Photo by Camilo, taken Dec 30, 2003

As suspected, I came down with a heavy cold. I've recently taken to boasting that I haven't had a cold since the Spring. The payback for that is that I get one for New Years Eve. It came on quickly with all the sniveling, and sneezing. Now the mes seems to have declined somewhat, and I'm left with an extremely sore throat, which I've been medicating with lots of hot tea (brought to me courtesy of Carolyn, an airline steward of exceptional and heartfelt hospitality).

On the 30th, I was excited about being photographed by a professional photographer, and I didn't want to miss the opportunity unless it could be helped. Fortunately, a 12-hour Sudafed disguised the sniffles and congestion long enough for me to go, bleak, rainy morning, over just north of dismal Euston Road to visit the photographer, a talented 24-year old named Camilo.

Part of my excitement came from the photographer volunteering that he liked to use baby oil and a water spray to accentuate skin and muscle tone. As I've admitted before, I have a thing about water on my skin - it's a big turn on, and I think it l exy in photos too. I think it originated when I was about fourteen, seeing a friend's Cosmopolitan magazine which had a photo of a muscular man with beads of water all over his back.

A short aside here. I recently came across a saying (I don't remember who said it) - "Make no small plans." It really spoke to me. I don't know how many opportunities in life I've missed over the years. Sure, I've taken some risks here and there, ve put myself out on a limb now and then. But a natural reserve, and perhaps a touch of very internalized self-hatred often prevent me from doing or asking for exactly what I want. So I put that saying "Make no small plans", along with the more insta ommunicative "Life is short" as a daily electronic reminder in Microsoft Outlook, the program with which I pretty much regulate my life.

The meaning of the quotation is slowly starting to seap in. It was responsible for naked sunbathing on a hillside in Athens (I'm not sure the original quotation had this in mind). And for some of my recent encounters with goodlooking men (again, not exactly a "big plan"). I trust that someday it will come in handy for more than carnal opportunities. Curiously, it's one of those practices that can corrupt. Take when I was offered the chance of a paid relocation to the East Coast. The "no small plans" kept resounding in my head while I was balancing the decision. According to that mantra, I should accept the opportunity. But you have to leaven the meaning of the quotation with some common sense, and know what is good for you. In the case of weighing whether or not to take the risk of approaching a cute guy, there's really no downside save your own chagrin. And the potential upside could be enormous if he turns out to be more than a pretty face.

Anyway. For the reasons I've just expounded, I was ready to tell Camilo what I wanted, without embarrassment, whereas in the past I'd have seen my predilictions as somewhat embarrassing - something to be kept secret - an indication, perhaps, of a personality flaw. (Yes, I know that evidence of my predilictions is displayed all over the web, but that's different. Don't ask my why, because I just don't know.) So I sent him some photos from my webcam days, where I was wearing a soaking wet white tanktop pushed up to my upper chest. There's something exciting and revelatory in seeing a man unbutton his shirt, or push it up. It's like he's displaying himself with no shame, and with a proud enjoyment of his own physicality. And that's what I wanted to capture, along with the more standard portraits, shirtless shots and nude photos that Camilo wanted to take.

It was an enjoyable experience for me, although I did occasionally have to steel myself to adopt a pose that I knew was unlikely to be flattering (shot from below, for example, my nose looks huge, and my torso skinny). It was fun and sexy to be oi , clad only in white undies and a sodden tank-top while Camilo sprayed me with water. And thankfully there was really no hint of ambiguity about what was going to happen that morning: Camilo had explained he didn't do porn photos, and kept a very pro nal demeanor throughout, even when spraying me down.

He'll be sending me the results by CD, but he did send a couple by email before I left London, the best of which you see above. It's probably the last chance I have to look great in a professional photo before the sagging skin of the forties hits hristmas.

For the rest of the day, I stayed in Neil's flat, nursing my cold, feeling increasingly wretched as the day went on. I was hoping to drink enough tea, get enough rest, and take enough vitamins to stage a recovery in time for going out to the big p onight in San Francisco, for which I've already bought tickets. At this point it looks unlikely. But it's another 16 hours away currently, so there's hope.

I had to sacrifice my pre-paid ticket to the dance performance yesterday evening. But I decided I could endure the planned massage if I cranked the heat up high enough, and it did feel soothing. It was free, which never hurts, offered by a short, g Chinese gentleman who was very good with his hands. I'm afraid I made use of my quotation again and told him not to be scared of venturing closer to my vitals, and he was happy to oblige. I waited for those magic words "Please turn over", and the r the massage was sheer pleasure.

The first flight, to Chicago, was an unbelievable eight and a half hours. I kept oscillating between feeling okay and feeling lousy, depending on my medication and how much tea the wonderful Carolyn had bought me. But I never slept - in fact, neve t all day despite the extra 9 hours of this day due to the change in time zone, and despite barely sleeping the night before. I did some writing, and watched a couple of movies: SWAT, which I've seen before, and which is really not too bad (especiall scene where L.L. Cool-J raises his shirt to display his muscly torso). The second movie was an extremely odd British movie called The Wimbledon Poisoner - a movie of such extreme eccentricity that it could only have been made in England.

I had a tough time making the connecting flight since we were late out of London. And I was feeling rather poorly again - all stuffed up and with a very sore throat (I wonder if I have strep?). There are such a series of obstacles between internat flights connecting to domestic at O'Hare: customs, baggage collection, immigration, checking your baggage again, getting to the right terminal, and then finding your gate in the enormous airport. In the end I made it with ten minutes to spare. Just e time for me to grab the New York Times and a Starbucks, which I promptly upended on a seat, barely missing the businessman in the neighboring seat.

Nearly home now. We're at that dreadful stage where they're playing Everybody Loves Raymond and snippets of Letterman. I'm a terrible television snob - I just can't bring myself to watch any American soaps except M.A.S.H. The in-flight movie on th wasn't the best either - I finally got the chance to see Finding Nemo, and I can't see what everybody was so excited about. Sure, it's pretty to look at, but for a movie to work it needs character, plot and theme, and this was lacking in the first - he characters were either one-dimensional or caricatures. I took off my headphones half way through, and returned to my book, Master and Commander, which I'm reading for the seventh or so time.

I'd been aware throughout the flight of a very cute Asian guy separated from me by the empty center seat. I felt that he was equally as aware of me. As we came in towards the airport, I was asked to move into the center seat since my seat-belt was n, so I immediately engaged him in conversation, although by this point I was losing my voice and sounded not unlike Gollum. We talked about safe subjects like airlines and airports, and probed each other gently for clues of gayness. He said he lived Cienega and Melrose in L.A., and I asked him if that was Hollywood, and he demurred without quite admitting (as I knew too well) that it was in West Hollywood. I guess he wasn't sure that I was gay. And I never really pressed hard enough. I need to ce more MAKE NO BIG PLANS.

And now I really have lost my voice.