Tropical Fruits
HOMO HEDONISM IN THE HINTERLAND
In the subtropical country of northern New South Wales, hundreds of gay revellers camp together in the local showgrounds to ring in the New Year at the annual Tropical Fruits New Year’s Festival. Camping with the gays (or is that redundant?) is a brilliant spectator sport. Sit back in your lawn chair and watch a man hammer tent stakes into the ground while his friend, sipping a wine spritzer, says, “I don’t care what they say – you can give a pounding.” When another camper refuses to lift a case full of booze until he stretches his muscles, someone snipes, “Please, if you were any looser you’d be inside out!” Once the tent is finally set up, everyone gushes over the impressive erection.
Set in rural Lismore, Tropical Fruits is like Mardi Gras on the farm: a giant outdoor party put on by hundreds of volunteers sourced locally. Showground structures that during the year house livestock, prized vegetables and craft markets are transformed into a massive festival with three dance halls with DJs and disco lighting, a cabaret space with acts all night, chill-out spaces with hay bales, an exhibition hall of gay-themed art, even a darkened “men only” structure.
In the campground, every slice of the rainbow is represented: boys, bears, daddies, post-op transmen, preop transwomen, straights, lesbians, gays who have never camped a day in their life and gay couples who have camped out together for over forty-two years. It’s a big queer melting pot served with a huge dose of hilarity and no attitude added. Everyone better get along – hundreds of us are sharing three showers and one power strip.
This year, our group drove the nine hours up from Sydney. Arriving two days early, there was time to set up camp and explore the surrounding area. Lismore is a quaint country town and, with an eclectic population of farmers, social workers, students and artists, it is graciously accepting of the hundreds of gays who descend at the end of every year. Just a half-hour drive away is the trippy town of Nimbin, which appears out of the cow pastures like a psychedelic Brigadoon with its hemp, hippies and free-loving backpackers. In the >>
>> other direction is the coast and the nudist-friendly gay Kings Beach. Like most gay beaches, this one is remote, hidden up a hill, around a bend and down a trail but, unlike most gay beaches, this one is a stunner. Kings Beach is an idyllic, lush lost planet with perfect water and plenty of tropical green trails for exploring nature with your fellow man.
Back at camp, the boys are taking pictures of a sign near the empty livestock stalls that reads, “Careful: Brown snakes active in this area” and posting it on social media. Not because they’re frightened; they’re hoping to encounter one (and also grateful that brown snakes aren’t passive). For those who can’t abide the earthly realness of camping, do not be fooled. The gays gave birth to glamping and many bring their A-game up to Lismore. Hardly an erection appears without bells, whistles and amenities that include plush inflatable mattresses. One campsite features a dance marquee, kiddie swimming pool, laser lights and blowup palm trees. This compound, seen annually, is the Shirley Temple. This year, to honour the party’s theme (Rainbow Circus) they called the compound Shirley’s Big Top (though even after an exhaustive search, nobody could find Shirley’s big top).
Costumes on the big night are always outrageous and this year our group went as a pride of 16 lions (accessorised with a sexy lion tamer). This pack of pussies was made possible thanks to our friend, Denton Callander, who measured each one of us and then spent weekends haunting Spotlight craft store for just the right shades of golden lion fur, fuzz and glitter (naturally). On the night, another friend, Ben Grill, spent hours on his knees (he’s used to it) feline face-painting all sixteen of us. After he finished, our hunky tamer, Truman, proudly paraded his pride around the showgrounds (“It was like herding wildcats,” he said of the promenade) before entering the dance hall to sink our teeth into one sexy fire-twirler, two zebras and a few showponies found in the menagerie. Partygoers were an outstanding mix of tightrope walkers, fat ladies (not everyone dressed up), trapeze artists, twirlers, strong men, a nude lady Godiva, clowns, multiple ringmasters and even a human-sized bag of hot nuts (containing traces of cock).
At midnight, in the grass at the very center of all the action, the fireworks kicked off and this year they were extra spectacular. Crowds fills the grandstands and the organisers knew just the kind of pyrotechnics their audience wants: one firework lit up the sky in a giant pink heart and the rest were flashes of sparkle so explosive your face felt dirty just watching them.
Circus swords wallowers busily performed in the heaving “men’s only” tent, with expert showmanship as the New Year began. That is, until one wasted reveler broke the unwritten code of silence (for sex is a serious business), when he busted in to belt out an impromptu – and, trust me, showstopping – few bars from the musical Gypsy, “You’ll be swell, you’ll be great, gonna have the world on a plate!” For those present it was a moment they will never forget, an orgasm they will never achieve – the time Ethel Merman sang at the sex tent.
Out here in the country, the high pressure expectation of an awesome urban New Years party is taken away and, having already camped and gotten to know people for a few days, ringing in a new year feels like
a celebration among friends. But it’s not just glampers populating this party; of over 3,000 at this year’s festival, only 700 were camping. Plenty of locals flock here, and tourists drive in from hotels all the way up to Brisbane because not everyone can hack sleeping in a tent, even with amenities. Some might also prefer not to try sleeping to the rhythm of the dance beats coming from the Shirley Temple, or to the chatter and snores of fellow campers. Not that this was the primary noise overheard in the campground. Moans and groans of sexual pleasure (even in broad daylight) were sometimes so shameless, performers would be roundly applauded upon completion. One popular activity was to watch for the impression of faces as they being smashed up against rocking tent walls, an effect known as the “nylon facial”.
The gays are a playful bunch and nowhere is this more apparent than on New Years Day. In the morning, the bleary-eyed and barely-slept faithful (for the party went on until 6am, not including after-hours nylon facials) pop on their sunnies and rock up to the Lismore Municipal Pool for the official New Years Day pool party. There is a sausage sizzle (a first opportunity to break that New Years resolution), DJs, dancing, sunbathing and a gorgeous Olympic-sized pool that sports a gigantic inflatable obstacle course and a 25-metre phallic inflatable racetrack. These toys are very popular with the roughhousing big kids who, surprisingly, aren’t too cool to get wet. A pool party where the gays actually get in the pool? You know Tropical Fruits is something special.