'Things fashion bloggers do that I just don't understand'

This piece was originally published in full on FashionJournal.com.au, 16th of December 2015, available here.

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Go to any fashion event in a major Australian city and you will see one. A fashion blogger. Standing in a corner with a champagne flute in one hand and a phone in the other. Typically browsing Instagram. 

My job, for the past five years, has been to take their picture. I’m a photographer. I don’t have a business card, I’m lacking in Wordpress, and my wardrobe looks more Sloths Of 2007 than Summer Of 2015. However, that doesn’t stop me from attending several big fashion events each year, to snap around and be merry.

For many, fashion blogging and photography have a kewl intersection. But for photographers who manage to shoot events several times a year, yet haven’t ascended to fash-blog status, bloggers can look a little strange. 

There are a few things that fashion bloggers get up to which I, a mere photographer, cannot understand. Here are just a few of the bizarre habits bloggers engage in which grind my gears:

The walking shot

Scope Insta for a hot minute and you’ll no doubt stumble upon some bloggers in a mid-walk action shot. Sure, if it’s during VAMFF or MBFWA, you might genuinely be off to a runway. 

Otherwise, where are you going? Is it to work? Because I’m picturing an image of you doing a slow motion step while your mate stands around with an iPhone. Your boss called, and he’d like you to stop pacing up and down the parking lot and get back to the register at Coles.

Flatlaying

Flatlaying is a staple of the blogger realm. The capacity to spread an outfit across a desk has made some bloggers ridiculously famous. 

Dear bloggers, does your desk really look like that? Do your Armani accessories just fall together on the table? Stop trying to make me feel bad. Show me something else. Show me what you stole from your last one night stand. 

And how is your lighting always so on point? Do you have a studio set up at home for this very purpose?  I’m pretty sure that level of object-collage and illumination doesn’t come with the Mayfair filter. My only answer is witchcraft. 

Taking photos of your food

Bloggers, for some reason, can get any meal to look like it came from a foodie advertorial. Now, I’ve photographed food before – commissioned, in actual restaurants - and there’s no way your iPhone 6s can make steak Shine Bright Like A Diamond.

Your breakfast might have come out looking like Jamie Oliver waved his wand at it, but let’s be honest: once you were done wolfing it down, it was smeared on your shirt like you wore it as a bib. 

Also, why must you tag the venue in a grateful Insta like you know the owner and ate there for free? Gurl, you went in for hungover Sunday brunch in jeggings and a cheap hoodie like the rest of us. Calm down.

Why your pictures look better than mine

This is the part where I admit that I’m really just jealous.

I take photos for a job. It’s my profession. Yet every time I glance at a fashion bloggers’ latest #OOTD, I am reminded of just how inferior I truly am. Your morning selfies look like a damn Marie Claire editorial. 

You must have studied up, because you have every clue of how to take a nice selfie. Either that, or you’ve enlisted a budding photog to do your outfit bidding. And I’ve started DMing Instagrammers for shoot location ideas.

Some of the photos I’ve seen on certain blogs have legitimately made me want to cry. I’m looking at you, Nicole Warne. 

What I’m trying to say is, some bloggers take my career and run it into the ground - with a hashtag for good measure. I guess if there’s one thing a love for fashion teaches, it’s quality aesthetics. But that shouldn’t suggest your antics aren’t still a little bit strange.

That said, tens of thousands of followers and various social media sponsorship deals can’t be wrong. I should probably just jump on the bandwagon. Can anyone help me flatlay? Or take a snap mid-walking through Woolworths?

Follow me on Insta soon, babes! Hashtag #BloggersAU!

'How I learned to love myself (a week before my nose job)'

This piece was originally published in full on FashionJournal.com.au, 1st of December 2015, available here.

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It’s been the law of the land in fashion and entertainment for decades: for a woman to be deemed valuable and appealing, she has to fit a size two and resemble a Victoria’s Secret model. This notion sends the message that sample size is king – or queen – and self-love comes from bodily and facial perfection. 

But in recent times, A-list celebs and other influencers are flipping off the social script and killing it with talent, regardless of Hollywood glamour laws. 

Adele is one of the most successful musicians in the working world, and gives zero fucks for your perception of her weight. Amy Schumer regularly gabs during her sell-out shows about how media magnates criticise her body type. (She also looks absolutely killer in this year’sPirelli calendar.) Rebel Wilson will smash a burger and then the box office with her roles in various comedies. 

These are women finding success in the face of what society tells them. Yet despite these individuals crushing societal expectations, there’s still pressure to look flawless. We’re still being covertly convinced to acquire perfection – and the end results on your self-esteem can be crushing. 

I’m about five foot eleven weighing in at fifty-eight kilos, with a bump on my half-Greek nose and a receded jawline. I’ve been described as ‘lanky’, ‘waifish’, ‘alien-like’ and ‘dangerously thin’. No matter what I do, I can’t put on any damn weight. A girl might find that kind of look appealing; that might even be her goal. 

But for a guy, that ain’t right. Us dudes have to be muscular, fit and powerful. We’ve got to be strong-jawed, clean cut and suited up with stylistic flair like a Jack London model. 

I remember when I’d go out to gay clubs; I’d look around at some of the guys, stare up at how beautiful they were - and feel angry. I’d be physically vibrating with rage that I couldn’t look like them. I would stand around, grimace, cast prejudgements galore and wallow in my misery.

And I remember when it drove me to seek surgery. 

I wanted to get my nose hacked off and my jaw reconstructed. If I couldn’t be born with a strong, sleek jaw like a model, then God damn, I was going to build one for myself. When the surgeon said ‘We can take the bump off your nose, too,’ I was emotionally available in a way my ex-dates never were.

After so many years of hating my own face, I was gonna have my time. I was gonna look fantastic. All of those gorgeous guys? The ones who would probably never even look at me, let alone strike up a chat? They were gonna regret never giving me a second glance. And obviously I would win a modelling contract, because I would be just that fab.

And I remember when I changed my mind entirely. 

Because I realised something that, if you’d asked me years ago, I would have found strange and terrifying.

I kind of liked my bumped nose.

It belongs to me. It’s one of the many unique qualities that make me who I am. Why would I ever want to get rid of it? Why can’t I be proud of it? Why would I ever want to change myself just to fit a mould? Why was it so damn important?

The answer was: It wasn’t.

So I cancelled the surgery it took me years to plan, a week before it was due.

The media is changing and bending to the will of a new culture of people who are happy with their bodies and their faces. Young girls and guys are aspiring to new icons, who bravely fend off criticism and loudly disparage our culture that actively inspires self-hate. 

But in spite of all these uplifting developments, it’s still hard to ignore the stabs of envy when you see a babe in an advertorial. It’s rough to glance at a magazine advert or a dude in a club and think you’ll never look like that. Or he’ll never look at you. Or if you just had a bit more money, you could go under the knife and change your life.

So if you’re grappling with self-hate, or fighting off jealousy, this is my message to you.

All of those physical features – the jaw you hate, the nose you despise, the wide shoulders or hips you resent – are yours. They’re how you are recognised. They’re your heritage.

They’re gifts, and they belong to you.

'5 Golden Rules Of Gay Online Dating'

This piece was originally published in full on SameSame.com.au, Thursday 26th November, 2015, available here. Some contributions made by SameSame's editor.

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Back in times of yore, gay men had to go down to the local cruising spot wearing a handkerchief in their back-right pocket to score on a Thursday afternoon.

Nowadays however, we rely on nabbing tail through a variety of colourful online dating apps.

There’s several apps which vary in function: Grindr, Scruff and Hornet, for the homos who want everything from good conversation to a quick root-and-boot. Then there’s Tinder andOkCupid, for those who might just be looking for someone to love. And if you’re a gay man on a desktop who wants to get down to the point, you can even hop on Squirt or Manhunt for some ready-made action.

There are many more – trust me – and I’ve just named the ones I’m most familiar with. They are also apps solely for gay men – bar Tinder and OkCupid – as I’m less inclined to reference services I have no business exploring.

Each service provides a different appeal, and the characters that frolic in each one vary like the colours of the rainbow. I’ve experimented with all of them over the past several years. And ultimately, I’ve witnessed some behaviour and learned a thing or two about online dating through the process of my exploration.

Which is why I’m qualified to be your gay app Agony Aunt. Lie down and put your feet in the stirrups, because I’ve got some firm advice to ram home…

Include a clear photo of your face

Dating in the online realm is meant to present a convenient alternative to dating in real life. To go without a clear face photo is to suggest one is hiding from ASIO. If I ever found myself on a blind date with a headless torso, I’d be more inclined to run screaming into the night than put out after my third beer.

Use a photo of your face. We want to see your marvellous mug, not your shirtless torso five years ago after you’d conveniently gotten back from the gym.

Of course, some folks are closeted. Stay strong, soldiers, and provide a face pic as early as you can in the conversation.

Engage in conversation

Nothing gets the ball rolling quite like using “Sit on my face” as your opening line.

Some apps give you more leeway. Grindr and Hornet in particular will let you discretely plug that you’re looking for fun ‘Right Now’.

But still, context is everything. Ask yourself: Is enquiring about fisting a query best saved for later? He asked how my day was going – do I need to let him know about my diaper fetish? And more importantly: Would I ask this person to urinate on me – over coffee at the local cafe?

Wait for the opportune moment.

Similarly: I know dating apps are referred to as ‘the fast food of sex’, but surely you can do better than ‘Hey, hru’. Get creative with your texting. There’s a world of words out there.

Don’t send unsolicited nudes

I’m guilty of this, but that’s only after 3am on a Sunday morning while plastered off tequila. My Grindr profile genuinely reads “Regularly delete this app out of shame.”

I always wonder what goes through the mind of men who decide to send unsolicited nudes. “How best can I win this strange man’s heart?” There’s really no reason to send a photo of your genitals straight off the bat.

Especially not when it’s poorly angled with harsh bright flash, and I can see your toilet in the background. Classy.

Although, on some of the raunchier apps – like Squirt – it’s acceptable to show off your Prince Albert.

Don’t be racist

This is referring to the trend of ‘no blacks, no asians’ – and other racist garbage written on dating profiles. If I had a dollar for every time I heard “It’s just a preference” from a man on a dating app, I could buy an island to maroon them on.

Remember: When hooking up, it’s best to say what you ARE looking for, not what you’re not. It makes you sound like an idiot with attitude if you’re saying “no” to various groups of people right up-front.

If you’re not into an entire race of people because you’ve met every single one of them and decided to broadcast that they’re all unappealing, then go for it – but be quiet about it. That’s only if you’ve met and engaged with every single one of them, though. Every single one. Otherwise you’re just an ass.

And lastly, be a decent human being.

If you’re on a dating app and aren’t interested in being romanced by a stranger, the best thing to give is a simple ‘Sorry, I’m not interested’. Their heart will go on.

But if he’s taken the effort to send you a creative what’s up – if he simply wants to chat – then is it really necessary to leave him in total silence? Or worse, tell him to fuck off?

Ask yourself: Am I perhaps a bit of a disappointment? Did something happen in my childhood to make me this way? Do I maybe need to log off?

Welp! I’m spent. That’s the end of my guide. You’ve taken my wise words, my well-seasoned advice – and you’re now ready for online dating. Or Grinding. Or Scruffing. Or hell, even Squirting.

'How chinos taught me to get over myself and stop being a judgmental twat'

This piece was originally published in full on FashionJournal.com.au, 17th November 2015, available here.

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It takes a wise man to know that he was wrong - but it takes an even wiser man to admit it.  

For years I passed judgment on people, based on what they threw on their bodies.

I have been a judgmental tween, the likes of which hasn’t been seen since Joan Rivers hosted Fashion Police (rest her soul).

Exhibit A: Kids running around the clubs wearing Nike tracksuits and lad jackets. I’m sorry, but you just look suspicious. 

This may have had to do with growing up rough and gay in the suburbs of Melbourne, where the only person you knew hanging on the street in trackies was your weed dealer.

This suspicion only transformed into horror as the look became mainstream, when it trended on Tumblr and became ‘sports luxe’. 

But that was, of course, before I discovered the look was crafted for comfort over style. Turns out the advancement into an Internet fashion trend was just a bonus. 

Exhibit B: Wearing activewear to anywhere but the gym? You must have something to prove. Your capacity to register leggings as pants is strange and terrifying. There’s a reason why that activewear music video is so damn popular.

Which is how I felt until some gal pals let me know that sometimes brunch on a Sunday doesn’t demand a fashion show. That, and it’s great for tricking people into thinking you really care about fitness.

All of my judgments, however, paled in comparison to the ones I held for chinos. 

Exhibit C: Chinos.

For so long I saw chinos as the legwear of pompous yuppie dickheads. 

This may, again, be due to my upbringing: growing up in the suburbs, surrounded by other regions of a higher class. Places populated with people from wealthy backgrounds – who deemed quiet residential areas further out from the city as lower-class shitholes. And they were never afraid to let me know. 

Even now, I can see them on my news feed, standing together in Instagram pics with other genetic lottery winners, holding glass flutes in their hands filled with Dom Perignon. Expensive haircuts, shirts buttoned to the neck, suit jackets…

Chinos. All of them, in cream chino trousers.

Pair those with boat shoes, and you have the quintessential posh Cool Dude yuppie. His shirt is Ralph Polo, he can personally relate to Gossip Girl, and his car cost more than my HECS debt. 

But one day, something changed.

One day, my skin-tight denims couldn’t hack the heat.

One day, I slid on my first ever pair of cream chinos.

And it was a revelation. A comfortable, breathable, aesthetically appealing revelation. 

They were beyond a summer comfort, and never again will I doubt their wearable beige bliss. I have embraced them like a mother might clutch a newborn, or a Xanax when that child reaches high school. 

My wardrobe and attitude has shifted. My scathing prejudgments were never based in truth, but a bitter, scorned, self-made fantasy. I was wrong about chinos, and I’m sorry. I was wrong about them all. 

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to Ralph Lauren for some new slim-fits.

'Why nightclubs are just like Fashion Week'

This piece was originally published in full on FashionJournal.com.au, 2nd of November, 2015, available here.

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I’ve been a frequenter of the clubs for several years, working as a nightlife photographer. Long nights have been spent shooting nightclub babes, who slink past the velvet rope in droves, then chug tap beer and cocktails which cost as much as your rent.

I’ve also relished in #fashun, having snooped around with my lens several years in a row at Melbourne’s fab Fashion Week and events, shooting street-style, runway and backstage. This is contrary to the fact that despite utterly adoring fashion and all it entails, I have no personal style to speak of, preferring jeans, tees, and overworn leather jackets that repel passers-by with the party smell.

If there’s one thing I do note, however, it’s how strikingly similar both are to one another, in terms of patrons, etiquette and my general sense of ennui.

So let’s delve, shall we? Put down your gin for a hot minute, because here are a few reasons why nightclubs are just like fashion week.

They’re really not that hard to get into

Contrary to what bloggers and professional Instagrammers would have you believe, fashion shows are no longer the refuge of business executives and fash mag magnates. Nay, gaining access to a fashion show is about as easy as punching in your credit card details and buying a ticket.

Just like nightclubs, they want you to believe they are exclusive events for the crème-de-la-crème of society. As long as you don’t dress like you spend your weeknights at the pub, you’ll be just fine getting through the door.

Gay people reign supreme

Unless you’re the type of gal who hits up clubs that play Melbourne Bounce, the chances are you’re going to run into your fair share of homosensuals while visiting upon the local discotheque.

And why wouldn’t you? In spite of being a marginalised group, we’ve managed to plant our roots in every creative industry we set our minds to. We are the fashion execs, the stylists, the directors and the producers. We practically invented disco.

If you’re a bit of a bigot, I would shy well away from Fashion Week and quality nightclubs. With our gal pals by our side, we are the queens and kings of the fash-club circuit, watching models sashay down the runway.

As RuPaul famously says, “now sissy that walk.”

The ‘cool girls’ exist – with much embarrassment to be had

With every new club opening and runway show, there exists a conglomerate of known socialites who flock to designer threads and free booze like A Current Affair to suburban hoarders. These familiar faces frequent each launch on the social calendar, being somehow acquainted with every executive, designer and public figure in the room.

Sure, they might seem like your typical fashion-forward culture queens with an interest in the arts. But after a strained conversation involving much Stepford smiling and subtle digs on their part, it becomes clear that they’re less interested in fashion and nightlife, and more keen on boosting their Instagram following. Just smile and back away slowly.

The personal style will ruin your life

As mentioned previously: I am not particularly fashionable. That is to say, I’m not ‘on trend.’ I am both a glamour lover and a serial re-wearer. You can call me a fashion lover undercover.

If you’re someone who desires fashion icon status, but can’t seem to achieve it (like me), your self-esteem will be crushed like a kitten in a blender. Though many outfits stalking nightclubs and Fashion Week range from smart-casual to utterly disastrous, every now and then your eyes will fall upon a look that is so innovative and on point, it turns your future Vogue dreams to dust.

I look down at my floral shirt with cream chinos and sulk. Find me at McDonald's for a post-event feed, after feeling woefully inadequate for five straight hours.

I guess the most important similarity between Fashion Week and nightclubs, is when the going gets tough – when the vapid babes and superficial banter gets a bit too much – there’s a bar around the corner. And a Cosmo with your name on it.

And when a man takes his shirt off… he’s probably a model. And he’s probably about to stalk the runway, all for your viewing pleasure. Unless you’re at a club, in which case he’s some drooling bloke from the western suburbs looking for a root. If the latter happens: take that Cosmo, and drink yourself to oblivion. You have my permission. I believe in you.

'Gay-on-gay bullying'

This piece was originally published in full on SameSame.com.au, Sunday 27th September, available here.

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People often fall under the impression that the gay community is one harmonious union of likeminded souls, singing jamboree tunes and embracing one another in the spirit of love and equality. The reality couldn’t be further from the truth.

Some of us are bitchy, toxic and unkind. And when we hit – we hit hard.

Once you were a young boy. You crawled through life, hiding in the shadows, isolated from the rest of your peers. The truth was, you were in the closet, and nothing struck fear into your heart more than the idea of someone finding out. No power on Earth, you promised yourself, would force you out into the open.

Then, one day, your world fell apart, as through one circumstance or another, your sexuality was revealed. You were at the mercy of antagonistic bullies, who lashed out with all the vitriol that teenagers are capable of. The rest of your high school years went in a blur. You were beaten, bashed and battered – but ultimately, you survived, and sprung out into adulthood.

That’s when you discovered the gay community.

Coming from a world where you are not accepted, into a collective that takes you in without question, can be a shock to the system. Especially when the mutual ground you have with these newfound friends and acquaintances is based in something you were attacked over for your whole life. It can feel like you’ve been liberated – finally! A chance to prove myself! A chance to be whoever I want to be!

But it can also feel like high school all over again.

This may be because in our re-introduction to the world – the new world that we promise ourselves will see us transform into self-affirming superstars – we subconsciously endeavour to compensate for all that we lacked in our teen years.

“I see it all the time. Gay-on-gay bullying. Bitching and drama and adolescent chaos.”

Gay men, who were once pimpled and timid victims of abuse, change themselves into what they perceive as glorious works of art. I have seen these gay men try to compensate for all they were without, and become their own ideas of perfection; work hard on themselves, their bodies and their lives, to make up for all that they lacked in high school. The gay community has provided a window for them to climb through and free themselves from pain.

It’s become an almost tragic coincidence that the men I’ve encountered who have changed the most are often the ones who feel they have the most to prove. The psychological trauma of a disjointed and troubled youth runs deeper than mere skin and muscle, and with those changes, those efforts at self-improvement, I’ve seen attitudes shift, and personalities alter – for the worst. Cue a tragic recompense, as these gay men bully and attack one another, living vicariously through a high school persona that they never got to experience.

I see it all the time. Gay-on-gay bullying. Bitching and drama and adolescent chaos.Men attacking other men, over bullshit as simple as talking to someone online, shaming individuals on their social media profiles. Direct call-outs by name and face, not just your usual ‘what’s the deal with this headless profile?’ – Hostility and subtle harassment the likes of which Mean Girls taught us not to commit. The bullied become the bullies.

I think I’m more sensitive to it all because I was a victim.

Fresh out of high school, I tried to ‘find myself’ in the gay community – the bright new world of acceptance and love. Only to be ousted by a group of homosexuals who apparently took issue. It started off as, ‘you said something bad about our friend’ – (never substantiated, but I digress) – ‘so we’re going to say bad things to you’. Bickering ensued, back and forth, back and forth, and I thought it was, in the early stages, just a bit of fun and banter.

That was until I started receiving phone-calls; getting threatening messages; being set upon by hordes of mutual friends. My face, published on their profiles, upon which terrible things were written and said. I shit you not; an actual website was made, satirising my personal writings. It escalated into the offline realm; shouts of abuse and public threats. A couple of them began a running joke, wherein I was a rodent, and I should kill myself with rat poison.

When I took the online content to the police in a folder, to file a report of ongoing harassment, the folder numbered over fifty pages. Over fifty pages of online bullying, from a group of gays, none of whom could remember what I had said or done.

A mild bump had become a full-blown tumour, and before I knew it, I couldn’t handle it anymore. It became a dark time in my life, and even though it’s been a number of years, I still feel pangs of angst and hurt when I look back on it.

These people were in pain, so they began to inflict it upon others.

Your words have power, and the worst possible scenario to arise from an adolescence of persecution from teenage villains, is to become the villain yourself.Think about the way you treat those around you, and perhaps this community, so oft stagnated by high school era bullying and hate, can grow and evolve. Let’s not allow the torment we suffered in high school to seep into the way we treat one another now.

I remember that my bullies told me I wouldn’t amount to anything. That I’d never be a writer, and no one would ever publish anything I wrote.

So it only seems fair that I would publish this now, years later, and let all of these young gays know, who might feel harassed and tormented by those around them – that I know how it feels.

Through years of hurt and persecution, the troubles of an angst-filled childhood, you have grown.

Don’t become the persecutor. And don’t let these people tear you apart – because you are so much stronger than you know.

How To Survive The Australian Summer

It was hot yesterday. I know this because when I woke up and logged into Facebook, head swimming through an excruciating weekend wine-haze, I was confronted by the pet hate of most social media users:

Topless selfies. At the beach; at the park. Photos from that day of sun kissed faces on balconies. Guys and girls swigging Club Mate in singlets, shorelines glinting in the background.

Sure signs that summer had almost arrived.

This was unprecedented, and left me with a gaping hole in my stomach, not unlike that which I had chundered up due to mixing drinks the night before.

My heart filled with dread when I realised that I, like so many, was unprepared.

Soon we will all fall ill with heatstroke as the mercury heats up at long last. Which is why I’ve arrived to spill the tea and aid those in need.

Consider this your Australian summer survival guide, or How To Survive The Australian Summer: A listicle by a bitter homosexual.

Prepare to go shirtless.

If you’re not a complete plebeian, you spent the entire winter months of June, July and August getting jacked the fuck up, lifting harder than you’ve ever lifted heavy objects before.

Forget warm overcoats and layering black on black on slightly lighter black: the Australian summer is all about taking every opportunity to go shirtless in the daytime (and the night, if you’re that kind of pretentious alpha-bro). Because what #blessed girls day out isn’t complete without some red hot Instagrammable bikini photos? 

Without the requisite Beach Body all “shredded for summer”, consider yourself wholly unprepared. If you don’t look like an actual swimsuit model ready to stalk a resort-themed runway by December of this year, you may as well just stay inside.

And for those thinking of visiting an (illegal) solarium: Do not spend money on something that comes from the sky.

Optional extras: Mediterranean tan; rampant egotism.

Speaking of nudity:

Fire all your winter cuddle buddies:

When cold plagues the Australian climate, it’s mandatory to enlist at least one or two vague Tinder matches to snuggle up to in the freezing night. However, come the warmer months, mere human contact becomes cursed with sweat drops and pungent odours, often masked with Lynx Africa and your own self-hate.

Unless you’re willing to compromise and risk hyperthermia by cuddling up on a towel by the beach, there is no call for any of this lusting up business. So delete your dating apps and throw away your boxes of condoms, because the kind of athletic sex you’re used to is about to be ruined by stagnant perspiration.

Say goodbye to your winter fling, because if you think it’s bad enough seeing a dude lose his water content at forty degrees on the side of the road: Imagine him touching you.

On that note:

Stay hydrated.

By hydrated, I don’t mean with water. Did you think this was a healthy PSA? Child, please. I mean beer. I mean cider. I mean vodka cruisers in the cool night air.

If there is one past-time Australians have perfected to an absurd degree, it’s the notion of the day drink, or the blissed-out Sunday sesh. Your Saturday nights are about to become extinct, since Australian event promoters nationwide are about to thrust at you with the full force of whatever daytime parties they’ve planned months in advance.

And if you’re willing to fork out the requisite life savings, there are even some fantastic summer festivals you could attend. If you’re fond of sweaty muscle bros, denim booty shorts and the sight of a guy being carried off by his mates after guerning out on too much ecstasy.

Or you could stay home with your friends, and take smiling group photos for Facebook to distract from the reality that you’re all sitting up in front of the fan, whispering “It’s so damn hot” every five minutes.

Post about it on social media.

Because I truly had no idea it was hot outside, and without your constant visual aids filling my Facebook feed of your vodka watermelons and wiener legs at the beach, I might never have picked up on this.

Because sweaty choking heats don’t constantly plague my nights, rather than gentle warmth, as my comfy flannel pyjamas are now suffocating death traps rather than loving cotton hugs.

Because I have literally never seen the inside of a commercial gym, and really need to be reminded of how you’re up to your fourth set of abdominal muscles lining your cheese-grater stomach. (Side-note: How are your arms so big when you’re not even flexing? Stop that.)

Because the entirety of your existence revolves around making yourself look better on the Internet, and if that means posting heavily filtered Instagram snaps of you and your beverage posing at some nondescript balconied-bar (with mates) - then by God, you’re gonna hop to it.

December will see the rebirth of a tradition, a seasonal shift in our cultural awareness, as the sun beats down and cooks our brains until we are rendered inferior forms of life, babbling “Summer’s finally here!” and “Hashtag, warm nights with great friends!”

Though I pray that I will not fall victim to this annual craze, I can only assume that by the time the sunny season rolls around, I will be a fake tanned mess of blonde locks and muscles on my muscles, sipping midday Sangrias with my girls.

Take this guide, and go forth. Be strong, soldier on, and may hand-fans and sunscreen be with you.

'You're more than just a bicep!'

This piece was originally published in full on SameSame.com.au, on September 2nd 2015, available here.

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We are a community that, in so many ways, takes pride in our physically attractive members and our conventionally gorgeous gay boys. We do so at the exclusion of a lot of other elements.

And I have to ask – why?

Why does the gay community celebrate people simply for being attractive?

Why is it that, when I open certain gay websites, I’m confronted by articles titled with shit like “The ten most attractive dudes on Instagram”? Or, “Five straight footballers who look good without a shirt on”? Why is this considered newsworthy? Why are these stories taking over?

Marketing campaigns for gay nightclubs are awash with images of nearly naked attractive men, showcasing ripped physiques and chiselled jawlines. The target market for these soirees seems to be every homosexual with a self-esteem problem, as all of the photographs documenting these nights are of the most physically appealing individuals you can find. They’re of the most subjectively ‘gorgeous’ characters – and these are dubbed the ‘elite’ gays, and the ‘alpha’ homos.

I should point out that I am a photographer by trade, and have primarily worked in nightlife and events for the past five years. I know what the purpose of this type of marketing is, because as part of my various briefs, I have been asked to fulfil this style in the past. I have explicitly excluded unattractive patrons from my photographs, and have gone out of my way to document the most aesthetically appealing individuals at an event. Because a client wants their brand to reflect a certain image, and they want to market themselves with a specific style.

Which would be all good and well, if it didn’t seem like this kind of attractiveness-is-key advertising was seeping out from the homo nightclubs – and into our big gay media.

Articles putting hot dudes on pedestals are absolutely everywhere. Every day, there’s a new journalistic dive into What Straight Guy Has The Best Ass? Here’s That Z-List Celeb You MUST Follow (For His Abs!), and Guy Minding His Own Business Loses His Pants “AND WE ARE HOT FOR HIM!”

And sure. Some of us probably are hot for him.

But people are starting to take notice of this vapid excuse for marketing and journalism. People are starting to see it for the empty and vacuous thirst-fodder that it is, and growing steadily disheartened. I’ve started making a conscious effort to check the comments section every time another of these articles pops up, and it’s becoming awfully predictable. “Is this what you call journalistic integrity?” one might cry, or “Another article praising a hot dude for looking hot” sighs another.

This is now becoming a concerning facet of the community that threatens to erode the depth of our collective journey. Whether it’s as individuals with extraordinary stories, or as survivors battling through in spite of homophobic opposition, our story is being quietly tucked away behind a giant framed photograph of Nick Jonas’ abs.

I should also point out at this point that I have no issue at all with gay men expressing their sexuality, and I am the furthest thing from a sex-negative prude. If it were up to me, we would all be semi-naked in a nightclub, gyrating upon one another in our underwear, and making out on Mardi Gras floats. I respect and adore public expressions of gay sexuality, as so often it is used as a tool to shun the systemic oppression that has silenced us and rendered us invisible.

What I take issue with is that so much of this looks-oriented digital and print marketing does a disservice, not only to the individuals being adored for their looks, but to the community as a whole, and represents a shallow decline in the integrity of our community.

“Stop celebrating people simply for being attractive. Start celebrating them for their intellect and accomplishments; for being clever, for being unique, for being kind.”

There is one very good reason why we should be fighting this descent into superficiality:

Because we’re worth more.

Because our young people – the consumers of our media and the harbingers of our future – need to be shown that their value is greater than the width of their biceps. That their worth is not directly tied into the proportions of their face and body, but based on the strength of their characters, their kindness, their generosity, and the thoughts that they put out into the world.

We must communicate to them that we are not Neanderthals, where physical power and aesthetic visage is of the utmost importance. We represent so much more than mere mass and good looks, and we are capable of vast oceans more than commercialised thirst.

And if there are physical characteristics worth being appreciated for, it’s that which your parents and your families gave you. Every line, spot and curve that is yours and yours alone, which the tabloid media dictates are not worth having love for. All because you do not resemble the image of a beautiful man in a gay magazine.

Gay people are just as impressionable as straights, and at the same mercy of junk food news and marketing. When a young boy sees an image of an attractive person being glorified based simply on how they look, what it tells them is: You’re not good enough. You will never be good enough, unless you look like this.

That can have an incredibly destructive effect on someone’s self-worth.

And that, to me, is not good enough.

We should strive to break the mould of making icons out of abs, and broadcasting these individuals as the ideal, the infinitely desirable, based purely on their looks.

Stop celebrating people simply for being attractive. Start celebrating them for their intellect and accomplishments; for being clever, for being unique, for being kind.

Because you are more than just a bicep, or a pretty face in a gay magazine.

'Getting caught forced me to come out'

This piece was originally published in full on SameSame.com.au, on July 21st 2015, available here.

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Coming out is hard to do. For gay men like me, it’s an exercise in owning who you are, enough to tell people about it – your friends and your family – in a society which actively instils a sense of shame and wrongness into our gay youth. Coming clean with your truth in a world that actively fights against people like you is no small feat.

I’ve been a young boy, confused and afraid, grappling with who I was. I have thought about suicide. I remember being twelve or thirteen years old, and every night staring up at my ceiling from my bed, praying to God or whatever sentient being watched over this world, that I would wake up and be normal. I remember telling that being – that omniscient presence – that if they would turn me straight; if I would wake up the following morning and not be gay, that I would devote myself to them.

I would have done anything to get rid of that loneliness, that self-hatred, and I swore I would never tell a soul. Because I was ashamed. Many gay men out there feel the same. We know they do, because we’ve been there, and we’ve lived so much of their pain. The anguish of living in the closet, before coming out to the world, is real and devastating.

For some gay men like myself, the coming out experience goes a little differently.

I was fifteen years old. I’d just started dating someone new – I would have been with any boy, so long as I had a chance to feel an intimacy I’d craved. He liked dressing fancy on thirty-five degree days in suits and ties. I had a sweeping side fringe that covered my eyes – my “security blanket” – and I was totally smitten by the fact that someone was paying attention to me.

On one particular scorching summer day – forty degrees on the scale, no less – he agreed to come over for a swim in our backyard pool. He arrived, and we splashed about in escape from the heat, while my parents were inside. Every now and again, he’d pull me behind the cover of a pool toy, and plant a kiss on my lips. It was new. It was nice. But we had to be careful.

At one point, we went inside to “watch a movie” – quotation marks necessary – and as soon as the lounge room door closed, we couldn’t keep our hands off of each other. It wasn’t safe, however, so I suggested we do the sensible, mature thing – and take our business to a nearby park.

Well, the park idea got scrapped once we felt the goddamn heat, so we settled for around the side of the house, under the cover of trees and shrubberies. At which point we got right down to business, right next to a pair of big black bins.

Little did we know, however, that the family freezer had exhausted its supply of Cornetto ice creams to help deal with the summer heat. We’d run dry, and the freezer needed a restock and clean up – but not before the family had disposed of the trash. This was where things went horribly wrong.

Dad wandered around the side of the house to put some Cornetto boxes in the bins – and walked in on his fifteen year old son sucking some dick.

Try getting a Hallmark card for that.

There was no explanation needed. It’s hard to deny the reality of your sexuality when your own father has caught you in the act of fellatio. He drove my “friend’ home – and a couple of hours later, the sit-down family conversation was terribly, disgustingly real. They were confused at first – obligatory “are you sure you’re not bisexual?” and all – but ultimately, they were fine with it. I’d already come out to my friends, and the rest of the family followed thereafter without my consent (as is the nature of gossiping Greeks).

I’m 22 now, and I am fantastically, unapologetically gay. I am fortunate enough to have a family who love and support me. I am out in the open – homophobia be damned – and life is fucking good.

I suppose I’m lucky that the opportunity to personally ‘come out’ was robbed from me – because with that shame lingering in the forefront of my mind, it might have been years until I came out of the closet.

The closet is a dark and lonely place – but the reality is, the fear of isolation and distress is too often misplaced. Coming out – living openly as who you truly are – is a liberating, beautiful experience. If you are lucky enough to have family who accept you, then that’s bloody fantastic. But if you are not… well, as RuPaul once said of gay people: “We get to choose our family.”

And to any young gay folk reading this, who might feel alone, confused and afraid, deleting your browser history with every few clicks, I’ve got this for you:

Don’t be afraid. Don’t torture your soul any more. Be brave.

We’re all waiting for you.