by Barbara Bell
Mick gazed at him in silence for a moment. Then, without breaking eye contact, he picked a toy off the shelf and set it on the ground between them. “Tell me about your Irish boyfriend.”
Holy shit. Okay. “Not much to tell. He was Irish. He was my boyfriend.”
“For two days.”
“Yeah.” Did Mick realise he’d plucked out a quite expensive anal toy? Like . . . that thing was over a hundred dollars. Should Joey say something? Was Mick actually going to buy that? Why? Just to make Joey happy? Just so Mick could talk to him a little longer?
“How many boyfriends have you had?” Mick asked.
“A few. Not as many as you might think.”
“How do you know what I might think?”
“Oh. I don’t know. I work in a sex shop. People sometimes think certain things. Though, if we’re being honest, the Irish guy wasn’t really a boyfriend. More a friend with benefits. Except we didn’t know each other at all so . . .” Joey picked up some of the butt plugs and shoved them onto the shelf.
“What was your first boyfriend like?” Mick pushed.
“Scotty?” Joey smiled at the memory. “He was cool. I met him in the high school drama and dance club. Talk about cliché, am I right? He ended up going to Germany, which was a bit sad but, truth be told, we wouldn’t have worked out long-term anyway. It was one of those things, you know. Different directions.”
“I met mine online,” Mick said softly.
“I thought you met in high school.”
He nodded. “We did. We were both in high school. Just not the same high school.” A pause. “I told you about where I grew up, didn’t I? The town of four hundred people?”
Joey nodded.
“Yeah, well, out of four hundred, I was the one gay guy. Probably why I got into computers and IT in the first place. The internet was the only way I could find others like me and feel normal.”
Joey studied him for a moment, sighed, and let his eyes sink to the toy on the floor between them. “Hey, Mick, you don’t actually have to buy anything to—”
“Thank God.” Mick pushed the toy aside with a sweep of his hand.
Joey wasn’t sure what it was, but something about the sudden gesture made him laugh. Mick laughed too, a small private sort of laugh. God, he was beautiful. Joey already knew that, but somehow it hit him all over again. The bad haircut, the full lips, and those dark dusky eyes.
Friend. Friend. Just a friend. A friend with a boyfriend.
“Hello?” The voice cut through their laughter like oil through water. “Excuse me? Is anyone . . .” A woman stepped from behind the shelves and stopped when she saw them sitting on the floor in a circle of butt plugs. It probably looked like they were trying to summon some sort of butt sex god. “Um . . . I’m sorry I . . .”
“Welcome to Cutie Pies.” Joey smiled. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
Her eyes flicked between him and Mick before responding. “Do you guys have those kinky wax-play candles?”
“Sure do,” Joey said cheerily. “They’re in a weird place though. I’ll have to pull them down for you.” He rocked up onto his feet. “What colours do you want? We have black, purple, red, green, pink, and orange.” He held out his hand to Mick. Mick took it—Hey, this is the first time we’ve touched isn’t it?—and he pulled him to his feet. Stay focused. This is a real, paying customer here. “I’m pretty sure there are some hot glow-in-the-dark ones if you’re keen. I’m not super kinky, so I’m not the best person to ask about how they work, but I’ve heard good things.”
The woman’s eyes were wide. “Glow in the dark?”
“Yep. Just give me a sec.” He turned to Mick. “Are you good if I . . .”
“Do your job? Yeah. I think I’ll be fine.” Mick shoved his hands into his pockets. “I should go anyway. It’s my lunch break, and my boss is getting anal about how long we’re out of the office. He’s got spreadsheets and everything. But, anyway, I’ll see you Saturday.”
“Mardi Gras,” Joey said with a nod. “Looking forward to it.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
Joey wasn’t sure what he could say to that, so instead he saluted him—because that was normal and totally not awkward—and led the woman to the other side of the store, trusting that Mick could find the exit on his own.
It took him longer than he had thought it would to pull the candles down from the top shelf. Once he had, the woman lined them up and stared at them for at least fifteen minutes before making her selection. In the end, she stopped trying to pick a favourite and decided to buy one of each colour. Looks like my sales record will be fine after all. He put her order through, reminded her not to play without drop sheets, and sent her on her way with a wave. It was only when she was down the stairs and out the door that he noticed the piece of paper sitting on the counter in front of him.
It had been torn from the bottom of a notebook and folded at least a dozen times.
When he finally unfolded it, he found a name and a number. The number was a phone number. The name was Mick.
He’d never felt so conflicted about getting a cute guy’s phone number before.
It made sense. They’d agreed to meet at the train station but hadn’t worked out what time they were meeting. It was perfectly normal, given the situation, to exchange numbers. But he wasn’t sure he wanted Mick’s number. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be able to text the guy he had been fantasizing about fucking. Not when Mick had a boyfriend. Not when Mick just wanted to be his friend.
Shit. Was this a good idea? Should he call the whole thing off?
No. He could do this. Mick wanted a friend. He could be a friend. Heck, he could be a great friend. The best of friends.
“You’re the worst friend ever.”
He looked up. Becca was standing in the back door, glaring at him like he’d just cursed in front of her grandmother.
“Half an hour, Joey,” she said. “I’ve been back here for half an hour giving you and Mr. Cute-Eyes some space.”
“Fuck. Becca. I’m sorry.”
“You better be sorry. I come out here to check on how things are going, and he’s gone?”
“Oh I . . .”
“How long ago did he leave?”
“That would be a . . .” He glanced at the clock and flinched. “Probably twenty minutes ago, actually. I was with another customer.”
“‘Another customer,’” Becca echoed. “You were with another customer for twenty minutes and you didn’t think, for one second, to knock on this door and let me know I could come out?”
“I . . . No. I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”
“No”—she moved to stand beside him—“you didn’t. Arsehole. I hope it was worth it.”
Numbly, “Worth it?”
“You and Cute-Eyes,” she specified with a sigh. “Did you talk?”
“Yeah.”
“About?”
He considered lying. Or, at the very least, only telling her part of the truth. But, with a familiar sinking sensation, he put aside those plans and resigned himself to the fact that she was going to find out anyway. He had never known a secret Becca couldn’t tease, trick, or guilt out of him. “He invited me to Mardi Gras.”
Her eyes went as round as dinner plates. “He what?”
“He invited me to . . .”
“You’ve got a date!” she cried and clapped her hands. “A date to Mardi Gras! Hell yeah! I knew it. I knew he had a crush on you. Did I tell you he called you Gay Ryan Gosling the other day?”
“Yes, and you also told me that was a lie.”
“Oh. Well. Never mind. The point is, you got a date!”
“It’s not a date,” Joey told her, keeping his voice as even as he could. “He’s new in town. He just wants someone to go with. A friend.”
Becca let out a choked-off laugh. “Wow. Seriously? You really are as dumb as you look.”
“He’s got a boyfriend.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
&nbs
p; “He told me he did.”
“When he was buying sex toys from you,” Becca reminded him. “Come on. Nobody with a partner buys a dildo alone. That’s like going on a honeymoon without your wife. He’s shy. I bet he told you he had a boyfriend so he wouldn’t be embarrassed.”
“He’s a customer, Becca.”
“Yeah, and I know I was busting your balls about that before, but that was before this was serious. You have a chance here, Joey. More than a chance, you have a date.”
“It’s not a date.” He stepped away from the counter. “Trust me.”
“No.” Becca came with him. “You trust me. That boy likes you. Why do you think he keeps coming back here? I’ll give you a clue: it’s not the sex toys, and it’s certainly not for me.” She kept pace with him all the way back to the butt-plug display. “And, unless I am very much mistaken, you like him too. You know what I call that? A chance worth taking. If you let this chance slip through your fingers, I will kick you in the knee. I really will. I will wear my boots while I do it too.”
Joey raised an eyebrow at her. Becca was his best friend, and probably the closest thing he had ever had to a sibling.
“My steel-capped boots,” she said menacingly.
Okay. Definitely the closest thing he’d ever had to a sibling. Because that was what siblings did, right? They teased each other, taunted each other, but also took care of each other. In the years since he’d got this job, after he’d been kicked out of home by his parents, she’d been the one that was there for him, the one that helped him out, and the one that told him when he was making a mistake. He knew that was what she was trying to do now: stop him from making a mistake.
But, in this, she was wrong. This wasn’t a date. Mick wouldn’t have asked if they were friends first if this was a date. He wouldn’t have told him about his boyfriend or walked out leaving only his number on a scrap of paper.
“I’m sorry, Becca. It’s . . . it’s not what you think.” He knelt back down by the butt-plug wall and continued stacking the shelf.
She huffed, literally huffed, and sat down beside him. “Fine. Be that way. But do me a favour.”
“What?”
“When you go to Mardi Gras, wear your tightest pants.”
Saturday.
Parade day.
Mardi Gras day.
Joey had been seventeen when he’d gone to his first Mardi Gras Parade. He didn’t remember much of it. There had been fireworks, streamers, and a drag queen who had sat down and spoken to him about respect, love, and why someone named Cathy was a bitch and not to be trusted. It had been fun but not worth the hangover or the not-his-puke he’d had to clean off his shoes the following morning. When he was eighteen, he’d gone with a quieter crowd of people and, again, had enjoyed it but still not as much as he had hoped he would.
Now he was going with Mick.
And somehow that made everything different. He was excited for Mardi Gras in a way he hadn’t been since he’d been a drunken high schooler with some older but not wiser friends. Perhaps even more excited, because this time he wasn’t going to see it for himself but to show it to Mick.
Maybe that was why he was also nervous.
He hoped Mick would like it.
But beyond that, he hoped he could show Mick the big crazy world of gay pride, and that Mick would be happy he’d moved to Sydney. Happy that he’d gone to the parade with Joey. Happy. Joey wanted Mick to be happy.
And wasn’t that a twist? He thought he’d just wanted to get in Mick’s pants but, nope, turned out his head was in on this whole “Mick is amazing” thing alongside his dick. How weird was that? He barely knew anything about the guy, could count the number of times they had spoken on one hand, and now he wanted to make him happy.
Yeah. You’re in trouble.
Joey sighed and leaned against the train window. Around him the carriage was filled with other people travelling to attend the parade. Or, at least, he assumed they were. Maybe they just wore feather boas and rainbow capes every day. Who was he to judge?
A voice crackled over the loudspeaker. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re approaching the Museum Station. The platform is coming up on the left-hand side in direction of travel. That’s Museum Station, platform on the left. Thank you and have a great Mardi Gras.”
A few cheers filtered through the carriage. Joey sat up straighter.
The station.
The place he’d agreed to meet Mick.
Joey sucked at his teeth and pulled his phone out of his pocket. One new message from Becca: the words good luck followed by a bewildering string of emojis. Nothing from Mick. They had exchanged a couple of brief messages the night before, agreeing on the time to meet for the parade. That time was now.
Here goes nothing.
He stood along with over half the people in the carriage and shuffled towards the door. When the train stopped moving, the tide of people swept him onto the platform. He pulled himself free of the crowd and swung his gaze up and down the station. He saw a lot of people. None of them were Mick.
Joey frowned and checked his phone again. Still nothing. No new text messages. No missed phone calls. Would Mick stand him up? Honestly, he didn’t know. The truth was, he didn’t know Mick very well at all. Maybe he was the sort of guy that stood people up. But why would he go out of his way to ask Joey out if he wasn’t going to show? It didn’t make sense. He had to be here.
Joey looked around again.
And then a third time.
It was when he scanned the station a fourth time that he finally spotted him.
Mick was standing by the stairs, his short stature and plain clothes making him almost invisible in among all the rainbow. His eyes were scanning the crowd, darting from face to face. He was also holding his phone, perhaps waiting for the same text Joey had been. The sorry something came up text. The some other time text.
Hm. This should be good.
Joey ducked low into the crowd and slunk around the platform until he was approaching Mick from the other side. When he was as close as he dared, he pulled out his phone and sent a quick two-word message.
Behind you.
Mick jumped a little when his phone buzzed, glanced at the screen, and then spun around. Their eyes met, and his face split into a wide happy grin. “Joey!”
“Looking for me?”
Mick stepped forward as if he was about to hug him but stopped. “Yeah,” he said instead and shoved his phone into his back pocket. “I was scared you wouldn’t show for a second there.”
It was such an open, honest statement that, at first, Joey didn’t have a response. In the end, he settled for being open and honest back. “Me too.”
The sun was setting when they left the station and followed the tide of people towards Oxford Street. They were about halfway there when Joey realised he’d fucked up.
Big time.
It had been a few years since his last Mardi Gras Parade, and he’d forgotten how hard it was to find a spot by the barricade if you didn’t come early. They weren’t even there yet and the crowd was like custard, thick and slow. By the time they arrived, only forty minutes before the parade was due to start, the sidewalks were packed, an entrepreneuring businessman had just sold his last ten-dollar milk crate for those in the back row to stand on, and the police were yelling at a man who had climbed a tree to get a better view.
They walked the entire length of Oxford Street searching for a place where Mick, who was a head and a half shorter than Joey, could get close enough to the road to see. Fifteen minutes before the Dykes on Bikes were due to start the parade, Joey gave up and shot Mick an apologetic look. “Do you wanna just grab a drink? I’m sure all the bars around here have it playing live on TV. We could still watch it.”
Mick scanned the crowd of people and turned to peer up at the line of pubs and clubs along the side of the road. Joey didn’t need to turn his head to know what Mick was seeing. Most of the buildings were as busy as the roadside, and all second-floor
windows were stuffed with bodies.
“I guess but . . .” Mick turned around to gaze mournfully back towards the road. “Maybe if we go back and check near the shop again? It might be less busy there now. We could find something to stand on . . .”
“I really doubt it, Mick. Hey, I’m sorry, I messed up. I should have told you to come here sooner.”
“But the shop . . .”
“Cutie Pies is right near the start of the parade. If anything, it’s going to be even busier there, and without something to stand on we won’t . . .” The shop. He groped at his back pocket and felt the hard press of his key ring. “Mick, you’re a genius. Come on.”
He grabbed his arm and pulled him through the tangle of people.
It took them a frustratingly long time to make it back down the street to Cutie Pies’ front door. When they arrived, the crowds were clumping against the barricade and cheering as the distant roar of Harley-Davidson bikes filled the air. It didn’t matter.
Joey pulled the key from his back pocket, and rammed it into the front door lock. It was well past normal opening hours and the stairway beyond was dark, the windows blocked out to discourage drunk parade goers from breaking in. Mick looked nervous as Joey dragged him inside and locked the door behind them.
“Should we be in here?”
“Nope.” Joey popped the p.
“I don’t want to get you in trouble. It’s fine if we just go to a bar or . . .”
“Come on.” He tugged Mick up the stairs and into the shop itself. Once there, he rushed to the windows and started pulling down all the posters and newspaper used to block them out. He was halfway through before Mick stepped forward.
“Can’t you just . . .” Mick unlatched the windows and pushed. They swung open. The noise of the crowd below flooded through the gap and into the shop. Along with it was the now-close roar of motorbike engines. The parade was starting.
“Hell, Mick, you’re the best.” Joey leaned out the window. Mick moved in beside him, the narrow space forcing them shoulder to shoulder. Together they clapped and cheered along with the mass of people below as the first motorbike, mounted by two women—one in leather and the other in a shorn-off white wedding dress—roared down the street. A dozen more followed, several brandishing massive rainbow flags. After them came the rest of the parade.