Justin Whitelaw

At an early age, Justin Whitelaw was shunned by his parents and kicked out of home for being gay. He was a teenager. They breed them mean and godbothering up there in them thar hills. I think it is all that fresh air, it rots the brains of the simple and the weak. Fresh air and open spaces are only good for the expansive of mind. The strong. The sleek.

Justin Whitelaw was a change of life baby, the older piglets of the Whitelaw family had long since flown the nest when "special" Justin came along. His father was an army officer, his older brothers went into "the force," policeman, so, you can see, the family lacked a certain degree of imagination. To complete the trifecta, they were “of the lord.” The full disaster, poor little, gay Justin.

“My unhappy childhood was a direct result of my mother not being able to use contraceptives effectively,” Justin once said to me.

Sad, I thought. I didn’t know what to say.

As you would understand, Justin had a hard time of it. Older parents, intellectually challenged, having to come to grips with their little homo, Justin. Still, Justin tried to make the best of it, with the handicaps that he was dealt at birth.

Poor Jus, nobody really understood him. His mother was too busy running bible studies in their "front" room, on the “good furniture,” such as it was, and his father was too busy being "a bloke" which clearly young Justin was not.

Actually, Justin was "well blokey" but not enough when it came out that he was a shirt lifter, or to be more precise, he liked his shirt lifted, not that he told his grandparent-like parents those precise details. Well, I don't think he did.

Justin had a cockatoo called Monty, his only friend during his childhood, he told me once. The bird used to talk to him in his room, as his parents sat glued to the teli night after night. Arm chair televangelists.

Justin found comfort in the arms of older men, from a young age, something he blamed “the trouble” on when it came. He was just a lamb who got in with the wrong company. Some may say he was looking for a father who'd accept him, or a big brother who would love him, men who would welcome him. Some may agree.

Maybe he was looking for Jesus. “Put in my arse, dear lord, to make me feel loved.”

I met Justin around the pool table at a South Yarra gay pub on Sunday afternoons. He clearly took a shine to me. I was really just there to drink beer and play pool with my buddy, Raymond. We were both in our 20s, 26, 27. We used to play with Ray’s friend Ian, who was in his 30s, 34, 35. Actually, Raymond and Ian really played in the comp. I would sometimes compete, but I never really felt like I was as good as the other players, who were awfully keen and pretty serious. So, I spent a lot of the time sitting on the benches surrounding the pool table chatting to people.

I hadn’t come out long before this myself, a year, or so, and I was enjoying being free and open amongst “my people” so I wasn’t really looking for anything very serious as far as relationships went.

Now, I don’t have tickets on myself, I really don’t and I am not normally the centre of people’s attention, but Ian fancied me too. But, he was Raymond’s friend and I’ve always had a kind of a rule, which I’ve stuck to pretty much, most of the time, that friends of friends were really off limits. There are plenty of men in the world, why would I want to make my life more complicated than it need be. Besides, even though Ian made it fairly clear of his desires for me, he never, actually, asked me. I remember, thinking to myself, that I could, possibly would make an exception with Ian, if he asked me, but he never did.

And there was Justin, 18, and nervously coming over to talk to me, to be with me, to hang with me. He never, actually, asked either, so I never had to think too much about him either. Justin was intense, even back then. He’d suddenly be standing by my side nervously asking me something that always seemed to me that he’d thought up to specifically ask me. He was nice, but really just a kid. He also had a funny rash around his nose, under his nose, like psoriasis, which never really said, “Come here, lover,” to me.

Justin was nice, good looking, interesting, and I was flattered by the attention, it was kind of new to me really, but he was just a guy. I thought about having sex with him, I did, but it never progressed passed a thought back then.

So, move forward 12 months, or so. I’d been around the block a few times by this stage, I’d learned a few new tricks and I’d had my eyes opened to how “gay world” worked. I’d had a go at my first “out” gay relationship, which wobbled and stuttered and spluttered and was over, for what reason I wasn’t really clear about.

It was late one night at The Peel. I can’t really remember how I’d got to that point, or why, but it was 2am and I was drunk sitting on the umpteenth pot of beer for the night in the back bar. And who should sidle up to my gin-joint for one but Justin Whitelaw.

We got chatting, naturally, he and I were good at that. We were both drunk, or something, and my defences were down and we got flirting and saying sexy things to each other… and, one thing led to another, and we ended up back at my place, in my bed. Justin turned out to be… um… er… a great little catcher and I spend quite some time pitching to his tight little catcher’s MIT.

I’d only just been out to my housemates with the ill-fated conscious coupling that had failed not long before Justin made his appearance from my bedroom, shirtless, dressed just in a pair of my track pants to share Sunday morning coffee with my housemate Jonathon Lilly and his gorgeous boyfriend at the time Andrew Earl-Jones.

I was nervous, of course and I could see the looks on Jonathon and Andrew’s faces as they spotted Justin. Surprise, delight, interest, humour, speculation, all those things that people think when “trade” is presented at the “family” table.

Justin and I hung out a bit, we liked each other fine, and we pretty much knew each other anyway. Despite, what I may have thought about him previously, I was quite chuffed with our pairing, it had an inevitability to it, kind of like a promise finally fulfilled, even if, in my mind anyway, I had somewhat rejected him as too young previously. And he was a nice, big solid lad, who was nice to hold and hot to kiss. He was a sexy boy, lets face it. If I close my eyes, I can still feel him in my arms, even all these years later.

Later that day, I drove him back to his place in the Dandenong Ranges. I remember, I gave him my favourite shirt, at the time, and some jeans and some undies, that I much admired him in, as fresh clothes. I never got them back.

I’m not sure who I thought lived in the charming hill cottage he took me too. I’m guessing he told me it was his family home, but maybe because nobody else was there, I didn’t take so much notice of this fact. We hung out. We fucked on his bed. We breathed in the fresh air. We may have gone down the paddock and looked at his horses, maybe, that seems to ring some bells. It was lovely and relaxing, hanging with this handsome guy, for who I’d just found a much greater appreciation. It is amazing how your attitude to someone changes after they let you put yourself inside them.

I didn’t learn about his family until much later. I wonder now what may have happened if the family had come home, during our romantic interlude in their country retreat? I shudder at the thought. I’ve never had to climb out a bathroom window with my clothes under my arm, even figuratively, something for which I am grateful. I wonder how that may have been different? I wonder sometimes, on the odd occasion I think about Justin and his house, if my life may have been in danger? This thought seems absurd to me as soon as I think it, but, hillbilly, nutjob parents who were willing to disown their own flesh and blood completely, you know, it makes me wonder? I was a nice boy from Camberwell and not prepared for such things.

Our time together was fleeting. All exquisite things must come to an end. Beauty fades and we all move on, as Justin and I did.

I didn’t see much of Justin after that. I stopped going to the Southside. I met the great love of my life. And despite Mark and I being huge party animals for a time there, drinking in everything gay life had to offer, and then some, I didn’t cross paths with Justin.

Justin and I had some other connections through friends who’d been to school with him. And some other gay friends who’d been friends with him. So his name came up from time to time, even if I didn’t see him. Those degrees of separation were being peeled down from 6 to 5 to 4, quite possibly.

So, I hadn't seen Justin for some time, when we bumped into each other in a city bar at one of my mates birthday parties, I think it was. I think Mark and I were at the end of our relationship, I think I was there with Mark and his new boyfriend Luke. So I wasn’t needed anywhere in particular.

Justin looked good, I remember. He’d grown into a man and it suited him. His skin had cleared up and he was as handsome as ever he was. He cornered me in the back bar, he contained me in one spot, literally for a time with one arm either side of me onto the bar behind me, sucking all of my attention in. He was still as intense as ever.

“Hey Jase, I haven’t seen you forever. How have you been?” I was pleased to see him. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t attracted to him. 

“I’ve been away,” said Justin.

That is nice, I thought. “Oh, nice. Overseas?”

“No, I have been away.”

“Yes, yes.” I was waiting for details of his trip away. I gazed into his handsome face.

“No,” he said. “I have been away.”

Okay, I heard you the first time, I thought. Clearly, I am missing something here. “Yes, we all need to get away from time to time,” I said. I was still waiting for the joyous details and perhaps a few happy snaps from his travels.

“No, I went away.”

What was he on, I thought? He was on something. Yes, yes I got that and really rapidly I was losing interest in whatever game he was trying to play.

“I was put away.”

Clunk. Kerching. The penny dropped. Oh? I guess he means jail. I’m sure my mouth made a big O. I tried not to look too surprise, I’m not really sure why. The boy most likely to go to jail as voted by his year 10 class in his last formal year of high school. “You’ve been in jail?” I asked tentatively. Well, it seemed like I had to ask, it seemed like that is what he wanted me to do.

“Yes, away.”

Oh, the things we do? He was just a kid I bummed a decade ago. How do we get ourselves into these situations. “Really.” Back away from the crim, Josh, I thought. That nearly made me laugh, my crazy sense of humour. I stifled that, as I am sure that is not the response he was looking for. You know, when you laugh nervously because you don’t know what to say.

I tried not to stutter. “Oh really,” I said. “What for?”

“I held somebody up at an ATM…” 

“Really?”

“With a syringe full of HIV positive blood.”

“Oh?” What could I say? “Why did you do that?” Was that a stupid question?

“I don’t know? I don’t remember any of it?”

“Oh.” Can’t remember it? I wonder what the victim remembers? How awful for them? The victim would never have known lovely Justin, the thought made me feel sad.

He was tried and convicted of a crime he could remember nothing about. He did time for something he had no memory of.

“So, you were off your face?”

“Yes,” said Justin.

“And what made you rob someone?”

“I don’t know, I don’t remember.”

“Wow. That’s heavy.”

“I know,” said Justin.

So, move forward another 10 years. I’d reconnected with Justin on Facebook. Some friend of a friend had liked something, or had commented on something, who was a friend of Justin. Lovely. It is always nice to reconnect with someone, no matter how tenuous the relationship had been previously. That is what Facebook is for, isn’t it? And he fitted my strict Facebook policy, only just admittedly, and that is that I am only friends with people on Facebook who are really friends. And while Justin may have been stretching that criteria quite possibly, I had had something of a relationship with him for many, many years. I thought nice thoughts about him. And, let’s face it, I’d been inside him on numerous occasions, enjoyably so. I accepted his friendship request.

He wanted to hook up, apparently, I may have been the one who got away. I had a boyfriend though, so I didn’t want to hook up. Apparently, that is one of his pet hates, men who are in relationships who want to cheat with him. He has no end of offers, according to him. So, tick to me for not cheating on Sam. But, you see, I didn’t even really want to meet up, not even just for a drink. Facebook friends was enough. I didn’t want any more than that.

As it turned out, Justin is quite the keyboard warrior. He had thousands of friends that he collected like badges of honour. He lived to post on Facebook and from what I could gather, he didn’t have much else going on in his life. 

So his Facebook posts were frequent and many.

So, as you may gather, causes were, seemingly, what he lived for. And as I found out, and as many others clearly did too, disagree with him at your peril. Apparently, he’d collected degrees from somewhere, maybe it was a part of his work for release? Who knew? And he now seemed to be an expert on everything.

He’d grown into quite the man, and he used his looks freely and often to collect more friends.

You know, those with the most friends when they die are the winners.

I leant pretty quickly that if I were to comment on one of his posts, Justin would always have the last word. This led to somewhat tediously long interactions, many I regretted starting way before they were finished. If I tried to opt out, Justin would hound me for an answer, somehow my unwillingness to continue with conversations that had long since deteriorated into Justin telling me what it was I should be thinking and saying was seen as a sign of weakness.

I soon learned to pick my posts to comment on, if I made any comments at all. He never really commented on my posts, he was only really interested in his own opinion.

He posted continuously all day, like he had nothing else to do with his day. So much so that pretty soon I was losing track of my other friends. I was starting to think about blocking his posts altogether. And while I’d miss out on quite a number of interesting things he posted, which would be a shame, the overall effect for me would, actually, be a positive one.

You can block people without them knowing.

But it still seems like quite a drastic step, one I would have to be really pushed to make, and I wasn’t quite there as yet. But I was edging towards it.

So, what happened next?

I posted a piece on gay marriage. I started with my indifference to gay marriage. I don’t want to get married, I don’t see anything in it for me. Sam agrees. However, I support my gay friends who want to. And really, it has been going on long enough, in all countries of the world. It is now inevitable and our politicians should just show some leadership and legalise it and put it to bed. Justin only seemed to pick up on me being indifferent to gay marriage and he went on to make some strident claims, which I didn’t answer initially. But, of course, stupid me and my big mouth, I just couldn’t help myself and I eventually wrote and answer, refuting each claim one by one. Stupid me, with an ego so clearly fragile as his, I should have just stated the obvious, “Justin, I don’t think you have understood my point clearly. I am, in effect, agreeing with you.”

It was the only time he was rendered lost for words.

But, still, a black mark for me.

Then, stupid me again, couldn’t hold my tongue when he said Janis Joplin wasn’t a singing legend. Janis Joplin being a personal favourite of mine. It was in something I wrote about all the great singers were dying this year and there was nobody to replace them.

He, of course, sent me a multitude of links to current singers who were equal to Bowie, Prince, Joplin and the likes, all the while criticising me for being hopelessly lost in the past, which wasn’t really my point. I think I liked one of them, the rest were rubbish. I wondered if he was tone deaf? He is not to know I am a highly qualified musician, with a perfect musical ear. My musical knowledge is extensive. How could he? When we were together, we spent most of our time engaged in frivolous sodomy. In fact, I would say that he spent as much time facing away from me as he did facing me when we were together.

I think my non-appreciation of the musical lesson that Justin provided me with was another black mark against me.

And then?

So, as you can imagine, the Orlando shooting was tailor made to be a pet crusade for Justin. Everything became “We Are Orlando” in Justin World. I don’t think he could have physically posted any more posts on Orlando than he did. There were not enough hours in the day.

I was a poofteenth away from blocking his posts. It was actually at that point that I shouldn’t have stepped back, I should have just stepped forward and blocked him, or, as they say in nice parlance, unfollowed him.

But, I really didn’t want to. I still had a soft spot for him. And I liked a lot of what he had to say. It was just when he got on his soapbox.

I made no comments, but the postings about Orlando were like a tsunami. I was awash in the world grief and drama. People were crying openly about people they had never met, and who they were never likely to ever meet.

Justin started posting that he was really disappointed with all of his gay friends who had not posted tributes to the 49 gay men who died. I hadn’t posted anything, I’d been sitting back taking in the world psycho drama rather silently. I, somewhat egotistically, which is unlike me, wondered if Justin was talking about me. So, I wrote something about the event. My friends commented on my beautiful words, many shared what I had written with their friends, but Justin made no comment.

Then he posted an aunt’s words where she thanked god for taking her nephew up into heaven, or some such thing. I couldn’t say nothing. Where was god when the shooter approached the front door? I wrote.

Keep your hate to yourself, said Justin

That is not hate, I said. It is a question.

Have some respect, her nephew died, said Justin. In fact, I am sick of your hate, you are blocked.

Instantly, I was unfriended. Justin has more than one profile on Facebook and I was unfriended from all. I was blocked on Instagram too.

And that was that. Done. Over. Fixed.

This morning, I got up at 6.30am. It was dark, but it wasn’t bitterly cold. I logged onto Facebook. Despite, having the indignity of being unfriended by Justin Whitelaw, it was nice not having his manic posts coming up on my feed. The world was suddenly a calm place. The difference only served to highlight he is really just too much. It is good, really, I had to conclude. All that self-aggrandising, self-focused attention-getting was just too, too much. Conversations need to be two way, not one way and full of scorn if you happened to have a differing opinion that offended his fragile sense of self worth.

I post therefore I am. 

The person at the end who dies with the most friend’s wins.