Maeve: Hi, I’m Maeve Marsden and you’re listening to Queerstories. If you can spare a few bucks each month to help me continue to produce this podcast, because you love it, or you love me, please check out Queerstories on Patreon and consider supporting the project. Also, follow Queerstories on Facebook for upcoming events, pics and other good shit.
This week, Steven Oliver is a descendant of the Kuku-Yalanji, Waanyi, Gangalidda, Woppaburra, Bundjalung and Biripi peoples. He has worked with numerous theatre companies, festivals and arts organisations across Australia but became notorious with ABC’s Logie/AACTA nominated sketch comedy show Black Comedy as a writer/actor/associate producer. He is co-creator/writer/presenter for Indigenous Arts Quiz Show Faboriginal as well as the documentary Looky Looky Here Comes Cooky (SBS/NITV) which won best factual documentary at the 2021 Australian International Documentary Conference. His poetry is published in both national and international poetry journals and his plays Proppa Solid and From Darkness both received audience and critical acclaim. He has sold out performances of his one man cabaret show Bigger & Blacker, he’s an absolute icon. Enjoy.
Steven:
Hi, I’m Steven and I’m a slut. Now, I know what a lot of you mob are thinking, it’s either “Have I walked into a sex addict meeting?”, “I thought this was queer stories not rear stories” or the most likely outcome “Why yes, you are Steven Oliver. Yes you are indeed!” and although – without any hesitation – I’d agree with those of you thinking the latter, you sluts, I do feel the need to point out that when it comes to the ‘S’ word by which I mean neither sexy nor single though of which I am both, especially for you men and especially those of you who need to attend an actual sex addicts meeting, I do need to stress that the word slut means a myriad of things when integrated into the everyday or in some cases, every minute conversations had by the very sexy, aboriginal race.
So, to make the point and enlighten those of you unaware to this cultural and linguistic phenomenon of taking English words and evolving them into a being of multiple interpretations, I’m going to share a few stories that hopefully give insight as to not just what aboriginal people think, but how we think. And if I pull this off – not like that, you sex addicts – then hopefully you will see how words can be transformed, seemingly born of a cocoon like some beautiful slutty butterfly or perhaps a slutterfly that doesn’t just spread it wings or legs, but also a cultural awareness as you learn how sometimes a slut, even a proper one, isn’t a slut, but is.
CHAPTER 1 – THE BIGGEST SLUT OF ALL, AND I DON’T MEAN ME.
So, here I was. A nineteen year old Murri kid who had recently just left his home of Townsville North Queensland to move to Perth where he was going to become a dancer – I’m a really good dancer, here, I’ll show you – STEVEN GIVES DEMO OF DANCE ABILITY. Thank you. Now, although I danced my ass off in class, I was also highly enjoying shaking my arse quite freely in the gaybars that Perth had to offer. Liberated by the fact that nobody knew me in Perth and even more liberated by the fact that in 1994 there were no smart phones, camera phones, digital or social media. That meant this ass shaking bitch didn’t have to act closeted.
Now, the locations of this liberated arse shaking was in two venues known as The Court Hotel aka The Court and Connections Nightclub aka Connies. And it was in these two establishments that, in a space of three weeks from first moving to Perth, I had some shared some quick hellos and chats to members of the gay Noongar/Aboriginal community. However, it was one particular night, that would lead to my lifelong friendship with the biggest slut of all. Who, if he were here, I’m sure would refer to me as the biggest or perhaps the littlest since he always did, and still does to this day, say to me ‘You little slut!’ His name is Charlie.
I spent my first night hanging out with Charlie that when I think about it, started out because of pity which is strange to say because Charlie isn’t someone who needs pity. To me, he’s always been a fighter and I mean that in every sense of the word. Though this particular night we’d previously only crossed paths twice or so before and upon entering the court hotel, instead of seeing a fighter, I saw a Noongar brother sitting on a chair crying looking real sad or as Noongar mob would say, looking real winyarn, or as we of the Murri community would say, “Darnt sorry one” but yes, you get it, the bitch was sad.
Now, with me being kind, compassionate, nosey bitch I am, I approached Charlie and asked, “Which way, you okay? What’s wrong?” to which he replied real winyarn way, “I’m a dog! I’m a dog! Nobody wants to hang with me. Nobody wants to be seen with me! My best friend left me for a man, I’m here by myself! I’m a dog.” Feeling real ‘darn’t sorry one’ for him, I metioned that I had been paid that day and he’ll be right. “Hang with me,” I said, “I’ll shout you charge and that. You be right.” But before I could even get an answer off my new, down in the dumps, winyarn friend, he spotted a container laying on the other side of the hallway to which he excitedly asked ‘What’s that” and leapt from the chair as if wallabies were his totem, picked up the cylindrical container, popped it’s lid, revealing the multiple white pills that lay inside to which he declared, “Gasp! I’m gonna kill myself!” Reacting in a way that one aboriginal person does to another when hardly knowing each other and faced with such situations I growled, “Don’t be stupid!”
Either not hearing my plea or ignoring it altogether, I’m guessing the latter, he proceeded to empty half of the container’s contents into his left hand and without hesitation shoved them all into his mouth. Shocked, I once again reacted in a way that one aboriginal person does to another when hardly knowing each other and faced with such situations and said, “Get em out of your mouth, fuck you!” If I wasn’t shocked enough already, his next statement created an atmosphere of surprise and bewildering confusion when he said, “but they taste nice.” “What!?” I asked, “They taste nice” he repeated, seemingly unaware that I was at a loss as to what I should do.
Not that I needed to work out a solution to the predicament that faced me because before I could say ‘Kartwarra Noongar’ – Kartwarra meaning womba meaning crazy meaning mad black bitch – another blackfella arrived on the scene and in a way that seemed to imply he didn’t really care but was curious enough to inquire asked, “What you mob doing?” This was Joshy. Another member of the gay Noongar community who I had never met before. This unfamiliarity saw me obviously react in a way how one aboriginal person does to another when never having met before and exclaimed, “This silly slut just chucked a whole lot of pills in his mouth trying to kill himself!” Still refusing to take them out, not as an act of defiance but rather one of enjoyment, Charlie once again declared, “But they taste nice.”
Unfazed by my words and intrigued by Charlie’s, Joshy grabbed the container and emptied two pills into his hand. Grabbing one of the pills, he turns to me and says, “Come on, you take one too. We all die together.” Once again reacting in a way that one aboriginal person does to another when having never having met before I replied, “Fuck you, I’m not dying for no slut!” Still unfazed by my words, Joshy chucks a pill into his mouth and unsure why I’m even still surprised at this point says, “Mmmmm. They do taste nice.” His reaction urging me to snatch the container off him and say, “Give me one of them sluts!” I thought, what harm could it do to put just one in my mouth and at least taste it? Fuck all it would seem upon learning that the very pills Charlie had attempted to overdose on were in fact breath fresheners.
I don’t know who the sillier slut was. Charlie, for putting on such a dramatic show. Joshy, for coming in midway and continuing to be unfazed during and after the situation. Or me, for being swept up in it all and thinking that someone sitting there, sucking on pills and continuously saying they taste nice, was actually in the midst of overdosing. Not that I really care. I think the three of us collectively being simple moles is what makes it such a stupid, memorable story which I would come to learn would only be the first in a long line of simple slut scenarios.
CHAPTER 2 – THE LITTLEST SLUT OF ALL AND YES, I DO MEAN ME.
As time passed, I learnt the depths of friendship. Containing more than just laughter, there’s sadness, hurt, jealousy, abuse and expectations. All of which can lead to fights but if the friendship is strong enough there’s also always forgiveness.
Take one morning for example. A 20 year old Murri and two of his Noongar friends. We’re getting a lift home by a white guy who either offered us a lift or being coerced into giving us one. I’m guessing coercion due to one of the Blak queens hoping to get into his pants or if I remember correctly, his tight AFL footy shorts. Obviously he wore these to lure those who made moist by footy players, which of all the three passengers in the car, were all three passengers. Regardless of how much moister was in the car though, it wasn’t enough to douse the flames of jealousy.
I’m unsure who started the whole debacle but before long it had turned into a screaming match between the two Noongar friends. It became so heated that if the car did actually have any moisture it would’ve officially been a gat sauna. They yelled at the driver to stop, he pulled over and the argument spilled over to the footpath. The driver looked at me and said “Do you think we should do something?” I replied “Believe me, it’s best to just leave them alone.” Ignoring my advice, he got out of the car and tried taking control of the situation by saying “Hey, c’mon guys, stop fighting ay!” This was met with “And who are you cunt? Fuck off back home to your man cunt!” He turned to the car defeated and said “Oh my god. That really hurt me ay. When he told me to fuck off home back to my man, like I mean, I don’t have a man but it still really hurt ay.”
Perplexed by this statement but really moist for him, I mean what else would you expect from a drunk, horny, 20 year old me, I said “Maybe we should go?” To which he easily agreed. A few hours later I returned to my friends and wondered what reception I would receive. They had argued over him yet I was the one who had reaped the rewards of budoo aka manhood aka penis if you haven’t gotten it by now. Would I receive the same anger displayed only hours before on the footpath? Would they forgive me for abandoning them for the all important poke-with-man? Apparently they would. As most Blak fulla do, they saw the humour in the situation and told me as soon as the car drove off they both stopped arguing, looked at the car driving away and said “That little slut.”
CHAPTER 3 – TOO MANY SLUT STORIES TO TELL
I wished to share more stories with you, but being the longwinded slut I am, I used up too much time. Stories from communities all over this continent of ours. Stories I’ve felt blessed to be a part of. When people ask me where does my humour come from, I could claim that I’m naturally funny much in the way that I’m naturally sexy, but I don’t. I realised my humour is not just a personal coping mechanism but one that comes from being a coping mechanism for aboriginal communities, for queer communities and queer aboriginal communities. Sometimes we’ve had to see the funny side of things to not just stop the onslaught of sadness but to survive. So now, I would like to take 15 seconds of silence so that everyone here can think of the ones who have made them laugh, of those we have made laugh and appreciate the gift of laughter shared with those closest to you.
So on that note, I’d like to leave you on one Brisbane story seeming we are in Brisbane. At the Wickham one night back in the day when you could still smoke inside, I was on the dance floor yet again shaking my arse, when my friend Gregory enters from outside. Smoke in hand, dancing to the beat, eyeballs popping out of his mouth and announcing in an extreamly shocked manner “This woman just flashed me her pussy!” “What?!” I asked. To which he replied “And it was glistening!”
Hi, I’m Steven and I’m a slut. Now, I know what a lot of you mob are thinking, it’s either “Have I walked into a sex addict meeting?”, “I thought this was queer stories not rear stories” or the most likely outcome “Why yes, you are Steven Oliver. Yes you are indeed!” and although – without any hesitation – I’d agree with those of you thinking the latter, you sluts, I do feel the need to point out that when it comes to the ‘S’ word by which I mean neither sexy nor single though of which I am both, especially for you men and especially those of you who need to attend an actual sex addicts meeting, I do need to stress that the word slut means a myriad of things when integrated into the everyday or in some cases, every minute conversations had by the very sexy, aboriginal race.
So, to make the point and enlighten those of you unaware to this cultural and linguistic phenomenon of taking English words and evolving them into a being of multiple interpretations, I’m going to share a few stories that hopefully give insight as to not just what aboriginal people think, but how we think. And if I pull this off – not like that, you sex addicts – then hopefully you will see how words can be transformed, seemingly born of a cocoon like some beautiful slutty butterfly or perhaps a slutterfly that doesn’t just spread it wings or legs, but also a cultural awareness as you learn how sometimes a slut, even a proper one, isn’t a slut, but is.
STORY NUMBER 1 – THE BIGGEST SLUT OF ALL, AND I DON’T MEAN ME.
So, here I was. A nineteen year old Murri kid who had recently just left his home of Townsville North Queensland to move to Perth where he was going to become a dancer – I’m a really good dancer, here, I’ll show you – STEVEN GIVES DEMO OF DANCE ABILITY. Thank you. Now, although I danced my ass off in class, I was also highly enjoying shaking my arse quite freely in the gaybars that Perth had to offer. Liberated by the fact that nobody knew me in Perth and even more liberated by the fact that in 1994 there were no smart phones, camera phones, digital or social media. That meant this ass shaking bitch didn’t have to act closeted.
Now, the locations of this liberated arse shaking was in two venues known as The Court Hotel aka The Court and Connections Nightclub aka Connies. And it was in these two establishments that, in a space of three weeks from first moving to Perth, I had some shared some quick hellos and chats to members of the gay Noongar/Aboriginal community. However, it was one particular night, that would lead to my lifelong friendship with the biggest slut of all. Who, if he were here, I’m sure would refer to me as the biggest or perhaps the littlest since he always did, and still does to this day, say to me ‘You little slut!’ His name is Charlie.
I spent my first night hanging out with Charlie that when I think about it, started out because of pity which is strange to say because Charlie isn’t someone who needs pity. To me, he’s always been a fighter and I mean that in every sense of the word. Though this particular night we’d previously only crossed paths twice or so before and upon entering the court hotel, instead of seeing a fighter, I saw a Noongar brother sitting on a chair crying looking real sad or as Noongar mob would say, looking real winyarn, or as we of the Murri community would say, “Darnt sorry one” but yes, you get it, the bitch was sad.
Now, with me being kind, compassionate, nosey bitch I am, I approached Charlie and asked, “Which way, you okay? What’s wrong?” to which he replied real winyarn way, “I’m a dog! I’m a dog! Nobody wants to hang with me. Nobody wants to be seen with me! My best friend left me for a man, I’m here by myself! I’m a dog.” Feeling real ‘darn’t sorry one’ for him, I metioned that I had been paid that day and he’ll be right. “Hang with me,” I said, “I’ll shout you charge and that. You be right.” But before I could even get an answer off my new, down in the dumps, winyarn friend, he spotted a container laying on the other side of the hallway to which he excitedly asked ‘What’s that” and leapt from the chair as if wallabies were his totem, picked up the cylindrical container, popped it’s lid, revealing the multiple white pills that lay inside to which he declared, “Gasp! I’m gonna kill myself!” Reacting in a way that one aboriginal person does to another when hardly knowing each other and faced with such situations I growled, “Don’t be stupid!”
Either not hearing my plea or ignoring it altogether, I’m guessing the latter, he proceeded to empty half of the container’s contents into his left hand and without hesitation shoved them all into his mouth. Shocked, I once again reacted in a way that one aboriginal person does to another when hardly knowing each other and faced with such situations and said, “Get em out of your mouth, fuck you!” If I wasn’t shocked enough already, his next statement created an atmosphere of surprise and bewildering confusion when he said, “but they taste nice.” “What!?” I asked, “They taste nice” he repeated, seemingly unaware that I was at a loss as to what I should do.
Not that I needed to work out a solution to the predicament that faced me because before I could say ‘Kartwarra Noongar’ – Kartwarra meaning womba meaning crazy meaning mad black bitch – another blackfella arrived on the scene and in a way that seemed to imply he didn’t really care but was curious enough to inquire asked, “What you mob doing?” This was Joshy. Another member of the gay Noongar community who I had never met before. This unfamiliarity saw me obviously react in a way how one aboriginal person does to another when never having met before and exclaimed, “This silly slut just chucked a whole lot of pills in his mouth trying to kill himself!” Still refusing to take them out, not as an act of defiance but rather one of enjoyment, Charlie once again declared, “But they taste nice.”
Unfazed by my words and intrigued by Charlie’s, Joshy grabbed the container and emptied two pills into his hand. Grabbing one of the pills, he turns to me and says, “Come on, you take one too. We all die together.” Once again reacting in a way that one aboriginal person does to another when having never having met before I replied, “Fuck you, I’m not dying for no slut!” Still unfazed by my words, Joshy chucks a pill into his mouth and unsure why I’m even still surprised at this point says, “Mmmmm. They do taste nice.” His reaction urging me to snatch the container off him and say, “Give me one of them sluts!” I thought, what harm could it do to put just one in my mouth and at least taste it? Fuck all it would seem upon learning that the very pills Charlie had attempted to overdose on were in fact breath fresheners.
I don’t know who the sillier slut was. Charlie, for putting on such a dramatic show. Joshy, for coming in midway and continuing to be unfazed during and after the situation. Or me, for being swept up in it all and thinking that someone sitting there, sucking on pills and continuously saying they taste nice, was actually in the midst of overdosing. Not that I really care. I think the three of us collectively being simple moles is what makes it such a stupid, memorable story which I would come to learn would only be the first in a long line of simple slut scenarios.
STORY NUMBER 2 – THE LITTLEST SLUT OF ALL AND YES, I DO MEAN ME.
Maeve: Thanks for listening. Don’t forget to check out Queerstories on Patreon where you can support the project for as little as $1 per month. Follow Queerstories on Facebook for news and event updates, it’s been a weird couple of years what with the pandemic and me becoming a parent but I’m planning some big things in 2023 and I’d love you to be part of it.
