Private Party

by Graeme Aitken

  Nevertheless, we swapped e-mails and he promised to keep in touch, just in case.

  Another intriguing situation developed when I started receiving messages from none other than HotBloke’s boyfriend, MobyDick. About a fortnight after HotBloke had bluntly turned me down, Moby messaged me, angling for the two of us to get together. I might have been into it, if I’d thought it would make HotBloke jealous enough to want me again. The idea of fucking with his boyfriend—in HotBloke’s own bed—rather appealed to me. But their relationship was scrupulously modern. They had no sexual secrets and Moby confided that he had HotBloke’s blessing to pursue me. My interest fizzled. In the end I put him off by saying that I didn’t want to get involved with any couples. ‘I have these rules,’ I insisted.

  Predictably, Moby wanted us to break all the rules but I was resolute and eventually, he stopped sending me messages.

  If HotScott and Flirt-Attendant were my highlights from Gaydar, there were also a couple of dreadful experiences. Trade-Up’s photos were amazing. He didn’t have a face shot posted but the photos of his body and cock reminded me of HotBloke. When I asked him for a face pic, he claimed he was bisexual, had a girlfriend and was a little paranoid about privacy. Usually, I wouldn’t persist if someone didn’t have a photo, but his body was so spectacular, I just couldn’t imagine that he didn’t have a face to match. Meanwhile, Trade-Up kept insisting he was very good looking and that I wouldn’t be disappointed. Sex with HotBloke had been such a dream and as this guy could literally have been his twin, I agreed to see him. Trade-Up was reluctant to come to the Cross and though he lived all the way over in Marrickville, I decided to go to him. That way, if I didn’t like his looks, it would be easy for me to leave.

  It was quite a performance getting to his place as it involved two trains, a fifteen minute walk from the station, and then two mobile calls when I got confused about his directions. Finally, I arrived at his building and he buzzed me in. But when he opened his door to my knock, his apartment was in darkness. This was not artfully dimmed lighting; there were no lights on whatsoever. The only source of light came from the corridor where I was standing and Trade-Up was standing well clear of that. I couldn’t see him at all. He was just a silhouette and clearly that was intentional. He tried to usher me in but I stood my ground in the doorway. ‘Turn some lights on first,’ I said sternly.

  But Trade-Up had his excuse ready. ‘Oh, the light bulb just blew and I don’t have a spare.’

  ‘Well that’s a shame because you won’t be blowing me in the pitch dark,’ I retorted.

  ‘But that’s how I like it, doing it in the dark. It’s so much sexier,’ Trade-Up urged me. ‘I’m actually standing here, just a few inches away from you, stark-naked. Reach out and feel me. I’m big, just like in my photos.’

  I’d already smelt a rat but there was also something about his wheedling tone of voice that made me sense Trade-Up was a fraud. This was no muscle stud cheating on his girlfriend; this was some conniving queen with fake photos. Then it struck me: the photos had looked just like HotBloke because they were HotBloke. Trade-Up had swiped them off Gaydar, was passing them off as his own and that was why he was claiming the lights didn’t work. Who would have imagined that it would be necessary to bring a torch along with you when you went on a Gaydar date? I became immensely curious to see what this impostor looked like and I started fumbling around the walls for a light switch.

  ‘What are you doing?’ hissed Trade-Up. ‘My big cock is over here, not there. Come inside before the neighbours hear us.’

  Then my fingers brushed the light switch and I turned it on. Light flooded the room. Trade-Up shrieked and scuttled behind the door to hide himself from me. He was naked and erect but it wasn’t an attractive sight. He appeared to be Uncle Vic’s vintage, only he hadn’t maintained himself as well. Uncle Vic might be mutton dressed as lamb, but this guy was dog food. ‘I’m going to report you to the website’s administrators,’ I reprimanded him. ‘They’ll delete you.’

  But Trade-Up was unrepentant and undeterred. He stuck his head around the corner of the door. ‘I’ll give you the blow-job of your life,’ he cajoled. ‘I could suck you for hours and you can just lie back and watch some porn. I have plenty to choose from. Come on. Let’s have some fun. After all you’ve come all this way.’

  ‘Exactly, all this way under false pretences …’

  ‘Shh, shh,’ Trade-Up hissed, ‘the neighbours.’

  ‘You’re a fucking fraud,’ I accused him, raising my voice so his precious neighbours would hear.

  Trade-Up slammed the door in my face which made me feel a little cheated. I would’ve liked to have made an even bigger scene and drawn an audience out from the surrounding flats. However, on my way out of the building, I noticed the electrical board in the hallway. Impulsively, I switched off Trade-Up’s apartment’s mains. That would teach him a lesson for making me waste my time.

  My other bad experience was with SceneQueenDean. When I arrived at his place in Darlinghurst, Dean looked as good as he had in his photos. However, he had a fifty-year-old sugar daddy, Barry, who had not been mentioned in any of his messages or on his profile. Barry expected to watch us and then get in on the action once we got carried away. It wasn’t so much that Barry was older—he was quite a sexy daddy type—but the fact that they’d actively deceived me. The whole threesome thing was too reminiscent of my activities with Blake and something I’d been deliberately avoiding. ‘We just figured that if I told you about Barry, then you wouldn’t come over,’ Dean explained. ‘A lot of guys on Gaydar are very ageist.’

  ‘Let me get you a drink or perhaps you’d prefer some crystal?’ Barry offered with a wink

  I had been feeling inclined to go along with it. I was really into Dean and Barry was okay, but the offer of drugs really turned me off. It was tacky. It was also one of the tricks Uncle Vic employed to get his way, though he offered nothing stronger than a joint. I headed for the door which prompted both of them to drop their pants in a last-ditch effort to sway my mind. Barry was already rock hard. ‘You might just have to get Dean to bend over Barry,’ I suggested, ‘seeing as you’ve already taken the Viagra. You wouldn’t want it to go to waste.’

  I went home, got back on Gaydar and within half an hour had lined up GymHotJock. Hilariously, he also lived in Altair, and so I only had to take the elevator five floors for sex. He might have made for a convenient fuck buddy as he lived up to his name, but unfortunately he had some airs and graces that I couldn’t tolerate. After the sex, his first question was ‘do you own or rent?’ and he pronounced the word rent with a quiver of distaste. When I told him I was flat-sitting for a friend who was overseas, he looked decidedly put out. ‘Neither then, I see,’ he said severely. ‘I wonder if you appreciate that this is one of Sydney’s premiere buildings. It’s won awards.’

  He then proceeded to tell me that he was on the committee of the body corporate and how incredibly competitive it was to get elected. ‘I take an avid interest in everything that goes on in the building. No one had told me about you.’

  When he began to point out the various design tweaks he’d made in the bedroom, I decided it was time to depart. I hurriedly dressed, refusing the offer to try his Double Diamond Shower Head, and hurried out to the living room. However, GymHotJock was hot on my heels pointing out various articles of furniture, apprising me of their cost, and littering this monologue with the phrase ‘as an owner’ repeatedly. I’d been dismissed as some cute but homeless piece of trade. I could’ve pointed out to the pretentious shit that I actually owned a house in Surry Hills that was worth a lot more than his cramped one bedroom apartment, but I just wanted to get out of there. As I left, he told me to knock on his door any time. I must’ve looked startled as he hurriedly elaborated. ‘Not for sex,’ he said dismissively. ‘If you see anything going on in the building, things I should be informed of. Don’t hesitate. I need to know.’

  GymHotJock plainly wanted to cultivate a Stasi-like net
work of informants in The Altair. ‘But now that you mention it, what apartment number are you?’ he asked. ‘In case I am ever feeling horny.’

  I felt like saying that I hadn’t mentioned it, that I hadn’t been able to get a word in for the past ten minutes, and that he was being incredibly presumptuous. But instead, I just smiled, gave him the number of the middle-aged woman who lived next door to me, and hurried back downstairs.

  When I got back to my apartment, there was a Gaydar message from Mischief. We’d developed a somewhat curious online friendship; curious as after three weeks of contact, we still hadn’t managed to meet. Nor had his face photo eventuated despite repeated requests. Usually I had a very strict rule (I was finding I needed numerous rules on Gaydar)—no photo, no further communication. But Mischief was so attentive. He sent me a message every day without fail and they were always eloquent, witty, and thoughtful. He liked to address me with a new variation on my initials CSI. I knew that these names weren’t that easy to come up with and that Mischief must have invested considerable time and thought into the likes of Constantly Surprising Individual or Cock Shy Imp. Clearly, he wanted to impress and demonstrate that he’d been thinking about me.

  His messages were also written with perfect spelling and grammar. Not that I’m an absolute stickler about written English but sometimes my desire faded when I received messages from boys who wanted to ‘fuck my whole’ or ‘sick my cock’. I’d once had a bedroom disaster with a very drunk boy who threw up when we were going at it, so ‘sick my cock’ was a scenario I was familiar with. Sometimes I would receive messages where every word was misspelt except for fuck. Once or twice I replied, declining the offer of sex, but suggesting that ‘i before e except after c’ was a useful spelling rule.

  Although I appreciated the time and intelligence Mischief put into composing his messages, after my experience with the fraudulent Trade-Up, I became very suspicious of Mischief’s anonymity. I gave him an ultimatum: if he didn’t send me a face photo, I would no longer communicate with him. He responded by asking for a photo of my cock. Naturally, I refused to oblige and pointed out that a face pic was completely different and far less intimate than what he was asking for. But Mischief thought otherwise.

  Mischief75: For you it’s the face that’s all-important, but for me, you Cock Shy Imp, it’s your dick. I can assure you that I am equally frustrated about you not revealing yourself to me. I think about your cock constantly, fantasise about it and long to see it.

  I typed a reply, admitting that I fantasised about what he looked like too, but when I re-read my message prior to sending it, I realised how ridiculous our situation was. We’d been messaging for three weeks and I’d begun to feel attached to the guy. Yet I had no idea what he looked like or if anything he’d been telling me was true. I was communicating with a phantom. It was scarily reminiscent of the Ant/Iain debacle. I deleted what I’d written and logged out of Gaydar.

  Then I ignored Mischief’s messages for several days. I figured if I went silent on him, he might come to his senses and send me that face photo. He didn’t, but nor did he stop sending me messages either. They still came daily and he expressed no recriminations or curiosity about my silence. Finally, after three days of ignoring him, I decided it was time to insist on moving things forward.

  CSI-Sydney: Let’s meet. It’s high time that happened.

  Mischief75: I would love to. But I’m in London.

  I wasn’t sure if I believed him. He hadn’t mentioned anything about going overseas in any of his previous messages. He’d also put me off twice before when I’d suggested meeting: the first time because he wanted to get to know me better, and the second time because he had the flu. I replied, feigning excitement about his trip and then casually asked about the weather in London. When he replied that it was overcast but mild, I checked the London weather report online. It was as he said. Nevertheless, I wasn’t entirely sure I believed him. The flight to London, plus getting to and from the various airports, would have taken more than twenty-four hours, yet there’d been no interruption to the daily messages he sent. I pointed this out but he claimed to have sent me a message from Bangkok, where he had a stop-over.

  CSI-Sydney: Don’t you have better things to do on your trip than write me messages?

  Mischief75: You’ve become very important to me and I don’t want you to forget me while I’m away.

  I asked him when he was due back.

  Mischief75: I’m here for a week, and have a couple of days in Thailand on the way home. But I won’t be able to see you as soon as I get back. I’ll have a lot of work to follow up on after this trip and I also suffer badly from jet lag. I want to meet you when I’m fresh and fit, not a wreck. But we’ll definitely meet, as soon as I can manage it. I promise.

  That message made me howl with frustration. I could see this would translate into a further three weeks before we could meet.

  CSI-Sydney: I suppose I can wait two weeks if you can assure me that you’re genuine. I don’t want to be toyed with, lied to, or for you to make mischief with me.

  Mischief75: I save all my mischief for the bedroom, I promise!

  I said goodbye, but couldn’t resist my own bit of mischief.

  CSI-Sydney: One good thing about you being overseas. You’ll be able to buy that digital camera you’ve been talking about duty-free.

  I didn’t log out of Gaydar. Yes, Mischief and I had ‘something’ developing but until we actually met, it was just too intangible. I needed something more immediate. There were plenty of other guys in Sydney who would show me their face and everything else. I began to scroll through the online profiles.

  5

  Chapter Five

  Another month passed and still Mischief remained elusive, although it wasn’t entirely his fault. The first time we tried to meet post-London, I’d been obliged to cancel as I had a couple of day’s work back down in Melbourne as Tommy, shooting ads for a customer recipe promotion. We made a new arrangement for when I got back, but this time he cancelled—at the eleventh hour. We were supposed to meet for dinner but he sent a message only a few hours before, saying something had come up and he’d explain later.

  I was disappointed, irritated, and highly frustrated. I vowed to have nothing further to do with Mischief. It was obvious the guy had no intention of ever meeting me, but got off on stringing me along. I went onto Gaydar to line someone else up. When Whopper10 sent me a message, explicit photos attached, I didn’t pester him with too many questions. I just wanted to distract myself and forget all about Mischief. I glanced at his photos, liked what I saw and asked him to come straight over and ‘use the Whopper on me’. It was only after I’d given him the directions, that I realised I hadn’t seen his face pic. Every photo on his profile was of ‘the Whopper’. I took a second look at his profile, and actually read through what he’d written, but felt reassured that he should be okay. He was older but in good shape, and his cock was certainly something to behold.

  However, when I opened the door to him, my enthusiasm waned considerably. He’d claimed to be thirty-nine on his profile and I’d imagined that probably meant he was in his forties, but he was definitely in his late-forties. This extra decade in age wasn’t helped by his outfit: a ‘Lion King’ tee shirt, some nondescript brand of jeans and fawn loafers.

  He liked me, immensely. ‘Man you’re a cutie,’ he exclaimed. ‘Why don’t you have your face shot on your profile? Are you shy?’

  I couldn’t return the compliment. He wasn’t handsome. He was just a regular sort of guy, who was getting rather worn in the face. I could imagine being more into him if he’d been very butch and straight-acting but the tee shirt just shouted ‘I’m a big show queen’ and for me, it totally eclipsed his masculinity. My uncertainty must have shown on my face as he hastened to apologise about ‘the white lie’ on his profile. ‘On Gaydar, so many guys are only interested in those under forty. Anything beyond that is a no-go zone. I don’t like being left out of the cut and bes
ides I don’t look that far off thirty-nine,’ he declared with a grin, expecting me to agree.

  When I didn’t say anything, he hastily removed that tee shirt, revealing a gym built body. ‘I keep myself in shape,’ he boasted, quickly flexing a bicep. ‘Five times a week.’

  It helped that he had muscles and that he’d taken off that appalling tee shirt. I approached him and began to run my hands over him. Meanwhile, his hand dived straight for my crotch and given that he hadn’t impressed me much, of course I wasn’t hard. I tried to guide his hand away but he was insistent. ‘I’m dying to see your cock,’ he whispered, dropping to his knees. ‘I bet you’ve got a beauty.’

  ‘Yeah, well I don’t know about that,’ I said, trying to pull away from him, as he began to fumble with the buttons on my jeans.

  ‘You’re such a shy boy. You have no idea what you’ve got going for you,’ Whopper told me earnestly, which almost made me laugh, it was so ridiculous.

  His deluded comment distracted me for a moment, an opportunity Whopper took advantage of to yank my jeans and underwear down around my knees. My flaccid penis was fully exposed. I couldn’t look down. I knew it would never have looked more minuscule and was probably wilting even further beneath Whopper’s up-close scrutiny. ‘Oh,’ said Whopper, his tone heavy with disappointment, and there was a long pause. ‘It’s a grower then, is it? Takes a bit to get going. How about I do this then?’

  Whopper began to suck it. I tried to squirm away from him but he clamped his hands around my buttocks and began to bob away at me, in short, little stabs. I noticed that his head scarcely moved; there was so little there to work with. The whole experience had become so awkward and humiliating, that I seriously doubted I’d even manage to get an erection and redeem myself by a few inches. I had never found sex less sexy. However, gradually my cock began to stir and Whopper began to moan encouragingly. I’d been fully erect for a couple of minutes and he was still moaning away, imagining no doubt that he was coaxing me to greater dimensions. Finally, I couldn’t bear it any longer and pulled away from him. ‘That’s it,’ I said defiantly, waving my erection in his face. ‘That’s as big as it gets.’