Patrick nodded and smiled, blushing at my compliment. I hoped that Rico was merely responsible for ushering people to their tables, but a few minutes later he was back, announcing that he was our waiter for the evening. He managed to curtail the chit-chat, though as he excused himself to get the bottle of wine I’d ordered, he smirked and said something about mentioning to Alejandro the next time he saw him that I’d been in ‘with a friend’.
I gave him a terse little smile, then a few moments later, excused myself from Patrick to go to the bathroom. What I actually did was corner Rico, out of Patrick’s line of vision, and told him to lay off with the familiarity. ‘I’m on a date and he’s the jealous type. He’s asking who you are, if I’ve had sex with you …’
Rico grinned. ‘Yeah well, maybe we should do that sometime,’ he flirted, raising his eyebrows, ‘now you don’t see Alejandro.’
‘And don’t mention him. Now he’s grilling me about Alex. Just play it real cool, okay? Don’t get too chatty.’
Rico nodded and I ducked away to the bathroom. When I returned, Rico was pouring our wine, but keeping his lip buttoned. For the rest of the evening, he was attentive but distant, which was perfect. Dinner went smoothly, though Patrick protested that he didn’t drink much and kept trying to stop Rico from topping up his wine glass. ‘A glass or two won’t hurt,’ I encouraged him.
I wanted him to get a little tiddly, figuring that then he’d be less likely to dwell on any inconsistencies between what I said and what I might have written on his form six months ago.
When we’d finished eating and both passed on dessert, I invited him back to my place, adding that it was only around the corner. Patrick looked startled. ‘I thought you lived in Surry Hills,’ he protested a little sharply.
I explained that I was renovating my place and house-sitting for a friend. I could tell that Patrick was suspicious which was ironic when I was actually telling him the truth for once. I signalled Rico for the bill. I was about to whip out my credit card when I remembered whose name was on it. I didn’t want Patrick picking it up and reading my name, or Rico for that matter. Rico might very well say ‘goodbye Stephen’ when he farewelled us which would be disastrous. I checked my wallet for cash and discovered I only had a fifty which was awkward as I’d intended to pay for Patrick. When Rico presented the bill, Patrick pulled out his own credit card and insisted very firmly that he would pay for himself. He was so adamant, I began to have an inkling that perhaps I wouldn’t be getting any sex later on.
Rico bade us a courteous good night and we strolled off down Bayswater Road, then around the corner to Altair. As we waited for the elevator, I could see Patrick frowning at the vast sterile emptiness of the foyer. ‘This isn’t anything like where I imagined you living,’ he remarked in the elevator.
When I ushered him into the apartment, he walked into the living room, and looked around. ‘Goodness,’ he said.
At first I thought he was impressed, but then he turned to me and asked why it was so empty.
‘Oh, that’s deliberate,’ I said quickly. ‘My friend likes things to be kind of Zen.’
‘But where do you sit down and relax?’
‘Well, actually I like to relax in the bedroom Patrick,’ I said smoothly, following this remark up with a sly hand upon his butt.
Patrick jumped and scurried out onto the balcony, muttering something about the view. I was a little exasperated, but eventually followed him out there. He turned to me. ‘Sorry, I’m a little nervous. I haven’t been on many dates with guys.’
His confession was very endearing. ‘I’ve enjoyed our evening together very much,’ I replied, moving closer to him.
‘I hope I didn’t seem rude about the apartment. To me, it just seems a little … um, unfinished.’
‘Well, I’m not asking you to move in just yet Patrick,’ I teased him and was amused to see him blush, ‘though you are very welcome to stay the night.’
His blush had begun to fade but my offer promptly restored it. I leant forward and kissed him on the lips. Tentatively, he began to kiss me back. It was a memorable moment with the lights of the city spread out beyond us as a glittering backdrop. Our kisses quickly became more passionate and the wind—which could get a little fierce up that high—seemed to urge us on. I was about to slide my hand around to assess his erection, when suddenly, he pulled away from me. ‘I need to go to the bathroom,’ he muttered.
I told him where it was and he scurried away. I wandered back into the living room, thoughtful. It was hard to know if things were moving too fast for him, or whether he’d gone to the bathroom to make some preparations for me to fuck him. As he was in there for a good five minutes, I began to think that it must surely be the latter. But when he finally did emerge, he asked a question which completely threw me. ‘So Stephen is your friend who owns this place?’
I couldn’t believe it. I had gone over the apartment so carefully and had been positive that I hadn’t left anything incriminating lying around.
‘Um, yes,’ I replied cagily. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘There were some prescription pills in the bathroom with his name on it. Sitting out,’ Patrick hastily added. ‘I wasn’t going through your cupboards.’
I cursed my slip-up. I had cleaned the bathroom, but failed to notice the pills. I’d been focused on hiding bills, photographs, ID and anything that seemed too camp and girly. ‘But I bet you were snooping through my cupboards Patrick,’ I said all mock severity, ‘which means I have every right to retaliate and poke about in your drawers.’
It was corny but Patrick laughed. ‘Come here,’ I beckoned.
He hesitated, but then obeyed. When he stood in front of me, I slid a hand down the back of his jeans, leaned forward and began to kiss him. Once I felt him harden against me, I pulled away and tugged him by his hand. ‘Let’s go into the bedroom,’ I suggested.
But he stood his ground firmly, frowning slightly, which excited me. It made me think that the sex might prove to be quite a tussle, before one of us ended up on top. I glanced down at his crotch. He noticed my gaze, grinned and with a shrug, allowed himself to be led into the bedroom.
As it transpired, I ended up on top. ‘I haven’t done it very often,’ Patrick admitted, ‘but I’d like to, with you. I bet you like doing it doggie style.’
‘Why?’ I asked, completely baffled.
‘Sorry, I’m nervous. I was just making a joke,’ he said quickly. ‘You know, with you being a vet.’
Of course! I was a vet. I looked after sick and injured animals.
When I slowly slid my cock inside him, he didn’t gasp or flinch, but looked me intently in the eye. ‘I’ve fantasised about this moment,’ he sighed. ‘A lot.’
Although he claimed to be a novice, he didn’t have any problems taking my cock. In fact, before long he was begging ‘Jayson’ to fuck him harder. Jayson obliged. He came first, crying ‘oh Jayson, Jayson’ as he ejaculated. Hearing that name on his lips really turned me on and I started to come as well. Once I was done, I collapsed alongside him panting, and he snuggled in against me. We lay there, too stunned from the sex to talk, just stroking each other and exchanging a few gentle kisses. Then Patrick excused himself to use the bathroom.
I lay there for a few more minutes, then went and fetched us both a glass of iced water. He hadn’t re-appeared and I lay back down again. After what seemed like another five minutes, I went to investigate. Perhaps he was taking a shower? But when I listened outside the door, the shower wasn’t running. It seemed odd, but I didn’t like to knock on the door in case he was on the toilet, and I tip-toed back to bed. But then five more minutes passed and he still hadn’t emerged. I began to feel quite concerned. I remembered the pills he’d spotted and then something else occurred to me. What if he had looked in the bathroom cupboard? Strauss had a small pharmacy in there, dozens of prescription pills in his name, not to mention all the make-up. If he’d seen all of that, it was no wonder he hadn’t emerged. Patrick must t
hink I was some sort of pill-popping drag queen. I went back and knocked on the door. ‘Are you alright in there?’ I enquired gently.
He answered by flinging the door open. He had wrapped a towel around his waist and was clutching a magazine in his hand. ‘No, I’m not alright,’ he snarled at me, brandishing the magazine aloft. ‘I found this in the pile of magazines by the toilet.’
At first, I thought it was porn and I wondered what on earth Strauss could have stashed beside the toilet that could provoke such a response. But then I caught a quick glimpse of the masthead. It was ‘TV Week’.
‘You’re not Jayson. You’re not a vet. You’re just a total arsehole,’ Patrick screamed and threw the magazine at me.
As it floated past my eyes in a flurry of pages, I recognised the issue. It was the ‘TV Week’ that had featured Tara and me on the cover.
My first thought was to talk my way out of it, claim that Stephen Spear was my stage name or something, but when I started to speak, he cut me off. ‘Don’t,’ he warned me, and he held up his hand, like a traffic officer, commanding me to stop. ‘I can’t believe anything that comes out of your mouth.’
He stared at me in disgust, and I noticed his face was twitching with emotion. ‘I don’t think one word of truth has passed your lips since I met you. Not back in July, or over this past week,’ he accused me, his voice quivering.
He kept staring and I realised he expected me to reply. I took a deep breath. ‘Yes, well, a lot of what I said about myself was false … but anything I said about you, that was true and heartfelt,’ I added quickly. ‘Every compliment was sincere.’
Patrick snorted. ‘I don’t value compliments from liars and you seem to be some sort of serial liar. Because it wasn’t insignificant little white lies, you’ve lied to me on a massive scale. Why would you do that, unless you get off on it in some sick way?’
It seemed impossible to justify—my motivations were so complicated and no matter how I worded it, Patrick would be offended and appalled. I stood there helplessly grasping for something to say. Patrick just shook his head, looked disgusted and pushed past me to get to the bedroom. Reluctantly, I followed and found him hurriedly dressing. What he’d said was still ringing in my ears and I wanted to redeem myself a little in his eyes. ‘I know how odd it must seem but I’m a public figure,’ I explained sorrowfully. ‘People know me from TV and it can be very wearying. Sometimes I use an alias to dodge the attention.’
‘I think you’re flattering yourself,’ Patrick snapped as he buttoned his shirt. ‘I’ve never heard of you and I don’t think many people have. Who even watches that show?’
That was a little offensive. ‘Only a million people every week,’ I replied, somehow managing to keep my voice calm.
Patrick snorted in disbelief and stalked past me, but then at the bedroom door, he paused, turned and looked me in the eye. ‘You are one sick fuck,’ he spat.
Then he was gone. A few moments later I heard the apartment door slam. His words had really stung and I was stunned by the intensity of his anger. I sank down on the end of the bed. He had seemed so sweet and placid over dinner and even afterwards, in bed. I couldn’t help thinking, rather nastily, that his performance in the bedroom might have benefited from some of that passion. Truly, he had made such a resounding prima donna exit that I should have followed him out to the lift and applauded!
I got up and wandered into the living room to check that he truly had gone, but also to get myself a drink. I’d been practically teetotal all night. I poured myself a large vodka and went out onto the balcony with it, mulling over what had happened. By the time I’d finished the drink, I’d concluded that part of the problem was that Patrick clearly had feelings for me. He’d gone to such lengths trying to track me down, and those little confessions he’d made during the night, and then to have made such a scene. It was terrible how the situation had unfolded but it had all begun harmlessly enough. I did feel bad that this had happened when Patrick was so new to being gay—this experience would probably send him racing back to reclaim his heterosexuality. I resolved to send him a text the next day to apologise; though not a lot could be expressed in a text message.
I went back inside, poured myself another drink and sat down at the computer. Strauss wasn’t online unfortunately, so I had to send him an e-mail, telling him off. Alongside the toilet was a most inappropriate place to keep a magazine that featured me on the cover.
Strauss replied overnight, requesting that I slip the issue of ‘TV Week’ into an acid-free archive bag post-haste. Of course he was being facetious but in fact, it wasn’t a bad idea. I made a mental note to buy one. I checked MSN and Strauss was online so I quickly sent him a message.
Strauss: Well I hope you’ve learnt your lesson.
I replied ‘yeah, yeah’ automatically but then started to think about it. Of course I did feel badly about misleading Patrick who was so sweet and young and deserved better, but nevertheless, there had been something exhilarating about the whole experience.
Strauss: You were playing with fire.
Stephen: Well, I was at a terrible disadvantage. He knew more about who I was supposed to be than I did. It was kind of miraculous I managed to keep the charade going for as long as I did.
Strauss: And how was the sex? Come on Stephen, don’t be coy.
Stephen: It wasn’t about the sex. I think I was more excited at the restaurant when all these challenges kept cropping up. I don’t know. In some ways, it was the most exciting date I’ve ever been on.
Strauss: Don’t tell me you got a hard on deceiving this poor boy?
Stephen: Well, the evening was certainly fraught with the most incredible tension and it wasn’t only erotic tension. There was this entire spectrum of other emotions. It was nerve-wracking and liberating and stimulating.
Strauss: You’re going to do it again, aren’t you?
Stephen: No, no, of course not.
But Strauss was no fool. He quite astutely did not believe my denials.
2
Chapter Two
I planned very carefully for my second impersonation. I had learnt my lesson with Patrick and recognised the importance of being in control of my character at all times. Although the situation with him had been unique—so much time had passed from our initial meeting—it had demonstrated the importance of not forgetting anything I said about ‘myself’. At times it had been exhilarating with Patrick, having to think so fast. But being uncovered had been a decidedly sobering experience. That was not going to happen again.
I gave the matter a great deal of thought. I wanted there to be a degree of challenge to my masquerade, to experience the elation of passing as someone else, but in more controlled circumstances. I concluded that the answer was to take on the persona of someone very different to myself, so that I was required to act. I would devise a character, take him out into the real world, and see what might eventuate. I also vowed that there would be no dates or sex. I suspected that much of Patrick’s fury had stemmed from him feeling that he’d been manipulated into sex under false pretences. If I avoided that type of scenario, then surely my actions were pretty harmless.
Another important consideration was where I took my character. Hugo’s had been a mistake. It was imperative that I didn’t run into people I knew. A bar was the obvious venue: it was in that environment, fuelled by alcohol, where people were more inclined to talk to a stranger. It needed to be somewhere a bit obscure, but where I still felt comfortable and the frisson of flirtation lurked—even if I had resolved not to permit anything to develop. I was vaguely aware that a gay bar or nightclub existed in Penrith. I was guaranteed complete anonymity out there, but the prospect of travelling to the far-flung outskirts of Sydney suburbia on public transport did not appeal. There was also the problem of getting home again in the early hours of the morning. Eventually, I settled on the Newtown Hotel, which was an easy taxi ride away. It was more of a neighbourhood gay bar and for many of the Potts Point/Elizabeth
Bay set might as well have been on a different planet! If I did encounter anyone there that I knew, I could always sneak off and try the nearby Imperial.
As for my character, initially I thought of posing as a tourist, until I realised that maintaining an accent would present too great a challenge. A simpler option would be to say I was from out-of-town or interstate. Then, it struck me: I would be a farm-fresh country boy, visiting the big city, and whetting his curiosity by venturing into a gay bar for the first time. It was perfect. I was very excited at the prospect of playing ‘the innocent’, a guy who was unworldly, perhaps a tad conservative, and a bit of a bloke. But my bloke needed a name, something butch and outdoorsy. After days of discarding possibility after possibility, I eventually settled upon a name that fitted: Trevor or Trev to his mates.
The most exciting part about becoming Trev was that I would need to don a disguise. All of my clothes were far too hip and urban. I knew there was a shop in the city which specialised in ‘bush couture’—it would be perfect for Trev. I dashed in to inspect their wares, though my enthusiasm waned upon examining the price tags. I was not prepared to spend hundreds of dollars on a new pair of jeans and shirt that I would only wear once. So instead, I looked over the men’s range very carefully with the idea of then picking up something similar in a second-hand shop. Some of the shirts reminded me of things my mother had given me over the years, shirts I’d never worn but didn’t feel I could throw away. When I got home, I dug them out. Elisabeth’s agenda had clearly been to get me out of tight, navel exposing tee shirts and into something more masculine, hence the checked western number in colours that were completely wrong for me. I tried it on and it still looked hideous, but it was perfect for Trev.
Finding a pair of jeans was more of a challenge. I only owned Diesel and G-Star and I couldn’t possibly wear those. The second-hand shops proved to be treasure troves for brands of jeans that I had never even heard of—who knew that Stubbies produced jeans?—but it was impossible to find anything in the right size. Not that the ladies who worked the counters of these establishments were bothered by the small matter of a good fit. They were even more brazen liars than their counterparts in the city boutiques. ‘Oh, that’s just lovely,’ they would declare. ‘Nice and roomy. Oh and don’t forget to have a rummage around in my five dollar bin.’
Me, Myself and Someone Else Page 2
