If I had to sell the number one benefit of getting older it would be: You don’t care any longer what anyone thinks about you. My son considers this a pity; however, as long as I wear my leather jacket and my black and white gipsy skirt he insists on taking me to some club somewhere in Southampton. Not that I can hear a word anyone is saying. A smile and a nod go a long way.
My parents too are less than convinced that this, my latest notion, is the way forward. Forward is not necessarily the direction best advised. You are more likely to bump into something by reversing. Sideways, like crabs, will also add to the sodding drama your life will be if only you’d let it. Most people – being control freaks – don’t let their life go up that Sisyphean slope. They nestle at the bottom of the mountain hoping that nothing – not even a tiny little rock – will dislodge itself and fall into their well maintained Schornstein. What’s Schornstein in English? Chimney. When did you last see a working chimney sweep? No wonder the world and its bride are falling apart. Should you get the chance please do watch “The Water Babies” (with the truly evil Alan Bates). The book is good; but for once the film is better. Sunday afternoon being the most suitable slot for such soppiness.
How did I get here? BHB sent me something about women. I couldn’t agree more apart from the whiskey – a bit of a lame end. Every man needs a woman. Particularly if he is gay. Someone to keep him on the strait and narrow. A shoulder to soak. Tell that one of the more recent loves of my life. If he applied to be a loss leader he’d be in with a chance. Gays – by definition – have a narcisstic streak. They are good at keeping house and the kitchen clean and all that, and they smell good and are clean shaven; I dimly remember a black and white film in which a gay guy helps some hapless unmarried pregnant girl (back in the fifties) to keep her baby, but on the whole, and I have to include even my beloved Truman Capote and Tennessee Williams, many others, not least that so admired by me bastard Gore Vidal (Americans: No, not Vidal Gore), they do have capacity to get on your nerves – big time. Or they just won’t talk to you any more. First they make verbal love to you then you utter the slightest disapproving nothing and you are out on your ear. My very first gay friend (to my knowledge), with a sweet temper and an equilibrium unrivalled by any of his successors, was – performing to stereotype – a hairdresser. No joke. True. The guy was divine. Tall, blond and blue eyed, finely boned. He was gorgeousness personified, and a dress sense to match. Naturally, my then boyfriend who later became father of my son, had nothing but disdain for this creation out of God’s picture book. Oh, how I loved going out with him on a Saturday night. People would take us for a couple. So no one hit on me, though occasionally I had to let him trail off into the night. Once back home he’d knock at the one wall our flats were sharing. Peter, sweet Peter. Wonder what’s become of him. His main love interest at the time a policeman – bike, leather and all. Never be deceived by a macho exterior.
Well, wish I could tell you about the loss leader. Alas he is in the public eye – and whilst his vanity has let me down big time my upbringing has taught me the importance of being discreet. Hope he’ll remember that when he starts writing his memoirs.
High kinks,
U
