A few months ago, Justin had attached jump leads to Scottie’s scrotum. He had attached Scottie to a car. Scott had been seriously injured and might even have died.

Before then, Justin felt, the game had not been serious, not a serious game of ‘nut cracking’ as Scottie always called it, saying, ‘but I want to crack your nuts,’ when he hit an extended losing streak, putting his emphasis on the ‘your’ as though he was a child who wanted something when the answer was a ‘no’. Well, he had gotten to, Justin reminded himself. Scottie had flicked his testicles with a finger, and he had done it with a ruler also. It had hurt. But they had only been fooling around, Justin now felt, and it hadn’t been interesting for him. He didn’t like the feeling afterwards. In fact, he hadn’t liked it at all those times when he lost to Scott way back after the first day with the hose. It was humiliating. Hot and angry, it felt sometimes felt as though his head would explode when Scott said to ‘take your shorts off,’ ‘take your jocks off,’ and had then proceeded to flick his friend’s (Justin’s) testicles with a ruler or with his fingers.

There was a plopping sound, and a plopping feeling. It reached up into his stomach and made him feel like crying, the humiliation of it. It made him angry at Scott, and it made him angry, moreover, that it never was as good as the first time when he got to do it to Scott. On the first day, after Return of the Jedi, Justin had made Scott cry. He had been wet on the lawn, and naked. He had been crying, and holding his testicles. Justin had come. He had come onto Scottie’s leg and Scottie hadn’t even noticed it, being too stupid to know what had happened.

When Scott said, ‘a flick to each nut with a finger’ less than a week after the hose, Justin said sure, okay, thinking he would be the one flicking Scott. But somehow, he didn’t get to do that. Scott won the race (on the 100m track at school) and in the bushland by the field it was Justin who had to take his shorts off. ‘Take your shorts off,’ and when Justin thought that was all he meant, ‘Take your jocks off,’ as though Justin was stupid and didn’t know the rules of a game.

Even now, in the darkness, Justin’s head felt hot when he thought about it. Scottie had humiliated him, and he had done it more than once.

At first it was flicking with a ruler, if it wasn’t fingers, Scott never wanting to play the hose game again, and proud of his ruler, on which he had written “The Cracker”, denting the wood deeply with a blue biro. On the front of the ruler (which he used every day in class!) Scott had a tally of how many flicks he had given Justin, and on the back he kept Justin’s tally, soon much larger than his own, and something of an embarrassment, obviously. Scott couldn’t win. After the first day, when Scott had flicked him with his fingers, clothed in his uniform while Justin had his shirt pulled up and his tie askew – after that day, Justin told himself that Scott couldn’t be allowed to win. It wasn’t worth it. If they were going to play, the only way it could come out was with Justin as the winner. At first he tried harder. He had never really tried to beat Scott. Not really. Soon, he discovered, it wasn’t that hard. They were pretty evenly matched in running (Scott having a slight advantage), and in swimming (where Justin was better). If Justin pushed himself, he could beat Scott at running. In math, Scott was quicker. If it was a language puzzle, or an English test, Justin would always win. Scott would have had no chance in art.

They started using their school grades as a supplementary spur to any side-bets they might have had with each other. And soon, it was several times a week that one or the other of them were received their ‘cracks’, sometimes in the bush by the fields, and sometimes in the toilets, where they arranged to meet at appointed times during class, quickly releasing their shorts and taking their ‘cracks’ if the other guy had a tallied advantage.

“The Cracker” soon looked like an instrument of torture, Justin taking it when they were in class together and inscribing a black and red curlicue around the edge of it, Scott adding to this a swastika, the old symbol of the Reich, he said to Justin, as though he lived in some new Reich himself. Justin pushed himself in math, often staying up until two in the morning. He studied biology, and chemistry, economics, history, and physics – all the things he hadn’t been good at – or not as good as Scott. Soon, he was beating Scott in every test, and it was Scott who was taking his cracks when they met: on one day, thirty-four.

There! Justin said to himself, seeing Scott crumple onto the floor with his shorts around his feet. Fuck you, Scottie. He was hard in his shorts, and Scott noticed this, looking up at Justin from the floor like a dog that’s been defeated.

At that moment, Justin felt, if he could have pressed Scott against his shorts – grabbed him and hugged him, or even put his hand on his back, he would have come.

‘Hey, what are you guys up to?’ Shane-o said.

They were in a cubicle together, Scott crouched on the ground near the toilet.

‘Scott’s got cones,’ Justin said, opening the door as Scott pulled his shorts up.

‘Yeah?’

‘Here,’ Justin said. He took the grass from his pack and gave some to Shane-o (not of course Scott’s, who had never touched it).

‘Is Scottie a bad boy now?’

Scott was washing his hands, and standing with one leg slightly cocked.

Shane-o knew, Justin felt.

‘He’s been punished,’ Justin said.

Shane-o jerked his head back (wide-eyed and jerking). He clapped Scottie on the back. ‘There, there, Scottie,’ he said. ‘Jus’ll kiss it better.’

Justin made a face. Shane-o and he were still friends, even if Shane-o didn’t like Scott.

‘Not me,’ Justin said.

Scott had made the mistake of saying something to one of the guys, Justin suddenly knew. He had told Mark about their ‘ongoing battle’ (Justin had heard him ask about the ruler – ‘the cracker?’). Scott must have said something later to Mark, and Mark had now told Shane-o, probably laughingly, as though it was an incredible thing. Scott and Justin! The good boys!

‘That’s the end of it. I’ve had enough.’

At the basin, Scott jerked his head back a little, taking in the information. It was news to him, obviously.

‘Oh, well, Scotto,’ again Shane-o clapped him on the back, patting him now. ‘Not to worry. You can still be a girl, if you want. Justin’s done what he can.’

Shane-o smiled at Justin and winked.

‘It’s not over.’ Scott said, angry after what had happened, later in the afternoon. They were down in the bush near the fields, near the shallow pool by the cave, but clothed now, going down there after school, on the way home, to use the bong Justin knew was in the cave.

‘Are you sure you don’t want one?’

Scottie shook his head.

‘It’s not over.’

Justin held his breath and exhaled. He was tired of it. Scott never got really hurt – not like he had the first day with the hose. He was never on the ground and crying, really humiliated. And the guys knew!

‘You shouldn’t have told Mark.’

‘What?’

‘You shouldn’t have told Mark about it.’

‘I never told Mark. I never told anyone. As if I’m gonna fucking tell someone!’

The tally was now 807 to 134. And Scottie still thought he could win somehow – thought he had to. First to one thousand, they’d decided.

‘Shane knows.’

‘He doesn’t fucking know. He thought you were fucking my arse! you stupid prick.’

Justin gripped the bong tighter and let it sink back toward the ground.

‘And you made it sound like you fucking had been!’ Scott continued. ‘You’re so fucking dumb sometimes.’

Oh, Justin said inwardly.

He had told Shane-o that Scott had been punished! Shane-o hadn’t seemed to care. Oh fuck, he’d really said punished!

‘No, he thinks you’re a good bloke,’ Scott went on. ‘I’m the fucking faggot!’

He wasn’t. Not really. Was he?

‘Are you?’

Scott lifted his head up and shook it at the sky, his lips forced together. Was he going to start crying?

‘You know he did it to Crispy.’

‘What?’ Crispin Matthews wasn’t even in their grade. He was the Rector’s son. And eleven?

‘He told me. Shane-o fucked him down near the weir – two weeks ago at lunchtime.’

‘What were you speaking to him for?’

‘I like him.’

Yes, Justin thought, you like everyone. And that was the problem. Scott was just too kind. Justin didn’t want to hurt him. Not really. Couldn’t they just be friends – normally?

And he hated getting cracked. He was sick of it.

If someone really did find out – well, they’d be expelled most likely. Mr Crawford wouldn’t tolerate it. Justin would go to state. His life’d be fucked. He’d lose his scholarship, though Scottie would be alright, his parents being loaded and living in Handen.

‘Hey, what about punching?’ Scott suddenly said. ‘We could make it like a war – the first to surrender.

Justin didn’t want to. He was tired of it. And he was afraid. Today, in the toilets, when he had heard Shane’s knock, he had seen everything crashing down. They were doing something…weird.

Shane-o wouldn’t have told, though. Even if he found out, he wouldn’t do that to Justin, would he? Still though, if someone else found out…one of the masters…

‘Not at school,’ Justin said, thinking he had to give Scottie a chance – and that he would like to…well, punching…at least once…just to see… ‘and there has to be an end to it. When you cave, that’s it.’

‘You won’t win,’ Scott said, as though there was no hope of this happening – no hope of him being in a position where he would have to cave.

The sound of that, Justin found, made him hard – Scottie thinking he could win when he kept getting cracked. Having no hope, while Justin sat there knowing he’d have no hope.

‘Oh, I’ll win.’

Scott couldn’t win. Justin had been changing the odds since he first got ‘cracked’ by Scott, staying up till two in the morning studying, and, when it was possible, cheating – cheating at any game they devised. ‘It’s called cheating,’ he said to himself at home. And with that, there was no way Scottie could win. He would just keep getting cracked – and now – with a fist! Oh, man! 807 times! He had cracked Scott 807 times and the guy still thought he could win – still wanted to keep going. And now…well, he was going to let Justin punch his fist into Scott’s nuts. And let him do it hard.

Justin wouldn’t let Scott do that, not to him, not if he could avoid it. He wasn’t even curious about what it felt like, was he?

‘Not schoolwork anymore,’ Justin said. There was no certainty in that. He didn’t want to cheat at schoolwork – in any other game they devised, sure, but at school, well, it wasn’t the same. And Justin hated it when he couldn’t beat Scott. Scott was better than him at math. 78 cracks because of math! How did Scott do it? He didn’t even study!

‘Fair enough,’ Scott said. ‘But the games have to be fair.’

‘When haven’t they been?’

Scott shrugged his shoulders.

‘Do you think I’d cheat you?’

‘What? – No.’

Justin frowned. ‘I haven’t been. You know that.’

‘I never said you had.’

Justin looked out across the pool. A chill wind ruffled the surface of the water. It was winter now and this game had been going for months. Above them, the leaves of the trees rustled, and a crow cawed three times.

‘You know, I really don’t want to do this, Scott.’

Scott shrugged his shoulders.

‘I’m pretty sick of it.’

‘You make it sound like I like it.’

He couldn’t, of course. The game had gone too far. There were times, at the beginning, when Scott had had a boner. But now, more often than not, when Justin was cracking him, Scott was scared and limp – looking worried, and swallowing. He simply wanted to win. ‘How much can you take?’ Justin said.

‘I don’t know – three or four – maybe nine or ten. I don’t know what it feels like.’

‘It’s gonna hurt,’ Justin said.

‘Like it doesn’t already,’ Scott said.

‘Yeah, but you’re not gonna be able to cave. You caved today.’ Scott still had eighteen cracks left out of his thirty-four.

‘You neither,’ Scott said, pushing him in the shoulder.

Justin smiled shyly.

He always caved. With twelve, once, it had taken him more than three days to cop them. He couldn’t stand more than three at a time.

Scott was better than this, apparently. He had a higher tolerance, or something – or a greater desire to win. Today, in the toilets, he had taken twelve in a row. Justin having given him the other four at morning tea time when the bell had gone and they were the only ones left in the toilets. They were going to get busted soon, Justin had felt, and when he’d heard Shane’s knock later, during afternoon classes, he’d figured it was one of the masters, Scott and he usually meeting when they had opposing classes.

It was that, along with the feeling that they were doing something very weird, that made Justin want to stop. It’d gone too far. At home, when he was studying, the thought of it made him sick.

‘This is it,’ Justin said. ‘When one of us caves, it’s over.’ He lifted the bong to his mouth and finished the cone. Exhaled. Scrinched his eyes up. Coughed. A catbird called.

‘What’s it like?’

‘It’s shit,’ Justin said, standing up and throwing the bong as far as he could. He had smoked it before, once or twice, and today, Carol had made him go to Tracy’s on the way to school and score for her. He had to take it to school! Oh, shit. Didn’t she realize she could get him expelled?

He wanted to throw it – the whole bag – upend it and scatter it and knife her, when it came right down to it. Punch her in the fucking face.

‘Your eyes are all red.’

Justin coughed again. He wasn’t doing this anymore, he decided. He was going to finish this stuff – this fucking shit he’d been doing with Scott, getting his mum drugs, driving the car – everything he shouldn’t be doing, he was going to stop doing. He was going to be like Mark or Brad or Ashley.

‘Do you want the rest of your cracks now?’

Scott shrugged.

‘If you can’t take them now, there’s no point going on with it anyway. You’re going to have to cop worse than that.’

Scott swallowed. ‘Do I have to take them all at once?’

Justin threw his head back. ‘Isn’t that what we’ve been saying?’ He felt himself getting hard. ‘You said it was like a war. Do you think I should be kind?’

He knew he hurt Scott – then, at that moment, he knew he really hurt Scott when he did it. He’d been practising at home with the ruler – his own – flicking his thigh at first (when Scott had first really got him). After that, insanely, he now felt, he had progressed to lychees, asking Carol to buy more (not telling her why) and more, until he was good enough, and could smash one on the kitchen bench with a single flick. It was all too serious, now. It was a game he had become skilled at. And it was obviously hurting Scott, and hurting him a lot. It would only be natural if Scott wanted to pay him back. Would be natural if Scott wanted to get revenge.

Scott scratched a stick at the dust. ‘Okay,’ he said suddenly, getting up. ‘But I didn’t mean these. That wasn’t what I meant.’

He was going to take them – all of them – and now, in the bush.

Justin went rock hard and tried to cover it up, standing himself, and tucking the tip of his cock into his waistband. It wasn’t quite long enough and it always flipped back out, tenting in his shorts when he was cracking Scott. And Scott knew. They just didn’t talk about it.

Scott reached into his pack and pulled out “The Cracker”. It was some fantastic object now, Justin felt – something impregnated with waxy life, as though it had been covered in oil and blessed by a demon – baptised in blood – as though it really were some instrument of torture belonging to The Third Reich. And the sight of it made Justin hard sometimes in class, with Scott’s hair falling over his face and his red lips pursed as he ruled a line with it – the one time Mr Thompson had picked it up and looked at it, frowning. And Scott swallowed, as he did it. Oh, poor, Scottie, he had thought to himself then, he’s really copping it. The score was then 200 - 14!

Scott handed it to Justin and unbuttoned his shorts. Justin turned “The Cracker” over and smiled. It was even funnier that it was Scott’s and he had to hand it to him every time. It was like a demon, somehow, egging Justin on when he saw it in class and making him want to do this, the sight of it making him send Scott a note for later – 3.30 appointment, yes (with a tick box) no (with one). Scott had so many in backlog and so many more coming that it was once or twice a day. And he always agreed!

‘It’s honorable,’ Scott had said. ‘I always do what I’m supposed to do.’

And now, they were in the bush! And he was getting eighteen at once! And he’d already beaten his record with the twelve, and had four others this morning…

Scott kicked one foot out of his shorts and lifted the tip of his dick up. The other hand fluttered near his chest, holding his shirt up high, his tie hanging out, Scott jittering nervously as he always did when they were doing it in the bush.

As usual, when Justin saw Scott’s pale thighs, he felt an inrush of breath, a wonder that anything could be so beautiful as Scott – his pale shapely thighs, his hairless groin and fat cock, so long, even when it was flaccid, like now. His stomach. Tossing his blond hair back from his forehead, letting his groin suck in.

Justin crouched down under Scott and lifted the ruler up, laying on his back now, because there was no one around, and preparing to give Scott the full treatment – his best cracks that they could only do in the bush, and not in the cubicles at school.

‘Are you going to do it like that?’

‘You reckon you can hack it.’ Justin said, shrugging on the ground. Really, he thought, he didn’t care. If Scott was going to put himself in this position and keep asking for it, well, so be it. He’d get it. Justin wasn’t getting hurt, was he?

‘I thought, I mean…’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

Scott hated the “under crackies” as he called them, being silly. He had said to Justin that they should count them as two cracks or two for three – that they should agree on that.

‘I never say anything when you do it to me.’

‘Scott simply swallowed.’

He had done it to Justin hard, and he deserved the same himself. He was the one who started it!

Scott caved, of course. He crumbled to his knees, though not voluntarily.

‘Keep going,’ he said, getting back up. ‘I lost my balance.’ His voice was squeaking, but wasn’t prepared to lose.

‘Seventeen,’ Justin said, finishing the rhythm he had said up, ‘eighteen!’ Crack, pause, crack, pause, crack, pause, crack, pause, it had gone on – left, pause, right, pause, right, pause, left, pause, left, pause, left, pause, right, pause, left, pause, right, pause, centre, until Scott fell – and then, these final last two, Justin decided, would be lychee smushers – the one’s he knew he could smush a lychee with in a single blow, even when it was hanging from a string.

He had to concentrate, staring up at Scott’s arse crack jittering.

‘Keep still.’

‘Oh, shit. You’re gonna d— ’

Thwack! Yes. And I’m gonna get your left one too.

Thwack!

‘Mwaa! Mwaa! Mwaa! Mwaa! Mwaa!’ went Scott, on the ground now, and for the first time since the hose, really, actually, fucking crying.

Justin didn’t care. It was funny. He was stoned. And he was so fucking hard and he was on the ground and Scott was crumpled next to him, ‘Mwaaa! Mwaaa! Mwaaa!’ – long sounds, sucks of breath.

If Justin could just.

‘Hey, Scottie,’ he said, reaching forward and putting a hand on Scott’s back, comforting. ‘Hey.’ He pulled himself forward and grabbed Scott, felt rough cotton shimmer across Scott’s bare arse. His hard cock pressed there, squashed, spooning him now. Had Shane-o really? If he could just… A shuffle forward. Twist his hips a bit. There. He felt his cock slide between Scott’s buns, straining in the school shorts. He pulled himself close. ‘Hey.’ Hugged Scott. ‘Sorry,’ felt good. Pressing a bit harder, forcing his cock in, he could probably move a bit, shuffle a bit. He put one hand one the inside of Scott’s thigh.

Scott froze, and put his hands out in front of him, stiff and rigid.

What would it be like to slide his hand up and grab Scottie’s nuts? Squeeze them. Crush them between his fingers.

He thrusted a bit. Scott’s thigh warm under his hands. Scott rigid, and straining now.

Push. Push. Push.

And came.

In his shorts!

Oh man!

Scott was pushing him away: ‘Fuck you, Justin!’ and getting up, turning, pulling his shorts up – and looking down at Justin on the ground. Looking at his groin where there was a dark wet patch on grey. He was tucking his shirt in and grabbing his pack and leaving. ‘Fuck you, man!’ crashing through the undergrowth and finding the path, heading up the hill and cutting across the field to the bus-stop, alone, not waiting for Justin.

‘Fuck you!’ Scott called from the path at the edge of the fields, the sound echoing through the forest.

Justin lay on his back, rigid, twisted, looking up at the blue sky and the forest branches scratching against it, his head twisted, not caring.

That had felt fantastic.