Sex is a funny thing. People often have very differing expectations of sex, dictated, I imagine, by past experiences, upbringing and personal preference. Now, it's all very well being sensitive and romantic. The poet within me suspects that romance is possible, but right now the need is far more urgent. Testosterone is an unforgiving master. Nothing else matters. Something must be done with this disobedient appendage that so often embarrasses.
“Tuck your shirt in, boy!” – “But, sir!!”
Ever wonder why young men's backs are more suntanned than their fronts. Bathers are no place in which to hide an erection.
The bus is another sure thing. Scrabbling for anything to hide the protrusion, which always happens just before your stop and in the circumstance seems about eight times it's actual size.
Girls don't understand and think young men gross and perhaps that's true, but it's not entirely our fault. It's the bloody hormones, the genetic insistence toward propagation of the species. It's an animal thing. There's nothing pretty about it. You'd stick it in a hole in the fence if it weren't for the splinters.
It literally drags us around. It leads us to unfathomable feelings of guilt when strange, unexplained stains are found on the sheets and horrified mothers lecture about sinful practices and eternal damnation. It leads us to restrooms in the middle of the day and dark secret places where we might relieve the pressure…
Sure, we can attempt to tone it down. Modify our behavior. Calm the snarling beast and be a nice boy, but the odds are overwhelming. We're fighting a physiological command and we don't understand any of it. It's bloody maddening.
I'm fifteen. Just. Out of home and all grown up.
Like most early teens I've scored a ‘pash'. A bit of a grope behind the shelter shed at school. I even had my hand down Robyn Murphy's pants in the science lab, but as to the main event? Not a clue. Perhaps I'll have better luck in the big city.
Keith is an alcoholic. So is Rosie, his Mum. They kindly offer me a room in their home, which I gratefully accept. It didn't last long.
In the beginning it's pretty cool having my first double bed and even cooler when Keith takes me out on the town. He drinks, mostly. I drive us home, unlicensed, but at least, capable. We're at a party and I resign myself to the fact that I've been born about twenty five years later than anyone else here. Still, they're nice enough people. I thank them for their hospitality, find a space among the quieter few on the front lawn and lay back, happy.
The waiting is not so bad. It's a gorgeous, balmy night. The sparkling array of summer stars is truly sensational, but not half as breathtaking as the hand that is suddenly sliding its way up my right thigh. My head jolts up from its reclining position at about the same speed as my ever-attentive penis, while my mind is still trying to navigate back from the Milky Way. It's her! The woman Keith has been chatting up. Unless I'm very much mistaken, she's giving me some kind of signal. This, although slightly confusing, doesn't bother me greatly, but what does is that she's married.
Now, I'm not taking a righteous, moral stand, it's more the who that concerns me. I don't know his name. The fact that he's an opal miner from Coober Pedy is more than enough. People live underground, in curious rabbit warren type dwellings in Coober Pedy because it's too hot and shitty to exist up top. The only time you hear about these people is when one of them looses it and blows up someone, or something, with the endless supply of explosives they all seem to possess.
Shot-guns are another favourite. It's the heat. Does strange things to people. It's doing strange things to me right now as the hand belonging to the opal miner's wife makes its exploratory journey up my pubescent thigh. The other factor of concern is that she's kissing Keith at the same time. He is blissfully unaware of ‘the hand' and I hope will remain so, but what the hell should I do? Does she want me, instead of him? That can't be it. Maybe she wants both of us. Shit! Don't know about that. I should get up. Move, or…? Someone solves the problem for me by turning on the outside light, and that heralds the end of the party. I chauffeur us to Keith's house, leave them both outside in the back of the car, and go peacefully off to bed.
The first indication I have that anything strange or unusual is afoot comes from the crash of my bedroom door bursting open.
She launches into the room at speed, reefing up her top and pulling down her jeans. All in one deft, fluid, movement. Red Levis . My eyes are wide as saucers. The only thing in the world faster than her disrobing is the jumping to attention of my penis. I wonder if it might be about to burst, but there's no time to ponder because she's on me. Frantic. Like a starving lioness bringing down a wildebeest. Biting at my neck. Clawing at my nubile flesh. In a flash, she inverts the posture and pulls me on top of her. Her legs are wild in the air, wrapping around me, the ankles clamping down on my butt cheeks, pulling me forward, hard, against her.
The next bit, seems to require something from me. I slip around the general flood zone, in uncharted territory and bravely fumble on. A task not made easier by her crazed and manic gyrations. She vibrates and shakes, quivers and quakes, as if ready to explode into space. And I, it seems, am more than happy to be her rocket to the stars. Houston , docking procedure is A – OK, stand by for ignition. God! Is it always like this? I've ridden bulls in rodeos that don't buck as hard. It's all I can do to stay aboard, let alone try any fancy moves. Not that I have any. If this is the rodeo, sadly, I don't get the bell. It's all too much for a fresh-faced country boy, new to the ways of the big bad city. I am brought back to reality by a vice like grip on my arm dragging me away from her, as she, in turn, tries to keep me in position. I'm the human rope in a demented tug of war.
Keith wins and exits with ‘what's her name' and I sit up in bed and wonder what the hell that was all about and what ‘it' might look like now, ‘cause it sure feels different. The light reveals a shiny, wet and happy penis, still slightly erect, attached to a familiar body that is suddenly in need of a wee. Hmm. Of course I can't. Not for a while anyway.
Having almost entered the blissful sleep of the newly laid, I am shunted back to consciousness as the bedroom door again bursts open! This time the feeling is vastly different. Keith explodes into the room looking like the psychopathic madman that he probably is. He snarls at me and dives to the floor at the end of the bed. Alarm bells are going off in my head. I'm suddenly wide awake, out of bed and wondering what else this crazy night could possibly yield, when Keith springs upright and launches himself at me with the kind of blood curdling roar that would have done an African warrior proud.
In his hand, a weapon, the pointy end of which is traveling toward my naked stomach at terminal velocity. I clear the entire double bed. Sideways. He shouts something incoherent. Or, is that me? Anyway, we're both making a hell of a racket, which of course, wakes his Mum. Old Rosie enters, like some bemoth from the Jurassic era, and begins slapping her demented son on the back, adding to the already considerable din, by yelling “Keith! Keith!”
He doesn't take a bit of notice. Instead, he rounds the bed and comes at me again. Slower this time. Menacing. I back away. Out, into the hall. Adrenalin courses through my veins. God knows what the neighbors must think. He lunges. I side-step him easily and back off some more, all the time attempting to reason with him, but his alcohol addled brain is far from reason. He lunges again. This time, a huge sweeping motion which I fortunately see coming a mile away and although I'm still in grave danger, I'm beginning to believe that I may have a chance.
Rosie is still going through the same ludicrous routine, but unfortunately it seems to be having the opposite effect to what the old dear intends. He's actually frothing at the mouth now as he prepares to launch another assault. I feel the cold reality of the front door pressing mercilessly against my naked back and I know that I've run out of options. I literally, have no-where else to go.
Bang! - Bang! - Whack! - Whack! - Bang!!
Amazing what a near death experience and the subsequent adrenalin will provide. Five, well landed punches take him down. And out! Bruce Lee would be proud. I'm pretty chuffed myself. I bend quickly and scoop up the weapon, jump over the prone form of my former antagonist and bolt for the bedroom, slamming the overworked door behind me. I find something to wedge under it and sit, weapon in hand, through what's becoming a very long night. Eventually, sleep wins.
I later find out that being an alcoholic, Keith couldn't perform. Not however, for lack of trying. He'd done everything humanly possible to excite that woman and she'd been about to go off like a six-pack of her hubby's gelignite, but old Keith just couldn't get it up. In the end, she somehow persuaded him to let her loose on me, while he watched through the keyhole. It's a strange world. And I hadn't even discovered masturbation at this point. After I found out you could do it yourself nobody saw me for weeks….
I never did see her again.
I just wish I could remember her name……..
Red Levis .
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