Jan 07, 2004 19:24
As Stephanie says, listen very carefully, 'cause for the next two minutes I am going to make nothing but sense. She's as pale as milk with a little flushed lick of rum look but a touch more to my taste. New watchword is a knife, a fork, a bottle and a fuck, that's the way we spell New York. Although I mean New Year. I once told Jules who lives out by Frankfurt, been in Gießen now for a good few years, that's sad, you get less for armed robbery that she should meet me in Paisley as it's like New York but more exciting. I think that someone that attractive, funny and intelligent can only be miserable in a town like that. Paisley would be a goddamn holiday. A sad letter, where she says that "Gießen is pure horror. No matter what you look at. Even the sky looks like shit." Other things she wrapped up for my postbox this year : the Fuck Off Back To Scotland (Ant Shut Up While You're Doing It're) Disko-Hitze tape, a dead bird with a cigarette shoved in its beak, and self-photoshopped porn for Eric to wank to. Eric, that's me, I was pretending to be someone else when we first met for reasons that are explained right at the other end of this journal. Names stick. You never get a second chance to make a first impression. Enough of that. She is not the she I'm talking about anyway, let's be clear. She is someone else.
Pretty good year all in all. There have been moments, anyway. The way her eyes rolled back in her head til only the whites were showing while I was inside her for the first time. Sunrise over the Reeperbahn as I danced badly, shouting from the soles of my feet. The Riot Group, as ever. They haven't let me down yet. I finished my fucking play, and started the new one. Which is probably shit. As is maybe the last one. Woah woah. I could see all of my ribs painfully clearly in May. I can still see most of them now, but it just ain't the same. The only good guitar I ever played, and the tape was rolling. It's a shame no-one can hear it 'cause the lyrics are so slanderous. I was hitting some good cello this past year too, and had as much fun as I've ever had on stage with Don John and Gareth that time. What time is it? That time.
I was hit on relentlessly the other night by the most attractive man ever to come onto me by a country mile. He kept telling me to come into the bathroom of the bar so that he could suck my dick. He said he liked me because I wasn't afraid of him, and asked me if I'd like to hurt him, though he won't let anyone hurt him again, not like before. I've been doing a good job of keeping my sadistic tendencies in check these past couple of years, considering the residual guilt I still feel over going over the score a couple particular times, having had one dear friend tell me that I "fucked up" her sex life for years, I would like to give her a hug right now and stroke her face and scrub her back but it must still be written all over my face. The men don't know but the little girls understand? I don't fucking think so. Maybe I should be afraid of him. He's a giant black guy with beautiful eyes and a ripe wet mouth who cruises strangers in scene bars. Tennessee Williams would have cum in his pants. Me, I'm so fucking laissez-faire. And full of shit. Yeah, you know me. I gave him my phone number. I am stupid. I am intrigued. I am never going to call him. My career as a gay man was less than successful. I would only ever pick up hideous-looking or weak men as I was brimful of well-informed pity for how largely pathetic the male specimen is. With men, sexually, I can often barely raise a smile, as they say, but I've been back enough times. No logic. Why manufacture another rod for my back? Because I like it.
Note To Self : Keep on looking in the mirror, giving yourself the finger and/or the thumbs up and saying "I like girls. Oh, do I fucking like them. Oh, do I like fucking them." Then have cold shower and scrub yourself with steel wool. Boom.
The world seems to find me attractive again all of a sudden. I don't really agree, but I take it where I can get it, although sometimes not even then. There was an incident that went down lately that should have made me feel jealous; violated territory and other pathetic male shit. I can't seem to raise the energy, the projected big jealousy is only little. Although it is there. I used to be insanely sexually jealous until I deprogrammed myself. Very successfully. It is nice to know that you can still surprise yourself, you know what I mean? Someone as inherently sluttish as me is not allowed to be jealous; would make me even more of a rank hypocrite than I already am. I am going to put up, shut up, and take the tenderness I have found lately and cradle it in my arms like a precious fucking stamp collection. And that's the most romantic thing I'll say all year. Even odds, anyway.
I don't usually write about my sex life because I don't imagine it's of a great deal of interest. I probably wouldn't be interested if I were you. Anyway, most of my writing about sex seems to end up in my plays. You guys here just get me writing about housework and the vagaries of punk fashion and shite like that. Apologies...
Two shots at going to Nico's grave. The first time we went way off, Matthias, Elizabeth and I got wildly lost in the woods as night fell like a grand piano. While there was still light, we came across two cars with a big fucking gun prominently resting against the bonnet of one. The only things to hunt in Grunewald are owls and people. I bet more people have killed and eaten people than have killed and eaten owls. Pull me up if I'm mistaken. All we had to fall back on were our scant pathfinding instincts, a fair amount of cigarettes, a sixpack of Beck's and a Snickers bar (thanks Elizabeth). I tried to raise our spirits by singing 'Lions and Tigers And Bears, Oh My!' but it didn't go over very well.
The second time we found it in literally five minutes, admittedly from the other side of the forest. Grunewald is very '...Darkly Noon'. If I get insanely rich I will insist on being buried there. If I stay as destitute as I am now I will still insist on being buried there, preferably in a couple of bin bags, although I'd settle for the old classic ashes in a jam jar if that were my only option. The second time was a lot less fun. The second time is often a lot less fun. Ho fucking ho. On the way back some kids/cunts threw a fucking gigantic firework onto the fairly busy S-Bahn. Before I knew what I was doing, I leapt to my feet and kicked the fucker expertly out of the train just before it exploded. It would have been more impressive if my first kick hadn't missed it completely. The second volley was a good one though. I got given a beer and called "a hero". Again, to steal Iain's motto, I like good surprises.
The train still fairly fucking stank of treason and gunpowder plot. I see no reason. Remember remember the 4th of November, the day my Sarah was born. Next week I do my Elliot Costner Ness But Better Dressed Potemkin ripoff routine with two mixed-race adopted orphan babies and steal a sly kiss from the radiant Finnish au pair, tongues and all. Later, we will fuck gloriously in the bullet-ridden pram like tiny horny children with the light of love in our eyes and two warm bellyfulls of hope, hands curling up and opening back out again and recyclable confetti spilling from our mouths, we will cum velvet paper streamers before waking up back in the real world with tears in our red grey eyes and cancer blooming in our brown black lungs. I will love that girl until the day that I die, and she me. We will never meet. Ah, throw him out, he's breaking my heart. I miss her already.
Iain seems happy; his writing really does break my heart. He lives at zebra_trip on this thing. You should read him. Unless you are Iain, in which case you should write him, and you are one of the best people I have ever met.
Jennie Cottam spontaneously danced in the rain for me once, Irish dancing to music from inside a bar that could be heard in the street and it was beautiful. First second she sparked her foot off of a cobblestone, the skies opened and rain lashed down. I don't ever want to forget that. She is getting married, I hope to make the wedding. Failing that, I will break it. And as oddly maudlin as I feel today, only a cunt finds beauty in a plastic bag blowing in the breeze.
Now I want you all to come up here and kiss me on the mouth.