Thirsty Read online

  For a week in Grade 9, I dated a girl called Kitty. She was really pretty with red hair and no china dolls à la Chloe and was, conveniently, the only girl in my year who hadn’t worked out I was gay. I dumped her via text, and she ended up taking a few months off school because she was sick. I still like to imagine it was from heartbreak, but it was probably from sheer embarrassment.

  The first guy I dated was when I moved to Melbourne. I was nineteen and we dated on and off for a while. He was a total stoner but looked like my primary and high school crush Patrick so I was immediately obsessed. He lived in a really cool share house in Brunswick. Brunswick, for those outside of Victoria, Australia, is our stereotypical hipster suburb. It’s one of those suburbs where the locals wear glasses without prescription lenses – or without any lenses at all – and they all ride bikes, claiming to be environmentally friendly, but really because they can’t afford a car. I thought I was super hip dating this boy. I felt like I was in an episode of Girls, or at least Offspring.

  He, in turn, I think, sorta hated me but tolerated me because it was easier. Plus I always brought around snacks. Anyone who has been ‘tolerated’ in a relationship will know how I felt. You know full well what’s going on and you keep trying to fix it, but your desperate attempts to fix it only make you more annoying. It’s a weird cycle and you hate yourself the entire time. It feels similar to performing stand-up comedy when you get an audience offside by saying something that’s perhaps considered a little ‘too soon’. In a situation like that, it’s better to ignore it than try to fix it. I was on stage in London during the Lindt Café siege in Sydney and I had a very ex-pat-heavy crowd who were all aware of the horrors that were playing out in Martin Place. I made a joke at the start of the show about the incident, which didn’t go over well (no shit, Joel). I kept trying to fix it but just ended up with ninety minutes of me scrambling to win back the crowd. That’s how that first relationship felt. And just like that crowd in London, I never won that boyfriend back either.

  My policy is to stand by every joke I make, though, so I’m still not backing down. Nor will I ever, no matter how wrong I am. That’s my policy with relationships, too.

  That same guy also called my dad a cunt at dinner the night I introduced them to each other. Mum was particularly furious that he’d got in first – usually that’s her domain. I stuck at that relationship though, because I didn’t know that many people in Melbourne and needed the company. It wasn’t a particularly good relationship. Shock horror! But it was what it was and I’m glad for that. We’ve actually remained better friends than we were boyfriends. Plus he’s handy when I’m looking for someone to help me ‘pack a bong’. Okay, fine – that’s not what people say, is it? I’m trying to look cool and seem like I’m into weed, but it’s just not for me.

  Next up I made the mistake of dating a best friend, a fellow comic. (Which one? Josh Thomas? Tom Ballard? Hannah Gadsby? I’ll never tell.) We met soon after I moved to Melbourne and I became instantly infatuated. I’d go running to him whenever I was having problems with the stoner. When the stoner and I finally broke up for the twenty-eighth time, I dated around but kept going back to my friend. He was beyond charismatic and one day we suddenly went from being good mates who occasionally slept together to being boyfriends who didn’t leave each other’s side. I was paranoid about becoming too needy from my previous relationship, though (or possibly from all the weed I had passively smoked), so I ended up being even more neurotic with this guy. It ended with him saying, probably rightly, ‘Thanks but no thanks,’ and me crying on the floor of my apartment as he walked out.

  It’s so odd, but in bad situations I always feel as though I have to give a ‘performance’. I didn’t need to be on the floor of the apartment, but in my mind there is always a hidden camera watching. Even in that moment I knew being on the floor would look way better. I knew the director would be watching on, Truman Show-style going ‘And . . . cut! We got the shot! He’s coming back next season!’

  After that relationship breakdown I was fairly upset. I was also annoyed that I’d ruined what had been a great friendship . . . and a patch of my carpet.

  Carlos, my stylist at the time, suggested I start seeing a personal trainer – not for sex, for personal training. I hate myself for saying this, but it totally worked. I had never been to the gym before but it got me to think about my health and I sorta started to . . . love it. Don’t worry, I hate me too. Tear this page of my book out if you like. Make sure you warm up properly and have a protein shake before you do, though.

  But Andy Brand, my trainer, has also inadvertently become my counsellor, someone I tell all my problems to while lifting rubbery weights women in their seventies use during water aerobics classes.

  Carlos then suggested I work towards something, like a shirtless photo shoot. I’d been offered money in the past to do one and ignored the offer. When Carlos suggested it I initially resisted the idea but when he said, ‘It would really annoy your ex-boyfriend,’ I said, ‘Absolutely. I’m in.’ If there’s one thing that’ll get me out of bed each day, it’s revenge. Anybody who says they haven’t seriously enjoyed a bit of retribution at some point is full of shit and shouldn’t be trusted. I essentially have the temperament of Cersei from Game of Thrones. We also drink the same amount of wine.

  So I got myself in shape and a few months later I did a shirtless, black and white photo shoot on a rooftop in Melbourne while Carlos threw water at me to make me look sweaty, and a photographer screamed, ‘Tense! But don’t look tense! You’re looking far too tense! What is making you tense?’ It was a lot to take in at the time. And can I just say, for someone who is supremely insecure about his misshapen body (cheers scoliosis) – this was a big step for me.

  But I can unequivocally say I have been in love. Proper head-over-heels, I-want-to-marry-the-shit-out-of-you love.

  It was doomed from the beginning given that he lived in LA and I lived in Australia. But I was so intoxicated by him that I didn’t care. I’d had previous relationships with guys who’d made me laugh, guys who had made me cry, and guys who had made me constantly crave Kit Kats and a kebab. All those boyfriends had each made me both excited and nervous. But I had never had someone who could make me feel the way Jeffery did. This was next-level, The Notebook, Romeo under Juliet’s window–type shit. I realised I had never been in love until I met Jeffery.

  I met Jeffery in Sydney during Mardi Gras, 2014. By pure chance I was in town for one night to perform in a stand-up show that my best mate Thomas was hosting.

  Despite being gay since birth, where I shot out with jazz hands, a marching band and Celine Dion on backing vocals, I’d never been to Mardi Gras before and I was pretty excited. I’d flown in from Tasmania that morning and my original plan was to stay for the Friday night and go home the following day, thus missing the parade. I’m actually not great around crowds . . . unless I’m on a stage and I have their devoted attention, plus a moat and security guards between us, then I bloody love a crowd. At other events I get claustrophobic – and jealous that the crowd aren’t there for me.

  That same day my first ‘shirtless spread’ was published in DNA, Australia’s biggest gay men’s magazine. The photo shoot that Carlos had me work towards ended up being released in the Mardi Gras edition. Well, this’ll be a great profile pic for Grindr, I thought. (Turns out it was – I’ve seen loads of people using it as their own!) Walking through Launceston Airport trying to find a copy of DNA magazine was pretty tricky. The publications there were more along the lines of Cheese Maker’s Monthly and The Abalone Almanac. But arriving in Sydney for Mardi Gras, I remember feeling great – I was feeling good about myself physically for once, I was happily single and my profile was on the rise. I even remember thinking, Enjoy being on your own for a while. I didn’t expect to fall head over heels in love that night.

  In true laid-back Thomas style, he had inquired about booking the venue for his show several months before – and hadn’t followed it up any
further, resulting in the venue telling him it was booked for another show when he went in to do the sound check a mere three hours before curtain up.

  The solution to the venue being double booked was that Thomas negotiated with them to give us the front lounge area of the upstairs bar to perform in, as well as a free drink for anybody with a ticket and unlimited free drinks for all the artists. It resulted in us getting really quite drunk and inviting everybody back to Thomas’s Airbnb around 10 pm for a kick-on party.

  I can’t remember the exact timing of events and who messaged who, but my friend Roberto (he’s a ‘Robert’ but somewhere along the line has Italian relatives so has given his name an upgrade) sent a text saying that he was going to meet us at the party and that he’d bring his friend Jeffery, who was in town from America doing his sketch show for Mardi Gras.

  I didn’t know anything about Jeffery. Thomas, however, was really excited that he was coming because he had been a fan of Jeffery and his comedy sketch partner, Cole, for quite some time, having watched their work online. In true generous Joel Creasey style, though, I rolled my eyes and said to the closest person, ‘Pfft . . . some American “comedian” is coming over.’

  Then Jeffery arrived and I thought, Oh, he’s really handsome. That’s so annoying.

  He was very much what I’d always dreamed of in a guy: tall, thin, great jawline, amazing hair; almost a stereotype. On top of that he was incredibly charming, very funny and we connected instantly.

  We all ended up going out to a club. Jeffery invited me to stay the night at his place as we were leaving, and I said yes. We went home, hooked up (put your boners away), he offered me a Xanax before I went to sleep and I thought, This guy’s fucking great. As a rule, unless we are in love, I probably don’t want to sleep the night at your house. Nor do I want you to sleep at mine. There’s no grey area with me. It’s normally, ‘Let’s do the deed and then immediately live our own lives and pretend this never happened.’ But ever so rarely (once) it’s, ‘Oh my God, I think I’ve fallen in love with you, let me cook you breakfast and make you immediately reciprocate my love with my amazing scrambled eggs.’

  I woke up shocked that I had slept the night. Incredibly well, might I add, thanks to the Xanax.

  I asked Jeffery if he wanted to grab breakfast and he said yes. I frantically texted Thomas because I knew he’d be stoked to have breakfast together and we met up in Surry Hills. We sat at the café for a good two hours, laughing. Not only was Jeffery beautiful but he was genuinely hilarious. And American! How exotic! I was already imagining my life split between Australia and America. I fancied myself as a gay Nicole Kidman: I could see myself telling people, ‘Sorry, just off to visit my American boyfriend,’ and developing a fake hybrid accent. We even joked about becoming an international comedy power couple. As he joked, I mentally did the math on what New Idea might pay for that story.

  Breakfast ended and I said goodbye and went back to Thomas’s to pack up my stuff, all the while saying, ‘Fuck, Thomas, what do I do?’

  Tom told me, ‘Stay! You could see him again tonight!’

  But I kept thinking it was going to be a complete waste of time – Jeffery was flying back to America the following Monday.

  Thomas, who was in the parade (of course he was), had to get ready and get down to Oxford Street, but as he left he said to me, ‘Have a nap before your flight and think about it.’

  I took a nap, perhaps too long – on purpose – and completely missed my flight.

  I ended up seeing Jeffery again. ‘I missed my flight!’ I told him, hoping that he didn’t know there are flights between Sydney and Melbourne every fifteen minutes. We went home together again that night. And the night after. When Jeffery left for America the next morning, I said goodbye and how great it was getting to know each other.

  My flight was a few hours before his. I sat on the tarmac at Sydney Airport quite confused, trying to make sense of the seventy-two-hour whirlwind. I ended up thinking, Fuck it! and sent him a text along the lines of, ‘This may sound really dumb and a little bit hopeless. But I really like you.’

  I got a short message back: ‘Chat when I get back to the States.’

  And I thought, Ah, well . . . that’s that then, and headed back to Melbourne to grab my bags and fly to Brisbane the next day to open my show there. I wondered if I should send him my topless DNA photo and then decided that was getting a bit desperate and I should just put the whole weekend out of my mind.

  True to his word, however, Jeffery contacted me when he got back to America. And we spent every waking minute (that lined up with the time difference) texting back and forth. I don’t think a night passed without us FaceTiming before he went to bed.

  Less than two months later, in early April, Jeffery was on his way back to Melbourne for ten days. For no reason other than to see me.

  I was nervous. When we had last spent time together it was during the buzz of Mardi Gras – it was intoxicating and fast. Now he would be in my home, with me as really the only person he knew, and barely at that – and it was during the Melbourne International Comedy Festival. I was performing my 2014 show, Rock God, which is still one of my favourite shows, and it was getting great reviews. I remember snapping one of the reviews and sending it to Jeffery. He replied, ‘You are killing it. I hope you don’t think I’m some loser when I come down to hang with you.’ I remember my insecurities becoming overwhelming and genuinely thinking, It’ll probably be the other way around.

  I had all my friends on high alert. They were across the Jeffery situation and instructed to ‘make me, my life and Melbourne look fabulous at all costs’.

  I love that humans do this. Everybody has, at some point, said to their best friend, ‘Can you big me up to him/her?’ Imagine if you took a date to meet your friends and they said, ‘Why the fuck are you dating Helen (not the cow from Colac – another hypothetical Helen)? She’s a cunt.’

  Jeffery arrived and the chemistry was instant, as if we hadn’t been apart. He came to my show each night, I took him to parties and introduced him to people, we went to great Melbourne restaurants and he was amazing the whole time. He was incredibly charming – able to make anyone he came in contact with laugh in an effortless way. And so unashamedly camp that it was empowering to be around, his flamboyance and confidence ironically made him seem incredibly strong. His stories of growing up in a small town in America were captivating and for once I was quite happy to sit and listen without saying a word, completely enthralled. I didn’t have to be the one who was ‘on’.

  We decided we were a couple that week. We were boyfriends. Buckle up, tabloids! International comedy power couple here we come!

  The Comedy Festival closed and we went down to a house in Red Hill on the Mornington Peninsula that I had booked for us; we were going to have a night on our own before Thomas, Ashleigh and a few other friends joined us. The house was amazing (probably because I was paying an insane amount but was totally pretending I wasn’t) but I was kind of bummed that my mates were joining us the following night because things were going so well. I had only really invited them in case things hadn’t gone so well and I needed them to help me bury the body.

  Before the troops arrived, Jeffery and I went into town and had an incredible lunch and walked out onto the pier with ice creams. Jeffery said, ‘I know this is crazy and we haven’t known each other that long, but can I tell you something?’

  I said, ‘Yes . . .’ praying to Meryl Streep he was going to say what I wanted to hear but never had before. I also remember thinking, Knowing my luck he’s probably going to tell me he’s lactose intolerant after I’ve paid fifteen dollars for this artisanal ice cream . . . Maybe I finally will dump someone after all.

  ‘I’ve fallen in love with you.’

  Things had been utterly perfect but I couldn’t quite believe it. ‘Really?’ I said with the same shock I had when I wasn’t picked last for a sport team in school.

  ‘Yeah. Is that crazy?’

&nb
sp; ‘I don’t think it is. Because I love you too,’ I said.

  I was so happy. After a few false starts with other guys, it was at twenty-three years old, on a jetty in Sorrento in Victoria (so pretentious and so perfect), eating very over-priced ice cream, that I knew what it was like to be in love with somebody. You were right, Tina Arena – that Sorrento moon is very sweet indeed.

  We kissed on the jetty and it was totally a movie moment. Somewhere, off-camera, an overweight producer in a beret and ill-fitting polo shirt was smoking a cigar, saying, ‘There’s the money shot!’ Well, it was the glamorous money shot, until we both got boners and thought it best to leave.

  When Thomas and Ashleigh arrived a few hours later, I pulled them aside the second they walked in the door and whispered, ‘Jeffery told me he loves me!’ We had a silent party in the corridor for a few seconds before composing ourselves and walking casually into the lounge room to join the others.

  We had a few more amazing days in Red Hill and then one final night in Melbourne before Jeffery was due to go home.

  It was an emotional morning as I drove him to the airport to board his flight back to LA. He took my head in his hands, kissed me and said, ‘I’ll see you soon. I promise. I love you.’

  As fate would have it, I was due to be in America three months later to perform shows in New York and take meetings in LA. (That’s industry speak for you – in America, you don’t ‘have’ meetings, you ‘take’ them. But Australians don’t ‘take’ meetings. We take the piss, take the mickey and, depending on how much fibre is in our diets, regularly take shits.) And a few days after Jeffery left, I got booked for the Just For Laughs comedy festival in Montreal, Canada. Just For Laughs is considered the most prestigious comedy festival in the world as it’s a curated event, meaning, unlike Melbourne or Edinburgh, you have to be invited to perform there. This was perfect because it also meant arriving in North America earlier. So Jeffery and I worked out that I would fly to Montreal from Asia (where I would be touring), then fly down to New York where Jeffery would already be doing his sketch show with his mate Cole. Thomas would then join us in New York to do my show at the New York Fringe Festival before we all flew to LA. All up, Jeffery and I would have about three months together. You following? Good? Let’s press on.