I live in a massive gay house. Gays come, gays go. I have a habit of adopting stray gays into our home, and eventually they tend to become legit, paying housemates. I actually wish we had a bigger place, because there’s a whole lot more strays I’d like to adopt.

My most recent adoption – let’s just call him Phillip – is a failed homosexual and aspiring writer. He has an odd habit of attracting weirdness wherever he goes. He is not weird per se, but he is a weird magnet. Strangeness in the ether conglomerates around him, forming a pearly crust about his person.

For example, Phillip was taking a walk around the block one night a couple of months back, and noticed he was being followed by a small, old Malaysian man. This man then commenced an interrogation about the state of Phillip’s balls. Were they comfortable? This was his main concern. It’s sweet that old men in the neighbourhood are concerned about the wellbeing of Phillip’s reproductive organs, but really, I’m sure their sperm count would be just as high without enquiries from random old guys.

Another fucked thing that happened to Phillip involved cigarettes and kleptomaniacs. The other day he bought a 40 pack of whatever disgusting non-menthol brand he smokes, and while he was paying they were placed on the counter. By the time the transaction was completed and he had been handed his receipt, the cigarettes were gone! Some random klepto had reached over his shoulder, grabbed them, and hightailed out of there. This sort of bizarre occurrence isn’t unusual for Phillip.

An original gay who I’ve lived with since we got this house is Rosco. Rosco is a semi-masculine indie twink who works at a large European furniture store, and is slightly obsessed with downlights and budget decor. He shares with me a love of the insane, the maniacal, the random and the downright deranged. We share an obsession with cats. Rosco has lesbian tendencies and so often bakes for me. However, he doesn’t possess a lesbian’s love of cleanliness and I often lose my shit at him for leaving his scum in the sink. Despite this, his high pitched giggle and flamboyant homosexuality make me smile. He has a habit of yelling out highly inappropriate things during the course of an average day. He screeches most intensely in the shower, and I often wonder if our neighbours think we are a house full of axe-murderers.

Speaking of neighbours, I should say a word about poor Ralph. Ralph is our neighbour and the poor fellow’s back door is about two meters from my window, which I often leave open at inappropriate times. Needless to say, I’m pretty sure he knows I am a lesbian. He doesn’t seem to have a job, and he tends to potter around in the garden all day. I maintain that he has a den of sex slaves in his basement or something.

Then there’s the lady across the road – let’s just call her Crackpot. In truth, I do not know her real name. Every now and again this deranged woman comes to our front door and asks for $7. Always $7, not eight or five or three. Seven. There’s usually some reason too – like her mother is sick and she needs to take her to hospital. Personally I think she’s a junkie and it costs $7 for a hit of meth.

Back to our Queer Island, marooned in a sea of heteronormativity. There are some artefacts strewn about the crevices of our home that scream queer. For example, Rosco has a very, very large dildo, called Bill. I have deigned not to change the dildo’s name, because I feel that there is little concern for the privacy of an inanimate object such as Bill. Bill is nine inches long as has balls, a knob, and veins. Rosco claims he can “take” all nine inches of Bill’s length. Needless to say, Bill is very well acquainted with Rosco’s prostate.

So, when you, dearest Queer, come visit this island; when you walk its hallowed halls and sleep upon the couch; when you discover its artefacts; just remember, you might have entered as a Breeder, but you won’t leave that way!