Thursday, March 16, 2006

Return of the Bent 2 Cents Piece.

 I was awakened, cursing, early this morning, by a continuous hammering at my door. I layed awake all night and only fallen asleep at dawn, like a member of the vampire race, and was furious to be dragged from my bed. I've been up on the 11th floor of the infamous suicide tower at Northcott Concentration Camp in inner-city Sydney while "They" renovated my basement flat, and nobody should know my whereabouts, it dumbfounded me that someone should be loudly seeking me out in my secret lair. I creaked the door open a crack only to spy the craggy face of Brandon, my long-time ago fuck-buddy who has been thankfully missing for three years, he's uglier than ever and demanding egress. I yelled at him to "Fuck-off", it was "too early" and "I don't want to see you", and flounced back under my blankets while he continued to bang, bang, bang and shout my name pleadingly.

What a nerve! Why do these fuck-wits have to continue to come back into my life as if I owe them a living? OK, we were fuck buddies for a few years and had the hottest sex sessions, some of the best in my life. He was a butch, heavy-metal rocker with long blonde hair, a cherubic-faced demon who played rugby, built like a rhinocerous and, for all his machismo, loved to be fucked, hard. I couldn't fuck that guy hard enough. The best sex ever was in my kombie-van parked high above Bondi beach on the clifftop on a stormy night. While lightning and thunder crashed upon us and Mettalica erupted from the quadrophonic sound system, I fucked him ecstatically to the beat of the rain on the roof, the Universe rock rock rocking along with the van.

Thus we'd had a lot of fun, but to cover up his homo soul, to compensate for loving it up the arse, he confessed to me that he went poofter-bashing on Oxford Street and in the dark park beats. This to me was a turn off, that he was so cruel to his own kind and that he wouldn't honestly live out his gayness, it was a total secret, for his wife and heavy metal rock'n'roll mates would be horrified at the gritty truth. Plus I suspected he trawled all the sex clubs of the gay ghetto and only came to me as a last resort when no one else would have him, and I chilled towards him, discouraging him from coming around.

The final straw was when he appeared late one night knocking on my door and when I opened up I couldn't recognize him for he was in the tackiest drag, frumped up to look like Lil Lotta, his short blond hair pushed up with a hair-clip, he was squeezed into a tatty fur collared jacket and mini-skirt that looked like they'd been found in a dumpster, and he'd slapped on overdone, messy make-up, with torn stockings and klunky high-heels, he truly looked ridiculous. He clumped into my flat and demanded I fuck him tho I'd always assured him I only got turned on by masculine men. I freaked and shrieked in his face, "Why did you do it, why do you want to look like an ugly sheila?"

"I just felt like a change," he mumbled. I made him go to the bathroom and wash the make-up off and change back into his torn jeans and flannel shirt. He came sheepishly back to me and again asked for me to fuck him. I grunted with finality, "Never again, you've blown away all my masculine fantasies, fuck-off!" And abashedly he left.

Now here he was, years later, returned again like a bent two cent piece, as if I would jump for joy at the prodigal buddy's resurrection. He finally went away tho I dread him coming back tonight, whining and scrabbling at my windows. He's not the only one to come back thus. Rough trade, rent boys, one night stands, fuck buddies, always come home to roost no matter what devious crimes they've perpetrated upon their patronizing sugar daddies, for homos have no family but each other, and when no one wants you any more and the gutter is your last-stop refuge, there's still the possibility of that stupid old fag you picked up aeons ago, the one that seemed so desperate, maybe he'll forget all the shit you heaped upon him and provide shelter again, for one more night.

The life of a homo in the 20th century was like living in a war zone, everyone out to kill us and being raped repeatedly by the soldiers, with very little love ever experienced. No wonder some of us are so fucked up and twisted! I have to confess that I myself am a bent seven cent piece.

P.S. And he did come back, a few years later, thankfully dressed as a macho man, but when I hinted that maybe he was looking for a fuck, like always, he spluttered and harrummphed and said, "Oh you're not still going on about that are you? I was never really into it!!!)