I am real

There's beauty fucking everywhere, am I not supposed to desire it?  The beauty tears my heart out and drags me towards it.  This beauty is people.  I want these people.  You.  These people are you.  I want to touch and smell you.

What?  Are you going to call me a fucking rapist?  A pervert?  No.  I'm a fucking faggot.  That's who I am.  And I want to get naked with you.

Forget the pornographic images in your damaged brain.  Forget it.  Here I am.  I'm real.  I have desire.  I am a man.  I have testicles and testosterone.  I have a fucking cock and so does every man. 

Every man has a cock, like me.  But not like mine, your cock is different.  I want to see your cock and meet your cock and taste your cock.

But that's okay if you're not ready.  Let's start with the eyes.  I know I'm full of pain and desire and ecstasy.  I feel my animal body every second of the waking day.  But I think too.  My brain's no fucking animal.  My brain is civilised.  Educated.  I was lucky enough to grow up with the most wishy-washy inoffensive Christianity ever devised, but I got my religion. 

I got my disgusting body and gays like to each other's penises in each other's bums and watch out for the paedophiles.  I got don't get into cars with strangers who pretend to be your parents friend.  I got sometimes you go through a phase.  I hid the shameful secret that I was a sexual being for a full decade 'til I was 18 and it was too intense to contain.

I was told it's not safe here.  Put up your fucking barrier.  Hide behind your fucking cell phone.  Desire from afar like you're in a glass fucking box and go home where you're safe and look at photos on Facebook of real people and project them onto pornographic images of real people and dream of real people while there are real people right through the wall of your bedroom and that person sitting next to you, he's real too. 

And I am real.  I might be intelligent and painfully self-aware and self-obsessed but I'm pathetic and irrational too.  I am emotional and needy and sexy and fucking magnificent. 

I have read poetry to a straight man in the rainforest in the clouds and then sucked his cock 'til he ejaculated in my mouth while it rained on my manuscript. 

I am alive.  I am real.  This hair on my chest is real.  I've earned it.  I have greys in my beard since my six-week emotional breakdown in Golden Gate Park, sleeping amongst the eucalypts, eating shoplifted superfoods on picnic tables by the fake waterfall that needs a pump.

I am real and my fucking horniness is just love made filthy by my filthy fucking culture.  Our culture.  Claim it.  It fucking stinks like shit but here we are, pretending to be above it all. 
Pretending to not be human, not be animals, not be mammalian monsters with cocks and cunts and none of this is crude it's just our language, it's the Anglo roots of our language.  It's not vagina, Latin, it's cunt, Anglo.  This is who we are. 

How fucking weird that I can do this, I can say this, but then here I still am, there you still are, we're both still wearing clothes, neither of us are crying, neither of us are comforting the other, neither of us are recovering from the perversity of the world we've created.

Here we are.  White Australia.  We did it.  Colonisation complete.  A fucking total success, like it never happened.  Like it's always been this way. 

What else did we colonise?  Our children?  Are they civilised?  Are they white?  Will we let the black ones through if they wear clothes?  If they wear clothes.  Will you let me say anything I want, if I wear clothes?  Will you let me get drunk and vomit in the toilet, if I control myself?  Will you let me love you, if I don't touch you, talk to you or look at you? 

I'm not in love with one person.  I walk down the street and there are people everywhere.  They scream, "Come.  I'm beautiful.  Touch me.  Love me.  Talk to me.  Respect me.  I'm here.  I'm real.  I will not reject you."  And what do I do?  I keep walking.  I'm terrified.  I don't know what's going to happen.  I'm not safe here to feel things.  I'm only safe to buy things, to do things, achieve things, get places. 

Connecting with random people on the street, just cos they're beautiful?  No.  That's not how it works.  You know that's not how it works, that's why you keep walking.  It has to be accidental.  You have to be introduced.  You have to have mutual friends.  You have to find yourselves suddenly and spontaneously alone.  You have to act like you don't care and you can't fake it.  It has to be real. 

My entire body is on fire all the time.  I'm sorry for my crude language, my love is anything but crude.  I say I want to violate you and it's true, but I respect you and I'm not doing anything without consent; without joyous consent. 

I'm not doing anything unless I know for sure it's going to positively transform your life.  Cos my love and my passion are the same thing.  My desire to respect you and to smell your dripping cock are mutual companions. 

I'm not crude, I'm not a pervert.  I'm not a sexual fucking predator.  I am me.  I am here.  I am real.  I'm a fucking faggot and I intend to manifest that as fully into my life as possible and into this pathetic religion we call culture. 

I don't know what it's going to look like.  I'm studying the shamans, the pagans, the heretics, the ecstatics, the mystics, the lunatics, the poets and the fucking borderline autistic schizophrenics.

But I'm a faggot.  I have a body, a heart and a life.  I am here.  I am real.

  !