Bali Beginnings - Seminyak

I landed and took a shuttle to the Puri Cendana Resort. I picked it on the internet and recommend it highly to anyone who wants to stay in this area, especially for $20 bucks per day. My duplex had a massive bed upstairs and the pool area was as nice as anything landscaped to look like Bali in orlando. Bathtub big enough to drown a Samoan.

The problem is that Seminyak is annoying and not at all what I pictured Bali to be. The hawking is relentless and it's difficult to walk five feet without somebody trying to sell you something. The taxis ("taksi") are motorbikes and every step finds one of them beeping at you twice, trying to get you to hop on. They warn oncoming traffic with one beep. Thousands of beeps per day. Thousands.

I decided to have a big gay night out, since this area hosts the island's gay bars. The three bars are next to each other and people shift to the next at predisposed times. The crawl starts at Q Bar. I am happy to report that Beyonce is was well-represented by the drag queens here.

I quickly find out that I am The Money Shot. I am one of five white guys in a sea of Balinese dudes. Everyone wants my Johnson. I am even more appealing given that two of the others greatly resemble Santa Claus. I cannot flinch without a tiny man coming on to me. It's immediately apparrent that they all want money, or to marry me and wear Armani forever. I loathe this kind of attention and can't land a conversation that does not feel like I am being worked. I drink eight rum + cokes and leave. They are yelling after me when I exit. Meeeeeester. It's like five hundred cats in heat, all with their tails in the air and begging from their puckered backside.

The next day I poked around town. I had my laundry done. $2.50 wash and fold. Score. Dogs roam everywhere, every bitch with her tits to the ground from eleven litters of kids. There is not one dog that even approaches cute - even the puppies have scabs and patchy fur.

I have found that most countries in this part of the world are trapped in 1999. Rock music is supplied by Bizkit, pop music is by manufactured groups whose name was fogotten at the turn of the century. Westlife seems exceptionally popular and I am quite sure that Hooked On Phonics was consulted before the songs were written. Every word is of a fourth grade reading level and rhymes. I whoohoo every time I get hear the sad/mad/glad trifecta. When you say goodbye I want to die - I don't even try to guess why. Eh.

The other time-warp issue is clothing. Quicksilver is by far the biggest thing going, followed by brands that were dumped along with the Gameboy. Sadly, I am out of clothes and purchase the least offensive Quicksilver shirt I can find, knowing that it will wow like Versace.

Seminyak sucks. I meet nobody. I eat shitty, touristed-down food. I am overcharged and hassled at every step. This is fucking Bali?

I am headed for the mountains with hope that there is more to it than this.

The Four Handed Massage Is A Slippery Slope

This is the post that will keep me from one day becoming an elected official. My reputation is about to be cached forever.

Four hand massages are popular in Bali, so I thought that I would take one for a spin. I booked with a spa and housed some seriously tasty sushi on the way to my appointment (I don't know what a butterfish is but man, it tastes like it breathes Land O Lakes through its gills).

I made it to my appontment early and was led right to a dkand cool massage room - my skin was happy just to feel air below 70 degrees. My guys walked in, both Balinese. The dudes here all seem to have this slender-but-not ripped thing going on. You'd be more likely to see Jesus than a Balinese muscle queen.

I was asked to undress, which is when I became a bit shy and slowly took off my clothes. I am this way for all massages. Had I known that I would have two fingers up my ass in ten minutes...well...there would be no point in acting like a nun if I saw that one coming.

Ding and Dong set to work as soon as I was facedown on the table. They split my body up, each working on a different half. In the case of Ding, this came in the form of some intense backwork. In the case of Dong, this included anal exploration, testicular fondling and the occasional reach-around. A finger seemed to be fraternizing with my nether-regions every time I would recover from a knot being pushed out of a shoulder.

It should be said that I hadn't gotten laid in over a month. It should be said that I knew that this was one of Those Places. It should be said that I never anticipated anything this hardcore. Ever.

"Why didn't you ask them to stop?", you ask. Well, my reader, why don't you shut the fuck up? Because until you are bing probed like an alien abductee, you can't have any concept of your vulnerability. It is now my belief that all balinese massage therapists are trained on spaceships by creatures with big eyes and massive fingers. ET is way more into your colon than he is Reese's Pieces.

There was a constant shift between pain (long deep elbow rubs) and pleasure (shaft manipulation). This went on for about thirty minutes. Until it hit me.

Sushi had, of course, been a terrible mistake. Nothing makes me crap faster than a dynamite roll. I had to stop this assplay before somebody got hurt, or at least left smelling like half-digested edamame. And so, The Battle For My Anus began.

The fingers would go up my legs and I would clench. At first, Dong thought he had not oiled his hands enough, pouring another quart over his fingers to be sure. This man was not going to be happy until he mainlined my intestines. He began to play tricks, rubbing my ankles then possibly levitating over me for a quick jab. I remained as vigilant as George Bush on 9/12. My ass would not be pried and the terrorists would not win. Eventually Ding and Dong concentrated on my arms, which left my taint blissfully untouched.

I finally relaxed and eased into the massage. My thoughts started to wander, the way they always do during a good rubdown. The part of the brain that keeps me from taking a dump went back on autofunction, thankfully.

Then, things moved to the fingers. My hands are roving hands by nature. Sleepovers almost always evolve into pre-dawn fumblings because I cannot control my handjob gene, even while sleeping. So when my hands were moved into Ding and Dong's crotches, well, you can do the math. They both had boners in nanoseconds. I'd flipped over by now and was pitching a tent, minus any fabric. They took notice and each lended an oiled hand.
I was finally having a Bel Ami moment.

You would think that the next minutes were earth-shattering. Perhaps you have fantasized about how this goes. How electric the air would get, this sinful event. How it would build and break, a riptide breaking through your insides. Let me give it to you straight.

I came in about nine seconds.

I don't see how anyone could hold out longer, unless you are one of those annoying people that can't cum unless _______ (insert your issue here. You are the people I dump on date three, by the way). It had been suggested for so many minutes and my boys had been sufficiently riled - there was no way my sperm were hanging out. They were well ready for trapeze life, backflipping to their death all over Dong's arm.

The walk of shame has nothing on the post-orgasm massage. Ding rubs his hands through my hair in an attempt to make me feel like nothing has happened. But something has, and we both know it. It involves my children being splattered all over his partner. I have been DingDonged.

I count the seconds until we are finished, both of them slinking out. I pay and spot them each a 200 rupee tip, not sure of protocol (and fearful that they will send the aliens after me). I walk back to my hotel less satisfied than with any massage I've ever had. However, my oiled backside allows for poop to Nascar out of me with incredible speed and grace. Maybe I should re-think the concept of fisting...

Dick In My Face On Fraser Island

I was unable to avoid Mark From Sheffield's penis for three days. It dogged me everywhere I went on Fraser Island. Lake swimming? There he was in board shorts and no underwear. Napping in the hostel room? Now he was in Calvins, leaning over to ask what I was reading. It (IT) was perfect in every way, from what I could tell. I could tell a lot. But it was attached to a straight guy who was hammering every girl in sight. His friends didn't even have a chance. His cock was the ultimate block. Must. Stop. Looking at it.

Aside from dodging British penis, I had a great time at Rainbow Beach and Fraser Island. Dingo's Backpackers is a revolving door of people coming and going from the island - they handle the task with ease and keep a tidy pool (Mark From Sheffield frollicked there, swaying to and fro).

There was a mass meeting for all going to Fraser, which numbered about fifty. We were split into groups of ten and I thanked The Invisible Man In The Sky that my group was not filled with douchebags (there were small packs of douchebags scattered about the hostel). The briefing focused on the creative ways that we might die, and how to best cheat The Reaper. Rule number one revolved around never peeing by yourself at night. There was a fuckload of dingo discussion - do not pet the pretty doggies or they will gnarl your hand off. Any damage to the vehicles would be billed to the group equally, which again made me happy to be douchebag free (the biggest db vehicle would later lose their front windshield when one of the guys broke it trying to moon the truck in front of him).

Day one was full of baby steps. First, a lesson for the four of us drivers, entitled "you're fucked no matter what - plan to get stuck and kill at least one passenger". We learned how to weave just above the water line on the beach (no roads) and to only drive during low tide. We were also tutored on how to avoid washouts, which are giant pot-holes that come out of nowhere when the tides ebb and flow. The average time for an emergency airlift is three hours so you want to be careful. This is not like flipping the family Saturn in front of Dairy Queen.

We ferried to Fraser and prepared for our own little reality show. One sizeable ramp behind us, we motored down the beach. I was shocked at just how alone we were and how little skill we had to deal with the island. If we were dentists, we would be the kind that ripped teeth out with pliers. We nearly broke a spring on a huge washout that we missed - the drop hurt your balls even if you were a chick.

A 14km and near-verticle drive up a "road" (see also: parting of trees and tire tracks) found us at lake mackenzie. Worth the drive. The water can only be described in Jim Morrison terms like "azure". We swam for hours (Mark's cock) and had our first skirmishes with lizards and dingos. Not too bad. 2 foot lizards don't really intimidate me. Snakes - another story.

Setting up the tents proved problematic because many of the poles were broken. We ended up with four vinyl wigwams, some suspended by lines attached to trees. We were just over a sand dune, with the sea crashing on the other side. Undortunately the Douchebag trucks spotted us (it was getting dark) and set up camp around us. Everyone cooked and became far too drunk, far too quickly, including me. Mark ended up in our camp and, of course, asked me to go with him for a Dingo Safe Buddy pee. It was the first and only time I would have considered watersports in order to get some. Alas, just peeing on sand in the moonlight. At least it was a romantic pee-pee. One of the DB's tried to move his truck while drunk, getting it stuck and causing 20 people to give 25 different drunk instructions of how to dig it out. Ten minutes passed before everyone just gave up and we went to bed. My tent collapsed on me at 3am, at which time I was still drunk enough to sleep.
Our campsite looked like Pearl Harbor in the morning. We packed up and left the DB trucks behind, hoping that they found a way to dig their truck out (but not really). I had become fast friends with my tentmates, who I call Huey and Duey. They are both 20 and British and thoroughly great. Huey loves Radiohead and Duey loves cricket. They have been travelling about a month.

We drove to a few tourist spots on the island. The first one was quite boring, so Huey and I discussed the merrits of Amnesiac while downing boxed wine on the truck's roof, while everyone else piddled in a stream. Huey most certainly has a crush on me and I can't tell of he's gay or just into the fact that I can go toe-to-toe with him on pop culture. He's unbelievably cute but I don't want to spend two days on him, just to end up with a crummy handjob (after eleven hours of Coming Out discussion). I'd rather be friends. And what better way to seal it by removing the Goon from its box and drinking from the tap?

We visit the wreck of a really cool ship that had crashed on the beach. Huey and Duey waste no time in discovering real, actual quicksand nearby. Drunk on Goon, we all take turns letting ourselves be swallowed up to our thighs, before being dragged out by four hands. Quicksand is insanely cool and is no longer something I have only seen in movies. This experience is indicative of just how free you are on Fraser; you can wander off and be swallowed by sand without anyone even noticing.

We spend a few hours floating in champagne pools, which are frothy ponds just over an ocean ledge. They are alleged to be shark and jellyfish free - good enough for us. The DB's show up and within minutes one of them has cut his back on rocks, having attempted to stand on the ocean ledge (big wave go boom). Huey and I snooze off our mid-day hangovers. Then we drive off to find a new campsite.

We leave too late and mis-read the tides.

Group fear is a funny thing. There's the Ninny who panics from the start, which sets the tone. "High tide started an hour ago. Goodness." Then a few more people get nervous. Say, maybe if high tide has swallowed most of the beach and left little room to drive. By the time it has swept the driver, he is whiteknuckling with the truck spraying ocean on one side and sand dune on the other. The driver was me.

We had to make it 11km to the first camp area, which is really just a depression in the dune that allows you to drive off the beach. A big deal, but definitely bigger when the ocean is trying to Valdeze your vehicle. Nobody talks, except to point out the deadly craters that might swallow the van. We finally make the site, with little time to spare. Everyone pounds beers before even setting up the tents, a bit jittery from the close call. By dinner it is behind us. Everyone is also happy that no DB's have arrived...we are alone in the middle of nowhere and it rules.

Huey, Duey and I talk on the beach for most of the night, finding a dune spot between the spider holes and the crab holes. Duey goes to bed early and I resist the urge to be the first hiccup in Huey's sex life. Instead we talk until clouds roll in and turn out the stars. I also talk to Ian, who tells me that he is dumping Brenda after the month left in their trip. I wonder how many couples stay together just long enough to make it through travels. Brenda is annnoying and I encourage the breakup, injecting myself as the island's Dr Phil. She is the kind of person who can talk about Tea Tree Oil for twenty minutes and really, who likes those people?

We rode into day three. A snake tried to attack me on the way to Lake Wabby. Ok, it looked at me with apathy and slithered away. But still.

Day three ended with us back on the mainland. We gassed up the truck and turned it in with no problems. The remaining alcohol was distributed equally and we were back to Dingo's, this time as veterans. I watched Superbad with Huey and Duey, then made us a feast of mac+cheese, toast and beetroot. The rest of the booze was consumed and we promised to Facebook, which is much less sad than promising to write.

I left my dorm early, with everyone still asleep. On my way out I passed mark's bunk - he was of course in only jockey shorts and flying his morning wood. I saluted and moved on, sad that I would never see IT again.

Lesbians+Surfers = Paradise

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Lesbians have it tough. First all of the vagina sex. Enough right there. Then, the big strap-on dildos, tanktops, volvos and menstruation. Big questions: Are you a lipstick lesbian or more likely to dress like the mascot of Bob's Big Boy? Most reasonable people would stop at just the vagina factor but sadly, many of these girls just don't have a choice. They have no control on their lust for hairpie.

I bring this up because I have spent some time with Natalie, a
Surfer's Paradise local whom I know from my party days in Toronto. Dyke city. She is now sober and thus I now have a designated driver faghag. Back to Nat in a second.

Surfer's was just another seaside town until the 1960's, when it was renamed and made famous for its meter maids (girls who traded in shifts at Billy's Topless in order to feed expired meters, a service that gave the area worldwide fame). Now it is pre-fab glitz, tourist traps and Sizzler. It feels like an impotent version of the thing that America does best.

My hostel was a total dump. The town was jampacked so I was forced to stay at a place called Sleeping Inn. Never go there. The rooms get up to 100 degrees and have no aircon. I was trapped in a bunkroom with four lovely irish girls, who had everything going for them except the inability to be tidy. Their bags had burped crimpers, bras, tampon boxes, shoes, hair conditioner, scrunchies and clothes. Lots of clothes. I tried to overlook the mess but it was tough to overlook the accent. "Oh Yee-a. Been 'ter New Yairk befar, 'av I". How can you take a person seriously if they talk like Hagrid?

I can't forget to mention that I carried a two liter box of wine onto my flight. This would have shut LAX down but the screener in Townsville simply said "Good on ya!". Boxes of wine are rather common here and drinking it is referred to as being on The Goon. Goon is about 11 bucks for four liters and vodka is about 42 bucks a liter. The choice becomes simple.

My big night out was at a bar called MP's and it is the only gay bar in SP. Natalie accompanied me. The place filled in quickly, despite the fact that is an unimaginably ugly club. Who decides to put fauxliage over a dance floor? A canopy of leaves. Really?

I was accosted by a french guy within three drinks. He put my hand on his dick and crooned "we go to my hotel?". I took a zero on the french exam and within minutes he had his hand on another patron's package. Talk about working a room. A song with a Loverboy sample finally sent us to the door. My lesbian drove me home on the back of her motorbike. I had the room to myself because the irish girls had all hooked up, most likely with others who talked like half-giants. Me? Well. Welcome to Spanklevania.

I hung out with two british guys for the two days following. We went to wet n wild and picked on other tourists at nightclubs. We bodyboarded and played in huge waves. I want to marry them both, despite their heterosexuality. But I know how this goes - inseparable for days and ill probably never see them again. It sounds depressing but it isnt once you learn the rules of travelling.

The shitty hostel had Pizza Night, at which 60 Dominos pizza's were delivered for an all-you can eat binge. This was exciting because the only food left in the vending machine was - get this - canned tuna with mango and sweet corn. I'd fuck a horse before I would try that.

My stint in SP was followed by a one-nighter in Noosa, an amazing little town on the sea. The Halse Lodge YHA gets major points and I wish that I had planned to stay there longer. I made spaghetti with meat sauce, which costed me $15 in materials and could have easily been ordered at a restaurant for half the price....and been a lot less sweaty. I accidentally drank well into the night, after getting stuck in a two hour Tom Cruise conversation with a local dishwasher. The TC conversations are endless because there are never any answers, only questions and theories.

Now pushing onto Rainbow Beach. Fraser Island awaits.

Mission Beach to Magnetic Island

I arrived at the Cairns bus stop drenched, the sky having vomited for the whole walk from the boat. We teetered down the Bruce Highway with a driver who appeared to be on handfuls of trucker speed. I talked to a Mission Beach local who tells me it is a small place. I would end up standing behind her at IGA the next day. "See?"

I was picked up at the bus stop, which is marked by a massive cassowry sculpture....if you've never seen a 30 foot turkey before...well, you'll live. My hostel pickup driver was named Franz and he had a maniacal laugh. "It rains long this week but still girls come, so good for me". Germans.

My two days in Mission Beach rotate between pool time, food time and work time (I am still on the blackberry and dealing with small-scale eathquakes back home). Scotty's Beach House is decent enough for a hostel and fulfills my biggest need; ice cold air conditioning. It seems to be a hub for young males in heat. The hostel restaurant is famous for kangaroo. I can only report that it tastes like kangaroo. I hang around mostly with the 22 year old night watchmen, who does not take his job too seriously. He seems to alternate between drinking too much beer and drinking too much Southern Comfort. I find it endearing when he accidently crushes his glass in his hand, just before nearly vomiting on freshly arriving guests. I think more people should stagger on the job.

I left Mission Beach after two full nights of sleep, although the last was briefly interrupted by a neighbor skull-fucking his girlfriend, intent on driving her straight through my wall and into the North Pacific. Eventually a four hour bus ride and a ferry transport found me on Magnetic Island.

Base Backpacker is exactly the beachhouse I would like to have one day. The community areas are among the best I have seen, although the rooms positively crunch the four bunk beds. It was a gazillion degrees and humid. Air conditioners here are simply ornaments - the rooms leak air and allow the mozzies (mosquitos) to freely enter and bloodsuck. Still, the overall vibe makes these things somewhat easy to overlook, as does two Jaeger Bombs and a generous dose of Deet.

I wish that I could say that I discovered the mysteries of the world on Maggie, but really I just gazed at hot guys by the pool and in the showers. I, of course, met many people and received some great advice on some of the places I am headed. But mostly, perv city. I attempted to learn Ring Of Fire, the latest drinking game. It was created by drunk people, for drunk people and only makes sense when fuuuuuuuucked up. It is a perilous game because everyone pours drips of their booze into a middle cup, which is drunk by the person who breaks the ring. It is a horrible sight to see someone drink a cocktail of thai whiskey, australian beer and malt beverage. Beginner's luck saved me this time.

Over and over I meet people who are in the lurches of life. The answer for them all seems to be travelling, which is why I feel at home out here. I have deeper conversations with strangers than I do my best friends. I cannot figure out what this means. Do I need new friends? Or do I just need to get through this? And what the fuck is "this"?

Taking the ferry back to mainland now. Then a plane.

Headed south.

Gay Scuba Fetish & My PADI Adventures

I will explain to you soon how I almost ended up pants-down and sharing a regulator with a scuba fetishist, who gets off on a good buddy breath. But first…

I have been taking a learn-to-dive Scuba class in Cairns (and the Great Barrier Reef) for five days. I used a company called Pro-Dive, who are quite incredible. It's a tip-top organization with instructors who show patience only previously seen in the caregivers who wipe drool off of severely retarded midgets with one arm. Ace facilities, ace staff, ace everything. Use them.

Getting to the Scuba sex soon. Filthy pervert.

My first two days were spent in a classroom and pool, learning the basics. It's the first class I've taken in a LONG time and I fucked up more things than not, the first time through at least. The thing is, there's really no second time when you have lost your source of air underwater – you kinda wanna get it right on the first go. Still, I felt wildly embarrassed by my underwater fumblings and sometimes required extra care from my instructor, Marco. Perhaps some of this had something to do with the fact that Marco's sixpack glistens at every moment of the day. He asked if I was ok and out of my mouth flew "I'm dyslexic", which is positively untrue. He gave me a soft look and put his hand on my shoulder, as if to let me know that all was explained and that I'll be given some breaks along the way. I marvel that I have not done this more in my life and note to try it again in the future. I wish I had given it a whirl in high school. Sure, it would have meant classes with kids who wore chain wallets, but they never looked like they were working that hard and how bad could it be to end up a machinist? Complete revelation.

For those interested in learning to dive, you'll be surprised at the amount of work that goes into certification. There are tests and quizzes and near-drownings. There is math, which is necessary to compute how long you can stay underwater. There are endurance tests, like swimming sixteen laps and treading water for nine days straight. Also there is the underwater flooding of masks, which needs to immediately be replaced in a "calm, controlled manner". Everyone taking the class must also get a physical and I was surprised to hear that I am in fine shape, according to a man with the indigestible name of Dr. Gopalapillai Sivasamimbi. Dr Sivisambimbi was kind enough to overlook the excessive drinking, lack of muscle tissue & semen stains on my underwear. Tip top!

After two pickling days I take my final exam and pass. Unlike college, I am not allowed to celebrate with shots of grain alcohol. I am immediately put to bed and roused at the bowels of morning, so that I can spend three days on a boat.

Ok...you win. Here we go.

There is nothing less sexy than getting into a wetsuit that is so tight that it makes your penis invert…but that is a big part of what is involved in Aquaphilia, as I learned before I left the USA. I'm not quite sure how to steer towards my filthy conversations involving flippers so I'll just dive in.

My friends and I were all familiar with Scubaguy, because he posts so frequently on hookup message boards. We are all pathetic frequenters of such places. After months of giggling about his extra-curricular interests and a few weeks before my own Scuba certification, I decided to try to figure out what makes a Scuba Fetishist tick. I sent a suggestive reply to his post and within an hour we were chatting up a storm.

It should be said that I have no interest in underwater gayness and really don't have any fetishes to speak of, aside from that brief foray into dolly parts a few years ago. So I jumped on the internet and quickly learned the term Aquaphilia, which blankets any kind of fetish that happens underwater. I was shocked to see just how big it was and what cranked their yanks. The phenomenon seems to have really kicked in with the birth of the internet, as witnessed by several sites exclusively dedicated to waterpumping.

I did the wise thing and downed a bottle of wine before chatting with Scubaguy. I was thrown in the deep end as soon as I asked what got him going. "I love how it looks when a dude has a regulator in his lips. The sound, the look, the eyes in a mask." This would be one of many occurrences where I was do the Snoopy Dance around my apartment, severely skeeved and half-wishing I had a roommate to report these IM's to. Scubaguy was hot and heavy for this stuff…I layed it on thick with a genius backstory about having had a childhood swim instructor who wore fins and adjusted his Speedo'd crotch all of the time. What the hell do I know?

Scubaguy wanted to meet immediately, suggesting that he rent a tank from a local dive shop. The plan he laid out was for me to arrive, then immediately get into a wetsuit. I was then to put on a mask and see where the night took us. I considered seeing it through for about twelve seconds, wondering if it might provide me with the best party story ever. "...then we got in the bathtub and took turns hiding the rubber ducky behind the fake coral that he had purchased at Pet Emporium…"

Ultimately, Scubaguy just creeped me out too much. Within two hours he was talking about trips we could take, one to a remote quarry where nobody would bother us. While there, we would "dive and embrace and feel close". I kept picturing my body as an opening scene on Dexter or CSI, the first corpse found in a string of Scuba-stranglings. I dumped Scubaguy right then and there, with four swift instant messages. He understood that I was "uncomfortable talking about this further" and I got the sense that he had gotten to this point before. Poor Scubaguy. It's got to be difficult to find another enthusiast. Hopefully there are other cocks in the sea.

Sex was the last thing on my mind back here in Australia. I took my pool skills into the deep and spent three days on a boat. I completed my four compulsory training dives, as well as five more just for shits and ha-ha's.

My boat buddy was Bill, who was getting an advanced certification. His aim was to open his own dive shop some day. Breathing in some salt water was not intimidating to bill, since he had spent 8 months in Iraq. Eight of his friends had died, one as recently as December. He himself had been shot twice, both times saved by his body armor, which fits on your chest and is "heavy as a motherfucker". The armor is apparently both a blessing and curse - in an explosion it protects your torso, while your limbs are blown to smithereens. Bill says that this is why so many people have come home alive, but without most appendages. "Oh well", he says after every story.

I passed my practical tests and became Open Water certified. I opted to keep going and become Adventure Certified, which required two tricky dives. The first was a night dive, which was fucking terrifying because of the low visibility (it rained). Imagine being underwater with a flashlight and a glowstick on your back, swimming around and seeing nothing but green eyes come out of nowhere from 5 cloudy meters away. It is no wonder that the dive ended quickly - we were gulping faster than Michael Hutchence on the back of a door. The second dive was a "deep dive" down to 30 meters, which was not too difficult for me. Another guy got dipshit-silly down there and tried to swim away, which is not uncommom if you suffer from nitrogen narcosis in deep water. Me-I've done poppers. This nitogen narcosis was for sissies. Don't tell me about lucidity until you've inexplicably found yourself having sex inside your closet, a perfectly decent bed only ten feet away.

Five days in cairns and on The Reef did me good. I snapped out of usa mode and was forced to think about things beyond my perceived stress, focusing on things that might be a real threat. Like sharks and drowning.

I am now off to mission beach and magnetic island, with Superman Two blaring throughout the bus.

I kinda like my life again.

Sydney - A Hostel Situation

You probably gather that I am as rich as a robber baron (I don't know what a robber baron really is but the metaphor made me sound cultured). This is untrue. And to prove it, I am going to slum may way through the next few months in cheap digs. My plan is to rough it for as long as possible, then check into somewhere with superior plumbing. This should prove hilarious, mostly because I have become a spoiled brat.

I check into Sydney's Central YHA on new year's day. It is a battlefield of zombies who have all overindulged for the past 24 hours. It is also icredibly located, surprisingly clean and fucking huge.

I have not had a roomate in over ten years, so dorm accomodations still shocks my system. Hostel roomies are always diverse, and this is no exception. There is the man in his 50's who farts in his sleep and discusses the boy in Billy Elliott with an excitement that makes me shudder. There are the Germans who whisper constantly, which is disconcerting, given that hushed German plans have some historical precident for terror. There is the French couple who share a bunk and wake me with their overnight orgasms. And there is Jason From Leeds, whose body is so perfect that it forces me to leer when he jumps down from the bunk in his boxers.

I need a shower. Until I see the huge splat of cum on the stall floor.
As a longtime traveller, let me tell you not to be alarmed. I am not foreign to the evidence of a freshly tossed shower-salad. It is no slight on the YHA staff, as it must be impossible to keep up with the round-the-clock spanking that goes on. There's a reason why men sometimes take REALLY long showers, as any backpacker who has spent four nights in a dorm without wanking will tell you. It doesn't have anything to do with shower pressure.

So I step over the spunk and use another bathroom.

My two days in sydney were largely uneventful, despite how busy I kept myself laying in Hyde Park. I made one stab at culture by visiting the Australian Museum. I was struck giddy when ipod picked Spinal Tap's "Stonehenge", smack dab in the middle of my Rocks and Minerals wandering. There's a little of everything here and I should have antiicipated stuffed snakes, but didn't and jumped straight into the arms of a schoolgirl when I encountered them. They happen to display my favorite-named snake, the Death Adder. I admire the simple honesty with which it is named. Having never seen one before, I am amazed at how short and stout it is in comparison to the rest. It's kind of the Kirstie Allie of the snake world - always destined to be best-complimented as "looking rather svelt".

I am shortly off to cairns. But not without first taking a REALLY long shower. .

Now playing: Modest Mouse "Trailer Trash".