Rent Boy

by James Anthony Ford

  “Do you like boys?”

  “What?...What do you mean? Who told you that?” I replied whilst giggling my jaw, knowing who is responsible for influencing my nephew to be so ‘inquisitive’.

  “Are you a poofy?” he asked with an innocent chuckle.

  “Who said that to you mate?”

  He told me who. I stood up calmly, walked into my room, slammed the door and went straight to my bottle of Valium.

  “Jay?” Mum rushed over to my closed door whilst knocking.

  ‘Are you okay” she continued,

  My brother rushed to the door and I knew he would make an attempt to burst in. I am furious. I wanted to smash something, preferably ‘her’ face. (His partners, that is).

  I rushed to the door and put the full force of my body against it. My brother tried to burst in.

  “Open the door!” he shouted.

  He took another go at trying to burst in but failed. He may be larger than me but not stronger.

  “You are fucked in the head mate! Get psychiatric help!”, he screamed.

  He was right but I was angry and upset and wanted to escape. Once he backed off the door I reached for the bottle of Valium and swallowed half a bottle, probably about 25 of them. The rest I spat back out into the bottle. I really did not want to kill myself. I just wanted to pass out. I had enough and this was the last Christmas.

  Minutes later I was out of it but conscious. I remember my mum bursting in whilst I was laying on the floor. She spoke to to me like I was an idiot. She was right. I was an idiot and felt like one but I just wanted out.

  “Why are you doing this Jay?”

  “What happened?”

  “Speak to me”

  She asked question after question after question with such concern but I refused to answer. I was heavily sedated, with alcohol, but was able to answer, yet refused. I regret that. My mum was clearly upset. I was just angry and wanted to die. What my nephew said hurt me and I knew who was responsible.

  My brother and his ‘tribe’ left. I started to feel physically sick from the combination of sedatives and alcohol. But the anger was overwhelming and god knows why, I began to feel hate towards to my mother.

  As my mother came back to me lying pathetically on the floor, quizzing me with question after question, I suddenly got up, staggered around for a while, then grabbed something for the kitchen. My mum fold me begging me to stop but I was not sure what as I was totally out of it. Apparently it was knife, but as I was so out of it, that is all I can recall. All I remember is that I approached my mum with this object in the kitchen and threatened her with it. But this is what I ashamedly recall. I pushed my mum to the wall, not with force (I know that as I was tods that later), I held a knife to her throat and looked into her eyes.

  “Go on, do it! Do it! Get it over with!” she said with a tear in her eye staring directly at me.

  I dropped the knife and walked out into the backyard. I staggered like a pathetic zombie into somewhere in the dark backyard, fell into a foetal position and cried uncontrollably. I was shocked to the core to what I had just done to my mother. My mum. My mum who adored me from birth.

  “How could I have possible even think about doing such a thing?!!! This was it.

  This is the end. I am going to end it. This is inexcusable and I am ending it now. This is it”

  This was the first time that I was really courageous (if you can call it that) enough to feel the pain of cutting my own throat. I need to end my life. My mum, my dear, loving mum!!!!!!!

  Why?!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  I attempted to scramble around the dark to find something sharp as I can hear my mum calling out my name to find where I am. I was desperate. I needed to end it before the cops arrive. I am done and dusted and I am craving to feel the pain and agony I deserved. My life is over and I am done.

  But no. The police arrive and I was quizzed in middle of the backyard and escorted by police car to the Hilton Brisbane to stay overnight before I departed for my luxury trip to New Zealand the next day.

  This was surreal. No other words to describe it yet I never want to experience it ever again.

  Ever.

  ................................................................................................................................

  Chapter seventeen……………Apartment 666

  After four years of blood, sweat and tears, and there were more tears than anything else, I graduated with a Bachelor of Visual Art and a Bachelor of Communication. Hard to believe my success it really did not sink in for a while. With much praise from my professors I was urged by both those in visual art to get my artworks into galleries, and on the other hand, was encouraged to pursue journalism, but mostly script-writing. I was leaning mainly towards doing my artwork as I was so attached to it personally and it was relieving due to the personal and autobiographical nature of my work. The concept I dealt with aimed at identity and role play during childhood. This was the many years as a child growing up I used role play as a form of escapism from the ordeals from my stepfather. I often played, on my own, in a private space many masculine roles where power and authority was a major part. In retrospect, it had something to do with keeping on top of things and kept me sane. The physical aspect about my approach and process involved constructing shadows of figures of certain roles, where I constructed assemblages using domestic objects that juxtaposed into figurative shadows. I was addicted to creating them and had many ideas, yet I still had in the back of my mind this idea about writing a film script. But I continued to (try) and ignore that dream as I thought to myself it would never happen. So after graduation it was time to move on. I needed a change of atmosphere and craved a career with something I really wanted to do but what I was good at. Another space is what was needed.

  ……………………………..

  It has been about twelve years I have lived in that apartment in South Yarra and never had any real thought to move. I just wanted a change of atmosphere, perhaps something larger with a backyard, or balcony. This may be a challenge considering I still wanted to live close to the city. Remarkably I found a literally perfect two bedroom apartment in Balaclava, which is on the other side of the Yarra river, still close to the city, just a little further out. This was my first apartment inspection and I was instantly approved. Obviously someone up there is starting to like me. (Thank you god). So without delay I began to make the arrangement to move. You know the drill; giving notice to my current agent, paying the bod and rent in advance, then the packing and cleaning. Four weeks of what we are all familiar with, yet I was excited and had a good feeling about this new place. So I actually had a ball packing and cleaning.

  For the next four weeks of packing and cleaning I had experienced some strange occurrences. At the time I thought nothing really about it but I often had a few accidents and it was on a daily basis, mainly during the last two weeks of cleaning.

  There were many time I cut myself accidentally, hit my head and every other body part on something, even falling off the chair whilst cleaning the cobwebs off the ceiling. It was a cycle of accidents. Then again I am a self-confessed accident prone victim! As my mum, she will confirm that. However, these accidents just escalated over and over the closer the date to moving was approaching. It was not as if I was being careless of rushing, as I really was not. They just happened and no idea why as I did nothing out of the ordinary. Strange but true, yet I ignored its relevance, if any.

  ……………………………………..

  Moving day;

  Yes! Finally the day arrived and everything ran smoothly apart from the fact it was a forty degree Celsius day! Of course it would be; this is Melbourne! So the move carried on and a couple hours later I was officially in my new home. It felt good and like an achievement. I had met one of the neighbours already who seemed quite nice but not the others as yet. Of course when you move stuff in ther
e is a bit of noise, and unpacking boxes is particularly noisily with unravelling tape from boxes. I don’t think the neighbours downstairs appreciated me unpacking after six pm, as they hit the walls as a sign to shut up. I can take a hint, even though they could have done this with a bit more decorum. Whatever, I would continue the next day. So as only half the task is done, there was the unpacking to do and I am determined to get this done and settled so I can get back into my artwork again.

  ……………………………….

  After settling in I spontaneously to progress back into my artwork. I wanted to transfer my feelings and emotions onto canvas as a form of expression and just putting my emotions into a visual form. I found it so stimulating, I almost got a natural adrenaline rush from doing my artwork that it led to another composition piece and another and another. I soon had a whole portfolio collection of artwork. All very personal and quite striking. In fact some of them quite disturbing, but that’s the idea, it was designed to get reaction about my feeling about society. Will came over soon to see my new place and was surprised with the look of the apartment. We sat down, had a couple of my famous Martini’s, and Will’s ‘girly’ (but cute) giggle echoed throughout the building. From a distance we heard a muffled word shouted;

  “Fag!”

  We both went silent for a moment but said nothing. It happened again.

  “Whore!”

  “You hear that?” I said with a concerned tone.

  “Uh, yep…..Sure did”, Will replied as he looked down into his empty glass.

  “Whatever. Just ignore it” he said.

  Suddenly a door was heard loudly slamming repetitively and this was definitely deliberate. But why? We both just ignored it. Will suggested I start keeping a log book as other things like this have occurred from time to time since I moved in and I had not experienced anything like this before. We didn’t worry about it as we really did not know where it came from and who it was, nor did we really know if it was directly thrown at us. Like Will said I told myself “Whatever”. However I emailed a letter to my property agent to raise these concerns and to find out if there is some kind of issue. After all this is the right thing to do, not a whinge, just a concern which needs clearing up.

  Later in the day I shown Will my latest completed assemblage artworks. Will literally cried at one of my pieces and said it was quote: “fuckin brilliant, you have to have this in an exhibition!” Maybe I was onto to something here?

  I kept doing my art like it was way of communicating with the world. It was so stimulating and like I was just getting something off my chest. But most of all, it made me feel good. I suddenly took an interest in art and started researching artists like Andy Warhol and Roy Lichtenstein and Jean Basquiat. My artwork would probably considered to be post- expressionism, but whatever. I just like what I do and it’s my form of communication. I had a few assemblages prepared and was basically ready to put on a show so I began writing up exhibition proposals. I emailed, and sent, them out to multiple galleries. Surprisingly I was accepted into an art exhibition at the Victorian Artists Society. As this was my first exhibition I was a nervous wreck, but I got through it.

  Soon after I was offered a place in an art exhibition competition in a boutique gallery in Collingwood, Victoria. This again was a surprise and the opening went off! My shadow and assemblage installation piece called “If I were a Tradie” created a lot of praise which was flattering. In fact so much so that I was embarrassed. During the exhibition I mingled with a lot of other artists and felt like this really was my home. I felt like these are my type of people as we understood each other and our work. Many think that artists are ‘wankers’ but let me tell you, they ARE NOT. Beyond the concept, approach and process has a lot more meaning than you think and is not complicated.

  With a glass of champagne in one hand, catalogue in the other, and immersed in an interesting conversation with another artist the curator of the gallery tapped a spoon on her glass to grasp the crowds attention. Everyone gathered around the down stairs foyer of the townhouse style of the gallery and squeezed in to get the best view possible to find out who are the winners.

  “Thank you all for coming to this event. We were overwhelmed with the quality of entries this year. And we have to say that this year’s competition has been one of toughest to judge”, the curator spoke to the crowd.

  They announced the two runner ups which were no surprise as they were extraordinary paintings, and yes, I felt a bit of ‘art envy’ here. Every artist gets that though; ask them, it’s true! The winner was about to be announced by one of Melbourne’s renowned and established artists. He proceeded to explain the process used in this winning entry and it sounded very much like my own. Naturally I felt nervous, in fact, terrified. I was not ready for success, not yet. Will, who was always by my side, as a best mate would, accompanied me to the exhibition, and nudge me in the back slightly. He winked at he and whispered in my ear;

  “Its you”.

  I shook my head to say “no, its not”.

  And it was not. It was another well deserving entry. The feeling was a mixture of both relief and slight disappointment. Time to move on and keep going though. This was not failure, but a motivational tool, not just for art, but for life in general.

  …………………………………

  My proposals and hard work was beginning to pay off but not in monetary terms. I found myself beginning to gain some attention with galleries around Melbourne was offered to be part of group exhibitions. Galleries ranged from suburbs from Hawthorn to even the Yarra Valley. Everyone is a critic so of course response to my work being very different was mixed, but mostly positive. Will was usually quite ‘mute’ about my work and did not often comment on my work. I always wondered about that and it was probably because it was a bit too post-contemporary for him. That did not bother me but at times it did. As I don’t have that many friends (since my clubbing days are over) I really did not know if I was heading in the right direction or not. Post-graduation I had completed many artworks and was actually running out of ideas. But perhaps I was running out of steam? I don’t think it was that. Every day I dedicated myself to create multiple artwork in my studio, which was my second bedroom. On and one particular day I was working quietly in my room and kept hearing doors slamming, thumps against walls like someone banging their fists against the walls. I had no idea why as I made little noise. It was coming from downstairs, yet again, and I was sure I kept hearing words shouted out like “fag!”, “Poofter!” and “Nerd!” It was repetitive but slightly muffled like it was shouted out from inside. Trying to ignore it was difficult and even so to try and convince myself that it could not possibly be directed at me was even harder. I had not even met any of the other neighbours so they don’t even know me. I assume they have probably seen me, like taking out the rubbish, or getting the mail, I really don’t know. It was beginning to concern me.

  Later that evening I took a shower then sat in lounge room with a well deserved martini and simply sat on the couch to watch television.

  ‘THUMP, THUMP, THUMP!’ was heard and felt through the floor.

  This was intense followed by a girl screaming out “I fucking can’t stand him!!!”

  “FAG!”

  “NERD!”

  “DIE YOU FAGGOT WHORE!”

  This was loud and clear as both a male and female from a unit downstairs from mine screamed it out at the top of their lungs from their courtyard. This confirmed the fact it was directed at me. Why and what for? Then a handfuls of dirt, and mud, where through at my French door windows in my lounge from that same unit whilst continuing to call me names. They were out of control and seemingly under the influence of something. Then there was a brief moment of silence before a glass bottle was thrown onto my balcony in front of the French doors and smashed. There was no other option but to call the police. After several minutes the police showed up and I explained what happened in a nervous state. The police were very quick to respon
d but explained that neighbour disputes are so common that they cannot intervene in their behaviour. But this is not a dispute as I have no dispute, as far as I was aware at that time. This was simply homophobia based on what I look like; a ‘fag’.

  The police visited the offenders downstairs, and left after a few minutes. I assumed nothing was done but then again what could they do? I had no witnesses, I was not hurt, just shaken, insulted and those bullying name just hurt me. It felt déjà vu, just like my very first year of high school where I was bullied, called a ‘fag’, ‘whore’ and a ‘nerd’ and spent my lunch break in a toilet cubicle, terrified of being beaten up. I felt hopeless and helpless and could not believe it was happening to me at my age. So filled up my glass with gin, a twist of lemon, lit a cigarette, turned off the TV and the lights, then sat on the cold tiled floor in the bathroom and cried.

  …………………………………….

  As the months go by, the harassment escalates. With still no idea as to why these ‘ferals’, who do nothing (literally) but sit there all day bullying me through cowardly shouting out names to me, I struggle to work in my studio room. The worst usually happened at night when they would throw garbage at my windows and doors along with the usual homophobic slander and calling me a ‘whore’ or ‘ugly whore’. The police have by this stage visited the premises at least three times but their hands are tied. They really can’t control them but what I find upsetting is that my property manager and landlord seem disinterested. This unfairness led to my decision to move but not without a fight.