I'm...Waiting For My Man!!!

Hey buddy, long time no word huh? I've been a little distracted by the ups and downs of life, partner. The usual trials and tribulations of a middle age, bald, mono-brow queer. I'm still unemployed, under published, desperate and dateless – some things never change, man. Speaking of which, I recently shut down my online profile after one too many run ins with local psychopaths – I bit the bullet and called it a day for Manhunt.

It all started going haywire when an Italian Stallion by the name of Dom took a shine to me. I have to admit I fancied the black and white S/M photo he posted but he looked dreadful in another shot wearing a white terry-towelling dressing gown with droopy, bloodshot eyes – a few too many martinis, I suspect. Anyway, Lars, we met at a pizza joint in Prahran where he sat at the wrong table and started chatting up some unassuming boy, reading over the menu. I was having a gold ol' laugh a few feet away while Dom was telling the boy what lovely eyes he had and the boy's girlfriend rocked up with a couple of beers. Needless to say, our Italian Stallion was a little flushed in the cheeks when he saw me and slinked over feeling mighty embarrassed. He stood at the bar, ordering a coke and I thought to myself, this guy's kinda hot from the chest up but pretty outta shape from the belly down – and not much style for a Mediterranean either. Perhaps he blamed me for making a fool of himself and that's why he took me for a spin to the wild wild west instead of the movies in Carlton, like he promised.

I couldn't believe my eyes, man. I was packing shit, speeding across The Westgate, leaving familiar territory behind, wondering what on Earth I was in for. Dom told me he was a speed freak who just loved a shot of crystal meth when he rolled outta bed, especially when he had Manhunt boys to seduce. He said it helped him make conversation, feel confident and stay horny for hours on end. Then he asked if I wanted to pump battery acid into my veins too and I confessed that I was once a speed freak until I succumbed to amphetamine psychosis and was never the same again.

Dom said he'd love to get clean too one day before asking if I wanted to shoot up again – five times more, in fact. He said he was about to pay his dealer a visit – a fifty year old stallion with a string of teen, speed addict lovers. Dom said there's no way he'd be able to refuse a hit, especially before a day at the cinema, God forbid. He reminded me of the wild, uninhibited sex we could have, stepping on that accelerator, pumping his throttle and doing burnouts outside Gloria Jeans. While it was tempting, I said there was no turning back for this speed queen and besides, there was no room for making out in Dom's car with all the fast food trash, coke cans and cigarette cartons strewn through his shag mobile. I had trouble finding somewhere to plant my ass in that mobile garbage tip without sitting on the gearstick, buddy!

The next thing, Dom slapped on a pair of seedy shades, slammed the door and left me twiddling my thumbs outside an unassuming house in Altona. After a long delay, I assumed he was discussing renovations with his drug baron. Just when I tried to make a run for it, he swaggered out, all google eyed, grinding his teeth, slamming his foot down and putting pedal to metal. This time, instead of heading for Carlton, Dom took me on a magical mystery tour of The Western Ring Road. We were burning rubber so hard, anyone might think it was a leg of the Grand Prix. He started blaring Britney Spears and chain smoking Winfield Blues, stuffing cigarette butts into an already over flowing ashtray, calling other drivers assholes and mother fuckers – what a charmer huh?

I was dumbfounded, scanning the barren landscape of electricity towers, factories and mobile phone contraptions thinking what a hideous town Melbourne is from this perspective. At the same time, strangely aroused with fear coursing through my blood, heating up my crotch, making my ass cheeks all sweaty. Dom grinned like a maniac and said, 'I'm not gonna shoot you – I just wanna kidnap you for awhile' before laughing like a demented clown. I giggled back while I was pissing my pants on the inside, watching signs for Ballarat and Geelong sail by, imagining myself being raped and dismembered on some lonely road and left for dead in the scrub.

I calmed down and played it cool – keeping in mind there were hundreds of cars on the highway and I could wave my arms like a lunatic and kick and scream if it got outta hand. I was just about to tell the mother fucker I got HIV/AIDS before he asked how I quit speed and how I've resisted ever since. I told him life wasn't worth living for a couple of years – lack of inspiration, numbness, anxiety, depression. Lack of social life, a dwindling circle of friends, suicidal tendencies, but hey – all's well that ends well, buddy. In fact, I probably wouldn't touch the shit no matter how many hours I could be the centre of the universe and dance on podiums at clubs, discover the meaning of life with a bar full of strangers or have mind blowing sex with all of them, to boot. Dom told me he never has sex without meth and he doesn't usually screw less than three boys at once. He's never sustained a friendship or held down a job without meth either.

I felt truly sorry for the guy, thinking back to those days. Nothing stirs you - movies bore you, the country side doesn't phase you, you can't be fucked eating out or eating anything for that matter. Nothing beats a shot of speed so why waste the dough? All of a sudden it felt like we had something for each other, man. It felt like the cosmos had brought us together and I started to get off on this date! Sure, there were moments I feared for my life, there were moments I wanted to grab hold of that steering wheel and plunge the car into a ditch and Britney Spears had nothing to do with it.

At some point during this cosmic adventure, Dom decided to take a detour back to the family home in Preston and let the dog out. At this point I felt like the universe was orchestrating the whole thing – I had no choice but to trust. So we pulled up in the drive and his ghastly sister rocked up and foiled the game, introducing herself, telling me all about the family. I'd never seen so many gold framed photos of aunts, uncles and cousins under a single roof. I was gobsmacked by the glossy marble tiles, water features and wrought iron security grills while the sister yapped on about Sicily. Dom was in the kitchen, sucking on a filthy bong and I heard the slurp and bubble as he burnt the weed and pulled the cone. Then he stepped out into the luxurious concrete courtyard and dished up slop to a lame, doe-eyed mut that looked like it should be exterminated.

The next thing, he slammed the front door in his sister's face and we jumped in the Corona and hot rodded it to Northlands for a screening of 'Slum Dog Millionaire.' The lights went up after the show and it looked like Dom was a little subdued; coming down perhaps? He drove me to the nearest train station, saying what a lovely time he had before screeching off into the sunset, never to be seen on Manhunt again.

So tell me, buddy – should I call this guy or what? I thought about it for a few seconds before I decided that I needed a guy with his head screwed on and Dom didn't quite cut it. Not that I've ever been averse to speed freaks, con men and sociopaths – just look at my track record. Any New Age guru would say that I attract these nutters because I don't feel worthy of anything else – but how do you break the spell, man? Rest assured, if I were to meet someone who adored and respected me, I wouldn't feel a shred of attraction, lust or desire in any way, shape or form. I'd surely think them to be naff, blind or out to fuck me over. It's a good thing I fly solo these days, huh?

After Dom, I had a date with 'Mook,' who appeared tall, dark, handsome and spiritually motivated on his profile, only to wind up short, tubby, stoned and ten years older than he suggested. I caught the train all the way to Fern Tree Gully, only to wind up being smothered by a white pussycat that shed its fur all over my Industrie hoodie, while Mister short and tubby smoked one joint after another, bemoaning his ex lover (who still resides in the house) and complaining about the never ending surgery on his butt. By the end of the day, I still couldn't figure what that was all about, man – maybe he was lacing my green tea with something else green, know what I'm saying?

Anyway Lars, it was an hour by train so I made myself comfortable and while there was no chemistry to speak of, he did introduce me to the literature of Jean Genet which stirred my attention. Then we watched a hot queer classic with Brad Davis from Midnight Express, which stirred my loins even more. That show was so raunchy with horny sailors and hot sweaty steamboats, phallic symbolism and squalid sex scenes. Needless to say, Mook managed to sneak in beside me and the pussycat and slide his hand up my shirt so he could tug my chest hair and tweak my nipples. Why on Earth I let these dopey guys have their way with me, I'll never know. I put their needs ahead of mine, each and every time – I'm nothing but a play thing, Lars.
At least this guy brought me a greasy burger with the lot to appease my hunger before sending me on my way and at least he warned me not to look anyone in the eye if they stepped on at Boronia – fondly known as Bosnia by the locals, because it's full of vindictive teens on alcopops and acid!

Oh man, why do I get emails from guys who say they're into all things spiritual, yet they smoke like chimneys, lie through their teeth and try to get down my pants? Do you think I'm being hard on these creeps? Either way, I thought it wise to shut that profile down while I mulled it over and sought your advice. I don't wanna screw my way through cyberspace – I need something substantial, Lars. Do you think I'll ever find true love online? Do you think Mister Right's waiting for me?

I think I'm way over my head, man. This manhunt's got me tossing and turning at night, wondering where my next email's coming from, feeling completely shattered if my Inbox is empty. It's got me feeling flawed, unlovable, damaged, resentful – all kinds of demons I haven't confronted. Is it this painful for everyone? I imagine thousands of guys out there, cracking up at my profile, calling each other in hysterics, sharing the gory details, having fun at my expense. Help me out, man – I'm going round the bend!!

Bright Lights, Big City...

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