Perspective

As a kid I used to run away a lot. The most common place I would have been found, had anyone tried to look, would have been the park. I had a tree there that I’d sometimes spend the day in. In that way that boys do, I’d pee from the top of it and jump down and scare little kids from time-to-time. No I never peed on any of them.
I’d often spend hours just laying there in the tallest branches thinking about life. Soon my thoughts would drift to all the happy kids below and how unhappy I was. The thoughts used to make me cry, so I was glad no one could see me.
Later on my thoughts turned to the kid’s mums and how from that vantage you could look right down their tops. I’d watch their ample boobs wobble about in their low cut tops.
Its strange how your perspective can change with age, and how much difference puberty makes. More than anything it gave me something to distract myself with, and boy was I distracted!

Behind

My ex-girlfriend had a rather large bum, which I fell in love with almost instantly. We used to walk from school to her house and I’d sometimes walk slower to get a better view of her rear. Sometimes she’d look back and I’d grin at her and raise my eyebrows cheekily. Most of the time however she just kept looking forward while I took my fill of bottom-gazing, until I’d catch up to her side again and we continued hand-in-hand to her home.
After some time however it became clear that we couldn’t stay together. I had to go to university and so I chose to leave her behind.

Pavlova

On the evening of the dinner party my Father was always demoted to little more than a fixture. He was reduced to a useless mass that took up space in the living room with the rest of the inefficient males. It would be a good few years until I joined their ranks, till then my games took on a new dimension. I used to play at being a spy. I’d hide in the same places, but report my observations into the freckle on the wrist of my right arm.
I’d be forgotten about while my Sister and Brothers were sent to bed. I’d be left to observe the drunken stumbling of the adults around me. After a few close calls I’d realise that it no longer mattered if they saw me or not. If my Father saw me walking about he’d mention bed, take another sip of red wine and then carry on talking to his friends.
If I went into the dining room to grab a bite to eat, my Mother would put down her glass of white wine and call me to her. She’d place a hand below my chin and lift my head, then use the other to crush me to her waist. She held me in a way that with one swift twist she could have easily have broken my neck. She’d then turn to her friends and carry on talking. Her grip would loosen. Eventually I’d be allowed to wander off with a large piece of homemade Pavlova.

Demijohns

Whilst my Mother cooked I used to hide below the stairs next to the dusty wine racks; below the hem of winter coats. I used to write my name on the tops of the empty demijohns at the very back. Used to suck on a mint cream that I’d stolen from the jar on the counter. Used to listen to the CD player that my Mother kept in the kitchen as it blasted out Enya at full volume. It was either Enya or Crowded House, or some other CD that was increased to such a level that one could hear it above the extractor fan.
My mother had found the fan a delightful novelty when she had first ordered the fitted kitchen, but quite soon its usefulness was outweighed and it became simply bothersome. The problem was that it lacked a switch and was mercilessly attached to the lighting in the room.
I used to hide myself under the dining table too. Listen to the noise of my parents as they argued about the theme for the party. I used to scoot out from under the table, enjoy the brief intimacy of a tablecloth as it brushed over the back of my neck.
I used to surface as my Father laid his heavy, awkward hands on my Mother’s shoulders from behind. Watched as he attempted to massage her too forcefully, digging his fat fingers into her shoulder blades. He’d always mask his mistake. Pretend that he was being cruel on purpose, but inside I knew that he wanted to be gentler. It was in his eyes, there was sadness. He wanted to relax her, rather than put her on edge. My Father has a hard time being gentle, he was a slim man but his hands always seemed to defy the fact.

Touch

It isn’t only men that try to touch young boys old women try as well.
Having chosen to read a book recommended by Mrs. Snow I was nestled in the crook of one of the old leather chairs near the religious texts where no one much went, and where at least three inches of dust and a dash of cobwebs had formed. I’d gotten up to a typically Mills and Boon milestone in my book, the main character’s first kiss. From that moment my passion for such books was ignited, perhaps Mrs. Snow knew I had the heart of a romantic, who knows?
I’m greeted by a wrinkled face peering down at me and I recognise it, it is Mrs Snow. Her friendly demeanour had dipped and she asked if she could sit down on the chair next to me. I told her should could. Next thing and her crumpled hand is clutching my cock. She hurt me at first, which I can only assume was down to a mixture of excitement and fear. She relaxed her grip, rubbed my crotch and responded to my involuntary erection with a smile, before standing up and walking away.

Kiss

First kiss was with my Dad’s friend’s daughter. I forget her name. We were both 10 and were hiding under the bed. We’d each had just eaten lollies – orange flavour – and we’d gotten it all over our faces. We kissed and then licked each other’s mouths. The event was marred with the accident that took place in the next room. Her brother decided to fall from a wardrobe and break his arm.
That was my awkward introduction to the theory of pain for pleasure.

Shipping

I used to watch a friend get fucked against a shipping container. Whatever boyfriend she happened to be with would unzip while she took down her panties. Then they’d lift her, so that her legs could wrap around their hips, then they’d pound her into the side of the large metal wall. Until they came, and she was lowered to the floor.
I’d sometimes not be able to watch and would close my eyes and measure time by the beating of her spine. I was convinced that I loved her, and that this was slow torture.

Postcards

When I was younger I used to write poetry and leave it in books in the library. I did it for ages and never heard a breath of response to it from any of the librarians.
It was some years later that I found someone else who had done the same, then another, then another. Pretty soon I realised it was one of the most unoriginal things you can do.
Nowadays I write random words on blank postcards and hand them out at train stations and airports.