved that so many of you shared your own stories of being cheated on and lied to.  He described you as sycophants.  I describe every one of you as my friends.  I want you to know that you have helped me tremendously.   I don’t know what I would have done without every single one of you.

Each anonymous message of support.

As of the 21st December I will set this blog to private and if you want to read what I have been up to you will have to subscribe.  This will please the 1000 of you who routinely log in every day.

Jake, only a few more days until your name, as you wished it, will be divorced from mine.  Your picture, as your Father wanted, unaligned to me.  How dare they ask me to remove pictures of him from my blog?  As if he deserved anonymity?  For all the world your ‘silly mistakes’ will be erased.  Your head resting gently on my shoulder.  How you must hate that picture!

I might remind you that this time last year I was really happy, enjoying my after sex rehab life.  Enjoying watching the show with Jennie at our new apartment in Hollywood.

But all of that came to an abrupt end.

The day before you wrote to me you were reading my blog assuming that my life as an out gay man could be yours.  That the people with whom I consorted, the locations I inhabited you might have.   You didn’t want me Jake.  You wanted my life.

Your pathetic half Persian therapist will never get the measure of you Jake because she is being paid by your parents to make it all better.  You need moral guidance.

So, this time last year I am in NYC interviewing agents, David Vigliano etc. and little Jake B the virtual Literary Agent in Arlo and Esme on 1st Street wondering why he is so damned shy and awkward.  Thinking it had more to do with me being on TV than what was actually going on..that he wanted me to fuck him behind his girlfriend’s back.

He told me later that he wanted me to take him downstairs and fuck him in the bathroom.   Now I know, of course, that the sweet little pussy I came to love had been shagged senseless a million times by Pal (amongst others) and his HIV cock.   His dear pussy that I loved, was just another New York City whore hole.

Without doubt my relationship with Jake prolonged a long-held misery that I had worked very hard in rehab to overcome.

I am an artist (try taking that away from me) and, though many will not agree, this last year or so of blogging has been my art, my catharsis, a continuation of the greater conceptual art of being in a reality TV show.

In no time at all every mean thing I have written here will be forgotten.

In earlier posts, where I have been vile about people, those gripes and recriminations vanished.  Time is a great healer.

Time will hush the screaming, resentful voice that propels us.

Resentment sucks the life out of a memory until it cannot be remembered.

Sorry Sharon, frankly my dear I don’t give a shit who reads about me or my life or what they think of it or, more importantly, how it might alienate me.  The damage is already done. It was done years ago.  When you came to Sydney to interview me about Hurley.  When I was sent to prison for over spending on my credit card…

This is what he wrote:

Hi Duncan,

I’m a literary agent with xxxx, based in NYC. Introduced to you courtesy of VH1. Read your article in The Daily Beast, which I savored for the honest details behind the show–none of which come as a surprise. Anyway, your article led me to your blog. I love the honesty in your writing (plus it’s also refreshing to see someone from a reality tv show who can form a coherent sentence), and I get the impression that you’ve been through a lot in your life. At the risk of sounding just like the opportunistic reality tv producers you’ve worked with, I will admit that a reality program is often a good platform for a book–but more importantly, you have an interesting story, voice, and you know how to write. I figured it was worth a shot reaching out. Perhaps you are already sufficiently represented on the publishing side, but either way I am wondering if you have thought realistically about writing a book.

Warm Regards,

Jake B

Dear Jake,

I am presently meeting agents with a view to representation. I have met with three so far and have not yet made any decision.

I and flattered that you contacted me and do feel free to call me at your convenience.

Hi Duncan,

Nice to hear back from you and sounds good…I’ll be in touch very soon.

Best,

Jake

Categories
Gay

Pink Shoes

My pink Comme des Garcons shoes never escape comment… good and bad.

Absurdly expensive, mildly uncomfortable but distinguished all the same.

After my very fun night in London I stayed in bed this morning much longer than usual.  There were no messages for me on my American cell, no frantic emails.

Alma and I cooked a leisurely breakfast then we drove to Canterbury so that we might buy presents for her family.

Once in Canterbury (surprisingly packed with good looking young men) we ate Panini, found free wi-fi,  met a beautiful man in the Zara store called Alex (huge and blond) and another one at the till who resembled Jake Gyllenhaal.  When I told him who he looked like he asked who that was…ah..charming.

“I hope that’s a compliment.” He grinned.

“Don’t worry,” I said, “It is.”

We shall return to Zara.

I mentioned to Alma that we might get verbally assaulted because of my shoes.

As we were walking through the Dane John Gardens a bunch of unruly youths screamed, “Why you wearing pink shoes, mate?”  I screamed back, “Because I’m a fucking poof, why d’you think?  You fucking idiots!”

The screamer then became the object of derision.  His mates thought it very funny that I had given as good as I had gotten.

Very satisfying.  Wear pink shoes, expect a reaction.

As I have written before, I am unphased by being seen to be gay.  I am an out gay man.  I refuse to be shamed by a bunch of foolish youths.   This is as close as I can get to being a drag queen as my suburban taste will allow.

Wearing anything outside of London that determines who or what I am will solicit comment.  Don’t tell me that ‘things have changed’ for gay men, that it’s easier to be gay nowadays.  From where I’m standing nothing much has changed at all.

The pistol remains primed night and day.

You know, when Jake and I were in Paris we were sitting on the terrace at the back of our hotel, Mama Shelter.   We were kissing.  I was kissing him.  As I was kissing him I heard a man call out, “Pédé!”

I looked up at the apartments above.  I didn’t tell Jake that we had been gay bashed.  I didn’t want to spoil his moment.

That was when I wanted everything to be perfect for him, when I would have moved a mountain…

P.D.
n.m. pédéraste (pédé); homosexual, gay

Carol cooked pheasant tonight with Brussel sprouts and swede.  Good GOD that was delicious.

Going up to London tomorrow for more fun and games.

Still no word from the oncologist.  No news=Good news.

Categories
art Christmas Dogs Gay Whitstable

Bollocks

Spent the past couple of days in London. Stayed at Dean Street Town House which is just perfect.  Perfectly well-appointed.  Huge rooms, pale pink curtains, heavily interlined.  A wonderful shower and a great coffee-making facility.  Delicious, hand-made biscuits.  The little dog and I luxuriated in acres of white linen and huge, fluffy pillows.

This morning I walked to Oxford Street through Golden Square.  Lovely to be home in London.  Lovely.  I was stopped by a beautiful, blue-eyed youth who wanted to talk about the little dog.

The beautiful youth not withstanding the streets are unusually crammed with ugly British people Christmas shopping.  Big faces on bald heads.  Prematurely middle age.  Marching up and down Oxford Street clutching at grim paper bags and their final straw.  Pasty, miserable, bespectacled boats.

Boat race=face.

The damp streets.  The gray sky.  Oh this is my darling England.

Stopped in at a pop up gallery on Berwick Street and bought:

By Christian Brett.

I thought in the circumstances..very appropriate!

Anyway, if you are interested in this and other work go to:

www.picturesonwalls.com

As a free gift, comes with every purchase, they gave me an original art work by Banksy….a brown paper bag with a Marks and Spencer type logo that reads ‘Marks and Stencils’ and is already selling on eBay for ninety quid.

Had a long chat with the curator Sam (knows Wendy Asher) who felt that the whole STREET ART movement had been suspended in aspic for the past decade and I think that he may very well have hit the nail on the head.  He didn’t feel as if he had ‘grown up’ that things had remained static, unevolved, complacent.

My own contemporary art world gripe: how come so few artists have anything relevant to say about world altering current events like Iraq?  For instance?  Who is making work about that?

Most conceptual, contemporary art is so bloody insular and self obsessed.   The entitled, bloated Tracy Emin (for instance) has become unashamedly bourgoise and so, I am sad to say, are the rest of the YBA wankers.

Why make work about a corrupt war when I can tell you all about my vagina/blood/self?

The art of ME.  I am all I ever think about… etc.

It’s Jay’s fault.  He loves a good title and a decorative flourish.  Jay Jopling has never been interested in political art and that, my friends, is very sad.

I mentioned Joseph Kosuth to Sam the pop up shop curator as an example of an artist who might have an opinion about the war and the bloody peace.

What is conceptual art?  The ‘value’ of particular artists after Duchamp can be weighed according to how much they questioned the nature of art.

Conceptual art is based on the notion that the essence of art is an idea, or concept, and may exist distinct from and in the absence of an object as its representation. It is called Idea art, Post-Object art, and Dematerialized art because it often assumes the form of a proposition (i.e., a document of the artist’s thinking) or a photographic document of an event.

Conceptual art practices emerged at a time when the authority of the art institution and the preciousness of the unique aesthetic object were being widely challenged by artists and critics.

Conceptual artists interrogated the possibilities of art-as-idea or art-as-knowledge, and to those ends explored linguistic, mathematical, and process-oriented dimensions of thought and aesthetics, as well as invisible systems, structures, and processes.

Artists such as Joseph Kosuth and members of the Art & Language group wrote theoretical essays that questioned the ways in which art has conventionally acquired meaning. In some cases such texts served as the art works themselves.

Dinner with Nicola and Chris on Saturday night.  Lovely.  We ate oysters, game pie and vegetables.  Ended up flirting with a cute doorman with footballers thighs in some club on Dean Street.  He was ‘straight’ so I walked away.  Damn.

This evening I met Charlie at a huge ‘A’ gay Christmas event.  I met loads of people.  Lovely (sexy, charming, witty and down-to-earth) Dutch/Kiwi man and his friend but the BEST was a gallerist/singer songwriter called Robert Diament who I could totally FALL for.  I kissed him goodnight.

Out sexy gay man with a brain.  Huh?  How did that happen?

Well, it’s not going to happen  In the cold light of this sober day (Monday morning) he’s far too young and until my heart is mended…I really can’t imagine letting anyone near me.

Drove back to Whitstable with Alma who is very funny and we giggled for miles.

Anyway, as I have said before..after letting you know my initial impressions of someone ‘special’ I won’t be writing about them again.  Can you tell that I am having a nice time?  That I am happy?  Can you?  I am safe and warm (house is a bit chilly) and enveloped by love?

I forgot to mention yesterday…I bought a hat at Kokon to Zai.  It is rather splendid.

Then I went to bed…good night…sweet dreams.


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Categories
Gay

You Are Everything

I am everything I ever think about.   You hear that a great deal in the rooms of AA.  We are indeed a self obsessed bunch.

Without the relief of thinking about somebody else I am back to my old ways:  dubious web sites..currently a member of four hook up sites, making plans with strangers.

The only thing that has really changed is the level of compulsivity.  I no longer compulsively look at those sites and I don’t look at porn like I did.  One of the benefits of the last few months, as I have written before, is my attitude toward sex.  I can now meet people and have sex with them without shame or complication.  Perhaps that’s a good thing?

I don’t know yet.  I made up my mind that in lieu of a relationship I will chase another sort of dragon.  Sport Fucking.

It’s amazing just how many of them (as do I) describe what we want as ‘fun’.

Funny.

It’s funny because I don’t regret that I never got into this sooner.  I am sure I would have gotten into trouble.  Already recent past conquests want repeat performances but I have no desire to meet them again, know their names or anything about their lives.

I am not even bothering to write about these men.  They are all the same.  I have become adept at just getting on with it.  They arrive, I do it, they leave.

These are changes in me to focus on and praise?   There’s always..my film.  My film is really getting everybody who hears about it really fired up.  It’s a perfect story with a big idea at it beating heart.

Just in case you’re wondering, the story has nothing to do with him.  I would normally try manipulating recent events into some kind of narrative.  I don’t seem to need that particular catharsis.  The sorry fact is..our story just isn’t that interesting.

The story is pretty much written here…well pretty much.  Many of the wonderful times are not written because I wasn’t allowed to write them.  There are days on end that we spent with each other that remain unwritten.   Waking up in the Jane Hotel…his absurd fear that I wanted to sleep with his best friend.

I did as I was told and didn’t write any of it.

Yesterday, ran around Beverly Hills paying bills (mortgage etc.) and after some deliberation decided that I would donate the money that I received from him to charity.  I sent it to the Trevor Project, every $1, 191.71 of it.  For those of you who don’t know what the Trevor Project is check it out.

Trevor Project

It seemed like the right thing to do in the circumstance.

Ultimately the money I received from him felt dirty and now it has been effectively laundered.

I made the donation in his name.  As a supporter he will receive the following benefits and will get to meet other aspiring A gays at charity events in NYC.

Supporter ($1,000 – $2,499)
All “Member” level benefits plus:

  • A complimentary copy of Trevor, the Academy Award®-winning short film
  • A Trevor Survival Kit sent to the school of your choice
  • Listing as a Circle of Hope Supporter in event program books, newsletters, our annual report and on Trevor’s website.

I imagine he will be able to claim it back against his taxes too.

I had lunch with J&J in WeHo.  Dinner with Ashley at Nobu.  Woke at 4am.  Chased a big buck around the garden with a torch.  Eating my geraniums.  Bastards.

I know now that he had already met someone else before we left for France.  I don’t blame him.  I couldn’t meet his needs.  He wants to be an ‘A’ gay and if he works hard enough at it he’ll get there in the end.

Like a character from an F Scott Fitzgerald novel.

For all of his terrible flaws I enjoyed his conversation.  I loved laughing with him.  I am aiming to remember him with kindness or..and this is more likely…not at all.

We have at least contributed to the happiness of others by making such a healthy donation to charity.

Vitality shows in not only the ability to persist but the ability to start over.

Categories
art Gay Rant

Hallooweeeen

Back on excellent form I decided to go Halloween party hopping.  Started at SHLA which was a fucking BLAST.  Wearing a huge fur hat, all night it was stroked and fondled.  The rest of me wrapped tightly in black.  My new heroin chic thin frame.

My waist has shrunk from a chunky 36 ins to a very palatable 33ins.

Yum fucking yum.  Nice to wear all those form fitting togs.  Vintage Helmut Lang.

Actually, even though I intended to run around town my Halloween party hopping ended as it began.  I started at SHLA and ended my night there.

It’s time to start eating again.  I am getting too thin.

Anyway, the party at SHLA was really well planned.  They had spent a fortune on art installations and costumes.  Money well spent…the theme for the night: phobias.

Ornithophobia (birds)

Chiroptophobia (bats)

Emetophobia (vomit)

Dendrophobia (trees)

Arachnophobia (spiders)

Aviophobia (flying)

They should have had a homophobia themed room:   Spiteful little fingers.  Eyes that gaze out over your shoulder looking for something better.  Meaningless conversations.  Somebody whispering that they love you as they pick your pocket.

For God did not give us a spirit of timidity, but a spirit of power, of love and of self-discipline.

The greater part of my evening was spent on a sofa on the terrace flirting with an important (she said) artist (male) and a successful (he said) gallery owner (female), flirting and groping.  He was dressed as wolf man and she a pussy cat.  He told me to touch his cock which I did.  The gallerist squealed.  Then she joined in.  Finger sucking.  She gave me her card.  I left it on the table.

She said, “Which would you prefer?  To eat my pussy or suck his cock?”

I told her that I could do both at the same time.

Nikki Haskell joined us dressed as Marie Antoinette.  Everybody loves Nikki.  The ‘important’ artist asked her to touch his balls and she told him very imperiously to fondle hers.

“They’re made of pink satin.”  She said.

I met a bunch of  drunk ‘A’ gays who wanted to whisk me away to a gay party in Laurel Canyon but I bailed at the last moment.    I am not ready to throw myself into anything too gay at the moment..anyway I had too much fun flirting with the straight men stoking my hat.

It was a very festive end to the past few months.  The BEST thing about the party was that everybody from all the other parties all over town popped by so one really didn’t have to move at all.

Most famous person there:  Leo.  He asked if I had made anything since AKA.

Todd Feldman my ex-agent was having a party that I fully intended to join but why bother?

Spent the earlier part of yesterday with Luke who very kindly bought me lunch.

Like it or not there is still a shadow cast over me from the morbid events of the past few months, this will take time to pass but I am NOT staying at home being miserable.  I am out there doing what I do best: meeting people and having fun.

I took one number from one man but will delete it.  I have no desire to meet or engage with another man…not after JB.  That was enough to last a decade.  The idea of getting close with anyone other than those I already know is enough.

Ashley and Aaron Rose for breakfast.  Satie’s Gymnopedie playing.

Drifting over the garden like something aromatic.  Carrying me over the lush vegetation and down to the sea.

Life:  this is it my friend.  It is as it always was.

On my own.  Thank God!

Categories
Gay Malibu

Paid in Full

It rained steadily all night.  This morning the sun is shining.

Yesterday stayed in almost all day.

Dinner at Frank’s Whitley Heights apartment.   Very little traffic on the 10.  There were ghastly British people who Frank had met randomly at another party.  I left early.   Food was good though.  He made some sort of Brazilian coconut chicken with rice.

Parking in Hollywood is shit.

I like Frank..even though his slimy British friends just wouldn’t stop talking about how much they had drunk the night before.  “So Duncan, why did you come to LA?”  I told them that Los Angeles had more AA meetings than any other city in the USA.  They looked baffled.  After a difficult moment of silent processing the Brit said, “Each to his own old chap.”   He really did call me old chap.

Before dinner this black kid from the deep south sang/warbled/yodeled a prayer.  I looked at my feet in HORROR.

Met JA at Soho House.  Drank espresso.   Miles arrived looking very dashing.  Saw Eugenio Lopez and told him about Steve Martin‘s book.  He was DELIGHTED and reported this to his friends.  “Steve Martin has written pages in his book about meee…tell them Duncan..tell them.”  I told them the Getty story.  Eugenio was with an older gentleman and a slobby boy whore who he scolded for putting his feet on the furniture.  Eugenio was wearing a black sequined jacket.  Seemed delighted that Martin had written about him.  Who wouldn’t?

I was going to hook up with some random dude from Grindr but he didn’t turn up on time so I left and we all (dogs) curled up alone in my big white bed.

Oh yeah, I forgot, Jerome (my next door neighbor) rented his house this weekend to a young couple who threw a huge, ornate wedding…could almost be described as baroque.   The ceremony took place in the garden.   You could hear the dreary, clichéd classical music…a good third of a mile away.  All the obvious shit mixed in with random film scores.  They probably couldn’t tell the difference between Ennio Morricone and Pergolesi.   Idiots.  A disparate group of badly dressed men and women gazing admiringly at this bride and this groom about to be locked in matrimony.

The dogs started barking during their vows.  I didn’t do much to stop them.  I didn’t want to hear their fucking vows broadcast over my quiet valley.  Obnoxious white, straight people.  A coalition of the entitled.

The party continues there today.  A simpering European party/events planner slimed around to the house like a huge slug..apologizing in advance for the noise.  Thank God this is a random event.  Events planners btw are always the worst kind of gay and always the dullest human beings on earth.  Who the fuck would ever find an events planner interesting?  Oh yeah, I remember.

JB sent the money he owed me.  Deal done.  Goodbye JB.

A fit black guy contacted me on Manhunt.  He wanted to fuck.  He asked if I was good.  I replied..does it matter?  Do I care if you think I am good at fucking?  I cum you leave.  I won’t be reading the reviews.

Categories
Gay

Best of Times, Worst of Times

Manhunt Date No. 10.   With the end of this gruesome chapter in sight I decided to meet with someone from the internet and have sex.

He arrived on time.  A beautiful black man from Culver City.  I undressed him.  I fucked him.  Everything worked.  Everything just worked.

He left.

I realized that if there was to be any sort of lasting legacy from the past year…then that was it.  The confidence to meet a stranger and have meaningless sex.

I didn’t even want to know his name.  This was an exercise in futility.

Of course, this is not what I want.  I am merely retraumatizing myself.

I learned to connect sexually and emotionally with JB and perhaps one day I will indeed be able to have what I had (passionate, present, emotional) with someone else.  When will I be ready?   At this moment, thankfully I am no longer consumed with hatred, my visceral resentments no longer regurgitating all over everyone around me.

More happened yesterday than meaningless sex.

I had the second interview for what may well mean that I make another film.

I am thrilled about this.

I have been holding on to this idea of an end.   Now it is mine.  I remember when JBC and I were effectively divorcing and going to court and winning..it didn’t feel particularly like winning..winning but not feeling like a winner.  I would end up giving him half a million dollars because it was the right thing to do.

It’s over!  As I write those words a huge sigh makes its way from the very heart of me.  From my heart.

I want to remember that I cared very deeply for him.  Today I want to detach with love.  It is my simple goal and always has been..we tried before, knowing that our love was compelling and destructive.  It’s not like we didn’t know!  Every time we thought it was the end and attempted to let go honourably…we obviously needed to keep going..because we did.

A few days of silence then one of us would send a random text or Facebook message then we would Skype and we would get sexual and then everything bubbled to the surface..all over.  No more.  I am so happy that we will never meet again.

So happy that he resides in my past.

You think I miss him?  No, I don’t.  But I will keep sacred what I have loved whether it is a man or a moment or a beautiful view.  Isn’t that what life is all about?

Of course I am saddened that we didn’t resolve all of this sooner but hey, that’s the way it was meant to be and there’s nothing I can do about it.

This couldn’t and wouldn’t have happened without the intervention of one nameless man, and as you can imagine there are things that I am not writing because I am honoring this man who is doing the best for his family.  I am honouring him because he endured a great deal through no fault of his own.

Wow, I have just been reading my past couple of months blogs.  Such venom!

Finally, late last night I was shaken out of a long, bad dream.   I feel normal again but Christ where was I?  Who was I?  Don’t fuck with the Bad Baby!  That baby can hold a RESENTMENT!

This is the first time since January that I feel like myself.

Elsie hasn’t been singing for some considerable time.  Now she sings!  The fat lady sings!  Look at that, blog after blog..day after day..the screaming baby, the very bad, Bad Baby.

Months of vitriol spewing over just one person.  Mostly me.  It’s enough to rot your soul.

Thankfully common sense has prevailed and we can put our eviscerating tools back into their hessian sack.    Thank you, thank you, thank you.

It is time to look back fondly rather than bristling with hate.  Before I could not remember even one moment of what was good.   Remember what was beautiful and move on.

Elsie is singing Master and Servant.

Oh yes!  I didn’t comment on the “It Gets Better!” campaign.  What a load of old SHITE.  Tell me how it gets better?  Let me know.  I have huge problems with Dan Savage and will write more about him in the future.

Categories
Gay Health Rant

Vivid Dreams About Death

I am in a great deal of fear about this operation.  Sorry to go on about it.

I just am.

I have been putting it off, putting it off.  Why?  Because part of me, a big part of me just wants to die.  To never go through the pain of the past few months ever again.

When did I stop fighting to survive?  When did the fight become too exhausting?   I think there were moments on our European adventure when I knew I just couldn’t, wouldn’t carry the both of us.  Between stations in Lille when I vanished to get food for the trip.  I wanted to run away.  That I had done so much for him with so little return.

The problem is:  I stopped fighting for me too.   The more honest I become…the harder life is.  A lie can separate you from the harsh realities.  A lie can make everything better.  The more honest, the more in focus life becomes then the more brutal it is.

To love without trusting is almost too much to bear.  This is the legacy any cheater leaves behind them:  She will never trust another man.  She will always be left wondering if, when her new man goes out, he is cheating behind her back.

At least I knew he was a liar and a cheat and chose to continue.  To get involved.  To catch him as he fell.  All I ended up doing was colluding with him.

The legacy I am left with?  Oh, I blame myself.  Again and again.

Then, there is the perverse thought that we will be OK one day.

Until I don’t believe that we will be friends some time in the future then I am doomed.  Part of me thinks that there will be a moment…even when I am an old man…that we will look back at our time together and smile.  There is NO moment of resolution.  There will be no quiet moment in the future the two of us forgive, when we will laugh at what happened.

It just wasn’t that funny.

I can never ever imagine meeting him again.  Just the thought of bumping into him in the street fills me with revulsion.

Why am I writing about him AGAIN?  I was doing OK..then:

All night I dreamt about JB.  All night.  I may be dealing with him in my conscious life but he is alive a kicking in my unconscious.

There are two dreams:  One where we are making love shuffled in with another altogether more insidious dream.  In the second dream he is changed.  In the second dream he is a gay man enjoying his life.  Subtle changes about his body include the hair on his chest manscaped.

Of course, in the dream, he had his lap top on his lap.  He is chatting with Phil at the house in London.  Telling her about his new apartment, telling her about going to gay pride.

He is letting us know that he is OK.  That things worked out just fine.

He looked so normal and calm.  Perhaps he really was just letting me know that things were OK.  That he is OK.  Communicating this through my dreams.

I dreamt about Issie Blow when she died, and Dione and the Big Dog all in the same way.  They wanted me to know that they had found peace and it was all ok.

Like a grieving dream.  There he was in his life.  Getting on with it.

It’s odd isn’t it that the dream happened in London.  In Phil’s house on Langton Street..though maybe not.  It was there that we had the fight.  There that he lost the iPod and encouraged me to shout at those kids.

I don’t think I will ever stay there again because of him and his stupid iPod.  His clumsiness.

A night of terrible, roiling dreams.  How long will this last?  How long will he be so solidly in my head?

The problem is:  I think he got away with it.  Supported by people who think he is sick rather than duplicitous.  By people who accept that his cheating was perfectly understandable in the circumstance.

The thoughts of JB bubble up over the fear.   Swamped by him rather than face the facts.  I know what’s going on.  I know it.

Categories
art Gay

Are you Innocent? Are you a boy?

Innocentboy7 baring his ass..sent me a ‘wink’.   That’s what happens when you sit on Manhunt long enough.  Unlike the real city, this virtual city has no surprises.  Asses and cocks on view before they risk you judging their ugly mug, their pretty face.

A mountain of heaving pink and brown flesh.  Like some virtual concentration camp.  A tangle of broken limbs.  Faceless.  Broken.  Made to kneel at the edge of the pit before the single bullet to the head.

People like me and my friend Jon and his son.  People like me and Ashley.  People like me and my friend Rose.  Made to run over ploughed fields.  Naked.  To the pit.  To the single bullet.    A woman in a beautifully cut coat and dress protecting herself from two big dogs.  Her felt hat on her head.  Where is her bag?

Innocentboy 7 are you innocent?  Are you a boy?  I asked him.  He replied, “Yeah dude, I’m a flight attendant.”  He ‘unlocked’ the pictures of his face.  Thanks for the introduction.   I wasn’t interested in his ass or his face.

I love the city.  That’s where I want to trawl for men, male encounters.  The streets, we are all equal on the streets.  We can be mysterious.  We can be men.  In the summer, sweaty kisses.  Letting them undress you.  In the winter warming your hands on their hot bellies under layers of coats and scarves.  Strangers in virtual streets now wink at me.  “Hello Ducky, have you got a light?’   “Do you know the way to Piccadilly?”   or,  if you’re feeling particularly fresh, “My boyfriend and I..well, we was wondering?”

What is the point of meeting anyone if you know exactly what you are going to find slumbering in their underwear?   Where is the delicious mystery?   I don’t want to see your cock…or your ass.  Not until we have made a contract.   Your hot breath on my face, on my neck.  Kiss my eye lids.  Kiss me.  Seal it with a kiss.

Without doubt I have met some interesting people from the internet.  But…they ain’t going to fit in.   Will they listen to The XX?  Do they have the ability to light a fire?

Can they stay?  Did you ever think about just staying?  Turning your back on the life you had?  Just staying over and never leaving?

There are great forks of lightning dancing over the Pacific this morning.   Like those elephants in the Dali paintings, you know the ones..the paintings?  The real paintings.  When he was painting.  I think they are in Tampa, Florida of all places.  Did you know that?

Fixed the hot tub spa thingy yesterday.  It looks great.   Can’t wait to get in it.

Gayboyforolder just sent me a picture of his cock.  He is coyly pulling his underwear from his groin to reveal his meat, his cock, his prick, his weapon of war, his 8 and a half…well…sadly…it’s an ugly little thing.  I can’t imagine doing anything with that.  Not a girl like me.  It needs photoshopping.  It looks jaundiced.  It looks toxic. It looks traumatized.

Do you know who I am?

I have songs to sing today in imaginary opera houses, in Carnegie Hall, on the South Bank.  I have songs to sing.

Have not left the house for 8 days.  Last night a friend popped by and he was playing with my lap top and there was a moment when I wanted to hit him on the back of the head with my heavy metal torch because I HATE people messing with my laptop.  I would rather they looked at my soiled underwear.

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