He is distracted and his eyes are searching for some stimulation and they come to rest upon the slender hips of our geeky-looking waiter. James’s eyelids squint a gluttonous moment of gratification, and in a hideously Freudian moment, his conversation ambles towards obscenity as he recounts the tales of his new lover’s sexual exploits.
“I love to feel his rock-hard cock inside me...”
I try very hard not to care, or even to let his words take effect, but there is something primal in imagining true horror. Already my overactive imagination has concocted a revolting picture of smooth, tanned skin greedily exploring the folds of James’s over-indulged rump. I bulk at the thought of his muscle-weak corpulence receiving the attention and the care of anyone, but why should I care? My prissy judgment says more about me than it does about him.
It strikes me that I am being hypocritical about this. In asking myself the question, “why would anyone share such intimate information with virtual strangers?” The irony is not lost on me. I have looked back at my own blogs, postings and articles, and I cannot fully understand my motivations for discussing my sexuality. Is it pure narcissism? Is it indulgence? I’ve not ruled these explanations out; however, I maintain that human sexuality is a natural aspect of our lives that frequently gets distorted. I feel to some degree that my sexuality has been hijacked. I’m not sure of the exact moment it happened, but all of a sudden, I felt the language of gay discourse no longer included me. It began to serve a privileged elite who publicly proclaimed their love and sought to marginalize the cruising that has, at its heart, an authentic engagement with the sexuality of men.
Being gay for me isn’t about Conran interiors and tasteful soft furnishings, it’s about sucking cock. We maintain that discussing our sexualities in public forums is vulgar, yet in silencing these aspects of our character we endure many disruptions to our daily lives.
That being said, it would be disingenuous to deny that I too have noticed the slender waist of the geeky waiter. If I am being completely honest I register his physique and in a moment I picture a passionate coupling and I taste the salt of his sweat and feel the coarseness of his hair between my lips. I suppose the only difference in
this moment between John and myself is that I do not vocalise the
fantasy.
“I was married for over 10 years, so now I've decided to follow the path of least resistance.”
I have heard this line repeated many times before. It always precedes a lengthy, intimate description of his relish at fucking young looking Thai boys, all of whom have no agency in the narrative. When James describes his new lover to me, it is a fractured image. It is compartmentalised beyond all recognition. It is a picture comprising of “large hands,” “strong arms,” and of course a, “long, thick cock.” I piece these things together in my mind and cannot see the person. I see a jumble of stereotypes and clichés that do not settle into anything other than a broken picture of subjective assumptions.
“...He’s 17 but he looks much younger, I just wanted to have some fun, I wasn’t looking for love or anything, he seduced me...”
The thing with James is that he will never profess to seeking anyone’s approval, and yet at this moment this is exactly what he is doing. It’s almost as if he sees me as some kind of moral judge and jury, like I am the unspoken voice of his past conscience. The really sad thing is I don’t care what he does.•
“...It’s not about the money or anything; no, of course I give him 2000 a week for his clothes and things so he looks nice, no, it's not about the money, it’s about the fun... He really makes me laugh you see...”
And then it happens, I become aware of the fact that he is no longer talking to me, he is conducting a conversation with something else, something that is not in the here and now. He is justifying his actions to a memory.
In Thailand I have been lucky enough to witness many bizarre things, a lot of which, people in the UK might find very odd. I have witnessed my class of teenage boys, dress up as girls, and erotically dance to Lady GaGa songs for the entertainment of a visiting football. I have sat in the studio of a televised singing competition and watched young Thai teenagers dress up as children and erotically dance to the applause of their families. I’m going to go out on a limb here and propose that the sexualisation of young people is not traditionally frowned upon. Indeed, many conversations I have with different people here would indicate that sexuality is frequently identified with youth. If you are shocked by the notion that over sexualising young people is pretty normal, then you need look no further than western popular youth culture. The sexual liberation with all the fun of the teenage party is intrinsically linked to our consumption. We consume the enthusiasm of youth and subvert it into an endless popularity contest. Cool is a currency that nobody can ever really cash in, look at the pictures of a 15 year old Kate Moss or Britney Spears – it's sex. If you’re looking at the work of Terry Richardson, for example, the hipster liberals will completely fetishise young looking naked girls, particularly those who will have sex with sleazy old photographers. We may loathe men like Terry Richardson, but they certainly hold a mirror up to some men’s sexuality. Perhaps this is all down to the people like James, the pioneers of our beloved sixties revolution.
So watching James, wearing a pair of oversized, striped dungarees and a rubber mask that is the stuff of snuff porn, bouncing around a stage in a shopping mall is really not as disturbing as it seems when I type it. In fact even as the young Thai kids, over dressed in sexy teenage fashion, get up and start dancing with him, I don’t feel in the slightest bit unsettled. To be honest their parents couldn’t be more proud. It reminds me of those times in the UK when parents used to send their children on to shows like, “Jim’ll’ fix it,” and “Top of the pops.” Wasn’t that the 70’s? Seriously, is there anything more obviously wrong in the world than Jimi Saville’s tracksuit? Perhaps it was a whole different time back then.
“The boy is on his way now...”
“I love to feel his rock-hard cock inside me...”
I try very hard not to care, or even to let his words take effect, but there is something primal in imagining true horror. Already my overactive imagination has concocted a revolting picture of smooth, tanned skin greedily exploring the folds of James’s over-indulged rump. I bulk at the thought of his muscle-weak corpulence receiving the attention and the care of anyone, but why should I care? My prissy judgment says more about me than it does about him.
It strikes me that I am being hypocritical about this. In asking myself the question, “why would anyone share such intimate information with virtual strangers?” The irony is not lost on me. I have looked back at my own blogs, postings and articles, and I cannot fully understand my motivations for discussing my sexuality. Is it pure narcissism? Is it indulgence? I’ve not ruled these explanations out; however, I maintain that human sexuality is a natural aspect of our lives that frequently gets distorted. I feel to some degree that my sexuality has been hijacked. I’m not sure of the exact moment it happened, but all of a sudden, I felt the language of gay discourse no longer included me. It began to serve a privileged elite who publicly proclaimed their love and sought to marginalize the cruising that has, at its heart, an authentic engagement with the sexuality of men.
Being gay for me isn’t about Conran interiors and tasteful soft furnishings, it’s about sucking cock. We maintain that discussing our sexualities in public forums is vulgar, yet in silencing these aspects of our character we endure many disruptions to our daily lives.
That being said, it would be disingenuous to deny that I too have noticed the slender waist of the geeky waiter. If I am being completely honest I register his physique and in a moment I picture a passionate coupling and I taste the salt of his sweat and feel the coarseness of his hair between my lips. I suppose the only difference in
this moment between John and myself is that I do not vocalise the
fantasy.
“I was married for over 10 years, so now I've decided to follow the path of least resistance.”
I have heard this line repeated many times before. It always precedes a lengthy, intimate description of his relish at fucking young looking Thai boys, all of whom have no agency in the narrative. When James describes his new lover to me, it is a fractured image. It is compartmentalised beyond all recognition. It is a picture comprising of “large hands,” “strong arms,” and of course a, “long, thick cock.” I piece these things together in my mind and cannot see the person. I see a jumble of stereotypes and clichés that do not settle into anything other than a broken picture of subjective assumptions.
“...He’s 17 but he looks much younger, I just wanted to have some fun, I wasn’t looking for love or anything, he seduced me...”
The thing with James is that he will never profess to seeking anyone’s approval, and yet at this moment this is exactly what he is doing. It’s almost as if he sees me as some kind of moral judge and jury, like I am the unspoken voice of his past conscience. The really sad thing is I don’t care what he does.•
“...It’s not about the money or anything; no, of course I give him 2000 a week for his clothes and things so he looks nice, no, it's not about the money, it’s about the fun... He really makes me laugh you see...”
And then it happens, I become aware of the fact that he is no longer talking to me, he is conducting a conversation with something else, something that is not in the here and now. He is justifying his actions to a memory.
In Thailand I have been lucky enough to witness many bizarre things, a lot of which, people in the UK might find very odd. I have witnessed my class of teenage boys, dress up as girls, and erotically dance to Lady GaGa songs for the entertainment of a visiting football. I have sat in the studio of a televised singing competition and watched young Thai teenagers dress up as children and erotically dance to the applause of their families. I’m going to go out on a limb here and propose that the sexualisation of young people is not traditionally frowned upon. Indeed, many conversations I have with different people here would indicate that sexuality is frequently identified with youth. If you are shocked by the notion that over sexualising young people is pretty normal, then you need look no further than western popular youth culture. The sexual liberation with all the fun of the teenage party is intrinsically linked to our consumption. We consume the enthusiasm of youth and subvert it into an endless popularity contest. Cool is a currency that nobody can ever really cash in, look at the pictures of a 15 year old Kate Moss or Britney Spears – it's sex. If you’re looking at the work of Terry Richardson, for example, the hipster liberals will completely fetishise young looking naked girls, particularly those who will have sex with sleazy old photographers. We may loathe men like Terry Richardson, but they certainly hold a mirror up to some men’s sexuality. Perhaps this is all down to the people like James, the pioneers of our beloved sixties revolution.
So watching James, wearing a pair of oversized, striped dungarees and a rubber mask that is the stuff of snuff porn, bouncing around a stage in a shopping mall is really not as disturbing as it seems when I type it. In fact even as the young Thai kids, over dressed in sexy teenage fashion, get up and start dancing with him, I don’t feel in the slightest bit unsettled. To be honest their parents couldn’t be more proud. It reminds me of those times in the UK when parents used to send their children on to shows like, “Jim’ll’ fix it,” and “Top of the pops.” Wasn’t that the 70’s? Seriously, is there anything more obviously wrong in the world than Jimi Saville’s tracksuit? Perhaps it was a whole different time back then.
“The boy is on his way now...”
James is drunk and he is beginning to frighten me. He is reaching that moment of equilibrium that precedes the flip into madness. It is the time when he expresses a sober piece of factual information. It's at that point I know he has had too much to drink. It is a statement that is devoid of all nostalgia and artifice, it is a tangible piece of information that signals a spiral into the horrific reality of his existence. It's almost as if James reaches the point where he becomes aware of his own ridiculousness and all pretensions aside, he sees himself as the drunken old queen dressed as
a clown. He looks beyond me and talks to the voices in his own head.
“The thing about being a professional actor in Thailand is that nobody ever really takes you very seriously...”
He shifts in the seat and sways the booze filled latte from side to side. His chins judder in my general direction and emphasise his discomfort, he is sweating and his hair dye is running down the back of his neck.
“They just think I’m some sort of fucking joke, I used to know Cary Grant you know, and here I am being a fucking children's entertainer!”
To be fair to James, even though his voice is raised, there are no children around who can understand what he is saying. Also, in the presence of the children, he is genuinely well behaved. There is something quite comforting in the way he gently interacts with them, I would say that there is nothing more traditionally English than a drunken old clown making children laugh. I find nothing inappropriate about his contact with the children. What does concern me, is that I am not a child, and therefore I am a legitimate target for his twisted drunken madness. He is riddled with Whiskey and unfulfilled ambition, I have to keep telling myself that he isn't really talking to me.
His change of mood is instantaneous.
I have provoked him somehow, he leans forward in short controlled jabs and spits his words at me as if they were back-handed slaps.
“...I just want a laugh, don't you understand that? I just want some fun... You’re too fucking boring... My boy likes to have fun...” His face is contorted into a mask of rage and his words have lost their charm.
“... You think you’re so much better than me, but you’re boring... Sitting there with your fucking green tea! You can’t judge me, who the fuck do you think you are?” I try to placate him as best I can, I am used to these outbursts from him, they are viscous and filled with rage, but they are never really directed at me. They are the directed at his conscience.
“...Tha’s the trouble with all you European boys, all think you’re someone special, well you’re not. You're nobody, you’re just fucking boring, I don’t have to put up with all your shit, Asian boys are much more fun, they know a good thing when they see it...”
It is at that moment that his eye is caught by a smiling young boy who is walking towards the cafe. The boy looks so young and content. He looks like a young teenager, barely 14 years old, yet he moves with a self confidence that tells me he is most definitely older. He reaches out and tenderly places a hand on James's shoulder. Call me crazy, but I just don't get the attraction at all, what is the glue between these two people? Is it just about the money?
“It's time to go Mister, you drunk.”
It's odd to see someone so young have power over someone so angry. It is instantly clear that he has renegotiated this afternoon's performance, I'm pleased about that, the thought of James being on stage in this state is truly frightening.
“Ah, yes, thank heavens you're here, this chap over here is becoming a bore.” He shakes the back of his hand in my direction. “I deal with people like you everyday, you're all full of shit, if you ever came for a job at my company then you wouldn't get it, that's the problem with people like you, you're all full of shit!”
He leaves without paying his bill and so I end up reluctantly buying his lunch. As I watch him wobble off being assisted by a teenage boy, I can't help feeling sorry for him. The initial shock of his verbal attacks has worn off and I feel sad that life can be so cruel. He doesn't even get to fulfill his obligations as a clown. James has been trained to rule the world and it's a world that no longer needs him.
Like many Europeans, I was born to question the world around me. I inherited an inquisitive nature that tempted my forefathers out from the imprisonment of a metaphorical cave and into the sunlight. From an early age I wanted to know the form behind the shadow. This has always been a most treacherous and lonely path, it is a journey towards enlightenment that has no rational meaning. I see in James something akin to this, we share a common root despite our differences. Beneath the boozy, lecherous persona, James wants to strive out into the world and bring a rational order to the chaos. So consumed by his own self righteous motives, he cannot concede to the meaninglessness of his enterprise. Indeed, where has this inquisitiveness brought any of us? We have become a desperate diaspora of Morriseys and Cowells, a civilisation that points our fingers at the world and criticises everything and anything, while ignoring the fact that our time is over. It doesn't occur to us that we come across as clowns, spouting our stories of reasonable order while instigating pandemonium. We learn everything and nothing, so our missionaries travel the world speaking of a universal peace, and our armies look for nothing but war. Is it any wonder that we in the west are frequently misunderstood? I see in James the logical end to every pilgrimage, it is a promised land with two faces. One is jovial and fun, the other is vicious and cruel.
a clown. He looks beyond me and talks to the voices in his own head.
“The thing about being a professional actor in Thailand is that nobody ever really takes you very seriously...”
He shifts in the seat and sways the booze filled latte from side to side. His chins judder in my general direction and emphasise his discomfort, he is sweating and his hair dye is running down the back of his neck.
“They just think I’m some sort of fucking joke, I used to know Cary Grant you know, and here I am being a fucking children's entertainer!”
To be fair to James, even though his voice is raised, there are no children around who can understand what he is saying. Also, in the presence of the children, he is genuinely well behaved. There is something quite comforting in the way he gently interacts with them, I would say that there is nothing more traditionally English than a drunken old clown making children laugh. I find nothing inappropriate about his contact with the children. What does concern me, is that I am not a child, and therefore I am a legitimate target for his twisted drunken madness. He is riddled with Whiskey and unfulfilled ambition, I have to keep telling myself that he isn't really talking to me.
His change of mood is instantaneous.
I have provoked him somehow, he leans forward in short controlled jabs and spits his words at me as if they were back-handed slaps.
“...I just want a laugh, don't you understand that? I just want some fun... You’re too fucking boring... My boy likes to have fun...” His face is contorted into a mask of rage and his words have lost their charm.
“... You think you’re so much better than me, but you’re boring... Sitting there with your fucking green tea! You can’t judge me, who the fuck do you think you are?” I try to placate him as best I can, I am used to these outbursts from him, they are viscous and filled with rage, but they are never really directed at me. They are the directed at his conscience.
“...Tha’s the trouble with all you European boys, all think you’re someone special, well you’re not. You're nobody, you’re just fucking boring, I don’t have to put up with all your shit, Asian boys are much more fun, they know a good thing when they see it...”
It is at that moment that his eye is caught by a smiling young boy who is walking towards the cafe. The boy looks so young and content. He looks like a young teenager, barely 14 years old, yet he moves with a self confidence that tells me he is most definitely older. He reaches out and tenderly places a hand on James's shoulder. Call me crazy, but I just don't get the attraction at all, what is the glue between these two people? Is it just about the money?
“It's time to go Mister, you drunk.”
It's odd to see someone so young have power over someone so angry. It is instantly clear that he has renegotiated this afternoon's performance, I'm pleased about that, the thought of James being on stage in this state is truly frightening.
“Ah, yes, thank heavens you're here, this chap over here is becoming a bore.” He shakes the back of his hand in my direction. “I deal with people like you everyday, you're all full of shit, if you ever came for a job at my company then you wouldn't get it, that's the problem with people like you, you're all full of shit!”
He leaves without paying his bill and so I end up reluctantly buying his lunch. As I watch him wobble off being assisted by a teenage boy, I can't help feeling sorry for him. The initial shock of his verbal attacks has worn off and I feel sad that life can be so cruel. He doesn't even get to fulfill his obligations as a clown. James has been trained to rule the world and it's a world that no longer needs him.
Like many Europeans, I was born to question the world around me. I inherited an inquisitive nature that tempted my forefathers out from the imprisonment of a metaphorical cave and into the sunlight. From an early age I wanted to know the form behind the shadow. This has always been a most treacherous and lonely path, it is a journey towards enlightenment that has no rational meaning. I see in James something akin to this, we share a common root despite our differences. Beneath the boozy, lecherous persona, James wants to strive out into the world and bring a rational order to the chaos. So consumed by his own self righteous motives, he cannot concede to the meaninglessness of his enterprise. Indeed, where has this inquisitiveness brought any of us? We have become a desperate diaspora of Morriseys and Cowells, a civilisation that points our fingers at the world and criticises everything and anything, while ignoring the fact that our time is over. It doesn't occur to us that we come across as clowns, spouting our stories of reasonable order while instigating pandemonium. We learn everything and nothing, so our missionaries travel the world speaking of a universal peace, and our armies look for nothing but war. Is it any wonder that we in the west are frequently misunderstood? I see in James the logical end to every pilgrimage, it is a promised land with two faces. One is jovial and fun, the other is vicious and cruel.
1 comment:
It makes me profoundly SAD. It certainly is plsisant and sexy. Sure there are problems in the world arroumd us but is this book the place to talk it over. It even is NOT gay in all its meanings. Sorry. No.
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