A call boy's experinece, up to a point.


Fruit. Juicy Fruit.

Some things just make me happy. Like artistic demonstrations that sum up every dirty-creative impulse in my brain. Like this.


Remorseful, reproached, regretful; rueful, rebuked, reproved; rattled, rote-ridden; and I haven't even gotten to "S". Not properly.

To think, all those "R"'s, and not a ravished among them.

Now that I have a timetable, there's a terrible XXX marked on the calendar, right across the month of October. That's when I relocate. That's when I get my 'ho' back on.

It frees me up a bit mentally, now that I have a timetable for departure, and a plan of attack; I can give up on here, Business-wise, rather than just wasting in Doldrum Alley, wondering how so many people manage to manage their lives so minutely, and sequentially, for such long periods of time; without interlude or hope of escape. (I don't knock it though -- thank god for all the little people, making the wheels turn. Yes. Thank god.)

The freed mental state should also help with freeing the words that have been congregating -- but then dispersing at the first signs of authority; which (truly emblematic of Big Brother) seems to be blank oscillations of the computer screen.

Maybe it's time to purge some of the stories of being up to no good, before I got to where I am now. There's a big, elephantine vault of them somewhere in the back.

But will you respect me in the morning?


Inertia Creeps

Probability moves.

I can't wait.


I Love Her

If we take it as a given that most out gay men in western society have a special, teenaged squeal set aside for some designate diva in their heart, be it Madge, or Kylie; or for a younger princesses like Britney or Christina, I find myself a tad outside the norm. If I had to choose, it would probably be my dear Peepshow Queen, whom I love.

While I can respect the absolute vacuous superfluity of dear Miss Spears, so completely manufactured as to be almost anti-substance, a pop anti-matter, inasmuch as she represents the present apex of the dollar magnate (perhaps magnet?) masquerading as an artist, the giddy faggot in me can't help but adore the other girl who uses the three ring spectacle of the glossy industry to laugh at everyone.




No sex. No drugs. Nor very much rock and roll to speak of, besides what comes out of the radio. Still trying to figure out what the next move is, still a little squandered in all areas.

Life'll get more interesting soon, I'm sure. It always does.