Archives for posts with tag: Martin Margiela

This morning, Mel picked me up from the mountain at 6.30 am.   He drives a large, white Hummer, his dog and my dog are best friends.  They are a similar size and their fur is the same colour.

I left a young black internet date in my bed and the twins slumbering downstairs.  I wore the Martin Margiela sunglasses Joan bought for me last year and I only removed them when Mel dropped me off 6 hours later.

The last AA meeting I attended was held in the chapel in The Men’s County Jail.  The speakers valiantly trying to spread the word whilst 400 tranny hookers caught up on the ‘T’ (gossip).  I sat listening to them that Wednesday evening wondering if I would ever go back to AA, whether I would even remain soba when I eventually left the jail.

Last night I poured myself a glass of red wine.  I didn’t drink it.  I looked at it in the 17C crystal glass, I sniffed it occasionally but I didn’t have the guts to drink it. Just like I have not had the guts to kill myself, even though some of you seem like you’re waiting for me to do so.

Taking a drink is like the first step toward a painful death.  Those of you who have not drunk for some time know what I mean.

Perhaps death is the solution?  That’s what they promise in the preamble of Narcotics Anonymous:  Jails, Institutions, Death.

I have experienced the first two, now I wait patiently for the third.

AA.  I committed to it so many years ago. I was so damned willing, so entranced, so desperate.  Now, I loathe it.  I sat there this morning wishing I was drunk.  My lips stained with red wine…preferably a rich Multipulciano.  That twisted smile I smiled when I was drunk.  Do any of you old friends remember that?  That strange half-smile?

I sat there listening to their white, middle-aged, bourgeois stories, stories of their mediocre triumphs and their miserable disasters.  Their engagements, their dying wives, their wayward medicated children…reassuring us that they were nothing without AA.

The most bumptious of them all flaying himself before us, describing himself as an arrogant scoundrel.  His tearful confession masquerading as humility.   Knowing, of course, that his well rehearsed speech would garner rave reviews from his adoring fans.  He had, after all, relapsed publicly, he had gotten back on the wagon with the rest of us (even though he had deceived us) he reassured his brethren that ‘we do not shoot our wounded’.

When it was my turn to speak I felt that crooked smile on my lips.  As if I were drunk.  As if I had already taken the first sip.

They knew where I had been.  They looked down their manufactured noses at the hopeless alcoholic who could not stay on the straight and narrow.  The ‘arrogant scoundrel’ looked about him at his friends, scoffing, expecting me to prostrate myself before them…begging forgiveness.

Instead, I told them about the tranny hookers, I told them that I had been in resentment since Jake revealed himself.  I let them know that the cloud of resentment, loathing, hatred had thickened so it blocked out the sun.  I reminded them that, for the longest time, I had forgotten what it felt like to live in the light.  I told them to re-read steps four and five and let me be a lesson to them all.  Let my story remind them what it looks like when resentment smothers a recovering alcoholic like wisteria a stone house.

I told them that going to jail had been the best thing for me and they nodded and agreed but they had no idea what they were agreeing to.

After I spoke, others with similar ailments, similar pathologies felt able to share.  They thanked me, they said that there was a fine line between sobriety and insanity.  They reminded the others just how many of us kill ourselves after many years of sobriety.  The darkness in men’s souls.

I was envious of those who had killed themselves.  I have wanted to be dead for the longest time.  I know what some of you will say…like Chris in Sydney and those of you who would prefer it…you would tell me to hurry on and do it.  You would say, go on kill yourself, good riddance to you Duncan Roy.

But when the time comes and I hold the pills in my hand like a fist of squirming bugs…something stops me.  Something tells me that just one more day and the pain of losing the man/dog/home you love might just diminish.

I may very well have ended my relationship with AA.

My great friend John Adler, my sponsor these past few years in AA and SAA abandoned me a few weeks after I was locked up.  Even though his own sponsor is a child molester and child pornographer, even though his wife begged me to get her a club membership, apparently I am a danger to him and his family.

It was a betrayal that I never thought I would have to endure, it was the one and only time I cried in the jail.  My best friend was a coward.

He wasn’t the only one.

I learned many lessons in the jail.  I learned about America.  I learned more when I read the comments posted after the piece published in the online version of The Independent.  The difference between the British and the Americans.  I was proud to be British yesterday.

For the record, I have to see the doctors tomorrow to work out what we do about three months of medical inaction.  God may very well be doing for me what I cannot do for myself.  If you know what I mean.  The pain in my belly is occasionally overwhelming.  It feels like my insides are being ripped out.  My kidneys burning.  The blood in my urine a daily reminder.  A serious situation.

It is more serious than the stupid charges against me, charges I cannot find the time to take seriously.  More serious than DA Anne-Marie Wise would want you to believe.

We sat in the deli after the meeting, before the long walk in the canyon, and Michelle Bachman was on the TV.  She looks like Anne-Marie, she has that look those women who think they are powerful.  Women who work for men believing the glass ceiling has been broken.

She’ll read this and she’ll try and prove how powerful she is…she’ll try and make life difficult, like she did when I was inside the jail, tacking on extra weeks of incarceration before the trial…waiting for me to buckle and except her pathetic ‘deal’.

Do your worst Anne-Marie.  Your very worst will not hurt me.  You cannot hurt me.  You don’t know me.

You should have seen her in the court with her pile of papers, feeling very important.

Fingering that cheap jewelry as if it were Cartier.  Taking it all so personally.  She probably goes home and tells her children that mummy does very important work putting dangerous men behind bars.  Not that she has been colluding with the super rich to steal from the poor.

You see, the resentment overwhelms.  It gets me.  It bites me in the neck like a vampire.  It keep me alive…even though I should be dead.

Let my slow suicide be a lesson to you all.


Lunch with Joan L at The Standard Grill. Last time I was there? This time last year, I ate the rabbit pappardelle and was as sick as a dog. This time I managed to keep the fondue in my belly.

This time last year I was with The Penguin about to celebrate his birthday. We stayed at The Jane Hotel. I don’t know if we had a good time, I can no longer differentiate between what was good and what was bad. All I remember for sure was just how uncomfortable I felt, trying to keep that relationship alive even though I knew he was lying to me.

Loving without trusting is a bitch.

After lunch Joan and I looked at $800 leather bracelets and I bought a globe from Martin Margiela.

I could not find beard wax anywhere in the city. Consequently, I combed conditioner into my beard and it held for the duration of the shoot. What shoot? What are you talking about Duncan Roy?

Yesterday I dipped my toe back into the murky waters of reality TV.

As you may know I have been ‘seeing’ this boy. Did you know that or have I been very discreet?

Yes, you betcha I’ve been discreet.

I met Derek Lloyd Saathoff a few months ago. A cast member on a torrid reality show called the ‘A’ List. I’d never seen it.  The show is, I am told, a sort of gay version of the ‘Houseives Of…’ franchise.

I’m sure Andy Cohen would be pissed if I describe it like that.

Ironically, when they were casting the first series The Penguin suggested jokingly that we would make excellent cast members.

Everyone who has seen the show is appalled that I agreed to be on it. Everyone is always appalled at every decision I make. That’s par for the course. They describe the show as a ‘train wreck’ they tell me that Derek is a ‘bitch’.

I don’t say a word. He’s just a different kind of gay.  All we really have in common is cock.  Anyway, we have an arrangement.  I’m going to be his…Mr Big.

I am not doing this show for me but to support Derek.

As much as they say they hate it…they seem to watch it, watch it enough to know who everyone is and have an opinion about all of them.

I think appearing on the ‘A’ List will be fun.

Last night I pulled on my McQueen pants and my trusty Paul Smith jacket and walked to 24th Street where a small but well-organized crew were waiting for Derek and me to go on a ‘date’.

Actually, the crew wasn’t that small. Lesbians mostly, which was great. The ubiquitous straight boy producer who everyone finds very attractive. If he were gay would they?

I hadn’t seen D since my last trip. He’s been in the gym. No longer super slim (too thin) and boyish he has put on some very well needed weight. His arms are fleshy, firm and muscular. His ass has filled out very sexily. He feels great.

The last time we met, he was a hot mess.

We picked at the weird-looking food and sampled the virgin cocktails. We discussed our ‘relationship’ and his tanning product. We discussed his imminent trip to LA. I gave him a beautiful watch. Fans came up to him and had him hug them for the camera.

“We are great fans of the ‘A’ List.” One very attractive woman said.

She pushed her fat, gay friend at Derek who hugged him willingly, smiling that winning smile for the camera.

It was all very amusing. A video camera validates ones existence. How can that be? I remember that feeling from Sex Rehab. Just how thrilling everything was. Just how much I loved being filmed.

I was probably a little too bumptious for Derek.  Too…rude.  Not deferential enough.  I made some joke about his Mother being in prison which seemed to shock him.

We talked about getting involved with an LA based charity. I suggested The Triangle Center for the elderly in Hollywood. He liked that idea, he said.  Actually, he looked appalled.

We talked about monogamy.  He looked baffled.

After the shoot Derek returned my Cartier watch and I popped it back on my wrist.  I like acting.

I walked home alone after the shoot as I had to fetch the dog. I came crashing down. The intensity, the joy of being ‘on set’ the focus that one requires. I felt nostalgic…but I have no idea for what.

Perfectly adrift I called Stephen and chatted about his testicular lump. He is scared.

Then, quite by chance, we bumped into Aaron who invited me and The Little Dog back to his apartment on Avenue B where he sang songs and serenaded us with his guitar.

I would usually hate to be sung to but I wasn’t embarrassed because Aaron has a gift, he can really sing.

Bed at 2.30 am.


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