Chapter 8 #2
‘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 to please 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 teach him 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.’
‘And the lesbians from the roller derby club said they’re fine with us opening a men’s-only bar but they’ll be, uh, sending us a cake … shaped like a … you know …’
Ahmed spits his pina colada out. ‘Ew. They didn’t. They didn’t.’
Curtis stares into his whiskey glass with a look of frozen horror. ‘Shaped like a what?’
Zeke’s cheeks blink scarlet. ‘Shaped like a pussy,’ he confirms. ‘They’re sending us a vagina cake.’
We all lose it laughing.
‘As long as I don’t have to eat it!’ Curtis wheezes. ‘But what about the biggest influencer we were promised? This Xander Sullivan?’
‘He didn’t confirm, but said he’d do his best to make an appearance,’ Zeke reports.
‘Weird, since he made such a fuss about getting an invite,’ I remark.
‘When you’re famous, it’s not easy to say yes to everything,’ Ahmed points out crisply. Because of his modelling career – mostly past tense – he thinks of himself as a D-list celebrity, when he’s actually dropped off even the Z-list at this point.
‘Well, I hope he comes,’ Curtis says, draining his glass. ‘A positive endorsement from him would be a game-changer.’
Wednesday night is the Tool Shed’s soft opening.
We get a decent trickle of guys, with a third of the booths filled and patrons perched on the perve stools along the front. Me and Ahmed work the bar and there’s mostly easy orders, although it’s frustrating seeing guys’ faces drop if we don’t stock their favourite drink.
Curtis anticipated we might have awkward conversations with women or straight guys showing up, but the signs out front seem to work.
One is a humourless, laminated sign stating the bar is male-only with government approval.
The other is a painted mural on the front wall, depicting a muscular, shirtless tradie wearing a tool belt and nothing else, flexing and winking.
We figured it was so gaudily homoerotic it would repel any straighties.
Something that doesn’t get immediate traction is our cruising lounge. A few guys sit there for a drink, but none seem to know it’s designed for hunting on Grindr.
When it gets quieter, Curtis sends Zeke to plug his phone in and scroll the apps to show what the space is meant for. When I go for a toilet break, I walk past Zeke making a point of holding his phone out almost comically obviously, the Grindr screen clearly visible.
‘Get back to work, you horny little seed,’ I jeer at him.
Zeke’s face goes pink. It’s so funny how easy it is to embarrass him.
On my way back from the dunnies, I slide onto the sofa next to him. ‘Is this idea going down like a lead balloon or what? We thought it’d be sick.’
Zeke shrugs. ‘Personally, I think it’s great. Surfing Grindr with a full phone battery and a drink in hand. Nobody knows about it yet. Once word gets out, it’ll work.’
‘Hope so,’ I mutter. ‘I’m so sick of things not working.’
‘I did notice the nearest profile was yours,’ Zeke says. ‘D’you want me to block you?’
‘Why would I care if you see my Grindr profile?’ I say. ‘Just don’t tap me. Or send me hairy Zekey nudes. I think we’ve established you’re not my type.’
Zeke nods. ‘We’re on the same page.’ He pauses too long; it turns into a silence.
‘What?’ I ask. ‘What were you gonna say?’
Zeke shakes his head. ‘Totally inappropriate, sorry. Never mind.’
‘Charlie, are you due back on shift?’ Ahmed calls from the bar in a tone that says he knows full well I am.
I leave Zeke, but spend the rest of my shift wondering what he was going to say.
When we get home, near midnight, Zeke’s silence is still on my mind.
As we get into bed and say goodnight to Tom of Finland, I ask about it.
‘Oh, that was nothing,’ Zeke says.
‘No, don’t evade it,’ I say. ‘Does one of my photos look weird or something?’
Zeke sighs. ‘No, nothing like that. Urgh. Okay.’ He sits up, facing me from his end of the bed. ‘I saw your “looking for” section includes “dates” and “relationships” and I was surprised, is all.’
‘Doesn’t everyone have those boxes ticked?’ I ask.
‘Not me,’ Zeke says. ‘I only have one box ticked. Hookups. That’s all I ever look for.’
‘Ever?’
‘Ever,’ he says quickly. ‘Even the idea of a boyfriend makes me feel … tied down. I like that when I hook up, it’s purely sex. I get to be myself, nobody trying to change me. A relationship means compromise. I would hate that.’
‘Huh,’ I say. ‘Interesting side of you, Zeke.’
I have this impulse to give him a hug. I remember the nerdy dude from biology class, and wow, life really screwed him up.
‘Well, that’s what I thought, seeing “relationships” on your profile,’ Zeke says. ‘I didn’t have you picked for a romantic.’
‘It makes you “romantic” to want love?’
‘Doesn’t it?’
‘Isn’t that just … human?’
‘I just didn’t know it was something you were looking for,’ Zeke says. ‘I think it’s nice.’
‘You’ve never had a relationship, have you?
’ I venture, but I’m reasonably confident Zeke will say no, and he does.
‘I love being in a relationship. It’s not like you think.
If it’s the right guy, you won’t have to change for him, or if you do, it’ll be a change you’re excited by.
When I was with Matt, I would’ve lived on his farm if it meant we could be together. ’
‘I …’ Zeke hesitates, ‘… wanted to ask about Matt so much, but I didn’t want to upset you again like at Steam Works.’
‘I was in a weird mood that day. What d’you wanna ask?’
‘Well, you never opened up about it. Do you still think about him?’
Big question.