Australia, March 6, 2000
Yeah baby, I got the kiss & he didn't
Christmas 98, Sean and I went shopping in Vero Beach for
decent disco shirts to impress the ladies of our respective cities of
residence. You wouldn't think we could find any decent threads in such a
small town, but we managed to turn up two porno-blue shirts. We call 'em
porno-blue cuz, as the drooling teenage assistant told us, she'd only
expect porno stars to wear such shirts. With that comment, Sean and I were
In Florida, the shirts got us a silicone implant and her burnout friend, but once overseas, they worked magic. Sean and I traded stories all of 1999 about what happened while we were wearing our porno-blue shirts and how we'd rule Sydney when we met again, in those same shirts. Last night, we finally strolled into the madness together, decked out as the porno-blue duo.
We could've, would've, and should've had an amazing night wowing the babes, and to a certain extent, we did, except for one small detail we didn't count on. Last night was the largest Gay and Lesbian parade in the world, Sydney's Marti Gras Parade.
Not only were there more hunk men than you could shake a box of condoms at, there were literally hundreds of men, together, who were dressed similar. Now into this, my stud cousin and I wandered, dressed in similar porno-blue shirts and black pants, and yep, you guessed it, were instantly thought of as a couple. If that wasn't enough to twist my ego, the entire night I walked in Sean's wake.
See, Sean is a very eye-pleasing guy. Two meters (six feet) tall, well built from years of swimming, running, and intense judo, and with our family's good looks, he is very much a hunk. Put him in a tight yet slinky porno-blue shirt, and I was dodging spellbound, open-mouthed women all night, who couldn't take their eyes off of him long enough to even notice me.
After an hour of ego-crushing walking, we stopped to watch the parade and surrounding insanity. The men on the floats and walking in the parade, definitely had even Sean beat, for many were the rippling muscle men you se hogging the workout benches of health clubs worldwide. Flying in from all over the world for this festival of same-sex love, the beefcakes (and a number of women) competed for the skimpiest and/or most outrageous costume, with crowd volume used as the judge.
When the parade finally ended, and it took a few hours to pass, we walked through the aftermath, stepping over the many milk crates used for better viewing and piles of empty bottles of all descriptions. At one point, we found two stools and sat in the middle of the chaos, calmly people-watching as the masses dispersed.
On our way home, I finally regained some cooler, older cousin points. While chatting with a flower seller who stopped us with a sexy wolf whistle, she huskily told us that, if we were straight she'd snog both of us.
Without a second's hesitation, and in unison, we both said, "We are!" I would like to think it was my dashing good looks and not me jumping up and down saying "Me first, me first!" that did it, but I got a kiss and Sean didn't.