Wednesday, January 26, 2005

An Australia Day Address:

351 High St.

An Australia Day Address Part 2:

It seems fitting that I make this speech hungover as hell on a 37 degree day. Outside my squeaky back door, the Hills Hoist serenades me with un-oiled abandon as the hot Northerly Wind brings with it neither malaise nor menace, but memories of BBQs and teenage canoodling, when the smell of chlorine was intrinsically tied in with the rush of blood felt when my thigh brushed the naked limb of a secret crush.

I used to have a pool. I used to live with my Mother and her Millionaire Boyfriend in a three story mansion in that Mecca of Bad Taste and Money, Brighton. Of course, I rebelled in the style of the time, holes in jeans, a spikey do, electric instead of acoustic...but in reality it was nice to come home on a day like today, ponder wistfully the fortunes of the poor before disrobing, petting my Alsatian kindly and jumping into the pool.

Then my gangsta Step-Father killed my Mom and I had to leave.

So I really miss having a pool. I have tried the public facilities, those bastions of perverse poverty where screaming sucklers trail celulite havens and buff dandys dive in ever increasing danger to prove their mettle to nubile prey. And circling, camouflaged and covered, also on the scent are the father figures, daring to steal a glance at that 15 year old nymphette but doomed to be burdened by bag and towel and umbrella and wife.

I have become of a different country, an indoor book club preferential to air conditioning rather than skin conditioning. Like an outback gekko, I hide in a cinema / cave by day and supplies myself at night. Joining the alchohol set and enjoying the excuse such weather gives for over extended debauchery and public displays of moon tan physiques.

I miss having a pool. I miss the social-centric nature of it, the non-stop clang of the telephone (non cellular) the warnings, the lack of heeding, the lack of heating, the lack of clothing and the meeting of eyes. The meeting of eyes. That moment. Diving deliciously downward until you surface and delighted and dripping they watch. She watches. And there's running and laughter and more touching and is it the smell or the heat or is it her or is it youth or is it the acid you secretly put in everyone's cordial?

My bedroom used to be in it's own seperate wing, far down the back of the block. With my Gangster we grew marijuana to sell at my High School and built french doors which opened directly from my room to the Grotto Spa and pool. So many champagne seductions. Left alone, often for weeks at a time, I would strike deals with whoever was chosen to be my minder at the time and hold parties that ran for days. And each day would end....wet. Soaking wet. And so fucking happy.

I miss having a pool. I miss watching the chef, as they drank and burgered and sausaged whilst we bombed and bounced and bludged. In the future, I hope to be Chef. I hope my tongs bring you joy as I flip my sausage whilst watching you frollick in my pool. Come for an afternoon, stay for five days. Let your kids jump on my leather couch, I really couldn't care. If they and you and me and her and all of us are happy and fed and cool and wet and a little bit tipsy and no this isn't a sex party but do you remember those days....

There are times still, youthful and vibrant at age 32, where I feel ready to give up my quest for World Domination, and just hope for a bloody house with a you-beaut pool out the back, a cracking sheila on me arm and an ice cold tinnie in me hand. Antipodan Delight.

Wednesday, January 19, 2005

Tainted Love

My first and only gay experience was when I was 10 years old.

I was in Grade Six and my new best friend was a guy called Wolfgang. I ditched all my other friends because they had insipid names like Leigh and Greg. I wanted to appear exotic and well travelled so I made up stories about how my family and I had been to Disneyland on our Summer Vacation and how Acapulco was wonderful this time of year. I also lied and told everyone I was actually American but had been working on my Australian accent for years.

So when Wolfgang arrived at our school with his blonde curls and slight German accent, I was drawn to him in an International kind of way.

Wolfgang lived with his mother in a creche. Above the creche which his Mother ran during the day. We would go back there after school and step through a crowd of four and five year olds and feel like adults. Wolfgang would call his mother Helga and I thought that was about the coolest thing ever. We'd also steal cans of beer and sit in his room upstairs and drink one each, complementing each other on our mature and grown-up outlook on life. His older sister would cut my hair and as she did her teenage breasts would brush against the side of my face. I've had Hairdresser fantasies ever since. I still get hard when sitting in a salon. Hahahaha. Don't you love honesty?

One night I was staying over at his house when the subject of masturbation came up. No pun intended. Now being only ten years old I was of course a little shocked but wanting to appear sophisticated I naturally joined in the conversation with gay abandon, regaling my host with all sorts of technique tales and self-help methods.

Let's do it together, Wolfgang blurted out all of a sudden. Hmmm, I thought. But ok, so we did. He was obviously far more practiced in the art and I distinctly remember him having a strange banana shaped cock, as opposed to my normaler-than-though instrument. But I guess that could've been German Envy talking. He sorted himself out after a fashion and not wanting to seem an ungrateful guest I faked all sorts of Pigeon Coo noises and pretended to blow all over his room. Patting ourselves on the back, though I made sure we washed our hands first, we proceeded to steal another can of beer and sat looking out his window at a party next door, fantasing about how the grown-up women would see us and ask us over to join in their group sex sessions. This would've been classed as Pedophilia of course, but we would've been willing participants at that point, the Demon Lust having not quite loosened his grip on our pubescent souls.


"Have you ever fucked someone up the arse?" He asked me. I didn't even know what he meant. I sure as hell DIDN'T KNOW WHAT HE WAS SUGGESTING. Well okay, I did know, but it seemed a little strange for my ten year old friend to be asking me a question like that.

"," I repied hesitantly, "have you?"

Turned out that he had, but prefered being a Wide Receiver or a Tight End than a Quarterback. God football is gay. Anyway, the Demon Lust was soon joined by his Siamese Twin the Demon Alcohol and Wolgang proceeded to drop his trousers, bend over like a little German Bitch and told me to give to him straight Doc. What was I to do? The window had a fifteen foot drop to the ground, I couldn't jump out there and between me and the door was a naked SourKraut begging for sausage. Well, life is short, I figured in a completely un-ten year old way. I pulled my pants down and trying to harden my grape sized flacid, I attempted to enter through the back door.
It didn't happen, this was fucking weird. Uncomfortably we bid our goodnights.
And the next day I went back to talking to Leigh and Greg.

Years later when I was 23 I was hanging out with a beautiful german girl called Anna. She was going out with a friend of mine, but he had gone overseas for six months so we used to do crazy things like tape ourselves having sex and listen back to it and masturbate in front of each other. We were close. Close enough for me to tell her the tale of my homosexual encounter with Wolfgang one afternoon over bucket bongs.

Wolfgang? I know Wolfgang! She laughed and instantly dived on the phone, inviting him to her house. I extracted a promise from her not to mention the story, we stocked up on beer and I waited to be re-united with my primary school bum chum.

It took ten minutes for Anna to break her promise.

So Matty tells me you wanted him to fuck you up the arse in primary school?

He excused himself and left. Anna danced with glee.

Wednesday, January 12, 2005

Phone sex is the new Dungeons and Dragons

Wellhung: Hello, Sweetheart. What do you look like?

Sweetheart: I am wearing a red silk blouse, a miniskirt and high heels. I work out every day, I'm toned and perfect. My measurements are 36-24-36. What do you look like?

Wellhung: I'm 6'3" and about 250 pounds. I wear glasses and I have on a pair of blue sweat pants I just bought from Walmart. I'm also wearing a T-shirt with a few spots of barbecue sauce on it from dinner ... it smells funny.

Sweetheart: I want you. Would you like to screw me?

Wellhung: OK

Sweetheart: We're in my bedroom.There's soft music playing on the stereo and candles on my dresser and night table.I'm looking up into your eyes, smiling. My hand works its way down to your crotch and begins to fondle your huge, swelling bulge.

Wellhung: I'm gulping, I'm beginning to sweat.

Sweetheart: I'm pulling up your shirt and kissing your chest.Wellhung: Now I'm unbuttoning your blouse.My hands are trembling.Sweetheart: I'm moaning softly.

Wellhung: I'm taking hold of your blouse and sliding it off slowly.

Sweetheart: I'm throwing my head back in pleasure.The cool silk slides off my warm skin. I'm rubbing your bulge faster, pulling and rubbing.

Wellhung: My hand suddenly jerks spastically and accidentally rips a hole in your blouse. I'm sorry.

Sweetheart: That's OK, it wasn't really too expensive.

Wellhung: I'll pay for it.

Sweetheart: Don't worry about it. I'm wearing a lacy black bra.My soft breasts are rising and falling, as I breath harder and harder.

Wellhung: I'm fumbling with the clasp on your bra. I think it's stuck. Do you have any scissors?

Sweetheart: I take your hand and kiss it softly. I'm reaching back undoing the clasp. The bra slides off my body. The air caresses my breasts. My nipples are erect for you.

Wellhung: How did you do that? I'm picking up the bra and inspecting the clasp.

Sweetheart: I'm arching my back. Oh baby. I just want to feel your tongue all over me.

Wellhung: I'm dropping the bra. Now I'm licking your, you know, breasts. They're neat!

Sweetheart: I'm running my fingers through your hair. Now I'm nibbling your ear.

Wellhung: I suddenly sneeze. Your breasts are covered with spit and phlegm.

Sweetheart: What?

Wellhung: I'm so sorry. Really.

Sweetheart: I'm wiping your phlegm off my breasts with the remains of my blouse.

Wellhung: I'm taking the sopping wet blouse from you. I drop it with a plop.

Sweetheart: OK. I'm pulling your sweat pants down and rubbing your hard tool.

Wellhung: I'm screaming like a woman. Your hands are cold! Yeeee!

Sweetheart: I'm pulling up my miniskirt. Take off my panties.

Wellhung: I'm pulling off your panties. My tongue is going all over, in and out nibbling on you ... umm ... wait a minute.

Sweetheart: What's the matter?

Wellhung: I've got a pubic hair caught in my throat. I'm choking.

Sweetheart: Are you OK?

Wellhung: I'm having a coughing fit.

Sweetheart: Can I help?

Wellhung: I'm running to the kitchen, choking wildly. I'm fumbling through the cabinets, looking for a cup. Where do you keep your cups?

Sweetheart: In the cabinet to the right of the sink.

Wellhung: I'm drinking a cup of water. There, that's better.

Sweetheart: Come back to me, lover.

Wellhung: I'm washing the cup now.

Sweetheart: I'm on the bed arching for you.

Wellhung: I'm drying the cup. Now I'm putting it back in the cabinet. And now I'm walking back to the bedroom. Wait, it's dark, I'm lost. Where's the bedroom?

Sweetheart: Last door on the left at the end of the hall.

Wellhung: I found it.

Sweetheart: I'm tuggin' off your pants. I'm moaning. I want you so badly.

Wellhung: Me too.

Sweetheart: Your pants are off. I kiss you passionately-our naked bodies pressing each other.

Wellhung: Your face is pushing my glasses into my face. It hurts.

Sweetheart: Why don't you take off your glasses?

Wellhung: OK, but I can't see very well without them. I place the glasses on the night table.

Sweetheart: I'm bending over the bed. Give it to me, baby!

Wellhung: I have to pee. I'm fumbling my way blindly across the room and toward the bathroom.

Sweetheart: Hurry back, lover.

Wellhung: I find the bathroom and it's dark. I'm feeling around for the toilet. I lift the lid.

Sweetheart: I'm waiting eagerly for your return.

Wellhung: I'm done going. I'm feeling around for the flush handle, but I can't find it. Uh-oh!

Sweetheart: What's the matter now?

Wellhung: I've realized that I've peed into your laundry hamper. Sorry again. I'm walking back to the bedroom now, blindly feeling my way.

Sweetheart: Mmm, yes. Come on.

Wellhung: OK, now I'm going to put know ... thing ... in your ... you know ... woman's thing.

Sweetheart: Yes! Do it, baby! Do it!

Wellhung: I'm touching your smooth butt. It feels so nice. I kiss your neck. Umm, I'm having a little trouble here.

Sweetheart: I'm moving my ass back and forth, moaning. I can't stand it another second! Slide in! Screw me now!

Wellhung: I'm flaccid.

Sweetheart: What?

Wellhung: I'm limp. I can't sustain an erection.

Sweetheart: I'm standing up and turning around; an incredulous look on my face.

Wellhung: I'm shrugging with a sad look on my face, my weiner all floppy. I'm going to get my glasses and see what's wrong.

Sweetheart: No, never mind. I'm getting dressed. I'm putting on my underwear. Now I'm putting on my wet nasty blouse.

Wellhung: No wait! Now I'm squinting, trying to find the night table. I'm feeling along the dresser, knocking over cans of hair spray, picture frames and your candles.

Sweetheart: I'm buttoning my blouse. Now I'm putting on my shoes.

Wellhung: I've found my glasses. I'm putting them on. My God! One of our candles fell on the curtain. The curtain is on fire! I'm pointing at it, a shocked look on my face.

Sweetheart: Go to hell. I'm logging off, you loser!

Wellhung: Now the carpet is on fire! Oh noooo!

Sweetheart: (Disconnect)

Sunday, January 9, 2005

Sweet Release

Soundtrack: Bryan Ferry / Love Is The Drug

I've been having a conversation with an inconceivably sexy fucking girl today about sex in public places. This lead to us getting all hot and steamy and having to run out of the beer garden at The Retreat and straight into the toilets to fuck. I love those moments, I need you NOW. Right the fuck now. I need to be inside you NOW. All I can think about is you, your heat, your smell...

Unfortunately, the smell of urine and listening to the person in the cubicle next to you have THE LONGEST PISS EVER IN THE HISTORY OF PISSING, isn't conducive to creating the sort of atmosphere you require for a secretive, slightly public tryst. It is however exactly the sort of place you need to be if you feel like rolling around on the ground in hysterics trying not to make a sound as you snot laughter and slap your partner in the face with your raging erection as she too is on her knees for all the wrong reasons just waiting to let that beautiful fucking high pitched shreeky giggle loose.

Anyways, got me thinking whilst I'm drinking. Thinking of all the strange places I have made the dirty love, and there are a lot as I am a walking raging libido. All this talking and bonding and connecting as real people with real feelings is for chumps. Let's make with the big fuck and collapse in a heap then do it all over again. All the time. Ok? Great. Actually, we should also eat amazing food as often as possible, but only to keep our strength up for all the naughty. Still in? Great! I think you and I are going to get along just fine. Now shut up and suck my cock. Woohoo!


My probably not definitive as my memory is fucked list of crazy places I've had sex.

1. Bridge Road is a busy shopping strip. My friend and I knew two girls who lived above a shop on Bridge Road. After being out all night with them, they took us home and we gave them lots of cocaine and I then proceeded to fuck one of them on the awning above the street. At lunchtime on a Saturday. When thousands of people were walking underneath us and most likely watching my pasty white hairy boppin' man arse merrily doing it's thing. She was saying how much she liked "Bad Boys" and I was making the stupid cocaine talk, something like, "yeah baby, i'm a bad boy."


That it so bad.

2. In the very back seat of a Greyhound bus between Melbourne and Sydney. The best part of this is not that everyone in front of you is facing forward, but that when you drive through little towns and stop at the lights, people on the street can actually stand and gape as you happily fuck the girl who is sitting facing forward on your lap. AND if you a truly a demented, tortured comic genius, you can actually give these bystanders the thumbs up whilst doing it.

At first you'll think this was a dumb thing to do, the thumbs up. But years later, you will look back and realise you were ahead of your time, and if only someone would write that into a movie then you will feel complete.

3. One New Year's Eve, many years ago I was at Confest. Confest is a large, dirty and extremely nasally offensive gathering of hippies all nude laying in lice-infested mud, playing fucking bongos and re-connecting with nature. Man.

My friend Craig and I had gone up there on a whim with no camping supplies whatsoever except a tarpaulin the size of four hankerchiefs. Luckily, we also had eight bottles of Jack Daniels and 18 tabs of acid with which, we reasoned, we would stay awake for four days and not need to use the hankertarp.

After taking two on the first night and drinking someone else's cask Riesling as well as six of the bottled of Jack, I woke up under a log in the middle of a paddock. My feet covered by the tarp and my face covered in spider webs.

The next night was New Year's Eve. I'd found my housemate Kate amongst the festy throng and fire twirlers. We laughed at the hippies together for a few hours until it got dark and the fire twirlers were replaced by a fire of a completely different kind and our smiles kind of changed and we began to touch each other a lot more when we spoke and...and...

I took her by the hand and we ran away from the festival, over a fence and into an empty paddock on a neighbouring farm. We were missing the build up to midnight but there were better things to be doing. We ran straight into the centre of the paddock and undressed each other. It was an intensely clear night and we were hundreds of kilometres from the city so the sky was bleeding red with stars. We kissed, I lay on my back and she climbed on. We were laughing it was fucking amazing where we were, fucking amazing. Smiling and gazing at your fuck buddy is a truly wonderful experience, but out there, it was something else. Eventually it got to that point and screaming with lust and laughter we came together, and as we did, it must've hit midnight because New Years Eve, in the country, in a paddock, under millions and millions of stars...we looked into each other's eyes and came as fireworks went off above us, around us.


Of course there's more. But it's Sunday and i'm going to go back to the pub to drink with my sexy girl's best friend and watch her boyfriend the musical genius strut his stuff on stage.

If you happen to bump into me there, don't ask. Just take me by the hand and let's find a dark alleyway.

Tuesday, January 4, 2005

That was then, this is now

Soundtrack: Swervedriver / Duress (Don't know it? Listen to it. Killer.)

Maybe it's because I've been reading David Sedaris, which has been by the way, infinitely more satisfying than reading The Corrections, Modern Masterpiece though it may be; or maybe because in one and a half hours I will be turning 32. Maybe it's because the moon is now waning and it is in the second half of the waxing moon when Capricornian Goatboys should feel truly on fire. Maybe it's the cocaine I did on New Year's Eve, this though is most implausible as I partook of a frugal three lines and was in bed by 4 o'clock when previously I have been known to stay awake for nigh on 96 hours and have managed to bounce back without getting all philosophical and maudlin. Sure I felt like a bucket of hog jowls that had been mauled by a rampaging chimpanzee, yet I always managed to do so without having to delve into my inner psyche, probing and sniffing the synapses of my emotional computer. I don't know what the fuck is keeping me here. Chain smoking and shooting my self-indulgent word jism all over you. Kleenex anyone? On your tits you say? Close to the heart. That's how I like it.

But here I am. Just another verbose fucking blogger crapping on about life's little idiosyncrasies. No current affairs here mate, no Top Ten lists, not even another orgy story to share as that seed has long since dried out and crusted far below. Not to say I won't happen to find myself at some other Sex Party in the near future, God knows what awaits me, but here in Hell, God comes in short supply.

The odd exaggeration aside, every story I have told on this blog has been true, and yet, all I have written about it the side that earnt me the nickname "Madman" so many years ago. I kind of like that. Nothing worse than returning to a blog that previously entertained you and finding some sort of morose post detailing the writer's woes and tribulations, broken dreams and lost opportunities. Then again, I made this spot. It's my fucking crazy spot. I have many friends, a lot of them wild and crazy, but were they ever to ask me to join them for a beer whilst they poured their hearts out to me, I would never turn them down. BUT fear not fellow scribe, for I am not about to bore you with such troubles. In fact, the funny thing is, life has never been better. I am in love. I work for myself, successfully, I am (chain smoking aside) quite fit and healthy. I have not a fucking thing to be angsty about. Which is why it's shitting me that I'm fucking sitting here crapping on in the middle of the night. Insomnia? Meh. Nothing a few shots of Tequila can't fix. Malaise? Cheap this time of year. Boredom? Boredom. Hmmm...

Don't you loath smarmy people with their, "only boring people get bored" phrase? I'm not a violent person so I have no response readily available when faced with this offense. On an "on" day, I would simply cry, "WOOHOO!" and dance like a monkey in front of them, drink a shot of jagermeister and laugh at them so hard I would be dripping black snot out of my eyes. But on an "off" day, it hurts me to think the limit of my intellect is to simply ignore them and hope to fuck they go and smarmy themselves the fuck outta my face.

But I don't think that boredom is what is keeping me here either.

I'm looking. I'm looking for something. I'm looking for something so hard I can no longer see what the fuck it is I'm looking for and I'm sure as hell it's right in front of me but fuck i've been staring for so long it's all out of focus and even if I had already found it would I even fucking know? I can see the word-connection now, blogging / bogging. I truly am sitting awake at night having a gigantic vocabularic crap on my computer screen. No wonder writers drink coffee and smoke cigarettes all night. You have a coffee and a cigarette first thing in the morning and I GUARANTEE the words will flow straight out of you. The Publish Post button and the Save as Draft button just an electronic half flush / full flush.

But let's get out of this facility and tell some wild and wooly fucking stories.

It's my birthday.

Two years ago I received a text message out of the blue from a brothel called the Daily Planet. It read something along the lines of, "Dear Mr. Barker. You have been chosen to receive a free half an hour visit to our premises to celebrate your thirtieth birthday. Please show this text message and proof of identification at the front desk to collect."


Now, I have made a promise to be truthful on this blog, so I'll tell you that in my past I have paid for the god awful guilt / pleasure that only a certified Lady of the Night can provide. So I wasn't particularly taken aback by the thought. I was however, a little perplexed as to how this particular Den of Iniquity, which I had not been near for nigh on ten years had not only known my birthday but also my fucking mobile phone number. What the fuck, they keep a database? DNA samples?

Now, at the time I was in a beautiful yet waning relationship, which had reached the point of my partner occasionally checking my phone for any stray text messages which might have explained my regular disappearances. In actual fact, amphetamines were the cause of my little "walkabouts" the fact that I was sleeping around and causing shitloads of trouble whilst on these amphetamines were mere by-products.

Anyway, I knew that it was unsafe to keep the message. Really, I didn't even want to go. But the fact that they had gone to all this trouble to text me and the fact that it was such a dirty little secret to have that message on my phone, kind of turned me on. That's fucked up. That's probably why, though I possess a caring soul, I always have had trouble in long term relationships. Because little secrets turn me on. Now I know girls like that too. Makes life...interesting, in a completely dysfunctional way. I think I'm getting over it. I think if it happened to me now I'd take the text, show it to whoever I was with and say, "Woohoo! Free Hookers! Wanna come?" If they replied in the negative, at least I'd be guilt free.

Anyway, the message. This is where it gets weird. But I have to digress I'm afraid.

Many years ago, I decided I needed a computer. I needed a computer like a junkie needs a fit. Yet, I was so piss-ant poor I probably couldn't have afforded a second hand fucking Commodore 64. In my desperation I turned to my ex-Step Father and asked him to guarantor a finance agreement with a computer company that I might take delivery of my plastic fantastic. To my surprise, he agreed. To my even greater surprise, before i had even signed the fucking agreement, in fact, before the paper work had even arrived at my house, the computer did. There was a knock, I answered, the delivery man handed it over, then he left.

I couldn't believe it. I rang my Step Father and told him the story, he told me to keep my mouth shut and if he ever heard anything, being the guarantor, from the finance company he'd let me know and then I could pay. Until then, stay down low and go go go. Sweet.

Nothing. For years. Not a fucking peep. Every now and again, I would speak to my SF and he would say, "ever hear anything about the computer?" and I would reply, "not a fucking thing! you?" Nothing. Anyway, this charade went on for maybe three years before it dawned on me that he had just bought the computer for me. I rang him up and confronted him. He laughingly replied, "Happy Birthday."

I never went to the brothel that year. I deleted the text and strove to be a faithful boyfriend.

I did however receive a text message the next day.

"Happy Birthday."

Don't you think that's fucking wrong?

It's half an hour until my birthday. You can contact me on 04.........