Thursday, April 02, 2015
Wednesday, March 25, 2015
Tuesday, March 24, 2015
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
The China Box had also started greeting me with “hai” and “hau ah yu” and his visits were more frequent as well. I would always hear them upstairs in the kitchen cooking dinner together flirting. Well...flirting as faggots flirt. Not that it bothered me, but it was just odd to hear men interact that way, which then again led up to the post-dinner foreplay. Now, I never personally witnessed any of these foreplay sessions, however, I was well aware they took place. You would be inclined to ask: How do you know? Simple. The persistent sound of cutlery touching the plates would cease, conversation would be exchanged with silence with occasional snickering and not least, the music. The music was the hallmark of hot steaming gay sex fantasies. The prelude to sodomy.
Classical music would flow gently from the loudspeakers to set the mood for what would become yet another memorable arsefucking. My thoughts were that in the gay world the art of seduction was different as well as the ingredients. What would work for a man and a woman didn't get two men hard. Similarly, being a man and sucking someone's cock, the choice of background music would be Vivaldi or Bach because Michael Bolton or Bryan Adams was just too fucking straight.
One evening the four seasons was playing full blast from upstairs, and I suddenly heard someone coming down the stairs. It was The China Box joyfully taking the steps in small joyful hops. I noticed how he fished a small flat and square package from his jacket and pretty much sprinted upstairs. Again, I sat wondering. What the fuck did I just bear witness to? Aside from the moan I had heard some time back, I knew at least it was safe sex. Safe Sodomy. But that wasn't the issue. The issue was the joy, the thrill, the happiness that the China Box radiated upon descending those stairs. How could anyone be this ecstatic moments before, they were going have someone maul their cock up their anus? This guy almost jumped up and clicked his heels together to the mere thought that someone was about to destroy him from behind. It defied my logic and comprehension of the world.
Being from the opposite side of the sexual spectrum, I could tell that I still had a lot to learn about human sexuality. The homo flirting was still alien to me, but at the same time it was intelligible in the sense that it was an ingredient in any relationship. Ultimately it had to be the lack of exposure. I could attest to the fact that I didn't cringe as much to this man love, as I had initially done. Even the China Box' comment the other day “Now I have to wear tsu piece of underwear” didn't make me cringe. Well...maybe it did. At least my tolerance had enhanced, and as long as the foreplay was out of sight, it was out of mind. Until then! Bring all the great composers of the past and play and fuck all you want fags.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
I had finally left the harmonious yet impeding life of suburbia. Around me metropolitan constructs pierced the skies and busy streets were occupied by vehicles of various sizes and colours. People of different races, creeds and fashion orientations mingled in a soup of diversity to willingly and unawarely celebrate tolerance. I was definitely where I wanted to be once again.
My new home was a room in a townhouse in a quiet street just off one of the bigger road of this city. It bore some semblance of what I had become acquainted with in the suburbs. Just a hint of tranquility of what otherwise seemed like a chaotic city.
I shared the house with an older gentleman, who was also the owner of the house. My first encounter with him had been very short and the general impression was good, however, during our discourse there was something about this guy that I couldn't put my finger on, and I did leave the place that evening with confident theories. As it turned out, my assumptions were all correct. My landlord was a homo. His 'friend', as he referred to him, was of Asian origin in his mid to late twenties. His appearance accurately fit the description of the non-flamboyant feminine queer with a twist of spoilt brat. The couple made me think about the millions of western men that went to Thailand to find this much younger and fit spouse. Maybe this approach to spouse-hunting worked both for the straight and for the queer; I wasn't sure, yet I couldn't help but categorise it as a father-son-relationship with 'benefits'.
It only took me a few days before I had nicknamed the love doves, The Senior Queer and The China Box. Though I didn't call them this to their faces, this was how I would refer to them in conversation with those acquainted with my current domestic conditions.
I noticed how through the first couple of weeks that they were uncertain and cautious around me. It was feasible to assume they were showing some sort of regard for me perhaps not being tolerant enough for their man love. Though after that they would often disappear upstairs into the bedroom for a couple of hours for some John-on-John action. It was in these moments, I would automatically put on my headphones and listen to music at full blast, and even though I could be closer to complete deafness at this point than I ever was before, that alternative to me was better than the possibility of hearing anything that was occurring in that bedroom. Unfortunately my tolerance had certain limits. You could be as queer as you wanted to be, but I begged to not bear witness to any visual or aural presentation of this sexual orientation.
Lamentably, one night I was doing a late night washing up, and I heard something that transformed me forever. I heard a loud moan coming from upstairs. It wasn't just any moan, but one of those moans that a man would exclaim right before he blew his beans. Even to this day, I was uncertain whom had let out that moan, and frankly I cared not to know, but I was still convinced that no man should let out that kind moan as a response to man handling. Again, I stood before myself transformed and scarred man doubting that I would ever recuperate.
The observation of a gay relationship this close had indeed shed light on how things worked. Often I had in jest said that being gay must be easier, because dealing with a man was more straight forward than dealing with a woman. My experience here was teaching me that I was gravely mistaken. There had been a couple of incidents, which I called “Crisis in the Sodomite mansion”, where the fights were no different from those between and a man and woman. The term “making someone your bitch” was verified through these arguments I had overheard, because one always stood out as being the emotional and feminine while the other took on the more masculine approach.
All in all, my experiences here were teaching me valuable lessons of how the relationship between two persons regardless of their sexual orientation or level of commitment would be like any other. Though from now on, I was sure I wouldn't suggest that being gay would be a solution to any problem that I would have with the opposite gender, not even in jest. Because for certain the make up sex would entail me putting my cock up someone's colon or his into mine.
Edward T. Shufflebottom
Saturday, October 20, 2007
On my way back home, I started to think about how the hamburger had died. How the simple and well known configuration of ingredients consisting of a juicy patty with ketchup, onions and other condiments embraced in the mercy of a fluffy bun had become nothing more but a ghost of the past. Macdonald’s had monopolised the image of the hamburger and convinced collective humanity, except for a few, that the Big Mac was the avatar of the famous sandwich.
I was disgusted with how the Big Mac was a tidy, “low-carb” and non-greasy burger, and glorified by Ronald, who had never grown bald like normal clowns. Our society had become obsessed with the trend of eating healthier and exercising regularly. And while I was all for that approach to life, it struck me as being some bullshit that the media was feeding the public: “It’s junk but it’s healthy”. Junk food was junk food. If you went out for a burger, it should be the sole intention of being greasy and unhealthy.
There were many burger joints out there trying to stay faithful to original hamburger concept. Personally, I hadn’t found that one place that could recreate the magic of that greasy sandwich from my childhood. Many would get close but never quite capture it. Maybe it was the bread or maybe the meat. It was hard to say, but I would keep searching. I was sure that the signature taste was still out there. I could feel it. Indeed, it was out there waiting to be resurrected…
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
What is the Pink Factor? It is the attribute whose quantity dictates your view upon the world and ability to interact with people. We are all born with it, and with time Pink diminishes as a result of being an expense for our bad experiences and failed endeavours. The consequence of this entails that over time a gradual transformation takes place. The world has become more grey and doleful for your own personal reasons, and people are not as amicable in your social eye.
I can think back of behaviour and comments that I made a few years back and grimace at my shade of Pink. So perhaps I give off that vibe now. Maybe my Pink storage is reserved solely for maintenance of my existing relationships. But I would be lying if I said that I didn’t miss being Pink and gullible.
So here I am, ‘the man’ as some random mother off the street pointed out, know that being adult has not only taught me many things but also inhibited me from experiencing and venturing like I did before. As the saying goes, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Boy, does it suck being an adult.