THE "STRAIGHT WHISPERER" in praise of straight men

I was about 20 years old, and had to take my banged up baby blue beetle “Betty the Boopmobile”, to a garage in Rondebosch, Cape Town to be fixed. The ultra-straight and greasy (yet not unattractive) mechanic scanned me up and down. He was looking at a camp, skinny, drama student on financial-aid, with cheap highlights. Cliché predicts that he would have hated me, right? Wrong! He gave me two new tyres; panel beat my dented dome hubcaps (by hand) and then sent me on my way assuring me he would send me an invoice. He refused payment and off I drove, never to receive that invoice. I have many stories like this. I’m not sure why they happen to me. A friend of mine believes that the only explanation is that I am in fact, the “straight whisperer”. As a gay guy, it is not unusual that I have a very special bond with my mother. She’s my solace against life’s knocks, like a gum guard when ‘kak-luck” tries to kick me in the teeth. Her love and food fortify me enough to face any battles, providing emotional and physical “padding” (love-handles, Eish!). It’s also pretty much a given that women, in general, play a very significant role in my life. Most of the friendships I have treasured have been with the opposite sex. I could also write a book about all the wonderful gay men I have known, but I want to discuss my gratitude for the extraordinary straight men that have featured in my story thus far. There were: Truck drivers clearing the road, way beyond the yellow line, so I could slowly pass in my meek 1.3 Bantam bakkie; Gorgeous, muscular hetero barmen, dancing in a circle around me, (to protect me from a rabid drunk queen with octopus hands). A handsome and well-known soap star (now married) offering to kiss me as a dare, during a drinking game - causing me to run for my life screaming- (The kiss would have meant nothing to him, but it would have moved the earth for me, so I bolted!) Heterosexual men, have been good friends and confidantes and have even come to my aid when I have needed them. I’ll tell you about two of my favourites: My dad and my brother. I have received nothing but, 1 ton truckloads of love and support, from these two great Little’s, all my life. Even as I have dragged, camped, minced and “poofed” my wares on stages, dance floors and “voorkamer’s” across the country. I know I am beyond blessed to know and love such considerate and masculine gentlemen, who shower me with Love and approval. Seeing your first born son or older brother on stage in drag or naked (or both!) and showing me nothing but pride and good humour afterwards, is not just progressive but exemplary and I am grateful for this. But my good fortune with hetero men goes further than just the familial bond. Despite being bullied at boarding school (whilst in the closet). I have been lucky enough to be accepted and (often) even loved by most of the straight men that have come to know me since coming out at 18. Let me be clear, I’m not talking about seducing straight men or being able to have my way with them (Although, I have fallen for one or two of them over the years.) I am talking about the unique friendships I have enjoyed with certain straight men, men who are comfortable enough in their sexuality to be completely accepting of mine. I concur that attractive straight men are quite irresistible for most of us gay men (we always want what we can’t have.). But they don’t have to be the queer man’s kryptonite. Once you accept that they are not gay and no amount of tequila will change that, then an amazing platonic relationship can flourish. One wild drunken night in Cape Town I found myself being cradled by a beautiful young man on the steps of the club, and as I lay in his arms beyond inebriated, he gently sang Will Young’s “Evergreen” in my ear. He doesn’t have a gay bone in his body and is also married with a child now -not that this makes you a heterosexual! (There are too many wedding rings hiding in rented lockers, in Bathhouses on a Thursday night for that!) But he’s really not gay. I am so grateful for witnesses because I can scarcely believe it happened either! During long runs of bigger productions like “panto” I have been blessed with “straight husbands”. Close straight guy mates to share my failed romances with and a fresh and unique perspective of the “other” side of the male psyche. “Don’t call him back, let him hunt you a bit.” he would suggest, and in return I could dispense my own advice with a more feminine/intuitive flair, like: “If she says you don’t have to buy her a birthday present, she doesn’t really mean it.” and a lot of laughter about the differences between gay and straight men, like their choice of underwear and deodorant, when sharing a dressing room. It was a straight male nurse in a Durban public hospital that caringly and unflinchingly held me over a toilet when I was at my most wretched from a bout of severe food poisoning. And I will never forget a certain buff redheaded actor in SpongeBob the musical reassuring me one melancholy matinee, that if he was gay “he would have been my bitch.” *I died and went to Heaven!* I blow kisses (platonic of course!) to all the straight barmen, DJ’s, Sound technicians, venue owners, managers, mates, boyfriends and husbands of mates, and ‘random straight strangers’, that helped a homo out. Thank you. I know that homophobia, prejudice and ignorance are still rife out there. But to all the straight boys that we love and love us back, I salute you!

OUT-CAST

What should one do, if one is beginning to suspect, that one is a loser?
Every January, for the past few years, I find myself in the same situation. Despite working tirelessly and diligently the rest of the year, I am broke, unemployed and desperate to find something to do, that will prove to me that I am not a loser. This recent January was no exception. Despite sweating away half my body weight in the last pantomime for three months, unforeseen expenses lay in ambush and January bared her teeth at me again. January is also “audition” month, and this January was brimming with gruelling auditions, followed by nerve-crippling call backs, and anxiety sprouting elimination rounds. There were auditions for: Films, sitcoms, commercials, theatre and musicals, all of them, providing their own unique brand of self-doubt and requiring a different type of fear-tackling. This year despite a few close calls, I didn’t get ANY of them. “Niks”, “Nada”. I was the “un-chosen” one. And it sucked like a surfaced Kreepy Krauley.
As I approach my 33rd birthday I am getting a bit long in the tooth to play ensemble and let’s face it, I wouldn’t be my first choice for the macho new game ranger in “The Wild” either!
So my house-of-cards-self-esteem comes crashing down and I begin to panic. What’s wrong with me? Why don’t I have what they want? What could I have done differently? Wait a minute! Why am I still single? Why hasn’t anyone hot, poked me on Facebook recently? Why am I getting fat? Why am I getting older? Why do hangovers last 3 days now when they used to last a morning? Why do I have to do squats and eat NOTHING delicious, if I want a flat stomach? Why Larry? Why?
Then out of the blue I am offered not one but two lecturing jobs. “You want me to teach three bunches of ‘twentysomethings’ for two hours every week for seven weeks?”, I ask in disbelief. “Me?” To which my very pregnant friend Sarah replies: “Yup.”
Then another University offers me the opportunity to teach my very own curriculum (Independent Theatre making self-created from scratch) for twelve weeks. I am flabbergasted and excited and even more petrified than I was, for any of the January auditions. What if the students get bored? What if they don’t listen? What if I suck?
What have I got to lose?
In less than two days it will be Valentine’s Day and I will be giving my first class at Wits. I am still single and broke, and will have to wait for two months before my first pay check. But this is something new. Maybe I can do this? Maybe this is the role I’ve been waiting to be cast in?
Maybe Valentine’s, this year, won’t be so bad, single or not.

Polony and Poppycock

I try not to eat polony because it is fake. There have been times, doing edu-theatre in the townships, when it has been unavoidable and I have had to eat a “kota”(quarter loaf stuffed with polony chips and atchar) in order to survive but, I know too much about polony to eat it capriciously, otherwise. Polony is comprised of all the unwanted and undesirable scraps of meat that have failed the criteria of every prior selection process. Neglected animal anatomy thrown in a heap and ground into a greyish green mass of eclectic flesh-paste. Even in this grainy indistinguishable mix it is so unappealing, that a bright pink food colorant must be added to camouflage it, brighten it, and make it seem consumable. Pungent flavourings like: monosodium glutamate, salts, other artificial ingredients and even garlic are added to further mask the true face, of this ‘recycled’ product. Websites flash bannered warnings about the ill-effects of eating processed meat. It is ‘carcinogenic’ (encouraging of cancer), they say. Every slice, every mouthful, is a lie.
I’m house-sitting for my folks in Deneysville on the Vaal dam. It’s been three days and the majority of these days, have been just me and the animals. Yesterday, Angelina came to clean and tidy, I sat outside painting so we hardly interacted at all. She’s not very chatty and although I usually am, for these few days, I’m on holiday from chatter (other than on Facebook, and even this I am trying to curb).
I’ve been writing, reading, painting and processing my own ‘polony’.
Despite the tranquil and beautiful (albeit winter-dried and yellow) surroundings, I am still reliant on my prescribed sleeping tablets to knock myself out. I want to make the most of the phenomenal bed I am using during my stay. Its mattress and linen is plusher than those I have, in my rented room in Greenside, and it is also extra-length, so I can stretch out catlike in the mornings without hanging a limb. I love this house. My mother has created her dream home and because of the love we share, it contains me very well. In the mornings, I like to journal in a spot of sunlight where my father usually sits. With great relish I resemble him more with every passing year.
My daily drawings and paintings are noteworthy, because they are pastimes I have not enjoyed for several years. As a little boy in Mafikeng I would entertain myself for hours with oil pastels and conjure magical birds and landscapes from my imagination. I made creatures and peoples from wire and clay too. Ironically, this stopped when I began to attend Art school in Braamfontein, as were expected to choose a certain field and the performing arts took precedence, because -presumably- I was better at them.
I’ve stopped drinking again. I say ‘again’ because there have been a number of times in my life when I have sworn off alcohol, for various reasons, and managed to live happily without it for years at a time. This time it is specifically because it causes me to ‘blank out’ (I wake up with huge chunks of the night before, missing from the otherwise credible and secure, vaults of my memory banks.). I struggle to do most things moderately and the very nature of booze is that it impairs my judgment, making any attempt at temperance, almost impossible. Why get ‘tipsy’ when I can get ‘toppled’?
Most of my 31st birthday is compiled of stories that I have gathered from those who witnessed it in a more lucid state. The following morning I felt like I was hearing about the adventures of someone else. It was all news to me. One of my grandfathers suffered from Alzheimer’s, when I was a school boy, my mother and I would often visit him in a home in Lichtenburg. She would trim his fingernails and lovingly rub cream on his hands. It was the only time he didn’t look frustrated or bewildered. In his prime he had been a brilliant mind, but towards the end of his days, his consciousness seemed to be grasping at straws. These ‘blank outs’, of mine, remind me of him in that condition, and I would rather remember any one of another of his attributes and influences.
An unhappy truth is that the sleeping pills I take, also cause ‘blank outs’, if I don’t get to bed soon after taking them. I have discovered e-mails and messages, weeks after I have sent them on my Blackberry, and read them as if for the first time. What is even more disturbing, is that these messages are often my; unedited, innermost hopes and fears, often sent “gung-ho” to a real live person, that I have to deal with later on, in the waking world. There have been times I have not known about a correspondence declaring my; attraction to, or disapproval of someone, until I have received a gut-clamping reply.
You would think the humiliation would put me off the pills and booze, but the reality is that; I often prefer to take the risk of ‘blanking out’, than to lie isolated in the dark for hours on end.
I know I sound melodramatic, but I am an actor for heaven’s sake! I have been indulging in myself, and making a simple story, into a saga, at every opportunity. Looking back it seems I would do anything to avoid boredom and mediocrity, whatever it takes to create intrigue.
I want the movie of my life to be interesting to watch, if it isn’t going to be a romantic comedy (which I would prefer).
There are so many different types of ‘polony’.
I created my show “Little Poof!” to provide a platform for myself to showcase my talents and acquired skills. But, I also created it in the hopes that; an attractive, intelligent and ambitious man would see it and fall in Love with me. I just assumed, should this person present them self to me, that I would automatically match their Love with my own. I was presumptuous.
After six months of touring with the show and an incredible reception all around the country, I found a different outcome to the one I had hoped for.
I was met with unbelievable generosity and support. Raving reviews and on occasion, even standing ovations. Nightly I got washed with a sea of laughter and even the odd trickling tear that I knew I had catalysed. I received affirmation as a writer, singer and actor. It was a lifelong dream, come true. Yet, I was keeping a secret.
It was incredibly hard work, emotionally one of the most taxing times of my life and, despite Cathrine (my MD and accompanist’s) consistent loyalty and presence, often a desperately lonely time. The nature of self-promotion is such; that it leaves very little space for anyone else.
If I am ‘lucky’ I could spend the rest of my life doing my own shows, touring the country and even the world, performing to full houses, but the thought makes me lose colour and dries my mouth out. Would all that money make it worthwhile? I love to perform and create, but I crave more intimacy in my life, and fewer exhibitions. I have to smile, knowing that I will publish this blog on Facebook for the whole world to see. But, if I don’t share my inner world, I feel as though I might cease to exist. Exposing myself through the written word sits more comfortably with me. For some reason it feels more authentic and also, buffered. I am a contradictory exhibitionist it would seem.
So, my heart has not chosen to fall for anyone recently, despite many obstacles and near trip-ups. I wonder if it will ever fall again, or, if it (like other unwanted organs) is inevitably headed for the ‘polony’ factory? I’m too much of a dreamer and an optimist to believe that!
There has got to be more to life than being in Love, romantically. Before I turned 15 I hardly gave it a second thought! I hear the mantras and pop-psychology manifestos belting: ‘Invest in yourself’, ‘Love yourself’, or as Shakespeare said: “To thine own self be true”. I know, I know! But, I also know all the irritating and unattractive things there are to know about me.
It would be so much more fun, to be coming to terms with someone else’s issues, even if they would eventually, lead me back to my own.
Tonight, I’m going to try for the umpteenth time to sleep without a pill fizzing out a ‘zizz’ in my belly. Maybe I’ll meet someone magnificent in the dark.

Opening

Some things in life you need to do alone. This was not one of those things. There were long lonely hours on occasion, grappling ideas early hours of the morning. But most of the time I had someone holding my hand or kicking my ass when I needed it most. A week ago today I opened my show LITTLE POOF! And I feel that I cannot even really refer to it as something that is mine when there have been so many other hands and voices involved in its creation. Like my show I feel I have experienced a great opening. But let me share some of the days and weeks building up to last Wednesday:

There was a brick where my stomach should’ve been and because the brick took up so much space there was hardly any room for one of my favourite things on earth; food. I constantly had to talk nicely to myself and ease myself down to a mild panic. At times I felt like I was gripping the reigns of a bucking wild horse that wanted to cause me more harm than mistaking my finger for a carrot. This horse kicked and flailed and although it wasn’t really a talking horse its eyes said: “Who do you think you are? How dare you do this to me?” I have no idea how I managed to break that particular horse in. I was struggling to sleep and soon the days were beginning to take on a sheeny haze like I was staring at everything with my head on the floor watching the hot tarmac warp everything above it. Deep breaths…deep breaths....Oh my God! What the hell was I thinking!! Just me, Cath and a piano! I had nowhere to hide, for an hour, so up close and personal. All these analytical eyes at arm’s reach.
I borrowed a chunk of money from my beloved, benevolent little brother and proceeded to chew my pillow with the back of my head for weeks worrying that the show would not earn enough to pay him back. What if everyone hates it? What if it’s only funny to me? After taking a month off writing to do Sponge Bob the musical I returned to a script that suddenly seemed juvenile, bland and completely inadequate. My other internal organs began to chew on the brick. Then the firm guidance and warm sunshine of my director Neels Clasen and the constant earthy support and litres of tea from my musical director Cathrine Hopkins lifted me under my arms as though I were a child on the floor and things began to take shape. I evolved slowly from fear to faith, then from faith to confidence and then from confidence to sheer excitement to share what we had made with an audience.
Zietsies is an amazing venue and once we moved in there for the last week of rehearsals the fantastic view over Johannesburg helped give me a visual of what it was I was trying to do. I was announcing: “Hi Joburg, look at me! I love you! If you gimme a break you may just grow to love me too.”
Elzabe (the owner and a powerful and accomplished performer in her own right) and her sister Retha were warm and helpful from the start and I hope to keep them both in my life beyond this production. Before the show high on adrenaline Cath and I have bent poor Retha’s ear off many times and she smiles warmly and goes about her sewing and arranging things for the venue. It’s a cabaret space and a guesthouse but mostly it’s a home. Some nights there is extra food and Cath and I are in our element. The food is so good it even dissolves stubborn bricks!
Finally opening night emerged like a great white fin in a paddle pool and after all the stress and fear I was now just eager to get it over with. Next thing I knew Elzabe had announced us and I watched in horror as Cath stepped out to bow and greet the audience and then take her place at the piano. I fantasized about bolting up the stairs and never being seen again. But I could feel all the Love from inside the glass bubble of the dining room and instead I marched in and clung to my clothes rail, steadied myself and on Cath’s cue I began to sing. At first it was a bit shaky but it settled and became more rooted and suddenly I was having fun. Most of the time I was in my own world but every now and then I would emerge to see a close friend or family member laughing from their gut or wiping away a sad tear. Strangely, I remember thinking I was probably dreaming because they were reacting better than I had ever imagined they would. I took a journey and over 30 people took it with me that night. By the end of the opening night we had already sold enough tickets to cover the loan I had taken from my brother (Retha was responding to e-mails for bookings that were still coming through at 9pm that night!)
Since then we have enjoyed full houses and standing ovations every night and although it is still early days I am grateful from the very source of my being. The relief of opening night was so mammoth that I came down with a strange virus (still unidentified) that caused me to sleep straight through the two nights and a day I had off until beginning my next week of shows tonight. I have almost completely recovered and the adrenaline of tonight’s show seemed to have given me a clean bill of health. Most of the tickets sold so far have been people who don"t even know me, and if atleast half of my mates come to see the show we will have to extend or do another run it's wonderful!

Tigger, Tanz, Mom, Si, Cath, Neels, Elly, Wim, Amalanka, Gerrit, Elzabe, Retha, Hopkins family, Collett, Luiz, Bruce W, Coenie K, Sonia, Peter, Sean, Tess, Nicci, everyone on Facebook and many more people... thank you all for the roles you’ve played in this amazing experience. I’m not counting my chickens. I’m merely sharing my gratitude at this point of the journey. I am fully aware that I am still flat broke and am not sure what the Universe has in store for me beyond the end of this run but I am feeling very optimistic nonetheless.
Irrespective of what the future holds I am so thankful for every helping hand and every ticket sold, but I can’t help being a “Little” excited about it too.
So much Love.
Little Poof!

MOTIVE8

I just listened to the last crack and fizzle of a Highveld thunderstorm. I remember sitting in my hostel room in Braamfontein just over ten years ago swatting for my matric finals and enjoying the sound of the rain on the corrugated roofs outside as I took a moment to phase out and chew on my highlighter. I’m sure this rain can clean a scuffed heart, but mine doesn’t feel scuffed at all tonight, in fact it’s been licked all shiny clean by some interesting new acquaintances.
Today my best friend Sonia (the Guava Panty princess) and I visited a domestic animal sanctuary in Roodepoort named FORA. Hundreds of dogs and cats desperate for Love and affection crammed into a relatively small space, but clearly cared for as best as possible under the circumstances. All the more emotive because the land on which the sanctuary stands has been sold to developers and the people who run the place are now trying to raise funds to be able to prevent all these furry creatures from becoming homeless and abandoned AGAIN.
Off the bat the place reminded me of a gay club. The same hunger for affection and acceptance and the same happy-go-lucky ‘jollers’ who didn’t give a shit and just wanted to shag. (Quite a few of the dogs tried to hump each other and they didn’t care if their “stuk” was male or female.) I saw myself in the puppies, the old scruffy Labrador with a hoarse bark and the one eyed smoky cat that shared its living space with another few hundred cats in a space no bigger than a garage. The constant barking and the occasional scuffle ending with a high pitched “tchank!” got to me a little initially, until I decided to try and see if there was another way to look at the situation. We played with some adorable puppies who somehow managed to splatter us with their poo through the fence and afterwards we walked through different gated sections that housed many types of dogs of all sizes, ages, breed and personality. Each section lead on to another and the place seemed to go on and on with an endless variety of abandoned dogs yapping with gay abandon. Right at the back were these old granpa dogs in one section together wheeze barking at us, all arthritic and one even had a moony white cataract. Finally I ended up in the cat “cage” on a deck chair with at least four cats on my lap at a time; one would disembark only for another to quickly take its place. I love both cats and dogs but I really connect with cats because they are more intelligent and complex (just like me!). They’re aloof and then affectionate and I love that they keep me guessing.
The place in its entirety also reminded me of a squatter camp. In the townships I’ve performed in I’ve seen humans living in worse conditions than the animals I saw today. At least the animal had food, shelter and people caring for them. I can see you thinking “SHEESH DUDE! Where’s the friggin silver lining already!” Well, I did notice that almost all the animals like the people I encountered in the poorest of areas seemed for the most part happy and friendly. I know that sounds weird but beside their visible need for affection most of the animals seemed quite content in their set of circumstances and I realized that any form of dissatisfaction or self-pity I could conjure would not stand up against what these animals are purring and wagging their tails through every day. I left the place energised by all the Love they showered on me without me having to qualify myself to them in anyway. They just gave it to me. No holds barred. It was inspiring this Gung-Ho no fear Love that they freely and easily extended to me. Many have probably known great pain from the human hand and yet they didn’t hesitate to lick mine.
According to my personal numerology for October I am having an 8 month in a 7 year. An 8 month is supposed to be a month in which hard work and dividends begin to pay off. 8 is about intelligent work, motivation and reaping the harvest of all the seeds planted in days gone by. So far this month has been just that. Clearing the clutter, deciding what I want and then getting down and dirty to make it happen. I realise more and more everyday that life is not so much about what is presented to me but more about how I choose to see it and what I then decide to do with it. I must choose every day what day I want to have and then, like an order from Mr. Delivery, it arrives, even though it does sometimes come a bit late. So my strategy for success is to think cunningly like a cat, work hard and loyally like a dog and Love unabashedly like a puppy. Thank you FORA I’m going to find a way to help you.
www.fora.org.za

SugarFatCaffeine

Sugar Fat Caffeine
Projections on a green screen
Supersize and lean
Enamel smiles of saccharine

Out the box obscene
Second-hand and gone green
The venue to be seen
Botox leather teen dream

But through the numb I know you feel
Under the plastic pure and real


It’s spring and there’s a lot of magic around. I’ve been working my ‘noombies’ off and doing wonderful things in artificial environments. Late nights in mock casino’s and long days under white rehearsal lights. It’s been amazing. I’ve worked with people I only dreamed of meeting and have been a part of a performance that I truly believe brought the rain. Magic.
Successive graveyard trips home with only petrol stations as supply depot detours and yet I have paced up and down those narrow aisles of ghost pops, nuts and fizzydrinks expecting to find something new. I never do.

At “Old Ed’s” Virgin active men’s locker room, there is an electric hand dryer between the basins and two of the toilet cubicles. Almost every time I walk past it the sensor detects me and it goes off like a jet engine, and every time I get the fright of my life. It’s only because I am completely in another world whenever I walk that way through to the showers. Yet I never seem able to remind myself to avoid it or not to be startled by it if it starts blowing.
I’m content.
I’m still not rich and famous and God knows I’m not enamoured with anybody in particular (more like a handful of people) but I feel good. Not in a manic kind of grinning cartoon sort of way. I’m still trading stock in frustration and getting ‘A’ grades for effort, but, I just seem to be enjoying my moments more.
I’m beginning to make peace with my apparent decision to follow what I Love in favour of what I may want (Blackberryboyfriendpicketfences).
I don’t really know what’s coming next but I’m very stimulated and my life is brimming with Love and affection. Everything else just seems unimportant all of a sudden. (Maybe that’s just because I’m about to get paid) Well, whatever this is I pray it lasts and that the magic that seems to have settled over my mind has staying power because I am filled with gratitude.

Man-ifesto.

Now that I have become a man, what is to become of me? I feel as though my boyhood is like an abandoned snake skin just, just behind me and I’ve been handed a new role to play. Now that I’m a man I must do manly things mustn’t I? I must be a brave, a big, strong protector. I must provide. Or can I just continue to cast my creative nets into the seemingly unyielding ocean that is this industry and hope to sustain myself ten, twenty or sixty years from now ? In other words: Is it time I got a ‘real’ job and stopped ‘mucking about.’
I started Speech and Drama as a child because my little (Little) brother had a lisp (now gone) and my mother asked if I wanted to join. I was the proverbial duck to water and when I turn around and wipe the Kryolan make-up out of my eyes I realise that despite the “sukkel” and the uncertainty, I have adored every projected utterance. I love to entertain. Strange that I have recently been feeling such pressure, having turned thirty, to suddenly produce the real estate with the white picket fence and the Toyota RAV in the garage. Do I really have to cash in my chips now? Have I been playing for long enough? God knows that I don’t want to but I feel bogged down by guilt and obligation. I’m not getting any younger and I don’t have any real assets to my name, whilst people I know and watched grow up are sitting pretty, high on top of gilded nest eggs. I’m also tired of being snubbed because my clothes are not new or expensive or feeling bad because some of the men I have dated can afford the finer things in life while I choke on my half of the dinner bill. Then there is also the ‘where to from here?’ As an actor or entertainer in South Africa, are the greatest aspirations and long term goals I can have, to be a feature on a soapy or the lead in consecutive musicals? There must be more to my life. There must be more for all of us. What though I don’t know. One thing this lifestyle does afford is time to think (when you’re in-between gigs) so I have been doing a lot of it because it passes the time and is free. There are a few corporate type jobs that may be on offer, if I play my cards right, but I can’t help wonder if it would just be giving up the ‘goose’. Or would a steady income and responsibilities provide me with a ‘golden goose’? I am sure though, that if my income continues to be so erratic then my ‘goose’ is ‘cooked’. I’m unsure about just about everything else.
Also, now that I am a man, I am finally getting attention from other men (I’ve always liked guys in their thirties who’ve only recently returned the favour) and though they now seem attracted and give me the eye brow shuffle, they seem to shy away or disappear once they realise how inconsistent my finances are. To be honest I don’t blame them. Dating any artist in a recession mean that you are either stupid, besotted or he looks like an Abercrombie model. Fun, but not necessarily a good idea. Since my last blog I have been reminded of two friends of mine who have been in a loving monogamous, that’s right, I repeat: MONOGOMOUS, gay relationship for eleven years. One is corporate and the other creative and so I am starting to believe that there are no hard and fast rules. Things are generally a less flattering shade of grey. There are people who need to constantly upgrade their lovers like cell phones, there are people that are committed. There are artists that make plenty money and there are loads of poor people doing kak jobs they hate. Some people can and some people can’t. Some people will and others won’t, but I just need to figure out which of those people I want to be (Even if it changes from time to time.)

Saving Yourself.

Quite a few people that I know believe that you give a part of yourself to every person that you sleep with. Now I’m not just talking about the usual saliva and skin cell exchange, they believe that you leave a part of your “spiritual essence” with every person that you are physically intimate with. Well, if that is the case then many of us are scattered far and wide like rainbow coloured shards of glass at the bottom of a very vast kaleidoscope (It makes sense if you consider all the mirrors and mirror-balls in gay clubs). I am probably the last person to advocate abstinence. With regards to most things I consider life to be like a “buffet” and I have queued with the best of them to sample a taste of everything on offer. It’s been fabulous. Until about nine months ago. I haven’t lost my appetite I just haven’t found a decent meal and I’m tired of junk food.
Originally I wanted to write a blog celebrating all the “singular sensations” that I know. I have become aware of how many gorgeous, creative, intelligent and sexy single people there are out there and I wanted to write something acknowledging them, thereby comforting and acknowledging myself. I was going to gush but, something about the content didn’t seem to sit authentically with me because I kept putting it off. There are loads of hot, clever, single people and there are also loads of scary, “Hildegard”, stupid people that have been happily involved with a significant other for years. There are also single “ugly stupids” and involved “pretty clevers” of course. It appears to be random, like being born with a tongue that can fold into a tube, or one that, despite working well in the tasting and blowing “raspberries” department, cannot. Being single does not equate being a failure or an inability to be attractive. It is merely what it is: being single.
Sex is something that involves both ‘single’ and ‘involved’ people and is in my experience something to be enjoyed most frequently by some of the ‘single’ people I know. I’m not exactly sure that I have left a part of my “being” with every person that I have had sex with like one would a sock, a cap or a pair of sunglasses, but, I do feel that there is no such thing as “no strings attached” sex, not for me anyway. It always means something in some way and every action has a repercussion. On one occasion it may leave you feeling sexy confident and grinning as you “mince” through a mall with your newly reinforced ego. On another it may leave you feeling inadequate, isolated and yoked with regret. It is no longer something that I feel that I can take lightly and although I have been charitable, has never been something that I have been able to dispense too generously. I realise now that, to me, sex is too important an expression for that.
I am by no means a monk; I am far too promiscuous with religion for that! (Buffet again) it’s just; I am beginning to think that (for the umpteenth time) Madonna had a point. “Like a virgin, touched for the very first time.” this from a woman who had previously marketed herself as a sexual ‘libertine’. From “the whore of Babylon” she repackaged herself as “the Virgin”. I think she did this for the purity and the clarity that this title would afford. Going around smearing yourself off on people must get a little emotionally untidy after a while.
A laser beam is potent because it is concentrated light focused on a specific spot. Diffused and general light does not have the same efficacy although it is very illuminating. If I try to shed light on everything I encounter I will become more aware of my surroundings as my light bounces off everything, but I will never have the potency to be able to truly penetrate anything. I think sex is a bit like that, and not just when it comes to the ‘penetrate’ part.
Sex is easy and available yet, I hope it has the potential to be more than just a mutual body function. I have never been of the opinion that it is overrated. Sex has killed and conquered thousands of brave and wise souls. There must be more to it than procreation or in our case recreation. I wonder if it is perhaps something worthwhile waiting for after the initial discovery and experimentation has ended. Do we ever stop experimenting and discovering? Two of the longest and most successful gay relationships I have encountered have been ‘open’ relationships. But why does that fact leave me with a dull ache in my gut? Maybe my massive actors’ ego doesn’t like the idea of someone I love getting sexual satisfaction from another soul. Am I deluded by thinking I can be the sole source of all that special man may want or need, sexually? Maybe I just don’t know enough monogamous and happy long term gay couples. I’m not sure.
I know that life is short, but I’d really like the next person to be someone I have a meaningful connection with. Not just someone who has the right look or ‘bad boy’ quality. Delayed gratification seems to be a recipe for many types of achievement, perhaps in this matter too. But then again the loins can roar like lions. I wonder if I can make them tame.

Reflection Zone

After three or so months of getting up at 4h15 am to perform in township schools across Gauteng life has conspired to give me a few weeks to recollect myself and have a bit of a break with my folks. They have a lovely house in Deneysville on the Vaal dam which I adore and it is doing me the world of good. My friend Sarah told me that she would help me edit a book if I would take the time to write it, so I have come here to start throwing down the foundations. It’s scary and all grown up to be trying to write a book and so far I’ve only written about twelve pages, but I’m really enjoying it. I get up drink my green tea write my morning pages and then, in between helping my mom lift the odd suitcase or drive her to the shops or hair salon (she’s still recovering from a big operation) I am pretty much indulging in taking a good look at myself, one of my favourite hobbies. Next month I turn thirty and it’s an important benchmark in my life. Numerous psychics, Astrologers and Sangoma’s have told me in the past that my life would come together just before my thirtieth birthday and here I am a few weeks away still waiting for that to happen.
I’ve joined the local gym in Deneysville and for R15 a day I can pump iron with a very sexy 20 year old who is a barman at one of the local bars. I find him there when I go around 4pm and he plays Eminem from his cell phone as he does his bench presses and I try not to look too gay as I do my second set of leg raisers. Most of the equipment looks like stuff you would get from Verimark and I suspect that 20 year old and I may be one of just a handful of members most of which I presume must come in the mornings when 20 year old and I are sleeping. Deneysville is quiet and villagey. The people are down to earth and quite friendly but I’m not here to socialise. My dad wakes early every morning to run his Laundromat on the main road and mom and I keep busy during the day on various projects. Other than recovering she’s currently making an inventory of all the stamps we found in old suitcases that my grandfather collected during his life. Mom does her thing and I do mine and occasionally we meet up for tea (which I keep flowing) or meals which my mother expertly prepares. It’s easy to manifest love-handles in Deneysville.
Since I’ve been here I’ve missed auditions for Grease the next big Pieter Toerien musical planned for next year and for the first time in ages I felt nothing but relief that I wasn’t able to go. I Love musicals but I don’t think I’ll be able to keep doing them and make enough money to sustain a real living. I’ve loved every moment of being a musical theatre queen but I’ve put a fork in myself and begun to realise that I’m done. There are just so many talented young actor/singer/dancers spewing forth from the universities and Colleges and it’s not really ever where I saw myself in the long run.
So, what next? I’m not really sure... I start a gig on the 29th singing opera in Melrose Arch to promote Bingo (you can’t make that shit up) and I am even considering doing the schools again afterwards if it continues to pay me enough to keep writing. Sometimes I lie in bed at night crushed by at least one of our five chubby cats and I fantasize about what I want for my life. I see my own imaginary home with comfy couches and cosy nooks that invite you to drink tea, read a book or write a wish list. I have my own cat or two roaming and occasionally gracing me with their presence as only a cat can do. Purring and sharing a spot of sunshine with me. I see myself singing to an appreciative audience, songs that I have written and in my fantasy they know the words as well as I do. I imagine spooning with a man that is a mystery but at once deeply familiar, a man with my hearts stamp of approval whose heart has stamped an approval of me, masculine and sexy, to share laughter and warm, delicious meals with. In this home I am drawing with my mind, I have a big wooden table and chairs and I enjoy food and consoling conversation over candlelight with my beloved friends. They bring their warmth across my threshold. Everything in life that is manifest must have at one point in time have been unmanifest, I entertain these pictures and hopes in my head and pray that they will all, someday soon, come into being.

Own Little world.

"He's in his own little world." I've heard that sentence many times in my life. "Uh oh!", I hear you thinking. "Not one of THOSE blog entries!" But I assure you I'll try to keep the nostalgia and self-indulgence to a mild roar. I will make every effort to keep this amusing to the reader, but I admit that this is my therapy. Often I haven't got a clue about how I'm feeling until I've written something about it so keep a barf bag handy. Lately I've been losing at the dating game again. I hate reruns and remakes of old classics so I'll spare you the details, but basically hounded after someone who just couldn't be "sure" how he felt about me. Our last conversation felt like the final dress rehearsal for an episode of Santa Barbra. Cliched and predictable but like any dedicated actor I made like it was all happening for the first time. I'm disappointed but I'm not devistated. It's really not his fault. I think I only chose to fall for him in the first place because I could never really have him. Another excuse for drama, another reason to stay up late staring glassy eyed at the moon stretching my imagination with his image. Poor man, it's hard to imagine that we inhabit the same planet never mind the same wavelength. I think I just imagined that we could communicate through the impenetrable glass of our different space ships in the vastness of Gay outerspace. Sigh!A lot of what I wanted to say to him seems lost in translation. Through my tainted spectacles now everybody seems isolated and unable to communicate with others. I notice those alone. I see people desperate to have their stories heard. I watch hundreds of knuckles knocking on thousands of doors and like me not recieving a much longed for reply or opening. Working long hours immersed in the desperation of the townships is also not exactly doing wonders for my outlook. But if you ask me I will swear on my life that I am an optimist. However, I am not blind. Watching small children fight over a small handful of soggy fried potato chips puts things into perspective and then I notice how song and laughter permeates and soothes even the most dire of circumstances. The poor and abandoned I have encountered laugh and smile so freely. I see so much dissatisfaction amongst adults but I think it's merely my own that the world is reflecting back at me. This would make sense because I have been looking for myself out there. I understand why alchohol and drugs play such a major role in society because I find myself longing for something to numb the intensity of the thoughts that climb into bed with me at night. But instead of watching TV, I face them and its not unbearable. I am,for the most part happy in my own world. I make good company and am blessed in so many ways by so many people but it does feel at times like we are all in our own bubbles packed up against each others as tightly as foam. All together yet, each in his own little shiny rainbowed orb ocassionally popping one another as we squirm for our own space. I live on faith and I survive on a positive mindset and I can do this because I recognise the breadth and depth of the potholes in the road ahead and go around them rather than try to convince myself that they are not there. My current potholes are bad habits carried over from the past and the illusion that I need fame or a meaningful relationhip to be a succesful individual. This is not true, what I do need (I'd like to believe) is Love and laughter and already my accounts are brimming with both. Perhaps I'm not meant to come out of my own little world, and if so it wont be that bad because in here I am safe and Loved and maybe the "real" world can learn a lesson or two from me,even if its how NOT to do things. I think that if I just keep planting a Little Love and Laughter everyday of my life that eventually I will find myself the beneficiary of a very rich harvest. One can only hope, but even if I don't it will be a noble occupation nonetheless that should make the world a better place. Mine and everyone elses.

Resistance Crumble

So on the fourth day of my newly found vegetarian lifestyle I felt an insufferable craving for meat. I was waiting at a bus stop in Clapham Junction at 2 am sober as a judge, ravenous and staring through the glass and golden arches of the Mcdonald’s across the street. It looked so colourful, warm and welcoming and the bus would still be an eternal 15 minutes of nose dislocating cold. So I reared my lip in a rebellious smirk, marched in and ordered a ¼ pounder with cheese which I wolfed down before even getting back across the street to wait for the bus. It was strange. Afterwards I felt no guilt or remorse but I didn’t feel any satisfaction either. It didn’t taste as good as I imagined it would and I realised that it was the rebellious act that I craved more than the flame grilled patty. I want to kick against the conformity of my life. I have resumed my vegetarianism for the time being until I can honestly believe that it is best for me to be otherwise. But I am focussing on what this “takeaway” incident has brought to my attention. I feel stifled. I feel like I’m in a hole gripped by rules and the whims of other people pulling me under like quicksand. All because I have shushed myself saying: “Bite your tongue! Do you know how lucky you are to have a job? Do you know how many people there are out there who are down and out, have nothing and you have loads PLUS you get to travel! Don’t be an ingrate.” This is no fault but my own. My attitude has been: “I will pretty much do anything or endure anything however humiliating and shitty as long as you keep paying me and I don’t have to make any decisions. I’m just so grateful to have this opportunity. “
The other morning I woke up with the words: “Think bigger Bruce Little!” repeating over and over again in my head. Think bigger Bruce Little? Now, anyone who knows me knows that I am prone to getting random songs and sound bites spontaneously spouting forth from my subconscious mind, so much so that I have been dubbed the human jukebox in more than one dressing room. But this particular “morning mantra” was different. Could it be that I could dare to want more from my life than what I already have? That I could dare to dream bigger, to wish to play a bigger role in the world and travel much further than I have deemed possible? Or am I just falling into the trap of seeking what the Buddhists call the five harmful cravings? (Money, Sex, Fame, overeating and oversleeping.) Do I really just want to be rich and famous so I can OD on ¼ pounders with cheese and sleep all day? No I don’t think so. I want to be of use to other people, I want to bring joy and empathy into their lives by singing and performing. I want to be a Loving, respectable and responsible individual in a Loving, respectable and responsible environment. At times I wish my life was a novel so that I could skip forward a little and see what going to happen to me. I’ve never been very good at handling anticipation which is why I cannot sit through a horror movie. The suspense almost renders me unconscious with anxiety because I literally stop breathing as the poor hapless victim finds themselves somewhere dark and alone with a dagger yielding madman hiding somewhere in the shadows. I always want to scream: “Don’t go in there you stupid bitch!” But she never listens and the stupid woman gets stabbed and for some reason once the killer is out and shredding her I no longer feel the need to bury my head in the blanket and can watch undisturbed because the suspense is gone. That is how I manage with most things in my life. The suspense of waiting outside “the office” to see the headmaster for bad behaviour was always much worse than getting smacked on the palm with a ruler once you were in the thick of it. My imagination seems to create a much worse situation than what reality ends up producing.
So what should I do? I can hardly sleep at night wondering what I can do to beef up my dreams and perhaps make them a reality. There are so many options. London is literally a free- for-all buffet of careers, religions, societies, courses and places to “find yourself.” I’m not sure where to start, but I know I must begin soon because I currently “find myself” tirelessly pursuing someone else’s dream and other people’s dreams can only really lead to other people’s happiness.

Intimate Vegetables

I am reading The Art of Happiness written by Howard C. Cutler and HH Dalai Lama and boy oh boy is it blowing my hair back! (Just got a really short hair cut so this is not an easy feat.) I’m halfway through the book and this Cutler guy and the Dalai Lama are discussing the issue of intimate relationships (my favourite topic.) Being that the Dalai Lama was nearly 60 at the time the book was written and having been a celibate Buddhist monk that entire time Mr Cutler was naturally curious about what his holiness the DL had to say on the issue of romance and intimacy. First of all when asked by Cutler if he had ever been lonely DL replied without hesitation “no.” This blew me away. Is he serious? How could a man be a celibate monk treated almost as a deity for sixty years not ever have felt lonely? When asked what he attributed this lack of loneliness to he said: “I think one factor is that I look at any human being from a more positive angle; I try to look for their positive aspects. This aspect immediately creates a feeling of affinity, a kind of connectedness.” In other words every single relationship that HH Dalai Lama has is a meaningful and intimate one and he does not try and put all his eggs in one basket, so to speak, by having only one meaningful intimate relationship as we all try and do in modern society. After reading this I realised how many wonderful “intimate” relationships I have and how lucky I am. There is my fabulous family, those that are immediate and those extended. My crazy Porra guava princess Sonia, JC and the "boys",Chrissy Dudgeon, Cath Hopkins and Cath Daymond, Gox, Fanny, so many other “best” friends, the UCT drama crew and every amazing person I have worked with on every show. I have been blessed to have an “intimate” connection with so many phenomenal people. On the other side of the coin, I have also snogged and got frisky with others who will never have the faintest idea who I am. Strange. The Dalai Lama believes in Love and intimacy but he is not a fan of our notion of romance in western society. He believes it will lead to “frustration” as it is based in “fantasy” and I think I agree with that despite having dedicated so much time, money and effort to finding the “Love” of my life. Funnily enough I think I may have stumbled on the true great Love of my life and now understand that it is supposed to be me, myself, and not a six foot six newly retired rugby player that I would hope to meet in an ashram. Then I took a look at myself and thought, “mmm do I really want to fall in Love with that?” And to be honest there are a few things I am struggling to Love but it’s good to know that for any relationship to work you need time and compromise, even if it is with yourself.
I hope to be the change I wish to see in the world as inspired by the words of the great Mahatma Ghandi. I want a world with more joy and laughter so I should entertain myself and strive to laugh and help others to do so too. Yet there are still mornings, in which the frown on my forehead is so deep that it threatens to chew on the nearest person that bumps into me on the tube. There are a number of practises that I am adopting in order to create this change such as meditation and I have become a vegetarian despite my enjoyment of meat because after extensive research over the last four years I do believe it is more beneficial to the earth and everything on it. I have waited long enough and read enough and it feels right to me but I don’t plan on being a self righteous vegetarian activist just yet as I think choice is a precious commodity. So if it doesn’t bug you then chow that biltong stick with my blessings. I would still love to share my life with an amazing man who would function as an intimate companion as well as a lover. But I also can’t keep living in this fantasy world that dictates that I can only really be happy once I am sharing my bed with an Adonis. I can be and am going to be happy right now with what I’ve got to work with. Or at least I’m going to try! I guess we are all perfectly suited to our imperfections. It amazes me that I got on a plane and flew thousands of miles to another continent and the same person with the same baggage is still with me. Even in Harrods in London the chubby little moffie from Mafikeng is still alive and well inside, struggling to “walk the dog” on his coca cola yoyo. I want to put my arms around him and kiss his cheeks and tell him how delightful he is. Looking at him now it seems an easier task to Love him than I’ve been making it out to be. Especially when so many wonderful people have done it effortlessly over the years. The only true change I can affect is change from within. I cannot make someone Love me for who I am. I must first begin this task and then someone else may decide to join me. That would be fabulous. Two days ago I woke up and it was snowing outside. I had never seen it snow before that very moment and I am almost thirty. I had seen evidence that it had snowed in the Highlands of Scotland as a teenager and I had seen images of it in films and on television but I had never actually seen the magic of snowflakes before that very morning. It felt like a miracle. Part of me had begun to fear that I may never get to see it snow in person but lo and behold there it was on my face after years of hearing it happen only for other people. New things can come into being for me just like the snow. I could master the Art of happiness and know authentic Love in my life independent of money, fame, sex or status. It could just fall into being like a flake of ice from the sky. Anyone who knows me knows that I drink enough green tea that it’s a wonder I don’t share the same complexion as the incredible hulk. Sometimes in the morning happiness doesn’t have to be toned pectorals and a call back for a feature film opposite Hugh Jackman (mmm but wouldn’t that be nice!) Sometimes I can allow myself total contentment in the simple act of a well made cup of tea. As Wendy (one of my “intimates”) says as she eats a biscuit, it’s the little things that can really make you happy.

Man Enough?

Is it just me or is it really getting tough to measure up enough out there? I thought it was sufficient that I was a man who happens to be attracted to other men in order to qualify as a gay man. But these days the bar seems to have been raised and there is all this other criteria that has managed to sneak in. In order to qualify as a good specimen of homo preference you have to have washboard abdominals, big chunks of chiseled arms and legs and enough tattoos to put a map of the London underground to shame. We gay men are even beginning to outstraight the men who don't have to act straight cos they are. Its not that I'm so camp that my wrists are like an oscillating fan or anything, it's just that I'm beginning to feel ashamed of the fact that I'm sensitive and can be vulnerable and even (Charles Atlas forbid!)emotional at times. I meet gorgeous and intelligent gay men who seem to be putting in overtime at Butch camp because they feel that if they don't act masculine enough that nobody will find them attractive. Ironic, here I am, an actor, frustrated because I feel so much pressure to act a certain way. But the truth be told I want the softer albeit feminine side of me to be loved and appreciated as well. I can act "straight" but will doing so help me find someone to Love all of who I am to the fullest? It's not as though I've been smoking Texan plain and rearranging my balls in public in order to catch myself a squeeze but I have noticed a warmer reception from good looking guys when using the lower registers of my voice and greeting them with a firm handshake. Then later on when things are going well I notice the panic and repulsion once they learn my job often involves make-up and the occasional pair of heels. I am happy to be a man. I love the strength in my body,gruff in my voice and the rasp of my morning stubble. (Don't get me wrong there are plenty of strong bodied women out there, but there are also women out there with raspier stubble than mine so lets leave it at that.)However, as much as I love my manly traits, I also love talking about my feelings, nurturing the ones I love and occassionally shedding a tear watching Oprah. I am blessed with a father and a brother who I believe to be fine examples of what a man should be. I am doubly blessd because both of these men love me to bits, and just the way I am. I love that I am at once soft and yet also strong. (Kind of like toilet paper I guess:-) So I'm going to leave my acting to gigs that pay, and keep flying solo until I can land somewhere where all of me will be allowed through customs. Please fasten your seatbelts and make sure your seats are in the upright postion. Chicken or beef?

Foolish Faerie

Now I think I know what was meant by the term: "Fools rush in." But now that I have wiped my eyes and realised that I had wished upon a sattelite and not upon a star, I strangely have no regrets. Things don't go the way we plan but I suspect they end up going the way we need them to. I have been living in a bit of a dream world and reality has presented me with an alarm clock with two grenades in place of the silver alarm bells. I read a fantasy story many years ago (probably Raymond E. Feist) about mere mortals that are seduced and abducted by androgynous faeries that then intoxicate them and keep them in a deluded state of bliss, only to find (once they awake from their delusions) that they are dressed in tatters and have been roaming the countryside like madmen, nearly starved having scrounged on grasses and wild mushrooms.They had not been dressed in faeirie finery and eating delicasies as they were lead to believe whilst under the influence of magic. These poor men and women had been enchanted and, probably what is more sad, because they wanted to believe that the faerie land they thought they were in was actual reality. I feel a bit like that. I have spent the last few weeks with hazy eyes and an idiotic grin on my face and have recently woken up to find that things are not the way they once seemed. Reality can be a bitch but at the end of the day she does have my best interests at heart. Now is a time for clarity. I am going to make the most of it. But for all the clearness and alarms going off I still believe in Love.

Cupid's Bazooka!

So there I was thinking that Cupid was a fat kid with wings and questionable eyesight. I was wrong. Previously he seemed only to shoot me but not the other person and on rare occasions the other way around. The chubby little sniper was taking pot shots and my life was the empty bean can on the fence. But quite recently he decided to stop mucking about. He took aim and has bulls eyed me and this time it seems he managed to get another casualty in the crossfire. Thank God! It’s so humiliating being the only “moegoe” to fall on your ass with affection. I HAVE A BOYFRIEND! I can hear a chorus of Cupid’s cousins singing “hallelujah”, as I say it. He’s amazing. He is creative, intelligent, sexy, and spiritual and he reads! There are complications however. Like with any good birth.
I am in Durban typing this with chipped black nail polish on my fingernails because I am playing Riff Raff in the Rocky Horror show and he is at this very moment manifesting a magical event somewhere in Johannesburg. (He is a Magician; he makes wonderful things with magical carrots.)
So I decided to be proactive and bought a return ticket to fly and see him for two nights because I am not prepared to wait three weeks to see him. (He’s coming to Durban then to see me and the show.)
I think that there must not be enough space in the human brain for amorous feelings and sound logic and good reason. I would never normally do something like this. But I realise that the way I have been feeling has been anything but, “normal”. Will all the cynical singletons please stop deep-throating their index fingers in an attempt to gag. This is my blog and I will gush if I want to. In the past my feelings of endearment felt much like an affliction. It hurt and I lost weight. This time the exact opposite has happened. I feel energised and charged and as though a beaming disco ball has been set into my solar plexus. Many in the cast of “Rocky...” have fallen sick or become emotional due to the stress of opening a new show and I have felt nothing but exuberant vitality coursing through me.
I have made many wishes on many stars and blown away many stranded eyelashes for this. I have cut birthday cakes, klinked wine glasses with a steady eye contact and read countless tarot spreads. I deserve this! Don’t we all? Yes I’m a little scared. But most of all I am excited and there is a part of me that feels deeply put at ease. I’m so happy to have found my heart again. And yes it is like riding a bicycle. I hope that all who read this find themselves on Cupid’s list. May you and someone magical be his next targets!

B&B

I am in my parent’s new home, just a stone’s throw away from the Vaal dam which is like an inland mini-ocean. I have been going running along the banks in the afternoons so that my body doesn’t start illustrating my love for my mother’s cooking. I feel like I am in a gay South African version of the film “Like Water for Chocolate” because every meal that my mother serves is fortified with some kind of magic ingredient that loosens my highly strung nerves and cradles my heart until it stops its bitching and moaning. The house is gorgeous. Its double storey with four bedrooms and the belly of the house is a generous open plan, connecting the kitchen and the living room with a high churchlike roof, which is made up of whitewashed wooden beams that hold everything together under the watchful eye of Angelica. Angelica is the hand carved guardian angel that I bought my mother for her birthday to look after us all, and she does. I have been here a week already and it has been a warm hazy blur of Love, laughter and tea. These people have and always will Love me and it feels like the gooseflesh you get sitting in the sun when even your bones have gotten cold. They don’t just accept or tolerate me. Here I am enjoyed like a square of rationed chocolate. I Love my family because they Love me for more than being a brother or a son. They are above all things in my life my greatest blessing. I will move back into my little flat amongst the trees in Northcliff soon and commence rehearsals for The Rocky Horror Show, but until then I am enjoying every minute of the time I spend with these wonderful people that made me. I Love hearing my father’s authoritative tone in my voice when I reprimand the baby in our family (a gorgeous three year old German Sheperd named Zack.) I love setting the table and putting Pompy , our adopted terrier (previously my Ouma and Oupa’s now both watching over us like Angelica) to bed outside under her own duvet because she suffers from late night potty training memory lapses. I spent way too much time on my own in Cape Town and am so happy to now have all this wonderful company. The bed in the room I sleep in is so comfortable that even three of the five cats we have are constantly to be wrestled with for a comfortable spot. I am glad that I have not settled with anyone yet because it makes this time I share with my family so much more intimate. This week we had so many guests that I now feel confident that my mother and I could run a lucrative bed and breakfast. My uncle came to stay followed by a friend of my mother’s and then my aunt and uncle and niece. So much territory was covered. Love, betrayal, death, regret and even marriage (which some would argue is an accumulation of the former four.) Conversations became heated and then cooled and all was punctuated delectably by my mother’s sublime cooking. She is the happiest I have seen her in years and I taste this in every mouthful. My Little brother that is so much bigger than me in so many ways has set something in motion that may provide me with a career. But even if it is not lucrative and so nothing comes of it now, I will feel its rippling impact for the rest of my life. It is good to be believed in.

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.)

"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.