The Jesus Man

by Christos Tsiolkas

  I don’t believe anyone’s a saint, I just don’t believe anyone is the Devil.

  The crow, I see it all the time. The old wog grandma and the old black crone, flying together. But maybe that too is bullshit.

  I’m stopping myself loving but I’m falling in love all the time. I’m in love with Soo-Ling, in love with Sean, even in love with Saverio Rocca. That makes me a slut, I guess, but an emotional slut because I don’t have lots of sex. I’m not very good at sex, it’s all a pose. I clam up, don’t talk, worry about my body. Sometimes I wish I was like the rootrats, those guys who can blow their load in anyone, enjoy it and not think about the moment afterwards. Except I’ve been with those type of guys and I know what it’s like to be the receptacle. You feel fucking shithouse.

  Let me make it clear. Don’t assume that because I used the term receptacle I have ever let anyone fuck me up the arse. If that ever happens, it’s going to have to be love, it’s going to have to be with someone who makes it a pledge to be with me, it’s going to have to be real and honest and good. That’s not fashionable, that’s too nineteenth century or something, but I don’t give a shit. I’m doubting it will happen. Ever. I don’t trust men. In my experience, men can’t be trusted.

  Take Sean. You’d think it would be easy for us to get together. He loves music, I make him laugh, he’s tall and good looking and, though I hate my nose, dislike my feet and know I look wimpy, I’m not ugly. I try hard not to think of myself like that. I met Sean through friends at a party, and we danced to Sebodah together. It was an immediate crush. I was tired, my friends were leaving, the party was boring, but I stayed on. Sinking beers and meeting Sean’s friends. I remember the excitement, of meeting someone and connecting. But the night had to end. The stereo was turned off and a bleating friend of Sean’s was urging everyone to move on. I was invited, a poofter palace in Prahran, but I can’t stand those places. Tacky music and too much aftershave. Instead, we exchanged numbers. He promised to give me a ring.

  He didn’t.

  I waited five days, getting neurotic, boring my housemates, I was unable to work, to read, to study. I’d rush home every night, press the button on the answering machine. Soo-Ling cracked the shits by day five.

  —Give the bastard a ring. I’m sick of hearing about him.

  So I did. And you know what happened? Nada. He was stilted, standoffish. My confidence sunk to nil, beyond nil. He said he had to go, off to work. I put on my I-don’t-feel-a-thing-just-rang-because-I-was-bored voice.

  —See ya.

  —See ya.

  I hate poofters.

  I really do.

  Sean is six feet three inches, has the whisper of dimples and it is easy to forgive him everything when he smiles. All my friends love him. Except Soo-Ling. He’s hurting me so she can’t let herself like him. I think this must be something of what she means when she talks about the necessity of enemies.

  If I could tear away the homosexuality from myself, I would gladly do it. If I believed aversion therapy would work, I would sign up. I wish for the bliss of being bisexual, because then I could appreciate the eroticism of men but also appreciate the eroticism of the gender I want to love. But I’m scared doing it with women. It’s been a disaster, the soft drooping cock. The first girl said it didn’t matter, but she told all her friends. The easy road to being a pariah in the schoolyard.

  The second girl decided to suck me off. I closed my eyes and thought of football. I came in her mouth.

  I went home, despising myself.

  There are two men I have sex with. My friend Pinnie and an old man called Clive. Pinnie and I have been doing it for years, since our teens. I wish, often, that I could be like Pinnie. Pinnie’s overweight, a dark Maltese boy, and he’s shrill and he’s tough. And he loves being fucked, adores it. He’s a perpetual hole for any man who wants to put it up him and he’s always been this way. He scares me sometimes, the way he moans, the explosive screams. He prefers I use spit, not lube. His hole is a big inviting space, protected by a veil of black tight curls. I don’t always feel good after sex with him, and I don’t know how he feels about it. We don’t talk much, not about that. I go for weeks not touching him, not going near him, spending time with uni friends. And then I get that urge, the need to fuck, and I go over. He’s usually at home, smoking bongs. I don’t even have to say anything. We wordlessly strip, he blows me a little, and in I go. I come, I wipe myself with a hanky, I dress and we sit down to smoke and watch a video or television or play some Nintendo. What I do with Pinnie is somewhere between masturbation and making love. For him, I’m a chance to experience something he loves: the feel of semen shooting up his colon. He can’t get that at the toilets and the sex clubs, he can’t trust it. He trusts me because he knows I’m fucked up about sex and I don’t get it enough. Sometimes I wonder if he’s being straight with me, if he isn’t letting himself get fucked without a condom in the toilet he uses.

  —I swear, mate, it’s all safe. Anyway, they’re usually married men fucking too nervous of facing the wife to risk copping AIDS.

  I’ve never been tested. That one I’m leaving to fate.

  Clive is sixty-nine, has dentures and lives three blocks from Mum and Dad. I’ve been visiting him for two years, about once a month. I get fifty dollars but I don’t think I’m doing it for the money. Pinnie put me onto Clive, though Pinnie can’t be bothered with him any more. Clive sometimes has trouble getting an erection. I don’t mind, I just go around to talk. I like him.

  He was married, for forty years, to a woman called Sheila. He says he loved her and I believe him. Photos of Sheila are everywhere in the house, and photos of their two kids. Clive and I don’t really do much. He may blow me, give me a hand-job. I lick him a bit and I try hard to kiss him because I know he likes it. But I have to close my eyes. He knows I’m doing it out of affection but I guess it still must hurt. The kisses are quick, friendly not passionate. He usually cooks me a meal.

  Clive was in the army, served in Korea and Vietnam. He has tattoos, thick blue lines, all over his arms and chest. A mermaid hides underneath the sparse grey hairs.

  —Have you always been into men?

  He shook his head when I asked him, this the third time we had sex.

  —No. Told you, I only had eyes for Sheila. And before marriage it was only whores, female, all of them.

  —But did you know you were gay?

  —I’m not gay.

  —I mean, did you know you wanted to have sex with men?

  Again, he shook his head no.

  —Then why now?

  This is what he told me. That five months after the funeral, alone, the kids all gone back to their homes, he looked up the escort services in the phone book and realised he had never seen, up close, what an uncircumcised cock looked like, how it functioned when erect. The thought just came to him and he was immediately excited. So he rang a service, specified he wanted an uncircumcised whore and a young blond man came over. They didn’t do much. Clive just gave him a hand-job and the whore sucked him off. Twelve minutes and one hundred and ten dollars.

  Clive takes out his dentures when he sucks me off. Clive occasionally hires a female whore, when he is feeling horny, when he’s won at the pokies. But I’m cheaper and I think he genuinely likes me.

  Soo-Ling knows about Clive. I pointed him out to her one day in Box Hill, shopping in the Plaza. He didn’t know we were there.

  —Oh yuck, that old geezer.

  —He’s all right. He’s nice, he’s got a good heart.

  She blows a cool stretch of smoke, out of the side of her lips. She smiles at me.

  —You’re so weird. You could fuck anyone, why him?

  I didn’t tell her he pays. That would have only obscured the truth.

  —I told you, he’s nice.

  —You reckon you’ve always been gay? she asks me abruptly.

  —I’m not gay. I scowl.

  —Bi then.

  —I’m not bi.

  —
What the fuck are you then?

  —Me.

  She sighs. Then speaks slowly.

  —All right, Mr Smarty-Pants. You reckon you’ve always been you?

  —Yes.

  She pounces.

  —So it’s biological?

  —No.

  —So it’s society?

  —No.

  We look at each other. A pause. We break out laughing.

  I think it’s God.

  Tommy never hurt me. Never. He put his cock in my mouth, when I was five, and that’s it. Many people, maybe even most people, would trace a sexual history way back to that moment. But I think they’d be wrong. At three I remember vividly seeing Mum’s pubes poking through her panties as she was getting undressed. The blackness shocked me. I saw Dad pissing when I was six. I can still masturbate to this. Tommy’s dick in my mouth is just one more family snapshot.

  Mum used to slap all of us when we were kids. And I saw Dad bash Tommy. No-one is a saint.

  But Tommy never hurt me. I can’t remember sucking him off, or yes, maybe I can, but it’s all very blurry. Choppy. I remember getting excited when he showed me his cock, a little scared when he pushed me towards it. I think I remember it growing in my mouth and then all I remember is the wet, which I thought was fucking blood, and I must have panicked. Christ, I was only a kid. But Tommy didn’t mean to hurt me, he was just a horny teenager, we were just playing.

  I fucking loved Tommy. He was a good brother.

  What hurt was seeing what they did to Tommy. And I blamed myself, for screaming, for getting scared. Tommy had zipped up, was crying by the time Dom smashed into the room, but I was still howling and semen was still a visible white trail across my face. Dad came in after Dom, and by then Dom was already knocking Tommy’s head against the floor. Mum followed and when she saw me she went hysterical. She laid into Tommy, pushed Dom aside and she was fists and kicks. I had never seen this before and I never wish to see it again. The moment was a madness, a grand folly. Dad and Dom were holding Tommy down, by now the boy was silent, and Mum continued to beat him, to curse him, to destroy him. I was now only silent terror. I thought he was dead. And the voice, just yelling, I think it was Dom: You animal, you don’t do that to your brother. Then, I see Tommy’s face twitch, he’s crying, and his nose is broken. He yelps like an animal and I start hoeing into Mum and Dad and Dom. This is what I remember most clearly, I want to kill them for what they are doing to Tommy. The fear is now just an instinct to punish.

  My anger stopped the madness. Seeing what had happened to his child made my father repent. He scooped Tommy into his arms and asked forgiveness. Over and over and over. My mother was praying. This is all I remember.

  No, I remember one more thing. The stretching touch of the semen as it dried on my cheek.

  I don’t know why Tommy did the things that he did. He didn’t just cut his dick off, he scraped away at the insides, he scooped out from where he pisses, he tore his fucking urethra. The balls were splattered flat on the floor. He had gutted himself. And nearly torn that poor fuck’s head off.

  Maybe, his getting me to suck him off fucked him up. Maybe, his being bashed so ruthlessly fucked him up. That’s the risk of life which nothing, no religion, no belief, no promise will ever eradicate. I don’t know why Tommy did the things he did. And because of that, everyone around me is now suspect, including myself.

  Who killed my brother? Me. My mother. My father. My brother. His lover. The boy in the photograph. The media. The Church. The flap of a frigging butterfly’s wing.

  Tommy killed himself.

  And I distrust everyone for letting it happen.

  Except for Betty.

  Soo-Ling picks me up for dinner on the corner of Rathdowne and Victoria Streets. I’m waiting at the edge of the Carlton Gardens, swinging my bag. The traffic is starting to bank up, the drizzle is gaining momentum, preparing for rain, and she laughs as I get into the car.

  —What?

  —You look so fucking young.

  I fiddle with the radio stations, and because it’s rush hour, all the commercial channels are synchronised to ads. I find something fluffy, some dance.

  —No. Leave it on Radio National.

  —It sucks. I fold my arms, frowning.

  —You’re to blame, you know.

  —For what.

  —That’s why this bloody government can get away with cuts to public radio. She taps at my head. You should listen to more news.

  —No way. I think about what she said. I want to listen to it, but they don’t play any music.

  The traffic has stalled, all the way to Punt Road. The announcer starts talking about the Racist.

  —Switch it off, I order. I refuse to listen to that bitch.

  —Heaps of people are listening to her. Soo-Ling’s smile completely vanishes.

  —Well, they’re bloody idiots.

  —There’s a lot of them.

  —Where?

  —Lou, what do you mean? Look at the polls.

  I sniff, look out to the orange bricks of a hospital. A little old woman, rugged up, is smoking on the steps. A thick branch of a tree provides shelter.

  —Soo-Ling, most people are stupid. The polls are proof of that.

  —But those people vote.

  She wins on that.

  We have dinner at a restaurant in Doncaster. It’s Chinese, and good Chinese.

  —You look happy.

  I’ve been watching her study the menu and I am intrigued. When I first met Soo-Ling I was struck by her simple stylishness. She cared about clothes, and her clothes were European and exquisite. She told me that she spent half her time shopping in op shops and half her time in boutiques. No-one I knew dressed as beautifully as she did. The secret was wearing nothing gaudy. Now she dresses down a little. She no longer cares as passionately about the name on a label. But she is still breathtaking. Tonight she is giggly and soft, close to the first impression I had of her. Before we both got hard.

  —I am happy.

  —How come?

  She pours another slosh of white wine.

  —I’m going on a date Friday night.

  I am up-front about resenting this piece of information.

  —Why?

  —What do you mean, why?

  —I thought you were celibate.

  She stops smiling.

  —I am.

  —You told him this?

  Silence.

  —So you haven’t?

  She explodes.

  —Jesus, Lou, so fucking what? We’ve just talked bullshit so far. If I feel like telling him on Friday, I’ll tell him.

  —You want to have sex again, don’t you?

  I wait.

  —Well?

  I wait.

  —Maybe.

  I feel like grabbing the table and throwing it against a wall, I feel like being mean. Instead, I do something else. I stand up, say excuse me and walk to the toilet.

  My behaviour, I know, is incredibly silly. I’m not going to pretend a justification. But Soo-Ling and Betty are all to me. I want them around me forever. I worship Soo-Ling and I only know, now anyway, how to be innocently happy, content, when I am around her. Without sex, because of her celibacy, because of my lust for cock, I can pretend we are somehow lovers. I am so jealous of this unseen unnamed man that I want to hurt her. This is a new sensation. This is shocking and this is why I have to hide in the toilet, why I have to cry.

  When I piss, I feel a little better. My eyes are red and I splash cold water on my face. In the mirror, I see that I do look very young. Baby cheeks beneath the stubble.

  —Are you all right? She takes my hand and I let her.

  —Yeah. I decide to attempt a maturity. So who is it?

  —His name is Patrick.

  —So he’s a man.

  —Of course he’s a man.

  —Anglo?

  She bites back on her lips.

  —Kind of.

  —Kind of?

&
nbsp; —He’s Irish.

  —That’s anglo.

  —That is not!

  I stare at her.

  —Doesn’t the Racist have some Irish blood?

  —Shut the fuck up.

  I can’t seem to slow it down. I attempt to breathe in the jealousy. I can’t eat the food.

  —Celibacy hasn’t been easy.

  She is twirling the chopsticks around her finger. She drops them.

  —Listen, Lou. I do love you but, and don’t get upset about this, it’s as a younger brother. You’re a good friend but that’s all we are.

  I shake my head violently. She smiles at this and I lose it again.

  —Don’t treat me like a fucking child.

  —Then don’t act like one!

  We sit in silence.

  —What’s he like?

  She watches me cautiously.

  —No, I mean it. I want to know.

  She begins a spin, tells me about the way he looks and the way he sounds. She likes his voice. They met in class, he’s worked with damaged kids. He sounds good, he sounds funny, he sounds handsome. Every single thing she tells me is a wound. The dinner is left not even half eaten on the table. Doncaster is the end of the universe, the coldest place on the planet.

  She drives me home.

  —How’s the house hunting going?

  —All right.

  —You okay at your Mum and Dad’s?

  —Sure.

  The drive is mercifully short. She keeps the lights on and the motor running. I dig into my jacket pocket. I hand her the tape.

  —Present.

  She takes it, and as she takes it she holds tight, a moment, to my hand.

  —Thank you.

  I don’t say anything, a peck on the cheek. I’m home, the house in darkness, a brutal brick negation. There is no sound in the neighbourhood.

  Soo-Ling is the one who fills this nothing and makes life something. Only when Soo-Ling is around can the world be truly beautiful.

  Mum wakes up as I come in and calls out to me. I answer back, softly, and she is again asleep. A light meal is on the table, covered in white paper napkins. The oil eats into the paper. I cover the plate with foil and put it in the fridge.