Date: Mon, 27 Jan 2003 20:45:12 +1030
From: andrew staker <mallowisious@hotmail.com>
Subject: ST: "Lolito" chapter 8

LOLITO
Chapter 8

Lying naked in a soft bed, slowly coming to on a sultry morning; feeling the
bed-sheet course its way across one's buttocks and private region. I felt
warm, homely, foetal. Radio on. An AM station (as opposed to an FM one which
offered stereophonic music). Main news item: escaped mental patient,
Neanderthal in appearance, believed female, continues to terrorise southern
suburbs of Adelaide. Filler, filler, filler. Sport (also filler). Last bit:
"an expected cool change should move through Adelaide mid-morning, bringing
with it relief from the heat. Some shower activity possible. Maximum of 34
before the change..." and so forth. O, 34 Celsius. Which normally isn't so
bad. But combined with humidity. Still, in my bed I stay.

Morning hard-on. What to do about it? Need to piss. Can't wank before I
piss. Well, give it a try. Up, down, in-between motions. All work, but I
just know it won't conduce to the white-stuff seeping out (or "shooting,"
which is a more virile verb). Play with the foreskin. Feel the slippery
moisture. Then smell finger. A complex scent of putrid masculinity and
urine. If only someone could invent a bed with a hole into which one can pee
and shit, then I'd never leave it. Call it the Utero-3000.

Knocking on door. Then it migrated to my window. Repeat. I got up, tossing
on some wilted boxers. I opened up. "Hello Peter," Mr W said. "I hope it's
not too early on a Saturday morning..." O shit! It's time for the Judgement.

"No, not at all Mr Winckelmann," I responded, feeling my face whiten. "I was
getting up anyway," I continued. In he came. "Do sit down on that couch," I
eventually had to concede to him. Somehow Brad looked much better on the
blue than his father. "Drink?" I nervously asked.

His lips pursed slightly. He was a messenger with a message he did not wish
to deliver and I to receive. "Last night, our son Brad... did something
unspeakable."

He knows? He saw? Panic! He saw me? I saw them... but that doesn't always
imply they saw me. Whom am I kidding, in this case it does!

"I notice," Mr W continued, "you and Brad have become rather good friends."
Argh! Crappy cryptic allusions. Knees a-shakin'. After brief silence: "I am
happy for this," he said. He is?

"What... did... he...? I mean, what--" I asked, taking a 9-inch gamble.

"Intoxicated." Pause. "You see, he followed us to the pub, where we found
him drunk on the dance-floor."

I reacted accordingly. My 6-inch gamble: "Whom was he with?"

"I don't know! But" (his eyes telescoped onto me) "I have my suspicions."
Then came the meat of his coming over. "My wife and I have seen our boy
grow," he said. His voice was suddenly tenderised. "Today's world is very
contaminated." He looked at his hand, which were interlocked. "We don't want
his God-given purity trespassed. In St Michael's school, the filth of
society is pretty much removed." He took his breath and continued: "But now
that he's on holidays. All sorts of dirt is rubbing on to him." (Gee, I hope
he meant the dress Brad had been wearing!)

"My wife and I treasure our children dearly. Keep Christ's flock under
Christ, I was always told. From what I can see," he said, "you're an upright
and clever young man. We would please ask you the following:" (he looked at
me with yearning hope). "My wife and I feel that you're the only one he'll
listen to. Will you take our son and teach him today?" I was rather
confused. I requested clarification. "We feel he's missing the moral and
educational boundaries of school. As a punishment for his disgusting
behaviour last night, will you please be his teacher today? He needs to
learn values." A bit more discussion. "He's starting high-school soon and
he's not quite ready, I don't think."

"So a bit of maths, some writing, and..."

"And geography," he appended. "Three things I believe no true Christian can
go without."

All clear. We went through the logistics. At their shack, in the garage.
He'd move out the car. It would all work. Educating Brad. He left, saying:
"I'll give you a chance to get properly dressed." Adieu!

Now it was my turn to knock on their door. Mrs W, ecumenical as always,
invited me in. She was more welcoming than before. Perhaps because I was the
saviour, here to save (and savour) her son.

Brad was rather reserved, compared to all our other encounters. He was
dressed to fit the part, sporting matching grey shorts and shirt. Whence? I
was escorted into the garage, where padre signalled we might all need to
help out and clean up the garage. There were dust and cobweb aplenty.
Lifting, shifting and stacking boxes and objects and boxes full of objects
in the humid air was tiring. Sweat accumulated on my head and body, gravity
guiding it toward the ground.

One box contained all of the kids' old sea-side gear: fat plastic sand
shovel and bucket, the once mat colours now stained by time and neglect.
Superseded, un-need. One of the trinkets was a dinosaur from way back: the
Jurassic Park merchandising machine had plonked it from a foundry in China
to Brad's little hands. Dust settled, we had a 'cool, refreshing' glass of
kiwi-fruit-flavoured cordial.

And thank God. God, God, God. God came surfing on the bulbous clouds of the
cool change. A smart wind tore through the street, hurrying away the dank
air. My head, my cheeks, my abdomen: all cooled. Thank God.

Brad and I settled into the teacher/student binary rather quickly,
especially because matronly Mrs W sat in a chair in the corner, supposedly
reading up on her recipes. It was clearly impossibly to touch (or some such)
Brad. Extremely uncomfortable, I turned formal. I said: "So Bradley, I would
like to know where school left off...."

He wasn't buying any of this. "It's Brad. You know it is."

His mothered corrected his tone with a grunt.

"I will call you Bradley, and you will address me as Mr McMack."
(Fetishizing the power structure our role-play implied: quite scruple-less.)
After telling me what he'd learnt, I responded: "Well at least it's good to
know you've met pi." I went on: "First, we're going to do a reading." I went
over and handed the lad a newspaper article. "Now read!" I ordered,
commanded, demanded. Ah... a teacher I shall be!

Brad spiritlessly began. "A report commissioned by the State Government has
found that one in five children from disadvantaged areas are more likely to
end up in crime. Lack of educational and social structures means that they
'fend for themselves' in an effort to survive. In an alarming case at
Elizabeth, a brother (10) and sister (11) have been selling their bodies in
exchange for marijuana. The spokesman for Family Affairs said this situation
is unacceptable and a further report is to be commissioned."

While still looking at Mrs W's raised eyebrows, I said: "Very good!" (His
reading, clarity- and speed-wise, was impressive.) I was itching to talk to
him about last night. About the miraculous situation under which they hadn't
spotted me. But alas, a spider in the corner!

"We'll now go through that article and see how it works."

"But we haven't done that in school!" he objected.

I explained that scanning for literary techniques was all the rage in
high-school English. "So Bradley," I said, "what strikes you first when
reading it?" He was finally getting in the swing. "The big words?" I
reiterated. "Yes, good. What else?"

Brad said: "Um, how the brother and sister were... um," (he looked at his
mother) "were... having sex for drugs."

But of course. Such content demands attention. After a few more such
look-and-sees, I asked the final question. "Which do you reckon is the key
sentence?"

After looking through, he hesitated and answered: "The lack of education
one?" Yes, and why? He told me why. All good.

First lesson over. Recess time. About ten minutes' break. Katie was orbiting
around, her ankle all repaired. Orbiting her was the ubiquitous planet
Nokia, almost constantly emitting and receiving radiation. Mrs W came into
the garage with two large and molto rosso watermelon slices. Winckelmann
watermelon: yum.

On the plate was a knife. Brad had no trouble with picking it up and slicing
the flesh. I, on the other hand, who had been brought up always to bite and
gnaw the melon, spent time getting used to the blade. Break over. Time to
resume school. The second fifty-minute-long lesson commenced. The mother
resumed her guardianship, reading a monthly woman's mag.

Math. Maths. Mathematics. (Actually, most of primary school and most people
in general believe that mathematics and arithmetic are synonymous.) Bah!

"Okay Brad," I told my petit pupil, "I spent a bit of time coming up with
this problem, and luckily your mum helped." (I nodded to her; she looked up,
smiling cautiously).

I then walked over and pressed the Play button on their shabby old cassette
player. Christmas music. Jingle, jangle. Words: "On the first day of
Christmas, my true-love sent to me, A partridge in a pare tree." And so
forth.

"I won't torture you with all of it," I said, "but here's your one and only
maths problem: How many things did the person receive all up? The sooner you
finish, the sooner the lesson's done."

"This is stupid!" he complained.

"Don't swear," I reacted. "Now take it seriously. You want to do well in
school, don't you?" I rhetoricalised. "Here's a list of all that is received
in the song." I handed him:

...A partridge in a pear tree...
...Two turtle doves...
...Three French hens...
...Four calling birds...
...Five golden rings...
...Six geese a-laying...
...Seven swans a-swimming...
...Eight maids a-milking...
...Nine ladies dancing...
...Ten lords a-leaping...
...Eleven pipers piping...
...Twelve drummers drumming...

There he was, tackling the problem. After about five minutes and some
vigorous pen-and-paper intercourse, he yelled out: "Seventy-eight!"

"O," I said, "how so?"

"Well, you add them... one partridge, plus two doves, plus three hens..." he
said.

I laughed. "Ah, the easy option. I'm afraid you're wrong."

He was nigh on distraught. I explained to him that if we take the song
literally, on the third day, three French hens, two turtledoves and a
partridge are received. We add these to the two turtledoves and partridge on
the second day and the partridge on the first day. And we keep having to do
so until the end. His facial expression almost imploded. I sent him back to
his desk.

After a few minutes of inaction, I realised I would need to go and help him
out. So what we did is we drew up a table, and across the top axis were the
partridges and dancers and pipers and the left axis were the days. I showed
him how to do it. He was most impressed.

When he had tunnelled through the arithmetic, he came up and told me his
answer. He was one off. "364" I corrected.

"Ah, I forgot to add one!" and he smiled. He dashed off into the shack to
let his family know how he'd slaughtered the Christmas problem. A second
break. Third lesson: geography. By use of their twelve-or-so year old
Encyclopaedia Britannica plus Atlas, I asked Brad to find out about the
people of Palestine and Israel. And, as it was not far off, a bit of info on
Iraq.

He was busy ruffling pages. The top two buttons of his plain shirt were
undone. His smooth, tanned skin shone from underneath. His neat, cropped
hair sat atop his head. His slender fingers, as they came in and out of the
various pages, had an eloquence about them. His eyes bent down in reading.
His nose, soft, delicate, was sloping pageward too. His right hand, grasping
loosely, yet grasping, onto that pencil.... But he wore no shoes. His
pre-teen feet, lying on the concrete of the garage, playing with the leg of
the table.

He eventually completed that task too. Two hand-written pages on Israel and
Palestine, and one on Iraq. As far as I was concerned, school was out. We
went together and showed madre, who had by then left. She was happy with it.
All that sitting in the garage had made me dizzy. Perhaps it was time to go
back across the road; after all, Mr W had interrupted my jerk-off session.
As much as I dreamed of taking Brad with me, I knew it would be impossible.
Lolito belongeth in the house of his father.

Back at Auntie's, I did my deed: male came. Mail came. Something from
Mumsie. $100 in case I ran out. Aw, sweet. Might read a few more of those
poems from that book of poems. A golden opportunity. No chance.

Katie at the door, Katie forevermore. "Hi Peter," she greeted. I did
likewise. "Thanks for helping my brother out. He can be such a pain!" O oh,
planet Nokia, the Death-star, sounded. She briskly conversed. "Anyway," she
said, "as thanks, mum and dad reckon they should take us ice-skating in
Noarlunga."

"There's ice-skating in Noarlunga?" I asked. She nodded. "When?"

"Whenever we're ready. Just take a jumper." I decided to take a 12-inch
gamble: I wouldn't ask if Brad were coming--I'd wait and see. After all the
preparations, I was sitting with Katie in the backseat and Mr and Mrs W in
the front of their car. Brad was between us.

Welcome to Noarlunga Skate. Yey. The huge drop in temperature when stepping
in was interesting. My head 'gan to thud a little. I guess the reticent
headache was back! The parents couldn't skate. They'd drop us off and "head
for the pub. We'll pick you up later. Have fun!" You too.

After hiring the right-sized skate, a sense of anxiety filled me. I had
never skated on ice before. The two Winckelmann siblings seemed to be united
in one thing: leaving me behind and pouncing onto the ice. Both were
enviably mobile. But I tottered onto the solidified water and within thirty
second was on my arse. Ouch!

"Are you okay?" Brad asked. He glided over casually and offered to lift me.
Of course I accepted.

"I might need some help..." I begged.

So with his young hands on my torso and then hand-in-hand, we made our
circumvention. Katie zoomed by, a deserved smile on her face. Seemed her
ankle was doing swell. But eventually, after much tedious suffering on my
behalf, I was able to maintain verticality for half-hour periods. It is a
great feeling to be able to propel oneself in a manner different to walking.

And then around seven the tremendous white lights darkened and were replaced
by coloured disco-like lights. The music became more noticeable. Gliding
around with the wind in my face and some treasured lyrics in my mind was
fun. Fun too was seeing Brad catching up and slowing down and generally
smiling all around.

But it was time for a break. Sitting and dunking chips into hot chocolate
was enjoyable. Tasted not-too-bad too. Seems it was a very Winckelmann thing
to do. "I'm going back on," Katie said, after a lad with whom she'd probably
been exchanging eyebeams headed off.

"I need to pee," I let Brad know.

"I'll come too," he doubled.

On the way, a swarm of buff teenagers swelled around us and came into the
toilet. The changeroom-cum-toilet filled with discursive sound. Upon my exit
from the cubicle, I was overwhelmed by the sight of boys changing into
hockey attire. Their nipples, their necks... the breastbones, arm muscles
rippling underneath fit skin. Parallax||paralysis. Sit and stare. A
three-dimensional porno made of fantastic phantasms. But these were real
boys, really semi-naked, sitting and talking left, right and centre.
Shoulders bulging like boulders, legs like kegs; not as monstrous as the
Green Knight though. They were well-shaped own-body users. Exploiting my
physicality in a non-sexual direction I guess I will never achieve.

Brad was waiting for me outside the changeroom. He had an
I-know-what-you're-thinking smile. "Did ya get distracted in there?"

"No!" I replied. "Just delayed."

"I did..." he teased. "I wish you'd be honest with me Peter."

"Shut up. Let's go skate."

And we did, but only for five minutes. The DJ announced that the Noarlunga
Nordics would be conquering the rink. A collective 'awww' rose up. But it
wasn't that bad. A team of healthy young men skating, geared up to look
ferocious, was nice enough. Brad and I stayed on the side, watching. Katie
fretted. She butterflew about the place with her latest lad. "I'll call mum
and dad... soon." I guess we all three had our reasons for not minding the
skate-session cessation.

During a pause in the Nordics' training period, a portly man came on the
ice. "Brad, look!" I said.

"O shit!" he exclaimed. "It's that guy."

"Please welcome major team sponsor, Drosselmeir Stromboli," quoth the disk
jockey.

A phallic microphone in hand, Drosselmeir said: "Thankyou, thankyou. I am
not one who likes to hear my own voice. We're here to see which one of these
fine, fine young athletes deserves the much-desired Golden Puck award for
best effort of the season. And that young man is Pino Keough.
Congratulations!" he placed the medal over the teen's sloping head and
around his slim neck.

"That's the bike-shop guy," Brad pointed out. "He creeps me out!"

"Me too," I agreed.

Enter Katie W. "I'm calling mum 'n' dad now, okay?"

The team, after having chummily huddled around the medal-bearer, was back in
action. While we were waiting for Mr and Mrs W, there was just one further
development on the ice. The local figure-skating club had apparently been
booked in but was 'muscled-out' by the Nordics. After some dispute, they
agreed to halve the rink between themselves. The one burning image, relevant
for eternity, was the contrast between the boy skaters. On the right were
the Nordics: strong, bulky and warlike. On the left, the figure-skater boys:
sleek, lithe and reserved. The masculine and the feminine homo-aesthetics,
meeting at such a suburban frontier. After much enjoyable observation, I
sided with the figure skaters. I would sculpt my Lolito in that mould.

Our transportation home soon arrived and we arrived home soon. "I'll see you
tomorrow Brad," I said while getting out. "We have to go for a bike-ride!"

Mr W: "Once again, thanks for your help with Brad. He's not been this
enthusiastic about learning for a long time."

I: "No problem."

Pause.

Mr W: "You know, you're most welcome to come to church with us tomorrow."

Pause. I contemplated.

"Why sure Mr Winckelmann."

"Great," he said. "Be over at nine."

"And wear something nice," Mrs W urged.

"Okay," I said. "Goodnight!" Close door; find church clothes. Church? What's
in a church? Jesus lives there. Does He? To be discovered on the morrow.