Archives for posts with tag: South Bank

Int 2

Occasional unfinished notes on becoming Queer.

There’s a difference between gay and queer.  Just like there’s a difference between chocolate and carob.  It looks the same, and used the same but tastes completely different.

Queer: sexual minorities that are not heterosexual, heteronormative, or gender-binary

The older I get… the queerer I become.

I’m not even sure what it means.  But I’m sure that gay no longer describes what I am.

I am not a married drone operator living with my husband and three surrogate children who secretly wishes he could vote republican… and did… once… because nobody was watching.

Nope.  I’m not that and I’m not headed in that direction.

I remain teachable.  My wagon remains unhitched.

Listen, I’ve got a secret I want to share with you.  One I don’t think I’m meant to be sharing.  A secret that might very well discredit my public shift away from gay toward queer as my description of choice.

My description of me.

I feel so let down, betrayed, dishonoured by gay men.  Yes… you.

One day in early December this year I will write the genesis of my change.

This intellectual menopause.  This change.  This perestroika.

Remember:  from the very first play, to the very last film I have sought to make entertainment that re-examined, revealed, remade the gay experience.

I have won endless awards doing so.

My crowning moment was being nominated for a British Academy Award.

Betrayed:

I was used to being told by straight people that if I wanted a career I should stop telling gay stories.

I was not expecting this:  Gay people told me the same thing.  In fact, they (with vehemence)  told anyone talented and gay to live the lifestyle but don’t expect to tell stories about it.

They said,  “You don’t want all your hard work… marginalized.”

They said, “You don’t want to miss out on the big bucks.  You don’t want to end up like Derek Jarman?  Do you?”

My heart sank.  That’s exactly what I wanted.  Back then.  When I relished telling people I was gay.

Derek Jarman.  He was the only film maker I thought worth aspiring too.  That’s how it was back then.  1985.

So, I found him.  Sought him out.

We met on The South Bank in the shadow of the Royal National Theatre.   Denys Lasdun‘s great, neo-brutalist monolith

We sat outside overlooking the Thames.  Gray clouds scudding over the greatest city in the whole world.

Gusts of cold grit blown over us.

He bought two cups of badly stewed tea served in thick Styrofoam cups.

I handed him the Caravaggio catalogue I had bought after seeing the show at the Met in NYC.

“How can I help?”  He asked.

I said, “I want to make a film.”  I was embarrassed.  I was star struck.

He said, “You will. But, you want my advice?  Remember this: Never take no for an answer.”

We talked about Tilda Swinton who nobody really knew back then.

He told me about a young tousled man he met in the street.  A builder.  The builder came up to him on Shaftesbury Avenue and said, “You’re that gay film maker, aren’t you.”

Well, he expected the worst.  It wouldn’t be the first time he had been beaten by a stranger but he looked him in the eye, straight in the eye and said, “Yes I am.”

Ten minutes later the beautiful young man was naked, towering over him.  Blowing a load.

That’s a queer story.  It’s not gay.  For a start, a gay wouldn’t have told the truth.

Secondly, a gay would have been too scared to take a big straight acting blue-collar worker back to his prissy apartment.

The gays.  God.  You were right.  It wasn’t worth it.  Making those plays, those movies.

Yet, I’m still here.  Sitting in my huge bed in California.

Good taste and tenacity will always make you enough money to enjoy a great life.  Where ever it may take you.

The gays betray each other.  They have no respect for themselves or each other.  Perhaps it was me?  Perhaps I had unrealistic expectations.  You know, mutual respect, support, honor?

I remain curious.  Even though I am sure of what I am.

P.S.  Tilda Swinton saw my film AKA at Sundance.

My agent threw a party for her and me in some crazy restaurant.

We talked a great deal about Derek that night.

He was right.  I never took no for an answer.

I begged and I borrowed and I stole to make a moment in my life that no one can ever take away from me.

Not even the gays.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do you know who I am?

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

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