Date: Fri, 30 Aug 2002 16:22:45 +0930
From: andrew staker <mallowisious@hotmail.com>
Subject: "Lolito Chapter 4" story

LOLITO
Chapter 4

[http://www.geocities.com/adonipolis]

Knocking at the door; yet more knocking at the door. The thudding grew in
sharpness and force as I grew increasingly awake. Brad had shifted through
the night, his head now slunk away from me, drooping over the side of the
couch. Christ what a mess! A woman's voice could be heard. I walked over and
let her in. It was Mrs Winckelmann, graciously begging apology for having
lumped her son in my lap over night. Katie had twisted her ankle severely,
so it had been necessary for mother and father to stay by her side.

"It's no problem," I reassured her. She swished in with some plastic bags
full of shopping she had done. Soldiering in bravely behind her were Katie
and Mr W who propped her along, aiding with crutch-ambulation. After a
hubbub of embarrassed parents and bashful teenager-next-door-not-upset
dialogue (during which time Brad got up and changed his attire--his mother
was appalled he hadn't slept in PJs), it was time for me to go home. They
sent me on my merry way, not without (when I was at the door) inviting me to
dinner. "Come over about six... we owe you a lot... Peter."

And so the hours passed and lunching came. I sat in Auntie's dwelling eating
a can of tuna labelled "Gourmet Delight: Sun dried tomatoes and cracked
pepper"--it ludicrously resembled cat food. But it tasted okay and I was no
gourmet. Well, by the looks of it, I would be in for a treat. The
Winckelmanns were very grateful (they said) so when people like them treat
one, it means they give one the best their frugal wallet and mind can
conceive.

Nothing of note occurred between midday and three pee-em except perhaps the
rude attempted entrance of seagull whose eyesight was no doubt failing. Poor
thing probably suffered brain damaged. I chucked it into the swirling sea.
Yester-day's clouds were finally clearing. A reinvigorated sun was now
determined to leave his mark. So it was around three that his boyish voice
found me out. "Peeeter," his mellow mouth enquired. "Are you there?"

And indeed I was. "Mum reckons that Katie and us should go to the beach. The
doctors all said that she needs fresh air and sun. What d'you say?" Looking
at him with that lazy towel snaked around his adorable body and those
bathers... I would follow him into the Styx. Katie was wearing some pathetic
pink plastic love-heart shaped sunglasses and sucking on a lolly. It was
like she was 12 and had yanked her identity from a Barbie magazine.

It didn't take me at all long to transform and out I was in my bathers too.
Since Katie was not fully mobile, we aided her down toward the sand where
she unfolded her director's chair and eased in. "You guys splash around a
bit... I really feel stuffed," she said. At first Brad was reticent about
taking the liberty granted him by his sibling. But the wind, sand and sea
soon loosened the boy up.

So we walked off to where the waves crumbled to a halt... the saltwater
tickling our feet and little else. Tuesday was not so busy a time. The odd
couple, loner or group of people meandered past but there certainly was not
a crowd. "What's wrong Brad?" I asked.

"Nothing... what you mean?" he asked, blocking the sun from his eyes.

"Well, I notice you seem distracted or something..." I paused to muse on the
delectable fact that his hair was the same colour as the sand and that
therefore when the two entwined due to the water it all became one
monochrome paste of delight. I resumed: "--you keep looking to your sister."

"I'm really sorry Peter. It's just that she stuffed her ankle up and mum and
dad said I gotta watch out for her."

"Well do you want to go there with her?" I asked, pointing to her chair. He
said no, but asked if I understood his dilemma: namely, that he couldn't
have too much fun with her present musculoskeletal disposition. "Of course
it's cool with me."

He turned to Katie and shouted: "We're going deeper, okay?" to which she
lowered her glossy mag and nodded, then sinking again into the delirious
world of the teenage-oriented press. We were now up to our waists. It was as
if the ocean somehow severed all of his sexual bits... I was only allowed to
look at his torso, head, neck and slender arms. But that was more than
plenty visual buffet.

Then some of his spunk returned and his face brightened up. "Ya know down
there... people swim naked. Mum and dad said me and Katie should never go
there," and a pause. A provocative statement maybe?

"Well..." I said, "and... so?"

He asked naughtily: "Have you ever been?" I told him I hadn't. After another
pause, he said, "Reckon we should go?" and sniggered.

"You wanna see naked people?" I slurred. "Why?"

"'Cause they're cool!" he laughed. We wandered around a bit, jumping in and
out of the waves... we avoided seaweed, jagged rocks and arrived once again
at knee-deep water. "It sure is sunny now..." he said, remarking on the
remarkable improvement in the atmosphere. Then he froze and looked at my
legs... then his. "O yuck!" he squelched. "Mine are gonna be like those one
day!"

I had no reaction. I mean, what was I supposed to have done? It was true...
I had hairs on mine; he had none on his. It was a sheer, brutal illustration
of the chrono-biological difference between us. "So you don't like them?" I
asked.

"Did I say that?" and he smiled. "What's it feel like? I mean, is it all
yucky?"

"I don't know... to me it's normal," I shrugged.

"Can I have a feel?" How could I say no? So his wet hand crept along,
commencing at my knee and getting dangerously close to my bathers. He
stopped. "Actually, it doesn't feel that bad!" He felt his own smooth leg,
before saying: "Here, have a go!" He grabbed my not unwilling hand and
guided it slowly up and down the skin. The way the tender, soft flesh
beneath slightly changed its shape with the gentle pressure we jointly
applied was sublime. The healthy sheen and sparkles of beaded water on his
hairless leg was a chaos of sensory pleasure.

It was only then that Katie's sallow shouting reverberated upon the water.
She was up and gimping near her chair. "Braaad!" Then she stumbled with a
yelp. Passers-by turned in her direction. I toward her but the kid
(curiously) stayed behind. In fact, once I was by her side, I saw he had
progressed to the neck-high water. "What was he doing?" she asked in a
stupor. "Are you okay?" looking into my face.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

Her agitation subsiding, she told me: "He's such a little idiot. Mum said he
shouldn't go out too deep... and sorry about what he was doing to you..." O
dear. She had seen, she had thought, she had spoken. "Can you go get him?"

So I left, walking straight toward his blonde head. About halfway, I saw
that a large wave had submerged the boy. He came up struggling. He struggled
some more so I gained speed. Then I heard a feminine shout. I looked back
toward the sand. Katie's height had suddenly halved. She had fallen off her
chair again or something. She screamed and made noise but it was all
indecipherable, only its raw emotion coming through.

I finally reached Brad, desperate to ensure his safety. I took him into my
arms, supporting his skinny body and neck and dragging him toward the beach,
always anxiously calling his name. I could swear his hands grabbed onto my
body extra hard, especially lower down. When the water was sufficiently
shallow, he started walking.

Brother and sister were reunited on the gleaming sand. "What happened?" I
asked her.

Some pot-bellied old man who had come to her rescue bitterly told me: "Ya
gurfrend fel off this cher. Ya shoulda biin whit hur!" and he walked on.
Katie was understandably irate. She filled us in. For some reason, the chair
beneath her had collapsed, meaning she fell, almost choking on her lollypop
and braking her beloved plastic sunnies.

"Yeah well sis," Brad retorted, "I nearly drowned! Peter came to save me!"

"Bullshit!" she snarled. Bullshit? "You did the same thing a while back.
Remember? When we were swimming at the lake and dad thought you were
drowning. You little maggot!"

His failure to reply enticed not a little curiosity within me. What was she
saying? It had been a mock drowning? Was I meant to have gone and rescued a
pseudo-damsel in pseudo-distress? At any rate, she gathered her
paraphernalia and forced us to go back up. Only an hour or so had passed.
The sun was still strong. People (those who worked) were only now trickling
to Maslin Beach.

At the Winckelmanns' door we had a little convo. The mother insisted that if
Katie was ill/grumpy and didn't feel like staying outdoors, her brother
shouldn't either. Brad, like most boys his (lovely) age loved the sunshine
and sea. "Why should I have to stay in if she broke her stupid ankle?"
Luckily the father was largely laissez faire meaning that Brad and Peter
were allowed to stay in the sun just that while longer.

Mrs W enquired for the last time: "Are you sure you don't mind my son around
you all the time?" Of course not, I told her. "Frankly, I don't know how you
do. He drives everyone mad"--here she ruffled his hair--"even his mother!"
She pulled out a $5 note and gave it to me. "Buy yourselves something
yummy." (I had all the 'yummy' I wanted!) So we left.

"So what we doing now?" he asked. I had not an idea. "Let's get a drink!"
Why not? I followed his bathers half-hypnotised. His sticklike legs produced
interesting shadows in the 4PM-ish sun. He naturally picked the bottle of
Coke when it came to choosing liquid refreshment. Then we had an ice cream
each. When all the culinary events had come to a close, he sneakily looked
at me. "I got it! I'm going to the naked section--"

And he was off. "Wait!" I pleaded. He only stopped and turned toward me
after my third exclamation. "Well, you can't go alone..." and I jogged to
catch up with him. "I mean... who knows what could happen!" (Indeed.)

So we went to the littoral and headed south, walking sinusoidally and
splashing water and spume on each other. Then we finally got to the big
division: between nudists and non-nudists. It wasn't exactly a line in the
sand, but a big red sign did designate zones. Brad felt compelled to go and
read it and I felt compelled (naturally) to follow him and his swaying
little swimsuit. As could be expected of a kid, he started reading the red
and black lettering aloud: "MASLIN'S BEACH UNCLAD BATHING FORESHORE RESERVE
AREA SOUTH OF THIS POINT ONLY: By order of the C.E.O. City of Onkaparinga"
then he ended his little show with a mocking laugh. "How shtupid!"

I for one was slightly less comfortable in the nude portion of the beach. I
could tell, based on the kid's behaviour, that he shared my unease. Yet we
pushed on regardless, getting ever closer to that part where the overbearing
brown granite dives into the sand creating a terminus. When we finally
reached this place, I realised there was a slight difference. There were
only men (of varying physique) about, in couples, alone or larger groups...
ambling hither and thither... forming a trickle heading to somewhere around
a cliff edge.

We, both of us presumably curious about the world around, decided to go and
see. It was as if we were on some kind of pilgrimage. We got some strange
looks... some lusting eyes falling on me, some eyes basting his naked body,
others reeking of disapproval. I soon got a whiff of what was going on. And
sure enough when we turned the corner, and my vision pierced deep into the
revealed cave. There was a guy sitting lax against the wall, legs apart,
breath made rapid and another guy's head mildly oscillating in between.

Brad's exclamations were in whisper and pointing hand form. He seemed both
disgusted and intrigued. I didn't know what to do. Between my concern for
his moral hygiene and fear of my rising penis betraying my sexual leaning, I
dove into the water yelling: "Let's go!" He didn't really want to follow.
>From my vantage point within the water, I could see him peering on eagerly.
His hand began to move along his smooth body, centring on his mons pubis. A
little boy mast was possibly sailing in the wind. But suddenly a surly man
told him to bugger off, placing his oily paws on Brad's frail shoulder. The
poor boy received such a fright he darted in after me.

"Let's go," I reiterated. So we slowly swum back to the sand, away from the
hidden, licentious cave. "So... I see you can swim eh?" I questioned him
when we were again on the sand, lazing in the searing sun.

"Yeah, so? Can't most people?" I smilingly reminded him of his near-fatal
drowning and my heroics that averted tragedy. "O, yeah..." his lips curled
and his head lowered. Then there was quiet. After a while, he said: "We
should get back... mum said I gotta get home by five." We found our
swimwear, put it on and headed back home. The lazy walk back to Auntie's was
lovely.

I didn't want to mention the cave. I ended our time together with a lament
on how much I had enjoyed his company. "See you at six," he said, scampering
across the road and into the safety of the shack's familial embrace.

In the terminal hour before dinner I showered and wanked over fantasies
arising from a pasting together of what I had seen in the cave and what I
had felt when my hand hovered over Brad's hairless leg. I then tediously
played with my outfit, desiring an image that would spew forth comfort and
sociability. Realising that the latter were inner and not outer qualities, I
whacked something together and waited for the clock to budge over to six.
And it did. Yet I did not want to be too early or even on time for that
matter. I let another three of four minutes pass (this was partly achieved
through pissing and therefore diminishing rising anxiety/stress levels) and,
feeling yellow, trundled across the grey bitumen road.

Ding-dong once. Again. Revealed Mrs W looking as prim as a rosebush. "We're
all nice and ready," she said, not inviting me in. Then, as if the shack
were giving birth, out came the Winckelmanns one by one. My Lolito was
second-last, his father closing the door behind.

We slunk into the comfortable black 'family oriented' station wagon and Mr W
drove off. "Had a good day at the beach?" the pater familias enquired. I
chose not to answer... but rather looked to Brad's face.

"Yeah... it was alright," he smirked. "Got too see some jelly fish... and
sea cucumbers--" (and here he cut himself off, about to laugh as if
delusional).

"That's very nice," Mr Winckelmann said.

And so the chitchat floated along, the car finally delivering us into
Noarlunga Centre. It was a sort of suburban outpost at the end of Adelaide
where people could go and watch a movie, eat, catch a train, socialise
(perve on others) and so on. We went to an eatery that was not too ritzy yet
not that shabby either. At least it wasn't a Pizza Hut or McDonald's clone.

Katie still seemed down. The communication was very subdued, especially
twixt siblings. Mrs W tried to gloss everything... perhaps it was her role,
alas. I chose the chicken parmagiana. Crumbed chicken breast and sauce plus
cheese all compressed and deep-fried was finger-lickin' good. Katie ate her
salad diligently, aping her mother in both choice and table demeanour.

"Mmm... meat's good, eh boys?" said the pater familias, diving into his
extra-grilled, extra-thick, extra-meaty piece of cow. Brad played with his
thin chips and boiled asparagus. "Yes dad..." and he started cutting up (as
best he could) his flimsy fish.

"What do you reckon they make fish from?" Katie asked. This question
slightly threw Mrs W so she repeated it. "Well," the daughter continued, "I
heard in school that it's shark."

Metallic/ceramic-intercourse clang: Lolito dropped his knife and fork.

"SHARK?" he demanded, ready to leap off the chair.

A waiter (for this eatery had those) came over. "Is everything alright?" he
enquired, obviously on behalf of the other clientele.

"Yeah," Brad answered. "What's this fish made of?"

"Why... it's... fish, sir," the young man replied.

"Yeah... but what kind of fish?" the boy re-asked.

"Fresh fish..." he said.

"So it could be shark?" Katie smirked. (Perhaps this little game was making
her feel better.)

"I guess so... in fact, it is," the waiter concluded.

Brad flung himself from the table, accused his mother of always being a
cheapskate and stormed out. My attempt to pursue him was checked. "He's
always like that Peter. He'll be okay." So there I was, stranded with a
bunch of strangers... the one jewel in their possession far from my sight
and yearning hands.

Not once during dinner did they go out to check on their kid. Nor did I, for
I was too uncomfortable even to visit the lavatory. So finally things were
paid and we were off. Brad was still in an implosion of anger and self-pity.
I thought it best to leave him be.

It was ten or so by the time of our return. "Thanks for dinner," I said to
them collectively as I exited the car. Back to Auntie's shack. Back to that
bed and the blissful masturbation that would no doubt come about sometime in
the sweaty night ahead. "Bonsoir mon petit garçon," I whispered to him, once
safely inside.

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