The Problem With ‘Twink’ Culture

By Samuel Leighton-Dore

Twink (noun, adj.)
1. A homosexual or effeminate.
2. A young gay man regarded as an object of sexual desire.

I’m first called a twink when I’m eighteen years old. With my shiny blond mop of Jesse McCartney hair, virgin arsehole and the body of a Ukrainian gymnast, I’m considered hot property amongst the tired rotation of Oxford Street queens and grizzly middle-aged bears. I watch their eyes grow hungry as I pass by, all fawn-like in my skinny-jean swagger.

I’m new, I’m untouched, I’m fresh meat. I’m a twink.

Named after the American phallic-shaped snack-cake (Twinkes), twinks are commonly regarded as having little nutritional value, being sweet to the taste, and full of crème. Eternally euphemistic, they’re enjoyed for their packaging, not their substance – and tend to be treated as such. Only ever as desirable as they are disposable, one always interchangeable with the next.

I’m relishing my new-found title; wearing the badge (in one case literally) with pride. The wind’s in my hair and I’m soaring from the bottom of the social food chain (high-school) to somewhere near the top. I’m somebody now, and I like it. The acceptance, the camaraderie, the glitter, the undying sense of community. The nicknames, the arse-grabs. The open minds and open hearts.

This all abruptly changes, however, late one Saturday night in 2010, as I discover the cruel degradation to my apparent orientational royalty. You see, there’s a perverse underbelly to the raucous laughter and seductive neon lights of Sydney’s night life. And I stumbled right into it.

Local queer folklore tells of a penthouse somewhere above the throngs of Sydney’s Darlinghurst where parties are held on weeknights, queen-size beds come rent-free, and top-shelf alcohol is poured in unlimited supply. The flash, split-level abode is owned by a scrawny and obnoxiously wealthy man whose name I’ve chosen not to publish. For the sake of narrative, let’s call him Andrew.

Andrew started a well-known Australian fashion label with his then-wife and mother of his children. Now, however, he busies himself housing an eclectic rotation of twinks – both initiating and feeding their drug addictions under a sexually paternal pretence.

I know this because, for one night, I’m one of them.

A friend and I have been drunkenly invited to what could only be described as “a penthouse party with free booze”. Now, as anyone who’s ever been an unemployed eighteen-year-old will surely attest, a penthouse party with free booze is the absolute holy grail of unplanned Saturday night adventures. So we tag along; moths drawn to the flame. We buzz the apartment number, pat down our button-ups and take the mirror-clad elevator all the way to the top floor. Ding!

Before long I’m sipping vodka between tempered puffs of foreign cigarettes on the wrap-around balcony, feeling like the misguided protagonist in some homoerotic F Scott Fitzgerald nightmare. I’ve been granted exclusive access to the good life, the rich life. The life you might occasionally read about in magazines or catch glimpses of on the television. Drunk middle-classers shout from the stagnant nightclub lines below. It suddenly seems dirty down there. I don’t belong with them, I belong up here; where high-school drop-outs wear leather fisherman shoes and dramatically fling taupe sweaters across their bony shoulders.

Andrew commands the room as a cult leader would his church. Nothing about him is physically attractive, but it doesn’t seem to matter. His lifestyle is seductive enough. He spots me from across the room, eyes dancing salaciously along the lines of my body. My stomach drops. Does he like what he sees? Am I welcome here? Why do I even care?

It soon hits midnight, and here that seems to mean something. Designer make-up is being applied hurriedly in full-length mirrors; bronzer over cheekbones, a cloud of hairspray, fringes adjusted meticulously – one final row of tequila shots. We’re ready – though for what, I’m not sure.

I think we’re underground. It’s hot and the dark and the bass-line makes my teeth jitter. The drinks at Arq are expensive, more than I can afford, but my hand’s never empty. I’m not sure where my friend is, but I don’t really mind. People are smiling at me, dancing with me, grinding on me. Andrew moves in close, folding the palm of his hand over mine. ‘

I swallow the pills like they’re tic tacs, washing them down with a sloppy mouthful of vodka-lime-and-something. And now we wait; I mutter, but nobody’s listening.  My heart starts to race. Time drips slowly, like the melting clock in that Salvador Dali painting.

I come-to in the shower, my limped body resting naked in Andrew’s arms. His calloused hands wash me down with soap that smells of rosemary. I’m not sure whether it’s in preparation, or clean-up – but the harder he scrubs, the dirtier I feel. Is this sex? Is this what it means to be an adult?

Now we’re in bed, and we’re not alone. “This is what you want, isn’t it?” he asks, but it doesn’t feel like a question. He’s already inside me, rocking back and forth without hesitation. Others are watching, too. Stroking my face as I take it. Kissing the nape of my neck, as if they know my name. I close my eyes and escape to some half-state of consciousness. The kind you get when anticipating a punch or fall.

I’m scared, I’m hurting, but I cope.

I don’t remember falling asleep, but the next morning I wake, flush-cheeked and swollen-eyed; chest pounding, aching with regret. I’m sleepily tossed $3.50 in silver coins for the train ride home. Andrew says that I’m welcome back anytime. But I never go back. I’ve already endured my inauguration.

Limping unceremoniously to the station, I decide that I hate being a twink. The silent objectification. The permission so readily assumed by others to touch, grab, feel, fuck my body. I hate that it seems to connote both physical weakness and emotional dependability. I hate that young gay men can be targeted at their most vulnerable, emerging from their tumultuous teenage years and desperate for connection. The way they’re too often broken down, when they so need to be empowered.

But most of all, I hate myself. I hate that I let it happen. I hate that I didn’t say, “no”.

PS. This story is in no way indicative of my relationships with older gay men. I’ve since been fortunate enough to find some incredibly supportive mentors within the community.