However, in a lucky coincidence, I received a ‘fashion’ catalogue from some chain store in my mailbox. Usually, I would’ve tossed it straight in the bin, but with Trev in mind, I glanced through it. The menswear was the sort of thing I would never wear, which made it perfect for Trev. I took a taxi over to the branch at Bondi Junction and had a fabulous time shopping. I snapped up a pair of jeans for $29.95, some hideous aqua briefs, and a cowboy hat. I was a little dubious about the hat, but I needed something to hide my hair which was simply too salon perfect. Most gay guys would spot in a trice that the colour was not natural. Although, I was prepared to go to certain lengths to get into character, I was not prepared to mess with my hair. However, a couple of days later I found an even better hat in a Surry Hills op shop: a cap that promoted some brand of tractor. It was perfect.
I tried everything on with an old pair of boots and was amazed by how it transformed me. I looked terrible. Acquaintances would definitely fail to recognise me and even friends would have to look twice. I scrutinised myself carefully from every angle, and decided that a couple of days of stubble and some lank unwashed hair poking out from the cap would set everything off to perfection.
Then it occurred to me that though I might look the part, I knew next to nothing about being a farm boy. It was a Wednesday night, so I settled down in front of the television and did some research: I watched an episode of ‘MacLeod’s Daughters’. The next morning, I visited the local library, checked out the numerous memoirs of Sara Henderson and proceeded to read them. By Saturday, I felt I’d acquired a solid base of knowledge about farm life, but even so, as a precaution, I sat down and devised a series of questions that I would ask a gay farmer if I ever happened to encounter one. This exercise threw me into a complete panic. I realised I knew nothing about what it was like to be gay and living in the country. So I logged into Gaydar, scanned through the profiles listed in Greater NSW, and sent off a heap of messages. Bushboy32 quickly got back to me. He lived outside of Orange and was keen to chat. We swapped e-mails and I interrogated him on MSN.
I learnt all sorts of useful information. From viewing various pornos over the years, I’d conceived the notion that sex in hay barns was de rigeur for country lads. But according to BushBoy, hay barns were somewhat redundant these days. Hay was now made in giant bales, wrapped in plastic and sat out in the paddock. His hay barn was used to store ploughing implements. I asked him what his hobbies were, thinking I would adopt these for Trev, but was thoroughly revolted when he nominated shooting. This butcher relished slaughtering living creatures, such as cute little bunny rabbits, ducks and Santa’s reindeer.
I was aghast and BushBoy hastily added that he also enjoyed dog trials, a concept he had to explain. Apparently, it was some elaborate sheep chasing competition involving dogs and lots of whistling. It was an activity Bushboy was rather passionate about and he urged me to come and watch him in action. I declined politely which prompted Bushboy to send through a photo of his erection. He started pressing me to visit him for a weekend and promised to fulfil all my fantasies by fucking me in the woolshed which he claimed was superior to a hay barn. ‘Sounds a bit smelly and uncomfortable,’ I demurred.
‘I’ll spread a Merino fleece across the shearing board and fuck you on that.’
I wasn’t tempted. Bushboy had provided me with plenty of material, so I said my goodbyes and disconnected. It was Sunday. I hadn’t shaved or washed my hair since Wednesday and it was beginning to drive me crazy. I decided tonight would be the night. Everyone I knew went to The Tilbury on a Sunday evening with a religious devotion, so it seemed fairly safe for Trev to venture to The Newtown. When it was late enough, I got into my Trev get-up and headed out.
When I walked inside The Newtown numerous heads turned, though I noticed that no one’s gaze lingered for long on poor Trevor. I found a spot to stand against the back wall. At first, Trev was too shy and nervous to look anywhere but downward; though there was something quite captivating about the sheer shapelessness of the jeans I was wearing. Tentatively, I began to glance around, dropping my gaze sharply whenever anyone met my eyes. I quickly established that there was no one in the immediate vicinity that I knew. After five minutes of this demure coquetry, I felt in need of a drink and approached the bar. When the barman finally turned to me, I automatically began to order my usual—vodka, lime and soda—when it occurred to me that such a drink was all wrong for Trev. He would be a beer drinker, and probably from the tap. I glanced at the taps and ordered a schooner of VB. While I waited, I furtively glanced about, seeking out a spot to retreat to. I wanted to be next to someone I could get into conversation with, but someone I wasn’t remotely attracted to. I wanted to concentrate on being ‘in character’ and not be distracted by desire.
The barman gave me my beer and I retreated with it, to stand over by the stage between two older guys. I figured one of them would be good to talk to, though of course poor, shy, out-of-his-depth Trevor was too overwhelmed to initiate a conversation. However, after almost ten minutes of self-conscious waiting, it seemed Trev was going to be obliged to trot out some lame line. Eventually, the guy on my left turned to me and said, ‘I like your shirt.’
It was the most unlikely opening line and surely couldn’t be true. This remark clearly demonstrated that some gay men would say anything to get laid. I turned to him, suppressing my smile. ‘Thanks mate,’ I replied. ‘Me Mum got it for me.’
The guy glanced at the jeans but refrained from commenting on them, though there was plenty of scope for flirtatious banter. Instead of saying ‘those jeans are hideous and I’d be doing you a favour to get you out of them’, he asked me where I was from. ‘Off a farm mate,’ I replied. ‘You’d never have heard of the place but the closest town is Orange.’
That seemed to pique his interest as he moved a little closer so that his arm brushed against mine. He asked my name and volunteered that his was Alan. ‘And what brings you to Sydney?’ Alan asked. ‘Big night out or looking for some company?’
I drew back a little as if nervous. But I had anticipated this question and had an excellent line prepared. ‘Well, I’m looking into buying a new tractor. I was visiting a dealer out at St Marys this afternoon, then decided to head into the city for a night out.’
Alan looked suitably startled. ‘Where’s St Marys?’ he asked, which was a good question.
I had done my research on the internet to locate this tractor outlet. It had never occurred to me to research St Marys. ‘Oh, out west,’ I said vaguely.
‘And how’d you hear about this bar?’ asked Alan.
‘I was chatting to someone on the internet and he recommended it. He said it would be a good place to go for my first time. Not so intimidating and the crowd was a bit friendlier.’
‘Your first time?’ Alan queried.
‘I’ve never been in a place like this before,’ I confided and somehow managed to say the words with a straight face.
‘Really?’
‘No, never,’ I replied wide-eyed, ‘and it’s kind of a spin-out to see all these guys and know they’re all gay.’
‘Okay, so you’ve never been to a gay bar before …’ Alan mused. ‘But you have been with guys before? I mean for sex?’
I hesitated and lowered my voice. ‘I’ve had experiences, but nothing that satisfying. Mates who got drunk after the footy and let me blow them, then couldn’t remember the next morning. That sort of thing.’
‘Drunk straight boys,’ said Alan with a certain relish. ‘Sounds a whole lot tastier than what’s on offer in here tonight. Oh, present company excluded of course.’
I noticed that Alan’s hand crept significantly closer to my butt. I was trying to think how I could dampen down his ardour, when suddenly there was a loud flourish of music, and the lights behind us on the stage blazed forth. The crowd began to clap and cheer. Alan whirled around, applauding furiously. I turned to see a drag queen striding onto the stage, calling out greetings and wisecracks. ‘It’s Crusty
Slingfield,’ Alan informed me. ‘She’s totally wicked.’
I adopted an incredulous expression, befitting Trev’s first encounter with a real-life drag queen. Though inside, I was fuming. My own act had been interrupted by this lame drag queen and who knew how long she would go on for. Alan was hanging on her every word and though I could have said my goodbyes to him and found someone else to talk to, the show dominated the entire bar. Everyone seemed to be watching, either avidly or out of bored amusement.
I quickly realised that Alan’s prime position right by the stage was no accident. He was obviously one of Crusty’s biggest fans and was here specifically for her show. When Crusty announced that tonight’s entertainment was a Best Buns competition, Alan screeched with delight. But when she called for volunteers and he started waving his hands in the air, I was aghast. I glanced at his rear end as he leant forward calling out. I couldn’t believe he wanted to expose that thing in public.
But in fact he didn’t. He wasn’t volunteering himself; he was alerting Crusty to my presence. ‘Here’s a new boy in town for you,’ he called out, pointing to me. ‘A nice country lad.’
It was as if she’d been offered a designer gown in a size sixteen— Crusty was across that stage in a flash. She crouched down beside me. ‘From the country?’ she purred, her voice booming around the room as she spoke into her microphone.
I nodded. ‘My oh my,’ Crusty exclaimed. ‘Off a farm?’
I nodded again.
‘A farm boy,’ Crusty announced. ‘And what brings you to the big city and more specifically to the Newtown Hotel?’
I tried to back away, but Alan placed a restraining hand on my butt. ‘No no no,’ I protested. ‘Please leave me alone.’
This was the last thing I needed. My outing required a low profile, not to be pulled up onto the stage for everyone to see. God knows who was across the other side of the bar or lurking down the back. Someone might recognise me.
‘Darling, there’s no need to be so coy,’ said Crusty in a wheedling voice. ‘We all know why you’re here. You want cock and there’s nothing wrong with that, is there boys?’
‘No,’ the audience roared back.
‘Come up on stage with me darl. It’s not often we get a nice, country boy like yourself in here. Everyone can get a good look at you and you can have the pick of the place. I know some of the trolls in here very well indeed, and can let you in on a few secrets. Like who has the biggest dick.’
Crusty cackled, then put the microphone down so she could devote both hands to pulling me up on stage. While from behind, Alan was pushing me, his hands slipping lower and lower. When he started brazenly grasping at my butt, it was simply too much. I let Crusty pull me onto the stage, just to get away from the groper.
Meanwhile, the crowd was cheering me on, and as I stood there awkwardly, cringing, my mood began to change. The reluctance and annoyance began to fade. Crusty spun me around to display my rear view and the audience went wild. When she turned me back around, I couldn’t stop myself from breaking into a grin. It had been so long since I’d known the adulation of an audience and this crowd was braying for me. It felt good to be back on stage again, in the spotlight, even if it was only in a gay bar and alongside a drag queen who intended to humiliate me. But then something else occurred to me: what a test of my talent this would be if I could pass myself off as Trev to this seen-it-all drag queen and everyone else in the bar.
There was also the consideration that I would probably win—and I did like to win. I’d been notorious at school for carrying off all the prizes. The competition winner was decided by the audience and with this sort of support, I was an absolute shoo-in. ‘What’s the prize?’ I couldn’t stop myself from asking.
‘That’s the spirit doll,’ Crusty screeched. ‘The prize is an absolute beauty. It’s a very generous three hundred dollar gift voucher to spend at the wonderful sex shop just down the road. Darl, there’ll be things in that shop you’ve never seen before, that you’ll need instructions to operate. Or just someone more experienced to assist you, someone like myself.’
The audience howled. With me now confirmed as a contestant, Crusty spent the next ten minutes cajoling, threatening, and bribing with free drinks, another seven guys up onto the stage. I watched intently, my competitive hackles raised. But in fact there was really only one guy that posed any competition: a muscular Lebanese boy named Sam. It transpired that Sam was the reigning champion. This competition was a regular event and Sam had won it twice in the past. That gave me a moment’s pause until I remembered how fickle gay men were. They’d already seen him bare his arse, whereas my rear end was farm fresh and … virginal! Yes, that was the crucial detail. There was no doubt that Trev would absolutely eclipse Sam if he happened to mention to Crusty that he was ‘untouched’.
Crusty mustered all of the competitors into a line and I swiftly inserted myself in the prime position at the very end. The lights dimmed to a spotlight on the first competitor but I didn’t pay too much attention to the proceedings. Instead, I concentrated on staying in character: trying to look awkward and embarrassed and offering the occasional shy smile to the audience. However, when Crusty reached Sam, who was Number Six in the line, I turned to watch. Sam was quite a favourite with Crusty. She unbuttoned his overly tight jeans herself, and slid them down, exclaiming over the Abercrombie and Fitch underwear that was revealed. The crowd roared. When those briefs were finally peeled down, I took a long assessing look. Admittedly it was pretty nice, though I wouldn’t have wanted to encounter it when it was overdue for a wax. Sam glanced over and must have seen a flash of competitive grit in my face, because in a final flourish he proved to have one more ace up his sleeve. As he pulled up his underwear, he turned to the audience and treated the crowd to a brief glimpse of his thick, Lebanese cock. They whooped their approval.
Number Seven was so skinny he practically had no arse to speak of. He drew only scattered applause. Then the spotlight settled on me. I pushed Crusty away firmly, who was offering to undo my fly with her teeth. This was my show. I didn’t need her help. Sam had treated the crowd to something extra, and I intended to do the same. I took off my shirt and threw it to Alan. No fuss, no tease, just shucked it off the way a regular guy would, and stood there puffing out my chest. This sent Crusty into raptures and Sam into a sulk. The crowd was mine.
While Crusty launched into some fanciful commentary about working men on the land stripping down and getting sweaty, I turned and just as swiftly, undid my jeans. They fell about my ankles and I got the reaction I’d been hoping for. There was a collective gasp from the crowd—who could have imagined that such an unflattering pair of jeans was camouflaging something so tasty? Meanwhile, Crusty was threatening to faint and calling for smelling salts. I hooked a finger into each side of my briefs. I slid one side down a fraction, then stopped. The crowd began to clap in rhythm and started chanting ‘drop ’em, drop ’em’. I bent over slightly and they whooped. But I hesitated. For more than thirty seconds, I stood there, my fingers poised to slip them down, until finally I straightened back up again, without revealing anything. I bowed my head, cringing. Crusty marched over. ‘I know you’re shy love,’ Crusty whispered away from the microphone. ‘Just give them a quick flash.’
I grimaced. ‘I am shy,’ I whispered back, ‘but it’s not just that …’
‘What then?’
I leant forward as if to confide in Crusty, but in fact, I was positioning myself above the microphone she had moved away from her own mouth. ‘I just feel funny about showing my arse to a whole room of guys,’ I confided, ‘when I’ve never … never had a guy back there.’
My words hung in the air. The entire room was silent. Even Crusty had been rendered speechless. It was really difficult to keep the smile of triumph off my face, so I buried my face in my hands as if I was overcome with embarrassment. The next thing I knew someone was tugging down my underwear. I whirled around expecting it to be Crusty, but in fact, Alan had leapt up ont
o the stage and pulled them down.
The crowd erupted. There were hands in the air, whistles, cheers, guys stamping their feet, banging with their hands on the stage—it was completely wild. I let everyone get a good look, then hitched my briefs and then my jeans back up. Eventually, Crusty subdued everyone so that she could be heard. She declared that it was pointless to select three finalists as usual because there was no question as to whom the audience preferred and who would win. She thanked the other contestants, told a few of them they needed to do more squats at the gym, and sent them off the stage. Then she launched herself upon me and tried to tuck the gift voucher down the front of my pants. Eventually, I managed to get away from her, gave the crowd a shy smile and wave, and then walked forward to step down from the stage. From amidst the dazzle of lights, a hand was offered to assist me. I presumed it was Alan and grasped it. But once I’d stepped down, I found myself face to face with, of all people, Damon.
‘Well hello Trevor,’ he smirked. ‘Nice outfit.’
I was lost for words. I had not seen Damon since the sex party. Two months had passed and I’d heard nothing from him. But nor had any acquaintances we had in common said anything. Damon seemed to have gone quiet about the whole affair, but knowing Damon as I did, I found that silence very ominous. Unfortunately, I’d also lost my access to Blake’s e-mail and Damon’s finely crafted messages. I don’t know if Blake had cottoned on to what I was doing, but one day back in early December, the password had abruptly stopped working.
Damon and I held each other’s gaze for what seemed an eternity. Finally, Damon reached out and plucked the envelope from my hand. ‘I’ll take that as hush money. I don’t think it would go down too well with this adoring crowd if they were to learn that far from being a virgin, you’ve been tripping up and down Oxford Street for at least a decade and that of late you’ve taken to hosting sex parties!’
Me, Myself and Someone Else Page 3
