The Gay Reality

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

The Death of the Hamburger

In 1940 the first McDonald’s restaurant opened in America, and 67 years later I found myself walking into what now had become the biggest culinary concept in the world. How this franchise had done so well over the decades was a mystery to me. It was plausible to assume that six decades ago the food at MickyD’s was of admirable quality and taste. Unfortunately quality is an attribute that seems to dilute over time. An even greater mystery to me was why I insisted on coming back to Mcdonald’s. What was it about the place? Was it the clown within me? Ronald Cunt Mcdonald? Regret was an ingredient in my burger. With every mouthful I felt that I had just wasted my money to deal with a hunger that deserved better. And after I had finally thrown the trash in the bin and put the tray at the designated area, I stood outside and allowed myself a moment of flatulence to commemorate how the Big Mac only sated until you dislodged gas either anally or orally.

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…

Pink will fade

It has recently dawned on me that I have become an ‘adult’. Mothers with their children refer to me as ‘the man’, not because I am anything special, but because I simply am not ‘the boy’ anymore. With this realisation I have started thinking, what is it exactly that transforms an individual from being a boy/girl to being an adult in the eye of society? Is it a time factor? Is it the evident hair loss? Or did my parents register me somewhere as an adult without my knowledge? If you ask me, I am inclined to say that it is the lack of the Pink Factor.

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.

Edward T. Shufflebottom

Dabka Soul Train

Sometimes I found myself speculating why the death penalty and euthanasia aren't more common phenomena in our day and age. People in so much pain that the only humane thing to do would be to extinguish their light, and others who were the pricks of humanity that deserved nothing but deep cocks in their anal orifice followed by a gun shot.

It was a visual bullet-time realisation when I stepped through the doors that exposed the inside of the Arab night club. The term 'Freak Farm' came to mind. What the fuck was this? I navigated myself through the crowd with the intension of reaching the far end of the club, but in the process compelled to observe these humanoid phenomena up close.

Sitting there puffing on my hookah with great delight, I watched some of my newly met acquaintances venture onto the dance floor. I smiled and observed the people “getting their freak on”, which I mean in a literal sense. It was nothing short of abominable. Semi-overweight women wearing clothes five sizes too small with the moves of a rusty fork lift being admired by the male, who believed that the waist line began above the nipples and wore his jeans accordingly.
In all of this morbidity there was a sense of amusement. My observation struck me as being unreal that I had no choice but to smile wholeheartedly. A good comparison to this event would be the hypothesis of what a raspberry and guinea pig smoothie would taste like; it was fucked up and no one in their right mind would taste it, nevertheless, not impossible if you had the ingredients.
What happened next took me by surprise. The DJ went from mainstream Arabic music to something more traditional, or at least that was what I could fathom from the sudden increased enthusiasm of the dancers. The abominations suddenly formed a chain and initiated a “Dabka” (Middle Eastern folk dance) session to proclaim their rhythmic obedience to the song. Again, I felt someone had fucked with my mind. What the fuck was this? The chain grew longer and longer until it consumed all of the dance floor and moved in drunken grace.

Later I was standing outside the club to get some fresh air. It was then that things got worse. It was evident to me now that wherever a potential one night stand was taking place, the factor of success was NOT alcohol. It was poor disco lighting, and what happened was after leaving the disco the pick up became a double dare. You leave the disco and see your prize in the light of the lamp post, and your thoughts are: “What the hell is this? Did I score the donkey when I wanted to get with the rider or what? I can't back out now that's not polite”. Yes, these people in an illuminated environment were a celibacy incentive.

I was sitting back inside resuming my sideline freak show observation. The DJ had decided it was Dabka Soul Train time again. The crowd followed the DJ's musical lead and quickly a chain formed again. The stomping on the floor and the twirling of the handkerchief were there to honour the spirit of the Dabka. As I sat there smiling, my mind ventured off again. Why weren't euthanasia or death penalty more common and accepted phenomena? I remained inconclusive whether the people I gazed upon should die out of sympathy or punishment. One thing was for sure, you would never see the likes of these anywhere else.

Edward T. Shufflebottom

The Near Distant Future

Life is never how we envisioned it, yet we still continue to dream up scenarios on how we land the date with the supermodel, the promotion at a renowned enterprise or the record deal breakthrough. If it makes your crotch tingle with joy, you will replay these fantasies again and again.

I cannot count the times that I have drifted into my sea of dreams and suddenly wake up to a bitter revelation. In my sweet fantasy I am a success in every single thinkable way. Should I mentally pause, it would look like one of those adverts in fashion or lifestyle magazines, where some guy stands out with his trendy hairdo, six-pack and ripped biceps. Fuck yeah, I could clear my throat in the presence of females and get offers of No-Strings-Attached-Sex, because in my dreams, I'm brimful of perfection.

My dreams revolve around the post-completion of my goals, and while I won't get into further details what those goals are, I will say that they are not unrealistic nor unattainable, just unfulfilled. I always picture how I might be standing looking out of a window reflecting on what I have achieved. I have not aged a day in my fantasies. Is it because I am unrealistic? No. Simply because I have no clue of who I am in the future or what the future might bring. I call those moments “The Near Distant Future”. These moments or concepts are the product of my tireless efforts to finish my objectives and not knowing when the completion will take place. To me there are only the epochs of “now” and “then”.

There are no sequences of how I will attain what at times seems impossible. No sequences depicted like Rocky Balboa's training session before the big fight. Lots of running, skipping, running up the stairs and jumping up and down like a crazed moron with violins playing a familiar tune in the background. There is no mental cinematography that can even closely describe the emotion and reality of the true endeavour to fulfill the dream or goal.

Regardless if the then-epoch will arrive or not won't keep us from drifting away those moments before you fall asleep at night, or during the dull lesson at school. We want to find ourselves trapped within the frames of the perfect picture in that magazine. We want to live that seemingly inanimate paper world. Sometimes I wonder if I focus too much on that perfection. That I live too much in my own mental silver screen and forget that even if or when I complete my goals, perfection will always be out of reach. I suppose that I am like my own bullshit salesman. Always out to sell myself the perfect future wrapped in a heart-shaped box with a fancy little greeting card that says:

“Ambition and dreams are the source of motivation and the excuse for everlasting unhappiness.”

The Age of Emo and The Trendy-depressives

It seems that it has become fashionable to be depressive. I can't turn on my tv or walk outside without seeing funky Emo hair (aka. Fetuccini hair) or individuals with such a screwed up sense of fashion that you wish that fathers should be entitled to a semenal refund. It's always the damn hair that gets on my nerve. I am unable to grasp that these people don't grimace at their own reflection and put an effort into looking just a bit acceptable. And the trousers! My God the trousers. Tight around the legs and baggy around the arse. What the fuck is that all about? Gay Italian designers turn straight at the sight of them. Something else I notice, is the hygiene; It is my impression that these people simply refuse to shower or wash their clothes. Want to be Emo? Fine, just fucking shower on a regular basis and people won't immigrate to avoid you.But all in all I think that extreme fashion statements such as Emos and Goths encourages bad hygiene. Save money by not paying water bills and invest in razor bladesr.

What really made me aware of this trendy-depression were the tv-shows and movies. All the protagonists are tainted by issues and complexes; Look at the show 'Smallville', while I'm a big fan of Superman, I can't help but hate that show. Everything about it is fucking emo; the theme song, the characters, everything. I keep hoping the season finale is teenage Clark Kent hanging himself with a Kryptonite rope. Hell, even the whole new Superhero franchise is Emo: Spider-man, Hulk, Superman. Watch the movies, and you realise they are Emo. Be aware that by taking your kids to see these movies, you are indirectly telling them that heroism is overrated and that it's permissible to become an Emo cunt.

So what is it with this social phenomenon? Are people really that miserable solely because the world is such a terrible place? The answer is NO. Trendy-depression has emerged due to people's carefree existence. When you don't have a problem or care in your life, then that per se is a problem.
Fuck, sometimes I wish that I was Emo and all my troubles were make believe...I think I better go cut myself a bit to soothe the pain.

Edward T. Shufflebottom

Once were boys

It had been sometime since I had visited my family. I had decided that this visit would be an extended one. A visit to satiate my desire to be with my family.
As always the moment of reunion was joyful of epic proportions, and I could almost replay the whole moment in my head in slow motion with audio commentary of me saying “It was like out of a fairytale”. Even walking out of the airport I felt like Snow White coming out of the woods with her deer, squirrels, mice and birds singing songs of happiness. Yes, I was definitely home again.

It was strange to sit around the table again and eating as one family. Listening to how my dad would sound like a larger orchestra chewing his food, my brother slurping his drink or my mother unintentional colliding her cutlery with her plate. Even though it all could sound disgusting or annoying to any other person in the world, to me it was music. I even caught my father looking at me with a reminiscent look. Yes, dad I missed it too. More than you would ever know.

In this ecstasy of memories, I did see some changes in the transparency of ghosts of the past. The grey hair covering my dad's head. The different types of medication that both my parents took to keep chronic diseases on amicable terms. It felt like someone had turned over two pages at once. Too much time had passed and no one had told me, or I hadn't opened my eyes till now.

I still saw my father's face before me filled with nostalgia. Never had I ever seen him like that, and it made me wonder, if he ever had the thoughts that I was having now. Things were different now, but once we were boys...

Edward T. Shufflebottom