Oscar grew up in Sydney, but as a young adult, after graduating from university, he received a job offer in another part of the country that was too good to refuse. Ever since then, for one golden week of every southern summer, he returned. He loved his wife, his kids, and the adopted hometown he lived in now, but there'd always been something special to him about spending a week away somewhere else, on his own, distant from everything, without a care in the world.
He saved money all last year. As Christmas approached, he booked himself into an expensive harbourside hotel in the middle of the city and compiled a list of cool and interesting restaurants to check out. But the main reason he comes to Sydney each January is to explore the eastern suburbs on foot, especially the famous beaches that decorate Sydney's rugged coastline.
He grew up in the western suburbs, a long way from the coast. Sure, it was still the same city, but east and west were completely different. Oscar romanticised the eastern suburbs where the powerful moneyed classes lived; by and large, the west was poorer.
Occasionally, on weekends during summer school holidays, he and a group of mates would catch the train to the city, then the bus to Bondi. They'd ride boogie boards, torment the seagulls, and pass lewd comments about the beautiful women who strolled the sand in skimpy bikinis. Oscar perved on the women, though he had an eye for the men, too. He'd never admit it, though; he worried about how his mates might react. He'd ogle the musclebound longhaired surfers from behind his dark sunglasses, warm salt glistening on their shoulders and chests, and turning away from his mates for a second, he'd sneakily pinch a nipple, making his dick twitch.
Even though he could never afford to live in Sydney's eastern suburbs, her could afford one week here each year. He loved going for long, solitary walks through the suburbs and along the coast, breathing in the salty sea air, watching planes depart from Mascot, gliding over the ocean toward destinations far and wide.
The other thing he enjoyed doing during his summer week in Sydney was hooking up with men for sex. When he first began to own his bisexuality, he made up for lost time, but now, ten years later, Grindr was a one week a year thing. He'd grown tired of seeing the same faces whenever he opened the app at home. The men in Sydney were so much hotter than the men in his hometown, and most nights, he managed to find himself a hookup after dark.
Oscar was in his early thirties, though he looked young for his age. Born to an Australian dad and a Puerto Rican mum, he had sultry dark eyes, beautiful brown skin, and a solid build. He'd been muscly younger, the payoff from spending solid hours at the gym. He'd been proud of his biceps, pecs and especially his sixpack, but gravity was beginning to win the eternal battle. He was still in great shape for his age, though the glory days that only come once had been and gone. His thick black hair was shaggy and longish, a bit like a skater's haircut -- not shoulder length, but just long enough to get in his eyes and tickle his ears. He stood about five feet and ten inches tall, and his smooth, brown, uncut penis was about five and a half inches long.
On Monday morning, just before catching a cab to the airport, he kissed his wife and kids goodbye. Other than a few bumps as the metal bird hoisted itself up, the flight to Sydney was smooth and landed on time. He caught the train into the city and checked into his hotel at Circular Quay, just behind the famous Opera House. After unpacking his luggage and settling down, he thought about checking Grindr but eventually decided against it. He had something special to try tomorrow. Something he was looking forward to, but something he'd never done before. He felt anxious, but in a good way.
Tonight, he walked to one of the restaurants on his list and ate well. Afterwards, he found a pub and sat at the bar, finding a spot under a light. He downed a glass of wine as he flipped through a magazine. The girl behind the bar kept glancing at him. He noticed, but tried not to let her know. 'Still got it', he smiled to himself, enjoying the unexpected ego boost.
He walked slowly back to his hotel, drinking in the sights and sounds of George Street. The lift was empty as he rode to the twentieth floor. He loved this town, he thought to himself, but he couldn't imagine ever living here again: it was far too expensive and had become too tough. He stopped, ruminating on that last thought. Had the city become tough, or since moving away, had he become soft? He shrugged his shoulders. It didn't matter.
He ordered a cocktail to be brought to his room, and he stood by the window as he waited for the discrete knock on the door. He gazed at the white sails of the Opera House and the inky black of the harbour beyond, and just off to the left, the giant metal coathanger that connected north to south. As he sipped his nightcap, he lay in bed watching something on Netflix, though he wasn't paying much attention. Around half past ten, he brushed his teeth, turned off the light and crawled into bed. He called his wife for a few minutes, just to check in.
He slept peacefully. Tomorrow was going to be a big day.
*
Oscar made sure to book a hotel with a good pool. Stretching in bed, he threw the covers back and got up. He pulled on a pair of swimming trunks and fumbled in his luggage for his goggles. The plan was to swim a few laps before breakfast, well before the kids on school holidays broke the tranquillity with their playful screams and shrieks. He closed the door behind him and caught the lift to the pool deck. After drying off, he went back up to his room to get changed. Breakfast was included, but he strolled past the sausages, bacon and eggs in search of fresh fruit, yoghurt, cereal and juice.
He took a coffee with him as he headed out into the street. The day was warm. He caught the bus to Coogee Beach, the start of today's stroll. He threw his sunnies on, along with a wide-brimmed hat. He found the path and began walking north.
The walk from Coogee to Clovelly was quite steep in parts, and Oscar was glad he'd brought a bottle of cold water with him. He knew he'd need to refill it at least once along the way. Looking east, he saw a clear, crystalline sky hanging over the edge of the deep blue Pacific, punctuated every now and then by the sight of a plane lifting into the air. A few joggers headed in the opposite direction.
By the time he got to Bronte Beach, roughly halfway, his attention was diverted from the ocean by a sea of hot bodies. This was one of the beaches where people proudly showed off their hard work. Chiselled, suntanned men walked around with their shirts off, their oily tattooed chests on full display, while women with big tits paraded around wearing the tiniest bikinis imaginable. A park, set back from the beach, was alive with people kicking soccer balls around. Oscar spied a friendly badminton game off in the distance.
He crouched to fill his water bottle up at a tap, pouring slowly as his eyes drank in the human candy. He screwed the cap back on and continued tracking north.
The deep yet narrow inlet of Tamarama Beach was curiously unpopulated today. Oscar's feet were taking a hammering by now, and sweat was pouring down his cheeks. His hat was soaked from the humidity. For a moment, he seriously contemplated tapping out at the bus stop just behind the beach, but he knew he was on the home stretch now, and that he'd regret not going the distance. He pressed on, and a few minutes later, he rounded a corner and saw the famous Bondi Icebergs club, with its Olympic sized sea pool off to one side.
He saw the beach now; Bondi was jampacked today. It felt like half of Sydney was here, enjoying the beautiful Aussie summer sun. He hadn't brought his swimming trunks with him, but he took his shoes and socks off, walked down onto the sand, and strolled along the water's edge. He felt damp sand squishing in between his toes as ripples from roaring waves lapped at his ankles and calves. At a halfway point along the stretch, just near where the lifeguards' safety flags were placed for today, he looked out to sea. Over the tops of cresting waves, gazing at the distant horizon, he could almost make out the curvature of the earth.
He smiled. This was gonna be a good week. He took some photos on his phone and sent them to his wife.
Oscar sat on the lush grassy area between the sand and the street, waiting for his feet to dry. He brushed off clumps of caked sand before resuming his footwear.
He found a café nearby and bought himself a burger for lunch.
He caught the bus back to the city centre and returned to his room. His t-shirt was saturated with sweat. He knew from years of experience just how sticky Sydney can get in summer, and just to be sure, he'd packed eight t-shirts for his five night stay. He took a quick shower, and as he dried himself off, he felt a little lethargic, probably from the intensity of the walk. Time for a recharge. Before pulling the blackout blinds down and crawling between the sheets, he made sure he had his ticket ready for tonight.
Oscar set an alarm on his phone -- he didn't want to nap too long.
*
Sydney was only six or seven weeks away from the famous annual Mardi Gras parade. Oscar had only ever been once. He would've been about nineteen years old. His girlfriend at the time wanted to watch the parade, and while he pretended to be reluctant, inside, he was curious as hell. Crowds gathered early that afternoon, which caught Oscar and his girl by surprise. Standing at the edge of the road as the parade began, they were five or six people deep and neither of them could see clearly. "Wait here," said Oscar. "I've got an idea."
He ran into a back alley for a second, re-emerging with a pair of milk crates, one in each hand, that he'd nicked from a bread shop. They stood on one each, and suddenly they were head and shoulders above the rest of the crowd. Just as the Dykes on Bikes motored past, proudly revving their motorcycle engines, his girlfriend hugged him. "We're the Straights on Crates, babe!" she giggled. Oscar smiled back and kissed her. Inside, he knew he wasn't completely straight. He knew what he *wasn't*, but on the other hand, he didn't know what he *was*.
That relationship ended soon after, and it was mostly Oscar's fault. He felt like he was deceiving her in some way, though he couldn't bring himself to tell her why. Fuck, he couldn't even tell *himself* why. All he knew was something wasn't right. Whenever they fucked, he thought of men, and he felt ashamed. He told her he wanted out. It was easier that way. She cried, then the anger arrived. She started throwing things at him. He let her. He thought she had the right.
Oscar was single for a year or two. He played the field on Tinder, finding no shortage of women who were keen to hook up with him. He kept his emotional distance, knowing he wasn't ready for a relationship. Not after what happened last time.
In hindsight, Oscar thought, it was only a matter of time before he migrated from Tinder to Grindr. One afternoon, after beating off to a vintage clip of two dudes with big dicks getting it on in a public bathroom, he downloaded the app. He wrote his profile, uploaded a couple of face pics, and tested the waters. His behaviour was furtive. He told nobody. As far as his close friends knew, Oscar was on an unluckily long stretch between girlfriends. It was during this time that Oscar moved away from the city he grew up in.
By the time he met his next girlfriend, now his wife, he was comfortable with his bisexuality. He had a dream one night. He was in a swimming pool. It was a perfect summer day, the sky was a clear deep blue, and the water felt beautifully cool as it rippled across his smooth brown skin. He was holding a soccer ball beneath the surface of the water. It took some effort to keep the ball submerged, because it was buoyant and it wanted to bob up to the surface. Oscar kept trying to hold the ball under the water, but eventually he ran out of energy and patience. He let the ball go, and it did exactly what it was destined to do -- it rose to the surface. When he woke up, he knew his truth. It was hard to keep such an important part of him hidden from view, and the effort was wearing him down. By now, he'd told one or two people he felt he could trust.
