Pot Boiler: The Love Life of an Ordinary Young Man

Contents

ROOTS

WANK

A WOMAN AND TWO MEN

ANOTHER MAN’S WOMAN

PEACE

TWO WOMEN AND A MAN

TWO MEN

ALONE

PEACE #2

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ROOTS

This is a story about a man, or more precisely about being a man, what it is like to be a man. I’m an ordinary man. I’m white, sort of middle aged, middle-class, middle height, middle build, especially around the middle. Twenty years ago, I was slimmer, and more handsome, but still not an outstanding specimen physically. But I was happy, and loved life, and I still do. I’m happier now than I was twenty years ago, in fact, for all sorts of reasons. I live in South Australia. I was born in a small seaport there, and though I have lived in other places in Australia and the rest of the world, I have always come back to South Australia, which I cherish and think of as the best place in the world. When the wind blows from the north it has been warmed by the Australian continent; when it blows from the south it is coming in from the wide, cold Southern Ocean, which goes right around the bottom of the world. We are far enough south that at night the stars of the Southern Cross never set; they just track around a big circle in the sky, from down low up to nearly overhead.

My love life probably started when I was born – actually, I could probably say it started with my parents’ love life – but it became my business when I was born. I can’t remember that much about it until I was five, though I do remember being passionate about a big motor bike which was stored in a hut near our place when I was two or three. I used to steal in and admire it; I guess you could say it was an early fetish. But until I was five, my private life was mainly about coping with, or enjoying, as the case went, my own erections. Boys of course are all born with penises and their penises begin and end with being sources of, or objects of a lot of fun and pride – fun because they are so pleasing to touch and pull, get stiff and un-stiff, and are so aimably useful to piss through, and pride that one has such a source of pleasure as and when one wants it. Just getting stiff for instance, feels good, really good. One doesn’t even need to touch it. The only times it doesn’t feel really good are when it’s getting stiff again shortly after some serious use first time around; then it can ache a little.

When I was five I was sent to school and there I fell in love with a girl. Her name was Anne – I could just read well enough to decipher her name on her case. She was the prettiest thing I had ever seen, and I loved her – from a distance. I couldn’t reconcile my passion for her with my lack of ability to begin a relationship, that is, front up and talk to her. I decided I was shy. However, what eventuated astounded me. Anne and her girlfriend caught me and my boyfriend in the street outside her house, and brightly invited us in to see a lion cub, kept in the back of an old Volkswagen in the driveway. Unable to resist such a good hook, we went in, and we all stood on the bumper bar of the car peering in through the dusty back window to look at the lion cub. I couldn’t see much, but there was some tawny-colored fur a long way down. It might have been a toy, or a cat, or it could have been a cub. Whatever, the girls assured us that it was unbearably cute. What thrilled me actually was that I was standing next to Anne, talking to her and breathing in her wonderful girl smell. Her eyes were as clear and bright as sunlight on water and I could hardly keep from shouting in my delight; in fact, we were all shouting at the tops of our voices. We spent just half an hour together, shouting and boasting and showing off, and then my mother came past in her car and bundled my mate and I away – and I never saw Anne again; we moved out of that town a few days later.

The next year in another South Australian town I met Dianne, and in a few minutes I was in love again. She was in my sandpit with her sister when I arrived home one afternoon. She was English, blonde, and full of intelligence, style and play. I showed off a bit to show her I liked her, and was immensely gratified to see that she liked me too. That time neither of us were moving out of town, and we were boyfriend and girlfriend for six years – it was really my first marriage, a marvelous relationship, though without any sex at all. I used to fantasise about her being a beautiful princess, gracious and smiling, going to her coronation before I went to sleep at night, but when we were twelve, my parents moved away again, to Adelaide, South Australia’s capital, and I didn’t see Dianne again for many years. When I did she was queer, living with another woman, and so was I.

Between my thirteenth year and seventeen, I had many infatuations, as well as loves and kisses, and though a good kiss on the lips will give any boy a stiff in his pants, I retained my virginity until then. This was not a result of any resolve on my part; between the time I learned about love-making and actually lost my virginity, I dreamed and speculated about it most of the time, and learning and preparing myself as much as I could, wished it would happen. One night – I was fourteen – three friends and I held a séance. I was amazed that it worked. An upturned glass lightly supporting our four index fingers spun around a table spelling out words by moving from letter to letter of an alphabet laid out in a circle. It was clear no one of us was pushing it. Surprise surmounted, we fell to questions concerning the future. I asked the ‘spirit’ the name of the woman I would marry, and the glass moved first to P, then faltered a little, moving in and out, before proceeding to C. - P.C.; initials, I presumed. We cast our minds around for names of girls we knew which would fit; there was a girl in our class at school called Paula Coles whose name I hit on. I asked the ‘spirit’ if she would be the one, and it moved the glass directly to ’yes’. There was some light laughter at this, but I was impressed. Paula was a sweet girl, if slightly aloof of the boys, and I retained the memory of the advice. I figured that if it was true, it probably wasn’t going to happen for ten years or so, and anything was possible in ten years. Ultimately this notion was almost fatal.

The phenomenon of the psychokinesis which so readily occurs at a seance is still something I find breathtaking. I don’t actually believe that there is an invisible world of the spirits of departed souls crowding around us knowing all the details of past, present and future, but something beyond consciousness is obviously moving the glass – or other inanimate object being used. My theory is that the participants are generating the movement in a condition of collective unconsciousness, while remaining, of course, awake. (A much more interesting thing to my mind than ‘spirits’.) It is extra-sensory perception and communication, only a more remarkable instance of a faculty I am sure people use in every-day, and night, life all the time, but the movement – the kinesis - sure and strong, is the really impressive thing.

Men and women in Australia call fucking ‘rooting’, as well as fucking and various other things. My first ‘root’ was with Joanne. One Saturday night, late in the year which was my final year of secondary school, I had been asked to go to a party and meet a girl called Joanne as a ‘blind date’. I was slightly apprehensive; I was going to meet someone who could have been anybody, but I was also excited, and bowled along for the adventure. I was completely delighted - vanquished - when my friend pointed her out in the crowd, sitting on a lounge with her girl-friends. She was gorgeous, and just my size. Her hair was brown, but she had blonded it; we were introduced, and I saw she was pleased with me too; her eyes were wide and dark, and we couldn’t stop smiling at each other. I loved her face, her brown eyes, her hair. I thrilled at her ruffled sleeves, the way her low neckline exposed the tops of her breasts, and the way her dress hugged her waist. I loved her make-up and she smelled wonderful. I flirted a bit, and she laughed.

How old are you? she asked.

Sixteen, seventeen next month! I beamed.

I’m older than you, she warned. I’m seventeen already. I raised my eyebrows and she laughed. Last month!

So you’re two months more experienced than me. I was a bit of a dickhead, but she didn’t seem to mind.

You can learn a lot in two months. We clattered along, and drank. The drinking of course, was a mistake. She drank too much too quickly, and soon left the room; I found her in the bathroom spewing up. I felt sorry for her; I was actually a bit surprised that someone of seventeen had allowed that to happen, but reflected that perhaps she hadn’t had quite as much drinking experience as I had (I had had quite a bit, I am sorry to say). I manfully helped her clean up, and helped her into a bed. There, while she slept, I lay next to her and watched, feeling responsible, but disappointed at the end of our evening.

I didn’t see her again until after the final exams; my friend Mickey and I were driving home after diving on a local reef, and I saw Joanne crossing the road. It was a complete coincidence, she was close to home, but we weren’t. I ran out and caught up with her. She was pleased to see me. We gave her a lift home and she gave me her number. Thinking it out carefully, I rang her on a Tuesday evening – Monday would seem too enthusiastic, but Wednesday might be too late. (That’s how things were in those days). Saturday was New Year’s Eve, and I asked her to a party we were going to have at Mickey’s place. She agreed to come, and on Saturday I borrowed my father’s car and drove over to her place. It was quite a long way, 10 or 12 kilometers along gravel roads through vineyards, but she was smiling and glad when I knocked on her door. On the way back to Mickey’s, she pulled out a packet of cigarettes, lit one for herself, and then one for me and passed it over. We chatted and smoked, and arrived at the party happily tuned into each other. I was glad I had her for company for the party was a rather boyish affair, with lots of beer and whisky being quaffed and cheroots being waved and smoked like little fireworks. Someone made a kazoo out of beer bottles, and someone else demonstrated how to throw a spectacular white and blue flame with a can of insect spray and a cigarette lighter. Joanne and I laughed around a bit at these antics, smoked cigarettes, drank (carefully) and appraised each other. Late in the evening, I sat down next to her, slipped my arm around her and kissed her on the lips (I was proud of my kissing technique; I had practised it as much as I had been allowed). I suggested we go into Mickey’s bedroom; she agreed, and we slipped out of the party room, down the passage and into the cosy little room at the rear of the house. A yellow-shaded lamp was shining on the table by Mick’s single bed. Mick had a vinyl record collection; an old record player was under the lamp, and I slipped a record – The Beatles’ Magical Mystery Tour – out of its sleeve and put it on. The stirring first chords filled the room as we stood against each other and took another kiss, the sweet perfumed smell of her body filling the room, the smoky smell of her hair against my face. She pulled at my shirt, pulled the back of it out of my pants and slipped her fingers onto my lower back. I was delighted to be led by a woman, and my dick quickly got stiff in my pants. I returned the favor – finding the zip at the top of her dress behind her neck, I pulled it down a few inches, until it jammed. She giggled, and then pulled away and turned around so I could unzip her in a more business-like way. When I did, she shrugged off her dress, stepped out of it and then unclipped her bra and dropped it to the floor. I gazed at her beautiful slender torso, the curves of her hips and when she turned, the swing of her tits. They were more than a girl’s, they were a young woman’s: full and just beginning to hang, tanned on top and fair underneath, with dark red nipples. Meanwhile I was hurriedly unbuttoning my shirt and stripping it off. Not to be left behind, I also dropped my pants.

My heart was beating hard, and my cock was pushing my briefs out like a tent, but a little embarrassed about it, I quickly turned to the bed, and threw the blankets back. Let’s get in!’ I suggested, but Joanne caught me still standing for another kiss. Her nipples were standing up hard and brushed the skin of my chest, and then she slipped her hand inside my briefs and pulled downwards. Come on, she said, they’re going to come off anyway". Surprised at her candor, but also astounded that it really looked as if she was going to give me my first root, I obeyed and stood naked in front of her, my cock standing out straight. She took it in her soft hand and squeezed it lightly, hummed approvingly at its hardness and size, and pulled it gently. It was the first time anyone else (since my babyhood, I guess) had touched it and my breaths came out in gasps. I was amazed and delighted to be so intimate with this beautiful uninhibited girl. She kissed me again, I pressed my chest against her breasts and wrapped my arms around her, thrilled at the lightness of her body. Our lips slid across each other and my breath was gusting in and out of my nostrils. Joanne laughed and ordered me in to bed. I bounced onto it, my cock waving and slapping against my body. She stripped her briefs off, and I admired the smooth shine of the skin on her hips and arse, and the small reddish mat of her pubic hair. She rolled into the bed, her breasts brushing my arms and chest. I pulled the blankets up and over us and we breathed hard in the darkness for a few moments, our limbs sliding and shifting against each other. I was so excited, my heart was thumping and my penis felt as hard as wood (a man can feel the hardness of his cock from inside). I kissed her lips again briefly, then kissed her neck and very boldly took one of her nipples into my