The week I’ll probably die with the help of someone

I may have to leave the country once I am finished – and move to Mars. Who cares. Destiny leads, I usually run away.

Yes, so this is GAY week. On my blog.

And when, and if, I use the wrong lingo then, dear gays, do forgive me. I am only human thus errors are made. Why am I so down in the mouth? Well, Sweethearts: Fact is that some six or seven years ago I fell in love with a gay man. I knew he was gay from the beginning so sex wasn’t exactly an issue. Though would have slept with him – on request – if we had made to Paris or Rome.

Nay, my trouble with gay men is semantics. I do not fucking get the lingo right, do I? Am I an expert? No. In my experience we make allowances for each other. Count gays out on that score. They are unforgiving. Sorry about generalizing, but generalizations are there for a reason – mainly to get a point across.

Yes, so I put my foot into it. Still don’t know how. I used ‘preference’ when I should have used ‘orientation’. Or whatever. I have to hand to you gays: Some of you are so sensitive may the sun never set on you. You’ll burn.

And please do not keep pointing the finger at heterosexuals. Lend me a helping hand instead.

U

Off with the fairies

As some of you know I am taken with gays. Not lesbians. Lesbians will wink at me and then run. Which is good. Because it saves me from running in the opposite direction. Yes, guys (not gays) there is one of your fantasies crushed.

The first gay, known to me, was a hairdresser. That’s what’s expected of gays. They dress hair. And they do. My boyfriend (living abroad) was dead jealous of Peter, the gay, gorgeous as they come (tall, slender, blond with lined eyelashes). In return Peter hated my boyfriend – in a sort of militant way one doesn’t normally associate with gays. Yes, Peter and I were good. I went down with a fever, close to death’s door, Christmas Eve 1978. Peter took care of me. Unselfish. Kind.

When we went to nightclubs our combined beauty bounced off each other. He was not so gay as not to pass as my boyfriend which saved me a lot of hassle.

Our appartments were next to each other. We shared a wall. With our respective beds on either side of it. Which meant that, in the middle of the night, he’d send me little knocks on the wall, Morse code. A bit like texting nowadays. Only louder. And more reassuring. Though his cat was pretty neurotic: As Burmese with cabin fever are. His boyfriend a fully leather clad complete with motorbike policeman. Thus I was initiated into a world I knew nothing about, still don’t. Then I moved country. I dearly hope Peter didn’t fall prey to the Eighties’ disease. He was such a sweet gentle man, a good friend.

As to GG. Well, I have been there, done that, enjoyed it immensely whilst it lasted for a delicious three years, didn’t get the fucking T shirt – and now I am a damaged case.

John, with his pig, his chickens, his dogs, came along just in time, slowly restoring my faith in gay manhood

As I have confirmed, over at John’s, the Angel thinks my gaydar non existent. True. What’s it to me what you do in the privacy of your own sheets.  My longest standing friend, not known for mincing words, and in an attempt to cure me of GG, said the most foul he could come up with on homosexual men. As did my brother. Where did they learn all this stuff? Think toilets and Hampstead Heath and you’ll get the idea. Well, I love my brother and that macho of machoest friend of mine, so – in an act of self defence and as not to whip their friendships out of shape – I no longer mention GG. Not even to the Angel.

One of the funniest comments ever, on the subject of homosexuality, was when, last year, the Angel came home and, relating the happenings of the previous evening, remarked that one of the host’s friends was SO gay “even the girls found it a  bit much”. Is that brilliant? Or is that brilliant? Let me know.

U

365

Sweethearts, I will answer your comments you so kindly left at expense of your time. I promise. Though Phil, as usual, has me in thumb screws. If only I could ask him to marry me. It would be easier. Androgoth may serve as best man. Lorna, Bella and Renee I’d honour to be my maids. Magpie might oblige to make sure the champagne is served at the right temperature. John will sacrifice Phylis (don’t ask; just make sure you eat before the feast begins).

Dear dog in heaven: Yes, it’s 29 Feb. Women are supposed to propose. The first hurdle being that I am not the marrying kind. I am immune to the altar. Being admonished for crunching apples in bed, my love of freedom got the better of me twice. I now keep a bowl of apples next to my bed at all times. Just to make sure no one comes near me.

Still, I don’t want to be a spoil sport on that four yearly window to chain yourself to the master of your destiny, and I will propose. To a dear friend of mine. He doesn’t know it yet because I haven’t pressed send for my email. He is of a fragile disposition. He also gets irritated very easily. Particularly before a live broadcast.  So easily irritated that, three years ago, he broke off all contact with me. Under the understanding that I will keep my promise to him (made in the throws of our earliest courtship when he worshiped the very ground I was walking on and  was all up for carrying me up Montmartre, Absinthe in hand) that I’d never ever not write to him. The swine. By keeping my promise I have fashioned myself into a backdoor stalker. I normally don’t do servant’s entrance but anything for one of the most misguided souls I ever had the privilege to meet.

Don’t get carried away with the romance: In the marriage stakes I like playing it on the safe side: So yes, he is gay. Very intelligent if emotionally somewhat stunted. I do have beef with his therapist: She gave him terrible advice. Like most compulsive obsessives he follows it to the letter.

In terms of damage limitation and health and safety regulations we are happily divided by a pond. The bargain is perfect: On signing the contract I’ll get my double barrel name, he gets a wife he doesn’t need.

Wish me luck. If he says no he’ll have to buy me a dress and/or gloves (as folklore goes) – make that an ipod, Geek that he is – and if he says yes then both of us will be in a double bind.

On my knees,

U

PC – polite company

Always run with one who is just that little faster than you are. They will pull you along. Making you excel yourself. At grammar school, 100 meter short distance, we ran in pairs. A very fast runner myself (to this day, meep, meep) I always tried to be teamed up with Susanne (her of the extra long legs). She was as fast as the wind, ambitious too, a quality I am sadly lacking. I quickly recognized that her speed, always just that tiny bit ahead of me, pulled me along and, whilst she always won, resulting in ever fewer seconds for me to reach the finishing line. Loved it.

Yes, so Totsy (see my http://bitchontheblog.wordpress.com/2012/01/12/feeds-and-facts/ currently pulling me along and covering a subject, so dear to my despairing linguistic heart, of PC, political correctness. If I weren’t such a talker, I’d shut up – in public. Use of language has become a mind field. Please NOTE: I did not say minE field, I said minD field. The former leaving you limbless, the latter mutilated.

My father, sometime back in the Sixties, brought me a toy, plastic, much loved, black, called “Gollywog”? Dare I mention this – now – in polite company? Will I be tarred and feathered (ending up looking like Gollywog, only feathered)?

The Angel, always good for an anecdote, age four, Heathrow Airport departure lounge, points at another passenger and, audible to all, with wonderment in his voice: “Mama, that Lady is black”. Yes, indeed. She is. Undisputably so. I whisper to him (not sure of my facts): “That’s not the thing to say.” “But, Mama, she IS black.” Yes, yes, yes, and yes. What am I trying to teach my child here? To pull wool over dreadlocks? Blacklisted myself that moment.

A neighbour of ours has a baby. It’s adorable. As chocolate babies are. The Angel is appalled. My formidable mentor is “chocolate” too. OK, son, let’s make this conversation a return match (16 years on). Me:  ”I am sorry, Angel, it is chocolate. Just as his mother is white. Undisputably so.” The Angel let it pass. He is not conformist either, just worries about his mother being lynched when not chaperoned.

With another wink to one of Totsy’s remarks: Yesterday I give the Angel some lunch to take into work – in a plastic box. He shows some reluctance accepting this token of motherly love and care: “Oh, Mama, that’s so GAY”. Since I am generally short fused I raise my voice: “For … ‘s sake, what’s gay about a lunch box?” He observed that he is so glad that no one can overhear some of our inane conversations. I wouldn’t bank on it. Walls are thin. Paranoia is rife. And 1984 was written well before Big Brother arrived.

Go and read Totsy http://writinginflow.blogspot.com/2012/01/dear-sirmadam-political-correctness-ive.html#idc-container

U

Red carpet in shreds

If last Monday’s post went with a bang yesterday’s  Monday morning has me whimper.

No sooner had I slagged off those prizes bloggers award each other – in my reply to a comment the drop dead gorgeous Charles had left me – along comes writingfeemail.wordpress.com aka Little Miss Mischief aka La Tease and drops one hell of a clanger: I find myself the unhappy recipient of “The Versatile Blogger Award”. I wish I could hide like my two year old self behind my mother in the folds of her full skirt, pout and say “I don’t want it” (insert teary note). “Darling, don’t be silly. You like spinach so you’ll always be able to stomach the unpalatable. Say thank you.” Finger in mouth, eyes full of suspicion:  ”Don’t want to.”

Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Which doesn’t make any economical sense. Unless you immediately take a gift horse to the slaughter house and reform it into salami you will need to feed, water and exercise it. In modern lingo this translates into: “There is no such thing as a free lunch.” Am now in existentialist crisis: Do I go down in history as a blogging scrouge who doesn’t have it in her heart to play by the rules (of others); or do I  humour the blogging community like a circus clown on his way out? Do I stick to principles or do I shrug my shoulders and say “Whatever.” ? Maybe I could rent some space in the broom cupboard one blogger has so lovingly created for her many awards.

Insert sigh.  I am in trouble. Confession time: First of all, I read few, and I mean few, blogs on a regular basis. Since I am terrific friendship material I tend to keep it small, and loyal. Not that I don’t throw parties, and please do gate crash. I will find the odd pearl in the crowd, even among those who do use my, as yet unread, Times as toilet paper.  It is quite awful: I feel another attack of scathing coming on. I’ll keep it for a day when I run out of bile. Also, and this is no excuse, amongst my most cherished blogging chums there are those already flooded with awards, and now do – as only the saturated will – refuse them. Or maybe they have run out of things to tell you about themselves. Which the more observant among you will notice I have already done up there, if somewhat in disguise.

And, I am such a mean cow I don’t want to share my friends with all and sundry. Look what happened to Charles. No sooner was he freshly pressed he (being diligent) was reduced to answering (intelligently) hundreds of comments. I don’t like being a crumb among many on the baking sheet of someone’s life so I retreated to the kitchen and baked some of his Italian biscuits instead. And no, I didn’t weep into the pastry. Sometimes you have to let those you care for off on a long leash. Or take the leash off altogether.

Where were we: Free lunch, trade off:  Naturally, to link like crazy to other blogs is not only a cheap marketing exercise, it is also a  way of spying on who I read outside my immediate circle. The last sentence sounds more complicated than it is. All my life, literally from when I was tiny, I have had three very different circles of friends on the boil. Their backgrounds not only not overlapping, but none of them knowing of each other. Yes, I know it’s ludicrous but makes for a slightly less complicated life to keep those in the higher echelons of elevated snobiety of intellect and creativity from sneering at the easy pleasers and the streetwalkers.

Some of my friends (and family) are such snobs that if they knew that I entertain a blog, how vulgar, they’d cut me off there and then. Don’t think I have just handed you the perfect tool to blackmail me. I haven’t.

What else is totally useless information about me:

A few years ago, in the early days of our courtship, a dear sweet man, so full of disdain for the world (what do you expect from someone who adores Huysman?) yet so vulnerable, him of Irish/Trinidadian extraction, a Canadian with perfect diction, sent me a “Mother’s Day” card. I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.  He is gay. That way we are both safe.

When I was three I swallowed (by accident) a flat round button. It was white. That’s when I learnt two things: Not everything is digestible. And what will go in will come out. And oh did it not glow so in the dark.

So yes, since most of my blogging creme de la creme knows each other anyone else just snoop around in the comment boxes, and link. One of my believes: What you need will find you. And I have found true treasure in the last few months.

U

Tonight Josephine

Gay acquaintance of gay friend (son has had with me and my grief over gay friend big time – he refuses to enter that discussion) is given to doing ‘vignettes’ on his blog. This is what gays do after they have tiedied the place, cooked you dinner, wiped your brow and fallen asleep over their freshly shaken Martini (one olive): Write vignettes. Usually on a Friday which is convenient for me since it reminds me of the Consortium.

Vignettes are stylish. And gay guys – on the whole – are stylish. I had to delete some of what I just wrote after my last sentence. Gays are sensitive. As an aside: It’s awful – considering state of my hand – how much I write and then delete. Such a waste.  Anyway I can do vignettes too even when my credentials are not gay. Oddly, and I reflect on this rarely,  Lesbians never make a pass at me. Maybe I frighten them. Maybe they think I was a MAN in a previous life. Or maybe they are just kind and recognize that a Lesbian making a pass at me would startle me.

Odder, and this might be of interest to Jean and Ramana, I had my cards (Tarrot) read in the foolish days before concentrating on being a mother. On recommendation of whacky friend (what do you expect of someone called Fiona working in financial services BEFORE the whole pension disaster blew up) I visited this woman. She was old then. Probably dead now. According to her I was a MAN in my previous life. English. Living in London. Spending my nights writing.  Working in some dour job during the day (that’s Kafka), but enjoying ballet and the arts in general. (I guess I did not have a housekeeper).

The woman was amazing. She knew things about me no one could have known. She had me right there and then when she named the YEAR my grandmother (most important woman in my life) had died. No one knows when my grandmother died (other than me and her children). So, yes, spooky. No matter. I am not sceptical. I trust. Life comes in my stride. And if someone knows when my grandmother died I will take them by their word. But, and some of you who have pondered on the subject of REINCARNATION, what is it to me that I was once a man (for all I know with a starving cat) spending his spare cash on the theatre and going to see the ballet?

Nothing. Because I can’t remember.

U

Freshly pressed

WordPress really does get on my nerves. They are wonderful in many ways – not least by allowing me to spout my stream of consciousness,  free of charge, amongst you. HOWEVER, in their dashboard section they’ll give you information I neither DESIRE nor NEED. Which is why I rarely check it except  I am forced to since I have found out that poor good old Magpie goes straight into spam; and I’d hate to miss any of his few utterings. Great isn’t it: To find Magpie I have to rummage through rubbish. The things you do for birds. Odd, and the thought had never occurred to me till this morning when I ventured out, living so close to the harbour all there seem to be about are seagulls. They are mainly white, huge – and they SHRIEK. Once you find yourself, as I did about half an hour ago, saying to a seagull “Oh, shut up, will you?” you know that you haven’t got long before the white van draws up in front of your house.

Songbirds. Where are they? My school girl wisdom reminds me that they fly somewhere during winter (which is why I so love robins: They stay put and stick it out). But down here, South of England, literally a two minute walk away from the coast (make that 30 seconds if you have my son’s long legs) and the climate being so very very VERY mild due to proximity of Golfstrom, it doesn’t make sense. The other day, and maybe I am now hearing things on top of going mad, there was the dawn chorus in a tree. I heard them but couldn’t SEE anything.

BHB, I am sure there is a pill a doctor could force feed me to stop hearing bird song where there isn’t any but would I cherrish the silence?

Yes, wordpress, one of these days I really will lose the plot and not get back to subject in hand: So there they [wordpress] are with their dashboard – Jean, here is a question for you: Why are people so bloody competitive? What’s a dashbord when it’s not in a car? Everything is made into some sort of race. I like to meander at my own – sedate –  pace and if that means that everyone else is overtaking me they’ll be the first to bump into a lamppost. Naturally MY job being to call an ambulance to pick up their pieces. Anyway, wordpress … Top searches on my blog and I have – after much deliberation – decided NOT to cry is, drumrolls please: “gay muscle blogs with comment section”. I do not even google gay since I am cured by the gay guy in my life who can count himself lucky that I will not name him. Neither do I need muscle. If, since breakage, I need anything leveraged I will ask son and not expect any movement till about five weeks later.  Now “comment section” that’s different. That’s where you’ll sort the men from the boys or the gays from the not so narcisstic. I know Jean condems resentment for the waste of time it is. However, I allow myself a lot of things in small doses: I therefore resent my dearest gay friend – at about 0.000000000000000005 g a day – that he is such a ninny that he will not publish comments. Naturally, he reads – and if he denies he does he REALLY is a ninny – my emails. Which I hope will cause him all the pain he is capable of feeling. Don’t say that I am not beyond something akin to REVENGE. Though still have problems with the concept as deliberated upon by members of the Consortium. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH, another Mother Theresa in the making.

U

Desire and the pursuit of the whole

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

Twitter

I don’t do Twitter though I love birds; however, my boredom threshold is pretty low.

Gays (I don’t know any lesbians, they avoid me) are absolutely amazing at twittering. They will give you hourly updates – whilst mixing a Martini – as to just having cut their toe nails, having purchased a cashmere jumper  (complete with photograph)  and/or of minutest progress when having met the man of their nightmares. Should any gay guys stumble on this awful generalisation of mine please rest assured: I am in love – such is my luck – with a gay man. So anything I say on the subject is my bird’s eye view distorted by grief over yet another lovely male specimen lost to womankind.

Where was I? Twitter.  Since I am supposed to take my blog seriously I will interject fleeting thoughts (not hourly)  under the heading “Croak” as I don’t tweet and my voice is pretty hoarse (think Marlene Dietrich after a night on the tiles). And yes, I will stick to the prescribed 145 key strokes or under: Makes for discipline.

My first will be dedicated to one of the founding members of my blog: The good Conrad himself. Which reminds me, Con: Where art thou?

U