He looks up at you with those eyes. Sexy or menacing? The eyes of a lover, or a psychopath, you are really not sure. You think they are the reason you liked him. The way he looked at you. Was it menacing, or commanding? It was the eyes, it had to be, as he wasn't much of a talker.
The wind blows cold in the dark. Bitter is the wind at 3.30am.
You shiver cold in the night. You start to say something, you don't know what. Words. Just say something.
He calls you a dirty faggot, before you feel his fist in your face. Crack! Bone hitting bone, that's what you feel. A sudden impact, unexpected. You stagger backwards. Dazed. You bring your hand to your face, automatically. Your face is wet, also kind of sticky, like treacle. It is numb, you can't feel it, the blood on your hands. You look passed your hand to see the back of your guy disappearing across the oval towards the darkness of the trees and then out of sight.
You are alone on in the park in the early hours of the morning with your jeans and jocks around your ankles, wiping the sleeve of your hoodie across your wet stub of a nose. Cum oozes from your cock now shrivelled the size of a footy frank.
The frost on the grass is making your shoes wet. There is a breeze blowing up the backs of your legs. Up the stretched hole in your arse. You almost laugh at that thought, but you don't. You grab the waistband of your jeans and jocks and you pull them up together. None of it is fitting you exactly right, material is sticking to you in odd places and is seemingly caught in other places. You don't care, suddenly you want to do is to get out of there. You button your trousers and pull your hoodie over your head.
A group of boys yell something from the other side of the oval. You freeze. Still, like a gazelle in the cold hard gaze of the hunter. It's just the usual 4am drunk stuff. They are yelling at the night, not you, you see that. They can't see the semen dribbling out of your arse, cock and the corner of your mouth. What they'd do if they could, hey? You stuff your bloody hands into your pockets and walk quickly to the perimeter of the cleared grass to the safety of the trees. Across the clearing in the opposite direction to the latest intruders. Just in case, you never know. Turn and walk away.
You relax when you are out of the hard gaze of the open night. Your steps quicken though, as the cover of trees brings it's own fear. Nobody can see you in the darkness of the shadows. Nobody can see you cry in the dark. The tears and blood and snot, are running down your face hidden in the shadows. You wipe your sleeve across your face again. Your nose hurts now at your touch. You hurry to get out of the night. You fart and shit your pants in your haste.
The elms line the pathway in lines like sentinels. The pathways cross the grass crisscross. The park lights fall in pools intermittently. The more brightly lit street glows in the distance, up ahead, like a mirage, seemingly momentarily out of reach. You quicken your pace to make the unreachable reachable.
The street is deserted except for streetlights standing along the road, the light, golden fluid, sweeping out from each pole like a full skirt. You look right, a delivery truck turns off the main road, you look left, a cat runs across the road and disappears. You head down the street.
"What are you doing out so late, man?" He is suddenly walking next to you, appearing out of nowhere.
You recoil. "Nothing. Heading home." Where the fuck did he come from?
“Holly shit, look at you, man, look at you. You’re bleeding man, bleeding. What happened to you, man? What happened to you? You’re bleeding. Bleeding.”
You cover your face with your sleeve. “Nothing,” you mumble from behind it. “Nothing happened.”
“Something happened mate, something happened. Nothing didn’t happen. Something happened.”
“Nothing mate?” you say. This guy is sped up on something. You want him to go away. You want to lose him, you contemplate walking fast, you contemplate running.
“Something happened man, something happened, something happened. Clearly something happened…”
“Leave me alone…” Is he going to fuck you over too, you think.
“Why you shitting on me mate, why? I’m just asking the question.”
“I got hit, okay. I got… I got…” Tears come, you don’t want them to, but you well up.
Suddenly, there is something white flashing in your peripheral vision. “Here mate. Here.”
He is offering you a large, white, crisp handkerchief. “No,” you say.
“Take it, mate. Take it, mate. I want you… I want you… I want you to have it.” He hands it to you in a great flourish like ribbon twirling. “You are bleeding man. Take it.”
You take the handkerchief, you don’t really know why. You wipe it across your face. The dry blood crusts on the white material like red dust.
This is turning out to be the weirdest night. When you were sitting watching your TV at midnight and there was nothing on, you wished you’d gone to bed, as your still small voice had told you to do.
“Tell me what happened man? Tell me what happened?”
“Nothing.” You wish he’d stop asking. What do you say?
“Tell me what happened man? Tell me what happened?”
“Nothing!”
“Tell me!”
“Nothing!”
“Tell me!”
“A guy punched me… okay… after he fucked me…” That just slipped out. “Okay.”
“Then he threw you out?” He sounded incredulous.
“No…”
“No?”
“No!” What do you say?
“No? I don’t get it.”
“There was no out.”
“No out?” He pulled a quizzical face.
“We were out. In the park. We fucked in the park.”
He looked surprised. Big eyes, like he is putting it together in his head. “In the park? You guys have sex in the park?”
“Yes.”
“You meet in the park?” He holds his hands in the air as if a question.
“In the park?
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“No strings attached?
“No strings attached.”
He looks at you with big eyes. “You lucky bastard.”
“What?”
“You lucky bastard! I want to have sex...”
“Huh?”
“Not with you.” He hesitates. “Not that there is anything wrong with you, man,” he holds up his hands “you seem, you seem very nice. But I like girls.” He shrugs. “If I liked dudes, I’d have sex with you,” he looks you up and down. “I’m sure, I’m sure it would be great, you’re nice looking and all, except for the…” He circles his face with his finger. “But without that, you and me, no worries.” He laughs. You wonder if he really is propositioning you. “But you need, you know, you need, let’s face it, you need a… a vagina.” He laughs. “I like girls… with vaginas. I wish they’d fuck in the park.”
You laugh. It just comes out.
He laughs nervously.
“Was it some kind of sex game?”
“What?”
“You’re face?” he scrunches up his face. He balls his fist and punches the air.
“No.”
“Do you guys punch each other to get off?”
“No.” You hear your voice sound incredulous.
“Oh, I don’t know, I don’t know what you guys do, you know, I’m just asking, you know, just being friendly.
“He was just a fuckwit…”
“I don’t, you know, oh except when I was 12 with Stephen Roth, in his tree house, in Box Hill, but that was just kids stuff and I’m sure that’s not what you guys do.”
“Married guys, they are just like that sometimes,” you say.
“Married guys?”
“Yeah.”
“You and married guys?”
“Yeah, lots of married guys in parks.”
“Holly shit,” he says. “With wives, married guys?”
“Yes.” Fuck it, you think, why not tell him, he seems to want to know. “Once they cum, the guilt kicks in and sometimes they lash out.”
The traffic lights at Alexander Parade turn green your way and the little green man lights up and you and your new best buddy continue walking across the wide road.
“That’s the thing with guys that I’ve always wondered about, you know, two guys, I’ve never known some to ask, but isn’t it messy? Don’t you mess the bed, you know, with all that jizz?”
“If you have been doing it right,” you say. You laugh.
He laughs.
He’s kind of funny, you think. He’s not bad looking either.
“What have you been doing?” you ask.
“Oh, you know, hanging out,” he says. “Smoking pipes with my buddy, in North Fitzroy. Can’t you tell?”
“Yeah, maybe,” you say. “Maybe I can tell.”
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