My brain cogs whirr overtime trying to process this betrayal. The spectacular gaslighting of shaming me for liking the men I like while claiming to care about me. I have a million arguments forming in my neurons, all savage but all inarticulable in my amygdala hijack.
‘Person?’ I say. ‘A much nicer person, huh? Not “guy”?’
Sabrina goes silent.
‘Is it porn you have a problem with, Sabrina?’ I ask. ‘Or is it that I’m gay? Cos it’s feeling like you’re okay with my sexuality as long as I don’tactually have sex with men.’
Sabrina scratches her wrist. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You know I accept your sexuality.’
‘But you’d prefer it if I was one of those trad-husbands from TikTok …’ I say slowly, the penny dropping. ‘Nice white collared shirt. Baking gingerbread. Helping you decorate the house with flowers. Not putting porn on the walls of my bedroom.’
Sabrina purses her lips and I understand I’ve now hit the bullseye.
My ears start ringing. Adrenaline fills my bloodstream but, like always, I’m too much of a coward to go into fight mode. I do what I did when I was sixteen: I flee.
I turn on my heel and march into my room, leaving Sabrina by the bin, confused.
‘What are you doing?’ Sabrina calls. ‘You’re acting weird, Zeke.’
I lurch around my bedroom, head spinning, vision blurry. What am I going to do? My hands are shaking as I grab my Squirtle backpack. I grab some necessities, a change of clothes and my poster. I need to get out of here.
I emerge into the living area. ‘Look, I respect your rules, Sabrina,’ I manage, my tongue so dry it nearly sticks to the roof of my mouth. ‘Please don’t think I’m being rude. But maybe me living here isn’t the best idea anymore.’
‘What? Are you kidding me? You’removing out? Overthis?’ Sabrina stares at me like I’m the one abandoning her. ‘Zeke, I know you’re not an arsehole like Shane. Surely this isn’t a hill worth dying on?’
‘It is, actually,’ I say. ‘And I don’t think Shane is an arsehole.’
Sabrina’s face contorts, momentarily more wounded than raging. ‘I can’t believe you just said that to me.’
I waver, wanting to say so much more, but too scared to verbalise any of it.
I race out the front door, a frightened animal fleeing the predator from the past and the present, all at once.
Lost and with nowhere to go, I end up taking Jack up on his invitation for a root.
I drive to his house in the northern suburbs, where he rails me for over an hour.
Jack calls me bro. I call him boss. I submit to his muscular body as he drills me hard. The friction of our bodies – man on man, the way nature intended – generates a wave of ecstasy in our groins. Jack ejaculates deep inside me, and I jizz all over my stomach. His forehead dripping with sweat, he grins as he licks my cum out of my abdomen hair and delivers it back into my mouth with a deep, hard kiss. I swallow it.
This is how life should be, always. This moment, this fuck, is everything beautiful, everything right, everything that makes life worth living.
Jack offers me a drink after, and I accept it, mostly as I have nowhere else to go. He cracks two cans of Woodstock Bourbon and slides them into Collingwood stubby holders. I take a sip and nearly physically recoil.
‘This is rocket fuel.’
Jack smirks guiltily. ‘Ah, yeah, love me grog strong, ay,’ he says, scratching his chest. ‘Bit of an alco. Tried to get sober, didn’t take. But I used to be a real menace on the piss. I’m practically a saint now.’
I’m obsessed with his house. Jack and his boyfriend Brick are both into footy: there’s a mix of Eagles and Collingwood sports memorabilia on all the walls. Among the unopened cardboard boxes in the garage – they must’ve only recently moved in – there are gym duffel bags and boxing gloves and footy boots and work boots piled up beside an exercise bike and a weight bench. The kitchen bench is covered in so many tubs of protein and pre-workout it looks like a Supplement Mart, and the fridge is overflowing with grog. Pinned to the fridge withBrolo Earthmovingmagnets is a photo of Jack, wearing Pit Vipers, beside a young Italian woman and a curly-haired teenage boy I assume is his son. A bar runner on the bench saysJACK LIVES HEREand a Magna Doodle on the back of the door into the garage says,ME LOVE PEENUS!with a drawing of a dick and balls.
This is a man’s house. I wish I lived here.
Jack grabs a black Akubra hat and a pack of cigarettes and takes me out onto the patio.
Jack and I finally get to talk about how we’re both from Gero – he and Brick have moved to Perth temporarily, so Brick can complete his physio degree – and we suss out if we have any relatives in common. We don’t, but Jack’s family goes to the same church as mine, his friend Elena’s boyfriend Pete plays seven-aside soccer for La Fiamma with my brother Robbie, and I used to work with his sister Lucy at IGA. Gero’s that kind of town.
I ask Jack if he likes living in the city.
‘Nah, fuck the big smoke,’ he booms, ashing his cigarette. ‘Only here for Brick to do his pracs then we’re back to Gero. Bit more to do in Perth – like that Italian Festival I went to with Elena. She’s Italian too. We got wasted on free Limoncello, ha. But nah, me and Brick both love bein’ country boys. I can’t wait to move back home. You?’
