Because I’m a curious person, I get to wondering about how sexual the previous generations of my family were.

(This isn’t as weird as it sounds. My parents are dead. All grandparents bar one are dead. And the greats? Long gone.)

Obviously they were sexual enough to reproduce, otherwise I wouldn’t be here. That goes for the ancestors of most everyone on the planet. But were they happy? Did they smile, or ‘think of England’? Did they have relations because it was part of marriage and  expected of them, or necessary to survive, or did they take pleasure – and give pleasure – and feel joy in coming together?

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Nutty Like a Fruitcake

I was randomly noodling through my computer this morning, and stumbled across this post – written exactly 11 years ago today, in 2001. I’d been writing online for a little under a year at this point, and I was 24 years old…

Some explanations / clarifications after the post, for those curious. (The post is exactly as it was written and posted – no changes have been made, much though I’d love to!)

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My Brother the Ocean

Last Saturday was two years since my brother-the-human died. So Apollo and I went out to visit him, in his new form as the ocean. He’s been the ocean ever since we scattered his ashes there, on the date of his birthday in 2011.

Auckland is on an isthmus, so we’re surrounded by ocean on all sides – I can get to the sea in under five minutes from where I live, driving down to the local wharf. But that’s not where my brother-the-ocean is. He’s at Bethell’s Beach, or Te Henga. While the ocean stretches around Auckland, and from there around the country and the world, he is, I believe, content to explore the great West Coast beaches area, basing himself at Te Henga.

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Ocean hugs

So my brother died a year ago today. I’ve spend most of the week feeling very up and down – but by the time today came around, it went great, because I got the best hugs I could ask for: his.

I drove out to Te Henga (aka Bethell’s Beach) this morning, which is where we scattered his ashes. It’s mid-Spring here, and west coast beaches are known for being blustery and wild at the best of times. Today was no exception. Didn’t stop me getting right out into the water in my togs and saying hi. Granted, I only went in a very little way and knelt in the surf – but the greeting was strong enough to knock me over more than once!

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I am not a slut? Huh?

According to my brother, I am not a slut. It totally floored me when he said this, because ‘slut’ is one of those words which I have cheerfully laid claim to for a number of years.

I mean, of course I’m a slut (albeit an ethical one)! I sleep with lots of people, and get nude in public, and talk about sex all the time!

But no. My brother thinks differently. Which led to a fascinating conversation on Sunday morning.

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Don’t Be Afraid of Your Freedom

Does anyone else have their own theme-song? You know – the one song, that whenever you listen to it, feels thematic/resonates with your life? And cheers you the hell up to boot!

Me, I most definitely do – which is good, as it means I have something to write about.  I’ve had a theme for as long as I can remember, and while it has changed a few times, I’ve had the same one now for the best part of twenty years.

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Good Touch

There have been some very interesting guesses to last week’s post on touching … but apparently I’d made it more difficult than I intended!

Below are the original touching paragraphs, followed by the answer (and the reasons why):

Embrace me. We hug warmly, closely. Your arms are wrapped around my back, as mine are to yours. My right cheek presses to yours, our bellies are comfortably together, your chin rests in my shoulder. I am enfolded, cradled, embraced. So are you.

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Staying Safe – Published!

After my Staying Safe post a few weeks ago, the lovely Hannah, editor of express magazine, asked if I could expand upon it for the next issue. (You may recall I had an article in express last year about Pansexuality. Apparently when I write about Buck Angel it’s a popular thing…)

The latest issue (09/02/11 – 22/02/11) came out last week, and as promised, here is a scan of the article – and the full text of the revised post.

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Fresh Start

Tomorrow Apollo and I move to our new house. It’s a fresh start, in more than a few ways.

It’s been strange, getting used to living without my brother. He lived with us for over four years, and seeing him every day was a part of ours lives. He had his independence, but there was a lot of closeness there. I still automatically look to the sleep-out to see if he’s woken up and drawn the curtains – although, of course, I remember as soon as I’ve done it that he’s now dead.

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Staying Safe

I don’t often talk about what killed my brother. While I don’t shy away from talk of suicide (my mother’s death) or bowel cancer (my father’s), somehow – despite my job and my blog – I don’t often talk about AIDS.

My brother caught HIV, six years ago. He died from Kaposi’s Sarcoma, a cancer many AIDS patients get. He sucked the health lemon, getting sick fast, and dying in under a decade. And I should probably talk about it.

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