NINE (i)
So it was another dry, celibate, lonely winter and spring. I had given up on Andrew. And there was nobody else. I was nine years old and I was expected by everyone, I assumed, to be all grown up - ie celibate, apparently - including by Andrew, it seemed. Perhaps life would be better once I was older? Twice my age, for example? It felt like for ever - and, of course, to a nine year old, nine years is for ever.
But Andrew scored another point for sexual unpredictability. Just one day in a year. And being nine, it meant far more to both of us than it ever had before. Almost more than we could handle. The emotions around our interaction were becoming ever more mature, ever more profound. Perhaps that is why it was just one day in a year.
It began as a replay of the summer before, the object and objective of my simple desires unchanged, only now I felt the pain of sexual isolation more acutely, more maturely than before - not that I knew it by that name. It was a more bitter longing, a more bitter pain than before, dulled only by the unbroken time it had continued. It hurt to be in Andrew's presence, knowing what we had had, and that it would never be so again, even though he was still my closest friend. And then came the replay.
He started it. Spontaneously. "Are you in the mood?"
Was this the beginning of a conversation to draw a line under the whole of the past, beginning with a ritual humiliation in order that I not forget it? I watched him carefully, to catch every nuance of his words and expression, to miss nothing, and so judge how to reply.
It certainly looked like a come-on. My heart was already pounding, every nerve trembling. Surely a come-on would be too good to be true? And a humiliation too awful to contemplate. So despite appearances I risked nothing, answering with a question: "Are you?" My pulse was racing.
There was enough in my expression for him to know that nothing had changed for me in a year: I was always. So: was he?
"Yes".
A thousand choristers sent Alleluias streaming through me, from head to toe - via the middle bit. He had said Yes.
"Me too."
And almost without another word being said we were skipping down the road to his place, really really happy. If only we had realised sooner that we both still wanted to do it. If only ... but now, today was the day, and the anticipation was building up a head.
The first thing he wanted to do was to make this year's language. He did not want to do anything until he had a language in which to speak of it (very post-modern). This seemed most strange to me, but I went along with it. The promise had been issued and could now be savoured: the fulfilment itself would follow.
Adult language was still too awful to use, and Andrew deemed last year's too childish. Model railways were the pastime of the moment, and a catalogue contained pieces of equipment whose names could be borrowed for our nouns. The only one I remember is the Fisons Fertiliser wagon, which was two short connected cylindrical tanks mounted vertically on a chassis. The previous year's verbs were retained. New features were names for toileting functions - for absolute rude completeness - and a name for the game as a whole: wavy line; or, when giggling, squiggly.
Language composed, Andrew came over all coy all over again. He only just conceded that we should play that same day at all. I took his arse with some nervousness, not wanting to overstay my welcome; and he took mine properly but more briefly still. What he wanted - and I guess this was quite romantic, really - what he wanted was a tent night, when we could do it properly. The night was arranged. And when that night came, it fairly blew my mind.
Silence was it. Language deserted us. Even this year's fake system sounded pathetic - compared to the wonders to which it referred. Like every religious devotion worthy of the name, silence was the only worthy intercourse. There was our usual talk as we pitched the tent, the usual chat as we equipped it, our easy conversation as we settled in for the late evening and the coming darkness: and then silence began to fall as we both realised that the time was drawing nearer; and then that it had arrived.
"Is it time to undress?"
These were the last words. Shy but affirming nods confirmed that the liturgy was to begin.
We undressed in silence, happy to watch each other shed layers: jumpers, shirts, socks and shoes; trousers; underpants. Andrew was naked first. He lay down fully prone. I removed my final item of clothing, and moved in to view and to touch his arse, kneeling over him, my knees by his thighs. Five. Fifteen. Ten. That beautiful sight, touch, incense of heart, at last.
I lay down fully prone, carefully laying my erection down first, as it would point outwards so. In silence he knelt over me. Five, fifteen, ten. Five, fifteen, ten. Silence.
He lay down again, I knelt over him; five, fifteen, ten, twenty-five, twenty; five, fifteen, ten, ten, ten.
I lay down again. He lay down now behind me, his hips between my heels; five, fifteen, ten, ten, ten, twenty-five, twenty. Five, fifteen, ten, ten, ten, ten, ten. Twenty-five. Ten, ten, ten, ten, ten.
He moved across and lay down prone. All in silence. I lay behind him, my hips between his heels; five, fifteen; some twenty-fives set in an endless bed of tens; twenties to recover in dizzied inebriated moments; more addictive tens; wonderment expressed in more twenty-fives; more addictive tens. More and more and more. And then I lay prone again ... and so it went on, our shared and silent pheromonal dance. And into the intense silence these words:
"It's like - there must be something more".
"Yes."
Nine years old and we both could sense it. So clearly. There was definitely something more. We did not know what. It felt as though, if we just kept inhaling, and concentrated hard enough, that secret place might give up its secret to us, reveal that something more. It had told us that there was something more. Now tell us, mystic oracle, do not hold us in this suspense, tell us what it is, tell us what it is, tell us what it is. In turns we inhaled and we inhaled and we inhaled.
It was beyond doubt my most profound prepubescent experience. For years it stood like a remembered vision whose meaning was not yet fully understood: a secret knowledge imparted, the key to which would one day be revealed, but which for now remained enigmatically ... half known.
That brief exchange of words, and silence fell again, and the naked pheromonal exchange resumed, only more intensely now, more desperately, to sniff out that secret, to draw that promise, to know, to know, to know fully. We changed places repeatedly. But we were becoming exhausted by the search. I felt close to tears as it slowly became clear that nothing further was going to be revealed. It felt like an acknowledgement of loss as I began to inhale less, to kiss and to rest more. Perhaps if the unknown route to your consummation cannot be found, I could at least kiss you before we part to meet no more, and spend just this one night resting my tearful head upon your softness? Andrew likewise was spending more slow time in twenty, twenty-five, and I gave him just as long as he wanted, sensing the same sweet sadness in him into which I was moving myself. One final kiss each - more dangerously close to the heart than ever before - and, still in silence, we crept into our bags and slept.
If only I could go back as the genie of the arse, wisp around the roof of the tent, and tell them: "Taste it, boy; put out your tongue, as far as it will go. Now move forward two feet, place your dick, its point to the heart, and - gently now - OK now - fuck and fuck and fuck and fuck and fuck."
Unknown consummation.
It was around the limit of what each of us could handle, I guess. That night was not spoken of again. That year's language was only ever used accompanied by mocking or self-mocking giggles, despite my hopes. Ten a Fisons? We did just once or twice more. It was precious - but mostly too awesome to handle. I would have. But Andrew was ... not in the mood: not that autumn, not that winter, not that spring; I ceased asking; silence fell; there was no more.
One day the next summer - when we were ten - Andrew suddenly announced: "I was really in the mood at play time today."
"Are you now?"
"No."
"Might you be later?"
"I don't know. Ask me."
Such a tease right there and right then, but thereafter it was consistently unhesitatingly No. I asked him later, I asked him the next day, I asked him week after week that summer: it was always No, and No even became increasingly annoyed until I knew that No meant Never Ask Me Again, I Do Not Want To Play Those Games Any More. The year of ten was the first year ever that we did not exchange arse even once.
Oh all right then, just once. But once is never enough.
NINE (ii)
It was New Year. I know because I had a new diary in which to record my days. It had colour pictures on the front, a week to a view, and a pencil which slid into the spine to store. Brother and I were tired of our own new presents, and determined therefore to play with each other's - a rare common cause which brought us together. Parents were tired of excitable, off-school, post-Christmas children: we were in the extension making our own entertainment well out of their sight.
He had completed a term at secondary school. I was not yet even top year primary. Nine, and eleven.
"You pretend I'm a girl," he said, lying on his side on the floor, "and I'll pretend you're a girl." And he indicated the space next to him. I lay down next to him, facing him. He shuffled closer and kissed me clumsily on the lips. It was a pleasant sensation. I had heard people talk about it, and even tried it - in theory - behind a caravan whilst walking home with Alison from school, though a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a second certainly does not count, except to brag.
This was pleasant: leisurely and soft. He looked me in the eye, and kissed me again on the lips, and this time I kissed him back. He smiled. He put his upper hand (right) on my upper hip (left). We kissed again. He rubbed my buttock. I was getting an erection. I put my upper hand on his upper hip, shifting closer. We kissed again. And then we were just kissing and kissing and kissing, and smiling, and - through trousers - feeling arse.
It went on a bit. It went on quite a lot, actually. After a while, he leaned back and looked me in the eye again, and said, like before: "It's OK, because we're brothers." As if I cared. Which I did not. We carried on.
Slowly attention was shifting from lips to arse. He was feeling me through nylon slacks; I him through tight child-size denim. Mutual massage of the side of the higher buttock was becoming more adventurous and more central to our interaction. Eventually he flopped into me to lie fully prone, and I accepted the unspoken invitation to kneel over him and to massage arse through denim from behind. After a very pleasant and silent few minutes, I swung off him and lay prone beside him and he moved to kneel over me, and through trouser cloth to massage arse. And then he lay beside me and we faced each other once more and kissed some more.
Eventually from him: "Let's play another game." I think it was probably darts or something: something where he could beat me comfortably in order to re-establish his dominance after that unorthodox game of supposedly feminising Pretend.
And that was Day One.
The next day's Pretend had an eleven year old's idea of the only way to get a naked girl: spy through the keyhole of the loo; and then the fantasy reaction - overcome, burst in. Brother played the naked role first, in a side room - though trousers remained securely in place once more. Brother, narrating: "And then I turn round and pull my trousers down..." - very modern girls, these - and he acted to do so without doing so, and I was to burst in, and do ... what? I took hold of his arse, and rubbed at it a bit, enjoying its fleshy forms. This seemed to be near enough to the expected reaction. As the game was replayed and replayed, roles exchanging, this is what we both did, the Pretend context decreasing, the enjoyment of (covered) arse increasing. And then there was some kissing too: Day Two.
Day Three we played the same game again.
Brother: "And then I turn round and pull my trousers down..."
"Do it properly." And without hesitation, he did. I could not believe my good fortune. "And then I burst in." And I did. "You lie down on the floor." And he did, and I took my unexpected pleasure with his arse, with sight and touch and scent.
After a minute, impatient Brother: "All right, now it's my turn." And I moved out of his way so that he could stand up and straighten himself, and we played the scene again, roles reversed, and I lay there happy on the carpet as Brother enjoyed my naked arse with sight and touch and scent.
And some face to face kissing, of course. Just pretending...
In my new diary, I wrote: "Having an affair with Brother."
Day Four there was no pretending. We played darts for Monopoly money prizes. As we accumulated a stash each, we decided that the cash could be spent buying treats. The treats involved enjoying the other's protected zones, by sight and touch and scent. As the game continued, a whole menu of options emerged, and a price was fixed for each.
For completeness there was a single low charge for inspection of cock, but after buying one look for curiosity, interest lapsed. (For the record, his was stiff and tall, a pleasant thing.) In contrast, arse - the house speciality - was served a dozen different ways. There were separate charges for looking, with underpants on or with underpants off. Charges for touching were higher in three grades: trousers on; trousers off but underpants on; and butt naked. And the highest charge of all gave permission to inhale at the naked heart, the most intimate and valued act of them all.
The game had no conclusion: we just earned and spent and earned and spent: darts and arse and darts and arse and darts and more arse. What did become clear as the evening went on was that Brother was considerably better at darts than me. We had just invented prostitution for ourselves, and he was the rich kid and I was the pauper. There was one very positive aspect to this: namely, that I knew that he was getting what he wanted. There was no wondering and no worrying - did he want to, did he not: Brother was calling the shots, and buying his choice, and his choice was arse, naked, to see and to feel and to inhale at the heart. Over and over again he would save up his winnings to purchase this one top prize. Occasionally impatience got the better of him and he would buy a snack treat along the way, but most of the time he went all the way: to see and to feel and to inhale.
The game went on and on. I saved up my poor winnings for the top prize only once or twice: worth every yellow paper pound, but such a long wait. I preferred to buy cheaper but more frequent treats: a glance at nakedness; a very thorough massage through denim or through light cotton; or a naked massage which amounted to a deep exploration of that moist hollow and the softness of the arse flesh around it - I remember every detail - with a stolen sniff of the deep well if he looked away. Pleasure pleasure pleasure. Day Four. The longest day.
And there it came to an end. And nothing was ever said. Nor has it been, to this day. We were eleven and nine. And we were feasting on fraternal arse.