Holding the Man Read online

  I looked down to see what it looked like. I could only see half my cock, the other half was inside him. I slid back and forth. It was a totally new sensation for me and seemed to be hurting John. He wanted me to stop. I withdrew, which also seemed to cause him some discomfort. We lay in each other’s arms, rubbing our cocks against each other until we both came. We fell asleep like that. I woke some time later and looked at my clock. It was nearly four.

  My sleepy-eyed boyfriend kissed me goodnight, tucked me in and waved from the door.

  I hated winter. The sun went down at four-thirty, making everything gloomy. And Noddy’s heating system never started to work until I was nearly home from uni. I was looking forward to a nice warm snooze on the couch in front of the teev. I called hello as I walked in through the kitchen door.

  ‘Could you come in here please, son?’ Oops, that doesn’t sound too good. Dad was sitting at the dining-room table. Mum got to her feet and put her hands on his shoulders. Shit, somebody has died. ‘Sit down please.’ I sat obediently.

  Dad was still in his suit. His eyes looked red. He took a deep breath, looked at Mum and then spoke in rapid-fire. ‘You and John can’t see each other anymore. His father was in my office this morning, waving a pack of letters at me and yelling at me that you had corrupted his son, a good Catholic boy, trying to make him homosexual.’

  I could feel every corpuscle coursing through my veins.

  ‘He made me read one letter. Something about putting pressure on John to have sex.’

  ‘Where the hell did he get that?’

  Mum spoke. ‘While John was staying here last night Mr Caleo went through his room. He obviously expected to find something. He accused your father of being a party to the whole thing.’

  ‘Do you understand?’ asked Dad. ‘You’re not to see each other. The man’s threatening court action.’

  ‘Who knows what he’ll do the next time,’ Mum chipped in.

  ‘Do you support him?’

  Dad’s head fell. ‘You know we’ve never been happy about this lifestyle you’ve chosen. We’ve tried to stay out of it. But this morning was the most humiliating moment of my life.’

  ‘You can’t stop us.’

  ‘Of course we can’t,’ said Mum, ‘but John won’t be staying here anymore and you won’t be invited to the Caleos’.’

  Dad added, ‘And you can’t use the phone to call him.’

  I lost it. Sometimes you smash doors and furniture. But sometimes you grit your teeth and say with quiet disgust, ‘Fucken poxy traitors, I hope you get cancer.’ Then slam the door and yell, ‘Fucken poxy cunts,’ so all the neighbours can hear. And that’s what I did.

  There I was at age eighteen, running away just like I did when I was four. No promise of an icecream was going to work this time. My hands were buzzing. I was hyperventilating. I pulled into the carpark at the top of the cliff. I started crying, the kind that starts in your feet and moves all the way through you. Even my hair was crying.

  It wasn’t that John and I would never see each other, or anything so melodramatic. I felt betrayed. Poor John. What’s he going through? I wish I believed in telepathy. I’ve got to find out.

  I knocked on the door of Tom’s room at college. He opened the door a crack, bleary-eyed, in a paisley dressing-gown. ‘Sorry, mate, but it’s an emergency. I need you to ring John for me.’ I told him what had happened.

  ‘You poor things. Let me get dressed.’ We went down the corridor to the student phone. ‘It’s Tom here. Could I speak to John?’ I could barely get my breath. It’s going okay. Everything will be all right. ‘John, it’s Tom. Tim just told me what happened. Are you okay? He wants to talk to you.’

  ‘Hi, bubby. I love you,’ I said. John started to cry. ‘Are you okay?’ I asked. ‘We’ll get through this.’ John couldn’t speak. He was choking back the tears. ‘We’ll be okay. I love you.’

  ‘Me too. I’d better go,’ he got out finally.

  I sat on the stairs with Tom next to me, his arm around me. ‘You know what pisses me off? Us being together never hurt anyone but it’s okay for that dickhead to destroy his own son.’

  I spent the night on Tom’s floor, hoping my parents might sweat it out a little. When I arrived home I walked in without a word and went to my room, where I drifted in and out of sleep. I heard the phone ring. Mum knocked on my door and came in. ‘It’s John. I’m not very happy about this. Just don’t let your father find out.’

  John was still upset but calmer than the night before. ‘Dad wants me to see a psychologist, some guy at college recommended by our parish priest. I know there’s nothing wrong with me. I’ll go to shut Dad up. I hope he won’t take Dad’s side. Can you meet me at college for lunch tomorrow?’

  Lunch was so nice. It confirmed that nothing had really changed. He still had all his limbs and his sense of humour. It was difficult not being able to show affection, especially when he looked so cute, but we managed some furtive holding of hands and rubbing of knees under the table. His appointment with the psychologist took place that afternoon.

  ‘Unbelievable,’ he reported. ‘This guy asked me all sorts of questions. How long have I had these feelings? Am I comfortable with them? How do my friends react? And then he leans back in his chair and says, “You seem well adjusted. I think your father is the one with the problem. Would you like me to speak to him?” ’

  ‘When I told Dad this he looked like he was going to burst open. “How dare he? I don’t need help. How can he call himself a Catholic?” I know it’s wrong, but I really enjoyed giving him the shits.’

  I pulled up outside Pepe’s house in Templestowe to find the front door open. She was in the galley kitchen fighting with a huge pot of macaroni.

  ‘My boy!’ I heard the husky voice of Marie behind me. She held out her arms and ash dropped from the obligatory cigarette as we hugged. ‘The whole thing is so offensive. I’ve made up the spare room. It’s only a single bed, I’m sorry.’

  I thanked her. ‘I don’t think John will be able to stay anyway.’

  When John arrived he was comforted with lots of rubbing and patting, but that was not what he wanted. We went into the yard, and out among the leaf litter and spiderwebs he pushed pebbles around with the toe of his shoe. ‘Dad and I had a really big fight.’

  ‘Does he know where you are?’

  ‘I wasn’t allowed to leave the house until I told him. I guess the more I deflected the question, the more he was convinced I was about to commit a mortal sin.’

  ‘And you are,’ I joked. John didn’t even smile. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘When I told him I was coming here he says, “But Pepe is a friend of Tim’s. So will Tim be there?” ’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘He was staring at me like he couldn’t believe … like he was really ashamed.’ John took a deep breath. ‘I just cracked. I’ve never spoken to him like this, never spoken to anyone like this. I called him an arsehole! I told him that if he can’t accept you and me, I don’t want him to be my father.’

  I took my boyfriend in my arms and hugged him. I could feel John convulsing. For a split second a wave of guilt overwhelmed me. This wouldn’t be happening if it weren’t for me. He broke away from me.

  ‘Dad said he was sorry I felt like that, that he loved me as his son, but that the Church tells him that what we are doing is wrong. It’s a sin and he can’t condone it.’

  John bent down and grabbed a handful of pebbles and lobbed them over the canopy of gum trees. He looked at me with his chocolate eyes and somewhere out of my brain fell the words, ‘Will you marry me?’

  I couldn’t tell whether he was taken aback or appalled. What a stupid thing to say. You just said it because it sounded romantic. And although we never talked about it again, in that moment I think it confirmed for him that the fight he’d just had was worth it.

  We were halfway through our beetroot soup when the phone rang. Marie answered. Her mouth opened as if she couldn’t believe wha
t she was hearing. ‘I don’t think it’s any of your business. I’d prefer that you didn’t ring here again. Goodnight.’ She hung up and growled. ‘I’m sorry, John, but your father is a very rude and irritating man. He asked me if I realised there were homosexuals at my dinner table.’

  We partied hard that night. John fell asleep in my arms as we sat on a canary-yellow beanbag. Marie stuck her head around the corner. ‘See you boys for breakfast in the morning.’

  John mumbled, ‘I don’t think I can stay, Marie.’

  ‘You must stay. You’ve done the hardest part.’

  ‘Dad’ll be waiting up.’

  ‘Serves him right, don’t you think? Eggs, bacon, muffins and great coffee.’

  ‘John doesn’t drink coffee,’ I said.

  ‘An Italian who doesn’t drink coffee!’

  ‘I’m only half Italian.’

  ‘Then half a coffee. See you at breakfast.’

  John and I made our way to bed feeling that even though we were safe in our cocoon, the world outside was a dangerous place.

  I knew there were bars for gays but John and I had never ventured into one. Lately I had started to wonder what we might be missing. One of the guys in student theatre told me about a nightclub called Bernhardt’s and wrote the address on a piece of paper. John was trying to read this as we drove down a dark lane. He spotted a semicircular facade with the name on a backlit leadlight.

  In the foyer a large effeminate man sat behind a counter. ‘Hi, boys. Five dollars, please.’ His aftershave was so strong that when his assistant lit a cigarette I imagined us being consumed by a fireball. We handed over our money and he gave us a raffle ticket. ‘Hold on to those, there’s a door prize.’ As we headed off he said, loud enough for us to hear, ‘Did you see those eyelashes? And they’re real.’

  The dancefloor took up the whole room. There were flashing lights and a mirror ball. I stood mesmerised by the sight of men dancing together, embracing and kissing. These are all gay men. I stared at a very manicured Indian boy in a suit, dripping with gold jewellery. I could have picked him. The rest looked like ordinary young men. I had the desire to run up to all of them and ask, ‘Do your parents know you’re gay? How did they take it? Tell me about your life.’ I saw a strongly built guy who looked like David Cassidy. I’d especially like to ask him. He’s beautiful. What would it be like to have sex with him? We watched the boys dancing, some delicately, some funkily, and some as if they were in Disneyland on Ice. I suggested we start talking to people.

  John turned up his nose. ‘What do we say? “We’re Tim and John and we’d like to be your friends.”? Let’s see what’s upstairs.’

  There was a café selling coffee and toasted sandwiches. We sat in a red vinyl booth. A tall blond man plonked himself down and breathed whiskey over us. ‘You boys are new here?’ He’d obviously been dancing as he was sweaty and hot. ‘Didn’t think I’d seen you. I’m sure I’d remember.’

  The waiter slunk over to us. ‘What can I get you girls?’

  ‘A hot buttered man on toast,’ said our sweaty friend.

  ‘Fresh out, lovey.’ Why do they all talk like that? It’s like the gay characters on Benny Hill.

  I wasn’t comfortable. John and I had hot chocolate and toasted cheese sandwiches while our friend rabbited on about how Babs had sold out making A Star is Born. I stood and said politely, ‘It’s been nice chatting to you but I think we’d better go.’

  John wanted to have a dance. ‘Disco Inferno’ was playing. It felt weird, even slightly daring, dancing with my boyfriend in a room full of strangers.

  But driving home in the car I felt down. I had expected good-looking masculine men to run up to us and invite us to meet their friends. Instead there were lots of guys giving each other furtive looks. I remembered what my mother had said about it being a sad lifestyle.

  As we reached John’s house, to my amazement he asked me in.

  ‘Mum and Dad don’t get back from the beach-house until Monday. You could stay if you wanted.’

  ‘What if they come home early?’

  ‘They never do. Please.’

  ‘I just hope your father hasn’t installed Tim detectors.’

  I felt as though I was about to step onto an electrified floor but when I smelt the sweet homely smell of the house, warm memories came flooding back and I relaxed a little. John and I climbed the stairs and went straight to bed, where we made love like we were reclaiming old territory.

  I found it difficult to sleep. Every time there was a noise outside I’d snap awake. I lay there with John’s arm around me, remembering the time he and I decorated his room after the renovations, choosing the colours (chocolate, beige and yellow), and painting his piggy bank gloss-yellow. Lois and I had gotten on really well. I think I was the first boy she’d met who was interested in her new kitchen curtains. I was sad that now things had broken down so badly.

  I drifted off to sleep again, but was woken by a sound. It was morning. I heard a car door slam. Another door slammed and then we heard the sliding door open and John’s mum asking Anthony to bring the blue bag inside.

  ‘Shit!’ John leapt out of bed and pulled on his tracksuit pants. He grabbed my clothes and pushed them and me into the louvred cupboard.

  I stood in the shadows among John’s coats and shirts thinking of all those cartoons with the lover hiding in the cupboard. But this was real. It’s happening. I can’t believe it. How do we get out of this? Create a diversion?

  John came back into the room and opened the cupboard. ‘I’ve told Mum you’re here. She said Dad’s on his way.’ He bustled me outside.

  Lois had parked me in. John asked her to move her car and she came out with Anthony in tow. He was obviously glad to see me. She said hello very formally. She moved her car and I made my escape, thinking how much worse it could have turned out.

  Later that night John rang. ‘Mum isn’t going to tell Dad. She feels the whole thing is absurd.’ It was nice to think that we might have an ally.

  The campus gay society, Gaysoc, met on Tuesdays in the small meeting-room of the union building. I had already walked past a few times and nonchalantly taken a squiz, which had proved a little disappointing. There had only been six or so people in there. Now I sat outside trying to get up the courage to go in.

  Before I knew it I was walking through the door, as if my body had a mind of its own. ‘Is this the Gaysoc?’

  A large guy with long curly brown hair introduced himself as Woody. I sat with my back to the door in case anyone I knew walked past. ‘We’re discussing Sexuality Week and what we want to do for it.’

  As they talked about having a same-sex couple kissing in the lift in the Menzies building I looked around the group. They couldn’t be more different from the guys I saw at Bernhardt’s. Most of them looked like hippies, in alpaca jumpers and T-shirts with political slogans on them. And there were a couple of women. I didn’t find anyone attractive except perhaps Woody. He asked for a report on Gay Blue-jeans Day.

  Lee, a small bald guy wearing a May Day T-shirt, said he needed some volunteers to screen-print posters. When I asked about the event, he said, ‘We ask everyone who’s gay to wear blue jeans. Most people wear them anyway, so everyone has to make a choice that might force them to consider their prejudices.’

  I started to feel relaxed. They seemed pretty laid-back and even happy. And it was good to meet people who were trying to do something to change the situation for gays.

  At the end of the meeting Woody came over and asked me to join them for coffee. What if someone sees me with them? But how would anyone know these people are gay? ‘Okay.’

  My eyes scoured the caf for faces I knew. No one ran from the room screaming. Four of us sat at one table, Woody next to me. He asked if I was in a relationship.

  ‘With a guy called John. We’ve been together nearly three years.’

  ‘Three years?’ Lee chipped in. ‘You must have been a baby.’

  ‘We were at school toge
ther.’

  ‘How did the other kids react?’

  ‘The guys that knew were fine about it.’

  ‘That is so sweet,’ said Woody.

  ‘It’s encouraging. It’s what we’re fighting for,’ added Lee.

  We talked about our sexuality and our families. It was weird how comfortable I felt with these guys. They were older, hipper and more politically radical, but none of that mattered. We were connected by our fight to make things better for gay men and women.

  Dear Editor,

  I am surprised by the level of anti-gay thinking on this campus. I don’t understand how people can hate gays when they are just like everyone else. My boyfriend was captain of the football team at school. He is strongly built and masculine, and if you were to meet him you wouldn’t know he was gay. He isn’t like the stereotype. We have been together for three years, which is longer than most of our straight friends’ relationships. We love each other the way most couples do. Some of you would say it’s unnatural, but so is having a haircut or driving a car. Some of you would argue it’s wrong because our sex doesn’t produce babies. Where does that leave infertile couples? I just hope that we can learn to accept each other for what we are.

  Tim

  First-year medicine

  A few days later in the community research centre, Lee sidled up to me. ‘Did you write that letter in Lot’s Wife? I thought you were doing science?’ I said I didn’t feel brave enough to sign my real name and faculty. Lee burst into laughter. ‘Fabulous, some poor first-year med student has been dragged out of the closet whether he’s gay or not.’

  ‘Was the letter okay?’

  ‘Perhaps a bit politically naïve, but your heart’s in the right place.’

  I’d been given an elephant stamp. Then I started to worry. Politically naïve? My elephant stamp was a bit smudged.

  As I sat with Woody in the caf drinking a swampwater milkshake (lime and chocolate flavouring) I was on edge, trying to formulate the question I wanted to ask. ‘You know when you’re making love –?’

  ‘Do you mean fucking?’ I was taken aback. ‘You’re talking about anal sex?’