Tuesday 28 June 2011

Emigration

When scientists manage to open a wormhole to a parallel universe, one where sanity is valued, and bigotry and paranoia are unheard-of, I want to put my name down for the first ticket. One way.
Depressingly, though, I'll no doubt have to stay here and dream in vain of science fiction escapology, the 'here's what you could have won' of imagination. I hope my spiritual successors find a time and a place where they can be happy, and cute boys to be happy with. Greetings from the age of paedo-hysteria.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Monday 27 June 2011

Unremittingly dismal

It's been one of those days, from having to get up at 5:15 this morning preparatory to travelling back (although I have to admit the journey itself went well, the worst I can claim was that it was a bit tedious), through a completely rubbish shift at work, problems from start to finish, not helped at all by the fact that I, personally, was on far less than sparkling form - even allowing that I had the job round my neck for hours, it was my poorest performance for a long time. Then, to round it all off this evening, my wife rang with news of a further deterioration in my mother-in-law's health - sadly it seems the worst is now more likely than not to happen, sooner rather than later. My wife wants to visit, understandably, because she may have very few more chances to see her mum, and got rather frustrated that I couldn't tell her immediately what I was working next week, but, as I tried to explain to her, there's no-one I can speak to with access to next week's roster until the morning, and even though I undertook to do that as early as I can tomorrow, I was still left with the impression that it wasn't the answer she wanted to hear. All in all, a day best suited to being consigned to the dustbin of history as soon as possible.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Sunday 26 June 2011

Sunshine and shivers, shifting and lifting, shadows of sadness

It's been a really nice day, weather-wise, today, clear blue skies, warm and sunny. We went out shopping around midday, and the trip around the supermarket proved to be an eye candy treat - the place was awash with cuties, albeit mostly much too young to even consider anything more than looking. There were two in particular, probably brothers, by appearances, both as cute as you like, but the younger boy especially was so pretty, it sent shivers down my spine. Delicious, and no mistake. Not only that, but as we arrived back, the boy whose bedroom window I referred to yesterday was out in the local area, riding around on a child's scooter substantially too small for him, possibly his younger brother's. He's not the best looking boy I've ever seen, but he's far from being hard to look at, and given that he lives literally a few tens of feet away, I have hopes of seeing a bit more of him.
This afternoon was moderately strenuous, humping and dumping furniture and other bits and pieces, with two aims in mind. My daughter is having a new bed, which is due to arrive tomorrow, while her existing bed will become a spare, to be used, in the first instance, by the Finnish exchange student due to stay with us in September. To facilitate this, we had to clear the spare bedroom, somewhat euphemistically known as 'the study', which over the past couple of years had degenerated into little more than a dumping ground for things we couldn't find anywhere else to accommodate. It took a few hours, and given how warm it was, proved to be a sticky, sweaty occupation, but at least it's now done, better than rushing around trying to sort the house out in the last few days before the Finnish girl arrives.
As evening has drawn on, my spirits have become rather lower, in the knowledge that my time at home will come to an end early tomorrow morning - I'll be leaving before 7:00 to head back for a late shift. Even with the financially-based frictions of recent days, I'd much rather be here than away for another two and a half weeks, which is the prospect I'm facing. Oh well, make the best of it, I guess, because complaining certainly isn't going to change anything.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Judicial murder

I was originally going to try and fit everything I wanted to say into a catchall post, but the two main items are too disparate, and the moods too different, so two posts it will be.
In the aftermath of a high profile murder trial here in the UK which has ended in the last few days, there have been the, to me, depressingly familiar screams for the death penalty to be reinstated in this country, mostly by or through the appallingly reactionary tabloid press we're cursed with. Given the title I've chosen for this post, I doubt too many people will be surprised to hear that I'm 100% against capital punishment. I have two main reasons for this opposition. Firstly, the ethical position, as I see it. If you, by way of your place as a citizen of a country, support the execution of people for their crimes, whatever that crime may be, I don't see how you can claim moral superiority over the criminal. If someone takes a life, and then has their life taken by the state by way of punishment, what's the difference in the moral position? As far as I'm concerned, one murder is followed by another, albeit legally sanctioned. Life is either sacrosanct, or it isn't. The second reason, and perhaps the most important to my mind, is the possibility of miscarriage of justice. No judicial system, in my opinion, can be infallible. As a system by, for and of people, it's inevitable that mistakes will be made. Anyone who thinks capital punishment is just should, in my opinion, consider how their conscience might deal with the knowledge that they had contributed, as a juror, witness, or even executioner, to the killing of a person who was subsequently proven to be innocent. Maybe I'm in a small minority in saying this in such a forthright way, but I would rather see 1000 murderers walk free than see one innocent person executed. Can anything be more pitifully useless than a posthumous pardon?

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Saturday 25 June 2011

The last....and close to first

Ever since we've lived in our current house, there's been a high coniferous hedge at the back, which has given us a certain amount of protection from being overlooked by the houses behind us, which are somewhat higher up. After a vague and unjustified (in my opinion) complaint by one of the rear 'neighbours' about the hedge blocking his light, my wife decided it was essential for it to be massacred, so that it's now less than half the height it was before. And now the people behind us can see straight into the rear windows of our house. We can see their rear windows as well, though, and the idea of what I might be able to catch sight of in one window in particular, of the bedroom of a rather cute 12/13 year old boy, led me to think about my (very) limited experience of viewing pubescent nakedness in the past.
Since I was that age myself, and was trying desperately not to be caught showing too much interest in my classmates in the showers after games lessons at school, there really has only been one serious instance of seeing what I want the most, and, ironically, it came beside a swimming pool in Greece when my wife and I were on our honeymoon. We were lazing around on sun loungers, topping up our tans, when I noticed a blond 11/12 year old boy, Scandinavian, in all probability, judging by appearances and snatches of chat I could hear, splashing around in the pool with an older male, presumably, from the way they were interacting, some sort of relative. The boy was just stunning, undoubtedly one of the two or three most delightful boys I've ever seen in my life, but things, for me, were about to get much better, if horribly dangerous. The boy had ended his time in the pool with arms and legs wrapped round the man who was with him, and had been more or less carried back to where his parents(?) were relaxing, directly opposite where my wife and I were sunbathing, about 15-20 feet away. Without embarrassment, apparently, the boy decided to change out of his swimming trunks poolside, so within moments, he was there, almost close enough to touch, naked and with a full erection. I just stopped breathing, basically - it was almost the most erotic experience of my whole life, but it was happening in public, with my wife of less than a week about two feet away. I simply couldn't tear my eyes away, and didn't even have the disguise of wearing sunglasses, because I never wear them. It only lasted seconds, of course, as the boy dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, but the scene was absolutely cauterised into my memory - if I close my eyes now (and I have done while writing this) every detail is still there in my head, I can go back 18 years in a heartbeat, to that Greek pool. To the last living, breathing, naked boy I've seen with my own eyes. If he proves to be the last ever, and there's not much prospect of his being succeeded as things stand at the moment, there could scarcely have been a better.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Elusive

I've been watching U2's Glastonbury performance on TV, and they've just played I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For. Bloody hell, tell me about it. The elusiveness of happiness. When I think I might have a chance of finding it, it shape-shifts and slips through my fingers. Maybe it's because I don't deserve it, who knows? Maybe it's just an illusion, and isn't obtainable by any means, like trying to snare a shadow. Maybe I'm just facing the wrong way, and it's standing behind me, waiting patiently for me to turn and face it, reach out and embrace it. Maybe this is it, and I can't recognise it for what it is.

Be happy, everyone.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Friday 24 June 2011

Laying aside the disguise?

I've spent the past few hours thinking about an issue, which is, on a personal level, the greatest millstone around my neck. I'm referring, needless to say, to my sexuality, and the perceived need to keep it secret from the world. Now that I'm sitting here at the keyboard, the simplicity and clarity of my thoughts of just a few minutes ago seems to be evaporating again. I'd almost come to the conclusion that I can't pretend anymore, I've just had too much of living with one hand tied behind my back, so to speak, that I need to 'publish and be damned', if that's what honesty would entail. It appeared to be very straightforward, just say the words 'I'm gay, I'm a boylover' and the years of deception would be brought to an end. Well, yes, the deception would be brought to an end, but a whole new slew of problems would arise in its place. I haven't got the courage, apparently, to make that unequivocal step, at least not voluntarily. If my wife asked me a direct question about my orientation, I'd answer her truthfully, but to make an announcement, unbidden, looks like being more than I can cope with, however much I hate the situation I'm in. Who am I protecting by my cowardice? My wife, my daughter? Or is it all down to selfish old me?
This is even more difficult than I thought. even typing these words, that only a handful of people, almost none of whom know me, will read, is like dragging lumps of my innards out into the light. Nearly forty years of hiding, and I still can't bring myself to come out from behind the mask. Can't live with the disguise, can't live without it. Can't live?

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Thursday 23 June 2011

Dreams and nightmares - and which are which?

After last night's upset, I 'self-medicated' with rather more alcohol than was strictly good for me. Whether as a result, or whether it was simply a vagary of the subconscious, I had a very vivid erotic dream, but not of the type I would have expected - it involved an (unknown to me) adult male. I can only ever remember having had one such dream previously, and that was the best part of thirty years ago, the only reason that earlier dream stuck in my mind being that it involved a very close friend of mine (who was later the best man at my wedding) who I had (and still have) no conscious attraction to. This latest dream probably doesn't mean anything, really, but it was certainly caught my attention.
The ongoing nightmare of the family finances isn't going away, either - I jumped through the latest hoop held out for me by helping my wife to fill in some paperwork this afternoon, but, predictably, that still wasn't enough. The fact that I haven't made a call that my wife thinks I should make, that I think would be utterly pointless, means that I was subjected to another bout of criticism. I know all too well how stressful all this stuff is for everyone, but the fact that my wife just goes on and on and on about the same things, seemingly all the time, things that there are no quick or easy answers to, just winds me up so much. I've already given up 75% of anything resembling a normal family life to try and keep us afloat, by working away, and working all sorts of overtime, to boot, I'm at a loss to see what more I can reasonably be expected to do.
The evening has been the best part of today - after a cooling off period following the latest financial 'discussion', I cooked a well-received meal, the sun has been shining, blue skies and fluffy clouds still in evidence now as I look out of the living room window, my wife and I have just had a nicely civilised conversation about non-fiscal matters, and we've been perusing my daughter's school report, which she brought home today, and which contains nothing other than 'good' and 'excellent' gradings, and 'working at' or 'working beyond' the expected level. Would that all of my life could be so congenial.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Wednesday 22 June 2011

Emotional times

This morning's difference of opinion between my wife and I came after our daughter had gone to school, but, unfortunately, this evening's 'round two' wasn't so private. We went over the same ground, all over again, ended up at loggerheads, again, but, this time, the girl was all too aware of what was going on. She knows, and has done for some time, that we're struggling financially, and she knows about the tensions between my wife and I that arise as a result. When I went to say 'goodnight' to her, though, it all got very intense - as I've said before, she's aware of the 'hidden' me, and the combination of that and her knowledge of the problems between her parents led to her being really upset. I hugged her for at least 10 minutes, and tried to reassure her, but it's hard to do that when you're so uncertain of your own direction in the immediate future. I'm so sorry that my daughter has been caught in the crossfire, I love her so much, but you can only protect your children up to a point - real life doesn't always fall into place as you would wish.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Much as predicted

The 'trailer' about how my time at home is going to pan out seems to have been pretty accurate. When I got back yesterday evening, various bits of paperwork were sitting on the telephone table, immediately inside the front door, and my wife attempted to initiate discussions about them before I'd even had a chance to unpack. I fended that off, largely by agreeing to go shopping instead - not that I mind shopping, but I perhaps didn't want to be doing it an hour or so after setting foot in the house for the first time in a fortnight - but this morning, there was no escape from my being more or less harangued about money. I didn't, I have to admit, take it very well, and, yet again, it all got a bit heated. It's made all the more frustrating by the knowledge that there isn't, at least in the short term, much that I can do differently to make it any better. Apart from my few days off here and there to spend at least a minimal amount of time at home, I'm already working pretty much as many hours as I'm allowed to. And meanwhile, the bills keep rolling in - hefty gas and electricity bills have arrived over the past couple of days, amongst other things. I know most people have these things to contend with, but the feeling of running to not even be able to stand still gets more than a little overwhelming sometimes.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Monday 20 June 2011

Just remind me how much I'm looking forward to going home

As usual with these protracted sojourns 'up country' while I'm working, I've been counting down the days to my next visit home. So, we get to the eve of my latest homecoming, and my wife decides to start going on about money again, we've got to do this, that and the other, fill forms in, and so it goes on. I don't even get the pleasures of anticipation of my time off now, I just get the extended trailer of how shit it's going to be while I'm still in Surrey. Perhaps I should stay up here all the time and work seven days a week, maybe that would justify my existence. I don't seem to be worth anything beyond my paycheck anymore.
In non-self pity news, my wife and daughter might have something to look forward to this week. My wife bumped into an old friend from the village we lived in when we first moved to Cornwall while she was out shopping yesterday, and they've provisionally arranged a visit. As a result, my daughter will hopefully have a chance to meet up with her best friend from her first year in school, when she was at the village school, the son of the family. Apparently, according to his mother, the boy still talks about my daughter, even though he's hardly seen her since they were both 5 or 6 years old. She obviously made an impression!

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Sunday 19 June 2011

Notes to two people I don't know

To C: Thank you for being my daughter's friend, thank you for hugging her and making her feel good about herself. I jokingly asked her to send you round to hug me, too, but I doubt my poor, hiccuping heart could stand the excitement, even if you were up for it. I don't really know you, except by sight, and by what my daughter tells me, but what little I know shows me what a lovely, happy, smiley young man you are. Long may that continue.

To K: I don't know you at all, but if you are going to be the one for my daughter, even short-term, please look after her. She's a lovely girl, and deserves to be cherished. If you have to let her down, please do it as gently as you can. I'm not so old as to not be able to remember what first love and first heartbreak is like. Make her happy, and keep her safe. That's all I dare ask.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Saturday 18 June 2011

Theocracy

Being the long-standing and committed atheist that I am (helped in that direction by five years regular exposure to religion when I was a church chorister, as I've said before), I might not be the most impartial of observers, but I still find the current, particularly American, but also increasingly in this country too, addiction to fundamentalist Christianity extremely worrying. Otherwise intelligent people seem to completely lose their powers of rationality when religion is brought into the argument. They must do, because why else would anyone in the 21st century want to live their lives, and, of even more concern to me, to impose their way of thinking on everyone, by a moral code based on Bronze Age taboos? There's a line in The Moralist which encapsulates a lot of what scares me most about these people, about the religious right 'wanting to round up every boylover in the world, and gas them'. OK, boylovers are an easy and convenient hate target, as I've said before, but once we've been subjected to the 'Final Solution', who's next? People have to vote, and indeed live, according to their own consciences, but people need to look beyond the glib soundbites before they make their choice. Sadly, there's little evidence that many of them do. If it could happen in an advanced 'Western' democracy once (Germany 1933-1945), it could happen again. Far too easily.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

The Moralist

I finished reading The Moralist for the third time at around 3:45 this morning, and this latest re-reading hasn't changed my attitude towards the book at all - I still absolutely love it. I'm tempted to launch into a long exposition about the book, full of spoilers, but I'll restrain myself. All I will say is that if you've read and enjoyed Lolita, you'd probably like The Moralist, unless you happened to especially like the downbeat, 'moral of the story', ending to Lolita.
The next 48 hours are going to be a bit of an endurance test for me. I'm doing a 12 hour shift tonight, then doubling back to work a late shift tomorrow, then doubling back again to early shift on Monday. It's the sort of thing we used to do quite a lot of, in my first decade in the industry, but it doesn't happen very often these days, because of working time regulations. Theoretically, this run of shifts for me should have been 'risk-assessed' by my manager before being authorised, but he's on holiday, and we're very short of staff at the moment, so it seems to have been rubber-stamped by someone. It's to my advantage, too, as I mentioned the other day, because it means I'll be back at home 24 hours earlier than anticipated. I'm certainly looking forward to that prospect.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B


Friday 17 June 2011

Revisiting some old friends

I've managed to resist the temptation for over a year, but, after an idea I had last week, and after weighing the pros and cons, I've started writing another story in 'Cuckoos' this evening using the characters from Lucid and Lucent. I'm sorry, but Alex, Lawrence and Dan are my best creations by some distance, and just too good to waste. There's another familiar character in the story, too - a village on the south coast of Cornwall, not too far from where we live, which, if finances allowed, I'd love to call my home. Just about my favourite place on the British mainland. Given the woeful litany of stories I've started and not finished, I wouldn't advise anyone to hold their breath in anticipation of publication, but I hope I'll be able to stick with it. We'll see.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

The power of fiction, again

Around 6:00 this morning, getting towards the end of my shift, I was struggling to stop myself giggling out loud. There I was, sitting less than 10 feet from the person who I bit back at the other week about physical punishment of children, his advocacy of which tells much about his attitudes in general, reading chapters 20 & 21 of The Moralist. Again without wishing to give too much away about the book, in case anyone is inclined to read it for themselves, there were passages in which, to turn the old adage inside out, a few words painted a thousand pictures in my mind, pictures of delirious, gooey fantasy. Lovely boys in my head, in the midst of the kneejerk bigots. Whatever else the hatred of the world can take away, it can't take the contents of those couple of pounds of grey stuff between your ears. I was left feeling almost ridiculously optimistic - I know it's fiction, but it made me feel that a man of my age and a boy could find a way to come together in the real world, it's just a matter of being in the right place at the right time with the right person. It's just a change of perspective, of emphasis - the glass half empty desperation of 'surely there must be someone for me' transformed to the glass half full 'there is someone for me, I just haven't found him - yet'.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Thursday 16 June 2011

Childhood's end

My daughter seems to be in one of those phases of her life where things keep happening. After the emotional stuff of the last couple of weeks, she's now in the throes of a big physiological moment in her life - menarche. If I was being sentimental about it, I could say something along the lines of 'my little girl isn't a little girl any more', but I prefer to look at it as being another step on the path to maturity and independence. The only sad thing about it was that she felt too embarrassed to talk to my wife about it initially, rather undermining the hope that we've been successful in convincing her that she can talk to us about anything. When I spoke to her earlier on, I used the phrase I've taken as the title of this post, and she at least chuckled about it, so I'm hoping that's a sign that she's not too traumatised by it all. At least she's not coming to this point in her life unprepared - she knows what her first period is and what it means, and has had that information since she was at primary school.
On top of that, she's had the last (for the moment) in a series of HPV vaccinations in the last couple of days, and she's started her end of school year exams as well. You could forgive her for wanting to go and curl up in a corner somewhere and hide!
Sometimes diligence brings rewards, and I received one last night when I perused next week's roster at work. I'm working another extra shift on Sunday afternoon, which means that by Tuesday I'll have worked on 14 consecutive days. That, in our safety-critical work environment, is the most we're allowed to do, so I get a bonus (paid) day off on Wednesday. Given that I was due to be off after Wednesday for the rest of the week in any case, it means that I get to go home 24 hours earlier - I should, given a fair wind, be back in Cornwall by early evening on Tuesday. I'm looking forward to it, as ever.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Wednesday 15 June 2011

Reading matter, overtime and 400

As I've said on quite a few occasions over the last 6 months or so, I have quite a problem in not outing myself at work from time to time, in the face of the sort of the mindless, bigoted trash that some of my colleagues espouse. Up to now, I've always managed to let discretion be the better part of valour, although I've had a couple of very near misses. Sometimes, though, I say or do something that would give any of my workmates who were bright enough a pretty big clue as to what's beneath the surface, and last night was an example of that phenomenon - I took The Moralist into work, and spent a good while in the quiet hours mid-shift reading it. At least one of them gave the cover of the book more than a passing glance when I'd put it on one side to take a phone call, and it made me think afterwards what I could have said if he'd asked me what it was about. A book with an unashamed boylover as the central character, hmmm! That might have been an interesting conversation.
As if I'm not working enough hours at the moment, I've volunteered to go in early tonight for four hours overtime (and on Saturday, too). I might as well do overtime of this type, because if I wasn't at work, I'd only be here in my room internetting, and the extra cash certainly won't come amiss, but it does make the 'waking' part of the day a bit of a rush - I'll need to leave in just over an hour, and I haven't even had a shower yet. Such a fun-filled lifestyle I lead.
So, this has been post number 400. I'm still (mostly) enjoying my time in Blogland, and I hope all of you who are kind enough to read what I write don't feel I've outstayed my welcome. On to the next 100!

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Tuesday 14 June 2011

Sometimes, there's a reason for things

I've just had my evening meal. Some of it, at least. When I was shopping on Monday, I saw something I hadn't had for many years, and it was on special offer, too, so, OK, let's go for it. Sadly, there seems to have been one main reason for the low price of this particular comestible - it wasn't very nice. There's an adage about getting what you pay for. I should've remembered. So that's kippers off the menu! At least the pasta I had to go with it was palatable.
I've started re-reading The Moralist. I won't give too many spoilers away this time (I was suitably chastised, Jay!), but the subversion in the plot is what appeals to me the most. There's more to most stories, at least those with any degree of realism, than simplistic black and white, and it's nice to see that portrayed sometimes, even if you have to voyage well away from the mainstream to find it.
This post has been punctuated by my wife ringing. For once, we managed to have a conversation about finances without ending up at each others' throats. There is a possible way forward, at least on one front, albeit that I'm going to have to bite the bullet of my early retirement plans being put in jeopardy, in all probability. Not so much jam tomorrow as jam next decade, and that's if I'm lucky.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Monday 13 June 2011

Sons

I started a week of night shifts last night, good for the finances, but not all that wonderful for social interactions - not that I'm the sociable kind, really, in any case. One of my colleagues that I work with more often than many others, because of the vagaries of our roster, and who's the father of two sons, 11/12 and 5/6, was also on nights, He was talking about some of the endearing things the boys have said and done of late. The older boy is apparently, unsurprisingly given his age, starting to show signs of pubescence, while his little brother, in the way of little brothers, wants to be like 'big bro'. Listening to the talk, it made me feel quite 'gooey', sentimental, I suppose, but also brought my very mixed feelings about the idea of me being the father of a son rather than of a daughter into focus. As I've said before, I was greatly relieved when my daughter was born, because I was genuinely concerned about how my interactions with a son could have gone - I'd like to think I could have restrained myself in the face of such a temptation, but I'd be lying if I said I could have guaranteed it. The other side of the coin, though, and much as I love my daughter, is that I've missed out on the possibility of what people consider to be the good and beneficial aspects of a father/son relationship. As a 'boy', at least in my head, myself, having a kindred spirit to be with on a daily basis might have been a great experience. Does the gain counterbalance the loss? It's difficult to say, really. As with most aspects of life, I am where I am, and I need to behave in a way that's appropriate to real life, rather than counterfactual speculation, but hearing things like I heard last night makes me feel I've missed out, at least to a small extent, on something that I would have enjoyed, and maybe even been good at.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Sunday 12 June 2011

Expectations

I read - skimmed, really, because I knew I'd get down if I got too heavily into it - the latest blog post from a blogger who's been writing his 'memoirs' online for a while now. Unless I've misunderstood where his latest chapters are heading, he's talking about the phase of his life where he left his 'true love' to go out into the world, in his case by joining the military. My initial thoughts were 'Why do it?' Even allowing for the strictures of time and place - this part of the blogger's life goes back to the early 1970's - why leave the love of your life, just because of the disapproval of the world. But, when I thought about it more logically, how different is it from what I've done with my life?
The practicalities of my situation were slightly different, in that my 'true love', as I wrote in 'A Loved Boy' a few days ago, wasn't ever a realistic candidate to be my life partner, because it wasn't what he wanted, wasn't what he was able to be. But why, then, did I choose to go the way that I did, why get into a position where, if I'd been braver and more honest with myself, I'd have said 'this isn't who I am, and this isn't what I want'?
The only answer I can come up with is other people's expectations. People - family, friends, workmates - have an image of who you are, of how you should behave, of what you should want. In the face of those expectations, there are two ways you can go. You can be what you are, what you want to be, and risk the consequences of disillusioning those in your life, who may be very important to you, risk losing friends, being disowned by family, ostracised by workmates, but keep to your principles, or you can bow to convention, and follow the conventional path. Portray yourself as what they see you as, do the things you're 'supposed' to do. But, then, whose life are you living? More theirs than yours, certainly in my case. Hindsight is such a useless commodity, but I definitely feel I made completely the wrong decision about how to deal with the loss of the love of my life. Wrong for me, and wrong for others who have been affected. Any volunteers to tell my wife that she's wasted 20 years of her life living with someone who isn't who she thinks he is?

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Saturday 11 June 2011

Mask, smile and dream. And today.

I always try, as I go about my everyday life, to keep my inner demons in check. I might not be sparkling company all the time, but I do my best to be no worse than neutral in my dealings with the outside world. I failed in that regard yesterday, at least once, and maybe twice.
When I got to work at lunchtime, one of my colleagues, mostly in jest, I think, made a comment about my not looking very happy with life. I just shrugged it off by saying something about my well-documented dislike of late shifts, but I was disappointed with myself that I couldn't keep my feelings better hidden. All I want at work is to be one of the crew, and not draw attention to myself - there are too many skeletons lurking in my cupboard to want anyone to think they have to take an interest in me.
The second incident may not have had anything to do with me, but it wouldn't surprise me if it had. When I was leaving the station at the Surrey end on my way back from work, being Friday night, there were a number of teenage-ish people about, including a group of mid-teen girls. One of the them called out 'Put a smile on your face, sad-faced man.' I wasn't the only person emerging from the station entrance at the time, so she could have been referring to someone else, but it would have been quite appropriate to have been aimed at me. My mask was certainly slipping yesterday, it seems. I'll have to find a smiley one instead.
I read Lucent last night. Many might say that reading my own stories for pleasure is a bit on the masturbatory side, but I happen to think it's a good story, and I'd re-read it if it had been written by someone else, so why not? Probably as a result, I ended up by dreaming about someone called Alex overnight. I don't remember much about the dream, except that the atmosphere of the scenario was warm and happy, and that the 'Alex' in my dream wasn't any of the three people called Alex I know personally, and wasn't the 'Alex' from Lucent, either. The subconscious works in mysterious ways.
I started this post before I left for work this afternoon, but ran out of time to finish it, so I'll add today's doings as a postscript. Not much to say, really - I spoke to my daughter briefly earlier on, but she says she's fine, and, from the evidence of the phone call, she sounds pretty much her normal self. I sent her a little e-mail that was designed to encourage a bit of discussion, but she wasn't biting, at least not yet. I told my wife I that I still think she owes my daughter an apology, but she wasn't biting, either. It's a good job I'm not a fisherman - I wouldn't even catch a cold!

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Friday 10 June 2011

Late nights and early morning calls

I didn't get back to my accommodation until after midnight last night - we had an appalling evening at work, and we were short-handed as well, so, because of the specific job I was covering, part of which involves staying until a full night shift staff is in place, or 11:30, whichever is the earlier, I was stuck at work for an hour and a half longer than normal. By the time I'd wound down a bit and caught up with cyberworld, it was pretty damn late, so the fact that my wife rang and woke me up just after 8:00 this morning wasn't all that welcome.
The call had the normal de rigueur financial element - it's my payday today, so a certain amount of discussion about what was to go where was required - before my wife went on to talk about how my daughter 'seems to be on another planet', is restless, can't concentrate on her homework, forgets things, etc, etc. Sounds like she's in love, to me, and I said so. She's meeting up with her drama school friend this afternoon, and spending a few hours with her. I don't think the distrait behaviour and afternoon/early evening to come are unconnected. My wife wants me to speak to our daughter. How I'm supposed to do that without 'spilling the beans' remains to be seen.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Thursday 9 June 2011

Integrity

My wife rang me earlier this morning, just for a chat while she waited for one of her work clients to meet her. Given what she told me, I wish she hadn't.
After the customary mention of money, she started talking about our daughter. She's been spending a lot of time on the phone lately to one of her drama school friends. Just natural teenage girl habitat, you might justifiably say. My wife said 'If I tell you this, you'll be angry with me'. My thought was she'd been listening in on my daughter's calls, and I said so. No, not that. Worse, in my opinion. She's been reading the girl's diary. I was angry, but kept it under control. It wasn't said in unequivocal words, but it seems that my daughter has a crush, at least, on her drama school friend, and has been questioning her sexuality as result. In her diary. Which my wife has now surreptitiously read.
Several reactions on my part, most of which I passed on to my wife. The main, immediate concern, is honesty. We've always tried to impress on out daughter the importance of telling the truth. How can my wife, in all conscience, now talk about issues like that when she's done what she's done. It's an utter breach of privacy, of trust. She said she did it because my daughter never talks to her about issues in her life. Does she really think this is likely to encourage my daughter to open up? I'm now in a real dilemma. I feel I should tell my daughter, but if I do, I'm likely to cause all sorts of ructions in their relationship. Even if I just suggest she's careful about where she keeps her diary, it will give the game away.
More generally, there's an issue of acceptance. I believe we are what we are, and no amount of moralising can possibly change that. I'm not at all convinced that my wife agrees with that. I, personally, don't think my daughter is gay, but then, I haven't read the diary. The girl's take on it is that she thinks she might be bisexual, apparently. There's some evidence, my wife says, that someone has put a homophobic comment on my daughter's Facebook page, but that it's been deleted. I've told my wife that I think our daughter's orientation is none of our business, which is what I believe. If she needs help from us, I hope she's aware that she can ask for it, any time. If she doesn't, that's her choice, too.
This isn't coming out very fluently. There are potential 'cans of worms' everywhere. How can I encourage my daughter to be herself, and encourage my wife to follow the same line, when I'm living a lie myself?  It would be ironic indeed if I was outed by my daughter being outed. Messy and complicated doesn't even begin to describe it. I get a feeling that this issue is going to be revisited, soon.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Wednesday 8 June 2011

A loved boy

I began this post, or one very like it, with the same title, over a year ago. It sat in my list of posts as a draft for weeks on end, before I finally deleted it, for reasons I'm not at all clear about. Why resuscitate it now, especially in the light of what I wrote less than a week ago about keeping my emotional life out of my blog? The catalyst was re-reading Loving Sander yesterday - in fact, into the early hours of this morning, it was 2:15 before I finished it, so it was lucky that I was on a briefing day today and didn't have to put in an appearance until 10:00 - and the recognition of a good number of parallels between the book and my experience. In fact, Loving Sander, indirectly, at least, was the reason for my getting back into trying to write myself - not my blogs, several months earlier than that, more or less two years ago, when I went into our local supermarket and bought a notebook and a pack of pencils. What had nettled me into wanting to put my thoughts on paper was a series of customer reviews of Loving Sander on the Amazon website, from where I'd bought the book, several of which had little to do with the book itself, and much to do with 'hating the paedo', claims that the story was nothing more than child pornography (although there's almost no explicit sex in it, possibly three or four sentences in 160 pages, and very little sex of any kind - it's much like Lolita in that respect) and the like, and the review that really got my back up, which, in amongst rubbishing the book, claimed that the man in a man-boy relationship never (my emphasis) has any genuine interest in the boy, and is only out for his own ends, sexual by implication. The reason I was so annoyed by that glib generalised assertion was that I know, from personal experience, that it's not true. Because I've been in a loving, completely non-sexual relationship with a boy, which lasted several years.
I've spoken about my cousin (my first cousin once removed, to be genealogically accurate - his mother was actually my first cousin) several times in the blog, most recently a couple of weeks ago when he and his family were threatening to come down to Cornwall, a trip which didn't eventually materialise, basically for reasons of cost. I've made the point that he's my best friend, which he is. He's also the person I was in love with for three-quarters of the 1980's.
I've known him since he was a toddler - he's always lived in and around the Manchester area, and we, as a family, didn't visit out relations in that part of the world, for a couple of years either side of his being born. I kind of broke the ice by writing to my aunt and asking if I could go up and stay in the summer holidays at the end of my first year at senior school, Summer 1972. The trip was arranged, and it turned out to be the first of many for me, mostly on my own, although my parents and siblings did travel up there on occasion as well, over the next four or five years. I always got on really well with my cousin, right back to when he was 2 years old, but there was never anything more than a 'big brother/little brother' kind of relationship between us - I've said elsewhere that I became properly aware of my attraction to boys during my early teens, but my predilection was always for the pubescent (and still is, of course). Having said that, by the time he was 4 or 5, he was a noticeably good-looking boy, pretty, almost, and reasonably bright, too, able to chat away happily enough without much difficulty, within sensible bounds, probably not unconnected with the fact that his father was an electrical engineering graduate, and an intelligent, if rather self-destructive man.
Things between us went along pretty much unchanged for another few years - I saw my cousin for maybe a couple of weeks a year, we stayed firm friends, going out and about whenever I made my periodic visits, but not, in all honesty, overly important parts of each others' lives. The step change in the relationship came about when I moved to Manchester to work in 1980. In what was originally supposed to be a temporary measure, but eventually lasted nearly two years, I lodged with my aunt and uncle. Through family circumstances - his father worked on the North Sea oil rigs, was away for two or three weeks at a time, and spent most of the time he was at home drunk, sadly, while his mother, whose maternal instincts were, to be as charitable as I can to someone who isn't around to reply any longer, and who I never got on with, intermittent, was quite happy for my aunt and uncle, his grandparents, to more or less bring my cousin up - he stayed at their house at least 90% of the time, which, of course, meant that I saw him virtually every day. He was a fortnight short of his tenth birthday when I moved, and it wasn't long before I'd not only resumed the 'big brother' role I'd had for years, but was becoming something more like a surrogate father/confidante/safe haven for him. Within a matter of weeks, we had drawn very close, and with hindsight, I was starting along the road to falling in love.
The final piece in that particular jigsaw fell into place the following Spring. I'd been home to see my family and friends for two or three long weekends, but I eventually had a longer break, almost two weeks, and disappeared down to Kent. By the time I got back to Manchester, I found myself missing him a lot, which I really hadn't expected. It immediately became apparent that the feeling was mutual - I'd rung my aunt the evening before I returned, to give her a rough idea of when I'd be getting back, and, as I drove into their street and back to the house, my cousin was waiting at the gate, waving madly as soon as he saw my car (it was yellow, he could hardly miss it!), and almost literally jumping up and down with excitement. I suppose my falling for him was an ongoing process, but if there was a specific moment when I 'fell in love', that reunion was it. He had friends of his own age, and often 'played out' with them as the local dialect had it, but, to all intents and purposes, as far as school and work allowed, we were pretty much inseparable. Needless to say, there were mutterings, especially from his mother, who, I'll freely admit, I didn't like, and who didn't like me, about the amount of time we spent together, and the implications of that. It needled me more than it might have, I suppose, because, as he got towards 11, and was beginning to move from his 'little boy' years into the earliest stages of puberty, I realised that, on top of the love and care I felt towards him, he was beginning to turn me on as well. Not instead, in addition. There was one occasion in particular, when he came into the living room, and settled himself close to me on the sofa, to do some shared activity, I don't remember what, and I became almost painfully aroused by his closeness, his presence. I don't think he was aware of it - he didn't react as though he was aware, anyway - but it was a significant moment for me. I wasn't evasive enough to pretend I didn't know what it meant, and it introduced a layer of complication to our relationship from which it wouldn't be free for several years.
He was never a particularly tactile boy, hated cuddles (unlike 'B', his cousin, but that's another story from a few years later), but he would allow a certain amount of 'arm around the shoulder' level of contact, as long as I didn't push my luck. One exception, which he initiated, was sometimes when we watched TV late at night - he was a 'night owl' from an early age, and a bloody nightmare to get up in the morning! - I would sit on the sofa, while he propped himself up against the arm and laid full length across the tops of my legs. I, frankly, loved it, but it was as close to real physical intimacy as we ever got, apart from one, much later incident, which doesn't really count, because he was asleep at the time - we had to share a double bed when we went to Kent for my dad's funeral, and I was woken at some indeterminate dark hour of the night by him wrapping me up totally in arms and legs, almost as though he was trying to climb inside me, but he remembered nothing of it the following morning.
He knew, by the time he was 12, that I was sexually attracted to him - how it came out, I really can't recall, but he knew. His father was effectively an alcoholic by that stage, and I remember being horribly stricken with guilt on one occasion when he'd opened his heart to me about his problems, and said "My dad's a drunk, and my best friend fancies me". It made me feel as though I'd abused him just by my thoughts. But I never would have abused him, molested him, because he was my best friend, if for no other reason. We did talk about the issue, but he made it clear that he wasn't interested in sex with me, and, even if my attitudes weren't quite as fully developed then as now, I was still no rapist - he'd said 'no', and I accepted that. If he'd changed his mind, I'd have gone to bed with him in a heartbeat, but he didn't. Again, much later, I recall him saying "I don't know why we never went to bed together, there was just something inside that wouldn't let me." Whatever the 'something inside' was, probably just the fact that he was (is) straight, it wasn't going to happen, and never did.
There's a line in Loving Sander which really made me think of my cousin - 'Loving Sander, at 12, was like trying to hold on to a thrashing cat'. We hardly ever argued, mostly because I gave into him, almost always, but we did have our moments. One bad day, perhaps the worst, came after I'd finally moved out of my aunt and uncle's to be nearer to a new job. He was 13, or thereabouts. There was a car show at the G-Mex exhibition centre in Manchester which my cousin wanted to go to, but, typically, no-one in his immediate family was willing or able to take him. I'd volunteered, or been volunteered, and I'd made what was quite a messy and complicated journey from where I'd moved to, after I'd finished work, to find him still in bed - this was about 2:00 in the afternoon. After trying, more or less gently, to induce him to get up, for something like three-quarters of an hour, my patience with him ran out - I'd been up since 4:30 that morning, and had rushed straight from work to meet him - and I told him that if he wasn't up in 10 minutes, I was going home, and went downstairs. He appeared within two or three minutes, inarticulately angry and almost in tears, telling me that if I was going to threaten him, I could piss off and never see him again. That prospect threw me into emotional turmoil, leaving me as close to tears as he was. We found a way to work it out, and, on reflection, I could understand why he'd been so upset - I was, and had been for something like three years at that point, the only stable, reliable emotional prop in his life, the only person that was always there for him, without any equivocation. And I think, even in his teenage self-centredness, which we almost all are/were guilty of at that age, he realised, perhaps as never before, how important he was to me, too. Because there was no doubt, even then, and certainly not now with the benefit of hindsight, that he was at least as important to me as I was to him. And we made it to the car show, and enjoyed it.
Because I loved him and wanted him to be happy, I tried my best to not to allow my emotional attachment to him to get in the way of his life and individuality. The only time I really 'cramped his style' was on New Year's Eve 1985. I'd once again made a rather tortuous journey after work, fighting against a public transport network shutting down early for the holiday, to go a party he'd wanted me to be at, to see in the New Year, and, as ever, I'd always rather see him than not when the opportunity arose. The party was at the house opposite my aunt and uncle's, where he was still spending most of his time, which meant that no-one had any problems with transport home - I was staying over - so the alcohol was flowing more than somewhat. As midnight approached, he became entangled with a girl who lived locally, and who he'd been vaguely interested in for a while. Whether it was the fact that I sensed things between us were changing, his being 15 and well advanced through puberty, whether it was a fit of pique because he'd asked me to go and then I felt he'd abandoned me, or whether it was the booze - probably a combination of all three - I became insanely jealous. I didn't actually say anything to him, but we knew each other more than well enough for him to know how upset I was. He could have just ignored me and gone off with the girl, but he didn't. He gave me all sorts of grief about it afterwards, but he actually saw the New Year in with me. It says a lot about the mutuality of the relationship, I think, even at that fairly late stage in its life.
It did, in the form it had been, come to an end. The sexual attraction I felt towards him waned as he got older, because of my proclivities, and the 'Dark Place' incident with 'B' also intervened, which had the effect of driving my boyloving side deep underground for a long time. We did actually completely fall out for a while, the best part of year in his late teens when we didn't even speak - I wasn't invited to his 18th birthday party, something almost no-one who'd known us would have predicted -  but that was something I think we both needed, to both break ties that had become inappropriate, certainly for him, and maybe even for me, and to allow us, when we did restore things between us, to do so in terms of a close adult friendship, which remains to this day.
The codicil to our love, for such I really think it was, came on an empty road in the rural South Midlands, on a dark and starry night when he was 16. With apologies for my over-emotional style, I wrote about it in 'Cuckoos' a while back. (Here - http://sbcuckoos2.blogspot.com/2011/03/zenith.html?zx=f71d1f6b8d211e54). It says a lot about us, I think.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Tuesday 7 June 2011

Here, away, and the bit in between

Back in my pseudo-anchorite cell in darkest Surrey, after a none-too-onerous journey up from home. Small consolation for having to be here at all, but at least I arrived on time.
There were a couple of oddities on the train - I gratuitously missed a good opportunity to write, having a fairly literate seeming 'stream of consciousness' going on in my head, which I totally failed to extract from my mind, despite having my laptop in the luggage rack just above me, and even a notebook and pencil in my main luggage, although to have unearthed those would have meant some fairly unseemly rooting amongst my clean socks and underwear. A waste, undoubtedly, even though I don't really consider myself anything close to a 'proper' writer.
A goodly part of the stuff in my head was inspired by my reading matter, as I threw caution to the wind and began re-reading Loving Sander for the third (I think) time. Reckless, given the subject matter and the effect it tends to have on me - and did. We're not talking Nifty here - it's a bona fide novel, and a love story, at that - but there were one or two passages which found their way beneath my armour, one in particular which I didn't remember as being quite so mind-manglingly erotic, especially given the veiled, almost coy language used. I glanced up to see a severe, schoolmarm-ish, 60-something lady looking my way, as though I'd drawn her disapproval by somehow broadcasting my thoughts around the carriage. Not, on reflection, the best book for me to be reading on a moderately busy train.
Mixed news for my wife today, and, indirectly, I suppose, for all of us. On the credit side, it's looking almost a done deal that my wife is going to be transferred to the new holders of the contract for her project, and, something which seemed particularly unlikely only a couple of weeks ago, still in a management position. Immediate financial meltdown, it seems, has been averted. Much less welcome, though, was more bad news about my mother-in-law's health. She's not well at all, and has had a fall, too, and is being re-admitted to the hospice she was in a few months ago for another period of respite care. One day, sooner rather than later, I fear, a phone call with worse news is going to arrive. It could be a rough summer.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Trying to find the answer

Predictably enough, introspection has been the order of the day, again. I'm trying to find the key, the answer to my own question. Why, beyond habit, go on? I need to find the solution, to find a way of justifying it to myself, because if I can't do that, it just isn't going to happen.
At the risk of morbidity, I'm not all that confident about my health holding up, especially if I throw psychological problems into the witches' brew - I wasn't all that good before the weekend, and I'm little better now, but how much of that is in the mind is hard to say. But again, if I don't keep going, can't keep going, what that failure would entail would almost certainly make the situation worse. Damned if I do, and damned if I don't writ large. Take a deep breath, and press on regardless, I suppose. I'm worth more dead than alive, anyway, with insurance and the potential payout from my occupational pension, so at least my family would be taken care of, to a point. Not that any of that does much for me, but there's nothing to be gained by complaining, so just don't.
The other stuff in my head - well, that, at least at the moment, is insoluble. I can't seem to live with it or without it. I'm afraid of the consequences of not being myself, in some way or another, but I'm almost as afraid of the consequences if I am. Society just isn't geared up for the likes of me, hardly surprising, really, since I'm not even geared up to deal with myself. It's an ongoing bad dream, day after day. I must find a way of waking myself. Insanity, all sorts of disasters could lie ahead if I don't.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Exercises in futility

In a few hours, I'll be heading back to Surrey again, for another two weeks and more away. To earn money which isn't going to do anything but enrich the financial institutions and their shareholders.
In my head will be images of what I want in my life, but can never have.
In the next few minutes, I'll be taking another dose of my medication, to help to keep my heart ticking away for another day. Quantity of life, but no quality.
What is the point? To any of it?

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Monday 6 June 2011

Sandel

Evanescence. The first word out of my mouth after finishing the book. A fleeting moment of perfection, and then it's gone. Almost a year on, if I bumped into DBJ tomorrow, it would very probably be gone, even though he's the closest to the ideal that I've ever seen in my life.
I fell in love, of course. Totally predictable, given my penchant for melodramatic emotions, and my propensity for falling for beautiful, but possibly flawed fictional characters. Lucette in Ada, the eponymous boy in Loving Sander, and now Tony. How could I not fall in love with the ravishingly gorgeous, preternaturally intelligent and stunningly talented Tony. It's a very strange, double-edged kind of love, though, a jolie-laide kind of love, dripping with melancholy, pervaded with a sense of loss, albeit maybe the loss of something I've never had and never will have.
Having waited so long to read the book, I'm not sure yet where it fits in my literary 'hit parade'. I'll need to read it again, but first impressions are that it won't be at the very top. I did enjoy it, but in a slightly masochistic kind of way. It didn't bring tears to my eyes, although I was within hailing distance of that kind of emotion once or twice. It would be an exaggeration to call it an anticlimax, but it did kind of end with something of a whimper. Worth devoting my day to, though....I think.

****

A little edit, with a further few hours of thought about the book.
I think it's the ending that I'm struggling with. I don't quite understand it. Superficially, it seems like a cop-out, although I may be thinking anachronistically in saying that, given that the story was written more than 40 years ago. To contrive a last-minute separation, and then to have Tony become something he wasn't before, something that wasn't even prefigured before, seems strange. Maybe I've got a vested interest in having wanted Tony and David to end up together, even though I knew before I'd read the book that they didn't, but the way it was done, the 'suddenly he's straight' kind of plot device seemed very dissonant.

****

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Sunday 5 June 2011

Roast beef and lethargy

That pretty much sums up our Sunday. As a family, we've done next to nothing today. My wife was talking a good fight about going out in the latter part of this morning, but then lost whatever enthusiasm she'd had, while my daughter and I didn't even get that close to doing anything - my daughter has been lounging around in her PJ's all day, while I didn't even get around to having a shower until about 2:00 this afternoon, by which time I was getting offensive, even to myself! The only thing I've achieved today has been in the kitchen, our traditional Sunday morning bacon sarnies, and then a nice beef roast by way of our main meal a couple of hours ago. All part of the 'being at home' experience, I guess, as against what I'm going to be doing for another fortnight from Tuesday afternoon.
The best news of the day was finding, in our mail 'inbox' that lives under the telephone table in the hall, a padded envelope which contained my copy of Sandel - I think my wife was expecting it to turn up in more substantial packaging, and had said that she didn't think it had arrived yet. That's tomorrow's agenda taken care of - I'll read it while I've got the house to myself during my family's office/school hours.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Saturday 4 June 2011

A short-lived improvement

Just when I thought I might be able to have a nice, peaceful, recuperative weekend, my hopes have been shot down in flames. My wife decided I haven't been doing enough to address our financial woes, and started lecturing me about it, and I'm afraid I reacted rather less amenably than she was expecting. So now the communication between us is terse, to say the least. Great. Make me feel even more worthless than I normally do, why don't you? It's times like this when I just feel like saying something along the lines of 'If you think I'm not good enough now, wait until I tell you what I really am.' It wouldn't cure anything, in fact it would probably destroy most of what's left, but there's only so much of this insidious undermining of my already fragile self-esteem that I can put up with before my patience runs out. I know it takes two to make an argument, and I'm not trying to say that I'm some some sort of innocent victim, but I really find it hard to cope with at times.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Friday 3 June 2011

Better, if only temporarily

Coming to the end of my first day at home of my current long weekend, I'm feeling substantially more at one with the world than has been the case in recent days. It's been a relaxing day, in general terms, nothing more strenuous than a shopping trip involved (although that had its own distractions - a serious, blond distraction, in particular, but I'm not supposed to be talking about that kind of thing), nice weather, twenty minutes of extra evening daylight, given our westerly location, all good stuff. Much more like what I would choose for my lifestyle, even if other issues are still lurking in the background. The only cloud on the horizon is the knowledge that in a few days time, I'll be gone again, back to metropolitan/suburban exile. Oh well, enjoy it while I can, I guess.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Thursday 2 June 2011

A quote

'You think some people are better than others because of the way they make love.'

A quote from the screenplay of Another Country, one of my all-time favourite films. It also pretty much sums up how I feel the world feels about me at the moment. What I want is beyond the pale, unacceptable, unconscionable. I should never be allowed to be me, ever. I should look instead for something 'obtainable'. To paraphrase another quote, from a rather stupid radio advert, it's as though I'd ordered a chicken pie, and the waiter brought a cricket bat, but that I should still be grateful for the cricket bat.
I'm sorry, but I want the 'chicken pie'. Having said that, I've explained in this blog before that I don't want to hurt anyone, I don't want to deceive or, worse, coerce anyone into doing anything they don't want to do, I don't, in short, want to have sex with anyone who doesn't want to have sex with me. That, in itself, means that the chances of my finding myself in bed with a boy are almost nil from the outset. But, make no mistake, I would, if I was convinced that any such hypothetical relationship was consensual. And I would have to be genuinely convinced, after what happened, or almost happened, with 'B' all those years ago. But I can't live without the hope that sometime, somewhere, there is someone for me. If I give up that hope, after the best part of four decades, I might just as well curl up in a corner and die.
I apologise if this isn't what people, especially those who have taken the time and trouble to try and help me over the last year or so, want to hear, but, whatever else, I feel the need to be honest.
I'm going to try, really try, not to harp on this subject anymore. Unless anything substantive changes, I'm going to try and make this the last post about all this for the foreseeable future. There are plenty of other things in life to talk about, at the end of the day.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Wednesday 1 June 2011

Unobtainable....

....is a big, scary word. 'What you desire is unobtainable....' If that's really true, if 'never' is immutable, if I can't even hope, if this life of frustration and pretence is all there is, I don't know if I can go on, if I want to go on.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B