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  I don’t answer. Maria has never told me anything about sleeping with women, but I know she’s a flirt. She’s Greek. We all flirt. Serena goes back to singing the song. Her pale hair, her pale skin, the dark luminous eyes. She looks beautiful and she looks sad. The song ends and I light a cigarette. What do you want to hear? I ask her. I take off the CD and Serena searches through the stack. Play some metal. I groan. Don’t you like it? she asks. She looks hurt. Metal’s alright, I answer, and I sift through the CDs. There is nothing hardcore in the collection but I manage to find a Guns N’ Roses CD single, Sweet Child O’ Mine, which I quite like. I put it on. Maria comes into the room and laughs at hearing the song. Reminds me of high school, she hisses at us and joins Serena in the dance. I watch them dancing, watch them scream the chorus to each other. I hum along softly. A few people in the room are looking at the dancing women with frustration, they don’t like the music.

  The song ends and a thrashier, more furious metal number begins. Serena puts her arms around Maria’s neck and starts kissing her softly across her face. Maria is pulling away. I go back to the kitchen, refill my glass with the last of the brandy and go back into the lounge, rest my back against a wall and watch Serena dancing. Maria has sat down, is flicking through the CDs. One of the boys in leather and shorts is asking her to take off this metal shit and put some dance music on. I watch Serena shake her head to the music, her body responds hungrily to the screeching guitars. She is the music; losing herself in it.

  I straighten up, go over to Maria and order her to leave the song on till it’s finished. The boy puts his hands on his hips and tells me that this is his party and he’ll play whatever the fuck he wants. I push him aside. Push him hard. I’m angry. I’m not sure why, but I’m ready to smash my fist into the face of the arsehole in front of me. Serena comes over and takes my hand, starts dancing with me. She screams the chorus to me and I scream back at her. I’m making up words. The song ends and we pull apart.

  I look over to the couch and the Japanese boy, still playing with his boyfriend’s cock, is looking at us. He doesn’t look legal, does he? I ask Serena and she looks over at the duo on the couch. She pulls away from me. The world stinks don’t it Ari? she tells me, the world is fucked up, isn’t it? Sure, I say softly and I light a cigarette. But he looks like he’s on good drugs, I continue, he looks happy.

  Some records everybody has. As a kid in the playground, when all you knew about music is what you heard on the radio and what you saw on television, Abba reigned supreme. And T-Rex. Having an older brother I also got to listen to Deep Purple (always hated them). Having a mother into music meant I also got to hear the Rolling Stones and the Animals (there is an old photo of my father in a work uniform at the General Motors factory at Fishermen’s Bend and he looks like Eric Burdon, but darker, woggier). When we were children Alex and I bashed each other up in a record shop over whether to buy the soundtrack to Grease or the soundtrack to Star Wars. I wanted Star Wars. She wanted Grease. She won.

  Everyone had Fleetwood Mac’s Tusk. In high school everyone had Pink Floyd’s The Wall. And Michael Jackson’s Off the Wall. My brother had Never Mind the Bollocks. Alex bought Thriller. I bought the first Depeche Mode. Peter still listens to the first Birthday Party album and gave me Nick the Stripper for my thirteenth birthday. I gave Johnny Bronski Beat for a birthday, he gave me Yo Bum Rush the Show. All of Alex’s girlfriends had Van Halen’s 1984. My mother bought Culture Club and the Eurythmics. Dad only bought Greek music and a few Elvis records. For a while you couldn’t go to a party, any party, without hearing De La Soul.

  I can’t recite you a poem, any poem, but my mind is an automatic memory teller of pop music.

  Everyone has Madonna. Call her a tramp. My mum does. Call her a slut. All the boys at school did. Call her a bad singer. As if it matters. But everyone has a Madonna record. She was the first woman I saw who showed off her cunt with as much bravado and pride as a man showed off his dick. Bootlegged Madonna tapes, sent over by penpals from Australia must be like hard currency on the streets of Tehran. I keep thinking of some young girl in full chador, her veil covering her Walkman, walking down a street, ignored by all these Muslim men, and she’s listening to Like a Virgin, or Justify My Love. And going home, alone in her bedroom, touching her cunt, liking it. Bless the Madonna.

  I go over to the boy in shorts. Put on some Madonna? I ask him, and then add, Sorry for getting aggro before. Not too loud, not making too big a deal of it. He smiles at me. That’s more like it, he tells me and flicks through the CDs. He bends over and I catch a glimpse of fine blond hair running up the back of his thighs, disappearing under the thin black lycra pulled tight around his round arse. I finish my drink and go to the toilet, pissing through a half-stiff cock.

  Everyone gets up to dance. To Madonna’s Holiday. Maria is dancing with the man in the tuxedo. Serena is dancing with his young boyfriend. The burly man and the two women from the kitchen come into the lounge room and form a triangle. The music is on loud and everyone is singing along. The music pounds into my eardrums and I walk away from the frenzied dance into a small hallway and push open a door. A small bedroom. I jump on the bed and flick on the bedside light. In front of me there sits a small TV. Beside me is the remote control and I flick the screen on. Flick through the channels. Heavy metal music clips. Flick past that. Ads. Flick past them. Peter O’Toole and Audrey Hepburn in How to Steal a Million. I sit back on the pillows and turn up the volume. Madonna is still audible. I turn up the volume louder and watch the movie. O’Toole at his most handsome, Hepburn at her prettiest. The world on the screen is much more attractive than the world I move around in. I lower my head on my chest and breathe deeply. I’m too tired to sleep, too mindfucked to keep partying. There is a knock on the door. Come in, I mumble.

  George comes into the room. I’m hallucinating. George comes into the room. I am not hallucinating. I want to straighten up, I can’t and instead I lower my head again. A young boy is behind him, the one I pushed around. I’m trying to straighten up, can’t do it. I feel fucking fantastic seeing him, realise I have had him in the back of my thoughts all night. I also realised I’m pissed off to see him obviously friendly with the pansy-boy. I can almost hate him for that. George comes over and grabs my hand. He seems glad to see me. His presence in the room is overpowering. I smell him. I smell him all over me, he is soaking through my skin. He sits beside me on the bed, and asks me if I’m out of it. No, I’m fine, I glower. The boy looks down on me. You know each other? he asks.

  –I live with his brother. George introduces me to the boy. I don’t give a fuck, don’t even try and listen to the name. I look up and George is smiling at me. His hair gelled, his face shaven; he is luminous. The boy offers George a joint and he lights it, takes a couple of drags and offers it to me. I inhale deeply. I fumble in my jeans pocket for my cigarettes. They are there. I pass the joint along. The boy takes two, three long drags, gives it to George and then gets up. Come and dance soon, I hear him say. I don’t look up as he leaves the room. The door shuts. I relax a little, glad he is out of here. I look up at George who is staring at the TV screen. I tense up again.

  –A good movie, is it? he asks me. Yeah, I reply. I’ve seen it before. He asks me who the actor is and I’m disappointed. He doesn’t know Peter O’Toole.

  –Been here long? No, I answer. I keep watching the TV, watch Audrey and Peter flirting with each other, making light conversation. Falling in love. George passes me the joint and I want to touch his neck, feel his skin. Is that your girlfriend inside? he asks me.

  –Who?

  –The Greek girl. He means Maria. No, just a friend. The question pisses me off. Peter must have kept quiet about his little brother sleeping with men. It is something Peter doesn’t talk about much.

  My body is taut, I am tight all over. My T-shirt is constricting me. I finish the joint and he takes it from me, brushes my hand. I see sparks, a tiny shower of electricity rains down on the bed from the point where our
hands touched. He sees nothing. He butts out the joint in an ashtray and watches the movie. I guess we should go inside, he says. No, I say loudly. I want to stay here. He doesn’t move.

  –I find you very attractive, Ari. He does not look at me as he tells me. And I’m very stoned. He gets up from the bed and turns around to me. Sorry, he says softly, I shouldn’t have said that. I pull my knees up tight against my chest and concentrate furiously on the screen. Words are forming, whole sentences are at play at the tip of my tongue. Nothing comes out. I’m grinding hard on my teeth. See you, Ari.

  –Stay, I bark it out. He doesn’t leave but he doesn’t sit down. I light a cigarette and he asks for one. I hand it over and he lightly touches my hand, runs his fingers up my naked arm. I hold it out to him, close my eyes. He touches my face, a light touch, caressing me. Have you done it with a guy before, Ari? Then he laughs. A sarcastic laugh. He takes his hand away. I guess you have, he says.

  His words are knives. Carving me up. I fix my eyes on the screen. In his eyes I am something else, I am someone else. I’m a wog boy, a straight boy. He is blind to my desire for him. I feel naive, vulnerable. But in my head, running around and around and around is the thought that I must appear strong for him to want me. He too wants the one hundred percent genuine wog fuck.

  He sits down next to me and I still can’t look at him. He butts out the half-smoked cigarette. I look at him. He’s boyish but not soft. I want to tell him I adore him but the words don’t come out. He is nervous and that touches me. I pull him to me and we are kissing.

  I feed on his mouth, I fall into him. He kisses me all over my face, my neck, pulls my T-shirt over my chest and licks my nipples. I lie back and he pulls down my zip, and my dick is rock hard as he takes it in his mouth. I push hard into his mouth. I’m silent. He tries to pull away from my cock and I hold tight onto his head, forcing my cock deeper into his throat. The room has disappeared. The thrusts don’t last long. There is a pounding in my head, the whole world is trapped inside me, the whole world consists of George and myself. I hold my breath and release the world. Three quick thrusts and I come. He pulls away, spits into the bedsheet and wipes his mouth. He is furious. He leans over me. My wet cock is still hard. He pulls down his jeans and forces my hand on his cock.

  I want to clean myself up but he won’t let me. He grips hard on my hand, his nails biting into my flesh. Suck me, Ari, he orders. I don’t make a move. He lets go of my hand, and sits on my chest pushing his cock in my face. I turn away and he pulls at my hair until my lips are rubbing against the cock head. He pushes into my mouth and I choke as his cock is forced down my throat. I raise myself onto the bed and lick his cock and massage his balls. He groans and strokes my hair and I take his cock further and further into my mouth, saliva dribbles down my cheeks, I still feel as if I’m choking yet it is impossible for me to release him. He comes and lets out an anguished groan. I swallow all of his come, swallow the shit he flushes down my throat, lick his cock, his balls, his groin, swallow his sweat and his semen and his flesh. He tries to pull away but I don’t let him, keep his cock deep in my mouth until he is wincing. He pulls away violently. A drop of fluid falls on my cheek. He wipes his cock with the sheet and lies down next to me. My fists are two tight balls, I’m crushing my own fingers. The sex is over.

  George lights me a cigarette. I take it and look down at my body, my cock hanging out, my T-shirt stained. I don’t care. I smoke the cigarette, smelling the stink of semen, sweat and nicotine. Miami Sound Machine is on the stereo in the party room. George says something to me. I turn around. He wipes a line of sweat from my brow. I flinch as he touches me. Peter is kissing Audrey on the screen. Too many sounds, images, movements. Turn that fucking thing off, I ask him. He gets up and switches it off and sits down on the bed. There is a knock on the door and he throws the sheet over my body. I couldn’t care, couldn’t care who sees me, dick hanging out, dripping come. Maria pokes her head in the room. You want to leave, Ari? she asks. She comes in.

  –No, I’ll stay. We can wait, she says. I shake my head. She comes over to kiss me goodbye. I don’t move. Her lips feel cold on my cheek. She smooths back my hair and leaves the room without looking at George. She turns back and asks if I’m sure I’ll be alright to get home.

  –I’ll take him home. George smiles at her and, hesitantly, Maria smiles back at him. She says goodbye again, this time in Greek and I don’t answer, watch her walk out of the room. She shuts the door behind her.

  George lies next to me, his face near mine and rubs his hand along my chest. I smoke the cigarette, watch the smoke form ghosts in the air. You are so good-looking, Ari, he whispers to me.

  –And you’re fucking gorgeous. I say it and let out a sigh. I’ve got the words out. You think so? he asks me, a wide grin on his face. Yeah, sure, I answer, for a guy. I’m using words as a shield, protecting myself. I don’t know who he wants me to be. I don’t know who I want him to be. He stops smiling.

  –Do you want me to leave? No, I answer. Do you want me to take you home? Again, I shake my head, no. He looks frustrated. I glance at the alarm clock on the bedside table. Maybe I should go home. Whatever time I get home there is going to be a fight with Mum or Dad. Probably both. I want to ask to forget the sex, the way I feel about him, to ask him to forget I am my brother’s brother. I want him to stop asking questions and I want him and me to never leave this room. Dawn will be coming up soon. I groan. Mum is going to kill me, I tell him.

  –So you want me to take you home? No, fuck you, I yell, I don’t want you to take me home.

  –You just said … He stops mid-sentence. He sits on the bed. I give up, he continues and lights another cigarette and sucks on it hard, all you Greeks are liars. I laugh at him.

  –It’s true. Whenever someone rings up for your brother I have to pretend I’ve just gotten up or just come home. He begins miming that he is talking on the telephone. No Mrs Voulis, I don’t know where Peter is, he must be at the library. Studying. I go to my brother’s defence.

  –You just have to lie, I tell George. Bullshit. He says it hard, spittle flies towards me. All it takes is guts, confront your parents. It is your life after all. I listen to his words. I’ve heard them before; I’ve played them in my own head, played them over and over. You have to lie, I repeat. He starts to say something and I continue to speak over him, I continue to get my words out. Try not to think about how they sound.

  –You have to lie, maybe not all the time, and maybe there are some things you can’t lie about but most things aren’t worth the effort. I’ll lie about where I’m going, I’ll lie about who I’m with, I’ll lie about what I’ve been doing if I think it will save an argument, save some time. I look at the fine blond hairs forming webs across George’s chest. I begin to falter in my words. I want to reach a finger out to him, touch him, put his fingers to my mouth, to taste him. You might think it funny, I tell him, all these lies and stories and arguments over the phone. But I don’t think they’re funny, they’re just boring. It’s easier to lie.

  –You just have to tell the truth once. George gets on his knees, his face is close to mine. I smell the aftershave, the nicotine, the alcohol. Just once, Ari, once you tell them the truth, one argument, no matter how brutal and you never have to lie again.

  –You’re wrong. I look straight into his blue eyes. Foreign eyes. I can see the sky in them. You’re wrong, I speak to his eyes. Truth they use against you. I speak slowly, no mumbling, no slurring. I struggle to form my words free of the deleterious effects of the drugs, of my emotions. You’re wrong, you never tell a wog anything important about yourself. The truth is yours, it doesn’t belong to no one else.

  –And so you never grow up. George is still over me. Always little children, never adults. I don’t say anything to him, just stare into his face, look bored. This angers him. He grabs tight onto my wrists. Don’t you ever, don’t you ever want to be free of the hold they have over you? Fuck, don’t you ever want to grow up?

&nbs
p; –You talking about my parents or your parents? I say it laconically, I spice my tone with arrogance. He relaxes his grip on my wrists. I curl my right hand into a fist and slam it hard into his stomach. Hard, so hard that he stops breathing for a moment, then squeals and falls on me. All my anger I put into my fist, all my anguish I throw into the punch. George falls on me, tears in his eyes, gasping for breath. I watch his head on my chest, watch him slowly rise up onto his knees again. He hits at me, no punches, a slap on the side of my head. He kicks his knee into my thigh. He’s thrashing around like a little child, the tears still falling from his eyes. I can’t feel the pain. From somewhere deep inside me I hear a faint word being repeated again and again. The word is sorry. It sounds like it’s coming from a long, long way off. Further than the next room, almost imperceptible. It slowly gains volume and then the words crash into the room and I see George on top of me, hitting me and I hear myself yelling I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

  –I don’t believe a word you say, you fucking arsehole he shouts into my ear. I lie still. Do you like me? Ari? Do you want to sleep with me again? His face is still white with anger. I’m looking into his eyes and for the first time in my life I look at angry blue eyes. Heat, ferocious heat, is blue. Yes. I tell him yes. He lets go of me. Lights a cigarette.

  –You’re a nice young kid, Ari, fucked up but that’s normal. He passes me the cigarette. You’re a nice kid. Find yourself a good Greek girl, Ari, that’s what you really want, eh? Stop messing around with us poofters. Go home to Mummy and Daddy, go where you fucking belong. He wipes his face with a handkerchief, tucks his shirt into his trousers, runs a hand through his hair. He smiles down to me. I want to punch his fucking face in.