

### Time to Think

Eleven Short Stories

by

### Rigby Taylor

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © Rigby Taylor

This collection of short stories is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it

are the work of the author's imagination.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Cover: Jürgen in Padua.

Contents

Spreading the Word

Time to Think

Freewill

A Misunderstanding

Useless Things

I Arrived a Week Early

A Devilishly Clever Trick

Respectability

The Singing Cup

A Healthy Mind n a Healthy Body

Cupid's Dart

Other Books by Rigby Taylor

About the Author

Contact the Author

# Spreading the Word

Sebastian gazed irritably from the verandah into the sun filled garden. As usual a zillion thoughts had jostled aside his attempts to attain a state of Zen-like meditation. With an impatient sigh he sat up, dusted a few crumbs from the divan, rearranged the pillows, then lay back with his hands at his side. Yogic breathing—that would do the trick. He managed to hold his mind still for at least three seconds before a large spider constructing an intricate web among the rafters caught his attention. He was already on his feet to get a broom when he remembered, and slumped back.

'Your tendons will never repair if you're always on the go,' the slim young doctor had snapped only an hour before. 'Why can't you just lie back and relax?'

'Because it's not my nature,' Sebastian had answered with a fetching sigh. 'Now if you were to massage me...?'

'And risk Reginald's wrath? Not bloody likely.'

'Wouldn't it be worth a broken arm?' Sebastian grinned.

'Not even you are worth that, Sebastian. Shut up and let the soporific sounds of nature lull you to somnolence.'

But Sebastian couldn't.

Time plodded.

He began to fidget.

Struggled to his feet and leaned over the balcony rail. Turned and smiled at his reflection in the lounge-room windows, then returned to the divan that Reggie had dragged out onto the verandah, and arranged himself in an artistic pose. Not much fun when there was no one to admire the result. Where was Reggie?

The whine of a vehicle crawling up the steep drive sounded promising. Raising himself on an elbow he watched an iridescent blue car turn in under the trees and fall silent. The humid air throbbed to the raucous stridor of a million cicadas.

'Reggie,' he called to a rustle in the shrubbery, 'we have visitors. Stop massacring those plants and make them welcome.'

A few minutes later, his virility artlessly accentuated by torn-off jeans, heavy work boots and bare chest, Reginald was trailed onto the verandah by a middle-aged, portly gentleman in a wide-brimmed straw hat, grey suit, white shirt and dark tie. Scarlet and white trainers on tiny feet rendered the vision ridiculous rather than eccentric. Panting audibly, the man gazed back towards his car and dabbed his forehead with a large, damp handkerchief.

Fallen arches, Sebastian surmised, wondering what surprises were in the briefcase the fellow was clutching to his sweaty bosom.

The flat-footed man's companion mounted the steps.

Sebastian sucked in his stomach, arched his neck ever so slightly and beamed a winning smile at the dark, slim, handsome and hatless youth in white cotton slacks and open-necked shirt, whose sun-dazzled eyes were blind to the apparition in deep shadow at the rear of the verandah.

Reginald waved the guests to low wicker chairs. Before they could sit, however, a discreet cough from the shadows made them jump and peer into the gloom where a young man sprawled elegantly. A tiny wisp of silk covering his groin, fluttered in the light breeze like a turquoise butterfly impatient to escape. As an ornament to accentuate the golden hue of Sebastian's satiny skin it was perfect. As a garment to conceal his manhood it failed exquisitely.

'Lovely weather,' Sebastian murmured, lavishing a seductive smile on the startled youth. 'How thoughtful of you to visit us. Forgive my not rising to greet you, but I have a gammy leg. Are you lost? Tourists? Selling something?'

'No... no... we're...' Apparently mesmerised by his host's groin the young man's voice faded to a whisper.

'We're not selling anything—we're giving it away!' flatfoot interrupted, eyes studiously avoiding the piece of anatomy from which his companion seemed unable to drag his gaze.

'Why? Isn't it any good?' Sebastian's smile was innocent.

'On the contrary! It is the greatest gift ever offered to mankind.'

'My mother told me never to accept gifts from older men,' Reggie growled. 'They always want something in exchange.' He gestured impatiently. 'Please! Sit down, both of you.'

The youth failed to conceal a grin and dropped gracefully onto the soft cushions of the low chair.

The older man lowered himself suspiciously into his, coughed twice, stood up and gazed around as if checking the exits, appeared satisfied, sat again heavily, clutched his briefcase to his chest, stared fixedly at Reginald and announced, 'I am referring to the gift of joy one experiences when one truly knows and lives with God.'

'That must be you,' burbled Sebastian to the handsome adolescent. 'You're like a young god.'

'No... No I'm only William.'

'Well, Only William, I'm Sebastian and this is Reggie. Do you live with God, William?'

'Yes... No... I mean... yes but... I live with Dad.' He nodded towards the older man.

'Your mother must be exceptionally good looking.'

'Why?'

'You bear no resemblance to your father.'

William had time to flash a smile before succumbing to an apparently serious cough.

'My name is Henry Shatter,' the homely and sweating father announced brusquely, 'and we are here to offer you everlasting happiness.'

'How nice of you, Henry.'

'Now, let's see if I've understood everything,' Sebastian said with a frown of concentration when Henry finally stopped talking. 'When God's sick of watching us muck everything up, he'll let us live in peace, love, health and harmony with everyone and everything for ever and ever... as long as we belong to your gang.'

'It's not a gang—it's a congregation. But...yes.'

'Imagine, Reggie, you and me—lovers for eternity.'

Reginald's expression was enigmatic.

Henry turned an unattractive shade of grey. 'No, no! There will be none of that!'

'What?'

'Sodom and Gomorrah!'

'Blessed if I know them.'

'Cities of evil punished by God!'

Sebastian leaned forward and patted the old man's knee. 'No worries, Henry, we're not evil. You'd be hard put to find anyone more law-abiding and honest than us. Isn't that so, Reggie?'

Reginald rumbled assent.

'You may be honest and law-abiding, but you've just admitted you are a homosexual!' Henry paused and pulled a face that suggested merely saying the word had somehow polluted his throat. 'It is against God's law.'

'So god hates us?'

'No! He loves you but hates your actions.'

'Goodness! Then why did he make us like this?'

'To test you. To see if you could overcome your affliction and be worthy of his love.'

'I don't feel afflicted.'

'God sends troubles to test our worth.'

'Like plagues, pestilence, war and death?' Sebastian smiled brightly.

'Yes.'

Sebastian's smile dissolved into a frown. 'Are you sure he's a loving god, Henry? Maiming, laming, murdering and spreading dread-diseases—just to test us? To see if we are worthy of his love?'

'Well....'

'Did you hear that, Reggie. God sits up in heaven organising his own snuff-movies.' Sebastian turned to a drop-jawed William. 'Doesn't it strike you as the teeniest little bit perverted, Only-William?'

'I... don't think it is meant to be...'

'We are not here to question God's works!' thundered Henry. 'The bible says that homosexuals may never go to heaven.'

'Homosexual is an adjective, not a noun, Henry, and it carries such a lot of baggage. Reggie and I are same-sex-oriented men.' He smiled winningly. 'And remarkably fine specimens—don't you think?' He stretched and the wisp of blue silk trembled precariously. 'Also, Henry, a statement that begins 'All homosexuals...' will be both false and meaningless.'

'It won't.'

'No? Are you the same as all heterosexual men?'

'Of course I am!'

'Most murderers and child molesters are heterosexual.'

'Well... yes.'

'That one word, heterosexual. Does it adequately describe you, Henry Shatter?'

'I repeat, God hates the sin, but loves the sinner.'

'Parried like a politician. So, you love me, but hate what you think I do?'

'Yes.'

'What do I do?'

'All homosexuals are unhappy because they reject god's love, subvert young boys into their foul practices, undermine family values, indulge in promiscuous sex with multiple partners like... like dogs!' Henry glared at his silent hosts, paused indecisively, then, drawing strength from faces which were the picture of concentrated interest and credulity, He dared the final lunge—'and then God punishes them with AIDS.'

An appreciative silence, then....

'Does that describe us, Reggie?'

'Nope! Always preferred it from the front, myself. Never cared for the 'doggy' position. Like to see who's doing what to whom.'

A thoughtful silence followed this revelation.

'You will never attain eternal life and happiness unless you renounce your evil ways and beg God's forgiveness,' Henry asserted with only slightly less conviction.

'Oh, Reggie, we can't go to heaven, 'Sebastian wailed, whipping off the tiny bit of silk and dabbing at his eyes. 'It's unfair, Henry. You must have misunderstood God's intentions.'

Henry shrivelled back into his seat. William slithered forward.

'Cover yourself!' Henry ordered. 'God hates perverts!'

'Oh, but so do I! We only indulge in good clean fun, don't we, Reggie?'

'Sexual congress with another man is unnatural!'

'It's perfectly natural for me! Don't forget Christians were stoning left-handed people not so long ago and burning women who spoke in church.'

'Sex between men is wrong!'

'Poor Henry. You're obsessed with sex! Don't you know the Bible has no sexual ethic? But it does have a 'love' ethic. What do you mean when you say you 'love' me, Henry?'

'I love you as Jesus loves—in purity.'

'According to Luke, Jesus told us 'to judge for ourselves what is right.'

'You think that you, a sinner, can ever know God's intentions?'

'Know thy enemy, Henry.'

'God's purpose for sexual union is children.'

'Is William your youngest?'

'Yes.'

Sebastian turned his brilliant smile on William. 'How old are you, William?'

'Nineteen.'

'Then, Henry,' gasped Sebastian in horror, 'you haven't had sex for over nineteen years! Poor darling!'

Henry's eyes glazed. 'William! We are going.'

'But, you can't go! You came to save us!'

'You must want to be saved.'

'I do!' cried Sebastian, leaping up. 'I do! I do!'

Henry struggled to his feet.

'I insist you save me,' ordered Sebastian petulantly, placing both hands on Henry's shoulders and pressing him firmly back into the chair. 'Especially since you have accepted our hospitality.'

Positioned directly in front of the older man, hands on slim, evenly bronzed hips, Sebastian stared sorrowfully at the averted eyes of his guest. 'Do you realise, Henry, that hundreds of people regularly pay a great deal of money to see me like this, and you are turning away your gaze? What on earth's the matter with you? Don't you like God's handiwork?'

'You have sold yourself to the devil and are perverting God's plan. A good man would cover his unclean parts.'

'Speak for yourself! I showered minutes before you arrived. You despise God's handiwork and are obsessed by sex, whereas I am content with the life God gave me.'

'You twist my meaning. God doesn't hate you, he hates your actions.'

'I am my actions, just as you are yours.'

'No! You can be changed. You can become like me, pure in mind and body.'

'Quite frankly, the offer doesn't appeal. I think I enjoy this world rather more than you, and certainly do less harm to my fellow men.'

'How dare you!'

'How dare you? Your assertion that my life is evil, is an attempt to destroy my self-respect, contentment and love of life!'

Sebastian's voice had attained the cutting edge of a practiced tub-thumper. In vain did Henry plug his ears. 'Everyone is different, Henry. You surely didn't choose to be a creepy fat maggot. Reggie didn't choose to be a gorgeous hunk, and William was born cute, curious and lively. Unless you accept people as they are you are doomed to die as you live - a moral and mental cripple.'

Sebastian paused for effect, threw himself onto the divan in a pose evoking Michelangelo's Adam receiving the gift of life, and beamed a winning smile. 'No offence, Henry, but I hope you rot in hell for a thousand years for every young man who kills himself because of your mind-poisoning lies and malignant dissemination of guilt.' He sighed sorrowfully into the ensuing silence and, with a sensuous stroke of flanks and a fluttering of lashes at William, threw back his head, the better to expose a fine neck.

Henry, as thick-skinned as the next salesman, took up the gauntlet. 'Guilt is it? The guilt is in wrong action! I point out the action to allow the sinner to meet God!'

'Let God tell me himself.'

'I am his messenger.'

'If God is infinitely smart, then he would choose someone infinitely more attractive than you as his messenger.'

'St. Paul, in his letters to the Romans...'

'According to Gore Vidal, St Paul was bonking Timothy and, preferring his young men cut, had him circumcised. A dangerous operation at that age. He made him Bishop of Antioch as a reward. No! Don't interrupt!'

Henry subsided in horror as his inquisitor stood again and leaned over him.

'Even you, Henry, must know that the Bible's a tendentious translation from Greek and Hebrew texts. The word homosexuality was invented in the nineteen-fifties. Prurient pastors, no longer able to rail against women and other races, turned their persecutory talents to sexual orientation, rendering millions miserable and causing thousands of suicides.'

With a supreme effort Henry surged forward knocking Sebastian back onto the divan, grabbed his son's wrist and hauled him down the steps and along the leaf-strewn path to his car.

'Oh well, can't convert 'em all,' sighed Sebastian philosophically. 'Pity about William, though.'

'Henry was in such a rush to escape contamination he left his briefcase,' Reginald observed with a quiet grin.

William ran back and, smiling shyly, bravely faced Sebastian who was standing at the bottom of the steps with the briefcase.

'One day you may want to talk to someone,' Sebastian murmured, slipping a card into William's hand. 'That's our address and phone number. We'd be delighted to see you—any time at all.'

William took the briefcase and lightly brushed his host's fingers before racing back to God's messenger of mercy and grace.

*****

Contents

# Time to Think

Bearing an unnerving resemblance to one of Henry Moore's gargantuan sculptures, my visitor sprawled gracelessly in the cane chair on the verandah, and farted loudly.

As I could think of no suitable reply, the already lengthy silence lengthened further and I was beginning to wonder if his essential self had drifted away, when with a grunt and a shudder he yawned himself back to the present, hauled up his shirt, scratched sluggishly at an alarmingly distended, hairy white belly and declared, 'You're lucky to be retired.'

'Why?' I sighed, wondering if the great lump was ever going to go. Where was Jon when I needed him? He'd get rid of the flatulent fool.

'All that time to yourself. Doing whatever you want. No deadlines. No pressure to conform. No false expectations...'

'Is that so?'

'How long have you been retired?'

'Seven years.'

'And you're...what? Sixty?

'Sixty-nine.'

'Looking years younger. And do you know why?'

'Enlighten me.'

'Because your life is free of stress.'

'It was until today,' I muttered darkly.

'I read about it on line,' he pontificated. 'Stress is ageing. Do you agree?'

I nodded in theatrical resignation and added, 'Time is ageing. Boredom is ageing. Being with stupid people is ageing.'

He smiled and nodded, pleased with his insight. I was clearly being too subtle.

'You sound unhappy,' he announced cheerfully. 'Your sister said you were. She experienced one of her amazing premonitions and became aware that you're in some sort of trouble. That's why she asked me to pop in and cheer you up.'

'That is indeed amazing!'

'Sure is. Although I can't for the life of me see why you should be miserable; retirement is every man's dream.'

I smiled sadly. If my sister wanted me to be miserable, then miserable I would be. With a suitably tragic shake of the head I gazed at my fingers – stained from pinching out tomato shoots. 'Maybe it's a dream for others,' I began softly, 'but for me, retirement is one long nightmare.' Quelling the urge to drag the back of my hand across my tragically furrowed brow, I settled for a despondent sniff and shake of the head.

The visitor heaved himself upright, ears pricked.

'You have no idea what has happened to me.' I whispered. Neither did I, so I gained time by sighing dramatically while gazing soulfully at the trees.

Perched eagerly on the front of his chair he was almost panting in excitement.

'The trouble with being free of all those things you mentioned, is that it leaves me free to think.'

'But... thinking is good – isn't it?'

'Thinking too much is dangerous! You enter a metaphysical maze of insoluble questions such as: Who am I? What am I? Why am I? Where am I?'

'Serious stuff,' he acknowledged with a self-important nod.

As that was the extent of his contribution, and the sound of my own voice seemed preferable to another prolonged silence, I decided to elaborate on my newfound theory. 'While actively engaged in my career,' I began solemnly, 'pitting my wits against competitors – interacting, planning, preparing and anticipating, I knew exactly who and what I was by observing other people's reactions to me. The why was equally straightforward—to get a better car and house, take holidays, pay off loans and so on. However, now I no longer go to work, and have everything I need, the 'mirror' of other people's reactions is no longer available. I'm forced to seek inside myself for proof of my existence and to discover why I am here!'

'But you've got Jon—surely he's your 'mirror', as you call it?'

'He should be, but after forty-five years together our reactions to each other are more predictable than our reactions to ourselves. We've reflected each other for so long that sometimes I'm not sure whether I'm talking to Jon or myself. Don't you find that with your wife? You do have a wife...?'

A protracted sigh. 'Twenty-one years. It seems much longer. We don't talk much. Sometimes we hardly see each other from one week's end to the next. Margaret's always out doing something or other. Or I am. We're social butterflies,' he added with a satisfied smirk.

I suppressed a smile. A social hippopotamus? Yes. Butterfly? No. 'Anyway,' I continued when the desire to laugh had abated, 'thinking has led me to some extremely depressing conclusions.'

'Such as?'

'Well... I imagined that as I grew older I would eventually become the sum of my past actions. If I had a string of successes, did the requisite number of good works and produced a few things of worth, then in my retirement I could relax; swathed in the 'laurels' of my achievements. Contentedly encased in the cocoon of past deeds, so to speak.' I paused for effect before almost shouting, 'But it's not like that at all!'

He jumped visibly. 'It isn't?'

'No! I've discovered that we are not a collection of our past successes; not even those of yesterday. We are simply the person we are at the time of thinking about it. Our character and worth are defined by our most recent actions, thoughts and words. Whatever we have done in the past is irrelevant! We have to proclaim ourselves anew every second of our existence, and...' my voice shrank to a whisper, 'and I'm too... too tired to continue.'

'It certainly sounds exhausting. But the people who knew you before you retired; they know your worth?'

'It doesn't work like that.'

'Oh. Doesn't it?'

'You said you're the manager of a trucking company?'

He nodded. 'Yes. Yes I am.'

'Try making a mistake at work on Monday and see who isn't ready to pronounce you no longer capable of running the show. Even after twenty years—or whatever it is you've given them—of faultless service.'

'You're right. Horrible thought.' His gaze drifted from belly to wristwatch, and my spirits rose, only to be dashed as he flicked a wad of lint from his navel and settled back.

Increasingly desperate to get rid of the great lump, I pulled an anguished face and elaborated. 'The inevitable result of dwelling on the past is to slowly lose your mind. While I was a busy little bee with no time to mope, I told myself I was having a wonderful life. Everything that happened was for the best, in the best of all possible worlds—to paraphrase Dr Pangloss.'

'Dr who?' he interjected

'No, Dr Pangloss,' I repeated as if to a slow pupil.

'I mean who's Dr whatshisnamegloss?'

'A character in a story by Voltaire. It doesn't matter. Stop interrupting!'

'Sorry.'

'In other words,' I continued irritably, 'If the bad things didn't happen, then neither would the good, so the bad things are even more important than the good, because they're the catalyst for good.'

'Sounds sensible.'

'Don't be ridiculous! It's a load of crap! To convince myself that my life was a bed of thornless roses I simply blanked out the bad bits—pretending they never happened, or had been good for me. Stiffening the backbone, character-building...'

'Well, surely that's true?'

'Life's normal hardships prevent us becoming soft, but when the nastiness comes from other people. When it is irrational. When it destroys pleasure in living and forces you to behave in ways that are unnatural, then it is evil!'

'Golly. Did that happen to you?'

'Yes! When looking back on my early life I shudder. Puberty arrived at the age of eleven—two years before my peers. I was the smallest kid in class with over-developed hairy genitals and a moustache. That was traumatic, especially with a mother who railed against her god for giving her hairy legs. Then at high school a group of older slobs, sensing I was different, singled me out for abuse. Name calling, dropping bags on my toes, things like that. Doesn't sound like much, but terrifying for someone desperate to blend in, which is why I faked interest in girls, booze, car racing, footy. Forcing myself to laugh when some dick-head got drunk and chundered all over his mate's carpet. I male-bonded like a pro. Went to all the parties, suffered the excruciating boredom of feeling up my girlfriend for hours in the back seat of a car. Anything to prove I was one of the lads.'

A pregnant silence lingered as I wondered why on earth I was telling fat guts about old stuff I thought I'd come to terms with. Because he's typical of the bastards who made your life a misery all those years, my brain whispered. Suddenly I felt a genuine anger and snarled with quiet menace, 'When I think about the appalling waste of my youth, I understand terrorists who want to hurt those who've hurt them!'

He shook his head and tutted disapproval – fuelling my outrage.

'The idiotic gang mentality of heterosexual males like you,' I snapped, 'destroys the uniqueness at the core of every human, replacing it with dreadful conformity. You guys are prepared to sacrifice independence just to be part of the group. That makes you no better than pack animals! You're like wild dogs, empty of individuality because you're frightened of rejection by your peers. I was expected to play rugby—but team sports with their conformist macho madness revolt me!'

He blinked in alarm, then stared intently at his watch.

I managed a smile. 'Time to go?'

'No, no! It's just that I can't stop admiring brilliant technology. My watch—well a chronometer actually, is so accurate that...'

I let him rave about his toy while planning my next move. I'd have to raise the drama a notch. Make him rue the day he barged in on me. If I couldn't get him to leave in the next five minutes I'd... Before I could decide what I'd do he sighed happily and returned his gaze to me.

I leaned forward, gazed soulfully into eyes that stared dully back, and in sepulchral tones continued my tale of woe.

'Fear of other people led me to deny the existence of the strongest of my natural urges.'

He blinked stupidly.

'At twenty-two, instead of enjoying my sexual peak I was a sexual cripple. Masturbation my sole carnal release. When I attempted sexual relations with others, no matter how attractive they were, I was impotent!'

'Not good,' he muttered. Embarrassed.

'Not good!' I screamed as if teetering on the edge of sanity. 'It needn't have been like that! Fear of homophobic harassment, violence, and worse from my fellow humans warped my brain, my behaviour, my sexual development!'

He was beginning to twitch. Sensing success I turned up the volume and howled, 'Because I've kept my problems to myself, my benighted sister has probably told you I've had an easy life. Stupid bitch. Sending you here to spy in the hope she'll discover that I'm as miserable as she is. Well you can tell her I am! Tell her I've hobbled through life like a mental cripple because, like all you heterosexual bastards, she doesn't take my forty-five years with Jon seriously! To you guys I'm still a bachelor!'

He raised a placating hand. 'No, no. You misunderstand your sister, she's a....'

'She's a self-centred cow interested only in her own pathetic life. She wasn't interested when we had to sell the house at the beach because of a gang of gay-bashing arseholes. But that's not the real problem. What really drives me crazy is the realisation that we each have only this one life—and mine's been stuffed up!'

'Everyone has regrets.'

'Perhaps,' I hissed, allowing a sly smile to linger as I reached for the sharp little knife we'd used for peeling the mangos. 'But what really makes me ready to snap is that I can't undo a single action or inaction from the past and I can't stop thinking about it—because when you're retired there's nothing else to think about, so...' I lowered my voice to a feral growl, 'I've decided someone. Has. To. Pay!'

Grinning insanely, I rose to my feet, raised the knife and with eyes fixed on his vast belly, sidled around the table towards him.

Eyes wide in terror, he heaved himself off the chair and fled.

The panicked spinning of tyres almost had him slithering his ridiculous little sports car off the edge of the drive into the trees. He just missed the gateposts. The fading roar of exhaust was replaced by the sweet scent of mimosa, the mournful wail of a catbird and the shrill cursing of a honeyeater. Across the valley the late afternoon sun was dusting the escarpment with gold. Beside the path, fairy wrens dragged down grass stems and pecked at seeds. Jon wandered down from wherever he'd been hiding.

'Has fat-guts gone then?'

'Yeah. Suddenly remembered an appointment.'

'I heard shouting.'

'Mmmm..... He became somewhat excited. I don't think he'll be back.'

'Who was he?'

'A friend of my devoutly depressed sister. She probably told him to call in as a punishment.'

'Punishment? What for?'

'She thinks it's a sin for people to be happy, especially queers—they're supposed to be in eternal torment or something. Why do miserable people want to inflict their wretchedness on the few happy ones?'

'Pass.'

'I need a drink. Is the latest batch of home brew ready?'

'Just waiting to be tasted.'

'Give us a kiss and I'll get the glasses.'

*****

Contents

# Freewill

I reckon there's no such thing as free will. We're manipulated from birth to be obedient conformists who never rock boats, take risks, or think for ourselves. It doesn't matter who you talk to, pretty soon you realise their ideas, opinions and actions are copied from videos, TV, newspapers, magazines, books... There's nothing original in their heads. People don't think—they respond to prodding. My best friend and I were always pretending we were heroes from movies or comics. All kids do and it doesn't matter. What matters is if it doesn't stop when they grow up. Adults should be independent, clear-thinking role models for kids, but instead they adopt the latest fads, buy all the crap that advertisements tell them to, and holiday in places that resemble the resorts of the rich and famous, always hoping they'll be taken for a celebrity. And old people are no better! Pathetic.

It may seem pretentious for a fifteen year-old to be so cynical, but I reckon I've earned the right because I was one of the deluded masses until a tragedy made me realise what a dangerous fool I'd become. That I'm able to write this now in my bedroom instead of a Juvenile Detention Centre dormitory is thanks to Maurice, Mum's brother. He's twenty-three; twelve years younger than Mum, eight years older than me, but although he's my uncle he never took much notice of me until last summer.

Maurice left school at fifteen to be general dogsbody for Mr Bavistok. I was seven, and when we visited them I was a bit frightened because the older man's dark, deep-set eyes made him look sort of mysterious. But he always treated me as if I was important; listening and asking my opinion on all sorts of things, so I liked him more than I was frightened. He was only thirty-eight when he died suddenly last year.

Maurice got totally depressed and moped around the place, letting it go to rack and ruin, Mum said. When we visited Maurice and saw the beautiful old place already looking derelict she got really angry and told him to stop being so selfish and snap out of it because he was only twenty-two, bloody rich now he'd inherited everything, and could have any girl he wanted. Maurice told her to shut the fuck up because she didn't know what she was talking about. Then Mum cried, so he had to apologise. She's good at that – crying.

Maurice finally got his act together, cleaned the place up and then took an extended holiday in Greece, because he's keen on Classical ruins and art, then he spent the rest of the northern summer hiking in the Balkan Mountains and lazing on the Adriatic coast. Mum and I never mentioned him at home because Dad would only sneer that Maurice must have been a very special secretary to be left a fortune after only eight years. Mum would tell him to be nice because I was Maurice's only nephew and if I played my cards right, I might inherit something eventually.

'Huh!' he'd snort, 'Pete's not like your precious Maurice!'

I had no idea what he was talking about so kept my mouth shut.

Maurice had always been my hero. Tall and sort of tough and hard. Our neighbour reckoned he looked dangerous, like a pirate with his neat black beard, heavy eyebrows and a scar down his cheek that he'd got sharpening a scythe. He did a lot of the physical work around Mr. Bavistok's estate, so he was really fit.

Anyway, I figured he'd be in need of a good friend when he got home; someone who genuinely cared if he was okay – not some sycophantic creep after his money. I didn't care about that. All I cared about was that he didn't kill himself. There'd been a lot on the News at that time about a spike in male suicides. So his good friend was going to be me! All I had to do was get him to notice me. But how? I knew nothing, and he was a world traveller. Why would he even consider being my friend? Everything I thought of seemed stupid. When the email came with his return flight details, I panicked and prepared the least insane of my plans. I calculated it had a ten percent possibility of success.

Maurice had left his Mercedes Sports for Mum to use while he was away, so we used it to pick him up. Despite being only eight o'clock it was already hot enough to put the hood down and Mum got her usual wolf whistles along with envious stares from a few guys. Even though she's thirty-five, she's still a looker. I don't know who was more excited, Mum or me when Maurice appeared through the arrivals door.

She gave him a big hug and told him he was too thin. I thought he looked perfect and envied his tan. He shook my hand as if I was a man, not a boy. His hand was hard and cool and suddenly I realised we were the same height. I'd grown more than I realised. Then he smiled at me—not the fake smile you give relations you don't care about, but one of those real smiles. It made my heart thump.

Back home, Dad grunted a greeting before shutting himself in his shed. When Mum's questions, news, tea and biscuits finally ran dry, and she hadn't been able to persuade her brother to stay with us for a few days, she sniffed her disappointment and took Dad's morning tea out to the shed.

Mum had blathered on so much I'd scarcely been allowed to speak, and Maurice would be leaving as soon as she came back inside, so I grabbed his hand and dragged him to my room.

For more than a year I'd been following a fitness program I'd found on line that was guaranteed to bulk up chest and shoulders with structured weight lifting and press-ups. Legs were strengthened by running ten kilometres a day. It was really exhausting at first, but after a week I became addicted. According to my mirror it had been pretty successful, so I hoped my plan would be too.

The bait was Maurice's interest in Classical art and sculpture. I'd practised posing in the same poses as Ancient Greek statues. All I had to do was get him into my room, close the door and... I always stopped thinking at that point. If nothing else, he'd have to finally acknowledge my existence. At the very least he'd learn we had an interest in common—Classical art.

I'd prepared the room by closing the windows and curtains, placing a low box draped with a sheet against the far wall and arranging the reading lamp so it threw a sort of spotlight onto it.

'Phew! It's like a sauna in here! And dark. Open a window.'

'No, please. I want to show you something. Take off your shirt if you're too hot. It won't take long. Just sit on the bed and watch' I removed my own shirt and tossed it into a corner.

Maurice grunted something, but didn't sound irritated; dragged his t-shirt over his head, spread it over the bed and lay on it, hands behind his head, grey eyes watching. A tiny gold medallion glinting among the short hairs of his chest, triggered a crisis of confidence—his body was much better than mine! Before I could wimp out I passed him a photo of Praxiteles' Apollo Sauroktonos and, while he was looking at it, sent my shorts to join my shirt and mounted the draped box.

Maurice frowned and sat up as if to leave. I'd blown it! Before he could stand I took up the well-practised pose. 'What do you reckon? Have I got it right?'

No response.

Hot with shame and embarrassment I prepared to jump down but Maurice held up his hand.

'No, don't move.' He got off the bed and walked around the room studying me, then with a sort of barking laugh asked, 'Where's the scrawny kid who used to live in this room?'

I'd never felt such an utter idiot. What could he be thinking? 'Shall I get down?'

'No. Hold the pose. I haven't finished comparing you yet.' He walked slowly around, looking from me to the photo, comparing, then nodded as if surprised. 'You look better than the Apollo. I've always been a bit disappointed by his wide waist. How old are you? Seventeen? Eighteen?'

'Fifteen.'

'The cusp of manhood,' he said softly. 'You look, and seem, older. Don't move.' Maurice pulled the curtains back, swung round to look at me, frowned and stood quietly staring for the longest minute of my life. Face expressionless.

Dreams of friendship faded and I began to feel more than stupid standing naked on the box, so I jumped down and slipped on my shorts. 'Should I try to become really muscled like Hermes?' I asked to break the silence.

'Definitely not! Slim athletic youth is enchanting. Heavy virile manhood merely admirable.'

He moved as if to go.

I'd failed.

At the door he turned, frowned, then asked as if he had no interest in my reply, 'Wanna spend the summer at my place?'

I choked.

'Well?'

Mum was thrilled, chattering about clean air, healthy exercise, how good it was of Maurice to take an interest in me, telling me to behave, not annoy, do as I was told, not get in the way...

Dad was his usual sour self. 'Do you really want to go?' he demanded with curled lip as if no one in their right mind would consider the offer.

'Yes!'I almost shouted.

Dad's smile was twisted. 'Play your cards right and you could become his private secretary,' he sneered, followed by his usual snort of derision as he retreated to his shed.

We purred away—hood down, spirits up.

'You must read 'The Vatican Cellars' by André Gide,' Maurice said when we stopped beside a river to eat Mum's sandwiches.

'What's it about?'

'It's a satire, ridiculing people who change their morals to suit their desires. The story revolves around Lafcadio, an exceedingly handsome young fellow with whom both men and women fall in love—or lust, and this gives him an exaggerated sense of his own worth. He's a Romanian, who, when he was the same age as you, stayed with his mother and her wealthy lover in a villa near Duino on the Adriatic coast, where they entertained a stream of guests.

'Wearing not a stitch of clothing the entire summer, because it was believed that an all-over tan was essential for both beauty and health, Lafcadio ran wild, spending his days under the pines, among rocks and creeks, or swimming or canoeing in the sea.' Maurice's smile was guileless. 'I've just spent a month in Duino... and I've decided that this summer you'll be Lafcadio!'

'But...'

'No buts!'

We raced each other back to the car and powered away. For the next half hour Maurice carefully explained his plans and my part in them. I was nervous, certain I'd fail, but incredibly excited and determined not to disappoint.

The low stone house glowed pale gold in the sunlight. Flanked by towering eucalypts and fronted by sun-slashed lawns, flowering shrubs and ornamental urns, it flickered into view between the gigantic old trees lining the drive. We pulled up in front and switched off the engine. Country peace. Bird calls, leaf rustles, insect hums were the only things that dared break the silence. With a shout of relief that nothing had changed since my last visit I threw off my clothes, raced for the lake, paddled the kayak till my arms ached, swam till I chilled, then raced back to the house where Maurice had thrown the windows wide, placed a substantial meal on the sunny end of the verandah —and hidden my clothes. While we ate he gave me my instructions. I was to have at least five hours of vigorous physical exercise every day, and three hours of mind-enlarging intellectual exercise every evening.

'Intellectual exercise?'

'That's right.'

'With you?'

'The friends I told you we always have to stay during the summer are intellectually stimulating.'

'And I'm to be part of this... this intellectually stimulating social scene... naked... day and night... like Lafcadio? Are you sure?'

'Absolutely.'

'But...'

'Be yourself '

'But...'

'You're a young Apollo, remember?'

'But...'

'Anyone who is shocked may go.'

A week later as the first guests' cars appeared on the drive I panicked and hid in the forest behind the house, watching them. They looked pleasant, chatted with Maurice and laughed a lot, and after unloading their cars went for a swim. Maurice and a couple of the younger guys skinny-dipped and no one protested, so I conquered my fear of ridicule, slipped unnoticed into the far end of the lake and swam to join them.

After sunbathing, the others put on their clothes and we wandered back up to the house. I braced myself for some comment but to my relief no one appeared to think I was doing anything strange. Instead I was complimented on my fitness and all-over tan. According to the handsome husband of a pretty blond woman who kept reciting poetry, I was a 'child of nature'.

One of the other guests—a short, fat, hairy bloke kept insisting he had been transported to Arcadia, and I was a sexy satyr. He patted my bum but I didn't mind because he was so pleasant.

During the entire seven weeks, open-mindedness, liberality, and a welcoming acceptance of difference reigned supreme. No one criticised anyone. There was no gossip, backbiting, bitching or arguments. There were discussions a plenty, sometimes heated, but never did anyone try to score points by unpleasantness. By the end of the first week I was Lafcadio in nature as well as name.

How Maurice and Mr. Bavistok had found so many decent, intelligent, easy-going people to visit them every summer remains a mystery. Friends and acquaintances from all over the world arrived to stay and drift through house and grounds throughout the summer. Some remained for days, others weeks, choosing their own rooms in the vast old house, bringing their own food; preparing and sharing with everyone else at mealtimes. There was no roster, but it all seemed to work. One bloke spring-cleaned the house for fun. Two old women painted all the shutters. The place ran like clockwork and there was always music, laughter and conversation.

Each morning at sunrise Maurice would drag me from our bed and we'd race down to the lake for a dip. He has a great body. Not a wrestler's like me, more a marathon type. Evenly tanned, lean, long-legged, fit and strong. The swim was followed by a long, hard jog, then he'd throw on a pair of shorts for breakfast. Usually I'd spend the morning swimming, tramping, and canoeing—sometimes with Maurice, sometimes with one of the younger men—often alone, which I preferred.

It was a long, hot summer with seemingly too few daylight hours. The guests did as they pleased. Sometimes I took a group of the younger ones into the rainforest that abutted the rear of the property. One particular stand of ancient eucalypts always silenced them, as did the enormous buttresses of the rainforest giants. Sometimes we saw platypus in the stream that fed our lake, and there were always screeching flocks of parrots in the canopy. The cool damp silence affects people differently—but no one escaped the atmosphere. I could have sat there for hours dreaming away if it wasn't for the mosquitoes. When alone in the forest, exploring the stream or swimming in the lake, I was Narcissus, Pan, a satyr... never one of the big-name gods; I valued my freedom too much to shoulder that responsibility.

Despite all the activity I found time to read 'The Vatican Cellars'. It excited me; especially Lafcadio's 'motiveless crime'. His 'puzzle for the police'. I loved the idea of living on the brink. I marvelled when, just for the hell of it, he shoved Fleurissoire off the train to his death—a move he couldn't take back, as in chess. I discovered I was surprisingly like Lafcadio, being more curious about myself than people and events around me. I couldn't help feeling the book had been written expressly for me. It burned into my heart—too special to talk about, even with Maurice.

Afternoons were for artists to sketch and paint, writers to compose, philosophers to think, musicians to practice for the evening recitals. I posed for artists; pretending I was Caravaggio's Amore, Titian's Apollo, Cellini's Perseus.

Directly after the evening meal there'd be a short concert with poetry reading, some acting, instrumentalists, singing accompanied by Maurice who played the piano beautifully. One week there were enough musicians to make a small orchestra. It seemed that I was the only one without a talent to perform until they struck up a dance from Petruska. A touring company had brought the ballet to school and I was surprised to discover I loved both the dance and Stravinsky's music. As soon as they began to play I couldn't help myself and leaped onto the small stage and danced like the puppet; jerky but athletic and graceful at the same time. At least that's what I aimed at. There was too much spontaneous applause for it to have been motivated entirely by kindness, so at someone's suggestion I made up a short dance most afternoons and performed at night.

The concerts seldom lasted more than an hour and the rest of the evenings became talkfests when everything from morality to monetary policy; ethics to environment, lithographs to literature was argued about, discussed, dissected. I was too over awed to ask questions or offer opinions unless asked, but on the odd occasion that I did say something they would consider it seriously. No one ever made me feel foolish or embarrassed, even when artists pinned their drawings of me on the walls of the drawing room, some of which were blatantly sexual. I spent the entire summer holiday buoyed on a sea of compliments. I was a living artwork—Young Bacchus revelling with the mortals.

Untouchable.

Chosen by the gods.

No one told me about hubris.

And suddenly the holiday ended. Guests departed. The house echoed its emptiness and the spectre of school loomed. I'm not dumb; schoolwork presented no problems; it was the humans I hated. Never did I feel at ease. Always it seemed that my existence depended on a secret I didn't know. I kept myself apart from everyone as much as possible and was more or less ignored—neither popular nor unpopular, in a sort of limbo with no real friends, knowing no one who was like me, no one I would be able to share thoughts, hopes and desires with—certainly not confide what I'd done in the holidays! I begged Maurice to let me quit school and stay and help him on the farm as he had with Mr. Bavistok.

He shook his head and I felt betrayed. I asked why he'd ignored me all my life.

'Because you were a boy.'

'What do you mean?'

I've never made a secret of the fact that I'm same-sex-oriented, so if I'd been friendly with you, everyone would have assumed I was a pederast, when the truth's the opposite. Like most men who prefer men I'm not sexually interested in boys.'

'So you didn't dislike me?'

'On the contrary, I thought you were a great kid. And now you're a sexy and personable and intelligent and handsome and loveable young man.'

'Legally, I'm still a boy.'

'Which is why you've got to keep this under your hat. The law treats all teenagers the same to protect the vulnerable—a very good thing too, considering some of the fuckwits out there. In a couple of years you'll wonder why you fussed. Physically and mentally you're a man, an attractive and personable young man, as I realised when you took me to your room. I also realised you wanted more than just friendship from me, which is why it took me a while to decide to invite you. At first I thought you were too inexperienced to know what you wanted, and then I remembered I was your age when I met Marc Bavistok and fell in love.'

'So...'

'So nothing. I had been kicked out of school. You're oversensitive but there's nothing wrong with your brain, so think about it. This is your first love affair so you need to go away and think deeply before making an irrevocable choice. See how you feel next holidays and if you want to come and stay again, you're welcome. If you decide you want to explore other things, other men...that's fine too. Understood?'

And so I returned to a silent and sneering father and gossipy mother, becoming again the morose and irritating son of parents too busy to care.

School. Mundane. Predictable. Drear. Wrapped in a cocoon of summer memories too precious to share, I withdrew completely. My fellow students and teachers were mere mortals. Superficial. Boring!

Nine weeks into the term, increasingly miserable at the monotony of existence, I trudged one afternoon up to the library after a depressing day. Angry at everything. Heart aching for Maurice's barking laughter.

The place was empty except for Mr Egas, the ancient Librarian who was standing before an open window gazing down at the ant-like comings and goings two stories below. I stood beside him and peered down. Sunlight reflected dully off the crinkled parchment of his cancer-spotted cranium, quivering on a neck seemingly too scrawny to support it. He glanced at me. A death's-head. An insult to the living. A cough shook his scrawny frame. He took a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his lips, and mumbled an apology.

Revulsion welled, overflowing into arms and hands. Avoiding his eyes I shoved him through the open window. He made a great sweep with his arm to save himself; his left hand clutched at the smooth framework of the window, while, as he half turned round, he flung out his right. A horrible claw scratched the back of my neck. I gave another push, more impatient than the first. His nails scraped through my flesh. After that, nothing was left for the old man to catch hold of but the air and he fell without uttering a sound – just like Fleurissoire.

I left the school by the back gate—unseen—or at least unnoticed, confident that what I'd done was no different from a man stepping on a bug. A natural reaction. I stood to gain nothing from my action, so strictly speaking it wasn't morally wrong. I was a child of nature, so it had been merely the act of someone obeying natural instincts.

By the time I reached home the buoyant mood had dissipated, dissolving into an incomprehensible torpor that lay heavy. Fatigue, perhaps. At any rate I gave up thinking and lay on my bed.

I wasn't intending to go, but Maurice insisted I accompany him to the funeral. Mr. Egas, he informed me with great seriousness, was the only teacher who'd shown an interest in him at school, so he was determined to pay his respects. There were hundreds of mourners and I endured the service in a state of expectancy—of vague fear.

Afterwards, Maurice shouted me to a meal in a swank restaurant, but I couldn't eat. The need to confide my dreadful secret had become a desperate, silent screaming in my head.

'Maurice...'

'Yes?'

'I... I've just read 'The Vatican Cellars' again and realised... I'm... I'm Lafcadio.' My voice betrayed me.

Maurice stopped eating, put down his fork, wiped his lips carefully, then said quietly, 'So it wasn't an accident.'

I couldn't speak.

'But don't you remember? I explained that the book is a satire, deriding people who excuse their evil behaviour with spurious moral arguments?'

Cold dread gripped my guts. I began to shake uncontrollably.

We left the restaurant; my food untouched, and sat in Maurice's car.

There was no condemnation. No recrimination; only an intolerable silence. Finally, he sighed and told me to do and say nothing to anyone. What was done was done and a confession would only break more hearts. Egas's family had accepted it was an accident because the old man was ill and suffered from dizzy spells. To be told it had been murder would open up a far greater, and possibly incurable emotional wound. And my parents! Why would I put them through the horror of having their cherished only son exposed as a mad murderer? Obviously, I had done wrong, a grave wrong, but clearly I was repentant. My punishment would be to think about it for the rest of my life.

The sentence was too harsh. The rest of my life, I determined, would be very, very short.

Maurice drove me home and parked at the gate. We sat in lengthening silence. Several times he started to speak, but the words seemed to choke in his throat. Eventually, unable to bear it any longer I opened my door, tears streaming, willing him to look at me, but he continued to stare straight ahead. I got out and turned to close the door. Suddenly, he swung round in his seat and stared, an odd expression in his eyes.

'You can't go back to school,' he said decisively. 'You'll give yourself away.'

'I know,' I whispered, unable to see Maurice through my tears. 'I'm sorry, Maurice, so sorry.'

'Have you thought about us over the last couple of months?'

'Nothing else.'

'And?'

'I still feel the same.'

'Me too, so go and pack your bags. I need a secretary.'

*****

Contents

# A Misunderstanding

At Art School, Marjory discovered she had the skills but not sufficient imagination or ego to be an artist, so she became a wife and mother. Twenty years later when all except her youngest had fled the coop, she set up a studio in her basement and gave classes to people who had always wanted to draw, but never got around to it. Her 'Life' classes proved the most popular, but this evening the model was late and the students watched with concern as Marjory's self-confidence unravelled.

Her son, who sometimes joined the class, offered to telephone and sort out the problem. He sprinted upstairs, stood quietly at the top and counted to one hundred, then ran back down to inform his mother that the model had left town leaving no forwarding address.

"Oh my goodness! It's too late to find another! What on earth shall I do?"

"I'll model – but I choose my own poses."

"You're too young! The students need a professional!"

"Mum, I know what to do."

With ill-concealed nervousness Marjory apologised to the class while Antony slipped behind the screen, stripped, checked that everything was as it should be, stepped onto the podium and adopted a series of athletic three-minute poses that kept the would-be artists delighted and very busy.

Marjory gazed in awe. She'd always left Antony to organise his own life, assuming his avoidance of groups and preference for solo pursuits like computing, karate, swimming and reading meant he was a bit of a nerd. But under the spotlight she discovered her little boy had become a handsome young man with well defined muscles; manhood jutting almost too proudly from its nest of pubic hair. She gazed nervously around. No one seemed perturbed. The busy scratching of pencils the only sound.

She felt dizzy and sat down. This morning Antony had been her baby. Tonight he was a man! When had it happened? A chunk of her life was missing! She'd been too busy to notice. The realisation was bleakly depressing.

For the twenty-minute poses Antony chose difficult positions, yet remained utterly still, exuding a confidence she'd never guessed he possessed. Close cropped hair emphasised his fine head and smooth young neck. And such well shaped legs! In the two-minute breaks between poses he wandered naked among the easels and stools to look at drawings and charm the artists with praise, questions and ingenuous smiles.

Marjory's heart missed several beats. What must her students be thinking! Models should never mingle with students when naked!

Antony had been practising his poses for two weeks; since intercepting the model's phone call saying she was moving interstate. He told himself he was doing it as a social experiment. People didn't question a nude man posing for an art class, but what if he wandered around naked between poses and during the tea break? If he could charm everyone into accepting him doing that, it would prove taboos against nudity were not inherent in human nature.

Of course there was also another, perhaps more truthful reason that he kept tucked away at the back of his brain in case anyone found out. The idea of being naked in a room full of dressed strangers had fuelled his sexual fantasies for weeks.

The other models his mother used, usually kept their legs together and reclined, sat or stood in positions that required the minimum amount of energy. Antony did the opposite; holding poses for long minutes in extreme positions to demonstrate strength and flexibility. High karate kicks, gymnastic exercises, a sprinter poised for the starter's pistol... complicated and powerful stances that thrilled his audience and left him exposed and vulnerable. But he didn't feel vulnerable. While cleverly presenting himself as naïve and innocent so no one would guess he was getting a thrill out of it, he felt wondrously potent.

Luckily for his image, the difficult poses required constant monitoring to avoid sagging, and this, together with the sometimes extreme discomfort, ensured that arousal remained purely cerebral and no one had the slightest cause to object.

Time passed too quickly.

At tea break, Antony jumped from the podium and began handing round biscuits and beverages with such friendly, guileless naiveté that everyone assumed he was unaware of the extraordinary effect he was having. The students had never been so friendly and chatty; so bubbling with enthusiasm. Marjory couldn't decide if she was embarrassed, jealous or pleased. A unanimous decision booked him for the next five sessions, and his mother agreed to use him for her two other Life classes.

"You're braver than me," his father said with a smile when told of his son's success.

Antony didn't consider himself brave; he'd been enjoying the most liberating experience of his life! And that made him wonder if anyone was really brave. Perhaps sky-divers and mountain climbers were just like him – doing what they wanted. What an inner voice insisted they do.

Deirdre, his mother's divorced school friend, had recently joined an evening class in the vain hope of meeting someone who appreciated her. She wasn't talented and found it difficult to finish drawings in the time available. Would Antony pose privately? He always needed money so agreed on the spot, leaving his mother unable to object. On his next free evening he found himself reclining naked over an antique divan in Deirdre's Spanish-style duplex.

Barefoot in a flimsy sun frock, Deirdre stood at her easel muttering to herself."Oh! It's so difficult. Come and tell me what I'm doing wrong."

Bored and pleased to stretch his muscles, Antony stood beside her. A smooth hand caressed his buttocks.

"Looks OK to me," he muttered, moving away to hide his annoyance.

"Let's change the pose," she said, taking his hand.

He pulled away.

"You're tense. I'll give you a massage."

Before he could find the words to refuse, he was face down enduring an amateurish pummelling. It was unpleasant and the carpet wasn't particularly clean, so he rolled over intending to get up and tell her to stop. The words never made it into the air. Deirdre had already slipped off her dress and before he could escape she'd straddled his calves, pressed him back onto the carpet and begun sucking on his penis. To his astonishment it engorged! He wanted to scream; pound her head with his fists... but was terrified she'd bite it off, so lay still, watching in frozen horror as his tormentor slid forward, rose onto her knees, reached behind, grasped his erection and lowered herself onto it.

As if drugged he stared at her soft white belly, a patch of hair and long brown nipples that jiggled inches from his face. He thrust them away, repelled by the softness.

She didn't notice; just kept riding him. Grunting.

Claustrophobic anger anaesthetised all sensation. How dare she? How dare she! After an age, a series of ecstatic moans signalled his release.

Deirdre rolled off and sprawled on her back. "Ah! I needed that!"

At home Antony stood in the shower scrubbing his genitals till they hurt. He felt unclean. Used. Why hadn't he stopped her? She'd treated him like a blow-up doll! What was wrong with him? Why hadn't he enjoyed it? Why hadn't he shoved her off and left? Why hadn't he ripped shit out of her before going home? He couldn't face her again. No one must ever find out! The shame! He couldn't model again. The bitch had ruined everything!

He muddled through the next day at school earning reprimands for inattention, but didn't care; he deserved punishment for being such a useless wimp. Pocketing a Stanley knife from the art class he hid himself in the toilets and made small cuts on his forearms. It hurt, but he wanted it to. Then he realised people would ask questions. There was nowhere he could cut himself because the following night, unless he could think of an excuse, he'd be naked in front of a drawing class. The thought made him feel sick.

Alone in his room, self-hatred mushroomed until his brain was consumed by one thought – he had to kill himself. A night spent wondering how to do it left him incapable of getting out of bed.

His father, worried about his son's mood the previous evening and non-arrival at breakfast, came to investigate.

"You OK?"

Antony remained facing the wall."

"Want to talk about it?"

Shame took a back seat to anger and tears. "Deirdre raped me! You have to prosecute her!"

"What happened?"

If Antony left out any detail it was unintentional.

His father thought for a while, then said softly, "I watched you the other evening. You looked mature and confident. I was proud of you. During the breaks you wandered around, completely at ease, and, astonishingly, everyone else was equally relaxed. That's quite an achievement!"

"But no reason for..."

"You visited Deirdre, accepted a massage, and got an erection. What was the woman to think?"

"But... I couldn't help it!"

"Yes... I remember... always stiff at the most inopportune moments. Enjoy it while it lasts." His smile was perplexed. "Didn't you enjoy any of it?"

"I hated all of it!"

"She's a good looking woman."

"I felt sick when she touched me – and when I touched her."

"Did you ask her to stop?"

"I couldn't. It was like I was frozen."

"Did she hurt anything – apart from your aesthetic sensibilities and pride?"

"No, but that's not the point!"

"Remember a couple of years ago I took you to the Grand Prix and you endured a day of noise and fumes and racing cars going round and round and you swore it was the worst day of your life?"

"Yes."

"I thought I was giving you a treat. Perhaps this was a similar misunderstanding."

"She didn't give a stuff about me!"

"Most men would be jealous."

"And probably the kids at school too! But I hated it!"

"Does she know?"

"Don't think so."

"If you lay charges everyone will find out. Is that what you want?"

"No!"

"Then just file it under Lessons-Learned."

"What lesson? Stay away from randy old bitches?"

"No. Only be naked alone with people you fancy."

"So I was stupid."

"Innocent."

"And now I'm soiled goods." Antony dredged up a smile. "Thanks, Dad."

"Thank you."

"What for?"

"Making me feel useful."

To Antony's relief, as soon as he stepped onto the podium that evening the exhilaration returned – as powerful as ever. During supper, instead of mingling he chatted to Stephen, a slim and darkly intense student who was hoping to get into Art School. Deirdre sidled up and handed him an envelope. "You forgot your fee," she said roguishly, patting him lightly on the bum.

All anger had dissipated; transformed into benign contempt. Antony took the envelope, nodded vaguely and returned his attention to Stephen.

"Your fee?" asked Stephen with a friendly leer. "Don't tell me you..."

"Hardly! She's an old bag. I just sat for her at home."

"That's what I need so I can finish my Entry Folio."

As if in a trance Antony heard himself saying, "If you like... I could..."

"Just joking. Can't afford it anyway."

"No charge – I've nothing better to do."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

*****

Contents

# Useless Things

The jacaranda tree's miserly shade had moved on, leaving three men behind. Sweat dripped from eyebrows and trickled down furrowed cheeks, necks and chests.

'Jeeze it's hot! My mouth's as dry as a nun's tit.'

'It seems no one gives a stuff about us in this place, Charlie. I'll never get used to it. Why couldn't I have had a lethal heart attack instead of a bloody stroke?

'We all feel like that, Mal. We're in a velvet prison. I always vowed they'd never get me into one—but I was weak and muddle-headed after the accident, and now I'm a prisoner—not allowed to die if there's a medical procedure that'll bring me back from a peaceful death.' Charlie coughed up a wad of phlegm and spat onto the concrete. 'Suffering's good for the soul, a god-botherer informed me the other day. I told him I hoped he'd rot in a nursing home for twenty years screaming for release from pain and nausea.'

'Good one. What did he say?'

'Nothing. Just walked away to annoy someone else. Have you noticed that women don't seem to mind this place so much?'

'Yeah. I guess it's different for them, Charlie, they're used to having things done to and for them. Ivy, my wife, nearly bankrupted me with her massages, hairdresser, manicures—it seemed she wanted nothing more than to be fiddled with. I've never met a bloke like that.'

A thoughtful silence.

'Most of the old tarts are religious; they're shit scared of dying in case they go to hell, so want to put it off as long as possible.'

'If I had the keys to the medicine cupboard I'd be sleeping the beautiful sleep tomorrow.'

'Leaving me behind. Some mate you are.'

'Don't worry, I'd take you with me, Mal.'

At that moment a delivery van pulled in and parked at the main doors, belching diesel fumes. The men coughed and cursed impotently.

'Seriously, Charlie, is it normal procedure in this place to dump us out in the car park and forget us?'

'Relax, Mal, someone will be out soon. Come on, what's really bothering you? Someone pinched your chocolates?'

'Among other things, yes!'

'Bloody thieving bitches. They pinch everyone's.'

'It's not only that, it's...'

'In the shower?'

Malcolm blushed and looked away.

'Who was it?'

'I...I forget their names, there are so many of them and...and they change all the time.'

'This morning?'

'Yes.'

'Yeah, that'll be right.' Charlie wriggled into a less uncomfortable position. 'I overheard the girls sniggering about someone with a huge dick in the shower.'

'Ugly cow! She waggled it around and reckoned I should have it lopped off because it was useless to me now I couldn't get an erection. When I got mad she said I should get a sense of humour. I get so angry it feels as if my head's going to burst. But there's nothing I can do. We're at their mercy. Sartre was right, Hell is other people—especially if the other people are female staff in a nursing home.'

John, whose mind had developed a tendency to wander, snapped to attention and whispered, 'Yesterday, one of them... You know, that red haired one, told Jeff, to lift a full bag of laundry. Much too heavy. When he couldn't she called him a useless poof.' John's right arm began to twitch. He stared at it for a couple of seconds as if unsure to whom it belonged before grabbing it with his left hand to prevent it slamming against the side of his wheelchair. By the time he'd returned it to his lap he was breathless.

Charlie placed his good hand on top of John's, staring belligerently at the still-twitching limb as though daring it to move. 'That's Gloria! She's gotta go! Jeff's the best nurse we've had in ages. He buys me smokes and gives the only decent rubdowns I've had in this place. Most of the bitches couldn't give a tinker's cuss if we all broke out in bedsores.'

'Jeff...' John paused, marshalling his forces. 'Jeff took me...' his gaunt frame began to shake and it was several seconds before he could speak, '...to the shops... in his own time.' Muscle tension suddenly collapsed, the handsome face slumped, his head drooped forward and slack lips spilled saliva.

Charlie pulled John's head back against the headrest and wiped the chin with his bib. 'We bloody have to do something—Jeff's the only man left. No decent bloke will stay the way those bitches treat them.'

Mal shook his head. 'Surely they're not all bad.'

'Name one who isn't!'

'Sister Sue seems nice.'

'OK. But she's the only one.'

'Brenda,' John whispered. We'd never get out of this place if she didn't arrange trips.'

'OK, Brenda.'

By the time Marge came to collect them only five of the staff had failed to earn a reprieve of execution. As she backed towards the heavy door, dragging Malcolm's chair, Charlie called, 'You'll get fat, Mal unless you push yourself around. One arm's no excuse.'

Malcolm looked contrite. 'I try, Charlie, but I just go round in circles, and this thing,' he tapped his left leg, 'sticks out and bangs into everything.'

'If it shrivels any more it'll look like you're sitting there with a boner. Get 'em to hack it off like mine. Less weight to shove around.'

'Good old Charlie,' Marge laughed. 'The only man who's legless before he starts drinking.'

'I could drink you under the table, any time.'

'I'll take you up on that one day.'

'You can take me to bed if you like.'

John's laughter triggered a general strike of synapses and his stranded head lunged forward.

'Marge!' Charlie bellowed.

Calmly efficient, Marge rescued John, turned to Charlie, tightened his harness, chucked him under the chin, kissed him on the forehead and grinned, 'Who's in a bad mood, then?'

Charlie brushed irritably at the spot. 'Stupid cow,' he muttered. 'I'm not a fucking child!

'No, you're a sweet little cherub.' She pinched his cheek roughly, pulled him and Mal inside, set John on track then wheeled Mal off to the dining room. Charlie followed slowly, a smouldering bundle of frustration.

Weak tea and a slice of dry chocolate cake did little to quell the rebellious spirit. 'I'll give you yours, John, when I've downed this tepid muck,' he growled. But Marge returned to hold cup and cake until John's errant nerves sent the signals; chew, swallow, open...

In the dead time before lunch, Malcolm practised moving his chair in a straight line, Charlie dragged irritably on half a dozen cigarettes in the smoking room, and Brenda took John to the Physiotherapist. On the way he tried to tell her about Malcolm, but his vocal chords had gone on strike so he gave up trying, having learned not to waste precious energy fretting. When there's nothing you can do about something, you've no choice but to accept; so he let his mind float free.

An afternoon concert had been arranged and the lounge was filling with the murmur of perfumed and painted old women carefully dressed in their faded best, scrupulously choosing who was suitable to sit next to. Nursing staff wheeled in those who couldn't walk or shuffle, and an awkward scattering of visitors hovered. The few men in evidence sagged in their chairs as though left over from the last show.

Charlie checked the blackboard. 'It's those bloody Swinging Senior Cits again. I'm not going to watch a bunch of old tarts flashing their varicose veins.' He wheeled himself away.

Malcolm, whose eardrums had taken a bashing from the banjo the previous week, pushed himself around in circles in the corridor and John slumped nearby until a couple of nursing assistants tipped both men's chairs back at an alarming angle and raced each other through the corridors. By the time they skidded to halt in the courtyard, Malcolm was a trembling wreck and John was pop-eyed with shock. Charlie was puffing irritably on a cigarette.

'Look what you've done, you stupid bitch!'

John's urine bag had come adrift and the end of his catheter tube had dragged along the floor leaving a wet trail.

'Shit,' the young woman muttered, dragging John's shirt up and trousers down. She heaved a sigh of relief. 'You're in luck, Johnno, nearly pulled your plug. Another centimetre and your essential self would have drained away.' She laughed nervously, retrieved and re-hung the bag under the wheelchair, reconnected the tube and roughly adjusted his clothes while the other woman hosed the urine away.

John began to shake.

Malcolm breathed deeply to quell his nausea. It was the first time he'd seen a white plastic tube sticking out of someone's belly as though it was growing there.

'That's her!' he managed to blurt.

'Fucking Ishbel!' Charlie hissed.

Ishbel turned at the door. 'I hope you're not going to be a sooky girl, Johnno, and go crying to Matron,'

'Arghhh!'Charlie slumped forward, gasping as though in agony.

Ishbel hurried across and lifted his sunken head.

He slapped her hard across the face.

She leapt back, hand pressed against her cheek. 'How dare you!'

'How dare you waggle Malcolm's penis and tell him to have it cut off because it's useless?'

'It was a joke.'

'How many old women have you told to have their vaginas sewn up?'

'Don't be disgusting! That's a woman's...'

'Exactly! We put up with bits falling off, leaky bladders, shit in the pants, having to be washed and fed...because there's nothing we can do about it. We don't even feel sorry for ourselves. But we don't have to put up with being treated like half-witted kids! We're men!'

'All men are babies.'

'We think, feel, have opinions, and try to retain our self-respect—but how the hell can we do that when you make decisions for us.'

'We do not!'

'Yesterday you said only fools watched that crap, and changed my television channel to something you liked. I couldn't change it back because you left the remote on top of the set. And someone's always changing John's radio to pop music, knowing he hates it but can't do anything about it. And the staff pinch our chocolates.'

'We do not!'

'You do! And we should never be the butt of jokes!'

'You joke about yourselves.'

'Laughing at our own disabilities makes life bearable. Being laughed at, makes it intolerable.'

'Ah, you...'

We hate it when you get impatient and push our chairs for us. We hate having our chairs tilted back so you can go faster!'

'We're overworked and busy.'

'Going somewhere slowly fills in our day. I may have only one good arm and stumps for legs, but I hate having everything done for me. By treating us like dolls you destroy the only thing we have left, our dignity.'

'Ha! Dignity with a shitty bum.'

Ishbel held Charlie's glare for a short second, then looked away. She didn't dare feel compassion. All this old flesh; vacant minds in decaying bodies. Despite scented cleaning agents, always the lingering trace of urine, shit, and vomit. The sad, terminal hopelessness of it all would swamp her unless she held pity at bay. She coped by telling herself the old people had always been like this. To admit they'd once been like her—young, vital and full of hope, would be to accept that they were also her future—too awful to contemplate. The hard line of her lips softened, and she muttered a faint, 'Sorry.'

It was half an hour before the rattle of palm fronds and the chattering of caged budgies freed their spirits.

'Why do women like to bust guys' balls?' John wondered.

'Because they're bitches,' Charlie snapped.

'It's probably our own fault,' sighed Malcolm. 'We don't want women to think we're soft, so we pretend nothing hurts. We lift and carry even if we get a hernia. We fake we're tough and insensitive, and unfortunately, they believe it.' He turned to Charlie. 'How many times have you cried?'

'Hundreds. I'm a sentimental bloke.'

'How many women have seen you cry?'

'None!' Charlie was indignant. 'They'd tell everyone I was queer.'

'What was your job?' Malcolm asked.

'Green keeper at a Men's bowling Club. Lots of members; especially retired blokes. Reckoned it was a sanctuary—their wives were used to having the house to themselves and when their husbands retired they made it clear they wanted it to stay that way. A man can only spend so much time in his shed without going batty so they'd come every day to have a couple of roll-ups, do a bit of cleaning, maintenance, sit around and talk...' As Charlie's smoke-hoarsened voice faded, Mal jolted to attention; worried he'd fallen asleep and was expected to say something.

'Good one,' he murmured, hoping it didn't sound stupid.

'But the women's club took them to court for gender discrimination or something, and now it's mixed.' Charlie sighed deeply. 'No longer a sanctuary. A lot of the guys left when I did. Now they make home brew and drink alone in their sheds. Did you know that in Australia most suicides are by elderly men? They're not sick, just sick of their life.' he dragged on his cigarette before flicking it angrily away.

'Same at school,' said Malcolm.

'What school?'

'I used to teach at Boys Grammar. Only male teachers till equal opportunity and females arrived to make us more civilised; bring a bit of gentleness. Huh! The women wouldn't take after-school sport, so took over drama, art, and music. So the men who liked working with kids in those areas missed out. The boys then started seeing those options as girls' stuff, didn't like it and numbers dropped.' Malcolm frowned, remembering. 'If a kid didn't turn up to a woman's detention she'd send him to a male teacher who'd belt the living daylights out of him to impress her. It changed the place all right. It became...nasty. The staffroom divided into two camps...' Malcolm stared at his useless leg, lost for words. 'I used to think I'd be sorry to retire, but...'

Charlie slung his arm around Mal's shoulders and gave him a peck on the cheek. Mal turned his head and their lips brushed softly.

'I'm so glad you came, Mal. I was going nuts on my own.'

Mal smiled shyly. 'If anyone had told me I'd fall in love with an eighty-four year-old legless curmudgeon, I'd have thought they were insane... but it's happened and despite all the crap I'm happier now than I've been for years.'

'Me too, you gorgeous old hunk. But we don't want to shock John.'

'No worries. He guessed. Told me yesterday. Thinks it's great.'

Charlie sighed contentedly and in a voice lacking its customary venom remarked as if to himself, 'What bugs me is there's nowhere for a bloke to just be a bloke—women are everywhere!'

They pondered the meaning of this.

John, who had been diplomatically pretending to be asleep broke the silence. 'I once asked my wife why women feel threatened by men-only spaces. She got mad. Said I was looking for an argument.'

'There's no rational answer, that's why. But I reckon we've solved your problem, Mal.'

'What problem?'

'Your not so useless bit of flesh. Poor old bugger, your memory's going.'

'It's allowed to, I'm eighty-two and ready for a nap... but how do we get out of this courtyard?

Charlie wheeled himself towards the fire alarm.

*****

Contents

# I Arrived a Week Early

Twenty years of failure did not diminish my grandparents' hopes of biblical fruitfulness, evidenced by the rosary-wrapped box on top of the fridge containing a photo of the Pope, a tear-splashed prayer, and a plastic box containing a syringe, needles and a dozen vials of a substance guaranteed to produce an iron hard erection in even the most recalcitrant penis. Unfortunately, the makers of this wondrous potion were unable to guarantee conception, so by the age of forty-two, husband and wife had resigned themselves to childlessness, leaving the box and it's contents as a reminder of their god's inscrutable ways.

Twelve years later, on her fifty-fourth birthday, grandmother dropped the hot-water kettle's electricity lead into the gravy, then absentmindedly licked it.

Two hundred and forty volts of alternating current sent false teeth smashing against one wall, her body against the other. Grandfather carried her to bed, checked for breakage, and then crawled under the blankets to massage warmth into trembling limbs. Grandmother responded with unaccustomed passion, which triggered a corresponding reaction in her heretofore impotent spouse, and after an arduous nine months and a difficult birth, Esther was born.

The wilful child grew into a vexatious young teenager, unappreciative of parental efforts to transform her into a hard-working consolation and support for their old age. Esther hated the isolation, loneliness, farm work, everything. The only other child in the district was Antony, a handsome young lad a year older than her, who lived a couple of kilometres down the track.

On his fifteenth birthday Antony decided his viciously drink-sodden, layabout parents had nothing further to offer him, so went to work at a uranium mine hundreds of kilometres away to the north. He worked hard, saved every penny, shunned women, avoided alcohol, and in two years was relatively wealthy and depressingly unpopular. One afternoon some workmates stripped him, shoved an unripe banana up his backside, and threw him into the warm water of a sediment pool—not the large dam regularly checked for contamination, but a small, very deep hole concealed inside a shed plastered with signs warning: Danger! Radiation!

Skin already beginning to tingle, he hosed himself down, crept back to his hut, filled a rucksack with essentials and took off.

Jag, a stringy, lean featured, curly-haired seventeen year-old, had been sentenced to six months in prison for giving the fingers to a cop who'd punched him in the side of the head for no obvious reason. On the way to the lock-up he'd managed to escape and was on the run, slowly heading for his homelands in the outback, when he found Antony deliriously clawing at his clothes. He slung the young man over his shoulder and carried him to a billabong, plonked him up to his nose in the muddy water, stripped and joined him, then peeled off Antony's already disintegrating clothes before massaging calming mud into angry flesh. When his patient stopped moaning, Jag poured cans of muddy water down his patient's throat until he gagged, then dragged him onto the bank and held him upside down by the heels until he'd stopped vomiting dark, sticky muck, then lowered his burden gently onto his back. Scarcely breathing, Antony stared vacantly at the sky and an ache filled Jag's chest as he gazed on the handsome, hairless youth with skin that reflected the sunlight like burnished bronze.

By the end of the second day Antony declared he'd never felt better, reckoned he didn't give a stuff about his hair loss and new metallic sheen, and wondered how he could ever repay his tall, dark, lithe and handsome saviour.

'You look like Cellini's Perseus,' Jag laughed.

'Who's he?'

'Only the most perfect bronze male sculpture ever made.'

Antony smiled to himself; ridiculously pleased with the compliment.

The young men wandered, living on fish, sheep, berries, roots, blossoming friendship and the fruits of love. After a week they arrived at a ramshackle dozen wooden houses scattered along a dusty track—Jag's hometown. The police had been sniffing around so his parents packed them off to a large block of tribal land about six hundred kilometres north in the absolute middle of nowhere. A misguided sense of duty made Antony decide to visit his parents first, in case they were worried, so Jag drew him a detailed map of where he was headed and easily extracted a promise that his lover would join him as soon as he'd checked on his parents.

Back on the farm, Esther had grown ever more rebellious. Her parents blamed the pre-conceptual electric shock, global warming, positive ions, negative ions, and the world's godlessness. Their unhappy daughter's brilliant escape plan was to get pregnant and force the man to marry her. The sole problem being a lack of available males. Late one afternoon while driving the milk-cow back along the track, she tripped over Antony, bleeding and unconscious. His parents' welcome had been curses for not bringing them money, followed by a beer-bottle smashed over his head. He had staggered nearly two kilometres before concussion downed him.

Esther tied a rope around his ankles and the cow dragged him into the darkening shearing shed where she heaved him onto his back on the sorting table, undressed him, lashed his wrists and ankles to the table-legs and gagged him with an old rag before going inside to make the evening meal. It was dark when she returned with candles, disinfectant, food, water, and the plastic box from the rosary-wrapped container on top of the fridge. She cleaned the wound, fed and watered the frightened youth and, as she slipped out of her clothes, marvelled at how strangely beautiful Antony had become. He looked like the semi naked Jesus on the little bronze crucifix above her parents' bed that always made her feel sexy.

Antony watched in horror as Mad Esther, stinking of cow and wild of hair, filled a syringe from a vial, then grabbed his shrivelled penis in filthy, work-callused hands, tugged it taut, stabbed it with a needle and pressed the plunger home. After the first wasp-like sting there was no pain and, to his astonishment, a monumental erection rose to the challenge. Esther climbed onto the table, kneeled astride him for a second as if uncertain, felt behind, grabbed his manhood, positioned herself, took a deep breath and plunged down, not stopping until her buttocks pressed against his pelvis.

Eyes popped, mouth dropped open in shock, a gasp of agony escaped her throat and she sprang back up, sensitive parts aflame with a pain she had never imagined possible. Years of guilty fingering in front of the sexy crucifix had been no preparation for an abrupt invasion of such magnitude.

Antony thought his penis had shattered.

After a long minute of heavy breathing and mutterings of indecision, the pain subsided and Esther lowered herself slowly and carefully onto her victim's pillar of procreation and was soon pounding away emitting deep growls of gratification each time an orgasm electrified her sense-starved frame. Antony's first and only ejaculation gave no pleasure and passed unnoticed by his ecstatic rapist.

After an eternity Esther tired and climbed off, loosened her paramour's ties slightly, threw a horse-blanket over him, rifled through his pockets, extracted Jag's carefully drawn map, and went to bed.

During a long and uncomfortable night Antony managed to rub his bindings against the metal edge of the table until they frayed. In the morning his absence surprised Esther, who was anticipating pre-breakfast sex, but it didn't dilute her happiness. She was sure she'd get pregnant; Antony would be forced to marry her, and would whisk her off to freedom.

So much for planning. My grandparents considered her pregnancy a sign from their god that she was too sinful to leave the farm and thus disgrace their name. As for forcing Antony to marry her, no one from that drink-sodden family would ever become part of their family! Thus, for the next thirty-five weeks life on the farm became even more of a war-zone than ever.

I arrived a week early. Esther was massaging her constipation on the outside dunny when a resounding fart and gut wrenching contraction propelled me into the world. She whipped a hand between her legs, grabbed hold of my foot, hauled the slimy bundle into the light, took one look, and screamed. Before she could separate herself from the tangle of baby, umbilical cord and placenta, and drop the lot down the hole, her father arrived, dragged her out, tossed her onto her back and with the expertise of fifty years' lambing cut the cord, tied the knot and sat back in astonishment, deaf to his daughter's continuing screams.

I suppose it must have been a bit of a shock to give birth to a three and a half kilogram, wild-eyed kid whose knowing grin revealed a full set of teeth. And if that wasn't enough of a surprise, I sported a thick head of hair, five-day growth of beard, pubic hair and fully functioning genitals. In a photograph taken of me standing in front of a wall an hour after birth, if it hadn't been for the ruler beside me you'd swear I was a well muscled eighteen year-old, not a forty-centimetre manikin.

I have no memory of the womb, but everything since then is crystal clear. Esther kept shouting that I was a monster. I tried to calm her, but every time I spoke she yelled louder. Breast-feeding was impossible because of my teeth, but I didn't crave milk, I was ravenous for meat and vegetables.

After two days of wailing, gnashing of teeth and praying to their god for forgiveness and guidance, my grandparents collapsed from exhaustion. Esther grabbed her chance, broke open the fireproof box containing their life-savings, filled the tank of the ute, packed her clothes and all the food from the freezer, plonked me on the passenger seat and drove for three days.

I ate continuously, talked to keep my mother awake, and dozed off whenever it seemed safe. By the time we arrived at the coast I'd convinced Esther I wasn't the devil, but only prevented her from dumping me in a church doorway by agreeing to keep my mouth shut and gurgle like a baby for hours while a horrendously expensive depilatory expert permanently removed all my body hair using a laser. It took all my self-restraint not to piss on him when he wittered on about the problems of bringing up a physically and mentally challenged child. And his puerile insistence that god loved me, even if the rest of the world would reject such a strange little creature, made me want to shove his laser up his nose.

After writing to her parents telling them that we were going south to Sydney, she swapped the old truck for an even older car and headed north. In Cairns we rented a caravan on a vacant lot near a beach and Esther hit the bottle by day, and told me her life story, such as it was, at night. Constant eating meant I was gaining half a kilo a day, and when the food ran out I was as big as a five-year-old, weighed fourteen kilos, and shopped at the local store. Fortunately, a naked kid shopping for his mummy in a tropical beach suburb was considered cute, although my manly physique drew a few odd looks.

The money soon dried up, and with it Esther's binge. She had no skills so starvation loomed. One afternoon at the beach I twisted an ankle and was carried back to the caravan by a beery-breathed tourist. Within minutes he and Esther were screwing. When he left he gave her fifty dollars. 'Money for fun,' she reckoned, and with my expert assistance as a savvy little pimp, we soon built up a substantial clientele.

At seven weeks I weighed twenty-three kilos and had changed shops three times because such rapid growth made people suspicious. When a woman snarled that it was disgusting for a ten year old to run around naked, I bought a pair of shorts from the Op-shop. Esther had started accepting drugs instead of money, and mood-swings from ecstasy to fury began to make life even more complicated. I ate more than ever, grew even faster, and morosely wandered the beach. One evening, a lanky, hook-nosed fisherman snagged the seat of his shorts. When I laughed he swung round, fixed me with light blue eyes, ran long fingers through his straight black hair and barked, 'Don't just do something, stand there!'

I giggled and untangled him.

He shook my hand, grinned and said, 'I owe you one. What's your name?'

'Esther calls me Nuisance. I hate her!'

He raised his eyebrows at my vehemence. There was something in his eyes that attracted me. I'd not seen it before so didn't realise what it was, but later understood it was intelligence, so I blurted, 'I like you!'

He laughed. 'You're certainly frank, so I'll call you Clovis—he was King of the Franks. I'm Paco.'

Every afternoon I waited for him and we fished and talked. Didn't catch many fish, but the talk was excellent. One evening he said carefully, 'You've grown a lot in two weeks, Clovis. How old are you?'

'Nine,' I replied, not adding, weeks. 'How old are you?

'Twenty-eight.' Paco frowned before continuing seriously, 'Friends should trust each other, so I'll tell you about me. I'm a doctor in the Genetically-Modified-In-Vitro-Fertilisation program at a private clinic. That means I fiddle around with the genes of human eggs and sperm according to the parents' instructions, then fertilize the eggs with the modified sperm, and a short time later I implant the healthiest zygote in the woman's womb.'

His slack-jawed surprise when I nodded my understanding and asked to see his mobile laboratory made me laugh aloud.He drove us there, took samples of my saliva and hair, analysed them, weighed me, gave me a medical once-over, pronounced me far too healthy, and again asked my age.

For the first time in my life I cried. I don't know why, I wasn't sad, probably stressed. Anyway, I told Paco everything. He hugged me till I stopped crying, said my genes were odd, but reckoned a thirty-five kilogram, precociously intelligent, ten-week-old kid deserved privacy and a decent home, so I moved in with him.

While he was at work I educated myself from the Internet. I say educated, but it felt more like remembering than learning. The really useful stuff came from talking with Paco. At twenty weeks my endless eating suddenly stopped, I weighed seventy-two kilos and looked, felt and acted like a healthy, one metre ninety eighteen-year-old. To celebrate we went clubbing in Cairns. Back home we made love for the first time, and for the first time in my life I felt secure and happy.

I hadn't seen Esther since going to live with Paco. At his insistence we drove to the caravan. The stinking, crazed woman lying in her own filth on the floor thought I was a client and came on to me, before asking for a fix. Sickened, Paco went out for fresh air. I filled a syringe with everything I could find, gave it to her and watched her shaking fingers attempt to locate a vein. Impatient to be gone, I gave her a hand. She was dead in seconds. I took nothing except the map, because it was the one thing she had cherished. On the back was written; Don't get lost. XXX Jag. Esther had scrawled beneath, 'Hubby's place?'

When I told Paco what I'd done, he nodded and said I'd done her and the planet a service. 'Are you sad?' he asked.

I shook my head. 'Relieved.'

He nodded thoughtfully, 'That's sensible.'

After poring over the map he thought for a bit, then looked up with a grin. 'Before the government gives in to the fundamentalists and shuts down the GMIVF program, I've got to visit several couples in the bush whose eggs are ready for implanting. I reckon this place is not too far from where I'm going. Fancy a trip to the outback?'

The unmarked mobile laboratory looked like a giant camper van so drew little attention. On our way west we detoured past my birthplace. It looked as though nothing had been done in the previous five months. Inside we discovered why. Grandmother was a husk on the bed, shot through the head. A skeleton picked clean by ants swayed on its rope in the shearing shed.

Like their god, we too abandoned them.

As the last satisfied clients waved goodbye from their isolated homestead, Paco roared with laughter. 'In nine months, eleven outback children will be born with blue eyes, blond hair, straight noses, perfect teeth, generous mouths, athletic bodies and the chance of superior intelligence. Do you reckon they'll love their parents?'

'They'll think they're adopted.'

As we followed the map across flat, treeless, windswept plains the laboratory's solar cells kept eighteen back-up human ova and sperm samples preserved in special flasks. After three days the stony wasteland ended abruptly at the edge of a ridge. Below us, under a searing blue sky painted with storybook clouds, kilometres of tree-sprinkled golden grassland stretched to a distant range of amethyst hills. We juddered down a dry riverbed and drew up beneath a stand of enormous eucalypts under a bluff, beside a lake. A flock of pink parrots fluttered through opulent air, and the silence was palpable.

Within seconds of our descent from the van, two naked men, lean as skinned rabbits appeared as if from the air. One was so dark he was almost black with a wispy beard and thick mop of hair; the other was slightly taller, metallic bronze, dreamy and hairless.

I proffered the map and said nervously, 'I'm Esther's child.'

It was only sixteen months since conception, yet my father and I looked the same age. He frowned. Paco explained, and we faced each other silently. Calm enveloped me. Strangeness dissipated. I relaxed. Antony kissed my forehead; and everything was made right.

'I had no idea such a place still existed,' said Paco in awe.

'One of the last untouched spots on the continent. Probably preserved for rich bastards when they've fucked up the rest of the country,' Jag muttered angrily.

'I want to stay here,' Paco said softly.

'It's a hard life.'

'It's what I need.' Paco looked at me and I nodded. Where he went, I went.

'Suits me,' I grinned, delighted at the way things were developing.

Providing life's necessities using tools and weapons powered only by one's own energy, is hard, time-consuming, and deeply fulfilling. The sole reminder of civilisation was the Laboratory guarding its cargo of potential life. Actual life was everywhere and we were part of it. Around the fire at night and during the hottest part of the day we talked. One night Jag assumed a serious expression and asked, 'What's the meaning of life?' We hooted with laughter. Couldn't stop. Sides ached as we rolled around hysterically trying to outdo each other. 'Pacifying God!' screamed Paco, tears streaming. 'Making money.' Antony spluttered. 'Being good enough to get to heaven!' I shouted. 'Self denial,' laughed Jag. We leaped into the water to cool off, but catching someone's eye was enough to reignite the shouting. 'Good and evil!' 'Malevolent nature!' 'Faith!' 'Reincarnation!' 'Heaven!' 'Eternal soul!' 'Magic!' 'Saints and angels!' 'Satan!'

'It's not really funny,' Paco gasped. 'Most people believe in all that mumbo-jumbo.'

'And they have their reward—a fucked up world.'

'Yeah, the fundies have a lot to answer for.'

'It's not only them—anyone who believes that supernatural things can exist in a natural world is bonkers.'

'I read somewhere that gods and devils are the bugbears by which cunning men govern fools,' Jag said soberly.

'Living here,' Paco mused, 'has taught me that nature is indifferent to us, neither benevolent nor malicious. Our purpose is simply to live. After death we feed other life—in that sense I guess we're eternal. We can know nothing but through our five senses, so worshiping things not able to be sensed is nonsense. The only question to ask ourselves is: How should I live?'

'Simply,' stated Antony.

'Doing as little harm as possible.'

'Contentedly,' was my contribution.

'And not in fear,' added Jag sourly.

We nodded agreement.

Paco broke the silence. 'I want semen samples from everyone.'

'You're sex-mad.'

'This time in a test-tube.'

He refused to elaborate, so we provided samples and three days later he reported.

'Clovis' and Antony's sperm cells are a hundred and fifty times normal size. I want to replace an egg nucleus from the store in the van, with one from Antony's sperm, and fertilise it with Clovis' sperm.'

'That's incest,' Jag observed. 'What about inbreeding?'

'With good stock it's called line breeding,' Paco grinned.

As soon as it was stable, the zygote was inserted into the receptive womb of one of the four sows Jag's parents had insisted he take with him in case wild game proved elusive. A week later she aborted.

'Pigs usually have large litters,' Jag said thoughtfully. 'Perhaps her body thought one piglet wasn't worth the trouble?'

Paco fertilised and implanted ten more of the precious eggs. After four months, a sow's normal gestation period, she aborted ten partially developed foetuses. Risking all, we tried again with the last seven eggs. Muscle-relaxant injections prevented automatic birth contractions at four months, and nineteen weeks later, seven, two-kilogram, twenty-centimetre-long, perfectly formed young men slipped into the world.

Four hairless, metallic-skinned youths immediately began eating their way out of the placenta; three hairy ones had to be helped a little. All immediately demanded food. Physically, they were perfectly normal except for one thing; the hairless, metallic boys had a vulva between the base of the penis and the anus.

Paco was ecstatic. 'We have a new species! Homo hermaphrodites!'

We called them numans; Alpha, Beta, Gamma and Delta. The other three we named Edgar, Fernando and Greg. Tests revealed the numans had three chromosomes instead of two. YXY. Paco figured it must have been the two Y's that caused a doubling up of sexual organs.

Like ducklings and crocodiles, the boys could immediately forage for themselves. Ancient species-survival instincts, along with mobility, thought, and speech, were available from birth, and at one stroke the problems of bad parenting were eliminated. No one could play mind-games with these young creatures. It seemed a tragedy that beings so perfectly adapted to a natural life, should arrive when nature had all but disappeared. They played like all young animals, chasing, teasing, having fun. On a hunt, the tiny young men followed closely, alert for a signal to scatter and conceal in case of predators. On long hikes they would sit astride our shoulders.

Feeding seven ravenous young people was touch and go for a while, but timely rains and unexpected bird migrations saved us. At six months the children were mature and venturing far afield, living more economically than we knew how, and getting to know every part of the territory.

Healthy, active men are extremely efficient organisms, and with no dependent wives and children the food they required was quickly obtained. Hours were spent lying silently in the grass. When I asked what they were thinking, Beta tried to explain. 'It's a bit like those Mozart symphonies Paco told us about—a lot of different sounds making up a perfect whole. With us, it's not only sound. All five senses—sight, sound, smell, taste and touch, combine and recombine in our heads like a complex orchestra. Nature is so unpredictable that I could sit forever in one spot and never experience the same symphony twice.' He grinned mischievously, 'Sometimes it's like a continuous orgasm.'

The boys were mostly incurious about the outside world, but one evening Gamma asked, 'What's this civilisation you reckon you've escaped?'

'Restrictions and compensations so humans can live in cities.

'What restrictions?'

'Building regulations; proscribed behaviours; rules about where you may do things and where not; permits to do almost everything; dependence on strangers for life's basic necessities; accepting the pollution of earth, water and air; constant noise; sacrificing half your earnings to the rulers...'

'Stop! I'm mad already.'

'Without the rules the system would collapse.'

'What happens if you buck the system?'

'It punishes you.'

'How?'

'Prisons, fines.'

Paco described Chicago, where he had completed his degree; Jag talked about prisons and teeming Asian cities he'd seen on television; I told them about coastal development destroying fishing, and clear felling of land for farms; and Antony described mining, industry, and warfare. A shocked silence ensued.

'How can they bear it?'

'Clever propaganda convinces most people they're living the good life. For the rest, drugs such as alcohol, together with non-stop television entertainment numb their minds.'

'But why huddle together in the first place?'

'The only living things humans need to fear are other humans. Mothers and children are vulnerable for at least ten years after birth, so families had to gather for support in villages. When brigands terrorised them, many moved to cities that grew large and powerful, eventually controlling the surrounding countryside and, by fighting endless wars, created countries ruled either by dictators using fear of pain; by witchdoctors using fear of the supernatural; or by leaders using both those methods as well as the carrot of more and more possessions. Today there are so many humans that there isn't room on the planet for everyone to have a piece of land. The only way to cope is to jam them ever tighter into cities, while stripping the land and mass-producing a narrow range of foods.'

'That's why we're here,' said Antony violently. 'Here we live naturally, like other animals, taking no more than we need, respecting—not fearing nature, and I am happier, more contented and... and....' Jag draped his arm round Antony's shoulders and stroked his neck until he grew calm.

'You boys, like Clovis, have never been children.' Paco continued. 'While they're growing up, human kids are fed all sorts of garbage to warp their minds into an appropriate shape, thus preventing any useful change in the human condition. You have learned everything from nature.'

It was true and I was slightly jealous. My first weeks of fear had crushed the indomitable independence and pleasure in living that they enjoyed. They suffered no jealousy, prudery, false modesty, boredom, or any of the other side effects of civilisation.

After two wet seasons the numans menstruated. They'd been sexually active since the age of twelve weeks, but only with each other to the chagrin of Edgar, Fernando and Greg, so it wasn't surprising when all four conceived. Gestation took forty weeks, there was little visible enlargement of the abdomen, and parturition was painless and uncomplicated.

'True to type,' whispered Paco. 'We definitely have a new species. Aristotle's Complete Man.'

For ten wonderful years we wandered through the many 'rooms' of our paradise, and the numan population increased to sixteen. Though large, our land could not sustain more than twenty-three. We were a peaceful bunch, especially the numans, who were as verbal, intuitive, and propitiatory, as they were physical, inventive, and logical. I don't recall anyone losing their temper, starting a fight, being jealous, or indulging in the negative behaviour that so frequently complicates human relationships. I'm sure everyone was as contented as I, living a simple, clean, rewarding life with people I loved and trusted.

I guess we were lucky it took so long for someone to inspect the satellite photographs. One morning when the numans were hunting in the hills, three helicopters circled, landed, and disgorged a dozen armed soldiers, loudly commanded by a plump, moustached young officer. Transfixed like possums in headlights, we froze while booted, machine-gun wielding soldiers encircled us.

'Show us your papers!'

While Paco was collecting his, Antony's, and Jag's driver's licences from the laboratory, two camouflage-painted panel-vans arrived in clouds of dust and fumes. Four soldiers got out, saluted, and one was given the three documents. He disappeared into the front van.

'What's with the metallic, hairless look?' Moustache sneered.

Antony explained.

'Like shit. You're a fucking mutant.' He turned on Edgar, Fernando, Greg and me and snapped, 'Where are your papers?'

'Lost.'

'You're illegals.'

'Illegal what?'

'Immigrants, smart arse.'

A head poked out of the back of the van. 'These three are wanted criminals, Sir!'

Moustache nodded and Paco, Jag, and Antony were locked in the back of the second van. We were starting to panic. 'What's going to happen to us?' Edgar asked.

'You'll go back to where you came from. Australia's awash with foreigners taking our jobs, carrying on their feuds and barbaric customs. Look at you lot, naked as Abos. You're as bad as friggin' GM Mutants!' He cleared his throat noisily. 'Right, where'd you come from, and how long have you been here?'

Edgar, Fernando and Greg suddenly raced towards the bluff, deaf to shouted commands to stop. Machine-guns chattered until three red pulpy heaps twitched on the grass.

'Bloody savages.' Moustache stomped over and stared irritably at the mess. I gazed across the shimmering land. A kangaroo stood frozen between trees a hundred metres away, distant hills wavered in currents of hot air, and I howled. Like a dingo I howled, then vomited.

Moustache slammed a fist into the side of my head and snarled, 'Where are the mutants?'

'What mutants?' Fear kept me upright.

'Satellite photos are so sharp you can compare dick sizes. Sixteen hairless, metallic-skinned, GM Mutants like that bloke in the van, normally hang around with you lot. Where are they?'

'They haven't done any harm.'

Spittle collected on fleshy lips, eyes popped and hysteria threatened. 'Those evil, inhuman creations of godless fools conceived in sin, are everywhere organising themselves, converting the weak, plotting against civilisation, and subverting God's plans. It's them or us! My job is to make sure it's us, and you can watch!' He shoved me towards the front van. Inside was an array of electronic gadgetry and several TV monitors. The helicopter hammered into the air and the monitors came to life, but I couldn't work out what I was looking at.

'Nose-camera,' grunted Moustache, and suddenly I realised we were flying across our valley and already approaching the hills. The camera zoomed in on my children and grandchildren clambering up the rocks. As the helicopter hovered, branches and soil were hurled against the frightened men, but in the van all was silent. Moustache spoke into a microphone. 'You have two minutes to surrender. Climb down now!' The numans looked from one to the other in confusion. I grabbed the microphone and shouted, 'This is Clovis! Don't surrender!'

Moustache slammed me to the floor, retrieved the microphone and shouted, 'Fifteen seconds!'

Gamma shook his fist and followed the others up the cliff-face. Helicopter engine-noise shattered the quiet of the van: 'Sergeant Parkin, Sir. Awaiting instructions.'

'Fire,' said Moustache flatly.

The cliff face erupted into a fireball. I was still screaming when they shoved me into the prison van, where Antony, Paco and Jag lay dead in a pool of blood. They had torn a scrap of metal lining from the wall and ripped open their veins. I was dragged back to Moustache who was shouting into a telephone, '... suicide cult, Sir, ...self defence...Resisting arrest... only possible course. ...' He replaced the phone, turned to the nearest soldier and barked, 'Secure this one to the van.'

Three limp bodies were dumped on top of the others while Moustache bullied me for answers. Tear-blind at my loss; throat and tongue swollen, I could scarcely breathe, let alone speak. Verballed and punched, I was grateful for the pain. The helicopter returned and sixteen corpses, burnt beyond recognition were added to the six already in the pit some soldiers had been digging. Petrol was poured over them, set alight and when the flames died down, covered in soil. I was lashed into a straightjacket in the prison van, still stinking of death, and we drove all night.

At sunrise we arrived at military headquarters where I was given a pair of shorts and questioned by an elderly man in civilian clothes; but I couldn't speak. I mimed typing and after a lot of whispering to someone outside, he asked if I could use a computer. I looked dumb. When he talked about the Internet I acted even dumber, then shrugged as if I didn't care and lay down on the floor. After a long, muttered conference about security and the urgent need for a report, they sat me in front of a computer with an armed guard. I typed this to set the record straight. Our family was in tune with nature, loving life. Civilisation is the suicide cult! Over-breeding and poisoning one's own nest is a recipe for extinction.

This has taken so long my guard's attention has wandered. I've posted it on every social networking site I could find. Now I'll fill my mouth with spit, disconnect the power plug to the monitor, and shove it in my mouth. It's lucky Esther told me about Grandmother.

*****

Contents

# A Devilishly Clever Trick

A beam of late afternoon sunlight brought the somewhat shabby furniture to life, gilding all it touched, including two naked young men sprawled over the ancient divan, soft smiles betraying recent intimacy. The somewhat brutish face of a solid, hirsute fellow endowed with a permanent tan, was softened by an elegantly sculpted black beard, arched eyebrows and apparently permanently smiling lips. His more classically proportioned lover sported hairless limbs and torso, a longish head, sardonic lips, disconcerting green eyes, and floppy light brown hair.

A car door slammed.

'Dad's home.'

By the time the tall, lean, middle-aged, slightly worried yet still handsome man whose limbs seemed too long, entered the room, the young men, now in jeans and T-shirts, were seated at a desk, consulting large books.

The man nodded politely at the beard, folded himself onto the still warm divan and asked hopefully, 'Has your mother gone out, Loki?'

'Yeah.'

'How was she dressed?'

'To the nines.'

'Did he come and pick her up?'

'Yes, Dad. But before you ask, I didn't get a look at him. He drives a Renault Wagon; that's all I know. Why don't you tell her you want to meet him?'

'And admit I'm being cuckolded? I have some pride.'

'Not enough to confront her and demand a look.'

'I know you're right, but I'm a wimp.' With an impotent sigh, the father turned to the beard. 'What do you think, Sylvan? Should I confront my wife?'

'I've no idea, Mr. Timm, but....'

'Sylvan, is it really so difficult to call me Vic?'

'No... it's just... I just feel as if it's lacking respect.'

'It isn't. What were you going to say?'

'Just that my parents divorced and dumped me on my uncle when I was ten. So what married people do is a mystery to me.'

'It's a mystery to most of them too.' Vic unfolded himself and stretched. 'What're you reading?'

'I'm doing research for an essay on the importance of political stability in ensuring ecological sustainability.'

'Rather you than me. What about you, Loki?'

'Trying to make sense of this dissertation on the paradoxical symbiosis of good and evil as personified by their supernatural representatives in folk law.'

'Commiserations.' Vic sighed, turned as if to go, then asked, 'Are you celebrating the raising of the dead tonight?'

'Yeah, we're going to a Halloween costume party.'

'What as?'

'Sylvan's representing Pan and the natural world by dressing as a Satyr, and I'm going as Christianity's version of Pan—a Devil.'

'Ha! Type casting!'

'Touché. But also because he is an hairy man and I am an smooth man, as Jacob explained to Rebekah'

'Very amusing, Loki. I suppose there'll be girls at this event?'

'Everything's possible.'

'I can't help worrying you'll be seduced by some clever female and get trapped into marriage before you've lived.'

'No worries about that, Dad. Sylvan will prevent my slide into iniquitous fornication.'

The father nodded. 'I'm pleased you both take care of each other. I realise sexual abstinence is very difficult at your age, but one day you'll find a nice young woman to marry.'

'Or if I'm desperate, a nice young man.'

'Oh no. No, no, no. Please don't make jokes. Homosexuality is such a sad condition.'

'You make it sound like a disease, Mr... I mean Vic.'

'Well, Sylvan, it is so mentally stressful for a man to be sexually incomplete, it feels like an illness. What a dreadful life for those poor fellows, having to seek out increasingly perverse ways to satisfy sexual urges to replace genuine love and affection. Ending life alone and miserable.' He shook his head in genuine commiseration. 'Every man needs the loving companionship of a good woman.'

'Like you and Mum?'

'Yes... well... we're going through a difficult patch at the moment, but...'

'The moment is lasting a very long time. '

'You're very cruel, Loki.'

'You've got to be cruel to be kind, as your mother loves to chant when she's being particularly vindictive. I'm grandma's grandson, Dad. But tell me, how did you learn so much about queers?'

'I have to know about such things because, as Lay Secretary for the Diocese, I'm responsible for PR...'

'Propaganda rubbish!'

Vic frowned. Irritated. 'The Bishop himself decided those were the compassionate words to use in our information leaflets, and as I am in his employ, it is my bounden duty to support him.'

'If you want to keep your job.'

'No, no. If you think about it, it makes sense. Men lying with men as with women is unnatural and therefore can not lead to happiness. The Bishop is merely throwing his support behind proposed law changes regarding religious freedom, to redress the balance in our schools and enterprises, by cleansing and purifying sacred ground of perversion.'

'You mean freedom for religions to discriminate, to get rid of gay students and teachers and everyone else he suspects of not being a true blue heterosexual?'

'More or less.'

'Where angels fear to tread,' Sylvan whispered softly.

'What was that, Sylvan?'

'You are a compassionate man, Vic, but you risk hurting a great many people.'

'For the sake of their eternal souls.'

'Speaking of souls, Dad,' Loki interrupted, 'What are you doing to celebrate their resurrection?'

'All Hallows Eve,' Vic whispered reverently. 'There's a special service at the Cathedral, to be taken by the Bishop himself. But I can't go without your mother. I guess I'll stay home and light a candle to my ancestors.'

'Come to the party with us,' Loki grinned.

Sylvan shot him a confused look.

'That would hardly be suitable in my position, and I've no costume.' Vic's frown deepened. 'And there will be alcohol and other drugs and...' he shook his head. 'You young people...'

'No there won't. It's a smoke and drug free evening. Only fine upstanding citizens like us, so you won't be tempted.'

Vic stared into his son's green eyes for several long seconds, then grinned. 'I've just remembered! I have a costume! When I was your age, before I met your mother, I went to a Halloween dance as a skeleton. I've still got it in a closet in the spare room. I'll go and get it.'

'Why the fuck did you invite your father?'

'Haven't you been listening? We are at war again! What do you think will be the result of the law changes the Bishop is promoting and Dad will persuasively insinuate into the minds of all who listen? He is an infernally brilliant propagandist.'

'They'll be thrilled at no longer having to conceal their homophobia.'

'Right. And what about the legions of gays, and the rest of the alphabet soup of alternative sexualities?'

'They'll be upset.'

'Very! And suicides and self harm will rise again, along with homelessness and gay bashings... we'll be back in the nineteen sixties, unless this evil man is stopped.'

'Your father?'

'No, Dad's just a pawn. The Bishop. And tonight's the best chance we have to stop his propaganda.'

'How?'

'By stopping Dad.'

'He seems pretty well convinced.'

'My grandmother didn't name me after Loki, the Teutonic Devil for nothing. You saw how easily I got him to come to the party.'

'I'm impressed.'

'And so you should be. Watch and learn, oh son of nature. Two thousand years of observing Christian nastiness and cunning has taught me a thing or two.' Loki laughed unpleasantly. 'A skeleton... he's already a bundle of bones and would probably look even more convincing naked.'

After a light meal, Vic tried on the Lycra skeleton suit. It felt like a second skin; alarmingly tight and, in the bedroom mirror, disconcertingly revealing, so he peeled it off and put his vest and underpants on underneath.

Meanwhile in the laundry, Sylvan was applying a generous coat of red body paint to Loki's feet, legs, bum and pubes. A lightweight 'tail' glued just above the buttock cleavage, and a pair of papier mâché horns stuck to his forehead, transformed the young man into a very convincing young devil.

Sylvan's metamorphosis required even less work. Already blessed with brown hairy thighs and butt, he needed only a pair of horns similar to Loki's, poking through his thick black hair, a cute little tail glued to the base of his spine, and brown socks split and painted to suggest cloven hoofs.

Vic's continuing concern about his appearance was justified—his bulky undergarments looked ridiculous. Overriding his protestations, the young men stripped him, removed the offending articles, eased him once more into his costume, then all three paraded in front of the large bedroom mirror.

Vic stared, apparently stunned at their reflections. 'I'm clothed and look rude, but you're both naked and don't!'

'What do we look?'

'You look... you look menacing. And Sylvan looks alarmingly wild and savage.'

'Good, that's the effect we want; naked mythical creatures who stalked forest and plain, to tempt, seduce and, in the satyr's case, to fertilise. By the way, you don't look rude; the painted pelvic bone obscures details.'

Yeah, Vic,' Sylvan added. 'You look sexy.'

'Flattery will get you everywhere, Sylvan. But... Why are Loki's legs and loins red but yours aren't?'

'Because, Dad, as you well know, Christians declared sex and nudity to be a sin, so when recasting pagan Pan and his minions as biblical Devils, they painted their loins red for danger, to warn all good people they'd be cast into hell if they exposed them or fornicated.'

'An interesting, but apocryphal theory. And what will the guests think about you two prancing around in the altogether?'

'Nothing bad, I guarantee. We're all members of a club that has monthly retro parties like the ones our grandparents are always bending our ears about. No drinking or smoking, party games, dancing, and impromptu concerts when everyone performs a song or dance, recites a poem or tells a joke. The food's also retro. It's good, clean fun. Everyone laughs a lot, and we go home feeling better and healthier.'

'Where is it?'

'In the suburbs. A large old house owned by Melvyn; a businessman about your age.'

'How many others?'

'Usually between twenty and thirty.'

'And you're certain the owner of the house, Melvyn, won't take offence at your... and my...?'

'I've already said as much. Stop fussing. Come on, we'll take your car. Sylvan can drive as he knows the way.'

What Loki had failed to mention was that when at home, Melvyn transformed into Melanine—a tall yet graceful and stylish lady with a penchant for intelligent, respectable men of a similar age.

Sylvan was lucky to find a parking spot on the street directly in front of the house, so a quick dash brought them to the front door where Melanine, draped in elegant swathes of royal purple, a laurel wreath encircling immaculately coiffed hair, was waiting to greet them.

When Vic asked after Melvyn, she explained that he was away on business, so she was playing hostess. Having admired their costumes—or lack thereof, and enchanted by Vic's pleasant voice, gentle mien and nervous shyness, she took his arm and led them into a spacious, tastefully furnished room.

Sipping a freshly made fruit drink, and visibly aroused by Melanine's hand on his arm, Vic gazed around in apprehensive delight at avenging angels, warty witches, classical heroes, mad monks, naughty nuns and even a metallic robot. He felt obscurely proud that Loki and Sylvan were greeted like old friends, offered drinks, and made much of. What surprised him was the level of noise. No sharp voices or strident laughter; just a low, pleasant hum of conversation. There seemed to be equal numbers of males and females, but it was difficult to tell with some of the costumes. Their ages were not obvious but didn't seem important. To his relief there were no children, no vamping females thrusting their cleavages, and no doting ancients. Everyone seemed healthy, fresh, and smiling, while listening, chatting and nodding.

Half an hour later, when catch-up conversations were complete, and Melanine had discovered all she needed to know about Vic without revealing much of herself, a tinkling bell announced the games. For the next hour they played Charades, Postman's Knock, Spin the Bottle, Chinese Whispers, Consequences.... And Vic had more fun than he could ever remember having at a party.

Melanine too had enjoyed herself, delighted that her first impressions of Vic were proving accurate.

Before being allowed to partake of supper, each guest had to step onto the tiny stage, display their costume and behave in what they imagined was natural for their character. The witch cackled and cast spells, heroes waved swords, the skeleton danced awkwardly, someone with a realistically slashed throat, gurgled and expired. Loki capered and thrust a carving fork at everyone, hissing and laughing cruelly. All were applauded generously, but Sylvan triggered the most applause by prancing onto the stage proudly erect, and adopting a pose identical to the ancient Corinthian Statue of Silenus.

Being a warm and still evening, supper was served on the terrace; pavlova, cream puffs, sausage rolls... washed down with water, weak tea or cocoa.

'Have you been watching Dad, Sylvan?' Loki whispered.

'Yep. They've been holding hands, stroking arms, gazing dog-like into each other's soppy eyes. I had no idea Vic was like that. It's as if she's cast a spell on him'

'And now they're missing supper—even less like him.'

'Where are they?'

'Upstairs getting intimate, I imagine. They snuck away as we were all coming out here.'

'But he'll discover she's got balls.'

'And a big fat cock, according to rumour.'

'I wonder how he'll react, being such a homophobe.'

'Dad's association with Christians has made him proficient in intellectual and moral flexibility, so I wouldn't worry.'

After supper, CDs of old-time waltzes, foxtrots, veleta and the maxina had everyone dancing and changing partners when the tune changed.During the last dance, a smugly smiling Melanine was followed downstairs by a fatuously grinning, somewhat wrinkled skeleton. They joined in the dancing as if they'd been there the entire time.

After the last dance, the Wicked Witch thanked Melanine for another wonderful evening. There was an honest chorus of agreement, and two minutes later Vic, Loki, Sylvan and their hostess were alone.

Vic cleared his throat and announced solemnly, as if in a trance, 'Melanine invited me to stay the night, and I have accepted. Drive home carefully.'

Loki smiled his pleasure. 'Sure thing, Dad.' Turning to Melanine, 'Thanks for taking this wet blanket off my hands. See if you can also make him see sense about his life.'

Melanine's smile was innocence personified as she herded the young men out the door. 'Your father is a wonderful man, Loki, thank you so much for bringing him. Goodnight.'

'Ha! She couldn't wait to get rid of us. Do you think Vic's seen the light?'

'In what way?'

'Understood what went wrong with his marriage.'

'I suppose so. His trance-like state suggests it.'

'Judging from the state of his skeleton costume, I'd say he's seen more than the light, he's had an intimate view of what's under Melanine's gown, and liked what he saw.'

'And tonight he will be filled with the essence of Melvyn's manhood.'

'And, in the morning be a changed man.'

'We hope.'

'Mum's obviously not coming home, so we can stay here instead of slumming it in your miserable flat.'

'Suits me.'

After showering off paint and glue, followed by mutual exploration and sweet release, they slept like logs, awakening refreshed.

During breakfast, a car door slammed, the car sped away, and a minute later a bedraggled woman shuffled in, kicked off high heels, sank onto a chair, held her head in her hands and whispered, 'Shut up and get me a coffee.'

'What's the matter Mum? Had a rough night?'

She groaned. 'A fucking Halloween party. Too much to drink. My head's about to explode.' She stood groggily, swayed alarmingly, then slumped back down.'

'Get me some panadeine.'

'After downing two pills with strong black coffee, she staggered to the bathroom and showered.

Ten minutes later, another car door slammed and the car drove away. A minute later a cheerful, bouncy, middle-aged man in chinos and white shirt entered and sat on the seat his wife had recently vacated.

'You're looking chipper Dad.'

'I'm feeling chipper. Is your mother back?'

'Showering off a hangover. Don't talk too loudly, she's fragile.'

'Who's fragile?' Vic's wife snapped, returning and sitting opposite her husband. 'What're you looking so cheerful about?'

''It's a wonderful day. I feel on top of the world. Never been so happy. Just been for a walk in the park...' Vic sighed contentedly. 'What about you? You look as if you've been run over by a truck?'

'Fuck you, Vic.'

'Never again, wife of mine, I have something wonderful to announce. Last night I...'

'And I've got news for you, Vic Timm! I'm leaving you. Algie wants me to move in with him, so by tonight I'll be gone. My lawyers will sort it. What did you want to tell me?'

'Nothing, dear. Nothing.'

'You're not going to refuse a divorce, I hope.'

'Far from it. I'll sign the papers today if you like.'

'You're a weak, nothing, Vic Timm! I don't know how I lasted so long with such a spineless creature. Too frightened to take a risk or do anything your bloody Bishop wouldn't approve of.'

Vic smiled beatifically.

'What about me, Mum?'

You're a carbon copy! Another pathetic male. Can't even get a girlfriend. Get yourself a job and independence if you want my blessing.'

A car horn tooted. Without a backwards glance, soon-to-be-ex-missus Timm stalked out to join her Lothario.

The men left behind released large sighs, then roared with laughter.

'What were you going to tell us, Dad?'

'Four important things. One, that a devil tempted me last night and made me act so out of character I've fallen in love with a man-woman who is the most complete person I've ever met. Two, that I'm quitting my nasty job, and going to campaign against the law changes. Three, that I'm thrilled that you and Sylvan are lovers, and four, I'm not going to let anyone call me Vic ever again.'

'What will we call you?'

'Victor.'

*****

Contents

# The Singing Cup

For thirteen years after a faulty kerosene heater overdosed my parents with carbon monoxide, the sole communication from my devoutly holy older brother had been a generic Christmas card signed, Matthew. No 'How's it hanging? Hope you're well.' Just Mathew, in his irritatingly neat script. And every year I'd return the favour; relieved he and his wife hadn't invited me to participate in their sanctimonious observance of their lord and master's birth. If they had I'd have refused, because Johnny and I always spent Christmas with his sister, her husband and their twin boys.

This year, however, Matthew's signature was preceded by, "Stephanie, Antony and I would like you to stay with us and share the peace and good will of this sacred time."

Of course they would. Now Johnny was out of the way they hoped their son was in line to inherit whatever wealth I'd accumulated. And in their fervid minds, being a thirty-six year-old queer, my death would be sooner rather than later.

Matthew had become infected with old testament religiosity during his first year at university and, for no obvious reason that I could fathom, informed me on my sixteenth birthday that having sex with other males was a sin against God and would ensure misery, sickness and an early death, followed by an eternity of burning in the fires of Hell while impaled on the sword of righteousness. So I'd better not become a queer.

I assured him I wouldn't—but the horrible prospect did worry me for a few days.

Four years later our parents were dead, and I'd become Uncle Antony, godfather to little Antony, and an infrequent but welcome visitor to the old family home, bearing gifts for my rapidly growing nephew. About three years after that, I was so excited about moving in with Johnny that I foolishly told Matthew. Thus was my perversion made manifest, as they say.

The following week, an email from sister in law, demanded a meeting at a downtown coffee bar. Neither of us liked coffee, which should have been an omen, but I was still a little surprised, not to say hurt, when she told me that no offence was intended, but I was not to visit them any more because, as everyone knows, queers are sick child molesters and she had to protect her little boy. I asked if Matthew agreed.

'Do you think he doesn't want to keep his son safe?'

As an answer it was no answer, but I didn't really want to know, nor to sow seeds of conflict in case he didn't know what she'd said. So I left her to pay for our fruit juices and never returned to my old home—until yesterday.

Why did I agree? I can only plead insanity caused by recurring desolate visions of Johnny taking a corner too fast on a wet road, skidding wildly and slamming his new and insanely overpowered motorbike into a tree. According to a motorist who witnessed the accident and raced to assist, he died instantly. That should have been a relief, but it wasn't. I'd done my crying, but wasn't yet ready to suffer fools gladly.

The city council town planning department shut down two days early, having been flooded out by faulty drains during a storm surge, so having nothing planned I set off the following morning, arriving just before lunch.

A shortish, smooth skinned, stocky young man sporting an incipient moustache, opened the door. Frown lines. A nervous, 'Yes?'

'Antony?'

He nodded.

'Hi. I'm your Uncle Antony.'

Deeper frown lines. 'You're not supposed to be here till the day after tomorrow.'

'Shall I go away again?'

'No. No.... it's just...' He flapped his hands helplessly. 'Mum and Dad are at work till late tonight. Office celebrations, I think, and they said I...'

'Should never open the door to strangers, otherwise, like the three little goats the big bad wolf will eat you up.'

'Something like that.'

'Or that your evil queer uncle will cunningly seduce you into following his perversion.'

'Sort of—but she didn't say you were evil.'

I couldn't help myself and started to giggle. After a few seconds my namesake joined in and led me inside, where we plonked ourselves onto a couch and laughed the crazy laughter that often accompanies relief. The relief in my case of facing the fear of rejection and finding none; in Antony's case facing the fear of the queer and finding it baseless.

'I feel such a fuckwit,' he sighed. 'I've read everything so I know it's the way we are born and I try to.... I know I ought to honour my father and my mother, but sometime they're so full of shit it gets to me and I can't... and I don't...'

I noted the 'we', but decided not to press the issue. 'Not your fault; you're the victim of childhood conditioning. Indoctrinate a boy before the age of 5 or 7 and he's yours for life. Have you also let Jesus into your heart?'

'Oh fuck!' he sighed, then giggled again. 'When someone said that to me at church last Sunday I said I was afraid to because I'd been told the surgery was painful. Not my joke, I read it on one of the freethinking sites.'

'Very funny and very brave. And the response?'

'Tight lips, a whispered word to Mum and a telling off when we got home.'

'Is school okay?'

'I keep my head down, never mention God, don't do anything unusual... at least I didn't until.' He stood and frowned. 'Are you hungry? I am.'

I nodded.

'Right, don't go away.' He hurried out and I heard him running upstairs, only to reappear moments later holding a large silver trophy-cup that he passed to me. 'I'll make us something to eat while you take a look at this.'

I handled it carefully, although it was probably stronger than it looked. It was very beautiful; a shallow bowl, gilded on the inside, flanked by a pair of elegant silver lions. I placed it on the low table beside my chair, where it appeared to float on its slender stem above a lustrous hardwood pedestal. Picking it up again I turned the exquisite object to read the inscription: The Robert Francis Memorial Cup for Singing.

As I gazed at my reflection in the polished surface it all came flooding back. Sneers of derision from the boys' side of the Assembly Hall when the deputy principal announced that an ex pupil had donated two cups for excellence in singing; one for boys and one for girls, to be decided by a competition. Interested students should register in the Music Room before the end of school on Friday.

I'd waited to register until everyone had gone home, so no one would know. At lunchtime on the day of judgement we gathered in the Music Room. Mr. Laurie introduced the adjudicator, an elderly woman who had once been a sort-of famous singer, and welcomed our scant audience, all girls, before sitting at the piano and calling up the contestants, girls first. Judging by the applause they all sang well.

My first opponent looked about ten and wobbled 'Bless this House' in a breathy treble, then Harry David sang 'The Cornish Floral Dance' in a melodious bass voice. He was so good he should have won, but he was a pompous ass, not handsome and thoroughly disliked, so the applause lasted all of five seconds. The undeserved applause for my spirited rendition of Westering Home swayed the judge who declared Florence Jenkyns and me to be the winners.

By then I was cursing my stupidity. The whole thing had been embarrassingly amateur and I slunk away, sick with apprehension. Imagine the guys discovered I'd entered this poofter competition! I'd never hear the end of it. Luckily, only rugby and athletics results were ever announced at assembly.

The year ended and I'd forgotten about it until Heather whispered in Chemistry that my name was on the Prize-Giving notice board. Panicked, I grabbed a bottle of correcting fluid, excused myself from class, and deleted, 'Singing Cup...Antony Stone.'

Boys were tough, and girls... there was only one thing girls were useful for, and it wasn't talking to. But you had to have a girlfriend to prove you weren't a poofter, and to wander around the shops with on late-shopping nights. I probably wasn't the only one who wouldn't have minded sitting with the girls and talking about something other than footy, cars and booze, but survival instincts screamed 'Conform!'

On the morning of Prize-Giving I pretended I was sick, and convinced Mum, who knew the school secretary, to telephone and ask her to remove the cup from the table and my name from the list. Next day I waited till all the kids had gone before collecting the cup from the front office. Mum thought it was beautiful and wanted it on the mantlepiece, but Dad said it should be in my room—didn't want to have to explain it to his mates, whose sons had won smaller but more manly cups for boxing, gymnastics and so on. Matthew was away at Uni, and by the time he returned at Christmas no one thought to tell him of my vocal triumph, so he never found out.

The next year I had the lead in the school play. The other guys reckoned that was cool, so when Mr. Laurie cornered me in the playground I was vulnerable.

'How's the voice, Richard?'

'I'm not entering the competition again!'

'What a pity. How about an opera?'

I looked blank.

'If you'll sing the leading role, the last half of the School Concert this year will be a condensed version of Mozart's 'Magic Flute'.

Mozart was famous, so an opera by him had to be OK, not an amateur wank like the competition. But I was learning caution. 'Who's the leading lady?' There was no way I was going on stage with dumpy, hot-eyed Florence.

'Charmian Ingram.'

She was a real looker, so I wouldn't be disgraced. 'You're on!'

It was much more difficult than I'd expected but remains one of the most rewarding things I've ever done. Even the local rag did a bit of a gush. However, there's always a down side. The following morning I copped it from some scrawny git for '...poncing around on stage in that poofter gear and singing like a fuckin' wanker.'

I pretended I didn't hear, but should have clobbered the guy. Telling boys never to retaliate physically to abuse is stupid, because physical and verbal violence are merely different sides of the same coin. Idealists who ignore human nature and forbid the use of force for mental self-protection are sending troops to battle with unloaded guns. Persecutors lack compassion, so their victims, if they hope to survive, must immediately decide on the best defence—words, actions, or both—and then let loose! It doesn't matter whether they win or lose, as long as the retaliation is coolly deliberate; not a girlish hysterical outburst! Salvaged pride will prevent psychological damage, and victimisation will probably cease. The absolutely worst thing for any young man to do when bullied is to suffer in silence and turn the other cheek.

I should have immediately launched a violent, physical offensive with the clear intention of maiming, followed by a verbal attack. Instead, as lumps of ice displaced my guts, I gave a pathetically unconvincing performance of not caring.

I know lots of blokes suffer worse things, but this was my first experience of the True-Aussie-Male clobbering-machine, and I didn't cope too well. Heather was sympathetic, but told me the other guys reckoned I must be a queer to have done it, and everyone hates queers. 'I told them you weren't,' she said, 'but everyone's afraid they'll be called queer if they don't join in.' It took three long weeks before some other kid failed the masculinity test and suffered the consequences.

A few weeks later while shopping, I ran into Florence with an older version of herself.

'Mum wants to talk to you,' she pouted, having forgiven neither me nor the world for denying her the lead in 'The Magic Flute'. Her mother appeared equally disgruntled. 'Your voice shows promise, Antony,' she declaimed in a contralto pitched to the back row of the gallery. 'However, you must have lessons and I will give them to you.'

'No way! Singing's for sissies and I can't afford lessons.'

'What complete and utter nonsense!' She was genuinely shocked. 'Surely you are not swayed by such philistinism?'

I looked blank.

'And I was not intending to charge you!'

I shook my head.

'No one will know.'

I gazed into the distance. I love music and singing, but I like not being harassed even more.

'Antony Stone!' she boomed. 'It would be criminal not to train your voice! What do you say?'

I said as little as possible, and escaped. Next day at school I asked Mr. Laurie what he thought.

'Grab the chance of free tuition from a recognised teacher.'

A week later, nibbled by maggots of doubt, I presented myself at the Jenkyns' rambling wooden guesthouse. Florence led me to an enormous, uncarpeted and sparsely furnished sitting room, which, according to her mother already seated at the piano, provided perfect acoustics. Florence sang, I sang, we sang, it was bliss and the afternoon passed too quickly. As she tidied away the music and lowered the piano lid, Mrs. Jenkyns trumpeted grandly, 'Your voice is beautiful, Antony. It matches Florence's perfectly! You will easily win the duet at the Eisteddfod.'

Duet? Eisteddfod? An artery threatened to burst in my neck. The free lessons were bait to get me to sing with Florence in public! Imagine it leaked out! If anyone discovered I was still singing it would be bad enough, but singing with Fat Florence? That'd be the end of my life!

Crossed fingers didn't help. Next morning Florence had spread the word and the reaction was vicious. Terror, fury and a few well-placed punches lent my denials the aura of truth, and I convinced the blokes that the stupid bitch was off her rocker. From their point of view it was pretty unlikely; I already had a good-looking girlfriend and only a blind, half-witted spaz would be seen dead with Florence. It had been a close call though and I didn't sleep easily for a week. At school I cornered Florence, cancelled the lessons and ripped shit out of her. She looked so pathetic I almost felt sorry.

I thought I'd got over it, but something had died inside. Sounds hysterical, but that's what it felt like. I loved singing more than anything. It was the only reason I went to church with Mum. But I just clammed up and stopped going out. Got a Christmas holiday job, saved heaps, then went south as far away as possible and took an internship with the city council instead of going back to school for my final year. Cost me promotion for a while, but....

'Are you asleep?' Antony had returned without my noticing.

'No, thinking.'

'Do you like the cup?'

'It's beautiful.'

'You saw what it's for?'

'Yes.'

'Well?'

'What did you sing?'

'Schubert's Ständchen.'

'I'm impressed.'

'Thanks.'

'Has it caused any problems?'

'Overheard a couple of guys saying I must be gay.'

'Does that worry you?'

'It shouldn't, should it? After all being gay's all normal and legal, marriage equality and all that... but it did... No... school's okay... usually.' He shrugged. Frowned. What made you ask?'

'I was the first student to win that cup; when I was your age.'

'Seriously! That's fantastic.'

'It wasn't. It was horrible. The taunts went on for ages. But I survived.

'What about Grandad?'

'He got me to hide it in case one of his mates saw it.'

'And Dad?'

'Matthew was away at uni and by the time he came home for Christmas no one thought to tell him. So he never knew.

'Crazy.'

'What about you? How did Matthew react when his son came home with such a beautiful trophy?'

'He put it at the back of the china cabinet, but then someone at his work said he'd heard I'd won something for singing and was gay. He came home livid.'

'And you told him to take a running jump?'

'Ha! How long since you saw Dad? He's massive; I'd never pick a fight with him. I swore blind I wasn't.'

'And your mother?'

'When they told me you were coming, she made me promise never to be alone with you. They said it wouldn't be fair to you to be tempted again?'

'Again?'

'They invited you so they could help you change, now that the man who had tempted you into evil had died.'

'I shook my head in despair.'

'Do you miss him?'

'Antony, We lived together for thirteen years. I loved him more than anyone I've known. No, that's wrong, he is the only person I've ever truly loved. He was ... everything to me and...' I was leaking tears and slumped in my seat.

Antony raced round and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. 'I'm sorry. I had no idea. Sorry!'

'Don't be. I'm due for a good cry. Helps relieve the anger at his stupidity for crashing that bike I warned him against buying. But I suppose that's one of the things I loved about him; he dared...' I wiped at my eyes, surprised at my lack of embarrassment.

'Are you okay?'

'Yes, thanks. Shouldn't we eat the food you've prepared?'

'Over a filling but tasteless meal I convinced my nephew that his sexual identity was his and no one else's' business. Certainly not as important as his character. 'It'd be pretty odd to start telling everyone how honest you are,' I explained, 'or what level of education you'd reached, so why tell them about your sexual interests as if that's the most important part of you? As for a girlfriend, have one if it's useful, but have a believable excuse ready in case she gets amorous.'

'Probably won't happen. I'm not a party boy; prefer to go tramping with a mate, read, swim... but not in groups, they make me nervous.'

I'm the same. And next year?'

'I'll finish Year 12 and then Uni. I want to study biology.'

'You'll be what, eighteen?'

'Nearly.'

'I've a large apartment and a spare room in the city if you're looking for digs. As far as I know I'll still be there.'

'That'd be great.'

'But don't mention anything that happened today to Matthew or your mother. I'll write an explanatory note that you can say you found in the letterbox.'

'But what're you going to do for Christmas?'

The same as I've done every Christmas for the last thirteen years, spend it with Johnny's sister and her family. They treat me as part of the family and I love being with them. They have twin boys your age, Johnny's nephews. Now I'll be able to boast that I also have a nephew, a very smart and pleasant young man who I admire.'

'Do you really?'

'Yes. And it's all thanks to Matthew inviting me. I don't think he'd be thrilled to learn that.'

'I really like you too, Uncle Antony.'

'Then stop the uncle bit. Makes me feel pompous, just Antony will do.'

'And everyone calls me Ant, because I'm short.'

'Then Ant it is.'

He waved until I turned the corner, when I had to stop to blow my nose and wipe my eyes so I could see. Took a swig of bottled water. Could hardly swallow from the lump in my throat. I had a family! I had someone to care about again! A fine nephew of whom I was already ridiculously proud. Life was worth living after all.

*****

Contents

#  Respectability

Minimal financial support from his hard working parents, enabled Arnold to spend three long years attending university lectures and writing assignments. It was a cheerless time. Lack of money enforced an abstemious lifestyle that denied him the usual student social life of drunkenness and compliant females. Stoically, he accepted his lot and compensated for the lack of social interaction by indulging in many long, gratifying hours of self-pleasure.

His reward, a second-class economics degree that, he assured his long-suffering parents, would open the doors to professional employment and an early repayment of the relatively vast sums they had squandered on his education.

However, after traipsing for weeks from one Professional office tower to another, clutching his diploma, the sole job offer had been two hundred dollars cash for a week of sexual excess at the country hideaway of the personnel manager of an insurance broker.

At the urging of his parents, Arnold negotiated a substantially higher fee and, with two other equally young and desirable young men, spent seven pleasurable days and nights satisfying the lusts of a score or so well-to-do businessmen. Returning home, he discovered the house had been sold, and a note from his parents explaining they had moved to a cheap retirement village in warmer climes while they still had sufficient funds.

Fortunately, several of Arnold's clients recommended him to similarly inclined members of their clubs, and thus, an attractive body, pleasant face, come-to-bed voice and perfect table manners, proved to be more useful than a university degree. Determined to provide value for money, and having learned the trick of withholding orgasm for as long as he [or his client] chose, he soon collected an impressive stable of delighted, wealthy, middle-aged males prepared to pay for quality.

A dozen years of frugal living, to which he was well accustomed, and fruitful professional employment, enabled Arnold to buy a small apartment and accumulate a healthy nest egg. The only thing he lacked was respectability. This desire to be considered well bred and honourable, eroded his pleasure to such an extent that one evening he broke his no-kissing rule and brushed lips with Kenneth, his wealthiest and least unattractive client.

Gently, lovingly, and so disturbingly sexy was the experience, that the fifty-five year old bachelor branch manager of a minor bank, discovered he was in love with his thirty-two-year-old rent boy and shyly asked if he would give up all other clients to become his well-paid personal secretary.

Tongues wagged, of course, and Arnold soon discovered he was still not respectable. Undaunted, he embarked on a subtle campaign of hints and innuendo that resulted in Kevin's offer of a registry office marriage, witnessed by a dozen acquaintances. On returning from their honeymoon, however, Arnold discovered to his chagrin, that marital respectability had not stopped malicious gossip, but it had stopped his salary. In vain did Kenneth explain that as Arnold was now a husband, he was no longer an employee, so the secretarial salary became an unnecessary expense.

'Unnecessary for whom?'

'Me, of course.'

'What about me?'

'You, me... we are one, beloved. What's yours is mine and what's mine will support us both.'

'But what will I do for money?' Arnold asked.

'You have everything you need, my love. You are certainly not poor, with all those blue chip bonds and debentures I advised you to purchase with your savings and the sale of your apartment.'

'That's for my old age and emergencies. I need cash for impulse buying.' He glared at Kenneth who smiled benignly back. 'Well then,' Arnold sniffed petulantly, 'I'll have to go back to work. There's a good spot just south of the railway station that should provide plenty of clients.'

'No, no, my darling,' Kenneth interrupted hastily. 'You misunderstand. I've arranged a debit card for you in case you want to buy yourself a treat.'

'A debit card?' Wide eyed in shock, voice dripping with contempt, Arnold asked coldly, 'Attached to whose account?'

'I opened a special one, just for you.'

'How much is in it?'

'Fifty dollars.'

'Fifty dollars! Golly, how will I spend it all? It's nearly enough for a hamburger and coffee... you are far too generous!'

'Please don't be like that. If you need more just ask and I'll top it up.'

'With enough to buy a begging dish?' Arnold stormed out leaving Kenneth twitching nervously, wondering what he had done wrong.

To the casual observer—if there had been one, their life hadn't changed. But to Arnold and Kenneth everything had changed. Arnold developed headaches when Kenneth pleaded for his matrimonial dues. Kenneth became forgetful when asked to top up the debit card. Arnold started going for evening walks in the park where clients clustered around nubile boys aged from twelve to sixteen. Despite a remarkably trim, fit body and unlined face, Arnold was relegated to the untouchables waiting morosely at the park gates in the hope of snaring those the youths had rejected. But the reward was low and the risk high, so he renewed his acquaintance with Kenneth's bed and body.

Delighted at the return to previous bliss, Kenneth relented and gave Arnold a credit card attached to his main account. The following week, though, Kenneth's delight turned to anger; he had been transferred to his hometown branch.

'What's wrong with it? It's a bigger bank, higher salary.'

'And it is in the town in which I grew up. A disgusting hole I haven't visited for thirty-seven years. I'm known there. The kids who beat me up in high school will be waiting to finish me off...'

'They'll have forgotten all about you.'

'Well I haven't forgotten. Thirty-seven years and it seems like yesterday. And reliable sources tell me the town is even more bigoted, religious, homophobic and racist than when I lived there.'

'Don't be such a wimp. We'll be role models for all the young gays.'

'No we will not! I do not want to get beaten to death by the grandchildren of the bastards who used to shove my head in the toilet and flush after pissing on me. So you have to swear that you will never tell anyone by word or gesture that we are married. That I'm... queer!'

'I swear,' Arnold chirruped sweetly, 'and please, sweetheart, remove the spending limit on my credit card. It makes me feel as if you don't love me.'

Kenneth, lightheaded from fear, and rash from relief that Arnold was amenable, agreed. 'Thanks for being so understanding Arnold. You do understand, don't you? A gay bank manager in that town? Everyone would withdraw their deposits.'

'I fully understand, Kenneth, and will be the soul of secretarial discretion.' Arnold pecked him sweetly on the cheek before turning away to conceal a victorious smile.

The move was effortless. The new house perfect. A large and comfortable living area separated two similar bedrooms with ensuite bathrooms. One for the bank manager, the other for his secretary. The new job was equally ideal. It took several weeks, but eventually Kenneth began to relax and had just decided life was good when a quick check of his personal account balance sent him into a tailspin.

'Where has all the money gone!' he shrieked—softly in case the neighbours heard.

'On essentials,' Arnold shrugged. 'My new car was a tad expensive, but you don't want your secretary driving something cheap, do you? And there's my new wardrobe. And I've booked a flight to...'

'Stop, stop. Stop! We can't live like that. Throwing money around. You must...'

'Don't worry, Kenneth, there's plenty more. I checked the balance. I'm surprised you even noticed.'

Kenneth replaced the credit card with the previous debit regime, and became tetchy and unpleasant at work, alienating his staff. When at home, he wandered the house, tight-lipped and silent—unable to settle.

Arnold continued to keep the place neat and prepare breakfast and other meals as required; they even ate together—but of intimacy there was none. He began spending whole days away with a few acquaintances who appeared to have no home to go to. One Saturday morning he took off as usual, but a sudden urge to think about his life made him stop the car a couple of blocks down the road. He always thought best when walking, so got out, locked the car doors and wandered aimlessly through leafy suburbs; mind roaming freely.

'The situation is ridiculous, and so am I,' he told himself. 'If Kenneth hadn't taken me off the streets I'd still be whoring—at my age for the price of a hamburger if I was lucky. Or maimed or dead from gay bashers; like the poor bugger in the park last week. I'd have squandered my savings and... He's treated me pretty well, if I'm honest. But I've been just as good to him! It hasn't been all one way. A wife would have cost him far more. And I've been a faithful spouse; kept the house and garden spick and span. I've nothing to be ashamed of.' His sigh was that of the true martyr. 'But one of us has to eat humble pie and restore sanity to the situation.'

He stopped, looked around, and was surprised to discover he was standing at his own back door. Fuelled by visions of a tearful reunion in which Kenneth lavished him with gifts for returning to the connubial fold, he opened the door, slipped off his shoes and padded along the carpeted hallway towards his husband's study.

Voices. Kenneth was speaking to someone. Arnold edged closer and peered between the hinges of the open door. Kenneth was on the landline telephone, sounding impatient.

'I've tried every Internet search possible and come up with nothing. I know he isn't dead because I've checked those records too. Please, he's an old school friend, I'm in town for only a few hours, and I desperately need to speak to him. I beg you, tell me his phone number.... Yes, that's right. Edgar Charles, forty-two Deadfish drive.... Yes, of course you must phone first and ask him if he wants me to know his number... my name is Kenneth Millar, we were at school together.... Yes, I'll wait... He agrees? That's great... Yes, I've written the number down, thanks so much. You're an angel.' Kenneth replaced the receiver, sighed, took a swig of brandy from the bottle beside him, then picked up the phone and pressed some buttons.

'Is that you, Edgar? It's Ken... Kenneth Millar... Of course you know me! Kinky Ken from school!.... Yes, it's really me.... You don't sound any older either.... You've no idea the trouble I had getting your number.... Yes I have your address, but I didn't want to land on your doorstep without warning. You might have decided you didn't want to know me after... Yes, after all that, and emptied your shotgun into me.... Ha ha. I thought as much.... Well I'm glad you've changed your mind. How are you? Still doing everything by the clock? Breakfast at six, garden at seven, maintenance at eight, swim in your waterhole at nine, and a visit to the local store precisely at ten.... Ha, ha.... yes, I used to call you the clockwork man.... Good, good. Pleased to hear that.... Me? Not so good.... Yes, you're right as usual, I've an ulterior motive as well as a genuine desire to see you again... I've got myself lumbered with a younger man I need to offload. He'll make me a pauper if I don't.... No, no, no. He's a nobody. Dumb as shit.... Yes, that would seem best, except he blackmailed me into marriage, so if we divorce he'll get half of everything—and that's not going to happen.... You know bloody well why I'm ringing you. It's thanks to me you got shot of that bitch of a wife, so I'm giving you the chance to even the score.... No, I'm not blackmailing you, Edgar, just asking for a little assistance to shift a problem.... As soon as possible... Okay. I'll be knocking on your door at two o'clock Monday afternoon. That'll give you a full day to think about ways and means. Yes, I'll be discreet. And thanks, Edgar. See you Monday. Thanks.... Bye.... yeah don't worry.... bye.'

Arnold crept back the way he'd come, returned to his car and drove to the nearest Internet café. This was not the time to put any information on his personal electronic devices, which, he realised, was why Kenneth had been using the landline.

By the time he returned home he had a printout of satellite images of Edgar's property and the surrounding countryside, and the germ of an idea.

Arnold's Sunday was spent making a reconnaissance of Edgar's property—several hectares of forest abutting a National Park. The map showed a Park maintenance road that followed the boundary, so he drove along it until he judged he was as near as possible to the waterhole Kenneth had mentioned on the phone, parked and forced his way through several hundred metres of woodland until he reached a narrow stream. He leaped across, turned right and made his way upstream until he was standing at the outlet of a large pool overhung by ancient trees.

Deep, limpid water the colour of weak tea, reflected leafy treetops and patches of blue sky. A jagged outcrop of ochreous sandstone about three metres high and wide on the right bank of the pool, was a perfect counterpoint to the leafy surroundings. On its flat top, a large monitor lizard lay sunbathing. A parrot squawked in the forest. Something rustled in the undergrowth and Arnold's grin threatened to split his face. This was the secret forest pool of his dreams, illuminated by shafts of sunlight that rendered deep forest shadows mysterious, timeless, complete.

He took a deep breath of air rich in moisture and the fertile tang of humus, holding it to prevent the dream shattering. A full minute later he exhaled with a soft, self-conscious laugh, then pushed through scratchy undergrowth around the pool to the sandy beach where he gazed around in delight, unwilling to leave. With a sigh for all the wasted years living in cities, he turned and followed a track away from the water. After about twenty paces the forest ended and the track was replaced by a short gravel path leading to a wooden gate and the cottage garden. For it was a cottage, not a house. Single storeyed, steeply roofed with gingerbread fretwork, shuttered windows wide open for the breeze, surrounded by a narrow lawn and flower gardens in full bloom. Where was the Wicked Witch?

He looked around cautiously. It was twenty past eight, so Edgar would be doing maintenance somewhere. A hammer was being used away to his right where he thought the hens were housed, so he made a quick circuit of the small, neat dwelling, approving the privacy, admiring the ornamental garden at the front, and extensive vegetable gardens and orchard at the rear. No dogs or cats, but several feeding platforms for wild birds. From his study of the maps he knew the rest of the property was dense forest that would be difficult to penetrate.

The hammering stopped so he hastened back through the gate to the sandy beach, spent several minutes seeking a suitable place where he could see but not be seen, then settled to wait, hoping Edgar really did live by the clock and would soon be here for his swim. If he had to wait too long he'd be sucked dry by mosquitoes.

At two minutes to nine Edgar arrived and removed his overall to reveal a lean, tanned body that looked fit and tough, the opposite of doughy, pale, Kenneth.

He must be in his fifties, Arnold realised, but if you cut his head off you'd swear he was nearly as young as me.' Edgar had an interesting head. Of normal size, but everything on it seemed too big—jaw, nose, mouth, eyes. Not ugly, but not handsome either. Arnold liked looking at him and wanted to know what he was thinking. What sort of person lived where he did, was so organised, and owned this perfect spot.

After a dozen stretches, Edgar belly flopped into the pool, swam around aimlessly for several minutes, then disappeared around the back of the sandstone outcrop, reappearing seconds later on top where he shooed the lizard away and took its place, sprawled on his back in the dappled sunlight.

Not daring to move, Arnold put up with ants and mosquitoes for another half hour before he was able to return to his car. The rest of the day he kept to his room, going over every possible scenario and jerking off at the memory of that lean, bronzed body stretched over the rock.

Kenneth spent Sunday wiping every negative reference to Arnold, including details of his spending, from all his electronic devices. By sunset he was certain that anyone going through his computer would imagine a life of connubial bliss. That evening he dined with acquaintances from the Professional Club, determined not to think about what he intended to do. He certainly did not want to see Arnold. He had to think of him as simply another poisonous toad to eradicate.

The following morning at nine precisely, Edgar trotted along the path to the pool, head heavy from lack of sleep. Bloody Kenneth. Try as he might he couldn't think of any way to assist him. And he didn't want to kill anyone! Certainly not an innocent guy. Living for a few years with kinky Ken must have been purgatory. The utter bastard, turning up after all these years and reminding him of his wife's timely demise. Of course it was blackmail. But Edgar had had a bloody good reason for removing his wife. He had no reason whatever for assisting Kenneth to do the same to his husband. It was too stupid. But if he didn't do it... Kenneth would make sure he suffered. Perhaps a swim would clear his head.

He stopped at the sandy beach, stripped, did a few stretching exercises, then just as he was about to dive in, a movement sent his eyes to the rock on the other side of the pool. Sprawled on his stomach on the smooth stone top lay a young man, drying his wet brown limbs luxuriously in the sun. His wet hair, parted by a recent dive, lay close to his head, and his light brown eyes, so light that there was an almost tigerish gleam in them, were turned towards Edgar with a certain lazy watchfulness. It was an unexpected apparition and for once Edgar found himself thinking before immediately shouting at the fellow to get off his property. Where did he come from? How did he find the pond? Who the fuck was he?

The young man rolled slowly over onto his back, and laughed pleasantly.

The intrusion of a naked male into Edgar's precious forest sanctuary triggered unhappy memories, and therefore anger. Despite the fellow's sleek attractiveness this was not to be tolerated. 'What the hell are you doing here?' he snarled. 'This is private property! Clear off!'

Like a flash, the fellow dived into the water, and a moment later was on the beach, his wet and glistening body thrusting against Edgar's. They were the same height. For an instant their eyes locked. He laughed again, then suddenly darted away, disappearing into the forest.

A feeling of loss enveloped Edgar. 'Why the fuck was I so rude?' he muttered angrily. 'He looked okay. Very okay. He wasn't doing any harm. Perhaps he was looking for work. I could do with a hand to rebuild the sagging verandah.'

He dived in and swam for a bit, but there was no pleasure in it, so he picked up his overalls and trudged back to the house, muttering, grumbling, cursing his quick temper. After tossing the overalls into the laundry basket, he went to the kitchen not bothering to dress, turned the hot water jug on, placed a cup and saucer, teapot, milk jug and two pieces of shortbread on a tray, poured the boiling water into the pot, then carried the tray into the lounge, where for the second time in half an hour, surprise rendered him speechless.

Gracefully sprawling over the sofa, in an attitude of almost exaggerated repose, was the young man from the pool. He was drier than when Edgar had last seen him, but that was the only change.

Despite a determined effort to speak calmly, Edgar's 'Why are you here?' sounded accusatory.

'You told me I was not to stay at the pool.'

An involuntary guffaw from Edgar triggered an enchanting smile from his visitor, who, Edgar realised, was not as young as he'd thought, and therefore even more attractive.

'Fancy a cup of tea?'

'Yes please.'

'I'll get another cup.' he returned seconds later. 'Milk and sugar?'

'Just milk, thanks.'

Edgar poured. They sat silently and sipped, gazing speculatively at each other over the rims of their teacups.

A large sigh. 'Apologies for shouting at you at the pond. Habit. Local kids sometimes come and fuck their girlfriends, leaving condoms, shit, bottles and tins. Several times they've lit camp fires.'

'I understand. It was a bit rude on my part just appearing like that. The thing is I need to talk with you about something important, but first I wanted to see what sort of chap you are.'

'And have you seen?'

'Yes.'

'So? What sort of chap am I?'

'Sexy and independent and interesting and your bark's worse than your bite.'

'You're pretty sexy yourself.'

'Thanks.' Arnold cleared his throat, stood, then sat again and leaned forward. 'The thing is, I'm Arnold, Kenneth's husband, and I overheard him asking you to help him get rid of me. I took it to mean murder. Was I right?'

'Yes.' Edgar sat back and looked at Arnold in disbelief. 'How on earth did kinky Ken manage to snare a gorgeous hunk like you?'

'I was on the game for years, got sick of it, so talked him into taking me on as his personal secretary.' He grinned.

Edgar laughed. 'And then?'

'I talked him into marriage, thinking...' he shrugged and smiled winsomely, causing Edgar's heart to blip dangerously. 'I guess I just wanted to feel respectable—like a decent person instead of trash.'

'What went wrong?'

''He wanted me to use my savings to live on after we married, but that's my security for old age, so while I still had a credit card attached to his account, I spent up big.'

'Wouldn't hurt him, he's loaded.'

'I know, that's the main reason I went to live with him in the first place.'

'That's honest.' Edgar sniffed, frowned, and stared out the window. 'So, what's to be done?'

'I was going to ask you that.'

'Well, you're not going to die.'

'That's a relief.'

'Have you considered topping him?'

'No.'

'If he just wanted you to suffer, then I'd say man up and face it, but he wants you dead so he can be single again. Marriage is a two edged sword. Divorce would cost him half his ill-gotten gains, so you have to go. And he's using blackmail to force me to help him. Does he deserve to live?'

'Not really.'

'Good. That means we're on the same page and all we have to do is work out ways and means. What's the time?' Edgar popped his head round the kitchen door. 'Half past ten according to the microwave. Kenneth will be here in three and a half hours. Do you want to face him?'

'No way. He'll crawl out of it. Say it was a joke and I was the nasty one listening to his conversations. Then in a few weeks he'll get a sniper to pick me off. I read there are hundreds of guys willing to top people for a fee now it's easy to buy telescopic snipers' rifles with untraceable bullets.'

'Doesn't surprise me.' Edgar stood and offered his hand.

Arnold took it, they shook, and in a sudden rush of relief, Arnold wrapped his arms around Edgar's chest and sobbed softly. 'Sorry, Edgar. I was trying to be cool, but I was so frightened. Didn't know what to do. I just...'

Edgar gently stroked Arnold's hair, back and buttocks. 'I understand. You've been very brave. Come on, let's go for a stroll around the garden and see the hens. They're bloody good listeners and if I tell them my problems they usually suggest sensible solutions.'

Two hours later, Kenneth parked his car on the gravelled driveway in front of Edgar's house, got out, sniffed disdainfully at the herbaceous border, shook his fist at a tame magpie begging for food, and hammered on the door.

'You're on time,' Edgar said softly from behind a hedge he'd been clipping.

Kenneth jumped. 'Don't do that!'

'Okay, but have you decided what you want to do?'

'That's your department. I had the ideas last time.'

Edgar nodded thoughtfully. 'Well I do have an idea. Come with me and we'll discuss it.'

'Where to?'

'The pond.'

'You're going to drown him?'

'Perhaps, but first I'll invite you both here for lunch. You'll introduce us, and after a light meal I'll suggest we go for a swim. I assume your bloke likes swimming?'

'Yes, he's a fitness freak.'

'Good. So he'll be up for it. When we're there, I reckon we can stage an accident that will never be questioned. But it will take both of us, so we'll go there now and I'll show you what I mean. Afterwards, you can suggest modifications.'

'My shoes are not made for getting wet.'

'They're not going to get wet, you are. Come on.'

Two minutes later they were standing side by side on the sandy beach, looking across at the large rock. Edgar pointed to the base. 'See that shelf jutting out just under the water?'

'I think so... Yes.'

'It's quite wide, so divers have to give a good push up and out to avoid hitting it. You'll say you want a photo of whatshisname standing on the rock. So he climbs up. You suggest a few poses, finishing with one that makes him lean out a bit. While you're distracting him, I'll climb silently up behind him, and shove him just enough to tip him over the edge. With a bit of luck he'll smash his head on the submerged ledge.'

'But it might not kill him.'

'We don't want it to. He has to drown. So as soon as he falls, I'll leap in and, if he's still conscious, smash his head on the ledge again, to knock him out so he doesn't struggle, then hold his head under to make sure his lungs are full of water and the autopsy doesn't show he was killed before he entered the water.'

'It's getting complicated.'

'No it isn't. You see, no one will believe the hit on the head killed him, but they will believe that in a semi conscious state he rolled over, sucked in water and drowned.'

'I'm impressed.'

'And so you should be. But we have to go through everything carefully to make sure we haven't forgotten some simple thing, such as can I get silently behind him on the rock.'

'Fair enough. What do you want me to do?'

'You stand on the rock while I make sure my part is possible.'

'I'm not going up there.'

'Then I'm not going to help you.'

'Okay, if I must. But how do I get there?'

'Strip off and swim. You can swim, can't you?'

'Of course!'

'Then come on.'

They stripped, Edgar relieved that Kenneth kept his underpants on, then they swam across to the rocky ledge, from which they stepped onto the shore.

'Okay, let's get you up there so you can pretend to be your husband. What's he like by the way?'

'Very ordinary. Rather common, in fact. Can't understand why I married him.' Kenneth shook himself as if wanting to dislodge something unpleasant. 'Okay, let's get it over with. But how do I get up there?'

'Follow me.'

The rear of the rock sloped back into the forest, making it easy to climb. Kenneth walked gingerly up and stood a cautious distance from the edge, gazing over the sandy beach to the path and freedom. 'Lucky I've got bare feet, it's a bit slippery.' He looked nervously around. 'Where are you?'

'Right behind you.'

'Fuck, you nearly gave me a heart attack. Didn't notice you.'

'That's excellent. Means I can do it. Okay, now to stage two. Stay here and I'll go back to the little beach and pretend I'm you.' Without waiting for a reply Edgar dived from the rock, swam across and stood on the sand.

Kenneth relaxed. He did not trust Edward standing behind him.

'Right, Ken. Go back a couple of paces, then wander up to the edge, I'll pretend I have a camera, and we'll see if there's anything we missed.'

Kenneth sauntered to the front, unjustifiably proud of his daring, adopting a string of what he imagined were sexy poses, before standing bravely near the edge and asking, 'Have we finished?'

Edgar suddenly clutched at his chest, gave a soft moan and collapsed onto the sand.

'Edgar! Are you alright? Kenneth called taking an involuntary step forward and wobbling precariously. A foot slipped, he wobbled further, gave a high-pitched squeak, then with arms flailing ineffectually, turned slowly in the air and with an audible splash-thump, the top of his head smashed into the submerged rocky ledge.

Arnold jumped in after him, saw he was breathing but unconscious, so gently held him underwater until a long string of bubbles escaped the open mouth and the body slowly sank.

'Well, that was easy,' Edgar said as he hauled a wet and shaking Arnold onto the beach. 'You didn't even have to push him.'

'No it was not easy,' Arnold whispered. 'I...I killed him.'

'Rubbish! He was careless and fell. You simply put him out of his misery. Come on.'

Ten minutes later, now neatly and casually dressed, Edgar and Arnold were on the verandah, seated at an elegant antique table set for three, with Edgar's best silver teapot and milk jug, silver teaspoons, bone China teacups he'd inherited from his great grandmother, and plates on which were arranged delicate little homemade cream cakes.

'When you've stopped shaking, we'll discover the body and call the cops. Meanwhile, repeat our story.

'Sorry, but I can't stop thinking about what I've done.'

'If you could, would you undo it?'

'No way!'

Edgar laughed. 'Get on with it then.'

Arnold managed a smile and cleared his throat. 'As you hadn't seen your dear friend Kenneth for so long, you invited us for lunch to celebrate your reunion and Kenneth's marriage. After lunch, we all went for a swim. You and I came back to prepare afternoon tea, but Kenneth wanted to stay for a few more minutes. He was a useless diver but loved leaping from the rock. We became worried, went to find him and there he was, just under the surface. I tried CPR and mouth to mouth, but it was too late. Terrible shock. Feel sick. Everything was going so well, new town...'

'Yes, yes,' Edgar interrupted. 'You're not on stage. The less you tell them the less they have to trip you up on. Keep it to the absolute minimum. Genuinely upset people sometimes never speak at all, they're too shocked. You can always tell if someone's lying because they overreact, imagining it will be more convincing. Aim for silent shock that has left you devoid of feeling. Slight incoherence. That's the trick. Definitely not trying to convince them of anything! Can you manage that?'

They practiced, and Arnold could, and the cops were convinced, and Arnold, who had fallen in love with the house, garden, hens, forest and pool, easily convinced Edgar, who had fallen in love with Arnold and his newly inherited fortune, that they should share the gingerbread cottage and... everything else.

During their thirty-one years together, both men discovered the bliss of loving companionship and uncomplicated sex, and Arnold discovered that if he kept busy with useful, productive work, and avoided everyone who didn't share his values, then everything he did was respectable.

*****

Contents

# A Healthy Mind in a Healthy Body

Three local businesses were competing to get the new French electrical goods franchise, so after bending the agent's ear on Thursday afternoon, Richard invited him home for dinner, figuring it could only help the fellow make the right decision. Mum was annoyed at having such short notice to prepare a gourmet meal, but after shaking hands with the charming young god who introduced himself as Loic, she was all smiles. We were expecting someone middle-aged, not a slim, perfectly proportioned twenty-four year-old with olive complexion, heavy five-o'clock shadow, black eyes, close-cropped black hair, wearing an elegant cream linen suit.

It was hot and Mum always needs peace to cook, so she suggested we went for a swim. Loic was keen but had no togs. Richard explained that the pool was private and we always skinny dipped, so if he didn't mind... He didn't and within a minute there was a heap of clothes on the patio and we were padding bare arsed down the sandy path through the trees to a stream that flows through a deep pool at the bottom of our property. There are loads of birds, the forest is fairly dense, and Loic kept raving about how perfect it was. The sight of the pool excited him so much he danced onto a rock like a mythological faun shouting he was in Arcadia with the gods. He grabbed Richard and me and we danced in a circle, holding hands and laughing like crazies. It would have been embarrassing if an Australian had done it, but with his French accent and cute face, not to mention his body, it was poetic and beautiful.

Loic looked even better naked than dressed; lean but nicely muscled with a hairy chest, great butt and well-turned legs – as they say in Regency romances. He's tanned all over so was obviously used to skinny-dipping, and his wet hair was like a shiny black skullcap. Richard's thirty-four but looks younger than Loic. No wrinkles or frowns and apart from dead straight blond hair that hangs over his eyes, he's just about hairless; hardly has to shave, no armpit hair to speak of and smooth strong legs. We share the bathroom between our bedrooms so I see him in the shower every day.

People often make the mistake of thinking Richard's a pushover, but he's a savage at heart and takes no crap from anyone. We jog together now and again and take self-defence classes—the sort that teaches you to run first, but if that doesn't work, to maim your attacker leaving him or her unable and unwilling to seek revenge. A couple of months ago some louts called him baby face and elbowed him aside as we were walking back to the car from the gym. He politely suggested they show some respect. They told him to make them. So he did—smashed their kneecaps with the steel-capped shoes he had specially made to look like casual loafers, knuckled them in the side of the head as they went down, then stomped on their fingers and asked if they wanted more.

It's odd. I'm the tall tough guy with broad shoulders and a mean look—Mum says I'm the classic male type—but my instinct is to placate, or run away if that doesn't work. In this instance I was useless; just stood there watching while Richard put them out of commission.

I guess I should mention that Richard's my father. He married young and was eighteen when I was born. I've never called him Dad or Daddy; he's always been Richard. When he enrolled me at school he was so sick of people saying he looked far too young to have a kid that he told them he was my brother. Since then everyone, teachers and friends, continue to think he is. As a five year-old I assumed that brother and father were the same thing.

My difficult birth gave Mum a nervous breakdown. The day she brought me home she handed me to Richard and moved into the guest flat at the front of the house so she could shut herself away, prepare her own meals, and wouldn't have to share the bathroom. Richard looked after me and the house for a couple of years, as well as run his business. Mum's sole contribution to my survival was to express milk into a bottle so Richard could feed me. I slept in his bed till I was two, so he didn't have to get up to feed me, change nappies or calm my crying. I grew into a neurotic little prick and although my bedroom was only a few metres from his and the doors were kept open, nightmares had me spending occasional nights in Richard's bed until I went to high school.

He never made me feel I was a nuisance or complained that he'd fed me, changed my nappies, toilet trained, entertained, looked after me, picked me up when I crashed, took me to school, explained sex, taught me to shave, cleaned up my diarrhoea and vomit and taught me to clean under my foreskin. I became so scared of losing him I became a goody two shoes, always ready to help out, do my chores, be on time... seeking approval I suppose; but mainly because I loved him. I was shy; insanely shy, didn't talk much, avoided all adults except for Manu, Richard's accountant and best friend who spends most of his spare time at our place and goes on all our outings with us. It's always been a toss up who I prefer—Richard or Manu. Luckily I don't have to choose.

Manu's a bit reserved, like me, but Richard is the opposite—I got so used to him wanking every night that I slept through it and assumed it was natural; that all men did it and so would I. A correct assumption.

I used to worry that our family was abnormal, but from what I hear about other families we're no weirder than most. All the kids in my class are convinced they're normal and everyone who's different is either queer or loopy. It seems other families argue and fight most of the time. The kids hate or despise their parents and siblings. Freddy screws his sister. Andrew's father brings his mates home and forces his wife to sleep with them. Marty's sister is on the game and works from home. Lizzie's mother is usually drunk by lunchtime and has no idea who her daughter's father is. Albert, who's not the sharpest knife in the drawer, misses school a lot because of 'accidents'. Broken bones, scars, bruises. Abused by his father according to rumours. Only two kids are living with both parents, all the rest have either single parents or they're divorced and living with someone else. All the guys reckon they have regular sex and the girls seem to do nothing but gossip, giggle and bitch at each other.

What beats me is that despite their weird personal lives they're violently intolerant of others. Four of the guys in my class reckon they go gay bashing on weekends. And they're all racist; making life hell for the half dozen Aborigine kids. If Richard was in my situation he'd confront them with their prejudices and get himself beaten up—after doing them as much damage as possible; whereas up till now I've pretended I like them. I've also had girlfriends I don't want, don't seem to try too hard in class, pretend I'm as tough as I look, and do whatever it takes so they leave me alone. But I always feel I'm walking on the edge of a cliff—one false step and I'm dead.

At least there are no arguments in our house. Mum eventually got her act together, sort of, and makes the evening meal that we usually eat together, then Richard and I clean up and she goes back to her flat. She's like a polite neighbour who comes in and cooks and cleans the place occasionally, but takes no interest in us. She has a good job in an office and a best friend, Judith, who visits regularly. Sometimes Mum goes to stay with her for a few days. Life's always been predictable and boring but safe, and I worry about ending up in a dead end job, alone, because I'm too introverted to make friends. At least I was until Loic arrived.

From the start I felt completely at ease with him, perhaps because he was a foreigner and we always imagine they can't see through us like our compatriots. I taught him to do 'honey pots' off the rock and we mucked around in the pool till we felt chilly, then lay on a large smooth rock that caught the afternoon sun. Richard had to go back up to the house as he was expecting a phone call and there's no mobile coverage at our place. Loic and I chattered away like old mates for a bit then he leaned over to look at the gold chain round my neck.

His fingers brushed my chest and he told me I was handsome and had a great body. That surprised me because I've always compared myself to Richard and thought my slightly hairy chest and legs, and having to shave every day, made me coarse. I should have said I wasn't as handsome as him or something, but being praised by people I like makes me tongue-tied. I don't know if it was his touch or the compliments, but my cock began to spring to attention so I quickly dived into the water before he saw it and thought I was queer.

Dinner was a success, Mum's an excellent cook, probably because she thinks she isn't, and afterwards instead of returning to her flat she joined us for coffee on the verandah.

Loic congratulated Mum, praised the house and grounds, and reckoned it was the best afternoon he'd had in a long time.

Richard asked him if he'd decided who was going to get the franchise.

Loic stretched back dreamily. 'Tomorrow I've a video conference with head office and then I'll review the applications. Tomorrow evening at the earliest, I'd say.' He yawned attractively. 'You know, this area's so interesting I'd love to stay the weekend and explore—if I could find a guide.' He turned to me with a grin. 'If you're not busy, Asa, how about spending the weekend with me, and you can show me the sights? I'll let you do the driving.'

Before I could shout, 'Yes! Anything if I can drive your Porsche Sports!' Mum asked what he meant when he said I would spend the weekend with him.

Unfazed, Loic said, 'There are so many things to see and do, Alice, I thought it'd be most efficient for me to pick Asa up after school tomorrow, we'll have a meal, take in a show, then sleep at my motel so on Saturday we can set off early to get in as much sightseeing as possible. On Sunday we'll do the same and visit what we missed, then on Monday morning I'll drop him at school in plenty of time for his first class.' He smiled sweetly.

'If you pick him up from school he will be in his school uniform.'

'We're the same size and I've plenty of clothes, so he can borrow mine.'

'Even pyjamas?'

'I don't wear them.'

'Neither do I,' I said with a laugh. 'I knew we had something in common.'

Silence. Then...

'Where are you staying?' Mum's voice was disarmingly soft.

'Honeymoon Chalets.'

'A good friend and her husband stayed there last year,' Mum observed sweetly. 'The chalets are all identical, I think; a bed sitting room with cooking facilities and a bathroom?'

That's right.'

'And one double bed.'

'That's right.' Loic looked at his watch. 'Heavens, look at the time. My beauty sleep awaits.' He leaped to his feet, shook Richard's hand, kissed Mum's cheek, grabbed my hand and squeezed it with a grin, walked briskly to the front door, then turned and said, still grinning cheekily, 'I realise my proposition may at first seem presumptuous, but think about it, discuss it with Asa, and ring me when you've decided.'

Richard walked him out to his car while Mum and I stood like dummies listening to the Porsche power off up the drive.

'Cheeky monkey!' Richard fumed when he returned.

'But very handsome,' Mum said with a laugh. 'Asa thinks so, don't you?' She gave me one of her irritatingly knowing looks. 'You couldn't take your eyes off him.'

'He's OK. I just like the way he speaks—that cute accent.'

'Handsome is as handsome does.' Richard muttered. 'He knows I desperately need the franchise and the competition is rat-shit, but despite our hospitality and your magnificent dinner he refused to commit himself. Wouldn't even answer when I walked out to the car with him just now. Just laughed and said I should get Asa to seriously consider his offer. He's either a pleasant nutcase or very nasty!'

'He's not nasty, he's a smart young man,' Mum said softly. 'Twenty-four year-olds don't get to be international representative for a large company unless they're very sharp.'

'Well, he sure gave me the run-around. Why's he stalling?'

Mum laughed. 'None so blind as those who do not wish to see! He obviously fancies Asa and wants to spend the weekend with him—that's his condition for signing.'

'You're joking.' He turned to me. 'Is Alice right?'

My heart was thundering. Suddenly I realised why he'd touched me down at the pool; he was checking my availability! He must have seen my hard-on. The thought of spending the weekend with him set my pulses pounding, but there was no way I'd tell Mum and Richard that. They'd think I was gay! But surely I wasn't? I had a girlfriend. At least I had until she dumped me. To avoid their suspicions I shrugged and said I thought Loic was a great guy and Mum had completely misunderstood him—he just wanted to be friendly.

'Trust me, Asa. He may want to explore the depths of your mind, but he also desires to immerse himself in your body.'

Fortunately, loose shorts hid my erection and I hoped my face hid the fact that I wasn't put off by the idea.

'Well, he can whistle in the wind! Richard snapped. 'There's no way my son is going to prostitute himself for me!'

'It's not like that, Richard!' I said more calmly than I felt. 'He doesn't...'

'What's the franchise worth to the company?' Mum interrupted.

'We might fold without it.'

'Then it's far too important to lose. However, it's entirely up to Asa to decide whether or not he wants to act as a guide/companion/sex object for Loic. I can't see there's any harm in it.'

'What? The creep obviously wants to get into your son's pants. And you say there's no harm!'

'What harm could that slim young man do to our much tougher and equally manly sixteen year-old son?'

'What all healthy young gays do—kissing, petting, jerking and sucking each other off, fucking...'

'I asked what harm, dear, not what actions.'

'Are you mad, woman? Asa shouldn't have to have sex with someone just so they'll sign a contract!'

'If sex was all he wanted he'd have quietly asked Asa back to his hotel for an hour or so after school tomorrow.' She turned to me. 'Did Loic make any advances to you down at the pool?'

I could honestly say, 'No', at the same time wondering why I felt a little disappointed that I hadn't encouraged him.

'You see, Richard? Loic has behaved in an exemplary manner. He asked us, the parents, if he could have Asa's company all weekend. And anyway, no one can have sex for an entire three nights and two days. They'll go swimming, sightseeing, to a restaurant, the movies... And from what I can remember, if Loic's anything like you the sex won't take more than a few minutes. I think it would be very good for Asa.

'Good for him? Woman you're round the bend!'

Mum turned to me coolly. 'Asa, you've got a girlfriend, haven't you?'

'Yes,' I lied. Sandra had dumped me after the last party.

'And you've kissed her, let her fondle your genitals, wanted her to perform fellatio? Hoped she'd let you have intercourse with her?'

My head nearly exploded. Mothers should not talk about these things with their sons! 'Mum!' I howled. 'You can't ask me these things! Ever heard of privacy?'

'Rubbish. This is the twenty-first century, not the nineteenth. Everyone talks about such natural things. Well, have you?'

I had kissed Sandra for what seemed like interminable hours in the back of Arthur's car after the last party. Then, without invitation, she'd played with my cock and tried to suck me off, but it was pointless as I couldn't get an erection so I told her to stop slobbering over me. That pissed her off no end. I certainly hadn't hoped to fuck her! But I could hardly tell Mum that, so I pretended to be annoyed she'd asked.

'I've always thought,' my mother continued calmly, taking my silence for agreement, 'that men would be more considerate of their girlfriends if they knew exactly what it is they are asking them to do. Surely, if a man wants a young woman to kiss him, he should know what it's like to kiss raspy stubble and wake up with a rash around his lips. Then in future he might be more gentle.'

I grunted something indeterminate, wondering where the mad woman was heading.

'Have you ever played with another man's penis and had it in your mouth?' she asked in the same way other people ask if you collect stamps.

'No!' I almost shouted.

'Exactly! So you've no idea of the feelings and sensations girls undergo when they are asked to do it.'

'I never thought of it like that,' Richard mumbled thoughtfully.

'Of course not!' Mum snapped. 'You're a man.' She redirected her attention to me and asked with all the finesse of a prosecuting lawyer, 'Tell me the truth, Asa, have you ever had an erect penis inserted into your anus?'

'Mum! Stop it! Richard! Tell her to stop. She's insane!'

But Richard was nodding sagely. 'Actually, I'm beginning to think your mother's right. Men can be a bit thoughtless sometimes and it wouldn't hurt them to experience what they expect their girlfriends and wives to do to them for their pleasure.'

'Richard! I'm not gay!'

'No one said you were!' my mother almost growled. 'And no one here would give a flying fuck if you were. But where's your sense of adventure? You disappoint me.'

'I disappoint you? You're the one who...'

She dismissed me with an irritated wave of the hand. 'I read the other day that anal intercourse is now the preferred method of avoiding unwanted pregnancy among teenagers. Girls are willing to suffer that to satisfy their boyfriends because then they remain virgins. But it can be somewhat traumatic the first time, so I think it's only fair that you should experience sodomy yourself before inflicting it on your girlfriend.'

'I'm not bloody going to inflict anything on Sandra or any other girl! We've split up!' I shouted.

'Good, when you introduced her to me I thought she was a common little trollop.' Mum's self-satisfied smile made me want to hit her.

'I never liked her either,' Richard chimed in.

I was beginning to smell a plot.

'You may not have had much sexual experience with girls, Asa,' Mum continued severely, 'but surely you had sexual experiences with other boys when puberty arrived?' She turned to Richard. 'According to the books, all kids experiment. I suppose you did, Richard, despite the odds.'

Richard grinned and nodded. 'Despite the odds indeed. A couple of us used to jerk off in the sand dunes.'

'Well, I've never had the pleasure!' I snapped, unwilling to admit I was jealous because there was no one at school I'd want to do it with, although I fantasised regularly over my Maths teacher. And even if there was, I wouldn't dare suggest it; they'd tell everyone I was queer.

Mum sighed. 'Oh, Asa, what has made you so insecure? Why are you so worried we'll think you're gay? Don't you realise there's no such thing? Humans are merely sexual animals and there are as many ways to achieve sexual satisfaction as there are people. Stop pigeonholing yourself and others and liberate your body as well as your intellect! I may not be a great mother, but I know you're sexually interested in Loic, as you should be—he's a most attractive young man and obviously attracted to you, so what's the problem?'

'I've got nothing against him, and he is attractive, it's just that...'

'So why not be a devil for once in your life—take a risk; enjoy yourself instead of always doing the usual boring same old thing.' She sighed in resignation. 'But it is your life and it would be reprehensible of me to try to force you to act like a young man instead of a middle-aged puritan.'

'I totally agree,' Richard said with a grin. 'The worst thing for Asa to do would be to act against his nature.' He turned to me. 'Well done for sticking to your principles, even if they do make you seem like a boring old fart.'

'Yes,' Mum said softly. 'I apologise for arguing so forcefully. You must believe there's no way either of us would want you to spend the weekend with Loic just so he will sign the franchise agreement—we were merely arguing hypothetically, so let's forget about it.'

'OK!' I snarled. 'You win. I'll be Loic's guide for the weekend! Satisfied?'

'No, no!' Richard said firmly. 'Whatever you do you must want to do for yourself, because you value new experiences. The last thing we want is for you to do anything you don't honestly want to because you think we want you to. Isn't that right Alice?'

'Absolutely. I'd never forgive myself if that were the case. Just because I advanced strong arguments in favour of young men escaping their pathetic comfort zone to learn about how the other half experience things, doesn't mean I want to force you to do it. Let's change the subject.'

My brain refused to unravel the logic, if there was any, in what they were saying. 'No!' I sighed. 'I really want to do it. I agree it will be good experience.'

Richard put on his patient-and-understanding-of-my-stupidity face. 'Or we can leave a decision till the morning so you can sleep on it.'

That did it. 'No!' I shouted. 'It's my choice and my responsibility, nothing to do with the fact that we'll be bankrupt if he doesn't sign the contract. Ring him now and tell him!'

'Sure?'

'Yes!' I yelled.

I was prevented from pouring a bucket of water over Mum's self-satisfied smile by the sound of a car powering down the drive.

'That sounded like Loic.'

We went out, the car door slammed and Loic bounded onto the front porch.

'Lucky you're still up,' he laughed. 'I was just getting into bed when I realised I may have given the wrong impression regarding the contract and Asa spending the weekend with me. So to make sure there's no misunderstanding I decided to get this thing signed tonight.' He held out a yellow envelope. 'I was just being pedantic; the competition is not up to your standard and I didn't have to sleep on the decision.'

'You beaut!' Richard said, dragging Loic inside.

When all was settled Loic refused a drink, said he was tired, and we walked him to his car.

Richard dug me in the ribs. 'Go on!' he whispered. 'Tell him.'

'School finishes at half past three, Loic, I'll be waiting at the front gates at a quarter to four. Is it OK if I tell the guys you're my cousin?'

Loic's grin nearly split his face. 'Excellent, and you can drive; that should impress them.'

'I'm off to bed,' Mum said brusquely as if we'd done something to annoy her. I never get used to her mood changes; one moment she's chatty and clever, the next cool and dismissive. I used to think I'd done something wrong, but Richard says there's a mental 'switch' in her head that flips on and off and she has no idea it happens. It's all to do with her upbringing. It still hurts though.

After my shower I went in to Richard's room. It was a hot night so he was lying on his back on top, hands behind his head. In the dim light he looked so smooth and young I had to remind myself he was my father. I sat on the end of his bed. 'I'm nervous.'

'Changed your mind?'

'No way! I'm looking forward to it, but scared I'll make a fool of myself in bed.'

Richard patted the sheet beside him. It had been a couple of years since I'd got into bed with him and it was an unexpected relief to return to a place where I felt comfortable and safe. As if I was still a kid I snuggled against him with my arm across his chest.

'Just do what comes naturally.'

'But suppose doing 'things' with Loic feels as disgusting as it did with Sandra? I've read that heterosexual guys who're approached by gays experience uncontrollable urges to exterminate them.'

'That's their excuse for gay bashing and murder. It's never been true, although some judges believed them. You're not like that.'

'You mean I'm not heterosexual?'

'I mean you're not going to become a psychopath. But Alice and I think you're probably mainly gay.'

'Why?'

'Because you're ambivalent about sex and girls. Heterosexual young men have no doubts, they just do unquestioningly what society projects as usual behaviour.'

'Yeah, I've been thinking I'm probably a bit gay, but what do gays do?'

'Whatever they enjoy, and not what they don't. There are no rules. If Loic proposes something you don't fancy, just say no thanks and do what you like. Easy.'

'I don't suppose you'd show me?' I was half serious—imagining he'd take it for a joke.

'You want to be careful making suggestions like that, I might succumb to a pathological urge to strangle you.'

'No, no, I was just...'

'And Manu would be jealous.'

That shook me? What was he on about? Surely not? 'Manu? Manu your best friend?'

'The same.'

'He's your lover?'

'Exclusive for the last sixteen years.'

'But... how? When? Does Mum know? Why haven't you ever told me?'

'Your mother has her own lover—Judith.'

'Judith? The woman who comes and stays with her...the one she visits?'

'The same.'

'You mean Mum's a lesbian?'

'Yes.'

'So that's why she's a bit down on men...but how did...?'

'Emanuel, Manu's real name, Alice, Judith and I had the misfortune to be born into Exclusive Brethren families and were not allowed to socialise with people outside the sect. Not allowed much of anything in fact, except make money for the church. As we were the only fundy kids at high school, and because we knew each other from church, we did everything and went everywhere together. It was a very convenient way of hiding the fact that Manu and were an item and so were your mother and Judith.

'We were not good Brethren kids, kept breaking the rules, especially the ones prohibiting everything to do with sex, and we'd enjoyed several foursomes before deciding where our true interests lay. You were the result of one such day of lust and laughter. Abortion was, of course, out of the question, so pressure from our parents forced the guilty pair to marry. Not knowing who the father was, Manu and I tossed a coin and I won.

'After the birth we had a meeting. All four of us accepted responsibility for you and that's how your almost luxurious lifestyle has been financed. We also rejected absolutely the crap pumped into our heads by the church, and vowed no child of ours would ever be subjected to the brainwashing and cruelty of religion. Therefore, in secrecy and with the minimum of planning we all moved north.

'Your maternal grandparents risked eternal damnation, found us and tried to force us home and back into the church. We threatened to tell everyone we were queer, so they and the rest of the family repudiated us and the church declared us to be irredeemable sinners and forbad every member to have any contact with us whatever. Suited us perfectly. If we never see them again it will be too soon.'

I was too shocked to speak. This meant I had four parents, two of whom had kept out of the way to maintain a sense of normality for me. The magnitude of their sacrifice moved me so deeply I burst into tears.

'Hey, it's not that bad is it? We all love you; even Judith. She sometimes seems cold and unfeeling, but she isn't. She was very badly abused by her god-fearing parents and still finds it almost impossible to show the real affection she feels for us all.'

'So...you and Mum gave up living with Manu and Judith, for me?'

'We see each other every day and on the nights when you think I'm at the gymnasium. As it turned out we needed the time to adjust our brains to accept the hands we've been dealt. You, with your upbringing, found it difficult to accept you might be gay, so you can imagine what it's been like for us who were threatened with eternal damnation and torture in hell for even thinking about it. It's not possible to totally erase the shit that priests and parents put into your head as a kid. Manu and I haven't suffered by not living together; it's been a perfect camouflage. None of us, Judith, Manu, Alice or I would have been emotionally strong enough until now to take on the world and live our loves openly. We'd probably have split up. You've been an excellent excuse for us to put off commitment until we were ready—so we owe you.' He grinned and kissed me on the forehead as he used to when I was a kid.

'It explains why I've an olive skin, a wrestler's body and a heavy beard, while you're slim, pale, blond and hairless. That's why you never wanted me to call you Dad, isn't it?'

'Partially.'

'So we're not related?'

'Only by love.'

'And Manu's my father? No wonder I love him as much as you.'I was surprised at how little the news affected me. I guess subconsciously I'd known things were not as they seemed. 'So, what happens now?' I asked, worried I was about to be discarded now I was no longer essential. Parents forget how irrational their kids can be.

'Very soon, Manu will be moving in here with us—you can take over your mother's rooms to give us some privacy, and Alice is going to live permanently with Judith. The farce is over at last. Next week all four of us will have dinner together and answer all your questions. OK?'

'Like what happens to me?'

'You stay here as the most important member of the family until you're sick of us. Like me, Manu hopes you'll stay forever, but we accept that one day you'll find a lover to share your life and set up on your own. However, it won't be with Loic.'

I couldn't help laughing. 'I know that, Richard, I'm not in love with the guy, just curious, and flattered that he's interested in me.'

'Ha! It's him who should be flattered.'

While we'd been talking I'd unconsciously been stroking Richard's chest and noticed his nipples had erected into tiny hard points. One thing I'd learned is that adults never hesitate to tell kids to stop if they don't like what they're doing, so as Richard hadn't told me to stop he obviously didn't mind and I wondered how far he'd let me go. As we continued talking softly I let my hand wander further south till I felt the bristles of his pubes, then on impulse I leaned over and kissed him lightly on the lips. It was incredibly exciting for me but he didn't stop talking, even though I'd stopped listening. Buoyed by my daring I slid my hand under his balls and fondled them, then wrapped it round his erection, lightly sliding it up and down as I do to myself when masturbating. He gave a light sigh, stopped talking and closed his eyes. I kissed his lips again then licked lightly at his nipples and ran a line of kisses down his belly before licking his knob and taking his erection into my mouth.

It was my first real-time sexual experience with a man and much more exciting than the hundreds of fantasies inspired by all those porn flicks that had fuelled five years of wanking. I looked up into a pair of amused eyes.

'So, how was it?' he asked. 'Disgusting?'

'The opposite! Thanks for letting me experiment.'

'The pleasure was all mine, but it's a one off. I've no desire to destroy our relationship by letting sex rear it's beautiful head.'

'How would it do that?'

'If you want casual sex, find a healthy, attractive stranger so you don't feel obliged to do it again if you don't want to. With friends, one is always keener than the other and if one says he doesn't feel like doing it any more the other feels insulted, and everything deteriorates from there. Loving relationships are the place for serious sex.'

'Yeah, I can see the logic. You know, I can't believe how sexy it feels with a man!'

'So it isn't like that with your girlfriend?'

'I hate it with Sandra. And she's no longer my girlfriend, she dumped me.'

'Why?'

'Probably because when she did to me what I've been doing to you, my cock shrank so far into its foreskin it almost disappeared and I told her to stop slobbering over me.'

'Not a diplomatic turn of phrase. What about kissing? Perhaps you should have gone down on her?'

'Ugh! Richard! Stop it! The idea makes me want to puke! It felt obscene enough touching her tits and cunt with my fingers. With my mouth? Yuk big time! But with you it felt normal...as if this is what I was meant to do.'

'Excellent. OK, off to bed for a wank and a good sleep so you'll be fit and ready for whatever Loic has planned.'

The weekend with Loic was brilliant. He let me drive everywhere, we visited loads of places I didn't even know existed; picnicked on a beach, swam in a river, climbed a mountain, went to a show, to a restaurant and had fun. My fears about sex were groundless; he's a 'vanilla' guy—at least that's what he calls it. Only likes touching, kissing and mutual wanking. Nothing gross or dirty or crude. I reckon I'm the same. We parted the best of friends. He's off back to France in a couple of months and didn't give me his address so I'll never see him again...but I don't really want to. As Mum says, only fools try to live the same experience twice.

Two days later Manu moved in and Mum moved out. Excellent. I love my mother, but both she and Judith seem so unimaginative, lacking in humour—in their presence I was never totally at ease. Now, Manu and Richard are so happy together and the three of us talk about anything and everything and do things together or alone without argument, without having to explain or justify ourselves.

I hadn't realised until then that I had never felt totally relaxed at home. Suddenly I was at peace with the world and contented—well, I would have been contented if I had a lover. Loic made me realise what I was missing and what all the other guys were getting because they wanted girls. It felt as if he'd turned on a light in my head. Suddenly I knew who and what I was, and for the first time in my life felt self-confident enough to see if I could get a lover. Wanking's fun, but sharing sex with someone you like and admire is a million times better. I still didn't know any one my own age at school or elsewhere that I wanted to leap into bed with, but my lust for my Maths teacher was undiminished so I set out to seduce him.

Mr. Andros is tall; nearly two metres, lean, energetic, a strong jaw, dark eyes, and lips that always seem to smile. His voice is low and sexy, fingers long and slim. All the girls have the hots for him, but he drifts through the school as if pupils don't exist outside the classroom.I've walked towards him in the street when we were the only two people on the footpath, and he passed by without the slightest acknowledgement.

It was Wednesday before he agreed to help with my Maths after school. I didn't need it but imagined we'd be sitting side by side at his desk, rubbing thighs and that would be the start of a glorious romance. Instead, he stood at the blackboard and I had to sit at a desk in the middle of the classroom with the corridor door wide open and pretend to be grateful. The following lunchtime I joined him in the playground when he was on duty and chatted in an effort to discover his interests. It turned out to be no effort at all. I couldn't shut him up. With virtually no prompting he gave me the benefit of his ideas for a perfect world.

'A healthy mind in a healthy body,' he declaimed as if he'd invented the phrase, 'is the first requirement for a sane society. It is every human's duty to keep his body as physically and mentally fit as possible.'

Having established the need for fitness he then denounced competitive sport because activities should be indulged in for their intrinsic pleasure and worth as a means for developing a healthy mind in a healthy body, not for gaining worthless prestige and fame. Jogging, he declared when I invited him to join me sometime, is a waste of energy that could be spent on useful activities such as gardening. Team sports foster dangerous pack mentality in young men. Social dancing led to promiscuous sexuality. TV is not only the source of foolish propaganda against good moral values, but is also anti-intellectual as it requires no imaginative effort from the brain-dead voyeurs who spend too much of their precious lives staring at it.Actors spend their lives pretending to be what they aren't and became less than human. Music should be listened to and never used as background noise, because that devalues it. Gambling is a retreat from reality and thus destroys sanity. Parties are pointless because no one can have a worthwhile conversation with more than one person at a time. Alcohol destroys not only brain cells but also self-control and relationships. We should eat to live, not live to eat. Fiction is better than non-fiction because the author creates ideal situations in which to teach valuable lessons in life, whereas non-fiction presents itself as truth when it is nothing but carefully selected facts and wishful thinking that support the writer's ego.

Naturally, I was awed by this philosophic deluge from such a relatively young man; he was twenty-three. This was his first year of teaching, which he liked, but was saddened by the impertinence, laziness and lack of moral fibre of most students. Equally naturally, being in lust I dismissed any of my ideas that conflicted with his, and planned accordingly.

After school on Friday I stuffed my school uniform into my locker and changed into a pair of flimsy shorts; not baggy, but loose enough to hang really low on my hips and expose a bit of bum cleavage. It was a hot afternoon so I put my tank top and Speedos in the army surplus knapsack I use as a schoolbag. On my feet a pair of soft leather thongs. I work out a lot on the horizontal and parallel bars so my chest, six-pack, and the so-called 'Greek muscle' that goes from the hips down to the crotch is well developed. That's why I like low-slung shorts because they draw attention to my good points. Yes, I'm a bit vain, but blame Loic and my mirror—both told me I look irresistible.

Careful planning ensured I 'accidentally' ran into Mr. Andros in the street near his lodgings as he was returning home from school. I gave him a huge grin [I have excellent teeth] and he seemed pleased to see me, but nervously suggested I didn't let my shorts slip any lower because passers by were turning to stare.

'Do they look shocked?' I asked – all innocence.

'No, no! Not at all...but...'

'Are you shocked?'

'No, no... it's just... I can see your... and the shape of your...' He coughed to hide his embarrassment. 'You're not wearing underpants!' he blurted.

'Of course not. I'm a free spirit.'

'Ah! A free spirit. Most of us have to work hard to attain that state.'

At that moment a guy on a skateboard zipped between us, so close we could feel the wind of his passage.

'Yo Asa! Hi Mr. Andros!' he shouted.

I just had time to note a slim brown body, short curly hair and perfectly formed legs before he hit the kerb and ended on his back. I raced forward and pulled him to his feet, holding onto his elbow with one hand and placing the other on his naked shoulder in case he needed support. He didn't, but he also didn't shrug me off; just looked into my eyes, grinned and thanked me.

'You stupid boy, Zeccinelli! Mr. Andros fumed. 'You might have hit us.'

'But I didn't, I crashed instead,' he said unapologetically. With a practised flick of his toe he set his skateboard upright, winked at me and, waving cheekily, disappeared along the pavement.

'Who was that?' I asked.

'Mario Zeccinelli,' Mr. Andros said tersely. 'He's as annoying in class as on the street.'

'What class?' I demanded, amazed I hadn't met this cute, sexy guy seeing we went to the same school. I also wondered how he knew my name, and felt proud that he did.

'Year eleven, top stream,' Mr. Andros replied shortly. 'Too smart for his boots, that one. He'll end up badly I predict. Skating round the city half naked.'

'No more naked than me,' I said with what I hoped was a winning smile.

'Compared to you he's overdressed,' he said with tight lips. 'At least he left something to the imagination. The fact that you're not impertinent, however, redeems you.'

'Thank you, Sir,' I smiled, delighted at my redemption.

'But why do you expose yourself like this in public?' he asked with a frown.

'Because it exemplifies the Ancient Greek ideal.'

'Greek ideal?'

'They did sport naked to show their healthy bodies, but how can I show the world I've a healthy mind as well?'

'I don't know, you tell me,' he said irritably.

'That I dare to walk around like this indicates I'm blessed with a nonconformist mind, which I reckon equates to a healthy one. Don't you agree?'

'Mens sana in corpore sano.' He barked a short laugh and looked at me critically for the first time. 'You've a very fine body, Asa; a firm abdomen, fine skin—and a sharp mind; it's just...'

'Don't worry,' I laughed, 'my shorts are well anchored, see?' I gave them a tug downwards, pretending not to notice they slipped another centimetre. I'm not only a bit vain, but also a bit of an exhibitionist if I think the audience will appreciate it.

His eyes popped a little but an all too human desire to prove he was also liberated and nonconformist prevented him from telling me to pull them back up. Instead, he looked around nervously then led me quickly across the street to the park and a shaded seat where he said he often sat and read. Away from the gaze of strangers he relaxed and once more held forth on the virtuous life and the necessity of balancing mind and body.My attention wandered to the shouts of kids at the swimming pool at the far end of the park.

'Do you like swimming?' I asked when he paused for breath,

He professed to adore it so I told him the public pool would be reserved for adults in half an hour, and suggested we went then. He agreed and we set off to get his togs. On the way he said it was silly for me to keep calling him Mr. Andros, his name was Melvyn. I suppressed a grin. Things were progressing very nicely, although I was no longer quite so interested having decided to get to know sexy, skateboarding Mario on Monday.

Mrs. Spurdle, Melvyn's ancient, wrinkled and diminutive landlady, was brewing herself a pot of tea in the kitchen. She gazed in cheeky appreciation at my crotch and chest and asked if we wanted tea and if I was staying to dinner. Melvyn seemed irritated and snapped, 'No thanks! Of course he isn't!' and went to change his clothes.

Mrs. Spurdle tilted her head like a curious parrot. 'If you jump up and down will your shorts fall down?'

'I don't know... shall I do it and see?'

'Yes, please.' Her smile was wicked.

I have to admit I'm a sucker for admiration and I also like giving nice people pleasure, so as the old girl was saucy and perky and I liked her, I secretly loosened the drawstring and jumped. They slithered to the floor.

'Goodness,' I said as if surprised. 'It's lucky I did that in front of you—imagine this had happened on the street—I'd be run in.'

'You'd be mobbed by every woman nearby,' she laughed as I pulled them back up—not too fast; she deserved a decent look.

'Oh, Asa. You're such a breath of fresh air! Everyone I meet seems to be so stuffy and straitlaced; ready to criticise anyone who has fun and doesn't take life seriously. You've made my day. I haven't seen one of those since Mr. Spurdle fell off the roof and broke his neck thirty years ago. Thank you so much. You deserve a biscuit.' She handed me a plate of home made shortbread and a cup of tea.

We sipped and munched and then she said thoughtfully, 'I never imagined Melvyn would find a lively friend like you. In fact,' she said with a sniff of disdain, 'I was beginning to wonder if there was something wrong with him. He spends so much time in his room on his own, never goes out, and seems to have no friends. Not even a girlfriend so I was beginning to suspect...' She let the sentence hang in the air.

'What?' I asked feigning innocence.

'Nothing, dear. Anyway, you're so obviously a tough young man I was clearly wrong.'

By the time Melvyn returned wearing baggy beige shorts that did not look as if they were slipping off, and a grey T-shirt, I was laughing at one of Mrs. Spurdle's irreverent tales about her eccentric husband.

'You seemed to hit it off with old Ma Spurdle,' he said waspishly on the way to the pool. 'Did she talk about me?'

'She's pleased you brought a friend home,' I replied diplomatically.

'Yes,' he said reflectively. 'I believe we are friends. We seem to have much in common.'

I wondered how he'd worked that out; so far he hadn't asked me anything about myself. Perhaps he was psychic.

After the dreadful baggy beige shorts, Melvyn looked superb in his Speedos. Slim, lightly tanned, well proportioned, a light dusting of hairs on chest and legs, obviously fit and healthy with a reassuring bulge at the crotch. We swam a few lengths. I dived from the low board, he climbed the tower and with no discernible hesitation walked to the edge and leapt—something I was too chicken to do. I always imagine I'll turn over in the air and break my back on landing. Watching him hurtling through space triggered an erection and when we dragged ourselves onto the warm tiles at the side of the pool to relax I didn't bother to conceal it. Melvyn glanced down, then across the pool to where several young women in thongs and tiny tit-holders were laughing too loud and casting come-hither glances in our direction.

'I see you are susceptible to lust, Asa,' he said seriously. 'I believe we can only achieve spiritual harmony if we learn to control and mould our minds in the same way as we do our bodies, do you agree?'

'Of course,' I replied, a little irritated by his patronising tone. 'Those women aren't the reason for my hard on—they do nothing for me. No females do.' This was a first for me, practically admitting I was gay, and my heart hammered furiously from fear that he'd curse me for a pervert.

But he didn't seem to have heard. Instead, he placed a long-fingered hand on my thigh and said placatingly, 'I apologise, Asa. I'd forgotten what it was like to be sixteen. I was slightly shocked that you don't bother to conceal it, but on reflection I realise your attitude to such a natural phenomenon is very healthy and does you great credit. It further indicates a strong spirit and healthy mind. I wonder if we are soul-mates,' he mused, withdrawing his hand.

I've never considered myself spiritual, and have always doubted the existence of souls, but being praised for having an erection certainly didn't make it go down! I was obviously expected to say something, but what? On an impulse I gazed into his deep brown eyes said sincerely, 'Melvyn, you are very handsome and have a beautiful spirit.'

Without even a hint of embarrassment at the outrageous compliment he nodded seriously. 'I try my best,' he said. 'But we all need assistance from outside ourselves to reach our full potential and attain true beauty of spirit.'

Imagining I was to be his assistant in developing his full potential, I smiled in the delicious afternoon warmth and leaned back on my elbows to better display the evidence of my strong spirit and healthy mind as we gazed with benign condescension at all the unhealthy bodies containing unhealthy minds.A grossly fat man waddling past was the trigger for Melvyn to leap abruptly to his feet and announce that we should celebrate the meeting of true minds with an ice-cream. Pulling our shorts over our togs we set off for the kiosk. Between licks Melvyn suggested we get to know each other better.

Breathlessly, I agreed.

'Tomorrow afternoon, perhaps? Mrs. Spurdle plays Bridge on Saturdays until five o'clock, so we'll have the place to ourselves.'

'Excellent!' I said. 'What time?'

'One o'clock?'

Manu and Richard congratulated me on my progress to date, but held their tongues when I told them about Melvyn's ideas and our spiritual bond.

'If everything turns out as you hope, then you must invite him here for dinner,' Manu said.

'Indeed,' Richard laughed, 'I can't wait to meet this soulful paragon of spiritual virtue.'

Such was my lust that not even their sly digs could diminish my excitement and on the dot of one, having shaved, showered and deodorised with care, I knocked at

Melvyn's door. He was dressed in grey slacks and a white shirt, which made me feel a tad underdressed in shorts and tank top. He led me into a large, dim, peaceful lounge with open French windows that gave onto a garden shaded by a giant Moreton Bay fig. Unsure what to do, I stood and gazed at the tranquil scene. He stood behind me, placing his hands on my bare shoulders.

We stood thus for several seconds allowing our spirits to mingle, I suppose, but my impatience took over. Clearly, he was too shy to make the first move, so I turned, took him in my arms and crushed my lips against his.

Instantly I was thrust back, tripped over a low table and ended on the floor.

'What are you doing?' he shouted. 'What madness has entered your brain?'

I struggled to my feet. 'I thought that's what you wanted.'

'What?'

'I thought you were gay and wanted to have sex with me.'

'Are you totally insane? We agreed to assist each other to purify our spirits through communion with a higher sphere! To ensure the health and purity of our minds!'

'I'm sorry,' I stuttered, retreating before his outraged fury. 'But what was I to think when you put your hand on my thigh at the pool and told me I was handsome and we were soul-mates?'

'You're nothing but a whore,' he whispered venomously, 'to impute such disgusting intentions from my innocent words and touch.'

Unprepared for such irrationality I could think of no defence, so fled.

Both Manu and Richard managed to contain their laughter. With twitching lips they assured me they thought I'd behaved exceedingly well in the circumstances. Richard said he'd have thumped the twerp, and Manu agreed.

At school the following Monday I spied Mario sitting alone on the ground under a tree. I went over and plonked myself down beside him.

'Gidday, Mario.'

He turned and grinned. 'Asa! This is an honour. Sorry about the other day.'

'I'm not,' I replied. 'You rescued me from that bore, Andros.'

'Don't tell me you think I'm more interesting than him!'

'More interesting, more handsome, sexier...' I looked away and paused in panic. What the fuck had I just said? Any second now he'd be shouting 'Asa's a queer' across the playground. The silence grew and I dared to look at him.

He giggled and smiled in exactly the right way, so I asked if he'd like to go to the flicks with me. He would, and now he spends most weekends at our place. I must say it's very pleasant and relaxing to have a lover one's own age.

*****

Contents

# Cupid's Dart

Jogging through the park, something stung me on my neck. Distracted, I tripped over a guy crawling out of a gap in the hedge that lined the path. I flipped and landed on my back. Winded.

He knelt beside me.

Sleek bronzed skin. Obsidian eyes flecked with specks of gold. Kissable lips. Curly black hair. Powerful shoulders in tank top. Muscular legs in flimsy running shorts. Delicious whiff of sex.

'You okay?'

It took all my concentration to nod.

'I'm Amoretto. What's your name?'

'Atman. What were you doing in the hedge?'

'Waiting for you.'

I felt relieved. The thought of having someone waiting for me sounded so beautiful, but I kept wondering why his head kept swelling and shrinking into a mist. Why was there a mist? I rolled onto my side and looked around. I was lying on soft grass beside a circular pool surrounded by slender marble columns. The sky was blue. A tiny temple on a grassy mound bore an uncanny resemblance to a drawing in my old Greek History textbook. Dense forest encroached on all sides, and a statue of an aroused satyr leered from the top of the stone steps behind us.

A gentle hand stroked my thigh.

I gazed into the handsome face. 'Where are we?'

'On the other side of the hedge.'

'Why are we naked?'

'It's an insult to nature to cover perfect bodies.'

I tried to think about that, but his stroking was setting my body on fire; burning from the inside. The orgasm felt as if my buttocks were ripped apart, tearing me in two. An agonising ejaculation that drove every worthless thing I have ever thought or done from my body, leaving me pure, calm and fuzzy-headed, until... A rough slap on the side of my head and a timid voice asking if I was awake.

I tried not to be, but eventually nodded.

Then I was floating until the sweet smell of peppermint mouthwash opened my eyes to a dark face with a heavy five o'clock shadow.

'I'm Dr Medic. Can you focus on my face?'

'Yes, you are very handsome,' I replied, surprised at the sound of my own voice.

'What drug did you take?'

'The drug of love.' I laughed loudly.

No one else laughed.

'What's that on his neck?' Another white coat asked.

Doctor Medic took some tweezers, fiddled and pulled, causing a short, sharp pain. 'D'you know what this is?' holding up a shiny object.

'It's a dart?' offered white coat.

'Yes. Delivered by blowpipe. Hollow and filled with tranquiliser to immobilise small mammals. Sometimes humans before a rape. Side effects are hallucinations and a sense of euphoria before blacking out.

'Cunning.'

'Very. First time I've seen one in this country. A colleague used to call them Cupid's Darts.'

*****

Contents

Other books by Rigby Taylor

Rough Justice

Set in subtropical Brisbane and the Sunshine Coast, Rough Justice is a nail-biting thriller, and a love story in which two young men discover that love is about more than sex. In his new school, Robert has trouble conforming to the expectations of his peers and is severely provoked by a fellow student; an acolyte of the fundamentalist Headmaster whose dogmatic Old Testament beliefs have led him to the brink of insanity.

Relationships, morality, values, courage, friendship and what it takes to be a 'man', are but some of the themes explored in this gripping tale.

When he falls in love, Robert's life falls into place - until attempts on both young men's lives force them to take extreme measures, the consequences of which pose an ethical dilemma that could destroy their new found happiness.

Dome of Death

Dome of Death is a thriller; shocking, funny, romantic and thought provoking. When the director of an Art Gallery in Queensland falls to his death from the central dome, his lover, Peter, unwillingly takes over the job. Murder, torture, cyclones, tidal surges, snuff porn shows – are but a few of the complications to be navigated in his search for justice, happiness and love. Set on the Sunshine Coast of Queensland, Australia, Dome of Death is a fast-paced thriller that follows Peter on a perilous, shocking path to defend his values in the face of corruption and greed.

Sebastian

Sebastian is an intelligent look at alternative ways to live and love, presented as a thriller around the most horrific, and one of the most lucrative human enterprises. If you're you are open to difference, are interested in alternative ways to live and love, and enjoy a fast-paced thriller, then this book is for you—so read and enjoy.

Seventeen year-old Sebastian is an enigma. Everyone likes him, but no one knows anything about him. He wears clothes only under protest, but no one seems to mind. To say his home life is unusual is like saying the Amazon is a stream. Bizarre doesn't even begin to describe his upbringing. He doesn't know who his father was, he's used as a therapist for broken youths, and yet he's managed to remain a 'normal' and thoroughly 'nice guy'...in the opinion of all those who are not concerned by his penchant for nudity.

In this fast paced tale of criminal intrigue, porno rings, abductions and mayhem in tropical Australia, Sebastian and his boyfriend, Reginald, fight for their lives against the big-moneyed bad boys.

Jarek

The sexual molestation of a student by a female high school teacher in an isolated tropical Australian town, triggers assassinations, abductions and murder.

When Jarek realises he prefers males and leaves his girlfriend, he gets caught up in the mayhem, caused by a small group of feminists demanding the end of male dominance.

Zeno becomes Jarek's best friend and assistant at a rainforest camp for adolescent youths where they are introduced to the joys of independence, freedom from irrational taboos, respect for nature and each other, and pride in their natural masculine instincts.

A crazy, gun-toting young woman; a spurned wife, and a man-hating teacher, cause Jarek, Zeno and friends to take off to the coast where they meet Sebastian and his remarkable parents.

Instead of escaping their problems, however, life becomes even more dangerous when they are followed by their small-town enemies, who join forces with the State President of Women's War International, a female practised in the art of ridding the world of non-compliant males.

Mortaumal

Mortaumal [Mort-au-mal...Death to evil.]

One would expect a young man whose single mother skipped town a couple of hours after his birth, to have a few problems, but Mortaumal [Mort] doesn't seem to, thanks to his grandfather. However, when that support is gone and foster parents fail, and there are nasty people demanding he do evil deeds...things begin to look pretty desperate.

From the age of ten to eighteen Mort lives with and meets an extraordinary variety of people, gets himself into and out of very hot water, sees rather too many people die, learns to defend himself both physically and mentally, and ends up unimpressed with humanity in general, while loving the few who come up to scratch.

This is a light-hearted, not too serious tale about death and dying, affection and callous indifference, independence and love somewhere in tropical Queensland. There's sentiment but not sentimentality, social criticism, excitement, fun and a bit of everything else in a fast paced yarn that suggests ways to live that are more interesting and natural than those we see on our screens.

Fidel

Fidel is fifteen when the story begins sometime in the near future. He's running away from home to the big city where he falls into trouble, then miraculously falls out again, and grows into a sturdy, well-liked young man. Like most people he is too busy living to notice that a relatively quiet revolution is taking place, replacing the government with a coalition of religious fundamentalists who have strong ideas on how their subjects ought to live, and how to enforce compliance with their draconian laws.

Over the next few years he and his friends fall foul of the government and have to go into hiding. After a series of adventures, excitements and horrifying experiences, they find a safe haven—but only for a while. On the run again, they have a bit of luck and eventually arrive at the beginning of my penultimate novel, NumbaCruncha.

As the tale progresses we learn what happened to Robert, Bart, the horrible Lance, and pleasant Constable Jurgenz. We also revisit Peter and Jon, Sebastian and Jarek, and Mortaumal and Zadig.

So, Fidel is a prequel to NumbaCruncha, and a sort of sequel to my other five novels—Rough Justice, Dome of Death, Sebastian, Jarek and Mortaumal. But they can all be read as complete stories.

Frankie Fey

Frankie approaches life head on with a logical brain and healthy contempt for everyone not as smart as him, so it's natural that his life isn't straightforward. A death in the family, abduction, theatrical success, life-threatening encounters with property developers, run-ins with gender-equality fanatics, outsmarting a gang of con-men and women, are mere preludes to a trip to India where a stay in a Himalayan Buddhist monastery goes very, very wrong. Then the young men he meets on his way south are not what they seem...

Refusing to be defined by the gender of the people he lusts after, Frankie has no problems with it and has the energy and interest to enjoy the world, not moan and complain about injustices. He's a true hero, strong, honest, decent, clear-thinking and not too bad looking, so surely one of the young men he befriends will turn out to be his equal?

Time to Think

Time To Think is an amusing, thoughtful and sexy collection of eleven short tales about the human condition and how some gays cope with such things as visiting evangelists, unwelcome visitors, too much praise, unwanted sexual attentions from women, living in a nursing home, unpleasant relations, genetic modification and newly awakened sexual urges.

NumbaCruncha

The tale begins with a chilling peek into the near future when Sebastian and Jarek, now in their eighties, confront a particularly vile religious autocrat, whose reign of terror has led to the destruction of their laboratories, but not their secret weapon.

We then take a thousand year leap to a future city-state in which the human aptitude for duplicitous and unjust social schemes has reached its logical culmination in Oasis, a flesh-crawlingly evil dystopia ruled by the most unpleasant gang of conmen and women you're ever likely to encounter.

A couple of young scientists who have recently invented a new means of transport, begin to question the morality of the Oasis social order, and decide to do something about it, despite the tremendous odds.

Meanwhile, back in the forest, Sebastian and Jarek's secret weapon is patiently waiting.

NumbaCruncha is a thoughtful, perhaps shocking, certainly controversial, at times amusing, and always cheeky assessment of the apparently intractable problems facing humanity. Although the future for life on planet Earth seems hopelessly bleak to people who care about the destruction of the natural world in which Homo sapiens evolved, NumbaCruncha suggests there might be some hope ...but only if...

Dancing Bare

Dancing Bare is an amusing and unconventional autobiography. Rigby, an impossibly innocent young man, swaps the suffocating confines of middle class New Zealand for love and liberation in nineteen-sixties London and Europe. Revelling in the freedom conferred by anonymity, he becomes an actor, stripper, rent boy, lover, teacher and dedicated traveller through Europe, North Africa and the Middle East, where travellers were uncommon and countries still retained many of the differences that made travelling so interesting.

Rigby meets with a wide variety of people, life styles and customs, eventually settling in Paris where the state did not consider his sexuality to be a criminal offence.

A moving and amusing story of hope and love, sex and sexuality, theatrical showmanship and artless innocence, laced with a little philosophical speculation as he wanders the world in pursuit of true love.

About Rigby Taylor

Rigby lives with his partner as naturally as possible in today's world, on several sclerophyll forest acres in sub-tropical Queensland.

He recalls his first twenty-four years on this earth in the light-hearted memoir, Dancing Bare, in which he relates his exploits in nineteen sixties London, Paris, Europe and North Africa.

He write the sorts of stories he likes to read himself, in which people who share his ideas, values, hopes and fears, cope bravely with dangers without compromising their principles.

Contact info

Thanks for reading Time to Think. A review would be nice. And if you feel the urge to communicate, I respond to everyone; my email address is:

Email: rigbyte@gmail.com

Contents
