The Street (part 1)

There's a number of totally fucked things about Oxford Street. For starters, its the gay mecca of Sydney, so you know there's bound to be sex and drugs. But, here you couldn't walk 30 seconds without passing a peepshow, an "adult bookstore", a fetish shop, or a thinly-disguised whorehouse. Reminds me a bit of New York. The place is simply dripping with bizarre, but I couldn't leave without soaking it all in.

Now, I'll tell you straight up that I generally make a rule of never meeting people online. Its weird, its pathetic, its potentially dangerous, and my dad does it. But for Sydney, I had to make an exception. It just seemed like a bad idea to go clubbing here totally alone. At best I'd be bored, and at worst I'd be drugged, robbed, and raped. So I went on an Australian gay chatroom, and after much sifting, managed to find someone who didnt ask me my cock size before saying hello. He was new to Sydney himself, but he offered to be my drinking buddy if I needed it.

However, I beat him to the punch. Mid-way through the week, after 2/3 of my friends had gone on to New Zealand, the leftover decided he wanted to go clubbing. Feeling a bit sadistic, I lead the way, ending up at a place called Stonewall. All the queers reading this blog should know the significance of that name, but long story short, its a gay bar. A very gay bar.

Before it had time to sink in, I struck up a conversation with the oldest man I could find, and dragged my friend in. This man was eerily similar to the Crocodile Dundee-lookalike assailing me and Chris back in Brisbane. Old Gay Australian must be a new genre of fag.

After a bit, I relieved him of his torture, and we left, but not before I was invited by a total stranger I bumped into to his 3am pool party. Was he inviting everyone at the bar, or just the young naive tourists? Not surprisingly, this set the tone for the rest of my weekend.

I didnt realize at the time, but I had given my friend a mild dose. I would come back to be scared myself.

On Friday, I texted my new clubbing buddy, and we agreed to meet back at Stonewall, the only gay bar I know for a fact has no cover charge. I knew something was wrong when he texted me back saying he'd wait outside because of the drag queens.

I still dont see the appeal of drag queens in gay culture. But I suspect its because of two reasons. One, gays love divas, which are by default girls, and guys cant be girls without surgery, which some drag queens opt to get anyway. I dont understand the diva obsession, but that's a question for another time. However, I think more importantly, gays know they've been marginalized for being 'deviant', so they want to rub it in the heteros' faces by being ridiculously deviant. This might explain why most drag queens are hideous or frightening.

At Stonewall, I also got to meet his fag hag, who seemed like a genuinely nice girl, and another gay friend of his, who also seemed genuinely nice, but always danced like a Madonna backup boy and always wore a "Fuck me, I'm Irish!" look on his face. Tempting offer though. Eventually, we bid them adieu, and made our way alone to Arq, Sydney's answer to Brisbane's The Family.

This was not a chatting venue. The music was loud, the lights were distracting strobes, and the boys where pushy. So chat we didnt, instead opting to dance. I actually cant dance, and he's a professional dancer, so I felt twice as awkward as usual. But he didnt seem to mind.

Still, something seemed odd about the way he danced. Something showy. But I didnt mind when he was grinding up against me. I tried desperately to not throw a bone, but I'm pretty sure I failed miserably. He didnt seem to mind.

The boy really was a tease. He'd whisper to me, his lips grazing my ears, whip my face with his hair, or hold my head like he was about to kiss me, then just say something. I'm not entirely sure even now if he knew that I spent the entire time thinking "Just kiss me, you dumb shit!" It took the longest most agonizing while, but I eventually managed to get him from tease to intimate, and we started making out on the dance floor. Success!

He told me he had to catch his bus, but that didnt stop him from leading me over to the back corner couch and making out, groping, slipping hands in pants, ect, for over an hour. But, we cant exactly go all the way in on a club couch, can we? Bathroom? Too scuzzy. My hostel? 5 roommates. His place? His parents. A sex motel? Yeah, no. Eventually, he really had to catch his bus, since he had an audition the next day, and I walked home excited for the rest of the weekend, but blueballed beyond all recognition. It actually hurt to walk.

Still, there was an element of weirdness. He shares my father's name. Seriously, try making out with someone with your father or mother's name and having to say it in the moment. So fucking weird. But not as weird as what would come next.