Monday, December 26, 2011
Shall be known as the year in which everything we took for granted as infallible, the pillars upon which we had built our society and accessorized our sense of worth, the status symbols, our aspirations, the glint of gold in our wallet, all that, were shown to be as ludicrous as a single bowl of rice in famine-ravaged dustbowls.
Shall be known as the year in which the new generations, whether you thought them shallow-minded or young, dumb and full of cum, vilified or venerated, got angry and took to the streets. The old power has never looked so flimsy and foolish. It shall be known as the new '68.
Shall be known as the year I got married in England to my American partner, after seven years, but still in the Land of the Free our relationship is not recognised and we haven't rights.
Shall be known as the year I almost died of pneumonia and in the fever dream I got writing again, and in those dreams my mom talks to me, after her death 17/08.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
I always wondered though, what if those desires still existed, their genepool mutated perhaps? Where was the window, slightly ajar, that allowed them to escape, and roam on the streets like they used to in the heady avenues of the seventies?
Then I saw this, and got to thinking.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
As bugs do, we do.
In order to survive, we tear apart; our stomach juices dissolve resistant flesh. We cause unimaginable pain to live.
Our amuse-bouches, the food on our table, all its custard yellows and foamy oxygenated whites, once bitten or broached become a casualty of our body horror, like everything else we brush against in the city. Food, don't touch me. You disgust me. But still, we desire it, ingest and absorb it willingly, unlike bugs (apparently in our sleep we inadvertently eat up to eight a year) and sperm (ditto).
It only seems repulsive if it dangles from our chin in plain view. We flinch, if it lands on our bare legs in summer. No surprise then, if some people get off on food.
He always had a can or two of whipped spray cream in his refrigerator, and not much else, so naturally I was curious. There were tentative dating questions. Guys tend to get straight to the point. Not for us the agonised do-I-tell-or-don't-I? of heterosexual couples. For us, sex should be like test-driving a Ferrari. Sometimes, you want to go real fast.
So, on a couple of occasions, the whipped spray cream came into play, standing proud and erect on the bedside table. I soon found out that in the real, sexualised world of food, it's not dainty dollops of strawberries and cream on your nipples, till you squeal with delight. It's slathering you with honey, and letting the ants come get you. You're sushi, raw. It's filling your mouth with so much of that fucking cream you choke. Panic. Now that's hot.
Still, it wasn't enough, apparently. We had to go faster, faster still.
One morning, I realised this was to be a special occasion. Not that it was anyone's birthday, or some Jewish holiday, but in his mind he had slow-cooked me to the point of perfection, my flesh spry to the prick of the fork.
My hands were tied behind my back. Now that had happened before. He once shackled me to an office chair and proceeded to wheel me out his apartment into the corridor, locking me out. It wasn't for long, and neither did I complain, because boy, wasn't it funny?!
Jesus, sometimes I am such a cypher for the desires of others. I guess that's what makes me a writer. Are we all choking, tied up naked somewhere, at least us good ones?
Then he blindfolded me.
I was led - oh, I forgot to mention, we were both naked - to the bathroom the size of a small New York closet. A stool had been placed centrestage in the tub, and I was instructed to sit on it. I did as I was told. Yes, of course I was a little nervous. I didn't think he was a psycho, no. His hands around my throat, his taste for creative breath deprivation were mere parlour games to stave off the ennui, I believed. But I was... on edge this time, I'll admit. The spray cream, from a vertical position, was not really working. He couldn't attain the volume he desired, the all-important discomfort, the weight I would sink under. Telling me not to go away - that sense of humour again! - I heard him slip off into the kitchen the size of a small New York closet, from where the sound of clanking pots and pans, hubble and bubble reached my ears. Whatever this was, this was big. I was left there for ten minutes, alone with my thoughts. It was a chilly Sunday morning, I pondered. Must wrap up. He had an old, cantankerous cat I remembered, and it was probably darting around his feet, expecting titbits. My mum and dad far away, over the ocean. I pictured them. This, they probably wouldn't understand.
He came back and promptly emptied a bucketful of cream over my head. Vanilla, I think. I was invisible beneath it suddenly, the colour of yellow mud, my eyes, my mouth popping like a fish, all gone. His hands all over this saccharine deluge, investigating me as it dripped down my cracks and crevices. Even blindfolded, I knew how interesting I must have been. I was no longer form, but food, a cakehole, a perfect sugarstorm. I might have said "Ohmygod" but really there was nothing to say. For I was nothing. I was all surface. He was besotted. He was hard, I knew, because he was jabbing me with it. And I thought, so this is it, this is being objectified, this is being a woman, this is being a child under a pedophile's leer, and I like it, except how can this end, I can't go around like this forever, can I? And then he ripped the blindfold off and I saw the one hand clamp back onto his big sex, and in the other was a cream pie, an expensive one to boot, perfect and perfectly round, a colour feast, a 20 dollar delight, and he threw it in my face, the moment foodies have all been waiting for, and then, of course, he came.
Monday, November 7, 2011
If you go down to the woods today, you're in for a big surprise.
Right now it's a place where the bent Portuguese male can vent, the horny can be porny, and brainy boys can impress us with the size of their IQs. I'd love it, if it got more international. It would do my ego the world of good.
I promise, really, truly, madly, deeply, to start throwing parties again soon. Something in my water is telling me the lovers and fighters on the Pink page are ready. I just damn well want MORE!
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Saturday, October 1, 2011
It seems the kids didn't like it.
Queerfest 15, the Lisbon Queer Film Festival 2011. Reaction to two seminal homo films, Boys in the Sand (USA - 1971) and Taxi Zum Klo ('Taxi to the Toilet' - Germany - 1981) ranged from indifference to "I'm outta here." I shed a few queer tears. Didn't they know their history? Didn't they care? Apparently nah mate. As I watched them wiggle it to Born This Way - AGAIN- I'd say they stayed to the end of Taxi just to enjoy the complimentary vodka afterparty.
I'm beautiful in my way 'Cause God makes no mistakes I'm on the right track, baby I was born this way
So, what gives with the gays? Are us oldies an embarrassment (of riches)? Are we crashing bores with our activism and Aids? Was our identity angst so 1981? Probably. I'll admit, your average gay film viewer doesn't give a damn about queer theory and why should he? He's looking for an experience that validates his way of life, and I doubt he's going to find it in the willowy paganism of 1971 or the grungy semi-despair of a decade teetering on the edge of an epidemic.
Don't be a drag, just be a queen
OK, Boys in the Sand's rose-crushed-to-the-bosom pornography was a little ripe. This is a world of sunlit opulence that many in the audience would be unfamiliar with. You should see Fire Island nowadays, really you should! But this secret world, and this movie, were born this way out of the fact homos felt they were under attack. It needed to show the world we were creatures of beauty. Not for nothing was it released (controversially) in mainstream theatres - and with great success. Two beautiful men fucking on a beach was to be envied, dammit! And in the end blondie got his guy, the big-dicked black panther fix it man, interestingly.
I miss that balls-to-the-wall quality of filmmaking of modern gay movies. I love that there was a time when gay movies were interested in documenting/fictionalising our experience with real dick-in-hole sex. It's as if busting their load on film made them work harder on their ideas. (see Shortbus). I haven't caught João Pedro Vale's Moby Dick, but most people hate it. But then we're jealous bitches, aren't we?
So, Taxi Zum Klo was no Fassbinder, but I loved the grainy, chill window into Berlin, I loved the gonzo documentary quality of the filmmaking, I loved the humour, and most of all I loved the messy, not-quite-linear narrative. I love its despair at gay lives biting their own tails - are we even allowed to show that any more? Films since then have been all about the veracity of the emotion, in a soapy, Hollywood way - it's all about poignancy and integrity - but have become more fake by trying to stay faithful to their emotional arc. We've become contaminated by Steel Magnolias, as if gays became relieved they could base their future discourse on that rather than Warhol or Kenneth Angers or even Gregg Araki. Mysterious Skin was the last great 'white' gay movie I saw that was bold and poetic.
Homework: I understand they're making great queer cinema in Asia and South America.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
The hairdresser came round, and got to work. Mum perched uncomfortably on her seat, grimacing. But when it was done, the cut looked great - it took years off her. It was as if we believed a new do might actually have somehow turned back the clock. She looked at herself suspiciously in the mirror, not convinced.
Friday, she went into hospital with a thyroid condition. Tuesday was the last day we sat together, and she had told me a story about being evacuated with her little brother from Birmingham to their aunt's in the country near Coventry. They had been picking blackberries in the hedgerows, eating more than they dropped in their baskets. In the evening they were doubled up with awful stomach cramps, howling. But louder were the air raid sirens. That same night, bombers poured incendiary bombs like fairy dust on Coventry's munition factories and boxed-in streets. More and more bombs, more than ever seen. Mum and my uncle clutched their bellies, begging to be allowed out of the shelter and back in the house, oblivious to the world coming to its end. I didn't remember mum ever telling me that story before. She had a memory for things that happened long ago, and the memories sparkled. The present was dull as lead.
When I was a kid, I used to sit at mum and dad's feet watching TV. After 9pm there were always films and plays on BBC2 with adult content. Sometimes there were queers on these alluring screens, mostly desperate and decadent, and they often got murdered, or committed suicide. But I also saw a movie Parting Glances, set in New York, and despite the grim reality of Aids it suggested something resembling... hope? Parting Glances always meant a lot to me. Meanwhile before 9pm, the TV was chockablock with gays, but presenting all the variety shows and mincing like court jesters across rickety sitcom sets to the sound of canned laughter. Gloom or pink froth, you decide. Dad would head upstairs to bed, since he had to get up around 4 o´clock for his milk round. Mum and I then had a time to ourselves, an enigmatic space in which to talk. One day, she said she wouldn't want a gay child. I was maybe twelve, an ingenue, what I held within me darting like fireflies in the mysterious night. Nonetheless, the statement was harsh, and my heart beat faster with knowing, aware somehow such statements were a two-way mirror reflecting on me and her. Why, I asked? I wouldn't like to see my child suffer too, like they seem to always do, she replied.
Thirty years later, she would have been there, all dolled up at our commitment ceremony. My dad had already passed two years previously. But he would have wanted to come too.
Monday, her heart stopped. I hate to imagine her being scared, of being in hospital, of what was to come, but I think if anything she was just so tired of suffering. My sister had said she had called out for her own mother in her sleep. Something like this will happen to all of us. We all lose, and then eventually we too are lost. But there is an irony here. She was suffering, not me. Her gay child was living the happiest of days and she knew it.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
"Idyllic pastoral gay friendship - smoking Virginia Slims."
"The battle going on over gay marriage in America reveals an awful lot. The Bible belt – people hate gay people. Because the Bible tells them? No, the Bible tells them an awful lot of things that they ignore."
Quote unquote Ian Mckellen.
But as freakish weather conditions continue to uproot, batter and squish normal, God-fearing American folk in droves, surely it's time to ask - is Someone telling them to quit? Because it seems they are truly losing the battle of building formica McMansions and mega-churches, strip malls and crumbling Interstates.
Perhaps it's time the country was repopulated by gender warriors, punk rock girl bands, urban faeries, gay farmers, and lesbian carpenters, thus recapturing the utopian purity the Founding Fathers originally dreamed of? Infant children can be democratically distributed between eager, nurturing same-sex parents (relieving middle Americans of the eternal problem of taking good care of their kids, when they are forceably deported).
As regards where these hordes can be relocated to, a valid suggestion might be Siberia, where they have plenty of room and should feel right at home, or China, which has an equally impressive record of ecological devastation at the expense of progress.
Tell it like it is.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
This faggot grew up in a working class family with little or no money.
This faggot didn't go to college either.
This faggot wasn't particularly at an advantage for being a faggot. And still isn't.
This faggot doesn't believe in stealing.
This faggot doesn't need a flat screen TV, or designer sneakers.
This faggot believes in protesting. This faggot understands, to some extent.
This faggot would employ or work with a person of any colour or creed, if they had educated themselves to a level where I am impressed by their inner strength and determination to be better than the world they come from.
This faggot knows that the youths we are compelled to understand, would beat him to a bloody pulp for being a faggot in their world.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
It's wild that musicos and bands such as Tensnake, Azari and III, and The Art Department are revisiting the Deep Chicago House sound, as pioneered by the likes of Derrick May and Frankie Knuckles.
I was a just out of my teens in Brighton, UK, clubbing intensely at the Zap Club and the Escape. Here I heard Frankie Knuckles' "Your Love" for the first time, and it still blows me away. I bought some of the first compilations available showcasing this sound in the UK, and a s**tload of 12"s. Before long, all this mutated into Acid House, but nothing undresses my soul as fast as the Chicago Sound, certainly not Acid House which was all baggy, tie-dye and oops, lost my erection.
The new Azari album contains familiar, modern classics such as "Reckless With Your Love". I use 'modern' with caution, as the track is a blatant test-tube baby, a lab rat house track. But it all sounds so good!!! I'm sold. And listen to "Undecided", which shows they are not afraid to knock it out the ball park.
One thing. Does this get played on mainstream gay dancefloors? When I lived in NYC this would not have been bpm enough, where tired tribal and pathetic pots and pans techno ruled the drug-addled muscle marys. Bah! Hated the circuit, so much. Alegria, nul point. Azari & III - 8.5/10
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Monday, June 13, 2011
Robert Morris: Labyrinths-Voice-Blind Time (exhibition poster)
In attempting to analyse this image, which I viewed at the Serralves performance art retrospective 'Off the Wall', in Oporto yesterday, I feel myself tumble down the rabbit hole.
It functions on such a primal level, its fascistic, sexualised codes, its 'fuck-me, fuck you' pose. It's the gallery poster for a minimalist artist, for fuck's sake. Seventies' New York City, you eroticised yourself for me yet again.
Robert Morris had, over an extensive 'body' of work been playful and provocative with notions of the masculine artist. I cannot believe he was naive about the power this image would wield. This from the New York Times, in an 80s retrospective: "The tension between ecstasy and expiration, sexuality and death, leads back to Bernini's ''Ecstasy of St. Teresa.'' Mr. Morris is one of many contemporary artists drawn to the Baroque"
Sunday, May 29, 2011
The early 1980s were a fearless time for the outré and the experimental seeping into the mainstream, but the fear was around the corner.
António Variações was a Portuguese pop star who channelled Sparks and Soft Cell and dreamed of the bright shadows of New York. His songs echoed with loneliness and desire. His heroes felt different, outlawed, burning with physical needs unrequited. His first song was a new wave interpretation of fado diva Amália Rodrigues - 'Povo Que Lavas No Rio'. He was brazen, and shimmied on stage like an exotic bird.
All around and on the streets, the mood was a rejection of the grey of yesteryear, but few were as daring as he. His second album 'Dar e Receber'/'Give and Receive') ready, it's 'Canção de Engate´was about to catapult him centrestage. It invaded the radios, just when he died of AIDS-related pneumonio in 1984.
Some 26 years later, slipping through the turgid, grey gay scene of a wonderful but somewhat embattled country, I felt compelled to start a celebratory party in the name of innocent, gaudy fun. Enough of thinking small, or safe. It's early days yet, but as I dream, I think of António Variações, and wish he were here. And I want to create something that honours his wild, wooly energy!
Saturday, May 21, 2011
I always was a hiphop kid. I was that before I came out. In 1982 that meant Grandmaster Flash and New York. Chrome and glass reaching into the sky and Adidas. In 1986, living in Brighton, UK, I saw the Def Jam tours of the Beastie Boys with Run DMC, and LL Cool J with Public Enemy. I had the Def Jam sampler cassette in '88. I knew what they were saying in the lyrics, but I was just responding on an intuitive level. The beats were everything to me, and the idea of living street life. Jimmy Sommerville, twisting in garish (pink) videos was giving me no comfort, no matter how hard my subconscious was telling me to come out. I saw Big Daddy Kane about the same time. I bought Roxanne Shanté and thought Queen Latifah was... ahem, dope. By the early 90s, I embraced hiphop as it got more mainstream, and stupider. I bought Doggystyle, and The Chronic is still right up there.
Between then and now is a long time. Easy E died of Aids, Jam-Master Jay got shot. The charts begat will.i.am. I think he's a closeted homo, right? Oh, and Pharrell. And Missy Elliot and Queen Latifah - duh. I read somewhere that Dr. Dre has a boy toy hidden away out somewhere on Long Island.
And then these fellers came along.
GLAAD has already spoken out about Odd Future Wolf Gang Kill Them All. They're right. But why do I, a 43 year old hip hop kid, get excited by the beats, by the twisted, surreal bile laid over the top like arsenic on french toast. Why do I feel we need these skinny bitches, more than they need us?
Who's a fucking walking paradox now?
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
OFFICE OVERTIME (aka. MERGERS & ACQUISITIONS)
The day Stephanie, our retail manager, told us we would be merging with Kajima Enterprises, was a great day. Trust me, mergers and acquisitions are not jerk off material for me, but pretty Asian boys are.
I’ve been into the pleasures of their smooth, succulent flesh since my first vacation to Bali, maybe ten years ago. Since then, I have got busy on Asian boy ass to the point where I consider myself an expert. Cambodians have the tightest holes, Koreans smell the sweetest (like satay sauce), Thais love to suck dick. At least, they love to suck my dick. But then, it is pretty remarkable, thick with big hanging balls.
So I’m almost creaming my pants when the big day comes and we get to meet Mr. Ozu, the Head of Operations, who has come all the way from Tokyo. Oh yeah, we’re talking The Land of the Rising Hard On here and I’ve a taste for some cool Japanese sashimi.
I haven’t fucked a Jap boy ever. Yikes! But I’m ready to put right that glitch in my record. They’re just too cool, I guess. But playing hard to get has always made me shoot my wad. There’s a general air of expectancy when he’s on his way up in the elevator, I can feel it. Well I imagine they feel it, my co-workers, but I can smell it. I can smell his tight little buns and his coy plaything nestling in those stiff, bristly pubes riding all the way up to the 31st floor. And when he does finally walk in, bowing gracefully to us all, it’s me that’s floored.
He has got to the most beautiful young man I’ve ever wanted to ram my cock into. First of all he’s impeccably dressed in a Gucci suit, open white Hermes shirt that reveals a milky neck and a pale Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. That gets points. His face is framed by a stubbly day’s growth of black facial hair, which has got to be a first. Most Asian boys are clean shaven. It’s also intensely erotic. If I didn’t know better he has logged onto my intense interest and is staring straight back at me with a pair of half-moon eyes that shimmer with desire. At least I hope it’s desire, but I look away because now is not the moment to jump to wrong conclusions.
At the first opportunity I excuse myself and get back to photocopying papers at the machine near my desk. I can’t help myself though; I have one eye firmly trained on that boy’s butt all the time. I can’t exactly be sure, but I’m hoping – did I say hoping? I mean praying that he is checking me out. I guess I wasn’t so subtle after all.
Aware that I’m actually shaking I excuse myself and head for the supplies closet, for which you need a key and I am the keeper of the keys. So, as soon as I’m in there on my own, I take a deep breath. I’m so horny I could top a sumo wrestler. I pull at my zipper and have such an erection it almost finds its own way out my pants. I start beating off, somewhere near the post-its, imagining all the time I have his butt cheeks banging up against my thighs and he’s swallowing my tool with his tight ass. Five more seconds and I’m going to ruin all the printer paper.
It’s right then I get the fright of my life. The closet door opens and Mr. Ozu is standing right there in the shadow of my boner. “Excuse me,” he says in clipped English, “I was looking for the bathroom?” I’m busy stuffing my dick back in my pants, about to speak up, but he waves my hand away. “Please, carry on.” He shuts the door behind him, and turns the key in the lock, which I had forgotten to do the first time, idiot. “I said carry on,” he continues, when he sees my embarrassment. “I am your boss. You will do what I say.”
I spit on my hand and pull some more on my cock, not quite believing I hit the major league jackpot here. Pretty soon I’m working up quite some steam, him watching me all the while with a glint in his eye, arms folded. When he’s seen enough he crouches down and begins to suck me furiously, making all kinds of slurping noises. I’d say Mr. Ozu never got where he was by being discrete, but he’s good. Oh boy, he’s good. His stubble is rubbing against my balls and I see a bead of sweat trickle down his porcelain forehead, and it’s all I can do not to cum a bellyful in his mouth.
We don’t have all day clearly, so he doesn’t waste any time and unbuckles his belt while chowing down on my fat cock. I can’t take my eyes off him, not even to let them roll back in my head. I see a flash of a garden path snaking up his belly and then his circumcised dick says hello. I looove Asian dick. It ain’t the biggest meat on the block, but it has got to be the best cut. This one is sweet, a good size and smooth, with a pretty head all creamed up already, leaving little snail trails on his expensive pants. It would look good in my mouth. But before I can get too attached to it, he stops sucking me off, and has turned around, wiggling his rump in my face.
“Eat my ass, now,” he says.
Wow. I take a quality moment. I reach up and hold his cheeks in my hands. They feel warm to the touch. Flawless. Slowly, I pull them apart. I hear the man’s breath quicken. He has the most sexy hole I could hope to make sweet lust to. I lick a finger and run it softly over the puckered flesh, coiling it through the little tufts of curly black hair He moans and immediately grabs at his cock, letting out a gasp.
“Rim it, I said.”
Wondering if my job would be on the line if I don’t do as I’m told, I grab his cheeks hard, digging my fingers in and land my face right in between, darting my tongue hard and fast into his butthole. He begins to wiggle furiously, clamping himself onto my face, as I suck up the smells of his freshly-showered body. My own dick is already about to blow its top, and somehow Ozu has managed to reach around and grab my nipple inside my shirt. “Next… time…” he is grunting as he pumps at his cock, “you are… going to… fuck… me… HARD!” He yelps and cums like a water cannon all over the door, great cascading fountains of ejaculate that don’t seem to stop.
“Yes sir!” I bellow and I jump to my feet, shooting my wad across his naked butt before me, experiencing a gut-wrenching orgasm that doesn’t subside till I’ve licked all my sperm off his smooth Asian ass. “Jeez.” I squeak, totally spent. He’s already hurriedly pulling his pants up and I say a silent goodbye to his butt that I hope to get real busy on.
Someone knocks gingerly at the door and I realize I ought to freshen up fast myself. “I’ll be right there!” I holler and I rush to appear a little more presentable. I swap an excited glance with Ozu, who is already looking quite the pretty picture.
I unlock the door and open it to reveal Stephanie, regarding us with perplexity. “What’s going on, Daniel?” I can see all heads turn in the office and I know I’m going bright red. I have no idea what to say.
Mr. Ozu butts in, and as I watch that beautiful mouth save my ass, I know I can’t wait till it see it wrapped around my dick again, some day soon. “Daniel, thank you for showing me the office supplies situation,” he says briskly. Then he winks, so subtle only I notice. “I am sure I will enjoy working with you. Man to man.”
(This gig was somewhat shortlived. Apparently there were far too many subtexts in my porn. I admit - subtexts get me hard.)
Friday, April 29, 2011
Esta noite, na Liberdade Provisória, Avenida da Liberdade, 220 -3, Lisboa.
Das 23h00 às...
"Beats, booze, boys." Performance dos hooligays, instalação do Henrique Neves Lopes
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Monday, April 18, 2011
Alguêm tem botas que me pode emprestar para a SESSÃO DE FOTOS PARA A TIME OUT!!!! esta quarta-feira à tarde? Calço 40
Tenho o maior prazer em poder poder divulgar uma nova festa gay em Lisboa: PINK!, de MuchoMacho Productions
'Meninos. Música. E Maluquice.'
Dia 29 de Abril, 23h00-04h00
No lindo espaço privado 'Liberdade Provisório', Avenida da Liberdade, 220-3º
Patrocínio: ULTRA Concept Store and Bar, Calçada do Correio Velho, 7
Bilhetes à venda na Ultra (a partir do dia 22): €5. No evento: €7
Por favor, divulguem a condizer!
Thursday, April 14, 2011
I'm back. Sorry. Throwing a party!
“Imaginem um espaço secreto no coração de Lisboa, onde congregam os filhos ilegítimos de Iggy Pop e Kylie, concebidos numa noite de maluqueira entre a Nova Iorque da Danceteria, a Berlim dos anos 70 e as entrelinhas de uma música de António Variações.”
Friday, April 1, 2011
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
America is a series of mythical landscapes of the past with an unraveling present. Perhaps not so different from us in Europe, but then I thought America was supposed to be exceptional?
Today another example of its exceptionalism leaves us far behind, for the flickering silverscreen of memory.
'Liz!', 2009, oil on canvas and wood, 24" x 48"
Friday, March 11, 2011
|Bassey, Shirley - This Is My Life .mp3|
|Found at bee mp3 search engine|
'Burger': Galapagos Art Space, 2005-2006. 'Heloise and the Savoir Faire', 'Tigger', 'Twisted Dizzney', 'The Leather Invasion', 'DJ Beautiful Crissy', some cops.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Lisbon, didn't you say the gay scene was BORING, that it's always the SAME OLD SHIT, crummy music, that NOTHING INTERESTING EVER HAPPENS?
Well, be careful what you wish for. ;)
Coming VERY soon, 'PINK', courtesy of MuchoMachoProductions (NYC - Lisbon).
ie. ME (and a few talented friends)
Email: firstname.lastname@example.org to be on the mailing list.
E sim, falo lindamente o portugues...