I am an open minded man sexually, but hardly a deviant. I think most men share this with me – I believe it to be healthy.
A dear friend of mine was 7 months pregnant, however, the deadbeat that impregnated her in the first place skipped town (and was last seen in Merredin, for whatever reason). None the less, she needed support from all of us, and she was going to get as much as she needed. This is where you find out who your true mates are – who’s there for you in your hour of need. Her requests were simple and didn’t ask much of us: good food cooked for her each night of which we could take in turns doing, asking questions of other mothers in our group so as to alleviate her fears of the upcoming birth, anything that needed doing around the house, et al et al.
And one more request: Her deep desire to be loved intimately, just once, so that she didn’t feel so unattractive and unloved because of bastard being such a coward, and making her think she wasn’t up to scratch some how. I did not put my hand up for this by any stretch, but she did look me dead in the eye during a round table between us all when she announced this, that sort of inferred she wanted to fuck me in her heavily gestated state. I always thought she just wanted cash for a gigolo with a swollen belly fetish.
As mentioned, I’m opened minded regarding all of that kind of stuff, and she was a buddy, and she was in dire need of affection. How could I not say no in such a difficult situation? We must sacrifice for those we love, or else we do not love them. After very, very carefully planning the foreplay – complete with candles, Marvin Gaye, and all that girly shit – and getting over my fear of damaging baby in some way shape of form, we gently made love to the point of her actually smiling, and feeling loved again, if only fleeting. The we came to the business end of the one night pregnant stand. Slowly accelerating, asking her of her comfort the entire time, she eventually closed her eyes and asked (or told me) to:
“Yeah, feed the baby”.
I honestly didn’t believe what she said, I though it was a psychosomatic auditory hallucination.
So I said “what?”
“Feed the baby!”
I stopped, but remained in full penetration. It’s called going into a state of shock. One more time for the record’s sake: “Ah, what do you mean?”
“Feed my baby your cum!” as she rocked backed and fourth, eyes closed, grinning with some mild but hideous ecstasy.
2016 A Semen Odyssey
I still stayed in that prostrate position, not truly knowing what to do in such an unprecedented sexual situation, before coming rampaging back to my senses. Usain Bolt, coked up to his eyeballs on the highest quality blow being chased by gay rapist bikie gangs could not have escaped such a scenario as fast as one semi-fit, uncoordinated, rapidly aging dork like me. I was out, pantsless but I grabbed a t-shirt at least, and drove home – again, pantsless – breaking all manner of traffic laws on the way. But questions bothered me the entire drive home:
Could the baby really eat my seed?
Would it actually have been nutritious?
If I blew out hard enough could I have given said baby brain damage?
And most of all: Aren’t expectant mothers supposed to eat all the food through their mouths, and the body naturally distributes it evenly between the two involved?
The fetus is not a body-builder, it doesn’t need any protein supplements on top of regular diet. Point being, I figure being a suddenly single pregnant woman must do all sorts of things to your psyche that no bloke could possibly understand, so I do have some empathy. None the less, no sentence I have ever heard has ever creeped me the fuck out more than that evening, and it still keeps me up at night.
Ghastly words no 21 year old man worth his salt wants to hear. Roughly translated, it means ‘I think I’m pregnant, can you take me to Carousel Shopping Centre to get a couple of testing kits that I will urinate on in order to accurately determine whether or not your powerful seed has indeed caused my female reproductive organs to respond in such awe to said power-jizz as to completely surrender their counter-attack lady stuff defences’ (roughly).
Women are god damn disgusting.
I did the manly, chivalrous thing and took her. Equally manly was me staying in the car when she went to the pharmacy to get on to Family Planning quick fucking smart to figure out if perhaps my cheap health insurance would cover her own fanny-vacuum (and my life saving) procedure.
It didn’t, but I put on a brave face when she returned and deleted all evidence of my furiously anxious attempts at bargaining with the fetus frying people (they do not accept bribes that include old cricket balls and a stack of Simpsons comics), as she often went through my phone looking for suspicious messages from others (not other women, blokes. She totally thought I was gay for whatever reason. My first car was a VL for fucks sake how can I possibly be gay?)
Fuckin’ hetero as.
Anyway, she was here studying, and had to go back home for a year for her PR visa stuff to get sorted out. We were only in a casual relationship, so there was no real heartbreak, but none the less, I had to go back on the dirty prowl to find more stable, less pregnant-prone gash. She came back after a year, called me up for a silly dalliance, but with one of these:
It is not a cyclops with a half smile. It is much worse than that for a man.
Doing our thing in a dimly lit room that stank of chicken log for some reason, I didn’t notice any thing. Afterwards, she was brushing her hair, arse naked, in front of a full length mirror, as I attempted to try and re-enter the human race under the doona after utterly excruciating – and some what pathetic – coital exhaustion. When she turned, I saw it all. It took a few seconds to piece it together in my state of total heat stroke, but it hit me like a tonne of shit wrapped in lead. The awful arithmetic:
Pregnancy scare 12 months go + She leaves for 12 months + She comes back with caesarean scar = Holy shit she lied through her teeth about being not pregnant, went back to the old country, had a kid, put it out for adoption, came back.
What I’m saying is I have an illegitimate child bouncing around Malaysia somewhere, that is going to be mysteriously more prone to sunburn than the other kids.
I could not bite my tongue, and asked what happened to her belly whilst knowing exactly what happened to her belly (I can spot a c-section a mile away, as my 60-something Mum still loves showing her scar to me whenever she can (like at my nephew’s Christening, I kid you not, long story) and reminding me of how I killed her briefly from blood loss whilst giving birth to me. Every single Birthday I get that, but I’ll get back to the point – she said it was an appendectomy scar.
Ah, no, sweetheart. Your appendix is not located directly in front of your womb. I may know precisely fuck nothing about the female anatomy, but I know that at least (also I only recently was told that women have separate holes for birth and wee. Who’d have guessed?)
Point being, there truly is some kid in the tropics running around with half my genes. I have four different passports ready to go in case the adoptive parents show up at my door, subpoena in hand, demanding half of my cricket balls and Simpsons comics. They got no chance. But if the kid ends up rich and famous, I’ll be up there pronto doing roughly the same thing to them.
What do Athens, Atlanta, Beijing, London and Rio de Janeiro have in common (apart from thinking they are the centre of their own particular civilization)?
This child is about to be butchered by another child in the City of God. Welcome to Mardi Gras!
They are fucking broke from having held the Olympics – yes, even mighty corporate London has no god damn money from building bullshit ‘infrastructure’ that will never, ever get used ever again. Sydney got away with it because it was a pre-Terror War world in a very wealthy city in a strangely wealthy country.
Atlanta, an Olympiad earlier sent itself broke (one of the poorest major metropolises in the poorest areas and states of the deep south of the US) because of hubris and home town jingoism. Still gone. Still unused new train systems, stadia, etc.
Greece is the cradle of Western Civilization, as they like to remind us (but don’t tell them they got the alphabet, and renamed it of course, from the Phoenicians – modern day Lebanon, and gasp! Muslim and not European!) but clearly not the cradle of prudent economics. They still exist because Northern Europe exists. They are still, through all their incompetence and superiority complexes, up the creek from their poorness regarding holding an Olympics, not realising that only a handful of countries on Earth can truly afford to hold them, and they are by far and away not one of them.
Opening Ceremony, 2004.
Rio.
Monumental murder rates, galactically awful corruption, and cocaine is cheaper than beer (in a country with cheap beer). They already built a billion dollar stadium in the middle of the Amazon for the World Cup (but hey, they have nice nuts and fruit for curious white tourists to Facebook, so that’s a fair trade off for us to bang on about our bravery in third world tourism).
The World Cup, like it did for South Africa (another story for another day) killed the country. Impeachments, mass daily protests throughout major cities, all from joblessness and poverty. Because the country (read: government) wanted to look shit hot and spend up on potential tourism investments – who amongst us has been to an Olympics? Now how many have been to Singapore, with their embarrassingly notable lack of international sporting tournaments?
Where does this garbage regarding ‘Olympic investment’ originate?
The Olympics started in pre-Hellenic times as a battle of warring nations outside of war itself.
In it’s rejuvenation, thanks to one Baron de Coubertin (who had the purest of intentions), it became a monstrous pissing contest between Western imperial powers; Empires. After World War II it became a disgusting fight between tri-lateral ideologies – the Cold War blocs. After Barcelona (another crippling display of punching above your economic weight), it became, ever so briefly, between fiscally solvent nations and the athletes themselves. Then terror. Then back to bankruptcy and old emasculating rivalries between dying countries and pathetic politics.
Should we talk about the corruption and cost of Sochi, too?
The Olympics ought to stay, but must be shrunk to swimming, athletics, other individual sports, and no team sports. Team sports have their own World Cups – hockey, soccer, the Davis Cup for tennis. The Olympics has to be small to be feasible now. Otherwise only the wealthiest ten or so nations can hold them, and that would be completely unfair (and racist, considering only one is not white majority).
Not even Japan can afford to hold the Olympics. That’s telling you something, and something pretty bloody serious. It was never about the individual racing, driving for his countrymen – it was about governments trying to out do each other, just not on a stock market or a battlefield. They managed to take something beautiful and make it about mindless nationalism. Well done, representatives over time.
The hierarchy, strata and structure of a social construct – a group of mates – changes fundamentally and nigh-on instantly with the birth of said tribe’s first child.
The responsibility, maturity gauntlet has been thrown down: everyone must now grow up and in a hurry, or you will be detached by kangaroo court and pariah sentence. It’s no longer about who has had the most partners (for dudes) or who has dated the most successful (women), it’s who is now acting their age. It is a pissing contest of ageist decorum.
The confidence of an 18 year old in thinking that the carelessness of the salad days could last forever has been extinguished, but being fashionable remains. Not daft clothing, but keeping up with trends of convention: getting married is now cool, not playing the field. Babies and careers are commitments, not backpacking and working awful hospitality gigs abroad as was de-rigeur only a handful of years earlier.
You must keep up, or be left behind, like getting your first squeeze in high school. No one wants to be in the wilderness with their oldest friends, and although you are all still very much a loving group, those who have advanced to the next stage of adultiness, will always be first among equals, like the kid who first banged so long ago. You may be achieving what you want, earning a lot, moving along at your own pace, but you will still be tandem inter pares, amongst the parenting crowd.
There is a gilding to all this, though. Those who don’t rush through life, and ignore pressures regarding what a grown up ought to do, will live longer. Rush through life and it’s perceived natural evolution, and you will race towards retirement faster, because even though you will be quite old, you will still want to out do your buddies in reaching the next part of your time. This includes dying younger, and wanting to, to once again try to rub it in that you have always been ahead of the curve.
Like the kid who first loses his training wheels, brags, then breaks both his knees going down a gentle suburban park gradient. But hey, he was first, and among equals. We will worry about beating our friends to everything until we pass, and I still don’t get why.
Same place as the ‘nets’, but across the quad were the netty courts. Totally bitumen, and totally up shit creek you would be if you tripped at FB, which the girls did to the guys, knowing there was sweet nothing we could do about it. Women abuse power.
None the less, the fizz-ed man dictated that if you (verbatim quote):
“fuck up on these courts, you fuck up in life!”
What a wonderful man. We were seven years old. I only just learnt how to spot and stripe Nyungar paintings. Point being, I kept being disobedient, not for the sake of it but rather because he had just struck a young girl – a buddy of mine – and she had to leave the ‘class’ bleeding, crying.
Granted, Liz Cambage doesn’t play netball, but it’s a net sport all the same. But geez look at her, fer Christ’s sake. I have not seen a sexier shopping basket it my life. Yes I’m a perv. Piss off.
I asked him so briefly:
“Mr X, why did you strike her? We are doing what you tell us.”
“… right that’s it!”
Point being that after bolting to the marble pit (and yes, I am that old, that I remember that every Primary School had marble pits instead of…. iPhone pits or equivalent) he hauled me down the ‘knob’ (literally a ghost gum you could slide down, before OHS took control like Pol Pot over Phnom Penh) and beat me. I mean a real good beating. Punctured lung beating good.
From there I don’t know where Mr X went, and I don’t care. I was shuffled off to private school down the road, and I imagine he was shuffled off to, hopefully, some sort of facility where they teach you not to beat little children.
4. The second time I was raped was far more interesting than the first time. I was doing the badly stereotypical Australian thing of working in a pub in the UK, shacked up in a 300 year old share house with 14 others I never met because we were so all bloody knackered from abusive labour law shifts that we just wanted to sleep when ever we got some time off – socialising was too exhausting after a mob of gypsies jumped the bar, bashed and split my head, and took all the good sherry (yes, that did happen).
They were not this attractive.
Consequently, on my only day off in three weeks, and being a British winter (or summer, it was all the same and I couldn’t tell) and I just wanted to stay in bed with some toaster cooked, cheap-as-shit freezer bag hash browns and some Saturday morning cartoons, including the one about an anthropomorphic helicopter which still freaks me out, baked or not.
The new girl was French-African, and for reasons only known to her, was absolutely hammered at nine in the morning, boasting from the bottom of the stairs of the old, cold as crap house, that she was in fact drunk as hell, and inquiring as to whether anyone else was in the house or at work, and as only one person was off at a time, she wandered up said stairs, somehow (I mean she was really, really off her face so Lord only knows how she got up those flexing, stupidly steep steps that the UK seem to think are a brilliant and timely feature of any house) and found me trying to be so quiet in my little room.
She actually looked a lot like this lady, all black-people-look-the -same jokes aside
Bashing the door for minutes, I eventually let her in. She was arse naked but for panties, vodka in hand, demanding in broken English for intercourse. As mind numbingly hot as she was, perfect black body and rack bouncing (and she knew she had the goods), I’m not gonna be taking advantage of a woman in that state. I gave her some Gatorade to try and encourage the metabolic sobriety process, but simply refused the drink and to put some clothes on as well (worth knowing I was in head to toe Batman pyjamas at this point, and my hash browns had gone cold and lost their crispiness).
I put her in my only chair in front of my hideous old TV – one of those with the bulgy screen and knobs to the right hand side – thinking she’ll pass out soon, but at least I could keep an eye on her. The plan lasted for all of four minutes.
She climbed into bed with me as I tried to go back to sleep, and started goosing around with my junk. I tried to encourage her to fuck off and not to fuck me, but she wouldn’t stop (she was quite determined, which is a little flattering) and when she realised I’m just going to be recalcitrant the whole time she tries it on, threatened me:
“If you don’t fuck, I’ll tell people you rape me (sic)”.
No witnesses, no nothing for my defense. A woman says she was raped, you bloody well believe her, and rightly so.
But there I laid, a lunatic woman raping me with the threat of incarceration as my motivation to just accept it. She was sacked a week later for showing up drunk to work – which we have all been guilty of at some point – and I never heard of her again. Didn’t particularly want to, with her having ruined my only day off.
Not six o’clock some evening, literally six legal years of age (or illegal, but that’s a difficult river to cross). Girl from up the road in safe, sensible South of the River Perth, was eight. Those days, wandering the neighbourhood looking for a mate on the weekend while all your parents were at the Bull Creek Tavern was quite acceptable. Who ever was out the front was up for something – bat and ball, video games, anything.
However this girl, call her G, came over, knocking.
‘Hey G, what’s up?’ I greeted her with.
‘Not much… you parents at the tav?’
‘Yeah! What you doing?’
‘I wanted to play with you.’
At this point I figured it was cricket, as she was a mean bowler as she was about a foot taller than me so she could really hurl it in, or she wanted to cane the MegaDrive, as I was the only Sega kid on the block.
‘Sega accepts no responsibility for Mega Drive induced misunderstandings regarding underage sex’
This was not the case.
Play meant take me inside and dragging me to my sisters bedroom. Being a tiny kid, I remember saying:
‘How can we play in a girls room? Girl stuff is boring!’
Again, being quite a bit bigger than me, she hauled me into the wardrobe and… well kinda forced me into having her way with me. I didn’t know what to think, and did not enjoy it. Come to think of it, it was rape, but none the less I have the very creepy and highly illegal distinction of having lost my virginity before anyone else in town.
(Oh, and this was not kids innocently and playfully exploring each other’s bodies – full penetration at her behest.)
Whether or not I am a paedophile for repeating this, I don’t know. I hope not.
JDP
2. I stabbed a kid in Kings Park when I was four.
For kindy, you’d only be doing two days a week, maybe four hours a pop, and that’s it. Exhausted worker-bee mothers would be entertaining you the rest of the time, but Perth has this great escape within the city, more or less, where you could take kids to six dozen playgrounds within one park and just chill (read: wine with mates at 10am) while they tired themselves out, desperately wishing for the days ahead where they were taken off your hands for six hours a day, five days a week. School only exists to save women from suicide, I reckon.
Suspect 1
Anyway this kid bugged me. I fell out of a tree, out of sight of Mum, from about 20 feet. I split my face open and shattered a cheek bone but I felt no pain because this little ranga punk was laughing at me. So I took a stick of pine, walked up to him (and when you’re four your reaction time is kinda garbage) and stuck it through his rib cage. Not deep, but I felt the bone being chiseled. That was enough for me. Walked off to Mum, acting like I had done nothing wrong, but forgetting there was blood drooling past my eyes and that I could barely walk from vertigo, she went berserk. Not angry, she just though I had been hit bit a car or something. May as well have been, and him as well. He’ll remember me for the rest of his life.
JDP
3. I was kidnapped. Twice. But let us discuss the former.
Outside Wesley College, South Perth, the Prep School. The bus stop at the end of Coode Street falling onto the river. Nanna was always crook. Even when I was a kid and she was only fifty-odd and so sickly, we went to hospital nearly every day after school to see her, as you’d imagine. When this old bloke rolled in to the bus stop, the 949 School Express South, I honestly thought he was a mate of Mum’s who may have been sent to take me to Charlie Gardiner’s, because you always respected your elders – Nanna must have been bad, if Mum was already at the hospital and sent this bloke to pick me up and take me over, such was my logic (evil never entered my mind).
Except this dude was a sadistic paedophile who had actually killed a child prior.
After an hour of driving around with him and putting up with his discombobulated blue swearing and a few slaps, I got out of the car and ran like the clappers.
He was either the best or worst kidnapper in history, letting a child unbuckle his seatbelt and run with his bag full of cricket gear. I escaped near Curtin Uni, and walked to my mates house nearby. He was caught soon after, convicted of murder, deprivation of liberty, and kidnapping for previous crimes. They didn’t even start hanging the paedophilia thing on him – he was gone for all good without it.
Anyway that was year three for me. And at that point of course, I was the only man amongst kids (see above story concerning virginity).
The piece of Jarrah I was given by a bush relative, that I could never lathe, was so quickly taken by my Dad, and made into some bat. A Jarrah bat is a terrible idea. Willow holds, it bends and is the most beautiful wood. Jarrah is the most attractive wood in the South West, but useless outside of structure. No good for cricket. After the long dry that we get, the bat brittled – I did not oil it, and on purpose. I wanted it to fail. I would get a new bat a few months later of correct wood after that one turned to splinters, but none the less, I still remember that awful piece that struck a ball with absolutely no effect, but made me fight for every run, considering that it took five times the effort. Perhaps there was method in the old man’s madness – if you can score with a column of coastal dry wood, you can score with anything, especially a real Gray Nicholls that you get for your 9th birthday because ‘Old Red’ was now barbecue fuel.
Opposites attract – and they really do. Working from each others strengths, talents, and character to better one another and to take one lazy shit and turn him around by being remotely attached to a woman who puts up with nothing.
This was one relationship where I – said lazy… you know – saw a girl, a woman, who I didn’t see as someway of having a life-coach (oh fuck that, just see a shrink. Life coach. You need a life coach you need medical help not TAFE good intentions), but rather a reciprocation of my own deadbeat passions and her intense intensities.
But I have always been honest, often to my detriment, and she had admittedly been intolerant of bullshit.
Could this work? This Sam Worthington…worthy clash of the titans (remember that film the Rocko kid was in?) of abrasive personalities? The blasé and the crass? I’m asking a lot of questions here, but I believe them to be pertinent. Can a bloke who speaks before thinking, all the bloody time, match a lady who puts up with absolutely no bullshit in perpetuity?
Well sports fans, it did work. For a bit. But none the less, that almighty headbutt of character is not a death sentence for potential love. I think.
She says it more eloquently than I ever could by staring. A grown man stabbed straight through his bastard soul. Folks like us can tell when we meet another. It’s always the eyes.
I understand her. Most won’t.
When I wake I don’t actually wake. It could be another hallucination where it may be time for school 20 years ago, or time for work 20 years on. No idea at the best of times, and screaming when good at best: I still wake screaming. a grown man, wailing every morning, seeing my own death, every dream, night terror. I hate going to sleep, because I wake up. Seeing myself as a 10 year old look through all time and space to his own death and know the greying over of your eyes, the eternity of nothing that a true imagination can fathom. No child should have that belting through their mind, when they should be filling it with Batman and Winnie the Pooh. I read the Atlas. I wanted to escape from what I had, thinking geographic space would solve all. Maps, cartography and charts. I went from here, ever so briefly. That was enough.
But still this nonsense canes my brain. It is the cross to bear, the dumb unwanted burden that we have. I don’t wish it on anyone – seeing my own demise every night since I was six – six! I should have been worried about the upcoming Ashes! Instead… no. Always the next night, the next darkness that would be the old harbinger. Every night. For 30 years. I hate going to sleep. I still believe I could stop breathing.
Such is life? I would love that. Such is poor mental health? I’d trade in my soul for a functioning pre-frontal cortex. No sook here, just laying it out. I have never felt sorry for myself, because we all get dealt a bum hand, and you must play them as best you can. But I still feel so bloody awful. I want a break – we all need a break.
Hope is gold.
My eyes are so glassed because I have not slept for days – weeks – and that is not histrionic garbage. I have not. I do not recommend being bi-polar with the co-morbidity of Asperger’s, dyscalculia, dysphasia, so on and so fourth. Take your damn pick, and judge away at my well developed character. Always fight, do not take what you have upstairs for granted. Ever. If you do I will grill and let you know how fortunate you are, and that you simply don’t know. Empiricism.
And then take another look at the girl. No clothes on her, just an unimaginable rage, and a total discontent for her lot. I love her.
outsiderlookinginblog 