Ōtautahi, Spring 2015

I had come out to myself and had come to terms with my Queerness, but I still kept my Queer identity hidden from my friends with the exception of a few key individuals like Erin.

As I began exploring my sexuality, I tried to connect with the visibly Queer people I knew –​ in most cases, unsuccessfully inserting myself into spaces that were either unsafe or where I was not welcome. I found that my greatest struggle at the time was trying to find a sense of belonging in this community. Queer spaces were virtually all destroyed by the earthquakes.

One of the only Queer spaces still standing was a self-​styled gay bar called Cruz. Our Queer communities actively avoided this bar because it was well-​known to be an unsafe space. As recently as 2019, the owner of Cruz posted transphobic messaging on an outdoor sign (Broughton, 2019). Other unverified rumours about the owner’s behaviour were his preference for white twinks. The owner systematically removed patrons who did not fit into this narrow mould. One of my most vivid memories was when the owner kicked me out of the bar for “stealing” water.

“You’re stealing!” The owner shouted as he stormed down from the DJ booth.

“Get him the fuck out of here!” He grabbed my arm and threw me towards the bouncer.

“It was only water,” I confessed to the bouncer.

“I know,” he told me. “The owner’s a dick, but what can we do?”

It turned out I was not the first person to be kicked out for stealing water (Sachdeva, 2013). It was likely because I was not his preferred “type” of customer –​ if only I was slender and white. The only other physical Queer space was the sex cafe called Menfriends on Tuam Street. Again, another unsafe space for our Queer communities. As recently as 2018, the owners of Menfriends hosted an event, which specified only cisgender men could attend (Stuff, 2018). Some of the worst harm to our Queer communities comes directly from within our own communities.

I also learnt about cruising where men would wander public spaces with the aim of having anonymous sex. Of course, cruising is risky and can lead to unsafe sex. Some cruising sites include Hagley Park, Latimer Square, and Victoria Park. I have never actively been cruising, but I once spent some intimate time with a stranger who noticed me on Riccarton Road. This brief encounter did not last long when the stranger realised that his partner was watching him.

With physical spaces unavailable to me, the only feasible alternative was private house parties in Ōtautahi. The invites to these parties were deeply guarded secrets in a time when Queer spaces were scarce. Public events hosted by Christchurch Pride were yet to begin for another few years. With no direction, I tried to connect with Harvey to access these spaces. He was the only openly gay student in my class. We were close during our first year. Nevertheless, we drifted apart once I left the speech and language pathology programme. Perhaps our mutual Queerness would reconcile our friendship.

“Are you up to much?” I asked in a text message to Harvey after work on a Friday.

It was Halloween –​ also known as “Gay Christmas”. Earlier in the week Harvey had mentioned that he was going to go to a Halloween party. It was unclear from his tone whether it was an open invite. I hoped he would introduce me to other Queer people in Ōtautahi.

“I’m at the party in Merivale,” Harvey replied. “There’s heaps of gays here.”

“Sounds great, can I come?” I asked curiously.

“I’ll ask,” Harvey wrote back shortly afterwards.

While I waited for Harvey to reply, I started drinking alone at home. I was already slightly tipsy from the after-​work drinks. I dressed as the character Russell from the movie Up (2009). My inspiration for the costume came from the leftover helium balloons at an office function. I generally hated fancy dress, so I normally put minimal effort into my costumes. I always felt uncomfortable pretending to be someone I was not.

With no new updates from Harvey, I went to another Halloween party. I checked my phone frequently, anticipating a reply, but I still did not hear from him. It was getting late, and my transport options were limited. If I delayed any longer, I would not be able to go at all. I decided to make my way towards the general direction of the party with the hope that Harvey would extend an invite to me. I struggled to get all my helium balloons into the bus. I knew that I was behaving irrationally. I was desperate to meet other Queer people and I was willing to do whatever it took.

“Where’s the party?” I asked Harvey as I got off the bus.

I had finally decided to call Harvey after not hearing from him the whole night.

“Honestly, it’d be better if you didn’t come,” Harvey told me and hung up.

“Fuck,” I thought to myself.

It was nearly midnight, and I was stuck in Merivale with no way home. I waited in the lobby of the McDonald’s. Ella had told me once that Elliot lived nearby. The last time I had spoken to him was after Guy Fawkes Night. I was still avoiding him because I was worried people would associate me with his behaviour that night, but I was desperate.

“Can I crash at yours tonight?” I asked Elliot. “I’ve got no way to get home.”

“That’s fine, I’ll meet you outside,” Elliot responded sleepily. I was drunk and I was making irresponsible choices. Ironically, the person I was actively avoiding was also the only person who was willing to give me a safe space. Elliot greeted me at the gate.

“You can crash on the couch,” Elliot offered generously. “Or you can sleep in my bed.”

I was tipsy and too upset from the night’s events to decide. My words were incoherent. Elliot led me to his room, and he tucked me into his bed.

“It’s fine, we’re just friends,” Elliot comforted me.

Elliot hugged me from behind. He held me close to his body and I felt his penis press against my thigh. I instinctively pushed him away, and I shuffled to my side of the bed.

“You know friends can cuddle too, right?” Elliot teased. “It’s not all about sex.”

I was nervous, but I eventually surrendered my body to Elliot. He once again held me close to his body. Silence gave way to heavy breathing. I fell asleep in his embrace. I was finally in a safe space.

Ōtautahi, Spring 2015

With safe physical and virtual spaces ruled out, my last hope was the university wine club, which incidentally had a high concentration of attendees from our Queer communities. Even though this was a university club, most of the attendees were not students.

There were not a lot of activities in Ōtautahi after the earthquakes, and events like the wine club were one of a few outlets for people to socialise. After weeks of deliberation, I went along with Ella who was a regular attendee of their events. I wanted to meet other Queer people, but I did not have the courage to go by myself.

I met Bradley at my first university wine club. He was sitting across from me at the tasting table. We exchanged a few looks before I went back to my wine. At first, I was too shy to talk to him, but one glass of Riesling led to another, and we started to talk.

“Would you like to give me a hand with this fine bottle of wine?” I asked Bradley as the event ended. I was lucky enough to win a bottle of Riesling in the raffle.

“It’d be silly for me not to,” Bradley joked.

We were all tipsy at this point. Bradley accompanied Ella and me as we walked back to our apartment on the other side of the university campus. We picked up another bottle of wine from the supermarket and we made ourselves comfortable in the common area.

Bradley was smart and charismatic. He told us about his work with his iwi (tribe). Ella sat there feeling very much like a third wheel.

“I’m going to bed,” Ella announced around midnight. “Will you be okay, Sidney?”

“I’ll be fine,” I promised Ella. “I’ll go to bed soon.”

When Ella retired to her room down the hall, Bradley shuffled next to me on the couch. We once again exchanged looks like we had earlier that evening, but this time with greater intensity.

I do not remember how Bradley and I ended up alone in my room. I do remember the moment when he held me by my waist. He pulled me close to his body and kissed me on the lips. Bradley’s lips moved down to my neck. When he softly bit the soft skin of my neck, I lost full control of my body. I knew whom I wanted, and he was with me in that moment.

Shiraz. Pinot Noir. Gewurztraminer. Over the course of the next few wine tastings, Bradley would come home with me. This became our routine.

Bradley took his time with me and never advanced beyond my levels of comfort. I figured it had to be his background in law –​ after all, consent is compulsory.

“Are you okay?” Bradley would ask. “We can take it slowly.”

In every session, Bradley taught me a little bit more about my body. He also taught me an important lesson about safe sex –​ something I clearly had missed at school.

“Do you have a condom?” Bradley asked me one night.

“No,” I replied innocently. “Why is that?”

“You must use a condom to keep yourself safe,” Bradley told me as he got up from the bed. He removed a condom from his wallet and tore the silver packet open with his teeth.

“You should also get tested regularly,” Bradley continued to lecture.

Bradley was kind, but I never felt like I was in control. The random glimpses of my naked body felt foreign to me. I continued to struggle with feeling pleasure.

“Can I top you?” I asked Bradley one evening.

“No,” Bradley responded coldly. He seemed offended. “That’s not how it works.”

I realised in that moment that Bradley’s patience was only an attempt to access my body. Asian men were meant to be submissive –​ another vestige of colonisation, where the bodies of Asian men were perceived as soft and effeminate. Our routine did not last long after that interaction.

Ōtautahi, Spring 2015

With the absence of physical spaces in Ōtautahi, I retreated to virtual spaces. I downloaded Grindr and Tinder on my phone and began the hard lesson of navigating these transgressive spaces.

I learnt a new register of the English language specific to our gay communities. On these platforms, I encountered new concepts like twinks, bears, and otters. A twink was a young,boyish gay man. A bear was an older hairy gay man. An otter was gay man who was somewhere in between.

We classified ourselves into different tribes including clean-​cut, daddy, discreet, geek, jock, leather, poz, rugged, or trans. Some of these terms were self-​explanatory. Someone who identified as discreet was not out in public while someone who identified as poz was HIV positive. We also identified ourselves as tops or bottoms. These position-​based descriptors signalled whether we took the insertive or penetrative role in anal sex. Those who specified versatile had no preference.

Beyond this basic vocabulary, I came across racialised terms such as rice queen, sticky rice, and panda bear. A rice queen was a non-​Asian man who was exclusively attracted to Asian men to the point of fetishisation. The term sticky rice described Asian men who were exclusively sexually attracted to other Asian men. Lastly, a panda bear was an Asian version of a bear.

As people could simply mask their discrimination as sexual and romantic preference, rejection was more explicit on these social media platforms. Some people openly stated their “No fats, femmes, or Asians” policy on their profiles. At least this meant I could easily avoid people who used outwardly fatphobic, misogynistic, and racist language. Some people felt no shame fetishising my racialised body. No matter who someone was in the real world, everyone complied with the hierarchies determined by Pākehā white ideals of attractiveness. They did not design these virtual spaces to appease people from my demographic background.

Yet again, I received another message from a blank profile. I was in the process of blocking the blank profile, when a series of photos came through of an Asian man in his mid-​twenties. Up until that point, I thought Queer Asian people did not exist.

“Can we meet up?” said the message.

“I’m Marco,” I continued to read the barrage of messages. “I’m an international student from the Philippines. I’m lonely.”

“Okay,” I typed my reply. I had nothing better to do that evening and I was curious to meet another Queer Asian person. “Let’s meet at the car park of the Countdown in Church Corner.”

Within ten minutes, I was waiting in the car park. This was a neutral location. I was not so naive I would give away my personal details without meeting him first. I finally saw him crossing the road around midnight.

“Hi, you must be Marco,” I extended out my hand to shake the stranger’s hand.

Marco looked quite different from his photos. He was much older and a lot shorter than the photos suggested. We exchanged pleasantries in the car park. When I made the assessment that he was not a threat, I guided him to my flat.

“Would you like a drink?” I asked Marco when we arrived at my room. I could tell he was nervous. Maybe a drink would break the tension.

“Sure,” Marco replied. He took a sip of the whisky and made a sour expression.

Maybe not.

“I’m studying for a master’s in political science,” Marco told me in hushed tones. “I was working in the non-​profit sector in the Philippines, but I had to leave. I didn’t have a choice.”

Marco had had a successful life in the Philippines, but he was in the closet. Aotearoa was his opportunity to explore his sexuality.

“It’s too bad I can’t be myself in Christchurch either. Most of my Filipino friends are part of the church.” Marco finished his story and took another strained sip of whisky.

There were many similarities between our experiences –​ both of us left home to navigate our sexuality –​ except it was much safer for me to be Queer in Aotearoa than it was to be a Queer person in the Philippines.

I took Marco’s glass and placed it on the windowsill. I placed my hand on his shoulder and turned to give him a kiss. His lips were tense. We spent the night together and he left before daybreak. We met twice more before he left Ōtautahi, once for a coffee, and once on campus.

I still follow Marco’s updates on Instagram. He is an incredible photographer; I can see that he is still trying to find that safe haven from his posts. Queer Asian men, like me, experience the same if not greater levels of hostility in virtual spaces than physical spaces. There was no love for me in Ōtautahi. Perhaps I was not meant for this path.