Rent Boy

by James Anthony Ford

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  After my one year lease expired I immediately started to look for a new place to live and I was destined to live this time in a house. Ironically I found one in Brunswick and looked like an ideal property with a small but quaint backyard with lots of room. Using the word ‘irony’ again, this property was the first one I inspected and applied and was approved. The thought of the harassment happening again did not come across my mind as all I wanted to do was get out of that apartment. Yet this was unfinished business and I filed court action against my landlord. This was not a personal attack but fair justice as I lived in hell for months with no assistance and if there was something being done to try and control those pathetic, revolting, disgusting and insecure ferals, then I saw no progress. It just kept getting worse. There were other tenancy issues as well which I shall not get into but lets just call it neglect.

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  Packing and cleaning once again, whilst also preparing mountains of documents for court was high on the agenda for the next month. Soon I moved into my new home in Brunswick. I began unpacking as soon as I arrived, then stopped and was shocked about something. It was dead quiet. Really quiet. I sat on the stairs for a moment and thought to myself that this is not real. It felt silly but I thought that this home being so ideal, being found and approved so quick, and with very affordable rent seemed too good to be true. Snapping out of it, I continued to unpack.

  Spending day and night unpacking was exhausting especially as this was a double story house and in great condition. It was just so quiet. There was a strange thought in my head that popped up-I felt like I was being watched. Paranoid? Perhaps? Whatever, I was too tired to care so I called it a night.

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  The next day;

  Had an odd night’s sleep. Probably call it a bit cold to be honest as there was no heating as I was promised according to the agents lease agreement and condition report. It was the middle of a Melbourne Winter so I slept with about three doonas. Yet I was keen to get out of bed and continue unpacking boxes and just get settled.

  Staggering down the staircase, yawning and looking around the place that still seemed seemed unfamiliar, after all I just moved in, I went straight to the fridge to make the strongest plunger coffee possible. Standing in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil, I scratch my head and think, in a scattered way, about what I am going to do next. Start with unpacking boxes in the bedroom? The lounge room? The…? Oh fuck it! Just start from the front room upstairs which happens to be my studio workroom. This was the second bedroom facing the front of the entrance.

  After a good dose of extreme Java indulgence and a bowel of oats with Manuka honey, I head straight to the bathroom, and jumped in the shower.

  About a few seconds later I heard some kind of mumbling of words. It is hard to explain but it sounded like single words spoken out aloud by a male and female. For some reason I became a bit concerned and did not know at that time why. So I just kept washing. But whoever it was speaking out single inaudible words, the volume got higher and higher.

  I put down the soap for a moment and I was sure I heard male and female voices yelling out slurs but not sure what because of the water running. Call me paranoid and in fact, I actually told myself at the time that I was due to what I experienced before. It was hard to ignore but it was the only way to be less conscious about.

  “This is crazy to keep thinking like this” I kept telling myself.

  I got out of the shower, dried, went to my bedroom and dressed. It was silent. I thought all was good. I was just being paranoid. Who could blame me right? So it was time to just get on with it and begin unpacking the second bedroom which at the moment will be my studio room, but later I promised my mum she can move in here with me. Mum and I discussed this a while ago and I told her that it is time I look after her and she really wants to come back to Melbourne so she could live with me for a while. It would be good for her.

  As I shuffled boxes around I heard some sniggering and it was quite close by. Next door in fact. I began kind of planning mum’s bedroom layout quietly talking to myself.

  “I think mum should put her bed here….her dressing table here…and….”

  “POOFTER!”

  I froze. I stood there numb. No words. No reaction. No retaliation. No nothing. I walked out of the room like a zombie and walked slowly down the stairs. Then I sat on the very last step of the staircase.

  “Not again” I whispered to myself with a dry mouth.

  “I can’t handle this anymore”

  “Why?”

  “This is not fair”

  “I wish I was dead”

  Those last words I really meant at the time. I really wish I was dead. I was not capable of dealing with being bullied and harassed again for god damn reason by a couple of dole bludging insecure ugly losers! And they are exactly that. I have seen what they look like and was told by the agent what they are.

  Pathetic. Both ways. Pathetic for them that they have to resort to bullying others to make them feel better about themselves but unfortunately no matter how tough you think you have thought you have gotten; nothing can prepare you for a repetitive dose of humiliation. This is overdose and I wished I found a really quick way to die. I can’t move again. I won’t. I shouldn’t. I can’t. I am done.

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  After crying myself to sleep to the point where I dehydrated myself I awoke to think that it was clear to me I have once again moved to the wrong area where homophobia is rife. But hang on! This is not about homophobia. This is about revolting people who are insecure and jealous of other people they find a threat. People who are different and uneducated. I fell sorry for them and not in a good way. I wasted no time in raising my concerns with the property manager and she was shocked. It was not long before I was granted to be released from the lease agreement to look for another place to live (again!). Thankfully the agent and landlord were very helpful in securing a new property for me without penalty and I appreciated it as it was not their fault. The agent and landlord were just as shocked as me. But this was becoming not only a nuisance that I have to move again but depressing. So with the help of my agent I found a new apartment and it time to move once again. Please god tell me I am not going to go through hell like this again. Please.

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  Pack, clean, pack, clean, and bloody packing and cleaning again! Then once again, and another thousand bucks spent on moving costs for removalists, bond, and all that jazz, I was in another apartment in Coburg. Not exactly my ideal area to live in but it was a large apartment with a large backyard. On inspection prior to moving in the place was very clean, spacious and quiet. Yeah, I have heard and seen it all before with my eyes wide shut!

  Moving into this place was probably the quickest move I have done. After all, I am now a professionally experienced mover now. Not exactly something to be proud of. So I moved in. Boxes and furniture everywhere like usual. I really was over it and again it was very quiet. The same scenario. I was just waiting for the first “Fag!” greeting. But no. First night, so far so good. Second day, still okay. Then as I suspected.

  “Fag”……”Fag”…”Fag”….”Fag”….

  It was over and over by again!, a male and female voice, not yelling it just saying it from out their window which was directly above my bathroom. So when I was in the bathroom they said it over and over. But it got worse. Much worse.

  “WHORE!!!!”

  This word cut deep. I cannot even describe what it felt like being called that word. It goes beyond the feeling of shame so excessive that it rips through my spinal cord.

  If I go into detail you would be bored because it was exactly a carbon copy of what I experienced in the last two places I lived. Again I am dealing with dole bludging, drug affected, disgusting, insecure, ugly and revolting jealous losers who have nothi
ng to do with their miserable lives. Simply pathetic.

  I need not go further but this place was the worst for eight month of hell. I was verbally abused, spat at, has rocks thrown at, my apartment physically attacked who damaged the property, walls and doors smashing at all time of the day and much more. It was a mess and I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. This was unbearable. Mind you, I have not done a single thing to upset anyone. They do not know me, only seen me. This is what the lowest scum of society acts like and they get away with it! The police were called seven times! NO charges laid considering I had more than enough evidence. Why? So many reports made to the agent and landlord and the landlord did not even care! She could not give a fucking shit! Where is the fairness in this? This is insane. So what’s a boy to do? I became an internet model. Basically a ‘rent boy’ online and guys and girls pay me to strip, masturbate and all the stuff I used to do, yet not physically touched. I had to. It was not the money, it was like a form of self-punishment. I did it for months and became very popular, but as expected, my popularity one day plummeted. I went from the number one performer to something like number 5,081! So I quit. Again. The cycle of harassment continues though.

  At least after eight months of hell of the worst kind I was outta there and moved to another apartment, smaller, cheaper and if I am harassed again, then whatever. It did.

  “Fag, ugly fag, poof, poofter, nerd, dork, fag, fag, fag, fag, fag, and again……whore”

  Not my problem, just let it go Jay and move. Again! At least I will be able to save a lot more money by moving into a smaller place. Obviously homophobia is still rife in the world. I really do not think it will ever be eradicated as long as there is still insecure people out there whom are the one’s doing to cowardly slurring behind our backs. But hang on. How can three sets of tenants assume I was or am a ‘whore’? I decided to investigate and report it to my property manager, who I might add was brilliant.

  Then next day I recorded some verbal abuse and even took photographs. I thought that this would be enough to have the bastards evicted. As I walked out of my apartment I saw a piece of paper with a familiar face on it. I picked up and looked at it with shock. It me, my face, with the words;

  “Looking for a blowjob, knock on the door of unit 5.”

  I lived in unit 5. These flyers were in every post-box. Who on Earth would want to spend their time and effort to bully me like this? My heart skipped a beat but then I went numb. There is nothing I could do. Cry? Yeah, I wanted to but I am all dried up now. But the question still remains; ‘How can people make such assumptions? Why? And Who?’ There must be a source.

  That night, when I lingering over that horrible ‘bullish’ leaflet, and just about when I was going to fall asleep, psychologically bruised, something strange happened. The ‘who’ theory came to me. The only way others would know about my past is those who now. Obvious right? It is. You realise I had many, many clients and this world is not that big. It was strange that some of the one’s who bullied me looked like dads in suits. But it is not strange that dads in suits were also my popular clients. Go figure, as one of them looks very familiar. My inkling and investigation ends. I pity them.

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  Chapter twenty.......The final Chapter and it’s only the beginning

  March, 2016;

  Although I have moved into a small and relatively quiet apartment, it was very affordable and I remained positive that this WILL be the last move for a while regardless if anything else would happen. At least I will have extra cash, time to work, and time to write. I have so many ideas and plans.

  My ‘ironic’ career in visual art did not last long but I am not totally distancing myself from it. Just keeping it low for a while and dabble in it like a hobbyist. So I have not abandoned the idea totally, just taking a step back as I am going back to my roots. This is officially stating confidently I am dead-set on pursuing a career in script-writing and journalism. I know you may be a bit suspicious about my infamous reputation of my short-lived careers decision but this is the real deal. I have always wanted to pursue this ever since primary and high school. My true passion is in film, cinema and media. I am fascinated by it and it such a unique form of creativity, so really, I am kind of blending together what I have learnt at university in visual art and communications, as I have been trained to write a professional film script. So let the game begin! I think I now have a thicker skin, and older, and wiser. Bring it on!

  Today, a few days after moving, I bought myself a diary. I started planning. Suddenly this influenced a new attitude. For the first time in ages I actually wanted stuff to do although I realize it will not, and shouldn’t be easy. I even started going back to the gym and started being back those biceps and abs that I was once famous for.

  But it has been a rocky road and it has not been all smooth sailing though. The times I would awake in the morning and sit on the couch in absolute agony and crying uncontrollably are gone. Admittedly, there are good days and some not so good ones. Not to the point of sitting feeling sorry for myself, but if only I didn’t have this incurable ‘thing’ living inside my body, I believe could have achieved. A few months later I had made some very important life changing decisions. These are decisions that had to be. No more lies, no more deceit and no more pulling the wool over anyone’s eyes. My days of over self-indulgence leading to selfishness are over. I have learnt so much from my life’s mistakes but my ‘disability’ is not a death sentence and I have the right to have a future. To study, to work, to have friends, make friends, and to live. The one thing I hope for is equality for anyone who is different regardless of sexuality or disability. On that note, one thing I have not spoken about in my memoirs is if my family know about my HIV status. The answer is generally “yes”. Obviously Will, my best friend, knows and he was actually the first person I revealed it to and the emotional support he provided me was incredible. I do not know what I would have done without his understanding. Imagine having no real close friend to tell this about? I imagine this unbearable to think about and I thank god for a caring man like Will. We have been the best of friends for over twelve years, maybe more, I think. (I don’t count the years anymore as it is irrelevant). Most of all, as you may also be wondering is if my mother knows. She does.

  I remember telling my mother years ago I was HIV positive. Her response was not surprising as she is very protective of me, understanding and intelligent. My mother could not have shown any more support. She even said that she “loves me even more now that she knows the truth.” She was so very understanding and showed no fear or disgust. She is quite a modern woman so she understands issues like this. It was such a great relief that she now knows. It felt good as I do not need to mask it with shame.

  To this day I still do not know who gave HIV to me. All I do know is that it was definitely through sexual contact. I am no angel and had quite a number of partner, did party hard, but was as sensible as I could possibly be. It may sound hypocritical but again, I am speaking the truth. Recalling the times where each day I spend the whole day in bed, where I was so paralysed with depression that I couldn’t move are still painful memories. But there were also days that I felt okay, in fact quite good. It’s been a rollercoaster ride. But I’m making progress.

  The depression was not as bad as it was. But is still lingering there a little but only subtle. The good thing is that I am not too conscious about it and the counselling and medication helps. Then of course there is the HIV. Going first onto HIV medication about three ago was terrifying due to all the horrific stories about side-effect I had heard about. Fortunately I had not had any real severe side effects and look and feel healthier. I am quite fit anyway and eat well and always had which probably assists my over health. Today my viral load is undetectable, and t-cells are on the rise but I am still HIV. I still struggle to accept I am HIV and it is only just now that I am beginning to feel less shame and what’s happened has happened. I am still just a no
rmal Aussie guy. I am not straight, I am gay, by definition and if you have to label it, I am bisexual. Sure I may look and act a bit different to others, but isn’t that actually the point of individuality. So why do others fear those who are different? Their insecurities are not problems of ours.

  After all, I have actually had quite an exciting life, lots of ups and downs, all to the extreme. So that was it. I decided to write my autobiography and you are probably reading this right now. This was my form of therapy and hopefully if someone like you finds my story interesting, then that would be a bonus, and flattering.

  So here I am now. I am still alive. I am happy about that, but I have a while to go to find constant happiness in life. I am working on it.

  I am at the stage where I am really taking control of my life, I have to. I think god was right. There was a reason why I was put on this planet.

  My health is pretty good, in fact my doctors are surprised how fit I am. However there is still the issue of the odd panic attack or two and the lethargy. Like I said earlier, I am working on it. But I have taken stock of my life and determined to just get on with it. I have been going to the gym for the last few months and have got my body back which has given me more confidence. Ironically I am not out for vanity like I used to be. Sure occasionally I get cruised by guys as I look a bit buffed but I am so not interested in a partner, let alone sex. Ironically, I get more girls than guys flirting with me. That’s all in the past. I don’t need a lover. I need my life. That’s not too much to ask for, isn’t it? My days of an over sexed drug fucked party boy are over and I am happy about that. I am seeking more meaning and substance to my life. Although I don’t want a partner, a lover, or even casual sex, I am not a loner either. I am trying to be social. After all, my days at the moment are visits to some kind of doctor every day of the week anyway.