Private Party (3 page)

But the computer was busy.

Elisabeth was installed at the desk, typing away furiously. Thankfully, her back was to me and she was too engrossed to sense my presence. Stealthily, I crept back upstairs. As I retreated, her computer chimed. My mother had a new message.

Gaydar message from Piss-Pig to Golden-Boy:

Hey Golden-Boy. Your name grabbed my attention and I’m dying to see a pic and learn more about you. My bladder is bursting as I write this and I would love to get together with you for a no-holds barred session. Message me back and tell me how you like it. Sprayed all over or down your throat? Check out my photos—betcha like the one of my big dick in full glorious flow.

That was my first experience of Gaydar. I’d completed the basic information to establish my profile, then gone back to work on the more personal sections which required more thought, when to my delight, I got my first message. I was so excited that my profile was already attracting attention, but that feeling quickly curdled upon reading Piss-Pig’s message. I was absolutely horrified that my user name could be so wildly misinterpreted.

I was the Golden-Boy—blond, blue-eyed, beautiful—and most certainly not into being urinated on.

I was completely taken aback but also unsure how to respond. Would replying, even just to say ‘get lost’, only encourage this pervert? Suddenly, a window popped up to inform me I had a new message. I retrieved it with some trepidation and sure enough, it was from Piss-Pig again.

Piss-Pig:
Put down your rubber sheeting and give me your address Golden Boy. I’ll come and give you a soaking good session.

I rang Uncle Vic. I didn’t have the patience to read through the help information and frequently-asked-questions. This was an emergency and Uncle Vic had seemed quite the authority on Gaydar. But Vic was in no hurry to come to my aid. ‘Well this is a surprise,’ he remarked archly, ‘when you were so cool on the idea last night. Haven’t wasted any time getting on there, have you?’

I muttered something about how sleeping on it had made me appreciate the wisdom of his advice. ‘And if I could just utilise that wisdom again to deal with this pest,’ I said hopefully.

But before Uncle Vic would offer any ‘technical support’, he wanted to hear all the humiliating details. He even insisted on going online to check out Piss-Pig’s profile and then seemed rather captivated by his cock. ‘Vic, this is an emergency,’ I protested. ‘I don’t want any more of these freaks harassing me.’

But my outburst caused offence. ‘Stephen, there’s no need for that,’ he reprimanded me sternly. ‘Piss-Pig has paid you the compliment of his attention, which you disdain I know, but all you need do is reply with a polite but firm “no thank you”.’

While he rattled on with a ‘treat others with the respect and courtesy that you expect yourself’ lecture, I composed a brief note declining Piss-Pig’s proposal:

Golden-Boy:
No thanks mate. Not my scene.

Uncle Vic went on at such length it became pretty obvious that this topic was a personal sore point. No doubt Vic got his fair share of rejection online and it smarted. While he was still railing on, Piss-Pig responded.

Piss-Pig:
You just need to go with the flow Golden-Boy. Give it a try. I know you’re curious.

I interrupted Vic mid-sentence. ‘Screw being courteous. Piss-Pig won’t take a polite no for an answer.’

Vic sighed and I tersely typed out a response which was blunt and unambiguous.

Golden-Boy:
Piss off Piggy! What you suggest revolts me.

Vic then explained how I could block Piss-Pig’s name so he couldn’t message me again which I immediately did. ‘You know, this is a good cautionary lesson Stephen,’ Vic continued. ‘Of course you’re eager to get online but it is important to think everything through carefully and be wary of any potential ambiguities.’

‘He’s ruined my user name,’ I moaned. ‘Soiled it with his filthy connotations and it was perfect. I’m going to have to change it now.’

‘Yes, well some people will interpret what seems perfectly innocent in their own way. Just take your time setting up your profile. Work out what it is you’re really after by using Gaydar. Is it just sex, some titillation or are you hoping to meet a potential boyfriend? Then structure your profile accordingly.’

Vic then wished me luck and hung up. Generally, I paid scant attention to Vic’s advice but what he’d said did make sense. What was I looking for on Gaydar? Certainly, not a new boyfriend; the break-up with Blake was still far too recent and raw. No, what I needed was distraction, something to stop me obsessing about the Blake situation. Some no-strings sex and perhaps the occasional date would be ideal.

I browsed through some of the Sydney online profiles to get an idea of what other guys said or showed. Some of them were extremely blunt—and extremely arousing—in asserting what they wanted. But it also became obvious to me that you were expected to either show your face or your dick in your photos. Those profiles with no photos had a dismal number of hits. Of course there was no way in the world that I would display my ‘short straw’ on the internet but nor was I prepared to show my face. Twelve months previously, I’d been on nationwide television. I didn’t want people recognising me and taking a prurient delight in the intimate facts I revealed in my profile. There was also the consideration that it might affect my future work opportunities. The ‘Tommy’ people would not be impressed to find the father of Little Amber touting himself for sex on a gay website. Although it rankled that a producer of canned goods should have any influence as to how I lived my life, sadly, at this point in time, they alone seemed to be appreciative of my talents and prepared to pay for them.

I was still browsing through the profiles when I came across one that showed me how I could promote myself in a discrete manner. Hunter32 wore sexy white underwear, and though his face was averted from the camera, he had such a hot muscular body, he immediately drew my eye. Adjacent to his photos was a caption: face pics available on request. That was the solution. Then I was in control of who saw my face pictures rather than having them available online to all and sundry.

Unfortunately, all my photo albums were back at Ridge Street, but I was so intent on getting my profile completed, I raced out the door and took a taxi over there. There was one particular photo that immediately sprang to mind. When I found it in the album, my instinct was confirmed: it would be perfect as my main photo. Damon had taken it on Bondi Beach the first summer Blake and I were together. So it wasn’t that recent and it also featured Blake, however, my body was in prime gym condition and I also sported an impressive looking bulge in my Speedos. For some mysterious but fortuitous reason—the angle, the light and shadow—I looked massive down there. I was also wearing sunglasses and a cap so there was no need to blur out my face. The image was perfectly anonymous as it was. The fact that Blake was in the photograph, with his arm draped around my waist, was a minor problem. I would crop him out; which would be very apt, symbolic even of the need to cut him out of my life and move on.

But as I studied the photograph, it occurred to me that Blake had made no claim whatsoever on our photo albums. Out of all our shared possessions, they would have been one of my first priorities, yet he hadn’t even mentioned them. Did he care so little about our shared history? As I began to leaf through the albums for possible profile photos, I began to feel increasingly saddened. This was the record of our time together and it brought to mind so many memories. After a while, I made myself stop looking at the photos of us pictured together—it just made me feel too melancholy—and concentrate on the shots of me by myself. I selected a couple of solo photos for my profile but even they were still redolent with memories of Blake.

There was a great rear view shot of myself, walking naked into the waves on the beach at Turtle Cove, Cairns. My face was in profile, affording a partial glimpse without revealing enough to make me recognisable. It had been taken on our first holiday away together. We’d spent that afternoon cuddling and kissing on the beach. Eventually, we got ourselves so worked up, we had to go behind some rocks and have sex. I’d been going into the sea to wash off when Blake called out to me; I turned and he snapped my photo.

The other photo was from our recent Rome holiday. I sat at the outdoor table of a Trastevere restaurant, nursing an aperitif, while the fading evening light cast a warm glow on the piazza behind me. I was looking sleek and sexy in my new Diesel sunglasses and Dolce & Gabbana tee shirt—and also happy. It seemed impossible that photo had been taken only a few months ago. That time seemed so incredibly distant now.

I closed the photo album. I couldn’t bear any more reminders. I began to wonder if I should take up Uncle Vic’s recommendation of that photographer, but it would take time to organise and I was impatient to get my profile completed. I also didn’t feel particularly photogenic. I slipped the photos into an envelope, then went through my professional acting photographs. I pulled a black and white shot of me in underwear, my face bowed. From that same stash, I chose a couple of headshots as my ‘on request’ face pics.

Usually, if I was feeling ‘sensitive’, I came and went by the back lane instead of the front door. But it was the middle of the day during the week, so I knew there would be no chance of running into Blake. I was wrong. I opened my front door and there he was, turning in my gate. We were both so startled, we froze. Blake began to blush and then stammer out an explanation. ‘I’m s-so used t-t-to walking into this house. Sometimes, if I’m not paying attention, I j-just do it automatically, without thinking. I’ve done it before. Sorry.’

I didn’t know what to say to that. Did this mistake have some psychological undertone? Did he turn into my house because sub-consciously he wanted to come back? Blake began to retreat, backing away from me. I noticed he wasn’t in his work clothes.

‘Why aren’t you at work? Are you sick?’ I asked.

‘No, not sick, but I took a sickie. I’m just a bit worn out, you know.’

That was curious too. It was unlike Blake not to go into work. He had this indomitable work ethic. What had ‘worn him out’? The emotional upheaval of our break-up? Or was it from being constantly prodded by that thing of Rick’s? Blake lingered awkwardly by Rick’s mailbox. We both kept glancing at one other, then looking away. ‘How are you?’ Blake asked suddenly, his voice gentler.

How was I? It was the question I’d wanted him to ask me for weeks and weeks. I had so many thoughts and feelings to give voice to, things I’d imagined or rehearsed saying to him in my head. I practically had a three act drama devised in there, but somehow, at that moment, I forgot all my lines. I was so thrown by his unexpected presence, let alone his question, and the quiet concern in his voice. I shrugged and shook my head, held up my hands helplessly … but I forgot about the envelope I was holding. The photos fell out and scattered. I was aware of Blake craning over the fence, looking. I dropped to my knees at once and gathered them up again. I was so flustered I didn’t notice one was missing until Blake said ‘here’ and thrust it towards me.

It must’ve slid under the fence onto Rick’s front path. It was the photo of Blake and me on Bondi Beach.

I took it and avoided his gaze. I am usually very quick with an excuse or explanation but in this instance, I was at a complete loss as to what to say. It was so awkward. What would he be thinking? That I treasured photos of us and carried them around? For a moment, I wondered about deflecting an explanation by enquiring why he’d never asked for any of our photographs. But then it occurred to me that might only encourage him to ask about the possessions that he had laid claim to, and which I’d given away or intended to keep. ‘I have to get going,’ I muttered and hurried out onto the street.

I shot a glance back at Blake as I walked off. He was watchful, grave, puzzled.

That encounter completely threw me, assailing me with a surge of emotions and questions. I was so lost in my thoughts, I didn’t even notice Nathan walking down the street towards me, until he said hello. ‘We meet again,’ he grinned, and stopped, as though he wanted to talk.

But I was in no frame of mind for chit-chat. I excused myself, saying I had to be somewhere. If only it was true. I felt at a loss. I had no inclination to keep working on my Gaydar profile. What I really felt like doing was discussing what had just happened with someone, but there wasn’t really anyone I could arrange to see for a coffee and chat. I went back to Kings Cross and rang Ant. I related my encounter with Blake and confided that I felt tempted to arrange a proper meeting with him; one where I was mentally prepared to see and talk to him. Ant didn’t think it was a good idea. ‘Well, maybe I’ll e-mail him then. Tell him how I really am,’ I replied. ‘I mean, he did ask.’

‘Absolutely not,’ Ant insisted. ‘That was just something to say, to fill an awkward silence. He doesn’t really want to know how you are and you should have more dignity than to tell him.’

‘But he turned into my house? It must mean something.’

Ant sighed. ‘Only to you I’m afraid, because you want it to mean something.’

After I’d hung up from Ant, I made myself do some work on my Gaydar profile. If I wasn’t busy, I would be tempted to contact Blake and perhaps say something regrettable. I scanned and uploaded the photographs, then set to work on the written sections. But it was so much harder than I imagined. The section
Describe Yourself
completely defeated me. My personal circumstances had been so lousy lately, I simply wasn’t in a good state of mind for singing my own praises. I felt despondent about myself and my prospects. I didn’t even have the inclination to inflate the truth. I decided to skip ahead to the
What I’m Looking For
section.

Scarred by my experience with Piss-Pig, my immediate reaction was to list the types of guys that ‘need not apply’. Top of the list was size queens, closely followed by water sports enthusiasts, and then a pet irritant, other actors. There was simply nothing worse than fellow thespians. Things always got so competitive—over being the centre of attention, over who was more successful, and over who should be doing all the work in bed while the other reclined ‘being the star’. But having started my list of ‘undesirables’, I found it hard to stop. I realised that I needed to add the types of guys I wasn’t physically attracted to—the fat, the elderly, the excessively hairy, the effeminate. By this point, the list was beginning to look rather long, but I imagined this would demonstrate that I was someone with exacting standards. I had heard complaints of discrimination on Gaydar—that some people used this section to exclude guys who were HIV positive or Asian. I had no problems there. I had gone out with Ant who was HIV positive and I felt a real bond with Asian boys. Some of them were maligned quite unfairly about their dick size too.