Some Like It Hot...

Hey there readers!

It's great to have a space like this where we can let it all hang out, buddy. It's the only forum where I can express my true self without fear of judgment or condemnation because I know what open minded, unconditionally accepting folk you all are. The big news this week is that my chastity has been broken – no, demolished in one scandalous sojourn to the gay beach near Mornington Peninsula. I know it must be a shock to you all and I can hardly believe it myself but it was too wild to imagine! One minute I was rolling out my towel and slapping on sunscreen , the next thing I was being mauled by a Scorpio/Scorpio rising Macedonian stud in the sand dunes. The esky full of mangoes and melons was flying everywhere, the toasted sandwiches were squashed beneath our ass and the carrot cake was pounded into the dirt.

We rolled around under that beach umbrella like two giant sandcrabs with our arms and legs tangled together, like some weird sea creature washed upon the shore. The nudist colony could hardly believe their eyes – it was live pornography, man! It started with a bit of slip, slop, slap and ended in hardcore slap and tickle. We hauled ass into the surf to simmer down but the passion was relentless. We surfed each other like boogie boards and our mouths were glued together like suction caps. It was impossible to tear us apart, buddy. We were biting and scratching and splashing away in the surf – thank God no one got the wrong idea and thought we were struggling in some kind of rip! Then again, there were two naked blokes standing by in baseball caps, shaking their heads in disbelief. Some of these naturalists are clearly offended by frisky boys giving their recreational sport a bad reputation by turning the practice into a no holds barred sex romp! We pulled apart before the coast guard shouted at us through a loudspeaker and I swam into the depths like a mermaid who had lost his virginity all over again.

Why didn't you tell me what I was missing out on, buddy? We spent the afternoon strolling up and down the beach, hand in hand while men and women with sagging breasts and dimpled buttocks sprawled on the sand in the sweltering heat – with suntan lotion and beads of sweat rolling down their pudgy physiques. We watched the sky fade to pink and purple as the sun drifted beneath the horizon and tiny yachts sailed past with naked men drinking beer with their testicles dangling between their legs. Public nudity is so liberating, man – it might even try it at the local supermarket this evening!

Unfortunately Mr T is still not out to his parents so I was left at the ice cream parlour, flirting with an Italian Stallion while he sneaked home and stole the keys to the family holiday house. After we figured out how to break in and turn on the lights, we spent the night camped on the floor with the sound of the waves crashing in the distance. I woke up with severe gravel rash and carpet burns on my knees and I've spent the last week in hiding, licking my wounds. It certainly was a night to remember and it came as no surprise when I realised it was the full moon the day before and this guys was a double Scorpio sex fiend – I'm lucky I got away with a few grazes, man!

Can you believe I actually got laid a few days after I stopped at a new age store and a lady by the name of Carol nearly spat her coffee everywhere when I told her how long I'd been celibate? She sold me the biggest piece of Rose Quartz she could find and shoved her tantric sex business card in my hand – she even offered me a fantastic discount. She's gonna be so excited when I tell her the news. It's great to finally get some relief after all these years and to know that celibacy is not for me – public nudity and wild sex rocks, buddy. Maybe the tone of these blogs will start to shift now I've been satisfied or maybe it's the start of something truly perverse – you'll have to wait and see readers!

In the meantime, my affairs continue online with Mighty Mouse, Mattchewy and Slippery Fish. They all seem like lovely guys but who knows if we'll ever take the plunge and meet up. It's a strange phenomena, getting attached to strange men in cyberspace, not knowing if you have a genuine connection in reality. I love being witty, charming and articulate online because I know how awkward and tongue tied I am in reality – these boys think I'm so cool, calm and collected and that cracks me up, buddy. I don't know how I'll ever come clean. One boy I talk to now and then is only 21 and hails from a family of devout Christians and med students. He's a real sweet Chinese boy who looks great in his jocks but way too innocent for this old purve. He writes me every day without fail and I fear nothing will make him stop, man. He's got such little life experience – I don't even think he's been drunk. At the same time, he says he can empathise with my life experience because he watches Oprah and Doctor Phil and that's so sweet even though it's the funniest thing I ever heard.

To change the subject, I caught up with Ms Obedie and da Sunshine crew a few weeks ago for Ms Obedie's 33rd birthday bash. I stopped of at Williamstown Beach to check out the spunks in speedos that day before catching the train to the wild wild west. Some poor soul hurled themselves onto the tracks and that delayed my arrival somewhat. I spent half an hour staring at the stunning scenery of abbatoirs, factories and refineries before they hosed down the tracks and we chugged along to our destination. The party was a low key affair. I was expecting to hear AC/DC and Metallica blaring down the street and a guy with long hair and a packet of cigarettes stuffed up his sleeve at the door. Instead, I was greeted by our lovely girlfriend - next - door, Mel who pecked me on the cheek, smelling of lovely Impulse deodorant. From that point it was one vodka after another and the afternoon evaporated like my brain cells in the sultry Sunshine heat. I was spread eagle on a banana lounge somewhere in the veggie patch. Mel's sweet little puppy, Fergus was nipping our toes and slurping watermelon from our plates. The poor little thing was being suffocated beneath a giant bean bag and passed from one intoxicated guest to another like a newborn baby!

Ms Obedie topped up our shot glasses with peppermint liqueur and rolled around the grass sighing with relief after surviving another year as a wife, mother and career woman – I don't know how she does it, man. It must've been nine o'clock by the time we started our tribute to you and 80's electronica, buddy. There were tracks from The Human League, Yazoo, Kim Wilde and Scritti Politti as well as 'Obsession' - the saucy soundtrack from that awful movie with a teacher, a student, a penis and a motor bike? You were the toast of the evening, buddy. Last drinks were called in your honour and the rest of the night was a blur!!

Love to you all,
JJ
x

Lookin' For Love In All The Wrong Places...

Hey guys and girls! Good to be with you again. Spring is in full swing here in Melbourne, Australia so I bet you're freezing your ass off over there in the Northern hemisphere, buddy? Mind you, at this time of year it can be hard to tell what season it is at any moment of the day. It certainly keeps you on your toes, wouldn't you agree, Ms Obedie – then again, the sun's always shining in Sunshine, so they say. Did you know I went to a stand up comedy gig the other night and this woman said there's always a burnt out car in the parking lot of her local supermarket in Sunshine – the gang warfare is outta control...and she said, the only people who like it out there are pregnant women who sit on their porch with their feet up and a cigarette hanging out of their mouths! Surely it can't be all that bad?
My creative juices haven't been flowing since the BNews folded, my friends. I'm afraid that outstanding example of cutting edge journalism was taken over by The Sydney Star Observer and my RMIT placement came to an abrupt halt. There goes my dream of a fabulous career in queer tabloid journalism! Unfortunately the outfit has resurfaced as 'The Melbourne Star' with a crew of airheads producing smut up there on Oxford Street in Sydney, can you believe? There's no room for genuine talent so my position has been politely terminated.
The damn thing looks like a nasty piece of Sydney trash anyhow – the opening issue featured a buffed up life guard parading on the front cover with a hard on almost busting out of his speedos! The paper is generously sponsored by the halfwits at the AID$ industry and every page is splashed with twice as much sleaze and vacuous hyperbole than ever before. I wouldn't have anything to do with it if they paid me – that's what I said to the editor before I told him to shove his job where the sun don't shine before splashing him in the face with a bottle of San Pellegrino water and tearing out of that slick, pretentious office in Fitzroy (believe it or not, girlfriend!)
I got a reputation to uphold, man – I told him I was gonna be someone in this town and come back to haunt his sorry ass! Thank God for the financial crisis – our lovely prime minister has granted us struggling pensioners a $1400 cash bonus before Christmas to help stimulate the economy. I'm booking myself in for a tattoo, a colonoscopy and a week of sessions at the tanning salon, buddy.
I had my first beach day in six months last week and I can't tell you how good it felt to be back out there on The Esplanade with all them spunks in speedos pounding the pavement. I had a mighty fine time, getting tangled in seaweed, fighting my way through plastic wrappers, paddle pop sticks and beer cans – treading water, praying to God not to stand on a dirty syringe. Now and then a cute little poodle came down to greet me at the water's edge and took a piss as I watched in horror, spitting out a mouth of salty water.
Yuppie jack asses on jet skis sped past, almost knocking my head off while a pair of yobbos drank beer and tossed a ball to each other, directly in front of me, making it near impossible to dodge my way to shore. Meanwhile, I remembered that my medication causes extra fast sunburn in the middle of the day. I was getting redder each minute, trudging my way through the tits and ass of European back packers and the hulk – like Ukranian houswives, trying to find where I laid my towel. Just when I thought I had the perfect spot, a rowdy family set down with a grumbling old dad with a hairy back, a dopy mum with sagging breasts and a pack of screaming kids in tow – tearing about, kicking sand, terrorising sea gulls and destroying each other's sand castles. It's a crying shame the way those kids treat each other, buddy.
I finished up the day, flat on my back under an umbrella at the kiosk, as red as a lobster, slurping a lemonade icy pole, checking out the talent. It's my favourite past time, buddy. I've been pumping iron at the gym three days a week in preparation for the sun and the surf. I love it most of the time – letting off steam on that rowing machine, imagining I'm surging through the shimmering currents of the mighty Yarra while Ellen De Generes and Good Morning Australia compete for the attention of us patrons. There's variety shows, daytime soaps and current affairs flashing by on the monitors while middle age folk pant and pound their way on those treadmills – with huge patches of sweat soaking though their blouses and rolls of fat spilling over their track pants. The smell of a thousand deodorants clogs the atmosphere while I'm surging back and forward with the most polished, precise manouvres and the most rhythmic in breaths and out breaths. Whew – just do it, buddy!
I love it when some exotic stud with a pair of skimpy shorts, jumps on the treadmill in front of me and starts pounding that surface like an athlete on performance enhancing drugs. Having that in my face gets me rowing faster and faster till I almost keel over and work myself into a coronary. Of course, some conceited gym junkie always leaps onto the machine beside me and tries to set the pace – kinda like their having a drag race. The way some people get their kicks astounds me, buddy! A confrontation like that usually gets me pumped enough to start my workout with a vengeance. The music is usually Aussie suburban fare but these gym instructors aint cultural connoisseurs and they don't take requests – especially not from an upstart with a basic membership – they don't even tell me if I'm working the machines properly dammit! There's a window looking through to the swimming pool so I can workout while watching little old ladies do water aerobics while some airhead in lycra, wearing a headset and a mouthpiece does strange moves on the platform like she's playing charades or some shit. I'm hanging out for that instructor to pretend she's drowning one day and see if the old girls can copy that, man!
It's only been three months but I'm already noticing pleasing changes to my scrawny physique. I can actually see a curve where my ass is supposed to be – I think that rump steak is starting to give me a rump, man – I just hit 70 kilos the other day. I'm so hooked on meat, I crave the stuff. It's like a sexual awakening – when that greasy flame grilled burger gets shoved in front of me by the pimply waitress, my heart starts pounding, my teeth are bared like fangs. I feel like a tiger ready to pounce, man – it makes me feel so butch and tough and macho like I never thought possible being the limp wristed pansy I am.
Meanwhile, back at the gym I can't tell you how much I love being crammed in that weights room, pumping iron with all them blokes, grunting and sweating and catching their breath – it's like a simultaneous, multiple orgasm! Everyone is pissing out the beer and tobacco and amphetamines from the night before, the adrenalin's pumping, the muscles are bulging, the techno's blaring. Oh God - it's a man's world and only the toughest can hack the pace, man!
I thought I laid eyes on the man of my dreams the other day before his mobile phone ringer went off and it was the soundtrack from the VB beer commercial, can you believe? I almost fell for the ultimate Aussie yobbo, Lars. The locker room's always a hoot, trying to push your way through all those nude, damp, hairy bodies – trying not to make eye contact in case they think you're some kinda faggot on the prowl. It's an interesting sociological experience, man – the way my head races with all them thoughts of who's this or that, who's checking out who, am I the only fag, does anyone know, does anyone care? What would they do if I turned around and winked – 'nice butt cheeks, man. Can I have a squeeze?' Sometimes I feel like some kinda weird force is taking me over in those moments and I'm about to do something or say something that's totally inappropriate, just to see what happens. But usually I get the hell outta there, barging down Hoddle Street like some pumped up gladiator, going into battle.
Unfortunately my new body hasn't led to any great success online. I'm starting to wonder whether I should've signed up for this 'Manhunt' thing, buddy. I created the most genuine, unsleazy profile I could but I still get bombarded by the most sleazy vacuous creatures out there. It seems to me they account for ninety percent of the membership, so maybe that's the problem? Maybe they wanna corrupt me or offend me or maybe they're just deranged, man?
It's damn near impossible to get an intelligent conversation out of anyone, I tell you that. All they can manage is a grunt or a wink – an email scares their ass away. All they want is a location asap to get their rocks off or it's game over, pal. It's taken me awhile to get the drift that no one one wants to get to know anyone here – it's all a little old fashioned in the queer scene. Sometimes they stop messaging if you request a photo before you agree to divulge your address!
It's the same obstacle I've faced my whole life, buddy – the guys I like don't want me and the ones who chase me are seriously unhinged. Still, I enjoy the flirting and saying things I'd never have the guts to say in person, winking at guys I'd never have the guts to approach in a bar. My expectations are far greater than the outcome, that's all. The most poignant correspondence came from a stranger who called me 'The Gentle Soul.' He claimed to perceive my troubled history of anguish and depression. This prophet said I had much creativity to share with the world as a result of my suffering and to cherish this gift no matter what. He also said to abandon this 'prison of sex' and to stay true to myself – love was on the way. I was astounded to uncover his profile name – 'Melbourne Cocksucker' – 'a middle eastern guy from the western suburbs - up for hot sex, dirty fun and ass fucking action with no strings attached.' I was gobsmacked to find this prophet had the most depraved profile on Manhunt! I thanked him for his kind words of encouragement and carried on my search through the inmates of the prison of sex.
Maybe I'll never find intimacy this way either, man. Maybe I'm destined to a life of chastity and poverty – it seems like something always happens to thwart my success and my happiness! After the BNews setback, I seriously felt like the cosmos was against me, man. I've always been plagued by a dreadful fear that nothing will work out no matter how hard I try. Sometimes it really feels like things are gonna happen, only to be thwarted at the last moment when its the most devastating of all. In reality, I don't think anyone could be so jinxed but it's a belief I've always been haunted by, that I'm still trying to eradicate from my psyche.
All I can do is keep plugging away, sending work off here and there. I've been having dinner parties with friends and casting them into roles so I can hear my scripts read aloud and everyone can have a laugh. Last night we gathered twelve people around the dinner table and read 'Darling It Hurts' which was fantastic, man! We printed the play out on my friend's parents recycled paper – one side had my play on it and the other side had the prayers for a children's youth group from the local church! The play ends with a massive food fight at the table but we decided to resist in case his parents rocked up early.
There were a few cute boys there but two were headed for the UK and the other is leaving for Darwin in a few weeks. I did swap numbers with a devious looking Greek guy who played Larry, the alcoholic, cigar smoking, sexually perverted shrink – he was chillingly comfortable in that role actually. Right now I'm experiencing too many bizarre health complications to get down and dirty anyhow. I was astounded to see that I was discharging blood instead of semen two weeks ago! Can you imagine how horrified I was to look down in the middle of a jack off session to find blood all over my hands, man?
I thought I was going crazy so I hurried off to the doctor for an urgent consultation. He assured me it's something he sees regularly when enthusiastic patients are jerking off too hard or getting too rough in their love making sessions. I felt reassured ever since but I'm scarred for life, buddy. How on Earth can I make out with someone knowing what might happen? No one I confide in is familiar with this strange phenomena – I feel like a leper, man! I'm terrified what could happen next – should I go hell for leather until the waters run clear, so to speak? Maybe I need surgery? I started taking a prostate tonifier from the naturopath to hurry things along. This is not the kind of situation I want exposed, man. If word gets around on Manhunt, my chances of finding true love online are in serious jeopardy!
Stay tuned for my next adventure to Ms Obedie's birthday showdown in the wild wild west!
I hope to God she's not sitting on the porch with a beer in her hand and a cigarette in her mouth!!!

Love to you all.
JJ
X

Let's Get This Party Started...Usch Usch Usch!

How the hell are you, man? Where on Earth do I start. It's been way too long between blogs; what will our fans think huh? I bet they're out there staying tuned for another dose of smut and diatribe from Down Under...
Didn't you turn thirty last time I posted, buddy? I hope you survived that transition and I hope you're soldiering on towards the middle ages where the rest of us have come to lay our weary heads and shrieking bones. Perhaps you don't feel much different to the twenties huh? Perhaps you're just in denial that you're an old fart now like the rest of us!
Who the hell said you're an adult when you turn 18 anyhow; it doesn't happen till thirty if you ask me and even then, it's hard to embrace the concept some days. Especially when you rock up to a two year old's birthday party with a pair of hot pink bunny rabbit's ears with sequins and a matching hot pink feather boa! That's right, I dressed our dear friend, Mel up like a playboy floosy in front of her latest lover (oops – sorry girlfriend, I honestly had no idea) although she did look mighty fine shaking that tail feather to ABBA's greatest hits. Every time I turned my head she was rolling in the hay with her gigolo – they were guzzling red wine like there was no tomorrow and feeding each other raspberry friands – who wouldda thought it was a little girl's birthday huh?
Meanwhile, Maddy Max was dangling a paper mache pig in the air while sugar obsessed children were bashing the poor thing over the head with a stick. I think they call this ritual 'Bust the Pinata' in Mexico – if only it was cocaine and tequila that spilled outta that poor piggy's snout!
There was no shortage of sunshine, sugar, animal costumes and good cheer – there wasn't even a single mosquito biting my cheeks or a single fly buzzing in my ears. Thankfully, none of them kiddies fell down the cliff and tumbled into the mighty Yarra and none of the adults drank too much booze and started throttling each other like they did when I was two. I was near ready to explode after my second slice of quiche, my third sausage roll and my fourth muffin. I disappeared to the loo for a brief choking stint when a chicken bone became lodged in my throat. Never mind, I don't think anyone noticed – they were too busy smearing chocolate over their faces, slurping lollipops and spilling soft drink down the front of their t shirts.
Yes, it was another splendid shindig, slapped together by the mother of all mothers – Ms Obedie, otherwise knows as Maddy Magoo. She certainly has the goodies, that gal from the wild west. The Collingwood farm hasn't seen a celebration of those proportions since Greta the wild pig spilled out 14 piglets in the pen last month. Thank God they weren't there to witness those kids publicly mutilating their paper mache protege!
It was back to work at the farm a few days later for this little piggy – shovelling piles of compost mixed with chicken poop, tearing stinging nettles out of the veggie patch and feeding branches of eucalyptus leaves to doe eyed, floppy eared goats. How did us humans get so darn fussy about what we consume? Those animals just eat what's put in front of them. They don't play with their food or send it back either. Can you believe, one of those cheeky chooks sneaked up from nowhere and literally snatched a blueberry muffin outta my hand while I was chomping away, savouring the last mouthful!
I requested to go on gardening duty after that and now I'm being watched over by a crazy old bird with as much patience as a brat with attention deficit disorder. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind crawling on my hands and knees in the dirt for hours on end, getting stung by bees, swooped by magpies and stalked by tiger snakes but I didn't appreciate being hounded by a hysterical woman who has no idea how to explain a task coherently. Maybe I did destroy last season's root vegetable crop but how the hell was I to know – all my vegetables come pre packaged at the local supermarket! The fact is, she is no good at delegating tasks, explaining herself clearly or controlling her temper. Granted, she's a kooky old bird, as entertaining as all heck but I just think she smoked too many of the herbs in that garden before she took on this gig.
Meanwhile I'm running across town on Wednesdays and Thursdays to do one half of my RMIT placement at a drug users organisation. I'm writing a feature article about the international drug scene for the upcoming issue of 'Whack magazine.' It's a creative, punky little number produced by drug users to give them a voice and a means of creative expression. It's an okay gig, aside from the fact it's a stuffy little shoe box of an office and the heating is always on, even though Spring has well and truly sprung. Half the staff are clearly affected by opiates of some description, the printer's always breaking down and it's got seriously slow speed Internet . That place is so damn stuffy, I can hardly breathe or keep my eyes open. I'm literally nodding off at the computer and it looks like I'm coming to work stoned outta my mind. Believe me, the lack of ventilation is enough to knock out the most hyperactive amphetamine addict.
Meanwhile, I got the Rave Safe chick, 'Purple' in the cubicle next door, blaring duff music from her last dance party – my head is thumping, my teeth are grinding, my fingers are bashing the keyboard, my pupils are dilated and I'm totally tripping by knock off time, man. It's the closest thing to Rave I've had in a decade. After years of abstinence, I'm surrounded by chain smoking, pale skinned, sleep deprived twenty somethings and I look like a reformed geek, refusing to go for a ciggie break or a beer after work.
Back across town, there's dead silence from the editors at BNews After publishing seven of my stories in a matter of weeks, the work has come to a standstill and the future's uncertain, to say the least. All I've been told is that management are having a few issues and no more editions will be produced until it's resolved, the editor's taking it easy in Apollo Bay and I'm left high and dry – smack bang in the middle of my RMIT placement and a burgeoning career in queer tabloid journalism - sometimes I think I'm cursed, buddy!
I've been hitting the Sircuit on Smith Street to let off steam, but even there I get harassed by a grotesque Maori drag queen in a God awful wedding dress and a microphone – humping the legs of the patrons and stroking their chins with razor sharp nails. I saw an atrocious strip show with a muscle bound beefcake dressed as a police officer, gyrating with a baton between his steroid pumped thighs to Michael Jackson's 'Beat It.' That buffed up meat head had a g string riding up his butt crack which was particularly unflattering yet there were a stream of horny old guys begging to rub their face in his crotch...some queers make me sick!
A friend of mine just broke up with his tall, scrawny, obnoxious partner so I was showing him around. That place has gotta be the closest thing to the full on, no holds barred flesh fest I witnessed in the US. I took the poor bastard upstairs to the sex on premises venue where an intoxicated guy was on his hands and knees, getting butt fucked by a series of predatory punters. We were gobsmacked by the lewd spectacle of the scene – it was public humiliation at its most explicit. Sometimes I wonder what species we are, Lars – how far will some of these guys go for a fucking good time?
My friend is a few years younger so he dragged me to The Peel, against my better judgment.
I huddled in a corner most of the time, pushed and shoved by tripping teens and drunken sloths making their way to the bar or prancing across the dance floor, checking out the action. Now and then, a scrawny boy elbowed me and winked – some kinda come on, I think. My clothes were stinking of smoke, my pupils were dilating from the strobe lights, the music was making me cringe and it was all too much. I think a few beers and a good ol' fashioned striptease is all I can handle, buddy. Not long after that I staggered home before the sun came up, got online and whipped up an Internet profile like every other lame ass fucker in this town!

Stay Tuned, Buddy
Love to y'all,
JJ X

Grow Up, Man!

Congratulations for making it through another decade buddy. I wish I could be there to celebrate your big day but never mind; you know I'm there in spirit. I brought a cupcake home from the bakery and tonight I'm going to lick the icing sugar off real slow, light a candle and make a wish to see you before the next decade passes. I'm going to drink myself silly, request a song for you on the radio and tomorrow morning I'll hire a plane and ask the pilot to write your name across the sky; that's how much I love you, man! I hope to heck it's a clear day in Melbourne and I hope you can see that big ol' love heart from Deutschland, Lars.
You only turn thirty once, buddy, so make the most of it, you hear; there aint much worth celebrating after that; it's all downhill for boys like us, unless you've managed to avoid the wear and tear of amphetamines, STDs and sleep deprivation. Some people tell me I still look 28 which is a darn miracle considering the onslaught my vital organs have endured since I was converted to the queer lifestyle by a social worker on the Sydney to Broken Hill train. He introduced me to the joys of vodka and oral sex and the rest was history, man.
I aint no cross country stud these days. I'm too old for them shenanigans. Thank God for Oil of Ulan, buddy; there's miracle properties in that shit. Everything sags after thirty, unless you hit on a damn fine moisturiser. Boys like us fade into obscurity beneath heavy coats and scarves, We hang out at cafes with rainbow stickers on the door, sipping skinny lattes and wheat free muffins. We read our star signs in the queer press and sneer at passers by through dark glasses. After thirty, we find ourselves a comfy seat out the front of the most tasteless cafes in South Yarra. The waiters know our favourite table, what we like to order and how much froth we like on our coffee; they give us a dirty wink and bring us an overcooked, uninspired meal and an outrageous bill to boot, man.
We stride away with our nose out of joint, pushing past women with prams and old ladies with shopping carts, thinking they're the scourge of society. We yank our poodle through the gardens on a lead, working on our tan and walking off the calories at the same time. Now and then we share a fake smile with another queen before remarking how poorly dressed or out of shape they are. We prance back and forward with a curly wrist, staking out our prey, trying to make eye contact with potential mates who look like they earn over eighty grand a year. Pretty soon, it's getting chilly so we lower our standards and take what we can get. If we're lucky we might score a blow job from a council worker on lunch, a married guy with a lousy sex life or a teen runaway; trying to steal our wallet at the piss trough.
Thank God we're no longer one of those wayward teens being dragged home and plied with alcohol and manhandled like a pound of flesh from the butcher. No more do we have to squirm under coffee tables while intoxicated men growl into our armpits and breathe alcohol fumes down our neck. Do you remember running to and from the bathroom, puking your guts up in between cigarettes while some fat bastard snored like a walrus in his jockey shorts? Do you remember French kissing bleary eyed geriatrics in gloomy bars; the gravel rash, the sandpaper tongues, the beer yeast breath, the tobacco stained fingers? Thank God we're thirty, man; there are some things about my youth I'd rather forget!
Come to think of it, there was a guy on the Elizabeth Street tram today who reminded me of a previous fling. He climbed aboard looking rather bohemian with an Irish cap, a scar beneath his left eye, a duffel coat and two garbage bags. I thought he was a brilliant artist of some description till he fell on the floor at my feet and pulled a silver ashtray from his pocket. He emptied cigarette butts all over the floor and meticulously began scrubbing the grimy ashtray with a handkerchief till he could see his toothless reflection in the silver chrome. He crawled about on his hands and knees at my feet, playing with that ashtray like a beloved treasure. Perhaps he was just eccentric or a performance artist, perhaps he was about to offer me the chance of a life time but I couldn't bear the smell of those garbage bags so I leaped over his back and fled the scene.
Call me fussy but I'm glad my taste in men is somewhat more discerning these days. The twenties were full of bad choices, don't you think? We fried our brains and shared body fluids and woke up face down on tiled floors with our pants around our ankles. Geez, man, I remember hyperventilating on dance floors, snorting drugs in toilet cubicles and waking up in dreary suburban lounge rooms with seriously depressed men with tasteless CD collections. I remember sneaking out through back doors, trekking for miles in cold frosts, searching for a bus stop or a train station, trying to figure out where the hell I was. I got tired of the sexual health clinics, nervous blood tests and pep talks by the safe sex police. As if that did any good anyway.
At least we can stop worrying about turning thirty now we're finally here, man. Heck, most people don't believe I'm thirty so I'm still reliving my youth. You get away with so much bad behaviour before you reach that big Three Zero; no one lets you get away with shit after that, let me tell you. I sure don't feel like an adult, Lars; not in the usual sense of the word. I mean, I don't even have a job or a license or a credit card; I don't even have photo ID, man! What constitutes an adult anyway? I thought I'd understand the world when I turned thirty but I'm still gobsmacked. I still don't know the meaning of life or why we're doing this gig; maybe I'll never know. A whole lot seems clearer but there's still so many questions and it goes faster each day; it's hard to keep up, man!
I found out I had syphilis the year I turned thirty. I broke out in a hundred tiny red blotches and the doctor gave me 14 consecutive injections of penicillin in the butt; that was the closest thing to anal sex I ever had in Melbourne. You know what, buddy; I think I actually turned thirty the year you left town because I moved into that room on Smith Street and Ms Obedie stopped in for my sweet chili tofu with vegetables. I still remember her tight busty top with The Goodies printed on the front. She was some kind o' wild child back then huh? My kitchen was located inside a garage and the grease was so thick on that stove, it was as sturdy as rust. I can't recall my birthday particularly; I probably spent the night tossing and turning while those dumbass wogs played Cher and Bette Midler on a karaoke tape downstairs. The Club Grill was the foulest cafe on Smith Street, man. Not even the lunatics would eat there. Maybe that silly idiot next door with 'Criminal' tattooed on his forearm was blasting his Green Day record for the fifth time that day. I could o' detonated a bomb in that place, man; it'd still be infested with roaches.
Those were the days. You were a spring chicken with well pronounced cheek bones, olive skin and a washboard stomach, honey bun. Is everything still holding up on the other side of the world? Would I still recognise your sweet cheeks cycling down Gertrude Street; pushing up and down on those pedals? Do you still have a twinkle in your eye, a sharp tongue and a radical hair do, man? It's good to be with you, buddy. Can you imagine how old we'll be when we finally meet again; what'll we do for kicks, man?
There's no need to think that far ahead, surely. Turning thirty has taught me to live in the present, that's for sure. You never know what's around the corner; a deadly virus, a tsunami, a serial killer, an obsessive lover. It's ironic, don't you think; we were in such a hurry to grow up and lose our innocence and now we just want it to slow the fuck down. It's not that I seem a lot older, I guess; I just find myself doing older things, you know; like staying home on a Friday night and reading a book or watching a movie with long woolen socks on my feet, a blanket wrapped around my shoulders and a plate of raisin toast. Sometimes I nibble a block of chocolate or sip chai tea with honey. I make sure I have three well rounded meals each day and go to bed before midnight; I always wake up in my own apartment, that's for sure. Once upon a time, waking up in a strange place was a sign of a great night on the town!
I can't think of anything worse than greeting the day on a grotty mattress with some feral guy's feet in my face and an empty bottle of beer between my legs. Now I get up in the morning and go for a stroll in the park; I take time to feel the breeze on my skin and inhale the scent of flowers. I keep an eye out for wildlife and marvel at the granduer of the trees and the birds and the luscious green landscape. I stare at the reflections in the river and the shapes drifting through the sky like a senile old fool and I have to pinch myself now and then when a jogger passes; especially if it's a hot guy with bulging calf muscles!
I try to converse with people in shops and smile at strangers and be courteous when I climb on the bus. I don't make a spectacle of myself but I still wear knee high socks with skulls printed on them and check shorts with Badboy splashed across the backside; just because you're older, doesn't mean you have to fade into obscurity. Maybe it's easier to get away with being an eccentric nut when you're over thirty; before that, they pin you down to one of the subcultures who roam the city like spoiled brats with a chip on their shoulder.
Ah, that takes me back to the tumultuous twenties in Sydney, Lars. I returned from another sojourn to NSW just the other day. I kept my dear mother company while her boyfriend awaited a court hearing for social security fraud. We talked about what she'd do if he went to jail; she'd move to Melbourne and we'd grow old together, if we didn't kill each other first. She'd join a senior citizens club and we'd meet for coffee once a week in Fitzroy gardens; any more than that could cramp my style and be hazardous to my health.
The case was adjourned in the end, so we frolicked on the harbour, pretending to be members of the affluent set who can afford to spend their days sailing from beach to beach in a private yacht. We even took a 200 dollar fine dining cruise when mum's old age pension was approved by social security. We had our very own cabaret singer, sprawled on a piano with slender legs up to her ears, afro hair and a cocktail gown splashed with sequins. I felt like newlyweds on The Love Boat till I remembered I was with my mother and stopped playing with her foot under the table; the harbour lights were more dazzling than ever.
We caught a graffiti tagged train back to Surry Hills where dirty old men slept in their own piss outside greasy takeaways and hostile voices yelled abuse indiscriminately as we scurried through the vomit stained streets, back to mum's decrepit hovel; where the outside loo is smothered with mould and we squat on a toilet used by ten other strangers who stub cigarettes out on the floor and squash cockroaches into the ground with their bare feet; it's a world away from the Opera House, man!
My mother turned thirty a long time ago but she still shacks up with grunting gorillas and eats the cheapest processed food with no nutritional value. At least this guy's an improvement from the pig who raised us, I guess. While I was in Sydney, we celebrated the old goat's passing, in fact; he had a heart attack and fell off a stool in an Adelaide pub. He was buried at a pauper's funeral and no one was told till a month later. His untimely death made our night on the harbour even more poignant. Cheers, buddy!
Yes, thirty can often be a time of wiping the slate clean, so they say. It just gets too draining to hang onto grudges, man. Thank God you reach a point where you can forgive and forget. Maybe you can see where everyone is coming from and take responsibility for your own part as well; thirty brings a clearer perspective, I think. It's time to move on, they say; no one can live with all that bad blood, man. It depletes the immune system and makes your hair fall out; take it from me!
I tell you what, Sydney sure looks more appealing through undilated pupils, man. It saddens me to think what a narrow, convaluded existence I had. I was a jaded son of a bitch when I moved there and wiped myself out in the glory holes of Oxford Street; my ass was anybody's, man. I can't imagine making the same mistakes now. I treat myself better these days. I know I deserve better because Louise Hay told me so! I wouldn't go back to the twenties for anything, man; not that I remember half of it so it won't come back to haunt me, I guess.
I caught a chest cold from my mother before I left town; I was doing Eucalyptus inhalations for my breathing and Lavender inhalations to clear my head. I still couldn't sleep with a cocktail of valerian, chinese herbs and valium. Mum and her boyfriend snore louder than any walrus conceived on this planet, man. For awhile there, I felt just as out of it as I used to; wandering the alleys of Surry Hills, jumping at my own shadow and bumping into lamp posts. I left Sydney before I lost my mind all over again and caught a plane to the gay commune in North NSW where I shacked up with my pal, Spider Cutie and the other fairy folk; Chameleon, Sparkle, Tea Cosy and Sugar Plum.
I had a fantastic time, strolling through the rainforest on my own, peeling leeches off my neck and scrub ticks out of my ears. I saw echidnas and eagles and bandicoots; they ran away as fast as they could! We drank hot chocolate and gazed at miles of pristine sub tropical forest with mist rolling across the valleys and blazing sunsets splashed across the horizon. There were a million stars shimmering in the universe while I soaked in a tub on the Moon Meadow with a log fire crackling beneath my ass; the scent of almond oil and geranium rising up from the steaming water hugging my skin. I could've stayed in that bath forever, man!
Each night we had a communal dinner; falafel, tabouli, baked vegetables, tahini, brown rice, broccoli and cauliflower soup, chocolate pudding and red wine. We stared into smouldering fires and joined hands in heart circles, hugging for warmth and toasting marshmallows. We ate porridge and stewed fruit on the veranda each morning as wallabies hopped across the property and cranes swooped into the dam and drank from the water's edge. I sure appreciated everything more than I did in my twenties, man. Maybe you become more conscious or your perception clears and you see the magic in it all. I never take it for granted like I used to, that's for sure.
I can't say there was much beauty flying back over the suburbs of Melbourne; endless grids of square brick homes and clogged up roads, ramshackle factories and polluted waterways but the world aint perfect, I guess. It was a mighty shock rolling into Southern Cross station under solemn gray skies and drizzling rain. Everyone looked so cranky and frustrated, jostling for space on the escalators and barging their way onto trains; shrouded in trench coats and scarves, breathing fumes of mist.
It's just the way it is, I guess. The rainforest and the fairies are a galaxy away and I'm back at the computer trying to make sense of it all. Maybe it was just my imagination? All I've got to remind me is a pair of muddy sneakers and a photograph of three men in drag, sitting cross legged on a rug with a pot of tea and a plate of Iced Vo vos. Bon apetit, man...

Happy Birthday, Lars
Love and hugs,
JJ x

Berlin Kottbusser Damm

Well thank God for that, we’ve finally got babies, women and pictures on our blog! Hi there Obedie! I’m really glad you managed to take a few snapshots of Jim.

Jim, between you and me, you’ve really let yourself go. What were you wearing? You can’t wear spots with cold sores. It’s got to be either one or the other, HIV or no HIV. Otherwise you risk looking like a Seurat. Anyway thank God you two can’t take any pictures of me. I will be turning 30 this year and am starting to be aware of the downside of my marvellous cheekbones – they’re starting to fill up.

Mads, thanks for the tip of brushing up my boys don’t cry. I haven’t listened to it for years but haven’t completely turned my back on my goth past and am actually on a bit of a Siouxie trip at the moment. In fact Sebastian and I went to see Siouxie at the end of last year here in Berlin. She played in Huxley’s Neue Welt which is where Hitler and Goebbels also once ranted on stage in the thirties before being elected. On this occasion, Siouxie, who has herself shown she can look good in Swastikas before, came on stage wearing a bodice, which I thought was a bit too much. I felt like saying to her, love, there’s no need you know, it’s alright we like your music even without the bondage outfits. I mean she is 50.

And aprospos, women turning 50, yes, Madonna can be seen on a poster from our window, also wearing a bodice, sucking on a lolly and looking interchangeable with Paris Hilton. I didn’t want to admit this to you guys on the blog, but I actually saw Madonna this year, but chose not to write about it because I thought it would lower the tone. But then again, if we want to attract advertisers and generate advertising revenue on this page (ha!) then I suppose we’ve got to start name dropping sooner or later. Madonna was in Berlin presenting her new directorial debut (I didn’t see it, I just saw her) and I went along to see her getting flashed at by the press and her fans. We stood on the other side of the street and ended up jostling for space beside a group of Italian teenagers who were singing Like a Virgin in bad accents for an Italian camera crew. I have to admit I am fascinated by Madonna but I don’t think she’s any good and that’s what annoys me about her: that I’m still fascinated by her. Someone should just get it over with and give her a Grammy for having soft power. Have you guys seen her new video? I mean the only good thing about it was the black glacier – at last I can explain to people what being on ketamine is like. Except a bump of ketamine is a lot more fun and no bit less glamorous (except when you throw up your last gin and tonic on the cigarette machine).

Now Jim, that’s great about having your short plays put on. I love the idea of the timid Indian students being given the dirty lines to recite. I bet they loved every second of it. And by the way, I wasn’t telling you the whole truth about the way you look in the photo. Obedie and I skyped last week and we both said how healthy you look. I can’t believe how much weight you’ve put on, you haven’t looked that good for ages.

I have so much to tell you guys but I also have so much work (Jim dear, if my job were 9 to 5 then I wouldn’t be moaning, but sadly it’s more like 9 to 10.) I’m sorry this posting hasn’t been very personal but the media last night must have gone to my head.

I’ll have to pop outside for more coffee. In this neighbourhood if I go to the shop two doors down on the right from my front door, I don’t even need to get out of my jogging pants. But since they’ve finished the renovations on the miniature ‘casino’ on the ground floor in our building, they’ve blacked out the windows by covering them in reflective glass which means if I need to get anything from the shop on the left of our house, I need to put a shirt on or else I feel like a complete slob!

Until these windows went up it was a hoot walking to our front door, because even though they had scaffolding up inside, there was a small A4 sign on the Spielothek’s door saying that despite the renovations they were still open; and you’d see workmen in overalls with paint tins and electricians going about their business with the carpets ripped out and ladders everywhere, back to back with people trying to win the 50 euro jackpot on the flashing roulette wheel and smoking fags at the machines, oblivious to the spring. In fact now the renovations are drawing to a close, they've stopped drilling which means we won't be getting any more complimentary sweeties pushed through our letter box to compensate for all the noise. It's funny, but the chocolate the manageress used to slip us was actually really good. She also gave each resident a gamblers' survival pack of sugar sachets, glucose tablets and a packet of tissues. I'm going to have to pop down there one day and check it out. The women who work there are all dressed like Lufthansa stewardesses and all the men are Turks.

Alright you two, will be in touch again, just need to get through this week’s translations and then I’m going to take time off to reconsider writing again. Lot’s of love to you both, Lance.

As Snug As A Bug In A Rug...

Hey guys and girls! I don’t know where you bloggers are but I’m going ahead with my post anyhow; it’s not like I aint used to my diatribe falling on deaf ears! I hope I haven’t scared y’all with my perverted tales. There was a documentary from the US last night called ‘God Hates Fags’ and I was astounded by this madwoman in Kansas who stands on the highway with her kids in tow, waving placards with pictures of boys like us committing acts of sodomy and fornication. They claim that anyone who supports our corrupt lifestyle is a ‘Fag Enabler’ and no better in their eyes; so that means you, Ms Obedie!
Fortunately, there’s only a handful of members in this ‘church’ and they’re all related to some miserable old fart who sits in the attic of a farmhouse channeling this hateful wisdom. Hallelujah folks! I turned the channel and stumbled on another fabulous US series called ‘Cheaters’ where a group of self appointed vigilantes chase ‘adulterers’ through shopping malls and peep their cameras through the windows of seedy motels to record these acts of fornication.
The things you watch when you got insomnia, folks! It’s hard on your brain in more ways than one. Last week I was popping pills and drinking hot water with three bags of chamomile tea in the mug. I was burning white sage to chase away the insomnia demons and sleeping with a Guatemalan worry doll under my pillow. I broke the head off my Japanese samurai statue and feared the repercussions so I buried it in the garden, under moonlight for seven days and nights to cleanse its energy.
My sleep cycles were fantastic most of the Autumn, although I was spooked out because I was in hospital this time last year and I had a psychological aversion to the season. It still shakes me up when the sun sets early and leaves fall from the trees; I don’t know how you cope with the somber skies in Europe, Lars. All of a sudden I’m home all the time, wrapped in my second hand blankets and second hand socks, watching the second hand TV on my second hand sofa!
I started a book of short stories and I reached 110 thousand words on my novel manuscript; the cold weather is so damn productive, don’t you think? Last week I had dinner at a friend’s place in Toorak and I baked lasagna and carrot cake. When I arrived, I was greeted by Mindy Lou and a group of homeless folk. There was a barefoot traveling preacher frying rice in the kitchen, an Indian peasant listening to Hindu music in the lounge and an Aboriginal guy showing his prison tatts in the dining room.
Apparently Mindy met these guys preaching the word of God in the Bourke Street mall and now they’re parked out the front of her joint off Toorak Road. They’ve been educating her about their brand of Christianity and showing her the pitfalls of dumpster diving. Mindy had a spiritual awakening, you see and I was invited to her very first Sabbath dinner party where I ate expired chocolate donated by the preacher and his disciples!
Later that week I was blessed to have another play performed, praise the Lord! The performing arts crew at RMIT had a crack at two of my scripts; Office Politics and Garth & Eugene. It was another hit and miss affair but I was impressed nonetheless. None of the actors were real experienced and they did a fine job considering. They forget several key lines but they were great at covering up. The costumes and the lights were fabulous and there were a number of memorable moments; Garth & Eugene was particularly well received.
For some reason, the director gave my call centre play to Indian exchange students and I had three demure girls playing my lesbian punk drug dealers! They were as quiet as mice and about as punk as a group of school girls playing marbles. Unfortunately the humour was lost but it had me in stitches anyway; they even played ‘Call Me’ instead of ‘Hanging on the Telephone’ by Blondie to introduce the charade.
There was free champagne after the play and Mindy chased the good actors down to see if they wanted to play faggots in my other shows. Maybe we can get an ensemble together and hire a space for the Fringe festival. God knows, waiting for a theatre company to produce a show for you in this town is as easy as finding a cure for AIDS!
Speaking of which, my most recent tests came back stable, bless those little tablets. The side effects are outrageous and I don’t know how long I’ll manage but I’ll hang in there for now and think positive; ha ha! This is the first week I aint had a wart or a coldsore on my face for six months and I’ve been living it up, darling! I’ve been zipping around this city from bath tub to thrift store in between chai lattes and anti retrovirals.
I ventured out last night to find me some lovin’ but I came home empty handed as usual. There was nothin’ but sad queens talking silly business and having domestics in Richmond and beefcakes with leather and hairy backs at the pub on the corner. The annual Mr Leather competition was in full swing and there were guys swanning around with their butt cheeks hanging out. There was nothin’ but smut, booze and shooting pool and I was left thinking how dreary it is to be queer in Melbourne and how I didn’t want to be 40 and 50 and my life to be this unextraordinary! I tell you what, folks, every time I venture out it makes the priesthood look more appealing and I can create more interesting fantasies on Microsoft word.
I spent the rest of the weekend as snug as a bug in a rug, trying to make sense of this mysterious universe and eating one chocolate after another from the box my friend gave me from her daughter’s school fundraiser. My mother’s boyfriend called me for mother’s day; go figure! I think he’s drinking heavy, waiting for his court case next month for $25 000 social security fraud; Lord, have mercy on his soul. There’s been enough addiction and incarceration in this family!
I brought a blue duffel coat from the Balwyn Salvo’s and I told the cashier I needed it for Europe. When I got home I realized I’d brought an identical duffel coat from the North Carlton Salvos three months ago! I heard a guy singing in a band on the radio and I realized he was a guy I made out with eight years ago during a drinking binge on Oxford Street. I was envious of his success and I regretted all those lost years in Sydney eventhough it made sense at the time and I thought of San Francisco and the guy I could’ve fallen in love with if I wasn’t afraid to tell him I was positive.
I wondered where all the years had gone but then I looked around and I was happy with what I could see so all’s well that ends well, I guess. It’s nice to have a little more wisdom, a roof over your head and food in your stomach, even if you aint a rock star.
Sometimes I get the feeling it’s not real and I’m not really here; I’m just watching myself in a movie and that’s kind o’ strange. Who knows, maybe it’s some magical mystery tour we have to go through to get to the real stuff, don’t ask me why. There must be some point to it all. Some days it fascinates me and I’m glad to be here and some days it scares me and I just wanna be somewhere else. Let me know if you figure it out cos I’m stumped, folks!
In the meantime, I’d highly recommend soaking in a tub. It’s a great way to relieve the stress from the demands of motherhood, Ms Obedie and it’d sure help you unwind from that busy nine to five schedule, Lars. So, hop in a bath with some lavender and sweet almond and soak those love handles, sweetheart!

Love y’all
JJ
x

Welcome Aboard Ladies!!

Greetings to you also, buddy boy…

Hey there folks. It’s Mister Itchy bum himself online here; rocking and rubbing from side to side in this rickety old director’s chair. If only I had a spare hand to scratch with, girlfriends. It sure is delightful to find a post from two lovely ladies from the wild wild west. Who is that blonde bombshell pictured with you, Ms Obedie? I would sure love to be pressed up close to her bosoms like that watering can, right now. Maybe you can pass on my number? You and I are the luckiest fellas in cyberspace wouldn’t you agree, Larry, I mean Lars…sorry old pal, I’m getting you mixed up with the deranged serial killer in my novel; he’s been stuck in my head for days; I almost feel like his dopelganger.
By the way, you sure are one wise, witty woman, Ms Obedie; can I compliment you on your fine camera work; you even made me look photogenic in this remarkable expose of country life in the inner city. I’m so proud; you managed to capture my burgeoning pot belly. It’s the fattest I’ve been in years; you aint the only one piling on the puppy fat, Lars Anderstrum. I do wish you included my brand new punk shoes, however; they’re the drawcard of this outfit, my dear.
You sure missed one mighty fine picnic by the charming ol’ Yarra, Lars. Ms Obedie rocked up with a buffed up stud and her delightful daughter, Suschi. She had that babe in one arm and a bottle of rose tucked under the other! She presented me with a delicious cupcake with a candle in the centre; I presumed it was laced with hashish and fed it to the goats. You never know with them environmental types; they’re always fooling around with hallucinogenic plants or boiling up magic mushrooms.
A fabulous time was had by all, blowing our party horns and sucking lollipops in the sunshine. It was the best birthday I ever had (that I can remember) and it was far superior than the last two I spent in a hospital bed. Those nurses jabbed me with syringes left, right and centre and I didn’t even get to choose the darn drug! Unfortunately no one brought plates to the shindig so we had to dish up the potato salad on the cardboard invites supplied by one inventive party goer. Of course there were other gourmet dishes like pesto pasta salad and roasted corn cobs and we washed those kernels down with strawberry champagne and a bottle of Bailey’s Irish cream. One party goer was inclined to show us how skilled she was at fitting a stack of those horns in her mouth all at once! The whole crowd was impressed, particularly myself, being a fellatio fanatic from way back. Ms Obedie was kind enough to share her classy bottle of Rose and drank us under the table, of course. That foxy mama sure can polish off the flutes; although she’s settled down since her wild days’ of popping pills and rampant bisexuality in the nightclubs of Fitzroy!
Mind you, it was the antics of the children that were the highlight of the day; little Uschi had us in stitches diving into the chocolate brownies, crying ‘cuddles, mummy, cuddles’ and ‘shokolade, mummy, shokolade.’ Meanwhile, four year old Kahli was tearing about wearing fairy wings, waving her magic wand and making us slur our words and get all dizzy in the head. You sure know you’re getting old when your friends turn up with children, buddy. I had birthday cake and booze coming out my ears by the end of the day and we were all high as kites on sugar, tootin’ them horns at passers by and blowing bubbles of detergent at the donkeys and cows. Ms Obedie blew the biggest bubble I ever saw and it popped me right in the face; I was seeing stars and bubbles, fairies and queens all at once, buddy!
Excuse me for a moment while I check out the fine black American specimen who just walked into this café in Brunswick. I’m choking on my decaf latte and I’m too nervous to even look up from this notepad. Especially since I got a nasty ol’ golden staph infection right here on my face; it’s kind o’ like a giant weeping scab on my chin and I was just at the clinic getting the damn thing swabbed. Yo, Ms Obedie; why don’t I hire you to create a photographic AIDS journal before you pick up those garden tools?
My, I don’t think I’ve seen such a fine specimen of a man since I smoked that fella’s crackpipe in San Francisco, honey. Thank the lord I’m drinking decaf; I’m shakin’ all over as it is!
Anyhow, Lars, we wrapped up the day with a game of ‘Fantales trivia’ back at my public housing pad. The little ones converted my bed into a trampoline while Ms Obedie told us about all the boys you made out with on that shabby old mattress. She also talked about her love of Phil Collins, that fine musician from the USA. Uschi tried to strangle my teddy bear, Oscar, to death and I praise the lord those children never found my stash of AIDS drugs and anti depressants!
There’s not much to tell after that, buddy. I spent the next week eating left over cake and chocolate, taking antibiotics for my staph infection and herbal sedatives for insomnia. For some reason I was full of angst after turning 34 and I suspect it was something to do with that Scorpio full moon smouldering in the cosmos. So I trust you enjoyed this relatively smut free diatribe and I hope we get to see a photograph of you real soon, my little cream puff!

Love to y’all
JJ

where are you?

hey you two... I finally get around to writing on this blog and you're both nowhere to be seen. I am actually sick at the moment and should be taking this opportunity to sleep while Uschi naps. Just popped in to see if anyone had written anything...
back soon
xm

this is one for laughs..two plant ladies indeed

..and another... Ursula really is very small although she looks exceedinly so in this photo. Oh JJ you look awfully paternal here..

Here is one.. just thinking that i look particularly weathered beyond my years, then I realised that I am juxtaposed with a one and a half year old. (JJ you look radiant and at this resolution you cant even see the cold sore)

btw Lars I have recently discovered the listening pleasure of the Cure 'Boys Don't Cry' album...I think you have it? If you don't, buy it, buy it now!

obedie has landed, repeat..

Finally I have arrived at your blog -spot (what terrible terminology - like acne). How nice it is to be here, if only to break up Jim's diatribe of sexual inuendo and bodily ailments...Jim, seriously, i am glad you feel comfortable enough to share these gooey details, but i think poor Lars is feeling faint. Tone it down yo sleazy back street Abbotsford itchy bum!;) Lars, you would love to hear that we had a fabulous birthday gathering for JJ down by the river last Saturday, if only I had brought my camera with me to share the day with you. It was a picnic affair with all kinds of cakes and salads and whatnot. The weather was mild and warm with a hint of a breeze and hazy autumn afternoon light making the nearby cows and goats from the children's farm look like something out of a romantic pastoral scene. We had champagne and rose and JJ even topped that off with some Baileys, being an old soak from way back ( I can talk). I got to hear some enlightening stories about JJ's days knocking on doors in San Fran for cocaine. I forgot you used to be dodgy Jimbo. You are such an accomplished person now. Aren't we all? hmm let's all reflect on that for a moment.
I do have some photos from our day at the children's farm in Abbotsford a few weeks earlier, Uschi in tow. Now let's see if I can work this thing...
yes, well I tried to upload a picture but it was big and I am not sure if it has worked...I might just post this now and see. At least I have broken the silence, and found my way here. Now I officially commit myself to regular contributions.
More soooon
must shower, the gardening grit has overcome me! I am mud lady.
xxxlove to you both
obedie

Splish Splash I Was Takin' A Bath!

Hi there, buddy!

I’m writing to you from my claw foot bath tub here at the City Bath house in Swanston Street. It’s just down the road from your favourite Japanese curry place and you bet, it’s still open. I had a tantalizing chicken teriyaki there just the other day. So why am I taking a bath in the middle of the day, you might ask? Unfortunately my skin condition is still persisting and it looks like it might be an allergic response to the dust mites in my apartment; so I’ve hurried down here to throw myself into a steaming hot tub and drown the little buggers. It seems the little critters have multiplied to epidemic proportions and run me out of town, my friend. Of course, they’re present in everyone’s home but they can precipitate an allergic reaction in immuno suppressed individuals like myself. I’ve been scratching like mad for weeks, tossing and turning at night, feeling like things are crawlling over my scalp and into my ears. No one’s come to visit in weeks!
It came to a head the other day when I moved all the furniture and washed every cushion and item of clothing in the place. I was up to my neck in public housing dust, buddy. I filled that old vacuum three times before I was pooped and by that stage, my skin was so inflamed, I felt like I was on fire; I nearly ran down to the Yarra and threw myself into that smelly old river. Never mind the e. coli, I was out of my mind, Lars honey.
Things have settled since then, but it sure made me think twice about bringing second hand furniture home from the thrift store and letting the dust build up on the skirting boards. I’ve investigated everything the last three months; scabies, syphillus, drug toxicity, wheat allergies, poor kidney function. Can you see why I don’t have time to work for a living?
Thank God for these public baths is all I can say. At 2-50 a tub it’s unbeatable value. Man, they’re so deep and wide you could fit another fella in here; that’s the only other thing that’d make this experience superb, buddy! I won’t tell you how I’m keeping myself amused right now. I’ve tossed in a few drops of sweet almond oil to make my skin smooth and supple and a sprinkle of sea salt to cleanse the pores. Next time I’ll bring my rubber ducky and sea shells, maybe some lavender oil or vanilla scented candles. Whew! I’m so hot right now, buddy. Maybe I should accidentally push the emergency button so the guy out front will come and resuscitate me!
I’m sorry, man, I think my daily Qi Gong practice is over stimulating my dan tien region which is located right above the testicles. That’d explain my lascivious yearnings of late! It’s part of the healing routine I do each day along with meditation, prayer and affirmation. It’s had the strange effect of reigniting my sexual urges and forcing me onto the public like a bitch on heat. This weekend, fuelled by a chapter from a Deepak Chopra book about the need for passion in one’s life, I found myself staking out the gay beach on Port Phillip Bay. I walked for two hours through sand castles and sand pits before I reached those smutty shores at the end of the bay. Can you imagine, walking through all that family fun one minute and stumbling upon two naked men sprawled on top of each other like a tortoise and its shell? There’s a dirty old factory and a refinery in the background and a scrub behind the dunes where men in suits, laborers and queens in speedos play hide and seek. There was even a huge Nazi symbol engraved in the sand by the water; you German get around, buddy!
Unfortunately I started getting all weak in the knees, feeling intimidated by the whole scene so I swaggered off to the bus with my chastity intact! I think I just love to tease myself out there. To my pleasant surprise, my favourite Japanese driver was at the helm of that bus. He wears a bizarre hearing device and gives me the cheesiest grin and the most suggestive wink you ever saw. He blares rock n’ roll music and gives the finger to inconsiderate drivers when we pass through the city; calling them idiots and fools in Japanese. He calls me ‘cousin’ at the end of the journey and I wink straight back.
Oh Lars honey, I’m almost done soaking in this tub so I’ll have to sign off; I’m so glad you could join me! It almost feels like you’re sitting in that rickety old chair in the corner. If only you were, you could pass me a towel and help me get outta this thing without breaking my neck!

By the way, is your mother really in Nigeria? I saw a short for a documentary about the capital city, Lagos. They said it was ‘hell on Earth’ – the most polluted, over populated place in Africa. Apparently there’s a car jacking every five minutes and the highest murder rate you can imagine? If that’s true, your mother must be a real brave woman, son. Send her my best wishes.

Love to you, buddy
Your pal, JJ x

By the way Jim, what on earth has got into you, your last posting was scandalous! You prance off to Sydney and come back a whore.

Housewife in Nigeria

My mother’s taken up crosswords, now she can’t leave the house too often to attend her crochet group. I did the crossword with her on the phone while she was sitting in the lounge. Neither of us were too sure what a trough for washing ore was (5 letters), but at least we could share our sense of defeat at not being able to do a lousy crossword in a two month old women’s magazine from SA. I’ll miss the way our phone calls used to be. People in Nigeria only have cell phones and have completely skipped using conventional landline phones. So whenever I used to phone my mum, she was rarely at home. There’d always be the buzz of traffic and honking car horns in the background. On her birthday last year I called up and she was gambling at a lady’s house playing mahjong. When I first ever gave her Nigerian number a try, she was at a huge vegetable market and had to end the conversation by saying, ‘Right, I must go now, there’s always a man at this corner with a portable sewing machine and I need to find him to sew up your father’s trousers.’ Most often she’d be in the back of the car stuck in traffic with the windows up, and she’d prattle on about how many of the company’s wives had been jacked in traffic that month. It would sometimes annoy me that I’d always have to compete to get her attention, and vie off vendors selling fruit and boys on mopeds racing past to tell her what I’ve been up to. But how sad it is to always catch her when she’s at home. Sometimes there’s nothing I’d like more than the chance for the both of us to go and shop for vegetables together.

Happy Easter Bunny...I Mean Honey!

It's so good to finally hear from you, buddy...I was about to send out a search party!
I know you're almost thirty now, doing the final year of your Saturn Return journey, but I also know you're far too level headed to succumb to the forces of the cosmos ie. plunge into psychosis or an altered state of consciousness. Never mind if you do; we've all been there, man, it's nothing to be ashamed of. Nevertheless, I hope this blog finds you safe and sound in the arms of a well endowed snowman, my friend..it must be pretty chilly in Deutschland huh?
By the way, I appreciated it immensely, but you didn't have to write a critical analysis of my novel extract; I simply wanted to introduce you to some of the kooky characters who inhabit my seriously deranged mind; I hope you found them just as endearing as I do?
I haven't paid a visit to their crazy world for quite some time, but I have been doing plenty of other writing - posting profanities to our readers here and scribbling my name and number on the back of dunny doors across this city, hoping to bust my three year chastity wide open...yeehah!
That's if I can heal this damn fungal infection that's overtaking my asshole as we speak! I'm writhing in fits of itchy madness right this minute, pal. I'm stripping down layer by layer to get my finger nails into all those difficult places. Can you imagine trying to type a coherent post to this site while scratching your ass? I'd be tearing my hair out if I wasn't busy tearing out my asshole, man! I'm sorry to lay this on you, but it's the glamorous reality of living with HIV/AIDS, buddy; my anal health will never be the same. Every time I walk into a thrift store, that old tune ‘Burning Ring of Fire' seems to perk up on the radio. Let me tell you, it's spooky man! I just hope the doctor gets to the bottom of this infection before I score a date.
Life in Melbourne's fairly chilled out otherwise; I mean that literally. After a relentless heatwave, we've plunged into Autumnal weather with pelting rain and overcast skies. I'm through with cooking in the nude, Lars. I've started wearing beanies and socks to cover the sensitive areas but I'm still topless and bottomless underneath that apron!
I should send you a photo, man! Better still, next time you grace our shores, you and Maddy are cordially invited to a nude dinner party at my house. It is the age of terrorism, of course, so I might have to perform a cavity search before you step in the door.
I can't believe I'm actually missing Summer. My days at the beach are over and I aint feeling sexy no more. In fact, these overcast skies are making me damn miserable. I'd be on the phone to suicide help line if there wasn't an episode of 'So, you think you can dance' tonight. By the way, a fella named Russ replied to my reply to his personal ad but I accidentally hung up on him so maybe it just wasn't meant to be huh. Apparently half his tank of goldfish passed away the day before so it was a bad omen anyway, don't you think? Unfortunately, my libido has gone into hiding along with the sunshine and the speedos; maybe you can talk dirty to me some time, pal? Your extensive vocabulary and well pronounced verbs get my thighs quivering!
I had a fabulous massage from an absolute pervert on Easter Monday. He didn't take his eyes off my crotch for the entire introductory meeting. He told me that all gay men should have a best friend in Berlin because that's the only city in the world where you can get a decent fisting session; then he proceded to ask if he could go to work on my buttocks. He had strong hands and fantastic maneuvers but I couldn't help feeling a little vulnerable. Thankfully, there was no penetration, pal, so my ass is still in one piece! Unfortunately he didn't offer a 'happy ending’ after getting me all worked up but it's not good for the immune system to spill ones' seed too randomly according to the Chinese.
So what else has been happening since I returned to this Victorian state, dare you ask? Well, the Easter bunny was none too generous but I eat far too much chocolate anyhow. HIV weakens your gums as it is, so the last thing I need is all that sugar. Besides, I'm still having nightmares about the nasty ol' bunny rabbit from that film, Donnie Darko. He was one scary mother fucker, man! Hot cross buns are my favourite Easter treat; especially when they're toasted just right with lashings of butter...yummy, buddy!
On a serious note, I had a message on my answering service from my ex boyfriend who's laid up in a Sydney AIDS ward. He sounds like a geriatric or a ghost; he was so exhausted he could barely speak his name. It's a crying shame because he was a real looker in his day and a charming, creative dynamo as well. He hasn't called back but there's not a lot I can say; I can't wave a magic wand and make us all better. It's hard to have sympathy when the nerves in my skin are so itchy and burning I can barely dress myself in the morning. Most of the time
there's no hard feelings but there's not much to say either. All I can do is think of him in my prayers and send him my love.
No one deserves this illness but no one can save anyone else; one day they'll prove those damn yanks wreaked havoc with a nasty vaccine or cooked up this germ warfare as part of their find a cure – get rich quick scam. Until then, we're just a bunch of lepers contaminated with a bug that apparently jumped species and favoured us faggots and junkies, can you believe that shit? I got one serious wart hanging off my lip to testify to this global conspiracy; I got the skin rashes, the pins and needles and the hairy leukoplakia in my mouth. Not to mention my daily dose of anti retroviral agents; Abacavir, Lamivudine and Pyremethamine each morning and Reyataz, Indinavir and Tenofovir each night. Don't ask me what they do because I don't know and my doctor don't have the foggiest either. He's taking directions from some protocol in an AID$ industry journal and I'm the poor sucker who's the guinea pig in this epidemic of lies.
I hope I live long enough to see the lid blown off this multi billion dollar scandal. I hope my face don't cave in and my belly don't swell up like a bloated seal like so many other guys I see at the HIV centre. I hope I don't spend the rest of my days swallowing pills and living on welfare in public housing; receiving brochures in the mail from the AIDS council; those guys who make eighty grand a year spreading safe sex messages to educate gay men how to protect themselves from our contaminated semen – all in the name of breaking down fear and prejudice and improving the quality of life for us queers in quarantine!

Love you, Buddy X

Dear Jim,

I’m writing this to you with a new pair of sunglasses on before the guests arrive. You see, last week was the anniversary of Joan Crawford’s death and tonight we’ll be watching Mildred Pierce on the beamer in the lounge drinking gin and tonics. The last time I saw Mildred P was the day before I left Melbourne with Maddy. I thought it was the most gratuitous farewell party anyone could throw – we drew the curtains to the heat outside and the sound of cars parking in the residents’ car porch below and drank gin and tonics in glasses from Target. I’d put together a weepy double bill of Mildred P and Imitation of Life, so by sunset we were all snotty from bawling our eyes out at the sight of Larna Turner’s hearse. There’s something so forbidden about sitting on a textile sofa in hot weather, with the curtains closed and the TV on. Sebastian and I only have a leather couch (of course) and no curtains, so it’s a feeling I don’t often have a chance to recreate.

Yesterday I finally managed to speak to my mother on the phone without my father being in the room, because she’s back in Nigeria. When she picked up she said: Oh, I was just thinking about you. I asked her what she was up to. She said she was sitting on the sofa in their lounge wondering when to start the ironing before the power cuts out (they turn the generators off between 5 and 7). She said that the moment she arrived back in Lagos, her hip started hurting again for the simple fact that the roads are so bumpy that she needs to take pain killers just to take a drive in the car to buy groceries. My mother’s just come back from South Africa. When she was young she hated South Africa when she used to visit it from Zimbabwe, because being Chinese, she was classified as a ‘coloured’ and had to wait for the white women to be served first whenever she went into shops to buy anything. Now she says she loves it. She says the roads are a dream and the traffic lights work and everyone drives facing the right way.

Anyway, I know I’ve been terribly slack about this blog, but I’ve had one deadline after another and am trying to earn enough money to see my mother this year, so am saying yes to everything. But really there’s no excuse... except that the guests will be here in an hour and I need to get the eggplants ready. I’m doing Japanese eggplants for starters. Maybe you’ve had them, they’re halved, and then baked with a sweet miso/mirin coating. Delicious – another thing I first tasted in Melbourne, in a small Japanese place opposite the library on Swanston. I wonder if it’s still there.

Here’s a link:

http://www.joancrawfordbest.com/ferncliff08.htm

It’s for a Joan Crawford fan website where my friend Ollie donated flowers for her grave on my behalf as well. You can see my name in a close-up of the pink roses. Ollie’s from the Rhineland and his grandfather was a member of the Nazi party in Cologne. He’s the first German to say his family were Nazis. Anyway, he’s obsessive about Joan Crawford. I’ll tell you more about him later. And by the way Jim, I’m not going to call you Jimmy, because I don’t want you to get too hot, especially when you might have a few guests round of your own and who knows what they might find in the salad if you get too aroused while cooking nakisch.

Lots of love,

L

If You Got It, Flaunt It!

If You Got It, Flaunt It!

Hi Darling!

I’m back in Melbourne and I’m letting it all hang out! We’re currently sweltering through a week long heatwave above 35 degrees and I’ve stripped down to my birthday suit to prepare the evening meal! It’s mighty weird, cooking in the nude, but that’s how we deal with global warming in the south. Tonight I’m gonna fry marinated tempeh and soba noodles, butt naked! My place already feels like a sauna and there’s still six days to go; I guess I should order pizza tomorrow. Right now I’m curled up in front of the fan, sucking on a fruit tingle; remember them, those fizzy life saver things? I brought them from the Asian grocery boy down the street. I think he likes me; he always gives me a dirty wink when I bend over to pick up the bok choy.
I can’t believe you’re getting around with a hole in your crotch, honey – that’s just asking for trouble! Then again, you were always a bit of a tease underneath that cutesy facade. You Deutsch folk never cease to amaze me with your lewd, lascivious behaviour; it beats the hell out of the stuffy old rednecks down under. If you were here, they’d stitch you up good and proper, buddy.
I was a little despondent after leaving the magnificent shores of Sydney Harbour and finding myself here in Melbourne, by the murky waters of the Yarra, holding my nose for the pollution! Aside from the river, everything’s so peaceful and proper in this city. I’ve gone back to wearing chequered vests with collared shirts, tucked into neatly ironed pants, shoes and socks. Melburnians are so damn pleasant; they’re far more reasonable and courteous and polite and considerate than anyone up north. It’s so quaint, it’s not funny!
Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad to be home, I’ve just had to face up to the practicalities of being chronically ill and welfare dependant. Thank God the new Labor government introduced a utilities allowance for us disabled folk. Now I can afford to buy clean underwear that hasn’t been fished out of a trolley in a thrift shop. Mind you, most of the second hand shops in Melbourne have adopted a new corporate vision and they’re pricing us charity cases out of the market. No kidding; the staff get around like pompous queens on Chapel Street, trying to out sell the expensive boutiques, even though most of them are just volunteers or ex cons on probation.
Of course, this part of town is as seedy as ever. Victoria Street became the centre of the heroin trade when you left, honey, and now it’s impossible to buy bread and milk without running the gauntlet of dealers and addicts. I once felt alienated by my drug addiction, now I feel isolated in my abstinence! Some mornings I have to step over syringes on my way to collect the mail. Lo and behold, a new shipment of cheaper, more pure smack has recently graced our shores from Afghanistan and the junkies on Victoria Street think it’s Christmas, man! Every homie in the city jumps off at North Richmond station, scores a rock, throws back a can of Jack Daniels and kicks up their heels till the next train comes and they nod off back to the ‘burbs. Meanwhile, I’m fetching my greens and shitake mushrooms and flirting with a Vietnamese stud in the same old store they’re scoring the shit! No thanks, man. I’m already on a cocktail of drugs; it’s called antiviral therapy and it’s just as potent as any o’ that shit!
To escape the heat and the junk, I go to the beach to commune with mother nature, my friend. In Melbourne, that means I wade into a bay that comes up to my waist, as still as a dead donkey and as murky as the swamps in Kakadu. All you can do is untangle yourself from the weeds and paddle around like a dog till you cool off, buddy. That’s what we have to contend with on Port Phillip Bay; the abbatoirs, the oil refineries and the monstrous factories dumping toxic waste into our beloved playground. On a hot, stuffy day it smells like a sewer just burst on St Kilda beach and the European backpackers are knee deep in shit!
I tell you what, Lars, this has been the Summer to end all Summers; if this is a sign of global warming, we’re well and truly fucked, man! Aussies are going down like flies because of that hole in the ozone layer and it could happen to anyone. I’m more afraid of dying from a cancerous mole than an AIDS related illness these days. I’m so tanned right now I’ve been accused of being an Iranian terrorist, can you believe that shit?
Being around all that flesh has got me hot under the collar, pal. The smell of that suntan lotion, the sand between your toes, the speedos, the butt cracks, the biceps; it’s mouth watering, honey! I even answered a few personal ads in the queer press. One was a guy from the Tasmanian wilderness who said he was a Sagittarian stud that likes art, op shops and recycling! The other guy kept it simple; he said he was hot, hung and horny and that’s fine by me. I was drooling so bad, I licked a whole row of postage stamps, slapped them on an envelope and shoved them in the mailbox; let’s go shopping, honey!
Then again, who needs a sexual conquest when you just got published, man! I had my second article about living with HIV/AIDS printed in a new age magazine called ‘Dare To Dream.’ I know it sounds corny, but I put my heart and soul into that article and earned myself 125 dollars. I dig writing uplifting, inspirational stories just as much as I dig purving on half naked men at the beach.
By the way, man, can you call me Jimmy on this blog; it gets me all hot!
Love to you, buddy.

Hi Jim,

I just got home after watching a movie, I’m Not There, with Susanne. To wake ourselves up a bit after it was over we went to a bar in Mitte called Kim (I think) where everyone was well dressed but the walls were disgracefully dirty. Susanne (who by the way is a doctor of psychology) is recovering from a mental problem and despite the medication, she sometimes says funny things. When we walked in past a row of lockers, she said: ‘There is no barman in this bar,’ in a voice that was as stern as Old Testament and I laughed loudly across the bare room until a barman popped his head through the door flicking water off his fingers and stepped out to serve us two beers. We took a seat on a black sofa and I suddenly realized I was stroking my right testicle. I had no idea that the tear in my jeans would have that effect on me. I warned Susanne and said, ‘Don’t look now but my balls are showing’ and after that she talked to me as if her head was in a neck brace. Thank God at that moment the DJ played a breathy Bryan Ferry song (which in Berlin is ultra arty because in this city they nearly only play beats) and I squealed and sighed and wondered why on earth had we gone to see a movie about Bob Dylan when we both can’t stand him? But as it turned out, Susanne said that the song was actually a Dylan cover so I suppose there was some point to the evening after all.

Dear Jim,

I think you’re giving Sydney a hard time. I remember having a great time when I flew up there six years ago. It was the last time I ever went on holiday alone. I remember I didn’t have a clue where I was going to stay the first night. I had this vague plan that I’d hook up with someone and wouldn’t need to book a hotel. So at 4 a.m. there I was, my eyes bloodshot and a look of desperation in my eye. I remember entering a bar, finding the drunkest man in the place and telling him to take me home. He was a mess but he lived just round the corner. He was so drunk he couldn’t even undress properly and the last thing he said to me before passing out was, ‘You won’t steal anything, will ya?’ He had a collection of expensive looking vases in the lounge on a very low table and I remember thinking that he should find a more sensible place to put them where he wasn’t going to knock them over.

Finding Nemo

Hi Jim,

I know you're still in Sydney, so I thought that while you're still there I could send you a poem about someone I was once in love with.


FINDING NEMO

Disney has consigned me to write to you.
There’s a film of Sydney. You’re not in it,
of course. It’s about fish. But even water has to
touch some definition and it’s time for a new
sensation. I’m sick of sublimated jealousies, of
looking at parents and thinking what ugly
children. The fuel tank of my Sacred Heart has
been punctured before and leaky, but I never
thought I’d end up killing coral with my
poisonous chemicals, when all I wanted to do
was fertilize everything.


It’s a shame things have to die. Why don’t you
contact me? We never knew each other but it
was fun being close. I still know your breath:
loving and damp as a jersey worn out in the
rain. It’s a shame that mere one kiss didn’t shut
my mouth proper so that by the time the meal -
a real spread! – was over, I’d blurted out the
death of us. Like the paralysed practising his
legs, Peter: the memory is still always worth it.
It’s only with the past between us that I wish I
could have told you then.

Happy Mardi Gras!

Dear Lars,

I’m heading south with my moral fibre still intact! I was nearly seduced by the pristine views and shimmering seas of Sydney harbour but alas, I came to my senses and saw this city for what it truly is; a no good whore without substance, class or social conscience. After trawling the sex clubs of Oxford Street, there is no love to be found in these streets where boozed up men loiter like lost souls, tossing off to sleazy porn, waiting to pounce like vampires. It’s far more spooky than sensual. The whole experience was miserable and I wandered home feeling soiled and sad to be queer; not to mention the vile stench of amyl nitrate all over my clothes. The best thing was the guy at the counter selling the smut and buzzing patrons through the entrance. He looked more miserable than the punters; he seemed guilty for taking our money and so he should; profit’s all that matters in this corporate wasteland. The bums have got the right idea; they take their own drinks and listen to the music from the gutters outside the club. They know it’s hardly worth paying to watch a mob of queens in titty tops prancing about podiums like retarded go go dancers.

I was tempted to stay for Mardi Gras but the reality is you can hardly see over the shoulders of gawking spectators waving rainbow flags and blowing whistles at their favourite floats. Unless you pay five dollars for a milk crate to a local scalper; you gotta have some kind of scam to survive in this city of swines! Anyway, who wants to stand in a crowd of queens four feet deep, being groped like a piece of meat; burnt with a cigarette or splashed with beer? There should be a ‘special place’ for us positive people, being as vulnerable as we are; all that pushing and shoving is just no good for a compromised immune system.

Rest assured, the queer tycoons will be spitting on us from their penthouse suites above the Golden Mile; throwing condoms filled with water at the dykes on bikes below. It’s bound to be another balmy Sydney evening and the crowd will be stuck together by a film of amphetamine sweat; absolutely everything sticks in this town! Why blow fifty bucks on a pill when you can lick the sweat from your neighbour’s throat and get just as high?

The religious right will be out in force, waving placards at the potential ‘gay and lesbian recruits’ – saving souls and scaring the pants off innocent men and women, contemplating our bankrupt lifestyle. That’s before they succumb to the lure of the flesh and strip down to their hot pants for a night of sex, drugs and debauchery! The cops will be out in force; zapping queens on speed with tayser guns and taking the hottest boys into custody; shackled in handcuffs, escorted back to the lock up for a bit of slap and tickle. It’ll be bigger and bolder than ever, tits ’n ass on every corner; costumes, cosmetics, cunts and pricks galore! Sin City at its crudest; if you aint proud to be queer, you never will be!

The pollies wouldn’t support it if it weren’t such a money spinner. Do you think they want a clan of half naked poofters parading down the street on dog leads, blowing kisses to impressionable children in the crowd? Next, those queers will be exchanging vows on the steps of the opera house and demanding the same legal rights as heterosexuals in this town. Just because we started out a penal colony, doesn’t mean we have to encourage rampant sodom!

Anyhow, Lars, you can see why I’m getting out of here before the circus hits town. Call me a party pooper but I just aint up for all that hanky panky. Not to mention the fact that me and my mother were attacked while dining at an Oxford Street café! Some lunatic demanded a cigarette and kicked over the barricades surrounding our table, calling my mother a cunt and a whore! I’ve said the same things about her, of course, many a time, but she’s my flesh and blood; this guy had absolutely no right! Thankfully, the tranny waiter chased him away with a corkscrew before I gave him a piece of my mind. She offered us a complimentary slice of chocolate cake but it was awfully stale and just added insult to injury.

The Golden Mine is on its last legs; it’s been taken over by crystal meth casualties and the victims of the outrageous cost of living in this city. We paid 4-50 for a coffee at Circular Quay this morning; how the hell are you supposed to run away from the nutters if you can’t afford any caffeine dammit? I’ve barely had a decent meal in this tardy town. Of course, the locals exist on a diet of amphetamines, viagara and suntan lotion!

I was nearly poisoned by a contaminated chicken and coleslaw baguette at Manly Beach this morning; then a blue bottle attached itself to my hand in the surf. Luckily I was able to flick it off before it stung me with its tentacles, damn nuisance. You do your best to swim between the flag but the fat people bawl you over; I swear they’re more of a health hazard than the Pacific currents!

I caught a train to the Blue Mountains and spent two days walking off the frustration. This city gives me an atrocious attitude; it always did. Within days, I’m charging about, dodging people, shoving people, challenging them to take me on – it brings out the worst in me, Lars. I drank cheap vodka till midnight at a bar in Kings Cross with the charming name, ‘The Bourbon and Beefsteak.’ Mad people were screaming at traffic lights and Lebanese bouncers with thick necks stood outside strip clubs like savage guard dogs while emaciated prostitutes swayed in the shadows with ladders in their stockings and make-up scrawled over the faces, melting in the Sydney heat. Every few metres we stepped over a trail of vomit or ingested the smell of faeces and piss. This city just had a month of non stop rain but it’s as filthy as ever.

The bars are full of backpackers, busty bimbos and beer swilling yobbos; toothless thugs with prison tatts and tarts with reptilian skin and suntanned complexions. Someone’s taking a bath in the fountain, someone’s pissing on the wall, someone’s passed out in the doorway, someone’s shooting up in the alley. Get out, before someone steals your wallet, spikes your drink or sells you their body.

Oh Lars, I feel like I just crawled out of a trashcan! I hope you feel the same after reading this blog. Today, this city is awash with sub tropical rain so I’m taking time out to reflect on the journey. I should return to Melbourne as soon as possible; I’m all out of AIDS drugs and you know what they say about skipping doses? Resistance, my friend, resistance! Every dose stops the virus replicating in your bloodstream. Ádherence’ is the catch cry of the AID$ industry; it keeps the virus in check and the cash pouring in to the drug companies; good samaritans they are – handing out substandard duplicates to expectant mothers in the third world and the orphaned children of New York City! If only, we could all be so altruistic.

Tchüss,

Jimmy