The Adventures of Jetboy747

Big Cats

“You know,” he says, “the snow leopard is the most elusive of all the big cats.”

Why do all the lunatics gravitate towards me? We’re at Pride, last Sunday, and there are hundreds of scantily-clad boys about, so why is it, the one in a red dress, adorned with skulls no less, is talking to me? And about snow leopards?

At a bar called the Eagle! Everyone I know, in every city in North America, goes to an Eagle and it’s a veritable sexfest, toilet spying, blow jobs under the bar, backrooms. I go and bump into a naturalist transvestite wanting to solve the wild feline world.

“Excuse me?” I say, because unless I’m mistaken, I’m not wearing my I LUV BIG CATS t-shirt.

“Snow leopards,” he says wiping the corner of his red lipsticked lips with an elbow-length latex gloved finger. “Yes, to this day, they remain a bit of a mystery.”

Oh for fuck’s sake. “Really?”

“Partially because their coats are such perfect camouflage to their surroundings. Makes them very difficult to photograph and study. Very nomadic creatures as well.”

“They’re white,” I say, because what do I know about snow leopards?

His wig is long and straight and when he laughs, he pushes it back, tucking it behind his ears. “No, Silly, their coats are like any other leopards, but thicker, with some white, yes, but your typical leopard pattern.”

What is a typical leopard pattern? I have to think about that. In my daily routine, I tend not to bump into leopards, snow or otherwise, and while I possess a vast array of underwear, sadly, no leopard thongs. This is going nowhere. Maybe if I look at the art on the wall, which in a gay bar is just naked men, he’ll get the point that I’m into cock and not nomadic snow cats.

Did he just call me Silly?

“Chances are, if you were in the Himalayas, you wouldn’t even know one was watching you,” he continues. “Stalking you.” His gloved hands make the shape of a cat claw.

I should ask him, upon embarking on an aimless trek through the Himalayas, if there are any preventative measures I should take, like a can of snow leopard whoop-ass, but instead say, “I need a cigarette.”

“Oh, I don’t smoke,” he says. Neither do I, but from learning what little I know about the snow leopard, I need some camouflage, to blend in with my surroundings. To be difficult to find and even more elusive to photograph and study. And, most importantly, to be left alone.

For Your Eyes Only

It was a reunion 26 years in the making, between Bond and me. At our first meeting, I wasn’t even a teenager. I had to sneak into the theater, because I was underage, had to act and look older. I have no memory of how I did this, but it worked.

I had to ask my mother for permission to take the bus downtown to the theater, before movie megaplexes dominated the earth. Back when taking the bus was fun, when downtown was a big mysterious place, when I had to ask my mom for permission to do things.

My friend Robby was taking me, a few years older than myself and a self-proclaimed Bond aficionado. He’d seen Moonraker and was hooked. He told me about the gadgets, the bond girls, the excitement, the license to kill. Bond girls? I was beginning to have doubts.

And those doubts became horrifying realized with the opening credits. A topless Sheena Easton, after her baby took the morning train but before she invited the world into her sugar-walled vagina, was enough to daze and confuse me. But boob-baring naked lady silhouettes doing acrobatics armed with pistols was enough to make me want to leave the theater screaming. Two minutes and 38 seconds into For Your Eyes Only and I’d seen enough, wanted to leave and I hadn’t even met James Bond.

I did endure the entire movie though. It was two hours of women in bikinis and more thinly veiled tits than I’d seen in my young gay life. As well, I thought Roger Moore was creepy, reminded me of my creepy drug-addicted uncle, but with an English accent. Moore, like my uncle, was a womanizing booze-drenched nightmare and I didn’t want anything to do with either one of them.

And I didn’t. My uncle died, sight unseen, and when Pierce Brosnan was cast as Bond, I thought my mother would make just as masculine Bond as him. She could certainly drink him under the table. Did anyone else suffer through an episode of Remington Steele? Yuk. Forget it. The guy’s a pussy. The Bond movies came and went over the years with little, or no, notice by me.

I do admit to a strange fascination with Sean Connery as Bond. But I haven’t seen any of his Bond movies. I’ve flipped by them on cable, watched a few minutes, and then moved on. They don’t seem to be able to hold my attention.

But then came along Daniel Craig and I found myself headed back to see this Bond. I’d changed a lot in the past 26 years and I hoped he had too.

I was in a bit of funk this weekend. I don’t know why. A family thing out of town was cancelled, which was good, an escape, but it left me without any plans. I got funky, in a Greta Garbo, I vont to be alone, kind-of way. Daniel Craig was just the succulent crumpet I needed to spice up my Saturday. Well, not spice up, crumpets aren’t spicy, but he nicely lathered it in melted butter.

Wow. If you haven’t seen Layer Cake, you should. This is when I first met Daniel Craig. And well, as Bond, any man, gay or straight, who sees this movie is going to leave thinking, “I’ve got to get to the gym more.” He is, as referred to in the movie, a beautiful physical specimen. But that aside, the movie is good. Really good. I enjoyed it.

So, Mr. Bond, I have no intention of maintaining our detached unemotional relationship of the past any longer. I think 26 years of disinterested aloofness is plenty enough. I think it time we got to know each other better. Maybe a martini? A crumpet? Both? Now that you’re single, you decide.

Love Fiona

“Hello.”

“Hi, is Scott there?”

“Um, you have the wrong number.”

“Don’t hang-up!” the impassioned interrupter of my chilly Sunday screams. Why do I answer the phone? I’m lounging on the couch, in long underwear. It’s snowed. It looks cold outside. But I don’t know, because I haven’t stepped outside. I’m watching X3, mainly for the shirtless boy with wings.

“Is this Kelly?” she says. “And you have a brother, Scott?”

“Yes.” Oh great, either a psychic or some trollop my brother impregnated in his booze-drenched hetro-promiscuous days. Well, she’ll get no child support out of me.

“It’s me! Fiona!” You know, I’ve always thought Fiona is such a pretty name. But I don’t know anyone named Fiona, not even on TV. Fiona Apple? Why would Fiona Apple be calling me? I bought one of her CDs, once. Don’t think that would warrant a call.

This Fiona is rambling on about dogs. I still have no idea who she is until she says Brad’s name. Ah, Brad. Brad I remember. Cheap son of a bitch. Seriously, the only guy I’ve ever met who collected his empties after a party for the 5 cent deposit return. He was mystified that everyone didn’t do the same.

Now that I know who she is, I have to get rid of her. I haven’t seen this woman since my brother’s wedding, what 5 years ago? We were never friends. I hardly know the woman. I’ve heard stories though, stories about jail (she was arrested for beating up her mother), drugs, alcohol abuse and a psych ward. The woman is nuts. She makes Courtney Love look like a demure socialite.

She asks for my brother’s phone number. I tell her I don’t give out people’s phone numbers, which is true, but, next time I talk to him, I’ll tell him she called. She can leave her number with me. The funny thing is, my name is spelled wrong in the phonebook, so only the spelling-impaired can look me up. On reflection, this may not be the best policy.

“It’s such a shame that I fell out of touch with the gang,” she says. And, though I search my memory as hard as I can, I can not place myself within the realms of a gang and certainly not with this woman. I tell her I have to go. She tells me I’m a wonderful person and so is my brother. I say good-bye.

She says, “okay, I love you! Let’s keep in touch. Bye.”

I love you? Funny, on this chilly Sunday, coming from a mental patient, those words don’t warm me up at all.

Me, Brad, Altoids and Air Canada

I’m reading about two famous people caught canoodling.  Canoodling?  I love that word.  To me, I picture kissing after cannoli, licking powdered sugar off someone’s face.  Or noodles.  There’s nothing nicer than a long hard slurping suck on a noodle.   Or your noodle or mine?  Let’s bang noodles.  I just love canoodling.

I started this entry on my flight to New York.  The two caught canoodling are actors, even though I’m only vaguely aware of their acting, but I know they’re famous, because they canoodle in public.

I’m bored.  And hungry.  I’ve read Esquire from cover to cover.  Brad Pitt is more interesting than watching clouds float by at 35,000 feet, but not by much.  People wrongfully assume that because I’m aviation obsessed, I love to fly.  I don’t.  I hate everything about flying that everyone else does.  I don’t have a fear of flying though.  This separates me from some people.

And I can sit around airplanes in terminals and find endless fascination with them.

I have another Altoid, an early dinner, since no food is offered on Air Canada any more.  Everyone wants more money these days, especially large corporations.  They cut everything down to a well-oiled machine so high-powered executives can get big bonuses and give speeches about how rich people are getting more rich.  And so, I can have breath mint for dinner on a 5-hour flight.

We’re over the Atlantic now, descending.  The water looks choppy and cold.  Still, it’s nice to see something other than clouds.

I know things now.  Things I didn’t when I looked at the Atlantic that day.  Things like my Dad being admitted to the hospital when I was in New York.  I know he’s still there.  I know he’s not improving, but not getting worse.  A thing I still don’t know is what’s wrong, exactly.  But no one seems to know that.

I know he’ll be all right.  At least, I hope I know that.

Still, it’s fun to think about canoodling and boring Brad Pitt while having an Altoid for dinner over the Atlantic.  Even though, unfortunately, I have no one to  canoodle with.

Sensual Body Massage

“What I need you to do is…relax.”

“What are you implying? I AM relaxed. This is ME relaxed.”

“Just relax.”

“Alright. But I can only relax for an hour. I’ve got a meeting at 2.”

“Feel this?”

“Ouch! What IS your problem?”

“And this?”

“Motherfucker!”

“This is tension.”

“Christ! You have hands or steel claws?”

“And this?”

“Aahh! Get the fuck off me!”

“Relax. Listen to the music.”

“The music?! Sounds like a woman drowning.”

A warm liquid hits my back.

“What the fuck is that? You just cum on me?”

“Ya, you’re resistance is really turning me on.”

We’re both naked. It’s mid-day.

“What’s that smell?”

“Hmmm. Eucalyptus oil.”

“I told you I have a meeting at 2. Now I smell like a holistic healing crackwhore.”

“Relax.”

“Stop telling me that!” He’s laughing at me. “How can I relax with you constantly telling me to relax with that woman drowning in the background?”

“I think it’s very soothing.”

“A chorus of demonic possessed mermaids. Real soothing.”

“Are you going to let me do this?”

“Okay. Mentally, I’ll go swimming with a harpoon. This is nice. I’m relaxing now. Oh, there’s one of the scaly fishtail bitches.”

“Are you ever quiet?”

“Not while someone’s trying to break my back with the soundtrack to a dolphin massacre.”

But I am suddenly quiet. And I do relax. I relax so much I fall asleep. In the middle of the day, a workday, for the first time in so long I can’t remember. And I sleep. I awake refreshed. Rejuvenated. I fuck Colin. It’s as good a thank you as any.