After the Summer Dance last weekend, I made a decision.
I’m not going to be homosexual anymore.
Once I made that decision, I felt so much better. I’m gonna work harder than ever at my footy. I wanna be drafted into the AFL when I’m eighteen. Clubs will fight over me. I’ll move to Melbourne and have a huge mansion. Get a sick new XR8. Better than Dad’s bucket of crap. And I’ll date models, nice models with big boobs, and then some time in my thirties I’ll settle down with one of them and we’ll have a couple of kids and I’ll become a coach.
It keeps me feeling good all week, like I finally found the way to solve my problem. Even when Zeke sends me his depressed texts and keeps trying to call me, I don’t let it get to me. Even when Charlie gets expelled and deletes all his social media accounts, I don’t let it drag me back to where I was.
Homosexuality only brings darkness with it. I’m glad I’ve chosen the light of being straight instead.
It’s the happiest week I’ve had in a while. We get Miss Krabcakes in PE again and I get her to let us play footy again. I kick nine goals. I’m gonna be a star recruit. They’ll call me a ‘young gun’. Maybe a ‘prodigy’.
On Friday arvo, Mum and Dad drive me and Doug into town for the weekend. I watch the carpet of canola pass by the windows again. There’s still a patch of purple lupins in the middle of the farmer’s crop. He really ought to get rid of those lupins. Just yank ’em out, with force. It’d look a lot better.
We get into town around six. When it’s a warm February night like this in Gero, you can actually smell the summer in the air. Everyone’s out on the foreshore. Kids are playing in the water park; old people are eating dinner outside at the big café on the beach; teenagers are on beach towels catching the last rays or paddling out to the pontoon.
The Mercurial Winds Hotel is a three-storey glass building slotted between the town beach and the marina. Even though we only live twenty minutes out of town, it’s cool to be away from the boring nothingness of Greenough. I kind of wish the olds weren’t here with us – they aren’t invited to Robbie and Natalie’s wedding, but they decided to have a couples weekend and get their own suite. Me and Doug are dumped in a twin room on a different floor to Mum and Dad. I’m glad about that – whether they’re fighting or fucking, I don’t wanna be anywhere near it.
Doug sniffs the fruit bowl on the table in our room. ‘Fake,’ he says. ‘Wanna watch something?’
‘Nah. Knackered,’ I say, stretching out on the bed. It’s heaps comfy. ‘Did I tell you we played footy today in PE? I kicked nine goals.’
Doug rips open a packet of salted cashews from the mini-bar and lobs a couple into his gob. ‘Fucking congratulations. Did you get it on film so you can have a wank to it later?’
‘Nine goals is a big deal.’
‘You think you’re a big deal, don’t you, Kade?’
I stare at the angry red acne on his cheeks.
‘You’re jealous, aren’t you, Pizza Face?’ I say. ‘I didn’t just get the looks. I got all the talent, too.’
‘You think you’re gonna get drafted, don’t you?’ he goes on.
‘I will,’ I say. ‘They all reckon I’m good enough.’
Doug sneers and presses a button on the remote. ‘You won’t make it to the AFL. The WAFL, maybe, if you’re lucky and everyone else is a total spud. You’re not as good as you think you are.’
I grab a fake apple from the fruit bowl and whip it at him. I throw it hard, to hurt him, but it’s too light to do much damage. Enough damage.
‘I’m gonna get drafted,’ I tell him. I remember my decision. It’s going to happen. ‘You’ll be working some dead end job as a shitkicker and you’ll tune into the TV to watch me play.’
‘You’re such a douche.’
‘Seriously. You’ll spend your whole life having people come up to you and say, “Oh, you’re Hammer’s brother, right?” And they’ll be like, “if you’re the older brother, how come he got the cool nickname and everyone just calls you Pizza Face?” Remember that, bro.’
‘I hate you, Kade.’
‘I hate you too.’
Doug turns on some old Sylvester Stallone movie and pigs out on cashews and Pringles and Fanta from the mini bar. I get under the covers and half-watch the movie, half-scroll through my phone, updating my socials. I haven’t been on Insta much lately. Last pic I put up was from the night of the Summer Dance with Piera. I study my Insta profile like a forensic investigator would hunt for clues and reach the satisfying conclusion that it looks like it belongs to a real straight guy. Pics of me with chicks – Piera, Richelle, Amber. Pics of me doing dumb shit with the boys. Pics of me getting my rig out for some shirtless shots. Those ones have the most likes.
I slip my tank top off and hold the phone camera up above my head. I snap about a dozen shirtless shots, bronzed skin against white cotton, the sheets barely covering the start of my pubes. I look fucking hot, man.
I chuck it straight online. Runnin a muck in tha hotel room yewww #highrolla #stayhumble
It gets a whole bunch of likes straight away. Amber. Piera. Lots of other girls. I’m hot. I’m what the girls want. I’m straight.
I refresh my feed. Richelle just liked the pic. Ha. I check her feed. She hasn’t followed me again, but her liking my pic is a message. Her bio says she’s single again. She’s deleted the pic with Jai from the dance. Guess they broke up. Guess he wanted the same thing I did. She wants me back, I bet. I follow her and like her latest pic, a bikini shot. She looks hot.
Sex with a chick. That’s all I want.
When I hear Doug start to snore, I automatically flick over to a new web browser on my phone and go to my favourite porn site. I stare at it emptily for a minute. It’s a gay porn site. For a moment, I’m frozen.
But I’m not going to be gay.
I go to a normal, straight porn site instead and hunt down a clip of a big-boobed blonde woman oiling herself up. I watch it for a few minutes, casually tugging at my dick until it gets hard enough, then I go at it for a minute or so and I’m done.
That wasn’t so bad. I’m already getting back to normal. I wipe myself off and turn around, my back to Doug.
A little voice in my head pipes up. Done so quick, huh? You usually like to draw it out longer, really enjoy yourself. Wasn’t it good, this time? Not so into the chicks after all?
I clench my jaw and nuzzle my head deeper into the pillow. I’m gonna get drafted.
I doze off eventually, but it’s a broken sleep. I wake up over and over again with the sickening sensation that I’m sliding off the edge of a cliff and nobody can catch me.
I wake up next morning to Doug picking up shattered Pringles from inside his crumpled bedsheets. When he’s down to just the crumbs, he licks his fingertips and presses them onto the crystals of chemically-enhanced flavouring that he spilled all over the hotel bed.
‘You know hotel sheets are basically massive cum rags, right?’ I tell him. ‘Haven’t you seen those shows where they get those blacklights?’
Doug sucks his MSG-coated finger. ‘I spilled some. No point wasting ’em.’
‘You’re a real festy fucker, Pizza Face.’
He shrugs. ‘What time’s Robbie and them getting here?’
‘Not until twelve,’ I say. ‘We’re doing a boys’ lunch.’
‘I know that. I’m invited. Counter lunch at the Freo.’
‘No you’re not. It’s Robbie and groomsmen only.’
‘Then why did he ask me as well?’
‘He said it himself?’
‘Yep.’
‘Bull.’
‘Don’t believe me. I don’t give a toss. You’ll see when I’m at the counter lunch with the rest of you. It’s the whole crew.’
‘Oh, that explains it,’ I say. ‘If it’s the whole crew, then maybe you are allowed to come. Robbie wouldn’t make an exception just for you.’
Doug doesn’t quip back. That’s when I know I’ve drawn blood. It feels good. He always thinks he knows more than me just because he’s older.
‘Few hours to kill,’ he says, flicking through a heavy plastic display folder on the bedside table. ‘They’ve got two swimming pools downstairs. Whaddaya reckon?’
My first thought? There’d be hot guys at the pool. I shake my head, clenching my teeth. Hot chicks.
‘Yeah, I could go for a few laps.’
Me and Doug get our boardies on and head down to the pool. We do bombies and splash around for a bit, just talking shit about footy. That’s the thing with me and Doug: we’ll be at each other’s throats one minute and then move on. Maybe that’s what brothers do.
My eyes are in full body scan mode, searching for hot guys in or around the pool, but it’s pretty empty. A couple of women in the shallow end, their bodies still decent but their eyes dark and haggard. And they have kids. There’s an old guy in goggles doing laps. And not like a hot daddy/bear kind of old guy. He’s like seventy or something. Gross.
A dark voice awakens. And what would you do if there was a hot guy in this pool, Hammer? You gonna swim over and seduce him with your brother watching, are you? Remember you’re straight now!
This swim was a waste of time.
‘I’m going back to the room,’ I mutter to my brother. ‘Coming?’
‘Nah, gonna do laps,’ Doug says. ‘Catchya up there.’
I drip across the tiles towards the exit, shimmying my towel around my shoulders, when I spot a flash of bright red near the fake palm trees beside the second pool. The smaller pool. I freeze, watch for movement. It appears again.
A bright red speedo, clinging to a tight, muscular butt. Hairy, sinewy legs kick effortlessly, gliding through the water. A man’s rippling back, bronzed and broad. Short blond hair.
I look back at my brother: he’s already halfway across the lap pool, back to me. And that’s all I need. My legs move of their own accord. I disappear behind the screen of fake trees and into the second pool, completely invisible to anyone at reception or the main pool.
The surface of the water breaks with a splash as the man comes up for air. Water drains from his stubbled face; he’s about thirty, muscular. I’ve never seen a straight man wear a red speedo, and definitely not one that so deliberately shows off the outskirts of his pube forest. But there aren’t gay guys like this in town, surely?
He sees me and a strange light flickers in his eyes. A row of too-white teeth emerge from behind his pale lips.
‘It’s just the right temperature,’ he calls. ‘Don’t be shy.’
His voice is strong, but it has a sly and deliberate lilt in it, and there’s no doubt about what it is. I didn’t just find a hot guy in the pool. I found a hot gay guy.
And now I’m petrified.
Red Speedo Guy stares openly at me for a good few seconds, checking out my bare chest, then turns his head and breaststrokes in the opposite direction. He has to be from out of town: no local would ever be this bold. I hesitate. Part of me wants to sprint back to my room and lock myself in. The other part wants to swim over and rip that speedo off.
Before I know what I’m doing, I put my foot in. The air around the pool is steamy, warm and thick with the chemical scent of chlorine, but the water itself is cool and just right. I chuck my towel onto a plastic sunlounge and submerge myself completely.
When I come up for air, Red Speedo Guy has swum up right next to me. His arms are spread wide against the side of the pool.
Normal human behaviour would tell me not to stare at a stranger, but we’re the only two people in this pool and this stranger obviously wants to be stared at. I feel my dick harden beneath my blue-and-white boardies. He’s the hottest guy I’ve ever seen in real life. There’s something slightly off about his face – like his eyes are too far apart – and his teeth are too white and too straight, but his body is straight out of a magazine.
His tanned face wrinkles with a smirk. ‘Nice view, isn’t it?’
My breath is coming out in short bursts. I could just about pass out. ‘Yeah. Nice view.’
He runs his fingers over his own muscled chest. Those pecs. Jesus. He must be able to see my stiffy through my shorts.
‘No need to look scared,’ he says, fingers now trailing beneath the water. He cups his package and then glances up, hazel eyes locking with mine deliberately. ‘What’s your name, kid?’
‘Kade Hammersmith.’
Idiot. Why not give him your home address and the name of your school while you’re at it?
He laughs. Stretches his arms wider. He’s a Venus Fly Trap and I’m willingly flying into his jaws.
‘Well, Kade, I’m going for a shower …’ He jerks his head toward a white door near the pool. He drips over the sunlounge and grabs his towel. At the door, he smiles at me and disappears.
My disbelief lasts about two seconds. Lust mixes with adrenaline in my bloodstream. Adrenalust. I’m running on it. I leap out of the pool and dribble my way to the showers.
The water’s already running by the time I get there. Steam gushes from the shower recess in the corner. I slink into the recess opposite.
I fling my towel on the hook and then muster the courage to look up. The red speedo dangles from a hook on the wall. The bronzed bloke stands before me in naked glory, arteries of hot, running water mingling with the bulging veins in his arms. His penis is soft and his balls are kind of shrivelled and small, almost lost in his pubes.
His teeth peek out from his lips again as he sees me. He glances at my boardies and frowns. Right. I yank them down at once, pulling my undies off in the same motion and letting them drop to the tiles in a wet heap. I’m getting hard and I can’t think clearly at all. I fumble with the tap, thinking I’d better at least look like I’m trying to have a shower, but I can barely register how to do it.
‘You need a hand, don’t you?’ the man says.
The blood has drained from my brain completely. ‘Yes, I need it.’
Without shutting his tap off, he breaches the gap between our showers and draws himself right up next to me. He’s really tall: my eyes are in line with his square jaw. My mouth is at the same height as his pecs. I can feel the heat radiating off his body.
Red Speedo Guy flips the tap and adjusts the water temperature. A powerful stream of hot water rains down on us. A puff of steam escapes into the air like breath from my overheated lungs.
‘That’s better, isn’t it?’ he says, reaching a muscled arm around my back and cradling me into him. His entire torso presses into me; I feel each of his abs.
‘How old are you?’ I ask.
He wipes the wet hair off my forehead; it’s unexpectedly rough, a working man’s hand. ‘Thirty-six. I don’t need to know how old you are,’ he adds.
He leans his head down, his stubbly cheek touching mine. I figure we’re about to kiss, but then I feel his rough hand close in over my dick. He squeezes it, harder than I usually would, and begins to tug. My arms hang limp by my side.
And then, beyond the rush of blood and steam and hot water, I hear the door creak. A burp echoes into the change room.
A burp is like a voice, or a cough: you can identify someone by it.
On instinct, I try to pull away from the man, but he’s gripping my back, pressing me close to him.
‘Hurry up, Dougie.’ Dad’s voice echoes against the tiles. ‘Christ’s sake, we told you last night we wanted to have a family brekkie, what made ya think it was okay to hoon around down here? And where’d Kade get to?’
‘He’s upstairs!’ Doug calls back. ‘Just gimme a minute, I gotta piss like a racehorse.’
My pulse thuds in my neck. Just leave, I think.
Red Speedo Guy’s grip on my shoulder has tightened. His eyes study mine. We stand there in an awkward, frozen embrace beneath the shower, waiting for Doug to finish peeing. A long, horrible minute passes. Finally, there’s a merciful flush of the urinal. Wet, heavy footsteps padding on the tiles. The creak of the door. The waft of pool chlorine.
And at last, no noise but the roar of the showers.
‘You know them,’ he says.
‘Just mates,’ I lie, pulling away from him.
‘Maybe they wanna join us?’
I shudder. ‘No way.’ I yank my sopping wet jocks and boardies up from the shower floor and hold them, a waterlogged mess in my hand.
‘Where d’you think you’re going?’ the guy asks. He tilts his head in the direction of his penis. ‘Get to work on this.’
‘Sorry, I can’t.’
I need to escape. Right now. I shrug him off and head for the door – but it starts to open again before I can reach it. Naked, I spin on my heel and lunge into a toilet cubicle, locking the door behind me.
‘Cleaner,’ a woman calls from the threshold. ‘Anybody in here?’
‘Yes,’ Red Speedo Guy calls back. ‘Buzz off,’ he mutters, lower under his breath.
I press my hands against the walls of the toilet cubicle like a mime imagining a glass prison. I try to steady myself. I feel dizzy. Airless.
The door creaks as the cleaner retreats.
But then sloppy footsteps reach the door of my cubicle.
‘Room in there for two?’ Red Speedo Guy asks.
‘No. I can’t. Sorry.’
Something slides over my foot. I glance down and see his face pressed against the gap at the bottom of the cubicle, staring up at my naked body. His chin is touching the tiles, where people’s piss must have splashed a million times over. His hands slide over my feet like sea serpents, eventually hooking onto my ankles and pulling at them like he’s trying to get me to the ground.
Heart racing, I shift onto the throne. My feet are out of his grasp now. I slide my sopping jocks and boardies around my ankles and fold my arms over my knees, like I’m just a straight guy trying to push one out, and some weirdo is trying to get into my cubicle.
‘Come on, let me in,’ he says, in that high, lilting voice. ‘Come on, Kade …’
‘You okay there, mate?’ I ask gruffly, as if we’re total strangers.
His too-wide-apart eyes stare at me a moment.
And then he laughs – not the chuckle from before, but a cackling, hyena laugh. It echoes against the tiles, against my skin.
Suddenly, his face disappears, there’s a loud BANG of his fist on the cubicle door, and he cries, ‘Cocktease!’
His wet footsteps trail off. The door creaks. He’s gone.
The cleaner calls out again. I don’t respond, so she comes in and starts clattering a mop around. I’m the world’s most undignified statue, frozen on the dunny, head between my knees in horror. I stay fixed in place until I hear the cleaner move to the showers to turn them off – both of them are still running. While she’s there, I take my chance and sprint out of the change room, bolting for the lobby.
The whole run back to the hotel room, the dark voice in the back of my head is sneering at me:
You’re not very good at being straight, are you?