Although his mother hadn’t given a time for their shift back to Mareeba, it happened in haste. First they set up house with the shop to follow. All this was within a week of Lewis returning to live with Gladys and the day he commenced work. Winnie did suggest he could live back but Lewis believed he should stay with Gladys at least for a number of weeks as she had been kind enough to offer. With his mother’s offer came an apology that for the present they would not be able to give him his old job back as they couldn’t afford to pay wages. That was fine with Lewis as he was beginning to enjoy his independence at Jack and Newells and his newly found friend in Ian.

As for Lewis’ new job, It only took a matter of days to bed into the routine of fulltime work, which in some ways he found similar to being at school, with Stan Cook the supervisor as teacher, albeit a very abrupt and unhelpful one, full of his own importance and Ian as a classmate, who instead of playtime after work, would join him for a beer and conversation at the Royal Hotel. Soon it was as if they had known each other for life, finding they had much in common.

“Where’s Ian” Lewis asked of his supervisor. It was Monday and he hadn’t seen Ian since the previous Friday. They had planned to meet on the Saturday but Ian cancelled as he had been asked to help with stocktaking in the afternoon and as he was saving with intention to buy new clothes he quickly agreed.

“Ian had an accident at work on Saturday,” came the gruff reply from the scruffy, overweigh Supervisor without displaying a spark of amity.

“What sort of accident?”

“You’re late!” Stan Cook growled; his gaze towards the large bakelite electric clock on the far wall, whose second hand appeared to emphasise it so as it ticked past the half hour.

“No I’m not, its just gone eight-thirty!” Lewis quietly protested.

“You haven’t started working as yet so you’re late!” snapped the supervisor, to which Lewis decided to leave well enough alone but repeated his enquiry about his friend.

“Ian broke an arm and a wrist,” Stan said as he wheezed his lack of condition into a half box of canned tomatoes he was carrying. He paused, drew a deep breath then continued on his way.

“How did it happen?” Lewis enquired.

“Boxes fell on him in the store room.” The supervisor barked as if informing an inmate of Her Majesty’s Prison.

“On the same arm?” Lewis asked in amazement, his eyes opened wide while his face distorted in disbelief.

“No silly boy! Right arm, left wrist and if you want to know more then go and visit him,” Stan instructed as he departed towards the storeroom, “but in your own time,” pausing once more to better grip the box he was carrying, he continued; “now get on with your work!”

That night Lewis decided to visit Ian. He had met his friend many times after work but had never visited at home as the thought of facing Ian’s so called strange landlord had stalled him from doing so. As for the man’s strangeness, Ian had never deliberated on why he was considered so and when questioned further would only repeat he was just strange. That allowed Lewis’ imagination to expand well beyond someone with a nervous tic, as to him strange could depict some dirty old man who offered boiled lollies to young lads in the park, while fondling his private parts beneath the folds of a gabardine overcoat. So an encounter with John Ashley, the strange landlord, was well down Lewis’ list of things he must do before his demise or Sunday’s roast whichever eventuated first.

Ashley’s house was small and well shaded by over planting of shrubs and allowed to find their own destiny without ever feeling a pair of garden shears, with an equally untidy hedge crowding a rusting cyclone wire fence at the front. From the gate a pebbled path led towards a generous verandah with latticed doors barring entrance. Each step crunched loudly beneath his shoes as he made final approach.

The verandah doors weren’t locked and Lewis let them squeak open to full extent leaving them wide, thus if this man were to offer him boiled lollies he would have escape access. He smiled at the thought, realising he was no longer that little boy and could well handle himself against some ageing pervert with a small white bag of sticky all day suckers.

Continuing he timidly knocked, forgetting Ian’s suggestion he should go directly to his room behind; his arrival echoing into the hallway beyond. Soon there was the shuffling of feet as a naked bulb lit above his head gave dim illumination. “Let there be light!” he stated softly “and there was light,” he humoured, repeating almost the only words he remembered from the good book and long forgotten religious instruction.

“Hello there!” came the deep voice of John Ashley as he peered through a crack in the opening door, followed by the presence of a short, balding rotund man wearing only singlet and very large ill fitting khaki shorts as the door opened to full. So far all was well without obvious sign of strangeness, except possibly the shorts, not neglecting the deep uncharacteristic tone of voice and no offer of boiled lollies.

John Ashley was the cross between a ruddy faced cherub and an ancient friar, while his deep consciously controlled voice was much too masculine for his persona. Many years of radio announcing with the local radio station and others before, had taken his voice and exercised it into the build of a weightlifter.

“Hi I’m Lewis a friend of Ian,” Lewis issued, realising his voice appeared inadequate to associate with that of Ian’s strange landlord.

“Umm,” replied the landlord who for some time scanned the build of Lewis as if he were judging a prize bull at the agriculture show. Then after careful deliberation his eyes appeared to settle on the crotch of Lewis’ tight fitting pants, creating a feeling he was standing naked before the man. Lewis unfolded his arms and commenced to cup his hands over his perceived nakedness but on realisation, instead rested them nervously upon his hips. Still uncomfortable he once again folded his arms across his chest but the perception of nakedness prevailed.

A moment of silence, deliberation but no little white bag of sticky lollies, no gabardine overcoat, “then I suppose you better come in,” Ashley offered standing aside to allow entry, “does this friend of Ian have a name?”

“Sorry, it is Lewis – Lewis Smith.”

“Well Lewis Smith friend of Ian, best you follow me.” The man led the way along a narrow dull hallway.

“Do you work with Ian, Lewis?” Ashley asked as they once again entered into the darkness at the rear.

“Yes.”

“How do you find Jack and Newells?” Ashley was making small talk as they made way towards Ian’s bungalow.

“Fine,” Lewis answered while attempting to avoid familiarity.

“And how do you find Stan your supervisor.”

“He’s alright I guess.”

“Umm, that’s not what young Ian has to say but I haven’t met the man myself.” Lewis allowed the admission to pass.

At the bungalow door Ashley paused, “you will be able to give Ian a hand,” he chuckled while throwing open the door without knocking, as if inspired to catch his boarder in some private action.

Ian who was sitting in an old and ragged club chair beside his single bed jumped at the intrusion but said nothing. “Visitor,” Ashley acknowledged in a deep voice ushering Lewis into the small room, “I’ll leave you two to your own company, so behave yourselves.” Once said he closed the door and was gone.

Ian was quite a comical sight Ian seated in his teddy-bear print pyjamas, wearing a grin that disregarded his situation. One arm was plastered from its elbow to the fingers, which he wiggled in greeting from the white mass of plaster, while the other had a similar casting but smaller and suspended around his neck by a makeshift sling. By his situation it was obvious he couldn’t dress himself, never mind attend to his ablutions, bringing Lewis to enquire.

“How do you feed yourself?” Lewis asked in amazement. “Or anything else?” he added in equal bewilderment. At this Ian removed his arm supporting the broken wrist from its sling and waved it about as best he could.

“I’m telling you, it isn’t easy,” Ian stated through a long exhale of frustrated breath as he stood and sat upon his bed, leaning back into a mountain of pillows. “I can just manage the dunny, as long as John wipes.” He paused, not wishing to further embellish such a personal transaction, “I can stand under the shower but have to wear lots of plastic and John does the washing.” another short pause, “and if you place a spoon under the hand plaster I can eat but John needs to cut everything into small proportions.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Not now but when Stan dropped the crate on me it sure did.”

“So Stan is at fault?” Lewis quickly and maliciously placed blame on their supervisor.

“Not really, it was the way delivery stacked the boxes when they arrived.”

“Do you need anything?” Lewis offered.

“Like what?”

“I dunno’, I guess from the shops.”

“Na’ John has been good and does most things. I don’t know what I would do without him.”

Lewis remained talking to his friend well into the evening, with regular visits from Ashley, whose comments became more daring with each visit. After one such intrusion Lewis asked what was the deal with the man.

“He’s a poof!” Ian stated as matter of fact without looking up from clumsily picking at the edges of his arm plaster with his free fingers.

Ian’s statement came without malice as if projecting a liking for a shirt or pair of shoes, or what he would wish for his next meal and offered as if were an everyday occurrence to have one of such leaning in a redneck town like Mareeba. Lewis reeled back from the simple explanation and repeated Ian’s description of the man.

“Don’t you go repeating that around work,” Ian quickly instructed, realising he may have overstepped decorum.

“I wouldn’t but -.”

“But nothing Lewis, I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Lewis thoughts expanded, did this mean Ian was so inclined and if so, would others think he was also attracted towards men. Lewis wasn’t gay; he was dinky-die straight, besides had he only recently had sex with a girl even if she were one of the camp, while Ian had desires on Brenda, the new blond airhead on the checkout at Jack and Newells who had replaced Kylie and had frequently stated he would give her one, or in his somewhat vulgar humour, like to go through her like lightning through a wet dog. Now in the presence of Ian, his smiling face, his boyish pyjamas and carefree attitude Lewis felt more than he cared to admit and for an instant his masculinity took a back step.

Lewis’ thoughts wandered through guilt to association and fear of deeply hidden desires, coming to rest in the dormitories of Herberton’s Hostel among the soiled linen of horseplay. Had that been the breeding ground for his sexuality? He had often – and willingly joined in with the antics of others, this didn’t mean he was a shirt-lifter, being a malicious term boys used for such people. All it meant was – was nothing as soon as such thoughts surfaced, he quickly forced them deep down into his subconscious.

Horseplay that is what it was called, although he had never seen two stallions acting in such manor. He had often chanced upon a cow mounting the rear end of another cow but that was called bulling, showing they were ready for a bit. Besides cows were female and females lying with each other was fair; ask any red-blooded fella’ he would soon agree so, while wishing to join in.

Lewis believed he would grow away from such thoughts, while his interest in other males was naught but mateship, a passing fad, a protrusion in the progress through adolescence but even with restriction placed on such thinking, it always returned and stronger with each passing. Now was such a time and Ian’s vulnerability only increased his torment.

“Hey mate John’s harmless.” Ian quickly assured while watching Lewis’ expression turn from happy to confused distortion, “Its mostly talk and he doesn’t try anything!” Ian strongly confirmed.

“Oh!” Lewis exclaimed. Under the circumstances it was all he could muster, meaning I understand and accept your situation, besides one has to live somewhere and there wasn’t too many who would help a fellow with two broken wings, never mind wash him and wipe his arse.

“How long are you going to be off work?” Lewis asked.

“A number of weeks I guess, which is a bit of a bummer as Cookie said they would hold my job but I don’t have any sick leave.”

“What about board money?” Lewis asked, realising he would like to help but was in much the same position.

“John said he was good for it and to pay him when I can.”

“I have a little,” Lewis genuinely offered.

“Don’t concern, I’ll be alright, besides if I get desperate I can always call my parents.”

That night Lewis lay awake listening to the passing foot traffic from the street below his verandah bedroom, as rain echoed through the unlined metal roof. In one corner the weather had found a hole and dripped constantly onto the timber decking. Gladys came to the balcony and placed a bucket under the drip.

“You awake Lewis?”

“I am.”

“Is the dripping annoying you?”

“No, not really.”

“Are you on an early start?” she asked.

“Yes, one of the blokes has broken his arm,” Lewis yawned.

“Good night then, I’ll wake you early.”

Gladys returned to her bed but now the dripping did annoy Lewis as it echoed into the metal bucket. Rising from his bed he dumped a dirty pair of socks into the bucket to muffle the echo. He was now truly awake. All about were the half light of the street and the lamps of vehicles, their tyres sloshing on the wet road surface as folk hurried home to avoid the worse of the forecasted storm.

The rain transported Lewis back to the farm at East Barron near Atherton. It was always raining there, and cold. Being high into the tableland the winters were as wet and cold as those he remembered during earlier visits to his grandparents in Melbourne, while on a clear night it was dark and silent until the giant fruit bats found the ripening bananas in the adjacent paddock to squabble over the best fruit. With the thought came realisation that had been the last time he had seen the magic carpet of stars and the spill of the Milky Way, as even in Mareeba light pollution hid most of the night sky. In Melbourne there had been nothing but the brightest points.

Lewis loved the night, professing darkness had a sound of its own and its strain was as soothing as any lullaby, also there wasn’t anything louder, or more pure, than silence but now he had the comic relief of the late night passage directly below his bed and drunken aborigines having corroboree under the mid-street mango trees to serenade him.

This night his mind continuously drifted to Ian and his situation. Etched deep within Lewis’s conscious was Ian’s infectious smile and those silly pyjamas. Cute, he thought but what did he mean by cute, was his interpretation aesthetically or something less acceptable. There appeared to be an attraction far beyond mateship, as doubts about his conception of self took a dive and what lay beneath those cute teddy-bears became prominent.

On the surface Lewis was as he had described but below that thin layer of social expectation he knew there was an underlying sentiment tugging at his will to be all a man could be, while imprinted on the reverse of his eyelids, was the image of Ian and he wanted to crawl into that cuteness and snuggle there until sleep stole away his secret craving.

Lewis opened his eyes to shield his mind from such thoughts and viewed the moon transcend across the roofs of the shops on the far side of the street. “It’s not silver!” he declared quietly, “poetry says the silvery moon but it’s more yellow and weak at that – like pale butter I should think,” he vaguely whispered into the silence.

Beneath the mango trees the din from the drunken aborigines had subsided into a murmur, then none as they slept away the booze, with the mango trees protecting them of most of the now drizzle. They would be gone by sunup, leaving behind their dead soldiers, empty beer bottles wrapped in brown paper bags to hide the illegality of their acquired habit.

Lewis remembered his earlier days while living with Gladys and school holidays, it was a different address then. She would have him collect those bottles and sell them back to the shops for pocket money. He would rise in the early morning and walk the streets in search and on the occasion make as much as five shillings, even more if he found clean-skin bottles, being those without any brewery notation, a virtual fortune to such a young lad but recently five shillings had become fifty cents and with the change it purchased much less. Those days were the beginning of his magic walks in the early coolness and lingered still but with working for a living they became just that, memories.

There was also the mischievous Lewis, who, after selling the bottles would steal them back from the shop’s rear yard. He would skilfully climb the fence and refill his sugar bag, then as quickly return to the shopkeeper with his stolen loot, admitting they were some he had forgotten to offer. His misdemeanour was soon recognised and within a short time found instead of havable bottles, the snarling teeth of a very large black dog, bringing his life of crime to a conclusion.

It was early morning when Lewis stirred from deep sleep, brought on by an erection that felt as if it would burst and a sensation which bought him to the threshold of ecstasy. As he rose from the depths of slumber it was the image of Ian that flashed past his subconscious but dissipating as quickly back into the fog of that half awake, half sleep world one travels through on losing their sleep. Once past that verge and being almost awake, he came upon a question, which only the fog of slumber had allowed to rise through his instabilities and fears. It was the question of his sexuality. Then as he spun back into sleep a sentence echoed in his sleep-emptied head. “How does he do it?”

“So you will be going back to live with your mother?” Gladys quietly asked over breakfast, while dishing up four plates of eggs on toast with crispy bacon and tomatoes, perfection in taste and aroma, if nothing else Gladys was the perfect cook. As the words passed Gladys’ lips she faltered on the word mother, as if she had bitten down on a slice of lemon. Once asked she pushed the question aside with her breakfast plate.

Gladys had lost her appetite and the bitter lemon of Lewis’ mother turned most sour in her mouth. Timmy ogling the discarded plate didn’t go unnoticed.

“Would you like some more bacon?” Gladys asked, knowing the boy’s fancy. He nodded and devoured his last rasher to make way for more.

“Good god woman, don’t you think he’s big enough already,” Tom complained as Gladys scraped much of her breakfast onto the boy’s plate.

“He is growing and needs his energy,” Gladys lovingly offered as her husband returned to his breakfast newspaper, he paused and glanced over the top of the print to Lewis, “How’s the job at Jack and Newells?”

“Fine but I don’t much care for old Stan,’ Lewis offered without thought.

“Good man is Stan, has a lovely wife, they only recently had their forth child.” Tom quickly corrected.

“I meant he is somewhat strict,” Lewis reassessed, backing away from his complaint.

“You can learn a lot from Stan Cook,” Tom assured and cast a disapproving eye towards Timmy’s breakfast plate.

“So Lewis will you be returning to live with your mother?” Gladys repeated as she removed her now empty plate to the sink.

Tom folded his paper and standing gave Timmy a gently pat to the head.

“Finished?” he asked.

The boy smiled and continued to chew on a final rasher of bacon, while a half slice of toast remained his fancy.

“School time, come on finish up and I’ll walk with you,” Tom suggested and stood and collected his lunch box.

Gladys cleared the breakfast table obviously impatient for Lewis’ answer while Timmy continued eating, ignoring his father’s offer. Tom couldn’t wait longer and left without him.

“Suppose so.” Lewis answered without conviction, his mind more on the situation of Ian and the turmoil of his own sexuality brought on by Ian’s landlord than his intention to abode or where.

Again Lewis’ thought returned to Ian seated on his bed dressed in pyjamas, his arms in plaster and appearing most vulnerable. As that image expanded he quickly doused it, returning to breakfast and Gladys’ conversation and ways he could avoid giving response.

“When?” Gladys asked judgementally not satisfied with Lewis’ answer.

“They haven’t fully moved in yet and I hoped I could stay with you until they are settled.” Lewis begged without lifting his gaze from the table and a slight tear in the plastic sheeting covering her lace tablecloth. Gladys didn’t answer, instead finished clearing the table. “That is if you would be kind enough for me to do so.”

Gladys turned to the sink filling it with hot water and more suds than necessary before supplying her answer. “Yes Lewis you can stay but once you go from here, you won’t be welcomed back,” She warned from the froth and clatter of china on china as the woman forcefully submerged her pink latex covered hands into the water. Releasing a soft sigh Gladys appeared to disconnect from the conversation while concentrating on the floral printing on a tea cup. Her mother had given her that tea set. The saucer had long gone, also the butter plate but the cup remained as a reminder of a kind woman who had much charity. She returned the cup to the washing while taking on a gentler attitude towards the crockery.

For once in his life the adult took hold of Lewis and he didn’t react to her frustration. In reality Gladys had a good heart and in time would come to regret those words, even her animosity towards Lewis’ mother would subside and again their once close friendship would flourish.

“I really appreciate you allowing me to stay at all,” Lewis calmly answered displaying as much politeness as he could muster without appearing cynical.

Gladys didn’t answer but a gentle calm did come over the soap suds and pots.

Lewis swallowed the last of his tea and brought his plates to the sink. “Would you like me to do the drying?” he offered and reached for a tea-towel.

“No I’ll be alright – you’ll be late for work.” Gladys quickly retrieved the tea-towel from his grasp and threw it over her shoulder. “Off you go lad but you can walk Timmy to school, it’s on the way, Tom couldn’t wait for him,” she said without further sign of malice but Lewis knew it to be there, lingering like some monsoonal depression to surface when it was least expected. He knew her well and also knew it wasn’t the real Gladys but one who had a lifetime of disappointment, mainly from a husband whom she should never have married and from the number of miscarriages and the primeval drive to become a mother. In some ways those fears were what developed in bulking up young Timmy into a ball of lard.

“Thank you I’ll see you tonight.” Lewis called back from the door as Timmy arrived having difficulty shouldering his bag.

“I can’t manage my bag,” Timmy complained while ferociously tugging at the buckles to no avail.

“That is because you are fat.” Lewis softly acknowledged as they descended the stairs.

“Mum, Lewis said I’m fat!” The kid loudly complained but went unheard by Gladys, who had already left the kitchen to collect laundry.

Snatching the bag from Timmy’s grasp Lewis quickly adjusted the straps, “there try that for size.”

“Now they are too long.” Timmy complained, jiggling his bag up and down his back, bringing it to rest at the nap of his fat neck.

“You’ll grow into them.”

It was Friday and after another day’s work without the sight of Ian’s smiling face and the twinkle of his ocean blue eyes, Lewis decided to pay him a visit. Once at the house he was met at the door by Ashley, who quickly gave invitation and offered a drink.

“Scotch?” Ashley asked as he sipped from a cheap glass tumbler, its surface depicting a scene from some distant but indescribable country.

“No thanks,” Lewis declined.

“How about a beer?” Ashley quickly followed but Lewis again declined, thinking it best to be alert and on ones guard while in the presence of such a man.

“How about me?” Ashley offered with an exaggerated expression. Lewis didn’t answer.

From somewhere towards the rear of the house came the sound of running water. Lewis lifted his head towards the sound.

“Ian’s having a shower,” Ashley informed from behind a grin which would pride a Cheshire cat.

“Oh.” Lewis answered as Ian’s voice called across the fall of water. “John I’m finished.”

Ashley smiled and placed his empty tumbler onto the side bench. “Drying time, I’ve already done the washing time, unless you would like the job.” he suggestively teased.

“No thanks, I’ll leave that to you but I will have that beer if it’s still on offer.” If nothing else doing so would break him from his fidget.

“Help yourself, there’s plenty in the fridge.”

Lewis retrieved a beer and found an opener close by, then sat at the kitchen table listning to the muffled sound from the bathroom. The water was no longer running and an occasional thump could be heard as a clumsy body bumped against confining walls, then a short silence followed by Ian’s voice. “Steady John!” came clearly through the dividing walls, followed by laughter from Ashley, then a chuckle as if from a man with smut on his mind. Minutes later the two entered the living room, Ian dressed in his pyjamas.

“Alright you too off to the bungalow, dinner will be ready soon, I’ll bring it over for you.” Ashley said gently slapping Ian across his backside as he passed. Lewis followed without receiving equal treatment. “Have you eaten, there is plenty?” Ashley asked of Lewis.

“Yes before I came over.”

“He’s a bit over the top.” Lewis declared on entering the bungalow.

“Oh John’s harmless enough,” Ian once again assured “but if you were to let him, well I dare say he wouldn’t be backward.” Ian sprawled himself across his bed, spreading his legs innocently allowing the fly of his pyjama pants to partially opened, showing a scrub of dark brown curl. On noticing his indiscretion he quickly closed the flap and crossed his legs, “Opps,” he said with a cheeky titter.

It was then Lewis felt something rising within, a compulsion drawing him to the now closed pyjama fly, a want to see beyond and…. As quickly his compulsion died as he was drawn back into conversation. Firstly there was work and a good deal of bad-mouthing of Cookie their supervisor, then a lengthy description of the new girl on the cash register as Ian’s admitted fancy Brenda had gone, only lasting a week past his accident and the third in that position within a short time. There was unsubstantiated rumour Cookie had had his hand, as if to speak, in her cookie jar but they were more derogatory than else.

The new girl just happened to have designs on Lewis, he knew she did and like any true red blooded male mistook courtesy to be an invitation.

“Now Lewis what girl would be interested in a face like yours?” Ian teased “except for one from the native camp?” he added dipping his head to one side, which in the thinking of Lewis converted jest into accusation.

Had his earlier indiscretion behind Pollards become common knowledge? Or was Ian teasing him. Lewis’ face flushed red while his forehead prickled with detection. Ian instantly tuned to his friends embarrassment and challenged him “You’re not a gin-jockey are you?” he mockingly asked.

“Fuck you; of course I’m not!” Lewis cried out in anger, which was quickly doused by a smile from his friend.

“Are you?” Lewis snapped in retaliation in order to cast away suspicion from his outburst.

“I would rather root you,” teased Ian without conviction in his tone, “or Ashley’s black dog!” he attached. “No, on second thoughts I would rather root Ashley’s mongrel!” he finally confessed.

“I didn’t know Ashley had a dog?” Lewis questioned as he had not seen the animal or any signs of a dog around the yard.

“Well he had one but it was hit by a truck some time back, just after I arrived, someone left the gate open but if it were still here then, well you know the rest,” Ian reinforced his preference for doggie pleasure over the rear end of his friend.

After Ashley had delivered a tray of easy to handle food, consisting of mashed potato, pees and steak cut into small squares, he excused himself as being a nursemaid had made him late for his work.

Ashley announced the nine to midnight-shift on Mareeba radio and his deep radio-voice, which definitely didn’t describe the man’s true character, lulled the town’s matriarchs into fantasy. Being balding, rotund and obviously effeminate it was no wonder that neither he nor the radio station encouraged public appearances and when suggested, it was disclosed he was shy and reserved.

“Music for old biddies!” Ian called after Ashley as he closed the door.

“Bite your tongue!” Ashley called back in his affected high pitched voice and was gone.

“Now tell me more about this new girl,” Ian asked displaying more than a degree of interest, “would I like her?”

“You like anything in a skirt.” Lewis protested while removing Ian’s finished plate to the side table.

“I do have some limitations.”

“She has big tits!” Lewis declared laughing, “jugs like bazookas and pert little nipples poking through her blouse,” he quickly added to his description.

“You reckon they all have big tits.”

“She does, believe me.” Lewis was in the habit of overcompensating female description to hide his general lack of sexual interest in the female form, fortunately in doing so his male friends concentrated more on the description than his reasoning.

“Then I would like her,” Ian proclaimed, placing his hand with the free fingers over the fly of his pyjamas, clumsily rearranging what lay beneath. Being laid up for an extended time meant even the mention of breasts, never mind pert little nipples, was enough to excite Ian and his evasive action didn’t go un-noticed by Lewis, who turned his gaze but as quickly his eyes involuntary returned to the now covered fly.

The conversation died. Further talk of breasts could become embarrassing for Ian, while Lewis’ continued stare towards Ian’s crotch carried the same predicament. At last Lewis spoke “I was wondering how you do it?” he asked lowering his eyes away with the question.

“Do what?” Ian quizzically answered.

“Aw it doesn’t matter,” Lewis withdrew. He had not intended offering such a question although it had been foremost in his thoughts all week. Without thinking it slipped past his guard like a stealthy fox and now it was out and he wished it was not.

“Cookie was away today,” he said to avoid answering.

“You are avoiding something.”

“No I’m not.”

“No come on tell all.” Ian’s face was smiling, his eyes sparkled with anticipation but Lewis remained slow to divulge. “Come on” Ian repeated.

“Well,” Lewis’ voice croaked, “how do you wank?”

“That’s a little personal, shucks I hardly know you,” Ian laughed turning Lewis’ face to crimson.

“Sorry it was silly.”

“I guess under the circumstances it is a fair question,” Ian freely admitted.

“Sorry,” Lewis repeated.

“No as I said a fair question and the answer in simple is I don’t and it has been more than three weeks – much longer and I’ll bust!”

Although initially Lewis became embarrassed by his request, Ian’s lack of prudence surprised him as his answer was void of discomfort as one discussing the weather, or arrangements for the coming weekend, not the taboo of masturbation.

Masturbation was a subject no male ever admitted in the company of his mates, while it was commonly expressed, any man who does so is a dirty bugger and a man who declares he does not is a bloody liar. Lewis often wondered why it was considered forbidden, unlike farting which was often performed with much vigour and humour in male company. While admitting to relieving one’s sexual frustrations would quickly kill any conversation and bring rejection to the offender.

Most acts of sexual intercourse were proudly admitted and crude description of the female anatomy freely given in graphic detail, yet not one single word would describe the physical appearance of the man, other than bragging about his size. It was as if he didn’t exist in the act of penetration. As for self abuse, all were at it and in denial, protesting loudly if suggested.

This night Lewis became bold and cautiously overstepped the line of sexual etiquette. “I suppose if you go long enough you will have a wet-dream,” Lewis suggested. It was a solution and with Ian’s arms bound and without a girlfriend the only one he could offer.

“I have never had a wet dream have you?” Ian inquisitively requested.

“Once and almost twice but I woke up just before and lost it.” Lewis admitted somewhat cautiously through a nervous chortle.

“A sticky situation I should think,” Ian laughed.

“Then no girl, no friendly fingers, I guess you have a problem.” Lewis added to his friend’s obvious rising frustration, “I guess you could have your mate Ashley give you a hand.”

“Bullshit.”

“It was only a suggestion,” Lewis declared, his face radiating humour.

“Stop the talk Lewis, I’m getting a fat!” Ian demanded his voice begging and fractious.

Lewis lifted his eyes from the broken vinyl tile beside the bed and once again rested them on Ian’s pyjamas fly. It had been forced to partly open by the rising tide of need beneath and a portion of Ian’s manhood was clearly exposed. It was then Lewis made his nervous statement, coming from that part of him he thought had been well closed to all including self – more so self, escaping through the fabric of fear and past his guard to the lips to be announced before it could be recaptured.

“I’m no poof but I could give a mate a hand job!” Lewis said shyly then attempted to retreat from his statement, declaring it to be but a weak attempt at humour. What came next he wasn’t ready for nor did he expect.

“Would you?” Ian answered surprisingly.

“I’m no poof!” Lewis repeated with force as he recoiled from his suggestion like a released spring.

“Nor am I.” the smile had gone from Ian’s face and was replaced with intent. There wasn’t anger or disgust in his voice, only the consideration of a service offered. He had need and there was a solution, therefore to marry the both seemed to be but common sense.

“Snip the door!” Ian growled. Lewis slowly and with uncertainty obeyed, returning to seat closer to his friend.

Ian showed nervous anticipation as he lay back upon a stack of pillows displaying an increasing expectation beneath the fabric of his pyjamas. Suddenly those teddy bears no longer appeared to have innocence and second thought paralysed Lewis from further action, while both lads sat staring at each other in stunned silence as if frozen in time.

“What about Ashley, he may return.” Lewis finally spoke.

“He’s well gone, turn on the radio and you will hear him charming the old biddies.”

“I don’t know,” Lewis remain stilted at Ian’s side.

“Well!” Ian stated displaying impatience.

“Maybe I shouldn’t,” Lewis recoiled. Although his words were negative his hand moved to rest at safety above Ian’s knee. He laughed nervously and looked away.

“Go on, I’d do the same for you,” Ian gently coaxed.

“Would you?”

“Maybe, go break both arms and find out.”

“How do I start?” Lewis asked nervously his voice croaked and his mouth parched.

“I don’t know just pretend it’s your own!” Ian said nodding his head towards his expanding crotch as it broke from his pyjamas to stand free and willing.

“Close your eyes, you’re making me nervous!” Lewis demanded.

Ian instantly obeyed.

Lewis’ hand moved as in a dream, along the soft woolly fabric of Ian’s pyjamas, until fingertips passed by the teddy bears to the mass of curly dark brown pubic hair beyond. Below his touch he felt the furnace of Ian’s anticipation and upon reaching the sensation of naked skin he paused, then without resistance or further hesitation his fingers encircled Ian’s member and dragged its willing length fully beyond the fly and the guard of those innocent bears to stand stiff and eager to be engaged.

Lewis released his grasp untying the pyjama cord then without protest lowered Ian’s pyjamas to almost his knees. He once again laughed nervously and from closed eyes Ian asked what was wrong.

“I was going to say that you are big,” said Lewis.

“So you’re an expert on size, are you?” Ian questioned.

“Well I saw enough dicks at the hostel.”

“Then you’ve done this before?”

“I didn’t say that!” Lewis backed away and released his grip.

“Nothing meant, don’t stop now.”

“This is weird.”

“Not so go on.”

Once again Lewis wrapped his hand around the begging member, dragging the protective sheath away from its glistening gland. As he did Ian opened his eyes and stared deeply into those of Lewis, sending a shudder through his entire body to reverberate within his own crotch. Slowly he pumped the heat within his grasp and watched as Ian’s face distorted with pleasure. On one such upper stretch as the gland disappeared beneath its sheath, a drop of clear fluid escaped from its encasement. A sound escaped from Ian’s lips “Ah!” soft and distant, then as his breathing quickened, his stomach pitched and his entire body tightened.

Lewis received the message and as if performing his own pleasure moderated the pressure and motion to increase sensation. Then as Ian re-closed his eyes his head rolled backward and his mouth opened wide, followed by a deep groan. The build of frustration fell and like canon fire as a line of white fluid struck Lewis’ shirt, his shoulder and over to the tiled floor beyond, followed by a second across his arm, until all was spent. Ian lay back taking deep breaths until all was still and he lay wasted.

As the heat within his grasp declined, Lewis released his hold and gave a volley of nervous laughter. Moments earlier the action seemed natural, now guilt was upon him even through his own build of frustration, which he would have to release later alone in the darkness of the night.

Lewis knew from experience, after such acts regret invaded the pleasure, followed by denial. Would Ian now become overpowered by such emotion and end their friendship? Lewis released a second chortle even more nervously then the first, followed by a stirring in Ian and a responsive laugh. “Well,” he said.

“Well,” Ian repeated as he opened his eyes, “There’s a towel under the bed, you will have to clean me down as you see I can’t!” He suggested as he attempted to wave his arms in proof. Lewis obeyed and towelled away the evidence as the conversation returned to work, the new girl, and her tits and how much of an arse was Cookie as if nothing had happened.

Friday – 28^th April 1967

I visited Ian tonight he is getting better but still has both arms in plaster. He has a nice bungalow but his landlord’s a bit strange and works as an announcer for the local radio station.

(I.W.I.O.)

Lewis returned the exercise book, marked chemistry, that was his diary back into the cardboard box containing past school books and secretly stowed under his bed. Not to the top, nor to the bottom but mid-way, between an old geography exercise book, full of hand drawn maps and one on the history of England.

It was his belief no one would be bothered with a box of shabby school books, so the story of his life should remain safe. As for the day’s entry referring to masturbating his friend, using an acronym for ‘I wanked Ian off’ as he couldn’t even admit what he had done to himself, never mind put it to writing, so the only reference would be in code. He couldn’t risk any other description in fear the very page holding the words would disclaim his secret.

Why he made the entry at all he knew not. It was as if history had to know even if his inner self did not wish to do so. Now all that remained of his deed was memory that guided his silent hand in the semi-darkness of his corner of the verandah, while in fear Ian would in future not wish to associate with him.

Gary’s stories are all about what life in Australia was like for a homosexual man (mostly, long before we used the term, “gay”). Email Gary to let him know you are reading: Gary dot Conder at CastleRoland dot Net

27,308 views