‘Well, there’s something I don’t hear every day,’ Jack mutters, blinking in surprise. ‘Mate, look, I’m not perfect with this stuff,but I had a moment a coupla years ago where I lost my shit like you did now. I don’t regret it. Shit had to be said. Shit had to be done. No shame in making a mess. But you gotta clean up the mess you made, ya know? And maybe you need to talk this out with someone.’
Jack saying that is the bleakest part of my day. I don’t have anyone I can talk this out with anymore. I’ve burned my bridges with Sabrina, with the footy boys. I can’t talk to my parents about this. Curtis is my boss and I’m not sure he’d be the right person anyway. Charlie and I aren’t friends anymore. The bogan next to me is understanding but probably has the IQ of a footy himself.
And the thought of having to face any of the boys fills me with horror. I feel pathetic and mental and childish for having lost my shit in front of them. ‘I can’t do this,’ I tell Jack. ‘Footy was a mistake. I quit. I can’t come back here ever again. Sorry.’
Jack puts his hand on my knee. ‘Oi. No, mate. Don’t cut and run. I know you like this team. This isn’t the bloody end of the world. You can—’
I stand up. ‘No, I mean it. I’m done.’
I drive my Nissan home in a trance. I park in the driveway. I call an Uber.
Twenty minutes later, I’m on my back in a room at Perth Steam Works, getting spit-roasted by two guys. I spend my entire afternoon at the bathhouse. Drinking with random guys. Sitting in the spa making out. Huffing poppers and jacking off with guys in the porn room until my fingernails are blue and my nostrils are burnt. Showering between fucks and then opening my legs up all over again when a new hottie appears in front of me.
I try everything I can to forget the tyre fire my life has become, but nothing is enough.
When I get back to the house with a throbbing head and a throbbing hole, only Rex is home, smoking rollies in the courtyard with music up loud. I’m not sure he even sees me come in.
Guess everyone else started their shifts at the bar already. Probably a good thing for me and Charlie to have some space right now.
Except without Charlie, I feel so thunderously alone.
I sit in the toilet for a long time spacing out. I accidentally graze my knuckles on the wall when I reach for the toilet paper, and they start bleeding again.
I take a long shower in silence, but still feel soiled and numb. My body’s exhausted enough to sleep, but my mind is alert, still in shock at my colossal meltdown earlier.
When I flick the shower fan off and step back into the corridor, I am greeted by moans that seem way too loud. Rex must be watching porn with his volume up.
Except when I pad into the living room in my boxer shorts looking for a Gatorade, I see Rex isn’t in his room, but screwing a guy right on the dining table.
‘Jesus, Rex,’ I say.
Rex glances over his shoulder, guilty, but doesn’t stop thrusting.
‘Thought you were out, bro.’ He’s stoned. ‘You wanna split him still?’
The shock of walking in on Rexin flagrante delictois superseded by a bigger shock that the guy he’s ploughing isn’t a stranger.
Our collective nemesis, Xander Sullivan, is sprawled on his back on our wooden dining table.
Xander is completely naked, hairless legs in the air, while Rex, fully clothed in dirty hi-vis gear, is pounding him like a rockbreaker.
An alarm goes off in my head: Xander is trespassing, behind enemy lines.
I grab my Gatorade from the fridge and swig it while I get a closer look at Xander. There’s a strap on the bench beside an empty syringe, something sharp and illicit I never expected to see where Ahmed’s steaming hot oatmeal usually sits. I could be wrong, but I assume it’s meth.
‘It’s his, not mine,’ Rex grunts. ‘I don’t touch needles.’
Xander’s glassy-eyed as he stares at me. ‘Hey, you’re hot as,’ he says, panting like he’s overheating. ‘Wanna stuff me with your cock? Double team me with Daddy Rex. Make me your dirty cock slut.’
I stare at his face. This is the Xander Sullivan to whom everything sexual or masculine is offensive; the most squeaky-clean Perth gay who has ever been manufactured.
Guess I forgot nothing becomes squeaky-clean unless it’s been scrubbed so hard, over and over, that all its dirt is removed from sight.
The brighter you shine on the outside, the darker you burn within.
‘Please,’ Xander moans, grabbing the button of my pants and undoing my fly. He either doesn’t recognise me as belonging to the Tool Shed, or he doesn’t care. ‘Fuck my face. Treat me like the naughty faggot I am. Rough me up.’
I gape at him. This is so surreal. The wolf is in the shearing shed.
