– Christmas. It’s only October and the halls are already getting decked with boughs of holly. The tinsel, the fake snow, the red and the green power-clashing in the worst most fuck ugly way; it all makes me want to vomit in someone’s mouth. The only good thing to come out of Christmas are the tacky kitsch jumpers, but it’s fucking summer down in this hemisphere and we have no use of them. Continue reading “Some Things That Can Eat My D*&K”
There was a time in my life when the idea of talking about my sexuality was about as likely as pig flight. Now, I talk about blowjobs the way most people talk about yoga. The act of ‘coming out’ will soon be an outdated one because eventually kids can grow up to be whoever the hell they want to be and it won’t be questioned and they won’t have to ‘come out’ because they will have grown up ‘out’ because that is the way it should be because, nature. Unfortunately, until that time, some kids are going to have to run this uncomfortable gauntlet, but lucky for them, they don’t realise how much good it will do them.
Whenever I speak to a fresh American, almost always the conversation turns to how I managed to survive in such a dangerous environment. They’re talking about all the deadly animals and the heat and I guess the nasty nature stuff that was used as propaganda in the days when being sent to “The Colonies” was a punishable crime, and parents would use it to keep their kids in line. I get it, my country is big and red and we have deserts to spare, but that doesn’t mean we were all raised Survivor-style then moved to the cities when we came of age.
I have a near crippling neurosis of eating out. Not in a sex way, I do that fine, but in a going to a restaurant and sitting down by myself and dining kind of way. It’s fine if I’m with another person/s but for some reason by myself I go through a struggle akin to devil possession. Finally, at 25 and with the chances marginally high that I will be alone forever, I decide I must break this mould, as a matter of survival.
Exercise is my space – my final frontier. It has eluded me for years but it’s getting to a point where I feel like I should venture forth and find that galaxy far far away. I am told constantly by friends, parents, doctors that exercise is good for you, it will pump you up, keep you going, give you the energy to you’ve been looking for, but its just so…ugh.
“No, I’m not putting my hands up. I don’t even like Detroit”. I stand on the outskirts of the smoky karaoke bar, deep in the heart of Chinatown, arms crossed, forbidding myself to participate. My friends on stage are riled up Lady Marmalade style, and the crowd around us is the regular daddy-issue-blondes and football-is-a-real-thing-dudes.
“Come on”, my friend coerces me, “I just found some acid. Let’s drop”.
My night takes a turn of the unexpected kind.
Let me be the first to jump on the bandwagon (*definitely not the first) to say that I am not perfect. I think unless you’re written into a story, no one is. I’m sure even Beyonce has snarted even once. I continue to fail at little things in my day to day life, and that’s OK. I refuse to succeed at everything. I will probably be that person at the high school reunion who turns up already drunk and hits on the straight guys I had crushes on in my youth, but hey, at least I didn’t have a dumpster baby.
I keep having this ridiculous conversation with people which inevitably turns into a ridiculous argument with people about how to describe upcoming days of the week in relation to the inclusion or not of the word ‘next’.
Stay with me here.
I was lying in a bath the other night when I had a horrible epiphany – what would happen if I died? Right there and then, just slipped under the water and ceased to breathe the breath of life. The thing is, my epiphany had nothing to do with my non existence and the waste of it all; it had to do with how I would be perceived when I was found.
There I was lying naked – that is how I would be found, and people of note would see. Sure, it’s not a Marilyn Monroe status death, but my housemates and the paramedics would get a glance, and I’m not in the best of shape. I haven’t trimmed my toenails in months and the fluorescent light in the bathroom is horribly unflattering.
Then there is the worst part – my secrets.
In today’s day and age single is the new black. Monogamy is as outdated as the plague and about as fashionable as corduroy and that seems to suit me just fine. I am a single man. As single as they come. I could be a freakin’ billboard for the cause. Greeting hugs aside; bumping into people at a busy intersection is probably the most personal interaction I get.
Actually, Harry 