Damon changed the subject after that. I guess he wanted to distract me. He’d received several text messages from one of the Arab guys we’d met on Saturday night. ‘He wants to see me again, or rather he wants to see Veronica again. But it just seems like an awful lot of bother to re-hire the wig, find a new outfit, and get dolled up all over again.’
Damon tried to talk me into a double act, but I insisted that Primrose had fled back to the country, and given up alcohol, late nights and men for Lent. ‘I’ll come with you as myself,’ I offered.
‘If he hadn’t sent me that photo of his cock I wouldn’t be so tempted,’ Damon moaned. ‘But clearly, he’s up for some action.’
‘Why don’t you send him a photo of your own cock?’ I joked. ‘So there are no nasty shocks.’
To my surprise, Damon seemed to think this was an excellent idea.
After we’d finished our drink, Damon offered to have dinner with me to keep me company, but I assured him I was fine. We parted and I walked back to Kings Cross. When I got home, I couldn’t help re-opening the SX and studying the photograph again. This time I saw something new in it. I’d been struck by Blake’s smile and the contrast with his demeanour the night before. But now I understood. He was sporting a smile of triumph.
Of course, despite trying several different distractions, I couldn’t think of anything other than Bloody Blake all night. I tried ringing Alejandro thinking he might provide a few answers but he didn’t pick up and I didn’t feel like leaving a message. Finally, I went to bed, but that was no better. I just lay there, sleepless. Eventually, after several hours of tossing and turning and trying everything from hot chocolate to masturbation, I had my epiphany.
It was something Damon had said: this is the sort of stunt I might think of pulling. He was being flippant, though his offhand remark was true of him—and of me. Over the last six months, I’d concocted numerous tricks, from the elaborate to the minor inconvenience, to fuck Blake over. Now that Blake was alone, hurt and evidently very bitter, he was responding in kind. He’d learnt how to pull off such a stunt from two masters of the art—Damon and myself.
It was a sobering thought. Blake had always been this sweet, straightforward guy. He didn’t stew on his grievances and he didn’t plot elaborate acts of revenge. If he was upset, it all spilled out spontaneously, and if he was really riled, he threw something. But now he was like a different person. It made me appreciate how we influence our partners and learn from them. Just from that photograph I could see Rick’s impact: he’d transformed Blake’s body. But what was my legacy? It was an unenviable thought but it seemed I was responsible for turning Blake into a vindictive, manipulative schemer!
That realisation propelled me to a decision. I would not retaliate in kind. It was time to end this cycle of inflicting revenge. Half a year had passed and now Rick was out of the picture, perhaps Blake and I could put our antagonism behind us and try to be friends.
I got out of bed, went to the computer and wrote an e-mail.
Dear Blake,
I saw the photograph of you and Alejandro together. If it was designed to hurt me, then rest assured you succeeded. But it’s also made me think a great deal about you, and about us. Six months has passed. I would like to try and salvage a friendship. Can we?
Love Stephen
I sent it, went back to bed and managed to fall asleep almost immediately. When I awoke the next morning, it was almost ten o’clock. My first thought was my e-mail. Blake would undoubtedly have replied. I jumped out of bed and hurried over to the computer. Perhaps we could even meet tonight, have dinner and talk? My mind was off at fever pitch, trying to decide on a restaurant. It couldn’t be anywhere with romantic overtones or any history, but it also couldn’t be too casual or somewhere too noisy. I slipped into the chair and opened my e-mail. As expected, I had a message … however, it wasn’t from Blake. It was from Krystal bloody Lutz, promising me a larger penis through her revolutionary new gel.
I couldn’t believe that Blake hadn’t responded. I tried receiving again. I checked the Spam folder. I even checked that I hadn’t blocked Blake’s address in a fit of pique. I hadn’t. He simply hadn’t replied … unless, he hadn’t received my message. I remembered that he was staying in some cheap hotel and perhaps didn’t have access to the internet. But it was ten o’clock on a Friday. He would be at work and able to check his personal e-mail, unless he was away on a course or had taken a day off work to look for a new apartment. Then I thought to re-read the message I had sent him. I’d been sleepless, emotionally distraught, and perhaps what had seemed perfectly reasonable last night would seem wildly inappropriate this morning. I opened the sent messages folder and re-read the message. But it was fine: concise and conciliatory.
Blake didn’t reply to my message that day or the next day, and with every passing hour, it became more and more unbearable. It reminded me of those awful, emotionally raw days when we’d first broken up. All the times I’d waited for a phone call or an e-mail or a text message that never came. Yet, here I was, six months later, back in that same hideous, frustrating position.
I was beginning to contemplate sending him a text or even phoning to put myself out of my misery, when my mobile rang. I snatched it up, without even glancing at the caller ID. It was one of those moments of synchronicity and I knew it had to be Blake … except it wasn’t. It was Damon, though he was ringing with news about Blake.
‘Blake called me again,’ he announced, ‘hinting that he needed somewhere to stay for a while. When I failed to offer, he actually asked if I could put him up.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Well, I almost felt pressured into saying yes, but then I made myself remember what he’d done to me on my birthday and all the other slights. I said no very firmly. I could tell he was taken back but he didn’t press me. Then to stir him, I asked why he didn’t stay with Alejandro for a few days. He sounded bitter and said that Alejandro was trying to make up with his boyfriend.’
I’d been imagining that Blake and Alejandro were together, so hearing that made me feel instantly better. ‘Hey, did he say anything about me?’ I asked tentatively. ‘I sent him a message …’
‘Yeah, yeah, he said you sent him an e-mail wanting to be friends. I mean, it’s brilliant. He’s completely thrown. He was expecting you to get back at him, retaliate somehow, but instead you do this. What on earth are you up to?’
‘I’m not up to anything,’ I replied hotly. ‘I think it is time we put all this nonsense behind us and just tried to be friends.’
Damon burst out laughing. However, when I didn’t join in, his laughter fell away. ‘Are you serious?’ he asked in wonder.
‘Yes, I’m serious,’ I snapped.
Damon said nothing for a moment or two. ‘Wow, that’s really … admirable. I don’t think I could have done that. Overlooked that photograph and everything else and offered a hand of friendship. Wow.’
‘So he didn’t take me seriously?’
‘No, he thought it was some sort of trick.’
I got off the phone from Damon as quickly as I could. I wanted to set Blake straight. I sent him a text, assuring him that my e-mail had been sincere and reiterated my willingness to be friends.
Within fifteen minutes, he replied.
Blake: Frankly I dont see how we could ever be friends. Friendship would require certain traits which I don’t think you possess. Like honesty, empathy and loyalty. Let’s not bother.
I was stunned. I couldn’t believe it. Let’s not bother?
I was very tempted to retort with my own bitchy text, but instead I deleted Blake’s number from my mobile, to stop myself replying. It was an impulsive act and afterwards, I felt a rush of panic. Once, I had known Blake’s number by heart, but after six months of never ringing it, I couldn’t remember it. What if I needed to call him? It felt weird and wrong not having his mobile number to hand. Deleting him from my phone seemed so momentous and final.
Eventually, it
dawned on me as to why I was feeling so bad. Blake had rejected me twice over—once as a lover and once as a friend. It was only natural to feel hurt. I told myself that it was better that things with Blake were irrevocably estranged. Ultimately, it would make it easier for me to go back to the house that we’d shared—I wouldn’t be so burdened by nostalgia and vain hopes—and I was ready to go home.
Yet, I was very disappointed. I found it very difficult to accept.
But seemingly, it wasn’t only Blake’s body that had grown hard …
5
Chapter Five
FOUR MONTHS LATER
To: Various
From: [email protected]
Subject: You’re invited to a party!
As you may know, I failed to celebrate my birthday last year, but I’ve decided to make up for it this year. I’m having a party to celebrate my 31st birthday and to show off my recently renovated house to those of you who haven’t seen it.
Address: the newly improved 10 Ridge St, Surry Hills
Date: Friday 17th June, from 9pm
I was having a party. What’s more it was not a birthday party passed off as a housewarming party, but an unambiguous celebration of turning the ungainly age of thirty-one. There were several factors that had conspired to make me mend my attitude, but ultimately I had also felt like hosting a party, a proper grown-up party. Not like my affairs in Kings Cross where the booze was cheap and plentiful, Strauss did an unscheduled drunken drag show, and someone had sex in the toilet. No, I wanted an intimate, classy affair that befitted my advancing years: with catering and an attractive waiter attending to my guests, so that I was free to circulate.
It was Ant who’d first put the thought in my head. He’d given me a talking to. I’d been on the phone to him, complaining about how I couldn’t afford a trip to New York and that I had to find some other way to avoid my birthday, when he cut me off. ‘Stop it, for fuck’s sake, just stop being so fucking fatuous.’
Ant seldom swore and I was shocked that he’d sworn at me.
‘Don’t you realise how lucky you are?’ he railed at me bitterly. ‘You know, some people don’t have the privilege of knowing they have countless birthdays stretching out ahead of them, across the decades, without any clouds or question marks on the horizon.’
Ant had always been intensely private about being HIV positive. Only a handful of people knew. Even now he was alluding to it, rather than talking about it directly, which was typical of him. Although I could acknowledge being a little insensitive, Ant’s reaction did seem rather overblown. It made me wonder if something was going on. I apologised. Then, I tried to assure him that he did have countless birthdays ahead of him, that HIV was perfectly manageable.
He interrupted me again. ‘It might be manageable, just, but it’s far from perfect. It complicates everything. My sex life, my prospects of a relationship, work, even holidays. You’re talking about travelling to America, but do you realise that legally I’m barred from going there because I’m HIV positive?’
Ant’s vehemence left me at a loss for words. ‘Are you okay?’ I finally asked tentatively. ‘Has something happened?’
‘Yes, I’m fine, I’m managing,’ he said sarcastically.
There was a silence. He paused for a moment before he continued. ‘Though Kip is having treatment this week for “lipo”. I haven’t seen him in a while but apparently the wasting in his face is pretty bad.’ Ant’s voice crumpled. ‘Stephen, I just don’t think I could stand it if that started happening to me.’
I soothed him as best I could, though I didn’t really know much about the specifics of the condition. I resolved once we’d stopped talking to do some research on the internet. I hated the thought of that happening to Ant too.
‘Okay, but just stop being such a silly queen about your birthday,’ Ant upbraided me. ‘If you celebrated it instead of making such a drama avoiding it, I might actually come over for the party.’
‘Really? Alright, then I’ll have a party,’ I announced, ‘but you have to come for a week, or even two weeks, not just a weekend. You can be my first proper house guest in the new Number Ten.’ I expected him to demur. Certainly, I expected him to cite the cost of a return ticket and say it was prohibitive, but he surprised me. ‘Okay, it’s a deal. I’m overdue for a visit and it’ll be cheap if I can stay with you. I can probably come on my frequent flyer points.’
Typically, his first thought was the expense, and his second thought was the sexual possibilities. ‘Am I allowed overnight guests?’ he asked.
‘Definitely,’ I replied emphatically. ‘I know opportunities have been a little scarce over there for you.’
Ant excused himself. He wanted to get on the internet and check out the airfares. But he left me thinking about issues I didn’t typically dwell on: mortality, growing old gracefully, and making the most of life’s opportunities. Coincidentally, our conversation occurred only a few days before the anniversary of my father’s death, which intensified my thoughts even more. I began to concede that perhaps it was high time I grew up, acknowledged my age, and embraced the fact that I was no longer a boy but a man.
In the gay scene, there was so much emphasis on youth, on looking young and dressing young. Everyone wanted to be ‘a boy’. Uncle Vic was a prime offender. To put it bluntly, he was a senior citizen, yet he dressed as if he were in his twenties. The effect was ridiculous, but he carried it off so fearlessly. His attitude seemed to be that gay men of a certain age became invisible, yet when he walked into a bar or a room people stared. Maybe they were staring in amazement or amusement, but at least he had their attention.
Then it occurred to me, and the epiphany was shocking: there were actually parallels between Vic and myself. I’d gone to extreme lengths to deny my age. Was I, in some novice fashion, beginning to follow in Vic’s footsteps? That thought crystallised everything for me. I was definitely owning up to my age and throwing a birthday party to celebrate the fact.
I rang my mother to invite her and also to discuss the anniversary of my father’s death which we always spent together. Typically, we had dinner at Wahroonga, an uneasy situation as it provoked so many memories of that final dinner with Dad and its aftermath the next morning. ‘My father’ joined us for dinner too. Elisabeth had interred his ashes into a potted orchid and it sat in his chair at the head of the table. Instead of saying grace, Elisabeth would pour a glass of red wine into its soil. ‘Cheers darling,’ she’d say solemnly. ‘We still miss you.’
But not only did she douse it with wine, sometimes, if she was feeling aggrieved about my father’s mistress, she wilfully neglected to water it. I had noted that the orchid had never flowered again after my father had been added to its potting mix.
But when I broached the subject of dinner, Elisabeth awkwardly admitted that she’d been invited out on a date on that particular night. She’d decided after much anguished soul-searching and counselling from Vic that she should go. ‘One of your cyber boyfriends?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ she laughed, ‘and he wants to take me to the opera which was rather hard to turn down.’
‘And you’ll be entertained by the diva’s tragedy instead of dwelling on your own,’ I pointed out.
‘Yes, that’s a good way of looking at it. You don’t mind do you darling?’
I assured her that I didn’t and heartily endorsed her night out. Then I told her that I had decided to have a party for my birthday and that Dad’s anniversary had kind of influenced my decision. ‘Wonderful,’ she declared, ‘it was ridiculous that you did nothing last year. And I always enjoy catching up with your friends.’
That hadn’t occurred to me. Elisabeth liked nothing better than to grill my friends and find out all the things I didn’t want her to know. It would be even worse in a party situation where they were drinking and their defences loosened. ‘And you must bring your new boyfriend along,’ I added, thinking that might be a good way of inhibiting her probing.
‘We’ll see
,’ she replied guardedly. ‘And who will your date be?’
I just laughed and told her there was no one in my life as she well knew. Then, to my surprise, Elisabeth offered to help with the party costs ‘as her gift’. ‘You know, I would have given you something substantial last year, but you wouldn’t permit it,’ she said.
By refusing to acknowledge my thirtieth, I’d denied myself the bounty of presents. In fact, I had offended several people by returning their cards and gifts unopened. They had not been impressed by my ingenuity in outwitting the passing years. I was told I was ‘deluded’ and ‘idiotic’ rather than clever. Blair was especially irate that I returned her gift when she’d paid fifteen pounds to post it to me from London. I realised with a pang that I’d be lucky to even see a card from her this year.
I thanked Elisabeth for her gift, though my finances were now in great shape. Three months ago they had been so grim I’d actually begun to investigate a few work options. The prospects were thoroughly dispiriting. It even looked as though I would be obliged to revive my chequered career in retail. After spending a dismal Saturday going through the Herald’s job section and doing some applications, I rang Damon and insisted we go out that night to buoy up my spirits.
We went to Stonewall as I did not want to encounter Blake, and I often seemed to find him at The Colombian. To my surprise, I ran into Curtis Paterson at Stonewall, one of the writers for ‘Sunnyside Street’. Most of the crowd was thirty years his junior and steadfastly ignoring him, so he seemed delighted to see me. The sentiment was not reciprocated. He was after all one of the people who’d been responsible for my demise. However, he piqued my interest by mentioning that Ruth, the series editor had ‘left’ and he’d been promoted into her position. When he offered to buy me a drink, I agreed, as I was curious to hear if she’d been sacked and all the inside details.
Me, Myself and Someone Else Page 7
