‘Had enough, eh, mate?’
He sat down next to me and passed me the joint. We sat in silence for minutes, listening to the music, trance reggae. We smoked the joint and I sat up. His eyes — black eyes, not brown — were shining bright, mirroring the candlelight. There was stubble on his baby face. It suited him.
He was looking hard at me.
‘Enjoying the party?’ It was an inane question, but I wanted to break the tension. This silence was getting uncomfortable.
‘Where you from?’
I didn’t expect that question. He kept on looking into me. ‘Melbourne.’
‘No, I mean where your parents from?’
And you, where are you from? That’s what I was wondering.
‘Jordan,’ I answered. ‘My father’s from Jordan and my mother was born in Egypt.’
He whistled. ‘Jordanian-Egyptian. Very sexy.’
I laughed. ‘I’m a mongrel. Mum’s half-French and half-Greek. I’m a genetic soup.’
‘That’s why you’re so good-looking.’ He said it softly. But every word was clear.
I got scared. But I liked him calling me good-looking.
‘Are you going to come home with me?’
I wanted a cigarette. I started fumbling through my pockets. My pack was squashed. He offered me one of his. I took it, slowly, careful not to touch his hand.
‘Are you going to come home with me?’ Again, soft. The same steady insistence.
I pointed towards the house, to the party. ‘That’s my girlfriend in there.’
That’s when he looked away, pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his head on them. He said something, said it to a place deep down inside himself.
‘I can’t hear you.’ I wanted him to look up, to not be sad. I wanted him to look at me again.
He lifted his face. A wide, wicked grin. ‘You still haven’t answered my question.’
•
‘Fuck you!’ I scream it, stressing both words. I’m pacing up and down his concrete shithole of a backyard.
‘I’m out of money, alright! All I did was fucking ask you to shout me some cans. You don’t want to do it, fine. Just leave it.’
‘It’s the way you ask me. No hellos, no how are you, no nothing. I’m sick of it.’
‘You want a kiss, baby?’ Sarcastic tone, spat out in a faggot voice.
‘You’re a prick.’
A grunt.
‘You’re a prick!’ I scream it out.
‘Enough!’ I can tell he’s angry now, really angry. I shouldn’t push it. But it’s hot, too hot, I’m tired, and yeah, fuck him, I could do with some affection.
‘You’re nothing but a drunk.’
He stands up, abrupt. Automatically, his hand becomes a fist. I jump back. And he laughs.
‘Come on, come on.’ He leans over, kisses my lips. I lick his, we touch tongues and he pulls away. ‘I’ll cook you dinner.’
‘You serious?’ I’m dubious.
‘Oath.’ He crosses himself.
I go down the road, get him his beer.
•
I told Leah I was tired, felt a bit sick. She was having a good time, was talking about going dancing, and after a few moments of her stroking my face and holding my hand, we kissed goodbye. She asked no questions about him; she thought nothing of him walking out with me.
We walked through parkland. There were possums everywhere and he stopped in front of one, crouched, and whispered quietly to it. It looked at him, transfixed, but he overbalanced, fell, and the possum ran fast up a tree. I put a hand on his shoulder to steady him, and he took it and helped himself up. He didn’t let go.
I looked around, nervous, feeling spied upon. His hand felt rough, enormous, so different to Leah’s light touch. I took my hand away.
He grabbed it back, his grip tight. Then, letting go, he threw his arm over my shoulder, bringing me in closer to him. I felt safer. I noticed the thick hair on his arms, was aware of the heaviness of his body. We kept walking, his arm around my shoulder, staggering, mostly silent all the way to his house, except for when he asked me what football team I barracked for.
‘Essendon.’
He nodded.
‘And you?’
‘Carlton.’
And that was it. We kept walking, through the park, down back alleys, all the way to his house. He was humming tunes I recognised.
When we got to his house he put his finger to his lips, opened the door and navigated me quietly to his bedroom. The light, when he switched it on, was far too bright. A naked globe hung low from the ceiling. He sat on the unmade mattress. I remained standing, wanting to be there and not wanting to be there, looking around at the bedroom walls. There were a few snapshots, a poster of Taxi Driver, and old record sleeves, Lou Reed’s Transformer, Hunters and Collectors’ Human Frailty. I looked everywhere but at him. Until he started stripping.
His body was firm but not tight. He took off his T-shirt and I looked at his chest, almost hairless, the long nipples, the three small folds of his belly. I felt a locker-room shyness, as if caught stealing illicit glances.
He dropped to his knees.
I looked away to a picture on the wall opposite me, a page torn out of a magazine. The edges were ragged. Jessica Lange, her gaze intense, straight into the camera. He was unzipping my trousers, kissing my cock through my briefs. My cock remained flaccid and I was blushing.
‘Good movie,’ I said, making conversation. He stopped kissing.
He looked over his shoulder and up at the picture. ‘Yeah, ace movie. A fucking classic. What they did to her, you know, Frances Farmer, that’s the worst thing you can do to someone, take away their soul.’
I was looking down at him. His hair was limp and fine. I was feeling tenderness: the footballer’s shoulders and inside them the little boy. I stroked his hair, his face, and
we were kissing and
his mouth was harsh, not a girl’s mouth, and his body was hard as it pressed against
me, covering me, but the skin was just so soft, like touching the underneath of bark
and I thought a few times, as we were making love, that
fuck, it’s a man, this is a man
but our bodies worked together, and I liked him coming all over me, groaning and swearing loudly,
repeating
oh man oh man oh man
and as I was coming I had my eyes closed but I was digging my mouth into his neck and
I had to stop myself screaming, so I bit into him, because what I wanted to scream was something about love. Which is terror, which made me want to hit him, kick him. And then I came, the tremors stopped and I could finally breathe out.
He got up, switched off the light, grabbed his T-shirt and wiped the cum off me. I lay there, still. From the street I could hear cars, the screech of cats fighting. He held me, his arm wrapped around my chest. The sharp odour of his perspiration, overwhelming, nothing of sweetness in it. I kissed his skin just to have the taste of it.
‘Are you going to tell your girlfriend?’
‘No.’ The streetlight was making ghosts of the pictures on his wall.
‘Is this the first time you’ve slept with a guy?’
I nodded.
‘Me too. I mean, I’ve had sex with guys before. But you’re the first guy I’ve brought home.’
I was aware of the pressure of his thigh on mine, coarse hair digging into my skin.
‘You believe me, don’t ya?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ I remember thinking, women taste of nectar, men smell like citrus.
‘Of course it fucking matters.’ He whispered it. ‘Of course it matters.’
I fell asleep in his arms, watching Jessica’s hair dance silver.
•
It’s ten o’clock and my stomach is rumbling. He’s back from another trip to the pub. There’s an English cop show on television but I’m not taking it in. He’s lying on the couch drinking. I notice his belly’s got bigger.