My angst came when I got outed. The whole town wanted to strip me down and make me walk barefoot down Marine Terrace, like Cersei inGame of Thrones, with some judgy old wench ringing a bell and chanting, ‘Shame, shame, shame!’
But that shame didn’t live inside me. The world projected shame onto me, and I flipped it the bird, so it never took root in me the way it did in Zeke.
I was there when Zeke’s dad hit him. Guess that messes you up.
‘… thought I was a bottom, but lately I’ve been more vers … Could I be overthinking it?’ Zeke asks.
I’ve tuned out, so I latch onto what I did hear. ‘Best not to overthink why you’re a top or a bottom or a vers or a side. Or why you’re dominant or submissive. Andneveroverthink why you like to call older dudes “Daddy”. Just let it be what it is. Enjoy it.’
‘Hmm, solid call,’ Zeke says. ‘Thanks for listening. I was rambling. I’m unsure of so much, but at least my dick knows what it likes. I know I love men because I don’t like them toplease anyone else. This one thing about me is true. I’m gay. And a big man whore.’
‘To being big man whores,’ I say, kicking his shoulder with my foot affectionately.
Zeke nudges my shoulder with his toe, too. ‘The cornerstone of our friendship,’ he says. ‘Thanks for taking me in, man.’
‘I got your back, dude,’ I assure him. ‘Night.’
‘Oh!’ Zeke says suddenly. ‘I forgot. Look what I’ve got.’
Zeke throws the covers off, turns the light on and pulls a crumpled poster from his backpack. When my eyes adjust to the light and bring the poster into focus, I straight-up belly-laugh. ‘Tom of Finland! You still have it! No way, dude.’
‘Can I put it up?’
‘Does the Pope shit in the woods?’ I say. ‘Hell yeah, put it up.’
Zeke Blu-Tacks the poster up on my wall.
I get up and do the old ritual like it’s my religion. ‘Goodnight, Tom,’ I say, touching the image of the hot muscle-man three-way. ‘Patron saint of man whores.’
We all promise Zeke we’ll help him house-hunt, but none of us have time in the week leading up to the Tool Shed’s grand opening. The week becomes a blur of rushing between the house and the bar. All frantic texts and phone calls; jumping in cars to pick up gear; joining Curtis to interview two extra bar staff, Vince and Noah. It’s not until right before a big event that you realise nothing is as organised as you thought it was.
Zeke comes in handy: Curtis wants help with marketing support and covering the bar during busy times. Zeke’s chuffed to take on duties half-related to his marketing major, even if it’s event management and writing web copy and creating social media tiles on Canva: he has this spring in his step. That spring disappears when he has to learn bar duties. Vince and I teachhim how to pour a pint, but he’s so nervous about spilling beer, he keeps screwing it up.
Our fearless leader Curtis is stressed all week, but remains efficient and laser-focused. Ahmed, on the other hand, goes into a spiral any time something goes wrong, like the DJ cancelling due to illness, or one of the dunnies not flushing. Ahmed is capable of sorting anything, but he always goes through five stages of hysteria first.
On Tuesday, as the sun sets, all four of us are knackered from a long ten-hour day. We sit along the front bar, facing onto William Street. There was a bar in Sydney that did this and Curtis wanted to bring that feel to Perth: so guys can gawk at hot blokes passing on the street, and vice versa. It’s cruisy and old school but not R-rated.
I bring everyone a drink. Curtis asks Zeke for an update on the VIPs. I sip at my Heineken as the sun dips behind the highrise DoubleTree Northbridge hotel, AKA the Homo Hilton (it’s opposite Connections and the go-to for Pride-Week orgies). The sky smoulders into peach fuzz. The end-of-work crowds rush to multi-storey carparks while the weeknight pub crowds flock in the opposite direction.
‘What about press?’ Curtis probes, sipping his old-fashioned. ‘Damn, that’s good.’
Zeke rattles off a list of media outlets who are sending reporters.
‘And community?’ Curtis adds.
‘Heaps of support,’ Zeke says. ‘Bears Perth are coming in a big group.’
‘Mmm, bears coming in a big group, huh?’ Ahmed says in a slutty voice that rivals peak Blanche Devereaux. ‘I do love hairy men.’
‘Tell them if they want us to be their home for their den nights, we’d be honoured,’ Curtis says, the vein in his forehead pulsing slightly less.
‘The circuit party guys are coming too – the Poof Woof guys, the Lumberjack Social team. The sports teams. The rugby team, the hockey team … there’s even a footy team now and I know the guy who runs it: he’s bringing a bunch.’
‘Excellent,’ Curtis says.
‘Plus reps from the WA AIDS Council, GRAI, a few other groups. Transfolk are sending a guy called Lance. We had a nice email from a Vietnam War veteran who’s in his seventies and in a wheelchair and wanted to tell you how happy he is the bar is accessible.’
‘I’ll keep an eye out for him,’ Curtis says. ‘None of the veterans from that dog of a war got treated the way they shoulda been.’
