Since my grinning “Gotcha” moment in class after the S&M tutoring session, my new boldness in front of the class still surprised me. Momentarily, I forgot that most of the guys had far more life experience than I did—or pretended to.
Facing them solo for the first time had been terrifying. My experience engaging an audience in two-way conversation was virtually non-existent. I was used to being filmed or recorded as part of a choir, or performing on a stage where I could disappear into the group. Even singing solo was less nerve-wracking than facing a critical audience.
That gooseflesh experience ensured a sleepless night, and I felt like a train wreck before my first class.
Then something strange happened.
Placing them in the harsh spotlight scared them as much. Suddenly I realised we are all aliens in some or other way, because deep down we all wonder whether we fit or not. But our universal doubt makes us far more similar.
Our bold exploration of cringeworthy topics became strangely exhilarating and kept everyone en pointe. I began identifying with my new masochistic, four-legged, anaemic vampirical bully persona.
Maybe this act could become a great topic for class. Don’t you think? Sink your teeth into that one.
My encounter with the huge leather man at Zipps had emboldened me a touch too much. The next Q&A session almost put me into checkmate. I could hardly confess that I was an S&M virgin whose knowledge came largely from books, vivid imagination and wide-eyed gossip from Film Fun. Tittle-tattle flourished there.
Admitting that I had never had a Master or Dominatrix teaching me tricks was certainly not an option.
I smiled remembering the stir at Zipps when I arrived sporting denims and handcuffs only. I enjoyed playing games and, perhaps more importantly, changing the rules a little.
Soon no topic seemed out of bounds. The classroom became our own taboo-free sanctuary where students opened up enthusiastically.
“So come up to the lab and see what’s on the slab.”
Dr Frank-N-Furter had become my role model ever since my Forbidden Education at Film Fun.
We probably all experienced our own cocktail of dopamine, serotonin and adrenaline. The classes became increasingly outrageous as we discovered an endless variety of forbidden topics to expose. Fantasy, variety and intellectual curiosity needed only a little leather and lace to spice things up.
The enthusiasm of the class was heartwarming—or perhaps it was simply my flushed cheeks as some of the questions became hair-raising.
Being a borderline introverted bibliophile, I could fake boldness and dance on tables if I had to. Dutch courage helped too. My teetotaller status had expired, and I discovered that a little lubrication could take you a long way. In class I had no Dutch courage fortunately.
Going out, I mellowed into a happy, social hug-loving drinker. Maybe a little too friendly!
As classes warmed up, my inhibition vanished back into the closet. Facing a vibrant class of extremely inquisitive students probing my secretive, sexually fluid private life sent my heart galloping. I had forgotten Mervyn’s Lesson Number One:
“Don’t ask, don’t tell”—unless you can handle the heat.
Thankfully, a faked Roger Moore-like calmness helped me regain some dignity.
Especially the girls, Aliens and a few Greys, however, were not letting me off the hook. I was squirming eye candy, after all, and they took sadistic delight in ruffling my tail feathers. I was younger than most of them, so perhaps they wanted to take back some control from this cocky boy with too much attitude.
Lucille became their cheerleader with total abandon.
Deflection was my best defence. Bantering was preferable to a modern version of the Spanish Inquisition, and it worked like a charm. Some girls and a few guys flirted with me, which I thoroughly enjoyed. I wasn’t fussy and certainly wasn’t complaining about the attention.
They delighted in defrocking my fake boldness and exposing my frilly vanilla underwear. Strangely, it brought us closer together. Once my bravado had been stripped, we were all on a more level playing field and less defensive.
I got hooked on the classes.
Stuart, with his wild imagination, adored my One Thousand and One Arabian Nights of our adventures into forbidden sexual territory.
And no, I did not get sacked.
But apparently, I got into the sack through vastly exaggerated revelations among the gossip mongers.
Amused eye contact from previously unknown students suggested that my reputation had travelled faster than I had. My social life was suddenly looking rather promising.
My deep platonic friendship with Stuart became unconditional after he experienced my unexpected vulnerability before returning to university. Our endless conversations were less guarded and no longer disguised as mere well-wrapped intellectual curiosity.
We were both emotionally vulnerable and wrestled with questions that could keep us awake at night. Digging deeper exposed an emotional bond we never shared before. Our platonic relationship evolved far beyond anything we previously considered possible.
We saw how shallow our assumptions could be when it came to pure animalistic sex appeal. Our sexual tastes were complete opposites.
My fondness for twinks and twunks annoyed Stuart, while his attraction to hairy, muscular guys who were not well endowed intellectually mystified me.
Being the patron saint of snobs, Stuart presented an irresistible opportunity.
I fired a double-sided salvo from both starboard and port, leaving his tackle in a mess. HMS Victory sailed off victoriously, as she has apparently done consistently since 1765, leaving Stuart sheep-faced but impressed by my light-footedness.
Sometimes he was just such a delightful target.
His friends enjoyed taking aim at him too.
Our stereotypical dream guys always seemed to lack some vital element in their packaging. Poking fun at each other became a form of companionship because we were both starved for stimulating conversation.
Stuart liked to rule, being the Queen and all, so taking him on in battle required strategy and caution. He was sharp, knowledgeable and wise in the ways of the world.
Victory was therefore an unlikely outcome, but he taught me well.
Whenever I managed to catch him off guard, I celebrated and rubbed it in mercilessly. He never forgot and always returned later to claim the revenge he felt he deserved.
Gradually, Stuart’s apparently snobbish friends also became my acquaintances. They turned out to be remarkably down to earth and reminded me not to judge people too easily.
Over drinks, snooty subjects became bantering games of quick-wittedness. I was body surfing their banter, and my humble student status rose a few notches.
They enjoyed the freedom of discussing forbidden territory with me because we were unlikely to cross paths at university. In their formal academic roles, they had to maintain aloofness with students, particularly when dealing with sensitive subjects. The rules relaxed outside the lecture hall and became far more flexible.
Carl Rogers was influential among social science academics, who used his Rogerian approach to draw students or patients into conversation. Genuine empathy was crucial, and the non-directive technique of reflecting something a person had said by simply repeating the essence with a question mark, worked remarkably well.
I found the technique predictably transparent when dealing with someone sufficiently astute to recognise what was happening. Dissecting the mechanics of the analysis was simple and showed where the conversation is heading.
Empathy is difficult to fake, and the non-verbal cues of those still learning the skill often betray them. I was a student who questioned everything.
Karl Marx was another easy target for my irreverent young mind. The wealthy intellectual railing against the bourgeoisie struck me as a delicious contradiction. Such discussions entertained Stuart’s guests enormously.
Stuart became Robin Hood and his friends his Merry Men, while the Sheriff of Nottingham became our figurative target. As the sundowners flowed, our sense of solidarity would probably have made Karl Marx proud.
I started showing potential to become the novice in an intellectual snob gang of middle-aged lecturers who seemed delighted by my irreverent critiques of their enlightened minds.
I no longer vanished like a ghost into my sunny cottage.
Its floor-to-ceiling glass windows stretched for more than twenty metres, with pale curtains that kept the sunsets at bay while the cottage radiated a beautiful golden glow.
Hardly a Frankenstein cage!
Stuart was gregarious, and gradually age, status and all the other barriers disappeared. The few affluent Marxist friends had to prove their commitment to equality and defend their critique of the bourgeoisie. My part-time work in the psychiatric ward proved my credentials as a mere worker.
When I eventually wrote my detailed critique of Marxism, my trout-like upstream approach somehow worked. I passed Marx Cum Laude.
My university class debates suddenly seemed dull compared with the lively conversations at Stuart’s parties. I became their young novice intellectual snob.
The irony amused me enormously. I was deeply sceptical of the establishment, yet a Tequila Sunrise or vanilla ice cream could bribe me with embarrassing ease.
I was as anxious to please as Yah-Yah before a biltong snack.
And I became as hooked on their fascinating conversations as I was on my sunrise rituals. Those mornings were always full of surprises when my dolphin friends regularly showed up, making my day.
After such enchanting encounters, I became almost immune to negative energy on campus. During dull lectures I daydreamed about dolphins and bodysurfing in the waves. Jogging home afterwards kept the endorphins flowing.
It was almost my Golden Age.
Almost.
The only thing missing was romance.
Friends with benefits were not the same. An emptiness that was difficult to fill sent me searching for love in all the wrong places.
Stuart quickly caught on and did his best to cheer me up.
“There is enough time for all of that,” he advised. “And when you do meet someone, don’t let them own you. Free souls like you need freedom and space to breathe.”
Then came the practical advice.
“Travel the world first and have heaps of fun—especially in Greece!”
Taking his advice, I regularly drove Medusa, my frightfully ugly brown Datsun 120Y, to Andrew’s to party amongst guys who loved dancing as much as I did.
Unfortunately, my body had its own ideas about nightlife.
Being an early bird accustomed to getting up before sunrise, I started yawning at midnight while everyone else was just getting started. Before my Golden Coach could turn into a pumpkin, I would disappear in Medusa, leaving a few disappointed guys behind.
My vanishing trick worked remarkably well.
Perhaps too well.
I had two very different mentors who increasingly influenced the way I saw the world.
I met Cobus Zeelie, then a PhD student, when I was still a first-year student, while visiting him at home with his lover, Nico Smith, an HR practitioner.
Nico had a naughty streak and lubricated me with far too much sweet wine for somebody who hardly drank. Stuart, by contrast, liked to keep his guests relatively sober, so our sundowners never ended in disaster.
Eventually, when I stood up, it was crystal clear that I was in no state to drive. They supported me to the guest room, where I spent the night unmolested.
The next morning brought a pounding headache and a hellish hangover unlike anything I had experienced before. I could never drink sweet white wine again.
Cobus had a dour sense of humour with an acidic touch. He regularly reminded me of my inability to cope with wine—and probably other drugs as well.
His knowledge of pharmacology was profound after years of study and lecturing medical students. He was extremely critical of doctors who lacked sufficient pharmaceutical knowledge or failed to understand how drugs interacted.
Dr Wolfe, the psychiatrist I worked under as a student, gave me much the same warning. If he caught me experimenting with drugs, I could no longer work in the rehabilitation section of the hospital.
We worked mostly with patients addicted to a wide variety of drugs and alcohol. Mixing substances seemed to be one of the most common problems.
The staff were fiercely opposed to any alcohol and as far as I knew, none took drugs themselves. They were a rather sour lot and did not exactly possess Labrador personalities. Maybe a drink would have cheered them up a bit?
Dr Wolfe tried to be more approachable as my mentor. The work was a shock, and paraldehyde was my worst nightmare.
Alcoholics, drug addicts and people with behavioural problems often presented complexities far beyond my understanding. I sometimes wondered whether the staff understood all their patients either, especially when so much of psychiatric care seemed to involve drugs, which eliminated any conversation. Dr Wolfe must have been psychic or had codebreaking telepathic skills.
Paraldehyde, an oil-like solvent, came in glass vials to keep it airtight and then you would draw it up with a glass syringe through the rubber stopper at the top. It melted plastic and was extremely painful when administered as an intramuscular injection!
It was used as a standard chemical restraint for agitated, violent or aggressive patients usually suffering severe episodes of delirium tremens. It caused severe pain and severe tissue damage.
Patients eventually calmed down and slept, but our stress from administering it, like the odious reek of paraldehyde breath lingered longer.
It was discontinued and replaced with safer modern drugs.
Dr Wolfe had little patience with angry or out-of-control patients and usually administered medication to calm them. Maybe he was just being pragmatic.
I would leave at the end of a shift relieved to escape back into my own world.
And what better antidote to a psychiatric ward than dolphins?
They would leap into the air, showing off their astonishing gymnastic abilities. When I swam with them, they seemed delighted to see me and sometimes played around me as though teasing the babe who could swim but certainly couldn’t perform their aerial acrobatics.
Eventually I would head back to shore and sleep until my next class. Sometimes I managed only two hours. Power naps became a survival skill.
Andrew’s, the funky nightclub, opened late and stayed lively until the early hours. My natural tendency to fall asleep before midnight had become a serious inconvenience.
So, I devised a solution. My own poor man’s cocktail.
It consisted of a tot of vodka and half a Dietene capsule, which I opened and crushed before mixing it with fake orange juice to disguise the foul taste.
At the time, Dietene was a popular over-the-counter slimming drug. I knew it contained an active stimulant and thought I had discovered a wonderfully cheap way of staying awake long enough to dance through the night.
I also thought my little invention was rather clever.
In retrospect, it was anything but.
The effect was euphoric and gave me seemingly boundless energy. Even then, something in the back of my mind warned me that anything making me feel that good was probably not entirely safe.
The irony was almost exquisite.
I was working part-time night shifts in a psychiatric ward under Dr Wolfe, surrounded by people whose lives had been damaged by alcohol and drugs.
Had he known what I was concocting before heading out dancing, he would probably have exploded.
I had seen enough at the hospital to know that mixing substances could be dangerous, yet youthful confidence has a remarkable ability to overpower common sense.
I knew that too much alcohol could become dangerous. I simply believed I knew where the line was.
That was the arrogance of youth.
And I certainly wasn’t going to discuss my cheap party trick with Cobus.
By then, he had become a professor of pharmacology. He would never have approved.
Angering him was not an option. He had a short fuse and, as another mentor, enjoyed lecturing me about anything remotely dangerous that he thought I might try.
He knew me too well…
This is a brief excerpt from Rubin van Niekerk’s upcoming Memoir/Autobiography, titled Mentors, Family and Friends Matter, chronicling the people, places and experiences that shaped his life from early childhood to later adulthood. We all relate to this universal experience.
New chapters will be published regularly in the Magazine section of the landing page of Gay Pages website, alongside our favourite archived articles, as the journey unfolds.
