Wednesday, 16 November 2016

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 three 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 on my skin.

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 threw 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.”

“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 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 didn’t have a condom, 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 but 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.”

Wednesday, 14 September 2016

Getting Some Shots Done

I went to see Harry, the guy I met the other night at a party, he was very keen for me to go around. I kind of like the idea of a photographic journal of my life, not only take it down in words, but have 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? 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 Harry.

Don’t worry, I got it. Harry has an ulterior motive, I thought as I got ready to go. He’s old school queen, to who 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 unrepayed. Now a days, I am an older and wiser 35 year old who is in good shape and who, from all accounts, has a great cock, and I am a little kinder and I don’t mind giving an old queen a thrill every once in a while. One day I am going to be their age and nobody is going to want to have sex with me, well, not too may 35 year olds. If he charms me and cajoles me, and flatters me, I’ll let Harry see my dick. Why not, old queens, as a rule, love me, so it is rewarding. They don’t get to touch much, just watch. It is when all my voyeuristic tendencies come out and I shiver with antisipation. I usually let them watch me wank off in the end, if they are keen. I’ve got a big, beautiful cock, according to most “comers.” 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.


Harry flattered me enough the other night to entice me over to his place to see what may go down. 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 Harry is gooing 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 passed 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 Harry. I wondered if that was a double entendre, but it isn’t. It is nearly lunchtime and Harry has prepared something.

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

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

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

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

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

“A handsome young man like yourself…”

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

“Of course,” said Harry. And 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.” Harry smiled again. Said the spider to the fly was all I could think. I admonished myself under my breath, Harry seemed nice. I can 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 is was.

“As long as it is indoors, for optimum bathing suit shots.” I smiled.

“Yes, indoors, yes indoors, yes, quite, quite, quite. We don’t want anything, um, underestimated.” He laughed. A dirty 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 aporved, I chuckled to myself.

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

“Sure,” I said.

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?”

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

“Yes,” said Harry. 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?”

“So you get all of him,” I said feebly.

“Yes, precisely,” said Harry. “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, well, very good,” said Harry.


We get into the studio. It is a big square box with a mattress in it. What have I let myself in for? It was a bed, I 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. 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 didn’t want copies, it was just 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.

“That’s good, he said. “Here you go.”

I looked at Harry and he had something in his right hand and a glass of water in the other hand. I took the blue pill and the glass of water and took the pill.

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.

“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’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 tshirt 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.”

“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.



He wheeled a clothes hanger on wheels over to him. 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 speedos. “I’ve had the heater on… might as well start when it is the warmest.”

I have to admit, I was getting half hard, and I wasn’t sure it was the Viagra. This is it, this is where I get to be the dirty little exhibitionist I have lurking inside me. This is where I spread my legs and let Harry see my big dick.

I took my jeans down. I could feel the weight of my cock. I could feel it bending up. I turned my back to Harry. I pulled off my jocks and then pulled on the speedos.

“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 Harry.

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

I was really turned on, I have to admit. 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?”

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.”


Harry came over. “Fuck you have a beautiful cock.” He took a handful of lube and took my cock in his hand, rather unexpectedly. Unexpecdedly, I say? Really? How unexpecded 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. And I was still the hot young thing, Harry 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 Harry and me.

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

“I want to make you cum,” said Harry.

“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?” Harry relaxed his hands momentarily.

“Because you are going to make me cum.”

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


“Fuck, you are really going to make me cum.” I took over from Harry. I pulled my cock vigorously. I was going to cum. It was going to be a great cum. My cock was rock hard in my hand. I could feel it, I could feel it, I could feel it! I shot huge white shots of jizz into the air. I kept pulling, my cock which was still rock hard. Harry had picked up his camera again, luby fingers and all. He started to take shots. I shot another load of cum into the air, followed by another, and another.

Saturday, 30 July 2016

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?"

Tuesday, 12 July 2016

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.


Monday, 27 June 2016

Jason Whitelaw

At an early age, Jason Whitelaw was shunned by his parents and kicked out of home for being gay. He was a teenager. They breed them mean and godbothering up there in them thar hills. I think it is all that fresh air, it rots the brains of the simple and the weak. Fresh air and open spaces are only good for the expansive of mind. The strong. The sleek.

Jason Whitelaw was a change of life baby, the older piglets of the Whitelaw family had long since flown the nest when "special" Jason came along. His father was an army officer, his older brothers went into "the force," policeman, so, you can see, the family lacked a certain degree of imagination. To complete the trifecta, they were “of the lord.” The full disaster, poor little, gay Jason.

“My unhappy childhood was a direct result of my mother not being able to use contraceptives effectively,” Jason once said to me.

Sad, I thought. I didn’t know what to say.

As you would understand, Jason had a hard time of it. Older parents, intellectually challenged, having to come to grips with their little homo, Jason. Still, Jason tried to make the best of it, with the handicaps that he was dealt at birth.

Poor Jase, nobody really understood him. His mother was too busy running bible studies in their "front" room, on the “good furniture,” such as it was, and his father was too busy being "a bloke" which clearly young Jason was not.

Actually, Jason was "well blokey" but not enough when it came out that he was a shirt lifter, or to be more precise, he liked his shirt lifted, not that he told his grandparent-like parents those precise details. Well, I don't think he did.

Jason had a cockatoo called Belgrave, his only friend during his childhood, he told me once. The bird used to talk to him in his room, as his parents sat glued to the teli night after night. Arm chair televangelists.

Jason found comfort in the arms of older men, from a young age, something he blamed “the trouble” on when it came. He was just a lamb who got in with the wrong company. Some may say he was looking for a father who'd accept him, or a big brother who would love him, men who would welcome him. Some may agree.

Maybe he was looking for Jesus. “Put in my arse, dear lord, to make me feel loved.”



I met Jason around the pool table at a South Yarra gay pub on Sunday afternoons. He clearly took a shine to me. I was really just there to drink beer and play pool with my buddy, Raymond. We were both in our 20s, 26, 27. We used to play with Ray’s friend Ian, who was in his 30s, 34, 35. Actually, Raymond and Ian really played in the comp. I would sometimes compete, but I never really felt like I was as good as the other players, who were awfully keen and pretty serious. So, I spent a lot of the time sitting on the benches surrounding the pool table chatting to people.

I hadn’t come out long before this myself, a year, or so, and I was enjoying being free and open amongst “my people” so I wasn’t really looking for anything very serious as far as relationships went.

Now, I don’t have a tickets on myself, I really don’t and I am not normally the centre of people’s attention, but Ian fancied me too. But, he was Raymond’s friend and I’ve always had a kind of a rule, which I’ve stuck to pretty much, most of the time, that friends of friends were really off limits. There are plenty of men in the world, why would I want to make my life more complicated than it need be. Besides, even though Ian made it fairly clear of his desires for me, he never, actually, asked me. I remember, thinking to myself, that I could, possibly would make an exception with Ian, if he asked me, but he never did.

And there was Jason, 18, and nervously coming over to talk to me, to be with me, to hang with me. He never, actually, asked either, so I never had to think too much about him either. Jason was intense, even back then. He’d suddenly be standing by my side nervously asking me something that always seemed to me that he’d thought up to specifically ask me. He was nice, but really just a kid. He also had a funny rash around his nose, under his nose, like psoriasis, which never really said, “Come here, lover,” to me.

Jason was nice, good looking, interesting, and I was flattered by the attention, it was kind of new to me really, but he was just a guy. I thought about having sex with him, I did, but it never progressed passed a thought back then.



So move forward 12 months, or so. I’d been around the block a few times by this stage, I’d learned a few new tricks and I’d had my eyes opened to how “gay world” worked. I’d had a go at my first “out” gay relationship, which wobbled and stuttered and spluttered and was over, for what reason I wasn’t really clear about.

It was late one night at The Peel. I can’t really remember how I’d got to that point, or why, but it was 2am and I was drunk sitting on the umpteenth pot of beer for the night in the back bar. And who should sidle up to my gin-joint for one but Jason Whitelaw.

We got chatting, naturally, he and I were good at that. We were both drunk, or something, and my defences were down and we got flirting and saying sexy things to each other… and, one thing led to another, and we ended up back at my place, in my bed. Jason turned out to be… um… er… a great little catcher and I spend quite some time pitching to his tight little catcher’s mit.

I’d only just been out to my housemates with the ill-fated conscious coupling that had failed not long before Jason made his appearance from my bedroom, shirtless, dressed just in a pair of my track pants to share Sunday morning coffee with my housemate Jonathon Lilly and his gorgeous boyfriend at the time Andrew Earl-Jones.

I was nervous, of course and I could see the looks on Jonathon and Andrew’s faces as they spotted Jason. Surprise, delight, interest, humour, speculation, all those things that people think when “trade” is presented at the “family” table.

Jason and I hung out a bit, we liked each other fine, and we pretty much knew each other anyway. Despite, what I may have thought about him previously, I was quite chuffed with our pairing, it had an inevitability to it, kind of like a promise finally fulfilled, even if, in my mind anyway, I had somewhat rejected him as too young previously. And he was a nice, big solid lad, who was nice to hold and hot to kiss. He was a sexy boy, lets face it. If I close my eyes, I can still feel him in my arms, even all these years later.

Later that day, I drove him back to his place in the Dandenong Ranges. I remember, I gave him my favourite shirt, at the time, and some jeans and some undies, that I much admired him in, as fresh clothes. I never got them back.

I’m not sure who I thought lived in the charming hill cottage he took me too. I’m guessing he told me it was his family home, but maybe because nobody else was there, I didn’t take so much notice of this fact. We hung out. We fucked on his bed. We breathed in the fresh air. We may have gone down the paddock and looked at his horses, maybe, that seems to ring some bells. It was lovely and relaxing, hanging with this handsome guy, for who I’d just found a much greater appreciation. It is amazing how your attitude to someone changes after they let you put yourself inside them.

I didn’t learn about his family until much later. I wonder now what may have happened if the family had come home, during our romantic interlude in their country retreat? I shudder at the thought. I’ve never had to climb out a bathroom window with my clothes under my arm, even figuratively, something for which I am grateful. I wonder how that may have been different? I wonder sometimes, on the odd occasion I think about Jason and his house, if my life may have been in danger? This thought seems absurd to me as soon as I think it, but, hillbilly, nutjob parents who were willing to disown their own flesh and blood completely, you know, it makes me wonder? I was a nice boy from Camberwell and not prepared for such things.

Our time together was fleeting. All exquisite things must come to an end. Beauty fades and we all move on, as Jason and I did.



I didn’t see much of Jason after that. I stopped going to the Southside. I met the great love of my life. And despite Mark and I being huge party animals for a time there, drinking in everything gay life had to offer, and then some, I didn’t cross paths with Jason.

Jason and I had some other connections through friends who’d been to school with him. And some other gay friends who’d been friends with him. So his name came up from time to time, even if I didn’t see him. Those degrees of separation were being peeled down from 6 to 5 to 4, quite possibly.

So, I hadn't seen Jason for some time, when we bumped into each other in a city bar at one of my mates birthday parties, I think it was. I think Mark and I were at the end of our relationship, I think I was there with Mark and his new boyfriend Luke. So I wasn’t needed anywhere in particular.

Jason looked good, I remember. He’d grown into a man and it suited him. His skin had cleared up and he was as handsome as ever he was. He cornered me in the back bar, he contained me in one spot, literally for a time with one arm either side of me onto the bar behind me, sucking all of my attention in. He was still as intense as ever.

“Hey Jase, I haven’t seen you forever. How have you been?” I was pleased to see him. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t attracted to him.

“I’ve been away,” said Jason.

That is nice, I thought. “Oh, nice. Overseas?”

“No, I have been away.”

“Yes, yes.” I was waiting for details of his trip away. I gazed into his handsome face.

“No,” he said. “I have been away.”

Okay, I heard you the first time, I thought. Clearly, I am missing something here. “Yes, we all need to get away from time to time,” I said. I was still waiting for the joyous details and perhaps a few happy snaps from his travels.

“No, I went away.”

What was he on, I thought? He was on something. Yes, yes I got that and really rapidly I was losing interest in whatever game he was trying to play.

“I was put away.”

Clunk. Kerching. The penny dropped. Oh? I guess he means jail. I’m sure my mouth made a big O. I tried not to look too surprise, I’m not really sure why. The boy most likely to go to jail as voted by his year 10 class in his last formal year of high school. “You’ve been in jail?” I asked tentatively. Well, it seemed like I had to ask, it seemed like that is what he wanted me to do.

“Yes, away.”

Oh, the things we do? He was just a kid I bummed a decade ago. How do we get ourselves into these situations. “Really.” Back away from the crim, Josh, I thought. That nearly made me laugh, my crazy sense of humour. I stifled that, as I am sure that is not the response he was looking for. You know, when you laugh nervously because you don’t know what to say.

I tried not to stutter. “Oh really,” I said. “What for?”

“I held somebody up at an ATM…”

“Really?”

“With a syringe full of HIV positive blood.”

“Oh?” What could I say? “Why did you do that?” Was that a stupid question?

“I don’t know? I don’t remember any of it?”

“Oh.” Can’t remember it? I wonder what the victim remembers? How awful for them? The victim would never have known lovely Jason, the thought made me feel sad.

He was tried and convicted of a crime he could remember nothing about. He did time for something he had no memory of.

“So you were off your face?”

“Yes,” said Jason.

“And what made you rob someone?”

“I don’t know, I don’t remember.”

“Wow. That’s heavy.”

“I know,” said Jason.



So move forward another 10 years. I’d reconnected with Jason on Facebook. Some friend of a friend had liked something, or had commented on something, who was a friend of Jason. Lovely. It is always nice to reconnect with someone, no matter how tenuous the relationship had been previously. That is what Facebook is for, isn’t it? And he fitted my strict Facebook policy, only just admittedly, and that is that I am only friends with people on Facebook who are really friends. And while Jason may have been stretching that criteria quite possibly, I had had something of a relationship with him for many, many years. I thought nice thoughts about him. And, lets face it, I’d been inside him on numerous occasions, enjoyably so. I accepted his friendship request.

He wanted to hook up, apparently, I may have been the one who got away. I had a boyfriend though, so I didn’t want to hook up. Apparently, that is one of his pet hates, men who are in relationships who want to cheat with him. He has no end of offers, according to him. So tick to me for not cheating on Sam. But, you see, I didn’t even really want to meet up, not even just for a drink. Facebook friends was enough. I didn’t want any more than that.



As it turned out, Jason is quite the keyboard warrior. He had thousands of friends that he collected like badges of honour. He lived to post on Facebook and from what I could gather, he didn’t have much else going on in his life.

So his Facebook posts were frequent and many.

So, as you may gather, causes were, seemingly, what he lived for. And as I found out, and as many others clearly did too, disagree with him at your peril. Apparently, he’d collected degrees from some where, maybe it was a part of his work for release? Who knew? And he now seemed to be an expert on everything.

He’d grown into quite the man, and he used his looks freely and often to collect more friends.

You know, those with the most friends when they die are the winners.

I leant pretty quickly that if I were to comment on one of his posts, Jason would always have the last word. This led to somewhat tediously long interactions, many I regretted starting way before they were finished. If I tired to opt out, Jason would hound me for an answer, somehow my unwillingness to continue with conversations that had long since deteriorated into Jason telling me what it was I should be thinking and saying was seen as a sign of weakness.

I soon learned to pick my posts to comment on, if I made any comments at all. He never really commented on my posts, he was only really interested in his own opinion.

He posted continuously all day, like he had nothing else to do with his day. So much so that pretty soon I was losing track of my other friends. I was starting to think about blocking his posts altogether. And while I’d miss out on quite a number of interesting things he posted, which would be a shame, the overall effect for me would, actually, be a positive one.

You can block people without them knowing.

But it still seems like quite a drastic step, one I would have to be really pushed to make, and I wasn’t quite there as yet. But I was edging towards it.



So what happened next?

I posted a piece on gay marriage. I started with my indifference to gay marriage. I don’t want to get married, I don’t see anything in it for me. Sam agrees. However, I support my gay friends who want to. And really, it has been going on long enough, in all countries of the world. It is now inevitable and our politicians should just show some leadership and legalise it and put it to bed. Jason only seemed to pick up on me being indifferent to gay marriage and he went on to make some strident claims, which I didn’t answer initially. But, of course, stupid me and my big mouth, I just couldn’t help myself and I eventually wrote and answer, refuting each claim one by one. Stupid me, with an ego so clearly fragile as his, I should have just stated the obvious, “Jason, I don’t think you have understood my point clearly. I am, in affect, agreeing with you.”

It was the only time he was rendered lost for words.

But, still, a black mark for me.

Then, stupid me again, couldn’t hold my tongue when he said Janis Joplin wasn’t a singing legend. Janis Joplin being a personal favourite of mine. It was in something I wrote about all the great singers were dying this year and there was nobody to replace them.

He, of course, sent me a multitude of links to current singers who were equal to Bowie, Prince, Joplin and the likes, all the while criticising me for being hopelessly lost in the past, which wasn’t really my point. I think I liked one of them, the rest were rubbish. I wondered if he was tone deaf? He is not to know I am a highly qualified musician, with a perfect musical ear. My musical knowledge is extensive. How could he? When we were together, we spent most of our time engaged in frivolous sodomy. In fact, I would say that he spent as much time facing away from me as he did facing me when we were together.

I think my non-appreciation of the musical lesson that Jason provided me with was another black mark against me.



And then?

So, as you can imagine, the Orlando shooting was tailor made to be a pet crusade for Jason. Everything became “We Are Orlando” in Jason World. I don’t think he could have physically posted any more posts on Orlando than he did. There were not enough hours in the day.

I was a poofteenth away from blocking his posts. It was actually at that point that I shouldn’t have stepped back, I should have just stepped forward and blocked him, or, as they say in nice parlance, unfollowed him.

But, I really didn’t want to. I still had a soft spot for him. And I liked a lot of what he had to say. It was just when he got on his soapbox.

I made no comments, but the postings about Orlando were like a tsunami. I was awash in the world grief and drama. People were crying openly about people they had never met, and who they were never likely to ever meet.

Jason started posting that he was really disappointed with all of his gay friends who had not posted tributes to the 49 gay men who died. I hadn’t posted anything, I’d been sitting back taking in the world psycho drama rather silently. I, somewhat egotistically, which is unlike me, wondered if Jason was talking about me. So I wrote something about the event. My friends commented on my beautiful words, many shared what I had written with their friends, but Jason made no comment.

Then he posted an aunt’s words where she thanked god for taking her nephew up into heaven, or some such thing. I couldn’t say nothing. Where was god when the shooter approached the front door? I wrote.

Keep your hate to yourself, said Jason

That is not hate, I said. It is a question.

Have some respect, her nephew died, said Jason. In fact, I am sick of your hate, you are blocked.

Instantly, I was unfriended. Jason has more than one profile on Facebook and I was unfriended from all. I was blocked on Instagram too.

And that was that. Done. Over. Fixed.



This morning, I got up at 6.30am. It was dark, but it wasn’t bitterly cold. I logged onto Facebook. Despite, having the indignity of being unfriended by Jason Whitelaw, it was nice not having his manic posts coming up on my feed. The world was suddenly a calm place. The difference only served to highlight he is really just too much. It is good, really, I had to conclude. All that self-aggrandising, self-focused attention-getting was just too, too much. Conversations need to be two way, not one way and full of scorn if you happened to have a differing opinion that offended his fragile sense of self worth.

I post therefore I am.

The person at the end who dies with the most friend’s wins.

Friday, 17 June 2016

Bunny Carries On

Selby did quite nicely for himself on the north face of Mount Potty. He went under the radar, which is just the way he likes it.

“Oh it still gives me the shits, after a life time spent in a country town,” said Selby. “Mrs What’s-her-name, or Mrs who’s-me-bob, or Mrs Nanoonook says hello to you at the local and you are supposed to remember what the bitches name is.”

“You should have been a diplomat, Selby honey,” said Bunny.

“Instant recall that is what they demand, or Mrs What’s-Her-Face, from the dry cleaner gets shitty unbeknownst to me because I take my shirts in their and I didn’t instantly recognise who she was. She gets her nose out of joint and she is still snubbing me at the county fare six months after I have forgotten the incident.”

Bunny tried to give one of her knowing looks.

He’s been overlooked for a decade, the local hooch house. You could drive up the back of the house on the circular drive way. You’d head in the back door, where there was a counter of sorts, like a closed in back veranda, Selby had what you wanted in a tin box, ready for you to pick up.

“Don’t forget to call first.”

All nice and out of sight. That was until it was found out that young Daniel Pickering was paying for his pot with his arse, and Senior Sargent Pickering, his father, was furious. But he didn’t want it broadcast widely that young Daniel was a pillow biter, so he kept it quiet. But someone told Kylie Kloppers and she told whoever would listen, until her mother started keeping her home. Everyone was shocked, of course, and nobody really believed it. People were more shocked that someone amongst them was capable of making up such obvious lies about an upstanding member of their community.

Suspicion fell on Kylie and her, shall we say, “problems.”

Truth be known, young Daniel was a keen bottom, he’d head to the big smoke for it on Saturday night, and a keen pothead, from all accounts. He needed the pot for the Saturday night jaunts. He couldn’t function really well unmedicated, on a daily basis, so some said.

“I can,” said Daniel. He sounded anxious. “I just chose not to, the day is much nicer on it.”

He thought nothing about paying for his pot supply via his well developed nether regions. As it turned out, FayAnne had lost interest in sex pretty much. “Three long, hard bongs, and I don’t really care what I stick it into,” admitted Selby to Daniel. And the boy’s got muscles and real stamina, he can take as good as any drunk chick I’ve had down the back of Robbos. And he really seems to like it. It just feels tight and warm to me.

Selby and Daniel’s sex became more passionate. “He’s athletic, he really likes it, and I can bend him any way I fucken like,” said Selby. “He’s wet and he’s smooth. I first thought about Beyonce, sucking her snatch, but now the little monkey has got my full attention.

If the town only knew the truth.

One of the town’s favourite sons, is taking it up the arse enthusiastically from the resident hippy, old enough to be his father, to procure his pot supply, so he can keep up the pretence of fucking the prom queen, Angelic Maddern, the mayor’s daughter, so the community don’t catch on that he is secretly a queer. After Kylie Kloppers scandal, Angelica came out and publically stated that Daniel was a very normal functioning boy. Which shocked some of the old cadavers, as Bunny used to like calling them. To counter her relaxed liberal attitudes, the conservative “powers that be” questioned how many boys had Angelic had to know to know how a normal functioning boy functioned. They basically called her a slut, and it stuck to some degree.

“That girl advertised her sex life all over town,” said Mrs Gafoops, or Mrs What’s her Name, or Mrs WhoosyWhatsit down at the RiteWay.

“The moment I look backwards, kill me,” Bunny used to say. She says it is the result of 2 sentimental parent’s who never looked forward. “Everything was be’a back ‘ome.”

“That’s my Kylie Kloppers impersonation.”

“You’re awful Bunny.”

“It’s a dead spit.”

Their entire lives, a country they left was better that the one in which they spent most of their lives. I don’t want to be like that.



Selby put a fresh pot of tea and a fresh plate of biscuits down on the table in front of both their chairs.

“You’ve always rolled the best splifs, Selby,” said Bunny. “It is a real talent.”

“Why thank you Miss Bunny.”

“You are welcome, kind sir.” Bunny chuckled. “Even if you do make me sound like a madam when you call me that.”

“So what have you done to yourself?”

“Oh, it is so embarrassing, I fell down in the street, for the first time. Tripped and fell.”

“Truly, the first time?” Selby had his compassionate face on. Gruff private Selby, people didn’t get to see the sweet side of him.

“Yes, numero uno. It was a first for me. It happened so quick.”

“You sure.”

“Oh yes, absolutely sure, darl. I tripped. If I was blacking out all over the place, I’d be the first to do something about it.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes, fine, except for the knee,” said Bunny. “It feels like it is buggered. I’ve spent all morning with doctors who can only really offer a pill and It-will-get-better-with-time speech.”

“Doctors.” Selby cursed.

“I don’t know why I bother with western medicine,” said Bunny.

“You should have come straight here.”

“I should have just come straight here.”

“I’ll play mother?” asked Selby.

“Yes, do.”



Another car stops on the gravel out the front of the house. A car door closes. Footsteps approach crunching on the gravel. A handsome young man arrives, who Bunny doesn’t recognise, at first.

“Selby?”

“Oh, well, hello.”

“I thought I saw another car in the drive.” Daniel looked at Selby, Bunny was sure, apologetically. Bunny wasn’t to know that was one of Selby and Daniel’s signs, if there was another car in the drive way, do not come in.

“Yes, indeed,” said Selby. “This is a curious time, to be frank.”

“I’m sorry,” said the young man. “Mrs Robertson.” He nodded and smiled in Bunny’s direction. It wasn’t until he addressed Bunny directly that she realised who the young man was. Daniel looked back at Selby. “It is just that I…”

“What?” said Selby.

“Need…”

“It is just not a good time.”

“Oh.” Daniel was unsure what to do next, as though he had never been denied before. He rocked backwards and forwards on his feet. “Maybe, later… then?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” said Selby. Selby sounded needlessly gruff.

Daniel retreated backwards, slowly out of sight back down the gravel path from where he came. As if in slow motion.

Bunny looked back at Selby.

“Excuse me,” said Selby. He got up and disappeared into the house. He was gone for a while, Bunny sipped her tea. Then she heard voices in the car park.

Selby appeared back along the garden path.

“I thought you went into the house?”

“Oh… er… um…” Selby stumbled over his words. “Everyone is in need… what can you do?” Selby sat down heavily next to Bunny. He picked up a joint from the table. “Now where were we?” Selby dangled the joint in the air.

“Oh I shouldn’t…”

“So that is a no?”

“No,” said Bunny. Selby looked confused. “That is a yes.”

“Double negative,” said Selby. “That’s my girl.”

“Good thing old Bestsy knows her own way back down the mountain, that’s all I can say.”

“It seemed hardly fare to let the lad go without when we had plenty.”

She was not really that interested in Daniel, or what he was doing there, except Selby continued to bring it up. She’d heard the whispers, but it had only been whispers, and she’d heard so little that sounded like fact. Kylie drivelling on does not a truth make. But suddenly Bunny felt as though she had seen the duck walk, and she’d heard the duck talk. She giggled to herself at the analogy. She looked at Selby, she wanted to say, Selby Gillup you old dog, you have been ducking that boy. She giggled some more.

“What?” coughed Selby as he exhaled the marijuana smoke.

“Nothing,” giggled Bunny.

Bunny asked for no explanation, even after Selby disappeared after Daniel so obviously, Bunny still wasn’t bothered. He kept giving me answers to questions Bunny never asked, it has to get a girl’s attention, eventually.

Selby hands Bunny the joint.

“So, it is true?”

“What?” Selby asked casually. He had no idea what was true.

Bunny sucked on the joint. “You and the boy.” Bunny sucked on the joint again. “Daniel.” Bunny sucked on the joint again. “Just now.” Carl had taught her to take three tokes. That was after he resisted for the longest time, saying split smoking was man’s business. He finally relented, when he saw her less than proficient efforts. And he taught her how to ‘Smoke a joint properly,’ as Carl always said.

“What?” Selby repeated. Not casual this time, on guard, shields had been raised.

“This is good smoke,” said Bunny. “It doesn’t catch in my throat.”

“Papua New Guinea Gold,” said Selby suspiciously. “The best that is around at the moment. Grown in the tropics, on a north facing hill of virgin forest, digested and defecated by possums every last bud of it.”

The sun was warm. Bunny passed the joint back to Selby.

“You got away with it?”

“Got away with what, Mrs R?” Oh, ah, face. “Bunny.”

“You beat them at their own game?”

“Who? Beat them at what?”

“The grape vine, the gossip mill, the Chinese whispers, the back fence… you beat it. You took them on and won!”

“You better ease up on the hooch, old girl.”

“Don’t get me wrong, it is with sheer admiration that I speak these words.”

“You’ve always been an odd bird, Bunny.”

Bunny sucked on the last of the joint. She and Selby were odd birds together, that was for sure. Selby always gave her something no one else gave her, a part from the obvious, a big does of reality.

“That boy, I saw how he looked at you.”

Suck two.

“I saw with my own eyes.”

Suck three. She handed it back to Selby.

“I don’t need you to tell me,” said Bunny. The smoked burned for the first time in Bunny’s lungs, she had to let it out. Carl and his-hold-it-in-as-long-as-you-can business be buggered.

A cloud of smoke materialised between them and danced in the sun’s rays like a fine, sheer curtain.

Selby sucked on what was left of the joint, as though his life depended on it at that moment. He looked at the roach, and discarded it after some thought.

“Jees Mrs R… I… I… don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.” The joint was hitting, Bunny was feeling very grand. Her knee had stopped hurting. “Just stop and reflect that you beat them all,” said Bunny. “I didn’t believe it, not for a minute. Really, nobody did.”

“You see he’s Pickerings kid,” said Selby. “So he kept it all hushed up.”

This was new information that Bunny had never heard before, an admission, of sorts. “He looks man enough to me,” said Bunny. “What was the fuss about?”

Selby opened and closed his mouth.

“He drove up. He’s an adult. He has to make his own decisions as much as anybody else.”

“This has been going on for sometime.”

“Still going on?” asked Bunny.

Selby nodded ever so slightly.

So it was true.

Selby lit another joint.

“I’ll have to be calling Carl to come and get me, again.”

“So is that a no?” said Selby exhaling a cloud of smoke.

“No,” said Bunny. They both laughed. She took the hand rolled cigarette from Selby’s hand.

Bunny felt as thought the topic had been changed. The conversation stumbled.

“How long have I known you now, Mrs R?” It was a cold start line, something to say as you pass the joint.

“How old are you?” asked Bunny.

“40 years.”

“I’ve known you for 40 years,” said Bunny. “I never forget your mother changing you on the bar at the Horse’s Head. The whole bar saw your doodle that day.”

“I didn’t think I was that old.”

“I hope it grew.”

“Mrs R!”

Bunny broke out laughing, she had amused herself.

“You’re just lucky it wasn’t in the day of the phone camera, you’d have been an internet… er… thingy.”

“Sensation.”

“Sensation,” said Bunny. She was still giggling.

“Down Barry Baxter’s.”

The smile disappeared from Bunny’s face, she slapped Selby. “You mustn’t say that.”

Selby laughed. “Every boy knew Barry Baxter fiddled with boys. Some boys went down there to get fiddled with.”

“You want to do what you want to do wherever you want to do it, with whoever you want to do it with, nothing blows my hair back honey… but as an adult. No grey area.”

“Are you ever surprised at the things you do?”

“Not really,” said Bunny.

“The things we’ve do… done,” slurred Selby.

“The things we’ve done,” repeated Bunny. Tell me the things you’ve done, she thought. After she’d said it, she thought it was too pointed but she resisted the urge to correct it.

“The things we’ve done,” said Selby. “The things we’ve done. But if it is not hurting anyone, what can be the harm?”

Bunny murmured in agreement.

“Sometimes it is just two people discovering…” Bunny handed Selby the joint and effectively distracted the flow of the conversation. Bunny scolded herself for interrupting.

Selby took the joint. Silence, except for Selby’s raspy inhale.

The two friends sat on the deck of the cottage on the north face of Mount Potty, goon-faced, staring out to the undulating paddocks.

“Do you call those Dalmatian Cows?” Bunny laughed until the tears rolled down her cheeks.

Bunny fumbled down beside herself for the longest time. She didn’t really want to move, she couldn’t really move, she was too comfortable to adjust her position at all, so her fingers fumbled in her bag for a time even she felt was too long. Then her fingers grasped the metal tin. She pulled the tin up to her face. She flipped the lid open. She turned to Selby.

“Mint?”

Bunny always carried a blue tin of Eclipse sugarless mints in her handbag, for occasions such as this.

“Thanks.”

Wednesday, 1 June 2016

Bunny Gets A Grip

It seemed like a long walk back to the Humber. Bunny walked as slowly as she could, but fast enough so as to not draw suspicion. She walked diagonally across the wide footpath. The quickest way, as the crow flies. Old crow, she thought. She kept a straight face, her knee burned and crunched. She was sure nobody was looking at her, but you never can be completely sure, country nooks and crannies being what they are.

Oh here comes… um… what is her name? Mrs Gafoops from the bakery, the one with the rather nice looking husband, Mathew, and the delinquent son, Jeremy. I don’t know how she does it. The son is completely, what is it that Felix says, of chops. Yes, poor lad is of chops on ice.

“Hello Bunny, lovely day.”

“Oh, yes, lovely,” said Bunny. “Just going for my constitutional.” Big smile, just as her knee twinged badly. Hold it. Hold it. Hold… exhale.

“Yes, quite,” said Mrs Gafoops, as she passed by.

Bunny exhaled.

Oh here comes Obese Gayhale – the ‘h’ is silent, but it has a rich ‘a’ sound, not nasally. Gahyle turned off to the bakery, crisis over. Should have seen that coming. Bunny still remembers the night Gayhale gave her a lift home from Sam’s the mechanic, when Gayhale had to rather shamefully grab for all the bakery bags in the passenger footwell and toss them in the back, when Bunny got in. You can’t even say that you can see the pretty girl under the fat girl just waiting to be let out. You can’t. There is no pretty girl. Poor lass is only in her twenties.



Bunny was grabbed suddenly around the waist from behind. She instantly tensed up, protective of her injury.

“How is my favourite MILF?” the voice whispered.

Bunny shrieked. It scared the hell out of her. Whoever it was, they smelt of sherry, reminiscent of Marge Dohongies English Trifle, although that couldn’t possibly be what was involved here, one wouldn’t have thought.

“OMG!” shrieked Father Brown, the man instructing at the forthcoming wedding, for whom Bunny was playing piano. He was the parish priest. There were rumours. This is the point where the nice ladies of the parish stopped using words, instead going for “the” hand gesture, that he drank. Tip the glass over, cat’s arse mouth. Ella went as far to say he couldn’t be trusted even after Sunday communion, but Ella always had a strange relationship with the opposite sex. There was the Guytano Poynton incident.

Father Brown seemed so normal when they met on church business, and now he was slobbering like a spaniel. “Long Brunch, Father Brown?” asked Bunny.

“I’m terribly sorry,” said Father Brown. He was clearly embarrassed. Lost his head, in one of those inexplicable moments. “What can I do…?”

“Nothing,” said Bunny. “There is nothing wrong with me, take more than that.” She was concentrating on getting back to the car, barely putting any thought into her words. Father who?

“Okay.” Father Brown looked up and down the street. “I am SO sorry, I thought you were... oh, um, I thought you were, um… someone else. I’m sorry. Please excuse me Mrs Robertson…” He danced around her like a boxer.

Who did he think I was, thought Bunny? Who was he grabbing? “Perhaps, it is time for a stop at the optometrist,” said Bunny. Her knee hurt, she was aware that she was talking gibberish. She would usually laugh heartily after such a quip, just to show she was only half serious, but her knee hurt too much for that and she thought bugger it. “See you on Sunday… father.”

“Oh? Um? Ah. Yes, ah, quite.”

Bunny thought her footwork was pretty slick, not one stumble.

“So sorry.”

Bunny brushed at her skirt, as if there were something there, as she watched Father Brown make his haste exit. My favourite what? She thought. Oo, she visibly recoiled at her next thought. The thought of bloated red faced old men being touchy feely, it made her shiver. It is too old. She tells Carl to come to his senses now a days.



“Bun!”

It was Kylie Kloppers, there was no mistaking it. Bunny had never been able to certain if Kylie was some how touched, as Carl would say, “That girl’s touched, if ever there was one,” or if she was just socially awkward. She is not a pretty girl, none the less.

“Bun? What’s wrong with ya leg?” She had a mouth on her like a foghorn.

Dear Lord.

“Bunny, ya stocking’s got a bloody run in it,” said Kylie. “In the street?”

She always seemed to breath though her mouth, thought Bunny. “Has it.” Bunny did her best ballet movie, gracefully looking down the back of her stocking. She tried to appear nonchalant. The run was on her knee and she couldn’t see it, but what did it matter. “So it has Kylie, I shall attend to it as soon as I get home. Nice seeing you…” She wanted to say dear, but it suddenly struck her as something her mother would say, her 105 year old mother, if she’d still been alive, so she didn’t. Her voice just trailed off awkwardly, and she was too preoccupied to care.

“It is so not like you, Bunny Robertson,” said Kylie.

“Me? Oh Kylie, I have draws full, at home, of old laddered hose.”

“Nasty way to meet yous end, hey, if you knows what I mean? Ho’s. Down a ladder.” Kylie laughed like an emphysemic steam shovel.

“Kylie, you kill me. Where do you get them from?”

“Me better half, me brother…”

“I don’t really want to know… er… Kylie.” Bunny continued with her walk towards her car. Did she say her better half is her brother? Can never be too sure.

“Good seeing ya Mrs R.”

“Yes, Kylie, always splendid.”



Finally, she rubbed her fingers across the back fin of the Humber. The paintwork was smooth, like silk, thanks to Carl. One of life’s sureties, she thought, with her fingertips. She leant against the smooth duco and fumbled with the large collection of car keys. She flipped the silver lock cover up and inserted the silver-faded-to-brass key into the key hole. The door opened silently and smoothly. Bunny slid in on the smooth red seats. She smelt the leather perfume and felt safe.

She sat for a moment. She slid the keys into the ignition. She closed her eyes and listened to her breathing. Her bag and cardigan slid from her left hand onto the seat next to her, as her right hand reached for her knee, hitting the hanging keys first, “jangle”. She pulled the keys from the ignition and tossed them on top of her bag and cardigan. She rubbed her knee, it felt better.

She breathed in audibly.

She slid her stockings off, she giggled as she did it, she heard strip music in her head. “La-la la la.” She thought to herself, she had never been nude in public. “Running down the main street with your stockings off.” She’d never been skinning dipping with friends in mountain pools. She laughed at the thought, as she struggled to get her stocking clear of her toes.

Of course, she and Carl went skinny dipping, in their courting days. In the damn, down the back paddock, it was one of the few places she and Carl could get any privacy, out in the middle of farm land for as far as the eye could see. But, never other than that, with anyone other than Carl. She’d never been to one of those topless dance parties her grandson Felix and his friend Blake are so fond of attending. Something about foam. Her mind boggled at the thought. What would it be like, she thought? Once, with a school group one very hot day in Kalista, she and her friends bathed in the creek in their pants and bras, but that was it.

Nothing more. She peeled the end of her stocking over her foot with great difficulty and day dreamed about being arrested for public nudity Tijuana, or some where exotic. And the look on Carl’s face when he comes to bail her out. She giggled. She looked over the drivers side window door frame like Foo. Her eyes look up and down the street.

Her knee began to feel stiff and restricted.

She hobbled to the doctor. Young Christine on reception fitted Bunny in between Mrs Jago from the hardware and her possible 7the pregnancy and Barry Baxter’s boils. “He’s got them on his…” Christine points to her bottom. “Arse. Nasty.” Christine grimaced. Bunny grimaced at the sour look on Christine’s face. The doc seemed distracted. He told Bunny it is just strained and bruised. “You’re not as young as you used to, to be doing floor plunges.” He bandaged Bunny’s knee like a kebab, just like the one's she buys late with Felix and his friend Blake, when she visits them in Fitzroy. It’s Felix’s place, but Brad just always seems to be there. The doctor told her to take Panadol.

Panadol? thought Bunny.

The Humber started up with its familiar, reassuring, burble. Bunny rapped a scarf around her hair. She slipped on a large pair of sunglasses. There was only one thing for it. She pulled the Humber out on to the road and she accelerated up the hill, the walnut and leather cossetted her as her English stead put in the heavy lifting. Across the top of the mount, Bunny accelerated even faster as she came around Hobbson’s Corner, where the road flattens off and heads across Jacob’s Ridge to Mount Potty. Most say that in the beginning, Mount Potty was so isolated that that is what it did to its first settlers, sent them potty. Most would say that it has nothing to do with the proliferation of hippy types who have made Mount Potty home ever since. The Humber took up speed with a hardly noticeable push in the back.

A slow car fast approached the scalloped front of the Super Snipe. Quickly the back of the car approached. Bunny checked her mirrors and with a hardly noticeable kick from her right leg, or a hardly perceptible movement of her right pinky, as she selected her right hand blinker simultaneously.

The English six cylinder immediately took up the call, with a dignified change to a higher gear, the smooth increase rev sound from the engine. The wind noise picked up, a surge forward, as the big sedan slide to the right hand side of the road. The emerald green indicator light flashed in the walnut dash. The Humber’s growl crescendo’d as the small Japanese hatchback slid across the passenger side windows, as though it was going backward. The Humber shot passed, it sashayed back to the left hand side of the road, its growl less and less noticeable the further and further it got away.

Bunny slowed momentarily at the large round about enough to swish, swish the Super Snipe through and straight on up Mount Potty hill. She accelerated hard down with her right foot. The Humber snarled again, as it took up speed. Bunny was hammering her old Humber, but it was not the first time, not the 10th time, that Bunny has had to track across country in an emergency situation in her old English sedan, and the Humber had never backed down from a challenge, the Humber has always been able to get through, with Bunny at the wheel. Bunny laughed to herself. Admittedly, some days it was just for cream cakes before the bakery closed. The Humber had always tackled every road and a couple of streams in her time, and she had never fail to march forward with the Buckingham Palace Beefeater-like genes that she possessed.

Bunny pushed her foot down on the accelerator. She shot up Mount Potty. Selby Gillup’s place is on the other side of the Mount, the north side, or something. Good for growing. Selby went to school with Bunny’s Neil, how many years ago? Selby was voted mostly likely to end up in jail, at school. And while Selby has done some time, he had generally done well for himself on his 100 hectares of land on the north side of Mount Potty. Better than some, she could name.

Bunny always had a soft spot for Selby. He was a good looking boy until he started to drink too much.

The S bend in the road, then straightening out to a straight stretch, the bird feeder in the tree. Bunny slowed the Humber down considerably. She put on her left indicator. She braked and pulled the Humber into an almost concealed drive way on the left. Stones hit the underside of the car as Bunny slipped onto the gravel drive. Bunny kicked the Humber up a gear and accelerated down the driveway. Stones flew out behind her. She’d never tell Carl, but she liked that sound. “Slow down, Jees, slow down will you woman,” Carl would wail from the passenger seat. Bunny did it on purpose, because she liked it, not because it pissed Carl off.

Selby had re-met one of the girls, FayAnne Heathcliff, who Neil and Selby went to school with at one of their school reunions, their 10th anniversary. Selby had accompanied Bunny to her 60th school reunion, because Carl didn’t want to go. Carl had no problem with it.

“That is what I am saying,” said Carl. “If you can hitch a ride with Selby, I’m all the better for it.”

“Suit yourself, Carl luv.”

“Carl,” said Selby, when Selby came to the door for Bunny

“Selby,” said Carl.

“There is golden syrup dumplings in the saucepan on the stove,” said Bunny. “Get the vanilla ice cream, and the pure cream if you must, from the freezer and fridge. The vanilla ice cream. Don’t wait up.”

“Oh, I won’t wait up woman,” said Carl. “I won’t.”

“Carl,” said Selby, as he followed Bunny out the door.

“Selby,” said Carl.

That was 20 years ago and Selby and FayAnne are still going strong. Selby found that elusive thing that half of the smarties who put him down in high school, by labelling him so cruelly, would still be looking for, happiness.

Bunny parked next to Selby’s beaten, what was once yellow, Toyota HiLux. FayAnne’s 4WD was no where in sight.

“Around here, Mrs R,” boomed Selby’s voice.

Bunny hobbled around to the front of the house, where the decking and pergola were, Selby was settled in a large out door seat, half in the shade and half in the sun.

“What have you done to yourself?” asked Selby

“What are you sitting here for?” replied Bunny.

“Well, I’m not as young as I used to be,” said Selby. “And now a days around midmorning I need to have a sit down and a cup of tea. The pot is hot and I have a spare cup?”

“I don’t mind if I do,” said Bunny. “And me?” Bunny flopped down in the next large round outdoor chair next to Selby’s. She pulled her sunglasses from her face. “I’ve done something to my knee, and it is now giving me billyo.”

“Go to the doctor.”

She pulled the scarf from her hair, which she shook free. “I’ve done that.”

“What did you do?”

“It was during my juggling the plates on sticks on my unicycle routine, I must have just caught it…”

“You poor… thing.”

“The doctors have been no help what so ever, so I thought there was nothing else for it.”

“You need a little of Selby’s Cure…”

“That is exactly what I want, hon.”

“I’ve got a cheeky young number in called Papua New Guinea Gold that I am trying out for myself, if you would like. Or there are all the usual home grown favourites.”

“Papua Guinea what’s it, that sounds like just the ticket.”