Date: Sun, 24 Nov 2002 20:45:19 +1030
From: andrew staker <mallowisious@hotmail.com>
Subject: "Lolito" chapter 6

LOLITO
Chapter 6

I had slept in. I don't know why. Any rational game-plan would have had me
go to bed early, to make sure that I would be up early in the morning to
anticipate Brad's doorknock beckoning me to his mum's car so that we could
go to Noarlunga for the exciting model search. But no! I had stayed up
watching TV. Oodles of TV. TV to intoxication. And now he knocked and
knocked at the door. Like a strumpet, I paraded to the door and told him to
give me time to get ready.

"No can do!" he said irately.

"Well at least let me put some clothes on," I bargained. That he did allow.
It was done. "Hello Mrs Winckelmann. A great day, eh!" Mon Dieu! My hair was
in a state of shock and shockability.

Katie sat in front, beamingly greeting me. She was a peahen, outshone in
pride-terms only by her adjacent mother. Lolito, sitting next to me in the
back, had an air of manicure about him. Everything was immaculate,
artificial, bourgeois. He had lost the dirty, boyish aura and acquired a
Barbie-like plasticity. But I guess he wanted to win the modelling duel. He
still looked bloody adorable!

We arrived at Colonnades and weeded our way through the multi-building
shopping complex. Mother and daughter were in a binary orbit of
self-absorbance. We got to the info booth, were directed by the
grandmotherly woman behind it and soon found the flock of aspiring models.

It was generally tedious to behold with one's eye. Katie and her clones were
out in force, enforcing an image I had up until then only hypothesised. But
I had Brad by my side. Some so-called 'established' modelettes soon broke us
into groups of ten. We each filled in a form riddled with physical
descriptors. "Don't be nervous," she said, glazing it with a fake smile.
"And make sure to impress the judges... they count, after all!" Ah, such a
positive message for our youth.

When all the details were sifted through, a camp-as-hell thin man all in
black got up and ran through the day's procedure. Basically, it would be an
optimised voyeur-athon, involving models, judges, parents and other shoppers
all for the ultimate benefit of the shops whose clothes we'd be modelling.
Brad, Katie and I were in a group number twelve. Seven other aspirants were
with us. We had to wait quietly while the judges went through the preceding
groups.

>From each group they'd keep half and discard half. It was all devilishly
cruel. "Numbers 12, 17 and 19, you stay," a woman with glasses and Barbie
hair would say. The rest would be scraped off the stage, never to see the
lens of fashion glamour again. Finally it was our turn. I felt grossly
awkward. The whole experience was strange. Between me and Brad was Katie,
smiling, beaming... sweeping with her a sphere of glitz. A roar of girls'
voices strangled me when I was up there and turned. Brad was all cool, all
casual. Katie delivered an expert performance. We all three of us were
selected. Quite miraculous. So it was true; I was somewhat attractive. Peter
the Model: maybe I'd be handed the key to the door of Fashion Elysium. We
went back, waiting for them to sift through the rest of the group. After
that, it was time for a recess. Mrs W came to congratulate her successful
daughter with "I'm so proud of you Katie... I knew you'd do it all along!"
hugs/kisses/general shows of maternal affection. If she had known all along,
why would she be proud only after Katie had made it past round one? The
paradoxes of parenthood are rich and strange.

The group of models was now naturally smaller; the on-lookers had increased
in number on the other hand. It was getting competitive. Only the supposedly
good-looking aspirants remained. We had to go up one by one and talk about
ourselves. God. I went through with it. "I'm a bit nervous," Brad said,
looking at me.

"You'll do okay," I reassured. "You're heaps hot," and I smiled. Katie was
unapproachable. She appeared to be Buddhistically meditating. After the
tedious process of questioning (which I would be offended to convey here) it
emerged that they had accepted Brad and me, but--shock, shock--rejected
Katie. Needless to say, it was cosmic disaster. She wept, she trembled, she
maintained dignity unsuccessfully. Mrs W, equally devastated, disputed the
judgement of the judges. To no avail. They marched off in disgust.

"How will I get home," Brad asked distressedly.

"We'll catch a bus... don't worry Brad. I'll look after you," and said,
emphasising my determination to care for him (and his body). "Just
concentrate on winning this stupid thing," I told him. The only product of
describing in detail the remainder of events would be our mutual boredom.
Suffice to say that an eccentric outcome occurred. When they had sorted
through everyone, the winner was none other that a pretty girl, swimming in
blonde hair, blue eyes and the smoothest, fairest skin imaginable. No hard
feelings. She'll sell the most clothes so it's economically rational to have
her model them. The fashion cycle is fiercer than the front-loading drier's
set to max.

Yet all was not lost. By some unexplained machinations, that lathery man who
had been handing out promotional pamphlets had struck his way to Brad and
me. "Bad luck boys... you didn't win," he said. "I was hoping one of you
would..." and his hand almost extended onto Brad's shoulder. My Brad... mon
Lolito! "But I like you both, so how about we make a deal?" and then he did
touch his tender upper-arm.

Of all peculiar things, he had the following in mind. Whilst being a manager
for the shopping centre, he also owned a bike shop. "Part of the reason I
helped out with the Search," he said, "was so that I might find someone to
show off my new line of bikes. It would only take an hour... and you can
keep the bikes... both of you." What a brilliant exchange. Brad fell for it
immediately; I soon echoed his sentiments.

The man, for all I know, may have had any name in the world: he was not
forward in making it known. He liked to be referred to as Sir. His face
would slightly light up when Brad would say things like "Sir... where do I
sit?" during shoots. A photographer soon made himself known.

One of the poses required that we be school students. So he yanked out--from
somewhere--some generic blue-and-white-plus-some-grey uniforms that had
schoolboy written all over. "Now Brad," said Sir, who was overbearingly
interfering with the photographer, "in this shot, you've had a long, boring
day at school and you can't wait to get home..."

"Yeah," Photographer added, "you use this wonderful bike to help you get
away from school faster."

Again Sir: "It let's you go wherever you want, faster..."

And miraculously the boy delivered. He spun his face into the most
articulate articulation of the urge to leave school I had to that date seen.
Simply put, he was adorable in a cornucopia of shots. The very last pose we
were required to submit our bodies to was naturally the most risqué one.
Apparently, according to Mr Sir, we were meant to be brothers. Not that that
explained why "Brad has to have his (school)shirt more than half-open" or
why I was meant to lie "on the ground, resting near a wall" near my bike,
with my legs half-open, half-closed. But it was all done. "Thanks boys,"
said Sir, "you've made me happy." But in which way? I would be most keen to
see these advertisements, and not for vanity's sake!

So at something like 3PM we rode out of Colonnades on our much loved, newly
acquired bicycles. They gleamed splendidly in the sun. "It's going to be a
long ride Brad," I warned. "Are you up to it?"

"Yeah... are you?" and he smiled.

"I think so. Having some water with us should be good though."

"Mum's gonna be so impressed when she sees what I did today," he asserted. I
felt guilty pleasure in speculating how Katie would feel. So Brad and I set
out on our juvenile odyssey along a portion of the South Australian coast
from Noarlunga to Maslin Beach. The gently undulating track, sometimes along
road, sometimes off, was interspersed with cosy nests of cafés, kiosks and
even houses. People everywhere were comfortably dressed and at ease. Life
was grand in this part of the globe.

At an appropriate spot, when I could feel the sweat all over my back, I
pleaded with Brad to stop; he reluctantly agreed. It was by a cute little
beach with a fading kiosk. Heaven. We jumped off our bikes, had a sip of
water. "Ice-cream?" I offered. He nodded accession. We chained our bikes
together to a sturdy light-pole. "It's a really nice beach," I said.

"I suppose," Brad responded. The sweat was getting far too irritating. I
resolved to remove the article of clothing on my upper body. The modelling
skit had given me confidence. "Ooo, sexy man!" Brad teased. I let the wind
evaporate the water all over my skin. "This is good," he said. "You're not
the only one who can show off!" he said. He exposed his young chest and
stomach. "Mr Sir wanted my shirt open, after all!" Conceited little prick,
eh? Ah, but my little prick nonetheless.

"Are you sweaty too?" I asked.

"Yes Peter. Not just you," and he gave me his small smile. "I could get used
to being a model. If I got a free bike each time..."

"God! Isn't one enough?"

He laughed. "No... Peter. Silly boy! I mean, I could sell them for other
stuff.... It's just that modelling is easy, and you get heaps of stuff for
doing nothing..."

O no, he had been taken. I could not save him from becoming an object whose
sole role was to exploit the vain. The tentacles of the fashion system had
kidnapped Brad. But I didn't care. He still had that pastelled shine of
perfection. I would not have it. So I threw some sand in his direction. It
got in his hair and stuck to his still-sweaty skin.

"Peter!" and he responded by reciprocating. It was all playful though... I
could tell. "Now I have to go wash myself," he said sarcastically, looking
at me. And off into the sea he trundled. He splashed a little water here and
there, all over his blonde head and hairless torso. "Aren't you cleaning
yourself?" he enquired.

"Nah... I'll wait for a proper clean: my shower!" and I smiled.

"Fair 'nough," he said. "Let's go... I want to show this off to Katie!"

Alas my Lolito, I thought, off we go.

We passed other girls and boys, mums and dad all enjoying a leisurely ride
in the summer air. Sometimes we even had altercations with a vehicle or two.
But we finally wound our way home to Maslin Beach. "It's been fun Peter.
I'll be over soon!" and he dashed into his mamma's house. I guess he
couldn't wait to show off his bike.

I suppose I too was happy with the outcome. Sure I had a bike. More
importantly, however, I realised my body was not the eternal feminine
incarnate. I was now equipped to woo Brad with something I had thought to be
substandard but turned out to be not-too-bad. I could tell the way Brad
looked at me this time at the beach. Perhaps my modelling alongside him was
the seal of approval he was looking for so as to attach himself to my body.

Back inside Auntie's shack, I was going through the mail. Nothing exciting.
Nothing interesting. Nothing. I decided to call my mother. "You won a bike?"
she said. "That's amazing!" she exclaimed. Ah, it was good to hear her voice
again. "No, am not getting bored." She spoke. "Yes, there's this girl across
the road... Katie... we're getting along well." Blah Blah blah and "Blah
blah blah" and Blah blah blah and "Blah Blah blah. Okay mum, see you." Hang
up. The end.

No sooner had I put down the talk-into-and-hear thing, than the phone
sounded to life. "Hello?" I asked.

"O good day. I am Ennui Bourgeois," said the female voice, "and I am calling
for Ms Rebecca van Gaard."

"Sorry... she's not here right now," I replied.

"Do you know when she will be back?" said female-voice Bourgeois.

I was not going to be honest. "Possibly tomorrow, possibly next week. I
don't know madam. The point is, however, she has entrusted me with all here
message requirements."

"In that case, young man," she said, "write this down. Miz van Gaard's
company is kindly requested for a soirée on this coming Saturday at Voltaire
Hall. It's an Adonis Foundation function; be sure to tell her so."

"No problemo," I retorted, jarring her elitist pronunciation with my
imitation of North American street-slang. Ever so genteelly, I hung up. The
Adonis Foundation? Voltaire Hall? A soirée? How baroquely Rococo! What to do
with such info? Perhaps it would aid in my peeling away the layers of
mystery from this philanthropic organization Auntie supposedly belonged to.

Thanks be to the gods! A knock at the door. Who should it be but baby Brad.
"Come in," I invited. "No... can't," he rejected. "Wanna go riding?" he
invited. "Absolutely!" I accepted.

Brad said: "Mum said it's okay if we go, as long as you keep an eye on me."
Aye lad, that I would.

"Just wait a tick while I get my bike out," I told him. Shortly after, I
exited the shack with my bike, helmet and water bottle. We crossed the road
and into his house he went, whence popped ego-bruised Katie. "Hello!" I
saluted.

"Hi Peter," she moped. "I heard how good you did in the contest."

"Thanks," was the only thing I could say. "How's your ankle?" I asked. Poor
girl... so many misfortunes.

"Getting better. I could go riding--"

"But you don't have a bike!" I rudely interjected.

Out came Brad, gleaming helmet atop blonde hair, racy red t-shirt and skimpy
little shorts. "Ready to ride!" he announced. Off we sped, the boy shouting
"Bye Katie" to his sister. "So where exactly are we going?" he asked, when
we were side by side. Not knowing where, I suggested we go south.

"After all," I said, "we've come from Noarlunga, so let's go in an opposite
direction." What an idyllic way for a young man and his boy to spend an
afternoon. We found a vanishing off-road bike trail and rode along it for
quite a while. The sound of the cars on the highway had disappeared; so too
the sound of the waves of the sea. We came to some sort of a lake. The water
was calm but not stagnant. There was a willow and the grass was unmanaged
but not overgrown. There was the general summertime hum of birds and insects
that invigorates one all over. "Can we take a break, Brad?" I asked.

"Sure!" he said. "I'm getting puffed out."

"Me too!" I said.

"Can I have some water?" he asked.

Teasingly, I said: "Don't you have your own?"

Pause. Brad: "Um... sorry, I forgot." He looked toward the sun-reflecting
water.

"Here!" and I affectionately shoved it toward his mouth. He put his lips on
the plastic nozzle and sucked. When he had finished, I said: "Looks like you
enjoyed that."

"Whatever," he dismissed. "Can we stay here a bit?" Sure we could. "Good."
He seemed relieved.

Feeling a bit seductive (understandable, given the circumstance) I decided
to remove my shirt again. "I'm sweaty all over," I smiled. He took no
notice. Repeating a previous motion, he slid himself onto the grass.

"It's a little prickly!" he reported. "But it's relaxing."

I then took a gamble: I removed my shorts.

"Pew! That stinks!" he revolted in jest.

"So sorry," I said. "But I gotta dry out between my legs. It's really
annoying when I'm riding!"

"Can I take my shirt off too then?" he asked. "It feels like it's sticking
to my back." It was off.

I was so close to him. He and I were the only two at this out-of-the-way
lakelette. "So you don't want to take your shorts off?" I asked.

"Why, do you?" he said, looking through me. He, in one glance, had
diminished my moral weight. Lolito transformed me into an old man under his
greying trench-coat.

I stumbled for words, almost choking in my embarrassment. "I just thought...
if you wanted to... and you were sweaty around your um... you could take 'em
off. No need to be shy."

"Peter, I'm not shy," he said. " You've seen me naked." He laughed offbeat.
"But I don't want to be naked unless you are." Ah, nakedness. Le nude.
Edenic bliss, high-art, advertising billboards and raunchy pornos all fed by
this ever-so-human(e) and inalienable state of being. Would seeing Brad
naked be enough? Would playing with his pubescent nipples suffice? Where
does aesthetic nudity end and sexual nudity begin?

This multitude of dilemmas drowned out my rationality. With one efficient
manual manoeuvre I whipped off my underwear. My pathetic dick sat there in
the sun. I did not look back. It had been done. I had liberated myself from
obeying any bourgeois precepts about what the body is and how I should treat
it. Now all that remained was liberating Brad. And, like all good and
memorable liberations, this was one he enacted with his own hands. Off came
the shorts and the blue briefs.

"See, I'm not shy Peter," he said. Not shy in many senses, dear Brad. "Now
we can get that tan going again!" and he smiled. But alas, all Edens have
their fall. Ours crashed by way of a scratchy roar of disgust, expounded by
an ancient Italian matron whose spine was wilting.

"Mamma mia!" she yelled. "Bastardi! Bastardi!" and over and over. In her
snail's pace way she came closer, wielding a vicious-looking enamel bucket
of cherries. Needless to say, Brad and I clothed ourselves and zoomed away
from the lake, her shrieks and howls fading, fading, gone.

We rode home in a huge rush, almost collapsing at the end. He didn't bother
going into his mum's. The lure of a cold drink from Auntie's fridge did the
trick. Pretty soon Brad was recovering on his favourite couch, watching TV,
sipping his beloved Coca-Cola (Registered Trademark). When normalcy
reinstated itself, the first thing he said was: "That was fucken cool!" I
could not disagree. "We have to be careful next time we sunbake..." and he
giggled. Katie's doorknock not much later ended our eventful day. Brad left,
carrying with him the strongest promise of return to date. Night night.

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