Holding the Man Read online

  We had arranged to meet at the main entrance at the end of the day. He was already there, leaning against a wall and looking vulnerable, his hair still wet from the shower. I wanted to throw my arms around him and tell him how proud I was, but I knew there wouldn’t be much chance here. ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Third.’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t believe it. Can we go for a walk?’

  Olympic Park was set among rolling lawns and large ornamental trees. We wandered over into Kings Domain. We spoke hardly a word. There was some other language passing between us.

  We came across a gully rich in ferns and sat on a bench overlooking a small waterfall. John put his hand on mine. Suddenly we were locked at the mouth, two schoolboys in uniform pashing on a park bench. Our fever was broken by a couple walking hand in hand. The man cleared his throat and gave us a warning look.

  We went looking for somewhere more private, where we could be schoolboy lovers. Nowhere seemed secluded enough. We ended up in the doorway of the fire escape of Allen’s Sweets. I had spent many hours at Flinders Street Station, looking across the river to Allen’s and its large fireworks neon. Now it was providing refuge for John and me.

  We stood against the door, kissing freely, holding each other, hugging, pressing against each other, breathing the intoxicating smell of warm wool. Pepe was right, you can tell when a boy has an erection.

  John came up for air. ‘It’s getting late. Mum’ll start worrying.’

  We said our goodbyes. From the platform I could see the neon trail of fireworks curving up into the sky, exploding and twinkling as it descended back to earth. My boyfriend and I were just there.

  Chapter FOUR

  Desire

  My boyfriend and I were on a date. We watched Woody Allen chew himself up with guilt, but our desire to touch each other overrode what was happening on the screen. I realised if I folded my arms and leant on the armrest between us I could touch his upper arm. I stroked him gently for some time. His hand reached out and took mine. There we were, in a theatre full of people, holding hands – sort of – pretending to watch the film.

  As I walked him to the station John said, ‘I wish we could hold hands properly.’

  The weight of what he said sank in. ‘Maybe one day, when things change.’

  The boom-gates started to ring and the train tooted somewhere down the track. ‘I’ll catch the train after this one,’ said John. ‘I don’t want to go just yet.’ We crossed the road and walked along the cliff-top, looking at the grey sea. ‘Is there somewhere we can hug?’

  We found the shelter-shed in the park. ‘This corner over here is pretty secluded,’ John said. My boyfriend’s big brown eyes were calling me over. I sat next to him. He took my hand and we sat there, drinking each other in. I desperately wanted to hug him and tell him I loved him but instead I said, ‘I can’t believe this.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This. I’ve liked you for ages and here I am sitting with you holding hands. I would never have thought it could happen.’ John leant over and kissed me lightly on the lips. He then lay back and pulled me down onto him. We kissed and held each other with no concern that we might be sprung.

  My erection was getting caught up. I leant on one elbow and rearranged myself. ‘I’m so turned on I’ll have to go straight home and pull myself.’

  ‘You don’t do that, do you?’ Is he joking? I don’t think he is. ‘I don’t think it’s good for you. Why do you need to do it?’

  ‘It’s fun.’

  ‘Why don’t you see if you can stop?’

  I was so rapt in this guy I would have done anything for him, even stop wanking if that’s what he wanted. But God alone knew how. I was ready to blow in my jocks then and there.

  I could never be a Buddhist monk. The very act of denying myself something makes the desire for it unbearable. Now every night in bed was a challenge. I’d lie there with a raging hard-on, wondering if pulling myself might jinx things between us.

  A new Cleo arrived. I’ll take this to bed but I won’t look at the centrefold. Nine days since my last pull and I’ve lasted this long. I can be adult about this. I don’t need to look at the centrefold, so it’s okay if I do. I was greeted by pictures of The Daly Wilson Big Band. Most of them were overweight but there were some very erotic younger men. That guy holding the saxophone is gorgeous.

  I turned onto my stomach, kidding myself that it was just to make myself more comfortable, but my erection brushed against the bed and I ejaculated into the front of my pyjama pants. The afterglow of the orgasm lasted about three seconds and was replaced by a much bigger sense of failure. I’m sorry, John.

  We were standing on the verandah of the chapel after First Friday Mass when we saw a flashy red MGB with its top down making its way round the playing fields towards the main steps. The driver hopped out of the car, put his cigarette out in the gravel and headed towards us. He was a handsome dark man wearing the black trousers and shirt of a Jesuit. He took off his Pierre Cardin sunglasses and asked directions to Father Brennan’s office. We stood staring, our jaws hanging in amazement. ‘He’s a Jack.’ He had a little crucifix on his collar.

  ‘What about the car? And the sunglasses?’

  ‘Maybe the Jacks have worked out this is the seventies.’

  That day he was introduced as our new housemaster, Brenton Lewis. Offered the chance to speak he said he’d rather answer questions. We were a little hesitant at first but he took our enquiries well. Brenton was born in Rhodesia to Greek parents, had grown up in Perth and spent some time living in San Francisco, in Haight-Ashbury. He had been engaged to be married when he received his vocation. He chose the Jesuits because he believed it was important to feed the mind as well as the soul, and because they tended to be more radical. He was doing his PhD in behavioural science.

  He was calm and collected, like a pop star at a press conference. He seems really nice. I’d like to know him better. I introduced myself at break, boldly asking him how the MG fitted in with his vow of poverty.

  ‘It probably doesn’t, but it was a gift. There are lots of things about me that don’t fit.’

  ‘Yeah. A bit groovier than most of the Jacks.’ I nudged him.

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment. Have you got a few minutes?’ We went into his office. He wanted to know a lot. Which staff members did I like? Were there any that he should be wary of? Who was top dog in the playground? I grilled him about Haight-Ashbury, the hippies, the artists and the gays. Did he live in a commune? Then the bell went. I was due in chemistry class.

  ‘Do you want to go? If you want to stay I can write you a note.’

  I had more questions. ‘Do you think being gay is a sin?’

  ‘I can’t imagine that God would have a problem with two people loving each other. Why? Do you think you might be gay?’

  ‘I know I am.’

  He seemed slightly taken aback by my certainty. ‘Do you have a friend?’ I smiled and nodded. ‘Another Xavier boy?’ I didn’t want to give away too much. ‘Well, if it is respectful I wish you all the best.’

  Brenton lit a cigarette. I remembered the undertaking that John had got from me. ‘Your vow of chastity, does that mean no masturbation?’

  ‘For me it does.’

  ‘So you don’t masturbate?’

  ‘Haven’t for more than three years.’

  ‘Wow. I can’t imagine that.’ It was comforting to know that there was a kindred spirit among the staff.

  We were meeting the gang for dinner at Lebanese House. John rang and asked me to arrive half an hour before the others. He wants to talk. About what? He wants to adopt children? What? My God, he wants to break it off!

  My heart was in my mouth. My guts were going through their own personal snuff movie. As I turned into Russell Street he was leaning against the front of the restaurant with his hands behind his back. He wore Bogart jeans (very trendy), a pressed short-sleeve shirt and a bow-tie. His hair was immaculate. He looked like a little boy w
hose mum had dressed him up for Sunday School. Jesus, what do I look like? Why the hell am I wearing my surf shirt? I should have worn my green windcheater. Relax. Walk slowly. Cool. Masculine. Act like nothing’s wrong.

  I copped a full flash of those chocolate eyes. He smiled, a warm welcoming smile. Or was it the smile of an executioner? He reached out and brushed my elbow. We started walking.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ I asked. He looked at me quizzically. ‘Why did you want me to come early?’

  He shrugged. ‘How was your day?’

  ‘Nice weather we’re having,’ I riposted with sarcasm. Oops. ‘Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.’

  ‘Tim, relax.’ Relax! Yes, relax. What do people see when John and I are together? Do we look like homosexuals? Can they see that we’re together? That we’re breaking up?

  His hand brushed against mine. It was a bolt of electricity tearing up my arm. God, it would be nice to walk hand in hand.

  ‘You said you wanted to talk,’ I ventured.

  ‘I wanted some time to ourselves. You guys are going to be talking about film and art and stuff.’

  Our hands brushed again and his little finger hooked mine, but I wanted people to know we were in love so I took his whole hand. He turned sharply down an alley and we found ourselves against a wall. He looked around. ‘Not here, we can be seen.’ Another sharp turn down another alley. He took both my hands and leant against a large green roller-door. We were standing holding hands, looking. I think this was the first time that we had ever really looked at each other. Boys do not look at each other like that.

  I reached out and touched his hair. He turned and kissed my hand. I moved closer until we were standing against each other. He smelt like soap and clean clothes. Gentle. Just holding and kissing gently. Little angel kisses.

  If this had been it, if I had died then, I would have said it was enough.

  My hand was cupped around his balls. They were made for each other, my hand and his crutch. I undid the button of his jeans and unzipped his fly. My hand was on a mission. His jocks had little octopuses and men in diving-suits on them. Cute. But through the deep-sea scene I could see what I was looking for, hard and standing to attention.

  He pulled away suddenly and did his jeans up. ‘We should get back, the others will be waiting.’ I’ve freaked him out. Why the fuck did I do that? As we walked out of the alley and into Russell Street I looked back to where we had been. It looked familiar. I had seen it before. Then it dawned on me. The building at the start of Homicide.

  ‘John, look where we were.’

  His jaw dropped. ‘Russell Street Police Station!’

  I pissed myself laughing but he didn’t seem very impressed.

  Dear John,

  It’s 4:30 in the morning and I can’t sleep. I’m confused about what happened tonight. I think I went too far too soon when I undid your jeans. All I can say is I’m sorry. I don’t want to put pressure on you to have sex or anything like that, especially if you don’t feel ready. I love you and if all we ever do is hug, that is enough for me. When I give you this letter, I won’t say anything. When you are ready, talk to me.

  Yours sincerely,

  Tim

  I gave him the letter just before chemistry. Biscuit snatched it. ‘What’s this? A love letter?’

  ‘Give it back,’ I barked, snatching the letter. I calmly gave it to John, who looked stunned.

  He sat at the lab bench in front of mine. I saw him read the letter and put it in his pocket. Sometime later – it felt like an eternity – he turned and smiled. He mouthed, ‘Everything’s all right.’

  Birthdays are minefields. There is nothing scarier than expectant eyes watching as you unwrap the plastic lobster or the nylon denim-look jacket. But this year my family did pretty well. Mum and Dad gave me a large box wrapped in the paper from Dad’s birthday a month before. It was a clock radio. ‘It’s got a snooze button, so your mother won’t be calling you sixty times a morning.’ Next was a present from Anna and Nick, the new John Lennon album Walls and Bridges.

  ‘I played it last night. It’s really good,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Let’s hope you didn’t scratch it.’

  I’d never received a present from John so I didn’t know his taste. This would be a test of how well he knew me. My beautiful boyfriend with the big eyelashes was leaning against the wall. He held what looked like an album wrapped in black glossy paper and red ribbon. ‘Essendon colours,’ I laughed.

  ‘Of course. Only the best for my Tim.’

  The card said, ‘No longer sweet sixteen, hope the next seventeen are as much fun. I love you, John.’ The present was Let’s Stick Together by Bryan Ferry. Success, he does know my taste. ‘I like the song a lot.’

  ‘He’s really good-looking. I saw him on Countdown the other night and I felt all … I don’t know, sweaty. Oh. One last present.’

  He handed me a small enamelled Snoopy in psychedelic blue swirls. I’ll have to wear it or he’ll be hurt. Maybe it could accidentally fall over a cliff. ‘It’s cute, thanks.’

  We stood gazing at each other. He looked around and, seeing the coast was clear, kissed me gently on the lips.

  The bell went and we headed off to geography. I suddenly thought of something. ‘Father Wallbridge is organising a retreat at Barwon Heads. I reckon it’d be great if we both went.’

  In the off-season Barwon Heads is a ghost town. But the house where we were holding our religious retreat was abuzz with boys in their civvies claiming beds and eating Twisties. By the time John and I arrived all the good beds had gone. We ended up in the dorm, a large rumpus-room lined with bunks. At least we were in the same room.

  In the afternoon a barbecue was organised: rissoles and salad, with Sergeant Pepper’s on the cassette player. This was followed by a class in Buddhist meditation, and then Father Wallbridge on helping a friend in need. ‘Little Johnny has been depressed of late, he’s feeling listless, failing his schoolwork; he’s masturbating every day …’ How disgusting, call the police.

  We sat around in our pyjamas in the dorm. Biscuit and Joe-the-brainiac leaned against my bed playing Snap. The others were asleep. John and I were lying head to toe on my bed. It was nice to be close to him like this. I could feel the warmth radiating from him. John took hold of my feet, held them close to his cheeks and started to kiss them gently.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I whispered, alarmed.

  ‘I don’t know. I just want to.’

  My feet were alive with his soft stroking and gentle kissing. ‘You’d better stop, I’m cracking a fat.’

  ‘Good, so am I,’ John said seductively.

  ‘What are you two up to? A bit of a foot fetish, John?’ Joe was watching us. He suggested that we all sleep on the floor. John and I could lie together without looking sus, so we agreed. As we hauled the mattresses off the beds, Biscuit winked. ‘Never know what might happen.’

  Among the mattresses, pillows, and throw-cushions, we lay like a sheik’s wives in a harem. In the darkness Biscuit and Joe whispered and giggled. John and I were nuzzling noses. He smelt sweet.

  Lips caressing lips. Exploring. Our lips slightly parted, exchanging breath. Hands slipping into each other’s sleeping-bags. His warm body in cotton PJs. Running my hand up his spine, feeling the muscles in his back. His hand going in under my pyjama shirt. Skin of his hand against the skin of my back. My hand slipped into his pants and stroked his downy bum, pulling his hips closer to mine. I wanted to reach around to the front and hold his sex but was scared that it might spin him out. I moved my hand to his stomach and slowly worked it down to play with his bush of pubes, occasionally brushing his erection.

  His eyes were shut and his breathing was getting faster. I took hold of his cock in one hand and his cool balls in the other. He started to groan gently in my ear. He was coming in my hand.

  He took my cock and held it against his body, undoing his pyjamas. I pumped it against his belly until I came on his stomach. John touched my semen. ‘
Wow.’ He smeared it over his chest and stomach. ‘Can you touch me again?’

  I took hold of his cock, which was still hard. He started pumping my hand until his body arched and he came again. Still puffing, he hugged me and whispered, ‘I love you.’

  We drifted off to sleep, deep, blissful, complete. Through the night we would wake and start kissing, fondling, tugging and coming again. We were two suns, exchanging atmospheres, drawn into each other, spiralling into one another.

  I woke in a patch of early morning sun. In front of me was the angelic face of John asleep, almost smiling, his eyelashes against his cheeks. My boyfriend. And last night we made love for the first time.

  Everyone else had left the room. I was content to lie there looking at John, but he woke, his eyes opening suddenly as if he knew I was watching him. He stretched. ‘I feel exhausted, like I’ve played a grand final.’ He gently kissed me. We lay there, caressing.

  Suddenly Father Wallbridge walked in. He mumbled good morning, crossed the room and went out through the sliding glass doors. We looked at each other, wide-eyed. ‘He was more embarrassed than us.’ We burst into laughter.

  Father Bradford was talking about the disturbance of the natural order in Macbeth. John and I were rubbing our knees together, caressing each other in long gentle strokes that became slower and more sensual. I wrote, ‘I’m getting turned on.’

  John whispered, ‘Better check that.’ His hand slid across the seat and up my thigh. He reached into my pocket. I nearly gasped. Part of me was shocked, but the other part of me wanted to see how far we could get. John was holding my hard-on in a class of twenty boys and I had no sense of time or place.

  Father Bradford was speaking to me. John’s hand shot out of my pocket. What did he see?

  ‘Sorry, Father, I didn’t hear the question.’

  ‘What event sets the world on its ear?’