A GAY CHRISTMAS MIRACLE

They call Mardi Gras in Sydney “Gay Christmas”. But for Jack, who’s been both naughty and nice, will the season bring a special gift to unwrap? Photography by Cain Cooper

Jack Ladd has been both naughty and nice; will the season bring a special gift to unwrap?

“WHO THE FUCK… is that?” I said.

My mate Frank looked at me like I’d proposed the flat-earth theory.

“That’s Jake Scott,” he said.

“As in the Jake Scott?”

The bloke they hadn’t shut up about at Stonewall last night, drooling into vodka sodas and dumbfounded I didn’t know him. The birthday girl’s mate from Los Angeles with that mouth-wateringly elusive trifecta: handsome, intelligent and nice.

And the man who had, according to my now sober friend nudging me with his elbow, a smile inspiring urges to “lube up and ride ’til morning”.

“Stop it, Frank,” I said, batting away his arm. “You know you want to.” I do. With cherries on top.

“He is pretty phenomenal,” I said.

“I can’t believe you don’t remember him.” “How many times do I have to tell you? I’ve never met the dude.”

“But you’ve met everyone else.”

“Yeah, but not him.”

Frank gave me another look, shrugged and said, “As if you’d remember.”

Laughing, I stuck my tongue out and middle finger up as I grabbed a cheeky eyeful of Jake. Frank was wrong. I would have remembered a man like Jake.

Six-foot-three, at least, and broad as fuck across the shoulders. Slender around the waist where it counted, like an Olympic swimmer. Thick thighs that would have bulged denim if he were wearing any. Hands like dinner plates. Big ears making his face more striking. The ultimate American Adonis was Down Under for Mardi Gras, putting us all to shame.

He wouldn’t want me. He could have anyone, and all the best come out for the Gras. And even if I somehow manage to hold his attention, am I hot or cool or funny enough? Do I look pale and interesting or a total twat because I didn’t tan my blindingly white English skin? There are so many better-looking men here. I’m out of my league.

I would have listened to my inner-saboteur, too. Turned and ignored Frank’s attempts to live vicariously through me, and not just because of the all-too-familiar yet irrational fear trying to ruin my day.

I’d made myself a promise not to repeat last year. Lost, drunk and horny, wandering the colossal Mardi Gras after-party trying to find someone to fuck or blow or even kiss. Jealous of my friends who had already hooked-up and hurt that no one had wanted me.

This year would be different. A refocus of priorities. I wanted to dance under the lasers and lose myself in the music instead of indulging a sad impatience borne of sexual frustration. I wanted to explore without agenda. Meet people from all walks of life and make memories that span lifetimes in moments.

This Mardi Gras, I understood the importance of celebrating our freedoms but remembering why, how and who fought for us to have them. Something far more significant than getting my dick wet.

I can do that any old weekend.

But, as I began to file Jake away in my head under “wildest wet dreams”, all my Gay Christmases came at once. He was smiling.

At me. Kind, full and staring right into my eyes. Making exactly what Frank had said would happen. And more.

More than the dancefloor grins or lip-twinges from gym hook-ups, usually after a threesecond does-he-want-to-beat-me-or-fuck-me stare. This festive miracle, in the tightest, shiniest red, hot-pants ever made, and nothing else but black trainers, wanted to know me.

Or at least that’s how it felt from where I stood. Me by the bar. Him by the poker machine.

My body tingling under a wave of prickling heat until the bustle of the busy room broke our link.

“Maybe I should introduce myself,” I said to Frank, running a quick finger around the back waistband of my own pair of shiny red shortshorts. “How do I look?”

Frank laughed, scanning my practically naked body up and down and said, “Like a slut. Like the rest of us.”

Holding back a cackle inspired mostly by Frank, and, thankfully, the day’s excitement, I calmed myself, took a deep breath, unashamedly but quickly ogled the grapefruit Jake seemed to be smuggling between his legs, breathed out and relaxed. Looked up again, only for blood to blaze across my cheeks as Jake’s bright blue eyes were already on mine. No time like the present.

In the three seconds it took to walk over, I kept my gaze glued on his.

Even though my peripheral vision teased me rotten with muscles and lines and definition I could have stared at for days, I wanted Jake to know I wanted to know him, too.

“Hi,” I said, now close enough to smell body butter over naturally tanned, flawless skin. “Jake, right?”

“Guilty as charged,” he said, his voice deep but not droning. Well-rounded. A natural baritone. “Jack?”

He knows my name?

“How do you know?’ I said, blushing again and then harder, embarrassed by my own awkwardness.

Pull yourself together, dickhead.

“I’m staying with Troy and Laurence,” Jake said, smiling even wider and kinder as his eyes flicked over my reddening cheeks. “They were telling me all about the Tropical Fruits party a couple days ago, ’cos I didn’t make it this year. Said I should look out for you while I’m in Sydney.”

I smiled at the thought of Frank’s face as Jake and I chatted, and said, “Oh, yeah? They warned you to watch your back?”

Laughing, he said, “Not quite.” Then sunlight streamed through the large, street-facing windows to my right and, for a fraction of a second, made our glittered skin sparkle. “They said you’re worth knowing.”

I blushed. I barely knew Troy and Laurence, so to have them rate me was a lovely surprise. Unless, of course, he’s bullshitting me. Even if he is… who cares?

“How do you know the birthday girl?” I said. “We met by random, years ago, when I first came to Sydney on vacation. Been besties ever since. Obviously when she said she was doing a Mardi Gras float for her 30th I threw my hand up pretty damn fast.”

Our mutual friend, staging a Tina Turnerthemed Mardi Gras Parade float to celebrate her 30th birthday had, by chance, brought me into Jake’s orbit. Now we were both marching boys in her extravaganza.

“Have you learned the choreography?” I asked.

He grinned cheekily, bit his lower lip and replied suggestively, “I’m looking forward to a practice run.”

Laughing, I patted him on the shoulder and said, “You and me both.”

I wish I could say that the Parade brought us together as we shimmied to Proud Mary up Oxford Street in front of thousands of screaming onlookers and that for the rest of the night at the after-party we were joined at the hip and lip in a blur Mardi Gras magic romance. But I barely saw him during the Parade and lost him in the throng of thousands at the Party.

The dancefloors at the Party throbbed with hot guys and yet, here I was alone, once more, as others kissed and flirted and groped partners and newly-met trade. I’d had a fun night, so I tried to banish feelings of regret or a sense of wasted opportunity, and small twinges of disappointment.

I pulled out my phone and checked the time. Four in the morning. No sign of Jake all night. Time to go.

Hugging my old and new friends goodbye, I made my way to the exit; the twinge growing as I passed kissing couples or lovers busy in shadows. But I’d already made peace.

I already knew exactly what I was going to jerk-off to when I got home.

Until, seconds later, when my phone rang. An unknown American number.

“Hello,” I said, the handset wet from my sweat. “Hi.”

My balls pulsed.

“Hey. Where are you?”

“Behind you.”

Thirty minutes later we were at Troy and Laurence’s. Alone.

My naked back already against the chilled, hallway wall as Jake’s hands were squeezing my waist; our tongues dancing in each other’s mouths; the echo of roaring applause in my head as I closed my eyes and lost myself in his hold.

Taking me by the hand, he led me to his bedroom. He undressed us both and threw himself onto the bed. He shuffled up until his back was against the headboard and took hold of himself.

I watched. Him on his back watching me. Every muscle thick and hard and better under my fingertips.

His cock, heavy and meaty, stretching my throat like it had been moulded especially. His deep, masculine moans joining the chorus of ethereal cheers in my mind as my eyes rolled back and his salty-sweetness swamped my taste buds.

Then we made love.

First, me on all fours. His powerful grip around a bunch of my hair, painlessly pulling my head and arching my back as he masterfully topped me. The slaps of my arse cheeks against his veined groin firing into the room.

Then we swapped. Him on his back and his calves on my shoulders. His stunning face pulling a whole new range of scintillating expressions as he took every inch.

For how long we fucked, taking it in turns, I can’t remember. All I know is that the sun was well up by the time we both blew, kissing on his bed as our beating hands worked each other to completion.

It was five in the afternoon when we woke, and for three days we didn’t spend a single moment apart. Dinner that night in Erskineville before heading back to mine. Breakfast in Newtown before jumping on the bus to Bondi.

Tales of our lives. Laughter and smiles as we shared stories, respect and empathy as cocktailinduced secrets tumbled into the safe-space we made for each other. Holding hands along the street and kissing on the bus, relishing our postMardi Gras buzz.

Mind-blowing sex I’ll never forget. Touches and caresses I still feel if I close my eyes and think of America. A holiday romance for the books, and a gay Christmas miracle teaching me a lesson I still hold dear.

A reminder that if I stick to my guns and remember what’s truly important in life, then, with a bit of luck, the rest might fall into place.

Or at least it did that autumn weekend in Sydney. With a man I still consider a good friend today.

His powerful grip around a bunch of my hair, painlessly pulling my head and arching my back as he masterfully topped me.