Thelma & Louise in TransAmerica
Almost two months ago now, I lept out of the straight working world after ten years in the same place (working with the sex industry in a non-government organisation), half-baked a financial survival plan, and then worried it wouldn't work, and ended up with a peptic ulcer. Louise Hayes says that's due to fear of lack of support, eating yourself up with worry. So, I addressed my thoughts accordingly, chose some more positive affirmations, and thanked God that a couple of years ago some Aussie scientists found an antibiotic cure for ulcers ; ) It was a painful week, but all part of my "mid-life crisis" (which is more of a transition from middle-class mores to completely la la cosmic love hippydom
Ah how do you close brackets when you've used one for a smile icon, ah just move on, we're post predictive grammar aint we?
A couple of weeks later, my best friend and I flew to Perth on Thursday to visit my father, who was in the late stage of inoperable cancer. As I have blogged, it was wonderfully good to be able to hug him and tell him I love him, and say my final goodbye to him with a full spiritual salute, knowing inside that he was in the process of passing.
Of course, on Friday night, I had to take Best Friend to Connections, the only gay nightclub in Perth, where I had worked for five years as a glass collector when I was a young man, which wasn't very often, but probably more often than you might think ; )
I decided to have a cigarette in the park before the club, and we were accosted by some indigenous kids, I gave one a loan of my lighter, I refused another a puff of my cigarette, they got more belligerent, I noticed the cops moving in, and was relieved for a moment, until I ended up in Perth lockup for four hours, charged with not only possessing but dealing pot, thanks apparently to a very colourful story from the kid I had refused a smoke, who turned out to be on serious warrants, and who seemed intent on causing as much trouble for himself and me as possible, with his fantastic story about the exotic old queen in red.
I sat in the lockup listening to the music from the gay pub next door, praying to swarms of angels, and was finally, reluctantly, at 4am Saturday, allowed bail, despite the cops knowing I had an airline ticket out of town Sunday night.
I met up with Best Friend, and we went to Connections. He was dirty dancing with a deaf guy who said he was straight, while I was dirty dancing with some hot boys who slinked away when they discovered I had no boy bits. I danced on undeterred, and at 5am, as the clubs was closing, accepted a quick offer of penis from a nice Indian chef, who took me to plush apartment in the city. and delivered on his promise : )
What, I gotta go out of the state to get lucky? Ah, whatever works.
Best Friend went to Balga, and was raving for weeks about the deaf "straight boy" who sucked his dick. Obviously straight cos he couldn't keep it up, which couldn't have just been cos he'd been doing bucket bongs for hours. But hey, nice abs are nice abs, I understand. I chose to settle for an erect penis, and I got what I wanted.
After a lovely large family supper Saturday night (which turned out to be Dad's last supper with me, Best Friend and I went to the Air Show on Sunday, with the return flight to Sydney booked for midnight.
Where could we stow our suitcases till our midnight flight? We were able to stash them at a tourist centre in town while the Air Show was on, but it closed at 5, so we retrieved our cases from there just in time, and went with our luggage to the sauna. As you do.
Our first successful visit to a sauna as fag and faggy faghag; that is, we both picked up. The magic of being travellers. And being wanton nymphs at large! And ah, I do love fucking a face with my fanny!
Alas, when we staggered to a restaurant for a meal break, there was a message on my phone from my sister, telling me that the police were at her house looking for my Best Friend. He saw the blood drain from my face, and I passed the phone to him to listen to the message. We were due to leave this town in two hours. He leaned across the table, took me by the hands, looked me in the eye, and said with a Southern twang, "We'll be okay Thelma".
We returned to the sauna, where I changed my hairstyle, and my clothes, removing every trace of red. We checked into the airport separately. I prayed all the way there and through the check in and didn't really relax until the takeoff.
We flew into the dawn, and I communed with Spirit, and knew my father was closer to oneness with it.
The taxi driver at Sydney airport noted our age difference and mentioned TransAmerica. I AM old enough to be my best friend's mother, and there was a possihble incident of fertiility I was involved in at the time of his conception, but we're fairly sure I'm NOT his father. Most probably not, at least.
I kissed my street when I got home.
Later that Monday, with a gathering of friends at a pub, I received the news from my sister that my father had passed on. We had a round of their finest Single Malt whiskey to honour my Scottish father, and I'm so glad to have such good quality friends.
My ad, that I had booked a month previous, came out in the Daily Telegraph a couple of days later, and I began part-time work self-employed giving Tantric Massage, an exotic service I give a lot to and charge a lot for. I'm generally a one bang wonder, so I don't take more than one booking a day, for I do need my energy for other things!
But I must say, my sexual confidence has increased somewhat knowing that, at my age, I am worth a minimum of $250 an hour. Capitalising on what separates me from the mainstream, my sexual ambiguity, and the mainstream's fascination with that. And making the most of my strong drive to be sexually pleasing, and my tantric skills picked up a few years ago with Barbara Carrellas who credits me in her recent book Urban Tantra (see yesterday's blog) , and stepping outside of the middle class illogically judgmental mindset that I inherited, in order to make the most of who I am and what I have.
Only Love Matters.
I knew that when I cradled my dying cat in my arms earlier this year, feeling the love, and feeling it unchanged even as she changed from being incarnate to not being so.
I knew that when I met my father again, and put aside all my anger at being raised by him to fear his anger and to dislike and distrust my body and my sexuality, and just acknowledged that we are human together, and hugged him, and told him I love him.
I sang it when I performed my song "Everything One" at TRaNNi PANiC last Saturday night, and I felt it when I sat in Taylor Square a few hours later talking with a talented gender-bending performer about our dead fathers at 5am, and I spoke it at 1pm later that day (now Sunday) giving a speech about "Surviving Life and Death on the Edges" for Transgender Day Of Remembrance, I felt it lying wrapped around a cuddling mixed sex couple of young friends at her 21st birthday later that Sunday night in a Newtown park, and I wrote from it the day after in a letter about refugees and decent (family/Christian/secularly humane) values that was published in the Sydney Morning Herald, and I get to live it now every moment of my life.
Only Love Matters.
I'm a bit pissed now, and this is a blog, not a book, so it can stay this untidy until it IS a book and I'm making my living on the chat show circuit ; ) Outside of WA, that is : /
But if you believe in angels or pixies or other benevolent spirits, can you ask them to send me with ease a few customers before Saturday. I'm gonna want to party myself after then!
on the lam and banging for bucks ; )
(Ok, so I'm not actually banging, but you gotta allow some poetic licentiousness, yes?)