H7M

Based in New York, H7M (house7music) is a Brazilian/American team of DJ's, promoters, and upbeat party people who provide quality productions for a growing, super-fun crowd. Our goal is to offer quality music at interesting venues with a true metro-mix of fashionable, well-rounded, internationally minded New Yorkers who are open, positive and alive with passion for the music.

Christophe Szkudlarek

Ma Vie en Rose

In modern American and Canadian usage faggot or fag is a generally pejorative term for gay men. The origins of the word in this sense have been clouded by mythology.

It has been frequently said that it derives from faggot in the sense of a bundle of sticks, because homosexual men were burned at the stake for sodomy and faggots were used as kindling. A variant on this is that homosexual men were themselves used as kindling. The gay liberation movement of the 1970s promoted this supposed derivation to highlight the historical oppression of homosexual men.

There is, however, no historical evidence for these supposed derivations, and the use of the term faggot for gay men goes back only to the 19th century. The fact that the word appeared in the United States, and not in Britain, where burnings for sodomy did take place until the 17th century, makes this derivation unlikely.

The more likely derivation is that faggot was originally a derogatory term for street prostitutes, female and male, because they were associated with "the gutter", where "faggot-ends" of meat were thrown by butchers. The term "faggot girls" for prostitutes is attested from the late 19th century. It is also possible that the expression "fag" meaning a cigarette-butt, something which is used and thrown in the gutter, contributed to the derivation of the word. Cigarette smoking was also at one time considered effeminate, so this may have also contributed to the word's modern use.

"Fag" was also a term used for a junior boy who acted as a servant for a senior at Eton College, near Eton, Berkshire. This practice, known as "fagging", was ended in the 1970s.

Faggot has historically been one of the most offensive terms that could be addressed to an American male; even so, in recent years it has come to be used by gay men in a defiant or self-mocking way, rather as African Americans have taken to using the word "nigger". A common example of this would be usage of the term "fag hag" to describe a woman who likes to hang out with gay men. When used as a pejorative, however, it is still a powerful term of abuse. (See Fred Phelps and his "God hates fags" campaign, for example.)

Originally confined to the United States, faggot has been spread by American popular culture to other English-speaking countries, where it has partly displaced British English terms such as queer and poof as colloquial or abusive terms for gay men, particularly among heterosexual youth. However, due to the use of the slang term fag in British slang for cigarette, the usage is nowhere near common, with words such as poof and batty boy more common.

WHAT’S SO CARNAL ABOUT CARNIVAL?

Originally written for PLAYBOY/Germany 2001
Copyright © 2001-2005, thomas&co. All rights reserved

By Thomas&co

Now that’s a good question. It occurred to me when I had a recent conversation with my fundamentally zealot of a minister father. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a great man. I just always feel about five years old when I speak to him, which can be a terribly frightening thing when a man feels his testicles regress so rapidly. Thinking I had already mentioned it, I made a passing statement about my upcoming trip to Brazil – the second in as many months. “BRAZIL?! Weren’t you just there?” booms my father. “yes”(meek reply). “Why are you going back to Brazil?” (Why aren’t we all?, I think.) “To see my friends,” and then, trying to sound innocently cheerful, “It’s Carnival.” “CARNIVAL?! I saw all about CARNIVAL on TV the other night. That’s where you SIN as much as you can before … what’s it called?” “Lent,” I add. (Fundamentalists don’t know jack about Catholics.) “Lent. And what are you going to do down there?” (Brain working fast because he’s absolutely right) ‘Visit my friends. Not everybody parties. We’ll probably just hang out at the beach, away from all the fun … er, um, action.”
Did I mention that I’m 30? Now that I have my balls back and am comfortably sitting at my own desk, pecking at my own laptop, in my own cyber-fitted apartment in New York – Brazil still a wet kiss on my ... I mean, a fresh memory – I recall this conversation with my father and really put my hands in it. He may be from the barbed wire line of thought, but he’s still a great thinker. At this point I’d like to invite you to pull out your trusty, dusty dictionary and follow along. I’m looking in Webster’s New Universal Unabridged if you care.
We begin our study with the basics. Say the word “Carnival.” (Much better if said with a Brazilian accent.) Let it roll around in your mouth. You will start to salivate, so spit it out. Now look at it. Look at its plump fleshiness. Its corpulent, yet turgid lines. See its slick wetness glistening? In a word, delectable – so gluttonous, so pansexual, so Old World, so fun. If you scan through the words that even remotely relate to it in your dictionary, you’ll find the common thread: flesh. And that’s what Carnival specializes in: flesh. Ironically, The Oxford Dictionary of the Christian Church defines the etymology of the word Carnival as caro vale – ‘goodbye flesh,’ and carnem levare – ‘to put away flesh-meat.’ Since one was required to put away all things of the flesh during Lent, the idea was to do anything one wanted, and as much of it as one could, in a sort of flesh abuse. Not surprisingly, early pre-Lent festivities degenerated into such rioting (read: kick-ass parties), that the Church excommunicated the word to secular celebrations. However, the RCC (Roman Catholic Church) does not hold nascent title to Carnival, but I’ll give you a clue: it runs in the family. Yes, it turns out that Great-Grandfather Carnival was himself, Italian. The Saturnalia, a December celebration for the Roman god Saturn, was a full-blown orgy. His Greek cousin Bacchus, the god of wine, was in charge of the drinks. Is it any wonder we wake up on Sunday morning with a hangover and a stranger? Saturday is named after Great-Grandpa Saturn, the old devil.

But back to Carnival. Here’s a quick rundown of its beginnings in Brazil. Coming from Portugal, it was deeply influenced by everything European, sophisticated, and luxurious, and in the 1850’s had two distinct celebrations: the Ballroom Carnival and the Street Carnival. Whites and middle-class Mulattos celebrated in-doors, while anyone darker than that hit the streets. May the best party win! Since Carnival is now celebrated outdoors, who said blondes have more fun? By the 1880’s, the ballroom parties were trying to out-do one another in their finery. The street parties were just having fun. Okay, enough academics – fast-forward. The two commingle and voila: Samba schools; sparkling, plumed and naked bodies; floats that appear to be their own country; more inebriated fun than you can possibly imagine with hundreds of thousands of your closest friends.
Let’s get down to testimonials. I’ll start. “Hi. My name is Thomas and I went to Carnival.” To be precise, I should mention that I went to Salvador, also known as Bahia, and not to Rio. Bahia is to Brazil what New Orleans is to the US. It is very African influenced, rich in music and culture, and people flock to its sultry, bodacious revelry. It’s no secret – Brazilians themselves attest – that Bahia has the best Carnival. The first thing that hits you when you get off the plane is, “Oh my God, it’s hot!” Not a bad heat, but rather, that good, sticky heat that melts your memory and obligations, making you suddenly aware of your “nether regions.” Everyone has a permanent sweat-bead moustache, and skin truly glistens. Even this seems to engender a familial camaraderie, for which Bahianos are famous. After the heat, then you meet the soothing, singsong rhythm of the Bahian accent. Their Portuguese slides into your ears like a warm, healing oil, and it stays there, blocking out anal-retentive thoughts of home/New York. After you marinate in this concoction for a day or two, plus daily doses of Caipirinhas (sugar cane alcohol[Cachaça] and freshly squeezed limes), you should be nice and tenderized for the full experience. No reservations. Guards down. And for heaven’s sake, slow down!
Since this was not my first time in Brazil, I was on the fast track to adjusting from a very cold New York winter, to paradise. My weeks of studying Portuguese only helped, and before you could say “Carmen Miranda,” I was ready. To begin, there is an air of shared celebration during Carnival that I can only compare to: a) the last day of school; b) World Soccer, minus the overtones of war; or c) the end of WWII. It’s like Munchkinland or OZ, but with Jane Fonda, as Barbarella, doing the choreography. Everybody likes you and wants you to have a good time, everybody smiles and all the girls try to say hello – more like, “You are so beautiful. You are German… English… Oh! Americano. I love ______ “(fill in matching country). I never knew the value of my blue eyes until I went to Brazil. It’s merely cream on top that I find dark features so devastating. One even begins to feel like a, dare I say it, stud? So this is what celebrities feel like. Ah, the rush of being desired. I think how sterile New York’s pumping nightlife suddenly seems.
After resting from the 11-hour flight, via Sao Paolo, and greeting my friends, the first two days are consumed with aimless meandering. I fortify myself with fresh juices and Acarajé – a fried black-eyed pea meal (as in corn meal), stuffed with a mix of okra, fresh salsa, spicy shrimp (with shells), and a couple of special sauces. Heaven! The large, black women dressed all in white, cotton dresses and turbans only make the experience more delicious.

I am at home here, but thank God they don’t know me, because the things I am about to do are fodder for a “Dear Penthouse” letter. I’ll only hit the highlights and save the gory details for my masturbatory solitude.

In the Parade: My friends had secured for me entrance into a bloco, or Bahian version of Rio’s Samba schools, sans Samba school. How about a giant, lighted and decorated 18-wheeler-sized truck, called a trio electrico, with a popular singer and band perched on top? We were in Margareth Menezes’ parade. The bloco moves through the streets, music blaring from 18-wheeler-sized speakers, while the paid members with wristbands (us), surround the truck in a rope-enclosed group. Our duty was to drink, dance, jump, fly into each other’s arms and sing like carousing soldiers, eye all the beautiful (and not so beautiful) girls, drink … well, I guess that’s about all; but when I tell you it was the single most fun event of my life, trust me. It’s like skydiving on the ground.

A free-fall in fun. How do you explain that? By the end of the night, I had wished for everyone I loved to experience this at least once, taken countless, worthless pictures, and ended up walking home at 8 a.m. with one super hottie, where we… [text deleted]. I swear, it was like being in a porn movie.

Street Carnival: If I had been alive back in the 1850’s, I would have been on the street with all the saucy, darker hues. Forget a ballroom full of stuffed and girded light-skinned clones. Give me liberty… and a sweating, writhing, pulsating mass. Sound sexual? It is. When I look back on it, I can’t believe I was able to navigate those streets, let alone find people and locations, but magic exists there, and good luck floats in the air. Days before Carnival begins, the city builds wooden walls along the street, protecting businesses from the fun. In essence, they had constructed a nice, outdoor maze of party rooms. Small food/drink stands quickly pop up, and sell ice-cold beer (.50 cents), harder drinks ($1), freshly barbecued meat and cheese skewers (.50 cents), and Acarajé is always available for a paltry .75 cents. The real investment of the night is “Red Bull,” a high-octane caffeine soda ($2.50), which keeps you going till sun up. Are you adding this in your head? I won’t be able to buy a $20 drink in New York again without serious insult to my conscience. I would not be honest if I did not report that countless drugs are consumed as well, but quite frankly, who needs them? Usually the younger kids, but for me they would have dulled the experience. I mean, really, how much fun can a guy have and still expect to wake up the next day?
So in this scene, established centuries earlier in ancient Rome, one feels connected to life in a way that cannot be truly explained, only experienced. Every body is available for exploration. When walking through the crowd, anonymous, migrating hands feel your glory and assets with appreciative and hungry lust. Who cares who it is? That’s not the point. It’s a celebration of the flesh. Eyes lock, mouths open and smile, tongues twirl, and then there’s the next. Always the next. Don’t expect commitment. Anything goes and all is forgiven later, so for now, immerse yourself in the brimming pool. Drink in the sweet nectars and musky aromas. For Brazilian women, the derriere is their prized asset (pun intended), and it is accentuated, shaken, rolled, exposed, and relished by all, especially the men. The Brazilian bikini, famous around the world, is designed for this sole purpose. I, myself, easily readjust my sexual focus from the breasts (the American obsession) to the tush. I even begin a search to find the biggest, roundest, bubble-butt imaginable. I found it, but that leads me to my next category.

VIP Party:
Now, I had the best of both worlds. I failed to mention that my Brazilian friends were famous actors there, so we had VIP entrance into the Camarote, or private industry party, of Daniela Mercury – another famous singer. Inside, we were treated to an endless flow of beer and whiskey, every delicious food imaginable, world class DJ’s, and free product give-aways from sponsors, all the while rubbing elbows with the likes of Caetano Veloso and other Brazilian celebs. But so what. The real party was out on the street. I don’t mean to seem ungracious, but I took full advantage of the party’s food and drinks, and then split to be with my lower class chums. However, on one of my returns to the VIP party to restock on drinks, I tripped, and literally fell into the lap of a scintillating young woman. Lest you think I injured her, she is as tall as I am and possesses more handsome beauty than delicate. A sturdy gal. A true Bahiana (African ancestors), we were both instantly smitten with one another. Again, I have no way of explaining what happened in that moment because I’ve never had the experience at home and don’t feel English words would suffice. Just know, it was very Brazilian. So, after whatever happened, happened, we were joined at the hip like best friends, felt like old lovers, and couldn’t keep our hands, or mouths, off of each other (we were chided by security three times). Needless to say, I was back at that party every night thereafter and we acted like fools in love. But don’t forget, it was Carnival. She knew it, I knew it. I hate good-byes, so on my last night, I simply said I’d had a great time. She had too. I later found out she was a famous stage actress. I hope I didn’t cause too much of a scandal for her. Truthfully, I was probably just an American playtoy, a mere afterthought, but a scandal is nice to imagine. By the way, she had the biggest, roundest, bubble-butt imaginable. Perfection.
So there you have it. Carnival. I can’t believe it was merely a month ago that I was there, and now I feel kind of PO’d that it’s over. I hate that I’m losing my tan. I hate that I’m beginning to feel like a New Yorker again. I hate that I enjoy my job and really like living here. I hate that I have nothing to show for my experience except some crappy photos. But, that’s life. I’m back to worrying about the stock market, my mortgage, what I will do this summer; you know, drivel. I shouldn’t focus on the negatives, however. I do have my memories, a great Brazilian music collection, and fresh limes and Cachaça (for making Caipirinhas). What more could a man ask for? After all, there’s always next year. And to answer my original question: What’s so carnal about Carnival? Everything.

Bright Eyes

Bright Eyes



Know him.

Watch his performance of When the president talks to God on Jay Leno.

"When the President Talks to God"

When the president talks to God
Are the conversations brief or long?
Does he ask to rape our women's' rights
And send poor farm kids off to die?
Does God suggest an oil hike
When the president talks to God?

When the president talks to God
Are the consonants all hard or soft?
Is he resolute all down the line?
Is every issue black or white?
Does what God say ever change his mind
When the president talks to God?

When the president talks to God
Does he fake that drawl or merely nod?
Agree which convicts should be killed?
Where prisons should be built and filled?
Which voter fraud must be concealed
When the president talks to God?

When the president talks to God
I wonder which one plays the better cop
We should find some jobs. the ghetto's broke
No, they're lazy, George, I say we don't
Just give 'em more liquor stores and dirty coke
That's what God recommends

When the president talks to God
Do they drink near beer and go play golf
While they pick which countries to invade
Which Muslim souls still can be saved?
I guess god just calls a spade a spade
When the president talks to God

When the president talks to God
Does he ever think that maybe he's not?
That that voice is just inside his head
When he kneels next to the presidential bed
Does he ever smell his own bullshit
When the president talks to God?

I doubt it

I doubt it

the fire and the rose are one

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
...
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.

T.S. Elliot
Four Quartets 4: Little Gidding


Apostolos Kilessopoulos

US Gov't Rant

I am an American. I have traveled this country a lot and have met many of its wonderful people and it is a good and beautiful country. I have also traveled to many foreign countries and have met similar people with similar morals. Interesting thing is, it is the governments that screw it up for all of us. These little men and little women in their little minstrel show. Now, I was always taught, or influenced to believe that only we, the Americans, have the "right stuff." Only we know the divine and righteous application of democracy. My opinion on this now (through experience)? In a word: BULLSHIT! If I express a belief that is different from said majority, I might expect censorship, persecution, and possible prosecution as a traitor. The US today is a place where lies are truth, injustice abounds and MONEY IS POWER IS GOD! The Bush administration is a "white-washed sepulcher full of dead men's bones and all manner of uncleanness"(read Pharisee). In case you don't know what these neocons who are running our country have in mind, read their website, Project for the New American Century, and they will tell you plainly. Please make sure to read all the names signed at the bottom of their Statement of Principles page to see how entrenched we are. The time is long past due for a regime change. Stop these evil-doers in our own house. Speak the truth and shame the devil. The emporer has no clothes...

This capture is real. It goes out to those who still believe that Bush is the humble, tender, teary-eyed, on-the-Oval Office-floor-praying-to-God Christian poster boy that he claims(there have been sightings!) This is what he's like when he thinks the camera is off. You can see the whole clip here.

Viva!

I just read on one of my fav blogs, made in brazil, about a 25-year-old Argentinian performer, Avril X. On her website, urbanudismo.com, she posts photographs of herself walking around naked in busy areas of Buenos Aires, Mar del Plata, and Barcelona; sometimes joined by fellow urban nudists who decide to support the project. The idea? To have people of all ages experience going through their daily routines without any clothes on. Sometimes the police don't get it though...

I wanna smoke

I am full of a craving to be cool like music. Cool like vice. I wanna smoke. I quit several months ago and I want to start again because of a song? Happens a lot actually. ABBA's "The Visitors" is playing on my laptop and something about the early 80's sound makes me nostalgic for those years. I want to start over. I want to do 13 again. It could all be so different today if I could do it again (of course with a conscious knowledge that I was doing it again). I often think of those years, especially '81 - '85.
At least I have the hope of the future, right?

long live the dance in the whirl of the infinite;
long live the wave that hides me in the abyss;
long live the wave that hurls me up above the stars.
Søren Kierkegaard - 'Fear and Trembling' (1843)

Here the body, landscape, leisure and death intermingle.

When you are old

When You Are Old
William Butler Yeats.

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

DESIDERATA

Go placidly amid the noise and haste and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others; even the dull and ignorant; they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexatious to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals; and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

MAX EHRMANN 1927

Terry Rodgers - Desiderata, 2003

Brazil

I moved to NYC in 1993. I was living on 108th St. and Manhattan Ave. (btwn CPW & Columbus) in a duplex apt. w/ my high school friend Chris Paulk and his girlfriend (I can't remember her name right now, but there is a story about their relationship that I'll tell later). Soon I became friends with the 2nd floor neighbors, a gaggle of Brazilian boys, really boys who were girls - bichas loucas(outrageous queens). I think I met them the 1st time at a party they were having. They lived on the 2nd floor and I came home from DJing one night and heard the party and went,
"oh, shit, that sounds fun,"
and went up and crashed the party. Full of crazy Brazilians. Actually, since this is titled Brazil, I need to start this story a little earlier. Ivon Rosas (I just googled him and saw that he played a go-go boy in the 1995 movie Party Girl) was a tall, cafe con leche brown, beautiful Brazilian man I met in Albany, NY in 1993 while acting in a small, traveling Molière production, Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme. After a performance, we went out to a local gay bar and I saw this gorgeous man standing off to the side of the dance floor. We made eye contact and then he started dancing over to me. After a while, we went over to the corner to talk and started making out. WOW! He tasted so fucking good. I could taste/smell a musky sex taste (good) on his mouth and breath. I might think now that it was because maybe he had just had sex with someone, but I later discovered he always had this smell/taste so I think sex flowed from his every pore (it's a Brazilian thing). I got dizzy. This was the first beautiful man I ever kissed (I was 23). He impacted me so strongly. The rest of the cast was ready to go back to the hotel because we had to get up early. I was aching to stay, so I told Ivon not to go and that I would be back. I drove everyone back to the hotel in the company van and then drove back to the bar. Ivon was still there. Whew! We danced and then kissed more. We went out to the van, made out and then I blew him. He smelled and tasted delicious and had a beautiful, thick uncut cock. He told me he was from Bahia, Brazil, his name was Ivon Rosas, he lived in NYC but was there in Albany just for the weekend with a friend and that he danced with a group called Dance Brazil. Two weeks later, my tour was over and I was back in NYC (moved in with Chris on 108 & Manhattan). My first order of business was to find Ivon. I remembered all the details he told me and started my search (before Google and other fast search engines we have today). I started with the phone book and by calling information for his name, then Dance Brazil. I don't remember now the full details of the search, but it took about a week I think. Dance Brazil knew who he was but said he didn't dance with them anymore and I was directed to call an ethnic dance studio/school(I don't remember the name). I dialed, someone picked up, I quickly explained who I was looking for and that Dance Brazil had directed me to call and the person said (female),"hold on, he's right here," and put him on the phone. I couldn't fucking believe it. He said “hello” and I reminded him who I was. He dropped the phone. He got back on and said he almost fell down. He couldn't believe I found him. I told him I had been looking for him for a week and he congratulated me saying I deserved to find him. We talked briefly and arranged to meet later.I don't remember now how many days passed, but we met on CPW (Central Park West or 8th Ave.) and like 72nd St. or something like that. As we were approaching each other, some woman on rollerblades got hit by a taxi (happened to me years later) and we watched as the drama unfolded. I don't think she was terribly hurt, just scraped up. We moved on and he commented that this was a bad sign for us. What the fuck?! I was really worried about that and for good cause (I would find out later about Brazilian superstition). Anyway, he took me to DOJO West(14 W. Fourth St.) and introduced me to their delicious Tofu salad with DOJO dressing. I still love this salad 12 years later. He told me that I had an uncanny resemblance to his ex in Brazil. I liked this info at the time because it made me think that I had something he liked. I would find out later from one of the bichas loucas, Manoel, who became one of my best friends, that this ex fucked him over bad. Anyway, we wanted to hook up and he asked if I minded going to a friend's place. It was the apt. of a Brazilian woman and her husband. I said okay. We got there and I was NOT comfortable. Keep in mind I was new to new to NYC and still young, dumb and romantic. I didn't know these people and it seemed really strange to me. She was going to let us stay in a spare room that had two sleeping bags on the floor. We laid down and I just couldn't get into it. I was not comfortable crashing at someone's place I didn't know, just to fuck. I later discovered that many Brazilians don't think it so strange. Anyway, he sensed I was not into it and asked I wanted to go to his place in Brooklyn instead. I definitely did. I think it was a little embarrassing for him to beg out once we were in his friend's place and I feel bad about that. I'm 36 now and I think I would've been pissed if some young chicken couldn't handle something that simple. Or not. I don't know.It took a long time on the subway because it was late, but we got to his place and went to sleep. Maybe we tried to have sex, but I don't think so. I think he wanted to go to sleep. We woke up the next morning. I did not sleep well because we had slept on the floor of his room. He only had a single bed. We did have sex that morning. It was good. No fucking. Just kissing and oral. I like that a lot. I'm still oral after all these years - kissing, sucking, licking, 69. Always have been, always will be.(I'm listening to Brazilian music right now [Domenico+2] and my eyes are misty. It always happens. Brazil brings out a lot of emotion in me.)We went downstairs to have coffee or something and he got on the phone with a friend. I heard Portuguese for the first time. I had never heard anything like it my life. Was it French, Russian, Spanish, or all? I was amazed.
I asked him what language it was when he got off the phone and he said Portuguese.

I look back on myself at that time with so much regret and shame. Why, I'm not sure. I guess maybe more embarrassment at my naivete would be closer to how I
feel now. I mean, fuck, I wasn't fresh off the farm. I had traveled a lot and had spent a year in Africa, a summer each in China, Argentina and Canada, not to
mention an early childhood in Australia. I think I was just green as shit when it came to men. I had only just kinda announced, no whispered, I was gay to a
select few, but lived primarily in the closet (and still do, kinda).More on all this later. All I know is that I was hooked. He had me. Do you hear me Ivon?
You had me fucker.

More days pass. I think we hooked up once more. Then, about 2 weeks into this thing, he called my apt. looking for me. My roommate, Chris Paulk, was chillin with his buddy,

Kevin Thigpen. Now, what happened next is one of those fucked up things in life that we have no control over, but that fucks us up for a long time.
N.B. - Chris Paulk and I sound exactly alike on the phone. I could talk with his friends and family as him for as long as I wanted or until my lack of knowledge on a subject gave me away. It went like this:
Ivon calls and Kevin answers. Ivon asks for me. Kevin tells Chris it’s Ivon calling for me. Chris says,"Tell him he's not here."Kevin does and that’s that. No big deal, right? When I get home later, I get the massage that Ivon called. I was thrilled. I called him back. He said I had indeed been there and had actually said,"Tell him I'M not here," as if I didn't want to talk to him. I was baffled. I had no idea what he was talking about. Let me try and summarize:

• Chris and I sound alike.
• Ivon calls for me and hears Chris in the background and thinks it's me
• No matter what I say, Ivon thinks I'm lying.
• I get Chris to tell Ivon on the phone that it was him (you can imagine how cool Chris is to do this because he is a very straight guy).
• End of blossoming relationship.
  

I was crushed. Ivon gave me one more "mercy fuck" because I showed up at his door in the rain. After that, nothing. Without too many details, I tell you the embarrassing truth, I suffered over Ivon for 2 years. TWO fucking years. Why? He was my first crush/love/man. Maybe. Maybe not. I had plenty of awesome, beautiful guys after me, but because of my romantic nature, I wanted nothing to do with them.

Ivon, wherever you are, you fucking had me dude. I was yours and you were wrong. You got it wrong… or maybe you got it right. I don’t know, maybe we just weren’t
meant to be. I didn’t have the wherewithall to know or imagine this then. It would’ve saved me a lot of heartache. OH SHIT! I just remembered I wrote a
poem/song about this thing. I’ll find it and post it later. Uhh, this seems so “Are you there God it’s me Margaret”-esque.

Now, back to the bichas loucas. I crashed the party and loved it. I met this crazy, fun Brazilian guy whose name escapes me now. We actually dated for a while (he’s the first person who ever licked me from head-to-toe). Odilon, one of the bichas loucas, was in drag. Later I found out that he thought I was straight and that he could score with me because he was dressed as a girl. NOT. Anyway, we all became friendly. They were very interested in me and Chris, the 2 straight guys (well, one of us was) on the 1st floor. Soon they found out I was one of them and we became fast friends. They always tried to pump me for info on Chris but I never had what they needed or wanted - how to get in his pants. To this day, this fact delights Chris to no end. He finds it so amusing.

I saw him recently at the funeral of a dear friend, Bess Coats. A talented artist (ccbess) and beautiful girl who died in a house fire in Prescott, AZ.

One guy in particular, Manoel (also from Bahia), became a close friend who I still talk to from time to time to this day. He lives back in Bahia now. Anyway, one night I and all the boys went to the Tunnel and I was telling Manoel about my broken heart over Ivon. He almost shit. He knew Ivon from Bahia and didn't know he was in NY. Nel (Manoel) told me that I really did look like Ivon's ex and that he had really fucked Ivon over. Apparently, Ivon loved him deeply and this guy was a total slut. Ivon's friends were telling him to be careful with this guy and Ivon didn't want to believe it. Well, one day Ivon was riding his bike out by the beach and saw his boyfriend out on the rocks sucking dick. There is a place in Bahia (I've subsequently been there) where guys meet (kinda like the Rambles in Central Park), but it juts out from the beach into the ocean on an outcropping of rocks. Long story short(oh, really?), this guy had been cheating on Ivon to famous proportions and it fucked him up. I truly believe that Ivon connected all that to me and therefore let his fear and superstition take over. Oh, well. Que sera, sera. Right now I'm gonna keep listening to this beautiful CD, Putumayo's Acoustic Brazil, and drinking cachaça and guanara. This is really my first post. There is tons more on Brazil(I lived there for awhile and speak Portuguese now) and it is around me constantly. There are my Peace Corps stories from Africa. My boyfriend stories and sex stories. Not to mention all my current affair comments. More later. Post a comment if you want to hear a specific story sooner than later, or any other questions.

Red wine

I like courier font. So here you are. I have tried to keep a blog before and have written loads and then erased it all because it seemed so fucking self-absorbed. My life-coach says I need to keep a journal so I will try to make it this one.
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Lynne Frehm -
"Secret Places" 1995-96