Arnold bit the bullet and bravely faced his wife the morning after his second night in the arms of Fidel. The pair went early to his house before his wife left for work. She was in the kitchen when they walked in, gave them a cursory glance and returned to boiling an egg.
‘I’m moving out and will get divorce papers this afternoon,’ Arnold said as if he was going for a game of squash with friends.
She turned with a sneer. ‘Who’s this? Your boyfriend?’
‘I’m not a boy, but I am a friend,’ Fidel said coolly. ‘Which is more than can be said of a wife who laughs with her friends at photos she’d stolen from her husband’s phone.’
‘Why you slimy little…’ she was speaking to an empty room; the young men were busy removing everything personal that would fit into Arnold’s little Mazda and the Karim’s station wagon. Without another word to the wife, they left, Arnold to work, and Fidel home to garage the car before jogging to school, several hours late.
That evening Arnold was suitably impressed with the 3Vs fitness club, especially the second part when the participants expressed their creativity. Afterwards, Fidel and Bart gave him a tour of the old warehouse including the parts of the gym that were still in use. Arnold fell in love with the place…so much space, so many possibilities and in such a brilliant location only a block from the river. ‘This building has huge potential,’ he declared. ‘You have to buy it, Bart.’
‘I think they're asking about five million.’
‘So much?’
‘And that's only for the site. They’ll knock the existing structure down, build luxury apartments and quadruple their money…this area’s moving up market.’
‘That will be a crime against historically significant architecture and quality construction. This place will last a thousand years it’s so well built.’
‘Few would agree with you.’
Later, in Fidel’s flat, the four friends shared fish and chips and discussed the immediate future. Robert had telephoned his parents and gained permission for Arnold to stay with Fidel until they returned. But then they'd prefer to have the place to themselves again. Fidel was welcome to stay if he had nowhere to go, ‘But please be diplomatic, Robert’, Monique had insisted. ‘We love Fidel. Without him we’d never have been able to go away for so long, so...’
Robert had assured them of his diplomacy, but it wasn’t necessary. Fidel was pleased they’d prefer to be alone because he’d decided to become independent as soon as school was finished, and had worried that the Karims would want him to stay. Arnold sat speechless with astonishment at their generosity and trust, letting him stay with Fidel.
‘I won’t impose on their generosity for long; I'm looking for a cheap flat and handing in my resignation. I have to give a few weeks’ notice.’
‘What'll you do for money?’
‘I’ve saved a fair bit, my ex and I have separate bank accounts and have been renting, so no worries there.’
‘I suggest you don’t resign until after the divorce comes through and you’ve found another job—they're like hens’ teeth. You never know what tricks your wife will play to get more out of you than she deserves. If you’re still a cop she might think twice, whereas if you’re unemployed and vulnerable she could get nasty, knowing you wouldn’t have the cash to take on a court case.’
Arnold nodded agreement. ‘You’re right. Despite having a pre-nuptial agreement, a mate’s wife sued him for twice as much as agreed on, and succeeded. He’s totally gutted, sharing a crappy little flat with a bloke he hates.’
‘Well I'm going to get a job the minute school’s finished, Fidel declared, ‘and find a flat so Monique and Sanjay can enjoy the peace here when they get home.’
‘We can shack up together,’ Arnold suggested.
‘Till you get sick of me.’
‘Or the other way round.’
‘You're safe as long as you don’t get fat.’
Robert was laughing. ‘That should spur you on to continue with the gym. It’s odd that there's no requirement for a certain level of fitness in the police force.’
‘Cops are mostly poor white trash, bigoted, homophobic, racist and so full of their white supremacist crap they reckon they're the crème de la crème no matter what state their body’s in.’
‘That explains it…cream is ninety percent saturated fat.’
‘Oh very good, Robert.’ Arnold turned to Bart. ‘Please Bart, take over the gym so I can join and become as young and slim and gorgeous as you.’
‘Not possible, I'm afraid,’ Bart laughed. ‘I'm already two years older than you, but you’re welcome to come until it’s sold.’
The weeks zipped by. In their limited spare time the four young men went to the beach, to concerts and shows, dancing—which Arnold embraced as enthusiastically as Fidel, and on sunny weekends occasionally joined a group of gay nudists at a private rural property with bush walks, a stream and swimming pool.
Fidel’s logo for Bart’s 3Vs club was both artistic and classy, and membership grew quicker than expected, mainly married men in their thirties and above who were finding it increasingly stressful to remain true to their masculine instincts while accommodating their wife’s female imperatives. After each session someone would comment that it was great to feel worthwhile as a man again. No one objected to contributing towards expenses, and a small group was formed to manage subscriptions and arrange the space. The four friends were the only men who identified as same-sex-oriented, but that meant little, apparently. According to Robert a survey of male sexuality going the rounds at university showed large numbers of so-called straights enjoyed cuddles and more with their male friends.
Prices for new apartments had taken a dive, especially those at the top of the range. Hundreds were lying empty in the area, so demolishing another old building to build yet another tower for the wealthy had become less attractive to speculators looking for a quick profit. Thus, the gym continued, with Bart responsible for doing and arranging just about everything, Fidel part time cleaner, and several ageing occasional instructors.
Robert’s university awarded him a degree without honours. Fidel scraped a pass in his final exam. Arnold’s divorce came through and he handed in his resignation. To celebrate he bought himself a lottery ticket and found a cramped somewhat insanitary apartment in Fortitude Valley.
When the Karims arrived home to a house and garden neater, cleaner and fresher than the one they left, they were so delighted they doubled Fidel’s bonus and would not accept his refusal. It was timely because even though he had moved in with Arnold, renting was more expensive than he’d anticipated, and permanent jobs were proving elusive for both.
One evening Fidel arrived home determinedly cheerful, despite creeping despair, to be greeted by a grin that threatened to split Arnold’s face. He shoved a piece of paper at his boyfriend, unable to speak.
Fidel read it and his face fell open in stupefaction. ‘You’ve won fifty-five million dollars,’ he whispered. ‘Is it true? Not a hoax?’
‘It’s true. I phoned and we’re to go and collect it tomorrow. I asked for privacy—don’t want anyone knowing, so they promised no newspapers or other shit.’
‘Thank goodness you're divorced…otherwise your wife would get at least half.’
‘If not all! The legal system’s so fucking biased towards women; she’d claim I’d bashed her or something and be granted the lot in compensation!’
By two o'clock the following afternoon, Arnold’s bank balance was enviable and they were wondering what to do with it.
‘I still don’t really believe it. I'm frightened to move in case I wake up. What'll I do with all that filthy lucre?’
‘Buy Bart’s gym.’
‘You wouldn’t think I was stupid?’
‘You’d be stupid not to. You’ve been regaling me with so many great ideas for it. Come on, lets go tell the others.’
To celebrate, Arnold shouted his three friends to dinner, and then because of rave reviews, took them to a club on the south side of the river. It was noisy and the dance floor crowded, but they were too excited to go home, so waited for the late floorshow that the management promised would be very, very special.
It was indeed a very special fifteen minutes.
Accompanied by a strong, sexual beat, a slim youth in a pair of faded jeans, long-sleeved white shirt, leather moccasins and a cute cap, suddenly appeared in front of them, smiled shyly and began a sinuous dance. If he'd left it there he’d have been a sensation, but slowly, sexily and sweetly he tossed off his shoes, then removed his shirt to expose a skin-hugging tank top. The dance became sultry as jeans disappeared revealing skimpy running shorts. When they were casually tossed aside, electric blue Speedos set the audience laughing and clapping along with the beat. The dance then entered a more overtly erotic phase and cheers erupted when the tank top followed the other garments to disclose a slim but powerfully muscled torso, neat belly button and tiny erect nipples.
Stamping and clapping greeted the expert jettisoning of the Speedos that had concealed a pale blue, well-filled thong. Long, glossy, straight black hair tumbled to the youth’s shoulders when the cap was tossed onto the heap of the other clothes as the dance continued, the music swelled and the sinuous body glistening with sweat continued it’s breathtakingly energetic moves demonstrating prodigious flexibility. Suddenly the thong disappeared and the dancer froze, arms rigidly aloft, stark naked, hairless, satiny smooth and magnificently erect on the tiny stage surrounded by one hundred and eighty-seven mesmerised strangers. A charmingly wicked grin accompanied the finale—a jaw-dropping ejaculation that reached his closest admirers and would be talked about for decades.
The cheers seemed as if they would never stop but Fidel was suddenly deaf. His heart hammered enough to burst. Without stopping to think he forced his way around to the rear of the stage only to find his way barred by a large man.
‘I have to see the dancer,’ he pleaded.
‘Why?’
‘I…I just have to he…’
His distress was so great the bouncer, if that's what he was, spoke kindly. ‘Sorry, mate, but Mort’s given strict instructions, no fans. He's probably already gone home. Hang on, I’ll check.’
He returned almost immediately. ‘Yeah, he’s taken off.’
‘When will he be here again?’
‘Never, that's his last show for us.’
‘Do you know how I can contact him?’
‘No idea.’
The fellow returned backstage and Fidel returned to his friends, explaining that he thought he recognised the dancer and wanted to tell him how great he was. The others pretended they bought the lie, Fidel calmed, they danced a little, then returned to Bart and Robert’s place for a nightcap.
‘I’m not going to be able to sleep,’ Arnold announced, ‘until we’ve had a serious discussion about the money. I want to give you some.’
‘Well, we don’t want it, so forget that!’ Bart snapped with what Fidel thought was unnecessary indignation.
Arnold looked at the other two who shook their heads in agreement with Bart. He shrugged. ‘Ok, that’s off the agenda. The point is, I want to buy that building and the gym and make something of it. I've been bending Fidel’s ears, now I want to bend yours…unless you want to go to bed?’
Robert grinned. ‘Actually, I do want to practice a few things with Bart that I thought of while watching that stripper. But you can have half an hour, is that Ok with you, Bart?’
‘Twenty-nine minutes tops. Fire away oh multimillionaire.’
‘I don’t know anything about buying property, running a business …you name it I don’t know about it, so I hoped you three would become partners in this venture. I've been running ideas through my head for weeks now, and got it all sorted. Robert, you know a bit about finance and that sort of stuff, so I’d like you to work out your salaries and contracts and things, and also handle the buying of the property and all the money stuff. Bart, you're a dab hand at teaching and fitness so I want you to design, furnish, employ and manage the new gym. Fidel, you’re the most artistically organised person I've ever met, so you can help me work out what we need, how the place should look, where to get stuff, how to advertise and so on…sort of project manager, and I’ll be…’
‘The pasha with the whip.’
‘Yeah, something like that. What do you say?’
‘I’d say this is all a bit quick—have you thought it through? You're not acting with undue haste and all that?’
Fidel laughed. ‘Hardly, Robert! It’s all he’s talked about and planned for weeks, its always the same, nothing’s going to change, it’s what Arnold wants and he’s going to do it, with or without us.’
‘Thanks, Fidel.’ Arnold turned a worried face to the others. ‘He’s right. I can’t think of anything else I want to do with the money, so please take me seriously and think about it.’
‘Arnold, you're a precious jewel. It sounds a fabulous idea—fabulous in the original sense. So let’s go to bed and lie awake in nervous excitement worrying that tomorrow morning at the gym when we can put in your offer to purchase, no one else has already signed the papers.’
‘Don’t frighten me Robert! Right. We’re off then. See you first thing tomorrow.’
In bed that evening Arnold snuggled up to Fidel, nuzzled his neck and whispered, ‘Ok, the truth please. Who was that stripper and why did you run after him in such a state?’
‘You noticed then.’ Fidel frowned, wondering what to say. When he looked up it was with a strangely sad expression. ‘I didn’t know the guy, but suddenly I was reminded of my brother. I've no idea why; they aren't that similar to look at. But there was something about his joy in living…his enthusiasm that almost stopped me breathing and I wanted to speak to him. Lucky I couldn’t because I've no idea what I’d have said.’
‘What's your brother’s name?’
‘Hylas. He’s fourteen. I haven't seen him for three years. I write every month, but he never replies…I’m pretty sure my mother has something to do with that. She hates me.’
‘What haven't you gone to see him?’
‘I can’t go back while she’s there.’
‘You love him, don’t you?’
‘Yeah. Yes, I do. He loves me too. I just…’ he sniffed. ‘Sorry, Arnold. I really can’t talk about it. I feel so sick and helpless when I think about him…hoping he's Ok. But thanks for asking.’
A strange heaviness dragged at Arnold’s heart as he hugged and consoled his lover, wondering how long he had.