But surrounded by the mechanics and economics of desire (the lurid DVDs, dildos and dog collars, dispensing lube and tissues and coins for the booths), it struck me all too often – like Spencer – that our deepest desires often mirror our darkest shames.
While Sydney, dazzled by the glistering harbour, turns its back on the factory-spoiled wastes out west, the Cross has always clutched at its shoulder: an ugly gremlin whispering dirty little secrets. Endlessly written and fantasised about, it is regarded by Sydneysiders with disdain and fascination: a shadowy maze where the usual rules don’t apply. Not just propriety but decency.
Aimless, alienated Spencer spends his nights dealing with dealers, head cases, perverts; his obsessive, naturally dodgy boss, his surprisingly sweet co-workers and the complicated secrets of his past.
Wasting his days making creepy nativity videos with blow-up dolls and misshapen sculptures, he floats into a desultory affair with a complicated divorcee and, looking for something more, falls in love with a teenage prostitute, Livia.