Thirsty Page 20
I’m not completely against open relationships. I think they can work and can often help a relationship. I also believe that gay men, especially, are extremely good at separating sex and emotion. And I knew that I was in love, so anyone else I was to have sex with was purely for that reason. But I also felt some slight cracks starting to form in my relationship with Jeffery due to the sheer physical distance between us, so of course I was willing to do whatever (or whoever – zing!) I could. This option felt like it might ease some tension (sexual and emotional).
Although the suggestion of sleeping with other people had been made one night after a few drinks, we were still tiptoeing around the subject. Or at least I was. I left LA without having actually uttered the words ‘open relationship’. And upon my return to Australia, our nightly loved-up FaceTime chats and constant communication carried on unchanged. So I assumed (and hoped) that all was smooth sailing.
For those reading this thinking What the fuck is an open relationship? I’m going to take a punt and say you’re straight. Or ugly. According to the Concise Encyclopaedia Britannica of Gay (I’m sure it was Margaret Court who reviewed it on Goodreads) an open relationship is essentially a relationship where you are allowed to sleep with other people. Common rules are that you can’t sleep with a friend, you can’t sleep with the same person more than once (so as not to form an attachment) and the other person cannot sleep over after you’ve got it on. You are allowed to kiss, though. It’s not like Julia Roberts playing a prozzie.
All of these rules were what Jeffery and I were following, essentially, without having confirmed the arrangement with each other. Well, I thought.
At the end of the year, I found myself in London performing my show at the Soho Theatre, a run that was to be followed by a trip to Berlin and Prague with my parents and older sister, Holly. Jeffery had introduced me to his friend Giles the last time I was in LA. Giles is ‘terribly British’ and we instantly got on as two foreigners in LA who didn’t quite understand who the casting executives or show runners were that Jeffery and his friends talked about. We also look scarily similar and discovered we were born on the same date – hello, Lindsay Lohan in The Parent Trap! Jeffery had asked a few times whether I was going to catch up with Giles in London. I told him, ‘Yeah, probably,’ and he seemed uncomfortable with the idea. Full disclosure: I enjoyed seeing Jeffery like this; it seemed to pique his interest in me again. But I also knew it was incredibly unhealthy to toy with him emotionally.
Giles is a brilliant actor and was doing a show at Shakespeare’s Globe when I was in London so I went along to see it. (Side note: the show was brilliant, but ol’ William didn’t design his theatre for those of us with back troubles, forsooth.)
After the show, Giles and I went drinking at a private club called the Groucho Club where he’s a member. The closest thing to a private members’ club I’d even been to was the Applecross Tennis Club, so this was next level. I remember seeing paparazzi going insane taking photos of a celebrity (who turned out to be Kate Moss) arriving at the club. I was instantly pumped. Inside, the club was a maze of rooms with fireplaces and over-the-top Christmas decorations. It was full of celebrities and important-looking people but never felt crowded. We ordered cocktails unique to the club called ‘Twinkles’. As a result of the Twinkles, we ended up getting blind drunk and having sex in my apartment. (I hope I’m not moving too fast for you.)
It’s a difficult situation to describe. Jeffery and I were still a loved-up couple in constant communication, but we had discussed sleeping with other guys, so I figured I might as well test the waters with Giles.
I woke the morning after my night with Giles to a text from Jeffery asking, ‘Did you sleep with him?’
I agonised over my response, I couldn’t work out whether to lie or tell the truth. I ended up replying just, ‘Yes.’
Jeffery replied with something along the lines of ‘Hot’. But I knew immediately he wasn’t happy. I also knew he had been using the open relationship card too, so he couldn’t really be upset. I didn’t think he was angry, I thought maybe he felt he was missing out. Or perhaps Jeffery knew the connection Giles and I had as he’d seen it in person. In fact, it’s only writing it here do I realise I was the first to break the cardinal rules of the open relationship, both ‘Do not sleep with a friend’ and ‘Do not let them stay the night’.
A few days later, Jeffery said he wanted to come to Europe. I was thrilled, but couldn’t help assuming it was a result of Giles and me sleeping together. As great as Giles was, I knew I was head-over-heels in love with Jeffery so, before he could second guess the trip, I organised his flights and a week later, two days after Christmas, Jeffery was in London.
We had a really fun few days and then headed off to Berlin with my parents. (Now, it must sound like my parents just turn up unexpectedly wherever I am in the world – and they do. They really need to get some hobbies and stop spending my inheritance.) Jeffery left us before we went to Prague. I kissed him goodbye, knowing I was off to Africa and wouldn’t be with him again for months.
After coming out of the jungle, things with Jeffery had completely changed. He had sent me an email every day I was in the jungle for me to read once I was eliminated, but when I spoke to him, he seemed distant. He was reluctant to visit me in Australia, and when I kept asking why, he said he was too busy or couldn’t afford it. Meanwhile there was a lot of public interest from magazines and publications about our relationship. When asked, I would answer enthusiastically about Jeffery, but almost felt like I was lying.
‘When is he coming to Australia?’ I was asked several times a day.
‘Soon!’ I would reply, not even believing my own bullshit.
My extensive work commitments meant it was literally impossible for me to leave Australia for those first few months post jungle. Jeffery and I discussed our relationship again, reminding each other of how in love we were while also formally agreeing to the open status of our relationship. But I was so busy I didn’t really have time to be hooking up with other guys, plus my profile was now so high I had to be careful. In fact, having a boyfriend overseas was really convenient for me during these flat-out work months.
Unable to convince Jeffery to travel to me, I managed to race over to LA once again for a four-day trip. It was a pointless amount of time and I just felt rushed. It also meant that I would land back in Australia to make my debut performance on Have You Been Paying Attention? with a fried and jetlagged brain. (It wasn’t my best performance. Turns out I had not been paying attention.)
I was due to head to LA in July once again, as I had the previous year. This time I was going so I could attend the premiere of a movie Jeffery had written and starred in. Then I was going to Montreal for Just For Laughs, as I’d been invited back. After that I was going straight back to LA to finally spend a proper few months with Jeffery. Oh, and also hopefully become an instant American TV star by treading the boards on the comedy club circuit and ‘taking’ auditions.
In the weeks leading up to me arriving in LA, Jeffery had seemed in a particularly good place, mentioning repeatedly how excited he was for me to be coming and even saying things like, ‘We should get married so you can get a green card and move here.’ It felt as if our relationship was stabilising. I had also vowed not to rely so heavily on Jeffery this time. I was going to try to make some of my own friends in LA and finally face my fears and drive the fucking car. In fact, I was going to hire my own car so as not to be such a burden.
The shit hit the fan pretty much immediately on my arrival in LA.
To summarise a rather long and painful story, I discovered on my second day there that Jeffery had met someone else. I held off on bringing it up with him as I hadn’t wanted to ruin his film premiere – and I also totally wanted to go to a Hollywood film premiere. I went along and sat beside him, so proud of his film, genuinely stoked for him (and waiting to see how big my name was in the thank-you credits), but I was also embarrassed, as I knew I wasn’t wan
ted there. It took every fibre of my being to smile and act normally. Later on, he was so busy with his film colleagues and friends that it felt as though everyone had forgotten I was there. At one point I went to the bathroom and sat in a toilet cubicle, flicking through Facebook and texting friends back in Australia. Think Lindsay Lohan in Mean Girls on her first day at high school.
The next morning, I couldn’t hold it in any more and exploded. I told him I knew he’d met someone else. I spoke quite confidently, thinking that surely whatever he and this new guy had couldn’t outweigh the admittedly difficult but special relationship we had created.
To his credit he did say, in no uncertain words, that he didn’t want to be with me any more.
I felt as though my world was imploding. All I could hear was that white noise when your TV can’t find a station (at least, that’s what I think it is – obviously I am far too young and fabulous to have lived in anything other than the digital age). We yelled at each other while I frantically (and very dramatically) packed my bags, throwing my clothes across the room in the most over-the-top fashion I could muster. At the same time I texted my outrageously organised friend Bradley and asked him to find me a hotel.
Bradley is the kind of guy who is near a computer and ready to help no matter the time of day. He responded immediately: ‘I’ve booked you into the Viceroy Hotel in Santa Monica, they’re waiting for you. Go, go, go!’
An hour after the fight had broken out I was in an Uber, single, embarrassed and completely numb.
Now, I don’t know what the fuck Bradley had told the Viceroy but there were staff waiting for me to arrive. They took my bags out of the car and escorted me straight in. I was in tears and looked like an idiot, but I do remember thinking, Gosh, the service here is good, I must remember that for TripAdvisor! Turns out the service was good because Bradley had booked me a $2000-a-night suite – all they had left. As far as I was concerned, for that price the hotel should’ve supplied someone to fucking cry for me. At that price they should’ve supplied a new boyfriend!
I went up to my room and fell in a heap on the bed. I checked my phone and discovered it had died and I started to freak out. I discovered that, in my rush to make a dramatic statement as I swept out of Jeffery’s house, I had forgotten to pack a charger. I had to find one! Surely by now Jeffery had realised his awful mistake and would be desperately trying to contact me! I mean, come on – who would want to dump me? (Apart from every boyfriend I have ever had.)
It seems the more expensive the hotel room, the fewer amenities are provided. I asked for a charger at reception but all they could offer me was deconstructed oxygen and attitude, so I headed off to search the surrounding Santa Monica area. I was so out of it, though, I got completely lost and ended up at the famous Muscle Beach, where women who make Arnold Schwarzenegger look like he has muscular dystrophy lift weights the size of small cars above their head. I must’ve seemed like a complete lunatic, crying and staring at these women. In fact, I know I did. An Australian tourist spotted me and contacted the newspapers. But the recognition did put a temporary spring in my step.
After walking around for hours I found a phone charger and went back to the hotel. I plugged my phone in and checked it every two seconds to see if it was back on. Ten minutes later it finally came back to life. The white Apple logo that appears when you turn an iPhone on seemed to linger for an eternity. And then the home screen appeared. Nothing. Not a single message. I shut the blinds and started to fall apart again. The occasional phone call came through from my friends Bradley and Em, checking in to see how I was going. I was a mess.
Later that night I texted Jeffery, begging him to come and see me. Even as I typed it I knew how pathetic it was. I hated myself even more. But I couldn’t stop myself. He said no.
Your loss, arsehole, I thought. This is a $2000-a-night mattress.
Then I lay in bed, writhing in agony. I couldn’t believe that merely months ago I’d been in the African jungle with all of Australia watching me, feeling so tough and empowered. Now I was completely alone and utterly heartbroken. I truly could not believe the physical agony. I couldn’t believe that I, a strong, independent, sassy-as-fuck man, had allowed somebody to inflict such pain on me.
Word had spread through my squad and they put together an around-the-clock international watch with calls coming in to check on me and send me things if I needed them. I am so lucky to have the friends I have, they really do rally around and fiercely protect me when I need them. Several offered to fly over (okay, that was just my mum and dad – you know them, they’ll go anywhere for the frequent flyer points). And someone had called Andrew to let him know what had happened, as this event changed my next few months’ work plans dramatically. Plus both of our potential incomes.
Andrew was amazing, springing into action and making other arrangements for me. It was decided that although I was due in Montreal in four days’ time, it was probably best not to arrive there earlier, as we didn’t want me having a breakdown in front of really important people from the industry or from Channel Ten, who were televising the gala.
The next day I returned to Jeffery’s to pick up the rest of my stuff (including that fucking charger) and in some weird fucking twist, we decided it was best that I stay the next two nights at his place before I left for Montreal. Perhaps in the back of my mind I thought I had a bonus two days to win him back. I’m not sure what I thought I was going to do. Slip into some lacy Nigella Lawson nightgown and seduce him in the night?
I left the Viceroy the following morning after having what was probably a $300 omelette from room service (which I barely touched). But when I got to Jeffery’s, he had ducked out to work, so one of his friends very kindly took me on a trip to Orange County. He had to do some consulting work and I lay on the beach (it was nice to have some new scenery to cry in) and got completely sunburnt on my back as I couldn’t reach it to apply sunscreen. That only led to more tears as it reminded me I was alone again. ‘I don’t have anybody to apply my sunscreen any more!’ I wailed. It did, however, cross my mind that I could conveniently blame any potential future skin cancer on Jeffery, so that was a comfort.
After returning from Orange County (and discovering that I never want to go to Orange County ever again), Jeffery was at home. I put on a brave face and marched past him, showered and went out with a girlfriend who happened to be in town – and completely wrote myself off. I returned later that night to discover Jeffery asleep on the couch and sadly walked past him to bed on my own.
The next day, Saturday, was one of the weirdest days of my life. And it went so fast. It was overcast and storming; the only other time I’d seen LA like that was the day many years earlier when I landed for Ashleigh’s brother’s funeral. Jeffery and I spent the morning crying, lying in bed, hugging and fighting, and then repeating that sequence over and over. We eventually came to our senses and decided to have a ‘nice afternoon together’. What a ridiculous fucking idea. So we went and bought some burritos (as you do when you’re in the US) and watched YouTube clips of our favourite musical theatre actresses (as you do when you’re homos). Every now and then we would break out into a fight before apologising and laughing maniacally. It was all so weird. Mid-afternoon, I discovered I had my flight times wrong and instead of flying out the following afternoon, I was actually departing much earlier at 7 am. The knowledge that I had lost almost half a day with Jeffery sent me spiralling again. I was really clutching at straws at this point.
All day I felt like a total dickhead. I kept thinking, I bet Jeffery wishes his other guy was here. He probably can’t wait to get me out of his house! At one point, as snot and tears ran down my face, I said, ‘Should we have sex?’
The suggestion was met with a pretty lacklustre reaction and I thought, Well, I gave it a crack. I’m not sure what I was thinking, perhaps that I’d bust out some new amazing sex trick I’d been keeping up my sleeve all this time and he’d go, ‘My God, I’m an idiot! What was I thinking?’
Eventually we fell asleep in each other’s arms and the next morning, Jeffery drove me to the airport. Here’s where I get even lamer. As I said, I live my life as if it were a movie, so during the night I woke up and snuck out of bed (again channelling Nigella Lawson). I knew I needed to write Jeffery a letter and that was my only chance. I went to the kitchen, sat down cross-legged on the floor, tapped the letter out on my laptop and then wrote it on paper. I think I then sprayed some of my fucking aftershave on it (my level of romance is Marty Maraschino – ‘like the cherry’ – in Grease) and shoved it into my backpack.
When Jeffery dropped me at the airport the following morning I stepped out of the car, face covered in tears and snot once again, handed him the letter and said goodbye.
That was the last time I ever saw Jeffery.
I’ll stop talking about him specifically at this point because I’ve bashed him enough on stage (my stand-up show the year after was spec-fucking-tacular) and I will always have enormous respect for him. He is one of the most talented, creative and hilarious men I have ever met, hence why I fell so hard in the first place. But from here on in my time overseas became my story of healing. Yes, I used the word ‘healing’. Move over, Eat, Pray, Love.
I will end by saying that Jeffery is now engaged to the same man he left me for. I was knocked out of the semi-final by the eventual Grand Slam champion. So you know what? Fucking good on him. I actually think that’s pretty cool that they’re engaged. And that man is a very lucky guy. As I write this, though, gay marriage still isn’t legal in Australia, so technically I don’t even have to recognise Jeffery’s engagement.
As I’ve mentioned before, I do want to get gay married one day. Or as I call it, married. It’s so bizarre that Australia has not made this possible yet. It seems so odd for such a progressive country. And rather shameful on the international stage. I remember tweeting recently, ‘America, you’re really embarrassing yourself’, after yet another one of Trump’s fuck-ups. And an American replied, ‘Um, you guys don’t even have gay marriage yet.’ Touché, sir Touché.