My pink Comme des Garcons shoes never escape comment… good and bad.

Absurdly expensive, mildly uncomfortable but distinguished all the same.

After my very fun night in London I stayed in bed this morning much longer than usual.  There were no messages for me on my American cell, no frantic emails.

Alma and I cooked a leisurely breakfast then we drove to Canterbury so that we might buy presents for her family.

Once in Canterbury (surprisingly packed with good looking young men) we ate Panini, found free wi-fi,  met a beautiful man in the Zara store called Alex (huge and blond) and another one at the till who resembled Jake Gyllenhaal.  When I told him who he looked like he asked who that was…ah..charming.

“I hope that’s a compliment.” He grinned.

“Don’t worry,” I said, “It is.”

We shall return to Zara.

I mentioned to Alma that we might get verbally assaulted because of my shoes.

As we were walking through the Dane John Gardens a bunch of unruly youths screamed, “Why you wearing pink shoes, mate?”  I screamed back, “Because I’m a fucking poof, why d’you think?  You fucking idiots!”

The screamer then became the object of derision.  His mates thought it very funny that I had given as good as I had gotten.

Very satisfying.  Wear pink shoes, expect a reaction.

As I have written before, I am unphased by being seen to be gay.  I am an out gay man.  I refuse to be shamed by a bunch of foolish youths.   This is as close as I can get to being a drag queen as my suburban taste will allow.

Wearing anything outside of London that determines who or what I am will solicit comment.  Don’t tell me that ‘things have changed’ for gay men, that it’s easier to be gay nowadays.  From where I’m standing nothing much has changed at all.

The pistol remains primed night and day.

You know, when Jake and I were in Paris we were sitting on the terrace at the back of our hotel, Mama Shelter.   We were kissing.  I was kissing him.  As I was kissing him I heard a man call out, “Pédé!”

I looked up at the apartments above.  I didn’t tell Jake that we had been gay bashed.  I didn’t want to spoil his moment.

That was when I wanted everything to be perfect for him, when I would have moved a mountain…

P.D.
n.m. pédéraste (pédé); homosexual, gay

Carol cooked pheasant tonight with Brussel sprouts and swede.  Good GOD that was delicious.

Going up to London tomorrow for more fun and games.

Still no word from the oncologist.  No news=Good news.