All posts by timalderman

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About timalderman

Gay, visually-impaired guy writing professionally (and freelance) about disabilities, being gay, articles, opinion pieces, poems and short stories for over 15 years, mainly for small, local magazines. Obtained my Graduate Certificate in Writing from the University of Technology, Sydney in 2004.

Meroogal. – The Women’s Place

Poetry, , , , ,

An untended garden
Leafless winter trees
And empty silence
Signs that love no longer lives within.
Many generations have passed
Yet the women’s place still has
A woman within.
Soft slide of covered feet
On century older floors.
Smell of old lavender, old rose
Mingled with the dust in the air.
Embroidered, creweled fancies
Tell of hours spent in dull light
Or late afternoon sun
Passing time
Just passing time.
Painted plates, ornaments
Mix of old and curious
Tell of a house much lived in
Nothing here is new.
Rambling rooms hint of customs past
Of visitors on Sundays
Cards left to say they called.
Creak of stairs from silent ghosts
History in a chest
A pantry.
Words of scandals past
Leave insights of people’s lives
We leave much wiser
Understanding, perhaps,

Tim Alderman
(C) 2014

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The Waitress

Fiction, Humour, Short Story, , ,

My partner and I actually witnessed this happening at a Historic Houses Trust function held at the old Mint building in Macquarie St. We were members of the group in the corner, and did eventually get fed, though at one stage it seemed unlikely. Any comparisons to people living or dead is purely coincidental!

The waitress peeked around the doorway leading from the kitchen to the cobbled yard. Peering hard through the crowd, she lined her sights up with the area on the far side rear of the courtyard, the area that she was determined to get to.

The coast appeared clear. Everyone was chatting amiably to each other, and noone appeared to take any notice of the white capped head darting in and out of the doorway.
Raising the tray of canapés high above her head, she released a deep sigh of relief, then took in a deep breath and bolted out of the doorway. Heading for her targeted area in the yard, she lithely ducked and weaved, performed a quick pirouette, and a hard-practiced pas de deux while keeping her target firmly in her sights, and her tray held high

But it wasn’t to be! One loud, overdressed old matron saw her from the corner of her wrinkled eye, and let out a high pitched squeal of triumph, attracting the attention of those in her proximity!

The poor bedraggled waitress didn’t stand a chance as the vultures closed in on her, gnarled hands scrabbling high as they greedily grabbed for the sandwiches offered on the tray.

The people in the far corner of the courtyard – the group being targeted by the waitress – let out a yell of disbelief as this was the sixth tray to have not reached them this night. With wineglasses clanking, and false teeth gnashing in glorious victory, the vultures moved back to their groups, spitting sandwich crumbs at each other, safe in the knowledge that no prey was getting past them this night.

The waitress dropped the tray down by her side, a look of sheer desperation and resignation crossing her face as once again she headed back to the kitchen.
The people in the corner, fearing starvation, regrouped to consider their options. A group of girls, obvious leftovers from their school ‘wallflower’ days and undoubtedly still unkissed, joined them to plan an attack. Their equally unattractive boyfriends had the ‘lean and hungry’ look that foretold of struggles yet to come, albeit post-acne.

An old duck in a loud floral pants suit watched, was glancing salaciously between the slowly increasing group of enforced dieters, and the kitchen. She glanced at her watch, estimating the time of the next assault.

The president of the group, struggling on his walking stick, hobbled to the microphone to intone the rest of the evening’s proceedings. The young blues group, entertaining nobody but themselves, stopped their warbling.

The vultures turned to the stage, and for several minutes were distracted enough to not notice the waitress making another foray toward the sustenance starved group at the back of the yard. A desperate, vegetarian lesbian threw herself at the waitress, but not being as tall as all the others, not quite as agile, nor quite launching herself quickly enough, got knocked aside. A gentleman in ‘old man’ beige turned and yelled a signal to Ms Loud Pantsuit. She spotted the tray, and on wobbly heels – the courtyard was cobbled – threw herself once again across the yard in a flurry of windmilling-arms and multi-coloured silk.

The waitress was not to be outdone this time. She climbed onto her toes, raised the tray up onto the tips of her fingers and lunged through the group of old cronies. The president was yelling something about “everyone being welcome, and wasn’t everyone just having the time of their lives”, but to no avail. The direction of the evening had been changed quite unwittingly from what was proposed.

Adding support to the harried waitress, other waiters and waitresses rushed from the kitchen, heading in all directions. The vultures were for a moment unsure which way to go, and it looked for a split second that the throngs at the rear might yet be fed. An elderly, almost lithe woman in purple and green flowing voile did a high jump that would have made Steve Hooket proud. With claw like hand, she grabbed three sandwiches off the tray, and threw them amongst her compatriots. Doing an agile – at least for her age – hop, step and jump, she managed to snatch a further four sandwiches from the tray. The yard was in turmoil as the vultures attacked the other tray bearers as they wended their way through the throng.

The waitress hung her head in despair. Tray hanging from her hand, she cast a lost look at the group she had tried valiantly to fend for. Almost with a tear in her eye, she whispered an ‘I’m sorry. So truly sorry’ to the vegetarian lesbian, and started her lonely trek back to the kitchen.

Never had so few been fed by so many!

Time to regroup for the next assault.

In the courtyard, the vultures picked over the bones in the far corner.

Tim Alderman
(C) 2014

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Daily (Or When The Mood Takes Me) Gripe: Gay Superficiality!

biography, Gay Interest, , , , ,

Please view, then read my commentary below;

http://www.samesame.com.au/news/11585/YouTuber-says-If-youre-over-40-or-not-a-model-youre-pushed-aside

I guess I am just used to being ignored – except for a select few – on gay sex apps. Fuck, I’m over 60, and I have a disability – though in reality that shouldn’t mean anything! Though we don’t live our lives grounded in reality in the gay community, do we! No sir, we don’t!

As Sam Lugi states ” If you are over 40, don’t look like a model or have a disability, you are pushed aside”, and this is, unfortunately, true! Add to that not being “wealthy” and not having a big cock! I got disillusioned with it a long time ago, and ashamed that over the decades the community has never really grown-up, and moved into the real world.

At one stage on the sex apps – I use Grindr, Gaydar and Scruff – I actually found myself putting myself down, as it seemed a way to discourage those frightened off by disabilities…but in reality made me look like a bit of a victim. Then, as an antedate that I became too aggressive which then scared the shit out of people. Now, I try to be comedic and long-winded. I figure if they are willing to read my whole profile, then contact me, they sre worthwhile. However, that doesn’t discount the 15 or 20 others who view my profile and ignore me…many because they are after perfection, so you know automatically by reading their profiles that you are either too old, or because you have an obvious disability. I used to find the same in the bars, so why would the apps be any different!

I hate being dismissed because I’m an older man. I was young once on the scene, and helped to gain many of the rights that the younger ones now enjoy! In many other communities I would be highly respected for that alone. Considering my age, I’m not all that bad looking. I still have all my hair, I’m fit and healthy and can hold a conversation. Puts me way above many others, who can’t get past “Hi” or “Oh yeah”. I regularly quit chars because they never give you anything to feed off. At least the guys who just want to see photos of my cock, or want me to talk dirty while they wank off are usually honest about it.

The gay community really needs a reality check…though who ir what provides it is going to be interesting to see ! In the interim, don’t sell ourself out to the phony, small-minded body fascists! Maintain your dignity and self-respect? But most of all – love yourself!

Things My Mother Told Me!

Article, General Interest, Humour, , , ,

I’m sure we have all received snippets of advice off our parents as we grew up…some of it sound, some not. For some reason they think they are the font of all knowledge – but I beg to differ. How much donyou relate tonthe “sound advice” demonstrated bellow?

As the years start to go by with increasing haste – the first thing she told me; she said they went fast, but didn’t indicate exactly how fast! I have time to occasionally reflect upon the fact that neither my mother or father really prepared me in any way for life. Now I am sure they were well intentioned, thinking in fact that they may have been, in some naïve way, protecting me. Now I find it’s not what they took the time to tell me, but what they left out. Seeing as how I spent more of my youth with my mother than with my father, I have to assume that this repository of misinformation is mainly her fault.

‘There are only two forms of take-away,’ she profoundly announced one Friday, as we tucked into the fish, chips and potato scallops that were a family tradition on this day. It didn’t matter that we weren’t Catholic – my father was, but didn’t practice – and that both mother and myself had been raised through the simplicity of Protestantism. You always had fish on Friday. Now this was one form of take-away. The other was – to the uninformed who were not raised during the 50’s – Chinese. Yep, that was it. Fish and chips and Chinese. None of your Greek, Italian, Lebanese, Vietnamese, Japanese, Indian or Modern Australian rubbish. No siree! None of that foreign muck. It took me nearly 18 years to realise what a lie this had been, though to my knowledge neither my mother or father ever ate outside those guidelines, and my mother is now in her 80’s.

‘You’ll be grey, part bald and wrinkly yourself, one day my boy,’ was another lie she told me with intent regularity. I am now 60, and despite a few creeping grey hairs, I still have a full head of dark hair. I can also still get away with being in my late thirties – oh all right my 40s! No mean feat…though perhaps good tenetics, mum! Just because my old man was bald and wrinkly by the time he was 45, what made her think that hereditary had it in for me as well?

Perhaps not having two kids may have assisted me, as she also constantly reminded me that ‘there was no greater thing you could do with your life than get married and have children.’ Mmm where can I go with this one! She was so impressed with the whole process that she fled home when I was a mere 11 years old, and my brother a whole 7. She then proceeded to give birth to my half sister 18 years later – at a time of her life when she should, by all rights, have been sitting back and lounging on Queensland islands, or spending her days lost in a pokie euphoria at the local RSL. I hope she doesn’t hold me responsible for any of that.

‘You must have a trade to get by on in life,’ was probably one of my favourites. I had been having gay fantasies since I was 9 years old, and here she is thinking I’m going to be a bricklayer, carpenter, electrician or plumber. Not likely, thinks I! I hide all my art works away, and only allow them to be viewed by one spinster aunt, who sort of understands what it is all about. Apart from anything else, it never really explains why she buys me dolls when I request them – and I’m not talking Ken-type dolls here. I like to dress them up. Perhaps she thinks I’m going to be a fashion designer, and hides the fact from my father for fear that he will disown me? Well, he did that anyway, and it was a long while before I actually ‘came out’ that I found myself disinherited.

So, I managed to avoid any of the butch trades, and even managed not to end up an accountant or anything else remotely embarrassing. Instead, I wasted 30 years of my bloody life in retail, hating every day of it, and wishing to God I had become a builder, even if it was just for the perving that I could do on the job. Now, I’ve sort of gone full circle. Though not a fashion designer, or an artist, I am a writer (and to make it worse – a poet!), and have finally found that not only is it a pleasure to be getting older, it is an even greater pleasure to be doing what I have always wanted to do.

‘Choose your furniture carefully. If you do, it can last you for most of your life,’ she would say as she wiped over the teak laminex sideboard and dining table. Now don’t tell me you haven’t copped this one! She might enjoy living with the same tacky furniture for 50 years, but I’ll be damned if I will. I still cringe at the recollections of going to visit her and my step-father at Toongabbie. It was like reliving my life at Sylvania in a time warp. Neither the style, nor the laminex had changed. And the lounge was a Harvey Norman spectacular, undoubtedly bought at a 40-hour sale. I breathe a sigh of relief as I bring an image of the ‘Freedom’ and ‘Ikea’ logos into my mind. I’ll change my furniture every five years, thank you all the same mum! Besides, nobody has an orange kitchen or teak laminex furniture anymore – or do they?

‘Go ask your father’ or ‘ Go ask your mother’ were the words of wisdom handed out to je by both if the disgusting subject of sex was ever brought up. I may have bern running around with a constant boner, and wanking like there was no tomorrow, but no gems of wordly wisdom to inform me if what was going on were forthcoming! Well, they did make one attempt by sneaking onto my room one night and leaving me some delightful pamphlets published by our local Congregational Church. Oh what a joy to find them the next morning! Having spent some time trying to decipher what the anatomical diagrams were about, I happily came to the conclusion that I had both a penis….AND a vagina. So much for that effort! I ended up letting nature sort it, though not before totally stressing mum out with a lot of very stiff sheets, and underwear. Fair retribution, I call that!

Despite all this, I have ended up a fairly well-balanced adult. I know! A bloody miracle isn’t it! I have aged well, live in a tastefully decorated Queenslander, eat in a large variety of restaurants serving many different cuisines, am a writer with a respectfully popular blog…and I’m gay! Now there is something they could never have advised me on, though perhaps my curiosity as to who these ‘bloody poofters’ were, that my father was always muttering on about, may have had something to do with it. Credit where credit is due! I found I had heaps of fun with the poofters, and still continue to!

Mum and Dad! Thanks for the advice…but I’ll leave it, all the same!

Tim Alderman
(C) 2014

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Spikes

biography, Poetry, , , ,

Spikes of talent
Scrawling, rambling lines
Crawl across a page.
Story unfolds, climbs, engulfs
Then climaxes through to finish.
Spikes of creativity, spikes of poetic rhyme,
An ode. a sonnet, lines of prose,
Limerick, metaphysics combine
In a jumble in the mind.

Spikes of love
Trailing up a taut, hard chest.
Provocative, evocative,
Tales of lust and eros
Clinging in a fist of sated wanting.
Clutch it hard, set it free
A stream, thick cream, juice of love
Shot far into intimate space,
Thrusting, probing, sweating, grunting
Spike and spasm, eluding, wanting
Shot far, cleaved into a mindless void.

Spikes of hate
Mindless, soulless, floating in time.
Missed pasts, missed futures, missed nows
Alone, lost and hating.
A dead father, a dead mother,
A son lost to grief
Yet fearing that a truth be known
And let loose upon a world
Ill prepared for knowledge profound.
Spirituality, prayer, Father, Son and Holy Ghost
Spattered on mensa top
The chalice of hate upturned,
Emptied, cast out, destroyed.
Grail of truth searches still
Resurrection, ascension, redemption,
Virgin birth to spiked cross
Upon the sacred soil
Blood is spilled.

Spikes of death
Bulging vein, tortured flesh
Candle and spoon unite in
Euphoric spasm, orgasmic longing
As slowly, quietly death
Enters through a door unseen.
Tantalised, seduced, psychotic
The path to enlightenment is long,
Twisted, warped, circling through space
Never being grounded, found
Or truth released in ecstasy.
Spiked coffin lid
Laid to rest in spiked grass earth.

Tim Alderman
Copyright ©2014

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Walking In Time

Article, General Interest, History, , ,

Like most people, I take the city I live in for granted. Having always lived in and around Sydney, I don’t really give much thought to what makes it the city it is, what endears me so much to it, what creates this strange love affair with bricks, concrete, glass and steel.

I have always had a pretty good knowledge of the history of Sydney, and have walked much of its historic paths, and many lesser known alleys over the years. I travelled, at least for a while, over the Harbour Bridge on an almost daily basis. I have walked the pathways of the bridge many times, and have traversed it also in trains, and as a vague recollection, in trams. The bridge pylon has long been a favourite haunt as a place to escape the madding crowd – at least on weekdays – and as a place to meditate the beauty of my city, and be constantly in awe of the majesty of its harbour. The recently started climb up the actual span has added another dimension to it again, and a view of the harbour and city that is so beautiful it makes you weep. In my many journeys across it over the years, how often I wondered why I could not climb that arch! That dream is now available to all.

It is only as I have grown older that I have really started to get into the feeling of walking through time as I move about the city. Many others before me have walked streets that I walk, they are named after those who used them as far back as the first settlement. Suburbs are named the same way, as are homes, parks, bays, beaches, hills and mountains. Tongue-twisting Aboriginal names confuse many a tourist, and the buggerisation of their language is evident in many spellings of place names around the city. They have become not just names, but a patchwork of living history. I now go to Balmain knowing that at one time, the whole suburb was sold for five shillings. I know that Millers Point is just not a name, but an activity that occurred there, and that Brickfield Hill is named for the same reason. The Rocks is so because of rocks, Rushcutters Bay because they cut rushes there, Cockle Bay was renowned for its cockles and Double Bay because it is – yes – two bays.

The very trees and gardens in the Eastern suburbs hold history. Rocks bare graffiti from 1788. Archeology is all around, at places such as the dig at Suzannah Place in The Rocks, and more recently at Walsh Bay, and when the Conservatorium of Music was being restored (the old Government House stables). We no longer cringe at the suggestion of being from convict stock. There are many like me, whose families came out as free settlers in the mid-eighteen hundreds, who would beg, borrow or steal to have a convict history. It is only now that books are revealing the true facts of our past, the real people who were on the first fleet, the true conditions they endured to become the first white inhabitants of this land. This is a truth we no longer shrink from, but accept as part of our cultural colour. It is a shame we cannot be as proud of our treatment of indigenous cultures.

Up until I read John Birminghams ‘Leviathan’, I had always thought that John Macarthur died back in England. I had no concept of the hard time he had given his wife, nor that he died being declared insane. I had no knowledge of the back biting and factioning that went on between Governors, settlers and the Rum Corp, nor of the workings of the Unemployed Workers Movement of more recent history. I would not have known that free-settlers built homes in the highest areas of The Rocks, and that those living below them were engulfed by the sewerage running down the hills. Digging trenches around the lower homes did little to alleviate the problem – the sewerage just overflowed the trenches, and proceeded to boil and fester in the heat.
That I would never have been taught any of this at school does not surprise me. Growing up in the fifties and sixties in Sydney was a lot different to growing up here in the nineties and beyond. ‘Going to Town’ is no longer the event it used to be, where parents and children were dressed in their Sunday best, as though making a pilgrimage to the centre of their culture. My parents could not have imagined the squalor of the late nineteenth century, nor the depressions earlier in that time. Their parents lived on the legacy left to them from the depression of the twentieth century, and expected their children to carry the
same values forward. My apologies to them but they are wrong. I will not carry that guilt for them!

I love my city for having survived the warring factions, the depressions, the plagues, the demolitions, and the cultural and architectural history destroyed by a string of uncaring governments. I love her crowded streets, her bastard mix of architecture, and crooked, crazy alleys and lanes. Yes, she has grown as an old whore, but oh, a whore with so much class.

I was unbelievably impressed by the Olympic site at Homebush, and how much it was a measure of how far we have come. We have taken a toxic dumping ground and rejuvenated it into a suburban paradise. Twenty years ago, nobody would have given a damn about the Green and Gold Frog becoming extinct, let alone contemplating creating a space for it to thrive in. We now think about the spaces we are creating. No more just throwing up buildings as though there was no tomorrow – well, perhaps east Circular Quay is an exception to that rule. I see history being restored, and put to modern use. I trust we have got over the facadism of the eighties, and now choose to preserve buildings in their entirety, breathing into them a new life which they richly deserve.

Now when I walk up Palmer Street or Campbell Street in Darlinghurst, or drive down Old South Head ŷRoad, the names invoke a sense of history to me. They are not just boulevards, they are lives that have been lived, and continue to live as long as people care.

Tim Alderman
Copyright ©2014

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A Living Tattoo

Poetry, , ,

I took a dare
And found needled into my arm
A tattoo, a dragon brave and fierce.
With open mouth, and swirling whisker
It is ferocious to observe
And I recollect all too clearly
The pain that placed it there.
The sharp dragging of needle
To outline its majestic head,
The soft brushing as colour
Swirled into the lines now there.
Faded now with time,
Its greens, reds, yellows and oranges
Fading into the years with my time
I remember fondly now the pain
And still, when passing by a mirror
Stop briefly to meet its gaze
And tell it that I regret not
The day I had it made.

Tim Alderman
Copyright © 2001

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Daily (Or When The Mood Takes Me) Gripe: G20 Wankfest

General Interest, , , , ,

G20 – happening in my city as I type – unfortunately! What a major waste of taxpayer money! World leader wankfest for….yeah…ah…nobodies worked that one out yet! I dare say the hot air produced could power a small city!

The best a news reporter could come up with this morning in regard to the sheer excitement of Obama’s plane landing was to tell us that it was avoiding Brisbane airport – obviously not classy enough – and going n to land at…Amberley Air Force Base! I got so excited about this that a little bit of wee just happened! Could turn into excitement overload at this rate. Note to self: stock up on “Depend”.

There are areas…and this is serious…where you can’t carry surfboards, reptiles and…wait for it…eggs. I wonder if they are frisking for melons (look out ladies!) banana’s and avocado’s. If you are into S/M or B&D I’d avoid the area all together. If you are a chicken…don’t whatever you do, don’t cross the road.

Naturally,to ensure that we remain a fascist state for the week of the wankfest, police have been given extra powers! Of course, that will never be abused…not! And special marshal’s who ai believe will be armed! Talk about overboard. I hope there are so many protests they can’t keep up with it

And not to forget the amount of hard-earned taxpayer dollars that it will cost…in the area of half a billion dollars! Yes, you did read that right!h i have just waited 9 months to get an appointment with an eye surgeon at RBH, and now have to wait another 6 months to get an operation! This is half a billion dollars that not only could have gone into health care – where it is badly needed – But you would actually see results from it!

Why gas this fucking wankfest have to be hosted – and paid for
– by a different city every time it!s on? Haven’t these “world leaders” heard of Skype, or any of the other conferencing apps! Put it on Facebook and Twitter and give us the opportunity to comment! “Likes” would be bloody rare!

But that is only part of the issue. A bigger issue is that…this is OUR city that we are being denied access to, being herded in, being cut off from! We are being denied the freedom to access any part of our city. We are also seeing citizens being denied their democratic rights, arterial road closures, and a multitude of other disadvantages! Most idiotic of all – removing garbage bins and telling people to hang onto their rubbish. Really want to protest? Dump your rubbish on the road and make them clean it up! Thr chaos to come, the overboard security (terrorists only use garbage bins, you know!) far outweighs any money it will bring in. This has already been ventured by journalists. Life in the exclusion zones must be a nightmare.

And what comes out of the G20? Absolutely bloody nothing! It is ideas being workshopped! Doesn’t matter what great ideas they come up with, doesn’t !matter how much knuckle caning goes on…absolutely nothing enforceable!

I have a great idea! Next time around, boys…my suggestion…the Tanami desert!

World leaders…Fuck off and leave us in peace! And learn to use technology you knuckleheads!

Tim Alderman
(C) 2014

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Arvo @ The Oxford – A Brief Gay Yarn

Fiction, Gay Interest, Short Story, , , , ,

I am not a misogynist! This piece is set in a particular period in the late 80s/early 90s when anti-discrimination laws were being set in place that brought about irreconcilable changes to the gay scene as we knew it! The attitude to women invading what had – to then – been male spaces was real, angry and palpable. I hope my female readers don’t take it to heart.

It was always dim in The O – as The Oxford was affectionately known – irrespective of the time of day, though at times like this, it could be an advantage. The twilight lighting helped to cover up dark bags under the eyes, and always made people look a little bit younger than they actually were. The DJ was in cocktail-hour-mode, and James looked up to see who was playing as he passed the DJ box. Patti Labelle’s ‘Oh People’ was playing, and James winced slightly. This track always reminded him of funerals these days. He moved to a table near the Oxford Street window, where Stewart was already ensconced.
‘God, I still feel like shit!’ Stewart muttered as he got up and headed to the bar. James smiled at his mate as the schooners were placed down,
“Cheers!” Said James, and they clinked glasses, then taking a sip of the beer..
Stewart looked like shit, though he got away with it by being casually dressed in a pair of jeans and a white tee shirt. He had made an attempt to tidy his hair, but it really wasn’t working. A cow-lick stuck up at the back. He looked harried, and had that puffy look you tended to get after a night of drinking.

James, was still fuming from his mornings episode with his ex-partner-now-flatmate Tommy, and quietly hoped that Tommy’s body puffed up twice as much as everyone else. It would serve him bloody right! Did he think fucking money grew on trees!Stewart straddled a bar stool, and settled himself in by stacking his cigarettes and lighter in a pile next to the ashtray. Looking off into space, he waved his burning cigarette over the table, missed the ashtray, and blew the ash that had landed on the table into James lap.
James scowled, threw Stewart “a look” and lit his own cigarette. ‘Well, to be quite honest, you look like fuckin’ shit. I hope you at least managed to get yourself a fuck. Would be the only appeasement for all the suffering you seem to be going through this morning…again,” James smirked. He would have loved a dollar for overtime this happened!
‘Well, lets just say I wasn’t alone this morning when you rang.’ Stewart turned his eyes upward andrepositioned himself on the stool, turning to gaze towards the bar a couple of feet away from him. ‘If we had sex, I certainly can’t remember it. I don’t even remember taking him home! Wouldn’t have a clue what his name was. I just called him Darl all morning. I don’t think he remembered mine either. He called me mate, if he had to talk to me at all, and there wasn’t too much yak going on, I can tell you. Thankfully, I didn’t have to chew my arm off this morning to get away from him.’ A smile took the puffiness out of his face for an instant. ‘I’m going to be conceited enough to assume that I was great sex. I still show a bit of fuckin’ taste, even when I’m pissed.’ Stewart looked pleased with himself, and James smiled at him across the tiny metal disc that supposedly passed for a table in the bar.
‘Seeing him again, are we?’ James quizzed.
‘Shit no, Jimmy. No serious relationships for this girl. I mean, I’ve got you as an example of how to make all the bad mistakes with men, don’t I?’
‘Thanks for reminding me of that. Want a drink, or is that a stupid question?’

James smiled again, loving the way Stewart squirmed when he had to try to recollect nights out – any nights out – when he had lost the plot somewhere in the interim.
“Yeah, I’ll have a hair of the dog that bit me. Get me a Gordon’s and tonic, will you mate.’
‘Is that mate as in friend, or mate as in ex-fuck,’ James couldn’t help himself.
‘You should be so lucky,’ Stewart retorted, poking out his tongue at his friend. James pushed himself off the stool and wandered over to the bar, blowing out a plume of smoke as he went.
‘G’day Jerry, give me two Gordon’s and tonics will you. Bit sad in here at the moment, isn’t it?’ he said to the barman, who was topping up the glasses from the post mix. Jerry had been the bar manager here for a couple of years now, and had helped get James his job here as a DJ.
‘It’s a bit sad in here at the best of times!’ Jerry sniped back, then let out one of the donkey brays he called a laugh. ‘That’ll be $4.50. I won’t charge you for the lack of atmosphere”.

James smiled and turned to cruise the bar perimeter. Picking up the drinks he turned back to the table. It was always a bit sad in here early in the afternoon. Either people with hangovers from the night before, people coming down off their drugs, or desperados who never got a pick-up last night, and thought the hangover brigade may be easy pickings. God, queens were so desperate sometimes! It was situations like this that made James glad he had a couple of fuck buddies he could rely on if things got really desperate. He took a stiff drag on his smoke, coughed, and decided to ignore the disparaging ‘Fuckin’ smokers’ comment from the elderly guy standing next to him. Fucking old bores. Should be locked away in nursing homes. The thought of them chasing each other around nursing home gardens, trying desperately to pick each other up even though they couldn’t remember their own names, let alone get a hard-on, made him smile.

He looked back over his shoulder at Stella.
There was a time when Stewart almost ended up amongst the fuck buddy-brigade. The day he met Tommy was the day he thought he had finally lined Stewart up for a fuck. He had spent all afternoon working on him. Had him primed on alcohol and all! Jesus, how could he have swapped Stewart for fucking Tommy? Talk about making stupid mistakes. Stewart had been, and still was, quite a looker – well, at least he usually was if he wasn’t recovering from a night on the tiles – and he had this chatty way about him that James found appealing. A combination of brains, beauty and humour! That could do it for James every time. Well, whatever the attraction for Stewart had been, it had certainly been working that night, even if the lustre had worn off pretty quickly. Anyway, he and Stewart had ended up the best of mates, so something good had come out of what potentially had not been so great – meeting Tommy! James couldn’t count the number of times he had taken guys home, given them a good fucking, then been ignored by them in the bar the next day, like he didn’t even exist. Shallow pricks! Tommy had spoken to him the next day, which almost made him husband material, for starters
!
He finally picked up the drinks, and moved back to the table at the window nearest the main street. He and Stella (Stewart was called Stella more often than by his real name) would often sit here for hours. They just gossiped away, and watched the passing parade, laughing at the dero’s passing by and trying to get money off people, the really badly dressed queens who thought they were so cool, and the hunky guys running around the street in singlet and shorts, the bulges of their cocks making an obvious show to all and sundry. It was a good way to pass an easy afternoon, no hassles, and a lot of laughs.
‘Well, what are you going to do about friggin’ Tommy? This is becoming a bit of a fucking habit with him, isn’t it?’ Stewart said, taking a sip out of his drink, clicking his teeth against the rim of the glass in an annoying way. ‘It’s not as if he could still be lovesick for you or anything. God, Who would get lovesick over you! You know what I reckon? I think he just likes to give you the shits. He knows he can get a rise out of you, so he does these fucked up things and doesn’t count the bloody cost.’ There was a brief pause for another sip. ‘Does he still reckon he’s in love with Mark? I got so sick of hearing him go on about it, I just avoid him when I see him now.’ Stella stared at James, as if to make sure he was still listening. James tended to tune out when Tommy’s name came up in conversation. ‘If Trevor ever gets wind of it, there will be hell to pay. I don’t think they’re fucking, though Tommy likes to make out they are – but I don’t think Mark is stupid enough to fuck up his relationship. Shit, he and Trevor have been together for years! Almost enough to make a girl jealous! But only almost! I reckon Tommy just has a very fertile imagination, which is going to get him into big fucking trouble if he’s not careful.’ Stella picked up his drink again, and started to slowly spin the glass between his fingers, swirling the ice, which clinked as it churned around.
‘Yeah, exactly my thoughts Stella. I’m sure Trevor must have heard all the gossip by now. Shit, it’s all Tommy talks about when he’s sober. I don’t know what to fucking do about him. He’s not even a good flatmate! He never does any cooking, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him lift a duster. He reckons he doesn’t want to break any of my stuff! So what’s he bloody do instead? He has a night on the bloody piss and does a rampage right through the apartment. All my Ching dynasty china is gone now, after last nights little episode. He’s too fucking expensive to keep, and too fucking expensive to get rid of, if you know what I mean! I guess in some ways, he’s almost too perfect. He pays his rent and bills on time, so he’s good like that. I don’t know! I guess the question is, can I be bothered with all the hassle involved in getting someone reliable to replace him, if I tell him to piss off.’ James stared back out the window, noticing the streaks that the window washer had left when cleaning them. Because of the dark, tinted glass they stuck out like a dog’s balls.
‘Ummm! A bit of a problem, isn’t it.’ Stella said, also looking out the window. ‘If John wasn’t still staying with me, you could tell Tommy to take over the apartment, and move in with me. We could do the sisters-together thing! We’ve always got along okay, and I already know you’re a fuckin’ pain in the arse, so I know what to bloody well expect.’
‘Thanks, I think! But I guess I’ll try to work things through with Tommy before I jump into the fire. He really needs to see a very patient counsellor, but I can’t bleeding well force him to do that.’ James lit another cigarette, and there was a few minutes silence while they both puffed away. James rhythmically kicked the table support with his foot, causing the table to vibrate slowly. ‘I mean, this whole thing with Mark is just psychotic! Tommy follows the poor prick everywhere. He waits until he hears or sees him leaving the building, then he’s out the front door like a fucking shot. Then he just has to come home and give me endless tirades about where Mark has been, who he’s been talking too, every single bloody word of conversation that goes on between the two of them. As if I fucking care!’ Another plume of smoke drifted out of his mouth. ‘Shit, I have enough hassles keeping my own life together, let alone worrying about anyone else.’

They both picked up their drinks and coasters as a bar useful wiped down the table and emptied the ashtray. They both cruised the shirtless, young hunk leaning over their table. They both checked out his tight arse as he moved to the next table. Stewart looked up and James felt him staring. He looked up quickly, in time to catch Stewart’s intense stare.

‘You’re looking really stressed, girlfriend. Is everything okay at work? You mentioned something last week about getting the shits with it.’ Stewart looked genuinely concerned.
James nodded his head. He managed a store on the strip, and DJ,d in his spare time. ‘The job’s really starting to shit me now. You know that fucking shop is my pride and joy.’ A look of exasperation crossed his face. ‘I’ve worked so bloody hard to get it where it is, and what happens? They send in new guys. That new area manager is a real cunt. We hated each other from first sight, and it’s just gotten worse from that point.’ James said, gazing out the window to the passing parade

James and the area manager had clashed from day one. James was used to really good rapport with his superiors, and the last area manager had been well aware that a store in Darlinghurst benefitted from having a gay manager, and had always been very supportive. But this new guy…big-time trouble! He didn’t like queens, and had made that really obvious. When he found out that James was a HIV+ boy, he really turned the heat up. Even took James aside for a ‘quiet coffee’ and told him that perhaps he should consider leaving the job – only for the sake of his health, of course! Prick! He had been on James’ back ever since, picking on every little thing, and generally making life as difficult, and as uncomfortable, as possible. James was fucking over it!

‘I’ll see how it goes. I might quit if things don’t improve, which doesn’t seem likely at this time. I wish I had a bloody witness for some of the things the pious prick has said to me. I’d sue the fucking bastards for every cent I could get.’ James drummed his fingers on the table top, then loudly slapped his palm down, causing Stewart to jump. ‘You want to know what really worries me, girlfriend? All the stress! It’s starting to knock my health around. Anyway, thanks for the thought, but that’s enough about my problems. How’s the bar job at Barracks going?’
‘Pretty bloody good, actually. I think they’re about to give me a few more shifts. Hell, the fucking extra money certainly wouldn’t go astray.’ Stella rubbed his hands together. ‘By the way, before I forget to tell you – as if I’d dare – it’s John’s birthday next weekend. I’m throwing a bit of a shindig for him at home. I have a little surprise lined up, so don’t make any plans. Get there late afternoonish, if you can. I could do with an extra set of hands.’ Stella pouted his lips and threw James a kiss across the table, ‘You know what my parties are like. It will probably still be going on Sunday night.’

Stella had a reputation for really over-the-top parties, and relished the reputation. ‘I’m setting up the porn room again. It worked really well at the last party, as I’m sure you’d remember. Slut! Never know, you might meet the next great love of your life – again!’ He threw James another smirk.
James didn’t take the bait. ‘Right! I’m sure my mother would love to meet a boyfriend I met in a porn room at a party. I can just see me trying to explain that situation to her. Shit! She’s a fucking romantic. She’d never understand this.’ A young twink wandered past the window. Obviously on his way home from the gym, he stopping to admire himself in the glass, little knowing that he was being observed from the other side of the glass. He distracted James for a second. ‘She has enough problems with the gay thing as it is. I think she actually gets off on the breast-beating and guilt trip. You know, mea culpa, mea culpa!’ James struck his chest three times. ‘Sometimes I wish my curiosity, to know what happened to her after she pissed off and left my brother and myself with my old man, had just stayed as curiosity.’ James looked serious for a moment, then turned back to the window. The twink had gone.

James and his mother had a very tenuous relationship. She had walked out on his old man when James was 11, and Kevin, his brother, was 6. They had got home from school one day, and she just wasn’t there. There had been no explanation forthcoming from their father, though he did issue an edict that, as far as everyone was concerned, she was dead. Fucking families, James thought. She had remarried in the early 70’s, and James had a half sister from that marriage. He tended not to have much to do with his step-family. Ray, his step-father, was a homophobe, and with an eighteen-year gap between him and his half-sister, they didn’t really share anything in common, other than the same mother. She had never been able to handle him being gay. And thought it was all her fault that James was “that way”, that if she hadn’t left home, it may have been different. He let her live with this delusion. James had never been game to tell her he was HIV+. She carried enough guilt already. He didn’t want to be responsible for adding to it. So he kept it a quiet lie. Fortunately, his mother lived with such a huge amount of denial that there was little chance that she would ever talk about HIV anyway.

‘I’ll be at the party with bells on.’ James replied. ‘Want me to bring Tommy, ha! ha! He can fill everyone in on the saga with Mark. I’m sure everyone’s hanging out for the next installment.’
‘You bring him, and I’ll castrate you, boyo, sister or not! Want another drink?’ Stewart got up from the stool, then leaned down on the table, putting his head in his hands. ‘Might take a couple of hairs to get back to normal, I reckon. Back in a sec.’ He headed toward the bar. James, unconsciously, noticed that he still had a great butt. He shook his head, and looked back out the window. A druggie girl with a baby in her arms was attempting to elicit money off a passer-by, all to no affect. The baby wasn’t pulling its weight today! James briefly wondered what sort of life the baby would have. Her boyfriend – who looked like he needed a good feed, and sported a stained singlet, rat’s tail, and cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth – stood nearby with a battered stroller. James could hear a muffled string of abuse from the girlfriend as those passing by picked up speed and ignored both her and baby. She thrust the baby into the boyfriends arms. James noted that she was probably about 25, but looked 70. She stormed off down the street still hurling abuse. The boyfriend hurriedly stuffed the baby into the stroller and headed off after her. James shook his head. Stewart returned, plonking the drink onto the coaster in front of him
‘Thanks for the gin, Stella.’ He peered intently over Stewart’s shoulder. ‘That’s a bit of a cutie sitting over there. I might come back later tonight and see if he’s still around.’ James flicked his thumb toward a young guy sitting near the front doors of the bar, looking somewhat furtively around the bar. Too cute to be a desperado. Wonder what his story is? James mulled to himself.

‘Fuck me! You got a fuck from Paul (a fuck buddy) last night, and already you’re chasing the next bit of arse. What if Paul turns up tonight, eh? I’ll betcha I know what’d happen, and the cutie would be on the fucking losing end of the deal, wouldn’t he, sweetheart!’
‘Nah, Paul won’t be out tonight. He’s throwing a dinner party with that girl he flats with – Vicki, or Nicki or something. He has very unhealthy relationships with the female sex, have you noticed! He’s got more female friends than he has male!’Something strange about that!’ James screwed up his face as he looked at Stewart. ‘That’s another reason why I have had second thought about actually getting seriously involved with him. I don’t know that I want my social life dominated by women. They’re okay in small doses, but that’s as much as I can handle.’ The screwed up face took on a more sinister aspect. ‘Look at how they have managed to fuck up all the local nightclubs. They bring in their straight wanker boyfriends, and the next thing you know, it’s straight city!! Those fucking young queens who spend half their lives dragging fag-hags around are going to have a lot to answer for, one of these days.’ James was spitting venom by this stage. ‘They’re fucking it up for everyone. Why can’t us guys have spaces for ourselves? The bloody lezzo’s are allowed to have them. Those new bleeding anti-discrimination laws are fucked,’ James snarled.
Stewart sat quietly, lost in a world of his own. James, feeling pleasantly calmed by his little outburst plus a couple of gins, started some serious cruising with the guy he had noticed earlier. He wasn’t exactly handsome, but there was a something about him that drew James attention. Maybe it was his eyes, or the non-gay way he was dressed. Almost as if he didn’t realise he was in a gay bar. James shivered! Déjà vu, he thought to himself. This was the sort of naïve thing Tommy did when he wanted to attract attention, and which he had used to hook James on the night they met. That was exactly the sort of look that had sucked him in that night, and James certainly didn’t want that episode repeated. Yet, despite the similarity in appeal, this guy looked more together than Tommy had.

‘How’s Don going?’ Stella broke into James reverie. ‘Is he out of hospital yet?’
‘Yeah, he got out two days ago. He’s not telling the whole story, you know! He’s fucking sicker than he lets on. I’m not silly. I know when someone’s trying to pull the wool over my eyes.’ James looked at Stella across the table, a concerned frown on his face.
‘Mmm. I thought he’d tell you what the problem is. You two have been mates for yonks.’ Stella tapped his fingers on the table, then stuck a finger in his mouth and started to chew on a fingernail. ‘He’s lost so much weight, and he’s takin’ a lot of time off work. Do you think he’s got the dreaded lergy?’ Stella asked, a slight grimace crossing his face.
‘Well, that’s what I originally thought, but I can’t work out why he’d be quiet about it. It’s not as if it’s such a rare thing these days, and he knows so many others with this fucking virus,’ James said, chewing on a piece of ice that had not melted in the glass. ‘I don’t think he’d keep it to himself if he had it.’ He appeared to think about it for a few seconds. ‘Naw! It’s something else. He’ll tell me in his own good time,’ James replied, unable to hide his concern. He was really worried about his mate, but didn’t want others to know how serious he thought Don’s illness was.
‘Well, I hope he fuckin’ does. There’s enough guys dropping off the perch as it is!’ Stella threw his own concerned look across the table.

Another couple of minutes passed in silence, both lost in their own thoughts. James looked back across the bar, and caught the cutie looking across at him, then quickly looking away.
‘Catch as catch can,’ James smiled at Stella across the table, pointing his chin in the general direction that he was looking in. Stella turned his head and looked back over his shoulder.
‘Umm! Lining things up for tonight already, are we?’ Stewart exclaimed as he thumped his glass down on the table. ‘I can see where your priorities lie at the moment, trash bag!’
‘Yeah. That guy is acting a bit like how Tommy was acting on the night we met. A bit spooky, actually.’
‘Fuck, don’t want a repeat of that, do we? We never did get to fuck. That night screwed that up, didn’t it?’ James threw a quizzical look across the table. ‘Don’t look at me like that! I knew you were trying to get me into the sack that night.’ Stella returned his look. ‘I shouldn’t tell you this, but I would have been in it, if Tommy hadn’t fuckin’ well shown up!’ Stella had one of those looks on his face that made it possible to believe that he wasn’t being serious, but then again he might be! James hated those looks! You never knew where you fucking well stood. ‘Well, look on the bright side of it – I would probably never have respected you again – as if I ever did – so it’s probably just as well it never happened. I think you make a better fucking sister.’
‘You’ve known that for four bloody years, and never said a word to me! How fucking rude are you! Sisters are never supposed to know that you wanted to lay them. Some things are supposed to be sacred, you know!’
‘Oh, I guess I’m only slightly miffed about that situation. You’ve been one of the best friends I’ve ever had in this city. Look at how I trash myself, and slut around, and you never ever criticise me for it, though I sometimes wish you fucking would! Might pull me into line a bit,’ Stella laughed.
‘Wouldn’t do me much damn good anyway. You’re just a lost cause. Anyway, I don’t know if I’d like you to be pulled into line. I love you the way you are.’

James blew him a kiss across the table. ‘Take the good with the bad, I reckon. Finish your bloody drink and your fag so I can go home for some dinner. With any luck, Tommy will still be in bed. I’ll meet you here about ten o’clock.’ James stood up to go, rocking the table as he learnt on it.
‘Okay gorgeous. Hold your horses for a sec.’ Stella drained the remains of the gin in one gulp. ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit chancy leaving me with the potential trade?’
‘That’s exactly why I don’t intend to leave until you do. AND I’ll ring you when I get home, just to make sure you haven’t snuck back.’ They both headed towards the door. Stella put his hand on James shoulder, and pushed him out the door.
‘That’s the problem with sisters. They know you too fucking well!’ he quipped, planting a kiss on James’s cheek before heading up the street.

Tim Alderman
(C) 2014

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