Almost immediately after my dramatic little turn on the balcony with Drew, I bumped into Desi in the living area. Being one of a mere handful of females in attendance, she stood out in the immaculately groomed assembly of men and youths.

We managed to find a reasonably private area, taking a seat on one of the white leather armchairs; I sat on the armrest while Desi took the seat.

“OK, so what’s up?” she asked me.

I feigned bewilderment, but she saw right through me, so I relented. “I think Drew and I just broke it off,” I informed her, frowning.

“Oh crap!” she cried. Then: “You ”think”? What, you’re not sure…?”

I shook my head. “Um, no – not completely,” I said, and then recounted our conversation out on the balcony. Desi and shook her head at me unhappily.

“Puck, don’t do this to yourself, or to Drew,” she said. “Think about it, will you? How often does someone like Drew come along? How long have you be in love with the guy? For God’s sake, don’t throw it aside because of ego and pride,” she urged me.

I looked down at her thoughtfully, and found being visited by the memories of The Ghosts of Boyfriends Past: Loser Number 1 was a guy called Richard, who (as I realised over time) only had ever wanted a ‘Mother-substitute’ with a penis, and who, as it turned out, had a kiddy porn collection that would’ve turned the strongest of stomachs.

He was followed by Loser Number 2, Jeremy – and Jeremy’s wife, Sonia. For a time, I compromised my beliefs because of the love I had for Jeremy, and became the living, breathing ‘blow-up doll’ in their marriage. When Jeremy and his Sonia started discussing plans of having a baby and how I could be the perfect, stay-at-home mother while they pursued their careers, I suddenly woke up and smelt the baby poo, and it made me dry heave.

I moved onto Mark next, a.k.a. Loser Number 3. A former army boy who had seen action in the middle-east, he was reluctant to reveal the details of his time there, going only so far as to share with me the fact that he had killed on more than one occasion. Being with Mark was like having a relationship with an entire platoon – so many personalities, so many neuroses. But on the plus side, so much stamina in the sack!

However, Mark had to return to his country of birth, New Zealand, to attend his mother’s funeral after she was killed in a hit-and-run accident. Unemployed and flat broke at that time, he borrowed the airfare from me and I never heard from him again. Hell, he didn’t even send a postcard.

I realised I could’ve gone on and on, but was depressed enough already. “I can’t think about it now,” I told Desi, and got up from the chair. “I’m going to see how Alexander’s doing, you wanna’ come with?” I asked her, but she shook her head, stating she was happy where she was, so we parted company for the moment.

It occurred to me that there was another loser I’d overlooked in my reminiscing: me; the one guy who displayed an unerring knack for making life as difficult as possible for himself.

For someone so tall (Alexander was the same height as Drew was), he had a manner about him whereby he could appear to vanish, even in the smallest crowd.

But no, that’s not entirely accurate; it was more like he somehow made himself semi-transparent, like a ghost, as if he wasn’t quite in this world. Perhaps it was the amount of effort Alexander channeled into being inconspicuous, combined with his paradoxical desire to belong, that generated this curious duality in his presence.

A good looking guy, it seemed a pity then to spy the early stages of a humped back developing, doubtless from a lifetime of stooping and compressing his upper body so as to appear less tall, less noticeable, less ‘here’. He carried his shoulders with a heavy sense of regret, which left them rounded and slanting, and he tended to walk in strangely agitated and tentatively small steps for a person with such long legs.

I watched him as he struggled to follow the conversation, while struggling with the notion of being a part of the collective or being removed from it. Nesting in the palm of his left hand was a glass tumbler filled with ice and a clear beverage. His right hand encircled the glass to keep it steady, for I couldn’t help but notice the nervous tremor evident in his hands.

As I approached the group, Alexander took a furtive mouthful of his drink. Knowing his preference, I guessed it to be vodka mixed with lime juice and lemonade.

“Hey Puck,” one of the guys in the group – a fellow named Adam – offered as I plunged into the assembly.

“Hey, how’s things? How are we all doing…?” I asked, looking around. And so then followed the Ritual of Gay Boys Exchanging Air Kisses. When the greetings were completed, Adam turned to me and with a quizzical expression on his face.

“So… Puck,” he began, trying to sound as off hand as possible. “We heard about Michael. How’s he doing?” he asked, doing a very good impersonation of concern that clearly masked a hunger for sordid details and juicy gossip.

I noticed that everyone else in the group were silent and regarding me with eager expressions hungry for terrible news. As nonchalantly as possible, I asked: “How’d you hear about it?”

“Nicky,” Adam chimed in, only too eager to rat-out his source.

I nodded thoughtfully. “Oh, ok,” I responded, remaining casual, while thinking to myself: ’So much for Nicky’s vow to be discreet…’ And then I noticed Alexander shuffling uncomfortably where he stood, looking forlornly into the depths of his glass, apparently watching the ice cubes drown themselves.

“There’s no change in his condition,” I said matter-of-factly. “But it’s looking positive in the long term,” I lied, to which there came a round of murmurs and nods of approval.

“Well, here’s to Michael then,” said Adam as he raised his glass for a toast. The rest of the assembly followed his lead, with Alexander and I being the last to follow suit.

“To Michael,” I echoed.

“And here’s hoping the poor lamb is better soon,” interjected Neil, a short, rotund and balding queen in his late 30’s, and who I recognised as one of The Depot’s regulars – and something of a hard drinker. “The sooner he’s back at Depot and shaking that sweet little money maker of his, the better! It’s just not going to be the same without the view…” he bemoaned. Someone tittered girlishly while someone else said: “Here, here!”

Perhaps it was uncharitable of me, but that was a toast I didn’t feel so great about drinking to, so on impulse I threw in my own declarations: “And here’s to Alexander,” I offered, raising my glass skyward. I looked over at my friend and saw the utter surprise, mixed with alarm, in his bulging, coal black eyes. “Alexander, matey – you are a 100% bona fide hero,” I told him.

Adam’s pinched and ruddy face flickered with rodent-like curiosity, and as he looked from me to Alexander and back again, he demanded a full explanation, and so too did the rest of the would-be toasters.

For a moment I took centre stage as I provided a Reader’s Digest version of how Alexander had found Michael and subsequently saved his life, keeping his cool and doing all the right things in the between time. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that if it hadn’t been for Alexander’s intervention, Michael would no longer be with us. And by the end of my tale, every guy in the group was regarding Alexander with starry and wide eyes, as if seeing him for the very first time.

“That is just so amazing,” gushed one of the younger boys, eyeing Alexander with open adoration.

“Oh yes! Yes!” squealed his neighbour, who seemed determined not to be overlooked by the tall, dark and handsome Alexander, even as others added their own words of praise to the gangly and awkward hero.

Once the focus had shifted firmly onto Alexander, I noticed how he hungrily sucked back on his drink while trying to disarm his army of newfound admirers with modest pleas attesting to the unremarkable nature of his actions. But all he got were more questions, more overly saccharine comments that noted his humility as they all but elbowed one another to get the best piece of real estate in Alexander’s immediate vicinity.

I smiled to myself and slowly backed away, feeling quite pleased; I’d done my Good Deed for the Day, and to my mind Alexander deserved their respect and admiration – Hell, in my opinion, Alexander deserved a Nobel Prize. But what sweetened the moment was my certainty that Michael would have approved of my little ploy.

Desi, who had to be up early for work that morning had also made her farewells and left, leaving behind the stalwarts, which included Alexander and myself.

Brian, the birthday boy, was in fine and festive spirits. To such an extent that he suggested that we go down to The Depot and continue the festivities there. At first it seemed improbably to believe he would think of such a thing; Brian rarely went to bars or clubs, preferring to leave that to his much younger boyfriend. It as to be said, Nicky looked suitably stunned by Brian’s enthusiasm for the idea, as well.

A short time later about a dozen or so gay guys accompanied by a drag queen and a smattering of lesbians and straight women clamored into a range of taxis and taxi buses, that then formed a convoy towards Prahran. Within minutes, we were parked outside The Depot, it’s broad, white façade bathed in down-lights in every colour in the rainbow.

The Depot had undergone many transformations since it began life as a pub back in the 1880’s. It had been called The Depot Hotel at the time, so named because of a transport depot that had once existed directly across the road. That feature was long gone now, of course, and presently a New Age bookshop, a pizza parlor and a mattress wholesaler resided there now.

In more recent times, The Depot had commenced it’s association with the GLBTI community when it had been known as Jaselle’s, and became well known as a venue featuring drag queens and transvestites performing in elaborately produced shows. That had been back in the 1980’s when everyone – regardless of sexual preference – was pursuing a life of excess.

The venue had burned down under mysterious circumstances and remained empty for a couple of years, until it was eventually sold and became the first strip club in a predominantly gay quarter. To this day, it seems remarkable that any serious businessperson could’ve imagined that a strip club would survive – much less prosper – in the heart of gay Prahran.

After that folded, the venue was purchased by a wealthy Jewish businessman who then set about renovating the venue. It was gutted, retaining only it’s originally façade while the interior was transformed into a queer paradise. When the club was re-christened The Depot several months later, it opened to the kind of fanfare one might expect of a Hollywood premiere for a blockbuster movie. And from the night onwards, The Depot continued to enjoy success as the most popular, and arguably the best, nightclub in the city, irrespective of its niche clientele, and could boast being one of the finest clubs in the world.

Entering the main doors, we passed the security staff, including Peter Doyle, who was head of Security. I stopped to say hello and give him a quick kiss of greeting on the cheek then kept moving. Nicky, Alexander and I also said hello to the staff who worked the cash register at the door before making our way up the staircase. At the top of that firs set of stairs was a bar, presently surrounded by a couple of dozen patrons.

Being a Wednesday night (or Thursday morning, if you want to get technical about it), the club wasn’t packed but had a respectable number of people inside, and the music was pumping and the atmosphere was charged. I made my way to the bar where I caught the eye of one of my co-workers, Aristotle ‘Ari’ Diamantopoulos.

“How you doing, Ari? They behaving themselves?” I asked, glancing around at the patrons, then turned back to the very tall, very handsome and very dark embodiment of Greek godhood as he smiled at me from across the bar.

“Meh… they’re fine. So far. What can I get ya’?” Ari asked. He looked over at Nicky. “You boys want your usual?” I nodded and thanked him. And moment or two later, Nicky and I were holding our drinks as we leant up against the bar. I could see no sign of Alexander and didn’t think asking Nicky if he knew where Alexander had got to would be all that productive.

Then I spotted Sevastian Von Dahl and so all thoughts of Alexander were put aside. Sevastian, flanked by Jason Naylor and one of his other scrawny, sour faced underlings, appeared at the top of the stairs. He saw Nicky and I and a haughty, smug expression flashed across his face.

Sevastian was a little taller than myself, with light brown hair streaked with blonde, and possessing a gym-sculpted body. He and his cohorts enjoyed a particularly acrimonious relationship with Nicky, and to a lesser extent myself. Although as it was now known by most folk on The Scene that I was dating Drew Ducharme who, as it happened, was the object of Sevastian’s own affections, it was reasonable to assume I’d gone up a few notches on Sevastian’s List of Loathing.

Sevastian, followed by Jason Naylor and the rest of his pursed lipped posse of posers, made to approach the bar. Sevastian gave me a cool glance, but focused his best withering stare on Nicky before he looked back at me and then nudged Jason, who was at his side.

Sevastian pursed his lip-gloss painted mouth. “Oh look who it is! Sheerluck Homo and Dr. Twatson,” Sevastian remarked brightly, grinning at me, then at Nicky.

Knowing what was coming, I just sat back and waited. Nicky did not disappoint.

“Mmm, Sevastian,” he opened, almost cooing. “That shirt is just so quaint and – “ He paused with theatrical flair, eyes darting upward as he went to great pains to search for the right adjective. “Unusual,” Nicky concluded with a sharp grin.

Unfazed, Sevastian responded: “Bite me, bitch.” He tossed his head, flicking back his bottle blonde hair. “Y’know, not all of us are obsessed with labels.”

“And it shows, Sevastian, it really does,” Nicky countered. “Although,” he continued, peering more closely at Sevastian’s attire. “I guess ‘Salvation Army’ kinda’ qualifies as a label – kinda’,” he said, sounding dubious.

“Fuck you, whore,” snapped Sevastian.

Nicky shook his head slowly. “I’m so sorry t disappoint you, but I never touch the hired help,” he quipped.

Sevastian scoffed loudly. “What the Hell are you talking about? You are the hired help! Everyone knows it! You’re just a trashy, gold digging rent boy.”

“Oh puh-lease,” sneered Nicky. “So I get a few nice trinkets, like clothes, a car and jewelry in return for my sexual expertise – whereas you can’t even give it away! I mean to say, the way you throw yourself at Drew Ducharme is just fucking pitiful,” Nicky cried and chuckled.

Despite the dim lighting surrounding the bar, the colour clearly rose in Sevastian’s cheeks and his eyes narrowed with loathing. “One of these days, slag guts, that rich doctor you’ve latched onto is going to trade up to a classier – and younger - model,” he warned. “And you are going to be out on your well-worn arse. And me...? Hell, I’m going to make sure I’ve got front row seats – just wait and see.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Nicky warned him, then he paused, frowned as though thinking about something, and added: “Wait. On second thoughts, do hold your breath. I’ve always said blue was your colour.”

Sevastian just sneered at him. Nicky smiled at Sevastian in a manner that reminded me of a Great White Shark. “And just so you know; Drew only fucks human beings – guys are his specialty,” he added brightly and helpfully. “So you never stood a chance.”

Sevastian countered Nicky’s remark by assuming a hands-on-hips posture, tossing back his head and wincing with disdain. Meanwhile, I tried (somewhat unsuccessfully, I fear) to hide my smirk of delight behind one hand, before quickly turning around to the bar where Ari was working and getting his attention.

“Hey, Ari…? Could we get a saucer of milk for Nicky? An, er, may be a scratching post, if it’s not too much trouble…?” I asked in a pleasant tone.

Ari looked initially bewildered, then glanced up and spied Nicky and Sevastian facing off against one another. A broad smile flashed across his handsome face. “Oh this is going to be good, isn’t it?” He asked.

“Yup… “ I nodded with agreement, and we returned our attention to the feuding fags.

Sevastian had stepped towards Nicky. His jaw clenched so tight that the veins in the side of his neck were bulging. “Hmph. Catty – how fucking appropriate,” Sevastian observed, looking Nicky up and down. “After all, what’s another ‘c’ word for pussy…?” Sevastian asked pointedly, his words dripping with innuendo.

Nicky’s face morphed into an expression of wide-eyed innocence. He cocked his head to one side, one hand stroking his chin thoughtfully while the index finger of the other hand pointed to his temple. “Um, gee, let me think,” he said, before his face lit up with equally insincere enthusiasm. “Ooh! I know this one! Umm, ’cat’…?” He purred playfully.

Sevastian uttered a curse, muttered in sharp disgust, as he turned and walked away, quickly followed by Jason and the rest of his ‘wannabe’ entourage.

Nicky glided over towards Ari and I at the bar, floating on a cloud of devilish glee and surrounded by the scent of victory. “Is it possible to love hating someone?” he asked. “And if it is – why did no one tell me sooner?” Nicky demanded. “God but that felt good!” he exclaimed.

“You are just too bad,” Ari said approvingly.

“Ya’ think?” Nicky said and then did a quick little walk of an imaginary catwalk, stopping to pose before us and the also imaginary photographers, whereupon he blew kisses into an imaginary yet admiring crowd. When he was done, he returned to my side and chuckled wickedly. “If you thought that was cool, just wait until you guys get a look at the ’Sevastian Is A Skanky Ho!’ T-shirts I’m getting printed up.”

Ari burst into laughter while I responded with the obvious: “Tell me you’re bullshitting…?!”

“Nah,” Nicky replied, shaking his head. “And you know what? I think I’ll post him a free sample,” he informed us, grinning from ear to ear.

I glanced sideways at Nicky. “One of these days, Nicky, you’re gong to go too far,” I told him, but was unable to suppress a wry smile of admiration for my friend.

He shrugged carelessly. “May be,” he agreed. ”But until then, I’m going to have a shitload of fun,” he declared happily.

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