Okay, Okay, I Shouldn't Have Eaten Those Mushrooms

The Land cruiser was really comfortable on the trip back into the city, he thinks he may have nodded off. He forgets how high the, what is essentially a, truck is off the ground, when he gets out at his place in Brunswick, and he slides out in an ungainly fashion. He’s sure he was grabbing on for safety handles as it all gave way below him.

That’s funny, he thinks. Is he unsteady on his feet?

Tim leans into the back of the car to get the mushrooms. “Will, maate? You ate from both bags.”

“No, I didn’t,” he says instinctively. What?

“Both bags are open,” says Tim sounding like mum.

“I couldn’t have.” Even he heard the quaver in his own voice.

It was as if Tim sniffed his admission in the air. “Maaate?”

"Okay, okay, I shouldn't have eaten those mushrooms," he says. He holds his stomach and wonders if he is turning green.

"Maate? Maate? You didn't eat the red cap ones, did ya?"

Red cap, gold cap, I ate them like I'd eat potato chips. "Dunno..."

"Oh maate..."

"I don't reckon..." What the hell do mushrooms do to you?

"You sure?"

"Nah, of course... I'm... I'm not sure." He was sure alright, he knew he'd eaten them, but he didn't want to look like a complete idiot, now did he.

"I told ya just to eat the ones from the first bag, the ones I'd picked..." Tim says. “And then only a few.”

A few? Now suddenly there is a number restriction? "Yeah, yeah, I listened to ya..."

"So, did ya?"

"Did I what?" He was having trouble keeping up by this point.

"Just eat them from the bag, eat the ones I picked?"

Don’t question me. "Yeah, yeah, I think so..." he didn’t, actually, remember eating any of the damn mushrooms, he just knew he had eaten them. One by one as he gazed out the window.

"You think so?" Tim’s voice squeaked ominously.

"Yeah, okay, I did. I did, okay." Why did his voice squeak?

"You don't wanna eat any of them red ones, or any of them gold ones, from the other bag, you really don't want to do that."

"Sweet." He didn’t look at the colour of them. WHO SAID ANYTHING ABOUT COLOUR?

There is silence for a minute.

That's all you are going to say? He thinks. Does he feel well? Is he beginning to feel sick? Is it psychosomatic? "Like, why?" he asks.

"Why what?"

"Like what will happen?"

"Oh maate, I couldn't say. Wouldn't like to say. Not really sure."

“Give it your best shot.” He was suddenly feeling desperate, and he didn’t entirely know why?

Tim makes sucking sounds.

"Don't say that." What the fuck does that mean? I don’t like the sound of that.

They hold each other’s gaze.

Tim’s mouth creases first. “So, I have one question for you.” Tim holds his hands out, flat in the air. “Then I’m done.”

“What is it?” You only have one question? This is my life we are talking about.

“Why were both bags open, when I got them from the middle of the back seat, next to where you were sitting?”

He’d done coke in Sydney with Mardi Gras queens after a long weekend of taking every other drug he could get his hands on. “You must have put them in the car that way.”

“I didn’t.”

“You must be mistaken.” He’d done MDMA and trips with drag queens in London until the sun came up.

“I’m not.”

He’d done MDA with drunk girls in Milan. “Ah… er…ah” was all he could manage. He was thinking about the time he got a lift across Milan with a willowy black woman, with bright red lipstick, in a bright red Fiat 500. Was everything suddenly looking red?

“The second bag was what we’d all picked, but I just hadn’t checked it for poison’s rooms.”

Silence.

“What if I did?” He holds his hands in the air, he’d suddenly exposed an uncomfortable truth about himself.

Tim sucks in breath. 

That sucking sound, the only other time he’d heard that was when, as a kid, his dad used to get bad news. He is sure that isn’t good in this situation. 

Tim looks into the second bag. “The ratio of poisonous is disturbingly high.” Tim sucks in breath again. “I should take you to get your stomach pumped.” His eyes blink fast. “It would be the kindest thing.”

“What!” Even he hears his own voice squeak.

“Did you eat…” asks Tim. His right hand does a kind of Sale of the Century’s model’s hand gesture to the bag he is holding in his other hand. “These?”

Ambulance. Emergency. ICU. All flash through his mind. “What?”

“What did you eat?”

“Just what you told me.”

“Sure?”

“Sure.”

“Okay then,” says Tim. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“I’ve gotta go.”

He’s what? Oh… yeah… okay. Will suddenly closes the Landcruiser door with a jerk of his arm, as though suddenly he wasn’t in full control of his arm. He sees it close. He could tell he’d closed it too hard, as Tim’s mouth makes an 'O' shape and his eyes widen noticeably, but Will didn’t hear the door closing make any sound.

Tim guns the engine and selects 1st gear with a crunch of the gearstick before he accelerates away.

Will stands and watches the big truck disappear out of view. Then he stands there for a bit longer, gazing at the spot Tim disappeared around the corner.

Will’s eyes lids suddenly feel heavy, he’s not at all sure if he has both eyes open.

The front path comes up at him in the most peculiar way. The front door feels huge. The last thing he remembers is the hallway carpet coming up and smacking him in the face.

In the first few hours he thinks he is going to die. In the hours after that, he hopes he will die. Sometime after that, he remembers wondering if he has died.

He opens his eyes. Where was he? There was a flat plane seemingly extending out from his eyeballs to infinity. What the fuck was that? If only he could focus, he’d be able to tell. Why won’t his eyes focus? Why is his mouth in pain. He tries to lick his lips but no moisture comes. His lips feel like what he would imagine the parched landscape of the Nullarbor would taste. He works his sore tongue, which somehow feels too big for his mouth, like it was borrowed from a giant, or something unexplainable, in and out of his mouth and moisture does come. Painfully, he has to acknowledge. His eyeballs focus finally, to discover the flat plane extending out in front of him was his hallway floor. He is lying face down. He tries to sit up, but his back feels locked in position. 

“Ohhhh!” He instinctively knows the moan is coming from him, even if it feels like he has a ventriloquist dummy somewhere out of sight through which he is speaking. If he’d heard the words, just look at you, what state do you call this? You are a disgrace. He wouldn’t have been surprised.

Slowly he starts to work his joints. First his spine, which feels like it is fused together. As it comes good, he is able to slide around onto his arse and sit up.

Everything hurts. Now, when he hears people say ‘everything hurts’ he’ll have some reference point for the sympathy he might give. 

He doesn’t feel good. He doesn’t know how he feels, but it isn’t good. 

Somewhere in the recess of his brain he thinks he feels pleased. He didn't die, after all.

He gets to his feet with difficulty. He needs some water to restore moisture to his throat, as even though moisture has returned to his mouth, there is, really, barely enough present to facilitate swallowing and he is continually suffering a series of mini gagging events due to the lack of fluid in his throat.

He pulls his phone from his pocket as he makes his way hesitantly to the kitchen, there are quite a few missed calls. It is 9.40am.

He gets a glass of water at the sink, it has a very strange effect on his throat as the liquid goes down, like the reintroduction to his system of an unfamiliar element of life. As he is trying to swallow the water, he again glances at his phone to see the date of the Tue 6th.

He straightens up with a groan that goes from the back of his head to the tips of his toes and focusses on the sky beyond the kitchen window as though he is searching for something. He looks back at his phone. 

They went mushroom picking on Saturday.

Maggie's Night Spot

Serendipity was swinging around her pole slowly, it was a slow night at Maggie's Night Spot. None of the regulars were in, just a few losers who seemed to be staring down the misery in their pint glasses, more than they were staring at the girl's tits. 

Where were all the fun guys? The drunk guys? The guys with full wallets? The easy guys? A grab of your tits and they are happy guys.

Serendipity had a hand full of lard, so she just kept spinning around that big, greasy brass pole. 

The piano player, Johnny, was playing blues, as if he were on Serapax. Serendipity knew he drank two bottles of red, and smoked half a bag of weed before he came on. The jukebox of emo go slow.

Serendipity spun, and she spun, and she spun.

Daaaah, Dah, Dah, Daaah, Dah, dah, daaah. Dah.

Serendipity spun, and she spun, and she spun.

Daaaah, Dah, Dah, Daaah, Dah, dah, daaah. Dah.

"It is me, they are coming to see," sang Johnny. "To forget about life for a while."

Daaaah, Dah, Dah, Daaah, Dah, dah, daaah. Dah.

Daaaah, Dah, Dah, Daaah, Dah, dah, daaah. Dah.

Serendipity spun, and she spun, and she spun.

Daaaah, Dah, Dah, Daaah, Dah, dah, daaah. Dah.

"Man, what are you doin' here?" Johnny screamed.

“Oh, la la la, di da da, la la, di da da da dum.”

Daaaah, Dah, Dah, Daaah, Dah, dah, daaah. Dah.

Serendipity spun, and she spun, and she spun.

Daaaah, Dah, Dah, Daaah, Dah, dah, daaah. Dah.

Serendipity spun, and she spun, and she spun.

"Well, we're all in the mood for a melody."

Johnny’s fingers crash off onto a classical music interlude still with a stripper’s beat, naturally. Tits and arse. Snatch and feathers. "Da da-da da da-da da da-da da da..."

Serendipity spun, and she spun, and she spun.

"And you... " Johnny’s voice soared.

Johnny plays a crashing piano solo. High art. Avant-garde. Da da-da da, da da-da da, da da-da da da.

"Got us feeling alright," wails Johnny’s bluesy voice.

Daaaah, Dah, Dah, Daaah, Dah, dah, daaah. Dah.

Serendipity spun, and she spun, and she spun.

Daaaah, Dah, Dah, Daaah, Dah, dah, daaah. Dah.

Serendipity spun, and she spun, and she spun.

The guys weren't coming in. Serendipity was getting a pain in her shoulder for no money, for no cash. She spun and she spun and she spun.

Daaaah, Dah, Dah, Daaah, Dah, dah, daaah. Dah.

Serendipity spun, and she spun, and she spun.

“Oh, la la la, di da da, la la, di da da da dum,” sings Johnny.

Heels click across the concrete floor. “Step it up a bit, you two” says Maggie. “People will think somebody has died here soon, if you keep this up.”

“Not exactly a jumping night,” whines Serendipity.

“Well, do something about it,” says Maggie. “It’s not a fucken wake.”

 “What do you suggest?”

“Shake your arse, get ya fucken tits out, that’s what I fucken suggest,” says Maggie. “Before I get up there and show you how it’s really fucken done.”

Serendipity spits her gum. “That won’t be necessary,” Serendipity says, on all fours, twirking her arse slowly in the air. Serendipity gets to her feet, she steps up to her mic. "Fuck you,” she wails at Johnny, pointing in the air at him. She breathes in deep. “It is me,” she pulls her tits out. “They are coming to see," Serendipity wails. She slides her hand down her stomach and into her panties and clearly into her vagina. "I POP my cork for every man I see!"

Johnny’s harmonica soars as the piano pounds out Hey Big Spender.

Serendipity puts her mic in the mic stand, then she gyrates across the stage, wiggling he ample breasts.

Maggie whistles. “Show ‘em why you got them fucken implants, babe,” yells Maggie.

The boys instinctively make their way in from the bar to Serendipity’s stage, one by one. They start gathering at the front of the stage.

“That’s my girl,” yells Maggie. Two thumbs in the air as she walks away.

Serendipity kicks her leg high. She shakes her tits. She unwraps herself from her bra top, like she is doing the dance of the veils, and spins around back to the mic stand.

“Oh, la la la, di da da, la la, di da da da dum,” sings Serendipity. “Oh la la!”

Some of the boy’s wolf whistle. Some of the boys cheer her on.

“Come and get this, boys,” wails Serendipity. “Hey Big Spender!”

Hector is at the front of the stage. The young, Greek fish monger from up the market. Handsome Hector.

Serendipity grabs her mic and goes down on her knees in front of Hector, black g-string and black leather boots. Serendipity wraps both her arms around Hector’s head, she slides one of her nipples into his mouth.

“Say wouldn’t you like to know what’s going on in my mind.”

The punters go crazy. If Hector gets to suck tit, it means the rest of them have a shot of sucking her nipples too, in group think. Hector sucks her breast like a poddy calf.

Serendipity stands up. “The minute you walked into the joint.”

“Boom! Bang!” Johnny ponds the keys.

“I could see you were a maa, an, an an aan,” sang Serendipity.

Da da-da da, da da-da da, da da-da da da, Johnny plays

“A man of distinction.” Serendipity slides her g-string to her ankles.

Da da-da da, da da-da da, da da-da da da.

“I pop my cork for every man I see.”

Serendipity squats in front of Hector. She slides a finger into herself.

“Spend a little time with me,” Serendipity sings.

Serendipity takes Hector’s hand and puts it on her hand, the finger of which she is fingering herself.

“I pop my cork.”

Serendipity fingers herself open for all to see.

“I pop my cork.”

Hector’s finger disappears inside Serendipity.

“I pop my cork!”

The boys all start to cheer.

Serendipity stands.

“For evvvvery… Maaaaaaaan,” she wails. “I” She turns to face the men full frontal nude. She blows air kisses. “Seeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.” She shakes her tits from side to side, as she struts around the stage.

Lights up. Serendipity takes a small bow. Lights down. Serendipity heads for the back of the stage. The boys cheer.

The next stripper Coral, with her python, heads towards her.

“Well,” said Serendipity. “I think they are warmed up enough now.”

“Yeah, thanks a fucken lot for makin’ my shift that much fucken harder,” said Coral.

“If you’ve got it, you’ve got it.” said Serendipity. “What can I say?” She laughed 

“Well, next time you decided to wake up from your fucken drug nightmare and do some fucken work for a fucken change, instead of thinking about how you are gonna fuck Hector next,” said Coral. “I’d have bought my dog in if I’d known that.”

“Maggie is on the snarl, apparently we aren’t bringing in enough of the filthy.”

“Was that her down the front,” asks Coral. “That I saw tonight?

“Perhaps we should do a double act?”

“Have another nosefull and come back out,” said Coral. “I could ditch the snake if you do.”

“Nah, I got me a big, Greek stallion tonight.”

Johnny’s piano started to wail on stage.

Coral stepped up to the microphone.

“I was five and he was six.”

The stage door banged shut behind Serendipity. The music stopped.

She had told Hector to meet her out the front. She didn’t want to leave him standing around the building. Serendipity knew what slags the girls were. Any handsome thing with a pulse.

“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about,” says Maggie. She’s got an armful of outfits she was clearly moving. “Good job.”

“You don’t mind Hector being out the front?”

“You can fuck him on stage, if you keep getting the punters through the doors,” says Maggie.

Serendipity clunked down the back-stage corridor to the dressing room in her stratospheric stilettos. She pushed the dressing room door open. The air was thick with cigarette smoke.

Magenta was just tucking her penis up her arse and applying a thick wad of gaffer tape to hold everything in place.

“I hope Coral put enough lube on that snake,” said Serendipity. “We don’t want a repeat of last week.”

Martinique was sitting back on her chair staring into her mirror, surrounded by exposed light bulbs, feet in strappy shoes up on her dressing table, drawing hard on her smoke, the ash from which was hanging off the end of the cigarette between her turquoise talons. Bustier, but nothing else. “She bitched for fucken days,” said Martinique.

Sibeon was crying, and Aurora was trying to comfort her.

Cashmere was shooting up in the corner. 

“That stuff will fucken kill you,” said Serendipity.

“I need something to get me through this nightmare.”

“Your choices, welcome to them,” spat Martinique.

“Seriously, Cashmere,” said Magenta. The gaffer tape was all Magenta was wearing. She had a powder brush in one hand as she puffed on a splif with the other.

“Sibeon’s got man trouble,” says Aurora. “What else makes a girl cry around here?”

“Have you done your make up?” asked Serendipity. She was now standing at her makeup table wiping at her face with a sponge.

“I’ve been touching it up since last month,” said Magenta in her baritone voice. “I call it scat face.”

“You are succeeding,” said Serendipity. She looks over at Cashmere. “What’s wrong with her?”

“I think the goblin bit off her clit,” said Martinique.

“What’s his number?” said Magenta. “That could save me a fortune.”

“Can someone look after Sibeon?” said Aurora. “I’ve got to get into my lights outfit, I’m on after Coral.”

“Not me,” said Serendipity. “I’ve got a date.”

“Hector?”

“Hector.”

“You lucky bitch, he’s got girth,” said Aurora.

“Just what mama ordered.” Serendipity twitched her nose at the thought. She dropped the humour from her voice. “And he’s nice, too. He wants to…”

“Oh Jesus, don’t even fucken say it,” said Martinique. “Dear God!”

“Good for you,” said Magenta.

“Come here, dohl,” said Cashmere ricocheting off the furniture in Sibeon’s direction. “We’ll make plans to kill the son of a bitch, then claim diminished respo… respo… “

Magenta moved towards Sibeon in rubber tits and that strip of grey gaffer tape. “No, hon, not you.” Magenta grabbed Cashmere by the arm and pushed back in the direction of her makeup table. “Sibeon, darl, get some clothes on and you can come out drinking with me. You can unload about him with me, but we won’t be planning any one’s murder tonight.”

“It’s what the fucker needs,” said Cashmere from her chair. “We could tie him up and cut his cock off and let him bleed out. That would fucken learn him.”

“I’m at a loose end…” said Martinique.

“I’ve heard the guys describe you just that way,” said Cashmere.

“Says the human bowling ball,” said Martinique. “I’ll come out drinking, too.” 

“Sure,” said Magenta. “I was planning to get shit faced and fall down, but if we are baby sitting, we may have to curb it a bit.”

“You don’t have to baby sit me,” said Sibeon.

“Of course not,” said Magenta, in baby speak.

Aurora headed to the stage. Cherish and Elektra arrived at the same time, as Aurora left. “I’m doing the Virgin Mary, tonight,” said Cherish.

“I’m doing Madeline McCann reimagined,” said Elektra. They both laugh. “Good evening… ladies,” said Elektra to the dressing room.

“It’s not a jumpin’ night, you’ll need all your tricks,” said Serendipity. “Good night ladies.” 

Hector was waiting out the front.

“You been waiting long,” Serendipity said to Hector.

“No,” said Hector. He laughed. “You know how long I have been waiting.”

“I guess,” said Serendipity. “Where are you taking me?”

“Where would you like to go?” said Hector.

“I’d really like something to eat?”

“Okay.” Hector put his arm out for Serendipity to loop her arm through, and she did. “Food it is.”

They walked towards Hector's Mustang, arm in arm.

“Did you sleep with Aurora?”

"What?"

"Did you?"

“That was before I met you,” said Hector. “You can’t be cross about that?”

“I guess, as long as you haven’t slept with Magenta.”

“I don’t think I know which one is Magenta.”

Serendipity laughed. “It doesn’t matter.”

Hector and Serendipity went to Charcoal Joes, the twenty four hour Greek restaurant in Lonsdale Street.

They sat in the large window and the world passed by outside.

“Serendipity…”

“Call me Amy.”

“Amy… Amy, I like you…”

“I like you too.” Amy liked Hector’s handsome face. She liked his dimples. But mostly she liked the feeling she got when she was with him.

“I really like you.” Hector smiled.

“Like Aurora?”

“That was just sex,” said Hector. “You must know that?”

“Why would I know that?” said Amy. “Because I am a stripper?”

“No, because you are an adult and we all have a past.”

“Yes, well,” said Amy. “I know I do.”

Hector tilted his head in the cutest way, just like Amy’s pug dog. “I want to be with you,” said Hector.

“You know the right things to say.”

“I don’t want to stop you from doing anything,” said Hector. “My mum was unhappy because my father stopped her from doing the things she liked.”

“Do you think I like stripping?”

“I don’t know, Amy, I don’t know,” said Hector. “But it is up to you.”

“It is up to me?”

“Do you like it?”

“I like the money,” said Amy.

“What about the men looking at you?”

“They can’t hurt me with their looks,” said Amy. “They can’t hurt me.”

“I just want you to be happy.”

“You make me happy.”

“You know all the right things to say,” said Hector.

“I just don’t like what people think of me?”

“What do you tell people you do?”

“I tell them I am a dancer,” said Amy. “Generally, people don’t ask too many questions.”

Hector reached out and took Amy’s hand in his. Amy felt a thrill down her spine. She couldn’t ever remember a man taking her hand so tenderly, ever.

“Amy, I want to marry you?”

“Marry me? Are you sure, Hector?”

“I’m sure,” said Hector. “I want to have children with you.”

“Children, Hector? I never thought…”

“Why would you never think?”

“What would I tell them?”

“You’d tell them you were a dancer.”

“Oh Hector.”

They drank too much at dinner. Amy was tipsy and giggly balancing on her stratospheric stilettos when they got back to Hector's.

The third floor of Hector’s terrace house had a balcony, the French doors open to the stars.

Some men are truly gifts from the gods, thought Amy, as her head hung off the side of the bed and she saw the room upside down with a carpet of stars leading out to the rest of the world. 

Suddenly her life made sense, upside down. 

Hector snored. He is the one, she thought girlishly to herself. A girl can dream.

Amy was late to the club the next night. She crashed through the door with barely enough time to get ready to go on, but she clearly wasn’t upset by that, in fact she felt happier than she could ever remember feeling.

“What are you so happy about?” said Aurora.

“I’m going to be a decent, upright, respectable, married lady,” said Serendipity.

“You’re a funny girl,” said Magenta.

Half Good

South African, Rita Kindervarten is an old lady. She finds herself half way across the road on the central median strip looking at Billy back on the footpath. Billy helped her, but he got distracted and left her halfway across the street, when his mobile phone rang.

“I’ve got to take this.” He retreats back to the first side of the road, when the other side of the road is blocked with oncoming traffic.

Billy repeats back what the person on the other end of the phone is saying, as if he can’t quite believe what he is hearing, the effect was the entire conversation, had a touch of the macabre’s about it, as though Billy was answering himself but without really listening. 

Billy was standing in front of a shop window, Rita can see that he thought he looked pretty good in his three button cream sixties suite, as he looked at his reflection in the glass. He did, in his thin black tie and his pointy black shoes.

“I can’t wait for this nonsense,” Rita mutters to herself.

Rita is trying to cross the other half of the busy street on her own. Cars rush passed, and Rita is shaking, as she tries to judge their speed. Rita's macular degeneration makes it almost impossible for her to see the approaching cars.

Rita is going to be killed.

Billy realises what he has done. “Gotta go.” He flips his phone shut, and he dashes across to the middle of the road and takes Rita's arm. “Steady on old girl.”  Just as Rita is about to step in front of on-coming traffic.

"Rita, I am so sorry," says Billy.

"Eets not the ind of the wurld, Beelly," says Rita.

"I shouldnta done what I done, Rita," says Billy. "It's the voices, Rita, it’s the voices." He holds up his phone.

"Never mynd Beelly, yr ere now," says Rita. "Let's geet across."

"On the count of three, Rita."

"Roytio, Beelly," says Rita. "On zee count of thhree."

Billy takes Rita by the arm and escorts her to the far side of the road. Across three lanes, in between cars flashing passed them on either side. "Immaculate Degenerate, or not, Rita. Immaculate Degenerate, or not."

"Yes, Beelly," says Rita. "Yes, Beelly."

"Run!" says Billy. A truck approaches them in the far lane.

Rita Screams.

Billy drags her to the footpath just in time.

"You're moi 'ero, Beelly. You're moi 'ero."

"That was close, Rita. That was close."

Rita clasps her hands to her forehead. "I felt zee vind, Beelly. Zee Vind from the car passing su cluse."

"You nearly felt more than that." Billy laughs.

Rita laughs. "Don't say eet, Beelly. Don't say eet."

It reminded them of home, the windy back blocks, those tumbleweed streets of where they’d come from, the hills out the back of Bolago. As kids, Billy and his mates used to hide in Rita’s garden. They would scramble about being up to no good, and sometimes Rita would hear them. 

“Is there somebody there,” she would call out. “Or is it ze wind?’

It was long after Rita’s husband had passed and Billy could hear the sadness in Rita’s voice. As his mates scrambled and scattered in fear of being seen, Billy would take one last look at the woman in the single globe lit back door, as if the pool of that single globe was the tapestry that was left of her life. He’d call out as softly as the wind, “It is only ze vind.” Before he’d scatter through the garden as quiet as a mouse.

“Er.” Rita’s voice would herumph. It would be the last thing Billy heard, as he dashed under the second story growth of Rita’s vast garden. The resignation of loneliness. It gave him a chill.

Years later, Carmel, Billy’s mother’, died and it was her funeral. Rita was the tiny figure sitting quietly down the back. Afterwards, Rita plucked up the courage to say something to Billy. Billy’s mum, Carmel, had been the first local to be kind to Rita, after she immigrated to Bolago. She approached Billy and told him what a wonderful woman his mother was.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

 “You’re the woman from the veranda,” Billy says, as though thinking out aloud.

“Your one of the boys who used to call to me from my garden.”

“I thought you were mad.” Billy picked up a sandwich from the plate.

“I thought I was going mad,” says Rita. “We’d been married for 30 years.” She scooped a sausage roll deep down into the tomato sauce that it looked as though it dripped blood as she bought it to her mouth.

“Do you still miss him?” asks Billy.

“Ivery day, Beelly, ivery day.”

“How long has it been?” asks Billy.

“Fifteen yars, Beelly. Fifteen yars.”

Billy misses his mum. Rita never had any children. They stay close.

One night, a couple of years after Carmel’s death, after a huge batch of eggnog made by Billy’s sister, Amanda, Billy told Rita the story of what he and his mates used to hide in her garden.

“It was late, we were bored,” says Billy.

“Well, eet vas a small town, Beelly, a small town. Not much for kids to do in a small town."

“We used to hang around the arcade, Saturday night playing games, hanging out.”

“Not much goin’ on in a small town on a Saturdee night.”

“We play games until old Joe would kick us out and shut up shop. I think it was 11pm.”

“I’d bee vatching teevee, Beelly, till late, I no longer had any reason to go to bed.”

“We’d walk home down Donaldson’s Road. We’d cut across the creek which ran along the back of your yard.”

Miryveather Creeek,  Beelly, Miryveather Creeek.”

“Your house sat up high…”

“Yeees, it vas a good view in ze day tyme from my veranda.”

“It was a game to us.”

“My husband Elliot had not long died, the greef didn’t leave me for a number of years,” says Rita. “It vas an ard von zat. Greef Beelly, ze greef.”

“I found that out with my mum dying,” says Billy. “It never really fully goes.”

“But vhy my hise, Beelly, vhy me?”

“It was just on the way, Rita. That’s all it was.”

“You’d make those noises, Beelly, those noises you boys made.”

“I know, we thought it was funny,” says Billy. “We were bored and young, a dangerous combination.”

“It vas unkind.”

“You were the lady with the funny way of talking, with the accent…”

“Ze accent, Beelly, get it right.”

“Ze accent, Reeta, ze accent.”

Rita laughs. “Oh Billy you are so funny. Zat is supposed to be me.”

“Zat is you, old gyrl.”

Rita laughs. "Don't say eet, Beelly. Don't say eet."

“It vasn’t just ze vind, Mrs Kindervarten.”

“Oh Beelly.”

“I’m glad I got to know you,” says Billy. “I’m glad you forgave me.”

“Me too Beelly, me too,” says Rita. “A friendship shared in death.”

The cars begin to rush again on the lane they’d just crossed.

“Don’t say it, Beelly, don’t say it.” Rita giggles.

Billy laughs nervously. "It vas zee vind, Mrs Kindervarten? "It vas ze vind?"

"It was zee vind, Beelly," asks Rita. "Ze vind?"

"Yes, Mrs Kindervarten. Ze Vind."

"Er," says Rita. She shrugs.

"Zee vind," says Billy.

"Ve made eet," says Rita. "That is all that matters, Beelly."

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 s 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.”