On the Couch

We had a big, open house, as open as our relationship. Everybody, and everything was welcome. They were heady days, those first few years with my relationship with Liam Dean. We met in a sex club and it was love at first sight.

Then for a few years we fucked everyone, and everything, in any number of sex clubs, bars, nightclubs, dance parties, wherever, Liam and I, until, eventually, we kind of wore it out.

Patrick, the guy who ran the sauna we used to frequent, hated us. Another friend, Robert, explained it this way, you and Liam are handsome and successful, of course, rat-faced Patrick hates you, you are everything he isn’t.

Liam had a son, Jack. Liam, was ten years older than me. I was ten years older than Jack.

Jack used to party with us. He was handsome and well-built, so the punters enjoyed him being around.

Liam and Jack’s favourite party trick was to tell the gay punters they met that they were father and son. I’m not sure how many strangers would ask me, when I was invariably off my face, “What relationship are these two?” Invariably pointing to shirtless Liam and Jack.

We used to give 18 year old Jack drugs. Not until he was 18, we thought it was better he did them with us where we could look after him, rather than doing them with who knows who, and who knows where. He used to party with us at gay clubs and dance parties.

He’d come back to our place, which was his place too, to hang out, post party, with our friends, to take more drugs to enjoy that lovely post drugged night Sunday.

We’d make tea and roll joints and top up on pills and powders. 

Jack, true to form, would invariably pass out the moment the dope hit him. As much as he objected to smoking, he sure looked serene like that. Calm. Sleeping. Quiet. But, also annoying as he could take up a whole couch, no matter who else was in the room requiring a seat.

He used to go out drinking, invariably with his mate Anton, he’d come home munted, strip to his boxer shorts, t-shirt on, or off, in direct ratio to how hammered he really was. If he was relaxed, chilled-out-Jack, he’d be shirtless, calm, passed out face down and no one could wake him. If he was angry-pissed-off-Jack, which he could be, t-shirt and boxer shorts and implements of war, and grumpy Jack. He came clumsily crashing through the place, landing on the nearest empty part of the couch, and if necessary, the nearest person, if there were no empty sections of couch, as such, and pass out, normally lying face down.

Many a gathering of gay guy clubbers would be surprised and then amused by this behaviour. Jack being well-built and handsome meant all those present would invariably make allowances for him, especially if he was half naked, you may understand.

Once he pulled it together, Jack could be smart, witty, charming, flirty with all the gay boys present, half the time, bare chested.

My introduction to Jack was his eighteenth birthday party, when the house got trashed by a selection of his mates. Jack and Anton being the main culprits. I saw screaming, raging, drunk Jack for the first time.

Jack was very big into gym, in a more intimate drug moment, he rather unexpectedly said he had to get bigger than all the other bastards, then he would feel safe. Then he burst into tears.

I held him that day as he sobbed into my chest.

The next time I saw him it was smart, handsome, charming Jack, who didn’t add up to the first Jack I had witnessed. They often say you can take first impressions to accurately sum up a person.

Warm and, admittedly, sexy and smooth and handsome and smart… Jack had the potential of being the perfect son.

Handsome, together, open-minded, raised by poofs and lesbians… oh, no, not lesbians. Marie Campbell is definitely not a lesbian. Although, her and Nora in those more recent years living next to me, I have sometimes asked? There didn’t seem to be a cock in sight for years between those two.

Ha ha, Marie is far too, um, what is the right word, conventional? Maybe? To be be licking Nora’s snatch for comfort?

Yeah, the mother of the children bought the house next to mine when it came up for sale. Some people have asked how that is? It’s fine, I like Marie. I may not have been friends with her in another life, but it’s not another life.

They were big drug taking days back then. His father and I and our crew got munted on recreational drugs every Saturday night for 2 years, maybe 3 years, it was the carefree recreational drug taking 90s. I don’t know how I did it? I do know how I did it, I didn’t work Mondays. I worked Tuesday to Friday and even then my hours were pretty flexible. I was always finished early Friday, putting extra hours during the week. 

Liam had his own business, building/renovating, Dean Australia, that ran itself Mondays and when necessary, Tuesdays, with the other tradies he employed, so he didn’t have to go to work. He and Jamie were probably still dancing.

I hate going out before 1am anyway.

We took everything. Our crew. They were fun times. Many of us had our businesses, or worked nights.

Our motto was the least drugs, for maximum fun. You can take as much as you like, as long as you get up and go to work when you have to.

19 year old Jack, was liked by everyone. (as long as he behaved himself. He was no different to other 19 year old boys, he could misbehave and be a pain too)

Jack lived with me for five years, 6 years, 3 years of hard partying and 3 years of pulling away from it.

Our house was the big party house, everyone would come to our place post party, where we’d drink tea, smoke pot and play music. We take more drugs and dance, before some of us went out to recoveries, or went on somewhere else, and some of us would go home with our respective partners, trade we’d picked up the night before, or we’d go home to sleep.

Jack had a habit of coming and collapsing in a stupor in the middle of everything dressed, or in a relatively baggy pairs of boxers shorts he normally wore, all sweaty from a night of popping pills and dancing. 

The morning sun was just shining in through the windows and I was bathed in warmth, it was early Sunday morning, everyone else had gone home or to bed, or topped up and gone to recoveries. I was often on my own. Liam liked to go to recoveries. I did too, sometimes, but I definitely had a limit, end-of-drug taking when I just wanted to smoke pot and chill.

Jack would collapse on me bare chested, his arms around my neck, 

“Josh, I love you mate.” 

“Yes, yes, I love you too.”

He’d cuddle up to me like that, Sunday morning, just as the sun was rising. You know how the drugged get so earnest in their drug effected state.

Jack crashed through and he was on top of me, we were chest to chest, the sun warming his skin to a toasty warmth, on his naked back, which my fingers were stroking, caressing, probably peaking on ecstasy, after Sunday morning re-dose. 

We would have gotten home and dropped another whole pill each. Generally, there would be many people, but on this particular Sunday morning, it was just me. The others had decided to go onto the after-parties that went all day Sunday until midnight Sunday night. Ketamine, cocaine, ecstasy, speed, crystal, if it was around. 

What was a shot up each nostril called, a Manhattan? No, I don’t think that is right. 

Re-dose when we get home, that was the usual routine. Head out again. Head to the couch. Nobody worked Monday, we’d all be home 9am Monday morning smoking joints.

I slid my hand onto the curve of Jack’s back. He’d be warm, and smooth, and, you know, solid. 

I know you probably shouldn’t talk about your stepson in such a way, I know it probably violates some sort of step-father, step-son code, I’m aware of that.

I remember, on occasions, I’d ogle any sight of the elastic of his underwear. On some occasions I could help but see his impressive bulge, in soft, white cotton. But, it’s just appreciation, you know, nothing else. It’s nice to know our boy looks sexy in his underwear for anyone who chooses to unwrap him. 

A Calvin Klein, that's what it was called. I remember now, a shot of cocaine in one nostril, a shot of ketamine in the other nostril, at the same time, sniff.

There was that time, somewhere, in the murky world of Sunday morning dance party, Mardi Gras? Red Raw? In club land somewhere, peaking on too many ecstasy, we once connected lip to lip like two men, in the middle of a frenetic, sweaty dancefloor, and we pashed with each other, like it was the most natural thing, in the rush. 

“I love you too, Josh.”

“I love you mate.”

I passed my lips over my stepson’s lips, who was, like, twenty, at the time. And that big, strapping boy responded by doing the same. We kissed. My tongue found his. I felt his lips on mine, his big, soft lips…

But suddenly, I felt my moral codes snapping and going off like gunshots. I couldn’t be that cliché, I thought. Somewhere in my drug high mind, as our lips tasted each other, under those coloured lights, I remember distinctly thinking, this really is kind of tacky... I can’t be that person. 

We both sat back on the couch. Jack’s eyes were rolling into the back of his head. He slid his hand into his boxer shorts. He was really peaking all over again. 

“I love playing with my balls, when I am high, I never get my balls played with enough.”

I gazed at Jack, his face was red and he was sweating. I wondered if I looked like that.

“I love wrapping my hand around my big hairy nuts. They feel good.” 

I was tripping hard, this hardly seemed real.

“Yeah, squeeze them. yeah, just like that,” said Jack. He’d spread his legs wide for full access.

Jack, of course, had a ragging hardon, by this stage. Which he took it in his hand inside his boxer shorts. He clearly ran his hand up and down it. 

I tried to remember what it was like at 21? The air in the room seemed slightly sticky with sweat.

Jack groaned. “Oh, yeah, that feels good.”

That was it. I looked away. I got up and danced away. I left him to it there on the couch.

I didn’t wake up again until midnight Sunday. I woke up just after midnight. I had no idea where I was, although that quickly became apparent, as I was home. I couldn’t remember anything much, after Jack putting his hand down his boxers. Jesus. Good thing Jamie wasn't there. That kind of made me smile. Not that I felt together enough to smile. What is Jamie like?

I remember dancing. I remember stumbling around dark toilets. There were men there. There were hard cocks. I couldn’t be sure if one of them was Liam.

No, that was before I got home. Of course, it was before I got home. Where was my head?

But that was about it, that was as far as it went.

I remembered the music stopping and walking out with Liam. I remember catching a taxi with somebody, it may, or may not have been Liam, but probably was. And Jamie. They went where? Where were they now?

Jack was on the couch still dressed only in his boxer shorts. He was playing some sort of game boy. The room was hot. We were both sweating, I could smell us both. He was totally engrossed. 

“Where’s dad?” Jack asked. “Upstairs, in bed?”

Nah, I remembered, Liam went to recoveries with young Jamie. I wondered where he was now?

I lay back down on the couch next to Jack. I rolled a joint, which I probably didn’t need. I shared it with Jack, of course. Then, of course, I rolled another joint, I shared that with Jack too.

After that, I fell asleep on the couch. 

I woke at some time later with Jack’s big arms around me, like they so often were. He’s a cuddler, is Jack. I rolled onto my back, and Jack lay on me breathing into my chest.

I lay there in the quiet and gazed at the ceiling. I looked at Jack’s sleeping face. I played with his hair. I remember thinking how handsome he was. I remember wondering if we could keep him safe and happy in an ever increasingly harsh world.

I just lay there and felt the world hum.

There was a rolled joint in the ash tray, I managed to get hold of it with my finger tips and I even managed to reach a lighter. I reached over to the remote and put on Aretha Frankling sings the blues. I lay there smoking the joint with Jack practically in my arms.

More and more, Liam was away intestate with building projects more often than not in Queensland. He bought a cheap apartment on the Gold Coast to facilitate business.

21 year old Jack would go out partying with his mates, coming crashing home in the very early hours of Sunday, when he’d crawl into bed with me in his boxer shorts. He’d want to cuddle up in my arms. I’d wrap my arms around him. I’d often slide my hands onto his back stroking him until he fell asleep. 

It felt very natural.

When he’d roll over and I’d spoon him from behind, I’d slide my arms around him hugging him. I don’t know how often I fell asleep that way. There is something special about having another trusting human in your arms.

He said he felt safe with me. He said that was where he felt like nothing could hurt him.

“You’re my guardian angel,” he said.

“I’m your what?” I was always kind of surprised by what he’d said.

“You are the one person who chooses me without any obligations,” said Jack. “You don’t have to, but you do. That is why I feel safest with you.”

“Oh, Jack,” I said.

“When you wrap your arms around me, I feel I’m in the safest place in the world.”

Anyway, he was safe with me. 

It was when he crashed into Jamie’s bed unconscious that he got himself into trouble. Once he was out to it, nothing woke him. He was better in bed with me, in that case.

He’d be better home next door in his own bed, of course, but on party weekends he didn’t seem inclined to do that.