Vile, almost beyond words

This story has to qualify as one of the most depressingly appalling things I've ever come across. And I'll bet a million pounds to a pinch of shit that the 'child-nutrition manager' self-identifies as religious. Just when you think the right can't stoop any lower, they immediately prove you wrong.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Fiction, real life, and their interaction - again

A subject I've written about before, but brought back to mind by a trio of online stories I've been reading over the past couple of days. The first is still ongoing, a boy-boy love story, one which could still go one of several ways, to a happy ending, or otherwise. The sort of story where even a happy ending can make me cry, in the knowledge that the kinds of relationships described would have been so, so much what I wanted as a young gay boy trying to come to terms with the person he was, but which are now out of reach, always. Which brings me to the second story, which I finished this morning, about a boylover and his loved boys, a pair of brothers. It wasn't one of those stories oozing with sex, although there were explicit sexual passages in it, and it was, in some ways, a slightly contrived scenario, as the man was portrayed as early-retired and rich after selling his business, and taking the boys, and their mother, on a world tour. It did give the author chances to make some sociological comment, about the way different societies have viewed intergenerational relationships, but how those views are now far more homogeneous, driven by the attitudes of a very few, very 'anti' countries, most notably the US, but with the UK not far behind. Of course, I'm well aware, from more than one 'discussion' at this blog, that there are many who believe that the 'puritanical', no shades-of-grey, version is the only acceptable opinion, that intergenerational relationships are always wrong, and only ever driven by selfish considerations on the part of the man (and, of course, it is virtually always a man that is seen as the villain of the piece) - even if no actual sex is involved, that's only because the man hasn't managed to engineer the opportunity yet, that boylovers are nothing but 'rapists in waiting'. I agree that there are some awful, predatory, abusive individuals in the world - there was one character in the story, rather exaggerated for the purposes of the narrative, I suspect, who was portrayed as just that kind of person, who saw children simply as sex objects - but the currently 'PC' view is that everyone attracted to younger people is that kind of amoral predator. Well, the boylover in the story was repelled by the idea of nonconsensual sex, and that's exactly how I feel - I've said it before, and I'll say it again, I'm simply not interested in a sexual relationship with anyone of either gender, or any age, that isn't entered into with demonstrably informed consent, and that applies to as much to those above the legally promulgated 'age of consent' (which varies from 12 to 18 in the countries visited in the fictional world tour, pretty close to the spread of ages current in EU countries) as to those below it. As ever when I discuss this subject, I haven't the least expectation of persuading even one person that my point of view is 'right', but I would hope that at least a few might think about the issue, rather than resorting to the kneejerk, tabloid worldview.
The final story I've been (re)reading is, I'm afraid, my own Alexandrine. I don't seem to be able to stay away from my lovely Xander for very long! Oh, for a magic lantern to bring him into my 'real' life!

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Bye bye, rat poison! And an 'oops!' moment

I've recently arrived back in 'domicile-ville' after my cardiology appointment at the hospital, and, for once, I'm not gnashing my teeth in frustration. Because I've finally managed to get a health professional, and a cardiology consultant, at that, to agree with what I've asserted for months, namely that I don't need to be on Warfarin. So, as of now, I'm not! To say I'm pleased is a serious understatement. My heart meds are being tweaked again, though, and I will need to go back to the hospital at least once more, for a blood test to see how my system is reacting to an increased dose of one particular pill, which has a rather small margin between a therapeutic dose and a potentially poisonous one. It is the medication that, at least in my perception, has been the most beneficial, so it's a price I'm not too concerned about.
Yesterday's trip westwards went well enough - I met up with K, fielded the paperwork I needed to at least apply for her travel concessions to be extended, we had a meal, and generally caught up, given that it was the first time I've seen her this year. I even had time to scoot over into Cornwall to have my hair cut at my former regular barber's in the market town closest to where we lived when we first moved down there, although seeing the place as a former stamping ground was rather a bittersweet experience. Once I got back to Plymouth and met up with K after she finished school, I must've been a bit too relaxed - as we were walking through the city centre on the way to do some shopping, we passed a group of four boys, all around 14, evidently on their way back from school. One in particular was seriously cute, and K was well aware that he'd caught my eye. As we passed them, just as a throwaway, and only for K's attention, I stage whispered 'Come to bed!'. The boy must've heard me, though, because he looked back. Hence the 'oops'! As K said, though, it's not all that likely I'll see him again, so the potential for embarrassment, on either side, is hopefully small. Memo to self - turn down the volume of your stage whispers!

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Off to the wild west

Just spoken to K, and, contrary to today's washout, I'll be meeting up with her in Plymouth tomorrow afternoon. It's going to be a long day trip for me, but that's a small price to pay to be able to see my girl, and, hopefully, to facilitate keeping her travel concessions on the go. Only because I love her, though!

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

You are what you are

I was on a bus a little while ago which was also conveying a goodly number of young people on their way back from school. One boy, 13-ish, seemed to be the butt of some 'humour' accusing him of being 'gay', and effeminate with it. He was loudly denying both accusations, and, from where I was sitting, mere feet away, the latter allegation didn't seem to have any basis at all. Whether the first point had any truth to it, I've no idea (although I wouldn't be all that surprised if he was), but it made me think about how I reacted at around his age, when I first became aware of the fact that I was gay, how I hated the idea, how many times I wished it wasn't true, how many years I tried to pretend it wasn't, but, how, despite all those wishes and all that pretence, here I am, 40 years on, still gay. I would have liked to have told the boy 'you are what you are, whatever that is', and to encourage him to embrace who he is, to be himself, and to stick two fingers up to anyone who didn't accept the 'real' individual he is. But, of course, you never can intervene in that way, especially given how young he is. All you can do is hope that he finds his own way.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Rained off

Tomorrow's proposed 'social' is off - the 'excuse' for our getting together was around going horse racing, but the meeting has been cancelled due to the course being waterlogged, after yet more rain today. Mixed feelings, I have to say - the group of people who were supposedly going would have most likely made it a fun day, but, as ever, there would've been the possibility of my outing myself, dependent on how (doubtless alcohol fuelled) conversations might have gone, and how annoyed any adverse comment might have made me. Oh well - I'll just have to indulge in some 'cutie spotting', and then find a pub that sells beer instead. It's a tough job, but someone's got to do it!

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

The earliest departure

For a night shift, that is - I left my accommodation at 2:20 yesterday afternoon, for a shift that didn't begin until 9:30. Why? Because I had to go to the estate agents again, to hand over a slew of paperwork required for the referencing side of my efforts to secure the North London place for K and I. Just the usual - six months' worth of bank statements, colour of my eyes, inside leg measurement! - on top of the eight page referencing form I'd had to fill in. You'd think I was after a job with MI5 rather than the tenancy of a small two bedroom flat! By the time I'd got to the office, and transacted the business, it was too late to get back to 'domicile-ville' for anything more than an hour before I'd have had to leave for work, and it would've meant travelling in the rushiest part of rush hour, something I always try to avoid, so I just stayed up in town, taking a slow, meandering bus journey to 'worktown', arriving about 15 minutes earlier than I normally would have if I'd come direct from base. Needless to say, the revised schedule left me feeling more than a little washed out by the time I got back this morning, despite a 'power nap' during my break last night, and I've spent the whole of today catching up, or, at least, catching up as best I can - I'm still pretty weary. Oh well, last night tonight, then the aforementioned three days off, one of which might well now be a 'social' with some of my work colleagues on Monday, as well as a flying visit to see K on Tuesday, in connection with trying to keep the travel concessions she gets because of my job alive after her 16th birthday next month. And speaking of early departures and long days, K herself set off from home in a taxi at 4:15 this morning to catch the first northbound train from Plymouth, to allow her to spend some time with her boyfriend in Shropshire this weekend. It must be love!

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Progress

Well, K and I are now rather closer to having a 'North London pad', as my brother described it in a text message yesterday. In fact, all that stands between us and the flat that I saw last Friday is the referencing process - I've got an eight page form to fill in (the last equivalent I had to complete, in 2005, was one page, so much for the age of the 'paperless office'!) , I can hardly restrain my joy! - and the handing over of copious amounts of money, which began with my placing a 'holding deposit' yesterday. That apart, it hasn't been a particularly eventful week so far, hardly surprising given that I'm on nights, which largely consists of the work-sleep-eat-work cycle. Still, only three more shifts to do, including tonight, and I'll be able to rejoin the 'real' world for a few days - I'm off on Sunday, Monday and Tuesday, then have a 'non-working' work day on Wednesday, because I've got a hospital appointment in the afternoon. I doubt I'll do anything much beyond my normal round of meandering and 'cutie spotting', but at least my time will be my own.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

The persistence of love

I've had a couple of longish conversations with my ex over the weekend, mostly about K, her academic situation, and, of course, her impending move to this neck of the woods. The discussions were almost exclusively pacific, with agreement on our joint goal of K being able to achieve her potential in a way that suits her best. All well and good, and as it should be, I hope, but with one complication, from my perspective. I still love my ex, despite the way things have gone over the past two years, and there's little, if any, prospect of that love going away. OK, I'm gay, as she knows, and a celibate boylover, as she doesn't know, but that doesn't change the way I feel about her. I developed a relationship with her, and ultimately married her, because I loved her and wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. I'm sure many would say I want my cake and to eat it too, and it would be difficult for me to come up with too many competing arguments - but that doesn't take the love away, or make it any less genuine. But, of course, it takes two to make a loving relationship.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Reciprocity, or its absence

Nothing whatsoever wrong with straight pride, as long as those espousing it extend the same courtesy to those who happen not to be straight. Which, of course, they rarely, if ever do.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

And then he smiled

I'm in what will become my local Wetherspoons if I go for the flat I saw yesterday, and, perhaps obviously from my previous post, I wasn't feeling all that chipper. Half an hour or so ago, though, a father and son, unless appearances are extremely deceptive, came in and took the table next to mine. The boy is an utter cutie, and, while 'Daddy' went to the bar, he was playing some or other game on a tablet. When he looked across and saw I was amusing myself in the same fashion, he smiled at me. And I felt 500 times better, instantly. Sad, I know, but truer than true.

1845 edit: He's gone now, as will I be in a few minutes. He smiled at me twice more, including when he was leaving. I can hardly describe how much better he made me feel than when I walked into this place.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Parallel lines

1) The line representing what I want.
2) The line representing what 'society' will allow.

Parallel lines never meet. Ever.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Home, sweet home?

Today's flat hunting expedition turned out, despite some not very user-friendly weather, to be productive, at least potentially. The flat is pleasant enough, furniture, fixtures and fittings all seemingly up to an adequate standard, and in a reasonable location from a public transport point of view. I had a chat with K about it earlier, and she seemed to be keen enough on the place to make it seem worthwhile to pursue it further. Perfection is almost always unattainable, of course, but a place that ticks most of the boxes might be good enough. A day or two to think about things, another discussion with K, and who knows? Our North London home might be within reach.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Not overly impressed

I'm off to view another flat in the morning, but the palaver leading to that appointment being made hasn't exactly filled me with confidence in the estate agent's talents. I called into their office on Monday, to find that he (allegedly) hadn't been able to contact the landlord of the place I saw last week, so that prospect of a place for K and I to live had made no progress at all. While I was there, I suggested that he took my e-mail address, to give him another means of contact, and he duly gave me a piece of paper to write it down. Less than an hour later, he texted me asking for the address again, suggesting that he'd lost the paper in the intervening period. When I got back to base on Monday evening, I found no less than three e-mails from the agency, but apart from the place I'm going to tomorrow, all the places he suggested as 'suitable' we're either too expensive, in the wrong area, or, most annoyingly, unfurnished - I'd told him three times, at least, that I needed a furnished place, because I don't own any furniture! In the light of that experience, I suppose this morning's pantomime shouldn't have been a surprise - he texted me saying he'd arranged a viewing for midday tomorrow, but, because he'd sent it from a landline number, I couldn't reply to it, then he rang me, presumably because I hadn't responded to the text, but I couldn't take the call because I was working, before I finally found a minute to text him on his mobile number, to say the appointment time was fine. At which point he texted again, quoting a different appointment time. After another half a dozen texts, I finally managed to pin him down to a viewing at 11:00 in the morning - I almost had a headache by that stage! I could, of course, tell him to stick his agency where the sun doesn't shine, but, unfortunately, it's right in the middle of the area that K and I have decided best suits our requirements, and they're also the sole agents for the flat that we both liked the most - namely the one I viewed last week - when we were househunting online at Christmas. Anyway, all the frustrations of the process to date notwithstanding, I'm off to North London in the morning. I just hope it's not a wild goose chase.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Are you sure?

Had I had a mouthful of coffee, or equivalent, at the time, I probably would've choked. The moment, that is, at work this morning when our resident 'archbigot', apparently with a straight face, said 'gays have more rights than straight people in this country nowadays'. If that's what you really think, try living on this side of the fence for a few months, and then give us your assessment again. You'd think there were limits to stupidity, but, on this evidence, maybe not.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Bibliogenesis - maybe

As my longest run of early shifts - five down, four to go - for some considerable time continues, I had an unusual experience at around 5:30 this morning. Unusual for the time of day, anyway. I had one of those moments when the plot for a story came into my mind, more or less fully formed. That was the '1% inspiration', of course. Whether I can find the '99% perspiration' to hang enough worthwhile words onto the scaffolding of the idea remains to be seen. That apart, it's been a rather uneventful weekend so far, which isn't necessarily a bad thing, really. Maybe 2014 is going to be a year of 'non-drama', although, just by speculating along those lines, I'm doubtless sorely tempting fate!

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

I want to know what happens

Maybe that's what successful story telling is all about. I started reading a story last night, whose protagonists were a man a little older than me, and a boy about J's age (the man's grandson in the story). They were lovers, but they were 'found out'.  I stopped reading, partly because I was tired, but also because I didn't want to hear about dire consequences. Twenty hours or so later, though, I really want to know 'what happens next'. I don't think there's much doubt about this evening's reading matter.

12/1/14 2100 edit: So, now I know what happened, having finally finished the story. It had a happy ending, from my perspective, at least, although many would hate the fact that the 'abuser' didn't get his 'comeuppance'. I honestly think that, in some instances, men and boys can genuinely love one another, and have mutually beneficial relationships, if 'society' minds its own damn business. Little chance of many agreeing with me, but, frankly, I don't care.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Two cheers, at least

As I passed the newspaper stand in a supermarket near work this afternoon, I spotted today's headline story in The Sun. I normally avoid that cruddy excuse for a newspaper like the plague, but when the headline suggested that a Premier League footballer had come out as gay, I had to investigate a little. Needless to say, given the nature of the publication, the content of the story didn't quite match the headline - the player concerned was actually an ex-Premier League footballer, in fact, an ex-footballer altogether, as he had, unbeknownst to me, retired through injury some months ago. That said, though, it was certainly a reasonably high-profile individual, Thomas Hitzlsperger, who not only played for three different English top flight clubs, but won a Bundesliga title in his own country, and. most significantly for his reputation, made fifty-odd appearances for the German national team, not something that happens if you're some second-rate benchwarmer. The reason for my less than ecstatic title, though, was, when I read a little more on the BBC website after I'd got back to base, I found that he'd said in his interview that although he'd considered coming out while he was still playing, he didn't think it was a practicable option, that it would've been too much of a 'distraction'. Still, two cheers are better than none, and it marks, in my opinion, another small step in the direction of sexual orientation becoming something that doesn't affect anyone's life or career, however prominent or humble that individual might be. And, in the interests of fairness, given that I normally cordially loathe the paper and all its works, I have to say that what little I read of The Sun's take on the story was positive, rather than the sort of 'lowest common denominator' sensationalism and populism that is normally their stock in trade. I have little doubt, though, that some 'religiot' will be along soon to opine about Hitzlsperger being a terrible role model for the youth of today, and that he should be silenced/ostracised/imprisoned/stoned to death/all of the foregoing.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

What chance has he got?

I try not to be judgmental about people, especially given my vulnerability to criticism of my sexuality, but sometimes it's difficult to avoid. I've spent an hour or so this afternoon in 'stereotypical suburb' Wetherspoons on a table adjacent to a pair of twenty-something women, apparently sisters, who were having a series of unignorably loud conversations, between themselves and on their respective mobile phones. The tale they told was of broken relationships and court appearances, family infighting and abuse. In short - and here comes the judgmentalism I mentioned - 'poor white trash', to borrow the Americanism. What depressed me, though, was that the older of the two evidently has a son, who, given her age, can't be more than about 10 or 11, maybe younger, and who, from one of the phone calls, between the woman and her current partner, seems to be little more than a 'bargaining chip' in the arguments between them. What chance has that child got - and, in this context, his gender is irrelevant, I would feel the same way about a girl in similar circumstances - of ever fulfilling his potential? 'Give me a boy until he's 7, and he's mine forever', as the saying goes. Poor little guy.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

What dreams may come

I've recently got up feeling washed out, after a thoroughly disturbed night, both in terms of waking several times, and in the dreams that punctuated what sleep I did manage. Dreams, my dreams, anyway, are more often than not a random jumble of images without much connection to the conscious world, but there are occasions when they reflect 'real life' concerns. And two separate dreams overnight did just that. The first involved my cousin's family finding me, initially trying to blackmail me for a ridiculous sum, then, when I refused to have anything to do with handing over money, trying to kill me. My 'dream avatar' ended up hiding out in a papal residence - of all the unlikely places to offer any sort of sanctuary to a gay atheist! - but still having to kill to avoid being killed, to the point that I was begging to be allowed to die, but couldn't make myself. The final character before I woke from that dream, as I went to hide in a bathroom, was a young boy with a mischievous grin (not based on anyone I actually know, consciously, at least), which seemed to form a kind of 'bridge' to the next dream, which involved my attempts, frustrated at every turn, to interact (not in a sexual way, just as a friend) with a different boy, again without a waking life analogue, although he was rather reminiscent of Jake, the young swimmer I saw a few times from the window of my room last Spring. Undoubtedly a case of some of my most persistent preoccupations, my continuing paranoia about what my cousin may or may not decide to do, even months after the meltdown, and my much cherished, but seemingly unrequitable, desire to find a boy to even be friends with, still less anything more, expressing themselves through my subconscious. Not that dreams in themselves will change anything, either for the better or the worse, but certainly an indication of where my head is at.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Honour?

I've just seen a story about the hairdresser of our 'glorious leader', that well known 'man of the people' Cameron, having received an MBE for 'services to hairdressing'. Services to sycophancy, more like. Austerity for you, excess for me. Fucking scumbag.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Flat hunting

The prospect of my having a real home again came one small step closer today, as I viewed a couple of flats on the bus route K will need to take to get to her new school later this year. Needless to say, the estate agent was trying to push the dearer of the two properties, and, to be fair, it was marginally the nicer, but the rooms were noticeably smaller, and, most significantly for me, it was further from the tube station I'd need to use to get to work when I'm on earlies - only five minutes extra walking, but five extra minutes in bed at 'stupid o'clock' is not to be sniffed at! Anyway, I've registered my interest, so I'm now waiting to hear back from the agency.
The property viewing was at lunchtime, but it might not have happened at all - three hours earlier, the rain was coming down in absolute sheets in 'domicile-ville', and looked as though it was set in for the day. Having no ambition at all to get drenched again - it would've been the fourth consecutive day of my getting uncomfortably wet, had I had the misfortune - I was seriously considering an indoor day. Ninety minutes later, though, the sun was shining, so I sallied forth after all. Maybe I'm tempting fate here - I've yet to get back to base, so there's still time for yet another dousing! Still, it could be worse - at least it's not snowing!

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

A low zenith

Yes, I know the title is a contradiction in terms, but sometimes words, even contradictory ones, can spark a train of thought. I finished my latest reading of Alexandrine last night, making it something like a dozen times that I've read my story, not counting the various editorial readings I undertook (and despite which I'm still finding new typos, which I'm yet to correct, with every reading), since it was published nine months or so ago. I would hesitate to say that I'll never write anything better, because who knows how or when the muse will come a'knocking, but I doubt I'll write anything that is more 'me', more of what I would wish for myself IRL. A perfect, loving relationship with a beautiful, intelligent boy who grows into a handsome, accomplished young man while the friendship, even love, remained would be the ultimate 'dream come true' for me. I had glimpses of it in my relationship with my cousin, albeit that, ultimately, there was too much of a gap between what we wanted, what was feasible, for it ever to have come to fruition, which, eventually, led to the disintegration last autumn.
But, hence, the 'low' of the title. I haven't been a happy bunny (nothing unusual there, as many would no doubt say) in recent days, and today hasn't been much better. Two or three hours ago, I felt very much like going somewhere and getting pissed out of my head, but, as I said to K when I spoke to her after getting back to 'domicile-ville', that wouldn't have been a particularly grown-up way of dealing with my troubles. I have still ended up in the pub, but I have no intention now of drinking myself into oblivion. Doubtless, this trough will pass, as have its predecessors, but, unless and until I find a solution to the conundrum that is my life, more will ensue. As I've said on numerous occasions, that solution has to come from within. It sounds so easy, put in a short sentence. Would that it were.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

I want to break free

But I can't see how. I want to find a way out of the maze I've built for myself, the walls of isolation and frustration. I want to have someone who could love me back. But it's like a jigsaw with pieces that don't, can't, fit together. I've been thinking of where my blog should go in this new year, wondering whether I could find a new direction, but, straight away, I'm back into the realms of introspection. No wonder hardly anyone wants to read this never-ending Jeremiad.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Same shit, different year

The tail end of 2013, and the opening salvoes of 2014 seem to suggest that nothing much is going to change. I'm spending New Year at my brother's, and I'm grateful to have been invited, because I would otherwise have been on my own, but that gratitude doesn't mean that I take kindly to some of the things that were said last night. Some pretty blatantly homophobic stuff came out from people who I not only consider to be friends, but who I'm 'out' to, even from my brother himself at one point, in the course of a conversation that I was a part of. When I mentioned my annoyance, privately, to my brother a little later, his attitude was that because what had been said wasn't aimed at me personally, it didn't matter. That, as far as I'm concerned, is on a par with a racist saying that because I don't call my one black friend a nigger to his face, I'm therefore not a racist. Call me over-sensitive if you like, but it soured what would otherwise have been a congenial evening, leaving my sister-in-law's assertion that '2014 is going to be a good year (for me)' sounding more than a little hollow.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B