The ex factor. With added friend equation.

The last few days have seen me in a weird place.

You see I found out one of my friends is dating an ex of mine from years ago. Do I care? Not really, except I guess I do because I would have expected her to tell me or say something to me herself.

Instead I hear about it down the grapevine 2 months after the fact.

In a perfect world she would have mentioned it to me, I would have gone oh, but I thought you hated him and he definitely hated you? But you know, hey whatever. But obviously we don’t live in a perfect world and for some reason she never mentioned it.

Our breakup was one of the messiest in my life, it took months of drug therapy in my friends’ hot tub. Not to mention the thought that I had some horrible sexual disease that might kill me in the meantime – back in the days where HIV tests took 6 months. The fact that he not only cheated on me but was a baby-daddy 3 months after we broke up was just a big a slap in the face as any.

Yes, cheers for that matey. But it’s one of those things that I’ve forgiven and every so often the baggage comes back to bite me in the ass even though I think I’ve worked through it.

So on one hand I really truly don’t give a toss about it yet at the same time I’m pissed off that she didn’t say anything.

It’s a very weird place to be.

I find this whole situation really bloody bizarre. Did I slip into an alternate reality? If so where the hell is my Jason Momoa? Who, by the way, I met at the Oz Comic Con in Sydney last weekend. He’s a mountain of a furry man who I’d climb any day. Oh yes. PHWOAR!

Getting back to the point though, am I making this out to be something it’s not? Should I even care? It’s not like it affects my life one way or another.

In keeping with this thought process I believe I’ll just cut it loose. I’m similar in my relationships as I am in my friendships. If my friends can’t be honest and upfront with me then why should they remain my friends?

And to end on a nice bright note, mountain of a man. Furry. Tattoo’s. HAWWWT. Please apply within.


Here’s a picture of us stalking Jason Momoa @OzComicCon – Sydney. You’re welcome.


How much, love? The night I nearly became a hooker.

Kings Cross, the seedy underbelly of Sydney.

The famous coke sign.

Well, at least, it used to be and to some extent I think it still is. Even though gentrification of the area has begun. There aren’t as many brothels as there were 10 years ago. The yuppies have moved in and started to call parts of it Paddington, Elizabeth Bay, Woolloomooloo in the hopes of raising their property value. Yet, this isn’t my Cross. Oh no.

My cross is a place for the weirdos, the queers, the hookers, the sexual deviants… It’s a place where you can find all kinds of things and people and no one bats an eyelid when I walk down the street in a latex dress with a fish tail. My partner holding my leash as we walk and instead of getting people gawking you get people smiling and nodding as you pass. It’s the secret handshake.

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Kinky? Doesn’t that just mean wearing your underwear around the house?

I get asked a lot what I mean by “kinky”.

So I thought I’d go through and explain how I first got into the lifestyle and what it’s meant for me.

So google tells me this…


Yet why does kinky have to do with sexual behaviour? For me it encompasses a whole range of other things that have nothing to do with sex.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. How did I discover this lifestyle?

Well I had a computer back in the day when the only chat rooms available were either IRC or yahoo, I think we’re talking circa 1999. I was spending a night online chatting to my regular people instead of studying and a girlfriend I’d been talking to advised me that she thought I was submissive. Say what?

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Christmas always makes me a wee bit weird.

I sometimes envy you guys that you have Christmas, because you see I grew up not knowing about this tradition. Sure I was bombarded with the decorations at the end of the year, but we never really celebrated it. At least not in the gusto that everyone else seems to.

That weird uncle that no one talks about

My Christmases more like this…

Just imagine a few empty wine bottles under that tree and it’s perfect.

With a touch of this…


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