Homefront Radio: The Sarge Opts Out (Masculinity Redefined) Part 1

Homefront Radio: The Sarge Opts Out (Masculinity Redefined) Part 1: "Yeah, I was naïve. I was still very emotionally immature in terms of the whole ‘love’ thing. Straight people are lucky, you get the whole ‘being a dickhead while dating’ thing out of your system when you’re a teen and have some kind of excuse. Unfortunately a lot of gay guys start dating other men a hell of a lot later than high school, so things are bound to lead to trouble, especially if you think it’s not real love unless it’s overly dramatic.

Things rapidly went south because I decided to press the issue.

Wait, maybe I’ll back up the story a bit:

It was a Saturday the middle of Summer, and I was bushwalking on a little-used path along a deserted stretch of riverbank, trying to keep my fitness up. It’s a really humid day, and my shirt’s stuck to me and I’m starting to curse being a man in this kind of Aussie Summer Heat, (the ‘testicles-are-now-halfway-to-your-knees’ thing), and think since I haven’t seen anyone for a couple of hours I should just take my shirt off.

The second I finish the though I notice someone is lying on a towel on the riverbank just ahead of me, flat on their back, sunbaking by a fallen tree. Not wanting to disturb him I walk a bit softer and think I’ll just pass him by without him noticing. However, as I get closer, I can’t help but notice that… bloody hell! … that’s one impressive hunk of man lying there, all stocky muscle and abs in just a little pair of shorts. Pure rugby player.

I’d love to look a little longer, but I avert my eyes and look anywhere but at him as I go to pass by – until I step on the fallen branch of a gum tree, which snaps loud enough to send the nearby cockatoos flying into the air with a screech.

He turns his head and sees me, and I nod hello. “Sorry to disturb you mate”.

“No worries”. His voice is deep and gravelly.

“Good day for it, hey?” At least this gives me an excuse to look at those impressive biceps.

“Yeah, just enjoying the sun”. It’s obvious to me from his speech that he isn’t gay, though I so wish he was.

“I’ll leave you to it mate”. I keep walking down the path, thinking ‘I’ll put that memory to good use in the shower when I get home’.

I get down the track a bit and figure I’ll have one last peek over my shoulder, not realizing the fallen tree would block my view anyway, but then notice the guy has gotten to his feet and walked up to the track and is watching me.

I don’t know what to do. Why is he looking at me?

I start to turn around, but then he motions with his head and walks back behind the tree.

Now I’m really torn. I’m naturally curious, but I’ve also got common sense enough to know that whatever I’m thinking must be *obviously wrong*. So, I keep right on walking towards home, but somehow a few seconds later find myself rounding the fallen tree.

He’s now sitting up, all broad tanned back and beefy thighs. He’s taken off his sunglasses and takes my breath away from what I call Damn Handsomeness. He’s a dead ringer for this guy, (an aussie tv star whom i at first thought *was* the guy I was now looking at):



I don’t know what to say, so I can only say “Hey”.

He nods back – all steely gaze and iron jaw.

I still don’t know what to say. “Damn, it’s a hot one”. Meaning ‘the Day’, but then I’m suddenly filled with fear that he’ll think I meant him. I’m not a tiny bloke, so I’m not really scared of the idea of being Poofta-Bashed most of the time, but this guy is one muscular bastard.

“Yeah, I’ve been swimming on and off”.

I nod. “Yeah, I’m dying here. I can’t wait ‘til I get home so I can stand under the shower for about an hour”.

“Ah, the river’s good enough mate.” Those damn eyes looking right through me again, blue as a torch song by Lady Day.

“I suppose it would be”.

“Have a dip”.

I shake my head. “Nah mate, I don’t have any swimming gear”.

“Nah, y’ don’t need it, no-one’s 'round mate”.

And he’s up on his feet next to me, and puts his fingers in the sides of his shorts and I realise he’s about to strip off and say to myself "don’t look at his cock, don’t look at his cock, don’t look at his cock”.

I look at his cock.

He jumps off the bank into the water and surfaces, looking back at me with a cheeky grin, (but not as cheeky as his arse). “It’s bloody brilliant. Get in here mate, you won’t be sorry”.

I start removing my boots, knowing that I have absolutely no idea how to swim, but figure this bloke is Worth Drowning For. Shirt off, pants down, underwear in the grass.

He’s walking towards the river bank, so the water’s up to his waist and he’s all sunlight-reflected-water sliding down brown muscle, waving me in.

I jump. I figure he looks strong enough to save me - which is an apt metaphor for our whole relationship. Luckily its not that deep where I land, and I’m up to my neck when my feet touch the bottom.

We splash around and talk, (awkwardly on my part), for a while. The sun’s warm, I’m drowsy, and my head is spinning. There’s got to be a White Rabbit on this damn riverbank, or at least some Plasticine Porters with Looking Glass Ties. The best way I can describe what I was experiencing is the song “Summer’s Cauldron” by XTC, which always takes me back to that moment.

I was also about to experience the following song on the record, “Grass”.

He gets out of the water, and I’m just amazed at what I’m seeing. The guy is perfect. I know there’s people like that out there, usually models or porn stars, but they don’t inhabit my world. They’re off in their own orbit, and you might as well need a rocket ship to reach him.

I’m not one for gym bodies and big muscle guys. There’s something really artificial about it. I’ve always preferred guys who are big through everyday work. It’s a really different type of build, and a much sexier one. I know how to spot it. Except whilst appraising him like this he’s noticed I’m Looking.

“What’s up mate?”

Shit. I’ve been rumbled. I try and save face. “You’ve got a great build mate. Just trying to figure out if you’re a Rugby Player or do Martial Arts”.

He grins. “Both mate. How’d you know?”

I know this because I’ve noticed what leads to guys having the type of build I like, but I can hardly say that to him now, even though he’s standing there naked in front of me.

I can’t not comment on *that*. It’s just *everywhere*. “Looks like you’re part horse too”.

He laughs in that casual way that Guys With Enormous Dicks do. They know they’re big, but they still love being told.

“I’m too damn embarrassed to get out of the water now next to that”.

He’s heading up to his towel. He’s facing away from me but I hear him say “Yours look bloody fine to me mate”.

My heart stops.

He sits down on the towel, looking down at me with those intense eyes. I don’t move.

“So, you going to come and join me or what mate?”

I want to move but I can’t.

He smiles and I do. I’m sure I float up there and then he’s suddenly just kissing me.

I can’t figure out how this is happening. You don’t go from Absolutely No Sex to Your Ultimate Fantasy right off the bat. It’s like winning the Sex Lottery on your first try. I’m convinced by now that I’ve actually had a heart attack and am lying face down in the dirt back along the track with the ants crawling all over my face, and what’s happening now is just Heaven After All.

We take our time with the foreplay, and it’s slow and the sun is warm and I’m exploring him all over, noticing he has the Australian Army Insignia tattooed on his shoulder. Normally I’d ask him about the story behind the tatt, but there’s more pressing matters to attend to - matters that were pressing against my stomach and chest.

I’m terrified he’s going to want to go further, because I’m a Virgin and damn frightened of that club he has. But after a good while, he kisses me again, looks me directly in the eyes and says “Fuck me.”

There is a God.

This is the difference between real life and Brokeback Mountain. There’s no dancing around the subject. No talk of love and romance and the future. Not even to the level of bad ‘Mills and Boon’ fiction, (home of rampant organs galore), where the woman whispers stuff like “I want to feel you inside me” or “Fill Me Up Mr. Petrol Bowzer!” Straight to the heart of the matter:

“Fuck me.”

Which I do. Man, do I do.

By the time we finish the sun is setting, and like the passing of the light, I feel that whatever Intense Instinct has brought up together is dwindling and dying. I don’t know what the proper protocol is for this moment. What do you say? “Thanks for the Orgasms?”

I start getting my clothes back on, and he’s still friendly, but not as friendly as before.

I ponder what to say: “Do you want to see me again?” sounds too needy. “Marry me!” sounds insane. “Do you come here often?” sounds stupid.

Then I realise that this is an incredible looking man, who’s very damn good at what he does so has obviously been around, and I’m filled with an incredible sinking feeling that although we’ve shared this very intense and passionate connection it’s now almost completely gone. Plus, that was my first time, what if I simply wasn’t very good at it?

“I’d better get going,” I say.

“No! Don’t go!” he definitely doesn’t say. He just nods and says “Enjoy your shower”.

And I walk down the path into the darkness, unsure if what happened really did happen, and now not sure if I still wish that it had happened, because having something like that and then having it seemingly amount to nothing in the scheme of things seemed cold and cruel.

There definitely isn’t a God.

And every Saturday afternoon, for the next few months, I walk along the riverbank, hoping to see him by that tree, and on the days I resolve not to go and look, I’m filled with the panic that today might be the day that he’s down there, hoping I’ll come along. I keep this up until the leaves are turning yellow and falling. Autumn is here, and my hope has faded with the summer heat.

And just when all hope is completely lost, I’m just finishing my lunchtime sandwich in the park when I look across the grass to see him sitting on a bench under a tree, dressed in an Army uniform. The tatt now makes sense.

I don’t know what to do. Did he see me and sat over there because he didn’t want to talk to me? Surely if he’d wanted to avoid me he just would have gone somewhere else.

It takes me a while, but I pluck up courage and go sit over on the other end of the bench.

He doesn’t say anything as I sit down, so I offer a “Hello”.

He nods back. I try again. “How have you been?”

“Yeah, not bad mate”. He’s playing it very cool. I figure I’ll let him make the next move and if he wants to see me again, he’ll say so.

We spend the next 5 minutes or so in a halted back and forth conversation. I start to feel the heat between us again, surprised at the strength of it. Then I suddenly think “What if he’s not feeling the same thing at all?”

All he has to do is ask me.

He doesn’t ask.

I want to throw up. I figure I’ll just go back to work. He doesn’t stop me, and doesn’t ask me for anything further.

Part of me dies inside. I’m still dumb and experienced enough to think that if someone wants to fuck you then it means they must love you."