Date: Sat, 23 Aug 2003 11:47:26 +0930
From: andrew staker <mallowisious@hotmail.com>
Subject: "Lolito" epilogue

LOLITO
Epilogue

I.
The kind of morning where you can tell it's raining, even though the blind
is down: you can hear Nature at her work. I checked the clock: 5:43. Lolito
still asleep in the drag queen's bed, alone. There was nothing in the
fridge, so I initially panicked that he and I would starve. But then I
remembered: I was downtown. It was a place where shops are open all the
time, where a BigMac or Whopper is available whensoever it be desired. I
took some money, and headed out.

Fine rain was falling and draining along the old gutters and pipes. The
cars—not as many as at night-time—made that luscious sound as they moved
along the wet bitumen. They left dark red sheen lines. There were drunken
couples, or groups, or even men on their own, joyfully recounting the
night's events. Here a taxi, there a taxi... but I finally got to
McDonald's. Pancakes, McMuffins and a few other tid-bits: enough for me,
Brad and Tom. I took a giant brown paper bag full of food and headed back
down Hindley Street.

As I walked along, a certain fear filled me. I became suspicious of white
station wagons. It could be the Winckelmann mobile, out to capture me. By
the end of my run, any white car equated with a potential enraged mother and
father. I ascended the steps to Tom's apartment, becoming progressively
aware of a dispute.

Alex (now a half Miss Phigg) wanted to get some sleep, in his own bed. But
Brad was there. Tom had offered his, but according to Alex, that bed "stinks
like cum"... something to which Miss Phigg was very averse (apparently).

Alex's wrath fell upon me. I soon softened the mood by offering him some
Maccas. Whilst munching on a McMuffin, he and I reasoned that we should move
Brad from his bed into Tom's. If he woke up, that'd be fine. If he didn't,
that would also be fine. So the three of us went over to the bed, scooped
the sleeping boy up, and attempted to carry him from one room to another.

We were about to lay him down, when he stirred. His eyes parted. He moaned a
bit, then panicked. Having three people looking down on you, first thing in
the morning, must be frightening. But I was on hand to calm and reassure
him. "Where's mum?" he asked. Oh boy. The error of my ways... catching up to
me.

It was a burden to remind him of the happenings of the previous night. He
finally dressed. Under dawn light, we left Hindley Street (in Tom's car) and
headed for the splendour of Douche-Ampere's mansion. "So what's it like over
there?" I asked. "I mean... who else is around?"

"O," he half-snickered, "you'll see!"

Great!

Brad was in the back seat, asleep. He'd had a pancake or two, but nothing
more. Hopefully there'd be some good food.


II.
After having a bit more to eat, we were escorted by a nameless youth into a
bedroom. There were two single beds, a reproduction or two on the wall, plus
a window with Venetian blinds. It was morning, in all its rosy-fingered
glory. I led him into his bed, then I briefly changed into the aptly
coloured (red) boxers Mr D-A had provided. There was no sign of Tom, no sign
of the young man who had directed us into the chamber.

So there I lay in my own bed. The room had that certain feel... not a place
where you live, but a place that you visit. It was not richly decorated; it
was clean, however. There was some sort of quiet, but not an absolute kind.
I could hear Brad breathing and mumbling in his juvenile sleep, but I could
also hear the grand house waking for another day. At random intervals,
someone or a few would pass by our door, sometimes chortling in animated
hurry.

About forty minutes later, when I had given falling asleep the greatest
chance possible, I got up and put a smooth red kimono from the cupboard. I
glanced at le petit tresor and walked out into the lushly carpeted hallway,
taking great care that the sound of the door closing be as slight as
possible.

I found my way to a round stairwell, with frosted windows on one side. Down
I go. I arrived on one level, but found that there was another below. When
there was nowhere to go, I got off. It was the basement. The hallway was
almost identical to the one above and the one above that (where sweet Lolito
slept).

I walked along, the sound of boys playing growing louder. Add to this the
sound of water splashing and the increasingly strong smell of pool chlorine.
I opened a door marked Nautilus. Bingo. Four or five boys... happily
playing. There was even a beach-ball: all the colours of the rainbow.
Whoever had decided to give them skin coloured, semi-see-through swimwear
had an uncanny sense of humour.

When they saw me, a whispering circle formed. "Who are you, then?" asked a
cocky lad, about fifteen. I just stood there. "C'mon, don't be rude!" he
insisted. "Join us!"

"Yeah, come in," another said.

O, I would love to dive amongst your golden hair and gorgeous skin. But no.
Another time. I walked on.

A few doors down, the sound of swimming was replaced by the sound of
Tchaikovsky. Wispy shirtless Bolshoyviks... twirling carelessly. We had the
same conversation that I'd had with the swimmer-boys. Queer and queerer!

Now what would lie behind the third door I chose to open? Was I game to
look? I mean, sure... Lolito was grand, Lolito was wonderful... but a room
with five Brads playing, carefree and happy... now that's orgasmic!

La terza porta: "Peter Pan Unlimited": a stage production. Rehearsals.
There's P.P. in a green G-string... not a hair on his hairless body. Again the
youths talking. Talking about how they'd stage this stage spectacular.
Possibly in stages? There was a clever-looking boy with spectacles... no
doubt the director. I could feel an inexplicable heat—perhaps a kind of lust
fire—developing within me. I shuffled out into the hallway again.

My quest continued, eventually ending in a large salon. It was classic, even
sterile, in ambiance. Rather uncomfortable felt I. I musta been lookin' too
closely a' a paintin', or touchin' the alabaster buttocks of an imitation
boy nude... 'cause a soldier (or at least, a fit man in a soldier uniform)
came out and addressed me in a vocative voice.

Naturally I was a bit scared. A bit scared was I, naturally. He told me: "Mr
D-A will see you soon. I strongly... suggest you return..." How can anyone
resist such direct instruction? Scurry back, turn knob, enter. Lolito's bed
empty; Brad in the shower. Now Peter in shower. Two guys showering, wiping
water-beads from eyes. They kiss. The scene makes me horny. I don't know
why... I can't put my finger on it. If I could, maybe I'd put my hand....
Two guys in a steamy shower: pulp erotica!

"The soap here smells so delicious," Brad remarked.

I giggled. "Don't eat it though," I warned jokingly. "Eat this!" I said,
hinting at the obvious.

"Okay," he agreed. Then he knelt and did the obvious.


III.
There he was, the man who'd purchased lunch for us at Noarlunga. He was
well-hung—in the chin area. His designer glasses and his attire—a cross
between suit and golf gear—made him very distinctive. Mr D-A, the big daddy
of this creche for runaway boys was very comely, in a way. He let us (me and
Brad) know the rules of the house. What was im/possible, what Netherland
Ranch was for him, and the fact that we'd have to be hush-hush for a while.

In exchange for our company and presence ("in all polymorphic its
splendour") he would give us lodgings, food and the comfort of being
surrounded by like-minded individuals. There was even a bonus now and then:
a trip interstate or overseas with one of his many acquaintances. "However,"
he said, "that's rare. In most cases, those jobs go to AF members." So the
Adonis Foundation was a front to an organisation that didn't dare speak its
name. It was all a numbers game, really. "Think of your stay with me as a
scholarship," and he smiled dryly.

On the way out, twelve-year-old Brad asked, "What's a scholarship?"


IV.
At precisely (a clock calibrated with an atomic time-keeping device via the
Internet) 6:30PM dinner was served in the Mess Room, called The Trough by
some of the boys we'd gotten to know throughout the arvo. About thirty guys,
and I think I must have ranked in the senior league. In fact, 17... I soon
guessed that Mr D-A was only housing me here out of sympathy... perhaps he
had a certain playful attachment ever since our encounter that night at the
Adonis Foundation. Speculation is a dirty word.

The room was almost overbearingly warm. The food was all the same.
Standardised servings. Uniforms too: a blue singlet, revealing teenage arms
and parts of torsos. Then tennis shorts. Barefoot was encouraged, but white
Nikes were accepted.

Handing out food, or ensuring order, were more of those uniformed men. About
five or so. What a contrast between them and us. Brad and I ate our meal,
then decided to make out. The swarm of half-exposed boyabdomens didn't
distract or embarrass him. I was happy. What a fabulous way to end a meal.
We even ignored the looks of distress from the other boys.


V.
After dinner, we were given some time to freshen up in our bedrooms. Then a
bell sounded—much like school—and we were told, via PA, to assemble in the
room with the door marked O-R-G. Again the uniforms.

Once quiet had been established, Mr D-A entered the O-R-G room. He briefly
looked amongst us. Then he nodded from whence he'd come, and out came six
men, each 40+. Their eyes wanted to dart madly across our lithe bodies on
the one hand, and stare down at us as worthless pieces of meat on the other.
So their vision was caught in between, playing ego ping-ping.

The septet whispered inaudibly. They drew lots. First Mr Red went through
and tied a red ribbon around three specimens he considered worthy of his
pa$$ion. Mr Orange followed, tying you-guessed-it-coloured bands around.
There were no Messrs Indigo or Violet. Rather, there was Mr Pink. He came
over to me, looked over, then raised his nose. He looked at Brad, and again,
and for the third time. He tied the pink ribbon around the boy's left arm.
He had two ribbons left, but didn't bother using them.

One of the uniformed guys then told us to leave and the tagged boys to stay.
My agony, as I realised I'd be surrendering my boy was unspeakable. I looked
longingly toward him, but was discouraged from doing so. I headed back to
our room, where I lay on my bed. I even went over to sniff his. His firm
little butt must have kissed the covers.

When I had exhausted all possible distractions, I left the room and found my
way to a `chill-out zone'. A TV, a few couches, a place to make a Milo
drink: even the odd boys' mag: as wholesome as a suburban kitchen, really. I
sat down on the couch watching Cartoon Network, with its archaic animation.
Perhaps Snuggle Puss would get my mind off Brad and what that despotic old
man was doing to him.

But as is oft the case, along came a boy to keep me company. "Hi," he said.
I looked at him, trying to smile. "You're new, right?" Aha. "I'm Justin."

"Peter." Extend hand.

"You're here with that other new kid... Brendan or something..."

"Brad," I corrected him.

"That's it," he smiled. "He seems cool." Don't rub it in, for God's sake.
Torment me not. "You're cute too," he told me.

"Gee, thanks!" I smiled, my spirits b(u)oyed slightly. "How--how old are
you?"

"Fifteen in fifteen days!" he smiled. "You?"

"Seventeen." We got talking. He was a nice enough lad. Nothing special. Not
a Lolito. Well, maybe he had been three years ago... who's to say? I finally
got to my point: "What's going on here, Justin?" He nodded a bit confusedly.
"I mean, all these boys... the big house... the--the sex. I mean, how did
you end up here?"

"My mother and father sent me here," he said. "Sort of like a summer camp.
'It will teach you right from wrong,' they said."

One comic burst at the absurdity. "And..." I said, "is it working?"

"I think so," he replied. It was then I heard him clearly enough so as to
discern his being English. "But it's not just me. A lot for parents do it.
Like, most of the guys I know... their mums and dads did the same."

"But... I mean, do you... enjoy it?"

He loosened up all of a sudden. "Why dahling. I'm English. Being buggered up
the arse by greybeards is almost benign. Here, have some Earl Grey," he
suggested. I did. "But as to you... what on Earth brought you here?" I
commenced to narrate him my story. He asked for a compressed version. I
delivered. "Okay, stop," he said. "Come to my room: we'll shag." He saw me
hesitating. "O relax. Those geries won't be done till the dawn. As to your
boyfriend... well, just be thankful you're not him!"


VI.
We had fooled around on his bed; we looked at each other naked, me lying on
the bed. "Okay, turn 'round," Justin urged me.

"Wait, wait, wait!" I begged.

"What for?" Justin asked.

A third voice followed: "The bro's never been fucked!" and he laughed. It
was Mr Afro-American. By his voice, he was a old as me. "Well man," he
continued, "you're lucky today." The two laughed.

Justin: "Just wait till you get Seth's U-boat in you."

Seth: "Yeah dude. You'll be screaming like my gran'ma."

I decided rather quickly that I did not wish for this to happen. I moved
from the bed (or tried to). "Shit," Justin yelled, "come in lads!" Through
the door poured about ten boys. They overpowered me. "Get the ropes," Justin
cried, his icy accent hyper-Britannic.

They tied me onto the bed, my arse toward the ceiling. I tried to scream,
but the bandanna in my mouth made this ineffective. They made sure to
provide me a pillow. Then Justin addressed the boys. "Well friends. We have
been doormats for too long. Tonight you'll get to do the opposite!" Mild
exuberance ricocheted through the chamber. And to prove it, he slapped my
rear end.

"I want a go," a nameless boy said. Justin let him.

After they had their turn at abusing me on a superficial level, Seth was
impatient. "I want in," he said.

"He's not wet enough," Justin observed. So he got one of the boys to
lingually ensure I was. I protested as much as I could, moving my body and
thrusting. But in the end, he was in my end. It felt strange. Perhaps under
different circumstances I might have enjoyed it. Perhaps even then I enjoyed
it. I could feel Seth's young black skin glide along and inside me. I could
feel his body quiver in packets of pleasure. He shot in me: that was the
most foreign feeling. "Good job," Justin said.

"Let it be me now," deeper voice said. And it was.

Some bright kid ran away and returned. Moments later I could feel something
hot dripping on my back. The sharp feeling migrated to my buttocks. There
was a knock on the door. "Bugger!" Justin exclaimed.

"Fuck dude!" Seth said.

One of those guys, in uniform, came to my rescue. He pushed all the kids
away. He untied me and turned me over. He looked into my eyes as they
closed.


VII.
Midday sunshine bled through the window. Slowly, I woke. I read the note by
my bedside. "Good day. You have rectal bleeding. Brad is fine. You will be
fine. Ring the bell for attention."

I examined my body as best I could. My neck was a little stiff. I didn't
even want to look down below. I rang the bell. In came my rescuer. He had a
strained smile. He brushed my hair. "Yu slip okey?" I signalled that I had.
"I am sorri abaut last nite. Those bed boys... I stopt them as soon as I
could."

"It's okay," I creakily whispered.

"You want water?"

"Yeah," and I thanked him. "Thanks for last night, too..."

"Is okey... what friends for, eh?" (insert comforting Scandinavian smile).

"I'm Peter," I said, realising my rudeness.

"I know. Me Ingmar."

He told me he had arranged our escape from the boyfortress. We went through
the details. He awkwardly let me know that I could press charges against Mr
Douche-Ampere for neglect. Not to mention the delicate legal/moral issue of
the boys.


VIII.
In Mr D-A's office, the air was stiff. He stared at me and in a cold,
metallic voice he said: "I knew you'd be trouble." From a side-door came
Tom. "I hope you realise you cost your friend his employment." From the same
door came black-eyed Brad. "Here's your puppy. Take good care of it." I
looked at the eye. Mr D-A continued: "It's nothing. Tell his mother he fell
over."

My urge to punch the old geezer was only quelled by the overpowering
presence of four guards: Ingmar's former bedfellows.

"Before I grant you freedom," D-A sternly stated, "you'll have to do me a
favour." Okay...? we looked at other. "I will time how quickly it takes you
four to get naked and orally climax each other." Look around at each
other... look a bit more. "Now! Do it!" Incentive in the form of Nazi-chic
guys with menacing bashing-implements. "Circular... circular boys!"


IX.
Tom at the wheel. Ingmar beside him. I behind him. Brad beside me. Speeding
car. Speeding away from the crazy compound. "We'll have to return the car
soon," Tom said.

"Is okay. With all this money... we buy more cars," said Ingmar.

Brad: "So that's what settlements are!"

"Give me some Coke," Tom urged. "I can't wait--" he sipped "--to see Alex's
face!"

"Wait guys," I said loudly. "Now remember the deal. Twenty thousand each, if
we shut up. Got that? Shut up, shut up, shut up."

"What will you do with yours, Ingy?" Tom asked.

"I wanna ride through Ad'laide in a black limousine."

"I'm gonna go to Maccas," Brad said childishly, "and buy one of every single
thing they have... even the salad!"

"What about you, Peter?" Tom asked.

"I don't know. I guess mum will make me pay for uni."

After relative silence, Brad suddenly suggested: "When we get home... can we
do that again?"

Ingmar: "What?"

"You know... four of us..."

But my little Lolito. Art thou not mine? Dost thy heart beat for more than
mine? All the unborn hours and days betwixt us have been aborted.


X.
Alex, aka Miss Phigg: "Omigod. Where the phuck have youz been? And who's
this...?" he said, almost thrusting himself on the gorgeous Swedish tourist.

"I--am--Ingmar."

Alex: "You shoulda seen the TV. Some kid went missing from a beach down
south. They had the bitch mother crying as if her pussy was on fire. Quite
funny!"

Guilt infested me. I had to lie down. From the couch, I saw Brad on the
phone. I got up and ran over to try and stop him. But too late. Ingy, using
his strongman training, easily kept me away. Brad told them where we were.
It was all over.

"Fuck!" I said. "We gotta go! We're fucked if we stay here. Tom, Ingmar...
are you... do you realise... I mean, jail...!"

Alex then said: "Well, don't look at me. I've done nothing wrong. I ain't no
paedophile! Plus, I have a show tonight."

Ingmar suggested we follow him around Australia. He'd come here as a
backpacker but found work... and had hardly seen the country. "I want the
outback. Now we have money... let's do it."

Whilst standing at the door, I yelled to Brad, begging him to understand me:
"Brad... are you coming? Will you be with me? Come on, the police are
coming... we need to go! Please!"

The boy didn't say a word. He looked through me. It was up to Ingmar to drag
me away. When we were on the street, entering the car, I looked up. Lolito
blew me one brisk kiss.

Tom's car sped off.

"What's... happened? What's happening... Ingmar? Why's he not with us...
with me? I thought he... he..."

Tom: "Those guys screwed him up pretty bad. Leave the poor boy alone. Be
happy for him."

I threw up all over the back seat. Naturally, Tom was not happy.

We arrived at Prestige Auto Hire. We soon left. "Can you drive long car?"
asked Ingmar.

"Yes..." Tom said.


XI.
"A boy missing from Adelaide's southern suburbs was found today in Hindley
Street. Despite a black eye and other injuries, he is in a good condition.
His parents have been charged on numerous accounts, including gross neglect
and sexual abuse. The Minister for Children and Youth has initiated a
thorough investigation..." quoth the limo radio.


XII.
We had been travelling northward for three and a half days. We slept in the
limousine. We consumed alcohol. We had sex. Anything to take my mind off
Lolito, the little traitor/heartbreaker/terminator. Ingmar was rather well
endowed, but respected my posterior enough not to let himself mate me: even
though I often begged it of him.

"We're headed for Uluru!" Tom said.

"What about Ayers Rock?" Ingy asked.

I explained that both names referred to the same monolith; one was
indigenous, the other Anglo.

It was around one hour before sunset that we turned and saw poking above a
brooding horizon the tip of the rock formation. Massive clouds were
marshalling about the sky, tinging the earth below into many shades. The
colour of Uluru changed accordingly. But over everything hung a heavy
malaise: as if the atmosphere was buckling under its own sadness. In odd
places swords of light made it through. There were raindrops lazily swept
from the windscreen and deformed along the tinted window.

"I see it! There it is!" Ingmar exclaimed.

I had been expecting more tourist buses than zero. The closer we got, the
greener the sky got. Then it became purple. It oscillated between these two
colours. The monolith was mesmerising. It was hypnotising. As if it shot
energy directly to my soul. I could feel vibrations along my spine.

The hair on my arms pricked to excitement. Then a flash of light. Another. A
third. In between the first and last, there was time for Tom to yell out
"Fuck" and for our long vehicle to swerve to a halt. "Three lightning bolts,
up front, in the same fucken place!"

By now the sky and air were dark. The red earth seemed to seethe with
hatred. We were back on the road. We attempted to talk--if only to break the
tension. "I want to get to Ayers Rock!" Ingy demanded.

We were cruising along timidly. There was a massive thud and the limousine
once again skidded to a stop. I had felt something beneath the car.

"Fuck!" Tom said. "We ran over a kangaroo or some shit."

"Wow. That's exciting."

But when I looked out the window, I saw a grieving mother unicorn. She
seemed to look at as with disbelief.

"You ran over a unicorn, you prick. A baby one. What did it ever do to you?"
I shouted. I raced out of the car to check if




FINITO LOLITO

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