"Suck me."

Concentrates on that, tries to, lapping at the head, running his tongue around the crown, one hand fixed at the base. A sundial. No, a whore, pushing his ass back into Ares' tongue and finger, whimpering around the cock in his mouth, vaguely aware of his brother's still form across the room. What if Hercules woke up now and saw this, saw Iphicles with his face stuffed full of cock, his ass fingered and licked by a god? Knowing him, he'd find some way to make it dirty and wrong, when it's the best thing that Iphicles has ever felt, except for the worry about motives that fades in and out. Out now, with an added finger changing rhythms inside him. Suddenly aware of his cock again, hanging thick between his legs, swaying a little. Funny how it's not the center anymore, which has shifted lower to the wet tight place that Ares owns.

There's now a slickness to the fingers slowly fucking him. They're coated with something oilier than spit. It's going to happen, and his heart's clattering in his chest, detaching and floating through him. He's so ready and not ready, open and closed. Needs to see--

"Turn."

Armies follow that voice. Him, too, as he moves back, knees against Ares' waist. And sees this look on Ares' face that stills him, the tense line of Ares' jaw, the shrouded eyes. He's going to be fucked for the first time. It'll change him, which he wants, and maybe hurt like hell, which he might want, too. This hasn't hurt enough, all this stuff with Ares, and it won't be real until it does. Iphicles is used to a painful reality. "Are you going to...?"

"It's why you called me here."

Which isn't a good answer, and he grabs Ares' hands, which are on his hips. "You don't have to, if you don't want to." Tries to sound brave, but it comes out past sulky and near tears.

"I don't do anything I don't want to."

Iphicles is now squatting over Ares' cock, the head hard and insistent against him. He waits for it. Nothing happens. "Ares?"

"You want it? Do it yourself."

"I..." Ready to back off, Iphicles slides a little over the stiff flesh and feels himself open to it. Maybe he can do this, and tries a slow circle. Gets a moan that wraps around the base of his spine. Another circle, then another, and his body relaxes, accepts. Not all the way, not even an inch, just the barest penetration. Stretches him, and Iphicles gasps and wants it even more, teased by the pain, the heat and the fullness. By Ares' almost-closed eyes, his open mouth.

A deep breath, and Iphicles sinks lower. Wider now, stretched too far, and he stops to catch up. His skin is wet everywhere, salting his mouth; his cock sticks straight out over Ares' stomach, very hard. Iphicles thinks that he might look beautiful, sweating and stretched for his first time. Ares doesn't even have to say it, not with his own skin glowing and the burn of his clutching fingers. It brings the weird sense that Iphicles is winning. Sure, Ares has all the power and can stop this with a word, or a punch, or a fireball. Only he doesn't, and Iphicles keeps sliding down his big, hot cock.

A sudden, sharp flare, and the head's in. Can't hold down the groan, and Ares gives him a slow, dark smile before taking Iphicles' hand. He expects it to cover his mouth, but, "Oh, god," he says, because Ares has moved their hands onto Iphicles' cock. The surprise tenses then relaxes him, and there's a final sear as Ares' hips align with his thighs. Full, perfect penetration.

"Good boy," Ares says. Was his voice always that low? "Now fuck me." Still holding Iphicles' fingers, he slides them from the base of his cock to the head. Iphicles goes rigid everywhere, and Ares growls. "Do it hard."

At first, it's slow and awkward as he adjusts, shifting so his body will accept the big cock invading him. Then the head presses hard, right there, and it starts. He starts. Up and down, his thighs straining, up and down, his cock hot in their hands, up and down, his ass flayed, up and down, Ares arching, up and down...

He's whispering Ares' name, and the room's gone now. Just him and Ares, not even him, just Ares, Ares inside him, so hot, stroking him, fucking him, changing him. Only an echo of pain, enough to keep it real, not just a wet dream. Ares is inside him and--

Iphicles loses, hit so hard he can't move, just freezes, quivering, while he comes. There's so much, like his blood's turned to semen, and he shoots it all over Ares' hand, Ares' chest, rivers of it. He might whimper, especially when he hears Ares laughing. He's still coming, still shaking, when Ares pushes him onto his back. They're apart for maybe a second, then Ares spreads Iphicles' legs. One thrust, and he's back, slamming hard, his wet hands on Iphicles' shoulders, pinning him down. Before Iphicles' moan is out, Ares' tongue is in his mouth. The whole house seems to shake, the whole world, as Ares fucks him roughly, bites when he's not kissing.

It doesn't end.

"Come again," Ares says in his ear. "Come again for me."

Can't make a sound by now, can't do anything but be fucked, be used, be taken. He's hard, just like Ares wants, and he jerks off just like Ares orders him. It's so sharp and perfect, he is, broken like old glass, that he comes easily, maybe never stops coming, maybe even cries while it happens. His face is wet, he knows that, so maybe it's sweat, or tears, or Ares' tongue sliding over his mouth, his cheeks, his eyes.

"I'm going to come inside you."

Iphicles does whimper this time, loving the dirtiness, the command, and watches Ares' beautiful, brutal face as it happens. He thinks about Perseus, about Medusa, and hopes the change comes fast; nothing will ever be the same, and that's just what he wants.

The body over him, so hot and slick with sweat, feels like old stone, every muscle tensed. Nothing happens for a breathless instant, then Ares grips his shoulders, fingers to the bone, and-- He's an animal, teeth barred, eyes black, his hips roughly jerking. Wet heat as Ares fills him with come, pain as Ares bites his throat.

This goes on through the night. When the dark finally thins, Iphicles barely notices; he can't move, aching everywhere, come drying on his face, his chest, his stomach, his thighs. It's in his mouth and his hair, an ocean up his ass. Always under it are bruises from Ares' fingers and teeth, dark purple-blue like the sky outside. He needs sleep, years of it, but still knows when Ares is about to leave and reaches for him. "Wait."

"You want more?" Ares sounds amused.

"Don't go." In the other bed, Hercules, long forgotten, is shifting.

"Why not?"

"Because you won't come back." Iphicles knows how it works. His father left.

Ares stretches beside him, yawning. His lips are bruised. "You got what you wanted."

"I want more."

"I don't owe you anything."

"I know." He wants Ares to want him, to come back and fuck him all over again. It's not going to happen. Why would it? "But you could still come back. Teach me things. Show me what you know." He sounds desperate, and he is. "Not just the sex stuff. Everything. How to fight. Be strong. I'll be a warrior for you."

"I've got plenty of warriors."

"I'll be better."

"Sure you will." Ares laughs, then he's standing beside the bed, dressed and perfect. He looks down at Iphicles, who has run out of things to say. "You're a mess," he says, and his hand goes out, then falls back. He's gone.

"Who are you talking to, Iph?" Hercules asks in a sleepy voice.

"No one, jerk-off. Go back to sleep." As the sun moves higher, Iphicles sees what Ares saw: the streaks of come everywhere. It's leaking out of him, too. His mom will freak, and he can't tell her anything. Can't tell anyone. It's this special thing between him and Ares, this thing that's made him a man, even if he still can't fight worth shit. His thighs scream when he slides his feet off the bed and onto the floor, and more muscles complain when he bends to grab his clothes.

Dressed, he pads quietly downstairs, out the back door, and down to the river. The come is running out now, so he runs with it, his bare feet kicking up small clouds on the sandy path. No noise, not even a bird, except for the sound of his feet. The sun should be loud, the way it's beating the darkness, but fights quietly. Iphicles, already pushing past reeds high as his hip, with soft heads that he rubs between his fingers, thinks about Ares, wonders how he'd be on the battlefield. He fucks without a lot of noise...Iphicles stays with that a minute, a hand over his used cock. Just moans and growls. Words, sometimes, dirty ones, about what he wants Iphicles to do, or what he's doing. He's got to find a battle and see. Someone in town will know. Time to leave this shit-hole, anyway. His mother won't miss him, and Hercules--well, he needs to learn to take care of himself.

Iphicles drops his tunic in the grass, then wades in. No bite to the water, not even this early, with summer coming. When it reaches his chest, he dives down to the mossy bottom and lies there, letting the river touch him where Ares did. Stays down until it hurts, his lungs bracing against his chest, then bursts to the surface, blinking in the light. Shakes back his hair and remembers Ares' fingers tangled in it, helping him improve his blow job skills.

On his back, Iphicles floats and stares blindly at the sky through water-heavy lashes. Even without the come, he should sink, weighted by change and newness. He's got an adult body, not a kid's, and he squeezes and strokes himself, testing for differences. Finds only bruises and raw skin, all the marked places that Ares left. Maybe they'll heal tougher, stronger, until nothing can hurt him again. He's picturing this, him on the battlefield, fighting at Ares' side, when Hercules' voice reaches him.

"Iph! Breakfast!"

Sting of resentment, then he ducks under again and swims languidly to shore. Sand warming his soles, he picks up his tunic, which is streaked with juice, and rinses it before tugging it on. It's tight and uncomfortable as he walks, but his mother can't know about last night. She wouldn't understand. Or maybe she would, and that would be even worse. No, he decides, it doesn't matter. They'll know something's different. They'll see him and know. He'll be a man to them.

"What happened to you?" Hercules asks as Iphicles walks into the kitchen. "You went swimming by yourself? We're not supposed to do that."

"Iphicles, you're making a mess," his mother says over her shoulder, as she prods the fire under the pot. "Go upstairs and put on some dry clothes before you catch a cold."

He says nothing, just stands in the doorway, the sun warm on his back. Waiting.

"Wake up, Iph. Mom wants you to change so we can eat, then do the chores. Stop wasting time."

"Come on, Iphicles." She sounds a little impatient, and looks up at him. Her lips are pursed. "You're dripping water all over my clean floor."

"I fell in," Iphicles announces dramatically. "I could've drowned."

"And that's why, young man, you're not going in that river for the next two weeks, until you can learn some responsibility."

"Aw, mom, that's not fair." Hercules pushes back his chair. "That means I can't swim, either."

"Sorry, Hercules, but that's your brother's fault. He knows the rules."

"Good one, Iph. You're such a loser."

"That's enough out of you," she tells Hercules. "Now go upstairs, Iphicles. Now. You'll have to wear your old tunic. It'll be a bit tight, but..."

He hates that they don't see and decides to force the issue. "I wasn't alone last night. Ares was here."

"Iphicles! That's enough. Your dreams are private--no one needs to hear them. Bad enough that you've made a mess of the sheets. Now go before..."

He misses the rest as he runs upstairs. Unchanged.
___

I haven't wore pyjamas since I was a kid; too much clothing proved uncomfortable and distractive in bed, so I always preferred sleeping only in my undies, and sometimes when it's too hot, even without them. Like these past couple of nights.

This morning my father was struck by some sort of sudden nurturing urge to drop by my place and bring me some groceries. I forgot that he has the key, and knowing that my roommate is at work, I was sure that I was alone in the flat. So I got up from bed and went straight to the kitchen for a glass of juice--au naturel--where I run into my Dad placing the food he bought into the fridge.

"Good morning," he greeted me absentmindedly, completely absorbed by what he was doing.

I was so stunned I couldn't move from where I was standing--I didn't even put my hands in front of me in a vain attempt to preserve what little is left of my modesty. I just stood there immobile, silent, paralyzed by the surprise.

Dad started to talk about what he brought to me still not fully looking in my direction-- "See, I bought some fruit, here, and milk, right there. And do you need more cereals? I didn't find the one you--" and with a wave of relief I realized that he still haven't noticed the condition I was in.

Without a word I turned to sneak out and go dress myself, and that's when he, still putting the food in the fridge, said matter-of-factly, "Oh, and had you told me you need some underwear, I would have bought that too."

I guess that previous talk about nudity came like boomerang at me. :)

Iphicles can't sleep. He knows it's a cliche; poets always yammer about it. But it doesn't make it any easier to give himself up to Hypnos and fade away, and he'd like to more than anything. He's not sleeping much these days, just twisting between sheets that always tangle between his thighs and kind of pull there, yeah, pull, like that. Stupid stupid stupid to pretend that sheets are him, Ares, but they're better than his hand, which is too familiar and only half gets him off. Sure, he'll come, but the pleasure's split in two. The other half always fades away, and the only way to reclaim it is if--

But that's not going to happen. War gods do not drop by broken-down cottages on the outskirts of nowhere. Even if Ares did show up, it wouldn't be for him. Hercules was the one people wanted. Lying over there on the other bed, deep even snufflings of air, tired from a full day of being good. Maybe that's what Iphicles should do tomorrow. No more back-talk to his mother, who looked ready to cry the last time. No more fights with dumb-ass kids who whisper not very quietly behind their hands. No more borrowing Hercules' stuff only to give it back in a dozen pieces, his heelmark still on it. Maybe then Ares would come and show him how to be strong and not care about stuff anymore. Show him other things, too, and take the place of the sheet.

"Ares," he says into the dark, low, like he's wooing it. Then, louder, "Please come. I'll give you whatever you want."

Hercules rolls over, yawning. "Go to sleep, Iph."

"Go to Tartarus, Herc." A flip, and he's on his stomach, the sheet wound between his thighs. While Hercules falls back asleep, Iphicles rubs himself against the pallet, his cheek against it, too, his body so hot and needy that--

There's a sound, a rush like the ocean, only there's no water for miles. Cautiously, Iphicles raises his head and cranes his neck. "That you, Herc?" But he can hear his brother's steady breathing. Did a bird fly in? It happened once. Hercules rescued it, of course, and it came back night after night, perching on the branches of the apple tree outside, until Iphicles threw a stone at it.

Just in case it's something worse, he frees himself from the sheet and stands, squinting into the dark. Nothing. The moon is bloated and smirking outside the window, and he goes to it, resting his hands on the rough stone of the sill to look up. He protects his cock from the wall, rubbing slowly, the night soft and quiet and boring around him.

When he turns, there is a large, shadowy form in his bed. A man. The biggest, most beautiful man he's ever seen. Naked, black and bronze everywhere. Iphicles' cock understands before he does, although there's no doubt who it is, just like the statue in his temple, except breathing and hot, even a few feet away. Iphicles associates heat with Ares, so maybe it's in his head; sometimes he hangs around the blacksmith's shop because old Praxiles fought at the battle of Crocus Field and has a shield with Ares' face on the boss.

It must be a dream. The god of war is not in his bed, obviously waiting for something. Wanting something. This has to be a trick, a joke, a--

"Come here," Ares says, although the voice seems to be inside Iphicles' head.

He takes up all the extra space on the bed, and Iphicles isn't sure what to do, or where to look. Ares' eyes know things, can't miss Iphicles' stiff cock, just like Iphicles can't miss...

It's big. Not disgusting like the statue of Priapus one of the neighbors keeps in his field. But still big, lying against Ares' flat stomach as he rests against Iphicles' pillows. And, yeah, it's hard. Iphicles swallows, and hear Ares' laugh, like there's a connection between the swallowing and the looking. Then Iphicles gets it, because he's not ten or anything. Old enough to jerk off, old enough to know what his body's already sure of: that he wants to suck Ares. He's glad of the dark, which covers flushing and shaking hands. "What should I--?"

Ares' smile makes Iphicles think of forests and hungry animals. "Whatever you want."

Too many choices, and he hesitates. "I don't. I mean."

Those strong thighs spread wide, and that's all. It's enough, and Iphicles climbs on the bed between them. There's not enough space, and he has to push Ares' legs wider, which seems pretty daring, almost rude. Iphicles' cock gets even harder, his blood talking, hot murmurs as it roams inside him, almost ticklish. Ares' thighs are hot under his hands and around him, trapping him, although Ares rests his own hands rest outside on the sheets. He wants to feel one on him, guiding him, because he doesn't really know what to do.

"Suck me," Ares says very deliberately. "Or I'll get him to do it." He nods toward the still form of Hercules.

"No." Iphicles uses two hands to circle the base of Ares' cock, which is a lot hotter even than his thighs. He smells leather and something even heavier that makes him shiver. It's stronger as he bends and breathes it in, taking Ares inside him even before he opens his mouth. That's the next step, and the first contact of his tongue against the slick head is...

He shivers again, and can't stop. A god's cock is in his mouth, Ares' cock, and he worries now that maybe he died in his sleep and he's in a corner of Elysium. Only Hercules wouldn't still be here, and Ares would be touching him. That's what he wants even more than this cock in his mouth, to feel those hands on him as confirmation. Because Ares is just lying there, letting Iphicles lick him. He must like it; he's still hard, and there's a definite bitter-warm flow onto Iphicles' tongue. "Is this okay?"

Ares doesn't belong here, getting what has to be a crappy blowjob from the plain old mortal son of Alcmene. Maybe Ares made a mistake. Shit. That had to be it. Iphicles sits up, flushed and too warm with humiliation and the lust that still won't leave. "I'm not the one you want." He points to his brother. "He's Hercules. And," he adds with a defiance that fails to cover the shame, "he won't suck you any better than I can."

"Iphicles--"

It's rude to interrupt a god, but he's getting desperate now. "That's what I'm telling you. I'm Iphicles. He's Hercules. He's the one--"

"Come here." Ares pats his thighs twice.

"But--" Why is he fighting this? He moves up Ares' body, straddling his hips, Ares' wet cock behind him, resting between the cheeks of his ass. "What do you want me to do?"

Ares reaches up and holds his thumb to Iphicles' mouth. He accepts it, sucking lightly, held in place by Ares' other hand on his hip, inches from Iphicles' cock. After a minute, Ares pulls it back, clamps his other hand over Iphicles' mouth, and rubs the wet thumb across Iphicles' right nipple. The second move is smart, because Iphicles moans. A second swipe with the thumb. Another moan. The hand will have to stay, Iphicles thinks; the touching is too good and he's so full of this rushing energy that the moans could turn into shouts.

Questions nudge him under this. Iphicles is too used to being second-best, and what's happening doesn't make sense, even if it feels way past words. Split again, brain over there, body over here, but he can still hear the damn questions, even with his nipples stinging, pushed against bone by Ares' thumb. If he asks, Ares might stop and that can't happen. He takes Ares' hand at the wrist and is allowed to move it. Then it's against his chest, palm flat and rubbing in slow circles over his heart. Thinking stops, then starts again. Questions. He's never learned to keep his mouth shut. "Why?"

No answer, just a pinch, a mean-hot pinch of his nipple. Iphicles' body curves, panic realigning him fast. What if he comes on Ares? The possibility's there. It would be tribute, but Ares might not be impressed with sticky teenage come all over his chest and his face. The images don't help. Seems he's a pervert--his balls tighten just picturing it. "Can I...?"

More silence, just that watchful stare that's mocking even in the room's grey haze. So Iphicles takes back his hand, wet his own finger, and rubs it over Ares' nipple. There's this rumble under him, and he swears Ares' eyes close for a second. He does it again, hitting the other nipple. More rumbling, but the eyes stay open this time. Did he go too far? Iphicles pauses, waiting to see what happens next. No fireballs, so he tries a pinch of his own. Ares' cock presses harder against his ass, and his hand, back on Iphicles' hip, squeezes. Bruises will show in the morning. He'd like to be covered with them, so he pinches the left nipple even harder, tugging it, the heel of his hand resting against Ares' chest. The hair there is black and very soft; even the hair between his legs is more like fur.

With every tug of Ares' nipples his blood surges. Iphicles could come like this, and tugs even harder, which leaves him gasping. Why doesn't Ares kill him? How far would he have to go before it happened? He decides to find out. It's not bravery, just this lust that's eating away his small supply of caution. Iphicles bends and takes a nipple in his mouth, letting the point rest against his tongue for a minute before he bites. This time Ares arches, then reaches for Iphicles' ass, holding him in place. Their cocks rub together, his smaller one against Ares' solid hot length. The difference would bother him in his brother or his father, but not in a god.

Iphicles goes blind. At first he think it's a cloud over the moon. It's not, just another surge of blood that stays and blurs everything but Ares' chest, varnished now with sweat. His teeth close again, and he feels wolfish, which is new and very good. Blood might be even better. He might be growling, and he's definitely biting hard when Ares' hand clamps down on the back of his head, pulling him off. Their faces are very close, and he sees Ares' mouth, really sees it for the first time. Full soft lips framed by the beard, open now, saying something like, "I knew you'd be..." and Iphicles really forgets things like good sense and divinely-ordered hierarchies, and just kisses him. Open mouth against open mouth, and his tongue goes out, finding Ares'.

What happens next is like a hundred fireballs: Ares holds his face and kisses him, sweeping passes of his tongue that don't help the blindness. It's not gentle or loving or tender, and Iphicles loves it, loves the hard rough force of it. Ares kisses like war. Iphicles can't fight back, not right away, too busy trying to breathe and not to come. "Oh, god," he says, against Ares' mouth. "Oh, god." He's discovering religion, the point of it, how it's unconscious and necessary, the best dream ever. Rubbing against him now, bitch-like, thrusting his tongue into Ares' mouth, hot, so hot, and--

Those rough hands on his shoulders. "Not yet."

He's repositioned, his knees on either side of Ares' thighs, but facing away from him. Exposed. Ares makes it worse, or better, holding Iphicles' ass in his hands and spreading him wide. Iphicles ducks his head and the head of Ares' cock moves with satisfying ease over his tongue. He's not sure what Ares is doing now, just feels this wetness and--It's his tongue. Licking him there. It's disgusting for about a second, then he goes limp, Ares' cock sliding a mile down his throat as he sinks. Nothing's ever felt so soft and warm as that tongue circling and, oh god, entering him. As he sucks, frenzied, something pushes in beside the tongue, thicker and harder, stretching him wider. Ares' finger. In him, with this scary insistent pressure, a fullness he's not expecting or even sure he wants--

Until the finger slips deeper and touches. There. At first he thinks it's his heart, that Ares is somehow stroking his heart, and that's why he can't breathe or think, why his whole body's liquid as honey. Got to be something else, some part of him he never knew about. But Ares does, and he's touching it again, and...

"Suck me."

Concentrates on that, tries to, lapping at the head, running his tongue around the crown, one hand fixed at the base. A sundial. No, he's a whore, pushing his ass back into Ares' tongue and finger, whimpering around the cock in his mouth, vaguely aware of his brother's still form across the room. What if Hercules woke up now and saw this, saw Iphicles with his face stuffed full of cock, his ass fingered and licked by a god? Knowing him, he'd find some way to turn it around, make it dirty and wrong, when it's the best thing that Iphicles has ever felt. Except for the worry that fades in and out. Why does Ares want him?
___

TBC

I've just stumbled upon this article about the growing fear of wearing speedos at the beach (!?), and, discarding the wrong generalizations and some ridiculous assumptions of the author, it stirred my interest for the customs of modern culture(s). And while we in Europe are not nearly as prude and conservative about nudity as most Americans are, it's still something that's slowly becoming apparent here too, especially in younger generations of men.

Obviously, some people need to grow up. If human body today can still be considered a thing of shame that needs to be hidden from the view, than our present society has fallen again into the shadows of its darker past. I cannot understand those guys who are really good-looking and still choose to cover themselves with baggy shorts instead of a sexy pair of speedos. And all the hotness aside, speedos are by far the most practical and comfortable thing for swimming--so why avoid them?

But the funniest part is that women's swimsuits are becoming increasingly smaller, while men's seem to grow in size each season. Why the male body is something scary and offensive while women are encouraged to go around practically naked? Or men have become too aware of their bodies as sexual objects that now they feel too vulnerable and insecure being so revealed in public? Is it really just a current fashion trend, or a case for social anthropology studies?

I don't know for others, but I think men on the beach should look like they're going for a swimming, not to fucking church.

( Get over it )

Well, this is the final part of the holiday-trilogy that will elevate the term picspam on an entirely different level.

Bosnia truly took my breath away. Peter Jackson could have easily chosen Bosnia to shoot LOTR movies in, and would've still got those mesmerizing landscapes we saw in the films. I swear, the nature is as astounding as what you expect Middle Earth to be. Even the war-torn parts of it add to the atmosphere of ancient decay and the long passage of time. But don't trust my word; let the pictures speak for themselves.


That's all folks! Hope you enjoyed. And now that the picspam is over, prepare to be bored to death by endless, blasphemous and quite profane rants this journal is famous for. The monster's loose again!

Time for the second part.

Before leaving Croatia, we paid a visit to Plitvice Lakes, the largest and probably Croatia's most well-known national park. It is included in the UNESCO list of World Natural Heritage sites, and it represents a phenomenon of karst hydrography. The otherworldly beauty of its forests, lakes and waterfalls surpass my ability of verbal description--I couldn't believe such colours can exist in nature. If there is a place on this Earth where echoes of Lothlorien can still be found, it's definitely in the Plitvice Lakes.


Next time--the conclusion....

Okay, holiday-recap time. The past month has been so full of excitement, I'm still trying to process it all. I've been to Greece, Croatia and Bosnia (never went to Montenegro because my friends there had to go on their own vacations, so we simply postponed our plans of meeting). Of course, ridiculous amount of pictures was taken and even going through them all is a hard work (that's been eating all my time since I got back), let alone choosing the ones to upload in here.

I've said that I wasn't very happy with my time in Rhodes, but in retrospect I think that wasn't completely fair of me. The beautiful ancient sites I've visited are worth suffering a little hot weather, and I'm more than glad I had the chance to go there and see some of the amazing things that this island offers. I've been a bit sullen for not participating in that fucking-on-the-beach-thing that I saw, but you can't have it all.

The rest of my trip went even better. After ten days of pleasant solitude I joined my sister and father in Croatia, where we spent a little family time on the Adriatic Sea. Croatia is as beautiful as I remember, and I've met some new friends that I look forward to see next season (if not sooner). We were there for about a week before we went exploring countryside of Bosnia, of which I will tell in my next entry 'cos LJ is pulling some weird shit tonight it's really late and I'm tired and sleepy... So here goes round one.


To be continued...

You know that "home-sweet-home" feeling you get when you return from the long journey and finally enter your own house?

It seems I'm devoid of it. It's strange how easily I could leave everything I have in this world behind, and start a new life from zero somewhere else. I thought I'd miss my friends, my flat, my things--books, CDs, DVDs, TV!--but I've adapted so completely to my new surroundings that I almost forgot all about my "former" life. And I wouldn't mind at all if it had stayed that way.

In other words, I'm back and I'm sad that my summer adventure has finally ended. I'm still too tired and disoriented from the trip, so more coherent entry will follow sometime soon.

Someone, somewhere in my hotel has an unsecured wireless internet connection. I am currently leeching off it.

Yeah, I’m naughty, I know, but I just couldn’t endure not being online anymore. So I have to be brief.

I’m not having much fun here. The weather is unbearable. I can’t sleep because of the heat, so I’m super cranky most of the time. The angst has started to pour into my writing, making me realize that for the time being it’s better to abandon my (anyhow futile) attempts to work. What was I thinking? I should be going to the mountains, where it’s cold and desolate, not here to be tortured by the scorching sun, ridiculously expensive prices and too many people that enjoying themselves much more than I do. Okay, it’s not really that bad, just... it’s just not my thing. I should’ve known that.

I have met some nice people, though, mostly from UK. There are British folk all over the place, and they’re the wildest ones--last night I saw one drunken couple fucking on the beach just a few meters away from me. I couldn’t believe what I was (involuntarily, of course) witnessing! Actually I was quite jealous and offended that they didn't invite me to join them--what's the point of visiting an exotic Mediterranean island if not to have public sex with beautiful strangers?

So, overall, Rhodes is a nice island, but I suspect I would’ve liked it far more had I come in the autumn or spring.

And that pretty much sums it up. The day after tomorrow I’m finally heading to Montenegro and I can’t wait to go. I won’t stay there more than a few days; just to visit some friends, and off I go again. The real adventure awaits me in Croatia and Bosnia, I can feel it.

And so the road goes ever on....

(I'm plagued by aphorisms. Is there a spray for that?)

Well, this is a sorta farewell post.

Tomorrow I'm going to Rhodes for the next ten days, and after that I will keep on travelling across Montenegro, Croatia, perhaps Italy and elsewhere, depending on what my budget allows me.

I will be bringing my laptop with me to work on my (terribly neglected) novel, but I doubt I'll have the opportunity to update this journal much until I return home. If I stick to civilization I'll probably be able to find some internet cafés or something, but knowing me, I'll go somewhere remote and deserted where even the electricity will be a luxury, not to mention internet connection. So it may be over a month before my next entry here. But I will compensate my absence with lots of pics when I return. :)

Anyways... off I go. Let the adventures begin!

"Viens chez moi voyageur,
Je t'attends, je t'attends, viens voyageur..."

P.S. I've downloaded and watched the first two episodes of Doctor Who, and although the first one wasn't very good, the second one was promising. Uh, but now I have to wait to come home to continue!

P.P.S. That dream has repeated last night--only this time it was with Anjelica Houston. o_O My under-sexed condition is becoming more serious that I thought.

Best wishes to my Cancer friends! :)

For TODAY: Happy birthday jordle! And for TOMORROW: Happy birthday partical_boi!

Geez, what a bizarre dream I had last night: I was in a movie with Sharon Stone, where I play a psychologist (who is also her daughter's boyfriend); and as she discovers that her husband is cheating on her, she goes to me for comfort, and that somehow turns into a pretty steamy affair... "affair" being an euphemism. I guess the subconscious message is quite clear--I need sex. And apparently anyone will do.

Anyways, been out all night with friends, so now I'm too tired to update. Just wanted to post something related to my previous entry. No, I haven't written a poem unfortunately, but I have been creative. I drew a sort of an auto-portrait, inspired by the art of H. R. Giger. I'm actually quite pleased with myself. Have a look:

 

I just realized I haven’t written any poetry for a very long time. Then again, I haven’t drawn, painted or played a piano even longer. I don’t know why I’ve stopped. It used to be the most natural way to express my innermost thoughts, my dreams and feelings. The way of communication that helped me to face my fears, hopes, desires. And it felt somehow nice drowning into my fantasies; sometimes I was wounded, but always so fulfilled, while the words flowed from my fingers, and verses descended on paper like the whispers of the night...

Perhaps this is one of those nights... those deep, endless ones, when the wind caresses me like a lover, calling me outside to wander into the darkness, under the stars, and the moon makes me hungry for everything....

I wish... I wish...

Okay, so I haven't got much time recently for TV and all the hot new series, but I plan to compensate that ASAP. Everyone is raving about Heroes as much as they did about Prison Break last year, but I haven't seen either yet. I'm kinda leaning more towards Doctor Who and Supernatural, which I should start downloading these days. And I'm in dire need of a new series to go mad about.

Rome is cancelled (damn fucktards!), Battlestar Galactica is over until next year, and so is Dexter; Hollyoaks I follow only via YouTube, because finding a torrent that actually works is like trying to find a dragon's egg, and I've given up on Smallville after the third season with no intention of returning to it (especially after abundance of Clex-slash I've devoured in the meantime). Now, I watch Deadwood and though I'm enjoying it (more than I thought I would at the beginning), it's not really the thing I can become obsessive about. It's not as great as other HBO series, like Oz or Rome were, but hell, it's still very good and it's all I have at the moment.

Still, none of the aforementioned series can compare to the most perfect TV show ever--Six Feet Under. I miss Brenda and David and Keith and Claire and Ruth and Nate. They were just as fucked up as me. They were a lot like my family. Will there ever be another series with as much depth, power and substance? I can hope. But until then, I have my DVDs... and I can join the Fishers again and again, so they can remind me that even when I'm down, every day above ground is a good one.

In their honour, here are some appreciation collages I made a few months ago (now all of these screencaps are lost in the recent apocalypse my computer has gone through; only this memory remains):

David & Keith
Nate & Brenda
Six Feet Under Theme

I've decided to try unsolicited constructive criticism. People seem to want it, and maybe it'll be a great mutual learning experience, not an exercise in petty one-upmanship, as it has always struck me. Perhaps there's thought-provoking and smart constructive criticism out there that will now reach me, not the usual stupid bullshit I've seen in the past.

::pause while I suppress my not-so-latent hostility to this new step in consciousness expansion::

If that's what readers want, then dammit, that's what I'll give them, no matter how uncomfortable it makes me feel. I'll become the psychic Saint George and slay the debilitating maxims of my past, like "if you don't have anything nice to say..." That'll teach those pesky meta-dragons for blowing smoke at my inner prince, who will now happily whine about every #$!@ pea he finds in every @#$!@ story.

Damn! Snarkiness. I'll have to slay that, too, and become an icon of sincere goodwill. Saint Bry the Benign, whose gentle touch will cure all of their writerly wickedness. And when the priestly hand strikes me with the whip of fictive chastisement, lo, I will accept it, wallowing in its curative sting.

Amen.

(Damn snarkiness! It's a disease, I tell you.)

Funny that no matter how hard I try to analyze me, it seems I can never really figure out myself. I am so fucking contradictive, that no one can ever be sure what to expect from me. Even myself!

Like, I can cry like a baby because of the sad movie-scene or a heartbreaking song, and then I can be cold and cruel to the suffering of another. Sometimes I feel like I have two or three different people inside of me. Most of the time I’m so shy that when I’m in the bigger company I barely speak (I really find it more interesting to listen and observe); and then I go through some kind of metamorphosis and suddenly become a star of the evening, the center of attention who entertains everybody else. I’m a total dork, but can transform into a confident, even seductive man. I’m a loner, yet sometimes I crave for presence of other people. I fear love and closeness, but desire and yearn for it. I’m so fucking immature, and so ripe. So strong and still so weak.

Why do I have to be such a paradox? Couldn’t I be just a bit simpler? If only a little bit... My life would be... So. Much. Easier...

(But then again, who ever said life was easy...?)

Sometimes when I'm insecure, I read good stories. Not just masochism, although maybe that's part of it. Pain just kind of rocks, doesn't it, when you're a writer? If it doesn't hurt, then you're doing it wrong. So I take some of my favorite books, read them, then read my fic and feel bad. I did this today, when A. forgot about our meeting and I looked at the rock-puke-fetus otherwise known as my new story.

I'm too close to it right now, and see all the warts and zits, like it's some slimy olive-colored toad with glassy eyes and fly-stinking breath. Only if I rub it, the creepy little thing won't turn into some hot young prince-stud; instead, it'll just spit venom on my hand (at least I think that's venom...).

I need to go and find some books by Nabokov. Sometimes it helps to push myself to the crumbling edge of authorial desperation, feel so inadequate that it physically hurts, and then get all panicky. That panic makes me write harder, better, which cures me.

Until the next time. *g*

"The results of more than a century of anthropological research on households, kinship relationships, and families, across cultures and through time, provide no support whatsoever for the view that either civilization or viable social orders depend upon marriage as an exclusively heterosexual institution. Rather, anthropological research supports the conclusion that a vast array of family types, including families built upon same-sex partnerships, can contribute to stable and humane societies."

Source: Wikipedia.

And still most people don't see the truth of it. Sad. I get so frustrated when I think that there are still some parts of this world where homosexuality is not only illegal, but punishable by death! Fucking imbeciles. Can someone please point me to the train for 22nd century? This time is too primitive for me. Even the ancient civilizations knew more about tolerance than the peoples of today.

Blah. I'll get depressed if I keep brooding on this.

Sometimes I wish that some kind of debate about gay marriage could be orchestrated on a world-wide level that will resolve the matter once and for all. Say, putting on one side a spokesman chosen by those who are defending equality, and on the other their rival chosen by those who are opposing it. The side that wins the debate with logic will be granted the rights they are advocating, and the loser will have to comply.

I also wish that I could be chosen to represent the side of freedom. Because no matter how intelligent, educated and articulate my opponent may be, I am absolutely certain that I would DESTROY them with the sword of my mouth.

Why can't I ever find the clothes that I really, really like? And how come I always spend all my money nevertheless? But never mind the meaningless and superficial rhetorical questions; they were only a prelude to the philosophically-contemplative part of this entry. (Run! Run to the hills!)

So, today I was hanging out with some friends, we were talking, drinking and, like, having fun. One of them then mentioned how he'd read somewhere that more than 40% of adult Americans believe in creationism.

I'm not an American, but still, my hair immediately curled up. How can this be? I never understood why people need a god so much. Aren't we supposed to be evolving beyond such crappy superstitions? It's 21st century for crissake! Don't pull us back into the dark ages (no matter how much I like all things medieval).

Now, although I'm an atheist and have a taste for saucy blasphemy, I don't have anything against the concept of faith, personally. (Notice that I'm deliberately using the word faith and not religion, for there is a significant difference between the two; the former is a personal belief, one's private connection to the spiritual, while the latter is a dogmatic organization full of contradictory rules whose sole purpose is to condition one's thoughts and subordinate them to its own agendas.)

But I think faith should be a personal choice, not something that's forced upon you while you're still too young to think for yourself. People should be gradually introduced to it, but first and foremost they should be well equiped with scientific knowledge of the universe. Then they can decide if what they know is enough, or there is something more beyond the material fabric of our existence.

Poli-Bry. Be afraid.

I'm cruxed, fatigued, burned-out, spent and wearied, oodles of formerly functional brain cells running down my cheeks. Not tears, for I don't have enough liquid in my body to produce them. Nothing pretty and pearly, just slimy pinkish goo.

Yes, that would be me after another day in the tropical inferno.

I don't feel like writing. I don't feel like reading, either. It's too damn hot for anything. I just want to curl up in bed and lie there unconsciously until the autumn.

Or maybe I should just go relax and socialize with my left hand some more?

If this were biblical times, roosters would crow (I'd call them 'cocks,' but that would really undermine the brooding tone I've got going here).

I read Richard Russo's Straight Man, which I adored: any book that can have me laughing out loud at 6am must have its merits, as my sense of humor is usually hibernating then. It also had me empathetically sobbing at 8am, a more rational time, and generally rewarded me with more entertainment and pathos than I get from this hunk of plastic.

Fed Express just popped by. Got a 'my baby's a loser' care package from my dad. Among other things, he sent me a blanket like the one I used to have when I was a child. It's lovely: a crocheted afghan. I can pretend now that someone loves me.

ETA: Apparently the whining helped, for the rain is pouring like it is middle of November... and "pain is nothing that a downpour won't erase..."