alex hogan gay stories

REVENGE

"Youth today!  They do not have the respect for the past.  They do not plan for the future.  They care nothing for family and stability.  They will ruin us."  Sir Henry spat these words out in despair over his dissolute sons.

Sir Henry's youngest boy, Gavin, had been dragged by his ear into his father's Manor by the bailiff from the neighbouring Estate.  He had been found down the inn one too many times.  The neigbour's bailiff caught the boy early one morn buttoning his trowsers as he came out from the back door of the inn.  He dragged him to his father's home to expose the boy and his wanton ways.

"Sire, I cannot count how many times I have found your boy consorting with wenches from the town, mixing with them down at the inn, and not returning home till the early hours of the day."

"Father, this man is working for his own governor.  Bainsworth has an eye on your land."

Sir Bainsworth had other reasons too.  He had seen Gavin spend too much time with his daughter, Catherine.  That was when they were both younger, but old enough to know why Catherine's father wanted Gavin gone.  A younger son is of no interest to a young maiden's sire.

But Gavin's insight into the affair was not heeded by his father.  He was banished; told he must make his own way in the world.  He went first to London and from there headed to Portsmouth.  But before he boarded a ship for the Americas, he heard news of his brother, Edmund - son and heir of Sir Henry. 

It was in the dead of the night when the door to the private room, at the back of a barn on the other side of the village, was attacked by a handful of rough cutthroats who were strangers to the village.  With hand-axes they hacked at the door and broke it down.  As the hour was late the moonlight was too weak to penetrate the room, so one of the ruffians lit a candle and went over to the pallet that lay against the wall.  A pale and slender youth could be seen in the circle of candlelight, his head lying against a white linen pillow, his eyes wide open in terror.  The boy was dragged from the bunk and skewered in sight of Edmund, who lay on the other side of the bed.  The boy's guts fell out and onto the floor.  Before the cutthroats dropped him they slit his throat then sliced off his privates.  One of them leant over and picked up the severed parts and thrust them into Edmund's face, "'ere, milord, do yer wan' ta feast on these, again!" and he shoved the disembodied penis toward Edmund's face.

The hired ruffians didn't touch Edmund.  He was left alone, with the mangled corpse of his dear Marcus.

Sir Henry would not speak of the matter, but demanded Edmund stay on the estate, and marry.  Edmund shut himself up in his room and waited for his father to find a bride.

Gavin missed his ship.  He rode home immediately and waited in the village.  He knew his father and their bailiff were due to be leaving on business one day soon.  He sat in the inn and waited.  On the morning when he saw his father's coach wend its way down the road toward London, he threw some coins on the table to keep the innkeeper's silence, and left for the Manor. 

He made his way into Edmund's private quarters.  Edmund sat in his bed reading musty copies of Geoffrey Chaucer.  "It should occupy my mind, deciphering our ancient language."

"I expected you to be reading Greek." 

Edmund smiled wearily at his younger brother.  "While our dear mother would not see through that cover, our father would.  And 'twould not occupy my mind sufficiently, I know them all by my heart already."

Gavin sat on the brocade quilt of the bed, and leant against the bed post.  "I have a plan, my dear brother."

"Oh yes?" Edmund said, not taking his eyes off his reading.

"You realise of course the man who sent those ruffians after your ganymede-boy, was none-other than Bainsworth."

Again Edmund nodded absently.  "Of course," he murmured.

"His daughter is not married."

"Oh, indeed!  She is very beautiful.  Marry her?  I shall be expected to father children by her.  No, my dear brother, do you not yet understand the message of that escapade with my 'ganymede-boy' as you so eloquently described my sweet Marcus?  I would prefer to marry the local Vicar's niece, ugly as sin but never to be guilty of sin."

"Are you saying Catherine has been guilty of sin?"

"No, most certainly not, but I know you would have wished so."

Gavin laughed heartily.  "Indeed my dear brother, I do.  But that is precisely the point.  Yes, you would be expected to father sons by her.  Edmund dear, I do not pretend to understand your attraction to boys, or should I say, I do not understand your lack of attraction to the sisters of boys, but–– nor do I concern myself over it.  While perhaps the god of the Jews had strict and terrific rules, I feel that our Christian Lord Jesus did not.  I would not think he would punish you for whom you choose to love."

Edmund continued to stare at his book, but at length looked up to Gavin.  "Thank you, my dear brother.  And after my marriage I shall promise to ask that you be returned to our father's favour."

Gavin smiled.  "Thank you.  And, I should offer myself a service to you.  It should be taken as a means of revenge upon our cruel father, not as a slight to you."

Edmund put his book aside. "All right, Gavin, I am listening."

"Do not you and I look very alike?"

"I am heavier than you and my hair a little fairer."

"But the features of our face are those of our mother." 

Edmund looked upon Gavin's face, the nose and chin matched that of his own, which were in turn a match for their mother, as were the dark eyes.  Edmund nodded, "Yes, we both do have the look of our mother."

"So, while Catherine would need to bear sons that have the same look as their grand mother, they would not need to have come, necessarily, from you…"

Edmund's eyes opened wide.  "Gavin, how dare you suggest that you bed my wife!"

Gavin jumped off the bed. "But Edmund, you yourself have said you would not wish to.  I do not suggest I steal your love from you, but help you, and myself, to gain revenge on our exacting sire."

Edmund stared wildly at Gavin, then laughed uproariously. 

"Edmund, not so loud, you will attract the servants."

Edmund wiped the tears from his eyes and looked toward Gavin.  "Oh my own brother, you are so very wicked.  If one of us burns in hell, 'twill not be me."  But he smiled merrily at Gavin.  "'twould be the most devilish plan to punish that evil man who claims his best interests are ours." 

"It would also punish Bainsworth, for while he could smile over gaining our father's estate, he would not have succeeded in ridding me from his daughter's bed."

Edmund smiled, he knew even further reason why the plan would be a revenge against their hated neighbour, but kept his tongue quiet.

The two brothers shook hands in agreement.  "But–– You must make sure that Catherine understands the plan.  She is a beautiful woman in body and soul, and I would not hurt her." 

"Oh, most definitely, I will explain the whole plan.  She sits alone in her chamber too, wishing for a way for her and me to be together."  Gavin grinned at Edmund and made to leave.

"Oh, Gavin," Edmund called him just before he opened the door.  "I do not understand your attraction to women, but nor to I do I concern myself over it."  Gavin grinned, and left the room.

Three months later the wedding was held.  Bainsworth beamed next to his daughter, having won his desire of claiming the land of his neighbour.  Sir Henry stood near his son with thunder in his eyes.  Edmund held the hand of his new bride gently and led her down the stairs of the manor for the members of both estates to witness.  Waiting below was Gavin, watching the beautiful face of his future sister-in-law, who cautiously gave him a fleeting smile. 

Beside Gavin stood Catherine's brother, Geoffrey, recently returned from Oxford.  Geoffrey had long golden hair like his sister, and wore the latest fashion in dress.   He watched Catherine as she came down the stairs, then his eyes turned to Edmund, and briefly the two men held each other's gaze.  Geoffrey gave a tiny smile that only Edmund could see.

© Alex Hogan November 2007

(written to the music of Steeleye Span)

______________________

Words: 1482

 A TRIP TO IRELAND IN 1990 *


(820 words)


I peered out the small window, looking out over oceans of cloud.  Twenty four hours and we would be in London, then a connecting flight, and over to Ireland, land of our ancestors.  One month of rain, cold weather, green grass, Irish pubs and Irish hospitality.

Patrick patted my leg.  I squeezed his hand.  When we told our friends at work we were visiting Ireland, they did their Irish jigs and joked about shamrocks and green things and all that Catholic stuff. Patrick laughed along with them. 

“So where would you be going?”  Con, our boss, asked in a mock Irish accent. “County Cork perhaps? or Clare?” 

"Ooh yes, County Clare it’s to be, or maybe Tipperary.  My family clan seem to have spread themselves about,” Patrick said.  They poured out a green Guinness to us both.

“And what about you, Matt?”  Marita, another colleague, piped in.  I shook my head, and kept reticent.

“You are of Irish stock too aren’t you, or are you just there to hold Patrick's hand?”

“Yes I am, of Irish stock, I mean.  I’m going to do some family history research.”

“I hope he will hold my hand too,” Patrick said and they all laughed.

“And where are your family from?” Con asked as he poured me more green Guinness.

“Belfast.”  He stopped pouring in mid-air, the last of the green beer disappeared into the cup.  There was a brief silence, then everyone burst out laughing. 



Patrick leant over and pointed to something out the window.  What would be there?  I peered out at the blanket of cloud, but he hissed in my ear, “the gesture was a cover, turn around you fool,” so I did, and he kissed me square on the lips.  “We won’t be able to do that in Ireland,” he said and laughed.  “Thank goodness those old ancestors of ours left Ireland and came out here.”

I nodded and looked out the window again.

“What’ya worried about Matt?” 

I shook my head again.

“We’ll keep it quiet, no one’s gonna drag us to some old witches stake to burn us, not in this day - even if it is illegal for us two boys to love each other.”

I turned and looked at Patrick.  His light ginger hair lay thick on his head, curls sitting above his eyebrows.  His freckles covered much of his face, except where his glasses sat.  Not pretty by most standards; pale, dorky looking, but to me he was gorgeous.

“So you’re game to walk hand in hand down the streets of Belfast with an orange-man?”  I asked him. 

He grinned wide, his freckles merging together. “Why on earth do they call you lot orange and us lot green?” he asked.

“It’s the history, William the III and all that.” 

“Yeah, yeah, yada yada.  I’m game to be with you in Belfast, but not hand in hand.”

I turned back and looked out the window.  “Maybe not hold hands when we visit my distant cousins.”

He laughed and nodded. “Maybe not, lest they dig that skeleton out of it’s closest, or rather don’t dig it out.”

My ancestor had left Ireland in the 1900s, as a youth, and came to Australia along with his family.  But he had done so reluctantly, leaving a sweetheart behind, so our part of the family on this side of the globe always says.  But no one knows any more than that.  No one in his family at the time spoke of it or wrote any memoirs about it, so little knowledge has survived as to why he had to do that.  The theory in our family was that she was Catholic. 

Some years ago my mother began researching into our family history, both on her side and on Dad’s.  She made contact with some members of Dad’s family still in Ireland, and started exchanging letters with a Great Aunt Matilda, still living in Belfast.  Mum had obviously tried to ask about the ‘sweetheart’ left in Ireland.  She read the letters to us all.  Great Aunt Matilda said she did know the reason Samuel had left.  But she wouldn’t expand.  “It was a scandal best not mentioned,” was all she said.   It disappointed my mum, that old secrets embarrassing at the time should still be withheld from descendants.  “We won’t be upset if our ancestor had a baby on the wrong side of the sheets.  We just want to know all we can about him.”

I lay awake in bed that night, thinking about my great great grandfather and his secret.  A scandal no one wants to talk about, a “secret love”.  I wondered...


Patrick patted my leg again.  “You know,” he said, “you’ll never find out - there’ll be no records whatsoever to say he was a queer, if he was.  None.”

I leant over and kissed Patrick on the cheek, and lay my head against his shoulder.

I knew, but I had to go anyway.



(c) Alex Hogan  2007

 * Homosexuality was decriminalized in Northern Ireland in 1982 and in Eire in 1993,

 ****************************

INTO TEMPTATION

I’m lying on my bed, with the light out, staring at the darkness of the ceiling, just as I used to do during my teenage years.  I’m staring at an imaginary spot, hoping somehow my life could collapse into that spot, like a black hole.

As I lie here I can hear his voice.  It’s drifting up the stairs from the lounge room.  It sounds warm – it sounds like home.  He’s a colleague of my Dad’s; he does the legal work in my Dad’s real estate business.  He’s quiet, calm; life seems easy for him.  When I first met him he smiled at me for such a long time.  He’s tall, thin, moves in a sort of willowy way.  I love to watch him.   And he’s a 'he'.  

So am I.

I moved back into my father’s house a year ago, after Victoria left me.  She moved out of Melbourne and up to Queensland, to make a new start.  I moved here – to find my place in the world again.  Dad and I hadn't seen much of each other since he and mum divorced, and that was just after I’d left school.   He had been busy trying to find his place in the world again.  Now he was eager to take me in, to help me, to be a dad once more.

His name is Anthony, the owner of the voice I hear.  We’ve chatted a lot of times; he sitting with his long, lean legs stretched out, ankles crossed, asking me about my work, and my life.  I’ve hedged around the subject of my life.  He’d smile, softly, watching – then diplomatically leave the topic, and return to discussing my work.  He has worked around a few legal offices.  We social workers are often skeptical of cynical lawyers, but he had worked for a legal aid office, and he’s seen poor people struggle against the constraints of a society made by the rich.  He laughed when I described it like that, but nodded when I told him of my work with kids left out on the streets and ignored by the comfortable people in their expensive homes.  He knew someone like that once, he said, and his eyes lost focus for a moment and looked at something only he could see, his long fingers tapping idly on the arm of the chair.  I watched the veins in his hand flex rhythmically with the movement of his hand, then his eyes came back into focus, and he caught me watching him.  I coughed and looked away.

I’ve enjoyed his company, his friendship.  I’ve longed for it, chased after it.  Dad often brings work home and Anthony sometimes comes along and helps.   I wait until their work is over, then join them in conversation over coffee.  We’ve shared gardening tips, anecdotes of old university days, holiday ideas, political gripes, football news, movies worth watching or not watching, books, philosophy…

But after he goes home I lie in bed worrying, tossing and turning and wandering how I can stop this, stop these feelings I have for him, stop this emotional bond from turning into something physical.  I’ve been so embarrassed, and ashamed.  And I’ve been quite certain he has no idea, to him I am just a friend.

Victoria left me because she claimed she still loved me, but that I didn’t love her.  I desperately wanted her to stay.  But when it’s late at night, reluctantly I must admit that my desire for her in bed had gone.  For the first few months it was there.  We were on fire for each other, and I couldn’t wait to move in with her and spend our lives together.  This was it, I thought.  She was slender, fine boned, she was mad on sport and worked out constantly.  She was taunt and tight.  I loved running my hands along her legs with their tight muscles underneath.

But I lost it, the desire.  The yearning for her was just a memory.   Yet, I didn’t want to let go.  We were still friends; we could have still had a relationship.  Surely, the sex dies in every long-term relationship – doesn’t it?

I’ve always been popular with girls.  I never had any problems getting to know them, or getting them to like me.  Not like a lot of guys.  I can remember well, at school, how awkward and stupid a lot of guys became when around girls.  But I always found them easy to talk to, and so they always easily talked to me.  From talking to going out, to going to bed, are easy steps.

I’ve simply never found the right girl for me.  That’s all.  I thought Victoria was, but she wasn’t.  I’ll find her one day.

But I’ll be 30 in a month’s time, that makes me panic.  So many others have found their perfect girl, got married, had children.

I can still hear Anthony’s voice.  Tonight it’s driving me mad.  He asked Dad where I was.   I haven’t gone down to talk to him; I’ve stayed up here all evening.  Dad just gave a muffled,  “dunno, he’s in his room … said he felt unwell.”  I heard no more from Anthony.  That’s worse; that makes me feel even more on edge.

Every night after he’s gone, I remember, all those years ago, on the beach, when I had followed the two surfers to the small isolated cove.  I was just a kid, about 12, and I was curious to see where these two were going with their surfboards.  They found the small cove hidden behind some bluffs that I didn’t know even existed.  I’d lived by the coastline and thought I knew every part of it.  After they’d reached the cove, I sat up hidden in the sand dunes and watched them as they headed for the water.  I wondered if the beach here was safe for swimming.  As the two guys, both about 18, reached the shoreline, they put down their surfboards, and stripped off their bathers.  They were wearing nothing.  I gaped, wide eyed.  They laughed, picked up their surfboards and continued on into the surf.  Just as they were about to hit the water, one of them turned around to me grinning, and winked.  Then he ran in after his mate.

I’d jumped up and scurried home.  It was a long walk, but I did the best I could to completely blot from my mind what was happening inside my pants, and how hard I was.

That was when mum and dad’s marriage was falling apart.  They barely spoke to each other for another five years, until they finally divorced.  But by then I had learnt how easy it was to talk to girls, and I desperately wanted to find a girl and ultimately marry and have a swag of kids.  

I have trained my mind pretty well, and during the day can keep things under control, but at night, in the dark, all the gremlins come out and play with my thoughts, and my body.

Anthony began talking again.  Can I detect a note of disappointment in his voice?  Yes, I can.  But he’s doing his best to hide it from Dad.  He’s laughing and trying to pretend he is his usual, carefree self.  Is Dad fooled?  Dad replied with an offhand comment;  I think he is, he is just a work friend as far as Dad is concerned.

Last week after Anthony was here; I walked with him to his car as he was leaving.  I kept chatting, unable to let him go.  His car was parked away from the streetlight, deep in shadows.  It’s a blue BMW, very impressive.  I played my role well and admired his car, hoping he would offer a ride in it – trying desperately to stop myself from lingering, from wanting to be near him, but failing miserably.  He grinned, enjoying the praise, but he also gave me a quizzical look.  He asked if one day I’d like a spin in it.  Oh yes.  It had worked. “Now?”  I asked.  
He shook his head, “too late,” but his smile was wide and inviting.  He held his hand out to mine to shake.  We shook, saying goodbye.  But he held my hand a little too long.  I looked up in surprise.  He placed his other hand on mine and gave it a slight caress.   I blushed, but I ventured a tentative smile.  He smiled back.  We had communicated; we had told each other.  “Next week then?” he asked softly.  I nodded, my heart pounding.  Then he gently let my hand go, and left.

Now it is next week, but I’m frightened.  Or I’m being disciplined.  I can’t tell which.  I have spent seventeen years chasing girls; I can’t destroy that now.  All I need to do is find the right girl.

I start breathing slowly, trying to control myself.  I concentrate on an image in my mind, a tree waving in the spring breeze, gentle and slow.

I can hear the lounge room door open, the voices grow louder.  “Sorry that Jacob didn’t show up,” Dad said.

“Hope he’s okay?”

“Sure he will be, didn’t seem too bad, just stressed from work, he always is, it’s a hard job, his job…social work.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, see you at work.”

“Yes.  Say hello to him…if he’s interested.”

If I’m interested?  The sadness in Anthony’s voice reaches out to me.  Now even Dad could recognize it.

“Sorry, Anthony,” Dad said, perplexed by Anthony’s rueful manner.

Breathe slowly – look at the tree.

“Oh, that’s… well, that's what happens...  Goodbye then.”

And the front door opens and closes, then I hear Dad’s footsteps retreat into the lounge room.

Silence.  He is gone.

Gone.  I’ll find the perfect girl to spend my life with.

I jump up – my mind is no longer capable of stopping the need in my body.  I run out of the room, down the stairs and out the front door.  I just hear Dad’s voice call out a query to me before the closing of the front door cuts it off.

“Anthony!” I called out, frightened he has left; but his car is in its usual spot, in the shadows, and a long thin dark figure stands next to it…him.

I run up to him, “Anthony”.   I stop in front of him.  He stares at me.

“I thought you were ill?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

“Oh no – only, tired.  I fell asleep, and woke up just as you were leaving.”  

He continues gazing at me, apprehensively.  Is he not sure whether to trust me again?

I smile weakly, “maybe, we could… go for that ride, in your car…”  

I can hear the distant sound of traffic droning in the darkness, as I wait, looking into the reflected streetlight in his eyes.

Slowly he smiles, and takes my hand.


****


© Alex Hogan
August 2005

1974.

A country town,

New South Wales, Australia.

__

I was sitting in the family car, listlessly changing channels on the car radio. I was waiting for my parents to finish their round of golf, and consequently stuck out in a little town 24 miles away from our hometown. Nothing to do here. My parents didn’t 'trust' me at home on my own, all due to my climbing up into a tree in our front yard one night when they came home late. I don’t know why I did it; I guess to teach them some sort of lesson which of course they were incapable of learning. They assumed I was out in the streets getting up to no good. Serves them right! I felt so superior as I watched them walking out of the yard and into the streets looking for me. But now they won’t leave me alone in the house, and of course I can’t tell them the truth.

I twiddled the dial again. The radio came up with a song by that weird new pop group ‘Skyhooks’. "Living in the Seventies" the song was called; "I feel like a good time, that’s never been had," the song sang. I switched it off. I didn’t like the group much, and that line was just cutting too close to the truth.

Sitting in a car nearby was Faye Costello. She was a girl in my class at school. We were both here – alone in our cars, waiting the afternoon away. I wondered what she had done to deserve this. But I had no great urge to go and ask her.

The galahs squawked into the hot dry stillness of the day. They sat amongst tall silver gum trees, which rose up into the huge endless blue sky. The wind lazily rustled amongst their leaves. Everything else was silent. Another boring day in another boring weekend in another boring year of another boring existence.

Suddenly there was a break in the stillness of the afternoon. Faye had got out of her car. She primped herself the way that girls do, leaning over and looking in the car’s side mirror – as if there wasn’t a mirror in the car. Then she just leant against the car. What was she doing?

Then I saw him.

He was making his way through the car park and heading toward the clubhouse. He looked about 17, three years older than me. He had some golf clubs with him, he was one of these young golfers mum and dad always wished I was. He must have been playing golf too, and had finished his round, and was now going in to the clubhouse for a drink.

At 17 most of us guys seem to develop rapidly from the narrow shouldered soft-chested little boys, and sprout up higher, wider – harder muscled chests and narrow tight bums. He had certainly done this. And you know, I couldn’t help but wonder how much he had developed in the crotch you know the place I mean.

I’d often watched older guys, you know, men - been fascinated by them. My sister always loved to sit around with her friends and spend hours looking at all the female models in her Dolly magazine; imagining, I guess, how they wanted to look when they grew up to be like them. So, I figured it was normal too, to spend lots of time watching older guys.

But, watching him, it felt different. Robert was his name. I vaguely remembered him from a couple of years ago at school when he was in 4^th Form – when he was still narrow shouldered – I took no notice of him then, but I had just been a kid. But now, he was tall, with wide shoulders. As I watched him, I had a sudden longing just to reach out and touch those shoulders. I shook my head, stupid! He had blond hair, and such a bloody good-looking face, the bastard, you know, I envied him. Not fair that a guy should have a face like that. It was real pretty. "He should be a girl," I heard myself saying. Maybe I wanted him to be a girl.

I watched his long straight legs walking across the car park – with his tight bum. I’d heard my sister describe guys like this lots of times, maybe too many times – and perhaps I had absorbed her words, not finding any of my own to describe my admiration for the older guys that I wanted one day to be.

But did I want to be this guy, or did I simply want this guy?

After he disappeared into the clubhouse, I saw Faye move. She also made her way toward the clubhouse. The car park was muddy, and she picked her way slowly across, careful not to get her jeans covered in mud. She wore jeans that were tight around her arse, and pulled in at her waist. Her top fitted snug about her breasts. She was 14, and at 14 some girls are, you know, pretty well-developed. She walked with that little roll that girls have; swinging her hips slightly from side to side. She seemed soft and supple. I snorted. I thought of Mark in our class at school. She was just his type. I knew if he were here, he would be licking his lips watching her, and he’d be itching to get out of the car and follow, except he wouldn’t be able to, ‘cos his hard-on would be too embarrassing.

But I didn’t have that problem. I had felt my dick twitch into life earlier, but that was before ‘he’ had disappeared into the clubhouse. Now, watching Faye making her way across the asphalt did nothing for it, but it did cause my heart to beat quicker and the blood begin to flow rapidly through me. But it wasn’t lust, I knew; it was panic. She was on the hunt, and her quarry was him.

My own sense of survival took over, and I didn’t even know what I was doing. I leapt out of the car and crossed the vacant space. I didn’t care about the mud; didn’t matter to me how dirty my jeans got. I reached Faye and began talking to her.

"Hi, Faye, how ya going? Didn’t know you were here."

Faye took little notice of me. Why would she, I was just a boy in her class, not like him. She shrugged and said "Hello, Steve" almost inaudibly. I kept up the bright patter ‘till we got to the clubhouse.

"Wonder if the oldies are back from their golf yet?" I mused as I peered over the darkening fairways.

But Faye never heard me; she had turned and was making her way inside. I could see him standing near a pool table. The room was brightly lit and I knew he couldn’t see me, because I was hidden by the dark sky behind me. I allowed myself the brief luxury of openly staring at him. I could see him laugh, his smile flashing around the room, the beauty of it lost to his mates, who didn’t seem to care what he looked like.

I couldn’t allow myself to watch for too long; Faye was entering the room. I raced into the room to catch her. Too late, she had entered and was making her way toward him.

Oh no, failure. I had been done in by his mesmerizing beauty. I should have stayed focused while the enemy was on the warpath.

I moved to the side of the room and watched, as she made her play. But nothing happened. Her head turned his way, and I watched his turn to her in answer. He smiled at her. They both stopped briefly and looked at each other, but said nothing. Eventually he turned back. She walked on, and made her way to the other side of the room. She sat with her parents, and watched him. Shyly perhaps? The sight emboldened me. The boys at school were like that too. They sat in their seats at lunchtime rattling on about some gorgeous bird who was sitting on the far side of the canteen shelter, some girl you could hardly see from such a distance. It constantly astounded me what they could see in some blur in the distance. They’d blurt and brag about what they’d do to her if they got near her, but they were never game to make one step closer than they were at that moment. "What do you say to girls?" Girls must think the same about guys.

Well, I certainly knew what to say to guys. Maybe I didn’t know how to get them into bed or anything, but I did know how to talk as a mate, and that was more than Faye could.

I boldly moved over to the pool table. He was playing with two other guys – they needed a fourth to make it even.

"Hi, you’re Rob, aren’t you?" I said glibly. "Can I play, I’m a pretty mean pool player."

"Are you? Ha! Sure. OK mate, why not, here have a go," he said and handed me a cue. I let myself be a bit clumsy and grabbed the cue too close to his hand, my fingers brushed over his as I took it. He never noticed. I let the feel of his long fingers warm mine for as long as safely possible before I took the cue completely.

Now that they had four to play, we played in pairs. I looked at him slightly too long, hoping magically that he would make me his partner – but no, he didn’t, I was paired up with one of the others. I pulled my eyes away quickly and turned to Mike, my partner, "No worries," I said. "Lets go".

I played with them for what seemed like ages. My parents finally came in from playing their golf. They were pleased to see I’d found some friends to spend the time with. It allowed them time to spend drinking with their friends; I turned back to the pool table, and continued to discuss the cricket, the previous footy season; and all those matey things. The room became crowded and space was tight around the pool table. I had to squeeze past him to get to the other end of the table and found it easy to accidentally brush against his body.

Then he just seemed to stop playing, in mid-game. "Ooh…ahh..I gotta go…ummm - " he said, his eyes darting about the room as if looking for something " – to the toilet," and suddenly he was gone.

I panicked. Maybe he had meant me to follow? Had he? My heart raced. Perhaps he had? Should I follow? But I was actually scared to. I wouldn’t know what to do. I looked around at the other guys? What would they say if I left too?

"Young girl from your Form at school is she?" Mike asked, nodding in the direction that Robert had gone in. "What’s her name?"

So he had followed Faye? My mind felt like it had closed in on itself. I turned to look at the others. They sniggered. In an attempt at nonchalance, I shrugged and said "Dunno, but I reckon she’s a slut, well…so I hear." This was a desperate lie from me and it only elicited shrieks of laughter from them.

"Ha! Just his type," they nudged each other in ribaldry.

"Well, seems our game is over," I said.

"Oh yeah, but he’ll probably be finished soon," Michael said, with more nudging and laughter. I turned to look ouside, in the direction of the toilet. What crap some guys go on with.

"I guess I’d better go anyway – my parents are probably looking for me," I said, and I used the opportunity to leave the pool table. It held little interest for me now.

I didn’t know what to do, then I found myself heading outside to the toilet blocks.

Once out on the verandah it didn’t take long to find them, they were standing near the practice green nearby. I went down the stairs and slipped into the shadows underneath the verandah. They stood near each other, but strategically apart. They spoke very haltingly, but laughed a lot and spent much time smiling at each other. Yuck, it was horrible. She had nothing to say to him, nothing in common – what could he possibly see in her?

Knowing full well what it was he saw in her, I had to turn my face away. I looked out over the darkness behind the clubhouse – the golf course was on the edge of town, and no streets or houses stood on that side, so I was looking at pitch blackness – the abyss. I felt as if I was staring into the depths of my own being.

When I turned back he was kissing her, just lightly – their bodies still strategically apart. He made a little move which seemed to indicate that they move over to the shadows where I was. Oh no! She began to acquiesce. What was I to do? They came dangerously closer – if I could just move quietly, maybe I could go on watching this distasteful display – if I wanted to!

I tried to move, but dry gum-leaves lay all over the ground, and of course you can’t see them in the dark. Crackle. They heard. They looked up. I headed on to the toilets as if I hadn’t noticed anything. "Oh..ahh…sorry mate," I tried to mumble. He was looking at me straight in the face. Faye used the opportunity to make her escape. She seemed pleased to be able to do so. I watched her go up the stairs. Girls! The opportunities they are given, and they don’t take them. I cannot understand them.

He was still looking at me. I felt the blood that had been racing around my body now gather in my face, and elsewhere. I was so grateful for the darkness. The seconds seemed to drag on for hours, days. What was he gonna say? What move should I make? My mind was fogged with fear, and unrealistic hope.

"Sorry." I managed to croak the word again.

"I’m sorry, Steve" he said. He was sorry… what for? He turned his head to look up the empty stair where Faye had gone.

"Uh, I was just going to the toilet," I said, as an excuse. But I also said it with some forlorn hope that maybe he’ll take it as an invitation. Again I wondered, Why was he sorry?

"Sorry… if I was cramping your style."

He was looking at me again. "You’re in her class at school, aren’t you? Sorry if, you know, you’re like, interested in her…, it was just a spur of the moment thing."

The light from the clubhouse shone in his eyes and I caught the vibrant blue of their colour shining out against the darkness. My eyes were lost in his for a vulnerable moment; his searched mine for a response, and then widened as he began to understand.

I turned my eyes away quickly – I could feel the pricking of those damn tears that boys are not supposed to cry, especially over another boy.

"Na, it’s not like that, I mean…" I blurted out. I broke away and headed off to the toilets – where else could I go? I walked as fast as I could, almost ran; I had to get away from him. I could feel his eyes burning into my back as I left.

Why couldn’t he just go back into the clubhouse; chase after her. Why couldn't he just leave me alone? As I got to the toilet block I couldn’t stop myself from throwing a glance back at him – he was still staring at me – a strange took in his eyes. I couldn’t really make them out, ‘cos my eyes were blurry from the tears, but I knew what the look would be – a mixture of surprise, confusion, disgust. I turned and went into the toilet building. I raced into a cubicle and sat there, listening, hopelessly hoping still that he might follow…

But he didn’t.

I eventually made my way out. People were beginning to leave as the night was ending. I stood out on the lawns, waiting in the shadows for my parents. At last, they came and I stepped out to greet them. My eyes were focussed on them because I couldn’t wait to get home – so I didn’t see him ‘til he walked right in front of me. I could sense the earth open up and the vapours of hell rising. He stopped. My eyes were stuck wide open in panic, I couldn’t move. His eyes were filled with fear, and disgust, and confusion. He began to speak, but then his mother called to him, "come on Robert." He turned to answer her, then turned back to me. He stood staring at me, those blue eyes boring into me.

"Its…" his eyes began shifting uncomfortably – I tried to use the chance to make my escape, but my feet felt like they were nailed to the ground. I looked about frantically.

"Come on Robert!" his mother was demanding. When I looked back, he was moving away from me, disappearing into the night.

THE END.

© I A Hogan 1999.

Revised: 1 Aug 2005.

timander42@fastmail.fm