Briefly, yesterday was spent with my yoga/park friend Alex. We walked…and walked.
Lunch at Northern Spy on 12th St between A and B. Appalling food. I will eat pretty much anything but the watercress and potato soup was so bitter I had to send it back. My friend’s risotto was bland and uninspiring. The grilled cheese was ok but I couldn’t get the bitter taste of rancid watercress out of my mouth.
We chipped before the desert and the entire fiasco still cost $70.
After lunch we walked via Soho past my old apartment on Varick St to the Chelsea piers and looked at the sweaty runners. Oh yes…we also popped into the Rem Koolhaas show by The New Museum on The Bowery. It was like an art school architecture demo. I suppose that’s what he wanted. I was underwhelmed. The theme was RESTORATION.
There was one photograph that really moved me. A table in the St Petersburg summer palace groaning with gilded paste figurines. Each one worth a fortune but each a nightmare for a conservator. What to do with so much stuff?
I shopped for granola. Watched TV. Still can’t write. Still unable to think about anything creative. Just enjoying the wind on my face. My feet ached from the long walk.
Met Donovan later that night and we hung out at Eastern Block with a bunch of moderately ok looking gays. I looked good again…so garnered more unexpected attention. Thank God for drunk boys with beer goggles.
It always helps to have a hugely attractive, similarly aged man with you…as bait.
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?
I shaved my beard. I am watching TV. I am going to bed early tonight. Clean white linen sheets.
A Beautiful Moment in Europe
It was a lovely day. Nice people came to see the house. Really nice. This afternoon I worked with JA on the film which just goes from strength to strength. It’s very reassuring to get ones writing mojo back. As I mentioned before, it just FLOWED. I have something to say and I know how to say it. During the past few years I have written a couple of scripts but I wasn’t motivated to direct or produce them. They were bad scripts. Today I am writing from my heart.
We mapped out all three acts and it works on so many different levels. I will really enjoy producing this new film.
It’s not usual for me to write two blogs in one day but as so many of my blogs recently have been hideously miserable I wanted you to know that I feel great this evening. Very peaceful.
JA is not only my friend and producing partner he is also a fellow addict who really gets me. So, after we had finished cooking lunch and writing he asked me why I was still so angry with Jake and I was forced to admit that even my anger is running out of fuel.
I cannot really remember all the resentments I constructed into my hateful narrative.
Yet, having said that, my anger has to be addressed. What I have not talked about is perhaps the most sensitive reason for why it all became so nasty.
As some of you know if you saw me on the TV show Sex Rehab my sex issues have always been a problem. For as long as I can remember I have never really enjoyed or felt connected sexually with anyone.
From erectile disfunction to an inability to be held Jake and I managed to overcome many of my problems.
Even though Jake and I had ‘issues’ what bound us when we were together was our physical connection. Well, for me it was pretty amazing. For him it was probably just routine. He once said that he was only good at skiing and sex and he really was very good in the bedroom. I never saw him on the piste.
He, like most of you, had no problem expressing himself sexually but I have never had the kind of wonderful sex that I had with him. So, when I finally understood that it was over I felt (and still feel) without self-pity that I will never ever again have the connection that I had with him. Now, you may say, Oh don’t be silly..you will. But, I know deep down in my soul that this gorgeous time with Jake may have been my last chance at connecting with someone I loved and had a stab at fulfilling sex.
Once you understand this missing part of the puzzle you may very well see the root of my frustration and sadness. I tried to do everything I could to keep hold of a man who was patently wrong for me but with whom I had a profound sexual connection.
I really do want my money back but ultimately does it really matter? What matters is that I must grieve for a life devoid of sexual connection. It just made me so angry that I go on paying the price for my childhood abuse. My distrust of men, my fear of expressing myself sexually.
My fury with him stems, almost certainly, from his understandable but insensitive desire to share stories of his sex life with others whilst we were together. It was horrific listening to someone I loved describe something I knew I could never give him. For me he was the only man I have ever made love to. Ever.
It was unthinkable to have sex with anyone else. It still is.
You may think me pathetic for trying to love him but I tried so hard to separate myself from him on many, many occasions as I documented in this blog.
He knew how addicted to him I was and he would play mercilessly with my emotions. Knowing that I would always pick up the phone. Knowing that I would always respond to his text because I knew that he was deeply sad after he left his girl friend. That he was lonely and despondent but I also knew that if I felt similarly I could not rely on him to be there for me.
As was proved that fateful day in August.
Every morning I pray that this obsession, this anger, this grief these resentments will end.
As I was reading part of the new script to JA I started, finally to cry and the pressure cooker of emotions began to express themselves. I began to express myself.
I tell you again for those of you who might not believe it: He made me very happy and I was prepared to overlook his flaws. There were moments of pure joy for me whilst we were away in Europe although nowadays I really have to work hard to sift those moments from the crushing disappointments.
Lastly, I don’t really want to write this blog. It had become, like most things I do, yet another symptom of my addiction. As I read the earlier entries, before he bust into my life and I let him in…I let him in…well I remembered what it was like to be happy and I have been so very far from happy these past few months.
Even though he has been cruel and insensitive he was also very vulnerable and turned to me for help when he needed it most. You know, I tried to help but I am not a therapist nor am I the most stable person in the world.
Addiction for me is a daily emergency.
What have I concluded? I need to be on my own. I cannot begin to have relationships.
He never gave me the opportunity to say a kind goodbye…ironically, the very thing he wanted from his ex-girlfriend, even though that seems unlikely. I really tried to say goodbye to him with dignity. To end it in a civil and kind way. To let him go. I really did. I was exhausted. To end with kindness was my plan. A plan he did not share.
So, JA unlocked the pain and by doing what I do best I can let go of my heavy heart. I don’t have anywhere else to go with this other than forgive and forget.
I hope I can. I really want to. This is making me really ill.
Returning to LA I was recognized on the plane. I felt like saying that I was NOTHING like the man they thought they knew. I felt like telling him that as much as I would like to be the compassionate, helpful man he met on the TV I am not that guy.
I was almost rude.
Instead I smiled sweetly and let him believe in the man who had obviously helped him by sharing my story.
Why should I burst his bubble? I did not take his number. He so obviously wanted to be my friend. I can’t be your friend.
I tried that and now look.
I sat next to a girl who is going to be on a reality show that prems next week. I told her, WARNED her..that under no circumstance date ANYONE who knows her from TV. Avoid!
I told her my sorry story. She looked aghast.
I have been dreaming very vivid dreams.
I dreamt that I was at the back of a church watching Jake get married to a man. He was wearing a white suit. He looked sooo happy. In the dream..I was happy for him. Then I woke up. I wasn’t so happy.
I went to therapy this morning at 7am. It was very helpful. I listened intently to the men in that room and found solace.
There are things I need to do to make it all better. Help others rather than myself for instance. Concentrate on positive thoughts.
I bought a mouse trap.
Wish I hadn’t looked at that picture of Jake. He looked happy. He looked like he was having a blast. I am now merely the wreckage of his past. He plunders my life and just behaves like it’s party time. It galls me so.
Yet, have I treated others like that? I think I might have. That was coy. OF COURSE I HAVE.
Now, all I have to do is pack up remaining items and move out of LA. Then it’s the dog orientated trip home flying via Paris to London.
There I will have my operation and hope that it hasn’t spread.
You know that I like to tell you the truth here on these pages. Well, I want to share that I found being in NYC really miserable. Why? I was anxious that I might bump into him even though I had texted him telling him that I would be there and to avoid where I live and SHNYC.
Even so, I felt terrible and dreaded dread dreaded bumping into him.
I dread the small claims case in October too. I dread seeing him. I wish that these painful feelings would just go away. I wish he had never contacted me. Why did he fucking contact me?
Manhunt date number 3 was good fun.
A giant of a man turned up…it turned out that we had friends in common. We talked about Jake.
It’s funny that even though he had been through a similar experience with a man his immediate response was to chastise me for getting involved with someone who was BLATANTLY unready to be gotten involved with.
Yet, as I have found out..we ALL seem to make really bad choices in love. My straight men friends routinely describe the females they get involved with as insane. The women I know describe the men they get involved with as douche bags. People make mistakes in love.
It is very hard to control a yearning heart.
I am just so angry with myself that, a. I believed him. b. fell in love. c. took him home.
Why the hell didn’t he tell his friends that he was gay rather than me? Why? Somehow my TV confession spurred him on to confess..yet, as I pointed out to manhunt date number 3..I am NOT a TV character..I am a man. I am profoundly UNLIKE the way they edited me on TV.
This is ripping me apart. It is just so unfair that I let some crazy fan into my life who wanted me to be like I was on TV and I…fucking IDIOT..fell in love with him.
I was on Dan’s lap top today checking a friend’s Facebook page and there he was making some Camille Paglia comment. His new profile picture was weird. Mugs and fruit. His hair was all flat and he looked thin.
I know that sooner or later this mess will pass. That I will start to forget.
You may think me mad but really what you are reading is the real and daily trial of being an addict. That I can have all at the same time huge compassion for him and a consummate loathing.
There was a moment is Sanary sur Mer in France where he was sitting at the end of a jetty looking at the sunset. I slipped quietly away. He was thinking about her. He was sad.
Thankfully there is still one sacred place I didn’t take him. It remains mine. Unseen by crazy fan eyes.
I pray every day for the obsession to be lifted but I guess it will vanish in God’s time and not mine.
Jason and Hillary, quite separately, popped by and both brought lunch. Hillary arrived with a friend’s dog called Willy who decided to pee on everything the moment he came indoors.
Hillary made a delicious gazpacho and Jason brough chevre and smoked salmon. Three mad brits eating an Enid Blyton lunch in our tree house over looking the ocean.
I ate bread which I bitterly regret having eaten today. I am bloated and my tummy aches.
The house after dark can be a little noisy. I lay in the dark listening to the raccoons squabble, the coyote’s howl and the owls hoot. The little dog had a restless night, so, of course did I. He was up and down the stairs shouting at anything that disturbed him. After an hour of this nonsense I closed the windows and he slept peacefully.
It was meant to be in the 100’s all week but by last night in Malibu it was colder than Whitstable. I am sure the firemen are very happy as there have been so few wild-fire warnings. Everything is very damp in the morning from the thick mist that rolls off the sea.
Jason left and Hillary and I decided to take the dogs for a long walk along the length of the new road (Rambla Pacifico) that leads to the PCH. The house is now walkable from the PCH (Pacific Coast Highway) and since they started building the Rambla Pacifico extension empty lots are now for sale, lot owners who abandoned their lots 26 years ago are on the mountain with contractors discussing driveways and bedrooms with ocean views. There is a certain excitement up here which cannot be ignored.
I applaud myself for paying so little for this house. I just KNEW that one day the road would be built..who knew that it would be so soon?
Apparently I am not the only resident who regularly walks the muddy track which will one day be our new road/life line. We saw a man armed with shopping bags marching over the hillocks. Everyone is so impatient to feel less isolated.
It is only a few weeks until the rainy season starts so they must get a move on and finish this project. The worst that could happen is that heavy rains come before it is finished and all their hard work is washed away.
If only Malibu would buy the road so it can be used by everyone rather than a select few.
Watched TV until midnight…yes there is a TV here and fell into bed. I watch home improvement shows and laugh gently at how cheap and ill-conceived the ‘improvements’ are.
The Lil Dog was exhausted from running after Willy all day and his long walk but not, apparently, exhausted enough.
P.S. The despicable Glenn Beck is holding his reclaim America from anyone who isn’t white rally today in Washington. For those of you who underestimate the ambition of people like Glenn Beck and Sarah Palin I urge you to take notice of their message. They are determined to undermine the goodwill and inclusive character of this great country and, my friends, they will succeed just like their right-wing predecessors. They will use all the usual tactics: fear mongering, false patriotism and the invocation of their malevolent God. These men and women are not clowns, we cannot afford to grandly sneer at their absurd antics. For as the liberal elite laugh in their grotesque faces they are gathering speed. If we are not very careful it will be soon too late for those of us who believe in freedom to stop them for we were too busy laughing.
He is gone and I am relieved. As relieved as they say you feel when you file for bankruptcy. The tension and holding on and making good is over. The plans, the desire, the moments of hope that things will turn out better are turned to dust.
The very fact that I want to call it a relationship is somehow absurd. He didn’t want a ‘relationship’ because he is ‘protective of his independence’ one can read that as: wants to do whatever he pleases, just like he always has. Before by deception, now by finding an idiot who’ll put up with his shit.
It seems to be true that sometimes you can’t be friends with those you have loved. There is simply too much baggage.
I really loved him and I loved making love to him. I loved holding him in my arms but I often wondered who he was really thinking about when we made love. After all, you were so often drunk or stoned or, on that one ghastly occasion, high on nitrate.
As the days passed since we returned from France my serenity began to slip away. I was less happy with our arrangement, with our situation, with our open relationship, with the just enough rope he let me have that tightened exponentially around my neck.
What I didn’t want, upon our return, was how things were before we left: a chasm that could only be filled with jerk off sessions on Skype, even though he was without doubt a genius at performing on his web cam. That was our staple until we got to France. Sex webcasting, firstly in his old place when he was with her then in his parents kitchen whilst they were out at work. Hygienic eh?
I realised that John was right..his ‘smidgen of compassion’ remark hit me hard. He saw that I was prepared to put up with not a great deal and be happy when actually I wanted and deserved a whole heap more.
You know, when the axe falls it falls swiftly and all communication must be cut. No more texts, no more Facebook, no more telephone call or emails. It is the only way I know how. I don’t hate the guy. Of course I feel used. I feel let down. The absence of reassuring emails before I went to have my testicular scan was evidence, irrefutable proof that he really didn’t give a fuck. Complete strangers seemed more interested in my health than he did.
More importantly I had enough. His final email summed it up:
I realize a large part of your life is devoted to confession and full disclosure but though honesty and directness are important to me, I deal with things differently than you do–not by speaking in front of large groups or blogging about my life…
He had seen me on TV then met me through my blog, deceived me into believing that it was my blog and not me that he was interested in then moaned when I wrote about what was going on between us. Suddenly privacy was paramount. You might be wondering why he went to France with me? Well, who in their right mind wouldn’t want a free trip to France with a doting fool?
As for honesty being important to you? I think others might think differently. When I challenged you in London during our street fight that you had lied to a woman for seven and a half years you kept on telling me that I was wrong, ‘I didn’t lie to her’ you cried, so deep was your denial. Every time he fucked a man behind her back he lied to her. A woman who expected to marry him.
He told me once that he was ‘addicted to lying’. He certainly seemed addicted to drugs. Using weed daily. Crystal meth during sex.
He said that he didn’t want a hyper-emotional relationship yet the first five months were spent listening to him, willingly listening to him, divulge every detail..often in tears..of his coming out. He was always crying.
I lost my usefulness to him. he seemed to forget that I was there for him in his darkest hour yet he could not be here for me as I embark on what could be mine.
This morning was the final straw. “Why are we talking about me?” he whined when I asked about him. Suddenly he was off-limits. From the incredibly intense weeks of his ‘coming out’ where I made myself available to him 24/7 his story was suddenly secret.
Oh Jake, what a silly billy you are. You think ‘freedom’ means meeting endless fuck buddies on Manhunt. You thought that I would put up with that because just a smidgen of compassion would do. You thought that you wouldn’t bring two very different people to the same conclusion about you.
You were wrong.
I totally get why she doesn’t want anything more to do with you.
There was a moment in an airport somewhere in the world when I was irritable with you about something or other and you looked sad, sad that you had treated her like I was treating you.
My friend saw the pictures on Facebook that I posted of us and he said, ‘He doesn’t even like you.’ I felt sick because often I felt that, that I was doing the loving for both of us. That at the end of the day you would and did tell me I was too old and difficult and all the other reasons you gave me for not letting me have a hope in hell..then you’d come crawling back when things weren’t working out for you. A drunken text on the train home. I knew that when you were with the other Manhunt men I just became an irritation. Like she was when you met me. She was just getting in the way.
It is vaguely irritating that I let him so close to everyone I hold dear in my life. It is even more irritating that he has made friends with my friends yet I know not one of his. Telling isn’t it?
You met me here, we’ll say goodbye here.
For more information on JB please see Adam_Patch on Manhunt. He is looking, so he says, for good people. Oh yeah, and don’t be a cliché.
Avoid this man. He will lie to you. He’s cute but he’ll only be interested in you if you have money and let him get away with doing exactly what he pleases.
I am happy today. You know there are so many good things happening to me and more importantly to those around me.
It’s so easy to write about being miserable. It’s easy to indulge our fears. It’s easy to blame the world for all of the bad things but I ALWAYS forget to tell you when I am happy. Perhaps I am not sitting at my desk when the happiness comes? I think that may be the truth because I am out in the world experiencing my joy.
I am with friends, climbing the canyon, writing and reading.
My joy is NOT dependant on any one person. My joy comes from listening to Joni Mitchell, sitting in the sunlight of the spirit and reveling in the triumph of watching my friend Jennie celebrate her one year of continuous sobriety. Oh, and before you say it, I am sure I am not meant to be discussing her ONE-YEAR publicly but I am. After all she has worked so hard to get to this place of authenticity.
Most of you witnessed how she changed on TV. How we all began this remarkable rescue mission-rescuing ourselves from oblivion, self-hatred and isolation.
Change comes in great gobs never in dribs and drabs. So this change is all about not wanting to be at the mercy of others, understanding that I can never trust my perception. It is always wrong. This change comes from giving into not wanting to change the way I feel. I have put a lifetimes of effort into separating myself from everyone. Emotional Boom and Bust.
By watching Jennie flourish I can hitch my wagon to her well planned recovery. I learn from everyone who comes into my life. Everyone.
If I have to be on my own then so be it. But I needn’t punish the world by keeping those around me at arms length. It’s time to let you in. Let you be my friend, my colleague, my lover, my mother and my brother.
Being happy does not mean that I ignore suffering, ignore inequity, ignore insensitivity but I don’t have to make it mine. I needn’t own the suffering of the world and use that as a reason to ruin my own chances.
There are hurdles, great ravines and deep chasms that hinder the direct path that any man needs to take in the great journey of life. But rather than dwell on what may or may not get in my way I can enjoy the wind in my hair and the sun on my face as I get to where I am going.
I would rather wear a compass than a watch-after all it is best to know where I am going than what time I get there.
When I am scary I am most probably scared.
I don’t want to be that scary man I can be. I want to be free and if I only get a glimpse of freedom today and just for a few hours then as least I have experienced the feeling and have something to work toward, something I am capable of.
Have a great day everyone. Remember that there is a solution-so start living in it.
Staying in Soho House before moving to Jane Hotel. Soho House is like coming home. Hand written notes and presents from the manager Pierre. The burgers we ate last night were delicious. The staff are kind and considerate and incredibly helpful.
I had bad news and good news yesterday. The bad news was about going home-the good news was about staying home. I am being deliberately obtuse.
God, it was a very long day. Up at 4am for my 7.15am flight. Up in the air for 15 minutes then turning back mid air with instrument problems-something to do with the altitude meter. I don’t know. It meant that we didn’t take off until 1.30pm so I got to know my fellow travelers very well-too well. I also became acquainted with the appalling customer service on offer-or not on offer-from American Airlines. American Airlines, shit service, shit planes, vile attitude. My fellow travelers were so incensed that airport security had to be called. I, on the other hand, did not lose my temper once. I was a paragon of virtue.
Arrived in New York at 9.30pm, Soho House by 10.30pm.
Slept turbulently in my huge bed, the tossing and turning on the airplane revealing itself as I slept. Full of fear, dreaming my house in Malibu was burning-the second apocryphal dream about that house. The last included a bunch of women. My nightmare was so bad a few nights ago my screaming out actually woke the neighbors.
Sophie Dahl’s cookery show is a sham-so say the Brit TV cook clan. Not really surprising-she must be one of the most inauthentic people I ever met. What the hell does she know about cooking? I threw a dinner party for her, Zoe Tryon and Alecia Moore (Pink) at my house last year. Sophie was sulky, bad tempered and rude. Gosh, how the vile are rewarded.
Apparently one should never invite just women to a dinner.
Staying in Jane Hotel on Hudson. Very basic, but lots of fun. Full of cute young Spanish boys, half naked in the corridors on their way to the shared bathrooms. My room has a bathroom. Elevator smells of disinfectant, the corridors of fresh paint. The restaurant downstairs has been designed to look a little like it was very old but actually just looks unfinished. The ballroom is charming as is the Moroccan influenced bar. I have a corner room over looking the river. I like a view.
Dinner with Joan and Joe last night at Kenmare. All round disaster. Food had to be sent back; my chair was pummeled by wait staff that seemed to lack any basic spatial awareness. The vegetables were simply inedible. The steak over cooked. The pudding… instantly forgettable.
Lastly, why are there so many insipid, suburban gays? When I was growing up all the gays I knew were sophisticated, arty and fabulous-it occurred to me that the dull gays might have tended to stay in the closet. I wish they’d stayed there.
These beautiful days in NYC were spent with Jake but I wasn’t allowed to write about it.
My friend (briefly my lover) Kristian Digby died yesterday; apparently of auto asphyxiation.
Kristian was a sweet, thoughtful intelligent man. Not intelligent enough, he would have scoffed, to think twice about pulling a bag over his head, a belt around his neck and deprive his wonderful brain of oxygen.
By inducing a lucid, semi-hallucinogenic state called hypoxia-combined with orgasm, the rush is said to be no less powerful than cocaine, and highly addictive.
Kristian and I met in 2001 at the International Cannes film festival waiting in line for the Soho House annual Cannes party-bonding over the sight of Andi McDowell being pushed and shouted at by her surly, over weight publicist. After becoming immediate friends-later that night, very drunk and having gate crashed a very grand yacht party, Kristian told actor Ray Winstone that he had always fancied him and tried, much to my horror, to kiss him. Like most of his antics it was very, very funny but realizing how inappropriate trying to kiss Ray was we ran like mad children into the night and had a very romantic time walking bare foot back to his hotel room along the deserted beach at dawn.
I introduced Kristian to one of his many and varied heroes, the glorious Marianne Faithful. We were at Will Self’s house. He sat at her feet. She spilt red wine on his white linen trousers. Whilst she fussed over the stain he was delighted that Marianne Faithful had spilled red wine on him. Delighted.
He did not have one bad bone in his gorgeous body.
Creative, funny, erudite. He had so much further to travel.
Kristian loved the films and books of Dereck Jarman-his true hero. We had great fun exploring the dead filmmakers garden at Dungerness. We ate a very high tea (english expression not drug induced) at a local hotel over looking the bleak gray sea.
I was always in awe of Kristian and those of us who knew him very well knew that there was much to be in awe of.
During the time that we knew each other best (when I moved to LA permanently we saw each other less often) we explored ideas, cites and over coffee in Old Compton Street the state of our gay lives.
He was a regular visitor to my house in Whitstable. Everyone that met him there loved Kristian-I have been overwhelmed by sad emails from friends he met from my old home town.
He was not without his dark side-a troubled childhood and un-accepting parents blighted his early years as a gay man.
Lastly, let us not forget how much enjoyment he gave to those who never knew him personally: his loyal TV audience.
Oh Kristian, you silly billy, what did you do that for? I will really miss you.
