Yeah The Boys, page 22
I hear him greet Mason, talk about footy training, laugh.
As I spray the bottle of Hugo Boss cologne Ahmed forced on me (‘You always smell like an ashtray, Charlie!’) I notice I’m humming an upbeat Killing Heidi song that reminds me of when I was young – a rare song both my parents loved, one of the only things they ever agreed on – and I’m smiling.
Holy shit – am I happy?
Maybe Zeke’s happiness is contagious and it’s spread to me.
I check myself out in the mirror. Choppy hair, long-sleeved black shirt rolled up at the sleeves, spiked wristband I got from the Coventry Village markets, silver-studded belt I got at Dangerfield, ripped black jeans that show I have no arse but am at least slim. Gotta roll with what you got. And my trusty black-and-white Converse hi-tops.
I sidle into the living room to see Mason’s in his red-and-black checked flanno and denim, hair slicked back and beard trimmed. He looks hot, like the mythical Farmer Who Wants a Husband. He breaks eye contact with Zeke to look at me, checking me out, and says, ‘Hey, Charlie – these are for you.’
Mason whips out a cellophane-wrapped bouquet of twelve red roses from behind his back and thrusts them into my hands.
My brain flashes through multiple reactions.
I can’t believe he bought me flowers – that’s so old school and legit charming.
Twelve flowers would be hell expensive – I am not worth this.
These are nicer than the wildflowers Matt picked for me on our first date.
The third thought boards a steam train in my head and starts to race around an endless track like it’s being driven by the Energizer Bunny. Why did I think that? Now I can’t unthink it. Am I betraying Matt’s memory? I always found it so cute and rough around the edges that Matt just grabbed flowers off the side of the road for me (and half were weeds, which made it sweeter). He didn’t want to buy roses in Northampton or people would’ve asked what girl he was dating, when it was actually me. His weedy wildflower bunch was so him and I loved him for it.
By contrast, Mason’s a city boy. He’s gone to the effort of choosing roses – red, for romance. They’re from a proper florist. There’s even a card tucked into the cellophane, with two bees nuzzling each other with love hearts over their heads and the caption For the Man in My Life. Probably the only male card the florist had. Mason’s been out since he was eighteen, something Matt never managed to do. I love that he barrelled up to a florist in his flanno and asked for this. I wonder if he chatted with them about the dude he was buying them for.
This is the dumbest thing to get in my head about, but here I am, comparing Matt and Mason.
Head over heels. Horrendously guilty.
Is it wrong of me to want to have a bee to nuzzle back?
I try to shove the comparison out of my head for the rest of the date.
Mason drives one of those American muscle utes that have become so popular. It’s a bright blue Ram: half work ute, half monster truck. Mason opens his door first and then cries, ‘Aw shit, hang on!’ and bustles around to my side. He clatters a dozen empty cans of energy drink and empty beef jerky packets into the back seat: the leg room of my passenger seat is his rubbish dump. I’m hit with a whiff of stale Red Bull, dried meat and body odour.
Mason’s cheeks are rosy as he scratches his chest, embarrassed. ‘My bad, mate – I meant to clean it before I picked you up, ay.’ He whips out a can of Lynx Africa and sprays it all over himself and the dashboard.
On the drive to Mount Lawley, I realise he’s nervous and I can’t fathom why, since he’s the straight-up hottie and I’m the one punching above my weight (Ahmed outright said so).
The restaurant Mason booked is an old-style Italian ristorante called Sinagra. Nino, an old Italian bloke in a grey peasant cap, greets us at the front. He ushers us across the terracotta tiles, past a fishpond sunk into the floor, to a table blanketed with a crisp new red-and-white checked tablecloth. He pauses after seating us, glancing between us furtively, registering we are both men. I wonder if he’s got the same homophobic streak Zeke’s Italian family have.
But then he smiles warmly at us both. ‘Can I get you nice-a boys something to drink-a?’ he asks, with full wog accent.
Mason orders us each an Italian beer called Peroni Nastro Azzurro and Nino potters off to fetch them.
‘Do you like the vibe here?’ Mason asks me. ‘It’s pretty homey, ay?’
There’s something charming about him saying ‘homey’.
‘Yeah, that’s the word,’ I admit, looking at the photos of Nino and his family in Italy on the walls, the signed photos from semi-famous Perthonalities. ‘Warm and homey.’
Even though he gives off strong, silent vibes in a group, once you get him alone, Mason’s talkative. He laughs freely, like he doesn’t care if the people at the table next to us look over and see two dudes. He slams his fist on the table when he gets animated about something (footy, MMA, beer). He tries to pronounce ‘spaghetti aglio e olio’ in Italian when he orders his entrée, and even I know he’s butchered it: he could not have sounded more like Steve Irwin impersonating Super Mario if he’d tried. But Nino is nice about it, says bravo, and looks almost disappointed when I order a Caesar salad, no massacred accent involved.
‘You can get more than a salad, mate, it’s my shout,’ Mason says. ‘Want some pasta?’
Bloke has clearly never bottomed in his whole life.
As we talk, I understand why Brayden called Mason dumb as two planks. For instance, he’s convinced Pluto should still be a planet, based on no astronomical theory, but just his vibes that it’s unfair it got demoted to a dwarf planet.
And he’s stubbornly adamant Venice is in Spain; when I google it to prove him wrong, he shrugs and says, ‘Well, geology was never my strong suit.’
And when I mention poppers – the sex drug – he thinks I’m referring to party poppers, the things you shoot streamers out of on New Year’s Eve. I have to explain these are two different things entirely. Has he never had dirty sex before? Are we a total mismatch?
Then he reveals he doesn’t know what punk is.
‘Like, I know Blink-182 and Green Day from the radio, and I know there’s more hardcore punk cos my friend Kaiya listens to it,’ he starts. ‘But the way you talk about it is so serious. Like, what does “punk” mean?’
We are in such different orbits. How can you not have a clue what punk rock is? Mason’s just driving his big Yankee monster truck, smashing Red Bull and beef jerky with ‘All The Small Things’ cranked up, burping and farting his way through life, isn’t he?
I paraphrase my favourite definition of punk I saw given by The Offspring guitarist, Noodles, in an interview once. ‘Punk is trying to defy convention,’ I say. ‘When someone says you can’t do something, you say, “Why the fuck can’t I?” It’s not just music or an aesthetic. It’s an attitude, a way of life. We rebel against conformity, what’s on trend. We do what we want, say what we want. Or, like Pennywise said, “Fuck Authority”.’
I tell Mason about my music, how I’m trying to break through and haven’t quite made it yet.
‘So, you’re not successful yet, so you’re not happy?’ he asks.
It’s brutal to hear myself described as not successful, even when it’s patently true.
‘Pretty much,’ I say. ‘It’s hard to break through as a musician. Nearly impossible.’
As occasionally thick as Mason can be, he’ll also have these random, super-insightful moments of poignant lucidity.
‘But if being punk is doing what you want, aren’t you doing that already?’ he asks. ‘Shouldn’t just making music make you happy, even if you never get rich and famous?’
Hot damn, Firetruck. Buy me a drink before you fuck me like that.
I splutter some face-savey words about distribution and airplay, coming off like a music snob to make myself feel better, because Mason Shaw just sussed me out in one date.
I look, talk and sneer like a punk, sure. But it’s been a long time since I could truly say I didn’t give a fuck. I hold my tongue on everything. My music is safe and mid, since saying anything edgy gets you cancelled. ‘Roof’ was the softest song I’ve ever done, because radio wouldn’t play my harder tracks. I won’t let myself grow up cos I’m still stuck in a moment from when I was a teenager. Worst of all, I hate Xander Sullivan – the embodiment of gentrified gloss – and yet I am fatally envious of him. I want his popularity, his fame, his money, his aura of success, the way people stare when he walks into a bar.
Charlie Roth is no punk. I am a sellout and a fame whore.
Mason goes on to tell me about his footy team and what they’re planning for their trip away to Lancelin. Despite remembering my promise to Zeke to listen more attentively, I fuzz in and out of the convo. The punk discussion really upset me, and it shows on my face.
Nino brings our meals and tells us buon appetito.
After he leaves, Mason asks me, ‘You okay? Did I say something wrong?’
I’m not crying, but my face is wobbly and sad and I can’t fix it. How embarrassing. ‘It’s nothing you said, dude,’ I mutter, unable to look at him. ‘Lots of stuff just hit me at once.’
I feel a callused hand touch my knuckles. Mason intertwines his fingers with mine and locks his hand into mine, tightly.
‘Never be sorry for being sad,’ he says gently.
Mason’s staring at me, his big dumb eyes brimming with concern. Our hands are knotted together beside the salt and pepper shakers.
Nino bustles over to our table at that moment, carrying a china bowl of parmesan. Instinctively, I go to yank my hand away from Mason’s. It’s an impulse – we shouldn’t be seen holding hands in public by a traditional old straight man.
But Mason doesn’t let my hand go. He tightens his grip, then swivels his head to nod confidently at Nino. ‘Thanks for the cheese, mate.’
Nino puts the bowl down and looks at us like we’re his long-lost sons. His gaze falls on our intertwined hands and he smiles. ‘Nice-a boys,’ he tells us. ‘Very nice-a boys.’
Nino bails, and Mason says, ‘How cool was that? Wouldn’t expect it from an old guy, would you?’
‘Pretty cool,’ I admit. Nino’s kindness was a good distraction; I squeeze Mason’s hand then disengage. ‘Look, sorry for that, just now. Some old trauma, I guess.’
Mason twirls his fork around some olive oil–drenched spaghetti, shoves it in his gob and thickly grunts, ‘You wanna talk about it?’
My first instinct is not to talk about it. I should do whatever I can to salvage this date, power through it, possibly let him root me at the end, then change my name and move to Azerbaijan so I never have to see him again. I hear Baku is a nice city.
‘You struck a nerve, earlier,’ I admit. ‘That thing about being rich and famous.’
Mason scarfs down spaghetti like a human vacuum cleaner, olive oil dribbling down his chin and onto his flanno shirt. Put this in the dumb-as-a-plank column: he’s a total slob with no table manners.
‘Nuffin’ wrong with wanting to be rich and famous,’ he says. ‘My folks got a bit of money, I was raised okay, but don’t have much now I’m out on my own. I’d never wanna be famous, but. All the media attention we got after leavers years ago made me never want people to know my name. I’d happily live a quiet, simple life. And be filthy rich, of course, but without any fuckers knowing about it, ha!’
I feel exposed, but after he held my hand, safe enough to tell him the truth. ‘I’ve had this drive to become a big rock star since I was a kid,’ I tell him. ‘I wanted to leave Gero, make it huge, and come back and rub it in everyone’s faces. Look at me, I’m famous and important now, I’m bigger than all of you. I know that makes me sound like a dick, but it’s true. I felt like a superhero when I left. But you’re right. I’m not successful. I’m not rich or famous. I don’t think I ever will be. I think this is it. I’m like every other wannabe muso in Australia who tried and failed and now plays pub gigs and works at a bar. I thought I was special and I’m not.’
‘Oof,’ Mason says. ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. You are special, mate.’
‘No, I’m not,’ I say. ‘I’m nothing.’
I’m such an idiot for believing I would ever be famous. The lure of success kept me going. I pictured my future self and I loved him. Without fame, what am I? Just a white trash faggot from Geraldton who everyone kinda hates.
‘You think if you’re not famous, you’re worthless?’ Mason asks through pasta.
‘Yeah,’ I admit. ‘If this is all life has for me, it wouldn’t matter if I existed or not. When I die, it won’t mean anything. Nobody will remember me.’
Mason smirks. ‘You know there are, like, a bazillion ways to have a happy life other than being famous, right?’
‘Does not compute,’ I say, in a jokey robot voice. ‘Explain.’
‘Well, my life is awesome,’ Mason says. ‘I work with people I like. Live with a mate. Play footy. Go to the gym. I don’t let bad stuff in. Simple. After what I went through, life’s too short. You can die at any moment. I could choke on this spaghetti. You could fall into that fishpond and hit your head. Life’s. Too. Short. The world needs more happy homos.’
I make vague noises of agreement, but I hide how utterly beautiful I find his worldview. I’ve never wanted a simple life. I chased glory. I never considered being happy.
I imagine leaving my life behind and riding alongside Mason in his monster truck on a road trip, him smashing his Red Bull, me smashing my Monster, both of us singing badly to ‘Boulevard of Broken Dreams’.
Two bees, nuzzling and making honey.
When we finish, Mason asks if I wanna go to his place. He reassures me Brayden’s gone out to a party. At least Brayden managed to do something right.
I say yes.
In his darkened bedroom, Mason fucks me on a double bed with yellowed, uncovered pillows that smell like his BO. He doesn’t seem to know you’re meant to put a towel on the bed before anal sex. He tries to use his spit as lube and I insist on real lube, so he has to raid Brayden’s room for a slimy, used tube of Wet Stuff. His rough trucker fingers scratch my hole as he lubes me up with a finger. I tell him my arse is nothing special. I’m so self-conscious of how bony and small it is compared to the big bubble butts I see in porn.
I tell Mason to slow down, and he does. He pushes inside me slowly, and looks me in the eye. He is gentle, careful, making sure nothing he does, no movement, hurts me in any way. I feel myself relaxing, opening up to take him in deep.
Once he is all the way in, before he starts thrusting, Mason folds his beefy body on top of me, his hairy, strong pecs pressing against my hairless, concave rib cage. He presses his mouth against mine, kissing me long and slow, his whiskers roughing up my skin.
When he pulls away, he says to me softly, ‘Don’t say a bad word about your arse ever again. Your arse is beautiful, just like you.’
15
STIFF
HAMMER
A whole fortnight without footy – if we have a bye, or if I’m injured – always leaves me feeling lost.
But I’ve never had a fortnight without footy where nobody wants me there.
It’s lonely.
The week of the bye was a shitshow. Wookie and Tessa double-teamed me after my NO RAGRETS Insta post and told me to take it down, which I did. The club issued a second statement, clarifying I was referring to having no regrets about shaving my head, not about my Pride Round comments, and it should not be seen as doubling down.
The statement did nothing to make people less angry. It just brought it to everyone’s attention again. My DMs flooded with outrage and support again. That prissy influencer Xander Sullivan made another video, standing outside Optus Stadium, demanding change from the Eagles in the form of a salaried LGBTQIA+ ambassador role (guess who he wanted to fill it?).
On the TV show The Footy Bounce, Hardwick rebuked my attitude. Dunk and Katy were more middling, but even they were losing the ability to remain neutral about me. Worst of all, their guest was my former mentor, Steve Polak, who said he expected better from me.
That hurt. A lot.
On a different show, The Back Bar, a guest comedian shaved his head and said instead of going ‘full Britney’ he’d gone ‘full Hammer’. I was this big joke now.
That episode of The Back Bar triggered its own media outrage. First, the Free Britney army got up in arms about the singer’s mental health being mocked. The Alopecia Areata Foundation added that hair loss is never something to be ridiculed, which got echoed by a major cancer charity, and Beyond Blue who said mental health is also no laughing matter. The Back Bar was forced to issue their own apology, including the promise to listen and learn and educate themselves, and excluding the word ‘sorry’.
Nobody asked if my mental health was okay.
Except Richelle. She sent a long message asking how I was and offering to ‘hold space’ for me, whatever that meant. I probably shoulda taken her up on it. Instead I accused her of blackmailing me. She reckoned she had no idea what I was talking about and said she’d take a ‘conscious communication pause’ between us, but that she hoped I found ‘love, light and healing’ soon.
Things simmer down a bit in the week leading up to the Pride Game. I’m not allowed to come to training or to the captain’s run on Thursday, but I’m permitted to work out in the gym on Friday morning. It’s empty. The boys are preparing for the Pride Game I won’t be a part of.
As I lie on the bench press in the club gym on Friday morning, forcing the heavy weight of the barbell up and down over my chest, I have this sudden thought.
Do I deserve this? Am I the baddie?
The footy world’s changed. When I was a teenager, the only way to protect my AFL prospects was to be straight. That’s a fact: zero wiggle room, as obvious as a footy stat, as irreversible as a final score. You need to be straight to be seen as a real bloke and an AFL player. It’s sewn into the fabric of being a man in this country. It’s a given.
Now they’re telling me it’s all changed? The league and the club and the media and the boys are all on board, and Oshy’s post gets him love and praise? Bit stiff that it’s me, the one actually affected by this, who becomes the bad guy. Woulda been nice for someone to tell me this was okay when I was a teenager. Woulda been useful fucken information. Bit late now. Sorta ruins all the decisions I made.
