Looking In All The Wrong Places is a series of short, autobiographical stories I wrote somewhere around a decade ago.
I’ve decided to publish them (and possibly continue the series) after re-discovering them while cleaning out old files in my office and realising that, though they may be sometimes confronting or downright terrible, they are an insight into a jaded, cynical, opinionated and often immature boy that – like it or not – is a big part of me.
I won’t be presenting them in any particular order and I have updated some of the pop-culture references to ensure the context is understood at the time of posting.
Here’s the first:
WRONG PLACE, RIGHT TIME
(sometime in 2000)
Two weeks ago as I walked up Oxford Street in Sydney to meet Johnny and (hopefully, definitely) run into Jarrod again, it occurred to me just how much I really disliked the place and the entire group and scene. I had never been a ‘scene-queen’ because, to be honest, I find the whole culture disgusting. (Trashy, effeminate guys in tight tops with a reality TV star attitude does not turn me on). All I can see when I look at them is a life that will get them no where. I shouldn’t criticise because they’re probably quite happy – but that life is not for me. Especially now, I can’t see myself as a pierced forty-something queen in tight singlet and leather pants hitting on an eighteen year old in the Midnight Shift by showing him my nipple ring. It didn’t do it for me when I was eighteen so why would it work on any other eighteen-year-old?
I pondered all this on that night as I strutted up the street, nose held high in the air, staring past the looks of older guys and ignoring the ones behind me saying what a fine piece of meat I was. Meat? Sorry, thought I was a person? I must be mistaken.
Seas of faces swim past me as I head toward the ‘Shift where I know all my ‘friends’ will be and even though I look through them I can still tell what they are thinking and what kind of guys they are. With a sideways glance I can differentiate the sweeties from the one-night-standers, the users from the commiters, the shy from the show-offs. All of them fit the stereotype so well and I’m certain that I fall into one category or another as well. Just not sure which. Another piece I’ve yet to fit to the puzzle.
But one thing is for real. I don’t consider myself to be like them. I’m neither gay nor bisexual nor straight. I’m neither a sweetie nor a one-nighter. I’m a person. I’m not proud of being gay, but neither am I disproud. I’m just the way I am. It’s like taking pride and announcing that you have blonde hair and marching in a parade because of it. So what? Are people supposed to bow down and worship homosexuals on Mardi Gras night? If so, then I don’t want a part of it. I don’t want to be labelled as So-and-So’s ‘gay friend’ or ‘the gay guy from my office’. All I want is to be labelled as a person for after all that’s what I am. Sure, I might have a different sexual preference to the norm but I also prefer horror movies over comedies or love stories. Do I get a parade for that?
And so I enter the ‘Shift on a Saturday night. Haven’t been here in at least three months (the only time I do is when I’m desperately bored), but nothing has changed. The older men are ganged around the walls at the front and back, just waiting for a younger guy to slip away from his friends. (Mmmmmm, fresh prey). The place reeks of stale alcohol and sweat as if the walls were decade old sponges absorbing the filth from the hundreds of bodies crammed in and from the line spewing forth into the street. Britney Spear’s face leers at me from the TV on the wall and oops, she did it again as Johnny and I squeeze through the groping crowd to join the others up the back on the dance floor.
I take off my jacket and start to bop away as the familiar monotony kicks back in and I dance like a whore to the same-old, same-old music. Arms in the air and gyrating my hips I feel so uncomfortable, but when in Rome. You see my problem is this, I’m dreamin’ away, wishin’ that heroes they truly exist, I cry watching the days, can’t you see I’m a fool in so many ways. You’re right Britney, one hundred percent right.
No sign of Jarrod as I continue to sway to the beat. Johnny mutters something about Jarrod being up in the pool room with Jackie. I thought he would have come out to see me by now. My insecurities flutter. Guess he’s not interested. Should have known better than to get hopeful. But the words he spoke to me that morning as we left the club at eight am come back; “Of course I wanna see you tonight.”
Maybe, maybe I’ll hang on for a bit longer.
Sure enough he appears after what seems like an eternity, pushing through the crowd in our direction. I pretend not to notice him edging closer – testing to see if he’ll approach me or whether he’s forgotten me already. He stops and starts to dance with one of my ‘friends’ - someone I barely know. They move rhythmically, stepping closer until they are breathing in each other’s faces. I peer out from the corners of my eyes and scowl as their dance becomes personal and sexual. The brushing of lower bodies infuriates me as they run their hands over one another, looking deep through the eyes and into the souls that linger underneath. Swaying, caressing, almost loving. I cannot stand it and I turn away – diverting my eyes as if from the blinding sun. I do not look again but Jarrod steps into my line of vision now that they have pulled apart. My eyes remain grounded, focusing on the swarm of legs dancing in my vicinity. I am mad and do not so much as glance in Jarrod’s direction but centre my attention on Johnny’s new boy, Bradley. Brad dances with me to Ricky Martin and we move closer – gaining more sexual tension by the second until we grope at each other. I can sense Johnny staring in disbelief and Jarrod looking also. Two can play at this game.
In a few minutes time I take the risk and look at Jarrod. He is dancing, not so slutty this time and he smiles at me, his lips spelling the greeting; “Hey…”. I can see in his eyes that something is not quite right with him and I turn away without response. Not in the mood to be fucked with tonight.
The rest of our night consists of Jarrod kissing me and then disappearing only to reappear dancing in someone else’s pants before kissing me and repeating the cycle until about three am when I have the shits so bad that I’m ready to leave. I make my annoyance known and he explains about the first-time drug use. He has just thrown up and seems a bit more grounded now, so I’ll stick around.
But as they say, the rest is history. He says he loves me and I cannot help but believe him because I see the honesty and affection glowing from his eyes. He smiles at me for no reason – says it’s because I make him so happy. We spend every spare second together, we are not afraid to show our love in public and most of all we are not afraid to show our love and commitment to one another. He is affectionate, passionate, funny, sweet and intelligent. The good looks are just a bonus. He makes me smile too. My brain is still filled with questions and doubts, but my heart says go with the flow and don’t fuck it up this time.