Date: Mon, 27 Jan 2003 20:45:12 +1030 From: andrew staker Subject: ST: "Lolito" chapter 8 LOLITO Chapter 8 Lying naked in a soft bed, slowly coming to on a sultry morning; feeling the bed-sheet course its way across one's buttocks and private region. I felt warm, homely, foetal. Radio on. An AM station (as opposed to an FM one which offered stereophonic music). Main news item: escaped mental patient, Neanderthal in appearance, believed female, continues to terrorise southern suburbs of Adelaide. Filler, filler, filler. Sport (also filler). Last bit: "an expected cool change should move through Adelaide mid-morning, bringing with it relief from the heat. Some shower activity possible. Maximum of 34 before the change..." and so forth. O, 34 Celsius. Which normally isn't so bad. But combined with humidity. Still, in my bed I stay. Morning hard-on. What to do about it? Need to piss. Can't wank before I piss. Well, give it a try. Up, down, in-between motions. All work, but I just know it won't conduce to the white-stuff seeping out (or "shooting," which is a more virile verb). Play with the foreskin. Feel the slippery moisture. Then smell finger. A complex scent of putrid masculinity and urine. If only someone could invent a bed with a hole into which one can pee and shit, then I'd never leave it. Call it the Utero-3000. Knocking on door. Then it migrated to my window. Repeat. I got up, tossing on some wilted boxers. I opened up. "Hello Peter," Mr W said. "I hope it's not too early on a Saturday morning..." O shit! It's time for the Judgement. "No, not at all Mr Winckelmann," I responded, feeling my face whiten. "I was getting up anyway," I continued. In he came. "Do sit down on that couch," I eventually had to concede to him. Somehow Brad looked much better on the blue than his father. "Drink?" I nervously asked. His lips pursed slightly. He was a messenger with a message he did not wish to deliver and I to receive. "Last night, our son Brad... did something unspeakable." He knows? He saw? Panic! He saw me? I saw them... but that doesn't always imply they saw me. Whom am I kidding, in this case it does! "I notice," Mr W continued, "you and Brad have become rather good friends." Argh! Crappy cryptic allusions. Knees a-shakin'. After brief silence: "I am happy for this," he said. He is? "What... did... he...? I mean, what--" I asked, taking a 9-inch gamble. "Intoxicated." Pause. "You see, he followed us to the pub, where we found him drunk on the dance-floor." I reacted accordingly. My 6-inch gamble: "Whom was he with?" "I don't know! But" (his eyes telescoped onto me) "I have my suspicions." Then came the meat of his coming over. "My wife and I have seen our boy grow," he said. His voice was suddenly tenderised. "Today's world is very contaminated." He looked at his hand, which were interlocked. "We don't want his God-given purity trespassed. In St Michael's school, the filth of society is pretty much removed." He took his breath and continued: "But now that he's on holidays. All sorts of dirt is rubbing on to him." (Gee, I hope he meant the dress Brad had been wearing!) "My wife and I treasure our children dearly. Keep Christ's flock under Christ, I was always told. From what I can see," he said, "you're an upright and clever young man. We would please ask you the following:" (he looked at me with yearning hope). "My wife and I feel that you're the only one he'll listen to. Will you take our son and teach him today?" I was rather confused. I requested clarification. "We feel he's missing the moral and educational boundaries of school. As a punishment for his disgusting behaviour last night, will you please be his teacher today? He needs to learn values." A bit more discussion. "He's starting high-school soon and he's not quite ready, I don't think." "So a bit of maths, some writing, and..." "And geography," he appended. "Three things I believe no true Christian can go without." All clear. We went through the logistics. At their shack, in the garage. He'd move out the car. It would all work. Educating Brad. He left, saying: "I'll give you a chance to get properly dressed." Adieu! Now it was my turn to knock on their door. Mrs W, ecumenical as always, invited me in. She was more welcoming than before. Perhaps because I was the saviour, here to save (and savour) her son. Brad was rather reserved, compared to all our other encounters. He was dressed to fit the part, sporting matching grey shorts and shirt. Whence? I was escorted into the garage, where padre signalled we might all need to help out and clean up the garage. There were dust and cobweb aplenty. Lifting, shifting and stacking boxes and objects and boxes full of objects in the humid air was tiring. Sweat accumulated on my head and body, gravity guiding it toward the ground. One box contained all of the kids' old sea-side gear: fat plastic sand shovel and bucket, the once mat colours now stained by time and neglect. Superseded, un-need. One of the trinkets was a dinosaur from way back: the Jurassic Park merchandising machine had plonked it from a foundry in China to Brad's little hands. Dust settled, we had a 'cool, refreshing' glass of kiwi-fruit-flavoured cordial. And thank God. God, God, God. God came surfing on the bulbous clouds of the cool change. A smart wind tore through the street, hurrying away the dank air. My head, my cheeks, my abdomen: all cooled. Thank God. Brad and I settled into the teacher/student binary rather quickly, especially because matronly Mrs W sat in a chair in the corner, supposedly reading up on her recipes. It was clearly impossibly to touch (or some such) Brad. Extremely uncomfortable, I turned formal. I said: "So Bradley, I would like to know where school left off...." He wasn't buying any of this. "It's Brad. You know it is." His mothered corrected his tone with a grunt. "I will call you Bradley, and you will address me as Mr McMack." (Fetishizing the power structure our role-play implied: quite scruple-less.) After telling me what he'd learnt, I responded: "Well at least it's good to know you've met pi." I went on: "First, we're going to do a reading." I went over and handed the lad a newspaper article. "Now read!" I ordered, commanded, demanded. Ah... a teacher I shall be! Brad spiritlessly began. "A report commissioned by the State Government has found that one in five children from disadvantaged areas are more likely to end up in crime. Lack of educational and social structures means that they 'fend for themselves' in an effort to survive. In an alarming case at Elizabeth, a brother (10) and sister (11) have been selling their bodies in exchange for marijuana. The spokesman for Family Affairs said this situation is unacceptable and a further report is to be commissioned." While still looking at Mrs W's raised eyebrows, I said: "Very good!" (His reading, clarity- and speed-wise, was impressive.) I was itching to talk to him about last night. About the miraculous situation under which they hadn't spotted me. But alas, a spider in the corner! "We'll now go through that article and see how it works." "But we haven't done that in school!" he objected. I explained that scanning for literary techniques was all the rage in high-school English. "So Bradley," I said, "what strikes you first when reading it?" He was finally getting in the swing. "The big words?" I reiterated. "Yes, good. What else?" Brad said: "Um, how the brother and sister were... um," (he looked at his mother) "were... having sex for drugs." But of course. Such content demands attention. After a few more such look-and-sees, I asked the final question. "Which do you reckon is the key sentence?" After looking through, he hesitated and answered: "The lack of education one?" Yes, and why? He told me why. All good. First lesson over. Recess time. About ten minutes' break. Katie was orbiting around, her ankle all repaired. Orbiting her was the ubiquitous planet Nokia, almost constantly emitting and receiving radiation. Mrs W came into the garage with two large and molto rosso watermelon slices. Winckelmann watermelon: yum. On the plate was a knife. Brad had no trouble with picking it up and slicing the flesh. I, on the other hand, who had been brought up always to bite and gnaw the melon, spent time getting used to the blade. Break over. Time to resume school. The second fifty-minute-long lesson commenced. The mother resumed her guardianship, reading a monthly woman's mag. Math. Maths. Mathematics. (Actually, most of primary school and most people in general believe that mathematics and arithmetic are synonymous.) Bah! "Okay Brad," I told my petit pupil, "I spent a bit of time coming up with this problem, and luckily your mum helped." (I nodded to her; she looked up, smiling cautiously). I then walked over and pressed the Play button on their shabby old cassette player. Christmas music. Jingle, jangle. Words: "On the first day of Christmas, my true-love sent to me, A partridge in a pare tree." And so forth. "I won't torture you with all of it," I said, "but here's your one and only maths problem: How many things did the person receive all up? The sooner you finish, the sooner the lesson's done." "This is stupid!" he complained. "Don't swear," I reacted. "Now take it seriously. You want to do well in school, don't you?" I rhetoricalised. "Here's a list of all that is received in the song." I handed him: ...A partridge in a pear tree... ...Two turtle doves... ...Three French hens... ...Four calling birds... ...Five golden rings... ...Six geese a-laying... ...Seven swans a-swimming... ...Eight maids a-milking... ...Nine ladies dancing... ...Ten lords a-leaping... ...Eleven pipers piping... ...Twelve drummers drumming... There he was, tackling the problem. After about five minutes and some vigorous pen-and-paper intercourse, he yelled out: "Seventy-eight!" "O," I said, "how so?" "Well, you add them... one partridge, plus two doves, plus three hens..." he said. I laughed. "Ah, the easy option. I'm afraid you're wrong." He was nigh on distraught. I explained to him that if we take the song literally, on the third day, three French hens, two turtledoves and a partridge are received. We add these to the two turtledoves and partridge on the second day and the partridge on the first day. And we keep having to do so until the end. His facial expression almost imploded. I sent him back to his desk. After a few minutes of inaction, I realised I would need to go and help him out. So what we did is we drew up a table, and across the top axis were the partridges and dancers and pipers and the left axis were the days. I showed him how to do it. He was most impressed. When he had tunnelled through the arithmetic, he came up and told me his answer. He was one off. "364" I corrected. "Ah, I forgot to add one!" and he smiled. He dashed off into the shack to let his family know how he'd slaughtered the Christmas problem. A second break. Third lesson: geography. By use of their twelve-or-so year old Encyclopaedia Britannica plus Atlas, I asked Brad to find out about the people of Palestine and Israel. And, as it was not far off, a bit of info on Iraq. He was busy ruffling pages. The top two buttons of his plain shirt were undone. His smooth, tanned skin shone from underneath. His neat, cropped hair sat atop his head. His slender fingers, as they came in and out of the various pages, had an eloquence about them. His eyes bent down in reading. His nose, soft, delicate, was sloping pageward too. His right hand, grasping loosely, yet grasping, onto that pencil.... But he wore no shoes. His pre-teen feet, lying on the concrete of the garage, playing with the leg of the table. He eventually completed that task too. Two hand-written pages on Israel and Palestine, and one on Iraq. As far as I was concerned, school was out. We went together and showed madre, who had by then left. She was happy with it. All that sitting in the garage had made me dizzy. Perhaps it was time to go back across the road; after all, Mr W had interrupted my jerk-off session. As much as I dreamed of taking Brad with me, I knew it would be impossible. Lolito belongeth in the house of his father. Back at Auntie's, I did my deed: male came. Mail came. Something from Mumsie. $100 in case I ran out. Aw, sweet. Might read a few more of those poems from that book of poems. A golden opportunity. No chance. Katie at the door, Katie forevermore. "Hi Peter," she greeted. I did likewise. "Thanks for helping my brother out. He can be such a pain!" O oh, planet Nokia, the Death-star, sounded. She briskly conversed. "Anyway," she said, "as thanks, mum and dad reckon they should take us ice-skating in Noarlunga." "There's ice-skating in Noarlunga?" I asked. She nodded. "When?" "Whenever we're ready. Just take a jumper." I decided to take a 12-inch gamble: I wouldn't ask if Brad were coming--I'd wait and see. After all the preparations, I was sitting with Katie in the backseat and Mr and Mrs W in the front of their car. Brad was between us. Welcome to Noarlunga Skate. Yey. The huge drop in temperature when stepping in was interesting. My head 'gan to thud a little. I guess the reticent headache was back! The parents couldn't skate. They'd drop us off and "head for the pub. We'll pick you up later. Have fun!" You too. After hiring the right-sized skate, a sense of anxiety filled me. I had never skated on ice before. The two Winckelmann siblings seemed to be united in one thing: leaving me behind and pouncing onto the ice. Both were enviably mobile. But I tottered onto the solidified water and within thirty second was on my arse. Ouch! "Are you okay?" Brad asked. He glided over casually and offered to lift me. Of course I accepted. "I might need some help..." I begged. So with his young hands on my torso and then hand-in-hand, we made our circumvention. Katie zoomed by, a deserved smile on her face. Seemed her ankle was doing swell. But eventually, after much tedious suffering on my behalf, I was able to maintain verticality for half-hour periods. It is a great feeling to be able to propel oneself in a manner different to walking. And then around seven the tremendous white lights darkened and were replaced by coloured disco-like lights. The music became more noticeable. Gliding around with the wind in my face and some treasured lyrics in my mind was fun. Fun too was seeing Brad catching up and slowing down and generally smiling all around. But it was time for a break. Sitting and dunking chips into hot chocolate was enjoyable. Tasted not-too-bad too. Seems it was a very Winckelmann thing to do. "I'm going back on," Katie said, after a lad with whom she'd probably been exchanging eyebeams headed off. "I need to pee," I let Brad know. "I'll come too," he doubled. On the way, a swarm of buff teenagers swelled around us and came into the toilet. The changeroom-cum-toilet filled with discursive sound. Upon my exit from the cubicle, I was overwhelmed by the sight of boys changing into hockey attire. Their nipples, their necks... the breastbones, arm muscles rippling underneath fit skin. Parallax||paralysis. Sit and stare. A three-dimensional porno made of fantastic phantasms. But these were real boys, really semi-naked, sitting and talking left, right and centre. Shoulders bulging like boulders, legs like kegs; not as monstrous as the Green Knight though. They were well-shaped own-body users. Exploiting my physicality in a non-sexual direction I guess I will never achieve. Brad was waiting for me outside the changeroom. He had an I-know-what-you're-thinking smile. "Did ya get distracted in there?" "No!" I replied. "Just delayed." "I did..." he teased. "I wish you'd be honest with me Peter." "Shut up. Let's go skate." And we did, but only for five minutes. The DJ announced that the Noarlunga Nordics would be conquering the rink. A collective 'awww' rose up. But it wasn't that bad. A team of healthy young men skating, geared up to look ferocious, was nice enough. Brad and I stayed on the side, watching. Katie fretted. She butterflew about the place with her latest lad. "I'll call mum and dad... soon." I guess we all three had our reasons for not minding the skate-session cessation. During a pause in the Nordics' training period, a portly man came on the ice. "Brad, look!" I said. "O shit!" he exclaimed. "It's that guy." "Please welcome major team sponsor, Drosselmeir Stromboli," quoth the disk jockey. A phallic microphone in hand, Drosselmeir said: "Thankyou, thankyou. I am not one who likes to hear my own voice. We're here to see which one of these fine, fine young athletes deserves the much-desired Golden Puck award for best effort of the season. And that young man is Pino Keough. Congratulations!" he placed the medal over the teen's sloping head and around his slim neck. "That's the bike-shop guy," Brad pointed out. "He creeps me out!" "Me too," I agreed. Enter Katie W. "I'm calling mum 'n' dad now, okay?" The team, after having chummily huddled around the medal-bearer, was back in action. While we were waiting for Mr and Mrs W, there was just one further development on the ice. The local figure-skating club had apparently been booked in but was 'muscled-out' by the Nordics. After some dispute, they agreed to halve the rink between themselves. The one burning image, relevant for eternity, was the contrast between the boy skaters. On the right were the Nordics: strong, bulky and warlike. On the left, the figure-skater boys: sleek, lithe and reserved. The masculine and the feminine homo-aesthetics, meeting at such a suburban frontier. After much enjoyable observation, I sided with the figure skaters. I would sculpt my Lolito in that mould. Our transportation home soon arrived and we arrived home soon. "I'll see you tomorrow Brad," I said while getting out. "We have to go for a bike-ride!" Mr W: "Once again, thanks for your help with Brad. He's not been this enthusiastic about learning for a long time." I: "No problem." Pause. Mr W: "You know, you're most welcome to come to church with us tomorrow." Pause. I contemplated. "Why sure Mr Winckelmann." "Great," he said. "Be over at nine." "And wear something nice," Mrs W urged. "Okay," I said. "Goodnight!" Close door; find church clothes. Church? What's in a church? Jesus lives there. Does He? To be discovered on the morrow.