There are only a few things in this life that feel as liberating as going commando. I recommend it for anybody.
I worry that there are people afraid to let it all hang out, to feel the breeze, so to speak.
On the subject of going commando, actually, I’m sitting here reflecting on the night my life suddenly veered into gaytopia, courtesy of my urban hero, the man who roams Market Street in a toga. You should really see him as he stumbles about the place, junk flying around willy-nilly. I’d see him every day on my way home from work. He was, surprisingly enough, the one who urged me to explore queer nightlife, to find my queer family and to understand queer culture.
Some years ago after an unbearable work party, I was sitting in the gutter with my fingers down my throat, looking pretty. Toga man was wandering around nearby. I looked up for a second and saw a pale, wrinkled and totally hairless ball-sack swinging merrily towards me. Toga man, bless you for lifting me from my own personal spew kingdom. He stopped and said, “Are you OK, honey?”
Discovering that he was gay made me feel an instant camaraderie with him. We shared a cigarette. He told me he was on his way to Stonewall. I told him I’d never been to a gay bar before. Or any queer space, for that matter. He looked at me like I had two heads. As I watched him walk down the street to meet his boyfriend, I felt impressed by his confidence. As a baby queer, I had none of it.
I hopped in a cab and really mulled it over. I knew nothing of Sydney’s queer scene and wanted to change that. I lamented on how face-meltingly boring my night was at the hetero hop and wondered what magical wonders awaited me beyond the straight world. My thoughts were interrupted by my driver abruptly asking me if I was a lesbian. It was jarring: he hadn’t even said hello.
His name was Freddo, “like the frog”. He had a soul patch that looked like those stubby black knuckles you find growing out of rotting potatoes. Freddo immediately launched into what sounded like his internal masturbation monologue. He said lesbians were drawn to him and wanted me to tell him why that was the case, as they called themselves lesbians yet couldn’t seem to take his dick out of their mouths long enough to explain this curious phenomenon.
He detailed a story about a lesbian couple at a party who led him into a room, tied him to the bed, and proceeded to go down on him tag-team style in a frenzied lust. “Animalistic”, he called it. He then made some comparisons between that and werewolf lore.
“It could be just that they crave it once a month, or when the moon is full or something,” he explained. “It could have something to do with the blood.” When he said this, it wasn’t as though he was questioning the behavior: it was more as if he were narrating a documentary. “So if they do this, what does this mean?”
“Um, that they are bisexual?”
“No.” he said, seemingly deflated by my response. Eventually, trying to salvage the conversation, he moved on to a lengthy discussion about the state of his vegetable garden.
As much as I thought Freddo lived in a deluded fantasy world and was also a gigantic wanker, I felt a little sorry for him. I also felt a little sorry for me. I was sitting in a cab having this unbelievable conversation. I’d never felt so alien in my life, never felt so far removed from the things that make up who I am. Freddo’s insane speech had highlighted a painful reminder of difference I’d never been able to articulate before.
Talking to toga man and Freddo in the same night ultimately became this bizarre catalyst for my foray into queer culture. I’ve not looked back, nor worn underwear, since.
This Week:
Stereogamous are excited to announce the third birthday of Vogeuy Bear on Friday September 30. Get on down to the Red Rattler in Marrickville to celebrate queer music. Germany’s Prosumer [pictured below]has flown out to play some tunes especially for you.
Also on Friday September 30, The Priscilla Show returns to the Imperial Hotel in Erskineville from 9pm. Come and enjoy the classic show that cemented drag performance in Australian history. The production will be starring the one and only Prada Clutch, so you’ll for sure be in good hands, promise.
On Sunday October 2, the Civic Underground [pictured above]is hosting Club Exile’s Labour Day Weekend, a male-only event. Dress code isn’t strict but encourages fetish wear. Expect lots of flesh and lots of dancing.
