Self Doubt...

I'm vexed. Greatly vexed. I'm perhaps even a little depressed. I tried to take part in the Durban 5 Minute film festival that was held a week ago. It was insane. 14 days to make a 5 minute film. I made an 11 minute film. It's the best work I've done. My students helped me. It's the best work they've done, and I'm very proud of them all. However I am still irked.

I'm irked because I set out to make a 5 minute film, and ended up with eleven. I wrote eight pages, and couldn't drop it to five. In fact it increased to ten. How daft is that? The last competition I entered was for a 20 minute film. Mine ended up nearer to thirty. Here I am purporting to teach others how to write films and yet I myself cannot complete such a simple task as sticking to five pages.

And so I am put out by my own inability. What it raises inside my own mind is capacity. Do I have the capacity to actually produce the goods, or am I simply one of those: 'those that can't do, teach' people? Don't worry dear reader, I'm not. As far as I'm concerned. I cannot be. I rebel at the thought. I refuse to accept it, even if it might be true.

I realize that I am often too eager when it comes to productions. And thankfully I am lucky with this festival. There are two challenges - one in May, and another in June. So I have one last chance to make it right. Or do I? Well what this raises is yet another question: Why do I need a film festival to make films? This is my dream isn't it? This is why I resigned from my old company - so I could make films, my way.

So how is it that in the space of a year (because that's how long it's been) I've only made one short film? Two weeks ago? How did that happen? How has time shot past me so quickly? What happened to making films in December? How about January? All gone past, without so much as a script being written.

I begin to realize dimly that this is what happens to us. We get lost in this quagmire of shit called work. Work designed to allow us to live. But we're not living, we're working. And we're working to ensure we can carry on working. And then when we do do the things we love, we have such high personal expectations we begin to hate them when we fall short. I'm not sure if I'm alone here, but I think I am on to something here.

When was the last time you did something just for yourself, over an extended period of time? What was your last great project? Or are you living the dream? Are you running around doing what you set out to do, and not wanting to do anything else? If you are, then great. I'm envious. But if you are just grinding cogs to make it through the cycles, where or when does it end? Is life all about a few snatched moments of joy amidst weeks or months or years or toil?

My film is all about this question. Because the answer - to my mind - is yes. That is what life is about. We struggle, we hurt, we suffer. And sometimes we laugh. The laugher is all the sweeter because of the other. We define our victory and joy by our suffering and loss. Nothing new here. Man has known this paradox for millenia. So what is new? To me what is new is that I now realize that those moments must be savoured, and not missed. In otherwords my dear reader:

"We all make sacrifices, we all do; we just need to make sure we're making the right ones."

Those of us who don't sacrifice something of ourselves, who don't prostitute our abilities to others in exchange for a few moments of joy - are themselves without joy. How can you be happy, if everything you've ever wanted has been handed to you. Define the joy of struggling to achive soemthing, if you can just buy it. There is no value without struggle.

This is something nature offers us, by way of survival of the fittest. Only the stripy zebra's escape. The boring ones - the plain ones - get eaten. What is my point? Do I have one? Do you have one? We all have dreams and goals, hopes and desires. Yet most of us seem to forget them in exchange for basic existance. But basic existance is meaningless without oppsites. Suffering without respite, isn't suffering any more. It's just existance. Joy without loss isn't joy, it's just existance.

So the next time you suffer a setback, or a joy, savour it. Relish it and look at how you can turn it around so that you can then use it to define your next moment. Someone once said: A man is defined by his actions. I agree. We are defined by ours, in particular our actions towards attaining joy, regardless of the vexing suffering that we must pass through first. Embrace the suffering, it'll lead to greater joy later.

So here is this weeks challenge: Think about a 'personal' goal. Bend your will towards getting it, no matter the cost. This challenge is only valid for something that you will need to struggle to get. Now, go fight for it...

Sex... at last... shit.

Well it has finally happened. My ultimate fear, my ultimate concern is now officially over. And I've discovered something new about myself. And I've discovered something that I didn't know, and now I've found all sorts of new things that I didn't want to know. I also now know I don't know what I thought I did, and everything that I did know, I now know wasn't useful to know. Oh and I also know that I'm a total addict. OK for those who are slow, I had sex on Saturday afternoon at around 1530. I only know the times because the cafe we were eating at closed at 1500.  That was also around the time that the neighbours who can see directly into my flat closed their curtains, since I'd forgotten to close ours...oops.

Anyway I wanted to share a blog with you, my dear readers in the hopes of entertaining you, but also in my endeavours to keep myself as open as possible, and perhaps the share some insight into the world of gayness; a world, that I, as you know, am only really starting to explore... Don't worry this isn't a post about men sticking their penises into bottoms, sucking coc... wait. This is...um... 

WARNING - FOR THE FAINT HEARTED READ NOT ON. GO AWAY AND THINK OF HAPPY PLACES. FOR THE TOTALLY INSANE READ ON. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

But seriously I am only going to touch on the curiosity of the event, not the jiggly bits. Oh and I have to quote this, because someone said it about my blog and I'm proud of it: Reading your blog is like watching a car crash happen. You don't want to, you know you're going to regret it, possibly vomit a little, but you just can't help yourself. You just have to...

It began as a few innocent messages on gaydar. That 'Virtual Whore House' as someone once called it. Which is interesting, and for the most part accurate. 'No Pic, No Response'. In other words, Fugglies need not apply (Or the technologically backward hunks out there). Now my policy has always been that if there is no physical meeting (in the Platonic sense) after a couple of weeks, there is no point. Emails, although initially fantastic, ultimately die out, and the relationship, for all the time spent, is worthless. So I was amazed when - and I use the word with pride - a top-drawer stud asked to meet up. 

Well, First Man as I've dubbed him - he could be argued as being Gods first and best creation - happens to been interested in a lot of things I am, oddly enough we share a love of certain TV series, films, and a dislike of women. We don't get breasts... Anyway we met for lunch. Or rather an amazing chocolate cake. Next time you're in Durban give me a shout and I'll take you to this little out of the way place. We chatted, there were a few awkward silences, which after a while I began to feel comfortable with oddly enough for me. We then left, they close at 1500. Standing outside there was some small talk about meeting again etc. Then somehow we got onto the subject of our afternoon plans. I had none, and neither did he. Apart from picking up some friend of his a little later on. So we thought we should do something. 

I won't go into details, but I do not have much of a self esteem when it comes to sexual acts, so my mind was racing like hell for the nearest interesting experience I could think of (not even thinking about sex). Nothing came to mind, but First Man was eager to spend more time with me. I couldn't let that kind of offer pass. So I suggested coffee at my place and we could make plans from there. It was at this moment that a part of my brain got nervous. What should I do if he was to make a move? The other half of my brain immediately broke out into fits of intense laughter at such a thought. But the idea was there. 

To quote for one of my favorite films: 

WOMAN : Would you like to come to my place for a coffee, or just to fuck me?

MAN 2: Um... Coffee would be nice.

God sometimes I wonder about myself. Anyway, we get to my place and my flatmates are out. I make coffee. We sit on the couches, me in my usual place, First Man on the long couch. Chat revolves around things like DVD's etc. Then he asks to see - my stomach. It is a well proportioned affair. Provided you like portions to be basketball sized, and the colour of the full moon. Oh and hair. Not thermal underwear thick, but enough that it could be waxed. 

My brain panicked. I tried one or two dismissive quips, but he was insistent. So, for the first time in my life, well since the belly dancing incident of Standard Six, I showed my gut to another man. And he liked it. From there it became a - I'll show you mine, if you show me yours type affair. 

Nipples. I have never had mine licked, nor have I ever licked. But I shall again. Heck, any body part is a bonus in my books. But there was that, the kissing which I think I understand and have found one particularly pleasurable technique involving sucking the tongue, but when the groping started... my world began to spin. Then when First Man lead me to my bedroom, my brains essentially closed shop. I was in some kind of dream. Here was the amazing specimen of man leading me - a healthy example of excellent fat distribution - into my bedroom. 

I shall not go into the various things that we did, suffice it to say, we did all the normal gay sex things. Now, I've watched my fair share of porn. OK, I'll admit. Porn and I have had a long, long relationship. 14400 modems have downloaded porn in black and white for me. So I would have guessed that I 'knew a thing or two'. Nope. I remembered a few principles: keep the teeth out of it, start slowly etc. But most of it was totally forgotten. 

Now, unlike most normal heterosexual sex where one is the vagina and the other is the man, in gay sex this is sometimes negotiable. Well, for years I have always thought that I'd be the mounter. He who inserts. Not this time folks. I was mounted. It was as unpleasant as one can imagine. I felt like throwing up, screaming (OK, I actually did that). I wanted him out of me - the pain seemed to race up across my guts and into my chest. I wanted him to stop. I thought - this is it. I'm going to tear in half. I'm dead. They'll find me, two bloody halves in a couple of weeks time. At the same time though I wanted it to last forever. And I want it to happen again. And again. And again. And the loss of myself - to this world of pain, of pleasure, being merely a puppet, a thing to be fucked - was a total turn on for me. I am a control freak in some senses, mainly those involving myself. Not in the bedroom. There I am the student, not the master.

A friend of mine tells me that parts of our brains shut down during sex. I now believe that. 

Herewith follows an apology to all my sexually active friends: 

"We, that is to say, I, herewith offer to the full extent of my faculties and capabilities a most heart-felt and intellectual retraction of my statements about you, your partner and your sexual action - that of not using a condom. If my statements about 'how stupid can you be' or 'you dumb fuck what where you thinking?' caused you, your offspring, you unintended offspring, your parents, your grandparents, yourselves, or your pets with sufficient intellectual capacity to read or understand those words, that I am really, truly very sorry. I was wrong."

As things were getting serious I asked if there was a condom around. Now, my room isn't exactly geared up for sex. No handy towels, toilet rolls, creams, gels, or condoms floating about. You don't exactly need that kind of stuff when you're on your own... except for towel... fuck off you get the point. Anyway I asked if there was condom. First Man breathed heavily on my neck and murmured no. But he was safe. I know I am. Mrs. Palmer doesn't have AIDS. Now, a sensible person would have then opted for a non-penetrative release. A Sensible person would have stopped. I was a fat man about to be fucked by a god. The Sensible git could go take a cold shower for all I cared. So I had unprotected sex. I'm off for an AIDS test in a couple of weeks time, as that is the window period I think. Not because I don't trust him. I do. But because what if I'm wrong and I got it from a needle somewhere? I've had many liver tests in my life. 

And so it was over, and there was some mess about, which he had to clean. I did not orgasm. But it felt as if I had, the best I've ever had as a matter of fact. It felt as if the world was over. I did not care. I was beyond heaven. We lay together for a while before his memory jogged about his friend waiting to be picked up. He'd only been waiting an hour and a half. Not that I could give a fig. And so it was over. First Man than hoped to be allowed to return. I was about ready to marry the man. He has gone on a fishing trip down the South Coast, and may return this weekend. I may, or may not see him, that's up to him. I hope, I really, really do, that I see him again. I've already warned most of my friend: if he does come back, I shan't be seeing them. Most of them have already given me permission to forget any plans I've made with them, bless them all. But to be honest, the Queen of England could ask me to tea, and if First Man thought he might be around, the Queen could go fuck a corgi. Strange how I, I the man, the gay guy, swore I'd never allow my relationships to change me, or affect my friendships. I have thrown that one, along with safe sex, not sleeping on the first date... etc out the window. Am I a bad person? Am I weak person? The Victorian thinks so. Me, personally, I don't. I can now SEE the intangible. Or maybe I'm not thinking straight.  

So this brings me back to sex. Now that I've had it, I have had my eyes opened to a new world. I walked around the Pavilion seeing light cascade off of walls onto floor panels, feeling textures on seats I'd never bothered about before. But in the past my eyes would follow a good looking bloke for a second or two, and then turn away; and my thoughts used to be - gosh good looking chap that. Wow. Someones lucky. Now, I ogle away, running my mind over his body. Feeling the skin on the tips of my fingers, my lips, my tongue. I cannot help but remember the feel of First Man's great body, and go all giggly inside. The world's worries are so far detached I don't care. I know this euphoria will not last, but so far I've had the best two days of my life. 

What I've learned is that my body is a powerful weapon, a powerful weapon against my mind. No wonder people use it so often. Up until now, my mind has been my driving force. Now it's met it's match. But here is the thing: this one act has unified them. They have a single goal: Get more. Forget mental linking, forget interesting personalities. The brain/body craves more flesh. Should First Man turn into a ghost and move on to another conquest (I hope not, and will turn into a Christian if it would help so I could pray to a god that he doesn't) I know I will turn my focus onto finding more. A replacement. What I also know is deep, dark, danger lies that way. Fucking or being fucked just for that euphoria is much like taking a drug. After a while it won't have any effect. But large parts of me don't care. When the effect no longer happens, we'll die, be reincarnated, and hope for the best. It is a terrible wonderful place. 

I have also had ZERO focus for the past two days. My mind is constantly wandering back to the place, the sights, the sounds, the smells, the tastes. I have found it very difficult to focus. So if it is hard for me to focus, a 'mature' 28 year old with the mental constitution of a Victorian, how are 14, 15, and 16 year old kids supposed to deal with it? I don't doubt my students now when they talk about not being able to do their work. If any of them are out there having sex (and a large percentage seem to be) then I don't blame them. 

So I can only hope - on the one side - that it becomes the banal, the end to a good day. And doesn't remain the holy grail, the all consuming passion that it is at the moment. If, and I say this whilst looking at a long distance orgasm machine on sale on ebay, if mankind ever works out a means of virtual sex simulation that comes even close to the real thing, the world will carry on spinning, it'll just be very, very empty. We'll all have died of protein deficiency or something...

Ps. I am using a post script because I wanted to end on the protein deficiency joke. But I'm not finished talking. What I want to know then, of those of you who have been fucking, or being fucked for the last ten years or more, do you keep it new and exciting, is it routine, do you need different partners, how do you keep it alive? 

PPs. I also want to know what is so sacred about sex? To me First Man, will always be, The First, but should he move on, I shall as well. I don't feel there is a special bond. I feel I can comfortably walk up to him (First) and touch his dick, something I don't do to those without permission (the bond), but it's not some life shattering soul mates type of thing. I suspected there would be deep emotional bonds? Perhaps this is just the last remnants of my Victorian Professor trying to keep me safe? I don't know. Or perhaps I do feel them, I am just to afraid to say them, in case they turn into smoke?

PPPs. I'm finished now. I hope you all have a great day, and I hope you all have sex tonight or soon. The cute ones amongst you, I'm happy to help oblige in that case... :-)