Time away….

August 31, 2014


Peedeel is off and away for three weeks of SUN, SEA, SEX & SAND…his blog will sleep soundly for that short period.


August 31, 2014


I sit locked out,
my nose pressed against glass
only I know about.

You sense my distance
but cannot understand
the why of it.

The space I cannot cross.

I watch you dance
with strange disjointed steps
to music I cannot hear.

A ritual to which I can never belong.

You laugh to see me sit alone
as if I made a foolish choice
I am too proud to own.

But I cannot join
this thing that makes no sense
this thing that for me is so unreal.

I must dance to a lonelier beat.


August 31, 2014


The man who drowns himself
then lives wants me
but is frightened. He fears
the dark pools he has to swim
through to find me,
imagines them bottomless
and thick with strange fish.
He fears leaving his house
behind, or worse, trying to strap
it to his back and losing
it midway, watching it sink
to purple depths,
small girlish fingers
slipping out of reach.

(Rachel Kerr)


August 31, 2014


Men love Fannies…

August 31, 2014


Naming the Mythic Man

August 31, 2014


‘We Gypsies have a god; his name is Phara-un. He is part-
god, or good, and part human, or not so good.’

Diana Mafa, Phara-un, God of the Gypsies

I’ll tell you the names of Skerryman. The Vagrant, the
Sadman, the Always-watched. Mr Grayscale. Mr Blue.

Now in the Highlands he bundles up like a lugworm, woollens
and raincoats and thermal knickers; he’s like bait, for the sky
with the thunder-grey roe.

In the Lowlands, he brings in the sea-fog, the beery haar, that
makes streetlamps in the Meadows blimp up like golden
apples. You walk there in the misty night-time, but you won’t
see him.

South of the border is worst. Diesel fumes; the rain tatters
down like stripped wallpaper. Skerryman’s favourites are
dances with veils and cirrus sweeps of arms. Ah, he’s not
doing it to drive you mad, but it’ll drive you mad. It’s because
he’s the Always-watched.

(Jen Hadfield)


August 31, 2014



The two girls were similarly dressed. Both wore blue. The taller of the two, Charlotte, wore a dress with a high collar and full skirt down to her knees. Her companion, Anita, much more daring, had on a low cut dress, with a higher hem that cut off mid-thigh. She carried a small clutch bag embroidered with beads. Both girls wore plenty of make-up.

For proprieties sake we’ll call the club the Open-Sesame, and it was neatly tucked away on one of those respectable suburban streets behind Gayton Road. I’d been a member for less than a year.

Art said to me, ‘I think one of those two could be a bloke.’ I suspected he was correct. Charlotte was tall for a girl, had big feet and hands. But I was fairly certain that petite Anita was pure woman.

Anyway, later on the pair invited me back to Anita’s flat in Ealing Village, and I went. We were together, the three of us, right through to Sunday night.

Saturday night to Sunday…When I left them both I felt totally used up, out of it. Sexually exhausted. But what the hell…You only live once! Right?

A test…

August 29, 2014


“Here is a test to find out whether your mission in life is complete. If you’re alive, it isn’t.”

Lauren Bacall

Wake up Gay…

August 29, 2014