Thirsty Read online

  Unfortunately we didn’t get the Golden Gaytime we were after.

  When we got outside Straight Shooters there were about twenty kids, sixteen or seventeen years old – basically grown men – waiting on the street to pick a fight. They started yelling at me and my friends, calling us faggots and telling us to burn in hell. We ignored them and kept walking, but they started to really press in on us. It seemed like more and more of them were appearing. In the end there were about thirty of them.

  It didn’t quite register with me what was happening. It was surreal.

  We were keeping our heads down as we tried to walk through them to get to the car, but they started shoving us, and it was really hard not to snap back. Then they started pushing and shouldering us.

  Finally Ashleigh, summoning the verbal strength she had exhibited at that schoolyard tennis match of our youth, told one of them to go fuck themselves. I think it’s essentially become her catch-phrase.

  They didn’t take that well. Two seconds later, we were running to Ashleigh’s little Holden Astra as a couple of plastic Coke bottles were thrown at us (thank God – imagine if they had glass?). They missed. It’s a sad day when a faggot has better aim than you. We jumped in the car and were off. I remember turning around in my seat and seeing these thirty kids yelling homophobic, disgusting abuse at us, every vile thing under the sun. Mostly one-syllable words though, let’s be honest.

  It’s a strange feeling to turn around and see a group of people yelling, ‘If you ever come back we’ll kill you, faggot!’ Like, stop being so obsessed with me. Who has that sort of time?

  In all honesty, I was shaking. I cried a bit. But the thing is, I’m Gen Y, I have priorities, so I still found time to tweet about it. And it blew up immediately. It went crazy. It was in every paper, all over the news, I had to do radio interviews about it (and you know how I hate attention). It even made international news because my friend saw it in a magazine in Changi Airport in Singapore, which totally counts. It was a big deal. My profile was only on the start of a rise at this point, but it was a big story. A gay entertainer was chased from a town – the irony being he was chased from an anti-homophobia event.

  I probably should’ve told my mum. She called me, panicked, having read it in the paper. She called during the intermission of Love Never Dies, the sequel to Phantom of the Opera, and the show was about to start again and I had to quickly explain to her what had happened before hissing, ‘Mum, I’ve got to go, the Phantom is about to come back.’ She was even more confused.

  The silver lining of the whole incident, and something these homophobic cocksnaps didn’t realise, was that my exposure went through the roof as a result of that incident and I scored an invite to the Sex and the City 2 premiere in Sydney, where I totally met Sarah Jessica Parker and told her she had fabulous shoes and she replied, ‘Thanks, girlfriend!’ and we sassy clicked at each other.

  So essentially those homophobes were the direct cause of the gayest thing that had happened to me up to that point. Thanks, boys, if you’re reading this. Hope you’re doing well and you’re really happy with all your life choices. P.S. Please don’t reproduce. Joel x

  You’d think I was done with Colac at that point, never to return. But at the end of 2013 I went back with one of my best friends, a brilliant comedian called Rhys Nicholson, who is also gay (he says, but apart from being engaged to a man I am yet to see proof) and a film crew to make an anti-homophobia documentary, because after all the press about what had happened to me, Colac had earned the reputation as the most homophobic town in Australia. I actually think it was on Colac’s Wikipedia entry for a while, but some local councillor probably frantically edits it off every time it goes up.

  The film crew we went back to Colac with was headed by the brilliant Tom Rohr and Nel Minchin (sister of Tim Minchin and Katie Minchin, my tour manager in that rural town with the radio station). They had won a grant to fund the idea and were filming the doco for ABC2. I’m not sure how they specifically pitched it, but I’m guessing ‘Let’s put these homos in serious danger’ would probably have gotten it across the line.

  The doco was called Gaycrashers. It really is one of the pieces of work I am most proud of and it was amazing to experience it with such a fabulous person as Rhys. We were in Colac filming for a week and Rhys and I did things like working at the local timber mill and the pub. Then at the end of the week we put on a show, having sold tickets on our rounds of the town’s businesses. The test being – will the town be comfortable enough to buy a ticket to support and watch two gay comedians?

  It was interesting because nobody was really openly homophobic to us on camera but it was also frustrating because people would drive down the street and shout out, ‘Faggots!’ or ‘Homos!’, and because it was such a small film crew it was really hard to capture that stuff on camera. It takes a brave person to yell abuse at someone out of a car window and drive off. I’m sure they have huge penises and great jobs and really happy home lives.

  Other people we encountered, though, were on their best behaviour after an article appeared in the Colac Herald almost instructing locals not to fuck up while the cameras were around. We read that and thought wow, what a way to brush the issue under the carpet. What happens when we’re not around?

  One of the really shocking things that happened during my time there was that I spoke to Emma, who ran DYNAMIC and had been involved in organising the anti-homophobia event I’d been chased from. We had a coffee on camera and it was extremely uncomfortable. She told me that as a result of my actions in the media, the group had lost its funding and had disbanded. Even worse, she told me it really hadn’t been good for the LGBTIQ kids in the town, resulting in further bullying.

  It broke my heart that my actions had had a carry-on effect for those kids, because I really didn’t want to make their lives any harder than they already were.

  When the incident happened and I went to the media I was only twenty, and perhaps it was ignorance on my part, but I truly believed that getting that media attention would help the cause and shine a light on the issue. And perhaps locals would be more vigilant and keep an eye out for any bullying. But instead the locals turned against the anti-homophobia group. They were anti-anti-homophobic, if you will. During the whole media frenzy following the Colac incident, I was taking advice from publicists, from managers, and yes – part of me was trying to look out for my own career. But I truly thought I was championing these kids by being in the spotlight.

  In the end, Emma and I had to agree to disagree. I remember leaving the chat with Emma furious. We were on the same page, both fighting homophobia – why on earth would she attack me and bring that up on camera? But now, a few years on, I totally understand what Emma had to say. And I thank Meryl Streep that Colac has someone like Emma looking out for these kids.

  Filming with Rhys was such a fun week though, especially working at the local pub where we spent a night pulling beers (but as expected, no roots). The reactions of the locals in the pub were interesting: some people really wanted to be served by us, and some people clearly did not – as if they would catch ‘gay’ if they bought a beer pulled by us. At the same time we were trying to spruik and sell tickets to our stand-up show in town a few nights later. I vividly remember one thing that a local waitress who’d been showing us the ropes all night said that was kind of shocking. Up to this point Rhys and I had really been getting on with her – we sort of thought she was the local fabulous fag hag and we’d become quite chummy. That was until she said, ‘So . . . do you think this will be a full-time thing?’

  We both immediately thought she was referring to our stand-up careers, which truly would’ve been a valid question. Because at that point it could’ve gone either way. But instead she clarified with, ‘No, no, being gay. Do you think when you’re forty or fifty you’ll still be gay?’ It was just so shocking because she wasn’t being mean or homophobic – there was no malice in the question, she was just uneducated. She didn’t realise t
hat being gay is not a choice. Anyway – spoiler alert – Colac was still homophobic. And that is a choice.

  But there were some positive changes that had been made between my first and second visits. The mayor who was there when I was first chased out of town had been replaced. This is the same mayor, by the way, who, in an ABC interview to defend his town during the media backlash, said, ‘Well, it’s not like there were any sticks or bottles thrown or any bones broken!’ I think even the town knew this was a bonkers thing to say because he was voted out at the following election and replaced by new mayor Lyn Russell. Rhys and I met with Lyn and she was gorgeous and exactly what the town needed.

  The end of the documentary shows our local stand-up night, which we had been selling tickets to over our week in Colac. The show was quite bittersweet: not many people turned up to see us perform, only about thirty, which was really sad. I think more people would have come if the cameras hadn’t been there. Perhaps they didn’t want to be seen publicly supporting two gay guys.

  What was really sweet was that the mayor, Lyn, gave a speech at the start of the show before welcoming Rhys to the stage. It was a really beautiful speech, saying that people should be free to love whoever they like, and nobody should be allowed to get in the way of that. That was really fucking cool and I have so much respect for Lyn for doing that. I think if regional towns had more people like her leading the community, then issues like homophobia, racism and sexism wouldn’t be as prevalent. And I know Lyn wasn’t just putting it on for the camera.

  We donated the couple of hundred dollars we raised from ticket sales to DYNAMIC so they could have a catch up after disbanding the previous year. And it was really nice that Emma, despite our differences at the time, attended the show, sat in the front row and accepted the cheque on their behalf.

  Now that I’ve gotten the heartfelt part of that story out of the way I can tell you the most shocking thing that happened that week.

  I got pregnant.

  To a cow.

  Or rather – a bull.

  Well, I don’t know if you can get pregnant from getting bull jizz in your mouth. But that is what happened to me.

  Before you call the RSPCA, please allow me to explain.

  One day during our week of filming we went out to work on a farm for a few hours with a farmer, Oliver (who was a total babe, by the way). The second we saw him, Rhys and I were like two schoolgirls at a Justin Bieber meet and greet. Unlike the Biebs, Oliver turned out to be super cool. Oliver also turned out to be a big supporter of the homosexuals. He was unfortunately also married with a pregnant wife, which was a bit of a boner killer. Pregnant wife = biggest cock block of all time.

  At one point during the day, Oliver asked if we wanted to artificially inseminate a cow, a task I immediately nominated Rhys for, knowing it would (a) make for great TV and (b) be hilarious for me. Half an hour later, Rhys had a long plastic glove on and was fisting a cow up to his armpit with shit all over his arm. I don’t know myself of course, but I assume this is how it happens for heterosexual insemination too. I was laughing so hard at this, thinking, This is so funny! I don’t have to do this, I’ve literally put him in the shit!

  Obviously karma came around to bite me on the arse – or spray me in the mouth, if you will – pretty fucking quickly, because after Rhys’s fist-athon, Oliver the farmer asked us if we would like to watch a cow and a bull have sex, and of course we said yes. Who on earth would say no to that question? Actually, most people – you’re right.

  So off we went to watch the cow, Helen (which seemed an appropriate name) and the bull, Kai (which does not sound like a name for a bull – that’s much more like a personal trainer from Fitzroy who’s really into reiki) get it on. So Kai – I’ll put this politely – mounted Helen and they were having a good old time. The crew filmed Rhys’s and my reactions. The whole time I was having flashbacks to Mardi Gras the previous year.

  Helen and Kai were really going for it but then it became all a bit odd, especially when Kai suddenly pulled out a little bit too early and Helen sort of freaked out and fell over. (I could totally relate. I have fallen over during sex at least three times. Twice I was already on the bed, which is impressive.)

  Anyhoo, it felt like everything suddenly went into slow motion. Kai pulled out. Helen fell over. I gasped. Kai’s bull dick was like a fucking super soaker and in the excitement and panic, Kai shot his load into the air and, my God, it was like a fucking confetti cannon. It went into the air like some kind of silky lasso, missing Rhys, missing Oliver, missing any of the crew, and landing on me, all over my head, all over my jacket and perfectly in my mouth. That’s right – I got bull semen in my mouth.

  YES, YOU ARE READING AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY THAT INCLUDES THOSE WORDS.

  BULL.

  JIZZ.

  IN.

  MY.

  MOUTH.

  There is footage of this, by the way, for you sickos out there. You can actually watch me, Joel Creasey, national treasure and gay icon, who has performed on Broadway, experience hardcore bull bukkake.

  I lost my shit. Everyone was falling around laughing. Rhys was doubled over and struggling for air. Our producers Nel and Tim were roaring with laughter – I could see how stoked they were to get such a moment for the documentary. The cameraman had a hard time even keeping the camera on me he was laughing so hard.

  In my mind I knew I had to give them something, I knew I couldn’t completely lose my shit on camera. So I gave a thirty-second ‘airable’ freak-out where I sort of laughed with Rhys about it happening. And then I said, ‘Turn those fucking cameras off right now.’ I threw my farming apron on the ground, jumped in the car and sped off – remembering we only had one car an hour later when I emerged from the shower having cried and scrubbed myself raw.

  So sorry, Colac, but perhaps your water shortage in some serendipitous way is your trade-off for me being called a faggot.

  Kai never called, by the way.

  9

  Hopeless Romantic

  People are always surprised to hear that I want to get married. I also would love kids, either by adopting Angelina-style or asking Emma Watson to be my surrogate (I haven’t decided yet), and live a normal life. Just a really normal, simple life, with a minimum household staff similar to that of Downton Abbey, and be insanely rich and famous.

  That’s my spin on normal anyway. I think Elton John and I have the same idea. Also, like Elton, I too am trying really hard to become BFFs with a princess (just in case Kate Middleton is reading this – hit me up, Your Royal Baeness).

  When I tell people about my desire to lead a pretty traditional family life, they always say, ‘Really? You?’ I think that’s because I divulge so many embarrassing sex stories on stage and at times have been a bit of a mega slut. It’s not slut-shaming when you’re talking about yourself – it’s bragging.

  I’m not embarrassed to say I just want to be loved. And that shouldn’t come as a surprise. Hello? I stand on stage asking people to laugh at my jokes and clap for a living! That being said, I’m a very closed-off, guarded person. I’m not someone who enters relationships purely for the company. I live alone, work alone and travel alone and, for the most part, enjoy that. I don’t need to be arguing with someone over what we watch on Netflix, or whether Thai is a ‘healthy good group’, or whether carrots are carbs or not.

  I’ve been on so many first dates that have been just that – first dates. They could have made that reality show about me – could’ve gone for seasons! I’ve found myself on dates with guys who have clearly just wanted to say they’ve been on a date with me. I can usually pick them when they’ve asked for a selfie before they’ve asked for a menu. In those instances I’ve made an excuse and left. I’ve been on dates where the guy has rocked up with a pair of Oakleys on his head at night and a Velcro wallet and did not have a chance in hell. I’ve even been on a date where I was so bored I just told the guy I was going to the bathroom and left through the back door. For once this is not a
euphemism. Not that I’m a dreamboat on dates either, I’m sure. I swear too much, drink too much and talk about myself too much. (No shit, I hear you think as you sink yourself into the ninth chapter of my memoir.) I’ve seen people doing the same as I’ve done, checking their watch to see when it is an appropriate moment to bail.

  But I really am a hopeless romantic. When I’ve fallen, I’ve fallen hard. And although it hasn’t worked out for me so far (brb – just checking Grindr) I am proud of that fact.

  Having said that, I think I’ve only been in love once. And although that ended in a complete clusterfuck as you’ll soon read, I also can say openly that I cannot wait to fall in love again. (Please note: forward all applications to my manager’s email address.)

  My first crush was Chloe Lewis. She was a family friend and one of the girls in my class from Grade 1. She came from a posh Italian family and I thought everything about her was beyond glamorous. For show and tell on the first day of school she brought in these fancy china dolls wearing vintage dresses that her mum, Rina, had to help her carry. I thought it was beyond pretentious and was immediately obsessed with her. I’m still friends with Chloe and her mum. Not sure what happened to the dolls.

  I always joke (through my tears) that I’ve been dumped by every guy I’ve been in a long-term relationship with. On stage I used to say, ‘I’m going for the trifecta. Apparently you win a bottle of lube and a copy of The Notebook.’ I’m a comic genius, right?

  And it’s true, I sorta have been dumped three times. All you get is bags under your eyes and greasy take-away. Of course I dumped every girl I ever dated in high school – I dumped them the second we moved beyond kissing and sending flirty texts on our Nokia 3315s. There was no way I was touching vagina. No thanks. I feel the same way about vagina as I do about Dr Who. I love that people are super passionate about it . . . but it’s just not for me.