February 06
South Africa
Part 21
Hi Gary. Sleeping through the night now. I'm going to Cody's for supper tomorrow night. It's almost like I owe them [his folks] to see them after chatting with his dad the other day [in the surf]. He was pretty cool towards me.
Bruce and I are gonna skip school on Friday. He took me up on the offer to pay him my way, and he asked if I was sure he could do anything [to me, sexually], and I just said yes. Into pain? Can't be worse than what's going on with everyone else who wants fuckall to do with me.
I phoned Steph again late last night to try to speak to her. I just wanted to speak, for fuck sake - about anything. But I ended up really fucking cussing and carrying on with her, and she held the phone away from her ear. When I was done, she asked me if I'd finished. She sums up everything [about me] pretty well. I'm a waste of human flesh, and she wouldn't give a fuck if I OD'd. Another hero fan. I've been thinking what's the fucking use of everything at the moment? At least the coke [I used to take] kept me fucking sane.
I went down to the beach late yesterday, and the fucking king grommet cunts were in the surf, so I just turned around and went back home. That is sooooo fucking not cool! I also don't think I'm in love with Wingnut. The only thing I want is to shove my cock up his ass, and it's as simple as that. So fuck the heroes. My whole mood is so fucked up aggressive at the moment. I think if anybody at school has to give me any lip, I'd bash his fucking head off his shoulders.
GARY > What was the point of writing stories if he [Cody] wasn't reading them? Or didn't care? If I could feel that way after just a few weeks [of not receiving mail from Cody, and not being told of his death until six weeks later], how do you think I feel now? If it weren't for you, I'd have nothing to cling to. You were Code's friend and lover. He's a part of you. The rest of my audience doesn't inspire me the way Cody did. I had an audience of one. Now I've still got an audience of one. Cody saved my skin. I was a nobody when he came along. Now you're saving my skin. And I'm trying to help you save yours. Let me make it perfectly plain, Steve. I need you!
STEVE: More fucking pressure, huh, Gary? Truth? I bought some H and a couple of lines of coke, but got it direct from the guys [dealers] cos Bruce would never sell it to me. Don't ask how I paid for it. Plan? Well, the plan was to shoot myself up with so much shit and just sleep, and the pain and fucking hurt would go away. So why don't I do it right now? Because I owe Cody. I owe him for giving me his love, and nothing else. He didn't spend money on me. He spent his emotions on me. And now you're doing the same fucking thing. What am I supposed to do with you, huh? As much as I piss on your battery you keep coming back for fucking more.
For how long [will I keep writing you]? I don't know. Could be a day when I've exhausted my will to write or tell anybody anything, and want to give it a break. You'll know when that happens. Don't go paranoid on me. When the time comes that I've absolutely had enough, I'll let you know that too. Not because I want to cause you pain, but because then I hope that I can make you understand. You don't know me, Gary. You're trying to outguess me, and the track that's appearing in front of me. But it's true what Steph said, I think. What did Cody see in me? Fuck knows. I've searched. Maybe you should read that letter from that MrB reader again because what I did to Wingnut that night [when I gave him beers and a reefer] was so fucked up. Right now, the way I feel about him, I might just do the same again, and even go further. Because with him I've got fuckall to lose at the moment.
Tomorrow night is going to be painful - seeing Cody's room again. Trying to live up to a responsibility that I can never keep. I didn't want the fucking job, remember! Steph and Wingnut are doing their own thing now, whatever that is.
Do you have any idea how hard that is, Gary? It's a copout, isn't it? Not quite what you were expecting, I reckon. There's grease on that ladder leading up to the pedestal, Gary. Sorry.
I'm not sure if I'll write about what Bruce gets up to [on Friday]. He's into pain and shit like that, and I know that you don't like that crap. It's just that I owe him. No, I haven't done shit like that before, but I owe him and I'll handle it. The way I feel right now, if he had to shove a fucking knife in my gut it would be a fucking pleasure. Anything except fucking depressions. And to top everything else, today started with a southeasterly storm in the middle of fucking summer, with rain and strong winds. At least that looks like it's clearing up. Smile, Gary, I haven't slit my fucking wrists. Yet.
Cheers
Steve
G'day Steve,
Well, I hope Cody's dad says or does something to change your current attitude. But maybe you prefer your own dad. He doesn't expect anything from you.
Big butch Lindsay found a dead rat in the garage yesterday. It was sprawled on the floor. It was my fault really cos I'd laced the garage with bait. The rat found it irresistible. Anyway, Lindsay freaked and came running to me like a big sheila. He wouldn't touch the damn thing. I put it in a plastic shopping bag, tied a knot in one end, and dropped it in the trash bin.
I was possessed yesterday. Normally, I write one chapter a day, but I wrote three of the Steve story. That's 11 chapters so far. It wasn't so difficult. You did most of the writing anyway. You did some amazing things in Joburg. You won Mark's and Fingers' hearts and respect. You came home and continued to do some amazing things. But now you're telling me that the price you're willing to pay for H and crack is humiliation from Bruce?
I had a friend about your age twenty years ago. He was a great kid - part Aboriginal. I called him "Big Boobs Baker" cos he had wicked pecs. He would turn up at my house at all hours, and sleep over in my bed. He would cuddle up to me, and sometimes cry. The only sex we had was when I blew him. "You give awesome head, Gary." I bought him a guitar. He was pretty good at it, and a good singer as well. One night he made up a song about me on the fly. But he kept pawning the guitar to pay for his H habit. Finally, I got tired of reclaiming it, so it stayed in the pawn shop.
When he first came to my house, he showered, then laid naked on the couch. He had a boner. "I don't need another cup of tea, Gary. And stop fucking around with the cushions and curtains! Are you trying to play hard to get or something?" And with that, he grabbed my hair [of which I have an abundance], pulled my face to his cock and shoved it in my mouth.
I was amazed the first time I blew him. I stopped for a moment cos my jaw was aching. I saw cum. So I went down on him again, and swallowed the lot. I'd never been able to make a guy cum by blowing him before, and I was ecstatic. So was he. :) It didn't take long after that for me to become quite creative when I blew him. And when I wasn't blowing him, I'd sit on the floor and massage his feet.
He liked me a lot. He would phone before arriving. By the time he arrived, I'd have a hot cup of tea and Vegemite sandwiches waiting for him. He loved tea and Vegemite. We never kissed, tho. Hugged a lot but that was about it. Sometimes he would feel guilty about my giving him blow jobs and his not responding in kind. So he'd park his delicious smooth butt in my face and play with his balls and cock while I jacked myself stupid.
Everytime he showered [after the first time] he would turn on the taps, then call out, "Gary? You wanna come and talk to me?" I'd grab my ciggies and a drink and be in there in a flash. I'd sit on the closed toilet seat and watch him soap his berry brown bod and hairless pits. Eventually, he'd ask me if I wanted to jack off, but I'd always make him turn around or whatever cos I didn't want him to watch me.
He would sleep over a lot. I'd go to work in the morning and come home at lunch time. I'd wake him, and he'd tell me he had a "stiffy" under the covers. I was under there munching happily away in a flash. Then I'd watch him shower, and afterwards make him some lunch. About mid afternoon, I'd drive him home. But he would always ask me to stop about a block from his "house", which I later found out was a derelict squat with no running water, no bed, no furniture or any other amenities.
I eventually came to the conclusion that he was beyond help. He would never ask for money, but I would give him a few bucks for food or whatever. But I knew what he was spending it on. The last time he came to see me - in the early 1980s - he sat on a chair and asked me if I wanted to see his "beautiful body". I said no "because I'd want to see it again, and again, and again." He called a taxi, left in a huff, and slammed the taxi door. And that was it. I never saw him again.
Before Big Boobs Baker, I was madly in love with Ricky. But he went to jail. Every weekend, after getting off air at 6am, I'd drive about 300 kms south to Goulburn Jail and visit him. Every day, I'd pound my old Remington manual typewriter and write to him. He'd write back every day too. He had the most awesomely neat handwriting. While he was in jail, I bought him a small TV and weekly cartons of ciggies.
Ricky was about the most handsome teen I'd ever seen. Mind blowingly good looking, with a bod to match. He eventually covered his bod from head to toe with amateur prison tattoos. His mission was to make himself as repulsive as possible. He hated himself. He and I never had sex either. I didn't even blow him. One time, he organized a few of his buds to rob my house. But I forgave him when I found out. Sound familiar?
Ricky's younger bro followed in his older bro's footsteps. He hanged himself in jail. He was 17. When Ricky got out, he managed to get a job with a carpet layer. He visited me once. Then I never saw him again. I found out later that he had a daughter whose mother was a prostitute and heroin addict. Ricky's mother and step-father adopted the baby cos Ricky and his gf were incapable of caring for the child.
Ricky and his younger bro were the product of a wife-bashing and son-bashing father, who returned to South Africa to avoid criminal charges in Oz. He had made his sons - both beautiful looking kids - feel worthless. And no matter how hard anyone tried to make them feel otherwise, those kids were totally convinced that they were unworthy and doomed.
I've known many Rickies. I've been robbed a dozen times. Once I was bashed over the head with my own meat tenderizer. I've still got it cos I'm not superstitious. I was covered in blood, but not unconscious. I took a swing at the dude, and he fled, I still have the X-ray pics of my skull. If I had any idea that I was somehow not of the human race, those pics quickly dispelled it.
The point of all this is that I do run out of patience eventually. There's ultimately a limit to how much piss my battery can take. I'm not a miracle worker.
If, like Ricky and the others, you're convinced that you're a loser, and you're hell bent on self destruction, then there's nothing I can do about it. I can't help you if you're not willing to help yourself. You've been fantastically brave to this point, but you're slipping away. It's a total fucking shame for you and for all of us.
I can only hope that Mr T said or did something to make a difference. I still believe that the good in you can prevail if you just keep trying - if you can somehow summon the will to win. My only other thought is that you read the Steve chapters about your trip to Joburg. The proof of your ability to make the necessary changes is right there, staring you in the face.
The paranoia you're suffering about my wanting to connect you with somebody in CT who might be able to help you is unfounded and unnecessary. I wouldn't do anything like that without your permission. Paranoia is getting to you. Paranoia can be as destructive as H if it gets hold of you. Pot makes me para, which is why I don't smoke it. I too suffer from paranoia. When our doc failed to make a house visit recently, I was sure that he didn't like us for some reason. But he turned up yesterday and was as nice as pie. When our gardener spotted a private D parked outside our house, complete with camera, I was instantly convinced that he was spying on us. Nothing could have been further from the truth, which I discovered when I confronted him. Paranoia begins with a spark and soon becomes a raging, all-consuming fire. But even the biggest fires can be controlled and doused with intelligence and logic. Our minds can be our greatest enemies if we allow them to.
Where do you think my pseudonym Mr B came from? It was the result of my original paranoia. And when I discovered that mrbstories was officially registered in the name of Gary Kelly, and available on the net for anyone to see, I was sure that a dozen police would raid my house at any moment. But no. That never happened. And now I'm not only writing stories about my living in Taree, but I've also posted a pic of the house I now live in. The name Gary is splashed all over my site. Sorry Mr Paranoia, but you lost this battle.
You're angry, and I don't blame you. I'd be angry too if I woke up in bed covered in my own puke. You're not angry at me, Steve. You're angry at yourself, and you're taking it out on everybody else. So you have to expect that anger to be returned. Not from me, tho. I'm old enough to understand that anger is a total waste of fucking energy, and is totally pointless. So I'm not angry at you.
Are Wingnut and Steph angry at you? It wasn't so long ago that they loved you. What changed their minds? Was it their fault? You're intelligent enough to figure out the answers to those questions yourself. You get back what you give.
You've all but told me to piss off; to get out of your life. If that's what you want, I'll accept it. But until then, or unless you convince me that you've allowed evil to control your life, and there's no turning back, I'll hang in there. And I hope Code does the same for all our sakes.
Your friend and Code's
Gary
Just before I was about to format this chapter, I went into the kitchen and happened to hear Steely Dan's "Ricky Don't Lose That Number" playing on the radio. Ricky had a small radio in his cell, and I used to play that song all the time on air for him. Steely Dan rocks. Maybe Ricky, Big Boobs Baker and Code are soul buddies right now. That would be cool. MrB
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