Episode Three - The Banned List

Cosmo Farfetch had once again declared himself on the brink of stardom. This time it was because someone, somewhere, had recognised him — not for Les Misérables, not for Shakespeare, not even for Cats — but for his appearance in the cult horror gem Vengeful School Girls on Acid. His role? The hysterical gay twink whose camel-toe shorts distracted the audience from the plot entirely. It wasn’t exactly an Oscar nomination, but Cosmo swore it was “career-defining.” Alas, career-defining didn’t pay the bills.

So several drinks later, a line of coke and a diet pill (well, it would have been rude to refuse), after burning the midnight hour with wild stories from that movie, Cosmo missed his audition for The Real Gays of Melba Heights — a reality series desperate for a Joan Collins impersonator with emotional baggage. Cosmo was perfect.

Enter Miles Russo. Depending on whom you asked, he was either Cosmo’s best friend, his unpaid assistant, or a one-night stand who never left. Miles had the loyalty of a Labrador and the charm of a damp sock, but he kept Cosmo fed with lukewarm coffees and the occasional rent contribution.

Miles was tall, with broad shoulders, neat hair, and a complexion as if he moisturised with hydration spells. A man who looked like he genuinely folded his clothes instead of letting them fall where they may. Think Clark Kent without the Superman.

Miles was the opposite of Cosmo in every measurable way. Where Cosmo was silk, He wore linen suits. Where Cosmo was excessive, he was restrained. Where Cosmo was a tornado of emotions and rhinestones, Miles was a man who thought “three drinks is plenty” and meant it. In short, he was the most boringly handsome mistake Cosmo had ever made.

Six years earlier, Cosmo Farfetch boarded a flight back home from Amsterdam to Melbourne, with a hangover so profound it deserved its own seat, after a week-long self-healing journey. He had been fired again. Apparently, hurling champagne at a director was assault.

Feeling sad and sorry for himself, Cosmo booked a trip as far away from reality as he could get that didn’t involve ruby slippers. Amsterdam was the ticket.

His journey involved waking up in a Dusseldorf field, naked with a tramp stamp on his backside and a cow licking his testicles, which was followed by a fisting tournament where he ended up at an emergency room with a Pappy Van Winkle bottle wedge somewhere it shouldn’t, and finally licking his wounds and Russian Vodka from the rock-hard abdomen of a Danish porn star. Hence the hangover.

He boarded the flight wearing enormous sunglasses, a feathered scarf, and the type of emotional exhaustion normally reserved for people who’ve attended far too many art installations involving nudity.

Miles was a flight attendant then — crisp uniform, hair shellacked to perfection, smile charming in that quiet, devastating way—the kind of man who handed out miniature pretzels with the sincerity of a priest delivering communion.

Cosmo spotted him immediately.

Cosmo Farfetch does not meet handsome men. He targets them like a glamorous missile of questionable judgment. When Miles approached with the drinks trolley, Cosmo purred, “Something bubbly, sweetheart. Preferably alcoholic. Preferably free.”

Miles smiled, amused, “It’s nine in the morning.”

He passed him the champagne anyway. Hands lightly touching. An indiscreet caress of his inner palm. And Miles was hooked.

Cosmo smiled, that alluring trademark that deflowered many a foley artist, “Time is a construct.”

And that is how their downfall began.

By hour seven of the flight, Cosmo had migrated to the galley under the guise of “stretching his legs,” which in Cosmo’s dialect means “flirting aggressively with someone who really should know better.”

At hour eight, they kissed.

At hour eight and six minutes, they made a very poor decision involving the crew rest area.

At hour eight and ten minutes, a rather enthusiastically horned-up flight attendant made the rookie mistake of dislodging Cosmo from his back, where he landed outside the rest area, naked for everyone to see.

Miles shrieked. Cosmo apologised. And cameras began to click. Miles, mortified, vanished behind a curtain. Cosmo, however, had never felt more alive.

Cosmo orchestrated the entire scandal. He paid the camera clickers to wait outside the crew rest area. I, your sassy narrator with a caustic wit, could have been one of those photographers, but that would be telling!

By the time the plane landed, Cosmo Farfetch was trending worldwide as: “FLIGHT FIASCO FABULOUS: Soap Star Caught In Mile-High Mayhem.”

Cosmo gave interviews. Professing invasion of privacy. He milked the media for sympathy, and he got it. He rode the publicity wave like a drunk mermaid refusing to drown. And was once more back on the soap opera. He survived the plane crash after all.

Miles, on the other hand, had been suspended for work and chose to never mention the incident again — mostly out of embarrassment, partly out of fear that Cosmo might disappear from his life.

And Cosmo?

He remained immensely proud. Nothing delights Cosmo Farfetch more than engineered chaos that gets him attention.

Yet on this occasion, the mood was less frivolous. Miles had his stern face on once more, “Cosmo,” he said. “We need to talk.”

Cosmo squinted, “Is it about Big Merv? Surely, he got the hint.”

“No,” Miles said. “It’s about… you. Your favourite subject. I heard about the audition…well the lack of one.”

Cosmo froze. Nothing — and I mean nothing — ruins a morning faster than an emotionally stable man wanting to “talk.”

“Oh! Sweetheart! I’m gonna need a lot of caffeine for this,” Cosmo exclaimed, “Shall we reconvene at The Honey Bee?”

The coffee date ended abruptly with a barista’s scalded forearm, a broken coffee cup, and yet another ban from yet another café?

Cosmo swore it wasn’t his fault — he had merely demanded a simple coffee, not a sage-smudged oat milk potion “swirled with regret.” The barista had, unfortunately, been standing in the trajectory of Cosmo’s caffeine-fuelled tantrum.

This is what happened when Cosmo got nervous. The Talk got him positively raging with anxiety.

And so, the ban list grew longer, joining gay bars, gyms, and Tiffany’s cocktail soirées. The world, it seemed, was shrinking for Cosmo Farfetch.

Miles escorted Cosmo from the café. They pulled up on a pew in the park, having shaken down a coffee cart attendant for their necessary caffeine injection.

Cosmo slunk back. Miles sighed, removing his glasses to massage the pain between his eyes, “These bans are reckless.”

Cosmo’s eye twitched. He hated that Miles kept tabs on him. He hated it even more that Miles always found out every humiliation within hours.

“That coffee pleb,” Cosmo repeated flatly. “Deserved it.”

Miles nodded, “What about The Whiney Pig?”

The Whiney Pig was an old haunt — a bar known for sticky floors and even stickier men. It had started because Cosmo attempted to perform a sensual reinterpretation of “Defying Gravity” on karaoke night.

By the final verse, he’d climbed onto the bar, wrapped himself in fairy lights, and announced, “He was ascending into his personal power.”

He did not ascend. He tripped. He head-butted the top shelf of liquor, shattered half the expensive stock, and landed in a drag queen’s lap. Pissy Galour was not amused.

Cosmo was banned for unsafe vertical ambitions. Miles had copped a black eye when he tried to intervene in the fight between Pissy Galour and Cosmo.

“I was defending my honour!”

“There isn’t much to defend. Remember the gym?”

Cosmo had lasted exactly four minutes at that gym before tragedy struck. He got tangled in a jump rope, hit the treadmill sideways, and launched himself into a personal trainer named Brad.

“I tripped! I swear I was not trying to fondle him.”

“Observers claimed your hand was on his arse.”

“I was trying to steady myself.”

“What about Tiffany’s soirée?”

Cosmo’s attendance was regrettable. It began well. He was charming, glamorous, and only lightly tipsy. Then he attempted to “alleviate the tension in the room” by hosting an impromptu séance for Tiffany’s dead grandmother.

Unfortunately, Tiffany’s grandmother was not dead. Grannie threw her drink in offence. Cosmo slipped on the spillage and landed on the buffet.

Tiffany threw a Manchego cheese wheel at Cosmo’s head while screaming, “You vile bitch! You ruin everything! No wonder your father left you!”

His father died. So, he didn’t have much of a choice. It was his marriage to Tiffany that always brought out Cosmo’s aggrieved side. The woman had to take their endless stoush to the next level. Marrying his father. Well, stealing him would be more apt. At the time, he was still married to Cosmo’s mother.

Cosmo sat hunched over his flat white, stirring it with the fragile energy of a man considering throwing himself into traffic but too dramatic to follow through. Anything to end this line of inquiry.

Miles sat across from him, hands wrapped around his own recyclable coffee container, watching him with an expression that was equal parts concern, exhaustion, and the undying hope that Cosmo might — for once — let another human being in.

Cosmo refused eye contact. He never avoids eye contact unless he is cornered emotionally or looking at a carb.

Miles cleared his throat. “Cosmo,” he said quietly. “We need to talk about all this.”

“Sweetheart,” Cosmo didn’t look up. “If this is about the bans, I maintain they were misunderstandings.” Miles raised an eyebrow. Cosmo scoffed. “Love, what is a ban, really? A suggestion with teeth.”

“No,” Miles said gently. “It’s a pattern.”

Cosmo stiffened. Miles leaned forward.

“You drink too much. You use humour to deflect everything. You throw yourself into chaos because it’s easier than feeling anything real.”

“I am fun,” Cosmo said, voice sharper than intended.

“You’re hurting,” Miles countered. “And hiding behind fun.”

Cosmo’s throat tightened. He swallowed hard, “I’m doing fine, sweetheart,” he tried again, forcing the words out with bravado. “I’m dealing with everything beautifully, actually.”

Miles shook his head, “Cosmo… you’re spiralling.”

Cosmo glared. “I am not spiralling. I am… artistically descending…though briefly. I shall rise once again. I always do.”

“If it gets any worse, we’ll never be able to leave your apartment,” Miles said softly. “Felix broke your heart. He was your last chance of being saved. And you let him get away.”

“Hey! I didn’t force him to swallow that pill!”

“You didn’t hold him back either. That was his ejector button out of there.” He hadn’t expected Miles to say the quiet part out loud. “You pretend you’re unbreakable,” Miles continued, “but underneath all that camp and glitter, you’re… lonely.’

“Not anymore. I have Carrie Fisher.”

Miles ignored his interruption, “You’re hurting and exhausted.”

Cosmo blinked rapidly, refusing to cry in public — unless there was a photographic opportunity. Yet everywhere he looked in the park, opportunity was absent. Why waste good tears on a Tia chi club practicing the art of stillness, three nattering pram walkers in activewear that wiggled and jiggled or the Basset Hound that had escaped its frantic, overworked owner?

“And the acting thing?” Miles said gently. “You’re still grieving the career you didn’t get. It gnaws away at you like a tick on a dog, unpleasant and hard to shake off.” Miles’s voice softened further, “And then there’s your dad.”

Cosmo froze. He may be outrageous, but when it comes to his father, Cosmo is a locked vault lined with razor blades.

Miles continued anyway, “He left you…the whole family…for Tiffany. And it broke something inside you. And when he died, you never got to reconcile.”

Cosmo pressed the heel of his palm to his eye, “That’s enough.”

Miles waited.

Cosmo took a shaky breath, “Fine,” he said at last. “Maybe I am… struggling.”

It was barely a confession. But for Cosmo Farfetch? It was monumental. Miles reached across the table and took his hand.

“You don’t have to face all this alone.”

Cosmo stared at their hands — his chipped nails, Miles’s neat cuticles — and something warm, frightening, and unfamiliar fluttered in his chest.

Cosmo nodded slowly.

The air shifted. Something inside him — something brittle — uncoiled. For just a moment.

Until a dark shadow fell over him: tall, perfectly styled, sunglasses enormous, perfume expensive enough to be legally considered a weapon. Dangling from her wrist was a Hermès handbag. The kind of handbag that announces trouble.

Cosmo’s stomach dropped. Miles straightened. Tiffany gloated, “Jealous much!”:

The woman smiled without warmth. Cosmo swallowed. The Hermès bag gleamed threateningly in the afternoon sun.

We once more leave Cosmo with:

• An emotional awakening that would defy the range of even Joan Collins.

• Another establishment registered on the banned list.

• An imminent smackdown triggered by the latest Hermes handbag.

• And how Cosmo joined the Miles High Club.

The juice is only just beginning to be saviour. Stay tuned for more of Cosmo’s high-jinks and mishaps.

#CosmoFarfetch #ALifeLessFabulous #QueerComedy #SatiricalSoapOpera #GayCampFiction #QueerStories #FunReads #FictionOnTheNet #LGBT #Fiction #QuickReads

Daz James

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