‘In Speedos,’ I said firmly.
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Ann declared. ‘Who wears Speedos at a nude beach? Marvin, the producer, loved your photographs. He thinks your TV exposure and the fact that you’re from a theatre family will be very helpful with the publicity. This is a real opportunity Stephen, and Marvin has connections. This could be a springboard for trying your luck in LA.’
I was sceptical. Ann had also assured me that Tommy tomato sauce was a gourmet product destined for the shelves of up-market delicatessens nationwide. In fact, it proved not to be organic nor homestyle nor derived from Italian, vine-ripened tomatoes. It didn’t even come in a recyclable glass jar. It was tinned, produced in Slovakia, and now my face was on the packaging.
‘What’s the harm in auditioning?’ she wheedled.
‘Is the audition nude?’ I asked bluntly.
‘The nudity is the crux of the piece. Marvin will want to ascertain that you’re “in shape”.’
‘Forget it,’ I said firmly and hung up.
But that wasn’t the end of it. My refusal only spurred Marvin to increase the money being offered which had Ann pursuing me more doggedly than ever. She even set my mother onto me, as we shared the same agent. Elisabeth phoned and launched straight in on Ann’s behalf. ‘Ann says you’re being a bit precious about going nude darling, and of course the first time is a little unnerving. But think about it. Half the audience will probably have seen it already. I know all about Gaydar. Vic’s shown me. You boys are completely uninhibited about baring all on there.’
‘Mother, I’m in a relationship. I’m not on Gaydar.’
‘Oh darling, you don’t need to be coy with me. Vic tells me everyone’s on it, unbeknownst to their loved ones.’
‘Uncle Vic’ was my mother’s best friend and was also gay, though our shared sexuality was a connection I found very tiresome. My mother was always assuming that I got up to everything that Vic did—and he was rampant! Elisabeth was even moved to remark once that Viagra had a lot to answer for. Vic was a good thirty years older than me, a gay man from a completely different era and to be blunt, someone I found faintly ridiculous. ‘Mother, just because Vic does it, that doesn’t mean I do. There’s a huge generation gap.’
‘Then how is it that he’s always telling me that he runs into you “on the scene”? Vic doesn’t hit the dance floor at Stonewall.’
‘Oh yes he does,’ I assured her. ‘He thinks he’s twenty-five not sixty-five and it ain’t pretty.’
Elisabeth tried a different tack. ‘Think of the media. It’ll be ‘Blue’ magazine instead of ‘Dolly’. Everyone will be talking about you.’
‘Yes, I can quite imagine,’ I agreed dryly.
Thankfully, it didn’t take much to get Elisabeth off my case. I simply had to ask a leading question about her to initiate a fifteen minute monologue.
I re-read the script in search of some technicality that I could use to graciously withdraw from consideration. There was nothing. Finally, in a moment of desperation, I rang Ann and invented a pot belly that I’d been unable to get rid of despite three months of constant diet and hard training. With eight weeks to the show, I despaired of being in the peak physical shape that the role required. To my surprise, this excuse was accepted.
‘Yes, well you have let yourself go,’ Ann conceded sadly. ‘It’s unmistakable and it would be a problem. He wants it fat below the waist, not above. But I commend you for being honest. It is harder to lose as you get older, isn’t it? Have you tried ‘The South Beach Diet’? Everyone swears by it.’
And that was that. I was off the hook. But the ease with which Ann had accepted my lie and her words—you have let yourself go—haunted me. I spent a lot of time on the scales, with a measuring tape, peering at myself in the mirror from various angles. Ann’s barbed aside about it being harder to lose as you get older added a niggling new concern to my ‘issues’ over turning thirty. Then, to add insult to injury, Ann sent me a copy of ‘The South Beach Diet’ with a note saying that she really couldn’t put me forward for anything until I whipped myself back into shape. I was incensed.
But what was truly awful was that my lie turned out to be somewhat self-fulfilling. I slumped into a depression. Everything seemed so grim—the state of my career, my dwindling celebrity status, dissatisfactions with Blake, the fact that my twenties were almost over, and that people thought I was fat when I wasn’t. I was feeling self-destructive and though most stars numbed their pain with drink or drugs, I turned to anonymous sex to make myself feel better. Because of Blake, that could only be an occasional gratification and I needed indulgences much more frequently. Unfortunately for my waistline, a fabulous new bakery opened just around the corner on Bourke Street. They had such a marvellous array of homemade cakes, tarts and muffins, I was always popping in to treat myself. I developed a serious addiction to their rhubarb and almond tarts.
By the time I managed to snap out of my funk—which was only achieved by booking our Roman holiday—it was too late. The pot belly I’d invented had manifested itself, making me more depressed than ever. I’d even resorted to leafing through ‘The South Beach Diet’ when Alejandro offered to work-out with me. Despite my reservations about his intentions, I said yes. He was a personal trainer; I needed expert help; and he was offering with no mention of his usual eighty dollar an hour fee. Besides, initially I did feel perfectly safe working out with him. I was so embarrassed about the state of my body, there was absolutely no way I was going to allow him to see me naked. However, once the excess had been vanquished after six gruelling weeks, I began to have a more difficult time keeping him at arm’s length.
Not only did I fail to keep Alejandro off me, nor could I keep the weight off permanently. Our Roman holiday was my downfall. I didn’t go to the gym for a month and blithely indulged in countless gelatos and late night pasta dinners. Blake referred to it as my Bot belly. ‘It’s kind of cute,’ he tried to suggest, ‘just like the stomachs all the women have in those Botticelli paintings we saw at the Uffizi.’
As Alejandro had formed this implausible monogamous relationship in my absence and ended our work-out arrangement, I was obliged to lose the weight all over again, on my own. But worse still, Ann’s assistant Eric had joined my gym. He would wave at me merrily and give me sickening smiles and words of encouragement. No doubt he was reporting back to Ann that ‘I had let myself go big time’!
The restorative benefits of the holiday were already fading fast but when my credit card bill arrived, they evaporated completely. I began to feel stressed. Blake and I had extensive renovations planned for the house but given our extravagances overseas, I would need to dip into money I’d set aside. I begged Ann for some more ad work, but apparently I’d become known as the face of Tommy—no other company would want to use me. Blake began to nag me about ‘returning to the paid work force’, a most unappealing prospect which was beginning to seem more and more inevitable. Working some dreary position behind a shop counter or in a restaurant was such a humiliating comedown when once I’d known fame; and so embarrassing if someone recognised me.
It was bad enough when that happened in a social situation and I was asked the inevitable question about what I was doing now. It became very depressing telling lies or inflating some forlorn hope that was ‘in the works’. But if I was sprung in some dull, demeaning job, there would be no escape and no way of disguising what I’d been reduced to. I would be obliged to use all my acting skills to laugh off my tragedy, and then try to sell the nosy-parker a frying pan or expensive imported sheet set.
That sort of work might have been bearable if I had something creative happening on the side, but there was no prospect of that. I was editing a film of our holiday, a proper feature-length film, and though it was a creative outlet, it wasn’t the same. I needed to be in front of the camera, not working in post-production—that was my calling. At drama school, I’d discovered a real talent and joy in creating a new character. It was something my teac
hers had remarked on. I took it extremely seriously. I would read and re-read the script for sub-text. I’d do related research and if the play was well-known, read critical analysis as well. I’d discuss my role with the director and other actors at length. I just loved immersing myself in a new character: altering my physical appearance, modifying my voice, discovering the psychological motivations and secrets hinted at in the dialogue.
It took me a while to realise that a good deal of the emptiness and frustration I was feeling was because I no longer had any outlet to create a character. I missed it. I really missed it, though I only had this epiphany when I stumbled into a situation where I was called upon to pretend to be someone other than myself. It happened at the sauna.
I could never tell anyone my real name there for fear of being recognised as Troy. There had been occasions when guys had stared at me very quizzically and I could tell they recognised my face, though couldn’t quite place me. Then one night, someone approached me and remarked on my resemblance to Troy. Luckily, I was prepared. I pretended to be a German tourist. ‘Really? Who is this? Someone famous? We do not know this person in Berlin. My name is Hans.’
Of course, I ended up having sex with my admirer. Derek was this strapping Aussie bloke and when he confided that he had an enormous crush on Troy, I couldn’t resist. It was rather risky, but what was the point of having fans if you didn’t have sex with them? And it was so nice to once again bask in the aura of being ‘the star’. Derek just wanted to call me Troy and pleasure me. As he bobbed away I went ‘oh ja’ occasionally, but then when he flipped me over and began to fuck me, I became more verbose. ‘Oh ja, ja ja, ja ja,’ I encouraged him.
‘Oh ja, jawohl,’ I cried, when he finally made me come. ‘Danke schön.’
Then I quickly bade Derek auf wiedersehen before he could initiate any conversation. In the throes of sex, any worries about being uncovered had dissipated, but once I’d come, I began to feel uncomfortable. I hurried off, showered and left.
I felt a strange elation after my session with Derek. In the days that followed, I was more motivated and optimistic than I had been in months. Initially, I put it down to the illicit thrill of the sex—Derek had turned out to be quite the stud—but gradually I realised it was being Hans that I was thinking about. The thrill of pretending to be someone else coupled with the risk of being recognised as Troy had been exhilarating. I began to regret running away so prematurely. Things I could have said kept occurring to me.
Then it struck me why I felt so much better: I had created a character.
It was a most gratifying realisation. I had discovered a higher artistic purpose in those clandestine visits to the sauna: an opportunity to create a character and hone my craft, as well as enjoy some bountiful sex on the side. Of course I couldn’t wait to go back and do it again. Unfortunately, I didn’t run into Derek the next time, though I was all prepared with a story of how Hans had fallen in love with Sydney and decided to stay on for a year and work.
Sometimes, the other guy fled as soon as he’d come, but others liked to linger and chat. Usually, those post-coital conversations were brief, a few minutes, no more than five. If the sex had been especially vigorous, had left me dazed and overwhelmed, conversation was more of a challenge. It would take me a moment or two to gather my thoughts and recall who I’d decided to be tonight—my name, career, etc—and reply. Occasionally, I lay in the arms of a stranger for half an hour or more, telling the most fanciful stories about myself. With those guys, they were usually after my number and wanting to hook up again. I couldn’t do that because of Blake but I’d put them off by saying I was married with kids. Of course, it was terrible to lead them on, but I couldn’t help myself. It was just so exciting when the conversation drew out, and new hurdles and challenges were thrown up. I loved having to improvise and think fast.
I relished these encounters so much. But as my visits to that establishment were fraught with all sorts of risks, I decided I needed another outlet for my talents. One day, it occurred to me that I should allow one of those annoying people, who were always trying to flag me down in the street, to actually succeed. So I stopped and signed up for their credit card or donation program or whatever it was they were spruiking, and invented an entirely fictional name and life for myself. But I did a lot more than just fill in their forms. I went into character and had a very animated conversation.
There were often some of these people stationed in the Surry Hills Mall or in Taylor Square, and they were always so thrilled when I returned their smiles and allowed myself to be drawn into their sales spiel. On one occasion, I struck a really hot boy, Patrick, in the Surry Hills Mall. He was trying to recruit people for some Greenpeace initiative. It was a good cause, he was cute and we ended up chatting for half an hour as I dawdled through completing his form. Of course I flirted with him. That was something I loved doing with straight boys, especially if we were in a position where they wanted something from me. They were obliged to grin and bear it, or even play along. But finally his co-worker tapped him on the shoulder and gave him a filthy look. I felt obliged to make my farewell. But before I could get up from my seat, he leant across and put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Jayson, one more question before you go. Would you mind if I used the phone number on this form and gave you a call sometime?’
I was so startled that for a moment I didn’t know what to say or do. ‘Patrick, you surprise me. I took you for straight,’ I finally managed to say.
‘I’m kind of versatile,’ Patrick said with a wink, ‘if the right person comes along.’
I assured Patrick that he could call me anytime he liked on that number and hastily made my escape. Of course the phone number was false—to match all the other bullshit on his form—but afterwards, I rather regretted that I hadn’t played that moment differently. My first thought had been Blake and that I couldn’t go giving out my number to someone who could call at inconvenient moments. But that night, lying in bed with my hand on my cock, I fantasised that I had given him my real mobile number. It wasn’t just that having sex with a swayable straight boy would have been an absolute turn-on; it was also the thrill of prolonging the act, refining the impersonation of a character, and taking it to an entirely new level.
5
Chapter Four
Strauss: OMG. There’s something about u and the boy–next–door!
Stephen: I guess Melrose Place made it look cool 2 fuck the neighbours.
Strauss: Oh Kimberley! U should know better. That’s always explosive!
Living in Surry Hills was very different to my old apartment in Kings Cross. That building had been dominated by tenants who tended to come and go, whereas on Ridge Street, all of my immediate neighbours were owners and therefore entrenched. They took an interest in what was going on; some took an avid interest. Within ten days of moving in, Eleanor, a retiree from across the street, popped over to introduce herself and to offer me some gardening advice. She’d noticed that I’d failed to water the fern on my front porch since I’d moved in. It was startling to realise I was being observed, and what’s more, found wanting. It was a slightly forbidding introduction to the street. The neighbours all noticed when Blake moved in and I was rather chuffed when several of them sought me out to give him the nod of approval.
We were lucky with our immediate neighbours, those we shared walls with: the couple at Number Twelve kept to themselves, while Rachel at Number Eight became a friend. She was a middle-aged theatre nurse and we’d call on each other for the occasional favour—watering the fern if we were away and that sort of thing. Occasionally, we’d have her over for a glass of wine. Her only vice was a fondness for playing Enya CDs loudly. Thankfully, an opportunity arose to ‘lose’ a CD that was on especially high rotation when Rachel went away for a week to visit her mother. She’d asked us to water her pot plants and I buried Enya beneath a cactus. It seemed entirely fitting given that the CD was entitled ‘A Day without Rain’.
However, on Rachel’s
return she announced she was selling up. Her mother was ailing and alone, and Rachel had decided to spend some quality time with her. We were genuinely sorry that Rachel was leaving. As well as being a friend, she’d been our ally on the street. Then, after witnessing some of the assorted rabble who trooped through Number Eight during a Saturday morning open house, we started to feel apprehensive about who might buy the property. A full-on family with a barking dog and kids who tortured musical instruments; a power couple with an SUV each who would bulldoze their way into battle for the already scarce parking on Ridge Street. Or even worse, what if the house ended up rented? Friends in nearby Parkham Street were titillated at first when the house next to theirs was rented to a couple of straight, strapping Brit boys with a penchant for low-riding board shorts. But within two weeks, the place had degenerated into little more than an unofficial backpackers’ hostel leaving John and Shu at their wit’s end.
We had sought out and befriended Caroline the real estate agent handling the sale. It was an enormous relief when she informed us, just a couple of weeks before we left on our Italy trip, that the house had been bought by an owner occupier. ‘I may be mistaken,’ Caroline added, ‘but I do believe Richard might bat for the same team as you boys. He is thirty-eight, unmarried, was very keen on “the handy location” and seemed overly offended by the existing colour scheme in the bedroom.’
We didn’t get to meet Richard until after we returned from holiday, but Caroline’s Gaydar proved to be spot-on. All was confirmed by our first sighting of him: his butt poking out of his silver Mini Cooper as he bent over into the back seat. The labels confirmed everything—Aussie Bum underwear and G-Star jeans. His arse was also in sensational shape for someone who was pushing forty. Blake and I were spying on him from our balcony. We turned to each other and nodded. It was confirmed. ‘He’s definitely gay … and gorgeous,’ Blake added admiringly.
Time to Upsize (The Indignities Book 1) Page 6
