My 13 year old just hit 15...

I could never understand why my younger sister so openly rebelled against myself, my mother, and my grandparents. She refused to wear 'decent' clothes, and wanted to do things to her hair that the rest of us thought foolish. But now I find myself have sms screaming matches with my mother on these very subjects! When I told her about my tattoo she was gobsmacked. This quickly gave way to my mothers usual shocked indifference, which then shifted finally to her typical plea for 'sanity' and for me to 'make the right decisions' not for her sake, but for my own.

Now I love my mother, and I understand where she is coming from. She loves me and doesn't want to see me do things to myself now that I may regret when I'm older. There is a certain irony in her desires, and perhaps it is because of those ironies that I find myself turning from loving son who never set a foot wrong, and who is fairly anal about abiding by the rules, into a screamin 15 year rebel who fights against his parents and sneaks out of the house - blow your rules! Why? Why do I find it so hard to not simply agree with my mother, nod wisely about her concerns, understand her concerns, and then quietly go and do what I want anyway. After all, it would make her life a lot easier - she'd be less stressed for one thing. Which in turn would make me feel like less of a monster for going against her wishes.

What is boils down to though is that I don't believe she is right. I think she is very, very wrong. Perhaps I am in rebel mode, perhaps all this sex has addled my brain. Perhaps I'm so obssessed with fitting in that I'm doing stupid things just to impress my friends. Sounds like a normal 15 year old kid to me. When I was 15 I was playing Star Trek, domineering my friends, working out how to manipulate people into doing my bidding, and generally being a control freak. Now, I'm still playing Star Trek (some things never change), but now I'm supporting my friends, I'm not judging them on their actions, in fact I'm encouraging them to discover their true nature. Surely this is a better thing?

And so what if this is all based on emotional backwash from sex or from nearly being 30 or from just being fed up with pretending to be an old person? I am not going to justify to you or anyone why I want a tattoo. Or why Iwant to do X and not Y. And I feel that I shouldn't need to do that for my parents either. What I choose to do, or choose not to do is my OWN decision. Right or wrong I need to learn for myself. So that perhaps one day I can tell someone - hey tattoos might seem cool, but wait till your skin falls off. At least though I will have first hand knowledge because I will have done it. This then raises that age old retort - oh so you going to stick your hand in the fire just once? Or jump off a bridge? Or take drugs? The answer to this should be yes and no. No I'm not going to stick my hand in the fire you fucktard because it will fucking burn. This is called a scientific principle. Jump off a bridge? Is it safe? Has an expert in the field said so? If so, then yes, I'll jump. If not, then I might not. Take drugs? Well perhaps. Am I with trusted friends or total coke-head strangers? I will never know what it's like if I don't try. And if I do try, and I do get addicted, well that speaks of a deeper psychological problem which will then be dealt with.

In short I feel we as Humans can be told about certain things that have definates. Speed and you will get a fine. Play with a snake and you will get bitten. But when it comes to 'if', 'what about', and 'because I say so' we tend to loose credibility. We spend enough of our time telling ourselves these stupid projections: If I ask her out, she'll probably slap me because I don't believe in myself. To have others do it for us, I think we are more resistant to them because they may be mirroring the very thoughts inside our own heads. So with this in mind I now have a second maxim to which I shall devote my life:

1 - Speak your mind, those that matter don't mind, those that mind don't matter.
2 - You don't know until you try (unless it's a given).

And the only way it can be a given is if it can be proven with fact and maths. Put a gun to your head and pull the trigger - you will die. Get your ear pierced it may, or may not stretch all the way down to your toes over time.

It's like deciding to have a relationship or not based on whether you think you'll need to break up with the person in the future. It's fucking self defeating. So stop with the lectures, stop with the conjectures, stop with the projectures about what if, maybe, might, possibly, or don't you think. Either give me proof, or shut the fuck up. This then leads me to faith.

Yes I know not the strongest link I've ever written, but it's the second part of what is on my mind at the moment. My possibly-boyfriend-but-we-don't-know-yet-as-we're-still-testing-something is a believer in god (I refuse the capitol letter on point). I am not. I have tried it, and thought genuinly that I was at one stage. But at present I am not. I'm fanatical in my adherance to my belief in not believing. I will argue about it till the cows come home. There is no deity running around making things happen.

But there have been some truly strange things happening recently. I shall list them chronologically for your benefit:

1 - One night I spent in the arms of some lover I discovered his liking of being nibbled. The next morning my flatmate related a dream of his from the previous night wherein he got so frustrated with his partner that he ate him. I thought that was odd.

2 - My present partner was convinced I'd met someone named Peter for lunch. I don't know anyone called Peter. However a few days later I returned home from a business trip early to discover a distant friend and his brother were coming over, a brother named: Peter.

3 - I have been a loyal subscriber to a dating website for the better part of six years. In that time I've met a total of 2 people, 1 of whom I actually met and shagged. Since finding my present squeeze (whom I a very fond of) I have had no less than four out of the blue requests from said dating site from individuals who would not normally talk to me.

Now I know these seem like major points of god-like testing/karma etc. And I'd been inclined to brush them off with that arguement. But what it got me thinking about was why do I so desperately NOT want a god in my life? What is it that I am so reluctant to embrace? My first response to that is: Well that's like wondering why you don't believe in the planet being run by spacemonkey's who control everyone's thoughts via their sperm which they slip into KFC. It's just a stupid, misguided, self serving, population control idea. So no point in believing. But what has led me to this place of such cynical denial? Why am I so 'enlightened' and yet seemingly so many around me are not?

I don't have an answer. I shall go and look for one. Till then, rebel against your elders, they know jack, do something you've always wanted to do, and try figure out why you do or do not need a god in your existance...and then share with us.

Self Value... Self worth ... Self ish?

Recently my ego has been ballooning. Thanks in part to two wonderful men who've come into my world, but sadly left it as suddenly as they entered. What this has done for me as a person is unfathomable. I have realized I can now do and feel what I want. I got a tattoo (dragon naturally), bought clothes that I personally considered hideous just three weeks ago, am wearing a necklace (skull naturally), and am seriously considering getting my eyebrow pierced. Why? Because I realized that I don't like my body, I find it fat, flabby, and oddly shaped. Diets and eating plans don't seem to be a workable solution, and gym is on the cards, provided I can find the money. But it's not that I'm trying to hide my body from the world.

That was one of Professor Matures primary weapons - old style clothes. Big showy items that were so bright, loud, or hideous that the eyes of the viewer were drawn to the cloth not the flesh. It's difficult to see the person underneath the clown suit. But for me a tattoo is usually very sexy. I love them, I think they are works of art. The same with the other things. I just think they look cool. At least that is my primary motivation. And apart from the tattoo the other things are temporary by and large. Changing clothes styles has been a process, and will still be a process once summer comes back I'm sure. But at least my students can't complain about me wearing fashions that went out of style with Queen Victoria.

But that is not what this blog is about I don't think. Having the courage to go and do things I have always wanted to do, but been too afraid to do because of what OTHER people might think has in part given me the power to push myself to do other things beyond personal grooming. Recently I made my second short film of this year. Two in the space of a month. How very tiring, but wonderful at the same time. For the last one though I needed an actor for the role of a doctor. I couldn't find anyone, and all my usual suspects had flown to the stage to earn real money. So I had to play the role myself.

To say that I was nervous would be a lie. I was excited. I was acting opposite a great actor who has been exceptionally patient with me, being in both my short films. My good friend was directing this segment of the film, and my wonderful students from the college I lecture were filling in as crew. I wanted to have fun, to strut my stuff, and to see if I could abnegate myself into the role. I did the performance several times, for the various camera angles, and then asked if it was OK. Everyone naturally said yes. Having edited the sequence now I think it is fairly funny (it's supposed to be btw) and that it works. Could it have been better? I think that it could have been. Is my acting believable? I don't know. I cannot externalise my internal critic. I look at my face, at my hands, at my actions and wonder - is it good? Or just OK?

I really enjoyed the experience, and would like to do it again. But now I wonder if anyone else thinks I should do it again? My self value is high at the moment. I'm doing exactly what I want to do, and I'm not restricted by my own self. This is a goal I've been after for a long time. I'm satisfied that I've given 100 percent of myself to this project. A rare thing for me. It is MINE. In terms of self worth though, am I worthy of trying to act? I have meeting actors who feel they are great performers, but are in actually not very good. I don't want to be one of those. Someone who can't see their own weaknesses. But how does one develop that critical skill? I don't have a comparison. I performed the role like this, so and so like that. His was better. Why? I don't have that. I also can't imagine how I'd perform the role any other way.

But then I stop the wonder: If it makes me happy, perhaps I should continue anyway, regardless of my actual capacity? But then am I not being selfish in so far as misplacing my attentions? Perhaps I should stick to directing? Or to script-writing? Forget acting, leave that up to the professionals? Are you, beloved reader, in a similar situation? Restrained by feelings of uncertainty? If so I dare you to do one thing you are not sure about. Something small. Like wearing a pink shirt, or dyeing your hair. Do something which feels huge, but is in reality really small. It's amazing how one small act can sometimes give you the freedom to do a big act. Seek out the tiny, the small, and make a change, it's remarkable the avalanche that can be caused...

To blog or not to blog...

I must act remorseful for my absence from this blog given that my last entry set the scene for a new chapter in my life. At least it hinted at the potential for a beginning of a new chapter. At the very least a new paragraph... And then silence. I have been inundated sms's and brief Facebook plea's for info. I had a little ego trip. People were interested to know what was happening in my world. I liked it. And then I began to think why I should like it. After all this blog was never meant to be about my ego. OR was it?

I started this blog those few months ago - almost a year I guess - with the soul purpose of coming out of the closet once and for all. Since that time I've had people tell me how proud they are of me, how courageous they think I am for doing it, or how much they enjoyed reading it - no matter how disguising and over-shared it might be. And I think what began to happen was a shift from me using the blog as a way of sorting out my inner demons to a way of me using those demons for public applause. How often have I re-written a paragraph so that it was funnier. Is that what my therapist wanted? Re-order your emotional distress so that it is funny? I don't think so. Should I then write dry dull explorations of my inner thoughts? Something so logically layered out that I find a conclusion at the end which is ultimate?

I think not. You see I am a lamenter of self. I lament about many things: My size, my Victorian upbringing, my nose, my eyebrows, my voice, my dick size... just about everything. And I use those as weapons again myself to prevent myself from doing anything. I talk myself into a corner. Then I cover up all those self depreciating statements with 'logical' self created perceived opinions of others. How often have I thought I knew exactly what the other person was going to say - and then discovered that they said the opposite? Countless times. So I have all these defensive arguments that can flit through my head in the matter of seconds, although not at present as I haven't had much sleep recently...) So where that leave me? The self deluding clown?

Which ties up - quiet nicely I think - with Eros, my mysterious date from Tuesday. Don't get your hopes up you are not learning anything about Eros in this blog. And you'll see why later on. But with Eros I often find myself making a little laugh. A chortle. A chuckle. Occasionally a bark. And most often during serious conversations about things. Which unsettles Eros. It would unsettle anyone to have a Madhatter laughing at your serious statement. I was asked by I did it. And my only answer was because I didn't or couldn't think of anything to say. I had no witty retort, not one jot of glib flippancy to offer. And I had no way of answering honestly because I genuinely did not know the answer.

So this laughing thing, this joke thing must therefore be a defensive mechanism. A means of breaking the tension: You'll like me if I make you laugh, and you'll forgive me being stupid, if you're grinning at my jokes. And I suppose that is why my blogs are written with intent to make you chuckle. It's to keep you reading, to keep the sms's coming in. But I realized last night - I don't need to do it. Or if I do, I should do it for my own pleasure. You see I think I have finally got to a place where I now understand the word: Care. Never before in my existence have I understood that word. I love my parents, and my sister, and I care - mildly about their existence. But I'm supposed to do that, and they're supposed to care about me. It's in the contract. But for others? Outside the immediate blood-line? Several blogs down I found a post where I debated whether or not I cared for my friends.

I was being honest about it. I really didn't know if I cared or not. But today or last night I finally felt an emotion that I would call Care. I care irrationally about Eros. And I draw comfort that it is reciprocated. But now that care seems to be expanding, as if I've been given a photograph of my friends in black and white, and it's slowly turning into colour, one by one the people are being coloured in - coloured with care (damn this sounds SO Hallmark). It's a bizarre sensation to worry about someone outside of my own head. I know really want to know how Carmen's baby and house is doing, and Hans and his world, and Mark and his baby, and ... and ... so it goes. These are things that I was mildly interested in before, but now I want to know more, and be there in case they need me. Or even just so that they have someone there.

But all of these are singled around Eros. A key to unlocking something. A key that unlocked something through two simple things:

1 - Extreme honesty
2 - Extreme vulnerability

And that is why I cannot blog about Eros. I can be honest here in my blog. I'm safe. You're reading it from your office/house/phone and can't hit me. You could phone and curse me to hell, but that's about it. But extreme honesty is face to face type stuff. Stuff that scares the shit out of me. I can't really handle it. As for vulnerability well I didn't think in a million years I could be vulnerable with someone. I didn't even know how. I think I'm learning. And when one is vulnerable one is open. And it's that point that I feel we truly find ourselves. All the pretense, the pretext, the subtext, the text, the plot, all fucks off and takes a holiday. Leaving only the real you. It's really scary. I have teeth. I have passion. I have a deep urge to connect to others. But that's lost underneath so many layers.

What I'm really driving at, and I don't know how I drifted down to honesty and vulnerability from my ego trip is that I think I have to rely on talking to others in 'the flesh' to act as my therapy, and not on writing it out and sending it into cyberspace, like a paper boat with a candle in it sent out into a dark pool with a prayer. This is not to say though that I am abandoning you, my beloved reader, because I do like to entertain, and now I really like to entertain, just for your pleasure. So I will be here, writing away furiously for as long as you are happy to read it...

A date...with my 13 year old self

I have a date tomorrow night. Now this may not come as much of a surprise to those of you know have read my previous blogs, where I may come across as a bit of a whorish nymphomaniac (he said coyly after only having had sex once). But this one is special. It's my first real date with another man that hasn't been based on a digital dialogue. He is in fact the first flesh and blood person I shall ever go out on a date with, using non-dating technology. Yes I managed to find me a live one that was somehow attracted to my hook (god that's a terrible analogy... but what choice do I have?) in that great big fishbowl we called the real world without the use of a digital net (see I needed the fish reference to finish my Internet dating thing...). 

It was one of those romantic meetings - our eyes locked across the darkened room. I went up to him, scribbled my phone number on some flyer for some film organization and left. Just because it happened to be in a theatre, and he happened to be asking for people interested in joining a script writing association (hence the need for my number, email, and details) had NOTHING to do it. And so we met a couple of times with mutual friends. Now what has become of First Man some of you might want to know? Well FM tried to call me the other day - right in the middle of filming. 

I am a terrible monster when I'm making a film. I'm dominant, aggressive, abrasive, and focused...OK so I may be this monster most of the time, but more so when in film-making mode. I was abrupt, curt, I may even had said - yeah, fine, cool, chat later. Anyway, no correspondence from him and I believe he may now be on some oil rig somewhere. He will remain always FM and if he comes back, well, sorry FM but we now have TDS...tall, dark, stranger? It sounded more romantic in my head, now it sounds like some kind of mental abnormality (no she's fine, she likes sticking her finger in the socket, it calms her... she suffers from TDS). No, I'll need to find some other name for him. I haven't yet asked permission from him to use him in my blog so for now, let us called him: Eros. 

But I digress. My blog isn't about the date. It's actually about a meeting with myself at age 13. Tonight when I was vacillating between calling Eros or simply letting it pass (a friend had urged me to take a chance - my self esteem being fairly low[although rising constantly due to this wonderful interest Eros has displayed and others have assured me {although I'm sure that they are merely being friendly and polite - which is why I like my students who are anything but, but they are candid and honest about their hatred of my clothing/hair/choice in music... I've forgotten which bracket I'm in?}]) I'm lost. Let me start again: Tonight whilst building up the nerve to phone Eros I was awash with such a wide range of emotions I could hardly contain myself. 

I'd done some work for Carte Blanche (a hard hitting journalism TV show) and was heading off to drop off the finished product. The whole drive my mind was in turmoil. Thanks to my therapy (see previous posts) I have now been able to identify good thoughts from bad. My mind was full of bad thoughts masquerading as good thoughts. This was what ran through my mind, the eager 13 year old, and the somber 29 year old:

13: OK, so X said we were both interested in each other. That's a good thing. 

29: What if X was only saying that though because X thinks we should be interested in one another? Or if X just wants to see me try, and get rejected? 

13: Don't be silly, X wouldn't do that. Would X? Why? What on earth could possess X to want that to happen? What possible gain does X have from having that happen? So can we rule out X has ulterior motives? Yes. (My brain is a savage nasty creature sometimes, I love you X as wonderful person don't hate me because of my brains paranoia) 

29: OK, back to the question of to phone or not to phone? If I phone and the answer is no - I will feel stupid because 1. I asked, 2. a fat fucker like me should know better than to expect Eros to lower himself to my level, 3. Eros was drooling over another Adonis (so was I but my drool  was the distant self touching later kind of drool, Eros would most likely be able to touch Adonis if he so chose). So three very good, very solid reasons. Don't phone. 

13:  But what if Eros says yes? 

29: Why the FUCK would he say yes? List three reasons, I dare you. 

13: One - I'm funny. 

29: Big deal, fat people farting is funny (so is alliteration apparently, sometimes I wonder about my brain...). 

13:  Two - I'm intelligent. 

29: So's Bill Gates - wanna screw Microsoft (if ever there was a Freudian slip)? 

13: No. OK, how about this: Three, I'm charming, kind, honest, and generally a nice human being. 

29: Oh you mean like the 10 000 other gay men running around Durban? Sorry, that's a 

prerequisite, not an additional bonus.

13: So then there is no real reason to phone?

29: Not unless you want to feel really, really, stupid.

It's at this point in my conversation that I think I ran a red light. Or someone else ran a red light and I hooted. I think that's what happened.

So then the conversation shifted to what I like to call: Deviousnessness. I tried to work out a way that I could call Eros and ask if he wanted dinner. If he said no, I'd quickly amend to say that I wanted to meet him to chat about the script I'm writing, and that others would be coming as well (and then frantically phone others). If he said yes he'd lover dinner, I'd push a little more until I had established that he was either interested or not, using the script for the film (something he mentioned he was interested in helping out with) as a safety. 

That helped. Then the mind - our old Professor Mature - came up with a corker: What if you get together, have a wonderful time, and then break up? Are you prepared to tell someone that you don't love them anymore? Are you prepared to finish something that you start? That was a sobering experience. Until I realized that it was Prof. Mature at work. I mean imagine not starting a relationship because you thought you might have to end it some day, so avoid all that trouble later on by never starting! What the Fuck? Thankfully I had arrived at Carte Blanche and hand over the work. So then I drove home quickly, my mind racing with deviousnessness. 

I got home and quickly delayed things for as long as possible by asking my flatmates about what I should do. The advice was, as I'm sure you'll agree, odd. 

"Sniff him."

Yes, I also said - excuse me? I beg your pardon? 

Sniff him. His breath or his arm pits or his balls. I had to sit down at that point, my knees had folded. Only after much discussion did I realize my flatmate was being facetious. One might as well go around sniffing people for all the guess work one can do before actually just asking. ASK and ye shall get an answer. Something my students seem to not understand. So one could sniff, one could develop devious ways, one could beat around the bush, one could talk to 13 year olds, it all boiled down to one final answer: Phone him or don't. But either way fuck off with all your cerebral masturbating you're interrupting the news. 

So I phoned. All my devious plans dribbled out of my ears, all my sniffing ceased when he answered. The 13 year old inside my head giggle as the 29 year old and Professor Mature turned pale, went weak and began to blabber..."Heya... would you like to get dinner sometime?" After that there was some backwards and forwards sword work until finally he asked:

Eros: May I ask a pointed question?

13: Sure. Ask away. 

29: (I'll lie, fake, prevaricate, obfuscate...)

Eros: Are you asking me on a date?

29/Professor Mature (13 bound and gagged under one arm): Well I might ask that question, but only if I knew the answer to such a question to be a positive and not a negative. For if it was a negative I should deny having ever asked such a question.

Eros: I would not believe your denial.

13: No. Yes. I'm asking.

And so we set it up. God just reading that he still wants to see me? I wouldn't want to see me with that kind of pretentious self sucking shit! 

Now you've been very kind reading this far. So let me round off with some thoughts on this whole thing. The excitement I'm feeling now, the nervous sweat, the lack of mental focus (as per this entire blog), must be felt by every human on the planet? Surely we all go through this at some point in our lives? And I know tomorrow at work I'll be fairly useless. Thinking about what I should wear, what I should say, what I should order, where the fuck to go in the first place... has Eros read this blog, realized how much of a fool I am, and decided to tip cold water in my face the best possible moment (classic bad thought in the guise of a realistic thought)? And then as I drive to Eros's house (I have directions) I will be in a near hysterical state. Is there not some better way? With online dating one gets these sorts of things fairly clearly sorted out before meeting. There isn't this phone calling hype that we generate. Just emails, messages and so forth. At least that's been my experience. Can't we date via document, signed and agreed upon, with check boxes as to what we like, don't like etc?  

Now what really scares me is that every 13 year old on the planet is going through this. At 13 I was worried about Captain Jean-Luc Picard and the Ferengi Alliance, WWF wrestling, and getting the Internet. I was not worried about dating, or loosing focus on the world because of a dinner plan. Perhaps I should have. No point in regreeting... sorry I have to point this out, with a replacement 'e' for a 't' regretting the past becomes regreeting the past - going back and living it all again. This is a deep discovery I'll write a book about one day. Anyway - I guess I understand now why teenagers are such nervous, skittish, self absorbed creatures. I may be coming one myself. In which case is this my mental age? 13? I think so perhaps. And now of course, this flu which has been going around, has got to my nose, and as I sit here, snot is welling up inside my head. How FUCKING ROMANTIC. I'll have the snails for dinner. No, I just sneezed on the pasta. If it's not zits, it's snot. I'm doomed! See I am 13 again, thinking snot would make a funny finishing joke for this blog. 

Let me leave you my beloved reader but I ask you to cast your mind back to your first experience, and remember for just a moment or two how stupid, foolish, and giddy you got, and then think of me, poor, little snot-monster trying so delicately to impress whilst snorking through my pasta. 

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... :-)

To play or not...

Today I got a taste of the future of gaming, and by god does it taste like shit with a capitol SH…IT. I have two games that I want to play. One is online, and the other is or rather said on the box – requires internet to install. Now working in the film industry I know all about copy right and so forth and so on, and I understand that in a bid to ensure that their games are not copied and distributed computer software giants are resorting to online security checks. Fine. I support that. I’m a proud member of STEAM, PUNK BUSTER, XFIRE, SEGA, ACTIVISION, LIONHEAD, the list continues.

Today it has taken me nearly an hour to launch the one game. Steam likes to update itself, check to see if Mother Theresa has risen from the dead, download a few porn (Heterosexual no doubt), scratch it’s digital balls and then decide to update the game. I remember when it used to take 30 minutes to load a game. It was called the COMMODORE 64, and the game was on cassette tape. Oh and that was nearly 20 years ago. We’re going backwards? Or is South Africa not keeping up? Well certainly on the net side of things I know SA is behind. But hopefully in 2010 that will change.

So then lets look at the other game, the one that has taken 5 gigs of downloads, two weeks of updates and two reinstalls. Lord of the Rings Online. Now I don’t mind paying R150 a month for a game like this. It updates regularly, I can play with my mates and all is good and well. Or so you’d think? They recently changed their billing company who are now separate. OK, well I haven’t played the game for a while now, but sure – I’ll give yet another company my digital DNA (name, addy, credit card etc). Except that before I’d even seen a hobbit’s hair foot, the website cheerfully tells me to phone the UK because my card and account has been blocked.

No reason, just blocked. Phone the UK. Guess what – the number doesn’t work! Hahahahahaha. OK, so I look for my land line telephone (it’s usually lying next to the ADSL router which is permanently connected. Can’t find the phone. Turn the house inside out, upside down. No phone. Either my flatmates have shoved it up their asses in some bizarre sexual version of broken telephone, or the maid has tossed it out, or simply put it in the cupboard with the dishwashing liquid… brb –

-no, not there either.

So I can’t use Telkom to call the UK. Now the reason why I’m trying to call them is because three weeks ago this happened. And so I sent them an email – as they suggest. Fuck all. Not even an automated response. Nothing. So I wrote to Codemasters (makers of Lord of the Rings Online) and complained. How was I supposed to give them my R150 per month if I couldn’t even resolve why I wasn’t allowed to sign up? Their response was swift.

“Regretfully we are not licensed to operate in South Africa and so cannot provide support.”

Regretfully I bought their FUCKING GAME in a South African store. To me that means, if you ship if to a country and take people’s money, you license yourself to provide support. But anyway… so today I tried another credit card, after going through the shlep of creating a new free email address (won’t allow my username to even enter a different card… just blocked), go through the whole D DNA thing again, and what happens? Guess? You got it – FUCKING BLOCKED – AGAIN! A different card! I give up. I bought a game and I can’t play it. And the people who sold it to me – won’t help me. And the people who made it – deny it’s their problem. Where does that leave me?

Wait – it gets better – it leaves me trying to write my blog about how frustrated I am. EXCEPT THE BLOG THING IS FUCKED!!!!! And yes I’m using multiple exclamation points because it’s necessary. The blogger I use loads up to the sign in page, and then sits there. So I’m writing this in word pad (a good, tried and tested fucking program that doesn’t need fucking internet or STEAM or anything to work). I will, when the blog site is back and running, try to upload this. If not, I’ll go cut my fingers off for something to do and be mildly entertained by.

Good bye cruel digital world… like you give a fuck.