Me, Myself and Someone Else

by Graeme Aitken

  ‘Okay, I’ll tell him, but you know, if you really want to make an impact, you should get your wig professionally styled,’ advised Strauss. ‘It makes a world of difference.’

  The next day, I rang the wig shop and made the arrangements to have my wig styled, a detail I deliberately neglected to inform Damon of. When I collected both wigs on the Saturday morning, there was no question that my hair thoroughly upstaged his. Damon thought so too when he arrived at my place on Saturday evening to get ready. ‘That’s not the wig you chose with me,’ he said accusingly.

  I assured him that it was and explained that Primrose was so excited to be in the big city, she had gone to an Oxford Street hair salon and had her hair styled for the first time in her life. ‘Usually, she has one of the local shearers cut her hair.’

  ‘Humph,’ Damon snorted. ‘That hair will be at odds with Primrose’s outfit.’

  ‘Yes, I thought that too,’ I agreed, ‘so I went back to the Costume Shop and picked something more appropriate for a big night out.’

  We’d had a scream of a time trying on outfits mid-week at the Surry Hills Costume Shop. Damon had talked me into the blandest outfit: a knee-length kilt and ruffled cream blouse. He also suggested I carry a Bible. ‘You can tell people you intend to go straight from Arq to early morning mass.’

  Of course, I’d never had any intention of wearing something so drab. I’d gone back to the shop the next day and picked something else.

  Damon glowered. ‘Let me see.’

  My new outfit was a faded denim mini skirt, a shiny fringed low cut top, white tasselled boots, and a miniature cowboy hat. ‘You’re going to look like the Tamworth town bike in that get-up,’ sniped Damon.

  ‘Well, we are going to Oxford Street, not a Scottish dancing night,’ I defended myself.

  ‘But it makes my outfit look plain and I’m supposed to be the glamorous one,’ Damon moaned.

  Damon had selected a slinky pants suit in black and gold, with a matching mini cape. It was a sophisticated look, but alongside mine, suddenly it didn’t look so feminine. Damon sulked right through getting his make-up done. I kept him plied with champagne but even that didn’t help. When it was my turn to be made up, Damon flounced off upstairs to get changed. Fifteen minutes later he returned, in costume, all smiles, and made a Norma Desmond grand entrance down the staircase. ‘How do I look?’ he cooed.

  But he knew: he looked amazing. He’d brought accessories with him—a detail I hadn’t thought of for myself and which he’d neglected to suggest—and they really set off his outfit. He had this delicate gold scarf draped around his neck, sported chunky gold earrings and bracelets, and clutched what looked like a Chanel handbag. The make-up artist couldn’t stop admiring him. I complimented him too; I was still confident that I would eclipse him.

  But despite all my efforts to outmanoeuvre and outclass Damon, when I descended the stairs, I didn’t receive the same effusive response. I noted that the make-up artist laughed at me; whereas when Damon made his entrance, he’d gazed at him in awe and admiration. There was just something about Damon’s face and the way he carried himself that was uncannily convincing. ‘You look better as a woman than you do as a man,’ I informed him nastily.

  But Damon just laughed. ‘Shouldn’t you get into character Primrose, be a sweet, charitable Christian girl instead of such a bitch?’

  I finished off the rest of the champagne myself—I was fuming! But by the time our taxi arrived and we headed out the door, my excitement had overwhelmed my pique. As we drove to Oxford Street, Damon flirted outrageously with our taxi driver, who seemed rather overawed by his passengers. After we’d clambered out and Damon had farewelled his new friend in a frenzy of blown kisses, he turned to me and clasped my hand. ‘I’m so glad we’ve become close,’ he declared.

  Guardedly, I muttered similar sentiments; though I wondered what this was a prelude to. He must have sensed my reservation. ‘Hey, relax,’ he laughed, ‘I’m not coming onto you.’

  I grinned, relieved. ‘Admittedly, I used to feel attracted to you,’ Damon continued, ‘and I guess that antagonism between us was all kind of mixed up with my feelings. But after that incident at your party, the idea of intimacy with you is … beyond repellent. Truly! It conjures up … well you know what.’

  I apologised. ‘No, no,’ Damon protested, squeezing my hand. ‘Now that some time has passed, I’m actually glad that bathroom moment happened. Because it exorcised what I felt for you instantly and it’s so much easier. Now we can just be friends without me feeling any attraction or feeling injured because you rejected me. It’s a good thing.’

  ‘Really?’

  I was intrigued. If only my tortured feelings about Blake could be erased so neatly. I still thought of him, far more often than I ought to.

  As we approached the corner of Crown and Oxford Street, two young Arab guys accosted us and insisted on escorting us across the road to The Colombian. Then they squired us inside, bought us drinks and commanded some bystander to take photos of us all on their camera phone. They were clearly both straight, but didn’t object to Damon fondling their arses as we squeezed up together to be photographed. They then tried to talk us into going to some club in the Cross to meet their mates. Damon was raring to go. ‘How heavenly,’ he gushed. ‘Are your friends as cute and butch as you two?’

  But I vetoed the idea, took Damon aside and pointed out how foolhardy it would be. ‘Their mates may not be as amenable as these two. We could end up getting harassed or attacked. It’s not safe.’

  Damon sighed but admitted that sensible Primrose was right. After another round of drinks, the boys departed, vowing that they’d meet up with us later and gave Damon their phone number so we could coordinate. He immediately sent them a filthy text, promising them both a blow job in a back alley later on. That offer seemed to be appreciated as it elicited by way of reply a photo text of a most impressive looking cock. Damon kept studying the photo, speculating as to which boy it belonged to, and exclaiming. ‘If this is flaccid, just imagine what it will be like when it’s erect!’

  Even I had to admit that perhaps I might have been too hasty in letting those boys run off.

  Eventually, Damon put his phone away and began to gaze around the bar, assessing the other prospects, when suddenly he gasped and grabbed me. ‘Oh my God. Look who’s at the bar,’ he exclaimed, forgetting all about his Veronica voice in his excitement

  I glanced over but the bar was very busy and I couldn’t see who he was referring to. ‘Who?’

  Damon pointed. ‘There, getting a drink.’

  He had his back to me, but even so, I recognised him. He was wearing a tee shirt I’d encouraged him to buy in Rome. A wave of panic rose up in me. I tucked my arm through Damon’s. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  But Damon stood his ground. ‘What? Are you crazy? This is a golden opportunity to spy on him. I’m not budging. I want to see what he’s up to. Is he drowning his sorrows over his faithless boyfriend or trying to pick someone up himself?’

  ‘But he’ll recognise us,’ I protested.

  Damon laughed. ‘Primrose honey, trust me, you’re unrecognisable. Besides, Blake would never imagine that you and I would even go out for a drink together, let alone be dressed up like this.’

  Blake turned around with his drink, took a sip, and began to survey the bar. I hastily bowed my head. ‘He’s going to recognise us,’ I muttered.

  ‘No he’s not. In fact, he’s looking right at us now and doesn’t have a fucking clue,’ Damon replied triumphantly.

  When I braved a glance, I was horrified to see that Damon was giving Blake a little wave. ‘What are you doing?’ I hissed. ‘He’ll come over here and if he sees us up close, he’ll recognise us.’

  ‘Relax,’ Damon replied. ‘He’s too busy cruising to waste his time chatting to a couple of drag queens. He’s been sizing up the talent ever since he walked in the door.’

  That remark made me forget my qualms, raise my eyes, and
take a closer look at Blake. I began to see what Damon meant. The way he was slouched against the bar, his crotch thrust slightly forward was undeniably sexual.

  I hadn’t seen Blake for months and I was struck by how muscular he’d become. His biceps and chest were so prominent now and he filled out that tee shirt in ways that he never used to. ‘Someone’s been hitting the steroids,’ Damon sniped.

  Perhaps that remark was designed to make me feel better. Seeing Blake and being confronted by the fact that he looked considerably hotter than before made me feel decidedly weird. What I longed for was to feel absolutely nothing for him but instead I felt this whole gamut of emotions: envy, dismay, jealousy, regret, desire, nostalgia and a crippling sense of my own inadequacies. These emotions were becoming more and more heightened as I watched Blake and recognised how predatory his intent was. He was assessing every attractive guy who walked past or was standing nearby. His gaze was intense and rapacious. It made me wonder if he was drunk or high. ‘I don’t think I can watch this,’ I muttered.

  ‘Oh of course you can,’ Damon retorted. ‘It’s going to be so delicious when he makes a move on someone and gets rejected.’

  ‘But what if he doesn’t get rejected?’

  ‘Blake’s been out of this snooty scene for years. He might imagine that he can simply bowl in here and command attention, but I think he’s going to discover that he’s sadly mistaken.’

  I had to admit that Damon had a point. Since I’d been single, my success rate in bars had been abysmal. ‘Here, here, here,’ Damon nudged me again. ‘Something’s happening.’

  A tall, muscular guy with a goatee walked towards Blake. As he drew near, Blake raised his eyebrows and gave him a cocky, crooked smile. The guy nodded but swept past Blake and kept walking towards the stairs. Damon gave a gleeful chortle. All three of us watched the guy mount the stairs, and noted that as he rounded the corner, he did not spare Blake a backward glance. Blake, however, seemed undeterred by this lack of encouragement. He seized his drink and headed for the stairs too. ‘Ohh,’ squealed Damon. ‘He’s persistent, isn’t he? No doubt, he intends to corner him at the urinal. Come on.’

  Damon tucked his arm through mine, but I stood my ground. ‘Blake wouldn’t do something like that,’ I said firmly.

  ‘Really? With that gleam in his eye and the way he chased that guy upstairs? Come on, we’ll both die of curiosity down here.’

  Reluctantly, I allowed Damon to guide me forward. It took us a while to press through the crowd and mount the stairs as several people stopped us along the way to chat. When we finally reached the top, the upstairs bar was completely packed and there was no sign of Blake or goatee guy. ‘I’m checking the toilets,’ Damon announced, but as he began to walk off, the men’s toilet door opened, and goatee guy emerged.

  He walked briskly towards us, gave us a grin and a wink, then clattered back down the stairs. A moment later, Blake sidled out of the toilet. Damon gave me an I-told-you-so look but all I could think about was the fact that Blake was approaching us, rapidly. I grabbed Damon’s hand and pulled him after me, through the door and in amongst the throng of people. When I glanced back, Blake was hovering in the doorway. After a few moments, he began to make his way towards the bar.

  We spied on him for the next hour. During that time, he downed three more vodkas and tried his luck with several more guys. For a while, it looked like he was having some success with one of them. They talked together for twenty minutes or more, and there was lots of smiling and laughing and not-so-casual touching. It was fascinating and excruciating, yet I felt compelled to keep watching. Even when Damon tactfully suggested that perhaps we should go back downstairs, I shook my head. Then to our surprise, the guy’s boyfriend turned up. Blake’s confident smile curdled into confusion. After a few minutes, this couple said their goodbyes and departed, holding hands. Blake’s face was thunderous. He tossed down what remained of his drink and ordered a fresh one.

  Next, he tried his luck on a younger guy, who just gave him an incredulous look and walked off. ‘I wonder what that line was,’ Damon tittered. ‘It was spectacularly unsuccessful.’

  Blake seemed to give up after that. His eyes stopped raking over the guys and a glowering expression slid across his face. He finished his drink and began to push his way through the crowd to the exit. ‘Quick,’ I commanded, jumping unsteadily to my feet, ‘we have to follow.’

  Damon and I had polished off a couple more cocktails, on top of the champagne and the drinks the Arab boys bought us. Any qualms I’d had about spying on Blake or being recognised had magically dissipated. But Damon was reluctant. He’d been chatting animatedly for ten minutes to a guy who claimed to be straight and had no idea he was in a gay bar. ‘Blake might be striking out left, right and centre, but I think I’m onto something here,’ he hissed at me.

  ‘Well, I want to see where he’s going,’ I insisted. ‘I’ll either come back or send you a text and tell you where I am.’

  I hurried off in pursuit of Blake; in my haste, stumbling most ungracefully in my heels. But when I got downstairs, there was no sign of Blake anywhere. I ducked out the Crown Street exit rather than trying to weave through the crowd, and once I was outside spotted him immediately. He was crossing Crown Street. I was tempted to dart after him through the cars, and was measuring up the odds of making it across in time, when to my surprise Blake made a left turn. I’d expected him to continue on down Oxford Street to The Midnight Shift or Phoenix. Suddenly, Damon was at my elbow. ‘What’s he up to? Heading home alone?’

  ‘I guess,’ I replied. ‘Hey, what happened to that guy?’

  Damon made a face. ‘Well, as soon as you left, his big hand tried to slither down my pants. Okay, I’ve allowed such liberties before, but usually it’s in a dark corner at Manacle around five in the morning. It just seemed an awfully crass way of ascertaining what Veronica’s got tucked away down there. So I stormed off.’

  I wasn’t really listening. I was watching Blake stride up Crown Street and feeling slightly puzzled. Yes, his home was in that direction, but why had he crossed the street? Instinctively, I began to walk up Crown Street myself, trailing him from the other side of the street. ‘What are you doing?’ Damon complained, trotting after me. ‘He’s only going home. Let’s go somewhere else, maybe Palms or The Taxi Club.’

  But I ignored him and kept walking. I’d begun to have an inkling of where Blake might be going … and I was right. His pace slowed, he glanced around sharply, and then he ducked into Headquarters. It was a sex club and one that I knew was very popular, though I’d never been there myself. ‘Oh my,’ Damon gurgled excitedly. ‘I didn’t think Blake went to places like that.’

  I didn’t think so either. He’d made such a song and dance when he caught me out going to the sauna, and been so scathing about how sordid it was. It was very interesting indeed and provoked a lot of questions about the state of his current relationship. But there was also the intent with which he’d strode along Crown Street to Headquarters. It made me suspect that it wasn’t his first visit and I couldn’t help wondering if he’d ever gone there when we had been together.

  I must’ve stood there for a minute or more, just staring at the entrance, completely lost in my own thoughts. Finally, Damon tucked his arm through mine, turned me around and began to walk me back to Oxford Street. ‘It must be over with Rick,’ Damon declared. ‘Blake would never agree to any sort of open relationship.’

  ‘Well, the Blake I knew wouldn’t,’ I agreed, ‘but as you’ve said he’s rather different these days.’

  ‘He certainly is. But this insight calls for another drink, something to celebrate the demise of Blake’s misguided relationship,’ Damon decided. ‘Where shall we go? I want to dance. Palms? Unfortunately, Primrose we won’t be able to find any square-dancing on Oxford Street for you.’

  I let him take charge. We went to Palms—we toasted, we drank, we danced—but really my mind was elsewhere. I couldn’t stop thinking about Blake. I
could understand all too well why he’d been drawn to that sex club. His increasingly frantic cruising in The Colombian was very familiar to me. When I was newly single, how many times had I tried to snatch a physical distraction with a stranger, then resorted to the sauna when all else failed? I shuddered. I’d been so needy. No wonder, guys had been repelled. They must’ve been able to sense my desperation. Now it looked like Blake was going through the same thing.

  It made me wonder what he might do in this vulnerable state.

  Would he turn back to me?

  4

  Chapter Four

  Damon: Good morning Primrose. So it seems Rick the Prick has opened Blake up in more ways than one! Now he’s prowling sex clubs. What’s next?

  I felt decidedly seedy when Damon’s message woke me up at midday. I gulped down some water, rolled over and tried to get back to sleep, but that proved impossible. My mind had started circling over the events of last night. I phoned Damon back who sounded surprisingly fresh considering how much he’d had to drink. He was also eager to gossip about Blake and what we’d observed, but I had no patience for that. What I wanted was firm facts, not heated speculation. I reminded Damon that we didn’t know anything definitively, then casually suggested that he might like to ring Blake and find out what was going on. But Damon was outraged. ‘After the way he cast me aside?’ he cried indignantly. ‘Absolutely not. It’s up to him to try and salvage our friendship.’

  ‘Well you don’t necessarily need to salvage the friendship, just find out what’s going on with Rick. Aren’t you dying to know the details?’

  Damon considered this for a moment. ‘Naturally, I’m curious, but I’m more curious to see if he suddenly recalls our friendship, now that’s he’s alone, bereft and perhaps even homeless.’

  Damon’s words startled me as I had been thinking something similar. My mind had been in overdrive, imagining elaborate scenarios in which the repentant Blake would come crawling back to me. I would toy with him before delivering a cold, dismissive rebuff.