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I was told that I was anal retentive today. It's an odd phrase, 'anal retentive'. It doesn't, as far as I know, have anything to do with the meaning of the individual words that make up the whole. I mean; if you take the phrase literally, then yes I am anal retentive. I'd like to retain my anus for as long as possible. It's a handy thing to have and I use it at least once a day, usually with satisfying results.

It was a gay guy many years ago who first told me that I was anal retentive, I thought it was some kind of gay-code for "man who won't let me fuck him".

Which reminds me; many, many years ago I was eighteen years old and an apprentice motor-mechanic living in the bush with Mum'n'Dad. During my holidays I stayed at a friends place in Blackrock, a suburb of Melbourne where one of my childhood heroes, Alan Marshall, lived. As an aside from the aside, the first movie that I went to with anybody but my parents was a Polish language version of 'I Can Jump Puddles' at the Palais in St. Kilda with my cousins. A week later they took me to a talk by Vincent Serventy about saving Australia's Deserts - riveting stuff to an eight year-old. I don't talk to my cousins anymore.

Any fuckin' way - I managed to wheedle my way into doing an occasional day in the workshop of a touring car team which was housed in Port Melbourne. Being December in Melbourne, it was hot most days (shut up), so one evening as I trundled back along Beaconsfield Parade in my compulsory-for an-apprentice-mechanic badly modified Holden, I thought I'd stop for a beer. I'd already passed a few pubs which I've since found out aren't as bad as some (I think one of them was the one Hookesy got clobbered at). Instead of continuing on to the Lower Esplanade (I think) and Beach Road, I hung a lefty at Fitzroy Street and pulled up at the first empty park I could find. Across the road was The Prince Of Wales Hotel, or PoW as I found out it's called.

I crossed the road and walked down to the PoW and walked into the first bar I came to. A trap for young players. I don't know what it's like these days, but twenty-plus years ago it was a bit of an odd-bod of a pub. The corner, public, bar was your typical suburban working class bloodhouse bar. Upstairs was a popular live music venue, downstairs was one of those dimly lit,intimate little bars you take women to (they think it's because you are mature and want to focus your attention on them, but more often it's because they are fugly and you don't want anybody you know to see you with them). Adjacent to- and sharing toilet facilities with- the public bar was a smaller, saloon-style bar, the bar I entered; famous, in my house, for being The First Gay Bar I ever entered.

Not that I realised it when I walked in. There were no signs advising me, no men kissing each other, nothing. The first odd thing I noticed was the bar person. I'm not sure whether to say barman or barmaid because the attendant in question was the least convincing transvestite in Christendom. Think Divine in The Pink Flamingos. I ordered a pot 'cos that's what blokes drink and the barperson engaged me in conversation, starting off by complaining about the Christmas decorations. Thinking back, the impression I have is of a cotton plant painted silver. Looked o.k. to me, so I said so. "But it's just not Christmas though, is it sweetie?"

Divine waddled off to serve someone else so I had a bit of a look around. Lot's of really tight jeans, most with bandanas stuck in the pocket. Shitloads of big moustaches and cut-off shirts. Remember, I was eighteen years old, lived in the bush all my life and was only vaguely aware that there even were gay people, let alone groups of them who were so outrageous as to actually admit to being gay and even socialise with other gay people. To that point, I had never met anybody who was openly gay (except for another one of my cousins and I didn't know about him for another five or ten years). I seriously figured it must have been some kind of Village People theme party or something. I didn't even make the connection. I mean my Dad liked the Village People.

Like I said, I was eighteen at the time, straight from The Bush and also training about nine hours a week, trying to bulk up for the next years' footy season. I may be bragging, but I think it would have made some of those blokes pretty happy to do rude things with/to me.

It wasn't long before I found myself talking to a group of blokes. Don't remember what the conversation was about, it was either fairly innocent or I was even more naive than I remember. A couple of times a bloke would ask me to come over and join his group. I was thinking that cities are pretty friendly places, but before long the bitchiness set in between the blokes I was drinking with and the other blokes who kept inviting me over. I'm pretty sure the other blokes were all drinking together and the two groups had a prior history. By this stage even I was starting to get suspicious. The situation reached crisis point when I felt somebody groping my bum. Looking around to see who it was, I made eye contact with one of the Village People - types who winked at me. What should I do? I was a horny, hormonally charged eighteen year old, a few drinks to the good, in a strange town, eager for new experiences.

I ran like a bitch.

The friends where I was staying didn't stop laughing until about three weeks ago. They still call me The Prince. I retained my anus, anyway.