I knock back the vodka, check my bedroom door is locked seven times (once bitten, twice shy) then knock one out to a porno of two bodybuilders muscle-worshipping each other in a locker room. I fantasise one is Jack, and the other is me, if I could ever get my shit together and get ripped.
The thought excites me until I cum, and lingers like sad smoke after fireworks. I’ll never be that guy. I’ve tried diets and Lite n’ Easy and HelloFresh and always end up binge-eating. I’ve never had the guts to go to a gym or play sport. The only exercise I get is sex. I’m destined to be a fat fuck forever.
I order a pizza to be delivered, then flick open Grindr. There’s a message from Jack:
Cheers for the heads up Zeke – changed my bet to Hawks. Port getting flogged.
I smile, despite the gnawing sense of fraudulence in my stomach, and type back.
Footy Yoda got it right ;)
Jack fire-reacts to my message. Aren’t fire-reacts for when a pic is hot? Not just for acknowledgement? Jack’s a bit of a loose unit.
U watchin the game?he asks.I’m out at the Perth Italian Festival but keeping an eye on the score on the app haha.
It should be easier to lie to someone when they can’t see you. I start to reply, but Catholic guilt yanks me back. I stopped believing in organised religion when I came out, but those priests give you a morality hangover for life. I struggle to ever outright lie. I still feel like I need to say ten Hail Marys as penance for giving that grad a fake rego code today.
‘Easy solution,’ I tell myself.
I turn my bedroom TV on and find 7Mate. The sound of sport blares – a roaring crowd, the thump of the Sherrin on a boot, two commentators arguing about a high tackle.
A panic of electricity darts through me at the thought of Sabrina catching me watching footy. I feel as frightened as when I was a teenager, scared my family would catch me watching porn. I don’t know why.
I mute the TV. Phew.
I watch the game unfold silently, then tap back, entirely honestly:Yeah watching atm. Port goalless and first quarter’s nearly over. Good thing we tipped Hawks.
‘Who do you think you are?’ I demand of myself.
Jack and I message back and forth about the footy. I don’t know if this is how he flirts, or if we’re just being mates. Either way, I’m out of my depth and running out of things to say about players. I unmute the TV, put the volume on low so I can hear the commentators, then send versions of their comments back to Jack, passing them off as my own observations.
I eventually find myself bragging that I went to high school with Kade Hammersmith.
Jack replies:Piss off. I’m a Gero boy too.
Jesus, small world. I thought his accent was a bit too ocker for a city boy.
Before I can ask more about Gero, Jack adds:Was Hammersmith as much of a cocky cunt at high school as he is now? I can’t fucken stand him ay.
I’d love to let him know the lurid details: that Hammer fucked my arse, the hottest moment of my life, and I still think about it when I masturbate. But I don’t, of course.
Eventually, Jack has to go. He promises to send details of his footy team’s training. I tell him I can’t wait, then bite my hand so hard it hurts.What am I doing?!
After Jack goes, I keep watching the game. The players are hot, no bones about it, but that’s all I know of them. If I forget that my nerd identity was baked into my skin back in primary school, it’s embarrassing to know nothing about my national sport, isn’t it? Like, why don’t I? Do I hate footy, in my DNA? Or did the bullies just put me off it for life?
My phone vibrates. A text from a name that hasn’t appeared on my phone in years.
Charlie Roth.
Hey man, cool to reconnect the other day. I’m at The Court tonight, you out?
Urgh. I’d rather get dry-fucked with a cactus than go to a gay bar. Forgive me my sacrilege, but I can’t stand the scene. It’s always made me feel shit about myself. For being chunky. For not being able to dance. For not being gay enough. I’m hardly super masc, but I’m not camp and I don’t keep up with the music, the TV shows, the influencers, the fashion, the trends. Nothing makes the gays more waspish towards you than not being gay enough and being perfectly content not to change that.
I reply.You too man. Glad we can talk again. No, quiet one tonight – have a drink for me, though!
Charlie comes back with:All g. Enjoy ur nite. I’ll send deets for our bar launch next Fri. It’s called THE TOOL SHED. It’s so slutty I love it. Peace out, dude.
I write back:Sounds seedy. Count me in!And the peace sign emoji.
