Oscar was awakened on Wednesday morning by a polite knock at the door. He checked the time on the clock-radio on his bedside table. Ten thirty. "Housekeeping," came a timid voice.
Billy rolled over. "Get fucked," he mumbled. He dropped a fart and wafted the sheets in the direction of the door.
"Housekeeping." The knock was slightly softer, but the voice was slightly firmer.
Oscar stirred. He knew he'd left the 'do not disturb' sign on the door when they came back in from the rain. Maybe it fell off. Who knows. Whatever.
He knew housekeeping would eventually get the message. Oscar rolled onto his side and kept sleeping.
Half an hour later, he felt fingertips tickling his balls. His eyes blinked open and he remembered who he was lying next to. He felt a pair of juicy lips plant a kiss on his cheek.
Billy's fingers began to explore a little more fervently, and in response, he felt Oscar growing in his hand. Smiling, he scooted down under the covers and took Oscar's cock into his mouth.
Oscar's spine nearly melted. "Fuck," he whispered, feeling Billy's rough tongue loop around his shaft.
Billy's juicy lips caressed the swollen head of Oscar's brown penis. His loose fist stroked his shaft, in no particular hurry.
Fireworks exploded at the base of Oscar's brain.
Billy's expert mouth began to swoop deeper now, enveloping least half of Oscar's shaft, then two thirds of it. It felt like his redhead guest was swallowing more of his dick than he could ever remember anyone else doing. Then again, it had been a while since the last time anyone sucked his cock.
Oscar felt something he'd never felt before while getting head -- a tongue licking his nuts. He realised Billy had swallowed him whole, and the sensation tipped him right over the edge. "I'm gonna ... fuck, mate, fuck, take it out ..."
No chance of that. Billy bobbed up and down until Oscar popped, painting the inside of his mouth a pure thick white. He moaned as his guest swallowed his load.
Billy let Oscar's wet cock fall out of his mouth. He crawled up and kissed him on the cheek again. "Your cum tastes nice, mate. Thanks for letting me stay here last night. Oh, and thanks for my breakfast smoothie, too." He jumped out of bed, looking for all the world like he was about to leave.
Oscar's brain was fried. For at least the next few seconds, grammatically complete sentences were out of the question. Individual words were hard enough. "Wait," he pleaded. His cock was still pulsing.
Billy began getting dressed, pulling on last night's undies and his t-shirt.
"You're leaving?"
"Yeah," Billy stated. "It's my day off, but there's some shit I need to do this arvo." He lived in a sharehouse in Newtown, a trendy 'alternative' suburb a few kilometres west of the city centre. He explained to Oscar that one of his housemates was moving out and he'd promised to help. Not only was he gonna miss her when she moved up to Brissie, but he'd have to pay more of the monthly rent until they found someone new to move in.
Oscar climbed out of bed, still naked, his cock wet. "Can I get your number before you go?"
Billy frowned. "I'm not sure that's a good idea, mate."
Oscar looked crestfallen. "I'm up in Sydney for a few more nights."
The two boys stood facing each other. The freckled redhead didn't reply, but nor did he move away. He still hadn't pulled his pants on.
"You busy tonight? Thought we could catch up for another beer or whatever." Oscar nervously shuffled his naked feet on the hotel room carpet. "That is, I guess, if you're at a loose end after you help your flatmate move out."
Billy sighed. "You're hot as, mate, and I'd love to play with you again, but, like, this doesn't feel ... umm ... this doesn't feel wise." He paused for a second. "You live in a different city, you're married, and you've probably got a couple of rugrats." He looked down at the floor, noticing for the first time that Oscar's toenails were painted black. "Tell me which bits of what I just said are wrong."
Oscar had only known Billy for less than twenty-four hours, but already, he was smitten. "Is it because I'm older?"
"No. It isn't that. Fuck, dude, I've had sex with blokes twice my age. But look. Listen, you don't wanna get messed up with someone like me," said Billy. "Like, I'm serious, mate, you really don't. I remember you called me a root rat last night. Maybe you were joking, but you probably don't know how close to the mark you were. I'm trash, and I don't wanna fuck up your life."
"I'm here for a few more nights," explained Oscar, "then I'm going back home, and you'll never see me again. All I wanna do is hang out with you and have sex, but if you don't want to, that's cool. I know I'll find someone else online to play with, but I don't wanna do that. I don't wanna hang out with anyone else, I wanna hang out with you." He paused for a second. "Besides, Oscar likes trash. I mean, I thought we established that at the pub last night."
Billy's heart fluttered. The hint of a grin escaped the corners of his mouth. "I seriously thought this was just gonna be a one night stand."
"So did I." Oscar smiled a curious half-smile. "You ever had a one week stand before?"
Billy's eyes drowned in Oscar's fiery irises. "Gimme your phone."
Oscar opened his contacts and handed the device to Billy. He smiled as he read what Billy had typed as his name -- 'root rat'. He test-dialled the number, and Billy's handset vibrated in response. "Can I ring you later on?" he asked.
Billy smiled. "OK." He pulled his pants on, tied his shoelaces, and left. "See ya." The hotel door closed behind him. He walked to Circular Quay station and was sweating by the time he arrived. He caught the train to Newtown, stepped out onto the platform and jogged up the stairs. After grabbing a quick coffee, he walked a few blocks to his rented house and began helping his flatmate move out.
Oscar's hotel room felt empty after Billy left. This had been a whirlwind twenty-four hours, and maybe a long walk would help clear his mind. He felt absolutely smitten with the wiry redhead, but he also knew he wasn't thinking straight. He got dressed and packed his backpack -- a bottle of cold water, the novel he was currently reading, his sunnies and his cap.
He walked down the hill to the Quay. To his left, ferries docked, carrying passengers to all reaches of the harbour and down the Parramatta River; to his right lay the expensive residential building disparagingly known as the Toaster. Ahead of him was the Sydney Opera House. Throngs of international tourists took selfies in front of the iconic building, and a few of them stopped Oscar to ask him to take a photo of them. He obliged, momentarily accepting their phones to help capture their moment. He smiled wide as his exaggerated Aussie drawl engaged them in conversation, welcoming the whole world to the city he grew up in.
It was another blisteringly hot January day.
He turned right at the steps of the Opera House, passing through the gates of Sydney's botanic gardens. Trees, plants and flowers from all over the world were here, all beautifully kept and curated. Walking up a slight incline, he passed under a group of trees where, way up in the canopy, nocturnal flying foxes slept. His favourite tree in the world was here in this garden -- a gigantic, ancient Port Jackson fig. Someone had placed a park bench under the tree, hard up against the trunk, and he sat for a while, enjoying the shade, reading a few pages of his book. He reached into his backpack for his bottle of water. He drank deeply as he wiped sweat from his brow.
Continuing east, he walked past the Art Gallery of New South Wales. Some summers, Oscar stopped in to enjoy the air conditioning, but he wasn't in the mood for art today. He walked down long flights of concrete stairs to the suburb of Woolloomooloo. The Bells Hotel was on his right, one of his favourite haunts back when he still lived in Sydney, but the pub had been renovated since he left, and it didn't feel the same anymore.
Walking past the naval facilities at Cowper Wharf, he found himself standing in front of them. The McElhone Stairs.
The Steps of Death. The Stairs of Doom. All one hundred and thirteen of them. They'd take him from sea level up to Victoria Street.
Climbing these stairs was always an important part of his week away in Sydney. It was almost like a ritual, or a rite of passage. His time up here was never complete until he'd conquered the McElhone. Back when he was still playing footy, Oscar used to run up them at speed, just like Rocky, but each year since, the task had become incrementally harder. Now, the aim was to get to the top as fast as possible, either running or walking. It didn't matter, so long as he didn't stop on either of the landings to catch his breath.
He made it today, running all the way, but by the time he got to the top, his lungs were on fire. There was nowhere to sit down, and as he guzzled water, he wished the park bench under his Port Jackson fig tree was here instead. He stood awhile, letting his heart rate recover.
Oscar loved the Kings Cross area of Sydney, but he especially loved Victoria Street. He'd move back to Sydney in a heartbeat if he could live here, on this wide, tree-lined boulevard, but that'd never happen; he knew how astronomically unaffordable it had become. There used to be a nightclub on this street. He remembered the first time he ever went there, ogling bare-chested men all night, though without the courage to act on his impulses. The site was boarded up now, with homeless people sleeping rough in front of it.
He walked towards the junction with promiscuous Darlinghurst Road. Strip clubs and adult bookstores lined this street. He looped around the area for a while, checking out the Art Deco architecture. He always made sure to stop at the El Alamein fountain, just outside the cop shop. Oscar carried a memory of being taken to this striking feature as a kid, and maybe this was when the romanticism of Sydney's eastern suburbs first took hold of him. Pressing east again, he walked past picturesque Rushcutters Bay. It was an uphill slog now, and by the time he reached Edgecliff Station, he was cooked. It was so fucking hot. His cap was saturated.
He caught the air-conditioned train just one stop back west, back to Kings Cross. Walking a block or two, he pulled up at the Potts Point Hotel, thirsty as fuck. He sat at the bar and ordered a beer. The barman was cute. "Ta," said Oscar, raising his liquid amber in salute.
The room was cool and quiet. There were maybe only fifteen or twenty other people, grouped together in twos and threes, and the music, thankfully, was turned down low. A variety of sports were shown on massive TV displays, but the sound was muted. Oscar spent a few moments quietly flicking through socials on his phone.
He took a deep swig of his beer. What the fuck was he doing? What the fuck was going through his head right now? He loved his wife and kids, and the life and career he'd built in Canberra had true meaning to him. This was the path he'd chosen, jointly with his wife. They were committed to each other, and to their kids.
If he was ten years younger ...
His annual summer trips to Sydney were only ever about temporary escapism. They were a release valve, and nothing more. Sure, he wanted to hook up and fuck, but he never expected to meet anyone that might get under his skin, nor did he ever want to. Every year he did this, he found sex, but it never held any meaning, and that was exactly how he wanted it to be.
But if he was ten years younger than he was now, he might've made different decisions. He might've come to different conclusions. He might've moved in different social circles. He might never have met his wife. He might never have had kids. His entire life might've been completely different.
His wife knew he had a Grindr account. He'd told her he was bisexual on their very first date, and she'd accepted his truth. But lately, and especially since they got married, she'd soured completely. She'd begun to detest the thought of her husband fucking some desperate male stranger, or, even worse, some desperate male stranger fucking her husband. Ew. But their marital bed had been made, and there was no unmaking it. Besides, she consoled herself, it was just one week each year, and if it made their relationship better for the other fifty-one weeks, maybe it was for the greater good.
Oscar sipped his beer, deep in thought. His anxious fingers tugged and ripped at the edges of his cardboard coaster. Did he still love his wife as a sexual partner? Did he still enjoy sex with her? And, equally importantly, did she enjoy sex with him? It sure as hell didn't feel like it lately. So where did the rot set in? Was the negativity circular, and if it was, where did the spiral start? Did his disinterest fuel hers, or was it the other way around? How long can the fire be kept alive before the embers finally cool? Scientists talk about entropy, wasn't this the emotional equivalent? Sandcastles get washed away by waves. Weeds swamp gardens. Wasn't this just the natural order of things? Isn't this what happens to everyone?
He drained the rest of his glass, and the barman poured him another. He tapped his credit card on the electronic reader, and it beeped in gratitude. He thought about how reluctant he'd been lately to initiate sex with his wife lately, and how little he got out of it, then compared it to the past twenty-four hours of his life.
If he was ten years younger than he was now, he might've made different decisions. He might've come to different conclusions.
Was he truly bisexual? Was he still into women, or was he skirting around an unspoken, unaccepted truth? Do bi guys go to bate clubs?
If he was ten years younger than he was now, he might've been braver. He might've flown a different flag. But time only moves in one direction, and nobody has the power to turn back the clock.
