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Malibu California


Should I dedicate this blog to affluent, gay, white male: ‘The King‘ Chris Cortazzo?

Chris Cortazzo, Coldwell Banker’s top-selling Malibu realtor.  Remember?  He accused me of extortion when I threatened to blog about him?  Chris and his legal team predicted a felony in my future… an automatic deportation.

Chris wanted to fine me, humiliate me, take away my home and most importantly he wanted to silence me… yet, after months of bargaining with expensive help from his Super Lawyer Bryan Freedman… Chris Cortazzo accomplished no fines, no deportation, no felony.

When all was said and done Chris achieved a wobbly misdemeanor and a recently expired, three-year gag order… as part of a convoluted plea deal.  The ubiquitous plea deal routinely offered to people like me in the USA who couldn’t afford a fair trial.

No.  Chris Cortazzo is undeserving of any dedication.  He is a very, very bad gay.

Instead, I dedicate this blog to every man woman and child presently held illegally in jails and prisons all over ‘the land of the free’.  There are presently 2,500,000 people in US jails.

Two and a half million people.

Private and public US jails and prisons are crammed with brown men, women and children who could not afford a fair trial and under hopeless duress accepted a plea deal.  Worse, there are corroborated stories of pre trial detainees tortured into signing false confessions or incriminated by the police and corrupt, racist prosecutors.

Thanks to organizations like the Innocence Project hundreds of men and women have had their convictions overturned and on occasions released from decades of solitary confinement for crimes they did not commit.

Cowed by PTSD many will not survive their freedom.  Suicide and terminal illness rates are high.  It is hard for them to live normal lives.  They return to unrecognisable neighbourhoods, children estranged, families and friends scattered. In some states they are barred from voting.  For the decades of torture they endured many sue and win handsome payouts but after huge ‘civil rights’ attorneys bills, taxes and years waiting for payment they receive only a little remuneration.

Fearful, white tax payers unquestioningly pay whatever it costs for more prisons, death row, jails, the police and the military.  They believe mass incarceration makes them safer.  They rarely enquire: Who profits from mass incarceration?  They are unaware that the same people profiting from corrupt and illegal wars in Iraq and Libya also own the jails and the prisons ignoring the untold suffering within.

Whilst the 1% get richer on the backs of the poor, hiding their ill-gotten gains elsewhere, avoiding taxation… disenfranchised people of color are radicalized by brutal treatment whilst incarcerated.  The poor know they are easy prey.  Inside the big house they are gouged further by deputies who own and operate vending machines.  A 50 cent pack of noodles sold to those who can least afford it… for $3.  Loved ones forced to pay 1000 times more than you and I to receive phone calls from the incarcerated.

In America… if you are poor, vulnerable or sick… expect to be enslaved by the state.

Black communities are bullied by a police force trained to raise revenue by issuing hundreds of bogus tickets.  In Ferguson MO 80% of the residents had been ticketed for minor infractions, raising millions of dollars for a failing local government.  Private prisons are kept profitably full by agreement between local politicians and prison owners.  Remember Judge Ciavarella, jailed for receiving payment from a prison owner for imprisoning innocent children?   Some of those innocent kids killed themselves.

Two million children are arrested every year in the US, 95% for non-violent crimes.  66% of children incarcerated never return to school.  The US incarcerates nearly 5 times more children than any other nation in the world.

Ferguson and Mark Ciaverella are just the tip of the iceberg.  As in any tin pot dictatorship, powerful Americans use jail to silence whistleblowers and truth tellers.

This is my story: the story of rich, entitled white folk taking down and silencing enemies using the public court system as their personal weapon.

The blog referred to during this post is the blog I allegedly ‘threatened’ to publish if Chris Cortazzo didn’t right his wrongs.  The original blog exists publicly in its entirety as court records, evidence submitted by the prosecution during my pre-trial.

Why now?  Why write this 4 years after the event?  I might have left my story in the past but this story became unexpectedly relevant.  I was recently contacted by lawyers who revealed I wasn’t the only Malibu property owner who had fallen foul of realtor Christopher Cortazzo.


Powerful friends, they say, make powerful enemies.  Chris and his friends proved they could do anything they wanted to me and others. There were times when I suspected my very own lawyer had been bought by the other side.

This is a Hollywood story.   As with any epic Hollywood story it requires a suspension of disbelief.  This narrative snakes in and out of reality tv, multi-million dollar homes, secretive Alcoholics Anonymous meetings and into the many canyons of Malibu, Bel Air and Beverly Hills.  It stars ‘A’ listed talent and their representatives, a cast of corrupt policemen, prosecutors and the judiciary.  It is the story of shameful… affluent, white gay men and their friends.

It is fortune lost and found.


Dear Chris,

Let’s get one thing clear before we go any further.  I don’t want anything from you. Nothing.  I don’t want your money, I don’t want your time, I don’t want your body.  I want nothing from you… never… ever.

This is the blog you didn’t want me to write, the blog you spent tens of thousands of dollars trying to kill.  This is the blog I sat in the Los Angeles Men’s County Jail contemplating.  This is it.  This is the blog you wanted me to regret.

Chris.  Are you ready?

Before I start,  I have two words to say to you:  Hiroshi Horiike.

Hiroshi Horiike on the steps of his Malibu Mansion.

This name probably means nothing to your starry friends and clients, your 1% billionaire neighbours or the older Malibu home owners you nurture until they are ready to sell their ocean side properties.  The celebrities with whom you carouse all over the world may not be aware of Hiroshi Horiike.  I doubt if you make mention of his name in the many mansions, yachts and fast cars you inhabit.

Let me educate my readers.

Millionaire Hiroshi Horiike spent two years searching California for a dream home, one grander than any he could find in his native China.

After visiting more than 80 properties in the Los Angeles area with an agent from Coldwell Banker, Horiike paid $12.25 million in cash for a four-bedroom, six-bath Tuscan-style mansion with a swimming pool, spa and guest house on 5.1 acres (2.1 hectares) overlooking the Pacific Ocean.

There was just one catch. After settling in, Horiike found the Malibu home had less living space than he’d been told — a third less. It had 9,434 square feet (876 square meters) instead of the 15,000 square feet shown in marketing brochures from the seller’s agent, who also worked with Coldwell Banker.

You were the realtor repping both Hiroshi and the seller.  You were the realtor.   Chris, you were the realtor referred to in this quote and subsequent court documents.  Sounds dodgy doesn’t it?  No wonder you wanted to shut my big mouth.

Horiike, who also goes by his native Chinese name Peng Hong Ling after adopting a Japanese name as an adult, claimed he was cheated and sued the agent and the brokerage. He won a state appeals court ruling that sellers’ agents have a fiduciary duty to protect buyers’ interests, not just those of their clients, when there’s only one brokerage involved in a deal.

Of course you and Coldwell Banker have been defending yourselves vigorously in the courts… there’s a great deal at stake for Californian real estate agents.

If left standing, the decision could compel disclosure of confidential client information or force brokerages to drop out of transactions where they represent both buyers and sellers, threatening commissions on tens of thousands of deals.

Have you fucked it up for your Californian realtor colleagues?  Have you derailed their gravy train?

Horiike and I have a great deal in common when it comes to you, Chris.

Horiike and I were both US property virgins. We foolishly thought we could trust our realtors. We were naive, we were excited, we were unaware… in the unlikely event we were duped by unscrupulous realtors when we purchased our homes… we only had two years for discrepancies to reveal themselves before a remarkably short statute of limitation kicks in.  I discovered my geological discrepancy after two years… some people must have rubbed their hands in glee.

Hiroshi, he’s the Mensch!  Hiroshi is the man who won’t let go of the bone, Chris.  And you… you are Horiiki’s bone.  He’s taking his case all the way to the Supreme Court because, like me, he had his dream shattered by realtors.

But let’s concentrate on us for a moment Chris.  Just us.  Before this blew up you already had a very low opinion of me.  An opinion you share with many white, affluent, gay men. Chris you described me, after our couple of dates, in court documents as ‘dark and creepy’.

Let’s cast our minds back to happier times.  Chris, let’s remember when I arrived with society photographer Todd Eborle at the annual Barry Diller pre-Oscar garden party a few years back (I sat between you and Helen Mirren) we had a nice enough time.  We ate from the buffet.  We marveled at Rupert Murdoch and David Geffen chatting animatedly at the edge of the garden.

As I mentioned earlier, we’d had a date or two in West Hollywood but it didn’t work out. You claim we didn’t have oral sex.  If you can’t remember sucking my cock, I’m perfectly happy to forget it too.  The next time I saw you?  At the house on Hume Road, Malibu. I loved that house like Horiiki loved his, and a little like Horiiki I’d seen a ton of houses before I found my dream house on Hume Road.

Corey Nelson my dumb, good-looking realtor was sick of showing me property. He had shown me hundreds of homes.  Sometimes… I wouldn’t go inside.   Rude!


Corey Nelson

The purchase of Hume Road happened before the crash when realtors didn’t have to work very hard to sell a house.  We had given up looking.  Corey Nelson and I hadn’t spoken for months.  So, when I found my little slice of paradise I called Corey because I knew he would appreciate making a sale.  I could have called anyone but I felt loyal to Corey.  I had no clue his inexperience and ambition would severely compromise me.

I was renting an apartment in Hollywood that had once belonged to Joni Mitchell.   Every day I would drive from El Cerritos Place to the Malibu property and sit in the garden, sit on the terrace and gaze at the view.  I was desperate to buy the house on Hume Road.  Indeed, my enthusiasm predicated just how much of a liberty you two groovy hucksters might take with me.

I met the owner of the Hume Road House, Kelly Mormon.  He asked if I wanted to move in before I bought the house.  I moved in.  I explored the neighborhood.  I saw a family of bob cats and eagles wheeling through the canyon.  Humming birds fed from the passion fruit flowers that grew on my terrace.  Walking Las Flores Canyon one warm evening I met a grumpy man from Cal Trans who told me buying a house on Hume Road was a really bad idea. He told me the city should buy the houses in the canyon and demolish them.  I’d heard rumors the land was unstable.  The neighbours denied it of course.  They assured me everything was just fine.

I wrote to Corey explaining my fears. When we subpoenaed his emails it was revealed soon after I wrote that email… Corey Nelson wrote you Chris asking what he should do about my cold feet. Your reply was chilling. “Call me,” you said.  I can’t imagine the plan you hatched during the call.

Corey abandoned his fiduciary duty when he made that call to you, Chris.


Let’s talk?  You and me?  Can I confide in you?

Do you remember the film?  I’d made a film people loved and I’d been nominated for a British Academy Award.  They warn the foolhardy: never move to LA unless invited.  Industry people (my agent and manager) told me my interests would be best served if I moved to Hollywood.  In 2007, after 35 years, I sold my beautiful sea-side house in Whitstable Kent.  I started house hunting in Los Angeles.

I met Corey Nelson from Sotheby’s a well-known realty company.  He was one of those cute ex Bruce Weber models who would do almost anything to make a sale.  I met him with an older gay realtor who claimed he was fucking him.  We met at Joan’s on Third in West Hollywood.  I love Joan.  She’s a romantic!  Have you heard her story?

Corey and I spent a long time house hunting.  I looked at hundreds of houses, none I liked. Corey was cute and fun.  We spent time together socially, we climbed Runyon Canyon.  I trusted him.  I believed realtors in the USA behaved like estate agents in the UK: with honesty and accountability.

Months into our search I had still not found a house.


My recently deceased friend Jean Perramon lived in The Santa Monica Mountains.  His house had views stretching from Santa Monica to Point Dume.   Walking his neighborhood one evening I peeked past a large For Sale sign through the gates of an abandoned estate. To Jean’s consternation I opened the gates and wandered down the steep drive into two acres of lush, semi tropical gardens.  Huge cactus trees, ancient palms.  Bananas, citrus, plums.  Stone paths weaving through the landscape.  At the end of the path an empty, unlocked 1970’s post and beam family home divided into two apartments.

I told Corey about the house and he introduced me to Chris Cortazzo, Kelly’s agent.

Well, we scarcely needed introducing.

Listen, let’s face it…Chris has done very well for himself.  He comes from a humble Malibu family, his mother is often seen eating lunch in the garden at Cross Creek.  His fireman father is dead.  He sells more real estate than any other broker in the USA.  For a man who is scarcely literate… he has done very well for himself.   Perhaps it is gay mythology but your story includes a romantic liaison with billionaire Barry Diller who, it is alleged, set you up as a realtor and let you sell his property.  Is that true?

He writes this about himself on his own website:

Yes, Chris Cortazzo’s name is everywhere in Malibu, because that’s what happens when you’re “The King.”  It was actually the Bravo TV program Million Dollar Listing, in which CC was profiled among several other L.A.-area top-producing agents, that coined the term “The King of Malibu”. Perhaps it was his incredible production that earned him the title. Perhaps it owes to the type of clientele he often serves, namely some of the biggest names in entertainment and business.

After renting the Malibu house on Hume Road for a couple of weeks I asked Corey to write an offer.  The house had been on the market for a year or more hand had a price reduction. I live in a country where houses languish on the market for years, it did not occur to me that if a house had been on the market for a few months it may be problematic.  Nor did it occur to me that I may be working with a couple of realtors who were determined, at any cost, to sell me a doozy.

My soppy, inexperienced realtor wanted his commission and was sick of showing me endless properties.  We had written offers before but they had not been accepted.  I had never ordered an inspection.

The problem with the beautiful house?  During the past ten years there had been landslides on either side of the property.  There was illegal construction in the garden including un-permitted retaining walls and water tanks degrading the land, making it more liable to slide.

They knew if I had this critical information I would not buy the house and more importantly… it would be worth far less than the 1.4 million dollars I paid for it.

Neither the seller nor Chris disclosed this information.  Information, by law, they were required to reveal.  Corey told me a thorough geological report would cost me $10,000.  So, using the excuse I would save money I needn’t spend, they presented me with an expensive and thorough looking geological report conducted in 2004.   Corey persuaded me this report was adequate for my purposes, advising me I should have a verbal report from another geologist to confirm nothing seismic had happened after the 2004 report.

The difference between 2004 and the year I bought the house?  The house no longer sat on an HISTORIC slide as the report stated.  A historic slide means that during the past decade no noticeable seismic activity had taken place within a thousand feet of the property and the land was stable.   In 2004 the house sat comfortably on the ridge line,  foundations built on bedrock.

However, shortly after that 2004 report was written large parts of Las Flores Canyon including Hume Road began sliding into the sea.  My house now sat on an ACTIVE slide.  This important information was deliberately kept from me.  Moreover, Corey told me that he could not find a local geologist who would come to the house so we hired a geologist recommended by… Chris Cortazzo.  I was assured by Corey that the ‘verbal’ geological report from a geologist was perfectly normal.  Again, abandoning his fiduciary duties.

The young, good-looking geologist sat uncomfortably with us in the garden, Corey at his side.  He held the 2004 geological report.  I asked if there was anything I needed to know that may influence my purchase of the property.  I asked many, many questions.  I needed to know everything before I invested my hard-earned $1, 500,000.  Without looking into my eyes the ‘geologist’ told me the house had a “reasonable half an inch of ‘creep'”  but failed to mention either of the recent slides or the illegality of the un-permitted terracing.

I bought the house.  After we signed contracts at the close of escrow, Chris shook my hand and said, with half a grin, “You’re going to own that house for a very long time.”

Only when I tried selling the house… did I learn what he meant.

The next time I saw Chris Cortazzo he was sitting in a sex addict meeting where he claims he was ‘helping a friend’.  After seeing him at the meeting I wrote a sweet email welcoming him to SAA.  It’s hard to admit a problem like sex addiction.  I wanted him to feel safe when he returned.  That’s what we are taught to do in AA SAA etc… we look out for each other.  We reach out.  Almost immediately the troubled transphobic sex therapist Sean McFarlane who lead the meeting told me not to contact Chris again… under any circumstances.


Sean McFarlane chaired the Brentwood Sex Addict meeting (ironically held in a middle school until the school realized a famous pedophile attended the meeting) for over a decade, a serious break from the 12 traditions and frowned upon within the Anonymous community.  McFarlane didn’t seem to care much for the AA rules unless others broke them.  His personal recovery, doubted by many, seemed ‘unsponsored’.  He tells a melodramatic, highly questionable personal story and is well-known (to those within the addict community) to prey upon vulnerable celebrities eager to keep their failing marriages.

Consequently, he has a gang of loyal Hollywood/sports celebrities with whom he consorts in and out of therapy.  He would boast how he taught Mike Tyson’s daughter to swim.  The daughter who tragically… drowned.  Our ‘trusted servant’ McFarlane rarely accounted for the huge 7th Tradition purse he collected every week and handed over to his ‘treasurer’, John Artz.

It is rumored Sean McFarlane would take sex addicts through the 12 Steps… if they paid him.  Again, discouraged within the anonymous cult who pride themselves on sharing their sobriety with newcomers… for ‘fun and for free’.

Sean ‘no shame in my game’ McFarlane is a transphobe.  I never once heard anyone in that Sex Addict meeting challenge his transphobia.  He considered all trans people ‘evil’.  Whenever he had the opportunity he told graphic tales of his own heroism in the face of evil transsexuals.  How he saved one or other of his many trans chaser clients from the grips of an evil ‘tranny hooker’.

The group would cheer Sean’s transphobia.  Lawyers, agents, actors… casting directors.    Collectively witch hunting the trans people Sean considered evil.  Lately, as the Hollywood conversation turns toward inclusivity, color blind casting, gender neutrality… one wonders how Sean and his creepy white guy transphobic friends in the entertainment industry will survive?


The last time I heard from the ‘geologist’, he had turned to Jesus.  I was in my bed… at home in Malibu.  It was dark.  He called from a blocked phone.  He was distressed.  He apologized for calling late at night.  He stumbled over his words.  He told me Corey instructed him not to mention anything that would influence me away from buying the house.  The ‘geologist’ felt guilty.  He omitted to tell me the status of the slide had changed from historic.. to active.

He told me the lie plagued his conscience.

People ask: What did you do when he told you?  What could I do?  I tell them. “I listened.”

When we subpoenaed the geologist during my pre-trial… a completely different man (50 years old and morbidly obese) arrived at the court-house.  He didn’t want to be there, he was sweating bullets.  It was all the proof I needed but the pre-trial judge refused to listen to our evidence.  It was one of your triumphs, Chris.  The truth couldn’t help us.  The statute of limitations had long run out.

When I spoke to Corey he said,  “I knew this would come back to haunt me.”  You’re right Corey, if you have any conscience, it’s going to haunt you… the rest of your life.

After the geologist’s late night call I emailed Chris letting him know I’d give him time to ‘do the right thing’ and find a solution including a ‘fair and equitable’ settlement… or I would start a campaign against him… including paid advertisements in local newspapers, national news articles and a revelatory blog.

Soon after writing this email I was arrested and held without recourse to bail in LA Men’s County Jail.


TP… the bug-eyed, ex head of a major film studio and his son were Malibu neighbours and regular faces at my sex addict meeting in Brentwood.  TP’s son described sex therapist Sean McFarlane’s reaction when he heard I’d been arrested,

“Sean leapt out of his seat and punched the air screaming… ‘he’s going down’.”

Bryan Freedman, John Adler (my SAA sponsor), TP and others smiled broadly at the news.  The men in that sex addict meeting coalesced around you Chris, you became one of their walking wounded.

Bryan Freedman, another self identified sex addict/alcoholic I  saw almost every morning at either the 7am Palisades AA stag meeting or the Sex Addict meeting in Brentwood.

Chris, how did you meet Bryan Freedman?  Did you meet him at the sex addict meeting?  Did transphobic sex therapist Sean MacFarlane introduce you?  Bryan is a great fan of transphobic sex therapist Sean McFarlane.

Bryan Freedman’s firm Freedman + Taitelman would represent your interests against me.

Bryan J. Freedman was selected as one of the most influential entertainment litigators in the country by The Hollywood Reporter in 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014 and 2015 and in all eight years has been named in the Top 100 Power Lawyers list. Additionally, Bryan was recognized as a Southern California “Super Lawyer” in 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015 and 2016, a peer-based award reserved only for the top 5% of all lawyers in Southern California. Also, Bryan has the unique distinction of being 1 of only 22 selected Honorees to Variety’s 2015 Legal Impact Report.

I know a very different Bryan Freedman.  This is the man who wept in AA meetings because he couldn’t bully his son into being the first jewish NBA basket ball player.  This is the married man who confided in a public SAA meeting he couldn’t stop intriguing with women… looking at small ads whilst his wife slept beside him.  This is the man who would high-five the equally despicable UTA Talent Agency boss Jeremy Zimmer at the AA meeting ‘above the bank’ in the Palisades where we sat together for more than a decade.

How involved was Bryan Freedman?  How much money did you pay him to have me vanish into the jail system?  I’m guessing he was involved with the plan?  He’s a Super Lawyer. His plan might include a cast of corruptible characters.  How much did they have to do with my illegal incarceration in the Los Angeles Men’s County Jail?

You and your advisors believed I might bend to your will if you held me in jail long enough.

Remember, we have to suspend our disbelief:

Just about every branch of Ferguson government (police, municipal court, city hall) participated in “unlawful” targeting of African-American residents for tickets and fines, the Justice Department concluded this week.

At first, the plan unfolded splendidly!  We understand  how utterly corrupt American prosecutors are.  Existing in a semi secretive world of grand juries and trumped-up charges designed to protect the rights of the 1%.  County prosecutor Anne-Marie Wise is no different, she played out your rich boy charade very admirably.  Anne-Marie, persuaded there was a case to answer by your impressive lawyer, sent her ZZ Top cops to arrest me.  They kept their cop badges under their waist length beards.

I agreed to meet Chris on the Pacific Coast Highway outside the Country Kitchen in Malibu (opposite the home of Tom Pollock) where he had offered to make his amends for ripping me off.  Instead, as I ate my breakfast burritos the cops arrived.  As I sat handcuffed in the blazing sun a black Rolls Royce with blackened windows cruised past,  it lingered.  Was that you Chris?  I knew the Rolls had something to do with you, Chris… so did the cops.

Did you enjoy watching me handcuffed Chris?  Did you take photographs on your cell phone?

ZZ Top and I headed up Las Flores Canyon to Hume Road.  The crazy bearded cops ran around my property with guns.  Why?  Because this is the melodrama of over paid, over weight, underutilized… LA cops.  Once in the house they meaninglessly tossed furniture and emptied my draws.  They seized my lap top and took me to the Calabasas police station where they interviewed and charged me with a felony extortion.  Extortion (for those who remain confused) is either threatening to reveal a secret or a crime unless money is paid.  It usually accompanies threats of violence.

Even though I had a valid US visa I was informed I could not post bail because of an Immigration Hold.  If an alien in the USA is charged with a felony they can be held for up to 48 hours by ICE to determine if they are a threat to the nation.

Your plan was working.

A day later I was taken to The LA Men’s County Jail.  Processed.  Screamed at.  They gave me a chest X-ray.  They fed me a baloney sandwich.  They asked if I was either suicidal or gay.  I told them I’m gay because I’d heard from Robert Downey Jr this was the only way to survive the jail and anyway I’d been out of the closet for a long time and I wasn’t about to crawl back in.  Not on your account Chris Cortazzo.

48 hours passed.  I was not released.

Whoever flicked the switch… whoever threw away the key did so at this moment.

To achieve this plan they needed a dependable federal government insider: someone prepared to override ICE protocol and keep me detained for longer than the mandatory 48 hour Immigration Hold.  This part of the plan required someone important in Federal Government to break the rules.  At the final reckoning I was held longer in Men’s County Jail on an ICE hold than any other pre trial detainee… ever.

Keeping a pre-trial detainee in jail until they bend to the will of the prosecutor is a common ploy.   It happens all over the USA.  It is happening right now as you are reading this blog.  People agree to anything to get out of jail and they assumed I’d plead guilty to felony EXTORTION and an automatic deportation.

As you can imagine, the jail is a dangerous place.  I had to get a grip.  Surprisingly I was very well equipped to deal with the jail.  AA/SAA had taught me a few simple tricks:

1.  Wherever I am… I am in the right place.

2.  It’s all part of God’s plan.

3.  Acceptance.  Acceptance is the answer to all my problems today.

So many of the lessons I learned sitting with Sean MacFarlane, Jeremy Zimmer, Bryan Freedman and you Chris in the rooms of SAA and AA… listening to the 12 Steps kicked in and saved my ass.

And so… I sat in the jail.  For 86 days I sat in the jail.  I’ve already written about that, Chris.  I’m sure you’ve read it.

Almost immediately, the plan began to gently fray.  The first part of the plan depended on my finding the situation in jail… terrifying and intolerable.

You thought I was like you and Bryan and Jeremy and so many entitled, affluent white dudes?  You were certain I’d agree to anything to get out… including your terms. You thought I’d crumble.  You thought I’d lay down and die.  But the only thing crumbling… was your plan.

Chris, as you subsequently learned, I’m a stubborn son of a bitch and I wasn’t agreeing to anything.  So, for a few weeks I went back and forth to court.  The first two judges were ghastly and totally on your side.  They refused to listen to evidence, they were rude and surly to my attorney.

Do you remember?  I sat in front of you at the pre-trial.  I was shackled.  You sneered at me Chris.  This is where I learned how much you hated me after our date.  This is where it became apparent to me the rich can do anything they want in an American court.  They can buy the court just like they buy everything else.  Protected by your tame prosecutor, Chris… you looked so very smug.

After keeping me illegally in the jail for 86 days without a whiff of surrender, without capitulating, without giving an inch…. the ACLU started sniffing around my case and someone got scared.  Someone was likely going to be held responsible if something happened to me.  If I died in the jail of cancer… or a gall stone blockage… or fell victim to the violent deputy culture in the jail, which might very well have happened.

I realized two months into my incarceration:  Wow, this situation is illegal and someone… someone is going to have to pay for this!   I’m going to get paid for this.  I relaxed, thinking to myself:  another tough day at the office.   I played cards, I ate pork rinds, I had visitors, I kept myself out of trouble and I waited.

I told my friends on the phone I suspected my incarceration was illegal… knowing I was being listened to.   Then, one evening with a little warning from the Mexican nuns working in the jail for the Esperanza Project, I was called from my dorm, sat in a holding cell for a few hours, handed my clothes and ushered out of a small, unassuming door at the back of the jail.

The puckered asshole of the jail. Shat out onto the balmy LA streets.

At the final reckoning I was paid for every day I was illegally held as a pre-trial detainee without recourse to bail.

Fuck Chris, the day they released me from the jail you were on the phone for hours to your lawyers and the prosecutor and the prosecutor to your lawyers.  My release terrified you and a simple order of protection wouldn’t mollify you.  As I was getting out of the jail and headed home to Malibu and my dog… you were hiring 24 hour body guards.  You were frightened I would come after you.  And why wouldn’t you be scared?  After all, you and your friends had kept me locked up illegally for three months.

I must admit, when I first read this flurry of activity in your restitution claim (you expected me to pay your lawyers fees) and the hiring of body guards as documented in your restitution claim I laughed out loud.  I have no other weapon than this blog. The only weapon I have is so American:  freedom of speech.

Once out of the jail my lawyers and I relaxed into a long wait for you and your lawyers to alter your expectations.  You hadn’t really worked out what would happen if I didn’t capitulate.  You hadn’t worked on finding a corrupt trial judge.  You thought I’d be long gone.



Were you assured by ‘Super Attorney’ Bryan Freedman and his unfortunately large featured lackey Brian Turnauer they would find you a sympathetic trial judge?

The catastrophic and totally unexpected final blow to your plan came soon after my release: Ms Wise seemed poleaxed by the judge assigned to our case: enter the unassailable Judge Jessic.  The Judge who couldn’t be bought.  The judge most likely to have integrity.  You should have seen Anne-Marie’s face Chris,  when she realized our Judge wasn’t going to play the game.  My favorite line of Judge Jessic’s to Ms Wise?

“I must admit I’m finding it difficult wrapping my head around this charge.  What’s the difference between threatening to blog and threatening to write a Yelp review?”

The prosecutor hung her head and said quietly… ‘nothing’.  You should have been there Chris is was GREAT.  Just like the time… and I’m repeating myself but it’s worth repeating… when Judge Jessic wondered out loud why I was sitting in the dock and not you.   We all know the reason for that Chris?   Because justice in the USA is reserved for the few who can afford it.

How quickly a felony dissolves into a convoluted misdemeanor when you can’t buy the judge.  At the suggestion of the ACLU I refused to plead guilty to anything and opted for the Californian ‘No Contest’ plea.  The huge restitution claim was whittled to almost nothing.  No fines or costs to pay.  All you were likely to get out of your ‘plan’ was a gag order.  A three-year gag order.

I had to sit quietly on probation for 18 months.  A grimy realtor from AA, the appalling self-promoting/self-obsessed/self-publishing Robert Radcliffe (Sotheby’s Palisades), called the police and told them I had been rude about you Chris Cortazzo.  I read the police interview, Rob.  The lies you told!  The police jumped all over the claim spending hours of their time filing reports.  Jessic threw it out.  He knew what was happening.

Tell me Chris, even though it’s election year and this may be dangerous conjecture.. I’m guessing Hillary Clinton did your federal bidding… just a guess?  To hold me indefinitely in jail… breaking the rules.  Did your billionaire mentor Barry Diller do the leg work?  Did Barry call the Mayor or the state department?   I can’t imagine Hillary would take your call, Chris.

I returned to the Palisades AA stag meeting.  The discomfort on the faces of Jeremy Zimmer, Bryan Freedman, John Artz (Malibu based DUI attorney with plenty personal experience of DUI) and the Dutch creep who burglarized my house whilst I was in jail.  I wasn’t disappointed.  They were outraged!  Jeremy complained bitterly I had broken AA laws by blogging about him.  Fuck you Jeremy Zimmer.  Fuck you.  There are no AA laws. There are no leaders.

Chris, this is the blog I must have written a thousand times since I left the jail, I wrote it… then deleted it.  I wrote it… then deleted it.  I must have torn up a million words.  Sometimes, I would frame the blog as an apology, sometimes a roiling river of resentment.   I had months to write it, months to rewrite it.  Waiting for the gag to be removed.

And now?  How did you affect the rest of my life?  As I outlined in my damages claim, I have PTSD.  I deal with it.  The experience inspired a general disgust for affluent, white gay men and specifically a loathing for realtors, lawyers and Hollywood agents.

The extortion law was originally written to protect people who had committed crimes or had secrets from being violently blackmailed.  Of course it’s hard luck when, in life, one gets fucked over.  In America the potential for being fucked over is a daily hazard, most often than not those who manage to successfully do the fucking over are hailed as the winners.  Just look at the Wall Street ‘winners’ rewarded for fucking over the entire nation.

Unlike most people who get fucked over, who cannot fight back…I have this modest blog.  It has proved to be one of the most effective fog horns in the world.


Try as he might, Chris Cortazzo couldn’t keep out of trouble.  Chris faces more legal challenges.  As well as the lawsuit with Hiroki the Chinese Billionaire another grubby lawsuit has emerged… from a desperate Persian family whose property Cortazzo represented.  They are claiming Chris cruelly ripped them off.  The truths Chris feared most have revealed themselves.  A theme emerges: those of us who have publicly aired our grievances with Chris Cortazzo share a common bond.  We are all foreigners in the USA.

As for the legion of Million Dollar Listing fans who couldn’t believe Chris was anything other than a saint?  I ignored the lies written about me all over the internet; I don’t have to prove myself to anyone.  There’s no shame in my game.  With the help of the ACLU I sued LA County and a substantial financial settlement arrived from the City of Los Angeles a year later.  I sold my beautiful Malibu house.  I moved to New York and set about reinventing my life.

Bryan Freedman.  (I’m slowly shaking my head.)  There was a time I held you in such high regard I asked you to become my AA sponsor   It’s hard to forgive you Bryan.  You, Sean MacFarlane, John Artz and Jeremy Zimmer are the worst kind of ‘sober’ people.   Daily celebrating the AA message of humility, espousing the 12 Steps, quoting The Big Book… declaring forgiveness and ownership of ones defects of character.   Your ‘sobriety’ is a sham.  You may as well be drinking/drugging /cheating on your wives.  You remain the same Trump like arrogant hypocrites, behaving contrary to the AA message, as you always were.  The very same men who arrived in our rooms broken and defeated (I remember your stories)  begging for help with their alcoholism and sex addiction.  You have learned nothing… whilst affording me the greatest gift: LA County Jail.

The Brentwood celebrity Sex Addict meeting moved locations.  An undercover journalist sat amongst the sex addict group from a sleazy British newspaper.  He called me, wanted me to help him out.  The SAA attendees scattered. Members of the meeting asked why there was little financial accounting within the group.  Every week the 100 or so the very rich men in that school room would drop five or ten dollars in the ‘7th Tradition’ basket.  No one could account for it.  Where had the money gone?  Sean was removed by democratic vote as the group leader.  His wife left him.  The meeting disintegrated.

The cult of snake oil salesman Sean MacFarlane is not new to the anonymous programs.  AA/NA is particularly prone to charismatic leaders guiding the incomprehensibly demoralized addict and alcoholic out of the shadows and into the light.  Rehabs, sober living accommodation, half way houses and addiction counsellors… facilities mostly run by addicts and alcoholics, the lunatics are indeed running the asylum.  No doubt there will be many other Sean MacFarlanes ‘helping’ other desperate addicts achieve sobriety… of course,  for huge sums of money and little consequence.

Fire Island Kitchen


Arrived on Fire Island.  I’m here for the next few weeks… until I decamp (via Martha’s Vineyard) to Provincetown for a month or so… then it’s LA for the rest of the summer.   Nobody wants to be on the East Coast for August.  Not when one has Malibu… everyone agrees that Southern California is gorgeous in August.

I finally found an affordable and rather beautiful house near Whitstable to buy.  Just far enough to be close to those I love… yet out of harms way.   There’s so much on the market.  Everything in my old home town seems for sale.  Everything.

I’m staying, as usual, in The Pines… a guest in the most gorgeous house.  I stayed here last year.  So many pretty things to look at, art to admire and crisp white linen to drown in at night.  A fancy cooks kitchen, every utensil one could possibly wish for.

As I was winding down last night I noticed that the house is loaded with alcohol, bottles and bottles… and I am all alone.  It’s odd isn’t it?  What keeps me, and those who want it badly enough, away from the booze.  Sober.  Nobody would ever know if I took a huge gulp of something before I went to bed.  Only me.

What’s stopping me from taking a drink from the well stocked bar?  Even if it’s just me?  I suppose… I would know and God would know.  The power of ones conscience.  I’d lose the only thing I’ve ever worked really hard to keep.

I realize that many people don’t get sobriety.  The disease, the god part, the endless AA meetings.  During the past 17 years it’s been a struggle to remain interested or focused.  There’s so much to put you off.  Sober people can be a big pain in the butt.  The endless revolving door of people you meet who commit to sobriety then drink again, the deaths, the drama, the fucking rules…  but I tell you, if this is a cult (and many say it is) I’m a happy member.

I’m cooking a very old-fashioned coq au vin.  A hearty treat for a chilly May evening on Fire island.

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Philip Seymour Hoffman died this week.  The rooms of AA were full of weeping newcomers grieving his death.  Finding spurious reasons to hitch their wagon to his hearse.  Sober people with many years of sobriety rolled their eyes as crocodile tears drenched the disingenuous faces of people claiming intimate friendship with the deceased film star.

At the Perry Street morning AA meeting the press stood in packs, enduring the frigid February winds waiting for people who might have known PSH.  Many were less than discreet and sang like canaries.

The press was awash with sentimental descriptions of Hoffman, endless references to his ‘genius’ ‘talent’ and the ‘tragic waste of life’.

There were long essays by addiction ‘experts’ describing how addicts like Hoffman had no choice, that he was predestined to die with a needle in his arm, that his death symbolized something more in American culture that just the death of a ‘lonely’ junky.

You know, junkies who are taking drugs on the lam tend to isolate.  It’s hard to load a syringe, find a vein and discreetly nod off in a room full of people.  Especially when you are a household name.  He wasn’t lonely, he was alone.  He needed to be on his own to conduct his junky life.

The police arrested the guys who allegedly sold Hoffman the heroin.  They arrested the wrong people.   They should have gone after the directors of the ‘for profit’ treatment center he attended last year.  The snake oil sales men who promise relief from active addiction by cosseting addicts in expensive rehabs, re packaging the 12 steps of AA with no chance of long-term sobriety.

Criminal sober people with no interest in helping the desperate addict, just screwing them for the big bucks year after year for short-term relief.

Anyway, he’s dead.  Just like thousands of other junkies all over the USA but he gets a fanfare… they get a pauper’s grave and the shame of the addict heaped upon them.

Addicts are selfish, self obsessed monsters.  He chose to call his dealer rather than reach out to a sober person.  He chose to load his syringe rather than pick his kids up from school.

Now he has a million apologists who think he had no choice at all.


Yesterday I signed up for the NYU AA men’s retreat to be held at Bill W’s house in Massachusetts.

As I walked into the room where the event was being organized the young gay white men with no more than 7 years of sobriety looked imperiously at me.  They could scarcely concealed their contempt or their bitchy sneers as I sat down and asked pertinent questions about travel and accommodation.

Their faces began to droop however, as they grasped that there was very little they could do to exclude me from coming to their cozy gay event.   The idea they could be trapped at a country retreat with me… for three days filled them with total horror.

The Gay men from the controlling gay AA cabal… who don’t even attend the NYU AA meeting are organizing the event.   I’m perfectly sure they went into isolation overdrive.  What could they do to get rid of me?

They were texting each other furiously.

We will see what shenanigans they come up with.  This is going to be very interesting.


Jon Fortin/Zac Bissonnette

Last Saturday I went to the birthday party of a model publicist at The Skylark on 39th St.  It was a dreary affair, too few people bumping around a cavernous space.  Andy Roddick and Brooklyn Decker, a gaggle of ‘event gays’ and some asian women I convinced my friend were rifling his gym bag.  Yes, he had his gym bag with him.

After a moment of party remorse I decided to talk to some dull looking gays at the bar.  I wasn’t disappointed.  They were terrible.  Anyhow, I was introduced to one mealy-mouthed homo called Jon.  Jon who?  Jon Fortin.  He told us that he had started and had consequently left the organization GoProud the Republican gay group that represents gay conservatives and their allies.

I thought  Jimmy LaSalvia started GoProud?  No?  Hadn’t he recently renounced his republican affiliation?

Hmmm,  Jon Fortin.  Name didn’t sound familiar, between cranberry and sodas I snuck away and there on my second screen was Jon Fortin.   Google turned up very little about Jon Fortin other than a brief mention in the Gay Blade as a booth helper at the RNC and in his Linkedin profile as a Political Consultant for GoProud, The Whitehouse and John McCain.

He took my number and we met for brunch the following day with my friend Vanessa.  The brunch was very enlightening.  Firstly, he told us that he had fucked Aaron Schock the republican to whom Itay Hod alluded in some crude Facebook posting but was subsequently roundly discredited.

Jon described how he had picked Aaron up from Dulles airport, taken him to his hotel and fucked him.  It was very convincing.  My friend and I were both entranced.

Secondly, after brunch… during the boring Super Bowl he took me to one side and with sad eyes and wet mouth revealed that he had left his wallet at home in another coat.   As you may know dear readers I really don’t mind paying for lunch but I really mind paying for alcohol.

He left, promising to make it up to me the following day.  Yet, when the following day came around he refused to meet me on the east side where I was at my 12.30 AA meeting (listening to PSH stories) preferring a spot near where I lived.

Annoyed that I was being asked to walk 15 blocks through ten inches of wet slush I balked.  I told him that it was up to him to come to me as he owed me lunch.  After a bit of text argy bargy which included him telling me that I should just forget about how much lunch cost, he decided to leave $72 in dimes at my club which they very kindly processed.

It was an amusing stunt and one that had taken some careful preparation.

He paid his share.  I didn’t care if it were in pennies or euros.  It was paid.  Republicans believe that we are all ultimately responsible for our actions and there are consequences for our mistakes.  It was only right that he paid.

That was that… I thought.  Until this morning when an unidentified source revealed that rather than ‘political consultant Jon Fortin’ I had in fact fallen foul of Brayden Forrester porn star and hooker.

I Googled Brayden Forrester and my screen was ablaze!

Of course he had ‘lost’ his wallet.  Of course he was pissed that I asked him to pay his share.  Poor love.  I felt rather sorry for him.  30-year-old ex porn star fails to secure free lunch at exclusive club.

I let him know what I knew about his porno past and he called me a train wreck, a psycho, mentally ill, insane.   The usual insults.  I’m used to them.  Yep.  Sounds accurate.

Jon.  What did you do?

I received calls from the gays.  Don’t blog about him… it will ruin his life.  Ruin his life?  How?

In my humble opinion the truth will set Jon Fortin free.  He should shamelessly embrace his Brayden past.  The gays love a good porn star and Brayden knows how to take a big cock/load.  CHECK IT OUT BITCHES.  He’s far more interesting to me as Brayden than he ever will be as Jon.  Most gays agree.  Lance Black only benefitted from those X Rated pics of him getting fucked… in the ass… without protection.

My unfortunate encounter with Jon/Brayden reminded me of the equally repugnant/misguided writer gay:  Zac Bissonnette, author of the perfectly revolting and poorly written book  How To Be Richer, Smarter, and Better Looking Than Your Parents.  Yes, he really wrote a book with that title.

This elitist prick became infuriated when I mentioned on Facebook that he didn’t write particularly well to my friend Benoit Denizet-Lewis.  This solicited from Zac the sort of invective only the gays have ever reserved for me.

Zac trolled the internet and after reading vile and libelous comments left by anonymous queens… repeated them back to me as facts.  Accusing me of being a pedophile, trying to shame me for filling for bankruptcy, suggesting that I deserved to be in jail, he reminded me that I am old and ugly.  You know, the usual gay shit.

Smelling a delicious and potentially lucrative law suit I urged Bissonnette to make the pedophile accusation public.  Of course… he refused.  “Without proof I would never say that publicly, do you think I’m an idiot?” He minced.

Yes, I think you’re an idiot… Zac.

Zac (like Jon) believes that unless you are living a life that almost exactly replicates his with his specific design for gay living you may as well be dead.   In an attempt at peacemaking Zac offered an olive branch but it’s kind of hard to forgive a man who accuses you groundlessly of fucking children.

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Dawn. So much to be grateful for.

One day, when the storm has past, I will tell you everything. Not just the pretty pictures. Not just the elegant parties.


Saw Premium Rush with John and Valoree Papsidera at a plush private screening room.

An exciting, gritty movie with a huge problem at its core: The bad cop played by Michael Shannon is not really a bad cop… he’s too funny.

So, come the last scene, the conclusion… I was left feeling cheated.

The last scene is terrible.

I did not feel as engaged with the story as one might have hoped.

There were too many chances for the main character Wilee (played by Joseph Gordon-Levitt) to make different sorts of choices. He could have called the police. He could have returned the package. He could have stayed at home.

Great use of New York and great ethnic casting.


Perhaps, like so many people, I am in denial?

It is not far off… the conclusion.

I have had a lingering cold/flu. Sweats.

Script notes arrive and I am loathed to open them, even though I know that they will be good. Brilliant.

How does one turn a life event into a work of fiction? Well, obviously, you have to jettison the truth.

I spent the larger part of yesterday in Venice. My favorite location. Stalking my favorite haunts. It’s like Whitstable. I know so many people. Casual acquaintances. Unlike my home town, where they have known me all my life, their understanding of me is based on what they read.

After the LA Weekly piece they are well aware of what is going on and mask their desire to pry with small talk.

Sometimes I wake up and think I should go to an AA meeting but I’ll wait until I am in another city.

It is the truth: art heals. Remember when I was sick five years ago with my leaky spine? Good God, that was painful.

Convalescing, I stayed with David Philp and his wonderful wife (art critic and broadcaster) Hunter Drohojowska-Philp in their gorgeous Beverly Hills home. She brought beautiful books for me to look at and set art work at the end of the bed.

The pale yellow room designed by Jenny Armit became a temporary sanctuary. Until I was well again.


I had a long chat with an old buddy in London, someone I worked with repeatedly in the old days. A great benefactor.

It’s cold outside and hot inside the house. I open the door and let the mountain in.

The garden, this year, has matured into the garden of my dreams.

Bumped into Drew Pinsky at CNN, we were both sprayed orange for our various TV appearances. He was sweet, as he always is. We hugged and gossiped. He asked if I had read Jennie’s book. I told him that I hadn’t but I’d get around to it sooner or later.

The children make me laugh. I sit with them watching Barbie cartoons and they mock Charlie’s new girlfriend (Charlieissocoollike) children can be very cruel and very funny.

Weird clicking on my telephone. I think my phone is being tapped. Why?

Ugly Sisters

My name is Duncan and I am a sex addict.

The first time I qualified as a sex addict…I felt like shit.  Attended by my ugly sisters:  Shame and Fear, I sat miserably in my first SAA meeting waiting for the 60 minute nightmare to end.

Imagine what it must feel like to announce to the whole world that your sex conduct has gotten the better of you.

Today Anthony Weiner is shamefully headed for Lord knows where to get ‘treatment’.  Will that ‘treatment’ be for depression, intriguing, internet pornography or compulsive/chronic masturbation?

Is Anthony Weiner a sex addict?

My fellow sex addict friends think he is.  I am not so sure.  Not sure until he is sure.

It is not up to me or anyone else to diagnose his problem, it is up to him.   We live in prescriptive times.  It is certainly not up to my sex rehab therapist Drew Pinsky and ‘experts’ like him who will no doubt castigate poor Weiner dog for his unmanageable sexting/twittering if he hasn’t done so already.

If I were Anthony Weiner I would be feverishly trying to plug the broken sewer that is currently flushing away his political credibility, his relationship with his heavily pregnant wife and his healthy 61% majority.   I too would be heading for a spell in a ‘therapeutic facility’.  Treatment might just mean a little time away from the media incubus that presently seeks to impregnate Weiner with all the evil of the modern world.

What the fuck do we expect of our elected representatives?  That they are no longer entitled to the shortcomings we all share?

Why should congressmen have such unrealistic expectations heaped upon them?

Anthony Weiner has not broken any law.  Not yet.  He allegedly chatted innocently with a 17 year old girl.  What ever improper thoughts he may have had he did not act upon them.   This isn’t, as the media are describing, a ‘SEX SCANDAL!’ because there isn’t any sex.

This might be a Jerk-Off Scandal!  Ostensibly an Intrigue Scandal!  Allegedly a Bare Chest Scandal!  At the very worst a Picture of a Hard Penis on a Cell Phone Scandal!

Monday update: President Obama describes the Weiner sex scandal as a ‘distraction’.  Frankly, I am more distracted by the dodgy shenanigans of the laconic Supreme Court Judge Clarence Thomas.  The lies, ethical violations and conflicts of interest that, ironically, Weiner was hoping to expose.  

Weiner, unlike Thomas, is no crook.

Nancy Pelosi is demanding Weiner’s resignation when others in Congress have done far worse with real people rather than fantasy folk on the internet.

Internet addiction in all its very many forms is a world-wide epidemic, it affects millions upon millions of men.

Ordinary men, who at this very moment, are ensconced in private places away from their friends and family compulsively exploring the darker side of the internet: in ‘the zone’ as we say in Sex Addicts Anonymous.

There may be minor consequences for those who get caught…unless, of course, their internet use is deemed illegal or so sustained that they have scabs on their penises or they get violent if  taken away from the intensity of the screen.  Most relevantly…if their careers are compromised…jeapodised…lost.

Men take risks that seem entirely manageable until they bust their nut…then they can slink away from their screen to clean themselves up and rejoin humanity.  Real people versus the fantasy that takes them away from the stresses of an ordinary world.

A toxic, ritualized compulsion driving the hapless clicker further from wife and children to unimagined places that only the internet can reveal.

Let us not forget Voltaire’s observation that ‘Illusion is the first of all pleasures’.

I have a huge amount of compassion for Weiner.  He has been caught sending lewd pictures of himself to strangers.  His ‘perversion’ is undoubtedly a product of the modern age.  An age where I too, posting this very blog, live in a world of imaginary readers, little consequence and sexual hopelessness.

Sometime in the near future a contrite Weiner will stand before the press like Tiger Woods before him and admit his powerlessness.  He will, unwittingly, confess for us all.  For the shared sins of viral infidelity, cheating on his wife with the faceless, nameless internet that seems so benign just before ejaculation.

Like many other folk here in the USA we danced and hollered at the news. Ding Dong The Witch is Dead. America prevails. The President is not a wimp. Yes we can. Osama Bin Laden is DEAD.  We made a video and posted it on YouTube. We Twittered, we Facebooked, we blogged, we shared our opinions and danced on virtual streets with the world throng.

Look at them singing outside The White House and Ground Zero assuring Obama of his second term.  Perhaps this will indeed galvanise the people, make the bank lend the money they have been hoarding, reduce the cost of petroleum, increase personal spending, reduce the unemployment rate, etc.  I very much doubt it.

Did I care? Did it really make me happy? Do I believe that Osama Bin Laden did the original deed? Am I a conspiracy theorist? Is that really him with a bullet in the eye?  I am trying hard to care.  I am trying very hard.

As for the weekend? Another very social affair. Visiting successful grown ups in their grown up houses with their gorgeous children. Walks on the beach. Two incredibly successful directors have moved here from London to direct studio films. Intelligent, sweet-natured and generous. Lunch at my house with Karim, Peggy and Alexi. We sat in the sun and ate grilled New York steaks and a huge, yummy salad…a sort of hybrid Greek/Nicoise concoction with feta and egg and a gorgeous honey dressing.  I am getting more ambitious with flavor combinations. Less of a stick in the mud.

Went to an AA meeting on Sunday night. The speaker was very good, he reminded me of that moment early in sobriety when I knew instinctively that everything was going to be ok.  14 years ago, for the first time in decades, I felt the soft wind on my face.

My first AA meeting ever was at the Terrance Higgins Trust in West London. I walked into a mad house yet I knew, deep down, that I had run out of options.  From that moment on I loved being sober. I loved being born again. I loved my tribe.  I didn’t want to know any of them after the meeting and that is how it remains to this day: I love them collectively, I loathe them individually.

I remember seeing the 12 Steps posted on the wall of that badly lit room for the first time and I was excited. I may have had better shoes but I knew in my heart that these scruffy addicts/alcoholics were my people.  I saw the word GOD writ large and I embraced him. Like a joyful reunion. Like seeing an old, old friend after many, many years.  In those first few minutes at my first meeting I understood what I had been missing. A God of my understanding. Something spiritually tangible with which I could refill the God shaped hole that had lain empty since I stopped singing hymns in St. Alphage church.  The very same hole I had filled with drugs and alcohol, sex and love, anger and intensity.

Now, in sobriety, I am dealing with grief. I don’t mean with or for him but he certainly opened the door on what I now need to take seriously. It is shaming to admit but I have a huge amount of grief for what could have been. It makes me sad to see what was stolen. Again, not by him.  I am also coming to terms with what being sexually sober actually means. Coming to terms with the gift I was given when I met him…so that I might truly understand how I should proceed.  Yet, having said that I still don’t want to forgive him. I want to… then I don’t want to.  He deserves to be forgiven. I am just not ready. Perhaps when I see him at the end of the month in court?  What happened to me after Sex Rehab is very similar to what happens to drug addicts when they leave regular rehab. They relapse but taking drugs is never the same again. Drinking is never the same once you understand why you have been drinking and is ruined forever. I relapsed on him.

I may never be sane or healthy enough to have the sort of relationship that I desire but at least I know why. By feeling everything I felt for him good and bad at least I know the parameters of where my addiction will take me and act accordingly.

These are good days. These days are good.

There are many, many snakes in the garden. On Saturday I saw a Garter Snake on the terrace. See above.

The heaviest rainfall Southern California has ever recorded. 8.5 ins last night.

The road to my house is impassable, strewn with boulders fallen down the mountain and smashed on the road. So…no go to the house. Thankfully, the roof was repaired exactly one day before the storm so even though my house is probably, at this very moment, sliding into the ocean…at the very least it will be dry inside.

I am staying with J and J and their lively children. Their lake overflowed and I had to wade through sewage water to my ride…where to? You may very well ask! Where would I be off to on such a rancid day?

We throw ourselves even harder into helping others when we cannot shift our stinking thinking. So, with this in my nutty mind, I volunteered as a night carer in a sober living in Malibu. Awake all night, chatting with recovering addicts.

This morning I felt loads better. A bit tired.

There is nothing better than helping those who cannot help themselves.

Look!! Loads of people searching for JB on the internet! Whatever for?

JB…dear Oh dear.

This morning I spent a few moments looking at a picture of us together and I can still remember what it feels like to kiss him. From the very first to the very last. Pity that what I was kissing was such a cunt….and not in a good way.

JB!!! What have you done to me? I felt loved and complete. I will never feel like that again. Ever. Should I feel happy to have loved or resentful that I am never likely to love again?

Today…my spirits are high. Not as high as this tide tho.

Overflowing Lake

I spent the past few days in therapy.  I have a cold.  Therapy and a cold.   A brutal combination.

I didn’t really feel like doing anything yesterday.  I just hung around at home.  Then, rather dumbly, decided to go to Wholefoods on Union Square.  It was packed.  I bought spicy meatballs.  I bought white chocolate.

I sent the more completed treatment (with notes) off to London.  The more I think about it the more I want to shoot it there and not in NYC.

I am going on a road trip this weekend.  Driving to Buffalo.

Dan and I had dinner out last night.  As we were leaving the restaurant he pointed to an MLK quote written in chalk on a blackboard.

I have decided to stick with love. Hate is too great a burden to bear.”

I have been dragging a big bag of hate around with me since I received that childish email this summer.  A bag of hate bound up with cancer, shame, resentment..fear.

My hate and my cancer were inextricably linked.  My hate for him.

I am trying to love.  Trying to forgive.  Not Jake, he’s just a silly symptom.  I am trying to forgive my dad for all the terrible things he did to me.  Once again.  That old chestnut.  How am I going to survive this legacy?

One more day.

The effects of childhood abuse can have more severe consequences for a gay man.  A sizeable number of all people who are abused in childhood have extreme difficulty regulating their emotions as adults.

The effects of sexual activity, regardless of the child’s desire or participation are significant and damaging.  A child is quite capable of strong sexual feelings but incapable of handling the emotional aftermath of such feelings.

Survivors of violent childhood abuse are complicated to say the least.

This is the bad baby that I made in rehab.

One of the unseen moments in Sex Rehab included our crafting in clay what our sex addiction looked like.   The monster inside.  Mine was a fragile baby.  So fragile in fact that it’s head fell off the day after we made them.

The baby is somewhere in the house but I can’t find it.  When I find it I will take a picture of it and post it here.

The idea of the bad baby stems from something my step-father once said to me, that I was a ‘bad baby’.  Of course that’s absurd isn’t it?  A distressed baby maybe but not bad?

One of my performance pieces was called Bad Baby.  The mother in the performance lived in the fridge.

As for Elsie de Witt?  Well, she’s a character that I invented with Lady Rizo during one of our epic two-hour putting the world to rights telephone calls.  Elsie is the great chantreuse, the over stuffed opera singer who resides well as the bad baby who also inhabits my currently very thin frame.   The dramatic and dynamic Elsie and the screaming baby.

Finally received some of the money that JB owes me so in a gesture of good will I took down his full name in my blog.   His spidery, fragile hand writing all over the cheque softened my heart.  Now all he has to do is send the rest.  I wrote to him offering to reduce the amount of money he owes me if he would just show willing and send it.


Bad Baby made in Sex Rehab

As JB fulfills his obligation to me I feel myself detaching from him in a positive way.  He has held on for too long by owing me this cash.

I wrote him a conciliatory note urging him to send the rest of the money.   I imagine that he wants to go to court and fight and that is his prerogative but all this will achieve is yet another cataclysmic collision.  I imagine that he is being urged on by his new gay friends who never like to take any responsibility for anything.  His new cheerleading team after I was dismissed.

Occasionally they write to me.  His new friends.  It’s funny.

So much more is happening in my life than you can imagine but I cannot write it.   I don’t want to jinx potential job opportunities, burgeoning romances.  I am loathed to write even the silly the spa in my garden that I have renovated and is now operational.  It’s the oddest contraption.  Heated by an ingenious wood burning stove which almost boils the water like a huge kettle.  A friend and I sat in it last night under the stars, looking out over the ocean lit by the full moon.

Willie, as he is predisposed, stole my friend’s sock.

Do I at moments like this wish that it was JB in the spa?  Well, less so.   Those are indeed moments that should be shared with a lover.  He had ceased to be my lover, to be my one and only long before we ever left for France.  He was just pretending to my lover.  I felt the disconnection.  Knowing that he probably already had someone else to fixate on.

I realize now that he had already met somebody else and simply came to France because he could.

Yesterday I went to therapy for the first time in ages.  The theme was integrity and the others mused upon the lies they had told to wives and co-workers..yet to me a lie is subjective and we live in lying times.   The truth is subjective.  As I have said before,  exponentially the more honest one becomes the more isolated you feel.  One can only hope to do the right thing by those we share our time.  That’s all.  If we can’t or don’t?  Well, we make our amends.

JB was incensed that I lied to the Ferry people in Calais to get us all on board without incident after they told me that Lil’ Dog’s carrying case was made of the wrong material.  If I had told the truth at that moment it would have meant taking a cab into Calais Ville buying the correct carrying case.  This exercise in honesty would have cost a fortune and we would have missed endless ferries and dinner with Georgina in Whitstable.

He used that as an example of how I always told lies.

Lying about a dog’s carrying case and cheating on someone for years seem like two very different kinds of lie.  One expedites an unnessessary situation the other steals a soul.  Perhaps he couldn’t see the difference?

Naturally there is a philosophical conundrum for a man who says, “I always tell lies.”

I learned so much from JB about myself and others.  I learned a great deal about gay men.  Their attitude toward him for instance.  That he had no option but to behave as he did.

At the beginning, when I met him and he came out to me, we started flirting, sex camming etc.  I knew immediately that it was wrong to do what he was doing to her and as I reread emails within a few days of his coming out to me I was urging him to get honest.

I was conflicted about his coming out as we became closer.

It suited me that he was with her because I knew where he was at night.  I knew that he was mine.  I knew that the moment he was free of her he would be just like all the rest.

Everyday this JB stuff gets better in my head.  As I sift through every detail.  As I attempt falteringly to detatch with love rather than hate.

I always assume that anyone I meet is gay, the same way straight people assume (unless a flaming queen) every man they meet is straight.  Consequently most straight men I meet are perplexed at the sort of small talk I make with them.  Last week for instance someone mentioned that he was meeting his fiance and I said, “He’s a lucky guy to be marrying you.” This caused him to nearly drop his wine glass.  He spluttered nervously that he was straight.  “Oh!” I said as he dabbed at dribbled wine over his jacket.  “What a waste.”

Now, I am NOT the sort of man who thinks every man I meet is gay but I must always assume that he is until told otherwise.  It’s the only way these men are going to learn how to be inclusive.

Another funny example: two men having lunch with their small dog.  As they were leaving I asked them about their dog and mentioned how, in my opinion, a dog really improves a relationship…were they thinking about having children?  They looked increasingly horrified as they realised that I thought that they were a couple.  They said, “Oh, we’re not gay.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  We’re straight.”

The reaction always amuses me.  Men are still insulted by the insinuation that they might be gay.   Pathetic.

Update on Irene the mad woman from Hawaii.  Last night she informed me that she had called the Lost Hills Police Department reporting me as a terrorist.  I am assuming because my father was Persian?  Anyway, so far Homeland Security have not interviewed me about this and I imagine that they won’t be any time soon.

Why doesn’t she just go to small claims court?

Anyway, she is reporting me to the IRS, the California Governor etc. etc.  To Irene I am a regular Bernie Madoff.

The bottom line:  even if I wanted to benevolently return the money she says is owed to her she has caused such internet havoc and destruction I simply can’t.  I am not going to.  She thinks that her internet attacks on me are somehow going to force my hand.  What she simply cannot comprehend is the following fact about me:  I do not care about my ‘reputation’.  As I mentioned to her last night during one of her frenzied email bombardments the worst has already been said about me, nothing that she says is either new or bothers me.

Finally, last night, her gay friend sent me an odious email mocking my cancer scare.   All for $800?  They want me dead for $800?

Great morning at therapy today.  Wonderful.  I am in very good spirits.  mainly because I don’t have a blood sucking fame whore at my tit sucking the life out of me.  Oh, it’s 4pm on the east coast, he is probably already stoned, on web cam showing off his only asset.

The most annoying thing about Jake is that before meeting him that cold January afternoon in the East Village I had a meeting with agent David Vigliano who was really interested in working with me.  Jake called him Vig the pig.

I have a GREAT idea.  Irene you should call him, perhaps he’ll offer you and your friend a book deal.

Never assume men are straight until they tell you categorically that they are.

It just isn’t worth it.

Cooking for eight this evening.  I’ve not cooked properly for months.  I have cooked like an American..thrown things together but not cooked I am want to do.

I am going to find a huge shoulder of lamb somewhere and stuff it with rosemary and garlic.  It has been so chilly here that a good gigot and roasted root vegetables makes perfect sense.   Perhaps a summer pudding?  I wish I could find gooseberries for a summer crumble.  I am going to make custard.

Lunch with Joel at SHLA.  I paid.  Why?  Bumped into Drew Pinsky and Tom Arnold.  Lovely to see Drew.  I mentioned the CNN thing, Tom said that Montana Fishburne has no money from her father and Drew concluded that her decision to do porn was probably based on her giving her father the finger.  Montana on the next rehab show?  Perhaps.

After lunch I had a lump on my testicle checked out by a very nice doctor in Beverly Hills.  I must have an ultrasound tomorrow.  I could be castrated by the weekend if things don’t work out.  Hmmm…then I could become a transsexual.  My secret desire for so many years.

This morning was, of course, Wednesday therapy at 7.30.   I shared that the companion had referred to us as we yesterday in relation to my doctor’s in, ‘we’ll get through it’ rather than, ‘you’ll get through it’.   I felt a tear welling up in my wizened eye.  When I mentioned that to Jon he said, ” A smidgen of compassion?  Is that all it takes?”

Strangely it was the companion who mentioned just how cynical, bitter and washed up most of the gay men he met were.    He should try hanging out with addicts.

I read a Newsweek article by Howard Fineman that made me so sad.  Sad because I agreed with his miserable assessment of America’s standing in the rest of the world.  I’m not an idiot, I can see the rich tearing down anything they can lay their hands on, plundering this country while the poor cling to their huge cars and wars and patriotism.  Clinging to their tatty bill of rights, their eviscerated constitution.

I was sad because I have never felt more like an American as I do now and wish it wasn’t so that the roads are fucked, that the Christians are in charge, that the gays get infected with HIV because they think it’s like living with diabetes.

I was sad because my miserable and oft mocked USA is a Third World Country prophecy is coming true.  That my pessimistic assessment of the American Economy coming back from the brink is even worst than I expected.   Please say it ain’t true.

Even my rich middle class manufacturing friends are limping from one foreign order to another, limping but believing (as they have always believed) that the unregulated free market and not government will make everything better.

Are you OK?

We say that to each other in the UK all the time.  It doesn’t really mean anything, it’s just the way we check in with each other.  I check in with you and you check in with me.  Even if I am not OK I thank you for asking.

When I taught him, the companion, what it meant he played at asking me if I was OK but the effect was still the same.  I felt good, checked in with, placated.

Americans, when you ask them if they are OK, worry that something looks wrong with them.  It worries them, disrupts their day.

So, don’t ask an American if he/she is OK unless you think that there is something wrong.  You’ll do more harm than good.

It’s Monday morning.  I have just been to therapy.

The weekend was a delicious blend of fun, laughter and me feeling better than I have for 8 months.  I am just so happy.  Happy doesn’t necessarily mean well-behaved. I have been delightfully rude.

Ivan Massow is in town, such an unpleasant man who was the ‘source’ in the Caroline Roux article about me for the Guardian.  The source who was too scared to be openly vicious about me.  Anyway, there he was yesterday having lunch, slimeing all over my straight friend Ben.  Who in their right mind gave that man the ICA to run?  WHO in their right mind thought he should stand as Mayor of London? Crazy!

Anyway, supposedly he is sober so I am trying not to hate him too much.

Thankfully he is losing his looks.

Saturday spent nearly all day in Malibu.  Lunch in the Lumber Yard with Jon Aubry.  I went to bed early Saturday night.

Breakfast on Sunday with Will and his dog Rocco.  Stephen popped by at about 11 and then lunch with Sharon Swart.  Delightful.  She attended a flower arranging class and brought to lunch a huge bouquet of roses and hydrangea.

Sunday night Michael and I went to a party in Silverlake.  There was a performance piece for us to watch.  Three 10 minute sections of a larger work about a man accused of burning down his house and killing his daughters.  The first part was indecipherable.  The second and third part, although messy, were much better and had good, strong ideas.  The director asked what I I told him.  Bad idea.  Nobody wants to hear the truth.

We were meant to meet Jamie Lee Curtis after that party but we did not.

Taka came by late on Sunday.   He is a funny one.   Editor, Japanese..chatty.

Oh, before I forget..the new Malibu renters arrived on Saturday and are very happy in the house.  They are the SWEETEST people from the UK who loved the house the moment they stepped through the door and from whom I have not heard news is GREAT news as far as renters are concerned.

I made a ‘to do’ list for Monday that includes all the boring stuff I have been putting off for weeks but essential if I am going to stay on top of things.

I went to therapy on Saturday morning and shared my good news.  My only worry about therapy is that I am surrounded by so many miserable, desperate men.

It’s now Monday morning and I am positioned at my ‘desk’ at SHLA.  Papers and briefcase open and ready for action.  My list of things ‘to do’ is already half eaten.  THICK lines scored through the things already done.

Listen, I have no idea why I am so happy but one thing is for has nothing to do with anyone else.  In fact, I was briefly annoyed by the actions of the other last night but after a few seconds ceased to be.  There was a time in the very recent past when the other could ruin my entire evening by being snippy.  Not anymore.

Whenever one has a meaningful relationship one tends to ignore when things don’t add up.  Denial gluing disparate parts of one story into something believable.

I am not annoyed with him..a little disappointed in me.

Disappointed that I have been so desperate to make our relationship work.  Just writing that down makes me feel sick.  That I would have done anything to make another man love, want and care for me.  For the past 8 months I have devoted my time, energy, love and money to a stranger who bust his way into my life after seeing me on TV.  It is a testament to my own low self-esteem just how much I was prepared to ignore in order to feel loved.

I am grateful that I fell in love and really got to know a man, be seen by another man. You may think that I have been foolish but in fact the last few months have been some of the best of my whole life.   I miss him.  I do.  But what I miss doesn’t really exist.  I miss being cared about, thought about, fantasized about, included and lastly, but most importantly, I miss being loved.

Every decision I made these past few months has been inspired by my love for him. Consequently I now have to make decisions based on my needs, my desires and my career.

I have vowed not to work out our stuff here in my blog so I won’t.

All you, my readers, need to know is that I am ok..are you ok?

The sunlight is steaming into my apartment.  Everything here is so colourful.  The silk cushions, the porcelain, the art.   The little dog ate an entire chicken breast.  Sara has set up camp in my apartment whilst she deals with her breakup and somehow her being here has given me an enriched perspective on my own situation that I didn’t previously have.

Eric, Sara and I drank English tea and ate thick slabs of banana and walnut loaf-I made two more of them yesterday-and gossiped.

Emotionally I am very strong but maybe only until the sunset, until the demons come knocking.  These are old demons.   Feeding off ancient insecurities, child hood trauma as well as present day fears.  They have a veritable banquet of old behaviors, resentments, fears and shame from which to feed their ghoulish appetite.

This coming week has everything going for me.  I am excited that American Airlines DOESN’T have WiFi.

An incredibly kind gesture by a very generous fan of Sex Rehab allows me to spend the next week in NYC.  I leave on Wednesday.

I have a great deal of practical work to do this week as I have let almost everything else in my life slide as I was summoning all of my psychic power to will what I wanted most to come true.  I am exhausted.  I spent almost of all of Sunday in bed.

I unpacked my script and took a good hard look at it.  Things have to start changing now.  Harnessing the power of the universe to make huge amounts of cash- marshaling the money Gods to provide!

All of my art has gone off to auction.  The app has to be developed-with help from by great lawyer.  The house WILL be sold now the road that leads directly to it will get built.  The great move East begins here.

On occasions I wonder who God wants me to be?  If I am to be his humble servant or a leader amongst men.  If I am present to accept the will of God then how do I square my ambition with my fear that I am taking my will and my life into my own hands?   Ambition must be celebrated.  Willfulness condemned.

By deciding to be part of Drew’s Sex Rehab I and my fellow Rehab travelers opened the door to much that American society considers taboo: sex addiction, sexual unmanageability, sexual powerlessness, the gay equivalent of all the above and my openness about erectile dysfunction.  I have no shame what so ever discussing these issues as every time I do I am overwhelmed by the messages of hope that I receive from fellow sufferers who judge themselves by their inability rather than there ability.

Those of us who have been brutalized by abuse are forced to address the consequences we all suffer daily, consistently and forever.

Psychological and behavioral effects of child sexual abuse may include low self-esteem, depression, anxiety, fear, hostility, chronic tension, eating disorders, sexual dysfunction, self-destructive or suicidal behavior, post traumatic stress disorder, dissociation, multiple personality disorder, repeat victimization, running away, criminal behavior, academic problems, substance abuse and prostitution.

Gosh, I can tick most of those boxes.

Anyhow, as comes the solution so comes the erection.  I love being sober.  I love my life when it includes him.

There is a solution.

Sunset fears?   No, not tonight.

Kristian’s death has affected me more than I might admit.   Rather foolishly I had a picture of him on my phone that lit up every time somebody called.  I deleted it today-I was making myself sadder than I needed to be.

Found myself looking at pornography last night-late-trying to soothe myself-trying to throw a warm blanket over my feelings.   It didn’t work.  I still woke up this morning overwhelmed with fear.  I wrote to John:

5am.  Waking up in huge amounts of fear.  Crushing, overwhelming fear. Think I may have come to the end of the line. Cannot go on.  Making bad decisions.  Can’t face anything.  Financial ruin facing me.  Nowhere to run to.   Don’t trust anyone. Obsessed.  Looked at porn this morning to try to sooth me-did not work.  Nothing works.  Do not see any more life ahead of me.

As dawn broke over the mountain I expected those particular ghouls to vanish, yet, those pesky demons lingered all day-like they were waiting patiently to claim me.

My father died when he was 53.

Found myself looking at pornography..

Now, that sounds like it happened to me rather than me searching around for that perfect porn moment.  Porn is like research, it’s scholarly, frustrating, intense.

Feeling desperately sad.  Not sobbing like when the Darling Big Dog was killed.

Cannot listen to Kate Bush or Soft Cell (remember listening with him) but rather strangely listening to the Spice Girls, which softens the edges-like having a wank.

Throwing the towel in.  “Goodbye my friend.”  Remember when we were best friends with Matt Rowe who wrote all those huge number one hits?    “Goodbye my friend.”   Remember New Years Eve at The Mercer Hotel in NYC with Melanie Sporty Spice and Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman?  Odd mixture that night?  What a night.

So I’m chatting with a friend about his childhood and he tells me that his father was sent to prison when he was 11 years old.  The only way he knew how to deal with the shame was to lie to his classmates.  He knew where his father was but told his friends that his father was on a business trip-he told lies because the truth was far too complicated.  Gosh, I related to that.  Lying to make life easier:  My father is on a business trip.  Telling palatable childish lies leading to a life of fantasy, pornography, disconnection.

It took me so long to let the truth set me free.  Now I try so hard to tell the truth.  Lyle brought word from England that I had a terrible temper.  Oh yes, I remember that.  My temper was a daily occurrence for so long.  Before I went to Sex Rehab I really had no idea why I was so angry-after sex rehab I fully understood why I was angry and the mechanism that controlled it.  So, to all that I shouted at and screamed at and made cry-I was wrong, I was wrong, I was wrong.

Sorry to repeat myself but..

When Kristian died suddenly a door opened into a world I considered closed to me.   I had considered suicide for as long as I can remember but never seriously.  Death, after all, is a very long time.  Suddenly there are enough fun people in the after life that I might have a good time.  Giggle with.   I am not scared of death-I was just scared of being bored when I got there-now with Kristian dead-death seems like a realistic option.  Holding the door open for me.

I am looking for clues for what might keep me alive?  What can I believe in?

This morning I heard John talking about being asleep and how much of the time I have been asleep.  I fall asleep when I first meet some one-a deep sleep.  I always thought that it was because I felt comfortable but now I see that it was to escape intimacy or worse that something might happen to me.

Moths in my clothes, little dog pawing at me…home sick for Whitstable, for Battersea Park..can we walk there together you and I?

Selling art-legitimate source of misery?  My friends didn’t want to buy my art.  They want to buy art from a legitimate source.  Funny.

Lying.  It’s a choice.  To tell the truth or lie?  It seems obvious doesn’t it?   Well, these muddled days, as Michael Moore reminded us when he picked up his Oscar, are ‘Lying times’.  Within a relationship there are all kinds of lies but I don’t want to tell HIM lies.  I just want him to know the truth.

The silence in the Malibu Mountains, the thudding base from the music playing in the apartment above my Hollywood apartment.   Both the silence and the interminable base making my head ache.   My head aches.

The questions that haunt me:  How could he have taken such a risk?   How can he be calling me to join him there and why am I listening?

One day I will write about FULL DISCLOSURE-a most unsavory practice.

I love you MR DARLING NYC-you are keeping me alive,  your love and your perfect smile are keeping the worst of these terrible demons from driving me to the gates of hell.

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Beautiful, clear days after the big rains came and went.   I am in Malibu with Cooper.  We are cooking, walking and gardening.   He has found a garden bench where, one day soon, the goats will roam.   He sits there and reads quietly, leaving me up here in the house to write my novel and call Verizon to add telephone services-a most frustrating task.

Sean, the goat and permaculture guy arrived yesterday afternoon.   He was much younger than I imagined.  He arrived with a black eye and a big smile and I knew immediately that he would be the ONE.  The ONE who would build the goat shelter, re-fence the property and redistribute the spring water into where the vegetables will grow.  He looked enviously at the spring and pushed his fingers into the soil and told me how lucky I was.

Sean explained how he intended pumping water to the terraced vegetable garden using a solar powered pump.   He explained how to deal with gophers and raccoons.   He explained how we would mulch the land and work with the subtle California seasons to our best advantage.

He wandered the property in awe and in turn it sprawled out before him at it’s lushest best.  His property, Sean explained, is rockier and dryer.  Everything is so green, here on the mountain, at this time of year.  The days are occasionally hot but mostly overcast.  Still, at 68 degrees a whole lot nicer than grey winter days in London or Herne Bay..or Margate.

Sean has chickens, goats and, interestingly, a small horse that protects the goats from the coyote.  My neighbor Trevor, who lives near the PCH, is worried about my keeping goats and chickens because he seems to think that they are impossible to protect.

The great thing about optimistic Sean was that he came up to the house without getting lost, armed with solution and solution is what I need.  As he was leaving I told him that I was excited to work with him, he grinned and said, it was going to be easy as everything I wanted he had just completed on his own property.

Last night hung at Amanda’s.  Delicious risotto.   Great company.

Amusing post Sex Rehab anecdote:   I am minding my own business at the luggage carousel at LAX waiting for my luggage when I notice that a bunch of 14-year-old girls have recognized me.  In fact, about fifty 14 year-old girls have noticed that I am waiting for my luggage.  Unable to escape I cling to one of the nearest fellow traveler for support.  “Help me.”  I say.  There is a frenzy of prepubescent window tapping and photo taking when out of the melee a teacher approaches me and asks, “Are you that guy from Sex Rehab?”  My voice is cracked and tiny as I tell her that I am.  She then calls over the girls who ask for autographs and photographs.  But, I’m thinking, I’m a guy on a show called sex rehab-surely you shouldn’t want to have your picture taken with me.

Fresh linen sheets.   I love when the cleaning lady comes.  The fresh smells she leaves behind her.   As soon as she arrives I am forced into action.  Clearing, folding and stripping.  The first week she came she broke an 18th century plate.  I was sad but I didn’t really care-my attitude toward other people breaking my stuff is that at least it was used and enjoyed.

There are some exceptions.

I lent a 12-inch Venini handkerchief vase to Korda Marshall when his then wife Felicity had her baby.  They returned it in pieces.  The vase would be worth $11, 000 now.  I wrote to him recently asking him to replace it.  He ignored my email.  Korda is head of Warner Records UK.

I loved that vase, it was a gift from Matilda, Duchess of Argyll and I had carried it from Ardfern in the Scottish Highland all the way home to Whitstable on a bus.  When Richard Green and I first opened the Whitstable Oyster Company we filled it every day with fresh cornflowers.   Of course it could never be properly replaced but occasionally one chances upon one at an auction and would love to buy it.

Still winding down from Sex Rehab.  It feels odd not to have somewhere to go on a Sunday night.   I suppose I have the same feeling of loss that people have described to me here on these pages.   I liked revisiting the Rehab even though it frustrated me.  I liked to remember the process.

So many unexpected doors have opened since I started writing this blog.  Another literary agent contacted me yesterday and I am going to take meetings with them all when I go to New York next week.   I like literary agents.  They are very different from Hollywood agents.  Hollywood agents are like Wall Street traders: crude, indifferent.

I found a short story about the Twin Towers that I had written last year.  I found the first chapter of my novel.  I diligently sent them off to the nice agent Jake B at Rob Weisbach Creative Management.   Now all I have to do is stay out of the result.

After I do the work; it’s none of my business what happens next.   I used to be one of those guys who worried about when he would hear back, when they would read it, see it, make a decision.  Thankfully I am delivered from that particular hell.

I discovered some 13 years ago that my tearing my hair out would not alter the result.

There is absolutely no point in fretting about the outcome.  What will be will be.  I’m not saying that I wasn’t relieved/upset to find out that I had got the grant, was HIV negative, he wasn’t interested etc. etc.  But I saved the feeling for after the fact rather than before it.

The house in Malibu is vacation rented to people from Hawaii who arrived at midnight the day before yesterday.  In the morning I received a flurry of text messages and calls from them claiming that I had scammed them, that the house was nothing like I had described it.  It quickly transpired that they were calling from somebody else’s house.  The following morning, after some testy phone calls,  the Vacation Renter called me to apologize for their foolish mistake.

I am just happy that who’s ever house they were describing never came home.

Goats from Santa Barbra.  Must buy goat.  Why goats?  Well, brush clearance for a start.  The house is situated in the highly flammable Santa Monica Mountains and every year I have to pay $3000 to have the brush cleared around the house.  The last fire stopped 150 feet from my front door.  Goats eat brush.

Also, Birria is a delicious Mexican goat dish.  I love eating goat.   I get to drink goat milk.  Do you remember eating that delicious braised goat on that private, secluded beach with Philippa and Louise on Patmos?  A truly memorable meal.   A man in a shack with a pot of boiling goat.   Delicious.

I have even thought about becoming a vegetarian but I think the deal I will have with myself is this:  If I have grown it or bought or bartered for it from the abundant land then I can eat it.  By the way, I am including vacation rental income in this equation.  I don’t expect to survive on half a pound of plums and a mango.

I wonder how much goats cost?  I have to make these calls on January 1st.   There are over 50 goat-grazing services in California so I don’t think that the acquiring of a goat will be much of a problem.

I have already located a woman who helps plan and plant vegetable gardens.  I have a meeting with her in January so will report then.  Many people have written to me offering advice and I will get back to you as soon as I can.

My lease here in Hollywood expires in April so I have until then to get things into order so I can move back and fully take the reigns of my new Malibu Hill Billy life.

Paris 2009

I have not seen the final episode of sex rehab.  I may not.  It merely conflicts with the experience I had whilst I was there.

My memories of being in Rehab are wonderful, but wonderful is not real life.

Perhaps it can be?  Maybe that’s the point?  Or do I trade in tragedy like some trade carbon credits?

Don’t expect some elegant summation of the past two months because there is none, not from me anyway.  I have written everything there is to write.

Since we set those sleepy doves free for the finale of Sex Rehab I have been traveling.

I went to England, to my hometown of Whitstable, and sat outside Dave’s deli drinking delicious espresso and eating custard tarts.  In her famous oyster bar my old friend Delia Fitt opened native oysters and I reacquainted myself with friends who had a place in their heart just for me.

The Little Dog and I have been to New York and Paris and taken a ship across the English Channel so he could sit on my lap.  I stayed in Battersea with my friend Melanie de Blank and I walked all over London for a month losing a ton of weight.

Life was not without it’s challenges.

Whilst I was in Paris I called my dear friend John, bitterly complaining as I had seen a young man in the Tuileries who had shown interest in me.  I had walked away.  It was infuriating.  Is this what my life was now-to walk away from the main chance?  Walking away from sex was not going to be as easy as walking away from drugs and alcohol.

I was in such a beastly funk.  I called him so that he might congratulate me for doing the right thing.  I wanted a fucking AWARD.  He asked me where I was and I gruffly told him that I was in Place de la Concorde.

He said, simply, “Look around you, Duncan.”

I was standing in one of the most beautiful places on earth.  I had forgotten momentarily to enjoy the greatest benefit of sobriety, to be present right here and right now.

The Little Dog's Train Ticket

My funk was instantaneously lifted.

Before the gift of sexual sobriety I went into every situation with an intention.  The intention was not to have a great time but to meet, intrigue, seduce.  Once that was gone, once the intention and the damage that thinking causes had been revealed I could truly enjoy myself.

I don’t want you to think that I sit around indulging the tragedy.  I don’t.  I am looking for all of the beauty that life has to offer.   Every day!

When I got sober from drugs and alcohol I was delighted by the simple pleasure of feeling the autumn breeze on my face.

I have seen many people die of the disease of addiction but as I tried to explain to someone today, each death re-confirms that I have chosen life and I must take it and live it.  Every death, every relapse another man has reminds me to stay sober.

I have a very short memory.  I need to be reminded..over and over again.

My public rehabilitation is over.  The show is done.  The cast and crew have gone their separate ways.  The relationships forged whilst in rehab are now to dust and that is only right.  We are no longer performers in a show-we are in life.

I am alive because I set aside my preoccupation with death and with some gift of courage and with a stroke of love, forgave myself.  I have lived in so much fear all my life!  Now, I am certain, it does seem feasible not to be afraid.

And what of these ugly sisters: Shame, Resentment and Fear.  No, no more.  Thank you.

Delia Prepares Oysters

The future seemed so uncertain, but I don’t live there anymore, not tomorrow or yesterday.

As for films and novels and the like, there is a backlog of them just waiting to be written.  They were waiting patiently whilst I concentrated on beating you all up with my past.

So, let me make you a promise: there will be no more films, novels or poetry that examine and re-examine my traumatic past.

No more collusion with the past.

Tomorrow I am going to write about other things.  I am going to write about life!

Eric and the Little Dog

When I gave up taking cocaine and drinking I remember that friends would call at 3 in the morning on my house phone. I’d say, “Why the hell are you calling so late?” They’d mumble back that they were ‘drunk’. At 9 the following morning I would return their call. They’d say, “What the hell you calling so early?” I’d reply, “I’m sober.”

These people were my ‘lower companions’ and my house was always full of them. They were a tough crowd to convince that I was going to stay sober. Slowly but surely they all vanished, off to different parties or on some occasions dying alone in their rooms, needles in their arms. Lower companions are neither your social or intellectual or financial equals. They are people you only indulge within the context of your addiction.

The halcyon days of early sobriety. Clean sheets and brushed teeth. I got sober October 1st 1996. How I loved that first autumn and winter of my sobriety in London. Flying around town in that cute little green Porsche those other men said I drove like a handbag, living in that glorious house in Kensington and wearing wonderful clothes. Within two years that would all be gone. Those were the tough lessons of early sobriety.

Lesson one: Whatever I have right now is ENOUGH and enough is all I need.

My last but one blog before I pack up my twitter bag and change my blog direction.

Sex Rehab finale airs on Sunday and not a day too soon. Oh you ungrateful gay! How can you be so ungrateful? Nobody knew who you were before Sex Rehab! Now people know who you are. The stinking wind of semi-fame, fame for no good reason, fame for fame’s sake blows over me at night and wakes me gasping for air. Duncan the obscure. Could you have sunk much lower than reality TV!

Oh yes I could. I have. Much lower-but on who’s scale? People seem to think that those of my ‘co-stars’ who made pornography are pretty low on the unfathomable scale. Nah, they are just performers, wandering minstrels who offer vagina rather than lute. Their acting skills have kept me calm when the demons are upon me.

According to some, when one agrees to appear in reality TV, one surrenders any claim one might have had to integrity or dignity. Is that true? Even an obvious aesthete like me? I am a fucking dilatant! I am on life’s grand tour sampling what culture a country has to offer and this is America’s cultural phenomenon. Reality TV! How could I NOT have been a part of it? I commissioned a great portrait of myself by the artist VH1.

Back to today’s theme: Lower Companions.

I tried yesterday and the day before to reach out to Jennie but she ignored my calls and emails. I wanted to avoid the scorched earth policy I usually enact in these situations. I did not/do not want to lose my temper; I did not want to disguise my pain with anger. I did not want to hurt myself. So, I wrote a blog.


Yesterday’s blog caused my usual commentators some consternation. ‘I will never read another word you ever write!’ One woman scrawled. ‘Poor Jennie! Poor Eric.’ They bawled. Let me tell you something blog readers/commentators. I enjoyed deleting those pathetic comments.

That’s how far I sank. Hankering to be let into the Jenny and Eric club? Are you fucking kidding? Their shrill laughter and bad skin. Over lit kitchens and badly cooked food. That’s how far I sank. Swimming in the sewer with Jenny and Eric. Come on pornsters-bring it on!

I turned and said to Anthony Rendlesham, “Get behind me, Henry Higgins! You are a stumbling block to me; you do not have in mind the things of God, but the things of men.”

So that was the state of my scrambled mind yesterday. That and dog issues to deal with and lawyers late at night and the reckoning-which is Polish for cheque please!

Can you remember a time when all your closest friend began to die all at once?

I had breakfast with John and whilst we were eating Benoit emailed me and I was flush with pride. Then, in the afternoon, after a long walk on Runyon with Isaiah who wore tight brown boots and a pompadour Joe stopped by. Beautiful, sweet adorable, bright-eyed Joe.

Joe asks me the most exacting questions. He was asking me what I was like when I was his age. I told him that by the age of 24 I had become a nihilist. That in 1984 we were four years into an AIDS epidemic that would go on to kill millions and millions of people but at that time just seemed to be killing my friends.

Nihilism is sometimes used to explain the general mood of despair at the perceived pointlessness of existence that one may develop upon realizing there are no necessary norms, rules, or laws.

I realized what had happened when I first met Joe and his gang of friendly friends. The revulsion I felt. These beautiful young men gathered around me talking and having fun and I felt nauseous. I called my therapist Jill and she said, “How old did you feel?” And I said, “Not like I was a child..more like in my early twenties.” And I saw that I had never ever talked about being left behind by my tribe who had all died and I had not. That there were so many funerals and tearful farewells with boys just like Joe. With friends who one felt abandoned by-even though they had died and I had not!


One day you faint when the gardener cuts his finger the next you’re wrapping the dead, emaciated body of a young man in a turning cloth because nobody else will do it.

Do you remember Danny and Evan? Do you remember how much they loved each other? How they couldn’t bear to be apart? How kind Evan was and how beautiful it was to hear Danny tell Even how much he loved him. Evan looked just like Joe and was just as full of hope. They both lay screaming in separate hospital beds surrounded by nurses dressed in body suits. Danny was screaming because he didn’t want to die. He was too young. ‘I’m too young.’

I asked Joe to imagine a world where he watched all his young friends die of AIDS. Every beautiful man he knew and loved dying in the most harrowing, ugly way. Regardless of income. Plagued by shame.

I don’t want to hear ONE criticism of me or my life. I lived through a fucking plague that killed all my friends and I survived! I survived. Survive to be excluded by people like Jenny and Eric? Fuck that.

And I never talk about it because I can’t. It’s not my tragedy-it’s ours.

Black people write to me and tell me that I will never know what it is like to be black. We all hold onto to our own experience and in moments of peril hold it out in front of us like a shield. And I whisper to myself that the blows may stop falling if I say: I am a black man, a gay man, a woman, an abused child, that I saw my friends, a generation of fine young men die of the most disgusting disease.

I have not been up Runyon yet but when I do I will write my blog.

Today I wanted to write about being fucked in the ass by a woman wearing a strap on dildo whilst whispering filthy things in my ear.  That happened on Whitstable beach 15 years ago.  The woman is now a lesbian of the sexual opportunistic variety and now lives here in LA.  Whenever we meet we look at each other coyly because some things are better left unsaid, unexplored, unrevisited which does not seem to be a real word.  I have never been so turned on.  I was never ever so turned on again.   It was far too scary a prospect to admit that this was what I wanted.  It wasn’t MEN at all.  I wanted a lesbian with a dildo to fuck me so hard I couldn’t sit down for a week and tell me that she was going to fuck me harder.  What would my Christian readers think of that?  That’s almost heterosexual isn’t it?

Okay, I’ll write my blog now.

Some of you will be delighted to hear that Jennie and I are scarcely talking.  Her and her best friend Eric-my ex best friends can be now found ensconced in his apartment night after night watching mad men and baking cookies.   When I first introduced them he told me that he had had fantasies about her as Penny Flame-that she was one of his ‘girls’.   Now she bakes him cookies for Christmas.

I had a dream about Jennie:  that she was fucking me in the ass with a dildo but she was crying.  It was making her cry.  I begged her not to cry like I tried to placate my mother when she cried.

I think I might turn off my blog comments after this.  I no longer look at the VH1 ‘boards’ (or any other board for that matter) and I am not reading the comments that are fast attaching themselves, like barnacles to a schooner, to my Daily Beast article.

I want to respond!  I want to say, ‘now hold on just one God damned moment!  You can’t say that about me!’  I want to tell them forcefully that I really do need to believe in God if I am going to stay sober in a 12-step programme.  That I really don’t own a TV because I will just LOOK at it 24/7.  That if these people were British I would be heartbroken but they are not, they can’t touch me…

But I am touched.  Touched by the kind and delicate words of support, of love, of admiration.

Then I realize that I am so damned lucky to be writing things that so many people read.  That those poor people who write those comments good and bad seldom get heard by anyone ever!  It’s easy to be indignant, to misunderstand that their lives are not just about unsolicited comments written on anonymous boards and attached to other peoples work.

So, Jennie and I drifted apart like many other Hollywood romances.  She was the first porn star I ever met.  She is so damned strong and competitive and sure of herself.   She helped me and I helped her-it was pretty equal.  My dog was killed and she drove me to the hospital.   She was stuck in the valley and I helped her move.

I complained to John this morning that I felt the help I had given Jennie was disproportionate and that I deserved more than this!  More than to be excluded from Jennie and Eric’s love nest.  I was complaining over Panatone French toast in Cecconi on Robertson.  I dipped the toast into vanilla flavored crème fresh.

The irony was not lost on me.

John called me Henry Higgins and laughed.   He calls me Henry Higgins when I begin to resent those I help. This isn’t the first time I’ve found a flower girl on the street and made a bet that I can turn her into a world-class ingénue.

We laughed because life is good, the sun is shining and I don’t want to watch Mad Men with Eric and Jennie any more.

I don’t want to be in the problem-I want to be in the solution.

However I do rather fancy myself as Rex Harrison, Audrey Hepburn/Jennie storming around the apartment building singing this:

Julie Andrews singing this song for Jennie

Just you wait, ‘enry ‘iggins, just you wait!
You’ll be sorry, but your tears’ll be to late!
You’ll be broke, and I’ll have money;
Will I help you? Don’t be funny!
Just you wait, ‘enry ‘iggins, just you wait!
Just you wait, ‘enry ‘iggins, till you’re sick,
And you scream to fetch a doctor double-quick.
I’ll be off a second later And go straight to the the-ater!
Oh ho ho, ‘enry ‘iggins, just you wait!
Ooooooh ‘enry ‘iggins!
Just you wait until we’re swimmin’ in the sea!
Ooooooh ‘enry ‘iggins!
And you get a cramp a little ways from me!
When you yell you’re going to drown I’ll get dressed
and go to town! Oh ho ho, ‘enry ‘iggins!
Oh ho ho, ‘enry ‘iggins! Just you wait!
One day I’ll be famous! I’ll be proper and prim;
Go to St. James so often I will call it St. Jim!
One evening the king will say:
“Oh, Liza, old thing,
I want all of England your praises to sing.
Next week on the twentieth of May
I proclaim Liza Doolittle Day!
All the people will celebrate the glory of you
And whatever you wish and want I gladly will do.”
“Thanks a lot, King” says I, in a manner well-bred;
But all I want is ‘enry ‘iggins ‘ead!”
“Done,” says the King with a stroke.
“Guard, run and bring in the bloke!”
Then they’ll march you, ‘enry ‘iggins to the wall;
And the King will tell me: “Liza, sound the call.”
As they lift their rifles higher, I’ll shout:
“Ready! Aim! Fire!”
Oh ho ho, ‘enry ‘iggins,
Down you’ll go, ‘enry ‘iggins!
Just you wait!

My Mother

Breakfast with John this morning at Cecconi’s.  We ate oatmeal, which is American for porridge.  Actually just milled oats with hot milk rather than the creamy, steaming, slow cooked porridge of my youth.   Served this morning-like a desert-with strawberry jam!  Yuk.

I was telling him about the long relationships that I have had with women.  I have always identified as gay but recently, after rehab and therapy I am coming to other conclusions.  Gayish maybe.  I don’t know.  ‘It’s complicated’ as they say on Facebook.

My relationships with women, as with Jennie on the show, have always been incredible romances.

I have loved women more than I ever loved me.

That was a Freudian slip.  I meant to write men.  But it’s true; I have always loved women more than men or me.

The woman that I have loved the most have been highly intelligent, powerfully articulate, always incredibly beautiful and sexually submissive.   The most recent being the editor of a highly regarded magazine.  I refer to all my past female lovers as my ex wives.

To understand these relationships I’d best explain the relationship I had with my mother.

My relationship with my mother was intensely emotional.  Remember, she too was held hostage in our ‘family’ by my violent step-father.  Consequently, I became her escape, her confidant, her secret affair.  On the bus to Canterbury I said, “I’m not your boyfriend!”  For the remainder of the journey we both sat in silence, shocked that I had articulated what had, until that moment, been our terrible secret. I was 12 years old!  In lieu of a loving husband or a loving father we loved each other absolutely, unswervingly.  She would confide in me, when we were on our own, that there was only us, no one else existed.  Just her and me.  That if she could she would run away with me.  This emotional incest laid the groundwork for the intensity I seek out with women.

Sexual violence I seek from men. I always find it.

Even though I have had long relationships with men, I devalue these relationships when I compare them to the relationships that I have had with women.

The truth is my mother and I never escaped.  She stayed married to my step father and endured his constant punishment.  I escaped into madness and addiction.

I still find it very difficult to forgive her.  She is a sweet and simple woman who really did her best to make a terrible life better for all of us.  However, knowing what I know now would it have been so terribly hard for her to put my brothers and I onto the bus and somehow get away?

I don’t believe that all gay men are born gay.

I know that this thinking sets me at odds with the majority of the gay community and many, many straight men.  Saying that, I don’t believe that there is a cure for homosexuality – as once the dye is cast our sexuality seems inevitable.

There is no evidence that gay to straight rewiring or reorientation actually works.

However, gay men who live with and marry women are of course far more prevalent than we like to admit.  But should these relationships be discounted?  Both Oscar Wilde and Vita Sackville-West had incredibly loving relationships with both their spouse and a member of the same sex.  Indeed, Oscar’s love letters to his wife are as beautiful and compelling, if not more so, than his letters to his male lover.  Vita’s profound love for her husband provided a springboard from which she would leap into a previously unimagined same sex world.

Again, in my experience of having relationships with women, women were far more accepting of my behavior than one would like to believe and tended to stick by me even after multiple same sex indiscretions.   When I have had relationships with women, women who knew that I had preferences for men, they tended to overlook the past and focus on a future that we might share together.

Most gay men who identify as gay are born gay.  However, a few men (and I count myself among them) are sexualized at an early age.   I am plagued with this question:  If I had not been so badly abused as an infant would I have become gay?

There are many varieties of gay.

Men who own to same sex desires later on in life endure accusations that they were merely in denial: minimizing their life’s journey.

Mother in Malibu garden

The group of men who seem to cause the most distress to both straight and gay men are those who genuinely seem to have sexual choice and act accordingly.    Same sex experimentation amongst straight men, despite rowdy protestations, occurs more frequently that any of us like to acknowledge.

As I have written before we, as a society, are incredibly prescriptive about the sexual identification of others.    Supposedly, once a man has crossed the sexual Rubicon he is damned.   Bullshit.  If only these sexual prescribers applied the same rational to female sexuality.   But how can they?  When straight men persuade women to act out lesbian fantasies have these women now become forever lesbians at the behest of heterosexual men?

All of my work as an artist has sought to understand, rework and revisit my initial trauma.  This now feels, after therapy, like a terrible indulgence.  Yet, to let it go..what am I left with?  The future seems very bleak without this grotesque narrative.

PS  My mother visited me after my grandmother died. It was uncomfortable for both of us but we got though it.  When the big dog was killed I called her crying but I felt like I was crying to a woman I no longer knew.

In the words of Tennessee Williams: Time is the greatest distance between two people.

Before I signed my contract to appear on Sex Rehab I told my friends that what ever happened to me during the editing of the show I would stay out of the result.  That I would let God deal with the details and I would not let any of it be my business.  That was until..

OMG!  Today, moments ago, I discovered..and I just had to write a blog about my extraordinary discovery..a reader alerted me to a website devoted to people who give a shit about TV!  So much of a shit, in fact, that the same sad people spend hours not just watching reality TV but getting so involved that they form ‘opinions’ then spend hours sharing LMAO with complete strangers their ‘opinions’.  The fact that these opinions are misguided, uninformed and mostly sophomoric is neither here nor there.

This reality TV viewer web site is like..REALITY TV PORNOGRAPHY!  It got me hard.  Really.

Amongst some occasional intelligent analysis I read about ‘haters’ (apparently I am one) and a huge amount of second rate Kari Ann/Jill/Selma/Kendra ‘diagnosis’ from a bunch of avid reality TV addicts.  I really had no idea that people took this stuff so damned seriously.  I am DESPERATE to throw my hat into the ring and take on these virtual dumpster divers!  IMO I think I could have quite a scrap.

I learned so much!   Punctuated with LMAO, LOL, OMG and IMO I learned that I was snarky, immature, ugly, a misanthrope-but probably because I was sexually abused.  I learned that I hated James and did not teach him to knit.  That I bullied James and ‘hated’ on him.  I had my words maligned, insulted, ‘hated’ on.  I am, apparently, a disgrace to gay people.  I learned that there were people trawling my facebook page-so all the people I don’t know have now been removed.  I learned that homophobia is alive and KICKING!

For people who seem to hate the haters there sure is a great deal of hate!

LMAO!  Oh you people!  How you have amused me during the past few weeks.

“I’m 24 and I’ve heard that my generation and people that are teens right now are some of the most narcissistic people ever. But I think it’s just because with more technology and things, the people who might have been overprotective or felt stifled as children who want to raise their kids the opposite way might be able to spoil their kids more. There have always been people like that, it’s just more noticeable now..”

LOL.  And with scintillating insights like that who needs 19th century literature?

One particularly astute commentator opined that the British were apt to be socially insensitive.  Rude.  Well, we’re not rude..we are direct.  We say what we mean and we are not, as a nation, or as individuals so sensitive to the naked truth as you the Americans.  I spent hours in my dorm at school being viciously rude to my class mates and they to me.  It made us howl with laughter.    We LOVE a good insult/irony.

Consequently, we will punish Tony Blair for war crimes and tax our bankers for profiteering.  What, you may be thinking, does that have to do with price of cheese?  Work it out amongst yourselves. I am sure ONE of you will have an ‘opinion’.

OMG after reading the posts-and I could not stop they were so addictive-I thought to myself, well producers-you did a great job!  An amazing job of creating the goodies and the baddies and I am one of the baddies!  To many, many viewers I am just a vicious queen!  And so be it. What you think of me is none of my business.  It’s true!

“Between his blog, his twitter page, his facebook page, and God only knows what other type of self promotion he’s doing he has got to be the most vain S.O.B. out there! UGH! His whiny, childish behavior is disgusting.  Honestly, grow up honey. And yea I will admit when the show first began I found Duncan very charming, funny, etc. and so I did read his blogs, twitter page, etc. but its like the more he talks the more I dislike him.”

LMAO every time I read a vile comment like that my cock got harder.  LITERALLY.  I look at my own reaction to the hate and I realize that I still have a very long way to go.

And lastly..for you clever, clever people-a little context:  When making Sex Rehab there were 350 hours of real time footage shot on 20 cameras.  That’s approx 7,000 hours of footage squeezed into a chilling 344 minutes of TV.


And finally my most favorite line:

“Duncan has a meanstreak that he gets away with because his sex appeal is soooo appealing. The reason men face-fuck him and leave him is because a meanstreak is only tolerable for as long as it takes to orgasm.”

A woman could only have written IMO the idea that I would want a relationship with anyone I had blown is frankly absurd.





I get asked all of the time what the other guys in Sex Rehab were like to live with.  You know, we shot the show so long ago I almost forgot but I’ll tell you my impression of all of them here.

Frankly if I hadn’t been on the show I would never, ever have met any of them.  All of them were out of my social or geographical orbit.  I was only one degree of separation from Amber as it turned out but still, I don’t think we would have ever made time to get to know each other.

Nobody smelt badly except maybe James when he arrived.  Nobody had appalling table manners.  Everybody was mostly courteous, kind and inclusive-even Kari Ann.  Remember the way the show is edited tends to exploit the best and the worst of who we are.

Whilst I was there I hung out mostly with Jennie and Kendra but I had long and involved conversations with almost everyone.    Why did I hang out so much with Jennie?  What was it about her that I loved so much?  Well, for a start, she is hungry for life, for education and for new ways of thinking.  She devoured ideas and suggestions, she listened when I mooted Film School and I still believe that if she plays her cards right there is nothing that she couldn’t do.

Jennie has the correct balance of ambition and talent and the show opened a door into her hidden soul.  Listen, do I love her painting?  No, but I respect her for getting up every day and picking up a paintbrush.  Do I think she errs toward overblown prose? Yes, but she is a 26 year old ex-porn star starting over with a huge amount to learn, look at and consider.  With consultation she will get exactly where she needs to be.

There are still dark forces determined to unsettle her, unseat her ambition, and refuse to let Penny Flame forget where she has come from.  These vile bodies write vicious posts on her blog, they rewrite her wikipedia page.  I am well aware of these embittered, desperate people-they try to do the same to me but they can’t touch me now because, in the words of Quentin Crisp, I am one of the stately Homo’s of England.

There was so much time where we did nothing in Rehab and by nothing I mean no group, no therapy, no planned activity.  We mostly filled our time playing dominoes or cards.  Nicole was a genius at dominoes so I’ll start with her.


Jennie and Nicolle really did not get on very well.  They shared a room but there was a tension that bubbled up between them and actually came to a head as we were standing in line off camera moments before we filed into Rehab Graduation.  I didn’t and still don’t understand their gripe but I suggest it has something to do with class and pre-history.  Nicole is one classy broad, elegant, chic, fierce.  One of those gals who came to Hollywood in search of that ‘Hollywood Dream’ and ended up being one of it’s finest victims.  Her Colin Farrell sex tape caused her to feel tremendous shame and ultimately isolated her from her friends and family.  She faced Hollywood’s dark forces head on.  Sex tapes are so often a double-edged sword, nobody really knows who, if anyone, will benefit.  What I found out from most of the women I shared time in Sex Rehab with was just how many of them had sex tapes with celebrities squirreled away for a rainy day.


Kendra and Lucas are the sweetest couple and live with hundreds of rescued dogs and cats in a sprawling house in Northridge.  Kendra has devoted her life beyond ‘Kendra the Stripper’ to helpless animals and causes that fight injustice head on.   Whatever may or may not happen to our friendship I know in my heart that she will always be there for me.  She is the sort of woman who stops at the side of the freeway to open an abandoned cardboard box in search of kittens and puppies.  She rescued my dog Luna twenty minutes before Luna was going to be destroyed.  She has a huge, huge heart but seldom makes room in it for herself.  I know that her philanthropic life is at odds with what she has to do to earn money.   I am sure she is only moments away from the kind of woman she would like to be.


Kari Ann needs to get the fuck away from David Weintraub. Her tendency toward men like him will destroy her life.  Now she is Miss VH1 super bitch I fear that no one will ever get to see the girl she could have been.  With men like David Weintraub crafting her existence she may very well end up dead, drowned in her own vomit whilst David parties in a joining rooms.    This deadly scenario is all too common in Hollywood.    One could imagine an altogether nastier narrative for David documented with grainy TMZ videos of him being hustled, half dressed and sweating into police cars crying foul.   I end up writing about Weintraub when I wanted to write about Kari Ann, there is a terrible irony to that-that he and men like him will always eclipse her.  Her meth antics on Sex Rehab were not as constant as the show editors wish you to think.  Sometimes we would just lay outside quietly chatting, giggling and smoking.  I will remember her best like that.  A sweet little girl with a meth habit.


Phil Varone, don’t you just love him?   We all loved him.  What isn’t there to love?  He concisely articulated every problem he and others had.  He was and is a superb diplomat and sensitive to boot.  Watching him with his Dad has just made me love him even more.  Phil and I played Mexican dominoes with Nicole and it was over those plastic tiles we got to know each other.  We never locked horns, as I am wont to do with other males.   Phil went to Sex Rehab to do the recovery work.  If we had not been there I wonder if that work you see and relate to would have ever happened?


During the interview process I told the producers that I likes surfer boys and lo and behold there was James.  The big problem was that I never found him attractive.  He, like Kari Ann, had arrived after a protracted period of drug and alcohol abuse and three weeks really wasn’t enough time for him to figure stuff out.  He had been paid a great deal of money to wear certain clothing whilst on the show and that initially galled me.  Maybe I shouldn’t have judged him so harshly.   After the ‘rape the shit’ comment he made to Jennie we got on very well and I even taught him how to knit.  Even though I didn’t get to know James as well as the others I respected his dolphin like sea talents.   We spent a day at Huntington Beach.  Watching him surf was a joy.


Amber had a profound effect on me.  She reminded me of a very beautiful version of my mother.  Her emotions close to the surface, her aquiline elegance and sweet demeanor and real desire for recovery.   Her story is harrowing and desperate.  The enmeshed relationship she has with her mother, the loyalty she has for her mother, the huge price she paid for her addictions.  Hearing her story would make me cry.  The anger workshop we did, the paint in her hair, the way she almost flew through the air like an angel when she was throwing the paint and the eggs.  I will never forget the impact she had on me.  Amber, Phil and I had lunch recently at The Ivy.  I am always slightly in awe of her.  I always will be.


Jennie, what more can I say?  We were, are and will always be friends in whatever shape God intends.  I am sure that my protectiveness will get in the way like it did when I now famously approached David Weintraub at Cecconi’s and challenged him after he was rude and demeaning with her.  I want her to soar higher than I ever did-even though I get envious when she does.    I want her success to fit her like a loose garment.  I want everyone to be as amazed as I that a woman with so much talent could have buried herself so deeply in the sordid world of pornography.   It amazes me that she touched the lives of so many men as a porn actress even if these broken men wanted to fix her with cheap, meaningless promises.    I have not and will not see her in her porn incarnation, I met Penny Flame briefly but do not want to meet her ever again.   I am privileged to know Jenny Ketcham.   Our relationship is not without it’s hitches but we are addicts right?  We are blighted by the disease of perception.  Both of us.


Which brings me, the eighth member of the Sex Rehab cast.  You know what addicts are like, they either hate themselves or love themselves too much and I am no exception.   I could make huge and grandiose statements about myself or I could tell you that I am a piece of shit.  I wrote that and I laughed out loud.  I really have no idea what the others would say about me if they could right here right now-but I could guess.  Kendra might say that I am a flakey friend who says he is going to show up but always gets way laid.  Amber might be suspicious of me and Kari Ann would say,  ‘I love you to bits but you talk shit about me’.   Phil would find something totally loving and appropriate and Jenny might too. James would howl and say something dudeish and give me a huge hug.  I would say, about me on sex rehab, like I have many times before, I am so glad that I got to go on the show and change my life because of it.

I get to write this blog and today, this very lunchtime, I get to thank strangers in the street who show their heartfelt appreciation of sharing all the work we did so honestly and publicly.  Thank you all so very much.

Cloud over Route 66

I managed to stay in my bed until 6am.  Winter finally arrived in LA and there were flurries of snow in Malibu.    The city now has a backdrop of snow-covered mountains.

Feeling fractured today.  Balls and lower back still aching.  Don’t trust doctors.  Especially here where they just want your money.  Hail socialized medicine!

I finally watched episode 6 of Sex Rehab.  Kari Ann continuing to provide a rich seam for the producers to mine, almost not worth commenting on until Selma’s dismissal.  The facts are:  Kari Ann failed every one of the mandatory drug tests and was not thrown out of the Pasadena Recovery Center.   Active drug users are not allowed to stay in Rehab because they are actively using drugs!  The excuse for the meth found in her pee was that she was also taking prescription medication that may have made her test positive.  So, whilst the ‘rules’ applied to Selma they did not apply to Kari Ann.  Kari Ann’s behavior would never have been tolerated in any regular rehab facility.   Selma should not have been provoked daily by the antics of a known drug user in the facility.  Selma, in my opinion, was thrown under the bus for the sake of MORE drama.  Disturbingly, both Drew and Jill seemed complicit with the producers rather than with us the patients.  After Selma’s firing was aired the attitude within the community of recovering men and women toward the show changed considerably, in fact, Sex Rehab lost a great deal of credibility and for that I am very sorry.

Since the New York Times guy interviewed me I am feeling more suspicious and less warm toward the Producers of Sex Rehab.  Whilst I feel that I am being fairly represented, albeit not chronologically, others are not.

Grand Canyon Chic

As for James all I have to say about James is that you witnessed an ‘incident’ between us.  After our spat we all got on very well.  I taught him to knit, went to his house, have been in contact since.  The ‘incident’ between Jenny and James happened 5 days after we arrived in rehab.  Most viewers fail to realize that the show was shot 7 months ago, we were in the facility for 3 weeks and that there are 504 hours of real time shot on 20 cameras squeezed into 344 minutes of TV.  You see only a fraction of the work, interaction, activities, etc. etc.   It takes months to edit a show like Sex Rehab.  The project ping pongs from Producer to Network until the amorphous ‘show’ takes shape planished by the tiny suggestions, remarks and notes of all the concerned parties.

As a filmmaker would I have edited it differently?  Of course I would!  As a Brit I am probably more ponderous than most Americans.  We like a slower pace; we like to ‘live’ with the characters.  Along with millions of other fellow Brits I used to watch the Big Brother contestants sleep at night.  It was reassuring.

I promised Luna that I would take her to Runyon today.  Today is a perfect day for a long walk.  Cool, bright, views as far as Palos Verdes.   The little dog is in pain-his dewclaw all swollen and pink.  Luna in on my lap watching me type.

Gracelands Bus Driver and Pink Umbrella

For those of you who may think that I have not explored my adopted country I want you to know that I have driven four times across the United States from LA to NYC and back again.  I took both the southern and the northern routes. I spent time in New Mexico, Tennessee, West Virginia, Texas, Connecticut, Florida, and Mississippi.   I particularly liked Memphis.   I was stunned by the Memphis neighborhoods that had a church on every corner.  In Arizona I marveled at the snow covered Grand Canyon. I listened to folk tell their stories and wrote them down for a novel that will probably never be written.  I wanted, briefly, to retire to Austin.  I gawped at the massive crosses on the interstate highways, I ate barbeque, catfish and chicken fried steak and scoffed at the provincial cuisine.  My eyes widened when I saw the black men in Tampa Florida who all looked like stately Massai warriors.  I smuggled the dogs into non-pet friendly hotels and was glad that I drove in the winter rather than the summer.

I have lived in your country for 5 years now and I have loved  your warm welcome however London is calling me.  It is charming me, convincing me to come home.   I am committed to LA for the next six months then I really must be moving on.

By the way, this post should have been called, Fuck you Larry King!  as yesterday we were bumped from appearing on his show-we were meant to be appearing on Friday.  Amanda Knox trumped us.  Damn you Amanda Knox.  Damn you.

Interstate barbeque Memphis

Joe at The Royal Palms Hotel

Luna, who eats everything she possibly can whenever I am vanished from her immediate view, surpassed herself today by eviscerating the packaging of my new beard trimmer.   Saves me the trouble I suppose.

We are in Malibu and it is raining torrentially.  I love it here on the side of the mountain when it rains.  Sitting in a cloud.  A waterfall gushes through the property and I poke at it with a stick like I did when I was a kid.  Any brook or stream I chanced upon.  Everything is sodden.  Within a week the hillside will be covered in lush grass and wild flowers and it will feel like I live, for at least a couple of months, in the French Alps.

The lil dog has damaged his dew claw.  He is dolefully licking at it avoiding the rough and tumble he usually enjoys when he is here with Luna.  Sometime when it is quiet at night and I am walking up the drive I can hear The Big Dog padding behind me and I reassure her that everything is going to be okay.  I know that if there is a heaven then she’ll be waiting for me.  Speaking of which-that image has totally broken the dream I was having in the car home from Phoenix yesterday.  In the dream I KNEW that the ghost of my grandmother was living in Luna so I was being extra nice to her.  Odd?

I had a lovely time with Joe in Phoenix.  My friend Gabe invited me to a 9-course dinner he threw at a gallery in down town Phoenix so I dragged Joe with me.  Gabe is only 24 and very, well, he’s very Italian and devised a huge dinner of gooey burrata and rolled pork and polenta with beef sausages and pasta stuffed with butternut squash and it just kept on coming until we were STUFFED and it was 2am and we headed back to the Biltmore Arizona hotel and to our room through the village of Frank Lloyd Wright inspired cottages.  The air was crisp and clean.  The beds were huge and comfy.  I slept like a log.

The following morning I was forced to buy a paper cup of drip coffee for $5.  The Biltmore coffee shop of horrors.

Arizona Biltmore

The hotel was full of people who obviously watch the show and sort of, kind of wondered if they knew me from anywhere.  They were all bull built manly men.  In other times I might have sought out a little company but I am committed to my circle plan.  Hotels, Stations, the streets I bid you all adieu.

We had a delicious brunch at the Royal Palm Hotel on Camel Back Road.  DELICIOUS breakfast-very reasonably priced.  I had home made Brioche (lemon scented) French toast and chicken sausages.   Gabe was very funny and lifted me out of a ghastly depression that started after I hacked a huge irreparable hole in my beard.

Must briefly mention that I received my first (sort of) hate mail yesterday that I thought about posting.  It occurred to me that whatever people may or may not think of me good or bad I have to not take any of it personally.  In it’s essence it was accusing me of being a fraud that I wasn’t really a nice guy, that I was in fact cruel and heartless.  Of course I agreed with everything he/she wrote.  As much as I am vulnerable and sensitive I am also angry and resentful.   He/She suggested that I could never be available to all the people who wrote to me and of course-he/she is right.  I can’t.  I can only do my best and just being on TV seems to be enough judging by the huge volume of messages of hope that I receive everyday.  I welcome your messages of hope because they lift my spirits.

Did not watch the show last night.  Had no real interest. It kind of retraumatizes me all over again watching the therapy.  A journalist interviewed me from New York Times about Dr Drew.  However much I tell anyone who listens that I think he is a great guy and the show really helped I suddenly had a moment where I realized that I am also supporting the artifice that exists around ‘reality TV’.  I have kept quiet about the chronology having been wildly altered.  The introduction of the ‘sexy’ trainer deliberately to titillate Phil and James.  Kari Ann’s continued inclusion in the show even though she was thrown out after the first week.  Drew’s recycling of Jill’s lines when he began to flounder.

Gabe the Chef

I am so glad I did not make Sex Rehab in England for if they do throw me under a bus at least it won’t be a London bus.

Seen so many depressing films lately, The Road, Up in The Air etc.  Films that seem obsessed with trying to articulate our isolation.   I have no idea what the solution is for that.   We have collectively painted ourselves into a corner.  Contrary to what everybody else thought of Up in The Air I loathed Clooney’s measured performance-all teeth and pomade.

It’s bloody freezing over here in Malibu.  I am going to drive home and make a hearty stew.  My balls ache which makes we wonder about cancer..again.

I came here to write but it’s far too cold.  Will head back to Hollywood soon.  Luna just picked up a glass bowl and smashed it on the terrazzo  floor.  Bad Luna.  Bad dog.

Jennie, Saucy and The Big Dog

I spoke with my Mother today.  It was nice to hear her voice.  We have not spoken for ages and it tends to be like that-months of no contact then a flurry of emails and phone calls.  I must admit that I have been keeping my distance from her during the past few weeks as the Sex Rehab show airs.  Hearing her voice brings up a great deal of…a great deal of…a great deal.  She sounded happy about the show.  Apparently my brother had seen it and all is well.

Whenever I write I wonder what my Mother might think and then that begins to get in the way of the writing.   I have to write freely and honestly and without shame.  I can’t do that with me imagining my mother looking over my shoulder shaking her head.

Relationships are complicated when you are me.  Perhaps I over complicate them.

I received an email today from some stray reader who suggested I was being passive aggressive with Jennie about our relationship.  I have not been reading what she writes about me but I can guess.

When we were in rehab we were pretty much inseparable but rehab is not real life.  We really helped each other in there.  I could not have done it without her.  When we left rehab we moved into the same building and see each other most days, when we don’t see each other we talk to each other and when we don’t talk we text.

There was a golden moment when we were best friends but then something happened that was totally beyond our control.

A couple of months after we left rehab my darling Big Dog was hit by a truck in the street immediately outside of the building where we live.  I saw her pretty much torn to pieces in front of me.  She lay on the sidewalk hanging onto life.  I ran upstairs and woke Jennie; she drove my truck to the local pet hospital with The Big Dog and me in the back of the truck.  She stayed with me as they put her to sleep.  I begged them to help her live but they could not save her.

The following day I buried her in the garden in Malibu.

One might think that this would have brought Jennie and I together in a deeper way than we had been previously but actually the opposite was true.

I simply could not bear to be near any of the people who had seen so destroyed by grief, as I was that day and the ghastly days after.  In many ways the tears I shed were not just for The Big Dog but also for every time I had not cried when I really should have.   I could give you a million examples but it is just too painful to list them.

For relationships that ended badly, for ungrieved deaths, for lost love, for a shattered childhood, for injustice.  I sobbed uncontrollably for a week.

So Jennie saw me like that and afterwards I couldn’t look her in the eye.   Every time I pass the place where my darling Big Dog was killed I am flushed with the same feelings.  Every time I see her I remember that day.  I revisit the same emotions and it is too overwhelming for me.  Can you understand that?  It’s not fair on her but it’s the truth.

Time passes and the memories fade but not that one.  It stays as fresh in my mind as if it happened yesterday.  I think about it every day and it tempers my relationship with Jennie, Eric and Hillary.   But it is Jennie who is most hurt by my distance and inability to connect.

Personally, I think we have a good relationship.  It is not without it’s complications and petty rivalries but we are close in a way that say an ex husband and ex wife are.  We have shared a remarkable experience and a tragedy.  It’s not her fault that I reacted so badly.  I just did.

I don’t want any of you to think that I don’t love her because I do and I am so proud of her achievements and her courage to step away from porn and the money she made and forge a life beyond that cesspool.  I have written here in this blog how much she means to me and how sorry I am that I can’t, at this moment, give her more than I do.

Phew. I am in Malibu. It is hot and windy.  Luna has vanished but she always returns, there are three acres for her to explore. The little dog likes to stay within a few feet of me; he has found his favorite patch of sunny carpet overlooking the property. The sea is sparkling in the distance and the palm trees glisten like cellophane in the mid-day sun. I think that these are the Santa Ana winds, my eyes are burning and I am thirsty-desert thirsty.

Luna just returned from her garden adventure, skipping up the path.

I wish I could accurately record the beauty of this place for you. Looking down at the valley below, it feels up here like a Tuscan hill fort or a Chateau overlooking the Cote d’Azure. Listen to the humming birds, smell the sweet Datura trees and the giant honeysuckle. Nasturtiums drift from the top to the bottom of the property. Huge succulents; agaves, aloe and euphorbia bloom at this time of year. Great orange spikes of alien flowers. I wish you were here.

Sadly, this may be my last winter in Malibu. The house is FOR SALE and I want to leave by the end of June. You know where I’m off to.

I started today in Noah’s bagels on San Vicente drinking a vast cup of coffee when a man approached me and asked if Cari Ann was OK. I told him that she was. It is still surprising to me when total strangers know who I am.

Yesterday I spent time chatting with my friends in New Jersey and Charlotte NC. I had dinner with Emily and helped her assemble her bed and watched Sex Rehab with her and the dogs.

Yesterday’s Sex Rehab was nothing like I expected. Judging by what was tweeted and commented earlier in the day I thought you all had seen what had really happened. To tell you the truth I was much ruder to that trainer than they showed. When I said I had a melt down I really did MELT. What you didn’t see was exactly who would catch the full force of my Anthony wrath. It certainly wasn’t smelly trainer lady.

A really beautiful camera assistant came to work one day with his jeans worn low revealing his perfect butt. He was a terrible trigger for me. I had a ghastly crush on him. They told him to pull his pants up but he was always letting them slip back down..

So, the meltdown referred to last night on the show was not with camel toe trainer lady but aimed at the camera assistant. I yelled for production to get rid of him. “And you can get rid of that!” I screamed at the poor boy- he was only doing his job. His ass was driving me insane in the same way Phil was being driven bonkers by Cari-Ann’s ass hanging out of her..out of her? Out of her. We were all so sexually charged by the second week of Sex Rehab; feelings were violently erupting all over the place.

BTW I apologized to the camera assistant and the Rehab tech.

I really loved episode 5.

Like many people, watching Jill’s ‘smile’ work with Cari Ann moved me to tears. Carri-Ann was a tough nut to crack. I was also quite teary when I saw my therapy revelation with Dr John Seeley. That was the first time I had been introduced to the idea of retraumatization and it made perfect, astounding sense. It was the smoking gun. It was the moment for which I had waited too many years.

That perfect realization for all to see and the anger revelation were two moments that I will take to my grave; they would irrevocably change my life. These insights had immediate effect on me. From that moment on I would no longer let Anthony defend me and I would always be aware of exactly what I was doing every time I entered that dangerous sexual bubble that leads to retraumatization.

OK. A little controversy:

There has been some debate/consternation on these pages about my views on the ‘politics of obesity’.

As with sex we need always to have a healthy relationship with food. As sex addicts we hold onto our old sexual behaviors as over eaters hold onto theirs. There is a huge amount of entitlement connected to sexually addictive behaviors. I assume, from what is posted here, that this entitlement may apply to over eaters.

Firstly let me tell you that I have a huge compassion for those of you who wrestle with your weight and the consumption of food. However, let me make my point once again:

The purchase of healthy food in the USA is restricted to the wealthy, urban elite. In countries where rich and poor shop at the same markets, where all produce is democratized there is little or no obesity.

Where processed food is sold cheaply to the poor or the poor are not educated to buy what may be considered healthy food or the poor cannot afford healthy food and forced to eat processed food-then there are higher incidences of obesity.

Freedom of choice can only exist where there is real choice and where freedom is respected. If I live twenty miles outside Albuquerque and all I have to choose between at the local strip mall is a Super Market full of processed food and a Subway..I have no choice. I cannot make healthy decisions. My freedoms are restricted. This also applies to religion, sexuality and education.

Both ‘sexual politics’ and the ‘politics of sustenance’ are in many ways very similar.

So, let me repeat this unpalatable truth: people are kept enslaved by debt, obesity, ignorance, fear and shame-all of which are endemic in the USA right here, right now. Educated people, hungry people, fearless people, shameless people are difficult to control.

In my opinion the ruling elite of the USA did not ditch slavery in 1865 they simply enslaved everyone else. To break the shackles of your slave master: lose weight, get educated, get out of debt and stop believing in a damning God.

BTW I am 54 days sexually sober..

Malibu November Garden

I remember sitting in a car with my mother.  Her car.  I am in my mid twenties.  The refrigerator that I just bought refuses to work and I have to return it.  I am so full of fear and shame and resentment that I know the only way I can deal with this very simple situation is to lose my temper-but I hate losing my temper!  I hated that the only way I knew to find the confidence to return a refrigerator was to get mad.  I knew, painfully, that I let myself down.  I said to my mother tearfully, “You know HE did this to me, he made me this way.”  I knew instinctively that the crushing blows of my step-father had shattered my confidence and caused a rage so violent it would define my existence.

It would take twenty years for me to know how to deal with my anger and then quite suddenly-it would be gone.

When I was a little boy I remember smashing every single thing I owned.  It was the only power I had over the world.  I smashed everything I loved.  I hated him so much.  I refused to be subjugated by my stepfather.  I could not fight back with my fists so I evolved a tranch of behaviors to defend myself-empower myself-some of which I have to this day.

Pat Carnes says, “Anger and sex can be fused in such a way that it is self-perpetuating, self-destructive, and once ignited, independent of culture and even family.. “

My rage comes from my desire to be free of bondage.  Every time I lose my temper I have the same feeling of casting off my shackles.  Yet, I cast off a great deal more.  I lose my temper at the talent agents and I walk away from a restricting situation and a career.  I lose my temper on the phone to the bank that refuses to acknowledge an error and nearly wreck the car.  I lose my temper violently with a man I do not want to tell the truth and the police call me to discuss the ‘situation’.

There are always consequences for my rage.

After my rage-I think about sex.   I go online and look at men.  I masturbate.  I want to be close to them.

I have a suspicion that on tonight’s sex rehab you may get to see me lose my temper.  Finally!  I am really not as nice as they made me seem so far.  I lose my temper twice during the taping of the show and tonight I lose my temper with the vapid trainer woman who wears her nasty sweats too tight revealing the outline of her vagina.  I think I may refer to it, angrily, as her ‘camel toe’.

This woman was almost certainly a ‘plant’ by the Producers to get the guys to talk more about sex.  I overheard the cameramen say that he ‘felt sorry’ for Phil and James as this ghastly, inappropriately dressed woman bends over in poor Phil’s face.  However, at that moment I was feeling vulnerable and worthless.  I was alone-my friends had gone with Drew and Jill to do art therapy and I felt ignored.  Within the context of the Rehab I felt ignored.  All of the cameras were on them and THAT alien woman.  My rage got the better of me and ANTHONY came to the rescue.

Who is Anthony?  Anthony, caged deep inside of me, only stirs when I feel embarrassed, vulnerable, besieged or when I need protecting from the conspiring world.

Anthony, my alter ego, was the Lord I pretended to be when I lived in Paris in my late teens/early twenties.  My charismatic, acerbic grunt; Anthony is invincible!  Anthony gets things done.  Anthony is the enforcer. He makes films and paints and etches and believes in God but he is also destructive, violent, rageful, addicted to drugs and believes that there is only room in my life for him and me.

Anthony doesn’t trust anybody.  He will convince me that no one is good enough, rich enough, intelligent enough or beautiful enough.  He will convince me, always convinces me, that I best be on my own-that if I don’t listen to him they’ll hurt me like I have been hurt before.  That I will only ever be able to trust him.

When he leaps forward to defend the helpless child I used to be my accent, posture and face completely change.

Anthony terrifies me.  When I am Anthony I stand beyond myself wringing my hands, imploring him to stop, to stop shouting, to put down the knife, please don’t say that to her..Anthony please.  After he has gone it is like a bomb has been dropped in my life and I am left to pick up the pieces.

As I found out in rehab the solution for my anger turns out to surprisingly simple.

They said that I had to get to know Anthony.   They said, acknowledge his attributes: his tenacity, strength, clarity but, they said- when ever he charges to defend you-coursing powerfully through your body, tell him politely to go way-that you can deal with this.

So I say firmly but politely, “Anthony, I can deal with this situation.  Thanks, I can handle this.”

He didn’t want to hear that at first, he badly wanted to defend me.  Now he listens and backs off.  I can feel him sink back into me. Thankfully he is beginning to trust, trust that I can deal with anything I say I can.  That I am not so vulnerable any more.

I had to learn to accept Anthony’s gifts and ditch the rest.  As for me, I am kind, thoughtful, sensitive, diplomatic but prone to people pleasing. Between us we have a chance at being a grown up man, the ying and the yang without the fury or the subjugation.

I had three great revelations in Sex Rehab and this was the first.  More will be revealed.

To all of you who wrote to me yesterday I thank you.   So many moving emails and messages, each one lending hope not just to me but also to every reader who may struggle with addiction.

Some people may think that this is easy to share so publicly what is usually such a private condition.  I assure you all it is never easy to reveal the secret life of an addict yet, if I have learned anything during the past 13 years of sobriety  it is this absolute truth: we are as sick as our secrets.  Every secret I keep holds me back from a shameless life.

I wanted to share a few paragraphs from the emails I received yesterday.  The ones that so precisely describe my own condition and seem to affect so many other people.

“I am living without TV and Internet at home right now, and Duncan, it is a pleasure! That was my addiction, 10 hours a day or more. The TV on, watching anything I could record, on my laptop doing really nothing.”

Internet and TV addiction.  Zoning out on either means that I can no longer have a TV in my house and have to severely limit my Internet use.  Inertia and procrastination.  It may seem odd to some of you (especially as I am a film director) but both TV and the Internet grip me from the moment I come into contact with them.  I don’t particularly care what I am watching-indeed when I lived in NYC I would watch the Home Shopping Network or QVC deep into the night.  Why QVC?   Because commercials irritated me and the HSN/QVC don’t have commercials.  To put your minds at ease: I was never compelled to buy a Princess Diana Doll or a cover all face powder but I loved the passion of the sales men and women.  In a complicated world their simplicity beguiled me.

“As for sex.. I had plenty in college like most people. I enjoyed it, now, being 27, the only sex that i crave is with someone I am in love with. I have not been in love in 4 years. The hooking up scene to me is old. Plus it helps that the gays in this are all superficial bastards.  If you do not look like an Abercrombie model, they have no interest in you.  One thing that has boggled my mind is the increase of bare backing! Why would anyone, not in a healthy loving relationship, want to expose themselves to a health threat that could kill em. It is just crazy.”

Bare backing-the scourge of gay community.  Formerly the preserve of a few fetishistic ‘bug chasers’ bare backing (unprotected sex) is now de rigueur in the gay community.  Commercials for anti viral drugs featuring Abercrombie type guys convince a generation of young gay men that HIV is no different from diabetes and can be managed with drugs-albeit expensive drugs that one is required to take for the rest of ones life.  Thankfully, I am HIV negative and want to keep it this way.  However, many men my age are ditching their condoms and their caution for ‘manageable HIV’.  It is a travesty that the drug companies are allowed to go unchallenged by the gay community.  Our politics have been high jacked by the gay marriage debate so issues of health and mental health are simply ignored.

“I just turned 46 last week and out of those 46 years, I was a sex addict probably 30 of those years. I have been sober from drugs and alcohol for the almost 12 yrs. I don’t want to get into detail, because I am sure you know the drill. Needless to say, I acted out constantly. I had no personal life and didn’t really see a LTR in my future. This addiction made drugs and alcohol seem like kids play.”

This, sadly, is the email that I get most from most gay men, the story that I am most personally familiar with.  Trading the idea of a long-term relationship for a life of sexually acting out.  It is our greatest problem and remains totally ignored by the gay press; the straight press yet needs the most attention.  It is the secret that we are sick as.

As I found out from my gay brethren we are utterly unable to have any kind of meaningful discussion about our sex conduct.  The gay press has totally ignored my presence on Sex Rehab for this reason.  I expected it.  Yet, if this unhealthy sexual behavior were not killing us, making us miserable I would not have appeared on the show.   It is essential that our voices are heard and heard-by each other.

The last email I want to share with you comes from a startlingly handsome 21 years old.

“I never knew u were a sex addict as well. Its funny because I have been struggling with porn addiction also, I felt the same way when I came to America, used masturbation to help me cope.”

The gay men who are most threatened by the message of healthy sexuality are those who believe that it is only the unattractive, elderly or somehow impaired gay who want to wreck it for everyone else.   It is obvious from our pornography, our clubbing, our drugging, our hook up sites, our literature, and the incidence of newly diagnosed syphilis and HIV infections that our sexual behavior needs scrutiny.

I am not in the business of taking anything away from anyone.  However, it would be irresponsible of me not to at least try and reach out to a community that I love and have served loyally as an artist all my life with a message of hope.

PS Thankyou Dr Drew Pinski for sharing my blog with your Twitter followers.  It made all the difference.

Thanksgiving 2009.  Hollywood California USA.

Today I have a great deal to be thankful.  It is odd to think that less than a year ago I was still ensconced in my porn cave.  Now, in the most public way, I am delivered from my unhealthy behaviors.  For that I am incredibly grateful.

As the weeks pass and Sex Rehab unfolds on VH1 emails arrive from all over the USA.  Mostly men and some women tell me the most harrowing details of their addiction.  I am most moved by the heterosexual men who reach out to me, for I am sure it is no easy task in such a sexually polarized country to do so.

These men and women who sit alone in their homes, forsaking humanity, searching for the perfect image, delving into the darkness of their souls speak volumes to me.  And it is to you and your courage that I give thanks this morning.

One gay man came up to me in the street and told me that at 31 year old he had never had a relationship, forsaking happiness for pornography and fleeting hookups.

A few nights ago another man sat in my living room crying because he could not stop looking at pornography, ‘the worst kind’ he said.   He was appalled and shamed by his actions and desperate to stop.

At times like these there is little ‘advice’ I can give.  I am there to listen and offer hope that lives can change.  That there is a solution.

There is a solution. I am here to affirm that this true.  If you are suffering any kind of addiction there is a solution.  For this I am grateful.

I have been very surprised that so few homo haters have bothered contacting me and for that I am grateful.

When strangers call my name in the street it is all so often to congratulate me for my bravery, to reassure me that they are on my side.  It is the hardest thing of all to put your hand out to another suffering man.  To make space at your table for those who see no way out of misery.

I am so fortunate.  Whatever happens good or bad I remain open hearted.  Whatever may be in God’s plan for me is really none of my business-but I can tell you one thing of which I am totally sure-if I can live without resentment, shame or anger then I am alive to receive the abundance of this world.  To me abundance does not mean houses, cars, and exotic travel.  Abundance means simply, to be sure footed in a world littered with treacherous obstacles.

My gratitude this morning is for life.  I am grateful to be alive.  That, at this very moment,  everything is just as it is meant to be.