If you have never heard of a gay sauna, it is s place where men go to have sex with other men.  Usually they take off all their clothes at the door and walk around in towels.  I like this because sometimes I judge men very quickly by their choice of attire.  I cannot for example talk to anyone in a country road shirt, I also struggle with Armani t-shirts.

Some guys in the sauna, fold their towel in half so that it is shorter and therefore sexier.  I cannot have sex with these men.  It screams of a quiet desperation that I cannot stand to be around.

Some of my straight friends are envious of the sauna culture, they think that it is a utopia of free love and sex but let me tell you this, it is not.  It is micro culture full of judgement and rejection and sometimes it would be fair to say that the sex in these places is just men using each others bodies to masturbate.  The level of connection is so remote that I am probably better off with a cucumber.

But here’s the thing, we are not really going to the sauna for sex, mostly what we are seeking is validation, we want to feel desired and loved, so we enjoy the chase and conquer.  Sometimes, if you go regularly enough and are very patient, you can land the cutest guy and have the hottest sex ever but then you just want it more.  Your appetite is ignited, not satiated and you end up folding your towel in half just to get a root.

Once upon a time there was a woman, with long lashes and high cheekbones not unlike your own, who also possessed your general disregard for convention. She wandered, as she was wont to do, in ankle-high boots, through the streets of St Kilda on a weekday afternoon, meandering to work in no particular rush. For although she liked her job, she loved the walk even more.

Everyday was much like the last for this woman. A late emergence from her futon in a tiny art deco unit, two black coffees in quick succession, a squirt of product through her unruly pixie cut, and out onto the pavement with its mingled scents of sea air and dog, coffee grinds and stale piss. Shifts were predictable in their frequency but never in their timing, so she’d sit and wait, or stroll and wait, for the familiar buzz in hip pocket, heralding the call to duty at her local secondhand music store.

One day, she set off for work in a particularly chirpy mood. This particular afternoon was not unlike any other, mild for autumn, busy but not manic, the late sun arching over the pavements to cast long shadows of tourists, prams, cyclists, trams. It was unremarkable aside from the fact she was running late, and decided to drive the nine hundred metres to Station Records, rather than her routine amble. That is, until she saw the back window of her ’78 Kingswood smashed inwards, no vinyl records where they should have been resting on vinyl upholstery, cracks across the glass like a spider who had spun his web on Carlisle st-grade-smack.

Because of that, she lost her trademark cool. Replacement glass meant at least another couple of weeks’ wages before she could get it fixed, so she could get it sold, so she could finally hand in her notice. She was only days off booking flights for the trip she’d been plotting for 3 years, stashing notes away in an instant coffee tin on a shelf above her fridge. Dreams of Tokyo, city of lights, mecca of records, so close now she could smell it. Only another couple of days of pushing obscure LPs into the hands of bayside suburbanites and she could book the flights. Until now. She kicked the tyres so hard she stubbed three toes.

And because of that, she was still fuming and wallowing with such intensity that when a man walked into the store, casual as fuck, and placed four records on the counter, asking for a sale price, that it took her a few moments to realize they were the very same four plucked so brazenly from her car only hours earlier. Normally, in this instance, she’d give a brother the benefit of the doubt – coincidences do happen, after all, look at Hall and Oates. But the odds of these four disks, in this combination, from a first edition Paul McCartney post-John, to a B-side Bowie… well, that shit just don’t happen. They stared at each other for what felt like a good forty seconds, but was probably ten.

Until finally she broke the silence. “Are you fucking serious, man? Are you actually, like, seriously attempting make a buck off these? These are My. Goddamn. Records. From my car. My car, that you broke into this morning. And now you’re trying to sell them back to me? Ringing any bells? Any TUBULAR BELLS?” She waved the iconic record in front of his face.

I won’t go into too much detail about the scene that unfolded in the following minutes. There may have been shouting. There may have been heated discussions about the various comparative virtues of extensive layered instrumental odysseys versus the merits of progressive yet accessible pop-music. There may or may not have been exchanges of wide-eyed outrage, followed closely by periods of intense kissing. Either way, my darling children, it’s well past your bedtime, so all I’ll say for now is this – that is the true and mostly unadulterated version of how I met your mother. And we all lived happily ever after. The end. Now go to sleep!

2014 was a terrible year for flying. In March, MH370 winged its way towards Antarctica and disappeared into urban myth, and three months later MH17 was shot out of the sky by amateur insurgents in a war that should have remained 40,000 feet below. The name of a script-happy Indian doctor in Collingwood, who’d prescribe valium with a nudge and a wink, did the rounds amongst my friends.

My relationship with planes took a hit that year too. My subconscious chewed over the facts and fiction of flight disasters as I read everything I could find on the topic. I downloaded the flight-tracker app FlightAware and watched my family’s flightpaths on my iPhone just so I could relax once the notification announced that they had ‘Arrived!’ I remained on the ground but my head was always in the clouds. Living in Sydney, home of Australia’s busiest airport, did not help what gradually spiraled into a preoccupation in my daily life.

My first Sydney house was on the North Shore and from my suburb, the aircraft looked like mobiles circling in the sky, gliding in over the sparkling harbor and disappearing beneath the curated treeline. The 40,000 horsepower engine noise obscured by the sounds of the nearer whipper-snippers cranking up from any moment after 7.01am. From this distance, their path across the sky looked as predestined as the sun and the moon.

But then we moved closer to the flightpath and the dreams started. During the day, the noise didn’t bother me. Not that much. It wasn’t like houses directly under the flightpath, where the windows would rattle and conversation paused for thirty-five seconds every seven and a half minutes. On my daily run around Iron Cove Bay, the descending machines would catch in my peripheral vision, like magnificent pelicans coming down to land.

But at night, night after night, I dreamt of destruction and carnage, of chaos and helplessness. From my subconscious vantage point (always outside, watching on) I watched in dread as fate took its course. My toes would curl and I would scream silently in my sleep the plane ploughed into the earth, sending out shockwaves through the ground, exploding in searing white light or triggering tsunamis that compounded its terrifying conclusion.

Recurrent dreams haven’t been a part of my dreamstate DNA, so I did what any self-respecting Gen-Yer would do when faced with new stimuli: googled it. Dreammoods.com touted itself as the definitive dream encyclopedia. We scrolled down to Plane Crash. “To dream that a plane crashes signifies that you have set overly high and unrealistic goals for yourself. You are in danger of having those goals come crashing down. Alternatively, the crashing airplane represents your lack of confidence, self-defeating attitude and self-doubt”

For someone who had just moved to a new city, started a new career and had finally stopped talking about writing and had started doing it, this was the worst verdict I could have received. ‘Just give up now’ would have done the trick in fewer words. My partner, usually calmly upbeat, was at a loss to put a positive spin on it, because frankly there was no room for an interpretation of anything other than a signifier of utter failure. So we wrote it off as the work of a bitter hack or a wannabe astrologer, and resolved to buy an actual hard-copy dream guide, because surely the writing would be better.

But before too long, I got my first real break in the city with a decent job, we graduated from house-sitting to renting, and the dreams stopped. Perhaps the recurrent dreams weren’t about failing, they were about getting my hands on the yoke of my new life and exercising some control over my path.

Now the only time I think of crashing planes is the moment I step onto them, when I take a deep breath and submit myself to the fate of the universe. And order a glass of wine before the turbulence sets in.

Dear Adland,

I believe that you would like me to fuck off and die.
Look, maybe not “die”, per se – but I certainly get the ‘you should fuck off’ message, loud and clear. But, I guess perhaps should have seen it coming. Given that it’s coming from an industry I’ve not just been in, but given my all to, for, well –over 20 years.

You see, I’m in advertising. I’m a Creative Director. Actually, while I’m talking about me – I’ll add this. I’m strategic. I’m multi-disciplinary. I’m award-winning. I have presented to the CEO’s of some of the biggest companies in Australia. And I’ve nailed it.

The thing is, a lot of Creative Directors have. But that’s where the similarities end.

Because the majority of Creative Directors are men.

Blokes.

Males.

Or, “you know – just one of the guys” as I’ve most recently heard.

Not me. I’m a woman. Yes, I am. A woman, one of only 3%, who had the audacity to crawl into a place that is very clearly reserved for a man.

And apparently when you get to that place that you’ve been working towards for 20 years, the industry’s response is to pull a couple of blokes in in your place, and shuffle you out the back door.

Delightful. Clearly it doesn’t matter that I’ve done the hard yards. I’ve worked my way through all the lofty titles of copywriter, senior copywriter, creative group head and creative director. Apparently, I hit the ceiling. I went as far as someone with ladybits could go.

Now – and I am desperately trying to be diplomatic here – this would be fine, if the consequences were just mine. But they’re not. I mentor a lot of young creatives, both male and female – and I encourage them all to continue, because, and I say this to them “the industry is fucking great and it needs them all”. Man, woman, gay, straight, amish, catholic, have-no-idea-but-still-scrabbling-for-a-belief-system. The industry needs to speak to an amazingly diverse society – and can only do so successfully if it is filled with the diverse voices to speak with. I really believe that by the time these young creatives reach the top – things will be better. So I want them to stay in it – and in the meantime, I’ll do whatever I can, and fight as hard as I can, to make it better.

While the laws of, well “lawland”, forbid me to talk about what exactly that entails, or the particular previous employer that I have been fighting – I will say this.

They may well believe that the opinion of a woman is worthless.

They may well believe that a female creative director can never be as good as the men.

They may well have kicked me to the curb and assumed that I’d shut the fuck up and crawl away.

They. Were. Wrong.

I have no idea how, yet.

But I will be heard from again.

Today I sat in a room with positive, inspirational, motivated, creative people.

I walked in and no one gave a shit about who I was or whose arse I had kissed.

I walked in and no one cared if I was man, woman or neither.

I walked in and no one, but no one, had heard defamatory things about me before hand.

I walked in and found a diverse group of people who gave, shared, laughed, cried and wanted everyone else in the room to kick arse – regardless of who they were or what genitals they had.

How fucking refreshing.

Check out more jenspeirs.com.

Once upon a time there was a girl who was very pretty. She was in the air force and all the air force blokes enjoyed playing stacks on with her. One day the air force men went on a special trip to Japan where they dropped a huge bomb that pretty much wiped out the whole city of Hiroshima. Talk about a stacks on!

As homage to what they had done, the men created a lovely little crown for the pretty girl to wear. It was in the shape of the mushroom cloud the bomb made when it exploded. Every day she wore her crown. Every day. It reminded the men of how powerful they were, how they could destroy the lives of millions of people in one quick game of stacks on. The girl didn’t think it was amazing. She thought the crown looked like a cock.

One day she decided not to wear it anymore. It made her uncomfortable. She kept thinking of all the people who had died – all of the dreams and hopes that would never come to fruition. She didn’t like the men who glorified it – that big penis shaped mushroom cloud. The fact that they also wanted her to wear it all the time just felt wrong.

The men didn’t like that she refused to wear the crown. They told her she was being unpatriotic and dismissive of their achievements. Who did she think she was – suddenly developing morals and ethics. Because of that she decided to leave the air force. It no longer held any charms for her. She felt she was being used, that she had no worth. Instead of trying to do something about it – challenging the men and their adulation of the bomb, she quit.

And because of that the men found another girl to use because they thought their behaviour was okay and that there was something wrong with HER, not them. And so they never learned. As for the girl, she lived her days in sadness. Sad because of the bomb. Sad because of the way the men had treated her. Sad because she had done nothing about it. Until finally, one day the sadness overwhelmed her. She descended into a state of bitterness and hatred, mostly against herself. She decided to do something about it.

She killed herself.

When reports of her death came out, young girls everywhere walked out of their jobs or out of their homes. They left behind families, children, lovers. They walked and walked and walked until each of them found a cliff or an ocean or a bridge. They fell over, into, off – to their deaths. Never again would young women be used to celebrate wholesale destruction.

Once upon a time there was a man who lived in a small little hut at the end of a long windy road in a rainforest.  The hut had some very basic amenities: a single bed, a light hanging from the ceiling, small kitchen and a small table.

The man kept to himself mainly.  He grew his own vegetables in a little garden out the back, he was completely self sufficient for food and so rarely needed to leave his property.  The man was generally very happy, although sometimes the sadness would come for his dog that had recently passed away and when that happened he couldn’t remember ever being happy.

One dark and stormy night a strong wind blew through the trees.  The man was sitting inside the hut on his bed listening to the sounds.  It was a little scary being alone in the middle of a rainforest listening to the wind. If Molly was alive she would be in the bed with him whimpering, keeping him company and he would be telling her not to be silly, that it was just a little storm.  Part of nature.

Suddenly the light went out.  The power was gone.  It was pitch black and there was no light from the moon because the clouds were so thick.  It started to rain and the wind started to howl. It was an unnatural sounding noise even if it was part of nature.

The man lay down in his bed and curled up into a ball with tears in his eyes thinking of Molly.  It was a long restless night full of bangs and crashes and once the front door to the hut even opened and smashed against the outside of the house scaring the man terribly.

Eventually the storm passed, the rain stopped and man was able to go to sleep.

Every day when this man woke up he took himself down to the nearest creek for a wash.  And today was no different.  When he opened the door to his hut however he was not prepared for what he was seeing.  The terrible mess left by the storm – it was a much bigger storm than he thought possible.  There were plant pots broken, the fence had been pushed over, the trees were either bent, broken or on their back and his vegetable garden was in complete disarray.  Even the nearby power lines were in twisted and hanging.   The man knew this was going to be a problem because the power lines near his house powered the nearby village.  Without this power the village would be in trouble.
One day a few weeks ago the man had been down to the village to find a coffin for Molly, he wanted to build a nice grave for her at the other side of his vegetable garden so he could visit her and give her flowers. On his way to town he noticed that there was a new hospital wing that had been built for children since the last time he had come – which was a while ago he must admit, perhaps even longer than he originally thought.  The man walked past the hospital on his way to the pet store and he noticed all these new fangled electronics lighting up, beeping and pulsing through one of the open windows.  Technology. He watched the kids wired up to these machines.  Some with shaved heads.  Some asleep.

Because of that visit to town he knew that electricity was important.  Important for the kids, for the parents and probably important for many other reasons too.  He was worried about it and so he was very grateful when a ute from the local power company turned up with two men in it with hard hats on.  They were going to fix the power lines.  He waved good morning to them and sat down to watch what they did from the ratty old armchair that was sitting at the front corner of his tiny porch at the front of his little hut.

The other men waved back and then put on their protective gear and placed a large ladder up against the electricity pole.  They slowly climbed the ladder and then attached themselves to the pole using thick long leather belts that were clipped to their respective harnesses.  These two men were very fit and obviously experienced in power poles because they were able to climb to the top of the pole in no time.

Perhaps they were a little too arrogant.  Perhaps they weren’t used to people watching them do their job.  Perhaps they looked at the man from the hut and wanted to show them how good they were at what they did.  Was he jealous of their fitness?  Maybe. But whatever it was the man sitting at the front of his hut thought they were showing off a bit too much, they were being a bit too cocky.
And because of that, maybe, these men forgot to do something very important. They forgot to check the neighbouring power pole to see if there was any immediate danger – if they were to but look they would have see a dangerous loose cable dangling precariously.

The two men didn’t notice when another strong gust came and blew this dangerous cable towards them where it snapped and bit and cracked and somehow hit one of the men, even though the man at the front of the hut didn’t see exactly what happened, he knew it was serious.  One of the men dropped immediately unconscious hanging loosely in the air – his leather belts and harnesses the only thing holding him up ten metres in the air. The other man stopped with his eyes wide open looking for any danger for himself, he now saw the loose cable but must have decided that he wasn’t in any immediate danger. The unconscious mans head was swinging slowly just above him so he climbed up and steadied him, feeling for a pulse.  There was none.  He immediately grabbed his workmates upside down mouth with his own to give him mouth to mouth resuscitation. The tears were coming.  He yelled at the unconscious man, slapped his face, reached up and banged on his chest with his fists and continued trying to resuscitate him.  It was all from the worst possible angle but he tried anyway for a long time. Nothing changed.  He kept trying and trying.  His eyes were blurry with tears.

Until finally, he gave up.  The electrocuted man lay with his back against the pole and his friend was crumpled against him with his arms around his chest, tears streaming down his face.
By this time the man in the hut was underneath them calling out asking how he could help.  The man on the pole screamed for him to call an ambulance but the man from the hut couldn’t do that.  He didn’t have a phone.  So the man on the pole screamed with frustration and snot and tears and saliva all mixed together spraying the man from the hut underneath him.  The man on the pole awkwardly pulled out a mobile phone from deep in his pocket hoping and praying that there would be reception this far out of town.

One bar of reception showed on the screen – but one bar was enough.  He called an ambulance and spoke to the operator about what he could do to bring the other man back to life.  She told him to try to bring the man down to the ground but it was impossible just by himself. The unconscious man was too heavy. Tears continued to roll down his face.  It was taking too long.  He knew it was too long.
The man from the hut had climbed up the ladder and did his best to help the other man bring his body down from the pole.  Then the ambulance arrived from nowhere and for a few minutes it was very busy. A rush of people to get the dying man into the vehicle. Which was gone as quickly as it came.

And then there was no one but the man from the hut.  Left standing alone out the front of his home.

Sad and alone and still missing his dog Molly.

Once upon a time, there was a laugher. She laughed at everything. It was a language, a way of being, a communication although limited, it had a range – the laughter could be raucous, sarcastic, thunderous. It could be sad, low and guttural, or even tittering on hysteria. She was a laugher and the laugh was from her body, her ribs expanding and contracting, breath sometimes high or low or snorting out her nose. Of course she drew attention. She didn’t mean to, but to laugh at everything does that.

Every day she rode the bus into town, sometimes at peak hour where she blended into the crowd. Everyone in their own personal space, looking at their phone, talking on their phone, perhaps talking to a friend or brief interaction with a fellow commuter, she blended in with her laughing. No-one usually paid attention, her laughing another background noise. But when she caught the bus at quiet times of the day, her laughter drew attention, drew concerned looks for her wellbeing, for the safety of the onlookers. Who is this woman? Why is she laughing? And sometimes she looked back in mirth, or gently giggled as she looked out the window. She sometimes started a laughing party on the bus with infectious laughter.

One day the bus driver asked her why she laughed. And she just laughed and smiled. He asked if she would like to ride the bus in the afternoon when he picks up the school kids. Some in the area were particularly unhappy. Life had been tough. The kids were still quite young but had stopped that spontaneous joyful laughter as they were rushed towards adulthood, not ready for the strain of life too soon. Because of that, she remembered when she had started laughing. She laughed because she could. Because it felt good. Because she was a child again and the angst of adult worries would loosen from her body with each laugh. She agreed to ride the afternoon school bus. The kids were talking about “party tricks” and how that was a way to make others laugh. Each child  took turns standing in the aisle to perform their trick, each was seen, each offered joy. And the laugher laughed. She did this each day until finally the children were there just for each other.

The laugher had not always been so well appreciated. Her sister was calmer, cooler, hair perfectly in place, cigarette elegantly drawn, beautifully dressed. She was elusive, distant. Her cares slipped over and from her body, never taking hold. Definitely not penetrating her body like her sister’s mirth. The coolness left her remote and beautiful, like a sculpture or artwork. Life fell around her but no longer bubbled up inside of her, no imperfections. She’d cultivated the behaviour so perfectly.

Yet there they were – no makeup, hair done with a rough comb and every day the same thing: a dress. Maybe a grey dress this day, maybe a blue dress like mine if they had a bit of style about them – am I right? But the fact is they don’t have to think about their clothes.

It’s men who have to consider what to a wear: the floral shirt with the baggy pants or the skinny pants with the tunic, do I need a tie, a cravat, a bow tie, a scarf? It’s enough to drive a boy crazy, am I right?

And then, once we’re absolutely certain we look good enough for that lady in our lives, we have to apply our makeup – but how!?! What with the baby and the washing, the ironing and the cleaning, there is hardly a moment in a man’s day when his hands were free!

Well today, all of your worries are over, fellas. Today, I present to you The Applicatron! That’s right, this miraculous device is the technology of the future, delivered to you today! This wonderful little headpiece can save you hours of foundation application, eyeliner, mascara, beard-trim, beard-colour, eyeshadow, blush, concealer, lipstick, highlighting and touch-ups.

That’s right, gentlemen, one day you will say to yourself “how did we ever live without our Applicatron?”. When housework and cooking can be done with ease while the Applicatron applies, touches up and fixes your makeup for you – all for the one low price of just $359.99 or five easy payments of just $129.99.

The Applicatron – have that special lady in your life swooning when she returns home from work. She can’t ignore you anymore! You’ll be the centrepiece of the home day and night and all because of that clever little secret you keep hidden away in your briefcase.

Don’t tell her how you do it – it will be your little secret!

But, you ask – how does it work? Well, fellas, it’s all to do with the miracle of electronics! That’s right, this tiny device carries within its stylish, contemporary plastic case an advanced integrated circuit board and because of that magic of modern engineering, the Applicatron will allow you – the hardworking, everyday househusband – to not only apply your makeup hand-free in minutes, but to program the style which you want to wear for any occasion!

That’s right boys, not only will the Applicatron do your work for you, but you can tell it exactly how you want that work done! The Applicatron comes with five programmable styles and a selection of twelve different colours for eyes, cheeks, lips, a choice of three colours for your beard and a choice of three fabulous foundation colours.

Let me show you how we do it, fellas. I’ll need a volunteer – yes, you sweety, why don’t you come up here and show us that wonderful beard. Oh I do envy you boys and your beards. Now all you other gorgeous gents take a look at…Mike here. Thanks, Mike. I am going to program the Applicatron now – what’s your favourite colour, Mike?

Green! That’s a bit different. No, don’t be shy, Mike – I like different. Maybe we can get a drink you and me after you buy your Applicatron. HAHAHA!

Now – Mike here likes green, I’m gonna go ahead and give him some gorgeous green eyeshadow. Mike, what colour do you like your beard? You a brown kind of guy – I could hardly tell. HAHA! Brown it is and I’m programming this directly into the Applicatron. Now, how heavy do you like your makeup, Mike? I can see you’re a medium-to-heavy kind o’ guy. Heavy? You bet, Mike – heavy it is!

OK, now I’ve programmed all of Mike’s options into the Applicatron and I’m going to fix it to his pretty little head here and I’m gonna…Mike, you OK in there? You are? It’s comfortable? Good! Well of course it’s comfortable, the good women of our science and technology labs work night and day to make sure every Applicatron feels like a gentle kiss against your cheek.

And now The Applicatron…Oh boy, Mike, stay still darlin’. Now the Applicatron is laying foundation, you can see it as it moves down his face, you might be able to see the beautiful, rich colour coming down there. Now the Applicatron is coming back up, applying beard colour,  highlights, lipstick, blush and eyeliner, eyeshadow and mascara.

And the Applicatron keeps going up – don’t worry Mike , it won’t touch your gorgeous hair. Until finally…there we go, gentlemen – look at his amazing face!

All thanks to the Applicatron! Your miraculous little secret in your briefcase.

Don’t tell you wife!

I’m taking orders!

How many do you need, Mike?