As the sewerage outlet in the underbelly of the city, it didn’t eroticize Arthur, though its illicitness provided an exciting edge to otherwise mundane shopping excursions. For generations perilous homo-sports had fumbled and raged in every public convenience right underfoot of the regular comings and goings of an endless stream of men. No god knows what all the ordinary dads and fair-dinkum blokes thought of the vast mob of desperadoes waiting for relief outside the cubicles, or rolling about on the floor with no pants on.
Poofs loved to hang out in natural environments like parks for hours on end, invigorated by the fresh air and the exercise of walking around repetitively in huge circles. They cultivated patience for endless waiting, the peace of ambling alone in the jungle was a meditation, the stars and one’s heart reflected upon, until a stranger’s shadow loomed up and broke the solitude. Like all parks, Glebe Park at night was a very jolly hunting ground for pagan penis lovers, and even when the Circus parked its hairy butt there once a year Arthur continued to chase the guys no matter where they led. Behind the billowing, dark empty tents, around the spitting camels, between the legs of restless elephants, he ducked and crawled wherever he had to if it meant devouring male splendor with abandon, the lions roaring in frustration as background music.
Before AIDS and Sex Clubs hit ‘the scene’ in the mid-eighties, erotic free-for-alls erupted like kundalini volcanoes, all the shit-houses were jumping. Railway station bogs were always at the vanguard of homosexualizing the general male populace, anonymous, fast, convenient, discreet, an army of men marched through on their way to home or work, chasing the dragon of clandestine orgasm. Central Railway toilets, known as Perfume Alley, were the most frolicsome set of cubicles in the whole city, a member of the army of underground lovers could always count on meeting at least one randy guy there if he loitered long enough. It was such a notorious, deviant hotspot some outraged homophobe bombed it in the early 'Nineties, long after it had been deserted for the saunas and sex shops, so that now it is haunted and only instills fear when visited for a legitimate body evacuation.
|What THEY do with Gays in Iran.|
One such troll went by the name of Russian John, an immigrant who’d come to the free world to spy and spread the word of Stalinism, he succumbed to the liberation of his own carnal desires, trawling the public bog system night and day, all the while preaching the wonders of the Soviet Worker’s State to any hapless moron he picked up. He was grossly overweight, had piggy little eyes behind coke-bottle glasses, greasy black crinkled hair swept back on his troll’s noggin, he squeezed his huge sack of lard body into dirty black pin-striped suits and looked like a typical KGB apparatchik, only long disowned by the Party, thrown out on his arse as a westernized deviant. Arthur couldn’t bare the sight of him, he filled every bog doorway like some alien, black blob, reaching out from every crevice, groping at your ankles from under the cubicle walls.
|The Man He hunted, night and day.|
(Hopefully it’s not going to happen as most women love their menfolk: sons, brothers, fathers. And they especially love their male partners’ cocks and being fucked; they also need to have the “Other” as contrast and to be the better half of and, men being hopeless at nesting, need to have women wear the pants.)
|Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence.|
Considering the Ninetie’s ‘metrosexual’, Arthur’s kind were ahead of their times, as they were not only eager to embrace their feminine side, the metro train system was their major site for sexual hi-jinx. No matter what the excursion, shopping, touring, dancing, even when traveling to the most far-flung of outposts, if there was a bog skulking in the background Arthur couldn’t resist a quick visit, just to voyeur the illicit, homo-erotic action in that part of the world. Not just an Australian aberration, he discovered for himself that from Holland, France, Portugal, Spain, Greece, Turkey, half-way to India, the “pissoir” was ever the hallowed site of same-sex contact. He also read about such hallowed sites in Jean Genet’s “Thief’s Journal”, (France and Spain); John Rechy’s “Sexual Outlaw” and Edmund White's "The Farewell Symphony", (America); Alan Holinghurst’s “Swimming Pool Library”, (Britain); and Reinoldo Arenas’ “Before Night Falls”, (Cuba), revealing all the world was in the ‘mens club’.
Arthur had met the guy some years previously in a dark park nearby, who had tried to sodomize him with a pencil-dick covered in tattoos, but he’d creeped Arthur out and he refused his advances, shunning him the few times their paths had crossed. “You did it, you know you did it, you fucking cunt! Why did you fucking do it?” The rabid hippie-biker slathered on and on and no protestations of Arthur’s ignorance would mollify him. “Look, you arsehole, I don’t even know you. I don’t even live in this hick town, I’m just an occasional tourist, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!”