- 2 -

I’m trying to talk about darkness, but everything is bright.

It’s another sunny day and it’s hot and it’s maybe six months later. I really don’t know. All I remember is I hadn’t turned fourteen yet, because when I turned fourteen Scott was a eunuch. I remember that. I’m not likely to forget it.

Anyway, it’s another hot day, and we’re riding out of town. I’m wearing a pair of runners and my speedos and a bike helmet and I’m riding a BMX. I know it sounds ridiculous – like I’m making it up. But in those days it was acceptable. It was the way kids got around – on hot days, wearing nothing but a pair of speedos and riding a bike bear-foot and without a helmet, only it hurts if you ride too far bear-foot and they have a law in this country about riding bikes without helmets. They’d just come up with it, you see, wanting to protect people and all that – and if you didn’t wear it, you got pulled over by the police and questioned and so on.

It wasn’t, after all, America.

So we’re wearing runners (no socks), pale blue speedos (with the little white strips) and bike helmets.

In those days I lived right out on the edge of the town with my mum; and it wasn’t too far from my house (from my mum’s house) where there was this track going off into the bush – and we used to walk there sometimes, and sometimes we used to ride there, because there was a creek down there in the bush and you could swim. It was maybe only two or three miles. I don’t know.

But we didn’t, as I’ve already told you, have a pool.

Anyway, Scott’s riding beside me of course – and yes, all he’s wearing is a pair of speedos, and a pair of runners, and a bike helmet.

We don’t have any money and we don’t have a phone. We don’t have any spare clothes. We don’t have any towels. We just don’t have anything. We’re unencumbered – and we’re riding off to the bush to go for a swim in the creek, because it’s a hot day, and that was what you did.

Now, I’m not going to pretend, now that I’m older, that there wouldn’t have been some guys passing us in cars who didn’t look at us and think, wow, holy fuck, or something like that. We were practically naked. But I never figured back then that people thought like this. I thought I was the only one who would look at Scott and think wow, holy fuck, etc. & etc.

I mean, the kid’s got blond hair and this ridiculous smile. He’s got red lips and smooth skin and curves in his thighs and his butt. His got these hard little nipples and a way of brushing his hands over his chest and turning his head to one side like he’s posing. And he sticks his chest out when he stands and lets his groin suck in and he’s got this big lump in these nylon speedos which he hasn’t even bothered to do up because he never does – and the white cord is dangling out and the whole front of them are hanging down in this big loose arc. At the back they’re revealing the crack of his arse at the top while the bottoms of them are riding up into his crack underneath; and when we stand up on the pedals to ride up the hill and I look at him side on, I figure the only thing holding his speedos up is his cock – and if he didn’t have one the damn things would just slide right down to his thighs.

Anyway, we get to the path to the bush and Scott goes in first. You can’t ride side by side because the track is too narrow. There’s tall forest trees on either side and hanging eucalypt branches that you have to reach forward and duck your head under. And there’s ruts in the track and big holes; and some of them are still muddy because there must have been a storm a day or two past, and it’s easy to slide and you have to be careful.

And all of this is good, really, because I have to concentrate. If I don’t concentrate on something, I’ll end up with an erection. Something has happened to me since that day with the hose and (being a kid) I figure the good feeling I got when I came that day is all tied up with Scott – and all tied up with hurting Scott.

I’ve become a bit obsessed. I’ve been pulling myself at home, in the bathroom, in my bedroom. I’ve been pulling myself all the time – and I’ve been thinking about Scott, and thinking about hurting Scott; because that first time, when I came, was when I was with Scott and hurting Scott’s balls, and somehow (perhaps understandably) that has become my obsession.

Now I don’t want you to think that I’m trying to justify myself. I’m not trying to say to you – well, you see, the first time I came I was hurting some guy’s balls and because of that and so on, blah blah blah.

I’m not a good person. And I’m not going to pretend that I am. I’m a selfish fucker; but I was a kid once; and I was a pretty normal kid; and I did something that really cut me up, and I’m telling it to you, but it’s not easy.

I really liked Scott. I wanted to be Scott. I didn’t mean to hurt him like I did - not really. I mean, I wanted to hurt him. I was getting off on hurting him. But I didn’t mean...

Fuck it, I’ll just tell you the story.

I’ve got this little tool pouch under the seat of my bike. I know it’s there, and I know what’s in it. And I know because I’ve been thinking about it for weeks, and I’ve put what’s in it in it, because I’ve got a plan to hurt Scott real bad.

Ever since the day with the hose Scott and I have been having these little competitions. He started it (like I already told you) and he lost. He lost real bad and didn’t even realise it, ending up with a load of my jism over his leg.

Anyway, that changed things between us. Scott lost, and ever since then, well, I’ve been the leader.

I didn’t even realise it, and didn’t even want it – at first; but I clued in when Scott started asking me what I wanted to do, started asking me where I wanted to go, what movie I wanted to see, what I thought of this, what I thought of that, what subjects I was gonna take the next year and so on. Suddenly, I’d become the leader, because somehow, Scott being the suck for competitions that he was, figured that I’d beaten him, and figured that I was better, because I’d made him look like a fool.

So I clued in pretty soon, and it changed me. I got the point of this whole competition thing. I got the point of the power – and I started betting Scott that he couldn’t...cop ten hits to the groin with a fist, let me lock a padlock around his sack, handle me hooking the car battery up to his nuts etc. & etc.

And Scott kept losing. He kept betting and he kept losing and he kept trying to win (I thought) because he figured that if he could beat me, he would have the power again, and be the leader, when he could have been the leader anytime, anyway.

The stupid thing is, I would have let him be the leader again. I thought he was better than me. I looked up to him. I wanted him to be the leader again.

But he went and taught me how good it felt to win. And after he’d let me snap the clamps from the car battery on to his scrotum when I cheated him in a game of poker there was no going back. He taught me what it was like to win – and he taught me, in the end, how it feels when you’ve made the other guy lose everything.

We went for a swim.

We pulled up by the creek and dropped our bikes and dived into the cool green water. The surface rolled away from us, peppered with gum leaves and dust, roiling into a smooth and clear greenness, reflecting the blue-white sky above the trees.

A water dragon scuttled into the undergrowth; and Scott climbed out at the side, his speedos rolling down over his arse. He dived in again and I watched them suck back down to his thighs.

He came up for air and I started splashing him with water. We wrestled. I got hard.

And then if figured – I remembered – what I was going to do.

‘I’m getting out for a bit,’ I said.

I could hear the speciousness in my voice and feel the stiffness in my movements – the awkward way I walked to the bank and climbed out near the bikes. I lay down on one elbow in the dust and reached back to the tool-pouch on the bike.

Scott was doing handstands. The pool was wide and clear, but it was only waist deep where he was and every time his legs came up, his speedos came up out of the water. They sucked all around his gear and his arse while his legs waggled from side to side as he walked along the bottom on his hands.

I had a wrench in the pouch and a sharp little knife. It was overkill, I suppose – because really, I only needed the one or the other. And if there was anything that ever made Scott suspicious later, then I suppose it was that – the fact that I hadn’t just slit his tyre, but that I had unbolted the wheel as well.

In my stupid worrying about what would happen I had imagined Scott somehow repairing the puncture if I only slit the tyre (or riding it flat) or if I only unbolted the wheel, then I had imagined him somehow managing to ride it with it resting in the forks.

It was stupid, really. I made a mistake. But I was, after all, only a kid; and I’d been thinking about this for weeks and picturing how it would happen and I didn’t want, now, for it to go wrong by Scott somehow finding a way to ride his bike home when he couldn’t, wouldn’t and didn’t – according to how things went in the story which had played itself out in my head.

Now, you will know yourself that things don’t go according to plan. You don’t know this when you’re a kid, but you work it out eventually. There’s some thing which says that things never are the way you picture them – and that they’re never (and I’ve worked this out for myself) the way you are ever able to picture them.

Let’s say, for instance, that you know you’re going to meet A tomorrow and go to B (or some such scenario) and you try (as an exercise) to list all of the possible things that could happen, sitting alone the night before, picturing every single one until you’ve exhausted every single possibility you can think off, so that you’re prepared, then you can be guaranteed that you aren’t prepared – and that things won’t work out anything like any of the possibilities that you’ve come up with.

That’s just the way it is. It’ll be a surprise, whatever happens; and afterwards, you’ll wonder, how you never saw it coming, because the thing that did happen (whatever it was) made perfect sense, and was the most likely thing, as you have to admit, in hindsight, though it was impossible to see at the time.

Now there is, of course, a way around all of this. There’s a way to make what happens, what you want to happen. And that’s what this story, when it comes right down to it, is really all about.

It’s about darkness.

But I never understood darkness when I was a kid. And I wasn’t able to be seen with what was going to happen, because I didn’t know how to look.

I was playing a joke on my friend Scott. A joke in which he hurt his balls. I was a kid; and I found the idea sexy; but I never saw what was going to happen because I didn’t (at that time) understand myself, what I was capable of; and I didn’t understand physics all that well; and I didn’t know what a eunuch was, or know how, or even want, to make one.

And you’ve got to stop reading at this point, if you’re getting a funny feeling about where this is going, because it’s not nice (it’s not kind) and it’s only going to get worse.

Pull out, or blame me. I can take it.

I slit the tyre with the knife. Scott’s under the water. He’s got his fucking legs scissoring all over the place. He can’t hear a thing and I vent the gas.

I suck in a breath and there’s a little puff of dust. Scott comes up, shaking his blond hair all around him, and he doesn’t know he won’t be riding home. He wipes his hand across his forehead and squints at me.

‘Come back in,’ he says.

I don’t say anything.

‘What’s up?’ he says.

‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘I feel a bit sick.’

And I do.

There’s a long lizard clawing its way around in my belly, and trying to find its way out. It’s heading for my arse and I feel like I’m going to shit myself.

‘I’m gonna have to have a shit,’ I say.

Scott smiles. He laughs with a sudden explosion of breath.

‘Are you gonna do it there?’

‘I’m trying to hold it in.’

Scott smiles again. He looks at me and then ducks his head under the water. He’s going to do another handstand but he pulls his head up again because he’s thought of something.

‘Tell me if you’re gonna do it.’

I nod. And as he ducks his head back under the water, I frown.

Scott can be a bit weird sometimes. He’s always talking about shit, about doing a big shit, about having diarrhoea or being constipated or having a sore arse.

And I wonder, as I reach my hand into the pouch and feel for the wrench, if he isn’t getting some sexual turn-on about shit. It’s a strange idea. It’s never occurred to me before. I’ve never heard about it (at least I don’t think so) and it seems pretty disgusting. It’s not an idea that I like but as Scott’s legs fall into the water I’m more worried about hiding the wrench, and I’m putting it behind me on the ground as he comes up to take a breath. He shakes his head and wipes his face and looks at me.

I try to look normal.

‘What’s up your arse?’ he says.

I swallow.

He starts to laugh.

It was a joke; and I smile.

‘Fuck Justin, you should just do it,’ he says. ‘You can use leaves to wipe it.’

I shrug my shoulders.

He shakes his head slowly and starts to walk toward the side, pushing the water around him with his hands.

He’s going to get out. And suddenly I’m worried. ‘See how long you can stay under,’ I say.

‘What?’

‘See how long you can do a handstand for and I’ll see if I can beat you when I come back in.’

‘Are you coming back in?’

‘Yeah. In a minute. It’ll go away in a sec.’

Scott frowns. ‘What’s the bet?’ he says.

I shrug my shoulders.

He thinks for a minute. ‘Shit into your hands,’ he says.

‘What?’

He climbs out onto the side and I sit up. I know the wrench is just behind me and I move backwards deliberately. I sit on it and wrap my arms around my knees.

‘If I beat you, you have to catch it in your hands like this,’ he says. He squats down and puts his hand under his arse ‘- and then, I don’t know...maybe, stick it down the front of your swimmers.’ He grabs a bit of mud from the bank and pulls the front of his speedos away from his groin. He put the mud down into them and squashes it all around with his hands. It squelches out the sides and starts to drip down his inner thighs.

I’m not really listening to him and I don’t really care. I’m more worried about what I’m doing – about the fact that I’m sitting on a wrench, and that I’ve punctured his tyre, that I’m trying to take the wheel off his bike – and I’m worried about him seeing the tyre and working out what I’m doing.

‘You have to do five minutes,’ I say.

I don’t even think about this. It’s a stupid thing to say. No one can hold their breath for five minutes.

‘And if you can’t do that I’m shitting on your face.’

Scott has pulled his swimmers away from his groin and he’s looking down into them.

He stops for a minute. It’s like he’s not thinking about what I’ve said at all.

‘Look at this mess!’ he says. He looks across at me. ‘Here,’ he says. ‘Have a look.’

I move to but ‘I can’t get up,’ I say.

He squats down in front of me and pulls his speedos away. Inside, in the filtered blue light, his cock and balls are squashed in with the mud and Scott squeezes it from underneath, squelching the mud around them.

‘I got shit – on my cock,’ he says, in some stupid voice. And then he frowns, ‘Fuck, that’d be pretty gross, eh?’ he says, looking me in the eyes, and smiling.

‘What about getting shit on your face?’ I say. It’s a stupid thing to say. I don’t figure it’s going to really happen. Who would let someone shit on their face?

He stands up. ‘You won’t be getting shit on my face, man.’ He pokes his thumb at his chest. ‘No way.’

Scott turns around and dives into the water. And because he’s got mud all through his speedos they suck right back over his feet and come off. He comes up and turns around, looking for them. They’re floating on the surface. He pulls them toward him and starts washing them out, moving them around in the water and scrubbing them with his hands – and then he does a strange thing - strange to me, at any rate.

He takes the speedos and puts them on the bank on a rock. Wading up till he’s waist deep in water, he places them there like it’s the most natural thing in the world, spreading them out on the rock.

And then he wades back into the water. Naked.

He starts spinning around, whipping the surface of the water with the tips of his fingers; and while he’s doing this, a cloud falls in front of the sun and the clearing goes suddenly dark and quiet. And all of a piece, the cicadas stop croaking.

Scott stands still. He’s in the centre of the pool, and it’s like, for a moment, he knows what’s going to happen to him that day. He cups his hands and stares down at the water and starts playing with it like he’s a toddler, lifting his hands up and letting the water drain back through them.

And then he says, still staring at the water, and in a deep voice, as though he’s talking to no-one – ‘You want to shit on my face, man!’

He looks up at me and smiles and then propels himself up in the water, he jumps up suddenly so that he comes out and reveals his cock and then he falls back down and he is standing in the water, waist high. He turns his head sideways and looks at me.

He points his thumb at his chest and says, in some ridiculous act, ‘You want to shit on my face, man?’

I swallow. And everything goes strange.

I figure he knows all about the tyre and knows what I’m going to do – and I’m almost on the verge of standing up and saying something – I don’t know what; but then the sun, as it does, comes back out again, and everything is suddenly bright and sunny; and way up above us, on the hill, something crashes through the undergrowth.

Scott follows my eyes and turns to look at it, and then, turning back to me, says, ‘Have you got your watch?’

He knows I haven’t. We’re not wearing watches. Our watches aren’t waterproof. We’ve discovered that much. And there isn’t any point, we figure, in wearing them.

‘Count to three hundred.’

‘What?’

‘Count to three hundred,’ he says.

I don’t know what he’s talking about. I’m glad he’s back in the water, and I’m glad he’s gonna do another handstand. I know that much.

But all I’m thinking about is the fucking wheel – and the fact that I’m sitting on the fucking wrench – and I’m just thinking, duck your head under the fucking water, man.

‘If you count too slow, I’ll know,’ he says. ‘I can tell what five minutes is.’

I figure, looking back, that he really could. And I figure, also, looking back, that he knows he won’t be staying under the water for five minutes.

He isn’t (wasn’t) stupid.

‘Are you ready?’ he says.

I nod dumbly and I don’t even count.

There’s only one thing I’m worrying about – and, as he goes under, I stand up. I pick up the wrench and I unbolt his back wheel as quickly as I can.

It’s on tight and I have to struggle for a moment. I start to panic – and then it comes loose. I drop the wrench and start spinning the nut with my hands. I pull the bolt out and grip onto the nut. And then I stand up and I throw them, way across onto the other side of the pool.

I make sure his wheel is still in the spokes the way he left it and then I reach for the wrench.

I’ve already loosened the seat on my bike this morning, but I figure, now, that it isn’t loose enough – and in my panic, I unbolt it so that it’s really loose – and then I stand up and I chuck the wrench, and I wipe my hands on my thighs, and remember the knife – and I pick that up, and I chuck that as well, far over the other side of the pool where it lands in the undergrowth.

My heart is thumping and I feel sick and dizzy. A cicada starts, ten start, a hundred, thousands – all in the space of a second or so. And the glade goes crazy with sunshine and insect life blaring.

I feel like I’m going to faint. I’m breathing heavily. My hands are shaking.

And Scott, in the centre of the pool, is upside down – and he’s naked.

I stare. I swallow and I stare. I’ve known, of course, what’s going on – that he’s taken his swimmers off, that he’s doing a handstand, and that he’s trying to beat some record. I understand it all.

I’ve known all about the bet but I haven’t thought about it really and it’s not that clear to me. I’m not sure I can get in the water and beat whatever thing it is that he’s doing – and I figure that I’m going to have to shit in my hands. That’s how I understand it.

And I figure, also, as I’m standing there, watching him, that I should be counting.

But how much has he done? It feels like he’s been under for ages but I figure I’ll start at one hundred. I don’t know why.

And as I stand there, and time stretches on, things start to calm down.

One hundred and thirteen. One hundred and fourteen.

And I start to look at Scott’s cock and balls, hanging upside-down, limply, between his legs – and wet.

Scott’s legs come apart.

One hundred and fifteen. One hundred and sixteen.

He’s struggling to maintain his balance and I can see through his open legs to the smooth piece of skin between his legs and the underside of his arse, lit by sunshine.

One hundred and seventeen. One hundred and eighteen.

Scott’s legs come back together and he straightens up in the water, pushing his body up and pointing his toes.

One hundred and nineteen. One hundred and twenty.

I can see the ripples in his stomach, and his smooth skin, dripping with water, golden in the sunshine. His pointed feet. His toes stretching.

The muscles in his thighs quivering.

One hundred and twenty-one. One hundred and twenty-two.

Fuck, that really would hurt, I think to myself. I look at his cock and balls – all soft and wet – and I think to myself, fuck – you really can’t do that. I say it to myself – ‘Oh fuck, you can’t, man.’

And I decide not to.

I step over to my bike and I start tightening up the bolt with my hands. I’m looking all the time at the water and doing the best I can.

I look at the back tyre, at the space between the forks – and I swallow. What was I fucking thinking? I say to myself. I’ve tried to get my balls between there, to see what it would feel like, but I haven’t been able to manage it. It would really hurt. It would hurt bad. It would be fucking...

I have a moment of indecision.

But Scott starts to slide. His legs dip sideways and, though he struggles for a moment or so, they slide into the water – and he comes up, gasping for air.

He looks up at me, trying to breathe, and then bobs down into the water, neck-high.

He makes a wry smile – as though he’s guilty about something.

I’ve stood up and I’m just staring at him. And I suppose that’s what’s doing it – making him feel all stupid.

‘How much?’ he says, lifting his chin up suddenly.

I don’t say anything.

He stands up and looks down at the water in front of him. He starts to spread his hands out over the water, smoothing it like it’s a piece of cloth. ‘I know I didn’t make it,’ he says.

He frowns, looks up at me. ‘How much did I do?’ he says.

‘Two hundred and twenty-three,’ I say. I put my hands on my hips. I’ve decided on this number. I don’t know why. I don’t know where I’ve got it from, but I’ve decided it sounds okay.

‘That’s pretty good,’ Scott says, standing up. ‘You’ve got to admit, that’s pretty good.’ He walks forward and comes up out of the water. He climbs out at the edge and wraps his arms around him like he’s cold. ‘We should have brought towels,’ he says. He’s bouncing up and down on his toes. The sun has ducked behind the cloud again and there’s a sudden breeze.

There’s no way it’s cold, but the guy, after all, is naked. And he’s wet. And his dick’s starting to shrivel. It’s bobbing up and down with his jiggling.

‘I’ve really got to shit,’ I say.

I figure that it’s my turn – that I’m supposed to get in and do and handstand right now and see how long I can hold my breath for; but right at the moment, I can hardly breathe. And I really do need to do a shit.

I feel all weak and loose in the stomach. It’s all I can do to hold it in – and I figure, that if I have to shit in my hands because of making some stupid bet then I’ll just go ahead and do it. I don’t really have any choice.

I’m more worried about my plan – about what I’ve been doing. And how I’m going to face it when Scott finds that out that his bike has been mysteriously trashed.

‘We’d better go over here somewhere,’ Scott says, ‘in case someone comes.’

And he starts walking off to one side of the pool where the undergrowth’s a bit thicker and it’s away from the path.

It’s not all that likely that anyone’s gonna come. It’s not a real popular spot or anything. We saw some other kids here one time before now, but usually, almost always, you never see anyone.

Still, there’s no way I’m gonna squat down and shit right on my hands right in front of the path that leads down to the pool – right where our bikes are – and so I follow him, and I’m not thinking about much at all. I’m looking at his arse and his back – at his wet hair plastered all around his head. And I’m thinking I need to do a shit. I’m not even thinking it. I’m feeling it. And I can’t even walk properly.

It’s coming and I race forward a bit and push Scott in the back, trying to hurry him on.

‘I fuckin well know man, okay,’ he says, not turning around. ‘You don’t have to rub it in.’

There’s a clear patch of ground behind a big old gum and he stops there.

And lays down on the ground. On his back. His head near the trunk of the tree. He puts his hands over his face and starts shaking his head from side to side.

He groans.

And then he makes a space with his fingers and looks up at me through them.

‘This is gonna be so fuckin bad,’ he says.

Suddenly, I get it, and I smile.

The need to shit disappears all of a sudden and Scott says,

‘You’re a cunt, man.’ He pulls his hands away from his eyes.

He’s going to let me shit on his face.

And there’s something wrong here. And I know it all at once.

He wants me to do it.

I suck in a sudden breath.

I mean – the guy is so God-damned fucking cute. He’s got the blondest hair and the whitest teeth – and his lips are all red. He’s got the fucking cutest smile; and he’s laying there in the dust, naked, and thinking I’m going to shit on his face. And he’s okay with it.

He lowers his hands and covers his groin.

‘You can’t tell anyone about this, Justin.’

‘I can do whatever I fucking want,’ I say.

He frowns. ‘Well – don’t. Please,’ he says. ‘Really.’

‘Sure,’ I say. And it’s not like I’m going to.

I mean, things have got pretty weird with Scott. We’ve been doing some pretty weird shit – and it’s not the kind of stuff you talk about. I’ve been hurting him. And I’ve been hurting him pretty bad. And I’ve been doing it for months.

And, now of course (years later), I know what it was that was happening in all of this. Scott was getting off on the losing. Ever since that day with the hose. Ever since I hurt him that day and made him cry that day and came on his leg, it’s like there was some switching of places between us – and all the time since, while I’ve been getting off on the winning, Scott had been getting off on the losing.

I don’t understand that then. I feel like a fucking god. I’ve beaten him again, time and again, and he’s a dumb fuck, I think, for letting it happen to him this time.

But it’s like (and I frown about it) – it’s like he’s pretending to be dumb.

Six months ago he never would have made some bet he knew he would lose. But he’s done that, hasn’t he? I don’t understand it. I simply figure I’ve beaten him. That I’ve somehow outsmarted him again – and it makes me feel all powerful.

‘Are you gonna do it?’

I nod.

I pull my speedos down and step out of them. Normally, I wouldn’t reveal myself to Scott like this. He’s been doing it more and more lately. I’m always seeing him naked – but me, I never take my stuff off unless I have to.

But I don’t even think about this.

‘Oh shit,’ he says.

I squat down over his face, with one foot either side of his head – and I tuck my toes under his shoulders. The trunk of the tree is behind me – and from the expression on Scott’s face as I step over his head, I figure he thinks I was going to squat down the other way.

My penis touches his chin and slips between his closed lips. He reaches his hand up and grabs my knees. Tries to turn his head to one side. ‘Move forward a bit,’ he says. I fear his hot breath on the tip of my cock but I do what he says and my balls slide either side of his nose and come to rest over his lips while the underside of my cock slips under his chin.

I figure he didn’t really mean this. Didn’t mean for me to actually touch his face with my cock and my balls and have my arse pressed right up close. But he doesn’t say anything.

I’m starting to enjoy myself.

He puts his hands down by his sides – not bothering to cover his cock – and as I watch it, I’m pretty sure it starts to fill a bit. It falls off to one side, heavy, and he adjusts his body.

I force it a bit. I put one hand behind me and steady myself with the trunk of the tree. I push – just a little – and I can feel shit just waiting to explode out of my arse. But for some reason, I figure it’s better to stretch it out. And I make Scott wait. I’m frowning at his cock, and I’m trying to tell if this is making him hard – me squatting over him like this.

I let myself down a bit, as though I don’t mean to, and I feel his nose touch the underside of the skin behind my balls. I start to get hard. I slide forward a bit and my fucking hole is right over his God-damned mouth – right over those fucking red lips, and that fucking sweet smile. I let myself down and feel his lips against my hole - the tip of his nose pressed into my crack.

But he says nothing. And then, as I look, I see his dick starts to rise up.

‘You could lick it,’ I say.

He says nothing. It’s like he’s asleep or something – except he’s not, because he shuffles his body a bit and his cock wobbles up and seems to give a bit of a jolt.

It’s hard to tell. Maybe I’m imagining it, but I think he’s getting off on the whole thing.

I open my mouth wide and smile a wide open-mouthed smile. I take a breath at the joke of it and throw my head back, looking up along the trunk of the tree behind me to the sky. There are some white clouds, scudding slowly across the pale blue heat. Branches sway gently in the wind. The cicadas chant. And above me, on the trunk of the tree, there is a goanna, flat out in the sun.

I pull my head back down and look at Scott’s cock. It’s not fully hard. You wouldn’t say that if you saw it, but I’m pretty sure he’s getting hard. He might not be but I convince myself he is. And his cock’s so fucking big it’s ridiculous.

I close my eyes. I know what I’m going to do.

I’m holding it now. I’ve pushed it to the limit and with one little push it’s going to explode out of me.

I can feel it inside my ring. It’s all hot and loose and it feels like acid – and I just know that it’s going to be all runny. It’s the sort of shit you do when you’re worried about something – when you shit yourself. It’s a shit brought on by anxiety, but I don’t, at that moment, even know what it is that brought it on. I’ve forgotten all about my plan. My cock is stretching out above Scott’s chin. I can feel the warmth from his nostrils underneath my crack. The touch of his lips on my hole – and I’m just waiting, for one thing.

I raise myself up a bit and take my hole away from his mouth. It’s maybe half an inch above it – and I’ve moved it because I’m waiting.

I’m waiting for Scott to speak.

And finally, he does. He’s had enough. It’s maybe been only a minute, but things aren’t turning out the way he expected. It’s taking too long – and I’m too close.

He reaches his hands up, reaches them around my shins and grabs the sides of my arse. He pushes up, trying to haul me up off him so that he can say something without my arse in his lips, but at the same time he’s spreading the cheeks of my arse apart.

‘Can you fucking—’ he says. And I figure, later, that what he was trying to say was ‘can you fucking hurry up.’

But I push, of course. I push when I hear the first word. I feel his lips moving under my hole. And I push.

Shit explodes out of me.

There’s a whole lot of gas built up inside me. It comes out first. And then it sort of explodes out, propelling a whole lot of runny shit in front of it with a sudden jolt.

Scott’s head comes up. He reacts without thinking. He tries to get up. He’s got a mouthful of shit and he raises his head and pushes his mouth right up against my arse, half-groaning and half trying to get up. I can feel his hot breath right under me and he’s coughing and spluttering.

I kneel down on his chest, falling forward, as though he’s unbalanced me. And he moves his face right up, trying to sit up, sticking his nose right into my crack.

Without thinking I put my hand on my cock. I’m fully hard now and I start pulling myself as I sit back down, pushing with all my might and pushing all the shit out of me in a series of controlled bursts. I feel it spreading over his nose and I slide backwards so that it goes into his eyes. He tries to turn his head. He’s got his hands up on the sides of my arse and he’s pushing up with all his might and jolting his head from side to side.

Only his nose is in my fucking arse-crack and I’m sitting down on him. I’ve got his head locked between my thighs and he’s screaming or groaning or something with his mouth closed – and then, as he opens it again, and says something indecipherable, I slide down and (incredibly) his open mouth - his lips wrapped around my hole and his jaw locked open underneath me. And I push. And I just know. I’m shitting right into his open mouth.

He starts to panic.

I figure he can’t breathe.

I’m pulling myself as hard as I can and I lift my arse up a bit. I know I haven’t got any shit left but I’m not getting up off him right now because I’m going to come any minute.

His head turns to the side underneath me. He coughs and splutters and pushes me with his hands. I’m not moving – and he can feel this. I start to sit back down again because I’m worried I’m not going to come – and then he helps me out. He moves his hand. He slides it up between my legs and pushes me from underneath. I can feel his hand against my arse, sliding in all the runny shit. He pushes up. And he’s got his hand under my balls. He digs underneath me with the tips of his fingers and that’s when I come. The jism spurts up in an arc and flops back down onto the underside of his arm between my legs.

Shit, I suddenly think. I reach forward and slide my hand along the underside of his arm wiping the come down to his elbow. It sticks to the side of my hand and I flick it off beside me. A droplet lands on his nipple – and I move the hand back across his chest as though I’ve fallen forward again and have to steady myself.

‘I’m trying to get off, you fuckhead,’ I say. ‘Stop moving.’

I kneel forward onto his chest and push myself up.

I step back away from him and try to cover my dick up. I don’t want him to see that I got hard, and I figure as I stand up, that he must have known that I was pulling myself.

And then I look down at him – and I stop worrying.

The poor kid’s a mess.

He’s frozen.

He’s got his hands at his sides, held slightly off the ground and they’re shaking. He lifts his knees up slowly but doesn’t move his head.

His eyes are closed. There’s shit all over his face - in his lips which are only half-closed, as though he’s got a bad taste in his mouth. There’s shit between his lips. He’s got a mouthful of it. He’s breathing through his nostrils really fast - and there’s little bubbles of liquid pushing in and out underneath them.

At one point, when he tried to sit up, I’ve shat all over his head. I could feel his hair underneath my arse and I’ve released a warm load of shit all over the top of his head. It’s all through his hair.

And now, as he’s lying there, I can see it running down the sides of his face and into his ears.

He shakes his head suddenly, feeling it going into his earhole. And then he sits up, sits forward. He shakes his head and sits cross-legged but then gets up onto his knees and coughs. He vomits. Once, twice, three times. And then he starts crying, bending forward in a series of sobs, holding his face and his head, with vomit and shit all over him.

He doesn’t look that pretty now, but I come forward and put my hand on his back.

I can’t believe what I’ve done – what we’ve done – and I feel sick. The smell of the shit and the vomit makes me feel all slow inside. And I’m stopping.

He starts crying all over again when he feels my hand on his back and I crouch down behind him. He leans forward and I let my hand slide down (without even realising what I’m doing) – I let it slide down until it’s resting on the top of his arse.

I look down at my cock. There’s a string of come hanging from it and I feel like shit. Keeping one hand on Scott, I cup my other hand under it and wipe it away.

Scott starts to cry all over again and I move my hand onto his lower back.

‘I can’t fucking see,’ he says.

He’s spitting – and there’s long strands of drool hanging from his mouth. He bends forward suddenly, coughing, and the tips of my fingers slide down into the crack of his arse. I let them linger there for a moment while he moves back and forward, coughing – and then he turns his head back suddenly, like he’s angry about my fingers in his crack - and I move them.

I stand up. ‘Here,’ I say. I reach down and grab his arm – his hand. ‘Stand up,’ I say.

I pull him up and I take him by the hand and I lead him to the water and help him into it.

It takes five minutes, maybe ten minutes. He washes himself. He gargles water.

I wash my arse and I climb out and grab my speedos and I climb back in and I wash them.

Under the water I pull them on, and Scott, now, is quieter. He turning and spreading the water around him with his hands – but we’re not looking at each other.

We’re not talking.

And I’m thinking – I’ve really gone too far. I’ve shit all over his fucking head and I’ve shit into his mouth, and I’ve pulled myself while I was doing it and come all over his fucking arm.

I feel sick. Sick at myself.

And he knows. I’m convinced that he knows. I pulled myself and I had my hand in the crack of his arse. And I’m sure that he’s pissed off – really pissed off.

I’m thinking we’re never going to be friends again – and I’m thinking what a fuckhead I am for doing what I did to him - and pulling myself.

The day goes dark again. It’s all shadows and breeze and ripples on the water. And I shiver.

I fold my arms across my chest and look across at him. I standing up in the thigh-high water near the edge and I’m pushing my pelvis forward and thinking all about how fucked up what I did was, while Scott, who might be all alone in all the world, is playing with the water in a small space, like he’s a three year old.

Suddenly, he looks up – and starts to swim towards me. I see his naked arse bob up above the water. He ducks his head down. And then he comes right up in front of me.

He stands up and pushes a wall of water at me.

I don’t move.

‘I,’ he says. And he splashes me. ‘Swallowed.’ He splashes me again. ‘Your – fucking – shit.’

He pushes a whole wall of water at me and then he jumps forward and grabs me around the waist.

We wrestle for five, maybe ten minutes – but it’s play wrestling. We’re not trying to hurt each other – and in the end, when I climb out, Scott is smiling again.

We’re both smiling.

‘You can’t win,’ I say. ‘I shat in your fucking face.’

Incredibly, he smiles. And he’s all sheepish.

And all the time we’ve been wrestling I’ve been feeling his hard, naked, cock, sliding all over my legs.

I lay back down near the bikes, on my back, and the sun comes out again – and it’s alright. It’s over.

I smile to myself a bit – and try to stifle a laugh. I wipe my hand across my chest and push it out and wish I had something to eat.

I shat on his fucking face, I think to myself. And he put up with it. He’s fucking smiling now, I think to myself. We’re fucking friends again. I felt the fucking crack of his arse and shat all over his face and pulled myself over it – and we’re still fucking friends.

It makes me think I could kind of do anything to him.

But it’s gone very quiet.

I turn and look over at Scott in the pool. He’s biceps high in water, standing in one place and everything’s gone very still. He’s standing side on and he’s looking out into the bush and there’s this sort of tension about him – this tension in his shoulders.

He looks at me – and I look away.

I don’t think about it then, but when I think about it later, even days later, I know what Scott was doing.

He was pulling himself. Standing in the water, pulling himself and thinking (though this doesn’t occur to me until years later) about getting shat on – and getting off on the idea of it – the idea of getting shit all over his face and in his mouth, and being forced to swallow it, by his friend who always beat him.

By his friend who he’s ‘in love with,’ he later tells me.

And really, at that moment, the best thing I could have done for him and for me, would have been to climb into that fucking water and fuck his naked arse. We might have got something then.

And I might have had some pleasure. And I might have travelled down some different road.

And I might not have become what I have become, which wouldn’t have done anyone anygood, as you will see.

Because life (and you have to understand this) isn’t made for pleasure.

It’s made for pain.

And there’s a point to it.

What happened to Scott might not have happened to Scott but, well...

And I didn’t want it to happen – not right then and there, lying in the sun, brushing my hand over my chest and all puffed up.

I’d had my fill.

And Scott, in the water, was getting his.

And later, when he was in the hospital, and I realised what he was doing this day, standing in the water, I was pleased about it. Pleased to think he’d got away a last load before it happened. Pleased that he was pulling himself over something (an hour or so beforehand) because he wasn’t ever going to pull himself over what happened to him on the way home.

Who would?

It never would have occurred to me.

And some things, anyway, aren’t possible.

And no matter how much Scott was getting off on being beaten by me - on letting me beat him, you understand. There was no way he was ever going to pull himself over what happened next.

Not that I ever thought he would have.

And so, yeah, I was pleased for him – then. As I was standing in the hospital and holding his hand, and getting all hard in my jeans about what I had done to him, I was pleased for him, all the same, that he’d had that last bit of pleasure.

Now, of course, I couldn’t care less.

I hate the fucking prick.