The mid-seventies – and satin baggies and chunky platforms reigned supreme. Jethro Tull did battle with glam-rock for the airwaves. At an all-boys Catholic school in Melbourne, Timothy Conigrave fell wildly and sweetly in love with the captain of the football team. So began a relationship that was to last for 15 years, a love affair that weathered disapproval, separation and, ultimately death. Holding the Man recreates that relationship.
With honesty and insight it explores the highs and lows of any partnership: the intimacy, constraints, temptations. And the strength of heart both men had to find when they tested positive to HIV.
This is a book as refreshing and uplifting as it is moving; a funny and sad and celebratory account of growing up gay.
PART ONE
A Head Full of Boys
Chapter ONE
Me
At the end of the sixties the world seemed very exciting for a nine-year-old. Things were changing at an incredible rate. And most of the changes seemed to be for the better, like the afternoon we all sat in the library watching a man take his first step on the moon of planet Earth. Even schooling was changing. My Grade Four teacher at the state school treated us like adults who were able to think for ourselves. He was open to all forms of learning. My last year at this school was spent drawing, writing poems; building Aboriginal humpies, dams and watercourses. We discussed space travel, pot and why boys should be allowed to have long hair.
In contrast was Miss O’Leary who gave us Catholic kids our injection of religion, all five of us in a cupboard at the end of the hall. At Christmas she gave each of us a crucifix made of foiled glass. As she handed me mine she said, ‘You don’t deserve this because you’re wicked.’
She got into my head at the age when I was loading the operating system that forms self-image. Sure, the software was a mix of creativity, sunshine and games with the girls, but I was also becoming a Catholic. And looming large was the awareness that I was about to take a leap into Catholic manhood: an all-boys school, Kostka. Footy, cricket, smelly socks, and Jesuits in cassocks.
Even though Kostka was at the end of my street, all I knew of it was the high pale-orange brick walls and large copper gates, beyond which I occasionally glimpsed a concrete playground lined with oleanders and yew trees, and a whirlpool of boys in grey uniforms.
After I’d sat an entrance exam my mother and I were interviewed by the headmaster, who wanted to know whether, since she had married a non-Catholic, her children went to Mass. My mother’s face was scrunched up as we walked back to the gates. ‘That stuck-up bully sitting in judgement of me! Surely it’s obvious that I want my children to be brought up in the Church, or we wouldn’t be wasting our money putting you through a Jesuit school.’ I found it odd that she was so vulnerable.
This was to be my first experience of dressing exactly the same as everyone else. The first time I heard ‘fuck’, ‘shit’ and ‘arsehole’. The first time I had textbooks: the Jacaranda atlas; a catechism full of groovy drawings of doves, wheat and a Jesus who looked like a hippie; my first dictionary, and a book called Roget’s Thesaurus with the words ‘Find, Seek, Search, Discover’ on its cover. Learning at Kostka was going to be a different experience. I spent hours writing my name on the title page of my books, covering them in sweet-smelling soft plastic, filling my drink bottle with orange cordial and putting it in the freezer.
The first day all the new boys met in the library. The headmaster’s secretary drilled us on punctuality and compulsory sport. We were taken to our classrooms where boys were lined up waiting for the door to open. I tried to be inconspicuous, aware that everyone was looking at me and the other two new guys.
At the front of the line was a good-looking boy wearing sunglasses. From the other boys’ gibes I learnt that he had almost poked his eye out in a sailing accident. They didn’t bother him. He looked really cool.
My first year at this school was a big shock. I was keenly aware that these boys had a different life from mine. They were fulfilling expectations that they would be doctors and lawyers. ‘Play’ for them meant football. What I knew about footy you could have written on a piece of toilet paper. In order to survive I learnt to know which team was on top of the ladder and to say things like ‘carna Saints’. But as for what ‘holding the man’ meant or which team Jezza played for …
Grade Five Red was in the neglect of Mr Geddes. His idea of teaching was to write on the board ‘Page 13, Exercises 4–9’ and make us do them in silence. He’d sit on a desk and order one of us to scratch his back. He liked to terrorise us, picking his nose and wiping it on us, knocking our books off the desk, opening someone’s bag and eating his lunch.
One day a boy called Kevin asked to be allowed to go to the toilet. Mr Geddes made him stand on the platform and sing ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’. Kevin did so, his legs jiggling in an attempt to stop pissing himself. ‘Now with actions.’ None of us laughed. We were just glad it wasn’t us. Kevin did the nursery rhyme with actions and then ran for the door.
Another time Mr Geddes told us to read a chapter about Cromwell and the Roundheads and left the room. We were doing as we were told when his head suddenly appeared through an open window. He ordered Kevin up on the platform to get the strap.
‘But I wasn’t doing anything, sir.’
‘Exactly. You should have been reading about Cromwell and the Roundheads. Get up there before I make it the full six.’ Heavy with persecution, Kevin sloped up to the platform and took his punishment.
The other regular victim was Andy, a milky fat kid with a skin rash and a permanently running nose. Geddes would tease him until he was in tears and then would get us all to sing a version of a folk song: ‘Oh Andy, don’t you weep, don’t you mourn.’
When the bell went we would tumble out into the playground and rough-house each other, asserting our strength so that we would never become the milky fat kid who was so loathsome.
Damien
Out of this landscape appeared a boy called Damien. He was from a working-class family; his father and brothers were in the army, but he was a rebel. His hair was long, his attitude defiant. He thought football was stupid. With a shock of glossy black hair tumbling into his eyes, he looked like Mowgli from The Jungle Book. Our point of contact was born of this rebelliousness: smoking.
I had already been experimenting. One Friday night I sat on my parents’ bed watching a St Trinian’s movie. Two girls were smoking in the toilets. I lit a match, blew it out and drew back the fumes. I felt sophisticated despite the sulphurous burning in my throat. Another time I filled a paper straw with lawn clippings and nearly set my lungs on fire as I drew back the burning grass.
Damien and I were going up to the park when I spied a cigarette butt on the ground and put it in my mouth. He pulled out a whole pack of Craven As and some matches.
‘You smoke?’
‘Der.’
‘Wow. What’s it like?’ He offered me one.
‘Not here!’
‘Where?’ He was testing me. I showed him a couple of hollow pine trees that were hiding places for local kids, their branches smooth from years of polishing by children’s bums.
This sanctuary was to become ours. We were partners in crime, a secret society in our secret headquarters. Our ritual always started with a cigarette. The smoke provided safety as we talked about school, what a dickhead so-and-so was, or the time Gilligan built that car out of coconuts.
I liked Damien, and I was happy that he liked me. Although we weren’t in the same class we always found each other at breaks and played handball in the concrete squares of the playground, practised tricks with Coca-Cola yoyos or climbed over the back of the green shed to have a cigarette. The bench I was sitting on was slowly being torn from its place by the roots of the liquidambars that surrounded the lunch quadrangle. All around me the broken asphalt said that these trees were winning a war. I was trying to finish my lunch before English. I hadn’t done my homework and had spent the break composing a poem about ‘scraping away to the inner essence’.
Sitting nearby was the sunglasses boy. I was thinking about his looks. What makes me think he’s handsome? I like the way he is. Calm, and cool. Would the other guys think he was handsome? As I lobbed the soggy remainder of my lettuce-and-Vegemite sandwich into the bin, I spied Damien walking across the playground. He’s really good-looking. Even the way he walks is really good. He walked towards me, smiling.
He sat on the bench, opened his hand and revealed a superball. ‘It’s Andy’s.’
‘God, he’ll be spewing!’
He put his arm around me. There was a kind of stirring, a buzz coursing through me. I wanted to break away from him but I also wanted to put my head on his shoulder. The electronic bell pealed.
I headed off to the toilets. Damien said he’d save me a place in the assembly hall.
Friday afternoons were a bludge. Mr Steed the science teacher would show us documentaries – about Campbell’s attempt at the land-speed record in his futuristic Bluebird, or the development of the Merino by CSIRO. It was a strategy to stop us sleeping our way through the last period of the week, but it gave us a chance to play up as the excitement of the weekend loomed.
The assembly hall was a fibro hut, painted pale green like a public toilet. The carpet was a splotchy synthetic red. It resembled pizza and smelt like pizza. Black curtains were drawn across windows that were wide open. The roof was corrugated iron and even in winter the heat could be smothering. On this summer day the room was an oven filled with boys basting in their own juices.
I could make out the short figure of Mr Steed fumbling at the projector. We sat totally still until he squatted down beside the machine, and then the room became a snowstorm of paper balls and planes. Mr Steed stood up and the storm abruptly stopped.
The projector threw a white square of light onto the screen, which immediately came alive with rabbits, dogs, thumbs-up, and peace signs. Someone did the VO-5 symbol from the television ad. The rabbit became a two-finger salute.
Where is Damien? I heard a whispered call and turned to see him on his own, up the back behind the projector. He patted the seat next to him.
Mr Steed was agitated. As he lifted an arm to brush his oily fringe off his thick glasses I could see the sweat stains in the pit of his mustard-coloured shirt. The projector jumped into life and the screen read, The Prickly Menace.
Damien took my arm and put it around his waist, smiled and turned to the screen. The film was about a cactus getting out of hand somewhere and the moth that was helping to keep it under control. It could have been about Auschwitz. All I could think of was my arm around Damien’s waist. It felt like it had found its home. It felt right. It felt safe.
We sneaked looks at each other and smiled. Then he put his lips to my cheek and let them sit there until I whispered, ‘Don’t!’
He smiled and whispered, ‘I wish you were a girl.’ I wasn’t sure what he meant but said I wished he was a girl too.
We stayed entwined until the film whipped out of the gate and slapped the projector, stirring Mr Steed awake. He fumbled to turn the machine off. Damien stretched and released me. The darkness was broken by boys pouring out of the assembly hall.
‘Come back here until the bell goes,’ barked Mr Steed. As if to make a fool of him, the bell went.
A couple of Grade Fives stood on the footpath waiting for someone to pick them up. One grabbed the other’s bag and lobbed it over the wall back into the playground. The victim kicked his friend’s bag into the traffic and ran back into the grounds.
‘Got any durries?’ I turned to see Damien coming out of the school ground with his cap pulled to one side. He put his arm around my shoulder. I showed him the pack of Escorts inside my bag.
‘Are you two boyfriends?’ An older boy with carrot-red hair was leaning against a wall, hands in pockets, feet crossed at the ankles.
Damien turned to confront him. He picked Damien’s cap off his head and threw it onto the road. Damien went to snatch the redhead’s cap but was gripped by the wrist and shoved. ‘Poofters!’ jeered the redhead and sauntered across the road in triumph.
Neither of us said anything as we walked to the park and climbed our trees. We sat on the bum-smoothed branches and started our ritual. The smell of pine oil hung in the air. Damien said he was going off to get an Icy-pole. When my cigarette was down to the butt I took out another and did a donkey root. I could see his bag at the base of the tree. He’s going to come back.
I felt I had done something wrong, and Damien was angry with me. I wondered what it would be like if Damien were a girl. Or if I were. Then we could be boyfriend and girlfriend.
Damien reappeared and held out two Icy-poles. He tossed them up to me. I reached in my pocket but he shook his head. It was a present. We sat cocooned in our trees with dripping Icy-poles, dripping sweat, and burning cigarettes.
I started to feel dizzy. I wanted badly to fart or burp but nothing happened. My throat felt scratchy. I had to lie down. I tried to do it on the branch but I slid down to the grass at the bottom of the tree.
‘How many cigarettes have you had?’ said the Cheshire cat from his branch. I’d had four or five. ‘You tonk, you’ve got nicotine poisoning.’ He slipped down the trunk and lay next to me. I didn’t have to look at him. I could feel him there beside me. We lay together with our hands behind our heads, watching the sky through the branches. Damien put his arm across me. I drifted on a cloud of contentment.
The man in the kiosk was chatting up a girl while the rest of us stood shivering in the wind at Brighton Beach. The sun was hot but the breeze coming off the bay stung with cold.
Casanova was taking so long that I dried off and was left with salty skin. I picked at the peeling sunburn on my shoulders. My turn finally. I asked for a pack of Marlboros. ‘For me mum,’ I lied, pointing to some fat lady asleep in a deck-chair.
He didn’t believe me but he gave them to me anyway. Someone grabbed them from my hands. It was Damien. He jumped up on the rail and held the cigarettes high in the air.
‘I was grounded for calling my sister a slut,’ he said. ‘But Mum’s working at the TAB. Long as I’m back by four-thirty.’ He raised an eyebrow, smiling. ‘Have you seen who’s on the beach?’ He tilted his head over the rail at a Beaumaris surfie chick called Puck. ‘I think I’m in love.’
My stomach gripped. ‘She’s nearly fifteen. Why would she be interested in a twelve-year-old?’
He slipped over the rail down to the sand. I followed, feeling like the milky fat kid, all thumbs and not an ounce of cool. He opened the smokes, took out the foil and a couple of cigarettes and threw them on the sand. ‘Don’t want to look like we just opened them.’
He walked over to Puck and a freckly girl I didn’t know. ‘Got a match?’ said Damien in his best Paul Newman voice.
‘My bum and your face.’ She was everything everyone said about her. Why does Damien like such a rough girl? My stomach gripped even harder.
Damien took out a cigarette and lay down in the sand. ‘You gonna light it for me?’
‘If you give us one.’ He offered her the pack and she took one. She pulled out a box of matches, took his cigarette, lit both at once and handed his back.
I asked Damien for the smokes. He threw them at me, not taking his eyes off Puck. When I asked for a light, Damien handed me his lit cigarette and I donkey-rooted it.
Damien punched a hole in the sand to make room for his private parts. Every time I looked at Puck I caught her looking at me. This was all too much. I said I was going for a leak.
I ran through the sunbaking bodies, up the burning hot concrete steps and into the change-rooms. As my eyes adjusted to the light I caught sight of a guy, about eighteen, taking off his purple boardies to reveal pale blue jocks. I walked past him into the other room. There was the rank smell of stale piss. I was standing at the urinal when he walked in. I could see him out of one eye as he dropped his jocks and put them on one of the hooks. He disappeared from view. I heard the hard stream of the shower.
My body was on fire. I couldn’t relax enough to piss. Can he tell I’m not pissing? He must think I’m a pervert. My full bladder and I left the change-rooms. I went to the railing and yelled to Damien. ‘I’ve gotta go.’ I ran through the rusty turnstile. I was pissed off, but I couldn’t figure out why. I walked home as fast as I could.
The chapel was an octagonal building in beige brick with a vaulted roof and a ring of stained-glass windows representing the Stations of the Cross. So far only three of the stations had been completed. Today was the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary and we had to be absolved of our sins, as it was a sin to receive the Eucharist without this having been done.
Damien was chuckling quietly with Grant, a tall good-looking blond boy. I slid in next to Damien and knelt, pretending to say a prayer. ‘What’s so funny?’ I whispered.
Damien knelt beside me. ‘Grant reckons we should see who gets the biggest penance.’
Grant chipped in. ‘Make up something really good. What do you reckon? You in?’ Lying in confession! That’s a big one!
The door of the confessional opened. It was Grant’s turn. Damien and I stayed kneeling, our shoulders pressed against each other. I felt happy, strong, calm.
The confessional door clicked open and Grant burst out. He winked. ‘Six Hail Marys and two Our Fathers.’ He slunk over to a pew and knelt. Damien went in. I dug into the deepest pit of my bowels to drag up a story but couldn’t think of anything. The door clicked open.
Damien was smug. ‘Ten Our Fathers. Told him I titted off my girlfriend.’ The judges gave him the thumbs-up.
It was my turn. The mahogany cave was draped in red velvet. I pulled the door shut and knelt. A small curtain was drawn on the other side of the rattan grille.
‘In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two weeks since my last confession and these are my sins.’ I froze.
‘Yes, my son?’ I could smell garlic and figured it was Stinky.
‘Me and another boy were in the shower together and he dared me to see who had the bigger erection. We abused ourselves.’
‘And that was all?’ Damn, he doesn’t seem to be fazed by it. A top idea flashed into my head. ‘That was a lie. It never happened.’
There was a long silence. Got him!
‘Son, many young men get confused. God can be very forgiving if you are repentant.’
‘Nothing happened. I was lying to you. It was a dare.’
I heard him take a big breath and sigh, clear his throat and then mumble the absolution rapidly. ‘For your penance you must recite the rosary.’ I win!
As I left the confessional I heard the other door open. Stinky was trying to see who I was. He shook his head in disgust and shut the door. I went over to Damien. ‘The rosary.’ I knelt in the glow of a champion. Damien punched me in the arm. He’s proud of me. The bell went and Damien stood up. ‘I’ve got to do my rosary,’ I said, not moving.
He smiled. ‘You’re such a Catholic.’ I got halfway through the first Hail Mary and leapt after him, putting my arm around his shoulder.
Mass that day was quite a spectacle. Father Larkin in full gold regalia and the altar boys in red soutanes and lace surplices genuflected in front of the altar, swinging the incense and ringing the bell.
I stifled a yawn as we all sat down. Father Larkin opened his hands and began the reading. I drifted off to the land of questions. I wonder if Jesus really did have a loincloth? But imagine if he didn’t. The guy who carved the statue would have had to carve his dick and balls. I guess he would have been circumcised.
We all stood again and mumbled a prayer. I wonder what Father Larkin would look like with his clothes off? A wave of panic crashed over me. God, I hope no one can read my mind. As the bread was broken it dawned on me that such thoughts were sins, and that I shouldn’t take Holy Communion without confessing them. As boys started filing up to the altar I hoped no one would notice that I didn’t join them.
‘Race ya!’ said the disembodied head of Damien, bobbing around in the waves in the middle of the baths. ‘Last one to the board is a scab.’
I cut my way through the water to the deck. Being a stronger swimmer than Damien I arrived at the ladder first, but as I was climbing up he snatched my ankle and used me as a lever out of the water, grabbing my shoulders and clambering up me. There we were, like dogs, one on top of the other, his body surrounding mine. I tried to break his grip, prising his fingers from the rails and shoving him with my bum. I was alive with glee and effort as we jostled for the trophy.
‘Shit. You’re hurting me,’ he gasped.
‘Give in, suck, and the pain stops,’ I said, prising him off the ladder. I heard a loud splash as he fell back into the water. I climbed onto the deck and bolted for the wooden steps to the board, slipped in the slimy water but recovered beautifully, and won! Standing with arms triumphantly crossed I asked, ‘So, scab, what now? Biggest bomb?’
We stood in line at the diving board, shivering in the breeze, watching girls swan-diving and boys bombing. I stepped over the coir matting and walked to the end of the board. As I bent my knees to spring, Damien rushed out to bounce me. I knew he was going to do it and reduced my spring, making Damien bounce himself. ‘Sucked in!’ I laughed evilly as I took flight, pulling one knee up to my chest. I surfaced to hear the fallout, ultimate proof of an excellent bomb.
Damien was standing still on the end of the diving board. What’s he afraid of?
‘I don’t want to be a poofter anymore,’ he announced, then took off and dropped another bomb. My brain was a mess of crossed wires. It suddenly cleared. Only one thought was possible. Fuck, I’m a poofter.
I had just one delivery for the day. I took the package from the pharmacy servery, walked out into the summer afternoon sun and hopped on my trusty three-speeder. Halifax Street. Doesn’t this lady have a chemist closer? I liked this work because I was on my own and it was outdoors, which was great in weather like this.
But I felt as if I’d forgotten something, not something from the shop – something else was chewing away at me. Something not good has happened. Then the memory came back. Damien. The diving board. And that thing he said. My mind went suddenly blank. Ambling past me was a teenage girl in netball gear, a short red skirt and a busty green top. Please God, make me like girls. I made myself stare at her breasts and imagine how it would be to fondle them. It’d be sort of nice. Wonder what it’d be like to kiss them?
‘What are you staring at? Piss off, you pervert.’
I blushed and rode off as fast as I could, my mind on fire, thoughts crashing in, my muscles working at their peak. Before I knew it I was at the address in Halifax Street. A dear old lady came to the wire door. I gave her the package. I wonder if she can see that I have a heart heavy with sin? She handed me a small chocolate wrapped in cellophane.
I didn’t eat it in case it was poisoned.
Boy In the Blue Jocks
He takes off his purple boardies, revealing pale blue jocks. He is muscular and deeply tanned, his hair sun-bleached. He captivates me with a smile.
‘Can I help you?’ I don’t know. He picks up his towel. ‘Do you want a shower?’
He swaggers towards the shower room. I watch the muscles working in his back and his hard round bum. As I follow he leans against the wall, hands behind his back, standing on one leg, the other foot halfway up the wall. Still smiling, he points to where the wall should be. Now there’s another change-room. He wants me to keep following. I walk to the archway. This room is much larger and there are five or six men at different benches and lockers, all wearing bathers or jocks. I walk through the room towards a corridor and see the men watching me. I stop at the entrance to the corridor and my friend with the towel places an arm around my shoulder. The corridor is dark but at the end there is a brighter room, open to the sky. There are two men, naked, kissing. In the centre of the room is a large bonfire. It melts into the floor and becomes a swimming pool, lit from within. ‘It is time to become a man, to find your fire, your strength.’ He places the towel around my waist and pulls me toward him. ‘Your strength is in this.’ He places his mouth on mine and I am charged. I am strong, I am a man. We sink into the water. I am cocooned. lam whole.
Kevin
Kevin’s parents were going to Sydney for the weekend. They bred trotters and had a two-year-old pacer running in the Regal Handicap.
Kevin was a year older than me. His parents didn’t think he needed a babysitter – someone to sleep over was enough. He asked me if I would stay with him. Shit, I hope he doesn’t want me to be his friend. It will be playground death if the other guys think I’m his friend.
I hardly knew Kevin. He was the best long-distance runner in the school but he was a real loser. Teachers picked on him. He wasn’t a wimp, in fact he was quite beefy from all the running and could defend himself well, but he was so easy to get a rise out of. I felt sorry for him. He was quiet and very nervous about asking me. The poor bastard probably felt I was the only person who wouldn’t say no.
The street was short. Kevin’s parents had pulled down all the other houses and built their own, with tennis-court and pool. I stood at the white door with my schoolbag over my shoulder and pushed the brass bell.
Kevin opened the door wearing track pants and a windcheater. He was like an excited puppy, eager and nervous. He took my bag and offered me a glass of milk, some Twisties, a seat in the living-room. I sat but Kevin stayed standing, looking lost.
The interior was all white brick and stained beams, with parquet floors, bright pink shag rugs and a purple vinyl settee. The pride of the room was the Fantasia lamp, a hairdo of optical fibres that changed colour. I found it mesmerising.
He offered to show me the trophies. I followed him into the billiard room where he took a photo off a shelf. ‘This is Red Falcon. She won the Finster Derby three years in a row. She broke her forelock a couple of weeks ago and had to be destroyed.’
On another shelf were many bottles of different shapes, one like a monkey, one like a bunch of grapes, filled with coloured liquids. ‘Prizes. Liqueurs, I think.’ He took down one that looked like a windmill and pulled the cork. He sniffed it and then took a swig. He offered me the bottle. I said no.
‘It’s nice, it’s like chocolate. Have some.’ I let the sticky chocolate run down my throat. It had a hot aftertaste. I handed it back but he was up on a stool trying to get another one down, a big yellow cone with a soldier painted on it.
‘Won’t your parents have a spak if they find out we’ve been drinking the trophies?’
‘They won’t know if we only have a mouthful of each. Like bottle-o.’
I had only been drunk once before. Damien, Grant and I had hired a squash court a few weeks before and drunk some red wine I had stolen from Dad’s cellar. We felt weighty and stupid as we left the courts. On the way back to Grant’s house I pashed with a dog, then took a chuck on his parents’ driveway, fascinated by the vomit splashing on my shoes. Grant’s old lady drove me home to a very embarrassed Mum. As I lolled around on the bathroom floor I spotted my sister. ‘Anna, you gotta do my chemist round, I’m pissed.’ Dad was very understanding but asked me to pay for the wine.
‘Wow, nice. Mint.’ Kevin took a couple more swigs. ‘This was my favourite pacer.’ He read the inscription on the plate around the bottle-neck. ‘Shakespeare’s Daughter.’
‘Slow down. Not so much. Your folks are going to know we’ve drunk it.’
‘Not if we put water in it.’
As I took a swig, that weighty feeling started to come back, and with it a sick feeling. I stumbled to get my Craven As out of my schoolbag. Shit, I’m more pissed than I thought.
Kevin grabbed another bottle, took one mouthful and handed it to me. I’ll pretend to take a swig.
‘I’ll fill this up.’ He headed out of the room but the bottle of green stuff slipped from his hand and smashed on the parquet floor.
‘Oh shit!’ Kevin tried to pick up the pieces. ‘Better get the brush and pan.’ He stumbled into the kitchen. I sat there smoking, the air filled with sticky mint, then went to look for an ashtray. Kevin was standing at the open fridge. ‘I’m starving,’ he said, opening the freezer. He took out a bag of frozen chips and I took a bite out of the side of the pack. Pulling pieces of plastic out of my teeth I let the chip defrost in my mouth. It tasted quite good. Kevin took a bite out of one. ‘It’s revolting, you spak!’ He took my cigarettes from me and lit one. ‘Let’s go for a walk.’
We stumbled into the street, then Kevin pulled me back into the house, seized by an idea. He rooted around in the broom cupboard and found a can of paint and a brush. I followed him back out to the street and down the path to the railway line. A long corrugated-iron fence ran along the path. ‘Needs a big sign, don’t ya reckon?’ said Kevin. ‘You keep a lookout. Got any ideas?’
‘Led Zeppelin?’
‘Lead what?’ He is such a dag.
‘Stop the H-bomb.’
Kevin struggled to get the can open. I watched him paint the words and then throw the can and brush into the grass. The paint flew through the air like cream in slow motion. We tore off back to the house. Out of breath and exhilarated we crashed through the front door and fell about laughing on the parquet.
‘I’m rooted. Gotta lie down.’ He climbed the stairs. I grabbed my schoolbag and followed. As I arrived at his bedroom door, I saw a small mattress on the floor with a sleeping-bag. ‘That’s you there, unless you want to share the bed.’ He struggled to get his windcheater over his head. He sat on the edge of his bed, drunk, his body lean and muscular. His room had the tangy smell of sweat and running shoes. He fell back onto the bed, kicked off his runners and drifted off to sleep. Fascinated, I stood watching his stomach muscles heaving. Got to lie down. I struggled to change into my PJs, trying not to lose my balance. I unrolled the sleeping-bag.
‘You don’t have to sleep down there,’ Kevin slurred into the universe. I said I’d be right. I crawled into the bag and listened to him breathing heavily.
I was bothered some time later by the hardness of the floor and the bright light on the ceiling burning into my brain. I turned over to shade my face and rolled onto one of Kevin’s running spikes. ‘Oh, fuck!’
He’d seen what happened. ‘Come up here.’ I said I was fine. ‘Suit yourself, I’ve gotta take a piss.’ I watched Kevin’s red track pants walk out of the room. Fuck this, let him sleep on the floor. I crawled into the warmth of his bed and rolled over to the wall.
I heard him come back in. He crawled in beside me. I pretended to be asleep but every cell of my body was suddenly alert. Kevin turned toward me. I felt his hand reach around to my crutch and check out my dick, which swelled in his hand. We lay like that for some time. Hormones, adrenaline, testosterone.
The boy in the pale blue jocks is standing beside the bed, nodding gently.
Kevin rolled me onto my back and climbed on top of me. I could feel he had a fat, he rubbed it against me through his pants. He undid my pyjamas, slid his trackies down and lay back on top of me, our cocks flesh on flesh.
His warm breath smelled of cigarettes, banana, stale chocolate. His warm hand wrapped around my tool, tugging it gently. He undid my pyjama top. Hard chest and sweet burning skin.
The boy is in the corridor to the change-room. He puts his hands on top of his head, revealing tufts of hair in his armpits. We are hurtling down the corridor. The boy and I are in freefall.
‘Kevin, get off me, gotta go to the toilet! I’m gonna piss myself.’ I can’t stop it. Hold it in! The weight of his body was crushing me. ‘Get off me,’ I barked.
I slid off the bed and stumbled out to the toilet. I stood at the bowl, holding the wall with one hand, trying to piss. But nothing happened. On the window-sill was a ceramic clown with a cactus growing out of his stomach. My pyjamas were wet, my stomach sticky. How embarrassing, I’ve pissed on him. I put the toilet seat down. I sat drifting between now and the boy in blue, a long way away.
I hauled myself back to bed and slept badly, until I saw the sky coming to life through the window. Small birds cut across the blueness. My head was a fog of hangover and hunger, my mouth dry, my guts tired and achy. Kevin was asleep beside me but tossing a lot. Does this mean I’m not a virgin anymore? Suddenly he sat upright on the edge of the bed and put his head in his hands. He tried to shake himself awake, like a horse whinnying.
He pulled on his track pants and skulked out of the room. I could hear him crashing around downstairs. Broken glass was thrown into a bin, taps ran, cupboard doors closed. He crept back into the room. I smiled and he tried to smile back but he wasn’t really looking at me. He was changing into his running gear, red satin shorts and a red singlet. He waved and left.
The sun was beginning to bleed into the room. I got up, dressed and started to put my stuff into my schoolbag, dragging myself into the day. I felt sick. Better go while Kevin is out running. I stole downstairs to find the front door open and Kevin sitting on the doorstep, dripping with sweat. ‘Going?’
‘Lots of homework.’
‘Me too.’ Now he looked like the guy we all picked on at school. ‘I need a smoke.’
‘You’ve just been for a run.’
‘Feel like shit, may as well really do myself in.’
We sat smoking in silence. Kevin started to undo his running shoes. ‘You remember much about last night?’ He wasn’t looking at me. ‘What’d we do? I can’t remember anything.’
Should I risk it? ‘I think we compared dick sizes.’
‘Yeah. I remember that. Not poofters or anything?’
‘No.’
He threw his butt into the far gutter, stood up and stretched.
‘Better get going. Got heaps of geography.’ I wandered off along the street, the street with only one house.
I was very busy that day, reading the newspapers cover to cover, watching television, doing an exceptional amount of homework. Things I had put off for weeks toppled: my book report, counting my money jar, filling out my record-club membership. I was proud of how much I achieved but somewhere in my head was a nagging feeling. I didn’t seem tired at all, perhaps a little foggy but not tired. But the feeling stayed with me, even as I watched the Sunday night movie.
‘Tim, turn off the television.’ Mum, in her dressing-gown, was in the kitchen pouring Riesling from a cask. ‘What about your homework?’
‘Finished it hours ago.’
She settled at the dining-table with her wine and her book, but didn’t read. She was going to sit watching me until I went to bed.
I tried to change quietly in the dark so that I wouldn’t wake my younger brother Nicholas. I fell into bed thinking I would be dead to the world any minute, but all kinds of demons began to creep onto the ceiling above me. I didn’t know Kevin was gay. I hope no one can tell what we did. Wonder what it would be like to suck him off? To lick his balls. What we did was probably wrong but I liked what he did. It was like …
I grabbed my cock. It didn’t feel the same as when Kevin had done it, so I reversed my hand as though he were holding me. I played with my knob and put the pillow on top of me so I could pretend it was him. He was the boy in the blue jocks. I was rubbing my cock against the pillow, trying not to make too much noise in case my brother heard me. It felt nice, weird, like hurtling down the corridor again. Does Kevin really forget what he did? Oh God, I’m gonna piss myself again. I can’t believe this.
I bolted into the toilet. Jesus. What’s that? Claggy stuff was coming out of the head of my cock. I stood watching it spurt, mesmerised by its pulsing, dribbling. I stood in wonder at what had happened. In silence, reverent. Spoof! Sprog!
I slipped back into bed and fell asleep before my head hit the pillow. I slept very deeply, the deepest in a long time.
‘Tim, Nicholas, quarter to eight,’ called my mum, the alarm clock. I leapt out of bed and into the shower, secure in the thought that I was a man, that I had sprogged. I bounced into the kitchen. Mum was sleepily squeezing oranges. ‘You’re very buoyant this morning.’
‘You can tell?’ I poured my Special K into the bowl. ‘I can be a father.’
Mum was visibly shocked, motionless in mid-squeeze. ‘Who have you got pregnant?’
I laughed. ‘No, I was … I had a wet dream last night.’
She sighed and shook her head. ‘What makes you think I’d want to know that?’
Because I wanted everyone to know I’d sprogged. I even announced it later to Joe McMahon, the brainiac of my year.
‘How do you know it was sperm? It was probably just pus,’ he sneered.
‘It was spoof.’
‘What a liar. Prove it.’ The gruff voice of Quin chipped in.
‘Oh sure, deadshit. Here? Now?’
‘Bring it in a jar. I’ll be able to tell you if it is or not.’
Sanctuary
Sanctuary.
A head full of boys. Nipples. Armpits. Lips.
Vaseline. Stroking. Tugging. Baby oil. Pulling. Dencorub.
Surfers changing on the beach near the baths. The surfer with the amazing eyes asking me to help him out of his wetsuit.
Rubbing the bed with my cock. On top of my pillow. Fucking a T-shirt.
The boy in the blue jocks, his bush of pubes slowly revealed. His hardening cock trying to escape. Franco in the change-room shower.
Sitting on the floor of the shower, the warm wet stream pulsing against my cock and balls. Trying to hold it back.
Three billion people in the world. Someone else must be having sex right now. Or whacking off. Spoofing as I spoof.
Stacker’s bush of black pubic hair. The Watermouth twins. A clothesline full of jocks.
Coming again.
A head full of boys.
Nipples. Armpits. Lips.
Sanctuary.
The Wood Princess
Brother Reynolds was late. Guys were up the front, pushing his desk to the front of the platform so that if he put any weight on it, it would fall. Mission achieved, we all sat down and tried to look cool as he marched in, followed by a boy called Billy, red in the face. Billy went straight to his desk without meeting anyone’s eye.
‘Apologies, tadpoles. Bill’s been in an incident this morning that involved the police.’ He’s been shoplifting again. ‘I asked his permission to tell you about it and he’s very generously agreed. Bill went to the toilet at the railway station this morning and while he was standing at the urinal, a businessman offered him five dollars –’
‘Two dollars, sir,’ Billy chipped in.
‘Two dollars, to put the man’s penis in his mouth.’ The room came alive with whispers. Fucken poofters. Devos. Should be shot. How sus.
‘Billy did exactly the right thing. He remained calm and said, “No thank you,” then went out to the main entrance and told the police, who arrested the man. I think what he did was very brave. Remember that you can’t always pick a homosexual, but should one approach you, remain calm and go and get the police. The policeman is your friend.’
Wonder which railway station? I would have done it for him.
‘All right, this morning we’re going to look at a play called The Wood Princess, which is based on an old Hindu myth. Rankin, you read the part of the hunter. Conigrave, you can read the part of the princess.’ Instant death. He handed us copies of the play. A paper ball smacked into the back of my head. ‘Hi Princess,’ Quin whispered behind me.
‘Scene 13, at the riverbank,’ said Brother Reynolds.
HUNTER: Why did you run away?PRINCESS: It is not right for -- [‘We can’t hear you, Conigrave.’] It is not right for you to approach me like this. We cannot be in love.HUNTER: I only want to provide for you, catch squirrels and build a home where we can play with our children.PRINCESS: You must go. I cannot tell you why.
As I choked out each word, I could feel all chance of survival in the playground receding.
Brother Reynolds thanked me and Rankin and asked us to read the whole thing for the class next week. Gee, can’t wait. The teacher’s desk fell with an almighty crash. Brother Reynolds was unfazed. ‘Andy, pick that up.’
Within days, I was christened Princess, then Princess Tina and eventually Sue, which became my nickname for some time.
A week later Rankin and I were coming to the end of the reading. My legs were wobbly, my hands so wet that the pages of the play were stained with sweat, and my face was on fire. I ploughed on.
PRINCESS: Do not kneel before me. It is not punishment I desire. It is your love.
We took our bows like real actors. The guys went spakko applauding. Brother Reynolds sat in silence, shocked, maybe even touched. He looked up and dismissed us with a wave. We were let out of class three minutes early.
‘Bit heavy on the makeup, don’t you reckon?’ It was Quin.
‘Wasn’t wearing any.’
‘Bullshit. You look like a girl.’ He walked away angrily across the quadrangle.
I stood stunned. When I was a small boy, shopkeepers would sometimes call me little girl, but this was an outright attack. What have I done? He was so angry. I went into the toilets. I looked in the mirror. I saw my fringe falling into my eyes, the brown lines around them, my ruddy cheeks, my blood-red lips. I was flushed from acting in front of a hostile class. I did look like I was wearing makeup.
As I walked out of the library after school I saw the gang hanging around the verandah: Grant, Damien and Quin with Sandilands, a bear of a guy whose greatest trick was being able to slag into the air and catch it again in his mouth. I heard them boasting about the orgy they had been to on the weekend.
‘Three fingers, mate, I swear,’ Quin was boasting. ‘She was begging for it.’ What bull, no chick would let such a grot near her. They’re all bullshitting.
Sandilands saw me. ‘Hey, Sue!’ Damien looked uncomfortable, almost embarrassed, as though he felt he should intervene but couldn’t. Sandilands put his arm around my neck. ‘Damien reckons you know a way into the tuckshop.’
Release Date: August 27, 2015
Release Time: 128 minutes
Director: Neil Armfield
Cast:
Ryan Corr as Timothy Conigrave
Craig Stott as John Caleo
Sarah Snook as Pepe Trevor
Guy Pearce as Dick Conigrave
Anthony LaPaglia as Bob Caleo
Kerry Fox as Mary Gert Conigrave
Camilla Ah Kin as Lois Caleo
Tessa de Josselin as Anna Conigrave
Tom Hobbs as Peter Craig
PiaGrace Moon as Prue
Caleb McClure as Nick Conigrave
Geoffrey Rush as Barry
Lee Cormie as Eric
Kaarin Fairfax as herself
Paul Goddard as Father Woods
Timothy Conigrave was born in Melbourne in 1959 and educated at Xavier College and Monash University. He trained as an actor at the National Institute of Dramatic Art, graduating in 1984. He appeared in such plays as Brighton Beach Memoirs and As Is with The Fabulous Globos. He initiated the project Soft Targets, seen at Griffin Theatre in 1986. His other plays include Blitz Kids and Thieving Boy. Timothy Conigrave died in October 1994, shortly after completing his book Holding the Man.
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