Living Fast

I’m sure we’re all terribly familiar with the idea of living fast and dying young. That phrase always conjures up images of a Jon Duan character riding the fastest motorbike on Earth heading straight for an oil tanker, and all this while on E, or something or other of the like. It’s never occurred to me until now that living fast could just as well mean pushing your body to undergo as many tripped out experiences from freezing in the cold to fucking all night… among other things.

I’m a little ill at the moment, but its because I’ve not enough rest, and did spend about a total of 4 hours wandering about cold this whole weekend. But it was all worth it, and I don’t think many other people would really have enjoyed it the way Richard and I did, but any trip endeavored by two people that never saw anything as necessarily bad would have turned out good anyway.

A great deal of things went wrong, but somehow thy all ended up being kinda right, up to the point where I got the return flight time wrong and turned up 3 hours after our plane had taken off because we had been wandering around King’s Cross, revisiting the café he’d been to years ago during a bleaker moment in time. Quantas is good, they only make you pay AU$50 if you miss your flight. Fly Quantas if you’re a muddle head.

At the end of the trip, while cruising from the airport and wondering why 100 km/h felt so slow, I realized that the entire weekend was one big, amazing experience filled with the strangest people and the strangest things.

First off, there was Cay. Crazy Cay, although I don’t think there’s really much about him that was crazy. Although the weekend wouldn’t have been as fun without him; that’s a definite. I wish there was some way we could have thanked him properly, but there simply wasn’t enough time, and I was too sick by Sunday to really get up to much.

If Dee had arrived, it would have been weirder, but for some reason, she ended up being a no show. She normally has good excuses, but I don’t think there can be an excuse that would have been good enough for this one, unless something really tragic happened (which I hope hasn’t). Richard and I had booked a really fancy suite with the entire view of the Sydney harbor, bridge and opera house in full view, with an extra bedroom and bathroom, and I had told Cay that she would be coming (because I called her the day before, and she said she’d be there.) And I had told her that no matter what, we would be at the suite Friday night by 10pm. I’ve never let her down once, and I can never recall a time when I’d said I’d do something and I didn’t, so there was no reason to have not shown up, even if I had been unreachable due to some telecommunication fault. Which I severely doubt.

It’s her loss I suppose, Richard and I had the most leather trippy, most romantic time ever. The only thing I don’t feel so good about was Cay actually putting more effort then I thought imaginable for the party because he expected more. And there should have been, but Dee simply didn’t show up… and I was never comfortable in a three-way MMF situation. And I suppose I would have picked up Aya and Johnathan (respectively a Yaoi cartoonist and a Chem. major I’d met at the Rubberball) only by that time I was too tired, cold and sick to feel like I wanted to have violent sex with lots of rope and whips and such and such.

We’d landed Friday night exhausted after 8 hours in Coach during which time we’d drawn a mad comic about a gay couple, joined the mile-high club as un-discreetly as we could, and read a little from C.S Lewis, Alexander Dumas and the Air-plane safety sheet. We had a half-assed walk around the city trying to find Darling Harbor, which took us about an hour, but since we we’re not particular about what we were finally going to do or where we were finally going to get anyway, it didn’t really bother anyone. We eventually found it, and he took me to a little café he’d been to, years back, during another era (when I was still in high school scheming to secure a date with my math teacher). He had been depressed and drunk out of his fucking head then, and was telling me about how weird it was to come back to a place with a different person, feeling different things. And how the same place just wasn’t quite the same as it had been.

I suppose that was what we kinda both felt throughout the weekend. Your environment doesn’t affect you as much as you think it does. It’s really how to perceive your environment that matters eventually.

Cay called us up and invited us to a party at about just before midnight. We took a cab down to his place and could scarcely believe it when it pulled up in front of a refurbished 1920’s chapel filled with weird electronic sounds and a bunch of political anarchist stoned out and high on everything that was worthwhile to be passionate for. You know, like lesbian love and the freedom to render obscure the current world order and weed, and everything you had been made to think was bad for you, but actually wasn’t. The things that were actually good because they made you feel passionate about life and gave you tangible reasons for your soul to live for and your body to desire. And because they were just fun and didn’t really have a particularly strong end-point in mind, which is really what all life is about.

Where you told the destination to fuck off.

That night we ended up in the suite with me talking till the sun rose up about the most outrageous things and some of my most obscure fantasies, which were all too fucked up for me to have told anyone else previously under more sober circumstances. Things I had been too embarrassed to talk about because they seemed too weird (like breast bondage, which to my delight I saw on the film they had been playing in the Punishment Room at the Rubber Ball the night after) And as the sun rose and I felt my voice crack; and Richard still couldn’t go to bed because he desired me very, very much but couldn’t fuck me. And how weird that must have been.

We wandered around Darling Harbor feeling like we were walking though a Disney movie with the sun as bright as it was glinting off the water; with people all around that never noticed us streaming by looking for cafes where they could stuff their faces with sweets. We had some eggs, felt a little better, and went back to sleep away the discomfort, and by the time we woke up, it was an hour before Cay offered to pick us up.

I had been fussing over whether the both of us should wear out normal things and then change when we reached the club, or to just wear out outfits straight out. We settled for the latter, which was of course a very bad idea because getting there was easy, but coming back simply wasn’t. Definitely not when you’re dressed up as a 1920’s Roissy whore (from the story of O) in a tail coat that didn’t cover the fact that your dress was made out of leather and so short it couldn’t ever hide the garters. Or a pastor with a cod-piece and half your ass showing. And believe me that wasn’t even too weird.

We waited around the lobby for a bit and had been starting to wonder where Cay was when a white stretch limo pulled up in front of the hotel and I thought to myself, ‘where is he, no way… that couldn’t be it’. But it certainly sure as hell was. I’d never been in a limo before and it was a strange experience, and it could have fucking been loads better if there were more people to enjoy it. Or if Dee had just shown up like she said she would :(

The Rubber Ball surprisingly wasn’t as crazy as I thought it would be, but part of the reason I suppose was because I wasn’t drunk enough, didn’t feel like getting drunk, and I hadn’t particularly felt like getting myself high on anything else other then physical pain. But there was a lack of medical tables and cages and poles on which people could get tied up on, and I didn’t feel like getting spanked by the guys that were whipping the girls in the punishment room (because I didn’t know them, and I really don’t get off on being inflicted pain by people I didn’t know).

Up to a certain level I guess I was afraid of getting whipped, because that was some serious shit (the kind of stuff you see in Crime Watch where masochistic Singaporean prison wardens cane convicts until they bleed). And I’ve been whipped with belts and gotten Alice hurt quite unpleasantly because she’s not well-hidden enough in my crotch before… so it didn’t seem like a good idea. I do have my limits I guess.

I got bored and tired eventually, because it was all very well watching old gay couples come dressed as Irish men in kilts and leather gear, and hot Chinese girls in latex cheongsams looking like a cross between Kabuki and the Ring, but no one was doing anything much. I supposed I expected weirder shit like cages from ceilings and girls on medical tables getting shiny metal tools poked into their pussies and chicks being suspended from ropes getting their backs licked. But now that I think about it, all that shit sounds a little out of control. And maybe if you’re only getting off on pain (and maybe a little something else) that could work out, because people would still be sober and under control. But if you’ve taken a mixture of E and coke and half a bottle of tequila… maybe not. I don’t know. BDSM is actually a great kick done sober with good heavy metal music. So. Anyway. There’s some of this shit going on in Singapore of course, but I’ve never gotten the nerve to attend them because like I said, I just wouldn’t get off on people I don’t know hurting me. That’s scary, not a turn on.

We left not too late but had such a horrendous time getting a cab it was almost unbelievable. The whole getting a cab out of the party was more amusing and nerve wrecking then the event itself. For us anyway.

So now Richard is dressed in this ridiculous leather Pastor outfit with his ass hanging out and a badly connected cod-piece and I’m in a tiny dress that can’t particularly keep me warm, and it is 3 a.m. and about 10 degrees outside. And it’s not Singapore where you can call a cab and it appears in minutes. So R spends about 5 minutes running about on the main road stopping traffic, getting several middle fingers pointed out at him and having people say the nastiest things imaginable until we decide to hitch a car that was coming out of the complex the party was held in, figuring that well… who else could it be but another perve couple from the bar at this time of the night. The car did slow down and the guy driving look quite curious seemed like he’d take pity on us, but the woman started screaming ‘drive on, drive on!’ when she saw the way we’d been dressed.

We eventually managed to stop a guy in a cab who was looking for the Manning Bar. Apparently he’d come down from San Francisco for the weekend on business and thought it would have been a fun do to attend.

Man we were so lucky.

I’m off to sleep away the weekend’s excess and then get down to priming some photos to post!

xoxox