BB & P'n'P

I've always been gay. Now I'm not going to make the argument that people are born gay or whatever. It's just a pure fact that I've never been attracted to girls. In any case, it took me a while to accept who I am. And in the process of doing so, I've slowly dipped my toes in gay culture to see what it's all about. I don't particularly adhere to the gay stereotype or go clubbing every week but I have learnt that the gay scene is this entire sub-culture, a world within itself with its own etiquette, rules and language.

Not being a scene-guy, all my friends are straight so my contact with the gay world has largely been in the form of visiting sites like Gay Matchmaker and the like. As I was perusing the profiles, I was bombarded with all these acronyms and terms that were like secret codes within an exclusive society. For example GWM means gay white man, Poz and Neg means HIV+/- guys respectively and I've learnt recently that BB means bareback and P'n'P means party and play.

For those who aren't gay, bareback means to have anal sex without protection and party and play means to get hammered on drugs and then screw your brains out. I've seen profiles on personals sites that say, "Looking for BB and P'n'P sessions." Excuse me for sounding like a prude but aren't those extremely dangerous activities? The gay community is plastered with advertisements that expound the importance of safe sex to reduce transmission of HIV and other STIs. Why are there guys out there willing to put their life on the line for a night of 'fun'? It's not just the health implications of STIs that scare me to death. I've read stories of lives completely ravaged by disease; people abandoned by their partners, people losing their career trajectories due to illness, living in poverty and squalor, relying on government and the AIDS Trust's assistance and the like. All of which could have been prevented by a little rubber device.

To me, partaking in such risky activities indicates an underlying self-destructive streak. The concept of the self-hating faggot isn't one too difficult to grasp. Our society doesn't look too kindly upon my kind. We are the subject of constant ridicule and subtle but pervasive attack. You only need to look at the commercial success shows like Queer Eye or movies like Chuck and Larry (with Adam Sandler) to see that we're seen as these ineffective, useless anomalies. And that's how society likes us. When put in this context, it begins to make sense.

But more destructive perhaps is that, living in a society built on Christian values, each generation is indoctrinated with homophobia. And stories of the internal conflict inside a kid who happens to be homosexual is all too common these days. A particularly painful childhood memory of mine is any argument between my brother and I would inevitably end with him invalidating my very being with the expletive 'fucking faggot cunt'. And God hates fags apparently. To this day, we don't talk. I did a lot of self-destructive things back in those days and I remember spending my teenage years lying in bed, wishing I would die in my sleep so I wouldn't have to spend another day as a faggot.

But I never understood how love between two people, regardless of being the same sex, is seen as a sin on par with murder. Or how discrimination, ridicule and violence against gay people is seen as acceptable or even laudible practices. And I still don't understand. Today, I'm a happy gay man because I refuse to accept this irrational doctrine. It's the world that's warped and twisted, not me. And I will not live by its standards.

Fortunately I learnt to shed my self-destructive streak in my teens. Otherwise, I could've been a guy that posts 'ISO BB and P'n'P sessions' on my profile. I hope the world will come to its senses and sees what it's preaching doesn't make any sense. In the meantime, I will continue to contribute to the AIDS Trust to help my gay brothers who were not as fortunate as me.

Lovelorn Blues

So anyway, I'm a single guy. And like other single guys I think, "Why on earth would anyone want to be chained to another person?" Now I'm not one of those guys that jumps aboard anything that comes my way. What I love is that I'm not accountable to anyone. Being single, as I see it, is a blessing and I certainly I cherish and enjoy it immensely. I see it as being wild and free to cavort in the bucolic spendour of Singledom, being able to sniff all the wild flowers and roll freely in the meadows like a child, laughing and breathing deep the liberating fresh air of my independence.

And enjoyed it I have, that is, until I look around and see what's happening around me. These days the people around me are pairing off one by one. What used to be weekly weekend outings have slowly become fortnightly then monthly then whenever they can be bothered. But more disconcerting than the waning companionship of friends is the fact that Singledom is beginning to lose it's sheen, the grass is becoming a little browner and the air a little dirtier. Now that I've had a glimpse of Coupledom, it seems the once pristine landscape of the Land of the Singles I once found so beautiful and arresting is starting to look a little barren and lifeless because in the Land, there is no other soul except me.

I have two very close friends who happen to be a couple and from what I can see from their relationship, you have to explain every detail of any plans that doesn't involve the other party, justify money spent on a spree, be home at a certain time, worry if the other has eaten dinner, things like that. Okay, so it doesn't exactly sound like a horror story but it would certainly be a huge adjustment to have to accomodate the presence, habits and personality of a separate entity in your life. Why would anyone put themselves through that?

But I also see that they have someone to kiss whenever they want, someone to mull over thoughts and ideas with, someone to hold when it's cold, little romantic things like that (which I'm a complete sucker for). A wise friend once told me that the ultimate human truth is that we all seek to be understood. Romantic gestures aside, perhaps a relationship offers the means to be understood at such a deep and penetrating level that isn't possible with any other kind of human interaction. Maybe that's why I'm ovecome with this aching melancholic loneliness when I see my coupled-off friends hold hands then argue then hold hands again. They have another person who accepts their flaws and bad habits but also basks in their presence. In other words, someone to understand them. I'm starting to believe that wise friend of mine.

As with all things in life, we have to take the good with the bad. It's all about balance. But I'm starting to feel that the good in having a relationship tips the scale so far that it render the effects of the bad negligible. Do I have an all-too romantic view on the whole concept? Probably. In any case, it's time for me to log into Gay Matchmaker.

The Story of My Hero

He looks alluringly into the camera lens with those arresting brown eyes, his gaze both humble and poised. His hair is cut short and his eyebrows are a little arched so that while his stare is one of boyish, quiet coyness, his tentative grin causes his eyebrows to raise ever slightly so that his eyes reveal a shade of cheekiness and sex; a paradox that creates a delectable tension that accentuates his charisma. A click is heard and a moment of the legendary icon's existence is immortalised. He is Tom Ford. His mother taught him that to be badly dressed is an act of disrespect to others. And this is certainly a lesson he has learnt well. He is immaculately groomed with a precisely sculpted muzzle that seems to be a permanent fixture of his ruggedly handsome visage. He drapes his body with only the finest fabrics, creating textures that immediately command attention, and contrasting colours to create a refined and understated declaration of individuality and personal identity. His shirt is, as usual, unbuttoned at the chest and a light patchwork of dark hair atop a bronze, sun-kissed landscape is displayed; a glimpse of the man underneath the luxury.

However, despite his flawless appearance, one would be grievously mistaken if one assumes that Ford is a man of pure style and no substance. He is one of those rare creatures that has the Midas touch. A man that works on immense natural intelligence and instinct, he masters every craft that he chooses to learn. Everything he lays his large, manicured hands on becomes a success. He began by studying art history at New York University and was also trained as an actor. But after his first year at university, he abandoned art history to study interior architecture at New York's Parsons School of Design. After his studies, he decided to move into fashion design and the golden opportunity came when he was hired as a designer for Gucci in 1990, a time when the giant fashion label was on the brink of bankruptcy. "We didn't even have a photocopier at one stage," reminisces Ford. "We didn't have any paper." In 1994, Ford was appointed creative director, giving him complete creative control over all of Gucci's product lines. He was also responsible for the company's image, advertising and marketing campaigns (including the controversial advertisement where the pubic hair of the female model was shaped into the letter G), even the designs for the Gucci stores. And it was his input and perseverance that brought the doomed fashion house from near-liquidation to the value of $4.3 billion.

In 2000, after its rejuvenation by Ford's hands, Gucci bought a controlling stake in Yves Saint-Laurent, where Ford was appointed creative and communications director of the house's ready-to-wear business, while continuing to design for Gucci - a daunting challenge, no doubt, because he had to design for two giant labels while maintaining each brand's individual flair. "Historically, [Gucci] is Sophia Loren. Yves Saint Laurent is Catherine Deneuve. They're both sexy," he told British Vogue in February 2001. But he conquered the task with aplomb. His visionary look of the fashion industry had already won him many coveted awards. In 1996 he won the Council of Fashion Designers of America (CFDA), Fashion Editors Club (FEC) Japan International Designer of the Year awards and Menswear and Womens wear Designer of the Year for Gucci at the VH1/Vogue Fashion Awards.

Each Gucci and Yves Saint-Laurent show with Ford at the helm left critics speechless with suspended breath. His collections incorporate homages to the classic elements of timelessless, simplicity and class but Ford injects his own imprint of sex and daring into this foundation, where the raison d'etre of his designs was to explore of different ways to wrap the body to make it more beautiful. His first collection for Yves Saint-Laurent, a beautiful study in black and white, earned him many awards including Womenswear Designer of the Year for Yves Saint Laurent Rive Gauche from the CFDA again, Best Designer of the Year for Gucci and Yves Saint Laurent Rive Gauche from the FEC again, Best Fashion Designer from TIME Magazine and GQ Designer of the Year. Further to these decorations, TIME magazine named him the Best American Designer. His legendary status is one very well-earned indeed.

Now, having left both Gucci (his departure caused TIME magazine to exclaim, "Is this the end of fashion?") and Yves Saint-Laurent, Ford is building his eponymous empire, beginning with menswear. The fundamental concept of his line is to bring ready-to-wear designs closer to the elements of haute-couture to create pieces that epitomise pure luxury and extravagance.

To what does Ford attribute his extraordinary success? He sleeps for just two or three hours each night and keeps post-it notes on the bedside table in case he experiences sudden flashes of inspiration after his ephemeral slumber. "There are many more talented designers than me," says Ford. "But I have a lot of drive and won't let it go."

Growing Pains Blues

When I was a kid, a friend asked me, "If you can stay one age for the rest of your life, how old would you be?" We called it the magic age. Mine was 23. When I was 23, I thought to myself, "I'll worry about stuff later." I thought that when the magic was over, I'd miraculously transform into a productive member of society who reads the paper and drinks coffee every morning (thus leaving a trail of blood in my wake). My magic age has now zoomed off into the horizon and despite being one year (going on two) past 23, nothing much has changed. I still have my caution-to-the-wind attitude towards everything, dancing through the days like I still have a million tomorrows tucked neatly under my belt.

I've always thought that the people I grew up with shared the same sentiments as me, that we'll keep drinking until dawn then spend all Saturday morning watching cartoons and video clips. But recently I've noticed that things are starting to change. All around me, friends have settled into professional jobs (IT consultants, nurses, financial strategists and the like), buying properties, building investment portfolios and, after loosening their ties or swapping Manolo's for slippers at the end of a long day, settling down into the arms of that special someone. You know, stuff grown-ups do.

Inevitably, when such a gaping discrepancy so rudely injects itself between you and the people around you, you can't help but start wondering about the direction your life is taking. You see, I don't understand what it means to be grown-up. I know that people graduate, find a job, find a partner and so forth. But I wonder, how does a person go through these steps and not realise that their life is slipping away? As the days pass, is there a shift in mental state whereby you migrate slowly along the spectrum from kid to adult? It seems like everyone has this ingenious device that detects the amount of time passed since birth and adjusts one's state of mind accordingly so that the one behaves in a manner commensurate with one's age bracket.

If that's the case, I don't think I was born with that device. I've always been resistant to growing up. I had to be dragged kicking and screaming into VicRoads to get my Ls (at 18). Graduation was probably the most traumatic day of my life. And even though it's high time I get myself into a 'proper' job, the thought of wearing a shirt and tie to work every day is one of my worst nightmares. So it seems that any time I see a flag marking a milestone approaching, I lose all control and let out this primal howl, desperately trying to claw my way back to whence I came. Don't get me wrong, I do want all of those grown-up things. After all, I want to have secure future with a good job, a nice house and a special someone to call my own and all that, just like everyone else. But my viscera seems to fight tooth and nail against achieving anything that resembles a hallmark of moving into the adult world. And so I'm left stranded in this state of (to modify a quote from the great philosopher Spears) Not-A-Boy-Not-Yet-A-Man.

Am I the only one that finds growing up so difficult?

I'm a Watermelon

So anyway, we all feel a little isolated and disconnected at times rights? Okay, so mulling things over with a few friends over some coffee or sparkling mineral water (for those who suffer, as I do, from the strange affliction where coffee induces paroxysms of epistaxis) can be good way to attenuate the numbing anaesthetic of separation. But one finds that a friend's patience can wear very thin when faced will a fusillade of confused thoughts from a mind as confused as the one I so unfortunately possess.

So here I am, looking to connect. Somewhere in the world, there must be people who, like me, are looking to connect. And perhaps there's no better means of seeking out a possible connection than splaying yourself underneath the spotlight for the whole wide world to see or read for that matter.

So this is me, partaking in the paradoxical act of publishing one's inner thoughts for the world to scrutinise, smell, savour and then spit or swallow as it sees fit.