Holding the Man by Timothy Conigrave
‘Okay. But would you allow me to?’
‘I don’t know why you’d want to. Is it something about me?’
‘No. I don’t believe that it’s fair to expect our lovers to fulfil all our needs. From you I get affection, companionship, love and sex. But what I’m not getting is the thrill of the hunt or experiencing different men’s bodies.’ He seemed to understand my argument but he wasn’t buying it. ‘Life is about experience.’
‘I don’t want to talk about this. Not here in public.’ I think that was a no.
A group of us gay boys met at Churchill Park for a barbecue, to drink beer in the sun and play games. Peter brought his volleyball net. He also brought along his new boyfriend Ian, whom we liked even though he took his politics too seriously. Ian was the sort of guy who wouldn’t buy Nescafé because of Nestlé’s history in Africa, and expected everyone else to do the same. On this day he was wearing bib-and-brace overalls without a shirt, so you could see his lithe brown body, his nipples bobbing up and down behind the bib. It was a horny look.
After lunch John and Peter and a couple of others went up the hill to play volleyball. Someone suggested a game called Train Tiggy. Whoever was It tried to tag someone, who then became the front of the train. They’d have to run together to tag someone else. Ian offered to be It.
It was hard to run on a full stomach so when Ian approached me I couldn’t be bothered trying to escape. Besides, the prospect of running around with Ian was not unattractive. Ian put his hands on my hips and he and I tried to catch our next victim. Eventually we were all in a train formation one behind the other. Ian said softly, ‘Bit like a daisy chain.’
He put his hand up inside my T-shirt and started to play with my nipple. ‘Ooh, erect already.’
I put my hands behind me and slid them into the slots in the side of his overalls. I wonder what sort of undies he’s wearing?
At that moment the volleyball came down the hill, John full pelt after it. He and the ball broke through our train. Ian and I had broken from the rest of the group but were still locked together. John looked angry. I pulled away from Ian, and John murmured, ‘I’m really sorry,’ then punched me hard in the stomach. He walked away and Peter put his arm around him. Fuck! The drive home’s gonna be fun.
But John started to leave with Peter. It was like another punch in the stomach. Feeling like a heel, I pursued him. ‘Please let me drive you home. We need to talk.’ I have no idea what I’m going to say. John’s jaw was clenched, but he agreed. We drove for ten minutes before John asked what I wanted to say.
‘I’m sorry that I upset you. I wasn’t doing it to hurt you. I guess I was a bit pissed.’
‘I can’t believe it. After our discussion the other day I did some thinking and I was coming round to what you suggested. But not if you’re going to flaunt it like that. Now everyone thinks I don’t satisfy you. You know how that makes me feel?’
We didn’t talk for the rest of the journey. My head thumped. John stayed in his cloud of anger. When we arrived at his place we kissed goodbye. I asked him to call me. ‘I might let you sweat it out for a while.’ He closed the car door. That’s fucked that. lam so stupid sometimes.
In my search for adventure, however, I did start trolling.
First there was Harry, a Turkish boy who was at his first gay party. Harry was drunk not just on alcohol but on excitement. ‘Are you gay? This is my first gay party. God, if my parents knew! In their country they used to stone people for being gay. I can’t believe how many good-looking guys there are here.’
Later that night Harry asked me the time. It was after one-thirty and he had missed his train. He asked if he could stay at my place. We split the bed. I put the mattress on the floor and gave him the base. Then he asked if anal sex hurt. I said only at first. There was a silence and then he asked me to screw him. ‘I’m a virgin and I reckon you’d be gentle with me.’
‘You’re sweet, but I have a boyfriend.’
‘He’s not here. You don’t think I’m attractive.’ He said he was coming to join me on the floor. I tried to resist, but I was hard by the time he slid in beside me and held my cock against his arse.
I screwed Harry. He had no trouble doing what, for me, had been a painful thing. In fact he seemed to enjoy it immensely. Has he done this before? Was this all a con-job?
He left at five-thirty, to be home before his parents woke up. He kissed me goodbye and was gone. Well, I’ve done it. I’ve crossed the line. I don’t feel different. If anything I feel worse. Something was missing.
I met Philip at a New Romantic night at Inflation where the punters were dressed in eighteenth-century dress with powdered wigs, or ballet costumes. He was cute, dressed in a white shirt with puffed sleeves and a white headband. He was with some guys from Young Gays. We kept catching each other’s eyes. Hearing that he liked me, I got up the courage to go and dance with him. The rest of the night we carried on like boyfriends, holding hands, sitting together with an arm around each other’s waist.
Philip was clearly an experienced lover. He manoeuvred himself around my cock with obvious expertise. But again I sensed that something was missing. I didn’t know what.
The next day Philip rang me at the café where I was working to ask me out. I declined. ‘It was really nice but I don’t think we should. I couldn’t bear it if my boyfriend found out.’
I could hear he was angry. ‘You should’ve thought about that before you led me on.’
‘I didn’t lead you on. I was honest the whole way.’
His breath was fast and hard. He hung up. All I ever do is upset people.
My friend Karl was making a student film and asked me to come and work on it. Franco was production assistant on the film. Straight away he and I started flirting. It was a two-day drive from Melbourne to the location at Lake Eyre, two days of sitting next to a cute man in the back seat until I developed lover’s nuts, a deep ache in my groin from not ejaculating.
The huge salt pan that was Lake Eyre looked like snow and reflected the burning sun. We set up camp among the fish and snake skeletons on its edge. It was a tough three days. There was no relief from the sun, and the nearest water was a hundred and fifty kilometres away. It forced us to be inventive, washing plates with a wet hand-towel and wearing tablecloths, Arab-style, as headdresses.
When the crew went out to shoot, Franco and I stole inside the tent and finally got down to what we’d been thinking of for days. Our bodies had the sweet smell of sweat as there’d been no bathing. Franco was a gentle, kissing lover. Our affair didn’t finish with the film, but continued for a month in Sydney. He too had a long-term relationship but his lover was in New Zealand. Knowing it would be finite made the whole thing more intense.
Separation
Part of me wanted to share these experiences with John. He was my best friend with whom I shared everything, but I didn’t think I should share this. I knew he’d be disappointed. I hoped I wouldn’t get the guilts and confess it all. I seemed to be swimming in a pool of negative feelings about our relationship. I felt claustrophobic. His devotion to me was so strong that it made me nervous. When friends told me how much in love with me he was, I felt obligated to him. And John could be very straight sometimes. I wanted more craziness. Maybe I needed some time out.
We were sitting on the couch in my flat one day when I said, ‘I’d like to have a trial separation. I need some space. We’ve been together five years and I’m starting to lose my identity. I’m no longer Tim but a part of Tim-and-John.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘There are things I want to do that wouldn’t involve you.’
‘You mean sex with other men?’ John was angry. ‘How long do you want the separation to be?’
‘A couple of months.’
‘When does this start? Now?’
That’s too soon. Maybe I’ve made a mistake. ‘Are you okay about it?’
‘No, why would I be?’
I went to the b
John was as cheery as could be. ‘Hello, bald eagle.’ I find his cheer a little hard to comprehend. It’s better than him being the martyr, but why is he so buoyant? Maybe he’s glad to be out of the relationship? Or didn’t he understand what I said?
Later in the afternoon Prue said, ‘John told me that you and he are separated.’
‘I keep wondering if I’ve done the right thing.’
‘He was crying this morning.’
As we made preparations for bed, cheery John said, ‘Don’t sleep over there. Bring your li-lo closer.’
‘Did you understand what we talked about the other day?’
‘It doesn’t mean we can’t cuddle.’
‘I think it does.’ John looked upset. He climbed into his bed with his back to me. I hoped to God that he wouldn’t start crying. He looked so cute, his little ear sticking out from his head. I can’t bear hurting him like this. I dragged my li-lo over to where he was and put my arm around him. He took my hand. I lay awake for ages.
John dropped in at my flat while I was rehearsing monologues for my audition for the National Institute of Dramatic Art. We had hardly spoken over the past month and spent the first moments gauging each other’s emotional state. He looked calm. He’s doing okay.
In the kitchen we waited for the kettle to boil and the popcorn to pop. John rinsed out the teapot and said bashfully, ‘I’m seeing someone.’
Suddenly everything had changed. ‘Anyone I know?’
‘Peter.’
‘Lucky you. He’s sweet. And very cute. Have you slept together?’
‘A couple of times.’
‘What’s he like?’
John looked hurt. ‘You’re not even jealous!’
‘No. I’m not. Is that why you told me?’
‘Maybe. I don’t know. Yes,’ he spat out.
‘I think it’s great, a chance to experience something different.’ I remembered that when I had tried to crack onto him, Peter said he couldn’t do it to John. And here he was doing it with John.
Just as the popcorn stopped doing its stuff, the kettle started to whistle. I took the lid off the popcorn and emptied in the kettle. John laughed almost hysterically. My heart was struck with something warm and fuzzy.
We sat on the couch and caught up on what had been happening since we separated. ‘Peter and I were supposed to be driving up to Queensland but Dad came home with a ticket for New Zealand. I’m leaving in a week. I can’t help wondering if he’s just doing it to keep Peter and me apart.’
We smiled. There was an understanding between us brought about by a common foe. It felt like old times.
I had auditioned for NIDA the year before, so I knew the shape of the day. This year I was approaching the audition differently. I had decided to present myself as a confident, masculine actor. I wore a black T-shirt and jeans. In my mind I was James Dean, quiet, brooding, keeping to myself.
We did our second pieces for the head of acting and the head of NIDA, and a number of people were let go. I was relieved still to be in the running; this was farther than I had got last time.
After a lunch that I abandoned out of nausea, we spent the afternoon doing improvisations and working on our pieces. At the end of the day there were six of us, myself included, on a short-list.
Weeks later, I began rehearsing an expressionist play called Ruins for Anthill, still waiting to hear if I’d got in. Each day, while we were climbing through the alps or listening to Das Rheingold, the director would ask me if I’d heard. By the fourth day he said they needed to know and asked me to ring the school.
They told me I had been accepted. I was ecstatic. I hung up the phone and saw one of the cast nearby. ‘Julie, I got in!’
‘That’s good, turtle, if that’s what you want.’
‘Of course it’s what I want. It’s the school Mel Gibson and Judy Davis went to.’ I wanted to tell everybody, the woman in the café, the old man in the street, but I also didn’t want to appear to be bragging. ‘A cappuccino thanks and by the way, I just got into NIDA.’
When I told John, he tried to sound happy. Then he said, ‘I’m not going to see you much, am I?’
‘I’ll be coming back for the term breaks. And I’ll write.’
He wanted to see me before I left. I suggested dinner at Rob’s Carousel on Albert Park Lake, a very kitsch restaurant where we used to go as kids. I was struck again by how loyal John was to me. I don’t deserve it. And he deserves better.
The restaurant was a fantasy in pink. A large revolving bar had a carousel horse at its centre. I talked about my fears of going to NIDA. ‘What if they’ve got the wrong person? I turn up on the day and they say they thought Tim Conigrave was the boy with the black curly hair. Maybe I just fluked my way in on the day.’
‘You’re such a worry-wart. Of course you didn’t fluke it. You’ll be fine.’ The fountains outside the window came on, a water wonderland with jets that spun in groups and streams spraying from the roof, all bathed in pink light. John smiled like a little boy at the Myer Christmas windows.
I asked if he’d meet me in town next day. ‘I want to buy you a ring as a kind of memento and to say thanks for the last five years. You need to be there so we can check the size.’
‘I’d like to buy you one too.’
‘Most couples give each other rings at the start of a relationship, and here we are doing it when we break up.’
‘Are we breaking up? I thought we were just separating.’
‘I think NIDA’s changed that. It’ll be hard to maintain anything over such a distance.’ I could see he was feeling dejected. ‘I’m sorry, John, but don’t you think the relationship was winding down? It was getting a bit stale.’
John sighed. ‘Oh well, I guess I knew it was coming.’
After dinner we went for a walk on the shores of the lake, holding hands under the cover of darkness. I wanted to kiss him and tell him I loved him, because in that moment I did, but I knew that would make things harder for him.
‘I don’t feel like going home,’ John mused. ‘Do you wanna go for a dance?’
Wednesday night at Inflation was gay night. Depeche Mode’s ‘Just Can’t Get Enough’ was playing. John took my hand, dragging me onto the dancefloor, and we mouthed the words to each other. Anyone would have thought we were on our first date. I leant over to John. ‘This could be our song.’
Next day, John and I scoured the jewellery stores for rings. Two men buying rings got some fairly cold responses, but eventually we found a pair of cheap eighteen-carat gold rings, sold to us by a pleasant sales assistant.
I put mine on my wedding finger.
I had packed all my acting books, some linen, records and kitchenware into two tea chests ready to catch the overnight train to Sydney. Dad helped me hand them over the baggage counter, hugged me, rubbed my hair and left. In the foyer of the station I was greeted by the gang: Prue, Pepe, Jackie, Juliet, Eric, and of course John. Pepe held my face and said, ‘I’m really proud of you. I’m going to miss you.’
John seemed nervous, fidgety. He handed me a photo album. On the first page were the words ‘This is Your Life (actually only the last five years).’ I flicked through and saw photos of John and me and the gang with commentary beside each. ‘How did you get all this together?’
‘The others pitched in.’ They said John did the most work. He smiled shyly.
‘It’s wonderful. I’ll read it on the train.’
They walked me out to my carriage, and as the station master blew his whistle, they started to hug me goodbye.
Pepe wiped tears from her cheeks. John, like a frightened boy, hugged me tightly and said, ‘I love you.’ As I pulled away I could see that he too had tears in his eyes.
I boarded
The train blew its horn and started rolling. I was having trouble seeing my friends past a fat man blocking the window. He’ll be the one who snores. I left my seat to wave as they ran alongside.
I sat with the photo album on my lap but I didn’t want to read it yet. It felt too important to be read in such an environment. I wanted to make a ritual of it. I went down to the dining-car and bought a pie and sauce, a coffee, and a Wagon Wheel in honour of John – it was one of his favourites. Placing the album on my lap I began my journey. There were photos of John, Eric and me skateboarding down a freeway ramp, Christmas Eve on the Yarra bank, some of me in plays, and even a photo of the gang flashing our bums at the camera. John’s commentary was very funny.
I sat holding the album. I don’t feel sad. Maybe it’s the excitement and fear of what’s coming. I was leaving behind a group of loyal friends and a man with whom I had shared five years of my life. But I would be working on my acting skills with new friends in a very exciting city.
The Next Three Years
The next three years were about acting school. Gruelling days followed by homework: writing diaries for voice and movement, practising dialects, creating movement pieces, working on scenes with other students. It was a very vibrant and creative experience but my psyche took a lashing as we were pulled apart, examined and reassembled. Lots of pop psychology was thrown around: we’d hear things like ‘You have a block with anger.’
I would compare myself to my classmates and feel inadequate. I was not the only one. In second year, when they tried to stretch us by giving us roles that were out of our range, a lot of us toyed with the idea of leaving, partly because we couldn’t see the horizon – graduation.
The friendships we formed were intense and dynamic. When you’ve rolled around on the floor together, undressed in front of each other, talked about your deepest feelings, mingled sweat, and farted in front of each other, there’s little left to hide. You’d have a best friend who would change with each project. A third-year student told me, ‘The friends you make here will be your friends for life.’