Date: Sat, 28 Dec 2002 01:24:41 +1030
From: andrew staker <mallowisious@hotmail.com>
Subject: "Lolito" Chapter 7

LOLITO
Chapter 7

Post breakfast, I made a closer inspection of the letter addressed to
Rebecca van Gaard (Auntie) from the Adonis Foundation. The soiree, on
tonight. Would I go? Of course. It was one of those purely impulsive
decisions... made with a fingernail of rationality. Because I could not
drive, I would depend on public transportation. Call the info desk, gather
data, plan, get ready, head off. All done in approx. 24 min.

I passed Brad's house; it being rather early in the morn, the place was
silent. Ah well, a day without my boy couldn't hurt. For some reason the
pants were chafing in the crux of my legs. I wasn't fat, the model quest
proved that! Perhaps they were defective, either materially or out of
design. Yet the dark purple cloth had an air of sophistication, or so I
told myself.

Bus stop. Wait at bus stop. A person waits at the bus stop. He awaits the
bus. (Personal) pronoun, verb, definite article, (direct) object. The bus
arrived, I embarked, it departed; rather pedestrian. Friday morning, I got
Bradley on my mind. The Noarlunga Interchange, where I changed from the bus
to a city-bound train, was depressing. Many teenagers with no aim, no love,
no Lolito, wandered hither and thither. I, on the other hand, zoomed
past. The graffiti, supposedly theorised by some to represent
anti-repression, had no impact in my aesthetic palate. The hideous odour of
decaying comestible waste infected my nose: just bear it, the train soon
cometh.

I chose my seat with calculated casualness. I was alone, near a window, yet
out of the sun (as the train would head due North), plus I was within
benign reach of a good-looking ruffian who may as well have been one of
Fagin's. He had with him his weathered skateboard. That tender shape that
young men get when they wear a primary-coloured cap and a generic
street-wear top (jumper or t-shirt or, best of all, the basketball singlet)
which squeeze their tightly cropped brown or blonde hair and skin into a
focus was there for me to enjoy. Ruffian was in front, fiddling now with
his sneakers, now with his skateboard. He was bored, detached; probably
waiting for his pimply, burger-packing wench to meet up and give him what I
could no doubt do with greater dexterity. All I am saying...
Is give me a chance.

Station after station... Marino, Oaklands, Marion, tra la la... finally, we
arrived in the city. A swarm of ants, or bees, or a herd of buffalos, a
pack of hyenas... the metaphors are stupidly endless. Resume: people came
off the train as one collective, reminiscent of curious crowds at popular
revolts: half there, half wishing to still be at home in their cosy bed and
missing the warm toast and coffee they had foregone for The Cause.

I walked behind Ruffian, watching his young bottom (this word has the
homoerotic connotation of English boarding school shower sessions) tic-toc
in his loose denims. It was still relatively early (10:24 ante meridiem)
for a day on the town. In an effort to fill Brad's absence, I 'invisibly'
(to him) followed Ruffian up the pseudo-formal steps of the Adelaide
Railway Station onto the "boulevard" of North Terrace. He turned right and
hopped onto his skateboard, which almost whisked him to the safety of being
out of my view. Yet being persistent, I followed. After about a
close-to-unity fraction of a kilometre, we (meaning first he, then I) got
to a skate-park. A place bursting with boys and girls (but more boys) plus
the odd 20-something, all buzzing around on their bikes or skates or so
forth. On-lookers, show-offs, pros (supposed 'artistes' in the 'art' of
all things street-sport) all mingled and inter-discoursed.

What a lovely scene. In many ways it was a contemporary incarnation of the
Hellenic visions of Elysian Fields, what with their sprawling shirtless
youth and beauty and shirtless youth; except now plants were concrete and
sheep were skateboards. But I didn't fit in. It seemed (or at least I felt)
that only if one were one of them could one be a spectator. The difference
between observation and perversion was looking like and knowing one or more
of them. I lacked in both parameters. But wearing the 'dirty old man'
costume for the sake of five minutes' pleasure was well worth it. Many of
their bodies reminded me of Brad. The older they were, the more angular
their bodies. Hair(iness) increased, pitch of voice decreased. The
magnificent change from boy to man, from reproductively neutral to a sperm
factory at its peak is one of nature's miracles. One must surely feel some
sympathy for those who scale the bleak wall of puberty at age 20 or 30+, or
who are hermaphroditically isolated from society.

When I was aware that my presence had nothing to do with the 'wholesome'
activities the skate-park was meant to engender-namely, youth community and
development of social skills-I headed off in search of the number 142
bus. It would take me to the soiree at Voltaire Hall. But that was not
till 6 post meridiem. What was a boy to do? I went to donate blood.

The Red Cross was always in need of blood. Well, not so much the red + as
the sanguine recipients. In I go. Friendly-fat-faced-Frida (well, that's
her name on the nym-tag) greets. I explain my urge to help humanity.
"Well," quoth FFFF, "you just gotta fill this out." Name, age, location,
contact details... bang. Q. 12: "Do you, or have you ever engaged in
homosexual intercourse? Yes i..., No i..." Well, a problem. What about do I
ever intend to engage in H.I.? "O, sorry, that's not an option," (I am
misquoting her words.) She suddenly became Dismissive fat-faced Frida.
Plain and simple, I was not permitted to donate some of my unstraight
blood. O well, I had killed about twenty minutes.

Let's not forget, I had gone from the country to the beach. I had not had
the opportunity to dissolve myself into the urban milieu. For fun, I walked
amongst the tall buildings, looking for the darkest, greyest of allies.
Then I finally went, with watering mouth, to an Internet cafe where I
caught up with all my cyber-contacts. All quite fun. Then there was the
stroll through the botanic(al?) gardens. All quite verdant, visual,
vivacious. People playing chess. You can always tell you're in a big city
when you see old men with (possibly) nothing better to do than sit under
the shade of a Coolabah tree and play chess, inter-spliced with an oblique
discourse about world politics, philosophy, religion and which beer tastes
best.

Yet not all the players were dinosaurs. Quite by chance a table was waiting
for an opponent. Attached to the white (virginal) end was a boy of about 13
or 14. He looked precocious, Slavic, his surname most likely ending in -ov,
like so many champions'. "Pley Geym?" he asked... his accent only
approximated here. I assented. This boy was no Brad. First, he was older;
second, he kicked my arse. "Check meyt." Smug smile followed. We played
again. Another defeat. Ego deflated. Get up, get up and leave! Yet the
peach fuzz, sweetly sitting on his upper lip, kept me there. I hesitated.
Gamble. "Okey, one more geym... but dat's it!" Finally he smiles: a
reserved, self-conscious raising of labial corners. It's a struggle, ending
with a three-fold forced-repetition draw.

"You're very good!" I exclaimed as I got up.

"Tank you!"

I wondered if there were a toilet cubicle that would suddenly form around
us, and I could maul his edible body with all the apparatus at my
disposal. No such spectacle took place. My parting words were: "Do you come
here often?" He said yes. I suddenly had an urge for daily botanic garden
visits.

I just needed one more activity to occupy me until my big 6PM appointment
at the Hall. What to do in Adelaide? Prowl through bookshops! The perfect
time-killer. Second-hand bookshops (the good ones) have a dignified aroma
that a Borders can never acquire. Yet the myriad range at one's disposal in
a multinational bookstore is both impressive and useful. In a single
enclosed space, one could read Aeschylus, listen to Brahms and even eat a
choc-chip cookie dipped in a banana smoothie. The wonders of modernity are
overwhelming to the simple minds of philosophers.

Exhausting day in the city. I hopped on the bus headed for the 'dress
circle' suburb of Toorak. Green affluence in the East, brown effluence in
the North: thus is Adelaidian wealth distributed. I got off at some bus
stop (the precise number is immaterial) and after a bit of orientation, got
to the fabled Voltaire Hall. It was an 'ivy league' building, for the green
stuff was all over the thick walls and heavy windows. The grounds were
large but the security presence was not. I merely strolled in and knocked
at the large wooden door.

In a brief moment, the doors opened. "May I help you?" the decidedly
British butler (aren't they all?) enquired.

"I'm here for the soiree..." I said.

"I am sorry, you must be mistaken..."

I continued: "Nope. Am not. Says Voltaire Hall on here,"-pointing to the
invite-"and on there,"-pointing to the sign above the door.

He coughed and mumbled a bit. "Most sorry... supply a name, please..."

Think, think, I urged myself. O yes. "Ennui... Bourgeois," I
articulated. (It may as well have been "Open Sesame.") In I go. The
description of sumptuous places well out of reach of a middle-class
character, author or reader do nothing but breed envy and slow down the
narrative. Suffice to say it was lovely and I was impressed. The decors
had a definite euro-centric orientation. As I walked around, many of the
patrons gave me smiles of welcome. And grins of hunger. I continually felt
someone's hand on my shoulder... regardless of where I was, with whom I was
conversing, the fixed hand of someone was there. But it was time for
speeches.

I had been marshalled (god I hate that word!) into a sort of frontal stage
area, where I stood or sat with other males of my age bracket. Something
was awry. I was, along with the others, handed a little ping-pong racquet
with a "5" on it. The other guys had similar, numbered racquets. "Commence
the bidding!"

Omigod, oh my god! I had walked into a weird singles auction. Was this the
Adonis Foundation? It seemed everyone knew his or her part except I. The
learning was quick: do what they do. The bidding was over. Turns out I had
been 'sold' to a maturish man in a stylish suit. Details: he agreed to help
me out (thinking I was a 'poor unfortunate') if I let him bed me. The
Adonis Foundation: quite a clever little exchange. All the other young men
around me were happy with the outcome. They were on the road to social
reparation. Some would get a home from their benefactors, others an
eduction whilst others still a job.

When the realisation that I would need to sleep with this feather-pillow of
a man came down on me, I panicked. I did not really need his material
offerings. I was not even meant to be there: the invitation had been for
Auntie. When he waddled toward me, I knew I had to bail. I mouthed "Just
off to the loo" across the room to him and vanished down the hall. I kept
going. Exit Voltaire Hall. Exit Adonis Foundation. Enter freedom, enter
bus. Zoom away! Brrr... broom... gear-change crunch.

The bus dropped me off at the Adelaide Railway Station. I caught the
Noarlunga train. The sky was closing up for the night. At the Noarlunga
Interchange, I swapped the train for the bus. Yey, soon I shall be back at
Maslin Beach, back across the road from Lolito. Speaking of whom, there he
was sitting on his lawn. "Peter!" he yelled.

"O, hi Brad," I said. "What's up?"

"I been locked out of the house!" the poor urchin (how Dickensian!)
complained. "Where were you all day?" he whined. "I've been out here for
ages...." He was already by my side, heading toward the entrance to
Auntie's shack. "I wanted to watch 'The Simpsons'; already missed the first
episode!"

"Okay, okay." I opened my door for the eager boy. He rushed onto his couch,
TV switched on. As I was the older, I felt I should go into the kitchen and
get something. I extracted, from the shelves, some corn-chips plus sweet
chilli dip and two glasses of "100% fresh & crisp" apple juice. "Juice, and
a snack," I said.

He took a bit of both. "So where were you, mista?" he asked. O so cute.
Brad... Brad... Brad. "I wanted to go bike-riding."

"O, I'm sorry Brad... I really didn't mean to. I had to do some stuff in
town."

"You sound like dad," he said.

"I got to play some chess..." I said. (Pause.) "It was good."

"Was he better than me?" he asked.

I giggled. "Just a little..."

He got my sense. "Well, I bet he was an old fart..." Brad asserted.

"Actually, he was only about one or two years older than you... and
Russian," I teased.

He seemed to bubble for a while, thinking. "Do I look better?"

Now this was shameless territory. Was he asking if I thought he looked
good, or merely if relatively speaking he was nicer to look at than the
Russian chess teen from the botanical gardens? "How do you mean?"

"I mean, do you like looking at me more than you liked looking at him?"
Deadly to-the-point. Deadly.

I didn't feel comfortable. Brad and his young body, his presence and his
persona, had a way of suffocating me; a way of isolating me in my own
space. "I guess... I mean, I know you more; you're less of a stranger."

He was happy enough with the response. "Wanna play chess?" he asked. I
really wasn't in the mood.

"But why were you on the lawn?" I asked.

"O... 'cause Mum, Dad and Katie went to the pub, and they said I was 'too
young' to go."

"But why would they lock you out?" I asked. It was complicated; through
mated misfortunes he ended up stuck outside his home. "So when will they be
back?" I asked.

"Not till late, they said," he said.

"So it looks like I am the babysitter!" (again).

"I'm not baby!" he objected. "I coulda taken care of myself..."

I said: "Then why did you scream out when I came home? Sounded to me like
you were getting desperate."

"Whatever!" dismissively said.

We sat there on the couch, watching TV. Although having Brad near me was
okay, it wasn't thrilling. "Say Brad," I entreated. "Which pub did they go
to?"

"Um... I think it was the Horny's Nest..." he tried.

"The Whore's Nest?" I double-checked...

"Something like that..." and he smiled, half embarrassed by the word.

"Ah!" Now I remembered. "The Hornet's Nest! I passed by there... it's near
Noarlunga. The bus goes past there..."

"So what?" he asked.

"Well Mr Brad, wanna go see a pub?" I asked.

It didn't take the little prick long: "Sure!"

So we went through the preparations. By some bizarre logic, we figured our
chances of getting into the pub would be increased if I wore a hat and a
giant, heavy, dark jumper and he went disguised as a petite woman. Brad in
drag! Quite a production. His transformation was fun. We found some of
Auntie's more 'appealing' dresses. A matching feather boa and 'Brandine'
was ready for a hard night at the pub. The giggling that filled the process
was voluminous.

We trundled through the dark street, the orange streetlamp light making his
dress turn to curious hues. The bus-driver's face when we got on:
priceless. Careful... careful... careful. Ta daa, we'd made it. There we
were, inside the dark uterus of the Hornet's Nest pub. The stale smell of
cigarette smoke and beer that had been baked into the dirty carpet for
months was gruesome; the clientele were largely flabby, the women's coifs
consisting of chaotic, fairy-floss super-structures.

"If we don't wanna get noticed," Brad whispered, "we should hold hands;
you're my date." His sleek, boyish hand soon buried itself into mine. The
kid was sweaty; I was the same. "Look, there's mum and dad," he pointed.
His parents, smiling and presumably tipsy, were karaokeing to an ABBA
song. "They look stupid!" he said.

It was quite cute, the way he visibly loved yet was embarrassed by his
parents. Katie was at the bar, sipping on a pink drink. A rather manly lad
was busy attempting to realise his eventual trip to her erogenous epicentre
by careful conversation. We sat down in a darkened corner. "I want a
drink!" Brandine demanded.

"Brad! You're fucken twelve!" I reasoned.

"Just a little," and he tapped my foot sub mensa. I soon returned with what
I had been told (by the barman) was a sweet wine. "Ta!" he said. He
sipped. And again. My turn. Glass finished. Brad had gone all funny;
frisky; fuming-figuratively. "I'm gonna dance." He did.

"You can dance, you can jive, having the time of your life
See that girl, watch that scene, dig in the Dancing Queen

Friday night and the lights are low
Looking out for the place to go
Where they play the right music, getting in the swing
You come in to look for a King
Anybody could be that guy
Night is young and the music's high
With a bit of rock music, everything is fine
You're in the mood for a dance
And when you get the chance..."

Brad's increasingly fast spinning set in motion the tragic spiral. His
disguise collapsed, after which his parents' singing ceased, after which
they gasped. Chaos and severe laughter came hand in hand directly after
that. Mr and Mrs Winckelmann descended on their floor-bound son. I observed
from a distance, understanding my hideous sin. Shame, shame, shame!

Father scooped son up; mother and sister followed; the parasitic lad
followed behind Katie. I followed them all. Into the car went family
unit. I watched. A stern look from mater et pater familias slapped me. No
words necessary. Their car disappeared up the road, the darkness swallowing
up their backlights.


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