The Overthinkers Page 3

“I guess there’s always going to be divisions and rankings in social groups.” I mean, that wasn’t it, but I always felt the need to make it seem like I was okay, even though I wasn’t. Admitting my defeat would be admitting ... that I was unwanted.

  “Like the tops and bottoms?” She joked, clearly pleased that the topic had shifted onto more comfortable territory.

  “More bottoms than tops in Sydney,” I responded. We cracked up laughing.

  But I couldn’t stop, it was vomiting out of me now: “There are definitely rankings with gays. They love an ultra alpha dude. A white dude. A bearded man. Muscular ... you know the type. It’s like the outback Aussie that sucks dick. People like me ... are unwanted.” The word stuck in my throat. Unwanted. That was me.

  “But I think you’re really handsome! And funny. Surely guys are into you?”

  Classic Francesca, completely off the mark, and sure that her assessment must mean something.

  “Not really,” I said fumbling with the compliment. I hated receiving compliments. They always made me feel so awkward. I knew Francesca meant well, but did she really mean that, or was she just throwing me a pity compliment?

  It was hard to tell.

  “Oh stop! You’re gorgeous,” she said. A bright smile lit up her slender face, and for once she looked animated.

  “Amen sister!” I offered, deciding to play my role as the flamboyant gay. The role that had been assigned to me, and maybe I was that guy, sometimes. On other occasions, like now, it felt forced and contrived, like I was pretending for someone else’s benefit. “They wouldn’t know a good-looking guy if they literally saw one. Like me. I do hear that in other countries, Gaysians are much hotter commodities.”

  I shifted from modest and self-deprecating to flippant and border-line-arrogant in a couple of sentences. Sometimes I wasn’t sure which of those versions was real, or if they both were, all at the same time.

  “Are you speaking from personal experience?” she said, with a big, knowing wink.

  I wasn’t. I’d seen enough “No Asians” on hook-up apps to know that it wasn’t just a few rogue Sydney gays who racially stigmatised my community. It was bigger than that. It was virtually universal. My other gay Asian friends had talked about similar issues ... and similar feelings. It wasn’t my first time at this rodeo.

  “Well you’re gorgeous Leo!” she said filling in the empty space. “And at least you have your sexy man! When can I meet him? Like are you embarrassed of me or something?”

  So far from the reality ...

  I laughed. Clumsily. “Don’t be silly ... we’re just not in a rush. We’re not like straights, we don’t have to define everything.”

  My fall-back response. But why wouldn’t he define things? Why couldn’t I have my neat little box? Why did I always end up in the shades of grey?

  I deflected and changed the topic.

  “How about you and Benji?” I paused, and heard him moving around upstairs, the old floorboards creaking under his slight weight. There was a tightness in my chest as I anticipated her response.

  “Oh please ... don’t even start with that.” She looked away from me and continued to sip her coffee. Her bony elbow flashed in front of me. Her arms were tiny. Her ribs protruded through her singlet.

  “You should talk to him.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why.” She couldn’t be that blind to it all. No matter how much she pretended. Francesca was smarter than anyone could possibly fathom. I knew that much.

  She sighed.

  “Are we going to this party tonight?” she asked.

  We were all good at changing discussions, if it meant concealing a secret.

  “Yep, let’s do this. I’ve got the bathroom first.”

  She rolled her eyes. The perks of having only one bathroom. There were none. Let’s not lie, I was tidier than she was.

  “Whatever,” she said turning on her heels, and heading upstairs.

  I stuffed the final piece of chicken into my mouth and plopped the container into the dishwater. I was fanatical with my cleanliness. Another stereotype which fitted me to a tee.

  I headed to the bathroom, and locked myself in. Like it was my sanctuary.

  And it was.

  I took my shirt off. Despite the “uber ripped” dialogue, I was personally never comfortable undressed. There was always something available to be critiqued. I turned my attention and physique towards the mirror, ready for an inspection.

  It was like picking at a wound. I enjoyed doing it. I found this ridiculous pleasure in considering my faults and chastising myself about them. Francesca wasn’t the only one with body dysmorphia. That’s why we got along. Like I said, we were broken in similar places.

  I assessed my chest carefully. I was more tanned than usual. I had been running outdoors to shed some of the weight I had gained over winter. I called it flubber. I had lost most of it, but I just wasn’t getting the definition in my arms and abs that I wanted. I pinched the skin around my abs now, my aggressive fingers leaving sharp marks. How would I ever meet anyone if I wasn’t perfect? Would he leave his wife for this? No way. It was still a work in progress. I couldn’t afford to be a work in progress.

  I made a mental note to add another two workouts into my weekly routine to try and lean out. Maybe an extra ab workout? That would speed up the shredding, surely? I needed better abs. Nobody would ever notice me with an average rig.

  I shifted positions so the light was shining in front of me, creating more shadows. That was better. That’s how I wanted to look – without the good lighting. If only this lighting could follow me everywhere ...

  Don’t be ridiculous, Leo. My mental voice kicked in with its usual derogatory tone. What you need to do is work out more, and eat clean. Get it together, Leo!

  I needed to get it together. Criticising myself in the mirror seemed to be what took up most of my attention these days. If I wasn’t freaking out at the skin around my waist, it was the skin under my eyes ... it was a constant loop of self-surveillance, and self-hate. What I really needed to do was focus, and work harder.

  Work harder, Leo.

  “Gosh you’re a loser. Stupid. Selfish. Vain.” The words dropped out of my mouth. I watched them make those shapes in the mirror. Those consonants and vowels. I even looked dumb saying them.

  I had to look away.

  Why was I even seeing Luca? Why wasn’t I in a normal relationship? With a man that was emotionally available? Luca was never going to leave his wife. Never. I was just the poor schmuck who ignored the facts.

  I shook my head hard, like the thoughts might drop directly out. They didn’t. I headed into the shower and turned on the cold water. Forget the hot. I didn’t deserve it. Cold matched my feebleness, my inadequacy, my paucity.

  I would never be enough.

  I was in Leo’s room combing through his t-shirts, trying to find something that wasn’t skin-tight, or black. His wardrobe was a sea of black t-shirts, shorts and pants. Not even a single pop of colour. He was so ordered too. Everything was perfectly hung, ironed and straightened. It made me feel like I might mess something up just by looking at it.

  The door opened to his room now, and I was expecting Leo to appear, fresh as a daisy likely from his meal, chat and shower. I’d even prepared a monologue for him of disdain, for ditching me, and relegating me to picking an outfit while he chatted to Francesca, but it wasn’t him.

  It was her instead.

  “Benji, come and help me pick an outfit,” she instructed me as she fluttered out of the room, like it was a given that I would follow.

  “Sure.” Of course, I would.

  Leo said she wasn’t into me. But she spun out a heap of mixed messages.

  Sometimes she pursued me. Sometimes she flirted with me. Most of the time she dated someone else and didn’t respond to my texts.

  Hadn’t that been an invitation? But then it wasn’t as well. It could have just been a friendly one. It was always hard to tell with he
r. It was like she danced somewhere in between. Her words, her gestures, they idled between making love to me and platonic friendship.

  Her room was dark, and it smelt a bit. Like old-terrace damp suffocated by her perfume. I knew it well. The perfume I mean. She wore it all the time, and it wasn’t a particularly sophisticated fragrance. It was a pungent mix of vanilla and frangipani. I was pretty sure on any other occasion I would think it an assault to the senses, except when she was wearing it.

  “Should I open the blinds?” I said to her. They were pulled tight, and the room was virtually pitch-black.

  “No, just switch on one of the lamps,” she responded.

  I fumbled around one of the bedside tables, and finally found the lamp switch. It was one of those Arabic-type lamps, shaped like an almond, and covered in hundreds of tiny pieces of coloured glass. It threw a myriad of lights around the room.

  “It’s pretty, isn’t it?” she breathed, as she opened one of the wardrobes.

  “I guess,” I responded. I wasn’t quite sure if it was pretty or garish, or again, somewhere in between, but I didn’t want to articulate that either.

  “Boys never think things are pretty,” she said with a little laugh.

  She always laughed like that. It was like a tiny snicker, switched on and off in a matter of seconds. I wasn’t sure if it was contrived or real.

  “Why do you say that?”

  I stuffed my hands into my jean pockets, not quite sure what to do with myself in that space. It didn’t seem right – sitting down, on her bed. My eyes kept drifting in that direction. She had a double bed, with a French provincial type headboard. The sheets were all messed up now. Like she had slept fitfully, or just had sex.

  I tried unsuccessfully to keep sex out of my mind. But there it was, big and fat and fecund, and most certainly not going away.

  She was saying something, I had to focus. I tried to swat away the sex-imaginings. Could she tell I was thinking that? Wasn’t it weird that I could be thinking lurid thoughts only a metre away from her and she had no idea that was the case?

  “Because they pretend they don’t know anything about style or beauty. Like they don’t notice anything. Like everything is meaningless,” she said, head buried deep in the closet.

  She had beautiful legs. The type that went on for days. Unblemished, except for a tiny scar just above her knee. I’d longed to press my thumb against it.

  I wanted to tell her that I noticed things. Like her legs. The scar. The ruffled sexed bed. The pretty but garish lamp. I wanted to be a writer, didn’t she know that? And writers noticed things. Maybe if I told her, she would think I was deep, and then maybe she would notice me too. Like we could connect on some sort of “art” level. She painted, I wrote. It kind of made sense, didn’t it?

  I didn’t think girls wanted deep guys.

  Leo was right; they wanted men with expensive cars, and hedge funds, and bags. Of cocaine that is.

  She rummaged further and then pulled something out. She held it up to me triumphantly. It looked like a sequined band or something ... I wasn’t quite sure, but she was pleased with herself.

  “It’s a skirt,” she said. “Don’t you like it? It’s so cute.”

  It didn’t look like a skirt.

  “You’ll like it better when it’s on,” she sighed, kicking off her shorts.

  For a moment I didn’t know where to look. Was this a test? My eyes felt glued to her tiny bum, and black lacy underwear. Even in that obscure lighting it was as resplendent and contagious as a pandemic.

  She pulled the skirt on and said “see?”

  She must have caught the expression on my face, because she rolled her eyes.

  “Does it bother you that I just undressed in front of you?” she said with a sarcastic tone.

  It seemed like an impossible question. I refused to utter a word, instead I shook my head.

  “You’re so pedestrian sometimes Benji,” she said passing judgement like it had no impact at all.

  Pedestrian? Pedestrian? The word clanged around in my mind dangerously, ping-ponging against the grey matter and synapses in an alarming fashion. It made me feel kind of sick, so sick in fact that I forgot about the sexual allure of her bed and just sat directly down on it.

  Pedestrian? Is that what she thought of me?

  She continued rummaging around in her wardrobe, seemingly oblivious. Finally, she yanked something out. She pulled off her t-shirt and replaced it with another small tank. Of course, at that point I was so pedestrian I just completely averted my eyes.

  She turned towards me hands on hips, her concave stomach exposed, and her braless breasts straining against the tiny top. I could just make out the outline of her nipples, and I could also feel myself going hard.

  Definitely pedestrian. She was right.

  “Do you think I’m too thin?” she asked, having completely parked the other conversation and the judgement which had taken the air out of me.

  It was another fucking trick question. Where could I go from there? She was too thin. Everyone talked about it. They said she was bulimic and anorexic, that she had a three-inch waste, that she ate nothing but cotton balls soaked in orange juice, that she took Adderall by the fistfull to keep her metabolism going ... I’d heard it all. Hadn’t everyone? Did I care? No, I didn’t give a shit. Why would I be here otherwise?

  Again, I didn’t respond.

  She watched me carefully now, like she was a cat stalking some tiny wounded animal. I kind of felt like that. My dick was hard, I was in a strange place with bright multi-coloured lights, and this girl, who I was kind of crazy about, was acting kind of crazy.

  Like she always did.

  She walked over to me now.

  She leant over me, placing one arm on either side of me. Her loose dark hair, touched my skin. Her face was close to me now. I could smell the coffee on her breath, and the vanilla/frangipani perfume ... incredibly intense. Disgusting and intoxicating all at the same time.

  I could barely breathe.

  “Do you want to fuck me Benji?” she said slowly, articulating every word.

  Clearly, I was that transparent.

  This was typical Francesca Moore. She went from being laissez-faire, to as high as a kite, to taking her clothes off, to being sharp and kind of cruel. I felt like the last part was a ruse. Like if she was nasty enough to you first, you didn’t have the opportunity to cut her, or hurt her. But maybe that was just my perennially hopeful read of Francesca Moore. Maybe she just was a crazy bitch. Maybe she had taken too many Adderalls on an empty stomach.

  My dad was a journalist. In his hey-day he had been a reporter on ABC news. Now he just wrote the odd column for the Sunday paper, and cruised off the coat-tails of his glory days. He’d always told me -“Benji, if you don’t want to answer the question – don’t answer the question.”

  His voice, clear as day in my ears. About as self-evident as my boner.

  “Aren’t you with that guy?” I asked instead.

  Oh yeah, that’s what I forgot about Francesca Moore. That’s what I didn’t mention. She was shagging some other dude. And he was older, and drove an expensive car. The one Leo had mentioned. She was the predictable one, not me. Hang on, she’d said pedestrian ... but the two were kind of interchangeable. Synonyms.

  “Now you don’t know his name?” That little snicker, quickly snuffed out.

  “Why should I know his name? I’m not fucking him.”

  Okay, so I could be an asshole too. But in fairness, I’d been provoked.

  “True,” she said. She nodded her head a few times glumly and looked over mine at a fixed spot. At the curtains? I wasn’t sure. I was tempted to turn around and check, but there was something incredibly weird about her in that moment. Like she was possessed by a nervous energy, she shimmered, and vibrated with it, even though she was totally still, and I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

  “Well, so what?” she said finally. “Don’t you want to fuck me? Isn’t that why
you’re here?” Her dark eyes burrowed into my own, and then she sat down on me. Straddled me. Her short skirt, which barely grazed her thighs when she was standing, sailed up past her hips. I could feel her against me, and it took every inch of my corporeal presence to remain calm ... in control.

  Sort of in control. Control the controllables. Another thing my dad had told me.

  Why was I thinking of my dad in this moment? I tried to ignore the flagrantly pesky thought.

  “Well?” she demanded looking annoyed at me.

  Had I come here to fuck her? Yeah probably. If we really peeled away all the layers, and got to the bottom of it, I probably had come here to fuck her. But it was more than that. Much more than that. I liked Francesca Moore. A lot.

  But it was hard to tell. Did I like her? Or did I just want to fuck her? And how could I ever decipher between the two: lust and like, if I didn’t. Fuck her I mean.

  “C’mon! Spit it out!” she snapped.

  Don’t answer the question.

  “I like you,” I said.

  She sighed in frustration. “Well, you’re hard!” she declared like that must count for something.

  And it probably did.

  Like it was conclusive.

  And it probably was.

  But I shrugged my shoulders.

  “You’re so painful Benjamin Carroll,” she said getting off me in a huff, and pulling her skirt down.

  Maybe I was painful and pedestrian. A corrosive example of privileged, white, maleness.

  I really wished she would sit on my dick again.

  But it was too late now. The moment had been broken, and I was pretty sure I had said the wrong thing, or even, that there had never been a right thing to say. For a moment I considered lying back on the bed and really acknowledging my defeat. But that moment passed too, and all I could do was sigh. Lack lustre.

  “Let’s go to this party anyway Benji,” she said suddenly flustered.

  And then she added, “You should shower, you kind of smell.”

  I did smell. But it was unfortunate that she felt the need to point it out.

  “I really don’t like roses, darling. They’re so common,” my mother was saying to Myriam, the housekeeper, who was arranging said common aberration in a vase at that exact moment.