Date: Mon, 31 Mar 2003 19:53:06 +0930
From: andrew staker <mallowisious@hotmail.com>
Subject: "Lolito" chapter 10

LOLITO
Chapter 10

Crunch, crunch go the corny cornflakes. Slurpy albino milk, down my neck. A
hunger of Ethiopian proportions. Audaciously wipe face with only slightly
hairy arms. Throw the damn plate in the damn cockroach-friendly sink. Filthy
'50s-style, kitsch-laden holiday shack. Exterminate them all... and plant a
sumptuous ***** hotel de luxe.

I knocked on their door. After all, yesterday bolstered/leavened/lifted my
comfort around Brad. Mr W opened the door. The usual greeting. I cruised in,
a la John Travolta... staying alive. I want my boy, then I'll be off I
thought. But I said: "Smells good Mrs Winckelmann,"--insert smile here.

"Brad will be out soon," she said. "He was so tired last night..." she
turned away, wiping tomato-hands on granny-apron. "I can't imagine what he
got up to last night, he's so tired..." she curbed herself.

"We went riding pretty far..." I said, secretly laughing at an in-joke to
which I was the sole signatory. "But he wanted to go farther and farther..."
(and further and further). We didn't have much to say, so thankfully the
belle with balls entered. Mon beau... Lo-li-to.

"Hi Peter," he said. "Mum," he said, turning filially to his mother, "can
Peter come with us to the art thingy?"

"Well, I guess... if he wants... to, he could..." she hurdled.

"I'd be heaps bored without him there..." he cast his cliche (i.e., blue)
eyes on me.

"Really Brad! Katie knows art..." Mrs W protested.

"But Peter reads poetry. You should hear him read... it's so cool..."

She shocked: "Poetry? When?"

"Last night... we read poetry when it was getting dark..." he secreted our
secrets. I wished there had been a hole I could crawl into.

Mr Winckelmann, evidently an avid art lover, burst in and urged us hurry. "I
don't want to miss the opening."

"Do openings always happen at 11 AM on Mondays?" I enquired, when we pulled
up at the Noarlunga Cultural Centre. No answer.

The banner read: Southern Views. Mrs (not Miss or Ms)
Chubby-face-and-greying-curly-hair-plus-goggle-eyes was welcoming people.
"Welcome to this showcase of local artists' work. I hope you enjoy the
artwork." And she smiled as endearingly as a stal-wart Disney character.

Inside, a polished-wood floor reflected the sound from some faint bumpkin
music and the incandescent light. The artwork consisted mainly of stale
oils: hills, sunsets, brooding trees and sombre cliffs. Then the odd
watercolour of a quaint, archaic cottage (from the settler days). Little
odds and ends (jewellery, a bouquet of feathers, a shield of shells). A hub
of insignificant bric-a-brac. As for the artists, well... bloated wannabe
bohemians sipping cask wine from polyurethane cups. $250 for a peysage of
sand and bored sun.

Mr W seemed to be loving it. He dragged his son and daughter along,
explaining this and that and this again. As for the Mrs, well she sat down,
nibbling on a carrot piece. And I? I walked, always making eye contact with
Brad. A strange feeling overcame me following my realisation that I was
being watched. I turned to "Poor Turtle", a hugely ghastly painting of a
turtle on its back, whence a young man with floppy black hair waved. He
timidly approached. "Hey..." he said... "you're on that bike ad."

"Uh, yeah..." and smiled. Red cheeks rising. He looked over at my 'brother'.
"Yes, that's Brad," I said semi-sarcastically.

"Cool... so are you two... really brothers?"

Time for some fun. "What's it to you? You like that sort of thing?"

Now it was his turn to be mortified. "No, no. Sorry man. I was just
curious," he finished. Yeah right... more like queerious. "What do you think
of..." he pointed to the artworks collectively.

"I don't know. It's a bit..." and smiled my dismissal of it.

It emerged (from our further discussion) that he was a visual arts student
at university. He was twenty-two (22) or something. I told him that I too
had plans of going... as soon as the academic year commenced. "Ah..."
expressed, "you'll be a first-year then!" and he tapped me on the shoulder.
He came close to my ear, his moist tongue now-and-then touching me. He
whispered: "Stay away from the toilets... guys fuck each other there...!"
and he pulled back, wiping an un-blonde stray lock from in front of his
un-blue eyes. I think they were brown.

"Let's get out of here," he beckoned. I followed then halted.

"Can I bring my friend?" I asked.

Poor guy. He was puzzled by the remark I think. I fished out Brad easily
enough; removing the parental clutches was a tad more difficult, but as we
were in a public space, and as Brad wanted to come (he squirmed) and as they
did not want to be seen as bad parents, the boy was mine for the
taking/picking/plucking (cf. f-word that rhymes with the last one).

A trio of guys (that be we, the un-fair sex) walking down the road. To be in
the middle of a pedestrian threesome: I was one of the popular guys. Brad on
the left knew me and 'artistic uni dude' (Tom) on the right knew me: I was
the nexus cohesive, holding us together.

He directed us to a shabby old door with a little room that lead to stairs
that lead downstairs into the basement. It smelled musty. One might have
expected to see Romeo and Juliet down there, their star-crossed slings and
arrows aimless. But no.
It was, after all the uncertain hesitation, another art gallery.

For mood, the lighting consisted only of candles. It was akin to standing in
a cathedral and watching the sea of souls aflicker. On the wall were weird
and wonderful paintings, the images disturbing. Brad seemed confused, but he
kept looking regardless. And here and there, installations. Whether it be
spliced rabbit bodies or a can labelled 'Artist Shit', this place had it. It
was funky, underground, urban and breathed into me an elan I had not had for
ages. Brad was less impressed, but to his credit, the staid lad stayed by my
side throughout.

So Tom went on and on about he hoped to emulate this and that artists. I
must not apply the same harsh criticism to his work or ambition that I did
to the bloated, expired finger-painters in the previous gallery. He was
young, determined and had some remarkable ideas.

"Sit down and have a drink," he said. He brought out some orange juice. A
girl was hovering around the place and he casually introduced her.
"Clarice... she's doin' the same subject as me..." et cetera. Clear Clara,
Clarice. Clarinet. Ah, but I could tell, she had her lips (labia) moist to
swallow poor all Tom's thumb. It was in the way she looked at him, the way
she spoke to him, the way she shyly moved around the throbbing phallic
presence of his body.

After a brief chat about which piece was hers, and which his, and which
belonged to people currently not in the gallery (they preferred art-space,
which, given its condition, was a much more apt descriptor). Then at some
point, close to III after midday, Tom shot up, fretted and exclaimed "Shit!
That dude's coming..." and he paced around. He hurried to fix his hair,
straighten his clothes, wash his hands and so forth. On the dot, down the
shadowy stairs, glimpsed with shadowy stares, a figure descended. It was the
body of Pavarotti transposed onto the mise-en-scene of Nosferatu. Italian
persona and German expressionism, both gloomily descending.

Holy Caesar! That face, the face, it was that face. The man from the Adonis
Foundation, the one I had been sold to, but from I'd fled. Tom rushed over
to greet him. The man glanced over a few items, including me and Brad. He
paused on me for 3.1415 seconds then resumed. He whispered to Tom who walked
him over to a particular installation.

We couldn't help but walk over. The man, Mr Douche-Ampere or whatever, was
offering not only a substantial sum for it, but also an ensuing commission.
Naturally Tom was happy. They shook the handshake. Mr D-A left, not without
turning back once to try and recollect me. Subsequently, Tom fell onto one
of the chairs where Clarice promptly provided a glass of water. He consumed
it told us all about the wonderful deal. $5,000 for the 'Hearts Leaking
Semen' installation plus $20,000 to work at the monsieur's mansion. "One
condition: I gotta work with my shirt off, all the time."

Wow, now that's sexual discrimination. But the artist's life is so. My small
accomplice was strangely quiet throughout the ordeal. But in retrospect,
what could he have done? When you're 12 the world is best served cold.

We said our goodbyes, with Tom supplying me his phone number (he must've
been significantly overjoyed!). By the road (for Brad and I had decided to
catch the bus home, after he had telephone his parents and discovered they
had gone for a drive to the hills, with Katie and that it was his fault he
was missing out) Mr Douche-Ampere was sipping from a stately champagne
flute. His nimble, o so en vogue assistant (female) stood there taking notes
on an aptly affluent leather-bound diary.

"Now I recall you," he smiled, wiping aging hand through greying hair. "You
were at the AF do, weren't you?" and he chuckled aristocratically. "Do sit
down..." he invited. We did. "And who's this fair thing?" he asked.

Brad stepped in: "I'm his brother."

Ah, the old man liked that. He sipped two gulps. "O I see. Brotherhood is a
such a beautiful thing," he said. "Hoi kaloi adelphoi," he said.

Naturally we were confused. He did not bother to explain himself. "Can I buy
you two boys lunch... late lunch I mean?"

We looked at each other. Brad then asked, in a way that twelve year old are
wont: "Really?"

"Anything on the menu. I know the cook here...!" and Mr D-A winked. Brad was
so overtaken by the man's inexplicable generosity, he dove into the menu and
emerged with some 10,000 calories--I exaggerate.

"So tell me... why did you run?" the oldie said to me. "You see how nice I
am. And you also saw what you missed out..." Sure, but I bet in your eyes,
the only difference between me and Tom is name, I thought. "He's not quite
as young as you" (oral wine-swish) "but he'll do."

Out came the food: Brad's spaghetti bolognaise, strawberry milkshake,
chicken nuggets and I'm sure a good few other things... and my glass of
water. I would combat Mr D-A (a noble) nobly... which meant not giving in to
his materialistic seduction. As the waning minutes ate themselves up, we
parted, not without my receiving a handsome business card and a particularly
greasy handshake.

Brad and I caught the bus, the bumpy road giving me numerous excuses to
explore his left leg's dermal topography. "We're off to the beach, and don't
say no," he ordered. In a pattern that had become rather familiar, he dashed
across the road and returned in his sexy swim-boy-suit. I had my article of
clothing and to the sand we went.

Not much time went by before Brad, poking his head up (we had been on our
stomachs, absorbing UV-A and UV-B rays) and said: "Is that..." and he sprung
up like the lithe little springy boy he was and shot over to another boy, in
red (dare I say it) Speedos. My closer inspection revealed it to be someone
familiar.

Indeed, with Brad and his slim companion standing side-by-side in front of
me, my hunch had been proven right. Len, the Asian Catholic boy. "Out for a
day in the sun," he said.

"Isn't great he's here?" Brad asked. "It's so weird!"

"Is your lucky day!" quoth the other kid. My, these boys can be so cruel!
"You left fast," Len said. He turned to Brad, then said to me: "So Peter...
did you like Sunday school?"

"Fuck no!" I said dismissively. Go away, you little freak. Don't look at
Lolito so liltingly.

Brad: "We're going for a swim..." and they were soon in the (h)eitch-two-oh.
I could sense once more their conspiring to remove me from the boyhood
formula. It seems 12+17 is worse than 12+13. Damn you Len... let me be your
age...! They returned, and he whispered to me: "Can we watch TV at your
place?"

"What about Len's parents?" I asked of Brad.

"I rode my bike here. They're fine about it."

Fade out. Fade in: Auntie's shack, Peter with a 12-er and a 13-er, both of
whom were on the couch. "This is the news!" said Len. "Surely it's boring?"

But I hated him, wished him gone, and so deliberately left it on that.

"Can we change it?" Brad puppy-pleaded.

"NO!" I said.

"I'm getting a drink!" he said.

Len: "My mum and dad argue like that too," and he vulgarly giggled. I hate
you, I hate you, I hate you!

Brad, ex culinam: "Len, do you want juice, Coke or lemonade?"

Asian boy: "Just water, thank you." Ascetic Christian soul-smuggler. You're
not touching Lolito!

Brad returned, with nothing for me. He sat painfully close the Len's brown
leg. That's it, I thought. "I'm showering... do whatever you want!" At least
my tears would be dissolved.

I was about to rinse out the second dose of shampoo from my hair when I
heard a knock. I continued my business. The knock repeated.

"Yeah," I shouted.

It was the nectar-voice of Brad. "Can I come in?" I thought about it (not
too long) and agreed. He respected my privacy. I could see his silhouette.
He stood there, saying not a thing. So I said: "What is it?"

"Len and me were wondering... well, he would... can we... I mean..." O yes.
You and Len. United by irrecoverable youth. Age: despotic despot, tyrannical
tyrant--thou hast cut me from them. They're probably engaged in naked
acrobatics on the couch. I can look, but not touch; and even then, only
through the prism of imagination. "Could Len see your thing too?"

"Sure!" I said, thinking not at all! He went and returned with Len. I drew
aside the shower curtain.

"Wow!" both boys exclaimed. Len remarked: "You were right... it's different.
And look... all that hair!" Almost a giggle, but he concealed it.

"Well at least I'm not as hairy as other people," I huffed. "Now do you
mind, I need to dry myself?" And I zoomed around the tiny bathroom, then
headed to my bedroom, whence I had to exit (clothed) to answer the ringing
telephone. After dismissing Mumsie, I turned to deal with my two urchins.

"Can you teach Len what you showed me?" Brad asked.

I know... mine would be amongst the most enviable positions available, but
at the time it did not appear to me. I was annoyed and stressed out. The
only thing I could think about it erasing Len and keeping Lolito. Perhaps
that is why I said: "Okay, get on the couch." They both did. Then I said:
"Take your bathers off..." Bang. Two little dicks... though Len's bush was
somewhat thicker. "And mine makes three."

They looked at each other.

"So now, you just play with it until it gets harder and harder. Eventually
it feels so good--"

Brad interrupted: "--that you shoot out white stuff."

Len: "That would be semen." He went on: "I had read about genital
self-stimulation but hadn't found the right place to practise it."

"My, you are a little geek, aren't you?" I cruelly said.

Then Len made the most outrageous move in our long-running chess-game for
Brad: he placed a hand on my boy's nipple. "It aids the stimulation I
think," he said.

For some reason, I copied the motion and so poor Brad had my right hand on
his left nipple and Len's left hand on his right nipple. The effect produced
a marked sharpening in Brad's smile. And voila: he moaned. "That's good!" he
exhaled. "Here, look!" And he did it to Len. "And you," and he did it to me.
"They go hard!" he observed (referring to our nipples). "Yours are darker,"
he said to Len.

So there we were, three guys, masturbating. The situation progressed from
masturbating ourselves to masturbating the person next to us. Soon came the
fireworks and the whole thing ended. Clothes were put back on and everything
was severely discussed. "I should probably get back home," Len said.

Brad followed him and the two spoke and giggled in private. Brad was back
inside. "Thanks for that," he said. He can over and took my hand. "Let's
go," he invited. He led me to Auntie's bed. "Let's sleep now!" he urged. I
parted the covers and he took off his still-wet bathing suit. We got in, me
hugging him. "Were you angry that Len came over?"

"Nah, it was okay..." I said slowly.

"'Cause you sounded really pissed off!"

"I'm not now," (extra squeeze).

"Good," he said. After some quiet, he continue with "Next time your friend
from that weird gallery can come along..."

"What? You mean Tom?" He turned around so as to face me and nodded
affirmatively.

I laughed. "That's just plain funny."

"Why?" Brad asked. "I wanna see what he looks like when he wanks..."

"O my... you really are absurd!" I told him.

A howl of thunder spanned the sky, followed by a louder one. I heard the
best cocks of my generation gyzym in my hand. One of them was attached to
Brad, and vice versa. Then the light feet of rain grew, expanding into a
might downpour. Aye, but we were safe in the small shack in the warm bed in
each other's arms.

The sound of the rain had disappeared either because I drifted to sleep or
because the rain stopped. A doorknock with voice attached woke us up. It was
something like 19:30 of clock. I was in shorts and t-shirt but I threw a big
woolly jumper on Brad and he put some of my shorts.

Holding his blue swimsuit, Brad greeted his anxious mother at the door. She
was in frenzy! She ferried her son across the road after explaining to me
that a storm had caught them out in the hills and that poor Katie (alas) had
had a branch, which lightning struck, fall on her healed ankle. Needless to
say, pain and chaos abounded. More to be explained on the morrow, she
assured me. Goodnight Brad. Sleep well... and don't wank too hard. Keep some
for yours truly.


Andrew Staker
http://www.geocities.com/adonipolis