|Happy to be in the Navy
The rosebud opens
In his own parade
The post-parade clean up crew
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
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.