Sushi Central

by Alasdair Duncan

  9

  Patrick returns to my thoughts. I wonder if he’s still standing outside, and if he is, if he’s still thinking about me. If he ever does. Or if he thinks about nothing at all. Maybe it’s better that way. Maybe it would be better if I could think about nothing at all.

  I stand up, walk around the library for a while, kind of tense. Try to avoid my reflection in the windows. The thought of being alone is suddenly too much to physically deal with. It would be cool to be with someone right now, right this second — even if it’s only to distract me.

  10

  This guy I sort of know and would kind of like to sleep with, Paul, is standing just near this bank of computers. The computers, and therefore Paul, are in front of a big set of glass windows. When I walk up to him I can see myself reflected in the glass, along with his back, and both of us are reflected again in the glass that’s behind me and it’s this weird effect that makes us both look like we’re going on forever.

  My mindset changes completely: As I’m staring at myself and at Paul in the glass, I make myself forget about Patrick. Forget about Patrick and everything that he signifies and forget about everything else that has occurred up to this point and thus affected the flow of the afternoon. My afternoon now begins here, in the library, with Paul, and I erase all the negative stuff that’s happened prior to this — it’s excess information and it’s gone.

  I have a crush on Paul. I guess you’d call it a crush. There’s a word for that. It’s simple. I mean, he’s really good-looking, in a boy-next-door sort of a way; I mean, just the fact of looking at him and knowing how cute/uncomplicated he is and the fact that he’s almost definitely straight makes my head hurt.

  The sex/love dichotomy: It’s difficult to explain — and any explanation I could give would have to be a lengthy one — but let’s just say the only boys I feel the need to make an effort with are the ones I know I can’t have. There’s probably some deep psychological explanation for this but I’m not really interested in hearing it. None of the boys I’ve actually been with have meant anything, not even Patrick. He was cute and everything, but he was just … there, convenient. Anyway, the real thing is always kind of underwhelming. That’s why the imaginary thing is so much better.

  Paul’s cute, and the fact that he’s unattainable makes him cuter. That’s just the way my mind works. I wouldn’t say I was in love with him, because that would just be stupid, but it does raise the question — if sex is the real thing and love the imaginary? I really don’t know. Let’s just say that the most interesting crushes are usually on straight boys, which is a real fucking drag, and leave it at that.

  11

  So yeah. Paul and I talk for a while, about school and various things. He asks me if I’m taking Margot to the semi-formal. I tell him we’re not going out, and he gives me this look, which might be interpreted as ‘ohh yeah …’ or ‘that’s too bad dude’ or ‘so, she’s still available?’ but I don’t have the energy to work it out. The conversation turns to other things.

  Paul: My dad’s getting stuck into me at the moment. He doesn’t think my English is good enough.

  Me: That sucks.

  I am thinking: It would be nice to have parents who get stuck into you about stuff like that. It would feel more … normal or something. My parents don’t even ask about school — as long as I’m there and in one piece and I can smile and speak in coherent sentences in front of Dad’s doctor friends, my parents are happy. My parents used to show me off, but there’s kind of an understanding now that they don’t do that any more.

  Paul: Dad wants me to get better marks so I can get into law at UQ.

  Me: Sounds hardcore.

  Paul: I guess. But Dad really wants me to go there. He did law there as well, so he and Mum want me to … keep up the family tradition, I guess. Haha.

  Me: What do you want to do?

  Just by way of clarification — I’m not asking Paul what he really wants to do in any kind of ‘take the road less travelled/follow your dreams’ type of way. Fuck that. I would never want to give that impression because … it’s bullshit. I’m glad Paul’s going into law. I’m just asking him because I’m interested. He might have, you know, hidden artistic leanings or something.

  Paul thinks for a while before he answers; chews his bottom lip.

  Paul: I don’t know. Guess I wouldn’t mind doing law. Tons of work but the money’s good.

  Me: You’re pretty safe if you can get into it.

  Paul: Workload seems pretty scary, but I guess it’ll pay off. How about you? Have you thought about it much yet?

  Me: About … ?

  Paul: Uni, dude. About what you’d like to do?

  It’s something I haven’t actually considered at all.

  Me: Uni’s ages away.

  Paul: It’s never too early to start thinking about that stuff.

  Me: I don’t know. I guess I’ll probably do IT. There are worse things.

  Paul: Thought you’d be into the creative writing or something.

  Me: Nah. That’s kind of … I mean, I doubt if it would get me anywhere.

  Paul: Guess not. Man, the whole idea of uni is …

  12

  Sex: As I’m looking at Paul, this fantasy spins off in my head, and it only lasts for like a second and a half but in it I’m pushing him up against the glass and he’s kissing me and then we’re in his room, or what I imagine his room to be like, because I’ve never actually seen the inside of it, and he’s sucking me off then I’m sucking him off and we’re in love and it’s all extremely straightforward and cool, but I blink and it dissolves and I’m back in the library again, staring at Paul, and maybe this is actually straightforward, and I’m nodding politely as he’s telling me whatever it is he’s telling me.

  13

  So yeah. I’m going over all these things in my head as Paul’s talking, which is probably part of the reason I’m not listening.

  Paul: … have you played it?

  Me: Have I played … ?

  Paul: GTA 4, dude, on Sony 2. It’s the fucking best. Stealing cars, shooting at people, blowing shit up. It’s so fucking cool. There’s a helicopter in it as well. You sit there for hours and you forget what you’re doing. You just want to keep playing, and you can’t stop until you get it right. My brother and I were up until one thirty this morning. Mum chucked a shit. But still … It’s fucking sweet.

  Me: Sounds good.

  Paul: You should come over sometime and play it, dude. You’ll love it.

  Me: That would be cool.

  Paul tells me he’s going up to the computer labs. Asks me if I want to come. I tell him I can’t, tell him I have stuff to do, even though I don’t.

  14

  The rest of the day kind of dragged by. Caught the bus home; still thinking about Paul and how nice it would be to fuck him, or even just get drunk together and mess around. You know what they say — a sixpack and any boy’s a faggot. Or maybe not. Thinking about it starts to get to me. I pull out the little notebook I always carry with me, think of everything that’s happened so far today and write it all down.

  About my notebook. I’m kind of an obsessive note-taker. It’s hard to explain — I mean, okay, put it this way. If I could, I’d have a Polaroid camera with me all the time so I could keep a record of everything significant/interesting/pretty/unusual etc that I see. The millions and millions of random things — grey sky reflecting off the sides of buildings, pieces of sushi on display, cute boys, boys I’d like to sleep with (their profiles, the expressions on their faces), city lights, crowds, neon, posters outside cinemas — which pass most people by. I try to keep a record of the texture of each day, or the colour of it, or whatever. Because I can’t take photographs of things, I take notes on them instead.

  I’m currently using this little spiral notebook. It used to be black but it now has a picture of Stefan Oldsal, the bass player from the band Placebo, stuck on the front. I do whatever with the notes that I make. Use them in stori
es. Stick them up on my walls — which sounds kind of, you know … gay — or in boxes, or whatever. But I always take notes on everything. So I won’t forget.

  15

  Written in my notebook on the way home: I always think about ridiculous things. Not even thoughts really, more like fantasies. Stupid things. Totally impractical things — altering my entire life on a whim, things like that. I mean, for instance, I could be watching some stupid movie late at night — like the other night Margot and I saw Velvet Goldmine — and I’ll think to myself, ‘Wow, maybe if I was hanging out with rock musicians, glamming it up and taking tons of drugs in London in the early seventies, then maybe everything would be okay. Maybe that’s what’s missing, and if I could somehow travel back in time, somehow wake up tomorrow and be living that fictional life instead of mine, then everything would be great and everything would make sense. That’s the kind of thing I mean. Stupid, impractical stuff, but whenever I’m wrapped up in one of these fantasies, I’m totally into it, to the point of …

  16

  I get cruised on the bus. I look up, out the window, as the bus is slowing towards a stop, and I see this fairly cute guy just about to get on. He distracts me from my notebook. The guy is tall and dyed blond; his hair is gelled into position and he’s wearing a vest kind of thing with nothing on beneath it. Looks older, in his midtwenties or something. I notice him mainly because he looks exactly like this Nathaniel guy I was seeing but not really seeing a few months ago.

  I look at him and he sees me looking at him and he looks back at me and for a second we make eye contact. I think I know what this is. I know how to play this game. I look away, but a few seconds later I look back, and he’s looking at me, he’s definitely looking at me, and he doesn’t look away and he’s definitely, as they say, into it, and I realise right then:

  This guy wants to fuck me. If I wanted, I could have this guy. He’s not bad looking. He’s really kind of okay looking when you think about it. He’s interested in me — whether it’s for me or for the fact that I’m wearing a school uniform, I’m not entirely sure, but I realise:

  This guy and I could fuck this afternoon.

  17

  Two possible scenarios run parallel in my head:

  a) I am standing up, moving towards the front of the bus, and as I’m moving towards him I’m looking in his eyes the whole time, this general purpose slutty look on my face, and he is getting the message, and he is following me. I am walking to this park at the far end of my street and he is still following me. His hands are on my waist. I don’t know if they feel warm or not. He’s kissing my neck. He’s unzipped my pants and I can feel his hand around my cock. I am guiding him down, guiding his head down, and he is so into it it’s like an equation solving itself. The familiar warm, wet feel of his mouth. I am closing my eyes. I feel … something.

  b) I am standing up, ignoring him. My head is bowed towards the floor of the bus. I am hoping he won’t follow me, and he doesn’t. I am walking home. I am thinking how much it sucks being alone this afternoon, how cool it would have been to feel that closeness to another person. I am going home. I am sixteen and I am walking home all alone.

  The two versions fight for supremacy and I wonder which would be better, to try and snag this guy just for the sake of making myself feel alive, or to walk off and spend the rest of the afternoon thinking about how much better the alternative might have been if I’d only been brave enough.

  18

  It’s a split-second decision. The guy is looking at me, I look back at him, we’re looking in one another’s eyes, and then I lose it. I turn my head and I look out the window and I don’t look back.

  I’m thinking so hard about him and whether or not I should try again, just to let him know that he can follow me or whatever, that I get distracted and almost miss my stop. Always seems to happen. I close my notebook; hook my pen on the front. I stand up and walk towards the door of the bus. My head is bowed towards the floor. The guy doesn’t follow.

  19

  Standing on the road. The bus is driving off. As I’m slipping my notebook in my bag, I stop for a second and stare at that picture of Stefan Oldsal on the front. He looks extremely European. Aloof. Mysterious. Hot. Etc. I don’t know. Whatever. But on the walk home, Stefan starts talking to me.

  Stefan Oldsal: What was with that?

  Me: With what?

  Stefan Oldsal: That guy on the bus, kid. He was cute. You could have had him.

  Me: I know. I didn’t want to.

  Stefan Oldsal: He was into you, kid.

  Me: Yeah, but probably only because of how young I look. Lots of guys get off on that.

  Stefan Oldsal: Doesn’t matter. Think of how good it would have felt to have that guy sucking you off. To know that you can have that kind of power over a person. That would feel good, Calvin. You know it. That would feel fucking great.

  Me: I don’t care.

  Stefan Oldsal: You should care, kid. You should have let that guy suck you off. You know how good it is to feel another person with you. Someone who wants you. Makes you feel alive.

  Me: I guess.

  Stefan Oldsal: Have you ever thought that maybe that’s all you’ll ever know about love, kid? What kind of life do you think you’re going to lead, Calvin? I hope you’re not harbouring any illusions that you’re going to end up anything more than a sad … old …

  Me: Shut the fuck up Stef.

  Stefan Oldsal: One day you’ll be just like that blond guy.

  Me: What does that mean? Wait. Fucking … I don’t want to talk about this any more.

  Stefan Oldsal: Okay then. Porno. See ya, kid.

  I really wish figments of my imagination would stop fucking with me. Anyway. Over it.

  20

  Home. Albany Creek. All of the houses here are big and suburban looking and safe, and my parents’ doesn’t stand out. Neither of my parents’ cars is in the driveway, but then that’s hardly surprising. When I walk inside, the place is empty. My computer’s still on, a bunch of MP3s and other crap I started downloading before I left for school this morning are almost finished. Late afternoon and I have nothing to do and no drugs in the house — except for some pot I’m saving for emergencies, which this definitely isn’t — and it’s probably a bit too early to head over to Margot’s, so I try to come up with some kind of meaningful sexual fantasy involving Paul, or the blond guy on the bus, or possibly both of them together, but their faces keep getting all messed up and I can never get a clear picture of either, so I get sick of it finally and decide to just listen to some music. I put this album I like on the big stereo in the living room and just lie around listening and spacing out. I wonder where my parents are, and it suddenly occurs to me that I have no idea where they are. Dad might be at the hospital, Mum might be anywhere, and there’s no telling when or if either of them will be back, and the thought of this spins me out even further.

  I make the CD skip to track three — ‘Teardrop’, which is this suffocating and weirdly beautiful song with sampled drums that sound like heartbeats — and put it on repeat.

  21

  Walk around the house for a while not really knowing what to do. I pour myself a coke and then don’t drink it. I wonder what it would have been like if I’d brought that guy with me — I mean, you know, I wouldn’t have brought him here, obviously, but maybe somewhere. Close by, those trees near the end of the street, maybe. That park. There are lots of places to hide. But whatever. He would be sucking me off right now. I’d be feeling his tongue; the warm, wet feel of his mouth. More than that, I’d be feeling another person near me. Someone who was into me, even if it was only for twenty minutes or whatever. I try to make these thoughts dissolve, but I think some trace of them stays with me. Some feeling of emptiness, or regret. I don’t know, maybe I’m just in the mood to get fucked. That’s probably it actually.

  I head into the office. The carpet is white and it feels soft under my feet. I sit on the computer chair and spin around a whole
bunch of times. Play with this stress toy thing that’s sitting next to the screen — my dad got it from a drug company; and it’s green with these big eyes that sort of bug out, so I think it’s meant to be a frog or something. You’re meant to squeeze it and it relieves your tension. I squeeze the frog thing for a while but I don’t really feel any different. I get bored after a while and decide to go on IRC chat, see if any of my friends are online. Break through the boredom or whatever.

  22

  There are six different windows open on the screen:

  1. A page with a whole bunch of photos on it, digital photos that someone took at this rave at Southport last weekend. Margot sent me the link yesterday because there was a photo of her on the page. I scroll through them for a while, up and down, trying to find her. I don’t find Margot, but I end up finding the following photos:

  a) A boy in glasses — a maths geek type, but he’s pretty cute — sort of leaning into the camera with this totally blissed-out expression on his face.

  b) A blurry shot of a red-haired girl; you can’t really make her out because the camera must have been moving too fast when the photo was taken, but there are streaks of light trailing behind her like butterfly wings and she looks strangely beautiful.

  c) A DJ, but the photo is more or less ruined because he is too far away and there are too many bright lights behind him so all you really see are smudges of red. There’s a huge crowd in front of him, dancing, kissing, sweating, arms thrown in the air. Makes me wish I was there.

  d) A pretty if somewhat slutty-looking boy in a ‘Fuck Me, I’m Famous’ shirt. He has blond hair, spiked up, and a dog-collar. He is sticking his tongue out at the camera. There is a pill on it.

  2. The homepage of some young guy I met in this GayBris-bane chatroom a week or two ago. I think his name is Jeremy. I think he’s from Robina. He’s been sending me these really, like, bizarre emails. I mean, like, in the very first email he told me that he’d once posed for this porn photographer, and he’d been sucking his father’s business partner off for cash ever since he was, like, thirteen or something. But he also sent a pic of himself and he looks pretty cute, if somewhat disturbed. Really tall, bleached blond, though you could still see the dark roots, and he had this, I don’t know, dumb kind of look. Dumb, but really hot. His page is impeccably designed. It’s almost too well designed. It’s all white, with icons that highlight and turn a neon blue when you drag the mouse over them. None of the links seem to go anywhere so I get annoyed and give up altogether.