You’ve got to give parents points for trying when it comes to stuff like this. They seem to forget how permanent your reputation is when you’re sixteen. The dust settled on my nerd status years ago; I haven’t been invited to a party since primary school.
And I can never stomach the injustice of this conversation. We must have it every other week and I love how they want to have their cake and eat it too. They want me to be their goody-two-shoes genius child but simultaneously be a normal, knuckle-dragging teenager like Robbie. Apparently humping every chick with a pulse is a desirable trait in a Sicilian son.
‘I’m not trying to give you a hard time,’ Dad says, squeezing my arm. I flex automatically; my puny bicep is like mush in his rough grip. ‘My old man used to badger me to get a job when I was your age, and it pissed me off no end. I promised myself I’d never be like him, so I’m not. You get a job whenever you’re ready, okay? But the girls, you know, you should be getting out there, buddy.’
Hypocrite, I think. You’re more of a pain in the arse than your dad ever was.
‘I will,’ I say finally, to shut him up. ‘Soon.’
‘Good. Good.’ Dad touches the purple and white Glory jersey. ‘I like these colours on you. You’re a good kid, Zeke.’ He rubs his hand over my shoulder.
Our heart-to-heart has reached its underwhelming zenith, and the echoey return of Mum’s high heels is the final nail in the coffin. In an act of godliness, Dad presses the dustpan and broom into my hands just before Mum sweeps into the living area wearing a clean black dress and shoes. Both look identical to what she was in before.
She glances at me. ‘Make sure to wash the brush after you’re done.’ She stalks over to the fridge. ‘And vacuum to make sure you haven’t missed any bits of glass.’
‘Uh huh.’
She opens the fridge. ‘Leftover cannoli.’ She presses her white-painted fingernails to her heart. ‘Thank goodness. We’ll take those over for dessert.’
‘Good man, cleaning up,’ Dad says, giving me a wink.
‘Let’s go, Sam, we’re already late,’ Mum says, bustling through to the carport, a foam tray of icing-dusted cannoli beneath her slender arm. ‘Behave yourself while we’re gone, Zeke,’ she calls over her shoulder.
Dad’s face sours and I know he’s cringing for me. He follows Mum out without another word, pulling the heavy wooden door shut.
The second I hear the car engine fire up, I race around to the lounge room at the front of the house and peer through the grey vertical blinds. The Monaro’s tail lights illuminate the semi-circle of metal dust in the front yard for just a moment, then Dad floors it and they belt down the darkened street.
It’s not like they’ll be badly late. Nothing’s more than ten minutes away in Geraldton.
I stand there with my face pressed against the window for a long time. The house feels empty now they’ve gone. It’s so empty I feel like even I’m not in the house anymore.
My breath fogs up the glass and starts to smell bad – the acetone kind of smell that means you need water badly – and yet I can’t force my feet to move away. I almost never get to be home alone. No Dad swearing at the TV. No Mum swearing at Dad. No Robbie swearing at me.
Just me, swearing at me.
It’s so quiet in the house I can hear the frogs squealing down near the creek. It’s funny how the billboard welcoming people to our “semi-rural estate” has an elaborate illustration of cockies and galahs in gum trees, because you hardly ever hear the birds here. Just the screeching of the frogs. And they don’t mention the mice, either. Dad spends half his time laying glue traps and catching grey field mice. Walking into the house and finding them squeaking in agony, having torn their own feet off in an attempt to escape. Taking them onto the veranda and beating them to death with a paving brick to put them out of their misery, like an R-rated game of Whack-A-Mole.
I must be at the window for fifteen minutes. It’s a bit weird, really. It’s partly to make sure my parents don’t do another U-turn, but mostly because the sheer humiliation of what just happened starts to crash down over my shoulders.
Eventually, my feet come back to life. They carry me into the kitchen, past the cash Dad left for me, and into the home office again.
Five minutes later, I’m leaning back in my father’s office chair, bathed in the heroin-blue laptop aura, eyes staring at the two men twisting and writhing into one another on the screen.
No, I’m nothing like Robbie or my father.
But I know what I like.
It started out, years ago now, looking for pictures of shirtless men online. I didn’t understand what I was doing, or why. All I knew was it made me glow red hot with anticipation and excitement to see a guy with his shirt off. A cocky smile. Perfect, solid pectorals. Nice, rounded shoulders.
And before I knew it, that was all I wanted to do when I had time alone. I didn’t want to play a sport, not that I was any good at them anyway. I didn’t want to hang out with Pedro or Jeremy. God, we barely found enough to talk about at school all day – what the hell would I have to say to them at home?
And I really, really wasn’t interested in meeting girls.
So this is my normal. This is where I can just be.
As I start to ease back into my usual rhythm in front of the laptop screen, I notice a flashing panel beside the porn video. Horny guys are waiting to chat with you RIGHT NOW. I bite my lip. Of course I know there are guys around nearby, but it always seemed so risky downloading an app and talking to someone in town. What if he knows me, or my family? I’d rather be swallowed up by the earth while I sleep than be outed.
But this chat room is international. Probably a bunch of yanks who I’ll never have to risk actually encountering.
What would it be like to actually talk to a man?
Goosebumps erupt on my arms as I hover the mouse over the chat room ad. I’ve seen these pop-ups a million times. But tonight something is different. Maybe I just want to bleach what just happened from my memory and this seems like a good way to do it.
So I click on it.
My fingers leap across the keyboard like a jumping spider as I make up a screen name and log in.
The computer beeps at me half a dozen times within the first minute. I’m completely overwhelmed by the number of messages flashing past me. There are dozens of guys on here – no, literally hundreds. Hundreds of guys just like me, looking for the same thing.
A box pops up on the screen before me. A private message from a guy who goes by the name pigdaddy69.
Got cam n mic? he types.
What’s that? I ask.
Webcam and mic …
It takes me a second to realise why he would want to know that. When I don’t answer, a giant green telephone icon appears on the screen, along with a loud, drawn out ringtone.
Pigdaddy69 is calling. Will you accept?
My breath catches in my throat. This is actually happening. After all these years of fantasising and wondering what it would be like, there is a real, live man wanting to talk to me.
I click on the green ‘accept’ button. The blue light beside the laptop’s webcam lights up.
Holy crap.
I didn’t just accept his call.
I’m broadcasting, too.
‘Whoa, you are freakin’ hot, buddy,’ an American voice drawls through the speakers.
He’s fifty-two, from Texas. Already naked: his exposed beer gut takes up half the screen. His salt-and-pepper chest hair is thick and scrawly, like a toddler went nuts with some black and white crayons. His head is shaved on no blade; he has metal through his nipples and a tattoo of an eagle on his pectoral. I don’t know his real name.
I don’t know what to do. He is not the kind of guy I’ve ever fantasised about. He’s fat, and old, and kind of gross, but he’s a living, breathing man and he’s masculine and he’s right in front of me. And he can see me, too. And he thinks I’m hot. Nobody’s ever said that to me before. I want to turn the laptop off ri
ght now and burn it, and at the same time I don’t want this moment to end.
‘Whattaya wearin’, son? Some sports gear?’
I forgot I was in my Perth Glory shirt. ‘Oh yeah. Just a jersey for a soccer team.’
‘Huh. I thought you fellers called it football over there.’
‘No, we call it soccer, too. You’re thinking of England.’
‘Oh right.’ He smiles at me. ‘So you’re a jock, huh?’
‘Yeah, totally,’ I lie. The idea kind of excites me – that I can be something else in this online world. ‘I love sports.’
‘That’s hot.’
‘Thanks. You’re hot, too.’ A bigger lie, but I’m mesmerised by how his finger curls into his belly button, like a hook snaring a dhufish. I don’t want this, but I can’t look away.
‘If you were here,’ the Texan says, ‘I’d get you to come sit on my lap, like I do with all my boys.’
‘I’d like that.’ No you wouldn’t, my mind screams. He’s old! He must be some kind of gross pedo. Log out NOW!
‘Alright, buddy,’ he says. ‘Now take that shirt off.’
I do.
I do everything he asks me to do, and the pixels dancing on my screen show me as he gets more and more excited by my naked body. I get excited, too.
And within six minutes, both of us are done.
When I’m still panting in relief and ecstasy and horror and guilt, the Texan goes to say something to me, but I can’t hear him over the shame smashing in my ears like a tsunami crashing over rocks. I disconnect the call. Log off. Close windows. Clear history. Slip clothes on. Collect stray tissues. Wrap them into another tissue. Form a tight ball. Spray it with Lynx Africa to mask the fresh, bleachy odour of cum. Bury it among the potato salad in the kitchen bin.
Wash my shaking hands in the bathroom basin. Antibacterial liquid soap. Kill the damn germs.
What have I done? What the hell have I done?
My reflection winces at me. Short. Olive-skinned. Curly-haired. Dark eyes, like charcoal smears. Woggy. Stocky. Horrific manboobs. Not a labourer. Not a footy player. No high-vis. So different to his dad. So different to his brother.
So different.
I can’t undo this.
Wipe hands on Glory shirt. Orgasm afterglow long gone. Grab Doritos from pantry. Can of Coke. Back to laptop. Hunch. Scroll. Stuff my face. Orange corn chip dust. Destructive brown sugar and phosphoric acid. Scroll. Hours. Memes. Videos. Type LOL so many times, but don’t laugh once.
I actually don’t exist. There’s no such thing as a virgin manwhore. Sure, the man never touched my skin, and I never touched his, but we did it.
To think my parents shattered a glass dish when they realised I was wanking. What would they do if they ever found out I was a poofter?
Probably commit hara-kiri.
Unless I beat them to it.
3: Goals
Hammer
When I rock up to the change room for fifth-period PE, the boys are laughing at something Razor said, which isn’t the way it’s supposed to be. Don’t get me wrong, he can be a funny prick and that’s why I keep him around, but sometimes people need to know who’s king, and it’s not him. So I walk up behind him, snake my arms beneath his hairy armpits, graze the bronzed skin of his pecs, and twist both his nipples in unison.
‘Auuuugghhh!’ he shouts.
‘Ha! Made him squeal like a bitch!’ I say.
Everyone laughs, and Razor corks my shoulder, and I get my shit outta my school bag to get changed.
‘Is Mr Meder back today?’ I hear Zeke ask Jeremy.
‘Still on the Perth trip,’ Jeremy says, scratching himself.
‘Argh, so we’ll get some wanker relief teacher who’s got no idea about sport,’ Razor moans beside me.
‘That’s a good thing,’ I tell him, pulling my shirt over my shoulders to expose my bare chest.
‘Howzat?’
‘Because Meder makes us do what Meder wants,’ I explain. ‘But if we have a relief dummy, it’s a blank slate. We can tell ’em whatever we want.’
Razor’s eyes shine. ‘Footy,’ he says.
‘Footy, Raze,’ I confirm.
I walk across the change room, stretching out my chest and flexing my arms. I high-five Lockie. I walk past the toilet cubicle where Riley is pissing with the door open and slam my fist into the door, just to make him jump and remember who’s boss.
The door opens a crack and a wispy female voice – the relief teacher of the day – calls, ‘We’re waiting for you, boys.’
‘Coming,’ Zeke calls back, still with his grey school shirt on. He turns to Jeremy. ‘We’d better hurry.’
‘Are you cumming for her, Zeeky?’ I call to him, laughing. ‘She’s probably like forty. Do you like the MILFs, do ya?’
He frowns and looks down. ‘If they’re hot enough, I guess.’ Looks at his feet.
‘Well, you’d better hurry up and cum, buddy,’ I tell him, leaning on the tiled wall beside him and Jeremy and flexing my folded arms. ‘I’ll watch.’
‘Rack off,’ he says.
‘Rack off?’ I say. ‘What are you? Six years old?’
Zeke stares at the ground.
‘Go on,’ I say. ‘Change. You don’t want Miss MILF to cum without you, do ya?’
‘Leave him alone,’ Jeremy says.
I stare him down and he goes white. Pansy little shit.
‘You always seem to change so fast, bud,’ I say to Zeke. ‘You don’t seem to want anyone to see you shirtless.’
‘Just go and get ready.’
‘We can all see your moobs already, ya know. Even with your shirt on.’
He goes red, then yanks his school shirt off as quick as he can. As he grabs his yellow polo, I snatch it out of his hands and leap out of his reach.
‘There they are,’ I call. ‘Carn Zeeky, stick ya chest out mate. Good posture. Show off them titties. Beautiful. Makes me wanna break out into song. Do ya moobs hang low, do they wobble to and fro …’
Razor and Riley and Lockie all piss themselves laughing.
Zeke’s shoulders are hunched over his chest as he faces the wall. ‘Give my shirt back, Hammer,’ he says stiffly.
‘Hey, dude, of course I will,’ I tell him. ‘Don’t get so worked up. We’re all mates here. Just having a laugh.’
‘Yeah. Really funny,’ Zeke says quietly. ‘Can you please give me my shirt back?’
‘Okay, man, okay. Only one condition.’
He stiffens. ‘What condition?’
‘Well, next time I have Richelle over my place, I wanna titty fuck her. Reckon you could let me have a practice run on you?’
Everyone pisses themselves. He goes red as a stop sign.
Suddenly, the yellow polo is pulled from my grip and flies across the change room back to Zeke. He grabs it and throws it over his head at once.
‘Enough,’ says Charlie Roth. ‘Leave him the hell alone, Hammer.’
‘Charlie Goth!’ I cry. ‘Out of nowhere!’
‘He can’t help how he looks,’ Charlie says, as Zeke slips out of the change room with a tiny nod in his direction, like a little kid looking for his big brother. ‘Not everyone’s an athlete.’
‘Yeah, I know that,’ I say, making a mental note to get him back for this. Something humiliating. Something in front of everyone, not just the boys. ‘But you can help how you look, can’t you, Charlie Goth? Why d’you have black nails and emo hair – don’t you know emo was over, like, a million years ago?’
‘Goth is different to emo, and I’m not either of them,’ Charlie says, stepping into his oversized, totally thrashed sneakers. He shuffles for the door.
‘Hey, is it true that Marilyn Manson got his ribs removed so he could suck his own dick?’ I call after him. ‘Figured you’d know – you’re into all that weird shit, right?’
As the door opens and he leaves, the relief teacher squawks, ‘Boys! Come on!’
I finish getting ready, and me, Razor, Lockie and Riley
all walk out together, me leading the pack.
Everyone’s waiting outside the change room already. The relief teacher is one we’ve had before: Miss Krumlov. Or Kromlev. Whatever her name is, it makes her sound like she’s a bad guy from the Russian DLC of Battlefield 1. She’s an old bird who walks like she’s got a stick up her arse.
‘Finally,’ she says. ‘So, Mr Meder has left me some notes. Today we’re going to have a game of basketball.’
‘Uh, miss?’ I raise my hand.
‘Yes?’
‘I think you might have the wrong notes,’ I say, frowning just enough to look convincing. ‘We always play footy on Wednesdays.’
‘That’s not what’s written here,’ Miss Krushnov says. Her face is wrinkling in anxiety. She looks like she’s never even watched a sport, let alone played one. They’re always the easiest to crack.
I elbow Razor.
‘Yeah, he’s right, miss,’ Razor says quickly. ‘Footy on Wednesdays.’
Miss Kremlin turns to the girls. Classic relief teacher move. They never believe us boys, even if there’s half a dozen of us saying the same thing. But to a jumpy relief teacher who’s out of their depth, one girl is worth a thousand boys.
And I’ve got the best girl there is.
‘Hammer’s telling the truth, miss,’ Richelle says quickly. Dazzling smile. Pats Miss Krushnev on the shoulder. ‘That’s what Mr Meder always does. Maybe the notes got mixed up? It’s okay, the boys know all the rules for footy so you can just follow their lead.’
Miss Kroner shrugs, but she looks less stressed at the thought of not having to know how to structure the class.
‘Fine,’ she says. ‘Lead the way, Kade.’
‘You can call me Hammer, miss.’
We get the class into two teams; I captain one team and Razor captains the other. These are always the best PE classes. Where we can compete against each other with a whole team behind each of us. It’s like leading an army into war – except you always have useless civilians tagging along. Some of the girls, like Richelle, get into it, but most of them stand on the sidelines on their phones, huddling together and whispering stuff: there must be some gossip doing the rounds. The geeky boys like Zeke and Jeremy generally jog around in the periphery, keeping themselves as far away from the footy as possible. I reckon they’d faint if the Sherrin ever actually landed in their arms. The stoners, like Manny and O’Bree, don’t really do much more but they at least occasionally get the ball and pass it off to one of us who can actually do something good with it.
Invisible Boys Page 4
