NIKKI & JOE, CASUALLY | updates every monday

03: like a real man

            Cece's nose crinkles at the group that climbs onto the bus as we get off at Hart Street. 'What is it with people wearing ripped jeans? It's horrific. How are people mentally deranged enough to buy broken clothes?'

I glance down. Their knees poke out of their black cargo trousers on each step. He's drawn a bee on each with a marker (I hope), placed perfectly within the canvas of skin revealed behind the tears. 'You're wearing ripped trousers.'

'But I ripped these organically. By falling over like a real man. Don't mix me in with these posers.'

I open my mouth, rethink, and shut it.

The restaurants of Gay Village are bustling with folk grabbing lunch (or more likely: late breakfast) before the parade starts. Pride flag streamers form a canopy above Canal Street with many larger ones decorating pub fronts or hung from the balconies above. Music is already loud though it's barely noon. The sun is almost too hot.

Cece's feet start to drag, Vans scuffing the baking tarmac as they shove their hands in their pockets. Is this the kind of anxiety I'm supposed to reassure him out of or the kind that will humiliate him if acknowledged?

Maybe it's not even anxiety and just jitters from all the coffee he drank this morning—which they've never drunk before but are forcing themselves to like in an effort to "become an adult". Of all the things they could change to prove their maturity, they choose drinking coffee...

Before I can decide whether to address their nerves, they speak. 'You sure it's okay for me to come?'

'Course.'

He chews on his thumbnail. As well as he can with his grillz, anyway. They stop when they nearly choke on a chip of black nail varnish. Cece only ever wears black nail polish on his left hand—which I, for a year, thought were some subversive symbol I'm too millennial to be in the loop for until I realised that he probably just don't know how to do it with his non-dominant hand.

'Caleb well wants to see you,' I add, honestly.

Rather than the employee door in the ginnel behind the club, I take Cece in through the main door, still locked at this time. I want his first impression of Spectrum to be the space in all its glory and not a bunch of empty lemon crates piled by the door for the next person to grab though everyone just walks right past them.

I let him in first and wrestle the key out of the lock to follow. Cece hesitates past the cloakroom and the posters about alcoholics anonymous meetings, domestic violence support, and other community events Sasha hosts here during the week when the club is shut.

I smile as I watch him go silent with awe, tension melting from his posture. The main room is muralled with various queer icons in the print style of propaganda posters. Even with only the task lights on, the disco balls add sparkles to their faces. With no people in the way, Cece can trace all the details up close and read the small-print biographies.

'Hello, baby girl.'

I turn to see Caleb limp through the open employee door between the stage and the bar counter. He decided not to go in drag this year but still looks appropriately glam in what is literally his old school uniform now embellished with rhinestones in accordance with the Class of 2017 theme of the year's Pride.

With a glance at Cece to make sure they've not spontaneously dropped dead, I stride over to scoop Caleb into a hug. Caleb's Ethiopian sperm donor (a lenient term to use considering his mums found him through Gumtree and the "profile sheet" in question were written by hand) were 203 centimetres tall according to his file but Caleb ended up getting his five-three height from his Japanese mum, which means I get to kiss the top of his head with every hug.