Friday 19 February 2016

Bunny Goes To The Shops




Carl was trying to get out the door.

“Just the things you want,” said Bunny. She was changing her house shoes for her street shoes in the laundry. “Text them to me and I’ll look at them in the supermarket. I’m dropping into to see Father, oh, what’s his name? At St Benedict’s, so I’ll be a little longer.”

“You want me to do what?” said Carl.

“You said you looked in the pantry, just what you saw that we needed.”

There was silence.

“We need a whole car load full of stuff, from my reckoning, Bun,” said Carl. “You’d better go.”

Bunny enters the kitchen. “I’ll have you know that this isn’t my idea of pulling equal weight, Carlo.”

“I can’t talk to you when you get all Politically Correct on me,” said Carl, complete with parenthesis and a stupid face. “I’m going out to work.”

“What is it that you do out there in your shed, now we are both superannuated?”

Good thing Felix bought her an iPhone for Xmas, now Bunny always had an up to date shopping list.


Bunny reverse parked the Super Snipe in one fluid motion, on the causeway. It was a good spot. She’d had a bet with herself for years, about “getting her in” in one go, ever since that first year that she got the car and Carl called her out on her parking skills. How many years ago was that? She slid the gear stick into P and pulled on the hand brake. She collected her handbag and her cardigan in one hand. She patted the dashboard, my Swiss watch, she always thought. She let her finger brush across the bur walnut facia. She sniffed in the bouquet of leather, she had never tired of that smell for the entire time she’d had the car. Carl had called her, “stupid, or what?” when he heard her refer to the Super Snipe as Swiss more than once. 

“Swiss my arse,” he’d say. “Good Coventry stock, this!”

“It’s precision, Carl,” said Bunny. “That’s what I am referring to.”

“Well, why don’t you say that,” said Carl. “Instead of saying all this namby-pamby stuff that no one understands.”

“She’s like my Swiss watch, Carl,” said Bunny. “She never lets me down.”

Car rolls his eyes.

She walked the short distance to the shops, her high heals making a clack, clack, clack sound. She wouldn’t normally wear high heals shopping, but she’d just been to the church, the Catholic Church, about playing piano for a wedding. She didn’t know what she thought about these Catholics, (her mother always told Bunny that she was frightened of the Catholics because the nuns weren't allowed to speak) Bunny had heard plenty of catholic nuns speak, she shook her head. But she figured it was all still just piano playing. It was only the Catholics that went in for hell now a days, she was sure. She went over slightly on one heal. They wanted her to play something called, The Rose, apparently it is very big now a days. Bunny guessed the bride meant on the charts, but Bunny didn’t ask.

Bunny tripped on something she didn’t see. “Oops!” she said out loud. It took her breath away, the suddenness of it. She reached out to steady herself, pushing the palm of her hand against the shop window making a squeak.

She looked back at the raised, cracked concrete footpath, and thought about all those stories she’d ever heard about people suing for millions after falling down in the street. She looked down at her shoes. She looked at the cracked concrete again. She rubbed it with the toe of her shoe.

She shook her head. She just remembered she left her phone on the dashboard of the car. Carl had tried to call her, she didn’t really know why she bothered. She thinks he had the phone upside down. Felix’s buddy Tank has offered to wire the Super Snipe up hands free, but he hasn’t done that yet.

She turned back in the direction she’d just come, thinking about the phone, and her foot tripped on a cracked piece of footpath she’d just looked at. “Oh stupid…” She went straight over, she was already somewhat off balance. “Ah!” All she probably felt was a hard thud to the side of the head, as it hit the pavement. A coward’s punch from the universe, or perhaps from God, her Anglican God, displeased she’d agreed to play for the nuptials for the “mickeys,” as her mother would have said. Perhaps, she was wearing two different types of thread? Had she agreed to work on the Sabbath? It is doubtful she would have realised what happened, the world went black. Was this some kind of eternal joke about the afterlife?


Iris, Bunny’s life long friend, further up the shopping strip, heard a sound like somebody being punched in the stomach followed by a winded cry. She instinctively headed in the direct from which that sound came.


Bunny woke to a feeling of cold against her face, her skin was touching the concrete. Where was she? People were gathered around her, her friend, Iris, was looking down at her, like a “wet” spaniel. Everything was quiet, then the street noise kicked in again. Suddenly. It was a start. She sat up. Her knees and hands stung from the smallest minute particles of gravel stuck in her skin. She looked at her palms.

“You tripped over you own feet, Bun.” Bunny’s friend Iris’s voice boomed. “I saw you go down, luv.” Iris laughed. “Here.” Iris handed Bunny the missing shoe. 

Her bag was on the grass above her head. One foot was cold, as one shoe had come off one of her feet, she just kind of fell out of that it, she could still feel it.

 “I saw the first one, I,” said Bunny. “I turned back to the car to change my shoes, and the second one…” she shrugged

“Now give us one of your hands, I'll help you up,” said Iris.

Bunny refused Iris' hand and tried to get up herself. Bunny’s arm hurt, as she pushed herself up off the ground, she must have used it to break her fall. The arm gave way. She suddenly realised, as she was on all fours, that her glasses were sitting diagonally across her face.

“Giddy up, luv!” said Iris. She whooped with laughter. “You’re not at home with Ray now, darl.”

"Hush, Iris," said Bunny. "You and your dirty mouth"

Bunny took Iris' hand, begrudgingly. She felt giddy as she stood, again. Her hands and knees stung from gravel rash. She pushed the hair out of her eyes. She hated herself for correcting Iris on this point, but it had to be done. “Carl,” said Bunny.

“I’m Iris. Did you hit your head?” Iris chuckled.

Bunny straightened herself. “You said Ray.” Bunny spoke through gritted teeth. “If I was on the floor with anybody… playing horse and jockey,” she rolled her eyes at the absurdity of what she was saying. The absurdity that she had to come out and say it. “It would be Carl.” Even Bunny could hear herself hissing. “I would be on the floor with Carl.” She looked around to see if anybody was in earshot.

Iris ushered Bunny to a nearby outdoor street seat.

“I’m alright.”

“Just sit for a minute.”

Bunny sat on the seat begrudgingly. Iris flopped next to her. The morning shoppers drove backwards and forewords, up and down the street hunting for carparks. The sun shone, the birds cheeped.

“How long has he been dead now?” said Iris

“Who, I… Ray?”

“Yes, I forget now sometimes, just some days, it seems like forever. How long it has been, Bun?” said Iris.

“Oh…” said Bunny.

“I don’t forget, exactly, but sometimes it is easier for somebody else to say it.”

“Five years,” said Bunny.

“Five… long… years,” said Iris. She sounded like she had no more energy for the question. “Five long years. I miss him as much now as at any time…”

“Oh, I?” Bunny put her arms around her friend. She felt so sorry for Iris, at the same time fearing she may well be in that situation sooner than later.

“I thought time was supposed to heal,” said Iris. “I thought time healed grief…”

The two women hugged.

“It is just something we say,” said Bunny. “Nothing really helps, but who is going to want to hear that?”

The two women laughed, nervously, consoling one another, in the gentle morning light.

“I feel like I have been cheated my final years, Bun.” Iris fumbled in her bag for a handkerchief.

“He was taken too soon for sure, your Ray.” Bunny kissed the side of Iris’ head. “Ah, hon, what can I say?”

Iris dabbed at her eyes with a cream handkerchief. “It’s just…” said Iris. Her voice trailed off. She shrugged. “How life goes, nothing to be done.”

“No,” said Bunny. “Nothing to be done.”


Bunny got to her feet, she couldn’t suggest it and fail to act one more time. “Ay oop,” said Bunny.

Iris stood up. “Oh Bun, it’s good to be alive.”

“Wouldn’t be dead for quid’s.”

The two old friends hooked arms. “This way luv,” said Iris. “We should get those knees looked at.”

“Don’t fuss,” said Bunny. She had to get to the butcher. Her right knee hurt, everything else felt fine. But her right knee, was giving her Larry Do, as her father would have said. Bunny limped noticeably. As she put weight on her right foot, testing it, her right knee buzzed with a painful ache.

“Does it hurt, luv?” Iris pointed to the recalcitrant knee.

Bunny had tried very hard to step normally, she tried very hard to conceal the damage from her friend. And that was the best she could do, it was hopeless. If she just got back to the car, she could sit for a moment and gather herself, give it a rub away from prying eyes. She could take her stockings off and use the first aid kit she kept in the glove box. She didn’t want to have to call Carl, she wasn’t going to admit to falling down.

“Just a knock, it will be right as rain,” said Bunny. “I just have to go back to the car.”

“I’ll come with you.”

No, you won’t. “Oh no… Iris, that won’t be necessary.”

“Just so you are all right.”

“I’m all right. Look.” Bunny did four star-jumps, they nearly killed her, far too ambitious. She didn’t let that show either. But at this point, childbirth could be endured, she didn’t have time to listen to Iris talk about Ray… Neil was coming home for tea and Bunny was already behind schedule. “Iris…” she wanted to say, get a hobby. Cooking. Sewing. Knitting. Patchwork. Leadlight. What do you think everybody else does? Get therapy. Go on a cruise. Have an affair with a younger man. That grounds man at the bowels club would fit the bill. Bunny laughed to herself. The laugh gave way to wondering what she would do… then she shuddered again when she realised it could be approaching. Not that Carl was sick, or anything like it. He was in good shape, actually, for a man of his age. But neither of them were getting any younger, that was an immutable fact.

“See.” Bunny made jazz-hands. Everything hurt. She lent in and kissed Iris. “See you soon, hon.” She told herself to turn on her left leg, which she remembered to do, and she made a clean get away. Bunny was quite chuffed with her own accomplishment. She told herself that that was smooth. She put all of her weight on her right knee and she didn’t limp, it hurt like hell.


Thursday 11 February 2016

New Year's Day



It's funny thinking about Jason. He was fiery and passionate and beautiful. A wog boy to be sure. We kind of had a special bond, kids from different sides of the tracks make good friendship. Day time movie premises. I bet they wouldn't show the hot fucking, skin on skin; we couldn't get enough of each other's genitals. We were always pulling each other's pants off, all over our expensive private boy’s school, often in the bushwalking club storeroom, we were both keen bushwalking club members, for all of senior school, just so we could shag each other at night in our tent.

Ironic, so many years later and the bush walking master is up on sex charges, but he never once invited me or Jason, to share his tent in the evenings. That wasn’t his style. Jason and I were partners, partners were encouraged, because we used two man tents, but individual boys were encouraged too. A single boy in a two man tent, his movements weren’t so closely watched by anyone. While Jason and I were balls deep up each other, the bush walking master was inviting those single boys into his tent to sleep. “You don’t have to sleep alone,” Chris would, apparently, whisper into their shell pink ears.

Jason seemed so alive and his extended family seemed like a circus going on around him. The funny thing is that I have his parent's phone number, still. It wouldn't be so unrealistic that they haven't moved, (my parents haven't moved) they'd lived in that house for years back when I knew them.

They loved me. They thought I was funny. They were all so earthy, in their away. They called me Jason's boyfriend, even though I don't think they suspected, really. We were both kids in their eyes. I was different to them, so I was just Jason's buddy. School friend, that's how he passed us off. A skip friend. I used to stay over and sleep on the roll out bed under Jason’s bed. They'd give me Jason's phone number, most likely. They'd certainly pass mine on to him, I think.

What would happen, do you think?

What if he'd never found love? What if he was married, but had lost his love?

What if he was married... boys cheat, they all do. He'd come over to my place and fuck and feel no guilt. Guys don't feel guilt about that stuff. If it involves their cocks, they don't care about anything else, it doesn’t count. It would be different, that's all.

I live on my own. I can entertain married men easily.

I wouldn’t feel any guilt.

25/12/2015

I found Jason.

I found Jason online. I typed in Jason Farrugia and there he was, just like that. It seemed so easy. Social networking, you've got to love it.

He said he'd been meaning to look me up for ages. He wanted to catch up. That’s what he said, by return message, not 24 hours later.

We'll see.

Amy, Jason’s wife, was overseas visiting relatives. They couldn’t afford for them all to go, so just Amy and the 2 boys went, besides Jason had to work. They wouldn’t be back until February sometime.

I couldn't help but feel a little excited. A quick message back is always encouraging. I know, if somebody who I don’t want to talk to calls, I agonise over answering, and I agonise over answering, until it drifts off into the either and I don’t ever end up answering at all.

He's married with two kids. “That’s quick work,” I said. It’s only been five years, going on six.

He said he often thinks about me, wonders what I'm up to. Has wondered.

01/01/2016

He looked better than ever. He’d lost all of his puppy fat and he was now just lean and handsome.

“Yeah but you never got your arse into looking, now did you?”

“Oh Josh, it’s not going to be all of this all over again, is it?”

“All of this?”

“Me and You?”

“No.” Good thing he pulled me up on it when he did. Yeah, I’d smoked the joint walking from the car park, I got nervous having it in my pocket. I just get kind of obsessive around him. It was going to be “all of this.”

“So why did you want to have a drink?” said Jason.

“Old times,” I said. He just looked at me. I guessed at that point I hadn’t thought this through as well as I’d given myself credit for. “Why not,” I said. I held out my stubbie, Jason chinked his stubbie with mine.

“I’ve finished uni and got a job,” I said. “What about you?”

“I’ve finished uni and got a job,” he said.

“SNAP.” I said, rather louder than I intended. “They’re the same,” I followed with limply. I was nervous.

He looked alarmed. “Architecture,” he offered. That made sense, Jason was always drawing. He produced great caricatures of our classmates, teachers, celebrities. He was considered some kind of drawing genius by the faculty.

“I’m a writer,” I said.

“You were always writing at school… all those poems.”

We were like the artistic, in the true meaning of the word, smart kids, house captain, sports captain, orchestra leader, magazine editor, long time Smithton family students. My uncles on my mum’s side went to Smithton. Jason’s father and grandfather attended too. And I got to lick the school captain (Jason’s) arse and he liked it.

In fact, believe it, or not, Jason was the main instigator back then, he chased me, he put the hard word on me, quietly, in the shadows, when nobody else was around. It all started around the end of year 10. We’d been for a tour of the gold country and we were put up in twin rooms in hotels and Jason and I shared rooms. Names were being called in the lobby, when a name was read out, if anybody elected to share with that person, they just had to yell their name out. My name was read out. There was a definite deathly silence… and at the final moment, Jason Farugia was spoken. That was the very first inkling I got of the tempestuous affair that was about to follow. Nothing happened between us other than longing looks and feelings we didn’t have the first clue about, all through the gold country, but it must have ignited some spark, it must have ignited some feelings.

I said yes the beginning of year eleven, in form assembly, just like that. It went from there solidly until midway through first year of uni, for both of us. It was casual. It was sporadic. Jason started to see girls. I bet you he never told any of them that he was still having penetrative, unprotected sex with his best school buddy. I bet you he didn’t share that fact about himself. I had had hot, mindless, uninhibited, stoned sex with Jason the night before he met Amy.

I never saw Jason again after he met Amy. I didn’t see him for five years, until the two of them broke up temporarily, because of me.

“I’ve got them all stored electronically now, which one would you like to read?”

He laughed nervously.

“There’s poems in their about you,” I said. “They use your real name… and all.”

“Things change,” he said. Shrug.

“Intimate things.”

He got nervous. He started to fidget in his chair.

“You got married,” I said. “I’m still waiting for my invitation in the mail.”

“Oh Josh… sorry mate, it would have been too difficult.”

“I could have been civilised for 24 hours, so we could all share in the day.” Your best mate since prep.

“Seriously? Do you think that was ever really going to happen?”

Well, no, not seriously. It just sounded good to say it out loud. Oh Jason, seriously, do you really think I would have come to your wedding… to confront your rat-faced bride.

“After what happened,” he said.

What happened was, through absolutely no fault of my own, Jason got really drunk one night, just before he and Amy were going to get married, 01/02/2012, to be technically correct. It was a whirlwind romance, they met and married in the same year, practically. New Years day, New Years Day. They had just screwed on St Kilda beach, very early New Years day, in the after glow of it, Jason got all drunk confident and admitted to our 2 year plus affair starting at school. He said he didn’t want to have any skeletons in his past when he got married, the next day. This didn’t go as Jason had planned. He said, as soon as he had made the admission, the soft music played, the after glow cigarette delicious, just by the first expression he saw on her face, he realised he had just fucked up seriously. Stylus scratched across a LP. The cigarette stopped burning. Cold. Hard. Ash.

02/01/2012

She told her family and declared that she never wanted to see him again. That drove him into my arms for a few weeks. Ah bliss, Xmas Day. Don’t you just ache for this level of irony? They made up and the wedding was back on, a short time later. Can you guess who got the blame for being a sexually aggressive monster?

(Of course he never admitted to us sleeping with the sexually aggressive monster during the most recent time of separation, just the first time, stupid, experimenting kids. What skeletons were you talking about, Jason? This latest time, I contacted Jason as two confident, adult men for the first time, who knew exactly what they were doing, and we had wild unprotected sex, we took turns going bitch.)

01/01/2016

“You had children,” I said.

“Really, Josh,” said Jason. “Leave my kids out of this.”

“Out of what?” I asked.

“Whatever this is?”

“You’re over-thinking it, Jase,” I said. “You’re thinking too much in the past.”

“I hope so,” said Jason.

I really hadn’t thought this through at all. I didn’t want aggressively defensive Jason, I wanted no-care-in-the-world-Jason, the Jason I used to know. Fuck it! I got a buzz, would it be old fashioned to say, in my loins. Defensive Jason had angst, I could hook into that, that was sexy.

“How about it?” I asked, just like that.

“How about what?” said Jason. The emphasis was most definitely on the ‘what’.

“For old times sake, Jase,” I said. “Just to see if you’ve learned a thing or two in five years. I am guessing you have.”

He hesitated, stopped, he pulled back. I thought I’d read the situation really, really, really all wrong, for a milli second. “I’ve learned a couple of things,” said Jason. He smiled his not-a-care-in-the-world smile, the smile I remembered. That’s my boy, I thought.

The dappled light and the cool breeze in the beer garden, and the beer, led us back to my place, where Jason looked completely out of place, until I undid his trousers and sucked his cock, the same fat sausage, as ever, then I stopped noticing if he looked out of place, or not. We’d drunk far too much beer, my still small voice was saying, nee screaming, this was a really bad idea. I ignored it. That boy has a trowel on him that other boys can only dream about.

He said afterwards it meant nothing, which I have to admit, I was a little hurt by. I’d been his longest relationship so far, I deserved a little more respect than a cold face washer and a “Good to see you, mate.”

I said, I didn’t care if he had a wife, stay, relax, but he got out my door as fast as he bloody well could. He knocked things over on the way, literally. The empty washing basket. The umbrella stand by the front door.

I text him that I had a good time.

He asked me not to text him again.


Tuesday 9 February 2016

I Have a Bad Feeling About This



A comet from deep in space flying towards you, contrasted against the pale blue sky, it is burning fiercely through the earth's atmosphere, blue, yellow and red,… I have a bad feeling about this, you think to yourself.

A man with a machine gun walking towards you in the blaring midday sun…You were out shopping, support the local establishment. He is walking up the, rapidly abandoned, main street, cars are in the middle of the road with their doors open. This is what you get for your trouble. I have a bad feeling about this, you think.

A snarling, rabid dog standing in front of you, just as you turn the corner…in the historic city of Meng Pla, you are not in Kansis City now Dorothy, you think. Down town Indonesia, with down town Indonesian hospitals. The beast bears its teeth, its fangs are incredible. I have a bad feeling about this, you think.

Tripping on a country train track and falling onto the stones between the sleepers, looking up to see a train speeding towards you… oh shit, you are too stoned to pull it together now, and your feet slip on the gravel between the tracks. You fall against the rail, and you can feel and see your fate speeding towards you. OMG! I have a bad feeling about this.

Standing on a beach on a crystal clear sunny day watching the water rush out to sea, rush out, rush out, rush out, rush so far out you can no longer see it, not something you see every day, you think. You look up to see a tsunami rolling in towards you, a sky scraper of water lost in the blue sky because of its distance away. If I can see it and it is that far away, how big must it be, as your eyes focus and the massive energy, seemingly, emanating from it. I have a bad feeling about this.

Opening the cockpit door to see both pilots comatose at the controls and a mountain directly in front of the plane… We must be in Switzerland, you think. I was only looking for the toilet, I must have taken a wrong... the mountain is approaching rapidly. I have a bad feeling about this.

A man with a black bandanna with white Arabic writing on it comes through your back door with a long, what looks like sharp, knife in his hand... I have a bad feeling about this... you are thinking, when he laughs and pulls off his head dress. It is your neighbour, Habib, grinning like a Cheshire. "You should have seen the look on your face, buddy." Habib puts the knife down on the counter.


"I borrowed this from you, and I am now returning it," Habib was smiling. "I've just been to jujitsu training." He laughed again. "I wondered if the outfit would freak you out?"

"Fuck OFF!" Incredulous.

"That was priceless." When Habib really laughs, he has what sounds like a high pitched hiccup in the middle. It is adorable.

"You thought the brothers had finally arrived with the jihad. Maate!" Habib can now do a tone perfect Aussie accent.

"Fuuuuuck off." Don't give me the shits.

"You thought you were getting taken over." When Habib smiles, he is hot. "You gotta stop watching so much news, bro, it will rot your mind."

"I didn't know what the fuck to think." You didn't. "All I saw was some fucken guy with a knife. It could have been any mother fucker. An Arab with a knife, how safe were you feeling, mate?” you said. “If I'd called the cops, they would have shot you dead maate."

"Fuck off," said Habib. He smiled again. He'd amused himself.


"Malakas."

Monday 8 February 2016

Straightjacket





It was tight around my chest and, somehow, I had my arm caught up in it too. But because it was to my side and behind my back, I couldn't see it exactly. I just seemed to be stuck. I couldn't for the life of me work it out, but I was still pretty out of it, at that stage.

The pillow was all wrong, the mattress was too soft. The room was dark. There was a curtain around my bed, hanging from a chrome loop that circled over my head, like a chrome monorail. CafĂ© style curtains, some may think, but they were just short, as far as I could make out, as if designed to only block out the overhead lighting. If it was a skirt on a stripper and she wore no nickers, she is meaning to show you her snatch, or a kilt on a Scotsman, you wouldn’t have had to ask.

I rolled over and, instead of stopping like you'd think, like you normally would, I didn't, I went straight over. It mimicked moments of sea sickness quite strongly, as I continued to tumble. It took my breath away, landing on my face. Dead weight. My body seemingly cascading down, like felled timber in a forest land slide, in slow motion. “Oo…oh!” Thud.

Stuck, face down. I couldn’t move. The eternal downward dog? What the hell was wrong with me? Was I paralysed in a terrible accident? Is this the part where they are about to walk in and say they are terribly sorry?

“We don’t think you are ever going to walk again.”

The medical team are outside right now drawing for the shortest straw, desperately wishing for the longest. May the universe bless the person who gets the shortest straw. I’d say that, if I believed it was remotely true.

Then the matter of my arms being caught up became more apparent, I seemed to be caught up, around me, behind me. What the fuck? As I lay on my face, on the cold floor, I could, at least, see under the short curtains. Feet and legs mostly. It looked like a hospital. It hurts to lie on your own face, I can now tell you. It hurt mostly in my neck, and I imagined myself as one of those little old ladies whose heads have, seemingly, slipped down their torso, forever looking under the curtain. There were people, seemingly, coming and going. Where the hell am I?

I rolled over on to my back, with great difficulty. There was metal all around me, bed legs, posts for machines, wires, and tubes. I didn’t want to, I wanted to keep watching, being on guard, ready for anything, so to speak, however, the pain in my neck was too intense. I could feel it locking up under my full weight.

“I’m in hospital?” No. Nothing.

I was tired, that was for sure. I was really comfortable where I was, once on my back, cold withstanding, that couldn’t be denied. It was calm. My mum always said I could sleep anywhere. I closed my eyes.

People scurried passed the half-length curtains like worker ants, I could feel their breeze in their wake. Inside my curtain, partitioned, room, it was still and silent. I think the shadows made the most ambience, light and dark. I could feel myself falling in and out, night and day. I felt myself rocking off into sleep. I am going, I am going, I am slipping, slipping, slip away

The curtain is suddenly pulled open. (Oh Universe, you sure can pick your moments) Heals approach on what can only be a hard floor. A face appears over the high-sided bed. She spoke, but not to me, as though she was calling ‘me’ in. “Can I have some help in room 2.”



He opened his eyes.

There is a middle aged woman, dressed in white, at the end of his bed.

He remembered being lifted. He remembered voices.

“Oh, good, you are awake.” She looks down at her clipboard, looks up with the look that she really didn’t need to check that, big eyes, force of habit, “Mr Hillier.” She has a very robotic tone to her voice.

“Yes?”

“We have got that right, haven’t we?”

“What?” She could be a robot. An automaton, is that what they call them?

She leaned in. “Your name?”

“Yes, Liam Hillier. Where am I?”

“I’m Meg,” she said. “I am here to help you.”

“Hi Meg.”

“Don’t you know where you are Mr Hillier?”

“No.”

“What day is it, Mr Hillier?”

“Um, Saturday.” More likely Sunday.

“What city are you in, Mr Hillier?”

“What city?”

“Yes, what city?”

“This is stupid?”

“City, Mr Hillier?”

“Melbourne.”

“Country?”

“Australia.”

“What year is it, Mr Hillier?”

“2016.”

“And you say you don’t know where you are?”

“No.”

“Did you take drugs in the previous 24 hours Mr Hillier?”

Meg was suddenly resembling Liam’s mother to a worrying extent. “Did I what?”

“The question was very straight forward,” said Meg. “Have you consumed drugs in the previous 24 hours, Mr Hillier?”

Liam wanted to laugh, but he stopped himself. What drugs have I not consumed in the last 24 hours, Meg, is the better question.

“Where am I?”

“St Vincent’s Hospital.”

“Why am I here?”

“You appeared to have an over dose…”

“A WHAT!”

“Over dose, luv, over dose.” Meg’s voice was smooth as honey. “An ep…i…sode.”

“I had a what?”

“And I can tell you something else?” said Meg. “You go to the gym, don’t you, Mr Hillier?”

“Um… yes.”

“You are a very strong boy, Mr Hillier.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” said Liam. He flexed his... His body ached. “I’ve got a way to go...” His arms felt like jelly.

“It took six grown men to restrain you, Mr Hillier.”

“It what?”

“It took the strength of six men to hold you, Mr Hillier.”

“My arms?”

“As I said Mr Hillier, you are a very strong boy.”

That’s not the answer.


Another nurse’s face appeared over the high-sided bed. “We had to strap you in, Mr Hillier, you caused quite a commotion down here last night.”

Liam was taken off guard by her appearance. He jumped.

Get it together buddy, your nerves are shot.

“Oh, look at you, such a sweet face,” said the second nurse. “I’m Ann. I’m here to help you.”

“HELLO.” I made myself jump. That was really loud, he wondered why?

“Oh, I see still a bit jittery.” Ann laughed a mum laugh. “That is to be expect… considering…” She looked down, at the same time her eyebrows raised to their highest setting, Liam jumped again, in readiness for the eyebrow pop he was sure he was about to witness.

Considering? Considering what?

“You put on quite a show,” said Meg.

A SHOW? Liam looked from Meg to Ann. Ann to Meg. He had no information on this latest offering of, alleged, fact.

“Shh,” said Ann.

Liam cleared his throat, which was stinging sore, now that he cleared it. “A show?” It came out as a croaked whisper, Liam was deliberately trying not to sound alarmed, and he’d over shot.

“Does it hurt a bit, luv, that’d be from the tube with which we pumped your stomach… darl.” Meg scrunched up her nose. She bounced her shoulders.

He cleared his throat again. “A show?” Pumped my what?

“Now don’t you worry about that,” said Ann.

Worry about what, I thought. I could remember nothing.

“I’m the director of nursing and I am here to inform you that the security guard we have felt the need to place on this floor for your welfare,” continued Ann. She cleared her throat, “The welfare of the other patients,” she cleared her throat again, “and the staff, is just outside your curtain.” She looked at Meg. “Should you need him.”

“A security guard?” The modulation was spot on, but I was concentrating so fiercely, I sounded like a psychopath, I am sure.

“I love this bit the most,” said Meg. “You boys always turn out to be so lovely,” she cleared her throat, “Nine times out of ten.”

Ann raised her eyebrows at Meg, who in turn nodded at the shared experience they had both just remembered.

Ann looked down at Liam, she brushed some hair off his forehead. “The masturbators always turn out to be the sweetest, though.” She looked away and said wistfully, “Funny.”

“So much energy,” said Meg. She looked down at Liam.

Ann looked down at Liam, again. “We’re not going to have any more trouble out of you, now are we, Mr Hillier?”

“No,” I said.

Mind. Blown.

Kaboom!

Sunday 7 February 2016

Andy, Brad, Chook and Dane




Andy was feeling miserable. Andy’s monthly allowance hadn’t come in as yet. His parents were now grey nomads, the family house was leased out, mum and dad spend their lives wandering across the continent, and they don’t always remember to make the transfer. It was all right while his father still had his business, the girls at the office took care of all that, but since his parents had retired, they took over their own finances… 

“No, nothing on the 15th.” The phone cut in and out, reception wasn’t good where mum and dad were.

“You need nothing,” said mum. “That’s good.”

“No, that’s not… 

“…We’re in Durg...”

“…hello? Hello?”

“Sorry, hon, the reception isn’t good here.”


Andy was feeling bored. Frustrated. “I haven’t got any money to put petrol in my car.”

“You were like a pig at the trough the first week of your monthly allowance, and you used it all up. I told you to slow down,” said Chook. 

“Slow is for left behind…”

“Are we at the beginning of the month again? Are we about to whiteness that? Again?” said Chook. “Because buddy, I almost didn’t make it through with you the last time.”

“I’ve got nothing now. Nothing. I’m on empty. Not a lazy debit card with $50 on it, Nothing.” 


Andy went out to a gallery opening, "Suffocation." Chook gave him the ticket to cheer him up. “Here, take it,” said Chook. “I was only going because I wanted to shag John Smith the sculptor." Considered one of the young, hot Turks. "But he isn’t on the bill, any longer.”

It was an instillation about how air pollution is slowly suffocating all of us. There were chicks with mauve hair. Guys with yellow beards. Both sexes with piercings. All the pants seemed to be ¾ length, men and women. Black had clearly made a big return, as it was clearly the new black. 

There were installations with rocks where Antarctica used to be. There was a woman’s head wrapped in a plastic bag, reminiscent of the Goat’s Head Soup album cover minus the glamour. Rainforests represented as parched, dry land. A koala on fire. Beaches where the sand was completely replaced with microplastics. A topless Scotsman in a kilt, sunburnt. There were dead baby foetus’ on dinner plates made to look like boats, refugee boats, thought Andy.

The finger food was all brown, it was meant to be representing the earth: figs, dates, prunes, meatballs, won tons, pastries with rich flavoured sauces. 


Andy headed to the bar. Two American sailors were holding it up, as they say, at one end. Loudly, as only Americans can. They were bright and shiny, thought Andy.

“Long Island Iced Tea?” asked one of them. 

“Sure,” said Andy. He was a little confused by the offer.

“I’m Chip.” He produced a glass placing it down in front of Andy.

“I’m Randy,” said the other sailor. He filled the glass with what was left in a jug of presumably Long Island Iced Tea.

“Cheers,” said Chip. He held up a glass. “Up your bum.”

“Up your bum,” said Randy.

They all clinked glasses.

“You enjoying the show?” asked Chip, slurring noticeably.

“Yeah, sure,” said Andy. “Black is clearly the new black,” he exclaimed. 

“Clearly,” said Randy.

Chip and Randy were trying to get the barman, Eugene, to make the correct Long Island Iced Tea. They’d drunk jugs of the stuff.

“You need sweet and sour mix,” said Chip.

“The 5 white spirits and sweet & sour mix,” said Randy. “Otherwise…” Randy pulled a face.

“Please don’t tell me shoulder pads are making a comeback,” said Andy. “Please don’t tell me it is a hot trend beginning to percolate to the surface.”

“Okay,” said Chip.

“I won’t tell you,” said Randy.

“Your funny,” said Chip.

“Cute too,” said Randy.

“Are you two a couple?” asked Andy.

“Exclusively,” said Randy.

“Two sailors,” said Andy.

“Two sailors,” said Randy.

“What do your ship mates think about that?”

“What do they think?”

“Yeah, about you two.”

Randy shrugged and pulled a face. “They don’t think anything.”

“Because they don’t know?”

“Oh, no, they know,” said Randy. “They fully embrace it.”

“They don’t care,” slurred Chip.

“They are cool,” said Randy. “Sometimes I think they like it.”


“I don’t feel so good,” said Chip.

“You wanna go?” said Randy.

“Yes,” said Chip.

“See ya,” said Randy. “I better take my guy home.”

Chip giggled the giggle of a drunk.

And the two boys were gone.


And the world seemed dull and less interesting all of a sudden, like a light had gone out.


“All that Long Island Iced Tea,” said a woman further along the bar.

“I guess,” said Andy.

“Americans love that drink,” she said. “They are always complaining it’s not like they make it at home.”

“Americans like to claim a lot of things,” said Andy.

“I’m Ann,” said the woman. She seemed to be on her own and keen to connect.

Andy slid his arse onto the bar stool next to him as well as the bar stool he was sitting on. He leant across with his hand out. “I’m Andy.”

“They were entertaining, those two,” said Ann.

“Yes, they were.”

“Did you fancy a shot with the two of them?”

“Did I?”

“Yes,” said Ann. “Who could have blamed you, two good looking American sailors.”

“Oh, um,” said Andy. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” said Ann.

“What would you like?” asked Andy.

“That is very kind of you,” said Ann. “Just some bubbles.”

“Eugene, some bubbles, please,” said Andy. “And an espresso martini.”


“Not exactly uplifting, now was it,” said Ann. She looked back at the exhibition.

“You thought an exhibition called Suffocating would be uplifting,” said Andy.

Ann laughed. “No, I suppose not.”

Andy held up his Espresso Martini, Ann held up her champagne. “To life,” said Andy.

“To our happiness,” said Ann.

“Do you think it counts to our happiness if we wish it upon ourselves?” asked Ann.

“Sure, why not,” said Andy. “Fuck yeah. To our happiness.” Andy and Ann drank again.


Suddenly standing next to Andy was a tall guy, over six feet, six two, possibly, blond hair and blue eyes. When people have said he had movie star looks, in the past, said Andy, I have never really understood the image, until I met Brad.

“Is anybody sitting on this bar stool,” asked the tall blond stranger.

Ann raised her eyebrows at Andy. Andy smiled back at Ann. “That bar stool, is it taken?” said Andy.

“That is what I just asked you,” said the blond stranger.

“Taken. No. This stool is not taken.” By this stage Andy was lifting his leg suggestively off bar stool in question.

“Do you mind?” asked the stranger.

“Ah”… Andy realised what Brad meant. “No.” He climbed off the stool back onto his original stool. “I don’t mind at all.” Andy made a flourish with his hands. “It is all yours.”

“Thank you.” Brad took his seat. Andy took his seat, next to Brad.

“How tall are you?” asked Andy.

Brad laughed at the question. “Six foot two.”

“I thought you were, I thought you were six foot two inches,” said Andy. “You can give me all the metric shit you like, 190 centimetres, whatever, nothing sounds as romantic as six feet two.”

“I guess not,” said Brad.

“I’m Andy.”

“I’m…” he said, nervously. “I’m Brad.”

“And this is the lovely Ann,” said Andy.

““EnchantĂ©e” said Brad.

“Oh, very smooth,” said Ann. “Lovely to meet you.”

“I don’t know where you are from man,” said Andy. “But why don’t you join me in one of what I am drinking.”

“What are you drinking?”

“Trust me, that is the point,” said Andy.

“Sure,” said Brad. “I trust you.”


“You here for the exhibition?” asked Andy.

“Yes, yes I am,” said Brad.

“Are you enjoying the exhibition?” asked Andy.

“Yeah, sure,” said Brad. “It’s a bit bleak."

“We live in times that are bleak."

“Yes, I know, but maybe I want to escape from that at an exhibition."

Eugene puts two espresso martinis down in front of Andy and Brad.

“Oh,” said Brad.

“This is your chance to escape,” said Andy. He pushed one of the martini glasses toward Brad.

Eugene put another glass of champagne down in front of Ann. She lifted the glass up in acknowledgment of Andy’s generosity. Andy winked at Ann.

Brad’s eyebrows raised as the taste hit his taste buds. 

That has to be a good sign, thought Andy.

Andy took a large swig of his espresso martini. “Ah! Come to mama!”

Brad sipped again. Then he smiled. “Not bad.”

“Not bad,” Andy repeated. Andy took a second swig of his espresso martini, giving Brad the 'once over' as he did. “Not bad? Nectar of the gods.”

“Oh, nectar of the gods,” repeated Brad.

“It’s no good unless it has bubbles,” Ann chimed in.

“It is customary that you toast back with the same cocktails,” said Andy. “As your host, to show good will.”

Brad turned to the Eugene. “Two more espresso martinis, it is then.”

Eugene made duck face as he reached for fresh glasses. He put two more espresso martinis down in front of Brad and Andy. He gave Ann another glass of bubbles.


“What do you do?” asked Andy.

“With 4 espresso martinis, between us, I reckon I could do just about anything,” said Brad.

“I reckon you are a fighter pilot,” said Ann.

“Oh, nothing that glamourous,” said Brad. “I’m a doctor.”

“A doctor,” said Andy clearly impressed.

“Does that mean you work unsustainable hours and never get enough sleep,” said Ann.

“Pretty much,” said Brad. “What do you do?”

“What do I do?” repeated Andy.

“Yes,” said Brad. “I’ve shown you mine.” Brad smiled. He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

 “You are two of the cutest things I “ever di dare see!” Ann said. “What do you do, Andy?”

Andy gave Ann a look, as if to say, I’d dodged that one nicely, thank you very much. “I’m… I’m… I’m a student.”

“A student?” questioned Ann.

“A student,” said Brad. “What are you studying a triple degree?”

“Well, I have no idea what you are implying,” said Andy. “But, if you must know, I am studying a PHD.”

“A PHD, well,” said Ann clearly impressed.

“A PHD in what?” asked Brad.

“What it’s in makes no never mind…”

“It does,” said Ann.

“It does,” said Brad.

“I just never wanted to get a job, if the truth be known,” said Andy. “So, a PHD, why not?”

“Why not?” questioned Brad.

“Why not,” said Andy. “Who wants to be an adult, anyway.”


“I’m going back into pharmacy after 10 years,” said Ann.

“Congrats,” said Brad.

“Yes, congrats,” said Andy.

“Oh,” Ann grimaced. “More of a necessity than a choice.”


“My marriage had just recently fallen apart, I’m on my first night out on my own in fifteen years,” said Ann. “I am just so grateful to you boys for all your kindness. Espresso martini’s all around!”

“You don’t have to do that,” said Andy.

“No, you really included me.” Ann’s eyes were wet with tears. “And I am intruding on your time together, I realise that.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” said Brad.

“You haven’t intruded,” said Andy

“Oh, I know I have,” said Ann. “You have both been very kind.”


Eugene prepared espresso martinis for the three of them. Andy, Brad and Ann toasted life and new friendships.

“You guys are lovely,” said Ann.

Andy handed her his iPhone. “Put your number in my phone." 

“I’m glad I came out tonight,” said Brad. “I nearly didn’t.

“I’m glad to,” said Andy.

Ann handed Andy back his phone. “There, I’ve texted you,” said Andy. “So, you have my number too.”


Then Eugene seemingly alive with the spirit of the evening, “Espresso martinis for everyone!” he shouted as well.

“Surely, they aren’t making that much money on us,” said Andy above the din of the voices, and the clink of glasses, above the hiss of bubbles. 

“Don’t question it,” said Brad.

“Good thing I didn’t drive,” said Ann.

The espresso martinis were put down in front of them.

“Thank you for making my night,” said Ann.

Andy and Brad held up their glasses.

“Here’s to many, many more,” said Andy.

“Here’s too long friendships,” said Brad.

“You guys are gorgeous,” said Ann, as they toasted with their three glasses.


Andy got fucked drunkenly by Brad all night until morning. There were condoms. There weren’t condoms. They were safe. They weren’t safe. Andy was having real trouble remembering exactly who was doing what to who, but he remembers they were dripping with sweat when they were done.

Andy remembers, um, wince. Did I do that?

Andy woke up in Brad’s loft, with the views of Port Phillip Bay, the complex is set on stilts over the water. Brad is asleep. Andy feels more relaxed than he has in a long time.

Andy put on MacArthur Park, instead of getting up, when Brad asked him to.

“Hey Andy,” said Brad. He came out of the en suit bare chested just in work trousers. He switches off Donna Summer. “I’ve got to be some where in an hour.”

“What’s with you,” said Andy. “Your wife coming home, or something?”

Brad came out of the walkin wardrobe in an unbuttoned, crisply ironed shirt. “People to see, places to be,” said Brad. “I’m just letting you know.” He disappeared back into the en suit.

“Did you only have 12 hours scheduled for a fuck?”

Brad’s head reappeared around the bathroom door. “Andy. Mate, it doesn’t need to be this hard. I had a great time.”

“I had a great time too,” said Andy.

The sound of running water can be heard from the other room.

“Is this mattress goose down?” Andy slides the flat sheet up between his thighs, over his cock and balls, crossing over his chest. 

Brad reappeared with shaving cream on his face. “I’ve got to go to work, mate.” Brad tapped his watch.

Andy just wanted to lie in. Why couldn’t he get ‘trade’ that worked afternoons. Shiftworkers. The bed was amazing.

“Mate, if you wanted to piss around, why didn’t we go back to yours, and I could be leaving right about now. I wouldn’t have minded. Everybody happy.” Brads face creased into a forced smile.


“He sure is pretty, but he makes me late for everything,” said Brad.

“You were consumed by him,” said Chook.

“He has no consideration.”

“He made up for it. Come on,” said Chook. “Are you telling me, you did not enjoy the added bonus of being hooked-up with Andy of seeing Andy naked…every… day?”

“It doesn’t last with me, if it’s always one sided. No matter how hot.”

“He’s beautiful.”

“But that is only for half an hour, tops, when I am in him at night.” Brad confided 

“Jesus!” said Chook.

“That’s what you wanted me to say.” Brad sipped his coffee, the sun pooled on the table. “Isn’t it?”

Andy took Prep.


Brad avoided Andy. He stayed out a lot more. His absence at home is noticed. “Andy was great, is great, but he doesn’t know when to let go.”

“That must be a record,” said Chook. “Even for you.”

Brad moved to St Kilda for the summer, right on the foreshore. His mate Dulcie, the 1940s psychopath, had gone to Europe indefinitely and Brad was looking after her place. Of course, her name wasn’t Dulcie, it was Kylie, or Indigo. Or was it, Summer?

“I missed every drug trend there was known to man,” said Dulcie. “I’m going to go and squat in the trendiest salons of today, and I’m going to smoke weed, snort, coke, smoke crystal and inject whatever and I’m going to get fucked the way I have always wanted to get fucked, and it is going to be excellent.”

“Should I worry about you?” said Brad.

“Here are the keys to the house, the 48 Chev is in the garage, if you dare, it’s all yours,” said Dulcie. “I don’t know when I will be back.”


Andy and Ann met at the dog beach in Brighton. Andy let Rocket off his lead, and Ann let Bronson off his lead. Rocket, the English Bulldog, and Bronson, the French Bulldog, ran directly to the water together.

“How are you and Brad going?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Andy. “He’s friends with my best mate Chook.”

“Really, is that a coincidence, or what?” said Ann.

“No, I think it was a setup,” said Andy.

“A setup?”

“Chook gave me the ticket to the exhibition,” said Andy.

“Oh, well, lovely Chook,” said Ann.

“He’s very controlling,” said Andy.

“Chook?”

“Brad.”

“Oh, no, you don’t want that,” said Ann.

“And is very organised,” said Andy.

“That’s not a bad…”

“Anally,” said Andy. “And not in a good way.”

“There is a good way?” questioned Ann.

“Honey?” questioned Andy.

“Oh,” said Ann. The realisation dropped.

“He doesn’t believe in monogamy,” said Andy.

“Do you want that?” asked Ann.

“Maybe in my twenties, I wanted to screw around,” said Andy. “But not in my thirties…”

“Late thirties.”

“Thank you,” said Andy. “I think I want them for myself now.”

“So, no?” said Ann.

“The jury is still out,” said Andy.

“Can you see Bronson?” said Ann.

“Can you see Rocket?” said Andy.


Dane jogged on the St Kilda foreshore.

Brad’s house had a deck out the front over looking the sea.

“This is the most amazing mirage… setting.” Dane’s hands opened outwards as though he was embracing all of the garden. “Urban jungle… oasis I have ever seen. This is great!”

“You’re pretty cute yourself,” said Brad.

“What? Mate?” said Dane. He pulled back.

“Oh? I just said,” said Brad. “What did you think my intensions were in escorting you back here?”

Dane laughed. “I’m just playing with you. How old did you say you were?”

“Oh thanks.”

“Escorting me back here? What were your intensions,” said Dane. His voice went instantly gravely and low. “You’re pretty fucken cute yourself.” Brad felt his jacket being tugged. His lips met Dane’s full lips, stubble. Warm. Sweet.


Saturday 6 February 2016

I'm Usually the Drunk Slut





Jack and Eugene stopped on their run for some water on the edge of Studley Park, across the footbridge and up the hill to the drinking tap. Jack had been talking about his favourite subject, girls.

Eugene rested both his hands on his knees as he got his breath.

“You’ve got to be prepared to start them off with your tongue, then finish them off with your…” Jack pointed to the crotch of his shorts with a V shape of his hands. “Well,” Jack took a big breath in. “Even you know…”

Jack had finished speaking, Eugene could tell because Jack's mouth had stopped moving. Eugene had very little idea what Jack had just been saying, but he really liked watching Jack's mouth move. Jack had nice teeth.

“You’ve got to be in tune with her needs… guys.”

Jack had been talking about sex, the subject that, somehow, they often got around to talking about when they were together. Maybe not at first, but usually. They were talking about what girls were like, Jack had picked the topic, of course.

"I don't get it," said Eugene. He smiled. "The whole girl thing." He grimaced, tilted his hands in the air, several times. "It's, it's... " He shrugged. "It's all hidden, you know, who the hell knows what’s going on down there."

His buddy, Jack, smiled at him. Blond hair and blues eyes, white teeth. “Didn’t you have sisters?”

“No, three brothers.”

“I had sisters.”

“And?” said Eugene. “What are you saying you did with your sisters?”

“Oh, nothing, seriously?” said Jack. “They’d tell me. Three older sisters. I got a lot of information.”

"I'm used to my fun being out, where I can see it," said Eugene. "I don’t need that mystery in my life." He laughed.

“You will never experience the total joy of discovery of…” Jack closed his eyes and he looked upwards, just slightly, so the perfect light reflected on his perfect skin.

Was Jack remembering the first time, Eugene wondered. “Give me a break.”

Jack lent in close and said all dirty and gruff. "You'll never appreciate the feeling of a drunk little slag spreading her legs and letting you pound her beef curtains, as the sun comes up on a Sunday..."

“Euw?” said Eugene.

Jack was trying to sound cool and sinister, like it was a bad world out there. “…when they are drunk, they are really cooperative.”

Eugene could feel his face grimace. He didn't want to be one of those gays, but the grimace, there it was. "I'm usually the drunk slut, though,” said Eugene. “Straight guys say I’m tighter.”

"Oh," said Jack. He grimaced. It was like someone just told him that his favourite chocolate shop had been exposed as a fraud. Or that footy didn’t really exist. “Girls are smaller, delicate, makes you want to...”

“I can be softer,” said Eugene. “Is that what you want,” Eugene pouted and said breathlessly “Big boy.”

Jack suddenly looked alarmed.

“It’s okay, Jack,” said Eugene. It’s not compulsory. It’s just cho…”

“What’s not compulsory?” The light glinted on his blond hair. His blue eyes sparkled.

Eugene’s head spun. He was no longer sure what they were talking about. He felt naughty. "How hard do you want to fuck me?" He just said it to see the look on Jack’s face.

"What?" asked Jack. He pulled away from Eugene. He held Eugene’s gaze. Serious. Stern.

Eugene couldn't help but laugh. "That's what I usually ask them?"

"Them?" asked Jack. His eyebrows came together and both pointed down towards his nose. “There’s more than one?”

"Someone bigger, strong, taller," said Eugene. “Not usually at the same time… but, you know, maybe?” He shivered as though someone had just walked over his grave. He would swear they had.

Jack just looked at him. Blank. He had no information. Not a clue. “What?”

"You know what those girls are asking from you."

"What? Yes." He still sounded unsure. “What?”

"Same thing."

Jack's face scrunched up adorably. He didn't get it. Over his head, straight over.

“Oh, come on, you must have some idea?” said Eugene.

Silence fell over them. Eugene leant down to the drinking tap and took a drink.


"We're still talking about girls?" That was all that Jack could manage. “Aren’t we?” He looked kind of timid, scared of the answer.

“Jack, relax.” Eugene wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I’m not going to fuck you? Eugene,” said Jack suddenly. “I just wanna get that straight. I’m not fucking you.”

“I know that Jack.”

“So, what is with all the crazy talk…”

“What crazy talk?”

“I don’t know what you are on about, half the time,” said Jack.

Eugene was hurt to hear Jack say that. “You don’t listen.”

“I’m usually the drunk slut?” said Jack repeated.

“You are taking it out of context…”

“How hard do you want to fuck me?” Jack repeated.

Eugene couldn’t help but feel a little turned on hearing Jack say those words. “Jack, the things you say.”

“Can you tell me the context that I am taking it out of?”

“You just need to calm down, Jack.”

“You’re my friend, Eugene,” said Jack. “It is just the same as any…” Jack laughed self consciously. He shrugged. “I don’t know, plain, girl,” Jack made parenthesis with his fingers in the air, “a friend, I have.”

“Yeah Jack, you’re my brother.”

“Don’t forget it.” Jack slapped Eugene’s arse. “Let’s go.” Jack jogged off ahead.

“It’s not always about you, Jack.” Eugene jogged of after his mate.


The track, barely a goat track, descended steeply down the embankment to the river, favoured by mountain bike riders and joggers and some dog walkers. Eugene followed Jack down watching Jack’s powerful thighs carrying him down the steep descent.

When the track flattened out the two friends jogged together.

“You’re not really the drunken slut with the other guys, are you Euge,” asked Jack.

“What?” said Eugene.

“You’re not just getting out of it and, you know, letting the guys… are you?”

“You can talk, Jack, girls are really cooperative when they are drunk.”

“Oh, yeah,” Jack laughed nervously. “But, that’s just talk…”

“What?”

“Talk, Euge, just stuff that guys say,” said Jack.

“Stuff guys say,” said Eugene. “When did I becomes a guy you just say stuff to?”

“You’re my main guy,” said Jack. “I say stuff to you always.”

“But not straight boy bullshit,” said Eugene. “I didn’t think.”


The trees were lush and bright green all the way along the river bank. They form a cathedral of green overhead under which the boys ran. The sun was dappled on the ground.


“But you, hey, AIDS is still a thing, isn’t it?” said Jack.

“Oh Jack, surely you know by now I’m not getting paralytic on booze like chicks do. I might get charged up on pills, or powders, you know, occasionally…”

“Occasionally?” questioned Jack.

“The point is, that I know what I am doing,” said Eugene.

“Always?”

“Always.


A dog owner comes walking towards them, their Golden Retriever with its lustrous coat glowing in the morning sun. It sniffed at the boys as they ran past.


“You wanna know the truth, Euge,” said Jack.

“Of course,” said Eugene. “Always.”

“I like girls to tell me what to do.”

“What?” said Eugene. “You mean, dominatrix style.”

“Well, no. I mean, well, maybe.” Jack laughed. “But that’s not what I’m saying.”

Eugene likes it when Jack Laughs.

“I like girls to talk.”

“Talk?”

“During sex,” said Jack. “I like girls to tell me...”

“How good you are?”

“Yeah, sure,” said Jack. “What I am saying is that I don’t get the unconscious chick thing, that’s just something losers get off on.”


The pathway opened up into the parkland open and green, picturesque framed by the river on one side. It is the off-lead park. A couple of big dogs gallop past.


“So, why do we do that?” asked Eugene.

“Do what?” asked Jack.

“Talk shit to each other, tell each other things we don’t, actually, believe.”

“I dunno,” said Jack. “Builds us up. Something to say. Habit.”

“Does it, though?”

“What?”

“Build us up? Do us any good.”

“No, probably not.”

“We need to say positive things.”

“It’s just talk, Eugene, don’t over think it.”

“Drunken sluts,” said Eugene. You know, it’s kind of okay if I own it, about myself, but you’ve got no excuses talking about girls that way.”

“It’s just talk.”

“Yeah, but, what about the dumb guys, the pissed guys, the ones that are, what are they called, incels?”

Jack rolled his eyes and bit his bottom lip, something he always does when he’s unsure of what to say.

“There must be lots of other talk you could be engaging in.”

“I guess.”

“Talk that is positive for both guys and girls.”

“I guess.”

“I know.”


They stopped and did jumps and squats on the grassland.

“I can see your dick bouncing up and down in your shorts,” said Eugene.

“That’s good, maybe some chick will like it too.”

Jack emphasised his cock bouncing in his shorts by swinging his hips as he did star jumps.

“You are just a fucken tease,” said Eugene.

“I just need the right girl to think so.” Jack flashed his killer smile.


Friday 5 February 2016

He had nice hair,

but his eyes, 

nose and mouth, 

displeased him,

so, he had new ones,

sutured in,

after a night out

on the gin.

Thursday 4 February 2016

"What Have You Been Doing, Cunt?"






"What have you been doing, cunt?"

Kane knew better than to answer that. “Hey Agro, whatch you been doin?”

Agro stepped in front of me, as I tried to walk away, blocking my way, not that that was hard, Agro being the size of a brick shit house, and me, shrug, the size of a mouse. That is what they say, Kane Mouse. That is what they call me. It’s the quiet ones you gotta fucken watch out for, I tell them to their faces. Then I shag their sisters.

“Do you know anything about what happened to Kipper?” said Agro, kind of all secret, like he didn’t want anybody to hear him asking.

Kane knew better than to answer that, too. I knew a little, I’d heard whispers, I will ferret out the truth pretty soon, but nothing, at this stage, I would bet any of my credibility on. “Some thing happen to Kipper?”

“Fuck off!” he pulled a pleading face. “Man?“

“Did something happen to Kipper,” I said. “You’re telling the fucken story.”

Agro suddenly got me in a headlock. We scuffled a bit. “You better not be bullshitting me,” said Agro. “I wanna know what happened to my boy.” He rubbed my hair aggressively up and down with his hand. He let me go.

I reeled around to keep my balance. “No use coming down on me." I straighten up, regain my balance. "I’m not your crew.” Come to think about it, it was rare to ever see Agro without his boys. There was very rarely ever a, shall we say, personal visit, as there was today. Kipper is his right hand man, sure, I understand that, but on his own? What did Agro suspect? Fear? A rat in his ranks?

I exhaled. My head stops spinning. “Where are your boys?”

I hear that Kipper was in very dodgy company, in a very dodgy part of town, and he got shanked in a robbery gone wrong. Getting into his Mercedes parked down some narrow back alleyway, in the fashionable inner suburbs, where parking is a nightmare and often has to be done in the shadows in which you wouldn’t normally find yourself. That is what the smart operators are saying. But, it is still only third hand at best, forth hand probably.

I shrugged like I knew nothing. Fuck it, I thought. “What are you doing here, anyway? On this side of town?”

“It’s a free world, maaaaate, just don’t you forget that.” He lent in closer, “Well it was, where I come from, last time I checked.”

“Yeah, well, keep off my back,” I said. “You’ve got Cone and Crack to do your dirty work. I can’t see them lurking in the shadows… anywhere close at hand.”

“You don’t worry where my Cone and Crack are, do you know anything about Kipper, or not?”

“Nothing.”

He poked me with his hard, pointy finger, his lips twitched, he pulled his quavering jaw in tight with his neck muscles. “You keep off my sister.”

“She’d woop your arse if you ever said that to her, so why say it to me?”

“She’s my sister, man, I can’t look at you when I know you are…”

“Tell her, not me,” I said. “I’m the free agent here. I don’t have a gorilla brother I have to answer to, you know what I mean."

“Don’t lead her on,” said Agro. “If I catch you making them fucken gooey eyes at her, I swear, I swear, I will smash your pretty face in." Agro's voice gets really high like he is really excited. "Do we understand each other?”

I seem to remember something quiet different with Rosie.

We were pashing up the walkway of a house party in the suburbs, the parents were at their beach house. We’d all just finished school, it was our year twelve end of year party. People were drinking beer out of long necks. All the globes in the house had been changed to coloured. There were lava lamps, incense, loud music. People were everywhere, back yard, packing the house, spilling out into the front yard, it was hard to find a private place.

I asked her what Agro was going to say, about me and her, hooking up.

“Are you bi?”

“No! Why?”

“If you want to sleep with my brother, honey, why didn’t you just ask him home.”

“What are you taking about?”

“Stop talking about him," she said. "if he gives you any trouble, I'll sort him out."

Then I asked her why she didn’t go for the over-sterioded crew that Agro was head of.

“I like greyhounds like you baby.” She grabbed my nuts. “Little jockeys, big whips.”

“Hey!” She had the grip of a truck driver.

“Less talk,” she said.



2am. Boozy loud pub, last drinks everyone out.

“Rosie, where have you been?” I was pretty sure it was Rosie. It looked like Rosie. Jesus what had I had to drink?

“Where you been Kano?” said Rosie.

“Looking for you, baby.” She smelt like Roses. “Have you been keeping away from me?”

In the back of the taxi, Rosie looked like the most gorgeous thing, and I was going to get my reward for living a good and wholesome life. Rosie was good and wholesome.

“I’m glad we left, it was stuffy and hot in there.”

“It’s hot in here, baby,” said Rosie. She put her leg over mine.

Rosie’s fake nails pushed into the palm of my hand but I didn’t want to let her go.

There was one point, where my cock was deep inside her pussy, “Yeah BABY!” doggy style from the rear, where she’d pushed back, “AAaaa a a a…AA!” and I’d thrust, “ErrrrrrrrrRRR RA RA RA RA RA!” And we’d stopped momentarily to suck breath deep from within both our fucken souls, I lay back, just slightly, and I looked down and I thought of Agro. Got his face in my head. Don’t tell me what I can and can’t fucken do! I felt smug. I felt smug ‘cause me and Rosie are tight, we always been tight, since prep school. So this was just us, being us. And it would get up Agro’s nose, anyway. Win, win. It was a victory, my powerbase was small. So, yeah, I felt smug… “AAAAAAAAAA! Gasp for breath. Jesus! FU…CKEN JE…SUS! AAAAAA!!!!!!”

“YEAH!"… she slammed her open palm down on the mattress. "BABY!”


8pm Sunday night.

Kane had felt much, much better. I was feeling so shit, I was willing to give anything a go, so when one of the boys said, “Cone,” I sat right up like I was resurrected, and I sucked on that bong with the skill of a pro, all down in one inhale, until the cone went pop and was empty.

I spat the ashes out onto the floor.

I was mistaken to think that I couldn’t feel any worse. At least, before the joint, I was fucken stationary. The room spun, as I rode the fast track to chunderland. Close your eyes. OPEN your eyes! NO, NO, close your eyes. NO, open them. OPEN. CLOSED.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh.” I felt the bile come up into my mouth. The room was still spinning. After it had passed, I felt weak and powerless to stop myself from flying off of the planet altogether, I was drenched in sweat and shivering. I was slippery. I was foetal, just naturally, trying to hang on.

And then I dreamt.

Well, I thought I dreamt, when I woke up, I shook my head and thought, I gotta get off this shit! Man, I GOTTA get off this shit! That was until I spoke to the boys, Monday morning.

Someone boof-faced apparition in my vision, in my dreams as though it was all filmed through a cat-eye lens. I thought I had gone bi, but I wasn’t telling any cunt that. At least that was what I thought I saw, think I saw. Huge. Technicolor. Great big faces. I might have pashed. Oh? Wince. Maybe, there was a rollercoaster? There was a crashing helicopter. There might have been a gorilla. What the fuck!

Apparently, I found out after that… that mad cunt, Agro, had arrived and tried to wake me. He tried big time, apparently, shaking me the fuck about, slapping my face. Kane held his hands in the air as if to say, what’s that all about? Mum always said I slept like the dead. The boys stopped him… eventually. Someone had told him that I’d said something about someone who said something about Kipper. I don’t fucken know.

How out of it was Kane? Somebody must have spiked Kane's drink. I drank a shitload, but that was just a weekend, nothing new. There was no way I could have got paralytic on what I drank. Six, or seven long necks and that was about it. Jesus! Nothing. A couple of shots. One Daniels.

It was the cone. Had to be.


Wednesday 3 February 2016

Do You Have a Minute?



Jon Austin must be the most boring man ever born, born with the most boring moniker, just in case people couldn’t tell on first sight. It was kind of a give away, Jon Austin. He took up the most boring profession, law. Oh, his parents must have been so proud. He had a boring child late in life, the perfect Charlotte, who he brings into the office from time to time, who questions all of the staff one by one, as her father works at his stand up desk. Sports casual, Mr Suburbs, his ensembles shriek. Mr Beige a.k.a. Mr FlatLine. That's what I call him. The fact that he was born into the dizzy environs of Canberra, escaped no one. Do people, actually, admit to coming from Canberra? Seriously? To Melbournians? Really? There’d be derision, even if the judgment was subconscious, that’s just how Melbournian’s roll. Melbourne, or Sydney, they are the cool choices – oh yeah, sure, Adelaide is pretty, but no – no other city really measures up. It had not escaped me, certainly, I felt my blood pressure drop just by working next to him in the office (As long as he stayed off his phone) I’m sure it would have the same effect as patting a small cat. How it escaped anyone is a mystery. 

“Oh really, how lovely,” says benefactor, Dowager Baillieu. Baffled look on her face. She held out a drooping hand. Her other hand reaching for her pearls, at the same speed as his puckered lips glided downwards towards her non-gloved skin.

“Yes, my wife Jane and I… like the writer?” He stopped, seemingly mid sentence.

“I’m sorry?”

“Jane Austin, my wife.”

“Really?”

“Got a good deal on a small apartment near work.”

“Oh.”

Anyone's guess, really? There is just something, an inescapable something. How he made it to Melbourne is... who knows? He’s the Zebra who dared to wear red shoes, back where he came from. No doubt. Barton, or Page, or Dunk, all those terrible Canberra suburbs have terrible names like that. More chance of winning lotto than a Canberrian, is that what the collective noun for them, fitting in with Melbournians. 

“He’s one of the Canberra Austins?” asked the dowager, mystified. “Apparently, his wife writes.”

The man is the embodiment of pain relief. Some, mostly the twinset brigade, say a voice as smooth as honey. I'd say a monologue as relentless as a tsunami, but not nearly as interesting. Have A Chat, that's what they call him, Mr Have A Chat, sadly no body listens, as those who do soon glaze over as they look down at their watch. For Jon is Valium in human form. He even makes ditch water look like a Monet painting. Five minutes in a room with him and sloths are trying to slit their wrists.

He's not even a nice bloke. Some would say rude. The chip of the colonies. I'd say who cares, as long as I don't have to listen to him any longer. Thank the universe for office reshuffles, my life is saved. Mazz hated him, called him non existent. "You can see right through him, almost as if he wasn't there."

He’s just a shadow, he works in the shadows. He is that moment that your reflection tapped you on the shoulder and said, Now about that misdemeanour, you know the one. Talking to the local media about Empire’s work, you thought nobody would notice. Ring, ring. “You got a minute.”

“What’s this about?”

“Oh, nothing heavy.” Just talking outside your role and potentially jeopardising your funding, but we will get to that.

Oh when I heard those faithful words, unexpectedly, first thing one Monday morning. "Jon Austin here, is it a good time for a chat?" 

NNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Anybody else in the department getting that phone call, with those opening words, they’ve told the rest of us. Compared stories, misdemeanours. How were you supposed to run campaigns, if you had to get every small detail checked off by the man himself, every time you wanted to make a decision? It bought shivers. Always, whenever you had strayed outside of the brief. Sometimes you knew when you did it. Oh, is that going to bring a phone call. Shiver. You know you just said what wasn't meant to be said.

"Is now a good time?" Jon asked.

Any sane member of the team would be begging, I begged kill me now, as the words were still passing, meticulously timed, out of his mouth.

"Yes." Meek. In reaction already. Flight or fight. Defence, be small, the smallest target that anyone could possibly hit.

Why me? Who have I spoke to in the last few days? What media releases says? Who said what? Why did you have to send in Jon Austin? Internal Investigation. Faceless auditor. The shadow behind every decision you have ever made.

"I just want to have a civilised chat about what your side of the story is..."

"What story?" I was stupid enough to ask once.

"Christian, you were named in the news report as the source."

"My side of the story."

"Why don't we start there," coo'd Jon's voice, less like a trickle of honey and more like being suffocated by too much rose scented talc in the air.

"Now just so we understand what we are dealing with." He would list the crimes with which you were now charge in order of least importance, finishing with the big kahuna, the most criminally damaging allegations on his list of you digressions.

Once your side was done, put out there, offered up, then he was relentless, the chilled voice, like a velvet tsunami, never stopping, never relenting, never changing speed, on how it was going to be in the future.

“You know,” Jon laughed for the first time. “Just so we are on the same page.”

What is he? COO Brand of Empire Group. CEO of operations of Service Empire International. Frightening, he truly is. What is he? He is so whacked up on his own self importance, that just isn't any questions coming from him re authenticity. You don't deign to speak to him, unless he has business with you. He's a cold fish. He gives me the creeps just now thinking about him.

“I didn’t realise the implications.”

“That is why I am here,” Jon coo'd.

He's neat. Shoes that always matched his belt, no matter what he was wearing, it was almost psychopathic in its adherence. Of course, he only wore camel pants, or jeans, a short-sleeved shirt, more often than not checked, leather moccasins, or a pristine runner, the occasional wow factor suit and tie, but that only if he was going out for some forensic smoozhing.


Friday afternoon he’d finish at 3pm, as he has a kid, he’d leave the office on his way to pick up the insufferable Charlotte wearing her pink backpack. Or he worked from home, three day weekend, those days are free and liberating, just a small taste of how things could be.

Fran and I have been known to crack a bottle of red Friday afternoons, once Jon had departed the building. He never knew. It was one of the perks of not driving to work. Fifteen years ago, we’d have been outside having a fag, but Fran and I had long since given up the gaspers. We’d go into Fran’s corner office and close the door. One of the few, still with an office, thank god. Let the inmates have full reign. Only occasionally, you understand, not every, single Friday afternoon. I’m not exactly sure what he would have said about that?

I don’t think he is as important as he likes to think he is. Fran Di Dio does a good job, what is she, COO Empire People, and is way more respected than Jon Austin. He’s not one of us, he never has been. Fran's a no-nonsense kind of, hands on her hips and knuckle down and fix the problem through hard work, kind of gal. I think of her as the Katherine Hepburn of the NGO world. She never has a need of the existential, like our boy Jon. He's the master of it. I bet you he does cross words.

Fran brings her dog in to work, Tilly, the standard poodle. You can bring your dog in whenever you want. Bruno knows the routine and is at the front door waiting for me, the only time he wants to walk with me, I have to add. Fran always arrives at your desk in person, if there is a problem, if she wants to "have a word." She has no tag line, no not for her. “Christian, about the Men’s Program?” She wouldn’t refer you to some mythical spirit of the organisation, she’d just give you an answer. Done. Short and sweet. Problem fixed. Tilly would often lick you, in Fran’s wake, when it was all done. Fran wouldn’t suck your ear down a phone for 3/4s of an hour on the philosophies of the organisation and where we’d like us all to be heading, together.

Fran’s alive and real and earthy. Fran photosynthesises.

Jon is a hologram, a perfect corporate image. Jon sucks oxygen.

Tilly and Bruno lay together in the after noon sun, in front of the floor length windows on the north side of the floor. Cindy, Jon’s Schipperke, cowers and growls from under Jon’s desk, when Tilly and Bruno go and sniff around her, whenever Jon isn’t around.

“Life imitating art,’ I said to Fran. It didn’t quite come out right. “You know what I mean?”

“They say it is all in the upbringing,” said Fran. She pointed to Cindy with her chin. “The first 6 weeks are crucial.” She laughed.

“They really should just beat her up one day,” I sneered, slowly, as I watched Tilly and Bruno sniff at the snarling Cindy, questioningly. Tilly, long nose down. Bruno, sniffing up close from behind.

“Oh Christian.” I felt a hand grab my arm. Fran was trying very hard not to laugh, but she couldn’t stop herself. She walked off chuckling, shaking her head.

“Do you have a minute,” she said, seemingly into the ether as she walked away.