Doing the best mouse dissection in the class does nothing to stop me feeling like the biggest failure in the whole Biology lab.
When the bell rings, Charlie Roth jumps off his stool and grabs his backpack. ‘Later, dude.’
‘But Mr Capaldi hasn’t dismissed us,’ I whisper.
Charlie just snorts, walks straight past Capaldi with his chin out and kicks the sliding door open with his skate shoe.
‘Class dismissed,’ Mr Capaldi says, doing his best to pretend he has any control. ‘Unless you haven’t finished washing your equipment. That means you, Kade. Pedro, please pick that up. Amber, phone off until you’re outside, come on.’
I’m probably the only one who hears him. The school has a no-phones policy during the day, which means the bell ringing at 3pm doesn’t just mean it’s time to go home. Almost everyone whips out their phones, zombie-scrolling as they grab their backpacks in slow motion and blindly shuffle for the door. Amber and Piera are giggling about something they’ve seen in their feed. Razor’s eyes are glued to a footy highlights video and he physically slams into a bench on his way to the door. I’m not sure he even feels it.
‘You alright there, Zeke?’ Mr Capaldi asks, his back to me as he wipes the whiteboard clean.
I’ve waited until I’m the only one in the lab. I hate talking in front of people.
‘I just wanted to apologise, sir. I didn’t do a very good job with Charlie.’
Mr Capaldi pauses mid-wipe and turns sharply. ‘What on earth do you mean?’
My hands are clammy and knotted together, one hand pulling at the other. ‘Well, I tried to get him involved in the dissection and I did my best to teach him why we were doing it, but he didn’t care and wanted me to do everything. I’m really sorry. I tried my best.’
Mr Capaldi’s forehead ruffles. That’s his version of a smile, I know, because he did the same when I got highly commended for the state-wide Chemistry competition last year.
‘Zeke, I wasn’t expecting you to teach Charlie Roth. That’s my job. I just wanted you to be a better influence on him than his mates. If he sat there and did nothing, that’s an improvement.’ He watches the tension in my hands. If I were stronger I’d have pulled my thumb off by now. ‘You did brilliantly,’ he adds.
At once, I feel the relief I was looking for. My hands relax and my thumb returns gratefully to its socket. ‘Okay. I just didn’t want to let you down.’
Mr Capaldi studies my face like I’m a mouse he hasn’t yet had the chance to dissect. ‘Zeke, you’re my top student. I’m sure you won’t ever let me down. Now go.’ He jerks his head to the door. ‘You’re a teenager. I’m sure there’s a phone somewhere you should be staring at.’
Jeremy and Pedro are waiting for me in the corridor. Pedro’s watching some Grand Theft Auto playthrough video on his phone. Jeremy’s holding two pale arms over the metal railing of the science block.
‘Working on my tan,’ he says as I join them.
‘You’re too pale to tan,’ I say. ‘You’ll just freckle even worse.’
‘At this point I think I’m okay with that,’ Jeremy says with a sigh. ‘If my arms were just giant brown freckles at least they’d be darker than they are now. I look like a White Walker.’
‘With anaemia,’ Pedro adds, not looking up from his video.
‘And a vitamin B deficiency,’ I add.
‘I’m so glad I have friends,’ Jeremy says.
We walk downstairs, to the school exit. As we head down the high, wide staircase to the street, Pedro nudges me.
‘Look. Sabrina Sefton. I think she’s waiting for you.’
I glance over. Sabrina’s under a gum tree near the foot of the staircase, stuffing something back in her school bag while her blonde ponytail flicks behind her.
‘She could be waiting for anyone,’ I say, at exactly the same moment as Sabrina spots me and waves me down frantically.
‘Yeah, nah. It’s you, man. You’re in.’
‘What are you waiting for?’ Jeremy mutters. ‘She’s obviously keen. Just ask her out.’
My skin crawls. ‘My parents don’t want me to date in year eleven,’ I say at once. It’s the only defence I have, and it’s a complete lie. ‘I need to focus on school. Exams this year.’
‘Exams, shmexams, you’re the only one of us with a chance at getting some pussy before you graduate,’ Pedro says, agitated. He grabs his gut and wobbles it. ‘Girls aren’t exactly lining up to get with this, or with the Night King over here.’
‘Oh, come on, man …’ Jeremy whimpers, glancing again at his pale arms as if they might have magically bronzed in the last two minutes. ‘But seriously, Zeke, what Pedro said. Just do it. And report back. We’re gonna have to live vicariously through you.’
‘Zeke! Hey!’ Sabrina calls as we get closer.
I slow down automatically, and Pedro and Jeremy choose that moment to sprint away, leaving me alone with Sabrina.
‘Later, man!’ Jeremy calls, as Pedro chuckles.
‘Hoped I’d catch you,’ Sabrina says, hoisting her pink Roxy backpack over her shoulder. ‘Oh, your shirt’s come untucked.’
‘Oh. Sorry,’ I mutter, quickly fixing it. I hunch my shoulders over even more than I usually would, trying to hide the hideous set of manboobs that puberty gifted me with. ‘What’s up?’
Sabrina is a unicorn. She’s the smartest girl in our year, but she’s also pretty and has managed to walk a fine line between being a square and a teacher’s pet and also maintaining relationships with both the geeks and the popular crowd. It’s something I’ve never been able to do. The popular crowd shits on me like it’s a sport.
‘I wasn’t sure if you’d heard the news yet – I only just found out now on my way out of Bio,’ Sabrina says, with the tone of an army lieutenant updating her comrades on the progress of a battle. ‘Mrs Collard is leaving. It was her last day today. Did you know?’
A cave opens up in my chest. ‘What? No. How come?’
‘Some other job up north. Apparently it was really sudden. I just wanted to let you know, since we worked with her in the debating society.’
‘Damn. I’m gutted.’ The sea breeze feels like an arctic wind. ‘Is she still here?’
‘Yep. In her office. I just saw her. Go catch her before she leaves.’ Sabrina says, ushering me back up the steps. ‘Oh, before I forget, I followed you on Insta but I’m not sure if it’s your current account or not?’
I hate social media. I have a private group chat with Jeremy and Pedro and that’s about enough socialising for me. ‘Yeah, it is. I followed you back.’
‘Oh, okay. It’s just that you don’t have any pics posted. Like, literally zero.’
‘I’m not really into taking photos of myself. Who wants to see that?’
‘Well, a lot of the girls would, trust me,’ Sabrina says. Her cheeks go instantly pink and I’m pretty sure mine are magenta. ‘Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow for the yearbook committee meeting.’
‘Yeah, have a good one,’ I mutter, waving her off.
The minute her back is turned, I pelt up the staircase to Mrs Collard’s office.
When I knock on the open door, Mrs Collard pauses in the middle of packing books into a huge cardboard box. Her wrinkles part for a beaming smile. ‘Ah, here’s trouble,’ she says. ‘Wondered when you’d come and bail me up.’
Mrs Collard is my favourite teacher. Maybe it’s sad to say that, but everyone has a teacher they like the most (or hate the least) and she’s mine. She runs the school’s debating society and she taught me last year in English. I like her because she swears, which most teachers don’t do. And because she said ‘Randolph Stow, eat ya bloody heart out!’ when she read my short story. And because when she read my poetry assignment last year she’d patted my hand and said, ‘You sound so different on the page, young man … more going on in that head than I realised, ay?’
But mostly I like her because warmth radiates off her like a freshly-baked loaf of wholegrain bread.
‘Are you really leaving?’ I pant. Didn’t realise how much that sprint took out of me.
Mrs Collard rolls her eyes at me comically. ‘Going back to Carnarvon to crack some skulls,’ she says, pulling down a map of Aboriginal language groups from her wall. ‘They put some skinny Dalkeith girl in charge of that school. Two weeks, she lasted. Two weeks! They need me to come sort it out. Don’t worry, love. Mr Meder will run the debating club.’
I feel tears spring to my eyes. I have no idea why. ‘Do you really have to go?’
‘Yep. Them kids need me more than you mob do.’
‘Well, thanks for everything,’ I say quickly. My throat is burning. ‘You’re the best.’
Mrs Collard reaches over the desk and grabs my left hand in both of hers, gently rubbing it, brown skin on olive. ‘Pleasure was all mine, love. And I’ll be keeping tabs on you. You’ve got a lot going for ya, Mr Calogero. Nothing to do with that big brain of yours. Big heart. That’s what I like about you.’ She pats my hand. Her eyes are wet. ‘Orright. Off ya go, now. And remember what you promised me, okay?’
‘What?’ I ask, genuinely confused.
‘You said you’d let me know when them Nintendo people bring out some proper Aussie Pokémon. I told ya, I’ll start playing that game when they’ve got a bungarra Pokémon.’ She booms an enormous laugh, and I can’t help but laugh with her.
The whole walk to the car park I keep wiping my eyes, and I keep berating myself. She’s just some random teacher. What the hell is wrong with you? How much of a wimp are you that this actually bothers you? Man up!
The air-conditioning is on when I slide into the car beside Mum. Her shiny black hair is in a tight, impatient bun, her lips pursed.
‘Why are you so late?’ she asks, dark eyes flicking over my face. ‘Jeremy and Pedro came across ages ago.’
‘I went to see Mrs Collard. She’s moving back to Carnarvon.’
Mum reverses the car. ‘Have you been crying?’
‘No. I dunno. A bit. Just got upset about her leaving, I guess.’
‘What a silly thing to be upset about.’ Mum clicks her tongue like I’ve pissed her off. ‘Next time, text me if you’re going to be late. I need to pop into Rigter’s on the way home and I could’ve done that while I was waiting for you.’
‘Did you speak to Mr Capaldi today?’
My blood runs cold. ‘Oh, I completely forgot to ask him. Sorry. I’ll do it tomorrow.’
‘You need to find out if it’s worth sticking with Biology. You could take another maths subject instead. If Bio isn’t a prerequisite for uni, it’s a waste of your time.’
‘Yes, Mum. Sorry. I’ll check with him tomorrow.’
‘You’re very bright, Zeke. Year eleven isn’t the time to slack off.’
‘I’m not slacking off. Just under a lot of pressure. Year eleven is full on.’
‘Nothing you can’t handle,’ Mum says, tapping her fingernails on the steering wheel as we wait for the lollipop ladies to finish letting some kids cross Cathedral Avenue.
‘God blessed you with big brains. Of course, I did as much as I could to help. All you listened to in the womb was classical music. The psychologists say that helps grow a baby’s brain. And I breastfed you a whole year longer than I breastfed Robbie. It all helps.’ I’ve heard it all before, but she likes to remind me. ‘You don’t remember any of that, but I did that for you.’
‘Thanks.’
I stare out the window as we drive to the supermarket. I wish I could create a bungarra Pokémon for Mrs Collard, like a final parting gift. Too late now. Maybe it’s for the best. In the first Pokémon movie, the scientists who tried to create a perfect Pokémon had it backfire badly. They tried to clone a beautiful legendary creature, Mew, but all they could synthesise in the lab was a pale replica: Mewtwo, a test-tube creature, grey and artificial. I always felt sad for Mewtwo when I watched that movie. Designed by scientists, forced to work when he probably just wanted to roam free in the wild, like mischievous Mew.
We walk into the IGA together. ‘I need some mint sauce and red onions,’ Mum says at me. ‘Your father and I are going to dinner with Natalie’s family tonight. Well …’ She lowers her voice as Mrs Graham from the florist bustles past us with a quick nod. ‘If you can call it a family. Natalie’s older brother Brandon doesn’t even speak to them anymore. He cut ties with his whole family and took off to Perth.’ She raises her eyebrows at me. ‘Shame on them for letting that happen! Family always comes first. And what kind of life must he lead? Completely isolated from his family. That’s no life for anyone.’
I’ve never even met this Brandon before, but I have a fleeting image of some guy living in a city, never worrying about what his parents think. My limbs tingle with excitement. The guilt follows right behind it.
‘Does that mean I’m home alone tonight?’ I ask, trying not to sound hopeful.
‘We’ll be home by ten or so,’ Mum says, pushing past a tattooed man to pluck a bottle of mint sauce off the shelf. ‘You have plenty of study to do, don’t you?’
‘Loads,’ I say at once.
My limbs are tingling with excitement again. I watch the tattooed man reach for some smoky barbeque sauce, his bicep flexing as his rough knuckles tighten around the glass bottle. I bite my lip without thinking.
A whole night alone. Perfect.
Everyone needs a way to release the pressure, and I’m no different. The brighter you shine on the outside, the darker you burn within.
It is a universal truth acknowledged by no-one that if you leave your teenage son at home alone, he’ll be wanking by the time your car leaves the driveway.
So that makes it my parents’ fault for pulling a U-turn ten minutes after heading out.
I’m shuttered in the home office, jocks around my ankles and face aglow with the blue backlight of Dad’s laptop. The masculine groans of the porno I’m watching must drown out the usual crunch of tyres on the metal dust. The first sign of danger is the Monaro’s engine throbbing back into the carport.
Shit!
I press my bare feet against the sides of the white melamine desk and push Dad’s padded blue wheelie chair, sliding across the tiles to get a view of the window. Yep, the Monaro’s headlights are streaming over the backyard. They’re back.
I’ve still got my hand wrapped around my dick. It’s like when someone touches an electric fence and the high voltage makes their hand curl and cling onto the wire. The shock has taken over.
I push my dirty feet against the tiles and scoot the chair back into the office. The glow of the laptop is as blue as those cold cobalt lights they put in dunnies at servos to stop junkies from shooting up. I double over and pull my jocks up. It’s a major tent pole situation, but there’s nothing else to cover up with. I left my clothes in my bedroom. Home alone. The occasion had called for nudity.
The engine shuts off; the backyard goes dark. Dammit, there’s no time to close every single perverted tab I have open on the web browser. I slam the lid of the laptop shut, then tear down the hallway, shoulders hunched over my bare chest and my holey Batman: The Brave and the Bold undies deformed by my erection. I throw on my denim shorts and the Perth Glory jersey Dad got me for my sixteenth. I always feel fraudulent wearing it. I don’t know anything about soccer. I know one day some uncle is gonna quiz me about one of the players and I’ll be exposed.
I grab a random textbook from my desk, sprint into the living room and throw myself onto the couch just as the key scratches in the door that leads from the carport into the house.
‘… because they sure as hell won’t back down,’ Mum mutters over her shoulder, framed in the doorway for just a second before she strides in.
I flick the text book open to a random page, then glance up as if she’s just interrupted my study. ‘That was a quick dinner.’
Mum makes a face at me. ‘After all that effort, I forgot the damn salad, didn’t I?’ She reaches for the giant glass bowl on the kitchen bench, then glances over at me, peering closer, like she’s never met me before. ‘What’s that – Zeke!’
The glass bowl falls from her fingers, flips in mid-air and crashes spectacularly onto the tiles. In an instant, Mum’s black dress is majestically encrusted with bright green peas and slivers of red onion; the bowl of potato salad has shattered into mush and shards at her feet.
The powerful kitchen fluoro brilliantly illuminates a look of horror on her face that I don’t fully understand until Dad emerges from the carport behind her, stares at the shattered glass, his wife, and then at me, and says, ‘Zeke, what are you doing with your cazzo out like that?’
As blood drains from my face, I glance down at my crotch. I was in such a hurry to pull on some shorts I forgot to zip up the fly: although it’s mercifully covered by my undies, my hard-on is poking through my shorts.
My face is so hot it feels like steam is wafting off it. Maybe if I just stay motionless and don’t move, my parents will leave out of sheer compassion.
But then she speaks.
‘How embarrassing,’ Mum says. I know she means for her, not me.
Now, every other mother in history would have realised how humiliating this had to be for her son. Her black high heels would have stepped carefully around the shards of glass and carried her to her bedroom, where she could change into something clean. She would let her husband handle the delicate moment with his young bloke, and she’d never mention it again.
But my mother is a monster.
She clops across the tiles, each clop louder and angrier than the last, until she looms over me on the couch, like a black thundercloud.
‘Zeke … this is disgusting!’ she squalls, close enough that I can smell the spice of her perfume.
She pinches the skin of my arm, just hard enough to hurt. That’s when I discover how bone-chillingly awkward it feels when you’ve got a stiffy and someone you aren’t attracted to touches you.
‘Ease up on him, Anna,’ Dad calls. Like a normal human, he hasn’t moved from the threshold.
‘You’re sixteen!’ Mum says. ‘You should be studying, not sitting in the dark, doing this. You’re too old for this.’
Sixteen too old for a wank? Man, she’s out of touch. ‘Sorry, Mum.’
‘Anna, come on,’ Dad calls.
Mum jabs her finger at the mushed potato and glass fragments on the kitchen floor.
‘You made me do that. Clean it up.’
‘Yes, Mum.’
She stalks across the living room for the bedroom. ‘I’m changing, Sam,’ she barks. ‘Do something with your son, please.’
A moment later, the bedroom door rocks off its hinges.
‘For God’s sake, Zeke, zip it up,’ Dad mutters.
I wrangle myself back into the denim – noticing, as I do so, that the text book I grabbed was my biology one; and it’s open on a page not of the female body – which might have been understandable – but of the female reproductive system. I’m talking fallopian tubes and the vagina and ovaries and the whole weird alien-looking apparatus. Gross. They can’t seriously think I was jerking off to that, can they? No wonder Mum was weirded out.
As I finally zip up, I hear the scrape of glass on plastic. Dad’s crouched over the tiles, blue plastic bannister brush in hand as he scoops the mess of glass and salad into the bin.
‘Mum asked me to do that,’ I say. ‘She’ll be annoyed.’
‘No wuckers, kid,’ Dad says. ‘You just stay there until you’ve … settled down.’
He tips the dustpan out over the bin slowly, like it’s an excavator releasing a load of sand. Glass rains down into the black abyss.
‘Such a shame,’ he says. ‘Your mother made it the Italian way, to make a point to those people.’
Damn those Aussie infidels and their mayonnaise-infested potato salad. Mum wasn’t having a bar of it. Potatoes, red onions, peas, herbs and mint sauce was what you needed to make a proper Italian potato salad. Oh, and like a litre of olive oil.
‘I don’t get why it matters so much,’ I say, glad the conversation has moved on to normal shit. ‘Do you really care if Natalie isn’t Italian? Robbie isn’t fazed.’
‘You’re too young to understand,’ Dad says, plopping some more salad in the bin. ‘It’s nothing to do with her. Sweet girl. It’s the parents. They’re trying to make the wedding all Anglo. No traditional antipasti. No pasta course, either. And don’t get me started on that damn band!’
I don’t get him started, but he starts anyway.
‘I mean, how is it fair to push their music on all of us and then they say they won’t let Uncle Gino play his accordion? How dare they!’
My instinct is to say ‘who cares’, but I sense his tone.
‘Listen, Zeke …’ Dad says, looking determinedly at the painting of the Last Supper on the dining room wall. ‘About tonight …’
He sniffs. Doesn’t look away from Jesus and his blue and red robes.
‘Y’know, there’s two types of people in this world,’ he says. ‘Wankers and liars. You get me?’
‘Ha. Clever.’
Dad shoots a wry grin in Judas’ direction. ‘Yeah. It’s an old joke.’
‘So I should be a liar?’
Dad’s forehead creases. ‘That’s the point.’ He wrenches his gaze from the Last Supper and plants a hand firmly on my shoulder. ‘I’m worried about you, Zeke.’
‘I wasn’t getting turned on by the fallopian tubes, I swear … it’s just …’
Dad holds up his hand; he looks suddenly seasick. ‘It’s nothing to do with that,’ he says quickly. ‘You’re just … you’re so different to your brother.’
The word different would have meant a whole lot less here if I didn’t already know how much the sun shines out of Robbie’s arse.
‘When he was your age, he was going out with girls, you know?’ Dad frowns.
‘Yeah, well, he’s popular, Dad.’
‘Well, you don’t get popular by staying inside all the time.’
‘I have to study. Don’t you want me to do well at school?’
‘I get that you’re smart, Zeke. And we’re proud of that, we are,’ he says, glancing past my shoulder. ‘But you can’t spend your whole life with your nose in a book. Girls don’t like a swot, you know. You need to get out there. Be more like Robbie. Confident. Go to parties.’
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 right 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.