Examples of my work

Busking Lady

To put it mildly, I’d been in a slump for a while. My life lacked any direction and purpose. My friends tried to help, and I kept insisting to them that I knew I needed to make changes with my life, but as time passed, my words grew increasingly stale. I still hadn’t taken any action, and my friends knew it.

I’m somewhat amazed they had the temerity to put up with me through all those years, as I was so tiresome. I really was sick of myself. Evidently I wasn’t sick enough, though, because if I was, I wouldn’t have so relished those moments, when I would abuse myself, because I was such a weak person and a part of myself felt that I needed the spotlight, the attention, the sympathy.

In retrospect I would come to regret projecting myself in this light as people rightfully viewed me as damaged goods, a light touch, sensitive, someone who must be guarded against the harshest realities. At times I found myself mistrusting anyone should they pay me a compliment; surely these words were intended only out of politeness?

Some of the friends I spoke to proposed that I head down to our local beach every day, with the intention of ordering a coffee or some such beverage at the nearby cafe. The ultimate goal would be to make regular trips, day by day, and strike up a “cordial relationship” of sorts between consumer and owner, and if possible any other regular attendees.

It was a very promising idea and in this moment I set out for the beach. Ultimately the trip failed to realize its potential as I was cowardly and never even approached the cafe entrance where a small crowd of people had gathered. I stood alone to their left on the boardwalk, looking out at the waves, as I often would. Then I left.

I can never commit myself to a task, can never apply, and sure enough after only a few days I’d given up on the whole idea of making acquaintances at the cafe. I never ended up going there in the end, anyway, I only stood on that boardwalk, doing nothing, watching passers-by frolic across sea and sand.

Thereupon I switched my radar to our neighboring suburb, just because it was a tad larger and had more to offer in terms of eateries and the like. Ultimately I considered it a good move, or at least something more lively occurred, compared to what transpired down at the beach.

I’d walked down to the main shopping area, I had a bit of money in my pocket and was looking to pick up some lunch, actually, maybe considering the time of day, it would’ve been brunch – in any case, I suppose it was a weekend as it was very difficult to find any place I liked that was open. I swear, all the sushi places, all the Asian eateries were locked, and any place that was open just didn’t interest me.

So, I kept walking, up and up the street, and I kept a pretty heavy pace, which I really shouldn’t have, as I’m not in good shape, rarely exercising as I am. So I walked right up to the very top just to ascertain that there were no promising cafes or the like that I’d missed out on.

As I walked back through the streets, feeling utterly defeated, my ears detected a sound – not for the first time, I realized I’d heard this music while making my initial progress through these streets. Glancing in the direction from which the music was being played, I observed a woman playing some instrument, though I forget what it is now. Standing on the edge of the pathway, I took the wallet awkwardly out of my pocket and strode across to her. Wallet in hand, I took out the ten dollar note and placed it inside her guitar case.

All of this to me seems like such a wild moment, like a flurry of actions, nothing done in a composed way; as she said to me, “oh my God, thank you so much, God Bless You,” my eyes were fixed on the pavement beneath, my hands furiously wringing the wallet shut. Then I strode away in a rush without looking at her. I felt exhilarated and began to sweat and itch. In the aftermath I reflected upon my actions, how I had contributed and made someone happy, even if it was only brief.

Walking back home, I told myself, no matter how badly you or others may view you as a person, you have brought some light to this world, haven’t you? At least a little. Even a tiny donation such as that proves you are capable of some good. Back at home I fantasized about approaching the busking lady and somehow striking up some sort of light banter. Maybe I’d ask her about her musical inspirations. I despaired somewhat as I’m not so musically inclined, my brother is, and we might hit a wall there, but in these fantasies we always seem to overcome these issues and create a fluid dialogue amongst ourselves.

Lady Killer


OK, so this is what happened, the day I went to the bar.

So, I left the house, and I keep looking down, always to inspect my new shirt, of course. It is quite tight, but fits well. I actually liked the fact that it was tight and snug across my chest; all of my other shirts were a larger size than this one and tended to look really bulky. I looked pudgier in those shirts, in this tight shirt, I felt more confident about my body, even though in reality no discernible changes in my weight had taken place.

It was quite a warm day, not overbearingly hot, but warm enough that sunscreen was necessary and the shade felt quite pleasant. I had rolled up the sleeves half way up my arms, something I had mixed feelings about; for my arms carried such a pale complexion and an abundance of hair. I cringed somewhat at the sight. At least going out on such a day as this may prove beneficial for my tan, or rather, my lack of it.

I’ve mentioned on the XT Chat Room a few times that I was absurdly hoping, with all my desperation, that Bill’s shirt may possess secret powers unbeknownst to the common shirt. Or perhaps it wasn’t the shirt itself that possessed the superpowers, but rather, the owner himself posited his own brand of magic upon the shirt, and this magic, a kind of lady killing magic that will drive all women mad with desire, if only you wear the shirt, because you have just stepped into the skin, of the lady killer, himself.

Well, I stood at our local train station, hoping some of the women would notice me standing there in my impressive shirt, but from what I can posit, no one took the slightest bit of notice in my presence on that platform. I tried to make myself look busy. I’d brought a carry bag with me which contained a wallet, a bottle of water, and a notepad; I retrieved the bottle and took sporadic sips, all the while glancing into the horizon.

Then a woman passed in front of my eyes and for some reason the expression on her face has always remained significant to me. I really envied that look. A look of complete indifference, of detachment. Someone so removed, nothing could bother her. A clear conscious. I wish I could find better words, but she was such an individual who existed on a plain totally separate from mine, where we could never see each other.

Boarding the train, I found my preferred seat by the window. Train journeys are very relaxing for me on the whole, the only exception being the occasions when a train passes by us on an opposing line; during such moments, I recall horrible news reports about train collisions and silently I ponder to myself, what if that’s the fate of this train? I also have a tendency to eavesdrop on passengers sitting nearby, if they happen to be jabbering away loud enough. They didn’t have much to say, I can only recall a group of women talking about what they were interested in studying.

After I disembarked from the train, next followed the simple process of finding the Swanston St exit to Flinders St Station. To leave the station you’re faced with a row of leavers that will only retract back and allow your safe entrance through by using a Myki Card. There was a little problem here, though. I was standing behind a group of people and the machine was malfunctioning. In the end to leave the station we had to cross over to the other side and use our card on another machine. It was a bit messy. Finally I was out of the station but my problems were only just beginning.

I was quickly realizing that this was a very poorly planned operation. As I said, I couldn’t go to Gin Palace, as Marie referenced, due to it opening too late in the day. So when I arrived I’d decided to check out a popular little abode known as Sister Bella. The problem was – it was notorious for being really difficult to find, being tucked away in one of Melbourne’s obscure laneways.

I kept walking through Swanston, through Collins, through Russell, all the streets in the CBD area! I got nothing! I was so frustrated with myself, and so exhausted, every chance I got, I paused for a rest at the traffic lights, but everyone around me seemed to be in constant motion, and the longer time passed, the more I felt the heat, it is warmer in the city compared to where we live, down by the bay, and as I always do, I began to contemplate the worst, oh Jeff, what if you get skin cancer, you know the rejection drugs make you more liable to picking it up. You reassure yourself the sun cream will last and take effect, and you keep walking, nevertheless still frustrated at how poorly you’ve planned this excursion.

At some point, you can be found staggering around Burke St when you come upon a “traditional English pub”. I suppose you’ve given up by this point, well and truly, any idea about finding Sister Bella, and you just want some kind of experience to write home about. Besides, it’ll give you the chance to have a rest, at last. As usual I felt that same sense of weight upon stepping inside the moody, darkened interior.

It was quite intimidating as everyone there all seemed to fit into the bar atmosphere, they were all so comfortable. Then again I know some people here want me to step out of my comfort zone. I did feel like an alien, an outsider, an intruder. When I walked over to the bar counter, the guy asked me what I wanted, but instead I asked him if I could look at the menu before making my decision. This seemed to stoop him a bit. Perhaps as their menu is fairly basic, consisting of bangers and mash, fish and chips, and the like.

I ordered fish and chips and was eating so much, I was getting worried my shirt would burst. I tried to reassure myself, you’ve done plenty of walking at a fair pace, that should compensate; then I began to worry other diners would consider me a sloppy eater as I was starving and thus really getting stuck into my chips. Have I included enough bar-room detail? There was the awkward moment where the man came along and claimed I was taking his seat; and one of the ladies at the bar who said beer in a bottle is the best way!

After I left I found myself lost, again. In my own city. I was trying to find my way back to Flinders St Station, and home again. It took a while, and I got exhausted again. Something humiliating happened just prior to reaching Flinders, though. A fairly large group of people had gathered around this man who said he’d performed across five countries, mostly in Latin America. At that point he was playing Spanish Romantic music. He was good and people would applaud after he’d finish, some would drop coins into his case. I decided to do the same. Walking up to him, I bent across and tipped a few coins into his case, but just then, disaster struck.

All this time I’d been carrying my BECK’S from the pub and some of the booze sloshed out into his guitar case. I apologized like a madman and he insisted it was OK, and I stood there awkwardly before leaving. I headed across to Flinders where the train promptly took me back to my home stop. I was very glad to be home as it was a tortuous walk home.

Digital Age


As my internet contacts would be aware of, I have no social life to speak of. To compensate for this void in my life, I spend excessive amounts of time alone to myself, whether it be reading a book or using a PC. In terms of my Internet usage, I sometimes wonder just how differently I regard the online experience compared to other people, as my life offline feels so empty.

Aside from my family, the Internet is the only chance I’ve got to open myself up with other people, and I feel like I expose more of myself than others usually would. Offline I often feel quite repressive and unwilling to express myself to my family; but online where there are no faces I find it so much easier to unburden myself.

The people who are reading this, the people who connect with me on this community… they have friends, girlfriends, boyfriends, wives, husbands, jobs, kids to raise, and all of that, and all after their time has passed at this place, when they’ve long since tired of it, I will have long since passed out of their minds for good, and forgotten about for the rest of their lives, as they move on with all the things I just gave mention to. Life.

But when your universe is as tiny as mine, when you’re more often than not bounded by the walls of your very own home, and the only people who you can call your friends are members on the same Internet community as you are… while for many people it’s just a place to hang out and unwind, I am so sad and pathetic that I find myself thinking about the place and its members on a constant beat: I’ll think about a post that made someone laugh, I’ll fret if I bothered someone with a post, and then I’ll fret some more.

I’ll get anxious about the community’s declining state, I feel a stab of regret every time I see a familiar member go absent for an extended period. But of course, they’re not bounded to the community. That’s the pathetic thing: I feel bounded to the community, as I have so little outside of it, and I really don’t want to lose these people.

It’s really become an addiction. I wonder if there are any others on here suffering from such an emptiness, such an addiction? It’s true that people are afraid of being forgotten when they die, of not leaving a sufficient ‘mark’ or ‘imprint’ upon the Earth. It’s all rather absurd but when I have reached out to my contacts – my friends – in the back of my mind it was all a desperate attempt to leave some vague impression behind, once I’m gone. Whether it be writing a letter or such. Once I exposed my soul to such an extent that one of my friends was burned for it.

Amateur Hour

I’d just stepped into the waiting room and was about to check myself in with the receptionist to tell her of my impending appointment when I paused as I saw that the receptionist was presently being kept occupied at the counter by a young woman. She seemed to be making an inquiry about her own appointment.

Seeing this, I hung back, keeping my body still and my head bowed, waiting patiently for the pair of them to deal with their business. Eventually the woman dealing with the receptionist took notice of me and appealed for my patience, insisting she would be done soon. With what I hoped would be taken as an understanding or conciliatory gesture, I smiled back, reassuringly I hoped, and raised my right hand. Once that exchange was complete, the receptionist beckoned me forth towards her desk, upon which we discussed the details of my appointment on this day: who I was seeing, the time, all the usual stuff. It was a routine six-month appointment.

The appointment must have lasted quite some time, because by arrival, it was clear daylight outside the doctor’s office, but by the time everything was wrapped up and we’d scheduled for the next appointment in six months, it was then pure darkness by the time I’d caught the elevator down to the ground floor and exited the building with some relief, as I would often feel.

Usually at this point I would stand on the curb and wait for a passing taxi to pick me up, but on this night, after leaving the hospital and climbing down a small flight of stairs, I glanced across to my left and saw the same woman who I’d seen discussing her own appointment with the receptionist. She was sitting idly on what appeared to be or resembled a park bench. Walking across to meet her, as I got closer I realized a hammock had been suspended across two trees overlooking the bench in which the woman presently sat.

Thinking this would be a comfortable place in which to strike up a conversation, I climbed upon the hammock and looking back towards her, I said hello, she said hello, and we began talking. She had a very thick accent, Eastern European was my first reaction. I wasn’t sure which country to be precise. For some reason I couldn’t muster the nerve to ask where she came from.

I considered the possibility that she may be new to the country, and therefore like many people in such situations, she may be feeling lonely, alone in a strange land, struggling to make friends. I spun her a tale about my own difficulties and inabilities about connecting to others, with the hope we could share some common ground. After we had concluded with our exchange, we walked across to the taxi rank.

Thankfully there was a host of taxis willing to offer us their services. I opened the back seat door for the woman, and, thanking me, she stepped inside gracefully and buckled herself in, likewise myself. I told the driver of our eventual destination, he keyed it into the GPS, and away we went. We arrived outside my house. After paying the driver and thanking him, we exited the cab and walked towards my home, which was bathed in shadows. Retrieving the key from beneath the mat, I unlocked the door and we stepped inside. We chatted around a little more, but we sounded distracted and agitated, and we knew we were pussyfooting around.

I’d had a thing for oral sex for a while now and I was really hoping she would share my enthusiasm in this respect and thankfully she obliged; we took it in turns and she was really good, so good I was beginning to feel quite guilty about why I’d brought her here in the first place. But her moans were really hot and would be a great turn on for the viewers watching on tape. She left the following morning. We kissed and she gave me her phone number. Maybe I’ll consider it if the movie sells well enough. I turned on the PC and logged on to the Internet. I found a bunch of people talking about me on this online community chatroom that I’m registered at:

[15:43] Stanko05 Jeff is a porn star

[15:43] TTM Imagine if Jeff was an assertive, ultra confident young man in real life [15:43] MarieL puppiessssss [15:42] kat look at him rolling around like that

[15:42] Ronaldwho? awwww

I responded to them, “I wish,” with a downcast emoticon. I logged off at that point and left to collect the tape of last night’s events. There was a small shop downtown that offered good deals for people who indulged in the creation of this sort of amateur, raw pornography. It gave viewers a unique thrill that was separate and distinct from the more refined forms. That woman never knew she was being recorded and would be watched by who knows how many people. The shop gave me an up front fee and if sales of the ‘movie’ were a success, I’d receive additional funds.