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