Louis

I’m standing at the back of the front bar at my local with my arms on what, I can only assume, was once a drinks counter, but now there is just a pump bottle of hand sanitiser, which I finger absentmindedly. It has been a slow night, not so many punters in, but that’s okay, I’m not really looking for much, just a little distraction from a dull Friday night.

Fight Club is playing on the big screen, in the back bar, which is a coincidence as I have just read a review that it is all about suppressed homosexual desire. I watched it, I liked it, as much as I understood it, but I didn’t really see the allegory.

Suddenly, my mate, Charlie’s boyfriend, Louis is standing next to me, dressed in those shorts that are barely more than boxer shorts, a t-shirt and running shoes.

“Hi,” he says. 

Louis and I have never really spent any time together, we’re simply friends because of Charlie.

For a split second, I wonder if I am dreaming, Louis, it must be a day dream, as he is suddenly in front of me. I shake my head. I didn’t know where he came from, he just, seemingly, appeared.

“Hey? I say. “How are you?”

All I can say about Louis is that he seems nice. And, he has an interesting smile. He seems very conscious of his mouth, more so than is usual.

“Yeah. Good,” he says. And there is that smile. “How are you?” he asks.

“Yeah. Good,” I say. I didn’t know where he came from, he didn’t say. “You weren’t there a moment ago?”

“No, I just got here. Now.”

“You have cat like ability,” I say. Maybe I have had enough pots of beer.

He smiles again. “You think?” he says.

I shrug.

He shrugs.

There is an awkward moment of silence. 

He stands side on to me. “You are clearly keeping up your gym work,” I say.

“Yes, it is a way of life,” he says.

“Healthier than hanging around bars in pubs, I guess.” That was lame, I think. 

He smiles. “I saw you over here and I came over to say hello.”

I hold my hands in the air, as if to say here I am. “Hello,” I say.

“You’re a hard man to find.”

“I am?” I say. I wasn’t really sure what that meant. That makes him smile again.

“We never get to chat, you and me.”

“No.”

“We haven’t really got to know each other,” he says.

Did that mean he wants to get to know me better, I wonder?

I reach over and grab his arm. “I’m getting another beer, let me get you one,” I say.

My right hand rests on his shoulder. He doesn’t pull away, he doesn’t flinch, he lets my hand rest there, unopposed.

“Okay,” he says.

I slide my hand along his t-shirt, without really thinking. I poke his hard chest. “You’ll have to show me how you stay so taught.”

I walk away shaking my head. What was I thinking with that comment? Just nerves, I put it down to.

Coy Louis, whenever there is a dirty story told, when we all get together, I could see him look off into the distance, as though he was picturing whatever it was that had just been describe; funny dirty anecdote, he’d always look away, think for a moment, then he’d smile. His coy, cheeky smile, handsome face, it was quite a look. If ever I think about him, and that’s how I see him kind of on the edge of our friendship group listening, I can picture that face.

I get two schooners at the bar. Might as well get big glasses I think, the two of us are going to need it. Well, I suspect I will.

He has found a stool when I get back, which he has pulled up next to mine.

“Here you go,” I say.

“Thanks,” he says.

I take my seat again on my stool.

We both say, “how have you been”, at the same time speaking over each other.

Then we wait for the other to speak.

We both smile at the same time.

We both say, “you go”, at the same time speaking over each other again.

We both laugh. How funny. What a hoot.

We both drink our beers, I think, as a visual cover for not speaking.

“We never get to know each other,” says Louis.

“No,” I say. “It’s always a group thing, never one on one.”

Louis holds up his beer. “Here’s to friendship.”

“Yes, here’s to us,” I say.

We both laugh. We clink glasses. We drink our beer.

I have never hung out with Louis one on one before. We don’t even talk much when we go out with friends. We are both a bit on the periphery when it comes to the two of us.

I know I don’t agree with the way they treat their dog, so I avoid that topic. What’s the little princess’s name, FooFoo. Never have her paws been allowed to touch the earth’s soil.

I know Louis likes to cook, me not so much. What could I say about cooking?

“Do you come here often?” I ask. Wow! That is the best you can do?

“No, first time,” says Louis. “You?”

“Occasionally,” I say.

Silence. We both chug on our beers.

“How’s the new Tesla going?” I ask.

He pulls a quizzical face. “I don’t drive,” he says.

“Oh,” I say. “Is it always Charlie?”

“Yes,” he says. “But, it is nice to sit in.”

“I’m sure,” I say.

Silence. We drink our beers again.

“Did you follow the Tigers, or the Storm, on the weekend,” Louis says.

“No,” I say.

“That were great matches,” he says.

We gaze at each other as we drink again.

“Don’t you think it is a shame Jacqui Lambie has been forced out or parliament due to these ridiculous citizen rules?” Louis says.

“No, not really, I think she is a one trick pony,” I say.

“Oh,” says Louis. “Don’t you think she is a breath of fresh air?”

“I think she is, um, basic,” I say.

Our beers go to our mouths almost in sync.

“It’s great the same sex plebiscite passed,” says Louis.

“I guess,” I say. “Are you and Charlie going to get married?”

“No,” says Louis. “You?”

“No,” I say.

“The Rolling Stones last album was great,” I say.

“Was it?” says Louis. 

“What kind of music do you like?” I ask.

“Oh, pop, pretty much,” says Louis. “Kyle Minogue, Katy Perry. Taylor Swift.”

I try not to, actually, grimace.

“Are you going to the carnival?” asks Louis.

“No,” I say. “I don’t know, it’s just the same every year.”

“Oh,” says Louis.

Louis goes and gets us two more beers. It is stupid to say, but I felt a weight lift as soon as he walked away. I try to think of things to talk about while he is gone. 

He comes back with two more Schooners, surely, they should do the trick.

“The bar is pretty free,” says Louis. He puts our beers down in front of each of us. “They would have to hope for more patrons on a Saturday night?”

“I guess,” I say. “Where is Charlie tonight?”

“He’s home visiting his parents.”

“You don’t go too?” I ask.

“No,” says Louis. “Not really my thing.”

“Not into the inlaws?” I ask.

“Not when they don’t know they are,” he says.

“Oh,” I say.

We chug on our new beers.

Eventually, I say, “I don’t even know what you do?”

“Banking,” he says. “I studied business.”

“Oh really, me too,” I say. “What uni?”

“Swinburne.”

“Me too,” I say. “I loved Swinburne.”

“I did too,” says Louis. “It really suited me.”

“I think I really got more out of my course being at a smaller uni,” I say.

“Yes, me too,” says Louis. “I found it easy to manage.”

“I did too,” I say. “Well, I guess it is a perception, as it was the only uni I went to.”

“Yes, of course,” says Louis. “It just seemed easier to tame.”

“Yes,” I say. “I used to think the same thing.”

“Easier to manage,” Louis says. “I don’t think I would have liked a bigger uni.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” I say.

“Even though I never experienced it,” we both say in unison. “A bigger institution.” We also say together. We laugh.

“I think it was the key to my success,” I say.

“Me too,” says Louis. 

“Can I tell you something,” I said. I don’t know why I wanted to admit this, as I had never admitted it to anyone, but suddenly I wanted to.

“Yeah, sure.”

“My regret from my uni days wasn’t good enough marks, or not keeping up with friends I’d made.”

“No?”

“No.”

“What was it then?”

“It is stupid.”

“Stupid things have resonance.”

“Do you think?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Aren’t they just stupid in the end, when you think about all the serious things in the world.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” said Louis.”

“I always wanted one of those Swinburne windcheaters.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, me too,” said Louis.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“I never got one.”

“No, me either.

“It was just something that didn’t come into my grasp,” I said. “Like water in my fingers.”

“You regret the things you don’t do, they say,” said Louis.

“You don’t think it is stupid?”

“No,” said Louis.

“No?”

“Is that you great admission?”

“Yes, it is,” I said. “I guess that is stupid, hey?”

“No.”

“No?”

“You know, we should go and get one each now,” said Louis.

“You and I?”

“Yeah, sure, why not. No use having regrets?”

“No matter how small.”

“No matter how stupid?” said Louis. He smiled.

I couldn’t help but smile too.

“I wish I had one from back when I was at uni?” I said.

“Yeah, well, better late than never.”

“I guess, better late than never,” I said.

“Let’s drink to that.”

“Let’s,” I say.

We clink glasses.

“I’ll get more drinks,” says Louis.

“No, you got them the last time, it’s my turn,” I say. I practically skip to the bar, suddenly feeling much lighter.

Work Shop Boy

The machine shop - 6/10/99

His name was Brett; the sandy-hair young guy in the machine shop. His hair was cut short, perhaps a number two and his face was round, tanned and he smiled easily. I’ve never met a Brett I didn’t like, and he was no exception.

He worked in the machine shop, downstairs and below the offices, where I worked.

He’d say, “How are ya,” and smile and wink in that blokey sort of way as I walked passed on my way to collect the time cards and to stir up the managers in the back office. They could slack off down there if they thought there was no one keeping an eye on them.

Two smiles hello, but I bet he wasn’t stripping me with his eyes as I was him?

I imagined Brett’s testicles rolled around as he said, “How are ya,” like a cord was being pulled up through his arse, such was the depth of his baritone voice. It surprised me a little from such a fresh face. Such a man’s voice emanated from him when he spoke. It was the sort of voice that would come from the pit of the stomach. He couldn’t have been older than twenty.

A clear open face, his lips rolling into a smile so easily, neatly finishing the pale skin of his face around his mouth in healthy pink mounds. He had a beautiful mouth. I’d seen him laugh so often with his work mates in the workshop, all boys with girls in bikini’s hanging on calendars on the walls. Work benches and machinery and the constant whirr of construction.

Brett’s was a smiling and happy face, as open and as a fresh as a spring day; pale blue eyes, pale skin with freckles and strawberry blonde hair. His smile was beautiful and had the devil in it, all at the same time. His innocent’s had a disarming edge. He could look right through you in a momentary lapse of concentration.

I was often found down in the machine shop striking up a conversation where I could.

He reminded me of a young deer, a young buck, already powerful but not yet aware of his strength, still giving the impression of tottering a little on his long legs. At the height of his power, but as yet still unaware of it’s abilities. I could gaze at him all I liked, so it would seem and he simply saw it as friendship. He’d smile and chat back, he had a habit of touching me on the arm whenever I said something that amused him.

His hand felt big and warm.

The curves of his overall-clad body were smooth and flowing, curving beautifully at his shoulders and arse with a long softly flowing torso, a narrow stretch joining two masculine curved mounds. His arse filled out around his hips, round and firm and it filled his over-all’s leaving only the material around his stomach lose fitting.

He had a habit of showing me his arse whenever I walk by, bending sweetly as he worked, so his rear was fully exposed, like he was offering it to the world quite unwittingly. (subconsciously, he was aching for it to be filled) Coincidence, nothing else. Pushing it out into a pucker, my imagination ran with it, wild thoughts followed.

I could almost taste his soft hole on the tip of my ripe tongue.

I found myself imagining what he may look like prone over his work bench face first, his overalls around his ankles, masturbating, letting his arse be completely free. Uninhibited, oblivious to anything but his own needs, thumbing girlie magazines, the calendars off the walls, in the deserted workshop when everyone else had left for the day.

I shook my head disbelieving at the thoughts he had engendered, surprised at the instantaneous depravity of my imagination. I kept walking, I’m sure, with a bemused smile on my face.

The workshop was like a big aeroplane hanger, although the roof was of course too low, but it was a big tin shed that stretched down to the back of the company’s property, with doors and prefabricated rooms all leading off to somewhere else.


One day I saw Brett hurt his hand, as he was fabricating some sheet metal at his workbench. The sharp tin caught him on the hand, slashing it around the base of his thumb. It was a deep gash into his flesh. His face screwed up into a pained expression and turned red and momentarily he looked like a little boy just about to cry. A cold sweat broke out on his brow. I went over to comfort him, I wanted to pat his forehead and hold him until the hurt passed, but he went pale and passed out and collapsed into my arms, instead. The blood ran from his hand, in a scarlet torrent, sweet and sticky to touch, like golden syrup or treacle on my hands. I couldn’t look at it; blood made me faint also.

He had been working back, so had I, there was no one else around.

2001

His chest felt broad as I wrapped my arm around him to catch him. Hold him. He was suddenly very heavy, a dead weight. His face was serene as he fell against my neck, where his breath felt warm on my skin and his cheek felt soft to touch.

He smelt sweaty and dusty and slightly acidic. His hair felt surprisingly soft against my face. He smelt good. I rubbed his ear with my nose. I held him in my arms, he was falling for me, I laughed. I hugged him tight. His body felt good against my body. My cock started to go hard against him.

I lay him gently on the ground. I wrapped a towel tightly around his hand, it was dirty as it had been lying on the floor, but the blood soon stopped flowing because of it, although it seeped through and made the bandage red before it stopped.

He lay there as if he was in the most peaceful sleep. I touched his face and ran my hand over his chest, down the front of his over-alls, over his stomach, gently touching him when I felt what was soft and squashy between his legs; his round testicles and his sleeping cock. It all fitted into my hand. I watched his face, nothing.

2002

I wondered if he’d stay unconscious long enough for me to slip my hand in the side of his over-all’s. They were a press-stud type, three in a row behind the pockets on his hips. He’d only fastened the top one, my hand slipped through easily. His hipbone stuck up and the elastic of his briefs was tight, hugging his warm soft skin. Pubic hair poked out of the top of his briefs at the front, course and bushy. I swirled my fingertips around in it gently. It felt so good. The material of his briefs, below his tuft of pubic hair, felt soft and warm and inviting. I slipped my long finger under the elastic and touched his foreskin, bunched like a sleeping bag. It felt soft and pliable; the tip of my finger slipped inside with a push and touched the slippery end of his knob inside.

I pulled my hand out as I began to shake.

I wanted to give him a hard on; a shiver ran up my back. It would be the only chance I’d get. Maybe. I squatted down and gazed at him for a time, waiting for him to wake. His sleeping face, the neck of his T-shirt lay gently around his strong freckled neck. I touched his skin where it disappeared under the white material. I wanted to kidnap him and undress him and lay him in a bed with just the corner of a sheet covering his genitals. My sleeping prince. I wanted to posses him, dress him up, undress him, taste his fluids.

I shook him gently and said his name but he just lay there.

Beautifully serene, it was a moment I hadn’t expected, there was no hurry. I shook him again, gently squeezing his biceps, which were round and plump and hard, and I rubbed his chest, making his nipples hard under my touch. They both became like little bullets on his chest. His face twitched, I removed my hand, and his blue eyes blinked open in his pale skinned face. Momentarily, he looked five years old and completely lost and in needed of his mother. He looked dazed, like an angel waking up from sleep.

“What happened?” he said.

“You cut your hand and you fainted,” I said. “But it’s okay, I’ve wrapped a bandage around it.”

“Jesus,” he said lifting his bandaged hand into the air.

“Just be sure you’re okay before you get up.”

“Thanks mate.” He sat up and looked pale and dazed. “It’s good that you were here. I owe you.”

I smiled.

“We’d better get you to a doctor, have that looked at.” He started to peel back the bandage. “It’s nasty,” I said. “Perhaps you should leave it until we get you to the doctor.”

“Yeah, sure,” he said. He put his arm around my shoulder and I helped him to his feet, hugging him tight as he stood up right. My hand rested in the small of his back. I wanted to slide it down onto his arse, just to see the look on his face. I wanted to kiss him, as he stood helpless against me, as I held him up. I massaged his back. He stood there getting his head together.

“I’ll drive you, to the doctor,” I said. “You may not be able too with that hand.”

“No,” he said. “I don’t suppose I will. I’ve got a manual car and all.”

“You’ll need stitches, it’s pretty deep.”


I took him to the doctor. He had to have six stitched in his hand.


I took him home to his place, a small flat in an ugly brown sixties block, in Preston. A chair, a table and a TV with Foxtel, that was all Brett seemed to need.

“I need a scotch,” Brett said as soon as we got there.

“I’ll make it, if you like,” I said. “You sit down.”

“Cheers,” Brett replied. “I’m gonna take my over-all’s off.” He disappeared into the bedroom, as I looked in the cupboard above the fridge for the scotch and the glasses as directed.

I rested the glasses on the washing machine, which was next to the fridge. The two hi-ball glasses seemed to be the only glasses Brett had. I made his a triple and disguised the fact with coke.

“Thanks mate,” he said to me with a pat on the back as he came into the kitchen. “I owe you, Chris. Whatever you want.” He’d taken off his over-all’s. He stood there in his underwear and T-shirt.

I handed him the scotch and we chinked glasses and I thought about him lying on the floor of the machine shop, helplessly letting me take charge. Now I could see his package, the bulge in his cotton briefs. It looked good.

“Ah, I needed that,” said Brett as he sipped his drink, before he turned to go back into the lounge room. His black long legged briefs hugged his round arse tight. The material slipping in and out of his crack as he walked. I watched him walk.

He flicked the TV on and sat in one of the two orange beanbags that had been piled together behind the kitchen door.

“Jesus, what a day,” he said as he picked up the remote with his good hand.

“Yeah,” I agreed as I sat in the other beanbag.

I had some Rowy’s in my car from the last dance party I’d been too. A friend had asked me to bring them for him, but I didn’t find him the whole night, so they were still in my car, I hoped. I don’t take them usually myself. If I take an upper I want to experience the whole effect, not cut it short with a downer. I never understood that? It would be like having your stomach pumped half way through a drinking session. If you want to take downers, just take less uppers, surely that has the same effect.

“I need to get my smokes out of my car,”

“Sure,” said Brett “Just leave the door unlocked so you can get back in. Then I don’t have to get up.”

The Rowy’s were in the plastic film canister in my glove box, next to the film canister that contained my parking meter change. There were four tablets and two tabs of ecstasy. I had no recollection about the E. Could I give him them all? I wasn’t sure. I shrugged as I pushed the security door open. I took one step back into the block and realised I had forgotten my smokes.

“Jesus.” That would have given it away.

“Another scotch,” said Brett as I entered the apartment, holding the empty glass in the air.

“Sure,” I said as I took the glass. This is going to be easy.

His kitchen was small, painted white, just a sink and a bench and a fridge and a stove. Square lino tiles, bare walls and a small aluminium window over the sink. The benches were barren; it was as if no one lived here at all.

I slipped the Rowy’s into his scotch. They dissolved to nothing. I laughed at the thought of getting the glasses mixed up, me comatose and dribbling on the beanbag, with Brett having no idea why. I was vigilant not to swap the glasses. It made me nervous until he’d taken it out of my hand.

“Thanks,” he said with a sweet smile looking up at me with his twinkling eyes, as he took the glass. Such trust. “You’re a mate, Chris.”

I raised my eyebrows and smiled and sat back down in the beanbag with my scotch.

Brett grabbed the remote and the television went clunk as it powered into life.

“Do you live here by yourself?” I asked.

“Yes, just me. Not even a cat.”

“It’s a cool place.” I was just being friendly.

“I’ve been here six months.”

“Have you got a girlfriend?” I asked.

“No, no one special,” he said. “I don’t want the hassle. But I could do with a regular girl for sex.” He rubbed at his crutch. “You know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” I said. ”You gotta get it where you can.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Chance’d be a thing.”

“Absolutely,” I said.

We drank our scotches. “The Weakest Link,” was on the television.

“My hand is throbbing, do you reckon you could get me those pain killers.”

“Sure,” I said. I wondered about the painkillers on top of the Rowy’s I’d just given him, as I headed off into the kitchen to collect them. I shrugged my shoulders and thought nothing more about it. He’s young, what harm could they do? “Another scotch?”

“Sure, I’ll need something to wash them down with,” he said as he passed me his glass. I wondered how much scotch Brett should have.

I was getting a bit pissed as I matched his glasses of scotch one for one. I wasn’t that much of a drinker, not usually. Strictly a marijuana boy myself. But of course, I was making mine singles and his triples. I hated scotch normally, couldn’t stand the taste, but I wanted to be sociable, at least for the next little while, until the Rowy’s took effect.

The painkillers warned not to operate any machinery as they may cause drowsiness. I gave him three. He complained that his hand was sore. I wanted to explain to him that if he just waited thirty minutes…but how could I?

He looked at the three painkillers in his hand and then back at me.

“Bottom’s up,” I said. He swallowed them, washed down with his third triple scotch, in which I dissolved an E.

He handed me the glass when he’d finished. I took it with a smile.

“You are the Weakest Link,” said the host on the TV. I looked at Brett; he had closed his eyes.

“Woe,” said Brett, trying to open his eyes wide. “My head’s spinning.”

“It’ll just be the painkiller, that should wear off in a minute,” I said. "The alcohol may have made them work quicker?"

“It feels kind of nice when I relax and let go,” he said. “I just wish the room would stop spinning.”

“Don’t fight it,” I said.

“They sure are strong,” he slurred. “Jesus.” He rubbed his forehead. He lay back in the beanbag. “I don’t thin…”

I took the scotch glass out of his hand. His head turned sideways on the beanbag. His legs relaxed and fell apart ever so gently. His hand rested on his thigh.

I finished my drink.


He lay there completely helpless, innocents etched across his serene face. He had good legs, muscular and hairy. He had little hips and a beautiful stomach, what was visible, where his T-shirt had ridden up. I pushed it up to his chest so I could see his nipple. I sucked at it gently, as if milk might come out at any second.

I took his T-shirt off; it came off straight over his head. I held his head so it wouldn’t flop awkwardly. I didn’t want him to sustain any permanent damage.

His chest was near perfect. Defined pecs, two red nipples and a six pack underneath. Such beautiful tits, I sat there crossed legged, admiring them. So soft so smooth. I kissed his flesh, licked him, sucked the salt off his body.

His nipples went hard as I sucked on them, leaving a ring of saliva around each. It glistened in the light; the skin around each was red. Wonton innocence sleeping. Slut boy, for a good time…

His nipples felt like peas between my fingers, they remained hard and erect. He smelt good with his nipples in my mouth, sweaty, like a man. I bit too hard and drew blood; I’m use to some response before I get to that stage. I licked the drip from his skin, it tasted acidic. Blood brothers. I licked his blood again. I wanted to bite him and make him bleed more, so I could quench my thirst at his fountain of life. If I’d had sharp eyeteeth, I’d have bitten his neck.

I slipped my hand into his black trunks. I cupped his balls in my hand. They felt soft and squashy. I rolled them around, like eggs.

He rolled over like I’d always imagined a corpse would. Floppy. Pliable. Limp and manageable.

I pulled his trunks down his thick thighs and over his feet. The boy had a great arse, plump cakes, with a crack fill with reddish blond hair.I didn’t have a condom, shrug, I was negative the last time I had it checked. He had sorbolene cream in his bathroom cupboard. I spread it through the deep crack between his cheeks and over my cock which could have won the wet towel competition, right at that moment, no sweat. It sprung up in the air every time I stopped massaging in the white cream.

The tip of my finger penetrating him each stroke of the cream. His tight ring relaxing after every gentle push of my fingertip. The flesh parted more and more and his soft red membrane slowly allowed me in.

I stroked my cock between his cheeks. I sawed at that hairy butt as I gently held his thick shoulders. His little waist bent backwards and forwards as I rode his round arse. He was slippery and wet, I was going to ride him good.

Brett groaned, the voice of someone who didn’t want to wake. He groaned again, like he wanted unconsciousness, but something was calling him from sleep. He groaned again, the sound baby Harp seals make just before they are clubbed.

I pushed harder, he opened slowly. Then, I was fully submerged. He held tight as I started to move.

He groaned like a deaf boy, who’d never heard human speech or the married man at the beat, when he finally lets go after so many years.

He bucked his arse and threw his head. His arse held tightly, as I lanced him again and again with my sword, like steel it was, it had never been so hard. He barked like a mute when I pushed on his prostate, but fell down unconscious afterwards every time. I’d have thought that would unnerve me. Scare me. Put me off. But it just made my dick harder; he’d push back when I massaged his prostate. I lanced his anus like raw meat.

Just as Chris cums deep in his tight hole, Brett leans over the back of the couch and makes a chocking noise. Then there is the unmistakable sound of rushing fluid. Brett is gagging. “Jesus, I don’t feel good.” Slurred at best, could hardly be called speaking.

Chris pulls his still hard cock from Brett’s arse.

Brett vomit’s again.

Chris gets the towel he had for the clean up and wipes Brett’s mouth. Brett lays gently back down on the couch. Chris pulls his jocks on over his erection. He pulls on his jeans, zips them up. He looks over the back of the couch, with the towel still in his hand. He looks at the mess behind the couch, he looks at the vomit, he throws the towel back down on the couch. He shakes his head and grimaces.

Chris pulls Brett’s jocks and jeans back up. Chris lies looking at the ceiling. He realises he doesn’t have to wait for Brett to wake, so he leaves.

Brett tells him a few days later that he was really sick from the painkillers.

“What happened to you, anyway,” says Brett. “I had weird dreams.”

“You fell asleep, so I left,” I said. “I thought it was probably best if you slept it off.”

“Thanks Chris,” said Brett smiling broadly. “You’re a mate.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “I was happy too.”

“Hey, do you want to come over next week,” said Brett. “We could do it again.” He smiled. “Except of course, without the cut hand.” He smiled again holding his hand in the air. “And I won’t fall asleep.” He laughed. He looked adorable. “I promise.”

Getting Some Shots Done

I went to see Henry, the guy I met the other night at a party, who is a photographer, he was very keen for me to go around. I kind of like the idea of a photographic journal of my life, not only putting it down in words, but having images to go with those words. 

Who do I think I am, I hear you say? 

Why does he think he is so special, or that interesting, for that matter?

I don’t know about that? All I can do is provide what I know and other people, future generations, will decide if it is interesting, or not. I’m just recording my bit for posterity. And isn’t everybody interested in their family and where they came from? Even if it doesn’t seem so important now, in 100 years if may be viewed differently.

I reckon that is what I am going to do, photography. And what a way to start, with Henry.

Don’t worry, I got it. Henry has an ulterior motive, I thought, as I got ready to go. He’s old school queen, to whom photos are something naughty. That’s okay with me, old queens were really kind to me when I first came out, like a bunch of protective nanas, it is like repaying the favour, however that may occur? 

The old queens never got a look in when I was 18, oh no, don’t you worry about that, I was way too ageist back then, so every kind act went unrepaid. (well, other than gratitude, but, old queens usually want something more than gratitude) Now a days, I am an older and wiser, 35 year old who is in good shape and who, from all accounts, isn’t too hard to look at, and I am a little kinder and I don’t mind giving an old queen a thrill every once in a while, if that’s what it takes to get what I want?

One day, I am going to be their age and nobody is going to want to have sex with me, well, not too many 35 year olds, I reckon. If he charms me and cajoles me, and flatters me, you never know what I’ll let Henry see. Why not, old queens, as a rule, love me, so it is rewarding. They don’t get to touch much, just watch, or remember. It is when all my voyeuristic tendencies come out and I shiver with anticipation. I might let them watch me wank off in the end, if they are keen. Especially, if they rolled me a joint. I’m a sucker for a blunt. Oh yes, I know, I know, it is not something I’d own up to with just anyone in polite company, but then I don’t have to.

Ashamedly, or unashamedly, it puts a skip in my step, yes it does. I don’t know what that is called? Some may say depravity, some may say freedom, I don’t know. 

Henry flattered me enough the other night to entice me over to his place to see what may go down, well, in his mind. He’s a photographer and I want some shots done. Win, win. Curiosity peaked, is that the expression? An indulgent session, where I am the focus. One on one. Hot. Steamy. Anticipatory.

So, I get there and Henry is goo’ing and gushing about me. He is dressed all in black. He tells me how handsome I am… sideways smile. Standard fare. 

“You are beautiful, really beautiful.” 

I’m handsome enough, the boys seem to like me, but beautiful? It is amazing what people have said to me in the past to get me out of my pants. (I guess that is true for all gay guys growing up through gaydom) I’ve got a good face. I’m in shape. My stomach is flat and my arse is pert.

“Would you like something to eat, my boy?” says Henry. I wondered if that was a double entendre, but it wasn’t. It was nearly lunchtime and Henry has prepared something.

We had cucumber sandwiches and tea from a rose print teapot, I kid you not. Not so standard fare.

“It is lovely that you have come over,” said Henry.

“It is nice to be here.” Well, so far so good, I thought.

“I’m very excited by our partnership,” said Henry.

“Me too.” I wasn’t at all sure that I was, um, excited, per sei, at that stage, but it was better to be generous, I thought.

“A handsome young man like yourself…”

“Thank you, Henry, you flatter me,” I said. “Are you trying to butter me up?”

“Of course,” said Henry. He beamed his big smile. “Got to make my, um, candidates feel safe and secure.”

“Candidate,” I repeated. “What am I a candidate for?”

“You’ll have to wait and see.” Henry smiled again. Said the spider to the fly, was all I could think. I admonished myself under my breath, Henry seemed nice. I could look after myself, what could possibly go wrong?

“So, are you up for anything?”

I shrug, as if it is a simple question. “Sure.”

“Would you do bathing suit?” 

There you go, there it was. “You make it sound like Miss World.”

Henry laughed like I was such a card.

“Well,” I say. “As long as it is indoors.” I smiled, deliberately making big eyes for effect.

“Yes, indoors, yes, yes indoors, quite, quite, quite. We don’t want anything, um, underestimated.” He laughed. A wanton kind of knowing laugh, the type of laugh that gay guys laugh when they are being dirty.

The sandwiches were good, fresh, tasty. The tea was strong and well brewed. My great aunt would have approved, I chuckled to myself.

“I’ve got cake, do you eat cake?” asked Henry.

“Sure,” I said.

“You’d never know with your waistline,” said Henry.

“Oh no, I love cake.”

He reached for a yellow looking cake on a cake stand on the counter. “Lemon cake.” He smiled. “Would you be too shy to do nude shots?”

“Lemon.” I tried to sound just a little surprised, but I wasn’t. I just knew that that question was coming. “Nude with cake, it would be called,” I said. 

“Yes,” said Henry. He put the cake down on the table between us. “I think it is always nice for a young man to do a full frontal nude shot, it completes the set of pictures, if you know what I mean?”

“I’m sure I do,” I said.

“It gives the complete picture.”

“So, you get all of him,” I said feebly. I immediately regretted saying that.

“Yes, precisely,” said Henry. “So you get every angle, so to speak.”

“Yeah,” I could hear myself saying. “I’m not shy.” I’m really not. “What are you hiding it for, I say,” I said.

“Yes, very good,” said Henry.

We got into the studio. It was a big square box with a mattress in it. What have I let myself in for, I thought, as I gazed at it? It was a bed, what were the connotations? Am being unkind? A chair. A table next to the chair and a studio space at one end.

“You can put your clothes on the bed.”

“You want me to take my clothes off?”

“No… oh yes.” He squealed as if he was being naughty. “I’m going to give you clothes to model, you can put your clothes on the bed.”

He lit a joint, which we shared. My head was feeling very thick very quickly.

“I’d like you to stand over here. I will give you direction. I’ll be standing here.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Would you take Viagra if I gave you one?”

“What?”

“It is just for affect, nothing else,” he said. “I’m sure I don’t do it for you. And…you want to take your best shots, don’t you?”

So there you have it, the tone was set for the photo shoot. I did want my best shots. I told him that I did want copies. It was good knowing that I was recorded for posterity and if somebody got pleasure out of it…” I kind of heard myself talking, so I was agreeing to do porn, right there and then. That was it, it was agreed.

I laughed, somewhat self consciously. “Sure, why not.”

He lit a second joint, passing it to me immediately.

“That’s good, he said. “Here you go.”

I looked at Henry and he had something in his right hand and a glass of water in the other hand. Where it came from, I didn’t see. He’s done this before, I thought. He handed me a blue pill and the glass of water. I hesitated. Henry’s head tilted to one side, with a we’ve discussed this look. I took the pill. I washed it down with the water.

He adjusted his camera. I puffed on the joint and he took a photo of me, a face shot.

“Could you sit on the chair?”

“Sure.”

Click sounded the camera. (I am writing click, but there were multiple clicks, at times.)

“Could you smile?” Click. “Bigger smile.” Click. “Now, no smile.” Click. “Not sad, expressionless. Yes.” Click. “Turn away.” Click. “Back this way.” Click. “Pensive. Very good.” Click. “Serious.” Click. “Look away.” Click. “Look down.” Click. “Remain looking down.” Click. “Don’t move.” Click. “Now relax.” Click. “Not a care in the world.” Click. “Relaxed.” Click. “Shake it out.” Click. “Throw your head back.” Click. “Smile.” Click. “Relax.” Click.

A moments silence.

“Close your eyes, throw your head back, right back, as though you have long hair that is falling all the way down your back. Yes. Hold that.” Click.

“You’re very handsome, you know…”

I smiled. “Thanks.” I didn’t know why I said thanks.

“I’m not just saying that.”

I smiled without saying anything. I bet you say that to all the boys, right before you ask them to take their pants off, was my guess.

“Can you take your shirt off?”

“Sure,” I said. I pulled my t-shirt over my head. Click, click, click.

“Look at me.” Click. “Arms folded across your chest.” Click. Look away.” Click. “Now, look as though you are alone in the world.” Click. “Just you and nobody else.” Click. “Stare into space.” Click. “Yes, lovely.” Click. “You have a nice chest.

“Um, thanks.” I had to stop thinking him. It was nerves. I was pretty sure it was nerves.

“Is it warm enough in here for you?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Can you turn to me, look directly at me. Spread your legs a bit, crotch square onto me. Yes, lovely.” Click. “Stare into the lens.” Click. “Stare down the lens.” Click. “Yes, lovely, can you hold that?” Click, click, click. “Very nice,” he said.

“Undo your jeans. First just the waist button.”

I did.

“Yes, just like that.”

Click, click, click, click.

“Undo the zip.”

“It’s buttons.”

“Even better. One button at a time.”

Click, click, click. Click, click, click.

“Another button.”

Click, click, click. Click, click, click.

“Another button.”

Click, click, click. Click, click, click.

“Yet me see your undies.”

Click, click, click. 

“Yes, more.”

Click, click, click.

He put the camera down on a wooden chest and walked into an adjoining room.

He reappeared wheeling a clothes hanger on wheels over. He got something from the hanger.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t really have a change room.” He handed me a small pair of blue speedos. “I’ve had the heater on… might as well start when it is the warmest.”

Another joint appeared as if out of nowhere. Henry lit it.

I have to admit, I was getting half hard, that Viagra was working. Henry knew what he was doing.  This is it, this is where I get to be the dirty little exhibitionist I have lurking inside me, I know that, but usually for guys my own age, couples, actually, I love getting dirty with couples. Threesomes, the perfect number for sex.

No change room, and half a mongrel, is this where Henry gets to see my dick.

Henry handed me the joint. I puffed on it and then handed it back to him.

“No. Have some more,” said Henry. He pushed his hand through the air. I smoked more of the joint. I handed it to Henry.

I took my jeans down. I could feel the weight of my cock. I could feel it bending up. I turned my back to Henry. 

Click, click, click. Click, click, click.

I pulled off my jocks and then pulled on the speedos. Jesus! Were they going to fit me like this? I pulled them on as best I could. They were tight, they weren’t roomy, shall we say.

“Do you want to lay back down on those beach balls?”

I did. My cock was bulging up my speedos like a banana.

“Do you want to smile?”

I smiled.

“Look happy.”

I did.

“Serious.”

I did.

Carefree.”

I smiled again.

“Pensive.”

I think, I pouted.

“Serious.”

I did.

“Do you want to put your hands behind your head.”

“Like this?”

“Yes, just like that.” Click, click, click.

“Do you want to massage the front of your speedos?”

The speedos were tight. I could feel my half hard cock and my balls squeezed into them.

“Rub with you palm down. Close your eyes.”

I was touching myself up in front of Henry.

“Can you pull the front of your speedos down?”

“Down?”

“Right down.”

“Right down?”

“Yes.”

The pot was really hitting me hard. I wasn’t sure that I had my eyes open. I was really turned on, I have to admit. It was the exhibitionist in me, I knew that. I grabbed the waistband and peeled the front of the speedos down, until my cock popped out, rising up like a pole and gently laying down on my stomach.

“Rub your cock down so it flips over and points down your leg. Yes, that is it. Look into the camera. Nice. Nice.”

I ran my hand up and down my downward pointing cock.

“Can you take some lube from the bedside table and rub it all over your penis.”

I got a handful of lube and I wiped the glistening jelly all over my now hard cock.

“Can you masturbate for me?”

Oh, really? I don’t know why I was surprised by that. I started to pull my cock slowly. There I was laying back on the beach balls, or cushions that looked like beach balls, or whatever the fuck they were, pulling my now rock hard cock. Click, click, click.

“Yes. Yes. Make… it… har… Oh, yes, yes.”

Henry came over. “Fuck you have a beautiful cock.” He took a handful of lube and took my cock in his hand, rather unexpectedly. 

“Oh?”

Unexpectedly, I say? Really? How unexpected was this, come on? Really, I’d come to have my cock worshipped, it was true, who was I kidding. I was going to be the sexy, young thing again, like I’d been all those years ago, as a 20 year old. How long since I’d felt that? I was still the hot young thing. Henry thought I was delectable, he told me so. He pulled my hard cock, it felt good. I was the centre of attention, it was all being done to me. His hands felt good massaging my dick. He squeezed it just hard enough, there in that dark studio where it was just Henry and me.

Oh, did I want this, I suddenly thought. I wasn’t sure.

“Shouldn’t you be taking photos?” I said.

“I want to make you cum,” said Henry.

“If you keep doing that you are going to.”

He pulled my cock with both hands, the old guy was going to make me squirt my jizz.

“You have to stop.” I tried to peel his hands off me.

“Why do you want to stop?” Henry relaxed his hands momentarily.

“Because you are going to make me cum.”

“But that is what I want to do.” And Henry’s hands grabbed my cock harder.

“No! Hey! Wait,” I said. I tried to pull away.

“We’ve come this far,” said Henry.

“Oh… wait… no… hang on.”

Henry’s hands grabbed my throbbing cock hard, like he wasn’t going to let go. “You’ve led me on, you can’t stop now.” He seemed to have four sets of hands.

“Oh, what? I can. I think I can,” I said. My head spun. 

“Come on, I want to see you…”

“No! Stop!”

Henry stopped.

“It’s too much,” I said.

Henry looked at me with what I can only call contempt.

Henry picked up his camera again. “Look at me.”

“What?”

“Look at me,” he demanded.

Click, click, click. Click, click, click.

I sat on an exercise ball, feeling like I might plummet off it at any moment. Naked. Hard. Sweating. My head spinning.

Henry knelt at my feet.

“Look at me.”

I looked down at him.

“Pout.”

I thought I was.

“Lovely,” Henry said. He threw my t-shirt at me. “Put that back on.”

I pulled the t-shirt over my head.

Click, click, click. Click, click, click.

“Yes. Pull it down with both your hands.”

Click, click, click. Click, click, click.

“Stretch it over your dick. Yes.”

Click, click, click. Click, click, click.

Henry threw my jocks at me. “Put them back on.”

I pulled my jocks back on.

Click, click, click. Click, click, click.

“Lie on your stomach over the ball.”

Click, click, click. Click, click, click.

“Push your gorgeous arse up... in the air.”

Click, click, click. Click, click, click.

“Further up.”

Click, click, click. Click, click, click.

Henry threw my jeans at me. “Put them back on.”

Click, click, click. Click, click, click.

I pulled my jeans back on.

“Sit on the floor, over there.” Henry pointed to the side of the room. “Back against the wall.”

Click, click, click. Click, click, click.

“Look at me. Serious. Pout.”

Click, click, click. Click, click, click.

“Look sexy.”

Click, click, click. Click, click, click.

“Look sexier.”

Click, click, click. Click, click, click.

“Even sexier.”

Click, click, click. Click, click, click.

“Lovely.”

I didn’t know what I did. I think I was just out of it.

“Okay. We’re done,” said Henry. He threw his camera into a chair.

“Oh, okay,” I said.

“That’s it,” said Henry. “I’ll get your shots to you as soon as I can.”

“Okay,” I said. “When do you think…”

Henry walked out of the room.

Fiona The Pig

The time on the clock on the bedside table clicks over to 6am. The day on the clock is stuck halfway between Friday and Saturday, so that the bottom of the Fri and the top of the Sat are visible, the date is the same stuck halfway between 13th and the 14th.

She wakes early, the sun shines in through her bedroom window. Her boyfriend, Ted, hadn’t stayed last night, as he’d felt the flu coming on. Fiona’s arm aches psychosomatically where she’d had her swine flu vaccination yesterday, thinking about Ted. She can feel it burn, she doesn’t think anything of it.

The birds cheep in the trees outside. She swings her legs out from under the bedclothes, she rubs her face with both her hands. She looks up, out the window to outside. She sits for a moment on the edge of the bed. She feels a little woozy, she isn’t sure why. Just the morning, she guesses. She has never really been a morning person.

She can feel that something is different. She squirms a little on the bed. She can feel that her arse is different. What she sits on has changed. She can feel that her arse is huge and round. She thinks she has been reading too many Kim Kardashian magazine articles. She looks down one side. Her torn nickers lay on the sheet under her. She thinks of Ted again. She looks down her other side. She jumps up onto her feet, which make an unusual clack, clack, clack sound on the tiled floor, as she grabs her arse with both hands. She looks down at her feet, which are trotters.

Ah!

She spins around to look at her now, huge, arse, in the full length mirror she keeps in the corner of her room, only to see a curly tail growing out of her unusually pink rump. “Oink!”

She hears herself for the first time. “Oink!”

She can’t believe what she sees. “Oink!”

Her head spins. “Oink!”

How could this happen? “Oink?”

"Oink! Oink!" She wails and spins around on the spot. Clods of shit fall from her big, round arse, plop, plop, plop. "Oink! Oink! Oink!" she cries. Her snout in the air. Clack, clack, clack, sound her feet on the tiled floor. Clack, clack, squish, squish, sound her feet as she slips in her own shit, smearing it across the white, tiled floor.

Ah! “Oink!”

She throws herself to the ground and rolls in her faeces smearing it across her face, and her body, pissing herself as she lies hysterical on her back kicking her totters in the air. It was strangely satisfying.

How... “oink”... did... “oink”... this… “oink"… happen?

She oinks and flails on the shit smeared tiled floor until she is exhausted.

She has to be dreaming. This had to be a nightmare. Someone must have spiked her drink? If only she could remember anything before this morning?

The points of pink ears appeared first in the mirror on the dressing table, sliding up, sliding up, as she dares to look. The creased forehead, the small black eyes. Her hands clasp her face. It is true, she isn’t dreaming. She hadn’t taken a bad trip, or drunk a bottle of absinth she’d forgotten about. At least that might have explained it. What did she do last night? She couldn’t remember. She lets out a wail, "Oink, oink, oink, oink!" and falls to the floor again.

What is wrong with me?

She begins to sob, but only pig grunts can be heard coming from her.



She grabs at her phone on the bedside table, panicked. Her fingers are webbed with skin. Her small finger is welded to her next finger, and the skin is turning shiny and black as she types. She tries to pull her fingers apart, but they won’t separate. Her longest finger punches at the phone screen, but pretty quickly the soft touch of flesh changes to the clack, clack of hoof.

“Hello?” says her Ted’s voice.

“Oink, oink,” she says.

“Who is this?”

She drops the phone. She bangs her trotters together trying to catch it. She throws herself onto the floor.

Ah! “Oink!”



There is the sound of air brakes hissing out in the parking area.

She raises her head from the floor. “Oink?”

She runs to the window and looks out. Clack, clack, clack, clack. The big animal cartage truck has pulled up.

Oh good, she thinks, they have come to get Bob the pig.

Bobby the pig is going to market.



Jack Haulage comes to the door. Knock, knock, knock.

What is she to do? The back door is open, she believes, Jack could come in at any stage. Would he? Will he?

Knock, knock, knock, knock.

Jack will leave again when she doesn’t answer the door, she is sure of that.

“Fiona, it is Jack,” Jack calls from the back door.

Fiona backs away from the window.

“Fiona? I’m here to pick up Bob.” Knock, knock, knock, knock.

Fiona sits back on her haunches behind the couch.

“Fiona?”

Fiona hears footsteps on the gravel walking away from the back door.



She hears the clanging of the gates on the back of Jack’s truck as he opens them up and pulls down the metal ramp from the back of the truck to the ground.

Fiona hears Bob squeal. She can just make out an unfamiliar voice saying, “What? Mate, what are you up to?”

“Jack Haulage’s truck, she hears an the same voice say.”

She hears the cabin door. The truck starts up. There is the hiss of air brakes. She hears the double de clutch and the big rig rattle into motion.

Jack isn’t loading up, he’s packed up and he’s leaving.



Fiona forgets herself for a minute. She runs to the back door. Clack, clack, clack, clack. She runs out into the back yard just in time to see Jack’s rig disappearing down the drive way. She stands in the car park and watches it go.

No, Jack, wait. “Oink, oink, oink.”

“Hey,” calls a voice. “Hey, over here.”

Fiona looks around. She’s alone on the farm, there shouldn’t be anyone here.

“It’s me, Bob,” says the voice. “Over here.”

Bob? Bob! thinks Fiona. Bob can speak English?



Fiona walks slowly over to the paling fence. Bob? “Oink?”

“Yes.” Bob pushes the latch to the gate and it opens and Bob walks out.

“Bob?” says Fiona. “I can understand you?”

“You expected me to speak duck?”

“But I can understand you?”

“You’re a pig,” says Bob. “Did you not get that?”

“I can’t… be… it… makes… no… how?”



“You opened the gate,” says Fiona, suddenly, like that was the most amazing thing that was going on.

“You guys think you are so smart,” says Bob. “Do you think we stay in there when you are not around?”

“That is the point of the fencing?” says Fiona. “To keep you in, to keep you safe.”

Bob laughs as though he was hearing something ridiculous. “More to the point, what was that guy doing here?” says Bob.

“Who, Bob?”

“The guy with the big truck?”

“Oh… um?”

“What was he doing here?” asks Bob.

“Oh, um…” Fiona stumbles over her words.

“My father always warned me about the man with the big truck who takes our kind away never to be seen again?”

“Really… your father?”

“Napoleon,” says Bob. “Was that who he was?”

“Who?”

“The man with the big truck?”

“The man with the big truck?”

“Yes, was he the man with the big truck who takes our kind away never to be seen again?”

Fiona blushes.

“He was! He was the man with the big truck who takes our kind away never to be seen again.”

“Oh… um?”

“Where was he going to take me?”

“Where?”

“Yes. Where was he going to take me?”

“Um, oh…”

“Well, thanks a lot.”

“It wasn’t personal,” says Fiona.

“How could it not be personal,” says Bob.

“It’s just not,” says Fiona. “You’re not a pet.”

“Is that what happened to Wibur?” says Bob.

“What?” Fiona squirms.

“What happened to Lester?” says Bob. The pitch in his voice rising.

“Oh…” Fiona stutters.

“What happened to Gryllus?” says Bob.

“Um?” Fiona stumbles on her words again.

“What happened to Napoleon? What happened to Pequeninos? What happened to Piglet, Porky, Snowball and Squealer?”

“It’s just business,” says Fiona. “Nothing personal. Besides…”

“Besides you’ve never been a pig before.

“How?”

“The swine is strong…”

“What do you mean?”

“It is dominant?”

“That makes no sense…”

“There are more pigs in the world than ever before in history, now a days, haven’t you noticed?”

“No,” says Fiona. “Well, maybe…”

“You just have to get used to it…”

“I won’t…”

“Sister…”

“Don’t say that.”

“So what are you going to do?” says Bob.

“I don’t know.” Fiona flops down onto the dirt. She pushes her snout through the gravel, from side to side, scratching, scratching, as though stressed she is trying to sniff out an answer.



Bob brushes his snout up against her. “I like the way you smell,” says Bob.

“What?” asks Fiona.

“You’re covered in shit,” says Bob. “Did you do that just for me?”

“It was the shock…”

Bob nuzzles Fiona. “Well, I like it.”

“Oh Bob.”

Bob sniffs at Fiona.

Fiona lays her snout between her front trotters. She exhales loudly.

Bob lay against her in the morning sunshine. “It is not so bad…”

“What’s not so bad?” askes Fiona.

“Being a pig.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“At least now you can give up the crazy diet,” says Bob.

“What makes you think I am on a diet?”

“I see everything you eat,” says Bob. He snorts. “Or don’t eat.”

“I eat suckling…” says Fiona.

“Yeah, well, we won’t be having any more of that talk.”

Fiona exhaled.

Bod nuzzled.

“Those crazy anti-vaxxers?” said Fiona. "Who would have thought?"

She Wakes With The Arse Of A Pig And Trotters

She wakes early, the sun shines in through her bedroom window. The birds cheep in the tree outside. She swings her legs out from under the bedclothes, she rubs her face with both her hands. She looks up, out the window to outside. She sits for a moment on the edge of the bed. She feels a little woozy, she isn’t sure why. Just the morning, she guesses. She has never really been a morning person.

She can feel that something is different. She squirms a little on the bed. She can feel that her arse was different. What she sits on had changed. She can feel that her arse is huge and round. She looks down one side. Her torn nickers lay on the sheet under her. She looks down her other side. She jumps up onto her feet, which make an unusual clack, clack, clack sound on the tiled floor, as she grabs her arse with both hands. She looks down at her feet, which are trotters.

Ah! She spins around to look at her now, huge, arse, in the full length mirror she keeps in the corner of her room, only to see a curly tail growing out of her unusually pink rump. “Oink!”

She hears herself for the first time. “Oink!”

She can’t believe what she sees. “Oink!”

Her head spins. “Oink!”

How could this happen? “Oink?”

"Oink! Oink!" She wails and spins around on the spot. Clods of shit fall from her big, round arse, plop, plop, plop. "Oink! Oink! Oink!" she cries. Her snout in the air. Clack, clack, clack, sound her feet on the tiled floor. Clack, clack, squish, squish, sound her feet as she slips in her own shit, smearing it across the white, tiled floor.

Ah! “Oink!”

She throws herself to the ground and rolls in her faeces smearing it across her face, and her body, pissing herself as she lay hysterical on her back kicking her totters in the air. It was strangely satisfying.

How... “oink”... did... “oink”... this… “oink"… happen?

She oinks and flails on the shit smeared tiled floor until she is exhausted.

She has to be dreaming. This had to be a nightmare. Someone must have spiked her drink? If only she could remember anything before this morning?

The points of pink ears appeared first in the mirror on the dressing table, sliding up, sliding up. The creased forehead, the small black eyes. Her hands clasp her face. It is true, she isn’t dreaming. She hadn’t taken a bad trip, or drunk a bottle of absinth she’d forgotten about. At least that might have explained it. What did she do last night? She couldn’t remember. She lets out a wail, "Oink, oink, oink, oink!" and falls to the floor again.

What is wrong with me?

She begins to sob, but only pig grunts can be heard coming from her.