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Hughie's Ziff - by Bullamakanka

 
A collection based on Stirring the Possum, Taking the Micky, Going Troppo, Trying it on, Put the Mock on and being an all round bad bugger

Agony on Ecstasy

October 20th 2006 09:46
Well it’s tonight. For sure. I’m on a promise. It’s all I can think about. I have it all planned, right down to the last detail. The parents are in Noosa. The wine is in the fridge. The table is set and the lasagne is in the oven as per my mothers recipe. I can feel Suzi in my arms all ready. The curve of her back as it flares into her hips and re-curves around her bottom. I can see her shape as she lies on the rug in front of the open fire. Mmm I’ll run my hand up her thigh, around her waist and over her slight tummy to cup her firm breast as I kiss her neck. Running my lips across her shoulder as I gently roll her onto her back. Brushing my tongue across a nipple as I slide my leg between hers we move as one into that union that brings... Oh Shit! I forgot to get the condoms. What time is it? Thank god it’s only seven. Suzi won’t be here for an hour. Plenty of time to get to the chemist shop. Sliding to a stop in front of the chemists I dash for the door. As I enter the first thing I notice is there is a girl behind the counter. Shit, shit, shit, what more could go wrong? Be cool. Act like you know what you’re doing, it’s no big deal. As I front up to the counter the girl asks, ‘Can I help you?’

‘Yes, thank you. I would like a box of condoms.’
‘Three, six or twelve?’
‘What!’
‘Three, six or twelve?’
‘Oh. Ummm, Well I know I’m not a three and don’t think I’m a twelve. I’ll have the sixes thanks. I shove the package into my coat pocket and head for the door. As I open it I hear a noise and turn to look at the girl. Her shoulders are heaving and there are tears running down her face. I ask her if she is ok. She just nods her head and I leave. What a strange chic. I open my front door and know instantly that the lasagne is in trouble. As I pull the smoking casserole dish from the oven the door bell rings. Suzi, she’s early. I open the door with a big smile and the red rose I bought just for the occasion. What a shock, it’s Mrs O’Leary from next door. She looks at the rose then says, ‘Your parents asked me to look in on you.’ Craning her neck to look over my shoulder. ‘Something burning,? She askes.

‘What, oh no, not really. Just forgot my dinner. No problem.’
‘Well. If you’re sure. As I said your parents did ask.’
‘Yes, yes I’m sure. Thank you. Must go. Dinner you know. Bye.’
Shutting the door as fast as I can without actually slamming it I look at the clock. Great, I’ve ten minutes to spare. The door bell rings. Shit that old lady O’Leary just won’t give up. I jerk the door open abruptly only to see my angel, Suzi, standing there.
‘Hi’, I say holding out my rose, ‘Come in.’
‘Who’s that old lady looking over the fence.’
‘Her? That’s Mrs O’Leary.’ I say, thinking there was going to be hell to pay when my parents get back. As I lead Suzi into the lounge I ask her if she would like a glass of wine. She says, yes that would be nice. In the kitchen as I’m searching for the cork screw I notice the lasagne on the counter, stone cold. I scoop the centre out and put it in a smaller bowl then shove that into the microwave. It takes another frantic ten minutes to find the cork screw. I grab the bottle of wine, pull the foil off only to find a screw cap. Taking two glasses of wine into the lounge I hand one to Suzi and sit down next to her on the sofa. Sipping my wine I realise that I don’t know what to say, how to go from a glass of wine to passionate sex, what to do next. Taking the safe option I get up to light the fire. My mind is racing. All the love scenes I have ever seen in the movies, everything I have ever read, I don’t know what to do. At least the fire is going. ‘So, um, would you like something to eat?,’ manages to get past my lips. ‘I guess so,’ Suzi replies. I go to the kitchen and turn on the microwave and then light the candles on the dining room table. I call Suzi and get her seated at the table just as the microwave pings. Be right back I say as I rush back to the kitchen. I grab the bowl of salad from the fridge along with the oil and vinegar set and take them out to the dining room then go back and grab the lasagne from the micro wave and dish it out onto two plates. With a plate in each hand I’m heading back to the dinning room when I notice the bottle of wine on the kitchen table. I put a plate down, tuck the bottle under my arm, pick up the plate and put the plate down, open the door, pick up the plate and serve dinner. As I sit down I realise that we have no wine glasses. I smile at Suzi as I get up and retrieve our glasses from the lounge. After dinner we retire to the lounge. With the bottle of wine and our glasses. Suzi sits on the sofa and I put three CDs in the player then join Suzi on the sofa. She slides over and rests her head on my shoulder. Heaven is just a heartbeat away. I’m sure of it. I put my arm round her shoulders and pull her that little bit closer. Now what? What should I do? Why don’t these situations come with instructions? Oh God, why do I have to pee now?
‘Excuse me. I’ll be right back.’ I say.
‘Me too,’ Suzi giggles
‘Ok, it’s at the end of the hall.’ While Suzi is gone I turn off the main light and turn on the table lamp in the corner of the room. Suzi returns and I take my turn. When I return Suzi has turned off the table lamp and is sitting on the floor in the half circle of fire light. She looks like a goddess. I sit on the floor with my back against the sofa and my feet stretched out to the fire. Suzi moves over to where I am and lies down with her head in my lap facing the fire. I grab a cushion and put it under her head before she notices my growing condition. We stay like this for some time, talking but saying nothing. I stroke her hair. Run my finger around the contour of her ear and down the line of her jaw and back again. I have never felt anything as fine as Suzi’s skin. Becoming bolder I slide my hand down her arm and across her tummy. She captures my hand and guides it to her breast holding it there. I give it a bit of a squeeze and she rolls over so she is facing me. I slide my hand up under the back of her shirt. Along her spine to her bra. Panic. There is no catch. Just smooth fabric from one side to the other. It’s not fair. I practised with one of my mother’s bras on a pillow until I had mastered the catch with one hand. Where’s the catch? Suzi turns onto her back and guides my hand to the buttons on her shirt. I bend down to her upturned face and find that the human spine won’t bend that far. Suzi arches up and kisses me. I’m in trouble. No piece of clothing should be allowed to have so many small buttons. Suzi sits up and kisses me again. I undo a button and get a kiss. Another button, another kiss. I’m beginning to think that there are not enough buttons in the world for the joy of undoing them. Twelve buttons, twelve moments of bliss. Then a black lace bra across pale skin as I slip her shirt off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. There is no art in the world that can capture the perfection of a well formed breast behind black lace. I almost feel like a vandal as I fumble with the catch nestled between the twin mounds of Suzi’s breasts. The catch gives way and the bra follows the shirt. I can hardly breath for fear of spoiling the picture in front of me. I look down and find that my shirt has somehow become unbuttoned and Suzi is running her hand across my chest and circling her finger around my nipples. She slips my shirt off, stands up and pulls me to my feet. I reach out to her and she comes into my arms. The feel of her bare skin against mine is beyond description. I am only vaguely aware of my pants falling to my ankles. Our tongues playfully fence and I find the button and zipper that holds Suzi’s pants up and then find her silky smooth bottom as we sink to the floor. We explore the terrain of worlds not visited before, hands moving across the uncharted expanse of bare flesh, time takes a holiday and we are immersed in the single minded beast of passion. Suzi whispers in my ear, ‘Do you have the condom?’ My heart stops and my mind races as it tries to change gear. The condom? The question draws only a blank. No there it is, the required answer. Paper bag. . . coat pocket. . . bedroom floor. As I disentangle myself from heaven I’m saying ‘Yes, it’s in my pocket, don’t move, I’ll be right back.’ Running down the hall to my room I notice how cold the house is. Grabbing my coat off the floor and pulling the paper bag out I rip it open and stare at the box “Six Premium Quality Condoms, Ribbed for you greater pleasure.” Tearing into the box in my haste as I run back to the lounge I pull off one of the small packets. I drop the box and its contents on the sofa and lay down next to Suzi on the floor. As I snuggle up to Suzi’s back I realise she is chilled so I get up to put some more wood on the fire. Then I run back to my bedroom and drag the doona off my bed and take it back to the lounge wrapping it around us as I lay down behind Suzi again. I gather her into my arms and run my hand along her thigh and side. We lay there waiting to warm up a bit, watching the fire grow, and letting our passion return with the warmth. Suzi turns around to face me, kisses me then runs her tongue across my lips, her hand sliding down to reaffirm our agenda. She asks for the condom. Taking it from my unresisting hand she places it where it belongs, slowly rolling it on. She then rolls onto her back dragging me with her. Entering her slowly hoping my inexperience doesn’t show, we move together in our need, building to the supreme climax. As I pass my point of no return a disturbing scene slowly unwinds itself in words of fire across my ecstasy. Three, six or twelve? ‘Oh. Ummm, Well I know I’m not a three and don’t think I’m a twelve. I’ll have the sixes thanks. The voices sear their way through my being and my minds eye is focused on a box that says “Six Premium Quality Condoms, Ribbed for your greater pleasure.”
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Three Finger Jack

October 12th 2006 11:06
They call him Jack. Little do they know. He walks the road from Bealiba to. . . well nobody knows. But I know. I know his whole life, or at least as much as one can after a hundred and thirty years. Little enough of it there is to tell.

He walks the road. Him and his dog. Most often, during the half moon, at that time of day where dusk becomes full dark in the blink of an eye. He can be seen leaving an empty block at the south end of town. He walks north east up the main street and out of town. Just him and his dog. People have said that if you listen carefully you can hear him talking to himself or to the dog. Well, that’s what they say. His clothes are of an older time, his shirt and pants of a coarse material and boots of the hob-nail variety that give a faint metallic sound on the pavement.

When he goes by people turn away and shut their doors. He is a part of the town they don’t want to know about.

I first met Jack on one of those nights with broken cloud scudding past on the wind. I had just left a friends house and was going home. I came around the corner and there he was. Right in the middle of the road. Hell! He was right in front of me. I swerved and hit the brakes. It was too little too late. I went right over him. I sat there clutching the wheel shaking. When I looked up I saw Jack and his dog walking up the road. Cloud passed across the moon and he disappeared.

I must have sat there for an hour before I stopped shaking enough to drive home. It took me twenty minutes to drive the eight kilometres to my place.

It was three months before I saw Jack again. I was coming home from a job in South Australia and it had been dark for about ten minutes. The night was clear with the moon just a bit past half full. I was being careful as this road is known locally as Kangaroo Alley. As I came around the bend just before Piano Bridge Road there was Jack and his dog. I slowed right down and Jack just walked across the road and sauntered up Piano Bridge Road with never a look in my direction.

I had to know. I turned left into the track Jack had taken. He was gone. I grabbed the torch and got out of the car for a better look but he was nowhere to be seen. I’ll tell you now, I heard a dog bark up that road. It was as if it had come on the wind from a long way off. There was no wind. I got in the car and went home.

I started to haunt the road. I would be out there waiting. I started in town but someone called the cops about me standing around in the dark. Well I guess I can understand that. I moved out between Ironbark Ridge Road and Piano Bridge Road and waited.

Three weeks or more went by before I saw Jack and his dog again and it was just luck I looked in that direction at the time. I say luck but in the back of my mind is the thought that I heard a dog bark.

I was ready. I had my large torch and the small one as well. I had also brought my GPS. Jack crossed the road not more than thirty metres ahead of me and made his way up Piano Bridge Road. I had to jog to catch up or I would loose him again. When I got to the track he was gone. I wasn’t going to give up that easy though and continued up the track. I only just caught sight of him as he melted into the trees off to the right. I hurried after him. Even with my torch it was hard going through the trees and brush. He moved as if he was on a well known track while I struggled through the brush to keep him in sight. Then he was gone.

It was an interesting moment when I realised, that while Jack seemed to know where he was going, I was in the forest, in the dark, and I had forgotten to set a start point on the GPS. Did I mention the dark? Did I mention that my car was somewhere behind me? The only thing that made my day was that the GPS knew where home was. It very kindly pointed off through the bush and said that home was two kilometres east, as the crow flies. I’m not crow. Two and a half hours it took me to get home. At least I remembered to set a way point and take a bearing of the direction Jack was going when I lost him.

Early the next day I rolled over and went back to sleep until noon, when I got up, had a shower, a sandwich and walked up the road to get my car.

I pulled up Piano Bridge Road and parked as close as I could get to the way point I had set the night before. Following the GPS I found the way point and was amazed. Nothing there but forest. No track. Nothing. I headed off in the direction Jack was going the night before. After ten minutes I knew it was hopeless. It was just trees, hills and gullies. No indication where Jack might have gone. I went back to the car and returned home.

I was sitting in my car on Piano Bridge Road the next night just as it was going dark. I saw Jack coming up the road and turn off into the forest. I grabbed my gear and hurried off after him through the trees. I was no more than three or four meters behind him as he climbed the hill. If he knew I was there he gave no indication. I jogged up the hill, I didn’t want to loose him again. As I crossed the crest of the hill there was a long tearing noise above me. I tried to run.

I woke up with Jack’s dog licking my face. Jack was standing there looking down at me. He said ‘I thought you was gone.’

‘Shit mate. So did I. What happened?’

‘Tree dropped a branch. You better come to my place and we will put a bit of hot tea inside ya.’

Jack held out his hand and pulled me to my feet.

He lead me down a well used track that meandered along the gully and ended at a small grassy clearing. There were a couple of apple trees and a small garden plot on one side. The other side was occupied by Jack’s humpy. Next to the humpy was a grave with a headstone. I stopped to have a look. This is what it said

“HERE LIES JOHN CHARLES AMBROSE
KNOWN AS THREE FINGER JACK
AFTER A ACCEDENT WITH HIS GUN
DIED MARCH 3 1853
HIS LAST WORDS WERE
“I AIN’T GOIN”

I followed Jack inside his humpy. He poured some rum into two cups and put the billy on the wood stove. As he was putting the tea into the billy I noticed that he had just three fingers on his right hand.

Oh Yes, I know all about Jack. But I’m not telling. Besides who would I tell. People turn away and shut their doors when I go by, so I ain’t telling and I ain’t goin’ either.
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Addiction

October 6th 2006 00:01
‘Hi my name is Ronald and I’m an addict. That’s why I’m here at GPA’.

‘Thank you Ronald. Would you like to tell the rest of the group how you came to be an addict?’

‘Well I was only a young man at the time. I had just turned ten at the time, it was my birthday in fact. My parents had gone all out for my party. There was a pony ride, a clown and a jumping castle. But when I saw it I just couldn’t help myself and I took some while no one was looking. That night after everybody had gone to bed I snuck off to the bathroom and tried it. What can I say, I was young and didn’t know any better.

I kept it hidden for several years but I just could’t hold down a job. It always ended the same way. I would show up for work while under the influence. I mean, well you know how hard it is to hide that sort of thing, sooner or later you get caught.

‘Ronald you are among friends here. Please go on. Everybody here has been through it. We won’t be shocked.’

‘Well with no job again I tried to cut down on it. But I still needed to eat so I started busking as a mime artist in malls. It was no good I just could not get by on such a small amount of it. I always needed more. I would find myself in the bathroom in the middle of the night with no idea how I got there. Some times I would use my entire supply and not remember where or when.

At the time I was spending up to two-hundred dollars a week for the stuff. I was so strapped for cash that I started doing birthday parties as a clown just to get a regular fix. Then I got a job for a corporation. The pushed it on me. They knew I needed it and they worked me like a dog. The pay was peanuts and the hours shit but I needed it and they supplied it. They had me over a barrel.

‘What made you decide to get help Ronald?

‘Well I think that I always wanted help. I was just too embarrassed. I thought I could beat it on my own. . . no that’s not true. When I was using it I was a God. I didn’t want to quit. I could do anything. Be anyone. I had power. I was great.’

‘So, Ronald, what made you change your mind?’

‘It was the children, I started to notice other potential users among the children. I didn’t want to be the cause of someone’s wasted life. Once those thoughts entered my head it wasn’t long before I had to face up to my own wasted life. It wasn’t easy though. All those years as an addict were hard to overcome. It took me two years to get the nerve to throw my grease paint away and come here to Grease Paint Anonymous tonight. I mean, look at me I’m still shaking like a leaf.’
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Tales from the Pub

October 5th 2006 00:01
Hi, my name is of no consequence. It’s possible that I don’t exist, but I swear that what I am about to reveal is true. I was there, I heard the whole thing.

Perhaps I should start at the beginning. There’s this pub, it’s between two shops in Elizabeth Street in Melbourne, just a little ways from the station.

But you won’t find it there, at least not if you’re looking for it. I only found it by accident. It was very late at night, or very early in the morning, anyway, it’s of no consequence. The thing is that I found it. The bar keeper was this little Chinese guy. He handed me a drink when I fronted the bar. I didn’t even get a chance to order, was just handed this rum and cola. I was about to ask him how he knew when I was distracted by a loud voice behind me.

‘Hey, I know you. You’re the guy that wrote The Odyssey.’

‘But. . . ’

‘No buts about it mate. That guy with the hat pointed you out. Homer, that’s it, that’s your name.’

‘Well. . . ’

‘Nah mate, you can’t get out of it. You wrote some pretty strange stuff in the Odyssey. In my professional opinion you could use a bit of therapy. You seem to have a number of unresolved issues. Perhaps we can start with “The Debate in Ithaca” by the forth line you start raving about the “glistening” feet of Telemachus and I put it to you that you have a foot fetish.’

‘Yes but you see. . . ’

‘Oh, I see all right. The foot fetish is nothing compared to some of the other stuff in this concoction of yours. In your own words you describe the god Poseidon as “Lord of the Earthquake, God of the Sable Locks”. Sounds as though you and this Poseidon were pretty close. Did the Earth really move for you?’

‘But you don’t understa. . . ’

‘Understand, Of course I understand. Two consenting adults, nothing wrong with that. So why are you so defensive?’

‘I’m not de. . . ’

‘Is this another fantasy, or just denial. You story is a litany of your own fantasies isn’t it? And some of them are pretty serious fantasies at that. What about Polycaste? This is really your mothers name isn’t it? “When she had bathed him and rubbed him with olive oil” sounds pretty erotic for a classic eh.’

‘But. . . ’

‘And then you have these boys sailing all over the Mediterranean with a boat load of sheep. In fact livestock seems to play a large part in the lives of these men. Why is that do you think?’

‘I. . . ’

‘You what? Don’t think. No, your type don’t, do they. Your Odyssey is given to children to read in school. Then again, maybe this explains Michael Jackson’s problems. And the Cyclops, just another name for the one eyed trowser snake is it. Not exactly subtle is it when you start to add up all your phallic symbolism is it?’

‘You’ve got it. . . ’

‘I’m sure I do. What really worries me is the part where Odysseus goes in to that cave with the goat and meets his mother. I shudder to think what goes on in your head. I mean that childhood fantasy of sleeping with one’s mother is one thing, but a goat as well? Come on, admit it, the whole Odyssey was spawned from your twisted mind in an effort to make yourself sexually acceptable to your conscious mind. Come on Homer, there is no shame in admitting that you need help. It is the first step in mental health.’

‘Look everything you have said may be true, and certainly is an interesting story, but the fact remains that Homer is that chap standing at the end of the bar. My name is Jon Farkwarre and I write for the Times. Are you sure about the goat? Hmmm. . . If you will excuse me I think I might just have a word with Homer.
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The Boy

October 1st 2006 03:25
Because it's Sunday I thought a religious story might be in order.

The Boy
George L Ghio
© 2005


It was an hour away from dawn as the men were preparing for the expedition to collect salt at the west gate on the edge of the Great Waste. Don Mal, the High Priest of the Temple of Mal, the God of Bad Luck, approached the leader and said that it was time for the boy, who was chosen to be the next Don, to make the journey to the temple in the ruins of the west gate, to eat of the holy rye bread and hear the voice of Mal.
The boy who was chosen stood near. He was fifteen just this last summer. This would be his first trip away from the village. He was aware that not all the chosen boys returned from the temple in the ruins. Just this morning he had donned the dhoti of an adult, never to wear the loin cloth of childhood again.
As the boy was standing on aL-saud Bakahn beach watching the last of the boats being loaded he felt the first pangs of fear. The west gate was eight hundred kilometres away and four hundred kilometres was by boat past the maelstrom.
‘Come on boy. Get aboard, it’s time to go,’ The leader said, not unkindly. The boy was to travel in the leader’s boat. It was the first to shove off from the beach. They had covered no more than two kilometres when the sun cleared the mountains in the east. The steersman swung the boat around to align the shadow of the mast with the prow of the ship thus setting his course due west.
For eight days they sailed like this. Following the shadow of the mast by day and the West Star by night. Hardly a word was spoken to the boy the whole time. Such was tradition. On the fifth night they could hear the muted roar of the maelstrom in the distance, soon leaving it behind. On the ninth morning they sighted land. They had made good time and true course. They were no more than a kilometre north of the landing at the west gate trail. The boy was put ashore first and told to keep out of the way of the unloading. By noon the party was ready to start the march to the west gate. The boy was allowed to ride on one of the large wheeled litters used for transporting the bags of salt from the west gate.

This journey was not without its dangers for this part of the forest was the home of the great horned kudu, which did not like to be disturbed. There were also more subtle dangers like the strangler vine and death crickets. All in all, the men agreed, this trip had been the best in many years. Only two men had been lost and a single day’s march left to reach the west gate. They said that the boy brought them luck. The boy was not so sure as the two men who had been lost were sleeping on either side of him the night they disappeared. The boy had heard nothing and had hardly slept since that night two days past.
The next day the band reached the west gate. The boy did not know what to expect and was almost overwhelmed by the reality. The gate was a massive arch of black granite with two huge bronze gates hanging forlornly from their broken hinges.
The leader of the expedition took the boy to one side of the arch where there was the beginning of a stairway cut into the black stone. He gave him a bag of food and a goat skin of water. The leader said, ‘The temple is at the top. You must be back here three days hence, for that is when we leave. Three days no more. We will not wait.’ He turned away and left the boy to his fate.
The boy looked up the stairs but could not see where they went as the stairs curved up and around the stone wall. He wanted to cry but he no longer wore the breach cloth of a child. He was counted a man and would not cry. He looked up and started his climb. He dared not blink or look down lest the unshed tears burning in his eyes should escape and shame him.
After an hour’s climb the boy rounded a turning on the stair and his breath caught in his chest. Here was an open area where the boy could see the world. Far down on the salt lake he could see the men working and above he could see the temple and in between was. . . the world.
With growing excitement the boy who was chosen hurried up to the temple. He stopped at the door as the priest had said to do and ate of the sacred rye bread. He then had a drink of water. Standing at the door, all was black inside. He closed his eyes and stepped into the cool darkness inside, stopped and waited for several breaths then opened his eyes. In the gloom he could see the stone of the creation on its pedestal in the centre of the room. He approached the stone and put his hands on the spots worn smooth from generations of chosen boys. He stared at the stone. After a while that could have been hours or minutes the black surface began to lighten and the chosen boy witnessed the creation.

In the beginning the Earth was void. Mal, the God of Bad Luck, who was at a party when he heard about it, said “this is not a good thing”. As he lurched out the door, grasping a bottle of cheap rum, he yelled to the parking attendant, “Bring my flaming chariot ya daft bugger.” Gods being what they are and the words spoken by gods being what they are his chariot was well alight when the attendant, complete with the ears of a donkey, crossed eyes and questionable sex habits, brought it around.
Mal leaped aboard spilling the rum down his beard and sped off into the night in a growing ball of fire. Flailing at his flaming beard with the bottle of rum in one hand and the reins in the other the horses flew on winged feet. At mach 3 Mal looked up and said “Holy shit” and hit the Earth.
The impact raised a circular chain of mountains and blasted a crater across a substantial area of the surface creating the world of Helengon.

The chosen boy laughed. He laughed all the way down the stairs. He was still chuckling when the salt collectors returned. He had fits of laughter all the way home. When the boats ran aground at aL-saud Bakahn beach the priest was waiting. The chosen boy started to laugh again but the priest winked at the chosen boy and held a finger to his lips. The chosen boy put on a solemn face and he and the priest went to the temple to get drunk. As was the custom.
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