I didn’t want to go back to that place. I didn’t want to go back onto the meds.
This was the moment when I needed to rally. This was the moment, when I could slip further, or stand-up. But I couldn’t find the strength to do either.
You weren’t good enough for him, my internal dialogue supplied.
Helpful, really helpful.
I stared up at the ceiling now, watching the fan circle about in slow motion. It was warm in the room, but I couldn’t stand the idea of opening a window. That would make me feel closer to them. The revellers. It would make me feel even more separate ... even more alone. So I just let the old fan spin around stale air. Deep down hoping that it would unhinge from the ceiling and drop onto me. Maybe it would chop me into tiny pieces, or just disfigure me further. Make me more unlovable than I already was.
My phone buzzed. My heart vaulted into my chest. It was sitting on my night stand, and I grabbed at it like a truly desperate man. Maybe Luca had self-reflected, discovered the error in his ways and the love in his heart for me? It was Dan. My heart dipped down, way down, somewhere near my stomach, or closer to my bowels.
Maybe I would just shit it out one of these days.
“Hey whore,” I said, answering the phone with the most pleasant greeting I could muster. As an image of my beating heart, trapped within a turd, bloomed in front of me.
“Why aren’t you here? I have a friend who I want you to meet.” He was screaming into the phone like a crazy person, and Ariana was playing in the background.
“Where are you?”
“Grace’s party.”
I barely knew Grace. She was some party-girl, with peroxide blonde hair, and a Twiggy-esque figure. I couldn’t deal with that aesthetic right now.
“I can’t,” I said flatly.
“There’s lots of wine.”
“Like at the bottle shop?” I supplied rudely.
“And champagne.”
“Still like the bottle shop.”
“And this guy ... I’ve told him all about you ... and shown him pictures of you.”
Of course, so that he was prepared in advance for my unwanted Asian-ness.
“He said ... wow!” he continued.
“Don’t lie,” I said with an internal eye-roll.
“He thinks you’re hot.”
This is how shallow I was – I felt my heart lift out of my colon, and shift back into the confines of my small intestines.
“He must be blind,” I responded self-deprecatingly.
“I’ll send you a pic of him.”
I heard the merry sound of a pic arriving. I looked down at the image. Not bad. Tall. Built. Tanned skin. Hazel eyes. Big grin.
He was way out of my league.
“What’s his deal?” I managed. Dan was a cliquey queen but he wouldn’t lie about something like this. He was aware of the depths of my despair, or at least semi-aware. Everyone in my crowd knew that I had split from phantom Luca. Phantom like his texts.
“He’s a doctor from Singapore – he’s in the army.”
Doctor, check. Army, check. Handsome, check. Unlikely to hate Asians given he lived in Singapore, also check.
“How drunk is he?” I said, still unconvinced that he would go for me in the flesh.
“Not too drunk to have a chat, but he’s had enough to be chatty.”
“Perfect combo.”
“Hurry up bitch. Everyone’s sick of your Bridget Jones bullshit.”
The reference made me smile. He was the bitch.
“Your friend’s here too. The skinny one, you live with.”
“Francesca,” I supplied. Dan didn’t like women. And he only remembered their names if their parents had yachts and mega mansions in Vauclusive (as he called it). Francesca had neither.
I felt kind of bad about our row. It had been too much. Sure, she hadn’t been a good friend, but I’d really gone in on her, and I knew she wasn’t in a good place either. I bit a nail ... it had kind of been uncalled for. The fact is, she’d copped it because of emotional proximity. We were close, really close, and sometimes I could overshare, or over-vent.
That was a nice way to put it, sometimes I could use her as an emotional punching bag. I didn’t like the idea. It made me feel gross ... and (as Benji would say) toxic. Real toxic.
I didn’t want to be that person.
“Yeah, her. She just got into some fight with Hamish. Full on trailer park sort of stuff.”
Oh shit ... not ideal.
The two heady emotions of being desired and regret about the way I had treated Francesca made me sit up slightly.
“Spare me the soul searching and get your ass down.”
“Okay, drop me a pin,” I said.
I hung up the phone. I had a serious rubber arm when it came to a cute guy and the chance to be loved. It was tragic. Good-looking and smart. I was willing to give it a shot.
As I started to dress in my usual uniform, a black, form fitting outfit, I thought it was kind of sad. That I had to consider if a guy was “into” Asians.
It was really fucking sad.
I stood out the front of Grace’s house with my eyes closed, gripping my arms, hoping that oblivion would seize me. It didn’t. Instead, I heard the front-door open, followed by a rush of inside-noise, and close, followed by the quiet, drunken titters of a couple. A man’s voice, and a woman’s, and small swallows of laughter.
“Isn’t that the chick from the kitchen?” More giggles, and then not so subtle shushing, as they stumbled past.
“How fucking crazy.” They were halfway down the path when the woman wheezed this out – and it was almost caught by the wind, but I collected it in snatches.
I felt my face grow hot, and my palms tingle. I could only hide it for the shortest period – the person I was under this façade, and these people weren’t completely fooled anyway. They could smell it on me, concealed somewhere underneath the vanilla perfume and fake tan, I was gauche. Unsophisticated. Lowly in status. I hadn’t gone to the right school and my parents didn’t live in the right suburb. There was a clumsiness to all my attempts to fit in. And now my bogan-ness had been confirmed. I was the type of person who had a “domestic” with her junkie-not-so-boyfriend in the kitchen of someone’s exclusive house. I couldn’t exist in refined society.
I didn’t belong with the Jeffrey Smart paintings.
I would always be found out.
There was nothing new about this realisation – secretly I’d always harboured this understanding. It just stung, now that it had been confirmed.
No matter.
I tried to block the feeling of hopelessness and opened my eyes to that inky goodnight. I fumbled with the clasp on my bag now, thick fingered. Finally, I pulled out my mobile. Who to call now? I’d burnt critical bridges. Leo. Hamish.
I was alone in my tower.
But there was still someone I knew would answer. Was it wrong of me to call him? Was it wrong of me to take advantage of someone like that? Yeah, totally. But there was a lot of things wrong with me – this was by no means, the critical error.
I searched for Benji’s number and hit call.
It rung a few times. I imagined him staring at my name on the screen and considering whether he should answer.
“Hey.”
He did.
Like I said, I knew he would answer.
The house was ridiculously large, expensive and tasteful. There were huge paintings lining the walls. Precise urban landscapes. Hyper-symmetrical. Francesca would know who they were by – she was like the Google of modern art. I pushed the guilty feeling away. I would make it up to her when I found her. I would tell her about what had happened in more detail. We would talk about what we had said to each other. Maybe I would tell Benji too. The secrets were getting to be too much to hold onto, and had started to spill out in weird ways, like the public servant man situation, and the argument with Francesca.
I would think about that later, now I needed to focus. On somet
hing else. The sweet, sweet rush of a hook-up.
I found Dan in the kitchen. No sign of Francesca, or Benji, or even party regular, Hamish.
Just the gays, crowded around the bench, surrounded by half drunk bottles of Ruinart and Grey Goose, and bags of cocaine.
“Hey bitch, you made it!” Dan swooped down on me with a big hug. His short bulky frame pressed tightly against mine. He was sweaty and baked already. Pulling away from him, I inspected his attire. Tight t-shirt and shorts, showing off his bubble-butt and pecs. He loved to show off the goods.
“I would have been bummed if you didn’t come,” he said squeezing my shoulder and forcing me into sitting on a stool. He was definitely cooked. “Let me get you a drink. Bubbles, right?”
I didn’t like bubbles at all, but I did like Dan at this moment, so I nodded. He handed me a brimming flute.
“It’s the good stuff,” he said, vigorously nodding his head.
“I wouldn’t know if it wasn’t,” I said under my breath. He was mistaking me for one of his friends who would be able to taste the difference between Krug and Crystal. I couldn’t tell the difference between Chandon ... and well, anything else. I didn’t come from this world. I thought he knew that? Maybe he was just pretending. Like we all were.
“Cin cin,” he said knocking my glass with his. Definitely pretending.
I took a sip, letting the fizz rock around my mouth.
“How’s your night been?” I asked.
“Only just getting started,” he said with a wink. Right. I knew exactly what that meant. Everyone was about to get wrecked. Maybe that’s what I needed. Like a gun to the head.
I downed the whole glass in a bid to play catch-up.
“I’ll try to find Ryan ... he was here a second ago,” Dan said glancing around the kitchen, wide-eyed, like Ryan would be hiding somewhere behind the kitchen bench. I was assuming Ryan was the guy. The one he had described to me on the phone earlier. I felt nervous, even though I didn’t know Ryan, or if he was even still here.
“There he is!” Dan yelled suddenly, in my ear, semi-deafening me. He beckoned him over with a loose arm.
I could barely look up. Dan was embarrassing me, and Ariana had shifted to a “No Asians” tune playing in my ear. But I did anyway. He materialised by our side. Definitely hot, definitely handsome, definitely the guy I’d seen in the picture.
Our eyes met and locked. Those warm hazel eyes. He had nice eyes, I thought. You could always tell a man by his eyes. I found it hard to look away, but finally after a couple of seconds I did. My cheeks were warm. I could feel myself blushing. I collected other details from his appearance. His clothes fit him well. They weren’t too tight and form fitting. It must have been liberating, feeling comfortable. He wore cream khaki shorts, and a crisp white linen shirt. He looked fresh, a stark contrast, to the other baked queens wafting about.
He leant in and hugged me. I felt my body stiffen by the unfamiliar embrace. I was always nervous around men I wanted.
And yeah, I wanted him bad.
“Sorry,” he said, seeming to notice the tension in my body, as he pulled away. “I’m a hugger. Even strangers.”
“Lucky for you, I like hugs ... even from strangers.” I smiled, kind of transfixed by him.
“I’ve got to go fix this music,” Dan said hurriedly, sensing the vibe. “My friend hijacked the Sonos, and I’m sure we would agree, that there is such a thing as too much Ariana.”
“No such thing!” I called as he sped off. Leaving me with fancy face.
He took Dan’s now vacant seat next to me. I could feel his eyes now, on me, appraising me. Judging me.
“No Asians.” The words appeared in front of me like they were scrawled on the walls of that tiled splashback.
I wished I’d had another drink.
I pulled the bottle of champagne Dan had poured from, towards me, and poured myself a second glass with unsteady hands.
I took a determined sip and then said: “So what brings you to Sydney?”
Christ! The world’s most boring line.
“I had to fly in for a training course,” he responded. He had a nice smile. Generous. He wasn’t begging me to impress him.
“Like a crochet course or something?” I joked.
“No not a crochet course,” he said continuing to smile. “More like macramé.”
Oh, so he was funny. I see. But his sudden quip made me more nervous, and I lost my voice. Usually being funny was my key winning feature. What if he was funnier than me? And hotter? And clearly not Asian? It made the whole situation way unbalanced. Like we were on opposite ends of a seesaw only he was way up in the air and I was squatting on the ground.
“What do you do?” he asked, slashing my emotional turmoil.
“I’m a personal trainer,” I responded quietly. That wasn’t good enough being a PT. It was boring and I felt intimidated by his intellect.
“That explains why you’re so fit.”
I blushed at the compliment.
“Speak for yourself.” I downed another mouthful of champagne to conceal the joy of being noticed ... and even admired.
“Not really. I just live in Singapore. It’s really hot there, so you sweat the fat away. Also, there’s the spicy food factor. Good for sweating too. Like a sauna really.” I laughed a little.
“I’m a psychiatrist,” he said suddenly. “Right,” I responded, startled by the sudden declaration.
He smiled again. “I just get a little nervous sometimes ... and just say stuff.” He glanced away quickly. That was cute. I couldn’t imagine him being nervous around me. When you spend most of your adult life around men feeling invisible, it felt almost odd to have one so nervous around me.
“You must be busy then,” I continued.
“Being a psychiatrist?” he asked, clearly pleased that he had been bailed out.
I nodded.
“Yeah, lots of nuts people around,” he responded, and we both laughed. Even though I was kind of one of those people he was referencing.
I continued to drink, and probed him about his job. I had a tendency to ask people lots of questions. It seemed to relax them and make them smile. I also didn’t really want to talk about myself, so it was an easy out. People rarely realised it was a strategy.
He stared at me right in the eyes, “You know your friend has been talking about you all night, and I’ve gotta say, you’re really handsome and a great listener, most handsome men just talk about themselves.”
We laughed.
The party was in full swing now, and there was a bunch of people packed into that room. I spotted a familiar set of square shoulders, and a neat ass. Adonis Man. What was he even doing here? The sight of him made me feel queasy. The thought must have manifested on my face.
Ryan said: “Am I that boring?”
“No, not at all.” He was actually very interesting. “I just spotted a douche from the gym.”
“Which one?” he asked.
Christ! I had literally brought this on myself. Now I would have to point him out, and maybe even the premise behind why I thought he was a douche. I didn’t want to bring up the “No Asians” thing. A tiny part of me felt like he still might feel that way. Even though we had been getting on well only moments ago. Sometimes if you showed a vulnerability, people exposed it. They went right for the jugular.
Blood hungry.
“That giant dude over there,” I said cocking my head towards the sink and Adonis Man.
“Oh yeah. What did he do?”
See? That question there was inevitable. I had created this situation.
“Nothing much actually,” I managed. “We haven’t spoken.”
“You seem pretty quick to judge,” he said, half smiling. But I could see the cogs turning in his head, he thought I was judgmental. He looked down at his drink now, clearly re-evaluating me.
“Hear me out,” I said pulling out my phone. Now, I would have to expose my Achilles heel to not seem deranged.
> I flicked through the profiles on Grindr which were in close proximity. There he was. I tapped on his profile and brought up his bio. There it was. Those words. They still made me sick. I showed them to Ryan.
“I hate it when guys say that,” he said, his face wincing slightly.
A sense of relief washed over me, at least he agreed.
I retrieved the phone and stuck it in my short pocket, and took another sip of my drink. I’d exposed too much, too soon. This was going to tank fast. Pretty much any sort of spark had been snuffed out. I’d been pretty sure that he had liked me. Moments ago.
“I’m sorry,” he said, squeezing my leg with his hand. The pressure felt nice, reinforcing. “For what it’s worth I think you’re really cute.” He leant in, pulled me into him and we connected. Lips together, summer cologne filled my nostrils and the slight after taste of champagne. Classy.
I pulled away, head spinning.
“Leo, I know it’s not easy, and I have friends that have experienced the same thing too.I’m sorry you had to see that. But you can’t let this control you, you’ve just got to let it go.” His hand remained parked on my thigh. Comforting and enticing all at the same time.
Sighing, I reluctantly agreed. It seemed so stupid wasting mental energy focussing on this. But it felt wrong ignoring the situation too. When I was younger I had romanticised what coming to Sydney would be like, the promise of finding a place in the gay community, perhaps living my very own homosexual version of Sex and the City. I just thought being Asian was kinda normal, but it changed, when I found myself constantly confronted by my race as a barrier to even starting a conversation with other men. The first time you hear a guy say “No Asians” you shake it off, and maybe even the next five or ten times. However, when it becomes the expected response, that’s something else. Why was I expected to dismiss this?
The Overthinkers Page 20