By Nicolas Van Der Haar
Copyright ©2025
“It's been agony, but I couldn't have done it any other way” – Quentin Crisp in The Naked Civil Servant (1968).
Before we begin, a short prelude. The date was October 11th, 2024. The day had been pleasant. The weather was noticeably delightful, being both warm and windless. A thoroughly Melbourne day. The perfect setting for truth-telling and serious drinking. For anonymity’s sake, I have named our subject: Mister Brown. I should emphasise this name change was not performed at the Subject’s request. When I suggested that when our chat had the potential to become literary fiction, Mister Brown insisted upon his real name being used. I was able to convince him of the benefits of a sobriquet. He had only two conditions - ‘Mister’ should not be shortened to ‘Mr’ out of respect, and my reasons for Mister Brown’s anonymity be expressed in the text. I will do so now below.
Firstly, Mister Brown could not understand the implications of his deeply personal story. I do not consider myself a writer on the level of a Janet Flanner or Dorothy Parker (yet, I may add). As a result, any individual could read this work and interpret it however they wish, based entirely upon the identity of Mister Brown. Most Australians may wrinkle their nose at this kind of content, and it could have a permanent impact on the life of Mister Brown.
Secondly, Mister Brown became deeply intoxicated as we spoke, on both gin and vodka in equal measure. I can assure you that it did not confuse Mister Brown’s words. Merely their order. If anything, Brown’s inebriated state enhanced his emotion and allowed him to frame his story of the handful into a grand, linear journey. Like the trimming of a great, overgrown hedge, with each emptied glass the verbal tangents Mister Brown had initially been fond of were clipped away.
My final reason for Mister Brown’s anonymity is that I was passionately intoxicated. I endeavoured to remember every detail; however, I did not have a sharp, journalistic eye that day. Much of this story was taken down in the moment, using a borrowed pen and a half-dozen napkins. Eventually, I used the back of a drink menu and a single piece of lined diary paper from our waiter, Matthew, on the condition I name drop him. Ultimately, to include the real name of Mister Brown or his handful would instil an accuracy undeserving of this humble piece of work. This work seeks to recount Mister Brown’s narrative with authenticity rather than precision.
At this point, I should inform you what exactly the “Mighty Handful” is: Mister Brown has fisted five men in total. Typically, this kind of fact would not be a self-reflective moment. Mister Brown justified himself by suggesting that the handful was: “like realising I had won a Lifetime Achievement Award”. He was struck by the strange reality that his right and“on occasion his left hand” had been places and done things separate to his body. Furthermore, Mister Brown believed that each man who made up his “Mighty Handful” reflected something of himself. They were not all passionate romances, but each person was a snapshot of Mister Brown’s life at the time. I think Mister Brown enjoyed my metaphor for his sense of nostalgia - the final scene of a long play, actors frozen in place with expression fixed, waiting for the curtain to come down and the lights to fade to darkness. Simply, each solitary person was a finger that made up a fist. To maintain the clarity of Mister Brown’s intention I will maintain his structure.
Thumb
The first man was a friend of Mister Brown. His “bestest” friend at one point. He was a best friend at that young age when things like that really mattered. Thumb’s unfashionable upbringing as a zealous Italian Catholic ensured he could be both sincere and a liar at both times. They said they loved one another; they’d get married one day and travel the world together. Thumb was confident, “attractively short” with “even shorter” black hair. However, it was a short and painful fisting for both men. An experiment gone sadly awry. At the time they blamed themselves for their clumsy, sexual failure. He did not see their failed romance as a bad thing. He remembers their nude, angry arguments on the existence or non-existence of God/s. Thumb is now engaged to a man close to twenty years older to him and “presumably” has a great life. The important thing to Brown is that Thumb is happy.
Pointer Finger
According to Mister Brown, Pointer was a “complete and thorough nobody, at least personality-wise”. Despite that he was a “truly fantastic” lover. They bumped into one another at a nightclub and “things progressed how you would think they would when you bump into a beautiful man”. Despite not being prepared, Mister Brown gave himself wholly to Pointer Finger. “I gave that drunk, beautiful idiot every inch of me”. Pointer was a great deal more experienced than Mister Brown. After their first night, they continued to have passionate sex every weekend. It all became part of their awful ritual - Pointer “needed vile self-mixed cocktails to make even a second of love”. Brown would arrive at the house Pointer rented and sit on the tatty lawn furniture on the front porch waiting. A couple of hours later, an already drunk Pointer would stumble home, unlock the front door and proceed to make violent love to Brown until Sunday morning. One night, he spanked Brown till “my ass turned dark purple”. Some nights he would be brutal and others deeply affectionate. They made love on Pointer’s rickety bed frame until it eventually collapsed. After that they broke up the frame and burned it in a backyard fire. Then made love on a mattress on the floor like “common as muck teenagers”. Outside of this ritual of lovemaking they had next to nothing in common. They did “dangerous and aggressive things in the bedroom” because they felt they had no reason not to. Despite this, Pointer loved Brown passionately until the very end. Mister Brown suspects the end came sooner than either of them wanted. But they had fought and argued about something, and he departed furiously. They have not shared a word since.
Middle Finger
“Middle Finger’s name is to me a mystery”. He was a tough and heavy-set “bugger” with small patches of complex tattoos on “secret and hidden parts of his body”. They had met through an app. Exchange some photos. They had sex all night in a hotel room Middle Finger had rented while “passing through town”. A one-night exclusive deal. He was some kind of traveling businessman. He also wore a wedding ring that Brown was assured was just his deceased father’s, worn out of a sentimental mourning. Brown enjoyed his brief time with Middle Finger. He enjoyed it’s “absolutely no strings” because it could remain in his mind as whatever he wished it to be. A deeply tender and moment in his life. Brown says he often finds himself replaying “but not obsessing” the night and morning they spent together.
Ring Finger
At the time, Mister Brown was worried that it was self-obsessed to date someone with the same name as you. He rationalised that “any gay man today would inevitably have that kinds of problem come up and you shouldn’t hold it against them”. He took it into the concern into consideration but the important thing to Mister Brown was that he would not be repeating his mistakes. He was careful that there was no definable pattern to his love life. There were two primary differences in Ring Finger. Firstly, was his lack of hair. “As bald as his elbows!”. Secondly, Ring Finger was passionately obsessed with Mister Brown. After two months of dating, Brown found himself moved into Ring Finger’s house. On the surface, Ring was as a very ordinary guy. A thoroughly prim kind-a fellow who worked a medical research job in the city. It was beneath that thin layer of smiles and gentles manners that lay Ring Finger’s issues.
“When I moved in, I noticed how odd his life was. He had arranged his bathroom in a way that the toilet faced the bathtub, which had no shower function. If you wanted to clean yourself, you had to have a bath. A little odd but what are you going to do? So, I had a nightly bath, good for my skin you won’t hear no complaints from me …”.
“… Issues arose when he always found some lame excuse to watch me bathe. Initially it would be a generous glass of water or a fresh towel or he needed to use the toilet … I didn’t mind at first, it was sweet at first. It was when he put an armchair in the bathroom and began groping himself while I bathed, that’s when it all got much stranger”.
In contrast to how he cherished and adored Brown, Ring Finger treated his own self with absolute disregard. When not dressed for work, he looked destitute. Ring served himself frozen meals and instant coffee. He shaved only when Mister Brown complained about his patchy beard. At the end, the only reason Brown and Ring had for staying together was the obsession. They broke up a little over three years now. Despite this, Ring Finger still calls Mister Brown every month or so “just to stay in touch”. “There is nothing there except kind words and polite refusals now”.
Pinkie
Pinkie is the current fling of Mister Brown. A tall and lanky hairdresser and tattooist clumsily creeping through his early 30’s. He looks like he hasn’t noticed he is losing his bleached blonde hair. His lips are stained red from a decade of wine and cigarettes. He looks like he survived the Great Depression. Aside from all that, he holds up not too badly under dim lighting. They met while Mister Brown was getting his “first and only” tattoo. He “makes love like a teenager”, for a long time with too much kissing and not a lot of genuine passion”. Pinkie is a charmer though and he would do well “for at least the time being”.
Conclusion
Once Mister Brown had finished his handful, for some strange twinge in the brain I had reminded him The Night They Raided Minsky’s, an ancient movie my grandmother had insisted I watch with her. Specifically, the dialogue the old man says to the audience: “you speak with the fist of authority gentleman, but you don’t know your fingers”. At the time, drunk almost out of my mind I thought the quotation witty and charming. Unfortunately, Brown did know The Night They Raided Minsky’s and the quote had no impact whatsoever. Also, I think I made it worse by sitting in silence after that and beginning to put my notes into some kind of order. Abruptly Brown said he was off to get another drink and hurried off find a waiter. He never came back. I hope and assume that he is well.
About Nicolas Van Der Haar:
Nicolas Van Der Haar is an author based in Melbourne, Australia. He has been previously published by The Victorian Writer, Vagabond Fiction and Farrago Magazine. He can be happily found on Instagram at: @nic_noc_nac
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