Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, mt/ft, Consensual, Romantic, .
Desc: Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 1 - This was cathartic to write, mainly in narrative form, with some poetic licence thrown in for interest. Unlike me, he is likable and you have to sympathise, even if you don’t agree with his attitudes and point’s of view. Some historic timing is out to allow the story to flow.
I once had a friend, the last male I would call 'friend' for rest of my life. Jerry Dolanski and I grew up five houses from each other, on the opposite sides of the street. We didn't meet until we were in kindergarten, but once we realised how near we lived to each other, we became almost inseparable: swimming, scouts, boy's club, after school and on weekends. We were, as our mothers called us, Mutt and Jeff. I was Mutt because I was so big and quiet, and big and quiet always equals dumb. You could never shut Jerry up.
Our family incomes were similar. We spent half our free time in each other's homes.
Everything was rosy until Dad stopped coming home. Both Mum and Dad worked, and Jerry liked coming to my place, as we could muck around without having parents looking over our shoulders ... until Dad stopped coming home.
I blamed myself, though I didn't understand what I could have done, or not done, to cause it.
Mum spent hours having irrational rants at everyone and anyone, but I was awake when she made the phone call. She told the listener that Ron had found out about them and was divorcing her on the grounds of adultery. I had to look up the word in the dictionary. That placed the kibosh on any sympathy I had for her.
I was pleased she didn't bring 'him' home with her, because I would have gone straight to Jerry's and stayed there. I was pissed at Dad because he didn't talk to me, and because he didn't take me with him. I guess men just didn't do that in the nineteen fifties. Jerry and I still hung out together, but the way his parents acted towards me, it was if I had a communicable disease. They were making it uncomfortable for Jerry to hang out around me.
Seeing Mum was getting home later from work, a lot, I ended up home alone a lot. I was between ten and twelve years of age, then. Jerry and I still hung around each other at school, but he said his mum wouldn't have me down at his place any more, or allow him at mine. Things pretty well stayed that way for a couple of years.
There were times when I didn't see Mum for up to a week or more. She said she was doing a lot of overtime, because my rat of a father had deserted us. She claimed she was coming home after I went to bed. She also must have been sleeping on the floor, as she wasn't using her bed! Who was the big and dumb one now?
I was cooking for myself. Seeing I was self-taught, the can opener took a beating. After a while, she had been 'coming home after I was in bed' so much, that I ran out of food. She supposedly worked at an office that was a twenty minute train journey from home, in Hurstville. I rang her at her company to bring some food home with her, but the lady said that Mrs. Berry didn't work there any more.
One of the benefits of the fifties was that a kid could get some spare time work, as long as he didn't mind being paid badly and working terrible hours. I quickly found a job on weekends and after school at a huge fruit and vegetable shop. It was about a half hour bike ride from both school and home, on the highway in Sylvania. I was earning £1/18/6 for twelve hours work, or about 38 pence an hour. Homework stopped being done, I spent a lot of time falling asleep on school desks, and the cane was an ever present threat. I had to be healthy, as I had an exclusively vegetarian diet. It was cheap, but always raw.
At one point in time I hadn't seen mum for almost six months. Then one night, she was standing in the loungeroom when I got home from work. It was late, after eleven at night. I was knackered. I had ridden to work directly from school, did six hours of lifting sacks of potatoes and pumpkins, and then spent another half an hour on the bike ride home. I was starving after eating nothing all day but apples, bananas, oranges, and whatever other fruit I was loading on the shelves. I'd also had a hotdog from a roadside caravan, across the highway from the shop. I'd had a growth spurt, and I was doing a lot of heavy lifting, which simply exacerbated my hunger.
The mother whom I had not seen in months, decided to act like a mother for a change, and didn't appreciate it when I ignored her rant. She slapped my face, and I slapped her back! She landed on the other side of the room. While she was lying stunned on the floor up against the wall, I went through the kitchen. I opened every cupboard, which were supposed to hold food. A mouse would have starved. The only thing in any of them was a half a packet of curry powder and I had no idea what to do with curry powder. The fridge was empty and I had turned it off to save on electricity. Her nose was bleeding as I dragged her by her collar into the kitchen. I then said the only words I had spoken to anyone, in three days.
"I'm earning as much as I can! Fix it, or fuck off!"
That next night when I got home, there was a carton of baked beans on the kitchen counter. Big whoop!
Things went on a very similar vein until I turned thirteen, and met a girl. On the days I wasn't working, I would walk Jenny Carruthers home from school. I liked Mrs Carruthers. She would put biscuits and cakes out as a snack for me, along with large glasses of milk, saying I was a growing boy. I was six foot three by then, and was always on the cusp of starvation.
Mum came home less and less often, and we were receiving threatening letters in the mail, warning us that they were going to turn the electricity off and kick us out of the house for non-payment of the mortgage.
I dropped around to Jenny's place just to see her unexpectedly, one free afternoon, and heard her on the phone telling her girlfriend how she was making a fool out of me, and was still going out with my ex-friend Jerry who had money to spend.
Unfortunately, I was standing next to her mum at the time in the very next room, only feet away from that phone. Her mum suddenly acted as if she had gone deaf, and couldn't bring herself to meet my eye. I just told her mum goodbye.
I went to work the rest of that week, instead of school, then gave them my notice. After I was paid, I threw the few clothes I had left that still vaguely fitted me, not many it's true, into an old haversack. I then rode the train into the city to look for work on building sites. I didn't even bother closing the front door behind me.
It was early during the Viet Nam conflict, and most potential young labourers with strong backs and weak minds were sent into the army without recourse, so there was no shortage of heavy labouring jobs around. Some politicians, who were too old to be sent to this war and too young to go to last war, invented conscription; that then made it politically, a money thing. Most of the eligible conscripts with money, found an urgent need to go overseas for the duration and Canada and Great Britain was very handy to ride it out. However nowhere in their plans was included an exotic place like Nam. Foreign universities were very popular during the sixties, and early seventies. All it took was money. I had five years before those pricks would come looking for me.
Finding a roof to live under was my first main problem. I slept under a railroad viaduct the first night, and later in the disused underground railway tunnels. Luckily, there was no shortage of them, and there was lots of company for me inside them. Eventually, I began sharing a unit's floor space with some Uni' students, some of whom I worked with, casually. These units were basically drop in centres where you slept on the floor anywhere you could make a space, no beds and bare concrete. As long as they were at school, they were exempt, so study had some incentive built in. Being female also helped, as they only sent blokes out to get shot.
I was walking home down George Street, mid-City, late one afternoon, after completing ten hours on a jackhammer. I'd left home more than six months ago, and a uniformed copper pulled me aside to ask if I was Ross Berry, who was posted as a missing person a while back. I just looked at him, one eyebrow raised, and he said I couldn't be him. The kid was only thirteen, and I would have to be the biggest thirteen year old he'd ever seen in his life, to be him. I was by then six foot four, and had shoulders with which I regularly lifted bags of cement, four at a time.
It was early 'hippy' days. The pill was becoming available, but most of the doctors (they had a tendency to be Catholic as that where the money was), wouldn't prescribe it, as it 'promoted immorality, infidelity and promiscuity.' My mum couldn't blame the pill as an excuse, so I think there were way too many Catholic doctors around. I was having regular sexual stints with the female students who were forever short term dossing in the flat, so I use to buy a lot of condoms.
After work one Saturday, (I was an old man of fifteen by then) I was having a quiet beer in my favourite pub, opposite the Town Hall and on the corner of Clarence Street. A bloke stood beside me and stared into my face.
Dad just said, "Son, they've been looking for you, everywhere."
I just told him that they couldn't have been looking very hard.
He asked me why I had left and I just looked at him, and asked what it had to do with him. Okay, I had attitude, but I think that I had earned it. I drained my schooner of New1, and headed for the door. He followed me and when we were on the footpath, he told me not to walk away from him, and he grabbed my shoulder. I hit him hard, straight under the chin. He went down, and didn't get up again. I just headed at my normal stride for the Town Hall underground station. I was pissed because my favourite pub was now out of bounds for a while. I believed the cops would be looking for me on an assault charge, so I stayed away from my usual haunts, and the major roads.
I had been saving a lot of money. I wasn't much interested in the airy fairy type of clothes then fashionable, and my eating habits were basic and pedestrian. So, my expenses were minimal, even for a fifteen year old. I gave it some thought and decided to go interstate ... as far interstate as I could get.
The train trip over there was before the one step Indian Pacific had started, and I travelled the long and tortuous journey to WA. I might have as well as gone to China, it would have been quicker though admittedly not by train.
2I took the train from Sydney Central to Albury on the Murray River, and changed to the Victorian gauge at Albury, to go to Melbourne Capital of Victoria. Then I changed to go to the Victorian/South Australian border and the South Australian gauge, change to go to Adelaide, capital of South Australia. You changed again to go to Port Pirie, change then onto the Indian Pacific Train to Kalgoorlie and the narrow Western Australian gauge, and then change at East Perth to get to Perth. It could be wondered why the Western Australians felt they were alienated from the rest of Australia. The only other methods otherwise to move between this state and the others were more than a week's road journey, half of which was a dirt 'road' (see track) across the vast Nullarbor Plain, or a very expensive air trip.
Sound boring? You betcha! Going across the Nullarbor, you spend all day look looking at the same, one and only tree, way out on the horizon. For three whole days, looking at the same tree became a bit much though it is said to be an optical illusion as there is no trees, or anything much else on the Nullarbor. The train stopped four times a day to drop supplies to rail gangers, for an half an hour at a time. Now that's a lonely job! They don't pay enough, no matter what the wages.
The first night in Perth, I stayed in a good hotel. I read the West Australian to find somewhere better (see: more affordable) to live. I eventually found an old rooming house in East Perth. It was an old mansion, across a multiple intersection from the police traffic branch, and very near the 3WACA grounds. That wasn't very useful for someone who believes 'cricket' is a noisy insect. It was cheap and central, though. All I had to buy was cooking stuff, and bed linen. Those domestic forms of paraphernalia I had never needed to own before and I can see them being a hindrance to moving easily around in the future.
I was astounded by two things. Firstly, there was more work than double the available workers could handle. Secondly, the locals were so insular that if you were an Eastern Stater, half the time the locals wouldn't talk to you. Luckily, most of the people I met were blow-ins from all over the world, and very few are what we would later call backpackers.
I didn't want to stay still ... I wasn't able to, actually. I found it necessary to move from job to job. I was not looking for the perfect job, I was just staying at each job long enough to find the next job. If I didn't like a job, I'd make myself unwelcome. They'd pay me a week's pay and a further week's pay, in lieu of being given a week's notice. In one eight week stretch, I was paid sixteen weeks pay.
I worked at Karrakatta Cemetery, digging graves for four months. It's an odd place, because it was a suburb where there were only two things: an army base, and a cemetery. There were no residential homes. It was particularly useful for all the military funerals, for which I often played centre stage. I think I stayed as long as I did, because the whole thing struck my funny bone.
At fifteen I met an eighteen year old Macedonian Greek girl, and fell in love. We fucked each other silly until I finally moved on again, unable to combat my wanderlust.
I worked the wheat country: little places like Mullewa, Morawa, Three Springs, and coastal Geraldton.
At age sixteen, I got a job with the Main Roads Department. I told them I was nineteen, so I would earn an adult's pay. After six months they demanded my birth certificate to make me a permanent, which is standard for government workers, I moved on again. I worked up and down the coast on the sheep stations and farms, from far north above the Parallel, to way far south of Perth in the Jarrah forests.
After three years I headed back to Sydney, again, the long way.
I must have looked odd to the city slickers. I had a photo taken by a fuck-mate, of me wearing a sun faded denim work shirt and jeans, badly worn riding boots, a much battered wide brimmed, sweat stained, Akubra hat covering a bad hairdo fashionable back in the forties. It had been cut by an Abo shearer mate on the last property I worked on, using sheep shears; and he wasn't much of a shearer either.
You had to compare me to everyone else with brightly coloured flairs, floral body hugging body-shirts and ultra-thick soled coloured boots with hair to their shoulders. If you have ever seen photos of abo ringers, who did almost all the outback station work in those days, well that was me. Probably, those were my mates. They used to call me 'Whitey', or 'Roodog', or 'Shrimp', or ... well, you get the picture. It was about then when they got their citizenship, and the vote, and became as bigoted as a lot of the whites. If I'm totally honest, I am colour blind where it comes to race, and half the time someone else, usually some white or black bigot had to bring the subject up. There are too many fights over nothing on the subject, why can't they all just get along.
I was nineteen, and again in the old squat, in Sydney; well Redfern actually. There was a year old letter from the call-up board, pinned to the piece of cork on a wall used for open messages. It was the nearest thing to something similar to an address I had that they knew of, I guess. I said, what the fuck, and reported. They made me an appointment to do my medical.
Dressed as I how I had come in from country, they asked me why I was late in reporting. I gave them the last eighty three addresses where I had lived. It turns out that they hadn't sent one letter, they had sent over a hundred. I was legally classified as a draft dodger. I laughed at them government arseholes, who didn't have to place themselves in front of a bullet. I told them straight that they'd got 'mine and Buckley's' of keeping me in the army, or in an army brig.
I'm a BIG man. I still have that photo that fuck-mate took of me soon after arriving back in town, and I was a mean looking cunt. Nobody ever disagreed with me, but for some reason the chicks wouldn't leave me alone. There was a uniformed soldier on duty as a guard and PR colour. He totally ignored my existence when I looked straight into his eyes, and smiled. My 'application' to join the armed forces was 'regretfully' declined on the basis of a medical report.
I travelled, again. I hitched rides up to Brisbane, then did itinerant labouring jobs as far north as Cairns, and fruit farms up and down the Queensland and northern NSW coast. At the age of twenty, I found myself on the Central Coast, north of Sydney, by then I had 'been there and done that', and was more than a little foot weary.
I was working in a factory making mining machinery south of Wyong as head storeman, when a bloke I recognised delivered a load of tools. Jerry Dolanski hadn't changed in the slightest, maybe not as talkative. He saw me looking at him. There were no cheerful hellos.
"You know they've been looking for you, don't you?"
"Your parents, the cops, the draft board, a girl from WA who is claiming to have had your baby and two girls in Sydney with the same complaint."
"I've never screwed a girl without a condom. They must think I have better prospects than I really do. Dad deserved what I gave him, and I'm not interested in seeing my slut of a mum, ever again."
"You do know your mum and dad married each other again?"
"More fool him. I don't look a thing like him, and there's a reason for that. Fucking married chicks is a hobby of mine, and I've known lots of tarts like her."
We would never be friends, again. His unfriendly competitive relationship with young Jenny Carruthers showed me how much of a friend he really was. He told me that Jenny had played one boy against another so often, that by the time she got to fifth year (Year Eleven), she couldn't get a boy to talk to her at school. Last he'd heard, she was walking the streets at the 4Cross.
I saw him weekly on the Blackwoods truck. Just to prove how much I could trust him, a uniformed cop showed up to interview me, complements of Jerry. There was still a warrant out for me for draft dodging, but when I pulled my government letter out of my wallet. He told me that was all well and good, but he said there was also a warrant out for assault.
Eventually, I faced a magistrate in the local Wyong court, and told him straight why I'd laid the old man out, and about my mother and him both abandoning me at a very young age. I was let off without a record, but with a caution.
The problem was, it also let the fuglys know where I was. The man I remembered as big and daunting, was now small and middle aged. She looked like nine-tenths of every barmaid I had ever met: bleached blonde hair, and make up applied with a trowel.
On the front steps of Wyong Courthouse, they stopped me half way down. I told them that they either moved, or I'd go straight back inside and plead guilty to the first cop I saw, for a double assault on their own steps.
I have mum's colouring, so I knew she at least had to be genuine, but I really upset them both when I asked them who my father was. Mum looked ... I don't know if it was ashamed, embarrassed, or what; but Dad just looked at her with disgust. It would seem the subject had never been raised. In fact, it had never occurred to him.
"I know the situation well enough, as one of my casual forms of amusement is screwing married chicks. But don't try to kid either one of us that this old man is my father."
I think that screwed the lying and cheating bitch's goose.
I knew where Jerry worked so with a bit of searching (the phone book), I found where he lived, I got him alone and gave him the going over that he deserved. I was in bed with a girlfriend at the time, as she attested to when questioned. She had also passed out from too much cocaine, and too many tokes, but she believed me.
The mining machine company didn't like that the cops had interviewed me, so they sacked me, paying me two weeks in lieu of notice. This is really a lucrative method of earning a living.
Dad wrote, telling me that my mother had no idea who my father was as she's admitted to having over a hundred lovers after they first married. He had left her again, all trust gone, but he hoped that we could one day be friends. On the subject of all trust gone, I know she knew who my father was, but the bitch was so used to lying, that even when she knew her only chance of a decent life was gone, she wouldn't clear the air.
It was told to me once by a mate, with admittedly a rather jaundiced attitude, whom I had met whilst fruit picking in Queensland, that, 'if a woman didn't have a cunt, you'd throw rocks at it'. He'd been through three divorces, and all had cheated on him; so calling him biased was probably an understatement. But only now, all these years later, I'm beginning to see his point of view. I was enjoying the sex but didn't like the perfidy of my sexual partners on the main.
My next job was in a factory in North Wyong. Only four men worked there, including me; and between fifty and a hundred women, on the assembly line, the number depending on the current economy and the season.
I was head storeman, meaning their only storeman. I unloaded all the trucks and kept the production line workers in assembly parts. Two blokes were management types, and the other was a young storeman packer. He packed the final product and loaded the trucks for delivery. Eventually, during an economic downturn, the kid was put off and I did his job as well.
I had two types of women working with me. The majority were ones who knew I was gay, because I didn't have a girlfriend and didn't have a relationship with any of the women, keeping myself to myself. The others were the twenty or so who worked there, and were my lovers. They all knew each other, though. They had worked out a congenial arrangement between themselves, so all could avail themselves of my services, without getting in each other's way. This 'gay man' kept his mouth shut!
One married lady who use to commute from Swansea, Lake Macquarie (most, though not all, were married), we fucked each other almost every other lunchtime in my car for five years, where we parked in the bush directly behind the factory. Another was a little single Maltese girl who lived with her sister and brother-in-law. She'd drop into my place, cook me an authentic Maltese meal, suck me off and fuck me ... often three times in an evening. I did her as a favour for a married friend and workmate of us both, who liked to watch us and masturbate, but nothing much more. She sometimes did eat with us. That's all they both wanted, and that's what I let them have.
One lass, who I lived with every weekend for two years, was divorced, and had a little girl she used to bring to bed with us, from when the kid was three until she was five. The lady fucked like a cut brown snake as long as the kid was with us, and had no interest otherwise, if she wasn't there; not doing anything mind you, just there. I have never claimed to understand women. The kid use to play with her dolls and colour in, on the unoccupied side of the bed.
I worked there for seven years, until I was twenty seven. Then, in a fairly momentous decision, I dropped out and went back to school. To my mind, it hadn't been my decision to drop out of school, but it was mine to restart my education. I gained the HSC with just the grade I wanted. I did what kids take thirteen years to complete, in one year. Then I earned a Bachelor's Degree in Management Systems, in Sydney Uni, which took me three years to achieve. By the time I had finished, I was living in that student's pad, again, sleeping in a sleeping bag on the floor; eking out a meagre living, cleaning clubs after they closed.
I applied for a dozen jobs on completion of my degree, and took the one that took me to Newcastle BHP, to work in their middle management. Eventually, I got the hint that steelmaking was coming to an end in Newcastle, after eighty four years or so of continuous production.
I took an early redundancy, jumped before I was pushed, and began my own company as an employment agency, with the contract to find work for the thirteen thousand workers who would be gradually put out of work on September 30, 1999. While running that, I did my Master's, part time. That took another three years, due to my work commitments. Except for the occasional desperate fuck between fellow students to ease stress levels, and sometimes someone I met casually through my work, I had no relationships over those years. I went from a glut to a famine but it did focus the mind somewhat.