Yeah...the explanation had made it all better. A real crowd magnet.
He was the only child, and therefore, the family name carrier. Ilhan loved his parents dearly and grew up in an adoring, albeit quirky home, filled with love. His parents always offered him a safe haven when he needed their unconditional love, but since he'd moved to Perth, he’d felt something was amiss in his life.
Well, I know what that is. My parents still don’t know I’m gay. Ilhan grimaced, rubbing his chest.
I may not have grown up in Turkey, but I’ve traveled there often enough to know being a Turkish gay man is certainly not a revered position. Ilhan knew as much from his father’s veiled comments as well. People generally frowned upon the gays and ignored the lesbians with the attitude “What I don’t know, won't hurt me.”
But then, if a gay couple wanted to rent a place to live, it was almost impossible to find a GLBT friendly landlord. The Turkish people in general were okay with gay tourists, über-rich gay people, or Turk celebrities who were members of the GLBT community. But I’m neither.
It was even okay to hold hands or walk arm in arm on the street as two straight men, but gay guys had to be more discreet. Since I am not living in an über-rich and flamboyant part of a city like Istanbul, it’s not easy to be gay… And we don’t come from Istanbul. I’ve learnt from a very young age how to keep my parents happy.
He'd always gotten whatever he wanted, whether it was a brand new Mazda MX4, or a flat of his choice.
His flat near the King's Park had a view overlooking the park, because that was what he'd wanted and his parents had provided it. They accepted his reassurances that he’d study hard at the university, even though he showed them hardly any evidence. His mother took him at his word and trusted him when he said his grades would improve. In reality, his dad’s suspicion was correct. Ilhan had no interest in studying Commerce or any other area of business study, or in joining his father’s accounting business to make his parents’ dream come true.
No matter how much they try to ignore my dreams, I want to open my own café. I don’t want to be stuck in an office doing math and dealing with someone else’s taxes! I spent so much time in the kitchen helping Mum cook and bake, but they refuse to accept my dream of having my own café? It was okay to enjoy making pastries as a hobby, but not to make a profession out of it. I love following recipes, or more often, flirting with them to create something different, something original.
Walking to the window to look outside, he remembered trying to talk about his dream with his parents when he was sixteen. He rested his head against the glass. His father had become upset because his only son wanted to be a “cook.” His mother cried because his dad was troubled.
As soon as Ilhan finished high school, he’d wanted to be an apprentice at the local bakery, but his dad became angry and sulky again. He’d threatened to send Ilhan to Turkey. Thank God, his mother had put her foot down; otherwise he’d be staying with grandpa… And here I am, studying Commerce, Dad’s choice for my life. He wasn’t sure it was much better.
But his father had said, “Ilhan, I want you to move out of my home. You can go to Turkey or study Commerce at a university here. It’s either my way or the highway. I pay for everything you have. If you don’t do as I say, then you must move out and live on your own. I am doing this for your own good, son. Okay?”
He’d tried to work with his father too, but that was a disaster. His dad was a micro-manager. In those days, they’d barely spoken to each other. Ilhan had walked out of work after calling his father “an interfering old coot.” Once again, his mum saved him from getting kicked out of the house. He was nineteen at the time and had never lived on his own before, so he’d lacked confidence and did as he was told, albeit against his will at times.
Bless Mum. She’d consoled me quietly, giving me new recipes to try after Dad went to work. Father, you never knew, it was my cooking that fed you and made you groan with pleasure over those baklavas. You ate what I cooked and you didn’t even realize it.
Oh. My. God. This means I have to go back home after uni, which means they’ll try to marry me to a nice Turkish girl of their choice! Ilhan felt his stomach sink in dread. His parents didn’t have an inkling that their one and only son was gay.
They often talked about having grandkids and a daughter-in-law to spoil. As far as they were concerned, Ilhan was being a good Turkish son by not dating girls. Just thinking of the possibilities made his head ache. All hell would break loose when his parents found out that their son was not only dreaming of becoming a café owner, but was also a gay man who had the hots for the building’s caretaker.
Well, I might be insecure and dorky, but I’m not stupid. He knew his parents would feel ashamed because appearance and status mattered to them.
The difference is that I was born and bred in Australia. I’m an Australian with Turkish heritage. I speak with an Aussie accent and view life like an Aussie. Fuck, they don’t know me. They think I’m a Turkish man who lives in Australia, but I’m a gay Aussie-Turk. As he pondered, Ilhan became more agitated. He walked back to the couch, intending to sit, then changed his mind, walking around in circles, deep in thought.
I tried to date girls to make my parents happy, but girls are different from boys. Their bodies are fleshier and softer. I fondled Jennie’s breasts once when she asked me to kiss her at her seventeenth birthday party. That day will haunt me forever cos it did nothing for me and Jennie ended up laughing at me. Ilhan cringed with embarrassment at the thought.
Her boobs were big, overflowing in his hands, and her arse was soft and squishy. Not like the boys in the wrestling class who’d had pecs and bums that were nice and firm, looking so hot. Ilhan loved the idea of a masculine guy holding him tightly and having his wicked way with him.
He wanted something meaningful, like what his parents had. Ilhan wasn’t interested in sleeping around, waking up alone to search for another man for yet another night.
Yeah. I enjoy tumbling around with guys. I love a blowjob exchange, but really…I’m still like… almost virgin, cos I never had full blown sex with anyone…just blowjobs and jacking each other off. I’m as horny as any other guy, but I want one man to have a long term relationship with. A forever kind, like the Matthews, who live on the third floor. They celebrated their forty-seventh anniversary. How cool is that? Fuck. I am like my parents.
Unsettled by the confusion his cross-cultural upbringing brought, Ilhan moved on quickly from his unsettling thoughts.
He knew it was up to him to change things if he wanted to get to know John better. Even though the man of his bloody dreams couldn’t pronounce his name properly, Ilhan felt brave in his fantasy as he corrected John in his head. He walked to the kitchen to get a glass of water. Don’t call me “Illhaaan.” It’s “Ilhan.” The thought of sitting there and bantering away with him was just awesome. I could talk to him while sitting on his lap facing him.
Sighing deeply, he knew John was long gone by that time, but he walked to the peephole, hoping in vain.
“He’s gone,” Ilhan said aloud, rubbing his chest in an attempt to ease his feelings of hurt. He took off his silk robe and threw it aside like a rag, and went to his bedroom to put on jogging pants and a jumper his mother knitted him last year. They were Ilhan’s cozy clothes he wore when he wanted to feel comforted.
He turned on his CD player, and his collection of Turkish songs began to play. He went through the titles until he found the song “Cok aşığın Var Diyorlar” by Ince Saz and turned the volume up. The singer Melihat Gulses’ was soft, clear and emotional. He almost heard the hurt and tears in her voice.
The orchestra was made up of western and classic Turkish instruments, playing some of the most haunting tunes that Ilhan had ever heard. They complemented the singer’s voice and lyrics. The modern base guitar paired well with the sound of the bottle-shaped bowed lute—the kemençe. He could hear the kanun’s stringy notes—a type of zither board—daintily swirling ar
ound the beat of the percussion that kept an Ottoman rhythm. And the classical tanbur—a long-necked string instrument—that dated back to Sumerian times only completed the sad song.
This song spoke to his heart, reflecting his Aussie and Turkish soul, and how it was hurting right at that moment. The sad tune felt as if the composer created it just for his longing for John. Plus, his deep secret no one knew about—that he was a gay man.
Yup. I’m even more confused now. Anyway, moving on, cos this self-convo doesn’t suit me.
It was reminiscence time, since there was nothing between he and John but Ilhan’s own memories and daydreams.
How about the day I saw him on his knees working in the garden? Far-out. My eyes were just glued to his slightly hairy “builder's bum.” Ilhan snorted as he remembered that moment. John’s masculine, gluteal beauties gave me an instant boner at the most inconvenient time. Considering I was wearing my favorite tight jeans to show off my cute arse to him, my poor jewels were in agony from the tight pants.
Ilhan’s cute bum wasn’t strictly his own opinion. There was a guy in the final year of social studies who sure wanted his hands on it whenever he gave Ilhan a blowjob.
I had to walk away from John quickly to avoid embarrassment that day. Yup, I've had it bad from the first time I saw him.
Ilhan sighed and thought of ways to correct the misunderstandings between them.
That evening, he turned off his mobile phone and had no interest in cooking anything. He reheated leftovers from the night before and ate the soup while standing in front of his window. He still carried the same sinking feeling in his stomach he’d had since the morning. It was uncomfortable and unsettling. When he went to bed, he rubbed his stomach, hoping to soothe his nerves. It was the first time in ages Ilhan had gone to bed early... Not sleeping, just brooding.
That week, he watched John as discreetly as possible. He tried to find ways to approach him and correct the misunderstandings he'd unintentionally created. No matter how he tried, John didn’t seem to want to look at him, let alone respond. That hurt Ilhan deeply. Why am I so gutless? What’s the worst that could happen? Ilhan tried to reason with his insecurities.
He’d still found no courage, then he spotted John laughing with a young postman. Is that postman flirting with him? Unacceptable. What the fuck! What happened to our other postman? He was an old man. What could be so funny that he’s laughing with that sorry excuse for a postie? Oh. My. God. That bloody man even got a friendly slap on the back.
Feeling breathless, and shocked at what he’d witnessed, Ilhan watched them for a few more seconds and then gasped in horror. Were they gazing at each other? No! This will not do! Ilhan bit his nails furiously as he watched the way John responded to the new postman. Ilhan felt a jealousy so strong it was like his guts were on fire. He tried to analyze the level of intimacy between the two men as they chatted away. Ilhan felt so threatened that his anxiety forced him to take charge of the situation, once and for all.
“NUh huh…no stealing Ilhan's man,” he muttered to himself.
CHAPTER THREE - John
I need a holiday. A break from working in the rain and most of all, from that spoilt wanker. John snorted in temper, massaging his neck after dropping a rubbish bag full of dead leaves into the bin.
The twink strutted around like a bloody peacock…admittedly, a very cute one, yet still a royal brat. Either he doesn’t know how sexy he is, or he knows it and is deliberately flaunting himself in those tight clothes. Shit. Is the arsehole teasing me or what? Is it my horny imagination? Who cares? He looks edible and I wonder who does that to him.
John took a few deep breaths in an attempt to ease the discomfort caused by his thoughts. Why should he care who did what with the guy? He wasn't his brat. Frustration burnt in his body. He was unable to describe what it was about the sexy twink that drove him to distraction. Fuck. He needed to get laid more often, that's what his problem was. His dick was touch-starved.
While he was horny and had the hots for the pocket-size stick of dynamite, John also valued his privacy and guarded it jealously. It was his choice that no one in the complex knew about his sexuality. He wasn’t even sure Ilhan was gay and if he was—would he be interested in a caretaker? Those were some of the questions that kept churning in his head.
While he didn’t broadcast his sexuality, he wasn’t a monk either. He occasionally went out on the weekend to the local gay bar to meet someone for a quick tumble. At the end of the night, he never stayed over at a man’s place and never invited one over to his. He didn’t have intimacy issues, he just didn’t want anyone coming into his home unless they really mattered to him. So far, he’d met no one whom he wanted to meet again—that was all.
He’d learnt to appreciate his privacy and space after living in foster care as a child. He wasn’t miserable or anything. But life in those homes wasn’t always easy, with only a few “parents” really caring for him.
The hardest part was feeling unwanted in some of the homes. John still remembered those ten-year-old twins who shared the room with him in one of the houses. They would go through his personal belongings, play with them, then deny everything. Was it any wonder he jealously guarded his space now? That wasn’t to say he wasn’t grateful, because he was.
His foster parents and their kids gave him a safe place to live. He knew there were so many homeless youth on the streets who had no safety net or place to go. He never forgot those kids and always took part in charity runs to raise money to help them. His childhood shaped him into what he was…someone who never turned away from those who needed help. It was his way of paying it forward.
When John turned eighteen, he moved out of the foster care system and rented a room to live by himself. He was lucky that his social worker, Ms. O'Neill, had met with him regularly and helped him find a room.
His first job had been at a local supermarket, thanks to her help. After his mother passed away, Ms. O’Neill was the only person he'd spoken to about his loss and she showed him nothing but warmth. He'd never had the urge to go to Uni because he didn’t want to take student loans. He wanted to get a job and have a small place that he could call home.
The turning point came for him one day when he'd seen the advert for the caretaker position. Even though he was no longer under Ms. O’Neill’s care, she’d come to his assistance when he phoned her. Bless her. She came to visit and sat down with him to fill out the application for the position. Then she’d taken him shopping to buy a white shirt for the interview, as if his application had already been accepted. And she was there to celebrate when it was.
He was so chuffed when he got the job because it meant longevity, belonging, and a home of his own.
Years later, here I am, still working in the same job and perfectly content to do so. He loved living within walking distance of the local library, a cinema, and the awesome King’s Park.
It was Friday, which meant John could go to the local gay bar to chill, but he decided to stay home instead. He wondered what Ilhan was doing, as he showered to wash the day’s sweat off his body. Resentment built up in him almost immediately when he thought that Ilhan was probably having another party. After his shower, he dried off and put on a pair of shorts, his thoughts still on the young tenant.
He frowned as he tossed a bagged salad into a bowl, then microwaved the frozen lasagne he’d prepared a few days before. Sitting with his dinner on the coffee table to watch the TV news, he heard a knock on his door. He heaved a deep sigh and went to the door. John was surprised when he saw Ilhan standing there, his hand still raised mid-knock.
Once Ilhan realized his stance, he dropped his hand and cleared his throat.
“Uh… Hi. Have you got a minute? I was hoping to clear up a few issues with you.” Ilhan’s eyes were wide, and he looked ill at ease. He cleared his throat again and coughed to fill the gap as John stood silently, his arms crossed, frowning at him.
John couldn’t help but stare at the sexy younger man who
kept fidgeting. Once he broke free of his trance-like stare, he realized Ilhan seemed to be staring at his chest. Is he looking at my nipple ring? Hmm. I wonder.
It was obvious Ilhan was doing his best not to gawk, but his gaze kept straying down. John almost snorted in amusement, and a touch of elation, but managed to keep a straight face as the sexy Ilhan coughed again, still looking uncomfortable.
“Go on,” John responded, trying to appear defensive.
“I think we started off on the wrong foot so I came to apologize for upsetting you.” Ilhan almost squeaked, in response to John’s defensiveness.
It was John’s turn to feel out of sorts. He hadn’t expected an apology or any effort to make peace from Ilhan. He didn’t know what to say right away, so he opened the door wider. “Want to come in?” he asked.
When he saw Ilhan’s hesitant smile, he motioned with his head to encourage him into his home.
John walked to his couch, and Ilhan followed. He eyed the dinner he’d left on his coffee table and took his plate in to the kitchen. When he noticed Ilhan’s eyes on the lasagne, John checked the salad and realized there was enough for him to share the as yet untouched dinner with his guest.
“Want to have some dinner? I made the lasagne myself… You’re welcome to share it with me if you want.”
“Oh. That looks delicious, but I don’t want to interrupt your dinner. I just wanted to explain everything, apologize to you and then leave you in peace.” Ilhan’s eyes wandered over to the lasagne every now and then as he spoke.
“Nah. You’re fine. We can talk and eat at the same time.” John found himself wanting to go the extra mile for Ilhan because he’d come to make peace with him. His attempts at getting along with him touched John. He winked at Ilhan. “Come on. You know you want to,” he teased, earning himself a small smile.
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