Archives for posts with tag: NYC

I’m trying to write everything down but somehow the past few weeks have blurred into one long delicious adventure.

NYC and back again in the car.

Let me remember.

I drove east through death valley and this was the temperature:

Death Valley 118 Degrees

I drove through Utah during the day which was very wise.  Utah is very beautiful.  Devastatingly beautiful.

Emery Utah 2

You see.  I can’t find the words.

I stopped in Des Moines and enjoyed the state building and the wonderful contemporary sculpture park given to the community by John and Mary Pappajohn, a Des Moines venture capitalist and his wife.

I met a young hair dresser with blue hair.

Capital Building Des Moines

18 Year Old Des Moines Hairdresser

I stopped in Chicago and met a huge football player.

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I spent the 4th July in Chicago. The Fireworks terrified Dude, my little brown dog.

July 4th Boys

I arrived in NYC.  Just in time for the horrible heat wave.

It was so hot I had to leave the dogs inside the apartment during the day or risk them dying of heat exhaustion.

I sat uncomfortably in AA meetings.

I stayed on the upper west side.  A block from Central Park.

Central Park

We walked every day off leash at dawn around the Great Lawn.  We saw beautiful young men exercising.  We, being me and the dogs.

I explored Red Hook and saw a band at Dustin Yellin‘s place called Guerilla Toss.

Guerilla Toss

I met a beautiful man in the street and kissed him.

Sparky

Why was I there?

I had gone east to reclaim my gayness after months of feeling like an ex-gay.   Hanging onto the word queer as the only way to describe my isolation from the gays.

New York.

I spent my birthday at the cloisters with Richy.

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I read from my blog at a Lower East Side gallery and they paid me for doing so.

I met more interesting people on the street.

Michael 2

I helped a friend edit his movie.

Then, unable to stand the searing heat a moment longer, I drove to Sayville taking the first ferry to Fire Island.  The Pines.

I rented a small house on Cedar Walk but didn’t spend any time there at all.

From the moment I arrived I had one extraordinary experience after another.

Pines Domestic Life

I met cool people,  and coveted their things.

Beautiful FIP crockery

I was invited into their homes and onto their yachts, I met their friends and ate their food.  I returned their hospitality by paying for them as and when they would let me.

I walked to Cherry Grove where I had breakfast with John Walters.

I had dinner with Andy Tobias…

Andy Tobias

… in my favorite Fire Island Pines home.

My Favorite FIP House

Duncan Roy

I met a gang of charming gay men from NYC who were kind and considerate.

I spent time with all of them in the city once I returned.

This one is called Jon.

John Stevens Naked

As I let myself fall into the gay Fire Island days I began to remember how much fun being gay is.  Even if I was sober and a little bit older.

I walked the beach.

Fire Island Pines Beach

I had a huge old man crush on this beautiful boy:

Ian

Who worked here:

FIP Barman

I saw Justin Bond.

Justin Bond an Joan Fontein

I looked in at the house where we lived for so many years.

Grey Gardens FIP

And I met more men.

Blue Eyes

I spent time on my own.  I found an abandoned cock ring on the board walk.

Abandoned Cock Ring

I walked miles of boardwalks with the dogs who came home covered in tiny ticks.

Boardwalk Fire Island Pines

I finally met a beautiful man who left for India but lives in Paris who stole my head/heart.

I was so god damned happy.

The morning after the Pines Party I prepared to leave.

The Morning after the Pines Party

After ten days I took the ferry, then another ferry to Provincetown.

Provincetown Beach

I rented a small apartment on the beach and met more men.

Beautiful Man

I hung with my friend Benoit Denizet Lewis but the sparkle that used to exist between us has gone.

Benoit Denizet Lewis

We explored the graveyard.  We found Norman Mailer’s grave and a pretty headstone with a small dog carved into it.

Dog Grave

I ate a great deal but didn’t put on any weight as I walked so many miles every day.

I found this beautiful ceramic mirror frame:

Owl Mirror Frame Provincetown

I met more men.

Bulgarian Boat Boy

Eventually I drove back to New York and stayed with friends.  This is their view:

NYC View

I partied with Jeremy Kost…

…and his friend.

I had dinner with Dan at Mary’s Fish Camp.

Dan Hyman

I had dinner with Thom at my club on the roof by the pool:

Thom

I wore this chic watch:

Rolex

We worked on my film.

Franck in the office

Then, after another week in the city I took the car all the way home again.

I met a hitch hiker who travelled all the way to California.  His name is Albert.

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I stayed in The Lincoln Hotel in Chicago.

Bartender

Christian

I stayed in Denver.

Zach

I stayed in Utah.

We drove from Cedar City to LA in half a day.

We drove up the mountain in Malibu, up the drive and finally slept in our own bed.

It has been misty and cool.

Malibu Marine Layer

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Afternoon Chair

The days are long, hot and sultry.

After the NYC winter the Californian sun seems unrelenting.  One glorious day folding like melting fudge into the next.

91 degrees today.  A rare winter storm this weekend.  That’s what they say.

My Russian friend makes thick black, sweet coffee.  We sit on her verandah overlooking the sea.  The dogs lay on their backs in the sun.

Anthony calls and talks my ear off.  His brother is in NYC with Amelia enjoying his birthday.

A 5 year old boy shoots his 2 year old sister with a gun recently purchased for him by his father.  I find a website devoted to pictures of white children/babies holding firearms.   It reminds me of Somalian and Iranian militia children holding semi automatic weapons.

Here it is:  Kids With Guns.  I just checked and unsurprisingly ‘kids corner’ has been removed since yesterday.

These people, so it seems, are waiting for the government to come and change their lives irrevocably.

Part of me sympathises with those folk.  The high minded elite looking down upon them scornfully.

At 8pm I take the car into Venice and meet Anthony at a gallery called Obsolete.  Amanda Demme’s vernisage.

There are large, moody photographs of old men and young children and homeless people and people of colour.

The rather beautiful photographs are printed on textured paper.  Like canvas.  It is distracting and tacky.   It’s a problem.

We eat meatballs and salad and fresh almonds.

A tribe of scarified women in their 60’s huddle on a $100k sofa and gossip.  Their surgeries performed to be seen.  What’s the point of spending that much money on plastic surgery unless you can see it?

Amanda introduces me to Sara Gilbert and her other.   Many people are wearing hats.  Wide brims.  Beaver rather than rabbit.

I am wearing a midnight blue velvet suit and red shoes.

A young actor greets me with a hug.  He asks me in that way what I’ve been up to.  He knows.  I tell him anyway.  “I read about that.”  He exclaims.  “You’re the real deal.”  That’s the difference between the gays and the straights.

Straight people know I’m a fucking hero.  The gays, huddled around teacher are fucking terrified of me.

And so they should be.

Outside we meet Joaquin Phoenix.  Anthony made a film with him.  I have not seen him since before Heath died.  A flicker of recognition but no more.  He looks like he is made of pale green wax.  He is stick thin.  He looks like a Shropshire farmer.

He said to Anthony,  “I hear you’ve been making sober calls.  Don’t call me.”   We laugh.

It’s funny.

After the show we have dinner at Gjelina with two art collectors.  Pizza and pudding.  Everybody at the table knows someone else in the restaurant.   We receive.  I forget to stand for one grand dame.  She stares at me frostily.

I know what she’s thinking.  She’s wondering if I left my manners in the jail.

There is a week of mayhem to report.  A week of extraordinary conduct.  A week of moving back east.

Connecting with AA, meeting a man on the street whose face I never tire of.

I can’t show you his face.

Only in NYC.

Then, I meet a woman who KNOWS all about my film.  I mean, she knows the story like an urban myth.  But it’s not a myth.  It’s the sad truth.

“Oh, I know this story,” she said.  Her eyes sparkling with anticipation.  “I think he’s my friend on Facebook.  Yes, look…”  she pulls out her smart phone and there he is.  I push the phone away.  I shouldn’t be looking at that.

“What was he thinking?”  she roars with laughter.

Women love my film.  It confirms everything they think they know about men.  The injustice of men.

Dead five-year olds.  20 of them.

The children are shot dead by a crazed, entitled white boy.  The little bodies buried this week.  Lined up against the wall and executed.  You know they didn’t have a clue.  You know they did as they were told.

I thought about the little dog facing the lethal injection.

A horrific pendant: ten Afghan children are splattered into the mud by a drone.

Somehow their little brown faces are missing from the media.  Somehow the little white children in Connecticut are worth more.

This week has been all about mental illness and guns.   The mild wet weather.   The poem.  The fiscal cliff.  Obama.  That’s PRESIDENT Obama to you.

We asked you to vote for him, now he’s letting us down all over again.  Surprise, fucking surprise.

I saw a man being mugged on the 5 train.  Into Manhattan, a stealthy, tall, nimble black man rips an iPhone 4s out of an asian man’s hands leaving him with his ear phones on his head.  The rest of us sat amazed.

The white people urged him to call the police but he said, “I’m already late for work.”

I’m buying a parker.  It’s lined with blood-red shearling.  Like the monkey they found in Ikea.

Dinner in the neighborhood, dinner at the Mercer Kitchen with Courtney, dinner at the Standard Grill with Brock.

Dinner with Cristina who I have not seen for 30 years on the floor of her palatial Upper East Side home.  It was as if all those 30 years just melted away.   That we were friends again from last week.  Funny, compelling, brilliant, beautiful Cristina.

Dinner with new gay AA friends in cheap diners.

Dinner at Mary’s Fish Camp with Benoit.  We stop at Boxers (gay bar) on the way home.  There’s nothing for us.  Benoit peels off leaving me on the street and as I wait for the green light a handsome green eyed man says hello.

At first I wonder why.  Why is this stunningly handsome 27-year-old man saying hello to me.

Then we’re in Barracuda kissing each other.

I’m wearing that huge fur hat.

I can’t kiss him any more.  I can’t suck any more spit out of his mouth.  I can’t look into his green eyes.

I am so overwhelmed by him I walk through the rain until I am soaked to the skin.  Wondering how it happens?  Wondering how it ends up like this?

All the way home I’m humming Nature Boy to myself.

In the morning my room smells of damp fur.

Yesterday a pair of young film makers turned up at the apartment to work with me on their well written but unfocused script.

The man was leaving as they arrived.

They said, “Wow, he’s gorgeous.  Where do you meet men like that?”

Not in clubs or bars, not grindr or Manhunt.  I meet men like that as we pass in the street.  He said, “You looked mean.”  I am…I suppose.  I do.  Keep the fuck away from me.

Anyway, the film makers sat down and we talked about their script.  It was revealed, during our conversation, that one of these young men had recently found out that he was HIV+.

This is the third time I have heard this story, or one like it this past month.  His sex partner had not told him the truth about his HIV status before he agreed to have unsafe sex.

He had been lied to.

I was shaking with rage.

Like J risked J’s life when he was fucking HIV+ artist Pal S behind her back, like X had been lied to…these innocent folk had made bad decisions based on the lies they were told.

On each occasion the liar had tried to make it the victim’s fault.

” You shouldn’t have believed me.”

“You must have realized.”

“I can’t talk about this right now, you are complicating my life.”

“What kind of straight man doesn’t play sports?”

He is 25 years old.  A young man dealing with a huge problem.  He told me that he feels like he has ‘gone back into the closet’, that ‘no one could possibly love him’, that he is ‘damaged goods’.

“How do you feel about the guy who infected you?”  I asked.

“He’s evil.” he replied.

“Misguided?”  I suggested.

No, I told myself, not misguided.  I knew he was right.  Deliberately infecting or risking the lives of others…is simply evil.

My phone rang, I made a plan to see a friend the following morning.  

The boys looked at me askance. What?  I said.  “I’ve never seen anyone make an arrangement like that on the phone.  We text each other.”  I felt suddenly dislocated from life.  How come I didn’t know?

The kid with HIV is now at the mercy of the pharmaceutical companies who stand to take millions of dollars from him as he tries to stay healthy.

The same companies who promote their products in our gay publications… paying top dollar to do so.

Look at the pictures.  Strapping, healthy boys living with HIV.

Big Pharma shaping this generations attitude toward HIV as a manageable/livable with disease… just like diabetes!

Turn your back on health education, embrace ignorance and a life shackled to Big Pharma.  Enslaved at 25.  My heart bled.

“I never knew anyone who died of AIDS.” he said.

When this young man was being bullied at school for being gay he may very well have been reassured by the biggest deception of all:  It Gets Better.  Dan Savage‘s message of false hope.

It is another gay lie.

We don’t treat each other very well.  We don’t talk about not treating each other very well.

They stop bullying us…we start where they left off.

If they don’t damage you…we will…with my lies and infected sperm.

It’s not getting better for the young man I met yesterday.  It’s getting a whole heap worse.  Straight bullies didn’t lie and infect him with HIV.  Gay men did.

Gay men lied to three of my friends…confirming that it is not just an HIV epidemic, it is an epidemic of lies, betrayal and life threatening denial.

Uneducated, shamed, arrogant, drug fucked gay men with no principles.

Just like Jake.

The only reason I have to come back to NYC so frequently is to meet Jake in court.  Prolonging the inevitable.

Forced, yet again, to indulge his tantrums, his ego, his selfishness.

Without me in his life to define him as the victim…what is he left with?  Without me and his appearances in court…he returns to the mundane fixtures and fittings of the life that was…if one can call it a life?

Yet, when I am here in NYC, I make the most of it.  Happily wiling away the days, finishing my novel, seeing movies, hanging with my buddies, walking the dog, enjoying the humid nights tangled in your arms.

When he left this morning we both said, almost in unison, ‘I don’t do goodbyes’.   I don’t.  He had his bicycle over one shoulder, he didn’t look back.  I can still smell him on my fingers.

I will have a shower when I get back to LA.

So, I went to court today.

If you want to know what happened email me and I will let you know.

I am not going to stop telling you how it feels to be me.

Arrived in NYC two nights ago.

Fashion week!  Fashion’s Night Out tonight.

Yesterday, I had dinner with Dan at Prune.   We had been to the Patagonia party at the Bowery Hotel and then ended up with new friends at Rogan.  Met Greg Long.

I had a great time even though my foot aches like hell!  Met Alex on the street.  He said, “Are you crying?”  I wasn’t crying…but I was distressed and there were huge rain drops on my cheeks that looked like tears.  I was thinking about the following day.  I just kept thinking how I had no desire to look at that man ever again and I knew that I had to.

 

Alex and I walked back up The Bowery to the Bowery Hotel, ended up at B Bar for new French label Surface to Air party.  Super cool.

I love the rain.  I love the streets.  If my foot wasn’t so painful I would have walked home in the rain.

Breakfast today with Jenny A and Robby at the Mercer.   That woman is a dream…such a dream.

You know that I got sober because of Jenny.   15 years at the end of this month.  After breakfast we went to an AA meeting and I felt the love.  Thank God for AA!

Spent afternoon with the most beautiful Russian at the totally revamped, gorgeous private club.

I love being here.

Jenny sat at the back of the court and was dumbfounded at the ego in the room…mine included.

She said, “Did you see that man’s suit?  Even his wedding ring is cheap.”

Exactly.

I am here all month.

I want to tell you that it is hard work hating someone, anyone.   It was hard hating my step-father.  He was a bad man.  He deserved what he got.

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Let me reiterate…I would rather work in an office.  I would rather work in an office than have a boyfriend.  In fact, it’s almost the same thing.  Giving up one’s freedom…just to be like everyone else.

Accepting second best.  I can’t do that again.

I have no intention of EVER having a boyfriend/partner/husband.

They say, “You’ll fall in love.”  “You’ll meet someone.”  “There’s someone out there for you.” Ha!  It simply isn’t true.  Why?  Because I am not looking, not interested…scared.

It was hot yesterday.  Very hot.  Looks like it’s going to be another hot day today.  BAFTA garden party at the British Embassy this afternoon.

My ankle is not getting any better.  My ‘wait and see’ policy worked on the left leg but not on the right.  I am shuffling like a decrepit.  Doctor on Monday.  We shall see.

Zachary came by yesterday and we hurled ourselves up the 101 and into Hollywood.  Hanging with some New York friends on Doheny.  A gay event…cute, pleasant people.  One of them had seen the ‘A’ List and asked…about the watch.

We ended the evening slumping into sofas at a private roof top club receiving all comers.  We had a pack of American Spirits so were very popular out there on the terrace.

Zachary is a dancer/performance artist.  He is off to Rome to show his work in a prestigious gallery.  I like his zeal.  It reminded me just how much fun touring a live show can be.

Samantha joined us, she was wearing knee-high leather boots, her hair tied back…she looked like Theda Bara.

We chatted with super chic Kelly Osborne.  We met a gay couple in an open relationship.

We drove home at midnight past a very fresh accident on the deserted PCH.  An inebriated man sitting at the edge of the road wearing a white button down…clutching his bloody chest.  His girlfriend standing by…weeping.

A two car collision.  His car visible, the other car (a police vehicle) had, it seemed, crashed over the edge of the PCH and into the Pacific.

Gawkers looking into the black sea.  The deputies, I read this morning, were not drowned.  Look here.

I am in NYC next week, post Irene.  Robby is there to see but he has a life in NYC (at our instigation) and I may very well not be a part of that.  That’s OK, he’s appropriately grateful.

Only three weeks until I am yet again due in Family Court to fight the spurious accusations, lies, falsehoods from that dwarfish, dishonest man who lied his way into my life, my wallet, my heart and my underwear.

This vile fame-whore will rip me out of paradise.

Some cheap liar who had devoted every day of his 30 years to deception.

When he saw me on TV he merely saw his next victim.

Someone else he could use in his war against a woman he said he loved.   Risking her health, her sanity.   Someone I heard blaming for his shortcomings.  He was so angry with her that she didn’t see things his way.  A woman who had blindly believed in her man, who will never do so again.

The bigger problem when you let a liar into your life…you end up never trusting.

Every man I have subsequently met I have looked upon with suspicion.

If YOU have had experiences of spurious restraining orders or false orders of protection let me know by emailing me on duncaninla@mac.com or leaving a message here.   If you want to come to court in NYC and support me on the 8th September 2011, let me know.

If you want to cover this story for your gay publication…let me know.

If you have been fucked over by an ex, lied to, cheated to, infected with HIV by someone who said they were clean…if you have never had recourse to get revenge.  Let me know.

Men or women.

Let me know.

If you are sick of keeping quiet about the way gay men…men treat each other or women.

Let me know.

Dan Savage‘s It Gets Better campaign may save teens from killing themselves, but what next?  We don’t treat each other very well.  Sometimes I think that Better than Death is not good enough.

I used to have compassion for that man.  I used to make excuses for him.  I stayed up waiting for him to call.  Worrying about him.  I urged him to tell her the truth. I convinced him that the truth would set him free. Until recently I thought he should be forgiven.  Some people can never be forgiven.

He may have learned his lesson, maybe he tells the truth nowadays?  Regardless, he has unfinished business.  We need to deal with it.  Some day soon the truth will be revealed.

Orders of Protection are well-known for inflaming benign situations, creating malignancy where there was none.  He has done just this.   The cells of resentment, hatred and revenge are multiplying before my very eyes.

Hey..and before you lecture me about how stupid I was to fall for him.  That he was just a 30-year-old kid…look at the men who are killed in Iraq and Afghanistan.  Teenagers. If you think that love has logic?   Take a look in the fucking mirror and tell me you haven’t done the same.   Before you advise me to let go of my resentment, tell me why I should.  This may be eating me alive but that’s better than being dead.

He could have killed me.

Before I get advice from angels…take your own inventory.  Your own moral pulse.

P.S.  No, I don’t have HIV but I hear plenty stories of men who have been cheated out of their negative status by lying queens.  Just another thing our fucked up gay community wont talk about.

Here are some of the pictures Dan took last week at my party…I will add them as and when they arrive.  I am having my LA birthday party tonight….should be fun.

Lady Rizo

Lady Rizo sang Lilac Wine, Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend and a Brittany Spears mash up.

Devon, Aleksa and Me

Aleksa came with her husband Devon…straight from the set of Boardwalk Empire

Dan and Stephen

Dan took all the pics but thankfully had one of himself.

Ian and Bradley

Ian Drew and Bradley from US Weekly…who told me yesterday that I am indeed in the upcoming A List.

Rob Roth who sang ‘I’ll Melt With You‘ rather wonderfully and the legend who is indeed Chandler Burr.  The performance artist and NYT scent editor…

Duncan and Robby

This trip to NYC changed darling Robby’s life.

Sweet friends from LA Jess and her lover.

Victoria Whitbread and her friend Tom with Dee Mansfield who flew from Hong Kong for my party.

Yaniv, Michael (GLADD) and Cyndi Stivers who started Time Out NY

The Black Soft

Chase and Joey from The Black Soft came and not only performed their new song for me but totally wowed their new audience.

Zach and Alex

Joan, Lady Rizo and Joe

Greg Lucas and David Stillman Meyer

Kaolin, Friend and Zach

Lady Rizo and Donovan.

Duncan, Charlie Parsons and Tom Desanto

Jeff and Robby

And over to you LADY RIZO!!!

OK, that’s it!  More tomorrow from tonight’s party.

 

Last night I slept in a bed.

The previous nights I slept whilst they drove the car. Thomas in detention. The Dane miserable and grumpy because his best friends New York life had crumbled to dust. Lucie just trying to make the best of a bad lot.

I left them in Austin and settled into the four-hour wait for my flight to NYC.

I had nothing better to do so decided to get my hair cut. I walked through the oppressive heat to Birds Barbershop under the freeway at the ghetto end of 6th Street. Walking less than half a mile from the city center Austin’s miserable underbelly reveals itself.

Firstly, and most oddly, dogs are not allowed in barber shops in Austin so the Little Dog sat in a shady spot outside. Lara was assigned to cut my hair.

I asked for a number two buzz all over my head and beard.

Lara, less than five foot tall began shaving my head. She told me to uncross my legs. She told me to sit straight in my chair. She told me to put my feet on the foot rest. Then, when things were obviously not finished she announced that she had finished and how did it look? It looked terrible. It was perhaps the WORST hair cut I had ever had.

I told her to re buzz it so it might at least look even. She said, “I’m not comfortable with that.” As if she had been taught in some barber class how to avoid unwanted advances.

She picked at the mess of her own creation with a pair of scissors. Then she started trimming my beard. The past few days had been so exhausting I just let her hack at my face.

I paid the $25 and walked away.

In Austin airport I sat next to a thirty something French man who I ended up in bathroom stall. He has a huge, uncut cock.

My plane unloaded in Charlotte but the plane to Newark was cancelled. Charlotte airport is just packed with army boys. I could live in Charlotte airport.

Finally, after resigning myself to a night at the Novotel in Charlotte, I found a flight to Newark. On the plane East I completed the end of my novel and started sketching out the associated film idea. Because I now know the story so well it was easy as all hell to write the treatment. In fact, it may be one of the best things I have ever written.

As I sat in Charlotte thinking about the curious French man with the beautiful penis Dan texted me to say that same-sex marriage was now legal in NY state. I had two opposing thoughts, it struck me that even though the gays would celebrate this change in the local law it is actually merely a sop to us.

So? So? I thought angrily. This isn’t going to help Zach and his Scottish boy friend. If they get married immigration will not recognise their union, no one official anywhere is obliged to recognise this marriage anomaly other than the states where segregation is outlawed.

Then I wondered if Jake celebrated the change in the law, whether he owned that this vote applied to him. I thought about him getting married to a man, taking that man to his parents house. If he could stay loyal and monogamous?

I thought about gay marriage and just because we can…should we?

Arrived in the East Village just after midnight. Walked dog. Slept really well.

Party tonight and Monday night.

I have boring admin stuff to do this week. Then…thank God…I have my party.

It is such a beautiful day today I almost can’t describe it.

This weekend was great fun.  Too much fun to blog.  Easter should be spent with children and friends with children.  Fat on chocolate and ham.

Woke early Good Friday morning and drove the twins to Pasadena.  They spent the weekend in Arizona at a Mumford and Sons concert by way of the Grand Canyon.   They are on their way home now.  I filled my weekend with lunches and dinners and a pedicure.   I went to AA meetings and walks with friends old and new.

There were moments this wonderful spring weekend when I felt as if I were my old self (pre The Penguin) but couldn’t work out why.  There were moments when I experience the very illusive peace of mind I had been craving for many, many months.

It all seemed to begin after we had chopped out the great bush of Bougainvillea.  I understood that any change, however destructive, can be very creative.   By freeing up the view I could see clearly.  My over-view, perspective and willingness all remade.

I had to own up, once again, to misdirected anger.  I am not angry with him…I am angry with my nemesis.  He is not that man.  By demanding answers from him I forego the courage it takes to ask my nemesis why he did those terrible things.

What The Penguin did to me scarcely compares to what happened before yet I am willing to blame The Penguin for all that is evil in the world.  Of course he should never have lied his way into my life, nor should he have used me to help him.  He should never have said ‘I love you’ without considering the consequences.

Our moment in court next month could be used to heal rather than to punish.  To move on with amends and explanation rather than two disparate men re-entrenching their anger.

This time next week I will be in NYC…a camera shoved in my face.  I must admit that I am ever so slightly excited.  I am excited to see D.  I am excited that I am going to have a gay old NYC summer.  Hamptons, Fire Island…one last gay hurrah!  Even though it is not my show and I am merely an adjunct I am excited by the prospect of showing a different, more vivacious side of my character than the one you saw last year on Sex Rehab.

This time next week?  I am not living in next week, I am living now.

Therapy this morning was great.  Every meeting/group/session I attend things seem to get better and better.

We picked lemons and grapefruits and cleaned out the plunge pool.  We cooked dinner.  We walked on the beach.  I wrote more of my film.  I met another DOP.  I wrote more of my novel.  I am presently writing a thousand words a day.  More if I count this and the film.  We planted a tree and swept the paths.  The days are full up with life and laughter.

The twins are incredibly funny and kind.  Their Mother called me yesterday and thanked me for looking after them.  It’s a treat to do so.  They are honest.  They give more than they take.

I don’t want to go back to NYC so perhaps I won’t.  There’s nothing there for me other than sadness.   Disaster.   Therapist Jill gets back this week and hopefully I can get myself into some sort of rehab by the beginning of May.   It’s the only way I can imagine dealing with everything that has happened.   The pain and the resentment.

I can start again.

He was wearing the jacket that I picked out for him in the most recent picture I have.  Staring at a near empty pint of beer.  I hope he chokes on that fucking beer.  I hope that every time he pulls on his jacket he thinks of me and London and APC and how much I tried to help him.  What lengths I was prepared to go to make his new gay life better.

You see?  When you let a liar into your life what havoc they cause?  What pain and suffering they inflict?  Oh get over it I hear you say…but I am not like that.  I can carry around a resentment for years.   Some relationships take years to get over.  Especially when you know in your heart that you will never love like you loved, feel what you feel, be what you were with the man who you loved…ever again.  Even if he was a liar, even if he is impossible to forgive.  Even if I want so badly to put things right and be at peace with the world.

The twins are off out to Santa Monica.  They are leaving me here to write and ponder.

Life cheats us with shadows.   We ask it for pleasure and it gives it to us with bitterness and disappointments in it’s train.  Oscar Wilde.


Dear Readers,

So, many of you have followed this blog since the beginning.  I don’t mean this time around but when I was writing in 2005/2006 before I shut it down.

I shut it down last time for the same reasons I am going to shut it down this time: because it suits me.  There is no pressure, no threat, no coercion from anyone in particular.  Not from slime ball or his slime ball family.  Not from anyone.

Even though my friend Sharon Marshall thinks I will never get another boyfriend when they read this..the truth is, I wouldn’t/couldn’t get another boy friend with or without this blog.

There are a host of other reasons not to be my boy friend other than what I have written here about Jake or others.  There are plenty of published reasons not to have anything to do with me what so ever.

I will list some of them:

ex con

Celebrity gossip

appalling reputation

don’t drink or take drugs

elitist

bad temper

Well, the list just goes on and on.  The blog merely let people know how shameless I am about all the above.

Those same people refuse to acknowledge any triumph I might have had.  It is as if I were only ever bad…well, my dears, you get what you pay for.

Nope, the blog is going private because I decided that on the 21st December 2010 I would cease to publicly blog.  It was on this day last year that Jake contacted me (see below) and my world was blown apart.

It was on that day that a man with shady intentions hijacked my life and for all the love I felt and all the hate I endured I wouldn’t have it any other way.   I am grateful to have been able to share with you what he and men like him try to get away with.

It is QUITE RIGHT that he is shamed publicly for doing what he did.  What he did to me and his girl friend of seven and half years is far worse than any crime I may have committed.

Ask any woman who has been lied to.

He will never face a court for what he did but he deserves to.

I am moved that so many of you shared your own stories of being cheated on and lied to.  He described you as sycophants.  I describe every one of you as my friends.  I want you to know that you have helped me tremendously.   I don’t know what I would have done without every single one of you.

Each anonymous message of support.

As of the 21st December I will set this blog to private and if you want to read what I have been up to you will have to subscribe.  This will please the 1000 of you who routinely log in every day.

Jake, only a few more days until your name, as you wished it, will be divorced from mine.  Your picture, as your Father wanted, unaligned to me.  How dare they ask me to remove pictures of him from my blog?  As if he deserved anonymity?  For all the world your ‘silly mistakes’ will be erased.  Your head resting gently on my shoulder.  How you must hate that picture!

I might remind you that this time last year I was really happy, enjoying my after sex rehab life.  Enjoying watching the show with Jennie at our new apartment in Hollywood.

But all of that came to an abrupt end.

The day before you wrote to me you were reading my blog assuming that my life as an out gay man could be yours.  That the people with whom I consorted, the locations I inhabited you might have.   You didn’t want me Jake.  You wanted my life.

Your pathetic half Persian therapist will never get the measure of you Jake because she is being paid by your parents to make it all better.  You need moral guidance.

So, this time last year I am in NYC interviewing agents, David Vigliano etc. and little Jake B the virtual Literary Agent in Arlo and Esme on 1st Street wondering why he is so damned shy and awkward.  Thinking it had more to do with me being on TV than what was actually going on..that he wanted me to fuck him behind his girlfriend’s back.

He told me later that he wanted me to take him downstairs and fuck him in the bathroom.   Now I know, of course, that the sweet little pussy I came to love had been shagged senseless a million times by Pal (amongst others) and his HIV cock.   His dear pussy that I loved, was just another New York City whore hole.

Without doubt my relationship with Jake prolonged a long-held misery that I had worked very hard in rehab to overcome.

I am an artist (try taking that away from me) and, though many will not agree, this last year or so of blogging has been my art, my catharsis, a continuation of the greater conceptual art of being in a reality TV show.

In no time at all every mean thing I have written here will be forgotten.

In earlier posts, where I have been vile about people, those gripes and recriminations vanished.  Time is a great healer.

Time will hush the screaming, resentful voice that propels us.

Resentment sucks the life out of a memory until it cannot be remembered.

Sorry Sharon, frankly my dear I don’t give a shit who reads about me or my life or what they think of it or, more importantly, how it might alienate me.  The damage is already done. It was done years ago.  When you came to Sydney to interview me about Hurley.  When I was sent to prison for over spending on my credit card…

This is what he wrote:

Hi Duncan,

I’m a literary agent with xxxx, based in NYC. Introduced to you courtesy of VH1. Read your article in The Daily Beast, which I savored for the honest details behind the show–none of which come as a surprise. Anyway, your article led me to your blog. I love the honesty in your writing (plus it’s also refreshing to see someone from a reality tv show who can form a coherent sentence), and I get the impression that you’ve been through a lot in your life. At the risk of sounding just like the opportunistic reality tv producers you’ve worked with, I will admit that a reality program is often a good platform for a book–but more importantly, you have an interesting story, voice, and you know how to write. I figured it was worth a shot reaching out. Perhaps you are already sufficiently represented on the publishing side, but either way I am wondering if you have thought realistically about writing a book.

Warm Regards,

Jake B

Dear Jake,

I am presently meeting agents with a view to representation. I have met with three so far and have not yet made any decision.

I and flattered that you contacted me and do feel free to call me at your convenience.

Hi Duncan,

Nice to hear back from you and sounds good…I’ll be in touch very soon.

Best,

Jake

OK, it’s really time to forgive.  It’s so fucking hard to forgive someone you have loved. I don’t know if it’s the right thing?  We had such an intense time together.

I dealt with the unresolved financial aspect today but it gave me zero pleasure.

I think..why the fuck should he get away with anything.  Here it comes again..the wave of resentment.

I wish on more occasions that I care to admit that I could remove every single mention of him on my blog just like he wanted but now look..the pages are covered with him.   Mentions and pictures and insults.  I know that it must have hurt him terribly.  For what?

Because I loved him.  Because I don’t want to love him. Because I want to let him go..forever and this seemed like the only way.

I broke my promise to celebrate every moment of his new gay life.

Two people come together for what ever reason and try to make something happen.  The moment the heart is engaged it becomes treacherous.

Toby and I went out last night to WeHo where I thought I wanted to be happily surrounded by own kind.  It was GHASTLY!  I LOATH mediocrity!  Jake wasn’t mediocre.  He wasn’t deliberately cruel.  He was just confused.  I should have known better..but why should I?  Why should I know just because I am older?  I keep thinking about The Velvet Rage.  How we become who we are shaped in a hostile world.  Having to invent ourselves as we go along.

I don’t know the answers…why should I?

I tried to be there for him, to help him but I couldn’t help myself..I fell in love.  So, every time I eat a tomato I think of him because we bought those beautiful tomatoes in the market in Sanary and ate them like peaches.

Every time I sit opposite another man on a ‘date’ I compare them to him.   Every time something good or bad happens I want to share it with him..yet I have no right.  I never had any right.  You see, he always made it perfectly clear after he left her that he wasn’t leaving her for me.   The damage was already done.  I was already in love, I believed him when he wrote to me telling me how much he loved me.

Even though I urged him to get honest I think it suited me that he wasn’t.  When he finally told her I was in SHOCK.  It seemed like the most brave yet foolhardy thing to do.  There were other ways of telling the truth.  But that’s just my fucked up head getting in the way.  He did the right thing.

When I told John the Saturday morning he told her he was gay we both looked at each other in SHOCK.

As we became more involved I couldn’t just continue with things the way they were.  I couldn’t bear listening to him tell me about other men and not be profoundly hurt however generous I wanted to be.

I didn’t want it to end but it had no future and if it had no future I couldn’t continue.

I need either to be on my own or to share my life with a man who gives equally, kindly, compassionately.

This will make you laugh:  I met a man (my age) at dinner the other night who wanted a date but cancelled after reading my blog.  So, it’s just me and my blog.

As for the money? I don’t care about the money, I just care that he’s not getting away with anything.  Then of course..I do care.  When I am feeling angry or resentful I care so much about the fucking money.

It’s 110 degrees in LA.  At the end of the week we return to sultry days and chilly evenings.

Where are the grand romantic gestures?  Should I have moved to NYC ?  I simply couldn’t.  I couldn’t shift my life east because I loved him so much.  I always knew that I would eventually have to let him go.

Now look, these pages are littered with every mean thing I could have written about him.  But inside my crazy head every mean thing I think about him is balanced with a good thought, a lovely memory, a kind gesture.

I just don’t want you to think I am weak, laying in bed this morning and trying to conjour up good thoughts of Jake, wanting to remember all that was sweet and let the loathing go.

Toby and I went into Weho last night.  It was a cluster fuck.  The Abbey was throwing a birthday party for its owner.  We left a few minutes after arriving.   It was shirtless night there.  Just more flesh.  More male bodies, shaved chests, cropped hair..like walking onto the set of an endless porno shoot.  Aspirations reduced to one thing: cock.

When I craved, in the 1980’s, more openness for our gay culture so we were not hidden from those who might harshly judge us..did I ever imagine this:

From the sidewalk we could see into Mickey’s where half-naked men gyrated on podiums with dollar bills stuffed in their knickers.  At East West more half-naked men on podiums wearing cowboy hats trying to dance unsuccessfully to country and western music. In Fiesta Cantina karaoke boys sang moody songs very badly and worst of all, just a few doors away in Rage a man was being bound and gagged in the entrance of the bar and hoisted above the audience by a vile, tattooed queen in leather.

I, like the dumfounded straight people around me,  looked in at this horrible spectacle.  I felt sick that this carnage was the public face of our ‘culture’.  The freaks, the mediocre, the wet brains, the fools..and (however beautiful they were) all so ugly..so inauthentic.

That we had all fought so hard to be taken seriously…and crave marriage and equality.

I let the little dog out of the car and he ran like a lunatic around the West Hollywood park and I felt as if in some small way my faith could be restored in the world.

Golly Gosh.  I was ready to write an obituary.  Now there’s some hope in the air and it smells so sweet-like winter flowering Jasmine.

To my readers:  I want you to understand something.  You don’t know who I am writing about.  You can guess but you’ll be wrong.   Even if you are right-you’ll still be wrong.

Men together?  I don’t understand how that works.   Can it work out?  Need I worry?  Just go with God’s plan and see what he has in store for me.  God’s plan never ever includes meeting a normal nice man with no issues who can be ready and willing to deal with mine. hahahahh.  Fuck you God.  Have I ever told you just how much I trust how God works in my life?  That whatever happens everything is going to be ok?   It’s all going to work out just the way it’s meant to be.  God, can you PLEASE not torture me by making me learn how to be patient? By making me be the one who has to be selfless?  Can you just give me a frigging break!

The problem with long distance relationships?   There is no comfort what so ever in the time spent apart.  The distance, the anticipation and the disappointment.  It drives me BONKERS.  In the Land of Needy I suddenly become King.

Wonderful times spent together are mirrored with miserable times spent apart.

Added to all of this it feels like I am being given the mighty heave ho.  Why oh why are relationships so DIFFICULT.  It’s not just me.   I know it.  Why can’t everyday be like getting up in the Jane Hotel feeling complete?

Now I understand why you don’t get involved with certain kinds of men.  Well, we all have to make our own mistakes don’t we?  One day you walk away and you don’t look back. But I can’t walk away from this one-there’s still fuel to burn.  It’s not exhausted.  Yet.  As much as I want him to tell me that’s it’s over.  There is something intoxicating about being loved.

It’s not who you think.  It’s nobody you have ever met.  Nobody I have ever introduced you to.  He’s a different man.

Yesterday was rather wonderful despite emotional long-distance telephone calls with this young man that I recently met in NYC.

I had a deliciously long cup of coffee with an occasionally tearful Jennie… tears of joy I hope.  We looked each other in the eye.  We talked recovery and lost love and new love and what it was to have sex whilst being present.

By the end we were hugging and smiling and everything was just how it was meant to be, you see… what ever real friends go through they remain real friends.  The foundation of our friendship was constructed almost exactly a year ago when we entered Sex Rehab.

It is obviously unshakeable.  The Lord and the Porn Star.

So, I arrived at Amanda’s for dinner, she was in a fractious mood but I think she may just have been hungry.  She has lost a ton of weight.

Amanda and Lady Forte had spent the day with their grown up children looking at universities.  There was some unexplained drama around how easy it was to buy yourself into UCLA.   Anyway, had long chat with Charles about helping him make a film this summer, a short film to get into film school.  I would rather like to do that.  In lieu of teaching at UCLA this year which I really miss.

Kristian’s death has affected me more than I might admit.   Rather foolishly I had a picture of him on my phone that lit up every time somebody called.  I deleted it today-I was making myself sadder than I needed to be.

Found myself looking at pornography last night-late-trying to soothe myself-trying to throw a warm blanket over my feelings.   It didn’t work.  I still woke up this morning overwhelmed with fear.  I wrote to John:

5am.  Waking up in huge amounts of fear.  Crushing, overwhelming fear. Think I may have come to the end of the line. Cannot go on.  Making bad decisions.  Can’t face anything.  Financial ruin facing me.  Nowhere to run to.   Don’t trust anyone. Obsessed.  Looked at porn this morning to try to sooth me-did not work.  Nothing works.  Do not see any more life ahead of me.

As dawn broke over the mountain I expected those particular ghouls to vanish, yet, those pesky demons lingered all day-like they were waiting patiently to claim me.

My father died when he was 53.

Found myself looking at pornography..

Now, that sounds like it happened to me rather than me searching around for that perfect porn moment.  Porn is like research, it’s scholarly, frustrating, intense.

Feeling desperately sad.  Not sobbing like when the Darling Big Dog was killed.

Cannot listen to Kate Bush or Soft Cell (remember listening with him) but rather strangely listening to the Spice Girls, which softens the edges-like having a wank.

Throwing the towel in.  “Goodbye my friend.”  Remember when we were best friends with Matt Rowe who wrote all those huge number one hits?    “Goodbye my friend.”   Remember New Years Eve at The Mercer Hotel in NYC with Melanie Sporty Spice and Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman?  Odd mixture that night?  What a night.

So I’m chatting with a friend about his childhood and he tells me that his father was sent to prison when he was 11 years old.  The only way he knew how to deal with the shame was to lie to his classmates.  He knew where his father was but told his friends that his father was on a business trip-he told lies because the truth was far too complicated.  Gosh, I related to that.  Lying to make life easier:  My father is on a business trip.  Telling palatable childish lies leading to a life of fantasy, pornography, disconnection.

It took me so long to let the truth set me free.  Now I try so hard to tell the truth.  Lyle brought word from England that I had a terrible temper.  Oh yes, I remember that.  My temper was a daily occurrence for so long.  Before I went to Sex Rehab I really had no idea why I was so angry-after sex rehab I fully understood why I was angry and the mechanism that controlled it.  So, to all that I shouted at and screamed at and made cry-I was wrong, I was wrong, I was wrong.

Sorry to repeat myself but..

When Kristian died suddenly a door opened into a world I considered closed to me.   I had considered suicide for as long as I can remember but never seriously.  Death, after all, is a very long time.  Suddenly there are enough fun people in the after life that I might have a good time.  Giggle with.   I am not scared of death-I was just scared of being bored when I got there-now with Kristian dead-death seems like a realistic option.  Holding the door open for me.

I am looking for clues for what might keep me alive?  What can I believe in?

This morning I heard John talking about being asleep and how much of the time I have been asleep.  I fall asleep when I first meet some one-a deep sleep.  I always thought that it was because I felt comfortable but now I see that it was to escape intimacy or worse that something might happen to me.

Moths in my clothes, little dog pawing at me…home sick for Whitstable, for Battersea Park..can we walk there together you and I?

Selling art-legitimate source of misery?  My friends didn’t want to buy my art.  They want to buy art from a legitimate source.  Funny.

Lying.  It’s a choice.  To tell the truth or lie?  It seems obvious doesn’t it?   Well, these muddled days, as Michael Moore reminded us when he picked up his Oscar, are ‘Lying times’.  Within a relationship there are all kinds of lies but I don’t want to tell HIM lies.  I just want him to know the truth.

The silence in the Malibu Mountains, the thudding base from the music playing in the apartment above my Hollywood apartment.   Both the silence and the interminable base making my head ache.   My head aches.

The questions that haunt me:  How could he have taken such a risk?   How can he be calling me to join him there and why am I listening?

One day I will write about FULL DISCLOSURE-a most unsavory practice.

I love you MR DARLING NYC-you are keeping me alive,  your love and your perfect smile are keeping the worst of these terrible demons from driving me to the gates of hell.

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New York bound.  Virgin America.  Everybody very polite.  The Rasta gentleman that I was originally sat next to smelt of cocaine.  The last time I smelt anything so repulsive was on Mike Elling’s breath at Jake and Rudi’s gayfest in Palm Springs.

Feeling very grumpy.  Wondering what the heck I am doing travelling East.  None of the reasons I thought were spectacular last week are spectacular any more.   Nobody is picking me up from the airport even though I ferry people back and forth from LAX.  They’ll be no more ferrying.   I thought I was seeing my friend on Sunday but he has reneged until Monday.   Oh Bollocks.  As we say in England.  Bloody Bollocks.

The rain that fell over LA last night was truly torrential.  We woke up to mudslides, smashed cars, and trashcans hurtling like torpedoes in two feet of storm water.  It was rather exciting.  I quite like a big storm to take my mind off the internal storm that rages within.  None of the people I am visiting this weekend are entirely appropriate for me to be visiting.  I have huge, overblown expectations and, as I described in my last post, I become closed down and broken the moment I experience any of the heady ‘love’ emotions.

I may very well just go to 12 step meetings with my friend Alexi and fuck the rest.

The most rewarding aspect to this lightening visit to NYC is the price of the plane ticket $98.  Very good value considering a taxi from JFK to Manhattan will be $45.  I may very well spite myself and take the sky train into NYC thereby risking a million questions from random civilians about Kari-Ann et al.  Actually, that’s not fair.  I get asked about Drew.  What’s he like etc.  I think they are rather disappointed to hear that he just a really sweet, empathetic guy.

With the great snowstorm comes the economic shit storm.  The markets are tanking.  Nobody is telling the truth.  Everybody looking to the ‘stock markets’ to see how a few miserable gamblers are reacting to world events.   It’s like hanging around the slot machines in Vegas trying to divine economic policy.    This country has been raped by a few cruelly greedy men who refuse the sanctioning of infra structure investment, who refuse to answer questions about who exactly has benefitted from all the money spent fighting dubious ‘wars’ in Afghanistan, Iraq and Pakistan.  Who go on threatening the taxpayer with the threat of further bailouts?  Good God, what has happened to this great country?  Even the government, with a visionary like Obama at the helm, needs a fucking hip replacement to take one step forward.

Apart from their irrational hatred of Obama and their homophobia I have a great deal of sympathy with the Tea Partiers.  Even though they are morbidly inarticulate in most instances they perfectly describe my frustration with government.  Even though they refuse to use these words, they know that their money has been misappropriated.  Stolen.  They want to know where the money went, why it went there and when the American taxpayer is going to get it back.

At the same time those weirdo tea party people are terrified of healthcare for all, which just totally baffles me.

3 more hours on this bumpy plane heading over the great white planes of Middle America.

Street Art 2010I woke at 5.30am and made my way to JFK.  My driver, a jolly chap from the Dominican Republic, saved us from smashing into the back of a reckless driver weaving all over the freeway.

I am suddenly OVER Virgin Airlines who have managed to lose the Marc Jacobs sunglasses they told me they found last week when I arrived.

I am sitting next to a very effusive Jewish girl who is typing and organizing and eating and reading prayers out loud, asks the same questions repeatedly and is THOROUGHLY irritating but funny.  My expectation is to sit next to a cute, quiet male who will speak when spoken to and not read prayers out loud.  My resentment stems from this unrealistic expectation.

I expect to get to the air port and have my sunglasses waiting for me.  God has other plans.

Last night had dinner with Dan and Cooper at Prune on 1st street.  Delicious baked marrowbone (a la St John’s in London), pot au feu and trifle.

Without a doubt I am falling in love and have to be incredibly careful that this love does not become a dangerous obsession.  Remember what happened last time?   Expectations and Resentments.

I spent a great deal of time seeing old friends whilst in NYC and meeting some new ones.     I saw Daniel R briefly and met up with the last of the book agents.  Very nice man who I found myself explaining my circle plan.

I am being remarkably well behaved.  I am not flirting, intriguing or altering my route for the wrong reasons.  I see and immediately own up to the men I objectify.

I spoke to another man with a dog in the street called Chandler who then later found me via this blog.  Thanks!  Keep in contact.

I called John in LA who is in the doldrums.   We Sex Addicts, what a glum lot we can be.  Saying that, I had a very healthy time in NYC.   I enjoyed spending time with Benoit and being around his book launch and his boyfriend.  I enjoyed what I heard in the rooms-especially from our compulsive brethren.    I related to other men who spoke movingly about multiple, on-line identities.    I felt as if I had a greater understanding of my addiction so am less at the mercy of it.

I am going back to LA to get on with the goat and chickens house that needs built ASAP.  I am having a final meeting with the solar guy and waiting on a price and timetable from The Edible Garden.

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