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.