Image #1
Following an embarrassing après-dinner incident at a Gentleman’s Club, where I simultaneously ejaculated semen and fettuccine over my anonymous friend then skulked home covered in stringy alien afterbirth, I decided to become a recluse.
Image #2
I began to haunt chat rooms on the Internet. The best part about chat rooms is that you can be anyone. A Polio stricken Marianne Faithful impersonator rasping from an iron lung. An amputee dwarf into electro-sex, tapping on a tiny keyboard with a hook. Occasionally, Hillary Clinton looking for Bill. Sometimes Barack Obama, looking for sympathy and tickles. Still other times, I would be Arnold Schwarzenegger, seeking further tax cuts for botox, or just someone to beat. Occasionally I could get away with pretending to be Bill Clinton, not looking for Hillary, though as it turned out he was often already logged on. One afternoon in the chat room, I decided to describe myself as I really am: mid 40s, HIV Positive (and not at all negative about it), reasonably good looking, with an enraged tool needing some sugar walls to hammer. Response was rapid. His description of himself was sexy - 30s, fit, also HIV+, muscular butt, into toys. I'm into toys. I have a selection of dancing Hugh Jackman miniatures that buggers the imagination. Having established that we liked each other's stats and status, we edge round to more relevant stuff, like where we both live. I give my potential pal my phone number. Quicker than you can say ‘Jackie Collins is a sad old bag’, the phone rings. We arrange to get together, his place, as he lives alone. Tony. His name is Tony. Today is the day. I'm looking good. I'd even put extra teeth whitener on before my Xanax last night. Time to go, so I stuff myself into my favorite extra tight old 501s, pack a bag of rubber cocks - just 17 of my favorites - and my afternoon HIV medications. Be prepared, appropriate for Girl Guides to lava cave enthusiasts. Half way to paradise I pass an old woman in a motorized wheelchair. It's pleasing to see this respective senior citizen has wisely restrained herself in her chair. (I hate it when old people fall and break their hips on the footpath where I'm about to walk.) She's singing softly to herself '…coz tonight I'm going to party like it's 1929...'
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I knock confidently on the bleak weather-beaten door of Tony’s house. Somewhere angels begin singing “Love is Many Splendoured Thing”, the door creaks open, and there he is. "Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa" "I beg your pardon?" I splutter. "Hi! Come on in!" I'm inside before I know it, mentally spanking myself for my naivety. I’m realising the Ricky Martin look-a-like profile picture on Tony’s online profile actually was Ricky Martin. Still, I'm here now - may as well see it out. Or in - if we can just hide that face. Perhaps I should have brought a feedbag?
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Tony ushers me briskly through the lounge room. Despite the hurry I spot some oddities - a row of mutilated teddy bears sitting in military formation, a ruined swing set, savaged doll’s clothes. Taped to the wall each side of a dirty window are ripped posters. On the right is Amy Winehouse with a crack pipe crudely drawn over her mouth; at least I think it’s drawn. To the left is one of the Baldwin brothers. The ugly, untalented one nobody remembers the name of. We enter the bedroom. There’s rubbish strewn everywhere. Blood-curdling childlike scrawls in some unidentifiable substance obliterate the walls. A Julie Andrews doll wearing a muzzle is nailed through her head to the back of the door. (No need for a muzzle now.) “Sorry 'bout the mess,” Tony grins sheepishly, and I do mean sheepishly. I tell him to undress for me in a clear voice as confident as I am not feeling. He takes off his clothes and bends over. There's no denying it, he does have his good side.
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Lying him tenderly down on his back on the bed, I put his legs over my shoulders and gently stroke Tony’s best asset. Keeping my right hand fingers caressing, with my left hand pull a couple of generous rubber items out of my bag. "Oh my god, I can't take that! Or that! I haven't had sex in two years!" Amateur. "Ok, cool." I say. Ah well, back to the indoor games department...dig in my bag for some other bits and pieces. Lube up a trainee nodules anal wand and slide it around his hole. Tony groans in pleasure.
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I chance it, look up. Tony appears so blissful, his expression that of a gargoyle upon the gates of heaven and knowing within will be no mirrors for eternity. Despite being faced with a face only a blind baboon could love, I’m straining in my jeans. But the minutes are passing, and I wanna get home in time to watch 'Out of the Wok & Into the Closet' - a new sitcom starring Richard Gere and the Dalai Lama as two fun-loving bachelors sharing a bedsit in L.A. “Relax…” I soothe. Tony relaxes and sighs. A soft, whispery, anal sigh. Argh! Can't breathe! Suddenly visions of my shameful sex and vomit extravaganza arise and I hold my heaving guts with all my willpower. Struggle to the door, fling it open. Waiting on the other side dressed in oversized children’s clothes are an aging couple with Downs Syndrome - Tony’s parents!
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Mother grabs the sex toy out my hands, I try to snatch it back its greasiness has worked in her favour. Mother shrieks and runs in to the lounge room brandishing the slick anal wand like Minerva McGonagall on Ritalin. She’s closely followed by naked Tony, no match for his mother, who is proving incredibly adapt at counting to five and running full pelt swinging a slimy rubber schlong. Tony adds a James Bond twist by squirting molten Crisco from his backside as we skid and slither like a Wallenberg’s Syndrome special of So You Think You Can Dance. Father stands under Amy Winehouse beating his head. Saves her the trouble.
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Finally mother takes a wrong turn and slides into her son's bedroom. She's trapped! Walk up to her to demand my dildo back. No need. As my mouth opens she rams it down my oesophagus and skips out the room clapping her hands with glee. I stagger home in shock like I’ve been ridden bareback by Mr Ed. I’ve forgotten to take my pills, my legs are limp with lactic acid from the indoor steeplechase; my clothes are stiff with drying anal mucus. I have a lump in my throat, tears in my eyes, a pong in my pants and a heavy bag full of greasy broken dreams. Somewhere a voice is croaking ‘1929…’ My life is messier than Jocelyne Wildenstein’s surgery.
