Muse-ou

I have to talk a bit about my greatest Love. And this would have to be music. Even though I cannot play a musical instrument, I know that in my soul I am a musician. There is nothing else that gives me more joy than creating and performing music. When I sing I struggle to make eye contact because I feel that the great wooden doors of my being are flung open and I am completely exposed to the naked quick. I fear that I will be seen for all that I am and that this may not be enough. Yet I am slowly learning to be seen, as I sing. I feel guilty about how much I enjoy any work relating to music because to be paid to make it seems so drastically to my advantage. Even if I never earn a cent from music I will never stop making it. But I pray that that does not end up being the case.
“Singing takes the pain away. Singing helps you face another day.” These are the lyrics of my latest song entitled Lovely Old Lady. It speaks of how I truly feel about singing. When my heart has been broken and flinching in a corner like a trampled cockroach, music was the bostik that I used to put it back together. I have sung all my life. In the shower, on the loo (Yes Tipsy Tart I know you do too! ;)
When in the studio working on a song I forget about everything and just zone in on the layers of sound being weaved together. (Yes Jacob, even Gaydar!) Time speeds up and all of a sudden I’ve been sitting there for six hours without thinking about myself or analysing my existence. I have been purely consumed with the creation of a something that provokes feeling. I am not able to do this alone (Thanks Zayne!) but it feels like the truest purpose I have ever served. I love acting and writing but creating a song and then performing it, make them both pale in comparison. If God spoke I think He/She would sing.
I hope to create many songs and share them with the world. Songs that tell stories and songs that bring relief. I want people to feel my songs stir something inside them. I want my lyrics to tug at their hearts and quieten their minds. I also want to make songs that make people smile and laugh at themselves. If I was trapped on a deserted island all alone it would be the songs in my head that would keep me company and prevent me from losing my mind, as they do now.
Love and Songs are so intricately linked together and even though I am still perplexed as to what Love really is I know in my gut that it has a lot to do with music.
“It’s like losing control; it’s like being a part of a whole. It’s like losing your mind, trusting your soul, just letting go... For better or worse how I love music.” – Lebo Mathosa R.I.P.

Watch This Space!

I am sick and tired. But the real sick and tired that involves mugs of med-lemon and stinking of Vicks, not the figurative mantra of the negative masses. Actually, with regards to outlook, I am in quite a good space, (when I’m not coughing.) I have been contemplating the lyrics of a James Morrison song in which he claims that he is “not lost, just undiscovered.” I relate to this sentiment.
Like thousands of other magnificent people, I do not have anyone wrapping their arms around me at night telling me how sexy, and wonderful I am. But even without this verification I believe these things to be true. I am not starring opposite Nicole Kidman in a blockbuster and buying mansions in Mumbai but, I still believe I am a talented actor that will go places and do great things. This is my job to believe this. If I don’t do it nobody else can. Apparently the universe abhors a vacuum. (Wonder what the people at Electrolux think of that.) So if we create a vacuum in terms of self-perception and worth then the Universe will most likely fill that gap with a whole lot of crap that may not fit so nicely into our lives. I. E. If we don’t determine our worth then we will use fashion magazines, and celebrity obsessed media as a means to measure ourselves. (I am being so Mariah Carrey right now.) Best to not go around in a vacuous state then, (sorry Britney). We can’t let other people dictate the story of who we are. I believe we get to make our stories up as we go along using the props and characters that life throws at us. My story is a romantic comedy.
There’s this zany yet attractive actor trying to make the big time and find Love along the way. Yet he keeps getting cast as a drag queen or asked to take his clothes off. Despite his charm and devastating good looks he seems to be out every time Love wishes to make a delivery. He is disillusioned and is thinking about giving up. (That tedious part I’ve already been through, but now for the good part.) He begins to write a blog that really takes off and soon there are people from all over the world and all different walks of life logging on to his blog. Inspired, he then rewrites some of his blog entries as a one man show entitled “The Naked Drag Queen”. He is terrified and faces all his demons in the process of putting his thoughts on to stage and even contemplates abandoning the project a few times. (There must always be a dramatic bit.) He finally gets to his opening night and at first it seems as though his worst fears will be realised. The audience doesn’t seem to like the show. But then! Dahm! Dahm! Dahm! (Dramatic music for effect.) They begin to react and as the show progresses it becomes clear that they Love it! Soon he is on the road, performing his show about the elusiveness of Love all around the world. He is successful. He has everything he ever wanted, except Love and he is no longer finding his material all that funny. Then, one day whilst in the middle of a show he notices a set of eyes on him different from the others. He continues to share his witticisms on life and close encounters (yet never close enough) with Love to the audience, as he feels these eyes like spotlights upon him. As the show progresses he sees these eyes develop, at first, the unmistakeable sheen of deep fondness, followed by the illuminated orbs of a heart freshly lit. (He wants me.) After the show they talk for hours and wonder how either ever managed a winter without the other before that night. Suddenly, our hero has a whole new theme for a one man show (Now that we found Love, what are we gonna do with it?) and can finally leave the last one (Looking for Love) alone because it has served its purpose.
This is how I would like the story to go but I am open to a few variations. I am also open to any suggestions but, be warned. It’s my story at the end of the day, and I call the shots! (I don’t even own a vacuum!) I am such a sucker for a happy ending! I am also, on flu medicine that contains pseudo ephedrine, which I am told is a basic ingredient for “Tik” so do consider this when judging my flight of fancy to harshly. THE END (For now.)

Sour Grapes?

It’s one thing to be all alone in your own home. But tonight I am, once again, on my own in somebody else’s home. Well not completely alone because there are two very skinny dogs with me. Dogs that would much rather have someone else other than me here and I’m afraid the feeling is mutual. They are very sweet and affectionate but they are not mine and in truth I prefer cats. Cats are independent and far less irritating. I feel guilty for feeling disgruntled because the reason I am alone is because a very good friend of mine (who usually lives here) has met and connected with someone in the most amazing way. He has the most hysterical Cheshire cat grin on his face and his feet hardly seem to be touching the ground. He has waited long and hard for this and deserves every moment of this starry eyed brain-mushed bliss. But frankly, it is very inconvenient for me. In truth even when he is here he has his “friend” with him and although he is lovely in every way and I see him becoming a close friend too, When we're together, I come down with a chronic case of Thirdwheelitis. Three really can be a crowd. (Sometimes I fight the desire to be the bigger person.) I have lost my hunting partner. The person who I would go clubbing with until the early hours, in search of “the one”, only to return unsuccessful, and then compare failed strategies with me over a mug of tea, is now cuddling up to DVD’s, getting a good night’s sleep on a Saturday night and having sex, regularly. We can’t even argue properly, because he always has someone with him who is predisposed to being on his side, even if he’s wrong. (Which is all the time! ;-) Even as I write this the dogs are driving me mad. They are psychotically chasing one another around the microscopic lounge and have already knocked a mug of scalding med-lemon onto my lap. (I have a cold.) I am ignoring them because I fear that if I were to try to discipline them, I would resort to capital punishment and their delicate “rexic” frames wouldn’t cope with it, and besides it’s far too late. They kept me up all night barking at Casper the friendly Ghost recently so they are definitely not in my good books. (Had to be a ghost because no one with a pulse was anywhere near the area they were barking.) So yes, I am happy that my friend is happy. But I am not happy that it leaves me on my own with company I would not freely choose for myself (like a certain Turkish breed I was also left alone with the night he met his squeeze.) Imagine if you and a friend are both starving. You go out in search of food together. Then, your friend finds something to eat that is only enough for him. You are happy for your friend but you are also still hungry and now left to forage for food on your own. Sounds like the perfect ingredients for a self-pity party to me.
This is nobody’s fault. This is not anyone else’s responsibility (Jacob there is nothing YOU can do.) This is just a circumstance that I need to bitch about. I have a gorgeous little flat, full of my favourite things, close to my amazing family and even occasionally containing a gorgeous cat (on loan from my downstairs neighbours.) But it’s over a thousand kilometres away and I can’t go there until mid June. So I am a sour grape dangerously close to becoming “a grape of wrath” with these dogs. This is not so bad really, because fermentation is a natural process and without it there would be no fine wines and yoghurt would stay milk. As a school boy I would often be told by patronising adults that “my time would come.” And in many ways they were actually right. (I am no longer short and fat and sporting a dodgy “step” haircut.) But, when will my “time” to hang up my clubbing shoes come, so I can settle in with an amazing man and rather invest in decent linen and a flat screen TV? I suppose that this will ensure that I REALLY appreciate it when I eventually find it. I know how delicious just about any food tastes when I haven’t eaten for a long time. The problem is I am still going to be living in different cities for the rest of the year (touring musicals) so I am really more ‘1820 Settler’ than someone to ‘settle in with’ at this stage. I agree with Eckart Tolle’ (author of The Power of Now) It is pointless to fight against things the way they are. I guess I’m expressing my current discomfort with my circumstances in the hope that it will help me take action to prevent this situation in the future. What are my options? Refuse to take work that uproots me every three months and risk unemployment? Change my career entirely? (I have been considering studying Kinesiology, as it will provide me with a good excuse to touch strange men.) Or maybe do like the cheesy church hymn says and “trust and obey for there’s no other way”. At least the dogs have settled down now. I must admit, they are quite cute when they’re asleep.

On Sale Now!

(This is an analogy. I am not a rent boy but thanks for the offers ;-)
The problem with letting your “product” sell for cheap, is that it’s very difficult to get the price you really want afterwards. When you allow your bargaining powers to slip and your standards to drop you may (in a moment of weakness or desperation) allow your “goods” to be purchased for less than the original asking price. You may even find yourself dealing with dodgy customers that you would normally have nothing to do with. Normally you would aim at the high end of the market but these dodgy clients have been consistently persistent and sometimes it’s such hard work keeping the upmarket ones happy. Then the word gets out that you’ve been distributing your “wares” generously to lesser respected corners of the market and suddenly rumours spread that yours may in fact be an inferior “product.” The solution to this problem may be to find someone else in similar predicament so that you can launch a combined marketing campaign along the lines of “buy one get one free”. But alas that way you are (at best) both only going for half of what you are worth.
My solution - to having sold myself short - is to take my “product” completely off the market and to keep it in storage until there is more of a demand. (There are farmers in the North West who have made a fortune by doing this with their maize.) Like red wine or brandy that’s been kept in cellars or in barrels in the dark for many years to be sold now at exorbitant prices. But what happens if my product becomes outdated and there is no longer a demand?
The problem is that the market is currently flooded. And the drama, art, music and ballet schools across the world are spewing out fresh batches of bright eyed, bushy tailed “product” every year. I was offered an upgrade for my cell phone recently and immediately declined it in outrage. It still works perfectly well and it’s not that old! How would you feel being replaced when you are still more than useful. There always seems to be something newer and more impressive waiting in the wings for its big debut, whilst something else is taking its final curtain. I guess the moral of the story is not to let your product go for less than it’s worth, in the first place. Hindsight is always 20/20 vision.
I like flea markets because they prove that even damaged goods can be bought and sold. But, I don’t want to be a vender with a bargain. I want to be a high class salesman with something exclusive, priceless and rare. Maybe I should get into import export. Foreigners have always taken a shine to me. I’m already on several sites on the internet so who knows maybe I’ll be sold at a really good price to someone really discerning on E-bay. Someone who knows what I’m worth despite my recent going rate.

"UTE" of ILL REPUTE

As many of you know we have a huge assortment of gay men in Cape Town. So many in fact, that we have started to develop different categories in which we can classify ourselves. There are “Twinks”. The young, fresh faced, skinny boys, with spiky hair and eager, puppy dog eyes. They’re particularly endearing because most of them still believe in Love and monogamous relationships. Then you get the “Preppies.” They are often seen out in something striped or knitted. Their clothes indicate that they may be students or sportsmen and some will even wear a pair of fashionable spectacles. Their hair is very neat and short and like “drag queens” they may shave their legs, but only because they wish to minimise injury to their legs should they come off their bicycles during the Argus. They spend a lot of time in straight clubs and bars claiming to be non scene and then wondering why they never meet any nice guys who are actually gay and not just up for the occasional drunken blow job in the men’s room. There are “Hobbits” or “Oompa Loompa’s”, as I call them, who are short stocky gay men. There are big burly “Bears” who look like the grisly yet seemingly huggable creatures they are named after. And then there are “Cubs” which are bears in training. Then you get my personal favourite “Muscle Mary’s”. I love “Muscle Mary’s”. The only problem is that “Muscle Mary’s” can only really love themselves or other “Muscle Mary’s”, and despite my every effort and having consumed a mountain of protein powder, I am not a “Muscle Mary.”
I am a new breed of homosexual and I am not alone. I am a “Ute.” Yes a “Ute” and it is no coincidence that it rhymes with cute. “Ute” is short for the word “Utility” and this is apt for many reasons. "Ute's" are user friendly and handy to have around, sort of like the Swiss Army knives of the gay world. “Ute’s”, like me, drive utility vehicles or “bakkies.” This is considered quite butch but in truth mine is silver and it sports a rainbow sticker. We are practical gay guys who like to throw the things we own onto the back of our “bakkie” and then hit the road. We are usually quite slim or athletically built but not bulky enough to be “Muscle Mary’s”. “Ute’s” lack the mass or the sufficient amount of body hair to be “Bears” or “cubs” and we are a little too unkempt and less inclined to wear stripes to be “Preppy”. “You have to be younger than 25 to be a “Twink”, and most “Ute’s” are in their early thirties or approaching that age. “Ute’s” are lucky in that they can date gay men from other classifications quite easily. “Bears”, “Twinks” and “Preppies” like “Ute’s” and I myself have been able bag the odd “Muscle Mary.” We have great cross-over appeal. “Ute’s” live in their jeans and corduroys. They are not as obsessive about their hair as “Twink’s”, “Preppies” and “Muscle Mary’s”. “Ute’s” prefer Hang Ten hoody’s and Billabong clothing and accessories to the Abercrombie and Fitch and Diesel fixation shared by many of the other groups. “Ute’s” are not overtly feminine nor are they excessively masculine. They glide along blending into the straight world very well until they come across another “Ute” and then their true rainbow colours come out. They are very animated story tellers and are unafraid to use the upper registers of their voices to make a point. But you can easily take a “Ute” home and introduce him to your parents and they will think he is a very colourful and likeable character rather than a queen that knocks on your back door.
I have a few friends that are “Ute’s” and have noticed an increasing amount of “Ute’s” emerging. Walking their dogs on the promenade and camping one another in D.I.Y stores. It’s comforting.
The problem with being a “Ute” though is that sometimes we are “utilised” a little too often. “Ute’s” must guard against being messed around by the other “moffie” types. “Twinks” often use “Ute’s” to learn how to experience their first break up. “I’m sorry but you’re just too intense and I don’t love you anymore. I love Lance because he also uses gel to spike his hair and he rides a cool scooter and not a “bakkie.”” “Ute’s” need to watch themselves with “Muscle Mary’s.” Most “Muscle Mary’s” will secretly always be looking for another “Muscle Mary” and that’s if you don’t find yourself replaced by a portable mirror. I realised that I didn’t seem to fit in any of the other categories and have developed a reputation for being a nice guy (with a tendency for taking off his clothes and occasionally playing a woman.) I felt lost and invisible being unclassified and unable to crack the nod into the Bulging biceps club. Then I noticed that there were other men like me floating around in this gay “no man’s land.” Other men who were not quite one type or another and also prone to long term relationships followed by long periods of being on their own. I even met and befriended one whose career also requires that he wear skimpy clothes and dress in drag. (Come on Adam don’t be shy!)
But because “Ute’s” are built to carry heavy loads and go the distance they manage to cope quite well.
“Ute’s” make the perfect boyfriends because you always have someone with a “bakkie” on hand to help you move heavy furniture.
You don’t have to spend a fortune on birthday and Xmas presents because they don’t need labels and designer fragrances. Anything in the male section of Body Shop will do.
A “Ute” will make you many cups of tea and will keep you entertained with many hours of animated story telling. Or sit quietly next to you on a Sunday reading his book.“Ute’s” are the best of both worlds. He will cuddle with you under a duvet watching a soppy DVD and then help your dad build a fire for the braai. “Ute’s” are not afraid to get their hands dirty but are very hygienic and always smell good. I love being a “Ute”. It also rhymes with “astute” and “parachute.” Both are apt descriptions, because “Ute’s” cover great distances and as you fall the experience can be quite exhilarating.

Amy and Apricots

I love soft eating apricots. You know, the ones you get from Woolies? They are great and they have such a wonderful orange colour. Patrick Holford (the right eating guru of my universe) says they are a great source of iron as well as being rich in antioxidants. The only problem is that they are preserved with Sulphur dioxide and this closes my chest and gives me heart burn. But still I eat them. Sometimes I know I really shouldn’t do something but I do it anyway. Why is that? Another apricotlike or apricotesque problem I seem to be having is getting involved with men that keep me at arm’s length. Come on, we’ve all been there. You wait all day for your phone to ring or vibrate with a SMS. You keep checking to see that it hasn’t beeped in case you may not have heard it (despite your newly developed sonic hearing.) It’s pathetic, you know this, but you do it anyway. You meet a friend for tea but, you only half listen to anything they say because you’re thinking about him. Eventually your phone does ring your heart races your eyes ignite and it’s the bank trying to get you to take out a life policy that will ensure everyone in your family gets loaded but on condition that you die.
Amy Winehouse has a song on her Back to Black album called ‘Love is a losing hand.’ It seems so morbid but I can’t stop singing it. The only lyrics I know are, “...though you’re a gambling man, Love is a losing hand.” And this I repeat over and over as I fix my dinner or remove socks from the dryer. Not exactly the best mantra to adopt if I want a winning mutually beneficial intimate relationship. Maybe I should start singing Finally by Cece Peniston it goes: “Finally it’s happened to me right in front of my face and I just can’t describe it.” Or something more upbeat like “I’m walking on sunshine.”
Well, it is Love, or the lack thereof that inspires me to write and express my feelings so I guess I owe it to my current single circumstance that I can entertain you the reader (or person in the audience.) I wonder if you would enjoy my work as much or even more if I ever find it. I would like to hope that you would. Maybe Amy is wrong and Love is on the cards for me and maybe, just maybe, I’ve been dealt a royal flush.

XXX Rated.

There are so many things you can become addicted to these days. Alcohol, heroine, tik and even Lazari’s pink cupcakes (just off Buitenkant street in Vredehoek.) But now I have been informed that you can become addicted to sex and that there are even 12 step programmes used to help those with a constant need to do the “deed”. I must say that if there was a requirement to be enslaved to at least one addiction in your life time, sex at first glance, would seem the most attractive. Sex is the ultimate instant gratification. I can only speak from the perspective of a man because woman are a fantastic mystery to most gay men, but for us it’s very simple: There is a beginning, which can be as exhilarating as hunting in the wild (without getting blood on your cargo pants), a middle that causes all stresses and concerns to disappear, and an end that is final and thoroughly satisfying. Sex is a lot like drugs and booze. You forget about the mortgage and your deadlines at work. Everything else ceases to exist and you transcend yourself for a few blissful seconds.
I read in the February edition of Life magazine that the brain releases a series of stimulating chemicals like oxytocin and serotonin during attraction to another person and that lust is fuelled by testosterone for men and women. Well, these chemicals, although being organic, must also have the potential to be addictive. They are described as being “natural opiates.” (Poppy flowers and Marijuana can also be grown organically.) Also, there is an increase in gay men taking tribulus, zinc and other testosterone stimulating supplements to aid them in their bulking up in weight training. This must impact on the sexual energy of the entire gay community. Sex and sexuality require stimulation and factors like an increase in testosterone and chiselled athletic bodies add fuel to the fire within every gay man’s loins. This must cause some kind of ripple effect within the lesbian, bisexual and transgendered community as well because we share the same dance floors and hunting grounds and I believe you don’t need to be attracted to someone to pick up on their sexual energy. I suppose in this way sexual energy can be likened to a strain of the flu virus that makes its way across the dance floor. First you see one couple groping and kissing in a corner and then slowly but surely there is another and then another and those still on the floor dancing are thrusting their hips at one another, more feverishly than before.
Sex can be a welcome escape from the realities of poverty, isolation, decay and guilt. But like drugs and booze it can aggravate the situation much more once it’s over. For example: Imagine I am having trouble feeling validated by my boyfriend (this is just hypothetical, I would never be this needy in reality and I don’t even have a boyfriend, YET!) He seems busy all the time and distracted during sex and I interpret this as him neglecting me. I feel unattractive, insecure and ugly. I keep gargling with mouthwash and doing stomach crunches because I fear that it may be my breath or my jelly belly that is driving him away. Then one day shopping in Cavendish I bump into a guy called X who I know has always had a bit of a ‘thing’ for me. I didn’t really find X that attractive before but now I see the way he looks at me and it makes me feel sexy and wanted. I take X into a toilet cubicle were we then “X” and I feel great for exactly 1 and a half seconds after which, I am crushed with guilt and self loathing. I then go home and behave like a brat with my boyfriend, because I know I have betrayed him and no longer deserve to be with him, causing a huge argument that makes him upset and angry with me. “X” the floozy that I “X”ed in the toilet then tells his closest friend about the incident and swears him to secrecy. This is like sending a press release to CNN international and soon everyone knows including my boyfriend who also then becomes an X. It’s amazing how quickly a story can become XXX these days!
I’m not sure that a sex addiction is as quick to develop as a heroin addiction. I think it is more similar to alcohol, in my opinion. Surely the act of drinking and enjoying the soothing and pleasurable qualities of the substance must be energized and invested in over a period of time for the chemical and emotional dependency to develop. Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe, there are alcoholics that were hooked after their first sip of wine and perhaps, there are people out there that have been sexually compulsive since their very first “slap and tickle” session, finding themselves, in a darkroom by the end of the week, with a track record akin to a prostitute at a truck depot.
I recall someone referring to mankind as a bunch of “flesh bags” carrying around a stew of “chemical soup.” In that case we are constantly adding to and changing the nature of our chemicals inside our soups. The hormones that we have change our chemical composition, the emotions that we indulge in can affect our brain chemistry and the substances that we ingest can also dramatically alter our intended “recipe’s”. It’s actually a little scary. I have been witness to events going terribly wrong when the recipe has not been adhered to and the ingredients changed. I remember being creative in the kitchen as a child and a mass of pink goo exploding from the microwave . A goo that was initially intended to be a strawberry sponge cake.
There is a delicate balance of elements in order for things to exist as they do. Too much almond essence can ruin a milk tart and too much garlic will ruin your chances of a good night out. This balance can be the difference between a tasty curry with a bite and a morning loo session in which something bites back on its way out. Now, I amble along the cobbled streets of the gay quarter and wonder when I’ll be witness to someone exploding and splattering me in a mass of pink goo.

Factory Reject

So okay maybe I overestimated my ability to deal with rejection a teeny tiny bit. This is not the way I feel when I don’t get the part I was auditioning for. This feels a little more like the time I mistakenly rubbed a certain “sensitive” area with deep heat after a groin injury. A persistent and most inconvenient sensation I would not recommend. He’s just not that into me. If I am a serving of grated beetroot on a Spur salad buffet then he has not chosen me for his side plate. Beetroot often gets rejected because it makes everything else on your plate go a bright pinkish red and God forbid, everything on your plate should become a shade of pink. Come to think of it beetroot is one of the gayest roots I can imagine with carrots coming a close second (because of their phallic nature.)
My last rejection was more like a funky shoe that gets bought, worn a while, and then returned because it “didn’t fit properly”. We all know how tough it is to sell worn shoes! This guy didn’t even want to try my shoe on! Maybe I wasn’t Nike or Reebok enough for him. Maybe if I was more Adidas and less Ug boot then I would be wrapped around his souls right now. But, it looks like I’m not going to be sharing a morning pot of tea with him anytime soon. Was it my teeth? They are a bit skew. Maybe my hair was too long or he doesn’t like my brand of deodorant. Maybe he was intimidated by my talent and good looks and was afraid of living in the shadow of my inevitable and impending fame. Why is it that he doesn’t subscribe to my magazine when I would gag to lick every page of his?
What frustrates me most is that I now have no one to sigh and get glassy eyed over anymore. I spent the afternoon roaming the waterfront hoping to find someone new to develop a crush on, someone, who might take the bait, someone who might say “yes”, this time. I even hovered around the gay section of exclusive books but I soon felt like I was the only accidental visitor to a rather perverted retirement home. I love old people but they shouldn’t think that age permits them frisking rights on the young. So tonight I have been licking my wounds and contemplating sending him an sms containing only the word “poes”. But I decided against it. It’s not his fault I’m going to be famous.

Let Him Know Then Let it Go!

I have had an epiphany! I decided to inform someone that I have a crush on him. I was only slightly braver than the first time I did this which was five years ago via sms. I did it last night via an internet dating message. Strange but I feel liberated! I have not had a response yet and am not feeling optimistic about it but, I am so glad I did it. Now it’s his problem! So do it! Go out there and tell him, or her, how you feel so you can get on with your life. Let’s start a revolution, in which all those bound by their secret feelings are set free! It is so shit to harbour an infatuation and sit on it like an old egg that never hatches. My mind-bending realization is that it is better to have a bruised ego than a broken heart! If I had sat and secretly squatted on the fact that I wanna lick his face like a dog and then acted like I felt nothing every time I saw him, my infatuation would have gotten too much and would eventually flatten me (which is why I believe it’s called a crush.) I have done this many times before and it’s sore and eventually tedious for your friends, who have to hear you agonize about how amazing this guy is, “if only he knew I adore him.” Your time is better spent replacing your bulbs with the energy efficient type.
I find that you can actually start aching for a person like your stomach can ache for food. But, I know that if the other person [whose leg (amongst other things) I want to hump] knows how I feel then the pain is diminished. I’m not sure why that is. Auditioning for show after show and then only landing the odd one, I have come to terms with the fact that there will be times when I am rejected. So I have decided to translate this into my love life. I get a lot of “no’s” in my industry but that doesn’t stop me from going for the big roles. So now I’m going to go for the guys I always thought were out of my league, like I go for the most challenging roles. When I get rejected it hurts but I can dust myself off and move on safe in the knowledge that this clearly was not meant for me, this is not my "Kismet", my destiny (thanks Jacob for teaching me this wonderful word). Then I gotta move on to the next challenge. It's better than staying at home on audition day and envying the lead that does get cast. I have already received a few “no’s” and am expecting to hear more “no’s” but just think how phenomenal it’s going to be when I get a “yes!” ;-)

Forbidden Fruit Cocktail

This has been one action stacked and emotionally discharged long week-end!
It makes me think of the lesser known scripture of Adam and Steve in the proverbial Garden. Adam is tempted to have of Steve’s forbidden fruits even though he knows that Steve is actually involved with someone else from another garden, somewhere overseas. Adam knows that he really shouldn’t but what is one to do, when one has a weakness for fruit?
It’s all about the packaging so I suppose Steve must have been sporting a rather fetching basket and as to what transpired between the two, one can only surmise from the chapter to follow: Ready, Willing, Cane and Able.
History is fond of repeating itself and so I felt much like I imagine ancestor Adam must have felt all those hundreds of years ago, this very week-end. I developed a forbidden fruit crush on someone and am reminded of how things “change” and then “stay the same.” He is tall, dark, gorgeous and completely unobtainable. There are men that have made me wish to be thinner or bigger or smarter or more affluent in order to win their favour. But, this guy made me want to be more of who I am. He takes no shit and is clearly not a fan of pretence or facade. He has beautiful eyes that can dissect your being and isolate character flaws like a surgeon’s laser. I noticed how he disallowed any superficial chit-chat and how keen he pricked his ears up, if there was even a hint of mercury or spice (bullshit) in what I was saying. I got the impression that there would be no space or time provided for me to be or do anything other than what I am at heart. He is only interested in who I am and not what I was or want to be. This is a challenge for an actor who is used to having so many options at his disposal. With him I’d have to leave the masks and make-up at work before coming home. I felt myself falling and it was like watching an annoyingly unavoidable crash like an unmanned shopping trolley scooting downhill towards a freshly painted car. It’s not usually very practical when we fall, nor is it graceful and one inevitably ends up a bit grazed and bruised.
There are things I could tell within minutes of meeting him. I can make him laugh but it’s not a given that he will, if I try. He reads in bed but, will probably never read this (Though I pray he does.) He stretches like a cat and has a dark sense of humour but is prone to smiling at strangers. He smells good and if he was with me and we went to a dinner party together, he would place his hand on my knee when he felt I was feeling insecure. But even though I am tempted to tell him I love him and cause him to get a rather ineffective restraining order (See previous blog Media Slut) I am conscious of the fact that I don’t really know him (even though this does nothing to diminish his yum-factor.) But he’s not available. I cannot have him now because he belongs to someone else and that just makes him even more desirable.
Isn’t it strange how the really delicious things in life are always really bad for you? I would be with him if doing so merely made me fat, gave me cholesterol or clogged my arteries or gave me ‘the runs’ (as is often the case with fruit in excess) But, having an affair would compromise my already low running supply of integrity and, wrack me with gnawing guilt. I have an overdraft of guilt as it is, and I really don’t need the bad karma. Also, how could I enjoy a trusting loving relationship, if I incubated it in a Petri dish of deception and betrayal? I’d rather leave that shit to Shakespeare. So I say, “not tonight, Josephine!” I want all of you and not just some of you, on loan from somebody else. Call me when you’re single. And until then I will keep my phone on me at all times in the hope that I was enough of myself on the night that we met.