Chalk It Up To Coincidence

I was still pissed from Sunday. Seething from the chapstick outburst. But I didn’t have an outlet short of violence or outing myself to the entire college. So I just boiled silently.

Needing a place to vent, I went back to the Queer Room at the Student Union. My home school has something like that, but no one ever uses it. This one is actually popular, and where I met the guys I went clubbing with. I sat and talked. But halfway through my story, a new face popped in, a rather handsome one. Just for a brief moment, looking for someone. I decided this would be how I pass my evening.

Turns out, the boy is from Sydney, and this is his last day up here. He’s also part of some weird national coalition of queer rooms, and is came to critique UQ. Cute, well-traveled, and on a time limit. I love a challenge.

Except, there’s another layer of complication. He’s organizing a guerilla chalking expedition for his last night. This would involve running all over campus, writing gay things on the sidewalk. That’s pretty damn public, just short of announcing it on loudspeaker during assembly. But I committed myself to trying to get laid, so chalk I must.

We start at the bus stop, but I quickly develop writer’s block. They’re already starting to race ahead. So I try a little math:

“Your bus holds about 50 people. You’re probably standing next to a queer.” Or maybe just “Homo On Board.”

The dam broken, I quickly catch up. Scribbling across the Great Court, the Student Union, the parking lot, we spread around. Subtle messages, word puns, and occasionally something more graphic. The pedestrian figure painted on the ground is suddenly going doggy-style with a chalk man. But this isn’t activism anymore, this is just fucking around. The university can suck it.

It’s surprisingly exhilarating. It’s actually empowering. My rage at the day before is melting away onto the sidewalk. People are coming and staring, and I couldn’t care less. Until she comes.

One of the other Americans is coming back from watching an intramural basketball game. The girl comes up to me, asks me what we’re doing. I answer honestly, since she already knows all about me. Confused as hell, she begins to walk away, but not before giving me forewarning: The St. John’s College basketball team is only a few minutes behind her.

Against my will, I become nervous. I have yet to hear anything positive come out of my college’s mouth (except my very open neighbor), and all of a sudden, I don’t want to be caught here.

The Sydney boy must pick up on my sudden fear, and asks me what’s wrong. I tell him, so he tells me to go home. Somewhat taken aback, I tell him “Fuck you.” So he explains, somewhat gentler. “If you’re uncomfortable, or afraid of being caught, we won’t make you stay. Don’t do anything you don’t feel ready for, or will regret later. They’re coming, so you better hurry.”

But I can’t. I’m invested. Not in getting laid, but (ok, yes in getting laid, but additionally) in making a statement. They can come, but I won’t lie.

They walk by, chatting with each other. Not really paying our group much attention. But they look up and read what we write as they walk. Just by coincidence, I had my back to them at the time. I can’t say I wasn’t pleased, but it wasn’t intentional either. As they walk on past, I go back to talk with Sydney Boy. But I made the mistake of looking at the team. One suddenly turns and looks over his shoulder. It’s the college student president. We make the briefest eye contact before I turn away.

Am I busted? Will I wake up tomorrow with a swastika painted on my door? Right now, I couldn’t care less.

The night over, we go our separate ways. I follow Sydney Boy to his car, and put my cards on the table. “You know, I owe you. The only reason I went chalking in the first place was because I thought you were cute.” He stands there for a moment, seemingly mentally debating with himself. “I told my friend who I hadn’t seen my whole time here that I’d go to his party before I go.”

Well, so much for my mission.

The next morning (as in, I wake up at 4pm), I set out to go jot down the better slogans. They’re all smeared or gone. The ground is wet. One of our other guerilla chalkers spots me, and comes trudging up. “An obscure school rule, you can’t chalk in the Great Court. It got washed away, and we got fined $1000 dollars. Though, how that spread to the bus stop and café is a mystery to me.”

Of course, I could see not everything was gone. Advertisements for last weekend’s Soiree party remained. Hell, I even spotted a chalked sign for the Cromwell Bunker party of three weeks ago. No, this was targeted erasure. The chalking wasn’t just for nothing. It was for a steep fine and a subtle admission of the university’s homophobia.

But speaking of subtle, they did leave one of my slogans. Something your average hetero won’t catch, but hopefully gives all the little gay boys a little hope they aren’t alone.

“Liza or Judy?”

Oh, and try as they might, they were never fully erase the pedestrian sign having buttsex.