by Sean Kennedy
Oh crap, I was going to coffee with someone who was in a stud calendar. I clutched my head with both hands.
If it ever got to the point that we would take our clothes off in front of one another, I didn’t know if I could be naked in front of someone like him. I mean, with what he was used to seeing in the locker room at least—
My self-pity party was interrupted by my front doorbell being pushed impatiently. I shot to my feet, the panic attack in no way abated. I threw on a pair of trakkies and my faded Tori Amos T-shirt that read with all irony “I don’t mind a dirty girl” (my uniform for at-home slouching) and ran into the lounge room.
This wasn’t punctuality; this was early with extreme prejudice.
I threw open the door, only to find Roger and Fran standing on the stoop.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, not meaning to be rude but sounding so anyway.
“You are not going out dressed like that!” Fran said, her face rigid with complete horror.
Roger sized me up. “He rang up and cancelled, didn’t he?”
“No, and no,” I said emphatically.
“Well, what are you wearing?” Fran asked.
Before I could answer, Roger said, “Are you going to let us in?”
With as little grace as I could muster, I opened the door wider, and they slipped through.
“After your lack of detail over lunch yesterday, I figured you would need help getting dressed,” Fran said blithely as she headed straight for my bedroom.
“I can dress myself!” I protested weakly.
“You’re as hopeless as Roger.”
“I can dress myself,” Roger said snottily, sounding exactly like me only five seconds before.
“Oh, hon, you didn’t used to be able to,” Fran replied sorrowfully as she stood before my open wardrobe and peered hopefully within. “Simon, for a gay man, your wardrobe sucks.”
I glowered. “We’re not all fashionistas or gym bunnies.”
“You should be at least one of them.” Roger shrugged.
I stared at him. “You know her statement about you and dressing? She’s right about that.”
“Is that your best comeback?” Roger asked, obviously pitying my lameness on the subject. “Well, maybe your man will start choosing your outfits for you.”
“He’s not my man, Roger. He’s my… coffee companion.”
Roger and Fran could not subdue their fits of laughter. In fact, Fran almost fell head first into the wardrobe. She steadied herself and began pawing through my belongings. “Christ, Simon, do you have anything that wasn’t bought from an op-shop?”
“It’s my style,” was my weak defence.
“Your style says you’re cheap,” Roger told me.
“And not in the good way,” Fran added, sounding muffled from her head being buried as she moved further into the wardrobe.
“Will there be any action with this… coffee companion?” Roger asked, trying not to sound interested.
“I’m not a first date slut.”
Roger raised an eyebrow, a quirk I always wish I could master.
“Shut up,” I hissed. “Not all the time!”
“Not all the time because there’s not many a time,” Roger said maddeningly.
“You can talk! You and Fran—”
“And if you ever tell our kids that…,” Fran said menacingly.
I crossed my arms defensively over my chest. “Yeah, I’ll be sure not to tell your nonexistent children for fear of death.”
Fran poked her head out of the wardrobe to stare at me. “And tell me again, why does this guy want to date you?”
“I’ve been asking myself that all week,” I said grumpily. “I don’t need your help doubting myself.”
“Someone wants their ego pumped.” Fran moved back out of sight.
“I’m just being honest,” I said, even though I knew it sounded like I was begging to get my ego pampered. “I don’t get it either.”
Roger rolled his eyes, but said nothing. Fran continued rattling coat hangers.
I sighed to myself, now really sounding self-pitying.
Fran crawled out of the wardrobe, which was pretty awkward as the bottom of it was filled with crap I was forever chucking in there with an out-of-sight-out-of-mind mentality. She clutched in her hands some items of clothing that I didn’t even know I had.
“None of us know why we like the people we do,” she said, laying out the clothes on my bed. “I’m sure people look at Roger and wonder how he managed to snag me. But I love the doofus. So obviously this Declan guy sees something in you.”
“This Declan guy,” Roger mimicked, giving a derisive snort.
Fran glared at him. “So what if he can kick a bloody ball? He’s not a god, Roger!”
I tried to avoid their latest spat by examining what Fran had picked out for me. A pair of slightly above-average black pants (sadly, the best I owned), a black button-down shirt and a casual jacket.
“Jesus, Fran, he’s not going to a funeral.”
“When have you ever seen him wear a colour?” Fran berated him and then turned on me. “Like it or not, we’re going shopping one day. You need some colours.”
She had also picked out a leather wrist cuff that I didn’t even know I owned. I held it up questioningly.
“It’s just to give you that funky edge.”
“Or maybe he’ll think you’re into S and M.” Roger laughed.
I must have had a look on my face, because Fran ushered me into the bathroom. “Don’t listen to him.”
As the door shut behind me, I could hear them arguing again. I laughed softly to myself and changed as quickly as possible. When I walked out again, Fran had arranged three pairs of shoes in front of my bed.
“You look good,” she said approvingly. “Doesn’t he look good, Roger?”
“I can’t believe I’m not dating him myself,” Roger said obediently.
His wife rolled her eyes and gestured to the shoes. “You only own Cons or Docs. You need a pair of plain black shoes. I’ll add them to the must-have list when we go shopping.”
“Great. Looking forward to it.”
“Well, you’re not wearing the green Cons. They’re too ratty.”
“The red ones look too new!” I protested. “He’ll think that I’ve bought them especially or something.”
Roger gave me the once-over. “I don’t think so.”
“Simon, I love you,” Fran said. “But I have to agree with Roger on this one. Nobody would think that.”
I self-consciously picked at what was beginning to be a hole in the sleeve of my jacket.
“Docs it is, then,” Fran said, having made her decision and pushing the boots towards me.
As I struggled to pull them on, she looked at her watch. “It’s almost six. We should go.”
I opened my mouth to agree, but was cut off by Roger’s protestations. “I wanted to see him!”
“Why? So you could give him the father’s speech about looking after his little girl and having him back by midnight?”
“Uh, I’m not a girl, thanks,” I interjected.
Fran’s eyes narrowed. “You just want to spy on the footballer,” she accused her husband.
Roger shifted uncomfortably on the bed. “Well, I was drunk last time I met him!”
“And you threatened him!”
“Maybe I want to apologize.”
“Or get his autograph,” Fran said suspiciously.
“No!” I cried. “No autographs!”
“See?” Fran asked Roger. “No autographs.”
Roger grumbled to himself. “If you were really my friend….”
“Get him out of here!” I told Fran.
Roger stood up and shuffled past me. “Is this all the thanks we get?”
I leant in to kiss Fran good-bye. “Thanks for the help.”
“Shopping this weekend!” she instructed.
Already desperate to get out of it, I made noises that were meant
to pass for noncommittal, but she wasn’t having any of it.
“We have a game on Saturday,” Roger reminded her.
“We can shop beforehand.” Fran shrugged.
They were still bickering with each other as I shut the front door. I ran back into the bathroom and sprayed some cologne on. Hopefully not too much, I’m never good at judging the right amount. I could smell it on myself and wondered if I should slap some water on to dilute the effect.
The doorbell rang, and I assumed it was Fran and Roger having come back because they had forgotten something. I took my time, lacing my boots, and the buzzer became more impatient.
“I’m coming, shithead!” I yelled.
Yes, I should have known better. For, of course, it was not Roger or Fran.
I threw open the door to find Declan Tyler standing there, looking half-insulted and half-amused.
“Got a pet name for me already?” he asked.
I could only stare at him blankly. “I thought you were someone else.”
He looked puzzled. “You were expecting someone besides me?”
Wow, his eyes were really blue. You didn’t notice how blue until you were close to him. “Huh?”
He leaned in, and I caught a whiff of freshly washed skin and a faint layer of cologne that smelled far more expensive than my own. “You going to let me in?”
I nodded, my foot still firmly planted in my mouth and feeling heavy. He kicked his boots clean against the welcome mat and stepped into the house.
Chapter 5
FUCK, he was hot. But something occurred to me in the short space that it took him to cross from my front step to the couch in my living room. What I had mistaken for arrogance before was a carefulness; he moved stealthily and silently, but his every move was guarded. I found it strange, but I didn’t comment upon it.
My mother’s voice sounded in my head, and like a Pavlovian dog, I snapped to attention and took on the role of the gracious host. “Would you like a drink?”
He grinned at me as he made himself pretty damn comfortable on my couch. “I thought we were going out for a coffee?”
“Uh, yeah, sure.”
I could feel him looking me over, and I squirmed.
“You look good,” he said, finally.
“Yeah, you too.” As if he never looked good! I sucked at reciprocal complimenting, apparently. I decided to move onto familiar territory. “How was training?”
That was comfortable territory for him as well. “Good. It’s nice to be back on the turf at the G. It feels like home.”
There was a wistful note in his voice that I liked to hear. “It must be hard having to set up base in Tasmania.”
He scratched absentmindedly at his knee, and the slight padding under his trousers there reminded me that it was currently bandaged up because of his injury. “Well, it’s hard being away from home. Even though it’s really not that far away. But I miss living here, you know?”
He looked up at me, and I nodded, still feeling a little tongue-tied.
“Are you going to stand there all night?”
I think he meant was I going to sit next to him on the couch. And stupidly enough, although we had already kissed, the thought of being in that close proximity to him made me startle like a jackrabbit on the savannah. “Shall we get going?”
He got to his feet a little awkwardly because of his knee. I didn’t know whether to offer to help him up. I hate being such an indecisive bastard.
Of course, he caught me looking at him. “Just a bit stiff.”
Was that ever the wrong thing to say on a first date. He instantly flushed a little, and I had to bite my lip so I wouldn’t burst out laughing.
“Just say it,” he pleaded. “I know you want to get it out of your system.”
“Say what?” I asked innocently.
He shook his head and moved past me towards the door. I think I took him by surprise when I grabbed his arm and pulled him back to me. My arm slipped round his waist, and I kissed him. Before the party last Saturday it had been a long time between kisses, let me tell you, so I wasn’t going to waste any more. Declan responded eagerly, and he shuffled me backward until he had me pinned up against my wall. Tree, wall; I guess he had a thing for pinning.
I broke away when my air supply ran out. I patted him against the chest, thanking him for a job well done, and I could feel the heat from his body beneath my palm.
Believe me when I say that if it were a long time between kisses, it was a long time between other things as well. To feel that warmth of human contact again with someone who wasn’t a relative or a friend… before Declan could say anything I kissed him again, except this time I swung him around and pinned him against the wall.
He laughed into my mouth, and that was even sexier than his tongue touching mine and that gust of warm air passing from him into me, as if he were breathing for me. I manoeuvred slightly so he couldn’t tell just how much I was enjoying it, but I felt his fingers slide into the belt loops of my pants and draw me in. The kisses were messy, our breathing was frantic, and our hands were beginning to stray. When the will to live forced us apart again, Declan smoothed down his shirt, which had ridden up, slightly pulling out of his jeans, revealing a tuft of dark hair before hiding it away again. A mad impulse made me want to yank the shirt back up again and tug at the silky hair gently.
“So,” Declan said slowly. “How about that coffee?”
I nodded, waiting for him to turn his back so I could wipe my mouth discreetly. From the movement of his shoulders as he jogged down my front steps, I think he was doing the same thing. While he couldn’t see me, I let the huge smile that wanted to erupt do so and then composed myself as he fiddled with his car keys to activate the locking mechanism.
That’s the funny thing about guys dating. We don’t get hung up on the etiquette thing of door opening and seat holding. I mean, sure, we might do it once in a while, but it’s really no big deal. Whoever drives, that’s up to them. And I was happy to let Declan drive tonight, just in case I needed a drink to fortify my spirits at some point.
I knew it had to be a hire car, as his own would be in Tassie, but he could sense the smirk I concealed.
“What?” he asked. “I just take what I’m given.”
“I bet you like the SUV, though. It’s a man’s man’s man’s car.” I opened my door and jumped in.
He jogged around the side and got in behind the wheel. “You’re making fun of me for the car I drive?”
“Hah, you do have an SUV back home, then!”
Declan slammed his door shut and looked at me. “Do I have to answer that?”
“Hey, it would be hypocritical of me to slag you off if you do since I gratefully took a nice little sum of money in sponsorship for them last year.”
“You did?”
“Yep.”
He looked appeased. “Would it make you happy if I told you it was a hybrid?”
“What makes you think that would make me happy?”
A small smirk tugged at his lips. “You look like you vote Green.”
He could tell by my expression that he was right, and he laughed at having caught me out.
“You’re not a Liberal supporter, are you?” I asked worriedly. “Because if you are, I have to call it a night.”
He looked truly offended. “Christ, my family would kill me if I voted anything but Labor. But we’re not going to discuss politics all night, are we?”
“We’re going to discuss a lot of things,” I told him. I was perfectly serious about the Liberal thing. As Liz Lemon, a personal hero of mine, would say: That’s a deal breaker!
Declan shut me up by kissing me. It was a good tactic. And I think I had surpassed my own record for the most pash sessions on a first date before leaving the driveway. I was sure that this was either some very nice, very surreal dream or an elaborate hoax that would result in some lame breakfast show DJ jumping out from behind a bush and telling me I had been scammed, with Roger and Fran p
issing themselves as they were revealed to be the people who had set it all up.
But nothing like that happened. Not yet, anyway. Declan started the car, and we pulled out of the drive into the night beyond.
Now that he was used to the Tasmanian arctic winds, Melbourne’s gave Declan nothing to fear; I was like a dog whenever I was in a car, I always had to have my face exposed to the gale without. I was feeling an ongoing, uninterrupted sensation of happiness. I wondered if this was what Prozac was meant to feel like.
“So where are you taking me?” I asked, realising that we had never discussed our destination.
“My favourite café,” he said with a grin.
“Does it have a name?”
“You’ll see.”
We headed toward the city itself, passing under the iconic cheesestick and ribcage architecture that served as a gateway to the city from the northern suburbs and out past the Docklands. As the streets became more populated, my natural happiness diminished somewhat. I suddenly felt more exposed; until now, whatever Declan and I did was under the cover of trees, within my house, or sheltered in driveways. Now here we were, driving along Flinders Street, where anybody could peer into the car and recognise the celebrity in their midst. Then we would be going to a café. A public café.
I was being stupid. Guys hung out all the time. It didn’t mean they were gay. But when you are gay, you automatically think everybody knows and wonder if you’re safe.
It’s not a fun way to pass the time. Mostly you forget about it, but on a first date, boundaries haven’t been set. You don’t know what the other person is comfortable with, yet. And it doesn’t help when the other party is a well-known, extremely closeted sports star.
“What’s up?”
“Huh?”
“Well, I haven’t known you that long,” he said, flicking the indicator light on as he took us off the main road, “but you don’t seem like the type to stay quiet for very long.”
“Then you don’t know me very well,” I sniped, harsher than I meant.
