Chapter 3 - Touch

Chapter 3 – Touch

We respond to touch, in such a fundamental way that the desire for it must be inbuilt into our genetic DNA. When I talk about touch I’m not referring to the feel of silk against the skin, although this may be involved, but the physical contact between two or more human beings. When you actually think about it, touch must be a mammalian trait, think of cats purring as they lie back getting a belly rub or dogs smiling as their chins are scratched, horses, rats they all seem to enjoy physical contact. Of course this may be linked to our reproductive drive as mammals where touch is required to produce the next generation, but I don’t think I want to write a biology paper on the ‘The Fundamental Desire For Physical Contact Among Mammals For The Purpose Of Species Survival” today. What I do want to talk about is how the way that others have chosen to touch me has altered my perceptions, altered my world views and changed my life. That now sounds like an anthropology or sociology paper title. Touch is not necessarily something that happens in a positive context though and I want to talk about three different types of human contact that have shaped my life. Let’s start with a positive.

 That definitely sounds like a first year university paper introduction now!

One of the great benefits and curses of being in a gay couple is that you are instantly political. This is only a benefit of course if you are happy being political, I suppose, but I always have been. What, to a straight couple is a physical act that they don’t even realise they are performing is one that a gay couple has to analyse, way up the pros and cons, (from a physical safety point of view), before taking part in. Holding hands in public seems such a simple thing to do but wrapping my hand around that of someone I love’s is a choice that I have always had to prepare for, being a gay man. Andrew, who I mentioned in chapter 1, was a law student, so my revolutionary politics and his drive for equality under the law were a perfect combination for our fight for social justice. After we met at a work Christmas party we seemed to instantly fall in love, I have never felt more content, relaxed or alive than when I was near him. I have never felt as strong, confident or as invincible as when he was by my side. Looking back as I am now, I realise that loosing Andrew was one of the biggest mistakes I have ever made, and let’s be clear and honest it was my mistake. But that’s not where I’m heading right now. We were living in Sydney during a time when ‘gay bashing’ was on the rise, we weren’t even safe around the gay ghetto of Darlinghurst, and we were still fighting for anti-vilification laws to protect us from institutionalized prejudice against the queer community and for a legal acceptance of our existence. Andrew and I were not having any part in cowering from a fight so we consciously and determinedly held hand if we felt like it, to show our defiance to what the wider society saw as unacceptable behavior. Because what we realised was that although this was also a period when the straight community was moving behind the gay community in our fight to be able to live, many were still uncomfortable with the actual reality of seeing two gay men walking through their shopping mall in the suburbs hand in hand. 

 I remember Andrew taking me away for a weekend in the country, he had booked us a room at ‘Tara’, a gay resort in the heart of the Kangaroo Valley, southwest of Sydney. Yes, Tara is the name of the plantation in “Gone with the Wind”, the drama, the fashion, the romance, the heartbreak, everything a gay queen needs to live, so what else would you name your gay resort after….seriously.

 I do love a touch of ‘camp’. 

So, Tara was a beautiful, rambling country house set on a farm in the hills. Green field dotted with little white sheep as far as they eye could see, copse separating the field where shade could be found under the darkened canopies of the trees for secluded ‘picnics’. Of course at the house there was the pool, spa and games room, basically perfect for a romantic getaway, away from the hustle and bustle of city life. I won’t go into too many details, but, suffice to say that in a setting like this, with good food, good wine, Andrew and I did ‘touch’ a lot, not always making it back to our room after a pleasant stroll across the Glen, if you get what I mean. The area around Tara was filled with quaint little villages, known for their antique stores and cafes. We went exploring, when we could keep our hands off each other long enough, although we were warned by the staff to be careful of some of the villagers and their attitude to gay people, “Best not to be too obvious.” That simple warning set the tone of our journey through the valley. Such a simple sign of affection for most people, holding hands, had to be for us a cautious and deliberate act, ‘fuck to that!’ This was not our style, we were not going to remain like earlier generations of queer folk, quiet and cowering, careful not to show signs of who we were to those around us.

As soon as we hit the streets of a village Andrews hand would touch mine and I would clasp his back, not for the purpose of pissing someone off, but simple because, like any other couple, we enjoyed the connection, the feeling of holding onto someone you loved as you travel through life’s experiences. The villages we visited were so quaint, more like English villages than Australian and we had a great time browsing through the shops and wandering the streets. We were happy and having a pleasant day wandering around the streets. The warning against the locals seemed unfounded and we had a great time chatting with the locals we met along the way, which may explain why we thought heading for a local watering hole for lunch was a good idea. If you think of a classic Aussie pub, weatherboard walls, wide veranda surrounding the building, whitewash allover, that’s where we went. Hand in hand we strolled in and headed for the bar. There were only a few people inside, locals from the surrounding farms by the look of them, flannel shirts, dirty jeans, having a quick beer before heading back out to clean the pig pens most likely. When the bartender came over to take our order we did notice her eyes dart to our left a couple of times as we asked for a couple of beers, then again the same eye movement as she brought the beverages back to where we were sitting. The froth on top had only just settled from the spin of the pour before we could hear ‘bloody poofter’ being spoken in a harsh whispered tone from the other end of the bar. Glancing down the bar I could see a big burly hick staring at us, a look of disgust and hatred like throwing knives heading straight for us. It wasn’t long before the bartender came back across to us, “It’s maybe better if you boys leave,” she said. I must add that she said this in a friendly, protective tone, she was not part of the growing band of people in the bar who had become solely focused on our presence rather than their beers and lunch. Andrew moved in closer, leaned over, and I was expecting him to agree with the barkeep and recommend we leave but instead he looked me in the eye and said, “We’ll finish our beers,” then kissed me on the cheek. So we shut out what was happening around us continued our conversation and enjoyed our drinks.  You would swear the pub had turned into a sauna with the amount of steam coming from the other end of the bar, but like most bullies, if you stand up to them they will cower away and that’s what was happening here. They could mumble abuse towards us but “sticks and stones may break our bone (and often did) but names will never beat us”. Getting up from our stools when we were ready to leave I grabbed Andrew around his shoulders as he placed his arm around my waist. There wasn’t even a murmur of discontent audible around us as we headed for the door. Our defiance was a political act. An act against a society that said it was okay for a straight couple to show their affection for each other in public by holding hands or clasping each other waists but said it was not appropriate for two guys, or girls in love to do the same, was social politics. But it was more than that,  we craved this physical contact just like anyone else, the squeeze of Andrew’s hand in mine brought joy into my heart, life into my soul and told me I was part of something fabulous.

So that was one form of touch, loving, caring, nurturing, the type everyone craves in their live. With Andrew by my side it was also something that was political, something that was tainted at times by the fact that we had to use a simple sign of affection as a tool of defiance towards hatred. Now I want to talk about touch in a slightly different situation, one that may surprise and possible disgust some people but remember I did place  a warning on the first page of chapter 1 that this was going to be a ‘no holds barred’ story of my life.

When I moved to Sydney I blossomed as a gay man. The freedom of living in Darlinghurst just brought me to life. Leaving Brisbane was no great loss, I had grown sick of the political climate that had established laws that prevented bars from serving queers. Yes this was a law. In 1985 the Queensland government made it an offense for publicans to serve alcohol to "perverts, deviants, child molesters and drug users" or to allow them to remain on licensed premises. Not a week went by that I wasn’t hassled by police day or night, random bag searches or stopped in the street to be questioned about my activities, which could be as innocent as buying milk. I was often followed along the street by a police car, its spotlight on me as I walked along the streets of Stones Corner to my home. They would even park in front of my house shining the spotlight through the front window after I’d gone inside just to make sure I knew they were watching. Once you were labelled as queer the local police apparently made sure everyone at the station know so that the harassment could be continuous no matter which cop was on shift. They would never talk to me or ask me any questions, I was just another queer and the government of the day commended them for hassling faggots.

 So Sydney was a shining light a symbol of hope and somewhere where I could become me, ‘unleashed’. I was young and like Dorothy reaching the Emerald City, eager to see the sights and ready to sample everything on offer. Maybe because of the politically oppressive government situation in Queensland when I was just developing an understanding of my sexuality, which forced to hide my sexual conduct or risk imprisonment. Or maybe because I’m just ‘made that way’ I have always been comfortable with quick and easy casual sex. I’ve mentioned before that any relationship that reached a 2 week life span seemed ‘long term’ to me and my sexual partners have been both numerous and varied. I crave human contact and even if it is with a stranger and only for a couple of hour I have always been able to receive some tactile satisfaction through the touching of another man’s body. 

Sydney was like a smorgasbord to me, men absolutely everywhere and I was hungry, it was no wonder I was only 65kg my diet wasn’t of the nutritional kind. It was during this period that my values began to change, the right for people to do what they want with who-ever they want, with their consent,  as long as no-one else was harmed became a fundamental value that I still hold strong today. It is the principle on which my world view is based. My attitude towards most social issues are filtered through this, which brings me to my story. In the heart of Darlinghurst lies the old Darlinghurst Goal, built by convict in the mid 1800’s. It has beautiful old sandstone walls with carved marks on many of the blocks which show which convicts laid them, it was a way of ensuring the prisoners who helped build it didn’t slack off on their work quota. These types of historical buildings give a city charm and warmth, they give a place a feeling of permanency, one that cities like Brisbane seem to lack with its rampant destruction of anything that develops any sort of age to give the impression that it is a ‘modern city’. The Wall which is how it was locally referred was situated between my home in Darlinghurst and Oxford Street where I spent most of my waking hours when not at work. It became a familiar and comfortable site and I never tired of walking along its tree lined street both day and night. Its days as a prison were long gone but it still had a purpose, one that it had fulfilled since it was built. It was an area where prostitution took place. Originally it had been the haunt of girls looking to make some money but these days they have all moved a short distance to Kings Cross. With the development of the local area into a huge gay enclave the demand for girls was not as strong as it may have been in times gone by, but it did provide a venue for those that remained, working boys.  I was a party boy, from Monday to Friday a typical day consisted of work, then home to get changed before heading onto Oxford Street for something to eat before hitting the bars, usually taking someone home or going back to their place to spend a bit of time before heading home to sleep before going to work in the morning… repeat. So in the evening, sometime as a breather between clubs I would stroll along the wall and have a chat with some of the guys who were waiting to make a living, if only someone would pay for their services. We’d chat about how business was going, how they were, basically a few of them became friends and we’d check in on each other’s comings and goings. I became familiar with the nature of the work, the poses that would be assumed if possible trade was near and knew when to walk away if my presence was going to turn a prospective client off the boy I was talking to. To me this was just another facet of life that I was developing an understanding of, by getting to know these guys I grew to see their ‘trade’ in a new light. The sordid nature of prostitution that we are all taught as children is so far from the reality of these people’s actual lives that I felt privileged to have gotten to know them. It was a night much like this when I developed a new interest, I had been out clubbing as usual but hadn’t met anyone of any interest so was heading home alone. There was no-one along The Wall as I made my way home which meant that it must have been a busy night, this wasn’t the sort of business that you left early if it was quiet, not if you wanted to eat. I know it may seem hard to understand but this did make me happy, because it meant that the friends that I had who used this area were making some money. Then it happened, a car came along and pulled up just in front of me. As I came alongside the driver’s window I could first see his arm resting on the sill then his eyes watching me as I walked along the street.

“How’s your night going? He asked.

“That has got to be the worst pick-up line ever,” I replied, “There’s no-one here with me so it couldn’t be going that well,”

“Jump in we’ll have some fun.” He added

The penny dropped, he was a ‘John’ looking to hire some company and as I was in the right place at the right time, he just didn’t realise that I was just heading home and not out working the street. I wasn’t so drunk that I couldn’t think straight, a factor which did come into my decision making, which was; I hadn’t met anyone that night, there wasn’t anyone on the street who I would be taking business away from, he was kind of cute and I was horny. So in I got and my part-time career as a male prostitute began. It wasn’t something I did all the time, I still had a full-time job as a store manager and state visual merchandise officer for a shoe company, but a few nights a week I would see what was happening. I wouldn’t work if it meant taking business away from the guys who relied on it for a living, but if there was more business than the boys could handle they’d be happy for me to jump in to keep the trade coming back. There was something appealing about the sex between two people when it involved the exchange of money. It opened up a whole range of new experiences, the way two people touch and the power dynamic that the role of call boy and John brought to the table, the monetary value placed on different sexual acts. 

Most of the guys who worked the street were fine with me stepping into their turf, some seemed to find it amusing to teach me the tricks of the trade. How to make a guy cum quickly so you could take his money and get back to find the next horny dude who wanted to part with some cash, or how best to fake an orgasm if you were being paid to be the top (insertive guy, the fucker, as opposed to the bottom, receptive guy, the fucked), because if you came while fucking someone then you were really out of the running for the next score until you could recover to ‘blow’ again with the next client. With a girl there is no visible sign that she has had an orgasm in the last 5 mins but with guys our erections need a bit of recovery time so the fun can continue and for some unknown reason guys picking up prostitutes think that they have been waiting there all night just for them so a limp dick is not a good thing for business. 

Funny the things you learn if you’re prepared to be open-minded and be receptive to new ideas. 

Unlike what a lot of people think, a prostitute is not a rag doll that once paid for is available to be used any way the purchaser wishes. It was this fact that allowed me to experience new forms of physical touch. I was the one in power and controlled what was going to happen, what I was prepared to do and to what level I was prepared to be used. I feasted on the nervous tension that most of my clients had coursing through their bodies. Many were married but couldn’t resist the need for man on man action, others simply preferred the dynamic of sex that included the monetary aspect of a trade for services. Working The Wall was never going to be my sole source of intimate contact it was simply a new way of having a physical contact with someone and just became part of my repertoire of ways to pick up guys. I only had one incident where the guy who hired me started to get a bit too rough, where it seemed he thought he could use me to work out some of his anger issues, but it wasn’t as if I needed the money so it was simple for me just to get out of the situation and leave him to deal with his anger some other way. It wasn’t as if similar situations hadn’t occurred with a one night stand pick up from a bar as well. Although not all the boys were that lucky, and it wasn’t unusual to catch up with someone who had been bashed by his last score but we did look after each other as much as we could if we were on the street. I learnt some great skills during this period of my life, I have always been able to separate sex from love and have no issue having sex with someone I have no interest in just for the sake of having a few moments of physical contact. It might be a trait that has always remained with me from those days but I have always focused on the needs of sexual partners and happiest when I give them an experience to remember, even if only once.

Share the love, credit cards accepted!

The third form of touch takes a much darker turn but it is one that I want to get down on ‘paper’, record it, if for no other reason than to tell the whole story of where I’ve been. 

No matter where someone lives there is always a store somewhere near-by that stays open late so people can purchase emergency supplies whether to satisfy the ‘munchies’ or get some milk for a morning coffee. My story begins with one of these late night milk runs. I was living in St. Peters in Western Sydney at this stage, in a little one bedroom unit. I had gotten home from the bar to the realisation that I didn’t have any milk in the fridge for coffee in the morning. I had two choices, not have coffee in the morning before I headed for work which seemed like a stupid idea or go for a walk to the nearest service station about a five minute walk along the highway. So out I went, the sooner I went the sooner I’d get some sleep before getting up for work in a few hours. St. Peters, which stood right next to Newtown had the second biggest gay community in Sydney and a large student population from the nearby university so the streets were always well populated with late night revelers. Tonight was no exception as I wandered along King Street toward the highway. Once over the highway all I had to do was walk through the edge of the Sydney Parklands and my job would be done. Taking the same route I had taken countless times before I had no inkling of what was about to happen. I was only 50 meters from my destination when, from behind some bushes ran three guys heading straight for me with a couple of others following behind, they were quiet as they ran but it was obvious that they were heading my way and not with a friendly attitude. Although I ran one of them caught up to me enough to grab me by the hair and pull me down onto my back he dragged me back towards the rest of the group until I came to a stop as he was left with a first full of hair that had now been pulled from my scalp. Soon they were all on me boots and fists flying and all I could do was try to protect myself as best I could. On and on the abuse and violence continues, my shoes were ripped off my feet, maybe so I couldn’t try to escape I don’t know. Before long I could no longer see through the blood coming from a gash on my forehead getting into my eyes, my ribs and back ached from the kicking I had been receiving. The onslaught momentarily eased and I caught a glimpse of more people coming towards the group which was currently numbering six. To my surprise the person who came into view was a female in her mid-forties.

“You got one boys,” she said, as if I was a stray animal they were trying to catch, the sound of satisfaction and pride in her voice, “There you go Jason,” she continued, turning to the younger guy who had arrived with her, “Get stuck in.”

This was a nightmare, I thought she would bring some sanity to what was going on but instead I was meeting the ‘Fagin’ of this little gang and this new recruit was being trained in what to do with an unsuspecting gay guy. The crowd of youths that had me encircled, so I couldn’t escape, took a step back to allow the new recruit ease of access. Jason, who looked about 15 stepped through the ring towards me, standing with his feet firmly planted on the ground before my face he looked into my eyes, his hatred burning into mine before he lifted his right leg to get a good swing at my face. His initiation complete the rest came back in to continue the onslaught, each vying for clear space to inflight the heaviest kick. I was helpless, unable to catch my breath before a fresh kick knocked the wind back out of me I was unable to call out for help. All I could think of was trying to stay conscious, I didn’t want this to be my last moment even though it seemed like I was going to be discovered in the morning, battered and beaten and dead under the bushes by a morning jogger. Eventually they all began to tire of their fun and the onslaught did began to slow.

“Ok boys, grab anything he’s got and we’ll get out of here before someone comes,” The woman announced.

My pockets were quickly searched and emptied, my keys thrown into the bushes, my wallet taken and off they went, once each had given me one final farewell kick, they slapping each other on the back as they went their merry way, like a team of footballers celebrating a win.

I remained on the ground for what seemed like a life time before I could finally raise myself onto my feet to try and get help. My heart was pounding, I was shaking like I had just come out of a freezer room, my vision was blurred and I couldn’t stand up straight as I staggered the final distance towards the service station, falling through the door my head spinning. The next thing I remember is sitting in the emergency department shivering because I felt so cold even though Andrew who was now at my side didn’t think it was cold at all. I must have somehow told the nursing staff to contact him when I had arrived. He got me a blanket to keep me warm until I was finally checked-out by the medical staff.  Luckily I was physically okay according to the doctor, no broken bones no internal bleeding, a mild concussion but I should be fine. It took a week or so for the bruising and swelling to go down and physically I was okay, but it took much longer for my mental state to recover from the assault.  

This was a new form of touch, but one filled with hate, one with a determination to make human contact but not with any intention of mutual satisfaction. What can drive someone to an act of violence towards a stranger to such an extent and to so obviously enjoy it? What can make a woman want to encourage and promote this type of hate and violence in a group of boys who so obviously acted on her behalf? It makes me sad that people could still see me as a punching bag, someone with no intrinsic value who could be used in such a way without. I locked myself away for a couple of weeks after this incident, too afraid to walk the streets even in daylight, I shut out everyone, I couldn’t even face Andrew when he came to support me. But what doesn’t kill me (even if they try) only make me stronger. I emerged from the cocoon that I built for myself in my little flat with a fire inside that has never burnt out, one that refuses to accept the sort of attitude that prevailed that night.

So back to March 12, I had barely sat down after my surprise greeting from the surgery receptionist before my doctor appeared out of his office. He looked around the waiting room, caught my eye and quietly said my name. His normal smiling welcome was absent, all I received was a slightly crooked and short lived grin. We headed into his office and took a seat. There was silence for a while I sat there as he started making keystrokes on his PC staring at his screen while I waited for him to prepare for our consultation. I rested my arm on the edge of the desk, as going by every other consultation I had ever had here we would begin with a blood pressure check. He finally stopped looking at his screen and turned to face me. He placed his left hand gently on my wrist, this on its own was not surprising as this was his usual way to engage with his patients. What was surprising was the intensity of this touch. His hand slowly gripped my wrist more firmly than usual as his right hand moved onto my forearm and began to tap my arm like a metronome needle rhythmically moving up and down. We sat like this for a moment while he looked me in the eye, his stare intensely into my eyes but behind the stare I could see that he was thinking about something.

“Dean,” He said, “I need to ask you a few questions.”

His right hand stopped tapping on my arm, the music he was drumming out ceased. I could feel the gentle touch of both of his hands as they rested on mine in a friendly and reassuring manner.