jmroberts

I was going through my spam folder yesterday and came across this e-mail from jmroberts with the title 'good health'. I assumed it was either one of those companies trying to sell me viagra (my woodies tend to be made of softwood nowadays, but I'd prefer, frankly, to discuss my 'parts' with my doctor) or the deluge of Russian babes, including a sweetheart called Ludmilla, who want to have their filthy way with me (don't they look at my blog?). I cleared off all the messages, and then I wondered if jmroberts was actually a sweet kind individual concerned about my health and would think I was just being a meanie in not answering him. So, if you're out there, jm, and want to e-mail me again, I'd be inordinately pleased.

My mother and I are away this weekend, the Jubilee weekend (something to do with the celebration of a queen, but who can say which one?), for five days. It's a long journey down and a long journey back, involving two train systems and a taxi through London, around four hours each way. We're going to see her stepdaughter and husband in Westcliff-on-Sea (so much more refined, don't you know, than it's neighbour, Southend-on-Sea) where the Thames Estuary opens up into the English Channel. In one way, I'll be dreading the whole venture but it will also be, for a fellow locked into the stagnant air of the Midlands, lovely to see the sea and open sky and blow of clean fresh ozone again...

When I get back, I'd like to think I'll stop the boozing and smoking and lose the stone I've put on, like Phoenix arising from the ashes. So, dear hearts, do hang in there.

In the meanwhile, I'd suggest you have a look-see at tomasshawkke's blog (on the right). You won't be the same again...

Dear Tom...

You remember I talked about the feed station I put up for the birds in the back garden, even sent a photo? I got rid of it.

I guess I thought like other twee urban types that it would be sweet and charming to have a bird or two alighting on the perches from time to time, chirruping happily, but I didn't expect to encounter a garden filled with a mass of birds, scrabbling, screeching, in a state of frenzy, in a paroxysm of urgency. It was deeply unsettling, particularly around six in the evenings, when they became even more agitated - presumably to get grub in them before they got settled down to have some shut-eye. I feel sad about it, but I tell myself that food as available and easy as that in a way contradicts how birds 'should' live - that to survive is a Darwinian experience...

Maybe, however, this is just a result of the state of mind I'm in at the moment. I've been unwell now for three weeks with some head/chest cold thing, but what has really hit me hard is a dose of the 'black dog' (as Churchill termed it). I've had bouts of depression since I was a teenager - very extreme in my twenties - and they've come and gone throughout my life. Clearly there's some chemical imbalance going on, and my doctor two years ago prescribed Prozac - as an outcome of my taking on the care of my mother (with dementia). The Prozac has been pretty cool in the way its levelled me out, but I guess it's been having a struggle lately because I've just felt awful, just like the old days.

Still, I've been there before. You have to go with it - the bleakness, the flatness, the overriding sense of pointlessness - and then you get out of it (I didn't put up that subtitle, 'nothing has meaning...' just for the sake of it). Sometime or another I'm sure I'll come out of this one...as countless others do.

(I used to think it was just me, but the ingesting of anti-depressants in this country is phenomenal).

But, hey! Let me post some cock! Cock is good! There wouldn't be a zillion blogsites if we thought otherwise...

 22below

 freewillredemption

 gildedsword

Keep well,
Yours,
Robert.

Dear Tom...

Here's Donna Summer (no longer with us)...

 

I was never a disco babe. I never sprang onto a dance floor and did any funky Travolta-moves. I certainly never coupled with anyone on a waterbed in a room lit with candles and with Donna moaning urgently in the background...

Yet she was there, a factor among a thousand others which gave me an identity. Fifty years on from now, some young guy will suddenly realise he's an old fuck and say the same thing about whoever it was penetrated the fabric of his heart...

(To get some feel of that time, there is, of course, 'Staying Alive, and Spike Lee's 'Son of Sam'. But the best ever, from a gay viewpoint, is 'The Disco Years', which I've got on video cassette - remember those? - and may well be unobtainable today).

Let me move on...

I've been fondling my cock all day long today, like one of those vague old geezers you see around who's reverted to childhood (wait a minute...). God knows I'm not possessed of the generous proportions of these fellows, but we - my cock and I - have been intimate friends for a long while now and still retain some interest in each other...

adamrexx

 hungunicorns

tigerwantsbears

swedishparamedic

Randy? Moi? Fuck, yeah!

Yours,

Robert

Dear Tom...

I was walking up the high street yesterday and a young guy was coming towards me. I think he considered himself a bit of a hunk. And he was, from his broad shoulders, gym boobs and nifty little waist (encased in a tight t-shirt) to astonishingly muscular hairy legs issuing out of the ends of his baggy Gap shorts. He wore flip-flops, and for all the loveliness of the rest of him, it was his feet that held my attention.

Now I'm quite aware that most people regard feet as expressions of the Devil's work, best hidden from the world's view and in some extreme cases should ideally be set in cement. And they have a point, because however much feet do a magnificent job in keeping us upright and mobile, they can be awfully unsightly, from an excessively bulging big toe, a worryingly long second toe, more knuckles than are necessary, a flabbiness, a spatula flatness to cracked heels, sprouts of black hair and a ghastly unkemptness(listen, I've done my research).

I'm particularly appalled by toes that hang over sandals or flip-flops...

Which leads me to my other observation, which is that not everyone can carry off flip-flops. They do have this tendency to flap about the feet, or demand the feet to turn outwards in a north-south fashion. In short, they take control.

Not with this fellow, however. He had a good solid grip of the plastic divide and walked purposefully in a straight line. But it was his feet - my god, his feet! - which transfixed me. It's difficult to say what exactly determines a lust for a good foot, but it has a symmetry, a muscular shapeliness, a uniform colour (his were a soft pink with just a hint of tan), an observation of toenail care and, overall, an obscure eloquent wantonness.

Sadly, I don't think he was getting any of this. He'd got up in the morning, checked the weather, slung on his flip-flops, thought he'd sortie into town, maybe pick up something to show how gorgeous he was from Topman...

As he went past, he gave me this look: what the fuck's your problem?

No problem at all. I just wanted to suck each and every one of his toes...and show him how easy it would be to get his cock hard.

(And for those who are interested in this sort of thing, flickr has a section on male feet. Most of them frightened me, but, hey, chacun a son gout...)

The bad-taste ornamental feed-station in the back garden is kind of freaking me out at the moment. The birds are going insane. I get sparrows and chaffinches and other little birds I'm unable to name fighting over the perches, plus the two fat wood pigeons who appear to be hot for love, and a squawking mass of starlings. I heard this screaming outside the window today: two chicks of a starling (bigger than the parent) demanding food from its beak. The parent was looking decidely harrassed. I love being a provider, but this squabbling disturbs me. Can't they just hold wings and sing 'kumbaiya' together...?

You'll know that my mother has dementia, and it's not been an easy time. In a way, however, it's kind of funny. I got her this remote control recently, which is actually for children - bright green, only five channels available - and for whatever reason she carries it around in her bag. She rang me a few days ago to ask how she put the television on, and I told her about the remote control, and she said, oh, is that what it's for? Then, this evening, we spent about thirty minutes on the phone with me trying to explain how you puncture a packet of ready-made mash with a fork before putting it in the oven. Then I called her again. Why don't you just have some toast with baked beans and some grated cheese on top? Oh! that sounds good! she said. So maybe she had that.

(PS 17/5/12. She had the baked beans (the microwave sort) which apparently exploded, sending beans and sauce everywhere. I went over to her place today (she had a bad fall in the evening) and there were smears all up one wall to the ceiling. I washed it down. I can't trust her to cook anymore. We talked about 'meals on wheels' - it's costly, but looks like the way we'll have to go. I also persuaded her to wear the emergency call wriststrap. We'll see if she remembers...)

I'm going to leave you with this guy. Nothing could be simpler. Just him and his cock. Imagine chewing on that foreskin...

cockartfilthtease

Yours,
Robert

portal

   kitchen/night

Anger, frustration, cynicism only take me so far. Let me move on...

pretty stuff

cockartfilthtease

Dear Tom...

It's about one in the morning and my head is going yadda, yadda, yadda. So I decided that sleep was useless and for the next hour or so pottered around the bungalow. I did this and that - anally re-arranged my dvd collection, stuck heel grips in my shoes, got rid of a mound of newspapers - then I made a cup of tea and rolled a cigarette and went out into the back garden. There are houses all around me, but there was not one sound - just utter healing silence. The night sky was sharp and black - no town lights here - and filled with the shimmer of constellations. I thought that whatever difficulties the next day might bring, this was a good moment. I felt calmer, and then I went to bed.

I love that image you put on your blog...the 'handyman' one. It's a beautifully still, extraordinarily erotic photograph. The intent, the use of black and white, the slightly fuzzy quality...I'd say that was art. I'd say it was equal, in its way, to Ansel Adams or Stieglitz or Edward Weston or any of the other big boys.

Which - sort of - leads me to mention my own blog, because I'm feeling slightly bored and restricted in where it stands at the moment. I just take from whatever I find on the internet and manipulate it, which is hardly imaginative. Your blog, on the other hand, right from the beginning has had this whole pure theme running through it. It's made me think what precisely the fuck I'm doing. I want something sweet, something that's not ugly. Other people are going to have deal with what's not right and unfair.

A few weeks ago I put up, in the back garden, a feed station (nothing more, really, than a fancy tasteless metallic confection) that the little birds - the sparrows and chaffinches - initially viewed with some hesitation, but now can't get enough of. They're flighty and nervy and drop the seed they don't fancy on the ground, but that's all right because Mr and Mrs Plod, two fat sleek piggy wood pigeons, come along and hoover everything up.

There was a song that accompanied a BBC interpretation, lo, many many years ago, of Sartre's 'Roads to Freedom'. The song was called La Route Est Dur. The Road is Hard. So it is, but maybe somewhere along the way we can find companionship and love...

Yours,

Robert