Sven's life in Oz

As you know this past three weeks has been Mardi Gras here in Sydney, and when I wasn’t embarrassing myself by seeming to be a stalker (that all turned out ok, by the way; Dr Lego was very sympathetic and found it highly amusing) I was reverting to type by spending extended periods of time getting naked in public. This will be my last opportunity for legally exposing myself in front of crowd for a while, but in my defence I wasn’t the only one: this time I had 5000 friends along to join in the fun. It can only mean one thing: Spencer Tunick was in town.

Anyone who has lived with me, slept with or near me, or tried to wake me up of a morning knows that it is not an easy thing to do. It’s not that I’m “not a morning person”, because once I’m perfectly charming once I’m awake. It’s simply that waking up is such a chore, and going back to sleep is almost too easy, so I’m always drawn to the route of least resistance. Last Monday morning was a personal challenge for me not because I had to strip naked in front of thousands of people and a national landmark, but because I had to get up at 3am to take part. I spent 20 minutes sitting on the edge of my bed wondering if I really wanted to go. My bed was so warm and inviting and the prospect of walking to the Opera House on a crisp autumn morning before the sun rose was almost enough to put me off. Thankfully I snapped out of it and forced myself to hit the streets. I didn’t shower or do my hair though – what was the point? Who would be looking at it?

The route from my flat to the Opera House took me down Oxford Street – the gay party strip – on the biggest weekend of the Mardi Gras. It was a strange experience heading out for the day at the time I would normally be coming home, seeing people partying away or ending their night just as my day was beginning. However, as I closed in on the harbour the party atmosphere picked up, though it was an eerie excitement as everyone tried to stay quiet. I’ve mentioned before how residential the CBD is; I’m sure it was quite a sight when people opened their curtains in the morning to see 5000 naked bodies waving back at them, but at least we all did our best to let them sleep while we got ready. For the record, Circular Quay on an autumn morning at 4am is a pretty nippy place to be, and don’t let anyone tell you any different. The waiting around in the cold sea air was worth it though – the sunrise usually happens while I’m in bed so seeing it from the steps of the Opera House was a pretty rewarding experience. No time to waste though: no sooner was the sun up than the trousers were down and the most surreal couple of hours of my life began.

It’s difficult to explain how odd a sight 5000 naked people moving in a crowd can be. From where I was standing I had a pretty good view and I can only describe it as a swarm of nudity, like those massive clouds of starlings you see from time to time, but pink, giggly and wobbling. There was the inevitable looking at people’s bits without looking like you were looking, but after 15 minutes the novelty rather wore off and one person’s bum looked just like the next. I thought it was infinitely fascinating to see the difference between the skin on people’s faces and that on their arses. I know it sounds obvious, but seeing how weathered your face cheeks are compared to your ass cheeks really drives home the message about sunscreen. I’m never leaving home without it again. I was also reassured that, in the entire crowd there was not one person with a perfect body. Being a Mardi Gras event, I had imagined the place would be full of toned Adonises who had been in the gym since the day they were born in preparation for this moment. There wasn’t a six pack in sight. As I looked around I saw bodies of every shape and size – some fatter or thinner, saggier or drier, paler, hairer, balder or bonier – and I realised that really I’m not that bad after all. I have bits that I hate, but so does everyone else. No one is perfect. We should treasure our blemishes: they make us unique.

We all assumed our positions and did as we were told while Tunick took roll after roll of film. A squeal would ripple through the crowd whenever a breeze came in off the water, followed by the clapping sound of 10,000 hands slapping 10,000 forearms, trying to stay warm. We all laughed awkwardly when we had to lie down, unavoidably resting hands on strangers thighs or torsos, trying not to touch anything too fleshy. We talked to the people next to us, waved to friends and identified people with kooky tattoos or outrageous hair colours so we can spot ourselves in the final picture. We discussed the weather, the traffic (at 3am there wasn’t much) and whether or not we would be on tv. It was pretty run-of-the-mill, except for being completely naked, outside, and waving to commuters on their way to work.

After the exterior shots were finished, 2000 people ran into the concert hall and filled every seat, lay on the stage and packed the walkways. I wish I could say it felt odd sitting on a plastic bag in the concert hall of the Sydney Opera House naked as the day I was born, but by then it really didn’t. Tunick directed from the lighting box, a disembodied artist booming out of nowhere to sit down, stand up, move left or right or turn around. It’s hard to know what left or right is when you have no frame of reference, but we managed nonetheless. When we stood up the bags we had been given to protect the seats from our naked bums stuck to everyone’s thighs: the sound of plastic sheets ripping off 2000 naked arses simultaneously is something few people will get to enjoy. After that we assumed various poses and just as we were coming to the end, while I was draped over the chair with my foot on someone’s should and my arm in the air, I looked around the room. The entire place, floor to ceiling and every gap in between, was covered in flesh in every conceivable shape, colour, texture and condition. It was a living sculpture and it took my breath away. People may laugh and think we’re all mad for doing it, but to get a moment like that was definitely worth getting out of bed for.

Mardi Gras weekend: the busiest weekend of the gay year and I had so much on I could barely catch my breath, yet I still managed to make myself look crazy with Dr Lego. As I type I am waiting to hear from him and fearing the worst. The image I am about to describe may make you think twice about visiting this site again.

Dr Lego is a busy man at the moment – he needs to focus on other things and a fledgling relationship may be slightly more of a distraction than he can handle right now. I like him, but I’m in no mad rush and I’m not going anywhere, so the ’slow, slow, slower’ approach suits me down to the ground. It’s win-win. This has been working pretty well for the past month or so, but this weekend I appear to have gone off the reservation and turned into Glenn Close in rugby socks. Please note that I only appear to have gone mad – circumstances and technology have conspired against me in the most villainous collusion. Nonetheless, it does make me seem like a raving maenad, and that’s not a good look.

Here’s what I thought was happening: I was being breezy, for want of a better word. I sent a very low-key “plans for Mardi Gras?” text and got a low-key “I’ll try” back, which was super. I responded that I would call after the parade and if he were about maybe we could meet. So far, so congenial. Post-parade I duly called, and this is where things start to go off-piste. My iPhone decided that it would route the call, but cut off my sound and then freeze so I couldn’t hang up. I doubtless left a message cursing and blinding as I hit the screen in a vain attempt to cut it off. I had to turn the whole thing off just to end the call, thus requiring a reboot. Once back online, I called again and left a sensible message that I was now free and to call me back. Not ideal, but explainable. I went off to the after-parade Carnival, didn’t hear from him, and went home around 1:30am – a respectable hour for MG weekend. In the morning I rang to see how he was, sorry we missed one another and yadda yadda yadda, but no response. A quick text later to confirm my plans for the weekend, if he wanted to come, lovely – if not, no worries. That’s it. Not too much, not too little. Yes, I’m keen: no, I’m not crazy.

What actually happened was slightly different, and this is where the bunnies run for cover. Original texts were sent and the post-parade iPhone fuck up occurred. However, after the reboot, the keypad lock failed to work properly and when I put the phone back in my pocket, my keys started knocking the screen just enough to register as finger touches. They started doing all kinds of crazy things like sending blank text messages to people, deleting apps, and ringing numbers from my recent call list. Including Dr Lego. Four times. So, when I decided to give him a friendly morning call to see how his night was, it was actually the seventh time I had called him in 12 hours. Since he didn’t answer, we can mark another one up to the missed call list. Follow that up with a text detailing my movements for the next 48 hours and we’re into restraining order territory.

Later in the afternoon, as I was playing with my phone, I noticed that the applications had moved and spent a few minutes trying to figure out exactly what had changed. When I eventually worked out which one was missing, I concluded that it was highly unlikely I would have consciously deleted it, and that something hinky was afoot. Too late – oh, so late – I checked the recent calls and discovered the awful truth: I was an inadvertent stalker. I’d love to say that the story ends there, but you know me too well. Things get worse…

If it takes ten men an hour to dig a hole ten feet deep, how long would it take five men to dig half a hole? The answer, of course, is that there is no such thing as half a hole: once you are in one, you are in one. Remember that, friends, when you think you are not in as deep as you could be. In my embarrassment, I decided that the only course of action was to ring and explain what had happened, and we can all see where this is going: he didn’t answer. Missed calls = 8. A couple of hours later I received a short text politely explaining that he was working the night shift and would have to call me tomorrow. I seized the moment, sent a text back straight away briefly explaining the error and cursing my own stupidity. What else could I do?

So now I am waiting at home for a phone call tonight telling me that I am far too high maintenance for him, and to seek psychiatric help. So that’s the end of that one, and quite honestly, who can blame him?

——

Update: we’re on for a coffee this Saturday afternoon. I’ll keep you posted.

I have decided that my mantra for 2010 is as follows: you get out what you put in. Clearly the fates were not impressed with my not-quite-nakedness in January, since I clearly didn’t put in enough (or get out enough, as may be the case). This month they thrust upon me a second opportunity for public nudity in the form of the annual Sydney Convicts fundraiser, Rugger Bugger. The format is simple enough: a drag-hosted variety show in which all the players showcase their theatrical skills in a series of skits; the highlight is always the full monty routine at the end. I volunteered for the final routine, of course, because I’m no warm-up act. (I’m kidding. Whenever someone asks for volunteers you can be sure of two things: it’s something no one wants to do, and you’re going to be struggling to get the numbers you need. In light of my newly adopted motto, I figured that volunteering early on would be the best way to make the most of it. If everyone thought that way the world would a better place, but if nine of us can think that way then at least we can get a decent strip show organised. Which is exactly what we did.)

Allow me to say that the Rugger Bugger strip routine was, without question, the gayest thing I have ever done in my life. Have a read back through the blog archives: you’ll be hard pressed to find something more outrageously camp (and I’ve got form, let me tell you). You could almost slice the incredulity when the song was announced. No one has ever looked macho dancing to Wham!. The routine swiftly developed along the only lines it could: unashamed booty-shaking with George Michael/urinal gags and grinding pelvises. And a giant cardboard saxophone for the instrumental. Before long we were shoop-shooping with the best of them. I’m not a huge fan of Wham! at the best of times, and if I hear “I’m Your Man” again it will be too soon, but the fun was more than enough to make up for “taking it from the top” more times than a man should have to bear. I’m sure the residents of the tower block overlooking our open air rehearsal would agree, since they all pissed themselves laughing watching eight burly rugby players and one pasty, lanky, barely-82kg Brit break into dance just as the chorus started.

The actual night was a riot, involving three changes of outfit and a free bottle of tequila. Sensibly I steered clear of too much of the hard stuff before the show; I had barely eaten all day to stay looking thin, so drinking too much would have been disastrous (and eventually was). I started the night in rugby kit and team t-shirt to help raise funds for the World Cup trip in June (I sold those raffle tickets like my life depended on it, baby), and before I knew it, 11pm had arrived: showtime.

I will be eternally grateful for my complete lack of stagefright. I know people who spend hours or days before as nervous wrecks. Ever since I can remember, the worst I have ever suffered is a jangly feeling moments before curtain up. And it’s just as well – throwing off your clothes in public isn’t exactly run-of-the-mill. People ask me how I did it and my philosophy is this: it’s nothing that isn’t in the room with you every time we meet: it’s just better hidden. No one can steal it from me, no one is going to run off with my dick so what is there to lose? The costume was simple enough, including the rather scanty briefs we had been supplied with. I tried them on before the show and was embarrassed to be wearing them in the privacy of my own home; ‘revealing’ barely does them justice. Still, the aim was to get them off, so what did I care? We assumed our positions in the wings and waited for the first bars to begin.

The whole thing was over in a flash. All that rehearsing, all that agonising over who would stand where, when we would drop our jeans, how long we would shake our asses seemed an age away. Before I knew it, I was standing in front of 200 people with my hands over my head and my undies around my ankles. We scurried off-stage and I changed into my party outfit: I was ready to drink. And my word, I did. The rest of the night has been reported to me from others who attended, but there was tequila, a JD-and-coke in each hand and kisses with Dr Lego, who sensibly left before I got too out of control. I rolled home at about 3:30am after an awesome evening.

I think there’s another one planned for October this year. Put it in your diary.

[Ann-Marie Calilhanna's photos shameless borrowed from the fabulous Sydney Star Observer]

A few weeks ago when I did the no-pants train ride, some of my fellow pants-free travellers and I all went for a post-ride drink which, as these things do, turned into a full afternoon of drinks, drinks and more drinks. One thing led to another and the long and the short of it is that when I finally made it home I wasn’t alone. Not bad work for a Sunday, I’m sure you will agree. When I told my colleagues at work this tale of drunkness and debauchery they all laughed, but I got a spank on the wrist from them all for being a naughty boy: my companion for the evening was pretty much a boy himself, being a mere 20 years old. It’s official: I am a cougar.

Actually, apparently I am a puma. Cougars are forties and I’ve still got a decade to get to that tickbox on the census. In any event, with ten years between me and this puma-bait it was fairly certain that it wasn’t going to turn into anything huge. We went on a couple of dates, had some fun and laughed a lot, and now that neither of us has called the other for a fortnight, I think it’s safe to say that the fling has been flung and it’s time to move on. So what have we learned?

Firstly, I’m hot! Who doesn’t love it when people mistake them for someone five years younger? And even if it’s all lies it’s always nice to hear. In either case, I was the one being pursued and we all like the attention, whatever the story that comes with it.

Secondly, I’ve still got it, baby! If I can pull a 20-year old, what else can I do? Whoever said that gay years were like dog years and thirtysomethings were really seventysomethings was obviously pig ugly and bitter about it. I may only be starting out in my thirties but that means I’m just warming up; I have no intention of spending the next decade winding down preparing for a lonely old age. (And just to be clear, this doesn’t mean that I’m going to be whoring it about like something straight out of Sodom; rather that I’m going to give life everything I have and see what happens.) I am a catch, and it’s only a matter of time…

But finally, 20-year olds are just not for me. Sure I had fun and if I could go back I would do it all again, but now that I’ve done it I realise that I’m not 20-years old myself, and I’m happy about that. This particular 20-year old was bright, charming, witty and handsome, but there was something about him that I can’t really put my finger on: I suppose he was just too green. When I was 20 I thought I knew everything; now I’m 30 I can confidently say that I don’t know a damn thing. The past ten years have been a greater learning experience than I ever imagined and as exciting as it was for me – and will be for him – I’m ready to move on. Whoever I move on with needs to be beside me, not ten years behind. But if he wants to tell me that I look 25, that’s fine by me.

Lately I’ve been going through something of a blogger’s block – it happens from time to time – so I’m trying a new, adult way of dealing with it: writing through it. Normally I just make a guttural kind of “gahhhhh” sound, throw my hands in the air and give up till it goes away, but I figure I’m old enough and talented enough to be able to bluff my way through 500 words three times a week (and lately one of those has become a regular audio ramble, making it even easier) so I’ll just truck on and hope for the best. What do you know, 100 words down already!

A little while ago I went for the longest run of my life and rather enjoyed it, which is odd because normally I hate running. I’m not sure what it is about it that turns me off. I much prefer swimming, and when I say that to my friends they look at me like I have two heads. I’ve had numerous conversations to try to determine why I hold this freaky point of view, but to no avail. Why do I hate running and yet love swimming? Three reasons, all logically circular, and all utterly inane.

Running bores me

I’ve said it before and I shall say it again: running is dull. It’s just like walking, but faster. What is achieved? It feels like a total waste of my time. “Why not run on the treadmill,” one friend  suggested. “You could watch the television then.” I’ll tell you why: I’d go out of my mind. I never watch the television: I watch the clock. The minute I’m on the treadmill I’m watching the seconds tick by till I can get off it again. I’m looking around the gym at the guy on the swiss ball or the girl doing circuit training thinking “Oh, I’d much rather be doing that.” That’s not normal, is it? I should be enjoying the thing. I have no idea how far I’ve run in 20 minutes and I never remember how I did last time to be able to compare. Am I getting faster? I doubt it. At least when I’m swimming I know that I did 40 lengths in half an hour last time, and next time I’ll do 50. And that’s the other thing about swimming – the results are immediate. You can build on your performance week on week and those are the kind of results I like.

The distractions

Josh said in a comment that forgets all his worries and daydreams he’s famous, whilst Dr Lego said that he switches off totally, even going so far as to listen to the same song on repeat for hours. Kristie, my friend, said she actually enjoyed the distractions, looking around her the entire time and making up lives and histories for the people she passes. (It turns out, by the way, that I know a lot of runners. They’re everywhere, like lice.) For me, the prospect of a long run is offputting precisely because of the distractions. My earphones fall out all the time, there are people in the way, and at any given point I know that I could just stop running. Just stop. I could walk back to the bus stop and go home. Nothing would happen to me. In the swimming pool at least there’s the prospect of drowning to keep me going until I finish a length. I choose my times wisely and when I get to the pool there’s barely a soul there, so no one to swim in front of me. I can get in, get a nice rhythm going and let my mind wander. I think about work, about family and friends, relationships, happy memories, sad times, story ideas and shopping lists. It’s like the ten minutes before you fall asleep where your brain goes safely off the rails. The number of problems I have solved after an hour in the pool is phenomenal. It’s like therapy. I just don’t get that with running, because there’s always something new around the corner and the temptation to simply slow down, slow down, and stop.

The abstract distance

I ran 8kms the other weekend. Big whoop! How far is that? I have no idea. Can I see 8kms? No. Can I count 8kms? Not really. As I approach the pool I can say to myself “I will swim that fifty times”, and I do. I can see the entire length, I know what I’m in for, and I commit to it. I know I could approach a field from a hill and say a similar thing, but once I got into the field I would lose all sense of what I was doing and the whole thing would seem absurd. I know this makes no sense whatsoever, but it’s the truth. As a child I preferred the beep test to cross-country runs – I could see the finish line the entire time, even if was just a con to keep me going. Short term objectives: they’re the only way to keep me moving.

So there it is. It turns out I’m simply the wrong personality type for running: I’m too easily distracted, it requires personal willpower over survival instinct, and the investment in the long run is greater than my fantastically myopic vision of success will permit me to conceive.

Amazing what you can find out about yourself when you just write, isn’t it?