It’s strange that you don’t have a smell
For if you’re real I cannot tell
Despite the fact I feel your presence
It clear to me you have no essence
There’s nothing much a human knows
That cannot be filtered through our nose
Attraction, reaction and satisfaction
It all requires olfactory traction
To feel, to love, to laugh and yell
These joys of life they need a smell
So for you your heart will always sink
Because it’s unfortunate, but love it stinks.
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Take Pills
Around October or November I started taking these new anti-depressants. The ones I was taking before didn't do shit. I still got panic attacks, I still found it difficult to concentrate, I was tired all the time and I was still sad. Not that I was expecting a cure-all, but I was hoping for at least some functionality. So the doctor suggested I try these new pills that had recently be put on the market. After several months on this new drug I would say that they definitely have had an effect on me. I no longer feel anxious, situations that would have usually made me so nervous as to vomit now only raise a mild concern, and I had an every day confidence that I had previously never experienced. However, this confidence, I think, is becoming more of a hindrance than a help of late. I feel that it is a sort of an unrestrained confidence. Now that I am no longer meek and mild-mannered, I get the feeling that my friends are finding me intolerable. No longer do I keep my thoughts to myself, I now just blurt out whatever I feel, and have exaggerated my persona. It would be fair to say that my sense of humour lies on the "fucked up" side of risqué, and much of what I say is designed to shock and subvert. The thing is I've always been a man to be judged by his actions rather than his words. Words, to me, are far too amusing to be used hyper-cautiously. I don't subscribe to everything I say, for the most part this public persona is an act. These new pills I am taking have given me the ability to play this role, the ability to express the amusing thoughts that run through my head, the ability to be this character, to be a character. Yet I find my performance is being unappreciated. Possibly it's just not very good, or possibly it is misunderstood. I'm yet to deduce which. Also, however, I feel that this performance is somewhat out of my control. I'm coming to consider that these pills have taken away my self-restraint. They've given me the ability to express myself verbally, but removed the ability to properly monitor my expression. Last night I got the sense that I was unbearable, so this morning I have been contemplating how I am going to deal with this. I hate upsetting people, I still am very insecure and want the approval of my friends, and feel at the moment I am a bit too much for them. I'm considering giving up the pills for the sake of these friendships.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
The Past That Suits You Best.
There's that wall, the future. And I'd love to be able to bound over it and gallop into the distance, but I don't. I sit at the bottom of the wall, my back against it, staring at where I've been. Occasionally I stand up, raise myself up on the wall and attempt to look over. But I don't have the strength to sustain myself up there and I only ever get a glimpse. So I don't know what the future holds for a guy like me, and the unknown tends to frighten. The past, although sad, is stable, I can handle the sadness, I know what it feels like, it has a certain security for me.
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
Love For Sure
I woke at 6:30am as usual. My internal alarm never fails. No matter what time I go to sleep, I always wake at 6:30am. This doesn't mean I arise at this time. Often I find myself drifting off back to sleep for another hour or so, but there's something within my psyche that requires that I be conscious at this hour of the day. As I gained my wits, I felt my left arm was wrapped around Sarah's abdomen and my face buried into the back of her neck. The smell of coconut and lime scented moisturiser filled my nostrils as I took my first deep breath of the morning. I felt comfortable and happy. This is always my favourite part of the day, waking up, at 6:30am, feeling Sarah next to me and realising that I am in love. As Sarah awoke she turned to lie on her back and twisted her neck towards me. We kissed tenderly and I lingered on her bottom lip for a few seconds in order to savour the experience. "Jag älska dig så mycket" I said sweetly as we nuzzled our noses together. "Jag älska dig också" she replied with a grin. We giggled, made cooing noises and held each other tight.
It is approaching two years since Sarah and I met. I had just moved to Stockholm and was in a pretty raw funk. I had been stagnant, bored and lonely in Melbourne and had decided that this move was the appropriate solution. The idea of moving to Sweden had initially been formed in 2004. I was taking Swedish language classes at the Centre for Adult Education and had formed a friendship with one of the girls in the class. Alice, like me, was a drifter, never feeling settled, always believing that something better lay somewhere else. Both of us were full of grand ideas with little forethought to their implementation, and so we formulated the idea of moving to Sweden together. We were positive it was the place where we would both be able to fulfil our dreams; me as a hot-shot writer and her and something different almost daily. Unfortunately, our plans came to a demise several months later when Alice kissed some 40-plus dad-rocker and I refused to speak to her for a month. Although Alice and I weren’t an item, we were very close and I couldn’t handle the idea of someone I cared about becoming intimate with such a regressive and unsatisfactory being. Situations like this had become reasonably common with me. I’d develop close female friendships that would fail to progress; companionships, but never partnerships. It was a combination of my low self-esteem, tendency towards self-sabotage, and my perplexity at what I perceived as the ridiculousness of heterosexual couplings that consistently caused these relationships to spoil. So, whilst Alice decided to flee to Washington D.C., I suppressed my dreams for another year and wallowed in my languor working a stale job in a lonely town; being perpetually consigned to solitude. However, by mid-2006 I had had enough. My perpetual loneliness and inability to inspire and motivate myself required an immediate solution. So I sold my belongings, packed a bag and transplanted myself to Sweden.
The move, however, wasn’t particularly well planned. I knew no-one, had no idea how to secure a place of residence or gainful employment, and my language skills were poor. Rather than spend my time exploring the various districts of the Stockholm archipelago, trying to meet people or find a job, I would instead lie around in my hostel bed pining for the life I had left behind in Melbourne. One day, in order to prevent further moping, I decided to go for a walk over to the hip record store, Pet Sounds, in Södermalm. The romantic fantasy of meeting a girl in a record store was an idea I'd never tired of, and at that time I was desperate to meet someone, anyone, regardless of gender. As I was flicking my way through the racks of obscure Swedish pop and modern day indie classics I noticed that an interesting looking girl had entered the store carrying a small box of CDs. Although I couldn't make out all of the conversation she was having with the guy behind the counter, it was obvious that the CDs in the box were of music that she had made herself and she was hoping that the store would stock them. I felt like this could be a good opportunity for me to make a connection. I had taken a risk by abandoning my life in Melbourne to start afresh in Stockholm, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to that one further risk and attempt to engage this girl in conversation. I decided I would approach her and enquire about her music; it was the most obvious ice-breaker. I was hoping that the flattery she would feel in having someone ask about her art would cancel out any apprehension she might normally experience upon being approached by a stranger.
"Ursäkta mig, talar du engelska?" I said, knowing that my limited Swedish would falter in a proper conversation. "Ja, I do" she replied shyly. From her initial demeanour it was obvious that in order for this conversation to blossom I would have to do a lot of the work. This was not something I was accustomed to, but if I was hoping to make a connection with this girl I was going to have to make the effort. I asked her if that was her own music in the box she was carrying. She replied in the affirmative and I proceeded to ask numerous questions about her music. She was a modest about the details, but I managed to get out of her that she made bedroom electro-pop under the name Action Biker.
Just as I thought the conversation was starting to dissolve, and she would make her excuses to leave, to my surprise she started to ask questions of me: Where was I form? What was I doing in Stockholm? Then when I mentioned that I was having trouble finding a place to live she somewhat astonishingly enthused "You can come stay with me!" She told me there was a spare room in her flat in Gamla Stan. She said the flat belonged to her grandparents, but the confined spaces and cobbled stoned streets of the old town had become too difficult for them to negotiate in their mature age. So they'd decided to move out to Västerås and leave the flat to Sarah at a cheap rent. "I'm sure they wouldn't mind if you moved in.", Sarah said, "there's definitely the space, and I think they'd take pity on a lost foreigner." I was a little taken back by how she could make an offer after such a limited conversation and I gushed "Are you sure?" several times. "Yes, of course", she said, "you are nice!" As if that was reason enough.
Her home was on the top floor of a building down the south end of Prästgatan, near the old parsonage for the German church. The flat had three bedrooms, one of which was, obviously, Sarah's, another of which she had set up a small home recording studio and the third that, for an initial period, became mine. Becoming acquainted with my new surroundings was a delight. The medieval architecture and confined cobbled streets was a vastly different environment to what I had been used to, living in Melbourne. For a while after I moved into Sarah’s flat I would wander aimless around Gamla Stan, exploring the streets and alleys of the old working class area. In recent years the aesthetic value placed on the antique look of the island had significant changed its demographics. No longer a working class area, the island had become a magnet for the educated and sociable middle classes. Whilst this gave the area a certain stench of pretension, it did provide the area with a wide variety of distractions. Frequently Sarah would join me as I undertake my reconnaissance missions. We would eat lunch in cool little cafés and tea rooms or visit secluded and hip basement bars at night. Our rapport was developing and we were growing rather fond of each other's company. Furthermore, I was not only breaking out of my mental stupor and blossoming as a human being, but also starting to actually enjoy myself! It had become apparent to me that my decision to move to Stockholm was genuinely excellent one.
One day whilst out exploring the neighbourhood, strolling down the alleyway of Nygränd, I noticed a Help Wanted sign in the window of a restaurant. Although I couldn't read all of the text, I could make out that they were looking for a dishwasher. Washing dishes was hardly what I came to Stockholm for, but I decided that I needed the money and that I would apply for the position. The restaurant was called Fem Små Hus, served a combination of Swedish and French cuisine and apparently had quite a reputation amongst Stockholm's culinary critics (they'd plastered their dinning room walls with awards and positive reviews). It wasn't the most ideal job, especially for a vegetarian with an acute mistrust of dairy products, but without a fluent knowledge of Swedish my options were very limited. And besides, I told myself, a job such as this would build character, keep me connected to the struggle of the proletariat whilst I was pursuing my bourgeois dreams of becoming a writer.
As one who the Swedes describe as a "native speaker" of English, I didn't find it too difficult to pick up some freelance writing work for some pan-Scandinavian magazines that publish in the language. I began to write for publications such as Scanorama, the in-flight magazine for Scandinavian Airlines, where I'd compose blurbs about Stockholm’s tourist attractions, as well as the Nordic issue of Vice Magazine who were delighted with my witty and cutting music reviews (something I’d excelled at back in Melbourne). Although my evenings were occupied with washing off the disgusting remains of cheese-infused animal carcasses from pots and plates, the position had the advantage of leaving me all day to work on not only my freelance work, but also a series of personal short stories that I was hoping to eventually get published. I thought that once I was able to compile a number of quality stories I would be able to shop them around to a few publishers in the hope that one might express some interest. The idea of having a book of personal and personality based short stories was to cultivate a singular public persona for myself that I could utilise to gain some sort of leverage and repute for other subjects I would like to write about. I knew I had a unique perspective, it was just a matter of being able to gain some attention.
Over this time Sarah and I evolved our friendship into a familiar and meaningful bond. The logistics of our lives became intertwined and I exhibited an ease in her presence that I had never experienced previously. We shared similar ideas about culture and politics and a disdain for ridiculous social conventions like drinking coffee. When our opinions did differ our debates were lively and robust, yet never without respect and regard for the others point of view. I had begun to believe that Sarah and I should take our relationship up a notch and express our fondness for each other in a physical manner. Unfortunately, broaching such a subject is not the easiest of tasks, especially when I felt uncomfortable ethics of heterosexual couplings. This has always been a major problem for me. How could I, as a man, justify intimate relations with a woman? Specifically such a beautiful and amazing woman as her. To me, heterosexuality just doesn't seem equitable. It seems grossly unfair to the female participant. It’s like having a dish from a Michelin Star restaurant on the same plate as a week-old, rain-sodden Big Mac. It makes little sense to me. If I were to become sexually involved with Sarah would I be perpetuating this raw deal women have received since the beginning of time? Surely it would be a selfish act for me to inflict such an injustice on someone I care for? Yet there was an undeniable fire that burned in my loins and the tension that it caused between my principled rationale and my animal instinct was becoming a source of frustration for me. I tried to sooth this anxiety by telling myself that, although Sarah deserved better than the ceaseless and wretched shortcomings of masculinity, at least if she were to become involved with me, my hyper-sensitivity to man's flawed essence, and my willingness to rectify this, would go some way ensuring that she would be treated in the respectful manner that she deserved.
My concerns became redundant when one night, whilst Sarah and I were watching a documentary on 18th century Swedish emigration to North America, she leaned over and planted a kiss sweetly on my lips. I couldn't help but reciprocate, yet when we separated I smiled and asked, "What was that for?” "I've wanted to do that for the longest time. I just couldn't resist any longer. I hope you don't mind?" she replied. "I'll only mind if it was just a once off" I said cheekily, and we fell back into an extended tender and passionate merging of souls. Kissing Sarah was a phenomenal experience and I had never felt so good before. My extremely limited exposure to physical intimacy until that point had given me, what I believed to be, an appreciation of the activity above those who experience it regularly and I felt compelled to savour every micro-moment. Despite my previous apprehension, when locked in embrace with her the idea of us being together seemed perfect. I looked at her directly and gushed "I promise to love and respect you for eternity. I know that's a rather maudlin thing to say, but it's important to me to express this sentiment. I don't want to be like other guys." She laughed, "I know you are not like other guys. This is why I have fallen for you." We embraced again and my heart sighed, wiped its brow and grinned expansively.
#######
I hate having to leave our bed in the morning. I could just lie there and snuggle with Sarah forever. There is nothing that makes me happier. Unfortunately though this morning we had to rise not long after our 6.30am wakening. Sarah had a show that night in Malmö and I had organised an interview with controversial Faeroes pro-independence politician Høgni Karsten Hoydal that afternoon across in Copenhagen. We had borrowed Sarah's parents’ car in order to drive the 6 hours south, so time for snuggling was unfortunately just not available. I consoled myself with the fact that I would at least get to spend the day with her in the car and that after the show that evening we would once again be able to express our affection for each other in an intimate and amorous manner. As we had one final kiss before having to arise I couldn't help thinking how wonderfully my move to Stockholm had turned out for me. My writing was going exceedingly well, with my book of personal short stories having been recently published giving me the levity and self-confidence to pursue topics of my choice. But the most important element to my spiritual contentment was the fact that I had finally found true love. Sarah and I knew that we were to be together forever and that, regardless of any of my other successes, was what made me the happiest.
It is approaching two years since Sarah and I met. I had just moved to Stockholm and was in a pretty raw funk. I had been stagnant, bored and lonely in Melbourne and had decided that this move was the appropriate solution. The idea of moving to Sweden had initially been formed in 2004. I was taking Swedish language classes at the Centre for Adult Education and had formed a friendship with one of the girls in the class. Alice, like me, was a drifter, never feeling settled, always believing that something better lay somewhere else. Both of us were full of grand ideas with little forethought to their implementation, and so we formulated the idea of moving to Sweden together. We were positive it was the place where we would both be able to fulfil our dreams; me as a hot-shot writer and her and something different almost daily. Unfortunately, our plans came to a demise several months later when Alice kissed some 40-plus dad-rocker and I refused to speak to her for a month. Although Alice and I weren’t an item, we were very close and I couldn’t handle the idea of someone I cared about becoming intimate with such a regressive and unsatisfactory being. Situations like this had become reasonably common with me. I’d develop close female friendships that would fail to progress; companionships, but never partnerships. It was a combination of my low self-esteem, tendency towards self-sabotage, and my perplexity at what I perceived as the ridiculousness of heterosexual couplings that consistently caused these relationships to spoil. So, whilst Alice decided to flee to Washington D.C., I suppressed my dreams for another year and wallowed in my languor working a stale job in a lonely town; being perpetually consigned to solitude. However, by mid-2006 I had had enough. My perpetual loneliness and inability to inspire and motivate myself required an immediate solution. So I sold my belongings, packed a bag and transplanted myself to Sweden.
The move, however, wasn’t particularly well planned. I knew no-one, had no idea how to secure a place of residence or gainful employment, and my language skills were poor. Rather than spend my time exploring the various districts of the Stockholm archipelago, trying to meet people or find a job, I would instead lie around in my hostel bed pining for the life I had left behind in Melbourne. One day, in order to prevent further moping, I decided to go for a walk over to the hip record store, Pet Sounds, in Södermalm. The romantic fantasy of meeting a girl in a record store was an idea I'd never tired of, and at that time I was desperate to meet someone, anyone, regardless of gender. As I was flicking my way through the racks of obscure Swedish pop and modern day indie classics I noticed that an interesting looking girl had entered the store carrying a small box of CDs. Although I couldn't make out all of the conversation she was having with the guy behind the counter, it was obvious that the CDs in the box were of music that she had made herself and she was hoping that the store would stock them. I felt like this could be a good opportunity for me to make a connection. I had taken a risk by abandoning my life in Melbourne to start afresh in Stockholm, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to that one further risk and attempt to engage this girl in conversation. I decided I would approach her and enquire about her music; it was the most obvious ice-breaker. I was hoping that the flattery she would feel in having someone ask about her art would cancel out any apprehension she might normally experience upon being approached by a stranger.
"Ursäkta mig, talar du engelska?" I said, knowing that my limited Swedish would falter in a proper conversation. "Ja, I do" she replied shyly. From her initial demeanour it was obvious that in order for this conversation to blossom I would have to do a lot of the work. This was not something I was accustomed to, but if I was hoping to make a connection with this girl I was going to have to make the effort. I asked her if that was her own music in the box she was carrying. She replied in the affirmative and I proceeded to ask numerous questions about her music. She was a modest about the details, but I managed to get out of her that she made bedroom electro-pop under the name Action Biker.
Just as I thought the conversation was starting to dissolve, and she would make her excuses to leave, to my surprise she started to ask questions of me: Where was I form? What was I doing in Stockholm? Then when I mentioned that I was having trouble finding a place to live she somewhat astonishingly enthused "You can come stay with me!" She told me there was a spare room in her flat in Gamla Stan. She said the flat belonged to her grandparents, but the confined spaces and cobbled stoned streets of the old town had become too difficult for them to negotiate in their mature age. So they'd decided to move out to Västerås and leave the flat to Sarah at a cheap rent. "I'm sure they wouldn't mind if you moved in.", Sarah said, "there's definitely the space, and I think they'd take pity on a lost foreigner." I was a little taken back by how she could make an offer after such a limited conversation and I gushed "Are you sure?" several times. "Yes, of course", she said, "you are nice!" As if that was reason enough.
Her home was on the top floor of a building down the south end of Prästgatan, near the old parsonage for the German church. The flat had three bedrooms, one of which was, obviously, Sarah's, another of which she had set up a small home recording studio and the third that, for an initial period, became mine. Becoming acquainted with my new surroundings was a delight. The medieval architecture and confined cobbled streets was a vastly different environment to what I had been used to, living in Melbourne. For a while after I moved into Sarah’s flat I would wander aimless around Gamla Stan, exploring the streets and alleys of the old working class area. In recent years the aesthetic value placed on the antique look of the island had significant changed its demographics. No longer a working class area, the island had become a magnet for the educated and sociable middle classes. Whilst this gave the area a certain stench of pretension, it did provide the area with a wide variety of distractions. Frequently Sarah would join me as I undertake my reconnaissance missions. We would eat lunch in cool little cafés and tea rooms or visit secluded and hip basement bars at night. Our rapport was developing and we were growing rather fond of each other's company. Furthermore, I was not only breaking out of my mental stupor and blossoming as a human being, but also starting to actually enjoy myself! It had become apparent to me that my decision to move to Stockholm was genuinely excellent one.
One day whilst out exploring the neighbourhood, strolling down the alleyway of Nygränd, I noticed a Help Wanted sign in the window of a restaurant. Although I couldn't read all of the text, I could make out that they were looking for a dishwasher. Washing dishes was hardly what I came to Stockholm for, but I decided that I needed the money and that I would apply for the position. The restaurant was called Fem Små Hus, served a combination of Swedish and French cuisine and apparently had quite a reputation amongst Stockholm's culinary critics (they'd plastered their dinning room walls with awards and positive reviews). It wasn't the most ideal job, especially for a vegetarian with an acute mistrust of dairy products, but without a fluent knowledge of Swedish my options were very limited. And besides, I told myself, a job such as this would build character, keep me connected to the struggle of the proletariat whilst I was pursuing my bourgeois dreams of becoming a writer.
As one who the Swedes describe as a "native speaker" of English, I didn't find it too difficult to pick up some freelance writing work for some pan-Scandinavian magazines that publish in the language. I began to write for publications such as Scanorama, the in-flight magazine for Scandinavian Airlines, where I'd compose blurbs about Stockholm’s tourist attractions, as well as the Nordic issue of Vice Magazine who were delighted with my witty and cutting music reviews (something I’d excelled at back in Melbourne). Although my evenings were occupied with washing off the disgusting remains of cheese-infused animal carcasses from pots and plates, the position had the advantage of leaving me all day to work on not only my freelance work, but also a series of personal short stories that I was hoping to eventually get published. I thought that once I was able to compile a number of quality stories I would be able to shop them around to a few publishers in the hope that one might express some interest. The idea of having a book of personal and personality based short stories was to cultivate a singular public persona for myself that I could utilise to gain some sort of leverage and repute for other subjects I would like to write about. I knew I had a unique perspective, it was just a matter of being able to gain some attention.
Over this time Sarah and I evolved our friendship into a familiar and meaningful bond. The logistics of our lives became intertwined and I exhibited an ease in her presence that I had never experienced previously. We shared similar ideas about culture and politics and a disdain for ridiculous social conventions like drinking coffee. When our opinions did differ our debates were lively and robust, yet never without respect and regard for the others point of view. I had begun to believe that Sarah and I should take our relationship up a notch and express our fondness for each other in a physical manner. Unfortunately, broaching such a subject is not the easiest of tasks, especially when I felt uncomfortable ethics of heterosexual couplings. This has always been a major problem for me. How could I, as a man, justify intimate relations with a woman? Specifically such a beautiful and amazing woman as her. To me, heterosexuality just doesn't seem equitable. It seems grossly unfair to the female participant. It’s like having a dish from a Michelin Star restaurant on the same plate as a week-old, rain-sodden Big Mac. It makes little sense to me. If I were to become sexually involved with Sarah would I be perpetuating this raw deal women have received since the beginning of time? Surely it would be a selfish act for me to inflict such an injustice on someone I care for? Yet there was an undeniable fire that burned in my loins and the tension that it caused between my principled rationale and my animal instinct was becoming a source of frustration for me. I tried to sooth this anxiety by telling myself that, although Sarah deserved better than the ceaseless and wretched shortcomings of masculinity, at least if she were to become involved with me, my hyper-sensitivity to man's flawed essence, and my willingness to rectify this, would go some way ensuring that she would be treated in the respectful manner that she deserved.
My concerns became redundant when one night, whilst Sarah and I were watching a documentary on 18th century Swedish emigration to North America, she leaned over and planted a kiss sweetly on my lips. I couldn't help but reciprocate, yet when we separated I smiled and asked, "What was that for?” "I've wanted to do that for the longest time. I just couldn't resist any longer. I hope you don't mind?" she replied. "I'll only mind if it was just a once off" I said cheekily, and we fell back into an extended tender and passionate merging of souls. Kissing Sarah was a phenomenal experience and I had never felt so good before. My extremely limited exposure to physical intimacy until that point had given me, what I believed to be, an appreciation of the activity above those who experience it regularly and I felt compelled to savour every micro-moment. Despite my previous apprehension, when locked in embrace with her the idea of us being together seemed perfect. I looked at her directly and gushed "I promise to love and respect you for eternity. I know that's a rather maudlin thing to say, but it's important to me to express this sentiment. I don't want to be like other guys." She laughed, "I know you are not like other guys. This is why I have fallen for you." We embraced again and my heart sighed, wiped its brow and grinned expansively.
#######
I hate having to leave our bed in the morning. I could just lie there and snuggle with Sarah forever. There is nothing that makes me happier. Unfortunately though this morning we had to rise not long after our 6.30am wakening. Sarah had a show that night in Malmö and I had organised an interview with controversial Faeroes pro-independence politician Høgni Karsten Hoydal that afternoon across in Copenhagen. We had borrowed Sarah's parents’ car in order to drive the 6 hours south, so time for snuggling was unfortunately just not available. I consoled myself with the fact that I would at least get to spend the day with her in the car and that after the show that evening we would once again be able to express our affection for each other in an intimate and amorous manner. As we had one final kiss before having to arise I couldn't help thinking how wonderfully my move to Stockholm had turned out for me. My writing was going exceedingly well, with my book of personal short stories having been recently published giving me the levity and self-confidence to pursue topics of my choice. But the most important element to my spiritual contentment was the fact that I had finally found true love. Sarah and I knew that we were to be together forever and that, regardless of any of my other successes, was what made me the happiest.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Trade Imbalance
A funny thing occurred to me last night whilst I was contemplating my fondness for free market economics. It became evident to me that the Australian Liberal Party, dislikes, it seems unwittingly, some of the consequences of its economic ideals. For those who do not know, the Liberal Party are an amalgamation of liberal economic ideals and social conservatism. To make matters more odd, they are in a coalition with a party (the Nationals) with strong a protectionist sentiment.
To look at a micro example: There are two Ethiopian bakeries in Footscray, now, obviously, these bakeries would not exist without a strong east African presence in the area. Because of this presence, not only is there a demand for these products, but the demand for the ingredients to produce them increases as well. Now one might say that if the population was the same, but those of east African origin weren't present, the demand for bread and the ingredients to make bread would remain them same. However, this argument overlooks the fact that Ethiopian bread is made up of different ingredients to other types of bread and the fact that the area already has enough bakeries (and supermarkets) to cover the bread needs of the non-east African residents. It's fairly safe to say that if those two Ethiopian bakeries did not exist there would not be two other bakeries there in their place. This is something that a free market economists would love; the diversity of the population providing for the diversity of products available, and increasing the demand for the components of these products. So for the Liberal Party's economic ideals this is an excellent phenomenon, however, the presence of people of east African origin clashes with their conservative beliefs about social cohesion, as we saw last year with then Immigration Minister, Kevin Andrews, launching a scare campaign against Sudanese refugees and their perceived lack of "integration".
A good example of how this perspective works within the Liberal Party can be found in the Howard Government's handling of the Tampa incident and their Pacific Solution. Whilst Howard kicked the shit out of a small number of defenseless refugees, as the Liberal's conservative base looked on in glee, he sneaked in behind their backs the highest levels of immigration since the post-World War Two period. Proving to them that he hates people of difference and stimulating economic growth simultaneously. It is examples like this that had Howard regarded as such a cunning political operative.
Another problem within the psyche of the Liberal Party arises in regards to homosexuality. We all know that social conservatives hate gays, but free market economists love them. With cultural items like magazines, music, fashion and television programmes (like Queer Eye for the Straight Guy), the progress towards public tolerance that homosexuality has made has diversified existing industries or created new ones. The pink dollar was something that had limited ability to purchase anything outside convention until recently, however now it is in the process of becoming a valuable revenue stream. One could say that capitalism brought homosexuality out of the closet. And yet this phenomenon splits the Liberal Party in two, on one hand it likes the wealth generated by diversity, yet on the other it dislikes anything outside traditional societal norms.
These are small, but significant, examples of the contradictions that are present in the Australian Liberal Party. Someone with a lot more political and economic nous than I would be able to explain further how the process of globalisation (trade liberalisation, free movement of labour) are undermining social conservatism on a more macro level. However, I'm very interested in how long the party will be able to sustain these opposing ideals before it (hopefully) implodes.
To look at a micro example: There are two Ethiopian bakeries in Footscray, now, obviously, these bakeries would not exist without a strong east African presence in the area. Because of this presence, not only is there a demand for these products, but the demand for the ingredients to produce them increases as well. Now one might say that if the population was the same, but those of east African origin weren't present, the demand for bread and the ingredients to make bread would remain them same. However, this argument overlooks the fact that Ethiopian bread is made up of different ingredients to other types of bread and the fact that the area already has enough bakeries (and supermarkets) to cover the bread needs of the non-east African residents. It's fairly safe to say that if those two Ethiopian bakeries did not exist there would not be two other bakeries there in their place. This is something that a free market economists would love; the diversity of the population providing for the diversity of products available, and increasing the demand for the components of these products. So for the Liberal Party's economic ideals this is an excellent phenomenon, however, the presence of people of east African origin clashes with their conservative beliefs about social cohesion, as we saw last year with then Immigration Minister, Kevin Andrews, launching a scare campaign against Sudanese refugees and their perceived lack of "integration".
A good example of how this perspective works within the Liberal Party can be found in the Howard Government's handling of the Tampa incident and their Pacific Solution. Whilst Howard kicked the shit out of a small number of defenseless refugees, as the Liberal's conservative base looked on in glee, he sneaked in behind their backs the highest levels of immigration since the post-World War Two period. Proving to them that he hates people of difference and stimulating economic growth simultaneously. It is examples like this that had Howard regarded as such a cunning political operative.
Another problem within the psyche of the Liberal Party arises in regards to homosexuality. We all know that social conservatives hate gays, but free market economists love them. With cultural items like magazines, music, fashion and television programmes (like Queer Eye for the Straight Guy), the progress towards public tolerance that homosexuality has made has diversified existing industries or created new ones. The pink dollar was something that had limited ability to purchase anything outside convention until recently, however now it is in the process of becoming a valuable revenue stream. One could say that capitalism brought homosexuality out of the closet. And yet this phenomenon splits the Liberal Party in two, on one hand it likes the wealth generated by diversity, yet on the other it dislikes anything outside traditional societal norms.
These are small, but significant, examples of the contradictions that are present in the Australian Liberal Party. Someone with a lot more political and economic nous than I would be able to explain further how the process of globalisation (trade liberalisation, free movement of labour) are undermining social conservatism on a more macro level. However, I'm very interested in how long the party will be able to sustain these opposing ideals before it (hopefully) implodes.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Papercuts
Dear Sir,
I hope you don't mind me writing to you (I googled your name and managed to find your email address) it's just that some of my recent clients have cited your name as having recommended me to them, and yet I do not know who you are. Whilst I am grateful for the extra business, I am intrigued as to why you have been recommending my services? All of the new parents you have sent my way have all been gentiles, and I can assume from your name that you are a gentile also (is this the case?). I find this a little unusual and would like to be informed of your reasons. If you could find the time to give me a quick call I would be most appreciative.
Dr Hershel Goldman
Mobile: 0416 166 435
I guess I should have expected to receive this email sooner or later. I didn't really want to cause any trouble, I was just doing what I thought was right, but I suspect I should have known Goldman would hunt me down. An occupation like his isn’t usually reliant on word of mouth; it’s not something people would discuss at dinner parties. Of course he was going to be curious as to why I would be sending clients his way. The thing is, I felt compelled to do this out of some sort of duty; I could maybe even describe it as a calling. Sometimes you feel an idea is so important that to just subscribe to it personally is not enough; you need to become evangelical. And this is how I felt about male circumcision. For the past few months I’d been hanging around maternity wards, attempting to convince parents to have their new born sons circumcised. I decided early on to target those who looked like single mothers. I wanted a high conversion rate and felt that those who already might have a certain beef with men could be the easiest to convince of my arguments. This may not have been the most righteous approach, but I felt that I was serving a higher interest.
I was worried this may not play well with Dr Goldman though, I knew he was a deeply religious man and that he might find my tactics distasteful. He may request that I no longer recommend his services, or even go so far as to alert the hospitals to my presence. However, I decided I would give him a call and attempt to explain my actions as best I could. I felt calling him was the right thing to do. He seemed like a pleasant enough man from his email, and being a mohel, his theological training would, hopefully, give him a non-judgemental demeanour, even if he lacked sympathy for my machinations.
“Dr Goldman, this is Grant Wyeth speaking.” I said softly, although I wasn’t expecting him to be aggressive with me, I still felt a certain amount of awkwardness with the call.
“Mr Wyeth! Thank you for getting back to me”, he said cheerfully, “I’ve been looking forward to hearing from you”
“Really?”
“Of course! I’m installing a sauna in my bathroom because of you, ha ha. No, just kidding, but you have sent a fair amount of business my way, may I ask why?”
“Well, Dr Goldman, it’s a matter for ethics for me. It’s difficult to explain though.” I said sheepishly.
“I understand, I guess it’s a touchy subject. Just start from wherever you like. I’m intrigued and I have some time.”
And with that I just opened my mouth and began: “You see, Dr Goldman, it all goes back to when I was at school. I had no idea that foreskins even existed, I just thought the way my penis looked was its natural state. But then one day I overheard some guys discussing their "dick cheese" and I was appalled! I went to the library to conduct some research and discovered the truth about penises. Since then I have always been pro-circumcision. I think it is a symbolic gesture, like putting the toilet seat down. It recognises the disrespect, to put it mildly, men have shown towards women since the year dot, and says, "Hey, you shouldn't have to deal with my combination of dried urine and dead skin flakes"
I was hoping that I wouldn’t say anything to offend Dr Goldman, I tend to have a pretty loose tongue and am prone to being brutally frank in order to get my point across, but fortunately he was up for the debate.
“Well, that certainly is an admirable assertion,” he stated without a pause, “and I agree with the idea that a circumcised penis is much cleaner for both men and women, however the majority of men who are circumcised are done so at birth, they're not conscious at that stage of making that sort of gesture, and by the time they are, unless they are religious, the procedure doesn’t carry a large appeal.”
“I realise that, but I believe the parents should be conscious of their overall social responsibility when bringing a child into the world and make that decision for them.”
“ But isn't it the father's responsibility to teach his son to be respectful towards women as he develops?”
“ Of course it is! However, men don't really have the capacity for selflessness, it's not in their instinct, they can't really be trusted to act in a respectful manner, a quick snip at birth gives them a little assistance.”
“And so you think circumcision prevents men from becoming abusive?”
“ No, not at all. But if they can be prevented from ramming their dick cheese into some poor girl's vagina or mouth with a procedure that is of no negative consequence, and in fact studies have shown it to be quite the opposite, then I believe that it should be mandatory. And hopefully, just hopefully, it may lead to them looking down at their circumcised penis, thinking of the alternative and saying to themselves: "Hey, it's not such a bad thing to be respectful towards women, they haven't deserved the way we've treated them for the last 200,000 years, I'm going to go buy my special lady a present!"
“Ha, you certainly have a way with words! I'm not exactly sure that mandatory circumcision is going to counter misogyny and the gender imbalance though.”
“Oh, I agree, I'm actually rather pessimistic that those things will ever be countered. However, it's a start, a minor gesture that will go at least some way, to preventing heterosexual women being treated like a bathroom sink.”
“And so, because of these beliefs you have been recommending my services?”
“Yes.”
“How have you been doing this?”
“I’ve been visiting new and expecting mothers in various maternity wards around the city. I first explain the medical benefits of circumcision, you know, lessening the likelihood of contracting STDs, decreasing the chance of cervical cancer in women. I then move on to the cleanliness issue and then the symbolic gesture. I’ve got a pretty smooth pitch by now.”
I expected to hear a quick reply from the doctor, but he paused for what seemed like a ridiculously long amount of time. I could hear his brain thinking and I feared the worst. I felt like he was just looking for the right words to reprimand me with; forceful, but polite, words that would convey his displeasure whilst still retaining his dignity as a respectable member of the community. But, then he spoke:
“I want to offer you a cut…so to speak”
“Sorry?”
“I believe we can make this work. I guess you could work on some sort of commission. For each person you recommend to me, I’ll give you a percentage of the fee. It seems only fair. 90% of my business comes from the Jewish community, there’s a massive market out there to tap, and I think your ideas are just what I need to capitalise on it.”
I was initially a little taken back by the doctor’s suggestion. At no time had I ever thought that there could be any financial compensation for what I was doing. I was doing it out of moral responsibility, the need to awaken the world to what I perceived to be a defect in the male anatomy, biological misogyny that could easily be prevented with a minor procedure. Was it right for me to be accepting money for advocating such a procedure? To make a profit from merely sharing an ethical concern? If I accept the doctor’s proposal would this damage the credibility of my convictions? Would I be seen merely as someone who was making money out of the mutilation of babies?
“Fifty-Fifty”, I said.
“Sixty-Forty”
“Sold!”
We arranged to meet in a few days time to sort out the specific details and wished each other well. As I hung up the phone I immediately felt rather pleased with myself. By merely saying what I thought, I’d somehow managed to find myself in a position of financial reward. This was exciting. It wasn’t as if I was poor and needed the money, I made a reasonable amount already working as a freelance writer, however, there is always more things I could buy to make myself more comfortable, and now, it seemed I would have the capacity to do so.
Over the next few days I made lists of my desires, holidays, electronic goods, a new car, I was hoping, as well, that my new wealth might attract the ladies. It had been a while since I’d seen any action, and as I prepared myself for my meeting with Dr Goldman, I though that this new money I’d be making was bound to be carrot to service my needs. Women can’t resist a man of wealth; it’s all they care about.
As I reached Dr Goldman residence I was feeling confident. He opened the door and greeted me warmly, he invited me in and we sat down to discuss the finer points of our agreement. “So with all this extra money we are going to make, what are you going to do with your share, Dr G? Install that sauna in your bathroom?” I said with a new-found cockiness in my voice.
“No, I don’t think so, Grant. Any extra money I earn from our partnership I plan to donate to organisations that work to prevent violence against women. I’ve been a White Ribbon ambassador for several years now. I find the work important and rewarding. When I heard your ideas about biological misogyny I thought that it was the perfect way to raise money for further awareness campaigns. You know, two birds with one stone.”
He looked at me, smiled knowingly, and inquired “How about you?”
I hope you don't mind me writing to you (I googled your name and managed to find your email address) it's just that some of my recent clients have cited your name as having recommended me to them, and yet I do not know who you are. Whilst I am grateful for the extra business, I am intrigued as to why you have been recommending my services? All of the new parents you have sent my way have all been gentiles, and I can assume from your name that you are a gentile also (is this the case?). I find this a little unusual and would like to be informed of your reasons. If you could find the time to give me a quick call I would be most appreciative.
Dr Hershel Goldman
Mobile: 0416 166 435
I guess I should have expected to receive this email sooner or later. I didn't really want to cause any trouble, I was just doing what I thought was right, but I suspect I should have known Goldman would hunt me down. An occupation like his isn’t usually reliant on word of mouth; it’s not something people would discuss at dinner parties. Of course he was going to be curious as to why I would be sending clients his way. The thing is, I felt compelled to do this out of some sort of duty; I could maybe even describe it as a calling. Sometimes you feel an idea is so important that to just subscribe to it personally is not enough; you need to become evangelical. And this is how I felt about male circumcision. For the past few months I’d been hanging around maternity wards, attempting to convince parents to have their new born sons circumcised. I decided early on to target those who looked like single mothers. I wanted a high conversion rate and felt that those who already might have a certain beef with men could be the easiest to convince of my arguments. This may not have been the most righteous approach, but I felt that I was serving a higher interest.
I was worried this may not play well with Dr Goldman though, I knew he was a deeply religious man and that he might find my tactics distasteful. He may request that I no longer recommend his services, or even go so far as to alert the hospitals to my presence. However, I decided I would give him a call and attempt to explain my actions as best I could. I felt calling him was the right thing to do. He seemed like a pleasant enough man from his email, and being a mohel, his theological training would, hopefully, give him a non-judgemental demeanour, even if he lacked sympathy for my machinations.
“Dr Goldman, this is Grant Wyeth speaking.” I said softly, although I wasn’t expecting him to be aggressive with me, I still felt a certain amount of awkwardness with the call.
“Mr Wyeth! Thank you for getting back to me”, he said cheerfully, “I’ve been looking forward to hearing from you”
“Really?”
“Of course! I’m installing a sauna in my bathroom because of you, ha ha. No, just kidding, but you have sent a fair amount of business my way, may I ask why?”
“Well, Dr Goldman, it’s a matter for ethics for me. It’s difficult to explain though.” I said sheepishly.
“I understand, I guess it’s a touchy subject. Just start from wherever you like. I’m intrigued and I have some time.”
And with that I just opened my mouth and began: “You see, Dr Goldman, it all goes back to when I was at school. I had no idea that foreskins even existed, I just thought the way my penis looked was its natural state. But then one day I overheard some guys discussing their "dick cheese" and I was appalled! I went to the library to conduct some research and discovered the truth about penises. Since then I have always been pro-circumcision. I think it is a symbolic gesture, like putting the toilet seat down. It recognises the disrespect, to put it mildly, men have shown towards women since the year dot, and says, "Hey, you shouldn't have to deal with my combination of dried urine and dead skin flakes"
I was hoping that I wouldn’t say anything to offend Dr Goldman, I tend to have a pretty loose tongue and am prone to being brutally frank in order to get my point across, but fortunately he was up for the debate.
“Well, that certainly is an admirable assertion,” he stated without a pause, “and I agree with the idea that a circumcised penis is much cleaner for both men and women, however the majority of men who are circumcised are done so at birth, they're not conscious at that stage of making that sort of gesture, and by the time they are, unless they are religious, the procedure doesn’t carry a large appeal.”
“I realise that, but I believe the parents should be conscious of their overall social responsibility when bringing a child into the world and make that decision for them.”
“ But isn't it the father's responsibility to teach his son to be respectful towards women as he develops?”
“ Of course it is! However, men don't really have the capacity for selflessness, it's not in their instinct, they can't really be trusted to act in a respectful manner, a quick snip at birth gives them a little assistance.”
“And so you think circumcision prevents men from becoming abusive?”
“ No, not at all. But if they can be prevented from ramming their dick cheese into some poor girl's vagina or mouth with a procedure that is of no negative consequence, and in fact studies have shown it to be quite the opposite, then I believe that it should be mandatory. And hopefully, just hopefully, it may lead to them looking down at their circumcised penis, thinking of the alternative and saying to themselves: "Hey, it's not such a bad thing to be respectful towards women, they haven't deserved the way we've treated them for the last 200,000 years, I'm going to go buy my special lady a present!"
“Ha, you certainly have a way with words! I'm not exactly sure that mandatory circumcision is going to counter misogyny and the gender imbalance though.”
“Oh, I agree, I'm actually rather pessimistic that those things will ever be countered. However, it's a start, a minor gesture that will go at least some way, to preventing heterosexual women being treated like a bathroom sink.”
“And so, because of these beliefs you have been recommending my services?”
“Yes.”
“How have you been doing this?”
“I’ve been visiting new and expecting mothers in various maternity wards around the city. I first explain the medical benefits of circumcision, you know, lessening the likelihood of contracting STDs, decreasing the chance of cervical cancer in women. I then move on to the cleanliness issue and then the symbolic gesture. I’ve got a pretty smooth pitch by now.”
I expected to hear a quick reply from the doctor, but he paused for what seemed like a ridiculously long amount of time. I could hear his brain thinking and I feared the worst. I felt like he was just looking for the right words to reprimand me with; forceful, but polite, words that would convey his displeasure whilst still retaining his dignity as a respectable member of the community. But, then he spoke:
“I want to offer you a cut…so to speak”
“Sorry?”
“I believe we can make this work. I guess you could work on some sort of commission. For each person you recommend to me, I’ll give you a percentage of the fee. It seems only fair. 90% of my business comes from the Jewish community, there’s a massive market out there to tap, and I think your ideas are just what I need to capitalise on it.”
I was initially a little taken back by the doctor’s suggestion. At no time had I ever thought that there could be any financial compensation for what I was doing. I was doing it out of moral responsibility, the need to awaken the world to what I perceived to be a defect in the male anatomy, biological misogyny that could easily be prevented with a minor procedure. Was it right for me to be accepting money for advocating such a procedure? To make a profit from merely sharing an ethical concern? If I accept the doctor’s proposal would this damage the credibility of my convictions? Would I be seen merely as someone who was making money out of the mutilation of babies?
“Fifty-Fifty”, I said.
“Sixty-Forty”
“Sold!”
We arranged to meet in a few days time to sort out the specific details and wished each other well. As I hung up the phone I immediately felt rather pleased with myself. By merely saying what I thought, I’d somehow managed to find myself in a position of financial reward. This was exciting. It wasn’t as if I was poor and needed the money, I made a reasonable amount already working as a freelance writer, however, there is always more things I could buy to make myself more comfortable, and now, it seemed I would have the capacity to do so.
Over the next few days I made lists of my desires, holidays, electronic goods, a new car, I was hoping, as well, that my new wealth might attract the ladies. It had been a while since I’d seen any action, and as I prepared myself for my meeting with Dr Goldman, I though that this new money I’d be making was bound to be carrot to service my needs. Women can’t resist a man of wealth; it’s all they care about.
As I reached Dr Goldman residence I was feeling confident. He opened the door and greeted me warmly, he invited me in and we sat down to discuss the finer points of our agreement. “So with all this extra money we are going to make, what are you going to do with your share, Dr G? Install that sauna in your bathroom?” I said with a new-found cockiness in my voice.
“No, I don’t think so, Grant. Any extra money I earn from our partnership I plan to donate to organisations that work to prevent violence against women. I’ve been a White Ribbon ambassador for several years now. I find the work important and rewarding. When I heard your ideas about biological misogyny I thought that it was the perfect way to raise money for further awareness campaigns. You know, two birds with one stone.”
He looked at me, smiled knowingly, and inquired “How about you?”
Friday, August 15, 2008
New Ways Of Blogging
Dear avid readership,
I have recently discovered a new blogging tool known as the Tumblr. I have decided that I like this site very much and I desire to utilise its facilities. So from now on I will divide my blogging between the Tumblr and this here blog. My tumblr page, know as Nine Fruits will concern itself with everyday shit like music and my various mood swings, whilst this page will continue to focus on stories.
Thank you
Grant.
I have recently discovered a new blogging tool known as the Tumblr. I have decided that I like this site very much and I desire to utilise its facilities. So from now on I will divide my blogging between the Tumblr and this here blog. My tumblr page, know as Nine Fruits will concern itself with everyday shit like music and my various mood swings, whilst this page will continue to focus on stories.
Thank you
Grant.
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
A Walk In The Park
Whilst I may have the both the physique and demeanour of some scrotumless and effete weener, when it comes to the crunch I'm a pretty courageous guy. If I'm out getting fucked up on alcohol of an evening and it's well into the early hours, I don't call no bullshit cab to make my way home. No way. I walk. In fact, I just don't walk, I strut. You see, my doorstep is only 26 minutes by foot from Parliament, and so all I need to make it back to my abode is a handful shy of a dozen killer tracks on my iPod and the cool evening air caressing my body. Rather than find this nocturnal walk a burden, it actually invigorates me. My long legs stride out each step with purpose as my pitch-perfect voice bellows out the latest hot-shit indie tunes blasting in my earholes. I feel alive, I know I'm alive, and regardless of what crosses my path, I am stayin' alive.
The route I usually take on this walk involves traversing the Fitzroy Gardens. Now during the day the Fitzroy Gardens is a lovely place to take a child or an elderly relative for a picnic or a stroll, however, at night time it becomes what is commonly known as a "dude park". That's right; it's a park where male homosexuals go to obtain naked sexual pleasures from other male homosexuals whilst hiding in the shrubbery. It is awesome. As I walk through the park, occasionally I will be approached by someone who will ask me whether I want to fuck him off a little, however I politely reply: "No thanks, guy, it's not my scene. I hope you have a good time tonight though", and carry on my way. Other times guys are a little more forceful with me and refuse to accept this as an answer. That's when I have to use my speed and agility to make it to safety with my anal virginity intact. I don't mind being chased so much. I mean, it's good exercise, and I guess it's fairly flattering as well, to know that someone desires my body enough to try and penetrate it by force.
The other night though, my walk through the park became a little more difficult. I’d been out at a club, shaking my meat to the beat whilst pumping my guts full of vodka doodles. By 3am though, I’d decided I’d had my fill and started to make my way home. As I got half way through the park I notice that six buff guys had stepped out from behind trees in various strategic points throughout the park. It became obvious that they knew I was coming and decided to set-up an ambush. I guess they thought I’d been something of a cock-tease for too long and they had decided that it was time for the foreplay to end and the action to begin. I turned to look behind me to see if I could return the way I came, but one of the guys had cleverly walked around behind my back. They had started to form a human circle around me and were closing in fast. With each second the gaps that I could possibly escape through became smaller. I would have to make a decision quickly. Running was not going to be an option, they’d devised their plan to prevent this far too well, and they didn’t seem like the kind of guys I could negotiate with. It seemed my fate was sealed. I was to become prey to six dudes all looking to use my sweet and slender arse for their brutal sexual compulsions. Then, as I became increasingly desperate I devised a plan. I sprinted towards a nearby oak tree and began to climb. I thought to myself, as long as I can clear the first few branches by the time they reached the trunk I should be safe. I knew my climbing skills would be greater than theirs, and even with their rabid sexual desire fueling their movements, I felt comfortable in the knowledge that I would be able to scale the tree higher than them. Although the tree was heavily populated by possums, and there was a good chance that I could be scratched and bitten, I concluded that this would be better than the alternative. I didn’t know how long the guys would wait for me at the foot of the tree. I thought as long as I can keep them from reaching me for a couple of hours it would be light and they would most likely be scared off by the morning joggers. So I reached a branch as high up as I could manage and perched myself. I peered down and saw two of the guys attempting to make their way up towards me, but their climbing ability was poor. I felt safe. I soon grew tired of hearing their abusive calls for me to climb down and so I stuck my iPod back in my ears and drifted off into a more pleasant headspace.
As expected the park soon became populated with joggers as the sun rose and the men soon dispersed. When I was confident that each of them had left the park I climbed down and continued my walk home. I felt surprisingly good, like I had achieved some major victory. I had defeated 6 men in their collective quest to bugger me senseless. It felt good to know that I had been able to avoid such a trauma and I felt proud of myself for being able to think so clearly in a time of crisis. As I got myself into bed I wondered whether the guys would regroup and attempt a similar manoeuvre on me this coming weekend? Or would they admit their defeat? Cutting through the Gardens is the quickest way for me to get home, so I can’t imagine I would change my route. Me and the guys who inhabit the park after dark are just going to have to find someway to peacefully coexist.
The route I usually take on this walk involves traversing the Fitzroy Gardens. Now during the day the Fitzroy Gardens is a lovely place to take a child or an elderly relative for a picnic or a stroll, however, at night time it becomes what is commonly known as a "dude park". That's right; it's a park where male homosexuals go to obtain naked sexual pleasures from other male homosexuals whilst hiding in the shrubbery. It is awesome. As I walk through the park, occasionally I will be approached by someone who will ask me whether I want to fuck him off a little, however I politely reply: "No thanks, guy, it's not my scene. I hope you have a good time tonight though", and carry on my way. Other times guys are a little more forceful with me and refuse to accept this as an answer. That's when I have to use my speed and agility to make it to safety with my anal virginity intact. I don't mind being chased so much. I mean, it's good exercise, and I guess it's fairly flattering as well, to know that someone desires my body enough to try and penetrate it by force.
The other night though, my walk through the park became a little more difficult. I’d been out at a club, shaking my meat to the beat whilst pumping my guts full of vodka doodles. By 3am though, I’d decided I’d had my fill and started to make my way home. As I got half way through the park I notice that six buff guys had stepped out from behind trees in various strategic points throughout the park. It became obvious that they knew I was coming and decided to set-up an ambush. I guess they thought I’d been something of a cock-tease for too long and they had decided that it was time for the foreplay to end and the action to begin. I turned to look behind me to see if I could return the way I came, but one of the guys had cleverly walked around behind my back. They had started to form a human circle around me and were closing in fast. With each second the gaps that I could possibly escape through became smaller. I would have to make a decision quickly. Running was not going to be an option, they’d devised their plan to prevent this far too well, and they didn’t seem like the kind of guys I could negotiate with. It seemed my fate was sealed. I was to become prey to six dudes all looking to use my sweet and slender arse for their brutal sexual compulsions. Then, as I became increasingly desperate I devised a plan. I sprinted towards a nearby oak tree and began to climb. I thought to myself, as long as I can clear the first few branches by the time they reached the trunk I should be safe. I knew my climbing skills would be greater than theirs, and even with their rabid sexual desire fueling their movements, I felt comfortable in the knowledge that I would be able to scale the tree higher than them. Although the tree was heavily populated by possums, and there was a good chance that I could be scratched and bitten, I concluded that this would be better than the alternative. I didn’t know how long the guys would wait for me at the foot of the tree. I thought as long as I can keep them from reaching me for a couple of hours it would be light and they would most likely be scared off by the morning joggers. So I reached a branch as high up as I could manage and perched myself. I peered down and saw two of the guys attempting to make their way up towards me, but their climbing ability was poor. I felt safe. I soon grew tired of hearing their abusive calls for me to climb down and so I stuck my iPod back in my ears and drifted off into a more pleasant headspace.
As expected the park soon became populated with joggers as the sun rose and the men soon dispersed. When I was confident that each of them had left the park I climbed down and continued my walk home. I felt surprisingly good, like I had achieved some major victory. I had defeated 6 men in their collective quest to bugger me senseless. It felt good to know that I had been able to avoid such a trauma and I felt proud of myself for being able to think so clearly in a time of crisis. As I got myself into bed I wondered whether the guys would regroup and attempt a similar manoeuvre on me this coming weekend? Or would they admit their defeat? Cutting through the Gardens is the quickest way for me to get home, so I can’t imagine I would change my route. Me and the guys who inhabit the park after dark are just going to have to find someway to peacefully coexist.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
