Tag: New York City

Categories
Travel

Desert Flower Day Two

I have not written this diary properly for a few days.  A great deal is going on.   Traveling East.

It seemed like I said yes to far too many dinner invitations and ended up cancelling all of them.

I am talking to sales reps about The Picture of Dorian Gray.  Finally.  It is time.  David Gallagher is the breakout star in Super 8 so we may very well sell it.  With David looking so amazingly fit and grown up and Aleksa in Boardwalk Empire…perhaps we can sell it for what it is worth.  Anyway, I’m talking again to sales agents so let’s see.  I just want what it is worth.  Not selling it for anything less.

I am still not happy with the edit.

The desert.  We drive into the night.  The Freeway.  Homogenous America.  The same 6 restaurant chains, the same names…again and again.  Nothing to differentiate state by state.   The desert is beautiful.  Desolate, hot, 110 degrees yesterday.

I am now in Willcox Arizona, sitting in the Safeway Starbucks where coffee is twenty cents more than The Palisades.  To prove that people must be BORED beyond reason living out here I have been recognized more in the past ten minutes than the past ten months.

They are playing Nights in White Satin by The Moody Blues.

So, we left LA yesterday morning.  The previous day we spent dozing on the beach then had dinner at the rancid Taverna Tony’s.  Flayed shrimp.  The Beautiful Dane’s Swedish friend arrived and we all stayed in Malibu that night leaving early the following morning with Robby.

The Swedish friend (whose name I refuse to remember) is a clumsy idiot and I don’t expect revising my opinion any time soon.  They call each other Bagel.   Within ten minutes of meeting me he had knocked my phone out of my hand.

Robby and Miles returned from their wedding weekend, apparently the bride and groom washed each other’s feet in the Christian ceremony.  Robby looked great.  They are such sweet boys.

Very clean feet.

The Dane sings Riders in The Storm in Danish which is funny.

Picked up a huge SUV at The Dane’s insistence.  Expensive, gas consuming behemoth.

We drove to Glendale Station where we picked up another Dane, a girl called Lucie who used to work in the fashion and textile department at the Met in NYC.  We had a great deal to talk about.

It seemed like a good idea to fill the car with friends but as it turns out the idiot friend and the Dane have a very specific sort of relationship and Lucie is his ex gf who he took two years to get over.

I began to reassess.   My farts stink.

We drove from LA to Phoenix.  Dinner at The Royal Palm Resort which is incredibly beautiful.  Taco Tuesday.  Luxury on a budget.  The Swede nipped off with his good-looking friend and bought two dresses from H and M for him and the Dane which they changed into in the parking lot.

We stopped in a gas station and a man told his friend very loudly that the dress wearing men should be arrested.  As we drove deeper into Arizona the dresses caused me some panic as I really did not want either of them to get shot.

As you can tell from my voice.  I am trying a little too hard.

Stayed in a small motel with wi-fi and a big black dog.  The room cost us $60.

We are on our way to Marfa, Texas to the Donald Judd hangers.

If you want to see all of the videos from this trip…go to my YouTube channel.

We are off soon.  Long journey ahead.  They are playing Joe Jackson’s Stepping Out.  The Starbucks girl is blending caramel frapaccino and I will never see Willcox Arizona ever again.

Categories
Gay Health

Pilgrimage

Dawn.  Crows cawing.  Dawn chorus.

There is so much dew it looks and smells as there has been heavy rain.   I spend an hour every morning watering whatever I can from the path at the top of the house.   I enjoy this.

There are so many snails.

Had lunch in Hollywood yesterday with a writer.  Actually, we didn’t eat lunch.  I drank some iced tea. Met the man who owns Mama Shelter in Paris.  I have known him for years but I just didn’t know that he owned that hotel.  You know we stayed there don’t you?  This time last year.

How can I spend so much time wishing away the past?

Long conversation with a man in Sonoma who makes chicken coops.  They are expensive but look great.

Jennifer bought fresh garbanzo beans which seem like they might be easy to grow in my garden.  The melons are growing.  The black tomatoes are doing well.  Something ate the pumpkin seedlings.  The lemon trees, after the wet winter, are laden with fruit.  There are figs and plums and ruby grapefruit.

There are roses blooming all over the property.

What else can I tell you? I write my novel as per suggestion.  It gets better and better.  Perhaps I get better?  It started as one thing and already, with a little intelligent coaxing, is evolving into something quite different.  It started with vengeful intentions. Now it is getting funny.  It started with a view to kill.   Now it embraces the will to live.  These are not my ideas.

I would prefer my original plan.

I have just a few weeks to finish writing The Scarlett Empress. It is by far the most commercial thing I have ever written.  It is helping me though.  Helping me think in a different sort of way.

The more I write the other stuff…the less I want to write this.  Yet, this spurs me into action.

Three days until the ‘Big Adventure’.   The Dane arrives from NYC on Sunday.

Becoming a Pilgrim.  You’ll enjoy reading about it.  I have had to keep the plan a big secret.  I don’t want anyone ruining it.

The twins are running around the house in their boxers.

Pains in chest and arm.  Balls ache once again.  Nasty cough.

Categories
Auto Biography Malibu

Brothers and Sisters

Wild Sage

Yesterday we went for a long hike though the Malibu Canyon State Park.

Beautiful wild flowers.  The Little Dog in 7th heaven.  Drove home via the Malibu Farmers Market and prepared fresh chard for dinner.  Bought delicious goats cheese flavoured with lavender.   Made dinner for three of us then slept FITFULLY as the dog was up and down the stairs all night barking at wildlife in the garden.

Saw Chris Cortazzo the local, gay celebrity realtor wearing jeans that were far too tight for a man of his shape and disposition.

Did you know that I am the eldest of 11 (maybe 12) children shared between my Mother who had my half brothers Stuart and Martin and my errant father Kuros Khazaei who had 8 or 9 further half brothers and sisters with 4 or 5 other women depending on which story you believe.

I have met all of my half siblings except Jonathon (no contact) and Natalie who I have spoken to on the telephone. So, here goes, here are the rest of my half blood brothers and sisters born in wedlock/legitimately by my father:  Dominic, Michael, Natalie, Jessica, James, Rebecca and Jonathon Khazaei.  Illegitimately by my father Karen and there maybe another called Roya…but this might be a paternal myth.  Like the diamond heist.  Can anyone shed any light on that?  Or that the Kray twins threw him out of a window?  Or that he carried a tape recorder everywhere with him?

That’s all there is to tell you about them.  Just wanted you to know.  Some of you think I am an only child.

The beautiful Dane arrives from NYC next Sunday and a couple of days later we will head off on our ‘Great Adventure!’ all of which we will document here and on YouTube.   Obviously it was at about this time last year that The Penguin and I went to France.  I’ve been reading over my rather romanticized blogged version of those weeks.

My anger refreshed.  Remember, the night I arrived in NYC he was already (I later discovered) seeing someone else in a ‘non exclusive relationship’ and decided to fetch his stash of meth from under his bed and snort it in front of me.  I feel so angry writing this.  That he would take such a risk with my sobriety.

By the time we left for Paris he had no respect or love or care for me what so ever.  He just wanted the free ride.

Whilst we were in Europe he was hooking up with other men when ever he could, using internet pornography, skyping with his ‘non-exclusive’ boy friend and lying to me every single day.

I think of those weeks in Europe and my heart sinks.   Mind you, how must his ex girl friend feel?  That on every vacation they ever took together during their 7 years he would do exactly the same.  Hooking up with random strangers in bathrooms then slipping into bed with her.  Her sucking a cock that had just been up a strangers ass.

I have just been writing the final pages of my novel so this revisited fury has some provenance.

As for the novel?  Anything I put my mind to…my heart into…what seems for others a long and painful process has become quite effortless.

I am now working with a book editor from the not so niche publisher.  It is most often described in the press as a ‘leading independent publisher’.   The time difference means that notes were waiting for me this morning when I woke up.  My first notes.  I was so excited I almost couldn’t look at them.

Wow, this editor thang is a revelation.

Working with someone who helps shape, define and redefine the work I am doing.  Helping me be less self-conscious.

As for the imprint by whom I will be published..their rosta of edgy authors is very impressive indeed.

I just heard that Laura Ziskin died of cancer yesterday.  Now I feel terrible.  She was a great friend of The Penguin.  I’m so sorry.

Yesterday I wandered the garden taking pictures.  Here are some of them:

Categories
Rant

Right Now

Duncan and Gabe

The garden.  Watering the garden.  Tending the garden.  Seedlings.  Deer at night.  Snakes by day.  Warm sun, a cool breeze blowing off the ocean.  It is just all so beautiful and thrilling.

I take my afternoon nap.  I write my blog.  I walk by the ocean. Gabe is here.  The tide is high.  The Little Dog runs from the waves, darting in and out of the rocks.  The surfers ride them high, crashing into the water.

News items that disturb me:  The mutilated 13-year-old Syrian boy.  The care workers in England who tortured their mentally ill charges.  The other little boy who may win a fixed British talent contest.  The corrupt and uncaring government.

Yet, despite these horrors I can still find peace.  I am at one with who I am.  Will this last?  No it wont, but why bother worrying about what may or may not come next?

Spirituality means dealing with our intuition.   The divine is looking kindly upon me?

I am here and now.  Experiencing right now.  No point in dwelling on the past or imagining the future.  This very moment.  Nothing mystical.  Precise.

Why be threatened by the now?  Jumping to the past or the future.  The now is good.

I am no longer waiting to be dead.

Trust right now.  It is very powerful.  Interacting with the now.  Everything I experience is unconditional.

Borrowing from the past and inviting the future.   No, not today.

Perhaps this is why I want God to look kindly upon me?

This morning I fight with AT&T because they have over charged me.  I take the twins and Gabe to breakfast at the Lumber Yard.  I water the citrus trees. Yesterday I stayed at the house all day gardening.

Enough is all I have so I must trust that enough is all I need.  My needs are met. Right NOW.  Look around me and experience what for the past year has been so elusive.   I live in a paradise.  My own paradise.  It is no use dwelling on future catastrophes when I love what is happening right now.  It is no use hankering after what could have been. It is no use comparing what I have with what others own and despairing that I want even more.

I am a single man with far too much already.

Now.

PS My friend and backgammon foe Sam (Levinson) is dating Ellen Barkin. I celebrate their 31 years age difference.

My friend Alecia has had her baby.

This Morning on the Beach
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Categories
art Fashion Gay Love

Fuck You Penguin/Love You Lee McQueen

Alexander McQueen Fall 2008
Alexander McQueen Fall 2008

After a late breakfast I met Michael L at Mud. He was wearing a DIVINE pair of Prada shoes…an extraordinary wing tip/espadrille hybrid with Nike soles.

I LOVE YOUR SHOES.

I told him that I had seen JP at my AA meeting.

On the spur of the moment we decided to go to Savage Beauty, The Alexander McQueen retrospective at the Met. Sunday afternoon, it was OVER RUN with people. JAMMED.

Jammed with people who may or may not love fashion but certainly not enough to line up for two hours!

Thankfully we were Met members so went directly to the front of the line.

I didn’t give a damn how many people were there. I just loved the show from beginning to end.

This enchanting, inspiring exhibition gave me a great deal to think about.

Firstly, let me tell you that I hadn’t seen McQueen’s work up close like that. Why would I ? I don’t know Daphne Guinness.

Not a single photograph anywhere does his work justice. It really has to be seen to be believed. I was utterly dumfounded by the drama, the workmanship, the unexpected depth of emotion it inspired.

There were a million  obvious references: Balenciaga, Vivienne Westwood, Jean Paul Gaultier (fucked him once after the IRA bombed The City of London).  Regardless, it was uniquely beautiful. Uniquely Lee. Westwood without the bustle.  Balenciaga without the cassock.  Gautier without…

I loved the fabric woven for the Plato’s Atlantis collection.  Fabric woven to look like the re-imagined skin of mythical serpents.

The Razor Clam dress was exquisite.  The dress sprayed by ballet dancing robots…heavenly.

My most favorite costume were from the spring/summer 2005 collection,  It’s Only a Game.  Using burlap, hessian, raffia, leather, crude mechanical embroidery.  I loved, most particularly, an appliqued Japanese inspired, floor length dress.  Lilac tulle softly billowing out of the structured bodice around the feet.  Sublime.

This entire collection (as curated) left one breathless.

Eshu 2000, a simple shift made of tiny yellow beads and black horsehair. The yellow beads spread like caviar on crisp toast, dripping provocatively onto the horse hair.

McQueen bejewels the constellation of dead couturier that include Christian Dior, Yves St Laurent, Paul Poirot, Madame Gres etc.  Twinkling stars inspiring us from above. Isabella Blow is sitting right there beside him laughing with her protégé at how mortals now wait in line to worship at his alter. They were never meant to.  The world of high fashion, like the world of high art, is exclusive by design and inclination.

I thought about the very few times we met. Check on Wire Image for the picture of me, he and Lucy Ferry. If you don’t believe me.

I thought about his suicide. How lonely being that much of a genius can make you. How protected he was by the women in his life who never really approved of any of his boyfriends because they felt ‘married’ to him. Lucy, Sam, Naomi, Kate, Isabella, Daphne, Anna etc.

No one was ever good enough for Lee so he became more and more isolated.

Too embarrassed to introduce the kind of boy he wanted to those grand arbiters of taste. How could he spend all day designing beautiful things and bring that home.

Fag hags think they are doing you a big favor by keeping trashy boys out of our lives…in fact…all they did was keep Lee McQueen lonely. I hold all of those women partially responsible for his death. If he had only been allowed to fall in love…but those kind of women are little bit too eager to have an opinion about a gay love life thinking that Lee was just one of the girls.

Straight women really don’t understand gay men as much as they claim they do.

After McQueen we stopped in at the Ben Cohen event at Boxers. Flirted mercilessly with wrestler Hudson Taylor. Will post pics asap.

Ben Cohen is a straight British rugby player who is making a name (and a great deal of money) for himself by championing LGBT causes.  Beloved by the gays he has a cherubic face and huge chest.

“I can’t understand a word he’s saying…but he’s gorgeous.” One man cooed.

Ben was making an impassioned speech about bullying and homophobia.  The gays just looked on in awe.  Objectifying poor Ben and gorgeous Taylor.  They didn’t give a fuck.  “Take you shirt off!”  They screamed as he appealed to them for a more tolerant world.

GLAAD gave him some award.  ‘Cute Straight People Who Like Us’ award…or something.  Michael (?) the head of GLAAD NY was there last night.  “It’s not political.”  He reassured me.

Then something rather irritating happened. Zack’s really dull friend arrived. The sort of boy who thinks he’s attractive but hasn’t got two damp sticks to rub together to get any fire started….anywhere. He pissed me off sufficiently to make me shout at him.

Apparently my present anger is quite healthy. I am so…fucking angry. With myself. I have NO ONE else to blame.  I used to be angry with The Penguin.  Now I am angry with me.

Livid that I let myself be duped. Blinded by love. Blinded by compassion. I don’t blame him. I can’t blame him. There’s nothing to blame. Other than the CON. I don’t blame him for making me fall in love with him…he is just a child, as was evidenced when I saw him with his parents. Bouncing on his mother’s knee.

Enmeshed.

A sad situation existed in that house. I realised why I found the father so interesting…he reminded me of someone. Rather than concentrate on his son and wife, he was staring at us. Not because he was trying to intimidate…he was just…more interested.

Emotionally absent father, more interested in solving his patients problems than focusing on the needs of his son. The Penguin wanted his father’s love so badly. It’s not his fault. Shame on them! I can imagine that he wasn’t just absent for The Penguin but for the entire family.

Mother and son thrown together in some emotionally incestuous swamp. Hanging onto each other for dear life.

If I can’t have you my husband….I will have him. My darling son.

Enmeshed.

He looked…like an aspergers boy when he was with them. Which is odd because isn’t that his father’s speciality?

Let me tell you how things have changed since I saw him. I blame myself for being so damned stupid. I blame myself for letting a petty conman/thief run rampant through my life. I blame myself for constantly letting him off the hook. I blame myself for convincing anyone who would listen that I loved him. I blame myself for thinking he was beautiful. I blame myself for not running out the door the moment he took heavy drugs from under his bed and asked if it was ok.

I have been a fucking idiot….and I am really, really pissed off with myself.

Hudson Taylor and Duncan Roy
Categories
Gay

Fuck You Rapture

Quite by chance I have fallen in with a bunch of super cool, inclusive gay men.

Men who achieve.  Men who live fun, proud gay lives. Because of them I’m really enjoying my life here in NYC.

Don’t for one minute think I take any of it for granted. I know that a life like this can vanish as quickly as it appears. I’m really enjoying the opportunity to connect, feel supported and breathe.

There are many different tribes of gay men in NYC. There are so many of us here.

As usual I couldn’t stay in bed past 7.30am regardless of who is slumbering beside me. I need to get on with the day.

The apartment is being decorated so whilst the painters set up their ladders and pull down the light fittings we went for a long breakfast in the occasional sunshine. Sitting in the sun, eating scrambled egg. Reading the newspaper. Looking at the cute Saturday runners jogging by in their silky shorts.

Took subway uptown and by chance saw an old friend, an actor from my Dorian days. This is exactly why I loathe and love the Subway, you never know who you are going to bump into. Trapped in a subway car.

Anyway, we picked up his suit that needed altering and met up with the boys for lunch. Lunch from food trucks at Madison and 26th. Everyone seemed obsessed with this RAPTURE shit. I think people were half expecting it to be true. The storm clouds didn’t help.

Thankfully it didn’t happen. Or maybe it did?

My dog and Zack’s dog didn’t really connect.

Kaolin joined us in the park. He is so funny. We went shopping for shirts and other essential items for a wedding next weekend in Los Angeles. I bought a vase in ABC as a thankyou gift.

Walked home with Kaolin. Had nap then met Ian in an Indian restaurant on 27th. Delicious. I ate goat. Talked about Michael Jackson and how he had to take the stand during the Michael Jackson trial.

VIG 27

Birthday party at Vig 27. Very lively, good people. Met the sex columnist from Time Out, we bonded with over our respective health issues. We talked about gay men, how they behave.  Our self-destruction.  A daily fascination.

We talked about Dan Savage, he applauded Dan’s It Gets Better campaign…which, as you know, I think is a load of baloney.

It Gets Better? Better than death maybe…but not much better.

I had agreed to stay until 4 but bailed at midnight.

Stumbled, briefly, into The Eagle.

It is far too early in the year to wear white linen pants. I did anyway.

20110522-092450.jpg
Realness: Pony, Kaolin, Zach, Lil Dog and me in Martin Margiella
Categories
Gay

The Strengths I Imbue

After Stephen left yesterday afternoon for some appointment somewhere…I lay on the sofa and mulled over the days events.  One thing was certain, The Penguin no longer rents space in my head.

I kept marveling at how I had once found him so intoxicating.  I finally saw him as others saw him.  When Charlie said, “He wasn’t like anyone I had met you with before…”  I felt vaguely insulted.   “The boys you usually introduce me to are beautiful.”

Yet, Charlie was right.  My love for him made his fascinating.   The pictures I took of him made him look like a model.   The life I handed him.  The strengths I imbued.  When I took him to Paris all he brought with him was his mediocrity.

I realized that I had never seen him, in all the time we knew each other, with anyone other than my friends and family.  To see him interact with his parents was a revelation.  They looked at his iPad and laughed.  The sham, It might have worked if his Mother didn’t look so incredibly sad.  Amongst them The Penguin looked for all the world like the entitled brat who would think nothing of taking drugs to their house, using their kitchen as a porno web casting studio or telling them bare-faced lies.

Their ‘unconditional’ love created The Penguin.   I had hinted before that this may have been the case but just seeing them together confirmed my worst fears.

I suddenly understood Jessie’s fury in a way that I had never understood it before.

He wrote:

“Well, it’s over.  She came home, got me to confess a bit more truth–that i have had sex with men before–then after a lot of kicking, hitting and screaming, she kicked me out.  I took the train to my parents’ house, where I told my mom everything (my dad is out of town which made it all a bit easier actually), and she held me and told me it will all work out.  Jessie called her to make sure I’d gotten home, which gave me some hope that she might not hate me forever…but after she got home tonight it became clear that there is no going back.  She accused me of ruining her life, of being a deceitful sociopath, of being a bad person who she wishes she never met.  This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my life.

 Part of me feels like I wish I’d never met you–your were a catalyst of sorts and without that catalyst everything right now would probably be as it was.  But I know that “as it was” was not as perfect as I wanted it to be, and beneath all the pain right now I know I did the right thing.  Thank you for guiding me towards the truth,,,you are so incredibly strong…I can hear it in your voice, your words.  I hope I can be as strong as you and I really want to thank you for being here for me.  I cannot fucking believe this happened today.  Love you a lot.”

The truth is:  he would never have ‘come out’ if I had not been the crazy man I am.  I had threatened to ‘un-pick’ his life and he knew that the truth had to be told.   I forced him to tell her the truth.

His lies made me physically sick.

Whilst he was with Jessie I wrote:

You are making me unhappy.  There is no fucking hope.

 I refuse to be the other person in your life whilst you selfishly shit on other people.

 It is not fair on any of us.

 I refuse to be the levelheaded guy who just puts up with you.   Then, when and if it suits you, you turn on and accuse of craziness.

 I can’t do it.

 Yes, today I felt fed up with you because I don’t trust you.  Why should I?

 Why should anyone?

 What the hell did you expect from this?  That I just have no feelings?  That we just fuck?   That you sit in your room and jerk off on camera and that was going to be enough for me?

 Jake, PLEASE stop living a lie.  Leave that poor woman.  Be single for a while then find a man to love.

 Please.

I think often about Jessie.  How he treated her.

Let’s talk about who I became yesterday.  I didn’t really like me yesterday.  I didn’t like the goose-stepping, mad man who took obnoxiously loud telephone calls in the court waiting room.  It seemed like I just had to be THAT GUY.  It seems like it’s the only way I know how to protect myself.

I was the wrong size when I left the court.  So it was that I had to get back to being the right size.   Not too big, not too small.

Alex called.  We had dinner at Angelica’s Kitchen.  I ate steamed vegetables.  We talked briefly about the day but I was done.  Done talking about The Penguin.

We fell into bed and I kissed him.   Everything felt so different.  Fresh.

Just two men in bed, two men in bed without any expectations.

I am on Fire Island this weekend house hunting for the summer.   Very excited.

http://http://www.nextmagazine.com/nexus/scene-heard-brian-rafferty-and-shawn-paul-mazur-give-royal-treatment-kings

Categories
Film Gay Money NYC Queer

Fire Island Pines

Fire Island Dawn

NYC streets once again. I am staying until Sunday then I am going to Fire Island for a few days. I love it there at this time of year. Wandering around the deserted Pines, exploring the unoccupied houses.

I imagine that everyone who had a house there when Joe and I lived on Bay Walk… well they must have long gone.  Tommy Tune, David Geffen, the kindly big guy whose name I can’t remember who lived opposite. The lesbians next door who never really approved of Joe.  Joe would call out to Geffen when we saw him on the board walk, “You’re the best looking billionaire in the world.” Geffen would smile and pass on by.

Joe and I spent an entire winter together in that house on a deserted, frozen Fire Island. Nobody does that. Just the deer to keep us company. Standing silently in the snow, staring at us in the house going about our business. Warm, well fed.

I can tell you stories if you want?

It must have been this time of year that I was there with my difficult boyfriend Jamie Page and Bryan Singer and Brandon Boyce turned up with a bunch of friends (including a very young John Krokidas).  It was wild. I remember laying in bed, listening to men running over the roof.  I was drinking and taking drugs in those days so Fire Island… the gay bit, suited me just fine.

One bright, spring day I remember walking from Cherry Grove through what they called The Meat Rack or The Judy Garland Memorial Park. Why did they call it The Meat Rack? Why did they call it The Judy Garland Memorial Park? This well trodden scrub grew on the bay side of the island separating Cherry Grove and The Pines.

It was prone to mosquitos and cruising.

At night, after the dancing was over or the drugs were leading the way, the gays would high-tail down the boardwalk into the swampy thicket, the vacant dunes.

The sea pounding on the sand, night birds singing in the moon lit wood.

Here the revelers would remove the very little that they still had on and laze naked, like nymphs, will o’ the wisp. Smoking cigarettes. Checking each other out with the slightest blaze of light.  I only ever went to watch this very unique sexual theatre. Even when I was totally fucked up.

Being a terrible prude I did not let them touch me because they were patently no use. They were so inauthentic. I need men to retraumatise me…not play act. Easily resisting their insistent hands and breathy suggestions. As dawn broke over Fire Island, piercing its way into the meat rack, I would watch men grope and kiss and suck and fuck, often unable to cum as they had taken so many drugs.

Dawn breaking over their ripped and muddy underwear, their blood-shot eyes (as if they had been crying) their blood and cum and shit…like so many rape victims shamefully dragging themselves away from the scene of the crime.  It amused me that the very same men who would not go near me as they danced in drug induced congas around the stinking dance floor would be all over the ugliest trade in The Meat Rack.

As we know, after a few drinks one is not so choosy.

After a sack full of cocaine/crystal/mdma these men didn’t give a flying fuck.

Occasionally straight men would meander down the beach to The Pines, try a little something different from what was available in heterosexual Ocean Bay Park. Turning up in baggy khakis and polo shirts. We knew what they were there for. What they were looking for.

I would dream of these doe eyed nuggets turning up for me to mine.

I remember walking back from Cherry Grove one day and wandering into The Meat Rack for no better reason than it was a shorter route for getting to The Bay than walking along the beach and traversing the island…anyway, it was usually deserted during the day, mid-week, off-season.

I didn’t expect to see a soul.

I had a bag of groceries. I was 31 years old. I saw a young, blond man…no more that twenty. His sun bleached, tousled hair, baggy shorts and flip-flops betrayed him. When I said hello, the fear in his eyes, his deep voice confirmed my suspicions. A straight boy on the turn. I set the groceries by a tree and without a word I touched his face. He bit his bottom lip and let out a tiny gasp.

I let him undress me.

Boys! I had a body in those days. I looked fit! I loved the gym.

He tentatively touched my chest and ran his fingers over my biceps of which I was very proud. Guiding his hand into my shorts he cupped my balls and kissed me. He loved me so.  He was pleased to suck my nipples, he did it gently like a calf. His soft white skin, the delicate filigree copper hair on his forearms.

I pushed his fringe from his forehead so I could better see him sucking my cock. He was passionate and greedy.

I am benevolent.

Looking up at me with his flawless blue eyes. I smiled down at him, pulling the back of his neck toward me so as to better fuck his throat. He gagged slightly, his thorax constricted around my penis. The effect was very pleasing. He pulled away, a string of saliva briefly attaching us. I rolled my cock over his distended cheeks. Flushed from the recent choking.

Thanking him for his attention to detail as he set too again, as he sucked and kissed my balls working his way toward my ass.

I knelt on the leafy, forest floor and he spread my cheeks so he could better lick, probing me with his tongue. I let him work on it. Licking me, pulling my balls and cock between my legs. He ran his hand up my back. I pulled myself up so I was no longer kneeling, his face completely obscured by my thighs…as if he were being born out of my ass. A fully grown boy being born out of my ass.

He stopped for a moment and said, “Have you got anything up there for me?”

Realizing that this perfect boy wanted to eat my shit I pulled up my shorts, gathered up the groceries and didn’t look back.

Be careful what you pray for.

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Categories
Malibu

Beautiful Day in SoCal

It is such a beautiful day today I almost can’t describe it.

This weekend was great fun.  Too much fun to blog.  Easter should be spent with children and friends with children.  Fat on chocolate and ham.

Woke early Good Friday morning and drove the twins to Pasadena.  They spent the weekend in Arizona at a Mumford and Sons concert by way of the Grand Canyon.   They are on their way home now.  I filled my weekend with lunches and dinners and a pedicure.   I went to AA meetings and walks with friends old and new.

There were moments this wonderful spring weekend when I felt as if I were my old self (pre The Penguin) but couldn’t work out why.  There were moments when I experience the very illusive peace of mind I had been craving for many, many months.

It all seemed to begin after we had chopped out the great bush of Bougainvillea.  I understood that any change, however destructive, can be very creative.   By freeing up the view I could see clearly.  My over-view, perspective and willingness all remade.

I had to own up, once again, to misdirected anger.  I am not angry with him…I am angry with my nemesis.  He is not that man.  By demanding answers from him I forego the courage it takes to ask my nemesis why he did those terrible things.

What The Penguin did to me scarcely compares to what happened before yet I am willing to blame The Penguin for all that is evil in the world.  Of course he should never have lied his way into my life, nor should he have used me to help him.  He should never have said ‘I love you’ without considering the consequences.

Our moment in court next month could be used to heal rather than to punish.  To move on with amends and explanation rather than two disparate men re-entrenching their anger.

This time next week I will be in NYC…a camera shoved in my face.  I must admit that I am ever so slightly excited.  I am excited to see D.  I am excited that I am going to have a gay old NYC summer.  Hamptons, Fire Island…one last gay hurrah!  Even though it is not my show and I am merely an adjunct I am excited by the prospect of showing a different, more vivacious side of my character than the one you saw last year on Sex Rehab.

This time next week?  I am not living in next week, I am living now.

Therapy this morning was great.  Every meeting/group/session I attend things seem to get better and better.

Categories
Malibu

Little Edie

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Miles inadvertently looked like Little Edie this evening.

A cold outing to Venice after a good 8 hours in the garden.  Our third day of chopping, dragging, pruning, raking…a hard, hard day doing man work with Robby.

The vast, dense Bougainvillea finally vanquished so the house doesn’t end up looking like Grey Gardens.   There are now new views all over the estate.  It looks a bit bare on the terrace but we shall wait for the grape-vine to grow across the newly denuded arbour.

I wore a very fetching outfit into town.  See below.  Wore my Derby rather than my cap.  Miles said, “I want to dress like you Duncan.”  Which, as you may have guessed, is the greatest of all compliments.

We ate dinner in Venice.  Food trucks.  Not the greatest food truck food but filling and cheap.  Then we headed over to Santa Monica and walked the length of the Third Street Promenade.  I am quite happy doing these simple things knowing that very soon I will be back in NYC up to my eye balls in Penguin shit.

What a fucking tosser that man is.  When I told Toby that The Penguin was attempting a restraining order he said, “Oh, so you’ve won.”  Which is one way of looking at it I suppose.

There are no winners here I am sorry to say.

P.S. Did you know that JBC’s house in the Pines was called Grey Gardens?

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