In Pursuit of Promiscuity
Out and proud Barry Lowe wants to exercise his right to ‘reckless promiscuity’. If only he knew where to find said right.
“Is approval of gay lifestyle necessary to support gay rights? Is reckless promiscuity a right?”
Where do I get me some of this ‘reckless promiscuity’ that senator-elect David Leyonhjelm (Liberal Democrat) tweeted about last week? Intrepid seeker of all things promiscuous, I thought I’d try to find out.
As I’m now on the pension I thought Centrelink might be the answer. Plus, I was hoping I’d get a discounted rate because I’m older than the combined IQ of the federal government front bench.
That’s no big deal as it’s a single digit-figure.
The very nice gent at Centrelink said: “I’d love to help you, mate, but my girlfriend is preggers and I’m not getting any myself”. His voice dropped to a whisper. “But, if you’re young with a butt of steel, I’ll…” I hung up. I’m obviously way out of his league.
I rang the good soon-to-be senator’s office hoping they might be able to help me out with where I could get some of this reckless promiscuity. Hell, I’m not fussy; it didn’t even have to be reckless, as long as it was promiscuous. My call went to voicemail. By that stage my meds were wearing off and I needed to get home to have a nana nap.
On the bus, special $2.50 oldies’ pass (no Opal Card yet for seniors, Gladys?) I wondered whether I’d ever achieved that elusive correct gay lifestyle. I’d demo-ed with the best of them, been part of the Kissing Booth at uni, slogged my way through various tedious radical talkfests, but I felt as if I’d never achieved the greatness that this promiscuity promised. Could I truly call myself gay man if I didn’t have the imprimatur?
Maybe I’d come close as a horny late teen when I sat expectantly in public dunnies with the door propped closed with my foot so that the slightest pressure from someone wanting to come in was enough for me to reveal my precious hardening assets while seated among the smell of stale farts and piss.
Perhaps siphoning ball batter through jerry-cut holes in cubicle walls, or scrambling under the sandstone wall of the former college on North Head to get to surfie cock even though rumors abounded about a serial killer who lurked in anticipation of gay victims.
Then there was Bondi rocks where I’d spent a number of Christmases after I’d fled the family hospitality in search of true festive amity with like-minded strangers.
What about the group sex when I’d been buggered with an ass full of boiled eggs, or the guy who took me home for his boyfriend after I was full of man juice (this was the 1970s, folks), or the well-hung drag queen who’d buggered the arse off me in our backyard toilet while the remainder of guests at the party lay unconscious from the lethal punch?
Or the married man who passed me on to all his less attractive married mates after he’d finished with me?
What about the guy who buggered me into submission while a squalid old man, older even than I am now, lurked in the doorway waiting his turn? He didn’t get one. Sneaking out of a major hotel via the fire stairs after I’d shagged an old auntie’s arse for money?
Somehow it didn’t seem enough. I’d always been on the fringes of gay radicalism. Damn it! I wanted in.
So I rang a number of political gay groups. Bugger me, but they all had a message that they were out for the rest of the week working on the Gay Agenda to have the right to reckless promiscuity enshrined in an Aussie constitution.