Oscar Down Under: Part One
By Jack Ladd
()
About this ebook
“Oscar Down Under is a semi-autobiographical sex-plosion of Antipodean passion.” – DNA Magazine, Australia
A Finalist in the 2017 Rainbow Awards for Best Gay Book and Best Debut Fiction, Oscar Down Under: Part One, is a contemporary erotic tale of self-discovery teaching us how miserable life can be when we are selfish and self-centred, and how fulfilling it becomes when we open our hearts and minds.
Once a jaded user of people and substances, Oscar is now a handsome and successful thirty-something in love. But before he can commit to his new man, he’s forced to reflect on his troubled past, and figure out if he’s truly changed from the manipulative, damaged boy he once was.
This is where we meet Oscar, fourteen years earlier at twenty-one, with a bad reputation and worse proclivity for lying to others and himself. One hungover Saturday morning trawling through Grindr he meets David, a tall, handsome Aussie living in London who, with the right coercion, offers him far more than the free meal he’d hoped for.
But, he soon finds out that travelling to the other side of the planet, to sunny, scorching Sydney, isn’t enough to escape his demons. And, by telling his greatest lie to date, he learns the toughest but most valuable lesson of his life.
Set across London, Edinburgh and Sydney, ODU#1, is a lush, sensory experience exploring the intrinsic need we all feel to grow and learn, and how no matter what we’ve done or has happened to us, it’s never too late to change.
Based on true events.
“This book was amazing! I felt like I was there with the characters. I can't wait for book 2.” – Honorable Mention, 2017 Rainbow Awards
“I really enjoyed following Oscar on his new journey, he really showed growth and maturity throughout the story and I’m looking forward to seeing what the future holds for him. This was an enjoyable read and definitely recommendable!” – Tracy, Bayou Book Junkie, Goodreads Review
“This was a wonderful read.” – Finalist comments, 2017 Rainbow Awards.
Jack Ladd
Jack Ladd was born in the UK, grew up in a small English town and fled to Sydney, Australia, as soon as he could. There he spent many years discovering the world, the people who call it home, and, most importantly, himself. Oscar and his adventures are based on true events.
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Oscar Down Under - Jack Ladd
Oscar Down Under
Part One
Jack Ladd
For those who know it’s never too late to change.
Table of Contents
About Jack Ladd
Connect with Jack Ladd
Other Books from the Author
Prologue
Chapter One
A Jack Ladd Publication
www.jackladd.org
Copyright Jack Ladd 2017
Cover Art by Thomas Fethers and Shannon Walshe
Edited by Jack Smith
Published by Jack Ladd Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact.
While venue names have been kept to maximise location authenticity, any descriptions and resemblances to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Jack Ladd.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Jack Ladd (jackladd89@gmail.com). Unauthorised or restricted acts in relations to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution. The author, graphic designer and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator and designer of the artwork.
First published on 26/08/17 by Jack Ladd Publishing.
WARNING
This book contains sexually explicit content only suitable for mature readers.
Trademarks Acknowledgement: the author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
XXL: Bear Necessities
The Yard: Yard Bar, Soho
Grindr: Grindr
Puma: Puma
The Beresford: Merivale Australia
iPhone: Apple Inc.
Prologue
Imagine you’re sitting on a surfboard in your favourite swimwear.
Your legs are dangling over the sides into deep, dark water. Way off in front of you, the sun’s rising above the horizon in reds, oranges, pinks and purples.
An empty beach, a long swim away, begins to twinkle under the strengthening rays.
Gently bobbing you feel the hard plastic of the board between your thighs. The water’s warm and it feels good. As the sun climbs it illuminates the opaque ocean and you see the tops of your legs.
Your hair’s dancing under the surface. It’s caught in a rhythm on repeat. Back and forth, round and round, it sways and swishes. Then the trusty board rises and your follicles fall, stuck to your skin, wet and spent.
You understand the risks. You know there are dangers lurking below. You’re waiting for a wave.
But not just any wave. The big one. The one. That once-in-a-lifetime wave that will carry you so fast and so far, no other wave will ever compare, and the thrill of the surf will never feel the same again.
You look around. Everything’s calm; a serene scene. There’ll surely be no waves like that today.
What’s going through your head, sitting there, staring out to the empty vastness, drifting further and further towards it and waiting for a wave that isn’t coming?
Want to know a secret? The wave is coming.
You know it’s coming. Something deep inside of you tells you this wave, this unmissable opportunity you can’t let crash to the shore without you in an explosion so fierce and unpredictable, yet so timeless and permanent, will come today. You can feel it in your waters.
Forgive the pun.
Morning breaks and the drag finds you. You smile a smile no one sees that fills you with an energy as vibrant as your now crystal clear, turquoise playground.
The current tugs at your toes and feet, and before you know it, it’s got the board. All you can do is lie on your stomach and enjoy the journey.
Small waves roll out to say g’day. Up and down, up and down, you rise and fall, rise and fall, each one revving your engines.
Soon the bigger ones: four-foot, five-foot, five-foot-eleven. Six-foot beauty after six-foot beauty lift you high and drop you low. The occasional seven or eight-foot beast threatens to tear your arse up.
Why not stay here and have some fun, you wonder.
Why not indeed? You’ve been here since dawn and there’s no harm in enjoying yourself. There’s plenty of fun to be had with these ones. They’re not life-changing, but they’ll get the blood pumping.
Take a few rides. Feel the thrill of the chase and the churn of the crash. Get lost in a repetition so exhilarating and refreshing no matter how many hours pass it never gets dull.
Then you see it.
A long way off, and with the commotion tricky to tell, but it’s there. An iridescent blue wall, growing by the second and polished by the late afternoon sun.
The shoreline recedes. All those other waves, those appetite whetters mere seconds ago preoccupying your time, now seem irrelevant retreating under the vacuum of this magnificent monster. An inverse Niagara it sucks up everything in its path.
Including you.
There’s no way you can swim away. The time has come. And even though you’re tired, you’re ready. You were born ready.
Heart racing. You surrender.
Surfing is like falling in love.
It takes practice and patience, but when you stand strong on your board, knowing the slightest imbalance will send you tumbling through the depths below, you have no choice but to trust in yourself and submit to the swell.
Like love there are small waves and big waves. There are gentle and predictable waves. Underwhelming waves. Easy waves. Disappointing waves. There are promising waves that raise the spirits only to fizzle out before anything real materialises, leaving you sad and unfulfilled.
There are waves that pick you up, throw you around and dump you soaked and exhausted on the shore. And there are waves that drop you when you least expect, so all you can do is fall face first into the water and resurface confused and shaken and with a bitter taste in your mouth.
Then there are do-or-die waves. Waves so earth-shatteringly powerful they can kill you. These are the waves that force you to ask yourself the question: am I willing to drown?
I’m not the greatest surfer. In fact, I’ve always preferred floating on my back, idly watching the sky and letting the moon do all the work. But this is the story of how I learned to love in an ocean far, far away.
And how I discovered, after a lot of practice and a lot of patience, I was willing to drown.
One
A Not-So-Distant Future
‘Are you ready?’
‘I think so,’ I said.
‘What are you thinking?’
Looking down at the floppy laminated page, for the tenth time in two minutes I reread the fancy lettering. Still took nothing in. Tap-tap went my index finger against thin, black leather. I was nervous and he could tell.
Only one way to play it. Blatant, unapologetic flattery.
‘That you’re gorgeous,’ I said without looking up.
Success.
He laughed through his nose, scoffing at my compliments like always; his menu already face-down on the table.
Silverware gently tinkled against itself as he pushed it out of place and back into line. He was nervous too.
‘I meant food,’ he said.
This time I looked up. Pulled a face slathered in sarcasm and he stuck out his tongue, throwing me off my food choice yet again.
He was the kind of guy that looked adorable no matter what he did. Now was no different. He looked too adorable for words.
Pulling myself together I said, ‘I’m torn between the chicken and the cod.’
‘Torn, eh? That’s a strong word.’
‘It’s a big decision.’
‘How big?’
‘Huge.’
Raising an eyebrow, he smiled. Mischief sparkling in his eyes, still flickering blue in the moody dim of the restaurant courtesy of the tea light burning between us. Around its glass holder shined a perfect halo on polished wood.
I liked this place. It was smart but not pretentious. Cosy but classy. Intimate. I was glad I’d picked it.
In my peripheral our waitress, Vanessa, was still waiting. Standing perfectly still, like a statue, pen and pad in-hand. Until she checked her watch. Subtly.
‘I’m getting the chicken,’ he said.
Locking my eyes on his I gave him my best shot at a smile that said you always know what to say.
It landed, and for a fraction of a second, the sophisticated buzz of the room disappeared. No quiet scrape of metal on porcelain. No murmur of conversation. No moody blues trickling through speakers.
Just us.
‘I’ll get the cod then,’ I said, passing my menu to the waitress and flashing her an apologetic grin. ‘With a bottle of the Sauvignon please.’
‘Very good, sir,’ Vanessa said with a nod before clearing away our starter cutlery and gliding gracefully toward the back of the restaurant.
Picking up my glass of fizzing prosecco I held it high. Now’s a better time.
He cocked his head to the side and said, ‘Another toast?’
‘Another toast.’
Shrugging he picked up his glass. Said, ‘What are we toasting this time?’
Then the butterflies returned. Hundreds of tiny wings beating inside my gut, swarming the words I’d wanted.
‘To another amazing weekend,’ I said instead.
He smiled, showing off his full set of straight, white teeth, and nodded his head.
‘To another amazing weekend.’
Crystal chimed against crystal. Bubbles, crisp and cold, foamed over our tongues and tickled our noses. For the cheapest by the glass it was nice.
In fact, it was really nice. Nice enough to make me feel less of a cheapskate for pointing at the first thing I’d seen.
Nice enough to celebrate with.
‘Very posh, sir,’ he said.
‘Sorry?’
Looking left to right he grinned. Boyish and cheekily. I loved his smile. It was my second favourite part of his body.
‘This place,’ he said.
Laughing I leant back in my chair and my shirt stretched tight. Air tickled the small diamond of skin I could feel on display between my pecs and his stare landed on it.
‘Only the best for you,’ I said, straightening back up and making a mental note to cancel tomorrow’s breakfast meeting. I needed to go shirt shopping. My personal trainer was doing wonders for my body, but one hell of a number on my wardrobe and wallet.
He rolled his eyes and shook his head. Shook off another compliment.
‘You need a new shirt,’ he said.
Smoothing out the old but still spotless white cotton I frowned. Said, ‘I know.’
‘What happened to the one I sent you?’
‘You know my thoughts on that.’
‘If you’re going to bench twice your body weight,’ he said.
I laughed again. Said, ‘Twice is an overstatement, handsome. And you don’t understand. I’ve never worn anything larger than medium my entire life.’
‘Sorry, but you have to face facts. You’re a big, muscly daddy now, Oscar. You’ve got to dress appropriately.’
Placing my glass on the table I hung my jaw in mock outrage. Big and muscly I would happily take, but that?
That was pushing it.
Even if my hair was more grey than brown and my body took longer to stop aching after the gym, and even if a part of me knew he was right and loved it when he called me daddy, I didn’t feel like one.
I still yearned for excitement like always.
Adventure.
‘I suppose you’ve got enough twinkiness for the both of us,’ I said.
‘That’s not even a word.’
‘It’s still true.’
Glass clapped against oak as he copied my faux indignation. Raised his arm and flexed his right bicep. His pink pastel shirt stretched tight around the impressive muscle and blood rushed through me.
South.
Shuffling in my seat I rearranged my underwear as best I could. He looked phenomenal.
‘Getting there,’ I said.
‘Really?’ he said.
‘Really, really.’
A giant beam spread up to his eyes, showing off his dimples.
Fuck.
Everything about him was just so perfect. His thick, brown hair. His youthful, chiselled face. His flawless swimmer’s body, hairy and smooth in all the right places. His fashion sense. His laugh. His sense of humour. His humility. His honesty.
I reached out, palm up, and he put his hand in mine.
Screw the butterflies.
‘There’s something I’ve been wanting to say for a while,’ I said.
Taking a big, fizzy gulp with his free hand he nodded. His shoulders tensed. His grip tightened and my heart beat faster.
‘Ok,’ he said.
‘I was wondering if–’
Cut short.
Vanessa. She’d practically materialised into the space next to us with our wine.
Laughing nervously, he let go of my hand as she uncorked, poured a finger into my glass and waited for approval. I swilled and sniffed and nodded. Good year. She filled our glasses with the cold, pale yellow liquid.
Reaching out and taking his hand again as she swept away, ice cubes jostling inside our frosted, metal wine bucket, I said, ‘I know we haven’t been seeing each other that long. And I know we agreed, what with the distance, to take it easy. Play it by ear. But I’ve been thinking, a lot, and I was wondering if you’d–’
Again. Vanessa.
This time with a small wicker basket in her left hand and a pair of metal tongs in her right. The sweet, smell of fresh bread filling the air.
‘White, brown, soy or linseed?’
Two brown rolls later I reached out for the third and final time. If she tried to put searing hot plates on my arms and twisted black pepper in my eyes I didn’t care.
It’s now or never.
‘Will you be my boyfriend?’ I said.
The words blurted out and hit him. Hard.
He raised his eyebrows and his mouth dropped a fraction. He blinked once. Again. I squeezed his hand gently. Urging him to speak. To say something. Anything.
‘Are you serious?’
‘Of course.’
‘But how?’
‘I was thinking I would buy a place up here.’
‘No, you can’t.’
My heart missed a beat. My stomach twisted.
‘Don’t you want me to?’ I said, quieter than I’d intended.
His face changed in an instant. Shock to remorse.
‘No, no, that’s not what I meant!’ he said squeezing my hand and sitting forward in his seat, a gentle waft of aftershave tickling my nostrils.
Bleu de Chanel. His favourite. Mine too.
‘Of course I want you to,’ he said. ‘It would be amazing if you had a place up here. But that’s a huge commitment.’
My stomach untwisted. Relief flooded my brain. I realised I’d been holding my breath.
Breathing out fully I took a deep but silent lungful. Relaxed into my chair and pretended to cough so I could laugh at myself for being so ridiculous.
‘To be honest, a place up here would be a great investment. And I have friends in the city too. It’s not like I’ll be moving to Antarctica. It’s only Edinburgh,’ I said.
He laughed. Let go of my hand. Picked up his champagne flute and leaned back in his chair. His shirt fit seamlessly over his tight, toned torso. He crossed his magnificent legs, one over the other like a businessman out for dinner with a client.
‘So, you want to make it one-hundred-percent official? You and me. Boyfriends,’ he said.
‘Partners in crime.’
‘And the age difference?’
‘Doesn’t bother me.’
And it didn’t.
Age is a number. And numbers can be too rigid. Too inflexible to represent something as fluid and free as passion and lust and desire and love. His age didn’t bother me. It never had.
‘Does it bother you?’ I said.
‘No. I love that you’re older.’
‘Only ten years.’
‘Still older.’
‘How about it, handsome? This is where you put me out of my misery.’
Draining his glass, he placed it on the table and picked up his bread knife. Then he cut a wedge of soft, golden butter from the small oval dish in the centre of the table. Smeared it in a heap on the edge of his side plate. Put his knife down and picked up his bread roll. Broke it in half with his hands. Broke off a smaller piece. Buttered it. Salted it. And then popped it into his mouth.
He was thinking.
I could almost hear the well-greased cogs whirring at a million miles an hour inside his smart, sexy head.
He chewed. Swallowed. Then he looked at me like he was trying to read my mind.
‘How do you know?’ he said.
‘Know what?’
‘That you want to be with me.’
‘What kind of question is that?’
‘I’m asking how you’re so certain. You always know exactly what you want. How do you do that?’
‘That’s not true,’ I said, gesturing at nothing in particular.
‘Alright, maybe not when ordering food,’ he said before repeating his buttering ritual. ‘But the big things. I’ve never met anyone so sure before.’
‘Is that bad?’
‘No, it’s wonderful,’ he said, his words muffled by bread. He swallowed. ‘I wish I could be more like you.’
‘You can.’
‘I know, I know. We can all be whatever we want to be. But how do you know you want me? I’m not successful. I don’t have friends all over the world. How do you know that in two years you won’t be bored and over it and resenting me for making you uproot your life, just so we can see each other every day instead of every other weekend?’
I was stunned silent. Hadn’t expected that. Not in a million years.
I’d assumed he would say no and we would finish our meal. Maybe spend one last night together. One last astounding night before I jumped back on a plane to England with my tail between my legs.
Or, he would say yes, and we’d spend the next however many hours getting more and more shitfaced, pretending to plan our imminent future when we’d actually be drunkenly hypothesising over how many dogs we’d be able to squeeze into our dream, inner-city, roof terrace apartment.
But if I was already in love with him, now I was head over heels. I’d met thirty, forty and fifty-year-olds still clueless about life.
How did this twenty-five-year-old know so much?
Finishing my sparkling in a single swig, I took a bigger gulp of wine. Courage radiated through me. Hot and tingly and tasty.
‘First of all, you’re not making me do anything. And secondly, that’s