Date: Sat, 23 Aug 2003 11:47:26 +0930 From: andrew staker Subject: "Lolito" epilogue LOLITO Epilogue I. The kind of morning where you can tell it's raining, even though the blind is down: you can hear Nature at her work. I checked the clock: 5:43. Lolito still asleep in the drag queen's bed, alone. There was nothing in the fridge, so I initially panicked that he and I would starve. But then I remembered: I was downtown. It was a place where shops are open all the time, where a BigMac or Whopper is available whensoever it be desired. I took some money, and headed out. Fine rain was falling and draining along the old gutters and pipes. The cars—not as many as at night-time—made that luscious sound as they moved along the wet bitumen. They left dark red sheen lines. There were drunken couples, or groups, or even men on their own, joyfully recounting the night's events. Here a taxi, there a taxi... but I finally got to McDonald's. Pancakes, McMuffins and a few other tid-bits: enough for me, Brad and Tom. I took a giant brown paper bag full of food and headed back down Hindley Street. As I walked along, a certain fear filled me. I became suspicious of white station wagons. It could be the Winckelmann mobile, out to capture me. By the end of my run, any white car equated with a potential enraged mother and father. I ascended the steps to Tom's apartment, becoming progressively aware of a dispute. Alex (now a half Miss Phigg) wanted to get some sleep, in his own bed. But Brad was there. Tom had offered his, but according to Alex, that bed "stinks like cum"... something to which Miss Phigg was very averse (apparently). Alex's wrath fell upon me. I soon softened the mood by offering him some Maccas. Whilst munching on a McMuffin, he and I reasoned that we should move Brad from his bed into Tom's. If he woke up, that'd be fine. If he didn't, that would also be fine. So the three of us went over to the bed, scooped the sleeping boy up, and attempted to carry him from one room to another. We were about to lay him down, when he stirred. His eyes parted. He moaned a bit, then panicked. Having three people looking down on you, first thing in the morning, must be frightening. But I was on hand to calm and reassure him. "Where's mum?" he asked. Oh boy. The error of my ways... catching up to me. It was a burden to remind him of the happenings of the previous night. He finally dressed. Under dawn light, we left Hindley Street (in Tom's car) and headed for the splendour of Douche-Ampere's mansion. "So what's it like over there?" I asked. "I mean... who else is around?" "O," he half-snickered, "you'll see!" Great! Brad was in the back seat, asleep. He'd had a pancake or two, but nothing more. Hopefully there'd be some good food. II. After having a bit more to eat, we were escorted by a nameless youth into a bedroom. There were two single beds, a reproduction or two on the wall, plus a window with Venetian blinds. It was morning, in all its rosy-fingered glory. I led him into his bed, then I briefly changed into the aptly coloured (red) boxers Mr D-A had provided. There was no sign of Tom, no sign of the young man who had directed us into the chamber. So there I lay in my own bed. The room had that certain feel... not a place where you live, but a place that you visit. It was not richly decorated; it was clean, however. There was some sort of quiet, but not an absolute kind. I could hear Brad breathing and mumbling in his juvenile sleep, but I could also hear the grand house waking for another day. At random intervals, someone or a few would pass by our door, sometimes chortling in animated hurry. About forty minutes later, when I had given falling asleep the greatest chance possible, I got up and put a smooth red kimono from the cupboard. I glanced at le petit tresor and walked out into the lushly carpeted hallway, taking great care that the sound of the door closing be as slight as possible. I found my way to a round stairwell, with frosted windows on one side. Down I go. I arrived on one level, but found that there was another below. When there was nowhere to go, I got off. It was the basement. The hallway was almost identical to the one above and the one above that (where sweet Lolito slept). I walked along, the sound of boys playing growing louder. Add to this the sound of water splashing and the increasingly strong smell of pool chlorine. I opened a door marked Nautilus. Bingo. Four or five boys... happily playing. There was even a beach-ball: all the colours of the rainbow. Whoever had decided to give them skin coloured, semi-see-through swimwear had an uncanny sense of humour. When they saw me, a whispering circle formed. "Who are you, then?" asked a cocky lad, about fifteen. I just stood there. "C'mon, don't be rude!" he insisted. "Join us!" "Yeah, come in," another said. O, I would love to dive amongst your golden hair and gorgeous skin. But no. Another time. I walked on. A few doors down, the sound of swimming was replaced by the sound of Tchaikovsky. Wispy shirtless Bolshoyviks... twirling carelessly. We had the same conversation that I'd had with the swimmer-boys. Queer and queerer! Now what would lie behind the third door I chose to open? Was I game to look? I mean, sure... Lolito was grand, Lolito was wonderful... but a room with five Brads playing, carefree and happy... now that's orgasmic! La terza porta: "Peter Pan Unlimited": a stage production. Rehearsals. There's P.P. in a green G-string... not a hair on his hairless body. Again the youths talking. Talking about how they'd stage this stage spectacular. Possibly in stages? There was a clever-looking boy with spectacles... no doubt the director. I could feel an inexplicable heat—perhaps a kind of lust fire—developing within me. I shuffled out into the hallway again. My quest continued, eventually ending in a large salon. It was classic, even sterile, in ambiance. Rather uncomfortable felt I. I musta been lookin' too closely a' a paintin', or touchin' the alabaster buttocks of an imitation boy nude... 'cause a soldier (or at least, a fit man in a soldier uniform) came out and addressed me in a vocative voice. Naturally I was a bit scared. A bit scared was I, naturally. He told me: "Mr D-A will see you soon. I strongly... suggest you return..." How can anyone resist such direct instruction? Scurry back, turn knob, enter. Lolito's bed empty; Brad in the shower. Now Peter in shower. Two guys showering, wiping water-beads from eyes. They kiss. The scene makes me horny. I don't know why... I can't put my finger on it. If I could, maybe I'd put my hand.... Two guys in a steamy shower: pulp erotica! "The soap here smells so delicious," Brad remarked. I giggled. "Don't eat it though," I warned jokingly. "Eat this!" I said, hinting at the obvious. "Okay," he agreed. Then he knelt and did the obvious. III. There he was, the man who'd purchased lunch for us at Noarlunga. He was well-hung—in the chin area. His designer glasses and his attire—a cross between suit and golf gear—made him very distinctive. Mr D-A, the big daddy of this creche for runaway boys was very comely, in a way. He let us (me and Brad) know the rules of the house. What was im/possible, what Netherland Ranch was for him, and the fact that we'd have to be hush-hush for a while. In exchange for our company and presence ("in all polymorphic its splendour") he would give us lodgings, food and the comfort of being surrounded by like-minded individuals. There was even a bonus now and then: a trip interstate or overseas with one of his many acquaintances. "However," he said, "that's rare. In most cases, those jobs go to AF members." So the Adonis Foundation was a front to an organisation that didn't dare speak its name. It was all a numbers game, really. "Think of your stay with me as a scholarship," and he smiled dryly. On the way out, twelve-year-old Brad asked, "What's a scholarship?" IV. At precisely (a clock calibrated with an atomic time-keeping device via the Internet) 6:30PM dinner was served in the Mess Room, called The Trough by some of the boys we'd gotten to know throughout the arvo. About thirty guys, and I think I must have ranked in the senior league. In fact, 17... I soon guessed that Mr D-A was only housing me here out of sympathy... perhaps he had a certain playful attachment ever since our encounter that night at the Adonis Foundation. Speculation is a dirty word. The room was almost overbearingly warm. The food was all the same. Standardised servings. Uniforms too: a blue singlet, revealing teenage arms and parts of torsos. Then tennis shorts. Barefoot was encouraged, but white Nikes were accepted. Handing out food, or ensuring order, were more of those uniformed men. About five or so. What a contrast between them and us. Brad and I ate our meal, then decided to make out. The swarm of half-exposed boyabdomens didn't distract or embarrass him. I was happy. What a fabulous way to end a meal. We even ignored the looks of distress from the other boys. V. After dinner, we were given some time to freshen up in our bedrooms. Then a bell sounded—much like school—and we were told, via PA, to assemble in the room with the door marked O-R-G. Again the uniforms. Once quiet had been established, Mr D-A entered the O-R-G room. He briefly looked amongst us. Then he nodded from whence he'd come, and out came six men, each 40+. Their eyes wanted to dart madly across our lithe bodies on the one hand, and stare down at us as worthless pieces of meat on the other. So their vision was caught in between, playing ego ping-ping. The septet whispered inaudibly. They drew lots. First Mr Red went through and tied a red ribbon around three specimens he considered worthy of his pa$$ion. Mr Orange followed, tying you-guessed-it-coloured bands around. There were no Messrs Indigo or Violet. Rather, there was Mr Pink. He came over to me, looked over, then raised his nose. He looked at Brad, and again, and for the third time. He tied the pink ribbon around the boy's left arm. He had two ribbons left, but didn't bother using them. One of the uniformed guys then told us to leave and the tagged boys to stay. My agony, as I realised I'd be surrendering my boy was unspeakable. I looked longingly toward him, but was discouraged from doing so. I headed back to our room, where I lay on my bed. I even went over to sniff his. His firm little butt must have kissed the covers. When I had exhausted all possible distractions, I left the room and found my way to a `chill-out zone'. A TV, a few couches, a place to make a Milo drink: even the odd boys' mag: as wholesome as a suburban kitchen, really. I sat down on the couch watching Cartoon Network, with its archaic animation. Perhaps Snuggle Puss would get my mind off Brad and what that despotic old man was doing to him. But as is oft the case, along came a boy to keep me company. "Hi," he said. I looked at him, trying to smile. "You're new, right?" Aha. "I'm Justin." "Peter." Extend hand. "You're here with that other new kid... Brendan or something..." "Brad," I corrected him. "That's it," he smiled. "He seems cool." Don't rub it in, for God's sake. Torment me not. "You're cute too," he told me. "Gee, thanks!" I smiled, my spirits b(u)oyed slightly. "How--how old are you?" "Fifteen in fifteen days!" he smiled. "You?" "Seventeen." We got talking. He was a nice enough lad. Nothing special. Not a Lolito. Well, maybe he had been three years ago... who's to say? I finally got to my point: "What's going on here, Justin?" He nodded a bit confusedly. "I mean, all these boys... the big house... the--the sex. I mean, how did you end up here?" "My mother and father sent me here," he said. "Sort of like a summer camp. 'It will teach you right from wrong,' they said." One comic burst at the absurdity. "And..." I said, "is it working?" "I think so," he replied. It was then I heard him clearly enough so as to discern his being English. "But it's not just me. A lot for parents do it. Like, most of the guys I know... their mums and dads did the same." "But... I mean, do you... enjoy it?" He loosened up all of a sudden. "Why dahling. I'm English. Being buggered up the arse by greybeards is almost benign. Here, have some Earl Grey," he suggested. I did. "But as to you... what on Earth brought you here?" I commenced to narrate him my story. He asked for a compressed version. I delivered. "Okay, stop," he said. "Come to my room: we'll shag." He saw me hesitating. "O relax. Those geries won't be done till the dawn. As to your boyfriend... well, just be thankful you're not him!" VI. We had fooled around on his bed; we looked at each other naked, me lying on the bed. "Okay, turn 'round," Justin urged me. "Wait, wait, wait!" I begged. "What for?" Justin asked. A third voice followed: "The bro's never been fucked!" and he laughed. It was Mr Afro-American. By his voice, he was a old as me. "Well man," he continued, "you're lucky today." The two laughed. Justin: "Just wait till you get Seth's U-boat in you." Seth: "Yeah dude. You'll be screaming like my gran'ma." I decided rather quickly that I did not wish for this to happen. I moved from the bed (or tried to). "Shit," Justin yelled, "come in lads!" Through the door poured about ten boys. They overpowered me. "Get the ropes," Justin cried, his icy accent hyper-Britannic. They tied me onto the bed, my arse toward the ceiling. I tried to scream, but the bandanna in my mouth made this ineffective. They made sure to provide me a pillow. Then Justin addressed the boys. "Well friends. We have been doormats for too long. Tonight you'll get to do the opposite!" Mild exuberance ricocheted through the chamber. And to prove it, he slapped my rear end. "I want a go," a nameless boy said. Justin let him. After they had their turn at abusing me on a superficial level, Seth was impatient. "I want in," he said. "He's not wet enough," Justin observed. So he got one of the boys to lingually ensure I was. I protested as much as I could, moving my body and thrusting. But in the end, he was in my end. It felt strange. Perhaps under different circumstances I might have enjoyed it. Perhaps even then I enjoyed it. I could feel Seth's young black skin glide along and inside me. I could feel his body quiver in packets of pleasure. He shot in me: that was the most foreign feeling. "Good job," Justin said. "Let it be me now," deeper voice said. And it was. Some bright kid ran away and returned. Moments later I could feel something hot dripping on my back. The sharp feeling migrated to my buttocks. There was a knock on the door. "Bugger!" Justin exclaimed. "Fuck dude!" Seth said. One of those guys, in uniform, came to my rescue. He pushed all the kids away. He untied me and turned me over. He looked into my eyes as they closed. VII. Midday sunshine bled through the window. Slowly, I woke. I read the note by my bedside. "Good day. You have rectal bleeding. Brad is fine. You will be fine. Ring the bell for attention." I examined my body as best I could. My neck was a little stiff. I didn't even want to look down below. I rang the bell. In came my rescuer. He had a strained smile. He brushed my hair. "Yu slip okey?" I signalled that I had. "I am sorri abaut last nite. Those bed boys... I stopt them as soon as I could." "It's okay," I creakily whispered. "You want water?" "Yeah," and I thanked him. "Thanks for last night, too..." "Is okey... what friends for, eh?" (insert comforting Scandinavian smile). "I'm Peter," I said, realising my rudeness. "I know. Me Ingmar." He told me he had arranged our escape from the boyfortress. We went through the details. He awkwardly let me know that I could press charges against Mr Douche-Ampere for neglect. Not to mention the delicate legal/moral issue of the boys. VIII. In Mr D-A's office, the air was stiff. He stared at me and in a cold, metallic voice he said: "I knew you'd be trouble." From a side-door came Tom. "I hope you realise you cost your friend his employment." From the same door came black-eyed Brad. "Here's your puppy. Take good care of it." I looked at the eye. Mr D-A continued: "It's nothing. Tell his mother he fell over." My urge to punch the old geezer was only quelled by the overpowering presence of four guards: Ingmar's former bedfellows. "Before I grant you freedom," D-A sternly stated, "you'll have to do me a favour." Okay...? we looked at other. "I will time how quickly it takes you four to get naked and orally climax each other." Look around at each other... look a bit more. "Now! Do it!" Incentive in the form of Nazi-chic guys with menacing bashing-implements. "Circular... circular boys!" IX. Tom at the wheel. Ingmar beside him. I behind him. Brad beside me. Speeding car. Speeding away from the crazy compound. "We'll have to return the car soon," Tom said. "Is okay. With all this money... we buy more cars," said Ingmar. Brad: "So that's what settlements are!" "Give me some Coke," Tom urged. "I can't wait--" he sipped "--to see Alex's face!" "Wait guys," I said loudly. "Now remember the deal. Twenty thousand each, if we shut up. Got that? Shut up, shut up, shut up." "What will you do with yours, Ingy?" Tom asked. "I wanna ride through Ad'laide in a black limousine." "I'm gonna go to Maccas," Brad said childishly, "and buy one of every single thing they have... even the salad!" "What about you, Peter?" Tom asked. "I don't know. I guess mum will make me pay for uni." After relative silence, Brad suddenly suggested: "When we get home... can we do that again?" Ingmar: "What?" "You know... four of us..." But my little Lolito. Art thou not mine? Dost thy heart beat for more than mine? All the unborn hours and days betwixt us have been aborted. X. Alex, aka Miss Phigg: "Omigod. Where the phuck have youz been? And who's this...?" he said, almost thrusting himself on the gorgeous Swedish tourist. "I--am--Ingmar." Alex: "You shoulda seen the TV. Some kid went missing from a beach down south. They had the bitch mother crying as if her pussy was on fire. Quite funny!" Guilt infested me. I had to lie down. From the couch, I saw Brad on the phone. I got up and ran over to try and stop him. But too late. Ingy, using his strongman training, easily kept me away. Brad told them where we were. It was all over. "Fuck!" I said. "We gotta go! We're fucked if we stay here. Tom, Ingmar... are you... do you realise... I mean, jail...!" Alex then said: "Well, don't look at me. I've done nothing wrong. I ain't no paedophile! Plus, I have a show tonight." Ingmar suggested we follow him around Australia. He'd come here as a backpacker but found work... and had hardly seen the country. "I want the outback. Now we have money... let's do it." Whilst standing at the door, I yelled to Brad, begging him to understand me: "Brad... are you coming? Will you be with me? Come on, the police are coming... we need to go! Please!" The boy didn't say a word. He looked through me. It was up to Ingmar to drag me away. When we were on the street, entering the car, I looked up. Lolito blew me one brisk kiss. Tom's car sped off. "What's... happened? What's happening... Ingmar? Why's he not with us... with me? I thought he... he..." Tom: "Those guys screwed him up pretty bad. Leave the poor boy alone. Be happy for him." I threw up all over the back seat. Naturally, Tom was not happy. We arrived at Prestige Auto Hire. We soon left. "Can you drive long car?" asked Ingmar. "Yes..." Tom said. XI. "A boy missing from Adelaide's southern suburbs was found today in Hindley Street. Despite a black eye and other injuries, he is in a good condition. His parents have been charged on numerous accounts, including gross neglect and sexual abuse. The Minister for Children and Youth has initiated a thorough investigation..." quoth the limo radio. XII. We had been travelling northward for three and a half days. We slept in the limousine. We consumed alcohol. We had sex. Anything to take my mind off Lolito, the little traitor/heartbreaker/terminator. Ingmar was rather well endowed, but respected my posterior enough not to let himself mate me: even though I often begged it of him. "We're headed for Uluru!" Tom said. "What about Ayers Rock?" Ingy asked. I explained that both names referred to the same monolith; one was indigenous, the other Anglo. It was around one hour before sunset that we turned and saw poking above a brooding horizon the tip of the rock formation. Massive clouds were marshalling about the sky, tinging the earth below into many shades. The colour of Uluru changed accordingly. But over everything hung a heavy malaise: as if the atmosphere was buckling under its own sadness. In odd places swords of light made it through. There were raindrops lazily swept from the windscreen and deformed along the tinted window. "I see it! There it is!" Ingmar exclaimed. I had been expecting more tourist buses than zero. The closer we got, the greener the sky got. Then it became purple. It oscillated between these two colours. The monolith was mesmerising. It was hypnotising. As if it shot energy directly to my soul. I could feel vibrations along my spine. The hair on my arms pricked to excitement. Then a flash of light. Another. A third. In between the first and last, there was time for Tom to yell out "Fuck" and for our long vehicle to swerve to a halt. "Three lightning bolts, up front, in the same fucken place!" By now the sky and air were dark. The red earth seemed to seethe with hatred. We were back on the road. We attempted to talk--if only to break the tension. "I want to get to Ayers Rock!" Ingy demanded. We were cruising along timidly. There was a massive thud and the limousine once again skidded to a stop. I had felt something beneath the car. "Fuck!" Tom said. "We ran over a kangaroo or some shit." "Wow. That's exciting." But when I looked out the window, I saw a grieving mother unicorn. She seemed to look at as with disbelief. "You ran over a unicorn, you prick. A baby one. What did it ever do to you?" I shouted. I raced out of the car to check if FINITO LOLITO Andrew Staker http://www.geocities.com/adonipolis