Sunday, January 22, 2017

'The real killer in our nightclubs: Dumb drug laws'

Wrote a piece for the print edition of The Sunday Age, which was published on The Age's website on January 21st, 2017. Available here.

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Last weekend, a batch of ecstasy pills began circulating the Chapel Street nightclub district. These pills were laced with a combination of the drugs MDMA and GHB, and saw three dead with more than 20 hospitalised. Emergency departments flooded as unknown chemicals sent revellers into collapse.
The story, while tragic, is not new. Every few months, a new and dangerous drug invades the nightclub scene with distressing effect. Media pundits and civilians alike go on to decry the disaster: what could we have done? Why did they take the drugs if they didn't know what was in them? Why take drugs at all?
These criticisms, too, are not new.
I have worked in Melbourne's nightlife as a photographer for over six years. When you're tucked in bed, I'm on my way to work, and when you're up and traipsing to Sunday brunch, I'm a bleary-eyed mess heading home. In hundreds of weekends documenting the nightclub circuit, I've seen my share of bad pills, panic attacks and overdoses. 
The prohibition of pills, like those consumed last weekend, ensures that drug users never know what they're truly taking. There are no regulations in the criminal economy. These drugs are brewed in kitchen sinks, filled with cheap toxins, and then sold at prices vastly higher than the cost of production. It's a lucrative business with devastating results.
As nightlife workers, we have a duty of care to the people in our venue. We also know that if someone is going to take criminalised drugs, you won't be able to stop them. And given their illegality, it's often too deep into the negative side effects when we're told of what they've taken, because patrons are too scared to speak up, whether due to fear for their reputations or of legal reprisal. Of the 20 or so reports from last weekend, there's no telling how many more stories went untold.
The creation of environments where patrons feel comfortable disclosing their use is key. A sensible approach floated by many is the idea of on-premises pill testing – or better, provision of self-testing kits. When revellers choose to take illicit drugs, these kits filter out bad batches by educating patrons on their contents, thus limiting the risk of hospitalisation – or worse. Many believe, however, that venues introducing testing kits might somehow encourage drug use.Partygoers fear punishment from the law, believing their confession will see them shoved onto the street or sent to the police station. This leaves frightened revellers seeing no avenue for aid, trapped in throbbing crowds, concerned for their safety and their lives.
Yet unsafe substances causing hazardous states creates a liability for venues. They want to avoid crisis for their customers and their friends. Drugs also reduce money spent at the bar on alcohol – a substance made less dangerous through legalisation and regulation – so the idea of kit testing endorsing the consumption of drugs runs contrary to their interests.
The decriminalisation, testing and regulation of these substances has proved effective in reducing complications in countries such as Portugal, where drugs have been decriminalised for 15 years. Yet it seems Australia isn't ready to take that step. If this country isn't ready to decriminalise, then the best course of action is to minimise risk.
I never want to hear of another patron at work going home after taking a bad pill, before falling comatose in their bed. Through testing kits, collaboration with the police and government, and through the assurance of shelter for our friends and peers, we can create secure and hospitable nightclub environments. So that the next time a batch of dodgy pills arrives on the scene, we'll be more than prepared.

Saturday, January 21, 2017

'A Day In The Life Of A Gay Man'

Some One Nation candidates got a bit mouthy about The Gays, and I felt like they got some elements of our lives a bit wrong. 

So I took it on myself to clear things up for them, in this snippy bit of satire for SBS Sexuality, published on the 20th of January 2017.

>> Available online here. <<

Tuesday, January 10, 2017

'I Am Not A Monster, I Am An Addict'

This was a piece of prose published to the community website of 56 Dean Street, Europe's busiest sexual health clinic, as part of their Wellbeing programme, on the 7th of January 2016.

Available here.

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// I am not a monster. I am an addict. \\

A couple of years ago, I twirled and danced through the community that you and I both know so well. I fell upon faces and names and so many lovers, twisting and writhing in the dark. And yet even though I met so many, and danced under moonlit nights holding hands and bodies, I could never quite find someone game enough to hold my heart.
So it should come as no surprise that in that darkness, that loneliness, I fell upon something that made me feel – for a moment, at least – whole. Something that made me feel better. Braver. Stronger. More open to love.
In a cloud, it engulfed me, and though I scrambled for a door through which to escape, I could never break that exit. And so I stayed, in sickness and doubt, trapped between four walls and heavy curtains too strong for me to lift.
Addict. That is what I’m called. It’s a name for the feeble, the seediest among us – the scum, the low, and the lesser. It turns heads away and tells people that I’m gone, distant, ill, forsaken, aggressive, possessed. They leer. 
But I am not possessed. I am not gone. I am not a monster. I am an addict. 
There’s a poltergeist hanging over my shoulder: a vampire suckling at the nape of my neck. It hides under the mattress between these four walls. It dampens the light from outside and holds the blinds shut. It whispers cruelties, knots my stomach in twisted agonies, and keeps me inhaling that acrid vapour. 
It tells me I’m not strong enough, not good enough, that no one could ever hold my heart.
Can you understand that? How I’ve ended up this way? Would you dare to try? To think of loneliness and sorrow, and the isolation of our community – one that, despite being so brave and ferocious to fend off the most terrifying ills, struggles to reach out and fold warm hands over hearts?
We’ve been ripped and torn asunder more times than we can count – so is it any wonder that we flee connection? That we sometimes chase away intimacy in a smoky haze and inebriation? That some of us, though we’ve fought for so long, might wind up lost within four walls, fed lies by a vampire, crawling in the dark?
I am not torn. I am not lost. I am not weak. I am an addict.
I’m tired of reaching out, only to be pushed back on the bed by this ghostly thing. This nasty creature intent on holding me still, telling me I’m worthless. I want to burst out from between these walls – to feel the light on my skin, so euphoric, to taste the air and hear flurries of birds chirp in their flight over sapphire skies. 
I want all of these things. I want to feel the sun again.
But I need your help. 
I need you to break down this door. I need you to rip the shutters open until the light beams down on my wrinkled face. Then whip around and hiss at my spectre, that if it’s going to linger, it better be ready for a fight. Pull me up from my nest of bones – if I slip, hold me steady, if you can. Haul me over to the window, and remind me what the sun feels like. 
Then I can begin to heal. I can come out from behind these clouds. I can learn to dance again, and look up at those sapphire skies. 
Because I am not a monster. I am not lost. I am an addict.
We have fought greater ills than wicked ghosts. We are stronger from our pasts. You can hold my heart in your hands.

Saturday, December 31, 2016

'How learning about George Michael's life this week has given me hope for the new year'

This piece was originally published on Sydney Morning Herald for DailyLife, on the 30th of December 2016. Available here.
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This time of year is a time for bonding and building on connections with your family and friends. For many, it means long lunches and celebratory dinners. This year, for me, it meant a family gathering in which thirty or so of my fellow Greek relatives flew in from surrounding suburbs, to talk, laugh and overindulge.
The holiday period also calls on us to get introspective and reflect upon the year that was. As the world around us seems to fall apart – idols crumbling daily – it's easy for that sense of reflection to be altogether negative; especially after the year we have collectively deemed The Worst Ever. My own appreciation for the holidays over the years has been decidedly lacking, and 2016 has been no different.


This year I spent most of Christmas Day in my bedroom, stuck on my laptop and staring at my Facebook news feed, seemingly unable to head out to embrace my relatives. "Are you alright, Brandon?" – "I'm just not feeling too great tonight." – "Alright. Perhaps I'll see you another time." Only ever leaving to make with the obligatory hello's and goodbye's.
My heart was heavy, my body anxious, but no matter how hard I tried – have tried – I have never fully been able to embrace the spirit of Christmas, or any of the familial contact it brings.
Why is this? I am a mixed-heritage gay man with a Greek background. Though I love my family, I've been told not to harp on about my "lifestyle" when certain relatives are around. If ever there were a family wedding, it would be ill advised for me to bring a date, and my grandmother is never to know about my sexuality.
On Boxing Day, as I learned of George Michael's passing, my social media timeline shifted from holiday revelry to sadness and tales of adoration.
Admittedly, I was never too familiar with Michael's work, bar those tunes you instantaneously knew through hearing them so often – Careless Whisper, Faith, Jesus To A Child. But – as often happens ironically in death - reading about his life, rifling through his history, I suddenly felt a connection.
We are both homosexual men. We share a half-Greek heritage – his father the Greek parent, mine is my mother. Our sexualities' were both thrust into the spotlight against our will: Michael insisted on hiding his sexual identity from his conservative Greek family, fearful of their reaction during the darker days of HIV - only to wind up outed, arrested for cruising and "public indecency" in a Beverly Hills park. Me? I was caught by my father as a teenager fooling around with a boy, quite literally with my pants down.


Yet, despite his conservative family and the way his sexuality was made him a target of sleazy tabloids, Michael never stopped embracing who he was. Though initially struggling through emotional conflict, he became a prominent and vocal supporter of gay rights.
And still, when many might shy away from the public and strangers in the street given the homophobia of his day, Michael continued to live as an out-and-proud gay man, defiantly talking sex and love and romance, all the while donating tens of thousands of dollars to charities and those in need across the globe, sometimes on a generous whim.


He didn't give a f--- whether his sexuality made other people uncomfortable – he was who he was, embracing all of the love that life offered, and gave back so much in return.
As I pore over George Michael's life story in the lead up to New Year's Eve, I ponder my own; the choices I've made, and the feelings I've had over this holiday season. I contemplate my depression, the distance I feel from my family thanks in part to my sexuality. The men who for so long I felt I had to love in secret, the intimacies never shared among family and friends.


If George Michael, with whom I shared so much, could love, and live as a cornerstone of acceptance, openness and freedom of expression, then perhaps I could too. Perhaps I could more readily embrace my sexuality, and resist the forces that hold me back. The unwritten rules of my heritage be damned.
And if ever there were a family wedding, perhaps I could bring a date, and slow-dance to Jesus To A Child, regardless of those watching. Perhaps I could embrace my partner with all of the intimacy and romance that I deserve. Perhaps my grandmother will watch me – and smile.

In spite of George Michael's passing, I take strength from the life that he lived, in the pursuit of love, of the freedom to be who you are without boundaries or guilt – and above all, of happiness – into the new year.

Saturday, December 24, 2016

'Stop making assumptions about sex based on my appearance'

This piece was originally published on Sydney Morning Herald, for DailyLife, on December 23rd 2016. Available here.
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Ordinarily the topic of lovemaking between men wouldn't be in any way newsworthy, except for in weekend rehashing with the gays at brunch. But this month, Tom Ford – gay designer and director - has given me reason to raise the matter after he publicly stood by earlier comments that "all men should experience anal" in order to better understand women.
While the idea that anal sex between men could help to understand the experience of women is problematic at best, Ford's point rests on the idea that there's an inherent passivity, femininity and vulnerability in the act of being the receptive partner. When it comes to how other gay men perceive the act of anal penetration, this sentiment may be truer than we think.
I think it's time for us to break down some of these frankly harmful gendered stereotypes - not just because they're wrong about women - but because they're wrong about gay men, too.
For a long time, I identified as being somewhere in the middle of "bottom" and "top", otherwise known as "versatile" – as in, I do what I want, if it feels right, and if it's agreed upon.
As I've gotten older, however, my experiences have changed. When I meet a man, and when we're deciding on who's going to do what, his immediate assumption will be that I'm going to be the receptive partner. Oftentimes, the man I'm with will automatically take the "top" position, without ever having asked for my blessing.
It's only when I look in the mirror that I realise why this is, and why this continues to happen encounter after encounter.
I am a tall, thin, effeminate man.
Most people don't need to ask my sexuality, because they've worked it out on sight. A friend once remarked, "You're not a total dancing queen, but my God, you can turn on the princess at the drop of a hat". After a few Cosmopolitans, I become both a Carrie and a Samantha with reckless abandon.
The gay community doesn't exist in a vacuum. We may be a rowdy bunch of rainbow-touting hoodlums who refuse to be pathologised by the conservative heterosexual masses - but our community isn't some perfectly separate island. We're still mercy to the same social expectations that straight people suffer through. This includes, and is not limited to, gender roles and stereotypes.
Because I'm perceived as feminine, it's assumed that I'll adopt the position that's been deemed "submissive". It's believed that I'm frail and weak – and moreover, that I'll automatically consent to being dominated, whether or not I'm into it. And when a gay man is perceived as masculine – when he adopts stereotypical traits of the masculine male, such as a burly physique, a gruff demeanour, or stern machismo – it's assumed that he'll be more of a top and assert control over his partners.
What makes these gendered stereotypes so terrible is how willingly gay men play into them. All of this bedroom behaviour betrays a misogyny pervasive throughout the gay community; that the more "feminine" of two partners must tolerate a certain degree of dominance and control. Worse still, this gendered dynamic means the same that it does for our heterosexual peers - that the femme is somehow lesser.
I've had men aggress me at bars because they assume I'd be into it. Men have referred to me as their "boy" – infantilising me in another layer of misogyny – and I've been rough-handed and manhandled in ways not so comfortable or exciting.
Society already views gay men as inherently feminine by virtue of their sexuality. Those same standards dictate that as men, femininity makes them weak and therefore less valuable. Gay men are constantly at war with their 'feminine' homosexual identities, trying desperately to adhere to society's expectations of masculinity. As a result, we risk asserting unwanted dominance over those men perceive as 'weaker' – the limp-wristed and outwardly-feminine homosexuals.
In sex, as in life, I desire all of the pleasures my partner can offer me. I want to kiss and writhe and enjoy their company, whether they're long-term partners or just nookie for the night. We all want to feel sexy and flirty, wanted and fun – whether as a top, or a bottom.

Until we can challenge these ideas about our own sexual expressions and damn our gender stereotypes, this will remain a vicious cycle of self-hatred, and a war of shame and stigma that we can never win.