Friday, March 13, 2009

Peter and I...

Living with Jude Law's dad simply is not as glamorous as one would imagine.

Peter and Jude haven't spoken in years, due to an argument about self-tan during the shooting of Talented Mr Ripley. As a consequence, Peter's allowance has been cut off completely.

At the time Peter came into my life, I was on a massive come-down from a tour de force pitting me against Judas and Goebbels. I had just lost a handstand competition and was sulking on the beach when I saw Peter building sand-castles. Rather than using a conventional plastic bucket to build his grainy empire, he was using a vintage human skull. I should have known something was up.

We were kicked out of the squat after only one night. Apparently they frown upon heavy man-on-man petting. I wasn't even aware one could get kicked out of a squat. Considering they don't even own the place it does seem rather harsh.

For a moment the future seemed rather bleak. However, Peter surprised me. He found a place for us to stay for a week. Every day, we lay spooning in bed until the early afternoon, our hearts merging into one. I would rise early and make him English pancakes, always over saturating them in the juice of a lemon, much to his disapproval. He cooked beef for me, even though it does not tickle his palette. We spent afternoons exhibiting our foxtrot related skills on the beach and evenings reading the works of Tolstoy and Proust, together by the fire.

Of course physical attraction alone cannot maintain a relationship, Peter and I were destined to fall out eventually, and I guess odds were on it to being over his hobby of taxidermia.

I first found out about his passion by accidently overhearing one of his infamous bathroom soliloquies, the walls are thin. I thought little of it. A couple days later I returned back from an out-of-town industrial farming conference, to find Maude (a local cat that I had quickly grown fond of) murdered, stuffed, and lying on my pillow. Peter worsened the situation when he managed to convince me that by putting ketchup into the stuffed animal, there was a small chance of its revival. Peter was wrong. This would be the final straw.

Peter has since returned back to Paris to try and work things out with his wife. My existence continues.

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