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

Jim's in Sydney!

Dear Lars,

Lovely to hear from you, my friend! It’s Jimmy J, your buddy from Australia responding to your fabulous blog and yes, I think it’s a wonderful idea and a great opportunity for us to be more creative with our correspondence. I felt like I was there beside you at the Berlin film festival; darling, it sounds like a blast!

The highlights are wild in comparison to the rather tame fare on offer at the Melbourne film festival, which was nothing to sneer at, mind you. You’ve ignited my fetish for contemporary cinema and aroused my dormant libido; just when I started masturbating again after a year of chastity – I almost flooded the apartment this morning, the discharge was so powerful.

How can I resist upon returning to Sin City Sydney after three years in exile? As we speak, I am laid out in the city of ‘sodom by the sea’ facing my demons and traveling after two years battling three AIDS-related illnesses. Oh Lars, it feels like an almighty struggle to see you before this virus takes me out. The last time I almost wound up a dribbling vegetable with a parasitic infection of the brain; Toxoplasmosis, they call it – a parasite common to the domestic household cat, invaded my bloodstream. I hope you don’t have one of those mangy creatures in your apartment or I’ll strangle the damn thing!

As expected, this city is putting on a show, like she does; lifting her skirt and flashing her tits for us faint-hearted visitors from the south. I’m staying with my mother in the gay ghetto of Surry Hills, which I fled seven years ago when I discovered I was positive. We have so many issues to resolve. The healing process is endless, particularly now I’ve progressed to ‘AIDS’ which is a sign of decline, according to health professionals – it’s all just contaminated blood to me.

In fact I feel like my old self already; three days of insomnia, losing patience and weight thanks to the steamy climate, keeping pace with manic locals, unable to afford the cost of dining out. My mother’s ramshackle terrace is not equipped with cooking facilities, you see; aside from an old frypan dripping with animal fat and an outdoor shower with moldy tiles you can hardly squeeze into and a tin can overflowing with cigarette butts by the loo. I have a private room upstairs looking over rooftops, strewn with rubbish, beer bottles and stray cats peering through me with bewitched eyes. The air is sultry, mosquitoes buzz in your ears at night and cockroaches run for cover when you switch on the lights.

These old terraces are crammed on top of each other like sardines; you can almost pass a shaker of salt across the balcony to the neighbour – the drugged up queers thwacking their fingers on a piano till 3am, singing Tori Amos lyrics with a bunch of fag hags. I hide behind a makeshift clothes line with damp trouser legs hiding my weary face, drinking another cup of chamomile tea, considering a dose of Chinese medicine or a valium. In the alleys below, destitute men scrounge for cigarette butts. The world outside really looks like a scene from the ‘Night of the Living Dead’ – it sends shivers down my spine just to take a peek at it. You know, the rich and poor collide in Sydney, much more than in Melbourne; here beauty and filth, madness and mysticism, magic and sorcery seep into each other like an oil painting.

I’ll be here till the sun comes up and a cocktail of sleepers accumulate in my system and I pass out for a few blissful hours before this vacation resumes. Like the good old days, I’ll wander the street with a trembling psych, affected by sleep deprivation and a pharmaceutical soup. Like a ghost, I will step onto buses, rifle through my pockets for change, wander through tunnels, tossing coins to buskers, dine at cafés with unpleasant staff and vanish into crowds of faceless strangers.

Today, I found myself at Coogee Beach; rummaging through the sand for my antivirals and catching waves with mobs of bronzed European backpackers. The saltwater does my skin wonders; it soothes the eczema which erupts over my body with every dose of medication, the warts on my face, the shingles lesions on my thighs, the dermatitis on my rectum and the peripheral neuropathy which bites my feet, shooting through the meridians of my body like pins and needles.

Yesterday I wandered the paths of beautiful Centennial Park, lounging by a lake inhabited by wild geese, ibis, ducks and swans; keeping an eye on the surrounding foliage where gay men stalk each other like hungry predators – I sit in close proximity, licking the chocolate mint ice cream which drizzles down my sticky fingers. Soon, I will leave this place and take my fantasies with me. If I get some sleep tonight I might ride the ferry across the city tomorrow and visit the exclusive suburbs of Sydney harbour where tycoons have their manors with sculpted flower beds and private beaches. Perhaps I’ll spend more time with my mother, resolving our issues or looking up a friend from the past; the ones who haven’t fled this city, gone mad, overdosed or vanished into thin air.

Who knows, perhaps I’ll rendezvous with the man who infected me; hospitalized with meningitis in a Darlinghurst AIDS ward. He is one of thousands of gay men in this city of self indulgence who are reaping the benefits of being HIV positive; through the myriad social services and charity organizations lining up to clean our homes, drive us to the supermarket and administer our drugs; not to mention the food parcels, harbour cruises, theatre tickets and clothing vouchers. Get it while you can, they say; before your virus becomes resistant or you collapse with liver failure!

Life doesn’t end at Oxford Street; it just begins when you become HIV positive; so whack up that shot of crystal meth and take it up the ass on the golden mile – don’t forget to make an appointment with the STD clinic before you go. Three weeks later, rock up for your death sentence, standard counseling session and free medication; why not enroll in an experimental drug trial? It’s all the rage, you hear; you haven’t lived till you’ve been a bug chaser or a gift giver – it’s a party you shouldn’t miss!

Well Lars, that’s the first instalment from my Sydney sojourn; I’ll keep you posted. This is a fabulous idea, by the way and I love you more than anything too… that’s pretty darn special in a city where love can only be found in the barrel of a syringe!!

Blog on, darl!

Love, Jimmy J.

Dear Jim,

Something has just happened that’s left me a bit shaken up. After posting up my last entry (a dirty poem, first draft), I felt like stepping out and catching the last few minutes of sunshine and a bite to eat when I turned to close and lock the door behind me and saw that someone had written ‘Nutter und Schlampe’ or ‘whore and slut’ on the door to our flat. The words had been written in lipstick and it looked as if a child had done them.

I closed the door gently and decided to take a walk even though I’d suddenly lost my appetite. Outside families were strolling along the canal and children were playing catch near the synagogue. There are quite a lot of children in the building where we live and until now, we’ve had no problems. I remember the day we were unpacking, a couple of kids came and sat on the window sill and asked me a lot of questions, which I answered openly, and one of them even asked if he could hide his shisha in our flat, which I declined. Sebastian is out at the moment at a museum with friends, so during my short walk I decided I wouldn’t do anything about it until he got back home. I thought the best thing to do would be to leave the words there for everyone to see and certainly not to wash them off ourselves.

When I got back I heard a door closing a few floors above me in the stairwell and as I reached our door, I saw that someone had erased the words from our door. A neighbour was just coming up the stairs behind me with her bike, we said hello and I slipped inside.

I’ve been at home all day working on the computer, so I was literally just 2 metres away when they did it. And whoever washed it off probably now thinks they managed to do so without me ever having noticed anything. But I have.

Ode to JALIFSTUDIO
Georgia and Ukraine are eating fish, Kosovo jacks off behind the curtain and declares independence.

Category:
Hardcore amateur republic mess

You can see in our stars:
Aitor Kiss and Macanao (Kings of Piss) and many new ones:
Armando (big muscles and very aggressive bottom)
Ricky Ramos (monster cock)
Joe Groc (our Serbian piss lover from Kings of Piss)
Boxeador (face very sexy kinky arms)
Hugo Costa (beautiful arse)
Tony Duque (sexy hairy Albanian top)
Rovitoni (in short appearance)
Tom Louis (dirty minded guy with big hole)
and Austin Firefox (big muscles and deep hole).

Synopsis:
The gardener takes the chance to stop working and wanks in a can of beer. Joe gets to Armando’s house and rings the bell, but no answer. Armando is too busy being fucked by three guys he has cruised on the day of Kosovan independence. Joe decides to go to a sex-shop in Serbia. Coming out from a glory hole he gets piss by two cocks. It’s always the same with these damned Serbs he thinks and rubs his busted ass with bay leaves to get rid of the smell. Two customers, Costa Coffee and Vidal Sassoon, are having a good attendant while the assistant (Rovitoni, from Lidl) and another customer (Tom Louis, unemployed)do the same. Joe leaves the delicatessen in his way to his house Aitor Kiss cruises but nothing happens Russia backs off
after leaving lots of pissing and dildos Armando’s house is finally clean. On the goggle-box people of the new nation celebrate hungrily on hands and knees looking for celebrity in the dirt.
Aitor (Kiss) has another appointment with Austin Firefox finally. Joe arrives at his house. He takes the can of beer the gardener had left and drinks it all!

The next morning set in the Serbian version of Hampstead Heath the sun greets the gardener hosing the ponds and peeks behind clouds. They cruise each other and within minutes
the sun is on his knees drinking straight from Alberto the gardener’s thick uncut hose; no fucking here just scorched grass. Alberto is packing some serious meat and has nuts any Apollo would be proud of.

After some decent descent they decide to head back to Pedro’s squat for the main course the sun’s ass gets some real deep tongue probing. With one in boots and red braces, the other in a leather harness and both in big cockrings you know these two are dirty cunts with filth on their tongues hard spitting tit chewing and chest punching leads to Alberto getting licked by the sun’s fiery tongue. But soon it’s the sun’s hole that is lubed up and nasty and raw fucking starts as the clouds squeal up to heaven for the sun to resume. The sun gets fucked without mercy or protection his black hole stretching to take his mate’s fat.

Does the the KGB really have a hand in this? Does Vladimir Putin really know how to fist neighbours pushed onto a mattress the sun’s hole is further invaded. Alberto slam fucking the greedy whore in every possible position? No. A neighbour drops by to see if they want to join in the celebrations. They say we are! But when this still doesn’t give them the high they are looking for, out comes the heavy anal lube and in goes the fist.

Watching the suns’s wrecked hole swallowing Alberto’s greased fist
as the two of them make the ultimate connection is SO FUCKING HOT.

Alberto forces his clenched hand DEEP into the eager sun who bounces back on his mates arm to ensure maximum anal invasion. When these two dirty raw bastards finally cum the spunk is thick and creamy both guys well spent.

Tags:
Fresh international muscle ♠ international pigs ♠ European Union

Berlinale dress code

Dear Jim,

I haven’t rang in a while, I know, but I’m trying to keep the phone bill down as I’m currently out of a job. Apparently blogging is free, so let’s give it a try instead. Just what is it that makes blogs so different, so appealing? Well I don’t know Jim, I don’t read any and to be perfectly frank I don’t see why anyone should.

Now let me tell you what I got up to yesterday. I sat on my ass all afternoon well into night. I did it in four separate cinemas. Yes, it’s the Berlinale Film Festival again. Well, actually it’s already almost over, but it was my last day of screenings and so I thought I’d go out with a bang and watch as many as I could in one go. The best movie by far was Asyl – Park and Love Hotel by Kumasaka Izuru, who was annoyingly young, talented and free of facial imperfections. (His hair was a disaster though; it was long, unbrushed and randomly dreaded, which I suppose is of some comfort to us all.) His movie was about a woman who was the proprietress of a love hotel. If you don’t know what a love hotel is, find out on somebody else’s site.

At first I thought, oh no, this is going to be one of those long-breathed movies, with too much attention to the play of sunlight on closed curtains and sleeping actors’ faces, which if the truth be told, the Japanese can be very good at, can’t they? But it wasn’t at all.

On the top of the love hotel, the woman had opened a free public space, and while couples were fucking below with their eye on the clock, children and pensioners spent the day on the rooftop, either playing on swings or playing shogi. The reason why the woman let people go on her rooftop was because her husband had built the small playground twenty years before for their own children, but they had never any and he left her. What impressed me most about the film was the main character and the actress who played her. She reminded me so much of my mother. In fact she was 59, which is the age my mother was the last time I saw her. (By the way, I really want to talk to my mother and have tried her number in Lagos everyday for the past four weeks but can’t get through. But I think I’d better stick to taking about the Berlinale for now. Otherwise this blog will be all over the place.)

Well anyway, this woman becomes the mother figure to three other women in the movie: One who she mistakenly thinks was trying to kill herself, when actually she was just about to sharpen her pencil with a knife; one who she sees every morning at the same time jog by her hotel (who without her knowing each time is actually counting the number of steps it takes her to get back to her house and who writes the number down in a little booklet which she keeps by her at all times, until one day she drops it in front of the love hotel); and one who comes to the love hotel with a different guy practically every day to collect his sperm in a test tube in an attempt to get pregnant, even though she knows her chances are slim because she’s been declared infertile.

Well thank God the movie was so good that I could forget about the person sitting next to me. She was insanely cheerful, had brought her own home made biscuits sported had ruddy cheeks and a sensible anorak and before the screening kept asking out loud in a sing-songy voice whether she might still have enough time to go to the toilet. Oh well, she’s somebody’s mother I suppose, but not mine.

Anyway the film before that was by a radical left-wing new wave director called Watamatsu Koji called Ecstasy of the Angels. It was made at the beginning of the 70s, mostly in black and white and the director explained afterwards that it had been half funded on the prerequisite that it could be marketed as a soft porn flick. The result were very long-breathed sex scenes interspersed with passionate bouts of political debate. The German audience loved it. And I did too, but for less dialectical reasons. After spending so much time faced with naked Japanese women from 1970 getting fucked in the leg, and taking, as the Chinese say, one long breath and five short ones, I was at least able to come to the conclusion that, just like their counterparts in the West, Japanese women of today are far less curvaceous than before. Why is that? It makes for much better sex scenes. I think Mr Watamatsu would say it’s because they’re not getting enough political discourse. And Jim, I suppose this should all be of some consolation to you buddy: having a bony ass and sunken cheeks is totally sexy these days (if you’re a straight man, it seems, and we all know they’re still worth a try). Jim, dear, one last thing about the director – he looked terrible wearing a body-warmer in a heated cinema. Promise me you’ll never a body-warmer, even if you find one for 50c. Old age is no excuse for looking like a frump.

Which brings us onto the third movie of the day: An Italian movie about a Moroccan woman who is about to be married off to someone she’s never met and who needs to have her hymen restitched together for the wedding night. She and her queer buddy (who for added good measure was a transvestite) drive from Italy to Casablanca (via the ferry) to have the operation. On the way they visit the man’s family and see his son (who has been told he is dead). On a North African beach they even find a dead dolphin in a homage to Fellini! The best thing about it was the co-director, who took questions from the floor and looked stunning in a short-cut suit jacket, which was tailored around the sides and metallic grey in colour. He wore fantastic Italian thick-rimmed glasses, white shirt, black tie (knotted tightly – of course – and off to one side). The whole ensemble was set off by a pair of wonderful sneakers, which he wore by leaning on the side of his foot. He was much better than his movie, which, just to be fair to him, I’m not going to name, so maybe one day you might be duped into seeing it and thus make a small contribution to funding his impeccable dress sense by way of the cinema ticket. At the end of the movie I just had time to explain to my friend Francesca (who remains Bavarian despite the pseudonym) how I came to know the German word for such a tender thing as ‘hymen’ at such a tender age of 21. Here’s how: Herbert of the UCL German department once told me of a Chinese opera where they flew in live ducks to be part of the set, and where one of the main characters was a nun called Sister Hymen-Stone, whose hymen was apparently as solid as a you guessed it.

Isn’t it strange how strong our memories are sometimes? This memory is practically cannibalistic because it’s eaten up all the others I have of Chinese opera (which, as you know, were many), so I sometimes think that it was me who actually saw the performance with Sister Hymen Stone of the tame foreign ducks, when actually I only got to hear about it while trying not to laugh. Perhaps that’s exactly why I confuse the memory with others, because isn’t that what Chinese opera is all about: trying not to laugh?

The last movie was a documentary about Wolfgang Tillmans. I have little to say about it other than the Pet Shop Boys made a guest appearance and that Wolfgang is a fan of oversized T-shirts with the word ‘cock’ or ‘dick’ on them, which made him all the more down-to-earth I thought.

Right Jim, I think that’s quite enough about the Berlinale, don’t you think? I hope though, that I have in some way given you a few ideas for stories and am waiting to read your next piece. I’ll be in touch soon.

Oh and by the way can you guess why, as the very first picture on my blog, I have chosen a picture taken from a packet of instant noodle soup? It has something to do with Japanese Marxist revolutionaries.