FROM BUTTERFLY TO MOTH

Perhaps the best way to see the future is with an eye on the past.

“I’m not sure how I feel about scrummaging or being rucked but I know I can get excited about footy shorts and a man in a kneehigh sock.”

I love DNA magazine. When I arrived in Sydney back in 2001, one of the first things I did was buy a copy. Back then there was a guy selling them outside the Oxford Hotel. That’s where I bought my first copy. It was issue number 22. The cover was a hottie walking out of the ocean in skimpy orange swimmers. Not really my type, but it really gave me a sense of hope for finding love. Hot guys coming ashore, most probably in lemming-like droves. All I needed was a large net.

I keep those early copies of DNA. Sometimes I like to picture the models 13 years on with less beefcake and more muffin top. Not that I have let myself go but there’s definitely been a transition, since I first arrived in Sydney, from butterf ly to moth.

Of more concern, I’m still waiting for my hunk in speedos to come ashore, although now I’m half expecting him to rock up in sensible shoes and a cardigan. So much has changed since those early days.

Back then it was all so exciting. I fell in love with Sydney as soon as I landed. Such a beautiful city – the beaches, the boys, the fruit bats. I loved the bats most of all. I set myself up in a tiny bed-sit in Potts Point, just me and about a million cockroaches. Back then it seemed much warmer, especially at night. I sweltered in that little f lat; even the cockroaches seemed to struggle. I often found dead ones under my bed in the morning or for some reason jammed in the kitchen sink plughole. Not sure what was happening while I slept.

In those days my wardrobe was all about fitted tops, boardies and f lip-f lops, which fitted in perfectly with the beach culture. Great to cruise around in. Everything was so handy and close, although getting to and from Potts Point meant walking through Kings Cross. This was a bit of a nightmare as there were more strip clubs and many more aggressive doormen trying to lure you in to their establishments with photos of female body parts. This was the last thing I wanted to see, especially back then, when I was probably rushing home for the latest installment of Queer As Folk. Fortunately there was plenty of the right sort of nudity on offer elsewhere. The gay dress code, whether it be clubbing, the beach or even the gym, seemed mostly semi-naked. Taking this on board I immediately joined a gym.

To finance this new life I had the most horrible jobs, working for horrible people, which made going out at night all the more exciting. I skipped to the pubs after work and with such a positive buzz going on meeting boys on a night out was a breeze. All it took was a glance or a smile at the bar and we’d be tearing the fitted clothing off each other.

In the present day there have been one or two changes. I gave up the gym. The regulars, you know, the ones who are always there, they really depressed me. Maybe I’m projecting but if they liked the gym so much why did they always look so miserable? The gym instructors bugged me, too. They love you when you’re joining or doing that initial consultation but once you’re in they treat you as if they owe you money. Also, all that pushing and pulling gets a bit tedious after a while. These days the only thing I’m lifting is the remote. After quitting the gym I tried swimming for a bit but that was more a workout for my eyes than my body and I didn’t like the smell of Exit Mold 24/7.

Now I just walk the dog. Subsequently the waistline has expanded a little and the fitted look has given way to the baggy look. I haven’t thrown out the sleeveless tees – I use them to clean the windows, but no longer in Potts Point. I’m now in Paddington, although my favourite of all the suburbs is still Darlinghurst.

I’ve also got a better job now too, working with people I actually like and I don’t spend all day looking forward to going out at night. I still like going out every now and then, I just don’t seem to be skipping to and from as I used to – especially not with my hip.

When I think about everything that’s happened since issue 22 of DNA, none of which I’d change, I can’t help but wonder if in the process of growing and moving on I’ve lost a little enthusiasm along the way. This crosses my mind when I’m walking my dog to the park. On the way there he’s always so excited, pulling on the lead, barking if he has to wait at the lights, running around sniffing other dogs’ butts when he gets there, and then running away from me when it’s time to go home. It reminds me of how enthusiastic I was when I first arrived in Sydney – the excitement of exploring a new city, of going out, of meeting new people. And the parties – I still remember how I felt at my very first Mardi Gras – so excited to be there and not wanting the night to end.

Nowadays the passion is still there it’s just shifted to other areas of my life such as friends, family and career. The problem being, it is so much harder to meet guys when you’re not going out all the time. Alcohol-fueled nights on the town may go out of fashion as you get older but there’s really no better way to meet loads of new people, and because finding Mr Right is still on the agenda the game plan needs changing. I’m not talking about recreating the butterf ly (although doing a few pushups couldn’t hurt), I’m talking about the need to embrace my inner moth and direct it toward areas that interest me now and, in doing so, put myself in social situations that greatly increase my chances of meeting someone new. If I can recreate the passion in the present which I had in the past, this re-ignited excitement and enthusiasm is bound to attract like-minded moths to my new f lame.

So, stay tuned. I think my first stop could be looking into joining a gay rugby team. I’m not sure how I feel about scrummaging or being rucked but I can get excited about footy shorts and I do like a man in a knee-high sock.