Adam and Ash
My new friends eventually left Sydney, but not before we painted it all shades of the rainbow and exchanged solemn promises to keep in touch. The two weeks I gave myself to settle in was up, so I enlisted the help of a few recruitment agencies which resulted in a boring, 9-5, bread-and-butter desk job. I did not exist socially in Sydney for a few months...until Adam.
I'd gone traipsing about Paddington one afternoon, determined to learn my way around on foot. I was making my way down Oxford Street when I had a sudden urge to get a haircut. So I stepped into the first decent hair salon I saw, which advertised "Haircuts from $15", and bounced in. I bounced back out, 3 hours later, looking fabulously like Samantha from Sex, but much, much poorer. Somewhere in there, a dangerously sexy young man in tight blue pleather had convinced me to go the whole nine yards.
When I left, we exchanged phone numbers because Adam of the tight blue pleather promised to 'show me around'. It turned out, unsurprisingly, that Adam was gay. It also turned out, unsurprisingly, that Adam had many, many gay pals. It goes without saying that sexy gay men in Sydney have very, very interesting ways of having a good time, and like any new girl in town I tagged along every time Adam, Dolly or Jazz phoned. They often turned up at my door after work, uninvited, to drag me from one bar to another drinking ourselves into a stupor. Dolly knew everyone there was to know in Sydney: bouncers, bartenders, restaurant managers, models, fashion designers, photographers. He was our ticket to the free and the fabulous, which only happens after the sun goes down.
Adam broke up with his live-in boyfriend about three months later and when I told him to move in, Dolly and Jazz became part of the furniture (which, back then, consisted mainly of Ikea catalog specials). He brought along with him an assortment of kitchen tools and a huge box of vinyls - Adam was a closet Jamie Oliver - I often found him swaying away to golden oldies brandishing a ladle over a simmering pot of something in my tiny kitchenette.
I'd gone traipsing about Paddington one afternoon, determined to learn my way around on foot. I was making my way down Oxford Street when I had a sudden urge to get a haircut. So I stepped into the first decent hair salon I saw, which advertised "Haircuts from $15", and bounced in. I bounced back out, 3 hours later, looking fabulously like Samantha from Sex, but much, much poorer. Somewhere in there, a dangerously sexy young man in tight blue pleather had convinced me to go the whole nine yards.
When I left, we exchanged phone numbers because Adam of the tight blue pleather promised to 'show me around'. It turned out, unsurprisingly, that Adam was gay. It also turned out, unsurprisingly, that Adam had many, many gay pals. It goes without saying that sexy gay men in Sydney have very, very interesting ways of having a good time, and like any new girl in town I tagged along every time Adam, Dolly or Jazz phoned. They often turned up at my door after work, uninvited, to drag me from one bar to another drinking ourselves into a stupor. Dolly knew everyone there was to know in Sydney: bouncers, bartenders, restaurant managers, models, fashion designers, photographers. He was our ticket to the free and the fabulous, which only happens after the sun goes down.
Adam broke up with his live-in boyfriend about three months later and when I told him to move in, Dolly and Jazz became part of the furniture (which, back then, consisted mainly of Ikea catalog specials). He brought along with him an assortment of kitchen tools and a huge box of vinyls - Adam was a closet Jamie Oliver - I often found him swaying away to golden oldies brandishing a ladle over a simmering pot of something in my tiny kitchenette.
posted by tasha at 1:16 PM
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