You Are the Reason (7 page)

“Pheromones,” Patrick declared halfway through my explanation.

“What?”

“Pheromones. You know, like moths?” Patrick asked me.

I looked at Jake in silent query. He shrugged and said, “Patrick, you need to dumb it down for us. We aren’t working on doctorates in biology, like you.”

I noticed what could’ve been a blush on Patrick’s face as Jake placed a plate of pancakes in front of him. “Sorry. Pheromones are like a scented hormone that the body releases. Female moths are especially known for releasing this scent when they’re ready to mate. The male moth smells it and follows the trail back to the female to mate with her.”

I frowned. “So Lee wants to mate?”

Patrick smiled. “Every single human who’s fertile has the urge to mate. But no, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m simply illustrating what a pheromone is. Humans have pheromones. We’re not as receptive to them as animals and insects, but we still unconsciously respond to them. There have been loads of studies done on it. We put synthesized pheromones in perfumes.”

Perhaps it was the blindness, but Patrick’s sense of smell was out of this world. It was no wonder he worked in a perfumery, “smell checking” the batches as they were produced. He also held a doctorate in chemistry and a degree in biology.

“Synthesized pheromones?” I asked.

“Man-made ones,” he clarified. “Real human pheromones are found in sweat, and we really didn’t want to be putting them in our perfumes.”

Thank goodness.

“But I’ve read so many reports and journal articles about this. Although pheromones are odorless, we still react to them. Women who are coming into their fertile period will react with arousal to male pheromones, as their biological urge to mate takes over. Men react differently to women’s pheromones, depending if the pheromones are harvested during a woman’s fertile period, or infertile period. They find women who are fertile more ‘irresistible’ than when they’re not.”

Jake stopped. “You mean women smell differently when they’re fertile and when they’re not?”

“Yes,” Patrick confirmed. “If I’m around a woman on a daily basis for a long period of time, I can smell the change. But I’m extremely sensitive to smells, and I pay attention to them. 99.9 percent of the population wouldn’t notice.”

Jake growled fiercely at Patrick. “Are you saying you get turned on by women when they’re fertile?”

There was a little smile on Patrick’s face. “There was a report that came out of Sweden about nine years ago about the reactions of gay men compared to heterosexual men when they were exposed to male and female pheromones. The study found that gay men were turned on by only the male pheromones. And further studies have shown that gay men are turned on
more
by the pheromones of other gay men. It’s my theory that this is what a
gaydar
is. The ability to pick out the other gay men.”

“So,” I asked, trying to work through the information. “Why am I turned on by women all of a sudden?”

He gave the matter some thought. “Pheromones are tricky little bastards. There are pheromones that tell you if your mate’s fertile or not. But then there are also pheromones that tell you if your
potential
mate is too similar to you in genetic makeup. Studies on mice have shown that the males are less likely mate with a female that’s similar to their genetic makeup, or at least coated in pheromones similar to their genetic makeup. Therefore you won’t be attracted to your sister or your mother.”

“Ugh,” I groaned. “Mating again. How can it be that, if I don’t want children and I’ve never been attracted to women before?”

“Sometimes,” said Patrick philosophically. “When it is, it is. I know the scent of Jake used to drive me wild when he was cleaning my house for me. I’d never even met the guy, but I would come home, and my body would react to his scent that was left in the air. I’ve never had that reaction to another person.” That earned him a kiss from Jake. “So this Lee just may be exuding a particular pheromone that has you all tied up in knots. It could be natural, or even an artificial scent she’s wearing. She could even be doing undercover research, you know. They could be manipulating her scent on purpose and sending her out into a social environment to see what reactions she gets.”

I thought that over. “No. I don’t think so. She was meeting a trans friend at the pub. She never had any other interest in picking up apart from going home with me twice.”

“A trans friend?” questioned Patrick. There was a note of wonder in his voice, and he looked excited.

“What?”

I found it difficult sometimes when Patrick didn’t look in my direction when he was speaking to me. I got confused whether he was addressing me or merely speaking to himself, but I was also getting used to it. Jake told me that Patrick had taught himself to “look” in the direction of the person he was speaking to. Being born blind had meant that it was not natural behavior.

“I wonder,” he mused. “Would the pheromones be male or female?”

I was lost. Only a politician at Parliament House could be more lost. “What? Are you asking me?”

Patrick’s face lit up as he turned his head toward me and leaned forward eagerly. “Tell me again. What did Lee look like? What was she doing?”

I described her to Patrick and told them about Bobby and the ill-fitting suit. When I’d finished, there was a smug little smile on Patrick’s face that I was wary of. It was like he knew the punchline to a joke, and he wasn’t prepared to share it with the audience yet. I eyed him suspiciously and said, “So what do you think?”

Jake shook his head. “I reckon females are trouble so stay away—ow.”

Suddenly Jake was on his feet, looking down at his lap in consternation. There was a dark stain spreading across his thighs as the material soaked up the liquid. I blinked and noticed Patrick’s coffee mug, resting on its side.

“Sorry,” Patrick cried as he scooted his chair back. “I must’ve knocked my coffee over. Are you okay, Jake? Did I miss the vital bits? I’m so,
so
sorry. Blind man, you know. Can’t take me anywhere in public.”

Jake cursed and began mopping up the mess with a towel as Patrick continued to apologize over and over. “I’m so clumsy. Sorry, Jake. I’ll make it up to you. You go and get changed, and I’ll clean it up.”

I jumped up. “I’ll do it.”

I grabbed the towel off Jake and shooed him out of the room. He was two steps down the hallway when Patrick suddenly turned to me. “Ring her.”

“Huh? Who?”

“Lee. Ring her. Make a date. Jake will agree with me. If the attraction is this strong, then go for it. Always trust nature. And really, what do you have to lose?”

“But I’m gay.”

“Trust nature, Davo. Biology never gets it wrong.”

Then the “clumsy” blind man stood, and without fumbling, righted the knocked over coffee mug, scooped up the empty plates from the table, and took them to the dishwasher, leaving me wondering just how devious he could be.

And whether I should trust his advice.

D
URING
THE
drive back home, I concluded that Patrick was right. I should trust nature. After all, if a bumblebee can fly, despite the laws of aerodynamics saying it can’t, then maybe a gay guy could be turned straight.

Feeling more nervous than a boy asking out the first girl he’d ever liked, I attempted to ask out the first girl I’d ever liked, without actually asking her out. The timing and method of contacting someone you’ve slept with can say a lot about how you feel about them. And I wasn’t ready to reveal my cards yet.

So I started with an open line of communication. Get the customer talking about themselves. Ask questions and make it seem like you’re interested in their reply. A phone call would be too pushy, and it would put the other person on the spot. Text messages could be read and replied to at leisure. No pressure.

Hey, Lee. Just checking to make sure you got home safe? I was planning to buy you breakfast. I had pancakes. What did you have?

She replied quickly, which gave me a confidence boost that she wasn’t upset with me. She was also secure enough that she didn’t need to overthink her reply. I liked that.

Hi, Dave. Home safe, thx for asking. I had cereal for breakfast.

That left me hanging. What was I meant to do now? She hadn’t given me an excuse to text back. If she had replied with a question, I could reply immediately. But if I replied immediately, without a question, that could send a message that I was more desperate than I wanted to appear.

I consulted Mr. Magic 8 Ball. In times of trouble, he always came through for me.

“Mr. Magic 8 Ball, will I appear desperate if I message Lee back now?”

I shook the ball hard, turned it up, and waited for the answer to appear in the window of the plastic orb that pretended to be an oracle. Waiting for his wisdom to enlighten me. Those that doubted the power of Mr. Magic 8 Ball, despite it only costing me fifteen dollars at the local toy shop, often found their lives in ruin.

The white words appeared out of the dark liquid that filled the ball. Wisdom from the oracle.
Ask again later
.

“Shit,” I swore. What the hell was that meant to mean? Ask Mr. Magic 8 Ball the same question later? Or ask Lee again later?

I guess no matter which way I went, the answer was still “later.”

That left me with time on my hands. What should I do? I chucked on a load of washing and cleaned up the kitchen. Then I gave in to the temptation of glancing at the clock. I’d managed to waste a whole sixteen minutes doing those two chores.

It was times like that I wished I had a housemate to take my mind off things. But no. I’d managed to save enough money to put a deposit on a little townhouse that was probably too big for one person, but that I enjoyed anyway.

I picked up Mr. Magic 8 Ball. “Shall I go and visit my parents?” I shook the ball, turned it up, and it told me
Don’t count on it.
I sighed in relief. I really didn’t want to see them while I was still working through this “Am I straight?” stuff.

“Should I text Lee now?” I shook the ball again.

As I see it, yes.

I froze. Mr. Magic 8 Ball said yes. But suddenly I wasn’t ready. What should I say? Drinks? A meal? A movie? When? Suggesting next Saturday would send the message that I wasn’t very keen, but sometimes a midweek meal was hard to organize. I’d never asked Lee what she did for a crust, so I had no idea if she was even free.

Wednesday, then? I shook my ball.
My sources say no.

Tuesday? I shook my ball again.
My sources say no.

Fuck.
Should I wait for Saturday, then?
Outlook not so good.

I frowned in consternation at the device. The thing was freaky. My research indicated that it was a die inside with twenty possible answers—ten positive answers, five neutral and five negative. The law of averages therefore said that a negative answer would come up only every four goes—and I’d just received three in a row.

I decided on a text with an invitation, but no specific date. Trying to tie a customer down too early to a decision would see them flee every time. But before I could write my text, my phone buzzed in my hand. It was Lee messaging me.

You free this afternoon? Can we meet for coffee? Somewhere we can grab a drink and walk for a bit? I need to tell you something.

I looked out the window and saw that it was drizzling rain. Just a bit. Nothing that would soak you through, and nothing that I would usually turn my nose up at, but for someone to suggest a walk during this weather instead of in a nice dry restaurant or café was suspicious. And then to end it with “I need to tell you something”?

I looked at Mr. Magic 8 Ball, turned it face down, and asked my question. “Am I confused, scared, and freaked out by that?”

Outlook not so good.

Great. Now Mr. Magic 8 Ball had decided to be the master of understatement.

I
TEXTED
her to meet me at the South Perth ferry terminal. There were several cafés in the immediate vicinity and a huge length of foreshore to wander if we felt the need. I parked, wandered down, and sat on the bench to wait. It was winter. The wind was chilly, and I watched the seagulls bop in the choppy waves of the Swan River. There were a few brave souls walking the narrow strip of grass between the river and the road, but the playground sat empty of children. The ferry was coming back across the river, riding the swells and probably giving the passengers seasickness. I watched it get closer and closer, until I suddenly realized there was someone watching me from nearby.

I looked up.

“Lee,” I exclaimed.

She was bundled up in tracksuit pants and a jacket, its hood pulled up to keep her warm against the wind. The dull gray of the material confused me for a moment, as it was so different from the vibrant colors I was used to her wearing. She had no makeup on, and only the red fringe of her hair peeped out from under the hood.