I was hesitant at first, and intimidated by how comfortable people were being themselves, dressing up and pulling looks I would have got the bash for back home. Their dance moves would have me quickly ending up in the emergency room. Instead, I was more at home in the random hidden places and corners of the city I found by flipping myself for cash on Craigslist. Through the often older men I met doing sex work I was taken to many offices, sex clubs, cruising spots in parks, toilets, and parties.
I found myself spending more time in the back corner of a carpark with the chocolate wrappers and empty cigarette packets than I did at University. What would often come up with my older hookups and clients was nostalgic talk about the old days.
Oh, how glorious it was, they would say. But looking around their houses at the beige leather la-z-boys, a sad faded drawing of a twink in a cracked wooden frame above the toilet, a kilo of chicken legs thawing on the bench next to a nearly empty bottle of Sherry - it was hard for me to imagine these glory days, especially when I was only starting to live mine. Unsurprisingly, these people were also the ones constantly sidelined out of the clubs, conversations, and marches.
They were the people being beaten up, targeted by police and imprisoned. There I was, a skinny twink chain smoking in the corner being groped by all kinds of men and loving it before going home with a doctor.
In Urge Bar on Karangahape Road closed down. Suddenly, queer night space became restricted to a public programme or exhibition schedule. Sometimes all I want is Craigslist back and a back alley bar to go smoke in my undies at. I think this is what drew me back to working in the sex industry. I would say I am grounded in this kind of sex space or night space, and it makes the increasing conservatism of Karangahape Road bearable.
