When I came back to Aotearoa, I was desperate to have the same conversations I had had with Martin and Nathaniel. I was desperate to experience the same feelings I had had with Lucas. But I was no longer in Hong Kong.
It was during this time that Christchurch Pride was building momentum in the community. I went to one of their events at Mashina, which was a basement bar under the local casino.
There were hundreds of people on the dance floor. They were all watching the drag artists lip-syncing to Nineties pop songs. I was there alone, and I stood next to the water dispenser. I wanted to be discreet and far away from the crowd.
“What’s a handsome thing like you doing back here?” A stranger approached me at the back of the venue. He was wearing a leather harness. Glitter and sequins coated his dense chest and shoulder hair.
“I’m good,” I replied to the stranger. “I just feel out of place. I don’t think I belong here.”
“Well,” the stranger replied as he poured himself a glass of water. “You’re only going to have as much fun as you let yourself.”
“Perhaps I’ll see you next time?” the stranger told me as he gave me a parting hug. He walked away and disappeared into the crowd.
I went home shortly after this interaction with the stranger. Despite not having lived in Hong Kong, I felt a greater sense of belonging with the Queer people I had met there. I felt like an intruder when I was in Ōtautahi. This did not feel like home.
I was once again greeted with lukewarm responses on both Tinder and Grindr. I had no love for Ōtautahi, and there was no love for me. The only times I had any success was when I was outside of Ōtautahi – in Tāmaki Makaurau or Te Whanganui-a-Tara.
Paul was one lasting connection I made on Tinder while I was in Tāmaki Makaurau. It was after my road trip with Jochim, Lotte, and Menno in the motor home. We matched before I left Tāmaki Makaurau and we continued messaging throughout the trip.
When I returned to Tāmaki Makaurau, Paul took me out to dinner and then introduced me to the strange and wonderful world of Family Bar on Karangahape Road. For the uninitiated, Family is a multi-storey gay bar with two dance floors and three separate bars.
Family was hosting a drag competition that night. The room was filled with smoke and drunken revellers. Paul and I were dancing in harmony to the strobe lights. He pushed me against the wall, and we kissed in full view of the public.
We returned to Paul’s apartment in Newmarket overlooking the train station, and we spent the night together. The next day he dropped me off at the bus stop on Queens Street, where I took the overnight bus back to Te Whanganui-a-Tara.
When I came back to Aotearoa, I reconnected with Paul in Tāmaki Makaurau in search of those much sought after conversations and experiences I needed. The second time I met with Paul, we did not have the same spark.
My trip to Hong Kong had left me with a sense of emptiness. My need to fill this emptiness propelled me into the next period of my journey. This included a number of unnecessary risks leaving me with lasting consequences that I still carry with me today.
I matched with Jono while I was in Te Whanganui-a-Tara. He was my first relationship since Iain. We started talking before he asked me to add him on Facebook to talk there instead.
“Add me on my alt account,” Jono told me one day. “My family are Māori and very Christian. Only my closest friends know I’m gay.”
“They sent me to a guidance counsellor to fix me and convinced me I should be a pastor,” Jono continued with his story. “I really thought I was broken before I ran away. Here I am in Wellington, working as a hotel manager.”
After a few weeks of talking to each other, I booked my flights to see Jono in Te Whanganui-a-Tara. This time I went home without my parents’ knowledge. This trip to Te Whanganui-a-Tara was for me.
Jono met me at the airport. I expected a kiss, but he shook my hand briskly. I attempted a hug, but he was visibly uncomfortable. The only time he expressed any affection was when he gently touched my hand at the back of the bus.
“We’re going to stay in my room in the hotel,” Jono told me as he led me up a staircase. “Don’t mention to anyone we’re together though.”
The room was overlooking Courtney Place. As Jono shut the door to his room, he turned around and kissed me on the lips. He pushed me against the wall.
“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this moment,” Jono told me as he began to undress me.
“I’ve got a surprise for you,” Jono told me as we walked down the waterfront. It was late afternoon, and the sea was calm. It reflected the orange gold hues of the sunset. “I remember you telling me that you’ve always wanted to go to Shed 5.”
I had an incredible weekend with Jono. When I got back to Ōtautahi, I was already planning my next trip to see Jono.
A month before Jono was meant to visit me in Ōtautahi, I sensed something was off. Jono was drinking every day and his behaviour was getting more erratic.
“I met someone on Tinder,” Jono confessed to me one afternoon. “It was only for a drink. I’m just on there to meet people.”
Since I was no longer tied to my phone, I began investing my time at the gym working on my fitness. Brandon, a colleague from the insurance company, was happy to show me how to work out at the gym.
“I know that you’re cheating on me,” Jono spluttered over the phone. He was drunk. “I know you’re not at the gym.”
“What are you talking about? Are you okay?” I asked in confusion. I had just got out of Brandon’s car, and I saw a few missed calls from Jono. “I’ve been at the gym all this time, why don’t you believe me?”
“Don’t fucking lie to me, I know you’re fucking cheating on me,” Jono continued in a frenzy. “You know what; I’m just going to fucking end it. I’ve got some pills under my bed.”
Jono hung up on me and I was at a loss for what to do. I tried to call his friends, but no one picked up. I had no choice but to call the police.
“Fire, ambulance, or police. What’s your emergency?” the operator asked me.
“My long-distance boyfriend wants to kill himself. I’m in another city and I can’t get hold of his friends,” I told the operator frantically.
“We’ll see what we can do,” the operator told me calmly and transferred me to another line.
I waited patiently with my flatmates around me as I explained the situation to the police. I gave them the key code to the building and guided the police to his room. They managed to get hold of him, and shortly after, I received a message from his friend.
“Jono’s been admitted to the psychiatric unit,” Jono’s friend told me. “What you did was really shitty; you should’ve been here for him.”
Our last exchange was over email. Jono asked me to pay him back for the return flights to Ōtautahi. I paid him back without hesitation. I blocked him and never spoke to him again.
My relationship with Jono left me broken. I was scared of people, and I felt more alone and disconnected from the wider Queer community. I decided to take a break from exploring physical and virtual spaces. I turned my focus to study so I could finish my degree and leave Ōtautahi for the last time. I had a few connections left from the university. One of these connections was Mitchell who I had met at a university club. Mitchell was a geology student, and we had the pleasure of being part of a university club, which was in essence more like a cult,together.
“Hey man, how’s it going?” Mitchell greeted me from the driver’s seat. He gestured his head towards the back seat. “This is Ashish by the way. He’s an international student from India.”
Ashish was sitting, chilling, in the back seat. Mitchell was busy talking to Brian who was in the passenger seat.
“Yo, what’s up man?” Ashish greeted me.
“Hey, how’s it going?” I wanted to make the effort to sound enthusiastic. “I know I just met you, but I’m going through a really shit time. I just broke up with my boyfriend. Sorry, ex-boyfriend. I’m a bit gutted at the moment.”
“That sucks man,” Ashish responded with the right level of sympathy.
“Yeah, it does suck. Can you keep a secret? Mitchell doesn’t know I’m gay,” I told him in hushed tones.
“Want to get drunk?” Ashish suggested with genuine interest.
“Fuck it, why not?” I replied far too enthusiastically.
Ashish and I were an unlikely pair. Since he just lived down the street from me, we would often meet and drink until the early hours of the morning. We often joked that we were the Ōtautahi version of Harold and Kumar. My favourite memory with Ashish was probably our road trip around Te Waipounamu over the Easter weekend with a colleague from the insurance company. I cannot for the life of me remember what we were arguing about, but we spent the whole weekend arguing, drinking beer, sightseeing, arguing, settling on our differences of opinion, and arguing some more. Astonishingly, Ashish and I are still very good friends today, one who I might even call my best friend if he would give me the honour.
It was through Ashish that I met Akhil, Amit, and Neil. I brought them with me to house parties, and more often than not, we were regularly the only non-whites in these spaces. It brought me a lot of joy to disrupt these white spaces, and the hosts would normally be happy with this injection of diversity. During this interlude of my coming out journey, I probably drank too, smoked too much, and ate too much. But it also gave me time and space to reconnect with other aspects of my identity I had neglected in this white closet.
I spent a lot of time during this period thinking about how my Cantonese-identity interplayed with my Aotearoa-born identity. My childhood trauma from racism had marred my perceptions of what it meant to be a “Kiwi” or a “New Zealander”. I still remember being scolded by a whaea (aunty) at a marae (meeting ground) after a misguided white teacher told me to call myself as Pākehā in my pepeha (formal greeting) in primary school. How was I to know my identity was being assimilated into whiteness? This whakamā (shame) had made me hide my identity, until I met a group of people who did not care who I was meant to be. They were some of the first people with a migrant background around my age who I could speak to openly and frankly. Their perspectives on their identity, often mediated through beer and a hookah pipe, helped me coalesce these two disparate aspects of my identity.
When people asked them, “Where are you from?”, they would very happily answer “India” without hesitation. For them, being an outsider was a given. The same question would elicit a quite different response from people, like me, who had been born and grew up in Aotearoa. We were brought up with an unrealistic expectation to assimilate into whiteness. This is because we were socialised into whiteness through the process of racialisation. This is why when people ask me where I am from, it is not only a constant reminder that I do not belong, but also a reminder that I will never be white.
Over the course of nearly a decade, my friendships with Ashish, Akhil, Amit, and Neil have ebbed and flowed, but they are probably the closest group of people I would describe as my best friends. This is especially true for Ashish who has no trouble challenging me on my privilege and entitlement. I had to relearn how to perceive the world without the white lens. Even though I remained largely in the closet throughout this period, at least I had the time to nurture my Cantonese-tauiwi (non-Māori) identity in a friendly and safe space.
On the outside, I had Ashish, Akhil, Amit, and Neil to support me socially, but mentally and emotionally, I was on a downward spiral with my coming out journey. I no longer cared about the types of interactions I had with men in Ōtautahi. I was obsessed with the idea of becoming an object of desire. I was no longer interested in finding a community. Despite my negative past experiences, I once again returned to Cruz to meet men for sex. I returned home one evening with a tourist from Brazil. We were both drunk and he offered to drive me home. In hindsight, this was an idiotic decision as I could have very well have got myself killed.
With my lowered inhibitions, I leant into my impulses and increased the number of risky sexual interactions. I was at a party in Upper Riccarton when I received a message from Daniel and Craig on Grindr. They were bored and felt like experimenting, so I went to their house without assessing the danger.
When I arrived at the house, Daniel offered me a whisky and soda. Craig then whisked me away to Daniel’s room where I laid down on the bed. They tied my wrists to the headboard. Daniel went to get a box from the cupboard while Craig undressed me.
“Have you done anything like this before?” Daniel asked me as he opened the box and took out more rope.
“I’ll try anything at least once,” I replied.
“Perfect,” Craig said as he lightly bit my nipple.
Everything had a price, and the price I paid for my risky sexual behaviour was my mental and physical health. Within weeks of my spree, I started to experience symptoms and I was beginning to worry. I thought I could ignore the symptoms, but the symptoms reared their ugly head when it stopped me from establishing a genuine connection.
Before I began experiencing the symptoms, I met Cyril on Tinder. He worked as a bartender for Calendar Girls – the local strip club.
“Can we please go on a date?” Cyril asked me one evening after messaging for weeks.
“Of course,” I agreed reluctantly. Cyril was lovely and I did not have the heart to reject him. Cyril took me out for dinner at Mexicanos, but I could not enjoy his company as the whole time I felt uncomfortable because of the symptoms. When we finished dinner, he asked me if I wanted to go for a walk.
“Do you want to see what’s upstairs?” Cyril asked me with a childish grin as we walked past Calendar Girls.
“Sure, why not?” I agreed and followed Cyril to a room upstairs. At the centre of the room was a round bed surrounded by red velvet wallpaper. “Where do you even get a round bed?”
Cyril held me against him, and we kissed to the vibrations of the bass from downstairs. Cyril put his hand on my belt, and I pushed him away.
“I should go now,” I told him. I gave him one last kiss, before I went home.
I was ashamed of myself. I felt disgusted with the symptoms. I felt disgusted with my decisions that led me to this point. The next day I made an appointment with the sexual health clinic as I knew the symptoms would not go away without help.
“Have you considered Gardasil?” the nurse asked me.
“What is that?” I responded in confusion.
“It reduces your chances of catching STIs like this in the future,” she explained. “It’s currently not funded for men, so it’ll set you back $90 a dose. You will need three doses. We will not charge you to administer the vaccine, but you will need to bring us the dose yourself. We don’t stock the vaccine at the clinic. Make sure to get it to us within two hours before it expires.”
“Anyway, I’ll give you some paste for your current symptoms,” she continued “And I’ll check in on you in a few weeks to see if it’s cleared.”
“How about a routine sexual health check-up then? Just in case,” she added.
The next few weeks were both a physical and emotional test. I travelled down to Ōtepoti with my parents to attend my brother’s graduation. I frequently excused myself to go to the bathroom to apply more paste. I was restless. I could not sit still at the ceremony. I was in agony.
“What would my family think if they found out?” I thought to myself.
Eventually the symptoms cleared. I still think about that period until this day.
A year later, I received a message from Cyril.
“I hope you’re doing well. I really liked you. It was a shame we didn’t work out,” Cyril told me. “I’m in Sydney now. I’m going to study history.”
“Same here,” I thought to myself.
As of 1 January 2017, Gardasil is now fully funded by the Aotearoa government for everyone aged 9 to 26. The vaccine reduces the risk of HPV-related cancer.
My risky behaviour was not sustainable. I realised I needed the support of a community.
Queer Asian Identities in Contemporary Aotearoa New Zealand
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