under the dash and opened the door.
As I did so, my eye fell upon a pink pair of panties lying on the ground, covered with dust and flattened by rain. There’s always a story behind panties in the gutter, or at least there’s a dark vision of naked flesh, so alien to the bourgeois light of day. No doubt, if I cared to look, there would be a condom wrapper lying in close proximity, and possibly even the used condom itself. But most of us manage not to see these things, in polite company at least.
I locked the car and, clutching my keys, walked out onto the oval. Drawing deeply the spring scent of gums into my lungs I felt atoms of the living earth enter my bloodstream and race joyously into my brain. I closed my eyes and stood there, breathing, the petty disappointments of the office evaporating like dew on a midsummer morning. A few quick stretches and I began to run, immediately falling into the rhythm which takes me off into limbo — where I do my best work.
Counter-clockwise I ran, enjoying the latish sunshine on my back, feeling the sweat begin to bead and my lungs begin to burn — hating the hard work but loving the meditation it brings and looking forward to the sweet endorphins that would flood my system later. As I ran past, a woman entered the toilet block, and immediately the panties in the car park flashed into my mind. Had they been eased down teasingly by the wearer? Fumbled over knees and ankles by some rookie Romeo? Torn off by an impatient lover on the edge of consent?
Flashes of my own adolescent adventures came to me — erotic episodes in dark crannies and the backs of cars. I remembered with a visceral thrill a seminal encounter with a girl from school in a cave only a short distance from Kenley Park. Her name was Barbara Harmer. I’d known her only vaguely (she was a year older than me), but one Sunday afternoon, on one of the few occasions I’d been in the bush alone, I had come across her hiding (almost) naked in the cave — the ultimate schoolboy fantasy. And by (almost) wordless consent, we had settled down to explore each other.
There had been no actual coitus, as I recall, but there had been (almost) everything else as Barbara directed me, utterly without reserve or inhibition, and I did her bidding until I was overwhelmed by an ecstatic white-noise seering all erotic imagery from my brain. Everything but her blond hair was lost to me, but to this day I can never smell gum trees without getting partly aroused.
On the eighth lap, and on a sudden whim, I jumped the fence at the back of the oval and jogged down the old track which led through the bush towards my childhood home, some miles further north, and also led past the sex cave. The vague thrill of danger returned and all my senses were turned up to ten.
Eventually, I slowed to a walk, listening to the whips and twills of native birds and feeling the call of the forest — a thing of dark primordial urges even in the heart of suburbia. The sweat was pouring off me as my heart slowed and my breathing relaxed. The lemony sensual smells of the bush filled my nostrils and went straight to the ancient pleasure centres in my brain. I remembered every twist and turn of the old path and soon emerged from the canopy of trees onto the wide rock shelf above the cave where I had encountered young Barbara in (what felt like) a previous life.
I sat down on the edge of the shelf, my legs burned by the hot sandstone, stewing in my own juices, revelling in the sights and sounds and memories unleashed by my olfactory system.
Then, I became aware of voices in the cave below.
‘Okay … now you have to do it to me.’
‘I don’t want to … it feels weird.’
‘I thought we were friends … and friends do everything together.’
Shit.
My first thought was to get away quickly. Both voices were young and female. I knew, without needing or wanting to look, that they were continuing the ancient tradition of the sex cave, and it wouldn’t look good if we were discovered. With the sheepish guilt of the guiltless, I began to stand — the flesh of my thighs suddenly cool as it lost contact with the hot rock — but I couldn’t quite bring myself to leave.
‘Alright … but only for twenty seconds.’
‘Okay … I’ll count, but you’ve gotta do it properly. If you don’t do it properly the counting starts again.’
There was the unmistakeable elastic snap of clothing being adjusted, and then: ‘Okay, starting now … ONE …’
There was a bit of a silence, then: ‘TWO … do it properly!’
‘I am … you’re not counting properly!’
‘How can you be doing it properly if you’re talking?’
There was something about the more demanding of the two voices that struck a chord with me. It was as though the unbridled spirit of Barbara had returned — a pure instinct of sex unhampered by fear of perversion, unshaped by ambition; agendaless sex inspired only by the primal instincts of the developing mind and body. I felt a deep affection for the voice, but had no desire to watch. To see her would change everything.
There was a further silence, then: ‘That’s better … THREE … Oh, a bit harder … FOUR …’
‘Be quiet, Alice! Someone’ll hear us!’
‘Don’t stop! Anyway, the risk of someone coming is part of it … oh … FIVE … oh, that’s so good … SIX …’
So her name was Alice?
‘SEVEN … oh, that’s right … put your tongue in … ooh … EIGHT …’
From that point, the counting stopped, but a thin scream, like the wailing of a kettle in another room, gradually rose in intensity and, before I knew it, I was painfully aroused.
Then the wailing kettle was interrupted by the stuttering whine of a trail bike in the distance — of several trail bikes — and the spell was broken. I struggled to my feet, but before I headed back to Kenley Park I was overcome by a mischievous whim.
I picked up a piece of red sandstone and chalked a message onto the rock shelf: I love you Alice, and signed it, Mengor.
Then, after drawing a big red heart around the message, I rolled the rock towards the cliff ’s edge — it bounced a couple of times, then disappeared. Two seconds later came the smack of rock against rock and a couple of squeals, and I bolted for the park.
All I could hear was the sound of motorbikes.
3 L Equals One Over X
I stepped out of my sweaty shorts and walked into the green-tiled chamber I use for a shower. The room was like a conservatory — glass to the ceiling, lots of palms and ferns for privacy, and several strong shower faucets which blasted me from all sides.
I was feeling fantastic after my run (I’d done another few laps back at the park), but was suddenly irritated at the prospect of going out.
I’d been seeing Jill for a few weeks. I’d tried to keep it low-key, but against my will she’d fallen for me. Tonight I was being presented to ‘the friends’ — Sonia and Derek — and was bored in advance by the inevitable banal conversation.
I turned off the shower and began to dry myself, a little brusqueness creeping into my actions as I allowed myself to get the shits for a minute. I have this theory that L equals one over X. Love — or lust — can only be present while X remains unknown, but as soon as X is nailed down, the mystery’s gone and L becomes fixed. I realised that in the case of Jill, X was no longer a variable.
It was time, therefore, for a parting of the ways. But I didn’t have the heart to break up with her immediately, which meant I would have to go to this fucking dinner, play the gormless boyfriend and break up with her later, like the kind and sensitive fellow I am.
We’d already had one argument. Apparently Sonia and Derek don’t drink, and Jill had pleaded with me not to take any alcohol. But fuck that. Two bottles of wine should do it. Jill would only have half a glass, in deference to both sides, so I’d have the best part of two