the Musings and Rants of a Gay Aucklander, about whatever I fancy
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Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Young men often do not realise the dazzling power of their beauty, of a smile, or of a forearm carelessly draped on a thigh. Possessed of such unwitting power, I can’t help but admire it. I once had it. I didn’t know I had it though. I doubt they do either.
I would love to fuck Robert Downey Jr.
And Sean Penn.
Or get them to fuck me. Getting spit-roasted is always fun.
I’ve been thinking about the punk/disco wars in Auckland of the late 70s, early 80s a bit. It was a real mark of who you were, how you saw yourself, depending on what look you took, what music you listened to. I remember Ruff (RIP – burnt to death in a fire in London rescuing her Chanel suits -seriously) going to a concert in just a black garbage bag, torn fishnets and black stilettos, and lots of makeup. I wore makeup, eye shadow streaked on my cheek, and my hair was high and hard. There were fights outside Babes, one of the main discos, in Eliot St? I can’t remember. We sneered at Billy Idol for being a fake punk. We loathed Abba. We wore op-shop 60s black suits, with narrow ties, and listened to sad serious music. Now I love nearly all music. Funny the natural fascism of youthful bonding and protection.
I’m old enough to remember hair mousse in a can as a new product.
I had my hair dyed black with pink stripes for a while, and wore a woman’s black lame suit jacket on top of my jeans. Then I dyed my hair bright green (my hairdresser, Sheridan, stole the Krazy Kolor dye from her flatmate’s stock) with a big floppy pink triangle hanging down to my nose, a triangular fringe of cerise.
I can remember the sudden advent of DJs as celebrities in their own right, not just record spinners.
I remember staggering through the streets and alleys of Manhattan in my black leather jeans, my Docs, a white T and a black leather jacket, going to the Mineshaft after being at the Spike. I remember staggering home reeking of all sorts of fluids, amyl and that general raunchy smell of sex. I remember dancing under the stars at the Saint, totally off my face on coke and God knows what else, surrounded by Gods posing as men, and loving it.
I remember when I was first in Turkey, being in this town called Malatya, and hooking up with this mad Irish guy who lived there, and turned out to be gay. We went on a picnic, to a waterfall, the water pounding down the cliffs into a big pool, with families sitting around, cooking shish kebabs, eating melon, drinking tea, some quietly having a raki, people talking and sharing food. And then we decided to climb the waterfall. Going up wasn’t too bad, but coming down, I panicked about half way down this crumbly cliff and froze. It seemed like hours but I guess it was just a few minutes of complete and utter terror. Then I got down, and no one else had seen how freaked out I was. Lesson: People often never know what’s going in our lives, even though to us it is amazing. And I never got to fuck the Irish guy. But he was hot.
Whatever happened to the smell of amyl in gay clubs? It used to be so pervasive, now it’s so rare.
I love libraries. I remember being the library at Auckland University, before the year started. Such a geek I went in early to explore, especially the library, where I looked up all the gay books. They were in one shelf, a tiny group now compared to the metres and metres of shelf space we take up. Anyway, I think I was looking at something on Gay American History. I was amazed – here I was at 17 and there were serious academic books about being gay that were positive, uplifting, showing wee actually had a history and therefore a culture. So there I am, enthralled, I stop to think, look up and then down the aisle. There’s this guy standing there. I look down at the book again then look up – yes he does have his cock flopped out ! And it’s huge ! Or it is to me at that age. He looks at me, I blush, put the book back, and follow him to the toilets for a great fuck. I love libraries.
I have been hit on by 24 year-olds twice since New Year. I’m not complaining, just puzzled. Aren’t I too old for them? The lust of the young is so refreshing to be around. They have so much careless energy. But it always takes me a while to figure out they’re actually after me, not just politely chatting to me. I’m slow on the uptake at times.
I once spent a night on a fisherman’s boat on the Golden Horn, in Istanbul, with four fishermen. I left a little after dawn. You fill in the blanks.
I have a remarkable knack for falling for the wrong men. You’d think I’d learn, but no, not yet anyhow. But I’m cool with it; I know myself, warts and all. I have fun.
I remember being young: inside I still feel it, but my body doesn’t seem to agree.