Private Party (6 page)

Mischief75:
I hope we can message some more another time. I want to tune in for another episode of CSI, one with an exciting climax. LOL.

That made me smile and I took a second look at his photos. He did actually have a nice body and the dick was kind of large. Maybe he was a possibility for sex to help me overcome all my recent disappointments. It was refreshing that he was so keen. I added Mischief to my favourites, feeling somewhat heartened that at least someone was pursuing me with a certain degree of ardency and eloquence.

I logged out of Gaydar and decided to check Blake’s e-mail. To my delight there was a message from Damon. I opened it immediately.

Dear Blake,

Why so defensive? I only suggested that perhaps it wasn’t the best idea to rush straight from one relationship into another. I didn’t even mention your unseemly haste to move in with this Rick when you’d only known him, what was it, four weeks?

As for your accusation that I’m taking Stephen’s side, I’m doing nothing of the sort. I’m not on anyone’s side. But I must admit, I find your behaviour startling to say the least and do have some sympathy for Stephen. But that’s not so surprising. Look at how you’ve treated him: you’ve had an affair under his nose, dropped him very abruptly, and refused to explain yourself to him. That must be very difficult to deal with.

I know it’s very easy in Sydney to ignore and avoid your neighbours—god forbid, I would never say hello to mine—but Stephen owns his house. He’s not going to be going anywhere. He’ll always be there, a black blot, right next door, radiating ill-will. You complain that he’s making your life hell. Well, I think all you can do is get used to it.

And yes, I am hurt that you never confided in me as to what was going on. I think it says a lot about how much trust you place in me as a friend. It seems that all I’m good for is to act as an intermediary, get in touch with Stephen and find out what has happened to your pot plants. Blake, I have better things to do than act as your agent and knowing Stephen, he has probably set a goat loose on your precious pot plants anyway!

Damon

Go the Demon! He and Blake were having a regular battle royal and I was elated. The goat idea was rather inspirational, though I did relish the fact that Blake was walking past Sal’s house every day and utterly failing to recognise his miniature lemon tree. The e-mail made for intriguing reading and I went back over it carefully, musing over everything that was revealed. It was gratifying to learn that Blake was suffering, that I was making his life hell! I needed to keep the pressure up. Rick needed to be treated to one of Blake’s temper tantrums: that might make him a little thoughtful as to what he’d taken on. I printed out Damon’s e-mail. It would be a useful tonic to cheer myself up if I ever started to feel a little low.

Gaydar proved to be a very useful distraction for me. It helped fill my empty days with a new frisson of excitement and anticipation which was a big improvement on brooding over Blake and feeling sorry for myself. Initially, I did become a little addicted to it. There was so much to ogle, admire and discover. Every time I received a message, I found it thrilling. Even if it was from someone I found unattractive, their attention was still a compliment and I’ve always thrived on compliments.

After a couple of weeks of having my profile active—and I do mean active, as I had plenty of free time and was online a lot—I had the hang of how Gaydar worked. I found it a highly convenient way of meeting guys, arranging sex or perhaps the occasional date. There were some guys who would flirt, chat online endlessly, but never commit to meeting, which was exasperating. But for every connection that didn’t eventuate or proved disastrous, there were plenty of others that worked out very well, and some that were sensational. The disappointments were fleeting; soon forgotten by the arrival of a new message or the discovery of a hot tourist who was only in town for a week.

The big advantage was that there were always guys online in the Sydney room and available at all hours; unlike the bars and saunas which tended to be at their busiest only when it was very late. I’d tried the bars a couple of times post-Blake but it hadn’t gone well. I went out; felt conspicuous because I was alone; drank too much; ran into people I didn’t want to see while failing to catch the eye or interest of anyone I liked the look of. Inevitably, I wound up horny, frustrated and drunk and then, ultimately in some sauna or sex club until all hours. The next day would be a write off: I’d sleep very late, awake feeling hung over, regretful of the money I’d spent and where I’d ended up.

Gaydar was so civilised by comparison. I went online, cruised the profiles, wrote cheeky greetings to those I fancied, and checked the credentials of those who had sent me messages or been looking at my profile. If I liked someone we’d usually chat on MSN or perhaps by phone before arranging to meet. A few careful questions helped me get a sense of the guy and how accurate a reflection his profile really was. I usually had several possibilities on the go and tended to meet or hook up with a few different guys every week. Occasionally, things went quiet for a few days and I found it disheartening if I didn’t have new messages and tracks to follow up on.

Though I claimed on my profile to be after some fun, part of me did still yearn for something more. I missed the intimacy I’d had with Blake. It was as basic as having someone to talk to: someone who would listen, give me advice or just have a laugh with. But sometimes I also craved having someone to go out with for a nice dinner or even to spend a night at home together, watching a DVD and drinking a good bottle of red.

One guy I met, BuffStuff, sent me several texts after we’d been together so I invited him over for a DVD night. It was a disaster. I thought we were having a date; he thought I’d invited him over to watch porn. He was aghast: ‘You want to watch “Chicago”?’ I felt like the world’s biggest show queen and that this misunderstanding had seriously damaged my butch credentials. I hastily uncovered the porn collection and the evening was salvaged to a degree. We had sex but he failed to reply to my text the following day and I didn’t persist.

Of course, there were also a few guys who were keen to see me again but either I wasn’t that into them or they had boyfriends. Failing to mention a boyfriend was a rather common oversight on Gaydar. One guy asked me over, then took me to the building’s laundry room for sex as his boyfriend was in the apartment. I would’ve been affronted if the guy hadn’t been so gorgeous and the sex turned out to be incredible, heightened no doubt by the fact that someone could have walked in on us at any moment.

HotScott8 was one of the guys who had temporary amnesia about his boyfriend. We hooked up one evening mid-week. He was working late at his office, waiting on a crucial phone call from London and killing time on Gaydar. He looked spectacular when he walked into my apartment, dressed in his Hugo Boss suit. It was such a turn-on, unbuttoning his shirt slowly to reveal his tanned, muscular and slightly hairy chest beneath the pristine white cotton. He fucked me with his shirt unbuttoned, tie dangling and his fat cock poking out the fly of his pants. Afterwards, we lay together on my bed chatting, kissing and cuddling until we were both hard again. Then I pulled those pants off him, flipped him over and did him.

He seemed pretty much perfect: some sort of lawyer (my father would have approved), great body, nice features, only a few years older than me and he owned his own apartment in Green Square. I even started thinking ahead to when I was back in Ridge Street and he would be living close at hand. The sex was fantastic. There was a connection between us that was almost magical and we came together both times. But he was also really into me and that turned me on immensely. He kept staring at me with these awestruck eyes, whispering compliments or filthy possibilities, while his hands were constantly stroking me in admiration. It seemed a natural progression to ask him to stay the night and that’s when things began to unravel. ‘God I’d love to but I can’t,’ he sighed, running his fingers over my abdomen.

I tried to talk him into it and eventually, after much hesitation, he admitted that he had a boyfriend. ‘Not that we have sex together anymore,’ he hastened to reassure me. ‘But even so, I can’t stay out all night. It’s one of our rules.’

I was disappointed that he was unavailable and pulled away from him.

‘But we don’t have any rules about seeing the same guy again, though we probably should,’ HotScott grinned, ‘and I do want to see you again. You’re gorgeous. Can we get together tomorrow night?’

I was tempted. I really liked him and the fact that he was keen—he wanted to see me tomorrow!—was kind of thrilling, but I couldn’t help wondering what other rules lay in store for me. Did we have to stop having sex if he began to feel emotionally attached? Would it ever be sanctioned for us to have dinner together or even go out for coffee? I had a feeling that such small intimacies would be strictly outlawed by ‘the rules’. After what Rick had done to me, I also wasn’t inclined to get into some sort of regular thing with someone else’s boyfriend. Given my emotional state, it would be all too easy for me to get attached to someone who was unavailable—and that would only prove to be an exercise in frustration.

I shook my head. ‘No, you can’t see me again,’ I said firmly, getting out of the bed and putting on my underwear to reinforce the point.

‘Why not?’ he protested, his face falling. ‘We could have a regular arrangement, a few times a week. That would be so perfect.’

‘Yeah, except for one problem,’ I said. ‘I have a rule too. Don’t get involved with married men.’

He stared at me reproachfully for a long time but eventually he shrugged and began to get dressed. He left the apartment without another word of protest; though at the door, a farewell kiss turned so passionate that it could easily have led to Round Three. While he was grappling his way back inside my underwear, I was grappling for the door handle, and once I’d manoeuvred the door open, he got the message and obediently left.

HotScott pursued me zealously in the days that followed, trying to talk me around. I replied to his first few messages but then made myself stop. His attempts to sweet-talk me were beginning to succeed. If I had been really strong I would have blocked him so I didn’t receive his messages but I couldn’t bring myself to do that. Then he sent a message reporting triumphantly that his boyfriend was going away for a family weekend.

HotScott8:
We could have lots of sex and I could even stay overnight.

It was very tempting. How nice it would be to have access to him for an entire weekend and get to enjoy some of those intimacies that I missed and craved. What did it matter if I fell for him a little? At least I would be thinking of someone other than Blake for a change.

CSI-Sydney:
I thought overnights were against the rules?

HotScott8:
Fuck the rules. I want to fuck you again so badly.

Maybe he wrote his last message quickly, impetuously, but it made it very clear what his priority was. It made me decide no. Perhaps if he’d sweetened what he had written a little—said that he wanted to wake up next to me or have dinner together—I might have agreed. I sent him a message saying no and in much blunter terms than I felt. He replied, astonished, and desperately tried to change my mind. I used HotBloke’s line on him—
no means no
—and he replied with a flood of crying emoticons. I didn’t hear from him for a while after that, until one night I received a message from him which could only be described as frantic.

HotScott8:
I see you online almost every night and it’s driving me crazy to think of you meeting other guys, and those guys having what you only allowed me a brief taste of. Why won’t you relent? I want you so badly.

It was tempting to throw caution to the winds, fuck him one more time and put us both out of our misery. I probably would’ve done exactly that if I wasn’t expecting a cute Latino flight attendant (aka Flirt-Attendant) to press my doorbell at any moment. As I sat there pondering what to do, the intercom buzzed and the decision was made for me.

For some reason I was extremely popular that night on Gaydar. Earlier, I’d had a message from Alejandro, hitting on me. He failed to recognise me and bluntly announced that he wanted to fuck me.

To LatinInches:
Actually mate, you’ve already fucked me and to be honest it wasn’t that great from my perspective. Are you still hitting the steroids hard? Maybe that was the problem.

That resulted in a barrage of messages, demanding to know who I was, when we’d had sex, and insisting that he only used protein powders. I ignored them all, though it became very interesting when he started trying to guess my identity and ran through a string of names. He finally mentioned my name, but only after suggesting seven other possibilities first, which demonstrated the true extent of his infidelity and just how much he valued ‘that relationship’ with Joshua.

As for Flirt-Attendant, he turned out to be great sex. He had the boundless energy of youth but the sexual experience of someone much older. He was on top, then he was on the bottom. We went through half-a-dozen different positions. He wanted to fuck this way, then that. Every so often he would mutter something in Spanish and when he finally came in a great explosion, it sailed right over his head and splattered against the feature wall. He groaned with pleasure and then blasphemed, ‘Ah, Madonna.’

He then fell asleep. He looked so cute and angelic, I just curled up alongside him. Though the magic was somewhat ruined when his mobile went off at 5am. He’d had the forethought to set it on his way over as his flight out departed late morning. He had to be back at his hotel, uniformed and smiling by 7am, ready to be collected. He informed me sadly that he didn’t know when he would return. ‘Usually I’m too junior to get these long haul flights. This time was a fluke.’

Nevertheless, we swapped e-mails and he promised to keep in touch, just in case.

Another intriguing situation developed when I started receiving messages from none other than HotBloke’s boyfriend, MobyDick. About a fortnight after HotBloke had bluntly turned me down, Moby messaged me, angling for the two of us to get together. I might have been into it, if I’d thought it would make HotBloke jealous enough to want me again. The idea of fucking with his boyfriend—in HotBloke’s own bed—rather appealed to me. But their relationship was scrupulously modern. They had no sexual secrets and Moby confided that he had HotBloke’s blessing to pursue me. My interest fizzled. In the end I put him off by saying that I didn’t want to get involved with any couples. ‘I have these rules,’ I insisted.

Predictably, Moby wanted us to break all the rules but I was resolute and eventually, he stopped sending me messages.

If HotScott and Flirt-Attendant were my highlights from Gaydar, there were also a couple of dreadful experiences. Trade-Up’s photos were amazing. He didn’t have a face shot posted but the photos of his body and cock reminded me of HotBloke. When I asked him for a face pic, he claimed he was bisexual, had a girlfriend and was a little paranoid about privacy. Usually, I wouldn’t persist if someone didn’t have a photo, but his body was so spectacular, I just couldn’t imagine that he didn’t have a face to match. Meanwhile, Trade-Up kept insisting he was very good looking and that I wouldn’t be disappointed. Sex with HotBloke had been such a dream and as this guy could literally have been his twin, I agreed to see him. Trade-Up was reluctant to come to the Cross and though he lived all the way over in Marrickville, I decided to go to him. That way, if I didn’t like his looks, it would be easy for me to leave.

It was quite a performance getting to his place as it involved two trains, a fifteen minute walk from the station, and then two mobile calls when I got confused about his directions. Finally, I arrived at his building and he buzzed me in. But when he opened his door to my knock, his apartment was in darkness. This was not artfully dimmed lighting; there were no lights on whatsoever. The only source of light came from the corridor where I was standing and Trade-Up was standing well clear of that. I couldn’t see him at all. He was just a silhouette and clearly that was intentional. He tried to usher me in but I stood my ground in the doorway. ‘Turn some lights on first,’ I said sternly.

But Trade-Up had his excuse ready. ‘Oh, the light bulb just blew and I don’t have a spare.’

‘Well that’s a shame because you won’t be blowing me in the pitch dark,’ I retorted.

‘But that’s how I like it, doing it in the dark. It’s so much sexier,’ Trade-Up urged me. ‘I’m actually standing here, just a few inches away from you, stark-naked. Reach out and feel me. I’m big, just like in my photos.’

I’d already smelt a rat but there was also something about his wheedling tone of voice that made me sense Trade-Up was a fraud. This was no muscle stud cheating on his girlfriend; this was some conniving queen with fake photos. Then it struck me: the photos had looked just like HotBloke because they were HotBloke. Trade-Up had swiped them off Gaydar, was passing them off as his own and that was why he was claiming the lights didn’t work. Who would have imagined that it would be necessary to bring a torch along with you when you went on a Gaydar date? I became immensely curious to see what this impostor looked like and I started fumbling around the walls for a light switch.