His mother had never talked about John’s father, or answered his questions about the man who’d fathered him. After her funeral, John had sorted through her personal items but didn’t find any clues to his father’s identity. Even his birth certificate said “Unknown” where his father’s name should be listed. At the age of thirty, he no longer felt like an orphan. He held his head high, proud of having survived difficult times and making a life for himself.
He cleared his thoughts and straightened his shoulders, choosing to opt for the possibility that he might have misheard the sound. He took a deep breath and scratched his head, feeling self-conscious that he might have become too negative toward the younger man.
Ilhan is different from guys I’ve met before. He may behave like a party animal, but the man was nothing but polite and personable toward his neighbors on the block. He brought flowers to Mrs. Jenkins, since she’d lost her husband the previous year. She told me how he takes her to the park for gentle walks in the evenings when the weather’s nice. He may seem like a spoilt twink who laughed too loudly, but he never forgot those in need of compassion.
For a short, thin man, he always drew attention because of the way he dressed. The bloody twink loved to wear the tightest jeans possible, pairing them with equally tight shirts. I wonder how his nuts survive in those ultra-tight jeans. Damn, but those pants sure encase his cute little bubble butt and show it off to perfection.
As far as John could tell, Ilhan seemed to have taken The Australian Cancer Council’s “Slip! Slop! Slap! SunSmart Program” to new heights—slathering makeup all over his face instead of sunscreen. He used some gooey shit on his hair. Even on a stormy day, his hair never moved, not even a millimeter! He used foundation thingy on his face, possibly slightly too dark for his pale skin, and he did his eyes up every day.
The brat already had gorgeous blue eyes. John begrudgingly admitted that the makeup complemented the well-dressed man's pixie-like appearance. The scent he used completed the total package for John. He loved how Ilhan smelt of something musky with a little sweetness in it.
“Bloody twink,” he said under his breath. He’d looked so innocent and natural with no makeup on his face, when his parents had helped him settle down in his new home. It took a while for John to notice that Ilhan had gradually used more eye makeup once his parents had gone back to their hometown, a few hours from Perth.
He heard Ilhan was studying Commerce at a university. However, as far as John could tell, the guy partied and dilly-dallied more than he studied. He has more parties going on in his flat than the local nightclub. Damn, how could someone have that many parties and still look so fresh-faced?
I don't get it, John thought Sourly, and frowned.
CHAPTER TWO - Ilhan
“There are times I wish I were invisible. Which is silly, since I do everything I can to stand out.”― Gena Showalter, Oh My Goth
Ilhan was at his usual spot watching John through his peephole as he left the lift.
Finally, he’s here! I’ve been waiting and waiting for him to come up here since I left the note.
Ilhan gasped in horror. Oh. No! I’m like mum. I’ve started spying on people through the peephole. Well… Not people. Only John, so he supposed that was okay.
He’d spread his fingers against the door in his excitement when the yummy caretaker had stepped out of the lift. However, soon the young Turkish man’s shoulders drooped and he sighed. Bugger! Nothing had changed. John was stomping toward his door again, looking gorgeous as usual, but also furious.
Ilhan wanted to open the door to speak to him, but just the look on his face stopped him. He may have been brave enough to ogle John from behind a closed door, but he knew he’d have to come up with a better tactic to approach him. None of the other tenants said anything negative about how John acted when he came to pick up their rubbish. Ilhan thought it safe to assume that John only hated coming to his door.
I wonder why? Not once has he turned up without that frown of his. Look at me. My bum’s frozen and my poor balls are probably turning blue from frostbite right now. Yeah. Yeah. There is no frost in Perth to bite anything. But seriously, I’ve been standing here wearing nothing but this ridiculous silk gown for close to half an hour.
Ilhan shivered in his dark-blue silk robe adorned with red tulips. He’d found it in his mother’s bridal chest a few years before and shamelessly took it, knowing she never checked her chest. He adored the Ottoman Empire style, feeling sensuous and turned on every time he wore it. The feel of the fabric against his skin made him think of a lover’s caress. But at that moment, he didn’t enjoy anything. He felt irritated that another plan had flopped.
No matter what, my caretaker just radiates with masculine authority and power. He’s so drool-worthy. I just love the way he rests his hands on his back pockets. Probably because I get a better view of his roundish bum when he does. Ilhan almost giggled as he eyed John’s sexy peaches. Mmm-hmm. I wish I could nibble his peaches.
But, the man was more than just a sexy body with a juicy arse. Everyone in the flats liked him, and he seemed to like them too… everyone but Ilhan. His gaze followed John through the peephole as he pouted at the thought that the man he found attractive didn’t like him.
I left the message in his letterbox for him to pick up the bottles, thinking he’d come up quickly. I timed it carefully because I know what time he starts work. Here I am with a hard-on, trying to hump the door instead of opening it, so John can see whether he likes what I’m wearing. Pity it's not his hand that’s grabbing my dick instead of my own.
John intrigued Ilhan more, since his darling—but curious—neighbors, Alison and Peter, told him that John never brought people home. They’d have known that for sure, since they lived right across the hall from him, and watched the comings and goings of as many neighbors as possible.
What now? Why on earth is he staring at my rubbish? I put the empty bottles in the bag like I’m supposed to. Fuck. He’s shaking his head again. He always shakes his head at me! No wonder he frowns so much. He must be dizzy from constantly shaking his head. Fuckity fuck! I snorted at my own joke. Did he hear me? Nah. He didn’t. Not cool, Ilhan, my man, not cool at all. Other guys laugh, but you make a piggy snort. Damn! He heard me giggle just now. He turned. Can he see me through the peephole?
Feeling horrified at the noise he’d made, Ilhan gasped and stood frozen for a few seconds before he quickly tiptoed away from the door. His heart beat against his ribs so hard, the sensation in his chest was uncomfortable. He realized he’d been holding his breath; he exhaled and inhaled deeply, wrapping his arms around himself.
“Ilhan, you love living dangerously,” he chided himself, while he trotted toward the kitchen. His heart continued to thunder in his chest from sheer fright and shame at being caught. Reaching the perceived safety of his kitchen, he kept his gaze on the door as he hugged himself in despair, trying to find some comfort in his own arms.
Look at me. What kind of man runs away on his tiptoes, other than a dancer in a ballet show! I can’t stop piggy snorting any more than I can stop bouncing on my toes. Not at all manly.
Ilhan brought the flimsy silky material tighter to his body, which was no good because he shivered anyway. One day that man was going to do something painful to him if he didn’t do something to change the situation. And Ilhan didn’t think John’s treatment of his body would be sexy and yummy. But bless him; he was so cute when he gave Ilhan that dirty look, thinking he didn’t see John before he picked up the bottles.
He smiled over a childhood memory. John reminded him of his neighbor's Doberman. That dog used to look exactly the way John looked at the door when he heard Ilhan hiding there. Whenever that dog heard a strange sound, she’d bare her teeth, listening, her head tilted. She’d run all around the garden searching for the source of the sound. Heaven help a stranger, walking through without an invitation.
Ilhan just wanted John to see him in the robe, to figure out if he batted for the
same team. Ilhan’s gaydar was telling him John was on Team Gay. “Oh, please-please, bat for my team and not for the girls!” Ilhan whispered his prayer in a singsong tone.
He chewed his bottom lip as he leaned back against the kitchen sink and thought about the angry caretaker. He probably thinks I’m nothing but a shithead for irritating the hell out of him, anyway. Ilhan felt that familiar tug in his chest whenever he noticed John looking pissed off around him. He took a deep breath, rubbing his neck. He had no idea how to correct the mess he’d put himself in since that first time he’d met him. He was stuck—too intimidated to talk to John.
Everything went wrong from the moment Ilhan first saw John last year. His dad drove to Perth, with the rental truck following to deliver his furniture. He sat in the back of the car and dreamed about his freedom. Ilhan couldn’t wait to live alone, and had felt drunk from the heady feeling. When they’d parked the car in front of the block of flats, his giddiness only increased. He wanted to belly dance all the way to his new home, to the sound of an orchestra playing Fatih Ürek’s “Hadi.”
That day, he’d almost heard the drums and violin playing in the familiar Turkish belly dancing music style…starting slowly, playing at the beginning as if the world was welcoming him… Then the haunting sound of the clarinet slowly entering the song.
Oh, my Lord. I still remember my body almost felt like it had a mind of its own. My shoulders were ready to sway as my arms opened, moving like a swan about to spread its wings to fly. And my hips nearly joined the swaying. That moment, it was like…I was playing the Turkish version of Swan Lake.
It was a wonder he didn’t start singing along with the vocalist Fatif, “Hoşgeldin yar—welcome beloved…” as he opened the gate. Far-out. He’d almost smelt his freedom on the way to the flat. Its fresh scent was intoxicating. But of course, he couldn’t dance, let alone trot like a satisfied filly or swan. Instead, he’d walked like a Turkish soldier on a night roster. He knew his dad was still dying to send him to the Turkish Army for his final step into manhood, but there was no way he was going there.
The minute the Turkish Army found out Ilhan was gay, they’d send him back faster than he’d arrived. No gay men were allowed in the military, but then, his dad didn’t know he was gay. Fuck. What a mess. He was pretty sure his hips had still jiggled a bit along with the song in his head, but his dad hadn’t noticed. Then he’d spotted John.
He’d tried to walk like a man instead of a belly dancing twink, but his gaze had strayed to John. There he was, working in the garden, looking sweaty and busy. He was whistling “My Funny Valentine.” The tune and his voice were still stored in Ilhan’s memory. He imagined John had a sexy, musky, masculine scent from all the hard work, and his imaginings gave him a massive erection. Ilhan had stood still like a pelican trying to dry itself on a rock after diving into the sea.
The poor man didn’t notice him at first, he just kept humming and whistling. Once he’d seen the new tenant looking at him, he’d stood up to greet him properly. In response to his friendly face, Ilhan became all shy and was mortified to have a hard-on to hide… He’d then walked off without responding to John.
He was sure John had never forgotten that, because after their first meeting he’d never approached Ilhan directly, or smiled at him. I’m so sorry, John, for hurting you, but I didn’t mean it, Ilhan apologized silently.
Ilhan sighed and prepared a cup of Turkish coffee, the way his mother taught him. He measured the water with his Turkish coffee cup into his cezve—the pot designed specifically to make the traditional drink—and added a teaspoonful of finely ground Turkish coffee. Ilhan added very little sugar, quickly stirred the concoction, and patiently waited for his coffee to percolate over a low heat. The second the froth appeared, he turned off the heat and slowly poured his coffee into the cup without spoiling the froth. While he sipped his coffee, Ilhan thought regretfully of the way he’d been rude to John that first day.
He finished his coffee, rinsed his cezve and the delicate porcelain cup. Then went to the bathroom to wash the eye makeup off his face. Makeup free, he looked at his image in the mirror. He didn’t see a handsome face. Look at me. I have slightly buck teeth and large ears that stick out of my hair a bit. I snort instead of laughing like a normal person.
He wished he had more in the way of facial hair than the wispy whiskers on his chin.
Mum says I’m too skinny, but I think I don’t look so bad. Oh. Yes. I mustn’t forget my mere seventeen strands of chest hair. Ilhan frowned as he touched those strands nestled between his nipples. Nevertheless, he intended to keep flaunting those fuzzy excuses cos they made him feel masculine. To be honest, I realize it’s a vain effort, but never mind. He studied his image in the mirror and counted the rest of his shortcomings.
I mustn’t forget to talk about my not-so-great endowment either. Yup. I have a little dick. It’s so small, I can't bring myself to call it a cock. That word refers to a long, thick penis. Fuck. Maybe I’m really barking up the wrong tree. Okay. This is getting depressing now. Ilhan dried his face to stop staring and berating himself, and left the bathroom.
A few months before, he’d heard John listening to Frank Sinatra and went all weak at the knees. John had sung “My Funny Valentine” again and didn’t whistle. He had a deep voice, albeit slightly off-key, but that made him even more endearing. Since that day, Ilhan felt like he was that “Valentine” character with the awkward appearance. He’d even imagined John lovingly singing that song to him, the way Sinatra had felt about his Valentine.
The more he thought about it, Ilhan knew he probably appeared confident, or, much to his horror—arrogant and cocky to John. But I’m neither!
People came to his parties because he was a generous host and they loved his Turkish cooking. I invite the popular students in my class to help me look cool and impress John. His guests knew he provided the drinks and expected nothing from them other than show up. None of them had to spend any money, which was always a broke student’s consideration. They knew he had a no drugs policy and, thankfully, none of them were into that.
He was the only child of a Turkish couple who'd immigrated to Australia before he was born. While his parents adapted to Australian culture, they were still very much in tune with their Turkish heritage, particularly his father. At home, they always spoke Turkish, so Ilhan spoke both Turkish and English fluently. His parents decorated their home stylishly, in the fashion of their adopted country, but they still preferred to eat only Turkish cuisine. At home, they mainly listened to Turkish music and even watched the Turkish TV channels via a large satellite dish in the back garden.
His mother dressed fashionably, but she still preferred to dress in traditional Turkish clothes for comfort reasons, and when she was homesick.
On the days she’d listen to Turkish folk music, she’d put on her baggy trousers called șalvar, gathered by elastic at the ankle, and a long-sleeved cotton T-shirt. Even if it was hot, she’d slide her feet into patik, the brightly color-coordinated and hand-knitted booties shaped like athletic socks. She always said that once they were on her feet, it made her feel comforted and at home. Finally, she’d don her tülbent—the thin cotton peasant-style scarf. Then she’d start her housework or cook a dish that her mother had taught her.
The folk song would be playing loudly and she’d sing along and dance. An hour of housework could take two or three hours but it always made her happy. Not many people would succeed in seeing his mum, though, she’d rarely hear the doorbell.
His mum even spoke to him just as her mother had spoken to her, always calling him by endearments like kuzum. She still called him her lamb, while his dad called him his aslan—lion. No wonder I’m all over the place. I don’t even understand whether I’m the predator or the prey in their eyes. Ilhan frowned at that memory, remembering how uncomfortable he’d felt.
He was a little self-conscious about his upbringing, because of the way his parents behaved in front of his mates. His friends misse
d no opportunity to make fun of him. He grew up in a small town where life wasn’t as multicultural as it was in larger cities. He’d felt different in a way only a child could, interpreting individual differences as an anomaly and taking the discomfort or the shame to heart. Lunches at school had been awkward because his mother made Turkish snacks that looked nothing like the Aussie stuff other kids had.
Once, his mother came to pick him up wearing a traditional eşarp for some reason that covered her hair and wrapped around her neck. When he’d noticed how some of the kids were staring, he’d quickly asked her to please take off the headscarf.
In his eleven-year-old mind, it was a huge issue at the time, but he never forgot how crushed his mother looked. She’d turned bright red and quickly removed it to save her son from further embarrassment. He’d felt so bad for hurting her that he still remembered her expression. Although she never wore any head cover in public after that, she never stopped calling him by terms of endearment. In hindsight, she seemed to make a point of addressing him with sweet talk when he was with his friends. Ilhan smiled and shook his head at the way his mother taught him a lesson he’d never forgot.
She still sees me as her little boy. The minx that she is, she just won’t stop loudly calling out to me around other people, “Kuzum—my lamb? Ilhan? You want me to make you something to eat, hmm? You look hungry... Canim kuzum—my dear lamb.”
Yeah, she’s the master of making me feel dorky. Heaven forbid if he complained to his dad about it. His dad would quickly say, “Hush now. The Heaven rests under your mother’s feet. Do not complain about her…” He’d tsk. “Shame, son. Shame. I did not raise you to be ungrateful.” Ilhan thought there was nothing he could do to change his life at home. Hence his move to Perth.
When he was sixteen, he’d brought some friends home. His mother had immediately said, “My lambs, come here, you all look hungry. Here…have this piece of gozleme I prepared especially for you.” Then, just to make it worse, “It’s special, from our country. I hand roll the dough myself, brush it with eggs and butter. Then I fill it with beautiful lamb, feta, kasar cheese…”
Awkward in Love Page 2
