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Category: Travel
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Sydney Girls
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Urban Wolf
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Apricot Lane Farm
Today we were the guests of Molly and John Chester at Apricot Lane Farm, Moorpark CA.
Molly is a former personal chef and John a former film director.
Now, tucked away in their bucolic idyl, away from the madding crowd, devoted to the creation of a bio-dynamic 150 acre farm set in rolling countryside 45 minutes from Santa Monica.
The property was originally owned by a ‘gentleman farmer‘ so the house and formal gardens surrounding the house are spectacular in a Gertrude Jekyll kind of way.
We toured the property then sat in an etruscan tower over looking the freshly planted orchards.
Perfect way to spend an afternoon.
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Inland Empire
It feels like I haven’t written anything for weeks. Living this simple and unexpected life. I’ve no idea what comes next nor do I care. Occasionally I wonder what it would be like to be back at home…Whitstable. It is waiting for me.
Sunday, I drove 100 miles North East to the Inland Empire to meet my lover. We booked into a cheap hotel and spent the day in bed. It was languorous and passionate. We ate free ‘home made’ cookies given to us when we checked in. We left the hotel briefly to buy fried chicken. We looked at the pool but didn’t swim.
After he left I walked on my own through a huge discount mall, I saw vibrant, sequined dressed for unplanned Quinceanera.
On the way home I wondered what the ham hocks would taste like that had been slowly cooking in the stove all day. They were delicious.
I have, of late, developed sexual desires and needs formally ignored. Today my legs are weak from indulging myself.
I may drive to NYC next week to fetch the art that remains in the East Village. Dan has been looking after it.
I like driving across country. I should take a different route but the familiarity of Route 66 lures me south.
I spoke at an ACLU event last week in the lush Hancock Park gardens of a rich gay man. His large mock Tudor home filled with Arts and Crafts furniture and paintings by dead artists like Otto Dix. Even though there were many sofas and well upholstered club chairs there didn’t seem to be anywhere to sit.
The speech was well received.
One afternoon last week (May 1st) I spoke to David Cruz, the KTLK liberal chat show host. I felt primed and confident. It was easier to talk about the LA jail system than it was to talk about Dorian Gray. Ethnic Cleansing. Secure Communities. Institutional racism and homophobia.
I have not been to any 12 step meeting but was stopped in the street by the crazy Sean McFarland sex therapist who kissed me and hugged me. I told him that the deaths of his clients should be on his conscience. He wished me all the best and crawled, like the slimy reptile he is, back into the Porsche despair has paid for.
On Saturday I met another 12 step buddy at Gjelina but we didn’t talk much. I don’t want to hear about the cult. Even though he is an old friend I eyed him suspiciously. We talked about my 85-year-old friend Coach who died last week. I’m glad he never knew that I turned by back on AA.
Robby and I had lunch last Thursday. He is delightful.
I have been ignoring calls from people I’m usually happy to hear from.
Everyday I drive along the PCH to Venice where I drink coffee at Intelligentsia on Abbot Kinney. I take pictures of strangers for my portrait project updated daily.
We peered briefly at the Super Moon. It was large and bright. It wasn’t nearly as exciting as seeing the comet, Hale Bop.
For the past ten days I have logged onto gay hook up app Grindr to see what is going on…what I am missing. I’ve been sent many picture of cocks but had no desire to sit on any of them…many pictures of asses but have no need to fuck. Next week I am going to publish them all here on WordPress in a password protected blog.
Life is all at once full up and completely empty.
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Soft Boiled Eggs
The past few weeks in his arms.
This morning we woke up next to each other one last time before I leave. The dog needed walking so I headed over to Grumpy on 20th St and ordered the Guatemalan special. I drank mine there then limped back to the apartment. I forgot to wear my ankle brace.
He was waiting in bed, tangled in the sheets. His monochrome tattoos: insects and art nouveau chrysanthemums. He is agile and muscular like a wild beast. His wiry beard and jet black, beady eyes. Yesterday he did standing push ups against the wall.
It never occurs to me that he would want the same of me. Super fit, super defined. I am neither.
We watched Harold and Maud in bed last night. The old woman and the young boy.
He is a man, 32 years old, not a boy. Half Italian…half black…he has lived all over the world, indulging his wander lust. Taking refuge in the roads. He speaks Italian, spends time at an Indian ashram, collects art, makes art, cooks me dinner and today we are kayaking on the Hudson. He has already seen Visconti’s Rocco and his Brothers.
In bed, we take turns with who plays the aggressor. He kisses me, feeding me his spit, his cum, his ass. I stand over him, telling him what to do. He holds me down and pounds me. He holds up his ass and I push my cock in him…holding it there, relishing the connection. The first time he came he shot his load under my arm pit.
I don’t make the same mistakes. When I feel that loving feeling rush over me. No travel fantasies, no ownership, no LA visits or career help. No promises, no name dropping. Nothing I can do to make him love me.
We lay together or walk together. He bikes over the Manhattan bridge, he hates the Brooklyn bridge, he says that there are too many tourists walking in the bike lane.
He wants to show me a picture of an old lady torn to pieces on the subway, the picture he sold to the newspapers for $300. Her hand stretched out, trying to stop the train ripping her head in two. I don’t want to see it. Imagining it is enough. Do you want to see?
Last night he took me to Washington Square Park. Hundreds of young, nerdy kids fighting each other with light sabres. A forest of drawn weapons. Some had arrived just with their sabre, others with friends, a routine and rehearsed lines from Star Wars.
(He is doing a hundred push ups.)
As we were leaving the park a young girl indignantly told her friends, “I don’t need to see Star Wars to play with a silly stick.”
He cooked dinner. It’s Midday on Sunday and we are getting up again. I am boiling some eggs. He likes them soft.
I have no idea what day it is. It may be Sunday. It is Sunday. I am on Fire Island, (The Pines) I can hear the waves crashing on the beach. The little dog is desperate to get out onto the board walks. Yesterday he chased a deer.
[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=794NkSJV488&w=560&h=349]
How we laughed.
I could have got a $100 ticket for letting him off the lead.
I am staying with Benoit Denizet-Lewis and his utterly gorgeous friends. Well, some of them are. The ones he lives with in Boston are charming. The rest, although beautiful, are a bit snippy. There must be fifty ipads in this house. The fridge is stuffed with sliced turkey.
Must walk on beach and buy coffee.
We arrived yesterday afternoon, Toby, Charlie and me. Had lunch (salad Nicoise) with Lawrence and his friends overlooking the bay. The house is charming. Surrounded by pom-pom hydrangea. Lilac coloured blooms. Ten of us for lunch.
David Collins very pretty ex-colleague at lunch bitching about his ex-boss.
It’s sadly true that when David befriended Madonna it changed his DNA. David used to be a sweet Irish boy earning a good living for himself as an interior decorator. Then he met Madonna and thought he sat amongst the gods.
Neither Charlie or Toby had been here before. So we, albeit briefly, explored the community.
I popped into Grey Gardens, the house where Joe and I used to live. It has been bought by a rather arrogant queen who told me that he had chased the lesbians away who used to be our neighbours.
The house looked exactly the same. Including all the flags and stuff hanging outside. He also bought the house to the right of the property. I will go back there today and take a picture.
After lunch Benoit and I walked via the meat rack to Cherry Grove. We met Zelko, Todd and Caroline who are staying in a rental next door to Neil Sedaka. We met him briefly yesterday. He is a legend. Also, their friend John who I have a picture of when we were really young shaving his balls in my bathroom wearing a cowboy hat that is probably still where I left it in Grey Gardens.
Cherry Grove is like The East Village. I used to hate it but now I fit right in. The boys at Benoit’s (the ones we like) all agree that Cherry Grove is less problematic…less snooty.
Since I was last here with Georgina five years ago things have changed around the dock. The Pavilion has been rebuilt. It is now a very chichi affair. There is a huge gym. It is altogether less charming than it was but not so bad. At least it doesn’t smell of rotting pineapple which I remember from before.
We ate a good lunch at a new restaurant called? Can’t remember.
There was a drinks party at the neighbours house yesterday. They had bees embroidered onto their carpet. They had navy blue Ralph Lauren interiors and discussed their silver wear like it had been designed by Faberge.
Before I went to bed I walked to the dock. The club was ramping up for a full night of joyful gayness.
Even thought I am having a great time and feel confident…I still feel a little edgy. On the edge. Like..they are not me and I am not them. I am looking for the differences rather than the similarities. Even thought I love them unconditionally I wish I would not.
I am going to look for an AA meeting. I am going to buy some coffee.
The previous day we spent with Dee and the beautiful Sean and the equally beautiful Joe.
Had dinner with Dee and Toby at the worst and most expensive restaurant I have ever been to. DEL POSTO on 10th Avenue. It belongs to Mario Batali. The space is cavernous, tacky, chilly, boring and pretentious. The wait staff are all huge and dress in ugly, ill-fitting suits: like FBI operatives.
The language they have been coached to use when describing the menu is almost old english. It is absurd. When the food arrives, in our case drizzled with different olive oils before our very eyes like they were fucking magicians…oh the disappointment! Miserable, tasteless and badly prepared.
Every dish must have been touched a hundred times by fifty different people. Had it not cost a bloody fortune it would have been laughable.
Terrible tummy later that night.
I stayed in The Standard. I have been very tired. Very tired.
Dee returned to Hong Kong the following day.
