What I had intended to be a short descriptive piece centred around summer and heat, sort of turned into something a little steamy (in another way)…oops.
The streets were full with tides of motion. He waited there on the corner, smoothed out bolls of water with his trainers. (More …)
I’m sorry but no. There is nothing for you here. I am busy writing a novel – come back later (Oh but before you leave – if you subscribe you’ll know exactly when I’ll be back posting bloggy things again, now isn’t that a good idea?)
Chris.
My dad came back to the UK today and we both sat down to watch some TV together having had a quick catch up (me telling him all about the riots, him telling me all about his trip)
300 came on, my dad got himself comfy and with a giggle said, “I hear this is very homo-erotic.”
There was a moment where every sound in the world came to an end at that precise moment for a pause.
“…ok.” I said. Not being sure what I should say.
It was slightly odd watching something I could quite happily wank over next to my Dad and it’s not the only time this has happened. The first time either of us saw Almodovar’s Bad Education was in each other’s company. As we watched Gael Garcia Bernal take it up the arse, neither of us took our eyes off the screen as it would mean something more if we looked away than if stared at the hot man sex.
My mum is much better in these situations, she just relieves the pressure by asking something along the lines of, “Is that something you enjoy?”
“Is that something you enjoy?” that’s exactly what my mum says, each and every time….. lucky for me, I can’t blush…
Dude I had the unfortunate experience of watching an episode of Sex and the City, the one with them watching the full on gay porno…. with my very conservative (at the time) uncle and aunt. very very awkward.
A moment passed and I got up and started walking, “You will.” He said reassuringly but said nothing else. I didn’t think but merely followed the direction of my feet, the path turned to dirt and each step scraped along as I marched up a hill. I cut through a dense forest until I was in a clearing framed by tall pine trees. A grizzly bear sat in front of a roll of parchment, as I approached him he lazily kicked his foot out and made the parchment roll out across the grass between us. The sun started to colour the sky with dawn, then I saw a symbol on his chest. It was Chinese or maybe Japanese perhaps. There was a brush on the grass and two jars of paint – one with red paint, the other white – he told me to begin and so I spread the red paint across the parchment with long strokes and then back again. I started with the white after. I painted the symbol and within it I wrote more words, words that I felt I knew but no meaning came to me. The bear looked over my efforts and told me “Good. But never forget it!”
After waking up the symbol was still there like a painting, set in my memory and so I looked it up. The Chinese meaning: Reality. Japanese: (similar symbol) Destiny/Life.
Hmm!
Dreaming in foreign characters?? pretty amazing! x
I‘ve never taken my top off in public before. I have always felt too self-conscious and you can’t blame me.
I was sprawled across the grass, daffodils stroked shadows across my face as I looked up at the expanse of sunny sky. St James park. People never look at each other more than they do when in the sun and in a park like this. The gays put on their displays like butchers opening up shop; pounds of muscle (somehow already tanned) stretching out – proudly captured in the day’s spotlight, having been a winter’s worth of toil and money and steroids. The men checked each other out with surreptitious glances and the odd exchange of eye contact and then in some cases (like myself, I will admit) with a small twinge of envy. This was true with some of the women too…
I was waiting for my friend Dan, I had found a good spot to people-watch and maybe perv. This blissful scene was only interrupted when I gave cautious looks upward at the formations of pigeons lined along the branches of trees that bordered the road. Then I noticed a fellow casually walking up and walking down, in circular laps, around me. I didn’t think anything of it at first but decided to move as his friend (a topless homeless man) kept looking at me – when I had moved further down the slope in the shade of a pigeon-less tree I looked round to scrutinise the men’s shenanigans. The one that had been lapping the park was now carefully dotting crumbs of bread around a snoozing sunbather, much to the delight of his friend, then hundreds of pigeons swarmed down and pecked and fluttered. I felt a small bubble of fear then, in the pit of my stomach. There’s something about being the subject of someone’s interest, whether it’s good attention or bad, that makes me so self conscious – so I wonder in that case how is it that I am an exhibitionist? Ha.
Perhaps its the variety on offer that’s the issue? Today I sat with my friend Klas in Soho Square. Men didn’t lay and sunbathe here. No, they scanned their eyes over every texture, cataloguing every man and mentally awarding points to the most fanciable against their assessments of how much energy they thought it’d take to pull them. But I didn’t want to be on display, I didn’t want to be pulled (there’s a time and a place.) I appreciate any attention but I don’t want to be compared.
It may have been quiet in the park but if every communicative glance were a sound, it would have been deafening. Therefore it surprised me, with everyone surveying everyone else, that the couple in front of me decided to frisk each other despite their son being right there next to them! First the man had put his hand down his partner’s bra. I thought, ok that’s quite cheeky – but I’ll allow that. Then she moved her jacket over the crotch of her jeans. I couldn’t believe it. He ran his hand down from her breast and into her jeans. For the next hour I watched the sun trickle thin threads of light through the leaves above me, sensed that primal heat burning as the gays bunched into tight groups and listened to the woman moan softly as her fella fingered her in the middle of the park.
Ah, the summer.
It wasn’t so long ago that Bioware made the news due to the romantic elements in their recent games (what right wing news broadcasters called “virtual rape”) and when one fan calls them out for not offering enough choice for “straight males” in their recent title Dragon Age II, yet they offer a ‘gay option,’ one of Bioware’s lead writers personally responds and doesn’t hold any punches.
Click HERE to check out the article @ Kotaku.com
It’s another small step for an industry gradually acknowledging gay gamers and gay rights (yes Microsoft, gay people do exist.) It’s just a shame Bioware refuses to apply this logic to the Mass Effect series.
I would love to see this in ME3
@ Neil, Thane would have made a very nice gay or bisexual character.
Maybe if he shut up for more than 2 minutes lol
:O
I heard it was quite an offensive representation though Chris? I haven’t seen the content myself mind.
Well that’s the thing, should we celebrate the inclusion of gay characters when they’re made to be stereotypes? I haven’t seen/played it too but I’ve heard things. I do like what the lead writer had to say though.
I kind of hate just how into it I found myself.
It’s embarrassing but I did genuinely go into some kind of semi trance.
Check how I test out Paul McKenna’s ‘I can make you happy’ by hypnotising myself:
There it was, my first home for the first nine months of my life, looking like a bloated tongue or maybe a piece of used gum that was hanging off from where it had been stuck. My sister and I scanned the photos the doctor had given my mum. It was a comic strip featuring the last moments of my mother’s uterus, and there was the long rod that clamped the ovaries in place and then the gore; a bloody scene my fragile male mind couldn’t make sense of. We sat either side of her bed, trying not to pay mind to the catheter bag or accidentally squash the drip leading into her wrist. It struck me how quickly the roles of the parent and child can reverse and that’s quite something considering how dedicated my mother is to her role (to the extent she is offended if you do not want/let her mother you.)
Now, not to suggest that our relationship is strained but lately we have found it difficult to see each other more than once a month. She wants me to spend weekends with her when I’m more open to an evening so I can do other things with other people I haven’t seen in some time. She wants me to live with her again when I think it would be like escaping one war zone and seeking asylum in another when all I want to aim for is to move out and away from the family and South East London. Seeing her so fragile though, with tubes sticking out of her, did bring out something in me – an instinct. One that fucking depresses me…
We sat and watched Japan being devastated by one disaster after another. Once my mum’s boyfriend arrived and parked his arse across the room from me I decided it was time to leave, “You don’t have to go though do you?”
“I’m going to go and get something to eat-
“Yeah but you could come back, visiting hours go on til ten.”
I told her I might come back on my way home. She was stuck in her bed, holding her stomach in place, Japan was being enveloped by a giant black wave and all I could think about was how I needed looking after. Perhaps it’s the shock of seeing a parent like this. One in pain and discomfort and another (my dad) who has to keep a pen to shoot himself with if his throat seizes up and not forgetting the worry of his blood pressure. It’s simply how things go, they get older and the children inherit the responsibility. It’s quite shit.
Maybe that’s why I have found so many surrogate parents over the years. Particularly at work where I’m around a great deal of middle aged women who wish their sons, they admit, were like me (although they probably wouldn’t if they knew half of what I get up to.) It was the end of show party, the smell of rum pervaded the air, thick and sweet, and tanned Jo threw her arms around me and I felt her menopausal flushes heat the tight space between us. “I so wish you were my son, I would be so proud of you” she tells me. I tell her I am her son “just a little bit.” and pinched an inch between two fingers to emphasis the littleness.
Is this a habitual practice between all people or perhaps young gay men? That they take on these part time parents? I see Jo, confide in her and know more about her life lately than I do about my own mother’s and what did it take to make me feel that twinge of concern and responsibility towards my biological mother? Her going into the hospital is what it took.
I don’t feel guilty about that, something that feels natural, as do not all young people grow into adults and detach themselves?
[My mum is currently spending the next three weeks recovering and all is well, she's put her feet up and is being looked after]
Well, thats it stevens that is the last menopausal flush Im sharing with you young man and actually I think it was a wray and nephew flush. Im deeply hurt that you dare to suggest Im that old . Its them other middle age females raising the temperature. As for not knowing half of what you get up to oh please…….hahahaha dream on son love ya x x x Jo x
Hahahaha x
We were finally, finally Year 11′s. This meant two things, firstly, the five years we had endured at secondary school was the prelude to this moment, the summer that would (we thought at the time) define the rest of our lives or more simply put: GCSE’s. Secondly we, the Year 11′s, were at the height of our power reigning over the younger students. Something we had not experienced since Year 6. With this advantage of age brought a smug superiority, above us there was no one. For the sake of anonymity let’s call one of my classmates Jason and let me tell you about “Jason.” Lunchtimes were usually a tense routine, Iwent to a rough school after all and I remember at the time the banter and abuse exchanged between the boys I hung around with seemed nothing in comparison to what was happening elsewhere on the grounds and so it seemed relatively serene to be around guys who were just calling each other paki, nigger and poof. Jason would jeer me about the food he would have for lunch in comparison to mine. I thought at the time that he was one parent’s divorce away from being me. But instead of eating this food he liked to boast about, he would pick out the meat and throw it at whoever he felt needed to be disgraced in the middle of the playground…
I’ve woken up with a sudden spark of inspiration. I finally have my opening chapters for what I’m writing. I have been developing this story on and off for the last three years. It’s funny how everything seems to just fit into place once you start feeling a bit more positive, happy and confident. It’s always an extreme, either very happy or completely depressed, that brings out my productive side.
James Reid are discussing. 
B is discussing. 
Neil are discussing. 
Jo are discussing. 
WordShock 7:13 PM on April 13, 2012 Permalink |
It’s now a second draft. Thanks Hugh and Thom. Third draft…I’ll see…