Date: Wed, 30 Apr 2003 19:46:47 +0930
From: andrew staker <mallowisious@hotmail.com>
Subject: (ST) "Lolito" chapter 11

LOLITO
Chapter 11

Morning has bro-ken, like the first morning. But I bet Adam did not need to
scoop eye-crusties out. Maybe only after the first disobedience did things
like body odour, earwax and anything nasty (Eve, thou now hast cock-breath!)
come into existence. Which is really the greater invention: shower or
bathtub? I would argue the former, for the latter takes longer.

Poor poor, miserable miserable Katie. The odds! Imagine: lightning, hitting
a branch. Then that branch crunching your once-hurt-now-healing ankle! I
really should go over there and express my numerous sympathies. But
empty-handed? What would her mother think? Why am I asking so many
questions?

Peter McMac strolled casually toward the kiosk on a Tuesday morning. I'll
buy the flowers myself, he thought. "Those!" he said. And the attendant
executed the transaction. Peter, being a sweet tooth, bought a little lolly
for himself. It was caramelicious. He also purchased for his Brad a long
windy gummy-snake with colour spanning its body. The Rainbow Serpent.

"These are for Katie," Peter said, presenting a bodacious bouquet. Her
father let him in. He was then led to the long-suf'ring anti-heroine. "Hi
Katie," he said.

She had a breakfast tray nearby. Her eyes were swirling with malaise.
"Hi..." her radiophonic voice crackled. Upon seeing the flowers, she smiled
somewhat. "Thanks Peter! They're beautiful!" She was happy. This made Peter
feel good.

Just then, the lithe, blonde twelve-year-old brother (known as Brad a.k.a.
Lolito) wandered in, morning haze across his face. "Hi Peter," he yawned,
wiping his eyes. His hair was frayed with sleep. He wore a t-shirt he was
out-growing and boxer-shorts. His feet were clean and cared for. "How did
you sleep last night?" he asked. I said rather well. "Not me!" he protested.

"Why not?" Peter asked.

"Because Katie and stuff," he told me. "Mum and dad were in her room. Her
stupid leg is so handicapped.

At which point Katie turned in on herself, drawing the cosy bed cover over,
covering her face. Self-pity: pitiful. She gradually increased the volume of
her disdain, so much so that we and her mother crossed paths in the hallway
just outside her bedroom. Brad rushed Peter to the lounge-room, where he
hurriedly put shoes on.

"Brad-ley!" his mother exclaimed. "Come here young man!" she insisted. He
continued tying the laces. "I said come here!" For the first time, I was
afraid. Mrs W's voice lacerated my eardrums. She reached over to him, hooked
his supple shoulder with her gryphonic hand and dragged the boy to Katie.
After some obscured dialogue, mother and son returned. He was rather more
awake!

"Peter," Mrs Mum said, "I don't think Brad can go over today. He's busy."

"What?" Brad asked.

"Yes... you're helping your father plant some shrubs in the back and front.
So you'll need to go to the nursery." She looked at me: "I hope it's
clear..." she ordered.

"Um... sure, Mrs Winckelmann," and Exeunt Peter. As I was walking back home,
Mr W was pulling the family car out of the garage. He stepped out and waved.
"Hello, Mr Winckelmann," I voiced glumly.

"Nice day," he said.

"Yeah," I unenthusiastically agreed. Too bad thy wyf be such a wenche,
thought Peter.

"How are you planning to make use of it?" Mr W enquired of me. I just shook
my head. "Well then," he said decidedly, "you're coming with me and Bradley.
We're getting some plants from the nursery." Yey! But won't you're wife
mind? "We'll leave the ladies at home, eh?" he joshed.

He suggested I wear my working gear... if indeed I wanted to help them dig
holes and stuff around their shack. By the time the honk of the car came
(signalling that "the blokes" were ready to go) could be heard in Auntie's
loungeroom, I had coutured myself a fabulous outfit, befitting of the task
ahead. All I lacked was a genuine blue collar.

I sat myself into front seat (for some reason, Mr W had thought it wise to
put me in front, his son behind... just 'cause I'm older). Jimm's Nursery
(the extra M for an allusion to the fairytales...?) sat on a rough-cut road
somewhere near Noarlunga, but not in it. It was neither pompous nor humble:
it just was.

The carpark (where Mr W parked the family mobile) was gravelled. A few
PermaPine (a way of treating wood so it doesn't rot, I believe) logs denoted
its perimeter. The clientele was largely (sickeningly!) familial. Grand ma &
pa or Mr & Mrs Newlywed. It somehow happened that Brad's father had broken
off from us. But when I turned to talk to Brad (whom I thought was behind),
he too was missing.

Because I truly detest aimless searching for someone in a huge shop, I gave
up on that idea immediately. Rather, I walked around, smelling flowers,
smelling fertiliser (not intentionally), touching the lush leaves of
tropical exotica. But it didn't take long for me to spot the fauna among the
flora. Carrying an immense sack of something on his nimble back was a
strapping Mediterranean lad. Perhaps twenty or in that vicinity.

The meaty bulge of his right arm, as he turned or readjusted the sack, was
captivating. I found myself following him around. It turns out he was on a
cycle, unloading sacks of something-phosphate from a truck into a little
storage room thing. Now it being summer, shorts were in. He did not indulge
me fully, for he sported a Bordeaux-coloured t-shirt. A singlet, however,
would have caused me to go and wank in the toilet, so perhaps it was
providence.

When I could no longer torment myself, I went over and made the flan remark:
"I bet that keeps you fit?" As might possibly be predicted, he did not
appreciate it. Was I snide? I hadn't intended it. He wiped the sweat from
his forehead, looked at me once, then walked off. Soon enough, he returned,
once again carrying a sack.

I stepped back a respectful distance (I was in the hose section) but kept
watching. "Alright..." he burst out, "what the fuck you want?" (I could
taste the souvlaki in his accent: El Greco!). "You one of them fags, eh?"
And he motioned half a metre toward me.

Peter McMack fled! And how! The jolt guided me toward Pater et Filius. The
two had decided what to buy. There were flowers, green shrubs, snail
pellets... so many things, I'm too bored to say what, exactly. After we had
purchased the items, and ferried them to the car, Mr W realised that he'd
forgotten something. "I'll be quick, okay boys?" he asked. We nodded.

Brad said: "Look at that guy!" and he giggled. The guy he had referred to
was a young Aboriginal man, an employee.

"So?" I asked.

"Don't you think he's yucky?" Lolito asked. "I mean... so black!"

"Brad...! That's racist," I taught. "You shouldn't say stuff like that!" I
was feeling embarrassed.

"But look... he's bending over... and you can see his back!" he insisted.
The worker straightened himself up. Unlike the boy from Hellas, the
indigenous Australian was wearing nothing save a pair of green shorts and
chunky, manly work-boots. When he moved a pot from one ledge onto another,
both his dark arms would writhe with fibrous muscular power. The sweat and
the sun delivered a seductive glisten. His belly was smooth and hard, akin
to Homeric warriors.

"He's a nice guy, Brad; like you and me?" I said.

"You...? A nice guy?" and he laughed. "Still, I would love to see his thing,
too." Yeah, me too. Big black cock, in my white ass. Slam it, bitch, slam.
"I bet it's bigger than yours!" Wormus said.

"What's bigger than whose?" Mr Winckelmann's voice interrupted.

"Ahhh... nothing!" Brad said excitedly, overcoming the shock easier than I.

Because the carpark was rather busy, it took Mr W some time-consuming
manoeuvres to extricate us. In that time, I caught a glance of the Greek guy
again. Once more, I was fixed on Ganymede. He looked at me once, vanished,
and quickly returned with Mr Whitman (if we are to believe the Aboriginal's
nametag). The two fit youths easily and swiftly overcame the wall and were
at my window, making obscene gestures and gesticulating profanities. All
this had caught our driver off-guard, nearly causing him to crash.

Our Christian father (Mr W) was not impressed. "These horrid immigrants!" he
uttered in disgust. "They should have died in the War."

"Dad--" Brad pointed out, "one of 'em's an Abo!"

"Bloody blacky!" Mr W yelled. He stepped out of the car. "Now what the hell
do you want, blacky?"

"Your fucken fag son keeps starin' at my friend Xenos, that's what!" Whitman
yelled.

Mr W's cheeks fluttered passionately. "Right, blacky. I don't pay my taxes
so filth like you and your bitch mother can smoke marijuana and accost my
family!"

Whitman pushes Winckelmann, yelling: "Fucken shut it!"

"That's it!" Mr W exhaled. He stormed into the nursery. The couple of taut,
dark-skinned young men continued to taunt me. Mr W emerged with a
pot-bellied, white-headed, 'Manager'-tagged sack-of-shit-of-a-man. Mr
Manager made his enquiries. It ended with Whitman and Xenos both receiving
good behaviour warnings. Mr W even got a 12% discount on his plants!

I wonder what it is that makes us fetishise race and ethnicity? Why must I
fantasise about the mythic dark phallus, the creamy Latino or the smooth
Asian?  Is it because when I look down at my self, I see dark brown pubes
and a boring, 'white' lump of skin? Perhaps it's a cheap version of
continent jumping? But then I looked across to Aryan Lolito: wholesome as
pie. His smile and eye-colour would open more doors than Xenos' and
Whitman's combined. The little prick knew it, so did I; so did his father.

My recovery from the confrontation came at the same time that I had to deal
with another one: Brad's mum. She welcomed her family, but glared at me
almost without pause. The father proudly showed what he'd bought and his
plans for where it was all to go. By some weird machinations, Lolito had
persuaded his father that my friend Tom (whose phone number I had) was more
qualified to design their garden than anyone else there. So after some time,
Tom turned up.

His artistic eye soon dissected the geometry of the garden. He placed an
especially bright bush near the windows, a row of red roses along the
footpath; these were all part of his vision. It was left to Mr W, Brad and I
to go about and realise it. So I had my go at digging holes and getting my
hands dirty.

The most repulsive aspect of manual labour (for there are many) would have
to be the continual bodily discomfort. A cohort of irritants: the flies, the
sweat, the smell, and the heat. Mr W returned from a break with an inviting
jug of cold drink. He had also left his shirt inside, his hairy gut swinging
ad libitum. When he knelt over, his fat would congregate in undulating
folds. Tom and I just looked at each other.

Oft used is the phrase "Like father, like son." On the present occasion, it
was very fitting. Brad, perhaps also uncomfortable in the heat, removed his
boy-shirt, revealing boy-abdomen and boy-shoulders. His filo skin shone in
the sun. Surprisingly, Tom was not taken with the juvenile image. I guess
only I had that particular penchant.

When the arduous afternoon closed, I fled to the comfort of Auntie's shack.
Tom came along with me. He sat on the blue couch--Lolito's--and we spoke for
a while. He said he was rather excited about the Douche-Ampère project. "The
guy lives at this huge house," he said, "and get this: he wants me to make a
Gloeden tribute!"

I was puzzled. "What's that?"

"A tribute? You know, it's a--"

"Der! I meant Gloeden. What's that...?" He laughed for a while; then,
perhaps realising he was being cocky with his cultural superiority, began
again:

"He was this German nobleman or some shit. And he went to Italy to take
dirty photos of boys... then sell them as postcards. It's weird. This guy's
heaps weird..."

"Why?" I asked.

"Well, because... he loves names. He calls things based on names that
existed before. Like, get his. He hired me, he tells me last night, he says
[here he imitated the wealthy gentleman's pronunciation]: 'I must admit,
Tom, one of the factors that aided my decision... was your name.' And he
smiled indulgently. Then I say to him: 'What do you mean?' and he says, 'O,
would you mind terribly if I call you Thomas... Thomas Mann?'"

"Wow!" I huffed.

"Yeah! Then he goes on to tell me who that guy was..." At which point I
offered my guest a drink. He was not too impressed when I returned from the
kitchen with a glass of fizzy cola. "No alco?" he enquired. Then I explained
to him (again?) my set-up here. How Auntie was a temporary Aussie émigré in
Europe with Janek, a good-to-look at guy only a bit older than Tom ("Oops,
Thomas Mann," I joked). "Then, amigo," Tom said, "you've got one sweet deal
goin' here!"

We spoke a little more, before he offered to take me to the drive-thru
bottle shop, which I accepted. We picked up some schnapps mixer-drinks and a
bottle of sweet wine (we had both agreed that we should drink wine we like
the taste of) and a huge bag of corn-chips (no dip necessary). We were soon
back on the couch, getting drunk for the sake of it.

I was getting drunker with each sip and feeling comically control-less.
Thomas Mann's amorous advances progressed further until we both had our
shirts off and were playing with our nipples. "Yours are darker than mine,"
I observed, "and have hair around them!" His arms enveloped my face, my
head, my upper body.

Then they removed my pants and soon the underwear was also dispensed. What
remained was my member, an-ti-ci-pa-ting. Tom's warm mouth took it in. The
feeling surged up along me. It was soon my turn to service him. The
colourful night continued, orgiastic wine flowing between the two of us.
Tom's chief function was to expand my sexual vocabulary.

At around 2AM his mobile phone rang. This woke both of us up. He stumbled in
the naked dark to answer it. I just loved the shape of his hanging cock and
balls, the silhouette they formed. Tom came to kiss me, but I was
apprehensive. Something about kissing stopped me from letting him in.

"Who was it?" I asked.

"None of your business," Tom answered.

"Nah, come one, tell me."

"Fuck off!" he pushed me. He seemed annoyed. I annoyed him some more.
Finally he told me. "I fucken forgot about a client... and now I've missed
him..."

"Client?"

Slowly he divulged the truth. By some convoluted connection through the
Adonis Foundation he was also selling himself to clients. Sex. Sex for
dollars. My ill-placed joke consisted of "So how much do I owe you?" He
almost punched me.

"If only I had been awake earlier...!" and he attacked the pillow. I
ascertained that the client was (miraculously) in Marion, which was only
some 20 minutes' drive away. My brainwave was persuasive. At around 3:15AM
at noiseless car pulled up at the driveway to Auntie's shack. A stately
doorknock.

Tom let our gentleman caller in. When Sir Anonymous saw two young men in the
house, he was confused. "I only booked one," he said. He was no Sir at all.
His American accent was instantly recognisable.

"O, sorry. He's a friend of mine. He won't bother us," Tom uncomfortable
excused.

"Well, for a hundred bucks more, he's welcome to!"

After some quiet, I asked: "Is that... Australian or American?" (Well, it
does make a difference!)

"Canadian!" he rectified. A bit more silence. "Right, so where is it we're
gonna do this thing?" he asked.

Tom suggested: "Well, the bedroom is back this way, by the bathroom..."

"No no no. I don't want a bed you two fuck-bunnies have just soiled. I wanna
see you strip for me. Here. Now. Do it!"

"But... I mean, it's sort of not my place... and--"

Canada man turned to me: "I'll let you watch darling. Is that fair?"

Fair or not, intriguing for sure.

Mister/Monsieur Canada sat himself on the blue couch, whence he proceeded to
direct poor Tom. We were inside an interactive three-D porno. He'd made him
turn left, turn right. Take his tongue out and pant; walk like a dog; put
his head between his master's legs. Finally Tom was naked, his testicles and
penis (the very same ones I had played with before) dangling in the night
air. Mr/M Canada was naked too, stroking his imported organ. I had retained
my clothing, but this sort entertainment was bewitching. The rank voyeurism
and exploitative eroticism were almost sickening. O Lolito, float to me this
desperate night.

Our debauchery descended with the lateness of the night, reaching horrendous
measures. Canada man left at around 6:30 ay-em, the sun by now up. Tom said
to me: "Well dude, thanks for that. You really saved me!" He gave me a
stolen kiss on the cheek. "I gotta cruise!" he reported.

The door closed in front of me. "But we were going to have breakfast," I
said to no one in particular. I think my dick was sore; it certainly felt
that way. Plus my head was pounding with a precocious headache. "I need
sleep," I said vaguely. "I really need sleep."

I slunk into the putrid bed (we had made our way from room to room) but did
not care about its state. It was warm, soft and cosy. It wrapped its
maternal self around me, uncoiling my consciousness.


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