Nu-Disco Goth

One of the TV ‘reality’ talent showed I enjoyed the most was So Your Think You Can Dance. Thanks to pandemic & the plethora of other talent shows Can Dance came to an end. The show introduced me to many great, non-mainstream, musicians. Much of this CD compilation are such musicians. 

 

Nick Monaco is electronic music DJ who founded Unisex Records. One of his tracks came up not ehh how & glenn I saw a video of The Stalker on tumblr. Homoerotic is putting it mild. Here I have The Stalker ep; Veni Vidi Vogue ep; & Naked is My Nature. Bouncy, inventive & great keystroke music. Not emotionally draining & sweet. 

Bright Light Bright Light is Welsh nu-disco creator. The fact that he’s Welsh was a plus. I have Life Is Easy, Make Me Believe In Hope. Similar to Monaco but with more vocals. Uplifting, sex positive, danceable. Lyrically easy to understand & emotionally non-demanding without being banal. Good fun & great keyboard music.  

Somewhat different is Rozz Williams who was a goth who moved into a sort of punk cabaret sound. Rock music that doesn’t blister the ears. I have tow of his posthumous cds Accept The Gift Of Sin, Sleeping Dogs – they feature originals, live tracks & cover versions of Lou Reed & David Bowie. Great stuff & worth tracking down. 

Christophe Filippi is another one I never would have heard of if it hadn’t been Think You Can Dance. I have his Movements. This music for reaching out with one arm slightly lifted to a distance hopeful fray of light on a horizon. Deliberate, almost ponderous with longing vocals. 

Finally: Dirtybird Players a dance and electronic Music compilation by the Dirtybird label that includes Nick Monaco. If you want a state of the art (2017) of this genre this is a compilation for you. There is a nice diversity of sonic textures here & yet another good key stoke set of tracks.

 

The Allegory of Love 3

“He’s not going anywhere. Brian’s my guest. He’s my friend.” Steve called from the living room.

Ron stomped to the living room. “Some friend.”

I followed, pulling on my sweatshirt, afraid of how I might do if Ron continued to get physical. My intuitive reaction was to kill.

“Since when can’t I have a friend here?” Steve rushed at him. “You have enough of the.”

Ron pushed him back. “Since it was this trash. He insulted me without cause. You were there.”

“So, that’s it. Some girls can’t take as good as they give.” I thought. Even though I couldn’t remember what we said to each other that time years ago. I knew my words were as spiteful as his. The fact that I found Steve so attractive was probably what he remembered. My mind flooded with cruel defensive remarks, but all I wanted was out, before I became as unmanageable as Ron.

“I don’t want to make your life difficult, Steve. This isn’t worth fighting over.” I felt I had to say something, but didn’t want to feed into Ron’s anger by saying too much. He seemed too enraged to listen.

“You are right. Trash like you isn’t worth fighting over. He admits it. Now get out of MY home. Never show your face or that tired ass here again.”

I wanted to ask him why he was so frightened. I didn’t think I was a real threat to to their relationship. I never made complicated demands on Steve. Never pursued him. A simple little tumble every now & then was all I wanted. Maybe the fact that Steve enjoyed my ‘no demands’ was threat enough.

“This is my home too.” Steve shouted.

“Good. Great. I’ll be out of here in the morning if that’s what you want, & then you & your trashy friends can fuck your brains out all you want & get AIDS & die for all I care.” Ron’s voice rose to a scream. “But while I’m here I don’t want this piece of trash where I can see it.”

“You’re like this with anyone I like. Why do I have to friends you approve of?”

“Why do you live like this?” I thought, knowing it impossible to reason with anyone this angry. All they  want to hear is their own anger. “Someone should rescue you,” I thought, admitting that that someone wasn’t me. Steve would have to rescue himself, that is, if he wanted to be rescued at all.

“I’m going. Call me.” I said. For me the only way to deal with their anger, without become a part of it, was to walk away from it.

Ron stood by the door, arms crossed over his thin chest, glaring intently at me. Steve sat on the sofa, slumped forward, arms hanging between his legs, looking at me. I almost said, “Come with me” but wanted him to say that himself.

I waved goodbye. Ron shoved me out the door. If he had hit me with half the force he slammed the door with I’d have been flat on my back. In the elevator down I wondered if this is what love became – fear & procession.

I muddled the scene over the next day, looking for a right thing I could have said or done. I had just started to write Steve telling him how I felt, when it dawned me that I had been used. Steve hadn’t asked me back to his place to get in my pants, but to annoy Ron. Ron’s anger proved that he cared enough about him to be hurt by me. I doubted if they were even aware of what they were doing to each other. And me? I wasn’t using my head if I expected them to change just to satisfy my teddybear longings.

And as Steve brushed by me tonight, with that hook in his thigh, I long to take the bait, but I don’t do more than look. I’m not going to piss in that wind, tonight.

“Not again!” I reluctantly pushed Steve’s roaming hand away. “Don’t start something you’re not going to finish.”

“He’s not going anywhere. Brian’s my guest. He’s my friend.” Steve called from the living room.

Ron stomped to the living room. “Some friend.”

I followed, pulling on my sweatshirt, afraid of how I might do if Ron continued to get physical. My intuitive reaction was to kill.

“Since when can’t I have a friend here?” Steve rushed at him. “You have enough of the.”

Ron pushed him back. “Since it was this trash. He insulted me without cause. You were there.”

“So, that’s it. Some girls can’t take as good as they give.” I thought. Even though I couldn’t remember what we said to each other that time years ago. I knew my words were as spiteful as his. The fact that I found Steve so attractive was probably what he remembered. My mind flooded with cruel defensive remarks, but all I wanted was out, before I became as unmanageable as Ron.

“I don’t want to make your life difficult, Steve. This isn’t worth fighting over.” I felt I had to say something, but didn’t want to feed into Ron’s anger by saying too much. He seemed too enraged to listen.

“You are right. Trash like you isn’t worth fighting over. He admits it. Now get out of MY home. Never show your face or that tired ass here again.”

I wanted to ask him why he was so frightened. I didn’t think I was a real threat to to their relationship. I never made complicated demands on Steve. Never pursued him. A simple little tumble every now & then was all I wanted. Maybe the fact that Steve enjoyed my ‘no demands’ was threat enough.

“This is my home too.” Steve shouted.

“Good. Great. I’ll be out of here in the morning if that’s what you want, & then you & your trashy friends can fuck your brains out all you want & get AIDS & die for all I care.” Ron’s voice rose to a scream. “But while I’m here I don’t want this piece of trash where I can see it.”

“You’re like this with anyone I like. Why do I have to friends you approve of?”

“Why do you live like this?” I thought, knowing it impossible to reason with anyone this angry. All they  want to hear is their own anger. “Someone should rescue you,” I thought, admitting that that someone wasn’t me. Steve would have to rescue himself, that is, if he wanted to be rescued at all.

“I’m going. Call me.” I said. For me the only way to deal with their anger, without become a part of it, was to walk away from it.

Ron stood by the door, arms crossed over his thin chest, glaring intently at me. Steve sat on the sofa, slumped forward, arms hanging between his legs, looking at me. I almost said, “Come with me” but wanted him to say that himself.

I waved goodbye. Ron shoved me out the door. If he had hit me with half the force he slammed the door with I’d have been flat on my back. In the elevator down I wondered if this is what love became – fear & procession.

I muddled the scene over the next day, looking for a right thing I could have said or done. I had just started to write Steve telling him how I felt, when it dawned me that I had been used. Steve hadn’t asked me back to his place to get in my pants, but to annoy Ron. Ron’s anger proved that he cared enough about him to be hurt by me. I doubted if they were even aware of what they were doing to each other. And me? I wasn’t using my head if I expected them to change just to satisfy my teddybear longings.

And as Steve brushed by me tonight, with that hook in his thigh, I long to take the bait, but I don’t do more than look. I’m not going to piss in that wind, tonight.

“Not again!” I reluctantly pushed Steve’s roaming hand away. “Don’t start something you’re not going to finish.”

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Fear Walks In

Fear Walks In

some people

bring fear into a room

ideologies that I am expected

to accomodate

without knowing

<>

they prejudge me

for prejudging them

merely because of who I am

of who I appear to be to them

<>

I am an enemy on first sight

without having to say a word

or take any action

other than being there

of being unlike them

they feel unsafe

because I am not invisible

and it is my fault

<>

all my fault

for not understanding

what they haven’t told me

At a recovery meeting, when we could meet face to face, after a step had been read aloud – going from person to person around the room – a member shared on their difficulty with the hetero male normative language. When they read their section they de-gendered the language & as did some of the others who read. They implied that those of us who did not, lacked sensitivity to important gender issues. 

I gave an inner shrug – I’ve been around recovery rooms long enough that I am not unsympathetic to this but at the same time I’m in recovery to recover not to deal with linguistics or how to do the gender appropriate reading aloud of the literature. 

Referring to God as a him is off putting to some people, referring God at all is off putting to some people – if I don’t take pains to make the proper substitutions I make them feel unsafe. What can one do. Stop reading aloud? Ask for a show of hands, before reading starts, of people who feel unsafe because there are cismales in the room who don’t mind being called he? Online some people are including their pronouns as part of their names. (By the way my pronouns are it or that.)

After reading at an lgbtqia open stage an audience member spoke to me about enjoying my pieces but wondered if such sexually explicit material was appropriate because many in the community were triggered by such material. I had introduced one of pieces as being explicit but I guess I hadn’t allowed people enough time to leave the room. I’ve spent enough energy in saying my ‘partner’ & avoiding gender specific pronouns so as not to offended delicate hetero sensibilities that I’m not going spare lgbtqia by suppressing myself. I’d rather not perform than get trapped by self-censorship.

The fact is I’m not all that sensitive.

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Games

Growing up we had a frequent Sunday night family game with card games & board games. I don’t recall exactly when it started but may bother & sisters were included. We would play in the dining-room, which we rarely used for dining. The table was large enough & was usually clear of stuff. Card games were simple enough Hearts, Crazy 8s. I was told by my Dad not to try too hard to win to my siblings had a chance.

We graduated to Rummoli. I checked it out online & the fold out board is familiar but the rules for the various elements boggle the mind. I recall Cribbage mainly because keeping score was a pain. Gin Rummy was another but that too was a point counting challenge. I usually let someone else keep score for both.

Although we had Monopoly & Scrabble, the board games I recall best are Stock Ticker & Careers. Both were dice games with playing pieces. In Stock Ticker one bought & sold shares as they went up & down with rolls of the dice. The game had its own paper play money. It could go on forever, I think. Or maybe it was over when all the play money was gone or someone had gone bankrupt. The one with the most money was the winner.

Careers was a sort of Monopoly variation. Rolling dice. Moving your piece around the game board & landing on good or bad squares. There was also a form to fill in of what you wanted: fame, money etc. The winner was the one who first fulfilled what they filled in on their form. I was fond of going for all love or all fame as $ wasn’t as lasting 🙂

With the lockdown I hope more families are trying to this old school games. I have tried the computer/video versions of some of them but I like the simplicity of the hard copy 🙂 Card games are too fast even if the computer keeps score. The electronic sound of dice rolling or cards shuffling isn’t as satisfying. Besides you can’t ask the desktop to get you a sandwich while it’s up 🙂

(games photos sourced via yahoo images)

Eggs Rule

there were more eggs 

than the eye could see

they stretched from one door to the next

from one telephone pole to the next

balanced on electric wires

dangling from the tips of tree branches

<>

eggs of all colors and sizes

robin’s blue so simple and pure

lumpen grey brown emu 

shells that couldn’t be cracked 

shells that cracked at a slight breeze

eggs in mailboxes on street corners

rolling around with nothing to do

aimless without purpose

loitering without intent

<>

eggs looking to be scrambled

to be fried by the right pair of eyes

the temptation to let them all hatch

had to be resisted

too many feathers

the gritty remains of shells under foot 

was irritating enough without 

moulting and feathers in the equation

feathers that held microbes mites diseases

eggs were harmless

as long as they remain intact

it was hard to avoid them

<>

eggs on the subway

leaning over your shoulder 

hinting they wanted to sit down

trying to nestle in your pockets

for warm incubation

eggs on tv telling 

newsmen what to say

controlling the weather

refusing you a loan at the bank

spinning dizzy

at any hint of being interested 

in anything you say against them

<>

eggs rule the world now

we might as well accept that

put down that spatula

don’t go near that whisk

eggs are in control

so surrender

this is their world now

it always was

we have been forced out of denial

the truth can finally be told

<>

eggs invited the light bulb

made the first Atantic crossing

landed on the moon

all history books are to be revised

to reveal the awful inadequacy of humans

in the face of facts

that showed our greedy eagerness 

to hog all the fame acclaim glory

that belongs soley to the egg

the egg that wrote the ninth symphony 

the gg that found the first the rose

the egg that invented the book of love

and now wants 

to tear out all the pages

wants to break our hearts

to serve them sunny side up

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See You Again Never

I took this set of photos a couple of summers ago when this hoarding art sprung over the course of a couple of weeks. I loved the message, the style, the use of found objects & how it reprised what was already on the hoarding. 

It’s on the south side of Danforth,  east of Bastedo Ave. The remains of it are still there. Bits & pieces hav been torn off but it hasn’t been obliterated by the city even for Destination Danforth. My only disappointment is it didn’t inspire more of the same on other hoardings.

Oh yes – the hoarding protects an empty pit waiting decades now for redevelopment. At one time there was a hardware store there. The store caught fire & was totally incinerated. Going through the remains the fire inspectors found human remains & evidence that the fire had been set by the deceased.


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Modest Mojo Monae

I bought my first Modest Mouse cd on sale at HMV. That was the moon & antartica. I subsequently added Everywhere & his nasty Parlour Tricks, Good News For People Who Love Bad News, We Were Dead Even Before The Ship Sank, No One’s First & You’re Next. All of which I have as stand-alone cds. In a way they are reminiscent of the Byrds with jangly guitars & sweet harmonies. 

Their sound is a mix of emo & indie-rock. Lyrics are wry romantic commentary with a dash of political. Great word play – as the cd titles reflect. Sort of nerdy, sometimes a bit funky & dare I say – often pretty. Songs that show in for sensitive moments in romcoms & crime movies to give them a ‘hip’ echo. I always enjoy these when I hear them but rarely do I get the mood to pull out for listen.

Mojo, which I think is still publishing, is a British pop music magazine that usually had a cd included. Sometime the cd was a collection of recent releases, sometimes it was one they had complied of covers of songs by James Brown, The Who.  This one from 2007 is Sgt. Pepper lp covers by groups such as Simple Rid, Dave Cloud & The Gospel of Power. These the magazine commissioned. I love Sgt. Pepper & the still obscure groups do a great job with these songs & some actually re-invent rather than re-create the originals. 

I kept reading raves about Janelle Monae. I caught a video of one of her songs, then accidentally saw her live on some daytime talk show as I skipping through channels. I like her retro look & was intrigued by the sci-fi subtext of her videos. So I picked up ArchAndroid on sale at HMV & enjoyed it. Then eventually added Dirty Computer. Great production values, interesting songs & a great voice.

A short story discovered in my archives. It goes back to pre-1995 as the original printout is dot matrix 🙂 I’ve done minimal editing. It is based on a real incident.

The Allegory of Love

2

He laughed, stumbling into me.

“So, what’s the promotion mean?” I asked, steadying him with an arm around his shoulder.

“More money, more responsibility.”

“A good worker like you deserves it.”

He turned. “You always say nice things about me.”

I was nonplussed. “Why not? People deserve all the praise they can get. You’re pretty good people as far as I’m concerned.”

“You never let me down,” he want on, quite serious.

“Let you down? I don’t understand.” I resisted adding, ‘I don’t see you enough to let you down.’

“You’re always the same. You treat me kind. So many guys are just … mean for the sake of being mean.”

“I like you, Steve. That’s the way I treat people I like.” I put my other arm around him & kissed the top of his head. “And you I more than like.”

“I’m sure.” He blushed. “Well, I see 1708 still has a light on.” He was squinting up at his apartment window. “I hope that doesn’t mean what I think it means.”

“And if it does.”

“Come on,” He pulled out his keys & we went in.

“This is still a gays only building?” I joked.

“I suppose,” he answered flatly.

At his door, he fumbled with the keys, dropping them twice. “Shit shit shit” he cursed under his breath.

“Well, here goes,” I whispered as we went in. I headed for the living room. A glance over my shoulder down the short hall & I saw that Ron’s door was slightly ajar. Next to it was the bathroom & then Steve’s bedroom.

“So far, so good,” I thought as I sat on the sofa in the darkest corner of the room.

Steve went into the kitchen & got a beer. He unbuttoned his shirt & sat next to me. There was a rustling sound from one of the cages behind us.

“Ofeelme is preggers.” Steve explained, sitting up on his knees & gingerly putting on hand into the cage to brush the fur of a swollen hamster. “How you doing little mama?” He whispered gently.

“How’s Hamlet?” I asked. 

“Proud as can be. I separated them because the last time Papa got a bit jealous & ate some of the babies.”

“Gross, Steve. You really know how to turn me on.”

He laughed, lifting Hamlet out of the other cage. “He’s happy to see you. Say Hi to Uncle Bri.” He sat holding the hamster gently in his hand, lightly stroking the fur between its ears. “You always love me, don’ you Hamlet? Food in the same place is all you ask. You know,” he turned to me, “he goes back time & time again to the place where he got food hoping to get fed again”

I kissed Steven the shoulder as he put Hamlet back.

“Let’s go to bed.” He gave me another of his wonderful, sloppy kisses.

I darted past Ron’s room to Steve’s just on the other side of the bathroom. As I pulled off my sweatshirt the dark hall echoed with the slap of barefoot on hardwood. It was suddenly flooded with bright light.

“Steven! How dare you! You know I have to work in the morning, you know.” Ron exploded with an exasperated whine. There was the sound of a smack.

I held my breath as the bare feet came directly to Steve’s room. The sound of that smack reverberated in my mind. The last thing I wanted was some domestic squabble. The door was shoved open hard & I was caught in the intrusive hall light. 

“And how dare … YOU? I told Steve never to bring you into my house.”

He clenched his fist & hit me in the chest. “Get out of here, you trash.”

Not much of a punch,” I thought. The glaring light kept me from being distracted by his hairless naked body.

“Get going, now.” He handed my jacket & shoved me toward the door.

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Between The Lines

Between The Lines

so this is how it ends

no bang

no whimper

but with a snort

two lines of blow

careful spread 

on your cellphone screen

<>

that you did 

this sort of thing

didn’t bother me particularly

as long as you did it

without me as an audience

as long as you did it

outside of my residence

<>

when you aren’t here

it’s not a part of my life

not a part of our play

our play is best confined

to the two of us

<>

substances

are like a third party

one that quickly becomes the focus

it takes over

demands to be 

the only thing that counts

me being in the room

was a distraction

<>

you being in the room

was now a disappointment

and when you left

I was relieved to see you go

not wishing you could stay longer

those two lines

closed a door

that will never open to you again

This is a real life experience. I met this man on a site were younger men who prefer older men ‘meet.’ Most gay sites do have a range of ages but on many, older is horrifying, unseemly &, to be frank, discouraged. But agism is another post. I’m not an aggressive looker but if you want to win the lottery you at least have to buy a ticket 😉 Trust me online dating is a lottery.

He contacts me. Sends me a few sexy pics. Young, straight neither of which do that much for me but he was short, hairy, dark & eager. Number, texts get exchanged & eventually he shows up at my door &, gasp, is almost exactly as he presented himself to be. By almost I mean he looked younger than he claimed but he did show me his ID. By young I mean early 20’s, though emotionally he was just an over sexed 16 year old.

I saw him irregularly for a few years. My experience with guys in recovery kept me from taking him too seriously but I saw no reason to be parental with him either. He loved texting me on the sly when he was at clubs with his girlfriend. My lack of trust was justified. My availability decreased & we weren’t so attached I felt the need to tell him why.

He lost job. He got another one. He moved in with a girlfriend. He lost a girlfriend. He moved back in with his parents. He’s text at 6 in the morning wanting to see me asap – as if that could happen. I was more amused than anything else. This last time was after being ‘busy’ when he texted three or four times with a months between each text, I relented.

The occasion, two years ago now, went pretty much as the piece describes it. I may have heard from him since, I’m not sure, as I deleted his # from my phone, which I do often when I haven’t heard someone for a while or don’t care to hear from them. You know, some people will text expecting you to know who they without tell you who it is that is texting. This year I did get a few festive hellos from these unrecognized number strangers.

So guys keep this in mind – If I’m not the main attraction I’m not interested 🙂

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My Editing Riot

So I’m editing this old short story, from the mid 80’s, so I can air it here on the blog & I get distracted by this show of force in the US capital. Do I want to see what they do or do I want to correctly punctuate a sentence? As they climb over barricades & breaking windows I’m breaking down paragraphs. Are they protestors or terrorists. A rampage of white entitlement that eventually fizzles out. No one even shit on the podium. Death by stress & no change in the results, the forgone conclusions.

In my story there is a change in names, a clarification of motivations but the same result. The story results as comedic as the clumsy crowd of echos lurching up & down the Capital building stairs, bumping into each other as they attempt to get the perfect backgrounds for selfies of their righteous bravery. Everyone seems disappointed at the lack of blood on the floor, that there isn’t any burning buildings for truly dramatic context to tweet.

Already that narrative is being rewritten so that every side is at fault as they insist they are upholding the fine principles of democracy, capitalism & freedom of selfie speech. My characters don’t have that much freedom, even as I change their size & shape they tell me what they should do in the situation I created for them. I allow them to be frail, vacillating & only threats to themselves. As much as they are under my control I end up surrendering them to spellcheck & word count – or should I say word re-count. Even when the story is finished it is not certifiable 🙂 but part 1 was posted here with my music blog on Thursday. https://topoet.ca/2021/01/06/jonesing-for-joplin/

Satisfied

in movies about a future

with few survivors 

that stumble across an abandoned store

with canned food on the shelves

not much

watching we think

how desperate they feel

how sad

so when i go into a supermarket

today

i think

even if what want isn’t there

there is still lots there

there is enough

<>

at one time

thank you

wasn’t enough

there had to be praise

adulation

thank you

didn’t go far enough

i had to be grateful

that i was even allowed

to say thank you

<>

i didn’t look

when the food was served

i kept my eyes unfocused

as i ate

i didn’t ask what was on the plate

i didn’t look to cut

i trusted

each morsel was what

i was supposed to have

i didn’t question

i ate 

taste was surpressed

pleasure was not the point

the point was to eat

whatever was served

not to judge

or comment

to eat silently

then

get the fuck out

so the next person could

be satisfied 

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Jonesing for Joplin

Quincy Jones is a chameleon. His work with others is classic without a sense of his personality over-shadowing theirs. He lets the artist shine & I’ve heard anything he’s been involved with & thought ‘that’s a Quincy Jones production.’ He is not a revolutionary like, say, Phil Spector.

I have a couple of lp to cds of his ‘solo’ work: This Is How I Feel About Jazz, Plays Mancini, Ndeda. The first I found in a remainder bin & it is smooth bop. Ndeda was double set I bought used, that is a compilation of some of his soundtrack music (In The Heat of the Night) & instrumental things like Soul Safari. The Mancini is sweet & they are a perfect match. If nothing else Quincy Jones is a tasteful, elegant producer.

Near Jones is a set of lp to cd transfers of Scott Joplin music performed by Joshua Rifkin, Southland Stingers, Canadian Brass & New England Conservatory Ragtime Ensemble. Joplin almost became a footnote, his music relegated to music scholars until the movie ‘The Sting’ that made his rags universal & they were resurrected by so many ensembles one lost track & sometimes couldn’t tell who was playing which one. I enjoyed them in small doses 🙂 

Most of the recordings are too respectful, treating them like Chopin Etudes, some are jazzier & some are more in the line of sweet polite salon orchestras. So many artists recorded these I’m surprised there isn’t a Tomita version 🙂 Unlike many early 1900 blues performers there are no historic recording sof Joplin actually playing but there are some player piano rolls he made which are fun & can be found on YouTube.

A short story discovered in my archives. It goes back to pre-1995 as the original printout is dot matrix 🙂 I’ve done minimal editing. It is based on a real incident. 

The Allegory of Love

1

“Not again!” I reluctantly pushed Steve’s roaming hand away. “Don’t start something you’re not going to finish.”

He squinted up at me, uncertain & a bit drunk.

I leaned in to speak directly into his ear. “Just because I don’t like being used doesn’t mean ‘stop so soon’.”

“Used?” He took a deep swallow of his beer. “What do you mean?” He stepped back & bumped into a man in leather.

The bar’s music was so loud I couldn’t hear myself. “Call me. I can’t talk here.”

Steve nodded & disappeared into the crowd. 

Thank God I thought, breathing a sigh of relief & dismay. I do like Steve, but too much to continue with pointless flirtation.

I suspected that time a couple of weeks ago was our last encounter. It had been under the same circumstance. Me feeling the lure of the full moon & Steve feeling the lull of enough brew. We’ve had fun many times before & I always look forward to what I called ‘rubbing our two sticks together.’ 

Steve shared an apartment with Ron. When I met them both several years ago at a mutual friend’s birthday party. I was instantly attracted Steve. They were introduced to me as friends not as boyfriends. Ron was a bitch, or so it seemed. Ron & I got into clawing at each other for some reason. Something we’re all too good at, I suppose.

I ran into Steve a few nights later & came on to him like the proverbial ton on brick. It was a meltdown in the sack & has been nearly every time we got our sticks together. Usually at my place but sometimes at his, if Ron wasn’t in. Over the years sex was so good, & Steve comparable enough, I would have set up housekeeping with him, except there was that Ron in the ointment. 

Steve never described them as being lovers, but Ron seemed to run more of Steve’s life than anyone should run anyone’s. But who am I to judge?

I was open with Steve about my affection for him. He wasn’t displeased, but I could sense that emotions frightened him. Staying with Ron seemed to be his way of keeping scary feelings at bay. For lat couple of month I felt their relationship was about to change, but our last encounter made me see things differently.

I’d arrived at the bar later than usual & was making my first foray into the smokey land of men, when Steve reached out of a dark corner. He grabbed me by the belt & pulled me in for one of those long, sloppy kisses that turn me to jelly.

“Good to see ya, Brian.”

“It’s been awhile.” I laughed. I knew he was a bit looped; he usually was to be so bold.

“Watcha’ been up to? The photo biz still keep you in focus?” He teased, running his free hand over my stomach.

“Things are developing well enough. And you? Getting anywhere in men’s wear?”

“Got a promotion.” He said proudly.

“Things must be going well.” I gently bit his ear.

“We’re opening a new branch since I took over.”

“Great! Soon you’ll be Queen of the Reduced to Queers.”

He giggled. “I really like you. You make me laugh.”

“You make me …” I squeezed his bunds.

“Same here.” He returned the squeeze, while draining his beer. “I’ll be right back.”

He darted off for another beer. As I watched him merge into the crowd, I wondered if this was going to lead to one of our meltdowns. Short, stocky & hairy, he was the perfect teddy bear for me to curl around tonight.

Back with a beer, he hugged me affectionately. “You know my little wang goes ‘boink’ whenever I see you.”

“That’s nothing to complain about.”

“How am I in the sack?”

Feeling a little insecure tonight?’I thought, as I replied. “You’re great. I keep coming back, don’t I”

“You treat me so …” he took a swallow of beer.

“Tender?” I offered.

“Yeah! Like you cared.”

“Why shouldn’t I? You deserve it. Just one thing.”

“What?”

“Often we’re too rushed. I want to savour what I enjoy. I hate to eat & run when the food is so good.”

“Thanks.” He pulled me in for another fly-popping kiss. “Let’s go.” He said pulling on his jacket.

“The coast is clear tonight?”

“Ah, who gives a fuck? It’s my home as much as his.”

“You’re sure? You know I …”

“You coming?”

“Sure.” I felt a slight misgiving. “What the hell. We can go to my place, if you’d rather.” I suggested as we walked along. “You really don’t a nose-bleed going that far north.”

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Nine

Nine

O when I was nine

I was still a child

there was no instant communication

news travelled slow

on the radio TV newspapers

that provided an innocence

I knew about war

because my Dad had fought in one

he was a man

my mother was a woman

I was a boy child

who only knew what the culture 

of the time

expected of my gender 

<>

O when I was nine

I did know I wasn’t like other boys

I played backlot baseball

I played with dolls

I  wasn’t the boy my dad expected

I didn’t like to fight

like other boys

I never understood 

why physical violence was required

to be accepted

<>

O when I was nine

I learned to swim

looking at the differences

between boys and girls

anatomy I didn’t understand

the boys where more interesting

I knew shame

when we were caught

I had fear

but no closet

sex was dirty regardless

of the gender of the object

<>

O when I was nine

I don’t that I was making waves

as I waded from nine to nineteen

by the time I left nineteen

I knew

these were dangerous waters

at nine there was only

the fear of getting caught

not the fear

of my culture drowning me

like an unwanted litter of kittens

I heard on a TV documentary about children that our sense of self was basically formed by the time we are ten years old. By then we have absorbed the ‘teachings’ of TV behaviours that inform our subconscious. So, back in the day, I was aware of what the culture of the time expected of my gender. I was also aware that it wasn’t the right fit but I hadn’t developed the language for that beyond feeling it was the wrong fit. Today thanks to instant communication children have a greater knowledge of gender variations. I doubt that at the age of five I would have understood what a faggot was, children today do know what it means. 

Where was I when I was nine? We had just settled in Sydney, Cape Breton after moving across Canada for a couple years. My mother & I had spent some time with her family in Wales during this time as well. I remember ‘living’ in Moncton, Stellerton or was it Truro for short periods of time & going to schools there, briefly. Finally in Sydney, were we lived in three different neighbourhoods before my dad bought a house in Ashby.

One result was that I spent those formative years as a displaced person – someone who was different. My Dad prodded me into things that could show me how to ‘fit in’: cub scouts, YMCA. I did the best I could but felt like an outsider &, as I recall, was fine with that. I did get these weird mixed messages ‘why can’t you be like other kids’ then when I wanted some fad item ‘why can’t you think for yourself.’

I survived partially by hiding in booze & partially by writing & painting as I gradually found language for what I was. Though then that language was loaded – an abomination unto the Lord – sort of stuff. Today I know the tragic flaw wasn’t my sexuality but the way culture regarded not only lgbtq but sexuality itself.


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